Silent Witnesses

Hello, I hope I haven't kept you waiting. Yes, this is the crime club. I'm the librarian. Violent witnesses. Yes, we have that crime club book for you. Come right over. Good. Take the easy chair by the window.

Comfortable, the book is on its shelf. Here it is, Silent Witnesses, by John Stephen Strange, the very unusual story of a letter that was registered by death. Let's look at it under the reading lamp.

It was early evening, and the blizzard that had been going all day gave no sign of blowing itself out. Mary Mastemann didn't care. She was home in her upstairs apartment in the quaint two-story building in Greenwich Village, and she was comfortable.

Too comfortable, as a matter of fact. Because in the midst of the mystery novel she was reading, the book dissolved on her lap. She dissolved on the sofa. And before long, she was sound asleep.

See you Barney. What's my name?

I don't know, but I'm afraid something terrible has happened. What? I don't know how to explain, but I think there's been a murder. You think? Yes. Please hurry. Where's the corpse, Mary? Corpse here? We said something about a murder, didn't you?

Yes. Well, where is it? Barney, you're going to be mad at me. You're going to be mad at me. Now look, precious. I'm not going to be. You're so sweet. I am hopping mad. Look, what's the idea of making me drive for an hour in that blizzard all the way from the Bronx?

Too Barney. I was frightened. By whom? The mysterious traveler? I thought I heard two shots. What's that? Two pistol shots. They seem to come from just below. Frank Vaughn's apartment? Mm-hmm. But I didn't really hear them.