10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 44: what you’re looking at

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

42 “Jeez, I—’’ Sneeters began. Then an idea seemed to hit him. He plunged one hand into a side pocket and fished out a clipping. “There,” he chattered, “it’s about that.” Kirker took it. And if his fingers trembled slightly that was quite to be expected. He recognized it as the lead item appearing two days ago in a column of the Morning Times. It bore a boxed head over a by-line and he knew it by heart, but his gray eyes flashed over it again, re-reading: OBSERVED by Karl Cass Warning—to a Killer! Some readers will perhaps recall that just three years ago today “Chips” Galway, Brixton’s once eminent purveyor of chances —gambler, to you—was found in his apart- ment permanently punctured by some .45 caliber lead dealt by the hand of a person or persons unknown—and still unknown. Today your reporter was tipped off that Detective Sergeant Wm. Kirker continues his bulldog grip on the case, unofficially, but does not expect to make an immediate ar- rest. Has Sergeant Kirker’s present reticence anything to do with the fact that following the slaying, according to our files, he prom- ised for three consecutive days to make an “arrest within twenty-four hours”? We'll bet a three-year-old hat that the killer is shaking in his boots! A swift change had come over Kirker. Anticipation fired his gray eyes with hope. He bent forward slightly, muscles tensing. When he spoke there was unconcealed tautness in his voice, and his words were spaced and sharp as the pickets of an iron fence. “What do you know about this?” he said. NEETERS shrank deep into the chair, seeming to take the words as direct accusation. But neither he nor anyone else could know Kirker’s secret: that patient work had nar- rowed down the suspects to only those men possessing a combined motive, opportunity, and lack of alibi; and, too, without a single clue pointing di- rectly toward them—for there were 10-STORY DETECTIVE no clues. Yet while this was beyond Sneeters, evidently he was in a tight spot and knew it. His tongue slid out and moistened dry lips. “Answer me!” barked Kirker, and Sneeters Jumped. “T-I—” he stuttered, “I know who done it.” Kirker’s left hand shot forward, gripped shoddy suit lapels, dragged the ex-con half out of the chair. “You’re lying!’’ “No, sarge,” Sneeters whined. Then in a rush of words he explained: “That’s why I slugged at you out front. The guy’s gunnin’ fer me. I think he was follerin’ me here in the fog. I thought you was him.” “Who i : Sneeters gulped, seeming to swal- low some of his fright. A wily look began to creep into his eyes. “Who killed Galway?” Kirker de- manded, giving his prisoner a shake. Sneeters wagged his head. “Nix,” he said. “You can give me the goldfish, or slough me back in stir, but I ain’t gonna peep unless you make a deal. You’re a square copper.”’ Kirker changed tactics, released his grip and Sneeters sagged back in the chair. Mentally, Kirker cursed his own soft-heartedness which always pre- vented him from slamming crooks around. But things were beginning to add up, long-puzzling things. A report of a “little man” seen in the neighbor- hood just before the Galway kill. And then Sneeters’ almost complacent atti- tude over a three-year larceny sen- tence shortly after the murder. “You did your time,” Kirker guessed, “and came back here figuring you had a good thing. Then you tried to put the squeeze on the killer. That sh aees Sneeters’ slack jaw confirmed the astute reasoning of his captor. “And,” Kirker went on, rapidly piecing together the picture, “instead of paying off, the killer tried to gun you out so you came running to me. But murder is murder. So now, be- CoOnmmiclbool (C©@