15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

= @@ ® « ie ee A 100 Story Detective 15 there were two clay spots on the knees. “Burying, eh? That's a hot one. I just stumbled in a woodchuck hole. If I were a city feller, I'd have accidentally dis- charged my gun, blown my brains out.” “Wouldn't he a bad idea.” Trigger Mike bit his lip again, won- dered what the old codger was up to (He couldn't have found the death gun. The ~ mnine-shot automatic, a war souvenir Bel- gian Fabrique Natronale, had been tossed im a lonely lake twenty miles away.) Not having had a reefer today, Trigger Mike had enough self control to shrug his shoul ers: tarn around, start for the shack. “Why are you lying, Mike?” asked Leander. . “What's eating you?” “For one thing, you haven’t been here three days. For another, if you shot any birds, they were hen partridges.” ‘Why don'tcha mind your own damn business? Even if you stuck your nose info my shack, you didn’t find any hen partridge feathers. There weren’t any.” “Didn't say T found ’em.” “Then why the fuss? S’pose you found one newly opened can of beans. You think that’s all T had, just breakfast, huh? Well, the other cans are over in the dump. Was shooting at ‘em. Maybe I’m not your idea of a sportsman, but f wouldn't shoot a hen partridge cause I know you'd be around, sooner or later. Wouldn't give you a chance to collect a fine.” “Let’s have your gun, Mike. You're coming jnto town with me to talk to the constatele.”’ Trigger Mike swung around, started to - ii ; 25F es 47 F' : i bring up his barrel when the lanky warden clouted out with his butt. the kitler’s dirty hands. As the shotgun went spinning into a clump of leaves, Trigger Mike kicked the warden. The old man winced ta agony, doubled up and dropped Its own shotgun. Leander Bailey was in his middle seventies, the ghost of his former seH#. He sank to his knees, Just as the gnarled, feeble fingers reached out. to retrieve the fallen weapon, Trigger Mike snatched tp the Winchester repeater. The dried apple face stared mto the muzzle, realized that the killer already was thinking that there was an old mud pond, full of horned pout, in back of the shack. A blast of birdshot at a one foot range would spell food for those Northern catfish. The trigger finger tightened but there was only a dull click, The city gun- man had fired his five bird shells, forgotten to reload, The hlow. “knocked the Winchester repeater out of w The gnarled fingers seized the double- _ harreled pun, raised the muzzle. “A real hunter always reloads,” said the game warden, rising. “But you, you're accustomed to nine-shot automatics like the killer’s Belgian Fabrique Nationale. When you insisted you'd been here for three days and talked so much ahout hen partridges, | realized that a no-good wea- sel like you were as a boy might have de- veloped into a treacherous killer. You and your big mouth! Hell, if you'd talked to a hunter who had a bag of three and no hens, you'd have learned that this year it’s legal for the first time in Connecticut to shoot hen partridges. But killers don’t keep posted on legal shooting.” ADDING INSULT TO INJURY Larry FE. Larson and Edward Mooers -were arrested in Hollywood, Calif., after they broke into a church and began: play- ~ ing “Chibaba, Chibaba, Chibaba’’ on the organ, After breaking a crutch, stumbling, falling headlong down a flight of stairs and bashing his head, Russell Mitchell was arrested in Indianapolis for using profanity. -—H. H. Gomichbooks (E@)