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

throwing a curve to win. Now she knew that wouldn’t do it; she’d have to put the blocks to him before he could do it to her.
    She was lingering in the background when he approached the teller’s cage at the first bank. She was never more than a few feet away from him throughout the day, one of the most nerve-wracking in Mitch Allison’s career.
    He began by pushing ten of the traveler’s checks, a thousand bucks, at a time. A lead-pipe cinch was his appearance and identification. Usually a teller would do it on his own, or, if not, an executive’s okay was a mere formality. Unfortunately, as Mitch soon realized, these thousand-dollar strikes couldn’t get the job done. He was too short on time. He’d run out of banks before he ran out of checks. So he upped the ante to two grand, and finally to three, and things really tightened up.
    Tellers automatically referred him to executives. The executives passed him up the line to their superiors. He was questioned, quizzed, studied narrowly. Again and again, his credentials were examined—the description on them checked off, item by item, with his own appearance. By ten minutes of three, when he disposed of the last check, his nerves were in knots.
    He and Babe drove to a nearby bar, where he tossed down a few quick ones. Considerably calmer then, he headed the car toward El Ciudad.
    â€œLook, honey,” Babe turned suddenly in the seat and faced him. “Why are we going back to that joint, anyway? We’ve got the dough. Why not just dump this car for a price and beat it?”
    â€œJust go off and leave our baggage? Start a lot of inquiries?” Mitch shook his head firmly.
    â€œWell, no, I guess that wouldn’t be so good, would it? But you said we ought to disappear fast. When are we going to do it?”
    Mitch slanted a glance at her, deliberating over his reply. “I can get a guy here in LA to shoot me a come-quick telegram. It’ll give us a legitimate excuse for pulling out tomorrow morning.”
    Babe nodded dubiously. She suggested that Mitch phone his friend now, instead of calling through El Ciudad’s switchboard. Mitch said that he couldn’t.
    â€œThe guy works late, see? He wouldn’t be home yet. I’ll call him from that phone booth out on the golf course. That’ll keep anyone from listening in.”
    â€œI see,” Babe repeated. “You think of everything, don’t you, darling?”
    They had dinner at a highway drive-in. Around dusk, Mitch brought the car to a stop on El Ciudad’s parking lot. Babe reached hesitantly for the briefcase. Mitch told her to go right ahead and take it with her.
    â€œJust don’t forget, sweetheart. I can see both entrances to the joint, and I’ve got the keys to this buggy.”
    â€œNow, don’t you worry one bit,” Babe smiled at him brightly. “I’ll be right inside waiting for you.”
    She headed for the hotel, waving to him gayly as she passed through the entrance. Mitch sauntered out to the phone booth and placed a call to Bette. Rather, since she hung up on him the first two times, he placed three calls.
    At last she stayed on the wire and he was able to give her the pitch. The result was anything but reassuring. She said she’d be seeing him—she’d be out just as fast as she could make it. And he could depend on it. But there was an ominous quality to her voice, a distinctly unwifely tone. Before he could say anything more, she slammed the receiver for the third and last time.
    Considerably disturbed, Mitch walked back across the dead and dying grass and entered the hotel. The manager-clerk’s eyes shied away from him. The elevator-bellboy was similarly furtive. Absorbed in his worry over Bette, Mitch didn’t notice. He got off at his floor and started down the hall, ducking around scaffolding, wending his way through a littered jungle of paint cans, plaster, and wallpaper.
    He