10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

MEMO FROM THE MURDERED———————Y———ll “Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read all about it!” Esterly’s gray face appeared in the doorway. His bald spot was moist and glistening. He drove himself to the closet and looked. It didn’t look as if he’d stay on his feet afterwards. Spit- tle bubbled from his lips. “It’s him,” he croaked. “It’s M.M.” Ashes stared fascinatedly at the fig- ure of the man, lying face down, in the closet. The figure was pushed back, almost out of sight. Ashes felt his stomach turn over. “Shut that door!” he roared. Esterly shoved mightily. ‘“Stran- gled,” he said. “Strangled with his own necktie.” “Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read all about the murder !’’ Both Esterly and Ashes were carved in stone. They couldn’t move. The newsboy’s wail, rising from the street to the stench of the room, paralyzed them. The newsboy was crying things that he didn’t know. That he couldn’t know! “Wuxtry! Publisher = strangled. M.M. Macollum found in closet of his bedroom! Wuxtry! Read all about it!” Esterly was drooling. His lax lips worked painfully. ‘““Why, we’ve just found the body!” he babbled. ‘““We’ve just—found the body. And the story’s on the street!” EMINENT NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER STRANGLED M.M. MACOLLUM MURDERED BODY IN CLOSET Eye. ROSER SLAINTE Tuesday, July 20—Mysteriously missing sinee Tuesday night, July 7, M.M. Macol- lum, volatile little publisher of one of the nation’s major news services, was discovered about noon in the closet of his bedroon in luxurious Braxten Chambers — dead— strangled with his own necktie. His niece, Miss Marin Moerly, made the discovery. “This Slainte,’’ Ashes said to Ester- ly, “got in on a hot one.” Esterly’s plump nervous’ body jerked. ““Ineredible—that he knew and we didn’t. Filthy blackmailer. Mike fired Rosie about two months ago. Rosie went over to the Clarion, “Get back to your office,” Ashes said. “You’re no taxi driver,” Esterly said suddenly. “Cops don’t let taxi- drivers have the run of a homicide.” Ashes chuckled. “A newspaperman should be able to spot me.” Esterly studied the pile of whit- ish-gray hair floating six feet above _ Ashes heels. His eyes ran over the big, controlled frame, glanced at _ the brown, clender fingers. “You’re a cop,” Esterly guessed. And when Ashes winked, he added, “Not acity cop, though. Your picture’s been in the papers.” “Get back to your office,” Ashes said. “You’re boss man now.” “The hell I am,” Esterly snapped. “That paper’s hot. Let Marin Moerly run it. She inherits.” : “You’re not going to jam that little redhead at a time like this, are you?” Ashes said. “‘To hell with her. Okay, I’m a suck- er, though.” Esterly bobbed toward the door. “Listen, you, whoever you are, we rate first crack at any dirt on this job, It’s our publisher killed. How’d it look if that lousy Clarion Seoops us again?” HE assistant medical examiner said, “Slugged in the jaw, bumped on the back of the head and strangled while unconscious. Dead too damned long for this weather. Two weeks ago could be right.” “Thanks, doc,’ said Lieutenant Hartzell of homicide. He glared at Ashes. “You know more than me, I’ll bet.” Ashes shook his head. “This is my party only indirectly.” “Who you working for?” Hartzell asked. “Knudsen? Stimson? Mellet? Donovan?” Ashes shrugged. “I don’t know my- self. I still get my orders through the regular channels.” Ashes started out. “Hey,” roared Hartzell, nettled. ‘“Where’s that Moerly dame? You and DOOLK (C©