10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

BULLDOG OF JUSTICE He left the telephone and paced the room anxiously. Natto’s ruthlessness carried a bitter undercurrent through his flow of thoughts as he moved back and forth, baffled by the prospect of constructing a legally presentable case against that predatory crook. His anger stirred; a rankling torment filled him when, after an interval, the telephone rang. His quiet “Yes?” brought an answer in the voice of Mae Gary. “T’m calling from Dr. Norton’s lab, Jack,” the tireless secretary said breathlessly, “I got him out of bed and made him come here—and it was worth it. You’re right—Judge Craw- ford was poisoned!” Webster heard the heavy voice of the toxicologist rumble over the wire. “Please understand that my findings are no proof that any murder has been committed. I have simply applied Reinisch’s test to the wet earth you submitted, and I find traces of arsen- ic,” Webster asked swiftly: ‘Arsenic administered over a period of time will result in death through collapse, won’t it, Dr. Norton?” “In certain cases. But please re- member I found the arsenic in the dirt. Probably the ale which Miss Gary mentioned, spilled there, accounts for it—arsenic is soluble in beer—but there’s no proof of it. You have very slight evidence to justify an autopsy on Judge Crawford.” The voice of Mae Gary returned. “Your mind reader is still on the job. The Scotch ale is imported by Hiker and Company-in this city—a small concern. A man named Max Connor is sales manager. He’s on his way to your office now.” “And you,” Webster told the girl, “are on your way to bed. Aren’t you?” Softly came: “Good night, darling.” EBSTER left the house hurried- ly. His weary glance up and down the street found empty shad- ows. There was no suggestion of a lurking killer in the darkness; yet, 23 while Webster sought a taxi, he felt that uncanny, cold prickling of his scalp which warned him that unseen eyes were watching him. It persisted even after a cab picked him up and carried him toward the formidable, white stone courthouse. Entering his office, he glanced across the street to see the slow-mov- ing but indefatigable Mattison still at his desk. He heard footfalls on the stairway and took up the telephone as it rang. The voice on the line was Ted Brown’s. “On the job, skipper.” “Good, Teddy!” “Nat Brock’s at the Sunrise Bar, one of his hangouts. I can’t get near him—he’d recognize me—but I’ve got him spotted. Do I keep him in sight ?” “You forget about sleeping and eat- ing, Teddy. Shadow him wherever he goes. I’m looking for a sniper who’s trailing me around with a silenced gun, waiting for a chance to drop me, but Brock’s probably not the man. Keep him in sight and—” “Slick Perles is with Brock, skip- per—another of Natto’s sneaky side- kicks,” Webster observed grimly: ‘“T’ll take care of that angle: Brock’s your man, Teddy—and phone if the trail gets hot.” “With a chance of getting that crook, I'll never let him slip me!” Teddy promised grimly. Knuckles were rapping on the door when Webster lowered the phone. He opened the way and peered at the thin- faced, shifty-eyed caller. There was an edge of insolence in the squeaky voice which said: “I’m Max Connor, What the hell d’you wanna see me about?” Webster gestured Connor to a chair, dug into his top-coat pocket, and held the broken neck of a bottle toward his caller. He pointed to the plain cap which was still in place and asked crisply : “Can you identify that?” “No.” Re 6 ie a > rey. Comichoo (<(@)