Judge — September 1938 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

The Foreign Derrick Dean, the great detective, slumped idly in an easy chair before a roaring fire. His meditations were rudely shattered by the peal of the door- bell, rung with a touch which Dean deductively knew betokened a caller in his early fifties, blue-eyed, ruddy-com- plexioned, and flat of foot. Dean barely had time to dash a bucket of water on the fire, switch off the lights, and duck behind a rare old high-boy before his man Spratt was feeling his way across the room. Whipping on a pair of surgical gloves to avoid leaving finger- prints, Spratt flung wide the door and fell flat on his face on the oriental rug. In the doorway was silhouetted the portly form of that lovable old duffer, Detective Inspector MacSullivan of Scot- land Yard. Suddenly a Malay kris swished past his ear from be- hind and buried its point in a Gainsbot- ough of Sir Gerald Huntley, Bart. Rapid footsteps of a tall, swarthy man with hook nose could be heard retreating down the hall. “Come in, old man,” called Dean nonchalantly as he switched on the lights, rekindled the fire, and extracted the kris from the stomach of Sir Gerald. “Whew! That was a close call, Dean,” protested the Inspector as he mopped his brow with one of Dean's Gobelin tapestries and experimentally fingered the empty space where his left ear lobe had previously been. “Very serious business, Dean,” he went on, absently trimming his mus- tache with a pair of nail clippers, “For- ¢ign Office official murdered in his own home.” “Aha! An F. O. case, eh?” said Dean, fencing for an opening. “Who's the victim?” “Lord Fothergill Chiselinghame,” confided MacSullivan, giving the cor- rect pronunciation, Lord Fo'gill Chisel- ‘em. “But let's be off, Dean, there’s not a moment to lose.” As the Inspector moved for the door, Dean whipped out his service automatic and emptied twenty-eight shots through the keyhole. Opening the door with a jerk, he disclosed a dead pigeon lying quietly on the threshold, and once more the ominous, swarthy, hook-nosed foot- steps echoed down the hallway. Arrived at the home of Lord Chisel- My Garden Once with abounding faith | sought A seed shop where within | bought A pactet plainly labeled peas. 1 dug my rows and filled my ground: And with the ha Not peas, but pinks and peonies. Office Case inghame, they passed rapidly through the police cordon which had been thrown around the house for five miles in every direction. “How about doors and windows?” demanded Dean as they entered the peer’s handsomely furnished suite and acknowledged the salutes of the kneel- ing police force whom he graciously bid rise. “Every window _ steel-barred—both doors welded shut,” reported MacSulli- van. Dean viewed the corpus delicti and caught his breath, hardened though he was by the sights at the Louvre and other picture gal- leries. Old Lord | Chiselinghame was lying ina bathtub full of steaming water, fully dressed, with an Oriental dagger protrud- ing at least three feet from his st moon | found —T. GR. chest; his skull had been crushed like an | egg by some heavy, blunt, gray-green instrument (made in Germany). Drop- ping to his knees, Dean ran his nose rapidly over the tiled floor. “Yes, by jove, that must be it,” he growled. “What must be what?" asked one of the police underlings with more temer- ity than judgment. Dean, however, was not easily angered and he clapped the young constable good-humoredly on the back of the neck with one of the plumb- ing fixtures. The great detective, now thoroughly on the scent, dashed precipitously out the door and down the stairs. Arrived on the pavement, he called for volun- teers and posted three hundred of the best in the door of a barber shop. Shak- ing hands all round and with a good word for each, he strode courageously into the tonsorial emporium. Three barbers sprang to their chairs and count- ed off by fours, Dean sat down and requested a shave. The barber chosen caught up the criminologist’s hand and vigorously stropped the razor on his arm. Dean forthwith blew four tre- mendous blasts on a French horn he had secreted under his vest. After terrific struggle with a regiment | of Dragoons that answered Dean's call, the wretched clip-artist was hastened off to the Old Bailey (pending construc- tion of all the all-modern, or “New,” Bailey). ROBERT C. WOODS. B UQUET Wi ARRIVE TODAY! ARE as we can figure, we will receive 110,468th unsolicited letter of appretic- from a Packard LektroShaver owner the } all d Packard's exclusive r-way shearing dction \precaionmade parts peract for them. 'tbe so diferent. Try @ ‘c00” PACKARD LEKTRO- SHAVER Nationally Distributed by Progress Lektro Shave Corp. 521 Fifth Avenue, New York City Canadian Distributors Progress Corp. (Canada) Limited 55 York Street, Toronto, Can. ae 39 comicbooks.com