10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

“That’s the idea,” approved Ty- son. “No evidence—and especially no bodies!’’ Louis and Daconi were standing back a little. The light of the moon fittered through the clouds and showed them standing darkly, each holding an automatic. There was silence then for a little while. Little John watched the others, the girl at his side. Quietly, as if they knew what to do without talking about it, they were edging together. Soon they would be almost side by side—Latch and Louis and Daconi—with Tyson a little apart from them, all facing Little John and the girl. Behind Little John was the ocean, lapping gently into the tiny cove in which the boat was moored. It was clear to Little John that there would be no more talk. He felt bewildered. There was only one definite thought in his mind; that he had carried this girl here, and that it was his duty to carry her away again. ‘All okay, boys?” It was Latch talking. His voice was low, yet with a queer high-pitched note in it—a mad note. The others mumbled a response, Little John sighed heavily. And as he sighed, his left hand swept around and caught the girl at the side of the head. She went down as if struck by a falling timber, and lay still. Latch cursed hoarsely, started forward. Little John surged toward him. Latch stopped in his tracks. Flame leaped from his gun, but Little John kept going, closed in on him, swept him into his arms, crushed him. Latch gasped, dropped his gun. There was a crackling sound, as of bones crushing. Latch was wrig- gling feebly. Little John loosened his right hand, snapped upwards with his elbow. Latch went: limp in his arms. SATAN’S PAYROLL ‘ 31 “Let him have it!” It was Tyson shrieking. But Little John was shielded by Latch. Tyson started to run for the pro- tection of the boat. Suddenly, Little John dropped Latch on the sand, reached down and scooped up Latch’s gun. Both Louis and Daconi fired at him, wildly, but he went forward again, as if singing lead meant nothing. He was holding Latch’s gun by the barrel, making no effort to fire it. Again, they both fired. He was up to them now. Holding the gun in the flat of his hand, he smacked it against Louis’ head. Louis went down without a sound. Daconi was swinging around, taking quick aim, but in an instant Little John had whirled. Again came a sickening crack, and Daconi dropped. Daconi lay on the sand, moaning curses. He was still clenching his automatic, trying to lift it. Tyson, from the boat, yelled at him shrilly: ‘‘Aim for his belly, you fool!” Little John was about to turn. Da- coni’s gun flamed once more. For a little while John stood quite still. His hand fumbled near his middle. “You got him, Daconi!’’ Tyson yelled exultantly. “You got him!”’ But Daconi was silent now, and very still. It was quiet. Then some- thing broke the silence; it was the girl’s voice, calling feebly. TEADILY, but slowly, Little John swung about and went to the girl. She was trying to get to her feet, but he reached down and took her in his arms. In the moon- light, she looked very pale, but there was a smile on her face. On the boat, farther back down the beach, there was silence. No word came from Tyson. Then came sounds — indefinite, threatening sounds. The girl spoke in a low voice to CO IOOOLK C©