10-Story Detective, June 1945 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

A woman in a housecoat came out on the porch. Probably she was George Prid- dy’s wife. “August, was it you who screamed ?”’ she asked excitedly, Winch peered toward the shrubbery. “No. And there were three sounds—like shots.” He swung toward the porch, “Where's George?” “Oh, my heavens!” Mrs, Priddy moaned, “I thought he was with you!” Eben heard her distantly. His small form slunk from shrub to shrub until he reached the hedge, He got into the street and kept going, CHAPTER If gs the evening it became cool, but Eben Hunt carried his jacket over his right arm and had rolled up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders. As he sat at a bar drinking beer, he moved his skinny right arm a great deal. This was the fifth or sixth beer joint he had been in. So far the tattooed lobster hadn’t received more than indifferent glances. Nobody cared about his little distinction. The evening paper was spread out be- fore him. The second pair of killings in ee oe hours rated whe banner head- ine: LAWYER AND GANGSTER SLAIN PROMINENT PHYSICIAN VANISHES Eben read Mrs. Priddy’s statement twice, Dr. Finch, she said, had acted distraught during lunch. When her hus- band, George, had asked him what was wrong, Dr. Finch had replied, with a nervous glance at Mrs. Priddy, that he would tell him later. After lunch the two men had gone out to the back terrace, to smoke cigars in the sun and discuss whatever had been on Dr, Finch’s mind. She had heard shots and a man scream. She had rushed out of the house to find Dr, Finch standing at the side of the porch. She hadn’t seen either of the dead men then. In fact, not until after she had phoned the police. While phoning, Dr. Finch had left and had not been seen since. According to the newspaper, the po- lice were baffled. Obviously Art Yard, a notorious gunman, had shot and killed George Priddy. The silenced revolver had been found clenched in Yard’s dead hand. The gangster had been killed by bullets from a .22 caliber revolver—probably by Dr. Finch who had tried unsuccessfully to save his friend’s life. Yet why had Dr. Finch fled from the police? Eben Hunt brushed the paper aside and picked up his glass. He’d had a break. If he had been seen, the police would be — TNT FOR TWO———_—______—_—__——9 looking for him. He would have lost his essential freedom of movement. A man near the end of the bar stepped back and stared at Eben’s forearm. Eben’s eae quickened, Was this a reaction at as The man, carrying his glass, came over. He was not much bigger than Eben and he needed a shave. His eyes were fixed on the tattooed lobster. “Funny,” he said. “Just like the one Charlie Falkner got.” “What is?’”’ Eben asked, though he knew the answer, “That lobster on your arm, Only Char- lie’s wasn’t tattooed, It was a little toy one, celluloid or something, You -know Charlie?” The man liked to talk without prod- ding. “Charlie’s a hack driver like me, Shell-shocked in the war, but he’s get- ting along fine now. I mean, he’s well enough to drive a taxi. Our cabs was parked down the corner at the stand and we was standing there talking. Char- lie opens the door of his hack, and there’s a little red box on the seat. He says, ‘Now what’s this?’ and opens the box. There’s a tiny red lobster inside, just like you got on your arm, only it’s a toy sort of.” Eben said sharply, “How long ago was this?” “Couple of minutes. Maybe five.” The man drank and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “Funny. I mean, Charlie just stood there looking at the lobster. I ask him what it is and how come some- body leaves it for him, but he don’t an- swer, His eyes are funny. I mean, like he’s shell-shocked, only I thought he was all better. He don’t say a word, He geta behind the wheel, “I ask him, ‘Where you going, Char- lie?’ He still don’t look at me. He kicks the starter and Says kind of to himself, ‘Hilda Whittier.’ Then he drives off.” Eben was getting into his jacket. “Who's Hilda Whittier?” “You know that rich dame who's al- ways getting into the papers on account of she messes around with so many guys. I had her for a fare plenty times. I guess Charlie was supposed to pick her up at eight and just remembered. But why did he act so funny all of a sudden? J mean, he finds that lobster and then—” “Where does Hilda Whittier live?” “A couple of blocks over in the ritzy Tower Apartments,” the man said. “She's got a penthouse, though she lives alone. I drove her plenty, and I can tell you things—” His eyes narrowed. “Say, there’s some- thing screwy, Charlie finds a lobster and comicbook