5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

HE’S IN THE DEATH HOUSE “So you came here to help the Gar- rons!”’ He took a quick step forward and gathered a fistful of my vest with a big hand. “I should sock you in the mouth!” : My impulse was to hit him, but I was still trying hard to keep out of trouble. “Look, Skipper,” I protested. “I told it straight. I hitch-hiked in here. Out on the road, a couple of hundred miles back, this girl picked me up. Why would I be here to help the Garrons? Who are they? Why do they need help?” No one answered that. They took me downstairs, and the restaurant cashier alibied me for the time when Peyton was getting killed. After that they let me go, but with a warning. “Move on, Foster. We don’t want you trying to solve murders around this town. If you don’t move on, you'll get hurt.” I stared the captain right in the eye. For five years I’d been pushed around by a lot of people, and it took more than a police captain to scare me. I told him that, then went back to my room, won- dering what this was all about. f Pie was a little man inside, sit- ting quietly on the edge of my bed. He didn’t look tough, but the gun in his hand did. It was very big and very black. I was only half through the door- way when I saw him, and I stopped. “Come in, come in,” he said. “Shut the door. What the devil are you stand- ing there for?” I came in and shut the door. He didn’t look as if he made a habit of sit- ting on other people’s beds with a gun in his fist. I said so, and he just grinned, then got serious. “Miss Judy Garron gave you a pack- age to deliver,” he said. “I want it.” I stared at him. His round head had a fringe of mouse-colored hair which was beginning to gray. The top of his head was pink and as bare as a baby’s cheek. He looked, sitting down, as if he’d scale five-five or five-six and weigh one- eighty. That kind of guy, as big around as he was long. He wore a tan alpaca suit and a sport shirt and looked mild enough, but his eyes were the tip-off. They were gray and hard and dangerous. 81 “IT don’t know where you got your in- formation,” I said, “but most of it is wrong. I had a package to deliver to Peyton, but the cops got it.” He sighed. “Now, Foster, the cops didn’t get it, and Peyton was killed be- fore you could turn it over. It’s not here in your room. I’ve searched.” I shrugged. “Looks pretty hopeless, doesn’t it?” His mouth tightened. -‘‘Shall I call the cops?” : “You won't,” I told him. “I don’t know where you fit in, or what this is all about, but I can tell that you don’t want the cops any more than I do. By the same token, you won’t shoot, so put the gun in your pocket.” I could tell by his eyes that he’d have loved to press trigger, but he only got ee the bed and shoved the gun into my side. “Try something and see if I’ll shoot,” he growled. ‘‘Now march into the bath- room and let me see what’s on you.” I didn’t think he would shoot, but there was one chance in a hundred he might, and I wasn’t getting myself killed, yet. I marched, and he went over me thoroughly, not finding anything. “Where's that package, Foster?” he finally snapped. I just shook my head. He returned to the bed and sat down. “All right. We'll just wait until one of us gets tired, or something happens.” II SE happened almost at once. A knock on the door made the fat man turn his head. I’d been watching, and the minute his eyes shifted, I jumped for him. I had my hands on his wrist before he knew what had hit him. The gun flipped out of his hand, flopped over a couple of times, and rolled under the bed. I went after it, expecting him to do the same. He fooled me. He jumped to his feet, leaped across the room like a bouncing ball, ripped open the door, and dived between the men outside, and raced down the hall. They were too surprised to do more than stare after him. So was I. I was still on the floor with the gun in my ECoOnniclooo S (CC) mM