Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense (3 page)

“But—” Mitch shook his head. “But I'm not—”

“But you could be Martin Lonsdale—you
could
be my husband. If you were dressed up, if you had his identification.” Her voice faded at the look Mitch gave her, then resumed again, sulkily.

“Why not, anyway? I've got a few rights, haven't I? He promised me the world with a ring around it if I'd marry him, and now I can't get a nickel out of him. I can't even tap his wallet, because he keeps all of his dough out of my hands with tricks like this.”

“Tough,” said Mitch. “That's really tough, that is.”

He returned the checks to the briefcase, snapped the lock on it, and tossed it back into the front seat. “How could I use his identification unless he was dead? Think he'd just go to sleep somewhere until I cashed the checks and made a getaway?”

The girl flounced around in the seat. Then she shrugged and got out. “Well,” she said, “as long as that's the way you feel …”

“We'll get hubby, right?” Mitch also got out of the car. “Sure, we will—you and me together. We'll see that he gets back safe and sound, won't we?”

She whirled angrily and stomped off ahead of him. Grinning, Mitch followed her through the trees and underbrush. There was an enticing roll to her hips—a deliberately exaggerated roll. She drew her skirt up a little, on the pretext of quickening her stride, and her long perfectly shaped legs gleamed alluringly in the shade-dappled sunlight. Mitch admired the display dispassionately. Admired it, without being in the least tempted by it.

She was throwing everything she had at him, and what she had was plenty. And he, Mitch Allison, would be the first guy to admit that she had it. Still, she was a bum, a hundred and ten pounds of pure poison. Mitch grimaced distastefully. He wished she would back-talk him a little, give him some reason to put the slug on her, and he knew she was too smart to do it.

They emerged from the trees, came out on the face of a cliff overlooking the ocean. The man's trail clearly led here, but he was nowhere in sight. Mitch shot an inquiring glance at the girl. She shrugged, but her face had paled. Mitch stepped cautiously to the edge of the cliff and looked down.

Far below—a good one hundred feet at least—was the ocean, roiled, oily looking, surging thunderously with the great foam-flecked waves of the incoming tide. It was an almost straight up-and-down drop to the water. About halfway down, snagged on a bush that sprouted from the cliff face, was a man's motoring cap.

Mitch's stomach turned sickishly. Then he jumped and whirled as a wild scream rent the air.

It was the girl. She was kneeling, sobbing hysterically, at the base of a tree. Her husband's coat was there, suspended from a broken-off branch, and she was holding a slip of paper in her hands.

“I didn't mean it!” she wept. “I wouldn't have done it! I was just sore, and—”

Mitch told her curtly to shut up. He took the note from her and read it, his lips pursed with a mixture of disdain and regret.

It was too bad, certainly. Death was always regrettable, whether brought on by one's own hand or another's. Still, a guy who would end his life over a dame like this one—well, the world hadn't lost much by the action and neither had he.

Mitch wadded the note and tossed it over the cliff. He frisked the coat and tossed it after the note. Then, briskly, he examined the wallet and personal papers of the late Martin Lonsdale.

There was a telegram, confirming reservations at El Ciudad hotel and Country Club. There was a registration certificate—proof of ownership—on the Cadillac. There was a driver's license and a photostat of Martin Lonsdale's discharge from the army. Mitch examined the last two items with particular care.

Brown hair, gray eyes—yep, that was all right; that matched the description of his own eyes and hair. Weight one hundred and eighty—right on the nose again. Complexion fair—okay, also. Height six feet one inch …

Mitch frowned slightly. Lonsdale hadn't looked to be over five eight or nine, so—So? So nothing. Lonsdale's shoulders had been slumped; he, Mitch, had only seen the man on his feet for a few seconds. At any rate, the height on the papers matched his own and that was all that mattered.

The girl was still on her knees, weeping. Mitch told her to knock it off, for God's sake, and when she persisted he kicked her lightly in the stomach. That stopped the tears, but it pulled the stopper on some of the dirtiest language he had ever heard.

Mitch listened to it for a moment, then gave her a stinging slap on the jaw. “You've just passed the first plateau,” he advised her pleasantly. “From now on, you won't get less than a handful of knuckles. Like to try for it, or will you settle for what you have?”

“You dirty, lousy, two-bit tinhorn.” She glared at him, “I just lost my husband, and—”

“Which was just what you wanted,” Mitch nodded, “so cut the fake sob stuff. You wanted him dead. Okay, you got your wish, and with no help from me. So now let's see if we can't do a little business together.”

“Why the hell should I do business with you? I'm his widow. I've got a legal claim on the car and dough.”

“Uh-huh,” Mitch nodded judiciously. “And maybe you can collect, too, if you care to wait long enough—and if there aren't any other claims against the estate. And if, of course, you're still alive.”

“Alive? What do you—?”

“I mean you might be executed. For murder, you know. A certain tall and handsome young man might tell the cops you pushed Martin off of that cliff.”

He grinned at her. The girl's eyes blazed, then dulled in surrender.

“All right,” she mumbled. “All right. But do you have to be so—so nasty, so cold-blooded? Can't you act like—uh—”

Mitch hesitated. He had less than no use for her, and it was difficult to conceal the fact. Still, when you had to do business with a person, it was best to maintain the appearance of friendliness.

