15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

32°% | 15 Story Detectives. + he said angrily. ‘‘Why don’t you try col- lecting stamps? If this is a gag, Mor- gan—”’ “The guy is lying on the floor, Mike. And he’s not breathing. Somebody strangled him. Where’s Al Pilar?” “We haven’t found him, yet. Did he do it?” “Tt sounds like it. When you get here, turn on the wire recorder in the bed- room.”’ “The what? The wire recorder?” “You'll get a lot of answers,” I said. “Just fill in the questions.” “Stay there.” he ordered. “T’ll be right out.” : The thoughts that had been half formed in my‘ spinning brain began to crystalize. If Al Pilar had killed Joey Moore, Al was still in town—and close. He had ad- mitted knowing where the necklace was. Maybe he had been telling the truth, may- be not. I had to guess that he did know, and was on his way to get it. He had at- tempted to get into Dawn Layne’s dress- ing room once before. It seemed logical he might try it again. “Mike, believe me, I just can’t wait. I’m headed for the Prince Club. But I'll be back.” “Damn it, Morgan, you stay there or=——*’ I gently replaced the receiver... It was early afternoon, and the sun was warm, but it did nothing at all for the chill I was wearing. Now that it had no wire recorder to occupy it, my brain dwelled on Joey Moore, and the ugly way he had died. . The back door of the Prince Club was locked, of course. I stepped back, sized it up—and my aching shoulder told me: Morgan, you can carry this too far. A check of the windows finally paid off. I clambered in, and closed it. Judging from the chairs racked along the wall, this room was used only for storage. I went out, walking lightly, and saw I was in the short hall leading to the main corridor. This, then, had been the wnused dressing room that Pop, the doorman, had men- tioned. I went past Joey Moore’s dressing room, and turned into the central corridor leading toward the main part of the club. . The splintered door of Dawn Layne’s dressing room was slightly ajar. It was gloomy in that hall, and the silence was oppressive. A board creaked under my slow footsteps. I stopped. There was no . sound except my breathing, and the blood pounding in my head. LE Ses my pistol, I knew I should | have waited for Mike Sheil. You can pick the winner, but there’s no profit in it. I took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. There was no one there. I flicked the switch, and that horseshoe of lights around the mirror leaped awake and glared at me, All that I had pieced together indicated. Dawn had been in possesion of the neck- lace when she was murdered. Several other people, some of them of lethal temperament, were looking for it, too. I had to work fast. The cops would have checked the ob- vious places in their routine search. I started with the three chairs. I tapped them for hollow legs. My pen-knife ripped the one with the covered seat. I knocked on the baseboards, and ran my hands along the shelves. All I got was dirt. It went like that for perhaps fifteen minutes. The search didn’t improve the appearance of the room, nor my dispo- sition. I even rummaged through Dawn’s 3 costumes, in the wardrobe closet. must have been versatile. There were evening gowns and abbreviated skirts, and a Spanish-style outfit that caught my eye — —but ho necklace. She . And there was no way out. That was. — the other thought beating at my brain with | a jungle drum rhythm. How could Dawn — ST EOPMIC OOO 4 i ee, “Se > hr i ee —<—-_ =” a -—_ © a i (F@)