10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

100 apartment house steps. Gritty snow bounced from a hard black Homburg. On the mantel over the fireplace a pilot-wheel chime clock banged out nine metallic strokes. Cronin straight- ened at this, shifted his eyes to the clock face. He was a big, solid man. His face was flat planed, strong, and in it his eyes were gray, a little narrowed, very steady. His lips were long, good hu- mored. They went with the solid, hard slant of his jaw, the latent power in his thick frame. Nine P.M. An hour since Lance had phoned. Had promised to be at Cronin’s apartment in ten minutes, with evidence that would blow the rot- ten buildings racket sky high. He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand thoughtfully across his jaw, and little worried lights came into his eyes. He waited for the dapper man to come up, his back to the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. The buzzer rang two minutes later. Cronin said, “Come in,” a little heavily. The dapper entrant was small, wiry. His name was Robert E. Keene, and he was the assistant district at- torney. He was in charge of the buildings racket investigation, and Cronin worked for him, out of the D.A.’s office. He had thin, ruthless features, a hard mouth, and he had pushed his way up fast in the last four years. There was talk of his ousting Frank Barrat, the present D.A., in the coming elections. ... Keene closed the door firmly, hunched his shoulders. He looked around the living room, his blue, dia- mond hard eyes cold, unfathomable. He started to pull a yellow pigskin glove from his right hand, stopped. His eyes steadied on Cronin, and he said: ‘“‘Where is he, Steve?” Steve pulled his hands out of his pockets, and frowned. “I don’t know.” His voice was short, worried. ‘““He was due here just after eight. He sounded excited and nervous over the phone, —10-STORY DETECTIVE————__—___——- He said what he had was dynamite, and he wanted me to handle it.” Steve shrugged, turned away. He began to walk up and down the room, his stride short and choppy. EENE moved over to the club chair, took off his coat and Hom- burg, laid them carefully on the chair. He faced Steve, his brittle face hard and remote. “I’d say he’s giving you the run-around, Steve. We’ve been working on the Kelzeck case since he was murdered, standing on the cor- ner of Cedar and Court. So has Homi- cide. “Captain John Stearn would give his right arm to break that case be- fore we do. His men have searched Kelzeck’s flat, gone over his offices in the Brunswick Building with a fine toothed comb. And found nothing. Nothing to even connect him with Big Bill Massity, head of Building Mate- rials, Inc.” The Assistant D.A. shrugged, his lips edging into a faint frown. “Yet you say this private shamus friend of yours called you up, an hour ago, with a yarn about having a memo book of Louie Kelzeck’s, with names and in- formation that will bring the men be- hind the buildings racket into the open. It don’t add up, Steve.” Cronin stopped his restless pacing. “Maybe, Keene,” he said harshly. “But I know Lance. He wouldn’t have phoned me, like he did—” The short br-r-ring of the phone stopped him. He swung away from Keene, his shoulders tight against his coat. He reached the small table in three long strides, snatched up the combination. Keene bent his wiry frame over the round table, watching his hands deep in his snappy blue serge coat pockets. Cronin said : ““Yeah—Steve. Lance? Hell, I was— Yeah—sure—” His hard jaw tightened, and a dangerous glint came into his eyes. He nodded again, said: “Right away. Corner of Grove, on Acushnet Avenue. Sit tight!” Keene straightened, his pale cheeks Ccomiclbook (©