10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 92: what you’re looking at

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

96- shall be a souvenir, eh? A souvenir, of, shall we say, your—Gr-reat Mo- ment!” Jeez, could you beat that? This sap was actually kidding himself out of his bank roll. Scared daffy. Well, wasn’t that jack better than nothin’? Bestdes, it was gettin’ late. The beat cop would be around soon; Slick bet- ter lam. He reached the desk in one swift stride, and, seizing the wallet, crammed it into an inner pocket. Roughly, he yanked away Monsieur’s bow tie and appropriated two of the jeweler’s fine linen handkerchiefs. In a few seconds, Pierre Baudet was gagged, and bound securely to a heavy oak chair. Then, gun in hand, Slick backed through the long windows. OLICE Inspector Hale wallowed his huge body back into his office chair and lit a long stogie. The prisoner stood sulienly before the desk, his eyes on the floor. “Hrr-umph!” Inspector Hale cleared his throat. The man before him started at the sound; his furtive black eyes darted nervously to the officer. “So it’s you,” growled Hale. “Back here just to prove I’m always right, huh?” Slick Valetti squared his thin shoulders and his sleek head thrust forward like a snake. “I wanna mouthpiece,” he rasped. “I got rights and—” “Shut up!” The inspector rubbed his rubicund nose speculatively be- tween a broad thumb and forefinger. “Slick,” he rumbled, “you better hunt another moniker. You’re the dumbest crook this side of Matewan.” “Yeah?” Slick’s pallid cheeks flushed but he forced a defiant grin. “Let him sit down, Sergeant. No— over there, where I can get the light on that pasty mug.” The inspector closed his heavy eyes and, teetering 10-STORY DETECTIVE back in his chair, blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “Caught by a beat cop,” he rumi- nated, as if to himself. “Caught rob- bing a poor little old eodger with one foot in the grave.... The big shot heist guy! “And, did you get this, sergeant? We found all his big loot on him. One pocketbook, sarge, containing a batch of jewelry quotations—and two dol- lars and eighty-five cenis! There’s brains for you. There’s smart casing. And this punk here calls himself a big shot! Why— | “That’s a lie,’ snarled Slick, springing to his feet. “If that old coot hadn’t—” He stopped short. Inspector Hale suddenly sat bolt up- right in his chair; his sharp gray eyes impaled the man before him. “You mean,” he snapped, “that it would have been a swell heist if Bau- det had brought home that ninety grand in ice. And you mean that if he hadn’t delayed you so long, huntin’ the rocks, you’d have scrammed away, safe. Ain’t I right?” Slick said nothing. “Listen, Valetti. I’m goin’ to tell you a joke that will make every other crook in the city crack his sides with laughin’. You think you’re smart? You think you’re slick. Say, last night a defenseless old gent played you for the biggest sucker in the racket. “Old Baudet came home with them diamonds. He had ’em right in his vest pocket. When he spotted you be- hind that screen, he knew what was comin’, so he walked over to his aquarium and, all the while you was hidin’ there, breathin’ hard and pol- ishin’ up your gat, he’s feedin’ the ice to the—goldfish. The inspector threw back his head and burst into a raucous bass guffaw that rattled the window panes; the sergeant echoed in joyful baritone. “Take this mug out,’’ wheezed the inspector. “He'll get ten years up river to laugh that off!” Gomichbooks (E@)