10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

would hit him. He glanced around alertly as he took the wheel and start- ed away. The girl beside him said nothing as he took the shortest route toward the home of Judge Crawford. He drew to the curb, noting that a patrolman was stationed on the porch. “Maitti- son,’ he observed wryly, “expects me to do something hot-headed !” Mae’s eyes followed him anxiously. “Wait,” he said. He went quietly across the sidewalk, alertly watching the patrolman, and eased through the gate. Still feeling that eerie warning of hidden eyes watching him, he kept to the shadows and walked across the grass. Circling silently to the side of the house, he peered through a cur- tained window and saw a familiar face—a man talking with Mrs. Craw- ford. Mattison. Cold purpose narrowing his eyes, Webster shifted to the side porch, to the French windows of the adjoining room. He peered in throuzh drawn drapes, and saw, in the amber light, a casket. Webster pried at the windows, drew one open silently. He stepped quietly into the room where the dead jurist lay; he went to the casket and peered down at the waxlike fea- tures of Judge Crawford. His lips pressed as he brought a small pair of scissors from his pocket. He bent intently, and the blades snipped off a lock of the dead man’s hair. He slipped it into an envelope, which he pocketed — turned — and stopped short, staring. He had not heard the connecting door open. He had heard no step in the room. But now he was looking into the ominous eyes of Inspector Mattison—black condemnation. Mattison drawled bitterly: ‘“That’s going too far, Webster.” Webster’s answer snapped. forced it on me, by refusing—” “T warned you about making a mis- take. Mutilating a dead body is a seri- ous crime. Where do you think it’s go- ing to get you?” 10-STORY DETECTIVE Grimly Webster countered with: “What are you going to do about it, Mattison ?” ‘We'll ask the commissioner,” Mat- tison said heavily. “We'll ask him what we’re going to do about it. Give me that, Webster.” The inspector’s hand extended for the envelope, Webster straightened. “I’m keep- ing it, Mattison—and I'll answer to any charge for taking it. There’s one procedure you forget, isn’t there? You'll have to have a warrant before you can arrest me.” He started an- grily toward the open door. “I think TV’ll have it, Webster.” Webster stepped out into the dark- ness—and into the menace of a killer’s gun, The whizz of the bullet past Web- ster’s head was followed quickly by the muffled report that burst from the shadows of the lawn. Glass cracked behind Webster’s head as he leaped aside, hand sliding toward his Web- ley. Mattison blurted in consternation and charged into the open. Webster, backing against the wall, warned swiftly: “Out of the light, inspector !” Mattison bawled: “Adams!” and the patrolman came running from the front porch. A rustle of leaves on the far side of the lawn told Webster that the sniper was rushing for cover. Grimly, de- ciding to leave the chase to Mattison, he started across the lawn toward the gate. Adams was running with bared gun. Mattison plodded wheezing and grim after Adams as Webster hur- ried to his car. He remarked wryly as he slipped be- hind the wheel, Mae Gary’s widened eyes upon him: “Natto’s rod man is a rotten shot!” The girl’s hand went to his hotly as he sent the car swinging around the bend in the drive. He headed into the business district, swung to a stop in front of a telegraph office. He wrote on a blank quickly: “Ccomichoo (e(o)