10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

26———___—_————10-STORY DETECTIVE patrolman’s flashlights fell on her face. Paul looked into her eyes. They were hazel and fiecked with gold “Nevel,” he murmured. A flush crossed her cheek. “I told you to be careful,” she whispered. “Tell me,” Hammond gripped her hand. “You are Nevel and she is—” “S-s-h-h! We are not alone. I shall see you soon, if possible.” She arose and turned to the police. “It looks like a rather ugly scalp wound, but nothing serious. You had better take him to his hotel, the Dan- vers. >» “Yes, miss. And can we get your name as a witness?” “Of course, Miss Bette ieee. Hamilton Hotel, just across the street.” “Yes, miss. Thank you.” -Paul Hammond stared incredulous- ly as the woman turned and melted into the fog. Bette Langwell! The most dangerous woman in the world! It couldn’t be. She should be his en- emy, an employee of Senor Pombal. The young man sat up and felt h head. It was splitting, but he was not seriously injured. He struggled to his feet with the aiding hand of one of the policemen. “This way to the hotel, mister,” the man said. “I'll go along, and you can give me a statement when you’re feel- ing a little better.” HE Danvers’ house physician made quick work of dressing Hammond’s wound, but there was nothing in his skill that could calm the storm raging through the young man’s mind. Nevel Nason! Bette ' Langwell! Both were in San Fran- cisco. Which was which? Each failed completely to act in keeping with her name, Nevel should be a friendly aid, even though she was not a member of the D-1 organization. Yet she had tried to murder him. And Bette Lang- well, the most dangerous woman in the world, the natural ally of the notorious Sefior Pombal, had saved him, Tt didn’t make sense. He rid himself of the policeman by giving him a nebulous statement. He dared not give the facts. Police action might hurry his foe’s plans ahead and leave him groping in the fog. He must work out the case before anyone was arrested. “Tll go down to the Hall tomorrow if you need me,” he informed the po- liceman, “but tonight I shall be very busy.” The officer winked knowingly. “The name was Miss Bette Langworth, Hamilton Hotel,” he said with a smile. “Yes, I heard it.” - “Pleasant dreams, sir.” “Thanks, officer. Good-by.” But Paul Hammond had no time for dreams. Arthur Haycox’s last words had opened a window and given him a view that filled his mind with fears. The Stone is the Rock! the Rock—that was Alcatraz .... And the Laughing Ghoul was a mys- terious phantom-like underworld genius who had disappeared from the face of the earth eight months ago. Was Max Ulrich the Laughing Ghoul? Was Sefior Pombal? Or had the Laughing Ghoul hidden his iden- tity among the numbered men on Al- eatraz? As Hammond paced up and down the room, his eyes fell upon his radio equipment. He had forgotten it in the high excitement of Haycox’s murder and the identification of the two women who were playing major réles in the shadowed drama. He took up the wax cylinder. Several inches of fine lines showed that speech had been recorded. He placed the record on the reproducing instrument and started it. First came the sound of the needle Funning across the wax. Then a man’s voice began speaking. “Well, Mr. Hammond, I’m sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of saying good-by to you personally, but duty calls,” the voice began. “How- ever, we shall probably meet again, Eomichboo cS