Dime Detective Magazine, October 1952 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Dime Detective Magazine
Published: 1952-10-08T05:00:00+00:00

THE Tripoli was a so-so joint that liked a stiff shirt but didn’t make an issue of it. I got a table and ordered drinks that weren’t worth the money but came in pretty glasses. We played with them and hung on. A small orchestra was making musical shivers with mutes and strings and stuff. A few couples moved around the dance floor. I saw Al Braun cross a corner of the room and disappear through a door near the orchestra. Al was owner of the joint. He had other interests, too. Mainly gambling. I watched his thin back out of sight and wondered whether he liked the Trojans or the Badgers in tomorrow’s brawl. I was still wondering when the lights went out and Sherry Allen showed up in a spot.

She was a looker, all right. Her hair was that deep, dark shade of red, full of lights and shadows, that’s called red only because there’s no word to fit it. Somewhere below the shoulders, a dark green gown got started almost too late to accomplish the mission that gowns are supposed to accomplish. I tried to figure out how she got into the thing and finally decided she must have put it on with a brush. I guess she could sing, too. Not that it mattered.

When she was gone and the lights went up, I pushed my eyes back into their sockets and sent Mandy to the powder room.

“This is work for the solitary male,” I said.

She dropped me a wink that wouldn’t pass the censor and drifted away. I watched her go, wishing she’d shown a little reluctance, and fingered a waiter over, “Will you ask Miss Allen to come to my table for a few minutes?”

The waiter gave me an icy eye that said a fig for naughty boys, and informed me that Miss Allen did not visit the tables of gentlemen. He said the word gentlemen as if it were a dirty joke.

I sighed and found another fin.

“This isn’t routine, Jack. This is business that Miss Allen won’t want to miss. Tell her it’s Turner Jones with a fullback on his mind.”

Persuaded, he and Lincoln went off together toward the door behind the orchestra. In a couple of minutes they were back.

“Miss Allen says you can come to her room. First door on the right.”

I got up and followed directions. A light tap on the door brought a throaty invitation to enter. She was alone in the room, sitting on the arm of a chair, wearing a lacy black robe instead of the green gown she’d worn under the spot. I found nothing to complain about in the change of costume.

“You’re Turner Jones?” She said. “I don’t know you.”

The voice remained throaty, but there was an edge on it. I noticed, too, that she had glamour eyes. Like emeralds. Green and hard. Especially hard.

“My tough luck,” I said.

She moved to a dressing table and found a cigarette. Lighting it, she said, “What’s about the fullback?”

“I’ve lost one.

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