Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 66 — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

Sleep, swect sleep, to knit the ravelled——— Sleeve of Care BY KEN WAINWRIGHT HE WOMAN WAS SMALL, withered, faintly ridi- _ culous in her odd assort- ment of dress and accessories. Mousey hair straggled from beneath a hat which had been new the last fashion but one. A shapeless coat was belted around a shapeless figure and thick stockings tried their best with hopeless legs. She stared at a thick, old-fashioned wedding ring and twisted it with nervous fingers. “T want to find my hus- band,” she said. “I want you to find him.” Sam Henricks sighed. There was no money here, no ex- citement, not even the pos- sibility of a satisfied client recommending him to others. A waste of time. “Have you tried the police?” he said, and managed to keep the impatience from 47 his voice. He smiled. “Private investigators cost money; the police will work for free.” The woman did not smile. “I have money,” she said. “A little. I want you to find my husband.” “I see.” Sam pulled a scratch pad towards him and toyed with a pencil. He waited while the woman rummaged in her purse and produced a thin billfold. She opened it and took out a thin sheaf of bills. Sam could almost smell the odour of camphor as she waved them before him. *‘T haven’t much,” she said uncertainly. “I’m not rich... but it’s all I have.” Sam counted the bills with an experienced eye, mentally shrugging as he assessed the amount. The woman was a fool. She had probably scraped the bottom of her financial comicloooks.comn