One More Shot

Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Today's story, one more shot. Written for suspense by William N. Robeson. Hold it please, one more shot. Thank you. Here you are Bobby. Take this plate with the others and get them into the office pronto.

Sure thing, Dad. That's my son Bobby, running the newspaper photography business from the ground up. He's my courier. He rushes the plates from the field into the office. Two things Bobby and I like more than anything else are cameras and motorcycles.

That's why I asked to cover this cycle race. That was the winner I just photographed. Just in time for the early evening edition. Bobby makes the office in time. Bobby never got to the office at all.

He went off the highway at Colman's grave. It was dead when the police arrived. A victim of too much speed, they said. Just another traffic accident. But I didn't believe it. Probably was too good a driver.

He was too careful. So I did some investigating on my own. Then I went to see my friend, Sergeant Quad, in homicide. I checked it out with traffic, Bernie. It was just another unfortunate accident.

It was not an accident, Quad. It was murder! Look, Bernie, I can understand. And how upset you are. I know what it must mean to you. Do you? Well, there's one thing you don't know.

What's that? Where are the exposed photographic plates? What plates? The ones I gave Bobby to take to the office. They weren't in the saddle back of his cycle when they found him. Were they? No.

Of course they weren't. That's why Bobby was run off the road. Somebody wanted those pictures. Bad enough to murder for the who? How do I know? Well, it's fantastic. Maybe it is, but the fact is he left that field with four photographic plates and they were gone when his body was found.