15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

Murder Spins the Disc 123 shrill sound of the alarm clock, so I ning face behind me, I blew the air out reached over and turned it off. My aching chest throbbed as little fingers of pain prodded the burned area. I slid down in bed and tried to rest but I couldn’t—be- sides, the alarm reminded me that it was time to go to the studio. I hurriedly washed and dressed, then I called Lt. Kes- ten at Police Headquarters and spoke with him briefly. After assuring him of the arrangements at the station, I phoned the Velvet Club and left a message for Honey to meet me at the studio right after the broadcast. Then I went out and hailed the first taxi I could find and drove to the studio. a I was all alone in Studio 12 and had been for over two hours. I sat at the table Bud had used on so many of his all- night broadcasts, my back to the door and the microphone in front of me. Studio 12 wasn’t “on air” but the voice of the fa- mous disc jockey was being broadcast from a year-old transcription on the turn- tables in another studio—all I had to do was sit there and wait for a murderer! As the big, black hands of the wall clock wound slowly around from midnight to 2 A.M., I felt the tense fibres in every nerve center of my body wind even tighter with each sweep of their hands. By 2:30 1 was a coiled spring of suspense and thorough- ly convinced that the presence in a nearby studio of two of Lt. Kesten’s best men and Willy Forbes wasn’t nearly enough protection from the killer who had snuffed out the life of the disc jockey. Suddenly my spine became a shaft of melting ice and the wet shirt felt un- bearably cold against my back—someone had opened the door behind me! I tried to turn and look over my shoul- der, but I was held in a vise of fear. Then the electrically charged silence was short circuited by Willy Forbes’ steady voice. “All quiet, Johnny?” { turned and as I spotted Willy’s gria- of my pumping lungs in a gale of delicious relief. “Willy,” I cried, “you scared the pants off me!” He laughed easily and put both his hands affectionately on my _ shoulders. “Looks like it’s not going to work.” I shook a determined jaw at him. “It’s not four A.M. yet, boy. I'll wait!” “Still got hunches that the Killer will show his head, huh? Okay, so I'll go back to watching this studio from the outside.” I thought, “I’ve got the tough one,” but I said nothing because it was my idea. He half turned and leaning over my shoul- der touched the Conky Jacobs record I had on the desk in front of me. “Is that it, keed—the million dollar record?” I laughed a little uneasily. “Well, I wouldn’t say a million bucks, but—” “Any complaints if I touch something worth big dough, huh?” a" before I could answer, he picked it up in his right hand and looked at it back and front, then he set it back down on the table. ~ “Madden will pay a fortune for- that record, Johnny.” And his voice had a tinny sound. “You should have seen that.” | I started to get up but he pressed me back into the chair and for the first time I noticed that he was wearing gloves. I looked up startled. Willy was grinning, but there was something about the way his mouth twisted that frightened me. Then I saw the black, silk necktie in his clenched hand. Before I could move my paralyzed muscles, the ex-singing cop looped it swiftly around my neck, and I knew that my vigil was at an end—I was alone in Studio 12 with the killer! I tried to speak but couldn’t. He gripped the noose just tight enough to choke off my cries, but not my life. “So now you know, Johnny.” His GOMmICcbDOOKS (E@)