Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

ously, somehow seeming to look at herself at the same time. “Mitch,” she said, “what’s the matter with us? Why do you do these things, and why do I want you to?” “Come again?” “Don’t you see, honey? It takes brains to think up a deal like this. I'll bet there’s presidents of big companies who couldn’t do it. So why, if you’re that smart—why be a crook? I mean, you could make it easier and bigger on the legit.” Mitch shrugged. The noncom- mital gesture, seemingly no an- swer, spoke volumes. This was his element; he had been born to it and he had always lived in it. And he was incapable of visualiz- ing any other way of making a livelihood. ° Why was he a crook? Well, why does a shark live in the water? It was that simple, and complex. The matter slid in and out of Bette’s mind; that’s the way Bette’s mind worked. Her face cleared, and she kissed him lovingly. “T'll need some identification, won’t I, Mitch? Something to show I’m Mame?” “Take out another social secur- ity card.” He returned the kiss. “Yeah, and maybe you'd better buy a dog license.” “Mmmm...” She wriggled against him luxuriously. “Kinda tired, honey. Mommy’s kind of tired os. >. The following morning he opened a bank account with Bette’s money while she waited watchfully outside. He gave her the passbook and a check made out to Mame Dorset, and then they separated. She was to cash the check, closing out the account, at a quarter-of-three. Which meant, although she hadn’t thought of it, that she would not have time to re-deposit the money in her own bank. Of course, she could buy a cash- ier’s check with the dough. But Mitch was sure she wouldn’t. The kid was a born chump, and she’d never be anything else. | He called on a “right” furniture dealer, arranging for the pur- chase and_ transportation of Mame’s stuff. While he was there, he got the name of a “good” dealer in art objects, just in case Doc Krug should get contrary. He had a couple of drinks and a good lunch. At about one-thirty in the afternoon, he rapped on the door of Mame Dorset’s house. It was very quiet; at this time of day, the girls would still be asleep. Mitch was starting to knock again when the door opened a few inches, and Mame’s maid _ peered out at him. “Mister Mitch!” A _ frightened gasp. “Go ’way from here! Miss Mame’s just naturally going to kill you and me both if—” 70 ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE AD HITCCOCHCOCSTELOM MR IOLCKS CO =)