10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

100 Clark by the hair, while the detective struggled. Then Butch lowered his close-cropped bullet skull and butted Clark between the eyes. The detective drew back, despite the painful hold Slug had on his hair. Butch’s solid skull caromed off Clark’s head like a billiard ball. Butch stepped back for another charge. Clark suddenly lost all sense of caution. His fighting instinct over- whelmed cold reasoning. As Butch lunged Clark caught him in the chest with a well-placed kick. The impact of Butch’s hurling body caused all four to fall in a tangle of arms and legs. Clark rolled away and gained his feet in a bound. Free of the hood- lums’ hold, he threshed out in the close quarters. Clark knew the satis- faction of drawing blood. Then a sud- den rush halted him. Butch and Slug pinioned Clark’s arms, With a wicked gleam in his killer’s eyes, Slug reached for his gun. He aimed the weapon at the detective’s heart. “Look out, gents,” he chuckled. “Ym gonna let ’im have it!” Lynch shouted stormily. “Don’t, you slug-nutty gorilla! This guy ain’t any good to us dead!” Slug snickered. He reversed the gun, brought the butt down on Clark’s head. When Clark came to, his dazed eyes beheld the damage done by Pete Lynch and his crew in their search for the key. The contents of drawers were strewn everywhere, chairs over- turned, pictures ripped off the walls. Clark arose painfully. His head ached from Slug Nixon’s blow. Blood caked his face and neck. He reeled to his desk and grasped the edge. He was almost afraid to -jJook in the inkwell.. His fingers en- eountered the little key on the ink- stand’s bottom. Luckily the desk had not been overturned. He put the key in his pocket. Clark’s bruised head hurt intol- 10-STORY DETECTIVE erably, but at last he succeeded in setting his wrecked office in order. He was sitting with his heels on his desk, a gun ready in his hand, and his chair tilted back at a com- fortable angle, when there was a knock at the door. The detective dropped his gun out of sight, sat up in his chair, began to pore over a sheaf of paper to give the impression of a busy office. He called a cheery “Come in.” A woman entered. A_ willowy, heavily veiled woman with the grace of a dancer. “You are Private Detective Alan Clark?” she asked as Clark got up. “Ym Alan Clark,” he admitted. His voice held a question. “Pardon me if I disturbed you,” she apologized. “But it’s really ter- ribly important. ’m Joan Hallet.” “And how, Miss Hallet, may I be of service to you?” She accepted Clark’s chair. “T’ve come to see you about—the key,” she said, proffered LARK’S brow wrinkled. “A little while ago, I was released from cell six, on the third floor of the Christopher Street wing of the wo- men’s prison,” she said. Cell six, third floor, Christopher Street wing. Clark made mental note of it. This subject of the key seemed liberally laden with dynamite. Clark proceeded cautiously. “Of course, you can—ah—describe this key?” Clark rubbed a reflective thumb on his strong chin. “Of course!” she smiled, and for a moment Clark had no thought except of the lovely face. But Clark was primarily a de- tective. It behooved him to be prac- tical. The woman had declared the key to be “terribly important” and Clark was inclined to agree with her. Pete Lynch and his friends were ac- tively interested. Whatever the secret of the key, its value was great to Gomichooks (E(0)