10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

62 police questioned me. I happened to be able to prove by my landlady that the car had been stolen not ten minutes before. The police let me go, but told me to hang around.” Jim picked up the gun, his blue eyes shrewd and distant. He studied Paul Walker. Take the muck of ashes and tears away and he’d be handsome enough. There was something square- cut and rugged about him, something in the hard set of his jaw that was definitely in his favor. Walking to the phone, Jim called the police station. Walker started up out of his chair, but the gun made him change his mind. His face became sullen and dark, but he resumed his seat. Jim asked questions and listened, then hung up. He returned to the bed. “Okay, it checks. But why did you come in here, threatening me?” Walker looked sheepish. “I was mad clear through. Bradley Shenckl has given me enough pushing around. I figured you were his tool. I wanted to scare you out of town.” Jim considered the wide green stripe in his pajamas and his mind raced among the strange angles this case presented. He looked up from under his brows. “Are you in love with Ruth Miller?” Walker’s face changed. It lit up like a carnival midway and he started to talk. Then his lips quirked contempt- uously. ; “Why tell you? Everyone figures it’s a play for Ruth’s money.” “Is it?” “Mister, ask that again and I’ll bat down your teeth, gun or no gun!” The detective hefted the gun in his hand. “I believe you would,” he sighed. “Walker, you’ve got the neatest flock of weak answers and half-baked alibis I’ve met in a month of Sundays.” He released the cartridge clip from the handle of the gun. “I represent an insurance company that don’t give a rip if Uncle Bradley is a bad boy, or you're a gigolo making a play for the gal’s bank account.” 10STORY DETECTIVE————_——— Walker’s face tightened angrily, but Jim paid no attention. “I didn’t either, until someone tried out a Tommy gun on me. That makes it per- sonal. That makes the company and me have the same idea—get the guy that pulled the job. Maybe it’s you, maybe someone else. 1 can say there’s angles that make things look bad for you. Do we understand one another?” The young man flushed. “Yes. But I didn’t kidnap Ruth.” “All right, you didn’t. So I take a chance you’re telling the truth.” Jim ejected the cartridge in the chamber and tossed the weapon to Walker. ‘“‘Get going, and don’t pull another stunt like this.” Walker pocketed the gun and pulled himself to his feet. He stared at Jim for a long moment and then walked to the door. He had it open when Jim stopped him. “Fair warning, Walker. If I get proof enough to pin the job on you, I’ll come after you. I won’t be fooling.” “Fair enough,” the young man an- swered. “Mind if I do some sleuthing on my own?” “Help yourself.” Jim generously waved his hand. Walker was gone. For an hour Jim sat on the edge of the bed and smoked cigarettes, wondering if he’d been a damned fool. For three days Jim had Tilly drive him around the countryside in a rent- ed car. He might as well have spent his time in the hotel room. He didn’t see a spot that would make a likely hideout. There was no report of strangers in the countryside, of men who could have been Ruth’s abduc- tors. He had drawn an absolute blank and the company wouldn’t like it. The fourth morning Jim had the giant, lazy negro drive him out to the Shenckl estate. Bradley was as gaunt and soft spoken as ever and readily called Ruth at Jim’s request. She came into the library, saw Jim, and stopped short. Her soft face showed disgust. Conn NOOK (©