10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

BULLDOG OF JUSTICE Webster’s eyes blazed at the offen- sive face of Ray Natto—at Natto, grinning malevolently. His fists clenched harder, his temper spurted his heart with rage as he faced Her- bert Knox. The towering, lean attor- ney smiled with studied contempt. “Eiye-witnesses,” he declared, “can give powerful direct evidence, Web- _ ster. Perhaps you’ll learn just how powerful, at the new trial. My client will be absolutely cleared, I promise you.” Webster asked with bitter, double meaning: ‘Honestly ?” He struggled to control his temper while the contemptuous Knox and the grinning Natto strode from the court- room, He went up the stairs, into the office, and his knuckles rapped hard on his desk. Mayton eyeing him, remarked dry- ly: “Some day, when you get as mad as that, you’re going to explode.” “Damned good _ reason!’ — the words were an explosion. “Frank, I’m facing defeat in my most vital case. Because evidence has been stolen. Be- cause a judge dropped dead on the bench. Because of a ruthless lawyer taking advantage of a legal situa- tion not provided for in the statutes. What chance have we got against that crooked machine—legally?” Mayton admitted despondently: “Not much!” “Natto will win the new trial with his bribed eye-witnesses !” The words stung Webster’s lips as he spoke. He peered at the scattered papers, grim determination strength- ening in him minute by minute. He gazed at the little ball of naphthalene on his hot palm—evidence valueless in the courts, but a thing that could become a pointer of doom outside them. He closed his hand tightly upon it, glared at Mayton and said: “If the law can’t get those crooks I can. I will! If a defective law—” Death whispered an interruption. _A flat, cracking sound echoed in the office as a white-rimmed hole appeared 15 in the window-pane at Webster’s back. A bullet went past his head with a breathy whine. A thump jarred the door frame. A swift succession of ominous sounds—and Jack Webster stood chilled by the wind of a killer’s bullet. CHAPTER II MURDER MARK BSTER whirled from the desk ; even as he moved a second splintering concussion marked the ap- pearance of another white-bordered hole in the pane. He snapped, “Get cui of here!” to Mayton and whirled through the connecting door. Quick strides carried him to the window of the adjoining dark room. He peered into the bleak street that separated the courthouse from police headquar- ters, alert for furtive movement, for the glint of a gun in the light. But he saw only darkness—the black of night from which a murderer’s slug had sped. %. Turning back to the starir May- ton, he said with ironic casualness: “Better go home and get some sleep, Frank. And have a talk with Cheever first thing in the morning.” Mayton blurted: “Gosh, I saw that red hair of yours riffle as the bullet went past you!’”—and he stared afi- er Webster, speeding in hot anger down the stairs. Webster’s hand stole under his coat, to the 9mm. Webley he always carried, as he pressed out the entrance and slowly went down the broad stone steps. Along the gloomy street he saw no one but a thick-shouldered lean- hipped man coming out of the door of police headquarters. Webster wait- ed grimly until this familiar, slow- moving figure became Inspector Mait- tison, stocky legs straddled, facing him. Mattison’s eyes were blacker than the night, ominously deeper. He said wryly: “No use getting ex- cited, Webster. We’ll find the man who robbed your safe, It’s only a matter of time. Leave it to me.” *comicbook co