10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

4 Gis yi Vw VAG ne FEY ANT an AS ry nat Ply gt ay Le iA i tot ie fis: i atg3 ‘1 eit ey 4 iy Cet i Ay eb y 4 ; mie 7——___————-10-STORY DETECTIVE did a surge of excitement pulsed through him. That spot where the Duke had waded knee-deep lurked in his mem- ory. It swung the pendulum of time backward to his boyhood when he had first stood on the exact spot, playing and learning then the secrets of this powerful thing called the sea. Hope burned in his eyes as he left the office and walked toward the deso- late shore. HE lonely shack occupied by Duke Morgan lay like a hulk re- jected by the sea. To this Cranfield came, every nerve in his body tense. He stood on the wooden threshold and rapped on the door. Behind him lashed the sea, making a mournful dirge. The wind shrieked eerily to the accompaniment of the breakers, while overhead the moon was blotted by black clouds. Twice he rapped before the Duke came to the door. His manner was belligerent at sight of the constable. But Cranfield had his foot propped against the door so Morgan could not slam it in his face. Expertly and firm- ly he wiggled his way into the smelly room. It reeked with the odor of liquor. On the table lay two bottles of whiskey. ““Now what the hell do yer want?” Duke yelled. His eyes were red- rimmed from too much drinking, and he reeled slightly as he sat down at the table. “T ain’t receivin’ callers, I told yer before. Me health’s bad and I need a rest. What do yer want?” “Not much,” Cranfield responded. “Just came down to tell you that Rich- ardson’s been murdered!’ The city cannon jerked his drunken head upward. A sly look crossed his wizened face. “So what?” “Nothing. I thought you'd like to know.” “Ain’t that cute, So that’s what you ten-cent dicks do when some one gets bumped off, eh? You make personal rounds of the neighbors and announce the fact, eh?” 3 He laughed loudly, arrogantly. “You fellers ’re a scream.” He poured himself a drink and washed it down with one expert swing of his arm. “Well, thanks for the news. Now scram.” Cranfield looked at him _ hard, searchingly, accusingly. The expression in his face was evi- dent even to the half-drunken Mor- gan. He laughed. “Go ahead,” he taunt- ed. “Say it, Say that you think I did it. You stupid squirt, where’s the body ?” Cranfield rushed forward. His jaw jutted forward hard. Both his hands were resting on the table. His body bent forward accusingly. “Who said anything about the body?” he barked. “I only told you that Richardson had been murdered.” The gunman, in spite of his drunk- en stupor, did not lose his keenness. He had been cross-examined too many times, “Well, what you getting your cars in an uproar for? I merely asked you where the body was. Mebbe Id like to take a look at the guy’s mug.” He snickered. “Now get outta here before I throw you out. If you think you got anything on me, you know the procedure. Get a court order.” Cranfield walked out of the shack. Slowly he trekked across the beach, a dejected figure. The pose was for Duke’s benefit in case he was looking. Inwardly Cranfield knew the warmth of hope. HREE a.m, by the lip of the sea in the winter can be desolate, At Arville it is worse than that: the ocean seems to exude that unexplain- able beat of mystery with each swish of its waves. The wind creeps along the white-capped surface catching the monotonous surge of the water. Afar off black night meets black sea. The aal ~comicboo ‘S co