15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

small suitcase on the floor and stepped in. The man shifted gears and the coupe rolled away. For a while there was no talk. Then the man asked, “Wait. long?” “No,” Spencer said, then added, “TI worked at the rock-quarry back there.” The man glanced at him. “What did you do, quit?” “Yeah.” Spencer leaned hack. He sup- posed he would have to pay for the ride by answering questions. He half looked at the man. In the dim glow from the dash light he saw an erect figure wearing a slouch hat. He saw a clean profile and gloved hands on the wheel. Down below there were black oxfords and dark gray trousers. “What are you planning on doing now?” the man asked, “T haven’t made up my mind,” Spencer said. He’d made up his mind all right. He had over two hundred dollars in his wallet and Mexico was next door to Bor- der City. With the dollar bringing a little better than eight pesos, his money. would last him a while. “Why did you amet, the man asked casually, “T got tired of working,” Spencer said. Sick of working for Bogan, he should have said. He’d worked two months for Bogan at a promised salary of fifty a week. The first month was fine, Bogan paid off on Saturday nights, and Spencer had it figured to stick around for a long time and build a big stake. The next week Bogan hedged, saying his customers weren't coming through on their bills. Spencer let it go for three weeks. Then he had all of it he could stand. He knew Bogan kept his cash in a tin box in his shack. This morning he’d told Bogan he wanted his money at the end of the day. When they finished work he cleaned up, dressed in the gray pinstripe and packed his suitcase. But Bogan whined that he didn’t have the money, for Spencer to wait another week. Bill Spencer was lean Corpse’s Comeback — 37 and young and impatient. He hit i Bivah a couple of times and made hiin produce the tin box. There was a fat stack of money in the box but Spencer took only the two hundred that was coming to him. When he walked away, Bogan shouted threats, but Spencer didn’t even look back. The coupe was picking up speed. The clock on the dash said six. Spencer looked at his watch. It was quarter to seven. He looked again at the clock and saw that it wasn't working. The coupe slowed down a little and the man leaned over and pushed the glove compartment button. A sweet whiskey smell hit Spencer. The man took the pint bottle from the compartment. “Care for a shot?” he asked. “ZT can use one,” Spencer said. The bottle was half full. Spencer took two swallows, handed the bottle to the man, watched him drink. “Hits the spot,” the man said, “You said it.” Spencer took the bottle, capped it and slid it back into the glove compartment. He closed the little door. The coupe turned off the main highway onto an oiled road. A few house lights came in view. The man glanced at Spen- cer. ‘I have to stop and see a friend. You don’t mind ?” “I’m just going along for the ride,” Spencer told him. The wash of the headlights showed a row of poplars up ahead. The coupe made a turn at the side of the trees. The head- lights caught a mailbox that had M. War- ton printed on the side. The man stopped the coupe, opened the door and said, “Come on in for a minute.” | “T’d just as soon wait out here.” “There might be a drink in it,” the man offered. Spencer shrugged and got out. They went up the walk. There was light com- - ing from behind the blinds. The man tried the door, opened it. They entered a hall. EOPMICLOOOKS To the left was a sunken (F@)