Sitting idly at his desk as if awaiting a divine spark of inspiration, he became conscious of the radio in the adjoining chamber. "The confounded thing never seems to stop," he muttered angrily. "I can't write narrative with jazz music grinding into my brain. It is a wonder more murders aren't committed, with these adio fiends doing their level best to Grive people crazy." he reflected, gloomily pushing writing-pad aside. But suddenly Mr. Mifün's face lit up, as if at the birth of a welcome new idea. Hastily he jotted down fresh notes:
"Struggling author occupying room in noisy boardinghouse, unable to concentrate on work owing to thoughtless person operating radio at full blast in adjoining chamber. At last he becomes convinced, that owner purposely doing it to interrupt his creative work. The idea becomes an obsession. Author's mind becomes vnhinged and his thoughts centre on revenge. Finally decides to lure his enemy to lonely spot and murder him."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.