Detective Book Magazine Summer 1949 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Detective Book Magazine
Published: 1949-07-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I FOUND A PAY BOOTH AND called Metz.

“Gosh, Johnny.” His voice trembled with excitement. “I must be psychic. I’ve been pulling for you to call until my eyeballs ache.”

“I heard they yanked you downtown. What gave?”

“It’s you. They want you, Johnny.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told ’em nothing. But that captain is no dummy. He reads between the lines. He thinks you’re hot.”

“Thanks, Metz. I’ll go down later and have it out with him. Right now I’ve got things to do.”

“Look, Johnny, you know your own mind and all that, but do you think that’s wise? If they get the idea you’re running out…”

“I’ll have to take the chance. I need just a couple of hours.”

“Well…” Metz didn’t like it. “Call me if you need bail.”

I laughed. “Sure thing. So long.” I hung up, still laughing. A moment later I stopped short. “What am I laughing at?” I demanded of the black-snouted instrument.

In the causeway the first thing my eyes lighted on was a uniformed cop picking his way toward me through the crate-littered sidewalk. He didn’t see me; I shrank back into the booth and crouched down below the glass. There wasn’t much chance he was-on the lookout for me, but I felt better playing it safe. The heavy tread of his brogans approached ; his shadow passed over my bowed back. I waited a respectful period and then came out.

Six o’clock in the afternoon here in the Market was like the middle of the night in any other business. Most of the overhead doors were down and the causeway was deserted. A single black opening loomed in the score or so that spread out under the sign of the Galt Produce Company. I started over there.

In the gutter in front of Galt’s place I spied the dirty-white spade-shaped object that made my blood run cold. I bent down and picked it up. It was a fragment of plaster cast.

Maybe it meant nothing—although I couldn’t see Howard peeling off his cast out there in the street. Not voluntarily. And that single door, gaping at me like an empty tooth socket in an evil, grinning mouth…

I headed through the door and up the stairs.

Voices came from Galt’s office at the top, and among them I distinguished the shrill anguished piping of little Thorne.

She was there, all right, in a little jersey print creation that clung to her as though it were wet, with pumps of the same print. She had spent a lot of time on her hair and her face, too, since the last I’d seen of her.

Galt sat heavily on the corner of his desk, one huge ham hanging in mid-air. He looked weary and bored. He examined his cigar which had gone out; raked a match over the seat of his pants and lighted it again. He said, “Lady, will you go away?”

Thorne spluttered. “You promised me…” she began.

“I promised nothing. I told you to come over and I’d see what I could do. You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know before.

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