Indianapolis Times, Indianapolis, Marion County, 13 June 1936 — Page 33

PIKE EVANS, gambler and exconvict, stopped before the rough, pme door of John Reeve's lumber office. Slowly, noiselessly, his fingers found the chipped, porcelain doorknob. He twisted it, pushed, and the door opened without a sound. The gambler’'s close-set eyes fastened on an old man in a wheel ‘chair who was reading a newspaper in the glow of a hanging kerosene Jamp. . He shut the door and as the latch rattled, the old man dropped the paper to his lap and spun the chair around to face the door. “Sorry, Reeve, if I startled you,” Evans said unpleasantly. The old lumberman’s right hand groped for an electric bell. “Ring the bell till the battery's dead,” Evans grated. “I rapped e Banton over the head and tied and 7 gagged him. Even if he comes to, he can't help you.”

" ” ” HE old man pulled his hand away from the button and gripped the arms of his chair until ‘his knuckles whitened. “I know that tomorrow's pay day and that you've got the money, over $6000, in your safe,” Evans went on ? harshly. “I also know that dead men tell no tales. Slitting your throat will repay me with interest for that time you had me run out of town.” No sound came from the old man in the wheel chair, His face, excent for the burning eyes, was expressionless. “Don’t you wish you could talk?” Evans bantered. “Too bad that, after that pile of lumber fell on you

10 years ago, you was never able to talk or walk, ain’t it?”

” ” ” VAN’'S eyes shifted to a small,

old-fashioned safe. He crossed

the room, knelt before the safe and set to work, slowly turning the dial, listening for the fall of the tumbers. Suddenly, he looked up, an angry snarl on his yellowish face. “I ain't got time to fool around like this.” Drawing a slip of paper and pencil from his pocket, he rose and handed thém to the old man. “Here,” he grated. “Write the com- * bination down for me.” The cripple wrote one word, “No.” The scar on Evans’ face whitened. “Oh, you won't, huh?” he snarled. He drew a slender-bladed knife, started toward the door. “You'll either write the combination, or I'll slit Banton's throat as well as yours!” He glanced back over his shoulder ‘and saw old Reeve motioning him to return. Grinning, he went back to the wheel chair and watched the old man write down a series of numbers on the slip of paper. He jerked the paper from the trembling old fingers and hurried back to the safe.

Hn » ”

T took the gambler only a few minutes to get the money and stow it in a small black bag which he had brought. This done, he rose and glided back to Reeve. . . . The old man died quickly and silently.

Silent Witness

By Frank Bennett

He knelt before the safe and set to work

Evans was halfway out the door

when he stopped, struck by a sudden thought. The old man had that

pencil while the safe was being opened. There was a chance that he had left a note. The gambler turned back to the wheel chair. He saw the newspaper still lying across the dead man’s legs, but saw no sign of a note. Then his eyes fell on a scrap of paper lying on the floor. He caught it up and turned it over. A grin spread over his face. Written on the slip of paper were the words: “Spike Evans is looting the safe and is going to kill me. “J. Reeve.” The gambler congrajulated himself on thinking about” looking for a note. Why, the old buzzard had almost slipped one over on him! He burned the note, then left the building. » t J ” EXT morning, Spike Evans was sitting at one of the square, rough tables in Joe’s saloon, sipping some of Joe’s choice whisky. He had every reason to feel secure. Banton hadn’t seen him—had been knocked out from behind. The knife

he had tossed into the river, and he had buried the money. Everything was in order. He raised his glass to his lips,

drank. As soon as things blew over,

he'd lam out of town. It wouldn’t do to leave now, might arouse suspicion. Suddenly, he looked up. Two men had entered the saloon and were sauntering toward - his table. The tall man was Banton. The other fellow, thick-set, short, was the sheriff.

For a moment, Spike Evans knew |

fear. Then his yellowish face twisted into a grin. They hadn't anything on him. Banton and the sheriff stopped beside the table, and the sheriff drawled, “Spike, I reckon I'll have to be takin’ you to jail for murderin’ oI’ man Reeve an’ stealin’ the pay roll.” : . ” ” ”

HE sheriff's voice was slow and soft, but it carried a note of urety that wasn’t to be mistaken. Panton’s steel gray eyes held a hard glint that chilled the gambler’s spine. Suddenly, Evans knew that he was cornered—knew - that, in some way, these men had discovered that he was guilty. The gambler’s close-set, shifty eyes sought escape. His hand slid toward a shoulder holster. Suddenly, Banton ‘threw his weight against the table. The glass and bottle crashed to the floor. Evans went. over backward. When he looked up into the muzzle of a gun held as steady as a rock in the sheriff’s hand, he knew that escape was out of the question. ‘How did you—guess?” His voice was a whisper. “We didn’t have to guess, you rat!” Banton clipped. He jerked a crumpled newspaper from his pocket, flattened it out and shook it viciously before Evans’ eyes. i “Reeve left us a note. See? He punched out letters on the front page of this paper with the point of a lead pencil. ‘The missing letters are f-i-n-d Spike E-v-a-n-s!” THE END (Copyright, 1936, by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.)

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