Evening Star Newspaper, September 10, 1936, Page 32

AILY SHORT STOR! N ROUTINE STUFF By H. M. Loehr.: wsIISNT im- portant” Welch threw the letter back to Jer- Y. . “We -get let- ters like that every day.” He leaned across the desk, his pencil jabbing et the tow-headed youth who sat op- posite him. “Remember, Jer- ry, don’t ever get stampeded on & newspaper. Every crackpot and psy- chopath in town writes a letter to the city desk at some time or an- other and if we took 'em all se- riously we'd have one continual line of libel suits; or else fill the col- umns with ‘Beg ‘Your Pardons.’” “But—"Jerry looked doubtful. He was sitting in for the regular as- sistant city editor, who was enjoying & sick leave and was still an amateur in journalistic cynicism. “But,” he repeated, “the man says he's going to kill himself. Maybe we could stop him.” Welch grunted. “Jerry,” he said, *anybody who's desperate enough to bump himself off isn't going to take the time to advertise it.” Jerry still considered the letter doubtfully. He'd read somewhere, | hadn't he, that & suicide always told | . somebody about his intentions . . The old ego, refusing to be mufledl out without any stir whatsoever; as- | sertion of self-importance . . . “Take that call, Jerry,” Welch growled. The letter slipped off the desk and into a waste-paper basket. * % *x % | BUT the letter preyed on Jerry's mind. The pages of the “fu- tures” book became blurred before his absent eyes and he seemed to read again the dim, pencil scribblings on the cheap dime-store paper: “ I got a past, but no future. What the hell. A man only lives once and when it’s over he ought to | quit. I'm quitting tonight.” Jerry shook himself and scrawled | In the book: “Real estate dealers’ an- nual picnic,” under the Saturday heading. The old ego—self-impor- tance . . . If a man was going to bow himself out gracefully, he might take that method—write to the news- papers and make sure his going wouldn't be entirely unmourned. Jerry reached down into the basket for the letter and scanned it for & return address. There was none. The name signed was ironically com- mon: J. Brown. There'd be scores of J. Browns in the phone book and more in the directory. Absently he unfolded it again and reread it; turned it over—but the other side was blank—then studied the signature. The writing was thin and tall, completely nondescript. But | walt—there was something. P ! DIRTY fingerprint underneath the signature. Jerry stared at it, Then studied half debating sending it to have'the | fingerprint checked by the police . . . then thought better of it. He couldn’t imagine any hoodlum’s taking his own life; not so philosophically as the Irvin S. Cobb Says: Prescription for 240 Years of Life Sounds and Looks Fishy. LAS VEGAS, Nev., September 10.— A Japanese doctor has landed with the word that, by following a few sim- ple rules, a fellow lives to be 240 years old. He didn’t say, but I figure this applies ¥ only to those of us who never go motoring. The principal rules are to sleep on a hard mat- tress with a metal pillow and learn to wiggle like a goldfish. Whether, in time, the be- ginner sprouts gills and a fan- tall, is not stated but sounds plausi- ble. T've already spoken to a tinsmith about a pillow and, on awakening this morning, made a few experimental wriggles. My intentions might fool some people, but I don’t believe they’d fool a goldfish, unless he'd been drink- ing or something. I'm afraid my fin- ning was faulty. Besides, I didn't feel any too dignified—greeting the dewy dawn by behaving goldfishiously. I have a feeling that’s no way to greet the dewy dawn. Also, should I continue, I'll keep the bed room door locked. The hired girl came in unex- pectedly and broke three dishes when she dropped the breakfast tray. Still, I'd like awfully to swim up to the orig- inal discoverer on my 240th birthday anniversary and say, “Well, doc, you certainly had the right idea! Come Join me in a bait of fresh-cut angle ‘worms.” (Cupyright, 1936, by the North American Newspaper Alliance, Inc.) CHARGED WITH MURDER Colored Woman Is Held in Shoot- ing of Man. Mary Price, 30, colored, 1416 Sixth street, was charged with