Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

pool. Mitch swung him around, so that his legs dangled into the pit. Then, he got behind him, hoisted mightily and let go. Doc sank downward slowly, his body scraping against the cement walls. He went down into the slime, sinking until the stuff was almost up to his neck and his feet touched bottom. The cold filth re- vived him, and eyes rolling with terror he looked up at Mitch. “N-no, Mitch! N-n-noo! You are not a murderer.” “Tm not,” Mitch agreed. “You'll get out, Doc. You can reach the top, almost. All you have to do is—” “Pl-please! 1 will die here! I—” ~ “You can reach the top. Almost,” Mitch repeated. “You can jump for it as soon as you thin down your gut. Shouldn’t take you more than a day at the outside.” Doc began to curse him. Sliding the iron lid partly over the hole, Mitch walked away laughing. Doc would get out all right, eventually. Guys like him and Duke were too damned ornery to die. Reaching the car, Mitch found Duke-showing signs of reviving. He slugged him again, bound him ‘up with his belt and necktie and drove away. The bar-owner—the supposed ‘bar-owner—now? Mitch hesitated, and shook his head. No telling where the guy was. Anyway, he was strictly smalltime, not worth bothering with. To take care of Doc, Duke and the girl would be enough, Mitch. He was still wondering what to do with Duke as he turned into the shabby dirt street across from the railroad tracks. Cutting the lights and motor, he glided to a stop in front of the girl’s house. . The shades were drawn, but light gleamed around their edges. Mitch turned his head, looked musingly at the railroad right-of- way. Should he dump Duke there in the weeds? Strip his clothes off and dump him? Not good enough. It lacked finesse, and he would be discovered too soon. What, then? There was a throaty whistle in the distance; a muted grinding and chugging. Then, the beam of a headlight sliding across the wind- shield, as a train steamed slowly out of the San Diego freight yards. Mitch scrambled out of the car. Scooping Duke up in his arms, he trotted toward the right-of-way. He dumped him down in the weeds, ripped the clothes from his body. As the locomotive steamed past, he picked him up again and moved up to track-side. He waited there a moment, eyes straining in the darkness. Suddenly, he raised up on his toes, pitched upward and outward. And Duke’s body. went sailing through the door of an empty boxcar. It would be morning bafore he awakened, Mitch surmised, prob- ably in Arizona. If he wanted. to get off the train, all he had to do was roll himself out the door. 82 3 | ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE IGOmMmIichbooks7eo