15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 31: 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 Bor my theory, the one Mike Sheil had kicked in the face, was getting off the floor. Now I had the motive for mur- der, and it fitted Al Pilar like sand fits a beach. I could see Dawn pressuring him about the murder of that chauffeur; perhaps de- manding Al’s share of the necklace in ex- change for silence. That was all the mo- tive Al would have needed. Al and Harry that is. And then I remembered again how Mike Sheil had torpedoed that mo- tive, and sighed in frustrated despair. Sheil must be wrong. He had to be wrong. “Nobody else,”’ Joey said, in answer to some question. “Just me. Anybody else would have gone to the cops with it.” Now, I thought, I'll be able to hear that other voice. And when Al Pilar speaks up, he’ll make Mike Sheil as wrong as a three-dollar bill. “So what if you haven’t got it,” Joey said airily. “You know where it is, don’t you?..,.Afl right, go get it. We can make gael." I almost pushed my ear through the speaker. Al had told me he didn’t have the necklace. And if that’s what they were talking about, its location could be a very vital piece of information. “So it’s tough to peddle a hundred grand worth of pearls,” said Joey, his tone suddenly hard. “I don’t care how much heat is on. It’s on hotter, as of now... “Twenty-five grand,” he said, after a pause, as though he were giving someone the time of day. I shook my head. He was shooting plenty high. “That’s your problem, not mine,” he said. “And by tomorrow night —or else...” There was a silence, broken only by the hum of the machine. I slapped it again, and slowed it down, and still got nothing. Joey was getting an argument, I decided, but I couldn’t hear it. Then suddenly his voice rose sharply. “Get out!” My ears strained. Something had gone wrong. I had heard the alarm in Joey’s tone. Now I would hear that other voice, or something from Joey that would tell Tie... There was a bumping sound, and that could have been a drawer quickly closed —and then nothing but the smooth, un- compromising hum of the machine in an otherwise deathly silence... . I straightened slowly, easing my cramped legs. Joey had talked a great deal on that wire recorder. He hadn’t said much that could help me. But there was a little salvage. Just a little. There was nothing to do but wait for him to return. When he came back . . . I wondered, suddenly, if he would come back. I hadn’t checked the closet to see if his clothes were there. He could have packed up and fled, suddenly frightened out of his blackmail- ing plan. Muttering a few well-chosen words, I strode to the closet and yanked open the door. Joey Moore still wasn’t saying anything funny. He was staring right at me, hor- ror twisting his sharp face the way death by strangulation had frozen it. He came out of the closet, brushing against me as I jumped back, and his face went into the carpet with a wet sound that chilled what was left of my blood. CHAPTER SIX Paint Remover ERHAPS five seconds, perhaps five i passed before I could stop vibrating long enough to reach the telephone. I got Mike Sheil. The first time I opend my mouth, nothing hap- pened. Then I said, “I’ve got another body, Mike. Joey Moore.” “What?” he yelled. “At the Sheridan-Plaza,” I said, fight- ing off the nausea. “Apartment 303.” “That’s a helluva hobby you've got,” EOMICLOO© KS 31. (E@)