Black Mask (Vol. 21, No. 8 — November, 1938)

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A time bomb passes from hand to hand — with sheer horror at its explosive end.

Jud Kerrun wrapped the box carefully with paper cut from a grocer’s brown sack and tied it with ordinary white string. He took a stencil from the top of the work bench, laid it across the lower right surface of the package, and briskly rubbed a black wax crayon across the stencil. When he moved the stencil, the package had an address in bold, block letters: Leslie Gramm, 307 Front St.

He held the package tight against his ear. It said, in a whisper so faint that he was not absolutely certain he had heard it:

Tick, tock.

Jud put the package into a cardboard box on a layer of old newspapers. He added a red sweater to the package, and rolled the two items with the newspapers, and tucked the bundle under one arm.

Then he pulled his gloves off and tossed them aside.

That was the way to do it. Even if everything went wrong, the cops wouldn’t find fingerprints, clues, or handwriting.

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