10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

SATAN’S SCANDAL SHEET ridor couldn’t tell which of us had closed it. I heard a click and turned my head to see the snap-lock catch. Then I looked at the corpse. Augie Shor was lying on his back in front of the streamlined desk. The ornate hilt of a paper-knife protrud- ed from his throat, I can’t say that I was sorry to see the rat dead. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t approve of murder. I would have been a lot happier if he had gone out the legal way, sitting on the hot seat for the killing of the girl in New York. AFT was saying loudly: “The method is the same—a knife in both cases. It’s safer and quieter than a bullet. The knife you killed Gregg with you dropped into the ocean, and the carved handle of this paper-knife wouldn’t take your prints. But you made a lot of mistakes, Durkee.” I moved a few feet to where a light chair stood. I closed one hand over it, as if leaning against it. I didn’t say anything. Raft’s hand was inside his coat. He’d be carrying his gun in his belt, and he was banking on the fact that, off duty and on vacation, I wouldn’t have a gun with me, He was right. Raft was still talking, keeping his voice loud. It was vague, ambiguous stuff about my having tried to rail- road Shor to the chair because of a personal grudge against him, and that I’d probably had another against Gregg. It didn’t make much sense, but it didn’t have to. He was talking for the benefit of those out in the corri- dor, who couldn’t remember the exact substance of what he was saying, but would remember that he’d been ac- cusing me. When he got ready, which would be any second now, he’d shoot. On the desk I noticed a paper-knife that was a@ mate to the one in Shor’s throat. Raft’s story would be that when he’d accused me I’d realized that the game was up and had grabbed the knife and 93 made for him and that then he’d had to shoot me in self-defense. It was pretty good. He was saying: “And so I arrest you for the murder of—” That was when I threw the chair at him. He wasn’t ready for the move, and the chair legs were off the ground before he went for his gun. It flew straight at his head. He flung himself aside at the same time he fired, so of course the bullet went wild, The chair clipped him in the temple and he went stumbling backward. I dove low and caught his legs, and the back of his head thudded against the wall with an awful smack. His eyes glazed, but he didn’t go all the way out. His gun was waving crazily. I kicked it out of his hand. “You were right,” I panted. “Cops have been known to commit murder.” And I picked up his chair and banged it down on his head for good measure. Then I had a chance to hear the yell- ing outside in the corridor and the pounding on the door. I clicked open the lock. Sergeant Swanson, gun in hand, plunged through. He looked at Raft, moaning and bloody on the floor, and then at me, and he jabbed his gun in my direction. “Don’t bother, sergeant,” I said. “Raft’s the killer. I was to be his third victim because he was afraid that I was catching on to his game. You'll find that gun on the floor is his and that it has only his prints on it and that I’m unarmed.” WANSON couldn’t get anything out of Raft at that time, but the next day he confessed. It wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other because investigation of his private affairs plastered guilt all over him. I’d tabbed the business more or less accurately when, later that evening, I made my statement at headquarters. “Raft and Augie Shor were both in the crooked work at the track,” I said. “Raft, being a detective, had inside dope and so could ease himself in with OOO) @) (CONNIE S (C(O) nn