Owls Don't Blink

by Fair A.

“What about them?”

“Apartment two-o-four,” I said.

“Well, what about it? Who is this talking? What do you want?”

“I want to report that a murder was committed in that apartment. If you’ll rush some radio cars down there, you may catch the murderer waiting for another victim.”

“Say, who is this talking?”

“Adolf.”

“Adolf who?”

“Hitler,” I said, “and don’t ask me anything else because I’ve got a mouthful of carpet.” I hung up the phone, and walked out.

Bertha had walked out to hold the taxicab. I came sauntering after her as though there was no particular hurry.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.