5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

54 to be a little more serious this time than smashing a plate glass window, say, well, he was better prepared to survive it. In the old days, poverty had haunted his hangovers. Now he had money, and not just what was in his pocket, either. Hilary Kern got up, moved to the other side of the bench and began to look furtively over the bar fronts across the square. Just then a voice from a graveled drive beyond a hedge of shrub- bery reached his ears. “You don’t think he’d be hanging around a public place like this, do you?” the voice asked gruff- ly in good American. “Quién sabe?” a Latin voice replied. “He has already done a rather strange thing, isn’t it so?” Cop voices, Hilary Kern thought. Some poor devil’s in trouble, and they’re hunting him. A twinge of pity touched him as he moved on toward the doorway of the tavern he had selected. It was just what he wanted—cool semi-dark, scented with kegwood and alcohol, a table in shadow, a waiter with the incurious face of a Mayan mask. Kern ordered tequila, then called a newsboy, bought a paper which he folded and shoved into his pocket with- out even a glance at the headlines, and said he wished to buy a pair of huara- ches. That was easily arranged. With leather under his feet again, he felt like a different man and began to face his problem more cheerfully. Why not just call up Professor Siddington and ask him to find out if anybody had pre- ferred any charges for damage, or as- sault and battery, or whatnot. Good old C.P.! He would do it and square the beef—if any—too. But he hated to pain and disappoint his mentor, Prof. C. P. Siddington, worse éven than to further disillusion Edna Ferry, especially since Edna had quit him anyhow because of Liria. “Well, why not call up Liria herself?” he muttered. At the sound of that name, a pang of confused fear stabbed him. Why, of course, there had been some racket with Liria; otherwise, calling her would have been his first thought. Undeniably something unpleasant lay in that direc- tion. Too, if he called her now, she FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE might arouse the whole apartment, shrieking abuse at him over the tele- phone. Yet he wanted badly to see her, talk to her. Be a picture of the wrinkled old woman, her mother, flashed through his mind, the memory of a single visit he had made with Liria to the Baeza farm, the picture of a patio shaded by ragged palms where he had sat and drunk home-made wine and watched the blue canal water flow be- tween the green of vegetable fields. The memory charmed him. He would find a delicatessen, load a basket with goodies, including Italian wine, go there, and get the old lady to call Liria. In that pastoral enviroment, they would thresh out their quarrel and reach a reconcilia- tion. | He took a deep breath, ordered another drink, began to feel almost happy. After all, one little slip-up wasn’t such a tragedy. He had money now and solid accomplishment behind him—accomplishment in a unique and original field—the collecting and re- creating of the lost music and ritual of a vanished culture. Rare treasures he had winnowed from the dust of forgot- ten ages, the secret pulse-beat of a lost race, its music, its spiritual blood. Soon he would get the rarest treasure of all, the reproduction of a real sacrificial chant, preserved intact by a remote tribe of hill Indians whom his agent, I. Tezcat, had discovered— Abruptly Kern shot upright, trem- bling. He had already got that treasure. The authentic Ochpaniztli Chant had come by air express from Mexico City yesterday, insured for a thousand dol- lars, which was considerably less than it had cost him! Yes, now he recalled the mood of happy triumph which had tempted him to take “just one drink” to celebrate with Liria. Together they had begun to work out a dance routine to fit the music. That had been later, after dark, after they had laughed and drunk. She had put the costume on, and— And what? The rest was hidden by a coiling fog. Kern slumped back into his chair. As he did so his hand brushed against something heavy in the pocket CoONnniclooo S (C(O) mM