10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

—__________—_——_CASE OF THE LIVING CORPSE The kid claimed innocence when a homicide detective located him in an uptown beer stube. He said that if Fox had been murdered, Ed Garvey had done it. He talked in that mild, disarming way of his, and at the same time was wrapping his fingers into a fist. The fist lifted neatly to the de- tective’s unguarded chin—and Worth- ley vanished. But Garvey was dead. At the time he was being investigated in connec- tion with the disappearance of a pri- vate detective named Carthers, Ed Garvey had died of a heart attack. Headquarters had carefully checked on that death. That was the reason they scoffed now. But Kendall couldn’t see why Worthley would pull such a deliberate lie. So he nosed around. The murdered Sylvester Fox had only one living rel- ative—Sheila, his daughter. Because of headquarters regulations, Kendall had been forced to resort to telephone conversations with her. Her attitude had been reticent, almost antagonistic. Yet it seemed she knew a lot about Worthley, so he sneaked to her house with the intention of browbeating more facts out of her—only to be stopped at the door by a homicide cap- tain who happened to be leaving. And the result was this afternoon’s session with the commissioner. It left only the Ed Garvey problem to work on now. But where in the devil can a man look for a hoodlum who was legally dead? Kendall made a growling sound in his throat when he remembered how people laughed and referred him to the Green Lawn Ceme- tery. He left half his beer standing on Pete’s bar and headed for the door. A hand grabbed him by the arm. He turned swiftly and stared into the flat, square face of a thick-shouldered stranger. “Well?” said Kendall. The stranger jerked his head at the bar. “Pete tells me you’re that dick who’s asking questions about Ed Garvey.” “What if I am?” TT “I’m Joe Sweeny, just in from New York. I used to be a crib-buster. I came here to try to get a new, honest start.” “Okay, you’re a reformed safe- cracker. I’m busy.” WEENY grabbed Kendall’s arm again. “Wait a minute,” he begged. ‘‘You don’t know the spot I’m in. Headquarters ain’t very partial to helping ex-crooks like me. When I talked it over with Pete, he suggested I see you about it.” “And I thought Pete was my friend,” growled Kendall. “You’ve got to help me,” Sweeny said earnestly. “I’m living in a shack on Fourth Street—Number 914. A mug was waiting for me there when I came home last night. I’d quite a rep in New York and this guy seemed to know it. He says, ‘I’ll make it a grand if you’ll open a certain peter for me.’ ™ “And you don’t want to because you’re trying to steer straight?” “Right. But he’s a tough monkey who won’t take no for an answer.” “Where’s the safe he wants cracked ?” “In a house in Hyde Park. He says he wants something out of a wall crib there. He didn’t say whose house it was. He only hinted that if I didn’t string along I’d probably be found in a gutter. I’m off cracking, so nelp me. That’s why I’m reporting this.” Something in Sweeny’s voice car- ried conviction. Yet there also was something about him that prodded Kendall’s suspicion. Sweeny seemed just a little too glib. “What did the mug look like?” Ken- dall asked. Sweeny said: “He was fat as an ele- phant, and as tough. I didn’t place him until he grinned at me—a grin that only worked on one side of his face. Only one guy I know of has a half- paralyzed puss, and that’s Ed Gar- vey!” Kendall’s hands lashed out and jerked Sweeny close. He leered into his face. “You sure about that?” cComiicbook CO