10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

BULLDOG OF JUSTICE———————_——————_31 Brown, jerking a sheet from the bed, began tearing it into strips. Webster grimly held his man captive until Brown gasped, ‘‘Okay, skipper!” Then Webster twisted Brock’s arms, forced him down, held him still while Brown wrapped white bands tightly around Brock’s ankles and wrists. Brown thrust a section of the sheet into Brock’s mouth and bound it down with another strip. When he rose, Brock lay helpless on the floor, terri- fied eyes staring. Webster’s hands went into his pock- et. He said, “This belongs to you, I think, Brock.”’ A tiny sphere of white, clicking and rolling on the floor, brought wilder terror to Brock’s eyes. Webster stood straight, gun returned to his holster, speaking tartly. *You’re going to have a chance to make up your mind, Brock—to tell the truth. Brown’s going to stay right here, and wait for you to talk. The whole story, Brock—how you poisoned Judge Crawford, how you robbed my office, how Natto put a killer on my _ trail. How you framed Brown for mur- der—all of it. A statement, signed and witnessed, that will stand as evidence in court. When you’re ready, Brock, just let Brown know.” Webster strode stiffly down the stairs. Brown followed him, and in the darkness beside the garage they paused, peering at each other hag- gardly. “Gee, skipper, I’ll kill that rat be- fore I’ll let him get you into trouble— about me!” “If you do that, Teddy,’ Webster answered levelly, “there’ll never be an hour when the law won’t be hunting for you as a convicted murderer.” “T’ll go to the chair before I’ll see you take a rap on my account!” Webster’s tight lips clipped his words. “You can’t do that, Teddy, you can’t! This is my job—my job, do you understand that? Even if it breaks me, I’m going to get Natto and Brock. That’s a promise, Teddy—a promise I’m going to keep!’’ CHAPTER IV CoFFIN LooT IGHTS were burning in Webster’s office next evening when he strode in quietly. Mae Gary, alert and bright-eyed as though she had not lost a moment’s sleep, followed him to his desk. There was anxiety in her eyes, a sadness in her smile that pinched Webster’s heart. She asked quietly: “Now—can you tell me why?” “Mae, it’s something I can never tell you.” Her chin lifted. “Some day I’m go- ing to find out, Jack, and make you see it doesn’t matter—that nothing can matter that much.” “T hope you never find out.” “I’m going to try.” She forced an- other smile. “In the meantime, then, between the district attorney and his secretary, strictly business, I’ve just tried again, on the telephone, to get Mattison to let down about the autop- sy, but he won’t. He’s blocked every move.” Webster’s knuckles rapped the desk angrily. He reached for the telephone, spun off the number in Brown’s hid- den room. “Hat and coat, Mae,” he said quietly, “I’m going to need you.” He heard the receiver lift, but no salu- tation answered, “District Attorney Webster speak- ing. Anything doing on the case you’re handling?” Brown’s answer rang with anger. “Brock’s holding out, skipper. He ain’t made a move to talk yet. Gee, it’s hard to keep my hands off that dirty rat’s throat!” Webster answered: “I'll handle that. Coming right away.” He left his desk with determined steps, and Mae Gary, in trim coat and pert hat, followed him down the stair- way. As he went with her to his car, he felt again the prickling warning that he was being watched. To Web- ster it meant that a hired killer was still trailing him, that the moment was coming when a well-aimed bullet Eomichoo cS (E(e)