5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

ANGELS DIE HARD A SHADOW passed across his face and his hands began to tremble. “Come in,” he said quickly. “Come into the back room where we can talk.” He looked at me closely when we got into the lighted room. It was a little workshop with tools and polishes, a lathe and a bushing machine. Scott’s eyes were watery, but the pupils were clear. They looked worried. “What’s this about cyanide? I hope nothing has happened to Miss Dean.” “She says you let her have some. It may have been illegal—I don’t know— but I’m not here to make trouble for you. I just wanted to find out.” “IT hope nothing has happened,” he re- peated. “I did give her three little sticks from my cleaning box. She asked for them after she had brought in some sil- ‘ver for me to do, an old vase that be- longed to her mother. We got to be friends. I used to be an actor myself years ago. That was a bond between us. She said she wanted to collect in- sects as a hobby in the summer. I thought it was a little odd, but she has a very persuasive way with her. I told her how to make a cyanide Jar and warned her to be careful.” His hands were shaking now. There must have been a look on my face that told him there was something wrong. “Miss Dean’s okay,” I said, “but:a man has been poisoned with the cyanide that you gave her and that she carried in her handbag.” “She carried it with her? Didn’t she realize—” “It’s a long story, Mr. Scott. Vara— Miss Dean—is young and a little flighty and has some ideas all her own. The point is, they think she’s a murderess. She isn’t. Someone stole the stuff out of her bag. But the police are trying to pin it on her. I thought you might help.” “How fags “Did you ever tell any of your clients about giving Miss Dean the cyanide?” “TI don’t recall that I did. I may have. People are sometimes interested to know that silver-cleaners frequently use cya- 63 nide. I could have said something, I suppose.” “Who to? Other stage people maybe?” He bobbed his white head, wringing his hands in dismay. _ “It’s possible. I don’t remember.” “Anybody named Lasker or Marlow ?” “IT don’t remember. Those names sound familiar, but I may have read them somewhere. I don’t think they’ve ever been here.” “Any of these?” I gave him the names of all the people in The Other Man. He shook his head. “Try to think,” I said. “You may save Miss Dean from prison or worse. What sort of people come to your shop? Do you keep a list of them ?” “Let me see.” He got up and fumbled around in a little desk, rustling papers frantically. “No, I’m very unbusiness- like, I’m afraid. My customers always pay cash. I’ll try to remember, though.” His face brightened for a moment. He took a handsome silver coffeepot down from a shelf and turned it bottom-side- up. “The only record of any sort I keep is my mark on the pieces I work on—WKS —my initials. I do it the way watch re- pairers scratch their numbers inside watch cases, you know. It may help.” He stoed there, tall and thin as a scare- crow in his dirty smock, his old face working. There was a squeaking noise in the front of the shop and he set the coffeepot down. “Excuse me. I must have left the door aiar.” I should have thought more quickly, but I’m no policeman. I’m not used to - violence. A newspaperman generally gets to the scene after something has happened. It was that way this time. I was too late to see who it was or to stop him. The two shots that rang out came so close together that one sounded like the echo of the other. They were the sharp, crack- ing shots of a small gun, possibly a .22. My brain registered that. It also reg- istered the heavy thud of a body hitting. comiclaoolks