15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

i ~” : face, a shiny, bovinely stupid face and her blue eyes bugged. Her hair was stringy and the color of sulphur—dirty yellow. “Now, kitten. . . .” “Don’t kitten me!” she warned. “I didn’t mind horses or poker. I didn’t make a fuss about the burlesque queen or the hat check girl. But Fifi! My own maid. It’s the last straw. My money bought you, I know that. I thought you could be faith- ful to twenty-five thousand a year,” Courtney Vorst tried to turn on his high voltage charm. But he ‘was’ fright- ened, frantically frightened, and his voice cracked, “Kitten, I’ll swear on a stack. , .” “You had your chance!” she inter- rupted. “Up here at the lodge—just the two of us, You’ve sulked and gotten sod- den drunk. So no more allowance, And I'll keep my eye on your charge accounts, - We'll start back in the morning. I'll sleep in the small guest room tonight so you won't have to listen to my snoring.” Vorst sat like a rock. He couldn’t think, eouldn’t move. He watched Gretchen go to the sideboard, light a candle, and climb the creaky stairs. She waddled. The lodge had no electricity, just bottled gas for cooking, refrigeration and hot water heating. He watched Gretchen turn left at the top of the stairs and enter the guest room overlooking the gully, The door closed and there was the soft rasp of the key turning in the lock. Vorst went to the sideboard and poured a brandy. No allowance! No allowance! He had a marker at the Casino. Eleven thousand dollars lost at stud poker. The Casino boys were tough on welshers. The burlesque queen was blackmailing him. Her price was five thousand. There was a mirror above the sideboard. Borst stared at his reflection and gave himself: a nod of smug self satisfaction. He was a handsome devil, no doubt about it. Wavy black hair, soulful brown eyes, smooth, tawny skin. Too bad about Holly- wood and the failure of his screen test. It Rope’s End 103 was hell to be so handsome that the camera couldn’t record it faithfully. He snapped out of his reverie. The Casino boys! You paid in money or in blood and broken bones. He shuddered. The beauty and her shyster lawyer! It was a mess. He was twenty-six. In his prime. Gretchen was thirty-three and a slob. He’d outlive her handily. If she died.... Vorst © carried his brandy to the picture window in the north wall. He looked down into the moonlit gully some sixty feet below, Briars and rocks, jagged, sharp-edged rocks. The small guest room at the top of the stairs faced the gully ! Brain racing, Vorst gulped the brandy. He and Gretchen had always put on a convincing public performance of devoted husband and wife. Hadn’t they driven up to the lodge as a sort of second honey- moon? If she fell from the window... ? No, that was out. Gretchen was a slob, a tub of lard. She couldn’t possibly fall from a window unless the sill was very low, the window opening large. What if she jumped? What if there was a logical reason for her jumping? He turned around and rested his back against the window pane. He saw the answer in the wavering candle flame. Fire! It was a frame building and would go up like a box of matches. A fire! Gretchen would have to jump or be burned to death, Vorst turned and looked out of the win- dow. The red smudge in the distance was the sign of a roadside tavern. It was about a quarter mile from the lodge and reached by a footpath that wound deviously through a thick woods. They’d run out of liquor! Of course, it would be neighborly to stay and treat the yokels. He’d be in the tavern when someone would spot the fire. An alibi! Alibied by the natives. There were details, problems to solve. He had to figure some way to make Gret- chen’s door stick so she couldn’t get out. He walked up the creaky stairs without any attempt at stealth. Candlelight formed Gomicbooks (E@)