Life — August 13, 1925 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

«* LIFE « A Thrilling Detective Serial Wherein the Fates of a Man and a Woman Are Juggled in the Tangled Web of a Murder Mystery and Death Takes His Grim Toll eyes the secret plan thrt was in his mind. Every fibre was keyed to the highest pitch, every muscle expectant and ready, like a coiled spring. Across the lawn galloped a sge police-dog, smeared with phosphorus and baying like “Just as I thought,” said Inspector Boyd, firing his re- volver, “The murderer of Henry Twillerby is still alive. He is in that closet now!” From above them came a sound of scuffling and clanking of chains, then a groan and the thud of a heavy body fall- ing. Slowly a section of the book-case opened out, and from the shadows a gloved hand reached for the light switch. Instantly the room was plunged in darkness. “Is Inspector Boyd here?” cried the medium in a slow, quavering, Moan- ing treble. “I want Inspector Boyd——” “Gad!” muttered the Inspector, mop- ping his brow. “Gad! how did she learn that? I am the spirit of Henry Twillerby,” continued the medi- um in a blood-cur- dling shriek, as three hots rang out and the inspector groped for the light switch. The flood of illumina- tion revealed an emp- ty room, “Oh, I'll admit you were pretty clever, Dr. Cruikshank,” sneered the Inspector, snapping on the hand- re : “And if 1 refuse?” queried the sailor who, up cuffs, “but T was just etal be eT See sa port te tee tort a little bit cleverer. Two can play at that game, my man,” he laughed, as the door was flung open and Dr. Cruikshank entered as breathlessly as a cat, with the blood streaming from his left temple. “Stick up your mitts, and not a word out of your trap.” wversation, Al view of the caravansary at Fez from which our expedition started, he commanded in a whisper, “or I'll pull the trigger and empty the whole magazine (adz’t).” “That is not a gun in your pocket,” sneered the Inspector, “that is only a corkscrew. Who are you, Dr. Cruik- shank?” “I am Inspector Boyd,” replied the elderly physician, lighting a cigar. Silent, tense, white-lipped, the two opponents faced each other across the teakwood table. Inspector Boyd held his cigar suddenly at arm's length, eyed it suspiciously, sniffed the air again, and then glared at the motionless figures. The candle sput- tered and went out. From those twin pools of mystery that were the Countess Marya’s eyes there flashed a message—a message that the grim old fighter had waited for goodness knows how long to hear. He winced. “We must get rid of those two men, Doctor,” he said calmly. “They've been dead for over a week.” Carstairs’ lips stiffened into a fero- cious grin. A shriek pierced the blank stillness of the night air. A revolver barked crisply. The tele- phone rang... (Who is Wu Chu Fang? What were the contents of that will? How is your uncle? A new and fascinating “Inspector Boyd” story will be published in an early issue over somebody's dead body. Order your copy NOW!) comicbooks.com