Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

Mitch gripped the doorknob. He turned it, simultaneously throwing his weight against the door. Bette had been waiting behind it. Now, half-stunned—crushed be- tween the wall and the door—she surrendered the section of lead pipe with which she had meant to slug him. Mitch tossed it into a corner. He released her, then, guided her stumbling to a chair despite her profane protests. She was a nice armful of woman, this Bette. Small but busty; slender but _ lusciously curved. Mitch could never look at her—particularly in a_ nightgown as she was now—without getting steamed up. Unfortunately, he was also unable to look at her for long ~without playing her for a chump. But that was her own fault, he told himself virtuously. When a dame was so easy to outguess, when she just wouldn’t smarten up, what was a hustling man to do? The dazed look went out of her eyes. She addressed her husband with a kind of surly joy. “Well, go ahead, you lowdown louse. Go on and frisk the joint! Take every- thing you can find.” “IT just came to say good-bye,” Mitch said quietly. “I only wish there was some way to make up _ for all the wrong I’ve done you.” “Nuts! I know what you came for.” “I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” Mitch said. “Good-bye, my sweet. I want you to know that I'll never love another woman.” He planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, swiftly to avoid a punch. Sadly, shoulders sagging, he started for the door. Bette looked at him with worried puzzlement, wondering what the gimmick was this time. Wondering if maybe... He was one hell of a handsome guy. And gosh, he could be a lot of fun. “Mitch .. .” He shook his head, spoke with- out turning. “No, Bette. I think we'd better leave it at good-bye. You’re too good for me. I want you to know that I’d never wrong you again, but—” Gosh, he must have changed. If not, why hadn’t he robbed her again tonight? Of course, he wouldn’t have got anything, but he didn’t know that. “Mitch!” she wailed. “Don’t go, honey!” Mitch allowed himself to be per- suaded. He went back, and Bette sat on his lap. He softened her up good. Then, to use a con-man’s expression, he told her the tale. Not about the chalice; that was too involved. This one concerned a certain Mame Dorset, madam of a parlor house. Immediately, Bette’s suspicions flared up again. “No, by gosh! My dough’s in the bank, and that’s right where it’s staying.” 68 ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE Gomichbooksreo =)