10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

MEMO FROM THE MURDERED—— Uncle Mike’s little girl is mad enough to call in the law.” Ashes kept his head turned long enough as he went out the door to see Katie Boyle’s pink tongue wet her lips. He caught up with Marin Moerly as she was entering the elevator, and fol- lower her dutifully as she hurried out again on the fourth floor and barged into the city room, legs flashing. T WAS impossible that the din of chattering typewriters, bawls of “Copy!” and whirrings of telephone bells ceased momentarily; but it seemed that way. Certainly plenty of eyes riveted on the girl as she strode to a door marked: MANAGING EDITOR Henry Esterly “Essy,” cried Marin Moerly, plant- ing herself in front of a bald, bright- eyed man’s desk, “‘where is Uncle Mike?” Henry Esterly barked into a tele- phone, saw the girl, winced and re- moved his eyes from her. “Yeh, yeh,” he said and slammed down the phone and seized another. ‘“‘Who are you and waddaya want?” he grunted. ‘‘No, he isn’t. And I don’t know when he will be. Call back tomorrow.” The phone banged. “Hear that?” Esterly demand- ed of the girl. “That’s where I stand. Your uncle hasn’t been around since we had that shindig at the Sport Club, two weeks ago.” “Essy!” Fear riddled the girl’s voice. “Essy !” “Take it easy, Marin,” Esterly said nervously, ““‘Who’s this?” He pointed at Ashes. | Marin remembered. “A taxi driver. Pay him for me, please. ... But, Essy, you must have some idea. Katie said Unele Mike’s copy is delivered regu- larly.” Hsterly started to draw out a wallet, then his attention was taken by the girl. Ashes was satisfied. Once paid, he’d be expected to leave. “Sure, Mike’s copy is delivered,” Esterly snapped, drumming on the oo desk with blunt, capable fingers. He was a middle-aged man, paunchy, a dynamo of energy. His words were jerky, his voice staccato. ‘‘A messen- ger delivers it. Who, I don’t know. A guy, is all that kid at the reception desk says.” “But, Essy—” “Damn it, what am I supposed to do? Don’t you think I’m just as much out on a limb as anyone? I’ve gotta run this rag while he’s away. Make deci- sions I don’t want to make. I tell you, Marin—” “T don’t want to hear it!” “You must hear it,” Esterly raged. “You’ve got to take some of this re- sponsibility off me. You were closer to Mike Macollum than anyone. You know about his policies—”’ “T won’t listen!” Twin spots of color stained the girl’s cheeks. “I’m going home.” She spun on her heel and reversed the procedure of entering. This time, however, one bald, bright-eyed man- aging editor followed her like a puppy dog pleading for a bone. Ashes fell in behind them, and he interpreted the glances of the city room correctly this time. Everyone was amused. What reporter wouldn’t be amused at seeing his hard-bitten boss being bitten in turn? On the ground floor again, Ashes lounged against the reception counter while Esterly and Marin Moerly fought. “Gee, you’re cute,” he said to the blonde receptionist. “T’ve got a friend, hacker,” said the girl tartly. “A dozen of them, I’]l bet,”’ Ashes said admiringly. The girl studied him. He kept his chiseled face sober. He won. “I thought you were just being fresh,” the gir] said. “Not me, Mary,” Ashes said. “I think you’re swell.” “My name isn’t Mary,” she said. “It’s Helen.” Commiclbool C©