Re Ee Evan MARCH 1966 VOL. 1 NO. 1 The Edgar Wallace Story of the Month MURDER ON THE ROCKS by Edgar Wallace Crime and Mystery Stories A SODA FOR SUSAN by Richard Deming 6 STAY AS YOUNG AS YOU ARE by Richard Curtis 13 HOW TO MURDER YOUR BOSS by Roger Elwood 28 HIS HEART COULD BREAK by Craig Rice 86 KINSEY REPORT MURDER CASE by James O'Connor Sargent 131 Novelettes of the Month STAFF THE MEMORY GUY 7 y Henry Kone Robert, Ferrell WITH FRAME TO MATCH Publisher by Frank Kane n Jacqueline Wright Horror and Suspense Stories Editorial Director ALBERT WEPT by A. J. Benchly 106 Roger Elwood THE ANGEL MAKERS re me sta Al Monee eae by H. P. Lovecraft 153 i Unusual Stories of Crime and Mystery Enid Gottlieb STAY AS YOUNG AS YOU ARE Assistant Editor by Richard Curtis . wo B : NIGHTSHADE Irving Fass by Simon Moon, Ph. D. 37 Art Director rar STRANGER, MY SON 8. Gilford 47 Alex Sanchez BEWARE OF THE BOG Asst. Art Director by Frederic Brown 4 EDGAR WALLACE MYSTERY MAGAZINE, Vol, 1, No. 1. March, 1966, Published monthly by Classic Mystery Publications, inc., 315 West 70 St., New York, N.Y. Subscriptions, 12 issues $6.00, single copies, 50¢. Second class postage pending at New York, N.Y. and ot additional mailing offices. Places and characters in this magazine are wholly fictitious. Copyright 1966 by Classic Mystery Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.Efficiut Daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen quasi sint, conspiceda hominibus exhibeant. THE FESTIVAL «= by H. P. LOVECRAFT Although he died as long ago as 1937, H. P. Lovecraft is today more alive than ever. He was the greatest master of supernatural horror to write on this continent since Poe himself, and it is a disgrace that his stories remained out of print for a long time in the 1940s and 50s. Now, thanks to August Derleth of Arkham House, all of H. P. L’s fine and macabre tales are back in print, in three volumes's THE DUNWICH HORROR, AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS and DAGON. It is from the last volume that we reprint this seldom- anthologized masterpiece of mood and sug- gestion, a tale that adds up to a great deal more than the mere sum of its parts... COPYRIGHT ARKHAN HOUSE, INC.154 was FAR from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In the twilight I heard it pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over the hill where the twisting willows writhed against the clearing sky and the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me to the old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient town I had never seen but often dreamed of. It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. Mine were an old people, and were old even when this land was settled three hun- dred years before. And they were strange, because they had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of the blue- eyed fishers. And now they were EDGAR WALLACE MYSTERY MAGAZINE scattered, and shared only the rit- uals of mysteries that none living could understand. I was the only one who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend bade, for only the poor and the lonely remember. Then beyond the hill’s crest I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the gloaming; snowy Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney- pots, wharves and small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; end- less labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked streets, and dizzy church- crowned central peaks that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scat- tered at all angles and levels like a child’s disordered blocks; an- tiquity hovering on grey wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small- paned windows one by one gleam- ing out in the cold dusk to join Orion and the archaic stars. And against the rotting wharves the sea pounded; the secretive, im- memorial sea out of which the people had come in the elder time. Beside the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulish- ly through the snow like the de- cayed fingernails of a gigantic corpse. The printless road was very lonely, and sometime I thought I heard a distant horrible