10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

PTA o> oe eS ae ae et de an Loute. He says if * have any angles Ham- bone won’t listen to, that I got two or three days to work on my own. “I have a couple of angles, D.A.” I admit, “I don’t think Zelch is guilty, even if the facts are as damaging as a ba- z0oka,”’ “Y’m inclined to agree with Noonan, — Hinkey,” the D.A. says. “But anyway, prove we are not right, if you can.” IT don’t know how to start, Louie, so I. go up to Woodlawn and look over the Fritchy estate once more. I walk into the garden out back. There I see Mr. Deeds, The pooch is sitting down and looks like he is trying to think of something. Then he runs over to a rose arbor, digs hard as if he wished to strike oil for the widow, then gives up. ' He sniffs at the ground, then antelopes over to his doghouse and digs three holes in back of it. Mr. Deeds looks almost like he shook his head in despair and pants very loud. I sit down and watch the pooch. Finally he starts digging agaim over near a bird bath. Mr. Deeds gets down into soft dirt about a foot. then backs away and sits down to gaze mournfully into space. “What ails you, old pal?” I says, walk- ing over to Mr. Deeds and risking losing a leg from the knee down. The canine looks at me and says, “Arrrgh—oof!” He runs away again and starts dig- ging next to a picket fence. This time he is rewarded. He comes up with a pork chop bone and begins to pulverize it. Louie, did you ever know a pooch that forgot where it hid a bone? I hear Mrs. Fritchy screech for Mr. Deeds, but he does not even wiggle. I sit there for an hour and watch Mr. Deeds finish his repast, and then go hunting for his dessert. It is very still in the neighborhood and a warm day for November. I get drowsy. Suddenly there is a sound like a gunshot. I get up and run, but do not get far. I run into a tree so hard. I shake two birds’ nests and two squirrels out of it. It is maybe an hour before I find where I am once more. Mr. Deeds is standing over me and licking my face. I wonder for a few awful seconds if dogs wash every- thing they eat first, like a raccoon. “Go away, Mr. Deeds, as I am your friend and am trying to find out who slew your dear master,” I says. There is a bump over my left eye you couldn’t have squeezed into a cup. The Fritchy resi- denee keeps going around and around. Mr. Deeds trots away. l washed the bump on my pate at the bird bath, but it does not take away the ache. I go to the door of the house and knock. Out comes the widow with a copy of Sylvanus Fritchy’s cComichook (E(@)