10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

FILMTOWN FADEOUT “Are you crazy?” Rhodes de- manded, “What—” “Y-y-yes, sir,” Biggs affirmed chat- teringly. “‘Ah didn’t see that ol’ dead man in the bedroom at first, then it were teo late. Ah can’t get back out the door wifout passing the body, so ah takes the window.” He glanced shudderingly up at the second floor window. Rhodes snapped his head around again, shaking him. “What dead man?” Rhodes asked so quietly the question was scarcely audible. His face, full of knolls and lumps and sear tissue, frowned. “Mr. Rance, the newspaper fellow, up there dead. Sho’ ’nuff!” Biggs managed. “Someone kill him wif a sword!” Rocky Rhodes despaired of get- ting additional information from the quaking little Negro, decided to find out for himself. He shoved Biggs ahead of him, around to the front of the huge mansion and inside. “I’m going up to see what you’re yapping about,” he said, as he pushed Biggs toward the party noises ema- nating from the living room. “You find Abe Dortmann and take him to one side, tell him what you know. Don’t let anyone else hear. I don’t want the whole party up there, gawk- ing and squawking.” Biggs bolted away, and Rhodes leaped up the stairs. He cursed his luck at every step, at the way trouble trailed him through life like a kitten after catnip. HEREVER Rocky Rhodes went, disaster, violence and sudden death follc wed. It started with his given name of Thaddeus and a handsome face, crowned by golden ringlets of hair. He had fought his way through half a dozen schools, joined the New York cops and be- come the most famous hard-boiled detective sergeant the force had ever known, On the way he acquired the nickname, “Rocky.” It was more in 31 keeping with his now much beaten face and gray-streaked curls. Reams of publicity on his career and the pleading of his brother, a camera man, had brought him against his better judgment to Hollywood. Here he was to star in his own life story on the screen. Upstairs Rhodes went to the only bedroom door giving out light and saw what caused Biggs’ hasty exit. At some time everybody in film- town had wished death on Jack Rance, Allied Syndicate’s star gos- sip columnist. But not a demise like this. Even a corpse should have some dignity. Rance was sprawled on a polar bear rug near the lavatory door, a knife in his chest, gore forming a crimson bloteh on his shirt front. His eyes were wide open. His thin lips were pressed into a shriveled circle, and in the center was the pale pink of tooth- less gums, The false set of teeth that should have been covering those gums was perched rakishly on the polar bear’s head. Like a misplaced grin, they leered at Rhodes as he kneeled be- side the corpse. The knife had a delicately carved wooden figure of a black, pot-bellied African savage for a handle. Rocky Rhodes recognized it instantly. Every- one in pix could do the same. It be- longed to Gregory Rhodes, Rocky’s brother, gift of a South Sea island chieftain while Greg was on location. Rocky turned away and closed his eyes, He winced and rubbed his hand across his face as though to wipe out the sight of this thing. When he opened them again a group from the party stood in the doorway, staring at the corpse, the murder knife. Rocky first spotted Abe Dortmann, producer and host of the party, Harry Hunt, actor’s agent, and Donna Marlo, singing star whose studio was trying to ditch her because she couldn’t act worth two cents. Then he sa Hugh Rawlins, plastic dentist who could make a tooth paste OO) COMI a S (C(O) im