10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 21: what you’re looking at

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

‘ AR Me ~\, +s 4 y pee by Tr \ % “l C Sas - a eter < BULLDOG “This time,” Webster said grimly, rising, “the evidence is stolen before it gets into the hands of the state. It can’t be far and—~’” He broke off, listening. With a quick turn to the kitchen door, he opened a view upon spreading grounds, noting that the entrance would yield from the cutside. A night wind, rustling through the elms on the grounds, car- ried a crackling sound, softened by the distance, It was the noise of splinter- ing glass. Webster hurried; Mae Gary kept at his side. The estate of the late jur- ist reached over a wooded knoll. In the gloom a brook trickled musically. Web- ster gestured a warning to the girl, crouched when he reached the crest, peered at a winding line of water twinkling faintly in the starlight. His heart quickened as he gazed intently at a shadowy figure bending over the rippling bank. And again, more sharp- ly, came the crash of shattering glass. Webster bounded over. A bush rus- tled in the darkness. His hand slipped toward his Webley when the sound brought a gasp from the crouching fig- ure. Gun-metal twinkled in the light as Webster broke into a run. A dart of flame flashed; a bullet whipped over Webster’s shoulder; his Webley echoed, The slugs crossed in the gloom, and the black figure leaped the brook. Web- ster’s bound carried him across it. Hot wind fanned his cheek as another bul- let whistled, As he followed the dart- ing figure, bushes tripped him. He sprang up, muttering maledictions, hearing the snarl of a motor. When he reached the mesh fence, a car was speeding in the street without lights. Webster aimed swiftly, fired twice; but the thick blackness obscured his target. The car roared around a bend in the drive as he sped back. Mae Gary’s anxious call brought his breathless: “Okay! Call Mattison— the prowl cars!”’ He heard the girl run- ning through the grass as he paused at the edge of the brook. OF JUSTICE—————————19 He tore off a paper match, hearing excited voices in the house. Studying the ground in the flickering light, he saw broken glass glittering among the rocks of the brook bed. Other frag- ments twinkled on an area of wet earth. Webster slipped the jagged neck of a bottle into his pocket, noting the plain cap. He scooped up moist dirt, found a used envelope in his pocket, packed it full. Mae Gary hurried back, paused, anxiously watched his eyes glitter in the fading light of a second match. “Was it my imagination,” he asked, “or did I smell naphthalene in the kitchen ?” “T thought I did!’ He declared tightly: “‘We’ve got to have something better than that. Take this envelope, Mae. Find Dr. Norton, wherever he is, and get him into his lab no matter what he’s doing.” Dr. Timothy Norton was the city toxicol- ogist. ‘“‘After that,” he added, “you might use some sleep.” “You’re not hurt?” the girl asked anxiously. “Jack—are you?” “Missed me,” he answered lacon- ically. “I suppose Mattison’s sending a man out—there being no hurry. Slip back to the ear, Mae. I'll be right with you.” E went into the house as the girl hurried off, and strove to reas- sure the distracted Mrs. Crawford that there was no cause for alarm. He looked again in the kitchen, for a pos- sible clue to the prowler, but could find nothing. He returned thoughtfully to the car, slipped behind the wheel, and started off. Mae Gary looked at him, and said nothing while he drove. “I’m going to drop off at home,” he said at last. “Use this car to get to Dr. Norton’s.” “Kighteen minutes are up,’ the girl said softly, looking at her watch, as Webster drew the car to the curb in front of the small house in which he lived. “That makes it one minute past midnight.” “Yes?” curiously. Eomichooks (e(@)