10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

12 and curved in that half-sneer. I felt my stomach freeze up on me. I said: “All right, Ricconi. You'll just get yourself jammed up on this. You’re making a sucker play.” It wasn’t any use. I knew it wasn’t any use, but I was going to play it out, anyhow. I wondered if the dame would remember about the one “g”’ in Craig. I said, “Listen, Ricconi,” and then I pushed hard against the dashboard and went over the seat backwards, swinging to the side. I caught his left with both hands and twisted down- ward. The guy fell apart on me. He flopped in the seat, arms swing- ing wildly, and his head bounced to- ward me, the mouth hanging open. I let go his hand and stared at him. I got out of the car slowly, keeping my body away from him, and snapped on the light in the roof. There was blood all over the side of the guy’s coat and a thin red line running out across the cushion of the seat. There was blood on the knife handle, too. I pushed his body back, holding his head, keeping away from the blood, and I eould see the “M” through the red stain. That would make it one of Madden’s; probably a steak knife. That meant there’d be five inches of blade buried some place in the guy’s side. It was a nice picture, but I wasn’t thinking of the picture. I was remembering how six hours ago I’d slapped Ricconi’s ears back for him. And how at least twenty people had seen me do it. That made it sweet. I throw the guy all over the lot, mak- ing a chump out of him. And some- body else carves him up like a dead steer and props him in the back seat of my car. No, it wasn’t the picture I was worried about. It was the frame. I switched off the car lights and -locked the doors, then headed far the roadhouse. Halfway there, I realized I'd pulled a chump stunt, and I went back and unlocked the doors. Having , 10-STORY DETECTIVE Ricconi’s body turn up in my car was going to be hot enough—with the doors locked, I’d’ve been ready to fry. I went into Madden’s office without knocking. He was standing across the room, looking out the window. He had his coat on and his hat in his hand, as if he’d been just getting ready to leave. He spun around as IJ came in. “Hello, Steve,” he said. I didn’t answer. I moved across the room toward him and grabbed his coat lapels, pulling that ugly head up to mine. I said, “Nice work, Madden,” and slapped him across the face with the back of my hand. His breath came out in a quick whoosh, and then he choked it back in, gagging on the words. “Stevie.... what the hell, Stevie... .” I cuffed him across the face again, hard, then jammed him down in the chair. “All right, wise guy,” I said evenly. ““You’ve had your fun. Spill it.” He just sat there, gaping at me, as though he didn’t know what it was all about. I decided I could be wrong. “Ricconi’s dead,” I told him, not taking my eyes off his face. E DIDN’T get it, at first. He sat there, gaping at me, not getting it. I said it again. “Ricconi’s dead. Somebody jabbed a knife through his side, right up to the hilt. He won’t be bothering you any more.” Madden said: “Dead?” He drew the word in toward the baek of his mouth, gasping it, and I said: “Dead.” It was beginning to sound like a black- face act. I let go of his lapels and slouched back on his desk, watching. “You wouldn’t know anything about it?” I said carefully. “You wouldn’t know how it happened ?” He shook his head. “No,” he said dully, “I wouldn’t know about that.” The guy was in a fog. I dragged open a drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of rye, poured him a drink. He spread his lips like a frogs and threw the liquor at them, some of it spilling out over his shirt. He COMmMiICLMOoOokKks (C@