5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

COMPLIMENTS OF A FIEND “That’s wonderful,” I said. “If he did I’d have it fumigated.” He laughed again. “He isn’t that bad, Tommy.” “You had a fire out your way late last night, didn’t you? I saw a glow in the sky around midnight.” “Yes, Bill Janson’s barn burned down.” “Janson? I can’t place him.” “Not on this road—the one west of here. The Holmshurg’ road. About a mile from here, if you cut across the fields.” “Think I know where it is. Well, I’ll see you about ten, Mr. Reeder. ’By.” I called Mary Ambers’ number next. Her father answered. “Mary isn’t here right now.” “Thanks,” I said. “I'll call later.” “Is this Tom Lederer ?” “Yes.” “You came here, I understand, to see Mr. Reeder about an invention of his? “Things get around fast, Mr. Am- bers.” “In a town this size, they do. Listen, Lederer, I’d like to talk to you about it. Can you drop in my office tomorrow? I won’t be there today at all.” I told him I would. I hadn’t intended to look him up, but if he wanted to see me, I was willing. Maybe I could get more information out of him than he could get out of me. My next call was pretty well indicated. The Haverton Chronicle was only a few doors away. If Aunt Margaret Singer was still running it—She was, as I saw when I stepped through the door. “Hello, Tommy,” she said in that dry voice of hers, and neither she nor her _ Voice had changed a bit in seven years. And she said it as casually as though she’d seen me seven hours ago. She wasn’t my aunt, incidentally; she was everybody’s aunt. “The Haverton Chronicle still see all and know all?” I asked. “And tells everything—almost,” she chuckled. “How would you like a nice murder case, Aunt Margaret?” “It would be lovely, if you can com- mit it before we go to press tomorrow. After that, no. It would have to wait till next week’s paper. A Haverton mur- 109 der must be committed late in the week, not early. Sit down.” “You’ll have to help me,” I said. “At my age, Tommy? If you don’t commit a murder before you’re fifty- nine, it’s too late to start.” “You don’t look a day over fifty-eight, Aunt Margaret. But you won’t be an accessory. I just want you to make a phone call for me, and then tell me a few things. The phone call hasn’t any- thing to do with murder.” “Have you looked up Mary Ambers yet. Tommy ?” “Her father answers the phone. That’s the call I want you to make. He says she isn’t home. To a woman’s voice she might be. I’d like to have lunch with her if she can make it.” “All right,” she said. “Twelve-thirty, Grader’s Restaurant.” “Huh?” UNT MARGARET laughed at my bewilderment. “It’s my appointment, but I’ll make the sacrifice. You can keep it for me. She wasn’t home this morning, inci- dentally ; she’s working at the Red Cross today. Ambers could have told you that, if he wanted her to see you. He doesn’t know she phoned your hotel yesterday evening.” “How much do you know about me?” “Why: you’re here and who sent. you. That you claim to have found a body last night, but misplaced it afterward, and that vou told a wild story about its throat being torn out by invaders from some other world who have been com- municating with Walter Reeder. That you’re leaving on the five o’clock train back to Chicago. Or are you?” “Aunt Margaret,” I said, “Haverton’s too little for a talent like yours. You should be telling Walsh how to run his agency. I’l] bet you even know what I’m going to ask you next.” “Man by the name of Dave Otis,” she said. “He’s a truck farmer. Lives half a mile past Reeder’s place.” “He didn’t come home last night?” “No, he didn’t. His wife was calling around this morning, trying to locate him. She’s worried, but not about his being killed. She thinks he’s on a jag. He’s gone on them before and been away MICLOOOKS (C(O)