Massachusetts, T, 1812-1997, Undated

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CAPT. JOHN F. ’ q pe
STOKES (left), Chief of Sexe) been Pout Pee that the i
Leon. jose rem Suit Bo ming two.
LIEUT. JO; - Ot, +S
RARI, his working part- torn ews eat the be. as.
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ist in solving a s Wer,
: ssa mystery. a acker, 8 fan

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| TAKEN BACK TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME, the sus-*
* pect appears to be perfectly at ease. He'is shown here;
(wearing cap), seated next to Chief of Police Sidney)
Smith. Standing on running board is Detective Richard |
J. Griffin.

_on the fat smuggler.

ator Johnson: “Signal the cars we’re
coming in. We ought to be there in
ten minutes.”
Now the shore line came into view;
now the rendezvous dock. ‘
“We're in!” signalled the police
i}

boat, l
_Afflashlight on shore’ described a

circle.
. “Up here, Johnny,” Russo’s anxious
voice called down as the boat swerved
alongside the dock. “You got the
stuff?”

“Safe and sound.” . ;

“Come on, fellers, give a hand
here!” The smuggler spoke over his
shoulder. Two men stepped out of
the darkness and went to work haul-
ing up the heavy tins that were
handed, to them by the police on the
launch.

The Radioman’s voice went over the
air. “They’re hauling the stuff up
now!”

Lieutenant Cooper flashed back on .
the two-way system. “How many

men have they got?”

“Three men is all I can see.”

Sixty seconds ticked by. Then
Lieutenant Cooper gave the signal
and detectives piled out of the cars.
Guns in hand, they raced toward the
smugglers. . ‘

“Spread out—move fan-wise!” Lieu-
tenant Cooper roared above the storm.

Detective Zegers rushed one of the
mobsters who had already lugged his
burden into an automobile and turned
on the lights.

“Get ’em up!” Zegers shouted. The
man turned panic-stricken. 4

“The cops!” he screamed, sounding
the alarm. He ducked past the de-
tective, headed toward the end of the
dock where Russo and an assistant
were still hoisting the contraband
onto the dock. At the sound of the
outcry, Russo straightened up. A
can of the precious opium: dropped
from his nerveless hands.

Russo still didn’t grasp the situa-
tion. “Johnny—the cops—help: me!”
he screamed. .

Sweeney sprang to the string-piece,
balanced himself perilously for an
awful moment and hurled himself up
Instinctively

indicated that she had fought bitterly
for her honor and her life.

Terror streaked the girl’s once
pretty face. Sand clogged her eyes,
ears and nostrils, choking her breath-
ing. But death, Dr. Murphy decided,
had come from manual strangulation.
Deep blue marks of strong male
fingers gleamed significantly on her
white throat. :

But who was she? How had she
come to her death in this remote sec-
tion of the resort, rarely frequented
even by lovers?

Police, searching the body, found
nothing by which to identify her.
Combing the sand, they discovered
several objects apparently irrelevant.

There was a reticule which undoubt-
edly had held the rosary beads; a
cheap pair of lavender-tinted sun
glasses; an empty witch hazel bottle.

But under the body was found a

“Rutt weno sp

Russo pulled away and lashed out
blindly. The blow caught Sweeney
wide open and he crashed to the wet,
spongy boards. ;

In that split second the true situa-
tion dawned on the syndicate agent.
“Kill him, Nick!” Russo screamed hys-
terically. His foot. kicked viciously
at the sprawling narcotics detective.
A gun roared and. orange spurts of
flame stabbed through the darkness.
Flopping over on _ his stomach,
Sweeney whipped out his own revol-
ver, blazed away in the direction of
the flashes. :

The gun fight spread in all direc-
tions; flash ripped at flash in_ the
wigs blackout. Patrolman Bute,
who had leaped to Sweeney’s aid
smothered a cry as a bullet shattered
his hand. <A scream of pain cut
through the tumult. It came from
Nick, the man whose warning had
touched off the explosion. Blinded by
the flow of blood from a wound ‘in his
scalp, he threw up his hands in sur-

| renaer.

Russo, meanwhile, was blundering
about on the icy edge of the dock,
hemmed in on three sides by the bay.

-Somewhere in the crisscross of gun-

fire Sweeney saw Russo’s darting sil-
houette outlined in the darkness. Rac-
ing toward the fat man, he dived
headlong at his target, caught him
about the knees and brought him
crashing down. A thudding right
and left to the jaw put the quietus on
Russo. Sweeney snapped handcuffs
on the prisoner’s wrists, roughed him
to his feet. :

The battle was seemingly over when. .

suddenly a volley of gun-shots came
from the adjoining pier. The police
charged the ambuscade, but found the
pier deserted.

Lieutenant Cooper took stock of the
situation, found that Officer Bute was
the only casualty among his men. Nick,
whom. Sweeney recognized as the
Boss’s bodyguard in that memorable
interview in Phil’s Cafe, had suffered
a deep Pee wound while Russo had
received a: lacerated jaw. The third
prisoner identified himself as Salva-
tore Luisi. Except for minor bruises
he was unharmed.

“FROM AUTHENTIC DETECTIVE CASES”:

Of Roma, the Boss, there was not a
sign. He had not appeared to share:
the perils of his hirelings. Unless it
was he who had fired the shots from
the darkness of the adjoining pier.

Firstclass Radioman Leon J.
Ledrew had already flashed word of
the action to the Federal Agents con-
cealed aboard the Unicoi and they '
swarmed onto the S. S. Ida, took into
custody the bribed seamen who had
passed the opium to Sweeney.

They were identified as Giovanni
Abba, thirty-six,:of Rovino; Antonio:

Oasich, twenty-five, of Salvorre;
Bruno Pozzecco, twenty-nine, a stew-
ard of Umago, and Giacomo Bucavetz,
fifty, of Trieste. Pietro Bressano,
thirty-five, a seaman shipping from
Trieste, eluded the Federal ragnet
but was later arrested in Los Angeles.

At the trial Russo admitted his real
name was Luigi Esposito, owner of a
bar and grill, at 274 41st Street, Brook-
lyn. Nick’s real name was Frank Vis--

ciano, forty-nine of 264 56th Street,’

also Brooklyn. : .

The case never came to trial. Faced
by an overwhelming mass of evidence,
they threw themselves on the mercy
of the-court and Judge Robert Inch on
April 11th, 1939, sentenced Esposito to
six years in a Federal Penitentiary.
Frank Visciano was given four years
at the same institution, and Salvatore

‘Luisi was confined in the Federal Re-

formatory at Chillicothe, Ohio. The
seamen were all given sentences in
the Federal Pen.

N° man could long resist the com-
bined efforts of -the Federal
Agents and New York City’s high-
powered detective division. So, one
cold grey dawn, Officers Collins and
Lundy of the U. S. Customs Bureau,

‘slipped quietly into the house at 260

—42nd St., in Brooklyn’s waterfront
district, and pounced on the sleepin

Giovanni Del Gatto, the real name o

Roma Octopus. The, conclusion was
written to the case on December 5.

1940, when, in the ancient Federal
Court: House in Brooklyn, Judge
Grover M. Moscowitz sentenced the
no longer dapper drug baron to 10°
years in the United States Prison.

CARNAL CLOGGER

(Continued from page 19)

clue of seemingly more importance.
This was an envelope which had evi-
dently come from the local Catholic
church.

Across the front was scribbled the
word “Jimmy,” and on the reverse
side an enigmatic quotation from a
popular song, “I used to love you, but
it’s all over now.” :

Underneath this was scrawled,
“Daddy, ‘Daddy, Daddy!”

A short distance away lay a straw
hat bearing the label of a local men’s
furnishing store.

Who was Daddy? Who was Jimmy?
Had the slayer left the straw hat?
Would the men’s store owner be able
to identify its purchaser?

These questions raced through the
minds of the officials as a dense crowd
gathered, attracted by the police ac-
tivity at the beach.

Although-.a score of persons came

down from the boardwalk and looked
upon the face of the victim, none was
able to identify her.

The detectives began to believe that
she might be one of the thousands of
out-of-town visitors attracted to the
resort daily, and that identification
would be a matter of days, giving the
slayer a headstart that might enable
him to evade eventual capture.

But then a timid woman approached
the body and took a fleeting glance.

“That looks like the new girl down
at the photograph studio,” she told
Griffin and Murray.

Acting on a hunch that this might
be so, Chief Smith and Patrolman
Foley hurried to:the establishment
and returned with Ben Gale, its pro-
prietor.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed at once.
“Tt’s my clerk—Stella Kale!”

The man openly wept. When able to

go, a

eee Se

“FROM A © DETECTIVE CASES”

“But he seemed harmless enough,”
.” returned Fole

findings. A stron
death cries
Stokes sen

could know some
Kale crime.

- “Took around and see if you
” said Stokes.

lew questions.”

pick up this fellow
want to ask him a

little man with the Chaplinesque mus-

<TR ET FS

g ps : ;
thifig clicked in Berry’s brain.

Cats seem

who suddenly came upon

and her 5-year-old daughter, Eleanor,

a scene of indescrib:

MRS. ANGELINA FRANKO

rder night, won-
had hailed from
tination of the

“T saw a queer
e kids down in
Beach, des
he had tak

Mounting his mo
rode to the neighbor
tate line in New

At the trolley terminus,
the drugstore of D
on asking qu
a clerk, greete
n a eard of lave
glasses perched atop one
of the counter

One pair of

weather an
car down a
steered him

Foley’s eye
taurant for a
t Foley’s :memor glasses was missing
“He was down nea
first saw him.

I told him to go
too drunk to sta
‘Okay, officer’ an

bought those?” he
asked Coen.
The clerk no
ant barber arou
came in here to 8

dded. “Yes, the assist-
nd the cor

? a x

Saturday and said he needed some”

glasses to keep the sun out of his eyes.”

“Was he ree the witch hazel?”
ike it.”

Foley went around to the barber
shop of Richard Bulger and learned _
that the assistant described no longer
worked there.

“He came in here last “week and

wasn't feeling well, so I let him shave -
a few customers. - Then, when I saw
he was a competent barber, I went
home, leaving him in charge.

“That: night he siept at my house.,
The following day Saturday, when I
needed him most, he quit.”
“where did he go? * asked Foley.
“He said he was going to Salisbury
Beach.”

Sun glasses! Witch hazel! A drunken

barber whose destination was the

scene of a brutal murder!

All this fitted into the Stella Kale

picture. Foley demanded the man’s

name. :

“He said it was Franklin Harrison,”

responded pulgrt. ‘
ack to Salisbury Beach,

Foley arrived just in time to read a’

i
The fingerprints on the witch-hazel
bottle and the lavender-tinted sun

rison Taylor, ex-convict, four-time

and a suspect in the murder of Joseph
Gervase, nine, of Buffalo, New York!
Since the. name Harrison was seen.
as an undis uted link between the
man who had been at the murder spot
and the witch hazel drinking barber of
Hampton Beach, Stokes broadcast an
immediate alarm for his arrest.
The man’s picture and fingerprints
were sent out in specially prepared
flyers, along with a description of
Stella Kale’s watch and ring. :
On the following day of the girl’s
death, William H. |
ton, New Hampshire, was hailed by
a hitch-hiker on the road near his

three.”
Dowe drove the stranger to his
home, showed the watch to his wife

price. . While there, the stranger ,
dropped a red-stoned ring in the dirt.
Dowe’s daughter, Mrs. Nellie Dickin-
son saw him pick it up.

Four days later, when the news-
papers printed the picture of George
Taylor and the description of the
watch and ring, Dowe reported his
transaction to the Kensington police.
The watch was immediately identified
as Stella Kale’s. ;

Officers were rushed into the terri-
tory, but no trace of Taylor was found.
Several days later he was sighted in
Newmarket, Dover and Exeter. Ap-
parently he was traveling fast.

Persons resembling the fugitive
were picked up in various sections of
New England, resulting in many false
clues and leads. A dozen police offi-
cers, trailed by two-score newspaper-
men, rushed back and forth to places
where suspects were seized, but Tay-
lor continued to elude the dragnet.

Days passed, then weeks. Had
George Taylor, known degenerate and
suspected killer, made his getaway?

owe, of Kensing- >

control his emotions, he told the offi-
cers that the girl had worked for
him only a week,

“She left the studio about 9:30 last
night, saying she was going for a
walk and.that she would return in
about an hour, bringing back some
ice cream.

“I waited up for her until 11:30,
then went out on the boardwalk to
look around. I had a pair of binoculars
with me. There was a bright moon,
but I couldn’t see anything of Stella.”

The girl, he said, lived in one room

above the studio, while he, a man
about fifty, occupied another.
» Stella le, Gale continued, had
come from nearby Lawrence, where
she lived with her parents, three sis-
ters, and a brother...

‘While Dr. Murphy ordered the girl’s
body removed to an Amesbury un-
dertaking establishment: for an au-

topsy by Dr. Timothy Leary, Tufts.

College medico-legal expert, Chief

Smith apprised the Lawrence authori- .

ties of crime.,

: City Marshal: Timothy O’Brien,
. Captain Michael A. Barry and Lieu-
bed igveen em nto Michael Byron went
to the Kale home to break the bad
news. The family, whose former name
was Pomikali before they adopted an
Anglicized version, was overcome with

grief.

Finally O’Brien demanded: “Who |

were your daughter’s admirers? Did
she‘have any rejected suitors?”

“~ The sisters of Stella Kale told him
that the victim had recently turned
down the suit of one, Raymond De-
*metrus, of Methuen. Furthermore,
they had seen Demetrus at Salisbury

- Beach when they visited Stella the.

day before:
- +. Where was Demetrus now? If he
had been: at the beach resort on the
. day.of the murder, June 5; how would
he explain the fact that his former
fiancee now lay murdered? tisk

The Lawrence officers went directly .
to. Demetrus’ home, but the yotith

wasn’t there. Barry and Byron were
given the task of searching for him.
_«. Marshal O’Brien returned to the

Kale home. There he was given two
notes recently written from Salisbury
Beach by Stella. . :

In one of these notes the girl had
suggested that an “unbearable condi-
spe might force her to leave the
studio.

“I can’t go on fighting much longer,” °

she had written. ’

In the second she had enclosed a
letter from a new admirer, a Haverhill
man, who wrote he had missed the
last trolley while calling on Stella a
few days before and had been com-
pelled to walk home.

“What a fool!” Stella had com-
mented. .

Instantly two questions _ stirred
themselves in O’Brien’s brain. Was
the photographer Gale responsible for
the “unbearable condition” Stella had
written about? Could the new ad-
mirer, repulsed by the unhappy girl,
have returned, attempted to force his
will and then slain her when this
attempt failed? ; ‘

While other officers of his force took
.the Kale family to Amesbury to iden-
tify the dead Stelia, O’Brien rushed
to Salisbury Beach to give the police
there his new information.

He found that Captain John F.
Stokes, chief of the state detectives,
and ‘Lieutenant Joseph Ferrari, ‘his
working partner, had arrived to take
charge and'‘assist Griffin and Murray.

NATIONAL DETECTIVE CASES

Stokes approved the attempt to find
Raymond Demetrus, and issued orders
for the apprehension of the new suiter,
Robert Flagler.

Then he sent Griffin and Murray to
bring Gale to the Salisbury Beach
police station at once. While they were
on their way to get the man, Frederick
Landry, a vaudeville performer, strode
into the station and told Stokes he
had seen Gale and his young clerk,
Stella, at the photographic studio as
late as 11:30 o’clock on the murder
night. ;

This emphatically contradicted
Gale’s statement that the slain girl
had gone for a stroll at 9:30. ;

Gale was subjected to iritense grill-
ing at the hands of Stokes and Fer-
rari, experts at this. Hour after hour
the photographer denied knowing
anything about his pretty clerk’s
death. f

The “unbearable: condition” of
which the girl wrote was something
which he couldn’t comprehend, deny-
ing that.he had ever tried:to force his
attentions on the it .

Gale was stripped, his body searched

for possible bruises and his clothes |
ae for blood stains. None were
‘ound. §

DR. TIMOTHY LEARY, medical examiner who
determined that Stella Kale died after putting
up a terrific fight for her life and honor.

Within a few hours Griffin and Mur-
ray produced Robert Flagler. Non-
plussed over the police attention, the
man insisted he had not called on
Stella more than once. i
‘ hehe he said, she was “too hard
o get.”

ey locked him up until his story
could be checked, but Gale was re-
leased under.police guard so he could
attend to his business.

That evening Demetrus was seized.
He, too, denied knowledge of the

a a a ee

crime. His friendship with Stella had
ended on the previous Christos, he
stated, and he had not seen the girl
since.

True, he had been at Salisbury
Beach on the day of the crime, but
only to accompany two sisters and a
boy friend of one. He had not left
their company all day and returned
to Lawrence with them at 10:30 that
evening. The youth,was locked up
pending investigation of his alibi.

In the meantime, the investigators
had dispatched the witch hazel bottle
and the lavender-tinted sun glasses
to Roscoe C., Hill, identification expert
of the state | rac at Boston.

Hill immediately reported that:sev-
eral fingerprints were apparent on the
bottle and glasses, but that it would
be several days before he could re-
produce these and search the volu-
minous . state police files for their
projector.

While this was going on, Salisbury
Beach officers, Berry, Kelly and Foley,
were scouring the resort for suspicious
characters. Several of these were
brought in, fingerprinted and held un-
til Hill’s report could be received.

Then, three days after the crime,
Stella Kale was buried. For the first
time her mother noticed that a gold
watch and ruby ring, usually worn by
the girl, were missing. She telephoned
O’Brien. :

It was the first intimation that the
police had that the girl wore jewelry
on the night of her ‘death.

Under | the supervision of Chief °

Smith, Salisbury Beach officers began
searching the sands near the murder
spot for the missing ring and watch.
Although they raked up the sand over
a wide area and sifted it through a
fine mesh screen, neither came to light.
.. Had the crime of robbery, in addi-
tion to rape, been a motive in the
murder of Stella Kale?.

Stanley Kale, the father, told police
he had bought the watch at the store
of William Herbst, in the Bay State
‘puilding, Lawrence. From the jeweler

detectives obtained a description of

the timepiece as well as the numbers
of its. movement and case. These re-
spectively were 27275400 and 2652480.

Captain Stokes believed that if the
slayer had made off with the jewelry
that its recovery might go a long way
toward finding the guilty slayer. He
ordered an immediate search of pawn-
shops in Lawrence, Methuen, Haver-
hill, Amesbury, Salem and Hampton
Beach, surrounding communities, as
well as Boston.

But although the entire police re-
sources of northeastern Massachusetts
and lower New Hampshire were en-
gaged in the hunt for the killer, noth-

_ Ing of value turned up. In fact, two of

the most promising clues in the case
proved useless.

No one named “Jimmy” was found
among Stella Kale’s acquaintances.
Comparison of the note found under
the body with specimens of Stella’s
handwriting showed that the enig-
matic message was not even written
by her. Police now believed someone
else had dropped it on the beach.

Could there have been another wo-
man involved in the crime? 3

The results of Leary’s autopsy dis-
closed that the crime undoubtedly was
committed by a degenerate. Teeth
marks were found on several portions
of the body.

The quickly formed opinion of Mur-
phy regarding manual strangulation
was borne out by Leary’s laboratory

nswer,”
ybe her
on this

e of the
silently
parents
of five
ident in
ore. Un-
wanted

ivelope.
of it.

he told
um sure
inybody

writing, .
letective

replied.
parents
nly been
ith. His
lived in
> officers
.em that
1. Asked
n Stella,
en plan-
on Sun-
h her.
jewelry
ve been
The
wned
>and
ist watch
ent and
the local

ecured at
made a&
s. Before
called at
ase and
h. Then
Sidney

1 his late’
yard ver-

day be-
»bviously
ic death.
ith Stella
he beach
girl was
made no
‘quent in-
had been
and _ his
st of pos-

id Griffin
ns. They
he studio
rly morn-
n seen to

seen the
alk. How-
een lights
is he had
finally re-
{ left the

ver heard
name of
ig the

question which had been put by Chief
Smith earlier in the investigation.

“Never,” the photographer replied.

Griffin showed him the envelope which
had been picked up near the body.

“That isn’t the name of any fellow,”
Stevens commented. “Jimmie is the name
of a song. Stella attended a concert Sat-
urday night,” he explained. “She hap-
pened to show me that envelope when.
she returned; she said that those three
numbers were her favorites.”

Inquiry about town by local officers
acting on Chief Smith’s instructions
brought out several apparently unrelated
bits of information. A woman with a
home just off the beach near the closed
Venetian Garden Hotel reported to Offi-
cer Berry that she had been awakened
Sunday night by a girl screaming on the
beach.

“At first I thought I must have been
dreaming,” she said. “Then it came
again. I ran to the window and looked
out. But it was dark and I couldn’t see
a thing. I waited for several minutes, but
there was no further sound.”

“About, what time would you say this
was?” the police officer naked. :

“Seven minutes past ten} was the
prompt reply. “I put on the light and
looked at the clock on my dresser.”

More information came from a beach
concessionaire whose name the chief
withheld. This man stated that at twenty
minutes past nine on Sunday he had ob-
served a stranger lolling around the
roller coaster. After watching him for
some time, he finally had gone up and
asked what he wanted. The man mum-
bled a reply and then started down the
beach in the direction of the Venetian
Garden Hotel. Ten or fifteen minutes
later, the informant saw Stella Kale,
whom he knew by sight, walk in the same
direction down the beach.

“Would you know the man if you
should see him again?” the chief asked.

“I sure would,” the concessionaire re-
turned. “He had mannerisms and a face
which would make him conspicuous in
any crowd.” He described the stranger as
being of medium height, moderate heavy
build, pale with a stubby mustache and
appeared to be in his early forties. He
was wearing brown slacks and a blue
coat.

“The reason why I’m so sure I could
never forget him,” he added, “is because
he’s the living image of that German
paper hanger whose picture is appearing
in all the papers—Adolf Hitler.” He
paused. “That is, except that he’s bald
and had on a pair of tortoise-shell sun-
glasses with yellow lenses.”

“You should have come to us at once
with this information,” Smith reminded
him sternly. ; :

“I realize that now,” the showman ad-
mitted, “but beyond thinking him an odd
stick, I didn’t give him much thought
until I got to comparing notes with one
of my associates. He told me that he had

seen him earlier in the evening outside,

the dance hall trying to force his atten-
tions on a young girl.” :

Officers Berry .and Smith, when re-
questioned, stated that this was the man
whom they had stopped doing the buck-
and-wing dance in the street. Officer Kel-

PE ee! oe Far Ue PRP Aa E AES

ley also remembered the bespectacled
stranger. He had seen him standing about
9 o'clock near the entrance of the
dance hall and then about 11 o'clock
had seen this same man, without glasses,
walk into the town square. -

“From what direction was he walking?”
Stokes interrupted.

“He could haye been'coming from the
-beach near the closed summer hotel.”

Officer Foley, doing traffic duty in Salis- .
bury Square on this same night, also re-
called this Hitler-like character.

“I talked to him several times,” he
told the two state police detectives
closeted with Chief Smith. “The first
time he asked me for a good place to eat
and I referred him to the diner across the
square. Later he asked me about car
service to Hampton Beach. Said he was
barbering over at the Gasino and didn’t
want to lose the last car back.”

“A barber, eh?” Stokes mused.

“When he asked you about car serv-
ice,” Griffin broke in night! “was he still
wearing those tortoise-shell. sun-glasses?”

Officer Foley didn’t remember.

Stokes turned to his colleague. “Let’s
get over to Hampton Beach.”

Before .leaving, the two detectives

again examined. the sun-glasses. Frames

and bows were of simulated tortoise shell,
but the amber lenses, the investigators
noted, were convex as though ground.
Stokes. studied them for some minutes

‘under a powerful glass.

“T should say that they haven’t seen
much use,” he finally remarked. “Neither
frame nor glass shows sign of wear.”

Griffin agreed, commenting at the same
time on a tiny dot of red on a metal bind-
ing strip. “About the only way I should
say they could be identified from any
other make is by those odd-headed screws
that fasten bows and frames.”

Smith nodded. “They may be hard to
trace,” he told them. “As far as we can
learn, not one dealer stocks that particu-
lar brand here in Salisbury.”

“Maybe we'll have better luck in

Hampton Beach,” Stokes hazarded.

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Griffin rushed to Belfast. Taylor alias
Good had left town. The detective barely
had time to make photostatic copies of
the signature on the register before it be-
came known the killer was in Dover, New
Hampshire. Griffin burned up the roads
to that city but again Taylor had dis-
appeared a step ahead of the policeman.

“He's still around,” Griffin told the
cooperating New Hampshire authori-
ties. “But now he realizes I’m so close be-
hind he may try to avoid capture by
holing up. He’s likely to get into some
jail on a minor charge and wait for the
excitement to die down, taking the
chance he won't be recognized.”

June passed without further word re-
garding Taylor, but on July 10, State De-
tective Edwin Brown received a call at
Montpelier from Sheriff Edward E.
Holmes of Hyde Park, Vermont.

“Wonder if you could drop down to
the county jail here,” he inquired. “I
need your advice on something.”

Holmes drew Brown into his private
office when he arrived and withgut pre-
amble stated that on July 5 had
arrested a man by the name of Henry
Lewis on suspicion of being connected
with an auto-theft ring. Lewis denied any
connection with the crime but made no
protest when the sheriff locked him up.

“Beyond the fact that he could pro-
duce no evidence to show who he was,
we didn't have a thing on him,” the sher-
iff confessed uneasily. “I figured we might
just as well let him go and went over to
the jail to tell him. Hadn’t any more
than got inside the door when I heard
someone playing tunes. Looked up and
there was the jailer playing on a fiddle
for all he was worth and inside his cell
the prisoner, Lewis, was doing some real
buck-and-wing steps, humming to him-
self while that fool jailer wore himself
to a frazzle. Then Lewis swung into his
own arrangement of When You and I
Were Young, Maggie. That song jogged
my memory about the dancing barber
and I figured you ought to come over.”

Brown reread the Wanted circular and
then went to the jail. He spent some
time unobserved outside the prisoner's
cell before rejoining the sheriff.

“I'd get in touch with the’ Massachu-
setts authorities without delay,” he ad-
vised. “Unless I’m greatly mistaken, that’s
the slayer of Stella Kale.”

The prisoner appeared unconcerned
when Detective-Lieutenant Griffin was
brought into his cell later. The officer's
voice was grim and uncompromising.

“I guess we've caught up with you at
last, George Taylor,” was his grecting.

The prisoner looked at him with
puzzled eyes. “Kind of confused, aren't
you, Neighbor?” he replied in a gentle
voice. “Aren’t you mixing me up with
someone else?”

“Not at all,” Griffin asserted. “That's
the name you went by in Eastport,
Maine.”

The prisoner shook his head. “Never
was in Eastport.”

Confronted by the pen and ink likeness
sent to the Salisbury police chief, Lewis
hesitated and then admitted he had been
called by that name. Asked if he was a
barber, he countered by saying that al-
though he had barbered he was really a

tailor’s helper. For a time he denied
being the “George Good” who had
signed the Belfast hotel register even
after a comparison of his writing and the
signature on the register proved them
to be the same and he again misspelled
Caribou by leaving out the “i.”

“It’s my writing,” he finally admitted,
“but my name is really George Taylor
and I come from Cleveland, Ohio.”

He raised his hand to emphasize his
words; the sleeve of his shirt fell away
disclosing the tattooed hands, the pierced
heart and the initials E. T. Griffin asked
what the letters stood for.

“A very dear girl friend,” the prisoner
stated. “Her name is Estelle Tiverton.”

More questioning brought other, dam-
aging admissions. He had worked for
Richard Bulger, the Hampton Beach
barber, and he had been at Salisbury
Beach on the night of Sunday, June 5.
But he did not remember buying any
glasses; instead he had stopped at the
drugstore to buy some witch hazel. After
several drinks and a hazy recollection of
Salisbury Beach, he claimed the next he
knew he was being taken to Boston by
four boys in a car.

“Who were those boys?” Griffin thun-
dered.

Taylor didn’t know. He could not
give their names, their addresses or the
make of car they drove. All he remem-
bered was that he had awakened in Bos-
ton and they drove him back to Newcastle
the next day.

“I suppose they gave you that wrist
watch.”

“However did you guess?” the prisoner
exclaimed. “I found it in my pocket after
they left me.”

“And the ruby ring?”

“1 don’t know anything about any ruby
ring.”

“Maybe you don't,” Griffin replied,
“but I’m arresting you on suspicion of
the murder of Stella Kale.”

“J am innocent,” the prisoner pro-
claimed, “and I can prove it.”

Waiving his right to extradition, the
lieutenant returned him to Salisbury.
Put in one police lineup after another,
he was immediately identified by persons
whose evidence traced his steps from the
dance hall to the roller coaster and then
to the beach, and some time later to
Salisbury Square. He was also identified
by the Hampton Beach drugstore clerk
as the man who purchased the sun-glasses
found by the side of Stella Kale.

Long before his case went to the Grand
Jury, it became known that under his
own name of Elier Thompson he was
wanted in Buffalo, New York, for another
strangulation murder with more than
$1,000 reward posted for his a prehen-
sion. Previous to this he had been an
inmate of the West Virginia State Prison
where he had served time for robbery.
The Essex County Grand Jury lost no
time returning an indictment charging
him with murder in the first degree.

On October 10, 1927, he appeared in
the County Superior Court in Salem be-
fore Judge Quinn. The case against him
convinced the jury who found him guilty.
He died in the electric chair on March
6, 1929.

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On their way to this popular resort,
which lies just across the Massachusetts
border in the southern part of New
Hampshire, the detectives made several
stops in Hampton and Seabrook but the
sun-glasses could not be identified. A
check at the Hampton Beach Casino dis-
closed that no barber who resembled Hit-
ler worked in any of the several barber
shops.

The detectives extended their quest to
Newburyport, Amesbury and the small
villages that lay between.

Conferences with Smith, Bligh and the
two detectives followed. Stokes and Grif.
fin laboriously began to retrace their
steps. Back in Hampton Beach after a
second intensive survey, they divided the
resort town in sections, determined to
make an exhaustive check of all barbers
in the territory. It was while on this as-
signment that they stepped into a neigh-
borhood drugstore on a side street.

Stokes was the first to observe the dis-
play stand of sun-glasses on the counter
near the prescription booth. He stopped
to examine them and the amber glow on
the card reflected from one of the lenses
caught his eye. It was then he saw the
odd headed screws that held the bows
to the frames. Empty tabs at the top in-
dicated one pair had already been sold.

The detective idly mentioned this fact
to the clerk who recalled that he had sold
them on the previous Sunday, the day of
the murder, to a bald, pale-faced man
with a mustache.

“He told me he was barbering here for
the summer and that they would come in
handy on the beach.”

Stokes spoke to Griffin who produced
the amber sun-glasses found by the girl's
body. “Maybe these could be the pair
you sold,” he said.

The clerk took them and held them
under a strong light. He called the de-
tectives to his side and pointed toa spot
of red just beneath the oddly-shaped
screw that had earlier attracted the
attention of the investigators.

“Our special mark,” he said. He didn’t
remember ever having seen the man be-
fore in this store, which catered entirely
to neighborhood trade. “There are some
boarding-houses a street or two from
here,” he told them. “Perhaps you might
learn something there.”

On the way to the boarding-house
district, the detectives stopped to talk
with Richard Bulger, a barber who ran
a shop at the next corner.

“That sounds like Frank Harris,” Bul-
ger exclaimed when Stokes had finished.
“He came in last week to look for a job.
He seemed to know the business so I
hired him. He worked all day Saturday
and was supposed to come back on Mon.
day, but he didn’t show up.”

“You mean he’s disappeared?’

“I don’t know what's happened. He
was boarding at my house. He had break-
fast with us Sunday morning and then
went out. Some of his clothing and a
Spare razor or two are still there.”

While Griffin went to search Harris’
room, Stokes remained with Bulger. The
man had been a good workinan, Bulger’
stated, but had made his employer very
nervous by constantly humming under

his breath when working on a customer.
And he would hum the same tunes over
and over again.

“Such as?” prompted the detective,

“When You and I Were Young, Mag-
gie and Sweet Adeline,” he replied.

Griffin, returning from the search of
Frank Harris’ place, brought back several
razors, a pair of soft-soled dancing shoes
and a ‘oiled shirt. Stokes glanced at the
shoes, noting they were size 7 Y%; he
peered at the neckband of the shirt.

“No laundry mark,” he stated. He
turned to the barber, “Anything else
about this chap that you can remember?”

The barber hesitated. “He had some
tattooing on his right forearm,” he. re.
called. “I saw it when he was getting into
his barber's jacket. He had a red heart
pierced by a blue dagger over the letters
E. T. And there was a pair of joined
hands beneath.”

Stokes stared at him with lifted eye-
brows. “E.T. doesn’t check with Frank
Harris,” he commented.

“That's what I thought,” the barber
agreed. “I kidded him about it and he
said they were the initials of a girl friend
by the name of Eva Tillman.”

The manhunt gained new impetus,
stimulated by an increased reward by
the authorities of $1500. Police flashes
went out by radio and teletype through-
out New England, Canada and into New
York. Chief Smith received a special de-
livery letter postmarked Eastport, Maine,
containing a pen and ink sketch closely
resembling the physical description of
Frank Harris. With it was a letter which
read in part:

“I enclose a sketch which I made of a
man who used to be a barber here in East-
port and lived at our house. He had the
Same tattoo marks which you say Frank
Harris has and he was always shuffle
dancing and humming those two songs
you mention. Only he didn’t go by the
name of Frank Harris in Eastport. He
called himself George Taylor and he said
I did a fine job on this sketch,”

The chief turned this letter over to
the state police. Investigation disclosed
that the musical barber had made his
home in Eastport as the letter stated.
Chief of Detectives Bligh had the draw-
ing copied and on June 21 sent prints
to all law enforcement agencies and
newspapers along the Atlantic seaboard
from Florida through the New England
states into Canada. But for the moment
Harris alias Taylor had covered his trail.

On June 23 Lieutenant Griffin re.
ceived a telephone call from the Ames-
bury police which sent him hurrying to
that city to learn that Stella Kale’s wrist
watch had at last been located. Later he
talked with Geoffrey Armstrong of Ken-
sington who had turned it in. Armstrong
told him that while driving a few miles
outside Hampton Falls on Monday after-
noon, June 6, the day after the murder,
he had been stopped by a man who was
trying to reach ensington. He intro-
duced himself as a barber by the name
of James Hill from Pittsburgh, Pennsy]-
vania. As they drove along, Hill pro-
duced his wallet and drew out a gold
wrist watch which he said was the prop-

erty of his wife who had just died. He
said it was so closely associated with her
that it made him unhappy and he wanted
to sell it.

“I drew up by the side of the road to
examine it,” Armstrong continued. “He
said he was willing to sell it for three
dollars and I gave it to him. When he
put the money in his pocketbook a gold
ring with a red stone dropped out. I
asked him about that but he said he
wanted to keep it as a memento. When
we got to town, he got out and I drove
on.”

“When did you first begin to wonder
about the watch?” the lieutenant asked.

“When my daughter came upon the de-
scription of the girl’s watch in the Boston
paper,” the man explained. “It sounded
so much like the one I had purchased
that we looked in the case and found the
numbers checked. Then we saw that
drawing from Maine on another page
and it was an exact likeness of James
Hill. So I telephoned Amesbury at once
and then reported to the police. This
morning I drove over and turned it in.”

“Did this man give you any idea as to
where he was headed?”

“Not a word,” declared Armstrong.

Hardly had Griffin returned to Salis.
bury police headquarters when the tele-
phone rang. The long distance operator
was on the line.

“Will you accept a collect call from
North Conway, New Hampshire?” she
asked. “It has to do with a man named
George Taylor.”

“Go ahead,” Griffin told her and a
man’s voice came instantly on the wire.
He was a barber operating a shop in that
village and calling from a nearby drug-
store.

“That man, Taylor, showed up here
yesterday and took a job in my shop,”
he said.

“How do you know it’s Taylor?”

“Because he's worked for me before,”
was the answer, “but I didn’t know he
was in trouble until I picked up yester-
day's paper and saw his picture.”

“Hold him on any pretext,” the state
detective diregted. “I'm leaving here now
in a fast car.”

Although — the speedometer seldom
dropped below fifty, when Griffin reached
that town nestled in the heart of the
White Mountains several hours later,
Taylor was gone. In some way his sus-
picions had been aroused and he had
vanished.

Police and public were now alert. Tay-
lor fled to Manchester, New Hampshire,
where he joined a Wild West show. He
had been with the show only a few hours
before word of his whereabouts was
flashed to Detective Griffin. From Man.
chester, he followed the fugitive to
Plymouth. From Plymouth into Bartlett
and then into Crawford Notch. Again he
missed him by a few hours. A tip placed
Taylor in Sherbrooke, Quebec. The
Massachusetts officer telegraphed Cana-
dian authorities to place him under
arrest only to learn that he had recrossed
the border back into Maine. Police in
that state tracked him to Belfast where
he had registered as “George Good—
Carbou, Maine.”

_ TNT ROS

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Diagram of Salisbury Beach with arrows indicating important points in the sensational Massachusetts murder mystery.

PHOTOGRAPHIC.
STUDIO WHERE |
| STELLA KALE |
| WAS EMPLOYED

‘SHE WALKED
ALONG THIS ROAD

mw
5

% a » ee ry ee : ioe
££. ae “ss Se ae ‘ ; : , Sa
a

Adc uS

Important points in the sensational Massachusetts murder drama are shown above..

A girl lying on the sand is not unusual. But people pay -

attention when the girl is young, beautiful and dead!

SEX-MAD FIEND
AND THE
SLAIN REDHEAD

by LOUIS GREGG

* SALISE

. ing. It was

about. Mus:
forms until
resort woulc
bathing sui
Kids would
body would
That was t/

way it usua
More thar
life on that
in contact w
over all reso:
rapist terror
She had
lay face up
full glory o
shorts and }

~~ unblinking

The hou:
themselves |
From one
Salisbury B:
woman. Th:
the beach.
ahead of he
her bare fec
head to ca

- There’s a la

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’. annoying an

second at th
The girl’s or
and purple. }
wrestled in i

The wom:
and hurried !
of Police Sid
of Patrolme:

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to ‘gather. F

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had not beer
beside the b

Chief Sidney

86 DIARY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. (1608.

Bullivant was with me to take leave, and desired my
favour on behalf of Dr. Chip, that he might dwell in part

of Mr. Yonges house at Cotton Hill: had: that might.

have it all, if said Yonge left it. Said he had an estate,
was a very ingenious civil person: would send him to me.
Seventh-day ; Octob 29. 1698. Thomas Savage jun’, shop-
keeper, and Sarah Threeneedles were brought face to face
in a very great Audience: She vehemently accused him,
and he asserted his innocency with vehement Assevera-
tions. She said he had ruin’d her; if he would have
promis’d her any thing, it had not come to this. Said
She forgave him, Judgment of God hung over him if did
not repent.

Seventh-day, Octobt 29. 1698. Last night a strange
body of fire was seen in the sky, which gave an unusual
Light: Davis, the Bell-man, told me of it when he was
coming to call me to Court, and met me by the ue

Four th-day, Novemb’ 9. Mr. Cushing is ordain’d :
Qatichney Myr Wiecinson nreaches a Sermon, en
Eternal Judgment.

Fifth-day, ‘Nov 10" 1698. A Church is gathered at
the West end of Newbury, and Mr. Sam! Belchar ordained
their Minister.

Fifth-day, Nov! 10. Mr. Green is cdaised at Salem
Village, and likelihood of a stability of Peace and settle-
ment there. Fifth-day, Nov! 17" Very fair serene
wether; Mr. Cotton Mather preaches at the South-Mect-
inghouse: Sarah Threenecdles is an Auditor; is a very
vast Assembly, and the street full of such as could not get

n; 51. Psalm 2% verse sung, 9-15 verses. Mr. Willard
a“ the whole, and I set the Tune. After Lecture Sarah
Threencedles is executed.. Mr. Woodbridge went to the
place of execution and pray’d with her there.

Sabbath, December 4. 1698.. Last night lying awake,
but with my eyes fast shut, Lightening flash’d in my
face, I could not certainly tell eat Light it should be;

jt LMA oi a ibe

1698.] DIARY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 487

but presently heard a loud clap of Thunder. This day
between the ringing of the morning Bells, it Thundered
several times, but with a more confused and rumbling
noise. Much Rain, Mist.

Decemb! 6th. 1698. Our cherubims heads are set up.
Sister Gerrish here with her son Joseph. Dec®.9. Go
homeward. : :

Decemb' 10. Mr. Wadsworth prays, and the Court is
dissolv’d about 4 p-m.

Dec! 8. Capt. Belchar invites all the Deputies to his
daughters Wedding. The speaker, Mr. Eyre, and Mr.
Oliver, Dept. for Cambridge, were of a comittee with Mr.
Secretary and me to acquaint Mr. Mather with the Courts
desire of his removal to Cambridge,! and carry him an Order
for 200£ per annum so long as he should reside there.
By reason of the Wedding, twas near 7 in the even bezore
we got thither. I began, and ask’d excuse for our being
so late. The reason was, most of us were come from a
Weddine: However T hon’d. it was a sood amen. thet crn
were all come toa Wedding. Mr. President expostulaced
with Mr. Speaker and Mr. Eyre about the votes being
alter’d, from 250 [L. 7], as the Council had set it, and also
his name being left out and making him a five years pres-
ident. Note. Bya conference the Bill was made as ours ,,
at first, saving fifty pounds less. We urg’d his going all 7
we could; I told him of his Birth and education here iS
that he look’d at work rather than Wages, all met in de- )
siring him, and should hardly agree so well in any other. S
Mr. Speaker, in behalf of the House, earnestly desired ©
him. Objected want of a House, Bill for Corpora:iou
not pass’d; Church; [his attachment to it] Must needs
preach once every week, which he prefered before the
Gold and Silver of the West-Indies. I told him would

‘*ssey aaveee: peraeg ‘ueieg eae

1 That is, that he should resign his Ministry in Boston and go to Cam-
bridge to reside in his office as President of the College, to which he was

disinclined. — Eps.
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j and indastry bad been rewardel with a 5 tewcsct-n, Fpl the ‘eee ein ita the tacther Privilege of saying whe ahoulit
j home and a modest competence for their sa re apo mtg | out-of the jail, and meade py aay ora sed a gov-
3 a ts ne a tos ; Which had fallen inte tbe’ hands of the | ©™ vy DS wishes im” tha’ respect,
: SG: sree decd seal aeons oficers, was not written by him, but was | “What! sacd Ten Eyck, “are you guiog
, pcre ere Rong: down “the “hill hand to | sndol into hie cell by a woman visitor | (9 Iet that Courier ‘man come and soe me
_ | band, spared to cach other lor the “bome- ; named Jane Clark, and that at tbe same | banged, afer all be. has sald aboot ma re
=) ward journey.” 1 : time = = given him a silver ‘ uarter A SLIGUT UETAKE, | owt
Sian | Ena a Soe : ‘yj Wilh her husband's name upon it, fe pro-} | Poon} } sckes! to ‘fail
THERE CAME A KNOCK AT THE poo! duced the cota, and {t was inscribe: ‘an he ice teas: werden tunbore vine
Mrs, Stillman arose; te admit the un-| hel sald. Where he gotit might be ex: Ing to get a glimpse of the murderer,
rexpected guest. It was’ atill very early, seen aA A eg raat any They fancied the oMicurs would lead them
cp able cere ae. a4 avoutit, This lie, like all the rest, was | ¢, pa spate Hoos”
and she probably prestmed it was a neigh- of no avail. Conviction rie pang then ot the becbaior: None paneer
} bor, making & late Thanksgiving ¢all. Sho | sentence. and to-rtay he es on the acal | pen kyek abown to him ‘and the turnkey
f i hat no hesitancy in opening the door of fold. His profitless, wivked life, ends in| happening to see! Nobinsen Corkscrew, of
| her homie at that honr, and, filled with the felon s death, ou, thes “ye td Barrington, wha) dike Ten Eyck, 1s color.
f Ree, | feelings “of the dar would welcome’ a ©: Munder is sometimes committed, fa the ped, walkin along the borridor, he InNcat-
ee friend ; i ; ; fury of passion ; in the insanity of jealousy 5 fied Mr-Corkserew as the reat. criminal,
er PRA cao é Ret under thé inspiration of drunkenness; ia The visitor could not contain Almeelf. do
The tamp it Ler hand, as the dour swong | an effort te escape from the clatches of the roared ant, You sre ihe man, are you! |
“) Open, revealed the face of —. at law, and for men who take life under these You oaght to be shot, ad IM like-to shout i
SS oeux TEN evex{ oo peg | Cieumstances there may be some pity, but »” and before he cauld bo checked be
ee USE et DOUN TEN EYCK, ee | for Ten Eyck ‘there could -be none. “Is ot heaped al! surta of upprodtious names
‘| His eyes gieamed—the eyes always full of oe iberate ee - 04 eae dba on the head ot: Corkscrew, and went oiit-_
NST ed rie aa icious purpose, formed and premedi | of the “fail 1 to think he had 4
a sinister glitter, and. brighter and more the atrocity of bis double mur t ; the char- pda thc theoerer! Ten peu pa the
evil looking at that moment tin ever, fur acter of his victims, chilled all aympathy. he thought about him, and in the most vig.
they were lighted by rum's- fires and a} His trime could not be forgives. 035 orous language E200 snipe ene.
murderer’s purpose. It was raining, and JES ee} : -}> Besides the recent appeal to the Gaver, °/
Water dripped trom his hat and hair. His (os TEN KYCK's CAREER. a | pur fur a reprieve {two months, Ten Fyck |
clothes were damp and dirty, for ho had | ~His birth was dlegitimate, his death ig- | bas been busy far some weeks
tr Tabout uearly all day, and Imad just /Pomipions.” Betwevn these two events | #C2old speech?” He wanted to speak an:
: tramped about uearly all day, and Imad jast { B0r Lae AMT gee cae toe - buor and a half! The sheriff shook “hte
$ _ Solo * across lots,” stalking over the field | Were 46 years, and more than balfof-them | bead, wld him to leave @. written state //
Fi © fn the darkness like some bad spirit of the | Are full of Jawless volo gs, Ifis iather, | ment fer the hewspapers,-it he had #0--°
& bight.» What a guest to present hiniself | Was a negro from the state of New York, “wea roca that would ake him oy! ye:
to such a bome, atsuch'a Ume !” y | Where he had been a-slave.’ He and-an. yn abe ne ee ra si ewe
Was ita fear of the Consequence of ye- | Ober ran away, Tey Erek: gying to Cu | tarew words, but an hour: ov eee
fusing him admission, ora feeling of pity | 29% Ct, the ~ouh Mapping at. Lenox, | coaldn't be thought of. “John was vored.:
for the homeless wretch,” standing out’ | Wbete be became a ¥<rrant in une of the | He wld an KaGLx reporter that the sheriff 3
bond Dee F-Uk. first families, “The two exealares 1. had cat him off from saying a qord on the. -
there in the storm while her own surround- nies, The two ex-alayes kept up Seafuld) False, as uaual, ose
: ings and life were so full’ of comfort and | their acquaintunce and Ten Eyck used OS ete 2 annie
| Abundance, that profupted her to bid “hint | “31K up to Lenox deeatlonally to ade, bin| 92 A TALK Winn TUR gee
“eonie in 27 No one will ever know. The | ent.” On one of these trips he became | - An Eaare reporter found Ur. Bhones,
.| BAN WAS Rot a stranger wher} and thoagh | *etsuted with Urilla -MW Pletcher, au Ten Byck’s cousael, Jo Ma prmieriatle
_ | Rewasol evil repute amdsbe know be |Y0uns Woinam of half whita and half To-| off tn Northrop’s loc. Leg, lal Base
B {was hand, wicked anid revengetu), ther hat | #am blood. “Jobin Tea Fyek, this erin. | day, ‘snd hal an interestivg intervie jew with
‘done him no harm. Why should he harm | 7 aud Wy I1.cTen Eyck, the brother who him. Among the Brat words, were Lean, |,
: them ? And si he came in.) Me. Stillman } te*Ufied against him, were the fruits of | front tye lawyer: 3) believe Ten Eyex is”
Si ; sagt Toa ie ee OTS axnalptance. ele Se SP ae + | guilty, Salt ae al
4 hay aeons nae cwenae ia The boys took thele father's wWtbe.~ ON : het ;
}alately begin his bartoring four batter, and | 20b8 "ems to have dropped his Pula, Ja sant, balore,
: thinking runs only Gy be a not aywusual } course of time, tor m3 eee i chee = ay on} peg
bit of a business transaction, such aa the | UODed by bit, and Laajly by the ‘macther, of sout defense 7" sald the tes
thrifty wife always attended-to, lay down who fs ssid to be still Jiving, sarow bere ‘ wf “e)) y .
again. “There was not mach conversation in Now York, 2 Josoph and Nancy. Kelson Se Well. reptled Mr,
probable Ten” Fyck wins? chal ine vnc, 44 100K the’ two boys: and for & time bad “an | ¥ 8 relied
probably," “‘Ten’ Fyck was’ ploiting and elect heck tag Dod doer et a)
| planning aml watching while the old lady | M20Wanice from the town of Lenox for Useie
trotted Sa from one room ‘to: another, |*4pport. This Kare the sclectiuen some
| There was thy"butier to bring out, the pail | control over thera and it was, by and by,
y and plates and steclyards to ae Really proposed by them to “put the boys cut” to
the transaction wax completed, the butter D2 OER an BI, pees
was in the pail, and weighed. But the eons, Arid, OF ta.-Jearn trades, = Nancy * Cheer Brother, I exe
‘murderet must ° 9 ~; SS gf alin Hike that idea and so took the whale papermepemcenral ony a
22 aa beget ius VICTIMS AKPAMATED. = = Fale pon. malate So the ms ee RICT ws: Bex vixen.
Jand he sugevste a dranght from the ripe | {29 !" Nel leh ce tmeateg? | «|. The aext thing for as to do.” said Mr,
j old cider Which he knew wag in-the cellar, [o> 09s WHAM ENKY: Sia fi “was ta find out whether the lotier.
&; it'was Thankagiving night, and it would | The carver of William If., may be briefly | Was,or was not, Senuine. W's asked him
be hospitable w comply with his Freqnest. | summed upo At 14 years of age. he was] Whathe had done with-the “euvelope he
Mrs. Stillman © got “the - dichor, “and t— igh yh anee : Breech ps t 5 SS ae ir ees
went down the stalrs,-candle in hand, | WOFki0g for @ Leo farmer named Freeinay. | ume tu. Ie said that on the night of thy
Here was the moment he had waited for, | Ho ran away, went to Ifadsos, gota job | thurder, he asd Nat Jobneog had a hutde
Jn an instant the implement ‘of murder } on a river boat, afterward on a0 ocoan-yo. | Of brands and they lost the cork out of #—
“was in his land ; it was in the entry but | jp vessel and was at LS é As a substitute for the cork he téuk a sth
vse z ol ; On Sears Me tony y the énrele te caeee?
few feet away, and in another inatant it retucied about the tinse'the Jato w. wrappe enYelspe around it, Wat
had crashingly descended on the poor old | #4 about the met te mar broke beeame of it he Wid not OW a eee ey
man‘s-head, ~The bigod Jea iu jeta and out, enlisted and served Oe Fear, and thea “SaHLY paid Mr. s Swe Pees ‘
s spallers over the wall,and the eozy nook, | getting a discharge went o. New Harep | the authenth gy of the letter, aad Binvon
so long a retreat and resting place, was to liye, hae he still resides. Ale ta mar. gated further, and found that, sume Lbree |
ytaade hurrible and gory. iiss ac Se ae swier “ is ;
-Mrs. Stillman in the cellar hears some :
: confusion over head. What can it moan ?
. } Perhaps John Ten Eyck is - stealing her
butter. There is treachery of some kind
2 »| Mfoct, and leaving the cider she hastens
Ep. FS es is at the: haoe: yey ber,
t ho is waiting at ove sida, out of sight, wh. A +
with uplifted axe. Candle in band she treading and writ. the leticr encloning the nivmey, as *
reaches tho top atulr when the’ glittering | ing. Me remained with Belden uml be | John said ho had. And ef revted, uit-
eyes, the dripping halr, the grimy figure | was 17, then came to Pittsiicld aad hired Pn ade Uial,-reiyieg oa, that ‘
confront her. “She has no time to cry out, | out to Thomas A. Cold, and seerme torhav | betes LAYER, Bnd ©:
to plead, to struggle. The axe mects her | been well thought of Inthe family, being Aner
fall in the face and she drops quivering quick, intelligent and good looking, . -Miss
aud streaming into the cellar's blackness. | Maria Gold-tanght him to play on tho
+, What a terrible erime it wast -¢ 60) piano.. He acquired ‘the Jove of otdrink:
v Now for the plunder! « Mrs. Stillman | While living here: » A servant git) used to
—— carried the pocket, book, and he followed | give him Sweetened brandy, and the son
; iP a _ the corpse as it tumbled before him down | treated him from his pocket flask’ on. Gah.
ee Na RE ae ene pe ee © the stairs. He did not take any light. ‘Tho ing excursions {Sti Wire sriphinSiaey
| ‘ Para: patie oh _; candle had: been extinguished when she | ©The next year ho rewrned-to ‘Lenox.
| os bg *7 fells Me groped his way, and found the | When sixtees years oh) ho married, bad
__ body, staining his hands with blood as he | three children, and then the Agple sepa- :
searched her. . He riled the pocket, and | rated. "That was 24 years ago, and tha |:
then jaking the pitcher, which was found | Wife's whereabouts are unknown, The
; with the ee Sat ets eet eR ee y ; VOR eee
eA Avriaxt op rifs aLOODY MAND —
upon it, be ‘ascended. The ‘old’ nian. lay
Upon the loonge dead Jlis eyes were ae
open, and were still open the neat mond- Ramer a8 Tes Kies,
|. ing. and in all his aNer movements about ~ After he Bahhed it, asd I pan
+, the room, the dead eyes must hare glared writing, spell ; Pe 1
r -” glassily at the murderer, and. while he Lnew the jester Soha
a Ce MA ee ey : Resa aes

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TRIAL

APPEALS

SOQURC

FRANK NEWTON OFFICE SUPPLY-OOTHAN

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A Doctor Called It Suicide, the Coroner Said Murder — But No One Realized
How Really Hideous the Crime Was Until Miss Mabel Was Undressed and —

which was to become one of the most
sensational mysteries in New England.
It wasn’t until several hours after-
ward, however, that anyone realized
how hideous the crime really was.

Page could see that his beloved
daughter was dead. Her eyes were
open, her lips parted. When he called
to her, she didn’t answer. When he
listened for her heartbeat, there was
none. As he knelt beside her, he no-
ticed a tiny bloodstain on the carpet,
and a jagged wound in her throat.

His Mabel a suicide?

The kindly old man couldn’t recall
later how long he knelt there. Finally,
though, and in his own words, it came
to him that there was death in the
house, that he must do something. He
went downstairs and summoned a
neighbor. In a few minutes several
more neighbors arrived. Then, on the
dining-room table, Page found a note
in his daughter’s handwriting. It read:

“Father: Have just heard that
Harold is hurt and is at Massa-
chusetts Hospital. Have gone in—
12 o’clock. Will leave key of front
door with key of barn under stairs.
Will telephone Mrs. Bennett.

(Signed) Mabel.”

Harold hurt? Had tragedy also
struck his son? Poor old Mr. Page
collapsed. Mrs. Bennett, the neighbor
whose telephone frequently was used
by the Pages, finally helped him to her
home, where the old man put in a
telephone call for his son’s office, Har-
old Page himself came onto the line.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” he de-
manded.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course, Father—what’s the mat-
ter?” Harold continued, his voice
showing alarm.

ME: PAGE told him that Mabel was
dead. And about the note she had
written.

“T’ll_be right home,” Harold prom-
ised. He took the next train, accom-
panied by Doctor Horace B. Frost, the
family physician, and arrived before
5 o’clock. In the meantime, someone
had summoned the Medical Examiner,
Doctor Julian A. Mead. No one touched
the body or the room beyond opening
all the windows. The neighbors, all
accepting suicide, paid most attention
to the grief-stricken old father,

t was a scene of deep grief that
Doctor Mead found when he arrived.
The neighbor women were in tears

Mabel Page who adored men folk and Charles Tucker, who adored women

and the men folk sat with bowed
heads, for everyone who knew her
genuinely loved Mabel Page. She was
kind, gentle, cultured and even at 40
an extremely beautiful woman with a
trim little figure that was the envy of
many girls half her years.

She had never married, but it wasn’t
because she hadn’t had opportunities.
Many young men of the neighborhood
had courted her, and not a few Boston
gallants had come out from the city
to press their causes, but she turned a
deaf ear to all, preferring to remain
single, at home with the men of her
family, whom she adored.

Doctor Mead, graduate of Harvard
Medical School ‘who had studied in

Vienna, Paris and Leipzig as a pre-
lude to his 20 years of practise at this
time, made his visit to the Page home
as brief as possible. In fact, it was too
brief, for he missed something and
only created a deeper mystery.

Doctor Mead went into the chamber
and looked down at the jagged wound
in Miss Mabel’s throat. He said that
it looked like a “suicide throat.” He
noted that the dead girl had been fully
dressed for the street, even to wearing
her hat, but that her skirt was lying
on a chair. She was wearing only a
dark petticoat, which her father had
mistaken for a street skirt.

No death weapon ever was found
in the room or even in the house—

The verdict of this jury couldn't be altered by even 115,555 signed protests

aps

yet the Medical Examiner spoke of a
“suicide throat.”

He hastily scribbled a note to be
given to the undertakers, asking them
not to embalm the body until morn-
ing, because he wished to make an
autopsy. Then he~ went downstairs
again where he was shown the strange
note which Edward Page had found
on the dining-room table. Still the Ex-
aminer did not tarry. He left immedi-
ately to keep another appointment—
without calling in the police.

In justice to him, it might be said
that Doctor Mead, when he came in for
sharp criticism at a later date, ex-
plained that when he first visited the
home he could not determine whether
the death was murder or suicide. This
indecision had prompted him to ar-
range for an autopsy.

However, he could not explain away
the fact that he did not call the police.
And he could not explain how he could
even suspect suicide from glancing
down at a throat wound when there
was no more than a few tablespoons
of blood apparent in the room.

‘ Ae so, it wasn’t until midnight

when Undertaker Henry Cate and
his assistants removed the body that
the murder really was discovered. They
decided to prepare the body for autop-
sy, and when they disrobed the dead
woman—there were three other knife
wounds in the body! '

One dagger thrust from the rear had
gone between the ribs and had pierced
the heart. This, probably, was the first
blow struck, and the cause of death.
The wound was small, and what
bleeding it had started was mostly in-
ternal.

The jagged throat wound, a stab
wound lower on the throat which had
been hidden by the high stock Miss.
Mabel wore, and a dagger thrust high
in the abdomen, which also had pierced
the heart, all had been made after

‘death, They had not bled to any extent

because the heart had stopped pump-
ing blood,

TUCKER, Charles, White, elec. Mass. (Middlesex County) on June 12,

1906555

BOSTON’S
CRIME
CLASSIC

The modest Page estate in Weston that echoed with a frightened old man’s

ABEL had been left alone be-
fore, and nothing had happened.
So no one thought anything
about protecting her that Thursday,
March 31, 1904, in the modest Page
estate at Weston, a suburb of Boston.
Amy Roberts, uncertain-aged, : hesi-
tant-speaking maid, finished her dress-
ing at half past six that Thursday
morning and went into the chamber of
Miss Mabel Page, who, since the death
of her mother a year earlier, had been
mistress of the little household. There
the maid put down the window, turned
on the furnace register, and awakene
“Miss Mabel.” ’
Harold W. Page, 33-year-old bach-
elor son of the house, a clerk in the
employ of the Boston and Albany Rail-
road, in South Station, Boston, was the
first to come down. He was followed
a few moments later by his dignified,
69-year-old father, Edward Page, a
once wealthy Boston merchant, who
had retired with most of his fortune
dissipated in a series of financial mis-
fortunes. Miss Mabel came down at
quarter past seven and the little family
of three sat down to breakfast.

The maid served the usual morning:

meal and remembered especially that
Miss Mabel jokingly observed that she
had eaten so much she wouldn’t be
able to eat again until dinner time.

Harold Page left the house promptly
on schedule to board the 8 o’clock
train. As was her usual custom, Miss
Mabel carefully brushed the shoulders
of his jacket, and kissed him good-by.
He was at his desk in South Station at
9 a.m, The elder Page also had planned
a trip to Boston that day. Benjamin F.
Young, a wealthy neighbor, thought-
fully sent his coachman and carriage
to pick up the retired merchant and
carry him the two miles to the Au-

By Jack Martin

.Special Investigator for
ACTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES
OF WOMEN IN CRIME

burndale Railroad Station. The coach-
man called just after 10 a.m., and Miss
Mabel sped her father on his way.

bd BEING Thursday, Amy Roberts,
the maid, was taking the afternoon
off. She left Miss Mabel alone in the
house at 10:35 a.m., after her mistress
had admonished her to wear overshoes,
for it threatened snow.

The stage was set—Mabel was alone!

At 11:15, Henry Maynard, a deliv-
eryman, stopped at the house with
clean laundry and the attractive wo-

man paid him, Maynard left immedi-
ately to make other deliveries, but not
before noting that Miss Mabel was
sewing at a table in the downstairs
parlor.

But now something happened to up-
set the cleared scene. Edward Page
discovered that the weather forecast
predicted snow, so he decided to fore-
go his Boston trip. He went instead to
the Auburndale library and read until
noon. Then he made a few leisurely
calls, walked slowly home, and arrived
almost exactly at 2 p.m.

More important than the murder knife sketched here was its hidden sheath

_ ACTUAL DETECTIVE STORIES OF WOMEN INCRIME,

unanswered cries for his only daughter

Mabel had been alone three and
one-half hours.

Mr. Page walked slowly around to
the rear of the housé, and tried the
kitchen door. It was locked on the in-
side, so he next tried the front door,
found it unlatched, and entered. There
was no sound in the house, and he did
not see his daughter. He walked
through to the kitchen and into the
pantry where he helped himself to a
slice of bread and a tumbler of cider,
his usual luncheon snack. Returning
to the parlor, he saw Miss Mabel’s
sewing, work-basket and thimble on
the table. He decided that his daughter
had run upstairs for a few minutes.

UT then, why didn’t he hear her?

Why hadn’t she heard his footsteps
and called?

Finally the old gentleman decided
to go upstairs and investigate. As he
climbed the steps, his brow wrinkled
questioningly. It was the usual practise
to leave the doors to Miss Mabel’s
room open, to throw daylight into the
upstairs hall. There were two doors to
the room and both were closed this
early afternoon. Why?

Page decided that his daughter was
taking a nap. He did not wish to dis-
turb her, but he did want to make
certain. He silently pushed open one
of the doors and peeked into the room.
Sunlight was streaming through the
windows. The old, gentleman blinked
in the bright light.

He gasped, tottered and nearly fell.

Miss Mabel, fully clothed, even with
her hat pinned onto her hair, was
stretched out on her back on the floor
between the door and the bed.

Page was too stunned to move for
several moments.

Thus was discovered the tragedy

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78 Accept No Susstitutes!

“Nothing,” replied Tucker, “I’m
through talking.”

Swiftly Attorney-General Parker
moved to complete the case. From
Thorp and Martin’s, the Boston sta-
tioners, detectives secured sales slips in
Tucker’s handwriting made out when he
worked there as a clerk. Using these and
the postcard as a speciman of Tucker’s
handwriting, they became certain that he
had written the name and address of J. L.
Morton and left it at the scene of the
murder as a blind. They became even
more certain when they finally located a
“J. M. Morton” who had been a fellow-
employe of Tucker at the South Station
in Boston.

Identification of the stick-pin,as the
property of Mabel Page was unhesitat-
ingly made by Harold Page and Amy
Roberts, the maid, who had frequently
picked it up and replaced it in her mis-
tress’ pin cushion while cleaning up the
room.

Mystery Woman Enters Case

NVESTIGATION of Tucker’s rendez-

vous with the unnamed young woman
on the morning of the murder revealed in-
formation that served to convince the at-
torney-general of Tucker’s guilt, although
most of this material was held confidential
and has never been revealed.

Furthermore, and what seemed con-
clusive in the light of. other events, was
the fact that the broken knife blade found
by Constable McAuliffe fitted the oddly
shaped wounds in the woman’s body. ,

Meanwhile, Attorney James H. Vahey,
equally convinced of Tucker’s innocence,
began building up a splendid defense.

Indicted for murder on June 9, 1904,
Charles Tucker came to trial on January
2, 1905, in the East Cambridge Superior
Court before Judges Edgar J. Sherman
and Henry N. Sheldon. Attorney-General
Parker was assisted by District Attorney
George A. Sanderson and Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney Hugh Bancroft.

The state claimed that Tucker had en-
tered the Page home with intent to rob
what he believed was an empty house and

New York’s Maniac Slayer and the

a ee ee ee ee ee

killed Mabel Page when he encountered
her unexpectedly. Although the evidence
was largely circumstantial, as no one had
seen Tucker either enter or leave the
house, the state claimed that Tucker was
in the immediate vicinity and had oppor-
tunity to commit the crime with the knife
he had sought to conceal.

In court, Arthur Woodward testified to
the finding of the sheath on the seat of
the fish wagon, despite Tucker’s denials
that he had neither knife nor sheath with
him on that particular day. In rapid,
dramatic crescendo the trial continued as
Doctor John W. Pomfret, a dentist,
proved by the means of plaster casts that
the teethmarks on this sheath were made
by Tucker’s teeth.

Knife Seals Doom

ORE thrilling highlights came when

Professor Edward S. Wood from
the Harvard Medical School produced a
pair of bloodstained corsets rent by knife
wounds at the conclusion of his damning
testimony, and described the death blow
in detail.

“This woman was killed by a single
edge knife,” he thundered.

On the twentieth day of the trial, the
jury found Tucker guilty of murder in
the first degree, punishable by death.

With his client in the shadow of the
death chair, Attorney Vahey continued to
fight. For two years he sought a new
trial. Public opinion became aroused. A
petition with 115, 555 signatures was pre-
sented to Governor Curtis Guild of Mas-
sachusetts requesting that the sentence
be commuted to life imprisonment. The
governor refused and, during a huge mass
meeting, a telegram was sent to President
Theodore Roosevelt by Tucker sympa-
thizers asking him to intervene.

The president declined and, in a return
telegram, upheld the governor’s stand.

Tucker went to his death in the chair on
June 12, 1905.

He protested his innocence to the last.
Nothing, however, has arisen in the in-
tervening years to support his dying as-
ser,tion.

Strangled Bride

[Continued from page 43]

murder had been committed were now
definitely established. Up to the time of
the report on the autopsy a few of the in-
vestigators believed that the indications
of robbery were merely clumsy attempts
to conceal a crime of passion. Now the
unanimous opinion was that the killer
had entered the Case apartment with the
intention of stealing and that Mary Case
had been murdered when she attempted to
stop him.

Tuesday began as a day of disappoint-
ments. The hair which the dead woman
clutched in her hand was her own torn
out in her agonized death-throes. The
fragments of paper found in the incinera-
tor proved valueless. The detectives’
search for a mechanic or plumber who
might have visited the apartment led to
a dead end and the canvass of the city’s
pawnshops failed to bring to light either
the cuff links, shirt studs or Mary Case’s

wedding ring. Just before midnight of
Tuesday, however, Detectives William
Jackson and Fred Trumpf came out of
a tailor shop in Harlem, New York's
famed colored belt.

“Well, that’s number one,” Jackson
said. They had checked the laundry mark
on the bloodstained trousers in the file
at the Missing Persons Bureau earlier
that day and had found that number
“774.24” was one used in tailor shops be-
tween 116th and 125th streets in Harlem.
The first tailor had informed them that
‘774-24” was not used in his shop. They
walked down Lenox avenue and turned
the corner into 118th street.

The proprietor of the next shop agreed
effusively to help the detectives in any
way he could. He took them into a poorly
lighted room at the back of the little store.
But when they showed him the number
and asked him whether it was one

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The police party sped back to Newton.
Chief Shaw was bending over Tucker’s
overcoat as they entered the judge’s room
in the municipal building.

“You have no objection if I search the
pockets of this coat?” they heard Chief
Shaw ask. “I know you realize it is only
a formality yet, at the same time, I might
have to ask you embarrassing questions.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” Tucker said.

Reaching into one of the pockets, Shaw
suddenly pulled out a worn leather knife
sheath.

“Please tell me,” said Shaw in the si-
lence that followed, “how this knife sheath
happened to be in your pocket?”

For an instant Tucker caught his
breath. Then he became his smiling self.

“To tell you the truth,” he said. ay
took that sheath out of my drawer last
Sunday and put it in my pocket. You
people were around the house and I didn’t
want you to find it. It’s a case fora hunt-
ing knife I lost two or three years ago
while in the woods.”

Trapped By Sheath

HIEF SHAW eyed him steadily.
“You told me that you never owned a
sheath,” he said. ‘Now your're telling me
that this sheath was in your coat pocket
when you came here?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Positive.”

Chief Shaw said nothing, but the room
became deathly still. Everyone present,
except the prisoner, knew that that knife
sheath had been delivered to the police
by Arthur W. Woodward, father of the
driver of the fish wagon, late that after-
noon.

Without warning, the police chief let
loose another bombshell.

He suddenly displayed the broken
pieces of knife blade found by McAuliffe
a few minutes previously in the Auburn-
dale home.

“Ts this the knife you told me that you
had lost?”

Tucker’s color changed for the first
time.

“Tt does seem to be about the same,”
he admitted.

“Then you lied when you said you lost
it?” Tucker’s reply was inaudible. “Why
did you break up this knife?”

“Because I knew that if the police found
it, they would say I had something to do
with the murder,” Tucker replied at last.

“But you had this knife and sheath with
you when you went to Boston the day
Mabel Page was killed.”

“I didn’t have either of them with me,”
Tucker protested. Again his accusers
regarded him with inscrutable eyes.

McAuliffe produced the Canadian
stick-pin found in Tucker’s coat. Tucker
claimed it as the property of his dead wife,
but Chief Shaw cut him short.

“Charles Tucker,” he said solemnly.
“You are under arrest charged with mur-
der. And I hereby order you held with-
out bail.”

Tucker was then searched. In his
pocket was found a postcard addressed
to himself and postmarked Lynn.

Chief Shaw looked at it intently. Except
for the date, the original message had
been carefully obliterated, but several
addresses had been jotted down in what
later was claimed to be Tucker’s hand-
writing. Among them were the words
“Morton” “Charlestown” and “Charles.”

“What have you to say about this?”
the chief asked.

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Preasy Mention May Srartiinc Derective ADVENTURES 7

TALBY, Dorothy, white, hanged at Boston, Mass., Dec. » 1638,

"1637, June 27 = Dorothy Talby, for beating her husband, is ordered to be bound and
chained to a post. The next year, Sept. 25, she is sentenced to be whipped severely

for similar misdemeanors, Dec. . She is hunt in Boston, Under an impression, that

had been revealed to her, that she should kill her husband, children and self, she
commenced the work, but succeeded only in killing one child, For this, she was cone
demned and executed. Mr, Peters addressed the spectators of her exit, and warned them
against the indulgence of such delusions, Had she been taken care of as deranged, rather
than treated as rational, it is probable, that the demands of right would have been more
properly answered," ANNALS OF SALEM, Volume One, by Joseph B, Felt, p 56,

"To Dorothy Talbye, Massachueetts was more like hell, She was a devout member of the Sa-
lem church and maintained a reputation 'of good esteem for godliness,’ according to
Governor Winthrop, but she quarreld with her husband and gradually grew depressed and
melancholy. In her trouble, she listened intently (as all godly Puritans did) for the
voice of God, who revealed to her that she whould refuse to eat and prevent her husband
and children frome ating as well, The church elders admbnished her time after time, but
she wouldn't listen, She began to act with violence, In April 1637, when the Quarterly
Court sat at Salem, she was ordered to answer charges of assaulting her husband, but
failed to appear, The three magistrates - among them the first Judge Hathorne, whose
son would earn his page in history presiding at the Salem with trials - ordered that:
‘whereas Dorethy the wyfe of John Talbie hath not only broak that peace & Love, wch
ought to have beene both betwixt them, but also hath violentlie broke the kings peace,
by feequent Laying hands upon hir husband to the danger of his Life & Contemned Authori-
ty, not coming before them upon command, It is therefore ordered that for hir misdemeaner
passed & for prvention of future evills that are feared wilbe committe d by hir if shee be
Lefte att her Libertie, That she shall be bound & chained to some post where shee shall
be restrained of hér libertye to goe abroad or comminge to hir husband till shee manefest
some change of hir course....eOnly it is pmitted that she shall come to the place of gods
worshipp, to enjoy his ordenances,'
"Apparently she chose not to visit the place of God's worship, having found her own line
of communication with God, and the church elders decided to excommunicate her, She turned
her back on them and would have walked away, but they held her by force and read the order
casting her out. ‘Whereupon she grew worse,' Governor Winthrop noted, In July 1638 the
court pronounced her guilty of 'missdemeanour ageanst hir husband! and ordered her to be
publicly whipped, After that 'she reformed for a time, and carried herself mor dutifully
to her husband! = until in November she once again fell into ‘spiritual delusions,’ mis-
taking the instigations of the Devil for the voice of God, At his persuasion she decided
to free from 'future misery’ her 3ey ar-cld daughter, to whom she had given the ominous
name 'Difficult.' She broke the child's neck,
"It was clear to Governor Winthrop and to her neighbors that Doroghy Talbye was possessed
by Satan, and indeed she continued to the end to behave very badly, She would not confess
her crime untill the judges threatened to press her to deaths; she refused to stand up to
hear their sentence and had to be set on her feet by forve, And she never for a moment
repented, When they hanged her in Boston in 1638 she snathced off the cloth that should
have covered her face and tucked it under the noose to make the bite of the rope less
painful, And even ‘after a swing or two,' Winthrop wrote, "she catched at the ladder,'
"For Dorothy Talbye even dying was a struggle, Surely life had been so, When John Talbye
died six years later he passed on to three surviving children an estate consisting princi-
pally of ‘twenty bushels XaX Indian corne' and a 'Cannoe,' There was more, but not much;
a barrel, a tub, an old ax, ‘apparrel and beding' worht ten shillings, and a spinning
wheel that once must have been Dorothy's,S&B The Talbye family was very poor indeed, and
Dorothy Talbye, driven by hardship and her own piety, tormented by those who tried to
'save' her, finally skidded into 'melancholia' and delusions' = as Winthrop himself could
seeS$$$Foe00" WOMEN WHO KILL, by Ann Jones; New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 19803

bed pp 27-28,

fie

Y i While he was taking care of that de-

q tail Kelly got a blanket from the police

car and laid it over the dead girl. Be-

fore Hughes returned Kelly found a

4 small notebook, an envelope, a pencil,

% and a handkerchief and compact near

! the corpse. A few feet away he picked
up a pair of dark sun glasses.

