10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

Newshawk Morg Butler had made arrangements to scoop the d lowdown on a crime king. But, too late, Butler discovered that first he should have reserved space for himself in the P obituary column. “It was my fault.” She tried to smile at me, but managed only to twist her lips. “No,” I said. “It was mine, and I owe you more than an apology. I owe you a drink. Max’s bar is just down the street.” That was the wrong thing to say. She wasn’t going to let me get cute. Her chin went up, and I tried another tack. Somehow I was reluctant to let this girl get away. “My name is Morgan Butler,” I said, without tagging on explanations. “And I’m at least respectable—I think.” She said nothing. So I took out my card case, handed her a card with my telephone number and apartment ad- dress below the name. “Here’s proof of the respectability. Only a—’” I broke off. I could see she wasn’t in the mood for bright cracks. She took the card, giving it no attention. Looking at me levelly, she firmed her lips. “Please,” she said, leave.” So I moved aside. She stepped through the doorway. I said, “I’m sorry for trying to offer you a drink,” and really meant it. “T’d like to HE girl didn’t look back. I watched her cross the street in the rain, move down the sidewalk past street lamps, out of sight. She had a neat walk. Then I turned toward the waiting room, intending to sit awhile on one of the benches and see if the rain wouldn’t let up. The station would close at midnight—in about half an hour. Maybe the rain would stop before that, though. But I didn’t sit down. . A gray-haired woman in dark clothes was lying on the mud-spotted 47 floor behind a bench. Her mouth was slack, her eyes turned up. There was lots of rouge and powder on her face, but make-up couldn’t keep it from being pale now. She was dead. I thought: “No wonder ske was nervous.” There was a small brown paper bag on the seat above the corpse. I felt for a pulse in the woman’s still warm body to make sure she was dead, then picked up the bag. It was filled with Lima beans, ordinary Lima beans. I started to drop the bag back on the bench, but stuffed it into my topcoat pocket instead. Afterwards, I knew I had done that because I was thinking of the girl. The homicide squad sirened up a few minutes after I telephoned. De- tective Lieutenant Munson was in charge. He was a small dick, stubby and fat but hard. His suit seemed tight over his muscles. He had very bright black eyes. He said: “Hello, Butler. Where’s the body 2?” I pointed to where the woman lay. Munson stepped past the bench, glanced at the woman, brought his bright eyes back to my face. “Well,” he said, half grinning. “Well! What’d you do—bump her so you cculd have a story for that rag you work on?” I didn’t feel like joking. I was thinking about the girl. I said: “I came inside to get out of the rain and found her lying there—as she is now. I phoned headquarters.” “She was dead when you found her?” fe Vian:'? “You didn’t see any suspicious characters?” Suspicious characters! Wasn’t that just like a dick? No one else would COMICLOO S CO