Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (2 page)

These letters were yet further proof to us that
AHMM
is blessed with faithful readers who have continued to subscribe to the magazine for years, or even generations; in many ways they feel the magazine “belongs” to them. The letters also reminded us of the power of the short story. These stories may have been published in a small monthly magazine, but they are much more than ephemeral entertainment. Their plots and characters, their ironies and emotional impact possess an enduring resonance. They stay with us for years, often long after the issue of the magazine has disappeared.

There is no doubt the early popularity of the magazine was aided by its clear association with Alfred Hitchcock. The magazine was founded in the mid-fifties by Richard E. Decker and H.S.D. Publications, at the time, the publishers of
Manhunt
. They made the agreement with the famous director to lend his name to the magazine.

Soon the producers of the popular half-hour television program
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
(1955–61) were mining the young magazine for published stories that they could turn into teleplays. Borden Deal's “A Bottle of Wine,” from the very first issue of
AHMM
, was quickly selected for the show. Subsequently, stories by
AHMM
authors Henry Slesar, Talmage Powell, James Holding, Jack Ritchie, Ed Lacy, and Robert Bloch, to name a few, were turned into teleplays and filmed for
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
or its later incarnation,
The Alfred Hitchcock Hour
(1962–65).

Since the early days, the magazine has welcomed both seasoned pros as well as young writers still carving a niche for themselves in the mystery world. During the 1960s,
AHMM
published early stories by writers who today are Grand Masters of the field, including Donald E. Westlake and Hillary Waugh.

In 1975
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine
was purchased by Davis Publications, which also published
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
. While other fiction digests were disappearing,
AHMM
became even more solidly established in the seventies under the stewardship of editor Eleanor Sullivan, who regularly published such talented writers as Lawrence Block and Bill Pronzini.

Cathleen Jordan came on board as editor in 1981 and quickly broadened the magazine's appeal to reach thousands of short story readers across the country. She also continued
AHMM
's tradition of being receptive to unpublished or unknown writers. Doug Allyn, Rob Kantner, Martin Limón, and I. J. Parker are a handful of the many writers who got their start in the pages of
AHMM
.

With the help of our readers, I have chosen a representative sampling of
AHMM
stories from the past five decades. They are all engaging, finely crafted stories, and they exemplify the range and variety
AHMM
has offered over the years. Whether you are coming to them for the first time or reading them again, you can be assured of entertainment. If you are a student of writing, the stories are worth studying for their craftsmanship. As a collection, the stories show the stylistic evolution of the popular short story. In this collection you will find writers you recognize and writers that deserve more attention.

Even though fifty years may not seem like that much time, American culture has evolved in ways both subtle and dramatic, and those shifts are reflected in the stories. The Civil Rights movement, the sexual revolution and women's rights, the Vietnam war, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the increasingly multicultural nature of our society are just some of the changes that inform these stories, giving them a relevance beyond their primary mandate, to entertain.

For their part in making this anthology come to fruition, I would like to thank Pegasus Books founder and editor, Claiborne Hancock; Dell Magazines marketing and subrights manager, Abby Browning; my assistants Nicole K. Sia and Jonas Eno-Van Fleet; and all of the readers who submitted their superb suggestions.

Linda Landrigan

April 2006, New York

For perhaps the
hundredth time that day, Mitch Allison squared his shoulders, wreathed his face with an engaging grin, and swung his thumb in a gesture as old as hitchhiking. And for perhaps the hundredth time his appeal was rudely ignored. The oncoming car roared down on him and past him, wiping the forced grin from his face with the nauseous blast of its exhausts.

Mitch cursed it hideously as he continued walking, damning the car's manufacturer, its owner, and finally, and most fulsomely, himself.

“Just couldn't be satisfied, could you?” he grumbled bitterly. “Sitting right up on top of the world, and it wasn't good enough for you. Well, how do you like
this
, you stupid dull-witted moronic blankety-blank-blank!”

Mitch Allison was not the crying kind. He had grown up in a world where tears were more apt to inspire annoyance than sympathy, and a sob was likely to get you a punch in the throat. Still, he was very close to weeping now. If there had been any tears in him, he would have bawled with sheer shame and self-exasperation.

Less than a day ago, he had possessed almost twenty thousand dollars, the proceeds from robbing his wife, swindling the madam of a parlor house and pulling an intricate double double-cross on several “business” associates. Moreover, since it had been imperative for him to clear out of Los Angeles, his home town, he had had a deluxe stateroom on the eastbound Super Chief. Then …

Well, there was this elderly couple. Retired farmers, ostensibly, who had just sold their orange grove for a five-figure sum. So Mitch had tied into them, as the con man's saying is, suggesting a friendly little card game. What happened then was figuratively murder.

The nice old couple had taken him like Grant took Richmond. Their apparently palsied hands had made the cards perform in a manner which even Mitch, with all his years of suckering chumps, would have declared impossible. He couldn't believe his own eyes, his own senses. His twenty grand was gone and the supposed suckers were giving him the merry ha-ha in a matter of two hours.

Mitch had threatened to beat them into hamburger if they didn't return his dough. And that, of course, was a mistake, the compounding of one serious error with another. For the elderly couple—far more practiced in the con than he—had impeccable references and identification, while Mitch's were both scanty and lousy.

