5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

44 of bad news and wait until somebody told them the score. They hadn’t men- tioned that I’d been out to Crystal Lake and found Kitty Watrous yesterday morning. The troopers hadn’t minded a bit and had tied Kitty’s death into George Watrous’ gun. “He’s got a record as long as his arm,” one of the troopers had said, “and he didn’t like her running around.” Period, almost. I walked up the curved flagstones, punched the bell. Mrs. Byram answered the ring, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “Not for him,” she said fiercely. “For her.” “Is she here?” “No.” I went in. From somewhere upstairs, I could hear water running and a girl’s voice singing. I cocked an eyebrow, and Mrs. Byram said: “That’s Ankins. She always sings when she takes a shower.” “I didn’t mention her name to any- body,” I said, “and I’m sure neither you nor Mrs. Macon did. Which is her room ?” “At the back, last one. Is she in it, too?” “No, no,” I said, and went upstairs. I sat down in the back room. Clothes littered the place. There were shoes on the floor, butts in the ash trays, a radio on low, and perfume and powder and other junk on the dressing table. Pretty soon, the shower stopped running in the bathroom. Pretty soon, steps pat- patted along the corridor, and she came in carrying a towel and not wearing anything that she hadn’t been born with. “Oh!” she said, startled. “You can’t come in here!” There was a little anger in her words, but not too much. “Slip into a robe,” I said. “We’re go- ing to talk.” She stepped into the closet, left the door open. She was a long time getting a robe on, but that didn’t seem to bother her. It was a long, white robe and it went well with her blonde hair. “Talk about insurance?” she said brightly, sitting on the bed. FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE | I pulled a silvered badge from my pants pocket, cupped fingers around it the way the cops do, and flashed it quickly so she couldn’t see that it said Lone Ranger. “A cop,” she said, but she knew who I was and my vocation. “What was the game,” I asked, “and how deep were you in it?” “What game and what about deep, Mr. Private Detective?” I STOOD up. “I’m tired. I’ve been up all night. George Watrous came back from the West Coast. He muscled in on your little game. He killed Kitty. He killed your boy friend, Norelli. He killed Joe Macon and he would have killed me, only I know how to handle a gun, too. When he got around to you, he’d proba- bly have strangled you, and that would have left him in the clear with twenty grand in cash and six good diamonds. You want to talk here or in a cell?” She sat there for a.long, long minute, arranging the information in her mind. Then she talked in a monotone, low and quick. “The play was for Joe to steal the money, not the diamonds, and tell his mother he was going to buy into a busi- ness. Joe tires of a girl pretty quick, so we had to work fast. Joe was to meet Kitty at the lake and Norelli was to walk in with a gun and pull the out- raged husband act. Joe would fork over the roll, and we’d have split it three ways. Watrous came back unexpected- ly, beat the truth out of Norelli, and dealt. himself in. I checked your li- cense number and found out who you were and what you -did, but you can’t prove that, Darling. I listened in on Mrs. Byram’s extension and knew where you were all the time and what you were doing. We set you up in Joe’s apart- ment but we didn’t figure murder. That was that gun-crazy Watrous.” She stopped. “Cigarette?” I handed her one. She stuck it in her mouth and stood up. She was careless with the white robe, but I wasn’t inter- MICLOOOKS (C(O)