Murder Will Shout

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, murder will shout. 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. Murder is born in many places. Most of them quite ordinary. Sometimes it's born in a smoke-filled hotel room. Sometimes around a nightclub table, but more often it begins in a small secret place.

Because murder is a secret thing at first. Take for example a small unobserved telephone booth in the back of a chain drug store. The one in which a small time racketeer peanut marola is talking.

Oh, you know marola is speaking. Yeah, yeah, I got all that dope. It shouldn't be a tough proposition to swing. Garage is out in the suburbs, in the Oakdale district, where the houses are far apart and everybody minds his own business. Nice place to work.

What's that? Yeah. Yeah, this guy owns the place. George Kramer is single and lives by himself out in the little house on 71st Street. Yesterday I counted only three cars that stopped in. That ain't enough to buy him a good breakfast.

Right? Yeah, the place is plenty big but empty. Hey, here's an interesting angle I got on it. Seems that some small-fried businessman named Aldian, if I got the jerk's name right, He's got some kind of a mortgage in the place.