Chief Smith arrived, viewed the body
and listened while Kelly and Hughes
told what little they knew about the
case.

“From the looks of things,”- Smith
said when they finished, “the girl was
murdered right here. The marks in the
sand indicate a struggle. We won't

is not mis- know when it took place until after the
al murder. autopsy. Strange somebody didn’t
id the dis- hear screams.”
The chief then asked if anybody. had
other hur- been able to identify the dead girl.
Hughes and Kelly said that neither the
proprietor. 4 proprietor of the store who called head-
4 quarters nor the mother of the little
woman told ag girl who made the discovery knew the
lice Sidney _ victim.

“Nobody else has been allowed near

‘'s were dis- her,” Hughes told Smith. “Maybe we’d
4 better let the people file by and look
sughout the “a at her.”
e gathered. . Chief Smith thought that was a good
r who made idea: The men and women who had
away from stood back so obediently were more
ild soon be than anxious to help. One by one they
ing ground looked into the dead girl’s face.
Finally one man, who identified him-
n the beach self as Ralph Winters, the owner of a
d the store souvenir and gift shop on the beach,
aggerations. a made an identification.
of the most a “That's Stella Kale,” he said with
= solemnity. “She worked for me. Her

id tell Chief face is hardly recognizable, but I’m sure

lughes said. that’s the dress she was wearing yes-
Sey 2 2 i AER Rs ain an RE ;
‘ > SHE. WAUKED’ | be”
ALONG THIS, ROAD =
we 2 %y

—~< eS SS

et
~ | ey

Stella Kale (above) reported for work on Mem-
orial Day, was found murdered on the sands of
Massachusetts’ Salisbury Beach one week later

terday. I was‘afraid something had happened
because she didn’t come home last night.”

Winters went on to say that Stella Kale’s
people lived in Lawrence, a large industrial
city in the same state. “I have a shop in
Haverhill,” he continued. “I run that one in
the winter time and this one on the beach in
the summer. Stella came into my Haverhill

_ place last February selling subscriptions to

magazines. I didn’t want any, but we got to

talking and I offered her a job here. She’
started on Memorial Day. I have an extra

bedroom on the second floor; and she stayed

there. She also helped with the cooking.’

“When did you see her last?” Chief Smith
asked.

“At 9:30 last night,” Winters assured: the
officer. “She usually took a walk about that
time. That’s what happened last night. As
she started out I told her to wait and I’d buy

The Portsmouth force was warned to
be on the lookout for the suspect, and all
barber shops in the city were canvassed.
But the suspect was nowhere to be
found.

In the next few weeks the dancing
barber was reported seen in half a dozen
tewns and cities, including Plymouth,
Mass., Belfast, Me., and Dover and Man-
chester, N. H., and Sherbrooke, Canada.
The investigators were kept busy travel-
ing to these points and checking the tips.
In every instance, however, the fugitive
could not be found.

Just across the Vermont border from
Sherbrooke, a little man with-a stubby
mustache was picked up in Lamoille
County one month after the murder on
suspicion of theft. He pleaded innocence
and said his name was Harry Lewis.
Sheriff E. E, Holmes locked him up over-
night in the Hyde Park jail. The next
morning, Holmes found him doing a jig
behind the bars, singing his own accom-
paniment.

“I thought there was something fa-
_miliar about that little guy,” the sheriff
muttered to himself. Returning to his
office, he dug out the circular he’d re-
ceived from the Massachusetts authorities
on the Stella Kale murder suspect. The
description checked perfectly, and he put
through a long-distance call to the Bay
State investigators.

That evening the prisoner was con-

‘

fronted by Lieutenant Stokes and Chief
Smith.

“Well, we finally caught up with you,
George Good,” Stokes told him grimly.
“Or should I call you George Taylor or
Ralph Kiley ?”

“My name’s Lewis,” the suspect said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Stokes handed him a pencil and a piece
of paper and asked him to write, “George
Good, Caribou, Me.” As they expected,
he omitted the “i” from “Caribou.” The
handwriting checked with the photostatic
copy made from the pawnbroker’s
ledger. : .

Under persistent questioning, the pris-
oner admitted he was a barber by trade,
had employed various aliases and had
worked briefly at Hampton Beach. He
confessed visiting the Portsmouth pawn-
shop, but insisted he had “found” the
watch and the ruby ring.

“You won’t deny being in Salisbury

‘Beach the afternoon and evening of Sun-

day, June 5, will you?” Chief Smith asked
him.

“Well, I was there, all right, but I’d
been drinking and don’t remember much
about it,” was the reply.

“You can’t help remembering following
that girl and killing her on the beach,”
Smith accused.

“So help me, I don’t know anything
about any killing!” the frightened suspect

Manhunt

[Continued from page 32]

times : once in each hand, once in the head
and twice in the body. There were powder
burns on his clothing and skin. Other in-
juries indicated he had been in a fight
before his death.

Atwood’s eyes searched the ground.
“You boys beat the bushes around here.
See if you can find a gun or anything.
I'll go into town and call Nashville and
get right back.”

Arriving at his office, Atwood called
Nashville immediately. He received grim
news. Marshal Vaughn had left Nashville
early that morning to transport two
desperadoes to the federal penitentiary
in Atlanta. The prisoners were Herbert
Juelich, 25, alias Paul C. Cordo, of St.
Paul, Minn., and Lewis Woodward Lar-
son, 31, of Butte, Montana. They had been
convicted the previous Thursday on a
federal charge of transporting a stolen
car across state lines. The pair had been
picked up in February, 1953, after wreck-
ing a car in Livingston, Tenn. Before
their capture they had gone on a three-
day crime spree with a girl.

“Both were tough cookies,” a Nashville
officer told Atwood. “But Sam knew that.
And he wasn’t one to take chances. I
can’t imagine what happened. Do what
you can. We'll notify the F.B.I.” — .

“The marshal wouldn’t’ve tried to
transport those two prisoners alone would
he?” Atwood asked.

No. He was going to pick up a partner
at the Davidson County jail here to help
him make the trip to Atlanta.”

Atwood wrote down detailed descrip-
tions of the two prisoners, Juelich and
Larson, and the marshal’s missing car.
Then he phoned the Davidson County jail
in Nashville. There it was confirmed that
Vaughn had left with the two prisoners
at 7 o'clock that morning, accompanied
by Special Deputy George Hightower.

EE: | PPT REA Sy

declared. And on this point he couldn’t
be shaken.

Taylor, alias Good, alias Kiley waived
extradition and accompanied the officers
back to Massachusetts. There he was
promptly identified by the Portsmouth
pawnbroker, several concessionaires, Jack
Lally, the barber shop owner and the
druggist from Hampton Beach and by
other witnesses.

Furthermore, thanks to the science of
fingerprinting, his true identity and crim-
inal background were revealed.

His name actually was Elmer Thomp-
son—corresponding to the initials tat-
tooed on his arm. He came originally
from West Virginia, and in that state he’d
been convicted of robbery and served a
five-year prison term. He also was sus-
pected of strangling a girl in Buffalo,

Elmer Thompson wasn’t in any good
mood for singing or dancing when he
went on trial in Superior Court in Salem,
Mass., in October, 1927. He strongly
protested his innocence in the slaying of
Stella Kale, but the evidence against him
was overwhelming and the jury found
him guilty of fire degree murder.

Massachusetts’ electric chair claimed. .

him in March, 1929, and at last the brutal
strangling of the sea-nymph was avenged.

(The names Jack Lally, Louie Fazenda and Fred
Camp are fictitious to protect the identity of persons

tnnocently involved in the investigation.—The Edi-~
tor.)

A jail official also confirmed that Juelich —

and Larson were a couple of tough punks.
Both had been placed in solitary confine-
ment several times while being held there
for federal authorities.

“Were they handcuffed when Vaughn
and Hightower left with them?” Atwood
asked. :

“Yes,” the official said, “Sam was too
experienced to take any unnecessary
chances. Especially with a couple of to-
matoes like Juelich and Larson.”

Atwood hung up, wondering how the
handcuffed prisoners could ‘have over-
powered their two armed guards and
killed Vaughn. The most urgent question,
however, was the present fate and where-
abouts of the acting guard, George High-
tower. Had he, too, been slain and tossed
out along the highway?

The sheriff then notified the Georgia
Highway Patrol. He gave the descriptions
of Juelich, Larson and Hightower and the
missing police car. Then he raced back
to Holcomb’s farm. There, Deputies
Woody and Wheeler had finished comb-
ing the surrounding area, but had found
nothing. ;

Sirens rent the air, scattering traffic on
U.S. 41, as State Troopers led by Lt. T. C.
Peacock, began converging on the scene.

“We're setting up roadblocks in every
direction,” he told Atwood. “But it’s my
guess that the killers will abandon
Vaughn's car and make a‘ break for the
woods on foot.”

The sheriff agreed. “And they’ll need
food and water unless we bag them quick.
That means no outlying farmhouse in this
district will be safe. They’re kill-crazy
punks, and there's no telling what’s hap-
pened to that other guard, Hightower.”

Quickly, they went over a map of the
district, marking secondary and unpaved
roads to be searched. The cruisers roared
off on their assignments, maintaining
contact by radio. Others left to tighten
the roadblocks and enlist reinforcements.
It was the beginning of the biggest man-
hunt northwest Georgia had ever known.

An hour later they found Marshal
Vaughn's: missing car. It was abandoned
on an unpaved country road that de2ii-
ended in a-scrubby pine forest three miles

. southwest of Adairsville. ’

The car gave them their only clue.
Bloodstains on the driver’s side indicated
that Marshal Vaughn had been shot to
death while behind the wheel. There was
no sign of the two felons, Juelich and
Larson. And there was no sign of the
missing guard, George Hightower.

Again, sirens warned the countryside.
The group of officers turned as three cars
hurtled down the country road and slid
to a stop beside them. These were sleek,
black, unmarked cars. A dozen men
stepped quickly from them. They were
alert, athletic-looking men dressed in
civilian clothes. Some had their guns in
shoulder holsters, others carried riot and
sawed-off shotguns in their hands. This
was the first contingent of F.B.I. men,
led by Crawford Carson, special agent in
charge of the Atlanta office.

Carson immediately went into a con-
ference with Atwood and Peacock. “We
read your radio report on the way up from
Atlanta,” he said. “We've put some men
on the highways. We’ve got others check-
ing back roads. The rest of us will operate
from this point until we get a lead.”

Carson turned to Atwood. “Sheriff, you
know the terrain around here pretty
well?” .

Atwood nodded. ‘

“What’s it like within a radius of five
miles.”

“Rugged,” the Sheriff said. “Hilly, with
dense underbrush, and rocks and an oc-
casional farm in the valleys.”

“Plenty of hiding places, *then.”

“Yes, but we might flush them out with

enough men.”

Carson glanced over his shoulder at the
setting sun. Already long shadows were
slanting across the woods.

“T don’t think we’d have much luck
before dark,” he said. “They’re probably

holed up tight right now. They might —

try to make a break during the night. I.

AR Monsiee

‘

THE BRIGHT BEACH SCENE WAS SET FOR GAYETY

BUT DEATH TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS

BY JOHN R. WHITCOMB

ie WAS EARLY MORNING at Salisbury Beach—early
Monday morning. The June sky was crystalline clear
‘and the gentle ocean waves were breaking close in to
shore. Concessionaires were cleaning their places of
business after a busy weekend. There was almost no-
body on the beach.

A woman and her little girl came out of one of the
hotels and walked down the narrow path leading to the
Se gga separated the hotels and concessions from the

each.

The child broke away from her mother and ran ahead,
over the dunes and through the sand. Suddenly she
stopped.

She was staring at someone stretched out on the sand
and her mother hoped she wasn’t going to disturb an

early morning sun bather. Then she raised her hands to
“her face, turned quickly and ran back.

“Mama!” she screamed. “There’s a woman! She’s all
purple!” ‘

The woman’s first reaction was to smile and explain to
the child that some of the sun tans used by women made
them look strange.

“But her clothes are all mussed and her eyes are open,”
the child insisted. “And she doesn’t move. Come see for
yourself.”

The mother shrugged, took her little girl’s hand and
said she’d investigate. One quick look at the tragic figure

on the white sand told her that the child was not mis-
taken. They were face-to-face with a brutal murder.
The position of the body, the torn clothes and the dis-
colored face and neck left no doubt.

Grasping the little girl’s hand tightly, the mother hur-
ried back to the sandy road and into a shop.

“Have you got a telephone?” she asked the proprietor.
“There’s a murdered girl on the beach!”

The man couldn't believe it at first, but the woman told

him why she was sure. He notified Chief of Police Sidney

Smith in Salisbury, Massachusetts.

Policemen James E. Kelly and James Hughes were dis-
patched to the scene.

Even before they arrived word spread throughout the
summer resort and a crowd of curious people gathered.
Fortunately for the officers, the store proprietor who made
the call had been able to keep these people away from
the body by explaining that the police would soon be
there and they wouldn’t want the surrounding ground
disturbed until they examined it for clues.

Kelly and Hughes studied the silent form on the beach
and realized that the woman who had asked the store
proprietor to; notify them had made no exaggerations.
The girl on the beach was the victim of one of the most
dastardly crimes they had eVer encountered.

“We'd better leave everything just as it is and tell Chief
Smith to get here as quickly as possible,” Hughes said.

While
tail Kel!
car and
fore HM
small ni
and a |
the cor}
up a pai

Chief
and list
told wl
case.

“Fror:
said wh
murder:
sand in
know w
autopsy
hear sc

The c
been a
Hughes
proprie:
quarter
girl wh
victim.

“Nob:
her,” H
better !
at her.’

Chief
idea. '!
stood |
than an
looked

Final
self as
souveni
made a

“That
solemn:
face is }
that’s t

some ice cream. She seemed to be in a hurry and asked
me to wait until she’ got back. That’s the last time I
saw her.” ,

The police chief asked Winters if he knew which way
the girl walked.

“She started toward the south end of the beach,” the
concessionaire said. “I waited up until 1 o’clock, but she
wasn’t home. I left a light on the porch for her and
went to bed. I knocked on her door this morning. When
no one answered I looked in. She wasn’t there. I was
afraid something had happened to her when I heard about
this girl being found on the beach.” -

The body of Stella Kale was removed to O’Donnell’s
undertaking parlor in Amesbury where an autopsy was
performed by Medical Examiner Daniel D. Murphy and
Dr. Timothy Leary, a resident of Boston.

This examination showed evidence of an attempted
criminal assault.

“The girl :put up a brave struggle for her honor and
her life,’ Dr. Murphy reported. “She won on the first
score because the attempt at criminal violation was un-
successful. Strangulation was the direct cause of death.
In addition to bruises on the neck there are abrasions
on both upper lids of the girl’s eyes and hemorrhage to
the membrane covering the eyes. These abrasions were
probably caused by the pressure of the killer’s fingers
or thumbs.”

The medical examiner went on to report that no weapon
had been used in the commission of the murder and that
most of the marks on the body had been put there after
death. The time of death was believed to have been
between 10 and 11 o’clock the previous night.

That was the status of the murder at Salisbury Beach
when Lieutenant Richard J. Griffin of the Massachusetts
State Police was placed in charge of the investigation.

After briefing Griffin on the known facts, Chief Smith
-turned all of the articles found near the dead girl’s body
-over to him. One of the most important items among
them was the envelope. It was of the same type ordinarily
used for church collections. Upon the reverse side of the
envelope there was writing. “It’s All Over” was written
twice; and “Jimmy” and “Daddy” each had been written
three times.

Lieutenant Griffin felt his best starting point in the
investigation was with these articles. He went to see
her employer, Winters.

“Did Stella Kale ever mention a boy-friend named
Jimmie?” he asked.

Winters didn’t recall any such name.

“What about the sun’ glasses we found near the body?”
“They couldn’t have been Stella’s,” the employer as-

sured Griffin, “because she didn’t like them and never
wore them.”

The state investigator thanked Winters and left. The
sun glasses were quite new. They had not been worn
more than a few times. He believed they were the best
lead he had—if he could locate their owner.

Stella Kale’s body had been found Monday morning,
June 6th, 1927. By nightfall the identification had been
made and the autopsy completed. Lieutenant Griffin had
the glasses and set out to question all concessionaires
along the beach. Some of them knew Stella Kale and
liked her. They all expressed strong feelings about any-
one who would try to assault and kill her. None of them
knew of a boy-friend named Jimmie; and none could
identify the sun glasses.

Stella Kale’s father came up from Lawrence that same
night and made his identification of the body. The most
important additions he made to the investigation was to

Man with mustache (above) took
the last bus from Salisbury Beach
(l.) on the fateful Sunday night
when the pounding ocean waves
drowned pretty Stella Kale’s cries

or ee

tell Lieute
given Stel!
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given her
them all
doubtless
day night
A chec!
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urchased
_fin with |
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wrist wat
over to ne
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Lieuten
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questione:
after 9:30
All shops
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“IT was:
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ie vs

onday morning came quietly to Salisbury Beach, Mass. Retarded by fog rolling in from
the Atlantic, the curtain of night rose slowly. Strollers on the boardwalk were few as
vacationers slept late. Concessionaires were in no hurry to open their games of

Chance. )

tiful redhead lying on her acti aT
pack just above the high tide mark was & “i |
alone on the beach. Her torn dress was , ‘f pases
pulled high over shapely legs. A C Ri M é mene
A few hours earlier: she had been [iijag oa 3 :
warm, feminine, desirable. But the | C LASSIC wm
sound of thé*surf, music’ from the Or ae

» merry-go-round and the raucous voices

}
}

of barkers had drowned out her frantic
cries for help. She would scream no
more, for her beautiful body was cold
in death. patee

The morning sun burned the fog
away before the grim discovery was
made. A little girl, running barefoot in

the sand, stopped short when she al Beautiful Stella Kale choked to

the battered corpse. ee eae
d ‘*Mother!’’ she shrieked at the top bf death under killer’s vice-like
massive hands. :

_ her voice. « , :
~~ The startled woman ventured one : )
“quick look and called the police. vis Fe.
4 Officers James E. Kelly and laries policemen had all they could do to hold
- Hughes hurried to the scene as Salis- eT ena: Pee hae
bury Beach awakened to the awful ief of Police Sidney Sm
realization that murder had been a noc-
-turnal visitor. As word spread, the

ith moved
through these people and spoke with
Kelly and Hughes. | ey aatsy
‘‘We haven’t been' able to do
ie Be hae | | ee Patrolman Kelly explained.
“Lieut. John Stocks wore outhis Tbe moss important thing Wes) Tee
iS me : ’. shoe leather tracking the fiend. ins eapalaaater ne whee
Severe : re “The ferocity with which the victim

oa ent

fy M4 , HLKADWUA RTBRS DETEGTIVE, Jan., 1900 % |

OD BEACH

ee . ee by KEN CARPENTER

ah,

ae |
a

vestigation...
Stokes. dorelated all atidence at
had been gatheréd during the first 48°

New England, king them to print the. |
numbers along with a description of the -
watch and ring in their stories on the

murder Cases; Times Mathes

* Lt, John Stokes, ace detective ea ae
~ glasses found near the girl’s ‘body.

brilliant ‘work was to make him state
police commissioner. later, joined

forces with Lieutenant Griffin and -

Salisbury Beach: police) in the. in-

hours. Stella Kale had disappeared af-

~ ter being seen on the boardwalk shortly.
after.9:30. The prime motive for the -
crime was believed to be a sex attack.’
- They located several persons who re-

But the fact that the girl’s ring and wrist
watch were missing pointed to robb-
ery, perhaps as an afterthought. The

sunglasses. found near the body were .
almost new,,and ‘Stella Kale did not.
own them so far as anyone knew. The |
name Bill scribbled'on the envelope

_ remained ‘unexplained. ©
~ There.was only.one thing to.do: keep

reluctant to-become involved in murder

. investigations. You have to search out:
those with what might appear un-
important information, and that is what

the Aree did."

A girl ‘was found who had. known
Stella Kale casually. In.a conversation
about music, the murder victim had

expressed an especial liking for a song —

titled ‘‘Bill.’’

**The band played that number at the
concert Saturday night,”’’ this witness
stated. ‘*Stella was there and I saw her
write something down on an envelope.

It could have been the name of the song

_the band was playing.”’ |
One woman living in a hotel back
from where the body was found recal-

led hearing what sounded like a girl’s:

screams around 11 o’clock Sunday
night. At the time the witness retired
for the nights: -$O. she had not in-
vestigated...

A more important informant was a

concessionaire who had noticed. a

drunk near the roller coaster...
‘That was around 10 o’clock Sun-
‘day night,”* he told Lieutenant Stokes.

ae watched. him for a while.. ‘Then,

afraid that he might wander onto the

tracks, I went. over: and: pected him

away ey Pe EMO aes PE
The nolicennian. asked for a descrip-
tion of the drunk: -
‘He’ was. medium height, ‘almost
bald,’’’ the concessionaire’ ‘remem-

bered. “**About. 40 years old. Small

mustache. Wore sunglasses.’’

a uae said, “Sunglasses at 10
o’clock at night?’’ _
. **That’s right,’’ the witness told
him. ‘The guy was real drunk.”’
‘The lieutenant showed him the

‘*That’s the kind,’’ the con-
cessionaire said. Then he added, *‘This
guy sure was a character. He did some

-buck and wing steps in front of the
dance hall and tried to pick up a girl.”
‘She just laughed .at him.”’

‘In view of the slender dark glasses
link to the Stella Kale murder case,
Stokes and Griffin concentrated their
investigation on the dancing drunk.

membered him. The important thing
was that all the witnesses who saw him
before 11 o’clock said he was wearing

sunglasses. Those who saw him after .
eleven said they noticed no such,
‘glasses!

One man who saw the drunk without

»'glasses told Chief Smith the man had
‘plugging. Stokes knew most people are .

been walking from the direction where
Stella Kale’s body was found. Finally,
things were beginning to add up.
Another person said the same man
had asked about bus service to Hamp-
ton Beach. “‘He said he was a barber at
the casino there and had to be at work
Monday morning,’’ the witness stated.
‘*T told him the time the last bus left.”’
On their way ‘to Hampton Beach,
Stokes and Griffin examined carefully
the suddenly all important sunglasses

‘found near Stella Kale’s battered and ©

strangled corpse. The lenses weren’t of
as cheap quality as the investigators
had first thought.

When the policemen arrived in

HOOKER ON
CHANCE ©

| Hampton Beach and went into a drug
: store to buy cigarets, both men spotted

a card containing sunglasses of the type

wey were carrying with them.
‘Lieutentant Griffin started.up a con-

Versation ‘with the clerk saying, “Nice

_looking sunglasses. you have. there.’

_.Moving the card closer, the clerk
assured Griffin, ‘“They’re good glasses
all right. Would you like a pair?’’

. The policeman told him he wasn te
interested in buying any. ‘‘But I see the
‘card contained an even dozen,’’ he |

-added. ‘‘There are 11 left. Who bought
thé one. pair?’? «>.

The-clerk didn’ t aeinber. But the
store owner overheard the conversation
and came up.

“*T sold them Sunday afternoon,’ "he
said.

Stokes and Griffin motioned him't to
the rear of the store. They identified .

themselves as officers and brought out
the sunglasses found on the beach. °

‘*They’re identical with the ones I
sold to'a man last Sunday,’’ the drug-
gist said. ‘‘I can tell you what he
looked like. He was around 40 years
old and of medium height. His face was
pock- -marked and he had a small mus-
tache.’

Griffin and Stokes asked the drug-
gist how he happened to remember so

much about this particular customer.
' **He was in here several times,”’ the .

store proprietor said. “‘Came in first for

_cigarets. That’s when he bought the

sunglasses. Things were rather slow,
so he loafed.around a while. He tried
the glasses on a couple of times before
he bought them and purchased a bottle
of witch hazel just before he left.
Adding that he had been a little con-

cerned about the customer, the drug-.

store man said, ‘‘I’ve had a gun shoved
in my face twice, so I get nervous when

business is slow and some guy hangs

around too long. Besides this man

_came back. before long for a second

bottle of witch hazel. Maybe that’s
why I remember so much about him.

When Lieutenant Stokes asked if he
thought. the man was drunk, the pro-
prietor said he didn’t think so.

"I. did wonder. why he: wanted two
bottles of witch hazel. You know some

people drink ‘that stuff when package

‘liquor stores are*closed.””

The officers were aware of that.
They thanked the druggist and asked
him not to say anything about their
visit. With the descriptions of the danc-

(continued on page 45)
~ 17

ing these articles. :

SEN

_dury members at fic spot on the beach where victim’ ‘Ss corpse was found.

Hh hn:

had peer. attacked was iealy Syiden
The girl’s dress and underclothes were
ripped to.shreds. Blood trickling from.
her mouth had dried on one cheek. The
face and neck were discolored, the eyes
blackened and ugly bruises covered her.
chest and legs. © -

Smith took a look around. Deep in-: ‘
dentations in sand near the body in-..

dicated ‘a violent struggle. The chief’
found a small notebook, white en-
velope with writing on it and a compact
nearby. Also a pair of cheap ‘sunglas-
ses. That was all. Chief Smith walked
over to Kelly and plushies after study~

“7

“t*Whoever did this,”’ he said, *‘took
the girl’s ‘pocketbook to ‘delay.

identification: ‘Let these people view
the’ corpse one ata time. We've got to

find out who she is.’” . ’ a
The first man to step forward paused
momentarily at’the gruesome sight,
shook his head and moved on. This was
repeated more than a dozen times be-'
fore a witness turned to Smith.
**T think that is Stella Kale,’’ he said,
‘She didn’t come home last night.’’
The chief asked the man to study the
remains carefully and added, ‘‘What
do you mean she didn’t come home?
Are you a relative of hers?”’; —
It’s Stella,’’ the witness repeated.
‘‘The dress is torn, but Stella was wear- .
ing one like it.. She worked in my photo
studio and lived in an upstairs room.’
Medical Examiner Daniel D. Mur-

phy arrived with Dr. . Timothy Leary at

il AEG oD

i polit, A hurried onithio-scens eX-
amination was made.

Chief Smith wanted to know if the
girl had been raped.

**Either that or somebody tried
mighty hard,’” the doctor told him.
“*This girl fought like a tiger. I’d say
she was strangled, though the autopsy
will tell us a more complete story.’’

After a car from O‘Donnell’s funeral
parlor i in Amesbury had taken the body
away, Patrolmen Kelly and Hughes

asked everyone except the man who
“Elmer Thompson made obs
“small and one large error in
garying, out the ugly murder.

e oe

‘

had made the identification to leave.
Smith questioned this man there on the
beach.

**Tell me about this girl and’ your-
self,’’ he said. ‘*When did you see her
last? What is your name?’’

The witne§s said his name was Frank
Hennessey.

**Trun a photo studio in Amesbury in
the winter,’’ he told the chief. ‘‘I spend
my summers at a second studio here on

(continued on next page)

A young boy drew this amazing
‘sketch of the man he watched
killing on the beach.

the boardwalk. The last time I saw Stel-

~ Ja was 9:30 last. night:”’ -

That was Sunday. The body had
been found at 10 o’clock Monday

morning, June 6.
‘This girl’s people live in Lawr-

ence,’” Hennessey continued. ‘‘She,

came into my Amesbury studio last

_ February. to have some pictures made
_ and-we got into a discussion of photog-
- raphy: The mechanics of the business _
interested her and she was anxious to »
learn about developing and printing»

pictures. I told her the best way was to
take a job in a studio.””.

The photographer went to explain, :

how he had told Stella Kale about his

_ summer studio at Salisbury Beach and
that he engaged a girl each season to.
help him.

oe *She wanted the Ob: ‘ene: said,

“and I gave it to her. She started work
_. last week, on Memorial Day, and I let
fe her live in a room above my studio.””.
As Hennessey spoke, Chief Smith
studied: him carefully. The photo-
grapher appeared to be deeply moved
|.” by the tragedy. , :
/ ©**T naturally have to be careful about
2 ee girls I -hire,’’ he told the officer, **and
. Stella was a nice, pleasant young

woman in every respect.”’

Chief Smith examined the notebook :

found near the body. The writing inside

~~ had to do with photographic formulae
‘for developing and printing pictures.
The name ‘‘Bill’’ was scribbled on the

envelope. ©.
**Do you know anybody eed Bill
who might have been with the girl last

_ ‘night?’ the policman asked.

Hennessey shook his head.
- “*She had only been here. a week,”’

~. he said. ‘‘I never heard her mention a
iH boy friend.’’ ;

‘ The employer answered more ques-
tions concerning the last time he had:
seen Stella Kale.

- **She came down from her room
about 9:30 last evening,”’ he told
Smith. ‘‘I was standing in front of the
studio and Stella said ‘Hello.’ I asked
her if she’d like a soda. But she seemed
to be in a hurry and said with a smile,

‘Not now. Maybe when I come back.’

**] didn’t wait up because the

weekend had been busy, which meant a
lot of dark room work on Monday.
That’s how I knew Stella didn’t come
home last night. I had siready knocked
on her door.’

* The photographer gave Smith the
name and address of the girl’s father in
Lawrence. Then, accompanied by

Hennessey, Smith searched Stella’s
room above the studio, but found noth-
ing that could be construed as a lead to
the murder of the redhead.

The chief took the notebook, en-
velope with the name Bill on it and the
sunglasses back to headquarters. Hen-
nessey had told him he didn’t think the
glasses belonged to Stella Kale because
he had never seen her wearing them.

Smith performed the unpleasant
duty of notifying the slain girl’s father
in Lawrence by phone. Mr. Kale said

he would start out for the Amesbury

funeral parlor immediately.
- Lt. Richard J. Griffin of Massachu-
setts State Police met Chief Smith and

. the bereaved father there. Mr. Kale

viewed the corpse and made a postive

"identification. He was at a complete

The gruesome murder was}
played out on a stretch of
ideserted beach—or so the:

killer thought. In fact, as the|
blood flowed faster, so did
the ink ina witness’ pen.

loss to explain his daughter’ s violent
death.

“She was so careful about her
friends,’’ the shocked parent said.
‘*We were happy about her job at the
beach. Now this terrible thing has hap-
pend.’”’

Mr. Kale returned to Salisbury Be-
ach with Smith and Griffin. The auto-
psy report came in late that Monday
afternoon. It bore out what Medical
Examiner Murphy and Dr. Leary had
surmised.

‘*Strangulation was the direct cause
of death,’’ Murphy said. “‘The girl
tried to fight off her attacker who
apparently used no weapon, just his
exceptionally strong hands. There is no

direct evidence of completed rape, but”

abrasions on the abdomen and thighs
indicate the apparent. purpose of the
attack. The time of death was approx-
imately 11 o’clock Sunday night. "—
Patrolmen Kelly and Hughes, who
had been questioning concessionaires
all afternoon, reported to their chief.
‘*The girl wasn’t known by many on
the boardwalk,”’ the first officer told
Lieutenant Griffin and Smith, ‘‘be-

. would have to be mighty close to trou- ‘

cause she had only been on the beach a
week. One man remembers seeing et
walking south alone alittle after 9:30.”’
Griffin asked if anybody had heard |
screams.
Hughes replied no and added, ‘*but.
that’s easy to explain. There is a lot of
noise in the beach area at night. Every- |
body is having a good time and you

ble to recognize it.””

‘‘What about this Frank Hennessey,
the girl’s employer?” the state police-
man asked. >

Kelly and Hughes both agreed the
photographer had an excellent reputa- |
tion. He had had his place at the beach a }
long time and there never had been'the |
slightest hint of anything amiss. ©

Stella Kale’s father came through

with some important information he |
had forgotten about in his first grief.

“I gave my daughter a ring with a |
ruby setting and a wrist watch when she |
graduated from high school,’’ he said...
‘*Was she wearing them wheh the body
was found?’’ !

Chief Smith knew no such jewelry |
had been found. He called Frank Hen-
nessey and asked about the ring and |
watch.

‘‘T hadn’t thought about them be-
fore,’’ the photographer said, “‘but
Stella wore them all the time. She un-.\
doubtedly had them on Sunday night,”’

When a second search of the girl’s
living quarters failed to uncover the |
jewelry, Mr. Kale gave the in-
vestigators the name of the store in
Lawrence where he had bought the arti-
cles. .

‘This could be the break we need,” |
Lieutenant Griffin told Chief Smith.
He went to Lawrence Tuesday
morning and talked with the jeweler.
The case and movement numbers of the |
Waltham watch were on record. The ©
state policeman forwarded this in-
formation to newspapers throughout

were pretty certain that it was a new
model, and that comparatively few
such cars had been sold. Thus, the task
of checking up on the owners of such
cars did not loom up as difficult.

The checking-up process had not
gone ~, far when it was learned that
the Lynbrook postal clerk, James W
Cadoo, had purchased one of the olive
green machines a few weeks previously!

A seething hail storm swept over
Long Island on the ye of deen f the
16th, three nights after the hold-up.
Chief McCahill and other officers met
me at 8:25 on the platform of the Lyn-
brook railroad station. I was chilled
to the bone. The meeting had been
arranged for 8 o'clock, and the others
had been unavoidably delayed.

Proceeding to Lynbrook Police
Headquarters -we thrashed out the best
way of interviewing Cadoo without let-
ting him know that he was a likely sus-
pect. At length, I suggested that some-
one go to his home and talk to him
under the guise of investigating an
automobile accident in which an_olive
green Chrysler had figured. Officer
Harold R. King was selected for the
assignment.

Half an hour later King returned
and reported that he had spoken to
Cadoo’s wife who said that her bus-
band was not at home.

“But there was something about the
way she said it that didn’t sound quite
right,” said King. “I think we ought
to go back.”

It was shortly after 11 o'clock when
several of us cautiously approached
the house and surrounded it. It was a
two-story frame dwelling in a_nice
neighborhood, with a lawn on the front

The Master Detective

and side. Fortunately, the night was
extremely dark, and the neighborhood
none too bright, so that Officer King
had little trouble in making his way
unobserved to the garage in the rear of
the house.

Ten minutes later King reappeared
with a small satchel containing more
than nine thousand dollars! He had
found it in the rumble seat of an olive
green Chrysler roadster. A_ hasty
check-up of the serial numbers on a

few of the bills revealed that they had

been part of the train robber’s loot.
James W. Cadoo, then, was our man!

GUNS drawn, we closed in on the
house, A light shone from the first
floor; the upper floor was in darkness.
It was still hailing, something that
worked to our advantage because the
sounds of approaching’ footsteps were
dwarfed by the tattoo of the hail on
the rooftops.

Chief McCahill rang the doorbell,
while the rest of us crouched down be-
hind him. Mrs. Cadoo presently ap-
peared at the door, looked through and
opened it. We all barged in with
drawn guns, ready to shoot it out
with the man who might be ready for
just such a battle.

But no! There at the top of the
stairs leading to the second floor stood
Cadoo. His hands were stretched above
his head.

“Don’t shoot!” he pleaded. “I'll sur-
render. I’m the man you want for that
train job.”

I] felt sorry for Mrs. Cadoo as she
looked first at her husband, then at us,
realizing for the first time that the man
she loved was involved in a crime.

When Cadoo descended the stairs
and slipped his hands into a pair of
bracelets, | noticed that one side of his
face was badly lacerated. In his con-
fession he admitted that he had sus-
tained the injury when he lost his foot-
ing on the ice-covered ground after
his leap from the train. Other portions
of his confession corroborated in every
detail the various deductions that I
had made.

When asked his reason for pulling the
job the man who had never done a
dishonest thing in his life before the
robbery, replied:

“1 did it for my wife. I wanted her
to think that I was making good.”

Cadoo had left his job in the post-
office, he said, because the pay was too
small. After that he had tried selling
hosiery, lingerie and other things, but
he made even less at that. Suddenly,
he decided that the world was indebted
to him.

“T used to be a railway mail clerk
myself,” he confessed, “and I often
though how easy it would be to stick
up a mail car. So, when my mind
turned to crime, naturally a mail car
job was the first thing that presented
itself.”

The pouch of valuable registered
mail was found, under Cadoo’s direc-
tion, on a deserted road near Rockville
Center, Long Island. The contents
were intact, save for the package that
Cadoo had dropped at the get-a-way
scene.

Cadoo was sentenced to twenty-five
years in the Federal Penitentiary in
Atlanta, and there has not been a rob-
bery of a Long Island Railroad mail
car since.

Did Charlie Tucker Murder Mabel Page?

suicide an impossibility,” Bruce ended.

Briefly the undertaker pointed out
the several cuts that he had found upon
undressing the body. One of these
was in the chest near the heart; an-
other was in the back near the throat
and there was still another wound on
one of the hands.

UNDERTAKER ADAMS was right.
Mabel Page had indeed been mur-
dered. Medical Examiner Mead and
Dr. Frost were again notified.

By morning the entire community
was aware that a cold-blooded killing
had been done in their midst by some
arch-fiend. Public feeling was more or
less stirred up by the fact that much
valuable time had been lost by the
medical examiner’s misapprehension.
Then, too, the storm of the early eve-
ning had carefully covered any tell-
tale traces that the murderer might
have left in his flight.

Chief Joseph E. Shaw of the Massa-
chusetts District Police was notified “|
Chief Vittum and Gen. Jophanus
Whitney and Daniel W. Hammond
were detailed to the case under_ the
direct supervision of Deputy Chief
George C. Neal.

Close examination by daylight of the
outer dress skirt found in Miss Page’s

(Continued from page 43)

room revealed that straw matting
fibers were embedded in the skirt fab-
ric. Separating these fibers we found
that some of them were red and others
were white. Further investigation
showed that although there were no
red fibers in the straw matting in Miss
Page’s room, similar red fibers were to
be found in the carpet on the second
story hall floor between Miss Page’s
bedroom and the spare chamber, as
well as in the carpets downstairs, both
in the dining and living rooms.

The torn and wrenched hooks and
eyes in the placket hole of this skirt
took on a new and somber significance.
Had Mabel Page been killed in some
other portion of the house rather than
in the bed chamber and then her body
dragged to the spot where it was after-
wards found?

“Miss Page was all right when | left
the house yesterday morning at twenty-
five minutes of eleven,” Amy Roberts
told investigators in part. “Thursday
isn’t usually my day out but | had
planned some days ago to see my
family physician because | hadn’t been
feeling very well and Miss Page thought
I ought to get a tonic.

“Just before I left she asked me if
] needed any money, Then she went
to the little table in the living room,

opened one of its two drawers and took
out the pocketbook she always paid
bills from.”

“How much money was there?” she
was asked,

“I’m not quite sure,” Miss Roberts
replied, “But I’m very certain she had
at least one ten dollar bill and two or
three one dollar bills in her hand.” °

“How much did she pay you?”

“One dollar,’ she answered, “and
then she put the rest back in the
drawer.”

A subsequent search of the table
drawer revealed the pocket book.

XCEPT for some change it was

empty.

After the autopsy by which it was
determined that death had been caused
by a five-inch single edged knife
wound in the chest that penetrated the
heart, the stomach of the victim was
sent to Professor Edward S. Wood of
the Harvard Medical School. He ana-
lyzed its contents and announced that
she had eaten a light lunch of bread
and butter together with an apple a
short time before her death. This and
other circumstances placed the prob-
able time of the murder between quar-
ter past eleven and quarter past twelve.

In the minds of Mr. Page and his

May, 1933

son, Harold, there was no question but
that Mabel had written the “hospital”
note found on the living room table,
all unsuspectingly receiving the infor-
mation from the messenger who was
to take her life. Yet if this was the
case why did the murderer allow the
note to remain undestroyed or was it
written while he waited all unknowing
outside the door? The situation called
forth the assumption of many possi-
bilities.

And then there was that other slip
of paper which had been found in the
bedroom, the slip of paper that was
bothering the authorities even more?
Where did it come from? This again
was another question that remained un-
answered. No such person could be
located in any of the telephone books
or Boston directories. If Mabel Page
had known any such person, the secret
of that acquaintance had died with her.
But we were sure she had not. We felt
positive that the note had been left to
decoy us off on other trails.

Four days passed. Attorney General
Herbert Parker took charge of the case.

MABEL PAGE was buried with
simple ceremonies.

None of us seemed nearer to solving
the crime or learning the identity of
the man who had done this thing de-
spite the fact that a reward of $2500
had been posted. Nor did the death
weapon reveal itself, search for it as
we would. Newspapers were harshly
critical of our efforts but each and
every clue that we ran down proved
barren of results.

In the meantime a local character by
the name of Charles Louis Tucker, a
young widower without a_job, thrust
himself upon the police officers, news-
papermen and other investigators. He
became particularly confidential with
a Boston Globe reporter.

Tucker said he had been near the
Page house on the day of the murder.

He also added that the noon whistles
were blowing when he stood on the
Weston bridge hardly a half mile away
from the scene of the murder.

Down in the Judges’ Room in the
Municipal Building in Newton, a sub-
urban city not far from Weston, mem-
bers of oh state, Newton and Weston
olice listened to Tucker's story as they
hed listened to a score of others. He
told it in apparent straightforward
fashion.

He said he had lived with his parents
at 58 Bourne Street, Auburndale, ever
since the death of his wife a year pre-
vious. On the morning of March 31st,
he had arisen about nine o'clock. Af-
ter eating breakfast he had gone out to
rake and clean up his father’s lawn.
A few minutes before twelve he stopped
work, went into the house, washed up,
ate dinner and started down the boule-
vard. He reached the Weston bridge
about twelve o'clock as the noon whis-
tles blew. There he met Alden Kings-
bury chante from his shop on the Au-
burndale side of the Charles River. A
few minutes later he said he met Miss
Sarah Connolly coming from Weston.

Continuing his walk, he watched a
squirrel for a few minutes and a half
mile or more beyond the bridge,

The

stopped and watched some carpenters
hard at work upon a house. Several
hundred yards from the Page home he
came upon a Mr. Dooley hard at work
digging a hole in the street. Again he
continued his walk on to Cutter’s Cor-
ner, then down \West Newton Street ar-
riving home in the early afternoon.
But he was unable to get in his house
for his mother and grandmother had
gone away for the day and his father
was asleep. While standing in the rear
of his house, he saw Henry C. Bourne,
a canoer, coming down from his home.
The two went off together.

All of us checked on various por-
tions of the story and as the majority
of the officers believed him to be inno-
cent he was allowed to return to his
home.

“Vm awfully glad you’re not mixed
up in this,” one Newton policeman as-
sured him as he shook his hand.

The next morning the story of the
interview and Tucker’s picture ap-
peared in the Boston Post. Among the
thousands of persons who read the
story was young Arthur J. Woodward
who had driven his grandfather’s fish
wagon about Weston on the day of the
murder,

Young \Voodward read the story
about Tucker over and over again.

‘Upon his return to his home in Quincy.
a city some twenty miles from Weston
on the southern side of Boston, he
sought the company of his father
Arthur W. Woodward.

In his hands, young Woodward held
an empty leather sheath for a long
bladed hunting knife, a sheath with
teeth marks, plainly showing on the
lower side of the casing.

Master Detective

T was the object he had picked up

five days before on that eventful
Thursday after two of his passengers, a
youth and a pretty maid, had left the
wagon to seek solitude in a nearb
park; an object that had lain in his
drawer since the previous week—un-
touched and almost forgotten,

Father and son talked together in
earnest friendly fashion,

Some hours later, the father wrote
a letter to the selectmen of Weston.

Several reporters provided the next
sensation.

Looking for exclusive material for
their newspapers, they chanced to in-
terview the now famous Mr. Dooley
who had been seen digging by so many
people on this eventful morning. Dur-
ing the course of their conversation
they happened to remark that Tucker
had passed him working in the street
during the early afternoon. ,

“Is that so?” said Mr. Dooley. “Then
it’s entirely mistaken he is, for I quit
work at noon for the day.

“Are you certain of that?” the re-
porters asked.

“It’s positive I am,” Mr. Dooley
added. “I know what time it was when
| stopped work for the twelve o'clock
bells rang out from the Blake estate.”

Wishing for further substantiation of
the thought which had come to them,
they next sought out the three car-
penters Tucker said he had seen work-
ing upon a nearby building that after-
noon. They, too, had stopped work at

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42 The Master

He was still within sight of his own home when two
men overtook him. To them he entrusted a message.

“Tell Mrs. Bennett to come up to my house just as
quickly as she can,” he said. “Tell her it is very im-
portant.”

Mr. Page returned to his house. The absolute stillness
was appalling. Nobody passed up or down the street.
The stricken parent stood it as long as he could and then
he went to the house of another neighbor, Judge Kennedy.
The judge was not at home but Mr. Page asked the house-
keeper to get in touch with his niece, Mrs. Charles A.
Brown of Auburndale, just as soon as she could and ask
her to come to his home.

WHEN the father returned eight or ten minutes later

Mrs. Bennett had not yet come, so Mr. Page dispatched
another message by more passersby to a Miss Cutter at
Cutter’s Corner asking her to come to the house as soon
as possible. By this time Mrs. Bennett had arrived and
Mr. Page returned with her and telephoned to the freight
offices where his son was employed at the South
Station.

The father soon had Mr. Blood, Harold’s immediate
superior, on the wire.

“Tell me what has happened to Harold,” he pleaded.
“What do they say at the hospital? Is he badly hurt?
Will he retover?”

Mr. Blood seemed to take a long time replying. Mr.

deat Lis

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Detective

Five o'clock and the predicted storm, sweeping over
Weston from the chill Northeast, howled mournfully around
the eaves of the Page house intensifying the gloom of the
saddened family within. It was indeed a weird and unus-
ual scene in this little town.

As Constable of the Weston Police Department, I had
been notified of the tragedy and had gone at once to the
Page household.

Harold, soon after his father’s telephone message, went
at once to the home of another sister, a Mrs. Freeman, a
widow, who lived on Marlborough Street in Boston. She
was not there at the time of his visit so Harold left word
for her to follow him to Weston and was gone at five
o'clock,

Dr. Horace B. Frost had come an hour before. In com-
pany with Dr. Wood of Waltham, the two physicians had
observed the body and discovered that there was nothing
that they could do. As soon as possible, Dr. Frost tele-
phoned Dr. Julian A. Mead, the medical examiner of
Middlesex County advising him to come at once.

DURING the afternoon the outer dress skirt had been
found behind the right hand door in Miss Page’s room
where it had seemingly been dropped. A casual examin-
ation of the skirt showed that several of the hooks and eyes
in the placket hole had been pulled and bent as though

subject to a heavy strain.
' Amy Robert, the maid, arrived soon after six o'clock in
an hysterical condition. She said she had been told the
terrible news by a Dan Connolly soon after leaving the
electric car. The shock had been too much and she was
almost prostrated,
‘ita Sab (EO. ES Oe

dd ge Y

DATE. fz

—
hte

SALESMAN,

Boston Did Charles Tucker pen ‘the above three lines giving the address of J. L. Morton so as to throw pursuers off the scent?
Herald Here is the disputed Morton note together with salts slip in Tucker’s handwriting. Also under the heading ‘“‘Stand-

ard” ‘are specimens of Tucker’s writing pasted up so

as to form the original Morton address here shown under

the heading “Disputed” and which was found beside the murdered girl’s body

<n sy GQ bes

wer

Did Charlie

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Nes
BUSA

coaaaeinihien

Tucker Murder Mabel Page? 43

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PERE SIAR NA
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Pte Sut hay eye MOP 22.

The home of Mabel Page in Weston, Massachusetts, the morning after the murder. The snow from the storm of the
night before is still on the ground

About dusk, Harold Page happening in the room where
his dead sister still lay, noticed that the lower left-hand
drawer of the dressing table was open some four or five
inches. Next to a white worsted knit glove, a purse and
other articles of wearing apparel so that it could be easily
seen was a piece of paper about three or four inches long
in the drawer.

It had been torn from the block of paper on which
Mabel Page had written her father the message of Harold's
injury. Page picked it up and examined it closer. There
were three lines of penciled handwriting:

“J. L. Morton
Charlestown
Mass.”

This address was written in backhand and two or three
of the letters had been gone over several times.

Who was J. L. Morton?

Neither Harold nor his father knew any such person and
they were equally certain that Mabel had no such acquain-
tance. Yet where did it come from?. How did it happen
to be placed in such a conspicuous position where it was
sure to be found?

As dusk shut down upon this day of sorrow, the snow
storm redoubled in fury, blown by an ever increasing gale
of wind. Dr. Mead, the medical examiner, arrived at
twenty minutes past six. As he stamped the snow from his
boots and shook his coat, it was apparent he was in a
hurry. Taking a dimly burning oil lamp, he went at once
to the upper chamber and bent over the body for a brief
examination. Under the cloth stock which encircled the
neck he found a much deeper wound than the cut Mr. Page
first noticed.

“it’s a clear case of suicide,” he is said to have told the
father, “That is a regular suicide’s neck.” Mr. Page started
to interrupt but the doctor continued, “A suicide always

goes hacking away where’ they ought not to and after they
have done all this savage work, they go down and do
the fatal work below.” -

“But, doctor,” Mr. Page began again. “Isn’t there some
explanation of all this?”

“Anybody can make explanations and all that sort of.

thing,” the medical examiner is said to have told him as
he rapidly completed his casual examination. Nor would
he take any further steps that night beyond writing a note
to the undertaker requesting that the embalming be post-
poned until the autopsy was completed the next day.

“It’s a clear case of suicide,” he repeated.

And with these words, Mr. Page was obliged to be
content.

EARLY the next morning my telephone commenced to
ring.

As | leaned over in bed to reach the instrument | noticed
it was almost half past one.

“Hello,” I said, lifting the receiver, “Hello.”

Judge Kennedy was speaking on the other end of the
line.

“You'd better get over to the Page house again just as
soon as you can,” he said. “There's been murder done.”

Up in her former bedroom, Chief of Police Darius B.
Vittum (whom I had notified after receiving Judge Ken-
nedy’s message) and myself found Undertaker John A.
Bruce, his assistants, and members of the family gathered
around the body of Mabel Page which had been lifted from
the floor, laid upon the undertaking table and covered with
a sheet.

“What’s all this about murder?” Chief Vittum demanded.

“Mabel Page never committed suicide,” Undertaker Bruce
replied. “She was stabbed to death and one of the wonnds
which | have discovered make (Continued on page 74)

old her that her brother
irdeter used the story of
gain her confidence, to
0m ?
{1 downstairs as Miss
seper, came in with her
Sheriff Fairbairn went
her up to the door of
At the sight of the girl’s
sper fainted. Fairbairn
lL.
Miss Roberts answered
ring voice.
about 10:30 this morn-
: Mabel was in the living °
ging as she sewed. She
poor child.”
| she had walked directly
ad seen no one suspicious
he next hour or so, she
ig to chat with some of
way back she had stopped
ta neighbor’s house, she
wr the rest of her time

his watch. It was now
to Page, he asked, “When
for Boston?”
clock this morning,” the
had breakfast with him
re he went to the station.”
the scrap of paper and
*- ‘Gerald Spade’ whose
lip?”
im,” Page declared.

Harold does.”

had been standing by
‘poke up. “I saw a dark,
1 in the neighborhood this
shaw. “He was a stranger
- like a man you could
: my back door and asked
for a coachman. I‘ didn’t
[ sent him away.”
essed in a dirty red-and- .
-, she added, and wore a
fur cap.
plied for work at your
suggested, “he must have
ises around here. Maybe
{ address at one of them.”
iately started his deputies
» district in search of the
shaw and Whitney pains-
the murder chamber, the
smises for further clues.

at this task, Harold Page
m Boston. The victim's
ther seemed greatly. dis-
5 tragic death. He wept
her body. Questioned by -
uld cast no light on the
not been ill, he said, and
that he was. He knew no

il examiner made prepara-

if the body to the Middle-

autopsy, Chief Shaw and

o go to Boston and try to

us Gerald Spade. Shaw

ves Alfred Neal and Jack
igned them to check on the
ser Bailey and Seth Ford.
was falling and a strong
ung the investigators as

- and split up to carry out

was 3:30 p.m. on Thurs-

04. .

d Whitney took the next
and Hammond drove
ngalow where Bailey,
lived with his family.

here he worked, they had ,

me ill.
t them at the door and led
1's room. The doctor, she

Bailey ‘lay still in the bed, ©

aint ie ON

his eyes half closed, his cheeks flushed with

fever. “He’s been sick for two days now,”
his mother whispered. “It’s the grippe.”

“One question only,” Neal said quietly to
Bailey. ‘Have you seen’ Mabel Page lately?”

The young man raised up and opened his
eyes. “Not for a couple of weeks,” he replied
feebly. “Why?” - | ‘

“She’s met with an accident,” Hammond
said. “Have you been in bed all day?”

“Of course, didn’t Mother tell you? But
why are you here? What happened to
Mabel ?”

“She was stabbed to death,” Neal said
evenly. “Do you know who coyld have done
it?” : Sa
Bailey sank back on the pillow, his face
white, eyes stricken. “No, I have no idea.
This is terrible, terrible—”

The detectives left the feverish .mechanic
after assuring his mother that there was no
evidence thus far to implicate her son in the
slaying. They. went next to the office of the
doctor who had visited Bailey. The physician
assured them that the young man was not
malingering; he was seriously ill and had
beer’ in bed for two days.

Neal and Hammond proceeded to the yel-
low frame parsonage where Ford lived. The

chubby, pink-cheeked young high school -

graduate was just sitting down to supper.
At the officers’ request, Mrs. Ford called
him into the living room,

“Tell us,” Neal asked, “where did you
spend the morning?” .

“With my father, ~painting ‘the Sunday
School rooms .in the church basement,” the
preacher’s son replied. “But why do you
ask ?”

“Mabel Page was murdered today,” the
detective declared bluntly. “Sometime late
this morning.” -

Ford turned pale. “Mabel?” he gasped.
“But why would anyone want to hurt her?”

The Reverend Ford had meanwhile entered
the room. Hearing of the crime, he readily
corroborated his son’s alibi. ,

“Now, think,” Hammond urged the young

man. “Did Mabel Page keep company with
anyone except you and Parker Bailey?”
ord’s eyebrows raised. He began to talk
eagerly. “Why, yes, now that you ask. There’s
a young fellow over: Auburndale way—
Tucker, I think his name is—who used to
pester her to go out with him. But that was
almost a‘year ago.”
Tucker, he added, was a baggageman on the
Boston & Albany Railroad. His wife had
died just about the time he met Mabel Page,
and he had told. her he was lonesome. , But
Ford knew nothing else about him. _
The detectives left the parsonage and head-
ed for Auburndale, two miles to the east.
Meanwhile, Sheriff Fairbairn and his men
had been busy. They checked the house-
keeper’s story of her shopping trip and visit
at a friend’s house ‘and established that she
could not have been at the sd¢ene of the
murder between 10:30 a.m. and the time of
her return while the officers had been there.
The sheriff visited other houses in the
neighborhood on the trail of the coachman
who had been seeking a job. At several
places, he learned that the man had applied
for employment but had been turned away.
Finally Fairbairn found a, housewife who,
feeling sorry for the shabby fellow, had
taken his name and’ address, promising to
send for him if she needed him.
His name was Robert Cronin, and the
address he gave was on Endicott Street in
Boston. Fairbairn was impressed by the fact
that this address was near that of Gerald
Spade, whom the state detectives were seek-
ing. Was this, he wondered, a coincidence or
more than that? Could there be a connection
between the two men and the murder of
Mabel Page? Re
In Boston, meanwhile, Chief Shaw and
Detective Whitney also were hard at work.
They had determined beyond a shadow of
doubt that Harold Page had remained in a
brokerage office there from the time of his
arrival on the morning train until his de-
parture for home early in the afternoon upon
receiving his father’s telephone call.

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Beacon Street address ascribed to” Spade.”
The building there was a rundown structure
of faded red brick, consisting of three stories
above a dilapidated second-hand ‘store. A
chill fog lent an eerie atmosphere to the
scene as the old gas street lights made
shimmering yellow globes in the mist. —

Entering the narrow foyer, the detectives
found no mailboxes nor name plates. Climb-
ing the steep stairs, they pounded heavily
on the door of the second-floor flat. At
length it was opened cautiously and a gaunt
‘voman peered out.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“Does Gerald Spade live here?” Watts
asked.

The woman nodded. “He has a room in
the attic. But we ain’t seen him for two
days now. Guess he’s out on a toot.”

Spade was a heavy drinker, she explained,
and couldn’t keep a job more than a couple
of weeks. Often he was away.from his room
ten days at a time.

‘The landlady led the officers up to Spade’s
room and admitted them witha pass-key. The
garret was littered with papers, magazines
and books. On a rough ‘table stood a worn
typewriter.

“He’s. an author,” she remarked with a

' smirk. “At least he thinks he is. Doesn’t get

much for his efforts, I guess.”

The officers made a quick search of the
room but found nothing incriminating. Their
best course, they knew, was to await Spade’s
return. Watts summoned a patrolman and
ordered him to guard the premises until re-
lieved. Then’ the trio returned to Boston
headquarters.

Off on Another Lead

Waiting for them there was a telephone
message from Fairbairn, reporting what he
had learned about Robert Cronin.-Shaw and
Whitney set out with Watts at once to
seek the jobless coachman.

At the Endicott Street address they found
another ramshackle building. A portly
German landlord led them to a rear base-
ment room, where a short, swarthy man in
a dirty undershirt and trousers answered
their knock.

“No, I’m not Cronin,” he replied in an-
swer to a question. “Just a friend of his. He
left to look for work. Said he’d be back to- -
a tomorrow.”

atts flashed his badge. “We want to
talk with him. Get in touch with me at
headquarters as soon as he shows up.”

Although the roomer agreed to do’ so,
Watts stationed another patrolman to stand
guard, with orders to nab the suspect when
he. returned. i ‘

Back in Auburndale, Detectives Neal and
Hammond met Chief James Tarbox of the
local police and all three went to the home
of Charles Tucker, the 24-year-old widower,

suitor of the slain girl.

Thin, brown-haired and of medium height,
Tucker was playing cards with his father in
the living room of their little gray frame
house. He met the officers at the door and
he met them with an ingratiating smile.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he
asked. ~

His demeanor was hardly that of a guilty
man, but Chief Tarbox had told them some-
thing on their way to the house which
prompted them to discount appearances. Al-
most a year ago, Tucker’s blonde wife, Alicia,
had been drowned in the. Chester River not
far from their home. The circumstances were
suspicious. Alicia either had fallen, jumped
or been hurled into the water. She could not
swim.

Tarbox had, conducted an inquiry, and

whom Seth Ford had named as a rejected -

Tucker told him Alicia had been despondent
and planned to kill herself. However, there
wereyno-»-notes, -and other: . witnesses ~de~*

“gcribéd“her“as happy ‘and carefree. Yet- there

was no evidence to disprove the husband’s
story, and the investigation finally was
dropped. ,

In the Mabel Page murder and Alicia
Tucker’s death, Neal and Hammond saw a
possible deadly parallél—homicide masked
as suicide. They resolved to investigate
Tucker thoroughly.

“These officers would like to ask you some
questions, Charles,” Tarbox said, and Tucker
readily admitted them to the house.

“Not about the drowning again, is it?” the
young man asked, his smile fading.

“No,” Neal said. “Just tell us where you
were this morning.”

“Working down around the boathouses,”
the suspect replied. “I quit the railroad about
two weeks ago and haven’t had a steady job
since, but I manage to pick up a little change
along the river.”

“Can you prove you were there?” Ham-
mond asked narrowly.

“Sure. You can talk to the fellows I
worked for. But say, what’s this all about?”

“You. know Mabel Page?” Neal inquired.

Tucker’s cold blue eyes were unblinking.
“Yes, what about her?”

“She wag murdered today—stabbed to
déath.” .

Showing little emotion, Tucker shook his
head slowly. “That’s a shame. She was such
a nice girl. Who did it?”

“That’s .what we .want to know,” Ham-
mond ‘snapped. “Where can we find these
men you say you were with this morning?”

Tucker’s face colored. “Say, you don’t -

think I’m mixed up in that murder, do you?”
He paused, then shrugged. “Well, I guess
there’s nothing to do, but prove where I was.”

The young man told the detectives that he
had spent the entire morning helping two
brothers recaulk their sailing boat. He said
they probably could be found at their home
a few blocks away.

They were—and they substantiated Tuck-
er’s alibi completely.

The detectives went back to state police

. headquarters at West Newton and were still

busy with their reports when Chief Shaw
and Whitney got in from Boston at 11 Pp. M.
The four officers compared notes on the sus-
pects each pair had investigated. None, they

* felt, could be eliminated as yet—not even

Tucker, whose alibi seemed airtight. His
previous connection with a mysterious death
‘stood’ against him.

The investigators agreed that one clue
jn their possession was certain to prove im-
portant, although its relation to the slaying
.of Mabel Page was still far from clear. That
was the slip of paper found on her bedroom
floor, bearing Spade’s name and address.

“It seems to me that either he was the
murderer,” Shaw theorized, “or he was
known to the victim or the actual slayer. But
if he were merely an acquaintance of the
dead girl, why should the piece of paper
have been on her floor? Why not in a letter~
box, or tucked away somewhere in the
leaves of a book?: And if he stabbed her, why
did he leave what amounted to a calling card
for the police to find?”

“Then most likely,” suggested Whitney,
“the killer was an acquaintance of Spade
who accidentally dropped that paper in his
flight.” ,

“Maybe not accidentally,” the chief said.
“It could have been a plant. From what we
knaw of Spade, he’s an irresponsible fellow.
He drinks heavily and often probably can’t
account for where: he’s been or what he’s
done. He’d be a perfect target on which to
cast suspicion of murder.” ;

The officers were frankly stumped by the
question of a motive for the crime. Dr.
Mead’s report on the autopsy did little to

sa 5 aaa

clear it up. I
no criminal z
by the stab \

The positi:
the bec ;
against
intrude
seemed ure ¢
der, but now
a shred of
theory.

Four days
velopment. T .
4, Robert (
lodgings in |,
ingly to Bost
questioned. T ,
ton on the n
passed the P*
but he stout!
the house or
premises.

Soon the st
he had no pa
suggestion tt
handwriting.
that inclined
closely resem!
and address, ‘
D. Ewell, a
New York,
lines on the
room. Then
warning to |
further questi

Three days
to his garret,
ly suffering :
spector Watts
question him.
Mabel Page a
and address c
for stabbing |
with friends i:
gave their ad
and Watts ir
verified his a
not possibly h

Further, the
was in no wa
Name w
He was

Back
uncovered a b

investigation «
terested Shaw
railroad, Tuck
Stationery sto:
was only a fe:
—

nquiry at t
had been a cus
buying paper ;
was logical to

the young auth.
in the shop.

At Shaw’s
store searched
quantity of sa
written while :
glance at the «
recognize it a<
slip of paper {
Page!
_“Charles Te
right,” Shaw tc
of paper at the
to cast the bla:

“But what a

asked.
_ “It’s obvious
ing over the rc
him. It’s entire!
wife so that he
and the realizati
first murder in
frantic.”

d been despondent
f. However, there
ier witnesses dew"
carefree. Yet- there
ove the husband’s
ation finally was

surder and Alicia
Hammond saw 4
homicide masked
ed to investigate

ke to ask you some
x said, and Tucker
the house.
ig again, is it?” the
aile fading.
t tell us where you

nd the boathouses,”
it the railroad about
n’t had a steady job
ck up a little change

were there?” Ham-

- to the fellows I
at’s this all about?”
ige?” Neal inquired.
‘es were unblinking.

today—stabbed to

ucker shook his
e. She was such

nt to know,” Ham-
> can we find these
with this morning?”
-d. “Say, you don’t
hat murder, do you?”
ged. “Well, I guess
t prove where I was.
the detectives that he
morning helping two
sailing boat. He said
found at their home

y substantiated Tuck-

back to state police
Newton and were still
‘ts when Chief Shaw
om Boston at 11 P.M.
vared notes on the sus-
vestigated. None, they
ited as yet—not even
seemed airtight. His
ith a mysterious death

agreed that one clue
is certain to prove im-
relation to the slaying
ill far from clear. That
found on her bedroom
name and address.

‘hat either he was the
,eorized, “or he was
wr the actual slayer. But
an acquaintance of the
iid the piece of paper
ir? Why not in a letter-
‘ay somewhere in the
dif he stabbed her, why
counted to a calling card
1?”

y,” suggested Whitney,
acquaintance of Spade
opped that paper in his

“ly” the chief said.
ant. From what we
irresponsible fellow.

_... often probably cant
he’s been or what he’s
‘fect target on which to
urder.” .

frankly stumped by the
‘jve for the crime. Ur.
the autopsy did little to

EAE GLE OLE

sedi

clear it up. He said there definitely. had. been

no criminal assault and that death was caused
by the stab wound in the heart. .

The position of the corpse, laid out beside
the bed as though by an undertaker, argued
against the girl having been slain by some
intruder in search of plunder. Jealous hatred
seemed the only logical reason for the mur-
der, but nowhere did the investigators have
a shred of evidence to substantiate this
theory.

Four days dragged by before the next de-
velopment. Then, late on the night of April
4, Robert Cronin returned. to his shabby
lodgings in Endicott Street. He went will-
ingly to Boston headquarters, where he was
questioned. The coachman had been in Wes-
ton on the morning of the murder and had
passed the Page house at about 11 o'clock,
but he stoutly denied that he had been in
the house or had seen anyone around the
premises.

Soon the state officers were convinced that
he had no part in the crime, but at Shaw’s
suggestion gp! obtained a sample of his
handwriting. His script was a gawky scrawl
that inclined backward. Although it did not
closely resemble the writing of Spade’s name
and address, Shaw dispatched it to Marshall
D. Ewell, a noted handwriting analyst ‘in
New York, for comparison with the two
lines on the slip ‘found in Mable Page’s
room. Then they released Cronin with a
warning to hold himself in readiness for
further questioning.

Spade Turns Up

Three days later, Gerald Spade returned
to his garret, a haggard young man obvious-
ly suffering from a terrific hangover. In-
spector Watts and two detectives arrived to
question him. Spade insisted he did not know

- Mabel Page and had no idea how his name

and address came to be in her chamber. As
for stabbing the girl, he said he had been
with friends in New York for.ten days. He
gave their addresses and telephone numbers,
and Watts immediately called them. They
verified his alibi, saying that Spade could
not possibly have been in Weston March 31.

Further, the alcoholic author’s handwriting
was in no way similar to that in which his
name was inscribed on the murder clue.
He was released from custody.

Back in Weston, Neal and Hammond had
uncovered a bit of personal history in their

investigation of Charles Tucker which in-

terested Shaw..Before going’ to work for the
railroad, Tucker had been @mployed in a
stationery store in Boston—and the place
was only a few blocks from Spade’s garret
studio.

Inquiry at the store revealed that Spade
had been a customer there for several years,
buying paper and other writing supplies. It
was logical to assume that Tucker had made ©
the young author’s acquaintance while a clerk
in the shop. ”

At Shaw’s request, the manager of the
store searched his files and produced a
quantity of sales slips which Tucker had
written while a clerk there. It took only a
glance at the curious back-slanted script to
recognize it as identical with that on the
slip of paper found neat the body of Mabel’
Page!

_“Charles Tucker is the murderer, all
right,” Shaw told his men: “He left that slip
of paper at the scene in a deliberate effort
to cast the blame on poor Spade.”

“But what about the motive?” Whitney
asked.

_ “It’s obvious that Tucker had been brood-
ing over the refusal of Mabel Page to see -
him. It’s entirely possible he got rid of his
wife so that he could be free to court Mabel,
and the realization that he had committed the
first murder in vain must have driven him
frantic.”

- — Sounds logical,” Whitney agreed. “But

just why did he kill the Page girl?”

“Tucker doubtless bided his time,” the |!|

chief went.on, “waiting for an opportunity

. to confront Mabel alone. He probably had

been watching the house for days. On that
fatal Thursday he saw his chance—the father,

brother and housekeeper all were. out. The

front door was unlocked and he entered un-
announced.

“In a moment he was in the girl’s room,
demanding a showdown. He, wanted her to
go away with him—that’s apparent from the
strange farewell note to her father giving an
excuse for going away suddenly. He prob-
ably forced.her to write it at knife-point.

“At the last minute, she must have refused
to go, so Tucker slew. her in an outburst of
jealous rage. Then, to throw us off the trail,
he scribbled Spade’s name on the slip of
paper, dropped it and fled with the weapon.”

“But what about the alibi?” Whitney
asked. “The brothers said he was working
with them all. that morning.”

“TI don’t know where the flaw lies in that,
but we'll soon find out,” Shaw promised.
“Tucker’s our man.”

The young. widower was promptly arrested
at his-home in Auburndale. In a search of
the premises, the officers found a hunting
knife handle and three fragments of - the

blade hidden in his mattress. The pieces of |.

steel bore bloodstains. In a closet hung a
pair of trousers which, although recently
washed, still showed suspicious stains. ;

Neal and Hammond called upon the two
boat-owning brothers. When they were in-
formed of Tucker’s arrest and were warned
they might face charges of being accessories
after the fact if they persisted in lying to
save him, the pair changed their story.

They confessed that they had not seen thé
suspect after 10 o’clock on the morning of the
crime. At that hour, they revealed, he left
the boathouse without saying where he was
going, and did not return. They had thought
the police were hounding -him over his first
wife’s death, of which they believed him in-
ocertt, and for that reason had tried to shield

im.

Confronted with the shattered alibi and the
clue of the matching handwriting on the slip
found in the murder room, Tucker still
protested his innocence. While the facts were

resented to the grand jury without a con-
ession, evidence against him continued to
pile up. z ‘

Ewell, the handwriting expert, identified
the script on the paper as Tucker’s, and Dr.
Timothy Leary, professor of Pathology at
Tufts College, analyzed the stains on the

. knife blade fragments and the trousers and

reported they were human blood.
But Tucker still would not confess. On

January 24, 1905, a jury before Judge Frank

Sheldon in Superior Court at Cambridge

found him guilty of first degree murder. He |

was sentenced to die in the electric chair at
Charlestown.

His execution was delayed for 18 months,
however, while his attorneys fought des-
perately to save his life: As a last resort, they
appealed for clemency to President Theodore
Roosevelt.

After careful study of the case, the Presi- |. ‘

dent wired Governor Curtis Guild, backing
the governor’s decision not to commute the
sentence. *

“It seems particularly a case,” Roosevelt’s
wire said, “in which there should be no inter-
ference in the carrying out of the sentence.”

Late on the night of June 12, 1906, Charles
Tucker .was strapped into the chair at
Charlestown and electrocuted.

Eprtor’s Note: To spare possible em-
barrassment ‘to innocent persons, the names

Gerald Spade, Parker Batley, Seth Ford and
onl Cronin, used in this story, are ficti-
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Case of the
Upstairs Corpse

' (Continued from page 27)

killed herself?” he inquired.
“Why, what else .could -have hapraned’ we
the father countered. “She left this note, in-

. | dicating she was worried about her brother. :

And she had been moody -of late: Isn’t that

the way many people do it—by cutting their”

throat ?”

“Frankly, the wound doesn’t look self-in-
flicted,” the medical examiner replied. “We
wasn’t deep enough to be fatal, either.”

“Doctor, look here,” beckoned Frost, who
had stripped back the full sleeve from the
girl’s left arm. The outer forearm bore.a
long, deep gash. “She surely didn’t cut her-
self there!”

Looking for other wounds, the physicians
found a scarlet stain on her camisole, directly
over her heart. The blood had not yet soaked

through the taffeta dress, but had welled °

from a single stab wound which appeared to
have pierced her heart,

“These multiple wounds,” Dr. Frost said,

“make suicide highly improbable:” :

“Then it was—murder?” the father whis-
pered hoarsely.

“Murder |” De Mead echoed. “We'll notify
the authorities at once.’

