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Yet, curiously enough, it was the echo
of that spring night which came back. to
him when on Monday, June 23rd, Freda
phoned him from the doctor’s office.

For while she had never suspected her
condition, Robert was not really surprised.
And because it did not take him unawares,
he received the news calmly enough, He
was even able to offer marriage with a‘ges-
ture of sincerity that melted Freda to tears
of joy. But in his heart: there was panic.

He walked along the road to Kirby Park
beside her that night and scarcely heard her
voice. What should he say to Margaret?
He had told her about Freda, but he made
‘it sound like an outgrown. boy-and-girl
affair, . : By

Now, all his plans were awry. Freda ex-
pected him to marry her. At that moment,
as she kept step trustingly at his side, he
hated her.

However, ‘he was solicitous, even affec-
tionate, as he soothed her and assured Ker
that he would do the honorable thing,

But he spent that night planning ‘some

way out. r ¥

When, the following Wednesday evening,
Freda mentioned her desire to go swim-
ming, in some vague way. it occurred to
him ; that it might be well to’ keep her
bathing suit, ‘
formulated. and he could not have told
just why he suggested that she turn’ it
over to him. Yet he wag conscious always
that he must do something about this whole
situation, And, in spite of that, he-kept
on planning the fu-
ture with the other
girl.

He had not in-

How dared she. spoil his life!’

There was no real idea -

khkkkkkkkkkeKK KKK KKK I

up on the horizon’ and the air was close
and filled with the coming storm. He
started to speak.

Freda paused,
abruptly. -

“What did you say?” she asked.

But Robert shook his head. “Nothing,”
he answered.

“Let’s go to the lake,” the girl begged.
“Just this once.”

And still he sat there, silent.

“Bobby! Don’t you want to go?”

‘She twisted around to look at him, and,
in a sudden flash of lightning, his eyes
were upon her with an expression she had
never seen before. He was regarding her
as though he hardly knew her and yet
there was interest and something almost
akin to cunning in his face,

- “Sure,” he said slowly. “Sure-I want
to go.”

On the way, Freda asked him to stop at
Warden’s' place for a few moments while
she ran in to pay a visit to her niece’s
grandparents. hy

“Why don’t you come in, too?” she asked.

But he shook his head. “I’ll wait for
you,” he replied, and he turned off the
lights of the car and sat there silent, in
the darkness.

It was then, as the storm broke above
him and the rain drove against the car,
that Robert Edwards planned to murder
his sweetheart. J

It was the only solution to his. problem,
and it appeared so easy. The lake! Why
' hadn’t he thought
of that before? It
would be the per-
fect end. He

then checked herself

tended to go to see
Margaret Crain too
soon. But when, the
next night, Thurs-

day, he saw Freda

with her sister as
he was ‘on his way

to post a letter to.

*| the ‘other* girl, he

was suddenly seized
with the determina-

tion to find solaceiin . -

the presence of’ the

comely: music.
teacher of . East:
_Aurora.. Bite
So he drove there °
in’ the’ car,’ which °

she’ was helping to:

purchase, and spent. -

the* week-end “with.
her.' Slowly the net
of’ ‘his ‘own: deceit '

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wouldn’t even have
to mention the other
girl. Now he knew
what it was he had
been groping for in
his mind—it was this
way out!

He félt unhurried,
unruffied. He could
take his time. He
would just sit there

and wait until Freda

came out. Then, a
brief interlude. and
all his difficulties
would be ended.

It was still raining
when the girl joined
him again. For an
instant he was afraid
she might change
her mind and de-

cide to go home.

‘that’ she wanted to

“his attention.

most drug or toiletrie counters. ; P
Or write TINTZ, 205 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago 1, Ill.

drew alittle tighter.’.'_ ji
Margaret ‘indicated’ ~. and:consi

serves.
marry him. Her

friends had met him:: ; dO occ IR

They knew she had Pee
visited his home. They’ were aware of
As a: matter of fact, her
friends had come, to regard her as prac-
tically engaged, and she» wanted to an-
nounce it, Edwards:told her’that nothing
would please him more. He promised to
return the next week-end, and told her to
get the announcements ready.

sThe.idea gave him real pleasure. | If
only’ Freda didn’t object. All the way

‘home, that.Sunday night he tried to decide

what to do, ..

Still he greeted the girl warmly when
he’met her that Monday night of July. 30th.
They. took Rosetta home. and sat at the
curb for a few minutes after they. were
alone, chatting... f
. “Do you know what I'd like to do?” Freda
asked suddenly. “I’d like to go swimming.
It’s. been so warm today.”

' For'a moment Robert was on the point of
objecting. It was going to rain at any
moment now.. The heavy clouds were piled

you meet hi can give the respect
eration he so richly de-.

However, when he
headed for the lake
she made no com-
ment, so he stepped
on the accelerator

f i and went a little
faster. He was eager now to get done
with it. :

“I wonder if the bathhouses are open,”
he said. “I’ll.go take a look.” ‘As soon
as they reached the beach and he had
parked the car, he sprang out, ran over
and tried the doors of several of the little
wooden structures, but they were locked.

“I tell you what,” he said, leaning in the
coupé, his head bare, oblivious of the rain,
“we can change in the car. You don’t
mind, do you?’ »

In the darkness, Freda began to remove
her clothing. She carefully folded up her
clothes and got into the orange bathing suit

that Bobby had been carrying around with’:

him, Then she put on the white rubber
bathing cap, tucked her hair up beneath

it and stepped out into the drizzling rain.'

Robert, too, stripped his clothes and hur-
riedly donned swimming trunks.

Freda wanted to swim from Sandy Beach,
but he objected. , :

Semaceiiitiiimeinanteiini ei ln

ee Ee

“It’s bett
The lighi
section of t
Freda,
ahead, did
for a mom«
blackjack,
tion at nigh
it in the tc
She spre:
rain and c
as he ran u
thing so el
tonight. <¢
would be \
lives togeth
swimming
probably.
“When w
“T shan’t hz
have you t
She clun
walked any
tered the w
the darkne:
she could n
followed af
to that lon
stormy eve)
it never oc
“Bobby,”
across her
But he di
about his ¢
them the s}
Once the
go his fing
strate her ;
how well s
cut the wat
was a littl
this impro:
do on a st
afraid. Wr
Back an
went. In :
Bobby. B
The white
blackness :
Slowly, s
from his sv
water, waii
ward him.
as her cap
he could n
It was the
to him. Ye
as she pas
her course,
strument i)
on the bac
Beneath
wavered.
tesque, bro
her lips;
Edwards s«
all his stre
into the de
moment th:
He was co
away quick
chance pas:
The rain
out of the
clambered
suit from h
He fumble
switched or
and headec
was halfway)
that Freda’
side him. I
How many
there, trusti
only a littk
ings remair
what he h:
He must
would neve
in his auto:
sped back °

einen ceecn Seen noen ae


air was close
g storm. He

2cked herself

asked,
d. “Nothing,”

2 girl begged.

lent.

to go?”

< at him, and,
ing, his eyes
2ssion she had
regarding her
her and yet
ething almost

‘Sure -I want

lim to stop at
oments while
o her niece’s

9?” she asked.
Tll wait for
ined off the
ere silent, in

broke above
‘inst the car,
d to murder

his. problem,
e lake! Why
he thought
before? It
be the per-
end. He
vt even have’
tion the other
low he knew
: was he had
coping for in
d—it was this
it! -
‘It unhurried,
-d. He could
s time. He
just sit there
it until Freda
ut. Then, a
iterlude. and
difficulties
be ended.
3 still raining
1e girl joined
ain. For an
ne was afraid
ight change
nd and de-
» go home,
‘r, when he
for the lake
de no com-
> he stepped
accelerator
ant a little
to get done

3 are open,”
’ As soon
ind he had
it, ran over
of the little
vere locked.
aning in the
of the rain,
You don’t

1 to remove
ded up her
bathing suit
around with
hite rubber
up beneath
izzling rain.
es and hur-
cs,

andy Beach,

_ tonight.

Ny - eure

“It’s better own here,” .he° said.

The lights were too bright around that
section of the beach. . :

Freda, light-hearted, skipping along
ahead, did not notice that:he had returned
for a moment to the car, swiftly taken the
blackjack, which he carried as a protec-
tion at night along the roads, and concealed
it in the top of his trunks.

She spread out her hands to the driving
rain and caught eagerly at Robert’s hand
as he ran up beside her.- There was some-
thing so elemental in their being out here

would be when they would take up their

.lives together. If her mother heard of this

swimming party, she would be angry,

probably. :

“‘When we're married, Bobby,” she said,
“I shan’t have to care for anyone. | I’ll-just
have you to please.” i

She clung to his hand. _She would have
walked anywhere with him. When he en-
tered the water and started to walk toward
the darkness. of Mayer’s Landing, although’
she could not see where she was going, she
followed after him. Few people ever went
to that lonely spot at night, and on this
stormy evening the place was deserted; yet
it never occurred to Freda to be afraid.

“Bobby,” she exclaimed, as the wind cut
across her face, “I was never so happy!”

But he did not answer. The darkness was
about his’ evil plans like a cloak. Above
them the sky was as black as his heart,

Once they were in deep water, she let
go his fingers and struck off to demon-
strate her skill. She wanted to show him
how well she could swim. Her slim arms
cut the water with swift, sure strokes. She
was a little cold, gradually. aware, too, of
this impromptu party as a silly thing to
do on a stormy night. But she was not
afraid. Why should she be?

Back and forth across the water she
went. In the darkness, she could not sée
Bobby. But he never lost sight of her.
The white cap showed even in the inky
blackness around them.

Slowly, stealthily, he took the blackjack
from his suit; he paddled around, treading
water, waiting. Now she was coming to-
ward him. He could see her face as white
as her cap against the stormy night, But

he could not face her and do this thing.

It was the only streak of conscience left
to him. Yet he poised himself, ready, and
as she passed him and turned to retrace
her course, he suddenly lifted the deadly in-
strument in his hand and crashed it down
on the back of her head.

Beneath that terrible blow,. Freda
wavered. Her arms flung out like a;gro-
tesque, broken doll. A stifled cry. died on

-her lips; then, as she. straightened out,

Edwards seized her at the hips: and with
all his strength he heaved her bodily“out
into the deep waters of the Jake. At the

. moment there was no remorse in his soul.

He. was conscious only that he. must get
away quickly, leave the spot before some
chance passer-by discovered him.

The rain had begun to ease off as he raced.

out of the water and over to his car. “He
clambered in it, and-hurriedly tearing his
suit from his body, dragged on his clothing.
He fumbled for the key to the -ignition,
switched on the lights, stepped on the gas,
and headed for Edwardsville. When he
was halfway there, he suddenly remembered
that Freda’s clothes were on the seat be-
side him. It made him gasp for a moment.
How many times had Freda herself sat
there, trustingly, patiently,‘at his side. Now
only a little heap of her personal belong-
ings remained to offer a grim reminder of
what he had done. ‘

He must do something about this. It
would never do to have the clothes found
in his automobile. He.turned around and
sped back toward the lake and got out at

SRI Snare oy tere by scateantiedl

-of the black clouds.

She thought how wonderful it”

itself. :

a tree a few yards’*from' where they had |
last parked. In the back of the car he
found an old piece’ of newspaper and he
placed that on the ‘wet ground and laid
the clothing on it; The rain had ceased
now. Only the steady drip from the over-
head branches still fell. ; ]
A thin, watery moon ‘showed at the edg
Its faint light’ played
along the edge of the lake, groping, like a
silver pencil over the surface. As though ,
by some miracle, the water, which had
been turbulent; was now strangely. still.
And out of that stillness a sudden fear
struck to the heart.of Robert Edwards,
and he fled like a man pursued by Death

Yet, once free of the atmosphere of
Harvey’s Lake, he regained his composure
quickly enough. When he reached Edwards-
ville, he stopped in a store and bought two
chocolate -bars, and when he reached home
he found his parents just.preparing to go
up to bed: He greeted his mother affec-
tionately and gave ‘her! one of the bars of
candy. ’ ]

“Bobby, your clothes are damp,” ‘she
said, patting his shoulder. “Were ‘you
caught in the rain? “You must be careful -
not to catch cold.” re.

‘“I guess they are a bit damp,” he’ said. |

“They’re not really wet.” é

He went, munching the candy, up the
stairs to his room. He. undressed and lay
down in bed. Presently, he slept.: And,
out in the dark water of Harvey’s Lake,
Freda McKechnie also slept. Only hers
was the everlasting.sleep of death.. ;

Sometime in the night, Robert awakened;
the moon was shining on the window sill.
A faint odor of flowers, newly washed with
rain, drifted into his room.

He thought of Margaret Crain, waiting
for him in New York State. He remem-
bered Freda, dead in Harvey’s Lake; an
icy hand’‘descended om.’his heart, and’ he
slept no more that night. ‘

To his home-town, the news of Robert
Edwards’ crime came as a shock that left
the neighbors of both families gasping in
horror.

And to the girl, Margaret Crain, it was
the end of her hopes and dreams for a
future. She came hurrying from. her, home
to see this boy who had committed murder
for her. When she reached Edwardsville;
she protested his innocence and declared
her belief in him. ‘ it ee,

“He couldn’t, have done such a thing!”
she insisted. “Bobby would never have, hurt
a fly. There’s something wrong in all this—
it can’t be true. I knew about Freda, Shé
was just a girl he had: known as:a boy— |
there’ was nothing serious. between them.
He is in love with me and I am proud of
his love., We were to have been married,
I'll stick.to him—I’ll stay, here and- see
him—I must see him—no one can stop, me,” .

No one, indeed,. tried, to:stop her., -True,
the town received her icoldly.. After: all,
another girl had first. received. Bobby '
Edwards’ promise of marriage. That other
girl was, dead now—murdered; conse-
quéntly, Margaret Crain’s defense of her
sweetheart did not win sympathy or friend-
liness from the town. i -

But we allowed her to see this bey. who
had killed for love of her.

They met in the barracks where he was
still being held. When he saw her, Edwards
burst into tears and flung himself into her
arms; they clung together, and their tears
mingled.

In the meantime, we had searched the
lake and found the blackjack that dealt
death to Freda McKechnie. In_the hands
of the police was that complete and damag-
ing confession of guilt. It remained only
for the formality of the law to run its
course.

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main in the town to be near Edwards and
give him what moral support and comfort
she could, the day after her arrival, she
suddenly left to return to her home.

Undoubtedly a girl of retiring disposi-
tion, the knowledge that Edwards-had ac-
tually committed that crime and admitted
it, was too much for her to bear, She left,
crushed and broken,

A further questioning of Edwards drew
the information that he had written many
letters to the New York girl. These, of
course,. were necessary ta show, in the
preparation of our case, how he had courted
Margaret while he was engaged to Freda.
It also built up the motive for the crime
and tended to prove that Edwardse’had
ample reason for wanting to be rid of his
first love. -

We got in touch with Miss Crain and
explained that if she would turn those
letters over to us, it would be unnecessary
for her to come back for the trial. This
she agreed to do, and she placed in our
hands 172 letters she had received from the
confessed slayer.

Edwards went on trial in the Luzerne
County Courthouse at Wilkes-Barre, on Oc-
tober 1st, before a jury and Judge William
A. Valentine.

The defendant pleaded “Not Guilty”
when he was asked to answer to the in-
dictment, and he sat, calm and undis-
turbed, while his attorney and the, Prose-
cutor fought to get a jury.

Out in the corridor a crowd struggled
to get in as spectators. To the hundreds
who sought admission, to the talesmen who
waited patiently to be called for: examina-
ion, this. was more than a spectacle of

justice. It was to every man and woman

there, to those who were able to: get in

_and those who were in the milling crowd

outside, the tragic epilogue of a love story
that was common knowledge.

The dead girl was “Freda” and the boy’

about to go on trial for his life was “Bob”

to most of the spectators. And the jurors

(Continued from page 25) said the Sheriff.
“T'd like to lay my hands on the skunk
that did this.”

Johnny grunted.

Mercer knew how this traffic went on
under. cover;-but it was difficult, in this
vast aquatic’ wilderness, to catch the law

.breakers who traded with illicit buyers off-

shore. He picked up several handfuls of
the fired shells, examined the primers care-
fully and placed some of them in his
pocket. - i

“Not much we can do here,” he decided
finally. ‘Let’s go on. Where’s Rankin’s
place?” :

-“Maybe two miles more.”

“Let’s go,” said the Sheriff grimly.

In a few minutes, they were off-shore
in‘the channel... A moment later, some-
where on the mainland, a rifle cracked
sharply and at the same time Mercer’s hat
flew off, landing in the water. Quickly he
scanned the shore, but there was no one
visible. .

“Let’s get that hat,” he said.

“When they recovered it, Mercer looked
at the neat hole through its crown, then
picked-up Johnny’s Winchester and levered
a shell into the chamber.

“Okay.” He nodded. “Let’s see who’s
shooting.” .

_ But the Seminole shook his head. “No
can find in swamp.. Shoot us before we
land...Too foolish.” .

The Sheriff realized that the Indian was

right. “Okay,” he agreed; “let’s go. But
I’d sure like to meet that guy.”
No other shots were fired; and two miles

THE EVERGLADES SECRET

~ aie ae

chosen were not the usual veniremen, They
were fathers of families, elderly men for
the most part, who had learned life by
grim living, some of them in the deep pits
of the hard-coal mines.

It was into the ears of these men that
the State poured forth its case. It was to
these men that the love letters of Robert
Edwards to Margaret Crain were read.

In all my experience I have never seen
such a collection of letters. Throughout
them ran a thread of interesting sidelight
on Edwards’ character. They showed that
he never was devoted entirely to Freda; that
he disliked strong drink; that.he did not
smoke, and frequently took a Bible to his
trysts with Miss Crain.

So ardent were these letters that Dis-
trict Attorney’ Thomas M. Lewis’ lips
curled in contempt as he laid them before
the jury, one by one. They were made a
part of the court record; in fact a whole
day was consumed in the reading of these
missives.

Even ,Robert Edwards, whose bland ex-
pression of unconcern had caused whis-
pered:comment throughout the room, wilted
beneath the lashing sarcastic tones of the
Prosecutor as he sneeringly repeated the
lines of those letters.

But he got a grip on himself later, and
when he went on the witness-stand in his
own defense he pleaded not guilty, and
charged that the police frightened him into
making and signing a confession. He ad-
mitted that he struck Freda with the black-
jack, but he insisted again that she was
already dead when he did so.

The jury, however, failed to believe him.
After a short trial he was convicted of
murder in the first degree and the penalty
was fixed at death in the electric chair.

The case was appealed; but on November
30th, Luzerne County Courts refused the
killer a new trial. This decision was handed
down by Judge Valentine, who presided
at the October trial. Edwards was executed
in May, 1935, ° ,

_.farther south they grounded in shallow

water off a small key.and waded ashore,
Johnny fastening the boat to a bush. As
they approached the shack where Rankin
lived, a lanky ‘man appeared in the door-
way, rifle in hand.

“What you cooters want here?” he de-
manded harshly. “Ain’t hardly room for
the snakes now, without a bait o’ Yankees

_traipsin’ aroun’——”

Mercer’s voice was cold. “Put down that
rifle. I want to talk to you. I’m Mercer,
Sheriff of this county.”

Rankin hesitated, then leaned his rifle
against the door and waited. The Sheriff
advanced, appropriated the rifle and mo-
tioned the hunter to step outside.

“Tl do the talking,” he said. “And you'll
do the answering.”

He ranged his powerful frame alongside
the wiry hunter, who decided that he was
outnumbered, and subsided. It.didn’t take
long for Mercer to discover that, according
to Rankin, it had been Pardee Kyle who

‘ had been responsible for the slaughter at.

the rookery and had sold the plumes to a
ship that had come up off-shore one night.
Pardee discovered the hunter had watched
the latter transaction and had offered him
ten. dollars and a lot of supplies on the
promise that he’d keep his mouth shut if
anyone questioned him. Rankin had de-

‘manded more, and Pardee had promised

further payment on his next trip. “More
likely git a slug in th’ back from him,” the
hunter concluded dourly.

“Was Pardee alone?”

“T didn’t see no one else, but I think he

had some o
That. was
and wanted
and he’d ke
also disclai)
death. Parc
cheated hin
nothing ab
his island fi
“Get your
iff. “Pa: lik
Rankin ii
use one, ar
closed none
“We'll go
Mercer tolc
finished.”
On the v
Pardee’s un
ing ‘at the
marksman °
had so near
possible to
rinthine ch
At any rate,
of the white
dee’s shoe
made annua

@ THEY A

in the aft
waiting in f
car.

“It was t
plained.
people seld
about wrec!

“I’m afrai
Mercer said
a man nan
check it wit

Sage frov

When he
back of the
ting in the :
He looked vu
down and s
the bullet h

“Must be
mock,” he sa

Mercer mn
a shot.” Tr
had obtaine
bank deposi
know about
dee must ha
on him fron
to it?”

The old nr
his jug, sm
tobacco unc
nothin’ abo
a smart coo
but this is «

“Accordin
buy a box o
Owns a .32 1

“Don’t kn
’?em—only r

Mercer ct

“There w
and your n¢«

“Yuh mea
store inherit
eyeing his }
mint you thi
kin? I don’
them birds,
Pardee or v
His shrewd
face, scoutir
features wei

“Pardee h
Sheriff aske«

Kyle nodd:
it by mail.”

A few mi
test shots wi
he saw that
primers to «
shells that
egrets had |


but he
because
-ek-end.
ick,” he

Monday
\t eight
rranged

iat little
ws bent
: ahead,
Edwards

en eight
Sharpe
She and
I picked
Rosetta
intended
stay.
use that
vimming
y’s Lake.
but had
we got

ranted to
‘rr niece’s
ent up to
or; when
ike. She
ty Beach,
a locker.
i, ‘so ‘we
lothes in

went in-
he ropes.
> stopped
r’s Land-
chere and
dock and
Freda got
into the
then, she

er—Freda
, the way
. and was
ater, when
wn along-
arms and
find any.
prompted
uldn’t find

in accident
lf, so I ran
ack that I
for protec-
aday night.
and lifted
r with the
-eper water

n the room
) one spoke,
few words
the room—
ind left her

The
Why—

rried!
ld!

1ore on his
if he would
the tragedy
eft the car.
f Stevenson
ty. Detective
Green and

, young Ed-
had parked,
id undressed
:s; how they

id dropped ,

pwede

bad waded out into the lake. He pointed out
one of the boats drawn up to the dock,
and said that, while he was not certain it
was the exact boat, it was like one of those
he afd Freda used. He explained’ that the
blackjack belonged to his father, and gave
a minute description of it, although he’
said he had been unable to locate it after-
ward and supposed he must have dropped
it in the lake. _ .

He admitted that he had placed .Freda’s
clothing at the spot where we found ‘it.

That night, back in the barracks, he
signed a long, complete statement of the.

facts he had recited to us earlier in the .
day. He was warned that anything he said -

would be used against him, and assured that
no promises would be made him for that
statement. :

After listening to it a second time and
questioning him, at the end, I realized that
his story was full of flaws. I think he did,
too, for he kept glancing at me as though
trying to decide whether I was accepting
the yarn or not. ~ -

He was cool, almost unconcerned. I think
he had rehearsed it all in his mind and,
had convinced himself that he had told a
pretty ‘smart story. — ’ .

When he: concluded it, he settled. back
with the air of a man who ‘says, “Well,
that’s that!”

And he went to bed that night and slept.
when. his .

. The following day, however,
father and their clergyman came to see
him, they found him uneasy, restless. He
explained that he had wakened in the night
and prayed, and read his Testament.

Then Dan Edwards, his head bowed with
grief, looked his son in the face -and said:

“{ don’t know what you've ‘done, Son,
but: no matter how bad it is, I want you
to tell the truth. It never pays to lie.
Don’t do it.”

And yet, despite that: advice, he stuck
to that first story throughout Thursday.
While ugly rumors spread through Edwards-
ville, while the town seethed with horror
and with amazement and doubt, Edwards
still insisted that Freda had fainted and
that he struck her only because he was
_panicky and wanted to make it seem as
though she had hit her head on the boat.
He didn’t seem to realize how hollow it

sounded. }
“But, Robert,” I protested, “this was the
girl you loved. How could you strike her?”
“I know it sounds bad,” he agreed, “but
I didn’t want to be blamed for it.” ;
“For what?” “ rites
“Well, in case she had died. of: a heart
attack—I wanted it to seem as if, she hit
herself.” n :

"Tt was not-until Friday morning that, in:
he clutched at the’ truth”

his desperation,
as the one way out. ,
“Ig it too late to tell what really, hap-
pened?” he asked. ; re
“It is never too late for

said.

“Well, the first part of the story’s right.
But it’s mostly a lie from the point where
I said she stopped to visit at Warden’s
place.” ~

Then, at last, we got the real story from
him, and learned why Freda had had to
die.

Straight from his lips we got the true
picture, in all its details, of what happened.
It follows: te

When Freda McKechnie sent her sweet-
heart off to Teachers’ College, she unwit-
tingly paved the way for all the tragedy
of the ‘future. For it was at that school
that Edwards met and fell in love with an-
other young womal.

Her name was Margaret Crain and she
was twenty-three. She possessed culture,
and a certain sophistication that swept the
youth headlong into an infatuation. She
was a musician, and she knew much about
painting and the other arts. Young Edwards

a Ot gf PO LD

lgetacaer

_ attitude, however.

that, Robert,” I -

ee ee Oe ep armada casiaeiDhaotnn tate

was drawn to her like steel to a magnet.
This was what he’ was seeking: There was’
no small-town atmosphere about Margaret:
Crain. She was a refined, quiet, gentle-
spoken young woman of dignified manner
and restrained voice. Before her, Robert -
lost all the arrogance that had marked his °

behavior at home. In her presence he was

- humble, eager to please her, a little afraid’

of her. 5 -
-When ‘he suddenly left college and re-
turned home he never dreamed of severing
that relationship. He had proposed to Mar-=-
garet—and been accepted! |
He wrote to her as often as Freda had’
written to him: He made up his mind
when he left Mansfield that he ‘was through’
with Freda. It was Margaret whom he
wanted—no one else. Guts
Yet he hesitated to thrust his first love
aside, There were so many angles to think:
of—the friendship: of the families, the
knowledge that Freda considered herself.
as good as engaged. It was going to be hard
to break away, without a fuss. “ ;
- He didn’t worry too much about Freda’s
He knew her. pretty.
well, after all these years. He was reason-
ably ‘certain she would: not make it too
hard for him. If he wanted his freedom
he was pretty sure she: would: help him.
Yet when he came home and took up the
old ties, he knew it wasn’t wise: After. that
night up in the sfarlit-woods he ‘realized
he had made a. mistake.” He ‘should never
have got on such an intimate footing with
‘Freda. meat Ad i
Eventually, he reached: a’ point’ where he
was always comparing the two girls. Yet
he never allowed a word to’ escape him
that might arouse Freda’s suspicions.
He ‘courted them ‘both with the same
ardor. He wrote letters: to: Margaret; he
whispered burning words into the ears of

Peet
grim +
a

i Wreda.?’ He never got his lines tmixed up—

not for along time, at least.”

At: Christmas, he gave Freda a present
of some lingerie, but he sent books to Mar-
garet Crain. At Easter he gave the New
York State girl a bouquet of: flowers, sent
by*.wire, and he , presented Freda with a
little’ red pocketbook. ;

It was in that fateful spring, when he
had: become so entangled with Freda, that
he arranged to buy an automobile.
garet thade the down payment on that car.
But Freda never even dreamed of such a

_/ #thing. 5°

Even when, in early July, Margaret came
to visit the,Edwards, Freda didn’t suspect

‘that Robert was interested in her. When he

said the girl was visiting
believed it.

‘That visit of Margaret’s only served to
increase his eagerness to marry her. He
was convinced that she was the one he
really loved: He was tired of Freda any-
how. It would be wonderful to be married
to Margaret’ She had graduated from col-
lege now and ‘was supervisor of music in
the public schools in her home-town of
East Aurora, New York.

‘He longed to be a part of her world.
He would never bring her to Edwardsville.
She was too good for that little one-horse,
hick town.

But all the time the thought of Freda
ran through his mind like a dark thread
in a bright bit of tapestry. How should
he tell her? Now that he turned it over
in contemplation he was not so sure she

his mother, she

-would take the news calmly. Suppose she

refused to let him go? The next moment,
however, he laughed that away. He couldn’t
imagine Freda opposing him in anything.
Even that night up in the woods he had
won her without a struggle., He remem-
bered it with a slow smile.

Baffled at 47—Feels
‘Like a Young Man at 77

Imagine how thrilling it must be for aman,
feeling
denly to find himself restored to new liap-
piness and vitality. How wonderful he must

- good-bye to the headaches, biliousness, slug-

‘constipation suffered through many. years.
But such’ a man was Leopold Aul and as ex-,
- plained in his own words, “One day when I

I met an old friend: of mine, He
I looked and how
‘Why don’t

as a cat,
‘noticed how fagged out
rapidly I seemed to be aging.

did wonders for me.” -

‘What Is An Internal Bath?

Thereupon Mr. Aul began ‘investigating In-
ternal Baths. He found that a bonafide In-
ternal Bath to be the’ administration into
the lower intestine of pure warm water—
Nature’s greatest cleansing agent—to which
is added J.B.L. Powder. Through the use
of the J.B.L. Cascade, five quarts of the
cleansing solution is sent gently swirling
throughout the entire length of the colon.

js thoroughly cleansed of its whole foul
mass; the putrefying, delayed waste is
loosened and. washed away. Often the relief
js immense—often a new. sense of vigor
and well-being sweeps over you.

Naturally, Mr. Aul did buy a J.B.L, Cascade. It

roved a turning point in his life. Gone,

fos to his testimony, was the worry, and distress

- that had hitherto overshadowed his whole life,
sapped his ambition.

half-sick, half-alive for, years, sud-"

) feel to'realize at last he may~be:able to say.

__gishness, that-all-in feeling, due to-chronic ©
was feeling especially bad and as nervous ©

you take Internal Baths?’ he asked, ‘they

In just a short time your impacted colon *

PO ie

INTERNAL BATHS trusts

Read
M r. Aul’s

Astound-
ing Letter

*'L am now 77 years young, have owned a Cascade
hen | first started using

and at ~ wits"
Tried most everything that was recommended and
escribed for me for years without results. | now
ee! that Internal Bathing was responsible for
bringing back 4 health and for keeping it ever
since. | use the Cascade occasionally now, but |
would not part with it for $1,000.
recommended it to everyone suffering from the
ill effects of constipation."" .
(Signed) Leopold Aul

Investigate yourself the. merits of Internal
Bathing. Simply fill in and mail the coupon be-
low and receive, “absolutel,

TYRRELL’S HYGIENIC INSTITUTE, Inc.
152 West 65th Street, Dept. T.D.-10-45

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Send me, without cost or obligation, your
\ {llustrated book on intestinal ills and the
proper use of the famous Internal Bath—
‘Why We Should Bathe Internally.”

Mar- .-

Have sincerely.

he

im
lish on
nented.
in this

he sec-
4 quar-
treads
ile of
dress,
ssiere,
ok.

or the
n they
‘Ss and

telling
, “and
1’t be-
yin a
o find
ective
te car

e the
were
ndard

it t
1 Mc-
sister
-ctive
Ed-
/rolet
quar-
ons,”
r job
ch as

' but

> had
con-
her.
next-
u in-
/ey’s
that

The chief’s expression did not
change as he waited for the youth to
continue.

Bobby Edwards buried his face in
his hands. “When we left Mrs. Cro-
nin’s house Freda suggested we go
swimming. I didn’t want to, but fi-
nally I agreed. We knew it was too
late to get a locker so we changed in
my car. We swam out to the float and
then over to a boat. Freda was diving
in and coming back.. Then, as she
climbed in the last time, she fainted
and fell back into the water. I didn’t
notice for a minute. When I did I
thought it was just her condition. I
pulled her aboard and tried to revive
her. But she was dead. It must have
been her heart.”

The boy looked up to see how the
officers were taking the story. There
was no change in their expressions.

“I was frightened,” he continued.
“I didn’t know what to do. I picked
her up and threw her back in the wa-
ter. As she fell, her head hit the side

of the boat. I didn’t think people.

would believe my story about the
heart attack. No one knew we had
gone swimming together.”.

While’ Bobby Edwards joined
Chief Powell at Harvey’s Lake and
pointed out the spot where he and
Freda had undressed, where they had
entered the water and the boat in
which the death had taken place, state
troopers, county officers and city po-

‘lice fanned out on important investi-

gations.

The most important data these men
uncovered concerned Dorothy
Woods, the girl who had visited the
Edwards’ home earlier that summer.

Bobby Edwards had met her at col-
lege—and he was engaged to be mar-
ried to her!

Chief Powell lodged Bobby Ed-

(continued on next page)

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A

TLoay sity

paute

jensen

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47

re

The girl pointed in the direction of
Mayer’s Landing and dived gracefully

into the water. Bobby followed. He -

was the stronger swimmer. He
reached an anchored boat first and
climbed in.

As the girl he had promised to mar-
ry neared, the summer storm that had
waited uneasily for its ominous cue
unleashed its pent-up fury on lake and
countryside.

Freda placed one hand on the side
of the boat and extended the other for
Bobby to help her up.

Instead he drew a small, black ob-
ject from inside his suit: There was a
quick, swishing movement of his arm
as he stood over the mother of his
child, then the sickening sound of
weighted leather thudding against the
girl’s skull. at, a

Freda McKechnie’s fingers  re-
leased their hold on the boat. Her limp
body bobbed up and down on top of
the water as the boy she had loved
watched it disappear in the. dark-
ness... :

Tuesday morning, July 31st,
dawned bright and clear. The night’s
rain had lifted the atmospheric pres-

sure. The people of Edwardsville

arose and looked out on cloudless
skies. The relief was welcome.

But there was one woman in the
little Susquehanna River town who
had spent a restless night of disturbing
dreams. Mrs. George McKechnie had
been awake when the storm broke;
had heard the..clock in Town Hall
strike midnight; had re-lived all the
joys and sorrows of her daughter's
life between dusk and dawn. What
this uneasiness was, she could not
say; but it was there.

Nervously she looked at her hus-
band who was sleeping peacefully at
her side. Then she smiled. Everything
will be all right,she told herself. Fre-
da will soon be married.

But when Mrs. McKechnie dressed
and went to her daughter’s room she
saw that Freda’s bed had not been
slept in, the curtains of the open win-
dow were wet with the night’s rain
and the pretty wedding garments
were draped over chairs just as they
had been the previous afternoon.

The thought of elopement came
quickly to mind; but that did not seem
logical. Hadn’t Freda looked forward
to a church wedding? Hadn’t she
worked tirelessly on the frocks that
would make her the envy of her girl
friends? te

* There was no good reason why she
should run away to be married in a
plain, everyday dress!

Mrs. McKechnie hurried down-
stairs to tell her husband.

“George,” she said, shaking him
awake, “‘Freda’s eloped!”’

It took several minutes for the fa-
ther to realize the full meaning of the
words. Then he smiled. “All right,”
he, said. "It’s not the first time a girl
has run away to be married. After all,
it’s her wedding.”

When Mrs. McKechnie told him
what she had discovered in Freda’s
room he chuckled philosophically,
“This modern generation,” she
sighed. “They sure do things differ-
ently.” Mrs. McKechnie looked out
of the’ window toward the Edwards
house next door. “Who would have
thought,” she mused, “When they
were growing ,up together, that it
would end this way?”

The mother turned and left the
room. She’d fix breakfast and then
go over to see Mrs. Edwards. They’d
have a good cry together and then it
would be all over until Bobby and
Freda got in touch with them. That’s
the way it should have been, but fate
had another story.

As Mrs. McKechnie placed the cof-
fee pot on the stove she saw a famil-
iar figure in the yard next door. It
was Bobby Edwards!

Their eyes met and the youth
smiled pleasantly.

“Good morning,” he called.

The mother forgot about breakfast.
The next moment she was out in the
back yard. “Bobby,” she exclaimed.
“Where’s Freda? Why didn’t you tell
us?”

The boy’s smile turned to an ex-
pression of puzzlement. “What do
you mean?” he asked. “Isn’t she at
home?” -

Mrs. McKechnie’s heart skipped a
beat. Fear gripped her as she faltered,
“Didn’t she elope with you?”

Bobby Edwards shook his head.
“I dropped her off at her sister’s house
last night,” he answered seriously.
“Didn’t she come home?”

When the anxious mother failed to
answer, the youth put his arm about
her and they walked back into the
McKechnie kitchen. "Don’t worry,”
he pleaded. ‘She'll be all right. May-
be she stayed there all night because
of the storm. Or maybe she went over
to Mary’s.”

Mrs. McKechnie was not so easily

comforted.

“Something has happened to her,”
she managed. “Last night I had a hor-
rible dream. We must find her—”

George McKechnie came in and
heard the details.

“It was almost 9 o’clock when I
saw her last,” Bobby Edwards told
him. “She must have stayed over-
night. I’ll go right over and see.”

Despite the explanations Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie found it hard to believe that
the young couple had not eloped. She
watched the youth return to his own
home. Then her husband took her in
his arms and held her gently.

“Bobby will find her,” he soothed.
“Nothing could have happened to
her.”

But when Bobby Edwards _re-
turned a half hour later Mary Green-
ing was with him. They were both
obviously worried.

“Freda didn’t stay at her sister’s,”
the boy said softly. “She left there
shortly after I did.”

Mary Greening said that she hadn’t
seen Freda either. Then the girl and
mother went into a side room.

“Freda didn’t plan to elope,” Mary
said. “I’m sure of that. She told me
most of her secrets. That church wed-
ding meant a lot to her.”

Mrs. McKechnie summoned all her
strength. “Then there’s nothing for
Father to do but go to the police,” she
sighed.

Mrs. Frank Cronin, the McKech-
nie’s married daughter, was waiting
outside when the mother and girl
friend joined the others.

George McKechnie put his arm
around his wife’s shoulders and said,
“Let’s all be calm about this. We’re
still not sure anything bad has hap-
pened. I'll have a talk with Chief —
Powell. He’ll know what to do.”

As the father went about his grim
task the sun was high over Harvey’s
Lake. .Concessioners were opening
their stands in anticipation of another
busy day. Attendants were cleaning
the beach of debris left by the heavy
rain storm. Children waded along the
water’s edge looking for pretty
shells. On the lake were several
boats, their sails puffed with wind.

A party of vacationers were sailing
their craft on the far side of the
amusement park, near Mayer’s
Wharf, when one of the group point-
ed out in the water and asked, “Is that
a person swimming out there?”

(continued on next page)

45


Death Row Romeo

(continued from page 47).

wards in the county jail that night
while he went over the facts of the
case.

“We’ve got our motive now,” he
said to Detective Dempsey. “This boy
is a regular small town Romeo. He
took advantage of Freda McKechnie’s
innocent love even after he had met
another girl and become engaged to
her while away at college.”

When the chief spoke with Bobby
Edwards later that night he had fin-
ished placing the pieces into the crazy
jig-saw murder puzzle.

“T’ll tell the whole truth,” the ac-
cused boy stated when he realized

' that the perfect story he had manufac-

tured had fallen to pieces. “I grew up
with Freda. Before I went away to
college I thought I loved her. Then I

met Dorothy. She was cultured, more

_ sophisticated. We fell in love. I didn’t

know what to do about Freda. Then
when she became pregnant I knew
something had to be done. I thought
about her a lot, then when she sug-
gested a swim in Harvey’s Lake the
idea came to me. I took a blackjack
from the car that I carried for protec-
tion while driving. I hid it in my
swimming trunks. Then when she
started to climb back into the boat I hit
her. I must have been crazy.”

But the people of the State of Penn-
sylvania did not believe that a killer
who could plan and execute such a
cold-blooded crime was insane.

This was proven to be true when
Bobby Edwards went on the witness
stand at his trial. He had entered a

The Junkman’s Deadly Cargo

(continued from page 15)

He said he was going through the
neighborhood when he spotted a little
girl with dark hair and wearing a
sleeveless white shirt, shorts and ten-
nis shoes. He said he recognized her
from the day before when he was
buying items advertised in the news-
paper and stopped to give her a lift.

“T let her off a few blocks from her
home,” he said. “She said so long and
I never saw her again.” :

He said he didn’t think anything
more about it until he read about the
girl disappearing and the police were
searching for a heavyset man with
dark hair.

He said he recognized the girl in the
newspaper picture as the one he had
given the ride to and knew that the
heavy man police were after was

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tributor to heart disease, »
kidney disease and
blindness. So when you
support the American
Dial mies a ree
you right some of the,
worst diseases of

our time. ) ry

48

him.

“That’s why I ran,” he insisted. “I
didn’t think you guys would believe
me.”

He was right.

Earhart was taken from the police
station to the Brazos County Jail
where he was booked on suspicion of
kidnapping. Led past the media who
gathered in the police station hall-
way, he leaned to a reporter and
whispered, “I didn’t do it.”

The fate of little Kandy was un-
known. Missing for two weeks, it
seemed unlikely that she was still
alive. But without a body or clear ev-
idence of murder, there was always
hope. fu

That evening, police got a call that
sent a chill up the spine. It came from
a man living in rural east Bryan. Ner-
vous and out of breath he said simply,
“I found a body. I think it’s a girl.”

Detectives piled into two police
cars and sped to an address on Villa
Maria ‘Road. It was a familiar drive.
Two weeks earlier, they had taken
the same route to Earhart’s home to
serve the search warrent.

The old man was waiting when '

police arrived. He told them that for
the past few days he had been notic-
ing a foul smell coming from the
woods as he took his evening stroll
through the neighborhood. ‘Each day

plea of not guilty. In court he charged
that the police had frightened him into
making a confession. He testified that
he did hit Freda McKechnie with the
blackjack; but insisted that she was
already dead from a heart attack be-
fore this took place.

The trial was short and bitter for
the two-timing Romeo in
Edwardsville. He was convicted of
murder in the first degree; and the
penalty was fixed at death in the
electric chair.

Judge W. Alfred Valentine, who
had presided at the trial, heard the ap-
peal in Luzerne County Court on No-
vember 30, 1934. However, the mo-
tion for a new trial was refused.

Early in May, 1935, Edwards
walked down the dark corridors of
State’s Prison to his death, thus com-
pleting the last mile on the always un-
marked, always unrecognized road-
way to murder. *

it grew stronger until, unable to stand
it any longer, he decided to investi-
gate.

He said he walked down a dirt
road that led to an illegal dump site
and stopped in front of a pile of rags
and cardboard. “I lifted the cardboard
up with a stick and saw a leg,” he
said.

Investigators removed the rags and
cardboard. Underneath they found the
body of a little girl with brown hair
wrapped five times with electrical
cord. Though it was badly decom-
posed, police knew they had found
Kandy. The tragic news was broken
to the family as gently as possible. In
Houston, Kandy’s mom grieved for
her little daughter but told reporters
she had no wish for revenge.

“I have no urge welling up inside
me to get even,” she told a reporter
between sobs. “I’m getting through
the moment. There’s not room
enough to hate.”

She said she could not understand
why anybody would kill her brown
haired blue-eyed daughter. “I’ve tried
to think of a reason, but I can’t,” she
said. “Kandy was the kind of kid peo-
ple found easy to remember. She
touched everybody she ever met.”

That was evident on March 30,
when family and friends jammed the
tiny First Baptist Church of Bryan to
attend a memorial service for the little
nine-year-old.

Standing before a life-sized portrait

(continued on next page)


Death Row Romeo

(continued from page 45)

All on the boat leaned over the rail
for a closer look. One of the men
cried out, “Look! It’s a girl and she’s
in trouble!”

Without hesitation he dived into the
water and swam to the floating girl!
A large crowd of curious people lined
the shore as the man brought the body
ashore.

“Somebody call a doctor,” he or-
dered. “This girl is—”

But those lines were never fin-
ished. It was obvious to all the girl
was dead. The doctor arrived and
made a quick examination then he
notified Chief of Police Ira Stevenson
of Harvey’s Lake and Dr. Thomas
Wenner, coroner’s pathologist.

Freda McKechnie, well known
throughout the community since early
girlhood, was identified at once.
Chief Richard Powell of
Edwardsville, who had just finished
listening to George McKechnie’s sto-
ry, hurried to the scene.

Dr. Wenner greeted the
Edwardsville officer grimly. ‘Was
this girl married?” he asked.

Chief Powell shook his head neg-
_ atively.

“She was pregnant,” the coroner
said. “Death was caused by a blow
on the back of the head. She was ei-
ther hit with some blunt instrument or
she cracked her head against a boat
while diving.” :

The body was removed to Nesbit
Memorial Hospital at Kingston. Chief
Powell summoned Detective John
Dempsey and notified Captain Wil-
liam Clarke of the Wyoming Barracks
of the State Police at Wilkes-Barre.

“This girl’s father was here a short
while ago,” Powell told Detective
Dempsey. “She’s been missing since
early last evening. And she was en-
gaged to be married to Bobby Ed-
wards the first week of August.
We'll have to talk with him.”

When the handsome youth came
face to face with the officers his eyes
were red with tears; and he had his
story prepared.

“I had a date to meet Freda in town
last night,” he managed. “That was
8:30. Mary Greening was with her.
We took Mary home and then Freda
Suggested that we go for a swim in
Harvey’s Lake. I told her that a storm

was brewing and that we’d better
not. Then she said she’d like to drop
by. her married sister’s house and see
her little niece. I took her there and
left her. That’s’ the last time I saw
her.”

Chief Powell had been studying the
boy closely. He had known Bobby
Edwards since he was a small boy.
He had also known Freda McKechnie
all of her life.

“You’re sure you were not at Har-
vey’s Lake last night?” the chief
asked.

Bobby Edwards said he was posi-

. tive.

When Powell told the boy he could
go there was hesitation on his part.
“If I can do anything,” Bobby said,
“please call on me.”

Detective Dempsey turned to Chief
Powell when they were alone. “Wo-
men do strange things,” he said. “Es-
pecially when they are pregnant.
Maybe she went swimming alone de-
spite this boy’s warning.”

The veteran officer didn’t think so.
“We're going out to Harvey’s Lake,”
he said. “Every boat must be exam-
ined. Of course the rain could have
washed all bloodstains away, but

we've got to try. While we’re there -

we'll check other things too.”

Captain Clarke sent two troopers to
assist.

Before the investigators left for
Harvey’s Lake Chief Powell spoke
with the dead girl’s married sister.

“Freda did stop by here for a few
minutes shortly after 9 o’clock last
night,” Mrs. Cronin told him. “She
wanted to see my daughter; and as far
as I know she was alone.”

It took more than an hour to check
all the boats at Harvey’s Lake. The
storm had broken some of the crafts
from their moorings. These had to be
rounded up; but in the end no trace of
blood was found.

After that the investigators split up.
Chief Powell and Detective Dempsey
Started walking around one side of
the lake. The state troopers ‘went the
Opposite way.

The first thing Powell’s party
found was a clear set of tire treads in
the sandy earth along a seldom used
road. These had been made while the
ground was wet. When the officers
came upon them they were baked

*

hard by the noon-day sun.

Moulages were made on the off-
chance that the prints could be impor-
tant. “There’s.a distinct blemish on
one tread,” the chief commented.
“Maybe the rain will help us in this
instance.”

Powell and Dempsey made the sec-
ond discovery too. Just about a quar-
ter mile from where the tire treads
were they came upon a pile of
clothes. There was a print dress,
white shoes, stockings, brassiere,
slip and a small brown pocketbook.

The two officers waited for the
State troopers to join them. Then they
took the moulages and clothes and
went back to headquarters.

“Maybe Bobby Edwards is telling
the truth,” Chief Powell stated, ‘‘and
maybe he isn’t. Personally I don’t be-
lieve that girl went swimming in a
rain storm alone. We’re going to find
out.” Then he turned to Detective
Dempsey. “Find out what make car
the Edwards own.”

While this was being done the
moulages taken at the lake were
checked. The tires were standard
equipment on all Chevrolets.

State troopers ascertained that the
clothes had been worn by Freda Mc-
Kechnie when she visited her sister
the previous evening. When Detective
Dempsey reported that Bobby Ed-
wards owned and drove a Chevrolet

the youth was brought to headquar-

ters again.

“We are making no accusations,”
Chief Powell told him. “It’s our job
to protect the innocent just as much as
it is to convict the guilty.”

The boy squirmed nervously but
said nothing as the chief waited.

“Freda McKechnie would have had
a baby in five months,” Powell con-
tinued. “You had agreed to marry her.
You admit that you were the next-
to-last person to see her alive. You in-
sist that you were not at Harvey’s
Lake last night; but we know that
you own and drive a Chevrolet. Tire
treads from a car such as yours were
found near Sandy Beach. If you have

anything to say, now is the time to

Say it.”

Bobby Edwards’ anxious eyes be-
trayed his inner feelings.

“I was there,” he said at last. “But I
didn’t kill Freda. Please believe me. |

couldn’t do that. She was the mother
of my child.”

(continued on next page)


URING this interview that Cap-
ae of the Philadelphia Homicide

ot your man, Mr, Smillie. Come

et him.”

e Prosecutor Smillie was speed-
‘-hteen miles from his office in

to the Philadelphia City Hall,

1ographer was busily taking the

of the murderer of Ethel Craft
‘ins.

essor was William J. Earnest.
ng evidence, a glass of water
» two detectives in his diner at
Glenwood Streets.

‘y panic had seized Earnest

when he saw Detectives Costello and Sa-
dorf return an hour after their previous
visit. Costello’s first words reassured him
for a second and then brought him near
collapse when he realized their import.

“We didn’t come to see you this time,”
said Costello. “We want to see Warren
Elwood.”

“Who?” Earnest was white. “There’s
nobody here by that name.”

“Haven't used it in fourteen years have
you? And probably will never use it again,”
he concluded.

Confronted with the fingerprint evidence,
Earnest told the story.

“I had lived with my mother in Horsham

up till two years ago,” he said. “I’d been
to Jim Bready’s house several times. We
left Brady in the car. He was asleep. I
broke in through a window and opened the
door for Mrs, Atkins. She undressed right
away and we laid down on the floor. Then
she started calling me names. One thing
led to another and she picked up the cur-
tain rod and hit me.

“I cursed and lost my head and hit her
and stabbed her. She tried to follow me
down the backstairs. That’s all I know. I
beat it. I told Brady we’d had a fight and
I had to clip her and warned him he’d bet--
ter stick to my story that we left Mrs.
Atkins off at 20th and Montgomery.”

on tonight,” he said. “Be at
< dock tonight at twelve.” He
he companionway to the deck,
called back. “And keep sober!
d think too much when you’re

‘HEELHOUSE, the clock struck

One A. M. I jumped. I was
cat. I flicked my cigarette over
ed at a coil of rope and cursed.
as late again. If he pulled an-
job on me... but before I
ip my mind what I would do if
z black sedan rolled onto the

shore. Frenchy and his goril-

at of the car and began trans-

f dozen suitcases from the back
the cabin of the Sally M.

p one of them. It weighed a
Like a hunk of lead. When

surprise one of the gorillas |

We're moving the arsenal
‘klyn.. If our tip is right the
ling our old hideout now.”

i plank creaked and a footstep
1 the dock. We froze. Auto-

out. A minute later a dim
‘nto sight. He reeled a few
us, stopped, straddled his legs,
ad got very sick.
isy stiff,” said Frenchy. We

1 transferring the arsenal to
Frenchy didn’t go along with
2 off in the car,

he lines, got the motor turn-
ded downstream.
f hours later I pulled along-
ck at the south end of Brook-
was waiting for us in the car.
suitcases back in the sedan.
or slammed on the last one,
d and slipped me a couple of

, Chips,” he said. “Keep your
w.”
tr, the car shot out. Frenchy

t six months I worked steady
t because I wanted to, even
making bigger dough than I
e since Prohibition days, but
: afraid to tell him to go to
adn’t stopped thinking about
1 I knew that if he ever got
thinking of crossing him, I’d
ink too.

Frenchy was a big shot. But
how big he really was till I
vis dirty work. He had con-
the right places.

CRIME RIDES THE TIDE

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 21)

Since Papulos had gone overboard in that
trunk, Frenchy was the mastermind behind
half the dope that was being smuggled into
New York. And every so often, just to
break the monotony, he’d run in a load of
uncut diamonds or a case of watch move-
ments or.a couple of aliens who were will-
ing to ante up a grand or two to get into
the country.

The alien cases were fixed up on the
other side of the water. Frenchy’s connec-
tions went even that far. I don’t know how
he worked it, but he knew every time one
of these birds would be arriving. They’d
come mostly on German, Italian or South
American freighters, signed on as members
of the crew. This was before the War, of
course.

But even if the ship did tie up alongside,
the crew wasn’t allowed ashore. A guard
was always posted aboard the ship to see
they didn’t get off. And there were always
a couple of more on the dock.

The way we got around that was easy.
At a fixed time, usually about three in the
morning, I’d manage to drift the Sally M,
with the motor dead, up under the stern of
the freighter. We'd hang on there till
a rope would come over the stern. Then
our customer would come sliding down the
rope. As soon as he hit the deck, the rope
would be hauled in and we'd shove off.

I WAS IN THE BIG DOUGH again and every-
thing was going along swell.. Then a
case broke that sent every smuggler in New
York running to cover. It was the dumbest
play I ever saw. A couple of Italian lads
over on the East Side had been smuggling
in junk for years. The chief of the mob
was a guy named Luigi Esposito. Two dumb
clucks, Salvatore Luisi and Frank Visciano,
were working for him.

The dicks got wise to them, but they
didn’t have a thing on them. For once, the
cops played it smart.

Sergeant John Sweeney off one of the
Harbor Patrol boats contacted the Esposito
mob. He sold them on the idea that the
safest way to run the junk in was right on
his police boat. To make it look good he
asked for a big. cut.

They put the deal through with Sweeney
and the first job they gave him was to pick
up a $50,000 shipment of dope from the
Italian ship da which was tied up over in
Hoboken. The idea was that after Sweeney
picked up the junk and ferried it across
the Hudson in his police boat, he was to
deliver it to the mob at a dock on the New
York side.

Sweeney got the stuff from the cook on
the Jda. And so as not to tip his hand too
early, he never laid a finger on the cook.

Instead, he climbed down into the police.
boat as if the deal was on the up and up and
headed for New York.

_But what Esposito didn’t know was that
Sweeney. had a short wave radio set aboard
the patrol boat. Once he had cleared the
Ida with the load of junk, he sent a message
to the police and Federal agents to pick up
the Jda’s cook and get set to nab Esposito
and his mob when he contacted them to
make the delivery. :

Sweeney ran his boat alongside the dock,
and climbed out. Esposito and his men
eased out of the shadows, They grabbed
the bundle of junk and were just going to
pay off when a dozen cops and Feds closed
in on them.

There was some gun play for a couple of
seconds. One cop was nicked. But Esposito
and his gang never had a chance.

A couple of days later, Frenchy showed
up one night.

“We’re gonna take a load of junk off the
Umberto,” he said. ‘

“Jeez, Frenchy,” I said, “with all the
stink about Esposito, don’t you think—”

“With all that stink, they won't think
we're suckers enough to try to pull off a
job now.”

“T don’t like it,” I said.

“Who’s asking you whether you liked it 2?”

He spit out the stump of his cigar, hooked
his thumbs in his vest and grinned at me.
“I got the slickest gag worked out,” he
said. “The Umberto ain’t in yet. She’s due
off Fire Island about nine tonight and

oughta drop anchor in the Bay for medical °

inspection about twelve. ‘

“But she ain’t gonna pass that medical °

inspection, see? At least, not till morning.
I been in touch with my man aboard by
wireless. He’s gonna take a‘shot of some
medicine he has and when the doc gets
aboard to examine him he’s gonna have a
rash all over his body and a high tempera-
ture.

“The doc’ll make the Umberto hoist the
yellow flag and anchor off Quarantine till
he finds out whether that rash and fever
are contagious or not. And tonight, at 3
a.m., while’s she anchored out there, we
run the Sally M up under the fo’c’sle and
pick up the load hanging out of a porthole.
Got it? Hell, you won’t even have to kill
the engine, it'll be that easy.”

I had to admit it was a smart idea. And
it worked out just like he said.

The Umberto dropped her hook off
Quarantine around midnight. The port doc-
tor went out to her in the cutter. Sure
enough, a little while later, they hoist the
yellow flag and the Umberto stays right
where she was. When I got abreast the
Umberto, about a hundred feet off her port

a ee

ne

ae

eee

lt en eee


76

in a taproom at 15th Street and Glenwood
Avenue. McNulty left her at 7:15 P.M.
He’s gray haired. -

“About an hour later she entered a tap-
room eight blocks away, at 20th Street and
Montgomery Avenue. This is three blocks
from her home and here she met Adam
Maskovian, who lives around the corner
from her home. She was with Maskovian
and his brother-in-law Russell Tracy until
8 o’clock Tuesday morning, Then they left
her in the same taproom. Maskovian has
gray hair.

“The next man to pick her up was Wil-
liam J. Earnest, who lives on 17th Street
near Diamond, His hair too is streaked
with gray at the temples. Earnest was with
Richard Brady, who incidentally is the
youngest man to have seen her—he’s 24.
Brady lives on Warnock Street in the same
general neighborhood and he was with a
Mrs. Catherine Leonard who lives on Chel-
tenham Avenue. °

“As far as we've found they were the last

to see her alive, and of course we made a ©

very thorough check on them.” :

YE: LEonarD described Mrs. Atkins as.

“a woman who just sat and said
nothing.”

“We were together several hours. The
boys took me home about 10 o’clock and I
ry know what happened after that,” she
said.

Earnest was not at home when Detectives
Costello and Sador called. But they learned
from his wife, Winnie, that he was work-
ing as a cook in a diner at Broad Street
and Glenwood Avenue.

“You don’t think he had anything to do
with the killing, do you?” asked the mother
of Earnest’s two children. “\Vhy he was
home and in bed early Tuesday morning.
He came home about 11 o’clock, said he’d
been drinking and went to bed.”

Earnest told the police a similar story.
He’d known Mrs. Atkins as an habitue of
the taprooms around the neighborhood and
had spent several hours with her Tuesday
morning.

“But she was too drunk to do anything,
so Brady and I kicked her out at 19th and
Montgomery and went home to bed. She
lives around there somewheres, doesn’t
she?”

Earnest even admitted that he’d }iad sev-
eral brushes with the law, had done three
months for a theft charge to which he had
pleaded guilty in 1934. A similar term was
meted out in 1937 when he was arrested for
attacking a 12-year-old boy.

“But I’ve been going straight ever since,”
he insisted. “Every day I work out at the
Germantown Y.M.C.A., and I’ve been work-
ing here steady since last Christmas. Ex-
cept for a few beers now and then I’ve been
clean as a whistle. You don’t think I
knocked her off, do you?”

When Brady corroborated the story, po-

“lice were willing to admit they had run
into even another stone wall.

When Mrs. Atkins’ body was put on view
at her late, humble residence on the night of
Friday, September 27, police thought they
had uncovered a definite break in the case.
Surprised at the thousands who lined up
before the house to see the woman whom
death had plunged into the limelight, Detec-
tives Alexander Starrett, James Lennon
and Costello, accompanied by Edward
Duffy, another of Smillie’s assistants,
mingled with the maudlin throng.

Every one of the thousands, few of
whom knew the woman who had given up
so much for so little, was closely scrutinized
by the officers. Hour after hour as the
crowd filed past the bier, the detectives

‘maintained their vigil, on the theory that
the criminal always returns to the scene of
-his crime. Here, at the viewing before the
funeral, they reasoned, was the next best

/

» .
‘

REAL

DETECTIVE

substitute, rather than dare the loneliness
of the house in Horsham.

Also they kept a close cye on James At-
kins, the woman’s husband. As the night
wore on, they marvelled at the stoicism dis-
played by the man. Calmly he stood beside
his wife’s open coffin, apparently unmoved
by her appearance. From seven until nearly
one A.M. he held his post, accepting the con-
dolences of neighbors and family without
display of emotion.

It was nearly one when John O’Don-
nel, a 49-year-old taproom  frequenter
stepped into the room. Slowly, so none in
the room would notice, the police closed in
on him. He answered too closely the de-

WHAT WAS THE
CRIME oF THE
HEART HUNGRY
FATHER?

READ IT IN THE

r¢7,|4
DETECTIVE

JANUARY ISSUE

scription of one of Mrs. Atkins’ companions
for the police to be mistaken.
' Before O’Donnell realized what was hap-
pening, he had been ushered from the house,
into a police squad car and was facing a
battery of intense questioners in the Phila-
delphia City Hall.

“I didn’t kill her,” he screamed, “I didn’t

have a thing to do with this. Honest I
didn’t.”
“You knew her, didn’t you? Spent a lot

of time with her? Why didn’t you come in
and tell us?”

“I didn’t see her after Monday morning.
I can prove it. Give me a chance, please

. my family.” |

For nine hours.they questioned O’Don-
nell, but never once did he deviate from his
original story.

“T picked her up in a barroom at Broad
Street and Susquehanna Avenue. That was
Saturday afternoon. We went to about a
dozen places in the neighborhood. Satur-
day night, late, we went to my home at 15th
and Cumberland Streets. We...we...
stayed there until Monday morning. We
had a fight Sunday night. She. pulled my
hair... but we patched it up and I took
her to a place at 15th Street and Glenwood
Avenue. I don’t know what happened after
that.”

Even while he told and repeated his story,
police were checking it, only to find they
were traveling in a circle instead of along
what they hoped would be the straight ave-
nue to Mrs. Atkins’ death. O’Donnell
merely had brought them back where they
had started—to the date Mrs. Atkins had
with Maskovian.

His version of his movements from then
on checked well enough to show the dis-
tracted man was striving to tell the truth.

Crm ENGLE was gathered with the
detectives Saturday morning. It was
shortly after the funeral of Mrs. Atkins.

“Either someone's lying—and apparently
getting away with it—or the murderer
never even bought Mrs. Atkins a drink,”
said the head of the homicide squad. “The
latter is unlikely, even though Earnest and
Brady and Mrs. Leonard insist she was too
drunk to hold any more. Also a very
drunken woman is less apt to go riding
with a total stranger than a sober one. A
drunken woman, I've generally found, takes
on reserve rather than looseness. And
there’s the matter of her clothing.

“You'll remember it was neatly folded,
indicating she disrobed herself.”

“I’m inclined to believe Earnest and
Brady, Cap,” said Costello. “I think Ear-
nest is trying to go straight even though
he did have a brush that indicates a tend-
ency toward perversion.”

“Maybe you're right. There is fo indi-
cation of perversion in this case as far as |
can see. But I think it best we keep a tail
on all the men who were with Mrs. Atkins,
We may have allowed a loop, but I don't
think so.”

At this point a telephone call from Prose-
cutor Smillie in Norristown threw an en-
tirely different complexion on the case.

_“T just had a phone call from my assist-

ant, Ben Scirica in Washington,” said
Smillie in an excited voice. “The FBI
check shows the fingerprints compare with
those of a fellow arrested in Jersey City
in 1926 for stealing an auto in Phila-
delphia.”

“What’s his name?” qucried the im-
patient Engle.

“That’s the rib, Captain. The prisoner,
who said his name was Warren Elwood,
put up $1,000 bail and skipped it before
police had a chance to check on him. I
called Jersey City police and they have the
case marked ‘no disposition.’ ”

“That isn’t so good,” admitted Engle. “A
guy who skipped bail fourteen years ago
could be in Timbucktoo by now.”

Undismayed, the detectives continued
plugging. But they could not get beyond
‘Earnest and Brady as Mrs. Atkins’ last
companions.

Again they questioned the cook in his
diner.

“Where was it that you left her?”

“At 19th and Montgomery. I picked her
up at 20th and Montgomery. First we went
to the Chauffeurs’ Club at Broad and Glen-
wood, right across the street from the
diner; then .to the Young Men’s Republic,
a club on South Penn Square and then to
the Entertainers’ at Juniper and Cherry
Streets.

“Was
time ?”

“No, we took her home from the Chauf-
feurs and then came back in town.”

Earnest was so enthralled with the story
he was telling he did not notice when De-
tective Costello slipped a water glass into
his pocket just before he left.

For a third time, Prosecutor Smillie
questioned the slain woman’s husband.

“Did your wife ever express a desire to
see her three children by her marriage to
Angier ?”

“No, sir,” Atkins answered. “Once I of-
fered to pay her way to Durham so she
could visit them, but she said she didn’t
think it was right for me to do it.”

“Did she sav why?”

“No she didn’t. Mostly she dodged any
questions about Angier.”

“Do you know whether or not. she ever
got any money from him?”

“I’m sure she didn’t and I’m sure she
didn’t even try. But she did tell me she
met him on the street a couple of years ago
and he hit her. But then she wouldn’t let
me do anything about it. I did think thev
were already divorced. I didn’t know until
after she was dead that the divorce didn’t
come through before we were married.”

‘'rs, Leonard with you all the


Ss ae ome

REAL DETECTIVE

etn

suicide during Valentine’s administration,
Professor A. A. Brill, of Columbia Univer.
sity and a well-known psychologist, volun-
teered the explanation that the cause arose
from two sources: :

First, the nature of a cop’s work in time
tends to make him callous, hard-boiled, in-
different to death,

Second, suicide is especiall easy for a cop
since he always has a gun. In almost every

- man’s life there comes a certain “psycholog-

ical moment” when death seems like an at-
tractive and easy out. When that moment
arrives, all a cop has to do is reach for his
gun, as Lederer, Finkelstein and ninety-
eight others did in the past six years.

But that explanation, logical as it sounds,
does not fit this particular bill. Cops have
always been hard-boiled. They have al-
ways carried guns by their side. Brill’s
analysis ‘!\s not explain the enormous in-
crease 1) suicides in the last Six years.

SUICIDE AMONG THE FINEST

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 4)

After the suicide of Finkelstein last May,
William R. Hart, Brooklyn member of the
New York City Council, offered a resolu-
tion in the Council to investigate the rising
curve of police suicides, N othing ever came

~ of that.

There have been many rumors and at-
tempted explanations of the increase.

One, is that Commissioner Valentine is a
“tough man to shave.” A straight, stern
copper himself, he has put tremendous
Pressure on his men. He has kept them
constantly on their toes, and maintained
the strictest discipline. After the years of
pre-LaGuardia graft and corruption, Valen-
tine has leaned over backward to keep his
department as clean as the proverbial
hound’s tooth. The price—or so the story
goes—has been a great increase in nervous
tension among the ranks,

Another explanation offered by the street-
corner gossips is “loan sharks.”

According to this version, many cops have
gotten deeply in hock due to Depression sal-
ary cuts. The Shylocks have been turn-
ing the screws on them. To avoid depart:
mental discipline and disgrace, the unfortu-
nate cops have taken the “easier Way out.”

There may be something in the loan
shark theory.

On the same day Patrolman Lederer
killed himself seven captains in the Hobok-
en, New Jersey, Fire Department were sus-

pended by Public Safety Director. Michael

Kearins for failure to pay their debts,
Previously, Captain James Crosson had
been suspended for piling up $7,300 in debts
during fourteen years, ;

What is the story—the real story—be-
hind this hundred per cent increase in the
New York Police Department’s | suicide
rate? :

What is the explanation for the increase?

What do YOU think is the cause?

Atkins’ answer was slow in coming,

“Yes, sir, she was, to a fellow named
Angier, who’s related to the Dukes, the
tobacco family.” He was reluctant to con-
tinue, but Smillie persisted,

“Angier didn’t get a divorce until after
Ethel and I were married. I didn’t know
about it when I married her, but she told
me later. She told me she’d met her former
husband on the street and he’d slapped her
face. His name is John C. Angier, and he’s
supposed to be a cousin of Doris Duke. He
lives in Baltimore now, but he’s been around
Philadelphia looking for old farmhouses to
remodel.”

“Where did you get that cut on your lip?”
Smillie asked suddenly.

“I must have cut myself shaving,” Atkins
told him.

HILADELPHIA police, meanwhile were

lending invaluable assistance to their
‘suburban neighbors. Reports that Mrs, At-
kins had been seen in no fewer than twenty
taprooms between Friday evening and Mon-
day midnight caused a welter of conflicting
clues that ended in Captain William Engle,
head of the Philadelphia homicide squad,
taking personal charge of the case. Work-
ing with him on a 24-hour a day basis were
Detectives Thomas Costello and Adam
Sadorf of his own efficient corps, together
with Montgomery County Detectives James
Gleason and Rankin.

Together they traced Mrs, Atkins’ move-
ments from taproom to taproom throughout
the North Philadelphia section. Their first
break came from William Black, 2920
Frankford Avenue, who tends bar in the
Elwood taproom at Daughin and Amber
streets, a few blocks from Mrs. Atkins’
home,

“She was in here Friday night wiih two
men,” he said. “One I’m sure was |: hus-
band. She called the other ‘Uncle.’ They

- didn’t stay very long. I noticed her hus-

band was angry with her about something.”

Confronted with this fact, Atkins ad-
mitted he and Titus Bearmore had accom-
panied his wife to the taproom, but had re-
turned home early. He had quarreled with
his wife, he said, because he knew what
would happen if she continued drinking.
Bearmore, 65 years old, confirmed Atkins’
story.. They had returned home early Fri-
day night and he had tried to stop a quarrel
between his niece and her husband. Atkins,
he said, had remonstrated with his wife
about her desire to go on drinking. When
he left the Opal street house, however,
peace had been restored, he insisted,

It was tedious legwork for the detectives,
this trying to check the murdered woman’s
movements. Try as they did they could not
fill the void between Midnight Saturday and
noon Monday. Then from noon Monday
until late Monday night they again picked
up the thread, losing it again from 10 P.M.
Monday until the time her body was found.

Smillie, meantime, had located Angier at
his home at 900 Argonne Drive in a fash-
ionable section of Baltimore.

Informed that his first wife had been
murdered, he volunteered to come to Phila-
delphia and lend all possible aid in the in-
vestigation. He told Smillie during their
four-hour interview that his father was a
brother-in-law of Benjamin N, Duke,
founder of the Tobacco fortune—that his
grandfather, Melbourne Angier had been
twice Mayor of Durham, North Carolina,
seat of the Duke Dynasty.

He admitted marrying Ethel M. Craft,
a 16-year-old waitress in Philadelphia April
7, 1921. .

“We had three children, two boys and a
girl, who are now living with my mother in
Durham. We separated fifteen years ago
right after the birth of our last child, and
when our oldest boy was three. She left
me and I found her and asked her to try
agai Ve lived tacethoxs nxn ie fava’

DEATH FOR THE PICKUP

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 11)

She sued me for divorce but the suit never
came up. I filed in March, 1938 and got a
decree on April 12 this year.

“Why the two years lapse between the
time of filing and the actual decree?” he was
asked.

“We couldn’t locate Ethel to serve her
with the papers.”

“Did you ever see her from the time you
last separated until the divorce Pe”

“No sir,” he replied, :

He volunteered to submit to fingerprint-
ing or any other tests police recommended
in an effort to clear his name. He corrobo-
rated his successor’s story of their wife's
frequent mental lapses when drinking, say-
ing she had disappeared seven or eight times
during their life together.

The probe now proceeded on several
fronts. The taproom check in Philadelphia
went on relentlessly. Assistant District At-
torney Benjamin Scirica himself took such
Physical clues as had been assembled to the
famed FBI laboratory in Washington.
These included the wisps of hair, the wom-
an’s clothes and two sets of unidentified
fingerprints. Two other sets had been con-
clusively identified—the bloody hand print
at the top of the back stairway in the Hor-
sham house was that of the victim herself,

The fingerprints of James Bready, the
owner of the house were found on the front
stairway bannister, but nowhere else. The
victim’s fingerprints also were found on the
bloody curtain rod and bed post. Only one
set of prints were found on the splintered
club, the razor blade and-a window sill ina
second floor bedroom. N owhere was there
a trace of the fingerprints of either Atkins
or Angier,

Further puzzlement was caused by the
Story of 12-year-old Reuben Anders, a
Horsham school boy, that he had seen a car
with two men and a woman moving slowly
away from the farmhouse at 3:30 PM om


time fixed by Dr, Simpson as the hour of
death. The boy’s story was bolstered by
Gilbert L. Hish, a Glenside lawyer and
former assistuut to Prosecutor Smillie.
High and his wife had seen a car parked in
front of the farmhouse at 6:30 i’.Al. on
Sunday. Three men and a woman were
then in the car, he insisted. The cars de-
scribed by Reuben Anders and High were
the same make.

i WAS AT THIS point that Smillie held a
council of war with his own staff and

tives of his wife’s—are willing to swear to
it. Bready, too has cleared himself. He
made the fingerprints on the bannister when
he went to the house with Charles Leo and
found the body. He was at the house early
Sunday but his version of his movements
on Monday and Tuesday check 100 per cent.
“Also Dr. Simpson’s emphatic declaration
that Mrs. Atkins was not raped, proved
that she went willingly to the house with
someone she knew and trusted and that the
fight that resulted in her death developed
after she had been there quite some time.”

cially puzzling is the fact that Angier stayed
married to her until last April—only five
months ago, mind you—

“Then too, she apparently never tried to

see her three children, nor has it been ex-
plained how she gave them up. We know
she filed suit for divorce in 1928 and never
pressed it. Why?”

; “When we find out,” Smillie said slowly,
‘we may have the answer, and maybe not.
I’m inclined to disbelieve that this is a hired
killer job. It’s too messy for that. No,
I’m still inclined to leave both Angier and

America Bragga, 24, lifts hi

Sumy
s arms in surren

- Bragga shot himself and collapsed.
minati was discovered, dead of a bullet wound. Her sister,

eae
der as sheri

‘ie i

fi?s posse surrounds him in
On front seat of his car the body of 50-year-old Mrs. Louise Car-
Olympia Garzoli, was also shot critically.

<e
ors

Petaluma, Calif.

ti

the assistance of the Philadelphia police.

“Obviously the killing climaxed a week-
end sex orgy in the house,” he began.

“But, Mr. Smillie, we have evidence that
the woman was in Philadelphia Monday
and part of Tuesday,” put in Captain Engle.

“Also, Chief,” added Rankin, “Bready in-
sists he visited the house on Sunday and
found everything O.K.”

Smillie was forced to admit his theory
was a bit unlikely, that the investigation
was up against a stone wall.

“Angier couldn’t possibly have committed
the crime,” he insisted. “Baltimore police
have checked his whereabouts positively.
He was in Baltimore at the time his former
wife was killed. Atkins’ alibi also seems to
be ironclad. He was home with his. chil-
dren and at least two witnesses—both rela-

“You can’t deny,” Engle interposed,
“That two men—Angier and Atkins—would
have reason for killing or wanting her
killed. I’ll admit that it doesn’t seem pos-
sible for either to have done it, but, there
are several angles that don’t clear up. At-
kins said his wife told him of meeting
Angier on the street and that Angier
slapped her. On the other hand Angier in-
sists he never saw the woman from 1929 on
—more than 11 years. It’s funny that she
never went after any of the Duke millions
to which Angier is a part heir, that she’d
just give up her three children without a
cent.

“Tt doesn’t sound reasonable that a woman
who could have been living in luxury,
should be content with an $18-a-month
shack in a squalid neighborhood. Espe-

Atkins out of it entirely. I’m set on that.”

“So am I,” agreed Engle, “but I can’t
help wishing this taproom check-up would
prove a little more fruitful. So far we have
found and questioned five men who admit
having been with Mrs. Atkins at various
times between noon Monday and Tuesday
morning. We still haven’t found a man
with whom she must have spent consider-
able time, starting Saturday at noon.

“And believe me we've checked every
story carefully and in practically every case
have been able to get fingerprints and a
sample of the man’s hair—most of them are
gray or partly gray.

“For instance, we’ve an excellent picture
of what she did from Monday noon to Tues-
day morning. She had a ninety-minute date
Monday afternoon with Edward McNulty,


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Wilson of prearing for America’s entry
into the war.

The bear was ready for the wolf—-but
the wolf had lost none of his cunning. No
sooner had the prosecution set out to prove
that Keller could not conceivably have
seen McNichol as he contended, than the
defendant calmly announced that he had
been lying! Once again he made use of
his opponent's strength by going with the
punch. Keller asserted that he had never
seen his former partner but had lied be-
cause he needed money, and thought that
that would be a good way to get some
from Mrs. McNichol.

Nor was that all. Later in the trial Kel-
ler wielded the same technique brilliantly
and almost shattered the State’s case. It
was a booby-trap. Keller was on the stand,
being cross-examined by the prosecutor,
and the build-up was intended to bring Al
Crane into the story. If Keller could be
made to admit that he was the last person
to have seen his nephew alive, the jurors
could draw their own conclusions.

But Keller said: “Al Crane was my
nephew, and up to this point I have kept
silent. I cannot keep silent any longer.
Al was a violent-tempered boy, quite un-
controllable when he flew into rages, and
Danny McNichol was someone that Al
didn’t like. Shortly after my good friend
Danny vanished from sight, my nephew
Al did, too. He never even said good-bye.”

It was a master stroke because in one
swoop it had focussed suspicion on Crane,
while at the same time taking from Kel-
ler’s shoulders any responsibility for the
boy’s disappearance. The prosecutor rushed
in to cast doubt on Keller’s role in this
matter, but the damage had already been
done in the minds of the jurors.

Fortunately Belshaw had kept one ace
up his sleeve. The prosecutor played it
now. |

Into the courtroom strode a man named
Lester Fendelman. After being sworn in,
he quickly made clear to the jurors why
he had been called by the prosecution.
His occupation? Second-hand dealer in
trunks. * Had he ever sold a trunk to the
defendant? He had. When? In the spring
of 1914. And how could he be sure of
his identification? Because he had done
business with the leather goods firm of
McNichol & Keller on Hamilton Street,
and he was certainly familiar with Mr.
Keller. Could he add anything else to this
identification?’ Yes—Mr. Keller had some-
one with him, a young man whom: he ad-
dressed as “AI.”

The State rested.

In the final analysis, however, when the
chips were down in the jury room, Bel-

.shaw’s dogged perserverance proved suffi-

cient to put Keller out of circulation for
a while. But the jurors, confused by the
man’s cunning tactics, failed to find him
guilty of either first- or second-degree mur-
der. They settled for manslaughter; and
the judge gave him the maximum sentence
possible under the law, ten to twelve years.

However, Fate caught up with Edward
Keller. In 1925, a year after his release
from prison, he was making off with a hot
bankroll when he collapsed and died from
a heart attack.

Epitor’s Note: The name Al Crane
in the foregoing story is fictitious.

NUDE

(Continued trom page 29)

a description of my missing wife. I came
over to find out.”

Munshower took Atkins back to his own
office. There the bereaved man told the
detective a straightforward story of his
life with Ethel Atkins. He made no ob-
jection when Munshower asked for
samples of his hair and his fingerprints to
match against the one found on the win-
dow of the Bready farmhouse.

By Thursday morning Munshower had
been informed that neither the hair found
under his wife’s nails nor the fingerprint
on the window was that of James Atkins.

Among other things which Munshower
had learned from Atkins was the fact of
the existence of John Cicero Angier,
Ethel’s first husband. Atkins had also
mentioned that Ethel had told of a recent
meeting with Angier.

A routine check revealed the fact that
Angier resided in Baltimore. District At-
torney Smillie reached Angier by long-
distance telephone. Angier seemed greatly
shocked at the murder, He promised to
come to Norristown the following day to
offer the officers any possible help.

Smillie then made a second call—this
time to the Baltimore chief of police, re-
questing that official to check up on
Angier’s whereabouts on the day of the
killing.

On Friday, John Angier, accompanied
by his lawyer, strode into the Norristown
courthouse. He denied that he had been
in Horsham Township on the day of the
killing. Furthermore, he denied having
been in Philadelphia or cven the State
of Pennsylvania for at least six months.

Munshower was extremely interested in
this last.

“Did you see your former wife in Phila-
delphia within the past two weeks?”

“L did not,” Angier said emphatically.
“I haven't seen her for years.”

“Tell me,” Munshower said,
you and Ethel separate?”

“She left me. She just walked out of
the house one day and refused to come
back.”

The fact that both the prominent Mr.
Angier, and also the husband of the vic-
tim had excellent reputations did not stop
the probe of their activities at the time
of the crime, for of course no person
who could possibly be a logical suspect—
no person, regardless of spotless reputa-
tion—could be overlooked in a case of
this kind.

Munshower recalled what Atkins had
told him of his wife’s idiosyncrasy. “Did
she ever go off for a few days at a time
without telling you where she was?”

“Yes. She did that two or three times.”

This was about all the pertinent in-
formation Munshower ,could obtain from
Angier. Moreover, a communication from
Baltimore’s police chief established the
fact that. Angier had been in the Mary-
land city at the time of the killing.

And now that these men were cleared,
Munshower seemed at a real dead end
in the investigation. The detective knew

“why did

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page 29)

a

ng wife. 1 came
s back to his own
ed man told the
wd story of his
4e made no ob-
wer asked for
lis fingerprints to
sund on the win-
1oUse.
Munshower had
er the hair found
or the fingerprint
of James Atkins.
vhich Munshower
, was the fact of
Cicero Angier,
Atkins had also
{ told of a recent

led the fact that
wore. District At-
Angier by long-
er seemed greatly
He promised to
following day to
ssible help.
second call—this
nief of police, re-
‘0 «check up on
1 the day of the

sier, accompanied
to the Norristown
that he had been
yn the day of the
1¢ denied having
vr even the State
least six months.
mely interested in

mer wife in Phila-
two weeks?”

said) emphatically.
years.”

er said, “why did
Bi

ust walked out of
| refused to come

the prominent Mr.
usband of the vic-
ations did not stop
ivities at the time
course no person
a logical suspect—
of spotless reputa-
oked in a case of

what Atkins had
idiosyncrasy. “Did
few days at a time
here she was?”
wo or three times.”
| the pertinent in-
could obtain from
ommunication from
ief established the
been in the Mary-
of the killing.
> men were cleared,
oa real dead end
Vhe detective knew

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there was a difficult and arduous job

Engle of the Philadelphia Police.

“It’s reasonable to. assume,” Munshower
said, “that the woman was hanging around
the taverns of Philadelphia. I want sev-
eral officers to check them, to show photo-
graphs of Ethel Atkins to the bartenders.
Find out if they remember seeing her.
Especially with a gray-haired man.”

ON THE second day of the check, the
investigators hit something resembling
paydirt. ‘A bartender stated that he re-
called the girl of the picture he was shown.
She had been in the tavern on the Friday
before the murder with a gray-haired man
and a younger man.

Munshower, hearing this news, imme-
diately got in touch once more with James
Atkins.

“That's right,” Atkins said. “I was in
that tavern with Ethel on Friday night.”

“The bartender tells me that you were
quarrelling with her.”

“It wasn’t much of a quarrel.
her to stop drinking, that’s all.”

“And who was the gray-haired man at
your table?”

“My uncle. Charles Atkins. He lives in
North Philadelphia. He sort of acted as
a peacemaker between us.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?
You knew that we believed a man with
gray hair killed your wife.”

Atkins regarded the detective in utter
astonishment.

“That’s ridiculous!” he said at last.
“Uncle Charlie wouldn’t kill anybody.”

“Nevertheless,” Munshower came back,
“let’s go to see him.”

Atkins went along with the detective
to a respectable residential section in
North Philadelphia. Uncle Charlie was at
home. His hair was gray. However, there
were no scars or scratches on his face, and
his wife and family provided him with
a perfect alibi for the date in question,

He also complied willingly enough when
Munshower requested samples.of his hair.
Within four hours Munshower knew it
wasn't the hair he sought. Along with
Angier and Atkins, Uncle Charlie was
definitely in the clear.

A month went by. The Philadelphia
papers ran several pictures of the slain
woman, and printed appeals to anyone
who had seen her between Saturday and
the fatal Tuesday of her death to come
forward.

Eventually, five weeks after Charles Leo
had found her corpse, someone did.

He was a man of about 40, and his
hair was graying at the temples. He
averred that on Tuesday morning at nine
o'clock he had been drinking with Ethel
Atkins. He had left her in the company
of two men.

He was immediately sent from Phila-
delphia to Norristown to be interviewed
by Munshower. He not only repeated his
statement about secing Ethel Atkins on
the day of her death but, he added, the
bartender in the tavern whom he knew
had seen her also.

Once again Munshower communicated
with the Philadelphia police. As a result,
the bartender in question, Robert McNeil,

1 wanted

ahead. He enlisted the aid of Captain

was shortly on his way to Munshower's

office.

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g

it's in here?”
can go up-
or froze him

and looked
stairs. Two
e was naked;

x room. He
¢ the police.”
neighbor and
the Pennsyl-
ounty Detec-

scene. Mun-
the coroner's,
On the heels
rphy. Deputy
Crist.
and the clec-
was to send
vy to turn on

‘stions of the
ous that none
iding the dead

ise for several
s day.

rower said to
zerprints. The
indow. There

Doctor SIMPSON returned from his initial examination of
the girl's body. “She’s been beaten to death,” he announced.
“With some heavy metal instrument, most likely.”

A few minutes later, Munshower found that instrument in the
bedroom upstairs. It was a heavy curtain rod, and it was stained
with blood, as were the walls and the carpets.

Munshower asked the doctor when the girl had been killed.
Simpson gave it as his opinion that she had died sometime be-
tween noon and two o'clock of that day.

Munshower’s primary problem was that of identifying the
corpse. An examination of her clothing showed no distinctive
markings. But on her finger was a wedding ring. Munshower
removed it, peered at its inside.

He made out a tiny engraving: J. F. A. to E. M A. September
30th, 1935, Tae

The chief of detectives ordered the county records. searched to
see if a couple bearing the initials had been married on September
30th, 1935.

Now Murphy, who had been tracking down fingerprints, re-
ported that the prints on the curtain rod were too smudged to
be of any use, However, he had managed to discover a single,
really clear print. ‘That had been on the frame of the smashed
window. eo

The girl’s body was removed to the Memorial Hospital for an
autopsy. Norristown reported that no one whose initials were
either J. F, A. or E. M. A. had been married there on the date in
question, A call to the Missing Persons’ Bureau brought no results
either. No one answering the dead woman’s description had been
reported missing.

“Try Philadelphia,” Munshower told Murphy. “Both the Mar-
riage Licence Bureau and Missing Persons.”

While Murphy was attending to these chores, Doctor Simpson
telephoned from the hospital.

“I've found three white hairs beneath the fingernails,” he an-
nounced, “And they don't match with the hair of the deceased.
They. must have come from her assailant. Moreover, there is

5 HU eK

human skin under the nails, too. The killer probably has a
scratched -face.”

ON THE following day~-Wednesday—Philadelphia reported

that on September 30th, 1935, there was recorded a marriage
between James Francis Atkins and Ethel May Atkins. However,
they no longer resided at the address given on the license applica-
tion.

Munshower was still thinking over this last message when he
received a call from Coroner Rushong.

“I've just got positive identification,” he said. “The woman is
Ethel Atkins. Her husband is here right now. He’s just identified
her.”

Munshower hung up and raced over to the local mortuary.
James Atkins awaited him. .

Munshower came directly to the point. “Do you have any idea
who killed your wife?” °

“None.”

“If you live in Philadelphia, how is it that your wife’s body
was found out here, near Norristown?”

Atkins shrugged. He couldn’t answer that, cither.

“When did you last see your wife?” Munshower asked.

“On Saturday. Saturday morning, just before I left for work.”

“This is Wednesday. You last saw your wife on Saturday. Have
you reported her missing?”

Atkins, it seemed, had not reported her missing. “I know,”
he conceded, “that it sounds odd. But my wife had a strange
habit of disappearing from time to time. She'd take a few drinks
and forget to come home.”

“Didn't you worry about her?”

Atkins lost some of his self-possession. “Of course, I worried
about her,” he shouted. “I’ve been half-crazy searching for her
for the past few days.”

“How did you happen to come over here looking for her?”

“I read the story in this morning’s paper. The description of
the murdered woman read very much like (Continued on page 54)

the youthful
( hin arrest.

The vacant Pennsylvania farmhouse shown in the Justice of the Peace M. W. Scanion (left) and
photo nhove was the scene of horror and murder. Detective Kay Munshower iInapect victim's drenn.

29


and his wife, who was also in the car, owned a farmhouse situated
on the Dreshertown Road in Horsham Township, near Norris-
town, Pennsylvania. , :

The Leos, who had evinced an interest in renting the house on a
yearly basis were about to view the property. It was late in the
afternoon when the Bready car approached the farmhouse.

Bready braked, got out of the car and said with some annoy-
ance: “One of those downstairs windows has been broken. Either
a tramp or a vandal must have been around.” : +

He unlocked the front door. The four persons walked slowly
through the living room into the kitchen. Other than the stove
the sole piece of furniture in that room ‘was a ‘shabby settee.
Mrs. Bready looked at it and blinked. ’

“What on earth is that?” she asked. P

“That” appeared to be a silk slip, a woman’s dress and a pair
of torn stockings which were strewn on the settee. Bready stared
at them, puzzled. “That’s odd!” he said.

Charles Leo had crossed the room. He put his hand on the

knob of a door on the east side of the kitchen. “What's in here?”
he asked. ,

“The back stairway,” Bready said. “Open it. We can go up-
Stairs that way.” :

Leo opened the door. His eyes gaped wide. Horror froze him
to immobility on the threshold.

Brendy crossed the room, said, “What's wrong?” and looked
over Leo's shoulder. A girl lay, head down, on the stairs. Two
facts about her were immediately apparent. First, she was naked;
second, she was dead.

Bready ‘ordered the women to wait in the living room. He
said to Leo: “You wait here. I'll go out and telephone the police.”

