Halo for Satan by Howard Browne

Author:Howard Browne [Browne, Howard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York : Unicorn Press
Published: 1948-09-27T22:00:00+00:00

He shook his head sadly and turned back to the switchboard, I pushed open one of the heavy doors and went out, standing in the recess while buttoning my collar around my neck.

It was still raining, not so heavy as before but still enough of it not to go out in if you had your choice. I ducked south along the walk, dodging what puddles I could, and on into the Plymouth.

The motor started with understandable reluctance. I lighted a cigarette I didn’t want and rolled south along Wayne Avenue between twin rows of parked cars. An occasional lighted, window in the buildings along there marked where people were still up and playing bridge or raiding the icebox or arguing over the family budget. Not Pine, brother; he was out hunting a case of pneumonia.

I turned off at Pratt Boulevard and on over to Western. It was getting to be a familiar route.

Glenlake Avenue came in a stone’s throw south of Devon and Sacramento was six blocks west of Western. The district was still in the subdivision stage: a good many empty weed-covered lots interspaced with bright new houses surrounded by freshly seeded lawns that were black and gooey mud under the rain. The homes themselves were a long way from being pretentious, but they had that nice solid middle-class look that went with the folks who lived in them.

I drove slowly past the corner where Wirtz was to be waiting with a fabulous manuscript under his arm and his heart in his mouth. He might have been there but I couldn’t see him. There were too many trees and far too little light for me to see anything. My wrist watch put the time at two-thirty-three.

I went on by and another block south. More trees, more empty lots, more houses. It didn’t seem anyone was tailing me with a long black car filled with machine guns. I made a complete turn at the end of the block, my headlights picking out the words on a realtor’s tin sign nailed to a stake.

Three-quarters of the way back to the proper corner I drew up at the curb, got out into the wet, jaywalked to the south side of Sacramento and on down toward Glenlake. No sounds except the drip of water and my shoe soles slapping concrete. A bleary street lamp picked up my shadow and threw it away out ahead of me.

At the corner, I cupped my hands around a match flame and lighted a cigarette while I peered south and west along the walks. Nothing moved along them but more shadows and more rain. No man with a manuscript and only one man without one. Me. I felt as conspicuous as the Swedish minister to Liberia.

I blew smoke through my nose, coughed lightly and walked around in a tight circle. The strips of parkway were lined with large trees so close together their upper branches intermingled. Around their boles was no light at all. Ten men could have been hidden within twenty feet of me.

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