10 Story Book, August 1938 — page 24: what you’re looking at

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

INTRIGUING STORIES, SPICED WITH PRETTY GIRLS! hold her down while she poured a dose of jungle poison down that fleshly young throat. Then she’d stand by watching her die in horrible convulsions. Not a soul would suspect, of course. Hadn’t the girl’s mother forcibly headed her in the direction of the clinic? She wouldn’t dream that her blubbery offspring was expiring in Lucre- tia’s sinister eyrie? Then Lucy, having gloated her fill at the fat girl’s last agon- ies, would do one of three things to com- plete the perfect crime. She would destroy the body with corrosive acids. Or she’d cook the luscious, sixteen-year-old flesh and enjoy the long-dreamed of cannibalistic thrill. Or she’d dissect the body in the neat, expert way she had dispatched her dog. Then she’d wrap the parts up in brown paper packages and drop them piece meal over the bridge she was fond of crossing daily. Or hide them around the lumber yards where she went to catch butterflies to stick on pins. Boy, maybe I had a good murder story in that! That’s what imagina- tion does for you. And speaking of the devil, yea, speaking of the devil—here she comes now! The Borgian Sphinx. Coming down from the house and going out into the street. Isn’t there a nervous quality in her stiff, upright walk today? She’s cast- ing stealthy looks around her. Lucky she can’t see me spying behind my curtains. So we have something in common, you murderess? Hey, what are you carrying under your arm? God, Oh God, it can’t be—it is—a And her twitching darts brown paper parcel. gait, the frightened glances she around the court. Her haste to l-ave the building—with that brown paper parcel. 25 Can it be a hand or a foot, a breast or a buttock? Oh poor little fat penny snitcher. She’s gone now. And I’ve sat by waiting for tender inspirations while she was being done to death! Knowing all the time what was going on up there—feeling it! God! What am I waiting for now? Where’s that damned phone? Police Head- quarters, quick! I want to report a murder. While she’s out—with a brown paper par- cel. The rest is up in her house, the rest of the victim, I mean. Top floor, yes. Quick before—before the crime is perfect! Oh God, why wasn’t I in time? Poor little magazine filcher? Wow, they’re rousing the neighborhood Radio cars. Squads of blue- coated giants. Blowing, running, lumbering up the stairs! “Calling all cars. Calling all cars. 30. The number is 30.” That means come with your guns drawn. I know that much at least. But what’s the use now? You’re too late. Yes sir, top floor. Oh God, you’re too late anyway. Water. Water, somebody. Here’s the victim’s mother. It’s nothing, Mrs. Lucy’s apartment. Goodnight, here comes Lucretia again! Oh don’t go, don’t go, hap- less mother of a never-to-be circus darling. Brown. An accident in Somebody keep her downstairs. Yes, of- ficer, I phoned in the alarm. Yes, I know she was cooking and mixing and fussing all day yesterday. She tried to get me to come up here. Often. But something warned me... The victim? Th-the v-v-victim! Why there she is! There she STANDS! Yes, Mrs. Brown. I saw her sneak home again after you were gone! She didn’t go to the clinic. Lucy? Lucy got her up here to feed her — poison —er— wasn’t it? I thought she—why, Mrs. Brown, she’s alive, CoMmicbdocl< C@