10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

CURSE OF THE BLEEDING STONE HITTEN strolled back along the path and disappeared. Ter- ry Kerrigan slowly drew his gun and wriggled closer to the altar. Benson ground a cigarette against it, turned on his heel and disappeared in the brush. Kerrigan swore softly. He should have grabbed Benson when he was busy with Whitten and Cotter. For half an hour, Kerrigan searched the brush without finding a trace of the ex-conviet. He wondered if, perhaps, even Benson had become frightened out here alone. There was a full moon that threw a weird light over the rock. Even Kerrigan shivered and knew of a lot more places he’d rather be. Perhaps Benson had returned to the house by now. Kerrigan decided to go there, show himself and make explanations. If Benson was there— good. He’d get it over with fast. Oth- erwise, he’d tell Whitten just what kind of a man he had as a guest and merely wait until Benson returned. Kerrigan had to skirt the stone al- tar on his way to the trail. Something moved on the side of that big rock. Moved like a lazy serpent. Kerrigan gulped and felt like running. He grim- ly approached the stone altar until he saw what caused that strange rib- bon on its side. It was a stream of blood. He stepped back, looked up and saw a@ man’s arm lying limply against the curved surface of the high stone. Ker- rigan found a crevice, hooked his fin- gers into it and drew himself up. In a couple of minutes he was on top of the gruesome stone. There, Kerrigan slowly wilted into a sitting position and knew that his last method of ab- solving himself was gone. Benson, alias Deek Chandler, stared up at the moon with eyes that saw none of its eerie beauty. There was a big knife plunged ‘hilt deep in his breast and it had been apparently twisted to release more blood. Kerrigan slid to the ground and started running. He was close to the © 55 house when he heard someone coming through the brush. He stopped, and when the man appeared, Kerrigan seized his arm. It was Attorney Cot- ter. “Who the devil are you?” Cotter stared. . “Never mind that now. There’s been a murder. Man knifed to death on top of the Druid altar. Where is Whitten and the others?” “In the house, I suppose. But—mur- der! Murder on that rock? Are you sure?” “T’'ll let you go look for yourself in a moment,” Kerrigan said. “Right now, take me into the house.” A few moments later Kerrigan faced Whitten, Cotter and the two young people. They were introduced as Mary Lee, cousin of Arch Whitten, and Billy Keith, her fiancé. Kerrigan identified himself and told them what had happened. “I think,” he added, “that Benson was a mur- derer himself, but that doesn’t make the man who just killed him any the less criminal. Benson must have been killed sometime during the last half hour. Cotter was outside. Were the rest of you here—in the house?” “T was alone,” Whitten said stonily, “except for McGuire. He’s the care- taker who stays on the island the year around. I don’t know where Cotter nor Mary nor young Keith were.” “Mary and I just took a walk along the beach,” Keith said, somewhat heatedly. “All right,” Kerrigan said. “We'll go into alibis later. Right now, we’d better do something about Benson. Whitten, do you mind?” Whitten swallowed with some dif- ficulty. ““Yes—I do. But I'll go along. There are certain things you should know about that rock, Kerrigan— gruesome things.”’ They left the house and walked side by side along the trail. They needed no more light than that furnished by the moon, Comiclbool C© S|