10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

SECOND-HAND SUICIDE————————————65 TSD eyes should hold. “His soul will be damned—tonight!’’ Halleran leaped around the table, caught his arm. “Don’t go off your head, Willy. You’re in a tough spot. The cops’ll never give you a break if they get their hands on you. They can’t! The papers would ride every one of them out of their jobs. And keep away from Dogra. He’d shoot you down like a mad dog!” Halleran flashed a quick look around the restaurant. It was empty save for a man cashier who was bent over a ledger in the front of the store. He turned back to Willy. “You’ve only got one out—and that’s a million to one shot. You’ve gotta skip town, Willy. Get into Canada if you can, Lay low.” Halleran clenched his fists. “It?s a damn lousy deal, Willy. In less than two hours every cop—” “IT know,” said Willy huskily. “Dogra bragged that half the cops were paid by him.” “That’s just it!” pleaded Halleran. “Your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel here. Your only chance is to skip the country. Here’s all the jack I have—” 3 Willy jerked out the twenty dollar bill that Dogra gave him and flung it on the table. “The dirty mutt gave me that .... You keep it. I won’t need money where I’m going—neither will Dogra!’”’ With that he brushed past Halleran and made for the door. “You crazy fool, take this money!” Halleran snatched up the twenty note and added it to his own wad of bills. Then the Irishman gave vent to a ter- rible oath. Again he looked at the money that was to make a slinking fugitive of an innocent young boy. Like a flash of light he started after the headstrong lad. “Willy !’”’ he yelled. “Come here, you idiot! I’ve got the one thing that—” Willy swung about with clenched fists. Unreasoning anger clouded his mind like a red mist. And in that mist he saw Dan Halleran as the one thing standing between him and his venge- ance on the double-crossing Dogra. Willy’s right fist started at the knee and two years’ muscle-work on a heavy delivery truck sped it like a sledge to Halleran’s chin, The Irish- man was out cold on his feet before he knew what struck him. A sob choked Willy’s throat as he saw his best friend drop to the floor. Hot, salty tears dimmed his eyes. Like a man deprived of his reason, he tore out of the restaurant. HE guard stationed at the door of Dogra’s hideout made a fran- tic movement to reach his gun. But the slim leaping figure of a boy lunged against him before his hand touched his pocket. Rage-driven fists cut his face to a bloody pulp. A bony fist in his solar plexis doubled him to the vestibule floor. Scarcely looking at the fallen gang- ster, Willy bounded up the stairs to Dogra’s office. He flung open the door. Dogra, Vesey and Joe were in the office. Willy was in too much of a rage to appreciate the fact that he was the only living man to catch a look of surprise on Mike Dogra’s face. Like a maddened bull, he charged across the room. The heavy-set Joe sprang forward and caught the boy in his powerful arms. And for all his kicking and struggling, Willy could not budge those steel bands circling him. Finally he subsided and panting like a spent horse, glared his hate at the gang leader, Dogra was again his stony, imper- turbable self. His dead fish eyes were fixed on Willy. ““Who’s this young fel- low?” he asked his two lieutenants. But Vesey was either not quick enough to follow Dogra’s cue, or couldn’t resist the impulse to gloat. He swaggered in front of the im- prisoned boy. ‘Well, Willy Moore, ya damn punk—how does it feel to know yer so dumb—” Dogra’s pointed toe jabbing into Vesey’s shin-bone cut short the gang- ster’s tirade. With a howl of surprise, ~ comicbooks.com — Py MW any ‘a Me ek f