Death Has Two Hands

The apartment lights struck gold in her hair. Her dark-blue eyes were wide, and there was fierce determination in the set of her chin and small red mouth. Her slim, blue-clad figure was quiver- ing, but the little blue automatic gripped in her right hand was steady.

It was aimed at Detective Bill Moran’s stomach.

A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. She backed away quickly, as Moran stepped into the apartment and pushed the door shut.

A tall, lean man in a shiny blue serge suit, black hat and scuffed black shoes, the detec- tive was grinning: but there was a wariness beneath the grin. His rusty-brown eyes watched the gun, and he held both hands in sight. The knuckles of his hands were scarred.

“I’m Detective Bill Moran, Miss Trent, sent here in answer to your call for a policeman tonight.”

He said that slowly, wanting her to understand every word. Her fingers relaxed about the gun butt and he lifted the left lapel of his jacket, exposing the gold badge pinned to his vest.

“I…I had to be careful.” Wilma Trent made an aimless gesture with the little automatic. Her forefinger was on the trigger. “I’ve always heard that death had two hands. I didn’t know what it meant. I do now. One hand of death is reaching for my brother Frank in the prison at midnight, tonight. The other hand is reaching for me, now!”

She gestured with the little gun again, and curly brown hair lifted under Moran’s black hat, as the muzzle lined up with his eyes.

Moving quickly, he crossed the apartment and took the gun from Wilma Trent’s unresisting fingers. The safety was off.

“We’d better put this away before it goes off and hurts somebody.” Pushing the safety lever, he tucked the little automatic into his pocket. “Now, suppose you tell me about it.”

Wilma Trent dropped into an overstuffed chair as though her slim silken legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer. Moran sat on the edge of the nearby davenport.

“My brother Frank is to be electrocuted in the prison tonight at midnight for a murder he didn’t do. I can prove he didn’t do it. I—Here, read this.”

She extended her left hand, a crumpled envelope in it. Moran saw, after straightening the envelope, that it was addressed in pencil to Miss Wilma Trent, Fairview Apartments, There was no stamp. The letter read:

Dear Miss Trent: Your brother, Frank, didn’t knock off that guy, and he didn’t get the fifty thousand dollars that’s missing. I know how it happened. I heard the guys that did it talking in a beer parlor. They would kill me if they knew I wrote this. You get the cops and bring them here, and I’ll tell everything if the cops promise to see I won’t get killed. I am doing this because I can’t let a guy burn for something he didn’t do. Yours truly, Charlie Ricker, Room 231, Eagle Hotel.