10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

— THE CASE OF CHIPS GALWAY ERE, after adroitly swapping bottles en route, he stood under - a bright light near the window and gulped his tasteless substitute, mak- ing a wry face over it. Thereupon, dousing all other lights as he-went along, he entered the bathroom. But he slipped back into his bed chamber and worked swiftly, in dark- ness, except for indirect illumination from the bathroom. Finally he reached into a side pocket, withdrew a green roll of film. After standing it con- spicuously under a table lamp at the foot of his bed, he moved to throw wide the bedroom window. Well aware that if things went wrong he would become victim in- stead of victor, he shrugged away the thought. It had been impossible to confide his risky plan to Norbert, for the commissioner would have vetoed it. Now it was sink or swim—alone. Midnight was near when he turned from the window, switched on the light over the film, and settled himself to await action. Suppose his pincer plan failed ? But how could it, for the murderer must come—was in the pincers. One jaw was the threatened development of the film, The other jaw was a fear that any gunman sent to get it might appropriate it and thereby gain a powerful weapon over his employer; or worse yet, he might bungle the job. To crown all and add pressure on the jaws, the murderer dared bring no reinforcements, dared not reveal his identity. Blackmail would be the penalty, an obvious point against which he guarded. Fhus speculating, Kirker felt a tingle pricking his nerves. From great distance, over the rooftops floated the moaning wail of a liner’s siren. Im- mediately, in sharp contrast, came the hoarse bellow of a freighter—power- ful, dismal, portentous. Echoes barely died when there was a movement at the window—a flicker so mercurial that you could doubt your eyesight. itself 47 Time crawled on—and on. Once more the freighter bellowed—and once more silence settled ominously. Again came the movement. A masked head showed. And through slitted gray eyes Kirker noticed a new angle. A clever idea it was. Instead of eyeholes, dark glass inserts in the mask tossed back rays of light. Were they lenses, similar to spectacles, or only shields? Evidently the suspicious eyes be- hind them now were studying the room; especially the bed whereon the bathrobe-clad figure lay propped by pillows. A magazine at one side was held slackly while the head lolled for- ward as though slumber had over- taken weary eyes—drug-weary eyes. Quickly the masked face withdrew, only to pop back as if bent on spying out some telltale movement in the sleeper. Presently the big man flowed through the window as stealthily as a tiger through a canebrake. Light glinted on an automatic gripped in the right hand. A black suit melted with the shadows. And a dark felt hat, well pulled down, hid his hair. A forward glide carried him to the foot of the bed. He flipped a glance over the right shoulder as if to assure himself the film hadn’t vanished. His gun hand lifted, aimed his weapon. Muscles in the trigger finger ridged, hardened. He hesitated, leaned yet closer to his target, gun arm streteh- ing far out as though to insure deadly accuracy tonight—pointblank. Two quick shots bit out. The body on the bed settled with a long drawn sigh, lay motionless. The man whirled, scooped the film into a pocket. But while Kirker’s figure on the bed lay cold and stiff, Kirker himself proved quite alive and active. He’d stepped from the bathroom. He trained his service positive on his visitor. “Stop!” he commanded. It brought the other swinging round to a halt like a wind-slammed door. His automatic was pointed floorward. CO IOOOLK (C©