5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 39: what you’re looking at

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

THANKS FOR MURDER a spare bartender. What’s he done?” “Seen him?” ~ “Nobody wants to see him.” He tickled his chin with a stubby finger, and mono- toned: “A week back he breezed in here with a girl. He was drunk, and I wouldn’t serve him. So he picked up a stool, heaved it across the bar at me. I ducked.” He gestured towards five gin bottles, full, stacked next to the cash register. “The stool hit the bottles. He got out before I could get around the “My client would like to bet you gentlemen $500 each you'll bring in a guilty verdict’ bar with a bung starter. His mother paid off, twenty-five dollars worth.” I sloshed the ice around in the glass, asked, “Why are you telling me your grief?” “Because three of the bottles didn’t break, and I’m wondering if any friend of Joe’s wants to make anything about it. No, I haven’t seen Joe today. I don’t ever want to see him, not even at twenty- five dollars for two broken bottles of gin.” ‘I drained the glass and turned away. “Your change,” he said, and, I turned back, picked up the bills. There wasn’t much sense in driving over to Joe Macon’s apartment in Pater- son. I went anyway, figuring that if I 39 could get into the place I might pick up some information about where Joe might hole up or who some of his shady play- mates were. It was five minutes to nine when I reached 598 Rumney Court and parked around the corner. It was a five-story apartment house with the usual locked door in the vestibule and I had to wait five minutes until a woman with a ter- rier on a leash came out. I made a pre- tense of fumbling in one pocket for a key and slid inside the door before it clicked after her exit. There was an elevator, but I used the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 3-C was at the back of the central corridor. I pushed the button and a chimes rang somewhere inside the place. Nobody an- swered either the first or second ring, I was just about to dream up some kind of a plausible story to hand the janitor so he would let me into 3-C, when I turned the knob and the door opened. I went in quietly, closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. I was in a tiny, dark vestibule. A cor- ridor led towards a living room. There was a dim light in there somewhere and a radio playing softly. I put my hand into the right pocket of my coat and my fingers closed around the butt of a small automatic. My feet made no sound on the runner rug along the corridor. Just short of the door, I could sniff cigarette smoke. That was a relief. Joe Macon smoked tobacco and all along I had him pegged for a tea smoker. : I strolled into the living room. A man sat in a lounge chair, his feet on a huge, blue hassock. Two more steps, and my fingers tightened on the automatic. This wasn’t Joe Macon. This was the slick-haired, little man. He had his coat off and a cigarette in one hand. He seemed pretty sure of himself, sit- ting there calmly, even though he didn’t carry a Luger. He smiled, a tight sort of smile that didn’t quite erase the greed from his beady eyes. “Thought you’d never get here,” he offered, mashing out comiclooolks