10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

PHANTOM loose from below. He’s down on the beach right now! He can’t be any- where else!” Phelps sprang down the tower steps in long, eager strides. The lad- der was still propped under the gaping trapdoor but Phelps ignored it. He hung for an instant from the trapdoor frame and dropped to the floor below with a lithe thud. With a set face and a gun snout gleaming in his big hand, he raced past the startled faces of Tim and the girl. Rita cried out weakly, but he didn’t hear her. The wind and rain slashed at him, but he lowered his head and raced straight for the howling blackness of the beach. He took the water-steam- ing steps across the stone breakwater in two wild leaps. Above his head the tall tower of Seaside Inn was a dark blot against the inky sky. The beach itself was a smear of impenetrable darkness. Phelps ranged slowly seaward in ever widening circles, his body bent close to the rain-swept sand. Suddenly he tensed. He was staring at a tangled coil of heavy rope. He saw the trampled tracery of heavy footsteps in the wet sand. The deeply marked prints disappeared in the darkness in a straggling uneven line toward the rush and tumble of the surf. Phelps had barely taken a half- dozen steps when a spurt of flame split the darkness in front of him. A bullet whistled shrilly above his head. He threw himself grimly forward —and fell headlong over an inert something in the sand. It was a bat- tered body lying flat on its face. Fiercely he heaved at the shoulders. It was the dead Clem Daly. Again, the snarling spurt of fiame erashed from the darkness ahead. Phelps bent his knees instantly and went flat on the sand. But only for an instant. The coast guardsman wrig- gled sideways and leaped to his feet. The killer was at bay. Hemmed in tipo ———————— 95 between the coast guardsman and the roaring fury of the Atlantic, he could depend no longer on stealth and evasion. He would have to kill now— or be killed. Phelps could make out more clearly the dark blob of the fugitive fleeing form. The man was running drunken- ly, humped low above the sand like an enormous frog. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated him for a dazzling instant as he whirled, his gun streaking flame. The coast guardsman staked his life on a bold, impetuous rush. He flung himself heedlessly forward. His plunging attack carried him like a thunderbolt against the murderer’s hip and knee. They fell in a tangle together, rolling over and over in a fierce thrashing struggle that threw wet sand flying in soggy spurts. The butt of the killer’s gun drove Phelps’ face into the sand, almost choking him. But he managed to clear his eyes with a desperate sweep of his left hand and to roll clear for an instant. His own gun swung upward in a swift arc and crashed with stunning impact on the skull of his snarling foe. With a groan of agony, the killer collapsed. Phelps rolled the limp body over. He stared intently into the uncon- scious face a few inches under his. “A sailor,” he muttered. “Craig’s guess was right.” Out of the darkness, a cautious figure came creeping closer. It was the sheriff. He eyed the murderer and seemed to nod faintly. “Ridley. It’s—lIt’s Ridley himself!” “It sure is,” Phelps said. “Ridley himself—the foxy owner of Seaside Inn. That boat trip of his to Miami was just a blind. He never left the inn. He was hidden up in the attic— _ waiting for the chance to kill Clem Daly and protect himself—from blackmail, probably.” “A sailor,” Craig muttered. “I said the killer was a sailor to get away from the tower like that.” Gomichbook (E©)