10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

tight, showing little hollows. He said: ““Cronin—what’s up?” Steve was disappearing into the bedroom. His voice, short and curt, came back to the dapper D.A. man. ‘Lance. He’s in a jam. Couple of Mas- sity’s hoods nearly blasted him on the way down to my apartment—” Steve came out of the bedroom, pulling on a worn, tan trenchcoat, sliding a Lu- ger automatic into one of the pockets. He was still talking. “Lance got clear, ducked down an alley, and spent a half hour shaking the rats. He’s at a drug store, on the corner of Grove and Acushnet Avenue. Wants me to pick him up there.” He was crossing the room to the door when Keene said: “I’ll go with you, Steve. My car’s at the curb. If Lance’s really got that dope we'll put one over on Stearn he’ll never live down.” Steve shrugged. “I ain’t thinking of Stearn. If something happens to Lance—” His jaw was hard, knotted, as he opened the door and went out. Keene got into his Chesterfield and Hom- burg, paused a moment before the wall mirror and adjusted his tie. His eyes were cold with that hard bril- liant stare that was unreadable. He snapped off the light, and caught Steve at the elevator. RITTY snow stung Cronin’s face. The wind was strong off the bay, whipping the flakes in driving flurries against the apartment buildings. The snow was piling up in drifts in the lee of that rising wind, and few cars were on the streets. The foghorn out by King’s Shoals was deep-toned, in- sistent. It promised to be one hell of a night. Steve went down to the sedan and got in the front seat. Keene walked rapidly around the front of the car, and was under the wheel before Cronin settled back on the cushions. Steve said, “Step on it, Keene!” and leaned forward, his eyes probing the swirling snow curtain ahead. VENGEANCE ON THE WATERFRONT 101 Keene pressed the starter button. The powerful motor caught, coughed once, and steadied to a deep roar. The D.A. man slid it into gear and the rear tires spun, without traction, before the big car finally eased away from the curb snow and moved down the street. They rode in silenee. Heavy bursts of snow rattled against the V wind- shield. The twin wipers worked steadily, clearing double fan-shaped areas on the glass. The whir of tires, even the small, ordinary body rattles, seemed smothered by the white blan- ket. The long hooded car seemed to glide forward in a hushed white world that held only the howl of the storm and the monotonous drag, drag, drag of the wipers. Steve sat tensed, staring ahead, see- ing in the snow veil the lean, restless features of Lance Boardman. Seeing the quick, eager cur] of his mobile lips, the brown eager eyes, the way he moved his hands when he talked. That was the way he would always remem- ber Lance. . They made a couple of turns and were on Acushnet Avenue mow. A long straight thoroughfare through a di- lapidated part of town. Grimy tene- ments and small frowzy stores hud- dled dark and unprotesting along both sides of the street. Occasionally a red and blue neon marked out a cheap hole-in-the-wall tavern. Steve’s fingers tightened on the panel. “That’s it, Keene!’’ he muttered harshly. ‘‘Next intersection.”: He leaned forward, his voice peaking up sharply. “That looks like Lance, com- ing out to the corner. Swing into Grove, and we'll pick him up!” Keene nodded. Steve’s eyes were bright, watchful, on the tall thin figure waiting at the curb. A trenchcoat flapped against Lance’s gangly legs. He was peering up the avenue, a crumpled felt hat pulled low over his eyes, when the headlights of the swinging sedan hit him. For a startled instant he stood stiff. COMIC OO® S ©