10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

Henry York thought he had an unbeatable plan to get in the chips, but he hadn’t counted on the transparent evidence ota... Crystal Clue By Leon Dupont “ERVES as N cold and tem- pered as hard steel, Henry York went quietly up the stairs. He was surprised at his calmness — and pleased. A man about to kill some- one needed steady nerves. And Henry York was about to commit murder. He could see his victim—his Uncle Walter York—as he sat in his room near the head of the stairs. The old man was reading. Henry knocked upon the jamb and walked through the open doorway. “Good evening, Henry,” greeted his uncle in a precise, fretful voice. “What’s good about it, uncle?” A leer twisted Henry’s mouth. He knew what was good about it. Before the hour was done, he would be a million- aire. He was old York’s only heir. “Nothing—nothing,’ growled the elder York. “But isn’t it usually ‘good morning’ and ‘good evening’ and good this and good that? Bah!” Henry sauntered carelessly about the room. It was large, expensively furnished. He looked at’ the old- fashioned, but comfortable, bed. Silken covers. Henry would sleep there tomorrow night, if things went right. Went right? How could they go wrong? Henry was so sure of himself, that he was tingling in an- ticipation. He had worked out his scheme from every angle. He could see no chance of a slip-up. He had planned the perfect crime. Uncle Walt failed to see his nephew take from under his coat a heavy robe, unfold it, creep stealthily up behind his chair. Henry dropped the thick, matlike fabric over his uncle’s head, pulled it 95 tight with a rapid jerk. The elder York uttered a gurgling squawk which was muffled by the choking hood. His book went spin- ning, his feet flew up. His hands clawed at the suffocating folds. Henry caught the clutching fingers with one powerful hand, while his other elbow locked under the old man’s chin. Not too tightly—for there must be no marks of violence. Just enough to cut off the flow of air under the thick robe. It took all of Henry’s brute strength to hold his squirming, kick- ing victim until he at least ceased his death struggle. York made certain that the thing was wel] done. For ten minutes he kept air from the lungs of Uncle Walter. The job was finished. York sighed in relief, commenced to straighten the rug where the dying man had kicked folds into it. He put the cushion back straight in the chair, removed every sign of the struggle from the room, earried the death robe to his own chamber. He looked at his watch. Seven forty- five. Stooping, he lifted the body and carried it into the adjoining bath- room. While the water ran in the tub, he removed the dead man’s clothing, hung it near the tub as he had seen Uncle Walter hang it many times before. Go .OO (E@