10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 83: what you’re looking at

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

CRIME AIN’T MY BUSINESS————————————81 like a pair of end men at a minstrel show, laughing at each other’s bad gags. Then they got serious and nearly tossed me out on my head. I went out of there mad as the devil. At eight P.M. I was back in the Harrinston Street rooming house tapping on Number Six again. I’d been doing a lot of thinking. I’d been thinking about Mrs. Jugvale and how miserable those gangsters must have made life for her. What was wrong, I began to wonder, with killing a gangster anyway? The cops did it themselves when it was necessary. And, in Mrs. Jugvale’s case, it began to look plenty necessary. Mrs. Jugvale was dumb enough to be home as I’d hoped she would be. I could tell she was scared when she heard my voice through the door. “Might as well let me in,” I said. “That’s better than letting me spill what I know.” So she let me in and I watched every move she made. I didn’t want any flatirons coming down on my ear. But it seemed, somehow, like some change had taken place in her, as if she’d been thinking and crying a lot. I grinned as pleasantly as I could and really tried to be friendly. “Listen, kid,” I said. “I don’t give a damn if you bumped your boy friend and I ain’t mad because you tried to bump me. This is just a plain business proposition with me, nothing like you must have thought last night. I just want to collect this.’”’ I showed her the bill again. “I bet you got enough dough hidden right here in the room some place to pay it.” For the briefest second a light of hope came into those faded blue eyes of hers. Then it faded. “I'll pay the bill,” she said dully. Some kind of transformation seemed to come into her pale face that brought back a lot of her youth and beauty. She had the money in a sock. I was saying, “I won’t say anything to any- one about what’s happened. All I want is to collect this bill so the collection agency will have enough confidence to give me some more.” She gave me a ten and a one. I told her I didn’t have twenty cents and she said to forget it. I receipted the bill and handed it back to her. She said, smiling wanly, “You were wrong about the fingernail polish on the stove. The handles were painted red once but the stove is so old the paint has about worn off. I bet you were only bluffing when you first accused me of k-k-killing him.” She choked up suddenly and began to ery. “I didn’t want to kill anybody,” she sobbed. “Honest, I didn’t. I’m glad I didn’t kill you. They had tormented me till I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t know what I was doing.” She was getting a trifle hysterical. UST then the door clicked and her husband came in. I was standing there with one hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. I was also wondering what was getting into me and I said to Jugvale, “You got a fine little wife here. You must never be- lieve evil of her.” There I stood, talking like a preach- er. Jugvale was a big husky bulk in the doorway. His mouth dropped open a trifle and he drew down his brows questioningly. “What do you know about my wife?” he growled. Right then I had a great inspi- ration. I moved my benevolent right hand from Mrs. Jugvale’s shoulder to her husband’s and I put on the kind- liest expression my busted features are able to absorb. “I’m a man of God,” I said slowly. “Your wife can’t tell the details about the unfortunate fellow who killed himself because do- ing so would involve an innocent party. You mustn’t ask her about it.” Mrs. Jugvale smiled understand- ingly at me when I said that. A little groove came in her forehead which puzzled me. Jugvale’s questioning ex- pression deepened. He looked from me to his wife and 1 could see by his face he was going to stand by her what- ever happened. She took a step to- cConmmiclboooks C©