10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

CLASSROOM SLEUTH “Well, Professor Crayfield?” rasped Chief, sarcastically. The title sent wave shocks to John- ny’s brain. Professor Crayfield, of whom Miss Hutch had spoken as a home town boy, now holding the chair of political science at Northwestern! What was he doing in Maplewood, his old home town? And was he the Cray- field who had organized the bus line? Johnny’s spine tingled as he tuned his ears to the wave length of those two voices. Up front, pin balls clicked and coarse jokes and racing dope filtered through cigarette haze. The lunch- room was a hangout where food was a sideline, not the main business. “You won’t let an honest man make a living. You don’t care what you do —even murder—so long as you keep your iron heel at the throats of ten thousand honest people.” Crayfield’s voice crackled. Johnny could see the corner of chief’s mouth dragging in a sneer. “Crayfield, you’re not so smart. Don’t you suppose I knew what you were up to, almost before you began? You don’t want to make a living. You don’t care about running a bus line. It was just a gag to begin your career in your old home town. You were planning a reform movement, with all the best people.” His voice mocked on these words. “I got my ways of finding out things. I have to, to keep ahead of the game.” Professor Crayfield’s countenance was gray and bleak. He nodded coldly. “IT gave up an important chair at Northwestern to come back here and prove that a city can be run clean in practice as well as in theory. I came back here to break your stranglehold on Maplewood if it takes my life.” Chief made a low guttural sound. “By the way your coat pocket sags, professor, I guess you’re stooping to non-academic methods.” Crayfield grated: “A fine, loyal man who had refused to go on relief killed himself because you decided the fran- 63 chise wouldn’t be allowed. That’s blood on your hands. I ought to kill—” “I’m surprised, professor,” mocked chief. Then his tone got brittle: “You try and sling slugs around this burg and see how fast you land in the morgue. Now beat it, you rattle-boned windbag.” Johnny gulped as he saw the pro- fessor rise with dignity and walk out on shaky legs. He saw chief raise stubby hand. Two men left the pin games, came back and conferred in whispers, then hurried out in Cray- field’s wake. Johnny got up and drifted out. He saw the gaunt form of Crayfield a half block away. The two mugs had climbed into a big limo and it was whispering on Crayfield’s trail. Johnny broke into a run, heart thumping. Breath squeezed from his lungs, shrieked in his ears. A desper- ate cry broke from his white lips as the sedan spurted suddenly. The pro- fessor was about to turn the corner when it came abreast. Johnny was a hundred feet too late. OFT, splatting sounds beat hol- lowly in his ears. The professor stopped, clutched his side. One hand reached for a mailbox fastened to a concrete post. It missed. His body folded against the pillar. The big limo skated around the cor- ner with a burst of power. The ghost of an evil face peered out the back window just before the shade went down. There was blood on the concrete post. It ran down stickily, disap- peared behind the professor’s twisted shoulder. Johnny was on his knees, shivering at the rattle on Crayfie!d’s throat, “Chief did it!” he cried. “I know! I heard him talking to you. He was afraid you’d kill him, so he got you first. The dirty—” Crayfield’s eyes struggled open; he looked Johnny over. ‘“You—you’re one of them,” he stated painfully. COMMICMOOokKs COL