10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 82: what you’re looking at

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

80—__________—_————10-STORY DETECTIVE carefully pasted a loose piece of to- bacco against his cigar, then tucked it back in his mouth. “Did you find the gun that was sup- posed to be on that stand?” “Naw. The only gun in the house is a thirty-eight that Rathborne keeps in a desk in his study. This is it.” Donovan examined the weapon critically. He broke it and looked at the bullets. “Blanks,” he said succinctly. “How about Mrs. Rathborne’s will? Got that?” “Right here.”’ The inspector unfolded the legal looking document and read slowly. days before the murder.” Thatcher stirred impatiently. “Look, Mike,” he said. ‘““We’ve got to do something—” “Such as what? We’ve got our kill- er. What more do you want?” “How about this kidnaping?” “T’ll turn the FBI loose on that.” Donovan heaved himself out of his chair and reached for his hat. ‘But you might get hold of Rathborne and bring him in for a confab. Right away. I’m going out for a few minutes and I want him to be here when I get back.” Donovan’s first stop was the bank, where he requested permission to check withdrawals from William Rathborne’s personal account. The cashier hesitated briefly. “Mr. Rathborne has no account,” he said finally. “Everything was in his wife’s name.” The inspector stared ineredulously. “Doesn’t he maintain even a small checking account?’ The cashier shook his head nerv- ously. “T’ll check again, inspector, but Iam sure he doesn’t.” Donovan waited patiently, trying to piece the fragments together in his mind. The cashier was smiling when he returned. “I’m sorry, sir. We did no business with Mr. Rathborne whatsoever.” “How about his wife?” “Mrs. Rathborne, yes. Her death was rather terrible, wasn’t it? A lovely woman. Exactly what did you want to know?” “Withdrawals,” Donovan said stolidly. “Anything unusual the past week ?” “Nothing at all. We do have a pack- age of $50,000 in small bills which Mrs. Rathborne requested us to make up for her. She said she would call when she wanted it.” “And it’s still here?” “We have it in the vault. Would you care to see it?” Donovan grinned, “Thanks. I’d like to see that much money sometime, but I haven’t the time today.” OINTING the nose of his car west on Broad Avenue, the inspector raced in the direction of the Rath- borne home. Things were beginning to shape up now, he thought grimly. He rang the bell and waited until a trim maid in a form-fitting uniform opened the door. “Inspector Donovan,” he said, dis- playing his badge. “I want to go through the house.” “Certainly, sir.”’ The maid dimpled prettily. “Come right in.” Donovan shed his coat and went to work. He didn’t waste any time on the upper floors, but headed directly for the basement. At the end of half an hour he emerged grimy-handed, with cobwebs clinging to his hat. Slapping at his dusty trousers, Dono- van cast a sidelong glance at the maid, “How long have you worked here?” he asked casually. “Three years, sir.” “In this house?” “No, sir. Mrs. Rathborne purchased this place about six months ago.” “Um-m-m. And where is Ronnie?” “Vl bring him in.” Donovan patted the youngster’s head. “You come with me, sonny,” he said mildly. “I need your help.” With the boy in tow, the inspector headed back to the basement. They were there for a long time. MIGoOo (C(O) S (C(O) im