10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

SLEUTH BY PROXY anything to you that won’t be hurting me just as much, Vinson.” Vinson caught his hand and wrung it, but wouldn’t let him catch his eyes. Then Vinson pivoted and went off up the street, the sun shining on his shab- by loose old coat. Jig nearly choked on the lump in his throat. Sure, Vinson had to follow his hunch. Jig looked toward an old build- ing that had been a theater, which was now a shell, where dances were held at night by a local social club. There was a phono in there. Jig drove to it, then kept on going. He had his hunch too. He kept on driving till he was parked near the alley in back of Reuwer’s restaurant. Paul Adkins was seasoning a boiler of peppery smelling soup. His apron and cap were dirtier now than they had been. He dropped his big long spoon into the pot and started for Jig, whooping. “Cut out the nonsense!’ Jig or- _ dered. Adkins halted, stood leering and scowling, as if he might erupt at any moment. “Give you a minute to get out.” “Somebody here is going to pay for Reuwer’s murder,” Jig declared. He produced the cross-marked nickel. “That’s Reuwer’s lucky coin. I took it out of the machine and gave it to him last night. This morning that coin was back in the machine. You and Zieman and Harriet Reuwer put coins in that phono. One of you robbed Reuwer last night and didn’t have sense enough to realize how dangerous this marked nickel was.” “Aw, you're crazy!” But a new ex- pression had come into Adkins’ face. It was almost as if he was thinking, and the light in his eyes left no doubt that his brain was at work. “Where’s Mrs. Reuwer?” Jig de- manded. Adkins jerked up his chin. IG glanced over where the refriger- ator took up the whole corner of the kitchen, the size of a small room 43 in itself. The handle of the thick wooden door was up, as if someone might be in there. As Jig backed a step, to keep his eyes on Adkins and on the refrigerator door, Adkins snatched up a knife and flung it. The knife missed and stuck quiver- ing in the wood of the refrigerator. Jig had no time to get set. Adkins jumped him, swinging a heavy wooden potato masher. Jig tried to avoid it, couldn’t, and Adkins smacked him on the forehead. It dazed Jig for only a moment, just long enough for Adkins to shove him into the refriger- ator and slam the door. Jig sprang at the door with the whole weight of his body behind his hands, trying to knock it open, but Adkins already had it locked. Jig let out what was undoubtedly the loudest yell he’d ever emitted. The yell almost burst his throat, almost shattered his ears. Beyond that he knew it had no effect. There was no use beating at the metal inside sheathing of the tremen- dous door, no use yelling in here. The walls were a foot thick and thorough- ly insulated. And even while he stood thinking of that, the cold began to get at him. Jig forced himself to walk back and forth rapidly. How long it went on he didn’t know. He glanced at his watch several times, but he could never re- member what time it had been when he’d looked at it before. He got ter- ribly cold. Tired. He wanted to sit down. He kept himself moving. But he felt that nothing was worth this much effort. He ought to let himself sit down for a minute, just for one minute. The sight of the bloody meat hang- ing on the hooks kept him moving. For a while, he thought that Adkins would have to let him out. What could Adkins do with his corpse, if he froze to death in here? The meat hanging on the hooks answered that. Adkins was butcher as well as cook. He could hang anything in here, if he made it CGonmGcriook CO