Vergennes Union High School - Blue and White Yearbook (Vergennes, VT)

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BLUE AND WHITE 5 “You’re positive of that?” “I can answer for that.” speaks up the medical examiner. “I have been his physician for years, and have treated him for nervousness and shellshock.” “All right. That will he all for now, Booth. But stick around. I may need you.” “O’Hagan, I’ll talk to Mr. Morris Sorrell next.” “You’re the brother of Mr. Charles SorrellI begin, when he has seated himself. “Yes.” “You don’t live here?” “No. On 7th Avenue. No. 89.” “Where were you between eleven and twelve last night?” “At home; in bed.” “Anyone you can prove it by?” Not that I know of. The housekeeper sleeps at her own house, and she was gone when I returned home.” “What time did you get in?” “About eleven.” “Where were you before that?” “At the Indoor Rifle Club.” “Member?” “Yes.” “Were you there as a spectator last night, or did you shoot?” “I shot.” ‘What kind of gun did you user” “A .22 calibre Remington rifle.” “Do you own a revolver?” “No. I’m no good with one.” Is that .22 rifle the only gun you’ve fired recently?” “Yes.” “You’re positive?” “Yes.” “That will be all for now. but don’t leave the house! O’Hagan, bring in Ryan now.” “Describe your actions last night, Ryan,” I begin. “It was my night off. I had supper with my mother. Then I took her to a show in town and spent the night with her.” “What time did you return from the show ?” “About ten.” “You went directly to bed?” “Yes.” “You could have come out again without awakening your mother?” “Yes. but I didn’t.” “O’Hagan, bring in Sorrell and Booth.” When they are both there I announce, “I wish to make a simple test on your hands to determine whether or not you have fired a gun recently. Chemicals will prove or disprove the fact.” I paint on the hand of each, from the second joint on the trigger finger to the tip of the thumb, covering part of the palm and part of the back of the hand with with a warm solution of wax, sulphuric acid and diphenylamine crystals. If a revolver has been fired recently, when the wax is removed traces of the burned powder may be seen. Having allowed the wax to harden, I remove it carefully from the hand. Ryan’s— nothing! Sorrell’s— blue specks! Booth’s—more blue specks! “O. K., Chief.” I exclaim, “You can lock up--------” Who is the murderer? What is the solution? Editor’s Note Some time ago the Senior English classes were visited by a member of the Alumni Association (1933) who told, in her own amusing fashion, of her English course at the University. At that time the mystery story was being studied. I he outcome of this visit was an attempt on the pa t of the V. II. S. Seniors to write their own mystery stories. A result is the preceding story. What is the solution ? The authors hope that you have by now reached your own conclusion as to the identity of the murderer. By turning to page ten you may discover whether your solution is theirs. Possibly you may find another element of mystery in the fact that the name of one of the authors is withheld.

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4 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL HERLOCK SHOLMEb Faith Kenyon, ’36 and ---------, ’34 W-e-e-e-e-h-H! The police car is heading toward the scene of the murder. I, Herlock Sholmes, accompany it as usual. There is the house! Our ring is answered by a servant, who shows us into the library where the body lies. The Chief of Police goes over and examines the victim. “Suicide,” he says. I have known the chief to be wrong, so I anible over and inspect the corpus delicti. As the Chief said, it looks like suicide, but I still won’t admit that he is right. The victim is lying on his face. He is clutching a revolver in his left hand. In his right, he is holding a note, which tells his reasons for suicide. The note doesn’t mean anything to the Chief except to confirm his belief in the suicide theory. The bullet entered the body about three inches to the right of the heart. Blood has soaked the otherwise spotlessly clean white shirt. It has now turned to a brownish red color. I don’t like the suicide theory. If the dead man held his revolver in his left hand, why did he reach ’way around to the right to shoot? And why no powder stains? It looks suspicious to me. I decide to get at it from a different angle—murder. To begin with, there are three possible suspects—the gardener, Ryan, the one servant, Booth, and Morris Sorrell, the murdered man’s brother. Charles Sorrell was somewhat of a recluse, and these were, almost without exception, the only people with whom he was connected. I question Booth, the servant, first. “Booth,” I begin, “where were you last night between eleven and twelve?” “Why, I couldn’t tell you the exact place, sir. You see, I went to the movies and then for a walk. I didn t get through work here until nearly nine, so I went to the last show, which is out at eleven. After that I walked down toward the river to see if I couldn’t get rid of a headache, which came upon me while I was in the theatre.” “And then?” “I came home, sir, and went to bed. It was after twelve, for I heard the clock strike twelve when I was passing the library door on my way upstairs.” “You heard nothing more?” “No. My head still ached so I took some aspirin and went right to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately.” “You discovered the body?” “Yes, sir. This morning when I went in to tidy up a bit. “Booth, do you shoot?” “Why, yes, sir, a little.” “When did you shoot a gun last?” “Last night.” “Tell me about it.” “Before I left here. I took my .45 Colt’s revolver, and went out and tried to kill a skunk which Mr. Sorrell had seen the evening before.” “Did you see it?” “Yes.” “Did you shoot?” “Yes, sir, but I missed. It was very dark, and I’m not an expert, anyway.” “Why didn’t the gardener attend to that?” ' “He was in the war and was shell shocked. He can’t stand being near a

