10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

9A notebook he produced from his pocket and then looked up. “You are to attend the opera with Sir Cecil Ballinger and his party this evening sir.” With that Winston Keith nodded Keith. “But I say, Quirt. ‘Was’ is the word, not ‘are.’ You must tender my apologies. I really shan’t be able to at- tend the opera.” | With that Winston Keith nodde his acquiescence, and five minutes later, with plans all set for the eve- ning, Inspeetor Gilmardy, looking much relieved, took his departure. Shortly before ten o’clock that eve- ning a long, black car purred through the fog-enshrouded streets of London. In the rear seat, as in the front, rode two stern-faced officers of metropoli- tan police. Not a single word was spoken by any of the dour quartet as the big car hurtled through the silent streets. It was just ten-fifteen when the driver drew to a brake-squealing stop in front of a staid, brownstone house in Grosvenor Square. The car had no more than stopped when a lithe figure, immaculately clothed in dark garb, slipped wraithlike into the front seat. “Greetings,” laughed Keith as he settled himself in the car’s soft uphol- stery. The inspector grunted sourly, and the grunt served a two-fold pur- pose. It reproved Keith for his levity, and served as a signal to the driver. Winston Keith turned about leisure- ly and serutinized the two officers in the rear seat. He had met them be- fore. They were Harder and Svenson, both sergeants and connected with the Criminal Investigation Department. As usual, they were scowling and chewing ferociously on unlighted ci- gars. They looked quite vicious, but Keith recalled that they were both heavy on the brawn and strong-arm- tacties, fairly good pistol shots, but not very long on intelligence. “Well, Svenson,” Keith smiled his most disarming smile, “will we catch him tonight?” 10-STORY DETECTIVE Svenson grunted and tapped his pis- tol holster significantly. “Sure, we'll catch him, Mr. Keith. Won’t we, Harder?” Svenson turned to his teammate as though daring him to deny the assertion. “Uh-huh,” grunted Harder. “Ghost or no ghost he can’t make monkeys out of us.” Keith smiled inscrutably. He couldn’t resist the temptation to insert a satirical barb. “Oh, quite, Harder,” Keith mur- mured, “but d’ y know Harder, good material is quite a problem today, It’s a problem that’s bothering our biggest producers. H’mm, yes. It is quite a problem, an interesting problem, worthy of ome’s' best thought, Harder.” And with that Winston Keith turned his attention to the gleaming silk ribbon that formed the wet and shiny Marleybone Road, and in the rear seat Harder and Svenson scowled on, oblivious of the oral barb that had sailed serenely over their heads. “T say—” Keith turned to the silent official beside him, ‘‘does old Cranther know what’s all ado? Be quite a shock to the dear old gentleman to have the King’s representatives calling on him at such an hour, what?” Keith waited a long time for his an- swer, during which he shuddered to think what might happen to the Gray Ghost were he to accidentally run afoul of either of the two worthies in the rear seat. Slippery as the Ghost had been on past occasions, Keith felt that he might not prove elusive enough to elude a .38 caliber bullet if he came under the gunning eye of elther Har- der or Svenson. Then Keith smiled. He had worked with them before, and he knew that if they spotted the Ghost, they would, no doubt, advertise themselves as rep- resentatives of the law sufficiently ahead of time to allow their quarry to elude them. Keith was still smiling to himself as he recalled the blunderings of Svenson and Harder on past cases, It CORNICGLOOKS (C@)