10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

: BULLETS ON BLUE MONDAY house, Pearson and the other detective walked out as if Steve McKenna would follow them as a matter of course. He wasn’t going to, but a policeman saw to it that he did. They didn’t put him in the chair with the powerful light over his head, nor lock him alone in a small room. He sat in Pearson’s office, while that distraught captain did a lot of ques- tioning, then a great deal more silent thinking: Captain Pearson still hadn’t said anything, when they brought in Har- vey Logan, who owned the small tea and spice importing company. Captain Pearson growled: “You had an appointment with Wesley Allen at his house, Logan. Why didn’t you show up?” Logan retorted: “I was just there, and a policeman grabbed me and brought me here.” ‘“You were damned late about get- ting there.” Logan glanced at McKenna as if trying to find the answer to all this in McKenna’s face. Shrugging, Logan said: “I meant to get there shortly after three, but—” | “It’s half past four now.” Pearson scowled at McKenna. “What was the exact time Allen was murdered?” Logan screamed: “Allen mur- dered !” “Yes!”’ Pearson shouted. “Mur- dered! Allen answered the doorbell, when it should have been you there. He got one of those dime-store kitchen knives in the neck, the same as Tiere.” Logan panted, the sweat running down his face. He unbuttoned his shirt cuff, pulled coat and shirt sleeve up together, revealing a long strip of fresh plaster on his arm. “I was down at the warehouse, when I got Wes Allen’s telephone mes- sage to come to his house. I left the warehouse about three. On the way, I swerved to avoid crashing a speeding truck, hit an oi! slick, and my ear over- turned. I was unconscious for a while. It’s a deserted section, near some un- used warehouses. When I was able, I 13 walked. You ean check with the drug- gist at Davidson and Platt Streets. He dressed my arm.” “What time?” Pearson asked, al- most insultingly. Logan flushed, but his voice was steady: “Nearly four.” “Nearly four!” Pearson mimicked. “Allen is murdered at three-twenty or so. You’re missing from three to four. You eould have gone to Allen’s, then returned and had your accident, and made up for lost time by being ‘unconscious for a while.’ You could still be the killer.” Logan yelled: “And you could do better than try to fasten suspicion on known men of good repute. The killer is under your nose.” McKenna sprang out of the chair, fists doubled, and went straight at Logan. Logan didn’t flinch. He balled his fist, and they lunged toward each other. Pearson smashed them apart, and shoved Logan toward the door, order- ing: “You wait outside!” | Giving McKenna baleful glare, and Captain Pearson a grunt of dis- dain, Logan left the office. EARSON Hifted his swivel chair and set it down so hard the cas- tors nearly broke off. He banged his pants into the seat, and gave McKen- na a minute-long wrathful scrutiny. “Why don’t you go home?”’ McKenna had his hands jammed in his pockets. He set his shoulders back, and lifted his chin, teeth locked tight. Pearson roared: ‘“‘What’s this mean? Thinking maybe you'll play de- tective?” Steve McKenna didn’t know if he could have gotten his jaws unlocked to speak. He didn’t try, just blinked slowly, once. Then he felt his jaw loosen, his mouth almost falling open. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.” “Well, we know a dozen things about it,” Pearson groused, “and we can’t get anywhere. So there’s no use COMICLOO SS CO