10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

34—_-_____—_——_—_———_10-STORY DETECTIVE——————"——_ he said, “and I’d like to see you try to stop me.” , He stuck the barrel under the hasp of the lock and pried. It flew open with a spang. He motioned to one of the plainclothes men and the detective moved forward. Grabbing both upper corners of the trunk he swung them apart. | Both Rider and the detective gave a hoarse shout and jumped back. Diehl’s dead body, hands crossed over his chest, legs folded under him, snapped out of that trunk like a jack- in-the-box, and rolled over, face up, on the floor. OR the space of several seconds no one spoke. Carla’s face was bone white. Tom’s teeth were imbed- ded in his lips. Rider’s jaw had fallen slack and he stared down at the corpse with wide bulging eyes. Then his jaws clamped shut and his mouth made a razor thin gash across his face. His voice was sarcastic. “O-ho! No wonder you didn’t want me to open that trunk. Who is he?” Kirk whispered: ‘“‘That’s Herbert Diehl, the bookkeeper.” ; My eyes locked with Rider’s. He said: “Well, buddy, I don’t need a search warrant now.” He shifted his gaze to Tom. “Why’d you kill him? Never mind, I can guess.” “But I didn’t,” Tom said. “I was in this room with Miss Parkhurst and when I returned back to my own he was in there dead.” That'll give you an idea how mixed up Tom was. Calling his own wife by her maiden name. Rider holstered his gun and rubbed the tips of his short squat fingers together, then stabbed his thumb at me. “What’s your name?” “William Hawke,” I told him. “Business ?” “I’m a private detective.” His brows jumped up. “You don’t say. I just love private detectives. What are you doing in Las Vegas?” “Working on a case.” “What about?” “You'll have to ask my client.” “All right, who is he?” “That’s a confidential matter. [’m not sure he’d want his name known.” Rider was getting sore. Hard bright lights glittered in his eyes and little ridges of muscle bunched white- ly at the corners of his mouth. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?” he said softly. “T get around.” “Well, Hawke, I think you know plenty about this business that you’re keeping under your hat. How would you like me to pull you in as an acces- sory after the fact?” “Nuts. My lawyer would spring me in a minute.” “You think so?” “Certainly. The charge wouldn’t hold even here in Las Vegas. I can’t be held as an accessory after the fact until I give aid to the murderer. Well, you don’t know who the murderer is. You only think you do.” Rider flushed. “I'll know soon as I get prints off that gun.” “Nobody ever got a good set of prints off a gun in a murder case. Why don’t you give him the nitrate test?” “Yeah,” said Rider, “and supposing he was wearing a glove or had his hand wrapped up in a handkerchief. All we really need is to find that pay- roll in here and Grove’s goose is cooked.”’ HEY started searching again, and I walked through the con- necting door to Grove’s bathroom. I turned on the water tap, waited for it to run cold. The bathroom was a small cubicle and the heat was stifling. The only time it’s cold in Las Vegas is during the night, and then the des- ert air grows brisk and chill. I looked around for a window but couldn’t find any, just an air vent, high in the wall above the bathtub. My gaze slid past it, then jerked back. The vent was protected by a small metal grating over which a thin film of gray dust had settled. I crossed over, stood up on the edge of the tub, Conn (C NOOK (©