Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

drag and suck and crash of the dark Pacific under the floor. Out- side all the noises of the midway on Saturday night went round and round. “Now what was all this about?” Cliff folded his arms on the bar as he had often seen his father do. He felt quite adult. “You weren’t really ~ serious. I could tell that. What were you up to?” “I was serious.” She drank thirst- ily and then looked at him out of the tops of her eyes. They were large and dark, and even in this dimness he could see how blood- shot they were. She had a scratch along her jaw, and her face was both puffed and thin. She wasn’t as young as he'd thought. Not nearly as young. Her name was Anne. “T just thought I’d rather die than live, that’s all,” she said. “I feel like somebody who died of old age a long time ago. Everything that was important to me died. I ought to carry a little tombstone around with me that says HERE LIES—” She paused and gave him that look from the tops of her eyes again. “Do you know who I am?” she asked. “You're too nice a girl to talk that way.” Cliff felt flattered at the confidences, but not at all sure just what was expected of him. He played it safe. She gazed in silence at him. Then she dug into the big dirty handbag and pee out a pint bottle. She turned her head so the hatbrim hid her, and he heard the bottle gurgle. “I’m not so nice,” she said, wiping her mouth. “The only thing is, it takes courage to kill yourself, Pll have to work up to it. But I will. It’s the only way I can get back at him.” “Back at who?” Cliff asked. He felt awkward, but he wanted her to go on talking. Partly because it was exciting to hear about, partly because he had in a way, he sup- posed, saved her life, and that gave him a responsible feeling toward her. Get her talking, he thought, and maybe the whole thing will pass over. He said, “There’s as good fish in the sea, you know. Why worry? You're young and pretty—” He heard his voice falter a little on that, but he went on heartily. “—young and pretty, and you ought to take better care of yourself.” “Am I?” She touched the scratch on her cheek. “Really?” ~ He was glad the mirror was dim. “Sure you are.” She thought it over briefly and then tipped the pint bottle to her mouth again. Coughing, she said, “Td offer you some, but there’s hardly any left, and anyway, you're a little young for boiler- makers.” “Tm not that young,” Cliff said. “T don’t mix my drinks, anyhow. You know what they say, ‘Whiskey, beer—never fear. Beer, whiskey— mighty risky.’ You'll be sick as a 4 ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE CORMICGLOCKS.E©