10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

Self-Made Mankiller By Ken Lewis Marston —— a suicide note that would make him a hot-seat haunt. I N THE world’s eyes, old Jona- than M, Hiteh- eock was the ideal symbol of a self-made man, Rodger Marsten reflected. It was fit- ting that Hitchcock should also be self- destroyed—in the world’s eyes. Lugging the bulging brief case, Mars- ton slipped out of his private office and down the darkened corridor to the door marked President. Layered with sweat, hia temples pounded and his knees al- most buckled under him. But he made it. Four floors below, the laboratories of Kemlab, Inc., were brilliantly lighted, murmurous with activity, as the night staff of technicians experimented with the latest scientific methods for exter- minating the Axis. But here on the sixth-floor tier of of- fices, the only light came from the frosted panels of the two doors opening on this corridor. The only kill-method about to undergo experimentation was the oldest in the world: A heavy blunt instrument. And the only sound was the erratic tap- ping of old Hitcheock’s typewriter. The old man had never learned to dic- tate smoothly. That fit well with Mars- ton’s plan. Hitchcock wrote rough drafts of his most important letters himself, hunching over his typewriter late at night to punch out the characters labori- ously with a blunt index finger. Each morning his blonde secretary took the drafts from a desk drawer and trotted them off to be transcribed. Marston waited till the typewriter be- yond the door stopped tapping and the muffled closing of a desk drawer an- nounced that. Hitchcock was through for the night. Then he entered the room. The square, dumpy man at the desk looked up sourly. “Damn you, haven’t you found the carbons of those release orders 26 / —— Po on that defective shipment yet?” he barked. Marston reddened, biting his lip. Glaring at each other across the desk top, the two contrasted strikingly. Hitech- cock was short, blunt-featured, bald: Marston tall, slender, darkly aquiline. Hitchcock had reached his presidency the hard way, starting as a stock boy. It had taken him thirty-five years. Marston’s methods had been simpler and much quicker. He had become vice- president in five months—after marrying Hitchcock’s daughter. The old man had- n’t wanted him. But Hitchcock's life waa wrapped up in those two kids of his. And Elaine had insisted on the - vice-presi- dency, Then had come the telegram about Johnny, Jr., killed in an exploding plane over Italy. It had staggered the old man. He’d relinquished more and more dutiea to his son-in-law. That had been fine—till the War De-_ partment investigation. But now it was — time for Jonathan M. Hitchcock to die... Wiping sweat from his forehead, Mar- ston glanced at the open floor-level French window behind the desk and nodded. No lights showed in the windows opposite. Dipping into the brief case, he moved unsteadily around the desk to the old man’s elbow. “Here’s what you've been asking for!® he rasped. Wrapped in a dust cloth, the heavy granite paperweight plowed into the back of Hitcheock’s skull while Hitchcock's mouth was still open. The old man — groaned, slumped forward in the chair, head lolling on the desk beside the type- writer. Only a very little blood reddened the bruise: Not enough to drip or run. That was good. It wasn’t necessary for Hitch- cock to be dead yet—just unconscious. Marston’s temples stopped throbbing. He was suddenly cool, steady, precise as ant automaton. (E(0) .