5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 68: what you’re looking at

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

7 “There’s only one thing, Doctor,” Rich said softly. “He phoned me a few minutes ago and said he was coming here. Funny way for a nut to hehave, isn’t it?” “No. It’s quite in keeping with his mental condition,” said Tanner. “I'll ex- plain.” “ll explain,” I told him. I DID. Rich listened without interrupt- ing, to the whole story. I waited, watching Tanner out of the corner of my eye for the first sign of his breaking, but he didn’t. He had the coolest nerves I’ve ever seen. “There’s not a speck of proof in any of this,” he said after I’d finished, “proof that is, that I killed Withersteen or Scott. Thatcher’s a newspaper man with a lurid imagination, Lieutenant.” “I couldn’t imagine anything as bad as you, Doc,” I said. “Not unless I had a nightmare.” “How about the rest of it, Doctor?” Rich asked coldly. “Do you deny that you - were in jail or that your present name is a phony ?” Tanner batted his eyelids for a bare second at that. Then he said, with the humble air of a man who’s making an honest confession: “I don’t deny those charges. I realize I face another prison sentence. But as for being a murderer—” “You didn’t even shoot Scott then?” “Of course not. I didn’t know him. I can prove—” “Hold on,” I said. “Poor old Scott was no businessman, but— You proba- ably have a little silver around here, Doc.” His eyes followed me, flashing mur- der, as I went into the next room. I SH-H-H-H! SPEAh SUFTLY TU THE OEAD Dale Bogard’s rough, tough and torrid novel with this title is featured in the January POPULAR DETECTIVE—Now On Sale! FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE found what I wanted—a big silver tray, monogrammed and polished, and two sil- ver candlesticks. “You're a hog for punishment, Doc- tor,” I said. “A man has to push your head under water three times before you'll drown.” I turned the tray over, held it under the light, and there was what I expected to see—the little, scratched initials WKS. The same initials were on the candlesticks, too, and I explained them to Rich. Rich laid his big hand on my shoulder, and it felt as heavy as a ham. “T’ve misjudged you, Nick. You ought to be with us on the homicide squad. You’re wasting your time working for a lousy news sheet.” “I was working for my girl,” I said. “A guy will do almost anything for the dame he’s nuts about.” Later, down at headquarters in her prison cell, Vara greeted me in a pair of pajamas that the city had provided. She looked funny and small and cute with the over-sized pajamas wrinkled around her legs and her hands sticking out of the rolled-up sleeves. “I couldn’t sleep, Nick,” she said, looking at me out of heavy, shadowed eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here, darling.” I told her the good news and kissed her, even though one of: the police ma- trons was standing only three feet away. Vara hugged me and cried on my shoulder. “Promise me, Ronee I said, “that you'll never threaten | to kill anybody again.” She looked up at me, her eyes shining through her tears. “IT promise, Nick, unless—well, unless I decide to love you to death.” AMUC (C(O)