10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

12 thousand dollars, Eyewitnesses! The word brought sharper bitterness to the heart of Jack Webster than any other in the lexicon of the law. Gravely Judge Crawford had charged the jury: “Gentlemen, you have heard six witnesses state that they saw the defendant elsewhere on the night he is alleged to have extorted money from Howard Bran- don. You have heard Brandon testi- fy that the defendant is the man who demanded extortion money of him. You must carefully weigh this conflicting testimony and de- cide whether it condemns the de- fendant or clears him. You are to judge the credibility of these eye-wit- nesses.” Eye-witnesses! The words burned the mind of Jack Webster, echoed in his memory, as he watched the worn face of the foreman of the jury. Firm- eyed, clean-cut, with a temper as fiery as his brilliant red hair, Webster—the youngest man ever to achieve the im- portant office of prosecutor of the dis- trict of King’s County—heard the jury grant him a grim reward: “Guilty.” Judge Henry Crawford peered at the stunned Natto and leaned forward painfully. Webster had seen the ashi- ness of the jurist’s face become more pronounced during the progress of the trial, He was sure that the man on the bench was ill and suffering. He lis- tened anxiously as the jurist mum- bled: “This court pronounces upon the de- fendant the mandatory sentence of—” Abruptly a breathy, agonized gasp brokefrom Judge Crawford’s lips. His head dropped to the bench and lolled; his arms swung limp as he sagged. A soft, crunching sound passed through the hush of the court as the jurist sprawled to the floor. One moment of stunned astonishment held reporters, counsel ‘and spectators motionless while they stared at an empty chair. Webster, the first to move, strode dismayed toward the bench. The bailiff sped with him; the stenographer 10-STORY DETECTIVE sprang up; the courtroom broke into a dismayed babble. Webster bent anxiously over the limp jurist on the floor; he peered appalled into a face that was ghastly passive. He straight- éned,. gazed at the startled men who had followed and said quietly: “Judge Crawford is dead.” HE courtroom became.a bedlam as Webster thrust clear of the court attendants. His quick thrust opened the jurist’s chambers behind the court. He snapped into the tele- phone, into the ear of the courthouse switchboard operator: “Webster speaking. Give me my office!’ He wait- ed with mind in turmoil for the voice of his secretary to answer. He knew that Mae Gary should beat _ her desk. She was on duty every mo- ment Webster was at work, night and day. Quickly efficient, with a mind tuned to match Webster’s fast deci- sions, she should be answering this call without a moment’s delay. But she was not. The distant bell purred re- peatedly, but the line remained closed. Webster spun from the telephone. “Call Crawford’s home and his doc- tor!” With the snapped orders, he pushed through the swinging doors of the courtroom and took the stairs four at a time. His hand gripped the knob of his office entrance hard and he opened the way to a sight that chilled his blood. A ruddy-faced deputy sheriff, de- tailed to the guarding of state’s evi- dence kept in Webster’s office, lay with bleeding head under a broken-legged chair that had crushed him down. Scattered papers on the floor led Web- ster on a swift trail through a door with shattered pane. He glimpsed trim pumps and sleek silk past the corner of Mae Gary’s desk and seized the girl’s arm as she strove weakly to rise. She clung to him dizzily, her clear blue eyes dimmed, her usually firm lips trembling, as Webster’s gaze shot to the huge safe set into the wall of his inner office. In it, immediately after the jury had retired, he had stored comicboo CS