10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

op a en ee aa eee a wee ee tgs.” Se Se ee ae ss ee eee et. eee SS ee ea ae ig, = ed ~, me at nage Oe some ee mere Gs. Fa “a Pe. a es Sah et ae — . = ie = > = . = ETE ee Se ~ = = ~ ae ie —_ ~ at = oe —— ee me = — 18———______—_—_——_10-STORY DETECTIVE through the police records. but each lead had become obscured in the dark- ness of the past. It haunted him—that indefinable memory—as he gazed at the dark window beyond where Web- ster stood unseen, watching. He said aloud: “This’ll do it!” and signed his name to the letter. EBSTER felt an uncanny ap- prehension as he drove rapidly toward the home of Judge Crawford on the outskirts of the city—a persis- tent hunch that he was being fol- lowed. A coldness like the breath of the bullet, which had lightninged past his head in his office, played over his scalp. He searched the shadows as he turned his car into the broad drive- way; but the blackness of the night was an enigma. The maid who admitted him to the stricken home led him into the library where Mae Gary was waiting. She was at his side at once, giving him a neat array of notes already prepared. Her eyes were weary but alert; and Web- ster’s hand lingered on her cool fingers as he scanned the neatly written lines. “Mrs. Crawford,’ the girl ex- plained, “says that this wasn’t en- tirely unexpected—the judge had been suffering from angina. I tried to get more information, This note about the Scotch ale—’”’ Webster was rapidly reading it: “There was a personality sketch about the judge in the Bulletin recent- ly. Home life of the great—that sort of thing. In it there’s a line about the judge’s always taking a glass of ale with his dinner. A case of an imported Scotch brand was delivered here soon afterward—compliments of the dis- tributor.” Webster shifted to another note. “The judge liked it, and ordered more. Tonight, while the jury was out, he came home for dinner and had the first bottle out of the new case. There’s more in the refrigerator. Mrs. Craw- ford didn’t know what I was getting at—I’m not sure of it myself.” “But,” Webster remarked dryly, “‘you’re very close to being a mind reader, Mae, How did you—?” “Perhaps it was an accident that the judge’s collapse came at such a lueky time for Natto,” the girl an- swered crisply. “You suspect he was murdered. It would have to be poison. A mistrial, evidenee stolen—and Nat- to goes free—but Jack Webster’s on the job.” “Mae.” Webster asked it softly. “Do you like it—working night and day, missing meals, going without sleep, running the chance of sdme crazy crook getting you because you’re with me in this thing?” “T thrive on it,” she answered. His hand closed on hers, “You’re the only one who knows what I’m driving at—who doesn’t try to cure me of my obsession to make the law the instrument of justice it should be. It’s in me, so deep-rooted that it can never. be eradicated. Nobody under- stands that but you.” She began: “I lo—” and broke off, as the red of her cheeks deepened, with “—admire you for it.” “T need that.” “Jack.” Mae Gary smiled. “I’ve a question to ask you—in eighteen min- utes. Not until then. You can refuse, of course, but—please don’t.” “Ask it now.” She shook her head firmly. “Highteen minutes—can’t until then.” “Then, in the meantime,” he asked, answering her smile, “where’s the kitchen?” “This way,’ Mae Gary said, and led him toward it. It was a fresh white room, with a huge electric refrigerator standing between two windows. Webster opened the door and cald air cascaded around is ankles. ‘‘“Mere here?” he asked. “Where, Mae?” The girl, stooped beside him, ex- claimed: “‘There was—a few minutes ago! I saw it, Eleven bottles—half a case less the one the judge had for dinner—in the bottom.” comicbook co