Judge — December 1938 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

The Poindexter Case A Terry McGovern Mystery Little Chats With The Publisher: In The Poindexter Murder Mr. Benish “clicks” again chilling yarn that places hin uncontested position among lead- ing modern mystery-fiction writers. The murder of old Lucius Poin- dexter was destined to remain for- ever an unsolved mystery until Ser- gant O'Leary, in desperation, called upon youthful, bespectacled ‘Terry McGovern, entomologist and ama- tcur criminologist, who, in his in- imitable manner, shortly headed the crime towards its solution, The clues, fairly presented, although in- tcrrelated, tended to circle back to an amazing wall of impossibilities. Why was lovely Elise Poindexter hurrying through Hop Alle Chinatown the night before the murder? And what was the mean- ing of the faint brown stains of Worcestershire sauce on the heat- cracked milk bottle? Why were the ‘objets d’art’ that were so care- lessly strewn at old Poindexter’s fect lying, cach one, upon a neatly folded square of tissue paper? (Con'd. on back flap) (Sorry, the back flap was torn off for a note to the milkman.) The Poindexter Murder Case Chapter 1. A Prologue Ecricly the wind Tchaikovskied through the caves The glow of the moon was ghast- ly, abetting. Somewhere a clock tolled. of leaves. Gad, what a time! What a setting! A rustle What a place! Chapter 2. The Tragedy Lightly Elise tripped lightly through the night, THE JUDGE FOR DECEMBER SALIFORNIA STATE LIBRARY Very light of spirit, very light: of h . And lightly she fainted at the ghast- ly sight— Uncle Lucius, his objets d'art. murdered, among Chapter 3. O" (Note: the + cary to the Fore r may remember y from the previous lerry McGovern novel, The Handle of the Hoe. “Vhe Sergeant was short and pudgy, somewhat Horid of com plexion, quick-tempered, but sts ceptible to flattery, and a trifle slow.) Chapter 4. ‘The Butler Queens was chauffcur-houseman- gardener-man-ofallavork, but had never been beguiled into a more dignified calling. In fact, by no “He folds the road mops." stretch of the imagination could Queens have been called a butler. and anyhow he was in Sheepshead Bay over the week-end, visiting rela- tives. It was this grotesque diserep- ney that eventually led the Ser- nt to ask ‘Terry for his assistance. reasoned that even if Queens were the butler, you couldn't sick a stiletto ina guy's back through long-distance telephone. (Note: ‘The reader may remember Dr. Pandoras, the medical exam- incr, from the previous ‘Terry Mc- Govern novel, The Handle of the Hoe. The Doctor was short and pudgy, somewhat florid of complex ion, good-natured and susceptible to flattery, and gencrously endowed with shrewd cerebral reactions.) Chapter 5. Stumped “Oi'm stumped,” said O'Leary, and he scratched his pate With an ancient hand. it’s fate ‘That makes ‘em all look as guilty- ashell And spots ‘em an alibi as well.” “Oi guess Chapter 6. A Study in Mixed Imagery Somehow the spider had spun its skein, Swiltly, surely, of safe and sound psychology And silently had struck: The mad- dened brain Conceives the perfect crime, save one clue—entomology. Chapter 7. Trapped “T knew,” said Terry McGovern, and silently he removed his tortoise shell glasses, polished them and re- turned them to his eyes to glance fondly at the butterfly net. “I knew the moment I saw the even folds of tissue paper that no one but Syl- vester . . . "—here he bent down quickly and clasped the andirons about the wretched mortal’s legs. “It’s a lie,” screamed Sylvester, and struggled to rise, but the firm hand of O'Leary was on his shoul- der, pinning him down to the chaise longue. ‘Terry smiled, and silently he re- moved his tortoise shell glasses, polished them, and returned them to his eyes to glance fondly at the butterfly net. “And who else,” he added, “would have made a Welsh rarebit_ out of sweet milk when there were six cans of beer in the ice-box ... 7” Chapter 8. Epilogue Ecriely the wind Tchaikovskied through the eaves. ‘The glow of the moon was ghastly, abetting. Somewhere a clock tolled. A rustle of leaves. Gad, what a time! What'a place! What a setting! ROBERT BENISH 'T OSIN Your wav TO DON'T COPY - LEARN TO ORIGINAT! RAVE BURNS wit teach you HOW to CREATE, QRICINAL CARTOONS w heme tha Joa can 85 ‘ours hs terns nod 690 ah — reddveas Yor fre deta. 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