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GIRL on the TORTURE WHEEL

By JEFFERSON AMES

Here Is a Hollywood Secret Told for the First Time
Know What Happens Behind the Locked Studio Doors!

JERRY MATHESON and June Garcia, collectively the Mero Detective Agency of Times Square, New York City, were a long way from home as they drove down Hollywood Boulevard. But in another sense, Jerry was right at home. He always was when he had one free hand and June's seductive, lightly-clad body was at his side.

The detective was one man who could mix business with pleasure, the only difference being that he didn't know which was which. But June, who took a lot of his orders, knew. She was on the receiving end. Still, she too thought detecting and lovemaking both came under the head of business and pleasure at the same time.

Right now, the two were headed for Regal Pictures, Inc., to see the company's producer, Max Laye.

Jerry gave June a quick glance, one hand on the wheel of his rented limousine.

June merely inched closer. She murmured something almost inaudibly.

"In a couple of hours," he grunted, "well be on our way back to the Big Burg, Luscious."

The black-haired, high-breasted girl at his side moved closer. "Will we have a drawing room again, like we did when we came out here?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Jerry grinned, and punctuated his remark with a caress of his right hand. He said something about rain. The sky was clear, the warm California sun was beaming. But June knew what he meant, even though it might sound like a riddle. She could feel it.

Jerry suddenly put both hands on the wheel, snaked the car to the curb and cut the ignition. He glanced out at the imposing buildings of Regal Pictures.

"Here we are, Gorgeous," he said. "End of the rainbow. We collect $5000 and expenses from Laye for tailing his big star, Maxine LeSoir, just to see that no harm came to her and that she didn't live in a lower berth like we did in a compartment."

"There really wasn't room enough," June remarked.

"Smart-cracking, eh?" Jerry barked, but his big grin said he wasn't angry. "Do you need two compartments?"

"I was talking about Miss LeSoir. And beside, she didn't meet a single man on the trip across."

Jerry crawled out of the car, met June on the other side. They walked up to the gates.

The watchman said: "Good afternoon, Mr. Matheson. Mr. Laye is expecting you." The old man opened the gate, passing them through.

Jerry gawped. "That guy ought to be a detective, too," he grunted. "How the hell did he know who I was?"

June's silvery laugh floated off over the lots and lost itself in the romantic setting of a Spanish village. "You big dope," she giggled. "Didn't you know that you gave him your business card?"

The detective's face fell down to there. "Stupid," he snarled at himself. "Guess I was thinking of something else."

June wriggled her hips and said: "Thanks for the compliment."

Max Laye jumped up from behind his pretentious mahogany desk and rushed across the room to meet Jerry and June. His face looked like he had been made to resemble a composite of Karloff, Chaney, and Cantor six months in a mausoleum.

The Armenian was as pale as death, his face contorted with fear.

Jerry almost snatched his .45 from his shoulder rig in amazed surprise.

"Mister Matheson," Laye gasped. "I'm in terrible trouble."

"Half a dozen raw oysters a day," Jerry prescribed quickly.

"It ain't my appetite," the widened man said. "It's Miss LeSoir. Half an hour after you reported she arrived in Hollywood okey-dokey, her voice telephoned me from Stage Five. Oh, Gawd, it was terribul. The voice..."

Jerry cut him. "I don't give a damn how bad her voice is. Maybe it's too much gin. I'll take that check."

"But you don't understand," Laye protested. His lower lip trembled, his knees wav...

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