Indianapolis Times, Indianapolis, Marion County, 29 July 1937 — Page 23

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

URSDAY, JULY 29, 1087

CHAPTER ONE OQ oe a storm was raging Even in the velvet recesses of her dressing room at the most exclusive couturier’s in New York, Judith Irving felt the tremendous rhythm, the daring, the grandeur of it. Now the slim white buildings that barricaded the horizon were slashed with rain, and the tip of the Empire State Building caught lightning and flung it like a slim green banner of fire. Green fire . . . Judith looked down at the dinner jacket she wore, a jacket whose vivid green was a bright light against the storm-black of the heavy crepe dress. There was a similarity . . . From the striking cheval mirrors in the dressing room, she watched her striking, slender, black-haired selves walk back and forth. Tomorrow the newspapers would announce that she, Mrs. Philip Godfrey Irving, had paid $800 for that jacket, that she had purchased five other jackets as costly—one in silver, one in Coronation pink, one in royal gold, a blue that was slippery and a white that was dull and powdery. Best-dressed woman in America! Best-dressed woman in the world, some artists and stylists

said.

#8 un ”

UDDENLY, with the swift, lithe grace that distinguished her, she seated herself before the mirrors, studied her effect. There was a light knock on the door. She turned casually. It would be only Annette, with the pale blue evening dress adorned with scarfs of long flame crepe which she would wear to dinner and the theater tonight. “Come in,” she said quietly, no hint of disturbance in her voice. It wasn't Annette. It was the . woman about whom she had been thinking when she sat down to study herself before the mirrors. “Darling, I'm stealing your husband for an hour or two,” the newcomer said gaily, but her eves weren't laughing. “You ‘don't mind, do you?” Judith wanted to say: “Do I mind? I mind s¢ much that have to clench my hands to keep from telling you what I think of you! I mind so much that I can't see why Phil wants to be bored for one-half second—" But she didn't. Instead, she answered easily and nonchalantly: “He told me. He | said he was having tea with a | beautiful woman who wanted help | about investments, and I Buessed you. Have a good time and rescue | him from the cinnamon buns. He's | the handsomest man I know but | the waistline may creep out on | him.” ” HE saw Marta Rogers’ blue eyes widen in surprise, and applauded herself, even while she hated herself, for using the possessive marital touch to show the other woman that it was she who bore Phil's name and kept his home. When Mrs. Rogers had gone, and Judith was dressed in her brown wool ensemble whose jacket of hyacinth blue had butterflies done in warmer colors, she seated herself once more at her mirror. Intently she looked into her own cloudy gray eyes. Phil—Phil . . . He was hers. That is, as much as one human being could belong to another. It had been that way for six years now. They didn’t love each other, which was even more important. Phil . He wasn't handsome. Rugged was a better word. Tall, broad shouldered, slim waisted, with rough-edged blond hair and blue eyes that some seafaring relative had given him. He had worked his way through college where he had been an All-America football star. A wealthy grandfather, who had disinherited Phil's father, had taken an interest in him after that, helped him through law school and had left him his money. Now, at 34, Phil was not only rich, but a brilliant and successful young corporation lawyer.

” 5

2 u u

ITTING before the mirror, with the storm beating against the windows, Judith relived a scene of the night before. Th» telephone had rung and she had answered the extension in her dressing room. Already there were voices on the line, Phil's and a woman's. “Of course, darling. Same time and place,” she heard Phil say. “I plan all my day around that hour,” the velvet voice came back. Very quietly she replaced the telephone and when she went into the living room where Phil was waiting in his immaculate dinner clothes she was as cool and composed as the silver metallic sheath that wrapped her slim body. “You're gorgeous,” he said. “A movie version of Joan of Arc done in excellent taste.” She could have answered: “Dressed to please my husband,” but she put the words away. It was he who had noted the shimmering fabric and suggested a gown. If she had not known that he loved her she would have been a little jealous of the admiration he seemed to seek for her clothes. She had told herself now and then that any man whose wife wrote poetry or played the piano well would have resented lack of admiration. Why shouldn't he be proud of her ability to wear clothes?

OW she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Phil knew it. She sensed it in the tightening of the muscles at his mouth. Suddenly he felt the need of explanation— and they never explained to each other. It wasn’t necessary. “Marta Rogers called. I'm helping her with some investments. I'm having tea with her tomorrow.” Maybe that really was the gist of it all. Maybe . . then her natural common sense asserted itself. Any man got a romantic throwback in the applauding lime-

and Marta Rogers, with her blown-

gold hair and blue-amethyst eyes, was as pretty as any debutante. Jealousy was a green cat that should be drowned in any rain barrel. Suddenly she became gay. Phil was kind and devoted during the evening but she thought his spirit wandered sometimes and then his mind would hurry back to her. She smiled in the darkened playhouse—she could see it coming, tripping over itself to get back before it was missed.

