Argosy, Vol. 118, No. 2 — page 163: what you’re looking at

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

GUSTAVE’S PUNCTURED ROMANCE. faintest idea that the o!1 man had money. Wellins himself doubted that murder had been committed. Nevertheless, we got busy. “Tf there was a slayer, we reasoned that he would be worried if he thought the body was still above ground. So we worked the ‘exhumation ’ story. If he were still in the neighborhood, he would show the strain in some way. He might be drawn to the ‘body ’—but, if he wasn’t, he would be Re ustavé's OMaNhCce by Grace Lovell Bryan USTAVE D’ESPRIT, dapper proprie- tor of The Hat Shop Parisienne, ad- justed his new Panama carefully over his toupee, locked the door, twirled his cane, and tripped jauntily down the street toward his boarding house, humming: “ There are s-s-m-iles that make you h-happy, there are s-s-miles that make you blu-ue—”’ Business was flourishing—the season for taffeta had far exceeded his own expecta- tions; he had not bought Milan, though ad- vised to in the spring, and, voila! Milan had not been worn. And, far more impor- tant than these sordid details of business, he was in love. ‘“ Where love is—” sings the poet; ‘duets fore Gustave disposed of his dinner as- though prunes were lobster a la Newburgh; folded his napkin with that detached air that spoke of a mind floating in ethereal vapor, and ran up the stairs to his room. He took from an inner pocket a small O15 bound to reveal himself in some other way, if his nerves were rubbed and pounded long enough. I never suspected Maxon until he made two attempts to view the body.. Then we waited for him. Had he known the body was under ground, it isn’t likely he ever would have revealed himself—but a murderer, unless he has lost all human in- stincts—cannot endure for long the thought of his victim being in the open daylight and open air.” photograph and gazed at it beatifically. How beautiful she was! What glorious blue eyes—what clouds of fluffy golden hair, like—- He replaced the photograph hastily and reached for the hair brush. The alarm clock on the dresser pointed to seven o'clock. He was to call for her at eight. An hour later, gazing searchingly in the mirror, he heaved a sigh of satisfaction. His mustache was waxed its fiercest, his hair resembled a seal’s back. A delicate mauve tie harmonized with his violet spats. In a word, he was exquisite. “IT am, what you call heem,” he mur- mured approvingly, “all to the mus-tar’! She cannot fail to impress!” He smiled dizzily. The prospect was enchanting. And right here, the course of true love began to zigzag in its usual fashion. In other words, Harry Graves bounced vio- lently into the room. Graves, his roommate, was a baseball-at- (e(0) VOOKS ANCE (E)