10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 89: what you’re looking at

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

ELIE . NOOSE ee Griswold happened io be ambling by the table and his ears caught the word, “Dough.” “Dough?” he said. “Who said dough?” He grinned at me, then at the fat guy. . “Do you know anything about cam- eras?” the fat guy asked him. “Know anything about them!” Shorty echoed. “I used to make ’em.” The fat guy looked at me. I nodded. Shorty edged nearer to the table. “What's up?” he asked. The fat guy told him he had some work for us in the same fashion he’d told me—take it or leave it, etc. Shorty was only too glad to take it. And no questions. He’d made good money at one time as a picture tech- nician until tough luck and drink put him on the skids. Almost anything sounded good to Shorty. Without any moré ado we followed our benefactor and his two stooges out into the street, climbed into a long blaek limousine and were off. E started out Figulora toward San Pedro, but after a while eut off to the left and headed east. The driver kept the car rolling at about sixty or seventy. Towns whipped past. It wasn’t long before ‘we got into really hilly country. I don’t know how long we drove after that, All I know is that it was a hell of a Jong time. It must have been two or three in the morning when we pulled into this rancho, or whatever it was. Shorty and I were taken to a small room in @ low, squat, stuccoed build- ing, and told te turn in. By this time, Shorty was getting curious, and I didn’t blame him. “What the hell is the play here, Mac? Is this pictures?” “Never mind what it is,” I told him. “You'll find out soon enough.” He did. The next morning we were roused out ef bed about eight o’cleck, given a feed and told to re- port to Jake, “Who’s Jake?” we want- ed to know. Jake turned out to be the fat guy. We found him sitting out in the patio in front, surrounded by at least a dozen guys of the same calibre as the two who had accompanied him the night before. Jake gave us a merry, “Good morning,” and the whole crowd of us walked across the roadway to a big barn. Inside was a sound and camera truck of the type used for shooting moving scenes—speeding automov- biles, galloping horsemen, etc. In it there were a lot of junk accessories such as film, developing materials, klieg lights, and sun reflectors. Three limousines, similar to the one we had come out in from Los Angeles were standing outside. One of the men, upon an order from Jake, backed the truck out into the ranch yard. A few of the others hauled a bunch of sawed-off shotguns, Tommy-guns, and Luger pistols out of the limousines and began oiling them up and letting go with a few tentative bursts of fire at the barn walls. Sherty and I began to sweat. Jake came up to me and slapped a hand on my shoulder. “My actors,” he said waggishly. “Now, look, you guys. This picture is about a bank holdup, You’re Jimmy Cronin.” He jerked a thumb at me. “The famous bad guy of the movies. The barn door is the doorway of the bank. You ride up to it in one of the cars with the mob. All of you Jump out of the car. You and a couple of other guys stand on the sidewalk and keep the crowd back if necessary. The rest jump into the bank, get the sugar, and bring it back to the car. “The movie truck is right outside on the street, taking a pictuxe of it all. When yeu and the boys jump into the car and start off, the sound truck follows, keeping the cameras trained on you all the time. Shorty, here, mafis the camera. Get it?” “T get it all right,” I told him. And I did, all in a flash. I began to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, too. “And after we’ve rehearsed it