10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 83: what you’re looking at

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

TSD . ning dress and wearing a wide smile stepped to the front of the dais and held up a pudgy hand for silence. “The management,” he announced over muted conversation, “has cur- tailed the usual dance program to en- able its patrons to listen in on Martin Wyndell’s speech.” A smattering of handclaps reward- ed him. Seconds later, a clear voice spoke through the radio loudspeaker rigged up on the platform: “And his record as State’s District Attorney for the past four years is well known to you all. Tonight’s is the first in a series of radio addresses opening his campaign. It is with great pleasure I introduce Martin Wyndell, candidate for governor.” Devon scowled. Uncannily success- ful in solving crimes that had baffled police and G-men alike, he was known to the Argonaut’s avid readers as the Bloodhound Reporter. Politics, unless connected with crime, bored him. And politics had halted him in Old- ham City that afternoon halfway on his return trip home from a visit south. However, the telegram des- .patched by Devon’s editor had noth- ing to do with crime. In fact, after reading the message, Devon decided it had nothing to do with anything so far as he was con- cerned. He suspected a touch of irony be- hind the curt request to break his journey and report tonight’s opening speech by Martin Wyndell. He had complied with the request to the ex- tent of staying overnight merely to renew acquaintance with Oldham City, next in importance to Brulon, the state’s capital. For the rest, one of the local scribes had promised him a verbatim copy of the speech for trans- mission to his paper. And now the management of Groc- cio’s had ruined one of his hours of relaxation. The scowl on Devon’s harsh face deepened. He rose quietly, a tall, broad-shouldered man with flat hips, HOT SEAT DOUBLE-CROSSER his lean six feet of hardness topped by blond hair. Nearby, the thin wail of a police siren came faintly to his ears. His eyes gleamed. He dropped a bill on the table just as a deep voice with a peculiar husk to it signified Martin Wyndell was on the air. The long strides that carried Devon outside seemed unhurried, yet he moved swiftly. On Fourth Avenue, a large crowd milled across the road near an intersecting street a short dis- tance away. The Bloodhound Reporter dodged between stalled cars, mingled with the throng. His tall figure pushed for- ward until he was jostled among the front ranks being held back by a burly patrolman. He glanced along a dimly lighted side street, spotted two cars drawn in to the curb. Several men were grouped around something on the ground. The walls of Devon’s thin - nostrils quivered. ‘“‘What’s the trouble?” he asked the policeman. “Murder!” the man grunted, his at- tention occupied in controlling the surging crowd. “Hey, come back!” he yelled when Devon thrust past him. “Reporter,” the blond giant flung over his shoulder. He headed along the side street before the harassed patrol- man could prevent him. | The three men stood watching a fourth who knelt beside a still figure sprawled over the pavement. They turned and glanced curiously at Devon when he approached. HE Bloodhound Reporter recog- nized one as a police sergeant he had met at headquarters that after- noon. Sergeant Honeyman was a big, deep-chested man. A long scar disfig- ured the left side of his square face, gave him a permanent ferocious scowl. He took a step forward. “Beat it, Devon!” he rasped. “We > keep reporters muzzled here until we’re ready to dish out information. Get back among the crowd!” commiclooolk 81 - CO