10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

PLAYGIRL OF DESTINY————————————57 twisted his slight frame around to stare out the rear window. The cabby fished for a cigarette and his eyes rolled up to the rear-vision mirror. The car pulled out of the lane onto the highway behind them, its hghts blinding. “That’s Lovers’ Lane, boss. We musta scared the sweet romance out of some one.” Jim didn’t answer. In the glow of the approaching headlights his smooth, fresh face had lost some of its youthful qualities. His eyes slitted and his hand slipped inside his coat. That car was coming too fast. His nerves tingled with a definite warn- ing. The cabby swung over to let the low, black car pass. “Y’all gonna stay with Mr, Shenckl, boss? He done had some trouble lately.” The car was alongside. Jim Lillard had a fleeting glimpse of the hulking driver. His eyes shot toward the back seat. The window was down and he couldn’t see anyone. Then he caught the gleam of metal as a thin round barrel protruded. Jim threw himself against the front seat. His long arms shot out across the cabby’s shoulder and he viciously wrenched the wheel to the right. Gunfire blasted into the peace- ful night and orange-red flames flicked spitefully from the car ahead. The windshield shattered in a spray of glass. There was the deadly whine of lead raking the length of the cab. It swung off the road, plunged into the shallow ditch. It bounced out, heeled over and ran several yards on two wheels. A rail fence splintered against its impact. A tire blew with a flat, smacking sound and the muddy furrows of the field slowed the cab’s speed. It rocked to a halt, miraculous- ly right side up. Jim picked himself off the floor and wrenched open the door. He jumped out, the heavy automatic springing into his hand from the shoulder hol- ster. Down the highway, the taillight of the black car winked out as it roared away. Jim stared after it, re- membering the license number he had automatically read. Gradually his full lips lost their fighting compression. He turned to the cab. The cabby wasn’t in sight. Jim opened the door. A giant bulk quiv- ered and shook, trying hard to push itself under the dash. Jim shook the cabby. “It’s over. They’re gone.” Slowly, suspiciously, long arms and legs unfolded. The man sat up, his eyes still rolling in fright. He wiped beads of cold sweat from his black forehead. “Boss-man, some one sure ain’t got no use for you at all!” Jim thoughtfully replaced his gun. “Who?” The cabby quickly shook his bullet head. “Unh-uh! Don’t ask me, boss. I ain’t craving to know!” IM surveyed the cab. The wind- shield showed only a few shreds of shattered glass. A deadly line of lit- tle jagged holes ran the length of the body, and Jim wondered how he and the cabby had escaped death in the leaden hail. The rear tire had blown half off the rim and the mud of the field oozed up over the wheel. The cabby scratched his head and his thick underlip lowered. “Boss, there sits my living and I ain’t got more’n three dollars to my name.” “Have the cab fixed and send the bill to me,” Jim Lillard replied. He turned, facing the distant lights. ‘Take me to the Shenckl home. I’ll call the police.” “That’s sweet music to me, boss. - Come on, I’ll show y’all the way.” They tramped directly across the fields toward the swank suburb of Blue Hills. Half an hour later, Jim waited impatiently while the gateman called the big house, still hidden by the trees of the parklike grounds. The old man nodded to Jim. ‘‘You go right up the drive, Mr. Lillard. Mr. Shenckl will be waiting.” Jim turned to the cabby. “Wait for me, Mr.—Mr.—” comicdooks (©