He couldn't establish legitimate ownership to twenty cents, let alone twenty grand. Certainly, he was in no position to explain how he had come by that twenty grand. His attempts to do so, when the old couple summoned the conductor, had led him into one palpable lie after another. In the end, he had had to jump the train, sans baggage and ceremony, to avoid arrest.

So now, here he was. Broke, disgusted, footsore, hungry, hitch-hiking his way back to Los Angeles, where he probably would get killed as soon as he was spotted. Even if no one else cared to murder him, his wife, Bette, would be itching to do so. Still, a guy had to go some place, didn't he? And having softened up Bette before, perhaps he could do it again. It was a chance—his only chance.

A hustling man needs a good front. Right now, Mitch looked like the king of the tramps.

Brushing the sweat from his eyes, he paused to stare at a sign attached to a roadside tree:
Los Angeles—125 Miles
. He looked past the sign, into the inviting shade of the trees beyond it. The ocean would be over there somewhere, not too far from the highway. If he could wash up a little, rinse out his shirt and underwear …

He sighed, shook his head, and walked on. It wasn't worth the trouble, he decided. It wasn't safe. The way his luck was running, he'd probably wade into a school of sharks.

In the distance, he heard another car approaching. Wearily, knowing he had to try, Mitch turned and swung his thumb.

It was a Cadillac, a big black convertible. As it began to slow down, Mitch had a feeling that no woman had ever given him such a going over and seemed to like so well what she saw as the one sitting next to the Cad's driver.

The car came on, slower and slower. It came even with him, and the woman asked, “How far to El Ciudad?”

“El Ciudad?—” the car was creeping past him; Mitch had to trot along at its side to answer the question. “You mean, the resort? About fifty miles, I think.”

“I see.” The woman stared at him searchingly. “Would you like a ride?” she asked.

“Would I!”

She winked at Mitch, spoke over her shoulder to the man behind the wheel. “All right, stupid. Stop. We're giving this guy a ride.”

The man grunted a dispirited curse. The car stopped, then spurted forward savagely as Mitch clambered into the back seat.

“What a jerk!” The woman stared disgustedly at her companion. “Can't even give a guy a ride without trying to break his neck!”

“Dry up,” the man said wearily. “Drop dead.”

“So damned tight you squeak! If I'd only known what you were like before I married you!”

“Ditto. Double you in spades.”

The woman took a pint of whiskey from the glove compartment, drank from it, and casually handed it back to Mitch. He took a long, thirsty drink and started to pass the bottle back. But she had turned away again, become engrossed in nagging at her husband.

Mitch was just a little embarrassed by the quarrel, but only a little. Mitch Allison was not a guy to be easily or seriously embarrassed. He took another drink, then another. Gratefully, he settled down into the deeply upholstered seat, listening disinterestedly to the woman's brittle voice and her husband's retorts.

“Jerk! Stingy! Selfish …,” she was saying.

“Aw, Babe, lay off, will you? It's our honeymoon, and I'm taking you to one of the nicest places in the country.”

“Oh, sure! Taking me there during the off-season! Because you're just too cheap and jealous to live it up a little. Because you don't want anyone to see me!”

“Now, that isn't so, Babe. I just want to be alone with you, that's all.”

“Well, I don't want to be alone with you! One week in a lifetime is enough for me …”

Mitch wondered what kind of chump he could be to take that sort of guff from a dame. In his own case, if Bette had ever talked that way to him—
pow!
She'd be spitting out teeth for the next year.

The woman's voice grew louder, sharper. The slump to her husband's shoulders became more pronounced. Incuriously, Mitch tried to determine what he looked like without those outsize sun-glasses and the pulled-low motoring cap. But he didn't figure long. The guy straightened suddenly, swerved the car off into a grass-grown trail, and slammed on the brakes.

Mitch was almost thrown from the seat. The husband leapt from the car and went stomping off into the trees. She called after him angrily—profanely. Without turning, he disappeared from view.

The woman shrugged and looked humorously at Mitch. “Some fun, huh, mister? Guess I rode hubby a little too hard.”

“Yeah,” said Mitch. “Seems that you did.”

“Well, he'll be back in a few minutes. Just has to sulk a little first.”

She was red-haired, beautiful in a somewhat hard-faced way. But there was nothing hard-looking about her figure. She had the kind of shape a guy dreams about, but seldom sees.

Mitch's eyes lingered on her. She noticed his gaze.

“Like me, mister?” she said softly. “Like to stay with me?”

“Huh?” Mitch licked his lips. “Now, look, lady—”

“Like to have this car? Like to have half of fifty thousand dollars?”

Mitch always had been a fast guy on the uptake, but this babe was pitching right past him.

“Now, look,” he repeated shakily. “I—I—”

“You look,” she said. “Take a
good
look.”

There was a briefcase on the front seat. She opened it and handed it back to Mitch. And Mitch looked. He reached inside, took out a handful of its contents.

The briefcase was filled, or at least half filled, with traveler's checks of one-hundred-dollar denominations. Filled, practically speaking, with one hundred dollar bills. They would have to be countersigned, of course, but that was—

“—a cinch,” the woman said intently. “Look at the signature. No curlycues, no fancy stuff. All you have to do is sign the name, Martin Lonsdale—just sign it plain and simple—and we're in.”