10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

eee 1OSTORY. DETECTIVE ——— She opened the cab door, said, ‘“‘The News Building, driver,” and climbed in, skirts swirling. Ashes Bly thanked the gods, shift- ed gears, and swung the cab around. The rabbity little man behind the gir] stood riveted in amazement for a sec- ond and then cursed foully and dashed after the cab. Ashes chuckled. There would be a time of reckoning with the little man. As for the gir! in the cab’s tonneau, she was behaving as one would expect the possessor of such brilliantly red hair to behave. She was smoking nerv- ously, tapping on the seat, plucking at her skirt. Ashes decided she was con- fronting a situation with which she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to cope. “Shall I wait, miss?” he asked when he jockeyed into the curb before the towering edifice that housed Macollum Publications. “No,” snapped the girl. “Here.” She pushed a bill at Ashes. Ashes’ white teeth flashed. ““Darned if I didn’t forget to throw on the me- ter, miss,” he said. LTHOUGH the girl was nettled she didn’t have time, since she was already scrambling out onto the sidewalk, to show it. “Make a guess,” she said peremp- torily. “Forget it,” Ashes said. “I wasn’t going to charge you, anyhow.” “You—what?”’ “On the house,” Ashes said expan- sively. “First passenger from the air- port every day.” “Don’t be absurd!’’ exclaimed the girl. She handed Ashes a twenty-dol- lar bill. “Take five. That ought to cov- er it.” “No doubt,” Ashes agreed. “But I haven’t any change. Forget it.” Under other circumstances, sueh an approach couldn’t have missed. But this girl had no time for shenanigans. “Come with me,” she said curtly. “T’ll get change.” Ashes was out and had the girl’s bag in a trice. He’d been hoping for just this. He fell in behind her, grin- ning. The blistering sun made his streaked white hair contrast more vividly than ever with the mahogany- brown of his face. His nickname was apt. His hair was for all the world like a pile of ashes. They went through the plate-glass doors of the News Building, passed an eyeful of blonde at a reception desk. Then they swung left through a gleaming eorridor that wound around to an office labeled simply: SECRETARY. The gir! didn’t lose any momentum as she went through the doorway. She stopped, swiveled, looked at the alleged secretary and demanded: “‘Where’s Uncle Mike?” Ashes looked at the secretary, too. — He wanted to continue to look. She was a tall, rawboned woman, actually; but the poise of her supple body, the calm- ness of her blue eyes, and the huge coils of meticulously arranged raven hair at the nape of her neck gave her something which no girl in Ashes’ ex- perience ever had had. She was fire and ice. She had the strength of a man in her full-blown, graceful body—and the promise of ev- erything tenderly feminine. Her name was Katie Boyle, and she was M.M. Macollum’s private secretary. She said levelly at the girl, “I don’t know where M.M. is Marin. I imagine he’s gone off on one of his want-to-be- alone spells.” “Tony doesn’t think so,” said M.M. Macollum’s niece. Katie Boyle shrugged. “His copy is delivered regularly. M.M. has gone off like this before.” “Tony never got worried before,” said the girl. She whirled and marched out of the office. “You don’t believe a word you said,” Ashes murmured to Katie Boyle. Katie Boyle’s poise almost cracked. “Who are you?” she demanded, eyeing Ashes up and down. “Taxi driver,’ Ashes said eagily, holding up the green traveling bag. “Better collect a better story, honey. cComiclbool C©