10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 86: what you’re looking at

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

a crooks would welcome a chance to go gunning for him. But he hadn’t been in Oldham City long enough for any such attempt to be organized, even had he been recognized, which he doubted! His brain considered the only other solution possible. The killers’ quarry was Joe Tupper. In some way, they had known the hunted man was in the sedan, had trailed the car until it turned into a deserted street. Devon decided that a long talk with Tupper was essential. Fifteen minutes later, Devon braked the car on a lonely street some- where in the suburbs and’ switched off the lights. Joe Tupper ducked out, a thick-set, squat man. He stood shuffling awk- wardly on the planked sidewalk until Devon joined him, His pale eyes flick- ered furtively right and left, as though he contemplated making a dash for freedom. “No run-out powders, Joey,” Devon said grimly. He took the little erook’s arm, lifted him back into the tonneau and followed inside. “I want your story, more than ever since our friends tried to leave lead calling cards.” *“‘What’s the blinkin’ idea, Mister?” The squat man’s gaunt face registered suspicion. ‘Runnin’ me out right un- der the cops’ noses jest to hear my story, so you say?” “T’ve an abnormal bump of curiosi- ty,’ Devon told him, smiling softly. _ “Start talking, Joey.” He studied the man more closely now. The long, bony features bore a slight resemblance to a horse and a melancholy droop to the thin mouth contrasted sharply with a wary gleam in the pale eyes. A sly, cunning face, but not the face of a killer, Devon de- cided. Tupper grunted and started to swear loudly, a long stream of pro- fanity that lifted the blond giant’s eyebrows. “An’ I walked right into this,” he whined when he ran out of invectives. Devon poked a hard finger in the ——10-STORY DETECTIVE squat man’s chest. “You’re still in it,” he reminded him harshly, The little man grimaced, rubbed a none-too-clean hand across his mouth. “Funny, me startin’ out to make some honest dough an’ I step into a murder rap!” he grumbled. “Get down to facts,” snapped. Tupper nodded, went on: “When I spotted Sansen—he’s the dick was rubbed out—leavin’ the airfield to- night, I guessed he’d flown here to make a pinch. I knew him back in Brulon, an’ he don’t fly after small stuff, see? So I tailed him, watchin’ a chance to tip off the guy he was after. He headed straight for Corinne street without callin’ at headquarters, an’ hung around a small printing of- fice that had a light burning inside. “‘Mebbe ten or fifteen minutes later, the light went out and a fellow came through the front door. Sansen stepped up to him, said something about being under arrest and then the gun roared!” Devon 66 HERE were you?” Devon asked sharply. “Me?” Tupper swore again, softly and not so long this time. “I’d ducked down some basement steps to watch. Then, like I said, the gun cracked. I saw the flash across the street an’ Sansen dropped, so I tailed it toward Fourth, which was my mistake, see? There’s a cop on the corner. He went to grab me, but I ducked, slipped among the crowd an’ crawled into your car.” “What happened to the man out of the printing office?” The feeling that Tupper was still speaking the truth persisted in Devon’s mind. Tupper scowled, an aggrieved look in his pale eyes. “Him? He shouted, ‘The shot came from over there,’ when I started running. I knew damn well where it came from, Mister, but I wasn’t interested. He musta ducked back in the building or mebbe he beat it the other way. I dunno. I didn’t stop to see what happened to him or Conn Gisook (©