10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

46 —_—————__————-10-STORY DETECTIVE—————————- cigarette until the sunny dawn came up over the hills beyond Timkensville, paling the fluorescents. He rose, snapped off the lights, and looked at his watch. Seven- thirty. Idly, he walked to the great sloping window that looked out on the north, glanced first at the cold, still body at his ~ feet, then at a tall pile of sketches. Hum- ming softly, he picked up the topmost sketch, studied it for a moment. Raising his head, he yawned. Suddenly his fingers tightened. The smoldering cigarette in his fingers fell to the floor. He ground it out. The constable, eyes heavy with sleep, staggered down the corridor. He paused at the staircase, eyes suddenly fixed on Wayne sitting next to the phone. The lawyer smiled grimly, eyes raised to the pudgy figure. “You’d better bring them down, con- gtable,” he said, “I’ve got your mur- derer.” Wayne was sitting on the horsehair sofa in the study some minutes later as the family filed in, followed by the deputy and lastly Widner, his eyes bulging like a sick frog’s. “Mrs. Sterns couldn’t possibly have hit Jocelyn Blashforth with that copper- plate,” the lawyer remarked perfunc- terily. “She couldn’t even wield a dust eloth, which is, of course, the reason Jocelyn wanted to get rid of her.” The lawyer shifted his gaze to Steve Standish. “You knew that Jocelyn planned to forgive the debt you owed her, even establish a trust fund in your name. She told me that at my office in Timkensville the morning: after Lionel had left for Chicago.” Wayne inhaled his cigarette with de- liberation. “I’m serry, Lionel,” he said slowly. “That leaves us—you—doesn’t it?” The artist paled. “T didn’t— “Yes, you did,” accused the lawyer firmly. “You killed your wife. You killed her because you knew she was planning to diverce you, knew that your income, your ability to live well as an artist, would stop—just like that.” Wayne snapped his fingers. “You knew you had to kill her before she diverced you and changed her will. I knew because the will was one of the two matters she came to see me about that morning. ” he began. . “T rather thought you’d killed her,” he continued, “after I saw the scratches that gold signet ring of yours made on the copperplate etehing. I wanted a duplicate of that, so I made sure you knew I was going out into the garden with Widner. I was aware that you would try to kill me © before I, as Jocelyn’s lawyer, had a chance to produce the will she must have told you about when you came back—twelve hours after you’d started for Chicago.” Blashforth started violently. “You can’t prove—” “T can. Of « course the scratches on the plates weren’t enough. I’ve found a hittle more positive evidence. It was very simple getting on the Chicago express, making - gure that the station master saw you go aboard, then leaving the express at a local station up the line and returning by bus, approaching the town from the eastern side. “Back home once more, you killed Jocelyn, left unobserved, returned to a local station, and caught the next express for Chicago. I cheeked your business out there by phone. The exhibition committee hadn’t even seen you.” The artist laughed hysterically. “That’s rich! I can see a jury taking all that in— all except evidence that doesn’t even exist.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” drawled Wayne. He held up a sheet of drawing paper. “This is what will convince any jury that you murdered your wife. When you came back, intent upon murder, you probably told Jocelyn some cock-and-bull story to allay suspicion. Even sketched her, as you often did, as she stood paint- ing in front of the studio window. And when you’d finished the sketch you put it down, forgot it, and killed her.” The lawyer tapped the drawing refiectively. “Artistic, undoubtedly a genuine Blash- forth—a realistie piece, faithful to de- tails. “But you drew Jocelyn with her hair bobbed. And you couldn’t possibly have seen her alive that way, because when I met her in town—7just a few hours before you returned to murder her—she was wearing her hair long, the way you liked it, The way you’d never let her change, until that morning after she’d seen me about the will, and Steve, when I drove her in my car to her hairdresser’s where she had it cut short.” 4 comicbooks.c