This is case closed, crime stories from the Golden Age of Radio.

Recently, the left-handed people of the world have been voicing some legitimate complaints.

They feel, with some justice, that they're being penalized for being different, since almost all the gadgets and conveniences of life are built for people who are right-handed.

They also feel they're unjustly accused of being less reliable than their right-handed, brethren.

Whether or not that's a bad rap is open to question.

But there are also the so-called hot-tempered redheads who so far haven't banded together to object to being thus labeled.

But A. Conan Doyle immortalized redheads forever when he pitted the red-headed league against the marvelous deductive abilities of the world's greatest detective.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Uh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Uh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I'm Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.

Oh, do you know?

Now, you've told me your name is Jabbers Wilson, and beside the obvious facts that you've at

some time done manual labor, that you take snuff, that you're a, freemason, that you've been in China, and that you've at some time done manual labor, that you take snuff, that you're

a Freemason, that you've been in China, and if you've done a considerable amount of writing

lately, I can deduce nothing else about you. What? How in the name of all that solely do you

know all that? Are you some kind of wizard, Mr. O? Not at all.

Well, then it's some kind of trick.

Certainly I began working in life as a ship's carpenter,

but there's no way you could have known that except...

Your hands, my dear sir.

Your right hand is at least one size larger than you left.

Oh.

...