10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

30-—_______———_—_——_-10-STORY DETECTIVE meet Bonelli. I’d forgotten about it— but it was before Eddie called. “T told him because I—he seemed te be a friend of Eddie’s in the old days, and I thought he might give me some protection. He’d come to see me; he wanted to get in touch with Eddie through me, he said. And I told him about Bonelli calling and want- ing me to meet him.” “And that is very funny,” Millard announced tightly. “Being that Cos- grave is an investigator for the Bet- ter Citizenship League. Why would he be friendly, secretly of course, with Eddie Fitz——head of the gambling syndicate that controlled the city?” Cosgrave’s lip curled. “All this is very interesting, but none of it is proof that I committed a murder. I’m not admitting any of it is true.” “You don’t have to,” Millard told him, getting his teeth in it, a tri- umphant tone behind the words. “When one of your hoods kicked off in that hideout of yours on the pali- sades, he named you in a dying con- fession. And I’m betting a check will show your prints all over that hide- out.” It was a bluff, but it worked. Cos- grave’s face almost went to pieces, stiffened in a white grimacing mask. He was rigid, his shoulders pressed back against the door. Before he could speak, Lefty Reid snarled shrilly: “Sure! The dirty louse was selling Sunshine Beer in here. He kept try- ing to get to Bonelli, but Bonelli wouldn’t see him. He’d sold out to the lecal breweries. So this rat knocked off my boss. Let me at ’im!”’ Reid was lunging across the room, his weasel-face convulsed and a long nail file in his fist, held like a dag- ger. “Look out!” Millard yelled and stuck out his foot. Reid tripped over it, dived headlong to the fleor at Cosgrave’s feet. Cosgrave, taking advantage of the momentary distraction, had gone for his gun, clawing it out and reaching for the door knob with his left hand, Hernandez elipped out: “Drop it, you fool! You can’t get out of here!” Millard, snapping his automatic from its clip, was diving across the room to knock May Fitz out of the way of possible gunfire. He hit her and they both sprawled in the corner as a gun bellowed, shook the room with its concussion. Millard looked up to see Cosgrave, a very surprised ex- pression on his face, fall straight for- ward across Lefty Reid. Hernandez was standing up behind the desk with his service gun in his hand, but it was from Stendahl’s gun that smoke leaked, swirling upward. Stendahl stared, his face sick and shocked, and he muttered shakily: “Cripes, did I kill him?” ERNANDEZ was around the desk, getting Cosgrave’s gun and rolling him over off Reid who scrambled away. Bleod was staining coat cloth over Cosgrave’s right shoulder. Hernandez looked at the wound, at Cosgrave’s lax face, said: “The damn’ fool! No, you didn’t kill him. You broke his shoulder and he’s passed out from the shock. But if we can’t hang that killing on him now after what Millard’s given us, YH resign and go back to peddling tamales. His own actions amounted to a confession.” Reporters were yell- ing outside and some one was ham- mering on the door. He lifted his voice sharply: “Stay out of here!” King sat down weakly in a chair, wiped his brow, complained: “Will some one please tell me what this is all about?” Millard was sitting on the floor with his arm around May who had let go in another erying spell. “I'll ex- plain it once more,” he said sweetly, feeling relieved and triumphant, “but I doubt if yow’ll understand. “Cosgrave got his job with the Bet- ter Citizenship League as a front for his real activities. Undereover, he came here to promote the sale of Sun- shine Beer, in kegs—no doubt on a Eomichbooksreom