Ill Trade You Murder

Signal gasoline. Let every traffic signal remind you, you do go farther with signal gasoline. Yes, you do go farther with signal. The Signal Oil Company and your neighborhood signal dealer bring you another curious story by the Whistler.

tonight, I'll trade you murder. I am the Whistler, and I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.

Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Hate can be a weapon to use against the world, or it can be a slow and deadly poison that shriveled the human heart.

For example, take the case of Henry Reichmann, 55 unmarried, employed at the Dover Bookshop on High Street, who would suspect that behind Henry's very ordinary, very neat and mild exterior, there burned boundless hate for people, people who are successful, who have never known disappointment.

On a rainy evening surrounded by the printed thoughts of other men, Henry's own thoughts seem more fruitless than ever. So when the door opens, his hatred envelops the man who enters. Just another customer, Mr. Eugene Parker.

He's someone else to hate. Mr. Parker stands inside the door in his streaming raincoat, shaking his umbrella, a jeweler by trade, no bigger than Henry. But he has a house of his own, a sense of his own importance in the world.

In a nervous manner, Henry always finds a noise. Good evening, Mr. Parker. Oh, hello, Henry. Hello. Nasty weather. Very ugly weather. Yes. The whor is Mr. Dover. At his desk, back behind the partition. Henry, Henry, would you come back here a moment?