10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 75: what you’re looking at

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

— BOOMERANG SWAG————___———_73 a long time without anyone winning the jackpot. Finally one of them called out: “Hey, Pop. This thing must be broke!” Shane drained his mug of coffee and wiped thick lips on the back of a big hand. He got up and walked over. ‘“‘Here—let me have a shot,” he said. He fished a slug from his pocket and inserted it in the machine. The dials spun as he jammed the lever down. There was a series of clicks followed by the rattle of falling metal and the contents of the jackpot were spilled into a tin box. An envious gasp came from the on- lookers. “Cripes!” one of them exclaimed. “We been feedin’ the thing all night and he cleans it out first shot!” Grinning now, Shane scooped the slugs into his hat and carried them over to the counter. “Here, Pop. Cash these.” Pop Marvin began counting. “You got luck tonight, Shane.” “Sure! I told you it’s my lucky day. Everything I touch turns out okay.” On his way home Shane stopped at the Allied Cigar Store. It was crowd- ed. The three clerks were being kept busy. Shane tendered a quarter for his two nickel cigars and managed to get a glimpse of the well-filled cash regis- ter drawer. Upon reaching his two-room, cold- water flat on the third floor of a tene- ment building, he stretched himself - out on the bed and lit a cigar. He lay staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling. For a long time he stayed there. His cigar went out, but he didn’t appear to notice it. Getting up at last, he walked up and down the room, finally stop- ping to gaze at his reflection in a cracked mirror. “Why not?” he argued aloud with himself. “This is my lucky day, ain’t it? Everything I touch turns out okay.” Shane took his hat and went out onto the landing. He crossed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Dropping on his hands and knees, he pried up a loose floorboard and thrust his hand down. It came out gripping a loaded revolver. Five minutes later Shane, his face set in a satisfied smirk, was strolling past the Allied Cigar Store again. The three clerks were still behind the coun- ter. The hands of the clock over the doorway pointed to nine-thirty. Shane continued on to the corner and then turned up Miller Street. Mentally he was adding hundreds to his cache in the bathroom. He knew that at ten o'clock one of the clerks from the cigar store would come along Miller Street with the day’s re- ceipts in a canvas bag. Every night, before closing, the money was taken to the People’s National Bank over on Grant Avenue and dropped into the night depository slot. Shane congratu- lated himself on his keen powers of observation. On both sides of Miller Street were loft buildings and manufacturers’ show rooms—a district practically de- serted at this time of night. Halfway down the block a narrow alley led be- tween two high buildings. Shane, gloating over the perfect setup, halt- ed close to the alley. He looked around carefully before stepping into a dark doorway. ALF an hour passed before he saw the clerk from the cigar store approaching under a street light. Shane pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and fastened it to conceal the lower part of his face. When the clerk was almost level with the doorway, Shane stepped out and stuck the muzzle of his gun against the man’s stomach. “Take it easy, buddy!” he rasped. “Step over into the alley.” The clerk was clutching something under his tan jacket. He was a mid- dle-aged man with a clipped mustache, Not the kind likely to make trouble, Shane decided. EOPNICOOOL< (E@)