10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 80: what you’re looking at

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

78 self, only I need your help. You’re sup- posed to check figures with me before the money is locked up. It’s five thou- sand bucks apiece, Ed. That’s a lot of hay.” “And how about the depositors?” I inquired. He shrugged. “You know every- thing is insuréd. It won’t cost them a cent. Well, what do you say?” I stared at Chris for a long time. He stared right back at me without flinch- ing, his face as expressionless as a ripe tomato. That’s the kind of guy he was. “Okay,” I said, “that’s good enough for me.” He tendered his hand and I grasped it. His palm was moist and felt like a piece of cold dough taken from an ice box. We talked about it some more and then it got to be pretty late, so Chris went home and left me alone. The following Wednesday every- thing went along smoothly according to schedule. Mr. Crimmons went home shortly before closing. Seated behind my rolltop desk I could see Chris stashing packages of currenty in dif- ferent places around his person. He’d brought a small parcel with him that morning, wrapped in heavy manila paper and he carried it down to the safe with him. When he came up we didn’t say anything. I let him out, locked the door behind us and we walked casually in opposite directions. I didn’t get to my room that night till pretty late. Midnight almost. I went straight to bed, but I didn’t fall asleep. I couldn’t. The room was dark and my eyes were glued to the radium dial of the clock on my bureau. The hands kept moving slowly, relentless- ly, and as the deadline approached my teeth were chattering. And then it came. A muffled explo- _ sion, full, deep-throated. I just lay there, the skin gathering in little pleats at the back of my neck, and the heart thumping hard against my ribs. My fingernails dug so tightly into the sheets they must have made little holes. ——10-STORY DETECTIVE What happened then was something not calculated in my plans. Maybe an hour had passed when the door banged open and electric glare coned down.. I blinked my eyes to find Sheriff Sam Newbold towering above my bed, his beard-stubbled wedge-shaped face hard and grim. “Come on, Ed, get up,” he said harshly. I struggled to a sitting position. “What—what’s the matter, sheriff?” Then I saw the big gun dangling in his leathery fist and I knew what the matter was. Something had gone wrong, plenty wrong. I got up and started to pull my pants on. The sheriff went rummaging through my bureau and suddenly I heard him let out a sharp whistle. I turned and there he was riffling through a sheaf of crisp currency that he pulled out from under some of my clothes. He turned his eyes on me and they glinted like bits of wire. “Where’s the rest of it, Ed?” he de- manded. I felt moisture on my upper lip and the sweat was trickling down my back, but I didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut. We walked the four blocks to the bank. Mr. Crimmons was there and so were two of the sheriiff’s deputies. And right away I saw where Chris Jaeger had crossed me. R. CRIMMONS, nervous as a rab- bit, kept shaking his gray face. “Y’m surprised, Ed. I never would’ve believed it. Look, they found your fountain pen beside the safe here where you dropped it. And your hand- kerchief was in the alley, with your initials on it. I had faith in you, Ed. Why, only a couple of days ago I told Chris that I was goin’ to promote you, make you sort of manager because I was going South for my health . He kept blabbering away, but I didn’t hear the rest. I was thinking of Chris and how he’d tried to frame me, leaving my pen on the floor, planting some of the loot in my room. He’d never wanted to leave Midvale. He COMICOO® S (©