CHAPTER SEVENTEENThere were twenty of them stashed away in a large brown Kraft envelope lettered “Stencils” with the current year on it. Those for the latest run-off of Off-Trail Fantasy, the September issue, were on the top, easily distinguishable.
My hand shook as I pulled them from the envelope. I turned and looked at Mrs. Shulman. “They’re here,” I told her in triumph. “We’ve got the material our murderer went to such pains to destroy.”
She said nervously, “Perhaps I’d better call the police.”
“Not yet,” I told her. “Let me read it.” I had to give her some excuse. “Possibly there’ll be nothing of real interest to the police.”
I looked around the cellar where Harry Shulman had made his “office,” seeking a desk or table. It was fitted up almost exactly like Les Zimmer’s with the exce
