10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

78——__—_—_____—_————_10-STORY DETECTIVE—_—____—— glinting against the pane, formed a perfect frame. Muggsy knew he was going through with it. He hadn’t been sure, but now he was. But no sudden blast of gun- fire for him. He didn’t even look for the gun on the stand. It was probably there—every other arrangement had been perfect—but Muggsy was a craftsman who preferred to use his own tools. His own gun was fitted with a silencer. It would do a thor- ough job with a minimum of noise. At the pressure of his finger on the trigger, the figure at the win- dow slumped to the floor. Muggsy waited, but no sound broke the silence. Stepping catlike, Muggsy flicked the flash on the face of his victim. He had done his job well. Vivian Rathborne was very dead. With a strangled cry, Muggsy fled the room like a lost soul. NSPECTOR DONOVAN of the homicide division surveyed the scene dispassionately. Mike Donovan was solidly built, with broad shoul- ders, a thick neck and a square head. His eyes were blue, deceptively inno- cent, and they peered wonderingly from under craggy brows. Charlie Thatcher, his right-hand man, still prowled restlessly about the big Rathborne home. Thatcher wore his felt hat far back on his head. A tuft of red hair standing erect under the brim gave him an air of perpet- ual harassment. He had the air of a reporter who has just been scooped. “There’s absolutely nothing, Mike,” he said worriedly. “No fingerprints, no nothing. Two forty-five slugs did the job, but the gun could be on the bottom of the ocean by now.” Donovan looked at the sheet-cov- ered figure. ““We’ve got to find the reason,” he said gently. “There is al- ways a motive when someone gets killed. You stay here while I talk to Rathborne again. Sometimes even a trivial, half-forgotten incident results in a crime. If he can just remember something—” William Rathborne was a young man who showed the effects of good living. His clothing was sartorially perfect, but the whole effect was marred by the slight paunch which expert tailoring was unable to con- ceal. He was pacing back and forth in a tastefully furnished study, run- ning agitated fingers through thin- ning brown hair at the end of each measured tread. Perched on the edge of a straight chair, with his heels hooked onto a rung was an eight year old boy. The kid’s eyes were wide and scared. They followed the man in his restless pac- ing. Donovan eased into the room. Rath- borne stopped his pacing and threw him a worried glance. “Did you—find anything ?”’ The inspector shook his head. “Just take it easy, Mr. Rathborne,” he ad- vised in a matter-of-fact voice. “We’re going to get things straightened out without any trouble. But you’ve got to help us.” “Help you?’ Rathborne flung his arms wide, then pressed the palms of his hands against his temples. “Yes, that’s the best, I believe. No one can hurt Ronnie now.” Donovan cleared his throat. “Ron- nie? That’s the boy, isn’t it?” “Yes, Ronnie is Vivian’s son by a first marriage. He—he was kidnaped a week ago.” “Kidnaped?’ Donovan’s eyes gleamed. “I didn’t think that was a paying proposition any more.” Rathborne laughed harshly. “The severeness of the penalty makes it even more profitable and safe. When we learned that Ronnie had been taken, we determined to follow in- structions to the letter. No police. No phony packages of money. After all, the boy’s life was at stake. If the po- lice got even a whisper of what was going on, it would have been all up with him.” “TI see.” Donovan eyed the scared yungster, “How much did you pay out to get him back?’ OO) =) - [ (C(O) S (C(O) im