10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

48 Henry had flatly refused to lend me the money, that I got desperate and started arguing with him. And then maybe Uncle Henry had tried to throw me out. I felt my eyes begin to pop out like cherries on a hat. You couldn’t mistake it. It was in their faces. They were thinking that I had killed Uncle Henry to get his money. My lips were dry and I wet them with the tip of my tongue and stood there without saying anything. I was scared. Badly scared. Because I’d lied about finding Kenyon in the apart- ment. If they proved that was a lie then they’d think everything else I’d said was a lie. Wht a fool I’d been! Trying to pro- tect Sally and this fellow Paul. And purely on an impulse too. When they hadn’t played fair with me at all. They’d walked out on me, left me flat. Turned the basket of eggs over my head and dropped the whole thing in my lap. OBODY said anything. I could hear them breathing and could feel their eyes drilling inte my face. My hands grew moist and cold, like two lumps of dough in an icebox. Beads of sweat started to trickle down my forehead. Good Lord above! I wished somebody’d say something, do something. Anything. I couldn’t stand this silence much longer. The big colonial clock was ticking, those soft metallic clicks and I thought again that it sounded like footsteps walking along the concrete to the elec- tric chair. I was sweating real hard now and T’'ll bet I looked guilty. And then the dapper man who'd been sprinkling powder all around, laid the brass pok- er on the table and said: “Sorry, Hallock. Not a print on it.” The fat man jutted his head in my direction. ‘‘How about his?” “Only on the telephone and at that they’re badly jumbled.” I jooked and saw that the balls of my fingers were stained with ink and I knew they’d taken my prints while 10-STORY DETECTIVE——-——_-—_—_ I was unconscious. Hallock was smil- ing now, only it wasn’t really a smile. His lips were pulled up at the corners showing his teeth. ‘So you got into New York today and you saw Kenyon’s picture in the papers.” I gulped audibly. “Yes, sir.” “Even though there was nothing in any of today’s papers about Kenyon.” I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Hallock’s big lion face pushed clos- er out of his collar like a turtle stick- ing his head out. His eyes were keen, level, glinting like black ice. His voice was very soft. “Now, Donald, who was the young blond fellow who came up here after you did and then left with the girl?” “I—I don’t know what you mean.” There I was, still trying to protect two people I didn’t know. I started with one story and I meant to stick to it. I couldn’t begin to double-back now. “You know what I mean, all right, Donald,”” Hallock said. ‘The elevator operator told us exactly who came and went at this floor. We know that Kenyon arrived after you did, not be- fore.” I stared at him. I thought fast. My brain was going around like a feather in a whirlpool. I said: “I’m all mixed up. The shock of finding Uncle Henry dead has—” Hallock cut me short with a weary gesture. His voice suddenly cracked out: “Do you know what the penalty for murder is?” My face went white. “Y-yes, sir.” “They shave your head and slit your trousers, Donald, and they strap you into a chair. Sometimes they have to carry you into the death room. When they turn on the juice you give a jerk, Donald, a hard jerk as if you’re trying to break the straps. But you’re not. No, Donald, it’s the death spasm. You can almost smell the flesh burn- ing. You turn black, like a charred smelt. And then they toss you into a sack and drop you into a hole in the ground. MIGOOo (C(O) S (C(O) im