All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

Bodies By Night 107 Abbot—after you had him murder Moss Gearhardt.” Milt’s mouth fell open in complete astonishment, “You done it all right, Clark. But I sure as hell can’t figure out your motive. I watched your face when we stopped by that pine outside. Pretty gruesome, lookin’ at that tree, if you was responsible for what hung on it a couple of hours ago. You’re a hard man to figure, Clark.” “Because I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” he declared. ‘‘Look—maybe I’ve been wrong about you.” “You’ve been wrong about a lot of things, fella. Haleck fer one. I know he’s been buyin’ land, swingin’ deals here and there; gettin’ it pretty cheap too. He thinks a packin’ house is gonna be built near here, which would sure cause a boom in our little community. So he’s specu- latin’ with land values—with an ape run- nin’ around loose searing ’em into sellin’ cheap. Also that ape is servin’ as a swell blind for whoever murdered Moss Gear- hardt and Joe Abbot—if there is an ape.” “That’s my ideer.” Blane waggled his revolver. “Someone like.you, just takin’ advantage of circumstances. Maybe you put old Joe up to it—killin’ Gearhardt, then you killed Joe to keep him from talking. All I lack is a motive. C’mon Clark, what was behind it all?” “You're crazy !” Blane’s face, partly shadowed in the spreading rays from the flashlight, grew hard, implacable. “You might fool your young friend Johnny Lee, but you’re talk- ing to me now.” ILT’S nails dug into his palms. “You're wasting time.” Then a thought occurred to him; a way to iden- tify the murderer. The idea had lain buried deep in his subconscious all along, concealed by the swiftness of events. He drew in his breath sharply, feeling an inner surge of exhilaration. “Blane, we've both been going at this thing all wrong.” “Shut up.” the sheriff roared. “I’m sick of you playin’ detective. I’m runnin’ this show.” A twig snapped outside. The man’s expression changed ; a funny, startled look sweeping over his heavy features. He whirled—just in time to meet the furious onslaught of a dark, furry shape hurtling from the darkness.... A growl- ing, bestial thing that carried him back into Milt—all three of them sprawling in a tangled heap. The sheriff’s gun re- mained silent, either knocked from his hand, or cramped under that heavy, writh- ing form—but miraculously the flashlight stayed lit, rolling across the dirt floor. Milt pushed free and dove for it, flashed it desperately into the far corner where Blane had tossed his revolver when he jerked it from his belt. He raced for it, sensing that the thing on top of Blane was aware of his stumbling movements, was lunging. ... He scooped up the gun and whirled, firing point-blank—the gorilla’s long, shaggy-browed face contorted as it stag- gered back, rearing upright, almost as tall as Milt in the glow of the flashlight. He fired again. Blood ran from the open mouth and it shrieked; fell on its side, shivered and grew motionless. Blane was staggering to his feet, wip- ing a gashed cheek on his sleeve. “You satisfied now?” he wheezed grimly. “I thought I was done for.” He kicked the massive hulk sprawled on the floor. “Take that blame light out of my eyes. I want a better look at it.” “You can see it from there. Don’t get any closer.” “It’s daid all right. Nice shootin’. You gonna hand that gun over?” Milt smiled grimly. “What do you think ?” | Blane’s big form tensed, his breath whistling through his teeth. Milt said sharply, “I’m taking you to CORIECLOO© (C 4 S (©