15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

30° I knew what it was. I had seen them in the Army, and even had been exposed to a short course in their operation when I had been shooting for a job as a radio combat correspondent. It was a portable wire recorder. The recording spool was full, and still revolving. Joey Moore might be back any moment, I thought. It might be just as tough to get him to talk as it had been the night before. But perhaps some of the answers I needed were right here. With hasty, fumbling fingers I removed the recorded spool and replaced it with the empty. Then I rethreaded the machine. My palms were wet with nervous sweat as I crouched beside the machine. One ear was practically in the other room, waiting for Joey’s footsteps. I flipped the first switch. The box hummed, warming up. It was quiet, except for that and the traffic sounds coming up faintly from the street below. I hit another switch, and listened. “I’m happy to see so many smiling faces,”’ said Joey’s voice, from inside. the machine, He paused. “But just wait un- til you get your dinner checks . . . Not that the food is expensive,” he went on. “But you should try our de luxe dinner. With that, you get a knife and fork... .” I felt like throwing the damned thing out the window. Now I knew the reason for it. Joey Moore had used it to test his comedy routines. It wasn’t a bad angle, at that. He could speak his gags, and time his show. Then he could listen, and if the stuff lacked luster his trained ear might tell him where to apply the polish. But I wasn’t interested in a floor show. I crouched there until rheumatism took over my knee joints, listening to Joey go on and on. There was a long pause, then a scraping, rattling, hurrying sound. I bent low. My heart thumped as I remem- bered where I had found the microphone. Those sounds might have been made by it coming hastily off the desk into the drawer 15 Story Detective ° ... All I heard now was a very slight mumble. Swiftly, my fingers turned up the vol- ume as high as it would go,-and caught Joey’s voice, faintly. “|... a surprise. I didn’t hear you knock.” There was some answer, but too far away to be distinguished. I nearly twisted the volume knob off, trying to bring that other voice within range. Maybe it was only the landlord, but I definitely wanted to know. , “T didn’t expect you so soon,” Joey was saying. There was another pause, longer this time, and I thought: I’ll hear that other: voice, now. Maybe I'll recog- nize its... But it was Joey again. ‘Not much more to say,” he replied, to some remark. “T heard you arguing with her the night be- fore. The walls are thin. I can add two and two. It makes murder.” I slapped the machine. I fooled with the volume knob. I snapped the switches. It was driving me crazy. Here was Dawn Layne’s murderer, spinning around and around on a thin wire, right in front of me. And I couldn’t hear the murderer’s voice. I couldn’t even tell whether it was aman or a woman. But the voice would come nearer any moment. I had to wait —and wait— . “So you came around,” said Joey, in the distance. “Sure—In my racket, it pays to keep your ears open. “How much? Well, I’m glad to see you're being reasonable. . . . What’s it worth, for me not to say anything about the way. she was trying te shake you down ?”’. I nearly fell flat on my face. So Dawn had been killed trying the same thing that Joey Moore was trying—and on the same person. I had to give the kid credit for: having plenty of moxie—or for being an utter fool. He was taking a terrific chance, a murderous chance, for money. COPMICL OOO KS (E@)