10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

28 sum only a little smaller than what the government is trying to raise for na- tional defense. I crossed to the desk and stood be- hind a new arrival and waited for the clerk to finish registering him. I wanted Carla Parkhurst’s room num- ber. When I returned the handker- chief she’d have to thank me for it, and for the rescue, and that would make us good friends—I hoped. Then this new guest turned around and I almost fell through to the base- ment, His face lighted like 9 Klieg lamp, he grabbed my hand, started pumping it. He walloped me on the shoulder. “Bill Hawke!” he yelled. “Gumshoe Bill, the private dick.” It was Tom Grove, a former room- mate of mine at the U.S.C. In the old days I had run interference for him and he’d built up a nice football rep. I hadn’t seen him in some time and naturally this reunion called for a drink. We went back to the bar and tossed off a couple. “Well, Tom,” I asked, “what are you doing in Las Vegas?” “Business,” he said. “Selling build- ing supplies.” “Fine. Have dinner with me.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Bill, I can’t. But I’ll see you later. I’ve got some news for you.” E JAWED about this and that for a while, then Tom left. I sat at the bar reminiscing by myself. Since it was so close to dinner I thought I’d wait till Carla Parkhurst came down and then I’d return the handkerchief. I got through a good meal and two cups of coffee and she never showed up. So along about nine o’clock I tried to house phone, but couldn’t raise an answer. That didn’t bother me. Maybe somebody had dated her and taken her elsewhere to dine. I got her room number from the bell captain and rode up. Casing the place might give me some clue as to what she was doing in Las Vegas. I still 10-STORY DETECTIVE had that thousand buck retainer to earn and I’d promised old man Parke hurst to give him daily reports. The passkey was something I’d taken from a dead con and se far it had never failed me. It was worth twenty times its weight in gold and had let me into places a can of nitro- glycerin couldn’t have opened. A quick glance up and down the hall showed it empty. I inserted the key, twisted it, heard the satisfying click of dropping bolts, pushed the door open and entered. The first shock I got was from the brightly burning lights. The second was from the two people in the room. Carla Parkhurst had whirled and was staring at me with wide, terror- stricken eyes. The color had faded from her face and the poise I’d noticed earlier had fallen like a discarded mantle. The other person was a stranger. He was staring at the ceiling and he was going to keep on staring at the ceiling until somebody closed ais eyes. Then they would stay closed for good. The bullet hole had entered through the back of his skull and emerged just above the left eyebrow. He was as dead as he would ever get. I kicked the door shut behind me and turned back to Carla Parkhurst. I reached her in one long jump and clamped my hand over her open mouth, just in time to stifle a scream. “Behave yourself,” I said. “‘You want the whole hotel up here?” She gulped and I let her go. “You’re —you re—” “Yeah,” I snapped. “I’m the guy who pulled you out of a little jam this afternoon, but sister, this is a beaut. Who is he?” She just stood there, watching me, and I could tell from the way the cords in her throat stood out that she was practically paralyzed. “Look,” I said, “my name is Hawke, William Hawke. Your father hired me to keep an eye on you. He must be psychic. I can understand now why he GOmGoIoOo S (©