Bready raced 200 yards to the home of his nearest neighbor and
put through a call to the Doylestown Barracks of the Pennsyl-
vania State Police. He also telephoned Chief of County Detec-
tives Kaye Munshower.

Within 20 minutes the Law converged upon the scene. Mun-

shower arrived, accompanied by Doctor Simpson, the coroner’s,

physician and District Attorney Frederick Smillie. On the heels
of this group came County Detective Albert Murphy, Deputy
Coroner William Rambo and State Trooper Harry Crist.

By this time the sun had set; it was quite dark, and the elec-
tricity was not turned on. Munshower'’s first move was to send
Murphy to phone the Philadelphia Electric Company to turn on
the lights.

In the meantime, Munshower asked several questions of the
Breadys and the Leos. It became immediately obvious that none
of them knew anything of the circumstances surrounding the dead
young woman.

Bready stated that he had not been in the farmhouse for several

, months, Leo had never been there at all before this day.

When the lights were finally turned on, Munshower said to
Murphy: “I want the entire house gone over for fingerprints. The
house was evidently entered through the broken window. There
may be prints on the sill or the glass.” -

ie ere
FP STM ST ate
Sake 52> ye.

A patch of gray hair on the head of the youthful
man pletured at the left brought about his arrest.

OCTOR §
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30th, 1935.

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30th, 1935,

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McNeil corroborated the man's story.
He said the girl had remained behind with
two men. Then the trio had gone out
together about half an hour later.

“Who were the men?” Munshowed
asked.

“One of them is called Don. The other
one is Whitey. I don’t know their last
names.” .

“I assume,” Munshower said, “that this
man is known as Whitey because of the
color of his hair?”

“Right. He has a white patch.”

“Do you have any idea where either
of these men might live?”

"McNeil shook his head. After a thought-

ful,moment, he added: “I’d guess they live
somewhere near the tavern. They're in
that tavern a lot. I’d say they were neigh-
borhood boys.”

Once more Captain Engle’s good offi-
ces were called upon. An intensive search
was instituted in the neighborhood of Mc-
Neil’s tavern for Don and Whitey. A
pair of plainclothesmen found Don first.

He was Don Carter, a young man just
this side of thirty. Brought to headquar-
ters and confronted by Captain Engle,
Carter admitted being present in the tav-
ern on the fateful Tuesday morning.

“But,” he continued, “I left Whitey and
the girl right after we went from the
tavern. Whitey fell hard: for her. He
asked“her to go for a drive with him in
the country. So they dropped me, and off
they went.” -

“In whose car?”

_ “Mine. Whitey borrowed it from me.
He brought it back late that same night.”

“What's Whitey’s real name?”

“William Earnest.”

Carter also furnished the address of his
friend. He was held while a detective was
despatched to pick up Earnest. Engle put
through a call to Munshower who raced
in, posthaste, from Norristown.

FARNEST was some 35 years old. As
Munshower faced him, he_ noted,
rather to his disappointment that his hair
was raven black.
In response to the first question’ asked
him, Earnest said, “Sure; I saw the woman
that morning. We all left the tavern to-

- gether. Then she drove away with Carter.

1 don’t know what happened after that.”

Munshower walked around Earnest and
stood behind him. The prisoner had a
small patch of gray on the back of his
head.

Munshower said: “Either you or your
friend is lying. Each of you says the other
drove off with Ethel Atkins. I'm inclined,
Earnest, to believe that you're the guy who
isn’t telling the truth.”

A laboratory specialist was called in to
take u sample of Earnest's patch of gray
hair. Both Carter and Earnest were finger-
printed. Munshower rushed the hair
samples and the prints back to Norris-
town. Engle held the two prisoners in
custody.

Two and a half hours iter, Munshower
returned. He addressed Earnest.

“Our laboratory expert tells me that
your hair is exactly similiar to the hairs
found under the dead girl’s nails. More-
over, it is your fingerprint on the broken
window of the house where you killed
her. You're under arrest for murder!”

Earnest vehemently denied his guilt,
even in the face of this damning evidence.
However, after a severe questioning, both
Carter and Earnest admitted they had
both driven to the deserted house.

But Carter vowed he had not left the
car. He had remained at the wheel while
Earnest and the girl went inside after
Earnest had smashed the window. Later,
Earnest had emerged from the house, say-
ing that the girl insisted on remaining.
Carter had then taken Earnest back to
Philadelphia.

The police were inclined to believe
Carter, They concentrated their questions
on Earnest. Finally he cracked. He ad-
mitted the killing. He gave various and
conflicting motives for his brutal action.

It appeared, however, that onte inside
the house Ethel Atkins, for the first time,
realized her danger. She repulsed Earnest’s
advances. In a frenzied rage he had ripped
down, the curtain and beaten her brutally
with the metal rod. ,

It also became apparent that Earnest
had once lived in Horsham Township.
He had known that there was no tenant
in the Bready house.

Earnest was indicted in November on
a charge of first degree murder. He was
brought to trial on December Sth, 1940.
After four days of argument his case was
given to a jury, which after a short de-
liberation brought in a verdict of guilty.

Earnest was sentenced to death. Re-
manded to Eastern Penitentiary, his
lawyers filed an appeal.

The appeal was denied, and Earnest
met death in the electric chair on October
27th, 1941.

It was the opinion of the authorities
that Ethel Atkins had told her husband an
untruth about her meeting with Angier,
her former husband. They reasoned that
she lied to explain why she had been out
so late-on the night in question.

, Epivor'’s Nore: The name “Don Car-
ter” used in the foregoing story is fic-
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LUST MADDENED

CANNIBAL

SELDOM IN AMERICA HAS THERE BEEN SUCH AR
UNREASONABLE SEX CRIMINAL. SECRET DETECTI
FINE POLICE WORK SHOWN IN THIS CASE WILL
KEEP THE WOMEN WE LOVE SAFE FROM SUC

by WILLIAM MADDEN

HE naked body of the girl lay
"T soraiea, head downward, on

the dusty, wooden steps. The
tangled legs clung with = gro-
tesque delicacy to the stairs, bal-
ancing the body so that it seemed
to be poised in mid-air. There was
a silk stocking and one white shoe
on one of the upward pointing
limbs as if Death, with a sardonic
chuckle, had added this last bizarre
worldly touch to the unreality of
this ghastly scene. Charles Leo
stared with stunned incredulity
upon the twisted contours of the
woman’s body, her drooping, soft
brown hair and the pool of coagu-
lated blood soaking into the wood.
Could this be a nightmare which
the Devil Incarnate with fiendish
glee had perpetrated in his imag-
ination? Leo gasped. With sicken-
ing impact, the stark reality of
the corpse on the narrow stairway
thrust upon his senses the knowl-
edge that this was Death, Violent
Death, confronting his staring eyes.
Cold sweat suddenly covered Leo’s
body as he turned and ran through
the kitchen to the front rooms of
the deserted house.

“Don’t come in! Go back to the
car!” he shouted hysterically to
Mrs. Leo, his wife, and to Mr. and
Mrs. James C. Bready who were
at that moment entering the front
door. As the other three stopped
in their tracks, looking at Leo in
amazement, he shouted again.

“Don’t come in here! There’s a
dead woman on the back stairway!”
He shuddered as he continued more
calmly, “Get the police.”

Leo escorted the two women to
the car parked outside on Horsham

Mrs. Ethel Atkins, victim of the drunken beast.

OLTING AND
HOPES THE
ONTINUE TO
“MONSTERS

Road. A few minutes later when
James C. Bready emerged from the
house after looking at the body, his
face was pale and grim as if he,
too, had seen the Spectre of Death.

“You three wait here,” he said.
He started the car motor and drove
off alone up the lonely road to-
wards Willow Grove.

It had been sundown when Leo
and his- wife and Mr. and Mrs.
Bready had driven up to the two-
and-a-half story frame house on
Dresher Road, Horsham Township,
north of Philadelphia. And now, as
darkness settled over the rolling,
peaceful suburban countryside, the
eerie loneliness of the spot be-
came more oppressive. Leo looked
at his watch. It was nearing eight
o'clock. Once again, the recollec-
tion of the.cold, lifeless but beau-
tiful figure sprawled upon the
stairs inside the house came into
his mind. He moved closer to his
wife and Mrs. Bready who stood
huddled under a tree by the road-
side. The coolness of the Septem-
ber night air was pierced by the
wail of a siren as the radio-patrol
car of the Pennsylvania State Po-
lice, piloted by Trooper Sergeant
Miller turned off the highway and
sped towards the lonely farmhouse
on Dresher Road. Although time
seemed endless, it had, in fact,
been only a few minutes since
Bready had put in his telephone
call to the Norristown Police Sta-
tion.

Detective Kaye Munshower join-
ed the Pennsylvania State Troopers
in their inspection of the scene
of the murder. That this was in-
deed murder was obvious from the

condition of the unknown wom-
an’s bruised and beaten body.
County Detective Harry D. Rankin,
who was with Detective Kaye Mun-
shower when they made their ini-
tial inspection, told District Attor-
ney Smillie that their problem was
to find an inhuman monster cap-
able of unbelievable brutality. Mun-
shower corroborated this analysis
by pointing out that the body was
nude and that the blue polka-dot
dress and white slip which the
woman had undoubtedly been
wearing when she came to the de-
serted house had been found on the
settee in the front parlor. Both Ran-
kin and Munshower stressed the
fact that although there was blood
on the woman’s body and on her
hands, the articles of clothing were
not bloodstained. The unsoiled con-
dition of the dress and slip, Mun-
shower argued, indicated that the
woman had been completely dis-
robed for some time prior to the
brutal attack! This was certainly
not an ordinary sex crime..

The horrible struggle which the
misguided and helpless woman had
put up before she had crawled
down the stairs in the last throes
of death was clearly implied by the
blood bespattered walls in both of
the upstairs bedrooms and the
bloody imprints of her hands on
the white plaster along the rear
stairway. This had been a savage
life-and-death struggle raging
from one end of the house to the
other, ending only when the vic-
tim, beaten to the point of insensi-
bility, had collapsed in her desper-
ate, final struggle to crawl down
the rear stairway as the murderer
escaped from the gruesome scene
of his crime. This woman had liter-
ally been battered to death!

With a grim sigh, Detectives
Munshower and Rankin located the
lethal weapon. It was a splintered
club about three feet long, two-
and-one-half inches in diameter.
The pointed, shattered end of the
stick was coated with hair and
blood; mute evidence that the at-
tractive middle-aged woman had
been brutally stabbed with this
blunt, wooden bayonet! :

Unidentified, the mutilated body
was taken to the Abington Memo-
rial Hospital where an immediate
autopsy was performed by Dr. John
C. Simpson, Coroner’s Physician of
Montgomery County. Dr. Simpson
announced that the immediate and
actual cause of death was hemor-
rhage of the brain and that he
had not yet determined whether
or not the woman had been crim-
inally assaulted. His report also
stated that the victim had been
dead about six hours when dis-
covered, Also, Dr. Simpson con-
tinued, particles of gray hair, bits
of flesh, and dried blood were
found under the fingernails of the
deceased.

From the Coroner’s report, the
Montgomery County detectives
were able to reconstruct an out-
line of the crime. By analysing
the hair and skin underneath the
victim’s nails, Rankin and Mun-
shower surmised that the criminal
was a middle-aged or elderly man.
Also, by the condition of the house,
-they were able to ascertain that,
apparently, the man and woman
had been engrossed in a drunken
sex-orgy leading up to the killing
which had taken place sometime
during the day on Monday, Sep-
tember 24th, 1940.

“There are two questions which
must be answered before we can
proceed with this case,” said De-
tective Munshower. “First, who is
this woman? What’s her name?
Where does she live?

“Secondly,” continued Munshow-
er seriously, “what type of sex
maniac could commit such acts
upon a woman’s person?”

“Got any ideas?” Rankin looked
sharply at Munshower.

Mrs. William Earnest fainted in City Hall as he

“I should be able to establish
her identity by tomorrow morning,”
stated Munshower. “That’s when
the real work really begins.”. Ran-
kin watched.as Munshower crossed
to the teletype operator and gave
orders that the following message
be sent out over all police wires.

WANTED: CLUE TO IDENTI-
TY OF WOMAN FOUND MUR-
DERED IN MONTGOMERY

killer's terrible deeds were discussed.

COUNTY PA: WHITE GOLD
WEDDING RING _INSCRIP-
TION JFA TO EM SEPT 30,
1935. PLEASE CHECK AND IN-
FORM KAYE MUNSHOWER
AS SOON AS DEFINITE IN-
FORMATION ESTABLISHED.

KM.

“But I didn’t see any wedding
ring! Rankin ejaculated as he read
the message which his chief dic-

13

ms Ase

Slote Treaper RH. Miller
floor and wall where pretty

tated for the Teletype.

“I took it off the body before
turning the case over to the Cor-
oner,” said Munshower quietly.
“Now, let’s see... .”

“What about that fellow
Bready?” queried Rankin.

Munshower -nodded approvingly
to his astute assistant.

“Tl have a little talk with Mr.
and Mrs. Bready and Mr. and Mrs.
Charlies Leo. Bring them in sep-
arately,” he said.

The stories told by the two mar-
ried couples when interviewed sep-
arately, dovetailed in every detail.
Both parties stated that Mr.

is shown

ee ee + ral cei ills

eeinlaing the bined spattered
Ethyl Craft Atkins: was killed.

Bready, who owned the farmhouse,
had driven the four to Dresher
Road at about 7:30 on the evening
of September 24th. Mr. and Mrs.
Leo were prospective tenants and
Bready and his wife had offered
to show them the premises after
Mr. Leo had finished work on that
day. However, there was one clue
mentioned by both Bready and
Leo. Both men mentioned the fact
that the first thing they noticed
upon approaching the house was
that one of the small glass panes
had been broken out of the win-
dow frame nearest the front door.
In regard to this point Mr. Bready,

Chief of Detectives Kay Munshower and Justice of the Peace M. W.
Scanlon inspect the clothing that the victim had worn.

14

who gave his address as 1721 North
Easton Road, insisted that he had
visited the farm only two days
before, on Saturday, at which time
he said, he had found everything
in good order. Since then, Bready
continued, a sofa which had been

» in the living room downstairs had

been moved to one of the bed-
rooms upstairs. ~

Detective Kay Munshower listen-
ed attentively to the stories as told
by Mr. and Mrs. Leo and Bready
and his wife. Satisfied that these
couples were innocent, he thanked
them for their cooperation and
their prompt action in calling the
authorities and crossed them off
the list of possible suspects.

“What about that broken win-
dow pane?” questioned Rankin.

“I noticed that,” Munshower said.
“It was covered with cobwebs.”

“Cobwebs! But Bready said the

‘glass had been broken since Satur-

day!” Rankin rose quickly from his
chair>

“Spiders have funny habits,
sometimes,” Munshower answered.
“Right now our first problem is to
identify the victim.”

Rankin shook his head, perplex-
ed. This was a tough case.

ON THE following morning De-

tective Captain William  S.
Engle of the Homicide Squad was
sitting at his desk in Room 111 of
the City Hall in downtown Phila-
delphia. While passing out orders
and instructions to his staff of de-
tectives, Captain Engle was read-
ing the teletype messages which
had come off the machine during
the previous night.

“What about that case up in
Montgomery County?” questioned
one of his assistants.

“Montgomery County is not un-
der our jurisdiction,” replied Cap-
tain Engle. “It’s their case and
they know how to handle it.” It
was at that precise moment that
the teletype message describing the
victim came to his attention.
Noting the clue of the wedding ring
mentioned in the message, Cap-
tain Engle handed the data to
one of his aides.

“Run over to the marriage li-
cense Bureau and see if anyone
with these initials applied for a
wedding license in September,
1935. Signed Engle.”

Later that morning Captain En-
gle dispatched a patrol car to the
Atkins home, 2248 N. Opal Street,
in North Philadelphia. The Phil-
adelphia Patrol arrived at the At-
kins home at the very moment
when the Norristown Police and
the Pennsylvania State Troopers
began their interview with James
F. Atkins, husband of the murdered
woman. The mystery of the un-
identified female body had been
solved, at last. But, where was the
fiendish brute who had perpetrated
the crime?

The fact that the Atkins murder
was solved as quickly and com-
pletely as it was, is due entirely to
the exceptional character and
qualities of the detectives who
worked on the case. Both Kay
Munshower and Detective Captain
Engle are men of extraordinary
ability and both of these detectives
are men with enough calibre to
rise above the petty professional
jealousy and_ political bickering
sometimes hindering cases which
depend for their solution on the
prompt action of authorities in two

different police areas. Both Engle
and Munshower realized that this
was a case which must be cleared
up as quickly as possible if the
people of Philadelphia were to be
spared further depredations by the
mysterious fiend who had attack-
ed Mrs. Atkins. With one purpose,
the enforcement of the law, in
their minds these two astute crim-
inal investigators set to work, co-
operating and comparing notes as
each step of the involved investiga-
tion progressed.

Through the joint efforts of
Munshower and Engle, and, thanks
to the rapid communication made
possible by Teletype, the identity
of the victim, Mrs. Atkins, had been
established within eight hours after
the discovery of the body. The next
step, Engle and Munshower agreed,
was the interrogation of the dead
woman’s husband, James F. Atkins.

James F. Atkins was a tall, pow-
erfully built man, aged forty-three.
His physique testified to the fact
that he was employed as a brick-
layer at the Baldwin Locomotive
plant in Eddystone, North Phila-
delphia. He said that he and his
wife had been happily married
during the five years which had
elapsed since 1935. On this point,
Detective Engle noted that the
murder had occurred on the fifth
anniversary of the betrothal, al-
most to the day! The grief-stricken
husband corroborated this obser-
vation, saying that he had spent
the anniversary date at home, tak-
ing care of the three-and-a-half
year old twin boys of which he
and his wife were justifiably proud.
Here was a deeper tragic note; two
little boys left motherless by the
foul act of a perverted monster.

After five hours of questioning,
Captain Engle and Munshower
dismissed Atkins, giving him in-
structions to get in touch with
them. immediately if anything
came to his attention which he
thought might be a clue to the
crime. The bereaved husband de-
parted, telling the detectives that
he was going to make funeral ar-
rangements for the interment of
the earthly remains of his wife,
and promising them that he would
inform them if any further infor-
mation came to his attention.

Atkins’ statement enabled De-
tectives Engle and Munshower to
reconstruct the life of Ethel M.
Atkins. Investigation showed that
Mrs. Atkins was not only the moth-
er of twins by James F. Atkins,
but also that she was the mother
of three children by a former mar-
riage! According to the marriage
certificate, the dead woman had
said that she was a waitress, Ethel
M. Craft, residing at 2502 Oakdale
Street, Philadelphia, prior to her
marriage to Atkins. Further prob-
ing into the case by Captain
Engle’s staff showed that Mrs. At-
kins, without the knowledge of her
husband, had been married in 1921
to John Cicero Angier and that
she had given birth to three chil-
dren, two boys and a girl, during
her first marriage! Angier, investi-
gation disclosed, was a cousin by
marriage of Doris Duke Cromwell,
tobacco heiress and wife of James
H. R. Cromwell, former United
States Minister to Canada. The
three children were located living
in North Carolina where the oldest
boy, John, was attending Duke
University.

“Locate Jahn Cicero Angier,” ”


went home,” ‘was the answer. “I
started worrying about it Sunday,”
the prisoner continued. “I went
back up to the house, broke the
pane in the basement door and
let myself in. I dragged her out
of the coal bin... .”

“Was she dead then?” the sher-
iff asked.
* “Oh, yes, she was stiff and cold.
I dragged her in front of the
furnace and... .”

“And then you attacked her body
again, you filthy brute!’ one of

eg ae eae ae

¢: Dont

LON A

of Dr. Holmes, the coroner. Mrs.
Atterberry had fought for her life,
he told his audience. But her killer
had quieted her with blows on the
head with a blunt instrument.

The testimony of Grant Dickin-,
son, garage owner of the town, was
damaging. It betrayed the fact that
Dr. Atterberry had ordered a thor-
ough washing of his car on the
morning following the murder. And
a tradeswoman in the town, Mrs
Rose Arrighe testified that she her-
self had sold Mrs. Atterberry the
red dress, still missing, the dress
(it was made clear) that Dr. At-
terberry had disposed of after mur-
dering his wife.

Dr. Atterberry sat unmoved
through all this, his pale eyes dry,
his long tapering hands—the
hands of a strangler—crossed in
his lap.

The climax came when Hoffman
took the stand. His story left not
a whit of sympathy in the heart
of even the most casual spectator -
in the crowded courtroom.

Five days after the trial opened,

Pea

= oa wh eee Fes Z

siege j

‘Steirs down. which

‘ Mona Atter
ieee seemed
Re SRT

ss

; Bother Me. Or You Die

(Continued from page 23)

an accidental death.

the undersheriffs said with acri-
mony.

“Yes, I did,” the confession end-
ed. “I did everything you accuse
me of. I don't know what came
over me.”

After three months of observa-
tion by alienists, John Sullivan was
declared mentally weak but legal-
ly sane. He went on trial on a
charge of first-degree murder in
Colorado Springs on March 24,
last. He was speedily convicted and
sentenced to life imprisonment.

the case went to the jury. The

hour was eleven a. m. The jury

turned in a verdict of guilty of
murder in the second degree. Judge

Cooper pronounced sentence. Dr.
Atterberry was committed for a
‘term of thirty-four to thirty-seven

years in the state penitentiary.

The drama of the case was not

quite over. Three days later, pan-
demonium broke out in the jail
where the prisoner was held, pend-
ing an appeal decision. The ex-
-citement was due to the attempt
of the prisoner to end his life by
slashing his throat and wrists. He
was found in a pool of blood. He
survived, thanks to a blood trans-
fusion, with a fellow prisoner. the
donor. The appeal, however, was
denied.

So, in the state penitentiary at
Canon City, the disgraced osteo-
path took up his grim abode, in the
same city where some four years
earlier he had come with his bride
to start what might have been,
under different circumstances, a
successful and happy life

we

nm

years,

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Introduction by Edward Podotsky, m.D.
Foreword by James Parker H.
Need for sex tiderstanding to aid married hha ppi-
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Chapter 1—Married Men Should Know

Tustinet ix not enough——the welding night—
perpetuating the honeymoon—funections of organs
and body in marriage relations—skillful wooer
can overcome timidities,

hapter 2—Love Problems of Wives

Why marriages fail-—wife often frustrated, dis
appointed—husband — xhonkd improve in sexual
relations—vet routine grows boresome—case of
the under-sexed wife—how to keep love alive.
bale fee? 3—Scientific Sex Program in Marriage

Marriage based on mutnal love and co-operation
——instructions for
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he purpose of mex—- functions of the male
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33


*commanded Captain Engle, “I want
to talk to him.”

John Cicero Angier was located
living in Baltimore, where, he said,
he was an executive in a large
tin manufacturing corporation. An-
gier, it developed, had been mar-
ried a second time since his di-
vorce from the deceased Mrs. At-
kins. He said he had been trying
unsuccessfully to locate his first
wife since 1928! Here was a new
note on the lifé of the victim!

Angier also dropped another hint
which Captain Engle and Mun-
shower used to great advantage
in the solution of the case. Ac-
cording to Angier, his first wife
had suffered attacks of amnesia,
especially when she was under the
influence of alcoholic beverages.
Both detectives jumped. Amnesia!

“Tl check with Mr. Atkins on
that point,” said -_Munshower.

Another conference with Atkins
brought out the truth. Atkins ad-
mitted that his wife had suffered
three attacks of amnesia since their
marriage. These attacks, Atkins
continued, inevitably occurred if
his wife had anything to drink,
even one glass of beer sufficing to
bring on a complete loss of mem-
ory.

Kaye Munshower continued his
cross examination ‘of Atkins, even
though he knew the bereaved hus-
band was suffering from the
strain of the tragic events of the
past two days. According to the
testimony of neighbors, loud voices
in violent altercation had been
heard in the Atkins home on Fri-
day night, prior to Mrs. Atkins
mysterious disappearance. When
asked what caused these argu-
ments, Atkins denied any knowl-
edge of an argument, saying that
he and his wife were both hard
of hearing which accounted for
their loud and noisy speech.

But Munshower persisted, and
through clever questioning, obtain-
ed a statement from Titus Bear-
more, sixty-five, uncle of the dead
woman, who said that Atkins and
his wife had quarrelled on Friday
night and that Mrs. Atkins had
left her home at eight o'clock on
Saturday morning “to teach that
husband of mine a lesson”. In other
words, .the woman disappeared
early Saturday morning and was
not heard of again until her mu-
tilated body was found on the fol-
lowing Tuesday evening! Where
did she go in the meantime?

“Have there been any other
crimes in the neighborhood of Wil-
low Grove?” queried Captain Engle.
“It’s your district.”

“Why yes, there have been!” re-
plied Kaye Munshower. “There was
the Carpenter case and the Bu-
chanan case! One on Whitehall
Road and the other on Willow

Grove Road, both within the past 5

three years! But we’ve had a con-
viction on the Carpenter case!”

Police records showed that Mrs.
Wilma V. Carpenter, thirty-eight
year-old widow was shot and killed
in her home on December 13, 1937.
Wendell Forrest Bowers, nineteen,
was later arrested and sent to the
electric chair upon prosecution of
the case by District Attorney Smil-
lie. Was it possible that this was
a miscarriage of Justice?

Also, Mrs. Clara Buchanan, thir-
ty-eight, was strangled and crim-
inally assaulted in her home on
South Whitehall Road, September
25, 1939. The murderer had not

been apprehended in this case, al=-~“""

though a negro had been arrested
and, released on a writ of habeas
corpus. In fact, the investigation
was still under way on this case!
Here was a crime picture tallying
almost exactly with the Atkins
case! Mrs. Buchanan was thirty-
eight; Ethel Atkins was thirty-
four; both women had been crim-
inally assaulted! District Attorney
Smillie put all possible forces to
work to solve the Buchanan case,
hoping that thus some clue might
lead them to the murderer of Mrs.
Atkins.

In the meantime, Captain Engle
and Kaye Munshower bent every
effort to determine where Mrs.
Atkins had gone after she left
her home on that fateful Saturday
morning. Where and with whom

had the attractive young brunette —

matron spent her time between
Saturday and Tuesday? Who had
taken the young mother of five
children to the house on Dresher
Road?

At the suggestion of Captain
Engle, Kaye Munshower checked
over the list of prospective tenants
of the “House of Death”. Only one
possible suspect showed up from
this angle. Leon Evans, a WPA,
road worker, who had tenanted the
house on Dresher Road until Sep-
tember 1, 1940, was unable to ac-
count for his conduct and where-
abouts on the day of the crime.

Remembering the Buchanan case,
District Attorney Smillie and Kaye
Munshower grilled the laborer, tak-

(Continued on page 29)

Sie

Yh

uw

2%
2

Men

“ sagt. ee ; a

James Atkins, husband of the dead woman and father of her
twin sons, was heartbroken over her death.

A dramatic view of the vacant house wherein the body was found.

15


f /

uF
F A
y flys,
/ lhl Aur

Clubbed to death in’a killing,
obviously the work of a ma-
niac, the nude body of. attrac-
tive Mrs. Ethel Kraft Angier
Atkins, former wife of a mem-
ber of the wealthy Duke family,
was found in a’ vacant. farin-
house in Horsham, Pa.

HE bi
°T aires
brutall
vacant farm
Pa. Auth«
former wifc
Duke famil;
B. Smillie
nounced th
Kraft Angi
married to .
of the late }
nate, and «
Doris Duke
band is Ja:
Mrs. Atk
ings and o1
farmhouse
ing’ it to f
Several roc
spattered a
struggle.
feet long ay
by the ma:
said the we
and a shar]
body.
Police su
murder hac
24-year-old
liam J. E
killing the
three, afte
when Ear
Atkins in a
found spr:
house. Mrs
to flee fro:
stumbled «
to death.
Earnest
with a d
Jersey Ci
picked up
1934, he se
adelphia c}
robbery, a
three mon

Detectives
worn by I!

DETECT

death in’a killing,
the work of a ma-
hude body of attrac-
Ethel Kraft Angier.

er wife of a mem-
yealthy Duke family,
2 in a vacant. farin-
nm: Horsham, Pa.

(F
A

DARING

HE body of an attractive auburn-
haired woman recently was found
brutally bludgeoned to death in a

vacant farmhouse in suburban Horsham,

Pa. Authorities learned she was the

former wife of a member of the wealthy

Duke family. District Attorney Frederick

B. Smillie of Montgomery county an-

nounced that the murder victim, Mrs.

Kraft Angier Atkins, 35, formerly was

married to John Cicero Angier, grandson

of the late Benjamin Duke, tobacco mag-
nate, and cousin by marriage to Mrs.

Doris Duke Cromwell. Her present hus-

band is James Francis Atkins.

Mrs, Atkins’ body, clad only in stock-
ings and one shoe, was discovered in the
farmhouse when the owner began show-
ing it to prospective clients for rental.
Several rooms of the house were blood-
spattered and gave evidence of a terrific
struggle. A splintered club about three
feet long apparently was the weapon used
-by the maniacal murderer. Authorities

said the woman’s chest had been slashed.

and a sharp instrument plunged into the
body. :

Police subsequently announced that the
murder had been solved with the arrest of
24-year-old William Earnest. Capt. Wil-
liam J. Engle said Earnest confessed
killing the comely matron, mother of
three, after a wild party which began
when Earnest said he picked up Mrs.
Atkins in a local taproom. The body was
found sprawled on the staircase of the
house. Mrs. Atkins apparently had sought

’ to flee from the blows of her assailant,
‘ stumbled on the stairs and was clubbed
to death.

Earnest has a police record, starting
with a disorderly conduct charge in
Jersey City. That same year he was
picked up on an auto theft charge. In
1934, he served three months on a Phil-
adelphia charge of entering and attempted

robbery, and in 1937 he was again serving
three months on a morals charge.

Detectives are shown examining a dress
worn by Mrs. Atkins at the time of the
fatal taproom tryst.

DETECTIVE

Bloodstained rooms in this vacant farm-
house gave vivid evidence of a terrific
struggle between Mrs. Atkins and her
maniacal killer, who mutilated her body
after bludgeoning her to death.

William Earnest, below, :24-year-old
waiter, confessed the brutal bludgeon-
murder of the comely matron, according

“to Philadelphia police, who quoted him

as saying the crime was the aftermath
of an evening of carousing.


Bead ‘monster had torn her apart with his
41 bare hands. ‘There were gaping gushes

“> on the back of her bloodsodden head,
bs and we could only guoss that the halr
had been titlan,

The din of approaching footsteps
and voices sounded outside, An Inatant
later Coroner W, J. Rushong and Docs
mS John C. Simpson entered.

e
relief, _Munchover pointed to the
propped-up, ravaged body. “You nev-
po ahh seen anything like that,” he

} $a. .

rs “While the Coroner and the physician
~“*, got busy we tramped up to the second
floor, Blood was everywhere. Large
splotches of it on the bare walls and
the ceilings, and slippery puddles on
the floor. First we made out the num-
ber of rooms on the upper floor, There
were two, nearly emptied of furniture,
and a bathroom, og

In the first of the two rooms stood
a couch. The middle of it was stained
he blood which had trickled: to the
oor,

“That’s where the mad beast at-
tacked her first, apparently,” I said.
From the couch, where the frenzied

Me,

“= fiend seemed to have plunged some
=® strange weapon into his hapless vic-
‘tim’s body, we followed the trail of
‘crimson around the room, on into the
ther room and back again. We could
see where she had struggled against
{ye the pursuing torturer. There was a
“blur of prints made by her stocking
“foot and her slipper, and two marks of
a man’s shoes.
. The path of blood extended into the
«ee-bathroom. As I swept it with my light,
~ the beams caught a_blood-covered
“<wooden club.

“Kaye!” I called. “Look at this.”
Munchover walked over. His face
“set in a deep frown as he examined
~the object. “It seems to me like -the.
broken-off leg of a bedstead,” he said,

be

greeted them with a feeling of,

es

%

“or maybe it's an old-fashioned curtain
tod, apparently the weapon.” ‘

We picked up the trail again that
led us to the landing of the stulrcane
at the foot of which Coroner Rushong
and Doctor Simpson still were examin-
ing the body and converving In whis
pers.

upstairs, “I hope that in al my life I
won't be forced to look upon a horrible
thing like this again.’ The poor woman
was tortured to death in the most
maddening manner while she was still
conscious. It is one of the worst mu-
tilations I ever have seen. And it is
quite evident that the slayer committed
his crime in a sadistic rage.”

“What exactly did she die from?”

“That’s just it,” the physician teplied
heatedly. “She died from the inflicted
tortures. The head wounds are simply
skin-deep lacerations. The immediate
cause of death seems to be internal
hemorrhage.”

“How did she get to the bottom of
the steps?” Munchover . wanted to
know.

The Doctor reflected a moment be-
fore he answered. “There’s almost no

blood down here. That shows that she
had bled out upstairs. I think, in a
last superhuman effort to escape her
slayer or to call for help, she dragged
herself to the top of the stairs, then
tumbled down. This would account for
the sitting position of the body—”

“How long ago did that happen?” [
broke in. . ‘

“I'd say roughly she hasn’t been
dead more than six, at the utmost,
eight hours.”

Eight hours! .

The crime ‘was discovered around
7 p.m.: that day, Tuesday, September
24, 1940. The Mvolting crime, there-
fore, must have ‘occurred in plain day-
light around .noon..*Eight hours stood
between ‘us ‘and the: fleeing killer,

Glimpsing us, Doctor Simpson called :

“I want to talle to the owner of the
place,” Munchover suddenly decided,
“Harry,” he told Rankin, "go downe
stairs and tell him to'come up.”

A moment later Bready, pale and
hembling, stood in the beams of our

lita,

“Know anything about this?”
Munchover asked,

T= man shook his head in bewilder-
ment,

“The house wasn’t rented,” he bab-
bled. “I was here four days ago last
> oe aan and everything was in or-

er,”

“How do you figure they got in
here?” ( .

The man seemed not to have heard
the question. His eyes were fixed upon
the bloodstained couch in a shadowy
corner of the room. He pointed to it.
“That wasn’t in here,”

“Where was it?” Rankin snapped.

“Downstairs in the front room.”

“How did it get up here?” Munc
over snorted. ‘ :

ried it upstairs.” ;
For a moment we pondered «

“Well, I guess they must ha eitar-
: fi this

pe

‘ih ae

with mixed feelings: We thought of -
the neatly arrayed clothes downstairs,
the polka-dot dress and the pink slip.
The woman, no ‘doubt, had- undressed
of her own will. Then she had given
her torturer a hand in toting the couch
upstairs, the butcher’s block on which
she was to be so horribly slaughtered.

Munchover grunted again.

“You didn’t tell me yet. how
figure they got in here—the house
locked, wasn’t it?” A saa

“Sure it was,’ Bready , countered.
“They must have climbed. in. by ;the
broken porch window.”,: °;) 3°45) *

On our way to’the pérch we passed
the Coroner, $+ veh e, ores a

“Find any clews?” I.asked ‘him,

“Yes.” 4 Daly “

ec ‘
as. Wie _

‘ . yi
a eh a0 shh Ml ata hive
oer

you,.“‘He struck a blow from the outsi
was pulled out the remaining pieces

, I thought that was about
plausible explanation when ' Ran

around the
‘positive and” assured “No!” ‘into, the)
conversation. “Look at this.” 0)"

' Munchover whirled around.-“What?’?® -
“A strand of hair she was clasping*;
-n her hand. Must:have been -fight-
-ng like a tigress.” dons
“What-color hair?” ./ é
“Looks gray to me.” OE ee
“Gray?” we chorused in utter baf--
lement, as we certainly didn’t expect -
to stumble on the trail of a senile sex
monster, nae WEEN Fe

em

Weage

WE TROOPED over to the shattered -
window. Onyae Payers ae
“Funny,” Rankin muttered. “There’s -
very little glass.on the inside; most of |»)
t lies outside on the porch.” =o
We were’ confronted with*a new?‘
nystery. If the intruder broke in: the +
window from the outside, as he must
have done, the shattered. parts shoul oy
Xe inside, and yet— -. ot Mine
Munchover’ was scratching his head
as we looked to ‘him for an answer...
“Well, Kaye, how do you figure
this?” ‘ a * wl a he
“You Pot me stumped,” he ‘said «; -
slowly.’*"Might be a ruse to throw us.”
off the track—perhaps he had a key. o

to the house, and just wanted ‘tok
make us believe he’d cli bed | in)
through the window??? wre eS

- “How about this?” he spoke up, wi
a quizzical squint ‘wrinkling his fac

lass in the pane,” Vt ee
a xt ithe’ most’

who had been pok with. his.-fla
aot hurled a- very:

We. all edged closer

and. thrust
#7. na

* a


a

—

_ ‘Mrs. Ethel Atkins: Her
last wild fling was
. Written with her blood

years old,” the landlord boasted
proudly. “It has sure seen lots
of things.”

With a sweep of his hand, the land-
lord, John C, Bready, pointed out the
two-story structure, darkly etched
against the quickly fading dusk, to
Mr. and Mrs, Charles Leo, Prospective

NT rea house is over a hundred

* tenants.

“John!” Mrs, Bready’s voice was a

~ frightened whisper as she tugged her

husband’s sleeve, “I’m afraid the house
is seeing things right now.” Her hand
shot out. “Look! The porch window—
it’s broken.”

Bready muttered a curse. “I bet
some prowlers are in there,” He fidget-
ed, undecided,

“Let’s move them out,” Charles Leo
offered with a broad grin. e

“Sure, let’s do that.” Bready quick-
ly accépted. “You girls stay outside
and be careful. Have a good look at
the bums in case they slip through our

ers,

He turned to Leo. “We’ll enter by

the back door.” He started to map

: a re th arn ie :
f
gp i

a tea

el

oa >’

By Detective James V. Gleason

Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, as Told to

out the action,
there’s a large
doors; one opens on the liv.
the two other doors ]
stairways which run:
story. You’ll

sneak up to

“Let’s go.”

The two men
house like India
opening the back d
Possible. Straddle-]
himself before the
foyer, while Bready
stairs.

.CTUAL DETECTI

“

“When we get inside
hallway with three

ead to separate

keep watch in
and I'll take the left stai
the second floor,

sneaked up to the
on the warpath,
oor as quietly as
egged, Leo Posted _ bl
two doors in the
Stole softly up the

Everything was silent in the old,

Henry Jordan

murky house but for the wooden treads
creaking under the landlord’s cautious
steps. Leo heard him reach the sec-

ond floor landing. Then: his blood
froze.

: A HOARSE cry of horror reverber-
ated through the eery building.
Leo felt his knees Sag. What had
happened? Had the landlord been at-
tacked by the intruders? .
Upstairs resounded a hollow rum-
e. The old, dread house seemed to
crack in its joints, With a start Leo
snapped out of his aralyzing fog of
terror. He had to elp—help quick,
Something ghastly had happened!

One of the most per-
plexing clews in the
case, examined here by
state troopers, was the
broken glass outside
the smashed window
inthe gloomy old house

He jerked the other stairway. door
open,

oor,
' “Don’t—don’t—” gasped Leo hoarse-
ly. “It’s—it’s too terrible.” ta

The front door was yanked open,”
Mrs, Bready stood on the porch with

VE STORIES, DECEMBER, 1940

With a short, dull thud, a Sitting .
body, nude and blood-smeared, toppled
against a swinging door, ;

Shuddering nausea strangled a cry in

in


\

to their usual tricks
is at a time. It’s
her service station
line on them.”
rning, Clark and
sad map the points
1en were known to
€Falls on the north,
e south, and Sandy
hundreds of miles
ngular area should
vere the Chevrolet
t, they would have
ening circle with
nter.
worked tirelessly,
ot the murder car
ion proprietors and
ey talked. Yet all
‘rtain or absolutely

scouragements, the
And on Saturday,
er the murder, they
tion on the far out-
isolated village lo-
a third of the
Falls to Albion.
alone. An old man,
ind moved hesitat-
°”’ he said in a
yn’t know a thing
vod any more. Had
» papers.”
ved him the photo-
et but the old man
-d that he could not
ect in the pic-~

rally described
ith red wire wheels
yur, occupants.
1 repeated. “Why,
ylue car. I can still
t reason enough to
aturday night two
ound dusk. They
gallons of gas, and
it paying for it!”
he officers pressed,

{ man said, he had
t to the police be-
loss of less than $2
r with which to go
ies. Also, because
that he would have
the thieves, he had
for the police to
~ulprits.
them,” he went on,
1 know, sometimes
ts failing you, the
ind get more acute.
vy in that car very
ill their voices and
oO say.”
en and two women,.
were arguing with
t going to Roches-
tar from the Falls,
e afraid that they

v te.

ant by ‘too late’ I
d man continued.
at one of the men,
swered the girl in
s: ‘Aw, shut up!
inight. That joint
‘til then. Don’t
any business!”
ler the officers’ urg-
ame of the “joint.”
nked him and sped
directly to po-
conferred with
e Hagerman.
nee to the “joint”
response.

“Yes, we know the place,” Dietz said
emphatically. “It’s a roadhouse and al-
leged ‘tourist camp’ just outside the city
limits. The department here in the Falls
has known for a long time that the place
handles liquor illicitly, and that it’s a girlie
layout in the bargain. But unfortunately
it’s beyond our jurisdiction. There are a
score of similar hotspots on almost every
highway leading out of town. They ail
employ so-called hostesses who get a cut
on every dollar they’re able to persuade
male patrons to spend on them, or with
them. You see, there are bedrooms up-
stairs and cabins outside. The catch is,
the girls are itinerant. They drift from
one roadhouse to the next.”

The officers waited until 11 o’clock that
night before moving on the shady road-
house. Wary of arousing suspicion, they
wanted to enter the place when it was at
its noisiest and merriest. They knew it
would be a difficult job to sound out a
crowd of crime-wise females until the two
for whom they were looking could be
identified, all without tipping their own
hand.

Their task might have been easy had
they been able to carry the witness, John

SADIST DIES IN CHAIR

ILLIAM J. (WHITEY)
EARNEST, 36-year-old
Philadelphia short order cook, who
bludgeoned a young matron to
death in a deserted farm house in
Horsham, Pa., recently paid for his
brutal crime in the electric chair at
Rockview penitentiary.
The victim was Mrs. Ethel Craft
Angier Atkins, 35, formerly mar-
tied to John Cicero Angier, grand-
son of tobacco magnate Benjamin
Duke. Her battered body, nude
save for stockings, was found
sprawled on the staircase of the
house. She had apparently been
struck down while fleeing from the
killer. A picture story of the crime
appeared in the December, 1940,
issue of DARING DETECTIVE
under the title, “Maniac Murder.”

Irvine, along with them, but his con-
valescence in the Albion hospital had a
few more days yet to go. Like everything
else in this case, the spotting of the road-
house Jezebels would have to be accom-
plished the hard way.

Hot music blared from the resort as
Clark, Adams and Hagerman pulled up
in a car which bore no police insignia.
Adams, because of his state trooper’s uni-
form, remained hidden in the car while
Clark and Hagerman, in plainclothes, en-
tered the bar, posing as a pair of half-
drunk libertines. \

There were girls in the place, .plenty of
girls. All in low-cut party dresses, their
cheeks, lips, and eyes too brilliantly made
up, they sat singly and in couples at tales
surrounding the dimly lit dance floor, their
glances beckoning. They were bait for
spendthrift, amorously-inclined males.

Clark and Hagerman stood at the bar,
swaying. Yet all the while they shrewdly
surveyed the women from among whom
they would have to choose.

“One was plump,” Irvine had said in
describing the girls who visited the rest
room at the Sandy Creek service station.
“She had short black hair and wide black
eyes. The other was thinner but still not
thin. She had what you might call a well-
rounded figure. Her hair was brown, cut
in a long bob. She had a sulky look.”

Remembering every detail of these de-
scriptions, Sheriff Clark saw no girls who
fitted either exactly, yet he noticed sev-
eral who possessed one or more of the
essential characteristics,

The masquerading sleuths stared hard
at the likeliest pair of hostesses. The re-
sponse was automatic.

“Hello, poys! Wanna dance?”

But “Mr. Herbert” and “Mr. Harris,”
as the officers introduced themselves, ap-
parently cared more for conversation than
for dancing. They bought the girls drinks.
They laughed and they talked.

“Nice place,” Mr. Herbert commented
cordially. “Damn nice place—eh, Harry?
Swell of Joe to put us on to, the joint.
Wonder which dame it is he give us the
present for?”

“Who?” asked one of the girls, inter-
ested,

“Joe Hilton,” Mr. Herbert answered,
creating a fictitious name. “He’s a pal of
ours from Rochester and he was down
here a couple of Saturdays ago. He met
some doll working here and he went
sweet on her, so he.told us when we got
to the Falls to come out to this place and
look her up. He gave us a five spot for
her, so she'd remember him the next time
she saw him, see?”

Both girls beamed and each immedi-
ately claimed that it was she who had
entertained a fellow named Joe from
Rochester on the night of June 10.

But Mr. Herbert and Mr. Harris were
dubious. Hilton, they said, had told them
his girl’s name but it had slipped their
memories. They did recall, however, that
Hilton had described her as having brown
hair, long-bobbed.

Whereupon both girls apparently for-
got all deception and seemed to be mak-
ing an honest effort to figure out whom
the imaginary man from Rochester had
meant. i

“Couldn’t be Mae,” said the brunette.
“She hasn’t been here but a week, and be-
sides she wears hers on top her head.”

“How about Betty? No, that’s right I
forgot. Her hair’s red.”

“Jane?” the brunette tried again, then
suddenly frowned. “Say, I wouldn’t let
that one know she was in for a fin even if
she gave me half of it! Know what she did
to me Thursday?”

The blonde girl silenced her, “Never
mind that now. But look, how about
Sophie? She was here then. Remember,
she and Dolores came over around the
last of May?”

Mr. Herbert and Mr. Harris looked in-
terested. “Sophie,” Mr. Harris encou-
raged. “That sounds like the name.”

But the brunette objected. “No, Satur-
day before last? That was the night
Sophie and Dolores didn’t come in. They
were off with a couple of steadies.”

“They did come in, too! They showed
up late, that’s all. Dolores said they’d
been off with these guys and they had an
auto accident. She said the cops were
looking for them and if anybody asked
about them to say they were here all
evening. They didn’t come in until around
two o'clock, remember? George was
plenty mad,.too. There’d been fellows
here all night with no girls and George
figured he was losing business. But So-
phie and Dolores worked after they got
back. I remember, because one of the fel-
lows Sophie was entertaining was hand-
some-looking. Say, maybe that was Mr.
Hilton from Rochester! I’m going to
ask Sophie!”

For the moment, however, neither So-
phie nor Dolores could be located. The
girl sitting beside Mr. Herbert got up,
walked over and spoke with the bartender,
and then returned, smiling. “Both busy.

A Aea

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Which of Her Many,

John C, Bready, right, never dreamed ‘he'd find a woman’s mutilated. &
body In this old house which. he said had “sure seen lots of things” "7"

a bewildered, questioning frown, which “Since the last tenant moved out a “

twisted into a'mask of panic as the month ago this joint has become quite

realization of « unspeakable tragedy a hangout for wild Parties,”

struck her, We were back in the house again.
“It’s all full of blood—upstairs,” the Munchover grabbed a torch from me,

landlord said. “Blood everywhere— as he threw open the first door within

like in a slaughterhouse.” his reach. In the circular glare of our
“We have to call the police,” Charles lights we made out meager furniture he
Leo whispered, in a vast room which had the musty Fe
Mrs. Bready rushed away... smell of an uninhabited dwelling. Si-

lently we brushed inside. Across a.
AFEW minutes later we were tear- chair, neatly folded, lay a blue dress
ing down the short ‘stretch of high- with polka-dots. Near the chair, on ;
way from Norristown, Pennsylvania, to an end table, rested a flesh-colored
’ the empty house located on the out- underslip, A woman apparently had :
skirts of Horsham Township, along a undressed heré and put away her gar- <s
bleak, lonely road. es ments in orderly fashion, careful not
Pitch-black night which had settled to wrinkle them :
quickly over the scene added to the Munchover spun around. “Not much ae
gloom of the old dwelling. F rfully here.” He grunted. “Let's go on.” ae
huddled in a shadowy groun were’ A moment later a sensation of nau- cus
Bready, his wife and the Prospective sea hit’ us; we stared dazedly at a ,
tenants waiting for us, * Spectacle ghostly as a torturing night-
We quickly gave. up trying to get a “mare,
coherent story out of them, as they wa ‘ . :
were still too frightened and shocked. TH! body sat there still and stiff, Out
Resolutely, Kaye Munchover, chief of a blood-smeared face, gray, glassy
of the Montgomery County detectives, eyes goggled at us like those of a dead
took the lead into the house. fish. It .was a woman, atrociously mu-
When we flicked on the light tilated. There:was no way of telling
switches the bare rooms remained whether she was a young: girl whose
dark. We were told that the electric life had been a dream of love and ro-. -
current had been disconnected when mance, or a mature. person. Dark
the. place was vacated “by ‘its last ten- - brown, coagulated blood covered her:
“ant. Detective Harry Rankin and I body, unclothed but for a slipper and
scrambled back to our cars to get the rolled stockings, $
flashlights. “The work of a sex fiend,” Munch-
“Something was bound to happen in over said, and I could see, beneath the ;
this place one day,” Harry muttered, pallor of his cheeks, how his muscles
shaking his head. tensed in rage. . manner er ‘
“Why?” I called. “I don’t get you—-” -The woman’s abdomen was horribly ©.
_ “Haven’t you heard?” Rankin asked. ripped. It looked as though a crazed _°
ae tee) * bs “: pe


We Had to Find Ethel Adkins' Mutilation Slayer (Continued from Page 7)

He again answered in the negative.

“Do you know of any trouble she
was Involved in?" Munechover wanted
to know, speaking of what was in all
our minds, namely that the basic mo-
tive of the sex killing might have been
the jealousy of some crazed lover.

Atkins hesitated then said, “Yes.”

WE JUMPED. -Was that the break
for which we all were praying?

“Tell us about it,” Rankin prompted.
«.“But I’m. sure it has nothing to do
with—”

“Never mind, go ahead,” Munchover
broke in.

“A few months ago,” Atkins started,
“my wife came home and told me she
had met her former husband on the
street in Philly.”

“Oh, she was married before?”

“To John C, Angier, cousin by mar-
riage of Doris Duke Cromwell.”

“You mean the million-dollar heir-
ess?”

“Yes. My wife had three children
by her first husband who are now
cared for by the Duke family.”

Now we suddenly were turning over
pages of the Social Register, and our
perplexity had reached a climax.

“And what happened when she met
her former husband on the street?”

“He slapped her. That’s what she
told me.”

“What motive did he have for that?”

“I don’t know—I guess because she
left him years ago.”

“Where does Angier live—in Phila-
delphia?” Munchover asked.

“No, in Baltimore.”

“What was he doing in Philadel-
phia?”

Breathlessly we were staring at the
man, awaiting the answer.

“He was looking over old Pennsyl-
vania houses—he’s a contractor.”

We all felt certain this couldn’t be
more than the most fantastic coinci-
dence. But this was a homicide inves-
tigation, and one of the most serious
kind. After a short consultation, I
talled the Baltimore police and re-
quested them to locate John C. Angier.

Then, not to leave anything undone,
we mugged and finger-printed the
husband who had astounded us by his
feelings for his elusive, philandering
wife.

After that we turned Atkins over
to District Attorney Smillie and his
shrewd, alert assistant, David E.
Groschen, for further grilling.

There was some current business to
be attended to.

A report had come from the State,

Police, who all morning had been busy
checking the death-house for finger-
prints. They had found scores of them,
even on broken pieces of window pane.
But were they of any value? Most of
them were old, according to the ex-
perts, blurred and difficult to identify.
Frankly, we didn’t put much hope in
them, the way things looked.

¥ fv search for Leon Evans, the elu-
sive last tenant of the house in Hor-
sham, was intensified, and the check-
up on all the prospective tenants who
had borrowed the landlord’s keys was
whipped up to a faster pace. While
the Detective Bureau was roaring with
a frenzied hubbub of activity, I left
Norristown flanked by three state
troopers for Philadelphia.

The Atkins residence, and its sur-
roundings, I felt, would bear the most
thorough going-over. The husband’s
statements had to be checked upon;
the neighbors, quizzed; bars and stores
in the vicinity, canvassed. A woman,
especially one of the startling appear-
ance of the* attractive, titian-haired
Mrs. Ethel Atkins, cannot vanish from
the streets without having been seen
by a passing acquaintance, I reasoned.

When I showed up again at Head-
quarters in the late afternoon, Munch-

over called to me, “Pick up anything?”
before T had closed the door behind
me, Dy the tone of hls vulee, whieh
sounded tired, exasperated, I could tell
that the going had not been so good
at the office either, while I was tramp-
ing the streets of Philadelphia.

“Nope,” I said with a shrug, “T
couldn't find one living soul who had
seen the woman since she left her
house.”

A while later we were notifled that
James F, Atkins had been allowed to
proceed home on. the condition that
he would keep himself in readiness for
further questioning.

Shortly after eight, while we still
were plugging away, the desk man an-
nounced John C. Angier of Baltimore,
hapless Ethel’s first husband and rela-
tive of the Duke tobacco tycoons. An
attorney he had brought with him ex-
plained that upon the news of the hor-
rible slaying they had taken the next
train to Norristown in order to help
if possible. .

Angier told of his marriage to Ethel
in 1921 which dismally had: gone on
the rocks eight years later when Ethel
left her home to stay with friends,
turning a deaf ear to her husband’s
pleas to return.

“That was the last time I saw her,”
Atkins said.

Smillie voiced his surprise. “You’re
supposed to have met her on the street
in Philadelphia a few months ago
while you were there to look over
some old houses. She told her husband

of a violent argument between you

and her.”

A TIRED smile spread over Angier’s
features. “Ethel always had a very
vivid imagination,” he countered. “It’s
a fact I spent a couple of weeks in and
around Philadelphia. But I didn’t
meet her on the street as she said I
did. It’s possible, of course, she might
have seen me somewhere without my
seeing her. That probably gave her
the idea for that ridiculous story. But
on my word, gentlemen, I have not
seen or talked to my wife since she left
my home.”

Smillie pondered this for a while,
then questioned, “When did you get
your divorce?”

“January, 1940,” Angier stated calm-

“Then her marriage to Atkins was
a bigamous one?”

“Yes, indeed it was.”

The questioning droned on _ for
hours—six dragging, exhausting hours.
But nothing new came of it. Thanked
for his ready cooperation, John C. An-
gier was dismissed by the District
Attorney.

Next morning, when we hardly had
taken up our posts, the door to new
lines of inquiries flew open with a
bang when Leon Evans, the last ten-
ant of the house of slaughter suddenly
put in an appearance.

He had heard we wanted him for
questioning, he said, and so here he
was. He went on to explain he had
left his usual domicile because he was
working of a WPA road project at
some distance from here.

Without being prompted he offered
an alibi for the time of the slaying,
which we hastily checked and found to
be entirely satisfactory.

He admitted the gay parties in his
house, which he said were quite inno-
cent gatherings, and upon our request
gave us the names and addresses of
the numerous guests he had enter-
tained.

Munchover barked crisp orders, and
off hurried a squad of detectives,
charged to check into the intimate
lives, backgrounds and alibis of a list
of revelers who at one time had been
habitues of the house of gloom.

More reports—all on the negative
side—were drifting in that morning

and each one made our tasks appear
a lot more hopeless,

The check-up on the prospective
tenants to whom Bready had lent the
keys of the house was completed.
They all proved to be upright, re-
spected citizens able to account for
their actions about the critical time,

Atkins, the hapless husband, was
summoned again and questioned about
the bigamy angle. Wan and haggard,
he explained in a strained voice that
at the time of his marriage to Ethel
he had been unaware that the matri-
monial ties to her first husband were
still intact. Realizing that this was
just another lurid chapter in the life
history of the: passionate woman, en-
tirely unrelated to the ghastly crime,
we quickly dropped the matter.

= scrutiny of known sex offenders

proved to be another blank. Reports
from the Philadelphia police who had
taken the home-grown crop of notori-
ous degenerates under sharp scrutiny
were likewise negative.

Officers working over the list of
Leon Evans’ gay party friends were
phoning in all day. One after the
other the theoretical suspects had to
be crossed off the lists, and when the
afternoon was drawing to its end the
last was cleared from any shadow of
suspicion.

It was a short while later that a
messenger boy brought a wire which
in the final stage of the case—provided
it ever was to be solved—would prove
of tremendous importance as clinching
evidence.

“A blondie!” Munchover guffawed
when he had read the message.

“Don’t get you,” I countered. “What
is it about?”

He chucked the wire before him on
the desk. I snatched and read it swiftly.

It was the answer from the Federal
Bureau of Investigation to our request
of a_ scientific examination of the
strand of hair the Coroner had found
clinging to the victim’s blood;covered
fingers.

The sample, the report stated au-
thoritatively, was not gray but a very
light ash blond. It was a man’s hair.

The killer’s hair?

“There’s a possibility,” I remarked
to Kaye Munchover, “that she didn’t
pluck it from the attacker’s head.”

“Huh?” the Chief snorted, giving me
a surprised look.

“Might have been trailing about the
house and it stuck to the blood on her
fingers.”

“You sure don’t cheer me up today,”
he grumbled.

“Look, Kaye,” I said. “I think we’re
working from the wrong end, We’re
trying to hunt down the fiend and get
exactly nowhere. We ought to hunt
her down instead. We ought to back-
track her moves. She probably knew
the killer. I don’t think she let her-
self be picked up by a stranger at
eight-fifteen in the morning. Casa-
novas usually don’t roam the streets
at that hour—”

“She might have had a date—per-
haps she didn’t want her husband to
know of her fling so she made an
early rendezvous.” .

“That’s exactly what I think.” -

“The killer must be somebody she’d
met before.”

“He might even be a friend of the
family,” I put in heatedly.

“But don’t forget,” Munchover went
on, “she disappeared on Saturday early
morning and the crime was committed
Tuesday about noon. How does that
tie in with your theory that she made
a date for the day only?”

“She might have been abducted by.

force.”

Munchover shook his head and
grinned shrewdly. “She’s been on wild
jags before. The husband wasn’t even
worried, he was so used to it, ap-

parently, the poor guy. And _ then,
don’t forget the dress—it was laid out
neatly so lt wouldn't yet creased, A
woman who’s kept a prisoner by force
be ty worry about wrinkles in her
skirt.”

“That’s right, too,” I conceded. “But
T still think we have to work on the
Philadelphia angle. Look here—a
pretty, red-haired woman passed her
last hours before she was killed in or
near a city of two million people. The
question is, where? And-with whom?
There must be guys somewhere that
have seen her. I made the bars once
in the section where she lived and
tried to shake them down for a lead.
I'll try over again.”

“Okay by me,” Munchover agreed.
“Take Rankin along and get the city
cops to help you.”

I started at the Opal Street home
from where the love-hungry butterfly
had vanished. A steady stream of
mourners was filing inside, where she
was laid out in a silk-lined coffin. I
sought out James Atkins, who sat in
the living-room trying to explain to
his twin boys that “Mama went on a
trip to Heaven.” I thought I was hard-

boiled, but this pathetic scene nearly -

brought tears to my eyes.

I took Atkins into a corner. “Who
are all these people drifting. in and
out?” I asked.

“Some are friends, some are strang-
ers,” he replied sadly.

For a moment I pondered this.
“You’d better watch them carefully.”

The bewildered look in his face
showed me that he didn’t get me.

“Killers,” I said, “are sometimes
irresistibly drawn back to the victims
of their murderous rage. So keep your
eyes open.”

For the next hours I was canvassing
cafes and taprooms. City officers that
Captain William Engle of the Phila-
delphia Homicide Squad had assigned

to the task were doing the sam@-ti-—-—~-

other. sections.

I mingled with the crowd and ques-
tioned bartenders. I thrust Ethel At-
kins’ picture under their eyes and
asked them if they remembered her.
It was a tortuous trail full of disap-
pointments and pitfalls. Would we
ever succeed in lifting the veil over
Ethel Atkins’ last hours?

After midnight I returned to Phila-
delphia Headquarters, empty handed,
as were the city officers who had been
plugging away at the same task.

Weary, we lounged around in Cap-
tain Engle’s office, talking.

Then the phone rang. We saw En-
gle’s hand tense over the receiver as
wild excitement flashed into his gray
eyes. Breathless, we huddled around
him.

He threw the instrument on the hook
with a thud.
Atkins house,” he shouted.

The next second we were racing
down the stairs, Engle, Inspector Rich-
ardson and I. We streaked through the
empty, night-shrouded city in a roar-
ing squad car.

N THE doorstep, framed against

the illuminated interior, we saw
James Atkins’ grief-bent figure. Engle
thrust his head out of the car window.
“Where’s the guy?” he shouted. -

Atkins padded to the curb. “He’s
gone,” he muttered, with a helpless
look on his pale, haggard face. “Down
the street.” His finger pointed the
direction.

With a jolt our car spurted from
the curb. The street was silent, de-
serted. Arc lights sketched eery cir-
cles of brightness on the pavement.

Desperately, we raced down two
blocks when we spied the shadowy
figure of a short, stocky man stagger-
ing around a corner.

We swerved the car around, headed
for the curb, and tumbled out.

January ACTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES Goes on Sale Friday, December 13

36

mates sehen his ap AD rn tne

“Let’s beat it to the’

ae


had spent the previous night in the
gloomy dwelling?

We seemed to get exactly nowhere
until one of the questioned neighbors
volunteered, “The place was pretty
gay even before the last tenant moved
out.”

“What do you mean?” I shot at him.

“Well,” the man said with a sheep-
ish smile, “the last tenant, Mr. Leon
Evans, liked company. You could hear
girls laughing and the radio blaring
all night. Sometimes there were more
than a dozen cars parked in front of
his door.”

Munchover and I stared at each
other. Was this the hoped-for lead?
Or just another mocking mirage?

“T think I’m going to call the boys
back at the office and ask them to find
Evans for a questioning,” I suggested.
“He might have the answer; he may
be able to give us a lead.”

T= call made, we plodded on to the
next house.

By the time dawn came up gray
and purple over the east, hopes and
theories had blown into our faces. The
tedious and painstaking inquiries of
the previous night hadn’t advanced us
an inch, and the homicide mystery was
still unanswered by the time we
dragged ourselves up the stairs of the
rambling Norristown courthouse.

In the office we found the boys sit-
ting around, cloaked in a cloud of ciga-
rette smoke.

“Locate anything?” Munchover asked
them.

The glum expressions on their faces,

Richard Brady: Detectives hoped
that he could help complete
the horrible homicide picture

rowed as he laboriously studied the
engraving which read:

“J. F. A. to E. M. A. Sept. 30, 1935.”

Things were looking up suddenly—if
this really was the victim’s ring. We
hopefully started checking up by phone
with Missing Persons Bureaus in Nor-
ristown and Philadelphia, but we soon
ran up against a blank wall. No wo-
man with a name matching the initials
inside the ring or the victim’s physical
description had been reported missing
by anxious relatives or friends. i

But we didn’t intend to sit back and
expect things to pop all by themselves.
We decided to work through all night.
We had the most vicious sex killing we
ever had heard of on our hands and
we had to crack it fast, realizing that
each passing hour was a lost hour.

EITHER the slain woman or her tor-

turer, if not both, we theorized, must
have been familiar with the old ghost
house.

“They must live somewhere around
here or have done so in the Past,”
Munchover said forcefully.

We agreed upon giving the neigh-
borhood a once-over.

All night—a star-studded, mellow
Autumn night—we kept on tramping
up and down the road, jabbing bell
buttons.

“Seen anybody near Bready’s place?”
we questioned drowsy, bleary-eyed
neighbors we had roused from their
sound slumber. “A woman and a man,
perhaps, in a car— yes, yesterday
morning.”

The trouble was they had seen too
many cars in the past. To listen to
the townsfolk we got the impression
that enamored couples were standing
in line before the house.

But wasn’t it odd nobody had
noticed any stranger in the vicinity
about the time of the crime? Did that
mean the -characters of the tragedy

6

This snapshot of the Atkins family was taken in happier days when Mrs.
Ethel Atkins explained frequent absences as due to loss of memory

looking. at us in silence, gave us the
answer,

“How the
tenant?”

“Well, that’s just what we were talk-
ing about before you came,” said Peter
Riley, a young officer. “During. the
night we traced Evans’ residence. When
we got there the place was dead and
Evans was gone.”

Munchover whistled, as the detective
continued, “We drummed up some
neighbors and they told us that he had
left a couple of days ago to look for
a job in some other town. We sent
out a call for him.”

That we might learn something from
the missing ex-tenant was the only
bright ray on the horizon.

“How about other previous tenants?”
Rankin asked, nervously biting a ciga-
rette.

“We got a list of the last ten occu-
pants from Bready,” Riley, slouching
at the desk, informed us. “Four men
are out rounding them up for ques-
tioning.”

Munchover snorted again. “Only
double iron-clad alibis will do—this
time.”

We settled down to routine work.

The killer was a sex fiend. We re-
called that the hair the victim ofthe
Horsham house clutched in her stiff
fingers was gray. The killer presum-
ably was a man of age. He might have
come to the attention of the authori-
ties on previous occasions, as such
things don’t crop up over night in
elderly individuals. There might be a
chance, we hoped, that his name was
buried somewhere in official files. We
started looking over our own records
and placed calls to the state authori-
ties and the Philadelphia police, with
the request to check on all gray-haired
degenerates.

While I was thumbing through dusty
papers suddenly something clicked in
my memory. “Say,” I called to the
other fellows, “remember the Vila sex
murder in Philly—?”

Sure, they all remembered. Last
New Year’s Eve, sultry Mary Vila, ‘Bek
year-old Argentine beauty with too
many love affairs for her own good,
had been found slain after horrible
torture.

about Evans, former

Ts grizzly pattern of the two ghoul-
ish crimes was the same. Was it
conceivable that the New Year’s Eve
slaying was committed by the same
prowling fiend? And other unsolved
torture killings of women, like the
Clara Buchanan slaying right in Nor-
ristown over a year ago, still unsolved
despite our most frantic efforts? And
that of Margaret Martin, pretty nine-
teen-year-old stenographer, whose un-
clothed and mutilated body was found


Munchover laid his hand gently on iny, he sald. The gold band with the Well, by this time we felt pretty
the queer stranger’s shoulder. baffling inscription “J, F. A. to E.M. A. dizzy. '

Then words began to drop from his Sept. 30, 1935" was the ring he had “What do you mean by that?”
lips, strangled, blubbered words we given his wife, Ethel, on thelr wedding Munchover cut in, “Loved her too
couldn’t understand. day. The blue polka-dot dress, he said, much?”

“Now come on, Buddy, tell us what’s was hers, She had worn it when she Staring straight ahead into space,
the matter," Munchover prompted. last left the house. Atkins explained, “She’s gone off like
“Pull yourself together and don’t “Five days ago,” the grief-stricken that many times before. But she al-
whine like a frightened filly.” husband explained, “Ethel got up at ways came back, Sometimes she was

After a breathless moment we heard seven in the morning as usual, made gone four or five days in a stretch.
the doubled-up man babble between breakfast for me and cared for our In the end I didn’t worry any more.
sobs, “It’s—it’s too horrible. Ethel, my two little children. I left the house When she returned she said she didn’t

wife—” He paused. for work at a quarter of eight. Shortly remember anything. Amnesia, I guess.
“Killed—in Horsham—?” after eight my wife told her uncle, Or maybe she only used it as an ex-
* He nodded. Titus Bearmore, who’s visiting with cuse, but I loved her so much I never

For a long, stirring moment we us, that she was going to get change questioned it. People saw her with
thought more about the man’s super- at a near-by store. She left without a men, drinking in saloons, at those

human grief than our tasks. Most of hat and coat and never came back.” times.”

us, having happy families, realized We stared at the man unbelievingly. f

how he felt about having his beloved “Today is Wednesday,” I intervened. P Need this was too strange to sound

wife butchered by the hands of a “Do you mean to say your wife has true without corroborating testi-

ghastly ripper. been missing since Saturday and you mony. But we didn’t bother with de-
We waited until his sobs began to haven’t even reported her unexplained tails, and pushed the questioning for-

ebb before we turned our verbal bat- absence to the police?” ward:

' teries on him. But then we sure started Atkins shook his head sadly. . When we asked Atkins if he held

shooting fast. ' “You don’t seem to have cared a_ any suspicions regarding the killer, he
His name, he said, was James F. great deal about her while she was_ shook his head.

Atkins, and he lived in North Phila- alive,” Rankin said bitterly. “Did you have an argument with her

delphia, No. 2348 North Opal Street. Atkins was biting his lips. “Prob- before she left the house last Satur-
He had read in the Philadelphia ably I loved her too much,” he cried day?” one of us inquired.

Inquirer that morning of the sex slay- out. (Continued on Page 36)

John C. Angier: He gave detec-
tives positive proof that he had
not seen his ex-wife’ since the
day she left him years ago

in a woods near Kingston, Pennsyl-
vania?

The mere thought that the sex mon-
ster might now be cunningly plotting
another of his murderous orgies made
the blood surge to our faces as we,
with redoubled determination, bent
over our dossiers.

]T WAS about ten that morning when
the door of the office slowly opened.
Unannounced, a tall, dark-haired,

niddle-aged man stood on the thresh-

vid. We dropped the work at hand

mmediately. The stranger wasn’t

30 much a man as a ghost. His wide-

ypen dark eyes held some mysterious

error. His face was waxen. His lips
rembled. Like an automaton he began

‘0 advance slowly toward the center

of the room. Suddenly he staggered

nto an empty chair, buried his head
ind started to sob.

“Who are you—what do you want?”
ve shouted at him, trying to shake him
nut of his daze.

He kept on sobbing, his head almost
m his knees. We traded helpless, em-
varrassed glances,

The tortuous trail led to this diner, where detectives found
a man who gave them the most important link in the fatal
_chain of events. That man was William J. Earnest, in the
Jacket, being questioned here by Detective Thomas Costello

creme aid

oot : : ee Le saat 3


« heads near, where he was pointing with
‘his finger, ‘There, about ten. inches
«from the missing pane, a spider. had,
spun its silvery threads)... 0%). 5. %
“T don’t think the slayer could have
_ entered through the window,” Rankin*
said. “There’s dust on the ,cobweb,.
which shows that it’s been there, for ;
several days at least.’ : SSE gg?
~ “Maybe—maybe not,”
‘muttered, shaking his head. 2 3
But anyway the discovery of the »
strangely scattered’ pieces of glass
-and the spider web gave us the feel-
ing that we were dealing with a very
-cunning killer. ie Bey
“Who has the keys to the house?”
“wea nae ia snapped to the distraught
ord, «.. ‘ “ BAS

Munchover. "
es

‘Nobody else?”
“No, but I lent the keys to a half-
dozen people in the last three weeks.
I tried to rent the place. If I didn’t.
have the time to come out here with
a prospect I gave him the kéys,”
“Got their. names?”
_-*Yet—but they’re all decent people,
ight from around here.”

‘\\AUNCHOVER shot him a -stern
glance. “Everybody is under sus-
picion in a case like this,” he said. .
I recalled the petting orgies Rankin
had mentioned to me previously. “I
understand ‘there are rumors about.
some wild goings-on in this house,” I
remarked. =." :
©The proprietor shrugged. “That's

true,” he muttered. “While the place
was unoccupied, petters. sneaked in.
frequently through the back door. The
firstgtime I-heard tell of wild parties

big tthe

vB Ns.

I came out here and bolted the door
to keep the intruders out.”

Our heads now were spinning from
all the conflicting aspects of the case.
However, we soon were: to be plunged
into blackest discouragement by the
mocking, tantalizing lack of any work-
able clews,

We had searched the house from top
to bottom. The woman’s bag-was miss-
ing, so was one shoe: Her polka-dot
dress bore no shop label. Nor could
we unearth anything that would give
us a hint as to the identity of the
killer,

‘Of course, there was the possibility
of getting finger-prints. But on the

advice. of young, hard-hitting District

said.

Attorney Frederick B. Smillie, who
had rushed down from Norristown, we
decided to leave that matter for the
next day. The poor lighting facilities
would have made it an almost impos-

‘sible task to do a thorough job of the

all-important finger-print dusting and
photographing. ;

Then suddenly something unexpect-
ed happened: When the men from
the Norristown morgue were lifting the
body'‘onto a stretcher, we heard Rankin
let outa bellow in the hall. .

We all rushed ini -Between his fin-
gers, Rankin was. holding. a small gold
ring. 4 eS es
come body,” he

PM Ae ge

“Found it unde

3a

a Oy) i

'The landlord who had just walked
out was called back and asked if h
knew anything about the band. Ra a

The man shook his head. “I don’t

‘know who it belongs to,” he mumbled. °,

That was the question that racked ;
our brains. To whom did it really be- .
long? Had the victim lost it in the

struggle? Or had some philandering ©. ‘7

local cutie dropped it during the for-
mer alleged wild petting parties? ‘
Suddenly an idea struck mé. “It’s a
wedding ring, isn’t it?” . ry
Rankin nodded. :
“There might be something engraved
inside—” aut MR Roane te
Rankin held the inside of the ring
under his electric torch. His eyes nar-

af


Before Smillie had got very far on the
latter tack, however, a short, dark work-
man made his way into the headquarters
of Philadelphia’s homicide squad in city
hall. He was James F. Atkins, of North
Opal street, in the Quaker City.

“I think that woman they found out in
Horsham was my wife,” he told Capt.
William Engle, the officer in charge.
“The inscription on that wedding ring
was the same as on the one I gave Ethel.”

Engle summoned Detectives Adam

Sadorf and Thomas Costello, and sent
them at once with Atkins to the Mont-
gomery county morgue.

Atkins looked at the body and turned
pale. ‘““That’s her,” he said. “Poor Ethel.”

Smillie and his assistants were sum-
moned. They immediately went into a
huddle with the stricken husband.

“When did your wife disappear?”
Smillie wanted to know.

She had vanished Saturday. Atkins
said. The last he saw of her was at 7
o'clock when she gave him breakfast be-
fore he went off to work. He was a
bricklayer.

When he got home that night, her
uncle, who lived with them, told the hus-
band she had gone out about 9 o’clock
and had not come back. She told him she
was going to the corner store.

“Did you notify the missing persons
bureau ?”

“NO,

“Why not?”

The man said he figured she was just
off somewhere and would return soon.
He did tell a policeman friend of his on
Tuesday afternoon, but he agreed the
husband probably was right. The officer
said that if she didn’t show up by Wednes-
day morning it would be best to report
her disappearance then.

‘Where were you Saturday night?”

The man said he stayed home and
minded the three-year-old twins.

“And Sunday ?”

“Pretty much the same thing.”

“Monday and Tuesday ?”

“T went to work. Uncle Titus looked
after the kids.”

“What did you mean when you said
she was just off somewhere? Did she
often go off and not come home for sev-
eral nights ?”

Atkins thought a moment. It was that
she liked her drink, he admitted finally.
And if she got hold of a few beers, not
many, because it didn’t take many, she
got amnesia spells. She would wander
off like a kid with almost anybody. When
she would get home, she would not re-
member a thing. She knew her failing,
the husband said, but Friday night they
went out and had a few beers. That
must have set her off.

“You were married in 1935, you say.
Had either of you been married before ?”

Atkins said his wife had told him she
had been married once to a kid of 17—to
a man named, John Cicero Angier.

This was surprising news. John Cicero
Angier was a member of the multi-mil-
lionaire Duke tobacco family. His father
was the brother of Sarah Angier Duke,
mother of the glamorous Doris, some-
times called the world’s richest girl.

“Do you know if your wife ever saw
or heard from Angier after you married
her ?”’. Atkins was asked.

The bricklayer replied that his wife had

[Continued on page 75]

Calm and unperturbed, the hard-faced killer, left, was tracked down after a
strange break developed. Below, left to right, are the officials who solved

the murder riddle:

Detective Tom Costello, Capt. William Engle, District

Attorney Fred B. Smillie and State Policemen Peter Riley and Harry Crist.


if a hobgobblin had run wild with a
bottle of red ink. At the same moment,
over the back of a living room chair, the
woman noticed, folded neatly, a woman’s
almost complete outfit of clothing. A
blue, polka dot dress, pink slip, pink
step-ins ; everything but shoes, stockings
and hat. Then, as the couple walked
slowly about, on one of the two stairways,
the front one leading from the living
room to the bedroom above, the husband
stumbled over the nude body of a red-
headed woman, scalp bloodied, breasts
brutally slashed, pelvis unspeakably mu-
tilated, bearing the evidence of a cruel
beating from tip to toe.

OMEHOW, the man managed to get

down the stairs and get his wife out of
the house without her setting eyes on
that spectacle. Once outside, the dis-
traught men lost no time in summoning
the authorities.

District Attorney .<derick B. Smillie,
of Montgomery count, himself re-
sponded. He brought with h. = his assis-
tants, Arthur Bean, David E. U~oshens
and Benjamin Scirica; County Lctec-
tives James V. Gleason, Kaye Mun-
shower and Harry D. Rankin and a
squad of state troopers from the nearby
barracks at Collegeville. It took the
officers only one quick survey in the
beams of their powerful flashlights to
see that they were in the midst of one of
the most horrible and baffling murder
cases in the annals of the commonwealth.

Upstairs, on the gore-stained floor of
a front bedroom, was a splintered curtain
rod. It had been ripped from one of the
windows and used as a club. Obviously
at least one of the murder weapons, it
was made more gruesome by the fact
that for fully a foot of its 36-inch length
it was completely coated with blood, as
if it had been literally rammed into the
woman’s body.

In a rear bedroom was an iron bed-
stead. It had collapsed. One end was bent

OR AE ATI Me, Rt Ninel

With the peculiar murder weapon care-
fully wrapped in a heavy cloth, above, a
state trooper turned to an examination of
the murder scene in the old farmhouse,
shown in exterior at right, in a vain search
for clues to the identity of the killer.

By
PETE WAGONER

ADVENTURES


a
wok

in and there was dried blood and matted
red hair clinging to it, indicating the vic-
tim had been hurled violently against it.

On the floor of the bathroom was an-
other of the death weapons, a rusty but
blood-smeared razor blade.

Blood was everywhere.

Smillie ordered the body to a hospital
for autopsy. Immediately he cast about
for clues. They were neither plentiful
nor helpful.

The owner of the house insisted the
wonian was not a tenant, that he had
never seen her before and that she must
have broken in or been in company with
others who had broken in for he had
visited the property only three days be-
fore and found it locked tighter than a
barrel.

The prospective tenants seid they didn’t
recognize the woman.

Dr. John C. Simpson, the coroner’s
physician, phoned fror the hospital to
say the murder had be .:n committed from
six to ten hours ° fore, or between the
hours of 7:30 and 11:30 on the morning
of Tuesday, Sept. 24, but neither the
occupants of the house 150 yards to the
north nor those 300 yards to the south
aad heard any outcries or unusual noise.
Neither of the neighbors had seen nor
heard cars coming or going from the
murder scene.

Fingerprints on both the club and
razor were so smudged as to be unidenti-
fable.

About the only concrete things Smillie
and his men had were:

The break in the window pane, which
the owner said was intact on his Saturday

visit to the property. And at that, the
hole was covered with a spider’s web,
which might be one day or one year old.

A plain gold wedding band inscribed
“le. Aa to F. MA. Sept 30,1035”
which had been taken from the dead red-
head’s finger.

A description of her, placing her age
between 30 and 35, weight about 140
pounds and height about 5 feet 6.

There was also the late autopsy report
showing the unusually sadistic means of
murder. The woman had bled to death
from pelvic injuries induced by the cur-
tain rod.

The rest of the affair—her identity,
her presence nude in a vacant house, the
strange paradox of her neatly folded
clothing and the horrible savagery of the
fatal attack—all these things and many
more were as much of a mystery at mid-
night Tuesday night as at 5:30 when her
mutilated body had been discovered.

Smillie gave the description of the
slain red-head and the inscription on her
wedding ring to the newspapers and gave
orders the following morning, that pre-
vious tenants of the Dresher road farm-
house should be rounded up for question-
ing as to whether they possessed keys or
not. He also instructed his men to look
over state police and Philadelphia detec-
tive bureau files for likely suspects among
the known sex offenders on whom both
organizations did their best to keep tabs.


, we told him.
t another chair
of the accused

e net fooling
cta t and
nly orgot
They saw the
ut your wife’s
You might as

rotested des-
he yard plant-
n around her
id me. It was
rried.”

ht,” Huffman
hat happened.
e story in the
to the lower
ow you could
woman who
ur wife held
ook and you
ad planned it
the day you
icy. The only

I” hé croaked.
our -wife bent
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You snatched
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rw she would
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And you took
m her dying

white but his

‘nial. At that
It was Dr.

sprin—s |

ind ...0 faze
ephone to the
At the end
y around.
uder,” I said
ed statement
tg
adden terror.
I did it. But
mad, sudden
her head on
I wished I
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yas sO much
tore all her

ffman scrib-
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ide.

ly say?” he
r words?”
hout making
+ whs just a

at the June
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ecuting At-
pushed the
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onment.

d_ sentence,
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cumstances,
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rosp Fa
tted he
it Jue: oon
here he re-

ns innocently

nm, the name = %

Fd Yon a

Seattets: Bier Biggs

Tryst of Terror and the Nude Playgirl

[Continued from page 9]

told him several times of meeting Angier
on the streets of Philadelphia.

“Do you know where he stays when
he’s herer”

The man did not know. Angier’s home
was in Baltimore.

Smillie didn’t know what to. think.
Certainly Angier could have had no con-
nection with this crime. lor lack of a
better procedure, the officer immediately
ordered his office to get in touch with
Angier and see if he would come to
Montgomery county to give what help
he could. He also asked Philadelphia
police to check with neighbors of the
Atkins for corroboration of the brick-
layer’s story, particularly on the angle of
Mrs. Atkins’ habit of occasionally
wandering off. Atkins was allowed to
return home. The officer felt certain that
the Angier story was only a fragment of
the woman’s imagination. But it was
more than a little inconsistent to the
district attorney that a man who pro-
fessed to be as fond of the murdered
woman as her husband did would allow
her to be unaccounted for from Saturday
morning at 9 until Wednesday without
going to the police. The story sounded
more inconsistent to Smillie after De-
tective Sadorf talked with Atkins’ uncle
and reported him as saving the victim
had gone off to the store with no hat or
coat or handbag, only a $5 bill in her
hand.

There also were other conflicting fac-
tors. A sister of the slain woman and an
aunt, both denied knowing that their
relative suffered from amnesia after a
few beers.

EANWHILE, the investigation into

previous tenants of the murder
house, was progressing. One-had been
located. He was a WPA employe who had
lived in the Dresher road farmhouse as
recently as Sept. 1.

_This man insisted he had surrendered
his key and the owner bore him out. So
that angle had narrowed down to ferret-
ing out the people who had visited the
WPA worker at Horsham, to see if such
a list might provide a likely suspect.

Smillie’s men also investigated the
possibility that the red-head’s murder
might be connected with a sex murder
that had taken place only three miles
from the Dresher road farmhouse just
one year previously.

That was the crime against Mrs. Clara
Oberholtzer Buchanan, wife of a printing
company executive, who had been found
assaulted and strangled in her cottage on
South Whitehall road, near Norristown,
on Sept. 25, 1939. It was still unsolved.

Then, on the night of Wednesday,
Sept. 25, John Cicero Angier, heir in part
to the Duke tobacco millions, walked into
the district attorney's office accompanied
by his attorney.

Angier quickly explained his marriage
to the woman. In 1920, when he was still
under age, he had married Ethel Craft,
he said. They had had three children, two
boys and a girl. But they had not been
compatible. When the oldest child had
been about 3 years old they had separated.
He had sent the children to his mother,
where they still were.

Then Smillie received a jolt.

John Angier and Ethel Craft had not
been divorced, according to Angier’s
story, until April, 1940. In other words,
the slain red-head’s marriage to Atkins
in 1935—the marriage dated by the in-
scription on the ring that had led to the
identification of her mutilated body—was
bigamous.

“Did you know she had remarried with-
out a divorce?” the officer asked.

“No,” replied the Baltimore man. He
knew nothing about her recentlife. Hehad
been looking for her since about 1928.
He advertised and put lawyers on the
job, but he could not locate her. So he
finally instituted suit for divorce and
obtained a decree in April, 1940.

“You mean to say that you have neither
seen nor heard from Ethel Craft since
1928?” Smillie persisted.

The man was positive. He had not been
in Philadelphia for months. The story of
Mrs. Atkins about seeing him, then, must
have been sheer invention.

It looked as if the case were to go un-
solved. All leads had about run_ out.
Neither Smillie nor any of the Phila-
delphia homicide squad members. who
were cooperating with him knew where
to turn next.

And then with dramatic suddenness
came a break—one of those strange
quirks of fate which are always tripping
up transgressors against the law just when
it looks as if they were getting away.
Ironically, it came within earshot of Mrs.
Ethel Craft Atkins, had she been alive
to hear.

The dead woman’s body was laid out
the following Friday night in the North
Opal street home she had shared with
the bricklayer and her twins. All night,
neighbors, friends and morbid strangers
streamed through the little house. At 1
a. m., Saturday, Atkins had enough. He
shut the doors.

Still there were a dozen or more
persons left inside the house. These spoke
in whispers in the presence of the dead,
lingering over their departure.

Suddenly a man’s boast, heard clearly
through the whispering groups, cut across
the room. .

“T was with her Sunday night, drink-
ing,” he said.

Those present were electrified. Nobody,
so far as the police were concerned, had
seen Mrs. Atkins between the Saturday
she left home and the Tuesday her body
was discovered in the Dresher road farm-
house.

Atkins slipped quietly out to a phone.

“Captain Engle,” he said, when he had
got the homicide squad chief on the wire.
“There's a man at the wake boasting he
was with my Ethel on Sunday.”

“Sunday! Are you sure you mean Sun-
day?” Engle asked.

“Yes,” replied Atkins. “He said Sunday,
all right. A dozen people heard him. That
means he saw her after she left my house
—a full day after.”

“Hold him, Hold him on any pretext,”
said Engle.

And without waiting for more, he
rounded up Detectives Sadorf and Cos-
tello, notified District Attorney Smillie
and piled out in a car for the Atkins home.

Atkins opened the door for them and

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poison. She liked the taste of beer
and liquor well enough, and she
loved the fuzzy feeling of exhilara-
tion it gave her—but she simply
: couldn’t handle the stuff. She had known
of her particular allergy since her late
teens, but in her early 30's, twice mar-
ried and five times a mother, Ethel was
still trying to drink normally.

Pretty and vivacious, with a voluptuous
figure, there was nothing about the dark-
haired young matron’s appearance to in-
dicate that she had trouble of any kind.
Yet when she drank even a few glasses
of beer it happened. There was no Jekyll-
Hyde change in personality; she did not
become sloppy, maudlin or pugnacious,
nor did she pass out. Instead, she plunged
into a deep mental fog, during which she
had no consciousness of what she was do-
ing and no recollection of her actions
afterward.

On such occasions Ethel literally took
her life into her hands. She had been —
warned by her doctor, her husbands and
her friends, but the thing apparently was,
beyond her control. It was not drinking

H too much she had to fear; it was drink-
: ing anything at all, a bitter fact for her
i to face.

f: ETHEL ATKINS, alcohol was

Lh.

ETHEL ATKINS—

: The attractive housewife was lured to
the empty house. When she resisted the
“ ss killer’s advances he beat her to death.


{ote &

BLOODSTAINS—
Attempting to escape her killer, she
spread blood on the walls and floors.

ring was inscribed “J. F. A. to E. M. A.,
September 30, 1935.”

As Chief Munshower and Captain
Engle reconstructed the crime, the mur-
derer had lured his victim to the lonely,
deserted house and, finding it locked, had
gained entrance by breaking a window.
Either by force or voluntarily, she had
gone upstairs.

After the brutal attack he had left her
in the second floor bedroom, and fled, be-
lieving her dead. But the trail of blood
indicated that she had regained conscious-
ness, dragged herself to the stairs and, un-
able to go on, had fallen halfway down
and died there. Even if she had been
able to scream for help, no one would
have heard her.

The absence of a purse suggested that
the motive might have been robbery, but
the viciousness of the attack and the scene
itself led the officers to conclude the
killer had been bent primarily on criminal
assault. There was some indication such
an attack had been attempted, but this
could not be determined for certain until
the results of the autopsy were known.
_“I can’t believe that any woman in her
right mind would come to an isolated spot
like this with a man she couldn’t trust

dedi
“ty ey) "

a
CVS Tr:
fit 2%

°

or didn’t know,” Chief Munshower de-
clared. “Yet that’s apparently what hap-
pened.”

“The answer may be that she was not
in full possession of her faculties,” Cap-
tain Engle pointed out. “It’s possible she
was drunk or under the influence of nar-
cotics.”

Technicians had been unable to find
any clear fingerprints in the deserted house
except those of the victim herself that
were outlined in blood upon the walls. The
bloody curtain rod and iron bar from the
bedstead were carefully prepared for re-
moval to the state police laboratory in
Harrisburg, there to be examined for the
killer’s prints. ,

The house on Dresher Road was some
distance from other dwellings, and a can-
vass of the neighborhood failed to turn
up any witnesses who had seen the slayer
coming or leaving. While the body of the
dead woman was placed in an ambulance
for the trip to the county morgue, Mun-
shower started for county police head-
quarters at Norristown.

The key to the murder puzzle, they
agreed, in all probability lay somewhere in
the victim’s private life, her background
and associations. The first step was to

Ominous and forbidding, the desolate (aman
i house was witness to a savage drama. @.

find out who she was, then to go on from
there.

