10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

76—_____—_—_——_———_10-STORY DETECTIVE those whose pictures appeared regu- larly in the rotogravure. But this woman’s slim beauty was impressive against either an exotic or shoddy background. Muggsy didn’t get up when Vivian Rathborne approached the booth in which he was sitting. Muggsy was elite, too, and he considered himself as good as any dame, whether she had a surplus of the necessaries or not. “Nice gams,” he thought, letting his gaze drift upward over silk-clad leos and clean sweep of thigh. Then, as the woman stopped beside his ta- ble, he lifted non-committal eyes and stared questioningly. Vivian Rathborne flushed slightly under that penetrating stare, She hes- itated almost perceptibly while she took in Muggsy’s figure, from his glistening tan shoes that failed to match the dark herringbone suit and gaudy tie, to his swarthy skin and slick black hair. “You’re Muggsy Roberts?” Her voice was musical, well modu- lated. Class, Muggsy thought, and hated her for it. “Yeah.” She slid swiftly onto the bench across from him. “I want to talk to you. I heard you were the man to see.” “Yeah ?” The flat, uncompromising voice was momentarily disconeerting. She leaned forward slightly, the soft waves of her hair glinting in the pal- lid light. “They told me—you would com- mit murder—for a price.” ER fingers, slender, well kept, fumbled with an oversize purse. Muggsy watched silently while she pulled out a roll of crisp bills and deftly counted off ten of one hundred dollar denomination. Muggsy looked at the money spec- ulatively, then lifted his eyes. The fat barkeep was cleaning the entire bar, mopping slowly, edging unobtrusive- ly nearer their booth. Muggsy’s eyes were expressionless when he glanced toward him, but the fat man straight- ened as though jabbed in the back with a knife. One final defiant swish of his rag and he walked heavily to the opposite end of the bar. He began to rinse glasses with a loud clatter and splash of water. Muggsy looked at the woman. “If that’s for a rub-out, enough.” “There will be an equal amount mailed tomorrow to whatever address you wish. Provided of course, the murder is successfully committed to- night.” “Don’t worry about that—I’ll col- lect.” Muggsy’s lips moved, but his dark, saturnine face was unconcerned. ‘‘Who’s the guy that gets bumped?” “It’s a woman.” “Dames is out of my line. What’s her name?” “The name doesn’t matter. I'll give you all the necessary details as soon as I have your promise to co-operate.” Muggsy picked up his glass of beer, shook it until frothy bubbles rose to the top, and took a long swallow. “I promise nothing,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just give me the dope.” “All right. At exactly nine o’clock this evening you are to drive to 1264 Broad Avenue. The house will be dark. Bring a flashlight with you, but don’t use it until you are inside. The back door will be open. Go through the kitchen and turn to your left. There is a hallway there and at the end of it are stairs leading to the second floor. “At the head of the steps you will find a door on the right. It will be open. Before entering the room, take a gun which you will find on a stand at the head of the stairs. It is that gun which you must use. From the doorway you can look into the room. Your victim will be sitting at the window. “She is there every night and her silhouette will be a perfect target. Shoot her with the gun you take it ain’t (C(O) MIGoOo S (C(O) im