Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense Read Online Free PDF Page A

came to the door of his room. He turned the knob and entered.
    And something crashed down on his head.
    3.
    I T WAS DARK when Mitch regained consciousness. He sat up, massaging his aching head, staring dizzily at the shattered glass on the floor—remains of a broken whiskey bottle. Then he remembered; realization came to him. Ripping out a curse, he ran to the window.
    The Cad was still there on the parking lot. Yes, and the keys were still in his pocket. Mitch whirled, ran through the bath, and kicked open the door to the other room.
    It was empty, in immaculate order, sans Babe and sans baggage. There was nothing to indicate that it ever had been tenanted. Mitch tottered back into his own room, and there was a knock on the door and he flung it open.
    A man walked in and closed it behind him. He looked at Mitch. He looked down at the broken bottle. He shook his head in mild disapproval.
    â€œSo you are supposedly a sick man, Marty,” he said gutturally. “So you have a great deal of money—my money. So drunk you should not get.”
    â€œH-huh? W-what?” Mitch said. “Who the hell are you?”
    â€œSo I am The Pig,” the man said. “Who else?”
    The name suited him. Place a pecan on top of a hen’s egg and you’ve got a good idea of his appearance. He was perhaps five feet tall, and he probably weighed three hundred pounds. His arms were short almost to the point of deformity. He had a size six head and a size sixty waistline.
    Mitch stared at him blankly, silently. The Pig apparently misunderstood his attitude.
    â€œSo you are not sure of me,” he said. “So I will take it from the top and give you proof. So you are The Man’s good and faithful servant through all his difficulties. So The Man passes the word that you are to pay me fifty thousand dollars for services rendered. So you are a very sick man anyway and have little to lose if detected while on the errand—”
    â€œWait a minute!” Mitch said. “I—I’m not—”
    â€œSo you are to transport the money in small traveler’s checks. So you cannot be robbed. So they can be easily cashed without attracting unwanted attention. So you have had a day to cash them. So”—the Pig concluded firmly—“you will give me the fifty thousand.”
    Mitch’s mouth was very dry. Slowly, the various pieces of a puzzle were beginning to add up. And what they added up to was curtains—for him. He’d really stepped into something this time: a Grade-A jam, an honest-to-Hannah, double-distilled frammis. The Pig’s next words were proof of the fact.
    â€œSo you know how I earned the fifty G’s, Marty. So you would not like me to give you a demonstration. It is better to die a natural death.”
    â€œN-now—now, listen!” Mitch stammered. “You’ve got the wrong guy, I’m not Martin Lonsdale. I’m—I’m … Look, I’ll show you.” He started to reach for his wallet. And groaned silently, remembering. He had thrown it away. There was a risk of being caught with two sets of identification, so—
    â€œSo?” The Pigs said.
    â€œI—Look! Call this Man, whoever he is. Let me talk to him. He can tell you I’m not—”
    â€œSo,” The Pig grunted, “who can call Alcatraz? So—” he added, “I will have the money, Marty.”
    â€œI don’t have it! My wife—I mean the dame I registered in with—has it. She had the room next to mine, and—”
    â€œSo, but no. So I checked the registry myself. So there has been no woman with you.”
    â€œI tell you there was! These people here—they’re hungry as hell, see, and she had plenty of dough to bribe them …” He broke off, realizing how true his words were. He resumed again, desperately: “Let me give you the whole pitch, tell you just what happened right from the beginning! I