10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

MURDER—IN THE BAG I went to headquarters. By the time we got up to the detective bureau J was plenty hot. I jerked my arm loose from the dick who was leading me along, and turned on Munson. “Listen, lieutenant. You know I didn’t kill that little rat. You know I’m handing it straight when | say I stum- bled on him after he’d been plugged!”’ Munson’s face was expressionless. “We'd better hold you anyhow.” “You do and the Star’ll burn your pants off.” Either amusement or anger flick- ered in Munson’s dark eyes a mo- ment. “Yeah? And how’! you explain totin’ a rod to your paper?” III HERE was commotion at the door then. Munson’s dicks were trying to keep somebody out. Finally Nick Canalli thrust them aside and stalked in. One of the dicks made excuses to Munson with his eyes. “Howdy, Mr. Canalli,” said, falsely cordial. Nick Canalli was big, big and broad. He was husky enough to make me seem puny, and I stand six feet and weigh one-ninety. His lips were very red and his neck very plump. Canalli eontrolled rackets in the city—all of them. And his clothes showed it. His legitimate front was real estate and he had power plus. “What’s up?” he asked. Munson told him: “Twice tonight we been called out to look at stiffs not cold yet. Butler, here, was on the spot both times. Patrolman Hallorhan found him bending over the last with a rod on him.” “So?” Canalli lifted his thick brows. “So we’re gonna hold him on sus- picion of murder.” I said heatedly: “So you’ll be sorry too—if you try it! When your ballis- tics man checks he’ll find the slug in the corpse didn’t come from the auto- matic. He’ll find the guy who really killed Willie Fargo got away while you rode me.” Munson ol I watched Nick Canalli. Not a flick- er of expression crossed his poker pan. No one would have guessed he’d ever heard of Willie Fargo. Yet 1 knew Fargo had worked for him. I won- dered just where Canalli came in on this, why he was here, questioning Munson. ‘““Maybe,’ Munson admitted. “But what about the dame in the bus depot?” I said: “Ah, hell! Doc Peabody told you she died of heart disease.” “Suppose the autopsy proves differ- ent?” Munson shook his head. ‘“‘No, I. better hold you—just in case.” “You needn’t worry. I’ll be around after the autopsy—” “You'll be around, all right,’’ Mun- son promised, grinning. I didn’t like the way he said that. I reached for the telephone on his desk to holler for the Star’s lawyers. “No you don’t!’ Munson’s grip on my wrist was strong. I cocked a right to knock him loose, and Nick Canalli stepped between us, facing Munson. “Now, now, lieutenant. Butler’s okay. I know him.” So I was released—as easy as that. Canalli had batted for me, and Mun- son was afraid of his power. “Oke. You go, Butler,” Munson said. “But if you try to give us the run- around—” I wondered why Fargo’s boss—for- mer boss, that is—should want me freed. But it didn’t keep me from get- ting out of the detective bureau in a hurry. The cops hadn’t bothered with the beans when they frisked me. The bag bumped my hip as I descended worn wooden stairs, which smelled of dust and disinfectant, to the street. I knew I’d be tailed, so I cut across two blocks to Market Street. To ditch a tail, you almost have to have crowds and traffic. They could be found in only one place this early in the morning. _My watch said 2:17. COG rook CO