15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 118: what you’re looking at

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

eiF 118 _ I heard the water running in the bath- room so I walked over and opened the door. It was like walking into the steam room of a Turkish bath. Swirling clouds of white, hot dampness rushed at me from the open door and through it I could just make out Bud stretched naked in the tub. The tap was bubbling boiling hot water over skin that had already been scalded ‘a sickening shade of red—only, Bud didn’t feel it—he was dead! I hurried away from there. I tried hard to erase the gruesome picture of Bud’s eyes bulging from his swollen face; his black, puffy tongue hanging loosely be- tween his clenched teeth and that loud silk tie looped murderously tight around his strangled throat. ae Same Willy Forbes looked at:me with a face chiseled from Stone Mountain. He didn’t even tumble when I told him the disc jockey had» been murdered, but it didn’t have much effect on him. “So, Bud White’s dead!” he grunted callously. “What do you want me to do, break out a crying towel?” “T don’t expect any tears, Willy,” I told him, “not from you. But if you'd seen him stretched out in that tub, with the necktie around his throat... .” I shud- dered all over. “Look, keed,” he said making a face like a prune, “save the details, huh.” And he chuckled quietly to himself. “What's funny?” I bristled. “After all the rotten stuff Bud pulled on others,” the ex-singing cop muttered, “here he winds up in hot water himself,” and he grinned again. I didn’t see the joke and said so, but Willy brushed aside my protest. “Look, Johnny, why come to me?” “Because you told me yourself that you’re a dick for hire. Okay, I want to hire you.” “What for?” “IT want you to help me.” oot ott ang? veh 15 Story Detective coyou don’t need any help from me, Johnny,” he replied blithely. “All you have to do is pick up the nearest phone and say—I want a policeman. It’s that simple.” 3 I said, “It’s not that simple.” “Why not?’ he needled. “Did you kill the louse?” I glared at him and growled, “Cut the jokes, will you, Willy. This is serious.” “Okay, so it’s serious—but how do I itt” . “You uséd' to be on the Force, Willy. You know how those guys figure and you've probably got a line on what to ex- pect from Slip Madden.” “Slip Madden!” he interrupted. “Where’s he come in?” I’d forgotten—Willy didn’t know about the Conky Jacobs record—so I told him, including the friendly visits by the hood and his two boys. I remembered what Bud had said about not turning the record over to the police, “We're dead ducks, Johnny,” he’d said, “if we turn over the record.” So, I appealed to Willy. “What’ll I do? You ought to know.” Forbes got up and walked around the room a few times, then he went over and picked up a glass coffee pot from the table. “Well?” I prodded brusquely. “You like your coffee strong?” he ‘asked in that casual way of nis. I sprang to my feet and squawked im- patiently. ‘Never mind the coffee, what am I going to do?” “The first thing for you, Johnny,” he said slowly, in a deliberate manner that was maddening, “is to have a good strong cup of Java—nothing like it to soothe the nerves—get you thinking straight, keed.” I sat there and watched him fill tne pot from the spigot at the sink because there | was nothing else I could do. He carefully ladled four heaping tablespoons of coffee into the pot and set it on the burner. Then ‘Ss Eomichboo (E(@)