5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

ANGELS DIE HARD hear she said: “You might as well know. You'll find out anyway. The police always do. Here —take it.” She brought her right hand around from behind her back then and opened her fingers that had been tightly holding a little gold-mesh handbag. Rich took it quickly, eyes glassy-hard. “I was going to wash them down the basin,” Vara said tonelessly. “I knew how it would look—what you’d think.” Rich opened the handbag. There was a collection of the odds and ends that every woman treasures—a lipstick, com- pact, a tiny mirror, a ring and a couple of keys. But these weren’t what Vara had meant. Rich’s fingers had found and pulled out a small glass vial. In it were two lit- tle white sticks like miniature sugar can- dy. Rich opened the vial, sniffed it cau- tiously, closed it carefully and held it the way you’d hold a baby cobra by the neck. I’d seen him in action on a dozen murder cases and this was the first time that he didn’t seem to know just what to say. Vara said it for him. “It’s poison, of course. There were three sticks. One was stolen to kill Ron.” “Stolen?” said Rich dazedly. She nodded. “Of course. I left my handbag over there on the window ledge back of the radio when I danced. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. I ought to be punished for leaving such things around. But I didn’t murder Ron.” “You didn’t?” Rich was getting back his customary poise. “What did you car- ry the stuff for then—just to chew on?” Vara made a husky sound in her throat, and her teeth actually chattered. It might have been funny if we hadn’t been faced by tragedy. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “Why wouldn’t 1?” Rich shoved his face close to hers. “Because I don’t know that even the- ater people would understand.” “I guess they wouldn’t,” said Rich. “I guess nobody would. It doesn’t make Sense.” 57 “Oh, yes it does.” Vara perked up a little, her brown eyes flashing. She smoothed the hair back from her fore- head with a half defiant gesture. “I didn’t intend to murder anyone, not real- ly. But having the cyanide with me helped to give me what I want—a feel- ing of guilt and secrecy that a murderess must have. Nobody knew, none of my friends, not even Nick here, most of all not Nick.” “Most of all? Then somebody did know ?” “T don’t see how anybody could have, except the person I got it from. And he’s perfectly innocent—a harmless old man who cleans silver for a living. I told him I wanted _ it to use in collecting in- sects. He believed me.” “What’s the guy’s name?” “That isn’t important.” “Says you! What’s his name, Miss Dean?” “I’m not going to tell you. He sold it to me as a favor, knowing it was illegal, I suppose, and I’m not going to get him into trouble.” “You'll have to tell us,” Rich insisted. “IT won't.” Rich shoved his face closer still, glar- ing. “You expect me to believe you carried the stuff just to help your act?” She shook her head till the curls at the back of her neck stood out straight. “T don’t expect you to believe me. A man of your type wouldn’t.” ICH looked baffled and sore as hell. “What made you decide to poison Ron Withersteen?” he asked bluntly. Vara’s luscious lips curled in con- tempt. “Would an actress be so stupid as to kill the angel who’s financing her play ?” “She might.” Rich’s voice carried a sneer. “A lot of things go on in the the- ater besides stage business. You’re un- -der arrest, Miss Dean, on a charge of first degree murder.” Vara nodded hopelessly. “Look, honey,” I butted in, “I know MICLOO (C©) S