murder yester. day after the bullet-wound death in Freedmen’s 'Hospital of - Raymond Jones, 35, colored, address unknown. ‘The woman is held at the second pre- cinct station. Jones was shot in the side when he writer of this let- ter obviously planned it. He studied the it & mo- ment. It was thick and broad; the first knuckle was very short. Prob- ably & thumbe print, he surmised. And if it was—— He turned the letter over. Yes; there were dirty fingerprints on the other side; one parrow and long, the other narrow and short. Jerry had cov- ered the detective bureau for months and knew some- thing about deduc- tive methods. He tried to guess just which fingers on the man’s hand had made these prints. One narrow and long, the other nar- row and short. They should, he guessed, be the index finger and the little finger. He tried holding the letter that way—the thumb on the face of the letter and the index and little fin- ger gripping the other side. What a singularly dainty way to hold a piece of paper. Jerry studied the position of his hand. The two middle fingers curled out like prongs in an uncom- foruble, affected gesture. * x k % HEY!" Welch yelled across the desk, “that phone’s rung twice. Asleep?” Then he saw what Jerry | held in his hand and blew up. “What the devil! I thought I told you to for- get that thing. If it meant anything, I'd know, wouldn't I? Tve been warming this chair for eight years now and I know a story when I see one.” He glared at the abashed Jerry. So that was that. The letter was consigned back to the waste-paper basket and Jerry went on answering phones and switching calls to Welch or a rewriter. ‘The evening wore on; it was 9 o'clock, time for the mail edition. Jerry leaned back in his chair, en- joying the post-deadline lull, when the phone rang sgain. “Harrison at the morgue,” a voice drawled, jaconically. “Go ahead, Tim,” Jerry replied. “They pulled a floater out of the river at Polk street; can't identify him. Drowned, of course. Looks like the signature. |a stumblebum. Trying to trace him | & by two middle fingers missing from his right hand. That's all.” Jerry jotted it down and handed it | to a rewriter. Routine stuff; floaters | came once a week or oftener. Didn't | : mean anything— The phrase caught somewhere in | ¥ his cranium and worried him. That's what Welch had said about the let- | ter. It didn't mean anything . . . Jerry caught up a piece of paper and held it as he had held the let- | ter, with the thumb, the index and little fingers. The two middle fingers curled out like prongs. “Two middle fingers missing from his right hand ... How would it look, he wondered, to write: “J. Brown, an unidentified man, was found drowned——?" (Copyright, 1936.) 15TH BIBLE CONFERENCE HELD IN D. C. CHURCH Rev. Harry A. Ironsides, Moody : Memorial Tabernacle Pas- tor, Heads Sessions. Rev. Harry A. Ironsides, pastor of | & Moody Memorial Tabernacle. Chicago, is conducting the Fifteenth Annual Bible Conference again today at Na- tional City Christian Church, Four- | teenth street and Thomas Circle. The conference began yesterday. Rev. Mr. Ironsides, author of many books on religion, preaches each Sun- day to the largest interdenominational audience in Chicago, conference lead- ers said. Just returned from Pales- tine, he bases most of his lectures on | £ conditions in the Holy Land. ‘The conference is being held under sponsorship of the Bible Institute of ‘Washington. -— Britain's demand for pedigreed dogs has increased greatly in a year. Clearance! JUST 3 WHITE Rotary Electric Sewing Machines Reconditioned and Guaranteed! These are complete Rotary * machines. . The cabinets are slightly marred. The heads are.reconditioned and carry = Q@ guarantee. Other models: sought to batter in with his shoulder the front door of the Sixth street bhouse. Police said the woman fired three times through the door, the third shot taking effect. Crashes to Save Children. To save the lives of children he saw running toward him when he was landing an airplane owing to engine trouble, A. Ivor Richardson swerved into some trees at Southsea, England, but escaped unhurt. 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