5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

wrapped in a piece of yellow, ruled note paper on which Elizabeth had painfully scratched a column of figures which he took to represent the checks it con- tained. He turned the package thought- fully, glanced at the total. It came to a little over seventy-five thousand dollars. That much money had passed through his hands in the last five years, his hands and Elizabeth’s. She’d poured her share down the drain. What was Elizabeth trying to prove? Even when “her share” had amounted to more than he was supposed to make, she had never questioned the source of the money. He put the package under his arm, turned out the lights, and crossed the hall to his own room. He thought he’d lie down for a bit. He didn’t expect to go to sleep or come up with any an- swers. He was at least half right. There were no answers, even in Elizabeth’s unexpected interest in their finances. She’d have had no way of finding out how he and Loreen had been milking the meat company. There had never been a whisper of suspicion, not even from the home-office auditors. But sup- pose she had found out every detail of the swindle, how would that figure in her death ? Ted was asking himself this when sleep closed in. : Ii WY uen the doorbell woke Ted, the sun was slanting in his bedroom win- dow. He made a big effort, dragged himself off the bed, and stumbled down- stairs to the front door. He supposed Malotte had come back to go over the place in daylight and, incidentally, to ask a few more loaded questions. Ted opened the door. It wasn’t Malotte but a ,younger, sharper-faced, blond man. He had on sport clothes—tweed jacket, slacks and saddle shoes. He said, “Good morning, Mr. Owen. May I come in?” “T don’t know,” Ted replied. “What do you want?” Ted’s caller extended his hand, smil- ing. “I’m Dick Clay, a private investi- FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE ” gator. I’d like to talk to you.” He was already in the house. Ted followed him to the living room. Mr. Clay seemed at home there. “I read the papers this morning,” he said cheerfully, then switched to a long face. “Too bad about Mrs. Owen.” Ted nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” “I was working for your wife,” ex- plained Clay easily. “So it was kind of a blow to me, too—know what I mean?” “Working for her?” echoed Ted. “On what?” “Why does a woman usually hire a private detective, Mr. Owen?” Ted sat down across from Clay, studied him. “You mean,” he _ said, “vou’ve been shadowing me?” “Check.” “T hope I haven’t been a dull subject.” “About par for the course,” Clay told him. He took a folded document from his inside coat pocket, tapped it with a fingernail. “You make fair reading,” he added. “But, after the first hundred or two of these, they lose their punch.” Ted’s eyes were fixed on his clenched hands in his lap. “I2m sure,” he mum- bled, embarrassed. “You can look it over, if you want,” Clay offered. “There’s nothing that’ll startle you. Just a rundown of where you and Miss Tobey from your Office have been for the past couple of weeks. There’s a transcript of some dialogue which took place in her apartment the other day.” “I don’t care what’s in the report,” snapped Ted. “Why did you come here?” Clay shrugged. “I hate to be a pest, Owen,” he said, “but frankly, I haven’t been paid for this report—yet.” “Tough,” said Ted quietly. “You might be stuck with it. I can’t imagine any use I’d have for such a thing.” “T can.” Clay grinned meaningly. “I didn’t come here to blackmail you, Mr. Owen. The price on this epic is the same as it always was. At fifty bucks a day, it represents five hundred dollars. Mrs. Owen advanced me two and a half. I'll settle for the balance. You’re get- ting the bargain of your life. As long as I’m paid in full, I consider the infor- mation privileged. Otherwise, it goes to the cops.” “T thought you said you didn’t come CoOnniclooo S (C0) im