10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

aa “Look,” he said, “I’ll make a deal. Give me your name and address, your phone number from where you are ealling now. Then I'll know this is not a practical joke and I'll go up.” “Call me back,” the man said. “I’m John Alexander. I’m living in a little hotel called the Fairview. Its phone number is 9708. My room is 340.” The connection was closed. Stuart hung up, rubbed his chin and then called the hotel. “Have you a man registered as John Alexander?” “Yes, sir,’ the clerk answered. “Checked in yesterday.” “This is the police,” Stuart said. “What kind of a guy is he? Screw- ball type?” “‘Alexander? Hardly. He’s about the most serious person I’ve ever talked to. Has only one arm. The left is missing at the shoulder. Looks like he’s been pretty sick.” “All right,” Stuart said. ‘Call him. Say the police phoned and that his request is going to be taken care of at once. Thanks.” Stuart stuffed a thirty-eight serv- ice pistol into his hip holster, grabbed his hat and hurried to the desk. The police station wasn’t very big because the city it policed had a population of only fifty thousand. Detective. Sergeant Jim Stuart was in charge of the detective bureau nights. In fact, he was the detective bureau. HIS busy industrial town in New England, was on the shore front. Its suburbs consisted mainly of ex- pensive estates, owned by wealthy people from New York and Boston. The Michael Kerrigan place was among the largest, sprawling over a hundred and fifty acres, plenty of which overlooked the sea from a high eliff. Stuart drove his own car, a heavy coupe. He left the city limits, streaked out along the highway and promised John Alexander, whoever he was, some trouble if this turned out to be 10-STORY DETECTIVE—_——_____— a joke. He started climbing a fairly large hill. The road was wide and smooth here. At the top it would narrow and turn from cement to rougher asphalt. He eased up on the gas when ‘le reached the top. He didn’t hear the crack of the gun, but his windshield was suddenly sporting a neat, found hole. Six inches to the left and that slug would have buried itself in Stuart’s brain. He jammed on the brakes and came to a skidding halt. Jumping out of the car, gun in hand, he looked over the surround- ing hillsides for signs of the gun- man. It was a clear night, with plenty of stars, but no moon. Things looked a little weird, especially that object in a small clearing halfway up the slop- ing bank. It looked Tike a man—a veritable giant—and it ghstened as though it were sheathed in ice. Stuart stepped back to the car, got in and turned it around until the radiator faced the hill. He snapped on the spotlight, swept the area with its strong, white beam and picked out that object. The detective gave a half- strangled gasp of horror. It glistened all right, just as ice did. It was huge and it was a human being of sorts, though Stuart had never seen anything quite like it In the split second before the thing vanished from sight, he noticed that it was encased in some kind of heavy suit and a curred hood, lke a parka. High boots were on its feet. Stuart whipped out his gun, jumped from the car and started up the hillside. For twenty minutes he searched and found nothing, not even a footprint. Then he thought of the mission which brought him here. Maybe this strange business had something to do with John Alex- ander’s warning of murder. Stuart slid and slipped down the hillside, jumped into his car and raced to- ward the Michael Kerrigan estate. A row of tall, very old willow trees bordered the whole place, blotting it MIGoOo (C(O) S (C(O) nn