10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 92: what you’re looking at

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

90—_—______—_——_——_———-10-STORY DETECTIVE “Blast you, Devon, I’ll make you sorry for this!” the sergeant grated. “Interfering with the police added to the list of charges I’m going to prefer against you.” Devon’s blond head shook sadly. “You'll thank me for preventing you making a fool of yourself,” he said gently. He kept the gun muzzle flickering between Honeyman and the sullen detective now reluctantly strid- ing across the room. “You see,” he went on, “Tupper didn’t kill Sansen. He merely stepped into a frameup intended to pin that killing on Prost, spoiled the setup. So, for some urgent reason, Prost had to be eliminated—quick !” “You’re a fool, Devon!’ Honeyman said harshly. “Drop the gun an’ we'll . forget that part. There’ll be a squad car here any minute. You can’t get away.” “I think I can. I’m interested only in two things, sergeant,” Devon said grimly. “Bringing guilty criminals to justice and getting a story. I mean to do both tonight. I’m busting that frameup and clearing Tupper, if I have to shoot a dozen thick-headed policemen to do it! If you think I’m fooling, order your man to go for his gun. Now, face about, quick!” The two men hesitated. For a tense moment, Devon thought his bluff had failed. He raised the gun a threaten- ing inch. Feet shuffling awkwardly, the two detectives heeled sgullenly, then. Honeyman was the last to turn, an ugly snarl on his thick lips, the scar on his face a flaming brand. Devon stepped behind the plain- clothes man, scooped the man’s gun from its holster and pocketed it. He said: “Now, drop the key to those hand- cuffs behind you!” The key jangled to the floor. ECONDS later, released from his ‘FY manacles, the grinning Tupper ironed Honeyman’s right wrist to his companion’s left hand under Devon’s curt orders. The thin scream of a4 siren drawing rapidly near brought a gleam to Devon’s cloudy eyes. “We’re going out by the rear stairs,” he said softly. “If either of you squawk, it’s going to be too bad!” “What you gonna do with ’em now?” Tupper inquired curiously when the two prisoners had been marched into the back lane under threat of their own guns. “Yeah, what?’ Honeyman gritted. “This is kidnaping.” “You’re out of circulation for a few hours,” Devon said softly. “I need that long without every lawman in the state at my heels. Now, climb in back of the car with Tupper before the whole police force come looking for you. Rap the first one making a wrong move over the skull, Joey!” Tupper grinned. “It'll be a pleasure, boss,” he murmured. | | After the prisoners were loaded, the Bloodhound Reporter tooled the car out of the lane. He rolled swiftly to- ward the East Side, a thoughtful frown on his harsh face. If his hunch failed him, he could expect no mercy from Honeyman. Kidnaping in this state carried a twenty year sentence. Devon questioned Tupper over his shoulder. He followed certain direc- tions, and ten minutes later braked in front of a dilapidated warehouse on one of the East Side’s dark streets. Ignoring Honeyman’s lurid curses, between them, Devon and his squat companion herded the manacled po- lice officers inside the musty building. They went down rickety wooden steps that led to a dank-smelling cellar. A dim grayness filtered in through two dust-covered windows to relieve the thick blackness. Another pair of handcuffs from the sergeant’s pocket served to clip an ankle of each man together. “I’m leaving you with them, Joey,” Devon said. “Keep ’em quiet until I return. If things go right, Ill have a line on the man who engineered San- sen’s killing in a few hours.” “You mean, you know who he is?” Tupper asked incredulously. COMM Ghook (©