A Quick-Action Storiette
Crowded with Dramatic Pathos
The Killer
By HAROLD WARD
"The Oath of Hippocrates—An oath embodying an admirable code of medical ethics. . . . . taken by young men about to begin medical practice. . . ."—Webster.
THE KILLER halted at the window of the tarpaper-covered shack and, nose pressed against the glass, sought to penetrate the gloomy interior. Satisfied that the place was unoccupied, he fought his way against the force of the storm to the spot where his eyes had marked the outline of a door.
The thermometer showed a temperature of twenty below. The storm was increasing in violence every minute and The Killer was half frozen. Yet he stood with hand on the knob, making no effort to enter until his stiffened fingers had sought out the gun which nestled snugly in his outside pocket. With his teeth he drew the mitten from his right hand and, with an effort that caused him to groan aloud with pain, crooked his benumbed forefinger around the trigger.
Cautiously turning the knob, he threw open the door and stumbled across the threshold in a tumultuous gale of wind and a whirl of snow. For an instant he stood there listening, every faculty alert. Then, satisfied that he was alone. he put his back against the panel and closed the door against the violence of the storm.
The room was cold and tomblike. Yet to the Killer, driven from place to place like a mad dog, it offered a haven for the night. He was tired—dead weary from traveling for what seemed centuries through snow waist-deep in the face of the worst blizzard of the season. Every muscle, every nerve, ached with exhaustion. For the last mile he had fought against an ever-increasing desire to succumb to the feeling of drowsiness which crept over him. He was lost. Only his powerful will had kept him on his feet thus far.
Sliding his gun back into his pocket, he whipped his hands against his chest and stamped his feet until circulation was partly restored. Then, shaking the accumulation of snow from his shoulders, he unbuttoned his overcoat and fumbled in his vest pocket until he found a match. Striking it against the door, he held it aloft to view his surroundings. It flickered weakly, nearly went out, then burned brightly. By its yellow glow he
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distinguished a nearby table on which stood a kerosene lamp. It took but an instant to apply the stump of the match to the wick.
He was in what appeared to be a combined kitchen and living-room. The light danced and threw grotesque shadows on the walls, covered with cheap
