15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

15 Story Detective Rita and little Bobby were in Long Is- land by now. With no witnesses and no clues, it would be a cinch to collect the insurance. Yet, being new to lawlessness, the Shaky feeling persisted. A pinpoint of doubt tangled with the back of his mind. Should he drop the whole idea? There was still time. Let the bank examiners find the shortage. He’d been a faithful employee for ten years; maybe they’d be lenient with him. Faithful? He twisted the word this way and that. Was embezzling funds being faithful? A sickness filled him. The vision of prison bars floated before his closed eyes and he shuddered. Not that, not that! It would be too ghastly. He closed the fire door, straightened his thin shoulders with a convulsive jerk, Why worry now? The deed was as good as done. Instead of brooding, he should feel thankful he had received an inside tip that the examiners were coming next month, “I'm going through with it,” he whis- pered huskily. “I’ve got to keep my nerve. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Nothing. Not if I keep using my head.” He clamped his mouth shut, then. He'd have to quit talking to himself. It was a bad sign, Better to think about his clever- ness, his ingenuity, That spat this morniag with Rita, for instance. It had been brilliant, a master- piece. He’d mentioned it to ome of the tellers, using just the right tone of regret. They knew how crazy in love he was with her, and that was no lie. He was doing this for her, and Bobby. He must keep remembering that. Wouldn’t they be destitute if he went to prison? Slade’s bloodless lips spread in a dis- torted grimace. It had turned out ex- actly as he’d hoped. She'd gone off in a huff, leaving a note on the kitchen table, taking Bobby. The old “I’m-going-home- to-mother” stuff. Rita’s mother would be ae a witness in Slade’s favor if it ever came to that. Especially after he begged Rita to come back to their little home. A maa doesn’t do that when he’s planning to burn it down. “This is a natural,” he mumbled. None of the crazy stunts professional firebugs usually pull. Instead of arranging an in- tricate touch-off that might go wrong, or leave traces, he wasn’t going to hide the cause from the inspectors. “Let ’em know,” he gloated. “Let ’em know. What can they do about it?’ He bit his lips again, shutting off the spouting words. The cause of the explosion would be laid to his haste to reach his wife. You couldn’t be arrested for carelessness of this sort. Insurance companies always paid off on human mistakes, And his company, he knew from their excellent reputation, paid off very fast. When the check came through, he’d square up the shortage in his accounts before the bank He felt a twinge over that. It would be tough returning all that dough, but it was better to be without a home tem- porarily and still have his job than to live for the rest of his life in the pen with cutthroat murderers and bank robbers. He'd still have Rita and tittle Bobby, and after he got out of this mess he'd quit playing the horses. “That's it,” he whispered. “No more horses. I’m through with the nags. I'il never again—” He clammed up, gritting his teeth savagely. That damn fool tongue of his would get him in trouble if he wasn't careful, For the last time Slade examined the soot-choked flue of the old-fashioned boiler. Five years without a cleaning had done that. Maybe it was lucky he couldn't afford an oil burner, He chuckled ner- yously. Who said there could be no per- fect crime? He checked over the entire set-up, The EOLPMICLOOO KS (E@)