10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

88 Tupper in a safe place while I find out what’s behind tonight’s work.” On the pavement, Prost turned and stared curiously at Devon. “Who are you?” he muttered. ““Your face is fa- miliar.” Devon smiled grimly. “Some people call me the Bioodhound Reporter,” he said. “Now, get going.” “I’ve heard of you.” Prost’s dull eyes brightened. “I’m trusting you and—thanks. I won’t be long.” Devon waited until the man’s thin figure disappeared inside the build- ing, then drove around the corner. A minute later, lights doused and en- gine running noiselessly, the sedan was parked in the back lane shadows of the apartment block. “You ain’t swallowing his tale, are you, Mister?” Tupper inquired abruptly. Devon nodded shortly without speaking. The little squat man muttered a soft oath. “Me, I heard every word he said. An’ if I was a cop, I’d still pinch him: for the job.” “His story was no more improbable than your own.” The Bloodhound Re- porter laughed cynically. “I didn’t be- lieve you on account of your hones face.” 3 ““You—you can tell if a guy’s spill- in’ the truth?” Tupper muttered in- credulously. “An understanding of human na- ture, Joey.” Devon’s smile faded. “Now you'd take the gold teeth from a dead nigger’s mouth, but you’d nev- er kill a man in cold blood.” “Cripes, not me!” The little crook shivered. ‘An’ it ain’t ’cos I don’t fan- cy a rope round me neck, not quite.” He subsided in a corner. Devon could hear him sucking his teeth noisily. 66 O FIND him, Joey,” Devon said, after ten minutes had elapsed without any sign of Prost. “Suite seven, second floor. If the po- lice are there—” he grinned crooked- ly—‘‘don’t wait.” 10-STORY DETECTIVE “T don’t like it,” Tupper said nerv- ously, but he hopped out of the car and entered the building. Devon waited restlessly through an- other five minutes, then he, too, climbed out of the sedan. He slipped through the rear door, found himself in a short hallway. Long strides car- ried him up the back stairs to the second floor. The narrow passage was deserted. Suite seven lay at the far end. He moved noiselessly over worn carpet, bent to listen at the door. It opened in the same instant and a thick-set man stood framed there. The man had hard eyes and was un- mistakably a plain-clothes man. He moved fast despite his bulk. A quick jerk pulled Devon inside the room be- fore the Bloodhound Reporter could resist. “This bird was listening at the door, sarge,” the hard-eyed man growled. Devon straightened leisurely, smil- ing under Sergeant Honeyman’s hot glare. His eyes flicked across to Joe Tupper. The little man was standing by a cheap dresser, shiny handcuffs on his thick wrists, a dejected light in his pale eyes. The sergeant took a short step for- ward, the long sear on his blunt face suddenly a dull red. “So you can’t keep your nose out!” he growled. ‘‘Leoks like you’ve got some explaining to do, Devon. You’ve popped up on the scene right after two killings, and both apparently con- nected. So where d’you fit in?” His grim eyes left Devon’s face, switched to where Prost sat slumped in a faded plush chair. The blond giant followed che direc- tion of his glance, stared bleakly at the gray powder burns around the hole in Prost’s right temple! Devon’s eyes traveled slowly down the right arm overhanging the chair arm. They paused for a brief second on the auto- matic lying on the floor, a silencer screwed on its barrel, then came back to Honeyman’s harsh face. “TI don’t fit in,” he said softly. The Conn (Cc NOOK (©