10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

———________——-PLAYGIRL OF DESTINY: “You again?” “Yes, me again. Mind if we go over the kidnaping once more? Make sure there isn’t some little thing you’ve forgotten.” T WAS pretty hopeless. She an- swered readily enough and truth- fully. There was nothing tangible, just impressions. Jim patiently start- ed again from the beginning. “You didn’t hear the sound of a wagon or an automobile?” he insisted. “No sound that would mean a bridge the kidnap car crossed?” Ruth shook her head. “Nothing.” Then her eyes widened, and she spoke slowly, uncertainly. “There was some- thing, but it couldn’t help.” Jim leaned forward. “Give, sister! Who knows?” She shot him a startled glance. “Well, every day at about the same hour I heard an airplane motor. It went directly overhead. I began to wait for it. You know how you'd feel blindfolded and frightened.” “Sure,” Jim agreed. “Anything else?” : “One day I didn’t hear it. Then the next day it came again and regularly thereafter. That’s all, Mr. Lillard, _ absolutely all.” “Okay, and thanks.” She left haughtily. When she was gone, Shenckl spoke up from behind the desk. “Anything mora Mr. Lillard ?” ‘Slim pickings, frankly.” Bradley Shenckl sighed. “I’m afraid so. I still think Paul Walker would bear deeper investigation.” Jim picked up his hat and his cher- ubie face held a woebegone expres- sion. “I'll do what I can, Mr. Shenckl. See you again.” His shoulders held a hopeless droop as he walked from the house and down the drive. Tilly waited for him in the rented car, sound asleep. It took a full minute for Jim to shake him to life. They drove away at a crawling pace, ‘Tilly yawning broadly over the wheel, —63 Around the first bend of the road, Jim leaned forward. “Isn’t Marsden the division point for Air Lines?” Tilly yawned and smacked his lips. “Sure is, boss. They got a big airfield there,” Jim’s eyes glittered. “Tilly, if you don’t break all records getting there, I’ll part those black ringlets with a gun butt!’ Tilly snapped awake. “Yes, sir, boss-man! Grab hold of somethin’, for I aims to fly.” They reached Marsden, but Jim was breathless. After the car skidded to a stop, he had to sit very still for a minute to make sure he was all in one piece. He climbed from the car and entered the airport office. The manager was very helpful, “I believe one of our flights did make a detour about that time. Bad weather. Let’s look at the records.” He banged open a file drawer and his well-manicured fingers flew over tabs and then pulled out a sheet. His voice was triumphant. “There! Flight Six. Bad electrical storm centering eighty miles south of Paradine. The Flight detoured down Green Valley to Hemington that day.” Jim’s blue eyes looked excited. “Charter me a plane and a pilot right now. I want to make Number Six’s exact schedule flight.” Jim hurried out to the car. Tilly was asleep again, his wide mouth agape, his white ivories gleaming in the mid- day sun. Jim shook him roughly, and Tilly slowly came back to conscious- ness with a series of snorts and grunts, “Wake up, big boy, we’re going to take an airplane joy ride.” Tilly looked uncertain, but he un- wrapped his long legs from the steer- ing post and pushed himself from the ear. “I done "bout everything, boss- man, but I ain’t figured on flying till I got beyond them Pearly Gates.” “If you keep awake you'll be able to tell St. Peter you’ve got a student license. Let’s go.” COMMICLOe cS (©