15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

12 [ said, studying him. “All the dead ones l get 1 give to the cops.” He showed his teeth. “You're quick.” He was of medium height, but the shoulders of his expensive gray flannel were very broad. He was rugged, and there was a calculating look about his eves that indicated he had seen more than the average citizen, and possibly had figured a sharp way to get along. We started to- ward the har. “Tf you'll pardon me just a second,” — Tsatd, “til improve the breed another ten dollars worth.” [pushed my fast piece of currency through the wicket for a win ticket on a beetle named Easy Go. This was my own selection—no tips from Lou Klein, no horoscope consultation, no eavesdropping in the paddock. Easy Go was a longshot. Sucker bait. But private investigators make a living by guesswork. As we took a table in the bar I said, “Why did you pick me?” “What's the difference?” shortly. “Sometimes ([ get paid for being curious. Maybe it’s becoming a habit.” He grunted. “I was talking to a guy we both know. T[ mentioned I needed someone for a job. He pointed you out.” “The guy?” “Lou Klein.” Lou knows a lot of people, as well as a few horses. Some are nice: some aren’t. [t’s an even het. We ordered, and as the waiter departed my new chum suddenly got to his feet. “Back in a minute,” he said curtly. he asked -T turned, and watched him intercept something tall, blonde and luscious just as she entered the bar. Her face was faintly familiar, but T couldn't find a place card for it.. He took her arm, and said something. She shrugged, and they went out. She hadn’t seen me with her boy- friend, [ was sure, and [ wondered if that hadn’t been his idea. 15 Story Detective ruddy at the nose. eee f The waiter un-trayed our drinks. He’s a good waiter. He inquired politely, “Something else, Mr. Morgan?” ~“T guess not, Dennis.” He emptied the ash tray, wrote out a check. He said, “You aren’t Mr. Wilkins from Detroit, are you, Mr. Morgane?” I stared. “Why, no. Um Mr. Broke from playing-the horses, remember? . . . What is this; a word game?” He smited slightly. “A gentleman at the bar asked if you were Mr. Wilkins. He thought perhaps he knew you.” “Why didn’t he ask me?” “T’m sure he just wanted to know who you really are.” “So you told him what?” “T told him I didn’t know you.” Dennis glanced toward the bar. “‘That’s the one. The brown suit.” He was a heavy-set man, middle-aged, somewhat gray at the temples, somewhat He looked like he might have been a banker from Des Moines. [ walked over and stood in front of him. “T understand you wanted to see me?” He stared coolly. Some mistake.” ; “Your's, maybe. What's your racket, friend?” He put his back to the bar, and a patient expression came to his face. “What are you trying to do; impersonate a junior hoodlum? Your tone is rather rough. [ “T don’t believe so. _ don't particularly like attempts at intimi- dation. : And with that he jammed my-hat down over my eyes. I knew it would take quite a jerk to get it off. It did—and I was. [ felt as foolish as a guy whose suspenders had busted during a dance contest. When [ could see again, the banker type was strolling out the door. [ let him go. May- be he really was looking for a Mr. Wilkins from Detroit. Besides, it Avas my only hat. =z COPMICLOOOKS 0)