5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

MEAT OF THE MURDER “She’s dead, Steve. Someone—some- one broke into her room. Strangled her with a stocking.” “No!” gasped Steve. “Ted, I’ve been down here all night. Turned in early. I—I didn’t hear a thing!” “You wouldn’t, necessarily,” Owen nodded. “They could’ve forced a win- dow on the other side of the house, crept up to Elizabeth’s room. If there was a struggle, I doubt that any sound would have carried down here.” “What are you going to do, Ted?” asked Steve. “Have. you called the cops ?” “Not yet,” Ted replied. “First, I thought we’d better take care of you.” “What do you mean?” “You can’t be here when the cops come.” “Why not, Ted? My conscience is clear,” Steve declared. “Of course it is,” nodded Ted Owen. “You went to bed early. I believe that, certainly. But it’ll be a little hard to prove. You had access to the house, and—” “Yeah, I know,” Steve stated bitterly. “IT know what you’re going to say—‘and I’ve got a mental history.’ I’m a screw- ball, a nut. Maybe the cops’ll think I flipped my lid.” “They might,” Ted agreed. “So we have to get you out of here. At least, temporarily, until—” “Won’t I look guilty as hell?” scowled Steve. “I mean, being on the lam?” “Maybe,” conceded Ted. “But we'll gain time for the real] killer to be found. If you’re on the premises, the cops sim- ply won’t look any further.” “Okay, Ted, if you say so.” Steve threw his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his pants. “Do you have any idea where I’m supposed to go?” he asked. “T’ve been thinking about that, and my best hunch is my place at Boulder Creek. The cabin is isolated enough. Nobody ought to bother you. You'll find some supplies there, and I’ll try to come down with more stuff as soon as possi- ble.” “How dol go?” Steve was buttoning his shirt. “Boulder Creek’s a long walk.” “A friend of mine will drive you. [ll call her, tell her to pick you up at the 15 corner of Broadway and Columbus. You can take a bus that far.” “How’ll I know her?” “She’s a blonde and she’]] be driving a blue Olds convertible. Be on the north- east corner.” “What’ll you do then?” asked Steve. “Call the cops?” “T’ll have to,” said Ted. “But I can stall long enough to give you and Loreen —Miss Tobey—time to get safely out of town. As soon as you’re ready to go,” he added, “come upstairs and get the keys to the cabin.” “T’m with you right now,” said Steve, shrugging his heavy shoulders into a corduroy jacket. II | NSPECTOR MALOTTE of homicide was an eager, aggressive young guy. He dressed as though he sold something, maybe men’s furnishings. Not flashy or loud, but Ted was aware of his clothes before he settled anything in his mind about.the man wearing them. Malotte knew his job, ran his investi- gation with disarming ease. His ques- tions sounded too simple, his round face looked too bland, when he asked them. Ted could see most of the booby traps coming and got around them. But it took footwork. He had shown Malotte the body, told him how he’d found it, and explained how he’d spent his eve- ning prior to coming home. “You won’t mind if I check with some _of the people at that party, will you, Mr. Owen?” smiled Malotte. “Of course not,” Ted said. He gave the detective a partial list of the men present. “The others were from our Chicago office,” he explained, “and I doubt if they paid any particular atten- tion to when I left.” “I think we have enough here,” said Malotte. “There’s really no question in my mind about your story. This is mere- ly routine,” he added with a flash of teeth. “The doc tells me Mrs. Owen was killed at least three hours before you got home, which places the time of death around nine o’clock. There’s only one thing I don’t understand, Mr. Owen. “It was obviously a job. Your wife wasn’t murdered for her money or Jew- CoOnniclooo mM <S) (C(O) mM