5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

Yes, now that you mention it, I believe he did.” “But he didn’t go to the post office when he left you?” Erickson’s voice developed an edge of impatience. “He may have. I didn’t watch where he went. He asked about the bookshop, so I assumed he intended to go there.” “Where is this bookshop?” “Over the bingo hall next to the fire station. Block and a half east.” “Where’s the post office?” “One block west.” “Thanks,” Tony said, and left the store. Outside two women standing by the show window furtively glanced at him, then peered through the window into the store.« “That must be the Buffalo detective,” one said to the other in a whisper she mistakenly believed would not carry. “Do you think Mr. Erickson—?” The little man was gratified to learn how quickly his seed was taking root. T THE post office he found a plump, gray haired woman sorting mail behind the counter. “You the postmistress?” he asked. “That’s me,” she admitted. “Were you here Wednesday after- noon ?” “All day Wednesday.” Tony said, “Notice a man come in to mail a letter who wore a green corduroy jacket trimmed with leather, denim pants and a pork-pie hat with a hole In it?” “Why?” she asked. “I’m from the Buffalo police.” He produced his badge. “I have the local chief’s permission to ask questions.” She examined him interestedly. “Chasing a crook?” “Sort of,” Tony said non-committally. “Remember the man I described ?” She shook her head. “Nope. What’d he look like?” “He was about twenty-eight years old, had a nose with a crooked bump on it and a scar through one eyebrow. Kind of good-natured, but beat up face.” She shook her head again. “Sorry. Don’t think he was in. Think I’d re- member it too, because I really wasn’t FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE very busy at all on Wednesday.” “Were you here alone?” “Yep. My mail clerk’s been sick for a week.” : “Any place in town aside from here a guy could mail a letter?” Tony asked. “Just the mailbox in front of the place. Most people come on in when the post office is open.” “Thanks,” the little man said. IV Green paint blanked out all of the wide show window next to the fire hall, except for an oblong section through which a poster proclaimed: MONDAY, THURSDAY, SATURDAY—30 REG- ULAR, 10 SPECIAL GAMES—5 TO 100 DOLLAR PRIZES. Over a doorway beside the bingo hall hung a sign reading: SMOKE SHOP UPSTAIRS. But at the top of the stairs there was no evidence of any tobacco business. Instead of the usual token front room engaged in selling cigarettes and cigars, the stair head led directly into the bookshop. A race was in progress as Tony en- tered, for a man wearing a phone head- set stood in front of a large blackboard droning the positions of the horses at each quarter. Seated on a dozen of the approximately fifty chairs facing the blackboard, a mixed audience of men and women listened to the results. Ringing the walls were a series of long, narrow tables littered with racing forms and turf news, and several men sat at these, concentrating on dope sheets and paying no attentoin to the race currently being run. Behind a cash- ier’s cage to the right of the blackboard sat a young red-headed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Approaching the cashier, Tony said. “I’m with the Buffalo police. Got Chief Murphy’s okay to look into the Larson killing. Trying to check back on the bandit’s movements the day of the rob- bery, and understand he was in here.” The customer-greeting smile on the red-head’s pale face faded to blankness. Behind their glasses his colorless eyes examined Tony deliberately. “He wasn’t here,” he said in a flat voice. : GOMIGIOO @) S (C(O)