5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

WINGS OF THE DARK ANGEL rated, then asked about the planes. Tobie told him. They’d flown down, managed to land near the damaged craft, but ran out of water and hopped over to the estate they’d spotted from the air. | “And that,” he finished, shrugging, “was that.” “We'll just have to stick it out,” Mead grunted in reply, seating himself on the bench. “They’ll get in touch with Horton some way, collect, and we'll be on our way.” . Tobie Ralson stared at him. “Who told you that?” he demanded. “Joe? He was lying to keep you from making trouble, Sam.” “Yeah ?” “They told me different. Last night. When this deal is over, they’re going to turn this place into a slaughterhouse. That guy, Choo-Choo, will bump us off— with a burp gun.” Chapter III — Ez WAS getting dark in the cellar. Tobie reached up and pulled a chain dangling from a light socket overhead. Dim light flooded the place. “Gasoline generator with storage bat- _teries out back,” he said and sat down again moodily. The boy stirred, got up, and took a turn around the room. “What do you think will happen, Mr. Mead?” he asked hopefully. “Tobie just told you, Billy,” Mead said and went on smoking. He pulled hard on the cigarette, finally flung it down, got up, and walked around the room. His ugly face had a thoughtful look. He shoved both hands down into his pockets, trying to picture the kitchen, the man guarding them while they ate, and the probable whereabouts of the other two men. He even went to far as to worry about the Schmeisser machine- pistol should he get hold of it. He’d never fired such a gun. “Go ahead and pace,” Tobie said mo- rosely. “From the looks of things, you ain’t going to do much more of it.” But Sam Mead didn’t answer. He stopped dead in the middle of the floor, fingers clenched around an object in his pocket. He brought it out and stared at 85 it—a cheap metal money clip he used to hold dollar bills. Of late, there hadn’t been many in it. Right now there was none. Swiftly Mead went to the door and in- serted the clip’s flat end into the slot. Then he reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a new six-inch file. His big nails had always been far too thick and tough for the average nail file, particularly the poor grade ones made during the war. So Mead had simply taken a file from a tool box, sharpened the tang’s end as a Cleaner, and used it as a nail file. He began to work frantically, try- ing to remember the general shape of the big key. Tobie and the kid were be- side him now, getting excited. He filed again, inserted the clip, and eyed the marks on the shiny blued surface. Then he set to work again. For forty-five minutes he filed the clip, tested it, and probed. Sweat began to bead his forehead, and blood from the needle point of the tang showed where it had slipped and penetrated his pants. But it was no use. The key wouldn't fit. He straightened up and shook his head. “Listen!” Tobie suddenly cried and raised his hand. Mead went to the door and put his ear to the crack. From without came a blurred, familiar roar. It rose, died, then rose again, and ceased abruptly. Sam Mead turned. “That was a twin-engined job taxiing up and getting the switches cut,” he said. “I give you one guess. Old man Horton is here, for some reason.” He went back to work again, and pres- ently footsteps crunched on the steps without. Mead hurriedly placed file and “key” over the door as the lock clicked. The footsteps retreated. Choo-Choo’s voice called from above, “All right. Open Mead swung the door wide. It was al- most fully dark by now, but the man’s figure was outlined on the grass above. The ugly-snouted submachine gun with its Cutt’s compensator was lined down. The compensator had been designed to enable gases to help hold down the barrel in recoil during automatic fire. “Dinner,” Tobie said. sarcastically, “is now being served.” : COmniclo® @) S (C@)