10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

Re: Cee weak in the knees. He scareely heard himself mildly protesting his inno- cence, She had not missed the ice cube. His plans were safe from her prying nose, Vaguely he realized that she was examining his waste basket. Then she threatened to dispossess him if she ever caught him sneaking in the kitchen again. She delivered a part- ing Shot that grimly amused him: “And there’s a wet spot on the seat of that chair. Be more careful, Mr. Brockton, about spilling water on the furniture. It ruins the finish.” Unstinted admiration for his own cleverness welled up inside Brockton’s chest as the door slammed on her re- treating figure. An expression of cun- ning satisfaction wreathed his face. Tomorrow was Saturday. As usual, Pendleton would visit Ingham at the latter’s country place for their week- ly game of pinochle. Doctor Blake, a reputable physician, would also be there—maybe one or two others. Brockton would drop in for dinner, explaining that one of the policy- holders, a Mrs. Denton who lived in that neighborhood, had died and he had come out to have the death-claim papers completed. This, of course, was literally true, and a fine break for Brockton, because it gave him an excuse to be carrying death-claim papers in his pocket. After dinner, Pendleton would go to his room immediately, as was his habit, to take medicine for his heart. That would be Brockton’s cue to slip upstairs through the back way, kill Pendleton, and arrange for his trick accident. He would then rejoin the others, who would be waiting in the library, anxious to get on with their game. When the crash came, there would be three or four reputable witnesses to swear, if it ever became necessary, that he was with them at the time of the tragic acident up- stairs. A pleasant glow spread through Brockton’s body as he reviewed these details. He felt sorry for blundering criminals who planned clumsy kill- ings such as he had read of in news- papers and magazines. Why, if a man had brains and thought things out carefully ahead of time, it was easy enough to get away, literally, with murder. ... The following evening, he found himself standing at the window of Ingham’s dining room, staring out into the night. Behind him, on the other side of a table which glistened with silver and white napery, stood Pendleton and Roger Ingham, chat- ting amiably over a small liquor cabinet on which Ingham was pre- paring drinks. Brockton’s fingers itched and curled. The prospect of sitting calmly through an entire meal suffocated him. He wanted to leap across the room and throttle that benign expres- sion from Pendleton’s good-natured, chubby face. A slight noise at the door an- nounced the arrival of Doctor Blake. Brockton, glancing back over his shoulder, witnessed Blake’s entrance with thin-lipped distaste. The doc- tor’s piercing eyes were like twin ferrets. Brockton hoped his deadly purpose would not be visible to those keen eyes as they rested on him dur- ing dinner. : Ingham hastened to offer Blake a drink. “My old favorite!” cried Doctor Blake, reaching avidly for a brim- ming, icy-filmed glass. “Mint juleps!” relished Pendleton laughingly. Ingham held his glass to the light, squinted through the green ftuid ap- preciatively. “Yes, sir, in my humble opinion—the best thirst quencher.” He paused, glanced across the room at Brockton. “How about it, old man?” Brockton frowned, shook his head. They knew he hated mint juleps. Ing- ham was being polite, damn him. Theve were times when an ordinary show of politeness was like a slap in the face. Brockton turned his ae oot =