All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

Bodies By Night Bouth started to protest, but Blane si- lenced him with a glance. “Come on now—rig up some sort of a line. You're in it too, Reverend—everybody,” Milt stared intently as a line began forming. “What we're looking for,” he shouted, “is torn clothes. If any of you see anyone trying to patch themselves up, it would save time if you hollered out—.” He was perspiring, beginning to think how utterly hopeless it was. And Blane was more than fair, examining each one closely, muttering each time: “Okeh. You’re in the clear. Git over by the wall.” His eyes met Milt’s, and he shook his head grimly. Johnny tugged at Milt’s sleeve. “If you git that reward you an’ me could open a garage?” Milt was staring at a rent in Johnny’s pant leg. “Oh shucks,” Johnny grinned. “I ain’t got a solid pair of jeans to my name. What are you lookin’ so funny at me fer?” Milt gripped the lad’s slim shoulder. ‘‘T’m sorry, kid. When you’re as scared as I am you think funny things.” There was only one thing to do, Milt decided. Call the whole thing off. He moved toward Blane... And then a woman screamed: there, quick !” Heads craned: Milt raised tip-toe, feel- ing a surge of elation, but saw only a swirling knot of people. . Blane run- ning. knocking men and women aside. Milt shoved and pushed, wallowing in the sheriff's wake, and abruptly burst upon a scene that left him stunned. Blane was struggling with—a woman! “No,” Milt told himself. “It couldn’t be—” and then, he realized all too clearly —the truth. The woman was Ma Abbot, her face contorted as she struggled vain- ly to pull free of Blane’s grasp. As she swung around, Milt saw a slitted gash in the back of her skirt. “Over 109 _ She was the one who had blotted out his view through the window in the dark kitchen—but had lied to him. The rest came next day. Milt, hug- ging a thousand dollar check from Haleck, walked into Blane’s office. “Set down,” the sheriff drawled. He propped booted feet on the desk. “It was a crime of passion, you might say.” Milt sank onto a chair. “She con- fessed ?” “Sure. Complete. She hated Moss ‘cause he kept gettin’ Joe drunk all the time, burnin’ up her hard-earned cash. She and Joe were comin’ back from fishin’, Joe carryin’ a pitchfork they had used to get worms, and a knife—I guess the same one you found in a kitchen drawer. Down in the woods back of Slater’s, Moss Gear- hardt stopped them. He had a bottle and was lookin’ fer Joe. Joe liked that fine. Ma didn’t. There were hot words and she grabbed the pitchfork, run Moss through before he could dodge. Then she made Joe help her git him to the pine, pounded the end of the fork with that maul, like you suspected, and whittled the end.” “T get it. But why did she kill Joe?” “He threatened to talk. Got panicky. .She loaded him down with booze, while she tried to think of a way out. You came in. The light goin’ off was a break, and she acted fast. She tried to knock you out with a skillet, but when she crashed into you, your head hit the wall and you quit movin’. In the confusion she didn’t know you’d gashed her skirt.” Milt rose slowly, a picture of Ma in his mind, coming at him through that black kitchen with an upraised skillet gripped in one hand—someone he had liked, trust- ed. . It felt like ice-cubes forming in his stomach. He drew a deep breath, staring down at Blane. “I had you and Haleck figured all wrong, Blane. I better stick to garage work.” - THE END COMmMicloooe (©