15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 93: what you’re looking at

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

You Only Die Twice He found paper—and something else that stopped him dead in his tracks. A small, empty cardboard package—the kind a druggist puts pills in. One typewritten word on the label: “Phenobarbital.” George showed the box to Parker. “Yours?” he asked. The man nodded. “Flow many did you take?” He shook his head, groaning. “Tow long ago?” ’ Another shake of Parker’s head. His eyelids were fluttering, his breath fast and shallow. Ball said to Marilyn, “This guy isn’t going to do us any good. I doubt if a doctor can help him—but I suppose he deserves a chance. I'll get out, and you call the manager.” As he was speaking, Parker’s body went into a spasm, stiffened. They stared at him, waiting to see his chest move again. It didn’t. Marilyn turned white beneath her make- up, her lips sucked tight against her teeth. “Oh, George! How horrible!” she said, her eyes filling. “It’s a rotten way to go,” George nodded. “Somebody loaded poor, old Parker with sleeping pills, then burned out his vocal cords so he couldn’t even make a last request. Nice people you meet in the rackets.”’ He was having to hold Marilyn up—or maybe she was holding him up. All this jelied for him. Atl the little pieces. “Marilyn, honey, I want you to do me one more favor. You know Dick Casle. Can you take a message to him for me?” She stepped back, her eyes large and frightened. “George—you’re not going to turn yourself in!” fe shook his head. “No—but I’m ready to talk to Dick now. Right here in this room. I think it’ll be a perfect spot for a showdown.” He walked her to the door. “Tell Dick = I’m ready to give myself up—that I want him to be the man to take me in. Say I got in touch with you by telephone. Can you handle it?” “Of course, George,” her mouth trem- bled. “Tf you’re sure you—”’ She stood on tiptoe quickly and kissed him, turned and ran to the door, was gone. ALL sighed and looked at his room- mate, sprawled grotesquely across the bed. The room was pretty grim, small; shared a connecting bath with another room, just like Parker’s except that it was unoccupied. George could bet, whoever paid Parker’s rent had seen to this detail. He went back to Parker’s room, turned out the light so he wouldn’t have to look at the dead man’s staring eyes and am- monia-burned mouth. He fished in his pockets and found a half-empty pack of cigarettes, lighted one and dragged the stale-tasting smoke over his own dry tongue. The paper stuck to his lips. George Ball had ground his last ciga- rette into the no-nap of the rug in Parker's room before he heard the sound of people stopping in front of the door. A krrock— Marilyn’s voice: ‘‘George—” He said, “Yeah, just a minute,” turned on the overhead light. The gun he’d picked up off the floor of Laura’s room was in his coat pocket. Empty, but Dick Casle wouldn’t know that. He flattened himself against the wall to the right of the door, the gun in his hand now. He turned the key and gave the door a gentle push. Dick walked in, empty-handed—froze when he felt George’s gun in his back. Bali said to Marilyn: “Come in and take his rod—be in a shoulder clip.” She said, “Right, George.” George kicked the door shut, locked it again. “Okay,” he told Dick, “You can come unstuck. Turn around if you want to.” Casle did. The personality smile was Gomichbooks (E@)