10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

MEMO FROM THE MURDERED as he passed the little man. In a way, he supposed, it was a dirty trick. But time was precious. Sooner or later, though, Ashes knew he’d have to settle up with the little man. He hadn’t the faintest notion of just how vital that little man weuld become. Ashes was hurrying, but didn’t seem to be. At the News Building, he grinned at the blonde receptionist. “Hullo, Mary.” “My name’s Helen,” the gir!) snapped, but she continued to look at Ashes’ tanned face and wide grin. Her eyes were brown, and if there hadn’t been so much mascara on her lashes, she would have been very appealing. Most any woman is appealing with mist in her eyes; and there was mist here. “You’ve been crying, baby,” Ashes murmured. “Tt’s nothing,” the gir] said. Ashes made his face black. “If I thought some guy was hurting you—” Helen looked up. “You’re a good guy. What’s your name?” “Ashley, honey. Call me Ashes. Look, would you go out with me? Just once. It won’t be cheating on the boy friend, because I won’t try anything funny ?” It was the mention of the boy friend that changed her, made her scared, sore, uncertain. “Him!” she cried. And her eyes shifted uneasily to an enve- lope on the desk. Her soreness evapo- rated at the sight of it. She was plain scared, “How about eight o’cloek, Mary?” -Ashes pressed. The girl blurted, “All right.” She gave him a Brooklyn address, then turned to plug in on the switchboard. “Lug !’’ said a woman’s voice behind Ashes. It was Katie Boyle, tall, poised, immaculate. “Sh-h!” Ashes cautioned, “This is business. Why, you don’t think I go for her?” Katie sniffed. “Don’t be catty,” Ashes said. “Go aL back to your office. I’ll see you in a minute.” Katie turned. Ashes snaked the en- velope off the receptionist’s desk, slid out the contents, scanned them, No wonder the blonde was seared. The typewritten papers in the envelope were an editorial. They were signed M.M. Macollum. Ashes whistled softly and bent to catch what the blonde was blurting mto the phone. “His copy just came in as usual, Mr. Esterly. He—he’s dead, but his copy was just delivered. The s-same man brought it. ... Y-yes, I could identify him.” LIDING away from the desk, Ashes went back to Katie Boyle’s office. He chucked her under the chin. She slapped his hand down. “This Roser Slainte,”’ Ashes said, frowning, “he wouldn’t be the type to let himself open, would he?” Katie Boyle said, ‘““Newspapermen are not normal. They’d do anything for a scoop.” Ashes’ frown changed to a scowl. “Show me around here.” Katie Boyle shrugged. “This is my office. In here—” she opened a door— ‘is M.M.’s private interview room.” She crossed a small anteroom, opened another door. “This is the sanctum sanctorum,” she said. “Here is where the pearly words of propaganda orig- inated—” She hesitated. Ashes knew what she wanted. “Who are you work- ing for?” she asked. “Don’t know, kitten,’ Ashes said, crossing the office to still another door. It was locked. Katie produced keys. “My shield says, Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity,” Ashes continued. ‘‘My or- ders come the usual way through the New York F. B. I. office.” Ashes studied the door of a freight elevator that was directly opposite the door he’d just opened. “A loading plat- form is under this elevator, is my guess,”’ Ashes said. “The alley behind this building is just an alley or two removed from the rear of Braxton Chambers.” DOOLK C@