Eight Records of Death

What's the matter? What is it? It's a case for Nick Carter, master detective. Yes, it's another case for that most famous of all man hunters. The detective whose ability it's solving crime is unequaled in the history of detective fiction.

Nick Carter, master detective. Fact of the matter is, Mr. Carter, that I've quite accidentally stumbled upon evidence that a horrible murder has been committed. But Mr. Field, why come to me? That sort of thing should be reported to the police.

But to what police? Where was his murder committed? I don't know. Well, then, how can you be sure there was a murder if you don't even know where it was done? That's what makes this particular crime different from any other.

Somewhere, sometime, a woman has been brutally murdered. Yet I don't know when or where. As a matter of fact, I doubt if anyone in the world knows of it except those who did it and me.

Really? Well, how does it happen that you alone know all this? Because the victim has told me so in her own words. I heard the horrible story from her own lips. Ah, then you talk to her.

No, no, never. But she doesn't... He has talked to me. Say, Mr. Field, you're just a card. Here's the story. About a month ago, at one of those sales of unclaimed packages at the Express Company holds twice a year, I bought a box, about one-third the size of a steamer trunk.

When I took it home and opened it, I found it contained a blood-stained dress, a photograph of a beautiful woman, and eight phonograph records. What kind of records? Well, there were those small record blanks you buy when you want to make your own recordings at home.