10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

50 portant to somebody — somebody that’s tough. I’m going to hang onto them until I find out why and who.” “But I’ve told you they’re mine,” Audrey McHale repeated, her anger rising. “You can be killed as easily as any- body.” “Then you refuse?” I hated to say it but I did. “Yes, I refuse.”’ With a stricken look, she turned to leave. I put my hand on her shoul- der lightly. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. Look, already I’d tear an arm off to help you. You ean see that. If you’ll tell me what it’s about, give me a chance to" She shrugged my hand off her shoul- der then and shoved a small pearl- handled automatic into my face, hold- ing it high, inexpertly. The gun must have been concealed in her sleeve. “Give me my property,” she order- ed. “Now!” I slapped my palm over the gun and her hand, pushing out. The little gun popped once before I could shake her fingers loose, but no damage was done —at least, to nothing except a wall, and the plaster was falling anyhow. “You shouldn’t stand close when you try astickup.” I put the little auto- matic in my pocket. “You—” Audrey McHale said furi- ously, and stamped her foot. “You—” Tears glistened in her eyes. “‘Ah, kid, give me a chance to—” But, without speaking, Audrey Mc- Hale went blindly to the door. I let her go. Her heels clicked downstairs. HE girl wasn’t listed in the tele- phone directory. But her father was. McHale, John V., 4490 Ingleside Drive. She would live there. I started to call a cab, then set the phone down. Four blocks over, at Monroe and Adams, was a cabstand. Since it had started to rain, I decided to walk there for a hack. Cruising cabs are scarce on a rainy night. I got my topcoat and the beans, and started. 10-STORY DETECTIVE———_________—_ But I walked no farther than half a block. Intending to take a short-cut, I swung into an alley. Between high buildings, the alley was dark. A few feet from the alley opening I stumbled over something. I stooped and felt a body, flicked my cigarette lighter. It was Willie Fargo, very dead. Someone had sent a bullet through his squirrel chin into his brain. He was not pretty. The bullet had been heavy caliber. I was squatting on my heels, trying to see what I could find to give me a lead, when a flashlight snapped on in the mouth of the alley. “Hold it or I'll shoot!’ I froze and the man advanced. I saw brass buttons behind the light. “Okay, officer. I’m a reporter.” I — stood upright, slowly, with my hands in full view. ‘“What’s this?” the cop asked. I told him, but he held his service revolver on me while he blew his whis- tle. Another uniformed cop came, hur- ried back to a call-box at the corner. Once or twice I tried to explain, staring into the light. But the dumb policeman refused to listen. “Anything you say can be used against you.” His sidekick returned, patted me down, found the girl’s little gun in my pocket. “Ah,” the first bull said, “you just stumbled onte him in the dark, eh?” What could I say? Nothing. I said it. And we waited for the squad ear. It cut into the alley on two wheels and jerked to a stop. Its headlamps made the alley bright. Munson and his bunch piled out. “For Pete’s sake,” I told him, “‘take these birds off me. I’ve been here a month, expecting a slug in the guts any minute.” Munson looked from Willie Fargo’s corpse to me, examined the gun the policeman handed him, listened to their story. “Put him in the car, boys,” he said. I argued. I argued to beat hell. But COmMIiclooks CO