10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 84: what you’re looking at

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

82 were bulky and had a way of working up out of his pocket. He shoved them back in place. A little more than a minute passed and Brockton was out He found it difficult to breathe. He forced his scurrying feet to a more deliberate pace as he reached the ve- randa. He delayed on the steps, while he strove to quiet the heaving of his chest, A deep sense of cold satisfaction ough perfectly. The final act would take care of itself. All he had to do was sit tight and react before the others in accordance with the cues he himself had provided. Already he saw his accounts bal- anced and a few thousand extra to play with. It would be easy enough would put Ingham m jail if he did not come across. Brockton smiled with malevolent anticipation as he envisioned Ingham paying him off. Then his smile changed to one of keen appreciation of his own cleverness in hatching out this clever, air-tight scheme for proeuring the money he needed He jomed Ingham and Blake in the library, yawned earelessly and dropped into a chair before the card table Ingham glanced nervously toward the door. “What the devil d’you sup- pose is keeping Pendleton?’ He looked at Doctor Blake for answer. Blake shrugged good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here direetly.” “tf we don’t get this game started soon, ’i—” Ingham bit off the sen- tence and stared at the doctor. “What was that? Did you hear it?’ The floor overhead vibrated slight- ly as a short series of muffied thumps reached their ears. Doctor Blake nod- ded, half rose, then sat back. “Yes, I 10-STORY DETECTIVE heard it. I guess he dropped some- thing.” “Dropped something is right,” called Ingham over his shoulder. He was halfway to the door. “I’m going up and see what’s happened.” Brockton rose and followed. “Sounded like something pretty heavy to me,” he said. Doctor Blake threw down the deck of cards he had been shuffling and trailed along. The three men arrived at the door of Pendleton’s room, filed inside. There was a rending catch in Ing- ham’s voice. “Pen, old man!” He knelt by the silent form: “Pen, old man, what’s happened ?” Doctor Blake turned swiftly to Brockton. “My case—in my room— quickly, man!” Brockton obeyed without question. FEW MINUTES LATER Doc- tor Blake rose slowly from his examination shaking his head. Ing- ham stood at the foot of the bed, leaning weakly against it. Blake ad- dressed Brockton. “Take Ingham downstairs,” he said. “Neither of you can help me. I want to make a further examination.” Brockton, in sprte of himself, did not find visual feast in the ugly sight. He was relieved at the chance to es- eape. He took Ingham by the arm and led him downstairs. Ingham dropped wordlessty into a chair at the card table and nervously fumbled with a pack of cigarettes, pulling them out one by one and ripping them to bits. Brockton drew a chair up to the sturdy library table close by, pulled the death papers from his pocket and began to fill them in. His pen hand moved shakily across the paper. He was glad Ingham was not watching him. With an effort he steadied his hand. Excitement-seethed within him. There had been no hitch. Blake would find nothing-—nothing save evidence of a -acci- dent. Exultation soared inside Brock- Eomichoo cS mm