10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

26—_—_———_—_—_——_—_——_10-STORY DETECTIVE words stopped by Webster’s clear voice. “Go ahead, Connor. Take advantage of your legal right. That'll bring the case to trial and get the facts about the doped ale into the court record. Why don’t you speak up? Listen. If you're smart, you'll turn state’s evi- dence. But if you try to skip, I'll fol- low you and drag you back no matter where you hole in. Felonious assault, Connor—how about it?” Connor turned abruptly and snatched at the door knob. His quick steps sounded in the corridor as the door slammed. Webster smiled tichtly in Mattison’s smouldering eyes. “My cards are on the table, inspec- tor,” the district attorney declared. “T’m out to get Brock and Natto any way I can get them. You may get me in the process, but I’ll get them first.” He strode to the door, turned back grim- ly. “Some undertaker in town,” he added coolly, “is going to get an order for coffins for two.” “It'd be too bad, Webster,” Mattison drawled, “if you made a hot- headed mistake.” Webster’s smile tightened. He went back to the desk, peering at a circle of glass that lay on Mattison’s blotter. He asked ironically: “Tsn’t that mine, Mattison — that paper-weight? I’m missing one exact- ly like it from my office.” Mattison’s eyes glinted, “Yes, it’s yours, Webster,” he answered’ “When i’m looking for evidence, I sometimes pick up things absentmindedly. I car- ried this out of your offiee the other night, I thought maybe the robber’s fingerprints might be on it.” “Were there,” Webster asked tight- ly, “fingerprints ?” Mattison drawled: “I’m checking up on that now. I'll let you know.” Lips curved hard, Webster said bit- terly, “Thanks!” He took the paper- weight from Mattison’s steady hand. His fingers gripped it tightly as he strode from the office. Mattison sat, smile fading, eyes brightening grimly. He touched a but- -ton on his desk and was still peering at the door through which Webster had gone when a blue-shirted man stepped into his office. . “I’m expecting a letter from the Department of Justice, Moore,” he said in a low tone. “When it comes, see that I get it—no matter where I happen to be—the fastest way possi- ble.” Then, slowly, shrewdly, he began to smile again. EBSTER stepped from a cab in front of his home—and again felt the prickling of indefinable dread which warned him some one was watching him—a killer lurking in the shadows. He pointed the key into the lock of the entrance; but to his sur- prise, the door swung open. He stepped in, startled, seeing a litter of papers on the floor of the room beyond. He moved toward his desk — and saw that it had been rifled. Its drawers were out; papers were scattered. The desk clock had been knocked to the floor. Webster’s glance, first at its face, then at his wristwatch, told him that the search had been made only a few minutes previous. He was striding out hastily, his temper flaming, when quick steps sounded on the rear porch and a husky voice called in: “Skipper!” Webster hurried to the firm-bodied young man who sidled in. Ted Brown’s eyes were wide with wonder. He paused to blurt: “Brock broke in here, skipper — your own place! He sneaked in from the alley. I didn’t know what to do— tried to call you—I was starting in after him when you showed up. For Lord’s sake, skipper, what’s Brock try- ing to pull off?” “Trying to get something on me!” Webster answered angrily. “Where is he now, Teddy?” “He beat it out when your taxi stopped. I saw him going up the stairs to my place over the garage. He must be there now, skipper!” S.com comicbook a Ie a ge = . ees oe Ts ee a eo | ee i oe Se, = . = r ys ea ale ne