15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 117: what you’re looking at

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

Murder Spins the Disc “The EX-Singing Cop keed,” he correct- . ed. Then, without looking at Bud, he said, “I see your pal here is still tearing them down.” } “That's right, Forbes.”” Bud’s voice was an icicle—cold and pointed. “When they stink T stiff pan em.”’ And his eyes bored into Willy’s face. “Just like in your case.”’ Now as for me, I'd always thought that Willy Forbes was a pretty good crooner, and on that T had lots of company. When he quit the Police Force and went into radio they said Homicide Bureau had lost a good detective. But Bud didn’t like him, so that’s all, brother. The kid lasted about six months after Bud started blasting him, then he disappeaced. [ selected another subject. “Are you back on the Force, Willy?” I asked. “T haven't seen you around.” “Uh uh,” he grunted. “Times have changed, Johnny. ['m just a private dick for hire now.” And he tossed a small card in front of me. As I picked it up, he turned around and started to move away from the table, then stopped and looking directly at the disc jockey with a face that was streaked with lines of hatred, said, “T just hope Um around when they throw dirt in your face, White,” he hissed, the words filtering through the sieve of his teeth, “because when that time comes I'd kind of like the first spadeful.” Then he turned abruptly and walked away. | MY DOORBELL buzzed with angry insistence until [ threw the covers off my body and climbed sleepily out of bed. I peered through bleary eyes at my watch —it said6a.m. Ud been asleep only about thirty minutes. [ stumbled to the door aad yanked it open—then slammed it shut, but not ‘quickly enough. The big guy’s aumber 12 was in the way. L stood there in my pajamas and bare _ . feet aud watched Slip Madden’s over- sized gunman and’a pink-faced little guy . door behind them. “What's this?” T managed to blurt out, nervously. “Another one of those friendly visits ?”” “That's up to you, tice boomed. While T digested that, the little guy with 9 the big one the pink face moved quickly around my | small apartment. He came back in a few minutes and shook his head. “He's alone,”” he wheezed asthmatically. “Move!” the giant told me and demon- strated by planting a big palm on my bare chest and pushing me towards the bed- room. “What do you want?” T protested—as if [ didn’t know. They didn’t waste words or time and what went on for the next fifteen min- utes I'd like to forget—only I can’t. After the big ape had bounced me off the floor a couple of times and [ still insisted that I didn’t know where Conky Jacobs’ rec- ord was, the little monkey with the thick glasses took over. _ He didn’t have the giant’s muscle, but he did have a cigarette lighter—and this one worked. The bruiser stood behind me and clamped me in the vise of his strong arms, while little “pink face’ committed arson on my chest. [ would have screamed loud enough to be heard at the 15th Pre- cinct Station twelve blocks away—only my mouth was full of a handkerchief. Either they got tired or convinced, but when I came to, I was alone—with a chest full of blisters. [£ filled my face with a handful of aspirin to kill the pain and swabbed my burned skin with salve. Then { taped half a box of gauze on my chest and phoned Bud White. He insisted that I come right over to his place and as somehow I didn’t feel sleepy any more, f went. went in. — “Hey, Bud!” I called. “Bud?” COPMICL OOO KS _il7' with thick, hora-rimmed glasses close the Bud had kept. the door unlatched so ee : = (E©)