10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

shot it out with those two mutts who were holding you.” “You mean” hushed, unbelieving her voice was “he’s dead?” Millard nodded, his mouth set grimly. “Oh, Chris. . . .” Rising up, she leaned against him, clung to him, sobbing quietly. “I knew it. I knew at Millard had his arm around her. “He was going to tell me who got Bonelli. Now he can’t. He’d want you to tell, May, if you know.” Her head moved negatively and she didn’t look up. Her voice was muffled against his chest. “I don’t know. Hon- estly, Chris.” His face was baffled, tortured. Hesitating, he stroked her hair, then forced out the questions he had to ask. ‘Who owns this hideout? What were they doing to you?” “IT don’t know who owns it. They were holding me for someone else. They didn’t tell me anything. But they were getting drunk on beer, and beginning to get ideas I didn’t like. That’s why I cried out. They—” She broke off in a spasm of sobbing, her shoulders jerking. “Take it easy, honey,” Millard said, holding her till the spasm passed. “BAGe 5.3 : She subsided, rested weakly in his arms, seemingly sapped of strength, of all vitality. Her voice caught as she whispered: “Oh, Chris... he was all T had!” “You’ve got me, honey,” Millard told her. His voice was tender, but his face was grim. He knew that she was still in for a bad time of it. She wasn’t out of the woods yet by a long way, and he couldn’t see a clear path ahead. “He asked me to take care of you . —after he was gone. I wonder if he knew... .’”’ Drawing a deep breath, he squeezed her shoulders, held her away from him. “{ can’t let him down. Let me untie your ankles, so we can get out of here.” THE CORPSE AT THE CARNIVAL—-———————27 N HOUR later they were clos- eted in a back room of the Bay- port precinct station with Lew Sten- dahl and a homicide dick named Her- nandez. Hernandez was Mexican and had some Indian in him; his dark eyes were sharp and he was smart as a whip. He was behind the desk, leaning back in a swivel chair with his hands clasped behind his head and a ciga- rette drooping from his thin lips. Stendahl stood at one side of the desk, watching Millard with open antag- onism, his mouth pinched and mean. “Hell,” he said. “Why quibble? It’s a lot simpler to just admit Fitz killed Bonelli, and then he got knocked off shooting it out with those two loo- gans. That makes it simpler all around,” Millard was leaning across the other side of the desk, a sheen of sweat glistening on his drawn face, under the light. “Sure, it does. Only Eddie didn’t kill Bonelli. You’re just trying to fix it so you can slap an accessory charge on May and myself. All that’s troubling you—you don’t like it because Peters saw fit to hire me to do some confidential work in- stead of entrusting it to the detective bureau. I’m an outsider, and that hurts—you resent it.” Hernandez’ cigarette moved. “Give him a chance, Stendahl. This girl looks like she’s been through about all she can stand.” May Fitz sat in a chair against the wall, her battered face dull and ex- pressionless, her eyes staring at noth- ing. She was taking no apparent in- terest in the proceedings. Stendahl swung away, his lips jerking tight. Millard talked fast and earnestly, knowing it was for. May’s freedom and his. “Suré she has. Those mutts! She was held by those loogans because they couldn’t find Eddie, and the guy that hired them knew Eddie could fig- -ure out who had knocked off Bonelli. They were holding May as a hostage CORnicE oOOOKSSEOn