10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 51: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MURDER—IN THE BAG TSD Suddenly he had a gun in his hand. The muzzle looked very black. “T didn’t know you were a torpedo, Willie. What beans?” “Don’t try to hand me a turkey!” he snarled. “I saw you give the cops the runaround, but it won’t work on me.” His eyes were pin points of dirty glass and the gun was steady. He meant business. “Okay. Okay. You can have ’em. But this is the first heist I ever saw pulled for a sack of beans.” “Just get ’em!”’ He followed me into the kitchenette. The linoleum was cold on my feet. I opened the kitchen cabinet, took out a brown paper bag, hoping this stunt wouldn’t end with my feet being even colder. “I put ’em here,” I told him, “be- cause I like beans. They’re good with ham.” “Cut the chatter.” He took the bag of beans, fingered it open with one hand, glanced inside. Satisfied, he warned: “If you’re smart, guy, you'll clam.” “Don’t mention it. What are a few beans between friends?” When I had closed the door behind Fargo, I returned to the kitchenette. The beans I had given him were my own. I got out the original package. The brown paper bag was dry now. I poured the beans out, pawed through them, looked into the sack, even broke a bean and tasted it. There was noth- ing mixed with the beans, nothing in the bag. So far as I could tell, they were ordinary Lima beans—the kind grocers sell for a few cents a pound. I fished a couple of bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and sat down, my feet propped up on the chair rounds. Then I tried to figure the whole thing out, wondering just where the girl tied in. The telephone rang before I fin- ished one bottle. It was the girl. Her voice sounded almost as good over the wire as it had in the bus station. 49 “Mr. Butler, did you find a package after I left?” “Why?” I asked. “Did you take it away with you?” Again I asked: ‘Why ?” “Oh,” she said, “you’re going to be stubborn. I'll have to see you.” The phone clicked. JIGGLED my hook, but she had hung up. I put my shoes on, fin- ished my beer while I waited. This bean gag, whatever it was, seemed to be moving right along. She was wearing a little dark green hat with a gay feather in it, and furs instead of the slicker, when I let her in. All in all, she made my apartment look suddenly messy. I said: “You'll have to overlook untidiness. Bachelor quarters are never—’’ But she wasn’t interested. Her face was drawn, frightened. She plunged in: “I’m Audrey Mc- Hale. I must have the package. It’s mine.” Now, with the name, I remembered seeing her picture on the society page and inthe roto sections. I said: “Miss McHale, why are a few beans so important?” “I can’t tell you. I simply can’t. Please, will you give them back to me?” Pleading, she was hard to resist. But I told her: “One man has already been here for the same purpose—with a gun.” “IT know. They told me.” “Who told you? Who are ‘they’ ?” She ignored the question. ‘You tricked him. That’s why I had to come. They told me if I didn’t persuade you to give them up—” Her voice trailed off. I felt like the biggest heel ever made, but I said: “I won’t give them to you.” Audrey McHale stared at me, her lower lip trembling. I explained: “I think they’re dan- gerous. At least one man is willing to kill to get them. Somehow they’re im- COmiclboool CO