10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

52 OSSITER was still young, and hard work in prison hadn’t hurt him any He shook hands with Kerri- gan. “You don’t know how much this means to me, Mr. Kerrigan. The way you took an interest in me, I mean. If you hadn’t been here, they’d just have shipped me back for another trial and I’d return here in a couple of days for another long stretch.” “VYes—I know.” Kerrigan regarded the young man with some doubt. “I’ve never made a mistake yet, Rossiter, about any man in the prison. I could have let a regular police detail take you back to the city, but I’ve faith in you. I wanted to go along and see that you got a break. You are quite cer- tain the information you possess is big enough to make the district attorney dicker ?” ‘“He’d be willing to suggest a sus- pended sentence,” said Rossiter, grin- ning. “I know what I’m talking about, sir. It’s not that—I want to turn ca- nary. What I’ll have to say won’t put anyone in prison or the chair because every man connected with the busi- ness is dead. Every one died by police bullets, so you see that helped to teach me a lesson, too.” “All right,” Kerrigan said. “Let’s get started. I’m not even putting cuffs on you, Rossiter. If you should make a break for it, things wouldn’t only go bad for you, but for me, too.” “You don’t have to worry,” Rossiter smiled. “If I didn’t behave, I’d be the lowest rat this prison ever took in. If it weren’t for you, I’d still have four years more to serve before any parole board would listen.” “Remember that, then,” Kerrigan said. “Here—get into my car.” They rolled along the highway at a modest speed. Rossiter kept looking around, interested as only a man who’d been inside for six years could be. “There isn’t much traffic,” he said, “and you sure are a careful driver, Mr. Kerrigan. Me—I used to burn these roads up.” “So did I,” Kerrigan laughed. “It 10-STORY DETECTIVE happens that right now we’re in a war. Gas and rubber are precious. That’s why there are so few cars roliing and why I’m taking it easy.” “Oh,” Rossiter nodded. “Funny how the war doesn’t mean much when you’re behind bars. But it’s going to mean plenty to me, sir. I learned a trade up there and I learned it guod. With your help, I’ll get a job in de- fense work.” “Excellent,” Kerrigan said. “Now just sit back and relax.” Rossiter did. Forty miles ticked off and his face was still aglow as he studied billboards, watched a stream- liner whiz past, saw army trucks. Then Kerrigan turned into a large gasoline station. “You can stretch your legs here,”’ he said. “Got to fill up. Stations in town haven’t much gas and this sta- tion happens to give prison cars a priority.” Rossiter got out and walked around a bit. Finally he entered the station itself. Kerrigan paid little attention to him. He was certain this man had been remade. Kerrigan signed a tab for the gasoline and watched as the service man checked his oil and wa- ter. Suddenly, there was a shout from inside and then a shot. An elderly man, employed by the service station, staggered out, took a few more steps and pitched forward on his face. Kerrigan was beside him in a mo- ment. “What happened?” “Guy—walked out of wash room. stuck me up. Tried to rob the register and then—shot me.” Kerrigan’s face was an impassive mask. He whisked a heavy pistol out of its holster, fanned back the trigger and stepped into the station. “Rossiter,” he called out, “you can’t get away. Open the door, toss out your gun and come out with vour hands in the air. It’s that—or I'll riddle the door.” Kerrigan’s reply was a single shot. The builet smashed through the pan- els, missed by a mile, but Kerrigan got cConmmiclboooks C©