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

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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

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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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28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. lingering silvery caress on the ocean. The scent of flowers mingled pleas¬ antly with the low-toned, pleasant conversation, and in the distance came the tinkling of a guitar. The conversation was general, but soon drifted into personal experiences. It centered as usual on Major Flansworth, writer, artist, and soldier of fortune. “Surely, Major Flansworth, with all your strange and varied experi¬ ences,” said Lady Timothy, playing her part as hostess perfectly, “you must have encountered many odd and interesting people.” “Yes, indeed! But I shall never forget one incident which happened years ago in Paris. It changed me from a boy to a man,” he said quietly, and a look of deep sorrow passed quickly over his face. “Tell us about it, Major,” urged Sir Timothy, and we eagerly joined in this plea. “Well,” began the Major, “after I had graduated from Oxford, I de¬ cided to take up art and accordingly went to Paris. There I became ac¬ quainted with the usual Bohemian crowd and acquired the dress and habits of Bohemian life. And then I became acquainted with Phillipe.” Here again the look of sorrow overspread his face. “Phillipe was a real Bohemian in the exact sense of the word. His clothes were the most bizarre, most untidy of all. His age anywhere between forty and sixty. He was the gayest, most irresponsible, most lovable man I had ever met. “I had known him for about a week when he took me into his confi¬ dence. I had called at his studio, and he had drawn me aside and said: ‘Charles, -I will show you something. It is a great secret, and you must promise to keep it thus. You will promise?’ “ ‘Yes’ ” I said, “ ‘what is it?’ ” “He crossed the room, skillfully avoiding chairs, tables, and other arti¬ cles of furniture which would have filled a two-room apartment. Pulling aside a curtain, he revealed a canvas. “ ‘This,’ he said to me in a hushed, awed tone, ‘is my masterpiece. The Praying Mother I call it. I have been working on it for twenty years. No one knows of it. They think I am nothing but an idler, but when it is finished, my name and picture will live on through immortality’ and a shining happy light illuminated his face. “I saw an elderly woman, kneeling in a great cathedral, beautifully colored lights streaming over her tired, worn face, with a calm, beautiful look in her eyes. “ ‘Phillipe,’ I said to him earnestly, ‘it is surely a masterpiece!’ “Several years passed. I still lingered in Paris on the pretext of study¬ ing art, and I had become deeply attached to Phillipe. He still worked and dreamed over his masterpiece. “ ‘The light in the woman’s eyes,’ he would say to me; ‘it eludes me. There is something lacking. I cannot find it,’ and in a frenzy of anger one day he crashed his hand down on the table, spilling his wine, breaking the glass, and cutting his right hand severely. “I offered him my sympathy, but warned him. ‘Take care of your hand, Phillipe, it looks rather nasty.’ ” “ ‘It is nothing,’ he assured me. ‘But the light in the woman’s eyes— I must find it. That picture must be completed before I die. I am getting old, Charles, my friend.’ ” “Two weeks later, they amputated Phillipe’s right hand up to the elbow. I visited him in the hospital. My sympathy was wordless—I was far too sorry. Phillipe was silent, but at parting he whispered to me, sadly: