5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 58: what you’re looking at

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

58 you couldn’t kill anybody. Even if you’ve been the silliest little dimwit that ever stepped in front of footlights, I know you didn’t murder Ron Withersteen.” “It wasn’t silly,” Vara_ protested. “Having that bottle with me really did help.” I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. “Come down to earth, bird brain. All it did was help you get into the biggest mess of your life. You’re being booked for murder—murder! Do you get it?’ “You’re hurting me, Nick.” “T’ve got a right to hurt you. I love you. Love is always half hurt. Look how you slap me around. Who did steal that pill anyway?” “Since when did you get on the homi- cide squad, Nick?” Rich muttered petu- lantly. But he let me go on. He was all interest suddenly at my being in love with Vara. It was the interest of a tiger who smells fresh game. I knew, but I didn’t let it bother me. “Anyone could have stolen it, Nick,” Vara said. “Anyone who knew.” “But who could have known? Who did you tell? Think back.” “Nobody. That is—you know how I sometimes start talking after a few drinks, saying things I shouldn’t and forgetting them afterwards?” I did know and I groaned. “If I’d only slapped some sense into you weeks ago,”I said. “Kids like you ought to be paddled regularly.” Rich spoke impatiently at my elbow. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. She’s guilty, even if you can’t see it or don’t want to. Dames like her are poison. I’ve met ’em before. She was probably two- timing you with Withersteen. Or maybe you, Nick—” He looked at me out of his bulging, all-seeing eyes. I was glad I wasn’t guilty. If I had been, Rich would have watched me fry and enjoyed the smell. “I’ll take you down to headquar- ters for a little looking into,” he said, “after I’ve got a little dope out of these others here. They know Miss Dean bet- ter than I do.” FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE They did and they were glad to talk about it. Everyone there was ready to yap about Vera’s wild talk earlier in the evening—particularly Ed Lasker and Joy Marlow, who were supposedly her friends. “She spoke about killing someone to- night,” said Lasker. He wasn’t smirk- ing now. His Jean, complacent, good- looking face held an expression of naive regret that was just a little bit too stagey. I remembered his own humorous advice to Vara and wanted to smack him. Joy Marlow put in her oar, too. “Vara’s a darling,” she said, glad to be the center of attention. “We all sim- ply love her and we'll help her any way we can. But she did say that she thought committing a murder would help her un- derstand her part in the play, and you did find that horrid poison on her. It’s fantastic, of course, but—”’ - “But you'd like to shove her down a little deeper in the hole she’s in, wouldn’t you?” IT put in. “Nicolas! Don’t be sadistic.” “What’s your opinion, Doctor Tan- ner?” asked Rich suddenly. “You hear Miss Dean make threats, too?” “Not threats,” said Tanner. He stood, slimly elegant, smiling and precise, the perfect picture of the successful society physician. “I heard her make the wild statement that has already been referred to. It disturbed me a little, but I didn’t suppose—” “What do you suppose now, Doc? Would anybody carry cyanide around with ’em if they didn’t intend to use it?” “They might.” Tanner fingered his eyeglasses and seemed to hesitate. He cleared his throat. “Miss Dean could be the victim of an unfortunate obsession, you know.” “Victim!” Rich snored. “There’s only one victim here, and that’s Wither- steen.” “You don’t quite understand me, Lieu- tenant. Miss Dean may be another sort of victim, a victim of her own inner com- pulsions. Let me explain. There’s a MICLOO (C(O) S