10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

MEMO FROM THE MURDERED————15 propaganda went out over the press wires. Oh, is was concealed under hon- eyed words and American catch phrases, yes. But for that reason it was worse than ever. Subtly, in clev- erly twisted paragraphs Macollum Publications began to tell the people the war was being lost. Germany was triumphing every day. The men in Washington were selling out. Things hike that! There was a furore in Washington, and orders clicked through to the F. B. I. Ashes’ orders said simply: “‘M.P. news releases now pro-Nazi. In- vestigate.” Ashes looked at Katie Doyle. “I’ve got something to dig into with this murder,” he said. “If I find the killer, - Tl find the rat who’s behind all this. Think it over, kitten. I don’t want to hurt you or your friends; but once in a lifetime something comes along that’s bigger than friendship. This is it. I don’t care what happens to me on this. Maybe they’ll get me first.” Ashes shrugged and murmured softly, “That’s ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” He looked at Katie Boyle, shrugged again with a carelessness he didn’t feel, and said, “But maybe I’}l get them first, too. If I do—it’ll be tough for anybody who gets in my way! So long, kitten.” EN Ashes had finished at the Centre Street laboratory, he called Henry Esterly and said, “‘Here’s your five star final, chum. I checked some hairs I found on the corner of M.M.’s desk with hairs taken from his head at the morgue. They match. That means M.M. probably was killed in his office and carried out the back, through the alley to his own apart- ment. Don’t ask why.” Ashes banged the receiver as Ester- ly barked, ‘‘Rewrite!”’ and drove to Roser Slainte’s apartment. “Mr. Slainte is still abed, but he will see you,” said Jakie, the Japanese butler. Ashes nodded. Jakie was quite a character in a butler’s stiff black coat and striped trousers. He was short and squat and beaming. His English was good, with no hint of an accent. Ashes followed the Jap into a bed- room and said, “Hello, Slainte, you lit- tle pixie.” Roser Slainte lounged in the bed. He wasn’t very big, but he was very dark. His black hair was slicked to his scalp. A small black mustache perched on his upper lip. He was patronizing Ashes as he said: “Gin .and vermouth, Jakie... . What’ll you have, Bly, before you say ‘ashes to ashes’ and drill me through the heart?”’ Ashes ignored it, wrinkling his nose at Slainte’s bed. The columnist’s pa- jamas were deep-toned blue, The sheets on the bed were black silk. The pillow cases were green. To top it, Slainte hoisted himself and fitted a long Turkish cigarette into a green jade holder. “Okay,” Ashes said. ‘Whistle the patter, chum. What’s your story ?” Slainte chuckled. “The best, the very best. Eyewitness.” Ashes snapped. “If you saw it, why didn’t you call the cops? You’re an accessory.” Slainte spiraled purple smoke over the sheets. “You can’t prove a thing,” he said. “I can say I learned about the body through regular news sources.” Ashes got up and started out of the room. “Hey i’? up 9” “I’m going to get a warrant issued for you,” Ashes said easily. ‘“You’re not dealing with local cops, dope. This is Uncle Sam.” “Sit down,” Slainte said quickly. “T’ll tell you what I know. I don’t have anything to lose. And besides—”’ “Besides what?” Ashes caught him up. Slainte scowled. ‘‘Maybe I’m a heel and a blackmailer, but by damn you never read any pro-Nazi stuff in my column. This is one time I’m not think- ing of myself.” yelped Slainte. ‘“What’s Ccomiclbool C©