Life — March 22, 1929 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

Life Short Stories of Life The Unpardonable Crime HE storm was increasing in violence. The wind rushing in mighty sweeps tore at awnings, rattled windows, beat in fury against concrete and steel, then turning in baffled rage scattered the few hardy pedestrians, blowing them like fallen Ieaves into the shelter of doorways and subway kiosks. And the rain poured down in a deluge. Mike Cassidy, special policeman, stood braced against a wall and glow- ered through the down-pour at the house he was detailed to watch, “Wan hell of a night,” he muttered, “but little he cares for the likes of us.” He continued to stare at the house of Melville Strong. Melville Strong, who had untold millions and more power than the President. Melville Strong! A magic name, whose mention caused a mo- mentary, respectful hush in any gath- ering of the mighty. Daring, ruthless, unscrupulous, with a host of followers and not a friend. Within the house the great man was seated in his study, bent over his huge desk and intent on reports from his numerous agents. The noise of the storm did not penetrate the walls of this sound-proof room. Here it was as quiet as death. The man of millions raised his head, and the look of annoyance changed to one of cold anger. Some one had blundered. Grim and hard were the lines of his face, menacing and cruel the light in his eyes. A shadow moved in a corner of the dimly lighted room. Slight as the sound was, Strong heard it and instantly whirled in its diree- tion. “Who is there?” His voice was deep, commanding, imperious. _ A man stepped quickly and softly into the circle of light cast by the desk lamp. ithe, tanned, smiling, he bowed ironically, but his right hand remained in his coat pocket. “Who are you, and what do you want?” There was no trace of fear in the deep voice. Admirable actor By Walter Sturdivant that he was, Strong’s face was im- said the — stranger “is Jones. To you, as yet, it means nothing. But it’ will, Mr. Strong, I assure you it will.” The mocking voice hardened. He leaned over the desk. “Have you forgotten Henry William Jones?” A startled light flickered in the cyes of Melville Strong, but was instantly gone. That keen brain was working qu , smoothly. “You probably have,” the intruder continued. “You ruin your victims and conveniently forget them. And Henry William Jones is dead. You conveniently arranged that he should blow out his brains!” His voice rang out menacingly. “And, as my father died, so shall you die!” Quick as his hand had been, Mel- ville Strong’s was quicker. As the au- tomatic had been jerked from his coat pocket, Strong had sprung from his chair, and now the two figures were struggling desperately. A shot, and the great man’s grip relaxed. He swayed, opened his mouth in surprise, his face twitched convulsively, and then as if very tired his head slumped forward on the desk. name”, “And, as my father died, so shall you die!” A thin red stream began to stain the iron grey hair, to drop on the scat- tered papers, to trickle on the rich Persian rug. At the shot Jones had sprung back, crouched, and with the automatic clutched in his hand had watched his enemy die. It was deadly quict again. The house had not been aroused. The sound-proof walls had kept the secret. There was only a slow, regular, drop, drop, drop. . . . The avenger straightened. He smiled. It was done. He had planned to taunt his victim, gloat over his help lessness. He moved toward the silent figure. Suddenly his expression changed. Anguish, horror, fear, contorted his face, he struggled against an over- mastering desire, an emotion he could not conquer. His whole being was convulsed. A loud sneeze shattered the silence. Instantly the room was filled with shouting, cursing men, and he knew that he had lost. With success in his grasp he had failed. The fatal sneeze had ruined a Super-Thriller Talking Movie! comicbooks.com