15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 92: what you’re looking at

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

92 his lips against the soft hair at the back of her neck. She wiggled out of his arms, walked with him into the living room. Her skin was luminous in the pale blue twilight; her eyes dancing excitedly. “Parker checked into a hotel in the County Strip,” she explained. “T drove by it. Just one story, above a grocery store. It doesn’t even have a name—just ‘Hotel.’ I’m sorry I was so long, but—” “That’s all right.”” He drew her down on the davenport, roughing her shoulder gently. “You're terrific, honey.” “T thought we’d wait a few hours, until people get off the streets. Less chance of your being seen.” “Did I say I was in a hurry?” George laughed. CHAPTER FOUR Her Diamond Solitaire ARILYN’S description of the ho- M tel where Parker was holed up said about everything for the old, brick building on Santa Monica Boule- vard. She and George left her car on the side street and walked up a dingy, dimly lighted stairway to what the management probably called the lobby, on the second floor. Marilyn had insisted she was going along. George couldn’t say no, because it seemed she had as much invested in this project as anybody. The desk was a small counter front- ing a door marked, “Manager.” A blue- shaded bulb dangled over it on a long cord. There was a bell on the desk, if anyone wanted conversation with the manager. They didn’t. According to Marilyn’s information, Parker was in Room 12. They crept by the desk, down a corridor; stopped in front of Parker’s door, knocked—not loud. Ball thought he heard a kind of cross be-- tween a moan and a growl, inside. But no 15 Story Detective one came to the door much to his surprise. George tried the knob. Tt was unlocked. Not according to his book on guys who aren’t expecting company—but there it was. He eased the door open, the weak light from the hall fanning out in the darkened room until it crossed the foot of an old, iron bedstead, crawled across it to the wall. A man was stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. He’d raised his head, squint- ing at them as though the light were bright as a police line-up. Marilyn’s lead on Parker had been a hundred per cent. It was George’s boy. He stepped inside, dragging Marilyn with him; snapped on the room light and shut the door. This time it was locked, for sure. Parker was trying to boost himself up on the bed with his elbows, not having a lot of success. His lips looked burned, white; they were moving, but no sound came. ‘There was a biting, strong odor in the room. Ammonia. George took hold of Parker to help him up and got the stench full strength. Someone had made wouldn’t be talking. George pushed Parker back on the bed and looked at Marilyn. “I’m afraid we’re a little late, honey,” he said. ‘Somebody has forced enough ammonia down this joker’s throat to burn a hole through his hip pockets.” They watched Parker painfully move his hand to his face to shut out the glare of the overhead light. Ball asked him: ‘‘Look, Parker, can you understand what I’m saying ?”’ He nodded his head. “Good.” George felt his pockets for a pencil. No luck. He asked Marilyn, and she produced a small, gold pen. Paper. He had to find paper. There was none in sight ; but he opened a dresser drawer, hoping some tidy soul had slipped up and lined it. Parker sure comichbook (E@)