10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 40: what you’re looking at

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

38 gent fired from the hip and a detec- tive went down. One of the cops, in close, fired into Nugent’s back and spun him around abruptly. Sears and Kaplitz fled precipitately and the Wasp plunged straight into the streaming traffic. There was a flurry of gunfire, answering shots that spat- tered the plate glass windows and the brief, staccato rattle of the Tommy gun. Pedestrians screamed and ran blindly. Not too blindly, because the sidewalk next to the coupé cleared mi- raculously. Besson noted every item in the kaleidoscopic action: Sears writhing a dozen feet from Nugent and the sprawling detective; Kaplitz almost at the corner; the police occu- pied and alert; and Trant crouched on the floorboards. Into this turmoil Bes- son moved calmly and swiftly. He reached the coupé. “Get up, Max!’’ he called reassur- ingly. ‘““We’ll drive to headquarters.” As Trant looked up, Besson flipped open the underside of his overeoat lapel. A badge flashed. INSPECTOR. Trant scrambled behind the wheel, “Straight down Park and turn right at the first light.” Besson spoke soothingly as he dropped alongside Trant. “We've got ’em all.” RANT cut the wheels and swung into the strangely deserted avenue. Besson glanced backward as they fled down Park. He heard the wail of approaching sirens and as the car swung sharply to the right, glimpsed the Wasp huddled on 1 the far side of the pavement. “Kasy, easy, Max,” he warned the frightened driver. “No sense getting killed in an accident! The danger’s over. We'll be at the station house in a couple of minutes.” They went. crosstown three blocks on the green and struck quieter traf- fic. “Left!”’ Besson ordered. Trant turned and threaded a nar- row, curving street flanked by blank 10-STORY DETECTIVE warehouses and loft buildings. Besson leaned forward, stared ahead. “Quick, Max!” he directed excited- ly. “Pull to the curb!” Besson drew his gun, eyed the street searchingly. As the coupé braked to a stop, he turned to the bewildered Trant—and smiled. “Sorry, Max,” he said pleasantly, “put we part company. It’s been a pleasant ride until now. Hand over that envelope with the executives’ payroll and we'll part peacefully. If not—” Besson wiggled the leveled gun significantly. Through terrified lips Trant man- aged to stammer: “Wh—why I th-thought you were an inspector!’ Besson smiled indulgently. “Pre- cisely what you were supposed to think! Come, Max, I grow restive. That payroll!’ _ Silently Trant extracted a fat enve- lope from an inner pocket. “Thanks, Max.” Besson’s voice went hard and crisp. “Step out and walk along the street and double back slowly. I'll fol- low in the car.” Again he wiggled the gun. “And don’t forget about this!” Trant slid out and moved off. As he started back, Besson shifted gears quickly and shot the car across the in- tersection. He avoided a nasty patch of dirty brown ice four blocks farther on and swung north into Ninth Avenue. “A.cinch,” he murmured admiring- ly. “The cops wipe out Nugent’s mob, Trant has a story for his grandchil- dren, and I collect $12,000. The Steve Besson touch of genius!” He gave himself an imaginary pat on the back. He’d slip an extra five hundred to quiet that rat Mattoli who had cased the job so efficiently for Nugent. Mat- toli had tipped Besson off and Steve had planned his own stickup. Nugent had an itchy trigger finger and by phoning the story anonymously to the police, the payroll could be lifted dur- ing the shooting that was sure to fol- low. It had worked out. The disguise and the badge completed the picture. Besson drove a dozen blocks. Pass- Conn Giook (©