10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

| Reade, the commentator, was about to speak when he and the others be- came aware of me. “Good evening, gentlemen,” I greeted them. “Do you mind if I join you? I am most interested in the cases you are discussing, the deaths of the X-ray doctors.” They all frowned at me and sought to place me. “I’m Barry McCarty,’ I announced, “better known as Bluff McCarty.” “McCarty?” Tollam repeated doubtfully. There was a trace of sus- picion in his tone, and there was sus- picion in the eyes of Meady and Kittring. But Lawson Reade just stared at me with a slight smile about his lips, and his twinkling eyes studied me from my feet to my bluff, upstanding red hair. I knew he was wise to me, but all he said was: “I’ve heard of you, Bluff McCarty. I’m glad to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. He had a good hard grip. I liked him. But such was not the case with the others, least of all with Tollam. “McCarty?” he repeated for the second time. “I’m on the membership committee and I don’t recall—” “Perhaps,” I smiled, ‘‘after the way you streaked across the salt flats, your memory hasn’t had a chance to catch up with you yet.” Reade chuckled, and the other two looked as though they might be ready to change their opinions about me. But what I said next kept me behind the eight ball as far as they were concerned. “T notice you were discussing the - recent murders of Doctors Hardwicke and—” “Murders?” the medical examiner and the criminologist chorused. Tol- lam looked scornfully at me, and Reade’s eyebrows went up slightly. “Sure, murders,” I said. “What other explanation is there for the deaths ?” ELL, without going through — the verbal tug of war we had, the gist of the affair was this. Two days ago, along about five-thirty in | the afternoon, a Dr. Hardwicke, who © had an office on the sixth floor of a building on East Forty-sixth Street, either jumped or fell to the street be- low and was instantly killed. It was after office hours, and the nurse had gone home. The elevator men could remember taking no one up to his floor. The office was in order, and there was nothing that would suggest murder, or suicide for that matter. Hardwicke had everything to live for. So the death was described by the papers and everyone as accidental. Then, last night, about eight o'clock, Harlan Plunkett, another X- ray and diagnostic specialist, dicd under similar circumstances. He either fell or jumped to his death. _ Again no suggestion of murder, no motive for suicide. “It must be murder,” I insisted, facing the four men in the Toppers — “The circumstances are too — Club. similar for coincidence. Both men are X-ray specialists. Neither of them had apparent suicide motives. Yet you men, their supposed friends, are willing to let the stigma of suicide hang over their names.” “Murder is out,” snapped Kittriny, the criminologist. “I went over those offices thoroughly. If there had been anything there I’d have found it.” “It’s still murder,” I maintained — doggedly. Reade, the commentator, was watching me but saying nothing. Tollam kept scowling at me. He'd ordered a drink once during the dis- cussion, and [’d seen him whisper something to the steward. When the steward brought the drink he handed Tollam a book, which Tollam thumbed through casually as I tugged pro and con with Meady and Kittring. Now Tollam snapped the book elosed and leaned toward me. _ “You’re not a member of this = = he accused. “You’ ve never even been <> ol? > nF tt le ge te rh oe aa ee p wok. Ge SPS ‘oo ~ en i: ea on, ew - | <j ——— = EOMICDOC