10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

HOMICIDE LEGACY—————————__99 ladies’ jail. Gee—thanks, Mister!” The kid grabbed the reward and ran. On Christopher Street in front of the women’s prison, Clark took cog- nizance of this important fact. He pictured a harried inmate of the prison, scribbling the note, weighing it with the key, and flinging it through the bars. Perhaps the key was needed as evi- dence against the prisoner. More likely she was saving it to prove her innocence. Or perhaps the key opened the way to a pillaged fortune. Clark examined the note again be- fore depositing it in his files. He turned his attention to the key. It was a small flat, ordinary instrument. Except for an etched letter and nu- meral—G-41—there was nothing to distinguish it from countless others. Suddenly the door banged open. Clark’s fist closed on the key as a squat, overdressed, heavy-shouldered man swaggered in, flanked by two tall men every bit as sinister in appear- ance. Clark’s face betrayed no emotion though he recognized all three. The short man was Pete Lynch, supposed leader of a band of rowdies. The two men with him were his trusted cronies, “Slug” Nixon and “Butch” Scott. Lynch’s pockmarked face was his misfortune, it was so readily recog- nizable. Clark’s clenched hands were on. the desk. He leaned forward, polite inquiry in his arched brows and slightly inclined head. A pugnacious leer masked Lynch’s swart features. He thrust his re- pulsive face forward. “‘Where’s the key the kid just gave you?” he asked. Clark shifted his clenched hands and succeeded in putting the little key into the open inkstand, unob- served. “Sorry,” the detective said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was a flat-topped desk and low wood rail between Lynch and the detective, but that did not stop the hoodlum. He swung a clenched fist at Clark’s jaw. The detective pulled back. His hand sped to the gun in his shoulder holster, but was frozen even as the fingers grasped the butt. For the black muzzle of a blue steel automatic suddenly showed from under the light coat, draped with such studied carelessness, over Slug Nixon’s arm. Clark had no choice. Slug would as soon blast a man as light a ' eigarette. That was his reputation. The detective was disarmed. ““‘Where’s the key?” Lynch gritted. “We know you got it, ’cause the kid is yapping his head off about the dollar you gave him for it.” Clark shrugged. “I’ve told you, Lynch, I don’t know what it’s all about.” Lynch’s fist shot out, smashed the detective on the mouth. Clark tasted his own blood on his lips. But he was covered by Slug, besides being out- numbered three to one. For the mo- ment, discretion ruled Clark. “You won’t talk, eh?” LARK was herded into a corner. Lynch’s thick lips were twisted in a hateful leer. He sank a heavy fist in Clark’s mid-section. The detective’s body bent double from the force of the blow. Instantly Lynch slammed a hard right to Clark’s lowered head. Clark staggered. He tripped over Slug’s maliciously outthrust foot and fell heavily. “Will you talk?” Lynch panted. “Will you tell us what you did with that key ?” Clark did not answer. “Think you can play dead on me, eh?’ Lynch snapped. He stepped forward, hauled the detective to his feet. He grasped Clark’s arms from behind, pinned them effectively. “Spoil that pretty mug of his!’ Lynch called to Butch Scott. “That'll make ’im talk!’ Slug pocketed his pistol, grasped EOPNICLOOOLK (C@