10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 27: what you’re looking at

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

BULLET BANDWAGON waltzed into a trouble zone calling for a private detective’s talents. Only half watching Plummer’s sullen ex- pression, Keating was cynically tell- ing himself: A day off! He hadn’t taken a day off since he could remember. He should have known there was trouble up this way, or the combination would never have worked out to bring him here. He asked Plummer what was what. Plummer’s curt gesture sent his sparring partner and the colored boy out. of the gym on the double-quick. Sitting up on the rubbing table, Plummer drew the gloves off his big hands, flexed and unflexed his thick fingers while his mouth drew into a hard line. “You know Alfred Giles?” Plum- mer’s eyes bored in, as though he sus- pected Keating might know Giles all too well. “Giles is after Jake for a fix on tomorrow night’s fight.” Keating’s eyes flashed. “How do you know? Jake wouldn’t tell you— just before a fight.” LUMMER shook his big head. “Giles got to me. Laid me the proposition himself. I ain’t throw- ine the fight that means my career. Vll be -a million-dollar-champ in a year or so. Not even for Jake I wouldn’t do it.” “Well, don’t worry about Jake ask- ing you to,” Keating snapped. ““When Jake asks ony fighter to throw a fight, you can believe the swing-and-jab racket is really finished.” Plummer’s eyebrows twitched, but his little eyes stared brightly ahead. Keating knew his way around well enough to understand what the situa- tion was. Giles owned a niece of the present champion, but the champ was eating his head off and not fighting. The competition was too tough, and the champ was after the soft money that the title was worth, not the gate receipts. What Giles undoubtedly had in mind was that the champ had to fight two or three battles yet be- 25 fore losing the crown, to show a profit. If Plummer won tomorrow night, Plummer would be a menace over- shadowing the champ. Any fights the champ might put on before meeting Plummer, the public would figure as just so much loss of time. Ticket buyers would save their dough for the day when it was Plummer against the champ. Keating asked: “Where is Jake?” Plummer slid off the table. He brought his heavy hand down hard on Keating’s shoulder, and they stood so close their noses almost touched. There was quite a contrast, except that their heights were equal. Keat- ing’s face was narrowed by high cheekbones, Plummer’s was saucer- like; Keating’s nose was sharp-ridged and pointed, Plummer’s concave and spread. Keating was built with a compact- ness that deceived; alongside Plum- mer he looked thin. Plummer, though only thirty pounds heavier, gave the impression that his muscles wanted to burst a seam in his thick skin. “That’s what I’m worried about, Keating. Jake went in to town. You know Jake don’t get mad often.” Plummer waved to correct himself, for the stout, small Jake Frey gave the impression of being almost con- stantly in an uproar. “I mean, real sore, where you can’t do anything with him. But this time he is.” Plummer’s small bright eyes dart- ed about the gym, slapped back to Keating. “Jake’s got something on Giles. I dunno what. I dunno if Jake just got hold of it, or had it up his sleeve. But he got it. From the re- marks he let out and the way he’s acting, I knew Jake’s got something. Keating, take it on, will you? Geez, I got dough, I'll pay you.” “Thanks,” Keating answered dry- ly. “The day isn’t yet when some one has to pay me to help Jake.” Plummer dragged his hand off Keatine’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean: to make you sore.” Plummer screwed CORMICLOOOKS EO