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

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

Played — So, Naturally, He Dealt Himself a Hand! he was able to get free from them. When he emerged from the restau- rant, the crowd across the street had dispersed. The body and the police were gone. He looked around, half expecting to see the girl, but there was no sign of her. With a shrug, he crossed the street and walked a block to a cab stand. The parcel was still under his arm, for he meant to take it to police headquar- ters. But in the cab, his curiosity got the better of him. Loosening the heavy string, he opened the paper on his knees. What he saw made him recoil in his seat. Grinning up at him was a human head! It wasn’t a large head, and there was no blood. He judged that there had been no blood for a long time, for the head had apparently belonged to a mummy. Prentiss had read about head hunters —natives who shrayk the heads of their victims until they were scarcely larger than a good-sized fist. But he had never before seen a mummified head. For a moment, a feeling of revulsion shot through his big body. Gradually interest replaced it, and he stared at the head curiously, turning it this way and that. It grinned at him sardonically, as if deriving grisly amusement from his surprise. After a few minutes, he re- wrapped it in the paper and retied the string. Leaning forward, he rapped on the glass slide to attract the driver’s attention. He had told the man to take him to police headquarters but now he changed his mind and gave the driver the address of his office. He could see the face of Captain Bryte of the homicide squad if 63 he should suddenly walk into headquar- ters and lay this head on the captain’s desk. Bryte was a good policeman, a prac- tical officer who had solved his share of murders. But mummified heads would be a little out of his line. When the cab reached his office build- ing, Prentiss got out, paid his fare, and went to the elevator. In the privacy of his own office, he again stripped the wrapping from the head and studied it carefully. Suddenly he straightened and his lips twitched. He had made a shock- ing discovery. The likeness was astonishing, but there could be no doubt about it. It wasn’t a real head. It had been made carefully, painstakingly, of papier- maché! He let out his breath slowly. For some reason the discovery eased his jangling nerves. Then his brows drew together again. What was so important about a dum- my head that carrying it had caused the murder of the little man? Why had the girl been so anxious to get away with it? Prentiss could think of all the ques- tions, but none of the answers. He was still trying to figure them out when the phone at his elbow rang sharp- ly. He picked it up. “Hello,” he said abstractedly. “Is this Al Prentiss?” a man’s voice whispered. | “Yes,” Prentiss said shortly. He didn’t know anyone who whispered. “You picked up a package an hour ago, just before you fell down the side- walk elevator,” the man told him. “T’ll pay you two hundred dollars for that package.” “You will?” Prentiss growled. “That’s white of you. And just how do I deliver the package?” “That’s simple,” the man said. “You get in your automobile and drive out along Valley Boulevard. After you cross the railroad tracks, drive two blocks more. There’s a yellow house in the middle of the third block. It’s empty and there’s a FOR SALE sign in the yard. You leave the package behind the sign. The COmicoooks @) (C(O)