10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

24——_________.-____19.STORY DETECTIVE “You have the agency for Highland Ale in this city. This is a part of a Highland Ale bottle, isn’t it? The name’s stamped in the glass.” “T guess it is.” “Is that a Highland Ale cap, that plain one? That’s a matter you’ll have to tell: the truth about, Connor, be- cause I can check it a thousand ways.” Connor mumbled: “Highland Ale has caps with a picture of a girl in kilts on ’em.” “Which means this bottle of ale was opened, then recapped—is that it?” “T don’t know nothin’ about it.” Webster straightened. ““Make your- self comfortable, Mr. Connor. You have nothing to be uneasy about—only the charge of being an accessory be- fore the fact of first degree murder.” Connor widened his shifty eyes and blurted: ‘What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” Webster pressed his questions. “Did you send a complimentary case of Highland Ale to Judge Crawford? Did you know the caps had been removed, poison dropped in, and new caps put on? What about the second case Judge Crawford ordered — all bottles with this plain cap instead of the originals? Who made the switch? Tell the truth!” Connor mumbled: “I’d have to look at the records. I don’t know nothin’ about it. I don’t know nothin’— nothin’.”’ Webster leaned forward intently. “Have you ever been in the death house, Connor? Have you ever seen a man fry? Do you know how it’s done? They shave the back of your head so you get the jolt in the brain. They strap you around the legs and put a mask on your face. It’s cold in there—until they throw the switch. You feel it hit you, feel your flesh burn — smell it burning — while you sit there frying .... Have you ever thought of that, Connor?” Connor jerked up, staring, and Webster followed with gleaming eyes. “What’re you talkin’ about?’ “I’m talking about what’s going to happen to you for being an accessory to a murder. You know who put ar- senic in the ale that was sent to Judge Crawford. You’re as guilty as the man who put it in. That’s the law, Connor —and I’m the man who's going to send you to the chair if you don’t talk!” Connor blurted: “I ain’t under ar- rest! You can’t make me talk! I gota right to have a lawyer!” Webster’s open palm slapped Con- nor’s face. Connor recoiled, whimper- ing, then made a crazy try to strike back. Webster’s tempered muscles broke the attempt. His hand clamped hard on Connor’s throat. Again his palm slapped blindingly across Con- nor’s face. “You’re innocent, are you? You’re fighting back like an innocent man. You’re facing me without being afraid —like an innocent man. The law’s on your side at this moment, Connor— why don’t you make the most of it? Or would you rather talk and beat the rap? Talk—instead of frying in the hot chair and feeling your flesh burn?” “Please, don’t!” Connor quailed against the wall. “I don’t know noth- in’ about it. Brock took a case of ale, that’s all, then had our truck pick it up and take it to Crawford’s. He had the second case ready the same way. I don’t know nothin’ else about it!’ Webster snapped: “You’re coming with me!” IS thrust sent Connor reeling into the outer office. His eyes blazed with contempt, his face flamed with the heat of his voleanic temper as he went down the steps after Con- nor. He forced Connor across the street, into the massive structure that housed police headquarters. He shoved Connor into an office and came grimly to a stop, facing the ominous black eyes of Inspector Mattison. Mattison drawled: “Hello, Webster, What’s coming off here? Is this man under arrest? Have you got a warrant for him? What’s the charge?” comicbook CO