5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

drivers, just as long as the guy had a spine made of something besides jelly.” The gunman was silent again for a few moments. They went through the gate. Then Choo-Choo spo's again. “About you taking a fourth cut, baby,” he finally said. “It would work. Joe, Burke, and me make a good combination. Joe’s the brains with his college educa- tion and Army officer training. Burke knows most of the police angles, ’cause. he’s served stretches in two state and one fed pen during the last twenty years. But there always has to be another guy. That’s where I come in.” “There always has to be,” Sam Mead agreed. “And I sorta get the idea you | like your work.” “T guess you’d call it that— Wait a minute until I light a smoke. Just stand over there.” He got a cigarette out and reached for his lighter, cradling the gun under one arm. But the distance was still too great. Mead stood. The lighter flared briefly, went out, leaving a glowing cigarette end in the night. “Yes, I like it. I had an aunt who beat me. She beat me every day until I ran away and then she put me in an orphans’ home. There they beat me some more. I used to lie in bed at night, not crying, just listening to the trains go by. I dreamed of getting on trains and riding. I came out hating everybody in the world. But no cheap stickups for baby. I got wise. I went to school. I learned how to dress. I learned how to rub out, too. That’s my job, baby.” “Nice work if you can get it,” Mead said cryptically. “I can get it. But you can come in. We're going to Central America with a hundred grand. We’re going to invest it, down in a certain country. A lot of it in printing presses, more to the Commies and other crackpots. We’re going to bust that little republic wide open and get rich, running in guns, bringing poli- ticians, extortion, blackmail. A three- man revolution. Joe planned it all. Says he needs another good war to keep him from getting rusty. Joe’s got brains.” “He hasn’t too many,” Sam Mead said. They were at the plane now, which still set outside on the concrete apron. Near by, gleaming in the night, was an all- FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE metal, twin-engined job with double rud- ders. “If he did have, he’d be using that college education and Army training for. something besides a sucker racket.” H= OPENED the right-hand door and reached inside, fumbling for the tool kit. Choo-Choo’s voice came from be- hind him. Hard. “One last chance, baby.” “T’ll have to think it over.’ “You’re the one who ee got any brains. We could use a pilot like you.’ Mead heaved out the box, somebody else—probably the servants—having al- ready removed the luggage. “I was wondering,” he said, “how you figured on going south. It’s a long walk through this desert. Shucks! This can- teen’s leaking.” Choo-Choo chuckled. “This combina- tion don’t make mistakes. Joe’s a bright boy. He took two hundred and fifty’ hours of flying this last year, planes be- ing pretty handy things to go places in these days. Incidentally, we were tickled when that guy who drove us to the air- port this afternoon reported to Burke about you taking delivery on this new crate. Up till then we figured on having to buy or steal one.” “You should have known I’d just give you this one for the asking. Blast this leaky canteen!” He took it down from the rack and placed it on the floor. It was of two- gallon capacity with a long shoulder strap. For a metal container with a sup- posedly split seam it was remarkably drv. Mead’s big hand gripped the strap. Behind him, Choo-Choo laughed softly. “Too bad for you, baby, that Joe never took some twin-engine time. Then we could have gone south in style in Hor- ton’s big job. I told him—” He still had the gun cradled. He tried to get it down and into action as Sam Mead wheeled and swung, letting the strap go. A yell came out of Choo-Choo as the canteen struck him in the chest and bowled him backward. He screamed when Mead landed on top of him from a running dive. He had dropped the gun and now he tried to dodge the big fists coming down. It didn’t work. The smashing blows drove the back of his head into the con- CoOMmiclooo S (C@)