10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

2 HE Municipal Market, opening for the day, was at its busiest hour. For a stretch of four blocks, truck motors coughed and rattled, horns honked, drivers and carters shouted, crates, baskets and barrels banged on the sidewalk. There was heat and confusion and excitement, as tons of produce were got ready to humor the appetite of a great city. Walking rapidly, I joined the con- fusion. Halfway down, I ducked across to the other side of the market build- ing, doubled back. A light truck, empty, pulled away from the curb. I grabbed the end gate, climbed on. I rode until I saw a cruising cab, whis- tled, hopped to the pavement. “Ingleside Drive,” I told the hack- man. “Forty-four hundred block.” The McHale place was large, in a swell neighborhood along the lake shore. A stone wall shut the street outside. There were _ landscaped grounds, flower beds, and a tennis court off to one side. The house was wide and white, with striped awnings over the windows. I didn’t knock. I went in as if I owned the joint, cat-footed through waxed halls until.I located the girl in the living room. She sat very still beside a phone. She looked as though she’d been there a long time. Her hands were cienched in her lap ana she hadn’t taken off her hat. Not disturbing her, I tiptoed up wide stairs to the second floor. No one was in any of the rooms; the beds had not been turned down. I found a tele- phone in the hall and pulled up a chair. I was already wishing I could smoke when the bell tinkled. The gir] down- stairs answered, and I lifted my re- ceiver. I had guessed right; this was an extension, “Yes?” The girl sounded breathless. “Did you get ’em?” The man at the other end of the wire talked peculiarly. His voice was naturally deep, but some tones were high, almost tenor. It was an unusual voice. I kept thinking I ought to recog- nize it. 10-STORY DETECTIVE The girl paused long, before she finally replied, struggling for control. “No.” “We warned you.” “Please,” the girl begged. “Please, Pll give you money—” “Hell, we don’t want dough!” “But the man—Butler—refuses to - give me the beans. Isn’t there anything else—” “Listen,” the man said slowly, grit- tingly. “Listen, we’re not fooling. Either come across with those beans or we cool the old duck. Have ’em ready when I call again.” “How can I?” she wailed. “How can I?” “That’s your worry.” The girl steadied. “T’ll get them somehow. I'll phone Mr. Butler im- mediately. Is father—” “T’ll call later,” the man said and hung up. HAD the picture now, at least part of it, and I thought I remembered whose voice it was. I held the receiver until I heard the girl dialing. “Hello?” I kept my voice low so it wouldn’t echo down the stair well. “Mr. Butler? This is Audrey Mc- Hale.” “Yes.” “I must persuade you to give me those beans. I must! I’ll even tell you why, if necessary.” “Perhaps it won’t be. I’ve learned a few things, and I want to talk to you. Suppose I bring them—” “Thank you. Thank you.” Her sigh of relief was audible. “It’s 4490 In- gleside.” “T know,” I said. I sneaked down stairs, had a smoke in a blue roadster parked under a portico at the side of the McHale home, then went around to the front and rapped. Audrey McHale was waiting, glad to see me. I held the bean bag in my hand while I talked. “First, Miss McHale, your father has been snatched—kidnaped. The kidnapers demand these beans as ran- som.” EOPNICLOOOKS (E@)