Richard Connell

“ He began to give liberally to local charities, and to put on weight. He was referred to in the newspapers as a prominent citizen, was appointed to honorary committees, and there was even some talk of nominating him for mayor. He became expansive, and his manner more gracious, and people began to forget that not so long ago he had been a down-at-the-heel lawyer with a small and dubious practice among minor money-lenders and not inordinately scrupulous promoters. ”

“ Too bad,” said Fleer.
“Looks sort of funny to me,” remarked Harwood.
“What do you mean?” queried Fleer, almost sharply.
“Well,” said Harwood, “everybody knows that Siddon was the most cautious old bird that ever foreclosed a mortgage. He wasn't the sort of chap to buy doubtful liquor. He'd been drinking rye for forty years and he had an educated taste. Its mighty strange that he should take a drink of stuff that would have given an elephant the screaming minnies. I can't under- stand it. And another thing—”
“What?”
“Wood alcohol doesn't ordinarily knock a man cold like that. ”

“ He'd have to have the proper authorities do something about that road; a man like him should not be compelled to slow down. Something off the road, beyond the stone wall, caught Fleer's eye, and he stopped the car. ”

“ No young writer has leaped more lightly into the front rank of American creators of fiction than Richard Connell, whose book “Apes and Angels” folks are talking about a lot these days. Though the present story is American, Dick Connell is as familiar with Europe, especially France, as with his own New England. You are going to find his name in these pages often henceforth.
FLEER killed Siddon at seven, Saturday night. At seven-thirty Fleer entered a restaurant, ate a hearty dinner, and then went home and slept soundly. ”