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

was trying to thumb a ride, see, and this big Cadillac stopped for me. And …”
    Mitch told him the tale.
    The Pig was completely unimpressed.
    â€œSo that is a fifty-grand story? So a better one I could buy for a nickel.”
    â€œBut it’s true! Would I make up a yarn like that? Would I come here, knowing that you’d show up to collect?”
    â€œSo people do stupid things.” The Pig shrugged. “So, also, I am a day early.”
    â€œBut, dammit!—” There was a discreet rap on the door. Then, it opened and Bette came in.
    This Bette was a honey, a little skimpy in the chin department, perhaps, but she had plenty everywhere else. A burlesque house stripteaser, her mannerisms and dress sometimes caused her to be mistaken for a member of a far older profession.
    Mitch greeted her with almost hysterical gladness. “Tell this guy, honey! For God’s sake, tell him who I am!”
    â€œTell him …?” Bette hesitated, her eyes flickering. “Why, you’re Martin Lonsdale, I guess. If this is your room. Didn’t you send for me to—”
    â€œ N-nno! ” Mitch burbled. “Don’t do this to me, honey! Tell him who I really am. Please!—”
    One of The Pig’s fat arms moved casually. The fist at the end of it smashed into Mitch’s face. It was like being slugged with a brick. Mitch stumbled and fell flat across the bed. Dully, as from a distance, he heard a murmur of conversation …
    â€œâ€¦ had a date with him, a hundred-dollar date. And I came all the way out here from Los Angeles …”
    â€œSo Marty has another date. So I will pay the hundred dollars myself …”
    There was a crisp rustle, then a dulcet, “Oh, aren’t you nice!” Then the door opened and closed, and Bette was gone. And The Pig slowly approached the bed. He had a hand in his pocket. There was a much bigger bulge in his pocket than a hand should make.
    Mitch feigned unconsciousness until The Pig’s hand started coming out of his pocket. Then Mitch’s legs whipped up in a blur of motion. He went over backwards in a full somersault, landed on the other side of the bed, gripped and jerked it upward.
    Speed simply wasn’t The Pig’s forte. He just wasn’t built for it. He tried to get out of the way and succeeded only in tripping over his own feet. The bed came down on him, pinning him to the floor. Mitch sent him to sleep with a vicious kick in the head.
    Mitch realized he had been moving in a blur. But now his mind was crystal clear, sharper than it ever had been.
    Where was Babe? Simple. Since she couldn’t have ridden away from the place, she must have walked. And Mitch was positive he knew where she had walked to.
    What to do with The Pig? Also simple. The materials for taking care of him were readily at hand.
    Mitch turned on the water in the bathtub. He went out into the hall and returned with two sacks full of quick-drying plaster …
    He left The Pig very well taken care of, sitting in plaster up to his chin. Then, guessing that it would be faster, he ran down the stairs and out to the Cadillac. Wheels spinning, he whipped it down the horseshoe driveway and out onto the highway.
    He slowed down after a mile or two, peering off to his right at the weed-grown fields that lay opposite the ocean. Suddenly, he jerked the car onto the shoulder and braked it to a stop. He got out; his eyes narrowed with grim satisfaction.
    He was approximately parallel now with the place where he had assumed the identity of Martin Lonsdale. The place where Martin Lonsdale had supposedly committed suicide. And out there in this fallow field was an abandoned produce shed.
    From the highway, it appeared to be utterly dark, deserted. But as Mitch leaped the ditch and approached it, he caught a faint flicker of light. He came up on the building silently. He peered through a crack in the sagging door.
    There was a small stack of