10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

oS °° eRe Rie Ot d thas aes > x La 92—___—____———_10-STORY DETECTIVE showed unmistakable marks of the bristles. The answer was obvious. A car had entered this warehouse, shortly after the rain, and its muddy tire-prints had been scrubbed out. Jerry’s brain rocketed. Did he have the killers bottled up in there? It seemed an unbelievable stroke of luck. And yet, everything pointed that way. It was somewhere near here that the prowl cars had lost their quarry. A perfect place for the hoodlums to hide —probably, in fact, where they’d stored the loot from the silk-loft job. Jerry considered. The rule-book was very clear on the point of getting help. But if he went for help, it would give the killers a chance to slip out. May- be they’d seen him flash his light, were watching him now. His jaws clamped in stern decision. He picked his way to the side of the shed, seeking a point of entrance. Cautiously he used his flash, peered for a spot where rotting boards had fallen away. It wasn’t till he’d reached the water-edge that he found such a hole, There, just where the shed went out into the river on piles, an upward thrust of the light showed a gap in the wooden flooring. HE rookie pulled off his encum- bering poncho, left it on the bank. Then, clambering out over the swirl- ing, murky waters on the pile-braces, he maneuvered till the hole was just over his head. No ray of light filtered down. No sound, save the angry, churning below, reached his listening ears. He heaved upward through the jagged opening. If anyone waited, con- cealed in the pitch-black gloom, this was their chance. Nothing happened. ‘He struggled to his feet inside the Bhed, rubbed dust from his eyes. He dragged out. his service gun, held it ‘clutched in his right, while his left fingered the flash. _ He was not alone. Some inner sense ‘pave him warning. It lifted the hair iat the back of his neck, but did not place his enemies. They might be any- where, before him, behind, at his sides. One gleam of his flash and he’d be a target. He paused, sniffing for the odor of burned gasoline. Tense though he was, he wasn’t pre- pared for what happened. Directly ahead two lights flashed on, The twin eyes of a car. He blinked, dazzled, tried to hurl himself out of their range. But he crashed head-on with a shad- owy figure that leaped to meet him. stunned by the jarring impact, Jerry nevertheless swung his gun in a blind circle. It thunked solidly against bone. Even as he stumbled off-balance from the force of the blow, the rookie ex- ulted. One man was out of the fray. “Get ’im, you lugs!” husked a voice from the car. Jerry went rigid. That man—Mitts Berger! A red mist swirled in his eyes as he lunged toward the lights. His .88 thundered. The windshield show- ered in a thousand pieces. Searing pain lanced Jerry’s shoul- der. He wheeled. That shot hadn’t come from the car. Across the fan of light a crouched man held a smoking gun, was triggering another shot, The rookie lurched sideward and lead whis- tled wide. His own gun spoke, sent the fellow groveling on his face. Blood gushed from the hole in his head. An animal snarl ripped from Jer- ry’s throat. One man left—Mitts Ber- ger. He reeled drunkenly toward the glaring headlights. But, even as he did so, the engine roared. Rubber whined as the car leaped forward. Like a howling juggernaut, it bore down on the rookie in its path. If he could wedge himself in a cor- ner— But the wall was too far. He’d never make it. Jerry groaned. Mitts Berger, the killer, would go free. Wild-eyed, he looked for shelter. There was none. A few packing-cases lay strewn about, but they’d splinter like matchwood. The roaring car was close upon him when he turned to run. He raced madly toward the river-end of the shed. iv eo “aon al Re in pee ee ie a oe ek er ~ i > arene as com