10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 58: what you’re looking at

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

~ 56——______10.STORY DETECT1VE———_____—_—— that was broadcast by greasy cooking odors coming from it. The nervous man leaned against the counter. “I just got out. Fellow named Rick Jordan sent me. Do you under- stand?” “What do you want and have you got the dough to pay for it?” the hardware dealer demanded in one breath. “T want a gun—one that will do a neat little job. I’ve got the money. One hun- dred bucks.” “Okay.” The hardware dealer opened one of his cases, took out a large tray of cheap cutlery, and lifted the whole top off it. Beneath the tray, bedded in cloth, lay four guns of various sizes and calibres. “Any one will cost you the hundred. I can’t give you any more than enough bullets to fill the gun, though. They’re hard to get these days.” “One loading will be enough, thanks.” The nervous man pointed at a blue-black .38 revolver. “I’ll take that one.” Two minutes later he was out. of the store and walking briskly along in the direction of the better section of the city. He soon located the place he was after. It was a large apartment building, swanky and tall. The nervous man walked into the lobby, headed straight for the elevators. If any flunky had hap- pened to be around, he’d have heen slugged. Fortunately for both the missing at- tendant and the workings of the nervous man’s plans, the lobby was empty. Eleva- tors were self-operated, and he got into one. He had to study the buttons and read the directions for a moment. Many things in this modern world were a bit unfamiliar—or had been forgotten by him. The elevator dropped him off at the seventeenth floor. He walked down the corridor to the last apartment. Beside it was a neat brass nameplate bearing the name of Alan Henderson. The nerv- ous man smiled and rang the bell. Someone on the other side of the door approached it. “Who is it?” a voice asked. “Package for Mr. Henderson. You gotta sign.” The nervous man drew his newly pur- chased gun and calmly pulled the ham- mer back until it clicked in place. His finger caressed the trigger and his smile broadened. A key turned, then a bolt slid back and the door opened. The nervous man shoved the gun forward. The occupant of the apartment backed up, his face turn- ing a grey that resembled death itself. He half-raised his hands. “Pete,” he gulped. “It’s Pete Kady. I— never expected to see you—again.” “T’ll tell the world you didn’t,” Kady grunted. “Sit down, Nick. I notice you’ve taken a new name. Sit down!” The man called Henderson plopped into a chair. He kept his hands up though. “Look, Pete, you don’t have to get rough about this, Everything farmed out for the best, didn’t it?” “Oh, sure, sure, it did. I had a fine time. Spent most of it thinking about you living in luxury. That was the most fun I had—thinking. Nick, your number was up exactly fifteen years ago last Wednes- day. Since then you’ve been living on bor- rowed time, Borrowed from me, because I couldn’t get at you.” “No Pete. No—don’t. Don’t do it—” ETER KADY shot Henderson through the stomach first. Then he raised the gun a trifle and sent a slug through his heart. One more bullet crashed into his head. Peter Kady’s gun hand never trembled the slightest. He’d planned this so long it seemed like that part of the dream he’d enjoyed most for fifteen years of lonesome nights. He calmly placed the gun on a table, dusted his hands as if they had touched something tainted, then looked around for the telephone. He had a little trouble with the dial. They were comparatively new things to him, but finally a voice answered his ring. “Police Headquarters.” “You got a dick down there named Rourke? Jim Rourke?” “We have a detective-lieutenant by that name,” the desk officer advised. “Well, well,” the killer exclaimed. “So Rourke went up in the world, did he? Maybe I can bring him down again. Put him on the wire, will you?” Shortly, the killer heard a voice he re- membered through those fifteen long years. | “This is an old pal of yours, Rourke. Real old, but I don’t think yéu’ve for-