The Gypsy Sings of Death

I hope I haven't kept you waiting. Yes, this is a crime club. I'm the librarian. The gypsy sings of death. Yes, we have that story for you. Come right over. You're here. Good. Take the easy chair by the window. Comfortable? The manuscript is on this shelf.

Here it is, the gypsy sings of death. The very unusual story of an old gypsy custom that led to custom-made murder. Let's look at it under the reading lamp. It was early evening all over New York, but in the time forgetting atmosphere of the caravan, a gypsy nightclub, time had stopped for Toby Randolph,

as she reached across the table for the hand of Paul Palmer, the well-known Broadway columnist and man of her dreams. What's the matter, Toby? Got a pain? Oh, Paul Darling. I'm so glad you brought me to this place.

Uh-huh. Mm, it's like the open country. Campfire, sweet and toxicating music of guitars in the night. What guitars? Mm-hmm. Flap your wings, honey. You're taking off. Oh, shut up. And I thought you loved me.

Well, I live and learn. Just try living for a change. Marriage in a house in the country, eh? What's wrong with that? Yeah. I bet many a family was launched in this place. Dan Heregan, the bride's best friend.

Who's Dan Heregan? The guy who owns his den of delusion and false promise. Well, you don't say. Maybe I should meet him. Is he a gypsy? No, dear. He's not even a human being now.

That's life, Angel. One disappointment after another. Don't get over it. The blessings of you. But don't look now. Tell me there's another blessing coming this way. And she's gorgeous. What evening? May I sit down?