All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 104: what you’re looking at

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

104 “T certainly should. ... Holding up one of my men. My wife’s scared to death as it is. I’ve got to take her into the church tonight where she'll be safe.” Milt looked at Blane. “I had a right to look around out here,” he said lamely. “As far as the gun—everybody’s carry- ing guns tonight.”” He watched both men closely, trying to catch any signal that might pass between them. “What in hell you gettin’ at?” Blane rasped. “This talk of there not bein’ an ape. Why would Mr. Haleck make up a story like that?” “It’s absurd!” Haleck snorted. “Yeh?” Milt said evenly. ‘You're buyin’ a lot of land around here. Folks sell out cheap if they’re scared to live in a place.” “I buy land. I don’t deny it,” Bliss Haleck laughed. “And there’s nothing underhanded about it. You’ve got a vivid imagination, Clark.” Milt lost his head. “It ain’t imagination when I tell you my friend Joe Abbot was strangled to death by someone who knew just where he was layin’ on the floor— someone wearin’ clothes. And Moss Gearhardt wasn’t murdered by any ape either.” He bit his tongue. Haleck and Blane were staring at him. They exchanged glances, betraying no sign of emotion, faces unreadable. “Well!” Haleck drawled at last. “I think maybe you’ve got a lot to talk over with this fellow, Blane. He sounds like a private detective.” “Sure nuff,” Blane agreed softly. “He’s just brimfull of ideers.” He took the gun from Haleck and trained it on Milt. Milt stiffened. They were in it to- gether. He stared down the revolver muz- zle, trying to gauge the tightening of Blane’s pudgy fingers around the trigger. This would be an ideal spot ot get rid of him—forever. . Haleck stepped back hurriedly. “I’ve got to take my wife to the church. Do as All-Story Detective you like with this here character, Blane.” Blane and Milt eyed each other. Des- perately, Milt wondered if he could whip out the revolver still tucked inside his shirt. For some reason no one seemed to remember he had it. But the act would be suicidal. He held his breath, tensing his muscles, feeling the sweat rolling down his ribs. ‘“Won’t do you any good to get rid of me. Someone else knows you killed Moss Gearhardt, Blane. I told some- one else.” It was a long chance; a shot in the dark, but it seemed to take effect. The gun lowered. Blane’s head jutted forward. “You’re one of these here fast thinkers, eh? Playin’ detective, like Ha- leck said. I think you’re right about Abbot bein’ murdered. But just how do you fig- ure it—about Moss?” “You run him through with the pitch- fork, maybe in the edge of the woods back of Slater’s. Then, tryin’ to make it look like something did it, you propped Moss up and pounded the pitchfork into the tree. I don’t know what you used to pound with—maybe a hammer or a big piece of wood outa Slater’s shed. Then, because the marks were plain on the end of the handle, you used your jackknife to smooth it up.” | Ba E opened and closed his mouth, ran one hand over his bristly jaw, staring oddly. “Where in hell d’you dig up all these ideers?” He toyed with the revolver in his hand. “Why do you think I done it?” “T saw you whittling with that knife you always carry ona thong. The thong’s missing. I figure a man would have to reach up pretty high to carve the end of the pitchfork handle at the angle it was in the tree.” “Weaker’n dishwater.” Blane snorted, that thong and threw it in the drawer of my desk at the office this morning.” COMIC OO slapping his thigh. “I got tired of usin’. ©