Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (5 page)

“W-well, he didn't have hardly any dough in cash like we thought he would. Just that mess of checks. But we'd pumped him for a lot of info, and we figured if we could find the right kind of chump—excuse me, Mister—I mean, a guy that could pass for Lonsdale—”

“So you did a little riding up and down the highway until you found him. And you just damned near got him killed!”

He gave the guy an irritated shake. The man whimpered apologetically. “We didn't mean to, Mister. We really figured we was doing you a favor. Giving you a chance to make a piece of change.”

“I'll bet. But skip it. Where's Babe?”

“At the hotel.”

“Nuts!” Mitch slapped him. “You were going to hole up here until the heat was off! Now, where the hell is she?”

The man began to babble again. Babe hadn't known how soon she could scram. There'd been no set time for joining him here. She had to be at the hotel. If she wasn't, he didn't know where she was.

“Maybe run out on me,” he added bitterly. “Never could trust her around the corner. I don't see how she could get away, but—”

Mitch jerked a fist swiftly upward.

When the guy came to, he was naked and the room had been stripped of its food, water, and other supplies. His clothes and everything else were bundled into one of the blankets, which Mitch was just lugging out the door.

“Wait!” The man looked at him, fearfully. “What are you going to do?”

“The question,” said Mitch, “is what are
you
going to do.”

He departed. A mile or so back up the road, he threw the stuff into the ditch. He arrived at the hotel, parked, and indulged in some very deep thinking.

Babe had to be inside the joint. This money-hungry outfit was hiding her for a price. But exactly where she might be—in which of its numerous rooms, the countless nooks and crannies, cellars and sub-cellars that a place like this had—there was no way of telling. Or finding out. The employees would know nothing. They'd simply hide themselves if they saw him coming. And naturally he couldn't search the place from top to bottom. It would take too long. Delivery men—possibly other guests—would be showing up. And there was The Pig to contend with. Someone must have driven him out here, and he would not have planned to stay later than morning. So someone would be calling for him, and—

Well, never mind. He had to find Babe. He had to do it fast. And since he had no way of learning her hiding place, there was only one thing to do. Force her out of it.

Leaving the hotel, Mitch walked around to the rear and located a rubbish pile. With no great difficulty, he found a five-gallon lard can and a quantity of rags. He returned to the parking lot. He shoved the can under the car's gas tank and opened the petcock. While it was filling, he knotted the rags into a rope. Then, having shut off the flow of gasoline, he went to the telephone booth and called the hotel's switchboard.

The clerk-manager answered. He advised Mitch to beat it before he called the cops. “I know you're not Lonsdale, understand? I know you're a crook. And if you're not gone from the premises in five minutes—”

“Look who's talking!” Mitch jeered. “Go ahead and call the cops! I'd like to see you do it, you liver-lipped, yellow-bellied—”

The manager hung up on him. Mitch called him back.

“Now, get this,” he said harshly. “You said I was a crook. All right, I am one and I'm dangerous. I'm a crib man, an explosives expert. I've got plenty of stuff to work with. So send that dame out here and do it fast, or I'll blow your damned shack apart!”

“Really? My, my!” The man laughed sneeringly, but somewhat shakily. “Just think of that!”

“I'm telling you,” Mitch said, “And this is the last time I'll tell you. Get that dame out of the woodwork, or there won't be any left.”

“You wouldn't dare! If you think you can bluff—”

“In exactly five minutes,” Mitch cut in, “the first charge will be set off, outside. If the dame doesn't come out, your building goes up.”

He replaced the receiver, went back to the car. He picked up the rags and gasoline, moved down the walk to the red-and-white mailbox. It stood in the deep shadows of the porte cochere and he was not observed. Also, the hotel employees apparently were keeping far back from the entrance.

Mitch soaked the rag rope in the gasoline and tucked a length of it down inside the mailbox. Then he lifted the can and trickled its entire contents through the letter slot. It practically filled the box to the brim. The fluid oozed through its seams and dripped down upon the ground.

Mitch carefully scrubbed his hands with his handkerchief. Then he ignited a book of matches, dropped them on the end of the rope. And ran.

His flight was unnecessary, as it turned out. Virtually unnecessary. For the “bomb” was an almost embarrassing failure. There was a weak rumble, a kind of growl—a hungry man's stomach, Mitch thought bitterly, would make a louder one. A few blasts of smoke, and the box jiggled a bit on its moorings. But that was the size of it. That was the “explosion.” It wouldn't have startled a nervous baby. As for scaring those rats inside the joint, hell, they were probably laughing themselves sick.

Oh, sure, the box burned; it practically melted. And that would give them some trouble. But that didn't help Mitch Allison any.

From far down the lawn, he looked dejectedly at the dying flames, wondering what to do now; he gasped, his eyes widening suddenly as two women burst through the entrance of El Ciudad.

One—the one in front—was Babe, barelegged, barefooted; dressed only in her bra and panties. She screamed as she ran, slapping and clawing wildly at her posterior. And it was easy to see why. For the woman chasing her was Bette, and Bette was clutching a blazing blow-torch.

She was holding it in front of her, its long blue flame aimed straight at the brassy blonde's flanks. Babe increased her speed. But Bette stayed right with her.

