10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

20-———_—_——_—_—_10-STORY DETECTIVE————_—__—_—___——— just before Bonelli came out of the chute. That right?” Millard’s lips “Yeah.” “Then he’s your alibi—but that doesn’t let you out, sweetheart. You’re in this right up to your lily-white neck—as an accessory. I told you to stick around back there till the homi- cide squad got there, but instead you had to sneak out to make sure May Fitz got away. You’re nuts about her, that’s no secret, and why I didn’t tumble before—! I’ll get more than your license out of this and I don’t mean maybe.” “The hell you will.” Millard sat up, and it was better this time, though the effort made him dizzy ard pain pounded in his skull. “No matter what you say about May Fitz, and I’m not admitting any of it, you haven’t got anything on me. You can’t even hold me, so think that over.” He looked around. “I could use a drink. Any- body got a bottle?” “Here.” Cosgrave uncapped a curved metal hip flask, handed it down to Millard, grinned crookedly. “The doomed man drank a hearty breakfast.” King was on his way to the phone, snapping back over his shoulder: “We'll see about this! ’m phoning Wilson. I’ll get a warrant if I have to.”’ . Wilson was the district attorney. “The hell you will,” Millard repeat- ed and tilted the flask, let the liquor gurgle down his throat. It was good rye and its heat spread through him and gave him new strength. jerked ruefully. ING had stopped at the phone and was staring back, evidently bothered by Millard’s matter-of-fact tone. Stendahl, on his feet, seemed worried and harassed, rubbing his hooked nose. “Hell, Millard,” he said. “You can’t just walk out of here without any explanation at all. We’ve got enough to hold you.” He shot an uneasy glance at King, looked back. “Not nt that I want to, pal. If you can just explain what gives.” “Thanks,” Millard said, including both Stendahl and Cosgrave in it, and handing back the flask. He climbed to his feet, knowing that he couldn’t bluff this out, that he’d have to play his ace in the hole. “Let me use that phone first, and I’ll show you why I’m going to walk out of here.” He wobbled toward King, but King didn’t move aside. “Who you going to call?” he demanded suspiciously. “You'll know soon enough. I'll let you talk to him.” Curiosity as much as anything else caused King to finally give ground reluctantly. “Okay, but if you’re try- ing to pull some kind of a fast one—” Millard took down the receiver, waited till some one answered at the switchboard downstairs, then gave a private unlisted number. As soon as the connection was put through, he said: “Chief—this is Millard. I’m in sort of a jam or I wouldn’t have called. This Bonelli killing got dumped in my lap—you must have heard about it by now. ... Yeah. And trying to find out what’s behind it, I’ve got mixed up with King from the D.A.’s office again. .. . Overzealous is what you might call him, but I’ve got an- other name for it. “The cluck is in my hair, thinks I’m trying to shield the Fitz girl or something. He wants to run me in for a session in the sweat box. He was just on the point of calling Wilson so I thought I’d better call you first. Speak with him, huh?” A red stain was on King’s cheek- bones and his eyes burned with sup- pressed fury as Millard turned from the phone, bowed mockingly to him. He snatched up the receiver, spoke sharply into the mouthpiece. “Who is this?” A voice rattled in the receiver and he said, “Oh!” in a subdued tone, lis- tened while the voice went on telling him things. Millard lit a cigarette while Sten- EOMMIE NOOO KS 5COIn A)