10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

BULLET BANDWAGON out into the darkness beyond the margin of the headlight beams— “took a couple shots at me. Hold him, Keating, I got to see, there might be a little life left in Jake.” Forgetting about Giles, Keating crawled off him, trying to come up off his hands and knees as he ordered. “Stay right there, Plummer. Don’t go round that corner.” With the pantherlike speed that his training had engendered in his im- mense body, Plummer streaked in, so fast that his knees hit Keating’s head and shoulders. He threw Keating off balance and toppled him on his back. “What's the matter, Keating?” Plummer bent over him. “You gone nuts? Don’t take it so hard. Geez—” Keating got an arm under himself, started to get up. His brain was spin- ning like the drums of a slot machine. Every time he thought he had the combination he wanted, the drums took another roll. What was the matter with him? Did he doubt it because he didn’t think an axe-murder was character- istic of Giles? That was drawing things too fine. Because Giles had a gun in hand, and would have shot, not axed? That knock-over Plummer had giv- en him was no accident, Plummer wanted to keep him where he was. Keating shouted: “Don’t tell me Giles killed Jake with that axe.” The light flashed on the polished axe-head again. “There’s no blood on it.” Plummer laughed, the shining axe whirled down in a glittering silver arc. Keating rolled away, his hand fum- bled for his gun as he turned over. Drawing his legs up, his toes caught in the earth, and Keating came up like a jack-in-the-box as Plummer closed in, their bodies meeting with a heavy shock, the axe raised high again. - Keating grabbed the handle. His hand grazed its razor edge, and he felt the warm blood gush down from the base of his thumb, down inside ol his sleeve. But he got a grip on the handle. Roaring, Plummer smashed his left fist into Keating’s face. Keating lost track of things for a moment. He realized he was back on his heels, going back over. Then Plummer grasped his wrist above the gun, yanked him back, let go the axe han- die, and hit Keating with his rock- hard right. LL the explosions of all the world’s wars, and all the lights of all the world’s fairs, conjuncted in Keating’s head. He had just sense enough to realize there was no use kidding himself. He was no mateh for Plummer now, if ever. This busi- ness of beating a title-contender in the heavyweight class is no such easy job as it can be made to appear. Keating had the axe short by the handle. Desperately, he brought the blunt back edge down on Plummer’s forehead. Plummer’s roar beat against Keat- ing’s heaving chest. Darting his hands at Keating’s throat, Plummer laughed harshly. Keating felt the fingers, gulped. He knew what their grip would mean. Groggy, he threw himself forward, broke through Plummer’s thumbs, and as Plummer jumped back in sur- prise, Keating brought up his gun and laid it into Plummer’s face to the tune of cracking bone. Keating dropped the axe, put out a hand and supported himself against the house. Everywhere he put his hand, he left a big black mark of blood. Panting, he stumbled along. In the darkness back of the house, Keating stumbled over Jake’s body. Hooking a hand in under the belt that went round Jake’s ample girth, he half carried and dragged Jake to where the headlights illuminated the ground. — Jake was out, a terrific bruise just forward of his graying temple, but otherwise unhurt. Slapped lightly several times, Jake opened his eyes, Comicloooks (C@