10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

BOOMERANG SWAG the pay telephone out on the landing rang. He opened the door and un- hooked the receiver. “That you, Shane?” a voice in- quired. “Yeah. Al Shultz, ain’t it?” “That's me. Listen, Shane — I thought Id tip you off.” - Fear rose in Shane’s throat in a sol- id lump. He choked it down. ““What’ja mean?” he asked. “TI just come from the station house. I was up there to see about a neigh- bor’s kid that got lost. While I was talkin’ to the sergeant at the desk somebody came out of the detectives’ room and left the door open. I seen Rick Vargo in there.” Sweat dappled Shane’s brow like raindrops. He licked dry lips. Shultz was still talking. “The dirty little stoolie was inform- in’ on you, Shane! I heard him men- tion your name an’ tell the cops where you live. If I was you, ’d—” Shane didn’t wait for any advice. He knew what to do. Slamming up the receiver he ran across into the bath- room. Panic had gripped him and turned his stomach into a heavy lump of ice. That dirty informing little rat had spotted him hiding in the door- way—but had been cunning enough not to let on. Oh, the damn dirty little stool pigeon! Hastily, Shane fumbled his gun from under the bathroom floor. He pulled out the canvas money bag, emp- tied it with nervous fingers, stuffed his pockets with the bills and rolls of silver. Back out on the landing he saw a policeman coming up the stairs from the second floor. A seething rage contorted Shane’s face into a mask of blind hatred. His eyes were those of a wild man. No longer did he feel frightened. He had killed one man tonight and he could 75 kill others if they got in his way. He jerked out his gun. As Shane fired, the cop yelled some- thing and threw himself flat against the wall of the stairs. A slug ploughed a furrow into the plaster a few inches from his right ear. Shane never had time to fire again. The policeman had his own gun out and shot from the hip. A .45 bullet ripped a hole clear through Shane’s stomach. His gun hand drooped, the revolver clattered to the floor. Rising on his toes, Shane clasped . both hands to his middle, then keeled forward and toppled down the stairs. He fell past the cop, thudding all the way to the bottom. Doors. banged open on the landings. A woman began to scream. The po- liceman walked slowly down the stairs to where Shane’s body lay. He stooped to pick up a paper-wrapped roll of dimes that had fallen from Shane’s pocket. Penciled on the wrapper were the words: Allied Cigar Store. A few minutes later a second police- man came puffing up from the street. He looked at the dead man, then at the officer who had shot him. “What happened, Wilson?” asked. The first policeman juggled the roll of dimes in his left hand. “That’s the guy who pulled the Allied Cigar job. Ee started shooting as soon as he saw me.” “You were taking a chance—trying it alone. Why didn’t you call me? I was on the corner.” Patrolman Wilson shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Nobody knew Shane was the killer.” “Didn’t you come here after him?” “Sure. The captain sent me. Shane won a case of whisky tonight in a raf- fle. He got rid of it. Rick Vargo hated Shane’s guts. He squealed on him— he for selling liquor without a license!” CO MICLOOOLK CO