Judge — February 1937 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SHAGREEN SATCHEL THE OTHER AFTERNOON I was getting into my dinner-jacket at the Brooks Costume Company (I keep one on file there under the letter ‘“'P,"’ it's so much more convenient when one’s din- ing in midtown, and one might as well set an example to the lower classes, what with the country going to the demnition bow-wows). Well, anyhow, the tailor was just pulling the basting threads out of the pants when I looked up and there it was, hanging on the rack. Something I'd wanted all my life: a real anarchist’s costume—cotton duster, black fedora hat, small shagreen satchel for carrying the infernal machine, dark glasses, and a black spade beard. “Book of instructions go with this?” I snapped curtly. Axelrod eyed me suspi- ciously for a moment, then his voice sank to a whisper. “You one of the Inner Circle?” he de- manded, a look of cunning invading his beady eyes. Then glancing around fur- tively, he produced a glass revolver filled with candies and pressed it on me. “The Public Library—in half an hour!" he hissed, “The Southwest corner of 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue!” BY S. J. PERELMAN “But—but there's only a reservoir there,” I faltered. “We've attended to that,” grinned Axelrod evilly. Determined to go through with this at all costs, I slipped on my outfit and hailed a passing four-wheeler. When I arrived at my destination I saw that Axel- rod had not spoken idly. During the night his terrorist organization had drained the reservoir and erected an im- sing edifice marked “Public Library— lease Wash Your Hands.” I could not help admiring the ruthless determination of this band of anarchists and single tax- ers who let nothing stand in their way. I was studying the passersby curiously through my Dine plese when a mysteri- ous individual sidled up to me. He was dressed in a long cotton duster and black fedora hat, wore dark glasses and a spade-shaped beard, and carried a sha- green satchel from which issued a dis- tinct ticking noise. I took a firm grip on my glass revolver and waited. “T've got it," he whispered, indicating his bag. “What?” I inquired cautiously. “The ‘Black Grapefruit,’ he returned significantly, “What time does the pa- rade pass here?” “On time,” I replied with a show of confidence, my heart beating like a trip- hammer, “Everything's tip-top. But sup- pose there's a slip-up?” “Then use this,” he said grimly, pass- ing me a glass revolver loaded with dan- gerous-looking candies. My hands were numb with terror but I made out like I was as cool as a cucumber. So that was their plan, eh? Well, I'd show the sneak- ing dogs where to get off. Already a plan was fermenting in my brain. “Anybody else here yet?” I asked cas- ually. My fellow-conspirator nodded to- ward two men who at first glance ap- peared to be librarians. They wore cot- ton dusters, spade beards, dark glasses, fedora hats, and carried small shagreen satchels. Feigning nonchalance, I strolled toward them, and in a few moments suc- ceeded in worming my way into their confidence. “Letting on” I was unarmed, I borrowed their glass revolvers and told them to meet me in the library's subter- ranean vaults in ten minutes. Then I cir- culated pidly through the crowd and repeated the same instructions to several similarly-attired men wearing shagreen satchels and carrying spade-shaped beards. Ten minutes later I felt my way down the dark underground corridors which led to the vaults and found a score of "This ought to be good! It’s a grudge fight!” comicbooks.com