10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 82: what you’re looking at

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

80—__________————_10-STORY DETECTIVE————— elbow and pounded my fist through the window glass. After taking a big whiff of fresh air, I crawled back to the stove and got it turned off. I found the light switeh and snapped it and saw how she had stuffed rags under the door and in the window cracks again. I also found the unlatched rear window where she had crawled out. I could picture how she had planned to come back in the morning and seream again at the head of the stairs. I could picture, I mean, how she would have done it if the flatiron blow had been as hard as she thought it had been. I got out of there and onto the street. It had stopped raining and was foggy. Milky white patches of mist floated around the street lamps like ghosts serenading in a graveyard. I got a glimpse of a clock in ‘a corner grocery. It was nine o’clock. The cold was getting into my veins and I began thinking of California and the $26.80 to L. A. So I inquired where the police station was and went there. HE Public Safety Building is a nice warm place on a foggy night. I walked through the halls slowly, finally finding the detective division and getting hold of a smart-looking dick named Carlson. He gave me the same reception everybody does—bad. But I got plenty of nerve. “I want to talk about a murder,” I told him. Then I insisted on making him listen to what had happened, “And,” I said, “I. want to get to L. A. out of this damn rain. It ought to be worth something to the police to clean up a murder like this.” He laughed at me. “You haven’t discovered any murder. You’re just talking, trying to bluff me into a hand- out or maybe you think I'll take up a collection to get you to L. A. Well, I wish you was there but your novel little scheme won’t work around here. I ought to put you in the jug to cool off.” I stood up, mad. A guy in my busi- ness never misses any bets. “If you don’t want to solve this case I know tainment. Then a guy who will.” I turned on my heel and moved doorwards, getting angrier. His voice sounded behind me. “Wait, you, just a minute. What do you mear. by that last crack ?” I turned. “Ever hear of the news- papers ?” He got me sitting down again. “What’s your idea?” he asked. I gave him both barrels. ‘Trouble with you cops,” I said, “is that you can’t realize how some women really fight for happiness. I’ll bet this Mrs. Jugvale is nuts about that husband of hers. It’s a shame she can’t have a ttle happiness.” I stopped, a little startled at my own eloquence which is a big word for me. Then I steadied myself. “But after all,” I shrugged, “murder is murder and I’ve got to collect $10.80. This guy she killed kept threatening to tell her husband, so she got him so drunk he passed out, then she turned on the gas and went out the back door. In the morning she came back and screamed. She was go- ing to do the same with me.” “She’d sure have saved us trouble if she had,” he sneered at me. Then he stepped out and called in a guy named Riley, a big heavy Irish- man with bushy gray eyebrows and quite a sense of sarcastic humor. I had to start my story over and they both listened to me as if it was a dul] nicht anyway and they needed the enter- Riley said, ‘You ought to write fiction, bum.” He leaned over the table on his elbow and stared half way through me. “By the way, ain’t I seen you around the freight yards before this season?” Carlson said, ““We’re not finishing any free meals or beds for bums this year just because they think they’re sleuths.” Riley laughed as if he thought that was funny and added, “We checked that rooming house suicide plenty close and your standing in town ain’t nothing to make us change our minds.” Carlson laughed at that. They were DOOK C©