By Fredric Brown
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I'm three months overdue on starting my next play, and I haven't a ghost of an idea. I thought a summer in Provincetown would fix me up. Cape Cod and all that and the picturesque fishing smacks and all that sort of tripe. ” — 61 — I was, too. There's nothing worse than not having an idea when you need an idea. That's the trouble with being a playwright. If you need a house or a horse or a multiple-head drill or a set of golf clubs, you go out and buy it, but if you need an idea and need it bad, you sit and stew and maybe it comes and maybe it doesn't.
Nothing at all. I just don't believe it, — 47 — Barranya. And if you knew this apartment would be searched, then you knew Randall was going to be killed. ” “Brilliant, Sergeant. ” “Yes. You knew when he was going to be killed—or when it would appear that he was killed. Probably it was twenty minutes before I got that phone call. ” “And you think I framed myself by accusing—” “Why not? That radio was a swell trick. It wasn't the radio at all, Barranya. I've thought that out. It was ventriloquism.
But—” I caught sight of that face again in the mirror, and I calculated the angle and decided that Mac couldn't see it from where he sat. The guy in the hall had come around the corner now, and was pussy-footing up to the door. He was smiling, if you could call it a smile; one corner of his mouth went up and the other down so his mouth looked like an unhealed diagonal wound across the bottom of his face. His eyes were so narrowed you couldn't see the whites. I thought crazily that if the British had done that at Bunker Hill they wouldn't have got fired on at all.