Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

Slabbe wiped his mouth. “It would have been one on you if Charlie had called while you were out on the fire escape with Whitey. The fact is that he didn’t, Al, but I did. I rang the office and nobody answered. It was a giveaway on you, kid. You tried to cover up by saying you’d been asleep and the phone hadn’t wakened you; but a guy like you sleeps like a cat no matter how tired he is. I knew that if you had been in the office, you’d have answered my call. If you didn’t answer, then you weren’t there.

“Then why were you lying by saying you were there but asleep? I figured back over it and you gave me the clincher when you claimed to have recovered the jewels from Happy just now. You’re licked, kid. You know how we can work back, now that we’ve got the thing figured. We’ll find somebody on that one-thirty train that saw you. We’ll—”

“Cut it! Cu-u-u-t it,” Gage blurted. “I’m in the game myself. I know you can do it. You think I’d be singing if I didn’t know it?”

He looked up. His green eyes went from face to face, slowly, carefully. His lips tried to sneer but were too tired.

He said ever so wearily: “If I was a grifter, I’d get a better break, wouldn’t I? But I’m supposed to be on the right side, so you guys can’t let me get away with a thing. Maybe you’re right. I’d figure that way, too, was I in other shoes. O.K., then.”

Without haste, Gage reached out and lifted the gun from the green desk blotter. He didn’t put it to his head clumsily. He simply turned it into his chest. He held it so tightly against himself that there wasn’t much noise at all. Then he sagged back.

His lips moved. “You don’t have to blacken Zenith’s name on this, do you?”

“Sure not,” Slabbe said thickly. “You shot it out with Happy. Both of you got killed in the fight.”

Gage was going to say, “Thanks,” but he couldn’t get it out.

Slabbe looked at him. He shook his head. “He was all tired out,” he said. “He can rest now.”

He turned and pushed through the cops and left the room.

Heavenly Homicide

by Dale Clark

Grand larceny was nothing new at luxurious San Alpa, but O’Hanna had to admit he was startled when one of the guests put in a claim for a stolen comet. That innocent astronomical phenomenon became the cause of two very un-innocent deaths. Not bad, from a distance of three hundred light-years!

Chapter One

Crime in the Sky

Spica Zane was tall, blond, and curved. She said: “You’ll love the Palomar Room, Uncle Charley. It’s astronomical.”

Charley Zane was short, bald, and shrunken. He said: “I haven’t time for lollygagging. I’ve got to set up my telescope for Professor Martin.”

“We’ll just stop a wee little minute. I want you to see this,” she persuaded. She led the way into the Palomar Room, told the head-waiter: “A table for two, please.”

Moonless dark had closed on San Alpa, the million-dollar luxury hotel on the privately owned southern California mountain top. The resort’s clientele of West Coast socialites, Hollywood week-enders, and platinum-pocketed tourists had swarmed in from the colossal golf course and the miles of scenic trails.

Naturally, Manager Endicott had foreseen that golf courses and hiking trails were strictly daylight attractions, so he’d installed some night-time play life in the form of a big city style, de luxe night club. He’d named it after the well-known mountain observatory, and the interior decorator had gone to town with this idea.

Spica Zane sat down at the table for two, smiled at her uncle, and said: “I bet you feel right at home here.”

The little man revolved a stare around the room. He peered at the electric moon burning above the bar. It had an electric star caught between its horns. Other electric stars glowed in the curved ceiling. They were reflected in the glass dancefloor. Signs of the zodiac gleamed around the walls.

Charley Zane said: “Bah! It’s a mess. It’s all wrong. That moon is too big. The actual apparent diameter of the moon is only one-half a degree.”

The blond girl gave the head-waiter a disarming smile. “Uncle Charley is an amateur astronomer,” she explained.

Charley Zane said: “A star stuck between the horns of the moon is impossible. The space between the horns is filled by the moon itself.”

The head-waiter hastily back-pedaled, beckoning a white-jacketed waiter to take over.

Charley Zane went on criticizing. “The stars are all wrong, too. The pointers of the Dipper always revolve about Polaris. They never aim at Orion. Orion is a southern constellation.”

The waiter shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But after a couple of drinks, the customers don’t seem to notice anything wrong.”