10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 79: what you’re looking at

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

il el tll met ee Se a i” a ee ee en ee ee a i ee ey ee ~~ —— a on) ee i a? »-* Y i ie en es : ——. ~- Se ee > ry So Se ehet ee Ft I See eo teen = Pe > <= ~~ at - ~ ~ ee — ~ Io, ae ee mY: = 2 vw —- 4" - , a. ae aan . ~ 5 Stee COCK TAIS FOR THE CORPSE——————————_17 white sands lay before this mass like ~ bleached bones. Cranfield hugged close to the shore as he came back for the third time that night to the spot where he had seen Duke knee-deep in the water, First he wanted to test his knowl- edge. He stood at the exact spot where Duke had said he threw a bundle of garbage. It was only extreme familiarity with the beach that aided Cranfield now. There were no marks on the sand, for the sweep of the water had washed away every footprint. With this much to refresh his mind, he made his way to the darkened shack. His purpose was to force an entry, search the Duke’s room for the possibility of either a gun or a knife that might have been used in the al- leged murder. At this hour he figured the Duke to be deeply insensible in a drunken stupor. The back door of the shack gave easily to his prying. The sea-eaten lock fell back without effort and Cran- field pushed himself softly into the shack. The place reeked with the odor of whiskey. As he paused he heard the heavy breathing of Duke Morgan. Darkness filled every nook and eranny of the one-room shack. For several moments the officer remained motionless until he could refocus his eyes to the clinging. darkness of the room, He got to his knees and crawled along the left wall. Every inch of space met the searching feel of his hands. Then with painful approach he finally came to the dirty couch up- on which slumbered the gunman whom Richardson had tried to run out of town, Cranfield knew that if the lethal weapon was anywhere this was the place for it. His hand started upward for the pillow. With extreme caution he made it move until his fingers were under- identifying neath the headrest. Duke was sprawled face toward the wall so that little of his head remained on the ae low. Cranfield’s Sioeta struck some- thing hard. Slowly the fingers pressed on the hard object. They relayed their sensation to the officer’s brain. A re- volver, But it was wrapped in a piece of cloth. Cranfield’s mind worked fast. He recalled that Duke was a pretty super- stitious fellow. He believed in the queerest things. Here seemed proof of it, the revolver wrapped in a piece of cloth and put under the pillow was. supposed to make a murderer immune to the forces of law and order. The officer also recalled that earlier that night when he had first come to the shack, there were two bottles of whis- key on the table. That was another criminal superstition. Whenever a guy bumped off some one else, he must have a bottle on the table for the de- ceased— Duke snored loudly and moved. Cranfield pulled back his hand. His movement was quick enough but the flash of his hand arcing through the air was seen by the half- open eyes of the cannon. He leaped out of bed. With light- ninglike motion he had grabbed the revolver under the pillow, thrown off its cloth holster and was brandishing it in the dark. Cranfield had jumped to his feet, but the Duke’s awakening had been so swift a thing, he had been unable to draw his own weapon. Grimly both men faced each other. The officer broke the silence first. He was going to bluff his way. “One shell missing in that gat of yours, Duke. How come?” There was a loud explosion. A red tongue of flame, angry and fearful, shattered the silence. The acrid smell of gunpowder swirled in the close atmosphere. m (E(o) reel choo