10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 39: what you’re looking at

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

BULLDOG last mile, Brock. They’re polishing up the chair for you now.” Brock snarled again: ““That’s a lie.” “Mattison’s coming,” Webster re- minded him. “You’re staying until Mattison comes, and then you’ll know it’s the truth. There’s only one way to escape the chair, Brock. You can save yourself by telling the whole truth about all of Natto’s deals. How about it, Brock?” Brock’s answer was a darting snatch at his arm-pit holstered gun. It flashed in the light as Webster’s hand swung toward his Webley. The pain of his wound had stiffened Web- ster’s muscles. His gun was still in- side his coat when Brock’s glinted level. He leaped to avoid the blast even as the report thundered. Brock whirled away, firing again— and Webster felt the sting of it gash- ing his shoulder as he fell aside. At the same instant another gun roared in the room—the police positive in the hand of Ted Brown. A gun exactly like it, his fingerprints marking it, had condemned Ted Brown for murder. Now it dealt leaden vengeance on Brock—a withering fusillade of bul- lets crashed Brock lifeless to the floor. “Teddy !” Jack Webster, crouched with pain, stared aghast at the limp figure on the carpet, at the trickling red on Brock’s clothes. Ted Brown was standing with smoking gun in hand—and smiling. Webster’s face was white with dis- may—and Brown was smiling. “That’s a promise kept,” the ex-cop said. “Teddy—you can never clear your- self now!” “What I’m thinking of, skipper, is _ that Brock won’t do any talking now —about you hiding me.” Webster listened in tortured anx- iety. The explosions in the room had aroused an alarm across the hall. There were startled voices in the-ad- joining suite. Webster jerked open the entrance, and peered out—but the corridor was empty. He snapped over his shoulder. OF JUSTICE 37 “Get out of here, Teddy! Down the fire-stairs—fast !’’ “Not without you, skipper!” “Get down!” - Webster’s tone was an imperative command. He thrust Brown out the door. He stood, muscles tight, heart hammering, as the ex-cop sped around the bend, to the entrance of the fire- © stairs. He held back, a thought blaz- ing in his mind. Instantly it became a desperate plan of action. “Eye-witnesses !” Webster sprang across the room to - the chair on which he had placed Natto’s checkered coat and green hat. He tugged into them quickly. He strode to the door, listened, Now the voices were subsiding; the alarm was passing. Deliberately Jack Webster raised his Webley. He opened the door, so that the reports might ring more loudly in the corridor, and, four times, swiftly, pulled the trigger. The blasting concussions stirred a new response, A woman screamed; a man called out. A knob rattled, and a door opened. Shielding his face with low-pulled hat and hunched shoulders, Webster began a quick, breathless run along the corridor. He heard the clack of an elevator grille, glanced back swiftly and saw, stepping out of an elevator cab—Inspector Mattison. Webster fired back as he fled past the L of the hall. His slug whined off the tile as Mattison dragged at a hip-holstered service gat. Webster whirled into the fire-stairs, bounded down them. The baffling echoes of his own footfalls in the well made it im- possible for him to determine if Mat- tison was following. He sprang from platform to platform; darting across a cellar room, he sped through a door held wide by Brown. Together they, ran toward the waiting car. EBSTER sent it flying. He _¥ swung it into the street, turned four times in a bewildering succes- sion, While Brown steadied the wheel, he wriggled out of the checkered top« comicboo ‘Ss rele) 7 hb rig