Died. Vincent Claude Giblin, 67, onetime Florida mouthpiece for Al Capone, who later served nine tempestuous years as a suddenly crusading Dade County circuit judge, fighting quickie divorces and getting the residence law changed from 90 days to six months, all the while venting his terrible temper ("I'd like to boot her in the fanny!" "You're a pygmy on stilts!") to such an extent that he was finally forced to retire in 1959; of cancer; in Miami.

Died. Dr. Gordon Stifler Seagrave, 68, the indomitable Burma surgeon who, starting in 1922, built up a 250-bed hospital in the wild northern hill country near China, there supervising the treatment of some 17,000 patients yearly despite his own ill health (TB, dysentery, bubonic plague, beriberi) and a shoestring $75,000 annual budget, part of which came from his best-selling books (Burma Surgeon, Burma Surgeon Returns); of a heart attack; in Namhkam, Burma.

Died. Erwin R. Bergdoll, 74, World War I draft dodger, the playboy son of a German-American brewer in Philadelphia, who, with his better known younger brother, Grover Cleveland Bergdoll, proclaimed "we do not wish to fight against our own kind," skipped around the country from 1918 to 1920, sending federal authorities postcards until he finally surrendered (Grover fled to Germany) and served half of a four-year sentence; of a heart attack; in Camden, N.J.

Died. lames Byers Black, 74, utilities executive, who took over the presidency of Pacific Gas & Electric Co. in 1935, led it through three decades of phenomenal growth in northern and central California, pumping $3.2 billion into an expansion program that more than quintupled its gas and power output, thus making P.G. & E. the nation's biggest single private utility (A.T. & T. is ten times bigger but consists of scores of independently operating companies); of cancer; in San Francisco.

Died. Mae Murray, 75, blonde queen of Hollywood's Babylonian babyhood, who danced out of the Ziegfeld Follies into an endless string of silent-movie romances, most notably Erich Von Stroheim's 1925 The Merry Widow; of a stroke; in Woodland Hills, Calif. In love with her own publicity, she was a prototype and prisoner of stardom--"the girl with the bee-stung lips," who rode around in a gold-fitted Rolls, with sable rugs and liveried footmen, waltzed through four marriages and squandered $3,000,000 in the space of eight years. "I shall dance to my grave," she once said. She never made it in the talkies, and died alone and dependent on the Motion Picture Relief Fund.

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