10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

MEMO FROM THE MURDERED—————————l19 the throat. She was on the bed. She wasn’t pretty. Nor was there time to think! Something catapulted through the door behind Ashes and fastened onto his back. A choked voice cursed—but not in English. Blows thudded into Ashes’ back and neck and ribs. | The fury of the attack sent Ashes staggering across the room. “T’l] kill you! I’ll kill you!” babbled the man behind Ashes. “You mur- dered her, you swine!” “You, I take it, are the boy friend,” Ashes gritted, straightening to his full height. He pumped backwards un- til the man on his back crashed into the wall. The man went limp. Ashes whirled, lashed out with sharp splat- ting jabs. The man folded to the floor. Ashes looked at him. He was blonde and stocky, pink-cheeked, and his gut- tural tones were not recognizable as German. 6¢Q\ IMMER down,” Ashes advised. “This is certainly tough on you if you liked her. But I didn’t have any- thing to do with it.” Ashes scowled. This was his chance. This blond man was ready to crack wide open. He might be able to blow the top off the whole set up. Ashes wasn’t quite sure how to handle the man, though. He didn’t want to get rough while the guy had tears in his eyes. But the tears vanished abruptly, and the man started cursing again. “Then he killed her!’ he raged. “‘He was afraid she’d identify me and I’d incriminate him. I will! I will! I loved that girl!” . “Just tell me,” Ashes suggested. “T’ll take care of him.” The pink-cheeked man caught him- self. His jaw hardened. He started to narrow his eyes. “Uh-oh!” said Ashes. He reached down and picked the man up. ‘‘Can’t clam up now,” he murmured—and rocked the man with his doubled fist. “Just nod your head, Heinie. You’re the guy who was uelivering M.M. Macollum’s copy to the reception desk each day. You fell for the blonde. You, the guy who delivered the propagan- da. Say no!” Ashes shook the man. “You’re the go-between. Not the big shot. But if you delivered the copy, you know the big shot. Boy, do you know what you’re going to do? Listen. You’re going to tell me who this guy is. Then you’re going to stand up in court and swear to it. Aren’t you now?” Ashes rocked him again. “Talk, you Nazi rat!’ The man started to talk. And paid with his life! The gun that fired the shot was si- lenced. If the man who fired it hadn’t slammed the door after squeezing the trigger, Ashes wouldn’t have been able to tell, from the small popping sound, what had happened. The only way he would have known was by the round black hole that sprang into the blonde man’s fore- head. Even so, even though he stood there, holding the dead man in his hands, he found it hard to believe. There was a bullet in the man’s brain. The door had slammed. But could it have hap- pened? It made little difference that the door was locked when Ashes started. He went through it as if it had been made of cardboard. He repeated with the next door which led to the hall and stairway. He made lots of noise, and worked off lots of steam. But he was too late to catch the killer. He wound up on the sidewalk with a gang of Brooklyn kibitzers at his heels. ... When Jakie opened the door of Ros- er Slainte’s apartment, Ashes threw a punch. But Jakie was Japanese, and Jakie knew jiu jitsu. Ashes felt his wrist caught in a vise. His arm strained as Jakie applied pressure. : “Please,” Jakie pleaded. “I am will- ing to co-operate.” Ashes was sore, and he felt a little foolish. He figured that now that he knew about the jiu jitsu, he could cCoOnmiclboooks C@