At Munshower’s request, Engle called
Harrisburg and- arranged for a message
to be sent out over the state police tele-
type network, giving a complete descrip-
tion of the slain woman, and requesting
that any information about her be for-
warded directly to Chief Munshower.

The officials already had checked all re-
ports of missing persons in the files at Nor-
ristown,*but found none listing a woman
of that description. A similar check with
the statewide files at WHarrisburg also
brought no results.

Munshower and Engle turned next to
the clue of the victim’s gold wedding
ring. Assuming that the date in the in-
scription referred to a marriage ceremony,
they checked the Montgomery County
marriage license files for September 30,
1935. The records showed four licenses
issued On that date, one of them to a
man and woman with the same initials
as those on the ring. :

That license had been obtained by James
F. Atkins of 2518 North 19th Street,
and Ethel M. Craft of 2502 West Oakdale
Street, both Philadelphia.

Detectives (Continued on page 38)

27

pea
nee

“You got nothin’ on me,” he told the
detectives. They soon showed him how
wrong he was and then he confessed.

~

Someone ‘had said that a glass of beer
would be the death of her—and in a way
it was. Alive and in an alcoholic black-
out, she was always turning up in the
strangest places. Dead, she was found in
the strangest of all... .

HE HEADLAMPS of an automobile
swept the blank windows of the
deserted house on the outskirts of Willow
Grove, Pennsylvania, as the car pulled up
in the weed-choked driveway. Morris
Bacon, at the wheel, thought he had never
seen his property look quite so lonely as
it did that Tuesday evening in September.
The path leading up to the door was a
tangled mass of grass which had overrun
the grounds and the flowerbeds, and the
house itself had an aspect of utter decay.
In the dim light from the car the paint
gave the gray walls a speckled look, and
the drab green shutters seemed about to
fall from their hinges.

Bacon knew that this would make a bad
impression on the couple in the back seat.
He should have waited until daylight when
the unkempt appearance .of the place
would not have seemed so sinister. But
the young couple in his car were prospec-
tive tenants, and Bacon was anxious to
rent the house. It was not easy to per-
suade people to live in the country, some
25 miles from Philadelphia.

“Rain brings out the weeds,” he said
over his shoulder.. “But they're easy to
pull up. Watch your step, now. I'll turn
on my flashlight.”

The young husband helped his wife out
of the sedan. “We'll have a took at the
place, anyway,” he said.

Bacon led the way to the side entrance
and fitted a key into the lock. The door

SHROUD—
When they found Ethel, this polka-dotted
dress was almost completely torn off her.

SSL
~ -

26

swung open and a burst of damp air
rushed out.

“It’s been closed up,” the owner ex-
plained as he played the flashlight across
the ceiling and up and down the walls.
“You can see it’s in good condition. Let’s
go up the back way and look at the bed-
rooms first.”

The beam of light rolled along the floor,
darted upward and suddenly picked out
the imprint of a bloody. hand upon the wall.

The young woman caught her breath
and. clung to her husband. ‘“What’s that?”
she gasped.

“IT don’t know,” Bacon replied in a low
voice. “I can’t imagine—” He moved the
beam upward and it found another splotch
of blood—and another.

“Look!” screamed the girl, staring in
horror.

Sprawled on the stairs was the half-
naked figure of a woman, face battered
and smeared with blood, her. sheer blue
polka-dot dress ripped and torn. One hand
was outflung as though in mute appeal,
the fingers cut and bruised where she had
battled with her assailant. Her head was
twisted grotesquely upward, her sightless
eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

When they had recovered from the first

shock of the gruesome discovery, Bacon
ushered the couple out to his car and
drove to a nearby house, where he used
the telephone to call police. Then they
returned to the deserted house on Dresher
Road and waited for the officers to arrive.

ITHIN half an hour, the driveway

was lined with police cars as state,
county and city investigators responded
to the alarm. Bacon and his prospective
tenants were questioned about their dis-
covery of the body by Chief Kaye Mun-
shower, commander of Montgomery Coun-
ty detectives, and Captain William C.
Engle of the Philadelphia homicide squad,
who had rushed to the scene to cooperate
with the Norristown authorities.

While other officers were searching the
house for possible clues, Dr. John C.
Simpson, coroner’s physician, examined
the body. He reported the woman had
been dead for about six hours, putting the
time of the crime at around 1 o’clock that
afternoon. She had been beaten from
head to foot with a heavy instrument that
inflicted a skull fracture and multiple in-
ternal injuries with sevére hemmorhages.

“She must have put up a terrific battle
for her life,” Dr. Simpson observed.

This was borne out by bloodstains in
the front bedroom on the second floor,
where the walls bore imprints of the vic-
tim’s hands, indicating that she had groped
toward the door to escape. In one corner
of the room, officers found a blood-caked
curtain rod and an iron bar which had
been wrested from a bedstead. Both ob-
viously had been used by the killer in
his homicidal frenzy.

Except for these ugly weapons, the
bloody handprints and a broken window
on the ground floor, there were no other
clues—certainly none that hinted at the
slayer’s identity.

Neither was there a purse or handbag
containing papers .by which the victim
might be identified. In addition to the
torn blue polka-dot dress, she wore white
shoes, light tan stockings, and a white slip.

Dr. Simpson estimated that she was in
her late 20s or early 30s, five feet, four
inches tall, and weighed about 140 pounds,
with brown hair and eyes. She had been
a-mother, he reported, and one of her
teeth—the upper right first molar—had
a gold cap.

But the best clue to her identity was
a gold wedding band on the third finger

of i left hand. On the inside of this


Battered Wife and Her Lost
| Weekend

[Continued from page 25]

notable sup-
unty sheriffs,
of the South
Division,

worst ever
uled Pardon
“Because of
ch the scheme
ieserve max-

from the county coroner’s office. He was
| informed that the dead woman had just
been identified by a man named James F.
Atkins, who said that the victim was his
wife, Ethel Mae. Atkins had read details
of the murder in Philadelphia newspapers
and had gone to Norristown at once.
Soon, Munshower was closeted with
rch or other Atkins, a quiet, serious-mannered man in
can be done his early 30s, whose voice was tinged with
slp.” sadness as he told the story of his wife’s

i return Joel

eal. Edward disappearance. First he explained the
a broadcast minor discrepancy in the wedding ring
gave an in- initials.

“My wife was married before,” stated

realized that . ,
the Rover Atkins, “to a man named Angier who now
t he had not lives in Baltimore. They were divorced
urly-haired later, but she was still using that name

when I met her, so I had the ring engraved
E. M. A.”

“How long had you known your wife
before you married her?” Munshower

t the request
en around in

d the Ottawa
60 hours of asked. ;
ced by the “Only a few months,” answered Atkins.

“I met her on the Fourth of July, while I

was working at an amusement park.”
“You mean at Willow Grove Park?”
“Why, no. At Woodside Park in Phila-

dephia. I was a lifeguard at the Crystal

1 woman with
day morning
drove them

inutes and 7 '

igin Hotel, Pool,” Atkins paused. “Why did you men-
Mrs. Greta tion Willow Grove Park?”

an phoned “Because it is so close to the house

where your wife was killed, and some-
times park patrons would use the vacant
house for wild parties.”

“Then whoever took my wife there must

{ care for the
hile she went

had seen or
nee then the have known about the house beforehand?”
for by Mrs. 6 ‘
That’s right. Have you any one in
tion and pass- mind?”
ce, within 24 Atkins shook his head. “Ethel had gone
1t the Quebec away before,” he stated, “but I never
vas stopping. thought that anything like this could hap-
sid German pen. I guess it all started last Friday night,
Toronto po- or really before that...”
Yetective Sgt. “Let's hear it,” put in Munshower, “right
officers who from the very beginning.”
with fright Simply, Atkins said he felt that he and
Ethel had lived a happy married life in
. who at first their small home on Opal Street in North
vith the kid- Philadelphia. They had two children. At-
to knew her kins was working steadily at the Baldwin
In an inter- Locomotive Works and they enjoyed many
been with good times together. That, however, was
y 25. Taken the problem. Once Ethel embarked on a
dow fainted good time, she didn’t want to stop.
of the boy ‘Tt only took a few beers to make her

giddy,” explained Atkins. “Then she would
go into a sort of stupor. After that, she
would be all right.”

“You mean when she snapped out of it?”

1aping. Later
tatement than

ful Reitmans

wibby Edward “No, no. If she stayed that way. Then
0 and lifetime it was easy to handle her. If she snapped
» of their 90- out of it, she would only want to drink
DS some more.”

slice, the day That had been the trouble on Friday

night, Atkins explained. He and his wife
had gone into a North Philadelphia tavern
with his uncle and the latter’s girl friend.
After a few rounds of beer, Ethel had
gone into her now too familiar dazed state.
But when they tried to take her from the
tavern, she had put up an argument, which
had continued all the way home.

“Ethel was all over it the next morning,”
said Atkins. “At least I thought she was.

“When I left for work on Saturday
morning,” continued Atkins, “TI kissed her
goodbye and took it for granted that she
would be home when I returned that
afternoon. Instead, she was gone. That was
the last I ever saw of her.”

1 doing occa-
Terrace home
n in suburban
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eared to pick

was pressed
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“From Saturday morning,” mused Mun-
shower, “until Tuesday of the following
week is a very long time.”

“Too long a time,” conceded Atkins.
“That’s why I began to worry.”

“Why didn’t you report her disappear-
ance to the Philadelphia police immedi-
ately?”

“I checked a few places,” Atkins stated,
“but no one had seen her.’ Other times she
always came back after a few days and
seemed glad to be home. If she learned I
had the police looking for her, she might
have stayed away.”

“Didn’t you ever try to find out where
your wife had been?’

“Yes, I asked her,” returned Atkins, “but
she never could remember. She just
seemed to wander about in a state of
amnesia until she found her way home
again.”

Chief Munshower recognized that vari-

ous factors could have entered into Ethel’s-

long lost week-end. As he analyzed it, she
might have gone almost anywhere, even
to the house in Horsham, to keep an ap-
pointment with death.

To cover the Philadelphia angle, ‘Chief
Munshower assigned Montgomery County
Detectives Harry Rankin and James Glea-
son to work with the Quaker City police.
There Capt. William Engle, head of the
homicide squad, put Lieut. William
O’Brien and Sgt. Thomas Costello on the
case. Their first stop was the tap room
Atkins and his wife had visited the previ-
ous Friday. The proprietor, William Black,
nodded when shown a photograph of the
dead woman.

“She was here either Friday or Satur-
day night,” he recalled. “Maybe both. She
seemed in a daze the last time I saw her
and she was talking to a gray-haired man.
They must have gone out together.”

Mention of a gray-haired man tallied
with the hairs under the victim’s finger-
nails found by Dr. Simpson, but this lead
proved short-lived. From a more detailed
description, the older man turned out to
be Atkins’ uncle, who had been taking
turns with Atkins trying to persuade Ethel
to go home with them.

The autopsy revealed that the murdered
woman had been drinking within a few
hours of her death, which Dr. Simpson
was positive had occurred about Tuesday
noon.

The early discovery of the body had
been helpful in establishing the time ele-
ment. Now it enabled investigators to
eliminate as possible leads all persons
who could account for their actions on
Tuesday, September 24, rather than the
entire preceding week-end.

James Atkins, for one, had been on the
job at the locomotive works all that Tues-
day, as inquiry at the plant proved. Mean-
while, state police were still seeking leads
at the house in Horsham.

They had questioned residents of the
area and had lifted some partial finger-
prints from the broken glass and frame of
the window through which an intruder
had entered the house.

These prints had been compared with
those of Bready and Leo, to make sure
they had not left them inadvertently. They
had proven to be strange prints, but so
far remained unidentified. Whether they
belonged to the unknown slayer or to
some chance prowler also remained an
open question.

In Willow Grove, Police Chief Lawer-
ence Shores was checking local leads, but
nothing was uncovered. County and state
investigators, meanwhile, were probing
records of known sex criminals as Dr.
Simpson, in his final report, had classed
the slaying as “the most brutal” that he
had observed in his long experience.

4
The broken curtain rod, which the slayer |
had used on his victim, was sent to Wash- ©
ington for tests at the FBI laboratory, as
were the gray hairs believed to be from
the head of the unknown slayer.

During their intensive canvass of more
than 75 Philadelphia taverns Lieutenant
O’Brien and Sergeant Costello had finally
begun to trace the curious course that
Ethel Atkins had followed in her half-
dazed lost week end. She had started a

considerable distance from her home,
which was why the trail had been difficult
to pick up. After that her route had been
willy-nilly, depending principally on the
whims of new acquaintances, mostly men.

It took repeated questioning of many
patrons at each tavern before the in-
vestigators could find any one who recog-
nized the dead woman’s picture. The
reason was simple: Ethel Atkins, rendered
“docile” after a few drinks, had not
created any disturbance or attracted much
attention.

On the previous Saturday evening she
had been steered from a North Broad
Street tavern by an amiable character
known as “Dingbat.” Questioning other
customers, detectives finally found one
who knew Dingbat by his real name. They
learned his home address and dropped
around to talk to him.

A man in his early forties, Dingbat had
gray hair above his temples, but he also
had a solid alibi for all day Tuesday. His
acquaintance with Ethel Atkins had be-
gun and ended on the previous Saturday
evening, all in a matter of a few hours.
After that, he had found her company
rather dull and had left her at another
tab room, where he obligingly directed
the lieutenant and sergeant.

Dingbat’s experience proved a fair
sample of those that were to follow as the
investigators continued to pick up her
circuitous trail.

In all, more than a dozen men were
questioned. Each insisted that he had
moved in and out of Ethel’s life without
arranging a return date. Most claimed
their acquaintance had been limited to
that of temporary drinking companions.
Considering Ethel’s tendency to fall into
a stupor, those accounts rang true.

As for the rest, a careful check elimi-
nated each person on one count or an-
other, so far as suspicion of murder was
concerned. The trail grew progressively
hotter right up to the tavern closing hour
on Monday night. Then, on the very eve
of her murder, she strangely dropped
completely out of sight.

Such was the status of the investigation
on the morning of Saturday, September
26, exactly one week from the time when
James Atkins had last seen his wife.

In Philadelphia, city detectives and
others from Montgomery ~County were
mingling with a rapidly growing crowd
outside the Atkins home on Opal Street
where the funeral was to be held at 2
o’clock that Saturday afternoon. No ef-
fort was made to keep curiosity seekers
away—the more the better. The killer
might be among them.

One man was posted inside the house
to watch for the sadistic slayer. So far,
only friends and neighbors had filed into
the house. Then, as a solemn, gray-haired
man of stocky build approached a taller
companion waiting at the door, the de-
tective heard him whisper:

“That’s the woman all right. She said
her name was Ethel. I thought she was
the same one.” ‘

The detective gave a signal as the pair
left and before they were a block away,
plainclothesmen from the crowd had over-
taken them. When they saw the badges

that the detectives {

actually looked

At city hall, th
were partners v
their business in
tavern the previou
before the place
woman entered, ga\
then nodded as thi

She said her name

would like a night:
home.

Two beers later
that her name was
idea where she live
had an apartment
her there, hoping
She had dozed unt

repeated that her :

she still didn’t kno
Since the two mé
office, they had dr
tavern where she h
before. The place
had just opened {
arrived. Detectives

there, but no one h

Atkins.

Now, when they
personnel about t!

morning, they score
studied the phot
corner booth.

“She was sitting
told Sergeant Cos
spearheading the P
tion. “But I thought
the way she joined
in.”
“Who were the «
tello.

“Two men and
joined the barter
guys havg been
with a couple of d

“Always in the 1

“Yeah, right aft
fellow comes in alo
a smooth guy, "="!
guess he works «
plant. Looks abc

“But you don’t

“ce
The other guy
guess he was int
dame, but I didn’t

“But you don’t k
from here?”

“T know one pi:
diner up by Nort!
talked about going
Earnest said he'd :
other place open
more beers and |

Further inquiry
that the foursom«
rounds of other :
o'clock, with a sto;
tello learned that
Earnest was kn
been seen with |
with them worke:
all-night restaura:
sible link with th:
had formerly bee:

Ethel evidentl:
group and witness
cause of her detac!
stare. But the
just one good lea:
Earnest was know
and for some rez
go back there. Sc
detectives went 1}
selves.

The diner was
operated on a 24-
lot of between-trai
sylvania Railroa
waited until the


Ripert hy j F
a ee a oth

ch the slayer
+ sent to Wash-
,boratory, as
i to be from

vass of more
is Lieutenant
\lo had finally

course that

1 her half-
iad started a
. her home,
been difficult
ute had been
ipally on the
mostly men.
ing of many
fore the in-
e who recog-
picture. The
<ins, rendered
ks, had not
racted much

¥

evening she
North Broad
le character
stioning other
» found one
.1 name. They
and dropped

Dingbat had

. but he also
Tuesday. His
tkins had be-
ious Saturday
f a few hours.
r company
at another

ly directed

yved a fair
follow as the
pick up her

©
n men were
that he had
\'s life without
Most claimed
en limited to
1g companions.
sy to fall into
ang true.
| check elimi-
count or an-
of murder was
progressively
n closing hour
n the very eve
ngely dropped

he investigation
iay, September
the time when
n his wife.
ietectives and
County were
growing crowd
on Opal Street
be held at 2
ternoon. No ef-
iriosity seekers
r. The killer

nside the house
ic slayer. So far,
ors had filed into
mn, gray-haired
roached a taller

door, the de-

“right. She said
thought she was

nal as the pair
a block away,
cowd had over-
y saw the badges

that the detectives flashed, the two men
actually looked relieved.

At city hall, they told their story. They
were partners who had been discussing
their business in a North Philadelphia
tavern the previous Monday night. Just
before the place closed an attractive
woman entered, gave them a vacant stare,
then nodded as though she knew them.
She said her name was Ethel and that she
would like a nightcap before she started
home.

Two beers later she’d even forgotten
that her name was Ethel. She hadn’t any
idea where she lived. One of the partners
had an apartment close by, so they took
her there, hoping to learn who she was.
She had dozed until morning, when she
repeated that her name was Ethel. But
she still didn’t know where she lived.

Since the two men had to get to their
office, they had dropped her off at the
tavern where she had met them the night
before. The place was on 20th Street and
had just opened for business when they
arrived. Detectives had already checked
there, but no one had remembered Ethel
Atkins.

Now, when they talked to the daytime
personnel about the previous Tuesday
morning; they scored a hit. The bartender
studied the photo, then pointed to a
corner booth.

“She was sitting right over there,” he
told Sergeant Costello, who now was
spearheading the Philadelphia investiga-
tion. “But I thought she was with a party,
the way she joined them when she came
in.”

“Who were the others?” quizzed Cos-
tello.

“Two men and another woman,” re-
joined the bartender. “The same two
guys have been in here before, usually
with a couple of dames.”

“Always in the morning?”

“Yeah, right after we open up. One
fellow comes in alone sometimes. Kind of
a smooth guy, with dark, slick hair. I
guess he works on the swing shift in some
plant. Looks about 35 years old.”

“But you don’t know his name?” 7

¢

‘The other guy called him Earnest. I
guess he was_ introducing him to the
dame, but I didn’t realize it then.”

“But you don’t know where they went
from here?”

“T know one place they didn’t go—the
diner up by North Philly Station. They
talked about going there for breakfast, but
Earnest said he’d rather wait until some
other place opened. So they had a few
more beers and left.”

Further inquiry in that section proved
that the foursome had made the morning
rounds of other tap rooms prior to 11
o'clock, with a stop-off for breakfast. Cos-
tello learned that the man accompanying
Earnest was known as Ricky and had
been seen with him before. The woman
with them worked as a waitress in some
all-night restaurant. This formed a pos-
sible link with the fact that Ethel Atkins
had formerly been a waitress.

Ethel evidently had stayed with the
group and witnesses remembered her be-
cause of her detached manner and steady
stare. But the inquiry boiled down to
just one good lead: It would appear that
Earnest was known at the station diner
and for some reason had not wanted to
go back there. So Costello and the other
detectives went there to check for them-
selves.

The diner was a popular place that
operated on a 24-hour basis, catching a
lot of between-train patronage from Penn-
sylvania Railroad passengers. Costello
waited until the stocky counterman had

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“Until death do us part,” Edna had whispered at
her wedding. And now she was busy making that
come true—by framing her husband for murder!

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served a couple of customers, then asked:
“What do you know about a fellow

‘ named Earnest?”

The counterman did a double-take.
“That’s my name,” he stated. “William
Earnest. Some people call me Bill.”

The counterman fitted the bartender’s
description of one of the troupe known
to have been with Ethel Atkins on the
day of her murder—even to his sleek,
neatly parted dark hair. Questioned re-
garding his comments at the 20th Street
tavern, Earnest smiled at mention of the
diner.

“When I work all night here,” he stated
simply, “I like to eat breakfast some-
where else, just for variety.”

“And who was the man with you?”

“Rick Lacey. He’ll be stopping by. He
usually does.”

“And the women?”

“One was named Kitty. She was in here
having coffee and decided to go along
with us. The other girl joined us later.
She said her name was Ethel.”

“And where did you leave them?”

“We dropped Kitty on Broad Street and
started downtown with Ethel. She wanted
to go to another tap room, but Rick and
I were tired. We let her out at a corner.”

When Rick Lacey was located and
questioned, his story tallied with Earnest’s.
Adding it up, detectives now had listed
about 18 men with whom Ethel Atkins had
opened conversation and indulged in
drinks while wandering about town. Ap-
parently, the trail continued on from
there, culminating in Ethel’s next date,
which must have been her last. For an
hour later she was dead.

“We've got to find that woman named
Kitty,” declared Sergeant Costello. “There’s
a chance that Ethel may have dropped
some word to her or mentioned where
she wanted to go next. We’re getting close
to where a last-minute clue could break
this case.”

Working on the hunch that Kitty was
a waitress, the detectives checked all-
night restaurants and found the woman
who had been the fourth member of the
party. Her name was Kitty Leonard and
her story checked with those told by
Earnest and Lacey. Unfortunately, Ethel
had not exchanged confidences with Kitty.

“After they dropped me off, that was
the last I saw of them,” Kitty said.

“And they dropped you off,” added
Costello, methodically, “somewhere on
North Broad Street?”

“A few blocks off from Broad Street,”
corrected Kitty.“Near my home on Chel-
tenham Avenue.” ;

Costello looked up from his note book.
“Cheltenham Avenue! Why, that’s clear
out by the city line, half way to Willow
Grove!”

“And Horsham,” put in Detective Glea-
son, “is only a short way past that.”

“They could have driven there easily,”
added Detective Rankin, “and with time
to spare before that murder occurred.”

Philadelphia police arrested Earnest
when he came on duty at the diner at 11
o'clock that evening.: Lacey was picked
up later and after a magistrate’s hearing,
both men were turned over to the Mont-
gomery County detectives who took them
to Norristown, accompanied by State
Troopers Peter Riley and Harry Christ.

Earnest: maintained his sleek, casual
pose when quizzed by Captain Mun-
shower. :

“Maybe we did go for a longer ride,”
declared the counterman. “But whatever
Lacey telis you, he’s as deep in this as I
am.”

Lacey, a man of about Earnest’s age,
became nervous when Captain Mun-
shower repeated that statement to him.

“Look,” began Lacey. “We drove out ©

to an old house and Earnest went in there
with the dame he had met in the beer
parlor. They stayed so long I went in to
look for them, but Earnest met me down-
stairs and told me not to go up.”

“And why did he tell you that?”

“He said he’d had an argument with
Ethel and had bopped her in the nose.
His clothes were all bloody and later he
said we’d both be in trouble if we didn’t
tell the same story. If Whitey thinks he
can frame me... .”

“Whitey? You wouldn’t mean Earnest,
would you?” queried Munshower.

“Yeah, Whitey Earnest,” replied Lacey.
“That’s what we used to call him. Only
he told me not to use that nickname any
more. I don’t know why he’s so sensitive.
You can’t even see the white streak in
his hair, the way he combs it now.”

Munshower promptly switched the quiz
back to Earnest, whose calm became as
ruffled as his hair when the detective chief
told him to brush it to the side. There,
covered by the sleek, dark hair that
Earnest combed so carefully, was the
streak of grayish-white that had given
him his old nickname. His gray hair now
marked him as a murderer.

In checking Earnest’s past, county de-
tectives learned that he previously had
lived in the Horsham area and knew of
the old house. Partial fingerprints lifted
from the broken glass matched Earnest’s.
But the clincher was that streak of gray-
white hair. Samples from Earnest’s head
were compared with the hairs found
under the victim’s fingernails. Under a
powerful microscope they were termed
identical.

Faced with this evidence, Earnest ad-
mitted taking Ethel Atkins to the house
in Horsham. He claimed that the woman
had disrobed in the kitchen and had
voluntarily accompanied him to the second
floor, wearing only her shoes and stock-
ings. Soon, Earnest declared, an argument
had begun and she had tried to club him
with the curtain rod.

“IT wrenched it away from her,” Earnest
testified, “but she fought so hard I had
to hit her with it. After the rod broke,
she tripped over the bedstead that was
stacked in the corner and it fell on her.”

Earnest insisted that he had “blacked
out” after some of the blows he had re-
ceived, which left his recollections rather
hazy. He couldn’t remember throwing the
victim down the back stairs. Instead he
claimed that when he went down the front
way, she had called after him, “You're
not going to leave me here—I’m coming
with you!” and that he had shouted back:

“The hell you are!”

Few persons believed Earnest’s version
and none of them were on the jury that
heard the evidence in the murder trial
held before Judge William F. Danne-
hower. As a surprise witness, the prosecu-
tion introduced a Philadelphia woman,
Mrs. Gertrude Rizzo, who identified
Earnest as a man who had broken into
her apartment near Broad Street and had
stolen her jewelry after beating her un-
conscious.

That had happened three weeks prior
to the Atkins murder and was accepted
as a fair sample by which to gauge the
killer’s brutality. On December 5, 1940,
the jury brought in a verdict of guilty in
the first degree. After the usual appeals,
William “Whitey” Earnest went to the
electric chair in the state penitentiary at
Bellefonte, Pa., on October 27, 1941.

(The name Rick Lacey is fictitious to pro-
tect the identity of a person indirectly involved
in the investigation.—The Editor)

Death Trys

[Cont

Nobody had see:
answering Patric!
Height 5’ 5”, we
formal attire of
Repeat calls t
results, except tc
tricia Wing had '
Belgrade, a doze:
but none had he:
tance calls were !
of her family in C
the same negativ:
Friends and
point; that Patri
the last detail wh
cerned, would ce:
telling where sh¢
expected to be aw
The fact that the:
an ominous rem!
this case might |
than the “missin:
Just six months
ber 9, 1957,
housewife named
disappeared in
fashion from he:
about 16 miles nor
intensive search, !
body had been fc
bor’s barn. (Start
—Sex Bludyeon:
A Skowhegar
ing Phyllis Mac.
according to Po
of Skowhegan, h
attack.” But the
was a note Mrs
her daughter Glo:
be at a neighb
knowin# nothin
a false story w}

.

Put there w
case and nothing
a lead to the
Wing. The piece
her husband and
the time of her
1:30 p.m., wher
begun his nap,
the other childr«
school.

Police Chief G
of Kennebec C
Kennebec Count
in Augusta. T!
Deputy Merle 7
Hindhaugh to
Police were
John Hutchiso:
investigatior

All Tuesd
aided by tw
kept up a hous
tioning practic
population, Th
was followed
and, remembe:
MacArthur «
barns and
flashlights pro!
spots.

Some investi:
lieve that Pat:
the victim of
her own kitch«

On Monday
home late fro:
near Kelsey St
End. She deseri!
and wiry with
had failed to g
in the dark.

The woman :


irm. Dan
2 Kingston
McKechnie
e.

rintendent
ial Church
echnies all

became an
‘or Society
ewise, was
n they fin-
work in a
o got a job

st friends.
backyards,
often and
WS.
1, in whose
ion of Rob-
> difference
entioned it,
.e fervently

or Freda was
man should
choice.
iy difference
intly in her
vent in the
it were his
ndsome lad,
lady killer,”
It never oc-
1. She loved
room in her

narried some
b and made
could afford
yuld, like his
ingston Coal
settle down

and be together forever, Freda was
happy enough in that thought.

But Robert had no intention of follow-
ing in his father’s footsteps. He wanted
a higher education.

Strangely enough he encountered no
opposition. His father was more than
willing to have him go to the State
Teachers’ College at Mansfield, Pennsyl-
vania.

Even Freda offered no objection. She
received the announcement with a tight-
ening at her heart; but because she loved
him she wanted him to have his way.
And so she helped him to get ready.

She wrote him often, telling him of the
little happenings in their home town,
sending him packages of home-made
cakes and candy, longing for the day he

Killer (center) leaves courtroom
after case has been handed to jury

Crowds which thronged to trial of
Freda's slayer watch jury as it
leaves Wilkes-Barre Courthouse

would return and they could marry.

But between the autumn of 1932 and
the spring of 1933 there was a gap in
the relations of these two that was like a
great chunk cut out of Freda’s heart.

Yet Robert wrote her regularly and
the girl managed to get through the long
months. She.even went out occasionally
with another boy in the town. His com-
ing pleased: gray-haired George Mc-
Kechnie who, somehow, could not recon-
cile himself to Bobby’s going away. In
his heart was a growing resentment
against this small-town boy who thought
he was too smart for Edwardsville. And
so he welcomed a good plain likable
youth like George Thomas.

Freda also was glad to have George
call.* It helped pass the time. It made
her realize how much she cared for
Bobby.

Then, quite suddenly, in the late fall
of 1933, Edwards left college in the middle
of the term and came home. He gave no
explanation and Freda asked for none.
He was back—that was all that mattered.
The day she saw him, the day he took her
in his arms, she thought she would die
for joy.

She stood silently by as he made it
known to George Thomas that Freda
was his girl. She offered no protest when

he arrogantly asserted that she must
have no other callers but himself. Indeed,
while she was sorry for George, she was
glad in her heart that Bobby was so pos-
sessive. .

The youth got a job with his father’s
employers. With his knowledge of en-
gineering he was put to work in the
surveyor’s office, and Freda waited
breathlessly for the day he would pro-
pose to her. She lived only for the hours
she spent in his company. And so when,
one spring evening in April, they started
off for a walk through the woods beyond

“the town, and Robert urged her down on

the mossy rocks beside him, the girl was
powerless to resist him. Shé sat there,
listening to his impetuous young voice
as he poured forth all the passionate long-
ing of his heart.

As the spring night deepened, Freda
lost all count of time. She was swept
away by his words. When his arms went
about her she melted in that embrace,
and when his lips sought hers, she sur-
rendered without protest. Above her
the stars went whirling madly in the
velvet sky. Her hands reached up and
clung to Bobby.

Once, from far off in the back of her
mind, the voice of her conscience whis-
pered that this was wrong. But she was
unable to heed it.

It was early in the summer that Freda
began to feel ill. She grew nervous, tired
and depressed. She was jealous, too, for
the first time in her life; for a conversa-
tion her mother had overheard and re-
peated to her, worried her.

Mrs. McKechnie was in the backyard
one hot morning when she heard a girl’s
voice in the Edwards’ yard laugh gaily
and say, ‘“‘Oh, honey, it’s too hot.” And
she saw a strange girl with her arm
around Bobby’s neck. The youth saw Mrs.
McKechnie but, for the first time, ignored
her. It was that which gave significance
to the incident. Why should he fail to
speak to her? That evening she aske@
him about it, but he laughed it aside.

“Why, that’s only a family friend come
to visit my mother from up in New York
State,” he said.

Freda heard of all this with a twinge
of her heart, but, defending Bobby, she
told her mother to forget it, that there
could be nothing wrong.

So the days passed. The girl grew
quiet and moody, quit her job. She
couldn’t eat—sleep was almost impos-
sible. Unaccustomed to illness, she went
to White Haven Sanitarium for an ex-
amination, convinced that she was de-
veloping tuberculosis.

She must find out what was the matter
with her health. It never dawned on her
what the trouble was then. But, though
she did not mention illness to her mother,
she felt the watchful, kind eyes on her
constantly.

“You’re not well, Freda,” Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie said gently.

But the girl brushed it aside.

“Tt’s the heat, I guess,” she replied.
“Don’t worry, please, Mother; I'll be
all right.”

But she worried about it herself and,
finally, on the afternoon of July 23rd, she
went to a physician in Wilkes-Barre.

It was then she learned the truth; she
was going to (Continued on page 86)

57


56

cheered me, for I was almost as fond of
Bobby as Freda.
I got in touch with Chief Stevenson and

Captain William Clarke, of the Wyoming °

Barracks of the State Police at Wilkes-
Barre, and we returned to the Edwards
home, next door to the McKechnie house.

Dan Edwards, the boy’s father, was
home and he seemed surprised to see me.
Under his friendly gaze, I could not tell
him that I wanted to question his son
about Freda’s death. I just said I wished
to speak to Robert, and the boy said he
would walk outside with me.

“Robert,” I began, “I want you to come
to the State Police Barracks with me.
There are some questions I would like to
ask you about Freda.”

“Why, sure, Mr. Powell,” he replied.
“Tl go with you.”

So we took him over to the barracks
and asked him to tell the circumstances
of his engagement with Freda.

He repeated exactly what he had told
the girl’s parents. It was a straightfor-
ward story and he was undoubtedly
anxious to help us.

I left him there and went to join some

of the other officers in a search of the -

ground around the‘lake. Down on a
stretch of beach, seldom traveled by cars,
we found the tracks of an automobile.
Ordinarily, it would have assumed no
great importance; for it would have been
merely a set of tire tracks. It was un-
usual, however, for the marks were
clear-cut and distinct. They had been
made while the earth was soft with rain,
and, undisturbed, had dried into a hard,
clear impression. The remarkable thing
was that one of the tires had a blemish
in it, which showed distinctly in the mud.

A guard was left there, and I went on
searching for other clues. Suddenly,
about 600 yards from the spot where the
car had been, I came upon a pile of cloth-
ing. It was laid on a piece of newspaper
under a tree. There was a flowered crépe
dress, a white hat, white kid shoes, stock-
ings, a girdle, a brassiére, some under-
wear, a pair of white suede cloth gloves
and a little red pocketbook.

Were these Freda’s things? And, if

so, when had they ‘been placed there? -

Surely not last night, for it had rained,
and these clothes were dry. Carefully I
picked them up in the paper and started
back to the barracks.

Robert glanced up with a smile when I
entered the room where he was sitting.
How boyish he looked, I thought.

“Robert,” I said, “what make of auto-
mobile have you?”

He told me without hesitancy.

“It’s a Chevrolet,” he replied. “A
coupé,”

“Was your car parked at Harvey’s Lake
last night?”

I watched his face for a reply. But he
looked me straight in the eyes.

“No, sir,” he answered, “it was not.”

“Where is your coupé now?”
~ “Why, it’s home—in front of our
house,” the youth said.

Once more I left him and drove over to
Edwardsville. And there was the little
coupé, parked at the curb. On one of the
tires I found a blemish exactly like that
imprinted in the mud at Harvey’s Lake!

It was the following day that I con-

fronted Robert with that knowledge. We
were sitting in the library of the barracks,
and he was explaining again his move-
ments on Monday night. He told again
how he had met Freda and Rosetta; how
he had given them a lift and dropped
Rosetta at her home; and then had let
Freda out in the center of the town,
driven home and gone to bed.

“Robert,” I asked, “do you still say you
were not at Harvey’s Lake Monday
night?”

“I was not there,” the youth replied.

“Then how do you account for the tire
marks we found there—the marks sthat
show the blemish on one of your car
tires?”

He did not answer,

“IT found some clothing near that spot,
too,” I said. “I think it is Freda’s, And
I know it was your car, because the tire
imprint is clear in the mud.”

The silence in the room was oppressive.
Edwards sat staring down at his hands.

Finally he raised his eyes and looked at
me.

“All right, sir,” he said, “I’ll admit it.
I was there—and Freda was with me.”

Soon he was blurting out a story that
sent a chill through me. As he talked, I
looked at him and wondered if this could
be the boy I had known. -For he was so
calm, so unruffled, and what he was say-
ing was a prelude to stark tragedy. As he
spoke, the years dropped away and he
and Freda were children again.

She had always been in love with him,
and he was devoted to"her. ‘They were
bound so closely by family associations,
and by those ties of friendship that are
almost as thick as blood.

They went to the same school, they
attended the same church; their fathers

even worked in the same firm. Dan
Edwards was paymaster of the Kingston
Coal Company and George McKechnie
was fire boss at the same mine.

The elder Edwards was superintendent
of the Bethesda Congregational Church
Sunday School and the McKechnies all
attended services there.

As they grew older, Freda became an
officer in the Christian Endeavor Society
of the church, and Robert, likewise, was
active in religious work. When they fin-
ished school, Freda went to work in a
brokerage firm and Robert also got a job
there.

The two families were fast friends.
Their houses were joined by backyards,
and they visited each other often and
shared mutual joys and sorrows.

Freda was a shy, comely girl, in whose
eyes anyone could read adoration of Rob-
ert. She was conscious of the difference
in their ages, but she never mentioned it,
and, out of her love for him, she fervently

hoped he had forgotten it. For Freda was
old-fashioned and believed a man should
be older than the girl of his choice.

It didn’t seem to make any difference
to Robert. He was constantly in her
company. He came and went in the
McKechnie home as though it were his
own. As he grew into a handsome lad,
he became something of a “lady killer,”
but it never worried Freda. It never oc-
curred to her to mistrust him. She loved
him so much, there was no room in her
heart for doubts... .

She and Robert would be married some
day when he gota good job and’ made
enough to support them. She could afford
to wait. Perhaps Robert would, like his
father, go to work for. the Kingston Coal
Company, and they would settle down

and be toget
happy enougt

But Robert
ing in his fat!
a higher educ

Strangely «
opposition. |
willing to hi
Teachers’ Col
vania.

Even Freda
received the <
ening at her h
him she wan
And so she h

She wrote h
little happen
sending him
cakes and car


tle fleet of
waiting for
e lake. All
r floated on

mmers, and
1in springs,
of the best

tty DaCosta
immer that

n the white
Idish voice.
ok how she
Mummy!”
d up from
i long deck
yer a white
blue water.
could even
g suita few
1e lake.
“You just
su can swim

ook.

some of the
ve. Chairs
f lunch col-
were gath-

or mother’s
there,” she

‘d the direc-
xy, pointing
ed, she was
not moved,
er figure.

sught, “that
er so long.”
ated, at the
orange suit,
cuntered by.
he asked.

same thing
looks queer

1d swam out
Then he re-
1€ swimmer
to the shore

ran toward

crying out
only a short
its rushed to
z his burden
1 them back.
tried to ad-
ns were stiff

oward them
{fe bent over
Ss gay orange
e turned her
ed the white
2ased within

‘rim tragedy
(wards came
» kitchen.
thing from

Mrs. Mc-
x

cenly, “‘can’t

u find her—

s?”

The youth raised his right hand sol-
emnly. i

“I swear before God,” he said, “that I
know nothing about it.”

They were unaware of excited voices
at the front door. They did not see
George McKechnie struggling in the
arms of some friends to reach the kitchen.
It was Grace Patton, Freda’s older sister,
who came rushing out to them, her face
white with horror.

“You’d better get out of here.” She
pointed a shaking finger at Bobby Ed-
wards. ‘“You’d better get out of here
before my father kills you!”

Her voice broke into awful sobbing.

Edwards hesitated one instant and,
then, without a word, fled from the house.

The girl crumpled up, with arms flung
out on the table.

“Oh, Mother,” she. sobbed, “they’ve
found Freda—in the lake—murdered!”

I was then Chief of County Detectives.

When Ira Stevenson, Chief of Police of
Harvey’s Lake, phoned me of the tragedy,
I was never more shocked in my life. I
had known Freda since she was a child.

I lived in Edwardsville when, years be-
fore, her parents had come to live there.

As I stood on Sandy Beach, looking at
the face of the dead girl, I could.remem-
ber, as well as though it were only yes-
terday, how she had clung to my hand
laughing and dancing along the street
beside me. I could hear her childish
voice asking the countless questions
typical of children. I could see her small,
eager face and feel again the trusting
clasp of her little fingers.

Death has never failed to strike awe
into my soul. And death, coming to one
I knew and loved, completely crushed
me.

It was an effort even to stoop and touch
that icy body. And my heart was sick as

- I did so; for the back of Freda’s head was

cracked open.

I ordered her body removed to the
Nesbit Memorial Hospital at Kingston.
All the way over there the horror of the
thing passed and re-passed in my mind.
Who could have wished her harm? How
had she reached the lake? When, and
with whom, had she gone swimming?

Detective Dempse dianliayt
dress which victim had made
to wear at her wedding

Surely she had not gone alone, for that
wouldn’t have been at all like Freda.
I had been given the few brief details

‘of her disappearance, none of which an-

swered those baffling questions.

But when she was placed on the oper-
ating table, another terrible question was
to present itself.

For, as Dr. Thomas Wenner, the Coro-
ner’s pathologist, finished his examina-
tion of the body, he raised puzzled eyes
to my face.

. ‘Was this girl married?” he asked.

“No. She was engaged to be married,”
I replied.

Dr. Wenner slowly shook his head. “In
five months she would have had a baby,”
he told me.

My first impulse was to tell him he was
mistaken. Not Freda!

My face must have reflected that feel-
ing, for the surgeon said kindly, “I’m

‘ sorry—it’s true,” and turned away.

I walked out of that hospital, actually
ill, All the way to Edwardsville the sick-
ening thought persisted—I had to see her
mother and father, who were my friends.
I had to question them. I had to discuss
with these good people the intimate
secrets of their daughter’s life.

I could not, even to myself, reconcile

her condition. Freda was going to marry
young Bobby Edwards—everybody knew
it. It was no secret.
_ Ever since childhood they had been
close to each other, first as chums, then
as schoolmates, then as sweethearts. The
town watched that romance and beamed
its approval.

Freda was five years older than Bobby.
She was twenty-six and he was twenty-
one. But he was the only real beau she
had ever had. He was the only boy she
had truly loved.

‘When I reached the McKechnie home it
was filled with sympathetic neighbors.
Freda’s mother, almost hysterical, had
been put to bed under the care of a doctor.

It was the father who met me in the

doorway and, alone in the little parlor, I
confided to him what had happened to his
daughter. I had to look this old friend
in the face and tell him that. his daugh-
ter’s head had been smashed in; that she,
unmarried, would have borne a child by
Christmas.
. He went ghastly pale as the words
came from my lips. Then the blood
slowly mounted to his face in a wave of
scarlet. Anger mingled with his grief
and his hands clenched:

“That Edwards boy!” he exclaimed.
“That Bobby Edwards!” There was
hatred in his voice.

“What do you mean, George?” I asked.

“T’q like to know what he knows about
my girl’s condition,” the father said
bitterly.

“We'll look into that,” I assured him.
But he seemed not to hear me.

“And I’d like to know what he knows
about her death, too,” he added.

The full significance of his words
startled me. I was.so unprepared for it.
Bobby Edwards—the boy who loved
Freda—the boy who was going to marry
her? :

Surely he could not be guilty of hurting
Freda’s reputation, to say nothing of
causing her death. He would be able to
explain, I told myself. The thought

55

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ial

&

86

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RIDDLE OF THE SCHEMING ROMEO :

(Continued from page 57) have a child. For
a moment, sheer panic seized her. How
could she tell Robert? What would he say?
“The best thing you can do,” the doctor

- said kindly, “is get in touch with the boy

‘responsible for your condition, and see what *

he will do about it.”

So Freda, sitting there at the doctor’s
desk, frightened and worried, telephoned
Robert at the plant and asked him to meet
her that night, because she had seen a doc-
tor and must discuss things with him right
away.

That night they met and walked over

er: | to Kirby’ Park, a suburb of Edwardsville.

On‘the way, Freda told him she was going

to' have ‘a baby. She said it in faltering.

tones. She was not sure how he would
receive the news. She was relieved and
overjoyed, when he said, “Well, that’s all
right, Freda. What do you want me to do
about it? Either I’ll take you to some doc-
tor and try to have him perform some
operation, or if you don’t want to do that,
we can be married.”

The girl’s face beamed. :

“Oh, I’d like to get married,” she said
breathlessly. “I want the baby. Tve always
wanted a baby. I couldn’t give it up.”

So they planned to be married the first
week in August and they decided to go to
West Virginia, where Robert knew some
coal operators who would give him a job.

“And we’ll start off right,” he told her.

She clung to his arm, speechless with
happiness,

“When will I see you again?” she begged,
as they turned toward home.

“Why, Wednesday night, I think,” he said,
and tucked her fingers in the cyook of his
arm. “Is everything all right, now—you
won’t worry any more?”

“Oh, no, I’ll never fuss again.”

' And from that night on, Freda was a
changed person. Her family, quick to note it,
commented on her radiant face.

“Why, you look as though you’d been ona

vacation,” her mother said. And, although.
“it was a secret, the girl could not keep the
-news from her.

. “Oh, Mother,” she whispered, “Bobby

and I are going to be married—early in
August!” ,
Two days later, true to his promise, young
Edwards met his fiancée; he brought a
friend for Rosetta and the four of them
went for a ride. It was during that evening
that Freda said, a bit wistfully, that she’d
like to go swimming at Harvey’s Lake.

“We haven’t been there together this
year,” she said, “but I’d like to go.”

‘“Well, why not?” Robert asked.

-*“Do you know, Bobby, mother is. afraid
of the lake; she thinks it’s so deep and cold.
And then she’s been worrying about me.”
She’ snuggled closer to him. ‘She’ doesn’t

know,” she whispered, her lips close to his.

ear so the others wouldn’t hear,

“If you’d like to go swimming,” Bobby
suggested, “why not stop at your house now
and get your suit and I'll take it over to my
place and. keep it there in my. car. Then,
when we decide to go, your mother needn’t
know and won’t worry.”

Freda did as he requested.

The following night she-called him on the
phone “just to make sure he was all right,”
and, later in the evening, she saw him in
Edwardsville.. She was with her sister, and
he was going to mail-.a letter. He slid it in

his pocket as the two girls approached, but»

Freda didn’t even notice the swift move-
ment. She loitered in the town after her

sister got oh the trolley to go home; pres-

ently Bobby came back and greeted her
and he walked to the McKechnie. house
with her. . .

The next day, Rosetta ‘telephoned eur

: ‘ i ma fps Neo 92
aa it hse me hon i SCR I NRG EDL AOR ALN LPIA AN

and said Freda wanted to see him, but he
told the girl he couldn't make it because

‘he had to go to Buffalo over the week-end.

“T’'ll see her as soon as I get back,” he
promised.

He returned at four o’clock Monday
morning after driving all night. At eight
o’clock Freda called him-and he arranged

_to meet her that evening.

4

Facing me across the table in that little
room at the barracks, his dark brows bent

‘together, his eyes staring straight ahead,

at me, and not seeing me, $a Edwards
continued:

“I met her that evening between eight
and eight-thirty at the corner of Sharpe
and Main Streets, Edwardsville. She and
Rosetta were walking along, and I picked
them up and took Rosetta home. Rosetta
invited us in, but I was tired and intended
to go home to bed, so we didn’t stay.

“It was after we left her house that
Freda said she wanted to go swimming
that night, so we started for Harvey’s Lake.
It rained hard on the. way out, but had
practically stopped by the time we got
there.

“On the way to the lake she wanted to
stop at Warden’s place to see her niece’s
grandparents. She got out and went up to
the cottage and I waited for her; when
she came back we drove to the lake. She
said she wanted to swim at Sandy Beach,
so we drove there and tried to get a locker.
But the bathhouses were closed, so we
decided we would change our clothes in
the car.

“We did that, and then we went in-
to the water and swam out to the ropes.

. Over to the left of the float, we stopped

and rested before going on to Mayer’s Land-
ing at Sandy Bottom. We got there and
climbed into a boat and onto the dock and
sat and rested a few minutes. Freda got
chilly and wanted to go back into the
water and swim out a ways, and then, she
said, we would go home. ~—

“We started back into the water—Freda
first. She stepped into the boat, the way
we did when we came up there, and was
stepping from the boat into the water, when
she apparently fainted. I got down along-
side of the boat and chafed her arms and
felt for her pulse and couldn’t find any.
At first I thought her condition prompted
the faint; and then, when I couldn’t find

any pulse, I became afraid she had dropped ,

dead. -

. “I wanted to make it appear an accident
and.not become entangled myself, so I ran
back to my car for’a blackjack that I
had taken to Buffalo with me for protec-
tion on the way down home Sunday night.
I brought that back to the dock and lifted
her out of the boat and hit her with the
blackjack and took her out in deeper water
and left her body there.”

There was a deathly silence in the room
as he finished. For a moment no one spoke,
and, in the stillness, those last few words
dropped like live things into the room—
“T hit her with the blackjack, and left her
body there.”

The girl he was to have married! The
girl who was to bear his child! Why—
why had he done such a thing?

But _I questioned him no more on his
statement, I simply asked him if he would
go with me to the scene of the tragedy
and point out where he had left the car.
He did, very willingly. Chief Stevenson
went along with us, also County. Detectivé
Dempsey and State Policemen Green and
Bader.

Without a sign of hesitancy, young Ed-
wards showed us where he had parked,
described how he and Freda had undressed
and donned their bathing suits; how they

X on, 9 tt
i Msc fe ASS tens

had waded out intc
one of the boats
and said that, wh
was the exact boat
he and Freda use
blackjack belonge
a minute descrip
said he had been
ward and suppose
it in the lake.

He admitted th:
clothing at the s

That night, ba
signed a long, co
facts he had reci
day. He was war!
would be used aga
no promises wou)
statement.

After listening
questioning him, :«
his story was full
too, for he kept :
trying to decide
the yarn or not.

He was cool, al:
he had rehearsec
had convinced hi
pretty smart stor

When he conc]
with the air of
that’s that!”

And he went tc

The following
father and their
him, they found
explained that he
and prayed, and

Then Dan Edw:
grief, looked his

“I don’t know
but no matter h
to tell the trutt
Don’t do it.”

And yet, desp
to that first sto
While ugly rumor
ville, while the -
and with amaze!
still insisted tha
that he struck }
panicky and wa
though she had }

He didn’t seen
sounded.

“But, Robert,”
girl you loved. F

“I know it sou
I didn’t want to

“For what?”

“Well, in case
attack—I wantec
herself.”

It was not unt
his desperation,
as the one way

“Is it too late
pened?” he ask«

“It is never tc
said.

“Well, the firs
But it’s mostly e
I said she stop
place.”

Then, at last,
him, and learne
die.

Straight from
picture, in all its
It follows:

When Freda }
heart off to Tea
tingly paved th:

of the ‘future.
that Edwards m«
other young wo

Her name wa
was twenty-thre
and a certain so
youth headlong
was a musician,
painting and the


| D in touch with Freda when I get back

eath Row Romeo :

(continued from page 43)

The hours between afternoon and
evening when Freda met Bobby
seemed interminable. She didn’t

know how he would take the news.
And if he refused to accept responsi-
bility what would she do then?

But Bobbie Edwards was every
inch the man she had believed him to
be. When she finished her story he
said, “Don’t you worry, darling,
we’ll do whatever we both think
best. If you want me to take you to a
doctor we’ll do that. If you want to
be married we’ll arrange it right
away.” The clouds lifted from the
girl’s mind.

“IT love you, Bobby,” she said. “I

' want to be married and have the ba-

by. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

The boy took her in his arms and
said, “That’s the way it will be.
We’ll be married the first week in
August. Then we will go over to
West Virginia. I know people there.
They’ll give me a job. We can stay
there until after the baby is born and
as long afterwards as we want to.
Noboby will ever know.”

They arranged to meet again the
following night.

Freda was a changed person after
that. George McKechnie and his wife
noticed it most of all.

“It’s about time,” the father
snapped. “You’ve been looking like a
mother cat who lost her last kitten.”

Mrs. McKechnie sensed something
deeper; and when she visited her
daughter’s room later Freda couldn’t
keep the happy news a secret any
longer.

“It’s Bobby, Mother,” she whis-
pered. “We’re going to be married in
early August.”

Mrs. McKenchnie took her trem-
bling daughter in her arms. “I’m so
happy for you,” she said. “I’ve
known you’ve wanted it this way for
a long time.”

There were tears in the two wom-
en’s eyes as the mother left Freda’s
room that night.

Two days later Bobbie took his
bride-to-be swimming in Harvey’s
Lake, a nearby amusement park.
There was another couple along—
Mary Greening, Freda’s closest girl
friend, and her date.

It was late afternoon before this
excursion was planned. Freda hesi-

tated at first saying, “Mother
‘wouldn’t want me swimming in the
dark. She thinks the lake is too deep
and cold to take chances.”

But the other three only laughed.

_ “Get your suit now,” Bobby told
her, “and put it in my car. We’ll drive
over later. Your mother can’t worry
if she doesn’t know about it.”

That’s the way it was done; and
later the foursome took a boat out and
swam from it. Everybody had a good
time and nothing happened that could
have possibly aroused anyone’s suspi-
cions.

‘Outwardly Bobby Edwards was
the same loving, considerate boy Fre-
da had known so long. But there in
the darkness something happened that
no human eyes could see. He
watched the mother of his unborn
child dive into the deep water, come
up and swim back to the boat. Once

she almost collided head-on with

Mary Greening. They only laughed
and climbed back into the boat to dive
again. If Freda could have read her
lover’s thoughts at that moment she
would have been more frightened

than she was when the doctor told:

her, “You’re going to have a baby;”
for a plan was being formulated in the
dark ‘recesses of Bobby Edwards’
mind that would place both his feet
firmly on the path to murder! :

On the way home that night Freda
McKechnie asked for and received
permission from her husband-to-be to
tell Mary Greening about the ap-
proaching marriage.

‘“Mother’s working on my trous-
seau now,” she enthused. “My wed-
ding dress is beautiful.”

The next day Mary was shown
the dresses that Freda and her mother
had made for the occasion.

“Why, this is wonderful,” the girl
friend exclaimed. “There isn’t a girl
in Edwardsville who  wouldn’t
change places with you.”

The bride-to-be patted the pretty
frocks affectionately. “They’ll never
get the chance to be in my place,” she
sighed. The next day, Friday, Mary
saw Bobby in town and told him that
Freda would like to see him. But the
youth explained that he was on his
way to the railroad station.

“I’m going to Buffalo for the
week-end,” he told her. “Say I'll get

Monday.”
Freda was puzzled when her girl

- friend conveyed the news of the trip,

but she was so happy about the ap-
proaching marriage and busy with ar-
rangements for it that she dismissed
the incident from her mind.

Bobby telephoned early Monday
morning, July 30th, and they made a
date for that evening. They were to
meet at Sharpe and Main Streets in
Edwardsville. .

Mary Greening was with Freda

when that appointment was kept.

The three talked a while and then
Bobby drove Mary home.

It was one of those moonless nights
when a rain storm seemed to be wait-
ing for the propitious moment before
unleased its fury on. the heat-swept

_ countryside.

Despite this, Freda McKechnie’s
heart was light. She had not been
with Bobby for three days. Now they
were alone. She would not let these
precious minutes slip away too quick-

“Let’s go swimming in Harvey’s
Lake,” she suggested.

Bobby Edwards looked at her in-
credulously. He started to protest, but
some inner thing stilled his tongue.
The dark thoughts in his mind that had
hastened his footsteps along the road-
way to murder were matched by the
stygian blackness of the night.

_ “All right,” he said. “Let’s.”

The car was approaching Freda’s
married sister’s house.

“I'd like to stop by a moment and
say hello to my little niece,” the girl
said.

Bobby waited in the car and then
they drove on out beyond the town to
Harvey’s Lake. «

“Did you tell them where you
were going?” he asked.

Freda shook her head, “They didn’t
even. know you were waiting for
me,” she assured him.

To Bobby. Edwards these words
were significant. ;

The bathhouses at Sandy Beach
were closed; so the young couple
changed to their suits in the car. Then
they waded out into the water and
swam easily to the float some forty
feet out. It was chilly out of the wa-
ter and although the lake was spring
fed Freda and Bobby found the exer-
cise of swimming more enjoyable
than resting on the float.

(continued on next page)


‘lvira
10us-
t, re-
: Ru-
‘lvira
from
1 pi

wt

acpi
1€ to
have
have

~

unimpressive.

been expecting violence from Frans

-cesco and it would not have been pos-

sible for the man to stab him so easily.
Rufino was small, feeble looking and
Molina would not
have been on his guard and that was
why the little man had been able to
kill him so easily.

This was a very shrewd assess-
ment of the circumstances and Alar-
con, brought in by the sergeant and a
team of detectives from his place of
work as soon as it and his name had
been revealed by Sara Alonzo, was
placed under intense interrogation.

The interrogation did not last very
long. Rufino Alarcon really was a
timid, inoffensive, little man who
would, as he himself put it, never

- have dreamed of murdering anybody.

His investigations in the red light
disttict had eventually born fruit and
he had been: told that his wife was
now living at 67 Calle Benimenette in .

San Cristobal de los Angeles with her
procurer. He did not learn the procur-
er’s name nor did he care about it.
What he wanted was his wife back.
He had, as a matter of fact, been
somewhat startled when the procurer
turned out to be a total: stranger and
not Jorges Francesco whom he had
expected.

Rufino, feeling secure in his posi-
tion as the legal husband of Elvira,

had practically ignored Molina and |

had demanded that Elvira come home
with him. She had, he said, appeared
to hesitate, but, before she could
make any response at’all, Molina had
shouldered his way between them
and ordered him roughly to clear out.
He was, he said, not worthy of a
woman like Elvira. He could not
even satisfy her sexually.

This attack on his virility put Rufi-
no in such a rage that he could not re-
member. what had transpired thereaft-

Death Row Romeo

(continued from page 17)

Freda was surprised when, late in
November, 1933, he left school and
returned home. George McKechnie
would have liked to have had an ex-
planation for this sudden move; but
none was made.

When Bobby took Freda in his arms
and kissed-her she asked no questions.
The boy she loved was home again.
That’s all that mattered.

Bobby went to work for the Kings-
ton Coal Company just as she had
expected him to do a year and a half
earlier. Their courtship went right on
without apparent notice to the inter-
ruption.

It was no wonder that Freda McK-
echnie lived through that winter
with but one thought in her mind—
the moment when her Bobby would
propose.

Spring came early in 1934. By
March the trees were in full bud and
first. flowers colored the hillsides.
The two lovers took long walks into
the country; and one moonlit night
they yielded to the passion that had
consumed their minds and bodies
these many months.

Bobby Edwards made no mention.
of marriage before or after the intima-
cy; but this detail was not important
to Freda McKechnie. There was a
feeling between. them much stronger
than the spoken word. In her own

world they were already man and
wife.

It was a full two months before the
girl showed the first signs of nervous-
ness, fatigue and depression.

Her mother noticed the change and
said, “You’re not acting a bit like

yourself, Freda. Is anything bothering

you?”

The unsuspecting girl said there
wasn’t. “It’s just the change in sea-
sons,” she answered. “Soon we'll be
swimming in the lake. Then Ill be
myself again.”

Mrs. McKechnie asked about Bob-
by. “I was in the back yard one morn-
ing-while that girl from New York
was visiting the Edwards’,” she said.
“I saw something I didn’t like.”

Freda tried to pass the remark off
lightly. “I know all about Dorothy
Woods,” she insisted. “That girl is
Bobby’s mother’s friend. She means
nothing to him.”

Mrs. McKechnie shrugged her
shoulders. “I hope you’re right,” she
said. “All I know is what I saw.
Bobby and Dorothy were there to-
gether that morning. They didn’t see

_me. She had her arm around him and

they were laughing.” ;
Freda changed the subject but that

night she asked Bobby about the inci-

dent.
The handsome youth found the situ-

er. The knife, he thought, had been
lying on the table in the living room
and he had snatched it up and driven it
into Molina’s stomach. The man had
fallen to the floor and it seemed to Ru-
fino that he could recall Elvira
screaming and thinking that he had to
silence her. He insisted that he did not
know what had taken place after that
and had only come to his senses when
he found himself outside the building.

The court-appointed psychologists
were inclined to give credence to this
last statement. Rufino, they said, had
been placed in a position of extreme
stress and had broken under it. He had
literally not known what he was
doing.

This opinion was accepted by the
court and on May 11th, 1984, follow-
ing a very short trial, Rufino Alarcon
was found guilty of unintentional
homicide and sentenced to five years
imprisonment. *

ation amusing. “Why,” he ex-
plained, “I told you all about Doro-
thy. She’s mother’s friend. You are
all that matters to me.”

Freda McKechnie was relieved.
She had put her trust in the boy she
loved. All she asked was his assur-
ance that nothing had changed. This
he gave lovingly, elaborately.

On the morning of July 23rd, she
became ill after eating breakfast. The
nervousness that her mother had no-
ticed had increased and the chemistry
of her body was acting strangely.
Freda’s intuition told her that it was
time to see a doctor.

Nearby Wilkes-Barre was chosen
for her surreptitious trip. No one must
know what she expected. .

The examining physician said,
“You’re going to have a baby.”

The young girl was panic stricken.
“But I’m not married,” she whis-
pered. “What can I do?”

The doctor shook his head sadly.
“In five months you’ll be a mother,”
he said. “There’s only one thing to
do. Go to the boy responsible for your
condition and see what he will do
about it.”

The frightened mother-to-be tele-
phoned Bobby Edwards at the coal
mine the moment she left the doctor’s
office.

“I must see you tonight,” she told
him. “I’ve just been examined by ¢
doctor.”

(continued on next page)

43


TOO OOOO OOOO OOOO OOO oOo OOOO

He could two-time anyone but
met his match in the chair...

Bincecme wee .

| Sandy Beach Park on Harvey’s Lake. Here victim and her
lover were swimming when caught in a violent storm.

on

a winning way with people. Every

sar * girl in Edwardsville, Pa., considered
gametes immense CHS WHO WET Pp berr eee
urder—-like cancer or | CHAIR eat enthusiasm. To him girls
| polio—is no ed: eh T0 THE If, by some Strange alchemy, you
of persons. There al- could have foreseen the future and
ways have been and always es pokenawith thissyoutheinvearlyesunr
en enae and: stratiol me ney ’
y~ are committed by the weak
\ and the strong, the rich and
CL the poor; but the dark path

elline& tim he Was Walk=
“would have laughed in your face.
When you added that he would die in
the electric chair before another sum-

ine vile

0 Leolipe—

: : jer h Id h be inced
X. \ leading to inevitable tragedy tou laa et a liao |
Nay a’ is always unmarked, always But that’s the way it was... |
unrecognized. The principal attraction in Bobby’s | |
39 _ One day is like another un- life had always been the girl next
$Y til suddenly a respected citi- door—shy, sensitive Freda McKech-

zen looks at his hands and
finds them bloodstained. He
knows that he is a murderer;
and he is the most surprised

of all.
Bobby Edwards was a clean-cut
youth of 21; tall and popular. He had

nie. They had grown up together,
fought each other’s battles and, in the
end, fallen in love.

Everyone said the match was per- |
fect. Bobby and Freda had attended
the same schools and graduated to-
gether in the Class of 1932. Both fam-
ilies Were members of the same |
church. Bobby was president of the |

: Christian Endeavor Society. Freda
ek Ae * was secretary.
Their fathers, Dan Edwards and

; SESS SSSR SEs PRR Eee eee eee eee

SO lege, Care 0 Yt (IEF

(B22,

f
u

io

‘Handsome Bobby Edwards
had winning ways but being a
fickle was part of his nature. ; =


Detective John Dempsey holds

pretty dress that the victim

made for her wedding day. She.
never lived to wear it.

George McKechnie, worked together

as paymaster and fire boss at the same

mine ofthe Kingston Coal Company.
It was only natural that Freda ex-

pected Bobby to propose as they
walked through the woods beyond.

town that summer night, Her. heart
skipped a beat as he said, “I had a talk
with Father today. There’s something
I want to tell you.”

The comely girl thrilled to the
thought. She waited anxiously for
her lover’s next words.

“I’m going away to college in Sep-
tember,” he said flatly. “State Teach-
ers’ College at Mansfield.”

Freda McKechnie was glad it was
dark. Bobby could not see the disap-
pointment in her face. Until that mo-
ment she had expected him to follow

in his father’s footsteps at the Kings-
ton Coal Company. Now it would be
two—perhaps four—years before
they could be married. The hurt was
deep: but because she loved Bobby
she: wanted him to have his way. “I'll

Freda McKechnie was shocked
to discover the reason for her
stange and sudden illness.

tooo

Had someone told the
good-looking youth he
was walking along the
road to murder, he’d
have just laughed. But
he wasn’t smiling just a
year later when they put
the cowl over his face

and pulled the switch.
SOOO OO O WC OT IK OOO IIo)

g SURSEUNEE SER

write every day,” she promised.

But despite frequent correspon-
dence and the trips Bobby made back
to Edwardsville at holiday time there
was a vacancy in the girl’s life that

was understandable to all their
friends.

One boy, James Mills, did take Fre-
da to a few parties and movies.
George McKechnie smiled on this
new association. He’d seen other
small town boys go away to college.

“It does something to them,” he
told his wife. “Most likely Bobby
will come back too big for his bree-
ches.”

But the only effect these casual
dates with young Mills had on his
daughter was to make her even more
sure than ever how much she cared
for the boy who was away at col-
lege.

Freda and Bobby were together
constantly during the summer vaca-
tion of 1933. The boy talked a lot
about football games and other activ-
ities, but somehow the home town
folks got the impression that college
was not all Bobby Edwards had an-
ticipated.

(continued on page 43)

17

COMMONWEALTH v. ERICO.

(Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Jan. 8,
1922.)

{. Criminal law ¢==451(2)—Testimony as to)
extent of deceased’s acquaintanceship held
not inadmissible as conclusion.

In a prosecution for murder of a detective,
where deceased before death had stated that a
stranger had shot him, evidence by a police of-
ficer that deceased was familiar with all the
Italians in the city, being his impression from
various incidents, he/d not inadmissible as a
conclusion; the grounds upon which the wit-
ness based his belief being stated.

2. Criminal law G=-1169(7)—Evidence as to
location of principal in murder held harmless
in prosecution of accomplice.

In a prosecution of an accomplice for mur-
der by shooting, evidence as to the location of
the principal after the shooting, being connect-
ed with the testimony showing defendant to
have been with him at the time the shot was
fired, held not prejudicial error.

3. Witnesses @=2396(2)—Correct version of
previous story at former trial properly Ine
troduced to show lack of variance.

Where in a murder trial testimony of a
witness at a former trial was reccived to show
there was in effect no variance in the story
related by him, and questions asked by defend-
ant’s counsel as to isolated answers, standing
alone, indicated a change of testimony, it was
not error to permit a correct version of the
previous story to be given.

Appeal from Court of Over and Terminer,
Tazerne County; HW. A. Fuller, Judge.

Peter Erico was convicted of murder, and
he appeals. Affirmed, and record ordered
remitted.

Argued before MOSCHUZISKER, C. J., and
FRAZER, WALLING, SIMPSON, KEDP-
HART, SADLER and SCHAFIER, JJ.

S. S. erring and Abram Salsburg, both of
Wilkes-Barre, for appellant.

Arthur IJ. James, Dist, Atty., of Wilkes-
Barre, for the Commonwealth,

SADLER, J. Antonio Puntario was con-
victed of the murder of Samucl Imechino,
a detective residing in Pittston. The present
appellant was brought to trial as his ac-
complice, and was likewise found guilty.
As is our duty, we have carefully considered
the evidence to determine whether there
were facts presented which would justify the
result reached by the jury, and we are suat-
isfied that testimony was produced which,
if believed, established the ingredients es-
sential to a conviction of murder of the first
degree. Erico was identified as present at
the time of the shooting, and evidence was
offered to show his connection with the

&34 115 ATLANTIC REPORTER (Pa.

were carefully submitted to the jury in a
charge against which no just complaint can
be made, and the verdict which was ren-
dered should be sustained unless some rever-
sible error was committed during the course
of the trial.

Various assignments of error have been
filed, a number relating to the declaration
made by Lucchino shortly before his death,
and to the receipt in evidence of the gun
found, which have been considered in the
opinion this day filed in Com, v. Puntario,
115 Atl. 831, and need not be specifically
answered here. Additional matters are sug-
gested, however, which must be disposed of.
The declaration of Lucchino that a stran-
ger had shot him was properly admitted in
evidence, as noted in the preceding case.
This was followed by the testimony of a
police oflicer showing the character of work
performed by the deceased which brought
him in contact and made him acquainted
with the foreign population of Pittston.
Against objection, the witness expressed his
belief that the deceased was familiar with all
of the Italians in that city. The error com-
plained of in the second and third assign-
ments rests on this statement of a conclu-
sion. When an accurate description of all
of the facts which are necessary to the
formation of an opinion as to a mental state
is diflicult and complicated so as to make @
narration of the separate and distinet occur-
renees upon which the impression is based
practically impossible, it is proper that the
conclusion formed from all of the matters ob-
served be given to the jury (Cornell v. Green,
10 Serg, & R. 14), and the necessity of the
receipt of such testimony is largely within
the discretion of the court below (Ryder v.
Jacobs, 182 Pa. 624, 88 Atl. 471).

“Where the main ingredient in an inference
as to the existence of a relevant mental state
is the intuitive induction from observed appear-
ances, [an opinion] is received [in evidence]
upon a statement by the witness, of such con-
stituent facts as he is able to detail.” 22 C.
J. 614.

[1] The thought formed in the mind of the
witness, arising from association with the
deceased in detective work, was necessarily
the result of many and varied incidents, aif-
ficult to describe in themselves, but result-
ing in a definite impression upon the mind as
to the extent of his acquaintanceship; and,
in permitting the answer complained of, we
see no error. Evidence to the effect that a
person was well known in a particular lo-
cality, or upon a particular street, has been
approved. Western Union T, Co. v. Travis,
144 Ga. 110, 86S. E. 221. In the present case
the grounds upon which the witness based
his belief were stated, and the jury, under
appropriate instructions from the court, was

principal. The legal propositions involved

fully enabled to Judge-of the correctness of

C=For other cases see sume topic and KEY-NUMBER In all Key-Numbered Digests and Indexes

Pa.) RUSSELL''v. FARMERS’ MUT. FIRE INS. CO. : 835

vo

(115 A.)

the conclusion testified to. Com. v. Karam-
arkovic, 218 Pa. 405, 67 Atl 650; Com, vy.
Stern, 58 Pa. Super. Ct. 591. The admission
of the testimony was proper.

[2] The sixth assignment rests on a ques-
tion asked of a witness on re-examination.
The evidence elicited had been offered in
chief and its admission refused, but the
cross-examination of counsel for defendant
clearly made.the subsequent explanation
competent. Nor can we see any reversible
error in the permission given Lyons to testi-
fy as to the location of Puntario after the
shooting, connected as it was with other tes-
timony showing the defendant to have been
with him at the time the shot was fired.
Even though the relevancy of the statement
might be questioned, yet the defendant
could not have been prejudiced by its ad-
mission,

[3] Another error alleged, the twelfth, is
based upon the receipt of certain testimony
of a witness given at a former trial to show
there was in effect no variance in the story
related by him at the present hearing. He
had first been asked by counsel for defendant
as to isolated answers given on the prior oc-
easion, which, standing by themselves, wouid
indicate a change in his testimony, thus seri-
ously affecting his credibility. To permit a
correct version of his previous story to be
given was entirely proper.

Realizing the importance to the defendant
of the issue involved, careful consideratiou
has been given to all of the matters com-
plained of, and we are convinced no error
was committed. The charge of the court.
below was adequaté and impartial, the evi-
dence was sufficient to justify the verdicr,
and no reason has been shown for setting it
aside.

The judgment is affirmed, and the record
is ordered remitted for the purpose of execu-
tion.

RUSSELL v. FARMERS’ MUT. FIRE INS.
co. :

(Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Jan. 8,
1922.)

Insurance ¢==378(3) — Agent’s knowledge of
other insurance, at time policy delivered, binds
company,

Where an agent, who has power or au-
thority to consent to additional insurance, at
the time he writes or delivers a policy, has
knowledge that insured has other insurance,
his knowledge binds the company, and it is es-
topped to claim that the policy is invalidated by
violation of clause therein prohibiting other
insurance,

Action by F. B. Russell against the Farm-
ers’ Mutual Fire Insurance Company. From
judgment for defendant, plaintiff appeals.
Affirmed.

Argued before MOSCHZISKER, C. J., and
FRAZER, WALLING, SIMPSON, KEP-
HART, SADLER, and SCHAFFER, JJ.

J. W. Nelson and W. W. Moore, both of
Mercer, for appellant.

W. C. Pettit, of Greenville, for appellee.

MOSCHZISKER, C. J. Plaintiff sued to
recover On a policy of fire insurance; at
trial, the parties agreed that the jury should
find the amount of loss, and the court de-
termine the question of legal liability. The
loss was found to be $2,002, but judgment
was entered for defendant because, on the
facts involved, it was not liable in law.
Plaintiff has appealed. :

The opinion of the trial tribunal so well
states the case that we shall quote rather
fully therefrom, substituting the word “de-
fendant” for the name of that company where
it is used by the court below:

“Plaintiff, F. B. Russell, took out the poli-
cy of insurance in defendant company, July 12,
1914. May 8, 1915, he took out the following
additional policies: Pennsylvania Fire Insur-
ance Co., $5,000, Delaware Underwriters $5,-
500, Liverpool, London and Globe Insurance
Company. $5,000. All of these policies cover
the buildings and personal property on plain-
tiffs farm, including-a barn. On the 13th of
August, 1915, the barn was destroyed by fire.
Defendant’s. policy contains the following
clause: ‘This company will not insure any prop-
erty that is insured in any other company, and
insuring in any other company will make in-
surance null and void in this.’

“Each of the three additional policies con-
tains the following: ‘This entire policy, unless
otherwise provided by agreement indorsed here-
on or added hereto, shall be void if insured
now has or shall hereafter make or procure any
other contract of insurance, whether valid or
not, on property covered in whole or in part
by this policy. * * * This policy is made
and accepted subject to the foregoing stipula-
tions and conditions, together with such oth-
er provisions, agreements and conditions as
may be indorsed hereon or added hereto, and
no oflicer, agent or other representative of
this “company shall have power to waive any
provision or condition of this policy except
such as by the terms of this policy may be sub-
ject of agreement hereon or added hereto, and
as to such provisions and conditions- no offi-
eer, agent or representative shall have such
power or be deemed or held to have waived -
such provisions or cotditions unless such waiv-
er, if any, shall be written upon or attached
hereto, nor shall any privilege or permission
affecting the insurance under this policy ex-
ist or be claimed by the insured unless so writ-

Appeal from Court of Common Pleas, Mer-
cer County; J. A. McLaughry, President.

ten or attached.’
“It is evident that, from the 12th day of
July, 1914, when defendant issued its policy of

¢=—>For other cases see same topic and KEY-NUMBER In all Key-Numbered Digests and Indexes

mmsercuiinaeeaamacatet tet tt CERO IAD


115 A 831, 83h.
ERICO, Peter and PUNTARIO, Antonio, whites, elec. Pa. (Luzerne) 9-25-1922,

% "Bellebonte, Pa., Sept, 25. - Peter Hrico and Antonio Puntario were
electrocuted in the Rockview Penitentiary early this morning for the mur-
der of Samuel Lucchino, an Italian detective at Pittston, early in 1920,
Both men went bravely to the death chamber, JHrico was the first to be

laced in the electric chair at 7: 18 ot clock and he was pronounced dead
SOX KKARX GX AXAX AKER XXXRUKEXHKA at 7:23 0 clock. Pun tario went to the chair
at 7:25 and was pronounced dead at 7:31 o'clock, The men were akleged
gunmen imported to Pittstown for the killing of Lucchino, Erico made a
confession last week in which he took full responsibility for the murder
and said Puntario was not with him when the crime was committed, The con-
fession, filed with the state board of pardons as a last minute attempt
to save them from the death penalty was not taken seriously by the board
members and they refused to interfere with the death sentence which had
been passed on hoth men.” PITS. SUN , Sept. 25, 1922, furnished by Van
Raalte,

"PITTSTON DETECTIVE SLAIN FROM AMBUSH, = by United Press, - Pittston,
Pa., July 22, - While about to enter his own gate at 11 o'clock last night,
Sam Lucchino, a member of the detective bureau of Pittston, was shot from
ambush and died a half hour later in the city hospital, Four bullets en-
tered his body. Chief of Police Leo Tiorney announced that two men have
been arrested i n connection with the shooting. One man gave his name as
Tony Porano, aged 32, of Camden, N , J, The other said he is Serafini
Stucco, of this city. Both were arrested shout 500 yards from the S&8xey scen:
a short time after the shots were fired, Chief Tierney stated that Porano
had confessed to having fired the shots which killed the detective,"
PTS PRESS, 7-22-1920. Provided by Vam Raalte.

83 j 115 ATLANTIC REPORTER (Pa.

On the other hand, defendant contends
there is nothing in the written contract to
indicate time as its essence; that, taking it
as a whole, the writing rather suggests the
delivery of the 100 tank curs, at the stated
price, to be the material object in view, so
far as delivery to plaintiff from the party
furnishing the goods would permit; further,
that, however the original writing might be
read, the parties thereto had orally agreed,
subsequent to January 1, 1916, that plaintiff
should purchase and deliver to defendant (so
that the latter might carry on his business)
molasses other than that contracted for in
the original writing, for which defendant
would pay plaintiff current market prices,
with a usual commission; it being then
agreed that—

“Any molasses which the Sugar Products!

Company might thereafter deliver to plaintiff,
at any time, under its contract, should be turn-
ed over to defendant at his contract price of 6
cts. per gallon.”

Defendant claimed plaintiff delivered to
him only 79 tank cars of molasses at 6 cents
a gallon, although the Sugar Products Com-
pany bad made deliveries to plaintiff of mo-
lasses in considerable quantities, which
should have been forthwith sent to him (de-
fendant), and that plaintirt’s failure to send
on this Inst-mentioned molasses, at the con-
tract price of 6 cents, caused him, defendant,
to suffer heavy damages, for which he asked
a certificate.

To all of this plaintiff replied, first, that
the writing entitled defendant only to such
molasses, at the contract price, as he (plain-
tiff) might obtain from the Sugar Products
Company up to January 1, 1916, and that
there was no agreement between them ex-
tending that date; furthermore, that the
writing stipulated cars of the capacity used
by plaintiff, which carried 5,000 gallons each,
whereas many of the cars delivered to de-
fendant contained 8,000 gallons each; there-
fore defendant had in fact reecived all of
the molasses contracted for, and a little
more.

Defendant answered that the writing
means, so far as measuring the amount of
the purchase is concerned, cars of the usual
tank capacity, namely 8,000 gallons each,
and that this was orally agreed between the
parties.

{1} Defendant presented evidence to prove
the oral agreement just referred to, and he
points to the writing itself to show that
plaintiff there says that he is covering the
defendant for “100 tank cars” of molasses,
adding “for shipment in our cars,” appar-
ently thereby drawing a distinction between
the “tank cars” first named and “our cars”
last referred to, and that, later in the same
letter, the writer mekes reference to “these
100 tank cars,” which the Sugar Products
Company were to deliver to him, without

saying anything about their dimensions or
Suggesting they should be of the smaller
eapacity which plaintiff now claims for his
own cars. Under the circumstances, we can-
not hold that error was committed in receiv-
ing testimony as to the real understanding
between the parties concerning the capacity
of the “100 tank cars” of molasses, referred
to in the letter as “covered,” or purchased,
by plaintiff for defendant.

All of the issues which we have indicated
were presented to the jury, and, as before
said, were found against plaintiff, Defend-
ant, in his pleadings, set up the breach of
another contract by plaintiff, concerning the
|purchase of 50 cars of molasses at seven
cents a gallon; but, since the verdict ren-
dered shows, by the great discount the jury
| made in defendant’s claim of damages, that

jhe received no allowance on this second con-
tract, it is not necessary to discuss it.

[2,3] Appellant has three assignments of
error, only one of which calls for considera-
tion, and that is the first, complaining be-
cause the court below refused to enter judg
ment, in favor of plaintiff, notwithstanding
the verdict for defendant. As to this, we
need only say that, after reading the testi-
mony, we Aare not convinced that any of the
controlling issues involved could properly
have been decided as matters of law in fa-
vor of plaintiff; hence he was not harmed by
the fact that they were submitted to the
jury. The manner of their submission,
which is complained of in the two remain-
ing assignments of error, is not properly
raised; for the first of these last two assign-
ments simply complains of the refusal to
grant a new trial, embracing in this com-
plaint seven different reasons assigned in the
court below, and this without showing spe-
clfic objections made and exceptions entered
at the time the rulings and instructions now
sought to be questioned were made. The
practice thus attempted cannot be permitted:
it offends several principles of appellate prac-
tice. See Maculuso v. Humboldt Fire Ins.
Co,, 271 Pa. 489, 115 Atl. 828, and authorities
there cited. Rule 26 of the Supreme Court
expressly provides “that each error relled on
must be specified particularly and by itself’:
further, that “if any specification embract'
more than one point or refer to more than
one bill of exceptions or raise more than one
distinet question, it shall be considered a
waiver of all the errors so alleged.”

In Mix v. North American, 209 Pa. 636,
641, 59 Atl. 272, we held that an assiznment
of error which complained of a refusal to
grant a new trial was not vitally defective
in setting forth four distinct reasons why
such relief should have been granted, say-
ing, the single error alleged by the assign-
ment was the denial of the new trial and all
of the reasons simply raised the question of
an alleged abuse of discretion In this regard.

Pa.) COMMONWEALTH v. PUNTARIO 831
(115 A.)

That case, however, is not an authority that
four distinct and disassociated matters can
be brought before the appellate court in a
single assignment (particularly where the
single assignment fails to show the objec-
tions and exceptions taken in the court be-
low regarding each of the alleged errors, as
in the case now before us); for, if it were,
it would be a complete reversal of the above-
quoted rule. It is still the law that, when

counsel desire to question a ruling on the

evidence, or the manner in which a case is
submitted to the jury, or other trial points
which in themselves are the subject of spe-
cific objection and exception, such points
must be incorporated in separate assign-
ments of error for purposes of review.

{4] The last of the two assignments now
under discussion complains of an answer
made by the trial judge at the end of his
charge to the jury, to an oral request for
further instructions, _We recently held, in
Ward v. Babbitt, 270 Pa. 370, 113 Atl. 558,
that points and answers thereto form part
of the charge, and that, even when such
points were presented, under the Act of
March 24, 1877 (P. L. 38: Pa. St. 1920, §§
17289, 172%), in writing, ana the answers of
the court were duly excepted to, unless there
was a formal request made at the trial to
reduce the charge to writing and file it of
record, neither it nor the answers to points
could be reviewed on appeal, our ruling be-
ing that the Act of 1877 had to be construed
with other legislation, in pari materia, and,
when thus read, it meant that answers to
points were subject to review only when
filed in connection with the charge, in the
manner required by law, that is, on request
at the end of the trial; for, if this were not
the rule, we might on appeal have points and
answers before us without the charge as a
whole, and, in the absence of the latter, we
would not be in a position to judge proper-
ly concerning the correctness of the former,
for, as may be realized, the points might be
refused without reading, because fully un-
swered in the general charge, which is often
the case. These rules are not mere arbitrary
regulations to make practice more difficult,
as some scem to think, but represent arrange-
ments which add materially to the orderly
and efticient conduct of the business of the
courts.

Jlere appellant made no request whatever
that the charge, points, or answers thereto
should be filed of record, and hence we shall
not formally pass upon their sufliciency; but
we take oveasion to say that, were they prop-
erly before us, there is nothing in them
which calls for reversal of the present judg-
ment. We also note that plaintif’s written
point for binding instructions, upon the re-
fusal of which he rests his first assignment
of error, is in a dfferent position from points

generally, owing to the specific provisions of
the act of April 22, 1905, P. L. 286. See
Keck vy. Pittsburgh, H. B. & N. C. Ry. Co..

271 Pa, 479, 115 Atl. 824, and Mooney v. Kin- -

der, 271 Pa. 485, 115 Atl. 826.

The first assignment of error is overruled;
the second and third are dismissed.

The judgment is affirmed.

COMMONWEALTH v. PUNTARIO,

(Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Jan. 8,
1922.)

1. Homicide ¢>218—Belief in approach of death
as condition to considering dying declaration
a question for the court but jury properly
instructed thereon.

In determining the admissibility of dying
declarations, whether declarant’s belicf in the
approach of death was present is addressed in
the first instance to the conscience of the court,
but, .after admission of the testimony, it is
not error to charge that the jury before con-
sidering the declaration must be satisfied of
the existence of such belief in the mind of de-
ceased at the time of its utterance.

2. Criminal law @=>366(6)—Statement by da-
ceased 30 minutes after shooting held admis-
sible as res geste.

In a prosecution for the murder of a de-
tective by shooting,-a statement by deceased
at the hospital 30 minutes after the shooting,
and from 5 to 10 minutes prior to death, that a
stranger had shot him, was admissible as>res
geste, declarant by reason of the shot having
lost the power of articulation, and the state-
ment being made at the first moment of its
return.

3. Criminal law @==404(3)—Weapon used in
killing held properly admitted.

In a prosecution for murder by shooting,
a gun recently fired, with two chambers empty
containing bullets of the same size and make as
that which killed deceased, found 4.200 feet
from the place of the killing, held properly ad-
mitted as tending to support the common-
wealth’s theory that an accomplice had carried
the weapon to the point in question and con-
cealed it.

4. Criminal law €=919(3)—Failure to present
evidence according to statement of district
attorney In opening held not ground for new
trial.

In a prosecution for murder, statements of
district attorney in his opening address as ‘to
the proof which the commonwealth would offer
held not to constitute ground for new trial be-
enause through an unexpected change in the
narrative of a witness for the commonwealth
no evidence such as suggested was presented;
complaint being first made after conviction.

Appeal from Court of Oyer and Terminer,
Luzerne County; H. A. Fuller, Judge.

€—For other cases see same topic and KEY-NUMBER In all Key-Numbered Digests and Indexes

* 2261 *S2 tequieyzdes uo (£yuUn0p waueznT)

yAsuueg peqnoouqoete *seqtyum Sotuoquy “OTUVINOd pue Saeqeg *ooTuT

o

eTUPA

iseist


832 115 ATLANTIC REPORTER (Pa,

Antonio Puntario was convicted of murder
in the first degree, and he appeals. Aflirmed,
and record ordered remitted.

Argued before MOSCHZISKER, C. J., and
FRAZER, WALLING, SIMPSON, KEP-
ITART, SADLER, and SCHAFFER, JJ.

S. S. Herring and Abram Salsburg, both
of Wilkes-Barre, for appellant.

Arthur H. James, Dist. Atty., of Wilkes-
sarre, for the Commonwealth.

SADLER, J. The appellant stands con-
_vieted of the crime of murder of the first
degree under an indictment charging him
with the killing, on July 21, 1920, of Samuel
Lucchino, a detective of the city of Pittston.
The deceased was shot from the rear by one
lying In walt. After falling to the ground,
a short interval of time intervening, he was
shot a second time. Death did not follow im-
mediately, but Lucchino was rendered speech-
less though apparently retaining conscious-
ness, until his removal to the hospital, where
ne died, some 40 minutes after the assault.
The defendant was accused of the murder,
and set up an alibi in defense. His guilt
or innocence turned upon the proof of identi-
fication, and a careful examination of the
testimony produced convinces us that evi-
dence was offered which, if believed, justi-
fied the finding of the jury.

It is urged, however, that the cause of
the prisoner was prejudiced by certain rul-
ings of the trial court. The claim is first
made that error was committed in receiving
a statement of the deceased that “a stranger
shot [him],” in reply to a query of a police
official. This answer was given in the hospi-
tal 20 or 30 minutes after the shooting, and
from 5 to 10 minutes prior to death. The
wounds which had been inflicted were most
serious, rendering the declarant unable to
speak, though not unconscious, a condition
which continued until he was placed upon
the operating table; then for the first time
he could articulate, and gave utterance
to the expression the admission of which is
assigned as error. Against objection, the
learned court admitted the evidence, but
suggested to the jury that the statement
should not be considered if they found the
reply of Lucchino was not made under a
sense of impending dissolution.

[1] Whether the belief in the approach
of death was present is addressed in the first
instance to the conscience of the court (Com.
v. De Teo, 242 Pa. 510, 89 Atl. 584), but,
after admission of the testimony, it is not
error to charge that the Jury, before consider-
ing the declaration, should be satistied of
the existence of this thought In the mind of
the deceased at the time of its utterance.
Com, v. Winkelman, 12 Ta, Super. Ct. 497;
Com. v. Murray, 2 Ashm. 41; Com. v. Brew-
er, 164 Mass. 577, 42 N. 19. 92. Like instruc-

tions have been approved where the defend-
ant insisted that a confession offered was not
voluntarily made (Com. v, Epps, 193 Pa. 512,
44 Atl. 570), and where the competency of
a witness was objected to on the ground that
she was the common-law wife of the defend-
ant (Com. v. Gray [No. 2] 72 Pa. Super. Ct.
287, reversed on other grounds 265 Pa. 540,
109 Atl. 240). The action of the court in
so submitting the question was without error.

It is needless to cite authorities to show that.

dying declarations cannot be received unless
the statement of the deceased was made
under the belief that he was about to die.
Jsually the presence of the mental condition
can be shown by words or acts of the declar-
ant which indicate this understanding. Often
the foundation for the admission is furnished
by the statements made to him by others.
From all of the surrounding facts the court
determines the question of competency. It
may be, and the court so found here, that
the nature of the wound is such in itself
as to justify the conclusion that the deceased
was aware of his impending death. Though
no case has been called to our attention in
this state where some additional circum-

|} stance indicating the mental attitude of the

deceased did not appear, yet the question has
been a matter of consideration by text-
writers and in other jurisdictions.

