10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 85: what you’re looking at

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

HOT SEAT DOUBLE-CROSSER—————————--—83 He heard hot breath hiss behind him, then: “Who the hell are you, Mister? How d’you know me?” the fellow inquired suspiciously. “Quite simple.” Devon punched the starter. “The police are busy looking for one Joe Tupper, have a cordon around this section, and you’re hiding a few yards away in my car.” He wheeled the sedan out into the avenue and drove south. “Uh-h! An’ you ain’t turnin’ me in?” Tupper sounded incredulous. Devon went eight or nine blocks and swung east onto a deserted street before he spoke. “Why did you kill him, Tupper?” he asked then, a note of contempt in his voice. Evidently possessed of a one-track mind, Tupper inquired: “What’s the idea, helpin’ me get away?” “TI haven’t helped you get away.” Devon laughed shortly. “Merely pro- longed the moment of your arrest. I don’t like killers, Tupper, including ceop-killers. I’m interested, though, in learning, first-hand, the story behind the killing.” Joe Tupper sighed gustily. “You’re a queer cookie, Mister, only you got it all wrong. I didn’t kill the dick, but I might jest as well. Me, with a record long as your arm an’ spotted beatin’ it away from a stiff, it’ll be duck soup for a judge an’ jury. But I’m tellin’ you again, Mister, s’help me I ain’t never bumped a guy off yet. I don’t even earry a roscoe!” Devon’s cynical smile faded, catch- ing an earnest note in the man’s whin- ing voice. Back in Devon’s brain was a conviction that Tupper had told the truth. His eyes, alert and thoughtful, glimpsed the headlights of a car in the reflector and drawing closer. He auto- matically pulled over to the side of the road, his pulse beating a little faster. Maybe he would take a story out of Oldham City yet! His mind occupied, he was unpre- pared when, without warning, Tup- per abruptly catapulted out of the rear seat, bent forward and grabbed the wheel with thick fingers. Before Devon could do anything about it, the sedan swerved across the road. The driver of the oncoming car yelled a string of curses. Devon could see his face, thin and vicious, twisted in lines of quick terror as the man spun his wheel in a frantic effort to avert a collision. Swearing softly, the Bloodhound Reporter wrested control of the wheel from Tupper. In the same instant, he saw the ugly snout of a sub-machine gun poking through the open rear window of the plunging car. CHAPTER II COLD clamminess trickled along Devon’s spine. But for Joe Tup- ' per’s quick dive, that Tommy-gun would have been spitting death at this moment right into the sedan. He jerked the wheel and the sedan crashed into the hood of the death car. He straightened the car out then, sent it roaring ahead. Behind them, a loud crash brought a hard gleam to his cloudy eyes. “Now why was them torpedoes gunnin’ for us?” Tupper’s plaintive voice broke a heavy silence. “They got themselves all mixed up with a wall an’ busted a nice car.” “Nice work, Joey,” Devon said quietly. “We’d both be dead meat now if you hadn’t spotted their game. Rec- ognize them?” “Nope. But they don’t belong here,” Tupper growled. “Happened to glance through the rear window when I spot- ted their lights chasing us, saw the driver an’ the gorilla with the Tommy- gun all set.” He leaned forward until his nar- row chin rested on the back of Devon’s seat. ““Ain’t no heat on me, Mister,” he muttered softly, “’cept the cops back there. Mebbe some tough people don’t like the way you part your hair?’ The Bloodhound Reporter shook his head, gray eyes thoughtful. Plenty of COMIC OO® S (©