Chicago Tribune, October 23, 1933. Resuming our series of “Till death does you into parts” domestic dramas, here’s a deluded dude who thought his familiarity with whodunnit fiction of the day would stand him in good stead with the law. This is even lamer than it sounds, given the tea-cozyish artificiality of what passed for a murder mystery in the so-called “Golden Age” of the genre (’20s and ’30s). There’s more practical criminal training in the opening credits of CSI: Miami then in all the combined works of S.S. Van Dine, Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellery Queen and Agatha Christie. Also: does a crime that culminates in living in a relief shelter even qualify as mediocre, never mind “perfect”? So, Mister Criminal Mastermind would have gotten away with it except for one tiny little detail: her finger prints! Cripes, even Agatha Christie covered that much in the way of forensics. And once again, we have to question this notion that spreading bits of your victim all over the tri-county area is a good way of evading detection.
A “booze flat” is Prohibition’s equivalent of a crack house: you turn your home into a speakeasy. Good times.
For what they are worth, here are the promised pictures from the back page: