10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 67: what you’re looking at

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

HOMICIDE TSD : you mean, a free hand?” he snapped. “This thing is practically cleaned up!” He poked the soggy end of his cigar at a steel instrument on his desk. “That thing there is enough to convict Freddie—it’s his clippers. He won’t deny that.” Buck nodded. He knew the case, as it stood, was certainly strong enough to convict Freddie. Dick Hooper, the murdered lad, had been much the same age as Buck and Freddie. They had all gone to school together. But Dick’s father was wealthy, had a large orange grove. For Dick, the problem of making a living had never existed. It was no secret, either, that even in school days Dick had never tired of making things tough for Freddie. Envy had done that. Dick’s big am- bition had been to shine as a track star, but at every test Freddie had beaten him. In recent times, too, Dick had never missed an opportu- nity to taunt and harass Freddie. As one of a gang of Mexican or- ange-pickers, Freddie had _ often worked in the Hooper grove. Only yesterday he had been there, Fred- die had been up on a ladder, a pick- ing bag slung over his shoulder, when Dick Hooper came along. Dick had shouted up at him, remarks reflecting on a Mexican girl with whom Fred- die kept company. That had been too much for Fred- die. He had sprung from the ladder and attacked Dick savagely. They had been separated, however, without injury to either. That night, Dick had spent the evening around town. He had not returned home. The next morning his body was found under a huge pepper-berry tree in the mid- dle of his father’s grove. His face was bruised, and there were three ugly wounds in his neck. UCK MEAD gazed steadily at Chief Bedford. He said with con- viction: “I don’t believe Freddie Garcia is guilty of killing Dick Hooper!’ The chief flushed. “Nonsense! Any- LANDMARK a — 65 how, it ain’t for you to believe one way or the other.” “Yes, sir,” conceded Buck, “But it’s too bad—” “Let’s check this over,” cut in Cap- tain Reccord. “What have we got against the Mexican fellow? First, we know there was bad blood be- tween them, and _ that’s motive enough. Second, Freddie won’t tell where he was that hight, so he has no alibi. Third, there are footprints that check with Freddie’s shoes just inside the grove fence at the south end—prints that show Freddie going in and coming out. “Freddie wouldn’t have made those prints while he was working in the grove because he’d have no occasion to go near that fence. And fourth, there are those orange clippers, which are admitted to be Freddie’s, which were bloody, which were found near the body and were certainly used to stick the Hooper lad in the neck.” “Right!”? Chief Bedford said tri- umphantly. “And that makes it dead sure!” “Those clippers,” put in Buck, “are not orange clippers. They’re lemon clippers.” Captain Reccord frowned. “Is there a difference?” Buck said: “Yes, sir. You have to be careful, picking oranges, but you have to be more careful picking lem- ons. Oranges and lemons are both clipped off the stems, not yanked off, but orange clippers are stubby- bladed, while the lemon clippers have long pointed blades, five or six inches Jong, like those there.” “So much the worse for Freddie,” growled Chief Bedford. “In the first place, you couldn’t stab anyone very well with a pair of orange clippers, but you could do it easy with lemon clippers. The blades are long and sharp-pointed, and they come togeth- er like a dagger when the handle is fastened.” “Yes,” agreed Captain Reccord. “So much the worse for Freddie!” comniclooc S (C(O) im