10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

———______________-C ORPSE BEHIND THE 8 BALL—_—————————51 “What things?” “Well, there’s a little room at the back of the gents’ clubhouse. From what I overheard, Carsen and that fellow Latta went in there just now to talk things over! Well, I’ve got to move. See you later, maybe.” Phil walked back to the markiug field, then cut quickly across a tennis court to the rear of the gents’ club- house. No one here, but there wasn’t much cover. Phil made use of a tree trunk. Maybe there was a room at the rear of the clubhouse, but if there was, Phil reflected, there was no way of looking into it. But others wouldn’t know any more about that than he had. He had to stand straight and still for nearly fifteen minutes. Then a man edged cautiously around the cor- ner. Phil stepped out briskly. He said pleasantly: “I figure you for the kind of a guy who couldn’t keep away from a crooked deal, if he thought there Was one around.” The man called Roger Bellowe went for his gun. It was, Phil thought, a dopey thing to do, but this fellow was getting jittery. Phil didn’t give him a zhance. It was a hard and nice- ly placed blow under the right ear. The way Bellowe’s head cracked against the ground helped. He was almost stunned, but not quite, and his mouth worked a little, so Phil sat on his face while he went through his pockets. | There were three or four enve- lopes, not very informative. One en- velope, however, was a long one, un- sealed, with no addressee’s name on it. The printed return address in the eorner was: JACK LOWE DETEC- TIVE SERVICE, CHICAGO. In the envelope was a sheet of paper on which had been drawn a map. __ It was a map of the cricket grounds, showing the location of the buildings. A circle had been drawn around the toolhouse, and on the other side of ies paper was a map of the interior O, VERY probably, this so-called Roger Bellowe was really Jack Lowe, private detective. This map had been either mailed or handed to him, and he had put it into one of his own envelopes. If it came to that, per- haps the person who had drawn the map could be traced by the paper. Phil got up. The man on the ground had one eye open. He should be all right in a few minutes, so Phil walked away. He reached the back of the tool- house without being observed. There was a good spot here; a tree within six feet of the door, and a rambling bush around the tree. Phil backed into the bush. He couldn’t see anything of the playing field, but every few moments he heard the sharp tangy report of a ball coming off the offensive side of a cricket bat. He remembered that when he was a kid he could always hear the smack of a ball against a bat blocks away. It had always lifted his heart up several inches and made him want to race toward the game. He couldn’t race toward this game. He had to stay put. He thought there should be two men along, first one and then another. The first came after half au hour. The man opened the door of the tool- house and went in. Phil followed him fast and quietly. The man was look- ing down at Henderson. Phil said in a whisper: “Pretty bad, huh?” Ted Latta swung around. His face was flaming anger. His fists were balled and his elbows stiffened. Phil slipped out an automatic. He said: “I shouldn’t have to use this. Not on you. But I want you to doe as I say. And keep quiet. Especially, keep quiet.” Latta’s eyes pricked thoughtfully. He nodded. Phil found a short sturdy stick. He heaved up the large front window and propped it up with the stick, securely. He picked up the rope. which was at- tached to the top of the window and at Phil GOmicaoo S (© im