10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

HOT SEAT DOUBLE-CROSSER sides of his lean nose twisted slightly, the only outward sign of the perturba- tion gripping him. - “You show up a few minutes after Sansen is killed,” Honeyman rasped. “Now you sneak along to the room where the killer and another guy wanted for murder are holed up! An’ one of ’em has just beat the chair by putting a slug in his brain. No, you don’t fit in!”? He jabbed a stubby fin- ger in Tupper’s direction. “You wouldn’t know this fellow, of course?” Devon’s casual glance touched the little man’s gloomy features careless- ly. He shook his head, grinned with an assurance he didn’t feel. “Could hardly forget that face if. I’d once seen it,” he said. He disre- garded the surprised expression in Tupper’s depressed eyes, inquired po- litely: ‘““Who is he?” “Santa Claus!” Honeyman barked. “An’ you’re a damn liar!” Devon’s blond head shook reprov- ingly. “Harsh words, sergeant,” he murmured. “I’m taking you in for questioning, Devon,” Honeyman snapped. “Maybe you'll find that funny.” The Bloodhound Reporter shook broad shoulders. Behind his smiling eyes, his brain was busy. Prost’s sui- cide puzzled him. It looked like an ad- mission of guilt. But his mind still clung to the conviction that the print- er had spoken the truth, that a frame- ‘up had been built around the dead man. And the few hours Honeyman could hold him in jail would lessen considerably his chances of uncover- ‘ ing the man or men behind that frame-up. : : He stood silent while the sergeant - instructed his man to phone headquar- ters, then: “Doesn’t it seem strange that a man committing suicide would use a si- lencer?” he asked quietly. | Sergeant Honeyman grinned sar- donically. “Maybe,” he said, “‘he didn’t want to wake the neighbors.” Devon casually strolled across the room, bent over the dead man and 89 stared at the blackened hole. After a few seconds, he straightened abrupt- ly, a peculiar gleam in his gray eyes. He beckoned the sergeant to join him. “This chap was murdered, Honey- man!’’ he said. CHAPTER IV ERGEANT HONEYMAN’S lips curled in a sneer. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “He was drowned in a bath tub. The whole setup is damn funny—” “Take a look!” Devon interrupted roughly. “The bullet went in at a slanting downward angle. A man hold- ing a gun to his own temple would either fire straight or at an upward angle. Like this.” He stooped as though to pick up the silenced automatic from the floor, checked himself and in a lightning movement, plucked the holstered gun from Honeyman’s shoulder clip. The sergeant made a grab for the gun, an oath on his tight lips. With reluctant interest in his angry eyes, he dropped his hand when Devon swiftly raised the weapon to his own temple to illustrate his point. “Whoever shot Prost stood over him,” the Bloodhound Reporter mur- mured. “Examine the wound your- self.” “Then you know who he is!’ Hon- eyman snarled. He hesitated, then complied with Devon’s request. Seconds later, he dribbled a discor- dant whistle. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly, heav- . ing his wide shoulders upright, his eyes swinging to Tupper. “An’ maybe we’ve got the fellow that fixed it!’ He glanced back at Devon. “Seems to me you know plenty about the whole— Drop that gun, Devon!” Devon held the police positive cov- ering the sergeant’s bulky form, a cynical grin flattening his hard lips. - “Step over here with the sergeant!” he ordered the plain-clothes man who had just finished phoning headquar- ters. His eyes never left Honeyman’s purple face. : Conn NOOK (©