10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

showed his disappointment. “You don’t seem much interested, Gardner.” _ “T talked with the police yesterday afternoon and I’ve seen all there is to see, Ray. Thorpe was hit over the head, just enough to stun him, and ‘then dropped into the pit. That coke gas killed him before he could come to and get out. Remember the police found only a small lump on the side of his head. Otherwise, there were no other marks. But it was a death hole with the tarp holding in that gas, and somebody on the job was smart enough to know that. I heard he was a little cocky. Perhaps, he got some man’s time wrong and refused to fix it—say some one of your Mex labor- ers.” “A Mex would’ve used a knife,” Emerson said. He scratched an ear, reached in his pocket for a plug of tobacco and bit off a chunk. “No, Johnny might’ve been a little cocky, but he was a likable little cuss. As I told the cops, I couldn’t figure why anybody would want to put him away, but it must have been his job.” “You’ve hit it,” the detective said laconically. Emerson introduced the “inspec- tor” to the rest of the men in the field office. There was young Bill, a half- grown youth who wrote the super’s letters, filed blueprints, and did er- rands. Fred Slemmins, the purchasing agent, with a persistent grouch and a susceptibility to colds, had an office to himself across a central hall from Emerson’s. He was thirty, slender, capable, a worker. Next to his office was the reception room presided over by Agnes, the switchboard operator, and a stenog- rapher, an acid-voiced spinster who wrote Slemmins’ letters and orders. Directly across the hall was the time- keeping office with a big safe. George Perkins, a moody, if hard-working young fellow, was Drew’s assistant. It was plain to the newcomer that George did most of the work while his chief got the credit. 3 pn cin cee room for the field layout engineers, where they kept their instruments and argued over their notes. Emerson gave him a desk in there. ; Aleck Drew remained hostile, but he did not reopen hostilities. Gardner — went about his new work quietly, sensible of the reason for the respect in which the other boys held him. It tickled him, too. He was fairly certain ' of several things, but he wanted to wait for the weekly payroll to be made up. The time week closed Thursday night for the pay Saturday noon.. From the start he had had a strong theory as to where to look for the difficulties, but he was not one to jump on a meré guess. His problem was to make certain of who was doing the crooked work. And if he ealled at the Thorpe home every night, part of his purpose, at least, was to learn more of the personnel and history of the organization. RIDAY, Tim Egan was placing concrete for the huge foundation of the cupola. The concrete was brought hot from the central] mixing — plant by one-cubic-yard trucks, which backed up a short ramp and dis- — charged their loads. It was five o’clock, dark, and the thermometer hovering - around zero when the job was done. Jimmy Gardner hugged a glowing ; salamander and stayed on. “Begorra a man’s a dom fool tuh folly construction in this could coun- try,” wailed Tim Egan. | salamanders down below an’ the tarps over it now, lads, an’ make it snappy!’ | The last was addressed to the shiver- ing workmen, after which he turned to the inspector. “Ye shud be inside, — Mister Gardner. O’ course I’m pleased wi’ your company, but ye oughta trust Tim Egan tuh do a good job 0’ con- erete without your eagle eye on him ivery minit.” “I was born in Iceland’s greasy mountains,” Gardner chuckled. He = reached out and took the glee s 3 =e dog-eared time book. “I'll put ’ S down for you, pce while sete Saeie “Git them