Pulp Fiction, 1942 · page 29 of 116
10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 29: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a page of story prose from a hardboiled crime pulp magazine titled "Deck of Death." The text describes a character named Marco, who works in accounting, planning to eliminate his business rivals George Pendegrast and Henry Frazer after discovering they've been embezzling. The narrative shifts to a dance floor scene where Marco observes Iris Stanton performing and then receives a phone call from Pendegrast. The prose employs typical pulp-fiction conventions: dramatic tension, internal monologue revealing criminal intent, and noir-style descriptions of characters and situations. No illustrations are visible on this text-heavy page.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
en a ery <n EY than Marco Sewell were doing time in federal pens because they’d been caught in income tax nets. Marco could have kicked himself for ever hiring the accounting firm of Pendegrast and Frazer—George Pen- degrast and Henry Frazer. The boys with names, with class, with one-hun- dred-proof blue blood. Marce thought he had made a valuable connection when George Pendegrast began audit- ing his books. But-George had phonied them so neatly — Marco accompanied Pendegrast downstairs. As they passed through the beautifully appointed gambling rooms, Mareo smiled at the suckers. For Marco’s mind had already, with characteristic directness, found a way out. Nothing classy, nothing subtle. Just a simple, direct method that Marco had learned on his way up. Murder! HEN they got down to the dance YY floor, Iris Stanton was just com- ing on to do her number. Marco didn’t watch her. His eyes, narrowed and gleaming with a fierce flame, burned in the direction of Henry Frazer, Pende- grast’s partner. The word had gone out that Iris Stanton was Marco’s special protégé and everybody accepted that te mean hands off. Everybody, that is, but Henry Frazer. He’d gone complete- ly overboard for fris. This Iris Stanton was a number. Slender, svelte, with fresh cool loveli- ness, she had an elusive quality that Marco couldn’t put a name to. She sang the same songs others did, she made the same curtseys, she had the same accompaniment—yet she imparted to her songs a fragrance all her own. And it was the kind of fragrance that Marco went for. Marco—and Henry Frazer. Marco’s fists tightened suddenly and only his gambler’s instincts hid his feelings. Iris had finished her number, and her eyes, which Marco remem- bered used to glisten for him, now shone for Henry Frazer. Without mov- ing his lips, without batting an eye- lash, Marco cursed long and earnestly. ————_DECK OF DEATH 27 It clicked in his mind, then, the way the tumblers of a safe click to the right combination. Henry Frazer would have to be put out of the way, too. Nothing personal, of course. Marco wasn’t the type the prohibition gang- sters were—the boys who’d shoot if you jooked at their girls the wrong way. Not Marco, he had been around too long. Girls had never meant much to him. He always had the feeling the right one would come along, and when she did— Well, Iris Stanton had come along and Marco hadn’t rushed things. No heavy stuff. The light touch. Flow- ers, perfumes, imported tidbits— finesse. And just when Marco thought everything was perfect, along came Henry Frazer. Marco shrugged. He wasn’t going to rush things now, either. He didn’t know how he was going to take care of Pendegrast and Frazer, but it would come to him. Fate would take care of things like that. Fate did. Fate, and Henry Frazer’s honesty. Frazer was a man of scruples and high business ethies, Marco dis- covered. For only two days after Pen- degrast went away on his hunting trip, the firm of Pendegrast and Frazer was publicly dissolved. The reason, Mareo learned by his private cunning methods, was that Frazer objected strongly to his part- ner’s business practices. Marco’s heart filled with gladness. He was dealing the cards now and Fate had shot the ace of spades—the death eard—up his cuff. It was an old card and it went under many guises. This time it was hidden under the cloak of friction. The two erstwhile partners had had many dis- putes. There were witnesses who could prove that. As he toyed with this new development, Marco mentally patted the ace of spades up his sleeve, and smiled. HE phone rang and when Marco recognized the voice on the other end of the wire, his smile vanished. It was Pendegrast, back at his Long GOMIIGIOO S (C(O) nn