“We'll get along all right, Babe.” He smiled boyishly, giving her a wink. “This El Ciudad place. Is Martin known there?”

“He was never even in California before.”

“Swell. That strengthens my identification. Gives us a highclass base of operations while we're cashing the checks. There's one more thing, though”—Mitch looked down at the telegram. “This only confirms a reservation for Martin Lonsdale.”

“Well? It wouldn't necessarily have to mention his wife, would it? They have plenty of room at this time of the year.”

Mitch nodded. “Now, about the clothes. Maybe I'm wrong, but Marty looked quite a bit smaller than—”

“They'll fit you,” the girl said firmly. “Marty bought his clothes a little large. Thought they wore longer that way, you know.”

She proved to be right. Except for his shoes, the dead man's clothes fitted Mitch perfectly.

Mitch retained only his own shoes and socks and threw his other clothes into the ocean. Redressed in clean underwear, an expensive white shirt and tie, and a conservative-looking blue serge suit, he climbed behind the wheel of the car. The girl, Babe, snuggled close to him. He backed out onto the highway and headed for El Ciudad.

“Mmmm …” Babe laid her head against his shoulder. “This is nice, isn't it, honey? And it's going to be a lot nicer, isn't it, when we get to the hotel?”

She shivered deliciously. Mitch suppressed a shudder.

“We'll cash the checks,” she murmured, “and split the dough. And we'll sell the car, and split on that. We'll divide everything, even-stephen, won't we, honey?… Well, won't we?”

“Oh, sure. Naturally,” Mitch said hastily. “You just bet we will!”

And he added silently:
Like hell!

2.

E
L
C
IUDAD IS
just a few miles beyond the outer outskirts of Los Angeles. A truly magnificent establishment during the tourist season, it was now, in mid-summer, anything but. The great lawns were brown, tinder-dry. The long rows of palm trees were as unappetizing as banana stalks. The tennis courts were half hidden by weeds. Emptied of water, and drifted almost full of dried leaves and rubble, the swimming pool looked like some mammoth compost pit. The only spots of brightness were the red-and-white mailbox at the head of the driveway and a green telephone booth at the first tee of the golf course.

Briefly, the exterior of the place was a depressing mess, and inside it was even less prepossessing. The furniture was draped with dust covers. Painter's drop cloths, lumber, and sacks of plaster were strewn about the marble floor. Scaffolds reared toward the ceiling, and ladders were propped along the walls.

There was only a skeleton staff on duty; they were as dejected-looking as the establishment itself. The manager, also doubling as clerk, was unshaven and obviously suffering from a hangover. He apologized curtly for the disarray, explaining that the workmen who were refurbishing the place had gone on strike.

“Not that it makes much difference,” he added. “Of course, we regret the inconvenience to you”—he didn't appear to regret it—“but you're our only guests.”

He cashed one of the hundred-dollar checks for Mitch, his fingers lingering hungrily over the money. A bellboy in a baggy uniform showed “Mr. and Mrs. Lonsdale” to their suite. It consisted of two rooms and a connecting bath. Mitch looked it over, dismissed the bellboy with a dollar tip, and dropped into a chair in front of the air-conditioning vent.

“You know,” he told Babe, “I'm beginning to understand your irritation with Marty. If this is a sample of his behavior, going to a winter resort in the middle of summer—”

“A double-distilled jerk,” Babe agreed. “Scared to death that someone might make a play for me.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Mitch frowned thoughtfully. “You're sure that was his only reason? No matter how scared he was of competition, this deal just doesn't seem to make sense.”

“Well—” the girl hesitated. “Of course, he probably didn't know it would be this bad.”

The kitchens and dining room of El Ciudad were not in operation, but the bellboy made and served them soggy sand-wiches and muddy coffee. He also supplied them with a bottle of whiskey at double the retail price. They had a few drinks and ate. Then, with another drink before him, Mitch sat down at the desk and began practicing the signature of Martin Lonsdale.

For the one check—the one cashed by the manager—he had done all right. There was only a hundred dollars involved, and the manager had no reason to suspect the signature. But it would be a different story tomorrow when he began hitting the banks. Then he would be cashing the checks in wholesale lots, cashing them with people whose business it was to be suspicious. His forgeries would have to be perfect, or else.

So he practiced and continued to practice, pausing occasionally to massage his hand or to exchange a word with the girl. When, finally, he achieved perfection, he started to work on the checks. Babe stopped him, immediately wary and alarmed.

“Why are you doing that? Aren't they supposed to be countersigned where they're cashed?”

Mitch shrugged. “Not necessarily. I can write my name in front of the person who does the cashing. Just establish, you know, that my signature is the same as the one on the checks.”

“Yes, but why—”

“To save time, dammit! This is a forgery job, remember? We hold all the cards, but it
is
forgery. Which means we have to hit and get—cash in and disappear. Because sooner or later, there's going to be a rumble. Now, if you're afraid I'm going to lam out with these things—”

“Oh, 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.

“Keep 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.

“But, honey. I thought we were going to—uh—”

“We'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.