= = n

OW, in the dressing room, she stood up. Her car was waiting. She would stay at Anne's tea only a minute—it would be the usual gossip, somebody playing a cello and violin, not because anyone wanted music but because it was a softened soundboard for voices that were getting too shrill.

Best-dressed woman. . . . She laughed quietly as the limousine sped up Park Avenue. Anne, whom she had known for years, was a large woman, familiar enough with Judith’s moods to find and ignore the trouble in her eyes. “Come in, darling. I have a surprise. Bruce Knight is here.” “Did you plan it?” Judith forgot Phil for a second. “No, Millicent Bayne brought him. She carries somebody's umbrella or something across the stage in his paly.” “Anne, be a dear and don’t tell him who I am—who I used to be, I mean.” But when she met the actor, tall and fair-haired, in perfect tweeds, | his keen eyes scanned her face. “Don’t we know each other?” | he asked. “I've seen you—" ” = ” EF N the rotogravures,” Millicent supplied. “Judy's America’s | best-dressed woman and any actpress would envy the publicity she | gets.” | “Mrs. Philip Godfrey Irving.” He | repeated the name slowly. “No, it wasn’t the clothes I've seen. I | think it was you.” “We will compare itineraries,” | Judy said laughingly, but suddenly she wasn't the poised woman of the world whose husband was taking an inconsequential woman to tea. She was Judith Bole, old man Bole's youngest, whose legs were too long and whose hair was fly-away

{ stuff—Judy Bole who lived on a

river boat anchored in the flats of

Pittsburgh's rivers. She was 17, a high school junior. Because she had worked happily in the chemistry laboratory with a boy named Bruce Knight they had become friends. Once the class had made an expedition to a mining district and he had taken her in his roadster. They had been late in returning because they had discovered a long way back. The girls whose clothes were good and whose houses opened on streets, had spurned her because she had taken Bruce, a popular senior idol, from them that day. And she had vowed in a frightened, little-girl heart that some day she would dd something to show them she mattered—write a book, be an actress. Of course she couldn't, though. ” ” ” HIRTEEN years ago that had been—and here they were, important names beth of them; a Broadway favorite and a woman who knew style. “Yes, we'll repeat our travels and find a mutual crossroads,” the man was saying. “How about lunch, tomorrow?” She shook her head. Tomorrow she was going to suggest lunch to Phil. Suddenly, the fear of the night before came back. She was the frightened, shabby little Judy Bole, wanting somebody to be kind to her. “Thursday?” the man was saying. “The Union Club—Ladies’ room?” Her eyes flashed with brief amusement. It was the most eminently respectable dining room in New York—one where men entertained their wives and mothers and family guests and never held a rendezvous. “At one?” she asked simply. “Telephone for you, darling” Anne interrupted. “In my sitting room.” She lowered her voice as she walked away with Judith. “Judy, that Rogers woman, who divorced her husband and came from goodness knows where before New York took ‘em, is casting purple eyes at Phil and he's too sweet to know it. Better get our your bow and arrow ald scare the girl out of the woods.” Judith laughed but her hand was shaking when she picked up the receiver. “Judy, dear?” The voice that could make her heart turn over like a top came cheerfully into the room. “I'm being detained—but I'll join the party later. We're dining with the Colbys, aren't we? Will you make my apologies?”

(To Be Continued)

Daily Short Story

THIRD DEGREE—By Harry F. Burns

T WAS a murder, and the little Irishman was the only possible suspect. So, seated in a hard chair in the center of a dazzling glare that was a part of the inquisition, he had been grilled until he was even beginning to doubt his own innocence. “How did you kill Peddlar?” Sergt. Bailey snapped the question. His voice was tired and hoarse, although four of them were asking questions by turn. “I didn’t.” Banty O'Rourke's de(nial was little more than an ex- | hausted croak. “Where did you get the knife?” “I tell you I didn't!” “Didn't you know Blinkers was standing on the sidewalk?” Outside the worst of the glare, the four uniformed men battered him with words. They were not deadened to all humanity—this was just a nasty job that had to be done. » ” ” % IDN'T you think Blinkers would squeal?” Unconsciously, the last speaker jerked a thumb toward the end of the room. A fifth man sat there, staring sightlessly at the opposite wall. He wore a badge lettered “I Am Blind,” and clutched a capful of pencils as though it were his last hold on a world he could not see. He winced every time his name was mentioned, and inched his thin body closer to the edge of ‘he chair. “Why did you kiil Peddlar?” They allowed an instant, each time, for the little Irishman to answer. No answer or a denial meant another question. O'Rourke's wearied mind ached.under the verbal battering until he was tempted madly to shout, “I did it.” He would have, had he been guilty; confession meant water for his parched throat, relief from the eye-wracking glare —peace. But his wiry strength outlasted theirs. ” 8 " * “NOME over here, boys.” Abruptly Sergt. Bailey called a hait. He led this three fellows out of earshot. “What d’ya think?” “That little mick won’t break in four million years.” The other two nodded agreement with Wales’ opinjon. Encouraged, he added, “Either he's the toughest guy I ever saw, or he’s tellin’ the truth.” “He was the only one went into Peddlar’s office. Blinkers was sittin’ on the sidewalk out in front all afternoon an’ he swears that's the truth.” Heavily, Sergt. Bailey pointed out the unavoidable facts. “O'Rourke did it, because he was the only one who had a chance to.” “Mebbe the Blinky angle don’t check,” Wales offered. “He mighta missed someone, bein’ blind. Mebbe he even did it himself.”

