All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 105: what you’re looking at

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

oe oe “Veh? You got tired of a long-stand- ing habit on the right day, didn’t your” The big man’s lips drew back in a snarl, face reddening. “Figurin’ me as the killer is where you're wrong.” Milt laughed. Haleck’s station wagon swung away down the drive, heading for the main road. Blane motioned with his gun. “Get moving—to my car. We’ve got a lot to settle—you an’ me.” Milt nodded grimly and headed in the desired direction. He was sure Blane was lying about that thong. When they reached the car Blane or- dered him to drive and climbed into the front seat beside him still holding the re- volver. He tossed it on the back seat, but droppped his hand to the butt of his own gun on his right hip. “You don’t like me, do yuh?” He said bluntly. “Since we had that little ruckus one day? I found out later that it wasn’t you gettin’ Joe Abbot drunk all the time—it was Gearhardt.” “That’s what I tried to tell you,” Mult replied shortly. ““Where do you want me to drive to?” “Head for town—down back of Slater’s where Moss was stuck to the tree.” Milt looked at him sharply. He headed the car down the drive, past the house and turned in the direction of town. He sat straight, trying to keep the gun inside his waistband from bulging out the front of his shirt. “Drive fast,” Blane ordered. He drew his revolver and held it on his lap, turn- ing half around to face Milt. Then he said slowly, as if thinking out loud. “You coulda killed Joe Abbott easy.” Milt stared straight ahead, lips pressed tight. “You got a nasty crack on the head there. Most likely he did it trying to fend you off. An’ you got such a neat explana- tion of the way Gearhardt was done in too!” ' “T was at the garage all day,” Milt Bodies By Night 105 flared. ‘“‘And I’m ready to prove it.” “Sure. I already found that out.” “Checking on me, huh?” Blane chuckled. ‘You see—I don’t like you either !”’ Milt digested this in silence, watching the speedometer creep over the fifty-five mark. “If you think- I accused you of murdering Gearhardt just because I don’t like you, you’re wrong, Blane.” “You’re a fool then. A lot of knives besides my pocket knife could have been used to whittle the end of that pitchfork handle. But there is something you're overlooking. It’d almost seem as though it would take two people to prop up the body and pound the end of that pitchfork handle. Gearhardt was a heavy man; a pitchfork handle is pretty long.”’ Milt shot him a glance. “You’re husky enough for my money.” Blane chuckled again, but without mer- riment. “We'll take a look in Slater’s shed and see if you're right about that hammer —or something laying around that could be used to pound with. And remember— this gun of mine goes off real easy.” “T bet! All you gotta do is say you ac- cused me of murderin’ Joe Abbot, and that I tried to get away from you, huh?” “Tha’s right, smart guy.” Milt started to swing down Cyprus Creek’s one main street. “Take the back way.” Blane snapped. “And slow down. I ain't hankerin’ for attention.” The car’s lights cut a swath through the darkness as they pulled up on the edge of Slater’s lot. “Shut ’er off and climb out.” Blane ordered. “You know where I want to go. Git movin.” Slater’s big house was empty and dark, probably all at the church. Something moved beside the porch. It caught Milt’s eye and he hesitated—was it a dark, furry shape vanishing around the side? The hair on his head stirred as if an unseen COMicloOoe S (©