10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

54—_—___—_—_—_—_—__—_——_-_]0-STORY DETECTIVE jallopy across the street.” He caught my expression, added: “Ah, they never got wise we was tailin’ ’em, never seen us come in.’ { said: “Sorry, Munson, but your foot’s in it this time. I’m merely mak- ing a personal call on Miss McHale.” Munson snorted. “Yeah, I know. In a pig’s eye!” Audrey McHale stepped out from behind me. Her cheeks were flushed. “Please leave my home at once!” Munson said: “Just a minute, miss. Just a minute—” I asked: “Have you a warrant, lieu- tenant? If you haven’t, Miss McHale has the right to order you to leave.” “Get out!” the girl ordered. Munson’s little black eyes glittered. “Tt’s your funeral,” he muttered, as he stamped out. His man followed. Gunfire sounded in the street a few seconds later. “Damn,” I told the girl, “ll have to see what it is.’ I went across the lawn, running. I almost knew what to expect. Munson and his pal had tackled the two men in the car, of course. HEN I reached the street two autos were burning the pave- ment, a siren wailing keenly from the hindmost. Munson’s dick was lying in the gutter in a puddle of blood. He had been a lean guy with a sour face. Death had caused his face to become more sour. The dick’s service revolver lay near his hand. I picked it up, dragged him up on the sidewalk out of the gutter. That was the least I could do. When I got back inside, the house was empty, totally empty. The girl and the sack of beans were gone from the living room. I ran through other rooms, shouting, then thought to look out a rear window. Three men were dragging Audrey McHale through flower beds toward the lake. She was kicking and strug- gling, trying to scream around the hand one held over her mouth. One, a tall mug, carried the bag of beans. I broke for the tennis court, run- ning hard. Dawn was growing in the east; but the tennis court backsteps were vine-covered. By keeping them between me and the group, I could head them off without being seen. IT rounded a backstop and rested a minute, panting. The dead detective’s .88 was long-barreled, well-balanced. Three cartridges remained in its chambers. When the struggling group came within thirty paces, I used one shell to wing the bean-toter. He squealed in surprise, dropped the bag, and scut- tled off through the shrubbery, bent low. I yelled: “Surround them, men!” The other thugs halted, glancing from side to side as they reached for rods. I couldn’t fire at either without endangering the girl, so I sent my last two bullets over their heads and charged. My shoulder banged against the hip of the man on the right and he went down. I struck at his head with the pistol barrel, hit his shoulder. His sidekick smashed a fist into my mouth and I sprawled on dew-wet grass. Then they dodged for cover. Neither had been able to reach his gun, which was pure luck for me. I scooped up the bean sack. The brown paper was getting a bit shop- worn by now. The girl and I returned to the house. The kidnap contact phoned almost at once. “Yes,” the girl said. “Yes, I have them.” The voice of the man at the other end crackled through the receiver. “Oh, no,” Audrey McHale said. “We didn’t call in the police. They simply came—” “Let me talk to him,” I said. I took the phone. “This is Morgan Butler, the man who found the beans. Miss McHale is ready to turn them over to you. And she didn’t holler for the cops.” “No?” “No. I had a little trouble with the COPNICGOOOL< (F@