5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

KILLER UNDER GLASS only answer. I know you can, and I think you qwalle os “All right,” he said. “I give up. Ill take you to the money.” E._TURNED toward the door. The man thrust Pat in the way, stopping him. “Where are you heading?” “T’m not lying,” Phil said. “I’d be a fool to lie. The money is in one of the greenhouses. I’ll take you there.” The cold swirled in a gust about him as he stepped outside. He heard the crunch of the man’s shoes behind him, Pat’s reluctant steps. The man knew he wasn’t lying. No one could afford to lie with the adverse odds stacked so over- whelmingly. What was there to fight for anyway? The money wasn’t Phil’s. Phil passed the Number Four green- house, the Number Three, and paused at the door of Number Two, his hand resting on the knob as if he were uncer- tain, as if he were trying to quell a last flicker of indecision. Then the twitch of a muscle along his jaw showed his resolution. He pushed open the door and stepped into the humid swelter of the house. Oddly, he seemed off-balance, and for support his hand went out to one of the potted plants on the bench. But it was more design than accident. He turned as the killer was stepping across the threshold. The man bowed his head abruptly, as if something prevented his going on. His hands moved reflexively to his eyes. Phil struck at that moment. Clutching the pot, he smashed it down on the crown of the gray hat. He picked up another pot and another and struck again and again until broken terra cotta, dirt and the wreck of lilies littered the floor and a figure lay there, inert. The Black Bat returns to action in THE KILLER WHO WASN’T, a new novel by G. Wayman Jones Featured in BLACK BOOK DETECTIVE —Spring Issue Now On Sale! 51 He was aware that Pat had been screaming. He looked up and saw her standing at the door, sobbing now in relief. Be- yond her, blue-coated police were run- ning up from the cauliflower field, their steps pounding on the crushed stone drive. Phil dragged out the bag from under the bench. He handed the bag to the nearer of two policemen who crowded in the door. A third officer came puffing up, thrust ahead with a gold-braided sleeve.’ His gaze dropped from the bag to the body on the floor and then swung to Phil. “What? How—” “The bank robber,” Phil said. “I got him in here. which means he can’t see without glass- es. Coming in out of the cold, they fogged up completely. I figured they would and I was ready for him. You better take over. He seems to be stir- ring.” Pat’s folks arrived back shortly. There were more police and reporters and photographers from the Runley pdpers. There was talk about a reward for cap- tured robbers, perhaps enough to set a man like Phil up in a buginess of his own. : “Reward?” Phil said, and his voice had an assurance that hadn’t been there in a long time. “It’s reward enough just how this has: made me feel.” He turned to Pat and he was remembering how hurt and disturbed he used to be over some of the jobs he’d been asked to do. He guessed that when a man was sure of himself things like that really didn’t mean much. It was only a matter of time until things would be different. “Say, Pat,” he said. “I never did get those groceries for you. What was that you wanted again? Six cokes and two packages of potato chips?” MICLOO GOmnile Ss He wears thick lenses,