The officers arrived promptly, husky,
square-jawed Chief Albert Shaw, young De-
tective Frank Whitney of the Massachusetts
State Police and Sheriff George Fairbairn.

They surveyed the scene of the tragedy
and obtained a report from Dr. Mead. With
trembling. hands, Page produced the mys-
terious farewell note and the slip -bearing
the name of Gerald ‘Spade.

The absence of the lethal weapon, Chief
Shaw ,was quick to point out, was a certain
indication that the young woman had been
slain, although there was nothing to sug-
gest a motive. The doctors reported there
was no evidence of criminal assault, and Page

‘was certain nothing had been taken from

the house.

She Had No Enemies

The father, however, could not reconcile
himself to the fact that his daughter had
been murdered. He protested that no one
was known to the family who could have
committed ‘such a heinous crime.

“Mabel was a kind, gentle and generous
girl,” he said. “She had -many friends, but
no enemies.”

“T imening “she had suitors,” Detective
Whitney put in. “Did she keep company with
any young men?” ;

‘Just one or two,” Page replied. “She was
attractive and gay, but she didn’t go much
for parties. She did go out of an evening

now and then with Parker Bailey ; I think.

she was quite fond of him. Once in a while’
she would go driving with Seth Ford, but he

_ was second choice.”

Bailey, the father continued, was a young
mechanic who lived less than a mile away.
Ford was the rotund son of a preacher, who
also resided in the vicinity.

“How about your son Harold?” Whitney
asked. “Do you know if he’s really ill in

‘Boston ?”

“I -know he isn’t. I put a call through to
Boston’ and talked with him. He couldn't

understand who told Mabel such a thing. He’s .

on his way here now.”

Then the farewell note on: Mabel’s dresser,
the officers realized, had been a fake. Still,
peconng 5 her father, it was in her hand-
iting.

hy had she written it? Had some- |

one lied to her and told her that her brother
was ill? Had the murderer used the story of
Harold’s sickness to gain her confidence, to
obtain entry to her room?

The door banged downstairs as Miss
Roberts, the housekeeper, came in with her
arms full of bundles. Sheriff Fairbairn went
down and escorted. her up to the door of
Mabel Page’s room. At the sight of the girl’s
body, the housekeeper fainted. Fairbairn
caught her as she fell.

When revived, Miss -Roberts answered
questions in a quavering voice.

18 left the house about 10:30 this morn-

ing,” she said. “Miss Mabel was in the living '
room, She was singing as she sewed. She

seemed very happy, poor child.”
Miss Roberts said she had walked directly
to the village. She had seen no one suspicious

* on the way. For the next hour or so, she

had shopped, pausing to chat with some of
her friends, On the way back she had stopped
in to visit a maid at a neighbor’s house, she
said, accounting for the rest of her time
until her .return.

Shaw looked at his watch. It was now
1:15 p.m. Turning’to Page, he asked, “When
did your son leave for Boston?”

“A little after 8 o’clock this morning,” the
old man replied. “I had breakfast with him
and Mabel just before he went to the station.”

Whitney held up the scrap of paper and
inquired, “‘Who is the ‘Gerald Spade’ whose

‘name appears on this slip?”

“Never heard of him,” Page declared.
“I'm pretty sure Mabel didn’t know him,
either. But perhaps Harold does.”

Mrs. Woodward had been standing by
silently. Now she spoke up. “I saw a dark,
foreign-looking man in the neighborhood this
morning,” she told Shaw. “He was a stranger
and he didn’t look like -a’ man you could
trust. He stopped at my back door and asked
if we had any work for a coachman. I: didn’t
like his looks and I sent him away.”

The man was dressed-in a dirty red-and-
black striped blazer, she added, and wore a
moth-eaten brown fur cap.

“If this man applied for work at your
house,” the sheriff suggested, “he must have
called at other houses around here. Maybe
he left his name and address at one of them.”

Fairbairn immediately started his deputies
on a canvass of the district in search of the
job-seeker, while Shaw and Whitney pains-
takingly searched the murder chamber, the
house and. the premises for further clues.
They found none.

While they were at this task, Harold Page
arrived home from Boston. The victim’s
dapper young brother seemed greatly. dis-
tressed by Mabel’s tragic death. He wept

as he knelt beside her body. Questioned by -

the officers, he could cast no light on the
mystery. He had not been ill, he said, and
hadn’t told anyone that he was. He knew no
one named Spade.

While the medical examiner made prepara-
tions for removal of the body to the Middle-
sex morgue for an autopsy, Chief Shaw and
Whitney decided to go to Boston and try to
find the mysterious Gerald Spade. Shaw
summoned Detectives Alfred Neal and Jack
Hammond and assigned them to check on the
girl’s suitors, Parker Bailey and Seth Ford.

A light snow was falling and a strong
northeast wind stung the investigators as

_ they left the house and split up to carry out

their missions. It was 3:30 p. M. on Thurs-
day, March 31, 1904.

While Shaw and Whitney took the next
train for Boston, Neal and FP seabe drove
to the small white bungalow where Bailey,
the young mechanic, lived with his family.

At the garage where he worked, they had ,

learned he was home ill.
Mrs. Bailey met them at the door and led
them into her son’s room. The doctor, she

said, had just left. Bailey lay still in the bed, ©

his eyes h:
fever. “He
his mother
“One ¢
Bailey. “.
The yc
eyes. “Ne.
feebly. “W
“She’s n
said. “Hav:

Bailey sa
white, eyes
This is terr

The dete
after assuri:
evidence thi
slaying. Th:
doctor who
assured the
malingering
been’ in bed

Neal and
low frame |
chubby, pir
graduate w
At the offi
him into the

“Tell us,’
spend the n

“With m
School roon
preacher’s

ask ?”
“Mabel F
detective de
this morning
Ford tur:
“But why w
The Reve:
the room. i
corroborated
“Now, thi:

t of June 12, 1924, the
nic—of Jesse James flared

7, the fast mail of the
ukee and St. Paul, raced
ht some thirty miles west
proaching Rondout, III,
Waite became suddenly
1¢ standing beside him in
ned his head quickly to
isk and a gun.

id a single word. “Stop!”
in the throttle and applied
1¢ did so he noticed that
inconsgious in the tender,
man in over him. -
ked aSMe crossing where
a halt. A group of armed
into the night. The steel
glinted in the moonlight
fed upon the two mail
he engine.

gunfire shattered the still
ices rose, high, grim and
¢ single cry of a wounded
ly along the tracks. Then
dding sound of mailbags
e coach to the embank.-

¢n minutes after the gun
in Engineer Waite’s ribs,
id sped into oblivion and
her journey to Rondout
orted the greatest mail
story of crime.

‘¢ missing. Their contents,
and bonds totalled some-
two million dollars.

¢ higher echelon officers
the case was William J.
$a postal inspector and a
ervice. Fahey had cracked
e robberies; had acquired
utation. ;

t the news of the holdup
Tk, one of Fahey's under-
kingly to a friend, “Those
a chance with Fahey on

ul bl ound. Why, I'll
aid ior the crime
went by, it appeared that
Inspector Fahcy's reputa-
| to have an easy time
inals. There were few
1 which to work.

tame when police, called

MAN ON THE INSIDE

to a rooming house in a gangster shooting,
came upon three men, J. H. Wade, Walter
McCombs and James Watson. A search of
these three brought to light several thou-
sand dollars of the stolen money. The men
were promptly tossed into jail.

Meanwhile, the police maintained a
vigilant watch on the rooming house. The
next man to walk into their net was James
Murray, a rich politician and beer runner.
Murray immediately offered the officers a
fat bribe for his release. This, of course,
was rejected but Murray soon obtained his
freedom on bail. «

Now, that the officers were slowly turn-
ing up some of the answers in the case,
Charles Clarahan, a postal inspector from
New York who had been put on the case,
discussed developments with Fahey.

“Bill,” said Clarahan, “we're slowly but
surely picking up the small fry. But we
want the real big guy back of this.”

Fahey nodded his head. “I've been think-
ing the same thing,” he said. “You mean
there’s an inside guy on this?”

“Yes. There must be. Someone knew that
big shipment of cash and valuables was
going out.”

For the next few days Clarahan and
Fahey concentrated on bringing to book
the mastermind behind the two million
dollar train robbery. Then, at the end of
the week, the two inspectors met to com-
pare notes.

Tt was a hot day and Fahey wiped the
perspiration from his brow with a hand-
kerchief. “It’s tough,” he announced. “I've
covered every angle I can think of and I've
got nowhere at all. How about you?”

Clarahan said, “I've done pretty well.”

Fahey glanced at the other sharply. “You
mean you know who the mastermind is?”

Clarahan nodded.

“Who?”

Clarahan drew a deep breath. He
dropped his hand to the butt of the auto-
matic in his pocket and said quietly, “You.”

There was a sudden tight silence. Fahey
said, ‘Are you crazy?”

“I had your house searched,” said Clara-
han. “We found confidential lists of
registered mails which had been taken from
the postoffice. We also found evidence in
this case which you'd concealed. Moreover,
we know you've been in constant touch
with James Murray, tipping him off on each
phase of the investigation. We've got a
lot more, too. But that can wait.”

Thus it was that a crack Government
investigator found himself in a prisoner's
dock, listening to a Federal judge sentence
him to twenty-five years.

The casual words of the young clerk had
been truer than he knew. Inspector William
Fahey certainly had known who the
criminals were even before the crime had
been committed. —D. L. Champion

trouble until I picked up yesterday's paper
and saw his picture.”

“Hold him on any pretext,” the state de-
tective directed. “I’m leaving here now in a
fast car.”

Although the speedometer seldom dropped
below fifty, when Griffin reached that town
nestled in the heart of the White Mountains
several hours later, Taylor was gone. In some
way his suspicions had been aroused and he
had vanished.

Police and public were now alert. Taylor
fled to Manchester, New Hampshire, where
he joined a Wild West show. He had been
with the show only a few hours before
word of his whereabouts was flashed to
Detective Griffin. From Manchester, he
followed the fugitive to Plymouth. From
Plymouth into Bartlett and then into Craw-
ford Notch, Again he missed him by a few
hours, A tip placed Taylor in Sherbrooke,
Quebec. The Massachusetts officer tele-
graphed Canadian authorities to place him
under arrest only to learn that he had re-
crossed the border back into Maine. Police
in that state tracked him to Belfast where
he had registered as “George Good—Carbou,
Maine,”

Griffin rushed to Belfast. Taylor alias
Good had left town. The detective barely
had time to make photostatic copies of the
signature on the register before it became
known the killer was in Dover, New Hamp-
shire. Griffin burned up the roads to that
city but again Taylor had disappeared a step
ahead of the policeman,

“He’s still around," Griffin told the co-
operating New Hampshire authorities. “But
now he realizes I’m so close behind he may
try to hole up somewhere.”

June passed without further word regard- ~

ing Taylor, but on July 10, State Detective
Edwin Brown received a call at Montpelier
from Sheriff Edward E, Holmes of Hyde
Park, Vermont.

“Wonder if you could drop down to the
county jail here,” he inquired. “I need your
advice on something.”

Holmes drew Brown into his private office
when he arrived and without preamble
stated that on July 5 he had arrested a man
by the name of Henry Lewis on suspicion
of being connected with an auto-theft ring.
Lewis denied any connection with the crime
but made no protest when the sheriff locked
him up.

“Beyond the fact that he could produce
no evidence to show who he was, we didn't
have a thing on him,” the sheriff confessed
uneasily. “I figured we might just as well
let him go and went over to the jail to tell
him. I found the darned fool amusing other
pei vl with a song and some dance steps.

hat jogged my memory about the dancing

. barber and I figured you ought to come

over.”

Brown reread the Wanted circular and
then went to the jail. He spent some time
unobserved outside the prisoner's cell before
rejoining the sheriff.

“I'd get in touch with the Massachusetts
authorities without delay,” he advised, “Un-
less I'm greatly mistaken, that’s the slayer
of Stella Kale.”

The prisoner appeared unconcerned when
Detective-Lieutenant Griffin was brought
into his cell later. The officer's voice was
grim and uncompromising.

“I guess we've caught up with you at last,
George Taylor,” was his greeting.

The prisoner looked at him with puz-
zled eyes. “Kind of confused, aren't you,
Neighbor?” he replied in a gentle voice.
“Aren't you mixing me up with someone
else?” ‘

“Not at all,” Griffin asserted. “That's the
name you went by in Eastport, Maine.”

The prisoner shook his head. “Never was
in Eastport.”

Confronted by the pen
sent to the Salisbury pc
hesitated and then admit
called by that name. Asked
he countered by saying tha
barbered he was really a t
a time he denied being tt
who had signed the Belf
even after a comparison ¢
the signature on the regi
to be the same and he agai
bou by leaving out the “i.

“It’s my writing,” he fina
my name is really George °
from Cleveland, Ohio.”

He raised his hand to em
the sleeve of his shirt fe
the tattooed hands, the |
the initials E. T. Griffin a
ters stood for.

“A very dear girl frie:
stated. ‘Her name is Este

More questioning brou
ing admissions. He had w
Bulger, the Hampton Bea
had been at Salisbury Be

FAT!
HONEY!
OF T.
DISCONT
BRI)

[Continued from

james Addy, of the G
Investigation, appeared,
sherift's earlier call for
formed Addy of the ex:
investigation, and then as
accompany the state dete
Chevrolet stood, with in:
car be driven to the cou
Valley after Addy had te:

By late afternoon, the
‘Red Feather. Like road!
over, this one had its sh
and nursery-cultivated s
the front and sides. A
restaurant was virtually
principal business the est
joying was derived from
which stood adjacent to
However, the owner, Rud
premises. “It's shocking
when Beland told him o:
business. “Jump spent a
and a lot of money, too.’

When questioned abot
ship with Sunny Nugei
thought for a moment
finally, “I guess you co
sweet on her—that is,
married. But in my opini
was ever very serious. /
didn’t seem to lose any
this other fellow arou
Sunny’s new boy friend, ]
called Elwood, but he d
name, nor where he m
did, however, direct th
Nugent's house, one of ;
cabins a quarter of a m

As for the incident at
previous evening, Link
witnessed it, and as he »
happened, the sheriff
version was in substant
that of Elise Jump. “I g

ls a added. “Compare the two. I'm
not a handwriting expert, but it is obvious
that you wrote that name on the ledger.”
Reverend Hight shook his head wearily
and said nothing, For three hours Sheriff
Holcomb and Thompson shot questions at
the minister, He stubbornly denied he had
poisoned his wife and Sweetin. He denied
there was anything between him and Mrs.
Sweetin. He denied everything,
ohn Peter Corvin was brought in and he

told how Mrs. Hight had confided to him
that she was afraid her husband would
oison her because of his love for Mrs.
weetin. But Reverend Hight stuck to his
story. Mrs. Upland faced Hight and accused
him of having an affair with Mrs. Sweetin
and threatening his wife because she
wouldn't divorce him, This didn't break
Hight. Mrs. Upland and Corvin were per-
mitted ta leave. yap | Frank Case remained
with Mrs, Sweetin, who hadn't been ques-
tioned.

Thompson changed his tactics, Thompson
shot at him: “Could it be possible that you
poisoned your wife to put her out of her

is misery. She was a sick woman.”
everend Hight groaned and nodded:
“Yes... yes... 1 gave her arsenic in a
cup of coffee...1...1... killed her...
what more do you want to know... can I
rest now?"

“What about Sweetin?” Thompson thun-
dered at him. “Mrs. Sweetin told us about
a mystery woman who visited her husband.
But I don’t believe there was such a woman.
She made that story up because she knew
you had polsoned her husband and she
wanted to protect you.”

“Yes, I poisoned Sweetin,” the reverend’s
voice wasn't much mare than a whisper. “But
Elsie Sweetin had nathing to do with either
murders. I did them both.”

He was permitted to go to a cell and sleep.

The next affernoon Very Reverend C. C.,

Hall, Ct 1 District Superintendent. vis-
ited Hight in his cell and pleaded with him
to tell the truth, Hight changed his story, He
told about his love for Mrs. Sweetin and how
life with his wife was unhappy. It was the
old story of two people being thrown to-
gether and the physical attraction, after a

while, overpowering both of them. ft had
started over a year before, during a com-
munity picnic. Neither had wanted it to
happen. but despite all efforts to resist, they
were drawn to each other more and more.
Their love for each other grew until it be-
came the overpowerlng emotion in their
lives, They arranged mectings several times
a week. With all the obstacles confronting
them, the idea of marriage was impossible.

At first, it was only a fleeting thought, but
as passion for the charms of the attractive
Mrs, Sweetin increased, murder became the
one thought in his mind. He read up on
poisons and laid his plans carefully.

As he concluded his confession, he said: “I
was starved for love and so was Elsie Sweetin.
I. wanted to marry her}! Murder seemed the
only way out for me. Mrs, Sweetin had noth-
ing to do with the cyfmes nor had she any
idea of what I was cgntemplating.”

— Reverend Hight wis tried and convicted,
and sentenced to Ife imprisonment. He
came to the defense of Mrs. Sweetin and in
the end all charges were dropped against

her. Spy.

MURDER
AT PASSION’S
TIDE

[Continued from page 21] .

Officer Berry responded, “but Officer Clark
and myself on duty outside the Electrola
saw one fellow who seemed set for a r
roaring time. Despite all of last night's traffic
he was in the street trying to do a buck-
and-wing.”

“Was he drunk?” Smith demanded.

“Didn't seem to be,” Clark replied. “Berry
here told him ta be on his way and he dis-
appeared in the direction of the beach,”

“What time was that?"

“Now that you speak of it, it was just about
the time that sink wks supposed to be out
for a walk—a little after half paar nine, I
remember now he was wearing dark glasses
that looked a lot like the ones that were
picked up on the beach,"

The chief ordered his men to question
further every person known to have been
near the beach on the possibility that some-
one might be able to throw some light on
the killing.

From Amesbury came a telephone call
from Medical Examiner Murphy who had
just finished his autopsy with the aid of
Medical Examiner Timothy Leary of Boston.
It confirmed his earlier unofficial finding that
the girl had been strangled; the killer had
not succeedted in completing his criminal
attack,

After the men had gone Chief Smith
studied his notes for several minutes in
silence. Already the killer had gained several
hours in covering a trail that was ra idly
chilling. Smith knew he must have elp,
and have it fast, Reaching for the phone,
he was soon in touch with Chief of Detectives
Thomas E. Bligh of the Massachusetts State
Police. The head of the state police detective
bureau at once assigned Detective-Lieu-
‘nants Richard J. Griffin and John Stokes
ater state police commissioner) to work
with the local chief. Griffin, on duty not far
from Salisbury, was the first to arrive. Smith
quickly acquainted him with the facts.

“That message you found on the envelope
may give us the quickest answer,” the state
detective advised, “Maybe her father could
Rive us some dope on this Jimmie.”

The two men sped to the home of the
varents in Lawrence. They stood silently by
ltecerstvig as the grief-stricken parents talked
of their dafighter, One of five girls, she had
been an honor student in her graduating
class the year before. Unlike most of her
classmates, she wanted a career before set-
tling down.

Vinally Griffin produced the envelope. The
father could make nothing of it.

“T don't know any Jimmie,” he told the
two police officers, “and I am sure that my
daughace never knew anybody by that
name,”

“That is your daughter's handwriting,
however, isn't it?” the state detective queried.
“Unquestionably,” the father replied.

As to her boy friends, the parents agreed
that their daugther had only been on
nig terms with one youth. His name
was Sidney Foster and he lived in Lawrence.
The mother gave the officers his address,
although assuring them that he could be in
no way involved. Asked if they knew when
he had last seen Stella, the mother stated
that he had been planning to drive over to
Salisbury on Sunday and spend a few hours
with her,

Griffin also asked about any jewelry that
their daughter might have been wearing at
the time of her death. The mother stated

that her daughter owned a ruby ring in a’

massive gold setting and a white gold wrist
watch, The wrist watch had been a gradua-
tion present and had been purchased at one
of the local stores,

The ruby ring had also been secured at
the same store. The detective made a nota-
tion of the name and address, Before leaving
the city, the two men called at this store
and secured the case and maker's numbers
on the watch. Then they drove to the home
of Sidney Foster.

Foster, a well-spoken youth of twenty, gave
them a straightforward version of his move-
ments on the day before, although shocked
and obviously upset at the news of her
tragic death, He said that he had visited
with Stella during the forenaon, leaving the
heach shortly after 1 o’clock. The girl was in
her usual good spirits and made no mention
of any trouble. A Sage investigation
clisclosed that Foster had been truthful in
all his statements and his name was dropped
from the lst of possible suspects.

Back in Salishury, Stokes and Griffin con.
tacted Photographer Stevens. They had
been told that lights in the studio had
been seen burning until early morning and

that the girl had been seen to return.
Stevens denied he had seen the girl after she
had left for her walk. However, he admitted
there had been lights burning until an early
hour as he had been working late. When he
finally retired about 1 o'clock he had left
the porch light on.

“Are you sure that you never heard
Stella mention a boy by the name of
Jimmie?" Stokes asked, repeating the ques-
tion which had heen put hy Chief Smith
earlier in the investigation,

“Never,” the photographer? replied.

Griffin showed him the se which
had heen picked up near the body

“That isn't the name of any fellow,”
Stevens commented. “Jimmie is the name of
a song. Stella attended a show Saturday
night.” he explained, “She happened to show
me that envelope when she returned; she
said that those three numbers were her
favorite songs,”

sagaiyy ahout town by local officers acting
on Chief Smith's instructions brought out
several apparently unrelated hits of in-
formation. A woman with a home just off
the beach near the closed Venetian Garden
Hotel reported to Officer eet that she had
been awakened Sunday night by a girl
screaming on the beach.

“At first I thought I must have been
dreaming,” she said. “Then it came again.
T ran to the window and looked out. But it
was dark and I couldn't see a thing. I waited
for several minutes, but there was no further
sound,”

“About what time would you say this
was?” the police officer asked,

“Seven minutes past ten.” was the prompt
reply. “I put on the light and looked at
the clock on my dresser.”

More information came from a* beach
concessionaire whose name the chief with-
held. This man stated that at twenty minutes
past nine on Sunday he had observed a
stranger lolling around the roller coaster.
After watching him for some time, he finally
had gone up and asked what he. wanted.
The man mumbled a reply and then started
down the beach in the direction of the
Venetian Garden Hotel. Ten or fifteen
minutes later, the informant saw Stella Kale,
whom he knew by sight, walk in the same
direction down the beach. -

“Would you know the man if you should
see him again?” the chief asked,

“T sure would," the concessionaire re-
turned. “He had. mannerisms and a face
which would make him conspicuous in any
crowd.” He described the stranger as being
of medium height, bald, moderate heavy

build, pale with a stubby mustache and
appeared to be in his early forties. He was
wearing brown slacks and a blue coat, and
had on a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses with
yellow lenses.”

“You should have come to us at once with
this information,” Smith reminded him
sternly,

“I realize that now,” the showman ad-
mitted, “but beyond thinking him an odd
stick, I didn't give him much thought until
I got to comparing notes with one of my
associates, He told me that he had seen him

stepped into a neighborhood drugstore on a
side street,

Stokes was the first to observe the display
stand of sun-glasses on the counter near
the prescription booth, He stopped to ex-
amine them and the amber glow on the
card reflected from one of the lenses caught
his eye. It was then he saw the odd headed
screws that held the bows to the frames.
ey tabs at the top indicated one pair had
already been sold.

The detective idly mentioned this fact to
the clerk who recalled that he had sold

earlicr in the evening outside the dance hall__them-on ‘the previous Sunday, the day of the

wrying to force his attentions on wz young
girl.” :

Officers Berry and Smith, when reques-
tioned, stated that this was the man whom
they had stopped doing the buck-and-wing
dance in the street. Officer Kelley also re-
membered the bespectacled stranger. He had
seen him standing about 9 o'clock near the
entrance of the dance hall and then about
11 o'clock had seen this same man, without
glasses, walk into the town square.

“From what direction was he walking?”
Stokes interrupted,

“He could have been coming from the
beach near the closed summer hotel.”

Officer Foley, doing traffic duty in Salis-
hury Square on this same night, also recalled
this character.

“T talked to him several times,” he told the
two state police detectives closeted with
Chief Smith. “The first time he asked me for
a good place to eat and I referred him to
the diner across the square, Later he asked
me “about car service to Hampton Beach.
Said he was barbering over at the Casino
and didn’t want to lose the last car back.”

“A barber, eh?” Stokes mused,

“When he asked you about car serv-
ice,” Griffin broke in sharply, ‘was he still
wearing those tortoise-shell sun-glasses?”

Officer Foley didn't remember,

Stokes turned to his colleague, “Let's get
over to Hampton Beach.”

Before leaving, the two detectives again
examined the sun-glasses. Frames and bows
were of simulated tortoise shell, but the
amber lenses, the investigators noted, were
convex as though ground, Stokes studied
them for some minutes under a powerful
glass.

“IT should say that they haven't seen much
use,” he finally remarked. “Neither frame
nor glass shows sign of wear.”

Griffin agreed, commenting at the same
time on a tiny dot of red on a metal bind-
ing strip. “About the only way IT should say
they could be identified from any other
make is by those odd-headed screws that
fasten bows and frames.”

Sinith nodded, “They may be hard to
trace,” he told them. ‘As far as we can learn,
not one dealer stocks that particular brand
here in Salisbury.”

“Maybe we'll have better luck in Hamp-
ton Beach,” Stokes hazarded.

On their way to this popular resort, which
lies just across the Massachusetts border in
the southern part of New Hampshire, the
detectives mude several stops in Hampton
and Seabrook but the sun-glasses could not
he identified, A check at the Hampton Beach
Casino diclosed no barber who resembled
the suspect's description.

The detectives extended their quest to
Newburyport, Amesbury and the = small
villages that lay between.

Conferences with Smith, Bligh and the two
detectives followed, Stokes and Griffin
laboriously began to retrace their steps.
Back in Hampton Beach after a second In-
tensive survey, they divided the resort town
in sections, determined to make an ex-
haustive check of all barbers in the territory.
It was while on this assignment that they

murder, to a bald, pale-faced man with a
mustache,

“He told me he was barbering here for the
summer and that they would come in handy
on the beach.”

Stokes spoke to Griffin who produced the
amber sun-glasses found by the girl's body.
“Maybe these could be the pair you sold,”
he said.

‘The clerk took them and held them under
a strong light. He called the detectives to
his side and pointed to a spot of red just
beneath the oddly-shaped screw that had
earlier attracted the attention of the in-
vestigators,

“Our special mark,” he said. He didn't
remember ever having seen the man before
in this store, which catered entirely to
neighborhood trade. “There are some
boarding-houses a street or two from here,”
he told them. “Perhaps you might learn
something there.”

On the way to the boarding-house district,
the detectives stopped to talk with Richard
Bulger, a barber who ran a shop at the next
corner,

“That sounds like Frank Harris,” Bulger
exclaimed when Stokes had finished. “He
came in last week to look for a job. He
seemed to know the business so I hired him.
He worked all day Saturday and was
supposed to come back on Monday, but he
didn’t show up.”

“You mean he's disappeared?”

“I don’t know what's happened, He was
boarding at my house. He had breakfast
with us Sunday morning and then went out,
Some of his clothing and a spare razor or
two are still there.”

While Griffin went to search Harris’ room,
Stokes remained with Bulger, The man had
been a good workman, Bulger stated, but
had made his employer very nervous by
constantly humming under his breath when
working on a customer. And he would hum
the same tunes over and over again.

“Such as?” prompted the detective.

“When You and I Were Young, Maggie
and Sweet Adeline,” he replied.

Griffin, returning from the search of
Frank Harris’ place, brought back several
razors, a pair of soft-soled dancing shoes and
a soiled shirt. Stokes glanced at the shoes,
noting they were size 714; he peered at the
neckband of the shirt,

“No laundry mark,” he stated. He turned
to the barber. “Anything else about this
eaP that you can remember?”

he barber hesitated, “He had some tat-
tooing on his right forearm,” he recalled.
“Il saw it when he was getting into his
barber's jacket. He had a red heart pierced
by a blue dagger over the letters E. T. And
there was a pair of joined hands beneath.”

Stokes stared at him with lifted eye-
brows. “E, T, doesn’t check with Frank
Harris,” he commented.

“That's what I thought,” the barber
agreed. “I kidded him about it and he said
they were the initials of a girl friend by
the name of Eva Tillman.”

The manhunt gained new impetus, stimu-
lated by an increased reward by the
authorities of $1500, Police flashes went out
by radio and teletype throughout New

England, Canada and into New York, Chief
Smith received a special delivery letter post-
marked Eastport, Maine, containing a pen
and ink sketch closely resembling the
shysical description of Frank Harris, With it
was a letter which read in part:

“1 enclose a sketch which I made of a man
who used to be a barber here in Eastport and
lived at our house. He had the same tattoo
marks which you say Frank Harris has and
he was always shuffle dancing and humming
those two songs you mention. Only he didn’t
go by the name of Frank Harris in Eastport.
He called himself George Taylor and he said
I did a fine job on this sketch.” ;

The chief turned this letter over to the
state police, Investigation disclosed that
the musical barber had made his home in
Eastport as the letter stated. Chief of De-
tectives Bligh had the drawing copied and
on June 21 sent prints to all law enforce-
ment agencies and newspapers along the
Atlantic seaboard from Florida through the
New England states into Canada. But for
the moment Harris alias Taylor had covered
his trail. ;

On June 28 Lieutenant Griffin received a
telephone call from the Amesbury police
which sent him hurrying to that city to learn
that Stella Kale’s wrist watch had at last
been located, Later he talked with Geoffrey
Armstrong of Kensington who had turned
it in, Armstrong told him that while driving
a few miles outside Hampton Falls on
Monday afternoon, June 6, the day after the
murder, he had been stopped by a man who
was trying to reach Kensington, He intro-
duced himself as a barber by the name of
James Hill from Pittsburgh. As they drove
along, Hill produced his wallet and drew
out a gold wrist watch which he said was
the property of his wife who had just died.
He said it was so closely associated with her
that it made him unhappy and he wanted to
sell it.

“I drew up by the side of the road to
examine it,” Armstrong continued, “He said
he was willing to sell it for three dollars
and [I gave it to him. When he put the
money in his pocketbook a gold ring with
a red stone dropped out. I asked him about
that but he said he wanted to keep it as
a memento, When we got to town, he got

_ out and I drove on.”

“When did you first begin to wonder
about the watch?” the Heutenant asked.

“When my daughter came upon the de-
scription of the girl’s watch in the Boston
paper,” the man explained. “Tt sounded so
much like the one I had purchased that we
looked in the case and found the numbers
checked. Then we saw that drawing from
Maine on another page and it was an exact
likeness of James Hill, So I telephoned
Amesbury at once and then reported to the

olice, This morning I drove over and turned
It in.”

“Did this man give you any idea as to
where he was headed?”

“Not a word,” declared Armstrong.

Hardly had Griffin returned to Salisbury
police headquarters when the telephone
rang The long distance operator was on
the line.

“Will you accept a collect call from North
Conway, New Hampshire?” she asked. “It
has to do with a man named George Taylor.”

“Go ahead,” Griffin told her and a man's
voiee came instantly on the wire. He was a
harber operating a shop in that village and
calling from a nearby drugstore.

“That man, Taylor, showed up here
yesterday and took a job in my shop,” he
said,

“How do you know it's Taylor?”

“Because he’s worked for me before,” was
the answer, “but I didn’t know he was in

“At what time would you say that
this attack occurred?” the chief ques-
tioned.

Murphy stated that he would
rather not commit himself until he
had made an autopsy. This he planned
to perform as soon as he could have
the body removed to Amesbury. It
was his personal opinion, however,
that the girl had been dead for at
least nine hours and probably more.

“You found nothing which would
be helpful to us in establishing her
identity?” Smith persisted.

“Not a thing,” Murphy replied.

A red-faced man in his late fitties
suddenly burst through the silent
group of spectators. “Chief Smith!” he
cried, moving rapidly forward, his

feet sinking deep into the sand with

every step.

Murphy had placed a blanket over
the body; he looked up. “Who is that
man?” he inquired.

“A photographer by the name of
Lionel Stevens,” Smith explained.
“Comes from Haverhill. He runs a
photographic studio here summers
and reopened last week for the sea-
son.”

Stevens joined them, winded from
his exertions.

“What's wrong?” Smith asked.

“About the girl,” the photographer
replied nervously. “Is it true that you
have found the body of a young girl?”

Chief'Smith nodded. “We're trying
to learn who she is,” he admitted. “Can
you tell us anything about her?”

Stevens hesitated. “I don’t know.
I was afraid it might be Stella,” he
replied. “She left my place last night,
and I haven’t seen her since.”

Replying to further questions, the
photographer stated that several weeks

Stella Kale, an assistant at the photog-
rapher’s studio, below, met death
shortly after her arrival at the popular
New England summer beach resort.

betore he had employed an assistant
by the name of Stella Kale to help him
with his summer work. On the night
previous she had left the studio
around half-past nine and had not
come back. Asked if she might not
have gone to her lodgings, the photog-
rapher said that the girl had taken
a room over his studio. When she had
failed to report for work, he had
gone upstairs to see if she had over-
slept. There was no reply to his knock
and an investigation disclosed that
the room was empty and the bed had
not been slept in.

“When she left, did she give any
indication as to her plans?”

“She just said she was going to take
a walk.”

“Alone?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the photog-
rapher said. “In fact, I didn’t think
much about it because she’s been
going out for a walk every night since
she’s been here. Usually she was only
gone for a half-hour or less.”

“And you weren't alarmed when
she didn’t return?”

“Not at all,” Stevens replied. “I
thought she might have met some
friends and gone with them to spend
the night. After the rain in the early
evening, the weather turned fine and

erat

the boardwalk was crowded with vis
itors.”

Ata signal trom the Chiet, Medical
Examiner gl eed unblanketed the
body. Stevens’ shocked eyes rested on
the girl’s face.

“It's my assistant,” he admitted
sadly. “I recognize her and I know
the dress. | remember that was the
one she was wearing when she went
out.”

Smith now commented that the
girl’s right wrist was cut and bruised.

“Probably sustained when the killer
tried to pull off some piece of jewelry,
like a bracelet or a wrist watch,” the
medical examiner observed.

“She was wearing a gold wrist
watch,” Stevens volunteered. “She
glanced at it just as she was going out
of the door. That’s why I was so cer-
tain of the time. I’m also under the
impression she was wearing a large
ruby ring.”

“There’s nothing on her now,” the
chief asserted.

Remembering the envelope with
its cryptic message, Chief Smith asked:
“Did she ever speak of a boy friend
by the name of Jimmie?” *

Stevens shook his head.

“One more question,” Smith
showed Stevens the pair of sun-
glasses he had found near the body.
“Do these by any chance belong to
Miss Kale?”

“Not a chance,” the man told him
with conviction. “If there was one
thing she detested it was sun-glasses.”

The chief told him there was noth-
ing further at the moment.

Leaving the beach, Smith instructed
that all men on duty Sunday night
report without delay at headquarters.
Then he moved along the boardwalk

uestioning proprietors of concessions
which had been open the night be-
fore in an effort to follow the move-
ments of Stella Kale and to learn if she
had been alone on her fatal walk.
He also began a check on the various
types of sun-glasses which local store-
keepers had on sale. None was similar
to the type that he had picked up
on the beach, nor could any local
dealers recall ever having had that
kind in stock.

Back at his desk, Chief Smith stud-
ied the several articles which had been
found near the dead girl. He watched
soberly as the tortoise-shell sun-glasses
were vainly dusted for latent prints.
Most of the officers on duty the night
before had already reported, includ-
ing Eugene Berry, Glenn Clark and
Raymond Foley. Not one had noticed
Stella Kale or had seen her walk onto
the beach. Smith asked if any of them
had noted actions that could be con-
strued as suspicious among the scores
of strangers who had patronized the
beach resort the night before.

“Don’t know as you’d call it suspi-
cious, Chief,” [Continued on page 72]

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_iward
his cell.

Stokes looked at the vagrant and chal-
lenged him.

“Your name is not Townsend,” he said.
“It’s Elmer Taylor. You worked in a bar-
ber shop in Eastport, Me. A boy where
you roomed made a sketch of you.”

The prisoner refused to admit this until
confronted with the drawing itself.

“Roll up your right sleeve,” Stokes or-
dered. “I want to look at your arm.”

Elmer Taylor, alias Edward Townsend,
complied after a mild protest. There was
the tattoo with the clasped hands, pierced
heart and initials, ‘“E. T.”

Stokes said, “I’m from Massachusetts.
A girl named Stella Kale was murdered
at Salisbury Beach. We’ve been on your
track for a long time.”

The prisoner said he had never been in
Salisbury Beach.

“You were there all right,” Stokes
countered. “We know you worked at
Hampton Beach on the Saturday before
the crime. You bought sunglasses in a
drug store there and we found them near
that girl’s body. You went to Eastport,
Me., and worked there a week. That is
where the sketch was made. Then you
sold a wrist watch you took from Stella

Kale to a man in Plymouth, N. H. What
happened to the ring with the ruby set-
ting?”

There was no answer. The prisoner just
sat there stunned by the evidence amassed
against him. Finally he said, “Alright, I
did work in Hampton Beach. I bought
sunglasses and witch hazel there, but I
don’t know what happened after that.”

Stokes enlightened him. As the ques-
tioning continued throughout most of the
night, the man said his real name was
George Elmer Taylor and that he was
from Cleveland, O. In better days he had
been a good buck-and-wing dancer, but
that was before he started to drink
heavily.

Taylor waived extradition back to
Massachusetts. Placed in a police lineup
at Salisbury Beach along with six other
men, he was identified by the conces-
sionaire who had steered him away from
the roller coaster tracks, by the druggist
in Hampton Beach and by several other
people.

Fingerprints showed he had been con-
victed of armed robbery in West Virginia,
serving a five-year prison term under the
name Elmer Thompson. This same man

had been wanted for questioning in con-
nection with still another murder in Buf-
falo, N. Y.

Police believed the man’s real name to
be Elmer Thompson, but he was arraigned
on a first degree murder charge in Dis-
trict Court, Amesbury, on July 13, 1927,
under the name of George Elmer Taylor.

Brought to trial October 10, the defend-
ant took the stand in his own behalf and
testified that on the afternoon preceding
the crime at Salisbury Beach he had been
drunk on liquor and witch hazel.

“The last thing I remember was my
drinking at Hampton Beach,” he said.
“That was Sunday afternoon. When I
woke up Monday I was in Boston.”

Thanks to some brilliant detective work
and the complete cooperation of public
spirited citizens and newspapers, the evi-
dence against the accused man was over-
whelming. The jury found him guilty as
charged with no recommendation for
mercy. Elmer Thompson, alias George
ges Taylor, was put to death on March

(The name Frank Hennessey is fictitious to
protect the identity of a man indirectly in-
volved in the investigation.—The Editor)

Slaying of the Laughing Baby
Sitter

[Continued from page 47]

car along a rutted road that skirts the far
shore of the lake. In summer, couples
used this as a lovers’ lane, but the skaters
had only driven on it a short distance be-
fore parking their cars. The road was visi-
ble from the lake and since the skaters
had noticed nothing there, a further search
seemed superfluous.

But Mettozzi, checking to the last de-
tail, kept on to the end of the road. There,
he spotted a girl’s loafer shoe on the bleak,
barren ground. Getting out of the car, the
patrolman soon found the mate to the shoe
—and more! He saw blurred tire tracks
veering from the ruts. As he followed
them, ‘he noticed something fluttering
from a low tree branch that was hidden
from the lake.

The fluttering object was a girl’s bra
and from another branch dangled a pair
of pink panties. What captured Mettozzi’s
attention still more was.a green sweater
lying on the brown-and-white back-
ground of frozen earth and sprinkled
snow.

Broken brush and scruff marks on the
ground showed where an object had been
dragged. That trail dwindled as Mattozzi
followed it to where it dead-ended in a
shallow gravel pit almost beneath the em-
bankment of the Trenton Cutoff.

A dead end indeed for the pitiful victim
whose frozen, bloodstained body had been
dragged to this hiding spot. Patrolman
Mettozzi had found missing Marta Gib-
bons. The girl’s body was lying on its face
and her slayer had evidently dragged her
through the brush feet first, for her only
remaining garments, a slip and green plaid
skirt, were twisted high above her arms
and shoulders.

Soon, the area was alive with investiga-
tors summoned by Mettozzi’s immediate
call to headquarters. Chief Kirby was ac-
companied by State Police Sgt. Adrian
McCarr and Cpl. Andrew J. Kutney, Chief
of County Detectives Fred Kohler arrived
from Doylestown, the county seat of
Bucks County. Also on the scene were

Coroner Russell J. T. Ferris and Dr. Wil-
liam Goldfarb, deputy coroner.

The girl’s head and body showed bruises
that could have resulted from a severe
beating. But the cause of her death ap-
parently was a bullet wound behind her
left ear. Her head was turned slightly
toward the left and when the body was
lifted, another wound was observed in her
right temple.

On the ground close by was a .32 caliber
shell ejected from an automatic. Police
looked for another in the brush but found
none. The tire marks first noted by Patrol-
man Mettozzi furnished another potential
lead, though as yet there was no posi-
tive proof that the slayer’s car had made
them. Various cars could have come along
this old road since the ground had frozen.

However, a moulage was taken of the
tire marks and though there was only
fragmentary traces of the tread, investiga-
tors agreed that matching them might be
possible, once a suspect’s car was found.

Meanwhile, the body of Marta Gibbons
was taken to the J. Allen Hooper Funeral
Home in Morrisville and there identified
by William Gourley. Shaken by the sight,
Gourley repeated, “What have they done
to her! What have they done to her!”

George Capps stared in disbelief when
he learned the news. All during the search,
he had kept reassuring Gourley that
Marta would be found unharmed. “Noth-
ing could have happened to her,” Capps
had repeated. “Nothing.” But now Capps
chided himself on his own negligence.

“I’d planned to keep working on Gour-

ley’s car until he arrived home,” Capps
told investigators, “but I decided we
would have more time to discuss the re-
pair job the next morning. Besides, I have
to grab what sleep I can in case I have
to rush my wife to the hospital.”
, Chief Kirby and Sergeant McCarr
agreed that Marta could have left her
home, whether forcibly or voluntarily,
soon after Capps had finished working on
the car. Susan, when questioned, remem-
bered hearing voices while she was going
to sleep, but they could have come from
a TV show that Marta was watching.

“We may learn something more about
the time angle from the autopsy,” com-
mented Chief Kirby, “but how close it can
come, after two days and with the changes
in the temperature, is hard to tell.”

Dr. Frederick Phillips, who performed
the autopsy with Dr. Goldfarb, came up
with the finding that the victim had been
dead “more than 48 hours,” which set
the time of the murder prior to Saturday
morning. He stated that the dead girl had
first been clubbed then shot through the
head with a single bullet. The fact that
he had been unable to find the slug con-
firmed this.

“The bullet entered behind the left ear,”
the physician said, “severed the spinal
cord and came out the right temple be-
side the eye.”

That accounted for two wounds, yet
only a single cartridge on the ground.
It settled another question, too. In ex-
amining Marta’s green sweater, investiga-
tors had found powder burns on it, indi-
cating that another shot had been fired
into the victim’s body. But Dr. Phillips
had found no corresponding bullet wound.

Now, when the autopsy report was re-
layed to Sgt. Elmer Botliger, a state police
detective-chemist, he stated that the
powder burns could have resulted from
the gun having been wrapped in the
sweater to muffle the report. This would
support the theory that only one shot had
been fired.

“We've searched every square foot
where the body was found,” declared

’ Chief Kirby, “so we should have found

that bullet by this time. How far could
it have gone?”

“Not very far,” returned Dr. Phillips.
“You should find it very soon if you dig
for it.”

“Dig for it? Where?”

‘Directly beneath where the victim’s
head was lying as the wounds indicate the
bullet was fired downward.”

The investigators had gathered patches
of bloodstained earth and snow and sent
them for analysis to Dr. Frank Zillessen,
director of laboratories at Jeanes Hospital
in Fox Chase, a suburb of Philadelphia.
The spot where Marta’s head had lain
was soon determined and the missing slug
was found buried a few inches in the soil,
as Dr. Phillips had predicted. The bullet
was in fair condition and was sent to the
Pennsylvania State Police crime labora-
tory, where Sgt. Edward H. Crowthers
made a miscroscopic study of its markings.

The job now was to track down the
callous sex slayer. The autopsy showed

5d 59

. the bed.
56-year-old
for church
ath that of
e shouting
z smashed
t the first
other and
lants, and
ved not to

lence were
Irs. Hruby

only re-
institution
ecause of
, had be-
ible and
ther’s life,

flat and
ioor. Hear-
as they
ko glanced
on’s room,
vad fallen
> crawled
ed to un-
nter.
air by the
r glanced
the room
: his bed
he deathly
nia of his
turned to
mpatheti-
r son had
from a
2 aid.
room and
oulder.
ingrily,
in the
. cannot
Also, the
t they can
you.”
and kill

nd gent
»uth had
saw the
he wound
ical atten-

kill you,
“If you
to by a
infection

e bravado
.fter more
ighbor he
1 himself

loctor, but
{ not want
the flat.”
spital and
tinue on
ry of the
re
)'Malley
vas wait-
when the
he receiv-
chool girl
48 hours

rs. Hruby
ing knife
ie his bed
i he know
» already
that type
rt on Pa-

“at the
»spital,

had no difficulty in recognizing Jenko
when he showed up. He had arrested him
before,-for purse-snatching, petty larceny
and burglary. He greeted the neighbor-
hood bad boy with the words:

“So you have been attacked by a
couple of thugs in Bessemer Park? Sup-
pose you tell me about it while the doc
here looks at your hand.”

“That’s right, Captain,” Jenko replied
easily. “I had about a buck on me and
they tried to take it away. One of ’em
drew a knife and in the rumble that fol-
lowed I got cut.”

O’Malley demanded to know why Jenko
had waited so long to report the incident.
The youth said that he had been smoking
marijuana cigarettes earlier in the eve-
ning, and was afraid to appear at the police
station while under influence of the drug.

Under further questioning, Jenko de-
scribed his assailants as “two large guys
in their late teens or early 20s.” He said
they had been well dressed. He had
recognized neither of them, but was sure
he would know them if he saw them
again. .

Jenko described the deserted lane in
the park where he said the attack took
place shortly before midnight on Friday.

When Jenko was through answering
questions, O’Malley patiently reminded

him that Friday night had been overcast
without a star in the sky. The moon had
not risen at midnight. And the spot in
the park where Jenko claimed to have
been attacked was not illuminated by
lights along the pathway.

“Jenko, it just won’t do,” the veteran
cop told the youth. “Anyone under the
influence of drugs would have had diffi-
culty remembering the appearance of his
assailants under the best of conditions. In
the spot where you claim‘to have been
attacked, at that hour on a moonless,
cloudy night, it would have been literally
impossible to have determined their ages
or the kind of clothing they wore.”

The youth lapsed into a stubborn silence
that continued until the next day when
he was shown the bloodstained knife that
had been found in his home. Later labor-
atory technicians carefully explained to
him the process by which they had de-
termined that blood of the slain girl’s type
had been found on his jacket, along with
blood from his own ihjuries. Then the
victim’s gymnasium bag was produced,
and Jenko was shown spots of blood al-
legedly from his own body that had
spilled on that.

When the police were through present-
ing their evidence, the former reform
school inmate lowered his colorless eyes

lane en

and said in a whisper, “All right, I killed
her. Before that night I don’t ever remem-
ber seeing that girl.

“I was high on the weed and going home
to sleep it off. It was about midnight. I
saw the girl up ahead of me, carrying a
bag under her arm. I caught up with her
as she cut through an alleyway behind
the house where it happened. I had a job
to go to next day, but no carfare. That
was all I wanted. Enough for carfare.
But she put up a fight and I lost my head
and pulled the knife and started stabbing
at her.”

At his trial before Judge Julius H. Miner
in Criminal Court during the week of No-
vember 15, 1950, Jenko flew into a rage
and attacked photographers who at-
tempted to take pictures of him while he
was taken from the courtroom. It took
five stout bailiffs to calm him down.

It took the jury only 55 minutes to de-
termine Jenko’s guilt and return a verdict
without a recommendation for mercy.
Judge Miner two days later sentenced the
husky-voiced killer to death in the elec-
tric chair after receiving a report that he
had first been committed to the reforma-
tory for purse snatching in October of
1945 at the age of 15 years. The following
October Raymond Jenko died in the elec-
tric chair.

Beach Strangling of the
Ravishing Redhead

[Continued from page 17]

where he had kought the articles.

“This could be the break we need,”
Lieutenant Griffin told Chief Smith.

He went to Lawrence Tuesday morning
and talked with the jeweler. The case and
movement numbers of the Waltham watch
were on record. The state policeman for-
warded this information to newspapers
throughout New England, asking them. to
print the numbers along with a descrip-
tion of the watch and ring in their stories
on the murder case.

Lt. John Stokes, ace detective whose
brilliant work was to make him state po-
lice commissioner later, joined forces with
Lieutenant Griffin and Salisbury Beach
police in the investigation.

Stokes correlated all evidence that had
been gathered during the first 48 hours.
Stella Kale had disappeared after being
seen on the boardwalk shortly after 9:30.
The prime motive for the crime was be-
lieved to be a sex attack. But the fact that
the girl’s ring and wrist watch were miss-
ing pointed to robbery,«perhaps as an
afterthought. The sunglasses found near
the body were almost new, and Stella Kale
did not own them so far as anyone knew.
The name Bill scribbled on the envelope
remained unexplained.

There was only one thing to do: keep
plugging. Stokes knew most people are
reluctant to become involved in murder
investigations. You have to search out
those with what might appear unimpor-
tant information, and that is what the po-
lice did.

A girl was found who had known Stella
Kale casually. In a conversation about
music, the murder victim had expressed
an especial liking for a song titled “Bill.”

“The band played that number at the
concert Saturday night,” this witness
stated. “Stella was there and I saw her
write something down on an envelope. It
could have been the name of the song the
band was playing.”

sissieritciailienin

One woman living in a hotel back from
where the body was found recalled hear-
ing what sounded like a girl’s screams
around 11 o’clock Sunday night. At the
time the witness had retired for the night,
so she had not investigated.

A more important informant was a con-
cessionaire who had noticed a drunk near
the roller coaster.

“That was around 10 o’clock Sunday
night,” he told Lieutenant Stokes. “I
watched him for a while. Then, afraid
that he might wander onto the tracks, I
went over and steered him away.”

The policeman asked for a description
of the drunk.

“He was medium height, almost bald,”
the concessionaire remembered. “About
40 years old. Small mustache. Wore sun-
glasses.”

Stokes said, “Sunglasses at 10 o’clock
at night?”

“That’s right,” the witness told him.
“The guy was real drunk.”

The lieutenant showed him the glasses
found near the girl’s body.

“That’s the kind,” the concessionaire
said. Then he added, “This guy sure was
a character. He did some buck and wing
steps in front of the dance hall and tried
to pick up a girl. She just laughed at him.”

In view of the slender dark glasses link
to the Stella Kale murder case, Stokes and
Griffin concentrated their investigation on
the dancing drunk. They located several
persons who remembered him. The im-
portant thing was that all the witnesses
who saw him before 11 o’clock said he was
wearing sunglasses. Those who saw him
after eleven said they noticed no such
glasses!

One man who saw the drunk without
glasses told Chief Smith the man had been
walking from the direction where Stella
Kale’s body was found.‘ Finally, things
were beginning to add up.

Another person said the same man had
asked about bus service to Hampton
Beach. “He said he was a barber at the
casino there and had to be at work Mon-
day morning,” the witness, stated. “I told
him the time the last bus left.”

On their way to Hampton Beach, Stokes
and Griffin examined carefully the sud-

denly all important sunglasses found
near Stella Kale’s battered and strangled
corpse. The lenses weren’t of as cheap
quality as the investigators had first
thought.

When the policeman arrived in Hamp-
ton Beach and went into a drug store to
buy cigarets, both men spotted a card
containing sunglasses of the type they
were carrying with them.

Lieutenant Griffin started up a conver-
sation with the clerk saying, “Nice looking
sunglasses you have there.”

Moving the card closer, the clerk as-
sured Griffin, “They’re good glasses all
right. Would you like a pair?”

The policeman told him he wasn’t in-
terested in buying any. “But I see the
card contained an even dozen,” he added.
“There are 11 left. Who bought the one
pair?”

The clerk didn’t remember. But the
store owner overheard the conversation
and came up.

“I sold them Sunday afternoon,” he said.

Stokes and Griffin motioned him to the
rear of the, store. They identified them-
selves as officers and brought out the sun-
glasses found on the beach.

‘“They’re identical with the ones I sold
to a man last Sunday,” the druggist said.
“T can tell you what he looked like. He was
around 40 years old and of medium height.
His face was pock-marked and he had a
small mustache.”

Griffin and Stokes asked the druggist
how he happened to remember so much
about this particular customer.

“He was in here several times,” the store
proprietor said. “Came in first for cigarets.
- That’s when he bought the glasses. Things
were rather slow, so he loafed around a
while. He tried the glasses on a couple
of times before he bought them and pur-
chased a bottle of witch hazel just before
he left.

Adding that he had been a little con-
cerned about the customer, the drugstore
man said, “I’ve had a gun shoved in my
face twice, so I get nervous when busi-
ness is slow and some guy hangs around.
too long. Besides this man came back be-
fore long for a second bottle of witch

> 57

hazel. Maybe that’s why I remember so
much about him.”

When Lieutenant Stokes asked if he
thought the man was drunk, the proprie-
tor said he didn’t think so.

“IT did wonder why he wanted two
bottles of witch hazel. You know some
people drink that stuff when package
liquor stores are closed.”

The officers were aware of that. They
thanked the druggist and asked him not
to say anything about their visit. With the
descriptions of the dancing drunk noticed
at Salisbury Beach and the Hampton
Beach purchaser of dark sunglasses
matching so closely, Stokes and Griffin
felt the trail was getting hot.

It was with high hopes that they hur-
ried to the casino barber shop. However,
no one fitting the description was known
there. Following out their theory to the
end, the two officers proceeded to check
all barber shops in the town. They located
one proprietor who had some helpful in-
formation.

“A man such as you described came in’

here last Friday afternoon looking for
work,” he informed the investigators. “I
told him there was no opening. He came
back Saturday morning and as one of my
regular barbers was out sick, I put this
new man to work. He was here until
closing time. I paid him for the day and

told him to drop by Monday and I would
use him if my regular man was still sick.
He never showed up again.”

The itinerant barber had given his name
as Elmer Taylor and a fast check of room-
ing houses showed he had spent Friday,
Saturday and Sunday nights in a place on
Elm Street.

The landlady said he had paid by the
day, so she had not been surprised when
he didn’t return to his room after the
week-end,

Information furnished by this woman,
the barber shop proprietor and druggist
gave Stokes and Griffin an almost com-
plete picture of the man they were seek-
ing.

ie was around 40 years old. Partially
bald. Weighed perhaps 160 pounds. Me-
dium height. Dark, sallow complexion.
Small mustache.

Most important of all, he had a tattoo
design on his right forearm: clasped
hands beneath a heart pierced by a dag-
ger with the letters “E. T.” above.

This information was forwarded to state
police headquarters. Massachusetts posted
a $1,000 reward for the suspect. Salis-
bury selectmen added $500. Newspapers
throughout New England featured stories
about the rewards along with full descrip-
tions of the wanted man.

The first lead came in from Eastport,

THE FACE OF TRAGEDY

Mrs. Kathleen Mowry is overcome witH horror as she learns from Windsor, Ontario
Constable Robert Friest that her estranged husband, Theodore, shot to death her
parents and then took his own life while she was at a store. A nephew was criti-
cally wounded. Officials said Theodore had asked for a reconciliation recently.

58 ad

Me. A rooming house man there notified
Massachusetts authorities that his son,
Harold Chute, had studied the description
in the papers and was convinced that a
man who had stayed at their place should
be investigated.

“He was using the name George Tay-
lor,” the elder Chute told Lieutenant
Stokes over long distance. “I met him in a
barber shop where he was working and he
stayed with us a week and moved on. One
night he did a buck-and-wing dance for
us. He claimed he’d been a vaudeville
headliner at one time.”

The Eastport man said his son Harold
was an amateur artist and that he had
happened to make a sketch of the barber.
Since the police had no photo and there
was a substantial reward the boy wanted
to forward the drawing. Lieutenant
Stokes was all for it. The art work arrived
and was reproduced in newspapers
throughout the northeast.

‘The next clue came from Plymouth,
N. H., where a man had picked up a hitch-
hiker on Route 3.

“He answers the description of the sus-
pect you’re looking for,” the Plymouth
man said. “While he was in the car he
told me he was broke and showed me a
wrist watch that he said belonged to his
dead wife. He only wanted $3 for it, so I
bought it because it was a good Waltham.

“My wife had read about the murder of ,

that girl at Salisbury Beach. She dug out
some old papers and compared the num-
bers on the watch with those printed in
the stories. The time-piece I got from the
pee is the one you're looking
or!”

Lieutenant Griffin hurried to. New
Hampshire. After he had checked the
watch against the known numbers, a po-
lice alarm was broadcast throughout New
England for the hitchhiker.

Leads poured in, but nothing developed.
Lieutenant Griffin went to Bennington,

_ Vt. to check one clue. Stokes traveled all

the way to Canada to interview a prisoner
there. Dozens of bald-headed men with
a small mustache were questioned.

Then, on the morning of July 5, a
farmer near the small town of Johnson in
northern Vermont answered a knock on
his door to face a bedraggled stranger
who asked for something to eat.

The Vermonter fed him and listened to
what he had to say. It was obvious to the
farmer that the vagrant was running away
from something. The benefactor thought
about the man after he had left and de-
cided to tell his friend Sheriff Edward E.
Holmes about the visitor.

The Lamoille County officer listened in-
terestedly and, on learning that the hun-
gry traveler had headed toward Route 15,
he set out to patrol that highway. Soon he
picked up a man who told him that his
name was Edward Townsend but could
produce no means of identification.

Lengthy questioning aroused the county
officer’s suspicions even more. He held the
vagrant and contacted the Vermont State
Detective Edwin Brown in Montpelier.

“Tll come over and take a look,” the lat-
ter officer said. “Meantime, keep putting
questions to him.”

Detective Brown was fully acquainted
with the unsolved murder at Salisbury
Beach, Mass. One look at the man who
called himself Edward Townsend satisfied
Brown that he answered the description
of the missing barber. Detective Brown
phoned Lieutenant Stokes in Boston and
the Massachusetts officer started for Ver-
mont at once.

He arrived in Hyde Park, where the
suspect was in custody, early that night.
The man who called himself Edward
Townsend was brought from his cell.

Stokes looke
lenged him.
“Your nam
“It’s Elmer Tayi:
ber shop in Eastpo
you roomed made ¢
The prisoner refus
confronted with the
“Roll up your rig!
dered. “I want to |
Elmer Taylor, ali<
complied after a mi!
the tattoo with the c
heart and initials, “E
Stokes said, “I’m
A girl named Stell:
at Salisbury Beach
track for a long tim
The prisoner said }
Salisbury Beach
“You were the:
countered. “We }
Hampton Beach on
the crime. You bo
drug store there an
that girl’s body. Y
Me., and worked tt
where the sketch
sold a wrist watc!

Slaying of the
Sit

[Continued

car along a rutted :
shore of ‘pe lake
used this a$’a lovers
had only driven on
fore parking their c:
ble from the lake
had noticed nothine
seemed supe}

But Mettoz
tail, kept on t
he spotted a girl’s lo
barren ground. Get
patrolman soon fou:
—and more! He sa
veering from the
them, ‘he noticed
from a low tree br
from the lake.

The fluttering «
and from another
of pink panties. Wh
attention still more
lying on the bre
ground of frozen
snow.

Broken brush ar
ground showed wh:
dragged. That trai!
followed it to whe:
shallow gravel pit al
bankment of the T:

A dead end indee
whose frozen, bloods
dragged to this hi
Mettozzi had found
bons. The girl’s bod:
and her slayer had
through the brush
remaining garments
skirt, were twisted }
and shoulders.

Soon, the area was
tors summoned by
call to headquarters
companied by Stats
McCarr and Cpl. Ar
of County Detectiv:
from Doylestown,
Bucks County. A}

i by Hennessey, Smith
i nothing that could be

1ame Bill on it and the
oid him he didn't think

i never seen her wear-

ifying the slain girl’s
would start out for the

tate Police met Chief
iewed the corpse and
ete loss to explain his

cked parent said. “We
his terrible thing has

mith and Griffin. The
on. It bore out what
rmised.

\lurphy said. “The girl
i no weapon, just his
vidence of completed
indicate the apparent
roximately 11 o’clock

This sketch of the slayer, made by a young boy, helped officers in
the search. When it was shown to the killer, left, he admitted to
police having been on the beach at the time the murder was committed.

Patrolmen Kelly and Hughes, who had been questioning concessionaires all afternoon,
reported to their chief.

“The girl wasn’t known by many on the boardwalk,” the first officer told Lieutenant
Griffin and Smith, “because she had only been on the beach a week. One man remembers
seeing her walking south alone a little after 9:30.”

Griffin asked if anybody had heard screams.

Hughes replied no and added, “but that’s easy to explain. There is a lot of noise in the
beach area at night. Everybody is having a good time and you would have to be mighty
close to trouble to recognize it.”

“What about this Frank Hennessey, the girl’s employer?” the state policeman asked.

Kelly and Hughes both agreed the photographer had an excellent reputation. He had had
his place at the beach a long time and there never had been the slightest hint of anything
amiss,

Stella Kale’s father came through with some important information he had forgotten
about in his first grief.

“I gave my daughter a ring with a ruby setting and a wrist watch when she graduated
from high school,” he said. “Was she wearing them when the body was found?”

Chief Smith knew no such jewelry had been found. He called Frank Hennessey and asked
about the ring and watch.

“I hadn’t thought about them before,” the photographer said, “but Stella wore them all
the time. She undoubtedly had them on Sunday night.”

When a second search of the girl’s living quarters failed to uncover the jewelry, Mrs.
Kale gave the investigators the name of the store in Lawrence [Continued on page 57]

rted beach area where
A pair of sunglasses
ficers their first clue.

Chief of Police Sidney Smith, who discovered the sunglasses
belonging to the killer at murder scene. He also ee
the slain girl’s employer who gave much valuable information.

ok ee m i TT

——~ ow

i ae

May, 1933

nesses. Attorney Vahey appealed to
the Supreme Court of Massachusetts
for a new trial on point of law. Un-
successful, he appealed for a new trial
on grounds of newly discovered evi-
dence, but the appeal was denied by
Judge Sherman. He made application
or a writ of error to the Supreme
Court of the United States. This, too,
was denied.

On January 27th, 1906, nearly two
years after the murder, Tucker again
appeared in the Superior Court in East
Cambridge and was sentenced to death
during the week beginning June 10th.

Attorney Vahey never ceased work-
ing in behalf of his client. Public sen-
timent for Tucker was growing by
leaps and bounds. A petition contain-
ing 115,555 names asking that Tucker’s
sentence be commuted to life impris-
onment was submitted to the Governor
of Massachusetts, the Honorable Cur-
tis Guild, Jr. The governor gave the
matter his most serious consideration
and investigated it fully, even going to
Weston and pacing the several dis-
puted distances himself to make cer-
tain in his own mind there was no mis-
carriage of justice. Finally he decided
not to interfere, despite the enormous
pee: political and otherwise, that
ad been brought to bear upon Kim.

“TI have myself,” he stated if the re-
port of his investigations which filled
several pages, “fitted the blade of the
knife of Charles L. Tucker in the blood-
stained corset of Mabel Page.”

Public agitation concerning Tucker
would not subside and several days be-
fore the date for the execution, a mass
meeting of sympathizers was held at
Faneuil Hall, Boston, and during the
meeting, a telegram was sent to the
White House at Washington request-
ing President Roosevelt to intercede.

Within several hours the following
telegram was received in Boston:

THE WIITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D. C., JUNE 10, 1906.

GOV. CURTIS GUILD,

BOSTON, MASS,

HAVE BREN REQUESTED ON BR.

HALF OF CERTAIN PARTIES IN

BOSTON TO INTERFERE WITH THE

EXECUTION OF TUCKER, IT REING
ALLEGED THAT IT IS MY DUTY SO

The Master Detective
TO DO, INASMUCH AS I HAVE THB
POWER UNDER THE FEDERAL
LAWS.

NO SHOWING HAS BREEN MADE TO
MP THAT I HAVER SUCH POWRR,
WITHOUT REGARD TO THIS

I DRSIRY TO STATH TO YOU THAT

IN MY JUDGMENT YOUR DECISION

NOT TO INTBREDPRE WITH THD

CARRYING OUT OF THR SENTENCE

OF ‘TUCKER SEEMS TO ME EN-

TIRELY SOUND AND COMMANDS

MY HSARTY SYMPATHY. IT SEEMS

PRCULIARLY A CASE IN| WHICH

THERE SHOULD BE NO INTERFER-

ENCE WITiL THE CARRYING OUT

OF ‘TLE SENTENCE.

THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Once again Governor Guild had been
appealed to and again he had refused.

Already the execution had been post-
poned a day so that Tucker might be
baptized into a Christian faith.

A few minutes before the execution,
Attorney Vahey asked Tucker for the
last time if he had anything to confess.

The condemned man swore he was
innocent.

And Vahey believed him.

Now there were to be no more de-
lays.

They came for him early Tuesday
morning, June 12th,

Pale-faced but firm-lipped he walked
unaided through the little green door.
In front of the electric chair he stopped
and turned to Warden Bridges.

“T hope God will forgive me for all
the wrongs | have ever done in my
past life,” he said. “I forgive every-
body who has ever wronged me. I am

at peace with my Maker. May God
have mercy on my soul.”
He seated himself in the chair

and waiting attendants adjusted the
straps.

Then as he settled back in the chair
with his eyes closed as though asleep,
Warden Bridges lifted his gold-headed
cane.

The waiting electrician obeyed.

It has been twenty-six years since
that fatal afternoon when the murder
of Mabel Page was shouted abroad on
the streets. Never in all that time has
one single fact ever been brought for-
ward to prove that this man was con-
victed wrongly despite the fact that
Attorney James Vahey went to his
grave still believing Tucker innocent.

Why Punish Your Child?

Scores of youthful prisoners have
said to me in the past few years:
“What chance has a fellow with a girl
today if he hasn’t an automobile? How
can a fellow stand in with a girl unless
he can take her for a ride?” And so
they were willing to chance a prison
term just to “show off” before a girl.

The first “hot” car is a long step
toward the first robbery, a stickup,
perhaps a hasty shot that sends some
human being to eternity and brings a
frightened, thwarted youth before a
judge and jury to face a charge of
murder.

I am fully convinced that the con-
finement of most of the boys who have
come under my supervision can be
traced back directly to a lack of at-
tention in their own homes. Most of
the boys—call them men, if you will,

(Continued from page 4)

for the majority are over twenty-one
—have never been taught or trained in
any useful work. Poor or bad environ-
ment at home during childhood is
found in most cases when we trace the
history of a boy brought to the refor-
matory for some crime.

Parents of America: heed the heart-
felt advice of a man who knows through
long experience whereof he speaks.

KEEP your children at home. Know

where they are when they are out,
especially at night. Tell them about
things they should know. Train them
in honesty and teach them the rights
of others. See that they have good re-
ligious training—no matter what re-
ligion you profess. Insist that they go
to church regularly and to Sunday
school.

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and Henry N. Sheldon were the pre-
siding justices. The Commonwealth
was represented by Attorney-General
Herbert Parker, District Attorney
George A. Sanderson and Assistant
District Attorney Hugh Bancroft.

We were forced to depend almost en-
tirely upon circumstantial evidence for
we had not been able to discover any-
one who had actually seen Charles
Tucker either enter or leave the Page
house. The State’s case was that he
was known to have been in the vicinity
and had had a reasonable opportunity
to commit the crime, becoming panic-
stricken to find Mabel Page in a
house he thought empty.

The State sought to prove that he
had a motive of theft and wg Se
this contention by proving that Tucker
had money in his possession, including
a ten dollar bill, immediately after the
crime. The State set forward that
Tucker admitted owning and breaking
up a knife that fitted the peculiarly
shaped wounds on Mabel Page’s body
and also claimed that the Canadian pin
found by me in the lining of Tucker’s
sack coat was the property of the dead
woman and had been stolen at the time
of the murder.

Each of these contentions was denied
by the Defense who claimed that
Tucker never could have gone to the
Page home, murdered the woman and
robbed the house in the time allotted
him by the Government witnesses.
Tucker claimed the Canadian pin was
his and produced witnesses who said
they had seen him wear it in his cap.

Although the Government’s case upon
the surface might not have seemed to
be very strong, pertinent evidence,
damning in the extreme, particularly
that uncovered by physicians, was
never made public and some of it is
still held confidential. Much of this
was unprintable and showed Tucker in
a most unfavorable light.

Considerable importance was at-
tached to the note which contained the
address of “J. L. Morton” which had
been found near the body in Miss
Page’s room. Particular significance
was laid upon this by the State be-
cause at the time of Tucker’s arrest, a
postcard was found on the defendant’s
person addressed to him and _post-
marked from Lynn, Massachusetts.
Whatever had been originally written
upon the message side of this card
had been carefully erased, except the
date and one or two_ unessentials.
Several addresses, either fictitious or
real, (none of them could be ever lo-
cated) had been jotted down and on
this same postal car was written in
what was said to be Tucker’s handwrit-
ing, the name “Morton” and the words
“Charlestown” and “Charles”.

The Government sought to prove
the identity of the Morton note by this
postal card and by sales slips that the
defendant had filled out while on his
several jobs. The State also sought to
establish the fact that after writing this
note, Tucker left it purposely where it
would be found and confuse the issue.
We also located a witness named J. M.
Morton who had worked at the South
Station during the time Tucker was
employed there and for that reason we

RS OE TES

The Master Detective

thought it possible that his name might
have oo onlay itself to Tucker when
he penned the note.

ALTHOUGH Tucker insisted to the
very end that he had neither knife
nor sheath on his person the day of the
murder, Woodward, the driver of the
fishcart, testified he had picked it off
the seat of the wagon after Tucker had
left for a walk with the girl. The de-
fendant also denied that the marks
upon this sheath were made by his teeth
but Dr. John W. Pomfret, a dentist,
showed the court plaster casts of the
sheath compared with the casts of
Tucker’s teeth and proved differently.
I was called to the stand and asked
to testify as to all the circumstances
relative to the finding of the broken
knife and the Canadian stick pin.

Considerable dispute arose concern-
ing the ownership of this pin which
Amy Roberts claimed belonged to her
dead mistress. She identified it by a
bent standard that had stuck when
Miss Roberts had endeavored to re-
place it in the pin cushion the day be-
fore the murder.

Some of the most dramatic moments
of the trial were provided by Profes-
sor Edward S. Wood of the Harvard
Medical School. Step by step he
showed how he had reached his star-
tling deductions. He told of analyzing
the contents of the dead woman’s
stomach and then as the blood-stained
garments were brought into the court-
room, he told in ghastly detail the gris-
ley significance of tear and stain.

The jury was greatly impressed as
was the entire courtroom and when a

air of blood-stained corsets were at
ast placed upon the witness stand
Professor Wood, holding the garment,
so all could see described how the death
blow was struck.

“What kind of a knife was used?”
asked District Attorney Saunderson.

“A single-edged knife blade killed
this woman,” the professor replied and
unfriendly glances were directed to-
wards the prisoner who sat cool and
nonchalant in the prisoner’s cage.

Contrary to all our expectations,

Tucker did not take the stand. Al-

though it was later announced that his
family had assumed all responsibility
for his failure to do so, most of us
thought we knew the reason why
Tucker did not dare to take the stand.
At the beginning of the trial he was
very confident and no doubt felt he
could give a plausible explanation of
both knife and pin.

But as he sat in court day after day
and saw Attorney General Parker cross-
examine witnesses in his usual capable
manner, Charlie Tucker became
alarmed. He was afraid to trust him-
self upon the stand, fearful lest the
skilful attorney should read the deep-
est recesses of his soul.

THE trial swept on towards its con-
clusion. James H. Vahey made a
brilliant defense and he created a vast
ublic who believed Tucker innocent.
erbert Parker, called by some the
keenest prosecutor of his generation, be-
lieved Tucker guilty and outdid him-
self to prove it.

Just before Justice Sheldon made his
charge to the jury, Charles L. Tucker
was permitted to say a few words in
his defense. He talked for two or three
minutes in rambling fashion, His for-
mer convincing manner was gone. He
stumbled over his words and repeated
himself frequently as he tried to ex-
plain the possession of the pin and the
knife to the jury. In the course of his
remarks he gave a most harmless and
censored version of his walk with
Mabel Walker on March 31st and said
that he broke up the knife “because
the officers came to me so much I got
frightened and done that.”

It would have been much better for
Tucker if he had never spoken, per-
mitting the jury to go to their room
with the masterly Helamme of the able
Mr. Vahey unclouded in their minds.

The jury retired about two o’clock in
the afternoon on the twentieth day of
the trial. There was plenty of specula-
tion concerning the probable outcome
and there were many who did not think
the State had proved its case against
Tucker. Among the two score news-
papermen covering the case, only one
said he was expecting a first degree
murder verdict.

