10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

oan i a The Model Corpse By Bowen Conway Ie was itis that an eicher’s wife should be murdered with an fy d artist’s copperplate. And when the law’s snoopers came up to b see the etchings, it was also appropriate thai they should like the murderer’s masterpiece most. ETH WIDNER, & Timkens- ville’s constable, halted abruptly in the middle of the great study of the old Blash- forth mansion as the front door buzzed. He wheeled his lion- maned head about in a slow circle at the faces surrounding him, and _ sniffed noisily like a hound hot on the scent. “All right,” he barked, wiping his forehead with » checked bandanna. “Mrs. Sterns, you answer the door. I reckon it’s Steve Standish’s lawyer. The rest of us’ll wait here.” The aged housekeeper rose siowly, rheumatically adjusted her right arm against a hip, and waddiled out. A few seconds later came the rusty grating of the big front door as it swung open and shut, banging angrily as the gale howling down the valley pulled it tight. A murmur of voices welled up for an instant from the study, then died as the crone appeared at the threshold. Five pairs of eyes snapped toward her. “Good evening.” The tall, raven-haired, conservatively dressed man looming up behind Mrs. Sterns, spoke his greeting in low tones. He swept the circle of eyes, then tossed his brief case and overcoat on a nearby chair, and advanced into the room. “Constable Widner?” He glanced quiz- zically at the grizzled police officer stand- ing in his path like an immovable rock. Widner nodded sourly and was about to speak, when a man sitting to his left sprang from his chair, seized the other’s arm, akd pumped it madly. “Thank heaven you got here, J ohn,” he exclaimed nervously. 43 Lawyer John Wayne smiled briefly. His eyes, wintry, tired, with a hint of bitterness in their cold depths, noticed the other’s strained, haggard look. He patted his arm reassuringly, turned te Widner. “You understand, Constable, that I’m here as legal adviser for Mra. Blash- forth’s brother. But I'll volunteer to han- die Mr. Blashforth’s case, and’’—he paused, glancing around at the house- keeper who had creakily resumed her chair— friend of the family—” Widner chuckled nastily. “Little need for that,” he rasped, inclining his head _ toward the seated figure of Lionel Blash- forth, master of the house and inter- nationally known painter. “Nor for Mrs, Sterns, either.” The constable paused and blew noisily in his bandanna. “As I see it, Standish is the one who’ll need the most talkin’ fer.” A match flared. Lionel Blashforth slow- ly rose to his feet, applied the glowing end to a cigarette. ‘Steve couldn’t tell you much over the phone, John,” he said apologetically, kind grey eyes focussed intently on Wayne's. “Much less apologize for getting you out here at 3:30 in the morning. Steve thought you-might be able to do—or find—something.” The painter waved a hand vaguely around the room, indicating vast regions of the whole house, Then he cocked his head at Widner, “‘Mind, con- stable, if 1 put Mr. Wayne to rights?” The police officer shifted uneasily, then shaking his head, slowly removed a large plug of chewing tobacco from a hidden pocket and, breaking off a piece, began to work it like a cud, keeping his bright eyes on Blashforth. “Briefly,” ‘began Blashforth, “this is the situation. As Steve told you, [ left “Mrs. Sterns’ as well. As an old. (eo)