10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

52 will in her hand. She is weeping. “I am sorry,” I says. “Sylvanus must have been an awful good husband, huh? Well, parting is such sweet sorrow and they are not gone for gvod, only away. So—” “Mr. Hinkey,” Mrs. Fritchy sniffs. “Mrs. Bleary’s eat just walked right through here and spit at Mr. Deeds. He did not even chase her, to say nothing about biting off some more of her tail. Did you ever hear of a dog that mourned ' go over its departed master?” “The pooch is not himself, awright,” I admit, “Even though I never knew him when he was. Could I have some lini- ment or iodine? That tree was the hardest one I ever run into, Mrs. Fritchy. A shot went off and—” “Oh, it was only a truck backfiring,” the widow says. “Wipe your feet and come in.” FTER first aid, I saunter around where Sylvanus got it and see that the statue is back on the pedestal. The windows are all shaded but one. It looks like Mrs. Fritehy wouldn’t think of tidying up until after the obsequies at the neighborhood mortician’s. I ask can I look at the butterflies once more. She says it is all right, and do I want any? | “T don’t know what I could do with butterflies,” I admit. “But thanks just the same. Give them to Mr. Zelch.” ‘Where he is going, they won't last long,” the widow says. “The specimens are fragile enough. When will they pull the switch?” I look at the lepidoptera, and then af the goldfish bowl. The turtle seems to know me, Louie. He sticks his noggin above the water and opens his mouth like I was going to throw him a fly or some- thing. Then I see something in the bottom of the bowl. I says to Mrs. Fritchy who just came in with two cokes: “JT don’t think goldfish and turtles have pin-up gals, do you?” “Are you whacky, Mr. Hinkey?” the widow gulps. “Are you sure that bump on your head has not done more serious damage than you think? Maybe I had better call a doctor.” “Oh, don’t bother,” I says. “Skip it.” The turtle is surfacing again and has his neck stretched to the limit like a dame sitting behind a post at the Metro. I get an idea that makes me scoff at my- nN 10-STORY DETECTIVE self, and drink the coke. Then I beg to be excused. | Hambone calls me when I get home that night. “Hello, Alvin. I am sorry to have gone off the handle like an old Model T. But you got to learn not to get so cocky your first few months as a detec- tive.” “I forgot myself, I guess,” I says to Hambone, with my tongue in my cheek. “Well, we broke that case in record time, Alvin. We put the new lie detector on Herman Zelch and ast him was he in the Fritchy house the night of the mur- der. He said he wasn’t. Well, the lie de- tector blew its top and now has to go back for repairs. He wouldn't tell us where he hid the zitheronium regillis but . he will when the barber comes to shave his hair off—oh, I forgot, he is bald. But they’li slit his pants leg and then he'll confess.” “T don’t really see how you do it, Ham- bone,” I reply. “You’ll go all the way up to commissioner before you know it.” “Oh, you’re just saying that, Alvin.” “Who else could be?” I inquire of Noonan, Well, the next day I[ go to Mrs. Fritchy’s house again. She is in weeds which are black clothes, Louie, and is just going out to hear them speed Syl- vanus along the big slide. She is very glad to see me as she says I can stay and guard things, while she is gone. She will give me twenty bucks. “Fine,” I says. “But don’t you trust Mr. Deeds no more?” “No. He forgot to bite the mailman this morning. Yesterday morning he did not chase the man who reads the gas meter. Pll be back in three hours, Mr. Hinkey.” Louie, I start investigating. I look at the pedestal the statue of Mercury rested on. I see it is of some kind of stone that is chipped in places. I sit down and start reconstructing the crime. About an hour later Mr. Deeds comes in and takes a long deep breath and sits down. Suddenly the pooch just about stands on his head and rubs the top of his big noggin against the broadloom. I go over and.coo at him and examine his pate. I see he could use a veterinary. I keep adding up and get a sum that must be wrong. Mrs. Fritchy comes back, weepy of course. “It was a beautiful send-off,” she says. “You would of thought Sylvanus (a) (E(0) book