“It is well settled that the sense of impend-
ing death which the dying person must have
had in order to render a dying declaration made
by him admissible in evidence may be inferred
from the nature of the wound or the state of
his illuess without any express declaration to
show that he was sensible of impending death.”
1R. OC. L. 546.

Wigmore (Evidence, vol. 2, p. 1807) thus
states the rule:

“In ascertaining this consciousness of ap-
proaching death, recourse should naturally be
had to all the attending circumstances. It has
been contended that only the statements of the
declarant could be considered for this purpose,
or, less broadly, that the nature of the injury
alone could not be sufficient, i. e., in effect that
the declarant must show in some way by con-
duct or language that he knew he was going
to die. This, however, is without good reason.
We may avail ourselves of any means of in-
ferring the existence of any such knowledge;
and if, in a given case, the nature of the wound
is such that declarant must have realized his
situation, our object is sufficiently attained.
Such is the settled judicial attitude.”

In Mattox v. United States, 146 U. S. 140,
18 Sup. Ct. 50, 36 L. Ed. 917, the principle
suggested found approval when it was said:

“This [sense of impending death] may be
made to appear from what the injured person
said, or from the nature and extent of the
wounds inflicted, being obviously such that he
must have felt or known that he could not sur-
vive, as well as from the conduct at the time

Pa.) COMMONWEALTH vy. PUNTARIO 833
(115 A.)

and the communications, if any, made to him
by his medical advisers.”

See, also, Territory v. Eagle, 15 N. M.
609, 110 Pac. 862, 30 L. R. A. (N. S.) 391,
Ann. Cas. 1912C, 81; Gipe v. State, 165 Ind.
433, 75 N. B..881, 1 L. R. A. (N. S.) 419,
112 Am. St. Rep. 238, and cases therein cited.

[2] But in the present case it is not neces-
sary to hold that the statement of Lucchino
was properly admitted as a dying declara-
tion. The circumstances disclosed were such
as would justify its receipt on other grounds.
It will be remembered that the declarant, by
reason of the shot, lost the power of articula-
tion, and at the first moment on its return,
30 minutes later, gave the answer in ques-
tion. :

“When an unsworn statement is made as part
of the res geste, properly so called, or under
such other circumstances as to make it a
spontancous one, this in itself is sufficient
ground of admissibility, and it need not be fur-
ther shown that the assertion is also a dying
declaration because made under a fixed sense of
impending dissolution.” 4 Chamberlayne on
Evidence, 3906; 16 C. J. 578.

Unless the reply of Lucchino was too re-
mote in time, his utterance, springing from
the transaction itself and under circum-
stances which negative the presumption that
it was the result of any .premeditation or
design, would be admissible.

“No fixed measure of time or distance from
the main occurrence can be established as a
rule to determine what shall be part of the
res geste. Wach case must necessarily de-
pend on its own circumstances to determine
whether the facts offered are really part of the
same continuous — transaction.” Com. v.
Werntz, 161 Pa. 591, 596, 29 Atl, 272, 273.

Such declarations, when made by one Kkill-
ed in a mine, within a half hour after the
accident, to the first persons appearing, have
been held competent. Smith vy. Stoner, 243
Pa. 57, 89 Atl. 795. Exclamations of the mur-
dered party while running away from the
scene of the crime have been received also.
Com. v. Van Horn, 188 Pa. 148, 41 Atl. 469.

From the time of his wounding until placed
upon the operating table in the hospital, the
evidence in the present case shows no word
to have been said to him which was in any
way calculated to detract from the spontane-
ity oi the utterance made at the first moment
after the recovery of speech.

“A statement made as soon as the declarant
has recovered consciousness or the ability to
speak may fairly be regarded as spontaneous
even though a considerable time has elapsed
since the principal occurrence.” 22 C, J. 466.

115 A—53

The admissibility of the answer to a query
Fated similar circumstances has been here-
' tofore approved by this court. Eby v. Trav-
| elers’ Ins. Co., 258 Pa. 525, 102 Atl. 209. We
, are therefore of the opinion that the evi-
| dence was properly received, and the as-
| signments of error referring thereto are
overruled.

[3] Complaint is further made of the of-
| fering by the commonwealth of a loaded gun
| found 4,200 feet from the place of the killing.
| The bullets were of the same size and make
/ as the one used in the killing of Lucchino,
|and evidence was offered to show that two
| of the chambers had been used within a few

hours of its finding, which covered the time
| of the murder. The weapon was properly
; admitted for consideration by the jury as
tending to support in some degree the theory
of the commonwealth that an accomplice had
carried the weapon to the point in question
and there concealed it. Com. v. Ross, 266
Pa. 580, 110 Atl. 8327; Com. v. Karamarkovie,
218 Pa. 405, 67 Atl. 650. The effect of this
testimony was carefully explained to the ju-
,ry and no harm could have been done to the
' defendant.

| [4] Again, the appellant claims to have
been prejudiced by the statement of the dis-
trict attorney in his opening address to the

jury. Certain declarations were made as to

| the proof which the commonwealth would. of-
‘fer. No evidence such as suggested was pre-
sented at the trial because of the unexpected
change in the narrative of a witness for the
commonwealth. There is no intimation that
the prosecuting officer was not acting in en-
‘tire good faith. No request was made to
| withdraw a juror, and the complaint was
first raised after the conviction of defend-
,ant. Under such circumstances, the act of
, the court below in refusing a new trial on
this ground was proper. Com. v. Mudgett,
| 174 Pa, 211, 34 Atl. 588; Com. v. Smith, 270
| Pa. 583, 113 Atl. 844.
| Other assignments of error have been filed,
| but were not urged in argument; no reversi-
| ble error is suggested in any, and a discus-
sion would be useless. A careful considera-
| tion ‘of the entire record leads to the belief
that the case was well and fairly tried in
the court below, and that the rights of the
defendant were fully safeguarded. ‘The evi-
| dence was carefully reviewed and submitted
to the jury in an impartial charge, and we
‘see no reason why the verdict rendered
should be interfered with.

The judgment is affirmed, and the record is
ordered remitted for the purpose of execu-
tion.

ce ic BM ws

eepmemeerennnen inert rnitrs


one may
missing.”
“Right,
A - in the m
nee eo the initia
: / : “ i 5" ' . : Na A ereenssto- 4, “} fiat v Ege
‘ FF ya . ‘ - a $y a at « * ; - nine e
Ba | | te a 4 =e bss Al ae hed be ES Teh eral hou:
| "hadi mh ge Pe reap initials o
| them,
On Se}
a license
been per
The ac
checked,
rooms. T
diately «
them cot
On the
clothing,
case, ret
task of \
the scem
Then
captain.
tant voi
the bod:
polkado'
missing
“This
reportec
“Well
and lool
“Whe
“At h
gave th:
“Stay
Withi
pendab!
worked
He w
Tears

' wat \ tii a
re A" \, , am | 4 eae Lee § F ‘ ns Aa
| ve) a tyes 1 yi “4 2 ? h } y/ ery _ A s Ny =
SATE Oy Gk eh er Lk? RAPP a VC Ceiate Es Tage

Old farmhouse, long for rent, revealed to prospective tenants body of illicit occupant in a welter of blood

*

aa |
‘

beam disclosed, lying against the door, the grotesquely at around noon on that same day, Tuesday, he figured.
sprawled form of a curvaceous brunette of about 30. She Detective Rankin, who had been examining the woman’s
was completely nude except for stockings. clothes, said that her dress had been bought at a well known

Her hair was matted with blood, apparently from heavy Philadelphia department store. There was nothing distin-

blows on the head. Her chest had been slashed and her guishing about her slip and undergarments and no hand-
| body was literally bathed in blood. bag was found in the house.
i Dr. John C. Simpson, coroner’s physician, opened the Captain Munshower removed a ring from the fourth fin-
HT door. Bloody fingerprints on the knob indicated the girl’s ger of the girl’s left hand. It was engraved with the initials,

futile attempt to turn it, to summon help. “J.F.A. to E.M.A.”
Dr. Simpson examined the body. “This woman has a “If she comes from Philadelphia, or somewhere nearby,
fractured skull,” he said. “But I’d lay ‘the actual cause of we may be able to identify her through marriage records,”
' death to loss of blood. She bled profusely from those chest he commented.
j slashes. There’s a good chance her killer left her still alive. A utilities man arrived and turned on the electricity. The

The bruises show that she put up a terrible battle for her — investigators now made a thorough search of the house and
I! life.” grounds. They could find nothing to indicate the identity
I “It looks as if she had entered the house with him volun- of the killer or the victim, The house apparently had been
| tarily and taken off her own clothes,” Captain Munshower entered by breaking the window. The rain had obliterated
| observed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have been left in such any footprints or tire prints near the house.
| neat order.” a A police ambulance arrived to remove the body, and the

“Yes, no doubt the fight between her and her murderer oMcials left, taking with them the girl's clothing and other

| developed later.” ; articles of evidence. ;
t Dr. Simpson would not say, until after an autopsy, At Norristown, the county seat, District Attorney Smillie,
rf whether or not the girl had been criminally assaulted. “But —° Assistant District Attorney Arthur Bean, Captain Mun-
| it’s certainly one of the most hideous murders that I’ve ever shower and Detective Rankin discussed the case.
| been called in on,” he went on. “Her killer was a deliberate “The murderer has had plenty of time to make a get-
| ; sadist.” The doctor thought the girl had been dead about away,” Smillie said. ‘We ought to get a full description of

eight hours, which ‘would have put the time of the murder the girl and a picture of her into the papers tonight. Some-
| 44

, a
“~
‘ 7

trimmed white slip which lay neatly folded on the couch.

“They were lying just this way when I came in,” Bready
said.

District Attorney Smillie snapped a light switch, but no
light came on. —

“I had the lights turned off,” Bready explained. “But I
figured you’d neced them, so I called the electric company.
They're sending an emergency man here right away, Now,

‘follow me.” His flashlight casting eerie shadows through the
vacant house, he mounted the creaking stairs. The officials
followed him.

“Look here.” Bready turned the flashlight into one of two

+ bedrooms.

The room was a charnel house. A dilapidated, sagging bed
was drenched with blood. There was blood on the floor and
walls. On a door frame was a bloody hand print, apparently
a woman’s. Alongside the bed lay a heavy wooden curtain
rod, broken in two. One end of it was bloodstained. Near
the bed lay a woman’s undergarments, torn and drenched
with blood.

“Now come this way.” :

Bready led them along a narrow hallway, where the in-

‘vestigators saw bloody footprints. In another room, they
saw evidence of a life-and-death struggle. The bed was
soaked with blood and a thickening pool of it spread on the
floor. Nearby lay a rusty razor blade,

County Detective Harry D. Rankin asked, “Where is the
body?”

Bready took the officers down a flight of steps to the
kitchen. The door at the bottom was closed. The flashlight’s

ra ' 4 if
Pee knt ie thes aes Be aes Pal

Justice Scanlon (I.) and Captain Munshower examine dress worn by slain Ethel Atkins (below) on fateful week end

v

County officials sped along the highway near Willow

Grove, Pennsylvania, just outside of Philadelphia, It
was dusk, a rainy evening in late September. Lights were
blinking on in the farmhouses along the road.

Chief of Detectives Kaye Munshower, driving, saw a man
by the roadside waving a flashlight. He braked the car to a
stop beside an old farmhouse with a gabled roof and a front
porch, The house was dark, apparently unoccupied. A sign,
“For Rent,” hung on the porch. Another car was parked
nearby. Two women and a man sat in it.

The man with the flashlight came up to the police car,
“My name's Bready,” he said, “James C. Bready. I own this
house. I’m the one who phoned you, from the next farm-
house, about the murder. Come inside with me—you’ll see.”

As the officials mounted to the porch, he continued, “My
wife and I brought out a couple who were interested in
renting the house.” He gestured toward the other car. Then

tf he pointed to a window beside the front door of the house.
Pa A pane of glass had been broken near the lock.

“This is where the house was entered,” Bready said. “The
killer must have closed the window again after he went
out.”

Bready unlocked the door and the officers followed him
into the parlor. It was empty of furniture except for an old
couch.

Captain Munshower and. Justice of the Peace M. W. Scan-
lon examined a woman’s blue polka-dot skirt and a lace-

—|17 Suspects

the man who slept through murder _ by GEORGE VEDDER JONES

Sec SCREAMING, the car with five Montgomery

use and


Justice Sx

IREN
Cou!
Gro\

was dusk
blinking «
Chief o
by the ro
stop besk
porch. Tt
“For Rer
nearby. 1
The m
“My nan
house. I’)
house, at
As the
wife anc
renting t
he point:
A pane o
“This
killer m
out.”
Bread:
into the
couch.
Capta:
i We Ro a MN ee ete atone” if h lon exar
Accompanied by detective, suspect pauses at window of mystery house where death struck

47 Lovers— 1

The missing young mother, the intruder in the vacant house and the mar

42


of blood

ie figured.
e€ woman's
7ell known
ing distin-
no hand-

fourth fin-
he initials,

re nearby,
> records,”

ticity. The
house and
e identity
had been
»bliterated

y, and the
and other

Ly Smillie,
ain Mun-

ke a get-
ription of
ht. Some-

one may recognize it. Or maybe she already is reported as
missing.” .

“Right,” Munshower said. “I’ll go over to Philadelphia

in the morning and see if we can get a line on her through
the initials on her wedding ring.”

Munshower was at the Philadelphia recorder’s office at
nine the next morning. The recorder and clerks spent sev-
eral hours checking through the marriage records for the
initials on the ring. At last they believed they had found
them,

On September 28th, 1935, John F. Atkins had taken out
a license to marry Ethel Mae Angier. The ceremony had
been performed two days later.

The addresses given for both Atkins and his bride were
checked, but it was found that they had lived in furnished
rooms. They had vacated their respective quarters imme-
diately after the wedding. No forwarding addresses for
them could be found.

On the theory that the killer must have got blood on his
clothing, Munshower, who had been placed in charge of the
case, returned to Norristown and assigned detectives to the
task of visiting laundries and cleaning establishments near
the scene of the crime.

Then a telephone call was put through to the detective
captain. “This is John F. Atkins speaking,” said a low, hesi-
tant voice. “I just saw the morning paper with a picture of
the body and the clothing found in the farmhouse. That
polkadotted dress looks like one my wife wore. She’s been
missing since Saturday morning.” ;

“This is Wednesday,” Munshower said. “Why haven’t you
reported her missing?”

“Well—I have my reasons,” Atkins said. “I’d like to come
and look at the body.”

“Where are you now?”

“At home. I live on Opal Street, Philadelphia.” Atkins
gave the number. ’

“Stay there,” Munshower said. “I’ll send a car for you.”

Within an hour, a small, balding man with a steady, de-
pendable look was seated in Munshower’s office. He said he
worked as a bricklayer fora large industrial company.

He was shown the wedding ring, the skirt and the slip.
Tears welled into his eyes. “Yes, this is my wife’s wedding

ce >

Trooper Miller sees marks of struggle in bloody prints on wall and floor

ring and these clothes look like the ones she wore,” he said.

He was taken to the mortuary. Morticians already had
attempted to restore to the victim’s battered face the comely
features it had had in life. ;

Atkins broke down, sobbing, “She was a good woman.
And a good wife.” ;

Back at the detective captain’s office, Atkins explained
why he had not reported his wife’s disappearance. ‘

“Ethel was constitutionally unable to drink,” he sald, “If
she drank only two or three beers, something-went wrong
in her mind—a sort of amnesia. She acted all right and

“talked all right, but she didn’t know what was going on.

“For six months at a time she would be a hard-working
housekeeper, a fine mother to our young twin sons and a
good wife to me. She liked to stay home and we had a good
life together.

“But once she had a few glasses of beer, she changed. If
we were at a tavern, she’d refuse to come home with me
and would insist on ordering more drinks. Then she would
invite strange men to our table. Many times I had to force
her to come home with me. When we got home, we’d have
a long argument. But in the morning she'd be all right and
she’d be sorry for what she’d done.

“Eight or ten times during the four years of our marriage,
she went out by herself and didn’t come home. Usually it
was over a weck end. I’d go from bar to bar looking for
her. Often I couldn’t find her. But then she’d show up Mon-
day morning.

“I told myself I either had to accept her the way she
was, or get a divorce, which would have been bad for the
chjldren. When she went on these sprees, I’d just take care
of the boys and the housework myself. I didn’t report any-
thing to the police, because it would have humiliated her
to have them looking for her. She always came home.”

But last Monday morning, according to Atkins, Ethel
hadn’t come home. He had had to go back to his job, and so
he took the children to his mother, He expected his wife
to be home when he returned Monday evening, but she
wasn’t there. She didn’t come back Tuesday, either.

“Then this morning, I saw the picture in the paper and
called you,” Atkins said.

‘What did she do, when she went (Continued on page 64)

aking,

ag oa

husband said

“She was a good woman,”’

45

ith friends at
y and I was
il well after
‘e taken that
nd killed her

vy verified his
nderson was

‘en in oon the
er in Norris-
“No new de-
nshower said.
people living
vith everyone
vat road dur-
w or heard a

ule, Costello,
‘on the case
‘s. They had
7 men with
nt some time
e left home,
ved,

“that some
e picked her
Cafe Tuesday
- out to that
yossible that
im yet.”
vt questioned
ho was with
in the Elite
hing to give
bartender at
June worked
p.
ened to” the
seated across
a rear booth.
seemed ner-
tives, but she
Carhardt) and

ow

ne Costello

Cheltenham,’

‘peated Hie
in Moaottstann
the Bready

t was begin-
and Earnest
he Elite Cafe
the bartender
sossibly have
back by 11
Earnest said
y could have
1ome to the

e to Norris-
story to Cap-

to bring in
n. Each was
hardt cracked
vaving driven
\tkins to the
which Earnest
rt time. He
d Ethel had
he remained
ell asleep, he
voices raised
eard the girl
Was not up

e later.” Car
ed upset and
said he'd had
i she'd be all
her there. He
both got home
o protect him

“s confession,
vn. He con-
and went on
{

“As soon as we got inside,” he said,
“she took off her clothes. Then we went
up to the second floor.” Presently, he
said, Ethel] made some remarks to which
he took offense.

“I got up on my knees and I cursed
her. I lost my head,” he went on. “She
grabbed a wooden curtain rod, tried to
strike me with it. I snatched it from
her and hit her over the head. Then I
ran into the next room. She ran after
me. We were struggling there, in the
back room, and she_ tripped and fell.
The foot of the iron bedstead fell over
and struck her on the chest.

“LT pieked it up and put it against the
wall. She got up nnd got the curtain
pole and began to chase me with = it.
She was bleeding, where the iron bed
had cut her. I started down the stairs.

“Ethel yelled, ‘You're not going to
leave me! I'm coming with you.’ I said,
‘Like hell you are.’ And I ran down
the stairs and out to the car. Carhardt
and I went home. I told him to say we
got home at eleven. I didn’t have much
blood on me. There was a little on my
shirt, but I washed it out.”

He added, “I haven't been feeling right
ever since. I’ve been sick and unable

to eat.”
Earnest signed his confession. He then
was given a_ careful examination. It

was then discovered that at his temples,
searcely distinguishable from the rest
of his blond hair, were a number of
gray hairs. When compared with those
found under the murdered girl’s nails,
they were found identical.

Earnest then was taken to the murder
house, where he reenacted the crime.
Then he was placed under arrest and
confined in jail in Norristown. Carhardt
was held as an_ accessory, but it was
established that he had no- previous
knowledge of or part in the murder
and he was released.

Continuing their investigation, detec-
tives learned that Earnest was an CX~-
convict, having served time for larceny and
on a morals charge involving a 12-year-

old) boy.

William Earnest was brought to trial
for the murder of Ethel Mac Atkins carly
in December, 1940. On December 5th he
was found guilty of first-degree murder,
with no recommendation of mercy. The
judge promptly sentenced him to be
electrocuted.

His lawers filed an appeal, which was
denied. A later appeal to the Board of
Pardons also was refused.

Convicted of a brutal and revolting
murder, William Earnest went to his
death in the electric chair in the peni-
tontiary at Bellefont, Pennsylvania, on Oc-
tober 27th, 1941.

His unhappy victim, the young mother
whom a drink of beer could send
into a strange state of amnesia in
which she forgot her ties and loyalties,
had wandered from man to man on that
fateful week end. Many of the 17 men
she dated enjoyed her company for a few
hours. Only one of them had murder
in his heart. o¢o4¢

Epitror’s NOTE:

The names Carl Carhardt, June
Roth and Alfred Sanderson, as used
in the foregoing story, are not the
real names of the persons concerned,
These persons have been given fic-
fifious names to protect their iden-
tities.

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67

os

64

17 Lovers—
17 Suspects

(Continued from page 45)

on these sprees?” Munshower — asked.

“She said she couldn't remember. = I
suppose she sat around in bars during the
daytime. Maybe she slept in some hotel
at night.”

“Did she have affairs with other men?”

“IT honestly don’t know. She may have,”
Atkins answered unhappily.

He said that on the previous Friday
evening he and Ethel and another couple
had gone to a bar together. She had asked
him not to let her drink too much. But
after two beers she insisted on a third.
When she wanted still another beer, he
and his friends tried to get her to leave.

“She finally came home with me,” he
said. “But on Saturday, after I went
to work, she told the children she had to
go to the store to get some change.
She went out at about noon and didn't
return,”

Atkins explained that his wife previous-
ly had been married to a member of the
Duke family, a man who was one of the
heirs to the vast Duke tobacco fortune.

“Ethel told me she and her former hus-
band were married in 1920," he said, “They
were divoreed about nine years ago. When
I met her, she was a waitress at a fash-
ionable restaurant here in Philadelphia.”

Atkins said that he had been home with
the children over the entire week end.

Munshower saw no reason to doubt At-
kins’ story and, after a few more questions,
told him he might leave.

Captain Munshower telephoned Ethel
Atkins’ former husband, who was remar-
ried and lived in Baltimore, He expressed
shock and grief upon hearing of Ethel's
death,

“I was completely out of touch with
her,” he said, “and I haven’t been out of
Baltimore for more than a month. The
three children of our marriage are staying
with my mother. She’s seen them a few
times, but not lately.”

The ex-husband was able to give a
wholly satisfactory account of his doings
over the week end, and the police were
satisfied that he had no connection with
the case.

While Munshower remained in Norris-
town to act as a coordinator, Detectives
Rankin and James Gleason drove to Phil-
adelphia. There they talked with Captain
William C. Engle, head of the homicide
squad.

“Ethel Atkins was last seen by her chil-
dren around noon Saturday, here in Phil-
adelphia,” Rankin said. “Her body was
examined on Tuesday, at 8:00 in the
evening, and the coroner’s physician be-
lieves she’d been dead eight hours then.
That leaves us a period of three days
during which we know nothing about
where or with whom she was, There's
reason to belleve she drifted from bar
to bar in a state bordering on amnesia.
We’ve no concrete clues and it seems to
me our best course is to pick up her trail
when she left home and fill in her activities
until we catch up with her killer.”

“It’s about all we can do,” Captain Engle
agreed. “I’ll give you Tom Costello of
Homicide. He knows the bars, taprooms
and dives of this town as well as any
man on the force.”

Costello and the Montgomery County
detectives went to the house on Opal
Street where the Atkinses had lived. A
search there revealed nothing pertinent.
Neighbors spoke of Ethel Atkins as a good,

kindly woman and a good wife. No one
had ever seen any man enter the house
in her husband’s absence.

The detectives began going around to
nearby drinking places. At one taproom
they found a bartender who said that James
and Ethel Atkins had been occasional
customers of his,

“The last time I saw them together was
Friday evening, when they dropped in
with another couple and had some beer,”
he said. “The Atkinses got into an argu-
ment and they all left early.

“Then Saturday, about noon, Ethel came
here by herself. She’d never come in
alone before, but she looked perfectly
sober and I saw no reason not to serve
her. She had about four beers, Then two
truck drivers came in and soon she was
talking with them. She seemed sort of
dazed, foggy by then and they were both

- playing up to her.

“I didn’t like the way it was shaping
up and, the first chance I got, I told her
she'd better go on home. She_ turned
around without a word and walked out.”

The investigators left the taproom. They
theorized Ethel Atkins would have gone
to another bar, probably the nearest one.
They saw a neon sign, “Diamond Cafe,”
a little way down the street and entered
the place. .

The bartender didn't know Ethel At-
kins by name, but he recognized her pic-
ture. “She was in here Saturday, about
one or two o'clock,” he said. “When T came
on duty she was sitting ata table with a

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gray-haired man.
quietly.”

The bartender said the man was a
stranger. “He was in his early fifties and
looked like a businessman. A little on the
portly side. That’s about all I can tell
you.”

“But you're sure he had gray hair.”

“Yes, I remember distinctly.”

“Did you hear anything they were say-
ing?”

“No, I didn't try to listen.”

“Did they go out together?”

“Yes, at about three o’clock.”

As the detectives left, Costello said, “Let’s
assume that the stranger was making a
play for Ethel. Where would he be likely
to take her?”

“To a more expensive place?” Rankin
sugested,

“That's what Ll think. Let's look around.”

They found a hotel cocktail lounge, only
a few blocks away, where the bartender
remembered the couple, “They had drinks
and something to eat,” he said. “IT didn't
notice when they left.”

By late evening the detectives had
found bartenders in four other taprooms
who remembered the couple. Customers
who had been in the taprooms Saturday
night remembered them, too.

The last trace that could be found of them
was when they had left a bar in North
Philadelphia at midnight. “I heard them
say something about going to a hotel,” the
bartender said, “but I didn’t hear them

They were talking

name any particular place.”

“If they went to a hotel, and if no one
around here recognized the man,” Rankin
said, “I’ve a hunch he’s from out of town.”
He called Captain Munshower in Norris-
town and reported what he had learned,

“But if he’s the killer, what were he and
the girl doing all day Sunday?” Mun-
shower asked. “They couldn’t have spent
the whole time in that empty farmhouse.”

“We'll try to plek up their trail in the
morning,” Rankin said. “Any luck in
Norristown?”

“No luck on laundries and cleaning es-
tablishments. We found a smudged, partial
print on a door frame,” Munshower said.
“It doesn’t belong to the victim or the
owner of the house. There's a good
chance it’s the killer’s.”

The following morning newspapers cir-
culating through the area carried the
girl’s picture and description. Police of
both Philadelphia and Norristown began
getting calls from people who thought
they had seen the murdered girl. The tips
were carefully followed up. Not all proved
worthless. It began to appear that Ethel
Atkins had had at least 17 dates during
that fateful week end.

Evidence seemed to indicate that she had
spent the entire week end in and about
Philadelphia, in the company of various
men. She had been seen in a number
of bars and hotels. Descriptions of her
companions differed widely. But four
persons who viewed the girl's body and
clothing Ino the morgue stated that they
recalled seeing her, apparently in oa
dazed condition, in a bar in North Phila-
adelphia on Monday evening, ‘The gKray-
haired man was not with her at that time.

Two men appeared voluntarily at the
Philadelphia Homicide Bureau. They were
brought at once to Captain Engle’s office.
They described themselves as brothers-
in-law, in the wholesale men's clothing
business together, The older of the two
acted as the spokesman, '

He said that he and his) brother-in-law
had dropped in together at a place called
the Elite Cafe, at about 8 o'clock Monday
evening. There they got into conversa-
tion with a girl who was sitting at the
bar. He said he knew her only as Ethel,
but when he saw the newspaper picture of
the slain Ethel Atkins, he realized that she
was the girl at the bar

“My brother-in-law and I got to talking
with her and bought her some drinks. I'm
divorced and live in an apartment alone,
At closing time Ethel didn’t seem to have
anywhere to go, so I suggested we all go
to my apartment for a nightcap. She
was all for it, and we went there. In the
morning my brother-in-law and IT had to
go to work. We didn’t want to leave her
there, so we finally persuaded her to go
with us. She wouldn't tell us where
she lived, so we took her back to the Elite
Cafe where we had found her. That was
at about 8 o'clock. That's the whole story.”

Captain Engle felt) that the clothing
dealer’s statement had a truthful ring. But
he sent detectives to the apartment. Noth-
ingg could be found there to contradict the
dealer's statement, and he and his broth.
er-in-law were released, though asked
to keep in touch with the police.

Engle contacted Detective Costello and
he and the two Montgomery County de-
tectives went at once to the Elite Cafe.

A bartender there, shown Ethel's picture,
remembered serving her shortly after he
had opened up Tuesday morning. He said
he had seen a picture of the murder vic-
tim in the newspapers but it had not then
occurred to him that it was the same girl.

“She sat over a beer, kind of dazed,”
he said. “Then a man named Bill Earnest
came in and sat next to her and they
started talking. I decided they knew cach
other. Earnest is a night counterman at

adiner. He live
him for quite a
ordered breakfi

“Then anoth:
four sat at the
the newcomers,
The second cot
four sat there
all left togethe

“What time v

“About cleve

“Did they ha

“The fellow
saw all four of

The — bartenc
lived and direc
tenement hou
there, A> blon
early thirties. }
ing been in th:
ing.

“IT came in
picked up the
said her name
hungry, so lg
a friend of m
with his girl
Roth. She is
the Sunny Sic
is out of work

Earnest loo!
the girl he pic
Atkins. “I si
he said. “Bu
dered girl in
the girl T had

“Where did
restaurant?” ¢

“Well, the
sleepy. She
we took her }
to know wh:
somewhere d
let her out 3
gomery Aven
I suppose he °

“When did

“About eles
was,”

The police

“Yes, Bill
day morning.
time because

Earnest ga‘
the house, bu
clothing or «
They decided
in Norristow

The detect
hardt’s roon
which Earne
a slightly yo
lean and da
as he talked
companion's

“We must
fore eleven,
her, she was

“What tim
asked.

“A little «

“Can you

Carhardt !
here. Butt
in,”

“You coul
up Ethel at
empty house

“But I ha
in years, I
vacant hous:
went to bec
up with tha

“Well, we
and have a
we're takin
town,”

At the i
two men
Captain Mt
Scratches o
ture could |


a diner. He lives near here and ive Known

10 ; ;
ekki him for quite a while, Pretty soon arnest
iawn Af ordered breakfast for the girl. OPPORTUNITIES
Savcié “Then another couple came in and all
- four sat at the same table. 1 didn’t know
bel the newcomers, but the man knew Earnest. FOR EVERYBODY
, Mun The second couple just ordered beer. The = ves
scent four sat there drinking beer. Then they For advertising rates, write to Publisher’s Classified Department, 9 South Clinton Street, Chicago 6 (Aug.-Men.) 4
ie . all one together.” SALESMEN WANTED HELP WANTED
: “What time was this?” Costello asked make. noxt 90 days. Every house i
i . . s : ; d. town wants 4 KO. ’ Ay. uy ! i oroign ‘onstruction employmen on
ck a About eleven in the morning, I think.” matic fice teal plan pave, pratis da curbside Mt or tro Ragen basoe in Europe oul IM Far Noo er
“Did they haves car?” details, NiLite, 173 W. Madison, Han. 306, Chicago 2, Wl, | $3.00 hour. Glerks, $3.00. hour. ‘Many others wanted wi 1
“The fellow wit! Karnest had card SELL ADVERTISING BOOK matches. Big daily commission wage rate accordingly. Up to 70 hour week with time and one
ng es- § with Earnest hac a ocar, (a advance | Union Labo! plus Qhamour Girly Xoanios, Hille | hal for all ovor 40 hours. Transportation paid. 8 to 24 month
partial saw all four of them get into it.” bitliow; all stan ay at busin Big Free Mastor gm contract, fee Jobs wit Ship, Oil, Mining, Aviation Firms and
Ft < a . F at business. S i 30., mH iction jobs withi Ke |
r Raia ; The bar tender knew where Earnest Dept. 2-854, 7528 So. Greenwood aR ta paid firms hiring, obs Cc aig ll oe U.S.A, Full inter ote, al
_ ‘ lived and directed them to the building, 4 tdi gia A CAN SELL famous Hoovtr Uniforms for beauty Ba 9 for, only, $2.00; Foran Conerneen Bultolin, P-
or the lenement  huune Tee detectives 4 shops, Waitrossos, nurses, doctors, othors, All popular miracle ox 393, Dept. 21, Dallas, Texas.
goad Ine, re detectives went Ke Aa nylon, Macron, orjon, Exclusive stylos: top quality. JOBS OVERSEAS! PAYING to 345.00 wookly. Clorks,
there. A blond, pood- lookin soma in his iy canh insane now, roal future, Equipment free. Hoover, drivers, construction mon rf ico ;
ee . : h bk Dopl De thd, New Youk th N.Y tradon, onginoorsa, mooha il cooks, yates offic | workatty
rs cite carly thirties, Earnest freely admitted hav- | $10.000 PROFIT SELLING flitting, Matahon, Spoctalliow! | trojan eran sookind A ai, Nw oxo san 2
d th ing, been in the restaurant Tuesday morn- a ha peat tails rows Ine pak. is giant free alos oullit. vu projects, 0 Sr iste alo nual, b6 pages, appli-
; , , — ; Q 0. Wri rrow Press, « $l. service D-15, Box 30, Billings ontana
ing. Fourth Avo, So, Minneapolis, Minn LATEST © 3 Di N
pe . : . i SAI vines via el ONST i
lice of I came in for a drink after work and Hee CSMUN Ho IN a day dofinitoly Taaurod, Now sonsa- Foroigqn & ONSTRUGTION REPORTS es Qeita
began icke wept . F og ronal utility item for every food, boverage Outlot, oto, Samplos Unakillod, Your Htoyratration-1 form ‘ ¥ :
: pic ed up the girl he explained She furninhod, Utility Coy! W, ‘Jack OMG hic ( ; r nformation Sorvico, Satisfaction
hought 4 ’ . vinta, AY Coy bd Jackson, | MO-t hicago 4; Juarantood, $2.00, Universal Sorvioos, Ue 14-AD, ©
ie ant said her name was Ethel and that she was CALENDATS ADVERTISING “NOVELTIES, Matchos Missouri. HOS » Clayton 0,
oe yea hungry, so I got her some breakfast. Then | Typos ide Line or Full Time, Now sv vortisin to, Sell, All MEN WANTED ON or ~¢ an ny all trad congiruction.
} Ethel a friend of mine, Carl Carhardt, came in | Book henge 37, tl Floming Calondar Coy 6°33 Cottage ee ge co stampod , Aer epiye de Ts Cate 2 “Box
ee with his gi ie sy name is . i aE APLOYM cf . 9264, Akron, Ohio. : oes
duritia ; girl friend. Her name 18 June EMPLOYMENT SERVICES NEED EXTRA CASH? Go r Inoot
Roth, She ts a waitress, works nights in 5 pay, transportation, expense! h hold and food_prod ¥ pst Blair's augue spect
the Sunny Side Up restaurant Curha “lt Clorinal professional, mochanical workors. Most all Paes. Products sent on Froo Triai Sey ae Dont Prema:
he had is out of work now.” — 4 Fatty presi ogre amend construction, manufacture Lynchburg, Va. : rer ’
: rar yw 0 i , gover . NF
about os 0 : Ns tunitios, Up to dato vor nett eau Hg. Ap Hite FONETO “MPL . aT TUCTION Work. Tt
: Earnest looked stunned when told that contracts, income tax, application: f i" mployment, | intorostod In foreigy projects with bigh pay, write Fo ol
various the girl he picked up in the bar was Ethel Jobs, Dept. C-4, Box (aPC rena ind, $1,005 orpreny Service Bureau, Personnel Mgt, M Matuchon, Now Janney.
jumber Atkins. “1 saw th tee 4 eae aenee 1 “JOBS, CO undorway and soon starl- EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES
of her ins. saw the story in’ the paper, ing in Africa, South ‘Amorica, Canada, England, ° Europe FOR REAL JOB Security —got GS. training! Sparo time,
b he said, “But 1 didn't connect that mur- Bouth Pacific, Middle East, Moxico and’ Alaska, Sond $1.06 ob-rolated training. Rapid progross. 277 courses Piusinoss.
: four dered. gitt b M ' z q or foreign job news, information application forms, ote, OCS: ndustrial, En invering. Acadomic. High School, Mod
iw, ane ered girl in’ Montgomery County with ( berewe Hob, Nows, ‘Dopl, 268- Cee iridgoport, Hl. practical, low in cost, Individua ‘instruction, Dipl aioe
yoanc the girl I had breakfast with.” ToS IN TABUCOUS Floridal Skillod, unskillod, ry raduates, Write for lwo Free books “How to Ms nnt pier
it they “Where did you KO when you left the ant WW, ETF a yy L. Parkor, 1b09 Yancey St, Carr eae a a: Bon 28 fou, sheen International Corros-
; did i. . opt, A Jahagser a. ; Schools, Box 2899-8, Scranton 9, Pa.
in a restaurant?” Costello asked. CONSTRUCTION NOU LIST, Publishod Monthly. $1.00. COM EHIGH SCHOOL at homo in sparo time with
Phila- “Well, the beer made Carl's irl friend Ea Construction Scout Nows, Dopt. obi 2G-1, b7-your-old school; toxts furnishod; diploma; no. classos;
iray- ow ad arl’s girl frienc ridgoport, UL. booklot free. Write American School, Dept. XC64, Droxel al
gray sleepy. She wo ‘Mes tte aes 4 LTEATHERCRAFT 58th, Chicago 37, Hlinois. ij
1 dime py rks nights, you see, So A sOaTcY A RAIES. B :
: we took her home first. Ethel didn't seem Mee “DO-1- curse” Loathorcraft Catalog Tandy rey 3 S. Become Doctor of Psychology
; : st. E : Loaihor Go, Box 791-Q3,_F { . Home Study, Froo Book, U ‘ 38: ,
me a” to know where she wanted to Bo--just eater San Sa Texas, Chicago 40. nivorsal Truth, 0038-S Broadway,
ere a vines me ws, 1t.
; somewhere dow m, she si .5 Carl | “DOLCIE'S D © CAPTIVE Cartoon Sortal: Truck INSTRUCTION
office. let: her: out ide ral hia a gg el Madame DILEMMA CA bind, G80, pyle ‘neluré ’ valnod Mon, Rocord-broaking Travel
others- jet her gut in frank Of grave me nome. | Bah zocetaaga ait aiuto gio gees | Uh sai a wig mund auburn
ery VED *. . » . . . samplo sconos and Cl — aine nm H ;
lothing 1 suppuse he we t _ h idan Pe ae home. bon. MG-1, 179 (Curront astra ork CL 1, Gargoyle, | fiold; fine living; mann dtncémont. Quality cane er
he two aL : did ent on ai ae ward. ho iOW i} Ma “oan ~) to $000 lo employed mon Out tan ol nage in Washing eee revious experience
en di en “on women, Easy, Quick, % 5 , sossary.Placomont S #

. a you Bet yome. . ; Repay in ey onl Paemat otaly condor te ius frog in plain hook, Course approved for mont Servicg Foe, ar Lows
-in-law About eleven in the morning, I think it | envelope. Give Mi wtupation, State Finance Co., 323 Securities Hotei Training School, Room XM-9112, rashington 7,0,0-
re ied was. Big Der SC! Omaha, Nebraska. Ss. V’T Jo en-Women, 18-55. tart high as

calicc ‘The police questioned Earn ‘st's wife PSORIASIS VICTIMS: HOPELESS? Now Discovery! Froe $316.00 month. Qualify Now! 23,000 jobs open. Experience
Monday ‘“ ; ; carnests Wire. Poo ition, Write Pixacol, Box 3583-CM, Chechens. Obio. |. yer) unnecessary. Get Free 36-pago, book showing jobs,
nee Yes, Bill got home about eleven Tues- LETTERS REMAILED 36 cls. Litoraturo, Samples 10 cts eed roquirenronts, sample tests. Writo: Franklin Institute,
NVEEsA” day morning,” she sd.“ remember the Porsil, 436 Now York Avo., Brooklyn 25, N.Y. » | Dopt, P-36, Rochester, N.v. ,
at the "she saic. oe ———__— HYPNOTISM _ MAIL SERVICE
time because he was later than usual,” INTERESTING MAILS"—250 koopa your mail box Tul
. Ethe : b $ : ‘ NEC nolism, (Details Free, INTERESTING MAILS”—25c_keops i
: Ethe 1, Earnest gave his consent to a search of Bor eB Wilkos A poo, | thrae months. Bontz (Desk _/78), PBndeawar” Mises ip.
ture of the house, but police found no bloodstained Free ILLUS TATED NOTISM Catalogue. Wile | cor aS
‘hat she de ees ‘ UTC j oodstainec Hypnotist, 1324 Wilshire, Los Angolos _17W. California. SOLC Thr
clothing or other incriminating evidence 15Cl thon Dit TOUTEC TON an and Wiagnvoecereut collec
They decided to take Earnes idence. | WHOLESALE NOVELTIE Aniinals, | \ and other Car etale, - igh
talking in orelat ae : age ae ne st to Munshower | tian ALG 34-M VELTIEST FO ton Son $1.00, Values all free “ moratiyes a a bg mu Ms
iks. I'm The aati iy SS ah acy LAIM INVESTIGATOR : postage. Empire Stamp Co., Dept. MB, Toronto, berate.
: . : ‘teetives then wen o ar car- INVESTIGA ACCIDENTS-—Earn $750 1 mY - Among World 8 t :
t alone. hardt's rooming house, the address Thousands of insurance companios, weipeod” shud moumship Approvals. Wolles, Box_1240-FM, Now York City 8. Kou
to have . = : sof lines urgently nood Claim invostigators. Wo train you at | f —TRI *
» all go which Earnest had given them. Carhardt, spare time, lacomont counsel and holp, Free Book Naw! Approvals, Colo, 43-P Rinowalt, Buffalo Ot ONY.
ai ah a slightly younger man than Earnest, was nivorsal Schools DOT WORMS Dallas §, Texas. ate
p. e lean and dark-haire 1 eventos M INTRODUCING AMAZING NYLON
In the i. h » tate a, Hake ane He chain-smoked 0 vohtablol First got | against runs-snags) by giving away IN stockings (Ouar eros
had to e talked. His statement confirmed B's Tray ey eah eae tara | Hr een arcs. mae Ea WF ls
compani n’s i 4 : > : nte, California, spare time, Postear¢ rings free sample H
ave her pe rena sce tett pe shortly | 4 wahly 7 eet 8 li reeders. 400-$2.50. James No obligation, Kendex, abylon 308, ong ay bite
e- otner, Gr , Kentucky. HRISTMAS CA ‘AY 75¢
r to go { ” : y 3 6c profit on $1.25 Assortment
ore eleven,” he said. ‘* REAL ESTATE INSTRUCTION Exclusive 40 for $1 Name Imprints; Gi - °
dimers (Oe ee rae apie into ee saw of KREAC Estate Broker. Study st homo. Write Tor Free 200 new Te et ob Cash morints; Gift Wraps By Tee roval
‘he Elite “What time did you g t } \ cant es, is Book Tot ! GI Anprovat. Weaver School of Real Estate, Cardinal, 1400 State, orc FIONAL. So 14. :
; . et home?” Costello aw tidy, Kanaus Gly. Bis mit ATIONAL Sollors. Particulars
ye was asked. A M 4 o a FOr Roal Estate, Insurance B roker, Sterling, 1 NNO Wost Pico, Los Angolos 6, Samat
e story.” . ao ; F "9 Great_Neck 99, LLING—NO Collecting— Yet our me 7
clothing “A Hittls after cleven, PROFITABLE OCCUPATIONS per week, Metro, Box 6887, Kansas Cy Missouri.” —
‘ing But Can you prove it?” GROW MUSH TOON OA An shied: Byare, Tull timo, yoar M -MAKI RTUNITI
g. ; ” - te dan round, We pay $3. ». Wo pat abbitt $4165.00 in low § ST TVING. HOUR Daily :
< Noth- Carhaget hesitated. “Why, I live alone weeks, Free book. Washington Mushroom Ind., Dopt. 163, ik pani Genuine iT Bally loegi i io bun.
peg here. But maybe someone saw me come | 2954 Admiral Way. gattle, Wast Markham St., Toronto, Canada. , aii
. ' in. \ eekly mailing circ
s broth- ; ny PULSECQUICKENING, AM AZING Books, Catalog Free, F é. WONEY, iling cireuTars Tor adver-
‘You could have driven back and picked Your now and old book wants suppli ~ catalog Free. | Eimni omplete instructions—250. Siwaslian, 4317-G Gleane
7 , i i i pplied, Mail Ord - " *
1 asked i up Ethel at the bar and taken her to that Sees Melt SW gt forte regan. babes StL TT RATA “F975 Carat Wholosalo, Moro | 1
if ” ¢ H Aare assorlot a Ps peer i le ore -
to 3 1 empty house. | ph is On Autslog” aoe 2a Hare, ussoried fiant than diamonds. Freo Catalog. Diamonite, 1404-P
a i “Bat L haven't been out in that section | 2eahat Avonuo, Now York 10. __. iid , | Mitcholl, Oakland ts oars:
anty de- in years. 1 wouldn't even k a | FASCINATING Pe INCLUNUSUAT, rovoaling. Hustratod BUSINESS OPPORTUNITIES
~afe. | Ss. even know about a | booklots, 10-$1,00. Catalogue 106. Kogan, 1Oae- Now York WANT 10 QET Rich? Who doosn’t? Sond for froo particulars
picture , vacant house there. I came back here and | City UR KSCINATIN " pee ou may hy nag on oll or uranium lands
., a : as ‘i j U 7-1, List free. P ublic domain—for cash or time payments— :
after he went to bed. 1 didn't want to wet mixed | 436 New York Avy Brooklyn 25, New York. ist fro. Persil | Byer, 1835-S Champa, Denver, Colorado. ipeereesegor
{ter he itl hi ara . Aa OW tte
He said ‘ ap with that pi 1. MALE & FEMALE HELP WANTED BECOME A GAME Warden, or join Forestry, Park, Lookout,
oe ei SWell, we'll have to impound your car rAnN rxTna MONTY pelling Advertising Tak Wate, | WHATS, Cananrvation Sry enh anal in guiteloor, work, 9c
oti / ba es : S ‘ she ~ PO-22, Chic 2 Co D mn Frool ‘ble -§
nat’ tWveri ‘ and have a look at it, Costello said. “Then Cagage nen Maton Voafitut , STDGWA Wost Eighth, Low Angolo b, Me irorni,
j we're taking you and Earnest to Norris- TAND BARGAINS ° START VENETIAN BLIND Laundry, Pro itablo lifetime bus-
ime girl. ue ‘ r z iness. New Machine. Free booklet. LK, Co., 442 N, Seneca
town, JUS 100 ) ull price 39.50 on oasy terms uys .
dazed,” At he M : ranoh homenite on Modina Lake, a8 milos on pavomont from Wiehe aR HDG OTT SOTO
| Earnest the ontgomery county seat, the San Antonio, Poxan. Wonderful bishing, hunting, olimato, Tob Odd Succosstul Businosses. Work Home!
) es two men were questioned further by Writs tor Froo booklet. Dopt. S, P.O, Box 2581, San Antonio, Expect something Odd! Pagifie-DE, Ooounnldo, Calif,
ind they Captain Munshower but without result wine OF INTEREST TO MEN ad Be ee Mg Froe, Edwards,
lew each Ae dice or marks pons SINATING- NOVELTIES, BOOKS. Froo catalog. Sur- i Profi
Huralenes OF. te ke of only a trivial na- FASCIA inion Vpo8 B2 OF i0, bs gy a = 3b Diaz Box AL rere! e ride aie —
ji 4 - rio, Chicago 44. . Diaz, Bo , Tampa, Florida.

orman at ture could be found on their bodies. ‘They

——

-


66

were detained until results of the car
search were reported. :

“We're making headway in Philadelphia,”
Engle told Munshower. “We have ac-
counted for a good deal of the three days
Ethel was wandering around in a fog. And
most of the seventeen men checked on
seem to be in the clear. I’m not so sure
nbout Earnest and Carhardt, Fither or
both of them could have picked up Ethel
again after they dropped the waitress at
her home. Their alibi could be faked.”

Munshower, figuring on a pad, said,
“There still are more than twenty-four
hours to be accounted for. Ethel may
have met her murderer during that period
and rejoined him later. Or she may
have met someone else after Carhardt let
her out of the car.”

Engle said, “The Elite Cafe, where she
was last seen, isn’t far from the Diamond
Cafe, where she was seen earlier with the
yray-haired man. Maybe he came into
the picture again.”

He put in a call to Philadelphia and
asked detectives there to concentrate on
an attempt to get a further lead on the
yvray-haired man. Meanwhile he waited
in Norristown for a report on a com-
parison of the fingerprint found: on the
door frame of the vacant house with those
of Earnest and Carhardt.

The report came in _ presently. “The
print could not be Carhardt’s,” the expert
stated. “It might possibly be Earnest’s,
but the print is smudged., There are not
enough points of agreement to make it
admissible as evidence.”

The examination of the Carhardt car
yielded no evidence. However, one slim
clue to the killer intensified the interest
of the detectives in the mysterious gray-
haired man. The autopsy report revealed
that beneath the nails of the dead girl’s
fingers some gray hairs had been found.

The following day, the funeral of Ethel
Mae Atkins was held in Philadelphia, It
had been announced in the newspapers that
the Atkins house would be thrown open
to the public before the burial, to give
callers a chance to see the body.

The police hoped that someone who
passed the bier might remember having
seen the girl with her slayer. They also

were hopeful that the killer himself would
return to view his handiwork.

As hundreds of persons circulated
through the house, detectives passed among
them. One of them noticed a neatly-
dressed middle-aged man with gray hair
utter a little gasp.of shock as he looked into
the coffin.

Two detectives stopped him as he started
to leave, and took him to the police station.
‘There he identified himself as Alfred San-
derson, a salesman of Philadelphia and
a bachelor. He lived in a residential hotel,
he said. He admitted that he had been
with Ethel Atkins on Saturday.

Costello, who had come to the police
station, asked, “Where did you and she go
after midnight?”

“I don’t know a thing about that girl’s
death,” the man pleaded, “Do I have to
answer your questions?”

“No,” Costello told him, “but you are
under suspicion of murder. If you are not
guilly your best bet is to tell us what
you know.”

At the word “murder,” the salesman’s
face blanched.

“IT asked her if she wanted to go to
my hotel room and_= she said she did,”
he said hastily. “We spent Saturday night
together, drinking beer. On Sunday I had
an errand to do. I told her she could
stay in the room till I got back, if she
wished. But when I arrived, she'd gone,
leaving no message. That's the last T saw
of her.”

“The last until ‘Tuesday morning, when
you met her in the Diamond Bar where
you'd been with her before, and drove
her over into Montgomery County.”

“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” San-
derson said stoutly. But he admitted that
he owned a car and that he occasionally
went over into that area on selling trips.
_ While the salesman was submitted to
intensive questioning, his car and his
apartment were thoroughly = examined.
Nothing incriminating could be found, A
sample of his hair was compared with the
hair taken from beneath the dead girl's
nails. A specialist pronounced them not
of a similar texture,

Then suddenly the salesman's face lit
up. “Anyway, FE remember now, I have

some ,
Ss

a gee

"Taking work home, Pierson?"

¥

an alibi. I left my office with friends at
half-past eleven on Tuesday and I was
at a business luncheon until well after
two. I couldn’t possibly have taken that
girl to Montgomery County and killed her
around noon.”

Police checked and speedily verified his
alibi, The gray-haired Sanderson was
then released,

Captain Engle, who had been in on the
questioning, called Munshower in Norris-
town and gave him the news. “No new de-
velopments here, either,” Munshower said.
“We've talked with dozens of people living
near the Bready house, and with everyone
who normally passes along that road dur-
ing the morning. No one saw or heard a
thing out of the way.”

That evening Captain Engle, Costello,
and other detectives working on the case
got together to compare notes. They had
checked over again the 17 men with
whom Ethel Atkins had spent some time
during, the period after she left) home,
but no new lead had developed.

“I still think,” Engle said, “that some
one of these men must have picked her
up after she left the Elite Cafe Tuesday
morning. © Someone took her out to that
house. It doesn’t seem possible that
we haven't got a line on him yet.”

He added, “We still haven't questioned
that waitress, June Roth, who was with
Carhardt, Earnest and Ethel in the Elite
Cafe. She may have something to give
us.” He recalled that the bartender at
the lite had sald that) June worked
nights at the Sunny Side Up.

Costello and Engle hastened to the
restaurant and soon were seated across
from the young waitress in a rear booth.
The petite, dark-haired girl seemed ner-
vous as she faced the detectives, but she
told the same story as had Carhardt and
Farnest.

“Where do you live, June?
asked her,

She hesitated. “In—In
she said faintly.

“Cheltenham,” = Engle — repeated. He
looked at Costello. ‘That's in) Montygom-
ery County, not far from the Bready
house.”

Costello nodded. A light) was begin-
ning to break. If Carhardt and Karnest
and the two girls had left the Elite Cafe
“a little before eleven,” as the bartender
had said, they could not possibly have
driven to Cheltenham and back by 11
o'clock, which was the time Earnest said
he had reached home. They could have
gone from June Roth's home to the
vacant house.

The detectives took June to Norris-
town, where she told her story to Cap-
tain Munshower.

Their next move was to. bring tn
Carhardt and Earnest again. Each was
interviewed separately. Carhardt cracked
first. He now admitted having driven
with Earnest and Ethel Atkins to the
vacant Bready house, near which Earnest
once had lived for a short time. He
declared that Farnest and Ethel had
pone into the house, while he remained
outside in the car. He fell asleep, he
said. Presently he heard voices raised
in argument. Then he heard the girl
scream, But he decided it} was not up
to him to interfere.

“Earnest came out, a little later,’ Car-
hardt went on. “He looked upset and
his hands were bloody. He said he'd had
to clip the girl, but he said she'd be all
right. He said we'd leave her there. He
made me promise to say we both got home
around eleven o'clock. So, to protect him
1 said that.”

When told of Carhardt’s confession.
Earnest quickly broke down. He con-
firmed Carhardt’s account, and went on
to reveal what had happened.

Costello

Cheltenham,

“she took off her «

“As soon as we

up to the second
said, Ethel made :
he took offense.

“T got up on n
her. I lost my he
grabbed a woode:
strike me with i
her and hit her «
ran into the nex!
me. We were §&
back room, and
The foot of the
and struck her or
“I picked it up
wall. She got |
pole and began
She was bleedin
had cut her. I

“Ethel yelled,
leave me! I'm c
‘Like hell you
the stairs and 01
and I went hom:
got home at ele.
blood on me. T
shirt, but I was

He added, “I !
ever since. I'v:
to cat.”

Earnest signed
was given a
was then discov
scarcely disting
of his blond bt
gray hairs. W!
found under tl
they were foun

Earnest then
house, where
Then he was
confined in jail
was held as :
established tha
knowledge of
and he was re!

Continuing ¢t
tives learned !
convict, having
on a morals cl
old boy.

William Ear
for the murder
in December, }
was found gul
with no recon
judge prompt
electrocuted.

His lawers |
denied. A lat
Pardons also

Convicted o
murder, Willi
death in the
tentiary at Bel
tober 27th, 19:

His unhapp)
whom a dr
into a_ strar
which she fo
had wandered
fateful week
she dated en):
hours. Only
in his heart.

The nan
Roth and
in the for
real names
These pers
titious nan
tities.

peperes
BUY U.
AND INV

KAKKKKHKS

time angle
t had worn
1 to State
found, but
efore they

his voice
t who did

ws then—
his sides,

ig written,
irby CCC
might be
vouths had
our short-
n of the
ind heard

ie bushel.
ues, leads.

praising
at us for
te results.
sorted as
in. ‘The
good-time
a partic-
Chis must
ir roving

at me
’ he ad-

ity about

etter

. In-
who was
women
itter how
)rominent
ind them-
ately, we
ir extra-
simply
of them

.’ I told
ibt about
for. The
p, maybe
- suspect
literature
old of a
ce where
she dares

ve that it
hing sig-
iused by

known—
had been
But the

Then,
g attack.
that the

er honor

liscovery
ir hopes
he road,

dropped
—before

ound no

jeep
uve 48)

STECTIVE

ERNEST, William

nd

In Los Angeles Mrs. Anne Hyde, former Broad-
way beauty, went to court to press a separate
maintenance suit against John Hyde,’ theatrical
agent. She charged she was forced to go through
“all sorts of inexplicable gyrations whilst in the

nude" before a group of alleged physicians.

Rochelle,

 Geor

HEADLINE DETECTIVE, Dec., 1940

’ Count and Countess Mare.de Tristan (center) at
Hillsborough, Calif., give heartfelt thanks to
Cecil Wetzell (left) and Ellis Woods (right)
for rescuing their three-year-old son, Marc. The
two lumbermen nabbed Wilhelm Muhlenbroich, .

who abducted the de Tristan boy.

“3

Police were confronted by a spectacular myste
“when the nude body of Mrs. Ethel M. Atkins,
__ twenty-nine, was found in a vacant farmhouse in
Horsham, Pa. The woman was formerly the wife

‘a. member of the wealthy Duke family. De-
tiv ‘nabbed. @ suspect, got a confession.



William Earnes, who al-
legedly confessed to the
sex-murder of Mrs. Ethel
Angier Atkins, stands in
the doorway of the house
where the crime was
committed at Horsham,
Pa. He is in custody of
a detective. For a pic-
ture of the victim in this
case, see page I[5.

26

Belen Mrs. Mary Novak
(left) and her sixteen-

year-old daughter, Doro-.

thy, are shown at a Chi-
cago police station after
the girl was questioned
about the fated shooting
of her step-sister, Pa-
tricia, six.. Detectives
said the gunfire climaxed
a fight over 40 cents.

It's about time holdup —

men in Los Angeles

a fooling around

with Mike Bossio, sixty-
eight. Proprietor of a
liquor store, Bossio is
cleaning the gun with
which he recently killed
a bandit. Two months
before he sent another
robber to the morgue.

HEADLINE DETECTIVE, Dec., 1940

Below: Richard Werner,
former member of the
German-American Bund,
is shown as he appeared
before the Dies Com-
mittee to tell about ac-
tivities of Nazi sympa-
thizers. He is holding a
Bund flag. Werner re-
cently exposed the group

in a newspaper series. —

HEADLINE DETECTIVE

H(
Pr

DEC


hy

HNBOT, William J.g elec. Pa, sp (Montgomer)

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other shoe, but a blue dress and slip were found
neatly folded on a chair in the living room. ,

Even Coroner’s Physician Dr. John C. Simpson,
case hardened veteran of numerous inquiries, admit-
ted horrification at the condition of the body. |

While his assistants took numerous fingerprints and
searched vainly for some mark with which to identify
the victim, Smillie watched Dr. Simpson make an
examination of the body. Smillie noted a puzzled
look upon the physician’s face.

“That’s peculiar,” Simpson said, half to himself.

“What is?” queried the prosecutor.

“Although this has all the earmarks of an assault,
this woman has not been raped.

“She’s been dead about six hours, I’d say,” went on
the physician. “Had been doing considerable drink-
ing up to the time of her death, and, I’d say, you'll
be looking for a grey-haired man as the murderer.”

As he finished his sentence he carefully ex-
tracted some gray hairs from under the fingernails
of the victim, and gingerly handed them over to
the prosecutor. Then he took a plain gold wedding
band from her left hand.

“J.F.A. to E.M.A., September 30, 1935,” he read.
“Quite a wedding present, this, isn’t it. Had she
lived she would have been celebrating her fifth wed-
ding anniversary next week. And further, its prob-
ably her second marriage because this woman gave
birth to a child at least 15 years ago. Id say she
was 35.”

James F. Atkins (below) read of the murder
while State police were still examining the
deserted house (opposite page). Atkins went
to the morgue and discovered the victim to
be his wife, the mother of his twin sons.

\

James Bready beheld a
shocking sight when he
entered his house with
a prospective tenant.

In this untenanted farmhouse at
Morsham, Pa., murder climaxed a
woman?’s bizarre “partying” tour.

Handecuffed together, William J. Earnest (left) and
Richard Brady are shown as Philadelphia detectives

with the slaying

Fortified with plenty of fingerprints, .

the ring and carefully folded clothing,
Prosecutor Smillie set to work.

Bready was sure he hadn’t seen her
before.

“How do you account for her pres-
ence in your house?” Smillie inquired.

“She and whoever was with her,
must have broken the window and
climbed in,” he replied.

Smillie went to the broken window.
“Whoever broke that window, didn’t
climb through it,” he said after a quick
glance, “See that cobweb? This wom-
an’s been dead about six hours and that
cobweb is at least two weeks old, and
unless she’s been here. . . .”

“She couldn’t have been,” interrupted
Bready. “I was here on Sunday. There
was no one here.”

escorted them to court for a hearing in conneetion
of Mrs. Atkins on a drinking party.

’

“Probably if we’d come here when
we planned to originally, last night, we
might have prevented this murder,” put
in Mrs. Leo. “Mr. Br rady called and
asked us to put it off until tonight be-
cause he wanted to burn sulphur can-
dies in it first.”

“No sulphur candles have been burned
in here recently,” said the prosecutor,
eying Bready sharply.

“I didn’t get a chance to,” answered
Bready. “I .attended a fruit sale at
Willow Grove and didn’t get around
cae oa

* * k &
OR FOURTEEN Hours the corpse lay

unidentified in the Montgomery
County morgue at Abington Memorial
Hospital. During that time, despite
widespread publicity, no one came for-

ward to claim the body. A check |
marriage licenses at the courthouse
Norristown failed to unveil a clue, |
further check in Philadelphia, 20 mi
from Horsham, disclosed that a Jan
F. Atkins and Ethel M. Craft had¢
tained a marriage license on Septem}
28, 1935 and had been married 4
days later.

But a call at the address given!
the application — 2402 North Oakd;
Street—proved a blind alley. Nog
at that address could even recall su
a couple. Nor had the bureau of mi
ing persons any record that wot
throw any light on the case. More pt
zling was the fact that the Ethel |
Craft on the license reported this}
her first marriage while Dr. Simps
was certain in his deduction of a chil

|
|

Mrs. William Ehrnest collapsed
when her ex-convict husband was
charged with the Atkins murder.

birth about fifteen years previously.

It was not until after the newspa-
pers had announced authoritics were
looking for a James F. Atkins that a
man presented himself at Smillie’s of-
fice in Norristown.

“It must be my wife’s body you have
here,” he said matter-of-factly. ‘“She’s
been missing since Saturday.”

Smillie studied the :man before him.
He was obviously a man of unusual
strength, used to hard labor and was not
surprised to learn he was a bricklayer at
the Baldwin Locomotive works in Ed-
dystone, Pennsylvania, and had been
a lifeguard at the popular Crystal Pool
in Philadelphia’s Woodside Park.

“Your wife was missing three days
and you never informed police?” Smil-
lie’s tone showed disbelief.

“That’s right,” was the straightfor-
g

ward answer. “She’s done it before,
usually when she’s drinking. Even a
few glasses of beer brings on amnesia
and she frequently goes wandering off.”

For five hours Smillie questioned the
husband, making him tell and re-tell his
amazing story.

“T live ‘at 2348 North Opal Street,”
he began. ‘When I met my wife she
was a waitress in a taproom at 11th and
Arch Streets, a place that caters to
sailors chiefly. I fell in love with her,
married her and took her away from
that life. We have twin sons, three and
a half years old.

“Ethel’s been a good mother, a fine
housekeeper and a wonderful cook. Al-
though she didn’t drink heavily, she
always -had lapses of memory even
when she took only a few glasses of
beer. That happened five or ten times
during our married life.”

“When did you last see her,” asked
the prosecutor.

“Saturday morning,” Atkins replied,
“when I went to work.”

“When she didn’t show up, what, did
you do?”

“I stayed home and took care of the
boys all day Monday and Tuesday. Then
I took them to my mother’s at 2555
North 19th Street. You can check on
everything I’ve told you.”

Smillie paused—measured his words.

“Wasn’t your wife married once be-
fore?”

(Continued on page 74)

The spot where Mrs. Atkins was
beaten to death bore eloquent
evidence of the fight she made.

Cte eg

%

: bd
6 Pesce



shower,

i-bag.
of the
uld be
ok. A
Rankin’s
de was
per 30,

sad wo-
The
Grove,
hiladel-
me one
h Hor-
farm
the wo-
way to
oman’s
> news-
ner she
d, the
shances
r mur-

touch
iiladel-
ers,’’
lered
“Get
to my

alked into
his friend,
Earnest (at
right).

THE PASSION CRAZED MUR-
DERER broke into this house
by smashing the window with
his bare hands. State Trooper
. R. H. Miller is shown inspect-
ing the window Pane while
Trooper H. L, Asper is exam-

Seine rowewsver eee Ts

fre

office. I want them to get the news in time to make

the bull-dog edition. That will get the story through-

out the state in the morning.”
* * *

About 9 A. M. Wednesday morning, a nervous young
man in blue working trousers walked into the police
station at 26th and York Street, Philadelphia.

“I’ve come about my wife,” he explained. “Maybe
she’s the woman the police found murdered in that
farmhouse last night.”

His name was James Atkins; he lived at 2348 North
Opal Street. That morning, he explained, he got up
at six o’clock as usual, went to the front door for the
milk and the morning paper. And on the front page
saw the headlines of the murder story!

A telephone call was put through to. District Attor-
ney Smillie in Norristown. “Send him out here,” or-
dered the latter. And another telephone call to the
Abington police brought Lieutenant Alvin Sleeper in
to fetch Atkins to Norristown. :

The unhappy young man quickly convinced the dis-,
trict-attorney he was the husband of the murdered
woman.

But with whom she might have spent that. last day of
her life, James Atkins did not know.

“IT saw her last on Saturday morning when I left for
work about seven o’clock,” he said. He was a brick
pointer in the maintenance department at the Baldwin
Locomotive Works at Eddystone: When he got home
at five, he learned his wife was out.

“My wife’s uncle, Titus Bearmore, came to visit us
on Friday. He said she went out about eight o’clock, to
get change, she told him. She never came back.”
“Why didn’t you get in touch with the police, report

P
Sy

ining broken glass.

_.they had separated in 1928.

your wife missing?” demanded Smillie.

Atkins obviously hesitated, “It wasn’t the first time
she went away like that,” he finally answered. “
thought it was just another one of her disappearing
acts.”

So the young husband had cooked and taken care of
their three-year-old twin sons. Monday and Tuesday
he had stayed home from work to look after the small
children. What else could he do?

But there were no other men in her life, insisted the
husband vehemently. He trusted her. She was a good
woman. Only ever so often she would take a few days
off, to come home, tired out, but ready to take up home
life again.

“No men in her life,” prodded Smillie. “You’re sure
of that?”

“Only her first husband,” answered Atkins. “I’ve
never heard her talk of any other man.”

‘Many years before his wife had been married to John
Cicero Angier. “You know, that Duke tobacco family
from North Carolina,” Atkins reminded Smillie. But

“And she hasn’t seen him since?”

“Yes, she has,” admitted the husband frowning. “Only |
this past year Ethel told me that she met him down
town. A couple of times. He told her he was looking

}

for old farmhouses to remodel—he’s a builder.”
“Were they on friendly terms?”
Atkins shook his head. “Ethel told me he slapped her
in the face twice when they met.” |
“Why?”
“T don’t know.”
Atkins had no objections to being fingerprinted. Nor
did he look more than sur- (Continued on page 57)


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COMPLETE DETECTIVE CASES

former Cordelia Biddle, had been
drowned. It was his son who only this
year had been divorced by his wife,
the former Priscilla St. George,
prenddeugs ter of the fabulously rich
financier George F. Baker. These two
Dukes, Mary and Angier, were this
Angier’s first-cousin. Doris Duke
Cromwell, daughter of the other
brother, and whose husband, James
Cromwell, step-son of Stotesbury, the
Philadelphia traction magnate and
Morgan partner, running for United
States senator from New Jersey, was
not related to him.

But the Duke tobacco millions had
not played much of a part in the
Angier family. This John Angier was
now working for a tin company in
Baltimore. He had had a succession
of somewhat similar jobs.

That evening at 10:30, John Cicero
Angier, accompanied by former Dep-
uty State Attorney James N. Lafferty
of Philadelphia, arrived at District
Attorney Smillie’s office in Norris-
town.

Briefly the young man, now deep in
his thirties, outlined his life with his
first wife.

“We met in Philadelphia, were mar-
ried in 1921,” began Angier. He was
then working for a construction com-
pany engaged in building Eastern
penitentiary at Graterford. They had
had three children. Returning home
one night in May, 1929, he found his
wife had gone. She was with friends
in Logan, he learned, but refused to
return to him.

In June of that same year, 1929,

Mrs. Ethel Angier had filed suit for
divorce. But the suit was never
pressed.
. In March, 1938, Angier himself had
instituted suit for divorce in Philadel-
phia’s Common Pleas Court No. 4 on
grounds of desertion. But Mrs. Ethel
Angier, as the respondent, could not
be located. In May of the same year
a new subpoena was issued. Mr.
Lafferty had been his lawyer, the
master had been Charles E. Kenwor-
thy. Only this year, April 12, 1940,
had the final divorce decree been
granted!

District Attorney Smillie looked his
surprise.

“Did you know that back in 1935
your wife married James Atkins?” he
asked.

Angier shook his head. “I’ve never
seen nor heard from Ethel since the
day she walked out on me in 1929,”
insisted Angier.

“But Atkins says you met her in
Philadelphia this S ring, slapped her
face,” Smillie told

‘That was a lie, veturied Angier. If
Ethel had-told him that, she had made
up the story. He had been in Phila-
delphia in March in connection with
the divorce. But he had not seen the
woman!

Ethel Angier, during their separa-
tion, it turned out, had been living her
own life. His mother had taken the
three children. On July 4th, 1935, she
had met Atkins, married him two
months later. Applying for a license,
she had used her maiden name, even
stating she had never been married
before. Their twin boys had been
born in 1937.

Then she had been bigamously mar-
ried to this fellow Atkins. But there
was no reason to think that this An-
gier had ever heard of James Atkins
or of his relationship to Ethel.

Besides, John: Angier gave the dis-
trict attorney a detailed account of
his movements for Tuesday, the 24th,

the day Ethel Atkins had met her
death. He had been in Baltimore the
entire time.

That completely exonerated the ex-
husband! It placed him beyond the
slightest suspicion. Ethel’s story of
having seen him, of having her face
slapped, had been pure fabrication.

Interest, for lack of a better objec-
tive, now centered on Atkins himself.
What had been his relations with his
wife?

Various members of the family of
both Ethel and James Atkins were
approached. Mrs. John Fisher, sister
of the dead woman, knew nothing of
Ethel’s movements, of any friends she
might have met. After that Saturday
morning she had left her home.

Nor did Mrs. John Atkins, her sis-
ter-in-law, who lived north on Opal
Street, know anything of her mean-
derings.

“T did know that she occasionally
went off for a few days,’ admitted
Mrs. John Atkins. “She’d just go off,
and come back when she was ready.”

But to the best of her knowledge
Ethel hadn’t disappeared since last
January. This September excursion
had been. her first that year.

Opal Street neighbors of the dead
woman, questioned by detectives,
added, however, a new note.

“The twins were always neat and
clean,” said one woman. “Mrs. Atkins
was a good housekeeper, and a good
wife except when she went off.”

Men never came to the house dur-
ing the husband’s absence, neighbors
were certain. But they said the couple
did quarrel occasionally. You could
hear them when the windows were
open. Only this last Friday, the night
before Ethel Atkins left home, they
had quarreled.

Moreover, only last week Mrs. At-
kins had proudly shown a neighbor
a diamond ring, given her, she said,
by her husband for having been on
the water wagon since New Year’s.
But the Friday quarrel had followed
the celebration of this gift in a tap-
room.

Atkins was summoned to Norris-
town again.

“Tt wasn’t quarreling those folks
heard,” he insisted. “My wife was
almost deaf. I don’t hear so well
myself. And sometimes we both had
to talk real loud.”

Atkins’ alibi for the week-end had
already been gone into. He had
worked as usual on Saturday. Sunday
he had been home all day looking
after the twins. Monday and Tuesday,
ditto. Neighbors could alibi his pres-
ence in. the Opal Street house the
entire day. They had seen him with
the children, gossiped about the ab-
sence of the wife.

And James Atkins, husband, was
come etels exonerated as a suspect.

os ¥ little headway had been made,
come Friday the 25th. Detective Cos-
tello, in his rounds of the taprooms
in- the neighborhood of Opal Street,
had found only one bartender who
recognized the photograph of Ethel
Atkins. This was William Black of
the Elwood Taproom at Dauphin and
Amber Street.

But he had seen her on Friday eve-
ning. And it turned out that both
Mr. and Mrs. Atkins, accompanied
by the newly- -arrived Uncle Titus
Bearmore and another woman, had
stopped in for a glass of beer. Other
visits drew only blanks.

But District Attorney Smillie told
reporters besieging his office he hadn’t
given up hope.

“Assistant
min Scirica
day,” the
porters.
club with
beaten, the 1:
and the fram:
which we ar
entered the
the back door

Also scrap
woman’s na!
ington.

“You're as}
the scraping
other articl

Smillie ne

The wind
a puzzle. Th:
half of the
rest on the p:
frame of the
spider web wv

“Whoever
window pan
and wiry,” co!
torney, “else
that web.”

Every effo:
the second fk
ful. Both c!
been too sme;
on the wall
Atkins. But
climbing thr«
pane, had le!
And the F.F
be able to
prints, invisi!

The autop
funeral was
afternoon. A’
evening the !
friends, relat:
the remains. \
stream, crowd
pushing on
the ground
rested. At o:
decided, t
still standi
ing its tur
members oI
friends remai!
of consolatior

In this gr
whom nobod
noticed, retu:

the coffin, sca

dead woman
been carefull
dertaker, its
covered over
kins had bec
looking wom:
scars of the st
her life.
Now the el:
to James At!
“T think I
your wife ar

he told the h

Those who
versation cou

ears. Here °

Philadelphia

looking for t!

or had even

the week-en

had walked 1

volunteered 1

James Atk
telephone ca
And Detecti\
James Lenn
took the eld:
bed-room fo:
again they m
At last con
was talking
take him to

Here tele;

our

looked about in the darkness and
motioned to the tree stump, a vague
blur in the starlight. .

“You can sit over there, my love,
while I tinker with the motor.”

He led her to the shadowy stump,
and she sat down and again lifted
her gaze to the sky.

“Let’s both sit here,” she said
dreamily, “and look at the stars and
talk about each other.”

He had moved around behind her
and was down on hands and knees,
pawing through the grass.

She moved her head sidewise and
looked at him over her shoulder.
“What are you looking for, Henry?”

“This,” he said, and stood up, with
the shotgun clubbed in his hands.

And then, before she could utter
more than a startled cry, he swung
the butt of the gun against the back
of her head. She pitched forward
on her face. Almost unconscious, she
tried to stagger to her feet: but he
pressed the muzzle of the gun
against her cheek and pulled the
trigger, and she collapsed on the
ground, mortally wounded.

He picked her up and carried her
back to the car. She was dead be-
fore he put her inside.

He went back for the gun, and when
he returned to the car she was
slumped across the front seat. He
sat down on her body, swung the
car around and started back to her
uncle’s home. He stopped to hide
the gun in a clump of underbrush,
and drove on, still sitting on her
body.

A little later, her uncle was
awakened by a frantic pounding on
the front door; and when he looked
outside he saw young Beattie wildly
waving toward the car and crying
as if in a frenzy of grief:

“Louise has been killed!”

Becoming coherent, he explained
the tragedy thus:

“We were stopped by a big bearded
man with a shotgun. He ordered us
out of the car. When I started to
drive on, he fired. The discharge

prised when Detective Munshower
came forward with a small penknife
and more or less gently cleaned his—
Atkins—nails and carefully put the
scrapings in an envelope and wrote
Atkins’ name on the outside.

“That’s all, Atkins. For today, any-
v. uy,” said the district attorney. ‘Oh,
but get us a photograph of Mrs. At-
kins. Somebody will stop for it. And
you stay at home—we’d like to know
where to find you if we want you.”

This was agreeable to Atkins. It
was arranged he was to identify the
body of his wife on the way home.

It was now three o’clock. That talk
with the husband had lasted five
hours. And not much information at
that. Now the telephone on his desk
rang. It was Coroner Winslow Rush-
ong on the wire.

“T’ve just got the autopsy report
from Dr. Simpson,” he said. “The
woman died between one and two
o'clock Tuesday afternoon. Of an in-
ternal hemorrhage. Also she had been
drinking heavily—no food in her, only

FACTS FROM OFFICIAL FILES

struck Louise and killed her. The
man ran. I drove back as fast as I
could, holding Louise with my left
arm. I don’t know who the man was
or what he wanted. I never saw him
before.”

This, substantially, was what young
Beattie told the sheriff of Chester-
field County and the detective chief
of the Richmond police, and both be-
lieved he was telling the truth; but
a private detective who had arrived
with them—a _ quiet young man
named Luther L. Scherer—was not
so easily fooled.

With disarming casualness, he
asked: “You say you supported your
wife’s body with your left arm when
you drove back home?”

“That’s right,” replied young Beattie.

they started down the pike
toward the spot where he said his
wife had been killed, the sheriff said
in an aside to the amateur sleuth:

“What was the point in that ques-
tion?”

“Oh, nothing,” said the young de-
tective—“except there’s no blood on
the left sleeve of his coat, but plenty
on the back of his coat and the seat
of his trousers.”

“Proving what?”

“Proving, it seems to me, that he
didn’t have his arm around his wife,
but was sitting on her body.”

Beattie led them to a spot well be-
yond the place where he had killed
his wife and told them that was
where she had been shot to death.
The sheriff called out his blood-
hounds to track down the mythical
bearded man and the alarm was
spread throughout the countryside;
but the young detective, Scherer,
was unimpressed by all this.

Doing some private investigating
on his own, he found the tree stump
where the young woman had been
murdered and noted the bloodstained
grass; and later, without divulging
his find to young Beattie, he ques-
tioned him again and soon had him
entangled in a mesh of contradictory
statements.

It was all up with young Beattie
now. Blinded with Passion, goaded
by frustrated desire, he had com-
mitted a clumsy crime and clumsily
had tried to lie out of it. Caught
now, in the web of his own false-
hoods, he could not extricate himself.

Violently screaming, “I didn’t kill
her!” he was arrested and taken to
the county jail. His blonde mistress
was also placed in custody, though
she readily proved an alibi. On the
night of the murder, when Beattie
did not call for her, she had picked
up another man and spent the eve-
ning with him.

The shotgun was found by a coun-
try Negress, and Paul Beattie came
forward to say he had bought it for
his cousin.

Still protesting he was innocent,
the young murderer was indicted and
brought to trial.

The prosecution learned that Freda
and her illicit lover were exchang-
ing love notes in jail and so did not
call her as a witness, but they put
Paul on the stand to have him
testify:

“After Louise was killed, my cou-
sin said to me: “I'd give a million
dollars if I hadn’t done it!”

Then Henry took the stand in his
own defense to scream at the jury:

“I didn’t kill her! I swear I didn’t!”

But the jury didn’t believe him.
They found him guilty on the first
ballot and condemned him to forfeit
his life for his crime.

On the chill gray morning of No-
vember 24—while his blue-eyed
blonde Lorelei was flitting away—
he sat in the electric chair and said:

“I am guilty.”

A moment later he passed into
eternity, repeating the words of the
priest:

“May God have mercy on my
soul!”

(For obvious reasons the name
Freda Stanton used in this story is
not real but a fictitious one.)

PHILANDERING (Continued

PHILADELPHIAN =x»

alcohol.”

But it was his last words that came
as a complete surprise. “She was not
assaulted immediately before death,”
the autopsy report read.

No assault! That was puzzling.
Unusual, under the circumstances.
This detail, so out of focus in the
picture, promised to play an important
pest in the development of the trage-

y.
With the dead woman identified and
located in Philadelphia, it meant that
Captain William Engle of the Homi-
cide Squad would have a hand in the
investigation. And so it was arranged.
Detective Thomas F. Costello, as soon
as he could get a photograph of the
dead woman, was to visit taprooms
near the Atkins home. And Mont-
gomery County Detectives Rankin and
Gleason would cover all drinking
places in and around Horsham.

A couple of long distance calls to
Durham, North Carolina, the original
home of the Duke family, gave Dis-
trict Attorney Smillie the address of

ex-husband John Cicero Angier in
Baltimore. And a short telephone talk
with Angier, apparently much sur-
prised at the news, was followed by
an appointment to meet that same
evening at Norristown.

A little digging cleared up the con-
nection between this ex-husband of
Ethel Atkins and the Duke family.
There had been two Duke brothers,
Benjamin and James Buchanan,
founders of the tobacco dynasty.
Benjamin had married Sara Pierson
Angier, daughter of Malbourne An-
gier, Mayor of Durham, North Caro-
lina. This Miss Angier had been a
sister of John Angier’s father, so, by
marriage, Benjamin Duke was his
uncle.

Benjamin Duke had two children,
Angier and Mary. Both had married
into Philadelphia’s Biddle family. But
both couples had long been divorced.
Mary Biddle’s ex-husband was the
American Ambassador to Poland when
that country had been invaded by the
Nazis. Angier Duke, divorced by the

57


chest sng tia cans _ seapaiiins

colored slip.
“Guess she took them off here,’ commented Munshower, the
“and went upstairs naked.” out
But the detectives could find no hat, gloves, or hand-bag. |
The body was ready to be taken to the morgue of the 4
Abingdon Memorial Hospital where the autopsy would be
performed when the detectives took a last look. A
gleam of a gold band on the left hand caught Rankin’s
eye and he gently removed it. On the inner side was
an inscription—‘J.F.A. to E.M.A. September 30, farn
1935.” A wedding ring, the wedding date. H
None of the handful of men recognized the dead wo- Opa
man. She probably had come from a distance. The at s
farmhouse was only four miles from Willow Grove, | milk
about fifteen from Philadel- saw |
phia’s City Hall. Some one A
who was familiar with Hor- ney

sham, knew of this farm | dere
house, had brought the wo- f Abir
man there. The best way to } to fet
reach this dead woman’s Th
circle was through the news- trict
papers and the sooner she wor
was identified, the B
better their chances her
of getting her mur- i “]
derer. ; work
THE DRESS WORN BY “Get in touch point:
| ETHEL ATKINS is with the Philadel- Loco:
shown being inspected hia ”” at fiv
by Justice of the Peace, phia papers, a
M. U. Scanlon (left), Smillie ordered “M
bee =: Lappe Munshower. “Get a on F
e q . ;
County “benaine hk reporters to my eh .
was found neatly folded

at the scene of the
murder.

JUST A “STOOGE”
was Richard Brady
(tall young man wear- ©
ing lumber jacket).
He foolishly let him-
self be talked into
trouble by his friend.
William J. Earnest (at

| Frederick B. Smillie of Norristown had
|" arrived, to be followed shortly by Dr. John
\\ C. Simpson, Coroner’s physician.

“She’s been dead about five or six
hours,” said the latter. “They’re hairs
caught under her nails,’ he added, “I'll
save them for you. They may help you
later to identify the man.”

| In the meantime Munshower and Ran-
| kin were giving the house a thorough going-over.
: Upstairs were two rooms, unfurnished, one large,
one small. Blood was spattered on floor and walls.
In the upper hall Munshower picked up a club,
about two feet long, an inch and a half in diameter.
Clots of blood, particles of flesh, of hair, were caught
on its rough edges.

Against the wall of the bedroom some one had
carefully stood the broken end of a small iron bed;
it, too, had evidently been used to belabor the dead woman for dried blood
in streaks stained its smooth, cold surface.

To experienced eyes, the blood stains told the course of that last hectic
struggle between the woman and her assailant. Here, with her hand-prints
on the wall, she had stood. Then down on her knees, she had tried to grope
her way to the door, leaving prints close to the wallboard.

Out into the hall she had crawled, until she reached the back stairs. Again
{ she stood up. Here were prints shoulder-high. She had supported herself
against the narrow walls of the stairway as she tried to walk down.

But suddenly she had crumpled, falling head first. Too weak to rise, she
had stayed there until death came.

“Where are her clothes?” asked District Attorney Smillie.

Down on an old couch in the front room on the first floor the detectives
found a blue dress with white polka dots, neatly folded. Under it was a flesh-

36


= ar eeernipremeniae ines

a ta a keene

We all felt a shudder creep down
our spines. Never in our lives had we
listened to a more cold-blooded nar-

rative. We ‘knew he was lying. Ethel
Atkins hadn’t been drunk when she
met death. Whatever she had imbibed
during the previous flaming days and
nights, by the time she reached the
Horsham house she was sober as a
fish. Bearing this out, the medical ex-
aminer had told us that the scientific
analysis of her brain hadn’t revealed a
trace of excess alcohol.
But who was the actual killer?

ATIER Earnest we gave Brady the

works once more. He admitted the
trip to Horsham in Ethel Atkins’ com-
pany but denied having had any part
in the killing as he had stayed in the

car while Earnest was with the woman
in the house.

“When Whitey came out,” he blub-
bered in a cowering voice, “he yelled,
‘Let’s beat it quick—I knocked the
dame cold.’ ”

Before charging either of them with
the ghoulish slaying, District Attorney
Smillie moved for a reconstruction of
the crime at the Horsham house.

First we ordered Brady to re-enact
his role according to his version of the
happenings. Then Earnest. Over and
over Smillie made the tow-headed sus-
pect play his part—how he had broken
the window, pulled out the broken
glass, climbed into the house—careful
not to destroy the spider web—opened
the bolted door from the inside. Then
came the sequence of happenings in-

| Lived to Hunt Down My

“Yes, they snatched her into their
car while she was walking home with
another girl,” Detective Burns went on
grimly. “I’ve an idea they’re the same
gang that attacked you, because she
and her girl friend attended the church
dance that you went to and they.were
on their way home when an auto-load

‘of thugs drew up alongside them.”

I won’t name the other girl victim
of that monstrous night of depraved
atrocities in Brooklyn and Queens.
She didn’t try to crawl away from a
public ordeal because of spurious con-
ceit and shame. She faced it. She
cooperated with the kind authorities
and eventually found peace, love, a
husband and children instead of terror,
damnation ‘and more unbearable
humiliation.

The screams of her girl friend when
she was kidnaped brought the police,
I learned later. Arid Detective Burns,
wise t @ ways of savage human

hainec Vt wIHctA Minh 43

ad ’

anyway for what they did to that other
girl, You won’t have to appear in
court against them if you don’t want
to. We’ll drive you home after .-. .”

“Supposing they’re not the same
ones?” I interrupted, faintly interested.

“Then we’ll have to keep hunting
the criminals who assaulted you even
if you don’t help. No girl will be safe
as long as those rapists are free to
prowl the streets. If they find that
they got away with it once they’ll do
it again and again. Every man’s wife,
daughter or sister is at their mercy
until they are in prison. Unfortunately,
we haven’t much more than your de-
scriptions of only three of them to
work on. And your descriptions fit
hundreds of respectable young men.
We can’t make arrests solely on that
basis.”

My eyes went to my aunt for advice.
She nodded gravely.

“Tll go with you,” I murmured re-

1 COM. .4a TY,

side the house until the moment the
woman allegedly staggered down the
stairs in drunken stupor.

During the procedure Smillie con-
stantly bombarded him, pointing out
discrepancies and contradictions.

After three hours of this, Earnest
stopped in the midst of an involved
explanation, shrugged cynically, and
announced, “Let’s wind this up. I done
it. Alone. Brady was waiting in the
car.” : ,

Earmest was charged formally with
the fiendish slaying. Richard Brady,
his unnerved pal, though cleared of
any connection with the actual slaying,
may be charged with being an acces-
sory after the fact. The grand jury was
scheduled to hear the case on Octo-
ber 22.

The Philadelphia cops, however
think they have a few more accounts
to settle with the sex torturer of Ethel
Atkins.

Already a Philadelphia woman has
come forth, accusing Earnest of having
brutally beaten and ravished her in
her apartment last March. Confronted
with Earnest, she identified him posi-
tively as the attacker. Reluctantly he
admitted his guilt.

The names Arthur Reeves, Phillip
Westover, Charles Petrolle and Michael
Rogers as used in this story are ficti-
tious to protect the real names of men
who volunteered information, or were
questioned in regard to their connec-
tion with this case, but who were in
no way involved in the actual crime.

Rapists (Continued. from Page 23)

‘Vito and Andrew, pleaded guilty to

charges of rape and were sentenced to
prison for five to ten years each.

I was much too busy learning the
meaning of heartsickness and- aching
loneliness as I helplessly watched my
old familiar world slip away from me
little by little.

The implications were unmistakable
in the uninvited leers of men, both
young and old, in the neighborhood.
And in the sudden breaking off of con-
versations by women neighbors when
they saw me approaching. And in the
coolness of their daughters as they
bustled away importantly when I
wanted to chat with them. In the com-
munity in which I was raised, reputa-
tion, character—honor—were _ sa
things. Somehow I was_ tarnished
through no fault of my own. .

I felt alone, dismally alone, in a

‘Id of strange people and hostile
‘es that I couldn’t understand. I

’

sacred -

I thrilled to it as I lay there in the
dark, mapping my plans... plans that
were eventually to land me in jail
before they did my assailants!

But I didn’t know that then, for I
had no inkling of the pitfalls awaiting
the unwary feet of impulsive young
women—pitfalls that were to plunge
me into a fantastic series of events and
cause the police, the courts and the
district attorney’s office tumultuous
trouble. ;

I said nothing to my parents about
my plans. But during the cold Winter
days that followed, whenever I could
get away from home without arousing
suspicion, I haunted the East New
York section of Brooklyn, patrolling
the streets, peeking into poolrooms and
taverns and into the back rooms of
cigar and stationery stores where
card games inevitably were in progress.

