10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

HEY met a slim, brisk young man who proved to be regular co-pilot of Flight Six. In ten minutes they were up in the air and headed south. Tilly sat behind Jim, his eyes shut un- til they leveled off. Then he cautiously opened one frightened orb and looked out the window. Jim gave instructions to the pilot. In a few minutes the pilot pointed down and gave a signal showing Flight Six had started the detour here. Jim kept his eyes glued to the ground far below. They came over a series of low hills that rolled on in a mass of tumbled, crazy hummocks of green, the dark green of pines. There were houses, but none that looked in the least suspicious. Then he saw it, a clearing in which squatted a small shack, peeling for lack of paint. Lazy smoke curled in a pencil line from the chimney and only a winding, rutted, single track road led to the clearing—and stopped. On Jim’s order the pilot circled once and headed back for Marsden. Jim lost no time in returning to Paradine and the Shenckl estate. He met Bradley Shenckl and Ruth walk- ing across the broad lawn, and he didn’t stand on ceremony. “Miss Miller, on your ride with the kidnapers, did you have a sense of go- ing through hills, an up and down road? Did you smell pine smoke then, or later in the place where they kept you?” Her eyes were wide in surprise. “Yes, I did! Particularly the pine smoke smell.” Jim relaxed, smiling. Bradley Shenckl was curious. “You’ve got a lead?” “Definitely ! I’m making a call after dark tonight.” He left Ruth Miller and her gaunt uncle in stunned surprise. Tilly called at the hotel that night and the rented car started south at a good clip. Jim checked his gun, and then made himself comfortable in the back seat. In a short time they came into the hills and Jim became more 10-STORY DETECTIVE alert. Tilly switched on the headlights and Jim watched the side roads. “Turn here,” he said at last, and Tilly groaned at the sight of the hor- rible road they faced. Jim checked with a map the airport manager had given him and sat back, satisfied. They drove slowly, fighting the ruts and rocks. Jim watched the speedometer mileage. Finally he tapped Tilly’s broad shoulder. “Douse the headlights. Go ahead about a mile and turn off. [ll walk from there.” When he stepped from the car, the darkness was like a thick, blinding blanket, the trees ghostly, the rutted road barely discernible. Tilly started to climb out, but Jim halted him. “Stay put, Curlylocks, there might be fireworks.” He went, as cautiously as he could up the road, stumbling occasionally when his foot slipped into a deep rut. Soon he saw the low bulk of the shack and a faint glimmer of light. Jim pulled his gun from the holster and slipped off the safety. He went on— slowly. There was no sound, and in a short time he was pressed against the wall below the window with its drawn blind. He could distinctly hear voices, through the thin-board walls. One was heavy and burred. “So we pull out tonight? What about the dough?” The second voice, thin and whining, answered: “We get it as soon as the boss brings the guy in. We clean up nice, then scram.” Jim strained closer to the wall. He didn’t have a warning. The pressure of the gun barrel was painful in his spine, and a soft voice carried a load of mockery. “Yes, Mr. Lillard, they’re talking about you—and me. Let’s go in, shall we? No, don’t turn! And drop your gun.” He slowly straightened and dropped the automatic. On order of the soft voice, he marched around the house and in the door. The room was soft COMICOO® S (©