10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

76—______—_———————_10-STORY DETECTIVE aged, hawk-beaked guy who I imme- diately suspected would be harder to collect collections from than any or- dinary deadbeat. He gave me the kind of look I always get, unfavorable. I look like hell; that’s a fact. Cry- ing babies get scared to silence when I look tough, and certain kinds of women scream. I’m forty, an ex-pug. My nose’s been busted twice, and a cut under my right lamp makes it look slightly cocked though it actually ain’t. I looked my pleasantest at this clunk-headed office manager and in- quired gently, “Got any tough ac- counts you want collected?” He seemed surprised to hear me talking business like that. Then he edged closer, interested. ‘“What do you mean?” He used a voice like a hungry baby robin squeaking for worms. “I just want tough ones,” I told him. Ones you’ve given up. I bring you fifty per cent and keep fifty.” Any experienced collector can tell by looking at me that I might make a producer. And this guy, his name was Robberns (I never learned why the last two letters) had an eye for business. “How do you work?” he wanted to know. I told him: ‘‘When I locate the right guy I lay down the bill in front of his nose and look tough. ‘Do you owe this money?’ I demand, then I look tough- er. He looks at me and gets scared. He generally croaks weakly, ‘Why ye —yes I g—guess I owe it.’ Then I look still tougher and say, ‘I’ll be back at ten in the morning, you better have the cash.’ I look at him still tougher for half a second, then whirl on my heel and leave. By the next A. M. he’s generally so scared he’s stolen or bor- rowed the dough. I bring you your half and keep my own.” Robbern’s eyes sparkled. Guys like him generally appreciate my tech- nique. “What if he doesn’t get the money ?” he asked. I shrugged and grinned. “I just pick up his bill and walk out without letting myself in for anything illegal like punching anybody. There’s too many soft guys to work on and I ain’t hurt your chanees any by giving this bird a scare.” Robberns pondered. A slitted look came into his ratty eyes that seemed too damn cunning, then he smiled, also too cunning. “I’ll try you on one ac- count,”’ he suggested, ‘‘a tough one.” “Sure,” I agreed. They always start me on a tough one. Robberns kept smiling like the baby robin swallowing its first worm when he turned and walked to a file. A mo- ment later he came back and spread a bill for ten-eighty on the counter. ‘This 2s a tough one,” he admitted. “If you collect it, come back and I’! give you some better ones.” LOOKED at the statement, then looked at him. The ten-eighty was owed to one of the biggest firms in town. I knew they had their own col- lection department and they wouldn’t turn anything over to ABC without 4 special reason. “What’s the matter with it?”’ I asked. “I smell something.” “You asked for something tough,” he said. That’s a fact. I ask for ’em tough and I’m used to ’em. But I’d never run mto dead people chasing a bill before, so I said, ‘Okey; Pll bring in the dough,” and went out with the bill. It brought me to the place on Har- rinston Street, a two-dollar-a-week dump; a two-story frame that had been painted so long ago it just looked dirty. One small window on the sec- ond floor, perhaps in a lavatory, was broken. I went up four soggy, half rotted steps. It was still raining and cold and miserable. I pushed my way into a smelly hallway. The ten-eighty bill was made out to Mrs. Jane Pruner who turned out to be the landlady, first two-by-four room to my right. I tapped and she opened the door immediately. You’re at a disadvantage when the debtor is a woman, You can’t threaten to punch them in the nose and they don’t scare as easy as men, except sometimes at my looks, then they’re cConniclboool (C©