10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

12 or ten minutes. Why in the world should Terry describe Alexander as if he were dead—shot through the head? What about that glistening figure I saw and, most of all, the storm which all of us heard and yet which left no moisture. If Terry is crazy, we all are.” “T think,” Gordon said, “a search of this house is in order. A thorough search.” : “You’re right. Stay with Terry and make sure he doesn’t see any more dead men picking up corpses. Teil Kerrigan about it when he comes down. I’m going to start with the cellar, work my way to the attic and when that’s over, I’m going to check on John Alexander.” A search of the house revealed nothing. Stuart went to a small study and called police headquarters. He had a detail sent to Alexander’s ho- tel and then he paced the floor while he waited for the return call. He tried to figure out that freak storm, but it was as puzzling as the death of Meredith and the disappearance of his corpse. Finally the phone rang. Stuart lis- tened intently and his face grew grim. He hung up and walked into the big living room. ERRY sat in the same chair, huddled up, his chin quivering, his lips forming soundless words. Eyes were bright in terror. They grew even brighter when he saw Stuart. A brandy inhaler stood on a cocktail table beside his chair. He grabbed the*brandy and downed it in one gulp. “Tt don’t know anything,” he al- most yelled. “About Alexander— what happened to Meredith or any- thing else. Don’t ask me a lot of questions. I’m innocent, I tell you.” Stuart glanced over his shoulder. Gordon and Kerrigan stood in the doorway. The detective straddled a straight-backed chair and looked di- rectly at Terry. “So you’re innocent. For a guy with © ma 10-STORY DETECTIVE—-——_——-__—_—-_——— nothing on his conscience you cer- tainly got on the defensive fast enough. Terry, you're a rotten liar. You knew that John Alexander was dead—shot through the left temple. You saw him dead—maybe as he was being killed. Perhaps you even shot him, but guilty of his murder or not—you did see his body. Otherwise you couldn’t have known about the wound. Speak up, little man. The truth now.” Terry’s lips were drawn back in a grimace of sheer terror. His lips and vocal cords worked again, but no sound came forth. Stuart got up, reached down and grabbed him. He pulled the small man to his feet and waved a fist in front of his nose. “You can talk here or in the privacy of a cell. I don’t care which, so make up your mind damned fast.” “I-I haven’t any—thing to t-talk about,” Terry managed to say. “Alex- ander was here, in this room. He was a ghost. A ghost, I tell you! D-dead! He’s after all of us. He’s—” The lights started to flicker and the low, rustling sound of an ap- proaching storm reached their ears. Terry tore himself loose from Stu- art’s grip. A window blind banged twice. The wind was beginning to howl. Then, like a cloudburst, rain beat against the windowpanes. A wild, soul-shriveling shriek, made by that howling wind, chilled Stuart to the bone. Terry began to yell. “No! No! Not me! Please—not—me!” The lights went out entirely then. Stuart knew just where Terry had been standing and he rushed toward him. Dimly, he saw Terry suddenly grow very erect and claw at his throat. His words became meaning- less jumbles and then just strangled sobs. He reeled a couple of steps be- fore he pitched headlong on the floor. “Air — air — can’t breathe. Wind taking my—breath away. Stop it! Stop—” Those words became a gasping groan and then there was silence. MIGoOo (C(O) S (C(O) im