Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

dog tomorrow if you don’t stop.” “Who cares?” She dropped the bottle in the bag and took another long, thirsty: pull at the beer. Un- der a white moustache of foam, she said with enormous self-pity, “I’m sick enough now. I feel terrible. If you hadn’t butted in, I’d be dead and out of it. Don’t you under- stand? I’ve got to get even some- how. When I heard he’d got into town yesterday, I figured my chance had really come. I’ve tried to get even before, but it never quite works, somehow. It never quite works.” She wiped off the foam with an unsteady finger. “What'd you try?” Cliff asked. She didn’t seem to need much en- couragement to talk, he realized. Still, it ought to make her feel better. “The reason I came down here is there’s a joint marked Off Lim- its,” she said rapidly. “Cops were hanging around, and a lot of serv- ice men. I thought if I made enough trouble, there’d be a raid. Well, I made trouble.” She touched the scratch again. “There was a raid, all right, and I gave my right name and everything, good and loud. But—” She sighed and her thin shoulders collapsed a little. “They won’t pick me up any more. They told me to go home and sleep it off. They’re sorry for me. I get just so far and then it doesn’t work. It’s like having a guardian angel who hates me.” She folded her matchstick arms. “You're sorry HERE LIES ... for me too, damn you. If you’re so sorry why don’t you help me get what I want?” Cliff said uneasily, that?” She said, “Do you know who I am?” Jt wasn’t so much that she hadn’t heard him, he thought, as that she didn’t want to answer. “Look,” he said, “why don’t we drink up and take a walk on the pier. I want to see the sights. Come on.” | “I’m a sight,” she said bitterly. “Look at me. Take a good long look. I’m a mess, right? I’ve been a mess for two years. And you know who I am? I’m Mrs. William Howard. Brewster, that’s who. How do you like that?” Cliff said, “Brewster?” uncertain- ly. He thought he had heard the name before, but it didn’t mean anything to him now. He won- dered if it should. “That’s what I said. The rally’s tomorrow night. That’s why he’s in town. Here, I'll show you.” She set her glass down with a bang. “Tl have another,” she said loudly. “Bartender, one more beer for Mrs. William Howard Brewster. Me.” Heads turned briefly to look at her. “Take it easy,” Cliff said. “My money’s about gone.” She didn’t hear him. She was fumbling in the big handbag. “I want to ask you a question,” she said, her voice insistent. “Look. Just look at this.” With unsteady >) “What S EOMMIC OOO KS sO