10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

Og Ogre « a 4 he OS Ge ka en a The rending crash of wood told him his trick had worked. The lights swerved in a wide arc. Rubber screamed as the tail of the car whipped around. Jerry looked back. The right front wheel had gone through the rotten . flooring over the water, and the car was trapped. “Mitts Berger!” yelled Jerry. “Come out with your hands up!” “Nerts to you, copper!” was the snarling response. Instantly a storm of slugs blasted from the car. In the uncertain light Jerry made a poor target, but the lead came close. He flung himself behind a flimsy packing case. It wasn’t much protection, but it screened him. He poked out his head, snapped two quick shots. The car had swung round so that the driver’s door was within range. Not much chance of piercing the heavy steel, but— A howl of agony answered his fire. Then all was still. Jerry waited. It might be a trick. He did a curious thing, Two shots remained in his po- lice .88. He’d fired four times—but he quietly removed the empty shells and reloaded the chambers from the re- serve cartridges in his pocket. Warily he rose. Orange fiame jetted from the car and white-hot pain stabbed Jerry’s thigh. Mitts Berger had faked the wound. The rookie’s service gun blasted twice. A taut smile pulled Jerry’s mouth A DATE WITH DOOM———--——————93 as a hoarse yell of triumph echoed from the car. Mitts Berger tumbled out, came racing forward, an auto- matic jutting from his hand. Jerry waited, standing erect. Berger’s face, cut by glass, was a mess of gore, It added horror to the blood-lust in his eyes. : “Now, smart guy!” he screamed, leveling the gun point-blank. “Here’s where you get it! Your gat’s empty. I counted the slugs.” His laugh ripped out. “Two Kirks in one day! I’ve al- ways hated the breed. And now I’m Wipin’ ’em out!” His finger whitened on the trigger, but Jerry’s gun spoke first. The killer clutched at his mangled hand. Amaze- ment stained his face, then terror. “Don’t!” he shrieked, backing from Jerry’s vengeful gun. “Don’t! Pinky got your brother—I didn’t! You got Pinky ! I~” “Y’m not going to burn you, Mitts. The state’ll do that!” The rookie limped forward, blood soaking from shoulder and hip. “I’m a cop—not a killer! But, before they fry you, you'll wish a thousand times I'd finished you quick. It’s a mistake to kill a cop— especially if his name’s: Kirk! You made your own date with doom.”’ Grim satisfaction wreathed Jerry’s face as he put the nippers on. He knew what Len would have said—almost, it seemed, he could hear him say it: “Good work, bud!”’