10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 46: what you’re looking at

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

44———______—___10-STORY DETECTIVE trap closing; a trap made necessary by the murder of Sneeters before he could name the killer. Mid-afternoon was approaching when Kirker demanded his pants with such gusto and determination that he got them. Fifteen minutes later he en- tered headquarters, the pain of a nicked rib and a shoulder crease eclipsed by a greater urge driving him hopefully toward the climax te a three-year task—the trapping of a ruthless killer. In the main corridor as he passed the press room, a sharp voice, calling his name, halted him. A large, flashily dressed man ambled out. “Why drag me down here?” he de- manded. “Going to throw me in the can just because I ribbed you? You had it coming.” “I know,” Kirker admitted grimly, “but you’re all wet, Cass. I am promis- ing a pinch in the Galway case. Stick that in your column.” - ARL CASS raised one eyebrow, mockingly. Although in the late forties, he appeared youthful. Deep in his dark eyes there gleamed the cynicism of most newsmen. “Prove it,” he invited. “Come on.” Kirker knocked on Commissioner Norbert’s door. A deep voice bade them enter, Inwardly, Kirker breathed easier at sight of two big men seated opposite his tough old chief. He won- dered on what pretext Norbert had drawn these suspects here but dis- missed it as a qualm smote him. Each passing moment saw his own neck sticking out farther and farther. It was tempting the ax, yet things new were too far gone to turn back. And the bombshell he was about to tess— Well, the commissioner was due for a jolt. “Glad that rat didn’t get you last night, sergeant,’’ Norbert boomed, swinging a pair of piercing blue eyes on Kirker. “We'll nail him if it takes ten years.” “T’ll have him within tveenty-four hours, sir,” Kirker confided. Cass, to one side, smoothed his black hair unmarred by gray, and snickered audibly. “Your needle’s in a groove, sergeant.” Kirker swung toward him angrily. “This time—” He checked himself, threw open his coat, and tossed his bombshell. “See this,” he snapped, ramming a finger at a lens jutting from the small leather case on his belt. “It’s a noiseless shutter camera, and I can take shots without removing it from the case. Last night I got one of the murderer!’ His audience sat tense in stunned silence for a moment. Even Norbert, partly primed by Kirker’s phone call, seemed flabbergasted. “What?” he bellowed. Kirker turned to him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized. “I let Cass get un- der my hide. I didn’t mean to spill this—” He stopped and looked at Nor- bert’s visitors as if regretfully re- membering their presence. Norbert, recovering poise, waved an imperious hand and took up the slack, “I’m sure Mr. Elston and Mr McGirt can be persuaded to keep quiet. Isn’t that correct?” he addressed them. Gregory Elston, the nearer, nodded agreement. Nevertheless he shifted uneasily and the movement showed his bulk was chiefly muscle—goed muscle at fifty odd years. And brains went with that brawn, judging from hig high forehead and sharp eyes. He looked like “big business.” Actually he centrolled Brixten’s vice and gam- bling, had men who went to jail for him. Always his own skirts were clean —legally. McGirt, on the other hand, by-his very boldness had been caught in crookery and disbarred, whereupon he’d turned his talents to politics. Enemies called him “Dirty” Mc- Girt. If the democrats wanted John Doe elected, they saw McGirt. But if the republicans hiked the ante, then John Boe lost. Close-set eyes indicated cCoOmmiclbooks C©