10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

FOUR AND TWENTY BLACKJACKS spite his weight, McCosky was fast, and there was a lot of power behind the blow. It drove the detective side- ways against the brick wall of the building, and McCosky charged him, Swinging again. But this time Falkner moved his head, and McCosky struck the wall with all his force. The pain from his hand dragged all the color from his flabby cheeks, and sudden beads of perspiration laced his forehead. ALKNER had leaped sideways, his hands up, ready to strike. But he saw McCosky sway, and for an instant he thought that the fat man was going to fall, and Guy caught him, McCosky shook loose violently, swearing. “Take your hands off me, you rat. I give you warning and tell you that we’ve got the bullet so that you can ‘cram. And then you kill Alf Grover. Til take your heart out and nail it to a pole.” Falkner said sharply, “Hold it. I didn’t kill Grover,” but the fat man was past hearing. He made another lumbering swing, this time with his left hand. His right hung at his side useless. Falk- ner avoided the blow with ease, grabbed the man’s wrist in both hands and swung him around. “Stop it, or ’ll—”’ Something hit the back of Guy’s head and he dropped to the concrete platform. The blow didn’t put him out, and he twisted. One of the plain-clothes men was standing over him with a sap in his hand. “Try to escape, will you?” Rage was like a fountain, boiling up through Falkner, but he stayed where he was. He didn’t have a chance with this gang and he knew it. The plain-clothes man_ sneered down at him. “Yellow, huh? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.” From the doorway the chief said harshly: “What’s going on out here?” The plain-clothes man said: “This rat tried to escape. I had to clip him.” 19 The chief didn’t seem to mind. There was a thin smile on his tight lips. “Pick him up and bring him in here. We'll give him a real reason to escape.” Two men in uniform had been standing on the other side of the squad car watching things. They came around it and stooped to pick up Falkner. One of them sunk a short right in his ribs, which made Guy grunt. Then they stood him on his feet. His legs acted like rubber, bending at the wrong places. He didn’t know whether he could stand alone or not, and he made no effort to try. The ring on McCosky’s finger had cut him above the eye. He hadn’t been con- scious of it before, but now blood began to trickle down and obscure his sight. His head felt as if it had been split open by an ax, and his side hurt. They carried him into the chief’s office and shoved him into a chair. The two newspaper reporters for whom he had Sought a drink came in. They didn’t look pleased, but they didn’t say anything. A young fellow from the D. A.’s office showed up, then a couple of men from the Chamber of Commerce came in with Burton. Falkner watched them sullenly. All three had been friends of his father, and theve had been notes, signed by all three, in his father’s safety deposit box. He knew that he could look for help from none of them. kA cCOSKY was standing against the wall nursing his bruised hand. The two plain-clothes men who had brought him in were behind his chair, and Boyce Greham, still in his motorcycle uniform, was on his fath- er’s right. It looked like a star cham- ber if Falkner ever saw one. Then there was a disturbance in the hall, and Frank Hughes shoved his way past the protesting guard. Lawrence Cobb was at his heels. Hughes swept the room with angry eyes. Cobb crossed to Falkner’s side. “Guy, what have they done to you? Conn (Cc NOOK (©