The Black Mask — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

The Triple Murder in Mulberry Bend By Christopher Hawthorne I * f¢ OU will find three dead men in Molspini’s cellar in Mulberry Bend.” The single typewritten line was un- dated and unsigned, but on the lower right-hand corner of the paper were three distinct finger-prints, made with such precision that, obviously, they were placed there with a purpose. “Silent” Cass, lieutenant of detec- tives, read the note without visible ex- citement or interest, “Looks like the real thing,” he grunt- ed, tossing it across the desk. do you think, Gatty?” Sergeant Gatty glanced stolidly at the writing, arose slowly and put on his hat. Cass also stood up, shifting a small automatic from his hip to an out- side coat pocket. “Let’s walk,’ he said. Mulberry Beffd was only ten minutes from head- quarters. Anonymous letters belonged to the routine, but they rarely yielded anything worth while. Sometimes they came from revengeful crooks bent on getting even; often they were of the “poison pen” variety, written out of sheer malice and more frequently they could readily be identified as the fulminations of half- cracked persons moved by morbid obsessions. But this letter, which had been left at the outside rail at headquarters, ad- dressed “To the Police,” did not fall within any of these categories. Not "What - that it appealed to a “trained sixth sense” or any such nonsense. The sim- ple fact was that Mike Molspini’s place was known to both men. In the shadowy past, when as lusty young cops on the lower East Side they had pounded the pave together, it had been the resort of such picturesque criminals as The Wolf and The Ox and had achieved a malodorous celebrity as the scene of a “barrel murder.” Lat- terly, however, its evil repute had waned and Molspini was conducting the place as a provision shop, falling in line with the growing respectability of the quarter. As the detectives turned into the Bend from Centre street a policeman placidly saluted them with one hand while he jingled a handful of coins in the other. “Anything doing, O’Hara?”’ asked Cass. “Bunch of crap shooters took it on the run when they saw me coming,” chuckled the uniformed man, exhibit- ing the spoils. Sergeant Gatty looked appraisingly into the open palm. “Hardly the price of a drink these days,” he sighed. “Get busy,” thrust in Cass curtly. “O'Hara, you just mope along behind us and keep an eye on Molspini’ s place while we go inside.” A_ bronzed, © sturdy man of about thirty, with a suggestion of the military in his garb and carriage, sauntered past them, halting for an instant as the lieutenant spoke. 71