5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

38 “What about the Ankins girl?” I asked. “A back number around here. Scram, Darling.” I went along the wide, central hallway to the front. Eve Ankins stood near the front door dusting off a mirror. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Eve,” she said, turning and handing me the routine of lowered lids and smil- ing lips. “Um—” -the lips barely moved, —“T have this afternoon off and—” The words faded. “T’ve got to go sell insurance, Eve,” I said. “Later, say tonight.” EKagerness and promise in her dark eyes. “Not tonight. Tomorrow night will be all right, Mr.—” “T’ll call, maybe tomorrow.” She leaned against my arm, and the back of my neck began to tickle. I opened the door, squeezed out, called back, “Tomorrow, then?” She nodded, and I went out. The flagstone walk had been freshly broomed, right down to the convertible, which waited patiently at the curb. I had a feeling, as I drove off in the late afternoon sunshine, that I’d been play- ing contract bridge at a cent a point for a long time and that I was out several hundred dollars. iit Mi. VISIT to the lake cottage had not been too successful. Still, the slick- haired man had had the Luger. I should have phoned the State Police or whom- ever you phone in Jersey when there’s been a murder. Maybe nobody could prove I had been out there. At the entrance to Crystal Lake, on my way to Paterson, I hadn’t done too well either. The character draped at the wheel of the car that had run me off the road had been young Joe Macon. He had been headed towards the Macon cot- tage and the dead Kitty Watrous. Why he hadn’t been at the cottage in the first place eluded me, but a lot of things had eluded me this morning. FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE Now, he was off and running, with twenty-one grand and some valuable dia- monds in his pocket. You can buy a lot of trouble in a hurry with that much money. Joe Macon seemed to be able to buy trouble with no money at all. What was he up to? Why had he stolen from his mother? Who was the slick-haired man with the Luger? : “IT hope there aren’t many bars in Paramus,” I muttered, “and I hope Joe Macon is in the first one.” It was dark, no moon but a skyful of stars out, and after eight o’clock. I parked the car in front of a deserted gin mill with a sign that said in neon letters, PORKY’S PLACE. In the past four hours, I had been in and out of sixteen bars. Twice, I’d phoned Mrs. Byram on her private phone. The last time, fifteen minutes previously, I’d said I’d try one more Paramus gin mill, then see if Joe were at the Paterson apartment. For four hours, I’d been sipping Seotch and water, passing a five-spot out here and there. Nobody had seen Joe Macon. From what I gathered, they were happy they hadn’t seen him. That, I could understand. ORKY’S PLACE was a dimly lighted * neighborhood joint with a half dozen tables, a juke box, one pin ball machine, and a long bar that ran the length of the back. A big, black-haired man with John L. Lewis’ eyebrows eased along the bar and eyed me dispassionately. He didn’t say anything, so I said, “A Scotch, long on ice, short on Scotch and water.” He made the drink, expertly, quickly. I laid a five-dollar bill on the bar, leaned close to him, and said: “Joe Macon.” “Joe Macon,” he repeated and picking up the bill, rang up a charge of fifty-five cents on the register and laid my change carefully on the bar. “If all the people who came in here asking for Joe Macon,” he said, his mouth crinkled humorously, “would stay and buy three drinks, mac, I could hire GOmMiGcbdoo <=)