And several times I scou) he
Community im police cars, part rly

a . o


Engle clutched the unsteady ambler
by his lapel, Te wanna nwarthy, graye
halred Individual with a bull-like neck,
dressed in a blue pin-stripe suit.

He stared at us, panic stricken, out
of red-rimmed eyes. Ils wheezing
breath smelled of liquor. Was he the
suspect who had prompted Atkins’
frantic phone call?

Engle tried his luck.

“Coming from the Atkins house,
eh?”

The man nodded. “How come you
know, Buddy?” he blubbered.

We shoved him in our car and drove
back to Atkins’ residence.

“That’s him,” the mourning husband
acknowledged.

“Now tell us what this is all about,”
Inspector Richardson shot at the un-
happy husband.

Atkins started slowly in a strained,
hardly audible voice:

“There were about six people in the
toom—shortly after midnight—just
curious strangers, I guess—didn’t know
wny of them. This guy stood in a
sorner—”

aoe see him before?” I interrupted.

“ 0.

“What happened then?” Munchover
sxrompted impatiently.

“Well, suddenly he whispered, ‘It’s
errible, it’s terrible—I knew it would
1appen.’ That’s all. You,” he faced
ne, “you told me to watch the people
lrifting in here, So I did it, and called
fou up.” ,

By the time we hauled the suspect
nto Headquarters he was cold sober.
fis face was screwed into an ugly
cowl, his dark eyes were lowering.

“Your name?” Engle snorted, -

He fidgeted. “Arthur Reeves.”

“What did you mean by saying, ‘I
new it would happen’?”

“Nothin’,”

“That’s a lie!” Inspector Richardson
lapped. “You’re going to talk or
ou’ll be sorry.”

Reeves’ eyes, small behind thick lids,
imped from one officer to the other,
dkay, I’m gonna talk,” he finally
uttered, “but I don’t want anybody
» know I was mixed up with her.”

Sarcastic grins appeared on our
ices,

“Sensitive fellow,” Engle taunted.
hen, turning to the suspect, “Go
iead and spill it.”

“I had a date with Ethel at eight-
pi § last Saturday,” he said tone-
ssly.

One of those streamlined screamer
ombs couldn’t have produced a bigger
It than that whispered admission.
“I met her the day before, on Fri-
ly, in a taproom,” he continued.
“hat’s when we made the date.” He
opped again.

“And then?” Engle roared.

“We spent all day drinking and
en—” a flustered red crept up his
w forehead—“then we went to sleep.
2xt day we drank more. At five in
e afternoon I left Ethel in a bar
. Broad Street and Susquehanna
venue.”

OR hours we were battering him
with questions.

But we couldn’t get anything out of
m beyond this story. It was nearly
wn when Engle decided to call the
illing off until the next morning at
a.m. The suspect was hustled away
d locked up in the city jail.

The following day, when we just
d gathered in full force and Engle
minted to call up the jail to have
‘eves brought in, a visitor was an-
unced,

‘He’s here with his mouthpiece,” the
sk sergeant said.

4n  embarrassed-looking, middle-
2d man, accompanied by his lawyer
10 was throwing big, cheerful smiles
everybody, was ushered in.

{n a smooth flow of words the lawyer
plained that his client, Mr, Phillip
2stover, also had picked up Mrs.
ael Atkins.

‘Mr. Westover read today in the
wspaper that a suspect whose iden-
y was kept secret had been arrested.
advised him to report immediately
you, gentlemen.”
We exchanged startled glances,

Where would the crazy trail of this
Invertination fuatly lead un?

Engle faced Westover with a stern,
inquisitive glance,

“When and where did you meet Men,
Atkins?"

“Sunday in a bar on Susquehanna
and Broad, about six In the evening.”

We all sat on the edge of our chairs.
This was a startling statement. Reeves’
confession had been kept a secret.
How come Westover knew about the
taproom on Broad and Susquehanna
unless he told us the truth—or was
alibiing for the other suspect?

“And you probably stayed with her
only for a short while,” Inspector
Richardson broke in with heavy sar-
casm.

Momentary bewilderment flashed
into Westover’s face. He nodded curtly
and said, “Yes, only for a short while.
Until about eight.” He paused.

“Did you leave her alone in the tap-

_Toom?” Engle inquired.

Westover hedged. “No, I introduced
her to a couple of friends of mine be-
fore I left.”

Engle’s pencil was poised on a writ-
ing-pad. He lifted his brows. “Their
names?”

Westover hesitated, then, “Charles
Petrolle and—and his brother-in-law,
Michael Rogers.” At Engle’s request
he gave their addresses, then added,
“T hate to do that, I don’t want them
to get mixed up with this. They have
nothing to do with that dreadful
affair.”

The door already had slammed be-
hind two officers, off to bring in the
last-mentioned Don Juans.

Westover, held as a material wit-
ness, meanwhile was mugged and
finger-printed.

Utterly perplexed, we waited until
the two officers reported back, won-
dering on which scene the curtain in
this fantastic tragedy of blood and or-
gies would go up next.

BY NOON Charles Petrolle and Mich-
ael Rogers were brought in.

We heard the same amazing story
of a drawn-out drinking bout which
had begun Sunday night.

“We had breakfast with Ethel Tues-
ped morning,” Rogers admitted sheep-
ishly.

Tuesday morning. It was Tuesday
between eleven and twelve o'clock
that the red-haired butterfly faced her
torturer in the lonesome house in
Horsham Township. Were we near the
end of this flaming, tortuous trail?

“Breakfast—Where?” Engle blurted.

“In a cafe on Twentieth and Berck
Streets.”

“What?” I shouted.

“Twentieth and Berck Streets,” Rog-
ers echoed while his brother-in-law
wagged his head affirmatively.

I remembered that joint very well.
I had been there twice since the be-
ginning of the probe to quiz the owner
and the little barkeep. I had shoved
Ethel Atkins’ picture under their eyes
and they had sworn they never had
seen her.

A while later I was leaning against
the Berck Street bar. Once more I
showed the barman the photograph.
He was busy polishing glasses with
a towel. He shot a sidelong, impatient
glance at the photograph, then at me,
and snapped, “I told you I dunno the
dame, never seen her.”

Insistently I explained. “She came

in here with two men about eight--

thirty in the morning. They ate fried
eggs with ham—”

“Why didn’t you say right away
she came in here with two men? I
figured you were looking for a woman
who was here alone. I still wouldn’t
recognize her face from that mug shot,
but I remember a woman with two
men,” ;

“Okay, now listen carefully. While
this woman was still in the company
of her two escorts, she got to talking
to two young fellows who were sit-
ting with a dame—remember?”

The barkeep nodded.

“Then the two men who came in
with the woman I was asking you
about left and she stayed with the
two young fellows and the woman.”

“Only for a little while,” the bare
tender toterrupled, They all left about
a quarter past nine,”

T think the barman must have heard
ny heart hammer agaloat my riba 1
almost hesitated to ask the next ques-
tion for fear of a crushing disappoint-
ment,

“Do you know the two fellows and
the girl that was with them?”

With a tense stare I was scanning
the barman’s features for an answer,
He frowned, looked _ abstractedly
through the window into the busy
street, then said, “One of them used
to come in here quite often at one time,
He worked at a filling station down
the street. I think his name was
Richard.”

At the filling station I queried the
friendly manager.

“A fellow by the name of Richard
working here?”

“He used to,” he replied. “But he
left here a little over a couple of
months ago.”

Detective James V. Gleason, co-
author: He helped bring one of
Pennsylvania’s most vicious sex
slayings to a sensational climax

“Know where I can find him?”

The manager shook his head.

“Know of anybody who could tell
me where I can get in touch with
him?”

He lowered his head, scratched his
jaw, then said, “I think I can help you.
A pal of his called Bill works as a
short-order cook at the Glenwood
Diner on Broad Street and Glenwood
Avenue. He might be able to tell
you.”

Again I was rumbling on through the
city streets which were now gay with
myriad neon lights and exuberant
Saturday evening traffic. My head was
whirling from the events of the past
hours. Things were moving fast, too
fast. I realized how desperately thin

the thread was on which the whole’

structure of the investigation hung.

Ethel Atkins, I pondered, had last
been seen in the company of a girl
and two men—provided errors or de-
liberate falsification hadn’t slipped into
the picture. The time was Tuesday
morning at nine o’clock. The crime
had occurred around twelve. It was
obvious that any number of things
could have happened during the time
from the breakfast rendezvous to the
terrifying moment when she gasped
her last agonized breath.

I had arrived at the Glenwood Diner,
taken a stool in the onion-scented
eatery.

“Gimme a hamburger and a cup of
coffee,” I ordered.

Clad in a white apron and a white
chef’s headgear, the cook, a thin, long-
nosed chap in his middle thirties was
hustling about the steaming, kitchen
stove.

“Bill?” I called,

He half spun around, squinting at
nfe quentiontnyly,

“I’m looking for an old pal of mine—
Richard—know him?”

“Sure,” he sald with oa gedn,

“Where does he work, you know?”

“He’s outta job,” the cook said, “but
I figure you can find him home, War-
nock Street and Cambria Avenue.”

I bolted the rest of the sandwich,
gulped down the scalding coffee and
was on the jump again.

“Richard?” a grouchy man, loitering
at the corner of Warnock and Cambria
snorted. “Mean Richard Brady?”

I wasn’t sure of the second name,
but in any event, I nodded.

The man’s hand pointed to.the house
across the street.

A handsome youth in his middle
twenties answered my knock. When
I asked him if he was Richard Brady
his lips thinned and his dark eyes
crinkled suspiciously.

A wild hysterical look flew into his
eyes when I flashed my badge. .

“Let’s shut the door and go inside,”
I ordered. “I want to have a little
chat with you.”

HERE wasn’t a trace of color left in

his cheeks and his lips twitched
when he faced me in his dingy room.

Bluntly I asked, “What happened
after you blew the joint on Twentieth
and Berck Streets with Ethel Atkins?”

He gulped, scared as a cat, and
clasped and unclasped his trembling
hands. He said nothing.

“The jig’s up, Buddy,” I said, im-
pressed by his goings-on. “Better spill

“T ain’t got nothin’ to do with that,”
he suddenly broke into a terrorized,
shrill scream. “I swear, nothin’—I
had a date with a gal, Bill Earnest
drove the Atkins dame home—I dunno
nothin’—”

The beads of sweat which glistened
on his brow, the frantic grimace of
his desperately twitching face belied
his protestations of innocence.

“Bill Earnest?” I asked. “ You mean
the chef at the diner?”

“Yeah,” he gushed forth. “Whitey.”

“Why do they call him Whitey?”

His gaze darted about the room,
then he said, “On account of his hair
—it’s light blond.”

For a second I was stumped. I hadn’t
noticed the diner cook’s hair was that
shade. Then I had to laugh to myself.
I couldn’t have seen the fellow’s hair
because he was wearing a chef’s tall,
starched hat.

“Get on your coat and come along,”
T' ordered.

From the pay phone in the hallway,
I put a call through to Captain Engle
at Philadelphia Headquarters,

“Anything new?” I asked.

He said, “Nothing much. We’re
checking the alibis of the four suspects,
but it looks as if everything would
fizzle out once more.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Send a
couple of boys to the Glenwood Diner
on Glenwood Avenue and have them
collar Bill—Whitey—Earnest. He’s the
guy we want.” And I hung up.

Shortly after I got back with Brady
securely handcuffed to my wrist, Ear-
nest was brought in by Homicide De-
tectives Thomas F. Costello and Adam
J. Sadorf.

William J. Earnest’s grilling started
as soon as District Attorney Smillie
and one of his assistants, Edward
Duffy, had arrived from Norristown.

ARNEST said he was married, and

father of three small children. Im-
passively, he admitted having lived in
Horsham Township, the scene of the
atrocious blood orgy, during 1938.

“Brady killed the dame,” he accused.
“We took Catherine, his gal, home and
then drove out to the house in Hor-
sham for a wild party.

“Once we were inside the house she
undressed, then started screaming and
fighting like a cat. She was drunk.
She grabbed a stick and threatened to
bash my skull in. I grappled with her
and she fell down the stairs.

“IT beat it. Brady stayed behind. I
waited in the car. When he came out
es said he had attacked and killed

er,

37


it's so wonderful!” when I asked her
how she liked Broadway, and before
we parted I knew the general pattern

of her dreams. I knew that in her
mind’s eye she saw herself some day
in gleaming satin, aflame with flashing
gems, handsome youths paying homage
to her triumphs and murmuring soft-
ly of her beauty and charm, while she
waited for a dashing knight to mate-
rialize from nowhere and whirl her
away into the one consuming romance
of her life.

I thought of other show girls who
had dreamed similar dreams only to
wind up as mistresses of playboys,
tired businessmen or gangsters, or as
the wives of struggling drummers or
horn tooters in some band. And I
wondered what fate had in store for
Thais.

I recalled, too, how sick at heart I
became the night I saw a prominent
New Jersey politician, doing Broad-
way, pick up a mess of chop suey
with his bare hand and slap it into the
face of his paramour, a famed star
of the silent screen whom I once had
adored.

I thought, also, of my own diamonds,
furs and bank accounts—one-tenth of
what they might have been—and of
how I had come by them, and a strange
unease stole over me that I couldn’t
shake off. Where was the glamour
trail leading? What was my own des-
tination ultimately to be?

My salary was still the same—$75
weekly—whether I worked alone or
teamed up with a singing hoofer such
as talented Billy Church, who had
spent two seasons with me in and out
of the clubs. And the ogling suckers
were still around, although not so
numerous as before the depression, and
they still thought their money, alone,
should entitle them to any enticing
little package of youth, beauty and
charm on which their eyes fastened.

Gradually, during the days that fol
lowed, a great emptiness filled me a
I became aware that my life had set
tled into a deadly routine, without
promise, without hope.

The night-clubs lost their fascina-
tion; their atmosphere of radiant mer-
riment was transmuted in my mind to
one of submerged criminality—traps
for the unwary, most of them operated
by racketeers.

The hotel suite that long before had
replaced the single room of my early
days in New York, ceased to be a
soothing refuge, and my personal maid,
who’d been with me for three years,
complained that I was “gadding about
too much; it ain’t gonna do you no
good, Miss DeForest.”

My agent, Bessie, warned: ‘“You’ve
got to snap out of it, Dottie, or I won’t
be able to book you any place. Sup-
pose you team up again. It may re-
store your verve.”

“Phooey,” I said indifferently. ‘‘Let’s
get a cocktail.”

We went to Billy Mahr’s, sat at a
corner table near the piano, ignoring
those at the bar. When the drinks
were served I was humming absently.

Bessie groaned: “My Heavens, Dot-
tie, why are you singing that?”
? My mind came
“What was I singing?”

“Something about everybody’s play-
thing, nobody’s bride,” She paused,
said gently: “Are you in love, Dottie?”

LOOKED at her in scornful amaze-

ment. “In love? Holy—”

I got no farther. My eyes had trav-
eled past her and collided with eyes
that were warm and kind. A weird,
sweet shock went through me. He had
tousled hair and a shy, boyish smile.
He was in his late twenties. He was
standing at one end of the bar with
a friend.

“Play something, Bessie.” A small
happy feeling lifted me to my feet.
“Play, Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella.”

“Well!” Bessie’s lips pressed to-
gether in amused disapproval but she
went to the piano.

I hardly heard her when she finally
exulted: ‘‘You’re like your old self,
Dottie!” I was listening to the ap-
plause, particularly to that from the
end of the bar where there was an
insistency to it that carried a message.

46

back

I kept my eyes down. I was glowing
inwardly.

heart and I didn’t have to turn to see
who it was when a pleasant tenor
joined in. My heart told me.

He said:
call him Happy.”

thur. I’m tired of nicknames.”

day, nor what stemmed from it. Out-
side, the last snow of Winter was melt-
ing under a clear, afternoon sun, and
now the cold, hard thing that had filled
the void within me was dissipating
magically under Arthur’s slow smile.

and I noticed, for the first time, his
soft, gray shirt.
a feeling of tenderness, mixed with
happiness, to flow through me. Here,
at last, was a clean, honest, young

Rocco, he’d rechristened himself “Lit-
tle Caesar” after seeing a movie thus
titled and thereafter he’d aped the
leading character’s actions. It had be-
come a tradition to kid him and ordi-
narily I did clown with him. But now
I felt only. rebellion at the thought
of being forced to summon a gaiety I
did not feel to fend off his ridiculous
antics.

Fervently I hoped he’d not see me
at the corner table with Arthur, and
he did start toward the bar. Abruptly,
however, Little Caesar stopped in his
tracks, spun to face me, and stood
there, mouth open, astonishment writ-
ten in every rigid line of his body. I
stiffened, prepared for anything—ex-
cept for what happened.

“Happy!” Little Caesar’s joyous cry
rang through the speakeasy like a
knife, transfixing all motion, all other
sound. “Happy! When did you get
out?”

Bessie swung into Nobody’s Sweet-

Billy Mahr made the introductions.
“This is Arthur Waring; we
I said to myself: “I’ll call him Ar-

I shall never forget the rest of that

He told me he was a truck-driver

Somehow, it caused

Up to the Minute

O’ MAY 19, 1941, George Joseph Cvek was found guilty of
murder in the first degree in connection with the slaying
of Mrs. Catherine Papas in New York. There was no recom-
mendation for mercy. The history of this homicide investigation
appeared in the June issue of AcruaL DeETEcTIVE STORIES under
the title, “Wanted for Murder: The Man Who Called Himself
Mayor of Boys Town.”

Mrs. Emma S. Hepperman, charged with wilfully poisoning

her husband, Antho ee murder
ch 41, at Union, Missouri. She was
to life im risonment. The story of this case appeared under the

e ith Too Many Dead Husbands” in the
ovember, 1940, issue of AcTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES.

Judge William F. Dannehower of the Montgomery County
Court in Norristown, Pennsylvania, sentenced William J. Earnest
to death in the electric chair on his murder conviction in connec-
tion with the slaying of Mrs. Ethel May Atkins. The story of
the investigation of the case appeared in the December, 1940,
issue of ACTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES under the title, “We Had to
Find Ethel Atkins’ Mutilation Slayer.”

Up to the Minute is presented as a department in AcTuAL
om time to time to enable readers to
up with the latest devé Tis“itr p cribed.

working man. No need to be on guard
against him. No need to question ‘his
motives.

some night between shows and the
vision brought an exquisite sense of
relief. Of a sudden I yearned to have
him say he’d come that very night.

prompted.

voice and he toyed with his glass for
a while.
myself,” he said slowly.

up in me as I waited his reply. Did
he think I wanted to clip him? After
all, he’d seen the message in my eyes.
Or was he trying to give me a polite
brush-off because he believed all show
girls to be tramps?

in trouble
clubs.” He said it shyly, apologetically.

enough. He thought I was a come-on
girl for a sucker trap.

between us, the door-buzzer sounded
startlingly clear, like an urgent sum-

surprised me.
of the favorite chauffeurs of Broadway
show girls, a local character, as it were,
and more or less of a clown.

of him, though he took himself seri-
ously enough. Like other youths of
the time he idolized gangsters. Rather “Oh,
he idolized the glamourous version of
them that he saw on the screen or
read in the papers. Christened Frank

The weighty silence became a living
thing. It grew and grew, and pressed
down unbearably. Everybody was
covertly or openly looking at either
Little Caesar or at Arthur and me. I
was particularly aware of Bessie turn-
ing very slowly from the piano to stare
at Arthur and me.

Then somebody laughed. It was a
short, dry laugh. It was the laugh of
a disillusioned person who has seen
bitter things. A self-mocking laugh
of one resigned to inevitable ironies
in life. It was Arthur.

He said quietly: “Today. Haven’t
had a chance yet to change my shirt.”

Motion and sound resumed in the
speak. Little Caesar approached, stam-
mered: ‘“Ge-e-e, Happy, I—I didn’t
mean to—to—” His eyes shifted to
me. He was unable to go on.

Arthur waved him away: “Forget it,
Rocco. Go have a drink on me.”

“Thanks, Happy.” He hesitated,
“Oh!” There it was, plain said, “They . . they call me Little
Caesar now.” At Arthur’s puzzled
frown, he explained: “You know, after
that gangster in the movie.”

He left us then and Arthur’s eyes
sought mine, pleading for understand-

I thought of him sitting at my side

“Y’m a singer at night-clubs,” I
“Oh-h.” There was surprise in his
“I don’t go to night-clubs
“Why?” A quick little fear sprang

Presently he said: “People can get
hanging around night-

I said:

In the strained silence that settled

mons. Still it didn’t hurry the bar- ing. “I wanted to tell you,” he said
tender. He ambled lazily to the peep-_ softly. “I was paroled from prison this
hole, slid back the shield, peeped morning.” His eyes wavered. “I—I
through. Satisfied, he threw back the suppose you won’t want to talk to me
bolt on the door, now.”

It was “Little Caesar.”
I felt a twinge of annoyance and it
Little Caesar was one

“Then you’re not a truck-driver?” I
asked. “I mean—” The blighting feel-
ing had stopped growing inside. Con-
fusion was overwhelming me. “I mean
what you said about—”

“Yes. I’ve got a job driving a truck.
I start tomorrow.”

“No, not that. What you said about
night-clubs. You don’t think I’m a—”
Ill stay away from those
places, all right.” His voice was de-
termined. “I’m not going to be sent
back for violation of parole.” He

At least that’s the way we thought

paused, smiled sheepishly. “I'd like to
catch your act just once, though.”

Violation of parole! So that was it.
I almost fell off my chair.

Arthur persisted: “You haven’t said
yet whether you mind talking to me
now that you know. I’l] go if you want
me to.”

“Oh, no!”

An eager look lit up his face.

I said gently: “I don’t care where
you came from, Arthur.”

He thanked me with his eyes and I
told him about myself. Then, wrapped
in the intimacy of mutual understand-
ing, we sat in silence for a long time.
I awoke the following day conscious
of a feeling of peace, and when Arthur
phoned me my heart leaped with un-
explainable delight. A curious sense
of lightness and freedom pervaded me
when he took me to visit his people a
month later, and by Spring I was
buoyantly alive. Arthur had asked me
to be his wife when his parole ended!

Gy ORICURLY happy, I prayed:
“Please, God, let this last.”

It wasn’t until the detectives came
one afternoon in May that my old
fears stirred restlessly. There was
something frightening in their grim at-
titude. Admitted by my maid, they
barged into the room where I was sit-
ting, and without preliminaries, their
leader demanded: ‘Where’s Waring?”

“I—I don’t know.” A small cold
wave went over my skin. “I haven’t
heard from him yet today.”

‘“‘When did you hear from him last?”

“Two days ago. I saw him. Why?”

He ignored my query, probed:
“You’re his girl friend?”

“I’m his fiancee!”
For a moment the officer eyed me

h hard suspicion. I stiffened, won-
g what to expect. He said: “Know
n ex-convict?” There was dis-
rtainly!” I flamed. “Why do you
must have looked as enraged as I
eally was, because when my racing
thoughts slowed I became aware that
the officers were grinning at me.

Kindness glowed in their leader’s
eyes. He said: “It’s all right, Miss.
If you love him I guess that’s all that
counts. Do you mind if we look around
a bit?”

I sat down limply, suddenly glad I
hadn’t put all my bitter reflections
into words.

“Go ahead, look at anything you
like.” I gave him a smile, anxious
to make amends.

He nodded his thanks and the other
officers deployed through the suite
with a curious weighty tread. My
smile died. They weren’t looking—
they were tearing the place apart.
I stared stupidly while they method-
ically emptied closets and dresser
drawers, and examined and studied
my clothes, my mail, all my intimate
things. What did it all mean?

“The captain will tell you,” said

the leader. “He wants to see you
at the station house.”

“Me?”

“Yes, ”

In a fog of mystification and vague
fears I accompanied him without pro-
test. The captain’s blunt greeting was:

“Ever see this man before?” He
leaned forward, showed me a photo
of Arthur's friend.

I said, puzzled: “Yes, but not in a
long time. I don’t know his name.”

“His name’s McCauley—John Mc-
Cauley. Ever hear Waring mention
that name?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You mean you don’t want to re-
member!” snorted the captain. “War-
ing hates McCauley’s guts, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, no!” I-was on my feet. “No.
You don’t understand. They’re friends.
They were together when I first met
Arthur,”

“Some friend,” said the officer sar-

castically, “McCauley’s dead!”
“Dead?’
“Murdered! And Waring was seen

talking to him in a speakeasy a half-
hour before he was taken for a ride.
Now come clean, young lady, or you’ll
find yourself in a jam.”
“No—No! It isn’t true. Arthur

AD—3


A

ERNEST, te Mecsides white, ae Pa. (Montgomery) 10-27- 191.

Once a nate of one of America’s
wealthiest families, attractive Mrs.
Ethel Angier Atkins, left, became
the. victim of a murderous bar com-
panion after an impromptu celebra-
tion in a series of night spots.

T WAS nearly dusk when the party
of three drove into the weed- -grown
yard of the house. It was not the

dusk of the city, with the first twinkling
of office-building lights, the 5:30 feeling
of release, and the swirl of homebound
traffic crowding street cars and park-
ways. It was just the melancholy twi-
light of open spaces, of seedy suburbs
and half forgotten real estate ‘“develop-
ments.” It was particularly true at this
place in Dresher road, Horsham town-
ship, Pennsylvania. ‘‘Fifteen miles from
Philadelphia’s City Hall”—but a million
miles from nowhere.

“Just the place for you two,” said the
owner of the house, turning to his com-
panions in the car, prospective buyers.
“Quiet, secluded, homey. =

The place before them was ‘‘quiet and
secluded,” all right. It was more than
150 yards from the nearest habitation.
But it was old; it had been built as a
farmhouse more than 100 years before.
Its paint was peeling. One of the panes
in the downstairs window was smashed
and a spider had woven his web across
the vacated sill. In the dim, depressing
half light of the waning day, it had about
it a cold, uninviting aspect, as if grim
and eerie deeds were most suited to its
setting.

In silence, the couple followed the
owner to the back door, which he un-
locked with a key, and into the kitchen.
There, they switched on the flashlights
he had provided, but the bright beams
did not cheer them. And then, as they
fanned out into the semi-gloom of the
interior, they saw things that drove all
thought of making the place their home
from their minds.

On the walls of the upstairs hallway,
the owner’s flashlight picked out strange
handprints, great smears that looked as

TRYST of TERROR

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«

arranged for another team of officers to

to find out what had become of his girl.
From Sally Malone’s house, the detec-
tives drove directly to the diner. Half a
dozen customers were seated at the
counter when they entered, and a skillet
of fat, splutfering on the range, filled the
place with a faint haze of smoke.
Behind the counter were three apron-

“clad men, all of whom seemed to fit the

description given by ‘the Malone girl.
“What’ll you have?” one of them asked,
pushing a menu at the officers.

“Two coffees,” Costello growled, and
the counterman set the steaming cups be-
fore them, ringing up the dime in the cash
register. The detectives were sparring for
time.

Then a newcomer entered and sat down
on a stool. “Make mine a fried ham
sandwich, Whitey,” he said.

The man he addressed turned slowly.
There was a twisted grin on his dark face,
a hard look in his cold blue eyes. “Okay,
pal,” he replied and began to prepare the
order.

“Come here, Whitey!” snapped Costello,
and the ‘man whirled suddenly, staring
down the counter at the two plainclothes-
men. He saw the badge in Costello's
hand and slowly moved toward them.

“We're taking you to headquarters,” the
detective said sternly. “Get: your hat!”

The suspect’s eyes darted quickly from
Costello to Sadorf and back again. “Okay,”
he said coolly, taking off his apron. |

Outside the diner he turned to the de-
tectives with a sneer. “You cops got a
nerve coming here!” he declared. ‘What
do you want me to do, get fired? I got a
wife and family to keep.”

“Too bad you didn’t think of them,”
Sadorf snapped, “when you had that date
with Ethel Atkins!”

The man’s face paled and he caught his
breath, but kept a firm grip on himself.

“So that’s it,” he said slowly. “Well, I
can straighten you out on that.”
Taken to headquarters, he identified

himself as William J. Earnest and said
he lived at 17th and Diamond Streets.

self,”’ he asserted.
wife.” -

But the police records at City Hall put
the prisoner in a different light. He was
first arrested at the age of 16, in 1921, on
a charge of stealing an automobile, but
was discharged. Five years later he was
arrested for reckless driving and fined. In
1926 he was taken into custody on a
charge of disorderly conduct. His last
arrest was on June 12, 1937. At that
time he was convicted of immoral conduct
and spent three months in the Philadelphia
County Prison. :

The detectives notified District Attorney
Smillie, who hurried down from Norris-
town to take part in the questioning.
Grilled throughout the night, Earnest was
trapped in many discrepancies and finally

“You can ask my

tail the young man when he left the club |

“I got a good steady job and behave my--

charged angrily that his companion, Jack
Norton, had murdered Mrs. Atkins.

Norton was picked up at his home to
which he already had been trailed by de-
tectives. Brought to headquarters, he was
told of the accusation made by Earnest.
But beyond denying that he had killed
Ethel. Atkins, he refused to talk.

The officers hammered away at Whitey
Earnest with questions until 3 o’clock Sun-
day morning when at last, bewildered by
the lies in which he had been caught, he

‘suddenly broke down and made a full

confession.

Earnest said’he had met Mrs. Atkins in
a cafe on Tuesday morning and struck
up a conversation. Jack Norton was with
him. . :

“I asked her to go over to a bar with
us for a few drinks, and she agreed,” he
said. “When we left there I suggested a
ride in the country. That was a little be-
fore one o'clock Tuesday afternoon. - She
was an‘attractive woman and I thought
I would like to be alone with her. But I
took Jack along anyway. On the road out
of town I remembered the house. in

Horsham Township, near Willow Grove...

I lived around there once and knew the
house was empty.

“We left Jack in the car and I tried to
get in the house, but it was locked. So I
broke a window and crawled inside, then
opened the door and brought in the
woman, We went upstairs and we had an
argument. She slapped my face and I saw
red. I grabbed a curtain rod and hit her
again and again. She put up an awful
fight, but I kept on slugging her until she
lay still. Once I had struck her I couldn’t
seem to stop.”

On Monday morning Earnest was taken
back to the scene of the crime, where he
reenacted the murder in the presence of
detectives. a
- Meanwhile, Jack Norton admitted he
had accompanied the confessed killer and
his victim to the house on‘Dresher Road,
but insisted he had remained in the car
while they went inside.

“After a while, Whitey came running
out,” he related, “and said, ‘She slapped
me and I had to clip her. Let’s get away
from here.’ But I had no idea that he Had
killed the woman.”

N December 2, 1940, Earnest went on
trial before Judge William F. Dan-
nehower at Norristown. Three days later
he was convicted by a jury of first degree
murder with the penalty fixed at death.
He appealed for a new trial, but this
was denied him and on April 17, 1941,
Judge Dannehower sentenced him to die
in the electric chair. Six months later,
on October 27, Earnest was put to death
in the Western State Penitentiary at Rock-
view.

Eprror’s Note: The names Sally. Ma-
lone, Morris Bacon and Jack Norton are
fictitious. :

‘

‘ Read about this 1952 case:
CLUE OF THE HAUNTED NAME

in the October issue of

“REAL DETECTIVE MAGAZINE.

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“DAY.

a standstill. The officers were convinced
that the victim had been slain while in
a mental fog brought on by drinking. But
if she had not visited any of the taverns
or clubs within miles of her home, then
where had she downed the drinks which
led to her death?

It seemed certain that she had traveled

| to the remote house on Dresher Road in

an automobile, probably with her slayer.
It was likely, then, that this man was
familiar with Bacon’s property and de-
liberately selected it for a rendezvous.

Pursuing this angle, the detectives ques-
tioned Bacon again. But he was at a loss
to mame anyone who would use the
deserted house for that purpose. He
pointed out that it was apparent to any
passerby that the unkempt place was un-
occupied, and that the killer had to break
a window to gain entrance.

Bacon said he had been at the house
the Saturday night before the murder and
everything was in order. There were a
few pieces of furniture he had stored in
the rooms, but they had not been dis-
turbed. Apparently the slayer had never
been in the house until the day of the
crime. :

At this point, Chief Munshower and
Captain Engle decided to rely on two time-
worn police techniques which occasionally
have been successful in the past. The first
was to maintain a 24-hour guard at the
scene of the crime on the slim chance

that the murderer would return there..

This had been done since the night the
body was discovered, but so far no one
had appeared except a few. curiosity

seekers. Munshower ordered the watch.

continued. ?

The second procedure was to arrange
for detectives to mingle with the mourners
at the funeral for Ethel Atkins, now set
for Saturday morning. Engle went one
step further. He, assigned Detective Cos-
tello, a headquarters man from city hall
and not known locally, to attend the wake
on Friday night.

"THE, body reposed in a simple casket in

the parlor of the home Ethel Atkins
had tended with such care. The neighbors
who knew her weakness, and liked her in
spite of it, came to pay their respects.
All evening a long line of people. moved
through the house. Kindliness was not
the only reason for their presence, Brush-
ing shoulders with the well-meaning neigh-
bors and friends were the frankly curious
—the thrill-seekers—who had read of the
atrocious crime and wanted a glimpse of
the pathetic victim.

Standing beside the door leading into
the parlor, quietly studying the faces of
the visitors, was Detective Costello. He
was still there as midnight came and the
crowd thinned out. As Costello turned

away to stifle a yawn, he heard a voice.

murmur, “She sure is changed!”

The detective looked around to see a
small, middle-aged man peering over his
shoulder into .the flower-banked room.
His eyes. were fixed on the corpse in the
casket. |

Costello took the stranger firmly by the
arm and maneuvered him. outside. “Just
what did you mean by that remark?” he
demanded, showing his badge.

“Let me go!” the:man countered. “I

‘just don’t want to get mixed up in this!”

“Then why did you come here?” Cos-
tello pressed.

Finally the stranger admitted that he had
seen Ethel Atkins in a downtown cafe on
the day of the murder, and could not
resist the impulse to: have a look at her
remains, : ;

“I saw her in the cafe on Broad Street
near Somerset around noon last Tuesday,”

che said. “She was sitting at a table with

two men and another: woman.”
“Who were they?” Costello asked.
The witness shrugged. :.“I don’t know,
but I believe. the woman works there.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
the detective demanded. “If you read the

papers, you must have known that the .

police were hunting for someone—anyone
who had seen her.”

The man scowled. “I wasn’t in on their
party,” he’ explained. “I was having a
quiet drink and minding my own busi-
ness. I didn’t even know the woman’s

- name until I saw.her picture in the papers.

I intended to tell the police about it, but
after thinking it over I changed my mind.”
He gave Costello his name and address,
and said he often visted the cafe, but
never had noticed Mrs. Atkins there be-
fore.
“Was she drinking when you saw her?”
“Not that I noticed,” he replied. “In
fact, none of them seemed to have had
too much. But I remember Mrs. Atkins
in particular because she was so pretty.”
The witness protested when Costello and

his partner, Detective Sadorf, suggested

that he. accompany them to the cafe and
point out the woman who had been in the
party with the victim. But when they
‘promised him immunity if, upon investiga-
tion, his story’ proved true, the little man
agreed to make the identification.

It was after 1 o’élock Saturday morning,
but the cafe was still lighted when the de-
tectives arrived with their: man. They
pulled up their car a short distance from
the entrance and got out. As they neared
the front window of the cafe, the under-
sized witness. paused and stood on tiptoe,
craning his neck above. the half-frosted
pane to peer inside.

“The light-haired waitress,” he whis-
pered, indicating a young woman near the
counter. “That’s the one.”

While Sadorf remained outside with the
witness, Costello went in and took a stool
not far from the girl who had been pointed
out. She was a buxom blonde with a
pleasant face, clad ina tight-fitting uni-
form. : ;

At the sight of the detective’s badge,
held in his open palm, her smile faded.
“Can I talk with you?” he asked softly.

“Sure,” she nodded, motioning him to
the ‘other side of the room. There were
few customers in the place and _ business
was light. The girl was not missed as she
walked over and sat down at a table fac-
ing Costello. She said her name was. Sally
Malone.

“You won't. believe. this,” she’ said,
pausing to light & cigarette, “but I haven't
been able to sleep for worrying. Every

. time that door opened this past week, I’ve

been afraid it was the cops coming to
question me.”
“And why was that?” Costello asked.
“Because I sat with this girl and the

PR RT PDR ee poe

She
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'Tve be:
to knov

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At 9
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Sadorf :
Even in
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panied
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Sally !
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and hur:
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she said.
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“What
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At her
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To mai
lose the «


Li

38

kind of a car you had, and what -clothes
you'd be wearing.”

Dwyer looked at Lorenz. “Radio—
planes—cars—it ain't like we planned it,”
he said. mr

Lorenz shook his head mournfully. “It
ain't like the good old days. Times have
changed.” :

They were brought to the Dona Ana

County jail at Las Cruces where they were..

informed they had killed W. L. Smith dur-
ing the hold-up. ‘They were arraigned on
a charge of first degree murder, but just
before the trial on February 19, 1938,
prosecuting officers changed the charges to
murder in the second degree. They were

tried and found guilty before Judge Numa
C. Frenger, and sentenced to terms of not
less than fifty nor more than seventy-five
years at hard labor in the State Peniten-
tiary at Santa Fe.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The names Irma

‘Balch and Evie Meyer are fictitious.

LADY IN A FOG

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 27

checked, both addresses, but neither per-
son was: known to the present occupants
of the premises. It was now well after
midnight Tuesday, September 24, 1940.

Early the next morning, while the of-
ficers again took up the search for the
couple. to whom the marriage license had
been issued five years before, Jimmy At-
fins walked into Norristown headquarters
and said he thought the dead woman might
be his wife.

Atkins, a husky squared-jawed man in
his 30s, had read of the murder in the
morning newspapers, which included the
fact that the victim had worn a gold

wedding ring with the initials “J. F. A. to

E. F, A.” and the date.
“That woman must be Ethel,” he de-
clared. “Those are our initials and we

"were married on that date. Nobody else

would have the ring.”

Atkins was taken to the county morgue,

where he tearfully identified the body as
that of his wife. Then Chief Munshower

_and Captain Engle took him to the office

of District Attorney Frederick B. Smillie
in the Montgomery County Courthouse to
make a formal statement.

Atkins ‘sat twisting his hat in his big
hands, his eyes staring down at the floor
while Smillie questioned him.

“How long has your wife been missing?”
the district attorney asked. “!

“Since early Saturday morning,” the |

distraught husband replied. “She was all
right when I left home for work that day,
but when I returned she was gone. I went
down to the neighborhood tavern where
we had been Friday night, thinking per-
haps she was there, but she wasn’t—and
nobody had seen Her since the previous
night.” .

“Did your wife do much drinking?”
Smillie inquired.

“She wasn't supposed to do any,” Atkins
declared. .“She suffered from—well, call
it- amnesia. She was forbidden to touch
alcohol. Even a few glasses of beer sent
her into a haze.” *

He told how, when drinking, she would
wander off for hours at a time, her mind
a complete blank. He had tried constantly
to: protect her, he said, had scolded,
pleaded, wept ‘and cajoled. But it went
too far beyond him to control.

Smillie’s face was grim. “You must
have known,” he said, “that she was ex-
posed to danger when ‘she was in the
mental state you describe. And yet, al-
though you had not seen her since Satur-
day morning, you did not notify police
until today. Why?”

Atkins tried to explain. He dreaded
discussing Ethel with strangers. She had
wandered off before and had come back,
apparently normal again. He had hoped
that this time it would not be any differ-
ent. .

“Did you-ever have any other difficul-
ties with your wife?” Smillie demanded.
“Any serious quarrels?” ©

“None,” Atkins declared, “She was a
good wife and a good mother to our three-
year-old twins. They just adored her. \In
fact, everybody liked Ethel. She was
friendly and kind and always doing things
for the neighbors.”

The victim’s husband went on to de-
scribe her good qualities, and as he talked
he became aware that Smillie and the
two police officers were regarding him in

- silence. He looked at the prosecutor, then

at the expressionless eyes of Munshower
and Engle. He began to. sweat and his
hands _ trembled. .

“Say,” he blurted out, “you men don’t
think that I had anything to do ‘with
this—?” ah Sy

“We're only interested in the facts,”
Smillie. replied quietly. “No one has said
that you aren’t telling the truth. But we
must detain you a little while until we
know more about this case.”

Atkins was the picture of dejection.
“All right,” he said, “maybe I have been
a fool. Maybe I-should have reported her
absence before this. But I was thinking
of my kids. I didn’t want people talking
about them—” .

Atkins gave the officers a detailed ac-
count of his movements and actions on
the previous day when the crime occurred.
He remained at headquarters while his
story was checked. Late that afternoon,
detectives reported that the statement had
been corroborated in every: respect. Atkins

_was released, absolved from any connec-

tion with the slaying, and promised to
remain available to give police any fur-
ther help they might need.

His description of the mental fog which
afflicted his wife was verified later in the
evening, when Ethel’s first husband ap-
peared at Norristown headquarters. He
had come. voluntarily from Baltimore to
offer police his assistance after reading
the grim news.

The first husband said that Ethel had
disappeared under the same circumstances
eight or ten times during the years of
their marriage between 1921 and 1928.
But he praised her as a good housekeeper,
a devoted mother and a wonderful cook.
She had borne him three children, all of

whom were now living with his mother at
Durham, North Carolina.
She had parted with the children re-

luctantly, he said, and only because she

realized that by letting them go they would
receive advantages she could, not give
them. He insisted that his former wife had
never drunk to excess and that, during the
periods of mental fog, she usually made
her way to the home of friends. He said
he had not seen her since May, 1929, and
that after their divorce he had remarried
and was living in Baltimore where he was
now in business.

The first husband offered to remain in
Norristown if the authorities thought he
could be of further help. But after a check
with Baltimore police confirmed his state-
ment that he had been in the Maryland
city at the time of the crime, he was al-
lowed to go. It was plain that he knew
nothing of the recent whereabouts of his
former wife.

The Pennsylvania officers next made a
thorough canvass of the neighborhood
around the Atkins house in Philadelphia,
but could find no one who had seen the
victim after she had left home on the
Saturday morning before the murder.

All local hospitals were checked on the
theory that Ethel Atkins, in her dazed
condition, might have been admitted ‘to
one of them without being able to identify
herself, then had managed to slip away.
But no woman of her description had been
treated at any of the institutions.

- Munshower and Engle questioned the
proprietor and employes of the tavern to
which Jimmy Atkins said he had escorted
his wife on Friday night, thinking she
might have returned later. But she had

not been there.

Detectives Thomas F. Costello and -
Adam Sadorf of Engle’s homicide squad,.
working with Detectives Gleeson and Ran-
kin of Munshower’s county force, then
began a_ systematic canvass of every
tavern, night’ club and cafe in the sur-
rounding area, in the hope of finding

- someone who had seen the victim.

The detectives spread out from the
tavern near the Atkins home to a radius
of two dozen city blocks. Before two days
passed they had interviewed the managers
and employes of 82 different drinking
establishments.

A smiling portrait of Ethel Atkins, en-
larged and copied from a snapshot
furnished by her husband, was shown by
the detectives to hundreds of persons, but
none of them recognized the likeness.

The investigation now was virtually at


mixed up in this!”
come’ here?” Cos-

dmitted that he had
downtown cafe on
er, and could not
ave a look at her

ife on Broad Street
100n last. Tuesday,”
ing at a table with
woman.”

Costello asked.

-d. “I don’t know,
an works there.”
‘Il us this before?”
1, “If you read the
ve known that the
r someone—anyone

‘[ wasn’t in on their

“J was having a
jing my. own. busi-
know the woman’s
victure in.the papers.
police about it, but
changed my mind.”
5 name and address,
isted the cafe, but
rs. Atkins there be-

when you saw her?”
d,” he replied. “In
eemed to have had
nember Mrs. Atkins
she was so pretty.”
2d when Costello and
ve Sadorf, suggested
hem to the cafe and
wha had been in the
But when they
, upon investiga-
1 uue, the little man
ientification.
ck Saturday morning,
lighted when the de-
n their: man. They
, short distance from
out. As they neared
the cafe, the under-
and stood on tiptoe,
rove, the half-frosted

waitress,” he whis-
yung woman near the
one.”
ined outside with the
it in and took a stool
who had been pointed
ixom blonde with a
in a tight-fitting uni-

the detective’s badge,
im, her smile faded.
ou?” he asked softly.
-d, motioning him to
1e room. There were
ie place and business
was not missed as she
down at a table fac-
id her name was. Sally

eve this,” she said,
garette, “but I haven't
for worrying. Every
ed this past week, I’ve
the cops coming to

iat?” Costello asked.
vith this girl and the

two fellows and was seen by the other
customers. And the next thing I hear, the
girl’s been murdered! It’s enough to upset
anybody.”

“Who were om men?” Costello de-
manded,

She shook her ae with a sigh, then
looked straight at: the detective. “This
may sound fishy,” she said, “but it’s the

honest truth. They came in here, the’

three of them, late Tuesday morning. I
never saw any of them before. I went
over to see what they would have. The
woman didn’t speak—just sat there like
she was in a daze. The men ordered
whiskey for her and themselves.”

Sally Malone paused and drew deeply
on her cigarette, her hands trembling.
Then she continued:

“They were here for an hour or so, and
I'd talk to them once in a while—nothing
important. Once I asked the men what
was the matter with their friend, and one
of them laughed and said, ‘Aw, she’s just
punchy!’ A little after 12 it was time for
me to go off duty, and they offered: to
give me a lift home. We all went out to
their car. The woman was still with them
when they dropped me off. I didn’t hear
her name at all, and the fellows were just
Jack’ and ‘Whitey’ to me. But I got a
phone call on Thursday from Jack and he
asked me for a date Saturday night—”
_“That’s tonight?” Costello interrupted.

She nodded. “I have different hours on
different days. I have some time coming
to me tonight, so I said I'd meet him.
I've been a little afraid, but I was curious
to know where they left that poor girl.”

“And so are we!” Costello declared.
“You can help us, if you, will.” =,

Sally Malone, a brave girl, agreed to
find out all she could about her date and
his companion, Whitey. She had told the
young man she would go with him to a
local dance, and arranged to meet the de-
tectives nearby as soon as she could break
away from her escort.

At 9 o'clock Saturday night, from the
darkness of their parked car, Costello and
Sadorf saw the girl enter the dancehall.
Even in the dim light from above the
door, the features of the man who accom-
panied her were sullen and _ sinister.
Neither officer recalled having seen him
before. -

Sally Mhitone had ‘been in the dancehall
less than an hour when she came out alone
and hurried toward the police car. Cos-
tello opened the door and she darted in-
side.

“Drive away, quick, around the square!”
she said. “I told him I felt :sick and needed
some air. But he may follow me.”

“What did you find out?” Costello
asked.

“Not much. 'He says he doesn’t know
Whitey’s last name, that they aren’t really
friends and he hasn't seen the guy since
last Saturday. But he did say Whitey

- works as: a short order cook in a diner

on Glenwood Avenue!”

At her request, the detectives drove the
plucky girl back to her home. They
thanked her for her assistance, and asked
her to let them know if her companion
of the evening tried to get.in touch with
her again.

To make doubly sure they would not
lose the suspect, Costello and Sadorf had

¥

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'


ERNEST, William Joseph, white, elec. Pa. (Montgomery County) ,October 27, 19))1.

Detective Costello, Capt. Engler, Prosecutor Smillie and Troopers Riley and Crist study om
statement given by secuseg slayer that ended their long investigation. tae i

HEADQUARTERS DETECTIVE ene 198),
by KEN CARPEN May,

house near Norristown, Pa. He got out and opened

the door for his two passengers. “‘It’s been vacant for
quite a spell,’’ he said, ‘‘but I’ve kept it in geod repair. You
could start living in it tomorrow.’ e

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Leo, his |
prospective tenants, stepped out and —
gazed at the bleak white clapboard

structure-with its gabled upper A CRIME

windows. It was about half past seven ;
on a September evening and the a6:

waning sun intermittently blotted out ; CLA SS f C
by storm clouds piling up in the west
cast shifting shadows from the

J ames Bready halted his car before the ia old farm-

i ornamental scrollwork of the porch. | Ethel May Atkins had a strange
“It’s sort of an eerie place,’’ Mrs. drinking problem that landed Py
Leo commented. “‘It almost looks -  herin the arms of a killer. bh
haunted.’’ }

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stad

By the time the latter officers
arrived, Detective Murphy had already
made an important discovery. He
summoned Chief Munshower to a
window and showed him how someone
had entered the house.

‘‘The shutter catch and the lock on
the window have both been broken,”’
he said, turning his flashlight on the
sill. ‘‘The marks indicate that a broad,

_ flat instrument like a tire iron was

used. We haven’t found it, and it looks
as though the girl was killed by
someone who brought her here in a
car, which would account for the tire-

‘iron jimmy.’’
Chief Munshower directed Detective _

Murphy to look for tire marks or
footprints in the yard. But the search
was hampered by the fact that the
approaching thunder shower had
broken. By now the rain probably
would have blurred such traces.

The chief, the coroner and Dr.
Simpson then went to the upstairs
room. Their flashlights picked out the
bloodstains on the walls and floor. It
seemed there must have been a long
and desperate struggle between the girl
and the attacker.

At this point, a man from the
electric company arrived to turn on the
power for lights, and Dr. Simpson

could now make an examination of the

corpse.

He confirmed that the woman had
struggled fiercely for her life. ‘‘It’s a
shocking crime,’’ he said. ‘‘She was
struck repeatedly over the head,
probably with this heavy curtain rod.
And then the attacker went to work
on her with the razor blade. The
amount of blood on the stairs indicates
that that is where she died. I’d say that
the killer left while she was still living
and that she crawled to the staircase
and got part way down before expir-
ing.’’

Dr. Simpson estimated that she had
been dead about eight hours. This
placed the time of her death around
noon.

Chief Munshower now turned his
attention to the girl’s clothing and
found it to be without laundry marks.
The labels indicated that the dress had
been purchased at a large Philadelphia
department store, while the lingerie,
of a nationally-advertised brand, might
have been bought anywhere. No
handbag was found.

In an effort to learn the victim’s
identity, Munshower turned to the

girl’s wedding ring. The slim gold band ©

was engraved on the inside: ‘‘J.F. A.
to E.M.A., September 30, 1935.’

“If the girl is from Philadelphia as
her clothing indicates, we may be able
to identify her through the Marriage
License Bureau there,’’ the chief
observed to District Attorney Smillie.
“*It’s our only lead so far.”’

Meanwhile, police had been talking
with neighbors who had been attracted
to the vacant house by the activity. But
it seemed that no one had noticed a
car standing in front of the house
during the day, had heard any sounds
or could give any useful information
at all.

One single clue was discovered by
Dr. Simpson during further invéstiga-
tion of the body. Under the girl’s
redpainted nails were found human
skin and several gray hairs. Apparently
her attacker was gray-haired or
partially so. If he were found soon
enough, he could be expected to have
fresh scratches on his face or body.

‘It’s one of those cases that can lead
anywhere or nowhere,’’ Chief Mun-
shower told the district attorney. ‘‘A
man and a girl came to this vacant
house for a love tryst. They probably
came together in a car, though there
are other possibilities. But the girl
apparently undressed willingly when

she arrived because her clothes were .

neatly folded on the settee. Then
presumably they went upstairs to-
gether. We’ve no way of knowing how
long they remained there. But then
either a quarrel developed and the man
murdered her or a third person entered
the house and killed the girl.”’

‘‘We certainly haven’t got much to
go on,”’ the district attorney observed.
‘‘A wedding ring and a few gray
hairs.”’

Police experts who worked all night
in the house found no further clues of
importance. But early next morning,
Detective Harry Rankin, who had been
checking files of the Philadelphia
Marriage License Bureau paepioned,
Munshower’s office.

‘‘The girl was married in Philadel-
phia and I’ve found the record,’’ he
reported. ‘‘E.M.A. stands for Ethel
May Atkins, and on September 30,
1935, she married a man named James
Francis Atkins, who gave a local
address. I’ve got the Philadelphia
police trying to locate him now.”’

A little later, Munshower’s phone
rang again. Rankin reported: ‘The
address Atkins gave was a rooming
house. They remembered him there,
but said he moved out when he got
married. Well, we managed to trace
him through a utilities company to the
house on North Opal Street where he’s
now living.

‘*‘Nobody was home, but neighbors
told us where he works and I picked
him up there. His wife has been
missing, but. the news that she’s dead
seemed a severe shock to him — which |
is strange because her description was
in all the morning papers. Anyhow,
I’m bringing him to Norristown to
identify the body.”’

Chief Munshower went to the
morgue, where the body had been
taken. Rankin soon appeared with a
well-dressed, quiet-mannered man in
his 30s.. Though his face seemed pale,
he was calm and self-possessed..

Shown the body of the victim, he
seemed on the point of breaking down.
Then, apparently by a strong effort
of will, he regained his poise.

‘Yes, she was my wife,” he said
simply. /

Munshower took him to another
room and summoned District Attorney
Smillie. To the other men Atkins told
a strange story. -

He said that he had met Ethel May
while she had been working as a
waitress in a fashionable Philadelphia
restaurant. At that time she had just ,

_

(continued on page 40)


Grim-looking wood-frame house where
ghosts were said to walk. Murder one night
_added to their number.

gotten in the locked house and if she
had, what was an entire wardrobe
doing there?

‘*Hello! Is anybody here?”’

There was no answer but the
scraping of the tree branch above. °

“It looks as though the owner of
these clothes took them off herself,
from the neat way they’re laid out,”’
Leo commented good humoredly. ‘‘T’ll
bet your house is haunted by a female
ghost who prefers to do her ghosting
in the nude. Let’s see if we can find
her.”’

““You take the rear of the house and
the cellar and I’ll take the upstairs,”’
Bready said.

As Leo went toward the kitchen,
Bready got a-flashlight from the car
and went up the front staircase.
Reaching the floor above, he confirm-
ed that the sound came from a tree
branch scraping a window. There was
nothing out of the ordinary in that
bedroom.

The two others rooms turned out
to be empty save for a scattering of
old furniture.

Then Bready furned the flashlight
into a front bedroom — and his blood
chilled with terror.

The mattress of a big old wooden
bedstead seemed to be drenched in
blood and there were bloody hand-

‘prints on the walls and floor of the

16

room. On the floor was also a pair of
women’s high-heeled shoes. Near them
was a heavy wooden drapery rod, one
end of which bore bloodstains. On the
edge of the bed was a safety. razor
blade.

Bready backed out of this Ateaber
of horrors and ran Cownstalss shouting
for Leo.

“Everything . seems all tight down
here,’’ Leo said.

‘*Well, it isn’t upstairs,’’ Bready said
excitedly, and told what he had seen.
‘*‘There must be a woman either
seriously injured or dead somewhere
in this house.’

Bready remembered a rear staircase
that led from the second floor hallway
down to the kitchen. He opened the

Trooper examines large patch of blood on
the bedroom floor and weird bloody
handprints on wall at left.

door and his flashlight picked up
something on the staircase.

Sprawled on her back near the foot
of the stairs lay an attractive, dark-
haired young woman, nude save for
her stockings, a necklace and a
wedding ring. Her staring brown eyes
and the rigidity of her twisted body
left little doubt that she was dead.
Dried blood that had flowed from
wounds in the upper part of her body
indicated plainly enough how she had
died. y ;

“You stay here on guard,’”’ Bready
told Leo. ‘I'll telephone the police.’’

He drove to a farm half a mile away
where there was a phone. Then he
returned to the house to wait with Mr.
and Mrs. Leo.

Within a short time, Montgousltry
County Detective Albert Murphy
arrived accompanied by Deputy
Coroner William Rambo and State
Troopers Harry Crist and R.H. Miller.
They were followed a few minutes
later by Chief of County Detectives
Kaye Munshower, District Attorney
Frederick Smillie and Dr. John C,
Simpson, coroner’s Pe ae and
Trooper:Peter Riley. |

He had a solid alibi but fore one
small chink which alert lawmen
' cracked wide open.


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‘‘Well, the youngsters hereabouts
call it the haunted house,’’ Bready
admitted. ‘‘But that’s just talk. The
last tenant liked it fine.’’

He stepped to the porch and ©

unlocked the front door. A cavernous
darkness loomed within.

“Sorry, the electricity isn’t connect-
ed up,’’ he went on. ‘‘But we’ll have
light as soon as I get these blinds
open.’’ He went about opening
windows and swinging back shutters.

The Leos entered a large front
room, vacant except for a few heavy
old-fashioned pieces which the last
occupants had apparently left behind.
_ ‘This can be a mighty cozy house
when it’s fixed up,’’ Bready continued,
‘‘and a good place to raise chil-
dren —’”’

He was interrupted by a harsh,
scraping sound from upstairs.

‘‘What was that?’’ Mrs. Leo asked
in a shaky voice.

Bready smiled. ‘‘Nothing but a
broken tree branch scraping against a
window. I meant to saw it off. Don’t
WOITy. There’ s nobody up there, ghost
or human.’

As he threw open the western blinds,
the sunlight seemed to cheer the room
somewhat.

But then Charles Leo found himself
gazing at something which lay on an
old-fashioned settee.

‘Looks like your house is
haunted by a female who
likes to do her ghosting in
the nude,’ the prospective

fenan?t remarked to the
landlord. if was supposed —

to be a joke, but minutes
later they weren't laughing.

‘*Look what we have PETE», he

commented.

Bready stared in Shyione surprise at
an array of feminine clothing neatly
folded at one end of the settee. He
picked up the garments one at a
time — a well-made silk daytime
dress, a pink satin slip and lace
trimmed undergarments. A fresh odor
of perfume clung to the clothing.

Heavy curtain rod leaning
against bed at left was used as
bludgeon by the killer.

‘*There is someone in this house,’’
Mrs. Leo gasped. ‘‘I don’t like it here.
I’m going to wait on the porch.’’

As she went out, James Bready
continued to regard the clothing. He
had visited the house only two days
previously and it certainly hadn’t been
there then. How could a woman have

_ (continued on hext page)»

“HAUNTED HOUSE

a Metairie a

54

“Hello,” he called, with a grin.

He was a handsome youth with thick,
dark hair growing back, sleek and
smooth, from a broad, intelligent fore-
head. His eyes were dark and alive, his
mouth wide and petulant—and attractive.

Even in that second, Mrs. McKechnie
thought, “It’s no wonder Freda’s crazy
about him.”

But she asked, “Bobby, where’s Freda?
Is she at your house? Why didn’t you
tell me?”

The boy stared at her without speaking
for a moment.

“What do you mean?” he inquired
finally.

“You know what I mean,” she said.
“Where’s Freda?”

Bobby Edwards continued to regard
her with a blank expression.

“I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” he replied. “Isn’t she home?”

The mother could make no answer.
She looked bewildered. Her eyes sought
some explanation from him, but he stood
there gaping.

When she spoke, her voice was thick
as though the effort choked her. “No, you
know she isn’t home. She eloped with
you—” her voice faltered, “—didn’t she,
Bobby—didn’t she run away with you?”
There was a new note in her question
now. She was pleading with the boy for
an answer.

Young Edwards was immediately con-
cerned. si

“Why, no,” he said, taking a step for-
ward, “I haven’t seen Freda since last
night. I met her with Rosetta on ‘the
street and I took them in my car, ‘We
dropped Rosetta off at her house and
Freda said she was going to her little
niece’s.”

“But she isn’t home,” Mrs. McKechnie
repeated.

“Well, where did she go?” Bobby
asked. “She told me she was coming
right home.” ;

He climbed over the fence and took the
mother’s arm and walked into the kitchen
with her, talking as he went.

There the conversation was repeated
to Gecrge McKechnie. He was just get-
ting ready to leave the house.

“Oh, don’t go!” his wife protested.
“Something dreadful has happened—I
know it has.”

Bobby tried to comfort her,

“Don’t say that,” he begged. “Nothing
has happened. She’ll be home. Didn’t
she say what she planned to do?”

“No, no! I thought she was with you.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out. I’ll go see
Rosetta,” he said.

“What time was it, Bobby,” the mother
pleaded, ‘when she left you?”

“About eight-thirty, I guess,” he re-
plied. ‘Don’t worry, please. When it
started to rain, I guess she decided to go
to Rosetta’s for the night. I'll go and
make some inquiries.” The mother fol-
lowed him to the door. She put a hand
on his sleeve. Tears were running down
her face.

“Bobby,” she begged, “you aren’t teas-
ing me, are you? Did you and Freda get
married?”

The boy patted her hand.

“I only wish we had,” he said.
back in a little while.”

George McKechnie, smoking his old

“T’ll -be

pipe, said nothing.

The day dragged slowly by. Late in
the afternoon, almost beside herself with
fear, Mrs. McKechnie went with her hus-
band to the police to report Freda missing.
When they returned to the house, Rosetta
came in, breathless.

“Oh, Rosetta, I’m so worried,” Mrs.
McKechnie told her, sobbing. “Why
didn’t you come sooner? You might at
least have come over to ask about
Freda——_”

“Why, I only heard about it a few
minutes ago,” the girl replied.

“Bobby told you this morning,” the
mother reproached her. “He said he’d
go right to your house.”

The girl shook her head.

“TI haven’t even seen him,” she retorted,
then looked puzzled.

“What’s that?” George McKechnie
asked slowly. “What’s’ that, Rosetta—
you haven’t seen Bobby?”

“No—not since last night.”

The father turned away to join his
married daughter, Mrs. Robert Patton,
Jr., in the parlor. He said no more, but

This woman knew nothing of double

life which her fiancé was leading’

sat down heavily, drawing on his pipe,
seeking comfort in silence. '
While sorrow slowly spread through

Edwardsville—and fear and suspicion ©

grew in the minds of the McKechnie
family—a throng of vacationists at Har-
vey’s Lake laughed away the long sum-
mer afternoon, oblivious to care or worry.

Long ago, the beautiful lake was the
summer residence of some of the most
influential people in Pennsylvania. Im-
posing homes line the shore that rises

“against rolling, wooded hills.

Nestled in this natural setting, the blue
waters have attracted visitors from all
over the country. As time went by, many
of the earlier residents of the place sought
their vacations elsewhere, Gradually, the
lake became a more popular spot, Slowly,
the ‘middle-class families adopted it.
Concessions were opened on the Sandy
Beach-grounds, In time it, became a sort

_ of miniature Coney Island. But its beauty.
continued ‘to draw thousands each year.

Every summer the beach was dotted

with bright parasols. A little fleet of
rowboats nestled at the dock waiting for
customers to cruise around the lake. All
day long the sound of laughter floated on
the summer wind.

It is a favorite haunt of swimmers, and
its icy waters, fed by mountain springs,
offer a challenge to the efforts of the best
athletes. .

Even little five-year-old Betty DaCosta
admired the ability of one swimmer that
July afternoon.

“Mummy, look at the lady in the white
cap,” she cried in a shrill, childish voice.
“I wanna swim like that. Look how she
stays under the water—look, Mummy!”

The child’s mother glanced up from
her book as she reclined in a long deck
chair. Directly in front of her a white
bathing cap bobbed along the blue water.
It was so clear, Mrs. DaCosta could even
see the flash of orange bathing suit a few
inches below the surface of the lake.

“Yes, I see.” She smiled. “You just
wait; when you’re a big girl you can swim
like that, too.” .

She turned back to her book.

The afternoon wore on. Some of the
vacationists prepared to leave. Chairs
were folded up. Remnants of lunch col-
jected. Groups of children were gath-
ered together by parents.

Little Betty tugged at her mother’s
dress.

“Mummy, the lady’s still there,” she
said. |

Again Mrs. DaCosta followed the direc-
tion of her daughter’s chubby, pointing
finger. And’now, as’ she looked, she was
aware that the swimmer had not moved,
and there was no motion of her figure.

“It isn’t possible,” she thought, “that
anyone could stay under water so long.”

While she sat staring, fascinated, at the
white cap and the streak of orange suit,
George Jones, a life guard, sauntered by.

“Who is that out there?” she asked.

“I was just wondering the same thing
myself,” Jones replied. “It looks queer
to me.”

He plunged into the lake and swam out
with long, swift strokes. When he re-
turned, he was dragging the swimmer

‘with him, and as he turned to the shore

he called out:

“Get a doctor—quick!”

A dozen startled children ran toward
the houses along the beach, crying out
for a physician who had left only a short
time before. A group of adults rushed to
aid Jones and help him bring his burden
ashore. But the guard waved them back.
He knelt over the girl and tried to ad-
minister first-aid, but her arms were stiff
and rigid.

A doctor came running toward them
in tow of two little boys. He bent over
the slim, prostrate body in its gay orange
suit. With the guard’s aid he turned her
over on her face. As he stripped the white
rubber cap away, blood, released within
it, spilled out upon the sand.

At that very moment of grim tragedy
at Harvey’s Lake, Bobby Edwards came
dashing into’ the McKechnie kitchen.

“Have you heard anything from
Freda?” he inquired. But Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie ignored his question.

“Bobby,” she..asked brekenly, “can’t
you do something—can’t you find her—
don’t you know where she is?”

The yout
emnly.
“I swear
know nothi:
They we:
at the fro1
George Mc
arms of som
It was Grac
who came 1
white with
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pointed as
wards, ‘“Y
before my f
Her voice
Edwards
then, withor
The girl c
out on the t
“Oh, Mo
found Fred
I was the:
When Ira
Harvey’s La
I was never
had known


MitADMNG Tr) 4 f
LULU WARDS HOD rt lw 4 TA a }
S, Robert Af, white, elec. PA (Luzerne)

ce

| By RICHARD POWELL

CHIEF OF DETECTIVES, LUZERNE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
i with D. A. HARRISON

This man was strange-
ly involved with the
young murder victim

Freda McKechnie, whose
body was found in lake

f Joyfully she awaited her wedding, unaware
that her betrothal was her death sentence

T WAS a hot, bright July after-
noon, and a brilliant sun drenched
the countryside.

In the little town of Edwardsville,
across the Susquehanna River from
Wilkes-Barre, life moved in its ac-

‘ customed, unhurried way. A cool

breeze swept down from the moun-
tains that rose, majestic and re-
mote, against the skyline, and tem-
pered the summer sun.

The town is in the heart of the an-
thracite coal regions of Pennsylvania. It
is a friendly little community, where
everybody knows everybody else. The
woes of one family are the troubles
of the rest. The happiness enjoyed by
one is shared by the whole town.

The sun that shone so brilliantly above
Edwardsville that July 30th, 1934, was
no brighter than the happiness in the
heart of Freda McKechnie.

She sang as she went about her work.
Up in her bedroom on the second floor of
her home, she took out once more the
dresses that had been made with such
painstaking care. She laid them on the
bed and smoothed them affectionately.
Her heart was singing.

pee tesla cme agate! Net tt CC Ct TN A CA A LS ON a

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Chief P
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onately.

Freda was going to be married!

Only a few weeks now and she would
be a bride!

She thrilled to the thought: In a burst

_of happiness she went dancing down the

stairs, her gay voice lilting through the
quiet, modest little home.

Her mother, busy with the preparation
of supper, heard that voice and gratitude
welled up within her. Her child was
happy. That was the only thing that
mattered. She looked up, smiling, as
Freda appeared in the doorway, and the
girl impetuously rushed across the room
and flung her arms around her mother,
and the two clung together.

There were tears in Mrs. McKechnie’s
eyes when Freda released her.

“I’m so glad for you,” she whispered.

They were still in the kitchen when
Rosetta Culver, Freda’s chum, came in.

“T just stopped by to tell you that I’ve
got a new pattern for that dress. of
yours,” she explained.

“Oh, that’s grand,” Freda said. ‘“Let’s
go over to your house and. look at: it.”

The two girls went up to Freda’s room
to look again at the pretty. frocks that
were a part of the future bride’s trous-
seau. It was still daylight. when. they
started out for the Culver home. le

“T won’t be late, Mother,” Freda said.

pout

Chief Powell (right),

co-author, put his
finger on the killer

Harvey’s Lake in which “The
American Tragedy” occurred

She kissed her mother good-by, and
Mrs.;McKechnie walked to the front door
with them and:stood there on the;porch,
watching, as they went, arm in: arm,; up
the street. ;

How strange the: sky. looked, she
thought. The sunset was. a yellow-red
across the western heavens;. but: there
was a hint of storm at the edges of the
clouds, and, from far off, she, caught the
distant roll of thunder.

But the evening passed before the
storm broke~in its full force upon Ed-
wardsville, and it was still raining when
gray-haired; kindly George McKechnie
and his wife went to bed.

Long after, the mother woke with a
start from restless dreams. The: storm
had ceased, but clouds raced across the
watery moon, and the steady drip of
rain fell from the trees with monotonous
tapping on the vines outside her window.

A vague uneasiness swept her. She was
frightened without apparent reason; for
she; was safe in bed in her;own home.
Her husband was sleeping peacefully at
her side. And even the night, which had
been heavy and oppressive, was now still
and balmy. A faint breeze stirred the
curtains at the window. The slow mellow
bell on the tower of the Town Hall struck
midnight. ast

a

Cre Un forgeDab le
CRIME CLASSIC

The mother, still vaguely uneasy,
turned her face into the pillows with a
long sigh, and slept once more.

It was not until the next morning that
she discovered Freda was not home.

-Her bed hadn’t been sleptin. The rain
had dashed through the window, left open
during the afternoon, and drenched the
floor. The gay frocks still lay spread out

‘across her pillows where she had left

them. :

For a moment, Mrs. McKechnie stood
there bewildered. Surely this was not
true. It wasn’t possible that her girl had

« stayed out all night.

Freda had never done such a thing
before without telling her. Why had she
failed to come home?

Then another thought came to her.
Perhaps Freda had eloped. Maybe she
had met her fiancé in the town and they
had decided to run away to avoid a
‘fuss.”

But Freda had looked forward to the
wedding. She was making a special dress
for the ceremony. Why should she sud-
denly have decided to run away—in a
gingham frock?

The idea piqued her.

“She couldn’t have done such a thing,”
she told herself.

And suddenly she was annoyed at
Bobby Edwards, much as she liked him.

“He shouldn’t have coaxed Freda,” she

said..- “It’s his fault if they’ve eloped.

He’s talked her into it.”

_.,.She had worked herself into a state of

indignation by the time her husband
came down to breakfast.

»The fragrant odor of coffee filled the
kitchen. And, as she turned to fill his
cup, Mrs. McKechnie told him:

“George, Freda’s run away!”’

- The father stared blankly at her.

“What for?” he asked.

“What for?” echoed his wife. ‘Why,
I.suppose she’s eloped—-she hasn’t been
home all night. That Bobby has just
persuaded her to go off somewhere.”

A.grin spread across McKechnie’s face.

“Well, we’ll be hearing in a little bit.”
He chuckled. “Freda would never be
able to stay away—a bride!”

He shook his head slowly. “Girls
are funny nowadays,” he philosophized.
‘Now look at how I chased you. You
know, sometimes I think Freda shows
that young man too much how she likes
him. It isn’t just the thing to do.”

“Oh, George,” Mrs. McKechnie chided
him, “Freda didn’t run after Bobby.”

“Well, she certainly wants to marry
him. Of course, he’s a nice enough boy,
but it’s the man who ought to be anxious
—not the girl.”

Mrs. McKechnie stared out of the win-
dow, coffee-pot in hand.

“Goodness knows,’ she murmured,
“he’s practically lived in this house for
years.”

And it was while she was standing
there that the mother suddenly caught
sight of a tall youth in the yard next door.

“Why, there’s Bobby now, over at his
house!”’ she exclaimed.

She put the coffee-pot on the stove
with a thud, and hurried out of the
kitchen. At the sound of the screen
slamming behind her, the young man
across the way looked over and waved
his hand.


TRAGEDY OF THE BETRAYED SWEETHEART 31

ulver said
the house.
hen drove

and said:
We'll drop

body re-
and drove

obviously
ze. Powell
relate all
about last

‘y: Freda
Edwards, .

nce to go

i

om here?”

nt. Then: “What do you mean, ‘in months?” Powell asked.
ened to be “The last.couple of months she’d been awfully dispirited,
or bathing glum, sort of run down, I should say. And then, a week ago
.. or so, she lost her job. She was a telephone operator. She
at night, ? wouldn’t say what the trouble was, but I suspected it was
there.” because she wasn’t seeing Bobby. But the day before yester-
ted to kill day he picked us up and gave us a ride and yesterday Freda
seemed as though she was an entirely new person.’
| said em- “T see. Did she tell you anything about herself and Bobby
could pos- yesterday ?”
suddenly “No, sir.”
py yester- Powell brought the interview to a close, and he and Demp-

sey departed. They went to the morgue, where Dr. Thomas
J. Wenner was already at work on the corpse. The body
was clean now, cleaned with an antiseptic that pinched their
nostrils; and under the light the cadaver glistened with the
macabre sheen of white-yellow wax.

Dr. Wenner stopped abruptly and nodded at the detectives.
“Have a look at this,” he invited. ‘“Here’s the scalp cuts
and the fracture that killed her.”

Powell and Dempsey scrutinized the trauma, noting its
length and the cracked bone underneath.

“A blackjack could’ve done it, eh, Doc?” Dempsey sug-
gested.

“Very much so.”

“Much more to do, Doc?” Powell asked.

“Quite a bit. Nothing like being thorough.”

“Then we'll get over to Edwardsville and have a talk with
Mrs. McKechnie and Edwards. If there’s anything else,
Doc, let’s know right away.”

iy RS. McKECHNIE, red-eyed and ‘ill-looking, was being
comforted by her husband and a married daughter
when the detectives arrived. With difficulty, she answered
Powell’s question; her answers, however, failed to tell any-
: thing more than the detectives already knew.
Dempsey said: “What’s the name of the girl Bobby Ed-
wards has been giving his attention to?”
“ Bho. won: ovaey oy aheighy Seng tee ey: “We'll elope—go down to West Virginia,” Bobby told her
You imow about fist, too! as he kissed her good-night
“Only what your husband mentioned. You know anything 8
about the girl, or girls he’s been seeing?”


32 LOVE-CRIME DETECTIVE

“Only what I heard. I don’t know who they are. He
met them at college, I think. I felt that if he was giving
more time to other girls than to Freda, he didn’t have to
see her at all.”

“Did your daughter Say anything yesterday, or the night
before about straightening that rumor out with him?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“You noticed, though, the sudden change in her since the
night before last?”

“You persuaded Freda to go in with you,” the officer
sai

“Yes, yes, I did, and was so happy about it:”

“Have you an idea what caused this change?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Perhaps because she and Bobby had straightened things
out?” .

Mrs. McKechnie looked at her husband and daughter.
She said hesitantly: “It could have been that.”

Powell and Dempsey went on to the Edwards’ home. . The
youth was home. In the light of the living room they ‘saw
that he was a strikingly handsome and clean-cut boy of
medium height, with deep-set dark eyes, glossy curly hair
and thin, sensitive nostrils.

Powell’s manner was genial, inviting of confidence and
hardly that of a manhunter. He smiled sympathetically
when he said: “I guess you know why we dropped in, Bobby.”

The youth said gravely: “Freda. A nasty shame that she
should’ve died like that.” ;

“Murder is nasty business,” Powell said softly. He saw
the youth’s nostrils distend nervously, “That’s why we
dropped in, Bob. We'd like your help,”

“Tl be glad to help any way I can. We were very close
friends, Freda and I.”

“Yes, we know. You were out riding with her last night,
weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I was. Rosetta Culver, her friend, was with us,
too,”

“You took Miss Culver home?”

“Yes, sir, and then I drove Freda home. I let her off a
block from her house at about.10 o'clock,”

“Why didn’t you drive her right up to house? That one
block might’ve saved her life?”

Bobby Edwards said fervently: “If I’d known that then,
I'd have taken her right into the house whether she liked
it or not,”

“You had a reason for dropping her away from the house?”
Powell said pleasantly, and his question was more of an
assured statement.

“Yes; she didn’t want her folks to see me with her.”

“How come?”

Bobby Edwards shrugged. “Guess because her mother
thought I was going with other girls, which isn’t true. She
wasn’t supposed to talk to me anymore, but I picked her up
and told her that whatever she heard about me wasn’t true.
I wasn’t interested in anybody but her.”

“I see. You and Freda were in love with each other ?”

“Well, we were before this rumor business started, I told
Freda yesterday that I felt the same way about her as before,
but she said she didn’t care any more. I figured, when she
made me drop her away from the house, that she’d fallen
for somebody else.” ‘

“You know any other fellows she was interested in?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You know that she’d been struck on the head with some
kind of weapon and left to drown?”

Box EDWARDS caught his breath. “Mr, McKechnie .

_ told me when he got back from the morgue, What an
awful thing! Poor kid!”

“Yes, awful,” Powell said. “But it'll go worse for the one
who killed her, The electric chair isn’t a merciful death.”

“He won’t have a chance, will he, whoever did Wad

“Not a chance. A killer of that sort doesn’t deserve one.”
Powell’s smile shortened to a grin. “Enough. about what'll
happen to him. You didn’t happen to see anybody on the
street, did you, when you let Freda off last night?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Powell. I didn’t look around,”

“Too bad. You went right home from there?”

“That’s right.”

“You got home—what time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“You lend your car to anybody after that hour?”

“T didn’t, no.”

“Anybody here—your folks—when you got in?”

“Yes, sir, they were.”

“Where’re they now?”

“Out visiting, I guess, They’ll be here soon. You want
to see them, too?”

“Just routine, But no matter, Guess they can’t tell us
anymore than you can,”

The youth said nothing. Powell said: “By the way, what
kind of car have you?” .

Edwards looked startled. “Why, a Chevvy coupe. Why?”

Powell ignored the question. “Did Freda have her bathing
suit with her when you picked her up?”

“Yes, sir. She had it ina paper bag.”

“She mention anything about Harvey’s Lake during your
tide together ?”

Edwards shook his head, Powell got to his feet. “Guess"
that’s all, kid. Anything else before we go?”

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t deserve one.”
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coupe. Why?”
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s feet. “Guess’

TRAGEDY OF THE BETRAYED SWEETHEART : 33

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Powell. If I come across anything,
I'll certainly let you know.” And as the detectives crossed
the threshold of the front door, he said: “I hope you nail the
guy that did it.”

Powell smiled appreciatively: “Don’t worry we will.”

In the car, as they headed for the State Police barracks,
Dempsey said: “Too smooth, that kid. He needs watching.”

“My sentiments, too. .I wasn’t taken in, either. Some of
those fibs were whoppers.”

Troopers David Green and Worden Bader, who had
examined the scene of the crime with the detectives, were
at the barracks when the pair arrived.

“We just got in, too,” Green said. ‘Nobody around the
lake saw the girl last night. Because of the rain the place
was deserted.”

“A break for the killer, eh,” Dempsey murmured. “How
about the tire impressions where the clothes were found?
The casts finished ?”

“Finished—and perfect,” Bader said. He showed them
plaster cast impressions of what were deep, distinctive tire
ridges,

“New tires,” Dempsey said. “Not many patterns like that
around, either. Shouldn’t be hard to trace.”

Back at their headquarters, they found a message to tele-
phone Dr. Wenner at once. Powell did so, and the physi-
cian’s voice came back with a hint of excitement.

“A bit of surprise for you, Dick,” he said. “Freda Mc-
Kechnie was pregnant when she died.”

It was a surprise, this news, Powell agreed. At the same
time it established a motive—a strong one—which until now
had been somewhat obscure.

Dempsey’s reaction was: “She had no interest in anybody
but Edwards. And I think he’s too, too serene about the
whole thing. I want to have a good look at his tires and
check that alibi of his pronto.”

T WAS close to midnight when they pulled up before

Edwards home. A light was on in the living room. A
middle-aged man- answered the doorbell. Powell identified
himself and said: “Where’s your son?”

Mr. Edwards jerked his head upward. “In bed. You want
him?”

“Not right away. Perhaps you can help us first, Mr. Ed-
wards. You were home all last night—either you or Mrs.
Edwards ?”

“Yes, of course. We both were.”

“Then you know what time Bob came in?”

“Certainly. About midnight. He stayed up a little while,
then went to bed.”

“You sure about that?”

“Certainly. You can ask my wife.”

“Later. You mind if we have a look at your son’s car?”

The man’s face darkened. “Why? You don’t suspect my
boy of anything, do you?”

" “Just as much as we do everybody else. It’s all part of
the investigation, Mr. Edwards.”

Reluctantly, yet willing to codperate, he led the detectives
to the garage. Dempsey turned on his flashlight and pro-
duced the plaster casts. He was on his knees for only a few
moments. ;

“This is it,” he said decisively. ‘No question about it.
I’m afraid, Mr. Edwards, we'll have to see your boy now.”

“T don’t understand this at all,” the father protested.
“What can Bob actually have to do with such a matter as
this?”

“According to some pretty important evidence,” Powell
said, “plenty. These casts, for one thing, are from tire
impressions found at the spot where Freda McKechnie’s
clothes were hidden. Your son’s tires made them. For
another, he lied about the time he got home last night. He

-“I love you truly and would do
anything for you,” read one of
Bobby’s letters to Myrna

said he got in at 10 o’clock; you say he was in at 12.”

The father shook his head bewilderedly. “T’ll go up and
get him,” he said.

He presently returned with his son, whose jaunty, “Back
again so soon?” did not conform with the unpleasant watch-
ful look in his narrowed eyes.

Powell said directly: “Look, now, kid. We’re well aware
that you lied about the time you got home last night, and we
have. good evidence that your car was at Harvey’s Lake, at
the place where Freda’s clothes were found, Anything to
say about that?”

“No. I had nothing to do with her death. I know nothing
about it.”

“But you do know that Freda was pregnant, about to
become a mother ?”

Bob Edwards’ face went a sickly white. “I don’t know it.
J don’t believe it!”

“All right,” Powell said. “We’ll finish this talk over at
the barracks. Get your things on.”

(Please turn to page 61)

found her clothes in the woods nearby—same outfit you
described this morning.”

George McKechnie’s shoulders sagged. “T’ll be over,” he
said. He dropped the receiver and looked at his wife, who
was watching him with horror.

“Freda,” he said. “Freda’s dead.”

Mr. McKechnie went to the morgue alone. Freda was on
a white slab, a damp, extremely pale corpse, with wide, open
eyes and a petrified grimace on her face. She was clad in a
red bathing suit, and on the slab was her white swimming
cap, stained with dirty water and blood.

HIEF COUNTY DETECTIVE RICHARD POWELL

and Detective John Dempsey led him to the office and
told him that bathers had discovered the body and notified
the police.

“T’m afraid it was no accident, Mr, McKechnie,” Powell
said. “She was murdered. Struck over the head with a
blunt instrument.”

George McKechnie shuddered. Powell said: “Was your
daughter out alone last night ?”

The man snuffed back his tears and said that Freda had
gone out early in the evening with Rosetta Culver and Bobby
Edwards. in Bobby’s car, Bobby took Rosetta home first
and then drove Freda back to a block away from the house
at 10 o’clock. Somewhere along that block somebody, some-
body with Freda’s.blood on his hands, had forced her to the
lake. Freda had been a good girl, a serious, religious girl,
who never would have permitted a stranger to pick her up.

“Who were her other boy friends?” Powell asked,

Mr. McKechnie shook his head. There was just Bobby.
Freda and Bobby had been close friends since their child.
hood. In fact, it had been kind of understood that someday
Freda and Bobby would get married.

“They were engaged ?” said Powell.

“Not exactly, though it might’ve come about,” Mr. Mc-
Kechnie said. “They stopped seeing each other for a spell
because Freda’s ma thought Bobby was running around with
somebody else. But I guess there wasn’t anything to it,
otherwise Freda wouldn’t have let him take her out again.”

“Who told you that Edwards drove your daughter to a

block within your home last night?”

LOVE-CRIME DETECTIVE

“He did. My wife phoned him after Rosetta Culver said
that Bobby ‘had picked up her and Freda near the house.
She said that he took them for a short drive, then drove
Rosetta home and took Freda home from there.”

Powell jotted down Rosetta Culver’s address and said:
“Guess that’s all for the while, Mr. McKechnie. We'll drop
around later and talk to your wife and Edwards.”

When the man had gone, Powell ordered the body re-
moved for an immediate autopsy to Wilkes-Barre, and drove
there with Dempsey to question Rosetta Culver,

Tall, slender and blonde, Rosetta Culver was obviously
worried and perplexed by her friend’s disappearance. Powell
broke the news of Freda’s death and got her to relate all
that she knew about the dead girl, particularly about last
night’s ride with Bobby Edwards,

Her story confirmed George McKechnie’s story: Freda
had had no steady boy friends other than young Edwards,
and had favored no other boy but him,

“Did Bobby Edwards ask her in your presence to go
with him to the lake last night?” Powell queried.

“No, sir.”

“Did she have her bathing suit and cap with her ?”

“No, sir.” ‘

“Was Freda afraid of Edwards last night ?”

“Of course not! She loved him.”

“What time did you get home?”

“About 8:30.”

“Where were Freda and Edwards going to from here?”

“Home, I believe.”

Powell looked at the girl, silent for a moment, Then:
“Miss Culver, have you any idea how Freda happened to be
at Harvey’s Lake last night, and dressed in her bathing
suit ?”

“T haven’t. I can’t imagine her going there at night,
especially when her mother didn’t like her to go there.”

“Do you know why anyone should have wanted to kill
her?” *

“There isn’t any reason in the world,” the girl said em-
phatically. “Poor Freda was as nice a girl as you could pos-
sibly want. She never hurt anyone.” Her eyes suddenly
became moist. “It’s such a shame! She was so happy yester-
day, happier than she’d been in months!”

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across the room. He flung
lis hand came out with the
) face her, the gun levelled

of the shot, the recoil of
vard. He stepped toward
’ fired again, deliberately,
an ugly mask.

iim here in this room, he
| unhurriedly. Of course!
ir for her grave? Hadn’t
ting for this moment?

‘e cellar. He had wrapped
and bound it in a shroud.
f it, how he had bothered
| place it under her head.
ith four inches of gravel
r weéks before. -He had

n Lady and some friends
There had been music,
g. When the guests had
1 once against lost them-
t was theirs.
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nan. She will be dragged
"affair will be raked
id the public press.
opinion. You have
ind. You have her love.
terrible days and hours

le air around him. “No!
Is to his face. “I will not
‘0 the chair and sobbed

le voice begged. “Don’t
chance to do something

He rose and paced the
Lady go through that.
He opened. the bureau
he chill ofthe steel ran
He slammed the-drawer
3 face was grey and the
| his eyes.

done and forgive me for

| into his right temple.
The gun spun from his
1e floor.

esting place in the dank
iter. They removed her
ting place. Side by side
dith Du Bois, victims of

e French girl who had
1 contentment with her

.
.

TRAGEDY of the
Betrayed Sweetheart

(Continued from page 33)

At the barracks, questions were fired unceasingly at the
youth, but he maintained his stoical calm and reiterated his
blanket denials,

Meanwhile, other detectives subjected his car~to a thor-
ough examination and found a brand new blackjack hidden
under the seat.

The youth was not immediately confronted with the weap-
on. The next day Powell inquired about Edwards at the
college in Marisfield, Information from students and faculty
members led to several long distance telephone calls and
an exchange of telegrams. Not until all this was over did
Powell again ask Edwards to admit the murder of his
childhood sweetheart. Again Edwards denied the crime.

pore said harshly : “Drop your act, kid. We've found

. your blackjack and the man who sold it to you. Not
only that, but we know all about Myrna Evans, the girl
you wanted to marry. Only you couldn’t marry her because
Freda McKechnie told you that she was going to have a
baby, and you were afraid that if you refused to marry her,
it would get back to Myrna Evans. You were in a fix, so
you planned to kill her,”

The youth remained silent, but his dark eyes showed fear,

Powell went on. “You didn’t get home at 10 o’clock, or
even at 11, And you never dropped Freda McKechnie any-
where near her house, either. The last place you left her
was in the lake—dead, with her head cracked.

“Tt was raining when you started for the lake from Miss
Culver’s house. You persuaded Freda to go swimming with
you. If she objected to the rain and the late hour, you gave
her a line that brought her around to your plans,

“The bath lockers were closed at the lake. The place was
deserted because of the rain and the hour, You got into your
suits in the nearby woods. When you got into the water,
you cracked her head and left her to drown, You thought
you could get away with it, that you’d committed a crime
that could not be connected to you. But you were dead
wrong, kid.”

Bobby Edwards seemed to be in a trance. His eyes clung,
unblinkingly, to the detectives’ face. Then he suddenly roused
himself and said wearily:

“You're right. I did it. I didn’t want Myrna to know
that I was in trouble. I couldn’t help it. When Freda said
she was going to have a baby, I told her we'd elope to West
Virginia. But I knew we couldn’t do that; I knew that I
was going to kill her and bought the blackjack for that
purpose. When we went in the lake, I had it concealed in
my bathing suit, I got behind her and struck her with all
my might.”

Bobby Edwards’ story of betrayal and cold-blooded mur-
der brought about a quick indictment, And in October, 1934,
he went on trial for his life before Judge Alfred Valentine
in Wilkes-Barre, with ‘District Attorney Thomas Lewis
prosecuting.

(Press Ass’n, )

Bobby Edwards, star figure in a re-enactment of the famous
“American Tragedy” murder which startled the nation

The trial drew a capacity crowd of men, women and girls,
all eager for a glimpse of the young fiend and the revelations
of his love affairs. And they got what they came for when
the prosecution read to the jury a number of ardent letters
Bobby Edwards had written to Myrna Evans. Some of them,
in part, were unprintable,

One letter to Myrna Evans said:

“My Goddess, my everlasting and increasing love is com-

‘ing to you this night... I love you truly and would do

anything for you. We are eternally one. I love you in a
divine way, and I know you love me the same.”

