10 Story Detective, July 1942 — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

———— HOMICIDE “Hello, Joe,” Buck said pleasant- ly. “Thought maybe you could tell me about the night before last. I’d like to know if Dick was talking to anyone special.” | Joe pushed an unkempt lock of hair out of his squinty eyes and grinned. “Off your beat, ain’t you, Buck? I hear you ain’t a copper any more.” “Yd like to know anyway.” Joe read something implacable in Buck’s eyes, “Why, sure, Buck. Did- n't mean no offense. Le’s see now. Seems to me Dick was talking mostly with Will Dobbs.” Buck nodded. Will Dobbs was the foreman on the Hooper orange grove. “Will Dobbs, eh? What were they talking about?” Joe shook his head. “I was pretty busy, Buck.” So Joe had nothing to say! Buck smiled faintly, and walked out. No doubt Joe was getting a big kick out of all this, especially because Buck was through as a policeman. It might help Joe with Mary. Joe clung tenaciously to the idea that he could induce Mary to desert Buck for him. Buck got in his car and drove south. The Hooper grove was out that way, just a couple of miles. It was one of the finest groves any- where around. Dick’s father, Sam Hooper, was a shrewc business man; and a widower. Buck drove in the main driveway, parked by the side of the house. He wandered along the edge of the grove so that he could look far down the rows, and presently he saw a gang of pickers at work some dis- fance away. He strode toward them. A man watching the pickers turned and approached him. He said bel- ligerently: “What are you looking for, Buck?” ~ Buek eyed Sam Hooper’s foreman keenly. Dobbs was a burly man, big- jawed. | “They tell me,” Buck said, “Dick LANDMARK. =—_____-_—_$7 spent a good deal of time the night before last talking to you, in Hea- ton’s place.” “Maybe he did.” Dobbs glared morosely. “You got no right ques- tioning anybody. And I don’t think Sam Hooper would want you on the place here.” “Can’t do any harm, just talk- ing,” Buck said mildly. “I was won- dering if Dick had anything special to say that night.” Dobbs’ glowering face suddenly took on a sardonic grin. “Well,” he said, “there was nothing special. Dick and I were talking about the grove, mostly.” Buck gazed past Dobbs at the big tree in the center of the grove. It was a beautiful pepper-berry tree, the only one in the grove, and it towered high above the forest of orange trees around it. It had been there when the grove was planted and had been permitted to remain as a landmark. It was beneath that tree that Dick Hooper’s body had been found. Buck said abruptly: “Did Dick say anything that might have a bear- ing on the murder?” Dobbs spread his hands. “Noth- ing. We were just talking about the grove—orange prices—things like that.” Buck stared at Dobbs reflectively. Dick wasn’t the kind to sit around talking about oranges all evening. Oranges meant nothing to him be- yond the fact that they brought his father in plenty of money. So, un- doubtedly, Dobbs was lying. A voice behind Buck said sharply: “What are you doing here?” Buck faced Sam Hooper who stood there, tall and erect. His grim, thin- featured face was ugly with bitter- ness, “Well, I’m sorry about Dick, Mr, Hooper,’ Buck said. “But I think a mistake is being made—” “There’s no mistake,” snapped Hooper, “That Garcia fellow is guilty as hell. And since you’re fool enough to take up with him, Tf don’t want { O\O)O) O (CONNIE S (C(O) nn