10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Deck of Death By Maurice Phillips Marco Sewell had the death card up his sleeve—the ace of spades. But when he decided to deal ii out twice in succession | 5 he found that the Grim Reaper was ready to call all bets. kh door to his private office opened and again the helpless feeling caught Marco Sewell. Until a few months ago it was alto- gether an unknown feeling to him, but now he knew the futile fury of a rat trapped in a maze, or a prisoner caged behind bars. Yet none of this showed in Marco’s face as he waved an amiable erreeting to the big man who, merely by entering, seemed to cast an appropriative hand over this place. “Tt thought you’d gone on that trip—fishing trip, was- n’t it?” Marco said, his smile hiding the hate that burned within him. George Pendegrast dropped his huge, powerful body into a chair that looked sizes too small for him, and grunted a negative. “Hunting,” he corrected. “Moose hunting. You miss a lot, Marco, stick- ing to the city the way you do. I'll bet you haven’t been away from this smoke-ridden, foul-smelling town in over a year, have you?” Marco grimaced. “Seventeen years I haven’t been away from this town.. Everybody knows it too. I was born in the country, and for my money you can have it.” His sensitive ears caught the click of chips and the staccato of roulette wheels from the next room; the insin- uating melody of a rhumba floated up trom downstairs. Marco leaned back, content. This was his world, he held it in the palm of his hand, he could 26 juggle it to any tune— Then Marco remembered George Pendegrast, op- posite him, and the contentment drained away from his soul. “T’ll be back in two weeks,” Pende- grast said, looking at his fingertips. ‘“‘Wednesday, the nineteenth. I'll need a little money before I go, Marco. If you can scare up a couple of grand—”’ Marco sat back, his face expression- less, but his hands bunched into hard, white-knuckled fists. One grand ten days ago, another grand two weeks before that, and now —now two thousand more. And in a couple of weeks George Pendegrast would be back — his palm _ itching again. “That’s four thousand in five weeks, George,” Marco said soft- ly. “That’s pretty high tariff. Don’t get the idea that I’m sore, or anything like that, but—” Marco’s jaws clamped tight, the words stuck in his craw. Marco, the tough guy, owner of the biggest gambling layout in the city, the guy who could make politi- cians toe the line, couldn’t pull his tail between his legs before this over- grown playboy. Pendegrast smiled indulgently. “I’m glad you’re not sore, Marco. It’s just another business angle, of course. Nothing personal. But with me taking care of your books—” Marco got it. In two minutes the money was in George Pendegrast’s pocket. Marco, after all, was no dope. He didn’t need diagrams. Bigger fish )O)O) (C(O) S (C(O) im