His passionate missives did Bobby Edwards no good with
the jury, who found him guilty of first degree murder. Sen-
tence was immediately imposed—the chair. Young Edwards
appealed the judgment, but the higher courts sustained the
fate decreed for him. And in May, 1935, he atoned for his
brutal crime in the electric chair.

(Name of Myrna Evans is fictitious to spare an innocent per-
son needless embarrassment. )

NEXT
MONTH:—

“SHE WOULDN'T SHARE HER LOVE”

By Zeta Rothschild «1


ee

Was someone lurking in the shadows when Freda's escort

™@. FREDA McKECHNIE dressed mechanically,
liké someone too old or too sick to care how she
looks. She avoided her face in the mirror; to
look herself straight in the eye was more- than
she could do.

She felt scared and bitter, but most of all she
felt cheap.. She had betrayed and cheated her

. parents. They loved her and trusted her and she .

paid them back with deceit.

Tonight she would act out another part of the
lie.. She had told her parents that she was going
to a movie with her friend Rosetta Culver, but
that was just more sham and cover-up. For
tonight, like so many other nights, she would
spend with him, the father of her unborn child.

The date was all arranged. She would get rid
of Rosetta as quickly as she could, then she
would go to her lover.

When she had seen him earlier in the day he

said he wanted to go out to the lake for a-swim. -

She opened a drawer, took out her bathing suit

- and folded it into a small square which she
jammed into her pocketbook.

‘The sound of her parents’ voices downstairs

suddenly brought her back to the present. She .

quickly combed her hair and put on lipstick.
She didn’t want them to wonder-“why she was

taking so long to dress.:
When she came down the stairs she looked the

‘ way she always did, neat and just a bit on the

prim'side. Freda McKechihie was 28, a tall girl
with wavy dark hair. She would have been pretty
had her jaw not been so square and solid looking.

Rosetta came at 8 o'clock. “Have a nice time,
girls,” Mrs. McKechnie said as they went out the

dropped her off a block from her home?

door. “Don’t be out too late. It looks like rain.”

Freda set a fast pace going down the block, her
feet keeping unconscious rhythm. with her
pounding heart and her mind ae with ex-

. cuses to make to the girl at her side. .

’

The dead woman was discovered floating near “the shore of Har-

vey's Lake, a Pennsylvania summer resort. The coroner could
not say if death was due to drowning or to severe head wound.

mw THE McKECHNIES lived in Edwardsville,
Pa., a town next to Wilkes-Barre. Like other
families in the small mining community, they
had a comfortable but plain frame house which

‘sat behind a little garden. They had lived there

for years and they had been happy—but that
happiness was soon to be shattered.

The next morning, July 31, 1934, was a trying
one for Preda’s mother, Mrs. George McKechnie.
She got up early after a night of little sleep. She
made a pot of coffee, and she and her husband |

drank cups of it in silence.

They spoke little, but each was aware of the
other’s thoughts. Freda had not come home last
night. She had not called.

At 7 am. Mrs. McKechnie telephoned. Rosetta

- Culver at her home in Wilkes-Barre. Rosetta
said Freda was not there. “I left her about 9

last night,” she explained quickly. “I “thought
she was going home. .. .”
“Where did you leave her?”

“At my house. She and Bobby ‘Edwards
dropped me off. You see, when we left your
house, we ran into Bobby on the street. He took
us for a ride, and after an hour or so stopped at
my house. I understood they were driving back

_ to Edwardsville.”

Bobby Edwards’ was. a 21-year-old boy who

‘lived on the same block as the McKechnies. He

al

FESS

Freda MeKeehnteldid she bis
a secret tryst that ended wit ith,
sudden death in the dark lake? ~


An assistant district attorney reads’
one of the love letters which were
introduced as. evidence at the trial.

Many of the notes +

© the girl in New York caused courtroom spectators

Rosetta Culver was the state's most
important witness. She placed killer
with victim on the murder night.

pers cA} 4

to blush. Letter shown above, pledging -true love, was more routine.

DROWN YOUR TROUBLES continued

had dated Freda for-a long time, but
had not come around to see her re-
cently.

Mrs. McKechnie ran over to her
neighbor’s house and told her what she
had learned. . :

“Bobby brought ‘the car back before
midnight,” Mrs. Edwards said. “I didn’t
-get a chance to speak to him. I was in
bed. But I’ll ask’ him’ when he comes
home for lunch. That won’t be long.”

’ ’ She patted Mrs. McKechnie’s shoul-

der. “Now try not to worry. I’m sure
Freda will come home soon.”

Mrs.. McKechnie walked down the
street again very slowly, as if she was
afraid to -get back to her own home.
She acted stunned, not seeing the smil-
ing mailman who ‘passed her, or the
woman who waved at her from a side
door. She didn’t see the green hedges
and lawns and small houses that lined
the block. She could have been a
thousand miles away from this little

mining town in the dark hills of Penn-
sylvania. It wouldn’t have mattered.
Her thoughts’: were on her missing
daughter. he

At noon Bobby Edwards appeared

at the McKechnie home. He was a
slim, even-featured boy with dark
hair and with a manner that was a
little shy. He, his father and George
McKechnie all worked in the same
mine. Bobby had joined a surveyor’s
crew after graduating from high school
and spending two years at a teachers’
college. ;

“I just heard about Freda,” he said,
entering through the kitchen door. “I
,can’t understand it.”

“Where did you leave her?” Mrs.
McKechnie asked.

“At the corner of the block. I wanted,

to. drive around some more, and she
said it would be’ okay for me to drop
her there. Last'I saw of‘her she was:
walking down the street toward your
house,”

“What time was that?”

“A little after 9.” ;

When. George McKechnie got home
his wife told him Bobby Edwards’
story. McKechnie was a gray-haired
man with thick shoulders and arms
that.spoke of years of hard work. He

sat at the kitchen table, a tired and

worried man... :

“We better go to the police,” he said
after a time. “If Bobby dropped her
at the corner, someone else must have
picked her up before she got to the
house.” He stood up and looked at his
wife with desperate eyes. “It’s no use
waiting any longer.”

It was the first time either of them

‘ had put into words what they really

feared. Something had happened to
their daughter. Something horrible. ...

While his wife. cried softly behind
him, George °McKechnie called the
police.’ aatg

Soon a black sedan pulled up in front
of the house and two policemen en-
tered. They knew McKechnie and they
knew how devoted he was to his daugh-.
ter. They asked questions as gently as
they could, trying not to add to the
couple’s troubled feelings.

The officers pointed out that there
could-be many explanations for Freda’s
absence, that the parents should not
jump to the conclusion that the girl had
met with violence. For instance, could
she not have gone off somewhere with
a boy friend who waited for her near
the house? .

Mrs. M
Lately Fre
boys, pref:
home or v
the mothe
ment wou
then Fred:
wasn't th:
man in he

“What
the boy v
at the cor
“Was she

Again t
It was tru
been swee
point both

*. that their

marry. B:
college a:
fade.
After h
they bege
attachme:
“I though
each othe

. ture of F
what she
“We'll pa
one of tl
understa:
the neigi
we can |
soon as \

“Than!
“We'd ay
around }
both wat
policeme
their car


et

c ae © ree eet Fe exe ze

“¢

- oe oie 5 eS


Malachite
an instant,
o. I saw her
treet, but I
s I might as
McKechnie
round with

echnie ever
way?” —
1. “No. She
me”.
ht, that’s all:
nt to talk to

o breath and
e weight had
rest. “Good-
out the door.
his top as-
empsey, and

outlined the steps they were to take
next. They would get prints. of the
tires of Edwards’ car and check them
with the casts of the tire marks near
the lake, and question Freda’s friends

to find out if she actually did have any |

boy friends. ;
Powell, of course, wasn't satisfied
with Edwards’ explanation of his move-
ments the night before. It left almost
three hours unaccounted for and did
little to offset the fact that he was the
last known person to see the girl alive.
But Powell didn’t want to rush him.
He was no hardened criminal who

would come clean only under third- .

degree tactics...

Just the opposite. Edwards was an
educated boy who appeared on the shy
and sensitive side. If he was guilty,
going slowly with him would work best
in the long run. Besides, they still had
not positively determined that murder
had been committed. — .

Dempsey left to examine Edwards’
car, and Powell called Mrs. McKechnie.
He asked her about the boy’s statement
that she had not wanted her daughter
to see him.

It was true, she said. She told Freda

“to say away from Bobby when she

learned that he was carrying on a ro-

_ mance with a girl he had met at college.

“when he quit school and came back

here he took up with Freda again. .

“J’m sure she did.” ’

At 8 p.M. that evening Dempsey made
his report. He had checked Edwards’
tires. They bore the same tread as the
prints on the lake road!

The youth was brought back to the
police headquarters. He was taken to
a small room with bare walls. It con-
tained only a table and three wooden
chairs. He sat stiffly in one of the chairs,
his feet resting flat on the floor, like
those of a fighter readying himself to
bound out of his corner.

No one spoke for several long mo-
ments. Then Powell said, “Don't you
want to tell us the full story? You were
out at the lake, weren't you?”

“Well, I...”

“We can prove it by the tires of your

car. They left a very clear print out
there.”

Edwards sighed heavily. “Yes, you're
right. I can see I’d better tell every-
thing. I took her out to the lake. But
I was afraid to admit it, afraid you
wouldn’t understand about the accident
she had.” Ais

“What about the accident?” Powell
asked. “How did it happen?” -

Edwards scratched his head. “We
swam out to the float-and started kid-

The youth showed signs of
cracking when the tense
trial neored its end. His
attorney (standing) often
had job of comforting him.

_ding around. We were hanging on to.

the float, kicking and splashing. each
other. I tried to splash her real hard
but’ I pushed my hand too far and it
hit her in the face. Her head snapped
back and struck the sharp corner of
the float.”

He closed his eyes and rocked his
head from side to side. “Jt hurts to re-
member,” he said. .

Powell offered him a cigarette, but
he shook his (Continued on page 95)


{ Penn-
cattered.
missing

ppeared
was a
n dark
. was a
George
e same
rveyor’s
h school
eachers’

he said,
loor. “I

2” Mrs

{ wanted .
and she
to drop
she was:
wd your

ot home
Edwards’
\y-haired
nd arms
‘cork. He

ired and

” he said
pped her
iust have
ot to the
<ed at his
v's no use

- of them
ey really
pened to
rrible. ...
ly behind
alled the

ip in front
emen en-
- and they
iis daugh-.
gently as

dd to the |

that there.
‘or Freda’s
hould not
ae girl had
nee, could
vhere with
- her near

Mrs. McKechnie didn’t. think so.
Lately Freda hadn’t gone out with. any
boys, preferring to spend evenings at
home or with girl friends. ‘A year ago,
the mother conceded, a sudden elope-
ment would have been very possible;
then Freda had lots of dates. But that
wasn’t the case now. There was no
man in her life. : os

“What about this Bobby Edwards,
the boy who says he dropped her~ off
at the corner?” one of the cops asked.
“Was she interested in him?”

Again the mother shook. her head.
It was true that Bobby and Freda had
been sweethearts for a long time, at one
point both families taking it for granted
that their children would eventually
marry. But then Bobby went away to
college and the romance seemed to
fade. as .

After his return, about a year ago,
they began to date again, but the old
attachment did not seem to be there.
“I thought it best that they: didn’t see
each other so much,” Mrs. McKechnie
explained. “Lately Bobby hasn’t come
calling very often.” oe

“Was there anything strange about
the way your daughter was acting the
past weeks?” a policeman_asked. “Did
she ever appear worried or upset?”

“She was worried and moody,” the
mother admitted. “She hasn’t been her

old self since she lost her job. She was —

a switchboard operator, you. know,

“She had no other reason to be wor-
ried?” = :
“No, I don’t think so.”
The officers asked for a recent pic-
-ture of Freda and for a description of
what she was wearing the night before.
“We'll pass these on to the state police,”
one of them said. “Just in case, you
understand... Right now we'll go around
the neighborhood here and see what
we can learn. We'll let you know as
soon as we get something.”
“Thanks,” George McKechnie said.
“We'd appreciate it.” He put his arm

around his wife’s shoulders and they -

both watched with fretful eyes as the
policemen strode down the walk to
their car. |;

m AFEW MILES away from Edwards- j

ville, at a summer resort called Har-
vey’s Lake, other investigators ‘were
occupied with an even more serious
task. They were examining a body
that had been pulled out of the lake.

It was the body of a woman, discov-

ered floating 100 yards from shore. The
corpse was dressed in a red bathing
suit and white bathing cap. Under a
long split in the top of the cap was a
gash in the woman’s head. It was a
deep wound and it was slimy with
blood.

The body lay on a rubber sheet, a
few yards from the edge of the clear
water.
knots of tanned men and women in
sports clothes and children in bathing
suits; all kept watchful and curious.
eyes on the officers who were quietly
going about their business. Overhead,
a giant ball of a sun glared down from
a light blue sky.

“She must have been in the water

all night,” the coroner said. “Whether .

she died of drowning or the blow on.
the head, I can’t tell. Maybe we'll find
it’s a’ combination of the two.”

Richard Powell, chief of the county

- detectives, now spoke. “{ don’t. think

this-was an. accident. Where,” he said,

looking around, “could she have struck

At the trial the defendant kept

Standing nearby were ° small .

her head around here—and still wind |
up out in the water?”.

On the road leading to the beach’ a.
detective found a pile of women's
clothes—a print dress, stockings, shoes,
hat, and a light topcoat. As he, gath-
éred them up he noticed something else
nearby, a deep tire print in the surface
of the dirt road. The evening before
there had been a heavy rain; evidently
this print had been made right after
or toward the end of the rain. eh

A state police technician made a
plaster cast of the tire print. The corpse
was photographed, a search for a pos-
sible weapon was made, the clothes
were tagged and placed in a small bag:
The body was carried to an ambulance,
to be taken to Wilkes-Barre. With the
departure of the investigators, boys and

girls in bathing suits gradually moved .

back into the water, swimming, shout-
ing and splashing the way only the
young canon a hot day in July. *»

The state detectives reported back to
their superiors at the state police head-

°r

rs
are.
3 ;

(Pe

%

face turned from friends and relatives.

He acted extremely nervous, conferring frequently with his attorneys.


» ighboring tenant saw
ighbor, an amateur
he man was-a burglar
vith a single shot from

rifle. The’ alert but:

questioned . and

il homicide charge. -~

-face with a handkerchief.

DROWN YOUR TROUBLES

(Continued from page 57)

head. “I’m okay. Fl tell you what
you want to know.” He continued
his story in an even, matter-of-fact
voice. She said she was all. right, he

went on, complaining only of a slight .

dizziness. They remained at the float’s
edge for several minutes, then he sug-
gested they return to shore.” S

“I started out first. I swam about
five yards, slowly so that she could
catch up. But when I looked around
she wasn’t there. I realized she must
have gone under because of that crack
on the head. I dove for her. a couple of
times, but I couldn’t see her. I got
seared. All. I could think of was to
get away. I swam to shore as fast as
I could, jumped in the car and drove
straight home.”
. “Let’s clear up one point,” Chief
Powell said. “Did you arrange for
this trip to the lake?”

“I don’t remember who suggested
it. But we decided to go there after

_ we dropped Rosetta off.”

Powell thanked the boy for cooper-
ating and told him that would be all
for now. However he would have to
spend the night at the police barracks.
“A matter of legal routine,” he ex-
plained. “Perhaps' we can get this
thing fully cleared up by tomorrow.”

Edwards smiled hesitantly. “I sure

hope so. I don’t want to miss too-

many days of work.” - ‘
‘Its a story, but it isn’t good

~ enough,” Dempsey said, when the

boy had been led from the room. “I
wonder who he thinks he’s kidding?”

Powell shrugged, wiping his broad
“He’s try-
ing hard.”

The two men returned to Powell’s
office. A doctor from the coroner’s
office was waiting there. “You fin-
ished questioning the boy?” he said.
“Too bad I didn’t get here sooner.’
He pulled a paper from the inside
pocket of his coat.”

“The autopsy showed a hell of a lot
more than ‘we expected. That girl
was four months pregnant!”

Dempsey made-a. whistling sound
through his teeth. ..““That’s it,” said.
Powell. “That’s the motive.”

“Looks bad for. him, doesn’t it?”
the doctor said, sitting down.on an
edge of Powell’s big desk. “The rest
of the autopsy was in line with what
we figured. The blow on the head
caused death. Skull fracture. Hardly
any water in the lungs—death must
have been almost instantaneous. Our
guess is he hit her with something
blunt, like a pipe wrapped in cloth.”

The medical man lit a cigarette and
took a couple of deep drags. “Boy,

“was none.

this will set this burg on its ear. I
can see the papers now. ... Just
why did he do it? Did he have some
other babe he wanted to marry?”
Powell nodded. “The kid tried to
solve his problems with a lead pipe.”

““'@ THE NEXT day they took Bobby

out to the lake. Under the probing
eyes of a hundred or more spectators,
they rowed him out to the float and
told him to point out the sharp edge
that caused the fatal wound. There
The four corners of the
float were blunt and the wood was
soft and water-soaked.

Returned to shore, Bobby asked to
speak privately to Powell. “That
story wasn’t really true,” he said. “She
didn’t hit her head there.” He looked
pleadingly at the detective. His lips
quivered and he kicked nervously at
the white sand. He wasa ie caught
in a lie—a big lie.

“This is what really ene
You’ve got to believe me... .”

“Go on,” said Powell.

“Well, we went to the boat landing
instead of right into the water. We
were unchaining one of. the boats
when Freda slipped and fell back-
wards. She hit her head against the
hook in the bow. I felt her pulse.
She was dead. I got so panicky I
didn’t know what I was doing. I
rowed her out into the lake and tossed
her body overboard.” He looked at
Powell, who said nothing. “That’s all
I'm guilty of. Why should I want to
kill her?”

The detectives led him back to the

‘ear. They had ridden but a short
distance when Powell told him they -

knew Freda was pregnant.. “And we
also know about the other girl in New
York state. We know that you lured
Freda McKechnie down to the lake.
We know you picked a night when it
was ‘raining, when you felt sure no
one would be around. You got her
to swim out from shore, then you hit
her as hard as you could. Isn’t that
what happened?”

Bobby buried his face in his hands
and his shoulders shook as he cried.

‘I killed her,” he said, almost in a
whisper. “I followed her into the
water and hit her with a blackjack.

-It’s at the bottom of the lake.” _ :
Bobby was returned to the police

barracks and-placed in a cell. During
the next three days, while the lake
was being dragged for the weapon,
he was questioned at length. Bit by
bit he told the full story of the
tragedy.

He had to get rid of Freda, he’ said,

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Among evidence was dress Freda McKechnie intended to
wear at her wedding. Detective Dempsey inspects it.

DROWN YOUR TROUBLES continued

quarters. After a brief conference De-
tective Chief Powell called the Mc-
Kechnie home. Mrs. McKechnie re-
fused to believe that the body could be
her daughter’s. Freda, she said, would
never have gone to Harvey’s Lake
without telling her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McKechnie, but we
are sure of the identification,” Powell
said. “The clothes found check exactly
with those you said your daughter wore

. Jast night, I am very sorry.”

Powell’s next move was an obvious
one. He ordered Bobby Edwards picked
up for questioning. From his home he
was brought to the state police head-
quarters, and once again he told his
story of the night before.

The chief detective, a stocky gray-
haired man with glasses, listened with-
out comment until the boy had finished.
Then he asked, “Was it your idea to
drop her off at ‘the corner?”

Chief Richard

“No, she said she wanted to get out.
She seemed anxious about something.

She didn’t want to go home and she
. didn’t want to drive around any more.
‘I got the feeling that maybe she was

going to meet someone else.” |

“Another man?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Powell asked him for a closer account
of the driving he did between 9 and
midnight, when he got home.

The young man named a diner on
the outskirts of Wilkes-Barre. “I
stopped there for a bottle of pop. But
I didn’t stop any other place and I can’t
recall exactly what roads I drove on.
I didn’t pay much attention. I was just
driving around because it was too early
to go to bed.”

The detective chief walked to a win-
dow which overlooked the street, and
pulled it up a few inches. “Hot, isn’t
it?” he said ashe sat down again. “Tell

The murder weapon,

y

x

me, were you dating Miss McKechnie
during the past few months?”

The boy looked at him an instant,
then down at the floor. “No, I saw her
once in a'while~on the street, but I
didn’t take her out. I guess I might as
well tell you why. Mrs. McKechnie
didn’t want me going around with
Freda.” . os

“Why? Did Mrs. McKechnie ever
tell you why she felt that way?”

The boy shook his head.” “No. She
just told Freda not to see me.”

Powell got up.. All right, that’s all
for now. But we may want to talk to
you again.” :

m™ EDWARDS took 'a deep breath and
exhaled slowly, as if a huge weight had
been removed from his chest. “Good-
by,” he said, and walked out the door.

Chief Powell called in his top as-

sistant, detective John Dempsey, and

shown being examined by Detective
owell, was found under Harvey's Lake.

outlined t!
next: The
tires of Ec
with the c
the lake, «
to find out
boy friend
Powell,
with Edwa
ments the
three hou:
little to of
last know:
But Powe
He was :
would con
degree tac’
Just the
educated |
and sensi(
going slow
in the lon;
not positi,
had been «
Dempse:
car, and P;
He asked }
that she h
to see him
It was ti
to say av
learned th:

.

mance wit}

“When h
here he t
Then I fo
many wee
girl up in
I wanted «
knew in ti
told her n:
do with hi:

“And yc
advice?” F

*T’m sur:

At 8 p.m.
his report.
tires. They
prints on t

The yout
police heac
a small roc
tained onl;
chairs. He :
his feet rc
those of a
bound out

No one :
ments. Th
want to tel!
out at the |
- “Well, 1.

“We can

RDS, Robert Allen, white, elec. PA® (Luzerne)

midsummer

tryst with murder

CHARLES BOSWELL

Looking trustingly into her companion’s face, the girl strolled
down to the water which for her was a lake of doom.


To the fun-loving girl it was just another midsummer

-

I reda McKechnie had a good reputation, which means in most
American communities a girl who doesn’t drink like crazy, who
doesn’t run around with this Joe and that and who employs her time
to advantage. Freda measured up in every particular.

Her life in Edwardsville, Pa—one of the coal-mine suburbs ring-
ing Wilkes-Barre—seemed happy if perhaps not exciting. George
McKechnie, Freda’s father, worked in a supervisory capacity for a
mining company, and Freda herself had a job as switchboard
operator in a Wilkes-Barre brokerage office.

In 1934, Freda was 27, residing at home, and still unmarried.
Not that she hadn’t had offers of marriage, for she was pretty and
attractive, But there was a depression over the land and in Freda’s
book it was better to remain single than to make an unfortunate
match.

Living near the McKechnies (indeed, their backyards adjoined)
was a family whose ancestors had founded the town and for whom
it had been named. Daniel Edwards also was a mine official and in
every respect the two families moved on just about the same plane.

The Edwards had a son, Robert, generally known as Bobby, who
until early in 1934 had been a student at the Pennsylvania State
Teachers College, at Mansfield. But Bobby had decided not to be-
come a teacher and had returned to Edwardsville to take a job in
the industry which was a tradition in his family—coal. By July,
1934, he was a mine surveyor in the company employing his father.

Bobby Edwards and Freda McKechnie liked one another, and
except for the difference in age—he was six years younger—he might
have made her an acceptable husband. Thus, although they were
frequently together—swimming, dancing, or taking in a movie—no
one ever thought of them as anything but childhood friends who had
grown up.

In the absence of a “steady boyfriend,” Freda frequently went
out with girl acquaintances. So it was on the evening of Monday,
July 30, 1934; Freda, on leaving the house, told her mother she
was going to walk downtown to have a soda with a girlfriend.

A couple of hours passed, Freda did not return, but Mrs. Mc-
Kechnie saw no cause to worry—not until a sharp thunder storm
broke. Even so, she comforted herself with the assumption that
Freda had doubtlessly taken refuge at the home of her girlfriend
and would be in later. Around 10:30, Mr. and Mrs. McKechnie
went to bed.

Early the next morning, in time for work, Mrs. McKechnie called
Freda for breakfast, but got no answer. When she went to the girl's
room, she was startled to find it empty and that her bed had not
been slept in. Alarmed, Mrs. McKechnie consulted with her hus-
band, and he summoned the police. That move brought into the
picture another Edwardsville resident who had known the Mc-
Kechnies for years—Richard Powell, chief of detectives for Luzerne
County.

Now in a small town like Edwardsville a detective chief has a
hard time attending to his business without a great many people
knowing about it, and so it was in this case.

The moment Powell rang the McKechnie doorbell, neighbors up
and down the street began talking, and soon they were discussing
the matter across hedges and over fences. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards
and Bobby stepped into their backyard, and it wasn’t long before
they were apprised of the nature of the trouble.

Bobby went over to comfort Mrs. McKechnie and to offer his
help. “I was downtown last night,” he said, “but I didn’t see Freda.


Rosetta Culver, one of the last
persons
gave some important information.

6

to see the victim alive,

However, she must be all right.” Then he announced he
was going to get into his Chevrolet coupe and make a
canvass of Freda’s friends, inquiring for her.

Unfortunately, Bobby’s assurances concerning Freda’s
welfare soon proved baseless. Not long after he had left, a
state police car drove up to the McKechnie house and
Trooper David Green jumped out. His expression grave,
he conferred in whispers with Powell, who then had the
painful duty of communicating the tragic news to the Mc-
Kechnies,

A few minutes before, Freda, dead, had been found
Hoating in Harvey’s Lake, a popular woods and cottage-
rimmed summer resort not far from Edwardsville. Her
body was clad in a bathing suit and she appeared to have
drowned. Curiously, her clothes and her pocketbook had
been discovered not in a bath house, but in a clump of bushes
off a little-used lane back of the amusement beach at one
end of the lake.

The McKechnies were too stricken with grief to provide
much information. In fact, Detective Powell gathered only
enough facts to form the basis of some mystifying questions.
Why had Freda gone swimming when she had announced
on leaving the house the night before that she only in-
tended going downtown for a soda? Again, with whom
had she gone swimming, for certainly she would not have
gone alone at night, and how had she obtained a bathing
suit ?

Powell left the McKechnie home and followed Trooper
Green and Sheriff Luther M. Kniffen out to Harvey’s
Lake. It was still early morning, so only the amusement
park manager, a couple of lifeguards and some other
employes were on hand. Powell was told that a lifeguard

The body of the missing Freda McKechnie, inset,
was discovered floating near the shore of this
popular resort lake close to .Wilkes-Barre, Pa.

had first noticed Freda’s body floating near the diving tower
and had towed it ashore. The girl was immediately recog-
nized, since she had been a regular patron of the resort.

The manager led Powell to a boathouse, to which the
body had been taken. In death, Freda was nearly as pretty
as she had been in life. Chief Powell studied the girl's
bathing suit. It was blue and bore her initials—F. McK.”
~-embroidered in red on the skirt.

Dr. H. A. Brown, a local physician who had been called
earlier and who had arrived at about the same time as
Powell, examined the body, and soon a worried expression
crept over his face.

“Look,” he said, and pointed to Freda’s head. Above the
hairline there was a contused area darkening the scalp.
“T don’t believe she drowned—or if she did, it was follow-
ing a considerable blow.”

In Dr. Brown’s opinion Freda had been dead for several
hours, yet he hesitated to say exactly how long until he
had made a more complete examination. Sheriff Kniffen,
Powell learned, had already given instructions for the body
to be removed to the Nesbitt West Side Hospital morgue.
There an autopsy would be performed by Dr. Thomas
Wenner, the county pathologist. While Powell and Dr.
Brown talked, an ambulance drove up and attendants took
the body away.

At Powell's request, the manager of the resort directed
him to the bushes in which Freda’s clothes still lay. They
were wet, but not sopping, so the detective deduced that
they had not been immersed in water but only had been
exposed to at least some of the rainfall of the night before.

It also was clear to him that the girl had not undressed
in the bushes, for in that case she would have hung up her
clothes rather than thrown them on the ground.

Powell examined each garment carefully, particularly
the panties and bra. But there were no rips or tears; ap-
parently Freda had herself removed her clothes. Lastly,
the detective studied the contents of her pocketbook—lip-
stick, compact, comb, handkerchief, change purse with a
small sum of money; there was no clue to who had accom-
panied Freda to the lake.

No clue in the pocketbook, that is, but the lane leading
to the bushes did yield something. As a result of the rain,
the earth was soft, and imprinted in it were fresh tire tracks.
A small-medel car had come in, turned around, started

Sheriff Kniffen (le!

killer (center) to ©
one of many lette

forward, bh

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moulag'

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because he was in love with Mary
Bryan, the girl in Albany. He really
loved her and spent as much time
with her as he could.’ Freda, on the
other hand, was just somebody he was
used to. She was always there, wait-
ing. “She always had been, from the
time they were kids and played to-
gether.

When Freda first told him.she was
_pregnant, he said he would marry
her.. That was the only decent thing

to do; But as the weeks passed he -
_ She had brought

grey to hate her.

>
es ts ee eT Re Ne

the whole thing on by clinging to"him.
Why hadn’t she married someone else
when he was away at school?

During this time he continued to
see Mary, driving up to Albany as
often as he could. ‘The more he saw
of Mary, the more he wanted to get
rid of Freda. He decided murder was
the .only way out.

He planned the crime deliberately,
arranging with Freda to go out to the

lake. He said he concealed the black-.
‘jack in the neck of his bathing suit.

Then, when they had reached a point

in the water where it was up to their
shoulders, Bobby approached her
from behind and brought the black-
jack down on her skull with all his
strength. She slipped under. Only

-a few dark ripples marked the spot

where: she had been standing. He
cast away. the weapon and fled beck
to his car.

‘The full story of the crime had
finally been told. The evidence was

complete when the blackjack was re- .

covered from the lake.

The crime caused a big stir in Ed-
wardsville and Wilkes-Barre.
papers called. it “The American
Tragedy” case, referring to Theodore
Dreiser’s monumental novel—based
on an actual murder—which tells the

story of a boy who kills his pregnant
| sweetheart because he loves another.

The tragedy of Bobby and Freda
could almost have been taken out of
the pages of the book.

Bobby went on trial in Wilkes-
Barre in October of 1934, and for the
first time his friends and neighbors
heard the full account of his sordid
crime. Bobby acted stunned. He

kept his eyes away from the jammed ,

spectator section, most of the time
training them on the judge’s head.
From the very beginning he had little
hope of being saved, and what little
he had vanished when Mary Bryan
took the stand. Her testimony shat-
tered the last remnants of any pos-

sible defense. '

She told the court how ardently he
had ‘wooed her at college, how she had
bought him a car when she got a job,
so that he could come to Albany to

: Bt see her. She said that he had prom-

ised to marry her and that she knew
nothing about another woman in his
life.

In addition to her verbal testimony,
a few of more than 150 letters Ed-
wards had sent her were read to thé
court. The messages in some of them
caused more than one person in the
room to stir in red-faced embarrass-
ment.

One letter ‘oonchoded with the
words: “I must have you with me in
body. : I will take you to bed now and
hold you to me all night. .

Another read in part: “Ny ever-
lasting and increasing love is coming
to you this night.... Keep your lips
soft and wet for me. ...”

The verdict came in quickly. Hand-
some Bobby was guilty of first-degree
murder.

It was not long before the parallel
with Dreiser’s book was complete.
Bobby Edwards, like the villain of the
novel, paid’ with his life for his brutal
crime.

Boron’ Nore:! “The name Mary‘

i

Bryan, used in this story, is fictitious.

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Sheriff Kniffen (left) and Deputy Welker take handcuffed
killer (center) to courthouse for trial. Top right is part of

one of many letters that established motive for the crime.

Uy Ing tower

liately recog forward, backed up once, then gone out. The state police,

too, had noticed the tracks, and the detective was gratified
to observe a trooper approaching with the equipment for
moulage castings.

Powell’s further conversations with the resort manager
proved only that Freda must have arrived at the lake after
the 9 o'clock closing hour the night before, since she had

been called not been there earlier. a Detective Chief Powell examines cast of auto
ime time as I’m sure of that,” the manager said, I knew her well, track found at lake. Above is lethal blackjack.
| expression and last night was a week night, with not too many swim-

mers about. If she had come before we closed, I would have
seen her. Besides, if we had still been open, with the bath

the resort.
to which the
rly as pretty
| the girl’s
“Po McK."

Lowe
the sealn houses*unlocked, certainly she would have used one, The
as follow. last time I remember seeing her out here was late Friday
atternoon.

lor several _ Chief Powell returned to Edwardsville and to the Mc-

ng until he Kechnie home, to find Bobby Edwards there, together with

ff Kniffen a gathering of sympathetic McKechnie relatives. One of

the body the latter had just informed Bobby of Freda’s death and

morgue of the few known circumstances surrounding it, and Bobby
Thoma. looked pale and ill. : |
maid Di _ Powell put in a quiet word. Any luck, Bobby? Did you |
took find out which of Freda’s girlfriends she was to meet last |

: night ?”

~—s Bobby shook his head, but he signified that he wanted

They to talk with the detective privately. Powell strolled out into

ed that the sunny front yard, the youth followed, and the two

il been engaged in subdued conversation,

hata. “Took, Chief,” said Bobby, “I’ve got something on my
conscience—a lie, but a white lie, When I left here a while
ago to hunt for Freda, I was bluffing, because I knew where
she was last night, up until about 10 o'clock.

“T was covering up for her, understand, thinking maybe
that after 10 o’clock she had had her own business to attend
a to—something she didn’t want her parents to know about.

But now that she’s dead, I figure I’d better tell somebody—
you in particular—all | know.”
Powell nodded gravely, and Bobby went on: “T was
downtown last night and I met Freda and another girl,
Rosetta Culver, coming out of the drugstore. I was in my
8 car, hailed them, and asked if they wanted a ride.

“They said they did. Both got in and we tooled around
‘or about fifteen minutes, then I dropped Rosetta off where
she lives. I had in mind taking [Continued on page 78]


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78 >

a doubt” that Joseph Banks was un-
conscious at the time he was killed and
that the wound could not have been self-
inflicted.

He said Sherwood Morrill, the state
handwriting expert, had found that the
handwritten will, the signature on the
codicil and the suicide note were all
forgeries.

Other points, Weissich said, were con-
versations with the neighbors after the
crime; grammatical discrepancies in the
will, although Mrs. Malmgren was a
stickler for grammar and writing in
general; and the failure of the Filipino to
account for his time when the murder
was pegged—‘“the daylight hours of
Friday, September 17.” ;

The next day Bart granted what was
to be the most one-sided press conference
in history.

The reporters did all the talking. The
only rise that he made to the bait was
when his American citizenship was ques-
tioned.

“T’m an American. I was naturalized
last July,” he snapped and his eyes flashed
around the room.

Asked about his relations with Mrs.
Banks, he said, ‘We were just good
friends.”

How about his bank books, where he

had apparently raised a balance of $2.85
to $133,000?

“No comment, you see my lawyer.”

Did he ever flash a $1000 bill in a San
Francisco gambling joint?

“No comment.”

Finally, Bart did you do it? Kill those
two people?

For the first time a flicker of light
flashed across his face.

“That’s the truth. I didn’t. I didn’t do
it. I will tell the grand jury everything.”

Back he went into a cell of the Marin
County jail.

A few days later, James MacInnis, one
of San Francisco’s top criminal attorneys,
showed up as counsel for the Filipino. He
described Caritativo as “a bewildered
little guy who is charged with murder.”

The Marin County Grand Jury ap-
parently didn’t agree with this evaluation.
After two sessions, during which the
jurors heard seventeen witnesses, they re-
turned two indictments against Bart
Caritativo charging him with the mur-
ders of Mrs. Camille Malmgren Banks
and Joseph Banks on September 17.

As this account of the investigation is
prepared for publication, Bart Caritativo
awaits the processes of justice that will
determine the extent of any connection he
had with the case.

Freda’s Tryst With Murder

[Continued from page 7]

Freda home, too, but when we got to
Plymouth Street, around the corner from
here, she asked me to let her out. I
couldn’t understand why.

“She explained that she didn’t want her
parents to see her with me—with me
mind you, a boy she had grown up with—
because she had told them she only was
going to meet a girl. Well, I accepted that
with a grain of salt, but I did what
she wanted.

“Then I remembered I had promised
my mother to bring her home some candy
bars, so I drove back downtown to the
drugstore, and when I- returned past
Plymouth. Street, Freda was gone.”

Powell considered ‘this statement
lengthily, and finally asked Bobby: “But
Freda must have gone home. When she
was found, she was wearing her own
bathing suit. How could that be, unless
she went back for it? Surely she wasn’t
carrying the suit around with her.”

Bobby, however, was able to clear that
point up quickly. “Oh, yes,” he told
Powell. “As Freda got out of my car,
she asked for her bathing suit. You see,
a bunch of us—Freda included—went
swimming after work last Friday after-
noon, and Freda had left her suit in my
luggage compartment. So I gave it to her,
and the last I saw of her she was stand-
ing on the corner of Plymouth Street
last night.”

The detective cleared his throat and
dug a toe into the ground, thinking. The
implications of Bobby Edwards’ account
were apparent. The question that now
arose was: Whom had Fréda met—or
anyway expected to meet—on the corner
of Plymouth Street? Probably some man.
But what man?

Chief Powell drifted off, apparently
aimlessly, with a definite purpose. It was
his intention to check Bobby’s story at
the drugstore and with Rosetta Culver,
Freda’s girlfriend.

He proceeded first to the only down-

town drugstore remaining open as late
as 10 o’clock at night. There the clerk
remembered that Freda and Rosetta had
had a soda “around 8 :30 or 8:45” the night
before and that Bobby Edwards had
Le in to get some candy bars around
10 :30.

So far, Powell realized as he headed
toward the Culver girl’s home, all the
elements of Bobby’s story checked. News
of Freda’s death had spread rapidly and
the detective chief found Rosetta in
tears. Nevertheless she told a coherent
story of her meeting Freda the previous
night and in the main bore out what
Bobby Edwards had said.

But there was one discrepancy. Ac-
cording to Rosetta, Bobby had dropped
her off and then gone on with Freda,
presumably to take her home, at around
9 o’clock—not 10 o’clock.

Powell was puzzled as he departed. The
druggist had supported young Edwards’
statement that he had stopped at the
store for some candy at 10:30, yet
Rosetta Culver had been positive Bobby
had dropped her off at 9 o’clock. Which
was right 9 o’clock or 10? The one-hour
difference could be vitally important,

The answer came to Powell literally
like a bolt of lightning as he sat at his
desk. The storm the previous night! He
remembered the time of the storm ex-
actly, as the result of an annoying ex-
perience with his radio.

He had been home the night before,
listening to his favorite programs, and
the static brought on by the storm had
been unbearable at 10 o’clock—so unbear-
able that he had to shut off the only
newscaster for whom he cared a hoot.
Then he had jumped up to close a win-
dow to save a rug from getting soaked by
the sudden downpour.

Powell sighed a deep, melancholy sigh,
for it distressed him to know that Bobby
Edwards, one of his neighbors, had told
him a lie—and not just a white lie. Either
Rosetta Culver or the druggist might
have been mistaken about their estimates
of the time, but the detective could not
doubt his own memory.

Since the rain had been coming down

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right?”
Powell nod


calmer now, and the only thing notice-
able in his demeanor different from usual
was that he talked too fast.

“Like I said earlier,” he related, “I ran
across Freda and Rosetta downtown last
night, took them for a ride, then. took
Rosetta home. That was around ¥ o'clock
—not 10 o’clock; I changed the hour to
cover myself up. Well, attcr we let Ros-
etta out, Freda asked tne if [’d like to
go for a swim. I made up all that about
dropping her off at the corner of Plym-
outh Street.

“Both our bathing suits were in the car
from last Friday, so I said okay, and
we drove around a little more and then
headed for Harvey’s Lake. When we got
there it was dark and the bath houses
were locked. We put on our-bathing suits
in the car, left our clothes there, ran
down to the water and waded in.

“We swam about a half hour, maybe
longer, then the storm blew up. I told
Freda I thought we'd better be heading
for home, but she said wait until after
she'd had one last dive. She climbed up
on the pier and dove, but then instead of
hearing a splash, I heard an awful sock.
She'd missed the water in the dark and
her head had hit the edge of a rowboat
tied to the pier and she'd rolled into the
rowboat.

ce

I got to her as fast as I could; she
Was groaning, then she died. I was scared
—scared as hell—and wondered what to
do. I was afraid somebody might accuse
me of killing her, and my first thought
was to get rid of her body. I hauled it
up from the bottom of the rowboat,
shoved it into the water, then ran back
to my car.

“It had started raining by this time,
raining hard. To turn around, I drove
into a little lane, and as I was coming
out I remembered that Freda’s clothes
and pocketbook and stuff were still in
the car. So I backed up, opened the door
and tossed her belongings into the bushes
—anything to get rid of them. Then I re-
turned to town, stopped by the drug
store and bought my mother the candy
bars, as I had promised to do, and went
home.” ;

Powell slowed down until his car was

barely crawling. He produced a pack of.

cigarets, shook Bobby out one and lit
one himself. For perhaps the first titue
in his long career, he regretted having
entered police work; it was on Occasions
a business of such a character as to tear
the heart out of a man. He stepped on
the gas, but only enougin to keep the
car from stalling.

“You say, Bobby.” he asked, “that you
were afraid of being accused of killing
Freda. Why did you feel that anyone
would think that of you?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby answered
shortly. “I just thought so.” He threw
the cigaret out of the window, not a
quarter of it smoked.

“Bobby .. .” Powell turned the car to
the curb and stopped, “Freda was going
to have a baby. You'd gotten her prog-
nant. Maybe you felt that on that ac-
count somebody would get the idea you
wanted to get rid of her,”

Bobby said nothing, but tears came into
his eyes. The two sat there silently for
fully five minutes, then Bobby decided to
speak: “That’s right, Chief Powell. Freda
was going to havea baby, and it was my
fault. But please don’t get me wrong.
I had promised to do the right thing
by her. We planned to move to another
town, marry, have the kid, and then
sometime later—when people didn’t know
how soon the baby was born—come back.
Freda’s dying like this, accidentally . ,

8% lS

why, that was just a coincidence, al-
though I’m not sure how many people
will believe me.”

Powell sighed a disturbed, disconsolate
sigh, threw the car into gear, and moved
off. Not long before, he had read a novel
by Theodore Dreiser, “An American
Tragedy,” based on an actual murder
case, and the similarities between the
situation therein portrayed and this one
struck him forcibly,

The protagonist of Dreiser’s novel had
gotten a girl into trouble, taken her toa
lake, hit her over the head, thrown her
out of a boat and had then attempted to
explain the incident away as an accident,

Dreiser's character had been caught up
with, tried, convicted and executed, in
part because the prosecution was able to
show that another woman was involved—
that the youth in the case, while getting
the one girl with child, was at the same
time courting another.

Powell wanted desperately to bélieve
Bobby Edwards’ story of an accident, and
yet to his experienced ear Bobby’s words
did not ring true. Such affairs, the detec-
tive realized, followed a pattern. For
Bobby’s sake, Powell hoped that there
was no other woman in his life.

The detective drove Bobby to the dis-
trict attorney’s office and briefed Assist-
ant District Attorney Harold Flannery
On every aspect of the case. Then Powell,
Flannery and Bobby rode out to Harvey’s

ake so that Bobby might demonstrate
his version of how Freda had met her
death,

By the time they: arrived there, how-
ever, the state police had made a dis-
covery that cast grave doubt on Bobby’s
story. The discovery was a leather-
thonged blackjack of the sort issued law
officers. It had been found lying on the
bottom of the lake not far from where
Freda’s body was discovered. All the
troopers investigating the case were
agreed as to how it had gotten there—
beyond a doubt tossed ont into the water
after it had been used to render Freda
at least unconscigys,

Chief’ Powel: examined the blackjack
and recalled that during the war, Bobby
Edwards’ father had been a member of
the tome Defense Guard. Such weapons
Kad been issued to the Home Guards.

The detective turned to “Bobby and
asked him: “What about this? It belongs
to your father, doesn’t it? Were you car-
rying it last night?”

Bobby looked stonily ahead and re-
mained silent,

Powell and Flannery drove Bobby to
the state police barracks, booked him
and charged him with Freda’s murder,

lannery questioned him, and while most
of what he said was mere repetition of
the story he had given earlier, he added
a little that was new.

This concerned his whereabouts over
the weekend—on Saturday and Sunday,
“I was over the line in New York State,”
he recounted, “visiting somebody I went
to school with at State Teachers College.”

“Somebody, Bobby,” Chief Powell de-
manded. “Who was that ‘somebody ?’”

“A girl,” said Bobby, and his head
dropped. “You might as well know it all.
Her name is Helen Forbes.”

With Bobby locked in a cell, Chief
Powell had the dreadful duty of telling
the boy’s parents that their son was
under arrest. Then he searched Bobby’s
room and found a thick packet of letters
from Helen Forbes, together with an in-
Surance policy on his life in which she
was named as beneficiary,

The letters told their own story. While
he had been at college, Bobby and Helen,
who was 23 and who had now begun a

career teaching school, had fallen vio-
lently ‘in love and had sworn to marry.
Indeed, the letters spoke already of a
“spiritual marriage,” and spoke further
of “secret love rites” both were practising
while separated,

Chief Powell impounded the letters as
evidence and took them away, his heart
heavy. Patently, Bobby Edwards, young
as he was, had played two women, and
when one of them—the one he favored
the least—had become an inconvenience
to him, he had rid himself of her by
violent means so that he might be free
to marry the other.

It was Dreiser’s old Story all over again
—“An American Tragedy.”
nancy. The lake. The blow. The simulated
accident. The other woman.

The next day, Powell and Flannery
questioned Bobby again. He was in a
self-recriminatory mood, declaring that
he wanted to “confess everything, get it
off my conscience, and atone for my great
sin.

Then he repeated his tale of his trip
with Freda to the lake and of their un-
dressing in the car. “It occurred to me,”

€ went on, “that I had an opportunity
to do away with Freda and clear up the
situation. Before closing the door of the
car. I took the blackjack out and put it in
my bathing trunks. While we were swim-
ming around, I hauled off and hit her
over the head as hard as I could. She

' sank, came up once, then disappeared. I

thought she was gone forever, but that’s
not the way it turned out. I cared more
for Helen, of course, and that's the rea-
son I did it. But once I had done it, I
regretted it immediately.”

Powel! located Helen Forbes at her
home in New York State and obtained
from her some 170 letters. Bobby Ed-
wards had written her. These missives
were as impassioned as those she had
addressed to him, if not more so. The
girl came to Pennsylvania, visited her
sweetheart in jail, and said to him: “I'll
always love you, Bobby, darling.”

So comforted, Bobby, in October, 1934,
went on trial for Freda’s murder before
Judge William A. Valentine and a

uzerne County jury. Helen Forbes
ceded over her equity in his life insurance,
so that the money might be used for his
defense.

On the stand Bobby repudiated his last
confession and declared that while he had
Struck Freda with the blackjack he'd
done so only after she had died from div-
ing and striking the boat. “It was an ac-
cident,” he insisted desperately, “—a
pure accident.”

Theodore Dreiser attended the trial
and looked at the jury meditatively. He
was living again the novel he had writ-
ten. It was a second “An American
Tragedy.”

On October 5, after an all-night delib-
eration, the jury indicated its appraisal of
Bobby’s story when it brought in a
verdict of guilty and failed to recommend
mercy. The verdict was the second great
blow ‘Bobby had suffered during the trial.
Earlier in the proceedings, Helen Forbes
had reversed her stand with respect to
her erstwhile lover and had declared that
she was through with him forever. When
her statement was repeated to him, Bobby
said: “It’s all over now. Nothing matters.”

Judge Valentine sentenced Bobby to
die. On May 6, 1935, Bobby took the long
walk to the death chamber in Pennsyl-
vania’s Rockview Penitentiary.

(The name Helen Forbes As fictitious to protect
the identity of a person indirectly involved in the
investigation..—_The Editor.)

i

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cats and dogs at 10 o’clock, surely Freda
McKechnie wouldn’t have gotten out of
Bobby’s car and stood on the corner
of Plymouth Street, inviting a drench-
ing. It looked very much as though Bobby
had intentionally falsified the hour at
which he claimed to have delivered the
girl, safe and sound, to her home neigh-
borhood—but why had he falsified it?

One answer was that if his story were
believed, he would not be required to
explain where he and Freda had been
between 9 and 10 o’clock. Seemingly,
then, it had been Bobby who accompanied
Freda to Harvey’s Lake.

Powell sighed again and picked up the
telephone. First he called the state police
barracks at nearby Wyoming and in-
structed a trooper to meet him in Ed-
wardsville with the moulage impressions
of the tire marks made at the lake. Then
he called the Nesbitt West Side Hospital
and asked to speak with Dr. Wenner, the
pathologist.

“Finished with the autopsy, Doctor?”
he inquired, when Wenner came on the
phone.

“Just about.” The patholo ist sounded
grimly serious. “But look, C ief, I think
you'd better take a run out here, then
you and I could have a private talk.”

“Situation that bad?”

“Worse.”

“See you in five minutes ... no, wait.
See you in fifteen minutes ; first I’ve got
to meet one of the identification boys
from the state police.”

Powell stepped from the phone booth,
left the drugstore, and stood on the
street corner outside. A state police car
drew up shortly, and the detective went
over for a few words with the officer
at the wheel. He instructed the trooper
as to how he was to proceed with the
plaster castings, then asked: “Are other
men still working out at the lake?”
“That's right, Chief,” said the trooper,
“a whole squad. The public has been
excluded from the amusement center
today and we’re turning the place inside
out.”

The trooper moved off, then Powell
got in his own car and drove to the hos-
pital. In the morgue, he was awaited by
Dr. Wenner, a man of great gravity and
sober, scientific mien. “I thin it’s mur-
der,” said Wenner, bluntly, “and I think
I know the motive.”

The pathologist declared that. only a
small amount of water had been found
in Freda’s lungs, and he confirmed posi-
tively Dr. Brown’s original theory that
she had not drowned.

“The girl died of shock and concus-
sion,” he went on, “as the result of a
blow over the head savage enough to
have felled an ox. She. was hit with some
heavy object, perhaps a blackjack.”

Then Wenner asked Powell if he had
determined at what hour Freda had eaten
dinner the night before. “Between 7 and
7:30,” the detective answered, “but she
had a soda an hour and a half or so
later.”

“Yes,” the doctor nodded, “I found evi-
dence of that, but I was more interested
in when she partook the bulk of her food.
It was still in her stomach, not entirely
digested. She died a little more than two
hry after dining—say between 9:30 and
9:45,”

“Tt couldn’t have been an accidental
death?” asked Powell.

“Possibly—but that’s a long shot.”
Wenner shrugged. “Wait until you hear
the rest of my findings and see what con-
clusions you reach. She was. single,
right?”

Powell nodded.

“Not even engaged to be married?”

Powell shook his head.

“Then she was in quite a predicament,
and so was the man responsible for her
condition, because in another five months
she would have become a mother |”

Powell gasped, for he was shocked,
knowing the McKechnies as well as he
did, and knowing Freda’s excellent repu-
tation. “My gosh—pregnant!” he mur-
mured overcome.

As the detective left the hospital, the
factory whistles across the Susquehanna
River in Wilkes-Barre sounded noon. He
recalled, painfully, that he had eaten no
breakfast, and he therefore stopped
downtown for a sandwich and coffee. He
was longer than he might have been over
his snack, since there were a number of
problems he had to work out in his mind.

It seemed inconceivable that Bobby
Edwards could have been Freda’s lover ;
the boy was so young, and certainly’ no
one in the neighborhood would have sus-
pected that they were carrying on as
intimately as the girl’s condition indi-
cated.

Also, even if Bobby was the father of
the never-to-be-born child why would he
have been so foolish as to attempt to rid
himself of his embarrassment by mur-
der? He could have married the girl, al-
though she was older, but what would
have been so bad about that?

The. detective drank the last of his cof-
fee reluctantly, since he did not relish
the task which lay ahead. Then he drove
out to the McKechnie house and parked,
conscious that the eyes of many people
in the block were following his move-
ments. The state police car was parked
up ahead, and now a trooper got out
and walked back to where Powell sat.

“You checked the casting?” asked the
detective.

“Yes,” said the trooper, “I checked it.”

“And?”

“The cast and one of the tires on
Bobby’s Chevrolet fit.”

“Who saw you checking?”

“T don’t think anyone. The Chevrolet
is parked at one side of the house in a
little grove.”

“Where’s Bobby?”

“TJe’s still in with the McKechnies—

-acts like one of the chief mourners.”

Powell nodded, dismissed the trooper,
entered the McKechnie house and sum-
moned Bobby outside. The youth fol-
lowed along after him until they were
once more together in the front yard.

“Bobby,” announced Powell, “I’m going
to have to take you down to the district
attorney’s office. But before we go, I
wonder if you have anything you want
to tell me, about last night, 1 mean.

“T know you didn’t let Freda out at
Plymouth Street at 10 o’clock, because
she was dead at 10 o’clock. Also, I know
that you were with her at the lake,
because we found the tracks of your
Chevvy there in the lane and the state
police have taken plaster impressions of
the treads. From the autopsy it would
appear that Freda was murdered—hit
over the head. Things look bad for you,
Bobby, but I hope you have some ex-
planation.”

The youth covered his face with his
hands, and for a moment Powell feared
he was about to collapse. But then he
took his hands away from his face,
reached for a handkerchief, wiped the
perspiration from his forehead and said:
‘Yes, Chief, I do have an explanation—
I can explain everything—but before I
do, let's get away from the house.” The
two boarded Powell’s car and the detec-
tive drove slowly off.

As they rode, Bobby talked. He was

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aa ee ae

to be.on duty watching Ensminger in the oe prison, who said Ensminger slept well Satur-
day night. Jacob Coulson, of the prison staff also accompanied Fisher. The second car
was occupied by Sgt. Harleman and Pvt. Stephen Richardson,-who was one of the officers
responsible for solving the'heinous'crimes, and the reporter of THE EVENING SENTINEL.
Among the six official witnesses-watching the,execution were David Pitzer, Biglerville,
and Robert Thompson, Aspers, along.with Sheriff Fisher, Harleman and Richardson. Three.
other newsmen also witnessed the execution.

"Ensminger's last visitohs to the county prison, were his:parents, who spent some time
with the condemned,man Thursday afternoon. Ensminger s brother, Floyd, who testified
against the 'torch' slayer et his trial last September fisited him Wednesday afternoon,
along with two sisters, Helen and Thelma,. Ensminger was condemned to death-for the mur-
ders of his wife and daughter by President Judge Dale F. Shughart afer he defendant
suddenly changed his 'not guilty' plea to guilty on the third day in which testimony
wes presented.

“After Ensminger @A4kéHEH changed his plea, Judge Shughert dismissed jury and took over the
remainder of he case. The Court appointed three psychiatrists and after their report
declared Ensminger was not 'mentally ill,' Judge Shughart wrote a 2l-page opinion which

he hadded down last December 15, declaring.Ensminger guilty of murder in the first degree
and fixing the death penalty. Ensminger was called into court on Dec. .16 to hear Judge -
Shughart pronounce the Sentence. It was testified at the trial that Ensminger on the day
of the murders, had knocked his wife and daughter unconscious, then poured gasoline and
kerosene over their prostrate bodies, lighted a match and fled es he told Lois.to run to

a neighbor's home to summon a fire company.

"The early arrival of the firemen spoiled the murder plot. E@idence left by the quickly ex-=
tinguished fire showed that some foreign material had been used to feed the flames and in-
vestigathon by State Police and Fire Marshal officers led to Ensminger's arrest last Auge
. At the trial, Lois testified against her father, admitting illicit relations with him
over a period of 2 years. She also testified that her father hed directed her to spread
gasoline over the floor near where the bodies were found. He is survived by his parents,
Mr. and Mrs. Bryan Ensminger, Carlisle RD33; one daughter, Lois; one brother, Floyd, Car-
lisle, and two sisters, Helen and Thelma Ensminger, both at home. Ensminger was a veteran
of World War II and was wounded in Germany. Private funeral services will be held Thurs-
day morning at 10:30 o'clock in the Ewing Brothers Funeral Home, with Rev. Paul E. Hoover,
pastor of the Triumphant Church of God officiating. Burial will be in Westminster Ceme-
tery. There will be no viewing." EVENING SENTINEL, Carlisle, Pae, March 29, 195) (page
one, also photograph of Ensminger.)


NO APPEAL.
ENSMINGER, Clyde enon, white, electrocuted Pa. State Prison sega: on Mars 29, 195k.

"Clyde Vernon Ensminger, 35-year-bld former priser ty, helper from Carlisle, RD3, near
Bloserville, calmly and unaided, walked to his deeth this morning in the @lectric chair
at the Rockview Benitentiary, for the July 20, 1953, arson-murder deaths of his wife, Annie
Mae, also 35, and his 13-year-old daughter, Ruth Eleanor. Maintaining the same tight-
lipped composure shown ever since his arrest last August lh, Ensminger walked slowly but
firmly to the death chamber at 12:29 this morning and three minutes and twenty seconds
later the penitentiary physician, Dr. J. G. Weixell, pronounced him dead.
"Ensminger was strapped into the electric chair at 12 729 this morning as the acting pri-
son_chaplain, C. F. Lauer, intoned the 23rd Psalm,.a Biblical quotation with which Ens-
minger became particularly femiliar .during his wait for the execution. As the prison
chaplain finished reciting the 23rd Psalm, Executioner Jerry Kreener pulled SMXvawEs
the switch at 12:30, and two more applications of electricity were sent through his body
before he was officially pronounced dead. Ensminger had walked to the chair in a white
surgical like shirt and blue trousers which were slit so that the electrodes could be
placed on his legs. As he entered the death chamber, he nodded to Sheriff Clyde E.
Fisher, who replied, 'Goodbye, Clyde.' The body, claimed by Ensminger's parents, Mr. and
Mrs. Bryan Ensminger, .also of Carlise RD3, was released to the -Ewing Brothers Funeral
Home. The body was scheduled to be taken from Rockview Penitentiary at noon today,
following an autopsy.»
"Reve Paul E. Hoover, pastor of the Triumphant Church of God, Longs Gap Road, spent more
than an hour with the cond@mned slayer yesterday .afternoon snd then returned at 11 0' clock
last night and remained with Ensminger until the execution. Rockview prison authorities
reported 'noth unusual! in Ensminger's reaction during his 13 hour and 55-minute stay
an his death house cell No. 1. Although outwardly calm, Ensminger showed signs of q
inward nervousness during his stay in the death house. When Cpl. Oscar Tingley, of the
State Police fingerprint division, went to the death house yesterday efternoon at }j
o'clock to finger-print the ' torch’, slayer, he was compelled to wipe all fingers individ-
ually because of heavy perspiration.
"Ensminger made no special .requests and he ate thes regular prison fare for es and «
supper. His last meal last evening considted of .sliced cheese, creamed tomato rice
soup, saltines, raisin pie, .bread, syrup and tea. for his meal yesterday ‘noon he ete ad
pork chops, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, lettuce salad, marble cake, lemon pudding,
bread, syrup and coffee with milk. The 90-mile trip from the Cumberland County Prison -to
the Rockview death house, which was supervised by Sheriff .Fisher and Sgt. George Harle-.
men, of the State Police Substation here, required exactly two hours. The condemned
slayer, MEAMKcHrsE handcuffed, was escorted from the county jail at 8:35 o'clock yester-
day morning and at 10:35 o'clock the big gates of the Rockview Penitentiary swung open.
Four minutes later Ensminger entered the death house, the last time he got a glimpse of
the outside world. After he was taken to the death house, he was given a physic&l
examination and in the afternoon prison atteches prepared the condemned man for death by
shaving his head and slitting his trousers.
"Following the execution of Ensminger, Sheriff Fisher disclosed that as recently as a week
ago Ensminger still was sttempting to shift the blame for the fire deaths of his wife and
younger daughter to his 16-year-old daughter, Lois, with whom he had illicit relations
over a two-year period leading up to thé day of the two crimes. On Mar. 20, Ensminger
wrote a lééter to Gov. John S. Fine, requesting a stay of execution because his daughter
‘actually committed the crimes.' His request, which was denied, two days later by the
Governor, read: 'In the trisl of my case in Cablisle, Pa., I pleaded guilty to the charge
of murder of my wife and daughter. The reason I entered this plea was to protect my daugh-
ter Lois, who actually committed the crime. Irequest a stay of exedution in order to be
present at the trisl of her case as I have asked the sheriff of Cumberland County to file
charges against her,!
"Lois, who is being held in the Cumberland County prison by juvenile authorities, had re=
quested BSherriff Fisher to say goodbye to her 'daddy.' Sheriff Fisher declined the ree
quest, but he did permit Lois to wave to her father from the living room of the sheriff's
oiigrbers as the car pulled out for Rockview. Because of the strict secrecy maintained
around arrangements to take Ensminger to the death house, less than 12 people were around
the prison when the car pulled away. Ensminger was seated in the rear of Sheriff Fisher's

automobile between Deputy Sheriff Emory W. Bretz end John Stringfellow, the last guard

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338 117 ATLANTIC REPORTER

testatrix should ‘govern (In re Tyson’s Es-'
tate, 191 Pa, 218, 43 Atl. 131), and it must
be ascertained by a consideration of the will
as a whole. Schuldt v. Reading Trust Co., |
270 Pa. 360, 113 Atl. 545; Packer’s Estate
(No, 1) 246 Pa. 97, 92 Atl. 65; Miller’s Ap-
peal, 113 Pa. 459, 6 Atl. 715; Middleswarth’s
Adm’r vy. Blackmore, 74 Pa. 414. The clause
of the will first above quoted creates an ac-
tive spendthrift trust of Edgar’s moiety, giv-
ing him the life use with the power to make
an absolute disposition of the one-half there-
of by his last will, which he did. In the
event of his failure to do so, however, the
will continues that one-half within the trust
during the life of his widow and for her use,
then gives the entire moiety to Edgar's chil-
dren in fee. This provision gives rise to
appellant's contention that by it the power
given Edgar was revoked, except as to the
use of the one-half of the moiety during the
life of his widow, should she survive him,
While plausible, we cannot agree that such
is a sound construction, for, if so, the power
would have been wholly destroyed by the
death of Edgar’s wife in his lifetime, yet
there is nothing in the will to such effect or
that limits the power to a life use. If the
latter was all the mother intended to be-
stow upon her son she probably would have
omitted the power clause and, as she did in
the event of its nonexercise, have given the
life use directly to the surviving widow. The
gift in remainder of the entire moiety to Ed-
gar’s children may have been based on the
thought of his failure to exercise the power
of appointment; moreover, as the gifts to
Edgar and his wife were limited to life es-
tates, it was proper to dispose of the entire
moiety in remainder, for the power might not
be exercised. So the gift over of the whole
moiety in general terms does not indicate an
intent. to revoke the power, but rather a
provision for the contingency of its nonex-
ercise and, in any event, to dispose of the
one-half of the moiety excluded therefrom.
This construction gives effect to the several
provisions of the will which should always be
done if possible (In re Patton’s Estate, 268
Pa. 367, 112 Atl. 61), and is, we believe, what
the testatrix intended.

[3] Our attention is called to the rule that
the later of incompatible clauses in a will
must prevail; that rule, however, is never
invoked except as a last resort, when there
is an utter repugnancy (Patton's Estate, su-
pra, and cases there cited; also Jonesy.
Strong, 142 Pa, 496, 21 Atl. 981), which there
is not in this case. Conceding the remainder
of the moiety was vested in Edgar's cbildren,
it was subject to be divested by the exercise
of the power given the father. See Me-
Cauley’s Estate, 257 Pa. 377, 101 Atl. 827.

The decree is affirmed, costs to be paid out

|

(Pa,

COMMONWEALTH v. EMERY.,;

(Supreme Court of Pennsylvania... April 10,

1922.)

Criminal law G=-1137(5)—Defendant held not
prejudiced by reference to matters elicited
by him. ig ‘

Where defendant’s counsel elicited from
him that he had been confined in a penal insti-
tution and had a loathsome disease, and the
district attorney interrogated defendant on
cross-examination relative thereto but with-
drew the question, held that any harm done de-
fendant by reference to the testimony by the
district attorney was suffered by him when the
circumstances were brought out in his examina-
tion in chief and the withdrawn question of the
district attorney was not prejudicial, under Act

Mareh 15, 1911 (P. L. 20, § 1, Pa. St. 1920, §

8174), and Evidence Act 1887 (P. L. 161, §

10; Pa. St. 1920, § 21864).

Appeal from Court of Oyer and Terminer,
Philadelphia County; Joseph P. Rogers,
Judge.

Perley J. Pmery, alias James Hastings,
was convicted of murder, and he appeals.
Appeal dismissed, and record remitted.

Argued before MOSCHZISKRR, C, J., and
FRAZER, WALLING, SIMPSON, KEP-
TART, SADLER, and SCHAFFER, JJ.

Michael D. Hayes and Harry P. Felger,
both of Philadelphia, for appellant.

Joseph H. Taulane, Asst. Dist. Atty., and
Samuel P. Rotan, Dist. Atty., both of Phila-
delphia, for the Commonwealth.

MOSCHZISKER, C. J. Perley J. Emery,
convicted of murder of the first degree, ap-
peals from a sentence to death.

Defendant, in company with two other,men,
had stolen an automobile; they were ap
proached by Vincent Hanley, a uniformed
guard on the Parkway, one of the publi¢
streets of the city of Philadelphia. He asked
defendant to show his license card, where-
upon the latter drew a- revolver and -shot
Hanley, who died from the wound. Y

At the conclusion of the commonwealth’s
case, defendant took the stand as a witness
in his own behalf, testifying that he was ad-
dicted to the use of drugs, and did not re-
member the shooting; that he was subject
to pain in his head and had to “use morphine
now and then to keep the pain out.” The
prisoner’s own counsel asked: “IJave you
been confined in any institution as the re-
sult of that?” to which he responded, “Yes,
sir.” Counsel then asked where he had beep
confined; this elicited the reply, “I was un-
der two years and a half treatment in the
House of Correction in Boston.” The trial
judge inquired why the prisoner had been
there, and he answered, “I served six months

of the fund, prior to distribution.

for larceny and then I got two years on a&

6=>For other casos see sume topic and KEY-NUMBER in all Key-Numbered Digests and Indexes

Pa.) COMMONWEALTH vy. EMERY ° 339
(117 A.)

count of this sickness I have.”. Defendant's
counsel then put this question: “You had

syphilis, didn’t you?’ and defendant answer- |,

ed, “Yes.” . Up to this point no objection
whatever was entered ‘by the prisoner or his
counsel to the questions of the court, nor are
they now assigned as error. : :

When the assistant district attorney took
the prisoner for. cross-examination, he said:
“I want to just-clear up with reference to
your being treated'for this disease in that
institution; you were in an institution under
a sentence of five years, were you not?” (It
is conceded the use of “five years” instead of
two years was a mistake, the examiner mean-
ing to say the latter.) The prisoner’s ¢oun-
sel objected and asked for the withdrawal of
a juror, The court declined the motion, al-
lowing an exception. The district attorney
did not take advantage of the ruling, how-
ever, stating, “I won’t pursue the inquiry
any further and will withdraw the question.”

The soleassignment of error presented to
us on this appeal relates to the above ruling;
and, as before stated, it is to be noted that
the only exception shown by the assigument
is to the question put and withdrawn by the
district attorney.

Any possible harm which could have been
done appellant by the reference, in the dis-
triet atlorney’s question, to the fact that de-
fendant had been in a penal ‘institution, un-
der sentence for other offenses committed by
him or that he had a loathsome disease, was
euffercd when these circumstances were
hrought out on his examination in chief, as
to which no error is assigned; on this state
of the record, we see no grounds for reversal.

In asking that the sentence appealed from
be set aside, appellant relies on the act of
March 15, 1911-(P. L. 20, § 1; Pa. St. 1920,
$8174), which provides that a person charged
with crime shall not be asked, except under
vertain specified circumstances, and—

"if asked, shall not be required to answer, any
question tending to show that he has.committed,
er been charged with, or been convicted of any
efense other than the one wherewith he shall
then be charged, or tending to show that he
‘as been of bad character or reputation.”

This court, In Commonwealth v. Garan-
thoskic, 251 Pa. 247, 251, 96 Atl. 5138, made
the general statement that the act of 1911
wehibited examination along the forbidden
Nnes unless the ease falls within one of the
two exceptions mentioned in the statute; but
at no time have we ruled that reversible er-
mr appears where a subject forbidden by the
act, or other objectionable matter, is intro-
“ueed by the prisoner himself as part of his
fvhstantlve defense, and questions are then
Pet to him in reference thereto, without ob-
ition or exception by his counsel, and, on
em examination, a question of like char-
Scter, suggesting no new matter whatever,
rd eliciting no reply, is put by the district
RiLerajeeg ent evca the loct men-

in) fhe mre

‘tioned question being the only one excepted
to or assigned for-error. :

-If we assume (but we do not decide) that a
‘possible breach of the letter of the act was
;committed, yet this does not necessarily re
quire a reversal, where the attending circum;
stances ‘suggest that no’ material harm was
done: defendant by the ruling assigned for
error, and the record indicates a voluntary
participation ‘or aequiescence in the alleged
breach by the complainant, particularly when,
as here, no objections or exceptions were en-
tered to the only questions‘ which might be
accounted harmful, ,For example, in Common-
wealth v.: Brown, 264 Pa. 85, $9-91, 107 Atl.
676, the district attorney asked a defendant,
on trial for murder, if he was not a deserter
from the army, and he: answered in the af-
firmative; then, after his own counsel had
examined him on the same matter, he re-
quested the withdrawal of a juror. On ap-
peal, the overruling of this motion was assign-
ed for error, it being contended that the mere
asking of the original question violated the
act of 1911. We agreed that the intention of
the act was to prevent the asking of ques-
tions of the character forbidden therein; but,
without deciding whether or not desertion
was an offense within the meaning of the
statute, held that, since no objection was
made by defendant's counsel, at the time the
question was asked, and he,-himsclf, subse-
quently interrogated his client in regard to
the matter, the court did not err in refusing
to withdraw a juror. Again, the Evidence
Act of 1887 (P. L. 161, § 10; Pa. St. 1920, §
21864), provides that the neglect or refusal
of a prisoner on trial to testify in his own
behalf shall not raise any presumption
against him nor be adversely referred to by
court or counsel; the superior court (Common-
wealth vy. Nowyokot, 39 Pa. Super. Ct. 503,
506) considering this statute, ruled that,
when the provision in question was breached
and counsel for the prisoner declined an offer
of the trial judge to withdraw a juror, de-
fendant could not be heard to complain on
appeal. The same act provides that neither
husband nor wife, with some exceptions,
shall “be competent or permitted to testify
against each other,” which is equivalent to
saying they shall not be offered for that pur-
pose, yet in Commonwealth vy. Weber, 167 Pa.
153, 162, 31 Atl. 481, a first degree murder
case, we refused a contention that reversible
error had been committed by declining to
strike from the record nn offer to place the
wife of defendaut on the stand.

Appellant fails to assign for error the sen-
tence, which is the final judgment in the
case, and the one thing that must be brought
before us if effective relief is desired; but we
have examined the evidence, and agree that
the elements of first degree murder appear.

The assignment of error is overruled, the
appeal is dismissed, and the record is re-

mitted, for the nurnase of exeention

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unc this interview that Cap-
_ 2 of the Philadelphia Homicide

: your man, Mr. Smillie. Come
2 him.”

’ Prosecutor Smillie was speed-
teen miles from his office in
to the Philadelphia City Hall,

rapher was busily taking the
& murderer of Ethel Craft
‘ssor was William J. Earnest.
i evidence, a glass. of water
“two detectives in his diner at

Glenwood Streets.
y panic had seized Earnest

when he saw Detectives Costello an a~
]

dorf return an hour after their previous
visit, Costello’s first words reassured him

for a second and then brought him near

collapse when he realized their import.

“We didn’t come to see you this time,”
said Costello. “We want to see Warren
Elwood.”

“Who?” Earnest was white. “There's
nobody here by that name.”

“Haven't used it in fourteen years have
you? And probably will never use it again,”
he concluded. :

Confronted with the fingerprint evidence,
Earnest told the story.

“T had lived with my mother in Horsham

to Jim Bready’s house several times. We
left Brady in the car. He was asleep.
broke in through a window and opened the
door for Mrs. Atkins. She undressed right
away and we laid down on the floor. Then
she started calling me names. One thing
led to another and she picked up the cur-
tain rod and hit me.

“T cursed and lost my head and hit her
and stabbed her. She tried to follow me
down the backstairs. That’s all I know. I
beat it. I told Brady we’d had a fight and
I had to clip her and warned him he’d bet--
ter stick to my story that we left Mrs.
Atkins off at 20th and Montgomery.”

“Be at

on tonight,” he said.
*k dock tonight at twelve.” He
the companionway to the deck,

called back. “And keep sober !
nd think too much when you're

WHEELHOUSE, the clock struck
ts. One-A. M. I jumped. I was
a cat. I flicked my cigarette over
cked at a coil of rope and cursed.
was late again. If he pulled an-
ik job on me... but before I
e up my mind what I would do if
big black sedan rolled onto the

r ashore. Frenchy and his goril-
i out of the car and began trans-
half dozen suitcases from the back

to the cabin of the Sally M.
& one of them. It weighed a
Like a hunk of lead. When

| in surprise one of the gorillas .

ory, We're moving the arsenal
3rooklyn.. If our tip is right the
raiding our old hideout now.”

ily, a plank creaked and a footstep
jown the dock. We froze. Auto-
‘aped out. A minute later a dim
sve into sight. He reeled a few
vard us, stopped, straddled his legs,
yer and got very sick.

a lousy stiff,’ said Frenchy. We

ed.
ajshed transferring the arsenal to
But Frenchy didn’t go along with
drove off in the car.
off the lines, got the motor turn-
‘, headed downstream. :
iple of hours later I pulled’ along-
jld dock at the south end of Brook-
enchy was waiting for us in the car.
“the suitcases back in the sedan.
he door slammed on the last one,
- Jeaned and slipped me a couple of

: going, Chips,” he said. “Keep your

‘an, now.”

a roar, the car shot out.

ne.

he next six months I worked steady

-1, Not because I wanted to, even

‘ I was making bigger dough than I
er made since Prohibition days, but
. I was afraid to tell him to go to
But I hadn’t stopped thinking about
@:: I knew that if he ever got

Frenchy

¥

was thinking of crossing him, I'd
=. trunk too.
ew that Frenchy was a big shot. But
no idea how big he really was till I
{ doing his dirty work. He had con-
1s in all the right places.

CRIME

(CONTINUED FR

Since Papule: jad gone overboard in that
trunk, Frenchy was the mastermind behind
half the dope that was being smuggled into
New York. And every so often, just to
break the monotony, he'd run in a load of
uncut diamonds or a case of watch move-
ments or.a couple of aliens who were will-
ing to ante up « grand or two to get into
the country.

The alien cases were fixed up on the
other side of the water. Frenchy’s connec-
tions went even that far. I don’t know how
he worked it, but he knew every time one
of these birds would be arriving. They’d
come mostly on German, Italian or South
American freighters, signed on as members
of the crew. This was before the War, of
course.

But even if the ship did tie up alongside,
the crew wasn’t allowed ashore. A guard
was always posted aboard the ship to see
they didn’t get off. And there were always
a couple of more on the dock.

The way we got around that was easy.
At a fixed time, usually about three in the
morning, I’d manage to drift the Sally M,
with the motor dead, up under the stern of
the freighter. We'd hang on there till
a rope would come over the stern. Then
our customer would come sliding down the
rope. As soon as he hit the deck, the rope
would be hauled in and we'd shove off.

WAS IN THE BIG DOUGH again and every-

thing was going along swell. Then a
case broke that sent every smuggler in New
York running to cover. It was the dumbest
play I ever saw. A couple of Italian lads
over on the East Side had been smuggling
in junk for years. The chief of the mob
was a guy named Luigi Esposito. Two dumb
clucks, Salvatore Luisi and Frank Visciano,
were working for him.

The dicks got wise to them, but they
didn’t have a thing on them. For once, the
cops played it smart.

Sergeant John Sweeney off one_of the
Harbor Patrol boats contacted the Esposito
mob. He sold them on the idea that the
safest way to run the junk in was right on
his police boat. To make it look good he
asked for a big cut.

They put the deal through with Sweeney
and the first job they gave him was to pick
up a $50,000 shipment of dope from the
Italian ship /da which was tied up over in
Hoboken. The idea was that after Sweeney
picked up the junk and ferried it across
the Hudson in his police boat, he was to
deliver it to the mob at a dock on the New
York side.

Sweeney got the stuff from the cook on
the Ida. And so as not to tip his hand too
early, he never laid a finger on the cook.

RIDES THE TIDE

OM PAGE 21)

Instead, he climbed down into the police.
boat as if the deal was on the up and up and
headed for New York.

But what Esposito didn’t know was that
Sweeney. had a short wave radio set aboard
the patrol boat. Once he had cleared the
Ida with the load of junk, he sent a message
to the police and Federal agents to pick up
the Ida’s cook and get set to nab Esposito
and his mob when he contacted them to
make the delivery.

Sweeney ran his boat alongside the dock,
and climbed out. Esposito and his men
eased out of the shadows. They grabbed
the bundle of junk and were just going to
pay off when a dozen cops and Feds closed
in on them.

There was some gun play for a couple of
seconds. One cop was nicked. But Esposito
and his gang never had a chance.

A couple of days later, Frenchy showed
up one night.

“We're gonna take a load of junk off the
Umberto,” he said.

“Jeez, Frenchy,” I said, “with all the.
stink about Esposito, don’t you think—”

“With all that stink, they won't think
we're suckers enough to try to pull off a
job now.”

“T don’t like it,” I said.

“Who's asking you whether you liked it?”

He spit out the stump of his cigar, hooked
his thumbs in his vest and grinned at me.

“T got the slickest gag worked out,” he

said. “The Umberto ain't in yet. She’s due
off Fire Island about nine tonight and
oughta drop anchor in the Bay for medical

inspection about twelve.

“But she ain't gonna pass that medical °
' inspection, see? At least, not till morning.

I been in touch with my man aboard by
wireless. He’s gonna take a‘shot of some
medicine he has and when the doc gets
aboard to examine him he’s gonna have a
rash all over his body and a high tempera-
ture.

“The doc’ll make the Umberto hoist the
yellow flag and anchor off Quarantine till
he finds out whether that rash and fever
are contagious or not. And tonight, at 3
a.m., while’s she anchored out there, we
run the Sally M_ up under the fo’c’sle and
pick up the joad hanging out of a porthole.
Got it? Hell, you won't even have to kill
the engine, it'll be that easy.”

T had to admit it was a smart idea. And
it worked out just like he said.

The Umberto dropped her hook off
Quarantine around midnight. The port doc-
tor went out to her in the cutter. | Sure
enough, a little while later, they hoist the
yellow flag and the Umberto stays right
where she was. When I got abreast the
Umberto, about a hundred feet off her port

oe

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Ate lle te


Does 7)

ERNEST, William J., white, elec. PA® (Montgomery) October 27, 1941

|

j

UESDAY NOON, SEPTEMBER) 24TH. 1940—As
i eer moved slowly northward on Philadel-
phia’arBroad Street, the man behind the wheel

put one arm around the woman next to him.
“ he reminded her, “just as soon as

Sn nee

ed to the man on the other side of the woman,
“You're out of it—just us wo,” and his hand
lingered for a final care on the woman’s
neck. i ig

“Don’t get too excited yet,” snapped the
second man. “You're driving a car now so f
you better keep your mind on the job.” A

At York Road the ear turned off, eventu- [ °
ally passing through Willow Grove in the
direction of Horsham, Rolling slowly down
Dresher Road, the ‘driver stopped before a
frame farmhouse set back from the road,
surrounded by trees.

WILLIAM J. EARN- : ain :
EST: He found it

at Ties ON SEPTEMBER 30, 1940, THE PHILADELPHIA POLICE
ee CRACKED A BRUTAL MURDER CASE WHICH ONLY A FEW
DAYS BEFORE PROMISED TO BE ONE OF THE EERIEST MYSTERIES

IN THE KEYSTONE METROPOLIS

wer f A .


™‘~

{WAS DURING this interview that Cap-
tin Engle of the Philadelphia Homicide
ad called. eat

We've got your man, Mr. Smillie. Come
nand get him.”

nd while Prosecutor Smillie was speed-
the eighteen miles from his office in
tistown to the Philadelphia City Hall,
lice stenographer was busily taking the
ession of the murderer of Ethel Craft
rer Atkins.

te confessor was William J. Earnest.
{clinching evidence, a glass of water
erved to two detectives in his diner at
id and Glenwood Streets.

pmentary panic had seized Earnest

REAL DETECTIVE
when he saw Detectives Costello and Sa-
dorf return an hour after their previous
visit. Costello’s first words reassured him
for a second and then brought him near
collapse when he realized their import.

“We didn’t come to see you this time,”
said Costello. “We want to sce Warren
Elwood.”

“Who?” Earnest was white. ‘“There’s
nobody here by that name.”

“Haven’t used it in fourteen years have
you? And probably will never use it again,”
he concluded. .

Confronted with the fingerprint evidence,
Earnest told the story,

“IT had lived with my mother in Horsham

W7

up till two years ago,” he said. “I’d been
to Jim Bready’s house several times. We
left Brady in the car. He was asleep. I
broke in through a window and opened the
door for Mrs. Atkins. She undressed right
away and we laid down on the floor. Then
she started calling me names. One thing
led to another and she picked up the cur-
tain rod and hit me.

“I cursed and lost my head and hit her
and stabbed her. She tried to follow me
down the backstairs. That’s all I know. I
beat it. I told Brady we’d had a fight and
I had to clip her and warned him he’d bet--
ter stick to my story that we left Mrs.
Atkins off at 20th and Montgomery.”

REAL
DETECTIVE

tle job on tonight,” he said. “Be at
id brick dock tonight at twelve.” He
ed up the companionway to the deck,
ed and called back. “And keep sober!
talk and think too much when you're
id

.

THE WHEELHOUSE, the clock struck
wo bells. One a. M. I jumped. I was
wus as acat. I flicked my cigarette over
ide, kicked at a coil of rope and cursed.
enchy was late again. If he pulled an-
ttrunk job on me... but before I
{make up my mind what I would do if
id, a big black sedan rolled onto the

wung ashore, Frenchy and his goril-
opped out of the car and began trans-
ag a half dozen suitcases from the back
ecar to the cabin of the Sally M.

jicked up one of them. It weighed a
fa lot. Like a hunk of lead. When

mted in surprise one of the gorillas .

ined. :
ttillery. We're moving the arsenal
to Brooklyn.. If our tip is right the
‘are raiding our old hideout now.”
ddenly, 4 plank creaked and a footstep
led down the dock. We froze. Auto-
s leaped out. A minute later a dim
thove into sight. He reeled a few
toward us, stopped, straddled his legs,
dover and got very sick.

st a lousy stiff,” said Frenchy. We
aghed.

t-finished transferring the arsenal to
wat. But Frenchy didn’t go along with
He drove off in the car.

ast off the lines, got the motor turn-
wer, headed downstream.
couple of hours later I pulled along-
in old dock at the south end of Brook-
Frenchy was waiting for us in the car.
put the suitcases back in the sedan.
1 the door slammed on the last one,
thy leaned and slipped me a couple of

ice going, Chips,” he said. “Keep your
tlean, now.”
th a roar, the car shot out. Frenchy
jone.

tthe next six months I worked steady
im. Not because I wanted to, even
hI was making bigger dough than I
wer made since Prohibition days, but
se I was afraid to tell him to go to
But I hadn’t stopped thinking about
tunk and I knew that if he ever got
ka I was thinking of crossing him, I’d
pin a trunk too.

ww that Frenchy was a big shot. But
Ino idea how big he really was till I
idoing his dirty work. He had con-
ns in all the right places.

CRIME RIDES THE TIDE

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 21)

Since Papulos had gone overboard in that
trunk, Frenchy was the mastermind behind
half the dope that was being smuggled into
New York. And every so often, just to
break the monotony, he'd run in a load of
uncut diamonds or a case of watch move-
ments or.a couple of aliens who were will-
ing to ante up a grand or two to get into
the country.

The alien cases were fixed up on the
other side of the water. Frenchy’s connec-
tions went even that far. I don’t know how
he worked it, but he knew every time one
of these birds would be arriving. They’d
come mostly on German, Italian or South
American freighters, signed on as members
of the crew. This was before the War, of
course.

But even if the ship did tie up alongside,
the crew wasn’t allowed ashore. A guard
was always posted aboard the ship to see
they didn’t get off. And there were always
a couple of more on the dock.

The way we got around that was easy.

At a fixed time, usually about three in the
morning, I’d manage to drift the Sally M,
with the motor dead, up under the stern of
the freighter. We'd hang on there till
a rope would come over the stern. Then
our customer would come sliding down the
rope. As soon as he hit the deck, the rope
would be hauled in and we'd shove off.

I WAS IN THE BIG DOUGH again and every-
thing was going along swell.. Then a
case broke that sent every smuggler in New
York running to cover. It was the dumbest
play I ever saw. A couple of Italian lads
over on the East Side had been smuggling
in junk for years. The chief of the mob
was a guy named Luigi Esposito. Two dumb
clucks, Salvatore Luisi and Frank Visciano,
were working for him.

The dicks got wise to them, but they
didn’t have a thing on them. For once, the
cops played it smart.

Sergeant John Sweeney off one of the
Harbor Patrol boats contacted the Esposito
mob. He sold them on the idea that the
safest way to run the junk in was right on
his police boat. To make it look good he
asked for a big cut.

They put the deal through with Sweeney
and the first job they gave him was to pick
up a $50,000 shipment of dope from the
Italian ship 7da which was tied up over in
Hoboken. The idea was that after Sweeney
picked up the junk and ferried it across
the Hudson in his police boat, he was to
deliver it to the mob at a dock on the New
York side.

Sweeney got the stuff from the cook on
the Jda. And so as not to tip his hand too
early, he never laid a finger on the cook.

Instead, he climbed down into the police.
boat as if the deal was on the up and up and
headed for New York.

But what Esposito didn’t know was that
Sweeney had a short wave radio set aboard
the patrol boat. Once he had cleared the
Ida with the load of junk, he sent a message
to the police and Federal agents to pick up
the Ida’s cook and get set to nab Esposito
and his mob when he contacted them to
make the delivery.

Sweeney ran his boat alongside the dock,
and climbed out. Esposito and his men
eased out of the shadows. They grabbed
the bundle of junk and were just going to
pay off when a dozen cops and Feds closed
in on them.

There was some gun play for a couple of
seconds. One cop was nicked. But Esposito
and his gang never had a chance.

A couple of days later, Frenchy showed
up one night.

“We're gonna take a load of junk off the
Umberto,” he said.

“Jeez, Frenchy,” I said, “with all the
stink about Esposito, don’t you think—”

“With all that stink, they won’t think
we're suckers enough to try to pull off a
job now.”

“T don’t like it,” I said.

“Who’s asking you whether you liked it?”

He spit out the stump of his cigar, hooked
his thumbs in his vest dnd grinned at me.
“T got the slickest gag worked out,” he
said. “The Umberto ain’t in yet. She’s due
off Fire Island about nine tonight and
oughta drop anchor in the Bay for medical
inspection about twelve. ;

“But she ain’t gonna pass that medical

' inspection, see? At least, not till morning.

I been in touch with my man aboard by
wireless, He’s gonna take a‘shot of some
medicine he has and when the doc gets
aboard to examine him he’s gonna have a
rash all over his body and a high tempera-
ture.

“The doc’ll make the Umberto hoist the
yellow flag and anchor off Quarantine till
he finds out whether that rash and fever
are contagious or not. And tonight, at 3
a.m., while’s she anchored out there, we
run the Sally M up under the fo’c’sle and
pick up the load hanging out of a porthole.
Got it? Hell, you won’t even have to kill
the engine, it'll be that easy.”

I had to admit it was a smart idea. And
it worked out just like he said.

The Umberto dropped her hook off
Quarantine around midnight. The port doc-
tor went out to her in the cutter. Sure
enough, a little while later, they hoist the
yellow flag and the Umberto stays right
where she was. When I got abreast the
Umberto, about a hundred feet off her port


there, impatient
through a pane. “a
through, went to the-k
unbolted it.

“No use my _ hanging®
here,” commented the second;
“You don’t need me, I'd says
think I’ll wait in the car.” And
left.

The woman had walked in toward
the front of the house. For a couple
of minutes the man couldn’t find
her. Then as he stood at the door
of the front room, looking ‘in, he
spied her. She was standing near
an old couch, neatly folding her
dress, then her slip. But for stock-
ings and slippers, she was com-
pletely nude.

BOUT a half-hour later the man
clambered into the auto.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Policema
commented the other. ‘“Where’s Shevlin
the girl friend?” the

“T had to give her a good clip,” re- house.
plied the man curtly. “We're go- tiously
ing—and now,” and he turned the
machine toward Willow Grove and
Philadelphia. “Wonder what my
wife will say!” and added a m0o- doom when
ment later, “What a night—and, fused to “p

fellow, what a day.” price” demon
from her /by

man

TUESDAY, EVENING, 7:30 P.M. wouldn’
Another car stopped before the two-
storied farm house, in it were Mr.
and Mrs. James C. Bready, owners
of the place with them, Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Leo, prospective tenants.

