10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

16———"—10-STORY DETECTIVE for seven years to find out.” She shook her head quickly, too quickly. “I don’t know. It was just what you always said.” His voice was bitter. “And you wouldn’t believe me once. I wanted you to go away with me then.” “But, Guy—” She was trying to reason with him. This big shaggy man frightened her. He wasn't the meek scared boy she had known. ‘‘We were both so young. What did we know of life? What chance had we?” He let her go, and there was dis- appointment in his face which he masked well. “Forget it and get out of here before your reputation is shot. I’m not going. I ran once, but this time I fight. And when I get threugh, they can pick up the pieces if there are any pieces left.” “But what can you do?” He was grim. “I didn’t fire that shot. Someone got to the ballistics expert and switched bullets. I’m go- ing to see that he talks. Now get out.” She moved toward the door, but before she reached it there was a knock. A quick glanee shot between them, then Falkner passed her and pulled the door open. Outside, a man almost as big as Falkner himself was shifting from one foot to the other a little smile on his twisted Irish face. Falkner rec- ognized the hotel detective and his face museles tightened. “Hello, Shay.” Shay said: “I got orders to evacu- ate you.” Falkner shrugged. “You'll save yourself trouble by not trying to car- ry them out.” Shay’s eyes took in the girl for one fleeting second, then switched back to Falkner. “That’s what I figured. Come on, I'll help you carry your bags. Three-ten is vacant, and you’d better keep the key in your pocket. The less people that know where you are parked, the less chance there'll be that your room will be searched.” They shifted the bags and then started back down the hall. Falkner looked around for the girl, but there was no sign of her. Ellen Burton had vanished. Shay left Falkner at the stairs and he rode the elevator down alone. HE police station looked bleak and deserted when Falkner turned into the entrance. McCosky wasn’t there; neither was the chief. Falkner asked a sleepy sergeant who the ballistics man was, and the ser- geant told him the name was Grover and that he’d gone home. A five dollar bill got the man’s address. Falkner went out and found a cab at the corner. He gave the driver Grover’s address and climbed in. They went out through the deserted streets past a lone milk truck, and turned south on Brand Boulevard. From across the canyon came the sound of blasting. Evidently Durey’s death hadn’t stopped the working of the night crew. The house was small and neat, a one-storied frame affair with flower boxes and green shutters. Falkner went up the three steps to the little portico and punched the bell. He punched it several times before a light came on in the hall and a wom- an in a faded crimson wrapper opened the door a crack and surveyed him. “What’s the matter?” Falkner told her: “It’s very impor- tant. I want to see Sergeant Grover on official business.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what this town is coming to. Ever since they sent Alf away to take that fool course in bullets, they’ve been wak- ing him up in the middle of the night. Well, he’s back in his shop. He ain’t come to bed yet. The shop’s around behind the garage.”’ She shut the door. Guy followed the narrow cement walk around the house. The rear lawn was square and hedge-lined. To the right at the end of the drive was a garage. Behind it was a shedlike af- COMIC OO® S ©