Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 60, No. 1, July 4, 1931

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Farnsworth raised his eyes from his littered desk, looked at the wall clock, and then glanced at a heavily-jowled, compact companion nodding at a desk in the corner.

“It’s after midnight, Darwin,” he said finally. “You’d better go on home.”

Darwin’s round, brown eyes snapped wide open.

“Are you through, inspector?” he asked sleepily.

“Not quite; I have some reports to complete. But you needn’t wait for me. You’ve had a long, hard pull.”

“Inspector, let them reports go till to-morra. You’ve got ’nough time now, the Pope case’s closed.”

“All closed,” remarked Farnsworth, with a smile.

“The newspapers is sorry. They’ll have to dig up somethin’ different for the first page. You got a lotta publicity outta the Pope case.”

“Publicity doesn’t help,” asserted Farnsworth.

“Let me fall down just once and see what’ll happen to whatever reputation I may have made.”

“I ain’t worryin’ ’bout you failin’ down, inspector. Anybody that broke the Pope case like you done, ain’t gonna fall down. You don’t only recover Mrs. Garfield Pope’s pearls but you put Red Lyons and his mob away. And that big gorilla, Lyons, ain’t no more dangerous’n a rattlesnake neither. When he stood up in court and said he’d kick his way outta stir and—”

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