Safer Dead

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Edwin Fayette, editor of Crime Facts, sat behind his desk in his luxurious office, a cigar between his teeth and an unfriendly gleam in his eyes.

‘Sit down,’ he said, waving impatiently. ‘What are you two guys working on?’

I folded myself down in the most comfortable armchair in the room while Bernie Low sat as far from Fayette as he could and began to bite his nails.

Bernie and I had been collaborating for the past two years, writing stories for Crime Facts, a monthly magazine of crime and detection stories with the biggest circulation of any of its rivals. I did the thinking and Bernie did the writing. The arrangement suited us both. I never could work up enough energy to commit ideas to paper, and Bernie never had any ideas.

An ex-Hollywood scriptwriter, Bernie was short, plump and impressive looking. He had a dome-shaped head, a massive forehead and his heavy horn spectacles made him look brainier than he was. He had once confided to me that it was entirely due to the shape of his head that he had remained in the movie business as long as he had.

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