Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. I learned that a man from Number 14 had put in a call for help at the downstairs switchboard. The operator put the call through to Scotland Yard, and shortly after, the room was filled with its representatives. They found no clues. Nothing. The coroner ex amined the body. When he finished he said to Sergeant Rice, “The body is ' in an unnatural position. The leg, horribly twisted, has been broken. I perceive no signs of any struggle. He’s stabbed three inches through the heart. The dagger was evidently used as an envelope opener, for there is a tiny scrap of paper stuck to the hilt.” “Then,” put in Rice, “why wouldn’t it go through the opposite side of the envelope? The dagger is fully five inches long; an ordinary envelope is only four at the most.” “You misunderstand me,” he said coolly. “I didn’t mention the num¬ ber of times it was used; I merely said it had been used.” He handed the Sergeant the large square envelope he had picked up off the table. “Here, Sergeant. Five inches, approximately.” Rice was about to open it when the Inspector entered. Rice submitted the envelope to him. The coroner explained the situation, when he finished, Richard King, the fingerprint expert, announced that he had found no fing¬ erprints other than Braggdon’s. “How do you know they’re Braggdon’s?” said Inspector Darney. “Because I have already compared them with the prints of the de¬ ceased.” “You knew him?” “Yes.” “Hm!” mused the Inspector. “Anything else?” “Well, there’s a deep scratch on the leg of the table.” “Perhaps Mr. Braggdon tripped over it and broke his leg,” I remarked. “Sorry,” King eyed me with amusement. “Mr. Braggdon never wore leather heels and this scratch couldn’t possibly have been made by rubber ones.” I relapsed into silence. “There are no fingerprints on the dagger, or anywhere else. I have examined everything quite thoroughly,” King went on. “As for enemies—” “Yes, of course,” said Darney. “His vehement speeches against the criminals have made many.” The inspector opened the envelope. “Queer,” muttered Darney. “It’s dated ‘April fifth.’ This is the twenty-ninth. Why should he just be opening it now? Otherwise, it’s only a fan letter.” He evidently judged it unimportant for he threw it on the table. I made a copy of it. It read as follows: “April 5, 1930. “My dear Mr. Braggdon, “I appreciate your speeches but warn myself quite sternly, as you re¬ ceive many, many letters, not to expect an answer to this humble one. “You speak very, very well. On Monday I enjoyed your speech. I am sure you will do your utmost to kill criminology in the underworld. If it’s in your power you will, I am sure, do so. “Respectfully, “J. G.” I was about to throw it down again when it occurred to me that it was strange that he should bring this letter home when doubtless he received

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 26 Philip Vernon, Jr. rose from the g’reen plush pullman chair and stretched his six feet two in a manner ungentlemanly for a three-day alumnus of Harvard. He walked out on to the Grenville platform and engaged the only taxi that was on hand. When he arrived home, he found that only his mother and grandfather were there to greet him. His father would be back in time for dinner. Philip visualized the arguing that he would have to do in order to accept that position, but he would do it if it were his last act on earth. How could anyone be content to bury himself in a town like this for the rest of his life! Mr. Vernon came in and greeted his son warmly. “Junior,” his mother began at the dinner table, “it’s so nice to know that you are home for good. I’ve missed you so much. But now I’m very glad that you will be with us all the time,” she finished with a contented smile. Yes, it certainly is nice to have you home,” his grandfather put in, “and now that I’m getting old, you’ll be taking my place in the business.” “Oh, it is coming,” Philip thought. I’ll be hanged before I’ll spend the rest of my life here.” His flow of thoughts v ere cut short by his father’s voice. “I’d like to see you in the library. Junior.” Well, Junior, ’ he began after he had settled back in his chair in the libraiy. It ouve done good work in college but not once have you men¬ tioned what you intended to do. Haven’t you anything in mind?’’ Philip’s mind became a whirlwind. Here was the time to tell him! Don’t give him a chance to object! But he failed—all that he could say was. Well, Dad, I have a position in mind with the United Cigar Company, but I’d have to go to Havana.” He waited for the objections, but instead his father smiled. “Well, I’m no mind reader. Junior, but I thought that a smart boy like you must have something in mind. I think that will be great. Just leave your mother and grandfather to me.” Philip jumped from his chair and grasped his father’s hands. “Oh Dad, I never thought you’d understand. You living here all your life and never going anywhere. I thought it was understood that I was going into the business.” Mr. Vernon made no reply but merely gave his son a smile that puzzled him. Louise Cenedella, ’31. THE SCOOP. (A Short Story.) In a room on the third story of an apartment house in foggy London, Cyrus Braggdon, highly esteemed radio lecturer on capital punishment, lay on the floor with a dagger through his heart. He left the studio at 9.45 that fatal Monday evening. Fifteen minutes later he was dead. I managed to slip in to his rooms by means of my card from the Daily Tribune. Detective Sergeant Rice looked at me coldly. “Well?” he grunted. “Reporter, sir,” I answered, offering my card.

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 hundreds at the studio every day. The date, “April 5,” seemed to contain some significance. I vaguely recalled a story I had read once in which the figure “five” was outstanding. I tried vainly to remember its significance. In a few moments I was walking up a foggy London street, reluctant to go home as I felt that I could think better out in the open. As I crossed Grosvenor Square, I was arrested by the shrill voice of a woman calling to a young boy. “Aaron!” she shouted. “Aaron!” I echoed. The dawn of light! Aaron Burr! The letter his sweetheart, Peggy, had written to her father! A secret message,—every fifth word! I had solved it! When I returned I learned that pieces of cracked putty had been dis¬ covered on the window sill. Someone had evidently slammed the window. It was apparent that “J. G.” (I was sure it was he) had entered the room previous to Braggdon and secured the dagger, to mislead the police. Braggdon’s desk was full of “fan mail”; so that expelled the theory that he was puzzled about that letter. When Braggdon arrived, he unsuspiciously moved toward his desk. A sound outside the window arrested his attention and, turning, he gazed with terror upon the face of his murderer, who hurled the dagger at him. In falling, his leg twisted beneath him, so he was killed before he broke his leg. The murderer removed all fingerprints, slammed the window, but failed to notice the clue he left! The fiery speech found in the victim’s desk condemning the underworld confirmed my deduction that the murderer was a member of a notorious gang bent upon punishing Braggdon for disturbing the “peace” of the underworld. When I presented the solution at Headquarters, I was flattered at Darney’s dumbfounded expression. He read: “ ‘April 5, 1930. ‘I warn you not to speak Monday. I will kill if you do. ‘J. G.’ ” and Mr. Braggdon had spoken! I looked triumphantly at Richard King. I had convinced him of the capability of women reporters. “ ‘Long John Gorman’!” gasped the Inspector. The next morning the Daily Tribune blazed forth with the news, the only paper with the complete mystery solved. It was my first “scoop.” I was happy! Anna Rannahan, ’31. HUMORESQUE. (A Short Story.) The dinner had been excellent. So were the cigars, judging from the laughter and good-humored conversation which drifted in through the open window. “Let’s join the men,” said the beautiful, vivacious Lady Timothy, who was our hostess at their famous plantation in Cuba. We assented and strolled onto the verandah. The night was warm and flooded with moonlight. The stars twinkled brightly, and the moon cast a