10-Story Detective, June 1945 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

26—_—____—_—_—_—_————_ 10-STORY DETECTIVE —— Louie, two old hermitesses lived in an old brownstone downtown. It was a very fashionable dump in the days when Jim -~ Brady used to blow his breath on his diamonds. Now it is sandwiched between an undertaking parlor and an apartment house that isn’t finished. The sisters are named Anastasia and Isolde Furbish. Anastasia gets knocked off one night by a prowler, and Isolde is shocked loose from her senses, Nine o’clock the next morning me and Noonan arrive at the brownstone with some other cops, A patrolman says he dis- covered the crime, Every morning he said, he looked in the basement window to see if the two old dollars were up, as they asked him to. They said they always got up at eight-thirty on the dot, If they ever missed, to look for trouble. The beat walker says he got in the back window. “They never used the top floors,” the cop says. “They lived in the basement always, an’ they only went out once a week or so for stuff at a delicatessen on the corner. I bet I know the motive. These old babes generally sew about eighty grand in their skirts or hide it in a mattress.” “That’s enough for now,” Noonan says to the patrolman. “It’s our business to solve this crime, not yours.” Anastasia is reclining near a horse- chair sofa and her noggin had been _tapped too diligently with a hard object of some kind. Anastasia is dressed for an afternoon tea of the vintage of 1895 or thereabouts. She has on a high lace collar and high buttoned shoes. Neither is Isolde a bobby-sox babe. Isolde is sitting in a chair like she be- longed in a wax museum. No matter how hard Hambone yells at her, she does not answer him. “Look,” I says. “I don’t wish to in- trude too much, but this doll has seen more than just a ginger cookie broke in half, She has been through more than just the Gay Nineties. Give her a chance to git her-vocal cords unshocked.” The medical examiner assures us that Anastasia has been passé for nearly eight hours. “I would say the criminal entered this house just as the women were preparing to retire, as you can see their old flannel nighties are draped over the bed. And Miss Furbish there has one shoe off.” “They always retired around mid- night,” the cop on the beat says. “They both had insomnia,” Hambone paws his face and gets very testy. “Awright, Alvin,” he snaps at me. “Why do they need us, huh? They even know maybe what kind of liniment they used for their sciatica, and how many Z / spoons of sugar they put in their pekoe. Why do you think they made us detec- tives?” “T won't answer that one,” the cop says. ort was a handy murder,” I observe. Aes can just move the remains next r— RS eo ALVIN, we must find out how the murderer broke in,” Noonan says. “This window here has been jim- . mied, We'll take a photo of it, an’ maybe a moulage—” “The patrolman got through that way, remember, Hambone?” I says. “Look, there are fire excapes running along the back of these ol’ brownstones. We should most likely go up there on the next floor an’ look about.” “TI was just goin’ to,” Hambone says. “Come on, Alvin.” It is a creepy place on the next floor, Louie. Even Lugosi or Karloff would not have followed me and Noonan into the old parlor. Cobwebs kiss us and vampires would have held their noses because of the smells, There is old rotting cloth cov- ering the ancient furniture, and it is weighted down with dust. Sunlight seeps through the little cracks in the drawn shades and crawls over the carpet. “Hambone!” I says quick, The flatfoot jumps~a foot off the floor. “Don’t you dast do that just once more, Alvin—or—or—l’]]—” “J heard somethin’,” I says.“ “J didn’t, or I would be a block away by now,’ ’ Noonan gulps out. “Oh, it was just mice of course.’ “J never heard a mouse talk bass or baritone,” I says. “‘Somethin’ rustled too.” “Stop scarin’ me, Alvin. Let’s git a look at the hark winders to make sure. Then we'll git out of here. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I am awful ccairt of ’em. “Why, this window catch has been busted! It has been jimmied, Alvin. This is how the murderer got in. I—” “Listen,” I says, holding my breath as long as I dared without becoming a corpse myself, I know Hambone heard it this time. It is a sound that lifts my hat right off my scalp and turns my legs to rubber bands. It is a scraping and croaking and rustling sound. I was sure once I-heard a voice say; “Help, shipmates!” “You hear what I do, Alvin?” Hame. bone says and hugs me. “J didn’t know you cared,” I says sour~ ly. “If you dast kiss me, ‘Hambone, Vl —well, I am goin’ out there an’ see what it is. We got to face it sooner or later, Hambone. Git hold of yourself an’ not me,” eo) Comichoo