The hours dragged along—evening
came.

Meanwhile public sentiment was run-
ning high. Tucker was regarded as in-
nocent ‘by the unthinking and so great
was the interest bestirred in his be-
half that one newspaper arranged for
electric illuminated signals to announce
the verdict as soon as it was reached.

The members of the jury were back
in their seats in the courtroom that
night at seven minutes past ten.

“Mr. Foreman,” said the clerk, “has
the jury agreed upon a verdict?”

“We have,” the foreman said.

“Charles L. Tucker,” continued the
clerk in the expectant hush, “hold up
your right hand. What say you, Mr.
Foreman, as to this indictment. Is
Charles L. Tucker, the prisoner at the
bar, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” replied the foreman in a
firm voice.

“Guilty of what, Mr. Foreman?”

“Guilty of murder in the first de-
gree.”

The penalty for first degree murder
in Massachusetts is death by the elec-
tric chair. ‘

James H. Vahey did not seem dis-
mayed at the outcome.

iy have just begun to fight,” he
said.

AND fight he did, firmly believing in
the justice of his cause.

He made a motion for a new trial
on several grounds but the same court
which sat in the trial denied the mo-
tion. They said they thought the Com-
monwealth had successfully established
most all of its contentions; they also
said that they felt the Morton note was
the work of Tucker who had written
it “for the purpose of misleading future
inquiry and this without any weight
to any of the expert testimony upon
handwriting.” They also felt sure that
the Canadian pin had been stolen and
that some of the evidence relative to
Tucker had been given by perjured wit-

aati iat eae

sage, em

—

twelve o’clock, they said, and had not
been outside again that day.

In a twinkling the situation changed.

It was obvious that Charles Tucker
could not be in two places at once. If
he had seen Mr. Dooley and the car-
penters at work as he claimed and had
already informed the police, then he
could not have been in the vicinity of
Weston Bridge at twelve o'clock.

And if he was in the vicinity of the
Page house at that time... the time
when the murder was thought to have
been committed ... why had he lied?

. what had he to hide?

Once again Tucker was examined by
the police; once again he managed to
convince most of us that he had noth-
ing to do with the affair and again he
was released.

Several hours later as Tucker stood
on the piazza of his home talking with
newspapermen, a wagonload of state
police drove up and the entire house
was carefully searched, room by room,
from cellar to attic. Nothing of an in-
criminating nature was found and the
state police were thoroughly convinced
he had nothing to do with the crime.

As far as they were concerned,
Tucker was definitely eliminated from
their list of possible suspects.

I WAS not satisfied with Tucker’s

story. In all my years as a police
officer | have never pretended to be a
detective yet | must confess that Tucker
had most thoroughly aroused my sus-
picions. Just why I cannot tell and I
do not know to this day. I feel cer-
tain that it was not because of the mys-
terious circumstances which surrounded
the death of his beautiful young wife a
year previous; it was not because we
had learned that Tucker was in desper-
ate financial circumstances and had
pawned several articles, including a
revolver, in an attempt to raise money
to go to St. Louis. Nor was it entirely
because several days after the murder
he appeared to have plenty of money
and told one of the state officers that
he intended to leave the state for four
or five months. All of the persons who
had been near the Page house on
Thursday, March 3lst had convinced
me that they had very good reasons for
being there with one exception.

That exception was Charles Louis
Tucker.

Although alone in my suspicions, |
brought matters to such a pass that
finally members of the state police
agreed to search the Tucker premises
once more. As Tucker raked his lawn
once again on the morning of Satur-
day, April 9th, Chief Fred A. Tarbox

of Newton was getting out a search

warrant.

Meanwhile I did a lot of wondering.

Was I right to insist that Tucker was
guilty and that this search should take
place, or was I, as some of my enemies
suggested, a “hayseed cop” who thought
he knew more than the slick city
slickers?”

I had set the wheels in motion. Just
what the next few hours would bring
forth no man knew.

A horse and team drove up before
the Tucker estate on the evening of

The Master Detective

Saturday, April 9th soon after six
o'clock,

There were three men in the car-
riage including Chief Tarbox of New-
ton, Chief Shaw and Gen. Whitney of
the Massachusetts District Police.

Chief Shaw and Gen. Whitney dis-
mounted and walked up the steps of
the Tucker home. A few minutes later
they returned with Charles Tucker.

Once more the man who talked too
much was in the hands of the police.

Back at Headquarters in Newton, the

risoner was again taken to the Judge’s
Room while Gen. Whitney wag dis-
patched for the court stenographer.

“Do you mind if I take my overcoat
off?” Tucker asked. Chief Shaw told
the man to make himself as comfor-
table as possible. Tucker removed the
coat, a long garment of dark, colored
material, and laid it carefully upon a
nearby couch.

Presently Gen. Whitney returned
with Frances A. Fitzgerald, a young
and attractive court stenographer.

“Mr. Tucker,” began Chief Shaw
without further preliminaries, “it is my
disagreeable duty to inform you that
you are here under suspicion of the
murder of Mabel Page. It is a very
serious matter and I want you to be
protected in all your rights and inter-
ests and you may decline to answer any
question that | put to you here and
anything that you do say may be used
against you if a prosecution should
follow.”

Briefly Tucker gave his personal his-
tory and outlined the several positions
he had held since he had started work-
ing ten years before. He told of his
position at the South Station; he said
among other places he had clerked with
Thorp and Martin, Stationers, Boston.
He admitted he knew Harold Page and
had gone to his house a year previous
to purchase a young dog for hunting.
He told the officers that he was in the
habit of going hunting and some time
pout had bought a shot gun and

unting belt.

“Have you a hunting knife?” asked
Chief Shaw.

“No, sir,” replied Tucker.

“Did you ever own one?”

“Yes sir, but I sold it to Frank
White, a friend of mine.”

The officer paused and asked what
kind of a knife it was. Tucker replied
that it was a straight knife with a
four inch blade which would not close.

“Did it have a sheath?” the police
officer asked.

“Oh, no,” said Tucker. “It was a
plain knife.”

The prisoner went on to explain that
this particular knife was the only
knife he had ever had and again re-
peated that he had sold it to his friend.

“And it had no sheath?”

Tucker shook his head. The police
official continued another line of rea-
soning.

“By the way,” he said, “did you go
out riding with anyone that day?”

“Yes, | did,” admitted Tucker with
a sheepish grin. “I went riding with a
lady and a young man on a fish wagon.
Later the girl and I took a walk... .”

Once again Chief Shaw seemed te

ii ++ aml

have lost interest in what Tucker was
saying. He had risen to his feet and
moved across the room to the couch
where Tucker had laid his overcoat.

“Do you mind if | glance through
the pockets of that coat?” he asked.
“Of course, you realize it’s merely a
matter of form... .”

“Go as far as you like,” the prisoner
replied.

With the skill acquired from many
years of frisking prisoners, the Chief
went through pocket after pocket of
Tucker’s garment.

“And you don’t object to answering
questions?”

“No, why should 1?” said Tucker.
“Vl be glad to tell you anything you
want to know.”

“That’s fine!” said Chief Shaw bring-
ing his hand suddenly out of the pris-
oner’s overcoat pocket and thrusting a
worn knife sheath under the surprised
prisoner’s nose. “Then tell me how this
casing came to be in your pocket?”

W HEN darkness fell on this same
Saturday evening, April 9th, more
state police and local police officers
gathered outside the Tucker home on
Bourne Street. In the party was
Deputy Chief George C. Neal accom-
ued by State Officers Frederick A.
hoades and Daniel W. Hammond of
the Massachusetts District Police, Chief
Tarbox of Newton and myself.

Mrs. Tucker opened the door in
response to our ring. Chief Tarbox
told her we had a warrant to search the
house, especially the room of her son
Charles.

For an instant Mrs. Tucker showed
resentment, then she threw open the
door.

“Come right in and search all you
care to,” she invited. “Charles has done
nothirtg that we are ashamed of.”

Chtef Neal turned to me.

“You'd better stay on the outside,”
he suggested, “and make sure no one
comes to disturb us.”

“Nothing doing, Chief,” I replied
firmly. “I’m more or less responsible
for this search and I’m coming in this
time to see what I can find.”

For more than a half hour, the offi-
cers searched for the missing knife
without success. Mrs. Tucker accom-
panied the police from room to room
ut made no comments. Up in Tucker’s
room, the police officers paused .

“It's all foolishness looking any fur-
ther,” one of the officers growled.
“There’s nothing to be found here.”

“You're right,” another agreed. “Let’s
call it a day.”

It was beginning to look as though
my hunch wasn’t such a worthwhile
idea after all. Perhaps I had been over-
zealous in desing another search after
my superiors had all agreed no such
need existed. Still I felt the trail was
“warm”.

Deputy Chief Neal was busy looking
through a closet. My eyes happened to
fall on a small, short sack coat hanging
on the outside door knob of that closet
and so far unnoticed by any of the
searchers. Of a sudden my _ spirits
lifted. The trail was growing “hot”.

] slipped my hands into the pockets

May, 1933

of this sack coat.

They were empty. ;

With a keen sense of disappointment,
| withdrew my hand and let the coat
fall back into its original position. As
it did so I heard a distinct clink of
metal against metal.

Once again | examined the pockets
and then I discovered what | had pre-
viously overlooked in my haste. There
was a wide slit in the lower right hand
outside pocket. From the lining of the
coat I drew forth three pieces of bat-
tered steel—pieces which had once
formed a portion of a single-edged
knife blade capable of making a five-
inch wound, aa

The handle to the knife was missing.
the part of the knife that extended into
the handle was gone and so was the
guard that had been across the weapon
just below the cutting edge. From all
appearances the knife was new, sharp
and never ground, but the name of the
maker had been partially filed off, the
edge had been turned first one way
and then another and there were vise
marks showing how the knife had been
twisted and broken.

“What's all this?” asked Deputy
Chief Neal, suddenly aware | had made
some sort of a discovery. k,

“l think I’ve found the missing
knife,” I said trying hard to keep “a
note of triumph from my voice as, |
handed him the three battered pieces
of steel. ak

Almost hidden in the lining among
some crumbs | found one more thing—
a stick pin bearing a Canadian em-
blem. It was a cheap affair, probably
not worth more than twenty-five cents,
but it was destined to play an impor-
tant part in the trial.

“What is it?” asked Chief Neal, un-
seeing in the dim light. I passed it to
him, but in some way it fell upon the
floor attracting the attention of Mrs.
Tucker.

“What are you doing with my son’s

in?” she demanded. “That belongs to
a and I’ve worn it scores of times.”

Back at the police station, Tucker
still stared with startled eyes at the
knife sheath which had been so dra-
matically produced. Yet he only hesi-
tated in his reply for the slightest part
of an instant.

“That sheath is easily explained,” he
said. “I’ve had that case in my pocket
since Sunday when I took it out of a
drawer and put it there. It’s a case |
had for a knife I lost when camping
two or three years ago.”

“Was that sheath in your pocket to-
night when you left your home to
come here?”

“Yes,” said Tucker.

“Are you sure of it?”

“Yes, sir, | am.”

“Why did you take it out of your
drawer and put it in this coat pocket?”

“1 didn’t want the officers to find it,”
was the disarming answer.

“And it’s been there since Sunday?”

Tucker nodded.

Chief Shaw and Detective Whitney
exchanged glances.

General Whitney had secured this
sheath only a few hours before from
Arthur W. Woodward in West Quincy.

The

It was at this juncture of the exam-
ination that we returned to the Newton
Police Station and Deputy Chief Neal
called Chief Shaw outside the Judge’s
Room for a whispered consultation, A
minute or two later the police execu-
tive resumed his examination asking
Tucker for a description of the knife
he lost so that it could be searched for
by the detectives.

The prisoner didn’t remember the
maker’s name but knew it was a
straight blade with a bone handle riv-
eted in two places.

Master Detective

“ARAVE you ever had a knife in the
house besides the two you have
described?” ‘Tucker was asked.

“Oh, no.”

“Then tell me,” said Chief Shaw pro-
ducing the broken pieces of knife w ich
| had discovered in the sack coat be-
longing to the prisoner only a short
time before, “if this isn’t the knife you
say you have lost?”

Tucker gulped and turned pale.

“It—it looks like it,” he stammered.

“And the story you told me about
losing a knife is untrue?”

“Well, 1 lost. one knife,” Tucker
mumbled.

“Why did you break this knife?” de-
manded Chief Shaw. :

Tucker did not reply. Chief Shaw
repeated the question.

“T tried to dispose of the knife,”
Tucker said at last, “because I didn’t
want the police to find it because they
would think | did it.”

“Did you have that knife with you
the day you went to Weston—the day
that Mabel Page was killed?” inter-
rupted Deputy Neal.

“No, [ didn't,” said the prisoner.

“Well, if you had the sheath that
day did you have the knife?”

“1 didn’t have either one with me,”
he lied, unaware of the circumstances
concerning the finding of the sheath.

“Just what is the story about this
Canadian pin that Constable McAuliffe
found in your coat with the knife?”

“There’s no story about that pin,”
retorted Tucker. “My dead wife found
this pin in Portland, Maine, and she
gave it to me two years ago. I’ve worn
it hundreds of times.”

“Nevertheless.” interrupted General
Whitney. “Harold Page says his sis-
ter owned a pin like that and says that
it’s been missing since the murder.”

“The circumstances are suspiciously
against you in this matter,” Chief
Shaw told him.

“Perhaps they are,” admitted Tucker
seemingly undisturbed, “but [ didn’t
do it.”,

That night, before I returned home
to Newton, | knew that Charles Louis
Tucker was being held without bail for
the murder of Mabel Page.

Yet Tucker as I knew him was a
very convincing and earnest talker.

CHARLES 1. TUCKER was indicted
for murder by the Middlesex Grand
Jury by a vote of 12 to 11 on June 9th,
1904.

His trial commenced ape rong 2nd,
1905 before the Superior Court at East
Cambridge. Judges Edgar J. Sherman

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been used
n the body
d had been

led Doctor
he girl put
he attempt
.s a virgin.”

- when De-
Massachu-
sstigation—
f miles and
1e strangest -
Griffin has
aost impor-
iving him a
a detective
s superiors.

» Department
whom he has
igh-hat”’ nor
‘re he has re-

ve victim and
isbury Beach
for the mur-

ius Pomykala

The Clue of the Sun-Glasses — 57

arrived in America from Poland, their native
country. In the summer of 1927 they were liv-
ing at No. 196 High Street, in Lawrence,
Massachusetts, a manufacturing city on the
Merrimac River, with a population of about
100,000, at least half of whom are foreign-born.
(When I called to interview the Pomykalas I
found that they had just moved to number 230,
a two-family apartment house.) Their-home
was attractive, well-furnished and indicative
of refinement and good taste.

‘THE Pomykalas had five daughters and the
loveliest of them all was Stella, who at the
time of the tragedy that darkened their lives
had just passed her twentieth birthday. Al-
though Polish by birth, Stella was distinctively
American and she didn’t like the name Pomy-
kala. For one thing it was too long, and was
also usually misspelled. So, for the sake of brevity,
she peremptorily changed it to ‘‘Kale’’ and it
was as Stella Kale that she. was known there-
after. . 3 ; /

Stanislaus Pomykala apparently followed.
Stella’s example in the Americanization of his
name to some extent, for in the Lawrence city
directory his first name it is given “Stanley.”
Mr. Pomykala was a good husband and father,
loving his home and children, and he was espe-

at”

| A
i
,
i
i]

Williams’ Photographic Studio, where Miss Kale was.employed. Conflicting stories were told as
to the hour at which the girl left the studio on the night that she met her doom. Arthur Williams,
proprietor of the place, said that Miss Kale left at 9:30. Others alleged that the girl had been seen in

the studio at a much later hour

cially fond of Stella, the beauty. He was very proud of the
fact that she had been graduated from the Lawrence High
school, an-honor to which he frequently referred in discussing
her accomplishments with his friends. Like all of the children,
Stella was musical and her talent as an entertainer contrib-
uted to her popularity.

As an evidence of his paternal devotion, Mr. Pomykala
had presented Stella with a ring—an ornate piece of jewelry
with a ruby stone—and again at Christmas a wrist watch,

figte

WA re

This drawing, made by a
boy in Eastport, Maine,
long before the murder,
played a strange role in the
oy \ cosa aaa solution of the mystery.

| Whom does it picture and
how did it help to solve the

riddle?

both later to become im-
portant elements in the
shocking crime.

Although in comfortable
circumstances, Mr. Pomy-
kala was not a rich man and
after her graduation Stella
felt that she should find
some employment. She ac-
cordingly took the first open-
ing that was offered, which
was soliciting subscriptions
for a magazine.

NE cold winter day in

February, Stella went
to Haverhill, a city about
ten miles from Lawrence, to canvass the business section.
She met with indifferent success. The work was not only
new to her, but quite uncongenial. She hoped soon to find
something to which she was better adapted.

She was about ready to abandon her efforts and return to
her home when, finding herself at the studio of Arthur
Williams, she paused to glance at the photographs on dis-
play in the street showcase. She decided to make one more
call on the photographer. (Continued on page 109)

The Clue of the
Sun-Glasses

(Continued from page 57)

Williams had been a photographer for
thirty-three years and appeared to have a
prosperous business. In the summer he
had a studio at the south end of Salisbury
Beach, facing the Ocean Echo dance-hall.
As he was the only photographer on the
beach, he did a thriving business during
the season.

Williams didn’t care to subscribe to any
magazines; had no time for reading, he
said. His manner, however, was cordial.
Stella’s air of refinement, her vivacity
and her good looks made an immediate im-
pression on him. He engaged her in con-
versation. He told the girl of his studio
at Salisbury Beach and she seemed quite
interested. She announced that she was
looking for a permanent position where she
could learn something. She ventured to
inquire if there would be any opening for
her at the beach the following summer.

Williams didn’t know. He regarded her
thoughtfully. Finally, he said: “Well, I
usually .employ a young lady assistant
there,” and then added, casually, “I'll keep
you in mind. Give me your address arid
if I can avail myself of your services, I'll
write to you later.” Stella hoped he
wouldn't forget and after a little further
conversation, she left the studio.

Williams didn’t forget.

TELLA pursued her magazine work

with varying success, but her heart
was not in it. She became more and
more dissatisfied with it. She was about
to make a strenuous effort to effect a
change. Then a letter from Williams ar-
rived. There would be an opening at
Salisbury Beach on Memorial Day.

Overjoyed, Stella told her parents and
sisters of the good news and left at once
for Haverhill to complete arrangements
with Williams. What salary she was to
receive does not appear, but she entered
upon her duties on May 30th. These du-
ties, according to Williams, consisted of
drying the pictures, arranging appoint-
ments for sittings and “general work
around the studio.” She also (voluntarily,
Williams said) assisted in the preparation
of meals.

The domestic arrangements at Williams’
place were somewhat peculiar. The first
floor of the small wooden building, at the
rear of which was the roller-coaster, had
been converted into a studio. Displayed
in show windows flanking the main en-
trance, were photographs of bathing beau-
ties and scenes along the beach. Across
the front, ran a row of colored electric
lights.

On the second floor were two sleeping-
rooms. Williams and his dog shared one
of them and the other he assigned to Stella.
Between the chambers was a small room
utilized as a kitchen. The food consumed
by the artist and his girl assistant was
prepared here.

Although Williams had said that Stella
had volunteered to help with the culinary
duties, there was something about the place
that she didn’t like. She had been there but
a few days when she wrote to her sister
that she was dissatisfied with conditions at

True Detective Mysteries

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clues in this sensationally mysterious case.

Satisfied that Williams would not vary
his story, Griffin allowed him to depart,
telling him that he might interview him
again later.

“Very well,” replied the photographer,
“Pye told you the truth and I’m willing
to be questioned at any time.”

Griffin was puzzled. Williams talked
and acted like an innocent man, and yet he
could not reconcile his statements with
those of persons who claimed to have seen
Stella in the studio late Sunday night.

One by one, he summoned these volun-
tary witnesses, put them through a rigid
cross-examination and then checked their
stories. He decided there was a mouse in
the meal somewhere, and so he trampled
the meal all down, At the conclusion of
his sifting, he was satisfied that there was
no evidence that Stella had been in the
studio late Sunday night. For the time
being, at any rate, he eliminated Williams
from the mystery.

The fact that the pieces of cloth found
near the body of the murdered girl were
a part of her bloomers was conclusively
established. They were of the same color,
texture and material. There were six
pieces and they had been cut by a sharp
knife, a pair of shears, or a razor.

Griffin began an inquiry to determine if
any suspicious character had been seen on
the beach Sunday night. A man named
Martin Coleman told of seeing a man at-
cost a thirteen-year-old girl; and Everett
Watson, manager of the roller-coaster, de-
scribed a man with whom he had talked
just before nine o'clock. Watson said he
told this man, who had been drinking, that
the coaster was not running and then or-
dered him away. The man then walked
up the beach.

Te. detective described this man to
Patrolman Raymond Foley of the Salis-
bury police force, who was on. duty at the
“Square” that night. “Sure, I saw this
man,” declared Foley, quickly. “I was
standing on the corner when he came up
to me about 7:45 o’clock and asked: ‘What
time do the cars go to Hampton Beach?’
I said, ‘Once an hour,’ and directed him
where to get the car. He'd been drink-
ing, but he wasn’t drunk. He said some-
thing about being hungry and I showed
him a lunch cart.”

“Did you have any further conversation
with him—anything that would tend to es-
tablish his identity?”

“Well, only this; he said he was a bar-
ber and had a shop in the Casino at
Hampton Beach.”

“Ah,” said Griffin, “do you know whether
he took the next car for Hampton Beach ‘Mi

“T know he did not. At 9:30 o’clock I
saw him again in front of the ‘Sugar
Bowl!”

Policeman James E. Kelley saw the bar-
ber at three different times. The first time
was at 9:10 P. M. in a smoking room at
the Ocean Echo dance hall. “A few min-
utes later,” continued Kelley, “I saw him
at Shaheen’s Corner. About ten minutes
after eleven, I again saw him near the
lower end of the ‘Echo’ coming from the
south.”

“From the direction of where you saw
the body?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice whether he was wear-
ing glasses?”

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110

the studio and should try to find other
employment at once. Ina letter to Francis
P. Sargent of 390 Marshland Avenue,
Haverhill, she expressed the same idea.
She was going to leave at the first oppor-
tunity. In the letter to her sister, though,
she particularized certain conditions which
she found objectionable. It was apparent
that Stella was unhappy in her environ-
ment and her family was prepared to hear
at any time that she had left Williams’
employ.

Detective Griffin received from the local
police alltof the articles found beside the
girl’s body. The envelope to which refer-
ence has been made was of a character
ordinarily. used for church collections.
Upon the reverse side of this envelope ap-

peared the words: “It’s all over.’ . This.
sentence was twice repeated and the words,

“Jimmy” and “Daddy”. each had been
written three times. The significance of
these pencilings was a mystery to the de-
tective. He considered them for some
time, unable to determine their import,
then dismissed them for the moment.

LL of the articles found on the beach

evidently were, with one exception,
the property of the murdered girl. It was,
of course, apparent to him, as to the reader,
that in that exception lay the only possible
clue. A fair inference was that the sun-
glasses had been the property of the mur-
derer. It was only prima facie evidence,
but sufficiently incriminating to require an
explanation. from the owner. The detec-
tive examined the glasses microscopically.
There was nothing distinctive about them;
there were literally thousands of such pro-
tective appliances in constant use. But
these glasses were apparently new. They
showed no signs of wear. “I guess this
is the lead,’ he mused after going over
the meager evidence carefully. “I’ve got
to locate the owner of these glasses.”

Then, as in all mysterious murders, a
volume of gratuitous information began
to pour in on the detective. Rumors, how-
ever wild or improbable, had to be investi-
gated and eliminated. Many sensational
stories soon were afloat. The public al-
ready was prejudging the case and with a
wonderful degree of unanimity naming the
person suspected. Friends of the mur-
dered girl demanded that an arrest be
made, Reporters and camera men were
hurried to the scene as the story of the
atrocious crime was smeared on first pages
of metropolitan dailies.

The identification of the murdered girl
by Williams having been accepted as con-
clusive, her parents were notified. Detec-
tive Griffin met the grief-stricken father
at the undertaker’s rooms at Amesbury.
One glance at the dead body and Stanis-
laus Pomykala said, sadly, “That is my
daughter.”

Among those who yolunteered informa-
tion was a man named Landry, who had
read the. statement of Williams in the
newspapers.

“T saw Williams and Stella in the studio
at 11 o'clock, Sunday night,” declared this
man positively to Detective Griffin.

Then along came Josephine Sebagg, of
Lawrence, who said that she, too, had seen .
Williams and Stella in the studio late’ Sune

day night,
Peggy Gremon, who worked for a “hot
dog” restaurant located in the same block

as the studio building, then came forward

True Detective Mysteries

with an interesting story. “Between one
and two o’clock Monday morning,” said
this girl, “I distinctly heard doors slam-
ming in Williams’ place.”

John Hayden, a cottager, living about
125 yards from the scene of the murder,
said that while in his room at 10 o'clock
Sunday night, he had heard’ a woman's
piercing scream. The shrieking came from
the direction of the beach where the body
of Stella Kale was found.

So far as known, Williams was the last
person: to see Stella Kale alive and the
first person to:identify her after her.-death.
Two women-and a man had come forward
with stories that did not seem: consistent
with his story: that he had not seen Stella
Kale after 9:30'o’clock Sunday night. Be-
fore proceeding further, Griffin decided to
question Williams.

HE only occupants of the studio build-
ing were Williams, Stella, and Wil-
liams’ dog.

With Detectives Stokes and Murray,
Griffin subjected the photographer to a
long and severe grilling. Williams, cool
and collected, appeared to answer all ques-
tions frankly with no apparent hesitancy
or mental reservations. Questioned con-
cerning Stella’s movements on Sunday, he
said:

“She had a caller in the morning, about
9:30 or 10 o’clock; a young man from
Haverhill—Francis P, Sargent. After he
left, she did a little work around the studio
and during the afternoon she helped with
the pictures. About 7 o’clock, she pre-
pared a chicken dinner of ‘which we both
partook. The meal consisted of chicken
soup, chicken fricassee, rice, bread and:
butter, doughnuts and tea.

“Stella had’ been in the habit of taking

_a walk every evening and at 9:30 o'clock

A section of Salisbury Beach, Massa-

chusetts, showing the Venetian Garden

Hotel. Cross in lower right-hand

corner shows where the body of Stella
Kale was found

she said: ‘I’m going for a stroll.’ She
was standing in the doorway at the time
and I said: ‘Wait until I get some ice-
cream.’ She smiled, shook her head and
said: ‘No, Mr. Ms gai wait until I come
back,’ ”

“There had been: no unpleasantness ; noth-
ing that would cause her to go- out so late
except her desire for a ‘stroll?’”’

“No indeed. I stood on the threshold
with her for a ‘moment and we talked about

the weather,”..

“What kind ofa night was ie ‘

“Pitch. dark. An absolute inky black-
ness prevailed. it had rained hard earlier
in the evening.”

“She didn’t: say sehen ae. was going?”

“No. I noticed though that she started
toward the south end of the beach. I sat
up until one o’clock, my usual hour for
retiring, and then went to bed, leaving the
porch light on for her.”

This apathy concerning the missing girl
seemed unusual, At one o’clock in the
morning when she had not returned it
would seem that the logical thing for
Williams to have done was to have insti-
tuted a search for her. She had never
been away that length of time before and
she had, according to hts story, merely
“gone for a stroll.” Instead of doing this,
however, he had gone quietly and calmly
to bed, apparently indifferent to what had
become of her. This evident indifference
persisted the next morning when he found
on arising that she was still absent. He
told no one of her disappearance and made
no inquiry concerning what had become of
her until someone told him that a girl had
been found murdered on the beach. It
didn’t look so good.

Griffin produced the envelope found be-
side the body and directed Williams’ atten-
tion to the penciled words: “It’s all over,”
“Daddy” and “Jimmy.” He asked Wil-
liams if he knew their import.

The photographer seemed to be thinking.
“Well,” he said, finally, “Stella attended
an orthophonic concert on the beach Satur-
day night. The notations may refer to
numbers. played which she wished to
remember.”

(A subsequent investigation proved that
the surmise of Williams had been correct.
Musical selections with the written titles
had been played at the concert that eve-
ning.)

Under persistent questioning, Williams
stuck to his story as to the last time he
had seen Stella, nor would he change the
hour from the time he had first stated.
“It was’ 9:30 o'clock and no later,” he
insisted’,

Wilt the medical examination had

revealed the motive for the murder,
Griffin wanted to be certain that it was the
only motive and so he asked Williams

whether Stella had any money with her-

and whether she had worn any jewelry, as
nothing of value had been found on the
body.

Williams thought she had no money or
at least only a small amount for, al-
though she had been in his employ a week,
he had paid her nothing. “She had a
wrist watch, though,” he added, “and she
wore a ring with a red stone.”

“Was she wearing the watch and ring
the last time you saw her alive—when she
left your studio at 9:30 o’clock Sunday
night ?”

“Yes, she was.
we stood in the doorway talking and I
recall seeing her glance at the watch.”

Griffin got in touch with Stanislaus
Pomykala, who corroborated Williams’
story. “I gave Stella both the ring and
the watch,” he said, “and she was wearing
them when she left home. I bought these
articles from Mary Rafferty, a clerk in the

‘store of William Herbst.” (A Lawrence
jeweler.)

A Boston paper published the fact that

‘Stella had been’ robbed and described the

watch as an Elgin, 7-jeweled, case number
1,652,840 and movement 27,275,400, an er-
roneous description which nearly resulted
in the loss of one of the most valuable

I noticed the ring as:

telling
again |
“Ver:
“T’ve’ ti
to be «
Griff
and act
could
those o
Stella i
One
tary Ww
cross-e:
stories.
the me
the me
his sift
no evic
studio
being, :
from t]
The
near tl
a part
establis
texture
pieces
knife, :
Griff
any su
the be:
Martin
cost a
Watso1
scribed
just be
told th
the coz
dered
up the

FE
bat

bury p
“Squar
man,”
standir
to me :
time d

with h
tablish
“We
ber a
Hampt
“Ah,
he tool
“Tk
saw h
Bowl!’
Poli
ber at
was at
the Oc
utes la
at Sha
after «
lower
south.”
“Fr¢
the bo
“Ves
“Dic
ing gl:

112

“Well, the first two times I saw him
he was wearing them, but the last time—
the time he was coming from the south
end—he didn’t have them on.”

“What kind of glasses were they?”

“Like those the Chief picked up on the
beach. Sun-glasses with tortoise-shell
frames.”

The detective continued to interrogate
officers who had been on duty at the beach
Sunday night. Officers Eugene Berry and
Glenn S. Clark had seen the man in front
of the Electrola between 9:15 and 9:30
P. M. It was apparent that he had been
drinking. “What’s the matter with my
doing a little dancing here?” he wanted
to know. The policemen ordered him to
move on and thereupon he had left, walk-
ing toward the south end of the beach.

Then the Boston Herald came out with a
startling story. The Herald said: “At a
point on the beach four hundred feet from
the spot where the body of Stella Kale
was discovered, a Leghorn hat has been
found. It bears the label ‘P. & G. Stores,’
a concern which has branches in Haverhill
and Lawrence. Police have announctd
that the hat belongs to Williams. It was
water-soaked.”

Water-soaked—and it had rained hard
that Sunday night. .

The Herald story gave a new impetus
to the “I-told-you-so” theorists, who had
been quiescent for a day awaiting develop-
ments. The arrest of the photographer,
they said, would be made immediately.
Many Lawrence residents were asking, im-
patiently, why this had not been done long
before. Rumors again flew thick and fast.
Griffin continued to receive letters telling
him that he was “barking up the wrong
tree;” that the murderer could be found
nearer home, etc.

HEN the mother of the murdered girl

told of a vivid dream she had one
night in which she saw the whole tragedy
enacted. The murderer was plainly visual-
ized in her dream, she said. The super-
stitious regarded this as a divine rev-
elation.

If Detective Griffin heard these rumors
—and some, at least, he prabably did—he
ignored them. He had failed. to connect
the photographer with the incriminating
sun-glasses.

Having exhausted his sources of infor-
mation at Salisbury Beach, he started to
trail the owner of those glasses. ~ He was
looking for a barber—a barber ‘who
danced.

Entering the drug store of Donovan &
Fallon at Hampton Beach, the first object

that caught his eye was a display, card’

holding eleven pairs of sun-glasses of va-
rious hues. It originally had contained an
even dozen. Addressing John P. Donovan,
one of the proprietors, he said, carelessly,
“I see that the trade in sun-glasses hasn’t
opened very brisk this season.”

Donovan smiled. “Little early yet. Only
sold one pair thus far.”

The detective got his cigar going from
the electric lighter. “Remember who
bought them?”

“Stranger to me. Peculiar-acting chap,

too. Tried on the glasses,. walked to the
mirror and after regarding himself intently
for a moment, turned and said: ‘You
wouldn’t know me now, would you??” ° |

The detective extended a pair of glasses.
“These look like the pair he bought?”

True Detective Mysteries

Donovan examined them critically and
passed them back. ‘Those are the iden-
tical pair,” he said. His description of the
purchaser tallied with that of the mystery
man of Salisbury Beach. Paul Coen, a
clerk in the store, also recalled the buyer
and agreed with Donovan’s description.
“He was in here twice,” volunteered Coen.
“At the time he bought the glasses, he
bought a pint of witch-hazel. Later in the
afternoon, he came back and bought an-
other pint.” :

“For use as a beverage, I suppose?”

Coen grinned. “I suppose so.”

“What time was he in here the first
time that you saw him—the time that he
bought the glasses?” ,

Coen reflected. “About noon, perhaps a
few minutes later.”

“And the second time?”

“About the middle of the afternoon.”

“Was he drunk?”

The police flier sent out in the hope of
apprehending the slayer of Stella Kale

“No, I wouldn’t say he was drunk, but
he acted kind of queer. Handed out a lot
of cheap talk.”

“Do you recall whether he said anything
about Salisbury Beach?”

“Yes, he did.’. He asked what kind of a
place it was, and said he was going over
there.” :

“Was there any other conversation that

you remember?”
‘T asked him if he drove a machine,”

’ interposed Mr; Donovan, “and. he replied

that he didn’t. I guess that’s about all
that was said.” ‘ ‘
oe *
O one answering the description of
“the dancing barber” had a ‘shop in
the Casino, but it occurred to Griffin that a
part of ‘the man’s story might be true. It
was possible that he was a barber. He
decided to investigate the tonsorial es-
tablishments. He visited several places
without uncovering anything. Then he
called at the shop of Richard Bulger.
He had not finished his description of
the man for whom he was in search
when Bulger interrupted.
“I can’ tell you something about that
man, He came in here: last Friday,
(June 3rd) seeking employment.’ I told

him I didn’t need a barber, but on Satur-.:

day “he came back again. We were

pretty busy so I put him to work. He

worked that evening, and that night’ he
slept at my house. The next day, Sun-

day, he worked until noon. I told him
I could use him all the week as one of
my men was going to be away, but he
never showed up. He left a comb and
scissors here and also some things at
my house. I’ve been wondering what
became of him,” t

In the room occupied by the barber in
Bulger’s house there was found under
the bed, a pair of soft leather shoes, size
seven and one-half and in a bureau
drawer were a shirt, size fifteen; a collar
and a necktie.

The shirt and collar evidently were
new for they bore no laundry marks.

“What was the name of this man?”
asked Griffin.

“Frank Harris.”

. The detective continued his inquiries
until he had a pretty good description
of the suspect, a description which was
published in all of the important news-
papers in New England. He was said
to be a man of about forty years of age,
weighing, probably, in the vicinity of 160
pounds. His height was estimated at
about five feet, six inches. He was of
dark, sallow complexion with brown eyes
and he wore a small mustache. One
distinctive mark which would aid in his
identification had been learned. This
was a queer tattoo upon the inner side
of his right forearm. Needled in indeli-
ble pigment were a pair of clasped hands
and a heart pierced by a dagger. Above
this design were the letters: “E, T.”

Newspapers also printed pictures of
the sun-glasses with the statement that
Donovan had identified them as those he
had sold to the suspect. Bulger told
reporters that the mystery barber claimed
to have come from Miami, Florida, where
a hurricane had destroyed his barber-shop,
and that his wife and family had per-
ished in the cataclysm, and this, too, was
published. (Griffin had sifted the Miami
story and found it to be untrue.)

While the detective was quietly pursu-
ing his investigation, gossip in Haver-
te Lawrence and Salisbury persisted.

rastic action was demanded. The Com-
monwealth of Massachusetts offered a
reward of $1000 for the arrest of the
murderer. Then the selectmen of Salis-
bury got their heads together. A beau-
tiful young girl had come into their town
and within a week had been foully and
wantonly murdered and the murderer
was still at large—perhaps still in their
midst, waiting for a new victim, They
added $500 to the reward offered by the
State.

Notice of these rewards was given in
a circular broadcast by the State Police
Department. This document also con-
tained the information acquired by Griffin,
a description of the suspect, particulariz-
ing certain scars which he was said to
bear, and specimens of his handwriting.
It contained no picture, for none was
available. ;

MONG those who read with interest
the story of “the dancing barber”
was a boy in Eastport; Maine, named
Harold Chute. He read the description
of the suspect carefully. “By Jove,” he
ejaculated, “J believe . that’s George
Taylor!”
Again he studied the description. The
man known to him as George Taylor, had
roomed in his father’s house, His father,

ar
good
could
tune
Amon
boy r
“Swe
Were
tenor.
Anc
tionec
in the
Tay
he wa
the “
His fi
Harri
As
mentz
and n

who was familiarly known as “Shorty,”
had struck up an acquaintance with Tay-
lor at the barber shop of Smith & Sav-
age, where the man was employed, and
a little later had rented him a room.

Harold recalled that “Taylor” was a
good buck-and-wing dancer and that he
could also do some neat stepping to the
tune of “The Hibernian Laundress.”
Among his other accomplishments, the
boy remembered, were the renditions of
“Sweet Adeline”? and “When You and I
Were Young, Maggie” in an excellent
tenor.

And both of these songs were men-
tioned in the reward circular, reprinted
in the newspaper which lay before him.

Taylor had told Eastport people that
he was a performer and had traveled with
the “Johnny Jones Carnival Company.”
His full name, he said, was George Elmer
Harrison Taylor.

As the boy recalled more vividly the
mental picture of Taylor, he became more
and more convinced that he was the man
for whom the police were searching. “I'll
bet a cooky he’s the fellow,” he stated,
which was going pretty far. Then sud-
denly, he remembered something else.

He once had made a pen and ink
sketch of Taylor, upon which the barber
had complimented him, declaring that it
was an excellent likeness.

Harold hurried to his room. There, |

among a pile of old drawings, he resur-,
rected the long-forgotten picture. He’
was satisfied that it conformed to the
printed description. As the paper said
no photo of the barber had been found
perhaps his pen and ink sketch might
help. He might even get a part of the
$1500 reward. He mailed the drawing
to Detective Griffin together with what
information he had.

HE first definite clue to the where-
abouts of the suspect came from a
resident of New Hampshire.

About 5 o'clock in the afternoon of
Monday, June 6th, William N. Dowe of
Kensington, New Hampshire, was driv-
ing a small Ford truck on his way to get
some lumber. With him was a young
man named William Irving. When near
Hampton Falls Hill, he overtook a pedes-
trian and asked him if he didn’t want a
“lift.”

“I generally ask a man to ride if I’m
going his way,” explained Mr. Dowe in
relating the incident. “Well, this chap
thanked me and climbed aboard. He was
a foreign-looking fellow, about five foot,
six, and weighed, I should say, about one
hundred and sixty-five pounds. I recol-
lect that he wore a blue coat, brown
trousers and black shoes. His white
shirt was open at the throat and he wore
no collar. A checkered cap was partially
pulled down over his face. I noticed
that he had a ‘Charlie Chaplin’ mustache
and that he was very dark complexioned
—swarthy, I guess you'd call it. His
eyes struck me as a bit peculiar. Seemed
weak, somehow.

“We chatted as we rode along and he
said he’d had a hard time trying to find
work. He says: ‘My name is Hill and
I’m a barber. I come from Pittsburgh.’
I recall that he had a very mild speaking
voice.

“T stopped to get my lumber and while
I was loading on some boards he says to

True Detective Mysteries

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less trip for Detective Griffin. Whether
the man had been justified in his conjec-
tures is not known. No attempt by any-
body to apprehend the suspect had been
made and he had disappeared.

Then suddenly something broke.

In the northern part of Vermont is
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On the morning of July 5th, a weary,
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The visitor murmured his thanks and
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He engaged the man in conversation and
some things which he said didn’t ring
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just a “hunch.” He stepped into another
room and, closing the door, got Sheriff
Edward E. Holmes on the ’phone.

“Ed,” he said in a low voice, “we've
got a fellow in the house here that don’t
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HEN the Sheriff arrived he found

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Brown studied him intently.

True Detective Mysteries 115

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114

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me: ‘Say, I’m about starved. I haven't
had anything to eat for two days.’ I had
some of my dinner left, so I got it out
and says, ‘Go to it.’ I guess he told the
truth about being hungry for he ate like
a wolf. I put a slab on front and he
rode on it beside me, while Irving rode
on the running-board.

“He rode to my home in Kensington
with me and on the way he said to me:
‘My wife is dead and I’ve got her watch,
but I suppose I’ll have to give it up.’
I says: ‘How good a watch is it?) He
says, ‘Well, I paid twenty dollars for it;
I think I ought to get three dollars
on it.’

“After we got into the yard and
stopped, he hopped off and showed it to
me. He had it im a wallet and when he
took it out a ring with a red stone
dropped to the ground. He picked up
the ring and says: ‘That ring. was hers,
too,’ and put it back in his pocket.

“T looked the watch over and says, ‘I’ll
let my wife look at it and if she wants
it I'll give you three dollars for it.’ Well,
my wife liked the watch and I came out
of the house and give him the three dol-
lars. My daughter, Mrs. Nellie G. Dick-
inson, came out of the house. and Mr.
Hill stayed around a few minutes chat-
ting and playing with some kittens and
then left. He didn’t say where he was
going and I didn’t ask him.

“The very next day my daughter read
about the watch stolen from the mur-
dered girl, but the paper said it was an
Elgin and since the. watch Hill had

wasn't an Elgin, we didn’t think much "

about it. The next forenoon my daugh-
ter drove to Hampton Falls where I was
working and says: ‘Father, you've
bought that murdered girl’s wrist watch,’
She said, ‘the. Boston Globe says the
watch is a Waltham, size 3-0 and the
case number is 6,473,937 and the move-
ment 23,323,558 and those are the num-
bers on the watch you bought from Mr.
Hill!” \

Mr. Dowe at once left his work and
drove to the police station at Amesbury
where he. delivered the watch to State
Detective William F. Murray and told
the foregoing: story. ‘Detective Griffin
immediately left ‘for New Hampshire. . '

Dowe’s story had created a sensation
and launched one of the greatest man-
hunts in New England.

WARMS of detectifes combed the
northern New England states and
Canada for a man answering the descrip-
tion and garbed in a blue coat and brown
trousers. State Police Patrols of Massa-
chusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire

searched all country roads. Canadian.
‘police were rushed to. border towns.

Progress of the hunt, rumors and theo-
ries were broadcast from important radio
stations and “John Doe” warrants. were
sworn out.

Althought the identity of the alleged
murderer had been to a. certain extent
established, locating him was. something
else again. Griffin found the trail alter-
nately hot and cold as the “dancing bar-
ber” adroitly foiled his trackers. In hay
Hampshire Griffin was frequently, :
seemed, only two jumps behind the man,
only to lose him,

The detective: traced Ae to several
southern New Hampshire towns where he

had sought work as a barber, but by the
time he arrived on a hot tip, the man
simply wasn’t there. Clue after clue was
run down with infinite patience by the
untiring sleuth determined to get his
man.

Shortly before six o’clock on Wednes-
day evening, June 8th, the dancing bar-
ber had appeared at North Conway and
was positively identified by Arthur J.
Roberts, a barber who had once employed
the fugitive. The wily Taylor undoubt-
edly had recognized Roberts and skipped,
for again Griffin arrived just too late to
apprehend him.

On Friday, June 10th, Taylor suddenly
showed up at the cook tent of the 101
Ranch, Wild West Show at Manchester
and again he successfully slipped through
the net that was spread for him.

Then an apparently reliable tip that
the badly wanted man had succeeded in
making his way into Canada reached
Griffin and he left for Sherbrooke, Que-
bec. Another false clue led him to Mon-
treal, five reporters sticking to him like
glue.

Sener the widely separated points at
which Taylor had been seen by per-
sons certain of his identity, it was ap-
parent that a vivid imagination and a
quiet contempt for facts were influenc-
ing reports. And they all had to be run
down and eliminated. Letters, telegrams
and telephone messages gave “definite
information,” all of which proved to be
erroneous. Many of these communica-
tions contained advice and suggestions
for trapping the murderer. A frequent
theory advanced was that Taylor prob-
ably had escaped through Crawford
Notch and so, into Maine. This suppo-
sition originated in the published — re-
ports that he had worked as a barber at
sever§l places in the “Pine Tree” state,
He had been traced to Bangor, Eastport,
Caribou and. Belfast. In all of these
places he had assumed various aliases,
prominent among them being “George
Good.”

A month had elapsed since the murder,
and all that Griffin could tell reporters
who camped on his trail was: ‘We're
still working on it.” He literally had
traveled hundreds of miles and inter-
viewed innumerable witnesses all, ap-
parently, to no purpose. Taylor re-
mained at liberty.

The detective never abandoned the idea
that the barber’s freedom was transitory.
He was certain that he had not traveled
to any remote place and said so. “He'll
be caught eventually somewhere in
northern New England,” he told repre-
sentatives of the press. “His peculiarities
will identify him and, when he’s ar-
rested, we'll have the evidence to con-
vict him.”

Newspaper men, however, were not so
sure. It was a circumstantial evidence
case. No one had seen the murder com-
mitted.

The last trace of the suspect sought
in connection with the murder had been
at a place near Dover, where he had
aroused the suspicions of a man by his
talk and from the fact that he carried
no barber’s tools. This man promptly had
voiced his suspicions to the Dover police

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True Detective Mysteries

It occurred to him that he answered the
description of the man wanted for the
murder of Stella Kale at Salisbury Beach.

Brown telephoned his suspicion to the
Bureau of Criminal Identification in Bos-
ton and Detective Griffin was notified.
Griffin was not particularly impressed.
He had been on many a wild-goose chase
on similar errands,

OWEVER, although he had wasted a

great deal of time in tracing “accu-
rate descriptions,’ he had confidence in
the opinion of a trained detective He
went to Montpelier. With him he car-
ried the sketch of the dancing barber
made by the boy artist in Eastport,
Maine.

In the attorney general’s office at the
capitol he listened to the carefully worded
account of the Vermont sleuth. “It
sounds good,” he admitted, cautiously,
“you may have the right man here.
We'll look him over.”

Hyde Park lies in the heart of the |

Lamoille Valley in the Green Mountain
state, a long distance from the spot where
the fugitive barber was last authentically
reported to have been seen. The two de-
tectives traveled northward by auto on
the scenic route to the White Mountains.
Griffin realized that he was about to face
a great responsibility. He could not af-
ford to make a mistake. If he allowed
the suspect to go, and that suspect after-
ward proved to be the murderer, it would
be a sad reflection upon Griffin’s effi-
ciency. On the other hand, he would be
equally embarrassed if he brought back
to Massachusetts an innocent man. Pull-
ing out the pen and ink sketch ine studied
it attentively although he was so familiar
with it that he could have drawn it him-
self from memory.

It was eight o’clock at night when the
two detectives drove into the jail yard
at Hyde Park. Guard William Crowell
at once brought “Harry Lewis” from his
cell and Griffin. eyed him. critically.
“How are you, Taylor?” he asked, “do
you know me?”

The prisoner regarded him coldly. “No.

never saw you before.”

“Not in Eastport, Maine?”

“No. I never was in Eastport, Maine.”

“Oh, yes, you were,” contradicted
Griffin, abruptly; “You worked in the
‘barber shop of Smith» & Savage and
you lived in the house of a man named

“Shorty.’”

» Drawing forth the sketch by the East-
port boy he handed it to “Lewis,” who
glanced at it indifferently. “That was
drawn by a. boy of ‘Shorty’s, ” when, you
‘went under the name of ‘George Taylor.’
‘Is that your name?”
“TJ use that name sometimes.”

“I. thought so and you're a barber,
‘aren’t you?”
“. “Tf can do some barbering, but it isn’t
my. trade. I work as a tailor’s helper.”

Griffin thought a moment. “Sit down,

Taylor, and write ‘George Good.’”

The man. complied and: the detective |

‘studied the signature. “Now write ‘Cari-
‘bou, Maine,’” he directed.

“How do you spell it?”

“Spell it yourself.”

The man frowned, but finally wrote it.
He spelled the word “Carbou,” omitting
the “i.”

“Now we're getting somewhere,” an-

nounced Griffin complacently, “You reg-
istered this name, ‘George Good’ at a
hotel in Belfast, Maine, and you worked
there in a barber shop, for a man named
Kendall. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what’s your right name?”

“Taylor.”

Griffin reached forward. “Let’s have
a look at your arm.” He pulled up the
right sleeve. “What do these letters
‘BE. T.’.. stand. fore:

“Eva Tillman. I met her at Robinson's
circus in Cleveland.”

“Well, Taylor, I’m Detective Griffin of
the Massachusetts State Police. I think
you are the man who murdered Stella
Kale, who was strangled at Salisbury
Beach a little more than a month ago.
I’ve been looking for you ever since then.
Because you're in a serious position I
must be fair with you. You are entitled
to this. You do not have to say anything
to me if you do not wish to. I'm going
to ask you some questions and anything
you say to me I can use against you. Do
you understand?”

“Yes,”

“What's your right name?”

“George Taylor.”

“Where were you born?”

This is the dancing barber who killed
Stella Kale. Who is he?

“Cleveland, Ohio, June fifteenth, eigh-
teen eighty-two.”

“You're a good buck-and-wing dancer.
Will you dance for us?”

Taylor shook his head. The jailer

brought out a fiddle and played a dance °

tune, but the barber refused to exhibit
his reputed talent. Even one of his fa-
vorite clogs, “The Irish Washwoman,”
failed to interest him. Griffin continued
his queries: “You were at Salisbury
Beach on June fourth, were you not?”
“Yes, I worked for Dick Bulger Satur-
day and Sunday up to noon. I bought
some witch-hazel.in a drug store there.”
“And sun-glasses,” amended Griffin.
"No.”

HE detective let the denial stand. “A
Mr. Dowe bought a watch from you

in Kensington, New MHampshire, for.

which he paid you three dollars—a
watch which you told him belonged to
your deceased wife. That’s correct,
isn’t it?”

“T don’t know how much he gave me
for the watch. He handed me some
bills.”

“Well, when the murdered girl was
robbed of her watch, a ring also was

stolen,

fo r
“Wel
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stolen, a ring with a red stone. What
did you do with the ring?”

“T never had no ring. I have no use
for a ring.”

“Well, where did you get the watch?” .

“T don’t know. I didn’t know I had it
until I found it in my pocket, while I
was walking on the road that day in
New Hampshire.”

“Taylor, were you at Salisbury Beach
on June Sth?”

“No. I was drinking witch-hazel. I
don’t remember what I did.”

“Where did you stay that night—Sun-
day night?”

“tn Boston. Four fellows in an auto-
mobile gave me a ride into Boston and
I stayed there that night. The next day
the same four fellows gave me a ride to
New Hampshire.”

In answer to questions the barber said
that he had been in Newmarket, Berlin,
North Conway and other New Hampshire
towns where it was reported that he had
been seen.

He said that he was quite willing to
return to Massachusetts with the detec-
tive. William Tracey, Grand Juror of
Hyde Park, told Taylor of his right to
fight extradition.

“T know that,” the barber replied, “but
Mr. Griffin has treated me like a gentle-
man. I'll return with him.” ‘

T the Salisbury Beach Police Station

Taylor was lined-up with. seven
other men and identified as the man seen
on the beach by the roller-coaster man-
ager and Salisbury police: officers.: Mr.
Dowe and his daughter separately picked
him out as the seller of the Waltham
watch. Donovan and his clerk identified
him as the purchaser of the incriminat-
ing sun-glasses.

Griffin finger-printed» him, using an
ordinary sheet of paper and an impro-
vised ink-pad. On this paper he got the
autograph of the suspect: “George Tay-
lor.’ During all the conversations which
he had with Taylor the detective had
watched him narrowly and had also ob-
served him closely while witnesses were
identifying him. His attitude, his de-
meanor and the manner in which he had
framed his replies to questions seemed to
Griffin to betray experience. “I believe
that fellow has been in trouble before,”
he mused. “He’s been through the mill.”

Griffin voiced his suspicions to Roscoe

C. Hill, head of the State Criminal Iden-~

tification Bureau. The finger prints
which he had taken were classified by
Mr. Hill, but he had no record of them
in his files. Then Hill and Griffin went
to the Salem jail where Taylor was com-
fined and Hill took his Bertillon meas-
urements. These measurements corre-
sponded exactly with those on file in the
detective bureau of the Boston Police
Department.

Taylor, it was ascertained, had been
convicted of robbery on March 13th, 1913,
and had been sentenced to five years’ im-
prisonment in the state prison at Mounds-
ville, West Virginia. The original sen-
tence had been extended 480 days for in-
subordination and violations of prison
rules. He had been sentenced under the
name of Elmer Thompson, which was his
real name. His prison number was 8390
and Detective Griffin received from the
southern penitentiary officials a card con-

True Detective Mysteries

taining his measurements and fullface

and profile photographs. They were those |

of “the dancing barber” beyond all doubt.

This card bore an amazing announce-
ment. Thompson was wanted for a mur-
der committed in Buffalo, New York, in
August, 1925. For nearly two years, de-"
tectives had scoured the country for him
and there was still an outstanding re-
ward of $1100 for his capture.

In Buffalo, Taylor was known by his
right name (Elmer Thompson) which ex-

plains the reason for his adoption of so

many aliases. The crime for which
Buffalo police wanted him was committed
on August 7th, 1925. On that date a
twelve-year-old boy, Joseph Jervais, was
found dead in a field in Buffalo. He had
been beaten and choked to death. It was
pronounced one of the most atrocious
murders in the criminal history of that
city.

All the evidence pointed to an itinerant
barber and soft shoe dancer named Elmer
Thompson, who- had mysteriously disap-
peared. The circular sent out by the
Buffalo Police Department said that
Thompson might be found dancing at
street carnivals and lower type cabarets.
It also described the tattoo marks on the
right arm.

On July 13th, Taylor (he was tried un-
der the name of George Elmer Harrison
Taylor) was arraigned in the district
court at Amesbury, Massachusetts, and
pleaded “not guilty” to the charge of
murdering Stella Kale by strangulation.
The case was continued to July 23rd, for
a hearing; On that date he was held
without bail to await the action of the
grand jury, who, on September 16th, re-
turned an indictment.

fe trial opened in the Superior
Court of Essex County at Salem, be-
fore Judge Quinn and a jury, on October
10th. The Commonwealth was repre-
sented by District Attorney W. G. Clark
and Assistant District Attorneys Bah
Flynn and F. E. Raymond.

Two eminent attorneys appeared for
the Defense: J. H. O’Neil and ba
Rafler. They decided to put Taylor on
the stand. He told the jury that on the
afternoon preceding the murder he had
consumed a large amount of liquor and
also three pints of witch-hazel. After
his last drink at about 3:30 P. M., at a
place a few miles from the beach, he had
no recollection of what happened. He
said that he had awakened the next
morning in Boston.

The jury returned a verdict of guilty
and Taylor was sentenced to die in the
electric chair.

On November Ist, his attorneys filed
an appeal on exceptions saved during the
trial? One of these was on the submis-
sion to the jury of facts upon which it
was asked to decide whether the crime
was committed with extreme atrocity or
cruelty, (necessary under the Massachu-
setts statute to sustain a first degree
murder verdict). Another, was the fact
that the jury was told of Taylor’s con-
viction of robbery and the extension of
his sentence for misbehavior.

The exceptions were denied.

Whenever a man is convicted on cir-
cumstantial evidence, there are always a
number of persons who express doubt of
his guilt. Petitions roll in to the “gov-

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ernor for pardon or commutation and
not infrequently mass meetings are held
to protest against carrying the death sen-
tence into execution. The Salisbury
Beach case was no exception so far as
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Governor Frank G. Allen, however, de-
clined to interfere. He had reviewed the
evidence and deemed it conclusive. Any
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Essex County citizens subscribed to a
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on from Ohio for a final visit with him
before the execution. Upon his agrival
this brother, Clayton Thompson, an Ohio
coal-miner, announced that Taylor was
his half-brother. His, right name, he
said, was Elmer J. Thompson. He had
been born in Cleveland and at the time
of the crime of which he was convicted
he was forty-five years of age.

His mother, Clayton said, had died
when Elmer was four years old and soon
after that tender age he had begun his
roving career. It had started when he

was placed in a public institution. At the
age of fifteen, Taylor sallied forth, he
said, as an itinerant barber, street dancer
and coal-miner.

AYLOR was executed on March 6th,

1929. He walked calmly to the chair,
unassisted. The night previous he had
been baptized by the Reverend Mr. Wil-
liam B, Whitney, Protestant chaplain at
the Charlestown Prison, and a few min-
utes before his march to the death chair
he was given communion.

Clayton Thompson made public a letter
which.the condemned man had written to
him just before his execution. In it
Taylor said:

“Brother, I want to tell you that I am
innocent of the charge on which I was
convicted. I was convicted on circum-
stantial evidence. I want to say to you
that the State of Massachusetts is about
to take the life of an innocent man.”

In the distribution of the reward young
Harold Chute, whose drawing had aided
the authorities, was not forgotten.

Unpublished Secrets of the Snyder-Gray
Murder

(Continued from page 44)

Maybe I imagined it, but it struck me by
the way she said it that she knew it would
be impossible to.ask Albert. I asked her
why she didn’t seek her husband’s aid in-
stead of Lorraine’s when she found her-
self lying bound in the hallway. She told
me that her husband was deaf in one ear
and always slept on his ‘good’ ear. For
that reason, she thought, he wouldn’t hear
her when she knocked against his door.”

“Did you ask her why she didn’t send
Lorraine to summon him—or why Lorraine
didn’t unfasten her ankles so that she
could have gone to her husband herself?”

“I asked her why she didn’t send Lor-
raine to Albert instead of the Mulhausers,
She said she had once told Lorraine that
if anything ever happened she was to. go
for the Mulhausers at once. Then she
closed up like a clam.” ‘

HEN the Commissioner came down-

stairs there was a conference held in ~

the dining-room. About a dozen detectives
had reached the scene of the crime by that
time, and the situation was thoroughly dis-
cussed.

Summed up, the salient features which’

convinced ‘us that Snyder had not been
murdered by an ordinary burglar were:

First, the careful manner in which the
house had been disarranged—the fine table
linen thrown on a chair, the coarse kitchen
linen, on the floor; the silver piled on a
cloth, so it would not scratch the mahog-
any table; the dead man’s clothes chucked
around anyhow, (even his ties had been
torn off their: rack and flung about the
room), while Mrs, Snyder's things had
not been disturbed.

Second, so far as we had been able to
discover, nothing was missing except Mr.
Snyder’s wallet, although there were many
objects of value in sight which any expe-
rienced burglar certainly would have car-
ried away with him.

Third, there were no marks of entry.

Fourth, the only “clue,” suggesting a
visit from a “rough looking Italian,” was
an:Italian newspaper, dated two days old,
which looked as if it had been “planted”
there to throw detectives off the track.

The theory that Mr. Snyder had been
killed -by someone who held a grudge
against him seemed to be discounted by the
opportunity such a person would have had
to assault or murder the art editor when he
was in the garage putting away his car. At
that kour in the morning it was pitch dark
and tHe murderer would have escaped, un-
seen. *

‘Everyone who had questioned Mrs.
‘Snyder was convinced that she was lying.
Many theories offering a possible motive
for deliberate misrepresentation of facts
presented themselves, but we were keeping
away from theories where we had no
actual evidence to back them up.

Did Mrs. Snyder know that her husband
was dead? No one present at the confer-
ence could answer that positively in the

‘affirmative. And, in: order to open up

new lines of questioning, it was absolutely
essential to discuss the murder.

Commissioner McLaughlin devised a
clever scheme whereby we might learn
whether or not she knew he was dead. He
and I were to return to her room, and
make a bluff of questioning her about the
Italian newspaper. At the end of one
minute, a policeman was to knock on the
door. The knock was to be answered by
the ‘Commissioner. When he opened the
door, the officer was to announce, “They
have just called up from. the hospital and
reported that man has just died,” and I
was to observe closely Mrs. Snyder’s re-
action to this communication.

Would she cry out, “Oh, ‘my God,” in
horror, as one would expect a woman to
do when informed that her husband has
just died a violent death?

If, all along, she had believed that he
was dead, would the thought occur to her

, @

that some
mained, t!
Vv 1
L h
g 1
and tell t)

Or was
the little ;

In acco:
Commissi
tered the

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didn’t wa:
strike me
spiritual :

Her ch
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wisp of }
disturbed,
was smoc
that her
in the fr
actress.

I was
his post :
pated kn:

As pre
over and
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women 1)

Neithe
her mot!
of the b

Mr. }
walked |
he carri
“Mrs. S
natheticz

()
s

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have ev:

HE
ami
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her pillc
handker
That
all alon
dered.
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Smith
receivec
in Bro
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her. Ii
her to
As s
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the exp
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After
pressed
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burglar
the. pr¢

“We
but the
case tl
seemed
of the

PO mirage

THE CRIME OF THE

HOW CLOGGING FEET BETRAYED A BRUTAL MASSACHUSETTS SEX SLAYER

cession, at Salisbury Beach, Massachusetts, kept blaring

a ditty of the day—Yes, sir, that’s my baby, Drawn
by the rollicking tune, children stood in the shade of the
booth's wide, multi-colored awning and sang in thin, piping
voices.

A ELECTRIC phonograph outside the skee ball con-

The fat, perspiring concessionaire was enjoying it. He
beamed down upon the young singers, and occasionally be-
stirred himself to shift the needle back to the record’s begin-
ning. Then the fun would start again.

Up the street, the organ of a whirling carousel pumped
out off-key competition, and now and then came the sharp
pop-pop of the shooting gallery. But the children had no ears
for these.

“Just once more, mister! Just once more,” .they chorused,
clapping their hands as the music stopped.

It was at this point that the fat man noticed his audience
had grown by one. A little fellow, wearing a tiny’ mustache
and a derby hat, stood on the curb, applauding louder than
the rest.

“Give ’er another whirl, brother,” he said to the booth
owner in a voice somewhat thick. “I’ll show these kids
a little dance.”

“Oo-oh! A dance,” the children cried. “Yes, mister, just
once more.”

The concessionaire started the record again.
tune’s torrid beat came from the horn.

The little fellow in the derby, motioning the children back,
broke into a slow shuffle. He soft-shoed himself up and
down the sidewalk, then began a clog, flicking his derby to
a jaunty angle with a lightning finger, and screwing up his
tiny mustache.

“Took! Charlie Chaplin,” the children shouted, entranced.

The rhythmic tattoo of the dancer’s hard heels on the pave-
ment quickly attracted a crowd. It also attracted Police
Officer Eugene Berry. As the music stopped, Officer Berry
pressed through to the front.

“What’s the idea?” he asked the little dancer.

The other wiped his forehead on a sleeve.

“Hi, officer!” he chirped. “Just giving the kids a treat.”

“Please, Mr. Policeman,” the youngsters chorused, “he
didn’t mean anything. He’s fun. Just watch him dance.”

The dance

STRANGLED
A strange sequence of events
preceded the discovery of
Stella Kale—dead, with fiend-
ish teeth marks on her hand,

ODD DANCER

Police saw this eccentric ine-
hriate at 9:30 and again at
10:30, but no one saw him in
between, when death struck.

The officer grinned. “You're collecting a crowd,” he told
the dancer. “That’s not allowed. Run along now.”

Without protest the little man went up the street, giving
a backward Chaplin scuff with his feet and a mock tip of
his derby. Everyone laughed, even Officer Berry.

“Quite a character,” he said to the fat concessionaire.

HE SUN went down a ball of fiery red on June 5, 1927,

presaging another hot day for the tardy season at Salis-
bury Beach. The waning light sent grotesque shadows of the
roller coaster flickering along the sandy shore, and soon a
myriad of colored lights jeweled the resort.

At 7:30 o'clock a thunder shower sent the merrymakers
scurrying. Police Officer Raymond L. Foley of the Salis-
bury force, who patrolled a different part of the beach than
did Berry, stepped under the shooting gallery awning to
keep dry. As he shook the water from his hat, Officer Foley
saw that a funny little man with a small mustache and a
derby had stolen under the awning with him.

“What time do these trolleys run?” inquired the little man.

“Every hour,” Foley answered.

“Well, get me on that trolley safely, see? I’m pretty
dizzy.”

Foley saw the stranger had been drinking. “Better run
down to the Sugar Bowl and get some black coffee,” he
suggested.

The little man turned up his collar.

“Okay,” he hiccoughed, starting away through the rain.

By 9:30 the drizzle had ceased. Farther up the street, at
the Broadway Photographic Studio of Arthur Williams—
“Get Your Picture on a Postcard, 25c’”—Williams’s pretty
clerk of a week, Stella Kale, twenty-two, was tidying her
hair.

“If you won't need me any more tonight,” the girl said to
Williams, “I’ll take a stroll down to the beach for some
ice cream.”

“All right,” her employer replied, preparing to close up.
“I guess there won't be anything more doing.”

“Don’t lock the door,” she called as she left. “I'll be
coming right back.”

The girl lived in one room above the studio, while Wil-
liams, a man of slightly over fifty, lived in another.

EVENING STROLL—TO DEATH
From Arthur Williams’ photo studio Stella
Kale went for a walk on the beach—and
therein began grim horror ending in a furious

manhunt over all of New England.

INSIDE DETECTIVE

Haverhill said they heard someone return to the studio
late Sunday night or early Monday morning. They be-
lieved they heard a girl’s voice. :

John J. Hayden, an occasional summer resident of Salis-
bury Beach, came forward with a story that seemed to fix
the time of the crime. The night before, Hayden said, he
heard screams on the beach. He looked at his watch and saw
it lacked a few minutes of ten. The screams were definitely
those of a woman, he declared.

might force her to leave the beach as she “couldn’t go on fight-
ing them much longer.”

The other letter was sent to her sister a few days before,
and Stella had enclosed a letter from a new admirer, a Haver-
hill man and applicant for the police force at that time, telling
how he had missed the trolley while calling on Stella the
week before and how he was compelled to walk all the way
home.

“What a fool!” Stella had added scornfully,

Because much of the testimony contradicted him, and be-
cause of the stories told by girls previously employed by
| Williams, the police subjected the gray-haired photographer
to three intense grillings during the next twelve hours,
His clothing was tested for stains and his photographic
studio turned topsy-turvy for clues. Although nothing definite
was found to link him with the murder, Williams was told
he was under surveillance and was warned to ‘hold him-
self in readiness for further examination by the. police.
Jane, Mary and Brontoslaus Michalski, sisters of
| Thaddeus, the slain girl’s former sweetheart, told of ¢
being on Salisbury Beach Sunday afternoon with aries ; }
Thaddeus and another brother, Kazin. They met
Stella Kale accidentally, they said, but Thaddeus
wouldn’t speak to her.
Prior to this meeting, the girls told of being molested
by two mashers, who were finally driven off by the
brothers. Salisbury police, provided with descrip- o
tions of the men, recognized them as local characters Cae
and began a search for them.
At Lawrence, Lieutenant-Inspector Byron was
given two letters written by Stella Kale to her family.
Although she had told the Michalski girls she was
happy at her new job, a note to her mother, mailed
but a few hours before her death, was in a different
tone, Stella wrote of “unbearable conditions” which

Had this man, after calling again and perhaps being sub-
jected to her ridicule, become infuriated and killed the girl
in a fit of passion? Lawrence police, communicating this
possibility to Chief Smith at Salisbury Beach, were asked to
pick up Thaddeus Michalski at Methuen, and Stella Kale’s
new admirer, William Sargent, at Haverhill.

Meanwhile, what were the “unbearable conditions” Stella

j mentioned in her letter? Thinking they might refer to im- 4
passioned but unwelcome advances made by her employer,

THE DANCER TRAPPED!

The witch-hazel drinking killer, shown be-
low with Patrolman Eugene Berry after a
long hunt tracked him down, denied any

part in the ghastly crime,

> habe

mem re ae
Le wae. ae

police again called Arthur Williams: for questioning, Wil-

liams did not change from his orginal story one iota; and

when it was found that those who contradicted his statement
were mistaken, the photographer was released.

'. The first sleepless night for police came and passed, and
the solution of Stella Kale’s mysterious death seemed farther
away than ever. Police of four cities had produced an even
half dozen suspects, and questioning even now was eliminating
‘two of these. Detective Griffin came to Amesbury and quick-
ly determined that neither Michalski nor Sargent knew any-
thing about, the death of the girl each had admired,

One by one, also, the clues found near the broken body of f
Stella Kale were eliminated—all but two, ‘ af

The note scribbled to “Jimmy” apparently had not been

“written by the girl. A man came forward and identified the
. Straw ‘hat, which had blown from his head during the shower,
He had left Salisbury Beach hours before the crime, it was
proved. .

The photographs on the rosary reticule were too indistinct
to be of value. There remained only the violet-tinted glasses
and the.empty witch-hazel bottle, ~

Even the. glasses were claimed by a Salisbury Beach
woman, who said she had lost them on the beach; but they
were of such a common variety that police believed she could
have been mistaken, More than that, Lieutenant Inspector

INSIDE DETECTIVE

see the little man. At that time he was rolling along toward
the trolley line, where the last car was due to depart.

CoeseAGens at Salisbury Beach went sleepless that
night, for the weather had turned sultry again. Yet
with early morning, the rolling sea of this northernmost strip
of Massachusetts coast was whipped to tiny, whitecaps by
the sudden shift of wind to the east. All up the silvery
sands of Salisbury, the receding water was leaving a frothed
band of brown. Almost deserted was the beach at this
early hour, when the town natives and the vacationists had
scarcely begun to stir.

But there were two living persons on the beach—Mrs.
Angelina Franca and her five-year-old daughter, Eleanor.
They strolled idly along the sands just above the high water
mark, the mother enjoying the morning air, the child ex-
ploring for horseshoe crabs and colored shells, :

“Mummy, look,” commanded the child, stooping over.

She held aloft a string of rosary beads, queer plaything
of the tides.

Mrs. Franca took the beads and looked at them. Then
her gaze wandered and stopped. Quite suddenly she
dropped the beads and screamed in piercing horror,

Under an overhanging sand bank,.concealed by sea grass
from the street above, lay the limp body of a girl, face
pressed downward in the sands. No need for more than a
fleeting glance to tell that she was dead. No need for
more than a fearful second glimpse to know that she had
been brutally slain.

Mrs. Franca grasped her offspring and ran shrieking for

.the boulevard that parallels the beach. Her cries quickly

attracted Pasquale Moschetti and Anthony Giodano, conces-
sionaires. They telephoned police headquarters, and at once
Officers Kelly and Hughes were speeding out to the spot.

Approaching the body with care
lest they disturb some clue, the two
policemen saw that the victim was
beyond aid.

Sand had been chained up over
an area of twenty feet around her,
indicating that a terrific struggle
aad been waged—an unequal strug-
zle that ended with death. The slain
zirl, it was apparent, had _ been
retty, but agony and sheer terror
nad stolen the beauty from her face.

Her head lay toward the ocean. -
Bloody fingermarks gleamed ghastly

‘SLEUTH
Left: Former
Marshal Timo-

Lawrence
broadcast a de-
scription of a
suspect—and
got astonishing
results,

thy O’Brien of:

against the white throat, and cruel bruises and scratches were
visible on the partly-exposed body. Yet exceeding all these
tokens of savagery was a sign of maniacal blood-lust that
made the officers blanch.

On one of the girl’s hands was the clear, sharp imprint of
human teeth!

Kelly and Hughes at once reported the crime to Chief of
Police Sidney Smith of Salisbury Beach, who notified Dr.
D. D. Murphy, assistant medical examiner, and District
Attorney William G. Clark of Essex County, in whose juris-
diction the tragedy occurred.

The prosecutor in turn called out Lieutenant Detective
Richard J. Griffin of Haverhill, and William Murray of
Salem, state police officers. Chief Smith, Dr. Murphy, De-
tective Griffin and Detective Murray reached the scene almost
together.

Dr. Murphy, in a cursory examination, found sand in the

~ eyes, the nostrils and even in the lungs, choking the breath-

ing. Death, he said, resulted directly from strangulation in
a crime of unspeakable bestiality.

Carefully combing the surrounding sand, the state officers
found a number of things that seemed confusingly irrelevant.

HUNCH
When other de-
tectives were
stumped, Officer
Raymond Foley
(right) did
some private
thinking and
played a sudden

hunch.

STUNNED FATHER

Left: Stanley Pomikalt, shown with an-

other daughter, Statia, furnished a new

clue. when he found that Stella’s watch
and ring were missing.

