15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 104: what you’re looking at

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

‘ SS i ee Ve j (a 164 a thin bar of yellow under the door to the guest room. The master bedroom was di- rectly across the fall. Vorst frowned. He couldn’t remember. He twisted the door te the master bedroom. The door opened into the reom and away from the hall. ORST went downstairs and out to the convertible under the carp port. The tow rope was in back, greasy in spots but sound. He coiled the rope and started back toward the cabin. There was a bench beside the kitchen door and the ground around it was. thick with wood shavings. The caretaker was a whittler. Vorst had forgotten. A fierce exaltation warmed his blood. The old caretaker was at his home in the village six miles away. Lady fuck had dealt him a.pat hand. Like his gambling. When his luck was good, it was, in the parlance of the Casino boys, stinkpot luck. He went into the kitchen. The red gallon can sort of flagged him to a stop. Gasoline! | | He sprinkled the shavings on the ground otitside, lightly, then returned the can to the shelf. He carried the rope up to the top of the stairs. Candlelight no longer rectangled the door. Through the thick wood he could hear Gretchen’s soft snor- ing. Did she have a will? He didn’t know. {t didn’t rightly matter. Vorst took the rope and deftly tied a running knot. He knew his knots. One summer he had been a counselor at a swank boys camp and knot tying was part of the course he taught. He'd taken the job so he could meet the parents and sis- ters of the kids. Come to think of it, that’s now he'd first met Gretchen. He smiled. ftwas... Itwasa... He couldn’t think of the word. Anyway, it was the height of something or other. His means of meet- ing her, his means of killing her. He drew the rope taut across the hall and secured a timber hitch on the knob to the master : bedroom. He tried to open the door. It inched in a trifle. The rope was sound. wD cc: He went downstairs and had another 5 Story e drink. The rest was simple, but delicate. The candle in the brass holder under the stairs, beneath the third step. The gasoline damp shavings strewa around the base of the holder, then piled up to within three inches of the orange fame. The mild heat from the flame would sort of preheat the bottom of the step. [t couldn't miss. Then thoughts of the Casine boys sent him walking stiff leggedly dowa the foot- path. a There was quite a crowd of yokels. The conversation stopped as Vorst entered, then picked up on a softer, lower key. He was a city man, an alien. The door burst open and a wian stuck his head in, yelled, “Hey! Hey! The lodge ‘is on fire!” Vorst’s reaction was pure ham, a carty- over from the Hollywood adventure. He flung the back of his mght hand to his forehead, screeched, “My gosh! My wife’s in there!” There was an interval of unreality; of sounds and movements, the ruddy sky and the smell of smoke. Vorst moved like a person in a dream. The heat stopped then at the edge of the clearing. There was ao sound save the crackle of the flames. The group of men wlio had gone at the rear of the lodge chorused muffled cries of relief and triumph. A ghost hand grabbed Courtney Vorst by the throat as two men led Gretchen atound the edge of the clear- ing’. Courtney Vorst stood like a rock. Gretchen’s voice came from close be- hind him. She said, “Did you forget? All doors ope into the haliway except the master bedroom. It blocked the staircase when it opened into the hall, so we re- versed it.”’ Vorst looked at the funeral pyre he had kindled. He thought of the Casino boys and the burlesque queen. He'd touched the | torch to a funeral pyre, all right, But it was his awa, COMIC OOO KS (E@)