10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 76: what you’re looking at

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

74—_—_—_——____—_—_——__10-STORY DETECTIVE———————____——_— In the alley, Shane made him turn around. “Now let’s have the dough!” he de- manded. His voice sounded thick com- ing through the handkerchief. The clerk, his wide-open eyes fixed on Shane, allowed a small canvas bag to slide from beneath his coat. He held it out. As Shane reached to take the mon- ey, the handkerchief concealing his face slipped down. He snatched back his free hand and made a hasty grab at it. At this moment the cigar store clerk dropped the canvas bag and dived for the gun. Snarling a vicious curse, Shane closed with the man and pinned him against the wall of the alley. He man- aged to get the muzzle of his gun up and press it against the clerk’s chest. He squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled explosion. The man’s body gave a convulsive jerk, then slid down the wall to the ground. Shane stood rooted, staring down. A wisp of smoke rose lazily from the muzzle of his revolver. “You damn fool!” he panted. “‘What’ja want to try it for?’”’ But he was speaking to a corpse. Shane looked out into the street. The block was deserted. Apparently no one had heard the shot. His luck sure stayed with him! Putting his gun away, he dragged the dead body to the far end of the alley. Returning, he picked up his handkerchief and the bag of money. He had gone not more than twenty paces along the street when a fig- ure rounded the corner at the end of the block and started toward him. Cursing again under his breath, Shane stepped up quickly into another doorway. A lamp on the other side of the street cast aim rays into the door- way, but Shane hoped that the on- coming man would pass by without seeing him. As the footsteps drew nearer, Shane pressed back. The man came on until he was level with the door- way and then stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Shane slid his hand into his pocket and gripped his gun. The man took out a cigarette and struck a match. , Shane sucked in breath quickly. The face illuminated by the match was none other than Rick Vargo’s—the stoo! pigeon at the club who had want- ed a share of the case of whisky. For one brief instant, as he flicked the match away, Vargo seemed to be staring straight into the doorway. But apparently he saw nothing. He blew out smoke and continued on his way. Shane heaved a sigh of relief. His shirt was damp under the armpiis and the palms of his hands had become moist. It had been a close call. EACHING his flat, Shane locked the door. He counted his loot. There was one and thirty dollars in small bills and sixty dollars in silver. The silver was done up in bank wrap- pers—four ten-dollar rolls of quarters and four five-doliar ros of dimes. He put the money back into the can- vas bag and carried # across to the bathroom. He hid it, together with his gun, under the loose floorboard. Back in the living room of his flat he sat down in a chair by the windew. He breathed more easily now. His luck had held good after all. It was a nar- row escape though Vargo had loeked straight into that doorway without seeing him. He smoked the other cigar he had bought down to the last half-inch and sat with a newspaper across his knees. He found it impossible to keep his mind on the print. He got up and opened the window. Below, on the sidewalk, a group of men were stand- ing. One of them was talking excited- ly. By leaning out a bit Shane could hear snatches of what he was saying. “Yeah—a cigar store elerk—shot through the heart— A holdup—” Shane closed the window again. So they’d found the body already. Well— let ’em! He had nothing to be afraid of. He was making a cup of coffee when CO DOOLK CO