Nearby they discovered the rosary
beads, dropped by the frightened
Mrs. Franca in her flight, and a
reticule that held them. On the out-
side of the reticule had been pasted
two photographs—one of the victim
and the other of a good-looking
young man.

‘ Not far away lay an envelope ap-
parently taken from the local Catholic church. On the front
was written the word “Jimmy.” On the reverse was scrawled,
“T used to love you, but it’s’all over now.” ‘Then, “Daddy,
Daddy, Daddy.”

Almost under the body was a cheap pair of violet-tinted
sun glasses. A straw hat bearing the label of a chain of
men’s stores lay. nearby. And one of the policemen picked
up an empty witch-hazel bottle.

The news of murder spread like-flames through the beach
resort, and already a crowd had gathered. Several persons
viewed the battered face of the once-pretty victim, -but at
first none was able to identify her. Finally, a woman

(ER

e told

giving
tip of

re.

. 1927,
Salis-
of the
;oon a

nakers
Salis-
h than
ing to
Foley
and a

man.
pretty

er run
‘e,” he

> rain.
“eet, at
iams—
pretty
ng her

said to
some

se up.

‘T’ll she

> Wil-

By John S. Thorp
Special Investigator for.
INSIDE DETECTIVE

He must raise Stella to ten dollars a week, thought the
photographer, seeing her skip gracefully down the street.

At 9:30 Officer Foley was entering nearby Ocean Echo
Ballroom, and for that reason he did not see Stella Kale
pass. The policeman had looked into the Sugar Bowl as he went
by, but he did not see the odd stranger, either. The dancer
with the Chaplin mustache was, at that moment, trying to force
his way onto the roller coaster platform while the proprietor,
Everett H. Watson, was laying on a restraining hand.

“Let me go—I’m waiting for someone to come in on the
trains!’ the man protested.

Watson was forced to laugh. “No more trains running
tonight on account of the rain,” he humorously explained to

CLOGGING CAROUSER
Sketch above: “Run along,” said Officer Berry to
the comical little dancer. “This isn’t allowed.”
Inset: These violet-tinted sun glasses, found at the
murder scene, bore one blurred fingerprint.

his befuddled adversary while he held him by the shoulders.

The little fellow ceased struggling. “Y’right!” he mum-
bled. Then, with a typsy salute, he started away.

It was about 10:30 when Officer Berry again saw the
little dancer. He was leaning against an iron fence paral-
lelling the beach, yet he wabbled perceptibly.

“Why don’t you go home?” Berry asked.

“Goin’, officer,” was the amiable reply, and he moved off
down the beach walk.

Berry noticed his rolling gait and uncertainty of foot as he
disappeared toward the Venetian Gardens, a dance place at
the south end of the beach.

At 12:05 o’clock, Officer James E. Kelly was the last to

PEEL LET

\ a

,
ea

MURDER SPOT ventured as though she were uncer-
Mrs. Angelina Franca, tain:
sak foe Frey he ~ “Looks like the girl that works at
the beach where she the photograph studio on Broadway.”
stumbled into horror. But the police did not have.to send

f » .. for Arthur Williams. He had heard

of the grim discovery, and even then

he was hurrying, half-dressed, down the boulevard to the
beach, ‘

‘Police lifted a blanket from the iy of the ‘throttled
corpse. Williams glanced quickly, then backed away. The
mute signs of indescribable violence were too much for him,

“My God!” he gasped. “It’s my clerk—Stella Kale!”

Racked by sobs, the middle-aged photographer managed. to

tell police a story of the previous night’s happenings.
*“T liked Stella better than any girl I ever had,” he said.
“She had a splendid ‘character, and was deeply religious.
She was fond of walking the beach alone at night, and of
scribbling lines of poetry.

“Last night she went out a little after 9:30, saying sie
was going for a short walk and would bring back some
ice cream. When she failed to return by 11:30 I thought it
was strange, for she had not been out that: late in the week
she worked for me. I waited until» midnight, wondering
what to do, About 12:30 I took a pair of binoculars and
went out on the beach.

“There was.a bright moon. I swept the beach: with my
glasses, but could see no one. I went back to the studio and
switched on a large blue light which is outside over the
door, to let Stella know I was waiting up for her. I began
reading a book, fell asleep, and. when I awoke I was still
sitting in my chair and it was daylight. I saw it was seven
o'clock, and Stella had not returned. I felt then that some-
thing térrible must have happened to her.”

Dr. Murphy ordered the girl’s body removed to the. under-

taking rooms of Joseph O’Donnell in Amesbury. That night ”

Medical Examiner Timothy Leary, expert of the Boston
Southern District, and Dr. Murphy performed an autopsy.
Dr. Murphy's earlier findings as to the cause of death were
borne out, and the time of the crime was set at between
9:30 and 10:30 o’clock, not long after Stella had set out
on her walk.

Dr. Leary found that the attack had been limited to the
beating and choking she received, although attempts had
been made that indicated the killer was lust-inflamed.

Profoundly shocked by the crime, citizens of the section,

a “ee a
va | bei)
Oey . hae

abtades the cities of Lawrence, Haverhill,

“and scores Of small towns, clamored for the
killer’s speedy arrest.
‘The victim was a Lawrence girl, and her
family still lived on High Street; in the Polish
section.. The family name was Pomikali, but
-’ Stella—christened Estella—preferred the An-
* \ glicized version. She had four sisters, Statia,
- Edith, Lillia and Pauline, ranging from nine to
‘eighteen, and one brother, Theodore. _
City Marshal Timothy O’Brien. of Lawrence
sent,Captain Michael A. Barry and Lieutenant-
© Inspector Michael Byron to the Pomikali home
‘to break the sad news. The family’s grief
' was ‘such that the officers had difficulty in
learning the facts about tragic Stella. Finally
» they turned to the Pomikali children.
- Had/ Stella, questioned the officers, had an
unfortunate love affair?) Had there been any
“bo suitors?
Yes, said the childr Stella’s only beau
fad been Thaddeus Michalski of Methuen, but
they. had broken their engagement the Christ-
mas before.
- Remembering that the cryptic note, “I used
to love ‘you,” had apparently been addressed by the ill-starred

girl to a certain “Jimmy,” Barry and Byron nevertheless °

tabbed. Michalski’s name for future reference.

The father and nother, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Pomikali.
and their eldest living daughter, Statia, accompanied the
officers to Amesbury. Mrs. Pomikali was so prostrated that

_she was not permitted to enter the undertaking rooms. Her
j husband, accompanied by State Detective Griffin, went in to

view the body. ° .
Pomikali was almost overcome by the vision of violent

death. . At Lawrence police headquarters later, the parents

wept in each others ‘arms for several minutes while officers
and newspapermen stood by helpless, unable to: express their
sympathy and pity.

Boston headquarters of the -Massachusetts State Police

had been flashed. news of the crime by teletype, and
Lieutenant of Detectives John F. Stokes and Lieutenant-De-

'-tective Joseph L. Ferrari rushed out to Salisbury Beach to

assist Detectives Griffin and Murray in the investigation. °

They. established headquarters in the Salisbury Beach
police station, where Chief Smith put his entire force at their
command. It was. natural that this beach resort where the
crime occurred should be the hub of the investigation in which
police of a dozen New England cities participated.

The state police began their inquiry by questioning every
person living or employed near the Williams photograph
studio and the part of the beach opposite Venetian Gardens
whére Stella.Kale had been slain. The result was a welter of
conflicting statements, which made it difficult for the in-
vestigators to piece together a definite picture of the crime.
. They had the word of Arthur Williams that his pretty
young employe had left his studio at 9:30 o’clock Sunday
evening and had not returned, although he waited for her,
reading a book until he fell asleep.

Contradicting this was the statement of Frederick Landry
of Haverhill, a vaudeville performer, who told police he saw
Williams and Stella Kale in the photographic studio as late
as 11:30 Sunday night. With them, he said, were two men
who were having their pictures taken.

Tending to bear out Williams's story was the statement of
Josephine Sebagg, sixteen, of Lawrence, an employe of a
restaurant near Williams’s studio. She told of seeing Stella
Kale walking toward the beach shortly after 9:30, as the
photographer had said.

But Margaret Gramman of Roxbury and James Marcello of

2 ‘as. Merrimack Valley, which | ern--

oy?

the
Ver,
was

inet
ses

ach
hey
vuld
ctor

_tow, New Hampshire, called police to his bungalow ont

‘after. midnight, he said, and found his wife, Mrs. Gladys

€ ce, carefi

: : Vos ie ee ie ee MO %
Byron, fingerprint expert of, the. Lawrence } poli :
checked the glasses and found on them—the fingerprint of a mati

This was speedily sent to Boston police for possible identification.

Thus, despite the efforts. of a corps of detectives and blue~
coats, a case that at first appeared to abound’ in clues was, now

very nearly stripped of all of them. Who: could hope that a -|-

meaningless witch-hazel bottle and ajdoubtful pair of spectacles _

would solve the callous murder of beautiful Stella Kale? th

Then broke a’ startling development: that’ swiftly: halted:
other phases of the probe and focused police eyes on a new
suspect. Le ee ee

Early on the morning of June 7, Fred C. Rand of Plais- |

Cable Avenue, Salisbury Beach... He had. come hom

Dickens Rand, unconscious in\the front hall at, the foot”
of the stairs leading to the upper chambers. Aaa
Revived by: a doctor, Mrs. Rand hysterically told

be x a ii Ks
2 vf ‘

!
a -

of being attacked while asleep by a prowler who seized ‘her
by the throat and thrust himself into her bed. She fought
with her assailant and was able to pull an electric light cord,
illuminating the room so that she recognized her attacker,
she said. The struggle was so furious that they fell down-
stairs, and the woman was rendered unconscious. F

Within half an hour police had taken in.custody one Albert
Clifton White of Nashua, New Hampshire, a concession
employe, who not only declared he had nothing to do with the
attack on Mrs. Rand, but screamed emphatic denials that he
knew anything about the murder of Stella Kale. Neverthe-
less, White was rushed to Amesbury, where he was ar-
raigned on the assault charge and interrogated in earnest.
Hour after hour he was grilled, but he clung tenaciously -to
an alibi. He was, he said, in the company of a roller, coaster
employe until after eleven o'clock on the night of June 5, and
from this statement he could not be shaken. Furthermore,
the roller coaster employe, brought forward, backed up
White’s statement in no uncertain manner.

Was White innocent and had the police erred in shifting
their inquiry from other quarters? The answer came quick-
ly. for that day suspicion was turned in a new and strange
direction. Bea

Police Officer Foley, of Salisbury Beach, had been doing
a little private thinking during the two days while the mael-

a ae

2 -. VICTIM'S EMPLOYER
‘Police grilled’ Arthur Williams (above),
photographer and emplover of Stella Kale.
after witnesses contradicted Mis story. He

was proved entirely innocent.

-- SEARCH FOR CLUES

RS"

tM Left: A curious crowd gathered as officers
opra ed the beach for Stella’s watch and ring,
\ at” first believed to have been dropped in

her fatal. struggle.

strom of investigation by outside police had been swirling
about his head. One of the things about which Officer Foley

had been thinking was the funny little man with the Chaplin

mustache and the derby—the man he had met on June 5. The
more he thought, the more his curiosity grew.

The intoxicated chap had asked about trolleys, Foley re-
membered. These particular trolleys went to but one place—
Hampton Beach, a resort similar to Salisbury, across the state
line in.New Hampshire. With a hunch that it might be worth
the ride, Foley turned his motorcycle in that direction.

Hampton Beach boasts an elaborate casino, which is also
the trolley terminus. The cars pull up in front of the drug
store of Donovan: and Fallon on the corner. There Foley
pulled up too,

A solitary drug clerk, Paul Coen, greeted the officer. As
Foley prepared to ask questions his gaze came to a halt
on a cardboard display of sun glasses which stood on the
counter. There were eleven pairs of glasses on the card
Where the twelfth had been, at the top, a vacant space stared
at the officer.

The glasses were exactly of the type found beside the body
of Stella Kale—and they were violet-tinted! This was too
much to hope for. Foley suddenly found himself asking

“Who bought that first pair of glasses on this card?”

“The new assistant barber next (Continued on page 39)

aertsaue

ae AES TD SE Fe

the precious things that once were Stella’s.
Then Stanley Pomikali noticed something
wrong.

“Where is Stella’s watch?” he ex-
claimed. “The one I gave her last
Christmas ?”

Mrs. Pomikali, suddenly alert, asked,
“And where is Stella’s ruby ring?”

This was the first intimation police had
that the girl wore jewelry on the murder
night and that it had been stolen. Lieu-
tenant Inspector Byron left hurriedly to
investigate.

Stanley Pomikali told Byron he had
purchased the watch for his daughter at

the jewelry shop of William Herbst in the :

Bay State Building, Lawrence, a few
days before Christmas of 1924. It was an
open-faced white gold Elgin, with seven-
jewel movement. Mary Rafferty, attrac-
tive clerk for Herbst, informed Byron
that the movement was numbered 27275400

_and the case 2652840,

Believing that the watch of Stella Kale
might have been torn from-her wrist in

the struggle with her assailant, Chief ~

Smith ordered an immediate search of the
Salisbury sands. Squads of police armed.
with rakes thoroughly combed the beach
and sifted the sand through a fine mesh
screen. But neither the watch nor the
ring of the dead girl came to light.

Marshal O’Brien of Lawrence reasoned -

then that the slayer of Stella Kane had
made off with her jewelry, and that its
recovery would go a long way toward
tracking down the guilty man. _ O’Brien

. therefore caused to be printed and dis-

tributed several thousand circulars descri
ing the dead girl's watch. }

N June 9, Roscoe C.' Hill, Boston.
O expert, announced that ‘the finger-
print on the sun glasses proved that the
hunted fugitive was really George Elmer.
Harrison Taylor, ex-convict, four-time de-
serter from the United States army, and
a suspect in'’the murder of nine-year-old
Joseph Gervase at Buffalo, ”

Spurred by this information, the hunt

for Taylor spread grimly over New Eng- ,

land. Byron, Berry and Mulhare sped
over three states in pursuit of what proved
to be false clues. By evening of June 9
there was no longer any doubt that the
multi-named itinerant barber was the
slayer of Stella Kale, for the circular ha
borne quick fruit. ities
At 5:15 p. M. on June 6, the day after”

Stella Kale’s death, William H. Dowe, -

of Kensington, New, Hampshire, was driv-
ing along the’ Lafayefte highway near his’

home. A small man, obviously a tramp, |

stepped out onto the road and thumbed
for a ride. Dowe stopped, told the hitch-
hiker he was going only a short distance,
but offered to take him that far. The other,

accepted, . ae me
Dowe’s passenger almost immediately |

launched into a story about losing his: wife

and only child in a-Florida hurricane. He |

was on his way to Maine, he said. Then
the tramp reached into his pocket and
drew forth a wrist watch. UF Sone

“This was my wife’s,” he told Dowe. ;
“It cost twenty-two dollars. I'll sell it -
I .need .the’ f

; Rew

for three dollars because
money.” oP ce LSTA
“Give me the watch,” Dowe told hi

passenger as they reached Dowe’s house.
“I'll ask my wife if it suits her”) > 94

The tramp stepped out of the car and:
fumbled around in his et. As he did
so, a red-stoned ring fell to the ground.’

Mrs. Nellie Dickerson, daughter of Dowe,:

saw him bend over and retrieve it. Dowe
bought the watch for three dollafs.) <

-On Tune 9, when Dowe saw a descri
tion of Stella Kale’s wrist watch in >
‘newspaper, he brought the watch he had)
purchased to the Kensington ‘station ho

INSIDE DETECTIVE

Descriptions of the hitch-hiker given
by Dowe and his daughter tallied exactly
with others of the dancing barber. Police
threw new energy into the pursuit—a
pursuit that was to last more than a month,
entail the examination of hundreds of
clues, cover all of New England and parts
of Canada, and bring about several false
arrests. ;

From Kensington, scores of detectives

‘and half a hundred newspaper men traced

George Elmer Harrison Taylor to New-
market, where he had had a steak dinner
at Cy Grandmaison’s restaurant and slept
overnight at Dr. L. F. Beaudet’s boarding
house. The next morning, June 10, a

. block away in the barber shop of Peter

Levesque, where he had asked permission
to. wash up, Taylor oyerheard a barber
supply salesman say to Levesque:

o you know they are looking for a

barber with a small mustache for the mur-
der of that Salisbury girl?”
Taylor made his way out of the back
door and ‘immediately dropped, from sight.
A few days later he .was placed in

“Dover, New Hampshire, where he was

shaved at the shop of W. H. Hallsworth
on Locust Street. Then he disappeared
again. With every police department in
ew England looking for him, a dozen or
more “dancing barbers” began to make
an appearance. Their trails began to
cross, sorely confusing police as to which
was the genuine fugitive. :
- At Worcester, Massachusetts, on June
16, a George Taylor was pulled from his
hotel bed,” Lieutenant-Detective | Griffin
rushed down from. Salisbury Beach.
George Taylor it was, but. not the right

one, although he did resemble the fugi-*
~ tive hair cutter, tas eg

COUNTLESS, ‘other false leads kept
‘police’in an uproar, and the trail of
‘Taylor grew colder and colder... A month
He by. R i Wig

n July 6 a tramp appeared at the farm
of Tob Siegonant near Johnson, Ver-

’ mont, and asked for work. He told Ma-

gowan-he had just come down from Bur-

ylington and needed a job badly. - °
“Are you. a farmer?” asked Magowan.
“No,” said the: other, “I guess you'd

call me just a bum.”
Magowan had no work, but he fed. the

‘man and gave-him a package of lunch.
- Afterwards, reflecting that’the man had
~ acted queerly, Magowan telephoned Sheriff

Edward E. Holmes at Hyde’ Park.’ The
sheriff hopped into his car and overtook
the vagrant near Essex Junction. “ae
'“ “Hello,” ‘he said. I hear you're looking
for work. Come with me and I’ll give you
a place to sleep and something to eat.” -

“That's decent of you,” said the tramp.

“My name’s George. Taylor.”

Hyde ark lockup, ‘To, Sheriff Holmes

it is'your bi M urphy,
ort: th a. uniform sn

rge ‘Taylor reposed that night in the’

ee Bchaled end

he was just another vagrant, It was three
days later that the sheriff noticed tat-
tooed initials on his prisoner’s arm and
remembered the police circular describing
Stella Kale’s murderer. °
“What's that E. T. stand for?” he asked.
The other answered casually, “Eva Til-
man—a girl I knew in Cleveland.”

The sheriff’s suspicions were aroused.
He wanted to advise the Vermont police,
but he was not at all certain of his guest’s
identity. He needed to be more positive,
and he suddenly evolved a master stroke.

On the night of July 10, he decided to
have some music in the jail. Bringing out

‘his violin, the sheriff began tuning up be-
fore the pit where George Taylor and an-
other prisoner were taking their exercise.
Suddenly he struck up Turkey in the
Straw. Taylor couldn't resist it.

He -broke into a clog dance!

The sheriff played a few more bars,
then broke off abruptly. Laying aside his
fiddle and bow, he went to his office and
put in a call for Detective Edward Brown
at Montpelier. Brown came down that
night and viewed the dancing prisoner.
Then he, in turn, telephoned Salisbury
Beach, Massachusetts.

Lieutenant Detective Griffin and Officer
Foley arrived in Hyde Park the next day.
Griffin went directly to Taylor’s cell.

“Hello, George,” he said. “I’ve been
chasing you for quite a while.” .

“I guess I’m the man you want,” was
Taylor’s response. . :

Yet when Griffin told him he was under
arrest for the murder of Stella Kale, Tay-
lor-indignantly replied: “I didn’t murder
that girl or anyone else.”

The dancer made light of his arrest, and
waived extradition to Massachusetts.
Griffin and Foley brought him back the
next day. He was quickly identified as

‘the purchaser of the sun glasses and witch
hazel, and as the man who: sold Stella
Kale’s watch to Dowe.

But Taylor essayed an alibi. On the

night of June 5, he insisted, he stayed at - i

the People’s Palace, Salvation Army
center in Boston, Police inquiries quickly
revealed this to be false, and a.grand
jury convening in Lawrence indicted him
for first degree murder. a :

On October 11, 1927, the dancing bar-
ber. went on trial before Judge Joseph F.
Quinn and a jury in Essex Superior Court
at Salem. The accused slayer of Stella
Kale was represented by John H. O’Neil
of Amesbury, and Francis E. Rafter of
Salem, attorneys assigned to the penni-
less defendant by the court.> District At-
torney William G. Clark and Assistant
District. Attorney Frank. E. Raymond.
represented -the state.

The jury. was taken to Salisbury Beach |

to view the murder scene. After hearing
Taylor's. defense that he was befuddled:
by. witch-hazel the night of June 5, a
quick verdict of guilty of murder in the
first degree was returned. _

‘The defense counsel fought for a new
trial, claiming miscarriage of justice, and
since no one had. witnessed the actual

was ordered. Thirty witnesses were ‘heard,
nd their testimony’ left no reasonable
doubt that the Chaplinesque’ vagabond

' barber and no one else had committed the

brutal outrage that Jeft pretty Stella Kale
beaten corpse. |
_ Taylor gained forty pounds in Charles-

‘ town State Prisqn, and often he jigged for

the amusement of fellow prisoners. But

on March 6, 1929, with executive clemency

denied, the electric: chair_claimed George
Taylor, Massachusetts’ murderous dancing

barber. No: skilful capers, no gay buck-

and-wing did Taylor. perform as he walked’

_ the dreaded last’ mile, for who can dance

Hee

when his mind is Yilled with dirges?

«| «murder, an inquiry by the parole board . “

ce me Bm, ERO Os ere cre am) cee

ae Ay Am “ee Porritt 1M

Pear rd See ee ae eet ce Choire

GEORGE ELMER HARRISON

TAYLOR: He found @ more

potent use for witch-hazel than

soothing his customers’ freshly
shaved chins.

PRT rte ean re rey teepee neste negr tm TOIT

oP iis ME ai

é
é
pes
&
&
BE

eee ee OY a

NAT OW Ae. Devec TLV E

JT RH LF FL

STELLA KALE: 1
can’t go on fighting
much longer,” wrote
this beautiful, 22-
year-old victim of a
brutal slaying.

LISP ese

MURDER OF THE
-WALKATHON BEAUTY

(Continued from page 30)

officers reported that he had been known to
visit frequently in Louisville, Kentucky,
just across the Ohio River from Jeffer-
sonville, :

At daybreak on June 4, Chief Depu

ity
- Mueller, Special. Deputy John Hano and

I stepped into a car to be whisked rapidly
south over U. S. Highway 31 toward
Louisville. In every city and town of any
size along the route we stopped, distribut-
ing photos, descriptions and newspaper
articles pertaining to Mary Elizabeth’s
slaying and Welshans’ subsequent disap-
pearance. We left handbills at gas sta-
tions, tourist camps, railroad and traction
stations, hotels, bus terminals and taxicab
companies all along the road.

Arriving at Louisville we went to the
office of Major Edward T. McElliott, chief
of detectives, who instructed his depart-

ment to aid us and furnished us with squad

cars and officers for our search of the city.
At ten Pp. mM. we began our search, comb-
ing every travel bureau, hotel, and all sta-
tions for every mode of transportation
until four a. mM. No trace of the missing
man could we find. ;

In desperation, Mueller, Hano and I de-
cided to return to Indianapolis and conduct
another search at the Welshans home. This
time we combed the home from top to bot-
tom.

In the bathroom we found a large ham-
per filled with soiled clothes. Deputy Gil-
bert Thomas burrowed into the clothing
—and triumphantly drew forth a .25-caliber
automatic pistol! In the empty warehouse
adjacent to the modest Welshans dwelling,
we found that Tommy had evidently been
doing plenty of indoor target practice of
late, and hitting the bull’s-eye frequently
with the same gun. ‘ ;

An examination by Sergeant Arch Ball,

ballistics expert, disclosed that from this -

gun had been fired the cartridge which had
been removed from Mary Elizabeth’s
crimson-streaked body. The death weapon
was found—but the elusive killer was still
at large.

N WEDNESDAY afternoon, as
Chief Deputy Mueller and Deputy
Lanhan sat listening to the last rites for
the murdered girl being intoned, carefully

scanning faces in the hope that a remorse-.

ful slayer might return for the funeral of
his sweetheart, I sat at my desk and re-
viewed the developments. Our case against
young Welshans, as far as evidence was
concerned, was about complete. How long
would he evade arrest? How far had he
traveled, even now, as a fugitive?

I was interrupted when the turnkey ex-
citedly entered the office.

“There’s a young fellow out here who
wants to see you, Sheriff,” he said.

“Show him in,” I ordered.

I watched eagerly as the door opened
again to admit a tall, slender figure.
motioned to a chair, and waited as he sat
in agitated silence, his bloodless face
showing deep strain, his trembling fingers
clasping and unclasping. He raised his
eyes.

“Tommy Welshans!” I quietly accused.

He nodded his head in assent. I remem-
bered the vehemence and bitterness with
which Paul Ferguson had spoken that name
only three short days before.

“Tt will be best,” I suggested, “if you
tell me the truth about everything that
has happened.”

Welshans studied me for a moment, his

‘

INSIDE DETECTIVE.

face working convulsively. Then he nod-.

ded: in affirmation. But it was not such
an easy task for the passion-crazed lover.
His eyes no longer met my gaze, and his
head sank low. }
Stumbling, hesitant words came from his

lips finally, and I leaned forward to hear -
him mutter: “I—I—killed her! That’s ©

what you want to know, isn’t it?”

After that, speech came with less effort,
and he launched into a detailed confession
which he signed, with Chief Deputy Muel-

ler, Chief Jailer Markey and myself as -

witnesses,

“I wanted to marry her and I gave
her an engagement. ring,” he said. “We
made our plans to wed just as soon as
I could save up enough to secure her di-
vorce. . And then I<ound that Mary Eliza-
ee had started to run around with another

ellow.

O*% MONDAY morning I went out to
her house and rang the doorbell. She
ran downstairs, lifted the curtain and
looked out at me, and then she dropped it.
I was mad with rage. The belief that she
had been looking for the other fellow and
wanted me to be on my way seared itself
into my brain.” s

His voice grew less steady and he hesi-
tated. Then he continued:

“I whipped out the gun and shot once
through the door, intending to frighten her

so that she would let me come in. But, I>

heard her scream so I gave up the at-
tempt and walked across the back yard
and the alley into Sixteenth Street.. I
caught a bus and went ho packed a

traveling bag, stole a car from the E. & W.

parking lot and drove out of town. I
stopped at a gas station just south of the
city. limits on State Road 135 and pawned
a spare tire. and rim for five ns of
gas and gave the name of Ray Woody to
the attendant.

“I finally arrived in Jeffersonville, aban-
doned the car, and took a bus to Louis-
ville, where I bought some Indianapolis
papers. It was then—for the first time—I
knew that I had killed the girl I loved. I
was a fugitive from justice.

“But that part mattered little. One

thought tormented me. I had killed Bess.’

. - I had robbed myself of the girl I
loved.

“Tuesday I learned that you had come
to Louisville looking for me. I shad suc-
cessfully hidden until you returned to In-
diana, but I knew you were tracking me
down and I came to the conclusion that
the best thing for me to do was to return

, to Indianapolis and give myself up. I knew

you'd get me eventually,”

The sensational trial of Tommy Wel-
shans for the murder of Mary Ferguson
Hamburg opened in Marion County crimi-
nal court on Wednesday, October 9, 1935,
a little more than four months after the
tragedy. Judge Frank P. Baker presided,
and the courtroom was packed.

Many who had applauded the slender

_ youth and his charming blonde partner at
walkathons now sought. a seat at this last |

scené of their fatal drama. County Prose-
cutor Herbert M. Spencer had appointed
Henry O. Goett, his assistant, to prosecute
the case. Wel was defended by two
well known criminal lawyers, William ‘G.
O’Nan and Roy W. Volstad.
- On October 25 the arguments closed and
the eight women and four men who com-
posed the jury. retired to deliberate. Only
an hour later they returned.

“We find the defendant guilty,” said
the foreman. A

Formal sentence to life imprisonment was
pronounced by Judge Baker. Then we
took Tommy Welshans to the state prison
at Michigan City. There he joined the
grim walkathon of penitentiary routine,

moving not beside the figure of a lovely
blonde girl, but beside silent men garbed
in dungarees to match his own—in step

‘with others who had erred.

CRIME OF THE
DANCING BARBER

(Continued from page 25)

door,” replied the clerk. “He was in here
Sunday. Kind of queer fellow. He’d been
drinking witch-hazel for want of liquor,
and every once in a while he would break
into a clog dance.”

Witch-hazel! Though his pulses were
racing, Foley. thanked the clerk and
strolled casually out of the drug store, try-
ing not to appear disturbed. At the bar-
ber shop next door he found Richard Bul-

‘ger, the proprietor, alone.

ae explained that the man had en-
tered his shop. the previous Saturday look-
ing for work. Bulger had nothing for him,
but the little man asked to shave a couple
of customers, monn?

“I wasn’t feeling any too well,” said Bul-
ger. “So when I found this fellow was a
eve peter, I left him alone and went

That night he let his new assistant
sleep at his cottage on K Street. The fel-
low was well behaved, and on Sunday
morning Bulger gave him some clothes, of
which he was obviously in sore need. He
said his name was Franklin Harrison and
that he had been. recommended to Bulger
by a barber in Exeter, of whom. Bulger
had never heard.

Sunday afternoon Harrison had left,
saying he would be at work the following
morning. But he failed to report, and
Bulger had heard nothing of him since.

Back at the drug store, Foley found its

roprietors, John P. Donovan and James

. Fallon, who told him that Harrison had
Aaah gs two and a half pints of witch-

azel Sunday and then a pair of sun

glasses, which he immediately donned, say-
ing, “You’d never know me now, would
you?” ji

Harrison had said he wanted to go to
Salisbury Beach, and soon became very
noisy and talkative. F

< e’s the last car. Better run and
get it,” suggested Coen.

The three drug store men saw Harrison
board the trolley.

Foley sped back to the Salisbury Beach

lice station. His news broke like a

mbshell at headquarters. Officer Berry
at once remembered that the little man of
June 5 had put on sun glasses after he had
ordered him to cease dancing. Officer
Kelly recalled seeing the man without
glasses: as he rolled along after the 12:05
car.

Immediately the police calls flashed out:
“Find the dancing barber.”

But the man had almost two days start.
Even if he was caught, could authorities

“prove him Stella Kale’s slayer on the

sis of a pair of sun glasses and an
empty bottle of witch hazel?

On June 8, while the hunt for the itin-
erant hair cutter was on in full intensity,
the body of Stella Kale rested in the un-
dertaking parlor of M.. J. Mahoney on
Hampshire Street, Lawrence, where it had
been transferred from Amesbury. ,Burial
was set for the following morning.

Undertaker Mahoney gathered the be-
longings of Stella into a package, a piti-
ful handful of trinkets, for delivery to her
parents. His son Joseph took them to the
Kale home that same afternoon.

The mourning family wept a little over

3 ‘
Ebb-Tid
Ebb-Tide
[Continued from page 30)

I was afraid it might be Stella,” he re-
plied. “She left my place last night, and
I haven’t seen ‘her since.”

Replying to further questions, the
photographer stated that several weeks
before he had employed an assistant by
the name of Stella Kale to help him with
his summer work. On the night previous
she had left the studio around alf-past
nine and had not come back. Asked if
she might not have gone to her lodgings,
the photographer said that the girl had

taken a room over his studio. When she °

had failed to report for work, he had
gone upstairs to see if she had overslept.
There was no reply to his knock and an
investigation disclosed that the room was
empty and the bed had not been slept in.

“When she left, did she give any indi-
cation as to her plans?” 1. 4

“She just said she was going to take a
walk.”

“Alone?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the photographer
said. “In fact, I didn’t think much about
it because she’s been going out for a
walk every night since she’s been here.
Usually she was only gone for a half--hour
or less,”

“And you weren't alarmed when she
didn’t return?”

“Not at all,” Stevens replied. “I thought
she might have met some friends and
gone with them to spend the night. After
the rain in the early evening, the weather
turned fine and the boardwalk was
crowded with visitors.”

At a signal from the chief, Medical
Examiner Murphy unblanketed the
body. Stevens’ shocked eyes rested on the
girl’s face. ; ;

“It’s my assistant,” he admitted sadly.
“I recognize her and I know the dress.
I remember that was the one she was
wearing when she went out.”

Smith now commented that the girl's:

tight wrist was cut and bruised.

“Probably sustained when the killer
tried to pull off some piece of jewelry,
like a bracelet or a wrist watch,” the
medical examiner observed.

«S ; . 7
he was wearing a gold wrist watch,
Stevens volunteered. “She glanced at it
just as she was going out of the door.
That's why I was so certain of the time.
I'm also under the impression she was
wearing a large ruby ring.”

“There’s nothing on her now,” the
chief asserted. “How long have you
known this young woman?” he asked.

Remembering the envelope with its
cryptic message, Chief Smith asked: “Did
she ever speak of a boy friend by the
name of Jimmie?”

Stevens shook his head. ,

“One more question.” Smith showed
Stevens the pair of sun-glasses he had
found near the body. '“Do these by any
chance belong to Miss Kale?”

“Not a chance,” the man told him with
conviction. “If there was one thing she
detested it was sun-glasses.” ’

The chief told him there was nothing
further at the moment.

Leaving the beach, Smith instructed
that all men on dut Sunday: night re-
ort without delay at benditunreene Then
ne moved along the boardwalk question-
ing proprietors of concessions which had
been open the night before in an effort

to follow the movements of Stella Kale:

and to learn if she had been alone on
her ‘fatal walk. He also began a check
on the various types of sun-glasses which
local storekeepers had on sale. None
was similar to the type that he had picked
up on the beach, nor could any local
dealers recall ever having had that kind
in stock. | :

Back at his desk, Chief Smith studied ‘

the several articles which had been found
by the dead en He watched soberly as
the tortoise-shell sun-glasses were vainly
dusted for latent prints. Most of the offi-
cers on duty the night before had already
reported, including Eugene Berry, Glenn
Clark and Raymond Foley. Not one had
noticed Stella Kale or had seen her walk
onto the beach. Smith asked if any of
them had noted actions that could be
construed as suspicious among the scores
of strangers who had patronized the
beach resort the night before.

“Don’t know as you'd call it suspicious,

Chief,” Officer Berry responded, “but
Officer Clark and myself on duty outside
the Electrola saw one fellow who seemed
set for a rip-roaring time. Despite all of
last night's traffic he was in the street
trying to do a buck-and-wing.”

“Was he drunk?” Smith demanded.

“Didn’t seem to be,” Clark replied.
“Berry here told him to be on his way and
he disappeared in the direction of the
beach.”

“What time was that?”

“Now that you speak of it, it was just
about the time that girl was supposed
to be out for a walk—a little after half-

ast nine. I remember now he was wear-

ing dark glasses that looked a lot like
the ones that were picked up .on the
beach.”

The chief ordered his men to question
further every person known to have been
near the beach on the possibility that
someone might be able to throw some
light on the killing.

From Amesbury came a telephone call
from Medical Examiner Murphy who
had just finished his autopsy with the
aid of Medical Examiner Timothy Leary
of Boston. It confirmed his earlier un-
official finding that the girl had been
strangled; the killer had not succeeded in
a. his criminal attack.

After the men had gone Chief Smith
studied his notes for several minutes in
silence. Already the killer had gained
several hours in covering a trail that was
rapidly chilling. Smith knew. he must
have help, and have it fast. Reaching for
the phone, he was soon in touch with
Chief of Detectives Thomas E. Bligh of
the Massachusetts State Police. The head
of the state police detective bureau at

once assigned Detective-Lieutenants

Richard J. Griffin‘and John Stokes (now
state police commissioner) to work with
the local chief. Griffin, on duty not far
from Salisbury, was the first to arrive,
bch quickly acquainted him with the
acts. '

“That message you found on the en-

velope may give us the quickest answer,”
the state detective advised. “Maybe her
father could give, us some dope on this
Jimmie.”

The two men sped to the home of the
porents in Lawrence. They stood silently

y listening as the grief-stricken parents

talked of their daughter. One of five
girls, she had been an honor student in
her graduating class the year before. Un-
like most of her classmates, she wanted
a career before settling down.

Finally Griffin produced the envelope.
The father could make nothing of it.

“T don’t know any Jimmie,” he told
the two police officers, “and I am sure
that my daughter never knew anybody
by that name.”

“That is your daughter's handwriting, .

however, isn’t it?” the state detective
queried.

“Unquestionably,” the father replied.

As to her boy friends, the parents
agreed that their daughter had only been
on friendly terms with one youth. His
name was Sidney Foster and he lived in
Lawrence. The mother gave the officers
his address, although assuring them that
he could be in no way involved. Asked
if they knew when he had last seen Stella,
the mother stated that he had been plan-
ning to drive over to Salisbury on Sun-
day and spend a few hours with her.

Griffin also asked about any jewelry
that their daughter might have been
wearing at the time of her death. The
mother stated that her daughter owned
a ruby ring in a massive gol setting and

a white gold wrist watch. The wrist watch °

had been a graduation present and
had been purchased at one of the local
stores,

The ruby ring had also been secured at
the same store. The detective made a

- notation of the name and address. Before

leaving the city, the two men called at
this store ne secured the case and
maker’s numbers on the watch. Then
they drove to. the home of Sidney
Foster.

Foster, a well-spoken youth in his late’

teens, anes them a straightforward ver-
sion of his movements on the day be-
fore, although shocked and obviously
upset at the news of her tragic death.
He said that he had visited with Stella
during the forenoon, leaving the beach
shortly after 1 o'clock. The girl was
in her usual good spirits and made no
mention of any trouble. A subsequent in-
vestigation disclosed that Foster had been
truthful in all his statements and his
name was dropped from the list of pos-
sible suspects.

Back in Salisbury, Stokes and Griffin
contacted Photographer Stevens. They
had been told that lights in the studio
had been seen burning until early morn-
ing and that the girl had been seen to
return. Stevens denied he had seen the
girl after she had left for her walk. How-
ever, he admitted there had been lights
burning until an early hour as he had
been working late. When he finally re-
tired about 1 o'clock he had left the
porch light on.

“Are you sure that you never heard
Stella mention a boy by the name of
Jimmie?” Stokes asked, repeating the

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to her parent. “There’s a lady on the beach who won't speak,
Mamma.”

“She's asleep, dear, and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” °

the mother replied.

“I never saw anybody sleeping .with their eyes open,”
the little girl said.

The woman frowned, followed her child across the dunes
to the motionless figure. As she came closer, she caught a
glimpse of the girl’s once-pretty but now contorted fea-
tures. Seizing her child by the hand, the mother fled from
the beach.

Some minutes later the telephone rang in Salisbury,
Massachusetts, police headquarters, A man’s excited voice
reported that the body of a young woman had been found
on the beach. Chief of Police Sidney Smith immediately
ordered Policemen James Hughes and James E. Kelley to
investigate.

Quick as they were in responding, the news, of the tragic
discovery had spread even faster. When the policemen
arrived a crowd was already gathering.

A man followed by a woman with a small child cling-
ing to her hand detached themselves from the crowd and
came forward toward the approaching officers,

“Here's the person who discovered it,” the man stated.

The woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Angelo De-
Franco, led the way toward the body.

“You can see her from here,” she told them, ‘stopping
abruptly.

The officers could now see the youthful figure. They
nodded, went on.

Kelley's eyes narrowed as he noted that the sand for
a wide area about the motionless figure bore the mark of
several footprints. As he came closer, he saw that unques-
tionably some of them had been made by a pair of women’s
shoes.

Mrs. DeFranco had come up now, apparently stifling
her timidity.

“Do you know anything about these?” Smith asked the
woman, indicating the footprints.

Mrs. DeFranco shook her head. “I had just come on the .

beach,” she exclaimed, “when my little girl found her. Once
I realized that she was dead, I hurried back to the board-
walk, rushed into the nearest store and had the proprietor
call you.”

Kelley made no comment, but he realized now, studying
the dead girl, hardly in her twenties, that she had not died
a natural death. Long, gleaming tresses of blue-black hair
framed the face which in life must have been beautiful,
but the features were now twisted into a death-mask of
fear. He placed a hand lightly against the girl’s cheek; the
flesh was hard and rigid.

His gaze shifted to the sand about the body. A fluttering
piece of paper attracted his attention. As he retrieved it
from under the girl he saw other evidence of a struggle
which the incoming tide had fortunately not obliterated.

“I think we'd better leave everything just as it is until
Chief Smith gets here,” Kelley told Hughes. “Contact head-
quarters and tell them what we have discovered, I'll wait
here until you get back.”

Kelley looked at his wristwatch as Hughes left the beach.
It was twenty minutes past eight; the call had been re-
ceived about 8 o'clock. Beyond the limits prescribed by
the police officers, a growing crowd waited in respectful
silence. Some of them pressed closer as time passed; none
could give any clue as to the identity of the dead girl.

The chief arrived a few minutes later, having delayed
only long enough to communicate with Medical Examiner
Daniel D. Murphy of Amesbury. He studied the livid finger
marks and agreed with his men that the girl had died of
strangulation.

Kelley drew from his pocket a paper envelope which
he had picked up by the body. “I thought at first it might
give us some idea as to who she might be,” he asserted.
“But it was unaddressed and there was nothing inside.”

Chief Smith took it, turning it slowly in his hands. Sud.
denly he gave a surprised start. Underneath the unsealed
flap were two names in a feminine script. They were barely
legible and he had to bend close to make them out. One was
“Jimmie” and the other was “Daddy.” It was then that he
noticed also three other words which, in view of what had
happened, were gravely prophetic. Beneath the two names,
the writer had added—“It’s all over.”

All notations had been made in pencil. Was it possible,
he wondered, that the trapped girl, dying on the lonely
beach, had sought to leave behind a clue which might lead
to her slayer? So far, no pencil had been discovered, but
it was possible that it had been covered by the shifting
sands or else lay concealed beneath the body which could
not be moved until permission had been granted by the
medical examiner.

Examination of the footprints for a 30-foot radius around
the body disclosed that they had all been made by a man
and a woman. Smith stooped, studying the high-heeled
pumps on the feet of the dead girl, comparing them with
the clearly defined prints in the sand,

“The same,” he pronounced, adding that the girl must

have fought valiantly for life before being overpowered.

Other evidence of the struggle became apparent when
Hughes uncovered a pair of torn silk scanties lying partly
buried but in close proximity to the victim. Further search
uncovered a hand-carved rosary, a small blue-covered note.
book and a woman's compact. None gave a single hint as
to the woman’s identity. Neither the rosary nor the compact
bore any initials; the pages of the notebook were blank.

Behind them, Kelley, still groping in the sand, suddenly
spoke as his fingers closed on a long, slender object.

“Maybe this is what. you have been looking for,” he
said, Rising, he handed the police chief a lead pencil
painted a brilliant yellow. In silence, the chief compared
the shade of the lead with the faint penciling on the paper
envelope. As he swung about to add the pencil to the other
exhibits which he had placed in the custody of Officer
Hughes, his eyes caught the gleam of another object which
one of the girl’s outstretched hands had partially con-
cealed. He stooped and pulled it clear.

It was a pair of tortoise-shell sun-glasses with colored lens.

Medical Examiner Murphy joined the investigators.
Opening his black professional case, he knelt beside the
body. The girl, he stated, died from manual strangula-
tion. “There is also definite evidence of a criminal assault,”
he added.

“At what time would you say that this attack occurred?”
the chief questioned.

Murphy stated that he would rather not commit himself
until he had made an autopsy. This h planned to perform
as soon as he could have the body removed to Amesbury.
It was his personal opinion, however, that the girl had
been dead for at least nine hours and probably more.

“You found nothing which would be helpful to us in
establishing her identity?” Smith persisted.

“Not a thing,” Murphy replied.

A red-faced man in his late fifties suddenly burst through
the silent group of spectators. “Chief Smith!” he cried, mov-
ing rapidly forward, his feet sinking deep into the sand
with every step. .

Murphy had placed a blanket over the body; he looked
up. “Who is that man?” he inquired.

“A photographer by the name of Lionel Stevens,” Smith
explained. “Comes from Haverhill. He runs a photographic
studio here nouns and reopened last week for the sea-
son.”

, Stevens joined them, winded from his exertions.

“What's wrong?” Smith asked.

“About the girl,” the Eeseher replied nervously.
“Is it true that you have found the body of a young girl?”

Chief Smith nodded. “We're trying to learn who she is,”
he admitted. “Can you tell us anything about her?”

Stevens hesitated. “I don’t know. [Continued on page 66]

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When the sands of time s a

BY LOWELL AMES NORRIS

Author of “Disappearance of the Sea-Dog’s Wife,” etc.

ys girl lay on the ocean-swept beach, the sand dunes
behind her, the summer hotel, not yet open for the
season, a short distance away.

It was a June night, and warm. To the laughter of
Sunday night crowds promenading the amusement area
and the screams of merry-makers as speeding roller-
coasters shot downward the girl paid no attention.

After awhile the holiday tumult subsided and one by
one the lights went out. The shore disappeared until
only the Isles of Shoals Lighthouse far out at sea sent
intermittent flashes into the star-studded gloom. All
through the night, through the ebb-tide, the girl re-
mained there, not moving.

When the first morning stragglers appeared on the
sands a little girl detached herself from her mother
and ran forward.

“Hello,” she spoke in childish friendliness to the
silent figure. No reply.

Puzzled and a little frightened, the child ran back

ie aa eo rete

REE: ocr iter tigaeNes

«
.

at the casino ‘there and had to be at
work Monday morning,” the wit-
ness stated. “I told him the time the
last bus left.”

On their way to Hampton Beach,
Stokes and Griffin examined careful-
ly the suddenly all important sunglasses
found near Stella Kale’s battered and
strangled corpse. The lenses weren’t of
as cheap quality as the investigators
had first thought.

When the policemen arrived in
Hampton Beach and went into a drug
store to buy cigarettes, both men
spotted a card containing sunglass-
es of the type they were carrying
with them.

Lieutenant Griffin started up a con-
versation with the clerk saying,
“Nice looking sunglasses you have
there.”

Moving the card closer, the clerk
assured Griffin, “They’re good glass-
es all right. Would you like a pair?”

The policeman told him he wasn’t
interested in buying any. “But I see
the card contained an even dozen,”
he added. “There are 11 left. Who
bought the one pair?”

The clerk didn’t remember. But the
store owner overheard the conversation
and came up.

“T sold them Sunday afternoon,” he said.

1 EE Se

Stokes and Griffin motioned him to
the rear of the store. They identified
themselves. as officers and brought
out the sunglasses found on the beach.

“They’re identical with the ones I
sold to a man last Sunday,” the drug-
gist said. “I can tell you what he
looked like. He was around 40 years
old and of medium height. His face
was pock-marked and he had a small
mustache.”

Griffin and Stokes asked the druggist
how he happened to remember so much
about this particular customer.

“He was in here several times,”
the store proprietor said. “Came in
first for cigarettes. That’s when he
bought the sunglasses. Things were
rather slow, so he loafed around a
while. He tried the glasses on a cou-
ple of times before he bought them
and purchased a bottle of witch hazel
just before he left.

. Adding that he had been a little
concerned about the customer, the
drugstore man said, “I’ve had a gun
shoved in my face twice, so I get
nervous when business is slow and
some guy hangs around too long. Be-
sides this man came back before long
for a second bottle of witch hazel.
Maybe that’s why I remember so much
about him.” >. +

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When Lieutenant Stokes asked if he
thought the man was drunk, the pro-
prietor said he didn’t think so.

“I did wonder why he wanted two
bottles of witch hazel. You know
some people drink that stuff when pack-
age liquor stores are closed.”

The officers were aware of that. They
thanked the druggist and asked him not
to say anything about their visit. With
the descriptions of the dancing drunk
noticed at Salisbury Beach and the
Hampton Beach purchaser of dark
glasses matching so closely, Stokes and
Griffin felt the trail was getting hot.

It was with high hopes that they
hurried to the casino barber shop. How-
ever, no one fitting the description
was known there. Following out their
theory to the end, the two officers
proceeded to check all barber shops in
the town. They located one proprietor
who had some helpful information.

“A man such as you described came
in here last Friday afternoon looking
for work,” he informed the investiga-
tors. “I told him there was no open-
ing. He came back Saturday morning
and as one of my regular barbers was
out sick, I put this new man to work.
He was here until closing time. I paid
him for the day and told him to drop
by Monday and I would use him if
my regular man was still sick. He never
showed up.”

The itinerant barber had given his
name as Elmer Taylor and a fast check
of rooming houses showed he had spent
Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights
in a place on Elm Street.

The landlady said he had paid by
the day, so she had not been surprised
when he didn’t return to his room
after the week-end.

Information furnished by this
woman, the barber shop proprietor and
druggist gave Stokes and Griffin an
almost complete picture of the man
they were seeking.

He was around 40 years old. Partially
bald. Weighed perhaps 160 pounds.
Medium height. Dark, sallow com-
plexion. Small mustache.

Most important of all, he had a tat-
too design on his forearm: clasped
hands beneath a heart pierced by a dag-
ger with the letters “E.T.” above.

This information was forwarded to
state police headquarters. Massachu-
setts posted a $1,000 reward for the
suspect. Salisbury selectmen added
$500. Newspapers throughout New
England featured stories about the re-

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C~ SEPTEMBER

A Daily Guide ta
LOVE* MONEY .
HEALTH .

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his first grief.

“J gave my daughter a ring with a
ruby setting and a wrist watch when
she graduated from high school,” he
said. “Was she wearing them when
the body was found?”

Chief Smith knew no such jewelry
had been found. He called Frank
Hennessey and asked about the ring
and watch.

“T hadn’t thought about them before,”
the photographer said, “but Stella wore
them all the time. She undoubtedly had
them on Sunday night.”

When a second search of the girl’s
living quarters failed to uncover the
jewelry, Mr. Kale gave the investi-
gators the name of the store in
Lawrence where he had bought the
articles.

“This could be the break we“need,
Lieutenant Griffin told Chief Smith.

He went to Lawrence Tuesday morn-
ing and talked with the jeweler. The
case and movement numbers of the
Waltham watch were on record. The
state policeman forwarded this infor-
mation to newspapers throughout New
England, asking them to print the num-
bers along with a description of the
watch and ring in their stories on the
murder case.

Lt. John Stokes, ace detective whose
brilliant work was to make him state
police commissioner later, joined forces
with Lieutenant Griffin and Salisbury
Beach police in the investigation.

Stokes correlated all evidence that
had been gathered during the first
48 hours. Stella Kale had disappeared
after being seen on the boardwalk
shortly after 9:30. The prime mo-
tive for the crime was believed to
be a sex attack. But the fact that the
girl’s ring and wrist watch were miss-
ing pointed to robbery, perhaps as an
afterthought. The sunglasses found
near the body were almost new, and
Stella Kale did not own them so far
as anyone knew. The name Bill scrib-
bled on the envelope remained un-
explained.

There was only one thing to do:
keep plugging. Stokes knew most
people are reluctant to become involved
in murder investigations. You have to
search out those with what might ap-
pear unimportant information, and
that is what the police did.

A girl was found who had known
Stella Kale casually. In a conversa-
tion about music, the murder victim
had expressed an especial liking for a
song titled “Bill.”

“The band played that number at the
concert Saturday night,” this witness
stated. “Stella was there and I saw her
write something down on an enve-
lope. It could have been the name of
the song the band was playing.”

One woman living in a hotel back
from where the body was found re-
called hearing what sounded like a
girl’s screams around 11 o’clock
Sunday night. At the time the wit-
ness retired for the night, so she had
not investigated.

A more important informant was a
concessionaire who had noticed a drunk
near the roller coaster.

“That was around 10 o’clock Sun-
day night,” he told Lieutenant Stokes.
“I watched him for a while. Then,
afraid that he might wander onto
the tracks, I went over and steered
him away.”

The policeman asked for a descrip-
tion of the drunk..

“He was medium height, almost
bald,” the concessionaire remembered.
“About 40 years old. Small mustache.
Wore sunglasses.”

Stokes said, “Sunglasses at 10 0’-
clock at night?” .

“That’s right,” the witness told him.
“The guy was real drunk.”

The lieutenant showed him the glass-
es found near the girl’s body.

“That’s the kind,” the concession-
aire said. Then he added, “This guy
sure was a character. He did some buck
and wing steps in front of the dance
hall and tried to pick up a girl. She
just laughed at him.”

In view of the slender dark glasses
link to the Stella Kale murder case,
Stokes and Griffin concentrated their
investigation on the dancing drunk.
They located several persons who
remembered him. The important thing
was that all the witnesses who saw
him before 11 o’clock said he was
wearing sunglasses. Those who saw
him after eleven said they noticed
no such glasses!

One man who saw the drunk with-
out glasses told Chief Smith the
man had been walking from the di-
rection where Stella Kale’s body
was found. Finally, things were be-
ginning to add up.

Another person said the same man
had asked about bus service to Hamp-

_ton Beach. “He said he was a barber

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the wanted man.

The first lead came in from East-
port, Me. A rooming house man there
notified Massachusetts authorities
that his son, Harold Chute, had stud-
ied the description in the papers and
was convinced that a man who stayed
at their place should be investigated.

“He was using the name George Tay-
lor,” the elder Chute told Lieutenant
Stokes over long distance. “I met him
in a barber shop where he was working
and he stayed with us a week and moved
on. One night he did a buck-and-wing
dance for us. He claimed he’d been a
vaudeville headliner at one time.”

The Eastport man said his son
Harold was an amateur artist and
that he had happened to make a sketch
of the barber. Since the police had
no photo and there was a substantial
reward, the boy wanted to forward the

drawing. Lietitenant Stokes was all for

it. The art work arrived and was re-

produced in newspapers throughout »

the northeast.

The next clue came from Plymouth,
N.H., where a man had picked up a
hitchhiker on Route 3. fe:

“He answers the description of th
suspect you’re looking for,” the Ply-
mouth man said. “While he was in

the car he told me he was broke and —

showed me a wrist watch that he said
belonged to his dead wife. He only
wanted $3.00 for it, so I bought it be-
cause it was a good Waltham.

“My wife had read about the murder
of that girl at Salisbury Beach. She
dug out some old newspapers about
the watch and compared the numbers
on the watch with those printed in the
stories. The timepiece I got from the
hitchhiker is the one you’ re looking for!”

Lieutenant Griffin hurried to New

Hampshire. After he had checked the

watch against the known numbers, a
police alarm was broadcast through-
out New England for the hitchhiker.
Leads poured in, but nothing de-
veloped. Lieutenant Griffin went to
Bennington, Vt., to check one clue.
Stokes traveled all the way to Cana-
da to interview a prisoner there.
Dozens of bald-headed men with a
small mustache were questioned.

Then, on the morning of July 5, a-

farmer near the small town of John-
son in northern Vermont answered
a knock on his door to face a bedrag-
gled stranger who asked for some-
thing to eat.

Se PS EA a

The Vermonter fed him and listened
to what he had to say. It was obvious
to the farmer that the vagrant was
running away from something. The
benefactor thought about the man
after he had left and decided to tell

his friend Sheriff Edward E. Holmes

about the visitor.

The Lamoille County officer listened
interestedly and, on learning that the
hungry traveler had headed toward
Route 15, he set out to patrol that
highway. Soon he picked up a man who

‘told him that his name was Edward

Townsend but could produce no means
of identification.

Lengthy questioning aroused the
County officer’s suspicions even more.
He held the vagrant and contacted the
Vermont State Detective, Edwin
Brown, in Montpelier.

“1’]] come over and take a look,”
the latter officer said. “Meantime, keep

“putting questions to him.”

Detective Brown was fully ac-
quainted with the unsolved murder
at Salisbury Beach, Mass. One look
at the man who called himself Edward

Townsend satisfied Brown that he an-

swered the description of the miss-
ing barber. Detective Brown phoned
Lieutenant Stokes in Boston and the
Massachusetts officer started for
Vermont at once.

He arrived in Hyde Park, where the
suspect was in custody, early that night.
The man who called himself Edward
Townsend was brought from his cell.
Stokes looked at the vagrant and
challenged him.

“Your name is not Townsend,” he said.
“It’s Elmer Taylor. You worked in a bar-
ber shop in Eastport, Me. A boy where
you roomed made a sketch of you.”

The prisoner refused to admit this
until confronted with the drawing
itself. a eri

“Roll up your right sleeve,” Stokes
ordered. “I want to look at your arm.”

Elmer Taylor, alias Edward
Townsend, complied after a mild
protest. There was the tattoo with the
clasped hands, pierced heart and ini-
tials, “E, T.” :

Stokes said, “I’m from Massachu-
setts. A girl named Stella Kale was
murdered at Salisbury Beach. We’ve
been on your track for a long time.”

“T’ve never been there.”

“You were there all right,” Stokes
countered. “We know you worked at
Hampton Beach on the Saturday be-
fore the crime, You bought sunglasses

in a drug store there and we found them
near that girl’s body. You went to
Eastport, Me., worked there a week.
That is where the sketch was made.
Then you sold a wrist watch you took
from Stella Kale to a man in Plymouth,
N.H. What happened to the ring with
the ruby setting?”

There was no answer. The prisoner
just sat there stunned by the evidence
amassed against him. Finally he said,
“Alright, I did work in Hampton Beach.
I bought sunglasses and witch hazel
there, but I don’t know what hap-
pened after that.”

Stokes enlightened him. As the ques-
tioning continued throughout most of
the night, the man said his real name
was George Elmer Taylor and that he
was from Cleveland, Oh. In better days
he had been a good buck-and-wing
dancer, but that was before he started
to drink heavily.

Taylor waived extradition back to
Massachusetts. Placed in a police
lineup at Salisbury Beach along with
six other men, he was identified by

the concessionaire who had steered him

away from the roller coaster tracks,
by the druggist in Hampton Beach
and by several other people.

Fingerprints showed he had been con-
victed of armed robbery in West Vir-
ginia, serving a five-year prison term
under the name Elmer Thompson. This
same man had been wanted for ques-
tioning in connection with still anoth-
er murder in Buffalo, N.Y.

Police believed the man’s real name

to be Elmer Thompson, but he was —

arraigned on a first degree murder
charge in District Court, Amesbury,

:
}

on July 13, 1927, under the name of '

George Elmer Taylor.

Broiight to trial October 10, the de-
fendant took the stand in his own be-

half and testified that on the after-

noon preceding the crime at Salisbury
Beach he had been drunk on liquor and
witch hazel. ?
“The last thing I remember was my
drinking at Hampton Beach,” he said.
“That was Sunday afternoon. When I
woke up Monday I was in Boston.”

Thanks to some brilliant detective

work and the complete cooperation of |
public spirited citizens, and newspapers,

the evidence against the accused man
was overwhelming. The jury found him
guilty as charged with no recommen-
dation for mercy. Elmer Thompson,
alias George Elmer Taylor, was put to
death on March 6, 1929. *

with a smile, ‘Not now. Maybe when
I come back.’ I didn’t wait up because
the weekend had been busy, which
meant a lot of dark room work on
Monday. That’s how I knew Stella
didn’t come home last night. I had
already knocked on her door.”

The photographer gave Smith the
name and address of the girl’s fa-
ther in Lawrence. Then, accompa-
nied by Hennessey, Smith searched
Stella’s room above the studio, but
found nothing that could be con-
strued as a lead to the murder of
the redhead.

The chief took the notebook, enve-
lope with the name Bill on it and the
sunglasses back to headquarters. Hen-
nessey had told him he didn’t think
the glasses belonged to Stella Kale
because he had never seen her wear-
ing them.

Smith performed the unpleasant duty
of notifying the slain girl’s father in
Lawrence by phone. Mr. Kale said he
would start out for the Amesbury fu-
neral parlor immediately.

Lt. Richard J. Griffin of Massachu-
setts State Police met Chief Smith and
the bereaved father there. Mr. Kale
viewed the corpse and made a posi-
tive identification. He was at a com-
plete loss to explain his daughter’s
violent death.

o
ae

Elmer Thompson made one small and one large error. Young witness

drew this amazing sketch of killer.

“She was so careful about her
friends,” the shocked parent said.
“We were happy about her job at the
beach. Now this terrible thing has
happened.”

Mr. Kale returned to Salisbury
Beach with Smith and Griffin. The au-
topsy report came in late that Mon-
day afternoon. It bore out what Med-
ical Examiner Murphy and Dr. Leary
had surmised.

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“Strangulation was the direct cause
of death,” Murphy said. “The girl
tried to fight off her attacker who
apparently used no weapon, just
his exceptionally strong hands.
There is no direct evidence of com-
pleted rape, but abrasions on the
abdomen and thighs indicate the
apparent purpose of the attack. The
time of death was approximately
11 o’clock Sunday night.

Patrolmen Kelly and Hughes, who
had been questioning concessionaires
all afternoon, reported to their chief.

“The girl wasn’t known by many
on the boardwalk,” the first officer
told Lieutenant Griffin and Smith
“because she had only been on the
beach a week. One man remembers
seeing her walking south alone a
little after 9:30.”

Griffin asked if anybody had heard
screams.

Hughes replied no and added, “but
that’s easy to explain. There is a lot
of noise in the beach area at night.
Everybody is having a good time and
you would have to be mighty close to
trouble to recognize it.”

“What about this Frank Hennessey,
the girl’s employer?” the state police-
man asked.

Kelly and Hughes both agreed
the photographer had an excellent
reputation. He had had his place at
the beach a long time and there never
had been the slightest hint of any-
thing amiss.

Stella Kale’s father came through
with some important information he
had forgotten about in his first grief.

“TI gave my daug
ruby setting and a
she graduated fron
said. “Was she we
the body was foun

Chief Smith kne\
had been found.
Hennessey and as}
and watch.

“T hadn’t thought :
the photographer sai
them all the time. S!
them on Sunday ni:

When a second s
living quarters fail:
jewelry, Mr. Kale
gators the name
Lawrence where h
articles.

“This could be 1!
Lieutenant Griffin :

He went to Lawre:
ing and talked with
case and movemen
Waltham watch we:
state policeman for
mation to newspape!
England, asking then
bers along with a
watch and ring in |
murder cas¢,

Lt. John Stokes, a
brilliant work was |
police commissioner
with Lieutenant Grit
Beach police in the

Stokes correlated
had been gathered
48 hours. Stella Kal
after being seen «
shortly after 9:30
tive for the crime
be a sex attack. But
girl’s ring and wrist
ing pointed to robbx
afterthought. The s
near the body were
Stella Kale did not
as anyone knew. The
bled on the envelo;
explained.

There was only «
keep plugging. St
people are reluctant
in murder investigati
search out those wit!
pear unimportant
that is what the poli

A girl was found
Stella Kale casual]:
tion about music, th
had expressed an es;
song titled “Bill.”

The Case of the Dead Spinster

[Contitued from page 51]

close. It was Mabel. Her half-opened
eyes stared into his own. He bent down
over her,

“Mabel,” he quavered, thinking she had
fainted. “Mabel, what. is the matter,
child?"

Trembling fingers reached for one of
the woman's outstretched hands. Page
recoiled. The flesh was cold and growing
stiff. Alarmed, he stooped to listen for
her pulse, only to uncover more horror.

The woman's throat had been torn wide
open.

Note Hints Of Tragedy

FE STARED at her, stunned—vaguely

realizing she was dressed for the
Street—hat, shirtwaist and walking shoes
—a complete ensemble except for an out-
side skirt. Her clothing was but slightly
disarranged, as though she had crumpled
to the floor ina faint at the first sight of
her assailant,

The old man, his brain numbed by the
shock, rose and stumbled down the stairs.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, he
went into the living room and toward the
fireplace where a brisk fire had been
burning a few hours before. The logs
had been mysteriously extinguished,
Standing upright, bleak and charred
against the brick walls. ;

He stared wildly about him and his gaze
lighted on a small slip of paper tucked on
a table beside his favorite reading chair,
He rushed over and picked it up. Torn
from the block used for family corre-
spondence, a note in his daughter’s hand-
Writing read:

“Have just heard Harold is hurt
and is at the Massachusetts Hospital.
Have gone in at 12 o'clock. Will leave
key in front side door with barn key.
Will telephone Mrs. Bennett.”

Such a ‘k, coming so close upon the
discover ius daughter's body, almost
unnerved Only the realization that
he was alone and must act in this emer-
Sency saved him from collapse.

They had no telephone. He must go
for help. Gr ‘ping about the hall he got
on his hat and coat and blindly made his
Way on d the road to the home of
his neighbor, Mrs. Amy T. Bennett.

Hurryving : votsteps behind caused him
to turn.

Two strangers were rapidly overtaking
him.

His steps faltered. He leaned against
the stone ul, gasping for breath. As
the two men drew abreast, he accosted
them,

“I'm trying very hard to get a message
to Mrs. Bennett,” he said. “My name is
Page and I want her to come to my house
as soon as possible. It's infportant.”

Page turned back toward his house.
Finally Mrs. Bennett arrived. He re-
turned with her to her home and phoned
Harold's place of employment.

His voice shook when he finally con-
nected with his son’s employer,

“Is Harold badly hurt?” he cried.
“What is the latest news from the hos-
pital? Will he live?”

“[T don't know what you mean,” the
freight executive. said, plainly puzzled.
“Harold isn't hurt. He's right here. I'll
let you talk to him.”

Harold was stunned at the word of his
sister's death. He said he would come
home immediately, Meanwhile, the tragic
news spread. Suicide was intimated.
Doctor Horace B. Frost came at once,
He telephoned Medical Examiner Julian
A. Mead of Middlesex county. Chief of
Police Darius B. Vittum sent Constable
Patrick J. McAuliffe to investigate.

The gale of the afternoon had turned
into a blizzard as Constable McAuliffe
knocked on the Page door, f

The father greeted him. Harold stood,
terse and grave, in the living room be-
yond. He came forward.

“T understand there's been a lot of talk
that my sister committed suicide,” the
younger Page said. “It isn’t true.”

The constable remained silent. Young
Page crossed the room and returned with
a folded garment.

“Here's the dress found behind the door
of my sister's bedroom,” he said, spread-
ing it out for the constable’s inspection
in the dim light of the burning oil lamps.
“I feel sure she wore this skirt at the time
of her death. Look at that placket hole.”
He lifted the skirt so that it became
plainly visible. “See how those hooks and
eyes are strained and bent. And there's
dirt...”

“Don't touch anything,” the constable
admonished, adding he could do nothing
until the arrival of the medical examiner,
Finally McAuliffe reached for his hat and
was gone,

Suicide, Says Doctor

P IN his sister’s room beside the dead
body, Haroid Page struck a match
and looked around. Lying conspicuously
upon a tumbled array of gloves and veils
in an open dresser drawer, where it could
casily be seen, was a shect of paper ripped
from the same block used by Mabel in
writing her father the cryptic lines con-
cerning the mysterious accident to her
brother. Harold stooped and drew it out,
“Father,” he said a few minutes later,
returning to the living room. “I just
found this in Mabel’s dressing table.”

Edward Page bent over the slip of
Paper on which had been scrawled in
pencil:

“J. L. Morton
Charlestown
Massachusetts”

“It’s written back-hand and several of
the letters obviously have been rewrit-
ten,” the son said. “Do you know any-
body by that name?”

“Never heard of anyone,” the elder
Page replied. “And I’m sure if Mabel
had known any such person she would
have spoken of him.”

The son” straightened up. His lips
tightened in a determined line.

“I don't believe there is any such
person,” he said. “I feel that address was
purposcly placed in Mabel’s drawer to set
us off the track.”

At that instant Medical Examiner
Julian A, Mead arrived. He wasted no
time.

“Give me a lamp and I'll go right up-
stairs,” he said. “I've several other calls
to make and the storm is growing worse.”

The two men followed him up into the
darkened chamber. The doctor set down

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his instrument case and held the lamp
close to the dead woman’s face. He gazed
hurriedly at the wound which had first
excited the attention of Page and then
pushed aside the cloth stock she had worn
about her throat and disclosed a vital
gash. ’

“Suicide,” Page later reported the doc-
tor said. “No question at all. It’s a regu-
lar suicide’s neck.”

One of the two Pages started to ask a
question; the doctor quickly cut them off.

“Suicides always go hacking away
where they ought not to, and after they
have done all this savage work, they
finally inflict the mortal injury.”

Harold Page, standing impatiently hy,
interrupted.

“There are certain circumstances con-
cerning my sister’s death I want ex-
plained,” he said.

The medical examiner refused to listen,

“Explanations are the easiest things in
the world to make,” he said as he went
on with his hasty examination.

“Tt seems to me—’” the father began.

“T'll arrange for an autopsy tomorrow
morning,” the medical examiner said,
“and I'll also leave a note for the under-
taker to postpone embalming until then.
There’s nothing else to be done. It’s a
clear case of suicide, I tell you.”

He threw on his coat, adjusted his
muffler and was gone into the howling
night. Later at midnight as the case-
ments rattled in the Page home, Robert
A. Bruce, the undertaker, sent downstairs
for the elder Mr. Page.

In his hand he held a woman’s corset,
the back of which was stained with
blood.

“I think you had better notify the
police without delay,” he said. “Your
daughter did not commit suicide. She
was murdered!”

Investigation Started

S SPECTRAL dawn came again to

Weston on the snow-covered morn-

ing of April 1, police gathered in the bed-

room of Mabel Page, clustering about the

sheet-covered body on an undertaking
stand.

Chief of Police Vittum, aroused from
sleep by Constable McAuliffe a short
time before, stared at the undertaker.

“Just what makes you so sure she was
murdered?” he demanded. “The medical
examiner last night informed me that it
was a clear case of suicide.”

“He’s mistaken,” Bruce said curtly.
“There are wounds upon this body which
make suicide an impossibility.”

“Why weren’t they observed before?”
the chief inquired.

“Because they were invisible unless the
body was undressed,” the undertaker re-
plied. “There is one knife wound in the
chest which penetrated the heart through
the corset; there is yet another on the
back of the hand and still another in the
back near the throat. Such wounds could
not be self-inflicted.”

“It’s very serious that this was not dis-
covered yesterday,” Chief Vittum said.
“Now, whatever tracks or tell-tale traces
were left by the murderer will be covered
by the snow.”

Baffling as were many of the various
aspects of the case, the investigation got
swiftly under way.

Chief Joseph E. Shaw of the Massa-
chussetts state police detailed State De-
tectives Daniel W. Hammond and Gen-
eral Jophanus H. Whitney, working
under the supervision of Deputy Chief
George C. Neal, to assist the Weston
police.

Police and detectives gathered again at
the Page home soon after breakfast,
where Constable McAuliffe awaited them.
One of the first things that excited their
interest was the outer dress skirt be-
longing to Miss Page which had been
found behind a door of her bedroom the
night before.

State detectives studied the skirt under
microscopes.

“There’s straw matting fibres em-
bedded deep in the back of this dress.”
they announced, “Red and white and
yellow.”

Examination revealed that although
the floor in Miss Page’s room was
covered with straw matting there were
no red fibres. However, red and yellow
fibres were to be found in the straw car-
peting in the hallway outside her chamber
as well as in several of the downstairs
rooms,

“Guess Harold Page wasn’t: far from
right when he said those hooks and eyes
in the placket looked all bent and
twisted,” Constable McAuliffe com-
mented shrewdly. “I wouldn’t be sur-
prised if she had been killed right down
here in the living room and then dragged
upstairs.”

Edward Page was among the first to
be questioned. He told of leaving the
house early in the morning, planning to
go to Boston. On the way to the station
he stopped at the public library. Seeing
by the morning paper that a heavy storm
was predicted for that afternoon, he re-
mained at the library for some time read-
ing, did several errands and returned
home.

“What time was that?” asked Deputy
Chief Neal.

“About 2 o'clock,” Page replied, and
then he went on to relate the circum-
stances leading up to the discovery of
his daughter’s body.

Amy Roberts, the maid, said she left
the house the previous morning at 25
minutes to 11 to visit friends in Auburn-
dale and to see her family physician in
Cambridge.

, Ph a et Miss Page seem when you
eft?”

“All right,” the maid replied. “I had
my*hat and coat on and was on the way
to the door when she stopped me. She
asked me if I needed any more money,
and I said I could use a dollar. So she
went to her pocketbook, which she kept
in the drawer of that small table over
there, and gave it to me.”

“Did she have any other money?”

“I didn’t pay much attention,” the maid
said, “although I remember when she
gave me my money she had at least one
ten-dollar bill and three or four other one
dollar bills in her hand.”

Pocketbook Found Empty

ETECTIVES went to the table which

the maid indicated and opened the
drawer. The pocketbook was empty, ex-
cept for some change.

“Did you meet anybody on your way
to town?” Nealasked. The girl hesitated
and then said she met an Edwin Dooley,
who was digging a hole in the street, and
the two stopped and chatted. Then she
walked up to Norumbega Park and took
the Commonwealth avenue electric car
to Boston.

Police also learned that the family
laundry had been delivered during the
day. Detectives questioned Henry S.
Maynard, the driver of the laundry
wagon. He said that he had seen the
maid talking to Dooley as he turned down

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South avenue. He delivered two bundles
of laundry at the Page house. Miss Page
answered the bell and paid him.

“Do you know what time this was?”

“Not exactly,” the laundry man replied,
“but L was down in Weston Center soon
after and I noticed by the village clock
that it was 12:15.”

