Browning chief. [volume] (Browning, Mont.) 1941-1953, 1947-03-07
VIM FEATURES

as If prompted to explain away his
disillusion in her. A long moment
passed. She turned to the fire. He
went out.
There was no one in the hall. The
body of Curt Vallaincourt lay long
and dark and lifeless, half in, half
out Of the light thrown by the
scenes on each side of a console
table.
McCale stopped by the still form,
avoiding a puddle Of congealing
blood. He knelt and noticed that
Curt had been shot a little above
the heart, at close range, as II
someone had walked up to him and
let him have it. It was miracle
he had managed to get up the steps
to the door. A less virile person
would have dropped dead in his
tracks.
He frisked the body until he came
upon a key ring that held number
OF keys. Satisfied that one of these
must be the key to the dead mans
apartment, he rearranged the cloth
ing, walked to the door, eased it
open and slipped out.
He was hardly across the street
onto the paths of the Common when
the sirens started wailing and tear
ing up Beacon Hill.
At Park Square, McCale hoped
into cruising cab which put him
down at Alb Fensroad in six min
utes fiat, despite the increasing
drizzle and the traffic congestion of
that time of day.
Four-thirteen was big hunk OF
concrete and stainless steel. He
stopped before Vallaincourt's apart
ment and listened carefully, his ear
to the door.
After he'd entered, he stood COM
pletely still, testing the silence that
hung heavily about him. A wide
doorway at his right gave entrance
to large living room. He stepped
toward 1t, soundlessly.
The quiet Of the place was dis
turbing. 1t was the intense, preg-
nant quiet Of a room so recently &C.
cupied that the eff1uvium of that
occupancy still hung in the air.
There were two doorways in back
and a little to the left of him as he
stood motionless in the center Of
the carpet. Not a board creaked
or a pin dropped, but the hair on
the back Of his head stood up warn
ingly. Moisture beaded his palms.
He swiveled slowly, expecting
anything.
A woman stood In the first door
way. Tall, dark, voluptuous, she
lounged, white-faced, GREATNESS, in
a peculiarly familiar attitude.
Hooded, disconnected eyes looked
steadily at him. Her face was so
white she seemed all lipstick in the
glare of SO many lights. If she had
had a cigarette in that mouth
Memory tugged at McCale and he
knew it was Shari Lynn. She wore
a dark green wool dress!
"Who are your" he said huskily.
She moved slowly toward him, eyes
wary. For a moment he ignored
her.
"You were a fool to come direct
ly here" he said then.
Apprehension widened her eyes
for moment, bringing out unsus-
pected lines in her face. She sat
down unsteadily on a chair and ran
nervous fingers through dark dyed
hair.
She's scared, McCale thought.
He perched perilously on the arm
Of the Empire sofa, shaking out
cigarette from pack directly into
his mouth in one motion. He spoke
over the flame Of his lighter.
"Curt Vallaincourt has just been
shot"
Watching her closely he was GER
tain that it wasn't news to her-that
she already knew.
"Who are you-a dick? I didn't
kill him.
"You were there"
She was guarded now. Her eyes
narrowed and she clutched the
glass with shaking fingers. you've
got to prove that, copper"
I'm not the police"
"Then who are you? What are
you doing here? What is this,
shakedown?"
He shook his head. "I'm a pri.
vate dick. I am, however, investi.
eating Curt Vallaincourt's muir
der"