Black Mask (Vol. 18, No. 11 — January 1936)

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She called herself a tramp; Ted Malvern calls her angel and faces guns at Cyrano’s to find out which is right.

Ted Malvern liked the rain; liked the feel of it, the ^ sound of it, the smell of-it out of his LaSalle coupe and stood for a while by the side entrance to the Carondelet, the high collar of his blue suede ulster tickling his ears, his hands in his pockets and a limp cigarette sputtering between his lips. Then he went in past the barber shop and the drug-store and the perfume shop with its rows of delicately lighted bottles, ranged like the ensemble in the finale of a Broadway musical.

He rounded a gold-veined pillar and got into an elevator with a cushioned floor.

“ ’Lo, Albert. A swell rain. Nine.”

The slim tired looking kid in pale blue and silver held a white gloved hand against the closing doors, said:

“Jeeze, you think I don’t know your floor, Mister Malvern?”

He shot the car up to nine without looking at his signal light, whooshed the doors open, then leaned suddenly against the cage and closed his eyes.

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