Collection of Stories
- Автор: Стерлинг Стюарт
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Collection of Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
The sergeant wiped moisture off the barrel of his Police Positive. “This Negus, now. He’s no dope. I don’t say he had it figured out, all neat like that, Steve. But he knew his partner was mixed up in it some way.”
“He was trying to cover up for him. Yeah. I caught onto that, after a bit.” Koski heard the clanging of the police van down the block. “But how’d you catch on to my being at the Lighthouse?”
“Negus went to Cale’s desk, after he read the note. He found the old man’d taken his gun. He knew the only person he’d be likely to want to kill was this — Patty person. So he told me where I’d find her. I knew I’d find you here.”
“You’re so smart, you bulls!” Doojie snarled. “How’d you know where Telfer went, Koski?”
Mulcahey hummed softly,
He broke off as the ‘wagon’ clanged to a stop. “You s’pose the Commissioner’d object if we was to appear as shadows, in the background of the pix they’ll be takin’ of these two?”
“Ah, who wants publicity, anyway?!” asked Steve Koski.
“The Commissioner,” sighed Joe Mulcahey.
Shot With Luck
Thrilling Detective, April, 1950
Don Rixey gnawed gloomily at the combination Ham and Lamburger. “Certainly is terrible.” he said. “Certainly is.”
Annalou Kenyon turned from the grill, tossing taffy-bright curls in mock indignation. “If you’re finding fault with my cooking, before we’re even married!”
“Not the san’wich!” He poked impatiently at the nickeled napkin-container on the counter. “Your not bein’ able to get off tonight.”
“Is it my fault—” her dimples deepened, her pert mouth firmed — “if my relief happens to have an uncle who manages to get himself shot in that terrible payroll holdup this morning and is in the hospital practically at death’s door?!”
“I didn’t say it was.” The candid blue eyes in the square, amiable face watched her hungrily as she moved from the malted mixer to the fountain. “I only said it was a tough break you can’t go with me to look at that apartment tonight.”
“I don’t see that it matters so terribly much.” She slit open a couple of buns, deftly. “Even if it wasn’t rented by the time we got out there — which it probably would be — and even supposing we could afford the rent — which we probably couldn’t — what would we put in it, besides us?!”
“That’d be enough for me.” He grinned. “The best things in life are free.”
“Huh!” Annalou wrinkled her nose at him. “That three-room Bride and Groom Special at Mammoth Furniture isn’t, though!”
“I’ve enough to make the down payment.” He reached across the counter to grab her. “And a license.”
Annalou squealed prettily. “Quit! Before I let you carry me across any threshold, there are a few other trifling little items to be considered, Mister Rixey. Such as dishes, silver, linens, blankets, curtains, rugs—”
“I bet I could worry along without a rug, if I had you.”
“Hmph! The future Mrs. Donald Rixey doesn’t intend to start housekeeping on any shoestring. I’d like to see that apartment, too, but what would we use for money?”
“Money isn’t everything.” He finished the burger, sipped his coffee.
“I never noticed it was any handicap.” Annalou served a couple of bobbysoxers down the counter. When she came back: “I wish I knew where we could get our hands on a great big hunk of it, that’s all!”
“Maybe I’m in the wrong business, baby.” Don tapped the newspaper which lay propped against the salt-and-pepper rack. “Maybe I oughta get me another set of tools an’ go in competition with the guy. He got his hands on a great big wad of it, all right!”
“Don’t you ever say a thing like that, Don Rixey! Even kidding!” She squinted at the big, black headlines:
Don finished the java. “The radio repair biz isn’t what you’d call a gold mine, these days, exactly. Still an’ all, it’s better’n that racket. Trouble with that is, even though he’s got his hands on a lot of moola, he won’t be able to hold onto it. Cost him dough to make his getaway. He’ll have to shell out to somebody to hide him for a while. If they catch him, his lawyers’ll get it all. And, anyhow, he won’t be able to spend it, where he’s going.”
“They’re sure to catch him,” Annalou peeled lettuce leaves off a head of iceberg. “They got a good description of him. Half a dozen people saw him.”
“I just missed seein’ him myself.” Don glanced in the back mirror at a couple who’d taken the two stools at the far end of the counter. “I was over at Clark-McGeekin’s yesty, tuning up their interoffice amplifiers. Might just as easy been this morning!”
Annalou shivered. “Oooh! Makes my skin crawl, just to think about it.” She went over to take the order.
“Strawberry ice-cream,” the girl ordered. She was about twenty — tall, slim, haughty — with a thin, small mouth that was a slash of carmine in a long, pale face. “And none of that marshmallow goo you put on it, to imitate whip cream. Just plain ice-cream, understand?”
Annalou was coldly polite. “Yes, miss.” She turned to the man. He was older than his companion, maybe thirty; well-dressed, good-looking in a short, plump and mustached way.
“Gimme one of these Combination Ham ’n Lamburgers. Plenty a pickle-willie, huh?” His soft brown eyes surveyed Annalou’s trim figure in lazy admiration. “An’ lissen, cutie, — no mustard but a big, thick slice a raw onion, huh?”
“One combo with raw.” Annalou scribbled it on her pad, blandly.
Don laid a quarter beside his cup. “You’re gonna be busy. I’ll be hittin’ the breeze.”
“You going out to that apartment without me?” Annalou slammed the refrigerator door, slapped the cake of meat on the french top with a sizzle of grease.
“Say not. No fun in that. I’ll go back to the shop, rewind a couple armatures — see if I can earn enough to pay for one pillowslip, maybe.”
“Be back at nine?” she asked wistfully.
“On the dot.” He swung around, pushed off the stool, went out to his truck.
As he shut the screen door behind him, he heard the girl with the red wound of a mouth laugh and say “Patsy” to the man beside her.
Don eyed the extra-body-length job parked beside his half-tonner — a sleek, black Cadillac with double aerial whips slanting jauntily over its gleaming top.
You seem to be doin’ all right for yourself, Patsy, Don thought. But you could have twice your dough an’ here’s one gent who doesn’t envy you! Money ain’t everything — not by a darnsight! I wouldn’t swap girls with you for all the rice in China...
He was putting a coat of shellac on a two-gang condenser when the phone made him jump. Who’d be calling him here at the shop? Not his friends. They all knew he spent Satty peeyems with Annalou...
“Regal Radio Repairs; Don Rixey talkin’.”
“Oh, Mister Rixey! I’m in the most awful jam!” A girl’s voice, high-pitched, gushy and affected. “I’ve a whole bevy of guests here and everybody’s been dancing, having a perfectly marvelous time... and then blooie... my stupid ole radio set goes on the blink.”
“Like to help you. But I couldn’t get to it tonight.” Why’d these emergency calls always come just when he was ready to quit? “I’m closing up—”