15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 122: what you’re looking at

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

t<i = yer oy cate? sala 122 15 Story Detective ment and my face was dressed in a broad grin. “I got an idea, fellow,” I breathed, and while he looked, I talked. “If the killer heard Bud on the’afir as usual to- night, wouldn’t he come back and try to finish the job?” Willy threw both ‘his hands in the air with a gesture of complete disgust. ‘What do you think this is,” he barked viciously, “a B movie? You're playing with dyna- mite, Johnny, and you’re just as apt to get blown—” He stopped talking on a dime and a curious smile lit on his lips and froze there. Then he snapped his fingers sharply. “It might be the answer !” “Yeah?” I encouraged. “Yeah,” he laughed out loud. “It’s just corny enough to work. But how?” I told him that the program was always transcribed in full so as to have it on file for any reference and we had two years’ backlog. It would be quite simple. I’d take Bud’s place at a dead microphone and have an old program of Bud’s on the air. It would have the same effect as if Bud were on the air himself “live”. “But won’t anybody get wise?” Willy asked cautiously. : “Naw!” I assured him. “T’il pick out a program about a year old. Maybe,” I admitted, “a few listeners may think it sounds familiar but by that time, we'll either have what we want or it won't mat- ter anyway.” I noticed deep thought furrows digging at Willy’s face, so I asked him what he was delving for. “I’m trying to figure how to get this back to Slip Madden.” “Then you do suspect him,” I shouted. “The idea is to be suspicious of every- body, keed,” he grinned, “‘so I think I'll plant it where it'll do the most good.” “Stoolie?” I queried. “Yeah. Maybe I'll let it leak out that Bud’s going to play a certain record. That ought to do it.” He slapped his fist into his hand. “You going to bring the plat- ter?” “Sure!” I spoke up. “I might just as well go all the way.” So that’s how we used a dead disc jockey to catch a live killer—with me as the bait. I WAS thankful that I had the ex-sing- ing cop with me when I walked into Homicide Bureau down at Police Head- quarters. With him running interference it wasn’t so tough—he knew the boys and they knew him. But, like Willy said, they could sure ask plenty questions. So I held nothing back—except Conky’s rec- ord of Slip Madden’s dealing in mari- juana. I just couldn’t shake the memory of Bud’s words about holding on to it. When I asked them to keep the murder under cover and explained my plan to trap the killer, all hell broke loose. Lt. Kesten was the calmest, but also the most adamant. His head shook with obvi- ous disgust and his deep, resonant voice knifed through the din. “That’s what comes of listening to whodunits on the tadio, young fellow.” Which was what Willy Forbés had said, too, only about a different medium, I don’t know how we finally sold them a bill of goods, but I give full credit to Willy. I guess he must have been a good detective when he was on the Foree, because it was at his urging that Lt. Kesten gave in. “Against my better judgment, though,” he warned. “That’s soap opera radio stuff and it don’t happen in real life.” Well, every man to his own opinion, I say, but I couldn’t help feeling that in this case the killer would try again. I made the necessary arrangements at the radio station and then went home, took a couple of Pheno-Barbitals and went to bed. I awakened, sitting straight up in bed, _my shoulders pressed hard against the backboard and cold sweat pasting my paja- mas to my body. I recognized the harsh, Gomichboo S (EO)