Judge — May 29, 1920 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by Cun Tactful Motorisi—Ex Pvnvos Mr. sor ds ‘Tins ni. Way ro Newann The Murder of Jemima Jazz Second of the Series of Yellowish Mystery Stories By Geverr and How to Be hor of “Are You a Bromide? To be thoroughly enjoyed, this thriller must be read on @ dark and stormy night with the ceind moaning in the treetops and the lightning playing fitfully around your mosquito screen; if the rain is beating @ jazz elegy on the roof so much r better. And you must be alone in the house with a steamless radiator and an empty ice-box. Just outside your open door there must be an intermittent Ciaprer t T was a funny murder — funny, that is, to every- body save Jemima Jazz who was the murderee. ‘True, she had often said, “Why, I almost died "Bur if, this time, she had succeeded there was no trace of mirth on those dead lips— not of anything but rouge. Besides that, and the three coats of bathtub enamel usual in New York, there was on that facial countenance only an expres- sion or two of infinite happitude On her body there were no wounds, except a small- ish mosquito bite, though it was quite as large as if the insect had been a large one. Nor was there any tra of poison in that chamber-like room. The saucer of fried soup on the clock had, upon psycho-analysi proved innocent. An unopened can of imported Frisco fleas had likewise been thoroughly acquitted by the coroner's jury. What, then, and also who, had killed Jemima Jazz to death? The answer, so far, was zero. The room had laughing sis, Burcess Them,” * ull” Ete. me ina Murr Angie Au se as of some one creeping, creeping stealth hing evil and inhuman, perhaps the landlord. 1 nice damp draught wafting mouldy odors and suggestin an abandoned tomb cill help some. These things will star the gooseflesh to goosestepping up and down your medulla dorsalis. and you are all set for the horrors of this piece of pathematological palpitation. Are you ready? Go!—Editor. creaking ily—some been thoroughly demonstrated with a vacuum cleaner, and no clue had been found. It was Ferrett, the Albino Detective, who did so. Now, on the wall, where, naturally, a picture should have hanged, there hung a picture. Neither the Polic nor the Coroner had, thought of same. But Ferrett worked it all out in an inspired instinct. His next thought—for he had two, that day, being Wednes- day—was to look at the aforesaid. It was the portrait, oh, indubitably a portrait—you could tell that by the way the man was clothed—of a beautiful he-vouth with tarred hair and ultrafeminine eyelashes. Besides this there were no signs of violence. But when the door had been busted the climate in the room was found to be semi-tropical. An expensive or- chid, under the circumstances, or very near it, had been gasping heavily. Ferrett gazed long at the picture—almost too lon but not quite, though quite long, too. His wonderful pink orbs protruded like rose-pearl studs on a porcelain shirt. Where, he wondered, had he seen those great Al- derney eyes—that New Thought smile—that inexpres- sible, jellified air of lover-like appetitability? Where? ti comicbooks.com