10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

86——___—————_—_10-STORY DETECTIVE——_——— ‘Hello, Jim,” he said. “I haven’t much time, so just listen. Your first duty is to find out who murdered me. I don’t know for sure, but two men are the most likely suspects. Two crooks named Arnt and McBain. They hate each other like poison, but they’ll hate you worse. You think I’m dead, don’t you? I’m not—entirely. A man just doesn’t give up even when death strikes. I must have my vengeance, Jim. It’s up to you to help me. Get Arnt and McBain to the office. Make them talk. One knows the answer. Good-by—for now.” HE new D.A. felt rather than heard someone standing just in- side the door. He looked up with hag- gard eyes. It was only Florence Walk- er, and he sensed that she’d been standing there for several seconds. “Mr. Abbott,” she said. ‘What's wrong? Are you ill?” “Maybe I’m crazy,” Abbott said. “Tell:me, did you recognize the voice that came over the wire just now?” “Why no—or perhaps it was a bit familiar. Something has happened, Mr. Abbott. May I be of assistance?” Abbott didn’t answer. He picked up the phone and contacted a telephone supervisor. He identified himself and asked to have any calls made to the D. A.’s office within the last ten min- utes. He got his answer in two or three minutes. “Sorry, Mr. Abbott. No calls were put through to your office that we know of. Your number is handled on a special circuit, and even if it was dialed, we’d know. There were no calls, sir.” Abbott hung up and leaned back. This was getting beyond him. A ghost voice saying Hamilton had probably been murdered, even giving him the names of the killers. Abbott knew them both—Arnt and McBain. They’d practically run every crooked, schem- ing racket in town for six years. One took tne north side of the tracks, the other the south. They never invaded each cther’s territory, for such an act would have caused instant warfare. They’d dabbled in it years ago. Abbott poured himself a drink from a thermos on the desk, swallowed it in one gulp and then arose. He heard footsteps outside the office. A man came in—with a gun in his fist. A sec- ond thug followed, also armed. “Just sit down, pal,” the shorter of the pair snapped. “Keep your paws on top of the desk and just answer one question. Can you open that safe?” “No,” Abbott said and broke out in a cold sweat. If these men were after something in that safe, then Florence Walker must have it in her office. “Joe,” the short man said, ‘‘go take a look around the rest of this layout.” “I’m all alone here,” Abbott said quickly, and he realized that neither of these two men recognized him. The tall man departed just the same and began to search all the offices. The short crook sat down on a cor- ner of the desk. His gun was pointed directly at Abbott’s head. “Just who are you?” he demanded. “I’m one of the junior attorneys, that’s all. I had some overtime so I thought I’d find out what it was like to sit at the boss’ desk, that’s all.” “Yeah.” The thug wrinkied his nose. “Now get over there and open the safe, you hear me?” Before Abbott could refuse, the tall- er man came back and reported all the offices were empty. The short thug signaled. His pal walked around the desk, grasped Abbott’s neck in a mighty grip and began methodically to bang his forehead against the edge of the desk. “When you’re ready to open the safe, pal,” the short crook said, “my friend will stop bashing your brains out—if you got any.” “TI can’t open the safe,” Abbott cried. “I swear I can’t.” The torture ceased instantly and the tall man cursed. He removed his coat, walked up to the safe and start- ed to manipulate the dial. He kept this up for half an hour while Abbott stared into the muzzle of a gun and Conmmiclbool C©