10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

60-——________————-10-STORY DETECTIVE ing Foster soundly as he did so. How many miles they drove, Fred had no way of knowing. He did realize that Al was deliberately trying to throw him off the track by taking many extra turns. Towards the end of their ride the roads were full of bumps. Fred managed to wriggle his shoulder behind Kay’s soft hair, pro- tecting her head from most of the jolts. Finally, the car turned into a grav- eled driveway. The Runt slit the ropes from their ankles as the car stopped, forced Fred and Kay to stagger out of the car. Al cursed as he fitted a key into a stiff lock. Musty air swept out at them as the heavy door creaked open. “Runt, pull those curtains tight be- fore you snap on the light,” Al ordered. His voice echoed hollowly from the high paneled eeHing. The Runt’s heavy breathing could be heard as he felt his way inside. Fred managed to grasp Kay’s soft hand with his own bound one, seeming to signal by his clasp, “Don’t worry, honey. Everything’ll work out all right.” Even through the blindfold Fred could see a blaze of light as the Runt at last snapped on a switch by the door. Al herded him and Kay into a room opening off the hall, and there he removed their gags and blindfolds. But he left their hands bound. “Nice to be here at last.” Fred smiled encouragingly to Kay. Her lovely face was pale and smudged with dirt. Her hair was tousled. She smiled back. Al grmned evilly at them. “Glad you like our little place—you may be here quite a while! Just make your- selves at home.” “Thanks,” said Fred. “That won’t be hard to do.” He glanced around the old-fashioned parlor, sighed reflective- ly, “Poor Charlie!” Al glared at him. “Whaddya mean, ‘poor Charlie’ ?”’ Fred appeared astonished. “Didn’t you know that this was poor Charlie Grimm’s place?” He turned to Kay. “Why, you remember him, don’t you, Kay dear? He had us here for a week- end once.” Kay blinked, caught her breath sharply. ‘Why, of course, Fred! It’s poor Charlie Grimm’s house!” Fear grew in the Runt’s shifty eyes. “Gee, Al, they know this dump! That’s bad for us.”’ Al tried to seem uneoncerned. “Well, so you know the guy who owns this joint, huh ?” ‘Who owned,” Fred corrected gent- ly. “Yes, I knew poor Charlie Grimm well, until he—until he—” “Until he what?” demanded Al an- grily. RED sighed loudly. The Runt was staring at him like a hypnotized bird. “Until one winter’s night he took a steak knife and slit the throat of the old maiden aunt with whom he lived, and then apparently slashed his own from ear to ear.” Fred’s voice dropped. “The servants found them both the next morning, lying in that fire- place—” Fred nodded to the stone fireplace—“ in a pool of clotted blood.” The Runt’s teeth were chattering like dice in a box. “So that’s why this joint’s empty, huh?” “Right,” admitted Fred. “No one will stay here more than one night. Even the neighbors claim they can hear screams every night at two and hear the sounds of footsteps in the house.” Fred’s eyes searched the ex- pressions on the gangsters’ faces. “Yes, they say they can hear poor Charlie Grimm screaming and run- ning around the house at two o’clock each night, while Charlie’s Haunt chases him with a bloody steak knife!” “Charlie’s Haunt?” The big fellow’s voice shook in spite of himself. He stole a look at his watch. Ten of two. Fred laughed loudly. The echo ran around the room eerily. “Yes, that’s what the people around here call the ghost of the old lady — Charlie’s Haunt! Some of them even claim they’ve seen her walking the front hall there, all streaming with blood from MIGoOo (C(O) S (C(O) im