The broken window pane caught
Bready’s eye. ‘You women better
stay in the car,’ he suggested. To
Leo, he added in a low voice. “Peo-,!
ple have been using this house for +
wild parties.” ‘Suppose you goup
the back stairs,’ Bready advised
Leo, “I’ll go up the front. We'll

THE GORY HAND PRINTS on the
wall are those of pretty Ethel
Atkins. State Trooper R. H. Mil-
ler is shown examining the blood
spattered room in which she
battled for her life.


4

pointed out the mourner who had
boasted. He was taken to city hall and
given a rigorous interrogation. Thorough-
ly frightened, the man talked freely. He
seemed to be in the clear personally.
But he had been in a saloon when Mrs.
Atkins was drinking. He furnished a long
ist of men who had been present. The
Police went to work swiftly. One of these
men, they believed, must be the killer.

At 1:30 o’clock in the afternoon, hours
after he had been given a severe grilling,
one of the men he involved as being on
the party came to city hall and sur-
rendered voluntarily. A lawyer ac-
companied him.

Both men were then grilled together
by Engle and Smillie. And a short time
later, Detectives Sadorf and Costello
were sent out to return again with four
more men, including a taproom proprietor
and a bartender who had served the mur-
dered woman as late as the evening be-
fore her murder, The more men the
officers questioned, the more names they
collected. Each new name sent a squad
speeding out to bring another man in.

On, on went the hunt. One man, two
men, six men, until 16 had faced the grim
district attorney and the homicide squad
captain and told their tawdry stories. A
human chain at last began to link the
Saturday of Mrs. Atkins fateful trip to
the corner store and the discovery of her
torn and mutilated body the following
Tuesday.

‘THE first man who had known her
slightly, had met her on the way to the
Store and had invited her to have a beer.
He had spent the ensuing hours with her
in neighborhood taprooms, until late
Saturday night, feeling tired and a little
unk, he had left her.

That was in a club on North 15th street.
Another man had come along. He, too,
had bought her beer, but she did not like
his suggestion that they go to a livelier
spot, so he had left her also. That was
early Sunday morning.

Later that day it was a couple more men
and a club at 15th street and Glenwood
avenue. Then it was more beer in an all
night joint in South Penn Square, just
exactly 60 feet across the street from city
hall where the homicide squad was
quartered.

It was about 3:30 o’clock that fateful
morning that red-headed Ethel Atkins
met the seventeenth man—the seven-
teenth and the eighteenth—in her doomed
travels. The place was another of these
all night joints that operate illicitly. It
was located at 20th street and Montgom-
ery avenue, not far from her home.

“Yes,” said the bartender, hauled in by
the now grim dragnet. “Those must have
been the guys she left with. One was Bill
Earnest and the other was Joe Jones.”

Smillie ordered Earnest and Jones
brought in.

Jones was picked up at the filling
Station at which he was employed.
Earnest was found working behind the
counter of a lunch wagon at Broad street
and Glenwood avenue, across the street
from the Pennsylvania railroad station,

Earnest, a short, stocky man with blue
eyes and an attractive grin, took the
detectives’ tap in his stride. Removing his

n, he turned to a fellow counter man

‘said, nonchalantly, “Jim, take over
for me for an hour or so. I’ve got a little
business to attend to.”

Then he had marched off to city hall
with Sadorf and Costello.

76

His replies to Smillie’s questions were
disarmingly frank.

“Okay,” he said. “So I met this woman
you say was murdered. It was in an all
night joint. Jones was along, and so was
a waitress friend of his.

“We, Jones, me and the waitress, had
a few drinks. I saw this woman in the
polka dot dress sitting at a table. She
smiled and I smiled and she joined us.

“But it was all on the up and up. We
drank till half past seven or eight and
then we started home. We dropped the
waitress, and then we dropped this Mrs.
Atkins. Up near Twentieth and Mont-
gomery, I think it was. Then Jones and
I had a couple more snorts and went
home. And that’s the works.”

Smillie heard the story repeated again,
but did not believe it. This man had by
his own admission been in company with
Mrs. Atkins during the six to ten hour
period the coroner’s physician had set
for the crime. The trail could not go on
forever. Smillie believed, somehow, that
he had reached the end. He brought Jones
in.

Yes, he said, he and Earnest had been
with the waitress in the all-night booze
joint. Yes, he said, Earnest had picked
Mrs. Atkins up and they had, all four of
them, left together.

But they had not dropped off the wait-
ress, he admitted. They had forced her
out of the car when she refused to go
along on an all-night party. And they
had not dropped red-headed, twice-wed
Mrs. Atkins off, either. They had just
started driving her out to the Dresher
road farmhouse where he and Earnest
had gone occasionally to parties given
by a previous tenant.

Once there, he said, he had sat in the
car while Earnest and Mrs. Atkins got
out and tried the doors. Mrs. Atkins had
seemed neither willing, nor unwilling—
just dazed, he said, as if she had not the
foggiest notion of where she was going
or for what.

“I just kept sitting,” Jones said. “I
guess I dozed off a little. Then all of a
sudden Earnest came running out. He
jumped into the car. He told me to pull
away, to get out of there quick.

“I asked him where the dame was. He
said, “She got tough. I had to bop her
one.’

“And I went home and went to bed,
never knowing until the next day what
he had done to her. Then I was too
scared.”

Smillie looked over at Earnest. Perspi-
ration was pouring down the counter-
man’s neck.

“All right, all right,” he burst out. “I'l!
talk.”

Smillie swore in a stenographer. The
text of Earnest’s confession, as taken
down by him, follows:

Joe Jones and I met this woman with

blue polka dot dress who later turned
out to be Mrs. Atkins in a club on 20th
street, north of Montgomery avenue. Joe
and I decided we would take a ride, so
we got into my car and we drove to a
tavern at Broad street and Glenwood
avenue.

“From there we went to another in
South Penn square, opposite city hall.
Then we went to a spot at Juniper and
Cherry streets. We had several drinks in
each place.

“At the last spot, Joe and I decided we
would take a real ride in the country. Our
object was to find a secluded spot. We
drove up Broad streét. Then we got onto

York road, finally passing through
Willow Grove and then it occurred to
me that I knew a place out in the country
where it would be quite lonely.

“I had lived with my mother in
Horsham up until 1938, and I was familiar
with the- roads <up. in- that section.
Finally we got on Welsh road, then we
got onto Dresher road, running toward
Horsham and I happened to remember
the farm house and saw that it was empty.

“I knew this house, having been there
several times before. So we drove into
the side, around to the back and parked
the car and Joe, Mrs. Atkins and I got
out.

“As soon as we got into the house, she
took off her clothes and we went to the
second floor, just Mrs. Atkins and myself.
When we got up to the second floor, she
said she was tired and stretched out on
the floor. I felt tired, too, so I lay down,

also.”

H ERE followed the details of what he
tried to do to the dazed woman. He
insisted that it was during this period that
she made a remark which enraged him.

“I got up on my knees and I cursed and
lost my head. She grabbed a curtain rod
and tried to strike me with it, and I
grabbed it from her and hit her over the
head with it and ran into the next room.
She ran after me. While we were tussling:
in the back room we tripped and fell and
the bottom of the iron bedstead fell over
and cut her on the chest.

“I picked the bedstead off her and put
it against the wall. She got up and started
in again to attack me. She grabbed the
stick again and tried to beat me with it
and again I took it off her and hit her
over the head again.

“I reached the head of the stairs and
yelled to Jog, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

“Mrs. Atkins yelled, ‘You're not going
to leave me here. I’m coming with you.’

“Vou are not,’ I replied, and I ran down
the stairs and out the door, Jones with
me, I jumped into my automobile and
drove home, leaving Joe off at his house.
Then I went home and I was dog tired.

“I went to sleep. I didn’t have any blood
on me. There was no blood on my hands.
There were a few drops of blood on my
shirt and I got up the next day and
washed the spots out of it. But I haven’t
been feeling well since. I've been sick.
I’ve been unable to eat.”

Subsequent investigation revealed he
was lying about the blood spots. A tailor,
realizing the significance of his testimony,
came forward with evidence that Earnest
kad given him a blood-soaked suit to
clean the day following the slaying.

Other unsavory details were not long
in following. It was shown that Earnest<
had served three months for a sexual
attack on a 12-year-old moron boy.
Several women also identified him as
having wormed his way into their
affections and then robbed them under
circumstances that would have been em-
barrassing for them to reveal.

2 was held by the coroner’s jury
Oo

na charge of first degree murder in the
death of Mrs. Atkins. On October 21,
Montgomery county’s grand jury indicted
him for the crime.

His trial was set for November. Mean-
while, Jones was released on bail as a
material witness.

(To protect the identity of an innocent person
the name, Joe Jones, as used in this story is not real
but fictitious.—Ed.)


mee nagte rat

oa

IN THIS vacant farmhouse near Horsham, the muti.

lated body of Mrs. Atkins was found-crumpled on >

he . sleleweyty “as fe comm was folded peaily pecthy - x

aS,

WILLIAM EARNEST (hatless), shown with a detec.

.. tive, said he had been with Mrs. Atkins, but that
she nos Peon alive end, well, when, he left ber,

Seapets mite

scene that equalled this one for pure viciousness and wanton
savagery.

Flash bulls exploded as pictures were taken—pictures that
would be rushed to waiting newspaper presses. Lights flashed
in the rooms as globes were fitted in empty sockets, illuminat-
ing the bizarre scene with brilliant light and chasing reluctant
shadows from the empty rooms.

Thoughtfully Munshower retraced his steps to the lower
floor where several assistants from the district attorney’s
ofhce were examining a blue polka-dot dress and a flesh colored
slip. s

“These were folded and lying on a settee in the living
room,” they advised him briefly.

Munshower nodded. The settee, a dilapidated affair, and
a small ‘table, had not been removed by the former tenant. A
pair of worn-out, high-cut shoes lay on the table.

“Those shoes belonged to Evans,” Bready, the man who
originally discovered the crime, informed him. “That’s the
tenant who moved out of here three weeks ago.”

“What do you make of it, Kaye?” an officer asked curiously.

UNSHOWER shook his head. “Looks to me as if the
woman had an assignation here with some man. She
apparently came with him willingly, because she undressed
in this room and folded her clothes before going upstairs. If
it was an attack case, the clothing would be torn. Then
something happened—what, I don’t know—and the guy went

berserk and bumped her off. You should see that bedroom.”

He turned to Bready. “How did they get in? Didn’t you °
keep the doors locked ?”

“Everything was always shut up tight,” Bready asserted.
“But when I came here tonight with a couple who wanted to ~
rent the house, I noticed that one of the back doors was open.
It had been unlocked from the inside.”

“There’s a broken window in the front of the house,” a
detective said. “Maybe the guy came in that way.”

“Process everything + for prints,’ Munshower ordered.
“There are’ bloody handmarks in the rooms upstairs. If the
murderer entered the house through a window, he probably
used a stick of some sort to break the glass. Find, it—there
may be prints. And check her clothing for prints, too.”

The body of the slain woman was not touched until
coroner’s physician Dr. John C. Simpson completed his. ex-
amination. “This woman was terribly beaten about the head
and body,” he stated bluntly. “The blows themselves were
sufficient to cause death, but somehow she managed to get
this far before she died. I would say that death resulted
directly from hemorrhages induced by the beating she re-
ceived. The woman practically bled to death—there is scarce-
ly any blood in her body.”

“It’s all upstairs,” Munshower said tersely. “She was
probably attacked in an upper bedroom and left for dead.
Afterward, she managed to crawl part way down the stairs
in an effort to get help.”

Simpson nodded. “That’s about it.”

“How long would you say she has been dead ?”

“Offhand, about six hours. This was a daylight crime,
probably around noon or a little later. I'll have to remove
the body to Abington Hospital for a post-mortem. We can.
tell you more after the autopsy.”

Munshower’s keen eyes had spotted a wedding ring on the
victim’s finger. “I want that ring first,” he decided. “Our big
job is to identify this woman, and if there is an ‘inscription -
on that ring ..; .”

There was. The initials “J.F.A. to E.M.A. ’35” were in-
scribed in faint letters on the inside of the thin’ gold band.

“Married in 1935,” Munshower said. “It’s going to be a
job finding out what those initials stand for, but so far ‘it's
our only clue.”

Morning brought the usual deluge of information from
helpful citizens. Samuel H. High, former president of the
Montgomery County Bar Association, ventured the informa-
tion that his son, Gilbert, former assistant district attorney

ATO yee meree eye


Spenser ites te

A TROOPER examines the welter ol blood

TATE POLICE OFFICER James Shevelin took the

call at the Doylestown barracks of the Pennsylvania

State Police. The young trooper listened idly at first,
then snapped to startled attention as the full import of the
conversation struck him with the force of a blow.

“Wait a second,” he ordered briskly, reaching for a pad
of paper and a pencil. “Let me get this straight... Your
name is John Bready and you own a house about a mile from
Horsham on the Dreshertown road. Right?”

“That’s exactly right,” the voice on the other end of the
wire assured him. “I went out there tonight with my wife

and another couple who wanted to rent the place. When we.

got inside we found a dead woman lying on the stair steps.”

“And where are you now ?”

“I’m calling from a drug store in Horsham, I——”

“O. K.,” Shevlin snapped. ‘Hold everything until I get
there. I want you to direct me to this house. I’ll only be a
minute.”

Shevelin banged the receiver on its hook and raced outside
to a waiting police cruiser. In less than ten minutes’ time, at
approximately 8:30 on the evening of September 24, 1940,
he arrived at the empty farmhouse with the white-faced owner
at his side.

“She's right inside,”
a winding stairway just inside.
there she is.”

‘Bready told him excitedly. “There’s
You open the stair door and

Shevelin stalked into the house, the owner behind him.-

Resolutely his hand pulled open the door. As Bready had
promised—there she was.

The woman -was attractive even in death. She lay in a
reclining position on the steps, nude except for one silken
stocking and a white shoe.

Shevelin flashed his light about the room. “Aren’t there
any lights in this place?” ;

Bready shook his head apologetically. “The former tenant
moved out the first of the month. He took everything wath
hin

“Okay. Let’s get out of here. We don’t want to touch a
thing until I get some help. Where’s the nearest phone?”

‘Allison Finkle, a neighbor, has the nearest one. It’s just
down the road.”

Shevelin looked at him sharply.
one when you called me?”

Bready laughed uneasily. “We were too scared, I guess.

“Why didn’t you use that

on the floor and bloody hand-prinis on the _
wall where the victim fought a losing battle
with her bludgeon-swinging assailant. —

When we saw that body in there on the steps all we could
think of was getting out of here—fast.”
Leaving Bready on guard at the house of death, Shevelin

put through a telephone call to his barracks at Doylestown.

In a short time fellow officers were rushing to the scene of
the crue...

Monies County maintains a complete staff of de-
tectives working under District Attorney Frederick B. Smillie.
These men were notified and immediately dropped everything
to concentrate on the latest murder enigma. In a short time
the lonely farm house was filled to overflowing with officers
intent on their grim business,

Kaye -Munshower, chief of county detectives, stepped
carefully past the body on the steps and made his way to
the upper floor. Other men centered their attention on the
downstairs rooms.

Reaching the top landing, Munshower looked into a bed-
room that defied description. Blood was everywhere, smeared
over the floor and splashed against the wall with a lavish
hand. Someone had embarked on a bacchanalian orgy of lust
and destruction.

Munshower’s lips tightened grimly. This was a sex crime.
Death and blood and a’ voluptuous nude—everything pointed
to that. But who could have done it and why?

There was a rickety iron bedstead in the room, presumably
discarded by the former tenant. The spring and head end
of the bed were standing against one wall. On the opposite
side of the room the foot end was resting, upside down.
Curious, Munshower crossed to it.

Bits of hair and blood adhered to the-heavy metal frame.

Despite his frequent contact with crimes of violence, the

detective recoiled instinctively. That hair and blood could
mean but one thing: The criminal, with his, victim helpless
on the floor before him, had lifted the heavy metal bed and
smashed it repeatedly into her head and body

Near the bedstead was a rounded piece of wood, approxi-

mately an inch and a quarter in thickness and about two and

a half feet in length. One end was splintered, as if’it had
been broken in half. Munshower felt slightly nauseated as he
looked at it. The stick, too, had been used as a weapon.
Clinging strands of hair, mingled with flecks of dried blood,
showed that the woman on the steps had been struck over the
head with a ferociousness that had broken the stout stick
in half. Never, Munshower decided, had he seen a death

GEORGE

BEL LZ

JAMES ATKINS (earlier photo), stunned at _.
the slaying of his wife, could give the police
little help. “Who could have done it?” he _ —
groaned when the body was identified. ~

~,

ERNEST, William Joseph, ,white, electrocufed Pennsylvania (Montgomery) on October 27, 19).

AG
yes

Te sa a

INSIDE DETECTIVE,
March, 19)l.

1 £
elias SE AS

TRAGEDY

_ A nude woman murdered in a vacant

OP ENT,

ETHEL ATKINS, former social ight ~
how came she to meet: violent ©

’

.

The bidialy “aealblg on thesksr cad.

apparently restored to normalcy. He
had hoped that this time would not be
any different.

He talked on, then, relating her good
qualities. She was an amiable wife and
mother. cay "Aare in ‘the community re-
garded her highly because she was so
pretty, friendly and kind. Her two three-
year-old twins adored her.

Suddenly Atkins became « conscious
that the men were regarding him in
silence.

He looked at the prosecutor, then at
the expressionless eyes of Munshower.
Sweat stood out on the palms of his
hands. Why, they didn’t believe him!

It had not occurred to him that they
might doubt his story.

“If you think this is pleasant for

e,” he cried, “you must be crazy.”

The district attorney said quietly,
“We are going to detain you a little
while. I haven’t said I do not think you
are truthful.”

Jimmy Atkins did not reply. It wag
clear he looked sick at heart.

“What does it matter what you think
of me,” he said. “All right, maybe I’ve

been a fool. Perhaps I should have re- °

ported her absence. But I was thinking
of-my kids. I didn’t want them talked
about—”

The long day crept by. Late in the
afternoon he was released.. His story
had been checked to the satisfaction of
all. I felt a pang of pity for him as he
walked away in dejection. What would
become of the youngsters of whom he
was so proud?

The mental “fog” he had described
was verified later in the night when
Ethel’s first husband, came voluntarily
from Baltimore to see if he could assist
us. .
He said that she had disappeared
eight or ten times during the years of
their marriage between 1921. and 1928.
But he praised her as a good house-
keeper, a devoted mother and a won-
derful cook. She had borne him three
children all of whom were now living
with his mother at’ Durham, North
Carolina.

She had parted with them reluctantly
and only because she realized that in
letting- them go they would receive ad-
vantages she could not give them.

He insisted that his former wife had
never drunk to excess and that, during
the periods of mental fog, she usually
made her way to the home of friends.
He said he had not seen her since May,
1929, and that after their divorce he.

x

had remarried and was living in Bal-
timore where he was in business.

He offered to remain if Norristown
if the authorities felt he could be of
further help. But it was plain that he
knew nothing of the recent whereabouts
of the woman who had left him for love
of Jimmy Atkins.

W= made a thorough canvass of the

neighborhood but could find no one
who had even seen her since she had
left home on Saturday morning.

We chécked all the hospitals on the
theory that, in her dazed condition, she
might have been injured in traffic and
was unable to identify herself.

We questioned the proprietor of the
cafe to. which her husband had told us
he escorted her Friday night, thinking
she might have returned later. But she
had not been’ there.

This left us with no alternative but
to search systematically every club and
cafe in the hope of finding some bar-

tender who would remember ler. De- -

tectives Gleeson and Rankin, of the
Montgomery County force, State Troop-
ers Christ and Reilly and my partner,
Sadorf and I, working under joint in-
structions from Captain Enigle and Dis-
trict Attorney Smillie, then began the
long, monotonous grind.

We spread out from a tavern near
the Atkins home to a radius of a dozen
city blocks. By the end df a week we
had interviewed people in eighty-two
establishments from Diamond Street
north to Cumberland and from Broad
west to Twenty-sixth Street. -

Ethel Atkins’ smiling photograph was
examined by countless individuals, none
of whom recognized her.

The investigation was practically at
a standstill. If she had not visited those
clubs had someone lured her into an
automobile and driven her away to that
lonely rendezvous with death? Who was
familiar with Bready’s property?

. Bready could not help us at all. He
said he had been at the house the
Saturday night before the: murder and
that everything waz in order, There were
a few pieces of furniture he had stored
there but it had not been disturbed.

On Friday night,
Atkins, having been released by the po-
lice, was prepared for burial. It reposed
in a simple casket in the parlor of the
home she had tended with such care.
The neighbors who knew her, weakness
and liked her in spite of it, came to
pay their respects. It was a tribute, too,
for Jimmy Atkins.

J

_ the atrocious
_ glimpse of the victim.

¢ a voice murmur,

the body of Ethel -

All evening a long line of people
moved through the house-—Kindliness
was not the only motive that brought
them there. Brushing shoulders with
well-meaning neighbors were the curious,
the thrill seekers who had read about
‘crime and wanted a

The night wore on. Midnight came
and the crowd thinned out. °
I leaned against the door leading into

the parlor, stifling a yawn, and was un- ;

aware of anyone near me. until I heard
“She sure is changed.”
I turned my head. A small, middle-

aged man was peering over my shoulder.

into the flower-banked room. .
By the time I maneuvered him outside
he seemed to regret his remark for he

OOTY Re
ay dt
! a

“Listen! I wasn’t m on their party,”

~-he snapped. “I was minding my busi-

ness and having-a quiet drink. I didn’t
even know the woman’s name until I
saw her picture in the papers. I intended
‘to tell and then I got thinking it over
and decided I better stay out of it.”

He gave us his name and said he
often visited the cafe at Broad and
Somerset Streets, but had never noticed
Mrs. Atkins there before.

“She was a nice looking person, ” he
said. “I could hardly believe it when
I saw her laid out here tonight.”

- “Was she drinking in the cafe?”

“IT didn’t take notice,” he replied:
“None of them seemed to have had too
much.”

He protested when we suggested that

The Vuacoy er elare ‘eseady wk.

tried to leave, saying sullenly, “I don’t
want to get mixed up in anything.”

Finally, when he was made to real-
ize that he was only making the situa-
tion difficult for himself, he blurted out
the fact that. he had seen’ Mrs. Atkins
after she left home that Saturday.

“It was in Martin’s Cafe, Monday
afternoon. She was sitting at a table
with two men and another woman.”

¢ Who were they?”

* He shrugged.

“TI don’t know. The woman works
there, I think.”

“Why didn’t you tell this before? You
read the papers, didn’t you? You must
have known that the police were hunt-
ing for someone, anyone, who had seen
her.”

he go with us to Martin’s and point out
the woman who had been in the party
with Mrs. Atkins. But when we promis-
ed him immunity if, upon investigation,
his Story proved true, he agreed to ac-
company us. My partner, Sadorf, and I
put him in our car. It was after one
o'clock on Saturday morning but the
cafe was still lighted. We stopped the |
machine a short distance from the en-
trance and got out. As we neared the
window Thompson raised himself on
tiptoes, craning his neck above the half-
frosted pane.

“The light-haired waitress,” he whis
pered. “That’s the one.”

LORENCE O’DAY lit a ‘cigarette
and said to me, “You won’t believe


24

AMES C. BREADY, of Willow
Grove, thought he had never
seen his property on Dresher

Road look as lonely as it did on
Tuesday night, September 24, ©

As the headlights of his. car

swept its deserted face the blank

windows seemed like eyes startled.

out of their dreaming. The grass
was a tangled mass along the path
and’ had intruded itself in dishev-
eled abandon in the flower beds.
It probably would make a bad
impression on the pair in the back
. seat. He should have waited until
daylight when the unkempt ap-
pearance of the place would not

have seemed so sinister. But Mr.

and Mrs. Charles Leo were pros-
pective tenants and Bready was
anxious to rent the house. It was
difficult enough to get people to
live in the country, twenty-fiv
miles from Philadelphia.

“That rain yesterday certainly
brought out the weeds,” he. said
over his shoulder. “But they'll be
easy to pull up anyhow. Mind
your step, now. V’ll turn on my
flashlight.”

Leo assisted his wife from the
machine.

“Well, we'll have a look inside,”
he said.

Bready led the way to the side
entrance, fitted a key in the lock.
As the door swung open a breath
of damp air drifted toward them.

“It’s been closed up,” he ex-
plained.

The flashlight played across the
ceiling, up and down the walls.

“You can see it’s in good con-
dition,” he went on. “Let’s go up
the back way and you can see
the bedrooms first.”

* The pool of light darted along
the floor and suddenly picked out

ERNEST, William Joseph, electrocuted PennsyL
(Montgomery County) on October 27, 19lj1..

“ETHEL SUFFERED FROM—CALL IT AW-
NESIA,” HER HUSBAND SAID. FORBIDDEN TO

TOUCH A DROP OF LIQUOR, ONE GLASS
OF BEER LED TO AN INEVITABLE TRAGEDY

BY DET. THOMAS F. COSTELLO
DOR. HOMICIDE SQUAD, PA. DETECTIVE DIV.
| as told to D. A. HARRISON © |

a

“This ‘polka dot dress was bloodstained.

VITAL DETECTIVE CASES, November, 19hi. (Vole Ip > #3«)


We checked both addresses but nei-_
ther person was known to the present
occupants.

“Address any information to Kaye
Munshower, Chief of Detectives, Nor-
ristown, Montgomery County, Pa.”

Captain William C. Engle, command-
ing Headquarters Homicide Squad de- 66
tailed Adam Sadorf and myself to co-
operate with the Norristown authorities.

From them we learned that the -dead
woman had been unmercifully murder-
ed. Her body was slashed,.her face pum-
meled until it was a discolored mass of
flesh. She must have put up a des-
perate fight for life, for the front bed-
room on the second floor was stained

KNEW it was my wife,” Jimmy
- Atkins twisted his hat in his big
hands and did not raise his eyes to the
face of Frederick B. Smillie, District
Attorney of Montgomery County.

“As soon as I read in the paper this
morning that they had found someorie
wearing that wedding ring, I knew it
was Ethel.”

Sensing his nervousness and the tra- -
bore

with blood,
from the woman’s hands as though she
had groped to the door for escape. In
a corner were a blood-caked curtain rod
and an iron bar that had been ripped
from a bedstead near the windows was

the walls

covered with blood.

As police reconstructed the crime, the
murderer had lured his victim to this
lonely, deserted house and, finding it
locked up, had gained entrance by break-

ing a window.

consciousness,

~ 30,
N.

Following the brutal deed he had fled,
believing her dead. But she had regained
dragged herself to the
stairs and, unable to go on, had fallen
halfway down and died there. Dr. John
C. Simpson, coroner’s physician, express-
ed the opinion that death had occurred
about one o’clock in the afternoon, six
hours before she had been -found.

According to our files in the Bureau
of Missing Persons, no woman of that
description had been reported missing.

But the Marriage License Bureau had
a record of four licenses on September
1935. One of these, No. 655508,
had been issued to James F. Atkins, 2518
19th Street. and Ethel M. Craft,

2502 West Oakdale Street.

Reenacting the murder

the perfect imprint of a bloody
hand upon the wall.

Mrs. Leo caught her breath,
clung to her husband.

““What’s that?” she gasped.

Impaled upon the light, its scarlet
outline was plainly visible.

“FE don’t know,” Bready’s troubled
voice broke the stillness. “I can't im-
agine . . .”

He moved the beam upward and it
found another bloody streak, and an-
other.

“Look!” Mrs.
“scream.

Sprawled on the stairs was the figure
of a woman, face battered and smeared
with blood, one hand outflung as though
in mute appeal; the fingers stained red,
the whole body distorted in the throes
of death,

Leo gave a_ piercing

A’ seven o'clock the next morning
the following message came over
the teletype from the Pennsylvania State
Motor Police at Harrisburg:

“To Police Dispatchers:

“The following deceased woman’ was
found murderer on. Dresher Road, Hors-
ham Township, Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania, approximately sometime
during the afternoon of September 24,
1940:

“Description: Twenty-five to thirty
years, five feet four inches tall, 135 to
140 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes.
Has had child or children. Gold capped
tooth in upper right first molar.

“Wearing gold wedding band, initials
‘JFA to EMA’ dated September 30,
1935.

“Wearing blue polka dot dress, white
lace collar, white shoes, Jight stockings
and slip.

eT TPC saute. Ze cis 9/4 i Age ¥, pares Spiess" eee,
WEE ee 65 AW SIE A TAME, Ey MICAS SH Abin coe ps Me at ge Mabel doe wes

Scions Site waa

gedy written in his face, Smillie re-
mained considerately silent. Atkins, a
clean-cut, virite young man, made an
effort to regain composure.

He said in a low voice,
I'm not really surprised.”

“What do you mean,” the district at-
torney said quietly.

“Well, Ethel suffered from—call it
amnesia. ‘She was the sort of person
who was forbidden to touch alcohol.
Even a few glasses of beer sent her
into a haze.”

He told how she would wander off
for hours at a time, her mind as empty
as a sheet of unlined paper. He had
tried constantly to protect her, he said,
had scolded, pleaded, wept, cajoled. But
it went too far beyond him to control.

“You must have known that she was
exposed to danger when she was in the
mental state you describe.”

Atkins nodded dejectedly.

“And yet, although you had not seen
her since Saturday morning and she was
not found until last Tuesday night, you
had not notified the police. Why?”

Atkins tried to explain. He dreaded
discussing Ethel with strangers. She had
wandered off before and had come back,

“You see,

ed

Smiling Ethel M. Atkins.


* hands were shaking.

this, but I haven’t been able to sleep for

- Every time that door opened.
the past week I’ve been afraid it was
the cops coming to question me.”

“Why?”

“Well, I sat with them and. was seen
by other customers. And the next thing
I hear the girl’s been murdered. It’s
ehough to worry anybody.”

“Who were the men?”

She shook her head and then, meet-
ing my eyes, she said, “You see, you
think it’ sounds fishy, don’t you?” She
drew the smoke deep into her lungs. Her

“They came in here, the three of
them, around noon on Tuesday. I went
over to see what they’d have. She didn’t
speak, just sat there, like she was in
a daze. They ordered whiskey for her.
They were here a couple of hours and
I'd ‘talk to them once in a while—noth-
ing important. Once, I asked what was

the matter with their friend and one of |

them laughed and said, ‘Aw, she’s just
punchy.’ When’ it was time for me to
go off duty they said they’d give me
a lift home. We all went out to the
car and they dropped me at my house.
I didn’t hear her name at all and the
fellows were just ‘Dick’ and Whitey’.
But I got a phone call on Thursday from
Dick and he asked me for a a date Sat-
urday night—”

“That’s ‘ tonight?”

“I have different hours on different
days,” she nodded, “and I have some:
time coming to. me. tonight so I said
Id have a date with him.” ~

“You can help us, if you will,” I told
her. - ;
“You want to know about him and
Whitey, of course. Well, I said I’d go
to the Chauffeur’s Club with him. Pll
try to find out who ae. is, and him
too.”

“You're a plucky girl. ue

' Florence O’Day ‘shuddered.

“When I think hew that poor thing
was murdered it scares me just re-
membering that I-let those fellows take
me home.”

IT-related all this to my partner, Sad-
orf, later in the night.

“Do you trust her?” he asked. $

“Yes, I do.”

On Saturday night, from the darkness
of our automobile, parked down the

block, we saw the girl enter the club -

at Broad and Clearfield Streets. Even
in the dim light above the door the
features of the man who accompanied
her ewre sullen and shifty. He glanced
over his shoulder, looked quickly along
the street.

“Ever see him before?” Sadorf mur-
mured.

“No. Did you?”

‘He shook his- head.

“I hope he doesn’t make aoe for
her. She’s got her nerve to do this.”

Florence O’Day had been in the club
less than an hour when she came out,
hurried toward us, and, as I swung the
door open, she darted in and said, in a
tense voice:

“Drive away, quick, around the
square. I made an excuse that I felt sick
and needed some air. Vl have to go

‘back.

“He says he doesn’t know Whitey’s
last. name, that they aren’t really friends ©
and he hasn't seen him since last -Sat-
urday. But he works as a-short order
cook in the Glenwood Diner at Broad
and Glenwood Avenue!”

ALF a dozen customers were seat-
ed at the counter in, the Glenwood

Diner. A skillet of fat, spluttering on

the range, sent a faint haze of smoke
over the place.

To our dismay we noted that there

‘were three attendants on duty all of
whom seemed to fit the description
Florence had given us.

“What’ll you have?” one of them
pushed a menu toward us

“Coffee.”

He placed two steaming cups before -
us, rang up the dime. :
'- Down the counter a couple of” cus-

tomers were having an argument. The
usual. small talk, common to a lunch-
room,. drifted back and forth. Remarks
were made about the quality of the
food, the service, the prices. -

A newcomer. entered, sidled onto a

stool.

“Make mine a fried ham sandwich,
Whitey,” he said:

The man he addressed ae slowly.
There was a twisted grin on his dark
face. His eyes were bold, insolent. -

“Hi, yah, pal,” he replied. “What’s
news?”

He began to prepare the order, swore

grill.
“Whitey!”

At the sound of my voice he looked

down the counter at us. I motioned to
him and he walked toward us.

“We're law,” I said. “Get your hat.
We want a little ‘talk with you.”

For a moment he did not. move. Only

hisy cold eyes shifted from Sadorf ‘to’

me. Then he remarked coolly.

“Okay. ”

He took off his apron.

“Hey, what about my sandwich?” his
-friend cried. “Where are you going?”

“You'll get -your sandwich. Take it
easy.” He said to a fellow cook,” I'll
be back in a few minutes.”

Outside the door he turned to us with

"a sneer.

“Cops! You got a nerve coming here!
What do you want to do, get me fired?
I got a wife and family to keep!”

“It’s too bad you didn’t think about
them instead of that date you had with
Ethel Atkins.’ -

He drew a deep breath, but there
was neither fear’ nor excitement in his
voice or manner.

“So that’s it. Well, I can straighten
you gut on that.”

He identified himself as William J.
Earnest and said he ‘lived at 17th and
Diamond Streets and was the father of
two children.

“T got a good are job and behave
myself, ” he asserted. “You can ask my
wife.”

However, police records at City Hall
put a different light upon the prisoner.
He was first arrested at the age of
sixteen, in 1921, on a charge of steal-
ing an automobile, but was discharged.
Five years later he was arrested for
reckless driving ‘and fined. In 1926 he
was taken into custody on a charge of
disorderly conduct. His last arrest was
on June 12, 1937,

At that time he was convicted before
Judge Frank Smith of immoral con-
duct and spent three months in the
Philadelphia County Prison.

We notified District Attorney Smillie
and Detectives Gleeson and Rankin,
who hurried down to ‘headquarters to
take part in the questiohing of Earnest.
Through the night we trapped him in
many discrepancies and finally he an-
grily charged that his companion, Dick,
had murdered Mrs. Atkins.

Detectives arrested Dick shortly af-
ter he returned to his home, the location
of which Earnest had told us.

We informed him that he had been
accused of the crime but, beyond deny-
ing it, he would not talk.

At three o'clock Sunday morning,
Earnest bewildered at last by the mass

softly as some grease spilled over the :

A vicious and coldhearted killer.

of lies in which he tad been caught,
made a complete confession.

, He said he had met Mrs. Atkins in
a cafe on Monday morning and. began
talking to her. although he had never

seen her before? His .friend was with
him.

“Y invited her to go over to Martin’s
with us and she agreed. When: we left
there I suggested a ride in the country.
That was: Monday afternoon. She was
an attractive woman and I thought I
would like-to be alone with her. But
I took Dick along anyway. On the road
out of town I remembered the house at
Horsham. I lived in that town once
and ‘I knew the house was empty.

“We left Dick in the car and I tried
to get in the house, but it was locked
so I broke a window and crawled in and
.then opened the door and brought the
woman in. We went upstairs and we
had an argument. She slapped my face
and everything went red before my eyes,
I grabbed a curtain rod that was lying
on the floor and hit her again and
again.

“She put up.an awful fight, but I kept
on slugging her until she lay still. Once
I had struck her I couldn’t seem to
stop. ”

a DONT MISS rs
~ NUMBER 4 OF -

Ss gave he story to Captain
Engle, commander of the Philadel-
phia Homicide Squad, and signed it. On
Monday morning he was taken to Mont-
gomery County and there, calmly and -
without emotion, he took us step by
step through that house of death re-
enacting the brutal crime. Dick admitted
he jhad accompanied the killer and his .
victim to the house but had remained
in the car when they went inside.

“After a while Whitey came running
out,” he told us, “and said, ‘She slap-
ped me and I had to clip her. Let’s get
away from here.’ ”

On December ‘2, 1940, Earnest went
on trial before Judge William F. Danne-
hower at Norristown and, three days
later, was convicted by a jury of mur-
der in the first degree with the penalty
fixed at death. He appealed for a new
trial, but this was denied him and on
April 17, 1941, Judge Dannehower sen-
tenced him to the electric chair. He
was put to” death on October 27, 1941, -
in the Western State Penitentiary at
Rockview, Pennsylvania. :

Editor’s Note: The names Florence
O’Day and Dick are fictitious to avoid
further embarressment for these inno-
cent persons.

ey


mengrmmene .

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Saami dananenaae

38

Ainu OL @ Car you Nad, and wnat clothes
you’d be wearing.”

Dwyer looked at Lorenz. “Radio—
planes—cars—it ain’t like we planned it,”
he said.

Lorenz shook his head mournfully. “It
ain’t like the good old days. Times have
changed.”

‘hey were brought to the Dona Ana
County jail at Las Cruces where they were
informed they had killed W. L. Smith dur-
ing the hold-up. They were arraigned on
a charge of first degree murder, but just
before the trial on February 19, 1938,
prosecuting officers changed the charges to
murder in the second degree. They were

tried and found guilty before Judge Numa
C. Frenger, and sentenced to terms of not
less than fifty nor more than seventy-five
years at hard labor in the State Peniten-
‘tiary at Santa Fe.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The names Irma
Balch and Evie Meyer are fictitious.

~

LADY IN A FOG

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 27

checked both addresses, but neither per-
son was known to the present occupants
of the premises. It was now well after
midnight Tuesday, September 24, 1940.

Early the next morning, while the of-
ficers again took up the search for the
couple to whom the marriage license had
been issued five years before, Jimmy At-
kins walked into Norristown headquarters
and said he thought the dead woman might
be his wife.

Atkins, a husky squared-jawed man in
his 30s, had read of the murder in the
morning newspapers, which included the

fact that the victim had worn a gold-

wedding ring with the initials “J. F. A. to
E. F. A.” and the date.

“That woman must be Ethel,” he de-
clared. “Those are our initials and we
were married on that date. Nobody else
would have the ring.”

Atkins was taken to the county morgue,
where he tearfully identified the body as
that of his wife. Then Chief Munshower
and Captain Engle took him to the office
of District Attorney Frederick B. Smillie
in the Montgomery County Courthouse to
make a formal statement.

Atkins sat twisting his hat in his big
hands, his eyes staring down at the floor
while Smillie questioned him.

“How long has your wife been missing?”
the district attorney asked.

“Since early Saturday morning,” the
distraught husband replied. “She was all
right when I left home for work that day,
but when I returned she was gone. I went
down to the neighborhood tavern where
we had been Friday night, thinking per-
haps she was there, but she wasn’t—and
nobody had seen Her since the previous
night.”

“Did your wife do much drinking?”
Smillie inquired.

“She wasn't supposed to do any,” Atkins
declared. “She suffered fram—well, call
it amnesia. She was forbidden to touch
alcohol. Even a few glasses of beer sent
her into a haze.”

He told how, when drinking, she would
wander off for hours at a time, her mind
a complete blank. He had tried constantly
to protect her, he said, had scolded,
pleaded, wept and cajoled. But it went
too far beyond him to control.

Smillie’s face was grim. “You must
have known,” he said, “that she was ex-
posed to danger when she was in the
mental state you describe. And yet, al-
though you had not seen her since Satur-
day morning, you did not notify police
until today. Why?”

Atkins tried to explain. He dreaded
discussing Ethel with strangers. She had
wandered off before and had come back,
apparently normal again. He had hoped
that this time it would not be any differ-
ent. ‘

“Did you-ever have any other difficul-
ties with your wife?” Smillie demanded.
“Any serious quarrels?”

“None,” Atkins declared. “She was a
good wife and a good mother to our three-
year-old twins. They just adored her. In
fact, everybody liked Ethel. She was
friendly and kind and always doing things
for the neighbors.”

The victim’s husband went on to de-
scribe her good qualities, and as he talked
he became aware that Smillie and the
two police officers were regarding him in

- silence. He looked at the prosecutor, then

at the expressionless eyes of Munshower
and Engle. He began to sweat and his
hands _ trembled.

®“Say,” he blurted out, “you men don’t
think that I had anything to do with
this—?”

“We're only interested in the facts,”
Smillie. replied quietly. “No one has said
that you aren’t telling the truth. But we
must detain you a little while until we
know more about this case.”

Atkins was the picture of dejection.
“All right,” he said, “maybe I have been
a fool. Maybe I should have reported her

- absence before this. But I was thinking

of my kids. I didn’t want people talking
about them—”

Atkins gave the officers a detailed ac-
count of his movements and actions on
the previous day ‘when the crime occurred.
He remained at headquarters while his
story was checked. Late that afternoon,
detectives reported that the statement had
been corroborated in every respect. Atkins
was released, absolved from any connec-
tion with the slaying, and promised to
remain available to give police any fur-
ther help they might need.

His description of the mental fog which
afflicted his wife was verified later in the
evening, when Ethel’s first husband ap-
peared at Norristown headquarters. He
had come voluntarily from Baltimore to
offer police his assistance after reading
the grim news.

The first husband said that Ethel had
disappeared under the same circumstances
eight or ten times during the years of
their marriage between 1921 and 1928.
But he praised her as a good housekeeper,
a devoted mother and a wonderful cook.
She had borne him three children, all of

whom were now living with his mother at
Durham, North Carolina.

She had parted with the children re-
luctantly, he said, and only because she
realized that by letting them go they would
receive advantages she could not give
them. He insisted that his former wife had
never drunk to excess and that, during the
periods of mental fog, she usually made
her way to the home of friends. He said
he had not seen her since May, 1929, and
that after their divorce he had remarried
and was living in Baltimore where he was
now in business.

The first husband offered to remain in
Norristown if the authorities thought he
could be of further help. But after a check
with Baltimore police confirmed his state-
ment that he had been in the Maryland
city at the time of the crime, he was al-
lowed to go. It was plain that he knew
nothing of the recent whereabouts of his
former wife.

The Pennsylvania officers next made a
thorough canvass of the neighborhood
around the Atkins house in Philadelphia,
but could find no one who had seen the
victim after she had left home on the
Saturday morning before the murder.

All local hospitals were checked on the
theory that Ethel Atkins, in her .dazed
condition, might have been admitted to
one of them without being able to identify
herself, then had managed to slip away.
But no woman of her description had been
treated at any of the institutions.
~ Munshower and Engle questioned the
proprietor and employes of the tavern to
which Jimmy Atkins said he had escorted
his wife on Friday night, thinking she
might have returned later. But she had
not been there. :

Detectives Thomas F. Costello and
Adam Sadorf of Engle’s homicide squad,
working with Detectives Gleeson and Ran-
kin of Munshower’s county force, then
began a systematic canvass of every
taverm, night club and cafe in the sur-
rounding area, in the hope of finding

. someone who had seen the victim.

The detectives spread out from the
tavern near the Atkins home to a radius
of two dozen city blocks. Before two days
passed they had interviewed the managers
and employes of 82 different drinking
establishments.

A smiling portrait of Ethel Atkins, en-
larged and copied from a_ snapshot
furnished by her husband, was shown by
the detectives to hundreds of persons, but
none of them recognized the likeness.

The investigation now was virtually at

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a Standsuii. ihe officers were convinced
that the victim had been slain while in
a mental fog brought on by drinking. But
if she had not visited any of the taverns
or clubs within miles of her home, then
where had she downed the drinks which
led to her death?

It seemed certain that she had traveled
to the remote house on Dresher Road in
an automobile, probably with her slayer.
It was likely, then, that this man was
familiar with Bacon’s property and de-
liberately selected it for a rendezvous.

Pursuing this angle, the detectives ques-
tioned Bacon again. But“he was at a loss
to name anyone who would use _ the
deserted house for that purpose. He
pointed out that it was apparent to any
passerby that the unkempt place was un-
occupied, and that the killer had to break
a window to gain entrance.

Bacon said he had been at the house
the Saturday night before the murder and
everything was in order. There were a
few pieces of furniture he had stored in
the rooms, but they had not been dis-
turbed. Apparently the slayer had never
been in the house until the day of the
crime.

At this point, Chief Munshower and
Captain Engle decided to rely on two time-
worn police techniques which occasionally
have been successful in the past. The first
was to maintain a 24-hour guard at the
scene of the crime on the slim chance
that the murderer would return there.
This had been done since the night the
body was discovered, but so far no one
had appeared except a few curiosity
seekers. Munshower ordered the watch
continued. :

The second procedure was to arrange
for detectives to mingle with the mourners
at the funeral for Ethel! Atkins, now set
for Saturday morning. Engle went one
step further. He assigned Detective Cos-
tello, a headquarters man from city hall
and not known locally, to attend the wake
on Friday night.

"THE body reposed in a simple casket in

the parlor of the home Ethel Atkins
had tended with such care. The neighbors
who knew her weakness, and liked her in
spite of it, came to pay their respects.
All evening a long line of people. moved
through the house. Kindliness was not
the only reason for their presence. Brush-
ing shoulders with the well-meaning neigh-

| bors and friends were the frankly curious

—the thrill-seekers—who had read of the
atrocious crime and wanted a glimpse of
the pathetic victim.

Standing beside the door leading into
the parlor, quietly studying the faces of
the visitors, was Detective Costello. He
was still there as midnight came and the
crowd thinned out. As Costello turned
away to stifle a yawn, he heard a voice.
murmur, “She sure is changed!”

The detective looked around to see a
small, middle-aged man peering over his
shoulder into the flower-banked room.
His eyes were fixed on the corpse in the
casket. |

Costello took the stranger firmly by the
arm and maneuvered him. outside. “Just
what did you mean by that remark?” he
demanded, showing his badge.

“Let me go!” the man countered. “I

just don’t want to get mixed up in this!”

“Then why did you come here?” Cos-
tello pressed.

Finally the stranger admitted that he had
seen Ethel Atkins in a downtown cafe on
the day of the murder, and could not
resist the impulse to have a look at her
remains,

“I saw her in the cafe on Broad Street
near Somerset around noon last Tuesday,”
-he said. “She was sitting at a table with
two men and another: woman.”:

“Who were they?” Costello asked.

The witness shrugged. “I don’t know,
but I believe the woman works there.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
the detective demanded. “If you read the
papers, you must have known that the
police were hunting for someone—anyone
who had seen her.”

The man scowled. “I wasn’t in on their
party,” he explained. “I was having a
quiet drink and minding my own busi-
ness. I didn’t even know the woman’s
name until I saw her picture in the papers.
I intended to tell the police about it, but
after thinking it over I changed my mind.”

He gave Costello his name and address,
and said he often visted the cafe, but
never had noticed Mrs. Atkins there be-
fore.

“Was she drinking when you saw her?”

“Not that I noticed,” he replied. “In
fact, none of them seemed to have had
too much. But I remember Mrs. Atkins
in particular because she was so pretty.”

The witness protested when Costello and
his partner, Detective Sadorf, suggested
that he accompany them to the cafe and
point out the woman who had been in the
party with the victim. But when they
promised him immunity if, upon investiga-
tion, his story proved true, the little man
agreed to make the identification.

It was after 1 o’Clock Saturday morning,
but the cafe was still lighted when the de-
tectives arrived with their man. They
pulled up their car a shert distance from
the entrance and got out. As they neared
the front window of the cafe, the under-
sized witness paused and stood on tiptoe,
craning his neck above the half-frosted
pane to peer inside.

“The light-haired waitress,” he whis-
pered, indicating a young woman near the
counter. “That’s the one.”

While Sadorf remained outside with the
witness, Costello went in and took a stool
not far from the girl who had been pointed
out. ‘She was a buxom blonde with a
pleasant face, clad in a tight-fitting uni-
form. :

At the sight of the detective’s badge,
held in his open palm, her smile faded.
“Can I talk with you?” he asked softly.

“Sure,” she nodded, motioning him to
the other side of the room. There were
few customers in the place and business
was light. The girl was not missed as she
walked over and sat down at a table fac-
ing Costello. She said her name was Sally
Malone. a

“You won't. believe this,” she said,
pausing to light a cigarette, “but I haven't

‘been able to sleep for worrying. Every
- time that door opened this past week, I’ve

been afraid it was the cops coming to

question me.”
“And why was that?” Costello asked.
“Because I sat with this girl and the

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tail the young man when he left the club
to find out what had become of his girl.

From Sally Malone’s house, the detec-
tives drove directly to the diner. Half a
dozen customers were seated at the
counter when they entered, and a skillet
of fat, spluttering on the range, filled the
place with a faint haze of smoke.

Behind the counter were three apron-
clad men, all of whom seemed to fit the
description given by the Malone girl.
“What’ll you have?” one of them asked,
pushing a menu at the officers.

“Two coffees,” Costello growled, and
the counterman set the steaming cups be-
fore them, ringing up the dime in the cash
register. The detectives were sparring for
time.

Then a newcomer entered and sat down
on a stool. “Make mine a fried ham
sandwich, Whitey,” he said.

The man he addressed turned slowly.
There was a twisted grin on his dark face,
a hard look in his cold blue eyes. “Okay,
pal,” he replied and began to prepare the
order.

“Come here, Whitey!” snapped Costello,
and the man _ whirled suddenly, staring
down the counter at the two plainclothes-
men. He saw the badge in Costello’s
hand and slowly moved toward them.

“We're taking you to headquarters,” the
detective said sternly. “Get your hat!”

The suspect’s eyes darted quickly from
Costello to Sadorf and back again. “Okay,”
he said coolly, taking off his apron.

Outside the diner he turned to the de-
tectives with a sneer. “You cops got a
nerve coming here!” he declared. “What
do you want me to do, get fired? | got a
wife and family to keep.”

“Too bad you didn’t think of them,”
Sadorf snapped, “when you had that date
with Ethel Atkins!”

The man’s face paled and he caught his
breath, but kept a firm grip on himself.
“So that’s it,’ he said slowly. “Well, I
can straighten you out on that.”

Taken to headquarters, he identified
himself as William J. Earnest and said
he lived at 17th and Diamond Streets.

“I got a good steady job and behave my-
self,” he asserted. “You can ask my
wife.”

But the police records at City Hall put
the prisoner in a different light. He was
first arrested at the age of 16, in 1921, on
a charge of stealing an automobile, but
was discharged. Five years later he was
arrested for reckless driving and fined. In
1926 he was:taken into custody on a
charge of disorderly conduct. His last
arrest was on June 12, 1937. At that
time he was convicted of immoral conduct
and spent three months in the Philadelphia
County Prison.

The detectives notified District Attorney
Smillie, who hurried down from Norris-
town to take part in the questioning.
Grilled throughout the night, Earnest was
trapped in many discrepancies and finally

charged angrily that his companion, Jack
Norton, had murdered Mrs. Atkins.

Norton was picked up at his home to
which he already had been trailed by de-
tectives. Brought to headquarters, he was
told of the accusation made by Earnest.
But beyond denying that he had killed
Ethel Atkins, he refused to talk.

The officers hammered away at Whitey
Earnest with questions until 3 o’clock Sun-
day morning when at last, bewildered by
the lies in which he had been caught, he
suddenly broke down and made a full
confession.

Earnest said he had met Mrs. Atkins in
a cafe on Tuesday morning and struck
up a conversation. Jack Norton was with
him. i

“I asked her to go over to a bar with
us for a few drinks, and she agreed,” he
said. “When we left there I suggested a
ride in the country. That was a little be-
fore one o'clock Tuesday afternoon. She
was an attractive woman and I thought
1 would like to be alone with her. But I
took Jack along anyway. On the road out
of town I remembered the house in
Horsham Township, near Willow Grove.
I lived around there once and knew the
house was empty.

“We left Jack in the car and I tried to
get in the house, but it was locked. So I
broke a window and crawled inside, then
opened the door and brought in the
woman. We went upstairs and we had an
argument. She slapped my face and I saw
red. I grabbed a curtain rod and hit her
again and again. She put up an awful
fight, but I kept on slugging her until she
lay still. Once I had struck her I couldn't
seem to stop.”

On Monday morning Earnest was taken
back to the scene of the crime, where he
reenacted the murder in the presence of
detectives.

Meanwhile, Jack Norton admitted he
had accompanied the confessed killer and
his victim to the house on Dresher Road,
but insisted he had remained in the car
while they went inside.

“After a while, Whitey came running
out,” he related, “and said, ‘She slapped
me and I had to clip her. Let’s get away
from here.’ But I had no idea that he had
killed the woman.”

N December 2, 1940, Earnest went on
trial before Judge William F. Dan-

nehower at Norristown. Three days later
he was convicted by a jury of first degree
murder with the penalty fixed at death.

He appealed for a new trial, but this
was denied him and on April 17, 1941,
Judge Dannehower sentenced him to die
in the electric chair. Six months. later,
on October 27, Earnest was put to death
in tne Western State Penitentiary at Rock-
view.

EpiTor’s Note: The names Sally Ma-
lone, Morris Bacon and Jack Norton are
fictitious.

Read about this 1952 ease:
CLUE OF THE HAUNTED NAME

in the October issue of

REAL DETECTIVE MAGAZINE.


n't want to get mixed up in this!”
n why did you come here?” Cos-
ressed.
ly the stranger admitted that he had
hel Atkins in a downtown cafe on
y of the murder, and could not
he © alse to have a look at her
w .... .n the cafe on Broad Street
bmerset around noon last Tuesday,”
“She was sitting at a table with
m and another: woman.”
D were they?” Costello asked.
witness shrugged. “I don’t know,
believe the woman works there.”
didn’t you tell us this before?”
ective demanded. “If you read the
you must have known that the
ere hunting for someone—anyone
hd seen her.”
nan scowled. “I wasn’t in on their
he explained. “I was having a
rink and minding my own busi-
didn’t even know the woman’s
mtil I saw her picture in the papers.
Hed to tell the police about it, but
nking it over I changed my mind.”
ave Costello his name and address,
d.he often visted the cafe, but
ad noticed Mrs. Atkins there be-

She drinking when you saw her?”
that I noticed,” he replied. “In
ne of them seemed to have had
h. But I remember Mrs. Atkins
ular because she was so pretty.”
itness protested when Costello and
ner, Detective Sadorf, suggested
accompany them to the cafe and
t the woman who had been in the
itl victim. But when they
dt amunity if, upon investiga-
story proved true, the little man
o make the identification.
after 1 o’Clock Saturday morning,
afe was still lighted when the de-
arrived with their man. They
p their car a short distance from
ance and got out. As they neared
t window of the cafe, the under-
ness paused and stood on tiptoe,
his neck above the half-frosted
peer inside.
light-haired waitress,” he whis-
dicating a young woman near the
“That’s the one.”
Sadorf remained outside with the
Costello went in and took a stool
om the girl who had been pointed
was a buxom blonde with a
face, clad in a tight-fitting uni-

~ sight of the detective’s badge,
his open palm, her smile faded.
alk with you?” he asked softly.
she nodded, motioning him to
side of the room. There were
omers in the place and business
The girl was not missed as she
ver and sat down at a table fac-
Ilo. She said her name was Sally

won't believe this,” she said,

o “-'* 4 cigarette, “but I haven't
‘ep for worrying. Every

d ened this past week, I’ve

aid it was the cops coming to

me.”

hy was that?” Costello asked.

se I sat with this girl and the

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two fellows and was seen by the other
customers. And the next thing I hear, the
girl’s been murdered! It’s enough to upset
anybody.”

“Who were the men?”
manded.

She shook her head with a sigh, then
looked straight at the detective. “This
may sound fishy,” she said, “but it’s the
honest truth. They came in here, the
three of them, late Tuesday morning. I
never saw any of them before. I went
over to see what they would have. The
woman didn’t speak—just sat there like
she was in a daze. The men ordered
whiskey for her and themselves.”

Sally Malone paused and drew deeply
on her cigarette, her hands trembling.
Then she continued: ;

“They were here for an hour or so, and
I'd talk to them once in a while—nothing
important. Once I asked the men what
was the matter with their friend, and one
of them laughed and said, ‘Aw, she’s just
punchy! A little after 12 it was time for
me to go off duty, and they offered to
give me a lift home. We all went out to
their car. The woman was still with them
when they dropped me off. I didn’t hear
her name at all, and the fellows were just
‘Jack’ and ‘Whitey’ to me. But I got a
phone call on Thursday from Jack and he
asked me for a date Saturday night—”

“That’s tonight?” Costello interrupted.

She nodded. “I have different hours on
different days. I have some time coming
to me tonight, so I said I'd meet him.
I’ve been a little afraid, but I was curious
to know where they left that poor girl.”

“And so are we!” Costello declared.
“You can help us, if you will.”

Sally Malone, a brave girl, agreed to
find out all she could about her date and
his companion, Whitey. She had told the
young man she would go with him to a
local dance, and arranged to meet the de-
tectives nearby as soon as she could break
away from her escort.

At 9 o'clock Saturday night, from the
darkness of their parked car, Costello and
Sadorf saw the girl enter the dancehall.
Even in the dim light from above the
door, the features of the man who accom-
panied her were sullen and _ sinister.
Neither officer recalled having seen him
before.

Sally Malone had been in the dancehall
less than an hour when she came out alone
and hurried toward the police car. Cos-
tello opened the door and she darted in-
side.

“Drive away, quick, around the square!”
she said. “I told him I felt sick and needed
some air. But he may follow me.”

“What did you find out?” Costello
asked.

“Not much. He says he doesn’t know
Whitey’s last name, that they aren’t really
friends and he hasn't seen the guy since
last Saturday. But he did say Whitey
works as. a short order cook in a diner
on Glenwood Avenue!”

At her request, the detectives drove the
plucky girl back to. her home. They
thanked her for her assistance, and asked
her to let them know if her companion
of the evening tried to get in touch with
her again.

To make doubly sure they would not
lose the suspect, Costello and Sadorf had

Costello de-

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Dead Nude In The Haunted House

(continued from page 45)

vacant house because his mother had
lived in the vicinity until recently. -
‘“‘Ethel went upstairs with me
willingly enough,’’ Earnest went on.
But after a while she began to cry.

_ Then she flew at.me and tried to

scratch me. I picked up the curtain rod
and hit her, but she kept trying to kick
and strike’me. Then I guess I lost my
head. I hit her pretty hard a couple of
times until I thought I’d knocked her

out. But I didn’t mean to kill her, and
I didn’t know she was dead until I read
it in the paper.

“| made my wife swear she’d say I
was back by 11 o’clock, I told her I
was afraid the police would try to pin
the murder on me because I’d been in
a jam once before.”’

Earnest signed a statement admit-
ting his guilt. He was then arrested and
confined to jail.

His trial began in Norristown in ear-

ly December, 1940. On December 5, a
jury found Earnest guilty of first
degree murder. He was sentenced to
death in the electric chair. After a
futile appeal attempt, William Earnest
finally paid the penalty for his crime
on October 27, 1941. He was electro-
cuted in Rockview Penitentiary at
Bellefonte, Pa.

(The names Max Horowitz, Leo Sheri-
dan, George Morton and James

Dougherty are fictitious to protect the
identity of persons innocently involved
in the investigation. — The Editor.)

Bringing In The Last Verdict

(continued from page 43)

went free. The San Francisco DA’s
office took one look at the case and
told Klotz that the case ‘‘was not
prosecutable.”’

Klotz was stunned.

**Sure, it’s not an open and shut
case,’’ Klotz begged, ‘‘but give the
little old lady her day in court.”’

No way, the San Francisco DA said.
They weren’t going to touch it.

The case stalled. Klotz was assigned
to new cases. His partner Howard
Bailey went to school and became one
of San Francisco’s polygraph experts.
From time to time Sgt. Robinett would

.call asking what had happened to the

case and Klotz would bring it to the
DA’s attention again. Finally, Klotz
typed out a 17-page status report for
the DA and he sent a copy of the
report to Robinett. This time he got
lucky. Craig Stevens, the new District
Attorney of Glenn County, happened
to see the report on Sgt. Robinett’s
desk.

‘““What’s this?’’-Stevens asked,
flipping through the pages.

‘‘The Edith Jackson case,’ Robinett
replied.

Maybe it was because Craig Stevens
lives in a small town like Willows,
population 5,000, where they never
had a murder and where neighbors
know one another. Or maybe it’s

because Craig Stevens looks like Clark

Kent and has this belief in justice, but
as he looked through Inspector Klotz’s
report and read the evidence against
Gary Lescallet, he became outraged.
The next morning he was on the phone
and set up a meeting with Inspector
Klotz. Stevens thought he could get a

conviction on the kidnap and robbery .

charge at least, and if the San
Francisco DA was afraid to prosecute,
he wasn’t. Glenn County would take

46

the ball and run with it. One way or
the other, Stevens said, the case was
going to be prosecuted.

The San Francisco District Attor-
ney’s office deferred and a year anda
half later, in July 1983, after a change
of venue to Oakland, California, Gary
Lescallet’s second murder trial began.
Craig Stevens, the tall, clean-cut DA
from Glenn County personally prose-
cuted the case.

The trial began with Dr. Royd-

Stevens, the San Francisco Coroner
who gave a grisly account of the
victim’s wounds. As the 8 by 10 black
and white glossy photos of Edith
Jackson’s nude and bloodied body
were passed through the jury box, the
jurors’ faces cringed and sickened.
They listened in horror as the coroner
told the court how the kindly old
retired schoolteacher had been stabbed

to death and then sexually assaulted. .

Then Inspector Klotz ushered in his
star witness, Frank Kelly who had been
given immunity from prosecution in
return for his testimony against Gary
Lescallet. Kelly told the hushed court
how he and the Lescallet brothers
kidnapped Edith Jackson from
Willows after she had given them a
ride, and then described how the
Lescallets had stabbed the elderly
woman in the trunk of the Impala as
it was parked in front of the Army
Street Housing Project.

He told how he and Gary Lescallet
went back to pick over the remains,
stealing the victim’s ring and watch to
trade for more drugs. Kelly’s testimo-
ny stunned the jury but it was a
surprise witness, Harry Breton, who
tipped the case. Breton, a pale,
ghoulish-eyed prisoner from Glenn
County had been a tier-runner at the
Glenn County Jail in Willows during

the Lescallet’s preliminary trial, and
Gary Lescallet had talked to him about
the case. Lescallet had bragged about
how he and his brother had killed the
old lady and boasted that the DA
would never convict him. He told
Breton how he and his brother had
come downstairs to see if the old lady
was still alive, and when they opened
the trunk they thought she was dead.
Just to make sure, he took Mrs.
Jackson’s walking cane and jabbed her
with it. Then Darrell went at her with
his knife, stabbing her in the chest
eight or ten times. Breton told Gary
he was sick, but that just made him
laugh harder and he called Breton a
“‘pink cowboy,’’ a weakling.

You could almost feel the trial turn
with Breton’s sickening testimony, but
Gary Lescallet took the stand and
swore he never met Edith Jackson.
Like the Los Siete trial 13 years earlier,
Gary Lescallet and his lawyers claimed
the DA was trying to frame him.

When the case went to the jury,
Inspector Klotz and District Attorney
Craig Stevens felt that they had proven
their case. The evidence was there. But
Lescallet’s attorney Gordon Wilson
was equally optimistic and he predicted
that the jury would dismiss all charges
within a few hours deliberation. But
the jury didn’t come. back with an
instant verdict. They deliberated all
day and wrestled with a verdict into
the next day. Waiting for the verdict
proved too much for Paul McGoran,
Officer Joe Brodnik’s old partner.
McGoran was retired now, but like
Klotz he felt that Gary had slipped
through the justice system. The fear

that it would happen again tripped a — eS

heart attack and McGoran was in the

_intensive care unit when the verdict

came in on the third day, just before
lunch. .

' (continued on next page)

OK ae ee ate

A
ae

-. As Klotz waited for the Serdier he "
could barely breathe. He would settle

pas i os ors eee Re

7


I had to go to work. She was still in
bed, and I made breakfast and took it
to her. But then I had to leave. I told
her she could stay around till I got
home if she liked. But when I came
back that evening, she’d gone, leaving
no word. That’s the last I saw of her.”’

‘“‘You must have known she was the
girl whose body was found,’’ Murphy
put in. ‘‘It said in the papers that we’d
found skin and some gray hairs under
her finger nails.’’

‘‘But you thought that she had
scratched her killer,’’ Dougherty said.
‘‘To be honest, I was afraid to come
forward because I was sure I’d be
accused of murder.”’

Munshower asked the man what he

had been doing on Tuesday morning -

and he replied that he had driven to
the suburbs on a selling trip.

‘‘Were you near Norristown that
day?’’ the chief asked.

_ Asa matter of fact, I was.”’

‘‘When did you leave Philadel-

phia?”’ —

‘‘About ten in the morning.

‘‘And you met Ethel Atkins again
on Montgomery Avenue that morning
and took her with you in your car,
didn’t you?’’ Murphy broke in
sharply.

‘I didn’t,’’ Dougherty protested. “‘I
didn’t see her at all on Tuesday, and
I’ve no idea who killed her.”’

While county detectives continued
to question Dougherty, Detective
Costello and city police visited his
apartment and made other investiga-
tions. These inquiries confirmed that
the girl had spent the week-end with
him and had been in his car, but there
was no evidence that he had been with
her Tuesday.

The following morning Captain
Engle telephoned Chief Munshower
again. ‘‘So we’ve accounted for 71 of
the 72 missing hours,’’ he said, ‘‘but
we’re still at a standstill until we find
out what happened to the girl after she
got out of the car on Montgomery
Avenue.”’

Chief Munshower reported that
Dougherty’s prints failed to corre-
spond with the partial print found.
‘‘But we can’t be absolutely certain
that that print is the killer’s,’’ he
added.

‘Except that she still might have
been picked up by just about any man
in Philadelphia with a car,’’ Engle said
wryly.

At the Philadelphia Homicide
Bureau, Engle and Detective Costello
discussed the case once more. Costello,

looking over some notes he had taken

while talking with Morton and
Earnest, suddenly made a discovery.
‘‘We’ve overlooked somebody,’’ he
said. ‘‘George Morton’s girlfriend, the
waitress he was with when he met

‘Earnest and Ethel Atkins in the bar.’’

It was true that in the rush of
activity, the police had not looked up
this girl.

‘‘Farnest and Morton say she was
the first one to be dropped off,’’-Engle
reminded him, ‘‘so she’d have no way
of knowing what happened afterward.
Still we’d better check up on her.”’

Detectives Costello and Rankin
drove to the bar at 20th and Montgo-
mery Street and talked again to the
owner.

‘‘Morton girl’s name is Mary, that’ S
all I know,”’ he said. ‘‘But I know the
restaurant where she works.”’

Costello and Rankin were soon
seated across a restaurant booth from
a pretty, pink-cheeked young brunette.
The girl seemed extremely nervous as
she corroborated the previous stories
of how the four - she, Ethel Atkins
and Morton — had met.

‘Yes, I’m the one who suggested
going home,”’ she said. ‘‘I’d worked
all night, and the beer had made me
sleepy. We left together and they took
me home first.”’

‘By the way, where do you live?”’
Costello asked.

The girl hesitated for an instant.
Then she said in a low voice: “Toward
the edge of town.’

Her reluctance to answer the ques-
tion directly made Costello glance at
her sharply. ©
. “Exactly where?”’ he asked.

‘‘In - in Cheltenham,”’ the girl
replied hesitantly. '

“‘Cheltenham!’’ Detective Rankin
exclaimed. ‘‘Why, that’s in Montgo-

mery County outside of Philadelphia

proper. It’s six or seven miles from
the center of town through heavy
traffic. And it’s in the general direction
of the Bready house.”’ :

The girl’s information threw an
entirely new light on the stories of
William Earnest and George Morton.
They had talked casually of taking the
waitress home and then dropping off
Ethel Atkins, leading the police to
assume that the girl lived nearby and
that it was a simple operation.

Actually, if they had left the bar at
10:30, as confirmed by the owner, it
would have been a physical impossi-
bility for them to drive to Cheltenham
andpet back by 11 o’clock. Instead, the
girl’s statement placed them near the
Bready house around eleven. But more

important, the time element flatly
contradicted William Earnest’s alibi!

Detective Costello told the girl
gently, ‘‘I think you suspect, though
you don’t know for sure, that your boy
friend, George Morton, might have
some knowledge of the murder, and
you’ve hoped that you could shield
him. Is that right?’’

The girl nodded and suddenly gave
way to tears.

After consulting Captain Engle, the
detectives drove the girl to Norristown,
where Chief Munshower heard her
story.

Earnest and Morton were immedi-
ately taken to separate rooms, where

they were questioned by detectives in’

relays. Morton was the first to crack.

He told Munshower and District
Attorney Smillie that after he had
driven his girl home, Earnest had
suggested that they go for a ride in
the country. .

‘‘Farnest directed me to the Bready
house and told me to wait outside,”’
he went on.
anything, but I had an idea of what
he had in mind. Well, he got a tire
iron to force his way into the house.
A moment later, he came out the front
door and woke up the girl. She was
wiling to go with him into the house.

‘‘T waited outside for nearly an
hour. Then I heard screams and I
figured they’d gotten into a fight. But
it was his business, not mine, and I
didn’t want to get mixed up in it.

‘*A little later,he came running out.
There was some blood on his hands
and his clothes and he seemed scared.
He said he’d had an argument with
her and ‘had had to clip her.’ Those
weré his words. But he said she’d be
all right and insisted that we go away
and leave her. I was afraid of him and
I did what he said.

‘“‘We got back to his place at 1
o’clock. On the way he made me swear
I’d say we’d gotten home at eleven
after dropping the girl off on Mont-
gomery Avenue. I promised, because
I was afraid not to.’

The officials were inclined to believe
Morton’s story.

When he had signed a formal
statement, the district attorney and
Munshower again questioned William
Earnest. At first the handsome
counterman repeated his previous
story. But when confronted by

Morton’s statement, he hung his head

and confessed his guilt.
He said that he had known of the

(continued on next page)

45

‘‘He didn’t explain |


, the whole
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had to con-
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ooked unhap-

TRAGEDY OF .THE BETRAYED SWEETHEART 29

pily into his eyes. Bobby felt uncomfortable. Her eyes were
the pathetic eyes of a trusting animal.

“Bob—oh, Bobby! I never doubted you. I just was—
scared. I didn’t know what to think, Bobby. All I knew
was that I loved you so very much, with everything that’s
in me, that I’d die a thousand deaths if anything ever care
between us.”

“Freda, you’re such an imaginative goose!”

For a minute they sat in silence. Then Freda said some-
thing that chilled Bobby Edwards’ blood and caused his
heart to hammer like a wild thing.

“Bobby,” she said, “now I can tell you—and not be afraid.
I’m going to have a baby. That night in the woods, Bob-
by.

His fingers gripped her arms painfully. “You're kidding !”

Freda drew back, frightened at the look on his face.

“Bobby, you don’t—? Bobby, what’s the matter?”

“Ts it true, Freda?”

“Bobby, you’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Angry? Of course not! I—well, it’s such a surprise,
that’s all.”

“I’m so sorry it happened like this, Bobby. We just never
dreamed. . . .”

“No, but it'll be all right, Freda. Does anybody know ?”

“Nobody. I couldn’t tell—not until I’d told you first.”

“You did right.”

“But they'll find out, Bobby. I—I won’t be able to hide
it for long.” .

“What of it? We'll be married by then. Everybody, I
guess, knows that we’re sort of engaged.”

Freda’s eyes shone with relief.

“We'll elope—go down to West Virginia,” Bobby said. “I
can get a job down there. After the kid’s born we'll come
back here, and nobody will be able to say anything.” Just a
few days, Freda. We’ll do it then. Meanwhile, not a word—
not even to your folks. We don’t want to spoil it.”

f hee next evening Bobby Edwards took Freda and Roset-
ta out riding again. They drove through the park and
the woods. Freda’s appearance had changed; she was now
remarkably brighter in mood and spirit. At 8:30, they halted
before Rosetta’s house and let her off.

On the way back to Edwardsville, Bobby said impulsively :
“You left your bathing suit in the car yesterday. What do
you say, Freda, we go for a swim at Harvey’s Lake ?”

” “Now?” Freda said. “Why, it’s so dark—”

Bobby Edwards’ voice was eager. “Come on, Freda!
There’s a bit of moon out. It’ll be real romance.”

“All right, let’s! It seems like years and years since we
were together like this.”

As they started for the lake, it began to rain and the
girl murmured disappointedly. Bobby Edwards said: “For-
get it! It’s swell swimming in the rain.” He nudged her
suggestively. “Tliere won’t be anybody around, then.”

Freda laughed, and Bobby Edwards grinned as he steered
the car off the main road and on to a short cut thoroughfare
to Harvey’s Lake. |

_ * * *

At 11 the next morning, the Edwards telephone rang.
Bobby answered it, and in the next instant he stiffened per-
ceptibly.

“Tt can’t be, Mrs.. McKechnie!” he exclaimed. “I drove

her home myself last night, just a block away from the’

house. Are you sure she hasn’t gone out somewhere ?”
He listened to the over-wrought voice, then said: “I’m
coming over, Mrs. McKechnie. If something’s wrong, |
want to help.” ,
He cut the connection, slicked back his hair and dashed
for the McKechnie home at the other end of the block.

There he found Mr. and Mrs, McKechnie taking turns tele-
phoning neighbors and relatives.

Mrs. McKechnie said: “Bobby, her bed hasn’t been
touched. She didn’t come home last night.” She looked at
him desperately. “Isn’t there anything you can think of,
Bobby? Do you know any place where she might have
gone?”

Beside a placid lake they sealed their love

“Golly, I don’t, Mrs. McKechnie. I wish I did. I let her
off down at the corner, at 10 o’clock. She said she was
tired and going straight to bed.” He added bluntly: “Some-
thing’s happened, I’m afraid. Have you called the police
yet?”

“No, not yet. We thought—”

“Then do it now. I’ll get around in my car, meanwhile,
and see everybody she knows. That’s all we can do.” _

George McKechnie, across the room, put the telephone
down wearily and nodded.

“He’s right,” he told his wife. ‘We'll have to- call the
police.” He picked up the instrument again and nodded at
the youth. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Forget it,” Bobby Edwards said. “I’m just as concerned
as you are.”

But six hours later, at five o’clock, the youth returned.
His quest had failed. As he started to list the names of all
those he had called on, the telephone rang.

State Police Captain William Clark of the nearby Wyo-
ming barracks was on the wire. The body of a girl, whose
description fitted Freda McKechnie, had been found an hour
before off shore at Harvey’s Lake. Would Mr. McKechnie
please come to the county morgue and identify the body?

- “It can’t be Freda!’ George McKechnie cried. “She
hasn’t been anywhere near the lake.”

“I’m afraid it’s she,” the captain countered. “We also

28 LOVE-CRIME DETECTIVE

In that brief moment, thinking of Myrna, he had forgotten
about Freda

Freda cried, “Oh, no, Bobby! I couldn’t let you fail be-
cause of me. I’d never forgive myself, if that happened.”

Her eyes now were filled with an earnestness that satisfied
him. He’d jockeyed himself out of an uncomfortable spot
quite easily. He felt better now—a lot more cheerful than
he did an hour ago. He leaned forward and gently touched
his lips to hers. That, he figured, ought to cinch it for good,
He closed his eyes and imagined that her yielding lips were
Myrna’s,

Desire suddenly awakened in him. He slid his arms
around Freda and brought her tightly against him. He
kissed her again, with the hard, arbitrary force of powerful
emotion,

In the darkness the chirping of the birds, the rustling of
the leaves, the rippling of the water were all that disturbed
the utter stillness.

Freda sighed and succumbed. .

xk
A disquieting development came a week later. Somehow

Freda’s mother had gotten wind of Bobby Edward’s two-
timing and enjoined her daughter from seeing him again.

Which would have been all right with him, except for the’

possibility that it would all get back to Myrna. It would
make him the’ perfect heel and an awful liar if it did. Myrna
was a broadminded person and a good sport, but she didn’t
like liars or anyone who wasn’t a square-shooter,

So far, thank goodness, Myrna wasn’t wise to the whole
rotten mess. Otherwise he’d not have gotten the letter from
her this morning. There was only one way that he could
prevent the thing from getting back to her. He had to con-
vince Freda that he was still in love with her, that his
friendship with Myrna was nothing more than an ordinary
school. friendship. It would mean winning over not only
Freda, but her mother and father as well. And the McKech-
nies were a strict, upright family.

That evening, less than an hour after his broken reverie,
Bobby Edwards stopped his coupe, not far from his house,
and waved to the two girls at the crosswalk.

“Hi!” he called. “Hop in, don’t you want to ride?”

Freda McKechnie hesitated and exchanged glances with
her attractive, blonde companion, Rosetta Culver. Then
they came toward the car, Freda a step ahead of her friend.

“Hi,” Bobby said, turning on a wide smile. “Haven't seen
you in ages. Where to?”

Freda said diffidently: “Hello, Bobby.”

Rosetta Culver smiled and said: “We're getting back from
the pool. It was swell.”

Bobby Edwards held the door open. “Hop in, c’mon. It’s
too hot to walk.”

Freda McKechnie wavered and looked to her friend -for a
decision. Rosetta shrugged her shapely shoulders and said:
“Why not? It is hot.”

HEY got into the car, Freda squeezing in with an air of

embarrassment, next to her erstwhile sweetheart. Bobby
drove leisurely around the town, then out to the countryside,
deliberately keeping his end of the conversation on a general,
trivial plane. Rosetta talked about a movie she had seen the
other day, Freda talked. of another movie and then men-
tioned she had lost her job. .

An hour later, Rosetta Culver observed that it was getting
late. She wanted to, be home before 10 o’clock because she
had to be up early in the morning for work. She lived in
nearby Wilkes-Barre, and Bobby drove her there.

In front of the girl’s house, Rosetta thanked Bobby and
told Freda that she would see her again tomorrow evening,

Bobby drove off. Now was the time to talk seriously with
Freda. He had no doubt that he could win her back ; she
still was in love with him. He could tell that.

“Freda, listen,” he said.: “We've got to straighten this
thing out. It’s not fair, your people keeping us apart because
of something that’s not true.”

Freda’s color faded as she scrutinized the youth’s hand-
some face, which now wore a dejected, injured expression.

“Bobby, is it really not true? Mother is so positive that
—that there is another girl.”

Bobby looked even more hurt. He stopped the car and

said: “Honey, I haven’t been going out with anybody but -

you. How could I—when I’m in love with you? Sure, I
know that girl; I know other girls, too, but that doesn’t
mean I’m in love with them, or keeping company with them.
You know other fellows, too, don’t you?”

Freda began to cry. “Then it—it’s not true? You still
love me, Bobby?” .

“Always!” He said it with impressive fervor,

The girl began to laugh hysterically. The youth watched

"her curiously, forcing the expression of care and solicitude to

remain on his face. Unconsciously, he compared Myrna’s
full, round rose-pink face to Freda’s pale, wan one and rath-
er angular chin; Myrna’s nose was small and saucy and her
eyes were wide and full of life; Freda’s nose was ted and
seemed long and bony and her eyes were all red and small
and sick-looking. Bobby Edwards felt his insides tighten ;
he wished he had never lived in Freda’s neighborhood, never
set eyes on her. He wished—god, how he wished he could
come right out with it—that he couldn’t stand her anymore!

Freda suddenly got control of herself. She looked unhap-

pily into
the path
“Bob-
scared.
was tha:
in me, t
between
“Fred
For a
thing t!
heart to
“Bob!
V’m goin
by...
His fi:
Freda
“Bobt
“Ts it
“Bobl
“Angi
that’s al
“Tm $
dreamed
“No, ]
“Nobc
“You
“But
it for lo
“Wha
guess, k:
Freda
“We'l
can get
back he:
few day:
not eve)

Fac

the woo:

_remarka

before R
On th:
“You le

you say,
“Now

Bobby
There’s
“All r
were tog
As th:
girl mur
get it! -
suggestir
Freda
the car
to Harve

At 1]
Bobby a
ceptibly.

“Tt ca
her hon
house.

He lis
coming
want to

He cv
for the


TRAGEDY of the

j

der scented letter, then carefully returned the pages

to the envelope. His heart, he realized, was pounding
something awful. He couldn’t help it: Myrna’s letters af-
fected him that way. It was as though she were close to
him, with the fragrance of her hair, the electricity of her
touch,

He tucked her latest missive among her many others, and
thought of the approaching week-end when they would be
together again. He lolled on the bed in his room and mused.
It was a lucky day when he met Myrna Evans at State
Normal in Mansfield, Pa., two years ago. He was only a
freshman then; she was a junior, with but a year to gradu-
ate, The year went swiftly. ‘lime went like that when they
were together. Now Myrna was teaching music in an Endi-
cott, N. Y., school, while he was spending the Summer
working in a mine and devoting the week-ends to her.

There she was smiling down at him from the night table.
The picture didn’t show the color of her eyes, but they were

Be: EDWARDS put his lips tenderly to the laven-

hazel and filled with the exhiliration of youth, and her
mouth was generous and soft.

Impulsively, Bobby Edwards brought the picture to his
lips, Then he stared intently at the smiling girl.

“Damn! What’ve you done to me? I’m actually sick
when I’m away from you.”

He closed his eyes and drifted over the past two years,
lingering over the evenings when he felt the warmth of her
vivid lips, when he held her in his arms, and they exchanged
vows to love each other unto death.

Outside, in the fading Summer light of that day of July
26

OL ~ (Gas vay y) clea lw

30, a distant church bell tolled the hour of seven. The sparse
traffic outside his parents’ home in Edwardsville, Pa., rum-
bled by intermittently, impotent to jar his retrospection.

Suddenly he sat upright, his fingers freezing over the
picture,

Freda!

He'd forgotten all about her. Freda MeKechnie, the
dark-haired telephone operator, who was seven years his
senior. In-that brief moment he had forgotten that Freda
McKechnie ever existed, that he had been in love with her
before he met Myrna. ;

Until four months ago he had concealed from Freda his
true feelings. The simple pretext that he was burdened with
studies and part-time work had served to keep him away

The McKechnies were a strict, up-
right family and looked upon Bobby
with speculation

©

from her. Nor did he ever tell Myrna about the 28-year-old
girl, who lived on the same block with him. Of course, he
had given Freda some of his time during those two years,
but only enough to keep her from asking embarrassing
questions.

The last time he’d seen her, four months ago, it was a
warm Spring evening, and: Freda’s dark eyes were filled
with something mute and appealing that made him uncom-
fortable and regret the impulse that made him call on her.
They were in his car, parked in the darkness of a halcyon

- woodland, beside a placid like, and Freda had uttered his

name,
“Bobby,” was all she said. But the way she said it, the

IVA

ty


hie sparse
Pa., rum-
tion,

over the

hnie, the
years his
at Freda
_with her

Freda his *
ened with
him away

: 28-year-old
}€ course, he
e two years,
s¢mbarrassing

go, it was a
; were filled
him uncom-
call on her.
of a halcyon
| uttered his

2 said it, the

Torn between two loves, Bobby Edwards
tried to settle his problem by removing the
obstacle to his new-found, passion-filled |
romance

way her eyes searched his, warned him that she was aware
of his remoteness. Then her eyes began to brim with tears
that wouldn’t fall; she bit her lips and turned her head,
trying to hide her feelings. Pity and anger smote him as he
watched her, feeling'a gnawing sense of helplessness.

How could he have been such a fool, he wondered in that
unendurable moment, as. to think he was in love with her?
She had nothing of the sophistication and vivacity that made
Myrna so desirable. Freda was pretty in a placid sort of
way, and very much settled. Prim, compared to Myrna.

Another disconcerting thought ran through his mind
then. Freda now was 28; he was only 21, When he would

be her age,, she would be 35—almost 40. People were old °

and edgy at that age. He must have shuddered because Freda
said: “What’s the matter, Bobby ?”

f ipnes question bothered him: he didn’t know whether it
referred to their strained relationship or to his agitation.
Always glib, he said impulsively :

By JULIUS 1. SANDERS

“Nothing, Freda. Just that school and work have spoilel
everything. We don’t see each other like we used to.” He
touched her hand firmly to make his words seem convincing.
“Makes me feel as though you don’t care about—us the way
you used to. It’s not somebody else, is it, Freda?”

Freda dabbed her eyes and looked at him with mingled
relief and astonishment. He knew that would be her re-
action; he was putting her on the defensive.

Freda said: “Oh, Bobby dear!” For one fearful momert
he thought she would really start to cry. “There couldn t
be anybody else, darling! I was so afraid that you ha 1
changed toward me.”

‘He said: “Of course not, baby! Never! It'll have to be
like this, I’m afraid, until I graduate. If I slacken on ny
studies now, I’m sure to flunk.”

27


dante &.

This is to certify that this is a true copy of the record which is on file in the Pennsylvania Division of Vital Records in accordance

ERICO, and PUNTARIO, whites, elec. Pa. (Luzerne County) 9-25-1922.

with Act 66, P.L. 304, approved by the General Assembly, June 29, 1953.

(Fee for this certificate, $3.00) »

WARNING: It is illegal to duplicate this copy by photostat or photograph. Charles Hardester
State Registrar

250! giie7

ne ee Ses ‘meaner age
VEPARTMEMT OF tHE aL Tos |
“CERTIICATE, OF DEATH -  BUAEAL OF VITAL O74

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tanlay for New York and will sail for

‘er hepa itn Belgium.

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 PITSTON DETECT

her om the remainder of

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| + SLAIN FROL) ANGUS

By United Press, |
| Futtston, Pa., July 22.

—While about

tc enter his own gate at 11 o'clock
oon night, Sam Lucchino, a member
of the detective bureau of Pittston,

was shot from ambush and

en eS sa ————

half hour later tn the city hospital.

died a

Hi ~--—- Palm Beach and Mohair Suits.
! » Our entire stock, comprising the season’s smartest |
'
y! models and all the new shades: all SIZES
‘ Ni ie ; °
it At Greatly Reduced Prices
or Sone i Aa
! Ke (3$cCreery—Seventh Fleer r.)
, ~
|
jk mS AORN SED OT = : oan —— nl OE
= [aman e\enena ———SS SE = i
2 ee = Sg
* A An [an's transportation to Junet, Hainaux | Four bullets entered his body,
: _ ACE D wor WAN LEAVES |: het Sy At Antwerp she will be Chief of, Police Leo Tiorney an-

nounced that two men have been
aFrested in connection with the
chooting. One Fhan Gave bis name as
Tony Porano, aged 2, af Camden, N.
2: The other egid | he is Serefnt

Stucco, of this city,” Both were er-
Festal about S00 yards from the scone
n short time after the shots were
fired. Chief Tierney Stated that
Vorano had confessed to having fired
the chots which killed the detective.

| Touched.

Shoulder Stra
coho all

-~Oh. 80 You wear vour”
the time to keep youtr hands
cof

Soud and Fish—vYes.

Shoulder &trap—And do vou sieep with
vou hat an’—-Columbia Jester.

ae.

ION ;
RS. ACQ.

abd tress


ee annie

a Se rive i

Rapist Terrors of the Park

[Continued from page 23]

one ot the most brutal of a long series
of murders, robberies and assaults in
metropolitan parks during recent months.
It was also one of the most baffling cases
to confront the department in years.

Detectives meantime had located the
slain youth’s aunt, Mrs. Irene Bechard,
at her home at 49 West 55th Street. She
told them Jack had been discharged from
the AAF only six weeks before, after
serving for more than two years in the
European Theater of Operations. Mrs.
Bechard added:

“About a month ago Jack got a job
with the Edmund Frisch jewelry store on
Park Avenue. He lived with his mother
at 591 Madison until last week when she
left for a visit to France. Since then he
has stayed with me.

“I don’t think he had an enemy in the
world. But whoever took his life must
have realized he would have fought to the
last to protect any girl he was with. He
could have had only a small sum in his
wallet and a gold cigaret case.”

From Marguerite’s father, a clerk liv-
ing on East 98th Street, the police learned
she had no steady boy friend.

While Manhattan detectives were
gathering these statements, homicide in-
vestigators in a distant part of the wide-
flung metropolis were busy questioning
the relatives and friends of another young
veteran who had died by violence within
an hour or so of the time of the attacks
upon Hylands and the Bryan girl.

district of the Borough gf Queens,
twenty miles from Central/Park, saw a

though in a daze making fis way slowly
along Shore Boulevard.

that the man was suffering from serious
injuries to the head.

While being taken to St. Sean ‘3 Hos-
pital in Long Island City, the victwayre-
lated that he had been attacked about @
half hour before by three thugs while
sleeping with a former Navy buddy in
the latter's automobile in Astoria Park
near Ditmars Boulevard.

The injured man identified himself as
Charles Duff, 26, of 27-40 12th Street,
\storia. He told the following story:

“My pal, Tony Marchisella, and I got
together last night for the first time since
we served overseas together. We hit a
bar or two to celebrate the reunion and
| guess it was pretty late when we de-
cided to calf it a night.

“Tony had his new sedan and we de-
cided to drive around a while and get
some fresh air before he took me home.
Must have been about three o’clock when
we stopped in Astoria Park and Tony
said he wanted to catch a few winks be-
fore going on. He turned off the car
motor and the next moment was asleep,
his head over the wheel. | must have gone
to sleep right afterward.”

