10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

94 10-STORY DETECTIVE The hatchet-faced man paused un- certainly, glanced quickly at his com- panion. “You fools!”’ Wyndell snapped, a black scowl darkening his full face. “He’s bluffing. Get the job over.” Hatchet-face shook his head. “Ain’t no hurry,” he growled. “Let him talk.” Devon grinned bleakly at the big man. “Your fears were realized when you arrived in Oldham City yesterday to begin your campaign. You spotted Austin—or Prost. There was a dan- ger he would hear and recognize your voice over the radio. You had to work fast. You long-distanced Sansen, tipped him off where he’d find Prost, fixed a time for the arrest, and then brought in these two thugs from Bru- lon. You arranged for them to shoot Sansen just as he was arresting Prost and then frame the poor devil with the killing. “It would have worked but for Joe Tupper accidentally spoiling the set- up. Your thugs saw him sneak into my car, followed and tried to get him in case he’d seen the killer. When that failed, they did the next best thing. Waited for Prost in his rooms and put him out of the way, leaving it appear a suicide. And that’s where they slipped !”’ “The hell we did!’ snarled. “It was a—” “Quiet, you fool!” Wyndell shouted. Devon laughed softly. “You boys plastered Prost’s prints all over the gun—the same one burned Sansen, wasn’t it? But one of you left his own prints all over the magazine when he loaded the gun. The police, figuring Prost took the easy way out, haven’t attached any importance to those prints—yet! But a word from me and—” “You’re a liar!” the man with the plastered face accused thinly. “I load- ed the gun before I got Sansen an’ IJ wiped the magazine, didn’t I, Brad?” “I ain’t sure,” the hatchet-faced Bradley muttered ene “Maybe you didn’t, Ed.” Hatchet-face Devon’s gray eyes glinted. “So Ed’s the double killer. It’ll cost you a little more for keeping him out of the chair, Wyndell.” “Damn you!” Wyndell exploded savagely. “The papers are relatively unimportant. If necessary I can ex- plain how they came into my safe.” Devon’s blond head shook. “Not when Smiley swears how you used them to blackmail him right after Bracker was murdered. And that Bracker held them in his possession until the night of his murder!” Wyndell drew a gun from his dress- ing gown pocket. “The papers! Where are they?” he snarled. “T figured you’d try a double-cross.” Devon laughed softly. ““The papers are in a safe place along with the story. Anything happens to me, they’ll drop into the right hands!” “T killed Bracker for those papers!” Wyndell said thickly. “Only he died quickly. Not the way you'll go out, unless you talk fast!” “How about a deal?” Devon said smoothly. Wyndell considered silently for a few seconds, a speculative gleam in his eyes. He nodded, then. “T’ll give you five thousand and not a cent more.” “Hey, wait, now!” Ed stepped for- ward, a hot light flaming in his eyes. “The damned papers might put you in the clear, but while this mugg lives, he can send me to swing!’’ “Take it easy,” Wyndell snapped. “Once he gets paid, he won’t talk.” “TI ain’t givin’ him the chance!” E.d’s arm flashed up. The gun in his right hand lined Devon’s lean body for an instant, then spat flame. Devon flung sideways in the chair. The lightning move saved his life. He felt burning pain sting his left shoul- der, then Sergeant Honeyman’s harsh voice snapped out from the bedroom door. “Drop the guns! All of you, quick!” Ed whirled, the gun in his hand barking again. The sergeant shot a fractional sec- . Conn Ghook (©