15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

94 15 Story Detective missing, but not the brass. “What the hells happened to you, George?” he asked, “You tell me,” Ball snapped, twisting a grin at Marilyn who'd taken a position beside the room’s beat-up dresser. She was holding Dick’s police .38 at her side. Dick shook his head. “TI don’t under- stand you.” The skin on the back of his neck twisted as he looked at Parker’s quiet form on the bed. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked. “A mild case of dead,” Ball answered. “It comes as a big surprise to you, of course.” “Frankly, George, I—”’ “Look,” Ball said, “let’s knock off the sweet talk. When you brought me down here, this was already in the book. Laura and her husband were going to die and George Ball would be the hot-seat patsy.” Dick was facing George now, his eyes narrow. ‘Then you didn’t shoot Laura?” “Stop,” Ball leered. “You know damn well I didn’t—not after you went to the trouble to move her into the Rodney Villa.” “Maybe what you’re saying makes sense to you,” said Dick levelly. “TI don’t know what you're talking about.” “You will before we’re through, Dick,” George said, dropping the gun into his pocket. “It'll make sense when your head stops ringing. You’d better protect your- self, Dick, because I'm going to beat the truth out of you!” Casle didn’t move his hands from his sides—until George chopped a sharp right against the side of his jaw. Ball could feel the impact to his elbow, watched Dick spin across the room and come to his knees in the corner by the window. His eyes were glazed—not angry—just glazed. Dick shook his head, scrambling to his feet. “George, don’t be a dope. If I’d framed you, would I have walked in here the way I did? I could’ve come shooting, But I wanted to give you a break, I—” “Yeah,” Ball snorted, “I know the kind of break you mean—a chance to cop a plea for murder. No, thanks, sweet- heart.” Ball was on top of his phony friend again. “You might as well make a fight of it, Dick.” “T don’t want to.” Dick bounced off the wall and changed his mind. George saw his jaw set. Casle weaved under a big roundhouse swing George had aimed at his head, caught him flush on the button. Casle put his shoulder into it, and the walls of the room danced past George as he tried to grab something to stay on his feet. Marilyn was available, but not too sturdy. They sprawled to the floor to- gether and she screamed on the way down. The gun got away from her and George dived after it, half under the bed. E GOT his hand on the butt of Dick’s .38, the hammer pulled back, when the bathroom door opened and a heavy-set citizen charged into the room. He was carrying a cocked automatic, counting the house as he came. He didn’t see George right away, which was too bad. This time George Ball wasn’t shooting blanks down a darkened stairwell. The range was perfect. He fired across Par- ker’s body and drilled the big hood just below the ear. The room shook when he fell. Dick didn’t have the color for it, but otherwise he would’ve made out as a ci- gar-store Indian. Wooden, pressed into the corner of the room. Marilyn’s green eyes were large, her mouth too. But she wasn't screaming. George’s guess, she was trying to breathe. Ball stood up, went to the fallen gunsel and kicked the automatic away from his hand. He was wasting his time. The hood was definitely scratched. He turned and smiled crookedly at Marilyn. ‘I thought maybe we could flush EO MIC OOO KS (Ee)