10-Story Detective, June 1945 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

Cell to Let By Kathleen Ryan This murder-bent con handed himself his crime-earned penalty. OOD EVENING, Warden. Say you look worried!” Jimmy Salmon, re- porter, pushed his hat to the back of his head and straddled a Pea es chair. “One of your fad boys Getine up?” Warden Brown shook his head slowly. “Tl wish it were as simple as that,” he said. “I can handle disturbances in prison. It’s when a man leaves—a man who is better behind bars. That’s when I commence to worry.” “But that isn’t your worry, Warden,” objected Jimmy. “You’re not responsible for a man after he gets out.” “Tt know, Jimmy.” Warden Brown smiled ruefully. “But I’m worried about Dan Bellinger just the same. He’s no good, A killer.” “Dan Bellinger. The name sounds fa- miliar. Say I remember him,” Jimmy said thoughtfully. “Covered his trial. Wasn’t it about five years ago?” Warden Brown nodded. “Bellinger got out today. He was a model prisoner, but I always had the feeling that he was just marking time. That he had some unfin- ished business to take care of when he was given his freedom. It wasn’t any- thing that you could put your finger on. He didn’t talk much when he was awake— and—this may sound crazy, but he talked in his sleep. The guards say he was al- ways after a guy named Bill.” Jimmy grinned. “Well, that’s better than a moll named Bess.” He dragged himself reluctantly off the chair and started for the door. “See you again, Warden, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. If I happen to come across Bellinger in town, I'll keep you informed.” VER on the other side of town, Dan Bellinger ceased pacing his small bedroom and threw himself on the bed. “Might as well relax,” he muttered to himself irritably. Two a. m. wouldn’t come any faster—no matter what he did. compared with the five years of hell he had endured? | A wave of hatred crept over him like an evil shadow and left him trembling. He had always hated Bill Hayes. Even in the days when they just pinched fruit from the pushcarts over on the East Side, Bill had invariably squealed when he got caught. After doing time in reform school, Bill had got himself a job and had gone straight..Well, as far as Dan was concerned, that was just dandy. As long as Bill kept out of his hair, he didn’t care what he did. Dan almost forgot about Bill—until the night Dan tried to pull the bank job, Bill had recognized him loitering outside the bank and had notified the police. They had caught him red-handed. He didn’t have a chance. It was the last time that Bill would ever squeal on him, At 2 a. m. he was going over to Bill’s rooming house - to kill him. Slowly the minutes ticked on. He got up, lit a cigarette, commenced pacing the room again. At a quarter to two, he put on his overcoat, turned up his collar, pulled a hat well ‘down over his eyes. Five minutes later he was out on the street. Funny how quiet it was. Just the crunching of snow under his feet. Far off a train whistle blew. A 'onely sound in the quiet night. Then, around the corner came a cop. He ducked into a doorway, held his breath in the shadows until the policeman passed. Bill lived just two blocks over, in old Mrs. Benson’s rooming house. Shouldn't > be hard to break into that joint, he thought. He had lived there once himseif. There was a back window he used to use when he was out on a job. Mrs, Benson had an uncanny knowledge of the time that _her roomers got in via the front door. “Got a match, buddy?” Dan whirled around, his hand gripping the gun in his overcoat pocket. But the shabby mar who asked the question didn’t look dangerous. He fished down in his pocket, silently handed out a match. The man muttered something and shuffled off in the dark- ness, Mra. Benson’ s rooming house was isn Anyway, what were a few hours’ waiting the middle of the block, separated from 16 ; iG boo cS (Eo)