The next thing Duff remembered was
waking suddenly—he could have slept
only a few minutes, he believed—as the
door at his side of the car was jerked
suddenly open. A short, stocky youth
dressed in dark clothing stood beside the

*

car. Two other forms loomed up out ot
the darkness behind him. Both the latter
went noiselessly around to the other side
of the car. And then...

“Suddenly this first fellow reached in
and started pulling me out. I was still
groggy with sleep. The thought crossed
my mind that maybe the guy was a cop.
I didn’t even try to resist. I half fell to the
ground and he was right on top of me.
Then I heard Tony utter a short, stran-
gled cry and knew the other guys were
on him. I struggled to get up. I knew then
they were trying to mug us.”

A heavy fist landed in D's face, blood
spurted from his broken nose and he was
temporarily blinded. Then something
hard and solid crashed down on his head.
That was the last he knew until he re-

gained consciousness sometime later to
find himself lving cold and stiff on the
damp earth.

Staggering to his feet, Duff tried to
bring back the events that had occurred
before he lost consciousness. He seemed
to remember a reverberating crash, but
couldn’t be sure he hadn’t dreamed it. He
made his way over to the car which stood
with both front doors opened. On the
ground at the far side he saw his 24-year-
old former Navy buddy, Antonio Mar-
chisella, of 25-27 21st Street.

Tony lay stretched full length, face
downward, on the ground some four
paces from the car. The back of his head
was splashed with blood and there was
a black hole in the tenter of his light tan
sports jacket.

Duff, dazed and only half aware of his

ENSMINGER, Clyde Vernon, white, elec. PASP (Cumberland) March 29, 1954

movements, started off in search of help.
The loss of blood from his own wounds—
he was suffering severe concussions due
to being beaten over the head with a
blackjack or similar weapon—began to
tell, and he had been wandering in a daze
whe the uniformed officer drove up.

While Duff was being taken to the hos-
pital, a police radio patrol car and ambu-
lance were dispatched to the scene of the
attack. They arrived to find Tony Mar-
chisella breathing his last. The youth died
before he could be given medical atten-
tion,

During the entire episode not one word
had been uttered by any of the trio of
thugs, to Duff’s knowledge.

The autopsy surgeon found a single
leaden slug in Marchisella’s abdomen
where it had lodged after entering his
back. They also found his wallet intact,
with $10 inside.

Acting Lieut. Charles E. Lehman, in
charge of the’ Astoria detective squad,
was on the case before daylight and after
hearing Duff’s story and examining the
scene, expressed the belief that the shoot-
ing was very likely a case of mistaken
identity. Neither youth had any known
enemy and the fact that there was no
apparent attempt at robbery led to this
supposition.

Before the day was out, however, Lieu-
tenant Lehman radically altered his opin-
ion. Having assigned two of his crack
homicide men, Detectives Richard P.
Dimler: and James A. O’Brien, to the
case; Lehman returned to detective head-

ers to catch up with routine work.
Shortly a noon he found time to
glance through thefile of inter-borough
teletype reports froff¥other sections of
the city.

The moment the lieutenant saw the
urgent bulletin put out for the capture
of three suspected muggers who kad mur-
dered Jack Hylands and ravished\his gir]
companion in Manhattan across tl\e East
River, he realized that he would hpve to
alter that first opinion about tha Mar-
chisella slaying.

Five minutes later he was on afprivate
line talking with Inspector Benny in
Manhattan. And before thej% conversa-
tion ended it was only togpparent that
the points of similarity n the two fatal
attacks were so ing as to make it

Oth crimes had been com-
e same trio.

ere was not only the similarity in
the girl Marguerite’s and Duff’s descrip-
tions of the killers—all young and of
stocky or medium height and build, all
dressed in dark clothing.

There Was the fact that they had not
hesitated to maim and kill without even
giving their victims a chance to turn over
the petty loot they sought. They had
struck from behind in both instances,
struck swinging their fists and weapons,
and continued to assault the unconscious
bodies of their victims.

In both crimes the killers had managed
to get away without leaving any physical
evidence as a clue to their identities.
Kenny pointed out that the trousers
button picked up at the scene of the first
murder had been found to have been
ripped from Hylands’ own clothing, so
that the slim hope of tracing one of the
thugs through that small clue had evapo-
rated.

The fact that Central Park in Man
hattan, long a favorite hunting ground
for muggers and other nocturnal crim-
inals, had been selected for the first foray,
whereas the outlying Long Island park
was chosen for the pre-dawn crime, did
mean one thing to both veteran investi-

2 4)

Mctexlere Wittnher (OS3


Hntleas man shown handcuffed to County Detective Trooper H. L. Asper examines bloody hand prints
James Gleason confessed to a revolting murder. on wall of room where the crime was committed.

= |and MURDERED!

She repulsed a man’s advances, but paid for it with her life!

class housekeeper. The Atkins’ home on Philadelphia’s Opal
Street was beautifully: kept.

ut after this rel of the previous evening apparently forgotten. James kissed

; his wife good-by and left for his job at the Baldwin Locomotive
Atkins told However, Ethel Atkins had an unfortunate weakness. She Works.
. couldn’t handle her liquor. She was by no means an alcoholic He returned home, tired and hungry, at six o'clock in the eve-
d on taking in any sense of the word. Nor was she a periodic drunkard. But ning. There was no sign of his dinner. There was no sign of
after three or four ounces of whiskey she appeared to lose all Ethel, either.
althy Duke her normal idea of responsibility. A strange, temporaty, and At ten o’clock Atkins, éxtremely concerned, left the house and
tkins. After incomprehensible amnesia attacked her.

searched the neighborhood taverns for his wife. He failed to find
She was suddenly oblivious to the existence of her husband,

her. Sunday morning came, but Ethel did not.
a note of her home, her friends. Her habit, when drinking, was to. visit Atkins searched for her all day Sunday. He Stayed away from
several taverns, chatting amiably to any chance aquaintance. his job on Monday and Tuesday, tirelessly walked the streets of
p. As they This odd aberration quite naturally disturbed her husband. He Philadelphia looking for the woman he loved.
The gray- knew there was neither evil nor malice in his wife’s heart. Deep He was never destined to find her. Charles Leo, who had never
oke softly. within her was a careless irresponsibility, and three glasses of even heard of the Atkins couple, did that.
maker. spirits inevitably brought it out. ;
| wife. She The next morning, that of Saturday, September 2ist, 1940, ()N SEPTEMBER 23rd, Charles Leo and his wife sat in the
was a first- James and Ethel Atkins ate breakfast companionably, their quar-

rear of a car owned and driven by Robert Bready, Bready

27


Costello, Adam Sadorf and Harry
Rankin walked into the Glenwood
Diner, at the corner of Broad Street
and Cumberland Avenue.

Filling an order for fried eggs was
a stocky young man, so blond his hair
had a whitish tinge. His back was to
the detectives.

“Whitey,” called Detective Costello
softly.

The man turned around.

“We're from headquarters,” Cos-
tello told him. ‘Captain Engle would
like to have a talk with you.”

The man seemed to heave a sigh
of relief. “I’ve been expecting you,”
he told the detective as he started to
untie his apron.

As he folded it and put it under the
counter, Whitey turned to the waiter.

“Take care of the counter for an
hour or so,” he told the latter. “I’ve
got a little business to attend to.”

Half an hour later Whitey was hav-
ing his talk with Captain Engle.
_According to a confession he later
signed under the name of William J.
Earnest, he and a friend, Dick Brady,
had picked up Mrs. Atkins in a club on
20th Street near Montgomery Ave-
nue, early Tuesday morning.

With them at the time was another
woman, a friend of Brady’s. She,
however, had left them shortly after-
wards.

Then the two men and Mrs. Atkins,
whose name they never knew, had
started on a tour. They had stopped
at the Chauffeurs Club, Broad Street
and Glenwood Avenue; at the Young
Men’s Republican Club on South Penn
Square near 15th Street, and the
Entertainers’ Club at Juniper and
Cherry. -

They had had several drinks in each
place, said “Whitey” Earnest. “After
leaving the Entertainers’ Club, I de-
cided we would go for a ride in the
country,” he went on. “I was look-
ing for a secluded spot.”

“What made you think of Hor-
sham?” he was asked. “You seem to
have gone in a direct line for it.”

“Up to 1938 I lived there with my
mother,” explained Earnest. “I knew
Jim Brady’s farmhouse, too. It was
lucky it was vacant Tuesday. So I
stopped there.”

Brady, after a look inside, had gone
back to the car. Together he and
Mrs. Atkins had mounted to the sec-
ond floor.

“When we got to the second floor,”
according to his confession told his
enthralled audience, “she said she was
tired, and stretched out on the floor. I
felt tired, too, and I lay down, too.”

Earnest paused. A man in that in-

side, thoughtfully anticipating her
every want and administering to her
comfort.

When they had arrived at the Met-
ropole on October 17, six days before,
Fox tenderly guided her to a chair
before going to the desk to register,
and Miss Hopper, the clerk on duty
at the time, had instantly been irm-
pressed by his thoughtfulness as a
son. He did not want rooms overlook-
ing the sea, he~said, because he was
afraid his mother would be cold, and

60

COMPLETE DETECTIVE CASES

tensely interested audience mumbled
to his nearest neighbor, “Still I don’t
see why he had to beat her up.”

“Wait,” answered his neighbor.
“We'll get the motive yet. Give him
time.”

“Something she said irritated me,”
went on Earnest finally. “Something
she said made me awful mad.”

Another pause. Now several com-
ments broke the silence.

“Guess she turned him down,” said
one man.

“Tmagine it,” added another, “At the
last minute, refusing to pay up. That

- must have been a jolt. No wonder he

saw red.”

“I guess I lost my head,” the con-
fession continued. “She grabbed a
curtain rod and tried to strike me
with it. I grabbed it from her and hit
her over the head with it and ran into
the next room.”

Earnest seemed to find it difficult to
remember the details.

“He wasn’t taking no for an an-
swer,” muttered .some one in that
audience,

She ran after him, said Earnest.
They began to struggle. Now the iron
bedstead end fell over and hit Mrs.
Atkins, again on the floor. He picked
it up, he said, put it against the wall.
She got to her feet, tried to hit him
again. He got the iron end from her,
hit her over the head.

Suddenly he. decided he’d had
enough. The woman wanted to come
along. But he ran quickly down the
stairs, jumped into the car and, with
Brady, drove off. Later he dropped
Brady at his home on Warnock Street
near Cambria. Then he had gone to
his own home on 17th Street, below
Diamond, to bed and to sleep.

He had a wife and two children.
But the children were out of doors,
playing. His wife was at work.

The few bloodstains on his shirt,
he washed out before he went to bed,

This was not the first time “Whitey”
had been in custody. His police rec-
ord began in September, 1921, when,
at 16, he was arrested: on suspicion
of larceny of an automobile. He was
discharged. ‘

In 1925 he was arrested again, this
time on a reckless driving charge, and
was fined $7.50. The third and fourth
arrests occurred ip Jersey City in 1926
when, on March 13th, he was arrested
as a disorderly person, and two days
later, was charged with stealing a
rented car from Philadelphia. He was
held in bail of $1,000 but the records
showed no disposition of the case.

In 1934, Judge Harry S. McDevitt
gave him a three months sentence

DIABOLICAL

AFFAIR

she was still more sympathetic toward
him when he explained that he and
his mother had been visiting the
graves of his three brothers who had
been killed in the war. They were
en route from France to their home
in Lyndhurst. ~
“Mother is A ed well wearied by
the trip, and I thought it best for her
to break the journey with a few days
here by the sea,” he said, as Miss
Hopper prepared to assign them con-
necting rooms, Sixty-six and Sixty-

when Earnest plead guilty to a theft
charge, and in 1937, Judge Frank
Brown gave him another three months
term when he was arrested for at-
tacking a twelve-year-old boy. This
was a morals charge.

“The detectives did a first-class
job,” Captain Engle told reporters.
“They found a man Mrs. Atkins met
in a taproom at Broad and Susque-
hanna on Saturday morning. He left
her the folowing morning. They lo-
cated two others she was with on Sun-
day and Monday, up to the time she
met Earnest and Brady.”

All had had first-class alibis for
Tuesday and were completely exoner-
ated,

And in his confession, Earnest com-
pletely cleared his friend Dick Brady
from any part in the fight that ended
with Mrs. Atkins’ death.

After the hearing in City Hall on
Monday morning, William Earnest
was handed over to the Montgomery
County authorities.

“Even if he denies his confession,
which does not seem likely,” District
Attorney Smillie told reporters, ‘we
have more than enough evidence to
convict him.”

Those gray hairs, salvaged from
under Mrs. Atkins’ nails, had turned
out to be a silvery blond. Latent
prints on the broken glass from the
window pane had come up clear in
the laboratories of the F. B. I.

Though it was officially admitted
that Richard Brady had taken no part
in the attack on the dead woman, the
state was holding him as an accessory
after the fact.

ON MONDAY EVENING, SEPTEM-
BER 30th, 1940, less than one week
after the murder, both prisoners were
arraigned before Justice of the Peace
Harvey Slingluff of Horsham. More
than twenty-five persons crowded
into the front room of Slingluff’s
home. Neither Earnest nor Brady
said a word as the charges were read.

The trial, said local officials, will be
held before the end of the year.

One more interesting detail, though
not directly connected with the case,
was brought out by local historians.
Thirty-five years ago Mrs. Sarah
Bearmore, grandmother of Mrs. At-
kins, was killed by Robert Kirkpat-
rick for whom she worked as house-
keeper in Chester. Kirkpatrick was
convicted and hanged.

If there is anything in the super-
stition that all things come in threes,
murmur those who believe in such
signs, who will then be the third
woman in this unfortunate family to
meet a violent: death?

(Continued
from page 39)

seven. “And, oh yes—about our bag-
gage; it will be along from Dover in
the morning.”

“That is perfectly all right, Mr.
Fox,” Miss Hopper informed him, with
a smile. “I am quite certain your
mother will be comfortable here. Any-
thing we can do——”

It was the following morning that
Harding had met the young man and,
like Miss Hopper, he, too, had been
immediately impressed by his charm
of manner and attentiveness toward

his mothe!

“Mother
as Ie
him.
mend
it is anythir

Harding :
“Yes, yes, of
“There is
Austin. He
thought of
call him f
wish.”

Dr. Aust
for Mrs. Fo»
she was quite
ning, in fact
a quick tri}
son had had
hotel dining :
in splendid sj
her son's w:'
ished, Fox }!
of port, whic!
with them.

“Mother fe
we will be |:
morning,” th
tenderly esx
lobby. “I w:
bill ready the

Harding wa
as he stood v
office to the
from the floo
ened cry of °

And then y
and clad on
appeared or
cried again
porter?”

Instantly, !
his reverie
London even
to his feet
stairs. He to
until he rea
close at his |

“Where is
traveling sal:
ing Fc ~

The
up the
Hopkis avy'

“Down the
“My—my mi

Hopkins :
under the do
along the c
knob, and 1!
cloud of th
lowed out,
backward, g

Quickly,
handkerchie!
it around his
he dropped °
crawling int

Fox wrun:
dor and cried
The room
difficulty se
The only lig
bulb that bu
best it gave
with the swi
value at all
Hopkins fc
along besid«
struck agains
it as a won
was sprawl
her legs da:
kins spoke
reply. Then
stumbled ou
clutched in }
Eager har

form as H:

shouts of “}

commotion !
of the hote!

“Assistant District Attorney Benja-
min Scirica leaves for Washington to-
day,” the district attorney told re-
porters. “He’s taking with him the
club with which Mrs. Atkins was
beaten, the iron bed end, her clothing
and the frame of the window through
which we are convinced her attacker
entered the house in order to unbolt
the back door for the woman.”

Also scrapings from under the dead
woman’s nails had gone on to Wash-
ington.

“You're asking the F.B.I. to analyze
the scrapings and to examine the
other articles for fingerprints?”

Smillie nodded.

The window frame had been quite
a puzzle. The right pane was broken
half of the glass falling inside, the
rest on the porch. Between glass and
frame of the untouched left pane a
spider web was found intact.

“Whoever climbed in that broken
window pane must have been slim
and wiry,” commented the district at-
torney, “else he would have broken
that web.”

Every effort to find fingerprints on
the second floor had been unsuccess-~-
ful. Both club and bed-piece had
been too smeared with blood. Marks
on the wall had been made by Mrs.
Atkins. But probably the murderer,
climbing through the broken window
pane, had left prints on the frame.
And the F.B.I., it was hoped, would
be able to bring out these latent
prints, invisible to the naked eye.

The autopsy over, Mrs. Atkins’
funeral was arranged for Saturday
afternoon. At seven o’clock Friday
evening the house was opened to let
friends, relatives and neighbors view
the remains. Visitors came in a steady
stream, crowding into the narrow hall,
pushing on into the front room on
the ground floor where the coffin
rested. At one o’clock James Atkins
decided, though quite a crowd was
still standing outside the house, wait-
ing its turn, to close the door. Within,
members of his family and a few
friends remained to give a few words
of consolation to the widower.

In this group was an elderly man
whom nobody knew. He had been
noticed, returning time and again to
the coffin, scanning the features of the
dead woman. The battered face had
been carefully patched up by the un-
dertaker, its bruises and scratches
covered over. In her coffin, Ethel At-
kins had become again an attractive
looking woman. Gone were all the
sears of the struggle that had cost her
her life.

Now the elderly man edged his way
to James Atkins.

“T think I ought to tell you I met
your wife around town on Monday,”
he told the husband.

Those who listened in on the con-
versation could hardly believe their
ears. Here were the police of both
Philadelphia and Montgomery County
looking for those who had been with
or had even seen Mrs. Askins over
the week-end. And here this man
had walked into the Atkins home and
volunteered the information.

James Atkins hurriedly put in a
telephone call to the police station.
And Detectives Alexander Starret and
James Lennon hurried over. They
took the elderly man to an upstairs
bed-room for questioning. Again and
again they made him repeat his story.
At last convinced he knew what he
was talking about, they decided to
take him to the station house.

Here telephone calls were put

FACTS FROM OFFICIAL FILES

through to City Hall. Detective Cos-
tello was called from his home; Detec-
tive Sergeant McDermott came from
City Hall. And Assistant District At-
torney Edward Duffy of Norristown,
putting up in Philadelphia for the in-
vestigation, was roused from his bed.

Again and again the man was asked
to repeat his story. It was possible he
was a show-off, anxious to edge into
the publicity surrounding the murder.
But his account never varied. And
by 3:30 his audience was convinced
he was speaking the truth.

“I met this Mrs. Atkins in Bren-
nan’s taproom at the southwest corner
of Broad Street and Susquehanna
Avenue on Monday. I ran into her
again, at another place, Tuesday. She
left with two men.”

This was as close to the murder
hour, until about noon on Tuesday,
the police had been able to trace
Mrs. Atkins’ wanderings.

Reporters who hurried Saturday
morning to Captain Engle’s office at
City Hall were given little informa-
tion. Engle admitted holding a man,
in protective custody only. There was
no charge against him, none planned.
But he had given them a good line
on two men who, it was now sus-
pected, had been with Mrs, Atkins
Tuesday morning.

Headquarters buzzed. That after-
noon reporters caught District Attor-
ney Smillie coming in for a conference.
Hadn’t he any news for them, they
begged.

Smillie smiled. “Mr. Scirica is back
from Washington,” he told them.

“What did he learn there?” they
eagerly asked. -

“Just what we expected,” was the
cryptic reply which, the reporters
agreed, wasn’t any help to them in
writing their story.

Later in the day, Captain Engle
vouchsafed-a little more information.

“You can say detectives of the
homicide squad and from Montgom-
ery county are covering every tap-
room and club where liquor is sold
north of Arch Street to Olney Ave-
nue and west of Broad Street,” he told
reporters. “I guess there are about
seventy to eighty of them.”

That meant a three-mile square
area! Some job, that.

During the day telephone calls
came in from the detectives scouting
the taprooms. They found the trail of
one “Whitey.” He and another man
had been seen with Mrs. Atkins early
Tuesday morning. Another woman
had been in the party but only for a
short time. The three had covered
quite some space; they had a car with
this “Whitey” driving.

But who was “Whitey?” They got
a description of the man, thirtyish,
slim, good-looking, very blond. With

big ears. His friend was much taller,
also much younger. No one knew
his name.

Neither man, taproom bartenders
were fairly certain, had been around
since that Tuesday. Nor did a feverish
examination of records show any
criminal by the name of White.

It was close to six o’clock Saturday
when the detectives got their first
break. “Whitey” was only a nick-
name. They didn’t have his real name.
But they had learned this man was a
short-order cook in a diner some-
where in North Philadelphia!

The search was on. In his office,
Captain Engle waited. With him was
District Attorney Smillie.

It was close to eleven o’clock Satur-
day night when Detectives Thomas

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59

Ethel Atkins. She
was a friendly sort
who loved life and
met a tragic death.

26

By D. L. CHAMPION

HE GENERAL atmosphere in the Philadelphia tavern was
one of gaiety. But at a small white-topped table in the rear

of the room the situation was tense. James Atkins, a dark
young man with a long, serious face, stared broodingly at

his wife as she sipped a tall glass of whiskey and water. He

said sharply: “Ethel, when you’ve finished that, we’re going home.”
Ethel Atkins, youthful, pretty, and possessed of a strong: pre-

‘dilection for the gayer side of life, demurred.

“But Jimmy, we've only started,” she objected. “We've only
had a couple of drinks, apiece.”

“And that’s enough,” Atkins said curtly. He turned to a gray
haired man of middle-age who sat with them. “Isn’t it, Charlie?”

The man addressed as Charlie agreed with James Atkins, and
an argument immediately ensued. The git] was vociferously in

Stained Xuaae hedhendieed aaa eee atd

favor of making a night of it. Both men argued that after this
drink they should go home.

“You've already been out one night this week,” Atkins told
his wife. ““You were hours late getting home.”

“I’ve told you I ran into John Angier and he insisted on taking
me out.” .

John Cicero Angier, a member of the fabulously wealthy Duke
tobacco family, had once been the husband of Ethel Atkins. After
a divorce she had married James.

“Finish your drink,” Atkins said, and there was a note of
finality in his voice. “Then we're going.”

Reluctantly his wife emptied her glass and stood up. As they
left the tavern their voices were raised in argument. The gray-
haired man, Charlie, walked between them and spoke softly.
Evidently he was casting himself in the role of peacemaker.

In all respects save one, Ethel Atkins was a model wife. She
was a lovable, attractive, friendly girl. Withal, she was a first-

heal

age xe

Hatles
James

She

class hi
Street wv

Howe
couldn’t
in any s
after th:
her nor
incompr

She v
her hon
several

This «
knew th
within |
spirits ir

The r
James a:


HOW THEY DIED

No. 9: Sometimes even the
guards get jittery

LERGYMEN and others who have
officiated at executions, and who have
seen and talked with condemned men

for weeks and sometimes even months.
-and years before the final scene in the

death chamber, are frequently amazed
at the sudden and unaccountable changes
which take place in the attitudes of their

charges as the dreaded day draws near.

And, curiously enough, guards and
prison officers who have attended many
executions, and who are thoroughly
familiar with the routine, will in some

- cases become so nervous that they are

more of a hindrance than a help.

So it was at the electrocution: of —

Lieutenant Charles Becker at Sing Sing
Prison on July 30, 1915. Becker had
been under sentence of execution for

more than two years, following his con-.
- viction for complicity in the death of

Herman Rosenthal, a gambler, in front
of the Metropole Hotel in the very heart
of downtown New York on July 16,
1912. During these two years he had

’ been confined in the death house at the. :

big institution on the Hudson. His iron

will and steady nerves were the talk of ie

the entire prison staff.

When he was finally informed that his
last appeal had been denied, and that the
Governor refused to intervene, Becker’s
expression did not change.

“O. K.,” he said. “That settles it.”

But on the afternoon preceding the
night of his execution, the death-house
guard thought he noted a slight twitch
in his face when he asked some ques-

‘tion of the man who was shaving the ..
- top of his head to which the electrode
' was to be applied. But there was noth-
‘ing further to indicate concern until

Becker, escorted on each side by a guard,
and preceded by Father Cashin, the

- Catholic chaplain, entered the execution

chamber. His voice broke when making

responses to the priest, several times
becoming inaudible, then getting stronger
again as he cleared his throat nervously.
He trembled slightly when his eyes

caught sight of the grim chair. of death.

It was not until he was actually seated
and the leather cap was strapped down
over his head that Becker really broke.
The semi-panic which he was in com-
municated itself to the keepers so that,
when they strapped his body to the chair,
they left his arms free.

Deputy Warden Johnson raised his
hand. - Robert Elliott, the executioner,
threw the switch, With a convulsive
surge forward, Becker’s body strained
against the strap. His arms, not secured
as they should have been, swung upward

"ina supplicating gesture. Elliott, seeing

something was wrong, turned off the
power. The doctor hurried forward and

_ applied a stethoscope to Becker’s body.

“The heart’s still beating,” he said.
The two guards, to rectify their error

on the mercifully unconscious man, now
unbuckled the strap and put the arms
‘inside. Again Elliott swung the switch.

There was no response from Becker’s.

-inert body. Once more the power was

turned off, and once more the physician

- applied the stethoscope.

“T pronounce Charles Becker dead,” |
he said solemnly.
And then, as the guards were taking

the body out of the chair, it was found »

that, in their nervousness and haste, they

_ had neglected to buckle the strap after
they had put the condemned man’s arms

inside of it. It was then the officials

- realized what a shocking spectacle had ©

been averted by the merest accident.
For, had the guards failed to secure the
strap with the buckle the first time they
tied Becker into the chair, his body

_ would have bounded across the room at

the first application of the current.

eR

Pennsylvanias | —
“Wild Party” | |
Tragedy

(Continued from page 15)

- erstwhile companion, the detectives had no

‘harm in that, is there? I was going slow, -

when Mrs, Atkins enjoyed a_ thirty-six
hour date with one Harry Nestle, who
finally left her in a club near his home.
From that point the trail took a dizzy
course through a variety of drinking estab-
lishments. From one place to another, with
grim tenacity of purpose, Detectives Costel-
lo and Sadorf followed through on her i
dates with James ‘Morris, Arthur Hicks,
Ward Lesser, William Earnest and Rich-
ard Brady.

All of these men were picked up and
questioned extensively. However, all were :
able to establish alibis for the time of the «| -
murder, Earnest and Brady, so far as
could be learned, were the last two per-
sons to be seen with the victim. They
picked her up at 9:30 Tuesday morning,
when Brady had a date with a Mrs. Mollie
Metz. The two men were on a drinking
spree and, after taking Mrs. Metz to her
home, left Mrs. Atkins at some forgotten
destination. |

The two men drove out into the country .
in an effort to clear their heads. They did ‘+
not know what had become of the woman,
but presumably she had gone her care-
free way toward her rendezvous with
death. ;

Costello and Sadorf were at a dead end.
Due to the inability of Earnest and Brady
to remember just where they had left their

on Mid amantadine lets: eas, ths SASHES akg PS

;
=
a

iat RR er ie 2 Rs Be

point from which to continue their investi- 9 ©>
gation. The splendid work already ac- .~
complished was nullified, so far’as results
were concerned. It was. necessary to start
again from scratch.

Other members of the squad, working in
conjunction with detectives from District
Attorney Smillie’s office, were engaged in *~ 4
rounding up all suspicious characters and
known sex-offenders. Literally hundreds of
these suspects were brought in. The mur-
der was studied for similarity to previous
unsolved sex crimes, and the modus oper- —-, #
andi noted and checked, for a sex offender oe
is invariably a repeater. But nothing was . .
accomplished, except, as one detective put
it— “We dug up more dirt in connection ~
with this crime than we even knew
existed.” meee

Benjamin Scirica, of the district at--
torney’s office, was dispatched to Wash-
ington with evidence gathered at the scene
of the crime. This included bits of glass
from the broken window pane, the woman’s
clothing, the broken rod containing hair
and blood, the foot section of the iron
bedstead as well as some rusty razor
blades found on the premises. Experts in
the F. B. I. laboratories would examine
them and give a complete analysis of the
results.

The driver of the mysterious car seen
cruising along the road near the Bready
farm, was finally apprehended and turned
over to the district attorney’s office, An —
elderly man, he denied emphatically that
he had had any part in the heinous crime. -

“Sure, I was driving along that par-.:
ticular road,” he asserted wrathfully. “No —

but that doesn’t make me a murderer!” .

“Of course not,” Smillie said soothingly.»
“But you were near the house. We thought
it possible that you may have seen some-~
thing that would aid us in catching the real -
criminal.” ° ug

“J’m sorry, but I didn’t see a thing. As


or’

road for the express purpose of beating
her to death as “he is the type of person
who must satisfy his passions in_ this
manner.”

Earnest sobbed hysterically as he took
the witness stand. He swore that the
former social butterfly had accompanied
him willingly to the house of assignation,
and that he had no intention of killing her
at that or any other time. Defense At-
torneys Gilbert P. High and William F.
Fox pointed out that had Earnest pre-
meditated the crime he would not have
taken Richard Brady with him as a
witness,

Despite testimony that none of the party
was intoxicated and that Mrs. Atkins knew
what she was doing at all times, Earnest’s
display of emotion had no effect on the
jury of seven women and five men. They
deliberated less than five hours and re-
turned a verdict of murder in the first de-

gree with the death penalty recommended.

Earnest lunged forward in his seat and
wept audibly when he heard the fatal
words. His attorneys moved immediately
for a new trial. Until the motion is grant-
ed or denied, Earnest can only wait to
learn what his fate will be.

Justice has been served, according to
James Atkins, husband of the victim, who
declared, “Death isn’t too severe a penalty
for such a brutal crime.’

Richard Brady, charged only with being
an accessory, was held for trial at a later
date to determine his guilt or innocence.

And so, unless a new trial reverses the

verdict, William Earnest’ stands branded as

a vicious sadist who climaxed a drunken
spree with an orgy of blood, and will walk
the last mile to Pennsylvania’s electric
chair some time in 1941.

To protect the identities of persons in-

nocently drawn into the investigation of the:

foregoing case, the names “Harry Nestle,’

“James Morris,” “Arthur Hicks,” “Ward
Lesser” and “Mrs. Mollie Metz” are not
actual but fictitious —Eprror.

The Third Corpse
Wore a Belt

(Continued from page 19)

“What happened?”

The visiting sheriff shook his head. “It
was no go. We couldn't pin a thing on
Anderson, so we had to let him loose. He
disappeared from that part of the country.”

“Iever hear from Speare?” asked Quack-
enbush.

“Never a word, to this day. We're sure
he must have been murdered.”

“You said something about two other
murders,” Quackenbush reminded Rapp.

“Later, we found out that identically the
same thing happened a good many years
ago at Samuels, Idaho. Anderson was
closely associated with a fellow named
Arnold, and Arnold disappeared under the
same circumstances. Looks to me_ like
Anderson has killed for the third time—
and in some way has gotten rid of the
body once more.”

“Quackenbush slapped his desk. “That
explains why Anderson’s so smug about

it all! He has had to admit the crime this

time, because we caught him with so much
of Johnson’s property, but he figures we
can’t convict him of murder without find-
ing the body.”

“But can’t you?”

“Legally, you can,” admitted Quacken-
bush. “But without a body, it is almost
impossible to get a jury to bring in a mur-
der verdict. It’s against human nature to

vote to send a man to the gallows unless
there is visible proof that murder has been
done.”

Days passed, and searchers continued to
drag the river. Sheriff Buckley put a spe-
cial launch on the river to aid in the work.
But no body was to be found in the swiftly
flowing waters of the Pend Oreille.

The State's case was further weakened
when it was learned that Anderson intended
to say in court that the confessions had
been forced from him.

Sheriff Buckley and his aides and mem-
bers of Quackenbush’s staff conferred con-
stantly on the problem.

One discrepancy was noted in Anderson’s
confession. He had told of committing the
killing on July 20, but he had started his
masquerade as Johnson as early as July 15.

“Was that a mistake on his part, or was
he deliberately lying to us?” Deputy Can-
non asked his partner.

“Well, if I’d committed a murder, I don’t
think I'd forget the date,” drawled Holmes.

That put the deputies on a new trail.
Soon they found further proof that Ander-
son had his dates mixed. In a diary, found
among Anderson’s effects, they found one
strange notation.

“Listen to this,” exclaimed Cannon. “On
July 13 Anderson wrote ‘Jolson, Al, very
sick from gunshot wounds.’ ”

“Al Jolson, the mammy singer!’ ’

“Of course not, my dear Sherlock,”
laughed Cannon. “That entry is in double-
talk. It must mean that Dave Johnson was
shot that day.”

“Seems queer that Anderson would put
such a damning thing in his diary,” ob-
jected Holmes.

“Some people just can’t help writing
things down, even if it is likely to trap
them,” Cannon declared.

On September 30, Anderson was brought

into the Spokane prosecutor’s office and
confronted with the entry in his diary.
' He scrutinized it carefully. “Why yes,
I did mean by that that Johnson was killed
that day,” he admitted. “I guess I got my
dates mixed when I said the killing took
place on July 20.”

Anderson stuck doggedly to his version
of the killing and the disposition of the
body.

“TI threw it in the river,” he repeated.

“Tt is significant that Anderson. lied in
telling us the date of the murder,” Prose-
cutor Quackenbush pointed out, after
Anderson had been led away. “He may
have had a motive for it.”

“Perhaps he put the body somewhere it
would be found before July 20, in such
condition that it would never be identified,
and then tried to establish the July 20 date
for the killing as an alibi,” Sheriff Buckley
suggested.

“Yes—he figured he would never be con-
nected with a body found before July 20,”
added Deputy Cannon.

“That’s it,” the sheriff agreed. “Now, if
you wanted a body to be found quickly,
and not identified, where would you put
it?”

“In a burning building,” came back Can- .

non. .“The fire would serve a double pur-
pose—to attract attention and to mutilate
the body beyond recognition.”

“Right,” said Sheriff Buckley. “So we
must check up on any fires during the week
between: the murder on July 13 and the
alibi date of July 20. It must have hap-
pened nearby, since Anderson got back to
Spokane so quickly to begin stealing John-
son’s money.’

THE OFFICERS drew a 50-mile circle
around Marshall, scene of the murder,
and checked with ‘all sheriffs and police
officers in the towns and villages.

“Have you heard of any fire during the

week of July 13-20 in which an unidentified

he said sadly.

body was found?”
out. :

The theory. was a ten-strike.

In Athol, Idaho, it was discovered that
the body of an unidentified man, almost
consumed, had been found the night of
July 17.

“That's the very district in which Ander-
son is believed to have killed the farmer,
Speare, two years ago,” Quackenbush
pointed out. “Anderson has taken John-
son’s body back to the scene of the other
murder !”

But it wasn’t as easy as all that.

At Athol, the officers found that a body
—which local authorities. had thought that
of a tramp—had been almost consumed in
a barn filled with hay. Only twenty-five
pounds of flesh had been left. This had
been buried by “Donald English, Coeur
D'Alene mortician.

Deputy: Sheriff Harry Haner of Coeur
D’Alene ‘handed over a candy box.

“We had to sift the ashés to’ get this
much,” he said.

The box held 4 few teeth, bits of cloth,
and a belt buckle. The buckle bore the
initial “D.”

“You'd think that if it was Johnson, the
initial would be ‘J’,” Cannon mused. “This
may be a false lead.”

But back in Spokane, Ted Johnson, the
missing | man’s son, heard of the buckle

was the question sent

‘with grim excitement.

“That proves it was dad’s body, all right,”
“He ordered two of those
belt buckles some time ago, one with the
initial ‘D’ for David, and the other with
a ‘T’ for my name.”

Sure enough, Ted Johnson wore a belt
buckle of the identical type of that found
on the burned body!

Anderson went to trial just before
Thanksgiving, 1940, in Judge Louis Bunge’s
court in Spokane. Deputy Prosecutor Etter
presented the’ State’s case.

“Anderson burglarized Johnson’s home in
May,” Etter told the jurors. “When he
saw that Johnson had so much money listed
in his bank books, Anderson craftily worked
out the details of his masquerade.

“He murdered Johnson. Then he burned
the body, far away in Idaho. After he was
arrested, he carefully planted in his con-
fession an alibi murder date of July 20,
which was after the body had been found.

He made up the story of throwing the”

body in the river, in order to lead the law
along a false trail. es

When the defense had its inning, Defense
Attorneys Lucius Nash and Harold Gleeson
put on but one witness.

She was Anderson’s 85-year-old mother,
Mrs. Hattie A. Reed of Fort Dodge,
Kansas. She had not heard from her son
for 30 years, but when she read in news-
papers of his plight, the frail old woman
made the long trip west to help him.

Her testimony merely was to the effect
that when Anderson was four years old, a
wagon wheel had run over his head.

Anderson did not take the stand, and the
defense called no witnesses to disprove the
state’s damning story. It is believed
Anderson did not testify because he did not
want to be questioned on the stand about
past crimes,
Arnold and Speare in Idaho.

The jury quickly found Anderson guilty,
and Judge Bunge sentenced him to be
hanged in the state prison at Walla Walla,
Wash. He is awaiting execution at this
writing.

Anderson denies the Speare and Arnold
killings, but it is believed he committed
‘those crimes, too, and successfully hid. the
bodies.

In his third and last killing, he was
trapped by clever detective work—and by
his fatal error in forgetting that the third
corpse wore a helt.

sale sae nc i i= lsc ati

sits ina iB a a

including the murders of:

ee

anaes tie ite

-as the doors closed behind him. “It’s

of Montgomery County, had seen a car parked in front of the
vacant house the evening before the murder.

High, who lives about a quarter of a mile from the scene,
stated that his son did not get a good look at the occupants
of the machine, but thought it contained two people. His
wife, however, thought there were three. .

Reuban Anders, 12-year-old schoolboy, claimed to have
seen a car driving slowly past the house. He emphasized the
fact that it was going very slowly. Two witnesses corrobor-

ated the boy’s statement, but none could offer any description

of the car or its occupants.

It remained for the Upper Moreland
dolice station to turn in the one import-
int lead of the day. Early Wednesday
norning a man who gave his name as
James Atkins, a bricklayer of 2348 N,
Opal Street, Philadelphia, reported his
wife missing since Saturday.

“I left for work,” he related, “and
when I came home my wife was not
there. The youngsters said she had
gone shopping but when she didn’t re-
turn I got worried. I knew she hadn’t
gone far.because she didn’t take her
coat or pocketbook with her.”

“If she disappeared on Saturday, why
didn’t you report it before this?”

“I intended to, but I talked to a
policeman friend and he said to wait
awhile and maybe she would come back.

think she would get in a strange car?”

The clean-looking, powerfully-built Atkins was sure she
would not. However, he reluctantly admitted that his wife
had one weakness. She had a craving for drink, and now
and then this craving got the best of her.

The detectives nodded. “We'll check the taprooms,” they
said. “Maybe we can pick up the trail.”

When identification of the slain woman was made public,
John C. Angier, divorced first husband of Mrs. Atkins and a
cousin by marriage of Doris Duke Cromwell, heiress to the

Duke tobacco millions, hastened to the

district attorney’s office to offer his

services in solving the death of his
former wife. But‘he was unable to aid
. except to emphasize the excellent repu-

‘tation of his former wife.

;“James Atkins was exactly right
when he told. you Ethel was a grand
wife and a wonderful mother,” he ad-
vised detectives. “I can vouch for that.
Ethel was a fine woman.”

The fact that both Atkins and Angier
were so positive regarding the upright:
character of the dead woman, caused a
slight controversy among investigating
officers. . :

“I’m about to change my opinion of
this crime,’ Munshower confided to
fellow detectives. “My first theory was
that the woman went willingly to the

Then I read in the paper where this —
woman was killed and had a-polka-dot
dress. That’s the kind of dress my wife
was wearing. So I gota friend to drive
me out here.”

“Did your wife wear a ring ?”

Atkins nodded. “Yes. She always
wore her wedding ring.”

“Could you describe it? Was there
any inscription ?”

“There were initials inside the band:
J.F.A. to E.M.A. and the year of our
marriage, 1935.”

_. RICHARD BRADY (above), «
_ other of the men who, had seen
Mrs, Atkins before she was mur-

_ dered, corroborated Eamest's story.

Below: John Bready, owner of the.
. murder farmhouse, was the man”

‘who reported the ‘crime to the
Doylestown state police post.

house. But it is possible that she was
drugged and lured there. If Gilbert
High actually saw the criminal’s auto-
mobile as early as Sunday evening, it’s
possible he had Mrs. Atkins with him
at this time. Then, when finally he got
her in the house the effects of the drug
may have worn off sufficiently for her to
realize what was happening and put up
a battle. Otherwise, why would she re-
sist until she was killed?”

Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, Captain
William Engle and members of his

The worried husband was taken to
the morgue. But the thought of view-
ing what might prove to be the body of
his wife was too much for him. The
friend who had driven Atkins to the
police station volunteered to make a
positive identification. A

The stiffened, mutilated form on the
cold morgue slab was far removed from
the warm, friendly woman he had known
in life, but the likeness was unmistak-
able. “That’s Ethel,” he said positively,

your wife in there, Jim.”

Atkins buried his face in his hands.
“Who could have done it?” he whis-
pered. “My poor, poor kids.”

“The best thing you can do,” detec-
times told him, “is help us in every way
possible to find the fellow who did
this. Have you any idea who it might be?”

Atkins shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said brokenly.
“Ethel was a grand wife and a wonderful mother to our
children. We never had any enemies or even knew people
who might do something like this. I don’t understand it.”

“Was your wife in the habit of going away unexpectedly?
You see—we’re trying to get a line on how the fellow got

hold of her. If your wife always stuck pretty close to home

it’s possible. that she was forced into a car when she went

. Shopping. Or maybe someone offered her a ride. Do you

homicide squad were attempting to trace
the whereabouts of Mrs. Atkins from
the time she left her home on North
Opal Street until she ended up a bat-
tered and bloody corpée in a deserted
house on the -Dreshertown road about
twelve miles from Philadelphia.

The job was not an easy one.’ There
was an interim of more than three days
to check and the task presented tremen-
dous difficulties.

Detectives Thomas F. Costello and
Adam J. Sadorf of Philadelphia’s
famous “murder squad” were assigned
to the investigation. The officers had
only one lead: the statement of both the
former and present husband of the slain
woman that Mrs. Atkins was addicted
to the use of alcohol. Beer gardens and
taprooms, therefore, were the logical
places to search in their quest for clues.

The trail uncovered by the detectives was a strange and con-
fused one. Mrs. Atkins, a presumably happy housewife and
mother of twin sons by her second marriage, left her home
early Saturday morning, September 21, 1940, without coat
or pocketbook and immediately began an almost endless’
round of drinking engagements with at least seventeen differ-
ent men.

The weird party had its inception in a taproom at Broad
Street and Susquehanna Avenue, (Continued on page 52)

SNe toeepnensietets

Petter ngs

tee,
al of Pie

in etree aartepripthy = Bem: aoe: Pree EE RN Oey Stee

ew

a matter of fact, I wasn’t looking for
anything in particular. . [t was quite a
shock when I learned that a woman had
been murdered near there. But I can as-

sure you I didn’t have anything to do —

with it.”

Somewhat mollified, the man was alé
lowed his freedom, but advised to remain
where he could be reached at any time.

“Trouble with this case,” Smillie said dis-
gustedly, “is that we have too many sus-
pects. There are a lot of fellows who had
the opportunity. Someone is lying and I
intend to find out who it is.”

jN BOTH Montgomery County and the
Philadelphia area, the records of every
person even remotely under suspicion were

carefully scanned. Finally, Captain Engle |

received a break.

“One of our chief suspects,” his de-
tectives advised him, “has a record as long
as your arm.

“In 1921 this chap was arrested for
larceny of an automobile. He was dis-
charged. In 1925 he was arrested for
reckless driving and speeding—fine, $7.50.
In 1926 he was picked up twice in Jersey
City, only two days apart. The first charge
was for disorderliness, the second for steal-
ing a rented car from ’Philadelphia, He was
held in $1000 bail on the second charge but
the records show no disposition of the
case.’

“Sounds interesting,”
“Anything else?”

“In 1934 our friend pleaded guilty to a
theft charge and Judge Harry S. McDevitt
gave him a three months’ sentence. In 1937
he was arrested for attacking a 12-year-old
boy. Judge Frank Brown gave him an-
other three months for that.”

“Sounds like the type of fellow we want,”
Engle mused. ‘“What’s his name—and
what have we on him?”

“His name is William J. Earnest,” the
detective said, and added significantly, ‘““He
was the last person seen with Mrs. At-
kins before her death.”

“The last one?”

“That’s right. Earnest and a fellow by
the name of Richard Brady picked the
woman up Tuesday morning around 9:30.
Brady had a date with another woman.
They took Brady’s date home—we checked

Engle muttered.

_that—then they claim to have left the At-

kins woman out of the car somewhere.
They were both so drunk they don’t re-
member where it was. After that, they
took a drive in the country to sober up.
Sometime in the afternoon, Earnest took
Brady home, then went to his own house,
told his wife he had been drinking and went
to bed.”

“What’s the angle?” Engle inquired. “Do
you figure Earnest and Brady weren’t
alone when they drove out in the country ?”

“That’s my guess. T may be wrong,
but it’s as good as any.”

“IT won't argue. Send Costello and
Sadorf in here. We'll pick this chap up
and see what he has to say for himself.”

Costello and Sadorf were contacted and
ordered to report to their chief. Both big
men, they were almost completely fagged
out. They had been working on the case
twenty-four hours a day.

“What sort of a chap is this Earnest?”
Engle asked bluntly. “We have a long
record against him, including a sex
charge. Know anything about him?”

Costello shook his head. “Nothing, ex-
cept that he is a married man with a couple
of youngsters. Works as a cook in a North
Philadelphia restaurant. The other night
he went on a drinking spree with his friend
Brady. In his travels he happened to pick
up this Mrs. Atkins. Both fellows claim
they were so drunk they don’t remember
much of what happened, except that they
let the woman out of the car and went out

he did not enter the house.

to sober up betore they went home.”

“Why didn’t they come in and report that
they were with this woman? Didn’t they
know we were looking for them?”

“Earnest claims he didn’t want his wife
to know he was two-timing. Said he
wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been
drunk,”

“They all say that. Pick him up and
bring him i in. We’re going to question him
again.’

Earnest and Brady were arrested on
September 28, 1940, and brought: to City
Hall in Philadelphia. They professed in-
nocence of the crime, but detectives, certain
that at last they were confronting the
murderer they sought, turned on the pres-
sure. Rapid-fire interrogation continued
for a period of four hours before Earnest
finally broke and admitted the slaying.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” he said, “but
aid attacked me and I had to defend my-
self.”

“What happened?” he was asked> “You
might as well get the thing off your chest.”

“Dick and I left his date off at her
home,” Earnest replied, “then we went for
a real drive out in the country. I was look-
ing for a secluded spot where we could
have some privacy. I had lived around
Horsham for some time and knew this
house was empty. I had been there before.

“After we got there, I drove.into the
side road and around to the back of the
house and parked the car. We all got out
and tried to get in the house but the back
door was locked. I went around to the
front, broke a window and crawled in.
Then I opened a door for the others.

“As soon as we got in the house, Mrs.
Atkins took off her clothes.
down in the front room but I went up-

stairs with her.

“We were both pretty tired, so we
stretched out on the floor and started to
talk. One thing led to another and she
made some remarks that I didn’t like. I
started to curse her and she grabbed a
curtain rod and struck me with it. I took
it from her and hit her over the head. Then
[ ran into the next room. She ran after
me, hitting me again and again with the
stick. I took it from her a second time
and hit her with it. Then I ran to the
head of the stairs and yelled to Dick: ‘Let’s
get out of here.’

“Mrs. Atkins yelled: ‘You’ré not going
to leave me here. I’m coming with you.’

“You are like hell,’ I told her and ran
down the steps and got in the car. We
drove away and left her there.

“When I got home I told my wife I had
been drinking and went to bed. There
wasn’t any blood on my hands and just a
couple of drops on my shirt. I washed that
out. But I’m glad now that it’s over. I
haven’t been feeling well ever since. I’ve
been sick and unable to eat.”

Richard Brady, however, insisted that
He remained
in the car, he claimed, until Earnest came
running out of the building. He said he
had no knowledge of what had occurred.
Earnest later changed his story and agreed
that Brady’s version was correct, and that
Brady had never got out of the car.

N DECEMBER 2, 1940, William

Earnest was brought to trial in Nor-
ristown, Pennsylvania, for his part in the
county’s most shocking crime. As the trial
got under way able District Attorney Fred-
erick B. Smillie indicated that for the first
time in his career he would ask that the

‘death penalty be imposed.

The trial lasted four days, during which
time the web of evidence tightened slowly
but surely around the man who was de-
scribed as a “vicious sadist.” He was
pictured by the prosecutor as luring his
victim to the lonely house on Horsham

Dick stayed’

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KILLER—
“You got nothin’ on me,” he told the
detectives. They soon showed him how
wrong he was and then he confessed.

er Oma  S

ae ue i nat Police examine broken glass and window

oe 4 At Berl Be frame where killer entered empty house.
ee Lae i | ae ‘ Someone had said that a glass of beer’
oe ee bit would be the™death of her—and in a way
va ai . it was. Alive and in an alcoholic black-
| 4 (NS % ‘ out, she was always turning up in the
| § f i seins strangest places. Dead, she was found in

the strangest of all... .

(THE HEADLAMPS of an automobile
swept the blank windows of the
deserted house on the outskirts of Willow
Grove, Pennsylvania, as the car‘ pulled up
in the weed-choked driveway. Morris
Bacon, at the wheel, thought he had never
seen his property look quite so lonely as,
it did that Tuesday evening in September.
The path leading up to the door was a
tangled mass of grass which had overrun
the grounds and the flowerbeds,’ and the
house itself had an aspect of utter decay.
In the dim light from the car. the paint
gave the gray walls a speckled look, and
the drab green shutters seemed about to
fall from their hinges.

Bacon knew that this would make a bad
impression on the couple in the back seat.
He should have waited until daylight when
the unkempt appearance .of the place
would not have seemed so sinister, But
the young couple in his car were prospec-
tive tenants, and Bacon was anxious to
rent the house. It was not easy to per-
suade people to live in the country, some
25 miles from Philadelphia.

“Rain brings out the weeds,” he said
over his shoulder. “But they're easy to
pull up. Watch your step, now. I'll turn
on my flashlight.” i

The young husband’ helped his wife out p
of the sedan. “We'll have a look at the '
place, anyway,” he said.

Bacon led the way to the side entrance
and fitted a key into the lock. The door

a ae


a

a tan

26

swung open and a burst of damp air

_rushed out. | i
“It’s been closed up,” the owner ex--

plained as he played the flashlight across
the ceiling and up and down the walls.
“You can see it’s in good condition. Let’s
go up the back way and look at the bed-
rooms first.”

The beam 6f light rolled along the floor,
darted upward and suddenly picked out
the imprint of a bloody hand upon the wall.

The young woman caught her breath
and. clung to her husband. “What's that?”
she gasped.

“I don’t know,” Bacon replied in a low
voice. “I can’t imagine—” He moved the
beam upward and it found another splotch
of blood—and another.

“Look!” screamed the girl, staring in
horror.

Sprawled on the stairs was the half-
naked figure of a woman, face battered
and smeared .with blood, her: sheer blue
polka-dot dress ripped and torn. One hand
was outflung as though in mute appeal,
the fingers cut and bruised where she had
battled with her assailant. Her head was
twisted grotesquely upward, her sightless
eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

.When they had recovered from the first

SHROUD—
When they found Ethel, this polka-dotted
dress was almost completely torn off her.

shock of the gruesome discovery, Bacon
ushered the couple out to his car and
drove toa nearby house, where he used
the telephone to call police. Then they
returned to the deserted house on Dresher
Road and waited for the officers to arrive.

THIN half an hour, the driveway

was lined with police cars as state,
county and city investigators responded
to the alarm. Bacon and his prospective
tenants were questioned about their dis-
covery of the body by Chief Kaye Mun-
shower, commander of Montgomery Coun-
ty detectives, and Captain William C.
Engle of the Philadelphia homicide squad,
who had rushed to the scene to cooperate
with the Norristown authorities.

While other officers were searching the
house for possible clues, Dr. John C.
Simpson, coroner’s physician, examined
the body. He reported the woman had
been dead for about six hours, putting the
time of the crime at around .1 o'clock that
afternoon. She had been beaten from
head to foot with a heavy instrument that
inflicted a skull fracture and multiple in-
ternal injuries with severe hemmorhages.

“She must have put up a terrific battle
for her life,” Dr. Simpson observed.

This was borne out by bloodstains in
the front bedroom on the second floor,
where the walls bore imprints of the vic-
tim’s hands, indicating that she had groped
toward the door to escape. In one corner
of the room, officers found a blood-caked
curtain rod and an iron bar which had
been wrested from a bedstead. Both ob-
viously had been used by the killer in
his homicidal frenzy.

Except for these ugly weapons, the
bloody handprints and a broken window
on the ground floor, there were no other
clues—certainly none that hinted at the
slayer’s identity.

Neither was there a purse or handbag
containing papers .by which the victim
might be identified. In addition to the
torn. blue polka-dot dress, she wore white
shoes, light tan stockings,-and a white slip.

Dr. Simpson estimated that she was in
her late 20s or early 30s, five feet, four
inches tall, and weighed about 140 pounds,
with brown hair and eyes. She had been
a-mother, he reported,’ and one of her
teeth—the upper right first molar—had
a gold cap.

But the best clue to her identity was
a gold wedding band on the third finger
of her left hand. On the inside of this


| OR ETHEL ATKINS, alcohol was
| poison. She liked the taste of beer
and liquor well enough, and she
loved the fuzzy feeling of exhilara-

| tion it gave her—but she simply
couldn’t handle the stuff. She had known
of her particular allergy since her late
: teens, but in her early 30’s, twice mar-

| ried and five times a mother, Ethel was

still trying to drink normally.

Pretty and vivacious, with a voluptuous
figure, there was nothing about the dark-
haired young matron’s appearance to in-
dicate that she had trouble of any kind.
Yet when she drank even a few glasses
of beer it happened. There was no: Jekyll-
Hyde change in personality; she did not
become sloppy, maudlin or pugnacious,
nor did she pass out. Instead, she plunged
into a deep mental fog, during which she
had no consciousness of what she was do-
ing and no recollection of her actions
afterward.

On such occasions Ethel literally took
her life into her hands. She had been
warned by her doctor, her husbands and
her friends, but the thing apparently was

_ beyond her control. It. was not drinking
too much she had to fear; it was drink-
ing. anything at all, a bitter fact for her

to face.

' ETHEL ATKINS—
The attractive housewife was lured to
the empty house. When she resisted the

| | “4 killer’s advances he beat her to death.

b 7  ()NCEA SOR ED DetectiVE —
| Oct, t 952.

Ae

BLOODSTAINS— :
Attempting to escape her killer, she
spread blood on the walls and floors.

ring was inscribed “J. F. A. to E. M. A.,
September 30, 1935.”

As Chief Munshower and Captain
Engle reconstructed the crime, the mur-
derer had lured his victim to the lonely,
deserted house and, finding it locked, had
gained entrance by breaking a window.
Either by force or voluntarily, she had
gone upstairs.

After the brutal attack he had left her

in the second floor bedroom, and fled, be--

lieving her dead. But the trail of blood
indicated that she had regained conscious-

ness, dragged herself to the stairs and, un- |

able to go on, had fallen halfway down
and died there. Even if she had been
able to scream for help, no one would
have heard her.

The absence of a purse suggested that
the motive might have been robbery, but
the viciousness of the attack and the scene
itself led the officers to conclude the
killer had been bent primarily on criminal
assault. There was some indication such
an attack had been attempted, but this
could not be determined for certain until
the results of the autopsy were known.

“I can’t believe that any woman in her
right mind would come to an isolated spot
like this with a man she couldn't trust

FINAL SCENE—

Ominous and forbidding, the desolate
house was witness to a savage drama.

or didn’t know,” Chief Munshower de-
clared. “Yet that’s apparently. what hap-
pened.”

“The answer may be that she was not
in full possession of her faculties,’ Cap-
tain Engle pointed out, “It’s possible she
was drunk or under the influence of nar-
cotics.”

Technicians had been unable to find
any clear fingerprints in the deserted house

except those of the victim herself that *:

were outlined in blood upon the walls. The
bloody curtain rod and iron bar from the
bedstead were carefully prepared for re-
moval to the state police laboratory in
Harrisburg, there to be examined for the
killer’s prints. ;

The house on’ Dresher Road was some
distance from other dwellings, and a can-
vass of the neighborhood failed to turn
up any witnesses who had seen the slayer
coming or leaving. While the body of the
dead woman was placed in an ambulance
for the trip to the county morgue, Mun-
shower started for county police head-
quarters at Norristown. '

The key to the murder puzzle, they
agreed, in all probability lay somewhere in
the victim’s private life, her background
and associations. The first step was to

find out who she was, then to go on from
there. ,

At Munshower’s request, Engle called
Harrisburg and: arranged for a message
to be sent out over the state police ‘tele-
type network, giving a complete ‘descrip-
tion of the slain woman, and requesting
that any information about her be for-
warded directly to Chief Munshower. —

The officials already had checked all re-
ports of missing persons in the files at Nor-
ristown,*but found none listing a woman
of that description. A similar check with
the statewide files at Harrisburg also
brought no results.

Munshower and Engle turned next to
the clue of the victim’s gold wedding
ring. Assuming that the date in the in-
scription referred to a marriage ceremony,

. they checked the Montgomery County
“marriage license files for September. 30,

1935. .The records showed four licenses
issued on that date, one of them to a
man and woman with the same initials
as those on the ring. if

That: license had been obtained by James
F, Atkins of 2518 North. 19th Street,
and Ethel M. Craft of 2502 West Oakdale
Street, both Philadelphia,

Detectives (Continued on page 38)

27

sterner serra sre eeternererenns

ee


f the nude

d until the

ssing days

r,
?
orm allan

fe old empty house loomed grim and gray against the
dusk of the late September sky. There was something
ominous about its setting—the neglected, weed-grown
grounds, the darkness beneath the low front porch, the
gloom of the gabled third-floor windows.

Rumor had it that the Horsham Township derelict, only
a few miles beyond the city limits of Philadelphia, Pa., was
haunted. It looked old enough to date back to the days when
highwaymen had buried their loot among these hills and
Revolutionary troops had skirmished and died along these
roads. In the past few years tenants had come and gone in
sudden fashion and even when the house was vacant, strange
lights had been seen flickering from windows.

To John Bready, owner of the old house, there was noth-
ing supernatural about all that. Tenants moved out because
they wanted the house painted and repaired, but were not
willing to pay the increased rent that Bready felt such
improvements would warrant. As for the eerie lights,
Bready attributed them to the fact that prowlers, not ghosts,
had been haunting the neglected premises.

Bready had prowlers on his mind as he and his wife
pulled up beside the spooky house at dusk on Tuesday,
September 24, 1940. Accompanying them in another car were
Charles Leo and his wife Helen, prospective tenants. The

day had been rainy; darkness was setting in early because
of the overcast. Bready, giving a practiced glance along the
front porch to:see if everything was all right, noted promptly
that it wasn’t.

“Look there!” Bready told Leo, as the latter came up to
join him. “Somebody has broken into the house. If he’s still
inside, I’d like to trap him!”

Bready was pointing to a broken window at the left of

_ the front door. As Leo acknowledged his willingness to help

trap the phantom prowler, Bready produced a key and
handed it to Leo.

“Go around to the back door,” suggested Bready. “I'll give
you time so you can watch the back stairs while I go up
the front. If there’s any one on the second floor, we'll box
him there.”

Mental reservations gripped Leo after he reached the
musty gloom of the dusk-filled kitchen. He heard Bready
enter the front way and start toward the main stairs. Leo
found a door and turned the knob gingerly. He listened for
any creaks from the floor above. Hearing none, he wrenched
the door wide open—then recoiled in stark horror.

Leo had found the back stairway, but it wasn’t deserted.

‘ Sprawled on the lower steps was the nude figure of a once

comely woman, her glassy death stare made all the more

At left, Troopers Asper (kneeling) and Miller determine from the broken glass at the “haunted” house that the window
was shattered from inside. Trooper at right pokes flashlight beam into murder room. Bludgeon is long, wrapped object.


had hoped to
orpse instead.

age strength.
mpany’s men
Rankin and
he premises

i obliterated
slayer might
© victim, the
edding ring
i, Examining
je the plain

“

Munshower

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it today.”
got here,”
ta house.”
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Everything

ypened for
ement now
after per-
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beneath the
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‘ould have
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it they had
sads to the
ntal chart.
clues that
no near
»ld house

remembered seeing a car parked beside the place on Sunday
night. ;

That, however, was a day and a half before the murder. In
contrast, a 12-year-old boy returning home from school on
Tuesday had noted a car with a man and a woman as its
occupants. It had stopped near the house. But that, as

clocked by the autopsy, had been a few hours after the time.

of the crime.

An inspection of the broken front .window by State
Troopers R. H. Miller and H. L. Asper showed more shattered
glass on the front porch than inside the house. To Detective
Chief Munshower, this indicated that someone might have
entered the house with a key, then broken the window from
the inside in an attempt to confuse the police. From Bready,
Munshower learned that the only person likely to have a
key was the previous tenant, Leon Evans, who had moved
to another house in Horsham.

Detectives went to the new address and found their man
gone. But by the time they had begun a hunt for Evans, he
returned, much amazed to learn that a murder had occurred
in his former home. Evans was quite able to account for his
whereabouts all that Tuesday.

The clue of the wedding ring was carefully probed. Records
were being searched in Philadelphia as well as surrounding
communities to learn if two persons with the initials J. F. A:
and E. M. A. had obtained a marriage license on the date
specified. The next day Detective Rankin, checking with the
marriage license office in Philadelphia City Hall, put in a
call to Munshower in Norristown.

“This comes pretty close,” Rankin stated. “On September
28, 1935, a marriage license was issued to James Francis
Atkins and Ethel Mae Craft.”

“The initials jibe,” Munshower pointed out, “as the last
initial easily could be that of her married name. Have you
located Mr. and Mrs. Atkins?”

“No. The addresses they gave were only temporary resi-
dences. They may have left the city.”

“Keep checking. It’s the best lead yet.”

Munshower was right about that. Within half an hour he
received another call, this time [Continued on page 81]

Slain woman’s second husband, James Atkins, did not tell
police of his wife’s disappearance at first because it had
happened before. But this was Ethel’s last vanishing act.

L. to r., Sgt. Tom Costello and Capt. Bill Engle, both of
the Philadelphia force, check report with District Attorney
Fred Smillie and Officer Peter Riley and Harry Christ.


oo

Sia

LANSST Usctbee un | Lol [(z r

, BY MARTIN DONOHUE : eer
dusk of the |
ominous abou
grounds, the
gloom of the
Rumor had
a few miles b«
haunted. It lo:
highwaymen |!
Revolutionary
roads. In the
sudden fashi:
lights had bi
To John B:
ing supernat
they wanted
willing to
improvemen!
Bready attril
had been h
Bready hi:
pulled up be
September 24
Charles Lec

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Murderer, above, had an unusual
head of hair, so unusual that it
tabbed him as the brutal killer. He
also knew that the house in Horsham
was vacant and could serve as a
trysting place. It was in house at
right that nude body was discovered.

{ It only took a few beers to make attractive Ethel BA TTERED

H | Mae Atkins giddy, but she seldom stopped there.
| Then she would fall into an alcoholic amnesia. |
U

WEEKEN.

®

The mystery of the nude
corpse in the haunted house
was not solved until the

police learned the secret of

the three missing days eeaaket

22

=

24

Investigators examine the blue polka dot dress which was found folded on
an old sofa along with the victim’s flesh colored slip and undergarments.

gruesome by the blood that streaked her face and body.
Crimson splotches on the steps above marked the route that
the victim had taken on her death slide.

As he slammed the door, Leo found his voice and shouted
frantically to Bready: “Stay back! Don’t go upstairs!” Bready
came through to the kitchen on the run and viewed the body.

Next, the two men were on their way to the nearest tele-
phone to call the Pennsylvania State Police in Doylestown.
While that call was being relayed to the local authorities,
Bready contacted the electric light company and asked’
them to send a man to switch on the current, which had
been disconnected soon after the last tenant had vacated
the old house.

Among the Montgomery County investigators who soon
arrived at the scene were District Attorney Frederick Smillie,
Chief of County Detectives Kaye Munshower, Detective
Harry Rankin and Dr. John C. Simpson, coroner’s physician.
Under the glare of flashlights, Dr. Simpson studied the body.

“Death could have resulted from a severe clubbing,” the
physician declared, “or from loss of blood through other in-
juries.”

District Attorney Smillie asked: “And how many days
would you say she has been dead?”

“It’s a question of hours rather than days,” replied Dr.
Simpson. “She may have been alive as late as noon today. I
can tell you better after the autopsy.”

The murder trail, oddly, began almost where it ended, in
the kitchen of the farmhouse. There, folded on an old sofa,
lay a blue polka dot dress, a flesh colored slip and under-
garments, all obviously belonging to the dead woman, who
was wearing only white shoes and rolled down nylon
stockings.

Apparently she had discarded her clothes and had gone
upstairs, for when investigators reached the room above,
their flashlights revealed it to be a shambles, On the floor lay
a bloodstained stick of wood, which the slayer had evidently
used to club his victim until he had found a bigger
bludgeon in the form of a wooden curtain-rod, which was
also bloodstained and broken into two jagged pieces.

There was a pool of blood in one corner and smudged
handprints on the wall. Further evidence of the killer’s
ferocity consisted of two portions of an old iron bedstead—
the head and foot sections—which also were bloodstained.
From there, the trail’ led to the top of the back stairs, down
which the victim evidently had been thrown.

Investigators agreed that the crime was the work of a

Landlord John C. Bready had hoped to
rent house, discovered a corpse instead.

sadistic killer, probably a man of more than average strength.
But there the leads ended. When the electric company’s men
arrived and turned on the lights, Munshower, Rankin and
state troopers made a more detailed search of the premises
without result.

The rain that continued most of the day had obliterated
any trace of tire tracks or footprints that the slayer might
have left behind him. As for the identity of the victim, the
investigators found only one tangible clue, a wedding ring
on the third finger of the dead woman’s left hand. Examining
it, Chief Munshower found an inscription inside the plain
band. It read:

“J.F.A. to E.M.A.—September 30, 1935.”

Those initials drew a blank with Bready when Munshower
showed him the ring.

“It couldn’t have been any one who came to see the
house,” stated Bready. “In fact, I haven’t shown the house
lately; not until Mr. Leo said he’d like to see it today.”

“And it was pretty nearly dark when you got here,”
commented Munshower. “Rather late to look at a house.”

“I know it,” acknowledged Bready, “but I had to go to a
fruit sale. That delayed me.”

“And how long,” queried Munshower, “was it since you
were last here?”

“I was here last Thursday,” returned Bready. “Everything
was in good order then.”

Considering that the old house had been unopened for
five days, Dr. Simpson’s estimate of the time element now
loomed as a vital factor in the case. That night, after per-
forming an autopsy at the Abington Memorial Hospital, the
coroner’s physician confirmed the time of death as approxi-
mately Tuesday noon.

Equally important, in examining scrapings beneath the
victim's fingernails, Dr. Simpson found several short strands
of gray hair which the victim evidently had clawed from her
attacker’s head.

Dr. Simpson said that all four of the victim’s wisdom
teeth were missing. As it was unlikely that they could have
been knocked out despite the savage beating, and no trace
of them had been found, Dr. Simpson assumed that they had
been extracted. This meant that any likely leads to the
woman’s identity could be checked by her dental chart.

For the moment, investigators were banking on clues that
promised direct leads to the slayer. There were no near
neighbors, but one man who often passed the old house

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Dead Nude In The Haunted House

(continued from page 41)

Detective Costello was quick to
remember the gray hair found under
the dead girl’s fingernails.

‘‘Did you hear what they were
talking about?’’ he asked.

“‘He seemed to be turning on the
charm and making a play for her. And
she acted as though she liked it.’’

“‘Have you any idea where they
went when they left?’’

“I heard the man say something
about a quiet place he knew. Probably
another bar or a cocktail lounge. I
didn’t catch the name.’’

The officers: now divided forces and
for the rest of the evening they visited
bar after bar in the downtown area.
When at closing time they met and
compared notes, it was established that
at various times Saturday evening
Ethel-May Atkins had been seen with
a gray-haired companion, presumably
the same man, in four other bars, the
last one about midnight.

In this last bar, according to
Detective Costello, she had apparently
become quite intoxicated. A customer
who had been in that night remem-
bered her.

“‘He said she was sort of swaying
next to the gray-haired man and

giggling,”’ Costello reported. ‘‘Finally-

they left together. But I couldn’t get
anything on where they went.’

Early the next morning, Captain
Engle reported by telephone to Chief
Munshower in Norristown.

**The man was apparently a stranger
in that part of the city,’’ he said.
“‘Everyone described him about the
same way and no one knew him. But
his gray hair certainly makes him a
possible lead and we’re going to keep
on his trail.’’ :

‘‘If you find him, send him to
Norristown and we may be able to tell
whether he’s our man or not,”’’
Munshower said. ‘‘We’ve found a
partial print on the door frame of the
murder room which we think may be
the killer’s — though possibly it’s the
print of someone Bready had shown
the house to previously.”’

Later that morning, however, when
newspapers carrying photographs and
information about the crime had had
wide circulation, developments came
rapidly. Both Philadelphia and
Montgomery County police were
- deluged with calls from persons who
thought they had seen Ethel May
Atkins between Saturday and Tues-

42

day, not long before the murder.

The officials questioned everyone
carefully to separate the bona fide
witnesses from cranks and persons of
lively imagination. By noon they had
established pretty definitely that during
the three-day period of what was
taking on the aspects of an orgy of
drinking, if nothing more, the girl had
been seen in no less than twenty
different bars and taverns in various
sections of Philadelphia. In fact, the
girl had been seen in that city as late
as 8 o’clock Tuesday morning. This
meant that her killer was probably a
Philadelphian who had driven her out
to the Norristown area with which he
apparently was familiar, some time
Tuesday forenoon. :

The newspaper publicity also
brought two men voluntarily before
Captain Engle at the Philadelphia
Homicide Bureau. Max Horowitz and
his brother-in-law, Leo Sheridan, had
a Surprising story to tell. Both were in
early middle age and their hair was
partially gray. a

Horowitz said that he had dropped
in a taproom at 20th Street and
Montgomery Avenue at about 8
o’clock Monday evening and had
gotten into conversation with a girl he
now realized was Ethel May Atkins.

“*T just knew her as Ethel,’’ he said.
“Well I bought her some drinks and
we got to talking. She was a pretty girl
and she stuck with me till nearly
closing time. I’m not married, so
naturally I began getting ideas. I live
in a hotel and I couldn’t take her there.
So I called up my brother-in-law and
he said it was O.K. to bring her to his
place.

“I suggested to Ethel that we go
there for a nightcap. She was all for it
and we drove there in my car.”’

Horowitz related with evident
embarrassment what had taken place
at his brother-in-law’s apartment.

*‘In the morning we both had to go

to work and didn’t know what to do ~

with her,’’ he went on. ‘‘She wouldn’t
tell us where she lived. So I took her
back to the same bar where I’d picked

her up. They’d just opened up and I

guess she went in and had another
drink. That’s the last I saw of her.”’
Captain Engle considered the man’s

_ Statements and decided that there was
no reason to disbelieve his story

particularly since he had volunteered
it. Still, he and Sheridan were the last

persons known to have seen the girl
alive and had been with her until only
four hours before her death. Also
Horowitz had a car.

In view of this, Engle turned the two
men over to County Detective Glea-
son, who took them to Norristown for
questioning by Chief Munshower. He

then directed detectives to visit:

Sheridan’s apartment and examine
Horowitz’s car.

Then he sent out a call to the police
car in which Detective Costello and
other men were visiting other taverns
in which the girl had been reported
seen. Obeying instructions, Costello
proceeded at once to the taproom at
20th and Montgomery.

A waiter there who knew Horowitz
said he had seen him there Monday
evening with a girl who could have
been Ethel May Atkins. But this man
had not been on duty the following
morning and did not know whether
the girl had come back or not.

‘The owner tends bar mornings,”’
he said. ‘‘He’d probably know.”

The owner was reached by tele-
phone and soon arrived. Shown the
girl’s picture, he nodded at once and
said: ‘*Yes, she came in by herself just
after I opened the place and I served

' her. Right after that, a fellow named

Bill Earnest came in and started talking
with her. He’s a night counter man at
a diner near the North Philadelphia
railroad station. He lives near here and
usually stops in for a quick drink on

his way home to bed. 4

“*But that morning a friend of his
named George Morton came in witha
pretty little waitress he’s been going
around with. The four of them sat in
a booth and had several drinks
together until they were all pretty high.
Finally at about half-past ten I heard
the waitress say she had to get home,
and the four of them left together.’’ .

“‘Does any of them have a car?’’
Costello asked.

“Morton has an old car. | don’t

know if he had it with him.”’
Costello was told where William
Earnest lived and he and Detective
Rankin drove there at once. ‘
In 4 near but rather shabby apart-
ment, they found Earnest, his wife and
two small chidren. Earnest, a rather
handsome man in his middle 30s with
neatly parted black hair and an easy
manner, had been just about to leave
for his job. When shown the girl’s
picture, he conceded that he had talked

with her at the bar Tuesday morning.
He said he had not seen a paper and ©

(continued on page 44) ©

SR oid 12 wae


Shocking Sex Kill Of Laura Webster

(continued from page 39)

denied their client was the ‘‘incred-
ible hulk’? and a walking, ticking
timebomb just waiting to explode. He
was merely anti-social, they insisted.
Prosecutor Geoffrey Cheadle Jr.
was firmly convinced that it was time
to defuse the defendant and he stressed
the incongruity between Scott Cla-
bourne and Laura Lynn Webster
during his opening statement. Laura
Lynn’s co-worker was one of the first
witnesses to testify. The woman who
owned the house where the victim died
and who worked at the lab which
alledgedly analyzed specimens relative
to the crime also testified saying it was
all sheer coincidence. The confidential
informant who'd initially tipped the
scales in favor of justice more than a
year after Webster’s murder also
testified. Her name and place of
employment was published but her
testimony proved to be devastating.
The taped confession given to the
Tucson police by the accused was
played for the jurors and this piece of
evidence just about cinched it. True,
there was a lot of insanity involved in
the case but it wasn’t the kind which

fitted legal and clinical definitions. °

Instead, it was the lust maddened craze
of brutish individuals who’d set out
that fateful night in quest of a naive,
unwary female to be used as a
lascivious sex-toy to pacify their every
whim, then killed and discarded.

On November 23, 1982, the jury left
the courtroom to deliberate. It took
them just fifty minutes to reject the
defendant’s insanity plea and to find
him guilty of first-degree murder,
kidnapping and three counts of sexual
assault. It is worthy of note that the
kidnapping conviction tended strongly
to refute the accused’s contention that
Laura Lynn was induced to accompa-
ny him and his companions with the
promise of a cocaine party. Those
closest to the case were always inclined
to believe that Miss Webster was
perhaps threatened or coerced force-
fully into leaving the nightclub.
Clabourne now faced the death
penalty. His date of formal sentencing
was scheduled for December 17.

It wasn’t until January 24, 1983, that
the judge got around to having the
convicted killer brought before him

to be sentenced. Clabourne’s attorney _

had argued for leniency averring that
the state’s demand for the death
penalty was based more on a desire

40

for vengeance than justice. Frequently,
the two words are synonymous. Laura
Lynn Webster’s slayer stood entirely
emotionless as he heard the judge
sentence him to death for her brutal
murder and to 14 years on each of the
kidnapping and sexual counts. The
judge stated that he had reviewed the
convicted man’s mental history but
deemed it to be insufficient to warrant
a lesser sentence.

Edward N. Carrico had not testified
during Clabourne’s trial. In many
respects, his testimony was not
required. Secondarily, it was estab-
lished that he was so intoxicated on
the night that Laura had died a
horrible and lingering death that his
recollections were blurred and confu-
sed. He’d been present and had
Participated but, at times, he’d also
blacked out.

The Pima County district attorney
now commenced preparations to deal
with Larry Lynn Langston, the third
man up. This facet of the prosecution
had a quandry of considerable dimen-
sions due to the fact that a dire
shortage of witnesses existed. The
prosecution located one, a former
cellmate of the accused who claimed
that Langston had confessed his role
in the Webster murder. Clabourne,

already convicted and sentenced, could '
not be compelled to testify. Carrico
was now on probation. The defense
challenged the state’s lone witness,
alleging that he was a professional
snitch and even an agent of the state.
Langston’s defense also attacked
various other aspects of the prosecu-
tion’s case including investigative
procedure, the processing of FBI
reports and the fact that certain ‘‘lost”’
evidence was ‘“‘miraculously”’ found 2
1/2 years after the crime. The man

‘who’d gone to the nightclub with

Laura was eliminated as a witness
because he’d been hypnotized. The
defense had alleged that this procedure
had ‘‘tainted’’ this witness’ memory.

As of this writing, a date has been
set for sometime in the near future for
a change of plea by the defendant to
be followed by formal sentencing, thus
obviating the necessity of a trial.
Higher courts had granted permission
for the former inmate who’d purport-
edly heard Langston admit to his role
in the crime to testify for the state.
Langston had originally pleaded
innocent to all charges.

Detective Luis Bustamante views the
Webster homicide investigation as
being one of the most extraordinary
and fascinating cases to have ever
occurred in Tucson and he contem-
plates authoring a detailed, illustrated
book-length work on it, once the final
chapter concludes. *

Dead Nude In The Haunte

(continued from page 17).

‘been divorced from her previous

husband, John C. Angier’ of Balti-
more, a member of the wealthy Duke
tobacco family.

Atkins had married her shortly after
their meeting, and about a year later
they had had twin sons. He himself
was steadily employed and his wife had
made a good home for him and
brought up their children well. He said
he and his wife had seldom quarreled.
When they had, it had always been
over one specific thing.

“Ethel rarely drank,’’ he said,
“because when she did it affected her
in an unusual way. After more than
about two drinks she’d go off into a
sort of amnesia, keep on drinking, and
not have the least idea afterward what
she’d been doing. It wasn’t like
drunkenness because she’d actually
seem sober, but she would be pos-
sessed by an urge too strong for her
to combat. She said she’d always been

that way and told me never to let her
drink much.

“Well, last Friday night she wanted
to stop at a tavern after a movie. We
each had a drink and I wanted to go
home. But Ethel insisted on another
one. She’d told me before we came in
not to have more than one. But she
was already in one of her moods. She
called the waiter herself and ordered
a drink. :

**That made me really angry, and I
made her come home without touching
it. Finally she did, but when we got
there she made a scene and it was a
long time before we got to bed.

‘*Well, next morning we had
breakfast together and she seemed

sorry for the way she’d acted. I -

thought the whole thing had blown
over. But I got home from work

shortly after noon — this was Satur- —

‘ (continued on next page)

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day - she wasn’t there. That’s the last
I saw of her.”’

‘You mean she didn’t come home
at all on Sunday, Monday or Tues-
day?’’ Chief Munshower asked. ‘‘Why
didn’t you report her missing?”’

‘‘Because the same thing has hap-
pened before and she’d always come
back and be sorry for what she’d done.
I’d come to realize that if I couldn’t
prevent these blackout excursions, I’d
just have to accept them. She was a
good wife in every other way and it
would have humiliated her if I’d had
the police looking for her.’’

‘“What did you do while she was
away?’’ Munshower asked.

‘*I stayed home and took care of
the twins. Finally when she hadn’t
come home this morning, I took them
to my mother’s so I could get back to
work. But I thought Ethel would
certainly be home by today.”’

‘‘Didn’t you see her description in
the papers this morning?”’

‘*] didn’t have time to buy a paper.
I heard some talk at the plant that a
woman had been murdered near
Norristown, but it never occurred to
me it could be Ethel. She didn’t know
anyone around there.”’

Atkins said that during her periods
of blackout under the drink-induced
strange urge, he supposed his wife
spent her time sitting in bars and at
night went to hotels. He said she made
friends easily with fellow drinkers in
this condition and talked rationally.
He would not speculate on what
relationships, if any, she formed with
the men she met.

‘‘But it was somehow as though a
strange side of her character came out
when she drank,”’ he said ‘‘ — a side
that both of us wanted to keep locked
up.’’

As Munshower continued to ques-
tion Atkins, the latter’s manner
remained frank and forthright.
Nevertheless, Munshower telephoned
Capt. William Engle, head of the
Philadelphia Homicide Bureau and
asked him to search the Atkins house.

This search resulted in no progress
at all. No letters from other men were
found. Telephone numbers which the
girl had jotted down proved to be
those of women friends and trades-
people. The questioning of neighbors
revealed no visits of men in her
husband’s absence. Except during her
blackout periods. Ethen Atkins
apparently had been a model wife.

~ John C. Angier, the girl’s first .

husband, had meanwhile been reached
in Baltimore. He confirmed Ethel’s
peculiarity about drinking but spoke

of her otherwise as a girl of high
character. The reasons for their
divorce as he related for them seemed
to have no bearing on the present case,
and Angier convinced the police that
he himself had not been out of Balti-
more recently.

Thus a case which a few hours
earlier seemed to have gotten off toa
promising start had already become
badly bogged down. Ethel May Atkins
had left home some time before noon
on Saturday. From then until she had
met her death Tuesday noon, nothing
whatever was known of her move-
ments.

The police were faced with the
problem of filling in three missing days
during which the poor girl had been
wandering around Philadelphia area
in an amnesia-like condition. Their
task was to uncover the secrets of
where she had been, how she had
behaved in the 72 hours during which
the darker side of her nature had had
free rein.

The first step seemed to be the

LONGEST
MURDERER

cooperation of the press. Chief
Munshower drove to Philadelphia and
he and Captain Engle called in
reporters and furnished them with
photographs and a complete descrip-
tion of the girl’s appearance and
habits.

-.Munshower then returned to Nor-
ristown to direct activities there.
Meanwhile Captain Engle and Detec-
tive James Costello, working with
Montgomery County Detectives Ran-

kin and Gleason, began a long tour of Hi

bars and taprooms in Philadelphia.

Their first stop was at the tavern |

near the Atkins home where James
Atkins and his wife had quarreled
Friday night. As they had surmised,
Ethel Atkins had returned to his
neighborhood bar late Saturday
morning. ;

The day bartender there said he’d
known the Atkinses only slightly.

‘“‘She came in by herself a little
before noon,”’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t know
she had this drinking problem you talk
about. She was well dressed and cold
sober, so I served her. Well, she kept
on drinking and after the third one she
began to act a little strange — not loud
or objectionable but just sort of gay.

‘*She started talking with the

‘customers, fellows who were minding

their own business. Well, I don’t like
that in my bar. But I could see she
was a nice girl so when she asked for
a fourth drink I just told her in a
friendly way that I wouldn’t serve her
any more and advised her to go home.
She didn’t say anything. She just
turned around and went out. That’s
all I know. She was only here maybe
an hour or so.”’.. -

The officers reasoned that, since
Ethel had wanted a fourth drink, she
had probably gone to another bar and
one fairly nearby. On the third try,
they entered a bar at Broad Street and
Susquehanna Avenue where the bar-
tender recognized Ethel’s picture.

“She came in Saturday afternoon
about. 1 o’clock and ordered a drink,”’

she said. ‘‘Then pretty soon a fellow.

came in and later I noticed that they
were talking together. I’d never seen
either of them before, ‘but I figured
probably they knew-each other. They
stayed for a couple of hours and she

kept playing the juke box. She drank |

quite a lot, but she was behaving her-
self so I didn’t see anything wrong.”’

The bartender described the'man as
about 50, well-dressed, gray-haired
and quite good looking. ‘‘He acted like
a successful businessman,’’ he said. -

(continued on next page)

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Dead Nude In The Haunted House

(continued from page 42)

did not know that she was the girl who
had been killed.

Costello asked him where he had
gone after leaving the barroom.

“Well, Morton drove his girl home
first,’ he replied. ‘‘Then he asked
Ethel where she wanted to go and she
said she didn’t know — just to let her
out somewhere downtown. Well, we
figured she wanted to go on drinking,
but that was her business. So we took
her back to Montgomery Avenue and
let her out of the car. Then Morton
took me home, and I suppose after
that he went home himself.’’

Costello asked Earnest what time he
had reached home.

“*About eleven,’’ he said. ‘‘I
couldn’t have been much later than
that.”’

“‘It was just eleven,’’ his wife said.
“‘IT remember because he came nearly
an hour later than usual and I’d begun
to worry.’’

Detective Costello sent a man to
look up Morton and bring him to the
Earnest house. When he arrived, he
questioned him in another room.

George Morton was a man of
medium build somewhat younger than
Earnest. He seemed nervous at this
contact with the police, but the story
he told coincided with that of his
friend.

“We finally let her out of the car
on Montgomery Avenue,”’ he finished.
“Then after I took Bill Earnest home,
I went home myself. I must have got
there a few minutes after eleven.”’

Costello asked whether anyone had
seen him come in.

“*T live alone,’’ Morton said. ‘‘But
I parked right in front of the house.
Somebody must have noticed me.”’

Long questioning of Earnest and
Morton failed to bring out any
discrepancies in their statements. Both
submitted willingly to examination and
no scratches were found on either of
their bodies.

Nevertheless, Costello sent both
men to Chief Munshower in Norris-
town. He then talked over the new
development with Chief Engle, who
arranged for an examination of
Earnest’s and Morton’s living quarters
and the car in which they had driven.

Engle then contacted Munshower by
phone to brief him on the two men
who would be arriving soon:

“Neither is gray-haired nor shows

ay

any bodily marks,’’ he said, ‘‘and
Earnest has an alibi backed up by both
Morton and his wife. Still, these two
were with Ethel Atkins an hour or so
before she was murdered.”’

Chief Munshower told of his
questioning of Horowitz and Sheridan.
“*That partial print we found doesn’t
match the prints on either of them.
Of course it’s possible that one of them
might have picked up the Atkins girl
after your two fellows let her out of
the car. But their story sounds all right
to me and I’m releasing them.’’

Captain Engle now reviewed the
progress the city police had made to
date. ‘“‘Of those 72 missing hours,”’
he said, ‘‘we’ve still filled in only about
27. We know that from Saturday noon
until Saturday midnight, she was

making the rounds of bars wth a gray-.

haired man who looks like a business-
man. And then between about 8
o’clock Monday evening and 11
o’clock Tuesday morning, she was first
with Horowitz and Sheridan and then
with Earnest and Morton. There aré
still about 44 hours — between
Saturday midnight and Monday at 8
p.m. — about which we know no-
thing?’?:'*
The following morning, Detectives
Costello, Gleason and Rankin, armed
with samples of the girl’s signature,
searched hotel registers in a vain effort
to establish where she spent the two
nights..-3" 5 37"
Meanwhile in Norristown, Chief
Munshower and District Attorney
Smillie were questioning Earnest and
Morton. A comparison of fingerprints
established that the print on the door
frame could be that of William
Earnest. But an expert emphasized
that the points of agreement with the
partial print were insufficient to
establish complete identification.
Further questioning of Earnest and
Morton advanced the case no further.
*‘Anybody with a car could have
picked her up after we left her,’’
Earnest said, ‘‘and someone probably
did. In her condition I think she’d have
accepted a ride with anyone who asked
her. Probably it was someone from

‘Norristown, since he knew about the

vacant house.”
That evening, the Atkins house was

~ opened to the public. Hundreds of

people, attracted by the wide publicity
that had been given the case, filed past

_ while, plainclothes detectives moved

_arm and he was led to a police car.

_a reddish discoloration on the man’s

process of healing. i

“smust have gone to a dozen bars and

. She stayed with me again Sunday night. -~

/

a coffin where Ethel May Atkins lay,
her features restored through a
mortician’s skill to a semblance of
beauty they had possessed. Mean-

among the visitors, watching the
reactions of all who viewed it.

Soon they noticed a middle-aged
man with neat gray hair draw a sharp
breath as he glanced into the coffin.
As this man started to leave, a
detective unobtrusivey grasped his

At the Homicide Bureau, the man
said he was James Dougherty of
Philadelphia. He gave his age as 49
and said he was unmarried and a
salesman.

“You recognized her body,’’
Detective Murphy told him. ‘‘When
did you last see her.”’

*“‘Last Monday morning,”’ Dough-
erty said in a low voice.

*“We asked everyone who was with
the victim to come forward,’’ Chief
Muashower said. ‘‘Why didn’t you?”’

*‘Because I wasn’t absolutely sure.
The name ‘Ethel’ was the same and
the picture in the paper looked like
her. But I wanted to see the body.”’

Munshower thought he could detect

cheek. It was the sort of mark which
might have been left if a light scratch
had nearly healed. —
“Pll have to ask you to remove your
shirt,’’ the chief said.
Dougherty did. On his chest were
several much deeper scratches in the

*‘All right, let’s have the story — al
of it,’’ Munshower said. ER

As he dressed, Dougherty’s fore-
head was perspiring. <<

*“Well, I didn’t kill her,’’ he began.
‘‘As a matter of fact I didn’t have
anything to do with it. I met her
Saturday in a bar. I was out for a good
time and she seemed.to be too. We

night clubs. Then when I suggested we
go to my apartment, that’ was O.K.
too. We. stayed there that night and
all day Sunday. '

~“*Then toward evening I went out
to get some beer. Shortly after I got
back, she got a crying jag. When I tried ‘
to approach her, she flew at me likea ~
wildcat, kicked at me and scratched
me. But after she had some beer she
was all right again. We didn’t go out
of the house the rest of the day and

“Well, Monday morning came and

bass

. (continued on next page)