10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 104: what you’re looking at

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

1062 “Sorry, Miss Hallet. We can’t do business.” There was a short moment of si- lence. Then— “How much do you want?” the woman asked. Her voice, Clark no- ticed, had lost much of its musical quality. “Name your own figure,” she add- ed. “I must have the key!” “The key is not for sale,” the detec- tive replied. Again silence. Then the woman stood up. She asked in a low voice: “Is that final?” Clark nodded. “It’s final!” The woman put the money in her bag. When she snapped it shut, Clark saw she had extracted a revolver. “T’ll trouble you for the key, Mr. Clark!’ Her voice was harsh now. The detective made no show of emotion. Though he knew there was nothing deadlier than a woman with a purpose—and a pistol—his outward demeanor was cold. “A while ago, Miss Hallet,” he said, “three ugly customers came here de- manding the key, though perhaps you know that already. They beat me up, because I refused to give any infor- mation. I rather expected them back again, so I took the precaution of hiring a crack shot as an assistant. “Look behind you, Miss Hallet—my assistant’s gun is trained on your back !” Involuntarily the woman turned, though she must have sensed it was a subterfuge. Clark’s hard fingers closed on his visitor’s gun arm. The woman’s teeth sank into the detec- tive’s brown skin through the fine mesh of her veil. A cry of pain and anger escaped him. With his free hand, Clark dashed the pistol from her grasp. It clattered noisily to the floor. He pulled up her head, jerked off her veil and found time to wonder how nature could have created a thing so lovely—and so fiendish. He opened the door, pro- pelled his visitor over the threshold. Clark’s bandaged hand was wrapped , 10-STORY DETECTIVE comfortably around the butt of the gun in his coat pocket when he left the office a short while later. The veiled lady had been remarkably well informed. In her desperate endeavor to convince him of her right to the key, she had unwittingly given him a concrete clue to work upon. He was certain the rightful owner of the precious key had been, for a while at least, an inmate of Cel] 6, third tier, Christopher Street wing of the woman’s prison, just as the veiled beauty had intimated. The head matron of the women’s prison was very kind to Alan Clark. “And what is it now, Alan Clark?” she asked good-naturedly. “Mrs. Mooney,” the detective said, “would it be presuming on too short an acquaintance—I’ve known you only seventeen years—” “Since you went to school with my Patrick.” The matron beamed. “That’s right.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Who occupied Cell 6 on the third tier of the Christopher Street wing, at about eleven this morning ?”’ Mrs. Mooney looked around casu- ally. “Sure it’s nice of you to visit me, Alan, me boy; ’tis a fine friend you are.” Then she gritted in an un- dertone: ‘‘T’l] call you in an hour.” Clark paced the confines of his of- fice restlessly. An hour had passed, and another, still no call from Mrs. Mooney. The detective lit a cigarette, im- haled deeply. The phone began to ring. He grasped the receiver eagerly. It was the prison matron. “Sure an’ I got to the phone quick as I eould,” she apologized. ‘The name of the woman in Cell 6 this morning—” “Yeas i i “On the third floor of the Christo- pher Street wing—” “Yes! Yes!” “Is Joan Hallet!’ Joan Hallet. The name the gor- geous hell-cat had given him. Clark eradled the receiver with a look of CORMICLOOOK CO