10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

32 ad out of a snaggle-toothed moun- taineer for a few thousand beans, a script girl and a couple of scenarists. “All right,” Rhodes said. “Come on in. I see Biggs spread the news.” Nobody answered. Instead, the group opened up like the Red Sea for the Israelites. Greg Rhodes, short, slim and wiry, marched through them like a sleepwalker. No one spoke. Finally the script girl giggled ner- vously. Gregory Rhodes turned to her blankly, but still said nothing. He stood next to his brother, staring down at the corpse. He suddenly reached for the knife, but Rocky caught his arm, “Fingerprints, Greg,” he said. HIS broke the ice. Harry Hunt squinted through double-lensed glasses, wiggled his bulbous nose with his fingers. He cleared his throat. “Did anyone call the police yet?” “Good Lord! It had to happen to me,” Abe Dortmann groaned. “It had to happen at my house!” He moved toward a bedtable phone. Rocky Rhodes turned to his brother, put his hand on his shoulder. ‘‘A crude attempt to frame you, Greg. Someone stole the knife, figured it would put the blame on you. Got any ideas?” The thin lit+’- camera man looked up suddenly, a half-frightened, half- startled expression on his pinched features. He lit a cigaret, sucked hol- jows in his sunken cheeks with deep drags. He took Rocky’s hand from his shoulder, strode to the window. His fists clenched behina his back, the knuckles white. He said to his brother: “You have an easy one this time, Rocky. It’s ob- vious. I killed Rance. That’s my knife. Nobody stole it. I killec him.” Rocky grabbed his brother’s arm fiercely. “You’re crazy, Greg. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t leave the knife right there to give you away. Besides, you had no reason to kill Rance!” “Sure I did. I hated the double- crossing rat, just like everyone else. 10-STORY DETECTIVE He’s been trying to make Donna al} evening and | told him off. You saw me swing at him, downstairs. You helped break .t up. Just because Donna and | broke up a couple months ago doesn’t give him any right to pester her, ““We—we came up here to finish it out and I—I lost my temper.” He held the cigaret to his mouth, puffed furi- ously. “That’s all there is, Rocky. Don’t try to make more.” Rocky Rhodes :rned toward Donna Marlo. She was the lovely singing star for whom Greg Rhodes had been carrying the torch for several years. Even though she had thrown him over, he still loved her. She was standing the stares well. Flamingo-red lounging pajamas ac- centuated the bold lines of her figure. Her skin was like old ivory. She tossed her head, with the sleek brown hair pulled back and tied in a George Washington bob. “Why don’t they come?” she said through her teeth. Her usually lovely voice was scratchy and strained, “Why don’t the police come?” Gre Rhodes locked up at the sound of her voice, with the expression of a punished puppy looking for forgive- ness. Rocky couldn’t stand that. “Greg, it doesn’t make sense,” he said. “There’s no sign of a struggle. And what about his false teeth being out? You wouldn’t do a thing like that!” “That’s easily explained,” a richly resonant voice broke in. It was Hugh Rawlins, the plastic dentist. He was standing next to the corpse, holding a tiny brush in his fingers. He was a square man, his bald head almost fiat on the top, forming the opposite end to the square of his jaw. His shoulders were broad and box-shaped. His toes were square-tipped and heavy. 6¢ HIS little brush was on the floor, almost hidden under the rug,” Rawlins explained. “It’s used to clean false teeth. Rance was cleaning his teeth in the athroom. When he MIGoOo (C(O) S (C(O) nn