Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, December 1956 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

women home from bars. Can you imagine that? And I wasn’t even drinking a lot. Not then. Not near- ly as much as he said I was. I am not,” and she fixed him with the large, bloodshot stare, “—mnot an alcoholic, no matter what anyone says. | know perfectly well what I’m doing. It’s just that I feel so—” She let her voice die, not finishing. After a moment she said, “Listen to the ocean down there. I wonder if the water’s cold this time of year.” , Cliff said hastily, “You don’t want to think about that.” He was ' trying to figure how to end this and get away. “You're just mad at your husband,” he continued lightly. “You never really meant to jump off the pier. If you’d been serious, you’d have gone down to the other end where the deep water is.” She slapped the bar so loudly the bartender jumped and then looked at her. “I haven’t got a husband,” she said. “We aren’t married any more. He knew how to ditch mé when he was ready for the next step up.” She made a harsh sound that resembled laughter. “That’s funny, isn’t it? Me putting him through law school so he’d learn how to frame me and get a di- vorce? Very funny. I’m laughing. I could die laughing.” Cliff thought, She’s had too much to drink. She shouldn’t have any more. At least, this is the last beer I'll pay for. He drained his HERE LIES .. .« foundly that life can certainly be — : pretty tough for some people. Some people seem to get all the wrong breaks. He said, “That—that’s too bad, Anne. You sure had tough luck all down the line. Look, Anne, I think I'd better be shoving off now.” She turned swiftly, her thin fin- gers pinching his sleeve, her eyes meeting his for the first time fully — and in focus. “But you haven’t told me,” she said. Her gaze was anx- ious and searching. “What do you think I ought to do?” He considered this, wondering what was the right thing to say. “I think you ought to pull yourself together, for one thing. There’s nothing wrong with you. You're still young and—I mean, you made money when he needed it, didn’t you? What’s wrong with making it for yourself? You aren’t the first girl who ever got a divorce: You could—” Her eyes left his. She turned toward her glass again, shaking her head. “Not for myself. I’m too tired. I can’t do anything by my- self. I couldn’t even jump off the pier.” She tilted the empty glass. “You know something?” She cast him one swift, sly glance from the far corners of her eyes. “I’ve often thought it would be nice if he killed me and got hanged for it. He has a fine motive. I’ve done everything I could to make a scan- dal and ruin him. It’s not my fault 7 Gomichbooks Gor