10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

He was coming out of the build- ing as I reached it, and he pulled up suddenly. I grabbed his arm, dragging him toward me. “This is it,” I told him. “Listen, quick, Where do you keep the films? The stuff you run off every day.” He was standing there, gaping at me, and I yelled it at him this time. “The stuff you run off every day. The rushes, I think they call it. Where the hell is it?” I guess he thought I was nuts. “Rushes?” he said, vaguely. “Rush- es? In the main building. Behind my cottage. You can see it from the win- dow. Why?” PULLED him after me, breaking into a trot. “T’ll show you why,” I told him. “If we’re not too late, V’ll show you why.” I headed toward his cottage, run- ning, the guy at my heels. We cut around back, past his place, picking up speed. But we were late. I caught a quick glimpse of Vera Reynault slip- ping in the long, flat building just as we rounded the turn. “It’s downstairs,’ Hedgewick gasped in my ear. “We keep the films downstairs.” The guy was catching on fast. “In the projection room.” He sprinted past me, toward a basement door and through it into the darkness. His body flung back, sliding against the wall, and I went through the door after him, the echoes of a shot ring- ing in my ears. I heard a laugh some- where in the dark and risked a shot, but there was no answer. I moved out, toward the center of the floor, trying to find the projection booth in the blackness. I found it, all right. The spot light fanned out at me, slapping me between the eyes. I fired twice, rolling over, and when I came up the spot light was out. A red light spotted out at me, picking its way across the floor, and I let go with three shots before I clicked. There was no answer. The murderer was playing it safe, waiting until I was bathed in the floodlight, before shooting. It was a hell of a spot. THE MORGUE IS FULL OF HEROES-—-—————---21 I pushed myself forward, trying to rush the booth before another light came on, but I didn’t have a chance. A white spot flashed out again, cover- ing me, and this time there was a sharp report with it, I didn’t realize I was hit. My gun went spinning out of my hand, but I didn’t feel the shock of the bullet. I spun around twice and this time I heard that low laugh from the booth again. That’s what did it, I guess. I should have been out, through; but that laugh jabbed at my nerves. I threw myself sideways, out of the light, rushing the booth. I reached the stairs and forced myself up, the white spot searching the room for me. I was halfway up when I heard the booth door open. Whoever it was couldn’t get a gun lined up on me from inside, and was coming out, to finish the job. I lunged forward, diving for the booth, waiting for the slug in my chest and praying the murderer’s aim wouldn’t suddenly improve. There was a thin ray of light from the open door, and I made out the vague shadow, and the bright glint of blue metal. There wasn’t a chance of missing at that distance. The gun came up fast, the ray of light shining at me from the barrel. This was the business. I kept going, somehow, diving low as I heard a shot ring out, reaching for the place I figured the legs would be. I never touched the legs. The body fell over on me, rolling down the steps, landing at the bottom, outside the ring of light, a vague, meaningless mass. Behind me, far off, I heard the girl’s voice, in a shrill pitch: “Got him!’ I sat down on the steps, not giving a damn, I heard the girl say something else, in that same exulting tone, and then the room filled with spotlights, shooting out at me from the ceiling. I passed out, cold. When I came to, Hedgewick was leaning over me, a white gauze ban- dage standing out against his dark gray suit. He said, “He’s coming out — of it,” and I looked over his shoulder COMMICOOOKS (C@