5 Detective Novels, Summer 1953 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: 5 Detective Novels
Published: 1953-07-08T05:00:00+00:00

PRENTISS was watching the lighthouse, not paying much attention to the pilot. The danger seemed to be gone. He wasn’t conscious that the boat had turned until he realized suddenly that they were heading directly away from the lighthouse. He swung around, and shouted a sharp order to the pilot.

The man paid no attention to him. He was driving the boat directly toward the stone jetty. Before Prentiss could reach him, the bow crashed into one of the submerged rocks. The force of their speed carried it up high on the boulders, listing it at a good sixty-degree angle.

Prentiss was knocked flat into the dirty, splashing water on the bottom. He struggled upward just in time to see the pilot scrambling up over the stone jetty.

He followed as fast as he could, slipping and falling as he leaped from rock to rock. The gun fell from his hand when he had to clutch a boulder to keep from tumbling into the sea.

When he reached the top, he saw the pilot a long way ahead, running down between the oil derricks. Then the fog swallowed him, and Prentiss had to give up the chase.

He walked and walked, apparently for miles, until finally he found a cab. He was driven uptown into Long Beach where he caught a car for Los Angeles.

He stopped at his own office to clean up a little, then called the Coast Guard and reported the submarine. The officer in charge listened incredulously and finally ordered him to report to the office in the morning. That done, Prentiss got an owl cab and was driven to the police station.

Bryte of the homicide squad was on duty when he walked in.

“There was a little man shot out on Temple Street this afternoon,” Prentiss said. “Did you get him identified?”

Bryte yawned. “Yeah. He worked out at the Carson airplane factory. He was in the office. Name was Yorgensen. We can’t figure who would kill him or why. He was a bachelor, no near relatives, lived by himself. Why?”

Prentiss shrugged. “No reason. What’d he do with his spare time—play around the nightclubs, gamble?”

“Hell, no. He lived in a rooming house out on Third Street. He’d been there seven years. He went to the picture show every Wednesday night for bank night. That’s the only gambling he ever did. If you ask me, those guys that shot him down made a mistake. They must have been gunning for someone else.”

He took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, more awake than he had been when Prentiss came in.

“What the hell do you care, anyway? When are you going to stop playing detective and get that big carcass of yours out of our way? You’ve never had a case yet and you never will. You’re just a fake and you know. it.”

“A guy has to start some time, doesn’t he?” Prentiss said. “I heard about Yorgensen being killed and figured it might be a break for me.”

The homicide captain laughed. “Nuts! Get the hell out of here and let me go back to sleep.

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