5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 72: what you’re looking at

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

72 “Better turn the lights on, I guess.” The man looked at him sharply, then obeyed with a shrug. The fog was thicker in the harbor. They cut their speed, but it was quieter here, for the waves weren’t breaking so often. In- stead, they were long, heavy swells, sweeping in and tending to aid the boat’s progress. They chugged into the inner harbor and up the long arm that extended back . toward the landing. peel. was watching the light- house, not paying much attention to the pilot. The danger seemed to be gone. He wasn’t conscious that the boat had turned until he realized suddenly that they were heading directly away from the lighthouse. He swung around, and shouted a sharp order to the pilot. The man paid no attention to him. He was driving the boat directly toward the stone jetty. Before Prentiss could reach him, the bow crashed into one of the submerged rocks. The force of their speed carried it up high on the boulders, listing it at a good sixty-degree angle. Prentiss was knocked flat into the dirty, splashing water on the bottom. He struggled upward just in time to see the pilot scrambling up over the stone jetty. He followed as fast as he could, slipping and falling as he leaped from rock to rock. The gun fell from his hand when he had to clutch a boulder to keep from tumbling into the sea. When he reached the top, he saw the pilot a long way ahead, running down between the oil derricks. Then the fog swallowed him, and Prentiss had to give up the chase. He walked and walked, apparently for miles, until finally he found a cab. He was driven uptown into Long Beach where he caught a car for Los Angeles. He stopped at his own office to clean up 2 little, then called the Coast Guard and reported the submarine. The officer in charge listened incredulously and fin- ally ordered him to report to the office in the morning. That done, Prentiss got an owl cab and was driven to the police station. Bryte of the homicide squad was on duty when he walked in. FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE “There was a little man shot out on Temple Street this afternoon,” Prentiss said. “Did you get him identified ?” Bryte yawned. “Yeah. He worked out at the Carson airplane factory. He was in the office. Name was Yorgensen. We can’t figure who would kill him or why. He was a bachelor, no near relatives, lived by himself. Why ?” Prentiss shrugged. “No _ reason. What’d he do with his spare time—play around the nightclubs, gamble?” “Hell, no. He lived in a rooming house out on Third Street. He’d been there seven years. He went to the picture show every Wednesday night for bank night. That’s the only gambling he ever did. If you ask me, those guys that shot him down made a mistake. They must have been gunning for someone else.” He took his feet off the desk and leaned forward, more awake than he had been when Prentiss came in. “What the hell do you care, anyway? When are you going. to stop playing detective and get that big carcass of yours out of our way? You’ve never had a case yet and you never will. You’re just a fake and you know it.” “A guy has to start some time, doesn’t he?” Prentiss said. “I heard about Yor- gensen being killed and figured it might be a break for me.” The homicide captain laughed. “Nuts! Get the hell out of here and let me go back to sleep.” Prentiss obligingly left Bryte but he went over and talked to a grim-faced man at the F.B.I. office. The man lis- tened to what he had to say, nodded. ' “Thanks. We'll take a look at that nightclub.” He didn’t pretend to be excited. Pren- tiss was disappointed. Nobody seemed to take him seriously. Rees to the office building, he went down to the basement garage. There was one attendant on duty and he was sleepy. The place was almost deserted, but Prentiss’s car stood in its usual spot. Jeffries had kept his word. Prentiss climbed up to the window sill and got the little head from the place. where he had left it. By squeezing, he managed to get it into his overcoat pocket. He slipped into his car and drove CoOMmicloo S (C(O)