5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

100 But I was getting restless after a couple of weeks of it. I was glad when John Walsh stuck his head through the door and said: “Tommy, come in my office a minute, will you?” I went in and shut the door behind me. “How you feeling by, now, Tommy ¢ ee “Pretty good, I guess.” “That’s swell, Tommy. Listen, a client was just here and left a little job for us that’s practically a vacation. Uh—rid- ing trains won’t bother you, will it?” I shook my head. “That’s about all there is to it. Little trip downstate, to interview a guy who’s getting ne signals from Mars.” “Hu Tt what he says. Look, here’s the set-up. Client lives here in Chi: he’s got plenty hay. He’s from this little hick burg downstate. Old boyhood friend of his down there just wrote to put the bite on him. Dough for experiments on super-sensitive radio—” “That he gets Mars on?” Walsh chuckled. “Well, it'd make a better story if I put it that way, but let’s be fair. I saw the letter; in fact, he left it here. The guy claims only that he’s getting some imexplicable signals on a mike—mike—” “Micro-wave outfit?” I suggested. “That’s it, micro-wave.” Was glanced at a letter lying open on his desk. It was placed so I eouldn’t see it, of course. Until and unless I said I’d handle the case, he wouldn’t mention a name or an address. “He says he doesn’t know anything about the signals except that certain in- dications lead him to suspect that they might be of—uh—” he glanced down at the letter again — “of extra-terrestrial origin. He’s pretty cagy about coming a out and saying they’ re from ars “So what does the client want done?” “Wants you to talk to the guy—no pretext—you can tell the truth, diplo- matically, about why you’re interview- ing him, and get an idea whether he’s got a screw slightly loose, or wucthes it’s missing completely.” “Or straight fraud,” I suggested. “Client doesn’t think so. After all, the FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE guy is a friend of his. Says he’s honest, and was sane a few years ago. He also wants you to make inquiries, discreetly, around the town, to see what gives with the guy. I gather he’s going to slip him a little money, whatever gives.” “Then why the investigation?” “Partly curiosity; I think. Partly to determine the amount of the loan and how to handle it. If he finds the guy’s an out-and-out nut, he’ll slip him a few hundred for old times’ sake and write it off the books. If there’s a chance he’s got something—not Mars, of course, but something that may have a patentable value in radio reception—then he’ll up the ante and take an interest in the patent rights. There’s just a chance he’s got something valuable, if I get what he means.’ “I think we get what he means. Well —okay, I'll take it on. Sounds easy enough.” “Good. You’re on the pay-roll again, as of this morning. It’s about eleven now. You can eatch a train after lunch and get there by six o’clock. If the trip tires you, don’t do anything this eve- ning; just hole in at a hotel and start tomorrow. Otherwise, you can see this Reeder tonight, and make your other in- quiries tomorrow morning.” “Reeder? Walter Reeder?” “Yeah. No time limit on the job. If you think you’ve got the picture in a day, come on back. Take a few days, even a week, if you have to. Where'd you hear of ‘Walter Ree— Say, didn’t you come from Haverton or live there once?” “Lived there. For four years—from when I was sixteen till when I was twenty. I know Reeder, slightly. And your client would be Emil Wingerman, I guess. Right,” Walsh said. “Well, this job should be a cinch for you. Kept up any contacts there? Let’s see, that’d be seven years ago, wouldn’t it?” “Seven years.” I nodded. “No, never went back there. My father and mother both died there, in that four years, and I came to Chi and never went back.” Walsh looked up at me sharply and shrewdly. John Walsh is nobody’s fool. “Tommy, if you feel like that about it, if you don’t want to go back, I can— MICLOOO comic S