15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 99: what you’re looking at

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

Death—lIn the Bag’ The dirt was so dry he had to drop to his knees to scoop up enough clay and sand to cover the bird. Then he scampered over the banking and went down to meet the warden, who was toting a double-bar- reled shotgun. “Good hunting?” asked Leander, tug- ging at his white walrus moustache. “Not today. Off my oats. Got me a good gamecock yesterday.” “Then you were here yesterday, huh? Didn’t notice you but your place is set far back from the road.” “Yep. Been here three days now. Got me a very big gamecock the first day. Guess you won't have to worry about me getting oyer the limit.” “Shoot any hens?” asked Leander slow- ly, without any expression on his dried apple face. “Hell, no! And the cocks I got three days ago and yesterday weren't tagged. So I got nothing to do with a game war- den.” “Seen any other hunters the last three days?” “Not today or yesterday. Ran inte a chap three days ago, Nobody I knew.” “Was he lucky?” “Got his limit. “Any hens?” ‘Hell, no! And if they were, I wouldn’t be a stool pigeon, You ought to know me better than that.” “Guess I know you too well, Mike. Just was wondering if you saw a stranger here- abouts yesterday afternoon.” “Why, what’s up?” “Nothing here, I guess. Got a call from the Stafford Springs barracks. They thought that Providence bank bandit might have headed for these parts. I was out hunting myself yesterday, didn’t get the word until late last night.” “Didn’t hear about it. Haven’t seen a paper in three days. No radio in the shack an’ J didn’t use the one in me heap. aemat s he look like?” Three beauties.” 99 “He’s a mean cuss. Shot down the teller in the Whalers National, jumped in the getaway car as his partner got winged in the leg by a bank guard. The wounded man had dumped the loot inside, slumped against the opened front door. One tug would have pulled the partner inside. In- stead, this mean killer decides to save on doctor’s fees. Lets him have it three times. Dead men don’t talk. But the teller gave a good description before he died three hours later.” “That so?” Trigger Mike caught him- self just in time. He was feverish to know how that little runt of a. teller described him. “Yep. Said he was a tall bloke, about six feet.” > teases MIKE breathed more easily. He stood only five nine in shoes. The teller was a half-pint, hardly more than five feet one. Naturally anyone who was considerably taller would be a six-footer to that runt. “This here killer,” continued Leander, “had one of them lady killer moustaches, with waxed points. Quite a dandy. *Course he’s probably shaved it off by now. The description was on the radio. By the way, Mike, let’s see your hunting license ?”’ | Trigger Mike pulled out his wallet, didn’t look in the pocket where a New York automobile license was windowed but flipped out a crisp twenty. “Guess I forgot to write in for it this year,” he said. “Will you get me one, Warden? You can keep the change.” “That’s keeping a lot of change. What have you been burying?” Trigger Mike gasped, bit his lower lip. His pasty face turned whiter. He glanced down nervously at his telltale fingers. The nails were caked with dirt, both hands grimy from scooping up earth to cover the skunk hole. He rubbed one soiled hand against his trousers, noticed that COMMiclace<s co