10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

36—_—_——_—_—_—_———_——10-STORY DETECTIVE familiar about the man, but Jig fig- ured he was just a barfly, of which he saw many. “That lousy Vinson,” the guy shouted, ‘‘was never anything but a damned louse. Sure he killed Reuwer! What the hell you think he did? Just a dirty damned crook, hiding behind a detective’s badge, that’s all!” Jig’s fists tightened, and he gritted his teeth. But he didn’t turn. It would- n’t help Detective Lieutenant Vinson any for him to fight every loud-mouth in the city. The bartender said in a_ loud, hoarse whisper: “You better button that lip! That’s Jig Haxall, and he’s Vinson’s pal.” The next thing Jig knew, he’d re- ceived a terrific boot in the pants. He fell forward, bounced up, whirling. The big guy demanded: “You got any objections to what I said?” Jig was blond, clean-cut of face, gray-eyed, and of medium weight and build. The man facing him was tall, heavy and scowling. Without any hesitation, Jig smacked him square on the mouth and slammed him down on the floor with a thud that set bottles and glasses rattling and clinking be- hind the bar. The barkeep skipped out with a hefty slap, clipped the guy lightly be- hind the ear, hustled him to his feet, and shoved him toward the door, growling: “Gwan, get out! You had too much to drink already. Slipping and sliding and falling all over the place. You’ll hurt yourself and give the joint a bad name! Get out!” Cursing and grumbling, the hard guy gave Jig a ferocious look, spat blood venomously on the floor, and shoved out through the doors. Jig turned back to the phono, shak- ing a trifle. The barkeep washed a glass, polished it, and swabbed the mahogany. As Jig closed and lifted ‘ his heavy black case, the barkeep murmured: “Don’t let it get you, Jig. You’d be surprised the friends a square cop ain’t got. A crooked cop—the gunsels —— eee and crooks he was protecting start shouting for him, telling how good a guy he is, because they want him to get clear and keep protecting them. And everybody else keeps his mouth shut because those guys might shut it for him. “But an honest cop! Everybody talks. Some because they naturally hate a good guy and want to help wreck him. And the rest because they enjoy a chance to sound off without any danger of tasting knuckles. Any time you hear everyone picking on a guy that’s down, you can be pretty sure he ain’t in with the wrong crowd, or nobody would open a mouth.” Jig nodded, attempted a friendly erin, and went outside to his car. He drove along moodily, eyes half shut, gritting his teeth. But he snapped alive at sight of the burly man in bag- gy. clothes trudging along—apparent- ly with nowhere to go, but trying to get there, out of a lifelong habit of performing purposeful acts. Jig jumped out of the car and ran. to him. ‘Vinson!’ Vinson bleared at him, shook his head, cleared his eyes, and said quiet- lye hez i be pulled him out to the car. They «’ got in and sat side by side. After a minute, Jig said: “I’ve heard about this from everyone else, and I’ve read it in the papers, so I don’t know why I shouldn’t hear it from you.” “I hate to tell it!” Vinson’s voice shook. “It was natural and the sim- plest thing in the world when it hap- pened. But when they make you tell it over and over, you begin to feel like a rotten dirty liar.” “We’re friends,” Jig retorted. “I have to hear it from you, you know that.” Vinson answered dully: “I was walking home last night, and I turned into Florence Street. I don’t know why. It was a little after ten. The lights aren’t so good along there, but I saw these two men. I thought they were drunk. One had his back against GComichboo (C@)