During the morning, Chief Vittum
dropped in at the Page home where most
of the detectives were still at work.

“Tye just received word on the
autopsy,” he said. “Miss Page was murf-
dered by a five-inch single edge knife
blade that penetrated her heart through
the chest.”

“Death probably came soon after the
laundry man called,” Deputy Chief Neal
deduced. “Yet there is still that note to
be explained. Did the man who killed her
bring word that her brother had been
seriously injured? If. so, the murder
must have been committed before noon
as she wrote she intended to go in on the
12 o’clock train.”

“Are you sure that note was written |

by Miss Page?” another detective in-
quired.

“Her father states he is positive she
wrote it,” Neil replied. “Furthermore
we have compared it with other speci-
mens of her handwriting and they are
identical.”

Detectives, working with the Boston
police, tried hard to uncover the where-
abouts of the mysterious J. L. Morton,
whose name had been found in the dead
woman’s bedroom. But the man could
not be located.

“Was anything else missing besides the
money?” the detectives asked Harold
Page.

Gold Pin Missing

“T HE only thing I know of,” Page re-
plied, “is a small gold stick pin with a
Canadian emblem of which my sister was
very fond, You can recognize it easily
by the fact that the standard is twisted
and bent.”

Four days passed and the police ad-
mittedly were no nearer a solution, de-
spite a posted reward of $2,500.

Attorney-General Herbert Parker took
complete charge. One of the first things
he did was to interview every person seen
near the Page home the day of the crime.

Most of these witnesses received sum-
mons to the Municipal Building in the
nearby city of Newton where they were
questioned by the Attorney-General,
Deputy Chief Neal, Chief Vittum, Con-
stable McAuliffe and members of the
Newton police.

Included among them was Charles
Louis Tucker, a jobless 24-year-old wid-
ower who lived with his parents in the
nearby town of Auburndale. Tucker told
reporters he had been near the Page house
on the day of the murder. When this in-
formation came to the ears of the au-
thorities, he was asked to repeat his story.

He did so ina frank and straightforward
manner.

Rising about 9 o’clock, Tucker said, he
ate breakfast and then went out to rake
his father’s lawn. Stopping a little before
noon, he cleaned up, had dinner and then
walked towards Weston, reaching the
bridge below Norumbega Park just as
the noon whistles sounded. He met sev-
eral acquaintances. On the Auburndale
side, he talked to Alden Kingsbury as he
stood outside his shop; in Weston he met
a Miss Sarah Connolly. They chatted
for a moment. Tucker stayed long enough
to watch the antics of a squirrel and then
he walked on.

Wen ANSWERING ADVERTISEMENTS, PLEAS

“T was in no great hurry,” he said. “I
took my time and watched some carpen-
ters building a house. From there I went
on toward Weston village where I came
across Mr. Dooley digging in the street.
At Cutter’s Corner I turned down West
Newton street. I got home early and
found both my mother and grandmother
were out. I didn’t want to awaken my
father who was asleep, so I stayed out-
doors until I saw a neighbor coming out
of his house. The two of us went off
together.”

Fish Peddler Gives Clue

8 Bed police checked on the essential
portions of his story and as they were
found to be correct, Tucker was released.
He spent considerable time outside the
Municipal Building talking to a Boston
Post reporter. His picture and the inter-
view appeared in the morning edition of
that paper. Tucker read it with interest.
So did many others. Among them was
Arthur J. Woodward, of Quincy, Mass.,
who had hawked his grandfather’s fish
in and about Weston the day that the
crime had been committed.

A puzzled look came across Wood-
ward’s face as he re-read the article, pay-
ing particular attention to the story 0
the officials’ fruitless hunt for the death
weapon. Then he went in search of his
father to whom he related his experiences
with the two passengers who begged a
lift on the fatal Thursday.

“After reading the story, I thought I
ought to tell you about it,’ the young man
said. “You see, after they left me to go
into the woods, I found this on the seat.”

He drew from his pocket the object
which he had picked up. It was a worn
leather sheath for a hunting knife. On
one side human teeth marks were plainly
visible. His father stared at it in amaze-
ment.

— sure this man dropped it?” he
said.

“I am positive,” the youth replied.
“There was no one else in the wagon all
that morning.”

“Then you did right to tell me about it,”
the father said. “I shall write the select-
men at Weston right away.”

In that town, almost at the very mo-
ment, several reporters in search of a

“EL ROBERTS — |

“I dunno—the boys found him in the
coal bin.”

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g Mention May STARTLING Detective ADVENTURES 75

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feature story were talking with Mr.
Dooley. But the man, adept at digging
ditches, could think of nothing of interest
for the gentlemen of the press.

“Sure you’ve got a story,” one of the
reporters urged. “You've either talked
with or know most of the people who are
involved in this case. You're in a position
to see and be seen. Even Tucker, whom
the police released yesterday, says he
stood and watched you work.”

“I don’t know Tucker,” said Dooley.
| | “Never saw him.”

saw you working here on the afternoon
of the crime.”

Dooley’s face became curiously interit.

“He said that he saw me working here
on the afternoon of the crime?” he cried.
“Sure, and if he says that he’s a liar and
I don’t care if you tell him. I didn’t work
that afternoon at all. I quit when the
noon bells sounded from the Blakely
estate and I didn’t come back.”
} Excited by this sudden twist, the re-
| | porters hastened to the new house under
construction. There they met with addi-
| tional startling information. None of the

| “He knows you,” a reporter said. “He

carpenters had been at work that after-
noon. If Tucker had seen all these men
at work as he claimed, then he had been
in Weston around 12 o’clock, the time of
the murder. The reporters hurried to
police headquarters.

Too Much Money

ETECTIVES surprised Tucker at

his home, searched it thoroughly and
found nothing.
{ Constable McAuliffe remained uncon-
' | vinced, Although he had not yet con-
| | sidered anything tangible, he had un-
| | covered much which gave him cause for
thought. There had been some mysteri-
; | ous aspect, never explained, concerning
the death of Tucker’s wife a year previ-
ous; the man had been out of work for
some time and so heavily in debt that he
had been forced to place a revolver and
other possessions in pawn. Since the
murder he seemed to have plenty of
money. In fact, McAuliffe overheard him
tell state detectives he planned to go
away within a week or two to be gone
several months. After much reflection,
the constable held a secret conference
with Chief of Police Fred A. Tarbox of
Newton.

On Saturday evening, April 9, Charles
Tucker was again taken into custody
by Chief Shaw of the Massachusetts State
police. As Tucker was taken away, Chief
Deputy Neal, several state detectives,
Chief Tarbox and Constable McAuliffe
drove up to the Tucker home with a
search warrant.

Mrs. Tucker opened the door.

“Come right in and look around,” she
invited without hesitation when the police
explained their errand. “I am sure my
son has done nothing of which I am
ashamed.”

Down at the judge’s room in the
municipal building at Newton, Charles
* Tucker once more faced his accusers.
Calm and self-collected, he removed his
overcoat and placed it across a couch at
one corner of the room.

Chief Shaw lost no time in coming to
the point. He told Tucker he was detained
on suspicion in connection with the mur-
der, and that he would be within his rights
if he refused to answer any questions.

“Pm willing to tell you all I know,” he
said and briefly sketched the highlights
of his life, also stating that he had been
employed by several firms, including

Thorp and Martin, the Boston stationers,
and also at the South Station.

“Do you know the Page family per-
sonally?” ‘Chief Shaw asked.

“T know Harold slightly,” Tucker re-
plied. “I went to his house about a year
ago to buy a hunting dog.”

“Have you a hunting knife?” the chief
asked suddenly. Tucker shook his head.
“Did you ever own one?”

“Two or three years ago,” Tucker said,
“but I sold it to a friend.”

“What kind of a knife was it?”

“Oh, just a hunting knife. It had a
straight four-inch blade that wouldn’t
shut.”

Denies Knife Had Sheath

a: Va did it have a sheath?” Chief
Shaw asked suddenly. Tucker re-
plied that it did not. “You're sure?” the
chief asked.

Tucker nodded. Abruptly Shaw
changed the subject. “Are you sure you
told me everything you did on Thursday?
Didn’t you go out for a ride?”

Tucker smiled.

“Ves, I did,” he admitted frankly. “I
forgot all about it. A girl and myself
went for a short ride on a fish wagon.
Up near a park, she and I got out. We
went into the hills and...”

Tucker stopped. The chief seemed no
longer interested. There was silence.
Then Shaw asked another question.

“Nothing else happened that you re-
member that morning when you got out
of that wagon?”

Back at the Tucker home, the search
was almost over.

Again nothing of an incriminating na-
ture had been discovered. The police
were anxious to be off. Mrs. Tucker was
fast losing the nervous tenseness which
had characterized her movements as she
accompanied the men in their search,
From room to room the party moved
along, the comments of the state detec-
tives becoming more and more caustic.

The search neared its end. Back in
Tucker's room, Deputy Chief Shaw gave
one last peep in a large clothes closet.
As he started to close the door, Mc-
Auliffe’s keen eyes spied a sack coat
hanging on the outside knob, which had
been passed over. It was an old coat
belonging to Tucker.

McAuliffe stepped over and felt inside
the pockets. They were empty. Disap-
pointed, he let go of the garment. It fell
back.

McAuliffe again seized the coat. Fager
fingers again explored the pockets.
Through a hole in the lining he drew out
several battered metallic objects. He
rushed over to the light and examined
them closer.

There were three broken and dented
pieces of what had once been a five-inch
single-edge hunting knife.

Further search failed to uncover the
handle, but buried deep inside the lining
of that same pocket, Constable McAuliffe
brought to light another small, glittering
object.

It was a small, gold stick-pin stamped
with the Canadian emblem.

Mrs. Tucker caught sight of it and
hurried over.

“Just why have you taken my son’s
stick-pin?” she inquired.

“Are you sure it is your son’s?” the
constable asked.

“Of course I am,” the woman replied.
“T know it is. I wear it frequently.”

McAuliffe again examined it. closely.
It was then he noticed for the first time

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ba J

Confronted by the pen and ink likeness
sent to the Salisbury police chief, Lewis
hesitated and then admitted he had been
called by that name. Asked if he was a barber.
he countered by saying that although he had
barbered he was really a tailor’s helper. For
a time he denied being the “George Good”
who had signed the Belfast hotel register
even after a comparison of his writing and
the signature on the register proved them
to be the same and he again misspelled Cari-
hou by leaving out the “i.”

“It's my writing,” he finally admitted, “but
my name is really George Taylor and I come
from Cleveland, Ohio.”

He raised his hand to emphasize his words;
the sleeve of his shirt fell away disclosing
the tattooed hands, the pierced heart and
the initials E. T, Griffin asked what the let-
ters stood: for,

“A very dear girl friend,” the prisoner
stated. “Her name is Estelle Tiverton.”

More questioning brought other damag-
ing admissions. He had worked for Richard
Bulger, the Hampton Beach barber, and he
had been at Salisbury Beach on the night

‘
N

of Sunday, June 5. But he did not remember
buying any glasses; instead he had stopped
at the drugstore to buy some witch hazel.
After several drinks cad a hazy recollection
of Salisbury Beach, he claimed the next he
knew he was being taken to Boston by four
boys in a car.

“Who were those boys?” Griffin thundered.

Taylor didn’t know. He could not give
their names, their addresses or the make of
car they drove. All he remembered was that
he had awakened in Boston and they drove
him back to Newcastle the next day.

I suppose they gave you that wrist watch.”

“However did you guess?” the prisoner
exclaimed. “I found it in my pocket after
they left me.”

“And. the ruby ring?”

“I don't know anything about any ruby
ring.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Griffin replied, “but
I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder
of Stella Kale.”

“Tam innocent,” the prisoner proclaimed,
“and I can prove it.”

Waiving his right to extradition, the lieu-

tenant returned him to Salisbury, Put in
one police lineup after another, he was im-

mediately identified by persons whose evi- —

dence traced his steps from the dance hall
to the roller coaster and then to the beach,
and some time later to Salisbury Square. He
was also identified by the Hampton Beach
drugstore clerk as the man who purchased
the sun-plasses found by the side of Stell:
Kale.

Long before his case went to the Grand
Jury. ic became known that under his own
name of Elmer Thompson he was wanted
in Buffalo, New York, for another strangula-
tion murder with more than $1.000 reward
»osted for his apprehension. Previous to this
he had been an inmate of the West Virginia
State Prison where he had served time for
robbery, The Essex County Grand Jury lost
no time returning an sedicusient charging
him with murder in the first degree.

On October 10, 1927, he appeared in the
County {Superior Court in Salem before
Judge Quinn. The case against him con-
vinced ghe Jury who found him guilty. He
died indthe Jelectric chair on March 6, 1929.

FATAL
HONEYMOON
OF THE

DISCONTENTED

[Continued from page 35]

paimes Addy, of the Georgia Bureau of
nvestigation, appeared, in response to the
sheriff's earlier call for help. Beland in-
formed Addy of the existing state of the
investigation, and then assigned a deputy to
accompany the state detective to where the
Chevrolet stood, with instructions that the
car be driven to the county garage in Fort
Valley after Addy had tested it for prints.

By late afternoon, the sheriff was at the
Red Feather. Like roadhouses the country
over, this one had its share of neon lights,
and nursery-cultivated shrubbery hugging
the front and sides. At that hour, -the
restaurant was virtually deserted, and the

rincipal business the establishment was en-
joying was derived from its service station,
which stood adjacent to the main building.
However, the owner, Ruddy Link, was on the
premises. “It's shocking,” Link remarked,
when Beland told him of the reason for his
business. “Jump spent a lot of time here—
and a lot of money, too.”

When questioned about Jump’s relation-
ship with Sunny Nugent, the cafe owner
thought for a moment. “Well,” he said
finally, “I guess you could say he seemed
sweet on her—that is, up until he got
married, But in my opinion, I don't think it
was ever very serious. At any rate, Sunny
didn’t seem to lose any time. She brought
this other fellow around pretty quick.”
Sunny’s new boy friend, Link continued, was
called Elwood, but he didn't know his last
name, nor where he might be found. He
did, however, direct the sheriff to Sunny
Nugent's house, one of a cluster of tourists
cabins a quarter of a mile down the road.

As for the incident at the Jump table the
previous evening, Link declared he had
Witnessed it, and as he described what had
happened, the sheriff realized that his
version was in substantial agreement with
that of Elise Jump. “I guess it was just one

of those nights when everybody seems
jittery,” the nightclub owner added. “Al-
though I did get a little worried when Jump
and Caswell Moore began to mix it up and
started inviting each other to go outside.”
Beland started a little, involuntarily, and
then drew out the story. After the episode
with Sunny, Link declared, Moore, a fre-
quent patron of the place, went over to
the Jump table, He seemed to know Elise,
but when he approached, she at first
appeared somewhat flustered. But she in-
troduced him to Johnny Jump, and
eventually Moore seated himself at the table.
They chatted for a while, Link recalled, but
then a heated argument started, which cul-
minated in the men swapping insults and
challenges. “I went over and _ separated
them,” Link concluded, “and pulled: Moore
away from the table. He went with me, but
both of them were still hopping mad.”

Through further questioning, Beland
learned that Link had no idea of the nature
of the dispute between the two men, nor
did he know much about Caswell Moore, or
“Cas,” as everybody called him, except that
he came from Marshallville.

Beland was thoughtful as he bade the Red
Feather owner good-by. Why, he wondered,
had Elise Jump failed to mention the ob-
viously significant incident of Moore's fight
with her husband? Had there been some
romantic attachment between the two prior
to her marriage? They both came from the
same town, Marshallville, he recalled, and
might have been one-time sweethearts, Had
Elise, for old-time’s sake, been attempting to
shield Moore?

The sheriff started for his car, but, then,
recalling Link’s statement about the two
men “inviting each other outside,” walked
over to the gas station-parking lot attendant.
This individual, it turned out, had been on
duty the night before, and recalled seeing
the Jumps. “There wasn’t any argument
with anyone out here,” the employee told
Beland. “But I remember that Mr. Jump
was kinda mad about something. He came
out for his car alone, and while he was
waiting for his wife, he told me to fill the
tank. I filled it, all right—smack up to the
top. Some of it spilled over on the ground,
and he made some crack about paying for
gas he wasn't getting. Then he got in his
car, and after a few minutes his wife came
out and they drove off.”

The sheriff's next move was a visit to the
tourist camp where Sunny Nugent lived. He
found her cabin with no difficulty, and
knocked at the door. After a few moments

silence, there was the sound of high-heeled
slippers slapping around on the floor inside,
and then the door was opened by a cur-

vaceous young woman dressed in little other.
than a filmy negligee. Beyond her, in the:
single room, Beland saw a man, shoeless, and.

in his undershirt, sitting on a chair. These
two, he told himself, were Sunny Nugent and
her boy friend, Elwood.

So much proved to be the case, when the
sheriff invited himself inside and launched
his questioning of the pair. They freely
acknowledged having seen the Jumps on
the previous evening. Sunny admitted sit-
ting in yanany Jump’s lap, but declared “it
Was only a gag." Elwood, for his part,
admitted he'd “been a little sore” but had
gotten over it, They both insisted they hadn't
seen either of the Jumps after they left the
Red Feather around 11.

“Well, then,” Beland addressed Elwood,
“you won't mind telling me where you spent
your time until this morning.” *

Elwood opened his mouth, but no sound
came. He looked over at Sunny question-
ingly. The girl flushed and then sputtered
at the sheriff indignantly: “What are you
trying to do? Pin something on Elwood? O1
on me? I'll tell you where he was—and where
T was, too. We were both right here in this
cabin. And people saw us come in last night
and leave this morning. Now, make some-
thing of that, if you want to.” She glared
defiantly at Beland, who chuckled, stood up
and extended his hand.

“All right,” he said, “no hard feelings.
Let's shake.” He gave Sunny’s reluctant hand
a perfunctory pump, and then firmly gripped
the outstretched arm, exposed to the shoul-
der, of Elwood. The two stood for a moment
and under the cloak of idle conversation Be-
land’s sharp eyes flicked over the man’s
brawny arm and hand. Then he released his
grip and left. —

bn the way back to Fort Valley, the
sheriff confessed to himself that the trip to
the Red Feather had done nothing to ad-
vance, and perhaps had only added con-
fusion to the investigation. Elwood, he was
convinced, was in the clear. But ‘what about
Caswel) Moore? :

Back at his office, Beland found Sergeant
Addy awaiting him, with a report on the
testing of the Chevrolet, which by now was
standing in the county garage. Addy had
been able so far to bring out only a handful
of unsatisfactory prints from the car's sur-
faces, he told Beland, and in his opinion all
of them were virtually useless. However,
he intended to have another try at it in
the morning. He also declared that he was

peautiiul _
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3, THe qyrtle man 1°

fat non “

ndions

TRUE
LLC
E CASES
S, January

hips swayed gently as she stepped along the boardwalk
in the direction of the beach.

Since taking her job at Salisbury she had made it a
custom to go for a walk every night. She loved to listen
to the pounding of the surf and to watch the moving
lights of ships far out to sea. She’d decided there would
be no exception this evening, despite the “masher” inci-
dent in the afternoon.

Thinking of the little man, she looked behind her a
couple of times. But she saw nothing amiss, for though a
strange figure was following her, he always was able
to dart into the shadows and remain undetected.

Stella left the concession area and walked along the
hard-packed sand just out of reach of the surf, then near
high tide. The music from the resort dance hall and the
rumble of the roller coaster grew fainter in her ears. At
last she seemed to be all alone with the sand, an occa-
sional outcropping rock, the sea and the stars. She
turned around to look at the lights of the ferris wheel
etched against the sky..

At that moment her stalker started to close in on her-
fast. Stella gave one piercing scream and
then saved her breath for flight. But it
was hopeless running in the the dark.
She stumbled and her pursuer was upon
her. With one hand over her mouth to
silence her cries, he dragged her up the
incline of the beach.

Stella struggled, squirmed, struck out
with her fists as she was pulled into the
softer sand. After one violent effort she
was free of her assailant’s grip. She screamed again and
took a few stumbling steps toward the safety of the con-
cession area. But then he caught her once more and threw
her on the sand. :

Through distended eyes Stella could see the stars fad-
ing. Then they glimmered out altogether. . .

The sea-nymph’s ravaged body was found spread-
eagled on the sand the next morning at 7 o'clock by Mrs.
Angelina De France, who was out for a stroll with her
small daughter. Upon making the discovery the woman
ran white-faced to one of the boardwalk concessions
where the owner called the police.

Patrolmen James Hughes and John Kelley were the
first to arrive, followed closely by Chief Sidney Smith
and Medical Examiner Dan Murphy.

“I guess there’s no doubt about the nature of this
crime,” Chief Smith said grimly, looking at the corpse.
“A clear-cut picture of a rape-murder.”

The dark-haired girl lay sprawled on her back, arms
and legs outstretched. Her glazed eyes stared blankly

Detective Stokes tripped Captain Smith launched
slayer with spelling test. search for dancing barber.

Strangler’s glasses were
found near slain brunette.

upward. Her polka dot dress had been bunched ‘around
her waist. Scattered around the body were rempxnts of
underclothing which apparently had been slashed off with
scissors. There were ugly bruises on the girl’s throat.

Dr. Murphy made a preliminary examination. .

“Most likely death was due to strangulation,” he said.
“Our autopsy will determine that for su: Je'tl need
the lab examination, too, to find out whagcer the rape
was actually consummated. The body is ccl@™ Tts condi-
tion indicates the murder occurred several fiours ago—
sometime during the night.” ;

Scores of curious people had been attracted to the scene.
While Patrolman Kelley kept them at a distance, Chief
Smith and Officer Hughes made a close study of the tell-
tale marks in the sand.

Not too far from the edge of the incoming tide, they
found the imprint of the girl’s dainty shoes and the
broader footprints of her slayer.

“Here’s where he first attacked her,” Smith said, point-
ing to the scattering of prints.

“Yes, and judging by this path in the sand,” Hughes
added, “he then dragged her up the slope,
away from the water. Obviously she was
struggling all the way.” There were tiny
furrows in this trail of death, gouged
out by the victim’s high heeled shoes.

But it was at the spot where the life-
less sea-nymph lay that she had put up
her strongest resistance. For several feet
around the sand was scuffed up, indicat-
ing the violence of the fight.

The victim’s small, inexpensive purse was found not

far from the point where she was first attacked. It had -

snapped open, and some of its contents had spilled out.
The officers gathered them together carefully.

The objects included a string of rosary beads, a lip-
stick, a compact which was initialed “S.K.,” a handker-
a with the same initials, a pencil and blank address

ook.

At the very bottom of the purse the police chief found
a scrap of paper. There was some doodling on it—aimless

scribbling—and the phrase: “It’s all over now,” the word ©
“Daddy” and the names “Jack,” “Freddie” and “Mr. L. -

Fazenda.”

“Wonder what was in her mind when she wrote, ‘It’s
all over now’?” Hughes said. “Could have been a love
affair that broke up—something that could supply a
motive for murder.”

Chief Smith nodded. “And in that case ‘Jack? or ‘Fred-
die’ might be possible leads. Or even ‘L. 2° onda,’ ”

They returned to the spot where the besy lay. Dr.

At first held for theft, this man was identified as the
murderer with aid of amateur artist’s sketch, right,

Murphy held out a pair of dark glasses with horn rims
which he had wrapped in a handkerchief. .

“Found these lying near her head, almost hidden by
her hair,” he said. “It’s a good bet they were dropped ‘by
the killer in the struggle. I was careful not to smear any

_ fingerprints that might be on them.”

Smith nodded. “These specs could be our best clue so
ee man in the crowd pushed his way through to the
officers. “I think I may know that girl,” he said. “Let me

ok at her.” :
tanSwhe are you?” Chief Smith asked. “I’m Louie Fazenda.
I run the photo concession on the boardwalk.

Dr. Murphy lifted the sheet which had been spread over

the body. Pabends took one frightened look at the dead
’s face.
eee her!” he cried. “It’s Stella. Stella Kale.”

“S. K.” Smith said. “Those are the initials on the com-
pact. And your name was scribbled on a piece of paper
we found in her purse. What was your connection with

rr?” :
Taek explained that the girl had come to work for
him as an assistant in his studio on Memorial Day and
lived in a room on the second floor. He’d heard her go
out for her usual walk at 10:30 the night before. ,

“When I woke up this morning, she still hadn't come
back,” the photographer said. “I was going to call head-
quarters. Then I heard about the body being found on the

beach and came right down here.”

The police chief eyed him. “How much do you know
about this Stella Kale?” he demanded.
The photographer said he had hired Stella through a

want-ad. All he knew about her background was that she’

came from Lawrence, some twenty-five miles from Salis-
bury Beach, and had been recently graduated from the high
school there. He had never heard her mention anyone

es fort gt nro’

EUR a | os
pata ; Perens

ine the beach at Salisbury, Mass., where the half-nude
no ‘beautiful Stella Kale, inset, was found the morning after
the attack. The rapist jumped on her from the dune in background.

named “Freddie,” but he was quite sure the “Jack” scrib-

- bled on the paper scrap was Jack Lally from Newburyport,

man who had dated Stella frequently.
“OR, thanks,” Chief Smith said. “Don’t leave the
beach. We will probably want to question you again.”
With positive identification of the victim made, the in-
vestigation moved into high gear. Dr. Murphy supervised
removal of the body to the morgue in nearby Amesbury
for an autopsy. Smith put all available men on his force
to work on the probe and enlisted the aid of the Massa-
s State Police. .
Mae Thomas Bligh assigned two of his best detec-
tives to help solve the mystery of the murdered sea-nymph
—Lieutenants Richard Griffin and John Stokes. They
joined local and state officers who swarmed into New-
buryport, Lawrence and Salisbury Beach to hunt for clues.
In Stella Kale’s home town, her grief-stricken parents
could supply no hint as to the motivation for her slaying.
They said she had always been a “good girl” and had never
been in trouble. They identified the mysterious “Freddie
as a boy she had dated during high schobl—Fred Camp.
The romance had ended about a year before.
The girl’s father told the officers that Stella always wore
a ruby ring and a gold wristwatch of unusual design.
Neither of these was found on her person or among her
personal belongings in her room at the studio.
“Undoubtedly taken by the killer,” Lieutenant, Stokes
said. “And they may help send him to the chair.
Inquiries in Lawrence disclosed that Fred Camp was
out West, working on a ranch. He was automatically elimi-
suspect. ‘
oe of Sem oi afternoon Chief Smith and Lieutenant
Griffin located Jack Lally at a Newburyport gas station
where he worked. The young man appeared genuinely
shocked and stricken with grief when they told him of the
as ee he had been with Stella on the beach the pre-
i rnoon.
veut had to leave her around 6 or 6:30 to come back
here and keep an appointment with my boss,” Lally said.
“There was a possibility I might have to work last night,
but plans were changed and I had the evening off.” _ ,
“So you returned to Salisbury and saw Stella again,

iff ested. .
Ooo! eay cried. “I went [Continued on page 66]

we SP oN ow

she worked, only a little while before—
before she went away.”

At the store the officers verified Mrs.
Bailey’s ownership of the rhinestone
necklace and discovered she also had pur-
chased the beige dress there.

The shoes she had been wearing when
she left home for that last Sunday drive
had come from this same store, and in
them were labels with the name of the
shop and its address in Akron.

The shoes had been removed by her
strangler, the police believed, because
they would have made identification of
the body simple.

In addition to all the other evidence
identifying the murder victim as Juanita
Bailey, one of her fingerprints was found
recorded on her daughter's hospital birth
record. And that print matched one from
the creek victim’s hand.

Since receiving the letter dated April
25, George Krendich’s mother had heard
nothing from her son. On the Sunday,
three days before he wrote from Chicago,
George had come home for a few mo-
ments to pick up his wallet and the bill of
sale for his 1948 Pontiac, then had rushed
out to keep his date with Juanita.

A search was begun for Krendich’s car,
and it was found in the possession of a
man living in a suburb outside Cincinnati.
He had bought it in May from a dealér in
the city who had paid Krendich $950 for
the sedan on April 24.

On the bottom of one seat cushion,
Cincinnati Detectives Thomas Faragher
and Walter Hart found several hairpins
matted in a dried substance which labora-
tory analysis later proved to be human
blood of type A—the same as that of
Juanita Bailey.

“Perhaps Krendich and his fiancee set
out from Akron intending to get married
and had a bitter quarrel,” Jett said. “Any-
way, what evidence we have indicates that
George Krendich is the man we want.”

The flier’s relatives and friends in Ak-
ron, however, were positive that Kren-
dich was innocent. He had never been
in any kind of trouble and had seemed
genuinely in love with Juanita. He, too,

they said, might have been slain and his
body hidden somewhere in the neighbor-
hood of Augusta.

The theory of Krendich also having
been murdered, however, was weakened
by the fact his signature appeared on the
transfer of title to his car and by the letter
he had written home from Chicago.

murder warrant was sworn out
against Krendich in Bracken County by
Juanita’s father, and a second warrant was
issued naming him as a fugitive from
justice.

Then, because it was obvious that he
had left Kentucky, a federal warrant was
obtained, charging George Krendich with
flight to avoid prosecution for murder,
and he became an object of search by the
FBI.

Although the officials who had worked
on the case insisted that Krendich was
the man they wanted, they admitted they
were unable to provide full answers to
several questions arising from the investi-
gation.

One was how Krendich, a stranger in
Bracken County, could have found his
way into the hidden lane to the bank of
Turtle Creek; where the body was
dumped.

Another question was how Tessie Cook
had been able to fabricate a story about
Rita Ritter’s murder that so closely fitted
the locale and the events as Sheriff Jett
and Coroner Bach knew them.

A third question was, where had the
murder been committed: In Akron?
Somewhere else in Ohio? Or in Bracken
County, perhaps on the very bank of the
creek where the body was hidden?

Tessie was never found to explain her
story. Coogan, Larkin and Foster were
completely cleared of any link to the case
when Rita Ritter returned home alive and
well.

Meanwhile, the hunt for George Kren-
dich went on.

He has been hunted unsuccessfully in
the Superstitition Mountains of Arizona
where he had once prospected, trying to
locate the fabled “Lost Ditchman” gold

mine. He has been sought in aviation
centers, since he had kept up his interest
in flying after the war. He has been
looked for in large cities having Serbian
centers of population, as he both speaks
and reads the language.

Krendich is a large man, six feet tall,
with dark brown hair. He weighs 175
pounds. He is known as a casual dresser
who likes sports clothes and seldom Wears
a necktie. ;

He reads adventure stories, enjoys golf
and bowling. He worked as a-machinist
and turret lathe operator after the war.

Late in July, 1953, with the manhunt
nearly twenty months old, the FBI an-
nounced that it had added him to its list
of the “10 most wanted criminals in
America.” But the G-men admitted that
Krendich might be a very difficult man
to nab. :

“Accused of a vicious, hideous crime as
his first criminal exploit,” the FBI bul-
letin on Krendich says, “he has left few
avenues of pursuit open. His very crimi-
nal anonymity and dearth of personal
characteristics and history are proving
valuable assets to him in his flight from
justice.”

There are factors, however, which do
not work in his favor.

True, it is the amateur fugitive, the
man with no known criminal connections
and habits, who generally is the hardest
to find. But, at the same time, it is this
man who finds it all but impossible to
live, week after week, year after year,
with his own conscience. =

And it is this amateur, toowhom fear
hounds relentlessly. Wherever George
Krendich may be tonight, each footfall
behind him, each shadow: that moves
nearby, each street, each doorway, each
room he enters harbors that fear.

It can have only one ending. Some day
the hand of the law will touch his shoul-
der and a voice will say: “All right,
George. You don’t have to hide any
more.” ee

(The names Walt and Rita Ri*ter,<Tessie Cook,
Johnny Coogan, Red Foster and Eddie Larkin are

fictitions to protect the identity of persons innocently
involved in the investigation——The Editor.)

Sea Nymph and the
Strangling Rapist
[Continued from page 25]

straight home from the gas station and
stayed there the rest of the night. I
don’t have any witnesses to prove it, but
it’s the truth.”

Chief Smith produced the scrap of
paper found in Stella’s purse. “Do you
have any idea what she might have had
in mind when she scribbled ‘It’s all over
now’?”’ Smith asked.

“Why, yes. That's simply the title of a
song she heard on the radio. She told me
she liked it so much she wanted to get a
record of it.”

Lally’ said he was certain Stella was
wearing the ruby ring Sunday afternoon.
When they went in the water, she had left
her wristwatch in her purse beneath the
beach blanket. She had strapped it on
again as they walked toward the studio.
He said the girl never wore dark glasses.

“I can think of only one thing that
might help you,” Lally said. “There was
a man following us around the beach
yesterday. He never took his eyes off
Stella.”

Jack described the little fellow with

the Charlie Chaplin mustache, not for-
getting the important detail that the
would-be masher wore sun glasses. Lally
said the man was about 5 feet 6 inches
tall, of medium build and perhaps 40 years
old. He wore dark trousers and a white,
open-necked shirt. .

“Remember anything else about him?”
Griffin asked, writing in his notebook.

“Yes, he acted strangely. Every so
often he would do a little jig. He'd sing,
too—snatches from ‘Sweet Adeline,’ ‘I’ve
Been Working on the Railroad,’ and other
old tunes, I figured he probably had been
drinking.”

The officers thanked Lally for his co-
operation and advised him to be on hand
for possible further questioning.

The next morning Dr. Murphy. tele-
phoned Salisbury Beach headquarters
from Amesbury to give his report on the
autopsy. ’

“As I suspected,” he told Chief Smith,
“death was caused by strangulation.
Bruises other than those on the throat
clearly show the girl put up a terrific fight
for her life. A rape attempt was made,
but it was unsuccessful. Cuts and
scratches indicate something was torn off
the victim’s left wrist—probably a watch
or a bracelet.” *

“How about the time of death?” Smith
asked.

“As near as we can tell, the murder
occurred around 11 or 11:30 Sunday
night.” AF

A report also was received from the
state police laboratory on the dark glasses
found at the scene of the crime

“Sorry, but the only prints on the lenses
were so smudged as to be unidentifiable,”
the technician said. “The glasses are ap-
parently brand-new. They are of an un-
usual make, however. Maybe you'll be
able to trace them to the point of pur-
chase. We're returning them to you.”

In corroboration of the time of the
murder, two inhabitants of the resort re-
called hearing screams shortly after 11

‘ o'clock Sunday night. Both had hesitated

to investigate, particularly since the
screams were not repeated.

Everyone questioned testified to the
good character of Louie Fazenda. They
felt certain there had been nothing’ of a
romantic nature between the photog-
rapher and his pretty assistant. And
further interrogation of the photographer
indicated he had nothing to conceal.

It was in respect to the would-be
masher mentioned by Jack Lally that the
detectives began to hit pay-dirt. More
than a dozen persons remembered seeing
him and recalled his peculiar actions.

“That guy was a real screwball,” de-
clared one concessionaire. “He bought a

couple of hot dogs at my counter early in
the afternoon and kept jigging up and
down all the time he ate them. I asked
him if he had St. Vitus dance, or some-
thing, and he said no—he just liked to do
the buck and wing.”

The concessionaire remembered that
the suspect had said he was a barber em-
ployed in a shop “over the line in New
Hampshire.”

“I'd hate to have him give me a shave,”
the concessionaire said. “He’d probably
cut your throat.”

The ticket-taker at the Salisbury dance
hall remembered seeing the little -man
ee around the entrarice ogling the
girls.

“TI warned him to go away a couple of
times,” he said, “and finally I threatened
- call a policeman. I didn’t see him after
that.”

A valuable tip came from the proprietor
of a diner who had served the character
with the stubby mustache.

“He asked me if I knew how often the
trains ran to Portsmouth,” the informant
said. “IT asked’ him exactly where he
wanted to go and he said Hampton Beach.
I handed him a timetable and he stuck it
in his pocket.”

Hampton Beach was a resort some ten
miles up the coast, across the New Hamp-
shire boundary.

“That ties in with what the fellow said
about the suspect’s being a barber in New
Hampshire,” Lieutenant Griffin said. “I'll
go up to Hampton Beach myself and take
a look around.”

The most damaging testimony against
the little man came from the owner of a
souvenir stand situated near Fazenda’s
studio.

“T noticed the guy trailing Stella Kale
and her boy friend up the boardwalk,” he
said. “He watched Stella go into the
studio, then he ducked behind a shooting
gallery. He must have Stayed there,
watching, for a couple of hours. Because
when Stella came out of the studio again,
I saw him come out and follow her down
the boardwalk. He was still wearing those
poi glasses, even though it was way past
dark.

“I was just closing my stand for the
night,” the shopkeeper continued, “when
I saw the little fellow come up the board-
walk again. Only now he wasn’t wearing
his dark glasses. He appeared to be upset
and was staggering a bit. I wondered if
he was drunk, especially when he started
singing ‘Sweet Adeline.’ He headed off in
the direction of the trolley stop.”

While Lieutenant Stokes, Chief Smith

‘and their men rechecked other angles of

the mystery, Lieutenant Griffin drove up
the shore road to Hampton Beach.

There were several barber shops in the
New Hampshire resort town. The detec-
tive went from one to another, asking the
proprietors if they employed a man fitting
the description of the murder suspect.

In the fourth shop he entered Griffin
met with success—and disappointment.

“A short, dark man who likes to jig and
sing?” the owner repeated. “Sure, he
works for me—or, rather, he used to.
He hasn’t shown up since last Saturday,
and my guess is that he won't be back.”

“What was his name?” the detective
asked.

“He said it was Kiley—Ralph Kiley.
But it was a funny thing—he had the
initials, E.T., tattooed on his forearm.”

“How did he explain that?”

“Oh, he said the initials belonged to a
girl friend he had back in Pittsburgh.
I never saw a guy so full of music. He
was always humming ‘I’ve Been Work-
ing on the Railroad,’ ‘Sweet Adeline,’ or
some of the other old favorites.”

The barber shop’ owner said he had

hired the suspect only the previous
Wednesday and had rented him a room
in his home.

Lieutenant Griffin went to the room
and found that the itinerant barber had
left behind a suitcase containing a meager
assortment of clothing. There were no
labels or laundry marks on any of the
garments.

“My bet is that this fellow has a police
record somewhere,” Griffin said. “Tell me,
did you ever see him wearing these
glasses?” He held out the dark spectacles
found at the crime scene.

The barber shop owner nodded. “Yes.
He bought them last Friday in the drug
store next to my shop.”

Griffin interviewed the pharmacist, who
readily identified the glasses. as having
come from his stock. From his description
there could be no doubt but that the pur-
chaser was the murder suspect.

The detective advised the druggist, the
barber shop proprietor and the Hampton
Beach police to be on the alert for the
possible reappearance of the little man
with the stubby mustache. Them he re-
turned to Salisbury Beach to report to
Chief Smith and Lieutenant Stokes.

“Our best weapon now is publicity,”
Stokes decided. “We'll get out a batch of
circulars, and we'll try to get every news-
paper in New England to print a descrip-
tion of the suspect together with a de-
scription of the missing watch and ring.
Luckily, Stella Kaie’s father was able to
give us the case number of the watch.”

The publicity campaign brought quick
results.

Young Harold Chute of Eastport,
Me., wrote to the Massachusetts officers
to say he was positive the murder suspect
was the same character who had worked
in his father’s barber shop a few months
before.

“He was around 40, dark-haired and
wore a mustache,” the letter read, “and
he was always singing and doing jigs.
He had the initials E. T. tattooed on his
arm. He claimed his name was George
Taylor.

“Since I am an amateur artist, I made
a sketch of the man’s face. J am enclosing
it, and I hope that it may be of some use
to vou.” ‘

The investigators promptly had copies
made of the drawing and distributed them
to newspapers and photo services.

On the following day a call came from
a pawnbroker in Portsmouth, N. H. He
said he held a watch and ring answering
the descriptions of those of the victim's
published in the papers. Chief Smith and
Lieutenant Stokes left for Portsmouth
immediately. .

They found that the watch was the
one which had belonged to Stella Kale.
The case number furnished the proof.
And the ring was exactly as described
both by Jack Lally and Stella’s parents.

The pawnbroker said he had loaned $15
on the two objects on Monday, the day
after the crime. ;

“And I’m sure that’s the man who
brought them in,” he added, pointing to
the sketch of the suspect printed on the
front page of a newspaper. “He was very
nervous, but even so, he did a few dance
steps and hummed a tune now and then.
He claimed the watch and ring belonged
to his wife who had died recently.”

“This proves conclusively that our
dancing barber is the killer,” Griffin said.

At the pawnbroker’s request. the man
had signed the register, using the name:
“George Good, Carbou. Me.” Stokes
made a note of the omission of the “i” in
the name of the town. Photostats were
taken of the signature.

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Lieut. John F. Stokes, who by pa-
tient legwork, was the first offi-
cer to learn killer’s description.

of the girl’s father in Lawrence, Then, accompanied by Hennessey, Smith
searched Stella’s room above the studio, but found nothing that could be
construed as a lead to the murder of the redhead.

The chief took the notebook, envelope with the name Bill on it and the
sunglasses back to headquarters. Hennessey had told him he didn't think
the glasses belonged to Stella Kale because he had never seen her wear-
ing them,

Smith performed the unpleasant duty of notifying the slain girl's
father in Lawrence by phone. Mr. Kale said he would start out for the
Amesbury funeral parlor immediately.

Lt. Richard J. Griffin of the Massachusetts State Police met Chief
Smith and the bereaved father there. Mr. Kale viewed the corpse and
made a positive identification. He was at a complete loss to explain his
daughter’s violent death,

“She was so careful about her friends,” the shocked parent said. “We
were happy about her job at the beach. Now this terrible thing has
happened.”

Mr. Kale returned to Salisbury Beach with Smith and Griffin. The
autopsy report came in late that Monday afternoon. It bore out what
Medical Examiner Murphy and Dr. Leary had surmised.

“Strangulation was the direct cause of death,” Murphy said. “The girl
tried to fight off her attacker who apparently used no weapon, just his
exceptionally strong hands. There is no direct evidence of completed
rape, but abrasions on the abdomen and thighs indicate the apparent
purpose of the attack. The time of death was approximately 11 o’clock
Sunday night.”

The jury, under police guard, examines deserted beach area where
the corpse of Stella Kale (left) was found. A pair of sunglasses
was discovered beside the body, giving officers their first clue.

2 state police

hen the Com-
iusetts offered
leading to the
{ Stella Kale.
*n of Salisbury
$500 to the

ith the brutal
, in the New
1 teletype and
man broadcast
Canada, some-
ould have to
vo weeks had
light promised

blackness.

ie, Stella Kale’s

. A man from .
ipshire, got in.

Griffin to an-
. Griffin imme-
view him.
tforward and to
‘er the murder,
seen found, the

to Kensington
‘ampton Beach,:
hitchhiker,” he ~

seneral practice
tracted my at-

> jig at the side’

he might be
‘ked so comical.
was Hill, and
vho had come

very far, he
nd offered to
xs. I looked it
i said, ‘What’s
is worth any-
an that.’
it it had been
izy about her,
couldn’t stand
inded him of
sir Pittsburgh
England. But
‘idn’t even ex-
-pt the watch.
. Every time

upset again.
id of that last
SS.

it pretty con-

ie watch as a.

too?”

was headed?”
| thought that
iitchhikers are

g. But he just

go my way.”

was lost and
the publicity

aan had not.

off again. A
faine, sent a
Chief Sidney

2 wrote, “of
varber here in
roomed at my
tattoo marks
rs say Frank

Harris has. And he was always shuffle-
dancing and humming catchy tunes. He
called himself George Taylor. I made
the drawing when he was here and
showed it to him. He said it was a
fine job.”

Alsop, shown the sketch pronounced
it an excellent likeness of the dancing
barber. State Chief of Detectives Thom-
as Bligh ordered hundreds of repro-
ductions made and sent to all police
departments and newspapers along the
northern Atlantic seaboard.

Until July 3rd, the picture accom-
plished nothing. Harris-Hill-Taylor had
vanished. Then, that day before the
Fourth, authorities in Buffalo, New
York, announced they recognized its
subject. To them, he was Elmer Thomp-
son—wanted for a murder by strangu-
lation. In addition to that, Buffalo re-
ported, his previous record included a
term in West Virginia’s State Prison for
robbery. In Buffalo there was still out-
standing a $1,000 reward for his ap-
prehension.

The Elmer Thompson name, fitting
the tattooed initials on the man’s arm,
convinced Massachusetts police that
they had at last established his real
identity. But it did nothing to bring
him into the law’s net. The greatest
police manhunt in New England’s his-
tory was accomplishing all too little.

Clues sent detectives to Manchester,
New Hampshire, where, it was reported,
Thompson had put in an appearance
at the 101 Wild West Show. Clues took
other officers to Sherbrooke, Quebec,
and to Montreal. If any or all of these
reports was accurate, the wanted man
had moved on again before he could
be caught. \

Perhaps the most promising lead
came in a telephone call from North
Conway, New Hampshire. “I know
this is the man,” the informant avowed.
“He asked for a job in my barber shop.
I’ve seen his picture in the papers. Be-
sides, he worked for me once before.”

“Where is he now?” Chief Smith
asked.

“In my shop.”

“Give him a job,” Smith said. “Keep
him there. We’ll have a man up there
as soon as we can.”

Lieutenant Griffin, himself, took on
the assignment of going after Thomp-
son. But when he reached North Con-
way and visited the man who had tele-
phoned, it was only to learn that the
fugitive had left less than an hour
before. As if inspired by some sixth
sense, he had suddenly hung up the
jacket of his trade and walked out, not
even asking for his pay to date.

“I’m not a cop. I couldn’t do any-
thing about it,” the barber said. “He
just took off like a turpentined cat.”

Days passed when Thompson was
“seen” in Plymouth, in Bartlett, in
Crawford Notch. Every lead had to be
trun down. The man was reported in
Belfast, Maine, where he had registered
in a hotel as “George Good.”

Ironically, while every crack detec-
tive in New England and Canada was
engaged in running down false clues, a
quiet Vermont sheriff finally caught up

with the fugitive.

On the 10th of July, Sheriff Edward
E. Holmes of Lamoille County, Ver-
mont, was investigating a theft of an
automobile. Holmes’ bailiwick was a
quiet, neighborly area, populated by
hard-working farmers. His jail seldom
had a lodger, and his annual crime
report could be written in fewer than
six pages on his ledgers.

Nevertheless, in the last few weeks,
several cars had been stolen in, or near,
Hyde Park, the county seat. To Holmes
this was a slur on his professional rec-
ord and an outrage to his civic pride.
He suspected there was a single culprit,
and he was working night and day to
bring him to book.

On this day, on Hyde Park’s main
street, he observed a stranger peering
through the open windows of cars
parked along the sidewalk.

Holmes hastened after the man and
accosted him.

“What are you doing? What are you
looking for?”

The stranger smiled invratiatingly.
“It’s all my fault,” he said. “I’ve com-
pletely forgotten where I parked my
car.”

“What kind of a car is it?”

“A black Ford. Last year’s model.”

“You got the keys?”

The stranger shook his head. “I’m
afraid I left them in the car.”

“What about your registration card?”

“That'll be in the car, too.”

Although he had little to go on,
doubhts were growing in the sheriff's
mind. ‘“What’s your name?”

“Henry Lewis.”

“Okay, mister. Maybe I can help you
find your‘ car.”

Together they made the rounds of
those: streets on which the stranger
might have parked. There were Fords
and black Fords and last year’s models.
But each of them belonged to some-
one other than Henry.

“All right, Henry,” the sheriff said.
“You better come down to the jail-
house with me. I’ve got a few ques-
tions I'd like you to answer.”

Meekly, the man who called himself
Lewis permitted the sheriff to lead the
way. But once he was in the jail, he
was decidedly uncooperative. “Stolen
cars!” he said. “The only car I know
anything about right now is my own,
and it begins to look as if that was
stolen.”

His story might have been more
plausible if he had carried identification
material of any kind, but a search of
his person made it look as if he prac-

ticed a studied anonymity.

Sheriff Holmes, still not quessing the
prize he had in his grasp,but firm in his
hunch that things were not what they
should be, booked Henry Lewis as a
suspicious character, and locked him up.
By Vermont law he needed. no more
to hold his prisoner legally for forty-
eight hours.

Y coincidence that night, quiet, staid
Hyde Park ran wild. Farmhands
celebrating a payday made large but

incautious investments in jugs of boot-
leg liquor. For a while, all was merry
but, before midnight, some of the cele-
brants became boisterous and quarrel-
some. Patiently and methodically the
sheriff rounded up the worst offenders.
In a short while he had taken four of
them into custody, thereby filling his
jail to capacity.

Early in the morning his deputy gave
the men their breakfasts, reviving them
somewhat from the effects of last night’s
debauch. Even more important to their
morale, one of the quartette had man-
aged to deceive the sheriff when they
were booked and had smuggled in on
his person another bottle of the stuff
that had set them off.

When the sheriff arrived at ten o’clock
gaiety was in full swing again. And
something new had been added. He
found his local prisoners gathered
around the stranger in their midst, who
was entrancing them with the eccentrici-
ties of a buck-and-wing dance, all the
while making the bullpen melodious
with his vocal accompaniment.

Watching the odd scene unobserved,
Holmes felt a stirring in the back of
his mind. Hurrying back to his office,
he leafed through a stack of “Wanted”
placards. Seconds later he was on the
telephone, calling the Massachusetts
State. Police.

Lieutenant Richard Griffin arrived
that afternoon.

For a time the prisoner fenced with

. Griffin, offering varying stories about his

whereabouts over the past weeks, giving
different accounts of his past life, even
changing his name from time to time.

Then, unaccountably, he capitulated.
He agreed to waive extradition to Mas-
sachusetts. He acknowledged that his
real name was Elmer Thompson. He
even supplied his interrogators with a
reasonably coherent account of his odys-
sey following the night that Stella Kale
had been killed.

But beyond that he wouldn’t go.
Neither to the law enforcement officers
nor to the court, where he pleaded
“not guilty,”” would he admit any knowl-
edge of the crime for which he was
speedily indicted.

That he had consumed much liquor
and several bottles of bay rum on the
day of the crime he told the court when
he took the stand in his own defense.
Thereafter he had blacked out, he in-
sisted, and knew nothing until he woke
up in Boston.

The actual motive behind the crime
remained something of a mystery. If
rape had been intended, it had not been
consummated. If robbery, on the other
hand, was the reason, the killer had
from the beginning picked a victim
from whom he could not hope to profit
greatly.

His story of a blackout convinced
no one on the jury. On October 10th,
Judge William Quinn of the
Superior Court, having heard the jury’s
verdict, sentenced Elmer Thompson to
die in the electric chair.

There is no record that he practiced
his crowd-pleasing dancé steps when he
went to his death

M one: ‘

Mass. Reta:
curtain o!
are few a
no hurry
The bez
the high ti
was pulled
-A few he
sirable. But
go-round :
out her fr:
for her be
The mo:
discovery
the sand, s!
“Mother
The sta:
the police

Offic:
to the sc
realizatior
word spre
the crowd

Chief o!
these peo}
“We ha
explained
from dist)
The fer
went was plain
“the camera girl raced along ~~ he da hey Pps
effort to, escape, the sex-mad jp.) 3) ee si Xe ad drie
was not quick enough and FIDE ON Sita Ba ose. : ; colored,
x, his hands about her neck. : Fa es ak chest and
Sigel’ Tigh eae Nis ‘f Smith
near the
found a
on it an
glasses.
and Hug
“Whoe
to delay
one ata’
The fi:
the grué¢
was repe
turned t
“IT thin
home las
The ch
and’ adds
Are you
"It's Si
but Stel
photo st
Medic
Timothy
examina

7% eames: By it»

ir of sung sses and.a boy's

‘pa

a ‘ p F's
f ie aii a Ss nes ° vo he | Pete
eet 14 Ye eae
a - A >

BY KEN DAVIS

Meena morning comes quietly to Salisbury Beach,
Mass. Retarded by fog rolling in from the Atlantic, the
curtain of night rises slowly. Strollers on the boardwalk
are few as vacationers sleep late. Concessionaires are in
no hurry to open their games of chance.

The beautiful redhead lying on her back just above
the high tide mark was alone on the beach. Her torn dress
was pulled high over shapely legs. ;

-A few hours earlier she had been warm, feminine, de-
sirable. But the sound of the surf, music from the merry-
go-round and the raucous voices of barkers had drowned
out her frantic cries for help. She would scream no more,
for her beautiful body was cold in death.

The morning sun burned the fog away before the grim
discovery was made. A little girl, running barefoot in
the sand, stopped short when she saw the battered corpse.

“Mother!” she shrieked at the top of her voice.

The startled woman ventured one quick look and called
the police.

Officers James E. Kelly and James Hughes hurried
to the scene as Salisbury Beach awakened to the awful
realization that murder had been a nocturnal visitor. As
word spread, the policemen had all they could do to hold
the crowd back. .

Chief of Police Sidney Smith moved swiftly through
these people and spoke with Kelly and Hughes.

“We haven’t been able to do much,” Patrolman Kelly
explained. “The most important thing was to keep people
from disturbing whatever evidence is here.”

The ferocity with which the victim had been attacked
was plainly evident. The girl’s dress and underclothes
were ripped to shreds. Blood trickling from her mouth
had dried on one cheek. The face and neck were dis-
colored, the eyes blackened and ugly bruises covered
chest and legs.

Smith took a look around. Deep indentations in sand
near the body indicated a violent struggle. The chief
found a small notebook, white envelope with writing
on it and a compact nearby. Also a pair of cheap sun-
glasses. That was all. Chief Smith walked over to Kelly
and Hughes after studying these articles.

“Whoever did this,” he said, “took the girl’s pocketbook
to delay identification. Let these people view the corpse
one at a time. We’ve got to find out who she is.”

The first man to step forward paused momentarily at
the gruesome sight, shook his head and moved on. This
was repeated more than a dozen times before a witness
turned to Smith.

“I think that is Stella Kale,” he said.
home last night.” «

The chief asked the man to study the remains carefully
and' added, “what do you mean she didn’t come home?
Are you a relative of hers?”

“It's Stella,” the witness repeated. “The dress is torn,
but Stella was wearing one like it, She worked in my
photo studio and lived in an upstairs room.”

Medical Examiner Daniel D. Murphy arrived with Dr.

Timothy Leary at that point. A hurried on-the-scene
examination was made.

“She didn’t come

Chief Smith wanted to know if the girl had been raped.

“Either that or somebody tried mighty hard,” the doc-
tor told him. “This girl fought like a tiger. I'd say she
was strangled, though the autopsy will tell us a more
complete story.”

After a car from O’Donnell’s funeral parlor in Ames-
bury had taken the body away, Patrolmen Kelly and
Hughes asked everyone except the man who had made
the identification to leave. Smith questioned this man
there on the beach.

“Tell me about this girl and yourself,” he said. “When
did you see her last? What is your name?”

The witness said his name was Frank Hennessey.

“I run a photo studio in Amesbury in the winter,” he
told the chief. “I spend my summers at a second studio
here on the boardwalk. The last time I saw Stella was
9:30 last night.”

That was Sunday. The body had been found at 10
o’clock Monday morning, June 6.

“This girl’s people live in Lawrence,” Hennessey con-
tinued. “She came into my Amesbury studio last February
to have some pictures made and we got into a discussion
of photography. The mechanics of the business interested
her and she was anxious to learn about developing and
printing pictures. I told her the best way was to take a
job in a studio.”

The photographer went on to explain how he had told
Stella Kale about his summer studio at Salisbury Beach
and that he engaged a girl each season to help him.

“She wanted the job,” he said, “and I gave it to her.
She started work last week, on Memorial Day, and I let
her live in a room above my studio.”

As Hennessey spoke, Chief Smith studied him care-
fully. The photographer appeared to be deeply moved
by the tragedy.

“I naturally have to be careful about girls I hire,” he
told the officer, “and Stella was a nice, pleasant young
woman in every respect.”

Chief Smith examined the notebook found near the
body. The writing inside had to do with photographic
formulae for developing and printing pictures. The name
“Bill” was scribbled on the envelope.

“Do you know anybody named Bill who might have
been with the girl last night?” the policeman asked.

Hennessey shook his head.

“She had only been here a week,” he said. “I never
heard her mention a boy friend,”

The employer answered more questions concerning the
last time he had seen Stella Kale.

“She came down from her room about 9:30 last eve-
ning,” he told Smith. “I was standing in front of the studio
and Stella said ‘Hello.’ I asked her if she’d like a soda.
But she seemed to be in a hurry and said with a smile,
‘Not now. Maybe when I come back.’

“I didn’t wait up because the weekend had been busy,
which meant a lot of dark room work on Monday. That’s
how I knew Stella didn’t come home last night. I had
already knocked on her door.”

The photographer gave Smith the name and address

lasses and a boy's

. Meee

chance sketch of a visitor in town helped police crack the baffling mystery

“

ogo) REY:

OTE

"yard growing old with’ them, yet still

prayers, that were said. =

_| pany that evening,

Let Career.

THe PDOceTe f Taso ;
~ What “yer crises it was i
~ An aged couple, innocent, kindly beart-
ed, Fentle—mildly enjoying the evening
of their days, in well: earned and placid
content. ~ Past three score years ‘and ten,
with the children of their love filling thelr
spheres in the world honestly and indus-
triously; with the fields in which their
modest livelihood had been reaped, all
about them ; the trees in the pleasant door-

~ Land and wile, and the ‘house itself, Seow
i the beating of the storms. ie

Bip 1 m wit,

80 $0 HEY Lives

in comfort aud peace. Siacacsee hs nd

the blessings from the ‘good: God whom,

‘humbly and faithfully they had_ praised

and | served many, long years} ‘and the
wind in the branches and sweepiag along
the meadows, sang grand race a with the

It was Thanksgiving night—1bat joyous
men England festival, when; if ever, overy
heart should be full of gladness and ten-
derness, of brotherly lore'and good. wisb-
es. “Mr. and Mrs. Stillman had no com-

=u one of the wit-
nessts, \ That is to say, there was ne fam-
ily gathering or merry Celebration, but had
they ‘no coinpany 7°" Mr, Stillntan, the
day's work all done; the fire brisk-in. the
stove, the lamps lighted, the grey evening

<F just. settling down, was tying on his com-
| fortable lounge in his cozy corner, the cur-
‘}tains down, the room cheertul and genial
er though the November night might be drear

‘and bleak outside. “Bra. Stillman was. at

the table in lier own old rocking chair.
She was sewing; doing Some simple bit

3} of mending or making. She sewed and
| chatted? while the old @an from his cor-.

-| ner looked at her, with love in his eyes, no
‘| doubt, and they Aad company that even-

ny. in the stones. of past Thanksgiving.
nights; inthe memories of their young
Sears, of their old friends, and companions,
and in’ thinking and talking of the new
families that’ had sprung. ¥corn them—their

mike morierdeantine — ,
cured. he must now’

told by one who knew him, and who had
‘worked with him, thas he boasted of har-

aml gavo to the
"ing Use sorret of the sia work
LEAVING THE Hovsx ry Yirawra,

as be supposed, Te E barrid acros
the fields to tha village, bos ;

| tramps who had aitacked him! Ie drinks
‘-jagain and agaln; and finally lies down
| Upon the foor and aleeps till morn :

Ile is up eye tries to dye hia chai for
he is vain an? proud and be hated
eran that hare hoon taken of ulin

ey did not make him good look=
ing as he believed himself to be. * Then,
with “Nat? he goés down to the yi
to begin the day's work, “Very dm
news of the murder ig abroad. The bo
Carey, has told of Ten Eyck's preae anes;
the neighborhood the previous night?" of
his inquiries about Stittman man's butter, ‘Tho
batter is found on the table, John Tea F.

iz sux i, searched for, found "
rested-and f from that lea Ze nat
re a

sia WB yAtx re WAR SEALED.

«} discovered, duti] it was complete and eould
not be broken, After multitadinous stories
accounUng for the posseasion of hts men-
ey, he relied upon the statement that he
t it in a letter froma his brother in New
laven.. The brother was a wanderer, an
unknown, aad the- prosecution was pot
likely to find him, and even ff they did he
woud not swear against his brother in
such an emergency.” The. first et see
to be done, was to get a leticr whic
ported to contain money. Ten oek.

" Foo undertook to furnish that, and he did.” It

was sent to his counsel and was in MeJovn-

trict atlorne it, (and Mr.J

was. afraid cae it must hate
teciasie- toe mons in spel} 5
a fac-simile in penmanship, in spelling,
in ink and in the paper on which it was
written, of that letter known to have been
written In jail by Ten Eyck, surreptidons-
ly sent out, and handed back to the sheriff
to rore itself s fraud. nr SE
counsel, as carly as ‘Desomber: last
got the letter and the ae atep was to find
m H. Ten Kyck, to ascertain whether or
not he would ‘father it,” acknowledge the
letter as his, and thas sare his brother.
from the gallows. ‘He was drogght to
_Barrin ; he tok] the couase! ro coak!
not help them; that he did write the
Jetter, which was shown him. ¢ prou-
ised, however, that he: would pot “hurt
their case.” He wobld not testify for the

peereran, oye nae back <0
New Haven vonrpda pamairspardae n

the witness room,” Mr. Joyver saw him,
recogni him, and there were .some
words.* Bir, Joyner aaid, “not for a bun-
dred thousand dollars would Ido as you
are doing—come intd court and anent, my
brother to his death.” >)

‘The trial is still fresh in tha eneentey of
the people of Therkshire. There waa no
defense worthy of the name; though his

children: ane Tdren pipet enix.
a "4 ie ‘

counsel, with great skill and muita |
tho niost of what there” bin They coul
not bee ie

| aad ceoaping.- Mewis sollen fv .twy or

er's pocket darin the tral. Hiad the’ dis- |.

‘S warrant hls bitug Sela Sor the grand jary.

He was eommined widyot ball; end ban
was_ arraigned. Fobruary 2d, ‘arled at the

PEATE RS ee ee

~ Rew. My; Harrisos, of the Bovond Coa: 3
Sregational charch, bas bers - fils Spiritoal -

mlvinpr, "sad taithfully discharged his duty,”

is experience with tw. condomnnd mon ;

‘ee ence a score,” BPRS

With one ar two exceptions Tea Eyek¥y =
icilen bi jal bas. bees good. Une day.
4. | 000 aller his incaroseatiog,’ he concealed _
the kaila faratsbed with hls dinser. It was”
tmisacd whea the dipper. tins were retorn- ©
ed to the kitchea, bot be.stoutly denied |
having it, Uils'cell was searched bug the -
Anifo was Bot fund,” and it was not,notil .
his bod bat been: taken out, thé contents
emptied and closely ‘scratizized that dw <
knife waa fouml’. Ie bad eorcodled (ie in *
the bed, - Thenceforward he had to eat
without a knife. At another .time-be was.”
told that Turnkey Winn. Hoot, wouk! leata.’
his hess ontalde the prison while the prix *
oper was taking bla exercise, so- that it
would be nsciess to make sin ssmanlt upon
Ar. Root with the len of stenting b's Leys”

three da Th amt vetnted to stn “He ‘@any
puaes peaacts apt tert SP eS
fre taoiha of hs Sallie he apant
jo wey ‘aatoblography, which has .
begn pablished, | [t_ was a -complete | Ball-
urg, hardly enough being sold to pay. thes
printer's bill. Ten. Eyck expected” hl
share in the profits would amouat sake
a large som, bot he got “aly about $15, ©
we bellere- Ue bas writtea a great many ~
letters to the papers, vali. asserting hia in- =
nocence.. “ils “last words, ee

ited Yor'isas's after® See jue
gained in’ flesh rapidly; latierly he had |
Tost somewhat, but was still ja good form.
On Toosday of this week he weighed 1579 |

, 3 lose of about 6 the.
Ronen ‘pounds in
f - An officer

bath awhile ago, sdyt be never saw ase
alp-
ig. SAS pm ate OFs
talked freely shout bis.
re his trial be

y have with him. © He read al! the. |
and caved all thal contained
a meee oF. ze. abuut him. ane oe, Pe

rewly escaped hanging wichcat trial: Te |

Pittsfield. Massachusetts. pear: November 24, 1939.

The Tagle ae received from

ouvenir ‘of an 1878 execu-
‘Berkshire: County for the
“murder, ‘He writes:
“an item that you might
On the back of the card it
“Execution. of John Ten
fis may fit in with some

with some. old papers in
of. ‘mous B Brothers

fac ace. ‘ofthe small beige-
or “oard-appears the name of
tutte mp, (Great Barring-
“the “famous Camp
“practiced their pro-|-
Berkshire. ‘and North-

ek ie ‘and removed in 1923
ito dts presentalte on Toll Gate Hill
: et Litchfield. “where Many persons
: by Berksh re shave stopped at dif-
Ketent time
Th County Jail on Second Street
ice: the’ scene of. executions
RY. hanging: «before. the Legislature
senaetedthat; the legal penalty of
“death: should be paid. thereafter at
the: State:Prison In. Charlestown.
jdphn' Ten Eyek,, Negro, .was
ged.there’ Aug. 16, 1878, for a
urger committed in Shetf-
ander circumstances‘ of pe-
cullarntatrocity, on the evening of
ey ed ‘Day in the previous
William. Coy, convicted of
iling John: ‘Whalen: in the village
of; Washingto in, August, 1891, suf-
feredidéath dh ‘the gallows here

rol ‘First

To ‘Berkshire. County Sail,

AT PITTSFIELD, ®:

Pr FRIDAY, frucust 16, nae ;

From 10 to 10 1-2 orlook, ae mM.

2 Sheriff. ‘

ittsfield memorabilia. -I

No one can be admitted afier 103 o'clock. :

t= gi

ce)

{Nor seas amor Phat coy. Dk oer Se

was § the only white man ever hang-
ed in Berkshire County for the
crime of murder. Even now, over
the long reaches of the years, the
newspaper accounts reflect the ex-
citement that must have prevailed
that bleak winter morning when
Coy was “launched into Eternity.”
Charles R. Twain, father of Ar-
thur Twain, noted writer, Harvard
man, for many years assistant dis-
trict attorney in New York under
William Jerome and others, was At-
torney General of Massachusetts in
1878,
' . Defended Ten Eyck
Herbert Curtis Joyner of Great

-| Barrington defended Ten Eyck. He

tried to establish an alibi. Marcus
H. Rogers, at that time editor of
the Berkshire Courier, at one time

extreme penalty of the law for Ten
Eyck who, after his conviction, said
he was going to denounce Rogers
from the scaffold. He died with
sealed lips. Once when Ten Eyck
was taken to Great Barrington by

‘Marehi3.4893} Coy it. is believed
F mine:

Back of Card.

editor of The Eagle, demanded the}

train for a hearing an angry mob

Py TW3FIE RD

was at the station, "Se the claniec
was taken to the court: room and

back to jail under safe. conduct: ae i

Sheriff Root, 0°. :

To the home of the” ‘Stillmans
in Sheffield Ten’ Eyck went’ that
fateful Thanksgiving eve. He was
given cider which was served in a
pan. He asked Mrs. Stillman. to
go to the cellar for more. ‘While
she was gone he brained Stillman
with an axe, »He then stepped to
the head of the cellar, stairs and
waited for the wife to come up. As
she reached the top all unsuspect«
ing he split her head open with the
bloody weapon and she tumbled’ ta
the bottom.. Ten Eyck ‘obtained
seven cents.in the robbery he com-
mitted. The State pesgte that as
the motive. °<

The invitation or card: ‘for’: ‘the
execution was among the ‘effects of

Dr. Camp which were sold in Great f="
Barrington, at ‘auction, this. past }-<

summer. It was among some miis-
cellaneous prints that were bid‘ in
near the close of the sales, bY.
Hartford patron.

CRIME LOKIMWALS Chile) Berkshire Ce rm

TEN EYCK, John C., black, 6, hanged Pittsfield, Massachusetts, 8-16-1878.

dain

“

ST he an itn a
STS S ASS

os \
-

E93 ;

a ee ererene

the.

| JOHN TEN

The Story ‘of His Crime—His J

LES " Life—iis Career, BS

the Wy ae

< 2

A TALK.

is cou

NITH H

THK DOCELE TRAGEDY.”

“ = 2 tai ete EE FEE
“What a terrible crite

and porch a4 though to save the good has-
| Land and wile, and the house iteclf, frons
> the beating of the stor wa Pe ae
. in comfort and peace. In thesmorning And
at evening,they remembered with thanks
the blessings from the good God whom,
humbly And faithfully they had_ praised
‘{and served many, long years; and the
_| wind in the branches and sweeping along
the meadows, sang grand songs with the

shat ote

_| prayers that were said. ~~

--Itwas Thanksgiving night—that joyous
New England festival, when; il ever, overy
| heart should be full of gladucss and _teo-
| derness, of brotherly love and good wisb-
“es.*Mr. and Mrs. Stillman had po com-
pay that evening,” shid one of the wit-
nessts. "That Js to say, there was ne fam-
‘}ily gathering or merry celebration, bat had
they “no company 7" Mr, Stillotan, the
day's work all done; the fire brisk. in_ the
stove, the lamps lighted, the grey evening

| just settling down, was lying on his com-
fortable Jounge in his cozy corner, the cur-
{tains down, the room cheerful and genial
*} though the November night might be drear
and bleak outside. Mrs, Stillman was at
the table in lier own old -rocking chair.
.; She was sewing; doing Some simple bit
*\ of mending or making... She ‘sewed. and
- “2 | chatted? while the old ‘man from his cor-.

| Pa Cnn seein Nee, Ge 1 ,.| ner looked at her, with fove In'his eyes,no.
: Nie doubt, and they Aad company that eren-

‘Ling. in the stories of past. Thanksgiving
© | nights; inthe memories of their yoong

IELO MURDER,

ail} =

NSEL.

‘| undertook to furnish that, and he did.” It

searched the body for. plunder

Dyuat have been fixed on bls fare, ~:

since. Ono morning, abdut a moath

he said to'the turnkey at the jail: +f
31 dreamed

ie tS aeren npn en

aver

vigues
be ree his
cell, silently that ble uneasiness might not
| be discoverod. «85 gh Sener po teas

. sheltered. the
the

lies down,

ba ali
to begin the day's work, -¥V
Foden va the compres is ahenad:
Jarvy, has told of Ten Eyck's preasnca
the neighborhood the ayibas: night; of
his inquiries about Stiliman‘s butter. The
peter eab-pat on cad ge, John ‘Ten Fyek
sux , Beare or, found. 3
yested.'and from that mome peer at
fe aia on eg tie
§ = TIS YATX Was SEALED OS
Link afer link the chain of ev
discovered, nntil it was complete and coald
not be broken. After mnltitadinous stories
accountng fot the posseasion of hts mon-
ey, he relied upon the statement that he
t it in a letter from his‘ brother in New
laven... The bri was a wandeser, an
unknown, and the: prosecution wis ‘not
likely to find him, and even if they did he
woud not swear against hia brother in
such an emergency. The first thing,then,
to be done, was to ret a letter whir par-
ported to contain the money. Ten Eyck.

#00n
Tho boy,

was sent to his counsel and was in Mfe_Jovn-
er’s pocket during the trial: Had the'-dls- }.
was afraid he wookt) it must hare
skeen and it would have been found to
a fac-simile in penmanship, in spelling,
in ink and in the paper on which it was
written, of that letter known to haye been
written in jail by Ten Eyck, surrepttioas-
ly sent out, and handed back to the sheriff.
to itself a fraud. ioesie Se ey
<The counse], as early as December
ee the letter and the next atep was to find
m H. Ten Eyck, to ascertain whether or
not he would “*father It,” acknowledge the

from the gallows.“ He was brought to
-Barrin ; be tok] the counse! he coahl
not help them; ‘that he did write the
Jetter, which was shown him. Ye¢ic prom.
ised, however, that he: would put “hart
‘their case.” He would not testify for the

epee rina cere: tance sent back bo
New Haven, 11s next a was in|
the witness room.” Mr. Soviet saw him,

i him, and there -wers :soma
words?* Mr, Joyner sald,**aot for a bun-
dred thousand dollars would Ido as you
are doing—come intd court awear my
brother to his death.” 6 So es,
* The trial is still fresh in the memory of
the people of Berkshire. There waa no

counsel, with grvat skill and ablility, made

a large sum,

trict attorney called for it, (aod Mr.Joyner |

Jeter. as his, and thas save his® brother]

he
tod

jail to ace

Clon he

rea yt
¥

Eregstional charch, bat bows jl splriioa)

“One day
$. he ¢ 4 3
the knife faraiahed with his dinser,. Tb was”

tatsecd whon the dipact tins wore retora-
ed to the kitchea, bet be stouily
having it... Mis ‘cell was

a ie

rN Wd three da and: 4
done wal ence ee:

1g tee Mas
S) m

we bellere...

sult ja good form.)
On Toosday Sarat eteee

7a
¥,.2 loxe of about } poands the “|

Eos clani “A’man ‘of finer *
was hiever a pfisoner at the jail. ‘An officer.
who stood ‘near while’ Ten Eyck’ toak a —
bath awhile ago, sdys be never saw a.sculp- *
torerd form more perfect, w ne

would not allow hin, an innocent maa, te
be hanged.” Aw the fatal day
“the revelation as te who commit.’
this crime would come ly too.
to save him, bat it.would come sone «

defense worthy of the name; though his|

4.the' niost of what there was. |

ee i
5 ed
ee

we er aaa a» (0 ine: P20 Hina abTeae.

