Life — August 13, 1925 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

* LIFE he Third Door from the Left c( “Help!” she shrieked, with the ery of a hunted thing. OR a moment neither man spoke. The sputtering candle on the teakwood table had burned low, and in the dim reflection their white, set faces were mo- tionless. The older mar. grasped a pearl-handled revolver in his long, thin fingers, but no muscles stirred in the expressionless face of his opponent across the table. The hand of the younger of the pair was closed upon a revolver with a pearl handle, but the man opposite him did not flinch, Tense, poised, crouched like a cat about to spring, cach waited for the other to make a move. The clock struck thirteen times, and at once there was 2 blinding flash of lightning outside the long French windows, and a quaint Oriental dagger was seen quivering upright in the center of the teakwood table. Neither man stirred. The paneled door swung open suddenly, and in the square of light was outlined the figure of Inspector Boyd. Furtively he glanced about him, and slowly drew shut the door again, Ictting the latch slide into place, as_ silently as a cat. He placed a black cigar between his teeth; in the sudden flare of the match his face was revealed for only an instant, but in that fraction of time he had lit his cigar. “Has Dr. Cruikshank returned y asked Inspector Boyd. “No,” replied Dr. Cruikshank, “but I think I have a clue.” “Was it an inside job cigar around his mouth, “I have examined the body,” replied the elderly physician, “and I cannot find any mark of violence, except possibly that the head is missing.” “Then we must find the head,” snapped the Inspector, lighting his cigar. “Who was murdered?” asked Inspector Boyd, rolling the Characters in the Story Thus Far: Ratpu Farrrax, a_keen-witted cub reporter who is infatuated with Faitn Arpsteicn, the beautiful but unspoiled daugh- ter of Dr. Eliot. Evelyn believes firmly in the innocence of Mrs. Humpnrey, the uncle of Faith and a wealthy society worker who was found murdered the palatial library of his home at 1318 Grand Con- course, Fordham, not far from the cottage of Epcar Attan Poe, a writer, with a small blunt in- strument like a pencil sharpener. “Licut-Fincerrp” Laura, faithful old servant in the home of John erweather and head of a band of smugglers, confesses to the District Attorney. Mrs. Humphrey, that on the eve of his death “Cnick” O’Mattey, the driver of the taxi-cab, is none other than Faitn Arnsteicn, the brother of Ralph, a mysterious Spanish woman who disappeared shortly after the robbery. Dr. ot snitches, Cross-cxamination of “Light-Fingered” Laura, his mother, discloses that the District Attorney swallowed certain “White Powders.” resulting in the Wall Street explosion, Mr. Faucet denies everything. Now go on with the story: “T think it was Inspector Boyd,” replied Dr. Cruikshank after a moment's hesitation, “Murdered!” uttered Inspector Boyd. “Oh, my God!" “Will that be all, sir?” asked Dr. Cruikshank, “That will be all,” replied Dr. Cruikshank, bowing him- self out. Quick as a cat the Inspector snatched a pocket-mirror, flung himself into a deep arm-chair with his back to the door, and slyly adjusting his mirror so that the entire room was visible behind him, he whipped out his revolver and fired three times, followed by a ripple of polite conversation and modulated laughter. The ballroom door was flung open and the Countess Marya rushed in, grasping her white throat in her bare hands and clutching the air before her. “My pearls—" she gasped, and fainted. “Come in,” replied Inspector Boyd, lighting his cigar. Across the teakwood table the two men faced each other, tense, waiting, cach striving to read behind his opponent's comicbooks.com