5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

THANKS FOR MURDER ested. I lit her cigarette, fired my own. “You can’t tie me in to any of it, not without a lot of trouble and a lot of stuff coming out that Mrs. Macon won't like,” she said, as cool as if she’d been talking about the weather. I didn’t want to tie her into it. I had an idea left and I didn’t want her to upset it. What could you tie her into? Very little, unless she signed a confes- sion, and I didn’t want that. She could have listened in on my phone talks with Mrs. Byram by using whichever part of the private extension system we weren’t using. When Mrs. Byram had finished talking, she could have phoned Norelli or Watrous, whichever one was handiest. I doubted that she was a kill- er, but that had been a _ secondary thought with me. “Someday,” I said, inhaling cigarette smoke deeply, “you’re going to get in so deep that nobody can work you loose. You’re a pretty lucky girl, considering George Watrous. You don’t get a dime to keep your mouth shut, so don’t try. I’ve got my headaches in this case and [’m not free yet. You’re not going to upset anything. Pack your duds and yet out.” “I’m pretty and lucky,” she said, and the front of the robe opened again. “You’ve got five minutes to get the show on the road,” I said and went out, closing the door. She came downstairs five minutes later, carrying two bags. “Maybe,” Mrs. Byram said nastily, “T should check to see how much she’s taking with her.” “You’re so sweet,” brightly. I opened the front door and she whis- pered, “Will I be seeing you sometime soon ?” I pushed her out, closed the door. “T’ll be back inside a half hour with this end of it wrapped up,” I said and waited until Eve Ankins had disappeared along the street. I came back in twenty minutes. “When the funeral is over,” I ex- the girl said 45 plained to Mrs. Byram, “and Mrs. Ma- con needs a lift to ease her way across the years, show her these.” I handed her two papers. One was an option to buy, for twenty thousand dol- lars, a local business that was on the market. The other was a receipt, from a reputable realtor, who could and would keep his mouth shut, for one thou- sand dollars paid on the option. “The option expires in ten days and it’s dated yesterday morning,” I ex- plained. “You won’t take up the option, and the receipt and the rest is made out to young Joe Macon. The realtor will pocket the money and keep quiet. It’s cheap at the price and gives Joe a motive for the theft. You can figure out some- thing plausible for the Okay?” “I understand,” she said. “You don’t understand,” I said blunt- ly. “Maybe someday I’ll get married and have a son to worry about.” See why I had kept those two five- hundred dollar bills? I’m Ronald B. Darling, private investigator. Just give me a ring. I’ll solve your troubles and make an old woman somewhat happy down the dull, uneasy years ahead. So I left Ridgewood, I didn’t have to live there. . ig WAS raining when I parked the con- vertible on West 55th and went into the Clay Building. : I bought a paper from the wise bru- nette behind the cigar counter and she smiled and inquired, “Why are you so grumpy, Mr. Darling?” “The weather,” I said and made the elevator just before the door closed. “Ninth,” I said absently. “Sure, sure,” the man said. At the ninth floor, he opened the door, said: “Looks like we’ll have more rain.” He was smiling. I wondered how the guard at the toll booth on the George Washington Bridge was viewing the rainy day. Typewriter noise clack-clacked behind the frosted glass door that was num- CoOMmniclooo diamonds. - S