Page:Weird Tales v01n04 (1923-06).djvu/61

 'Otis Adelbert Kline, Author of "The Thing of a Thousand Shapes," Spins Another "Spooky" Yarn for the Readers of WEIRD TALES'

OCTOR DORP reluctantly laid aside the manuscript on which he had been working, capped and pocketed his fountain pen, and rose to meet his callers.

He was visibly annoyed by this, the third interruption of the afternoon, but his look of irritation changed to a welcoming smile when he saw the bulky form that was framed in the doorway. He recognized Harry Hoyne of the Hoyne Detective Agency, a heavy-set, florid-faced man whose iron gray hair and moustache proclaimed him well past middle age.

The slender, stoop-shouldered individual who accompanied him was a total stranger. He had pale, hawklike features, small snaky eyes that glittered oddly from cavernous sockets, and long, bony fingers that suggested the claws of a bird.

"Hello, Doc," boomed the detective genially, crushing the hand of his host in his great, muscular paw. "Meet Mr. Ritsky."

The doctor was conscious of a cold, clammy sensation as he took the hand of the stranger and acknowledged the introduction. Was it the contrast between those chill fingers and the strong warm ones of the detective that had caused this feeling? He did not know; but somehow, instinctively, he disliked Mr. Ritsky.



"I've got a queer case for you, Doc," said Hoyne, taking a proffered cigar and inserting it far back in his cheek, unlighted. "Just your specialty—ghosts and all that. I told Mr. Ritsky you'd be the only man to unravel the mystery for him. Was over to his house last night and the thing got me—too unsubstantial—too damned elusively unreal. And yet I'll swear there was something there. I heard it; but it got away and didn't leave a trace. When it comes to finger prints and things like that you know I ain't exactly a dumb-bell, but I gotta admit this thing, whatever it is, had me hopelessly horn-swoggled."

Ritsky declined a cigar, saying he didn't dare smoke because of heart trouble. The doctor selected one with care, lighted it slowly, puffed it with a relish, and settled back with a look of eager anticipation in his eyes.

"What happened last night?" he asked.

"Maybe we better begin at the beginning," said Hoyne. "You see, there's quite a story goes along with this case, and Mr. Ritsky can tell it better than I. Don't be afraid to give him all the dope, Mr. Ritsky. The doctor knows all about such things—wrote a book about 'em, in fact. Let's see. What was the name of that book, Doc?"