10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

KNIFE-MAN’S NEMESIS Everything O’Hare had felt up to that time was as nothing compared to the frantic fear that gripped him now. With one last desperate prayer, he yelled: “Molly! Did he limp?” “Why, yes, he did. When he saw I was noticing it, he said something about a blister on his heel. That could happen to anyone. Look, Tom, haven’t you carried this joke far enough?” “Joke?” O’Hare choked on it. “She’s eloping with a killer, I tell you! He hacks his victims to pieces with a knife!” The wire was sulky with silence for a moment and O’Hare’s words hung in the air, echoing over and over again in his ears. “Damn you, Molly!’ he shouted sud- denly. “You’re killing her, just as surely as though you were sticking the knife into her heart yourself!” Ordinarily he wouldn’t have said it, but he was crazy with fear. Molly Donovan was the sort to un- derstand things like that. She must have decided he was dead serious, be- cause she said: “I’ll meet you at the airport in fifteen minutes. We’ll have to charter a plane for Spanish Springs.” AVING spent his own vacation at Spanish Springs the previous summer, O’Hare had a vivid recollec- tion of the cabins scattered along the lake shore. The tiny airport was in a town at the head of the lake, five miles from the main Spanish Springs lodge. The car O’Hare had wired for was waiting, and a ten-dollar bill bought five miles of speed. Molly sat beside O’Hare in the car, very close, holding one of his big hands in her two small ones. It was evident she had absorbed a great deal of his tension. Molly had light brown hair and dark brown eyes and a mouth which might have been a trifle large to be beautiful, but which was just right for kissing. She probably wouldn’t have been a success in the movies, but there was something about her in real life, in the 71 way she laughed and the way she walked and the way she talked that always won admiring glances from the men. As they left the car and started up the long pathway, O’Hare’s legs ached with the desire to run. But he held himself in check, knowing a sudden commotion now might be disastrous. It was a little log cabin nestling there in the woods three or four hun- dred yards from its _ neighbors. O’Hare’s knock was carefully exe- cuted, so gentle he could scarcely hear it himself above the hammering of the blood in his head. And then the door was open and a blond man was stand- ing there. No sign of Irene. No indica- tion there was anyone else in the cabin at all. “Well, where is she ?” O’Hare yelled. “By hell if you’ve—” Molly tugged at his arm. “Tom—” she began. “Shut up! Pll handle this!” “But Tom— “Now look!” the blond man said defensively. He’d turned several shades whiter. “I can explain every- thing! I can—” Over the blond man’s shoulder, O’Hare saw a woman come into view. She was very definitely not Irene. This one was dark and walked with a hippy motion that could have been acquired in a burlesque chorus. The faded blue dressing gown she wore did a poor job of covering a full figure. “T’ve been trying to tell you!’ Molly wailed. “This isn’t the man!” “Say, what is this?” the hippy brunette demanded in a throaty voice. “Who is this, Hugo?” Hugo was frankly flabbergasted. “Hey! !” he yelped. “You mean this guy ain’t your husband?” He turned sav- agely on O’Hare. “Why, I oughta—!” “Skip it! Skip it!’ O’Hare said wearily. “Isn’t this cabin twelve?” “Naw!” the brunette said. She looked O’Hare over carefully while O’Hare mentally cursed the driver for bringing them to the wrong cabin. “This is eleven. Twelve is next up the COMIC OO® S CO