10-Story Detective, September 1941 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

92 a pay phone booth. When he came out, he had chartered a plane for an im- mediate flight to Brulon, a round trip of three hundred miles. It was almost midnight when he left the hotel, his lean face grim. The cold gray of dawn was streak- ing the sky when the plane brought Devon back to Oldham City. He strode into the airfield waiting room, and over to a phone booth. After inserting a nickel in the pay phone, he dialed the Hotel Regal, gave the switchboard operator a room number. “Sorry,” the operator informed him, “but no calls can go through to that room unless they’re urgent.” “This,” Devon said gently, “is probably the most urgent call the gen- tleman has ever received. Now, hurry, please.” The line buzzed three times, each longer than the other, before a sleep- drenched voice demanded thickly: “Well, what is it?” ‘Remember me?” the Bloodhound Reporter murmured. “The stick-up man! I thought you’d be interested to learn I’ve just returned from a flying trip to Brulon. While there, under the impression I was a police officer act- ing on your instructions, your secre- tary kindly opened your private safe.” A savage outburst interrupted him from the other end. He grinned crookedly. “In case you didn’t miss it,” he said, after a short pause, “I—borrowed the little key from your wallet, found some very interesting papers in the locked compartment of your safe!” The curses still burning the wire ended abruptly in a startled gasp. “You—you have those papers?” The man’s voice held quick alarm. “‘What’s behind all this? Blackmail?” “Why not?” Devon inquired thin- ly. ““You’ve been practicing it for four years. Now, suppose we say, fifty grand to put those papers back in your safe?” “Who are you working for?” the urgent voice demanded. “Dan Smiley?” 10-STORY DETECTIVE “T’m a lone wolf,”’ Devon said mock: ingly. “What’s the answer?” ‘“‘We—we can’t discuss it over the telephone. You’d better come up to my suite.” The Bloodhound Reporter smiled grimly. “T’ll be there in an hour,” he promised. ‘‘And—without the papers, in case you have any funny ideas.” He left the airfield, caught a taxi and was driven to within a block of the warehouse where Tupper was guarding Sergeant Honeyman and his companion. He walked the remainder of the distance and disappeared in- side the building. Devon was smiling widely when he came out, fifteen minutes later. CHAPTER V HE large rotunda of the Hotel Regal was deserted when the Bloodhound Reporter strolled through a few minutes before six-thirty. He crossed to the elevator bank, found one in operation and stepped inside. A sleepy-eyed yourgster yawning over a magazine dropped it and rode them swiftly to ten. The door of the suite where he had paid his earlier nocturnal visit opened at Devon’s first ring. Clad in a heavy blue dressing gown, the big man who had met Devon’s fist during that first call scowled and mo- tioned the blond giant inside. Devon grinned when he saw two other visitors were in the room. He recognized one as the hatchet-faced driver of last night’s death car. The other one was rawboned, lean, and hard-featured, with a long strip of adhesive tape running from his left eye down to his chin. Devon guessed him to be the man who had been be- hind the machine gun. The Bloodhound Reporter lowered himself into a deep leather chair, his harsh face tight, and surveyed the three men leisurely. “No hard feelings over last night, I hope?” he murmured to none of them in particular. Ccomicboolk CO