10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 92: what you’re looking at

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

99-—___—_——————-10-STORY DETECTIVE The trail led straight toward the foot of the stairs. “Is there a telephone line still open here?” Phelps snapped at the trem- bling carpenter. Tim nodded, pointed. “Under that hunk of painter’s canvas in the cor- ner. The phone men was comin’ in tomorrow to disconnect it.” Phelps uncovered the instrument with a quick gesture. He called a number, his eyes steadily on the silent staircase and the blackness above. In a moment he had the cottage of Sheriff Craig. He spoke a few terse sentences to Craig and hung up. “Stay here with Rita,” he told the cowering Tim. With the lantern swinging from his hand, he went slowly up the stairs. The gun in his right paw was like a steady, upslanting rock. In a moment, there was a faint click and the upper floor bloomed with sudden illumination. The feet of Dave Phelps made a slow creaking sound as he padded about on the un- carpeted boards. Tim heard a sudden muttered exclamation. In another mo- ment Phelps was hurrying down the staircase. His eyes were narrowed, puzzled looking. “The smears ended right in the center of the hallway. Whoever made the tracks went no further than the center of the hall—and he didn’t come down the stairs again.”’ “It’s a ghost,” Tim groaned. “The dead man got up and—and walked into thin air.” “Ghost nothing,” Phelps snapped. “There’s a killer in this dance pavilion right now. He’s upstairs somewhere —trying to hide the corpse, to get rid of the evidence of his crime.”’ His eyes fastened grimly on the carpenter. “Is there any way to get up to that attic above the second floor?” “There’s a trapdoor,” Tim mut- tered uneasily. “But—but nothing human could have climbed up there tonight. The ceiling is twelve feet high and the only ladder in the place iso “Quick! Where’s the ladder?” “Downstairs here. In the pantry. Behind the cellar stairs.” “Go get it!” Tim shuddered. “Not me! I ain’t anxious to meet no ghost.” Phelps’ gun muzzle swung omi- nously. “Go get the ladder—and get it here fast!’ The frightened Tim disappeared with the speed of a small boy passing a graveyard. In a moment or two he was back, dragging a long, light ladder. “Take one end of it,” Phelps ordered. ‘‘We’re going upstairs and have a look at that attic.” Tim backed away. Beads of sweat glistened on his pale forehead. He looked startled as a sudden sound echoed outside in the driving rain. It was the harsh squeal of an automobile braking swiftly to a stop. “The sheriff,” Tim gasped. “It’s Sheriff Craig.” Rita Daly’s face never moved. She sat in the dusty chair where Phelps had placed her and her face was waxen with a dulled horror. Her bloodstained hands hung limply in her lap, and her gaze stayed riveted on them as though they were snakes. Sheriff Craig hurried in with a quick, nervous step. He was wearing a wrinkled yellow slicker thrown hastily over his pajamas. The laces of his shoes dangled loosely as he walked. He was a short, paunchy man with a bristly brown mustache. He looked ill at.ease. In the twelve years he had served as sheriff in the little seaside village, he had never yet been brought face to face with the specter of murder. He eyed the ladder on the floor. The coast guardsman explained briefly what he had already discovered and Craig blinked. He was obviously ner- vous as he picked up one end of the ladder. “T’ll lead the way,” Phelps said evenly. “Unless I’m crazy, the corpse > COnmiclbooolk CO