Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 44: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

er’s mirror. The wisp of veil that just shadowed her eyes gave a touch of glamour to her prema- turely old, over-made-up face. But like her mother, whom she closely resembled, she was still a small, rather dainty, sapless creature with thin lips and board-flat bosom. She had an hour before she was to meet Jonathan on the corner of Lexington Avenue. She didn’t dare let him come to the hotel and call from the desk downstairs. Martha was always dead set against her having dates or any hint of ro- mance with anyone she consid- ered ordinary. And Jonathan Cal- der sold shoes. | Martha was still talking about Hollywood, still dabbling at the ci- gar box. She had, somehow, ram- bled all the way back to the Wil- liam Desmond ‘Taylor murder, more than thirty years in the past. “Think of it,” she marveled in her dry, terribly cultured voice. “A great career like Mary Myles Min- ter ruined—wiped out as if by a blackboard eraser—just at a breath of scandal. Such a pity! And Mabel Normand, too.” There was a pause and Lurline decided to take the plunge. “Mar- tha,” she said, “I think I’d like to go to a movie.” Martha lifted her brush from the box. “I think that would be just lovely,” she said. “I’ve been sitting in here all day. What shall we see? They say that French picture—Oh, - what is the name of it?” “Mother.” Lurline knew that us- ing mother instead of Martha, which her mother preferred be ~ cause it made her feel younger, would halt the unending flow of chatter. “Mother, I want to go alone.” The older woman’s patrician pose vanished. She suddenly ap- peared thoroughly hard, cruel. “Lurline, you’re lying. You’re go- ing out with a man. What is it this time—some ribbon clerk?” It was close enough to hurt. Shoes were not in a higher class than ribbons. Lurline started cry- ing. “And you can stop sniveling,” said Martha decisively. “You can’t fool me with those tears. You're not a good enough actress.” Anger made Lurline’s throat feel tight and caused a little vein to jump just below the left corner of her jaw. Yet, in her own ears, her voice sounded small and _ ineftec- tual as she said, “Maybe I’m not a good actress, but I’m a woman—a woman thirty-three years old, and | ey “Twenty-seven—you’re twenty- seven years old, dear.” Martha’s bland serenity made the incredible lie almost convincing. “You're only twenty-seven, Lurline, so there’s still lots of time to wait for Mr. Right to come along. It’s your fu- ture—your happiness—your secur- ity—I’m thinking of. You can’t af- ford to throw your life away on | some— some—” 4? ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE EOMMICGLOOOKS.E€©