10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

PRISON-PRGOF PAYOFF-——-——— ribs. “Stick ’em up, quick!” he snarled. “Stick ’em up and don’t yap 1? “Mon Dieu!” The little man turned slowly to face his captor. His narrow brows arched. “My wallet,” he sug- gested mildly, “is in my hip pocket.” “Wallet,” spat out Slick. “Chicken feed! I come for the sparklers.” “Sparklers? I don’t think—’ “Ye-ah, you do. You ain’t that dumb. I want them diamonds. Shell "em out!” | “Mis-tair,” protested Pierre Bau- det, “I assure you there are no prec- ious stones on me. You have my word.” His word. Hooey! The old coot thought he could string a wise guy. Slick’s white face convulsed with rage, “You,” he snarled, “turn and face that wall. I’m friskin’ you right.” And then commenced a feverish search of the jeweler’s person. Vest pockets. Coat pockets. Trouser pock- ets. Eagerly Slick emptied them all— and found nothing. What th’ devil? He reversed his search. Trouser pockets. Coat pockets. Vest pockets. Again nothing! By now the labored breath hissed sharply through Slick’s clenched teeth. His hands trembled. Could that damned clerk have ratted? No. The feller had lammed it out of town, scared stiff. This old coot had to have the rocks somewhere. A hidden belt—maybe? Cursing, he spun his small captive about and, in a frenzy of thwarted avarice, ripped open that outraged gentle- man’s satin waistcoat; tore away the snowy shirt and undervest. Stil not a thing! The dandified cockroach didn’t have the rocks. The nasty fact was that Slick Valetti was stung. The smartest heister in the state was stung by a doddering half pint, who didn’t know enough to bring his treasure home with him. Unless Baudet had dared.... ? S9 ly URDER flamed in the gunman’s eyes, He pounced upon the little jeweler and rammed his gun so hard against the captive’s heart that the latter gasped in pain. “Feller,” he gritted, his thin lips, beneath the mask, writhing back over yellow teeth, “feller, if you’ve tucked those rocks somewhere else, you bet- ter say your piece quick. Because if I leave without ’em, feller, ’m goin’ to bump you off—first!” “Ah,” nodded Pierre Baudet. “Quite so. Since it is impossible for me to grant your request, Mis-tair, you would kill me. What is the life of an old man to you? Pouf!’ “Shut up! You hand me the spar- kiers or I drill you now. Qne—two—” “Stop, Mis-tair! Who am I to dis- appoint one so clever as you? If I had those diamonds—if I had had them— they would be yours. Most certainly.” “You’re stallin’, You lousy buz- zard {” “But non! I protest. See for your- self, my friend. There are no—er— sparklers on me. None in my overcoat —my desk. Look where you will.” “Then, you’re cashin’ in, y’ole cock- erel!”’ “Look, my friend! There on the desk. The fat wallet, eh? Behold, what you have so scornfully tossed aside. Why not compromise and take it? You are ver’ smart man. Too smart to risk murder for so li’l gain!” Slick hesitated. The red mist in his brain began to clear. Maybe the damned frog was right. He had to keep his head—couldn’t risk the hot squat. That leather, now? His glance wavered uncertainly from Pierre Baudet’s bland face to the desk, on which he had tossed the miscellany of articles extracted from that gentleman’s pockets. He had ig- nored that pocketbook in the frenzy of his hunt. Now he observed it lying there, sleek and plump, beside the . key rings. “Take it, my friend, and depart,” urged the soft voice of Monsieur. “It Gomichbooks (E@)