15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

Two’s Company—Three’s a Shroud “You have it wrong, Mike. Somebody completed it for me. I'd like to work on this—if only because Jake Left didn’t get his money’s worth. Besides, it happened to the body I was guarding. That makes it personal.” And I thought, too, of my original reason for taking the case, and what I actually was trying to prove to my- self. He shook his head. “Cops have it tough enough without amateurs cluttering up a case. Be a good boy, Morgan, and go pick some horses. And, listen—’” “Tf you get a hot one, call me,” CHAPTER FOUR — What Happened in Detroit? STEPPED into the telephone booth if in the club lobby. It was shortly past midnight; time for most good citizens to be in bed. That was one reason I knew I'd find Lou Klein, the gambler, awake. The guy who answered talked as though he was hoarding words, but he got Lou for me. “You winning?” I asked. “Tt doesn’t pay to lose,” he answered. “What do you want—bail money?” “Tnformation, Lou. You know a lot of interesting characters. And you keep posted on things. What comes to mind if you think about Detroit—a.year ago?” He said curtly, ““They’re holding up the game for me.” ? “H-mmmm, Lou, you’ve been smart, long as I’ve known you. You're solid, in Hollywood. Even the nice people bet with you. But it wouldn’t do your reputation or your business any good if it was noised around that you'd cover up for murder.” He said slowly, “Who got it?” “That job you sent me. Dawn Layne, Jake Left’s girl. I was hired to guard her. And no snappy remarks, please.” He didn’t flood the phone with tears, but who would expect that of Lou Klein? 23 “That's too bad...” ‘Detroit, Lou?” “T should cut my own throat,” he said. “T should even buy the knife. You think I’m crazy?” “Make sense. I could look through the files at the Gazette. But that would take time. Right now, I’m running short.” I thought of Al and his thin friend. They hadn’t impressed me as small-time hood- lums. If they were mixed up in what had occurred in Detroit a year earlier, it should be something of a magnitude Lou would recall. “A big job,” I told him. “Maybe a pay- roll heist. Thing hard, uncle. A big job.” He was in no hurry to answer. I could stand that. It meant he wasn’t going to de- liver a snap judgment, In a moment he said with lethal politeness, “Morgan—you don’t remember where you heard this..” “Go on.” “Maybe it was a jewel robbery. A dame lost a hundred grand necklace. Remem- ber?” “Vaguely.” The details were hazy. It seemed I had seen a police circular on it. The chauffeur had been killed ... I said, “Seems like a couple of guys pulled that one. Maybe a third guy was involved.” “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe the third one wasn’t there at the time.” “The third one, then,’”’ I reasoned aloud, “could have been the finger for the job.” My mind added up Al and his friend, and a third person who wasn’t singing any- more. In her spot as a nightclub singer, Dawn Layne could have easily spotted likely prospects for robberies—particular- ly if they wore jewels. I tried the theory, just for size. So Al and his friend pulled the necklace job, I reasoned, after Dawn set it up. But why had they killed her? And then it got real tough. How had they killed her, without ever entering her dressing room, without ever leaving my sight? I said, “Thanks, Lou. Good luck,” EOPNICLOOOLK< (E@)