5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

ANGELS DIE HARD “No,” said Loule, goggling over my elbow. “T have. I know it. He’s a lot older, of course. The likeness didn’t show in the small photos, but here in this en- largement—” I patted Louie on the back till he began to cough. “Maybe that glass eye of yours has uncovered something big, something that’s going to crack this thing wide open.” “Who is he, Nick?” asked Louie. “IT know who he is now,” I said. “But I don’t know who he was then. I’m go- ing to phone Fairfield College and find out before I do any yapping. This is red- hot stuff, Louie.” V Ryvenruatry the long-distance phoning was finished—seventeen dollars worth. I had stuck so many coins into the slot that bells were still ringing in my ears. The clerk in the all-night drug- store where I had done my calling had handed me so much silver in exchange for my greenbacks that I felt I owed him an explanation. — “It’s expensive,” I told him, “having your dames scattered all over the map like that.” His eyes got big and round and envi- ous. “You’re lucky. I wouldn’t mind hav- ing a few myself.” But there weren’t any dames, of course. All my calls had been to men, mostly big shots, from the president of Fairfield College right on down. There wasn’t one of them that didn’t act sore at being hauled out of bed so late and there wasn’t one either who had told me all I wanted to know. I had found out plenty about Ron Withersteen’s ear- ly days, but the man in the third row of the photo was still a blank. For once, though, not getting a line on my man was more significant than getting it. I had drawn a blank in another direction, too, and the two blanks fitted together per- fectly, making a snappy sort of picture. The bells in my head were bothering 65 me a lot. So was that place where the bullet had taken a hunk out of my scalp. I knew it needed attention and there didn’t seem to be any use in suffering any longer. Before I went on my way, though, I had one more local call to make. I ducked into another drug store for that. Rich’s men were looking all over the city for me. Rich had probably found out by this time that I had called Fairfield College. He’d be tracing the call back to the spot it came from, and I didn’t want to be picked up by a squad car just yet. I put my last nickel in the slot, winced when the bell rang, and called homicide. “This is Nicolas Thatcher again,” I said to the police switchboard operator. “Connect me with Lieutenant Walter Richardson, please.” “Thatcher—Nick Thatcher!” I could hear the excitement in the cop’s voice. “Wait just a minute.” “Let me talk to Richardson right away,” I yelled. “I’ve been plugged. I’m losing blood. I’m getting weak and I’m on my way to see a doctor.” “The lieutenant’s out looking—” “For me. I know. Tell him he’ll find me at Doctor Lucius Tanner’s.” I hung up then. I was only four blocks from Tanner’s. With luck I’d get there and get my head bandaged before the cops arrived. After that I didn’t care. In fact, I hoped they’d be there to pick me up on time. I had plenty to tell them. CAB set me down outside Doctor Tanner’s office two minutes later. There was no sound of police sirens any- where yet. The city was quiet. Every- body seemed to be sleeping. Tanner seemed to be sleeping, too. There was no answer to his night bell for almost a minute. I held one hand to my throbbing head and kept the other on the button. His office was in Galen Hall, an apartment hotel run exclusively for the wealthiest, most successful doctors in town. Just having your address there was a sign MICLOO (CO S