10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 83: what you’re looking at

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

the dishes for morning and go home. Brockton felt his way to the electric refrigerator and extracted an ice cube from the rubber tray. Then he cau- tiously mounted the rear stairway The door of Pendleton’s room lay ajar, and a subdued light emanated from within. Brockton, cat-footing -,,@eross the threshold, saw Pendleton leaning over the bed, back toward him, pawing through his suitcase. The light came from a soft-shaded bulb in a low reading lamp beside an easy chair, close to the fireplace. An-. other chair stood at the head of the bed. A large trunk and a bookcase occupied the opposite side of the room. The dim light suited his pur- pose nicely. He shifted the ice cube to his left hand, raised the tire iron and took a careful step forward. A strange exultation seized him. In a moment, the most ticklish part of his scheme would be accomplished. He felt nothing but hate for the monklike little man whose life he was about to take. He was halfway across the room when icy fingers suddenly touched his spine, sending a queer, tingling sen- sation up and down his back. Pen- dleton had sensed his presence! The little man whirled, his eyes dilating wildly at sight of the ugly weapon which Brockton had no time to hide. For a split second Brockton wav- ered. Some ageless, imperishable quality in Pendleton’s face unnerved him. But he thrust the disquieting sensation aside. The wells of his nose swelled, and a single oath ripped through his thin -lips. He flicked the ice cube onto the bed, and even as it described its flashing arc, his left fist came up clenched and met Pendleton’s sagging jaw. The old man collapsed across the bed. Brockton roughly rolled him over, brought the tire iron down with a muffied crack against the base of his skull. He put plenty of force be- hind the iron, for his plan depended - : ”~ a =o on this ae ‘neatly dispatched | oes death blow. He worked with methodic: ‘ant | now: He placed the small chair onthe trunk, one front leg overhanging in air. He held the chair with one hand and pulled books from the case with the other, piling them on the chair so that it no longer had a tendency to tip over, Then he slipped the ice cube under the forward edge of the books, placing another book in front of it to keep it from slipping out of place. He glanced up at the high shelves above the trunk. There were some more books up there. Good. Another little touch now and— Swiftly Brockton carried the dead man over and raised him up so that two of his fingers plowed into the thick dust on the high shelf. Satisfied now that he had left sufficient mute testimony of a tragic accident, Brock- ton stretched the body on the floor in front of the fireplace, rubbing the back of the head in the soot close to the sharp brick corner. Blood had be- gun to clot in the sparse gray hair. ROCKTON nodded, surveyed the room carefully. A tumbler, half full of water, stood on the mantle. Pendleton’s medicine, most likely. Brockton poured it out on the floor directly under the chair that held the dripping .ice cube, setting the glass on its side and grinding his heel into it to crack it open. That would explain the moisture from the ice cube, Then he carefully adjusted the tea book on the pile, until the chair was so balanced that it was almost ready to tip. He knew from his experiment — the night before that it would take about ten minutes for the ice cube to lower the books far enough to upset the balance of the chair. — He stood back to survey his work. | He was close to the dim lamp on the smoking stand, and a tiny triangle of white, just under his own chin, caught his attention. He swore. Those sy damned death-claim papert: : See