They came racing down the lawn toward him. Then Bette tripped and stumbled, the torch flying from her hands. And at practically the same instant, Babe collided head-on with the steel flagpole. The impact knocked her senseless. Leaving her to listen to the birdies. Mitch sat down by Bette and drew her onto his lap. Bette threw her arms around him, hugging him frantically.

“You're all right, honey? I was so worried about you! You didn't really think I meant the way I acted, did you?”

“I wouldn't have blamed you if you had,” Mitch said.

“Well, I didn't. Of course, I was awfully mad at you, but you
are
my husband. I feel like murdering you myself lots of times, but I'm certainly not going to let anyone else do it!”

“That's my girl.” Mitch kissed her fondly. “But—”

“I thought it was the best thing to do, honey. Just play dumb, and then go get some help. Well—”

“Just a minute,” Mitch interrupted. “Where's your car?”

“Over by the ocean.” Bette pointed, continued. “Like I was saying, I found
her
listening out in the hall. I mean, she ducked away real fast, but I knew she had been listening. So I figured you'd probably be all right for a little while, and I'd better see about her.”

“Right,” Mitch nodded. “You did exactly right, honey.”

“Well, she had a room just a few doors away, Mitch. I guess they had to move her nearby because they didn't have much time. Anyway, she went in and I went right in with her …”

She had asked Babe the score. Babe had told her to go jump, and Bette had gone to work on her, ripping off her clothes in the process. Babe had spilled, after a time. Bette had learned, consequently, that there would be no help for Mitch unless she provided it.

“So I locked her in and went back to your room. But you were gone, and I guessed you must be all right from the looks of things. That guy in the bathtub, I mean.” Bette burst into giggles, remembering. “He looked so funny, Mitch! How in the world do you ever think of those stunts?”

“Just comes natural, I guess,” Mitch murmured modestly. “Go on, precious.”

“Well, I went back to her room, and the clerk called and said you were threatening to blow up the place. But she wouldn't go for it. She said she was going to stay right there, no matter what, and anyway you were just bluffing. Well, I was pretty sure you were, too, but I knew you wanted to get her outside. So I went out in the hall again and dug up that big cigar lighter—”

Mitch chuckled, and kissed her again. “You did fine, baby. I'm really proud of you. You gave her a good frisk, I suppose? Searched her baggage?”

Bette nodded, biting her lip. “Yes, Mitch. She doesn't have the money.”

“Don't look so down about it—” he gave her a little pat. “I didn't figure she'd keep it with her. She's ditched it outside somewhere.”

“But, Mitch, you don't understand. I talked to her, and—”

“I know. She's a very stubborn girl.” Mitch got to his feet. “But I'll fix that.”

“But, Mitch—she told me where she put the money. When I was chasing her with the torch.”

“Told you! Why didn't you say so? Where is it, for Pete's sake?”

“It isn't,” Bette said miserably. “But it was.” She pointed toward the hotel. “It was up there.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“She … she mailed it to herself.”

4.

S
ICK WITH SELF-DISGUST,
Mitch climbed behind the wheel of Bette's car and turned it onto the highway. Bette studied his dark face. She patted him comfortingly on the knee.

“Now, don't take it so hard, honey. It wasn't your fault.”

“Whose was it, then? How a guy can be so stupid and live so long! Fifty grand, and I do myself out of it! To do it to myself, that's what kills me!”

“But you can't expect to be perfect, Mitch. No one can be smart all the time.”

“Nuts!” Mitch grunted bitterly. “When was I ever smart?”

Bette declared stoutly that he had been smart lots of times. Lots and lots of times. “You know you have, honey! Just look at all the capers you've pulled! Just think of all the people who are trying to find you! I guess they wouldn't be, would they, if you hadn't outsmarted them.”

“Well …” Mitch's shoulders straightened a little.

Bette increased her praise.

“Why, I'll bet you're the best hustler that ever was! I'll bet you could steal the socks off a guy with sore feet, without taking off his shoes!”

“You—uh—you really mean that, honey?”

“I most certainly do!” Bette nodded vigorously. “They just don't make 'em any sneakier than my Mitch. Why—why, I'll bet you're the biggest heel in the world!”

Mitch sighed on a note of contentment. Bette snuggled close to him. They rode on through the night, moving, inappropriately enough, toward the City of Angels.

When the jury
foreman stood up and read the verdict, Warren Selvey, the prosecuting attorney, listened to the pronouncement of guilt as if the words were a personal citation of merit. He heard in the foreman's somber tones, not a condemnation of the accused man who shriveled like a burnt match on the courtroom chair, but a tribute to Selvey's own brilliance. “
Guilty as charged …
” No, Warren Selvey thought triumphantly, guilty as I've proved …

For a moment, the judge's melancholy eye caught Selvey's and the old man on the bench showed shock at the light of rejoicing that he saw there. But Selvey couldn't conceal his flush of happiness, his satisfaction with his own efforts, with his first major conviction.

He gathered up his documents briskly, fighting to keep his mouth appropriately grim, though it ached to smile all over his thin, brown face. He put his briefcase beneath his arm, and when he turned, faced the buzzing spectators. “Excuse me,” he said soberly, and pushed his way through to the exit doors, thinking now only of Doreen.

He tried to visualize her face, tried to see the red mouth that could be hard or meltingly soft, depending on which one of her many moods happened to be dominant. He tried to imagine how she would look when she heard his good news, how her warm body would feel against his, how her arms would encompass him.