Life — April 19, 1929 — page 13: 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 Murders on Hampstead Heath “This affair,” cried Alph R. (“Oil”) O'Mega, world-famous detective, “is a disgrace to Scotland Yard!” He paced the floor in an agony of mortification, finally arousing himself from the depths of an easy chair with a sigh, “You're taking it far, far too se- riously, old man,” remarked the mur- derer, one Arthur (“Danse”) Macabre, idly tapping a cigarette to settle all the nonchalance down into one end. “The h-1 I am!” O’Mega’s feelings burst all bounds with a terrific report, which, however, was later denied. “Let us look this thing in the face, Macabre! . . . There isa fresh corpse!” He pointed to the fresh corpse, wax-wrapped, with a label stating that if the seal were broken you could exchange it’ with- out charge at your nearest Funeral Home . . .O’Mega’s voice broke and fell; he stooped and lifted it gingerly by the tail... “You have just killed this man,” he continued (please turn to page 49), “I come in and catch you red-handed; there is no mystery, not a single footprint, no blunt instrument with human hair on it—mark you, not even a partially bald blunt instru- ment! My dear fellow, that’s no way —no way at all. Why, I shouldn't catch you until some time next week!” “I know,” nodded the murderer, “But after all, ought we to neglect this opportunity? No telling when we can get together again—modern life makes so many demands ... You'd better have a care—” ‘No thanks,” O’Mega interrupted, “Tye been sitting down all morning and it’s really a relief to stand... Well, there's something I can be do- ing, anyhow!” He took up the telephone. (A sequel to THE MURDERS AT PREP SCHOOL, THE MURDERS ON THE AMAZON, etc.) By Heman Fay, Jr. “Think of a number,” he told the operator, “Any number. Now mul- “Hadn't you better be escaping through that window?” tiply it by 99. Now take the result and divide it by the number you first thought of, and the answer will be all sevens!” After a brief pause he delib- erately assumed a falsetto tone. “Hello! Is this the Elite Market? How are your kidneys today? They are! Tsk! Tsk! Why, isn’t that too.bad! Have you tried drinking lots of water? Well now, look, can you send me up several radishes and a dozen eggs— unsalted? And hurry, please, because I've got company for dinner—Emily Jones and her mother from Buffalo. You remember Emily? She's just the same—still got those awful pouches under her eyes. Good-bye!” “Now,” he said, wheeling on the murderer (cycling was his favorite sport), “You will notice that I didn’t really give them any information— they think I’m somebody else, of course. It was a perfect stranger that answered, but then, I knew it would be. I gave the wrong number on pur- pose . . . Hadn't you better be escap- ing through that window?” Macabre tentatively thrust a chair through the glass. . . . “By the way,” added O’Mega, taking out an imposing, leather bound note book and humming a few notes, “Just bleed a bit about the ears as a result of the struggle, won't you? And where can I reach you in town in case anything comes up?” “Just look in the phone book,” the murderer replied generously, “I’m gen- erally under ‘M,’ un- less it’s too terribly crowded . And, I say, hadn’t I bet- ter leave some heel prints in the flower bed?” O'Mega flushed with pleas- ure. “Only if you really want to,” he answered, “It's dashed white of you to think of it, old man! ...About, say, Thursday, then?” “Thursday,” the murderer nodded, “At the entrance to Charing Cross Sta- tion, say? I'll be wearing a red rose in my hair.” “Splendid! underwear.” “Thanks!” The murderer vaulted lightly over the window sill, pausing half way out to ask, “Want some finger prints too?” The great detective shook his head. “We've literally thousands of them at headquarters—whole cases full. Thanks just the same.” The next moment he was alone. “So!” he mused. “It was Macabre after all! . . . I never in this world should have known him—he's getting so stout!” And I'll wear my heavy comicbooks.com