United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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Writers’ Group of 1950. Acceptance by invita¬ tion from the Institution Officials only.” . . . What nonsense! What will these loons do next? Thank heaven I’m normal. Oh well . . . get inside there, Mr. Hooksetter.” Stepping into the small cell, where all heroes of the modern short story eventually find them¬ selves, Oswald’s eyes opened wide in surprise and disbelief. Then he smiled. He began laugh¬ ing hysterically. All about him, under the watchful eyes of the guards, sat the members of the club furiously working at their type¬ writers. Oswald was no longer the uninvited. He felt he had come home. At last he belonged. A True Appreciation of Murder Shirley M. Irvin “Really! I haven’t read such an interesting story in the papers for a long time!” Laying down the paper she looked over at her husband. “Oh? More interesting than the one you read two minutes ago?” he inquired, absorbed in the comics. “Oh yes, indeed. It’s all about that woman who was murdered last night. She must have had lots of money because she owned a great big house—where was it now?—oh yes, on Annabella St. Where is that? I’ve never heard of that street before?” Ignoring her question, her husband asked one of his own. “And did she run it too?” “Run it?” she repeated puzzled. “Oh, you mean a boarding-house. Well, I don’t know. It doesn’t mention any boarders living there.” He didn’t mean a boarding-house, but he let it pass. “It says here,” she continued, “that her mother is a French Countess living in Montreal. Imagine that!” “I thought France was a Republic,” muttered her husband still trying to concentrate on Dagwood. “I’ll bet Montreal would be surprised to find a countess in its midst.” “Oh, she really is one. Her name is Countess von Gruff; see—here is her picture.” She held the paper to him and he was curious enough by this time to take it. “That name isn’t French—in fact, it isn’t any¬ thing, but it sure suits her, doesn’t it? She’s certainly a tough-looking old bozo; I’ll bet if she ever smiled her face would crack.” “You’re horrible!” she scolded as she snatch¬ ed back the paper to see if he was right. “Don’t you believe anything you read?” “Just what A1 Capp says,” he replied. Sud¬ denly he inquired, “you’re certainly interested in this dame all of a sudden; even more than in Rita Hayworth or Ingrid Bergman. How come?” “Oh, did I tell you,” she said excitedly, “that I heard last Sunday evening that Ingrid Berg¬ man is going to have a baby?” And she chortled gleefully. “Why must you listen to gossips all the time?” he demanded angrily. “Oh, this was no gossip,” she hastened to assure him, “this was ...” “I don’t care who it was. If you hear these things you don’t have to spread them around. It’s probably not true anyway, so go back to your murder mystery.” The next night she was at it again. As soon as the paper arrived, she opened it up and read and re-read the latest on the murder until she could repeat it all word for word. “I wonder where her husband is?” she asked her own husband as they ate dinner. He groaned, but answered her by asking, “How do you know she’s got one?” “Well, her name is Mrs., so she must have one somewhere, mustn’t she? Unless he’s dead —I never thought of that.” She was too per¬ plexed for words; this idea spoiled all her fancies. “Just because she calls herself—or did call herself—Mrs., doesn’t mean she’s married,” her husband tried to tell her. “She probably found Page Twenty-seven

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“Stop! I won’t hear any more. It’s treason! Throw it out with the comic books.’’ The mother was screaming now. “Who shall regulate all the mixed con¬ versations of our youth, male and female together, as is th e fashion ...” The book of Milton’s lofty language narrowly missed hitting Oswald’s head as it came flying through the air. It did hit the garbage collec¬ tor’s head, as he pushed in beside Oswald to empty the can. Sundry curses lost themselves in the night. “What’s this, comic books?” queried the gar¬ bage man, who had no business being out at nine-thirty at night, and who obviously never heard of Milton. “Hmm, Dick Tracy, and Pruneface . . . hahaha, what a name. Looks good.” Oswald watched him pick up the book, jump on the wagon and begin reading. The horse turned inquisitive eyes on his driver to see why they weren’t continuing on their route. The driver was too intent on Dick Tracy to notice. Oswald watched the happy grin on his face turn to one of speculation, then to serious¬ ness. A cruel line formed about his mouth. Fiercely he sitood up in the wagon and whipped the horse into action. Stung by this unaccus¬ tomed vigor, the horse clipped smartly down the road. With a writer’s keen insight, Oswald knew that the drama he had seen enacted before his eyes would rapidly develop into a story, a sure seller. He leaped forward and attached him¬ self crablike to the tail-board of the wagon. From this point onward Oswald was sub¬ jected to a tornado of evil events and excite¬ ment, such as would ensure the success of the story. The garbage collector first stopped at his home, set fire to the house, and left the screams issuing forth from the upper story windows to the attention of his neighbours. His mother-in- law’s was the next port of call. He buried her alive. Then he drowned two waitresses whom he had always rather liked, in a silex coffee urn. He pulled out a floorboard in the City Hall so