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Puritans are fond of blaming part of the crime and violence of today on this age of jazz.

They might better blame the gin which furnishes purple moments to Volsteadians.

Jazz unaccompanied is rarely responsible for more than a harmless fling.

Gin with jazz is something else again.

Many a front-page murder had its origin in a bottle

of this colorless fire. It was one o'clock in the morning, not a witching hour particularly

since it was March and in Chicago. The two policemen who trudged their bead in a residence district were doubtless

anxious to have the hour get done with as quickly as possible so the next one could come and go

in its turn. It was a rawl and solitary and dreary sort of night. The policemen noticed a sedan automobile standing in front of 4809

Forestville Avenue as they passed. Its presence registered itself in their minds, but since in

Chicago there are places where one can park one's car and since nothing seemed to be amiss, they let it alone.

A woman appeared from somewhere and got into the car. This likewise did not appear to be a matter

for official investigation. The police walked on, turned the corner, and pulled the signal box

by which they reported to the station

barely had they reported that nothing was amiss in that section when three shots

shattered the lonely stillness of the night the first shots came from around the

corner and back from the direction in which they had left the parked automobile

and the mysterious night riding woman whom they had not bothered to investigate.

They hurried back.

And the automobile was no sign of the woman, but a man slumped curiously down in the driver's seat.

There was a bullet in his brain. On the floor of the automobile was a pistol.

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