5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

THANKS FOR MURDER desk. I didn’t do any of those things. I got a spare, small, flat automatic out of the glove compartment, slipped it into the side pocket of my coat, and went back into the cottage. I stayed five min- utes, then drove off. A quarter-mile below the singing waterfall at the dam, at the private en- trance to Crystal Lake, a low-slung, FAKE BADGES In every major city fake badges keep the police departments busy. Fake badges are used prin- cipally to ride free on street cars, subways and busses. Less often they are used to effect entry into theatres, etc. It is during the rush hours that the fake badges are most successful. Some that have been used with good results were actually silver cigarette lighters cleverly palmed, junior G-man badges given away by radioeprograms, hammered and polished tops of tin-cans. In addition to these there are the imitations sometimes sold by novelty shops which at a distance of ten or more feet look reasonably like an honest fireman’s or police- man’s badge even to a trained observer. Also employed are genuine factory badges that carry no courtesy, bank and factory guard shields, and in one instance at least an army officer’s cap insignia which was almost mistaken for the gold badge of a New York City police sergeant by a BMT subway boothman. —Carter Critz cream-colored convertible with the top down forced me into the ditch. A char- acter, wearing a blue beret and dark glasses, lolled on the front seat with the left hand on the wheel and the right arm draped on the seat top. A cigarette in a long holder jutted from his mouth at a sharp up-tilted angle. His car gunned past me with a swoosh. “Driving like that, you’ll kill yourself someday,” I muttered and headed to- wards Route 23. To hell with the char- acter. A 35 The mood I’d been carrying around all morning broke its neck completely. “Thanks for murder,” I thought bit- terly. . 3 YOUNG woman with smooth hips inside a tight, white dress was brooming the front porch at 14 Airline Drive, Ridgewood. She worked indo- lently, as if she’d never had a broom in her hands before. I followed the curved flagstones, stopped at the steps. She had soft, blonde hair with a faint overtone of red in it. She wore a maid’s frothy cap just off the forehead. She looked out of place, standing there, like something virginal, but you never know. “Yes?” she murmured. I said, “Mrs. Macon.” “You’ve an appointment, sir?” “Does one need one?” Lids lowered over dark eves. Full lips smiled. It was a good trick. She said, “You’ve been here before, sir?” “Have [?” “We could do this forever,” she of- fered. “If you go around the house, you'll find Mrs. Macon in back. On a chaise lounge with a padded cushion.” I walked across the lawn, turned at the house corner. Mrs. Macon lolled on a chaise longue with a padded cushion. She was reading a book, which she laid down at the sound of my steps. “Well?” she asked. I stood there, feet wide-spread, watch- ing her closely. She still had the pin curlers in her gray hair. She wore no makeup. She had changed the garish housecoat for a loose, red-colored linen dress, but she didn’t have her girdle on and she needed one. “Thanks for not telling me what you should have told me this morning,” I said, lighting a cigarette. I pulled out my wallet, extracted her five-hundred dollar check. I flicked on my lighter, touched the flame to the check. I dropped it onto the grass. When it fin- ished burning, I ground out the ashes with a heel. CORnAICLO® (Cc S