10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

———MURDERER’S won't, sheriff. You haven’t seen the dead man’s face yet. It just isn’t there any more.” Davis knelt, turned a flashlight on the corpse and grimaced. Trooper Patrick was right. He carefully slid a hand into the pockets of the victim and drew out an assortment of ar- ticles. A flat thirty-two automatic was one of the items. Another was a gov- ernment poster torn in half so that the pictures and physical description of a criminal known as Joe “Spats” Stafford, was missing. The rest of the yoster indicated that he was wanted for robbery and murder. Davis glanced curiously at the dead man’s feet. He wore grey spats. “Look like somebody did society a favor,” Davis grunted and showed Patrick the picture. ‘“‘Can’t identify the dead man’s face, of course, but the spats he wears indicate he is this erook, Stafford. The notice says he always wears spats.” Patrick took the circular with both hands, forgetting all about the runt of a prisoner. Suddenly the little crook made a wild dive for the brush. He barged through it and disappeared. Patrick whipped out his service pis- tol. “We'll head him off. You go to the right, I'll take the left, and we’il form one of those Nazi pincer movements. Maybe he knew Spats Stafford. May- 3@ he did kill him.” Davis plunged into the forest «rowths himself. He veered right and neard Patrick crashing through the »rush to the left. Well ahead he could also hear the little crook as he floun- dered around. Davis grinned. He wouldn’t get far. It takes a man well versed in forests to travel this difficult trail. Davis shot the ray of his flash ahead of him. There was nothing to fear. The littie crook had no gun. Davis skirted a small section of inarshy ground. There was an explo- sion just behind him and a bullet zinged dangerously close to his ear. He chut off the flash and dropped flat. PLAYGROUND———————101 Wriggling about, he held his gun ready and listened for sounds. None came. He raised himself, put the flash against a stone and turned on the switch. At the same moment he threw himself to one side. OTHING happened. Leaving the flash in place, he made a half circle and hoped to‘come at the would- be killer from the rear. He heard Trooper Patrick sing out that he’d caught the crook. Davis frowned. They were far to the left. The crook hadn’t fired that shot. Who then had been hiding here, ready to murder? The killer of Spats Stafford? Prob- ably. Davis picked up his flash and hurried back to the road. Patrick was there, clutching his prisoner firmly. Davis said, “Did you search him, trooper? Somebody took a pot shot at me back there. Figured it was our prisoner, but I’m not so sure.” “T didn’t shoot at you,” the prisoner wailed. “Honest I didn’t. I didn’t have no roscoe.” “Shut up,” Patrick growled. “‘Sher- iff, I’m sure this runt didn’t try to plug you. Must be somebody else loose in these woods. How close are we to Montague’s place?” “Very close,” Davis said. “That’s what worries me. I’ve heard of Spats Stafford, of course. Always used a gang on his jobs. Which means some of his own boys may have knocked him off and are now concentrating on getting Montague. I’ll drive, because I know the road pretty well. You hang onto his nibs.” Davis sent the patrol car streaking toward a winding hill, at the top of which was Dr. Montague’s elaborate place. Halfway up the hill, the head- lights of the car picked out a huge, heavy gate. Davis stopped. “Trooper,” he said, “you'll now see what I mean about Montague having a lot of gadgets around, That gate is electrically charged. See the warning sign? Now watch.” Davis went up to the gate and care- fully touched a button attached to GORGooo S (CO im