HMirdiny -So-0 i pis fren hig lag tony
halior Geng laud (22) thee Ware. [hook Pre, =
Pees Coss sist Cos, Aaland | tread cliry, AU areal thaben o~
[Sarthnr~. Tried for piracy t both Vt Dicesweuntid + hha.

Buin 5 totia Cvclan oe ULMER: Hone Matti1. Yheu

fiahey 1 hetind LA bra shige 6 aus trhel Char. hing,

Boston's Crime Classic: The Strange Case of Mabel Page (Continued from Page 20)

ten-dollar bill in payment. There was
a ten-dollar bill in the $30 which had
been stolen from .Mabel’s purse.

The more P. J. mulled over the case
the more he became convinced that
young Tucker should really be placed
on a police grill. Finally he talked
to the State and district detectives
working on the mystery, and made
them agree to search the Tucker home.

P. J. went along with them that
same evening. But when the officers
were preparing to leave, not having
found any signs of a dagger murder
weapon or anything else incriminating,
the Weston Chief stepped forward.

“Charley,” he said, “I believe you
told the boys here that you were wear-
ing a black suit coat and gray trousers
when you took that hike on the day of
the murder. Where is that coat now?”

“Upstairs, I guess,” Tucker replied,
hesitantly. “I’ll go up and get it.”

HE STARTED up the staircase and
then stopped uncertainly as Chief
McAuliffe started up behind him,

“Don’t mind if I go along with you,
do you?” the officer asked, with a
disarming smile.

When they came down P. J. was car-
rying a black coat over one arm,
and he extended his other arm toward
General Whitney of the district police.
In his hand was the blade of a sharp
hunting knife, broken into three pieces,

“Found this knife in the pocket of
this coat,” McAuliffe said, quietly. “I
think we’d better take this boy down
to the station house and talk to him a
little more.”

“Aw, I can explain that—l broke—”
Tucker began, but P. J. halted him
abruptly.

“Save it, son, until we get down to
the station house.”

However, it was some time before
the young man had opportunity to
make his explanation, for at the sta-
tion house the detectives found Arthur
Woodward, 20-year-old driver of an
Auburndale grocery wagon, awaiting
General Whitney. He handed the Gen-
eral the yellow leather sheath of a
hunting knife.

“I learned that you were talking
with Charley Tucker about stabbing
Miss Page,” the boy said, earnestly,
“and I got to thinking about it and
—well, I thought you ought to know
about this. Charley took a _ ride
on my grocery wagon late in the aft-
ernoon of the murder, and after he got
off I found this sheath on the seat.”

General Whitney stared at the hol-
ster: for a moment, and then held it
close to his eyes to examine it care-
fully for bloodstains. It was several
moments before he spoke,

“Are you sure Charley Tucker
dropped this on the seat of your
wagon?”

“Sure,” young Woodward replied.
“It wasn’t there when he got on, and
it was when he got off. I’m sure of
that.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Gen-
eral Whitney said, soberly.

It was several hours before Arthur
Woodward was allowed to leave the
police station, and then only after the
detectives were certain that his evi-
dence would stand up in court.

Nervous and excited, Charley Tuck-
er was making a dramatic statement
in another room, in the presence of
General Whitney, Detective Joseph
Shaw of the Newton Police Department,
Newton Chief of Police Tarbox, an
Chief P. J. McAuliffe. Detective Shaw
had started things by tossing the
leather sheath onto a desk in front of
Tucker.

“Ever see that before?”

“Why, yes,” Tucker replied, examin-
ing the piece of yellow leather. “That '
is the sheath to a hunting knife that
I owned—the sheath to the broken
knife that Chief McAuliffe found in
my coat pocket.”

“When did you see it last?”

“Let’s see now—yes, it was last Sun-
day when I first came down here to
talk to you. I remember I took it out

of a drawer at home, and put it into
my pocket.”

The officers knew then that the wit-
ness had lied when he had said that
he had seen the sheath on Sunday eve-
ing, April 3, for they could not doubt
young Woodward’s story that he had
found the sheath on the afternoon that
Mabel Page was murdered, and that it
had not been out of his possession
since.

General Whitney hastily took over
the questioning.

“Charles,” he began, in a friendly
voice, “there are teeth marks on that
sheath. You bit them into it when you
held it in your mouth and pulled out
the knife to stab Mabel Page, didn’t
you?”

Tucker slumped back into his chair.

“No! No!” he screamed. “I didn’t
stab her! I didn’t kill her! I don’t

know anything about it!”

The detectives tried all their wiles.
But Charles insisted, over and over
again, that on the day of the murder
he stood on the Weston Bridge at high
noon, He walked back home leisurely,

Charles Tucker told police that he
had been near the home of Mabel
Page when she was killed. With
his unsavory record, he should
have known better than to talk
himself into attention of police

and arrived there about 12:40 p.m., he
swore, He said that he believed Mrs.
Belle Wiggin, next-door neighbor of
the Tuckers, had seen him come home.
Mrs. Wiggin verified the fact that
she had seen Charles arrive “around
1 o’clock” that fatal Thursday after-
noon. She cquldn’t be more specific.
Soon the questioning settled down
to p poiat of time. The detectives con-
ceded that witnesses had seen Tucker
at the Weston Bridge “a few minutes
before noon” the day of the murder,
and that he had returned home about
i Where was he in the mean-
e?

core he have had time to hurry to
the Page estate, murder and ravish
Miss Mabel? He would have had to
travel a distance just under four miles,
in all. The detectives thought it pos-
sible. Tucker shouted loudly that it
wasn’t.

When medical examiners were called
in to examine the broken knife blade,
the youth admitted ownership of the
weapon and explained that he had
broken it purposely after his first visit
to the police. He did so, he said, be-
cause he feared that if detectives found
it they would use it against him. He

pooh-poohed the surgeons when they
said that the blade “fitted” the wounds
in the slain woman’s body.

At one point in the questioning the
police stenographer, Miss Frances Fitz-
gerald, was asked to leave the room.

Detectives then demanded _ that
Tucker remove the trousers he was
wearing, after he had admitted they
were the same trousers he had worn
the day of the crime.

As he took them off, he said: “I can
tell you about the bloodstain on them,
too.”

The detectives found the stains, and
then listened to his explanation.

“Later that Thursday afternoon,”
Tucker said, “I met a girl in Auburn-
dale. I took her up into some bushes
and—well—she had a hemorrhage, and
that’s how I got the bloodstains.”

Then P. J. came through again. He
produced a 25-cent stick-pin bearing
a maple-leaf emblem, a souvenir of
Canada, which he had found in the
coat pocket with the broken knife
blade.

Tucker swore that it was his. P. J.
quietly took it to the Page home and
showed it to Harold Page, who told

him that Miss Mabel had owned such,

a pin, and that it now was missing.

P. J. felt that the case against
Charles Lewis Tucker was complete.
The next morning, April 9, Tucker
was charged formally with the crime,
and the baffling mystery was declared
solved.

The authorities were scarcely pre-
pared, however, for the deluge of ad-
verse public opinion that poured down
upon their heads, Tucker became the
“under-dog” in the case, after the
small amount of strictly circumstantial
evidence against him was made public,
and thousands of citizens openly vowed
their sympathy for him, as against his
“persecutors.”

But the detectives, including P. J.,
stuck to their guns and quietly went on
digging up more facts and preparing
the case for the courtroom.

Tucker pleaded not guilty at ar-
raignment and was held for the Mid-
dlesex County grand jury. He was
indicted for first degree murder on
June 9, by a twelve-to-eleven vote of
the grand jurymen—an indication of
how closely public opinion was di-
vided. The trial began at East Cam-
bridge, just outside of Boston, on Jan-
uary 2, 1905. It lasted for three weeks,
and still stands today as one of the
most sensational and dramatic crimi-
nal court hearings ever held in New
England.

Judge Edgar J. Sherman and Judge
Henry N. Sheldon presided, and more
than 150 witnesses were heard. James
H. Vahey, a brilliant young attorney,
was appointed defense counsel by the
court, and he was so popular with the
Tucker sympathizers that the State
paid him $5,000 for his gallant services.
He refused to accept any of the cash
donations that poured in from citizens.

Attorney General Herbert Parker
was Chief State’s Attorney and many
of the defense witness virtually were
impeached by his blistering cross-
examination. Even Tucker refused to
take the witness stand in his own be-
half, afraid to match his wits with the
redoubtable Attorney General. This
refusal, trial observers believed, was
a blow to the defense cause.

Briefly, the State’s case was simply
this: All persons, except the defend-
ant, known to be in the vicinity of
the Page home the day of the murder,
could account for their actions; Tuck-
er’s own alibi did not exclude him
from having opportunity to commit the
crime; the knife found in his coat, that
he admitted owning and breaking,
could have been the murder weapon;
the stick-pin found in the same coat
pocket had belonged to Mabel Page
and had been stolen from her bedroom.

Those were the known vital points,
but Parker had another. He produced
a piece of paper which had been found
in Miss Mabel’s room after her death.
On it was scrawled: “J. L. Morton,
Charlestown, Massachusetts.”

Attorney General Parker claimed the
name was fictitious, and that the words
had been written by Tucker in an al-
tered handwriting and left in the mur-
der chamber to “throw — suspicion
elsewhere.” Professor Marshall Davis
Ewell, of Evanston, Illinois, was pre-
sented as a State handwriting expert
to testify that the writing on the paper
undoubtedly was that of the accused.

Defense Counsel Vahey sought to
explode this theory by presenting his
own handwriting expert, Colonel Ed-
win B, Hay, of Washington, D. C., an
attorney, who swore that Tucker did
not write the words in question.

Parker’s summation to the jury was
highlighted by his verbal. reconstruc-
tion of the scene in the Page home
at the time of the murder. He said
that Tucker, who had known the Pages,
had discovered that all but Miss Mabel
were out for the day. He had gone to
the house, intent to rob, just before
noon, and had given Miss Mabel the
false message about her brother’s acci-
dent. He remained on the first floor
while the distressed woman went to her
chamber to don clothing to rush to the
hospital,

Miss Mabel came downstairs and
surprised Tucker looting the house,
Parker thundered, and the youth,
drawing his knife, threatened her. She
turned to run upstairs. He caught her
skirt and ripped it off. Then he chased
her into her room and while he wres-
tled with her, clasped the sheath of his
knife in his teeth. Finally he pulled
the knife from the sheath, and stabbed
her to death. Then he committed his
acts of lust, stole the $30 and her stick-
pin from her purse, wrote the faked
name on the slip of paper and fled to
his own home as fast as possible.

Vahey, fully as eloquent as Parker,
could argue little more than strong de-
nials of his client’s guilt. There was
no doubt where the jury stood. The
talesmen retired to deliberate shortly
after 1 p.m., on January 24, and re-
turned a first-degree death verdict
nine hours later,

BS verdict was unpopular in many

quarters, and a petition bearing the
signature of 115,555 citizens was pre-
sented to Governor Curtis Guild on
May 22, requesting him to commute
the death sentence. Governor Guild
slipped away in the dead of night and
timed himself in a walk over the terri-
tory from the Page to the Tucker
homes, Satisfied that Tucker could
have committed the crime in the al-
lotted time as set up by uncontested
witnesses, the Governor decided not
to interfere.

The Governor held a public hearing
on the commutation, however, on June
5, and thousands of the petition signa-
tories stormed executive chambers.

Guild was firm, and on June 7 he
denied the application for commuta-
tion, It meant that Tucker must die,
for previously his counsel had carried
appeals to the Superior and Supreme
Courts of Massachusetts, and to the
United States Supreme Court, and had
lost in all of them,

And so Charles Lewis Tucker, who
literally talked himself right into the
Page mystery investigation, was exe-
cuted on June 12, 1906, and buried in
Hope Cemetery at Worcester, Massa-
chusetts. His execution did not alter
the belief in the minds of many citi-
zens, however, that he was innocent.

Mrs. Lucy A. Tucker, his mother,
added fire to this feeling at a much
later date when she spoke of her son’s
return to her home in spirit form.
Once, the mother said, her dead boy
whispered to her:

“They murdered me, Mother, but be-
fore long they will find the person that
killed Mabel Page.”

Nearly 34 years have passed, and
no new evidence has come to light.
As far as the State of Massachusetts
and the non-partisan observers of the
case are concerned, the detectives did
find the person who killed Mabel Page.
He was Charles Lewis Tucker, and he
paid his life for his repulsive crime.

ADS

——_

TUCKER,

Charles L., white, elec. MASP (Middlesex) June 12, 1906

He couldn't be held responsible for the crime that

occurred in the big house

in town that quiet afternoon, Tommy Tucker said.

He went for a walk in the woods

Tommy Tucker's Byronic ;
bent tricked him into dis- -_
aster. They abandoned the ae
wagon in search of adventure.

BNA sy EIB

TRUE POLICE CASES,
October, 1946

In addition, the victim’s right hand
had been gashed, showing how she
tried to grab the dagger from the
killer.

All these wounds, of course, attested

* to murder.

But even these were not all. The
Undertaker and his helpers were hor-
rified and sickened as they realized
that other wounds on the body were
evidences of the killer’s bestial lust.

The fiend had bitten into the dead
woman’s round, high breasts and had
torn the flesh away in several spots.
The marks left by the teeth were
plainly apparent, and there were oth-
ers around the abdomen and the
thighs. These wounds had not bled, so
it was apparent they must have been
made after Mabel Page died.

T= killer carefully had rearranged
her clothing to cover all of the
wounds but one before fleeing from
the room and the houes.

Undertaker Cate, without telling the
family of his gruesome discoveries,
hurried to notify the police. Before
dawn the murder investigation was
well under way, but it was too late
then for the police to find even the
remotest clew to start an investigation.

So many persons had moved around
inside the house that it was impossible
to tell how things were arranged when
the killer had fled. And then the
threatened snow finally had fallen, to
obliterate all footprints or tracks that

might have been found outside. Re-.

member, too, that in 1904 detectives
could not rely upon finger-prints or
extended scientific detection.

As the next day, April 1, wore away,
it became apparent that the mystery
would become a sensation not only in
New England but throughout the na-
tion. In wasn’t often in that day that
gentlewomen were so hideously slain
in the sanctity of their boudoirs.

Newspaper reporters from many
cities poured into Boston, and scores
of police officers were assigned to work
on the mystery. Governor Curtis Guild
of Massachusetts personally ordered
State Police to take a hand. District
Police under personal direction of
General Johanus Whitney took active
roles, and the local officers who played
a part were too numerous to mention.

One of these, however, was the late
beloved .P. J. McAuliffe, for man
years Chief of Police of Weston. “P, J.”

did not look nor act like a detective; .

in fact, he never claimed to be one.
But he had a shrewd native intelli-
gence and a dogged determination to
follow out every lead. He remained on
the outskirts of the investigation, but
in the final analysis, it was P. J.’s
memory that helped most.

By Saturday, April 2, the investiga-
tion still was at a standstill. Rewards
totaling $2,500 for solution of the case
had been posted and citizens were
clamoring for action. The investigators
successfully had withheld from the
public the fact that the savage killer
had gnawed the dead girl’s flesh, and
it was wise that they had, for the sim-
ple knowledge of the murder alone had
aroused the entire district as never be-
fore. It was many weeks before news-
paper reporters learned of the killer’s
lustful assault and even then the de-
tails could not be published, under
stern orders from the courts.

Saturday morning the many inves-
tigating detectives had satisfied them-
selves that all persons known to have
been in the neighborhood of the Page
estate at 12 noon could give suitable
cause for their presence there. Harold
Page had discovered that about $30 in
household money which his sister kept
in her purse had disappeared, and this
robbery, as far as the public knew,
was the motive for the slaying,

The note written by Mabel Page
herself, and timed at 12 o’clock noon,
attested that she was alive at that hour.
That eliminated all persons who had
been near the house before that time,
The note also showed that it was writ-
ten while Miss Mabel was upset men-
tally. Apparently she had planned to
leave the note in the house, but at the
same time give her father instructions
in it as to where he would find the

house key, under the stairs, Upset
about Harold, she forgot that her
father couldn’t enter the house with-
out the key, and would: not find the
note in the dining room.

The mere existence of the note itself
was vital. It indicated how the killer,
if a stranger, had gained entrance to
the house. He—or could it be “she” or
“they” the detectives wondered—had
been admitted to deliver the false word
that Harold Page had been injured and
sent to the Massachusetts Hospital.
This false message also explained why
the victim was dressed almost fully for
the street when her body was found.

But the messenger must have been
a family friend who knew the habits
of Edward, Harold and Mabel. Who?

The detectives gave special attention
to Miss Mabel’s skirt, which had been
found lying near the body. They had
discovered that the hooks and eyes had
been ripped away, as though it had
been torn off in her death struggle.
Then they found the hooks and eyes
on the staircase leading to the second
floor.

Miss Mabel had been seized as she
came downstairs. She had tried to run
back to her room. The killer caught
hold of her skirt and had jerked it off
as she fled, then had carried the skirt
to the victim’s chamber where he—or
she or they—completed the assault,

It was impossible, in that day, for

carried the investigating officials’ plea
to the public for information which
might, however coincidentally, refer to
the murder. Promptly, several persons
injected themselves into the case. All
were listened to by detectives but none
seemed to help. The newspaper re-
porters, however, eager for any devel-
opment to aid their stories, devoted
considerable space to them.

One of these prompt volunteers was
a 23-year-old Auburndale youth by
the name of Charles Lewis Tucker,
who lived with his parents not quite
two miles from the Page estate. He
came forward, saying that he had
taken a walk around noon on the day
of the murder, and had strolled to
within a short distance of the Page
home just after nobdn. He said he had
been standing on the Weston Bridge
over the Charles River, slightly more
than a mile from the house of death,
when the 12 o’clock noon bell rang.
He had witnesses to prove it. After
that he walked near the Page house.

The detectives listened to him and
checked his witnesses. He was elimi-
nated as a suspect because Mabel’s
note indicated that the killer had been
in the Page home at 12 o’clock noon.
This hour had been established as the
critical element in all alibis. Conse-
quently, young Tucker was dismissed
by the police, but the newspapermen
questioned him at length.

ALMosT every city in the United States has its celebrated

crime—the crime classic that the oldsters always refer to
when a new and sensational case breaks, a classic that the
young folk want to hear about in detail. Actua DETECTIVE
Stories oF WomEN IN CRIME is presenting these historic cases
to its readers—not only with the known facts but also with new
material heretofore unknown except by the investigators who
actually worked on them—whenever possible.

This is the fifth in the series, the Crime Classic of Boston, the
crime that made all women fear to be alone. The full details
now are revealed for the first time. Watch for others in this
series: YOUR city may be next.—The Editor,

the medical examiners to determine
whether or not Miss Page had been
raped, either before or after death.
The chemical analyses in use today to
determine that and similar points were
not used by police authorities in 1904,
and the superficial examination had
not been made until it was too late for
any visible evidence of rape to be
apparent,

Where were the members of her
family after 11:15 a.m. when the laun-
dryman called? Harold Page had been
at his desk in Boston and his father
had been two miles from home, in
Auburndale. Amy Roberts, the maid,
who had left the house, she said, at
10:35 a.m. had called on her physician
in near-by Watertown, and had visited
several friends in Boston.

: officers particularly were inter-
ested in Amy Roberts because the
name Roberts was an alias. She had
adopted it to shield her identity be-
cause her mother had been convicted
of the poison murder of five persons.
This had happened before Amy had
gone to work at the Page home, six
years before Miss Mabel’s demise, and
prompted great concern now.

Could this slow-speaking maid, the
detectives wondered, be guilty of this
slaying? This was a lust killing, ut-
terly remote from poison. But still—

The officers questioned her and con-
tinued to check her alibis,

The Sunday newspapers of April 3

The youth was flattered by their at-
tention.

“Yes,” he boasted, “I was right up
there by the Page house, but not until
after noon. Why, I saw some carpen-
ters working on a house down that
way, and there was another fellow,
just about a half a mile or so from the
Page place, digging a hole on the Lane
estate. Guess that proves I was down
around there, doesn’t it, and right after
the murder was done.”

The reporters agreed, and then
slipped away. Ever zealous for a story,
they sought out the carpenters and the
man who was digging, simply to check
the youth’s details.

First they located Thomas Gleason,
one of the carpenters. Gleason, a
kindly, honest craftsman, willingly ad-
mitted that he and two helpers had
been working near the Page home on
the day of the crime,

“But, see here,” he said. “I don’t
see how that fellow could have seen
us if he was down that way just after
noon, We quit work when the noon
bells rang. It was a cold day and we
went inside the barn and ate our lunch,
and we stayed in there resting until
1 ta before we went back on the
job.”

The reporters looked at one another
in amazement. They thanked Gleason,
and hurried away to find the man who
had been digging on the Lane estate.
He was Edward Dooley.

“Yes,” Dooley said, in a straight-for-

Ee |

ward manner, “T was digging a hole out
there the day of the murder. | was
digging to fix a leak in Mr. Lane’s
water system. But I quit work for the
day at noon—right after I heard the
12 o’clock bells. I spent the whole aft-
ernoon at home,”

“What was this?” the reporters asked
one another. If Dooley quit work at
noon, then Tucker, to have scen him
at all, must have passed him before
noon. Had Dooley seen the youth pass?
He couldn’t remember. However, he
was certain about the time he had quit
work,

Then Tucker must have been within
a scant half-mile of the Page home
before high noon. That was something
to be checked. ‘

The reporters pointed out the dis-
Crepancies to the investigating detec-
tives, and then hurried to get their
stories into print. The officers, skep-
tical, called in Tucker to talk with him
again. He admitted privately to them
that maybe “he really hadn’t seen the
workmen, but only the work they
were doing,” and he reiterated that
he was on the Weston Bridge at high
noon. Again the detectives dismissed
him from their minds. The “clew”
might make good newspaper reading,
but that was all.

And now we see the shrewd wisdom
of Chief McAuliffe, the beloved P. J.
of the Weston police. P. J. had some
private ideas which he aimed to run
down alone,

First of all, he wasn’t convinced
that Charles Lewis Tucker had told all
that he knew about the case, because
P. J. had his own ideas about Tucker.
He had known the youth since he was
in grade school. And the veteran peace
officer well remembered that one day,
years before, he had gone to the
Tucker home to question the youngster
about stealing apples. He ‘had told
Mrs. Tucker, the mother, of his mission.
She called her son and threw her
arms around him.

“Charles,” she had said, “this po-
liceman says that you were stealing
apples. You didn’t steal any apples,
did you, Charles?”

NATURALLY the boy said no. Police-
man McAuliffe shook his head and
walked away, fearing that Charles
Tucker would grow up with the idea
he could get away with anything.
Then just after this youngster had
left high school he was in another
scrape. No criminal report had ever
been made, but P. J. discovered that
young Tucker had attempted to force
his attentions upon a young girl and
she, in running away from him, had
fallen over a stair banister and had
been injured so critically that she
died. But nothing was done to Tucker.

And that wasn’t all. What about
the death of Tucker’s young wife a
scant year before? Tucker had taken
his girl bride boating on the Charles
River. The girl, five feet seven inches
tall, had fallen from the boat and
drowned in four feet of water. Her
young husband was a strong swimmer,
but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—save
her, Furthermore, Chief McAuliffe re-
membered that the boy had rowed
down the river a half-mile before he
had sought help, then he had failed to
take aid to within a quarter of a mile
of where his bride’s body was found.

No criminal action ever was taken
in the “accident,” of course, even
though the young bride was about to
become a mother at the time of her
death. So P. J. began asking questions.

At that time, Frederic Mitchell, an
able young officer, was lieutenant of
the Newton City Police. Mitchell, who
later became chief of the Newton po-
lice and is now retired, told P. J. of an
anonymous telephone call he had re-
ceived, The mysterious informant sim-
ply said: “Charley Tucker is the man
who murdered Mabel Page,” and then
hung up.

The next day P. J. talked with an
Auburndale druggist who confided that
Charley Tucker had been in that
Thursday to buy a box of cigars and
also to pay up an old account, amount-
ing only to $1.85. He had tendered a

‘(Continued on Page 40)

ADS

|
|

These is something in the exigence of
American mob psychology which re-
peatedly, when a miscreant is con-
demned to die for some particularly
heinous deed, prompts an irresponsi-
ble element to arise and cry in accents
shrill and accusing: “Hangman, stay
thy hand!”

The murderous wretch may have
severed the jugular vein of his trusting
mate as she slept, or garroted the
parish priest when surprised with a
felonious hand in the poor box, or
blown out his saintly godmother’s
brains, but still the exhibitionists will
erupt to impugn the integrity of the
courts.

In one of his last great essays on
crime the late Edmund Pearson cited
the exhaustive yolume, Convicting
The Innocent, to confound these an-
tagonists of justice. Despite research by
authors Borchard and Lutz, extending
back into the dark ages, Dr. Pearson
showed that only a single case had
been found of the innocent having
been executed for murder, and this in
the year 1660 in a section of England
notoriously provincial and backward.

Unfortunately for all justice there-
after, three men were hanged then,
only to have their supposed victim
turn up, two years later, with a fan-
tastic tale of having been abducted
and sold into slavery by the conven-
tional swarthy Levantines. Because
one of the hapless trio actually made
a confession, this remote fiasco has
armed the misbegotten do-gooders
with a double-edged blade.

The cringing squealer recanted be-
fore the trap was sprung, declaring
that he had told his fanciful tale under
promise of clemency for all but had

3 ama Area , pois ise ei

been betrayed by the Crown’s counsel,
and in the light of subsequent events
there is little point in questioning
him. Nevertheless, as a result of this
deplorable blunder, the apostles of the
Not-Guilty-Unless-Caught-In-The-Act
school have been able, for four cen-
turies, to discount in their own minds
all evidence except the most direct
and to obstruct justice in a thousand
cases from Dan to Beersheba.

Upon such a foundation was laid a
futile bitterness that grew up in the
little town of Weston, Massachusetts,
in the pleasant spring of 1904, and
which involved a youth of singular
charm but dubious habits.

The Page family of South Avenue,
Weston, awakened to the last day of
March thirty-two years ago in a meas-
urably contented state. The father,
Edward Page, had retired from busi-
ness and was in good health; the son,
Harold, was well employed in Boston,
commuting to work each day; the
daughter, Mabel, while forty and a
spinster, was handsome, popular and
not at all depressed by her husband-
less lot.

Edward Page’s wife had died two
years before but there was a fourth
member of the household, a Mrs. Amy
Roberts, who presided as a friendly
martinet over such domestic matters
as cooking, marketing, laundering, etc.
Although she spoke her mind fre-
quently, and none too briefly, in mat-
ters of her domain the Pages regarded
her with a grateful affection.

On the morning of March 31 Harold
Page left the house at his usual time

BY DUGAL O’LIAM

Tommy changed his mind be-

cause on the seat beside Wood-
ward was a very pretty girl.

and the MISSING DAGGER

for his job in the Boston and Albany
Railroad offices in South Station, Bos-
ton. An hour iater Edward Page de-
parted for a trip to Auburndale, the
adjoining village, friends having ar-
rived in a carriage to pick him up.
Shortly after this Mrs. Roberts left
for the day after first obtaining shop-
ping money from Mabel Page.

Miss Page was thus left alone in the
house, but this was not an unusual
happening. The town of Weston, like
all towns in the peaceful section of
Massachusetts between Cambridge
and Sudbury, was sinless and solid.
Neighbors looked after neighbors,
everyone knew everyone else; there
never had been a serious scandal and
certainly no such ghastly crime as mur-
der had disturbed the populace since
colonial days.

Mrs. Roberts noted that Miss Page
had a considerable sum of money in
her possession on that morning. She
recalled seeing, after she had been
given her shopping money, at least
three tens and several other bills but
since it was near the first of the month
and current bills were to be paid she
did not mark the sum unduly. After
giving her her money, Mrs. Roberts
said later, Miss Page returned the
residue to a large wallet and placed
the wallet in a desk drawer in the sew-
ing room on the second floor of the
house.

Thus it was known to one person.
at least, that when Mabel Page was
left alone in the house on South Ave-
nue on that fateful day she had a sum
of money in her possession. Mrs.
Roberts knew it and probably Ed-
ward Page, who had _ originally

a ae

theo

As no clues were turned up regard-
ing his whereabouts, the authori-
ties feared he had. Anxiously they
waited to hear that this sex-crazed
slayer had committed some new and
equally dastardly crime. Was there
no way of heading him off before he
could?

The Massachusetts state detectives,
aided by Patrolman Foley who had
unearthed the Hampton Beach clues,
worked assiduously, often with little
sleep, but George Taylor proved a
wily quarry.

On July 6th, a little more than a
month after the crime, a tramp ap~-
peared on the farm of John Magowan,
near Johnson, Vermont, almost 200
miles from Sailsbury Beach. He
wanted work.

“Are you a farmer?” queried Ma-
gowan.

The other laughed. “I’d guess you'd
just call me a‘bum,” he said.

Magowan, having no work, fed the
stranger, however. When he had
finally gone, the farmer, deciding the
man’s actions were queer, telephoned
Sherif! Edward KE. Holmes at Hyde
Park.

Informed of the circumstances of the
visit, the sheriff hopped in his car,
searched around the neighborhood
and finally overtook the vagrant at
Essex Junction late that same after-
noon.

“T hear you're looking for work,”
he said. “I can give you something

to eat and a place to sleep.”
. The

seeme

omg ee

to be questioned. The Sheriff. made
a mental note to probe Seminuk’s past.
There was still the possibility that the
dead man might have had some enemy
with a homicidal grudge, although that
seemed remote inasmuch as Bowers,
who knew Metro well, described him
as a good natured, genial person who
would hardly give anyone, cause for
murder. Of course, the wife was in

stranger

d grateful.

a better position to answer this.

At the. present time, the holdup
loomed strongest. Holdup men
usua. time their crimes as In this
case at closing, when cash receipts
are largest. A person with murder in
his heart would hardly stall as long
-as this killer did, according to Bowers,
and thus allow his face to impress
itself on a witness.

The next day discouraging reports
filtered by telephone and teletype into
the office of the Sheriff. No sign of
the fugitive killer could, be found on
the highways and backroads leading
out of Warren County. To make the

icture blacker both the Washington

epartment of Criminal Identification

and the New York City Police re- ,

ported no record of the fingerprints.

Berdine phoned Corporal chmidt
at the Barracks, informed him of the
new developments, got from the Cor-
poral a bit of information which came
as a genuine shock.

Calling ce sured Sheriff Stuart,
Berdine rushed to his car, drove to
the Airport Inn. ‘

_ . Mary Seminuk, looking wan and
drawn, opened the door and led the

sheriff and his deputy into the living

NATIONAL DETECTIVE CASES

“Thats mighty kind of you. My name's
George Taylor.”

George Taylor? Where had_ the
sheriff heard that name before.

After supper, and when the vagrant
had been safely lodged behind the
bars of the Hyde Park jail, Holmes
pawed over recent circulars received
from out-of-town police departments.
He found one from Massachusetts, re-
questing the arrest of one George El-
mer Harrison Taylor.

Could his prisoner be the same
man?

Holmes was not certain. The general
physical characteristics seemed to
match, but the suspect had no mus-
tache. The sheriff, after reading the
circular through, decided to try out
an idea.

Getting out his violin, he went down
to the jail pit where Taylor and an-
other vagrant were discussing the
vagaries of a life on the road.

“Want a little music, boys?” he
queried. Then, as they nodded, he
struck up “Turkey in the Straw.”

In a very few minutes, as a snake is
fascinated by the pipings of a fakir’s
flute, George Taylor began to react
to the music.

In the center of the jail pit he broke
into a violent clog! ;

Sheriff Holmes immediately ceased
playing and walked to a telephone.

O’ the following day Detective
Griffin and Patrolman Foley sud-
denly appeared before the dancer’s
cell door. ;

“Well, Taylor,” said) Griffin, “I've
been chasing you a long time.”

“T guess I’m the fellow you want,”
said George Taylor, quietly.

Returned to Salisbury Beach, he
vehemently denied any connection
with the Stella Kale crime, however
He said he was in the Salvation Army
hotel, Boston, on the night of the
crime. This was proved false.

“Quickly identified as the purchaser
of the witch hazel bottle found on the
beach, the sun_ glasses, and as the
seller of Stella Kale’s watch to Dowe.
Taylor was quickly indicted on a
charge of first degree murder.

Put on trial October 11, 1927, before
Judge Joseph F. Quinn and a jury in
Essex Superior Court, Salem, Taylor
claimed he was befuddled by witch
hazel on the night of the crime and
knew nothing of what happened. The
jury promptly found him guilty.

A bitter fight to save Taylor was
begun. Appeals were carried to the
highest Massachusetts courts and
thirty witnesses heard. In the end, all
appeals were rejected, and the Chap-
linesque barber, who had gained
forty pounds while in the death

house, finally died in Charlestown
Prison’s electric chair on March
6th, 1930.

It was not until after his death that
reporters noticed how the figure six
had pursued Taylor throughout the
case. Stella’s body had been found
on June 6th; Taylor was arrested on
July 6th and he died almost two years
later—on March 6th!

HIS HONOR, THE
LOVE [PIRATE

(Continue from: page. 23)
t

room, facing him with a troubled look.

“Mrs. Seminuk,” Berdine said di-
rectly, “I want you to tell me all you
know of your husband’s boot-legging
activities!”

The questien startled her. With an
effort she replied, “Metro gave that
up after prohibition. That’s why. we
came here—so he could start over
again in a legitimate business.”

“Do you know eet he made
any enemies in tha racket?”

“1 don’t know.”

“Ign’t it possible that he was hid-
ne aa someone when he came

ere?”

In Berdine’s mind was the fact that

rum-running was & murderous ven-
ture during the hectic prohibition era.
Life was held cheaply by the gangs
that controlled the racket. A grudge
or a double cross was expiated in a
one-way ride. Racketeers never for-
give or forget. Pee
“He didn't act as though he feared
anyone,” Ma Seminuk replied.

‘The Sheriff pressed her for infor-
mation which might lead to the motive
for the murder, but the pretty widow
was unable to supply it.

Berdine veered off on a new tack.

“Was your married life happy?” the
Sheriff asked abruptly. :

Mary’s head snapped back in sur-

rise.

“What do you mean?” she parried.
“Were there any

husband’s_ life?”

bluntly. f
The widow pinched her lips with

her teeth. ;

women in your
Berdine_ persisted,

“Metro was a faithful husband,” she
replied slowly. “He loved only me.”

erdine softened. “I’m sorry to be
so blunt, Mrs. Seminuk. You can ap-
preciate my responsibilities to you and
the State of Pennsylvania.”

Mrs. | Seminuk nodded, her eyes
brimming with tears.

Berdine conferred with Corporal
Schmidt at the latter’s barracks. They
discussed the possibility that the mur-
derer had slipped through the drag-
net thrown around the vicinity of the

crime.

“{ don’t think so,” the Corporal
said confidently. “We had the roads
blocked within ten minutes after
Bowers called. It would be impossible,
the roads being what they were, for
him to have gotten out in that time.”

“That. means that he’s in hiding
somewhere inside our blockade.”

Corporal Schmidt nodded. “I think
so. I have my men making a house

to house canvass. If that doesn’t root ,

him out, we'll widen the circle another

fifty miles—to Erie if necessary.”
Berdine handed him the autopsy re-

Ree of Medical Examiner M. V. Ball.
his carefully prepared memorandum

revealed that the three shots had been -

fired from a .38 calibre army special.
The absence of powder burns about
the. wounds of entrance, meant that
the killer was at least three feet away
from Seminuk when he blasted the
fatal shots. Such burns ocqur only
when a gun is fired at.a distance less
than eight inches from the body. From
there on the burns become more faint
until at three feet no trace of powder

Tre girl lay on the ocean-swept beach, the sand dunes
behind her, the summer hotel, not yet open for the season,
a short distance away.

It was a June night, and warm. To the laughter of Sunday
night crowds promenading the amusement area and the
screams of merry-makers as speeding rollercoasters shot
downward the girl paid no attention.

After awhile the holiday tumult subsided and one by
one the lights went out. The shore disappeared until only
the Isles of Shoals Lighthouse far out at sea sent inter-
mittent flashes into the star-studded gloom. All through
the night, through the ebb-tide, the girl remained there.
not moving.

When the first morning stragglers appeared on the sands
a little girl detached herself from her mother and ran
forward.

“Hello,” she spoke in childish friendliness to the silent
figure. No reply.

Puzzled and a little frightened, the child ran back to
her parent. “There’s a lady on the beach who won't speak,
Mamma.”

“She’s asleep, dear, and doesn’t want to be disturbed,”
the mother replied.

“I never saw anybody sleeping with their eyes open,”
the little girl said.

The woman frowned, followed her child across the dunes

DARING DETECTIVE MAGAZIN E
DACEMBER, 199.

=a acaba ahaa Se tie

Se ny

to the motionless figure. As she came
closer, she caught a glimpse of the
girl's once-pretty but now contorted
features. Seizing her child by the hand,
the mother fled from the beach.

Some minutes later the telephone
rang in Salisbury, Massachusetts, po-
lice headquarters. A man’s excited
voice reported that the body of a
young woman had been found on the
beach. Chief of Police Sidney Smith
ordered Policemen James Hughes and
James E. Kelley to investigate.

uick as they were in responding.
the news of the tragic discovery had
spread even faster. When the police-
men arrived a crowd was already
gathering.

A man followed by a woman with a
small child clinging to her hand de-
tached themselves from the crowd and
came forward toward the approaching
officers.

“Here’s the person who discovered
it.” the man stated.

The woman, who introduced her-
self as Mrs. Angelo DeFranco, led the
way toward the body.

“You can see her from here,” she
told them, stopping abruptly.

The officers could now see the youth-
ful figure. They nodded, went on.

Kelley's eyes narrowed as he noted
that the sand for a wide area about
the motionless figure bore the mark of
several footprints. As he came closer,
he saw that unquestionably some of

them had been made by a pair of

women’s shoes.

Mrs. DeFranco had come up now.
apparently stifling her timidity.

“Do you know anything about
these?” Smith asked the woman, indi-
cating the footprints.

Mrs. DeFranco shook her head. “I
had just come on the beach,” she ex-
claimed, “when my little girl found
her. Once I realized that she was dead,
I hurried back to the boardwalk,
rushed into the nearest store and had
the proprietor call you.”

Lieuts. John Stokes, left, who later
headed the State Police, and Richard
J. Griffin, right, were assigned to
ferret out the phantom murderer.

Kelley made no comment, but he
realized now, studying the dead girl.
hardly in her twenties, that she had
not died a natural death. Long, gleam-
ing tresses of blue-black hair framed
the face which in life must have been
beautiful, but the features were now
twisted into a death-mask of fear.

His gaze shifted to the sand about
the body. A fluttering white paper en-
velope attracted his attention. As he
retrieved it from under the girl he saw
other evidence of a struggle which the
incoming tide had fortunately not
obliterated.

“I think we'd better leave every-
thing just as it is until Chief Smith

gets here,” Kelley told Hughes. “Con-.

tact headquarters and tell them what
we have discovered. I'll wait here
until you get back.”

Kelley looked at his wristwatch as
Hughes left the beach. It was twenty
minutes past eight: the call had been
received about 8 o'clock. Beyond the
limits prescribed by the police officers,
a growing crowd waited in respectful
silence. Some of them pressed closer
as time passed; none could give any
clue to the identity of the dead girl.

The chief arrived a few minutes
later, having delayed only long
enough to communicate with Medical
Examiner Daniel D. Murphy of Ames-
bury. He studied the livid finger
marks and agreed with his men that
the girl had died of strangulation.

Kelley drew from his pocket the
paper envelope which he had picked
up by the body. “I thought at first it
might give us some idea as to who she
might be,” he asserted. “But it was un-
addressed and there was nothing in-
side.”

Chief Smith took it, turning it slowly
in his hands. Suddenly he gave a sur-
prised start. Underneath the unsealed
flap were two names in a feminine
script. They were barely legible and
he had to bend close to make them
out. One was “Jimmie” and the other
was “Daddy.” It was then that he
noticed also three other words which,
in view of what had happened, were
gravely prophetic. Beneath the two
names, the writer had added—“It’s all
over.”

All notations had been made in
pencil. Was it possible, he wondered.
that the trapped girl, dying on the
lonely beach, had sought to leave be-
hind a clue which might lead to her
slayer? So far, no pencil had been dis-
covered, but it was possible that it had
been covered by the shifting sands or
else lay concealed beneath the body
which could not be moved until per-
mission had been granted by the medi-

cal examiner after his examination.

A close study of the footprints for
a 30-foot radius around the body dis-
closed that they had all been made by
a man and a woman. Smith stooped,
studying the high-heeled pumps on
the feet of the dead girl, comparing
them with the clearly defined prints
in the sand.

“The same,” he pronounced, add-
ing that the girl must have fought
valiantly for life before being over-
powered. Other evidence of the strug-
gle became apparent when Hughes
uncovered a pair of torn silk scanties
lying partly buried but in close prox-
imity to the victim. Further search
uncovered a hand-carved rosary, a
small blue-covered notebook and a
woman's compact. None gave a single
hint as to the woman’s identity. Nei-
ther the rosary nor the compact bore
any initials: the pages of the note-
book were blank.

Behind them, Kelley, still grop-
ing in the sand, suddenly spoke as
his fingers closed on a long, slender
object.

“Maybe this is what you have been
looking for,” he said. Rising, he
handed the police chief a lead pencil
painted a brilliant yellow. In silence,
the chief compared the shade of the
lead with the faint penciling on the
paper envelope. As he swung about
to add the pencil to the other exhibits
which he had placed in the custody
of Officer Hughes, his eyes caught the
gleam of another object which one
of the girl’s outstretched hands had
partially concealed. He stooped and
pulled it clear.

It was a pair of tortoise-shell sun-
glasses with colored lens.

Medical Examiner Murphy joined
the investigators. Opening his black
professional case, he knelt beside the
body. The girl, he stated, died from
manual strangulation. “There is also
definite evidence of a criminal as-
sault.” he added.

* SALISBURY BEACH was quiet that June 7th morn-

"ing. It was too early for many vacationers to be up and
about. Muscular life guards would not mount their plat-
_ forms until later in the day. The famous Massachusetts

resort would come into its own when pretty girls in scanty
bathing suits started parading along the water's edge.
Kids would be enjoying the many concessions. Every-
body would be having what they came for—a good time.
That was the way things should have been. That was the

way it usually was at Salisbury Beach.

More than one young lovely would meet the man of her
life on that clean sand. At least one girl had already come
in contact with the thinly disguised sex element that hangs

Ae over all resort beaches. It was an element destined to spread
’--- rapist terror all along the ocean strip.
She had arrived long before the others, and now she

lay face up on the sand, a beautiful young creature in the

“full glory of the brilliant sun. Curiously, she was clad in
“shorts and-halter, not a swim suit, and her open. eyes stared
-unblinking into the heightening glare from the sky.

‘The hour arrived in which concessionaires were busying
themselves preparing their places of business for the day.
From one of the many hotels overlooking the ocean at

‘Salisbury Beach, Massachusetts, came a little girl and a

woman. They walked slowly down the stairs and onto

‘the beach. The child, barely five years old, ran happily

ahead of her mother, enjoying the feel of the sand under
her bare feet. She topped a gentle dune and turned her
head to call over a chubby shoulder: “Oh, Mummy!
There’s a lady here, and she looks awful funny!”

-The woman hastened her steps lest her daughter be
annoying an early sun-bather. She looked only a fleeting
second at the young woman who lay so still in the sand.

_ The girl’s once lovely face was an unsightly, mottled red

and purple. Her sun suit was torn, disheveled, as if she had
wrestled in it. ;
The woman blanched, caught her daughter by the hand,
and hurried her back to the hotel. A call to Salisbury’s Chief
of Police Sidney Smith prompted the immediate dispatching
of Patrolmen James Hughes and James E. Kelly to the
scene. Already a small crowd of the curious had begun

to gather. For a wonder, they had remained at a respect-

able distance and the marks of violent scuffling in the sand
had not been eradicated, nor had the pitiful objects that lay
beside the body been touched.

Chief Sidney Smith was in charge.

When morning came he had vanished.

The officers had inventoried these in a matter of minutes:
a pencil, an empty envelope such as is often used for church
collections, a pair of sun glasses, and a compact. There were

. scribblings on the envelope: “It’s All Over,” “Jimmy,” and

“Daddy.”

The girl, in her early 20s, had been exceptionally lovely
in life. Neither the discolorations on her face and throat,
nor her twisted, contorted position could entirely hide her
beauty.

Getting a blanket from the police car, Kelly covered the
body. There was nothing he or his partner, Hughes, could
do until the arrival of their superiors. No one in the crowd
professed to know the girl.

Moments later Chief Smith arrived with Medical Ex-
aminer Daniel D. Murphy from nearby Amerbury. Murphy
knelt beside the corpse, pulling back the blanket. “It’s almost
certainly strangulation. Probably manual,” he said.

“How long has she been dead?” Smith asked.

Murphy shrugged. “I’d guess at least eight hours. But
only an autopsy will really tell.”

“Assaulted?”

“From the looks of things, I’d guess so. But by the very
nature of the clothes women wear, any time a woman
engages in a physical struggle the appearance of attempted
rape is likely to be present. And there is no question but
what this kid put up a stiff fight.”

By this time, additional police had moved the onlookers
back to the boardwalk and were holding them in check
there. One word was spreading fear through the crowd:
rape! A rapist killer was loose!

In every murder or rape case, mystery appears in varying
degrees: the identity of the killer, or his motive if he is
known, or the identity of the victim. This latter problem
lasted only a brief moment in the beach mystery. One man
in the crowd, a new arrival more determined than the rest,
whispered something to an officer and pushed through the
cordon.

“Js it Stella?” he asked hoarsely, approachifig Chief Smith
and the medical examiner.

“Suppose you tell us,” the chief said, motioning the
man closer.

The man gasped. “It’s Stella, all right,” he said. “Stella
Kale. I was afraid something had happened to her when
she didn’t come home last night.”

It required no prodding from the police for him to
identify himself and tell his story. He was a photographer
in Haverhill, but every year he augmented his income by
operating a subsidiary studio in (Continued on page 50)

Lieut. Richard Griffin found clue.

{

arrived
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criminal
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Griffin
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Of course,
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ly met Stella. They had found in each
other a common interest in popular
music, had even attended a beach con-
cert together. To the chagrin of the
officers, they learned that “Jimmy,” and
“Daddy,” and “It’s All Over,” ‘were
titles of pieces played by the musicians
that evening!

While the clues of the watch and the
ring were not forgotten, an intensive
campaign was inaugurated to locate the
seller of the sun glasses. A tiny red dot
on each of the rims, and peculiar tri-
angular screws that attached the bows,

- were very likely distinctive marks of the

manufacturer. It was quickly discov-
ered that no dealer at Salisbury Beach
handled that line.

Meanwhile, an unremitting canvass-
ing of persons who for business reasons
or otherwise were habitually on the
beach went on. Though they hadn’t
known Stella, could they remember hav-
ing seen her, when shown a photo-

- graph? What had they observed in the

way of strangers or suspicious looking
visitors on the beach that night?

For a time positive results were neg-
lible. Several shopkeepers remembered
Stella, now that they saw her picture.
One woman. even reported that she
thought she had heard a girl screaming
from somewhere on the sands about ten
o’clock that ill-fated night, but it had
lasted only a second.

’ For some reason, almost everyone,
when asked about suspicious looking.
strangers, had observed one individual—
and with good reason. Yet, when Lieu-
tenant Griffin sorted and tallied and
compared their descriptions, “suspicious
looking” seemed almost the last term
to apply to him. :

Somewhere in‘ his 40s, bald, with a
stubby mustache, adorned with amber
glasses that on him appeared a part of
a clown’s grotestque make-up, he seemed
to be just that—a clown.

A complete extravert, on any or no
occasion, he would suddenly break out
in a ludicrous buck-and-wing dance on
the boardwalk, like an old-time vaude-

~ villian. All the time he sang his own

-droll accompaniment.

No adult could see him without
‘smiling; children were convulsed with
laughter, and loved him.

“Was he drunk?” people were asked.
No one would say he was, though some
suspected he might have been “drink-
ing.” x

Except for that evening, no one re-
called ever having encountered him.
No one had talked to him or learned
his name until the questioning reached
a curio shop at the extreme northern
end of the boardwalk.

“Sure, I remember the guy,” the
proprietor said. “It was about eleven.
He asked me about the bus service to
Hampton Beach. I think he said he was
a barber there.”

RIFFIN had been joined in his
efforts now by Lieutenant John
Stokes. Immediately, Stokes turned his
attention to Hampton Beach, a few
miles north in New Hampshire.
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luck. In the first Hampton drugstore
he entered his eyes were attracted to a
display card holding sun glasses. Closer
inspection told him that they were
identical to the pair found beside Stella’s
corpse.

“Do you sell many of these?” he
asked the clerk.

“T expect to when the season really
gets under way. As a matter of fact,
I've sold only one pair this year.”

“Do you remember the purchaser?”
Stokes asked casually.

The clerk grinned. “I won’t forget
him for a long time.” He gave a de-
scription that tallied definitely with that
of the “clown” of Salisbury. “After he
bought the glasses,” the clerk continued,
“he bought a bottle of bay rum. And
with that in his hand he went into the
funniest buck-and-wing you ever saw.
He was back the next day and bought
two more bottles of bay rum.” The
clerk lowered his voice. “You know, I
think he drinks the stuff.”

“Could be,” the lieutenant said.
“Don’t you know his name? Does he
belong around here?”

“Those are the only two times I
ever laid eyes' on him,” the clerk said,
matching the officer’s seriousness now.
“But I’ve heard of a guy up the line
they call the ‘dancing barber.’ I think
he works at Joe Alsop’s place.”

Joe Alsop knew the man far better
than anyone Stokes had talked to up
to this time. “You must mean Frank
Harris,” he said. “Worked for me a
little while. Pretty good barber. But
he walked out on me a couple of
days back.”

“Where did he go?”

“You can search me. Funny thing is
he was boarding at my house and he
walked out in such a hurry he didn’t
even bother to pick up all his junk.”

Together the two men went to Al-’

sop’s place and into the room Harris
had occupied. Mute testimony to his
occupancy were a cheap suitcase and
some nondescript clothing in a closet.
But careful scrutiny of his abandoned
belongings offered nothing in the way
of laundry marks or other clues to en-
courage the investigators.

Confronted by that dead-end, Stokes
sat down with Alsop. “I’ll be grateful
for anything else you can tell me about
the man,” he aid,

“There’s not very much,” the barber-
shop proprietor said. “With all his sing-
ing and dancing and showing off, he
wouldn’t strike you as a very secretive
guy. The fact is, though, he was very
close-mouthed about himself and his
affairs. But he was a good worker. He
knew his job. Oh, you might be inter-
ested to know that he had a blue dagger
running through a red’ heart tattooed on
his right forearm. The initials ‘E. T.’
were underneath.”

“E. T. for Frank Harris?” Stokes
muttered without humor.

“That’s easy,” Alsop explained.
“That’s one thing he did tell me. He
said the letters stood for a girl named
Edith Taylor he’d been stuck on once.”

Convinced that they were on the right
track even though their quarry had a

were further heartened when the Com-
monwealth of Massachusetts . offered
$1,000 for information leading to the
capture of the killer of: Stella Kale.
Immediately the selectmen of Salisbury
upped the ante, adding $500 to the
amount.

With these rewards, with the brutal
killing played up heavily in the New
England newspapers, with teletype and
radio descriptions of the man broadcast
even into New York and Canada, some-
thing more concrete would have to
break soon. More than two weeks had
passed, but glimmers of light promised
soon to penetrate the blackness.

On the 23rd of June, Stella Kale’s

wrist watch turned up. A man from .

Kensington, New Hampshire, got in
touch with Lieutenant Griffin to an-
nounce he had the watch, Griffin imme-
diately hastened to interview him.

This story was straightforward and to
the point. The day after the murder,
the day the body had been found, the
man had been driving to Kensington
over a road that skirts Hampton Beach,
“I stopped to pick up a hitchhiker,” he
related. “That isn’t a general practice
with me but this guy attracted my at-
tention by dancing a little jig at the side
of the road. I thought he might be
amusing company, he looked so comical.
He told me his name was Hill, and
that he was a barber who had come
from Pittsburgh.

“Before I had driven very far, he
brought out this watch and offered to
sell it to me for ten bucks. I looked it
over and got a little leary. I said, ‘What’s
the idea? If the watch is worth any-
thing, it’s worth more than that.’

“He told me then that it had been
his wife’s. He’d been crazy about her,
and when she died he couldn’t stand
seeing anything that reminded him of
her. He’d given up their Pittsburgh
home and come to New England. But
for some reason he couldn’t even ex-
plain to himself he’d kept the watch.
That had been a mistake. Every time
he looked at it, he was upset again.
Now he wanted to get rid of that last
reminder of lost happiness. ;

“Believe me, he made it pretty con-
vincing, and I bought the watch as a
present for my kid.” :

“He didn’t offer a ring, too?”

“No. Only the watch.”

“Did he say where he was headed?”

“No, and I'll admit I thought that
was a little funny. Most hitchhikers are
full of where they’re going. But he just
seemed to be content to go my way.”

NCE more the trail was lost and
growing colder. But the publicity

surrounding the wanted man had not |

abated.

Three days later it paid off again. A
boy living in Eastport, Maine, sent a
special delivery letter to Chief Sidney
Smith in- Salisbury.

“I enclose a sketch,” he wrote,. “of
a man who used to be a barber here in
Eastport. For a while he roomed at my
parents’ house. He had tattoo marks
just like the mewspapers say Frank

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the Monticello wanted notice, the officer
demanded identification.

They gave their names as Martinez
and Senchez. Doubtful that the latter
name was correct, the trooper took the
two men to the Atlantic County Jail at
Mays Landing. Questioned, Senchez ad-
mitted his name was Pedro Luis Cor-
chado. Monticello authorities were im-
mediately notified, and extradition pro-

| ceedings begun. But the captured pair

waived extradition before Atlantic Coun-
ty Judge Leon Leonard and were turned
over to state police from New York.
- Returned to Monticello, the two men
were questioned about the Pulido mur
der and the whereabouts of Victor Fon-
seca, the third man. The first sign of
cracking came when the pair in custody
gave police the address of Fonseca in
Manhattan, where he was arrested at
eight a. M., Monday, September 8th.
Whisked to Monticello, Fonseca
appeared with Martinez and Corchado
before Village Magistrate Seymour Kes-
ten and was ordered held without bail on
a charge of first-degree murder.

Questioning of the trio continued and
by the following day, Tuesday, District
Attorney Newberg stated that the police
had secured signed statements from the
three suspects. “By their admissions the
three men have implicated themselves
in the rape-murder,” he said.

Contents of the confessions will be
withheld pending trial

SEX-MAD FIEND
(Continued from page 37)

Salisbury during the busy season.

Stella Kale, of Lawrence, Massachu-
setts, seven miles above Haverhill on the
Merrimac River, had been his assistant.
This year, for the first time, she had
worked for him in Salisbury, living in a
room directly above the studio.

An ambulance arrived now and Dr.
Murphy supervised the removal of the
girl’s remains to an undertaking estab-
lishment in Amesbury, where the au-
topsy would take place. Medical Ex-
aminer Murphy would be joined in that
grim task by Dr. Timothy Leary of
Boston.

4 T Chief Smith’s request, the male

informant accompanied him to

headquarters to give further information
and to answer questions.

It had been Stella’s custom, he ex-
plained, to take a strol along the board-
walk and beach every night when the
heat of the day had subsided. That fatal
evening she had, gone out as usual.

In the morning, when she failed to
appear for work, he had gone up to her
room. It was empty, the bed unslept in.
He could add nothing more, and Smith
dismissed him.

By telephone to Lawrence, the chief
got the girl’s father’s assurance that he
would be down later in the day to make
the identification positive. Next, realiz-
ing the limitations of his own staff,
Chief Smith communicated with the.
Massachusetts State Police, and Lieuten-
ant Richard J. Griffin was placed in

charge of the investigation.

By the time the lieutenant arrived
and was: briefed on what Smith had
learned, a medical report was ready.

“If there was an attempt at criminal
violation, it was incomplete,” Dr.
Murphy stated. “Strangulation was the
direct cause of death. In: addition to
bruises on the throat there are abra-
sions on the upper lids of the girl’s eyes
resulting in hemorrhage to the mem-
brane. This was probably caused by the
pressure of the killer's thumbs.” The
time of death was placed between ten
and eleven in the evening.

At this point Lieutenant Griffin
turned his attention to the objects by

the body. The notebook revealed noth- °

ing he judged pertinent; the pencil and
the compact’ seemed unimportant.

But the sun glasses gave him pause.
From every appearance they had been
made for a man; their frames were
considerably wider than Stella. would
have needed. Then came the matter of
the notes on the envelope: “Jimmy,”
“Daddy,” and “It’s All Over.”

Griffin paid a call to the photog-
rapher. “Did Stella have sun glasses?”
he asked.

“I never knew her to wear any. She
certainly wouldn’t have after sundown.”

“What about boy friends? Was there -

one named Jimmy?”

“I never heard of one. In fact, I
know of no boy friends down here.
There is a boy who once in a while on
an evening drove down from Lawrence
to see her, but his name was Walter, I
think.

Lieutenant Griffin thanked him and
left. He had two items, clues perhaps,
that would need extensive investigation.

Meanwhile, there was the routine chore .

of sending men to query concession-
aires up and down the boardwalk, to

‘question everyone who might have seen

Stella the night of her tragic death, '
Another important fact was added

to the case when her father arrived to. -

identify Stella, who had been one of
five sisters; “She had a wrist watch
and a ring with a red stone which she
always wore,” he said. “Where are they?
They’re not very valuable, but she was
never without them. I like to think that

was because I gave them to her,” the

grief-stricken father ‘concluded.

This was indeed a break. Because
they had been his gifts, he could direct
the investigators to the Lawrence jewel-
ry store where they had been purchased.
And within a few hours the case and
movement numbers of the watch were
on teletype, being broadcast over. all
New England. —

As sympathetically as possible, the
officers turned to the matter of boy
friends. “She didn’t go out much with
boys,” her father said. “She always said
she wanted some sort of career before
she settled down and got married. She
loved photographic work. Of course,
there was one boy. But they were only

like kids who grew up together—noth-

ing serious.”

Now, to put to rest any sinister
ideas of boy-friend complications, a
girl came forward who had only recent-

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The

TIICKERR Cha > Touiie ;
Q TUCKER, Charles Louis, white, elec. MAS (Middl

One hundred thousand men
and women believed this man
innocent. What do you think?
Here is the thrilling inside
story of one of the most famous

criminal cases in the history

of the United States told by the

officer who was in charge of.
the State’s investigation

- Lo
j J lf => }) ® m —

llésex) June 12, 1906.

Boston Herald

(Above) Charles Louis Tucker as he looked
at the time of his famous trial. Over one
hundred thousand people believed him
_innocent and signed a petition to that effect

*(Left) Former Attorney General Herbert
Parker of Massachusetts as he looks today.
He prosecuted the case against Tucker

ESTON, Massachusetts, has al-
ways been a quiet New England
town, Its townspeople, mostly

descendants of Yankee stock,

have been quiet God-fearing
folk who attended church on Sunday and
lived at peace the rest of the week with the
world and its neighbors.

Today Weston seems to be known as the
town adjoining Sudbury, the home of the
Wayside Inn, immortalized by Henry W.
Longfellow and preserved for posterity by
Henry Ford. Some years ago the town of
Weston found itself upon the front pages
of American newspapers because of a sinis-
ter tragedy which occurred within its limits,
a tragedy which will remain a cause célébre
as long as the annals of crime exist—a
case in which | took part.

Circumstances concerning this event, des-
tined to stir the nation as did the Sacco-
Vanzetti outrage of another era, cast no
prophetic shadows. On the spring morning
of Thursday, March. 3lst, 1904, the sun
shone much as it had done on similar March
mornings although storms and other dis-
turbances had been predicted for the after-
noon. In the town itself, folks were going
about their various affairs and the routine
of local households moved along the same

ERO RES

—

MURDER Mabel lage:

By Former Chief of Police

of Weston, Massachusetts

As told to
LOWELL AMES NORRIS

(Above) Corset worn by Mabel Page at

the time of her mysterious murder.

Arrow points to cut made by the knife
which plunged on into her heart

(Right) The late James H. Vahey, noted

Boston Attorney, who defended Tucker

and is said to have never waivered in the
belief of his client’s innocence

as usual, particularly in that of a family by
the name of Page who lived on South
Avenue.

For twenty years, this house, set near the
street in a clump of somber pines, had been
their summer home. Then a change of for-
tune caused them to curtail expenditures—
they gave up their mansion on Common-
wealth Avenue, Boston, and for the past six
years had made the house in Weston their
year-round home.

In this family there was Edward Page,
the father, a retired business man in his
seventy-ninth year; a son, Harold Page
who clerked in the freight offices of the Bos-
ton & Albany Railroad at the South Sta-
tion in Boston. He was a man fond of
hunting and fishing who raised and bred
dogs for sport at their country home.

HEN there was Mabel Page, a forty-

one year old maiden sister, a woman
“attractive in appearance, beautiful in
character, symmetrical to a remarkable de-
gree in figure and in form’. Her invalid
mother had died a year or so before and
in addition to helping eke out the scanty
family income by selling bits of embroi-
dery and needlework to old time friends,
Miss Page with the aid of Amy Roberts, a

servant, was endeavoring to take her
mother’s place at the head of the house-
hold.

On this particular morning, Harold
had left for Boston as usual on the eight
o'clock train; a little later Edward Page
set out in a neighbor’s carriage for Au-
burndale square a mile or so distant.
About half past ten, Miss Roberts left
for the day intending, among other calls,
to seek the advice of her physician who
lived in Cambridge.

THE maid walked down South Avenue.

Just a short distance from her home
she came upon Edwin Dooley busy dig-
ging a hole in the street. Miss Roberts
stopped to talk. As the two chatted, a
laundry team drove by. Henry S. May-
nard, the driver, craned his neck seek-
ing to attract the girl’s attention. In
vain! Her back was turned. He clucked
to his horse and disappeared up South
Avenue in the direction of Weston.
Finally Miss Roberts moved along to-
wards Weston Bridge at Norumbega
Park and the Commonwealth Avenue
electric cars to Boston.

Others were abroad this morning.

About noon of that same day, per-
haps a little later, a fish pedler’s wagon
drove into Weston by way of Auburn-
dale. Tightly wedged in the driver’s
seat were two young men and a very
attractive girl. Some distance up this
road the girl dismounted and -in com-
pany with one of the two young men
walked slowly over a hill out of sight.
Some minutes afterward the attention of
the driver was attracted to an object
that had been left unnoticed upon the
seat.

It was some minutes past eleven when
Henry Maynard, the laundryman,
stopped his horse in front of the Page
home, took two bundles of laundry from
the wagon, walked up the drive and rang
the bell. ;

Almost instantly the door was opened
and Maynard, tipping his hat, handed the packages to
Miss Page.

“How much do I owe you?” she said.

“Thirty-six cents,” he replied.

Sometime later as Maynard made another delivery in
Weston Center he happened to glance at the town clock
on the village church.

It was a quarter past twelve o'clock.

Edward Page, the father, walked slowly in sight of his
home about two o'clock.

He had really intended to go into Boston that morning

_as was his custom three or four times a week, but upon

glancing over the papers in, the public library, he saw
that a heavy storm had been predicted for the afternoon,
and therefore changed his mind. The morning passed
quietly at the library and soon after twelve he made
several calls before starting for home.

Page did not go to the front door which was always
kept bolted; instead he walked up the driveway towards
the rear door which was almost always unlocked when his
daughter was home.

The rear door was locked. Mr. Page tried the latch once
or twice to make sure, for he was certain his daughter
was about the house, However, there seemed to be no
one in the rear. Mr. Page walked leisurely around to the
front door, remembering as he did so that Mabel was

STR taeetlat

ieee

Ronin

m
2

NRE ey %

‘+ Tllustration by Harlan Crandall 3rd from

4
“A single edged knife killed this woman,” testified Prof. Edward
as he held up the blood-stained corset of Mabel Page, the murdered
in one of the world’s

probably in the front of the house hard at work upon a
rubber fishing bag she was planning to give her brother
Harold as a surprise present. Mr. Page was not expected
until later and it was probable kis daughter was still
unaware of his return,

The old man rounded the house and stepped up on the
front porch. Disliking to disturb his daughter, he hesi-
tated before ringing the bell. Its tingles re-echoed through
the house, but no one replied. Mr. Page tried the knob.
To his surprise, the door swung open under his touch. He
stepped inside.

No voice greeted him or inquired his presence as the
door closed with a bang, causing little echoes of sound to
reverberate throughout the silent house. He walked into
the kitchen also deserted, opened the pantry door and
helped himself to- his favorite lunch, a slice of bread and
a single glass of cider.

Momentarily he expected to see Mabel framed in the
hall doorway.

But Mabel did not appear.

Mr. Page found himself becoming a trifle disturbed.

He hurried his lunch and went back to the living room.
All was as though his daughter had left the room a moment
or so previous. Her thimble was resting beside some half
sewed pieces of colored calico on the table beyond the tall
work basket apparently just pushed away from a chair

ied from

Edward
murdered
1e world’s

upon a

brother
expected
was still

p on the
he hesi-
| through
he knob.
ynuch. He

ce as the
sound to
\ked into
joor and
read and

ed in the

rbed.

ing room.
a moment
some half
d the tall
1 a chair

sketch made at the trial by Haydon Jones

S. Wood of the Harvard Medical School in the sensational trial of Charles Louis Tucker
One of the most dramatic incidents

woman, so that the deeply absorbed jurors might see.
most famous trials.

cluttered with loose threads and bits of cloth.

The old man called her name and there was no answer.

Where was she? .

Perhaps she had gone out although there had been no
note pinned on either of the outside doors telling the where-
abouts of the key as was her usual custom. Mr. Page
glanced into the hall cloak closet, but no coats were miss-
ing. Perhaps she had gone to her room.

The stairs seemed unusually dark as the old man slowly
climbed to the second story. The reason for this unaccus-
tomed gloom became apparent when he reached the top
landing. The two doors leading into his daughter's room
were closed. .

Again Mr. Page felt disturbed. Never before could he
remember seeing these doors closed during the daytime, for
it was the family custom to keep them both open as there
was no other means of lighting the stairs.

Mr. Page pushed open one of the closed doors and peered
inside.

On the floor lying between the table and the bed he saw
his daughter—Mabel Page. At first he thought she had
fainted. Except for an outer skirt which seemed missing,
she was apparently dressed for the street in walking shoes,
hat and shirtwaist. Her eyes were slightly open and her
lips were parted as though to speak.

“Mabel!” cried the father as he rushed into the room.

He took one of the
girl’s hands in his. It
was limp and cold and
fell back into its for-
mer position after he
had relinquished it. He
felt of her face. That,
too, was cold, but it
was not until he had
held his head down to
her chest to ascertain
if there was any heart
action that he learned
the hideous truth.

Mabel Page’ was
dead.
Just beneath the

chin, almost concealed
from view, was a huge
jagged wound that had
bled slightly. And
that was all Mr. Page
could see as he knelt
beside the body which
lay in a straight posi-
tion upon the floor, all
of her undergarments
smooth except for the
underskirt that was
pushed up a little ways
exposing a few inches
of leg above the knee.
Without thinking what
he was doing, Mr. Page
attempted to pull the
underskirt down, but
the garment was short

and would not pull
down.
Still hardly _ realiz-

ing what had happened,
Mr. Page went down-
stairs. In the living
room he paused _re-
membering that there
had been a fire during
the early morning in
the open fireplace. Now

this fire had been put
out and the logs pushed to one side.

A loose bit of white, fluttering from a small reading
table beside his favorite chair, attracted his attention for
the first time.

It was a sheet of note paper which had been torn from a
small block that had been kept upon the table for memo-
randum purposes. The old man picked it up and saw writ-
ing on it.

“Have just heard Harold is hurt,” he read, “and is at
the Massachusetts Hospital. Have gone in at 12 o'clock.
Will leave key in front side door with barn key. Will
telephone Mrs. Bennett.”

"THERE was no signature but Mr. Page recognized his
daughter’s handwriting.

Coming so soon after the first shock, he seemed stunned
and unable to comprehend the importance of the message
he had just read—his mind was still too fully occupied
with the grim discovery he had just made on the floor
above.

However, he knew he could not cope with the situation
alone. He must get help and he had no telephone. Mr.
Page started as fast as he could hobble down South Avenue
in the direction of one of his neighbors, Mrs. Amy T. Ben-
nett, the Mrs. Bennett mentioned in his daughter’s note
who had a telephone.

The Poet and the
Missing Dagger
[Continued from page 74]

time he knelt beside her, staring at the
gaping wound in her throat, chafing her
white wrists, murmuring futile words that
his delirium of grief drove him to believe
might restore life to the fine body, sight
to the accusing eyes.

Then, dazedly, he got to his feet. A bit
of paper on the floor, a mere rectangular
wisp of white, caught his eye. Auto-
matically he thrust it into the side pocket
of a heavy ulster he was still wearing.
There it was to lie forgotten for hours
until his wandering fingers rediscovered
it and revealed that it was the face of an
envelope that had been addressed to one
C. L. Morton, Charlestown, Massachu-
setts, in a perplexing combination of
backhand and upright script.

He left the house to summon help. He
notified Mrs. Bennett, mentioned in the
note left by Mabel Page, and while she
hurried to call other neighbors he tele-

phoned from her house to South Station .

to ask after his son. To his further be-
wilderment, Harold Page answered his
call and denied that he had been either
injured or ill.

Told of the tragedy, young Page
started at once for Weston, stopping only
long enough to pick up his married sister.
By the time he reached his home, a doctor
was there. The doctor sent for the medical
examiner but that official was delayed by
the rapidly developing snowstorm and it
was six o'clock, and forbiddingly dark,
when he arrived.

Together, by the dim light of flickerin
gas lamps, the two medical men piarainae
the body. Outside the door Harold Page
and his father waited. When the doctors
emerged they were in agreement on two
points; Mabel Page had not been vio-
lated; the wounds were of the uncertain,
awkwardly jagged type made by suicides.

After leaving: orders for the “under-
taker not to embalm the body, the medi-
cal examiner departed with the family
doctor. A few minutes later a man ap-
peared at the side door of the house and
demanded to see Edward Page. At first he
was refused, but when he explained that
he was the deliveryman for the family
laundry, he was admitted. He told Harold
Page that he had been at the house
shortly after eleven o'clock that mornin
to deliver the laundry to Mabel Page ee
had collected for it.

“I heard that the doctors said she had
committed suicide,” the man said, “but I
know it can’t be true. She was too cheer-
ful and happy, like she always was, when
I saw her.’

With this meager information, the
Pages awaited the belated arrival of the
police. Night had fallen before any peace
officers in authority appeared and even
then they were obviously confused and
even disinterested, declaring the deliv-
eryman’s information was useless” since

122

suicides rarely divulged their intentions
to casual tradesmen and insisting that

‘the medical examiner knew his business.

Shortly before eleven o'clock that
night, after the police had departed, the
undertaker arrived and went at once to
the death room. He reappeared within
fifteen minutes in the doorway to the
living room and summoned Harold Page
to report two stab wounds, one under the
left arm and one in the back, neither of
which had been reported by the medical
examiner and both of which, the under-
taker said, were extremely deep.

“Why, my goodness!” Harold Page ex-
claimed in his precise New England
manner, “she couldn't have stabbed her-
self in the back. And no one has said any-
thing about finding the knife anywhere.”

The undertaker, who apparently had
been carrying'on a minor feud with the
medical examiner, departed with grim
satisfaction to call that worthy’s attention
to his oversight. The medical examiner
reappeared with remarkable celerity,
accompanied by a member of the state
police unit. After a second examination
and a hasty search for the weapon they
concluded that there had been foul play,
a conclusion which prompted the officer
to notify District Attorney George A.
Sanderson.

Upon Sanderson's arrival he was in-
formed by the medical examiner that
Mabel Page’s death had actually been
caused by the wound under the left arm,
which had penetrated the heart. It was
the examiner’s opinion that the wound
in the back had been the first inflicted
and that the throat had been slashed after
and death stroke into the heart.

He also announced that the still undis-
covered weapon appeared to have been a
thick-bladed hunting type of knife, prob-
ably four and a half or five inches long,
with a single edge. He reiterated that
there was no indication of a carnal assault
and offered this as his reason for at first
believing the death to have been suicide.

Aside from these meager facts Sander-
son found the scene devoid of clues. The
matter of the note apprising the victim’s
family of a mission she never had the
Opportunity to fulfill was virtually useless,
save for the implication that someone had
been at the house to bring her false in-
formation, presumably by design.

Who might that someone have been?

None of the neighbors had delivered such

a message, nor had they seen anyone at
the Page door. Was the information in-
tended to divert from the premises any
other member of thé household who
might arrive while the slayer was at his

isly task? Or did it relate to a scheme to

iscover where Miss Page kept her
money? a eet s

Sanderson was not a man to be taken,
at first glance, fora bulldog of the law.
He was a quiet man, polished and
urbane, not given to bellicosity. He had
never before been called into such a case
and doubtless would: have preferred to
leave its details to the police had they
shown a little less apathy, Once involved
however, he dug in tenaciously and never
relaxed until Mabel Page and the good
name of Weston had been avenged.

