10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

CORPSE BEHIND THE 8 BALL purpose. There was a loop at the end of the rope. Thoughtfully, Phil pushed up the window again. It was even more of a job to get it open. This time he held it up, peered underneath. Mr. Lowther said curiously: “What’s that?” Phil Massen said: “Nails. New ones. They’ve been driven into the bottom, from the outside, so that the points project down nearly half an inch.” “But why?” Phil shrugged. He went to the smaller window at the left. This was - Open in the regular way. No cut cord. Nothing attached to it, everything ap- parently in order. But over the top of the window, in the wall, a spike had been driven, tip-tilted. A new spike. Mr. Lowther suggested: “How about this rake?” The rake was lying on the floor, a Jong-handled garden rake. “I don’t know,” Phil said. ‘““Maybe he came in for the rake and just dropped it when he got bopped.” Mr. Lowther wagged his head. “Frightful business, this.” “Might have been an accident,” Phil said. “But not all accident. Something vicious about this.” Mr. Lowther peered at Phil grave- ly. “Mr. Massen,” he said, “I’m going to ask a favor.” ‘“‘Name it.” “This game today is rather a spe- cial affair. It would be a shame to spoil it. The game must go on, undis- turbed.” Mr. Lowther glanced down at Henderson. “He was only a groundsman, but he was also a sportsman. He would want it that way. Phil grinned feebly. “You want me to keep it quiet?” “Just as long as possible.” HOUGHTFULLY, Phil stared down at Henderson. Well, the poor guy was dead. Couldn’t do anything for him. Maybe keeping it quiet—just as long as possible— —A7 was the only favor that could be done him. Besides, Phil had his own wor- ry, something that Mr. Lowther knew nothing about. There was Lu- cile! She was part of this, somehow. No, he didn’t want anyone from downtown poking into this yet. So he said: “Okay. I’ll work this quietly. Do you know if anyone saw you come in here?” “T think not.” “Then you keep it quiet.” Phil gazed out of that front window. Out there on the playing field, the game was still going on. Phil was a base- ball fan, but he had to admit that this cricket thing looked prettier than baseball, the rich green expanse of the field, and dotted on it the trim- clad figures of the players, all in white flannels, white shirts, white shoes. He turned to the door with Mr. Lowther. “T want you to do just one thing for me,” he added. “What?” said Mr. Lowther. “Introduce me to the captain of the visiting team, this fellow Car- sen.” Carsen was just coming out of the gents’ clubhouse. He was a tall wil- lowy man, middle-aged, with a gray- ish military mustache. Mr. Lowther said: “Oh, hello, Car- sen. Want you to meet a friend of mine. Mr. Massen, Mr. Carsen.” Carsen’s humorous blue eyes flick- ered. He extended his hand. Mr. Lowther added: “Mr. Massen is a stranger to cricket. He’s looking into the game.” Carsen chuckled. “Hope you like it, Massen,” he said. “We do, but it’s in the blood. Makes a difference, you know.” “Oh, I don’t know,” Phil said. He noticed that Mr. Lowther was strid- ing away. “It’s a pretty game. I un- derstand you’re from Chicago. Used to live there myself.” “Really ?” “Yes. And I believe there’s anoth- er Chicagoan around, not connected with the club.” Phil stared at Car- COMIC OO® S (©