10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

98 door led only to a communication pas- sageway, leading, in turn, into the main hall and as such it held no inter- est for him, for Winston Keith certain- ly wasn’t in the passage. Gilmardy’s lined face was a study in perplexity. NAPPING on the lights in the h- brary, the inspector paced the room, wondering whether he should spread the alarm or not. He had just about reached the decision to do so when a drawling voice smote his ears. A voiee that was perfectly clear, yet almost sepulchral in tone. “Good evening, Inspector. Were you, by any chance, looking for me?” The voice was deep and low, almost taunt- ing in its hollow mockery. Gilmardy whirled abruptly and found himself gazing into the bore of a large and amazingly steady pistol. The inspector stared at the pistol like one in an hypnotic trance. Then, slowly, as a fascinated bird watches a striking snake, his gaze traveled from the pistol to the man in back of it, His eyes flew wide with amazement as they encompassed the face of the Gray Ghost. The face with its death- like, waxen hue, the piercing, black eyes, and the mocking smile that wreathed the lips beneath the heavy mustaches. Again the sepulchral voice broke the silence. “You didn’t play quite fair with me, inspector,” chided the Ghost. “Here I invite you to one of my parties and you bring along a spectator. Makes it rather awkward for me. Suppose I hadn’t located him first? Tsk, tsk—in- spector. Such unfairness.” Gilmardy could only grind his teeth in impotent rage as the taunting, mocking voice drawled on. “Yes, inspector—it was quite un- fair of you, and quite stupid, too. Spec- tators are always blundering and use- less. Why—I—might—yes ’pon my soul I will go so far as to say that this blithering idiot, a—ah— Winston Keith or Kite or something by name, is positively stupid—a blunderer. A 10-STORY DETECTIVE complete ass, if you get what I mean, or if not a complete ass, he’ll do till one comes along. “Of course the police are stupid too, but they are paid for being stu- pid. ft’s an art with them, and after a’! society must have its protection. I’m sure you agree with me, inspector.” Gilmardy’s neck looked like it was about to burst either itself or the col- lar of his shirt. He was just debating whether it would be prudent or not to make a pass for his own gun, but the Gray Ghost interrupted him. “Now—now, inspector. I shouldn’t do that. You see I should be forced to kill you if you did and then thimk of all the horrible notoriety I should be subjeeted to. No, indeed, inspector, i shouldn’t recommend such a course, but as long as you are so nervous [ think a sedative is in order, what? Just step over a little closer and extend your bared wrist,—left please.” “Thats right, inspector,” mocked the Ghost as Gilmardy, knowing that there was no alternative, stepped for- ward and held out his arm, sleeve drawn back and corded sinews exposed to view. “Just take it easy now. This fluid” —the Ghost held up a tiny hypoder- mie syringe—“is quite harmless. Amazingly effective, yet absolutely non-injurious.” And while he kept up a running fire of caustic comments, watching the inspector closely, he sent the little plunger down. Something warm and prickly coursed through the inspector’s arm, slowly creeping up into his shoulder and on through his boty. He had a hazy recollection of being assisted to a chair. He tried to struggle, but his arms and legs were leaden. They re- fused to obey the dictates of his fud- dled mind. Thine's began to blur in his vision. He experienced a whirring sen- sation in his brain. He was conscious of nothing but the Ghost’s mocking voice. The last thing he remembered with any degree of distinctness was the Ghost telling him that he would find Comichbooks (C@