10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

VENGEANCE ON THE WATERFRONT et, stepped back. Limpy, the cadaver- ously thin, sallow-faced gunster at his right side, lifted the gun in his scrawny fist. “Now, boss?” he said tonelessly. _ Massity’s gaze moved to the front of the garage where the dim figure of the man shoveling the entrance-way moved. “No,” he said sharply. “Take him te the waterfront somewhere, and give him a bath. Make sure he soaks for a iong, long time.” Limpy grinned, showing yellow stubs of teeth. “He’ll soak, boss— good!” They went out through a back door that opened into an alley. A: heavy sedan lay like a black crouched animal against the snow. Massity got in front with the silent, beady-eyed Morrison. Limpy, chuckling coldly, got in back with Steve. He kept his gun resting on his lap, pointed at Steve, and never took his eyes from him. They pulled up by the 44 Club, Mas- sity’s night spot. Massity got out here, pulled his collar against the driving storm. He looked in at Steve, grinning mirthlessly. “Hope you enjoy your bath, cop- per!” he sneered. “It’s gonna be your last!” Then Morrison shifted into gear, and the car slid away like some prowl- ing ghost, swung east toward the waterfront. ; The snow-laden wind came in hard, sudden flurries that rocked the heavy sedan, tore at it with gritty fingers. The headlights cut like yellow torches through the thick veil. Morrison hunched over the wheel, his beady eyes probing through the wiper space. The cigarette between his lips hung slack, and small tendrils of blue smoke drifted up over his sharp face to dissolve abruptly in some over- head draft. Limpy, sitting way back from Steve, the gun in his fist glinting with a dull shine, chuckled constantly. A soft grating sound that locked Steve’s jaws. ———105 No one made conversation. The heavy sedan slid along the practically deserted streets, passing few other cars on the way. They turned down St. John’s Hill, slowing to a snail’s pace for the turn into Vesey Street. And even at that the sedan skidded, rocked dangerously, before Morrison gained control of it. Limpy seemed glued in his corner. He never took his eyes from Steve. Out of the side of his mouth, he said to Morrison: “Verrill’s dock, Pete. That’s the best.”’ The big car prowled along Vesey, a dark waterfront stretch of old ware- houses, shabby, many of them empty. The King’s Shoals foghorn pierced the night—hoarse and insistent. HEN Morrison slowed, tooled the sedan in between dark brick buildings. The wind whistled sharply through the alley from off the stormy bay. Steve looked through the wiper Space on the snow-blanketed wind- shield. He saw the alley open up, give way to a narrow, sagging wooden pier. The place was deserted and slick, kept clean of snow by the driving wind. This was it, he thought grimly. This was where Steve Cronin made his last play. The muscles in his big shoulders crawled. The sedan slid to a noiseless stop on the very edge of the rickety pier. From his side of the car Steve looked down on a five-foot margin of bare, icy planking—then at the dark, toss- ing waters that lapped restlessly against the ice-encrusted supports. A cold, ominous second dragged by as Morrison turned, looked question- ingly at Limpy. Steve’s lips tightened. Were they going to shoot him in the car? Limpy’s thin, chuckling tone said: ‘“Why bloody up the boss’ car, Morri- son. Outside’ll do.” Morrison shrugged. He _ turned, started to click open the door at his elbow. Limpy, edging forward, said: “All right, Steve—out!’’ Conn NOOK ©