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

I’m going to lam out with these things—”
    â€œOh, now, of course I’m not, honey.” But she stuck right with him until he had finished countersigning the checks. She was quite prepared, in fact, to spend the rest of the night. Mitch didn’t want that. He shoved the checks back into the briefcase, locked it, and thrust it into her hands.
    â€œKeep it,” he said. “Put it under your pillow. And now get out of here so I can get some sleep.”
    He began to undress. The girl looked at him, poutingly.
    â€œBut, honey. I thought we were going to—uh—”
    â€œWe’re both worn out,” Mitch pointed out, “and there’s another night coming.”
    He climbed into bed and turned on his side. Babe left, reluctantly. She took the briefcase with her, and she locked the connecting door on her side of the bathroom.
    Mitch rolled over on his back. Wide-eyed, staring up into the darkness, he pondered the problem of giving Babe a welldeserved rooking. It was simple enough in a way—that is, the preliminary steps were simple enough. After—and if —he successfully cashed the checks tomorrow, he had only to catch her off guard and put her on ice for the night. Bind and gag her, and lock her up in one of the clothes closets. From that point on, however, he wasn’t sure what to do. Or, rather, he knew what to do, but he didn’t know how the hell he was going to do it.
    He couldn’t scram in the Cad. A wagon like that would leave a trail a blind man could follow. For similar reasons, he couldn’t zoom away in a taxi—if, that is, it was possible to get taxi service this far from the city.
    How was he going to do it, then? Equally important, where would he hide out if he was able to do it? For he would sure as hell have to hide out fast after this caper. Babe would squawk bloody murder. It wouldn’t make her anything, but she’d sure squawk. Her body was soft and lush, but one look at that cast-iron mug of hers, and you knew she would.
    So …?
    Mitch scowled in the darkness. Now, Bette, his wife, had a nondescript car. She could get him away from here, and she could hide him out indefinitely. She could—but it was preposterous to think that she would. Not after that last stunt he’d pulled on her.
    Yes, he’d planned on pleading for forgiveness before his meeting with Martin and Babe Lonsdale. But the situation had been different then. There wasn’t any fifty grand at stake. There wasn’t the risk of a long prison stretch. If he appealed to Bette, he’d have to give her the full pitch on this deal. Which meant, naturally, that he’d be completely at her mercy. And if she wasn’t feeling merciful, if he couldn’t fast-talk her into giving him a break, well, that would be the end of the sleigh ride.
    Enter the cops. Exit Mitch Allison and fifty grand.
    I’m going to have to stop crooking everyone , Mitch thought. From now on I’m going to be honest, with at least one person .
    He fell asleep on this pious thought. Almost immediately, it seemed, it was morning and Babe was shaking him awake.
    They headed into Los Angeles, stopping at a roadside diner for breakfast. As they ate, Mitch consulted the classified telephone directory, organizing an itinerary for the day’s operations. Because of the time factor, his targets—the banks—had to be in the same general area. On the other hand, they had to be separated by a discreet distance, lest he be spotted in going from one to another. Needless to say, it was also essential that he tackle only independent banks. The branch banks, with their central refer system, would nail a paper pusher on his second try.
    Babe watched Mitch work, admiration in her eyes—and increasing caution. Here is one sharp cookie , she thought. As sharp as he was tough. A lot sharper than she’d ever be. Being the kind of dame she was, she’d contemplated