5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 119: what you’re looking at

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

COMPLIMENTS OF A FIEND ing of envelopes. “Reeder’s own knife,” Overholt said to Magnus. “The one he kept on his desk. Musta grabbed up the knife and—” “Is Reeder dead?” I asked again. I was talking into a dead mike. “There’s some strong cord in the door pocket of the car, Tip,” Magnus said. “Go get it. We'll tie his hands behind him.” “Listen, Ed, things aren’t what they look like to you right now,” I said quiet- ly. “I’m not crazy, and if Reeder is dead, I didn’t kill him. [I’m not—-” “Don’t move,” Magnus said. “Don’t try to make a move.” They took no chances. Magnus had me lower my hands slowly and bring them around back to me, together. He didn’t move his gun a millimeter until my hands were back there, and then Over- holt jammed his revolver into my ribs from the side and held it there while Magnus took the cord and tied my wrists. Tied them tight, too. It was thin but tough cord and he wrapped it several times around my crossed wrists and then tied knot after knot in it. It was too tight. It stopped my circulation and my hands began to feel cold. “Keep that gun on him, Tip,” Magnus said. “I got to—” He scratched his head. “Blamed if I knew what to do. Suppose I ought to—” : “Don’t move ’em,” Overholt said. “Get Doc Reynard on the phone and get him out. We got to have an inquest, Ed, even now we know who did it. Even a maniac killing, you got to have an in- quest, don’t you?’ Magnus nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can use the phone here. And let Doe worry about getting ’em in to the undertaker’s.” He went up on the porch and into the house. This time, he turned on the lights; before he must have used just his flash- light. The window was open and I could hear him talking. “Yeah, Doc. Reeder and Pogue, both. Mighit’s well have Harvey bring his am- bulance along, to take ’em back. Sure, both deader’n—Huh? Reeder’ was stabbed. Jeff was—well, killed like Led- erer said Otis was killed. And Lederer oughta know, all right— Yeah, throat 119 torn out. We may be gone before you get here, but go right on in. Don’t knock.” D PUT the receiver back on the hook on the second try and came out. “Ed, that cord’s too tight,” I said. “You'll find out you’re mistaken about me, but I don’t want to lose my hands meanwhile.” “Don’t take any chances with him, Ed,” Overholt sad. “Lookit what hap- pened to them in there.” Ed nodded. “We’re taking him in right now. Reckon his hand’ll be okay till we can get him in a cell.” I doubted it; they were cold and begin- ning to feel numb already. I remem- bered that a tourniquet should be loos- ened every fifteen minutes, and my hands had been tied five or more already, while Magnus had phoned. “Let’s get going then,” I said. “I want this off.” “In a minute,” Ed told me. “You'll be there a long while—or in the state asy- um.” Anyway, he was talking to me now. Pretty soon he’d be listening enough so I could try to explain what happened. And if I could get the blood washed off so I didn’t look like what they thought I was, I’d stand a chance of getting him to lis- ten intelligently. Meanwhile, the quickest way of get- ting that cord off would be to get into town with them and get it-over with. Overholt had stepped back from me now, although he still held the pistol aimed squarely at me and his finger tense on the trigger. His face, in the flashlight glare, still looked scared stiff. I moved slowly, so as not to make Overholt’s trigger finger any more nerv- ous than it was, but I started walking toward the car. Both doors were open. “Get in back,” Magnus said. { got in, leaned back, closed my eyes and tried to think. All my fine ideas were under the bridge. With Jeff Pogue and Walter Reeder both killed, nothing I'd thought of before made sense. Emp, Karl Pogue’s dog, might have killed Dave Otis, but Emp, wouldn’t have killed Walter Reeder with Reeder’s own paper knife. Not to mention sandbagging me MICLOOKS (C(O) (C@)