10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

MAUSOLEUM MISSION ————-——__—_———_69 erime last night is but the beginning, or I miss my guess. It’s tied up some- how with the past—with the history of your family.” Dale Markham rose suddenly to her feet. She crossed to Slade and rested her hand upon his arm, “T don’t know your name,” she said, “Storm Slade.” “Mr. Storm Slade, speak plainly. Do you think there is something in this besides the pure vandalism of a de- ranged person?” “T believe,” said Slade, rising to his feet, “that this is only the start of something conceived by a fiend—that hideous things may happen, unless we can forestall them. I must know about your family. Please tell me.” Dale Markham looked steadily into Slade’s eyes. “The family history is recorded in outline in the old family Bible,” she said. “Excuse me, I'll get it.” Storm Slade watched her lithe body disappear through a doorway leading to a room in the rear. His eyes re- mained fixed on the black oblong through which she had passed. Suddenly the silence was pierced by a scream, a scream of wild terror. LADE bounded through the door- way. In the inky blackness he could see nothing. A board creaked on the opposite side of the room. Slade reached for his gun. Some- thing hissed by his ear and thudded into the paneled wall by his head. A blue flame spurted from his gun. In the flash, he saw the dim outline of a man. A door slammed as the appari- tion disappeared. Slade stumbled forward and wrenched open the door. He glimpsed for a second a fleeting shadowy figure, streaking toward the wood. It was in- stantly swallowed up in the darkness _ beneath the locust trees. He wheeled. On the floor lay the crumpled figure of Dale Markham. He kneeled down, scooping his arms under her. He lifted her limp body, and carried it into the sitting-room. She was still in his arms when her eyes opened. He placed her gently on the couch. “Sorry,” she said, sitting up sud- denly. “What happened? Oh, yes, I remember. I fainted, didn’t I?” “Where are the lights in there?” Slade asked, pointing toward the dark room. “There’s an oil lamp on the center table.” She followed Slade into the room and held the chimney while he lit the wick. Then he crossed the room and jerked a butcher’s cleaver from the oak paneling. Its razor-sharp edge, embedded three inches, had split a long seam in the hard wood. “Tell me just what happened,” he asked, as he placed it on the table. “I had just picked up the Bible. I didn’t need any light because the Bible’s always been on the library table right there, since I brought it over here from the other house. Sud- denly someone sprang out and snatched the Book from my hands. He must have been crouching behind the chair there. It was silly of me to faint that way.” Dale smiled bravely at Slade. Slade gripped her by the elbow. He guided her back into the living room. They sat facing one another. His long eyes weré fixed on her in undisguised admiration. “Miss Markham,” he smiled, “‘tell me how much of the family history was in this Bible that our phantom ran off with.” “Oh, mostly dates of births and deaths and weddings. You know—the usual sort of thing in a family rec- ord.” “Can you imagine why anyone would want to steal it ?”’ “Of course not. I’m the last of the Markhams. I can’t conceive of its be- ing of interest to anyone else.” “Damn it,” said Slade. Rising to his feet, he paced the room with long strides. “I can’t dope it out. But I’ve a hunch that more gruesome things will happen in the Markham vault.” Gomichooks.com