Carboy of Death can be found in

SPICY-ADVENTURE STORIES September, 1936 Vol. 4, No. 6

Why couldn't the girl have told Dan that she was
his friend's wife? Dan was willing to sacrifice his
life for Hank—even for Hank's secret formula....
And now, unknowing, he was about to do his
friend the greatest injury of all



THE possibility of danger was far from Dan Landon's mind when he dismounted. Late afternoon sunlight, filtering through the trees, made highlights and shadows on his rugged, rough-hewn features as he tethered his horse.

He approached the little mountain cabin just ahead. The tang of September was in the high Sierra air; and Dan Landon smiled. It would be good to see Hank Merriman again after all these years.

Approaching the sprawled, rambling log shack, Landon noticed that the front door was partially open. He stepped inside; raised his voice. "Hello, Hank," he called out.

And then he stopped, bewildered. There was a dark-eyed, olive-skinned girl sitting at a desk at the opposite side of the cabin's front room. She had been poring through a sheaf of papers; had evidently been too engrossed in her task to hear Dan Landon's approach. But now, hearing his call, she whirled around. Like lightning, her slender hand darted out; snatched up a heavy Luger automatic from the desk.

She trained the weapon's ominous black muzzle at Dan Landon's heart. "Up!" she commanded harshly. "Get your hands up into the air, señor, or I shall keel you!"

Landon's arms went slowly upward over his head. "What the devil!" he whispered.

SHE was young; and she was beautiful with an exotic Latin loveliness. Her skin was dusk-ivory; her eyes long-lashed and slumbrous. Her lips were red and kiss-inviting; her hair the blue-black of a tropic midnight.

Dan Landon's eyes drank in the lithe contours of her body; lingered on the magnificently-firm breasts that strained at the confinement of her thin silken frock. Her hips were ultra-feminine; her thighs were symmetrical columns of perfect proportions. Her chiffon-sheathed legs and ankles were slim, patrician.

Looking at the girl, Dan Landon thought of her as a splendid female cat-animal, lithe and swift and somehow deadly. Yet despite this air of danger, he sensed about her an aura of invitation that stirred a sudden desire within his veins.

And then she spoke once more. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Speak, before I decide to pull thees trigger!"

With bold calmness, Dan Landon met her stare. "The name," he answered, "is Dan Landon. If I have intruded, I'm sorry. I thought this was the cabin of Hank Merriman."

The girl's dark-glowing eyes narrowed. "What do you want of Señor Merriman?"

"I don't want anything of him. He's an old friend of mine; I haven't seen him in years. I had a letter from him the other day, inviting me up here to visit him at his mountain laboratory." Dan hesitated, smiled faintly. "Quite evidently I came to the wrong place. Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Merriman ?"

"Thees ees hees cabin," the girl said slowly. "But Señor Merriman ees not here. He have gone to the ceety for chemical supplies."

"Gone to the city, eh? Will he be back soon?"

"Why do you ask, señor?"

Dan Landon grinned engagingly. "I was hoping he'd hurry back—so that I wouldn't have to stand here too long with my hands in the air. The posture's rather uncomfortable."

The girl took a step toward him. She moved lightly, gracefully, with a sinuous and liquid quality to her muscles. "You say you have a letter from Señor Merriman inviting you to thees place. Ees thees letter with you, perhaps?"

"Of course." Landon started to lower his hands; to reach into the breast pocket of his leather coat.

The girl came closer. "Keep the arms up!" she whispered warningly. "Me, I weel find thees letter myself." And with her free hand she burrowed into Landon's coat.

The nearness of her, the touch of her fingers upon his chest, did queer things to Dan Landon. He could feel a surging wave of sensation leaping through his veins; and her faint perfume assaile...

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