15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

34 Dangling on a short length of cord, like a plant pulled half-way out by its roots, was one of the dressing table lights. Socket and all, it had been loosened from its fastening on the other side of that thin wall, and dropped a few inches. Through the hole thus provided, the murderer had shot Dawn Layne right between the eyes as she sat at the mirror. And had chosen the same method of attempting to kill me. I heard stealthy, heavy footsteps in the hall. That same board creaked. My shoul- der felt as if it was seeping hot lead... That dressing room from which the shots had been fired had belonged to Joey Moore. But Joey was dead. I knew he was—lI had seen him. I was losing blood, and much too fast. My head was spinning. The floor lurched under my left hand, then steadied. My eyes were on the door, staring, straining to see a movement. The pistol. was gripped in my right hand, resting in my lap. | Someone, something, blurred, a gray bulk appeared in the opening, coming to kill me. I fired, and fired again and again, my breath caught in my throat, and heard something hum violently past my ear as the gun bucked in my fist. There was a moment’s utter silence, then a crashing sound in the hall, and a wracked, torn cough. The smell-of powder smoke was thick. I tried to get up, and the room got up with me and all the lights swam to- gether in a yellow pool and went out. ROM a distance, a familiar voice said, “He’s waking up, doc.” I blinked, and objects shifted slowly into focus. Some- thing was pinching my shoulder, hard, and it hurt. As I struggled to get up, Mike Sheil said, “You’re the damndest idiot I’ve ever known! Lie still!” “But the guy, whoever it was—” “Dead.” The doctor bending over me said, “You’ve lost some blood. The dart went x 15 Story Detective all the way through. You'll be all right in a few—”’ I said shakily, “Mike. Tell me.” “She knew about the Detroit job,” he answered. ‘He got drunk, and talked too much. She tried to shake him down, and he killed her.” “But Dawn was on the Detroit job with him.” He shook his head, and smiled wearily. “You didn’t do bad, Morgan. You had the right number of people—two guys and a dame. You had the shakedown attempt figured right, too. I’ll give you credit.” “Well, hear this. Put that in writing?” “Okay, okay,” he said brusquely. ‘So T gave you a rough time. But you didn’t have anything except a theory . . . Dawn didn’t know about the necklace job until she was told. The dame in the picture was the Countess Von Berolberg. She picked out the robbery prospects for her two boyfriends. We found out she had a record for larceny. She’d pulled the same stunt before . . . She finally admitted be- ing the finger for the job—but she wouldn’t tell us who was in it with her... Now, she doesn’t have to.” “The one in the hall,” I said. ‘‘That’s who killed Dawn, and Joey Moore. It’s —it’s Al Pilar?” Sheil chuckled. “No. ... It’s his part- ner.” So Sheil had been wrong about Harry Luwen. I said, “But how could Harry—” “Who said Harry?” asked Sheil, and his grin was as wide as Wilshire boule- ‘vard. “It’s Jake Left.” I nearly fainted. From far away I heard Sheil, relishing every word, say, “Jake pulled the light trick on you. It fits that he pulled it on Dawn. He’s also packing a beautiful dart pistol. He and Al pulled the Detroit job, and hid the necklace. I figure that, because Al showed up and apparently was trying to find it. Jake wasn’t ready for the split—the heat was still on. He was being tailed by a Conniclaoral<s (E@)