10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

——— There was nothing to indicate that the storm was a man-made affair. Nothing to show that the Storm God wasn’t real and that his powers could- n’t begin a violent hurricane over a limited space. Stuart crawled on hands and knees to the rear of the house. There was only one entrance there—through the kitchen. The house was in darkness except for a weak light from one of the upstairs bedrooms. Apparently Kerrigan and Gordon decided they could maintain a vigil and take turns at resting too. Stuart tried the back door gently, found it locked and then slid a small strip of paper just above the lock. If that door was opened, the paper was bound to fall and yet hardly attract the attention of whoever was going in or out. By that way Stuart would know whether or not the door had been used. Now he crept around to the front of the house. Bates was bound to ap- pear. All the other members of the fateful Alaskan journey had been killed. If Bates meant to clean them all out, Kerrigan and Gordon would be next. Stuart sneaked across the porch to a big window overlooking the living room and alse part of the reception hall. This, he knew, was unlocked be- cause he’d turned the latch himself before leaving. He raised that window a scant inch, settled himself into a more or less comfortable position and waited. If anyone moved inside the house, he’d hear him. If Bates came slinking toward the front door, he’d run into a mess of trouble represented by the thirty-eight pistol which Stuart elutched. ALF an hour went by. It would be dawn in three more hours. The cool, crisp air kept Stuart wide awake, but he rested too. Then he heard a scuffling sound, as though a chair or some other small object in- side the house had been brushed 10-STORY DETECTIVE against. He peered through the big window. There was a shadowy form in the hallway, moving toward the steps. A bulky, towering form too, unquestionably Bates, the guide. Ker- rigan’s description of him had been perfect. When he vanished from sight, Stuart raised the window higher, shipped through it and crept toward the steps. Bates was at the top and trying to figure out which room he wanted to visit. He started moving toward the left. Stuart went up the steps two at a time, but making no more noise than a cat on the prowl. He saw Bates reach under his coat and withdraw a long, deadly knife. The guide dropped a hand on the doorknob, turned it quietly and opened the door a crack. The room was in darkness, but even from where he stood, Stuart could hear the regular deep breathing of a man who slept soundly. Bates went in and the detective ran along the hallway, gun half raised. He paused beside the door, saw Bates approach the bed and lift the knife high. Stuart snapped on the lights. Bates whirled and stiffened into immobility while a look of intense ha- tred seared his features. Stuart’s gun covered him. Kerrigan, half asleep, sat up and blinked himself wide awake. He flung the covers aside, grabbed Bates and wrested the knife from his hand. Then he searched him, found a heavy revolver and appro- priated this. Gordon’s door banged down the hall and he came running up, fully dressed. Stuart moved closer to Bates and pressed the muzzle of his pistol against the guide’s back. “My hunch was right this time,” he said. “I thought Bates would come so I waited for him. Al] right, Bates, we’re going downstairs. You’re to do some talking, so start to think about what you'll say. Move!” Kerrigan handed the big gun he’d taken from Bates to Gordon, donned his clothes and they all went to the MIGoOOo (C(O) S (C(O) nn