Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

"05 Sears eee es Pai rp 204 : ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Why? What power did this fish-eyed fat person have over her? ‘The cattleman de- cided to find out. He held out his hand for the letter. “No!” cried Paula. ‘““ Aw, get out of here,” said the playful fat man to Steve. “Stephen!” pleaded Paula. “ Aw, it’s all right!” placated the giant. “ He’ll never know the difference!’ “ Thanks,” acknowledged Steve, taking the missive. -“ You’re right. I’m plumb innocent.” The fat man’s eyes had the steady glint of intense concentration. “Yeh,” he agreed, somewhat heavily. “You are; but what if you ain’t? You can’t rock the boat! Beat it!” Itt. A GREEN taxicab driven by a silent hawk- faced chauffeur drove Steve through miles of streets and finally into a region of rail- road yards and manufacturing plants. Rows of shabby houses began to appear. “Where are we going?” wondered Steve. “We're almost there,” grunted the chauffeur. “It’s a tough district.” “ That’s funny!” “Huh! There’s lots of funny things nowadays, mister! I get ’em every night. Me, I’ve quit thinkin’ about ’em!’ ““[’m just starting!” confessed Steve. The car ascended a dirt road flanked by dark houses. It turned at the top of the hill and drew up to a silent two-story edifice whose entrance was on the second floor, approached by a rickety stairway. The taxi driver flashed a light on the aged front porch. A number showed. It was the right address. “Wait here,” commanded Steve, alight- ing. He went up the stairway and rang the bell. Footsteps creaked and the door was swung open. An electric light was switched , on, Steve stepped into an odorous hallway with a threadbare red carpet. The door closed. He faced a swarthy man, hastily . clad. “ve ares a letter for Joseph Taylor,” 7 announced Steve. ““'Where you come from?” The cattleman hesitated, reluctant to use Paula’s address; but he told the truth dog- gedly. The swarthy man nodded and led him along a hallway and down a dark flight of stairs. A smell of alcohol and packing straw assailed his nostrils. The guide reached the lower floor and opened a door which led into a well-lighted room where two men were standing along- side a rumpled bed. One of them, a slim, shifty-eyed fellow, identified himself as Taylor. He grabbed the letter, opened it, and yelped to the other: “Now we know why them moving vans didn’t come here! Hijackers got ’em!” Suddenly the reader caught himself and glared at Steve, flicking the missive away; but Steve had seen its last sentence— thoughtlessly written at the end instead of the beginning—‘“ Do not say anything in front of bearer.” Steve gasped, struck by the ghastly coin- cidence of the whole thing—first the boot- leg boat, then the moving van episode, then Paula and her stout guest, and now this message; but a moment of thought con- vinced him that these happenings were too coincidental. He had stumbled across a network so vast that any one might bump into it at any time! A whisky ring! Taylor tried to belittle the news in the letter. “Aw, what if we did lose two movin’ vans? There’s plenty more stuff arrivin’!” “Sure,” said Steve, amiably. “ You have to make allowances. e Two pair of heavy feet fence down the hall from outside. “Yep,” agreed Taylor. ‘ There’s profit an’ loss in every business!”’ The door opened behind Steve. He turned. Two men faced him. Both halted in surprise. One was Big Bill, the burly fellow who had guarded Steve at the shore line. The other was a thin-faced com- panion. Suspicion flared from their eyes. “It’s the guy that came off the boat!” bawled Bill. ‘He was hangin’ around when they landed the goods! And now he’s here! Aspy, boys! Aspy! Grab him!” “Youre crazy!” cried Steve, backing against the bed. com