Inside Detective

I mentioned in the previous post that I had acquired these vintage WWII era magazines at the flea market, and I have to say, I think I've found a new addiction.

First, that drama queen on the cover is worth the 50 cents I paid all by herself.  No era in  American history beats the war era for artistic eyebrow plucking.

Then,  of course, there's the stories themselves... crimes spelled out in the most dramatic language possible...

First up "The Third Degree"  a regular column.   In this issue, the author identified only as 'the old sleuth' puts fourth a case for the public flogging of wife beaters and con men who prey upon the elderly, infirm, or our fine young service men.  He then rips into the landlords who price gouge our young soldiers by charging $9 a week for lodgings.

Next, we have a story called "Robin Hood of the Golden West" by C V Tench.  This is about Bill Miner, a California prospector turned train robber.  I already knew about him, and despite this story, he wasn't no Robin Hood.

Then, "The Poison Plot of the Paris War Baby" (LOVE that title) by Anthony Durand.  The case of Violette Nozierez, who poisoned her parents in 1933 so she could go dancing every night.

Then our cover story... "The Queen of Spades Screamed Murder" (and if that isn't the title of a film noir it most certainly should be) the story of a robbery gone bad, and a card reading psychic who supposedly helped find the killers.

Now this next story got me terribly upset.  "615 Years for the Dawn Burglar" 

Evidently, right here in the Dallas/ Fort Worth area, in 1937, there was a cat burglar named Robert Caradine who snuck into houses and robbed people while they slept.  He committed well over 100 crimes, was four feet five inches tall, had a soze 4 shoe, and was described as being so skinny he could hide in his own shadow.

Now, people in this area will go on and on about Bonnie and Clyde, and Lee Harvey Oswald, but no one has ever mentioned, not even once, the jockey sized cat burglar.   I am appalled.  Where is our sense of history?

The only other story I've read so far is "Calling Berlin"  the rather tattoo ish art work I posted a picture of.  You may not be able to see the tiny skulls on Hitler's pupils, but trust me, they're there.  It's  about the FBI, under the leadership of that heroic J Edgar Hoover, catching a spy ring in Long Island.

I'm probably enjoying this far too much.