that the whole antiquated structure fell down, killing all the aldermen, who were gambling late in the basement. Then he drove madly along the river bank, the wagon creaking dan¬ gerously, and Oswald’s position at the rear growing more precarious every minute. When he came to a hole in the dyke holding back the river, he did not put his thumb in the hole to save the town from flooding, as they do in Holland, but deliberately stood by watching the hole grow larger and larger. Finally the pregnant river broke ithe dyke and swept into the town. The garbage man’s red eyes then turned on Oswald’s orange hair, and for a mo¬ ment they clashed. Then Oswald turned on his heel and swam for home. He was breathless but not afraid when he opened the door. He sat down at his typewriter and typed ferociously. By next morning the story, titled “The Case Against Crime Comics”, was written and in the mail. Two days later the door bell jangled. Oswald rushed to the door hopefully. A stern-looking individual with a black suit stood before him. “Your name Oswald Hooksetter?” “Yes, yes,” Oswald could hardly contain him¬ self. “I’m from the Federal Government. Depart¬ ment of the Interior. Work as a censor. Come on. You know too much. You’ve seen too much. I’m taking you away before all the chicks in this neighbourhood are dead ducks.” He snapped two fingers imperiously, as only a government man can do, and a squad of strong arm men appeared. Oswald was hustled away in a long red car. They drove for miles and miles. They ripped through the outskirts of the town, leaving it rising nakedly against the horizon in their rear. In the suburban district, they stopped before a long rambling structure, well fenced and well guarded. Oswald was forcibly projected through the front door. “Look after this man for me,” said the De¬ partment of the Interior curtly, but neverthe¬ less regally. After a few formalities, Oswald was led down a long corridor. He was halted before a strong¬ ly barred door. “What’s this on the door?” blurted the guard in surprise. “Wasn’t there before, I’ll swear. Hmm . . . Listen to this: “For having exposed the hitherto concealed truth about GARDEN PLANNING, and thanks to the ungrateful offices of the Rural Iowa Gazette, and the cen¬ sorship division of the Department of the In¬ terior, we are once again the Unappreciated Page Twenty-six

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it easier to go down to Woolworth’s and buy a ring and say she’s a widow, than to explain to any nosy neighbours why she’s not married. I admit it sounds stupid, but maybe she didn’t want to admit she hadn’t been able to get a man.” He leaned back to gloat over the de¬ sirability of the male. His wife addressed him with one of her few really intelligent remarks. “There are lots of women who ' would be much better off if they weren’t married.” “Well,” he said in an attempt to close the subject, “since this woman is dead, it doesn’t The NEW deb-u-curl Permanent 1 x ' Si Perfect for long or short l - s hair. No cutting necessary. V L only $4.75 A NU-FASHION BEAUTY SALON 334 Portage Phone 927 703 Student Social Functions An ideal setting— excellent facilities and service—good food—plus an at¬ mosphere of gen¬ uine hospitality. Telephone head- waiter at 928 251. SATURDAY EVENING SUPPER DANCES during the winter season IMF fOI T GAERy W50-11 HOWARD TILLMAN, Resident Manager really matter whether she is married or not.” “You’re wrong, dear,” said his wife gently but firmly, “it might be her husband who mur¬ dered her.” “By the way, how did she die?” he felt that he might as well hear all about it. He would anyway, so he decided to be nice about it. “In¬ digestion?” “Of course not, silly. She was stabbed to death three times.” “Really?” He was determined to enjoy this. “What does the countess think of it all? Is she glad to be rid of her dear daughter or is she busily weeping buckets for the g entlemen of the press?” “You must hear what she has to say about it.” She hurried to get the valuable paper. “Here it is here. Listen.” “I’m all ears.” “She says: ‘I am deeply upset to hear of the tragic death of my dear daughter. I have no idea who did it. My daughter had no enemies that I know of, but whoever the horrible person was, he or she is definitely my sworn enemy.’ The paper says she sobbed brokenheartedly all the time she was talking. Gosh, ' the poor lady!” “Baloney! They probably haven’t spoken or written to one another in twenty years. The old lady, I’ll bet, sent one of her henchmen from her gypsy tearoom out to bump off the daugh¬ ter. Respectable people, you know, are the only ones who die of old age.” “Don’t be so cynical! You have no sympathy for those less fortunate than yourself; all you do is make fun of them.” “I suppose you are trying to tell me that you are sympathizing with these people in their misery? All you’re doing is gloating over the gory details and the fact that the old lady calls herself a countess. If this woman had died of starvation or cancer or something like that and her mother was a farmer’s wife, it would be ten times as pathetic, but you wouldn’t even read about it much less ooze with all this false sympathy. Don’t you dare say one word of this stupid business to me again or I’ll divorce you.” He stomped out of the room, his dinner un¬ finished, while his poor wife thought to herself. “He just doesn’t understand me. Oh well, I wonder if the other paper has any more about it. I think I’ll go down to the drug store and buy one.” Page Twenty-eight