Coffins for the F.B.I. Suicide Squad

The name of Dunstan Vardis had become almost legendary in the underworld since his escape from prison five years ago. In some secret and mysterious way he had developed a sure-fire method of hiding wanted criminals. Every killer in the underworld came to Dunstan Vardis for protection.

“Just a minute, Mr. Klaw!” a photographer begged. “Stand still for a second, will you?”

The man raised a bulky camera to his eye and sighted through the periscope. He had his finger on the lever to click it down. Before he could do so, Stephen Klaw took his right hand from his pocket. There was an automatic in it. Without wasting a fraction of an inch of motion, Klaw fired from the hip.

The shot echoed and re-echoed like thunder in the vaulted train-shed. The slug smashed square into the camera, driving through the box and embedding itself in the photographer’s skull.

* * *

Tepperman was one of the high-output pulp author of the 1930s, able to deliver readable, action-packed fiction stories like clockwork, securing his place in the hall of fame of pulp writers.

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