Dime Detective Magazine January 1944 by Constiner Merle & Donnel C. B. Jr. & Clark Dale & Dermody Richard & Allen Francis K

Author:Constiner, Merle & Donnel, C. B. Jr. & Clark, Dale & Dermody, Richard & Allen, Francis K.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Dime Detective Magazine
Published: 1944-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

Meet the Corpse

Five anxious minutes later, they had Sally O’Rion propped on a divan. “I—I don’t know what happened.” The eighteen-year-old’s blue eyes were shock-fogged. “Dane asked for a doctor. I remembered there was a doctor up here somewhere. I opened the door and—that’s all.”

Carter’s smile was an unconvinced leer. “Everything went black, eh? Just like in the best murder alibis.”

Plates O’Rion boiled with rage at the Broadwayite. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Practically everything. Dane didn’t commit suicide. He had a beautiful wife, two grand kids, a brilliant career, more moolah than he knew how to spend—every reason to stay alive,” the manager insisted. “This girl’s story doesn’t make sense…waking up with that note in her fist.”

“Her story doesn’t make sense? I love that! In the name of hell, what does make sense? Dane died of heart failure, only first he wrote a farewell note, except you claim it’s a forgery. Somebody saps Sal, somebody saps me, Big Bill Garms welches on paying you, and Heeley wants to welch on him. Why pick on Sally because she hasn’t got a nice, logical solution to cover the whole screwy merry-go-round?”

The photog aimed an angry forefinger at the deep purple bruise on his daughter’s forehead.

“Or maybe you’ve got a better explanation for that, wise-guy?”

Carter waved a disdainful, carefully manicured hand. “I think I have, yes.”

“Take it outside, then.” The white-haired Dr. Lessinger shooed them toward the door. “The young lady’s been injured. She needs quiet, rest, a chance to pull herself together.”

Plates swallowed, nodded. “O.K., Doc. But look after her. Just remember—there’ll be personal hell to pay if anything more happens to that kid.”

He followed Carter and Heeley out onto the landing, said to Carter: “Now. What’s your gorgeous idea?”

“I don’t deny the bump on her head. I suppose she came racing up here in wild excitement, tripped, and fell.” The manager shrugged. “She returned to the stage, overheard enough to know Dane was dead. So she came up here, scribbled that suicide note, and threw a faked faint.”

The cool gall of it made Plates gulp, gasp: “Why would she…?”

Half-tolerant, half-scornful, the manager smiled. “She’s young. Stage-struck. And Dane-dizzy. Look at her, man! She’s wet to the skin, drenched from standing in the rain waiting for a glimpse of Dane. Think what all this means to a kid her age—her name in the newspapers, all her friends ga-ga over her—because of her connection with this.” He fanned out his fingers. “You can’t understand it. But be honest. Can you understand her waiting in the rain outside this Opera House tonight?”

The verbal punch made Plates wince. “That’s not the point,” he scowled. “How could she imitate his handwriting, forge a signature she’d never even seen in her life?”

“Hadn’t she? Dane handed out hundreds of autographs every day in his life. Are you sure she hasn’t got one of them tucked away in a drawer, that she doesn’t know his signature by heart? Maybe she’s forged it dozens of times before. Youngsters collect autographs to swap with one another, and sometimes they keep the original, trade off a facsimile.

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