5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 58: what you’re looking at

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

58 Ed McGinley unclasped her hand from his arm. “You lie!” he said. “Honest,” she pleaded. mean a thing.” “He never touched you!” Amazement showed in her eyes, a strange, misty amazement, and _ she stepped back. “Are you kiddin’?” she asked. “‘Didn’t you know ?” “You’re lying!” “For cripes’ sake!” she said. Ed McGinley stalked out. “McGinley!” she called. “Lay off him! He’ll kill you!” McGinley didn’t hear. He strode down the street, not seeing where he was going, not noticing the people he passed, not even aware where he was or why. “Even Bill Curry,” she’d said. Fat Edith. All this time, all these weeks and months of terror and fear, with the ghost at his shoulder. All these nightmares of what he’d done to Sarah Curry. Of how he’d been responsible for the death of the man she’d loved, the man who’d been such a fine cop, such a fine husband, such a fine father. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be true. If it were— “He didn’t Aes that why the ghost of Bill Curry had been riding at his shoulder? Because for all these years he, Ed Mc- Ginley, had been in love with Curry’s wife? Because when Curry had died, something he’d wanted had come to pass —Sarah Curry was without a husband again. | He found a telephone booth and called her. “Sarah,” he said, “it’s Ed McGinley. “Ed, what’s happened? Where are you”? Be careful, Ed, please!” “I just talked to Fat Edith, Sarah,” he said. “Fat Edith?” “Yes, she told me—” He hesitated. “She said—” “About Bill, Ed? About us planning to cepar ate Is that what you mean?” 6s eg.” “I didn’t want to tell you myself, Ed, FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE because you thought so much of him. But it isn’t important now. What’s hap- pening? Some men were here looking for — you—that Moroni—and your brother called, and they were over there, too. What’s going on, Ed?” “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. But if I get out of it, Sarah, will you— can I—I mean will you—I mean should - we—” “Of course,” she told him. “Be care- ful, Ed.” He hung up and he was whistling as he found the next number in the tele- phone book and dialed it. “McGinley, Captain,” he said. “Meet me at Seventy-first and Marshfield if you want those answers.” The captain came through. “Give me half an hour, boy. And make them good.” . It was getting late. Ed took another cab, all the way back across town, and got out on Ashland Avenue and walked over to Marshfield. Across the street, in the shadows near the corner, an incon- spicuous, dark sedan was parked, its driver sitting quietly and patiently, the way a cop sits when he’s waiting, wear- ing plain clothes for once in his life. But it was the captain, all right. Ed got in beside him. “How long do we wait?” the captain asked. Ed shrugged. “Not long. It can’t be long now.” It wasn’t. Within a half hour he drove up in a police car, bold as brass, and parked around the corner and got out. He swaggered, his little mustache showed plainly, as he passed a street light. “Let’s give him a little rope,” Souder suggested. “I figured it, when he didn’t show up, for a murder call. He should have been there. And when he didn’t write up Enright’s pinch and didn’t turn in your report.” ~ So they waited ten minutes more and then got out of the car and went up to the front door. It was locked, but Souder put his own shoulder to it—and his heart and his weight, too—and they crashed in with a rending, tearing clat- ter. Ed ran for the room that looked down on the alley and as he reached it, Heston COMmiclooo S (C@)