ve O blind man killed Peddlar. You saw the room an’ the body,” Sergt. Bailey answered Wales’ arguments in reverse order. “An’ even a blind man with one bum ear would hear that door open —Blinkers couldn't have missed anyone, But we’ll give the angle a checkup if O'Rourke don’t break.” “There's only one way to get ®

light of a pretty woman's smile—

guy like O'Rourke—scare him, bad.

STOP For the Pause That Refreshes

An’ the little mick ain't scared of anything.” “Yes, he is.” It was the fourth policeman. who had not spoken before. “He’s scared of going blind. In an explosion once and hurt his eyes—he’s never gotten over it.” “Then he’s going blind!” Bailey seized the idea. “L.ook—here’s what we'll do. . . )” ” ” ” ‘ROURKE suppressed a groan as he heard them gather outside the dazzling glare that ringed him in. “Sit up!” Sergt. Bailey snapped the order. “Why did you kill Peddlar?” “I didn’t!” “Sit up straight, I said! . . . Where did you get the knife?” “I didn’t!” O'Rourke stubbornly refused to move. . “Sit up!” Bailey repeated for the third time, and his open hand flicked across O'Rourke's face. It was a carefully gauged blow that stung but did not injure: O'Rourke covered aching eyeballs that streamed tears from the slight additional pain. The light went out with the motion. Wales, unnoticed at the switch, had silently plunged the room into pitchy blackness. Instantly the questioning wat on, as if nothing had happened. “Sit up, or youll get it again! Are you going to tell us what happened, or d'ya want to stay here all night?” ” = ” v OTHING happened. He was dead when I went in” O’Rourke’s hand still covered his eves; he answered without opening them. Sergt. Bailey suspected O'Rourke's eyes were still shut, and gambled on it. “Take your hands away from your face,” he snapped, and waited while another question and answer were given. “Quit blinkin’ your eyes,” he said then. “What's the matter with you? Want me to knock that funny look offa your face?” There was no answer. Under cover of the impenetrable darkness, O'Rourke had defiantly refused to uncover his eyes. Unaware that the lights were off, his tired brain failed to realize that Bailey's staccato comments were out of place. “Something wrong with your eves?” Wales, too, took a gamble in the dark. “Tell us why you killed Peddlar, and we'll get a doctor to patch em up again.” “There's nothing wrong with my eyes, and I didn’t kill Peddlar,” O'Rourke screamed, and not until then did he look about him. There was a moment's silence, and from the end of the room came a second scream-—a scream of terrified guilt. “It's a judgment on me for ‘killing him,” Blinkers cried wildly. “I've really gone blind, after all these years!” THE END

(Copyright, 1037, United Feature Syndicate)

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Inclose a 3-cent stamp for reply when addressing any question of fact or information to The Indianapolis Times Washington Service Bureau, 1013 13th St, N. W., Washington, D. C. Legal and medical advice cannot be given, nor can extended research be undertaken.

Q—Who played opposite to Grace Moore in “One Night of Love”? A~Tullio Carminati. Q—What is pure-dye silk? A—Silk that is not loaded by impregnation with metallic salt.

Q—What is the difference between a giggle and a laugh? A—A giggle is a convulsive laugh as of an embarrassed girl or a child out of breath. A laugh is a single explosion of laughter.

®-—-Name the first magazine that was published in America. A—Publication of the monthly American Magazine and Historical Chronical, began Feb. '4, 1743, in Boston, Mass., by John Webbe. It existed a little more than three years. Q—Have civilized people eaten human flesh? A—During the siege of Paris in 1590, and in the famine of Algiers in 1868, people were forced to consume human flesh.

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