10-Story Detective, June 1945 — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

~~ “Té means Melton sent somebody 4 message on a calendar leaf for today, November 15. Wished them a “happy and discreet fourth anniversary.’ “T don’t see how that ‘Proves—" she began. “Tt doesn’t, yet. But its going to,” I told her. “Look.” I fumbled through the pockets of Mel- ton’s suit until I found the envelope with the key in it, shook the key out into my palm. “Somewhere around here there’s a mighty interesting skeleton in a family closet, The sooner it’s aired out, the sooner I can quit being a dead broker and go back to being a live carnival shill.” “Til tag along,” Mary O’Quinn re- marked, “just to make sure nobody crosses you up on that last item.” Leaving the charcoal sketch of the late lamented James Melton under the bed, we made a quick tour of the house, end- ing up in the living room. “Not a locked door in the a Loe | said grimly. “If I don’t find . The words died unspoken as “my blood turned to ice water. One of the swing fanciers in the living room had switched the radio over to.the broadcast side. A radio voice was blabbing about a murder, a swell new, Hollywood murder. I stood there frozen, listening to the words that would drop the deadfall on my neck, Not Mary O’Quinn, She eased up along- side the radio and pressed the right but- ton, clicked the news voice off, She came back, “That means you've - only got minutes, now,” she whispered. “The police will trace you here by phon- ing Doug Drake’s studio and finding out where he is.” We stepped out the front door, The sun had gone. Dusk crept in under the leafy walnut trees to mix with the smell of wood smoke. Up in the blue sky a little a the size of a baby’s shirt tail turned pink, You couldn’t ask anything better, but the way I felt I might as well have been alone on a narrow steel girder, thirty floors above the street, with a sleety ciate Negi wind hunting the marrow of my One slip and good-by. “Could be there’s a locked door in the garage or servants’ quarters upstairs,” I said in-a voice that surprised me it was so calm, “T'll take the servants’ quarters,” Mary O’Quinn whispered quicidy. “You take the garage. Hurry.” The garage doors were closed. I weat | around to the side, got in that way. 10-SEFORY DETECTIVE op UST as my fingers touched the light switch I spotted an orange dot i in the darkness and got a whiff of marijuana. The lights clicked on, That was a mistake. Liscomb sat there on an apple box in his black and orange shirt and white sombrero, looking at me. | He was still on the’ mugegles, but he'd graduated from reefers. He smoked a king-sized torpedo, now. “Billy boy!” he whispered. The green flickers in his snaky eyes were king-sized now, too. Ropy saliva hung on his teeth when he grinned at me. I backed toward the door, fumbling for the light button. Liscomb’s fancy, high- heeled boots gritted on the floor as he got up off the apple box stretching like a big sleepy cat. The marijuana saved me. His timing was shot. I snapped off the lights, slid out, slamming the door, just as his two hundred pounds of crazy muscle crashed against it. Inside I could hear him fum- bling around, hunting the knob. Mary O’Quinn met me on the lawn while I was still cursing my knees for going shaky on me. “Nothing upstairs,” she reported, “Nothing downstairs either.” I didn't tell her about Liscomb. Her eyes narrowed. “Have you T xaieed that real estate woman, Martha Hayes, about this? She handled the deal for Melton, you know. Even to furnishing the place and throwing this housewarm- ing, “Tt’s worth a try,” I admitted. We cornered the blonde Hayes dame against a table. I hauled out the envelope with the key in it. “Er, uh, Mrs. Hayes. I find there’s a key I don’t quite place. Is there something locked up?” “Oh, don’t you recall?” she yelped. “The estate-keeper’s lodge. You gave strict orders on the telephone when you leased the place just four months ago fto- day. You have the only key.” Mary O’Quinn’s eyes met mine as we moved out of the crowd. “Four months ago today!” she whispered. “Wishing you a happy and discreet fourth anniversary,” I mused. “Well that's one way of putting it.” “The papers,” she said quickly, “The newspapers. If we could get hold of the L. A, papers for—let’s see—” “Last July 15th.” “Right,” she nodded. “I noticed piles of salvage papers on the curbs all along the street when we drove up. I’m going to bribe the neighborhood kids to dig for July 15 copies!” She started away, stopped, looked at. -comichook