Sue is a talented pianist and shows great promise for a career in music, but she puts all that aside to care for her family after Mother dies and Father has a nervous breakdown that leaves him with the mentality of a child. After scraping by for six years to provide for her younger brother and sister, who of course show not the slightest appreciation for her sacrifice, she at last finds herself free. Sue returns to her music teacher, but in the waiting room meets her idol — a famous, unnamed female pianist — who has just received a letter from her childhood friend. The friend, like Sue, also had aspirations and also gave them up. She writes to congratulate the pianist for her success, but the pianist tells Sue that her friend is far worthier of praise than herself.
Inscription: Discarded from the Livermore Falls, Maine public library in August, 1939. Scribbled in the top margin of the first page is “Look on Page 54”. Turn there, and you’ll be told to look on another page, and so on and so on until you reach page 310, where the reader is rewarded with “ha-ha-ha-ha SUCKER -> TO HELL WITH YOU!”. Delightful, 1930s teenager.
A recently married older woman meets a violent death by strychnine poisoning. The woman being rather wealthy, suspicion lights on her new husband, who it seems quite everyone takes for a flagrant gold-digger. Particularly suspicious is John, her stepson, who’s hard-up for cash and who was dependent on his stepmother’s support. Prior to her marriage, he had also been heir to the estate. Then there’s niece Cynthia, who works as a dispenser at the local hospital’s pharmacy; Dr. Bauerstein, a poisons expert who John’s wife Mary appears to be having an affair with; and we can’t forget John’s brother Lawrence, who, in the face of all evidence, maintains that his stepmother died of natural causes. It’s a puzzling case that only Hercule Poirot can unravel.
Inscription: E.M. Qunicky, on the inside front cover.
Now here’s a curious real-life mystery: Between pages 16 and 17 is a scrap of paper clipped or very neatly torn from the corner of a computer printout. On the print side, there are two columns of numbers that might be accounting of some sort. Whatever it is, the footer tells us it’s “Continued on next page.” It’s a dot-matrix printout that I would wager heavily came from a Commodore MPS 801 printer. I should know, because I had one myself. On top of this, there are several haphazardly scrawled numbers. From left to right, these are: 25, 22 (the initial two being almost illegible, a clearer 2 has been written beneath it); and 27 (this has been circled). Sideways along the right margin are what I’m sure are the last four digits of a phone number and “channel 25” — the number written over several times and underlined thrice. On the reverse side, there’s a full name and phone number. I recognized the latter as coming from a town not far from here. I looked it up in the phone book and, sure enough, it matched the name. The book is rather outdated, which is just as well, as I later discovered that the number’s owner died a few years ago at the age of 102.
A collection of short stories all involving Moris Klaw, the dream detective, who has the unusual crime-solving technique of sleeping on his “odicly sterilized cushion” at the crime scene and allowing lingering thoughts to form an “etheric negative” in his mind.
Most of the stories are locked-room theft and/or murder mysteries, but some are quite straight forward and don’t involve detective work at all, dream or otherwise. In “The Potsherd of Anubis”, for example, Moris Klaw poses as a French archeologist to steal a valuable Egyptian artifact from an antiquities collector. That’s it. It’s not even a mystery — the collector was quite sure his new neighbor was there to steal the sherd all along. All except the final story feature a crime of some sort. In the last, a man rather obsessed with Egyptology attempts to re-create a ritual from the cult of Isis and invoke the goddess to appear.