10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 106: what you’re looking at

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

104 Steve went inside the building, found the walled off cubicle that passed for an office. He could see a man bent over a desk as he ap- proached the grimy windows. He knocked once on the door, went in. The man in the chair was stocky, a thatch of straw hair showing above a green eyeshade. He said: ‘‘Well, what—” He closed his mouth, his eyes narrowing, as Steve showed him the badge. “I want to look over one of your cabs,” he said quietly. “One of your drivers picked up a fare on Kensing- ton, from an office in the Lorraine Building. They had some trouble on the way, and the fare left the cab. Driver’s name was Jan—something like that.” The stocky night man came out of his chair. “Yeah,” he nodded. “‘That’s right, Eddie Jandell—drives number 14. Came in with a scraped running board and front fender, and some- thing haywire in the transmission. Seemed scared. We got the cab on the lift now. But Eddie’s out with num- ber 34. You want me to get Eddie for you?” Steve said: “Not now. Just the cab will do.” He followed the stocky man out of the office. A row of cabs was ranged along the west wall. A single droplight shone weakly here. There were oil stains on the cement flooring, and the smell of oil and gasoline in the air. Number 14 was on the lift in the back corner of the garage. The stocky nightman moved to the wall, amidst an assortment of grease and oil con- tainers. He turned a wheel on the _ compressed air pipeline, stepped on a pedal in the floor. Released air made a high sighing in the stillness. The lift dropped slowly, settled. Steve pulled open the cab’s back door, stepped in. He fumbled around the rear cushions, his eyes hard. He switched on the back light, and found the memo book tucked between the arm rest and the back cushion. A leaf from a notebook was held by a rubber 10-STORY DETECTIVE band to the memo cover. Lance’s handwriting was scrawled on it: Finder— Please see that this gets into the hands of Steve Cronin, of the D.A.’s office. Steve backed out of the cab, his lips thin. Behind him he heard a dull, meaty thud—a half-muffled gasp. The sound whipped him around, his hand sliding into his coat pocket. The man with the automatic was big—bigger than Steve. He was heavy in the shoulders, in the waist. His starched shirt front gleamed in the dim light. He was in dinner clothes, and he was smiling suavely, his white teeth reflecting the light. A trim black mustache gave a fullness to a thin up- per lip. Standing there, his well-tai- lored blue overcoat open, his dinner jacket fitting snug, he might have been some prosperous banker. But the two men with him spoiled the illusion. Cheap hoods, both— Cronin had seen them before. The big man said, without moving: “Well, well—if it ain’t Steve Cronin! Playing around in taxi cabs!’ (‘TEVE’S shoulders loosened. He was conscious of the memo book in his hand as he let his gaze drop te the crumpled night man. He was sprawled out between them, his left cheek pressed against a splatter of old oil, a thin trickle of blood seeping dewn over his right eye. Steve said: “Still up to your old tricks, eh, Massity. Must be an impor- tant job, to bring you out on a night like this.” | Massity’s smile widened. “It is, Steve—it is.”” He moved forward then, the false humor in his eyes thinning. “‘Give, Steve!” Cronin’s solid frame tightened. His gaze moved down to the steady blue barrel of Massity’s automatic, and he knew the big racketeer would shoot for that little memo book. Shoot to kill. He handed out the book, his eyes hard. Massity slipped it into his pock- Conn (Cc NOOK (©