5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 111: what you’re looking at

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

MURDER IN FLORIDA “Oh, is that it? Weren’t you the guy who pried the phone off the wall?” “Yes, I did that.” “Why 9” “So you couldn’t call the police after you settled Hale. I wanted you to go to Valeria’s to call them, figuring on having you kept there. That would make the odds against me a little better—only Borda and Ryerson, and both ready to run out.” That sounded right, but there was a catch. “If you thought I was a mug and not a legitimate detective, why’d you think I’d want to phone?” I asked him. “I was playing every chance. If you hadn’t wanted to call, she’d have got you into the house some other way. Now what ?” “So you’re asking me things, huh? All right. Suppose you ask me what weapon killed Ryerson.” “Well, what did kill him? It wasn’t a gun, or I’d have heard it. Ask Borda. He knows.” “That tie iron you used to jimmy the phone,” I shot out. “It’ll have your fingerprints.” He made a good job of spitting, con- sidering that his mouth was bruised. “You'll wipe them off if I tell you about Valeria?’ He grinned. There wasn’t anything more to do with that guy. Between him and Borda, one of them had cooled Ryerson. Each accused the other, and it was up to me to figure which was the one. I had a hunch, but it would take plenty of prov- ing. What made the job even lousier was that the cops might pick the wrong guy. Then what chance would I stand? Chapter VI OR a while, things began unreeling. The sheriff, a long, hatched-faced fellow, came out with a couple of city detectives from Saint Augustine, which is the St. John County seat. One of them was a tall guy named Castro and he looked a little like Borda used to, be- fore he got his face lifted—smooth, dark- ish, and with sleek hair. The other was a guy with an undershot jaw and eye- brows like nail brushes. He was stocky, and his puss was square and tough. It was Sheriff Haley who worried me, though. He just stood there, teetering on the balls of his feet and sucking his pipe and saying nothing. He let Castro do all the looking, and the other fellow, O’Toole, did the tobacco chewing. Then there was a second carload of fellows with cameras and fingerprint stuff. A nice time was had by all, except the two stiffs and the prisoner. “I didn’t brain Ryerson,” was all Lake would say. “He was a skunk, and I would have beaten him silly. I wouldn’t have used a weapon.” It wasn’t my party for the moment. I was busy because the sheriff went out to see Hale, who was still lying there in the sand. “So you let him have it, huh?” he asked grimly. “What would you have done, Sheriff? If I was a shooting person, wouldn’t I have let that bearded guy have it instead of taking this beating? Hell, he nearly killed me.” The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, Lake did nearly do that.” He fumbled with his droopy mustache and jerked his thumb back toward the filling station at the prisoner. “He sure did give you hell. Only Borda says you hated Hale’s guts.” — “He did, huh?” I was losing patience. “You saw that dummy. These two guys came to squeeze dough out of Ryerson. I was working for Ryerson and that’s why I was in the way.” “You could have thrown something,” Sheriff Haley said stubbornly. “If I took a shot at you, what would you throw? A slug?” “Sure,” he agreed. “I would. But he was shooting at a dummy. That’s dif- ferent.” I tried to draw him a picture that would be real simple. “It was his second shot that made me give it to him,” I said, like talking to a kid. “Oh, I guess I forgot that,” he ad- mitted. “Do you want to pinch me or leave it to the D.A. to decide?” “Well, you’re a private detective. If I don’t pinch you, you’ll*be messing around, getting in people’s way. I guess I ought to pinch you.” COnnicloo (A) CS (C(O)