10-Story Detective Magazine, April 1946 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

—_——“WELCOME HOMICIDE, LOULE!”—— “Alvin, nothin’ is impossible these days unless it is Hambone Noonan.” “She shivved Mandril Quirk?” “You couldn't put nothin’ past the ofd _ crow,” Louie says. “I suspect everybody so far. What is happenin’ owt there? Noonan—” We rush out. Hambone has a citizen by the nape of the neck and is shaking him. The newcomer is a little runt wear- ing striped pants and a frock coat. Hia cheaters are dangling from a vest pocket and banging against his knees. Louie asks what is going on. Hambone says he has the guilty citizen. “You have proven it?” I asks pleas- antly enough. “He comes in here an’ I spotted blood on hia shirt cuff,” Hambone yelps. “Look, pal, come clean! You was here late last night or early in the A.M. and slew Quirk! Gimme an alibi if you wasn’t Hah, killers always slip up. Laundries are atill very slow even if Japan got licked last August an’—” “Vt admit I waa here,” the little citi- ven says. “I came back about midnight, because I mislaid my magnifying glass with which I was examining a rare paint- ing. Mandril Quirk was alive, I assure you, when [ departed.” “You can’t prove it!” Hambone yapas. ‘Pid you see this jerk get shown out by your boss late last night?" he throws at the old babe. She shakes her head, and her store teeth rattle. Chitney says he retired at ten and sleeps very soundly. “Only your word for it, hah? You aneaked in today to pay respects to a stiff you made, Guthrie Mulch!” Noonan says severely. “To throw us cops off the scent! _Actin’ innocent, huh? Well, we'll take him down and book him, Louie!” “Kr—just a minute,” I says. “Was you sittin’ in that chair there, Mr. Mulch. The one with the horsehair oozin’ out?” Mr. Muleh nods and wipes worry mois- ture off his angular pan. “Well, no won- der,” 1 sniff, “The arm of it has ketchup on if that Noonan spilled. I imagine if we analyzed the stains on your shirt, we wouldn't find no red corpuskles in it, only tomate seeds, ha! Hambone, you got to do better. Now start in from the beginnin’ an’—"* Cure GARFUNELE sits down and laughs and shakes his head. Ham- hone gnaws his knuckles and kicks am 57 ottoman halfway across the room. , “Who comes in next?” I ask Chitney. “The other art appraiser is out of town for the day,” the gentleman’s gent in- forms us. “However, Miss Mafia said she would come over aa quickly as she could. I doubt if she is of any importance, though.” “Lemme be the judge of that,” Noo- fan says, trying to pull himself to- gether all over again. “HMverybody mixed up where a corpse was found is guilty until proved she did it. That is—t! mean—look, Madam, do you have to file your nails on that armored possum?" “He likes his back scratched,” Lucretia. gays. “An’ you'll git your ugly face acratched if you don’t remain more civil! Do you mind if I go up and feed my raven?” “The nex’ time [ try to. solve a crime,” Hambone snaps, “it will be in a zoo, I hope. What makes it so chilly in here, huh?” We sit down and wait and just look at each other. It is no fun. There are noises all over the creepy joint, like stair risers moaning and blinds banging. Something gnaws at the woodwork near where me and Louie are sitting. We know they are not Easter bunnies, Chitney says, “Do you mind if I rus upstairs and look after my pets. Spiders like company. You can come with me if you think I'm trying to—” “Not for a million dollars,” Noonan gulps. “Go ahead, Chitney. No, you stay here. Let’s look some more for clues, Al- vin. I wisht the murderer had lef¢ the carver in the cadaver. Looks like a per- fect crime.” “Yeah,” Louie says. “They all do when you are around, Noonan. But I gotta con- fess I’m stumped. Who is that?” There is a knock on the door outside. A cop comes in with a doll. I forget to ex- hale. She is a gorgeous dish wearing 2 shirt. of a very black clinging material. Whoever tailored it must have run out of material too quickly. Not that nobody minded, I bet, as she has gams Broadway would insure for a cool fifty grand. She has an oval pan featuring a pair of oglera that would coax 2 diamond necklace out of a McPherson, and her lips are every bit as shapely as Lana Turner’s. If there ever was blacker hair on anything that ever moved if was on a black tom caf in Ccomicloooks (CO