10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 36: what you’re looking at

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

3.————_—_—_—___—_—_—_——_———-10-STORY DETECTIVE brown eyes grew stronger as he saw the detective lurch forward and fall onto his knees. N THE stunned silence that fol- lowed, Kane grasped the pair of skis standing by the front door, sprang out into the night. For a split second he stopped, threw the skis on the ground. On the driveway twenty feet away was the detective’s car. There was one chance in a thou- sand that it would not be locked, Kane opened the car door, pressed down the starting pedal with his hand, The starter gave a protesting growl, but the engine did not turn over. Kane gave another push down- ward. The engine failed to respond. With a throaty growl, he flung him- self from the car, picked up the skis. There was a businesslike calm about him as he sped around to the rear of the house. Back there was a barrier of trees. In the shadow of a thick- bodied pine he stopped, fumbled with the skis, awkwardly, adjusting them onto his shoes. Behind him, in the house with its blazing lights, there rose an excited clamor, the loud banging of doors, men’s voices calling. There was a rush of footsteps; a spatter of bul- lets flailed about him. Kane smiled confidently as he straimhtened up on the skis. He start- ed off in the shadows, then one leg slid from under him and he found himself floundering helplessly, sprawled in the snow. His smile van- ished, his thin lips grew taut. With some difficulty he struggled up, tried again. This time he pushed forward a dozen paces before he fell again. His confidence returned. In the dozen paces he had negotiated he’d learned something of the manipula- tion of the things. Another try and he’d have the knack of it. At least he’d be able to handle the skis expert- ly enough to elude his pursuers. In fact he did seem to be leaving them behind. He pushed through the deep shadows of the barrier and beyond it where he found himself looking down at the lake across a precipitous declivity. The treeless descent in front of him lay white and gleaming under the stars. While be- low the ice-covered lake, cupped in the hills, reposed in dark outline, mo- tionless, mysterious. As Kane sped down the declivity, the cold air whipping the blood inte his cheeks, pressing his overcoat tightly against his bent knees, he saw the lights of a village in the distance. The lights of Beavers—high up on the hill on the far side of the lake. Traveling at sixty miles an hour as he was now, the momentum should cause him to ski halfway across the lake. The remaining distance across wouldn’t take long to negotiate. At Beavers he’d taxi back to the city. His hand flew to his side, pressed against his coat pocket. His thin lips twisted in a smile. The necklace was there. Safe. He felt its hard uneven outline. All his! There’d be no splits —with Lawler, with anyone. Below him, in black shadow, was the lake, its surface thickness cold and still and deserted in the night’s small hours. Under him the curved toes of his skis dropped over the last thin ridge, plunged down the descent. Kane’s heart pounded to the thrill of it. Sport! Speed! This was some- thing like it. Why hadn’t he tried this sport before? In a final burst of speed, the run- ners leaped toward the thick ice-sur- face of the lake. They straightened out—toward the lights of the town. Freedom! Then, suddenly, Kane gave a furious twist of his body, tried to swing about, swerve, te avoid the black square that loomed directly ahead. But too late. Like a bird wounded in flight, his hurtling body dropped through the black hole made that very afternoon by the ice-cut- ters. The hole from which Quinn had snared the fish. The next day they found him— Kane—his skis tangled in Quinn’s fishnet, COPMIGLOOOKS (C@