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6 VERGENNES HIGH SCHOOL POWERLESS Shirley Haven, ’34 Johnny Morgan frenziedly paced back and forth, back and forth, across the floor. At length he sat down nervously. He was listening, listening intently. “All right, kid. now come across. Just sign on the dotted line and everything will be okey.” A long tremoulous sigh followed this command. A low, husky voice broke the silence. (Johnny’s seventeen-vear-old brow broke out with sweat). “Haven’t I told you I won’t sign that? You’ve kidnapped me. sent my father threatening notes, and now you try to force me to harrow him further.’’ (Here Johnny’s hands closed convulsively). The man’s rough voice began again. “Listen, babe, you sign this letter now. or you won’t get the chance again. You’ll be taken for a nice little ride, and you won’t come back, either.” Johnny gasped with horror. There she was, defenseless, and here he was, unable to help her. Again the low, tremoulous sigh reached his ears. “Listen, you, now get this straight. I don’t sign any letter to my father asking for more money.” Here Johnny silgntly cheered her). “If you think that I’m going to do anything that will give you a living, or make life easier for other kidnappers, you’re wrong. I am perfectly in accord with my father’s plan of not paying ransom. If you’re going to kill me, hurry up and get it over with, but I don’t sign the letter.” Johnny’s throat felt full, and a whispered “Gosh!” escaped him at the girl’s brave words. Instantly things began to happen. As the girl stopped speaking, a loud knocking was heard. (Johnny jumped from his chair and began to pace the floor again). A shot, a girl’s scream, a groan, silence. Again the tremoulous sigh. Again the low, husky, voice: “Oh, Dick, darling, you’ve saved my life! How could you know where to find me?” Again there was a moment of silence—just long enough for Johnny to sit down, relax, and whisper, “Lucky guy!” Then, a cool, business like voice began to speak: “Ladies and Gentlemen, next week at this time ‘Claim-All Cold Cream’ will again bring you the adventures of Polly Perkins and Dick Tracy. “Now if you would like a picture of Polly Perkins, send one--------” —Click. Johnny turned off the radio. He had three pictures already. And what a peach! OLD MAN WINTER Marjorie Sorrell, ’34 Oh! Old Man Winter is creeping stealthily into my house. I can see his frosty hands reaching at my door, clutching, in an effort to get in. Outside he rages, howls and shrieks curses upon my head With his glistening, grasping and greedy hands he tears boughs from trees, then shakes snow and icicles from his long white beard. He is a treacherous old man. He is never still; constantly he wanders from place to place seeking new prey. Sometimes he is everywhere at once. Sud- denly he sees a lonely old man, vainly struggling along. Regardless of the unfairness of the duel, he snaps with his wicked jaws at his ears, nose and fingers. He nearly freezes him as he wraps him in his snowy embrace. He is cruel. A little dog yelps pitifully, somewhere in that endless gloom. Again Old Man Winter is off on a chase. He is ever -restless. I can still see those glistening, white, talon-like hands clutching— grasping— creeping—coming closer------