10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

HOT SEAT DOUBLE-CROSSER to the torpedo what burned Sansen.” “That puts you in the clear, Joey.” The Bloodhound Reporter’s harsh face wore a thoughtful frown. “All we do is find this chap, and he can testify you didn’t fire the shot.” “You don’t get it, Mister,” Tupper growled disgustedly. ‘“Sansen was ar- resting him. No, he’ll do no alibiing for me. ’Cos why? ’Cos chances are they’ll pin the killing on him if he does! No, that guy’s goin’ to keep his nose clean, see?”’. Devon nodded, a sardonic gleam in his gray eyes. His brain was working lightning fast. “Joey, I’ve a hunch you spoiled a nice little frameup,” he said softly, after a short pause. “Knowing Sansen would be picking this chap up tonight, some one arranged to have him bumped off and fix his murder on this man from the printer’s office. You be- ing on the spot and beating it in a hurry upset things. The killer must have trailed you, saw you get into my car, and followed with one of his pals until we hit a quiet street.” “You mean, I had to be put on ice in case I saw the mugg with the gun?” Tupper regarded Devon with wide eyes. ‘Mister, mebbe you got some- thing, only—I didn’t see the guy. An’ say, why didn’t they rub out this bim- bo, Prost—E. Prost, Printer—that’s the name was on the window, instead of killing Sansen?” “They had reasons, Joey, undoubt- edly.” The blond giant shrugged. “Prost’s murder might have opened awkward investigations into some- thing some one wanted kept quiet. But, in jail, charged with murder himself, anything Prost might say would be discredited.” | “Say you talk like you believed me, Mister !”? There was a hopeful note in Tupper’s thin voice. “Maybe I do. We've got to learn Prost’s home address,” Devon said quietly. “We’re going to have a little talk with him.” He left Tupper in the back and = 85 climbed under the wheel again, a hard gleam in his eyes. Ten minutes later, Devon came out of a corner drug store, a satisfied smile on his tight lips. “He lives in an apartment block back of Lowden Park,” he told Tupper. “What’s your interest in this, Mis- ter?” Tupper wanted to know after the car was rolling smoothly. “It means trouble if you’re caught luggin’ me around.” Devon grinned crookedly. “I’m a re- porter, Joey, not local. A policeman told me not long ago they keep report- ers muzzled in Oldham City. I don’t like being muzzled and besides, I’m afraid you’re booked for a session with a hangman H I stay out.” “You’re a regular guy, Mister,” Tupper said awkwardly. “Thanks.” “Better keep ’em till we're through,” Devon advised him dryly. He had more on his mind than merely clearing the little crook. He was interested in learning why—if Joey’s story was true—some one had apparently tried to frame Prost with Sansen’s killing. Devon was still pondering this an- gle when the wanted man suddenly leaned forward. “That's him!’ he said hoarsely. “Prost!’”’ His stabbing finger indicat- ed a skulking figure turning hurried- ly onto a side street. EVON nodded satisfaction. He had been afraid the police might reach the man before he’d a chance to talk with him. Once the Oldham City police learned that Sansen had flown from Brulon to arrest Prost, they would be hot on his trail. He tooled the sedan around the corner, caught Prost’s quick backward glance of alarm. “Hop out and grab him when I pull up, Joey,” he said. Tupper chuckled. “He’ll need wings to get away.” But Prost made no attempt to get away. A tall, thin man, he backed slowly against the wall when the lit- COMIC OO® S (©