In his final analysis, Sanderson ascribed
two motives for the note; which one was
in the killer’s mind no one knows to this
day. The first he believed was an attempt
on the part of the murderer to lure
Mabel Page from her home to a safer

lace for her destruction. The second,

ased on the fact that the money had
been taken from the sewing room, could
be attributed to the killer's lack of
familiarity with the household. Since she
would need money for the trip to Boston,
the note served the purpose of forcing her
to reveal where the family funds were
kept, thus relieving the intruder of the
necessity of ransacking the ‘house.

The latter hypothesis seems to have
had the more substance, especially since
Mabel Page never left the house and had
been first struck down on the ground
floor, This last fact ‘Sanderson learned

‘from tiny red fibers adhering to her skirt

when the body was found. These had
been dislodged from a matting covering
the lower hall and the stairs, There was
no such matting on the upper floor.

Sanderson judged that the killer had
struck Miss Page in the back, inflicting
the wound there, as she prepared to don
her greatcoat in the lower hall after
getting the money from the second-floor
sewing room. He then dragged her up-
stairs, Sanderson decided, as a precau-
tion against someone entering the house
and surprising him before he could con-
ceal himself, a maneuver for which he
would have had opportunity and time on
the second floor.

Sanderson also concluded that the fatal
stab into the heart had been delivered
upstairs, since the blood had not spurted
notably on the stairway, and that the
slash across the throat had been delivered
as a coup de grace to make certain that
the unfortunate woman was, indeed,
dead.

At a point when it appeared that his
deductions had definitely ended, Sander-
son found new hope in the discovery, by
Edward Page, of the scrap of envelope
he had slipped into his pocket that after-
noon as he started forth to summon help.

No sooner had Page, pere, handed the
paper over to. Sanderson than he re-
quested the police of Charlestown to pick

up Charles L. Morton. At Morton’s home,.

the police learned that he had not been
in since morning, but learned further
that he was, singularly enough, employed
in the Boston and Albany offices in South
Station, Boston. At this point Harold
Page was told of the piece of paper and
recalled Charles Morton well. He remem-
bered conversing with the man from time
to time but could recollect no conversa-
tion in which his own family had been
discussed,

On April 2, two days after the crime,
Charles ionheat returned to his home and
was questioned. The police bore him off
to Weston but there the thin thread of
the clue holding him to the crime
snapped. Not only did he establish a com-
plete alibi as to time, but he also proved
that the garbled script on the envelope
could not possibly have been in his hand.

‘Eventually, however, Sanderson culled

value from
it feyecled
was,,
Haro.
ment. 111:
sonnel at |
Station off
police wer:
Futile a
of itself, it
tern which
with cons
attorney.
the check
quested hi:
to seek ou
every pers
Page hom:
two on th
The ha
have beer
score of p.
mitted hay
time stipu
will be d:
seemed to
mitted to
The sin
winnowin¢
Tucker. H
had encou)
keeper, in
Page hom:
the afternc
This int
variance \
She stuck
the day sh
out that sh
month’s cl:
chase good
Auburnda!
Since th
stantial ali
two |
was r
invest_,_-.
manner no
press, even
caped his
peared in t
Tommy T:
séen her i:
virtuously,
On that
ment of fat
a descriptio
by which
death. It wi
by the med
and expert
events wer:
curacy.
Followin
the weapo.
type knife
four and a
with an ul
It was, the
ment such :
large anim
deadly effe
strength.
At the tir
in the news
ton young
thwarted R
wagon thro

scribed
ne was
to this
ttempt
o lure
. safer
second,
2y had
, could
ack of
nce she
Boston,
ing her
is were
of the

o have
ly since
nd had
ground
learned
ver skirt
se had
overing
ere was
OT.

ller had
iflicting
| to don

‘ter

oor

up-
precau-
e house
uld con-
hich he
time on

the fatal
elivered
spurted
that the
‘elivered
ain that
indeed,

that his

Sander-
very, by
snvelope
iat after-
on help.
ided the
1 he re-
n to pick
1's home,,.
not been

further
mployed
in South

Harold
aper and
e remem-
rom time
conversa-
nad been

he crime,
jome and
e him off
thread of
h~ crime

com-

oved
envelope
his hand.
on culled

this collapsed lead. Primarily
it fevealed that, whosoever the murderer

Harold Page and his place of employ-
ment. This called for a check of the per-
sonnel at the Boston and Albany South
Station offices, and the railroad’s special
police were called in for the job.

Futile as this move would have been
of itself, it was destined to fit into a pat-
tern which, from this point on was woven
with consummate skill by the district
attorney. At the same time he ordered
the check of the railroad offices he re-
quested his own aides and the local police
to seek out and bring in for questioning
every person seen in the vicinity of the
Page home between the hours of ten and
two on the last day of March.

The haul was not as large as might
have been expected. Not more than a
score of persons were called, but all ad-
mitted having been in the vicinity at the
time stipulated—all save one whose story
will be discussed later—and, since they
seemed to have perfect alibis, were per-
mitted to go their several ways.

The single lead to emerge from this
winnowing was furnished by Tommy
Tucker. He told the prosecutor that he
had encountered Mrs. Roberts, the house-
keeper, in the vicinity as he passed the
Page home shortly after one o'clock in
the afternoon.

This information was at considerable
variance with Mrs. Roberts’ own story.
She stuck to her claim of having spent
the day shopping in Waltham, pointing
out that she habitually went there at the
month’s close to pay small bills and pur-
chase goods unobtainable in Weston or
Auburndale.

Since the housekeeper produced sub-
stantial alibis in the persons of at least
two Waltham business men, Sanderson
was reluctant to reveal her part in the
investigation to the newspapers. In some
manner not entirely uncommon with the
press, even in those days, her name es-
caped his vigilant censorship and ap-
peared in the papers in connection with
Tommy Tucker's statement that he had
séen her in a spot in which she denied,
virtuously, having been.

On that same day, as if by prearrange-
ment of fate, there appeared in print also
a description of the as yet unlocated knife
by which the victim had been done to
death. It was a sort of composite furnished
by the medical examiner, the undertaker
and experts in cutlery but subsequent
events were to prove its remarkable ac-
curacy. p

Following closely the earlier pictures,
the weapon was described as a hunting
type knife with a blade approximately
four and a half inches long, single edged
with an unusually thick trailing bevel.
It was, the experts said, a sturdy instru-
ment such as is normally employed to flay
large animals and could be used with
deadly effect by a person of moderate
strength.

At the time this intelligence appeared
in the newspapers of Waltham and Bos-
ton young Arthur Woodward, the
thwarted Romeo, was driving his fish
wagon through the village of Watertown

Ignatz Chabich admitted arguing with

John Borman but resented charges of as-
sault brought against him by Chicago

police. Said Chabich: “I hit him with the
soft end of the iron pipe.”

George D. Schiffer, Los Angeles, ad-
mitted taking four chickens that be-
longed to someone else but told the-judge
he had only taken them to give them to
someone who “wouldn’t -have had a
Thanksgiving otherwise.”

Arrested at the wheel of a police radio
car sometime after it was reported stolen,
Michael Minchelli, Brooklyn, told police
he really hadn’t stolen the car, declaring:
“I just like to listen to police calls.”

Two San Francisco prisoners, recap-
tured after their escape from jail, de-
fended their break by saying: “We were
short of cigarets, and it was getting on
our nerves.”

Bernard L. Downey, Washington, D. C.,
asked why he had passed 12° worthless
checks, told the judge: “I just couldn't
make my fountain pen behave.”

Louis Brander, New York City, arrested
for draft evasion, told FBI agents he did
not report for induction because he

would have to stop his treatments for his
thinning hair if he went into the Army.

Arrested for robbing churches, James
Travis explained to New York police that
a “voice” often awakened him in the
early morning and told him to pilfer
holy edifices.

A Cambridge, Mass., traffic officer tore
up a speeding ticket against a clergyman
when the minister explained: “Officer,

you have to drive like hell if you’re going
to save souls.”

Thomas Farrell, Buffalo, gave this
reason for drunkenness to a judge during
the cigaret shortage: “It was this way,
judge. If you went into a tavern to buy
cigarets, you had. to buy a couple of
drinks before the bartender would even
consider selling you any smokes. I'm a
heavy smoker.”

Thieves broke into a Cambridge, Mass.,
diner, passed up the money in the cash
register but helped themselves to a
gallon of ice cream and 50 doughnuts.

Mrs. Mary McHugh Burke, 75, routed
two would-be bandits from her son’s
Chicago delicatessen by belaboring them
with a broomstick and shouting “Git.”

Artested in Philadelphia for carrying
a blackjack, Raymond Porter told the

judge that he carried it with him because

, V4

oa¥ «al a We
he was on his way to hunt rabbits by
“waylaying’” them.

Burglars who entered the apartment
of Robert Ruhl, Chicago, bathed in his
tub, perfumed themselves with his ex-
pensive colognes and sampled a few high-
balls before making off with $1176 in
cash.

Alfred La Salle, Nyack, N. Y., con-
victed of robbery, was given a sentence
of from four years, 11 months, 29 days
to five years.

Mrs. Chet Swital, Glendale, Calif.,
routed a would-be purse-snatcher by
slamming him with a book entitled “The
Lady Means Business.”

When a bandit thrust a gun through
the wicket at Miss Shirley Marceau, De-
troit department cashier, she cried: “I’m
going to faint.” The bandit took her arm,
shook her and said: “Please don’t do
that.” Then he fled without the money.

A burglar entered Mrs. Louis Deisnel’s
bookshop in Oakland, Calif., and made
off with nine Bibles.

123

and reflecting gloomily on the events of
four days before; to-wit, the loss of the
company of Mabel Walker to the poetic
Tommy Tucker. Pausing to water his
horse and partake of his light lunch
Woodward noticed, in a paper he had
picked up that morning, among those
listed as having been questioned in the
Page case, the name of Tucker.

More importantly, he observed the de-
scription of the knife with which Miss
Page was believed to have been slain. He
also saw that it was upon information
furnished by Tommy that the state was

the Page household who heretofore had
borne a blameless name.

The combination of his own festering
resentment, plus what he conceived to be
reprehensible conduct of Tucker in
seeking to cast odium on the Page house-
keeper, might well have impelled Wood-
ward to believe only evil of his erstwhile
companion, But he had discovered, three
days before, behind the cushion of the
fishwagon seat, on the side on which
Tucker had so triumphantly sat on
March 31, a grimly accusatory object, and
now he wasted no time in turning his
horse's head toward the district attorney's
office.

Shortly after. he had read. Tucker's
name in the paper Woodward stood in
Sanderson’s presence with a parcel. Un-
wrapping it he disclosed a leather sheaf
designed to hold a sturdy hunting knife
of some four and a half inches in length.
As if to more certainly bring woe into

-the life of its one-time owner the sheath

bore, on its tip, an unmistakable set of
tooth marks and they were, quite appar-
ently, human tooth marks.

Again Sanderson summoned Tucker.
Without informing him of Woodward's

>) pet ray
find he asked Tucker what had napreed
to his hunting knife, At this point ‘Tucker
pee po one of several tarradiddles he
was later to’ devoutly wish he had not
mentioned. He said, with his usual
charming smile, that he’d never owned a
hunting knife. Asked if he’d own a
sheath he smiled again and asked why
he would own a sheath and not a knife.

Sanderson then took up an overcoat
which had been found in Tucker’s home
a few hours before, while he was absent,
and from a side pocket produced the
sheath, inquiring if it were not Tucker’s
property. Startled, but not undone,
Tucker said easily:.“Oh, that? I picked
that up in the street one day and had
forgotten all about it.” ;

He was to alter this story considerably
in the next few minutes. Asked about
the teeth prints, he admitted havin
made them in a reflective moment an
expressed complete willingness to have an
impression of his teeth made for compari-
son. Sanderson then called in Woodward
and the young fish merchant repeated his
story of finding the sheath in his fish
wagon after Tucker had ridden with him.

With gallant reluctance Tucker then
recounted the tale of his adventure with
Mabel Walker, sparing few details, and
cited it as proof ta Woodward was act-
ing from jealous motives and was thus
careless with the truth. He charged that
Woodward had even been heard to say
that he would “get Tommy Tucker”. for
stealing his girl and that this was his
revenge.

Sanderson continued questioning
Tucker and dispatched men to make a
further search of the Tucker home. They
returned within an hour with three frag-
ments of a hunting knife blade. There
was no handle, ‘but the blade fragments

TRUE POLICE CASES

“We don’t object—it keeps their minds occupied.” -

’ innocence, but the vi

bore evidence of bloodstains. They also

roduced a pin, in the form of an em-
Rien. which had been found in the same
jacket pocket in which the blade frag-
ments were concealed, and it was quickly
identified as the property of the late
Mabel Page, missing since her murder.

-Confronted with these damning ex-
hibits Tucker began to lose his compo-
sure, but not sufficiently to prevent his
maintaining, stoutly, that the pin was his
and had been for several months, that he
had bought it in a second hand shop in
Boston while he was employed there .. .
in the same office, oddly enough, where
Harold Page worked.

There is an old credo that the poetic
mind is oblivious to details and if this is
so Tommy Tucker must have had the ele-
ments of a remarkable artist. There can
be no other explanation for his retention
of the pin and the broken knife blade
and of his placing himself in the Boston
and Albany offices where he could have
known of Harold Page's acquaintances.

He had an explanation for the frag-
ments of knife blade. He said he had
owned a knife, but hadn't called it a
hunting knife. He had called it a kin-
dling knife. But he had become alarmed,
after being questioned at first about his
walk on the fatal day, lest mere posses-
sion of a knife be construed by the police

as an evidence of guilt, especially when |

these same officers were becoming more
and more desperate under prodding by
the press for a suspect. In this fear, he
had smashed the dagger.

As if his artistic carelessness had not
already reached incredible proportions,
the district attorney eventually discoy-

ered another damning oversight among.

Tucker's effects. It was a sheet of sta-
tionery upon which had been written,
over and over, the name “C, L. Morton,
Charlestown.” Obviously someone had
been practicing a signature and the
lowest attempts on the sheet of paper
corresponded remarkably with the script

on the envelope face found at his daugh-

ter’s side by Edward Page.

That the commonwealth had a strong
case against Tucker was obvious, but he
is credited with having simplified the
prosecutor’s task immeasurably when ‘he
elected to address the jury in his own be-
half. He made a speech of several min-
utes duration during which, although he
was the soul of charm, he succeeded only
in discrediting approximately three-
fourths of his own evidence.

At the conclusion of the evidence, and
as Sanderson and’ his associates made
their death pleas, a certain reckless ele-
ment of the New York press launched a
vicious attack on the prosecution. Such
headlines as “Kill Tucker, State De-
mands” and “Sanderson Seeks Boy's
Blood” were emblazoned across front
pages. Soon other equally heedless ele-
ments joined in the campaign and there
ensued an attempt apparently having for
its objective, not the let of Tucker's

ification of all who
dared to stand for law enforcement.

The campaign had the effect of in-
stilling in Tucker an enormous confi-
dence in his chance of beating the chair,

successful ands
that a year af
Tommy oy ae
meddlers
than eve
less child.

In late Ma
Governor Goi
a long and pa
gation, the gx
which should
ments of its }
from which {:

I have no
bering my «
of the Con
my own or
the characte
the executi
my own or

No mem!
the origina!
undistorted
able to finc
and the juc
tence upon

appeal to t

hausted, dec

der in the |

“proper, ju

The cau

mercy to a

extreme you

ice...ora

No such ple

prisoner. . .

of no great

national |
manded art
the destinie:
is no claim

—_—————
LL

ye!

[Conti

“He called
wanted a job
several hours,’
“Thora loved
over to his au
and she got i:
Finally they «
goodbye to Ka:
left.”

At the depu
described the d
25 and 30, sa
mustache, rudd
inent nose. He
a deliveryman’
exact descripti:

Cuffaro hurr
where Kathryn
Statements anc
several other
nearby. One o:
provided yet
“Thora drove ;
grandfather's,”

The deputy «
to the ranch o

COs

given his daughter the household budget
money, knew it too when he departed for
his trip to Auburndale.

Edward Page did not return to his
home until two o'clock in the afternoon.
In the interim he visited with the friends
in Auburndale, dropped in at the post-
office, stopped at the public library to
read for an hour and then made his way.
walking leisurely, back to his home in
South Avenue, thoroughly tired but thor-
oughly relaxed. At seventy-eight, he was
still well preserved and active.

Reaching his home he found the door
unlocked and went in. Understandably
hungry, he went to the pantry, | ila
a sandwich and poured himself a small
goblet of light wine, and went to the
living room to enjoy a rest and his lunch-
eon. He had finished his modest repast
when he saw for the first time a note lying
on a console in the front hall. It was in
his daughter's hand and it said:

Have just heard that Harold is
hurt and at the Massachusetts hos-
pital. Have gone in at 12 o'clock.
Will leave key in front side door with
barn key. Will telephone Mrs. Ben-
nett.

This note appeared innocent enough,
vet it proved to be one of the most baf-
fing documents in the history of Ameri-
can crime. What it had to do. with
subsequent discoveries by Edward Page
and the authorities forms one of the
salient chapters of this remarkable case,
but in all the three decades since Edward
Page picked it up from the console it has
never been completely explained.

Having no telephone in his home (it
had been removed at the time of his wife’s
last illness and never restored) he pre-
pared to go to the nearest one to contact
his son’s office, As he went through the
front foyer of the house he was puzzled
to see his daughter's greatcoat, which she
invariably wore against the possibility of
sudden March storms, lying across the
arms of the hall tree. :

In considerable confusion he called her
name. There was no answer and he called
again, but still got no reply. Filled with
vague apprehension he climbed the stairs
to discover that the double sliding doors
to his daughter's room, which were always
left open. in the daytime to light the
upper hall, were closed.

An old man, bewildered by the com-
bination of the note and his daughter’s
coat in the foyer, worried by the news of
his son’s accident, he stood for a long
time in the hall before the closed doors,
too stricken by cataclysmic prophecy to
open them.

Then slowly, because the doors were
heavy and his old strength had been
sapped by his fears, he forced them back
to reveal the cheerful chamber of pastels
and chintz, and of shocking tragedy.

There upon the floor, on her back,
little rivulets of blood coursing out from
her body, lay his daughter, her sightless

‘eyes seemingly fixed upon him accusingly,

The area between Sydbury and Cam-
bridge is a charming one, with gently roll-

i
1 iN, fa nl oa a

ing hills and leafy lanes, small creeks and
pretty white cottages and, here and there,

a hospitable inn such as Longfellow sang.

of when nostalgia afflicted him. In 1904 it
was a region where people with no other
occupation took long walks, never seem-
ing to tire of the beauty of the vista and
the tranquility of the inhabitants.

Among those who strolled often in this
idyllic setting was a widower of twenty-
four years, an amiable, gently mannered,
somewhat diffident youth who was ac-
counted by those who knew him either a
ne’er-do-well or a poet, depending upon
how susceptible his judges were to ‘his
remarkable charm.

Those who had had small interest in
any poetry since John Greenleaf Whit-
tier, were prone to brand him as a loafer;
those who believed that there still was
song along the by-ways of New England
saw him as a troubadour, even a new and
gentler Poe, ill disposed toward toil per-
haps but gracious and witty and, worse
luck in that time to come when he most
needed luck, irresistible to women.

In the vital statistics’ records of Au-
burndale he was registered as Charles
Louis Tucker but it was seldom that he
was known by that name. Those who
deplored his habits referred to him, dis-
paragingly, as that Tucker Loafer (to dis-
tinguish him from _ his diligent and
studious younger brother) and those who
admired him for his cheerful spirits and
gift of friendship called him, whimsically,
Tommy Tucker,

Tommy Tucker was not unknown to
the vie household. He had visited’ the
home, rom time to time and once had
bought a dog from Harold Page, but he
never had become one of the frugal Page
scion’s intimates. He was known to Mabel
Page, if only vaguely. In fact, he was
known to almost everyone along the Sud-
bury-Cambridge pike because he walked
there so often and, it has been said, frol-
icked among the more romantic maids
of the area almost as frequently.

On this day, which had dawned
brightly, with that tang in the air which
encourages hiking, Tommy Tucker had
gone for one of his frequent strolls. He
had worked on his family’s lawn until
luncheon time, had then eaten, changed
his clothes and started off in the direction
of the Weston bridge. At the bridge he
exchanged pleasantries with two ac-
quaintances, then proceeded into Weston
where he paused to bandy a stanza or
two of Shelley and discuss the new Whit-
man fad with a Mr. Dooley, who-.was toil-
ing in a ditch, but’ whose soul was as
poetic, beneath the muck on his overalls,
as Tommy Tucker's, :

He met other acquaintances on his
stroll, recalling even Mrs. Roberts whom
he said he met in-South Street, in. the
vicinity of the Page, home, at an hour
when that good if urgent woman was. by
her’ own account. in’ Waltham making
purchases which could not be made in
Weston or Auburndale. SNe

At one noint he stopped to give sweet-
meats, as he poetically described the bits
of candy he carried in his pocket, to two
children; He also talked with them for
several minutes, regaling them with a

{ A

“to dull the edge of romance,

somewhat «advanced story which they,
doubtless bribed by the candy, received
with gales of laughter. After this he in-
dulged one of his more wistful whims; he
stopped to feed a squirrel a few nuts.

Since he also got the nuts from his

ocket, and later produced a sandwich
rom the same bottomless trove, it be-
comes apparent that he was somewhat of
a perambulating commissary. Indeed, he
was known as such both to the children
and the squirrels along his itinerary, as
he succeeded in proving later.

It was shortly after two o'clock when
he reached the Weston bridge again, en-
route home. There he was met by a
friend, one William Bourne, whereat he
abandoned his homeward path and began
a new stroll which was to be productive
of more adult excitement than his en-
counter with the children and the squir-
rel.

A short distance from the bridge the
two were hailed by Arthur Woodward, a
friend of both. At first sight (it might be
more accurate to say whiff) of Woodward,
‘Tucker was not disposed to cultivate him
at all, doubtless because Woodward was
driving a slightly overripe fish wagon. At
second glance, however, he changed his
mind because on the seat beside Wood-
ward, effectively counteracting the fish,
Was a very pretty girl who seemed to be
flirting overtly with the handsome and
soulful Tucker.

After proper introductions Tucker
leapt briskly to the seat beside the girl, a
Miss Mabel Walker from Maine, leaving
Bourne to the company of the herring in
the wagon bed. To Woodward's discom-
fort, but Miss Walker’s express delight,
Tucker began running his gamut of quo-
tations from Omar Khayyam to Henley,
interjecting a jingle or two for which he
modestly accepted praise of authorship.

It requires considerable character and
an amiability bordering on the imbecilic
for a young man of twenty-three, such as
Woodward was, to look with e uanimity
upon the pirating of his girl by a new
acquaintance, especially where the cul-

prit employs poetry in the deed,. and °

Woodward was not equal to it. Thus it
was that Tommy Tucker allowed his
Byronic bent to trick him into disaster,
since it wasn’t long before he and Miss
Walker had abandoned friends and fish
wagon and set off across hill and dale in
search of erotic adventure.

That they found it, Tucker later ad-
mitted with becoming reluctance. That
it went as far as it did, it remained for
Miss Walker to blurt out at a time when
such an admission greatly incensed the
governor of the Commonwealth of Mas-
sachusetts against her partner in these
erotic indiscretions.

In the late afternoon, when the snow
was falling lightly and the gusty March
winds had combined with intem erance
ommy
Tucker bade his new found inamorata
good-bye.

- Inevitably we return to the sanguinary
chamber wherein Edward Page found the
lifeless body of his daughter. For a long

[Continued on page 122]

pu ed, ay a
PaaS eR etal

The
and th

silver and
table servi:
Lange,
of these an
in hushed
the family
handed L:
wrapped,
ventory, t
placed in
Into the
of matche
packed in
diadems
laden wit
rubies; un<
bracelets a
canary di:
than 12 ca
$10,000.
The me
with him
entire asso:
looms. H:
the packi
diamond {
cate that
would hav.
The softes
the chased
pride of th
years.

Lange
the long t
a soldering
iron in as
and, as M
grim silen
lined box
heavy but
easily. He
to the pri
way towar
stairs,

The air
heavy that
trembled
procession
into the d
tage bottl
lined the
on to a
leading to

Stoopin
stumbling
lining the
Lange an
by flashlig
carved in
this sub-ce
of the mu

Again |
stone in t
the rotted
was a lary
wooden b:
lead-lined
his shoulc

Lange «

oys-Girls - 1000 Shot Daisy
ir Rifles (with tube of
»ot), Genuine 22 Cal. Rifles
sent postage paid).
ys-Girls Bicycles (sent
cpress collect). Other
remiums or Cash Com-
iission now easily yours.
imply Give pictures
ith White Clover-
i¢ Brand Salve sold
25¢ a box (with
icture) .and remit
nount asked under
remium shown in
atalag sent with
our order postage
aid by us to start.

[ail coupon. Wilsen 2%
em. Ce., Dept. 121-A, Tyrene, Pa.

GIVEN

BOYS - - GIRLS

LADIES - - MEN
Wrist Watches, Pocket
Watches, Alarm Clocks
(sent postage paid).
Give pictures with
White CLOVERINE
Brand SALVE sold at
25 cents a box (with
picture) and remit
amount asked under
Premium shown in
catalog sent with your
order postage paid by
us to start. Be first.
Wilsen Chemical Ce.,
Dept. 121-B,
Tyrene, Pa.

otbalis, Fully
ylis over 15 inches in
ight’ (sent postage paid).
MPLY sell White Cle-
rine Brand Salve at 3
nts a box (with picture)
remit per catalog sent
th your starting order.
ftsen Chemical Ce.,
pt. 121-C, Tyrene, Pa.

meer ccc eer sescccecerccesesscssesesseee

derstanding—Mabel dead, his son
ill. The bewildered father made
his way downstairs and telephoned
the family doctor, Dr. H. B. Frost.
Then he summoned his nearest
neighbor, Mrs. Emily Woodward.
She arrived first and attempted
to comfort Page in his grief until
Dr. Frost appeared, accompanied
by Dr. Julian A. Mead, the Mid-
dlesex County medical examiner,
whom Frost had notified of Page's
report of the supposed suicide:
“Doctor, look here,” beckoned
Frost, who had stripped back the

full sleeve from the girl's left arm. |

(Continued from page 18)

The outer forearm bore a deep,
long gash. “She surely didn’t cut
herself there.”

This set the physicians to look- -

ing immediately for other wounds.
They found a scarlet stain on her
camisole, directly over the heart.
The blood had not yet soaked
through the taffeta dress, but had
welled from a single stab wound
which appeared to have pierced
her heart.

“These multiple wounds,” Dr.
Frost added, “make suicide highly
improbable.”

“Then it was—murder?” the fa-
ther whispered hoarsely.

“Murder!” Dr. Mead _ echoed.
“We'll notify the authorities at
once!”

HE officers arrived promptly,

led by husky, square-jawed
Chief Albert Shaw, young Detec-
tive Frank Whitney of the Massa-
chusetts State Police, and Sheriff
George Fairbairn.

They surveyed the scene of the
tragedy and obtained a _ report
from Dr. Mead. With trembling
hands, Page produced the myster-
ious note and the slip bearing the
name of Peter Carey.

“I imagine she had suitors,” De-
tective Whitney put in. “Did she
keep company with any young
men?”

“Just one or two,” Page replied.
“She was attractive and gay, but
she didn’t go much for parties.
She did go out of an evening now
and then with Herbert Adams; I
think she was quite fond of him.
Once in a while she would go
driving with Max Garson, but he
was second choice.”

Adams, the father continued,
was a young mechanic who lived
less than a mile away. Garson was
the rotund son of a preacher, who
also resided in the vicinity.

“How about your son Harold?”

* * *

A. San Diego man, awaiting trial
on a theft charge, stated that he
never got lonely in jail and would
like to spend the rest of his life there
“with one afternoon off a week for

shopping. ‘ F .

Patrolman Jake Fennelly, Boston,
felt a little sorry when he arrested a

72-year-old woman for shoplifting— |

until he found that she had been ar-

rested from 40 to 50 times, from -

cities all the way to Philadelphia, for

. the same offense. nae

Ca oe RS Sat athlon aa kc

Te Feo Ses a ee RD ee
De ck ig Sig a ae

Chey also
f an em-
the same
ade frag-
is quickly
the late
iurder.
ning ex-
s compo-
event his
n was his
s, that he
| shop in
there...
ch, where

he poetic
! if this is
id the ele-
Chere can
retention
ife blade
1e Boston
suld have
iintances.
the frag-
1 he had
illed it a
it a kin-
alarmed,
about his
osses-
rolice

_ when
\ing more
dding by
s fear, he

» had not
»portions,
ly discov-
ht among
et of sta-
1 written,
. Morton,
eone had
and the
of paper
the script
iis daugh-

| a strong
is, but he
lified the

when he
is own be-
veral min-
though he
eded only
ly three-

lence, and
ites made
ckless ele-
vunched a
ion. Such
State De-
eks Boy's
ross front
edless ele-
and there
having for
f Tucker’s
of all who

of in-
vus confi-
the chair,

even after he had been found guilty. So.
successful and heated was the campaign
that a year after Mabel Page was slain
Tommy: Tucker was still alive and the
meddlers were screaming more avidly
than ever for the law to spare this harm-
less child.

In late May, 1905, the case reached
Governor Gould of Massachusetts. After
a long and painstaking personal investi-
gation, the governor issued a statement
which should rank with the finest docu-
ments of its kind ever written, excerpts
from which follow here:

I have no right (he wrote) remem-
bering my oath to enforce the laws
of the Commonwealth, to consider
my own or other men’s opinions of
the character of those laws, or to stay
the execution of the law because of
my own or any other man’s opinion.

No member of the jury, to whom
the original evidence, ungarbled and
undistorted, was presented, was
able to find the prisoner not guilty
and the judge who pronounced sen-
tence upon him, after every possible
appeal to the judiciary had been ex-
hausted, declared the verdict of mur-
der in the first degree to have been
“proper, just and lawful.”

The causes usually urged for
mercy to a convicted criminal are
extreme youth, notable public serv-
ice ... or a previously blameless life.
No such plea can be entered for the
prisoner. ... He is not a boy. Men
of no greater age have served in
national parliaments and com-.
manded armies that have changed
the destinies of the world. Not only
is no claim of . . . public service

bidudtenaiecoimnbanenideeannl att Onn oe
aM

¥ £h We,
made for the prisoner, but he neyer ,
rose, or remained long, in any pri-
vate employment. His habits of life
seem almost impossible to one whose
bitter duty it is to resist the appeals
of his clear-eyed brother, his sorrow-
ing mother and his father, honored
of all men. C
I must remember, however, that
othér home—a pure and lovely girl
murdered in a lonely house, a father
martyred by sensationalism and a
faithful working girl persecuted. . . .

Proof of the miserable habits of
life of this unhappy young man is
confirmed by my own independent
investigation. At the hearing before
me the prisoner’s counsel asserted
that on the day of the murder he

- “committed an offense” with Mabel
Walker. The evidence of the lower
court, later confirmed by expert
medical’ evidence, furnished uncon-
tested proof that the prisoner was
not accustomed to recognize even the
bounds established by nature in the
gratification of his passions.

Therefore, in common with every
other respectable person in this case
sworn to act in accordance with his
convictions as to the prisoner's guilt
or innocence, I am compelled to an
undoubting belief in his guilt.

Every citizen must sympathize and
sorrow with this man’s afflicted
family; but of more importance than
the life of any one citizen is the pro-
tection by government of every citi-
zen; is the assurance to the people
that the ordered action of their
courts is to be respected, and that ir-

responsible agitation cannot be sub-

stituted for law and order in the
_ Commonwealth.

Not yet, however, were the do-gooders
appeased. In a state which two decades
later was to entertain a near revolution
for the. salvation of a pair of radicals
against whom the proof of murder while
committing highway robbery was far
stronger than the proof against Tommy
Tucker, the mere integrity of a governor
was not enough to stay the agitators.
Even as in the case of Bartolomeo Van-
zetti and Nicola Sacco, they appealed to
the President of the United States.

Twenty-four hours before Tommy
Tucker was scheduled to die, a mass meet-
ing in Boston dispatched a five hundred
word telegram to the then President
Theodore Roosevelt, demanding that he
halt the “murder” of Tucker. The first
Roosevelt's reply was to send a telegram
to Governor Gould commending him
and the courts on their stand and adding
his own voice to those who believed in
the pastoral troubadour’s guilt.

A few minutes after midnight on
March 12, 1905, as misguided clergymen
knelt to pray before Charlestown prison’s
gates, Tommy Tucker was led into the
death chamber. His face was pale, his
hands were palsied and he was seen to be
mumbling incoherently.

No one heard what it was he was say-
ing, but it was assumed that it was a
poem. Possibly a stanza from Wilde’s
Ballad of Reading Gaol, which he had
taken to reading in the death house, even
though it was not to be his fate to “dance
upon the air,” as did Wilde’s assassin,
but to succumb in the unromantic em-
brace of the electric chair’s oaken arms.

Walk Into My
Parlor

[Continued from page 39]

“He called out and asked if Thora
wanted a job minding his children for
several hours,” Rita recalled haltingly.
“Thora loved children, and she walked
over to his auto. He opened the door
and she got in and they talked awhile.
Finally they drove off. Thora waved
goodbye to Kathryn Hall and me as they
left.”

At the deputy’s careful questions, she
described the driver as a tall man between
25 and 30, sandy haired with a small
mustache, ruddy complexion and a prom-
inent nose. He had worn a “V” shirt and
a deliveryman’s cap. She could give no
exact description of the auto.

Cuffaro hurried to the Hall girl’s home,
where Kathryn corroborated Miss Bieler’s
statements and supplied the names of
several other students who had been
nearby. One of these, a 12-year-old girl,
saved yet another important lead.
“Thora drove away in a car just like my
grandfather's,” she said.

The deputy drove her the several miles
to the ranch of the grandparent where

she pointed out an automobile, a dark
blue 1932 Plymouth four-door sedan. “It
was exactly like that,” the girl declared
again, adding that a metal greyhound
ornament was on the radiator cap of the
machine.

After returning her home, Cuffaro
hastened back to the sheriff's office and
reported.

The essential information was re-
layed to authorities in Northern Cali-
fornia with a request to pick up the driver
of the old blue sedan for investigation.

Two days later San i headquarters
learned from the girl’s parents of an
anonymous telegram from Long Beach
reporting Thora had been seen on the
streets of that Southern California city.
Cuffaro phoned Long Beach Capt. of
Detectives L. Q. Martin. The wire had
been received at 12:23 p.m., and dis-
patched within minutes.

Several more days passed without any
new developments, although scores of
top-flight peace officers were concentrat-
ing on the case in their respective terri-
tories. Among these were San Mateo
County Chief of Police, Robert E.
O'Brien, Sheriff George Lyle, Undersheriff
Walter Moore and Deputy Milton Mine-
han; Santa Cruz County Sheriff John R.
Devitt and Deputy Frank Rountree.

‘Santa Clara County District Attorney
Leonard Avilla assigned his investigator
Robert Drexel, to work with Deputy
George Pyne and other sheriffs’ men.

It was considered that the anonymous
telegram might well be a phony, sent by
some crank. On the other hand, if it
were genuine, it would indicate that the
girl at least had a certain amount of free-
dom, if she had been kidnaped. It was
also theorized that robably the man re-
sponsible for her line home had a
criminal record. .

Working on that basis, hours were
spent riffling through Bureau of Identifi-
cation files. Men who had been arrested
within the rs five years and who fitted
the general description of the wanted
man were sifted out. ,

Thomas McMonigle seemed the likeli-
est suspect. He fitted the description
fairly well, being 35 years old, six feet
one inch, 190 pounds, with reddish hair
and a rather prominent nose. ‘He had
been arrested by San Mateo’s Officer
James Smith on misdemeanor charges of
disturbing the peace and battery ten
months before and placed on probation.
He was an ex-convict, having served
eight and one-half years at Manard Peni-
tentiary, Illinois, for an aggravated as-
sault. A police photo of him was ob-
tained.

125

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Whitney asked. “Do you know if
he’s really ill in Boston?”

“I know he’s not. I put through
a call and talked with him. He
couldn’t understand who told Ma-
bel such a thing. He’s on his way
here now.”

Then the farewell note on Ma-
bel’s dresser had been a fake!
Still, according to her father, it
was in her handwriting. Why had
she written it?

The door banged downstairs as
Miss Wilmon, the maid, came in
with her arms full of bundles.
Sheriff Fairbairn went down and
escorted her up to the door of Ma-
bel Page’s room. At the sight of
the girl’s body, the maid screamed
and fainted. Fairbairn caught her
as she fell.

Six nice people got together
tor a quiet game of bridge in

it? For what reason?

To know all the answers, read

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After she was revived by cold
water fetched by Mrs. Woodward,
the maid answered questions in a
quavering voice. “I left the house
about 10:30 this morning,” she
said. “Miss Mabel was in the living
room. She was singing as she sew-
ed. She seemed very happy, poor
child.”

Shaw looked at his watch. It was
now 1:15 p.m. Turning to Page, he
inquired: “When did your son
leave for. Boston?”

“A little after 8 o’clock this
morning,” the old man responded.
“IT had breakfast with him and
Mabel just before he went to the
station.”

Detective Whitney held up the

scrap of paper and asked: “Who

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+ LDERLY, white-haired Edward
i: Page trudged up the walk to

Re front door of his brown-
: shingled house in Weston, Massa-
- ghusetts, a village just west of
Boston, late that cold morning on
the last day of March. The 77-
year-old retired merchant stomp-
ed his feet to shake off the snow,
removed his clumsy arctics and
“entered.

Doffing his heavy coat, plaid
muffler and hunter’s cap, he rub-
bed his bony hands together to
“warm them as he headed for the
kitchen. Amy Roberts, the middle-
aged maid, was out shopping.
Harold, the merchant’s only son,
had gone into Boston on his daily
business. Page, a widower, thought
it strange that his striking bru-
nette daughter Mabel was not in
the living room, where she had
been sewing when he had left less
than an hour earlier.

But he assumed that she was in
her room upstairs; and being
hungry, went into the pantry.
There he ate a sandwich and
washed it down with a glass of
cider. Then he returned to the
living room where his daughter’s
sewing basket was on a table be-
side the chair in which she had

been sitting, and sank into his
high-backed rocker to wait for her.

Fifteen minutes passed and Ma-
bel did not appear. No sound came
from the upper floor. More curious
than alarmed, the old man walked
to the foot of the steep staircase
and called out: “Mabel! Oh, Ma-
del!”

But there was no reply. Fearful
that the girl might be ill, Page
ascended the stairs as rapidly as
he dared with his bad heart con-
dition, At the end of the hall, the
door to Mabel’s room stood ajar.
Page stopped abruptly at the
threshold and gripped the wood-
work for support.

His daughter’s body lay on the
floor beside the bed, her black
taffeta dress neatly arranged. Ex-
eept for the unnatural stillness of
her curvaceous form, she might
have been asleep.

The shocked father went inside
and stooped to feel the girl’s pulse.
There was no beat. He lifted her
arm, but it fell back lifeless. Tears
sprang into the old man’s eyes as
he placed his ear to Mabel’s heart;
he heard nothing.

Page knew the pretty brunette
was dead, but nonetheless he tug-
ged at her high ruffled collar, as

though to loosen it aia ei her
air—air she no longer could
breathe. He quickly jerked back
his hand as he felt a sticky fluid
on his fingers; they were stained
with Mabel’s blood, still fresh.

Sobbing, Page tore open the
shirtwaist, baring a jagged wound

across the base of the girl’s throat. st
An ugly word stabbed his con- ~~
sciousness. Suicide! Mabel had slit >

her throat and lain down to die! ge
But why? pci

On the carpet three yards from
the corpse, he spied a slip of pa-
per and bent slowly to pick: it up.
Written in a bold backhand script
he could not recall having seen
before, was a name, “Peter Carey,”
and beneath it he saw. an address
in Boston.
' Moving over to the dreanér, Page
found a sheet of his daughter’s
scented stationery folded beneath
a hob-nailed cologne bottle. :
“Dear Papa,” the-old man read
through tear-misted eyes.. “Have
just learned that Harold is .ser-
iously ill in Boston. Must go: to
him at once. Will cal won when
know more. In haste, with love—>

Mabel.”

All this was far beyond his un-
(Continued on page 38)

told the officers
r, and the address

Endicott Street.in _

1 was impressed
thgmddress was
ter@prey, whom
ves were seeking.
ndered, a coinci-
hat that? Could
‘tion between the
murder of Mabel

id fallen when
Whitney set out
tor Joseph Watts
Jetective bureau

Street address

arrow foyer, the
no mailboxes or
nbing the steep
-d heavily on the
nd-floor flat. At
ened cautiously
nan peered out.
t?” she demand-
. the inspector’s
he, changed her
back her stringy

rey live here?”

eah, he has a
- But we ain’t
lays now. Guess
r toot.”

| a er, she
dn@iyep a job
of weeks, Often

1 his room ten
1€ woman, who
Ss the landlady,
Stigators up to
admitted them
The garret was
-rs, Magazines
ugh table stood

she remarked.
he is. Don’t get
i I guess.”

de a _ cursory
m, but found
ng. Their best
was to await
S summoned a
dered him to
until relieved
ned:to Boston

| there was a
rom Fairbairn,
had learned
and Whitney
t once to seek
in.
Street address
r ramshackle
xerman land-.
rear basement
Ss y man
idee rt and
swered their

,” he replied
luestion. “Just

ft to look for <<

ack today or |

se plea se ON eas ees Sata eh tare eo

g
i
s
Ed

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CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

, tomorrow.”

Watts flashed his badge. “We
want to talk with him. Get in
touch with me at headquarters as
soon as he shows up.”

Although the roomer agreed,
Watts stationed another policeman
to stand guard outside the room-
ing house as a precaution against
the roomer warning Miller and en-
abling the coachman to disappear.
The officer had orders to nab the
suspect when he came home.

ACK in Auburndale, Detec-
tives Neal and Hammond met
Chief James Tarbox of the local
police and all three went to the
home of Charles Tucker, the 24-
year-old widower whom Max Gar-
son had named as a rejected suitor
of the slain girl.
Thin, brown-haired and of me-
dium height, Tucker was playing
cards with his father in the living
room of their little gray frame
house. He met the officers at the
door and his lips parted in an in-
gratiating smile, “What’ll it be,
boys?” he asked.
His demeanor was hardly that of
a guilty man, but Chief Tarbox
had told them something on the
way to the house which prompted
them to discard appearance. Al-
most a year ago, Tucker’s pretty
blonde wife Alicia had drowned in
the Chester River not far from
their home. The _ circumstances
were suspicious. Alicia either had
fallen, jumped or been hurled into
the river. She could not swim.
Tarbox had conducted an in-
quiry, and Tucker told him Alicia
had been despondent and planned
to kill herself. However, there were
no notes, and other witnesses de-
scribed her as happy and carefree.
Yet there was no evidence to dis-
prove the husband’s story, and the
inquiry finally was dropped. :
In the Page murder and Alicia
Tucker’s death, Neal and Ham-
mond sensed a possible deadly
parallel—homicide masked as sui-
cide. They resolved to investigate
Tucker thoroughly.
“These officers would like to ask
you some questions, Charles,” Tar-
box said and Tucker admitted
them into the house.
“Not about the drowning again,
is it?” the young man asked, his
smile fading.
“No,” Neal said. “Just tell us
where you were this morning.” .
“working down around the boat-
houses,” the suspect replied. “I
quit the railroad about two weeks
ago and haven't had a steady job
since, but I manage to pick up a
little change along the river.”
“Can you prove you were there?”
Hammond asked narrowly.
“Sure. You can talk to the fel-
lows I worked for. But say what’s
this all about?”
“You knew Mabel Page?” Neal

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is the Peter Carey whose name ap-
pears on this slip?”

“Never heard of him,” Page de-
clared. “I’m pretty sure Mabel
didn’t know him, either. But per-
haps Harold does.”

Mrs. Woodward had been stand-
ing by silently. Now she spoke up.
“Chief Shaw,” she said, “I saw a
dark, foreign-looking man in the
vicinity early this morning. He was
a stranger and he did look un-
trustworthy. He stopped at my
back door and asked the cook if
we had any work for a coachman.
She called me and I sent him
away. I didn’t like his looks.”

The man was dressed in a dirty
red and black striped blazer and
blue dungarees, she added, and
wore a moth-eaten brown fur cap.

“If this man applied for work
at your house,” the sheriff sug-
gested, “he must have called at
other houses around here. Maybe
he left his name and address at
one of them.”

Making a mental note to check
on the whereabouts of Betty Wil-
mon during her absence from the
house, Fairbairn departed to start
his deputies on a canvass of the
district in search of the job-seeker.
Shaw and Whitney painstakingly
searched the murder chamber, the

house and the premises, but turn-
ed up no other clues. While they
were at this task, Harold Page ar-
rived from Boston.

HE victim’s dapper young
brother seemed greatly dis-

* ik *

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tressed by Mabel’s tragic death. He
wept as he knelt beside her body.
Questioned by the officers, he
could cast no light on the mystery.
He had not been ill and had not
told anyone so. He did not know
anyone named Carey.

Chief Shaw and Whitney decided
to go to Boston to try to find the
mysterious Peter Carey. Shaw
summoned Detectives Alfred Neal
and Jack Hammond of the state
police to investigate Herbert
Adams and Max Garson.

A light snow was falling and a
strong northeast wind stung their
cheeks that afternoon as the in-

vestigators split up to carry out —

their missions. It was then 3:30
p.m. on Thursday, March 31, 1904.

While Shaw and Whitney took
the next train for Boston, Detec-
tives Neal and Hammond drove to
the small white bungalow where
Adams, the young mechanic, lived
with his family. At the garage
where he worked, they had learned
he was at home, ill. Mrs. Adams
met them at the door and led
them into her son's room. The
doctor, she said, had just left.
Adams lay still in the bed, his eyes
half closed, his cheeks flushed
with fever. “He’s been sick for two
days now,” his mother whispered.
“It’s the grippe.”

“One question only,” Neal said
quietly. “Have you seen Mabel Page
lately?”

The young man raised up and
opened his eyes. “Not for a couple
of weeks. Why?”

“She’s met with an accident,”

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Hammond replied. “Have you been
in bed all day?” :
“Of course. But why are you
here? What happened to Mabel?”
“She’s dead—stabbed to death,”

Neal said evenly. “Do you know
who @ald have done it or why?”

Adams sank back on the pillow,

his face white, his eyes stricken.
“No, I have no idea. This is ter-
rible, terrible .. .”

NS and Hammond proceeded
to the yellow frame parsonage
where Garson lived. The chubby,
pink-cheeked young high school
graduate was just sitting down to
supper. At the detectives’ request,
Mrs. Garson called him into the
living room.

“Tell us,” Neal asked, “where did
you spend this morning?”

“With my father, painting the
Sunday School rooms in _ the
church basement,” the preacher’s
son replied. “But why do you ask?”

“Mabel Page was murdered to-
day,’ the detective replied blunt-
ly. “Sometime late this morning.”

Garson turned pale. “Mabel?” he
gasped. “But why would anyone
want to hurt her?”

The Reverend Garson meanwhile
had entered the room. Hearing of
the crime. he readily corroborated
his son’s alibi.

“Now think,” “Hammond urged
the young man. “Did Miss Page
ever keep company with anyone
except you and Herbert Adams?”

Garson’s eyebrows. raised. He’

began to talk eagerly. “Why, yes,
now that you ask. There’s a young
fellow over Auburndale way—
Tucker, I think his name is—who
used to pester her to go out with
him. But that was almost a year
ago. She told me about the chap—
how she used to hang up the phone

on him. I don’t think she told -

Adams, because she liked Herbert
too well. I really think she went
out with me just for laughs.”

Tucker, he added, was a. bag-
gageman on the Boston and Al-
bany Railroad. His wife had died
just about the time he met Mabel
and he said he was lonesome. But
Garson knew nothing else about
him.

The detectives left the parsonage
and headed for Auburndale, two
miles to the east. Meanwhile, Sher-
iff Fairbairn and his men were
busy. They checked the maid’s
story of her shopping trip and
visit at a friend’s house and learn-
ed that she could not have been
at the scene of the murder be-
tween 10:30 a.m. and the time of
her return when the officers had
been there.

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in Mrs. Woodward’s neighborhood
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had been seeking a job. At sev-
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His name, she told the officers,
was George Miller, and the address
he gave was on Endicott Street in
Boston. Fairbairn was impressed
by the fact that this address was
near that of Peter Carey, whom
the state detectives were seeking.
Was this, he wondered, a coinci-
dence or more that that? Could
there be a connection between the
two men and the murder of Mabel
Page?

ARKNESS had fallen when

Shaw ‘and Whitney set out
with Chief Inspector Joseph Watts
of the Boston detective bureau
for the Beacon Street address
ascribed to Carey.

Entering the narrow foyer, the
detectives found no mailboxes or
name plates.. Climbing the steep
Stairs, they pounded heavily on the
door of the second-floor flat. At
length it was opened cautiously
and a gaunt woman peered out.
“What do you want?” she demand-
ed harshly. Seeing the inspector’s
badge, however, she changed her
tone and brushed back her stringy
black hair.

“Does. Peter Carey live here?”
Watts demanded.

She nodded. “Yeah, he has a
room ‘in the attic. But we ain’t
seen him for two days now. Guess
he’s out on another toot.”

Carey was quite a drinker, she
explained, and couldn’t keep a job
more than a couple of weeks. Often
he was away from his room ten
days at a time. The woman, who
identified herself as the landlady,
readily led the investigators up to
Carey’s room and admitted them
with a pass key. The garret was
littered with papers, magazines
and books. On a rough table stood
a worn typewriter.

“He’s an author,” she remarked.
“At least he thinks he is. Don’t get
much for his efforts, I guess.”
‘ The officers made a_ cursory
search of the room, but found
nothing incriminating. Their best
course, they knew, was to await
Carey’s return. Watts summoned a
patrolman and ordered him to
guard the premises until relieved
Then the trio returned: to Boston
headquarters.

Waiting for them there was a
telephone message from Fairbairn,
reporting what he had learned
about Miller. Shaw and Whitney
set out with Watts at once to seek
the jobless coachman.

At the Endicott Street address
they found another ramshackle

building. A portly German land-.

lord led them to a rear basement
room, where a short, swarthy man
clad in a dirty undershirt and
dirty trousers answered their
knock. :

“No, I’m not Miller,” he replied
in answer to Watt’s question. “Just

a friend of his. He left to look for ~
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Tucker’s cold blue eyes were un-
blinking. “Yes what about her?”

“She was murdered today—stab-
bed to death.”

Showing little emotion Tucker
shook his head slowly. “That’s a
shame. She was such a nice girl.
Who did it?”

“That’s what we want to know,”
Hammond snapped.

Neal looked at his watch. It was
7:30 p.m. “Where can we find these
men you were with this morning?”

Tucker’s face colored. “Say, you
don’t think I’m mixed up in that
murder, do you?” He paused, then
shrugged. “Well, I guess there’s
nothing to do but prove where I
was.”

The young man told the detec-
tives that he had spent the entire
morning helping two brothers re-
caulk their sailing boat. He said
they probably would be found at
their home a few blocks away.
Chief Tarbox remained with Tuck-
er while the detectives went to call
on the brothers. They mentioned
their suspicions of the young wid-
ower, explained the circumstances
of Mabel Page’s death and asked
the pair if Tucker had really been
with them all morning. The broth-
ers replied that he had.

AL and Hammond returned

to the Tucker home and in-
formed the suspect that his friends
had backed him up. But they
warned him that the investigation
still was under way and not to
leave town.

The detectives went back to state
police headquarters at West New-
ton and were still busy: with their
reports when Chief Shaw and
Whitney got in from Boston at 11
o’clock. The four officers compared
notes on the suspects each pair
had investigated. None, they felt,
could be eliminated as yet—not
even Tucker, whose alibi seemed
airtight. His previous connection
with a death mystery stood against
him.

The investigators agreed that
one clue in their possession was
certain to prove important, al-
though its relation to the slaying
of Mabel Page was as yet far from
clear. That was the slip of paper
found on hér bedroom floor, bear-
ing Carey’s name and address.

“It seems to me that either he
was the murderer,” Shaw reasoned,
“or Miss Page or the slayer knew
him, But if he was merely an ac-
quaintance of the poor girl, why
should the piece of paper have
been on her floor? Why not in a
letterbox, or tucked away some-
where in the leaves of a book? And
if he stabbed her, why did he leave
what amounted to a calling card
for the police to find?”

“Then it’s most likely,” suggested
Whitney, “that the killer was an
acquaintance of Carey who ac-
cidentally dropped that paper.”

OS we ee

“Maybe not accidentally,” the
chief said. “It might have been a

plant. From what we know of Car-~-

ey, he’s an irresponsible chap. He
drinks heavily and probably often
can’t account for where he’s been
or what he’s done. He’d be a per-
fect target on which to throw sus-
picion of murder.”

Four days dragged by before the
next developement. Then late the
night of April 4, George Miller
returned to his shabby lodgings in
Endicott Street. He went willingly
to headquarters, where he submit-
ted to questioning. The coachman
admitted having been in Weston
on the morning of the murder, and
said he had passed the Page place
at about 11 o’clock, but stoutly de-
nied he had been in the house or
had seen anyone around the
premises.

Soon the state officers were con-
vinced he had no part in the
crime, but at Shaw’s suggestion,
obtained a sample of his hand-
writing before releasing him with
a warning to hold himself in read-
iness for further questioning. Mil-
ler’s ‘script was a gawky scrawl

that inclined backward. Although -

it did not closely. resemble the
writing of Carey’s name and ad-
dress, Shaw dispatched it to Mar-
shall D. Ewell, a noted handwriting
analyst in New York, for compari-
son with the two lines on the slip
found in Miss Page’s chamber.
Three days later, Carey returned
to his garret, a haggard young

man obviously suffering from a
hangover. Inspector Watts and
two detectives arrived to question
him. Carey insisted he didn’t know
Mabel Page and had no idea how
his name and address came to be
in her room. As for stabbing the
girl, he said he’d been with friends
in New York for ten days. He gave
their addresses and phone num-
bers, and Watts immediately called
them. They verified his alibi, say-

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told her, ‘nobody else can!’ To
throw us off the track, he scrib-
bled Carey’s name on the slip of
paper, dropped it and fled with
the weapon.”

“But what about the alibi?”
Whitney interposed. “The brothers
backed him up.”

“I don’t know yet where the flaw
lies in that, but we’ll find out,”
Shaw promised. “Tucker’s our man.
No doubt about. it.”

E officers arrested the young

widower in his home at Au-
burndale. In searching the prem-
ises, they found a hunting knife
handle and three fragments of the
blade concealed in his mattress.
The pieces of steel bore blood-
stains. In a closet hung a pair of
tan trousers which, although re-
cently washed, still showed sus-
picious stains.

Neal and Hammond called upon
the two boat-owning brothers.
When they were informed of Tuck-
er’s arrest and were warned they
might face charges of having been
accessories after the fact if they

| persisted in lying to save him, the

pair confessed they had not seen
the suspect after 10 o’clock on the
morning of the crime. At that
hour, they revealed, he left the
boathouse without saying where he
was going and did not return. They
had thought the police were
hounding him over his first wife’s
death, of which they believed
him innocent, and for that reason
had tried to cover him up.

Faced with the shattered alibi
and the clue of the handwriting
on the slip found in the murder
chamber, Tucker still protested his
innocence. While the facts were
presented to the grand jury with-
out a confession, evidence against
him continued to pile up. Ewell,
the handwriting expert, identified
the script as Tucker’s, and Dr.
Timothy Leary, professor of path-
ology at Tufts College, analyzed
the stains on the knife blade and
the trousers and reported they
were of human blood.

Still Tucker would not confess.
On January 24, 1905, a jury before

{ Judge Frank Sheldon in superior

court at Cambridge found him
guilty of first deeree murder. He
was sentenced to die in the electric
chair at Charlestown.

A series of appeals delayed his

execution for alm 18 months.

On June 12, 1 his last hope
gone, Charles Tuc was strapped
into the electric c: at Charles-

town and put to desth.

Note: The names Peter Carey,
Herbert Adams, Betty Wilmon,
Max Garson and George Miller, as
used in this story, are not real but
fictitious to protect innocent per-
sons.

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CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

ing that Carey could not possibly
have been in Weston on March 31.

Finally, the author’s handwriting
was in no wise similar to that in
which his name was inscribed on
the murder clue. He was released
from custody.

ACK in Weston, Neal and Ham-

mond had uncovered a bit of
personal history in their investiga-
tion of Charles Tucker which in-
terested Chief Shaw. Before going
to work for the railroad Tucker
had been employed in a stationery
store in Boston—and the place
was only a few blocks from Carey’s
garret studio.

Inquiry at the store revealed
that Carey had been a customer
in the place for several years, buy-
ine paper and other writing sup-
plies there. It was logical to
assume that Tucker had made the
young author’s acquaintance while
a clerk in the shop.

At Shaw’s request, the manager
of the store searched his files and
produced a quantity of sales slins
which Tucker had written while
he was a clerk there. It took only
a glance at the curious back-slant-
ed script to recognize it as iden-
tical with that on the slip of paper
found near the body of Mabel
Page! :

“Charles Tucker is the murderer,
all right.” Shaw told the detec-
tives. “He left that slip of paver
at the scene in a deliberate effort
to implicate Carey.”

“But what about the motive?”
Whitney asked.

“It’s obvious that Tucker had
been brooding over the refusal of
Mabel Page to see him. It’s entire-
ly possible he got rid of his- wife
so that he could be free to court
Mabel, and the realization that he
had committed the first murder
in vain must have driven him
frantic.”

“That sounds logical,” Whitney
agreed. “But just why did he kill
the Page girl?”

“Tucker doubtless bided his
time,” the chief went on, “waiting
for an opportunity to’ confront
Mabel alone. He probably had been
watching the house for days. On
that fatal Thursday he saw his
chance—the father, brother and
maid all were out. The front door
was unlocked and he entered un-
announced.

“In a moment he was in the
girl’s room, demanding a show-
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I can’t have you,’ he must have

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CASE OF THE

UPSTAIRS COR

by David George

Te HOUSE WAS QUIET when silver-haired Ed-

ward Page stepped inside, closing the door against a
cold March wind. He sighed: with pleasure. Weston,
Mass.,-was_a_.quiet. community, and his was a quiet home

‘pulse, Failing to find it, he let go her arm and it fell
limply back to the floor. .

ears sprang from his eyes as he tugged to loosen the
high ruffled collar of his daughter’s dress. He pulled his

—a man of. 77 appreciated such- simple-peacefulness.

Page, a retired merchant and a widower, doffed his
overcoat and, rubbing his bony hands together briskly,
headed for the kitchen. After ‘his morning constitutional,
he felt like having a snack, washed down with a glass
of cider.

As he sat there, sipping the cider, he realized that the
house was unusually quiet. Nothing surprising about that
—Amy Roberts, his middle-aged housekeeper, was in the
village shopping, Harold, his only son,.was in Boston
on business, and his daughter Mabel was no doubt in her
bedroom.

his nerves. ¢

He walked into the living room where, just before he
went for his stroll, Amy had been sewing. Her needle-
work basket stood on the table next to her empty chair.
Edward Page sat down in a high-backed rocker and
picked up the book he was reading. But ‘finally the si-
lence sounded ‘louder than a thunderstorm would have,
and he went to the staircase. ,

Mabel ?” he called. ,

There was no reply. :

Fearful that the girl might be ill, Page ascended the
stairs as rapidly as he dared with his bad heart. At the
end of the hall, the door to Mabel’s room stood ajar. He.
stopped abruptly at the threshold, and clutched the wood-
work for support.

The body of his dark-haired daughter lay on the floor
beside the bed, her black taffeta dress neatly arranged
and her slim hands carefully crossed “over her bosom.
Except for the unnatural stillness of her voluptuous
figure, ‘she might have been asleep. But her large brown
eyes were opened wide, staring fixedly at the ceiling,

Page entered the room and stooped to feel the girl’s

een

Under the dress there was blood,

INSIDE IETECTIVE,
November, 1950.

All the same, the unbroken stillness got on.

hand-away- qui t-his-fingers, stained with
blood.

Sobbing now, Page tore open the collar, baring a jagged
wound across the base of the girl’s throat.

An ugly word stabbed his consciousness—suicide ! But
why? What young woman had more to live for?

Sick at heart, the father staggered back from the bed.
For some days past, it was true, Mabel had been strangely
morose. Almost instinctively he stared around the room,
seeking the weapon she had used. He found-none, but on
the carpet three yards from the body he discovered a
small slip of paper bearing the name “Gerald Spade” and

an address on Beacon Street, Boston, written in long-
hand with blue ink. He could. not recognize the -back-
handed writing.

Moving over to the dresser, Page found a sheet of his
daughter’s scented stationery folded beneath a cologne
bottle. Opening it, he read a note in her familiar grace-
ful hand.

“Dear Papa—Have just learned that Harold is seriously

ill in Boston, Must go to him at once. Will call you
when I know more. In haste, with love—Mabel.”
‘. All this was far beyond his understanding—Mabel
dead, his son ill. The bewildered father made his way
downstairs and telephoned the family physician, Dr, H. B.
Frost. Then he summoned his nearest neighbor, Mrs.
Emily Woodward.

She arrived first and attempted to comfort Pagé in his
grief until Dr. Frost appeared, accompanied by Dr. Julian

_A. Mead, the Middlesex County medical examiner, whom
Frost had notified.

After a careful examination of the body, ‘Dr. Mead.
turned to Page, a puzzled frown on his brow. “What made
you believe that your daughter (Continued on page 54)

ive ¥ LOE b 7 } 2 4 A ‘s. 7] oO anmera ae vy ed oo eo
TAYLOR, Archibald and Joseph, hanged Boston, MA, 5-8-1788,

ae ee en a emt ee oo ee a

__BeBt-f788. ; ; Boston... Friday, AReHIBALD TAYLOR and doserrt TAYLoR,
asad eae aaa a whom we mentioned in a lcte paper ae hauling been :
Be glow _

Convicted of Highway Robbery, were at aa Hon. Supreme.

-— Sudieih Court then sitting and hud senfence of DEATH pronounced
2 against thee. (Thee, had rricbed Majer Cunninghaws on Boston Neck.)

eT i ee al ———"" Faleaea Re aee eer eweatem eee

eS EN a ke ere eens - 0

5121788. __ Boston. _ _ On Thuesdexy eftemeon ArctiBaLp IAYLoR and JoserH
wks Pca tl lal TAYLOR were executed on Boston Neck agreeabhy to.
[POAALU __ their semtternes fir the crime. of highway robbery committed on He. Cunning ho ——

a £ ere ___ Semetine since. At half pat two o'clock the criminals were tuken from the 90 |
ed ip yeild by the Rev. Messrs. Stilloan and Thacher and the respective shecrifs,
a oe toyuther with o. large. concourse of people. who had assembled onthe melanchaly
_ occaaion. They moved on sloly to the place where the robbery was committed,
3 _ preceeded by the County Stase’ on which they were to make their exit. In
____. about forty minutes they arvived at the tatal spot where they corttinsed fora
__ Feu minates conversing with the Reverend Divilés.andthen ascended the =
‘Stage. The necessary appurclus being prepared, and the helters fixed around
thelr necks, the Rev. Me. Stillman addressed the throne. of Grace in a well
ae adapted prayer, The unhappy men, after Teking leave of those around them,
_ and addeessing themselves in @ Few words to the spectitors, cautioning them
+o shun these crimes, the practice of which had brought thee to an unhappy
_ end, ond purticularly warning them oginst Keeping bad. company » gawe notice
Of theie bei ready ; when in an instant they were tumed oF F while in Supplicaction
to bad For the accaptance of their departing souls. gee ee a
— Arehibald Taylor was a native of Philadelphia and was in the 3Ist your of
his ae. Uesiph Tay was a native of Ireland and wes about 24 years old. The

- —_ Sormer bay been a nobrious OHender, =

gone only
ity feet in
isterly di-
vhen the
slutched
i’s hand
d stopped
Before
tled eyes
orm of a
id beauti-
Her first
n was that
vas asleep,
see that it

et pointing
ed but her
he woman
uttering in

vas face-to-
t first, took

opening scene
ystery—Salis-
h, Massachu-
was here, on
ing of June
that the body
‘ale was found
pot indicated
sss. (Above)
photo of the
zlasses—found
nd a few feet
corpse—which

linked the
) the crime

HERBERT HALL TAYLOR

formerly of the
Providence Journal

precedence over every other emotion. What fiend in
human shape had committed this vile deed? Overcom-
ing a natural repugnance she approached a step nearer,
where she could look into the face of the dead girl,
shuddering a little as she did so. It wasa beautiful face—
but one wholly unknown to her. She could not recall
ever having seen this girl on the beach. Who was she and how
long had she been lying there?

Intuitively, she glanced about for a weapon of some kind—

some weapon that had probably been used by the murderer,
but there was none. Only the silent form lay outstretched in
the path of ocean breezes, a pathetic figure on the lonely
strand.

Grasping the child’s hand still tighter, the woman hurried
from the frightful scene. Stumbling along with trembling
limbs that seemed momentarily unable to support her, she
reached the store of Pasquale Manchetti where, in excited,
almost hysterical tones, she imparted the news of her grue-
some, discovery.

“THERE'S a murdered girl on the beach!’’ she gasped as
she sank into a chair. ‘‘Such a beautiful, girl, too.
You must call the police at once.”

Manchetti stared at her unbelievingly. It was incredible.
“I'll go back with you and see,”’ he responded, but Mrs.
De Franco demurred. ‘‘No, No,” she protested, quickly.
“T can’t bear to see her again. It’s the truth, I tell you. Call
the police.”

Without waiting for a reply, she arose and hastily departed.
At the bowling alley she again told the story of what she had
beheld to Mrs. Kerrins, wife of the proprietor. Both Man-
chetti and Mrs. Kerrins notified the Salisbury Police Depart-
ment.

Police officers James Hughes and James E. Kelley jumped
into the police car and made a record-breaking run to the

Stella Kale, who went for a stroll among a holiday crowd at
Salisbury Beach on the night of Sunday June 5th, 1927, little
knowing that she was about to keep a rendezvous with Death

beach. They pulled up in front of the bowling alley, where a
little group of excited women had congregated. Mrs. De
Franco, who had somewhat recovered her composure, was
able to tell a more coherent story. She indicated the spot
where she had beheld the ghastly spectacle, and the officers
whirled rapidly up the beach.

The tale of the Italian woman was only too true. Before
them on the white sand, with disordered clothing, lay what a
short time before had been a beautiful girl. Even the hard-
boiled policemen, accustomed as they were to scenes of vio-
lence, could not repress 2xclamations of pity as they gazed
sorrowfully upon the victim of as foul a crime as ever stained
the criminal records of Massachusetts. Then a feeling of anger
swept over them and involuntarily their thoughts turned to
the unknown perpetrator of the outrage. They realized the
importance of being first at the scene of the crime. Valuable
clues might be carelessly obliterated. They were careful to
disturb nothing before the arrival of their superior officer.

“Tt’s pretty evident,”’ Kelley pointed out, “that the girl was
not killed somewhere else and brought here. These marks
in the sand indicate a struggle. Strange nobody saw it, or
heard her scream, although to be sure there’s not many on
the beach so early in the morning.”’

Hughes got a small blanket from the car and tenderly laid
it over the dead girl, pausing a moment to examine her dis-
colored countenance as he did so. ‘‘She may have been lying
here all night,”’ he observed, shrewdly.

Observing the pieces apparently cut from the girl’s
bloomers, and not wishing to disturb them, the officers

George E. H., white, elec. MA (Essex) March 6, 1929

hii.

The CLUE of the

WHO held the invisible key to the

UGGINGthe
New Hamp-
shire state

line in the
extreme northeast-
ern portion of
Massachusetts, is
Salisbury Beach.
The walks of
Salisbury Beach on
Sunday evening,

black puzzle which shrouded the
murder of beautiful Stella Kale?
The sleuths didn’t know . .. Then
the tip: “Find the dancing barber!”

They had gone only
about eighty feet in
a south-easterly di-
rection when the
woman clutched
the child's hand
tightly and stopped
suddenly. Before
her startled eyes
lay the form of a
young and _ beauti-

June 5th, 1927,
were lined with care-
free merrymakers
intent upon snatching last moments of amusement from a
gala week-end which now was drawing to a close.

Children, contentedly munching candy, straggled after
parents enjoying the cool breeze which rolled in from the
ocean. Occasional groups stopped before the show window
of the beach photographer critically to survey his exhibition
of pictorial pulchritude.

Young couples sauntered arm-in-arm toward the beach
itself, unmindful of the painted signs that proclaimed their
passing of the Ocean View Lunch Room, the Arcadia Bath
House, Kelly's Hotel, the Ocean Echo dance-hall and the
Kerrins’ Bowling Alley.

Behind the photographic studio towered the twisting
supports of a roller coaster.

Surely a carnival scene; a stage set for gayety.

Yet, some macabre fate that night, while jollity was at its
peak, chose Salisbury Beach as the incongruous locale for
one of the most diabolically violent crimes that ever revolted
the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

At about 7:30 A. M. the next day, Mrs. Angelina
De Franco, an Italian woman, accompanied by a
small child, started out for a stroll on Salisbury Beach.
Although it was a beautiful, sunny day, cooled by a
zest{ul breeze from the ocean, the resort at that early
Monday hour was almost deserted. *

Strolling past the concessions, the pair reached the
Venetian Garden Hotel and turned onto the beach

ed Sa ONT TAT TET AE

ful girl. Her first
impression was that
the girl was asleep,
but upon approaching closer she was horrified to see that it
was a dead body upon which she was gazing.

The girl on the sand was lying on her back, her feet pointing
in the direction of the ocean. She was fully clothed but her

‘blue dress was torn badly and her bloomers, the woman

noticed, had been cut and pieces of them were fluttering in
the breeze.

It was at once apparent to the woman that she was face-to-
face with the victim of a brutal murder. Horror at first took

(Left)The opening scene
of the mystery—Salis-
bury Beach, Massachu-
setts. It was here, on
the morning of June
6th, 1927, that the body
of Stella Kale was found
on the spot indicated
by the cross. (Above)
An actual photo of the
dark sun-glasses—found
on the sand a few feet
from the corpse—-which
eventually linked the
_ killer to the crime

56 True Detective Mysteries

heaped sand upon the bits of cloth to hold them in place.

In close proximity they found a rosary, a small note-book,
an envelope, a pencil, a handkerchief and a compact-case.
Within a few feet of the body was a pair of dark-colored sun-
glasses.

Although they had made only a superficial examination of
the body, they concluded, from the presence of severe bruises
om the neck, that the girl had been strangled. Both com-
mented upon the unusual beauty of the victim, who in addi-
tion to a pretty face, possessed an almost perfect figure. She
was, they judged, about twenty years of age.

LEAVING Hughes in charge, Kelley returhed to Salisbury

to report the tragedy to the chief of police of that town.
During his absence a rapidly-increasing crowd gathered. No
one, however, was able to identify the girl. In about twenty
minutes Kelley returned with Chief Sidney Smith. The
Chief collected the articles found on the beach and carefully
wrapped them in a paper, instructing his men to note each
item carefully. In that paper package might lay the solution
to the mystery, possibly some clue that would send a man to
the electric chair. It was a package which he would guard
with extreme care.

The crowd by this time had reached gigantic proportions
and busy tongues were wagging industriously. The morbidly
curious struggled to gain a vantage point.

Among late-comers attracted to the scene was ‘a well-
dressed man, apparently about fifty-five years of age. El-
bowing his way through the crowd he beckoned to the Chief.
He was Arthur Williants;
owner of a photographic
studio on the beach. It
was then about 8:30
o'clock, an hour after the
body of the murdered girl
had been discovered.

“A fellow just came into
the studio, Chief,” said
Williams, ‘‘and asked ‘me
if I had heard of the mur-
der on the beach. I told
him my girl had been out
all night—a thing that had
never happened before—,
and that I'd drive down
here with him. I'll see if
I can identify the girl, if
you'll let me get where I
can see her.”’

The Chief cleared a
path for him. The body,
with the exception of the
face, was covered by the
blanket. Williams stared
intently for'a moment: in
utter silence. Then he
said, abruptly: ‘“The face is
so blue and puffed-up that
I am not certain. Pull
down the blanket, will
you?”

THE Chief uncovered the
body. ZL’

Williams gazed at it for only a brief instant. “That's
her,”’ he declared; “the girl that has been working for me.
Her name is Stella/Kale. That's the dress she had on the
last time I saw her.”’

“When was that?”

“At nine-thirty last night, when she left the studio saying
she was going for a walk.”

The body of Stella Kale was removed to O’Donnell’s under-
taking parlors at Amesbury where an autopsy was con-
ducted by Medical Examiners Daniel D. Murphy of Ames-

bury and Doctor Timothy Leary, a resident of Boston.

The post-mortem examination plainlyshowed evidence of
an attempted criminal assault. It also disclosed in addition
to the bruises on the neck, abrasions on both upper lids of the
girl’s eyes and hemorrhage to the membrane covering the
eyes—abrasions that might have been caused by the pressure
of fingers, or thumbs. :

There also was a wound on the hand which the doctors
said, ‘‘might well have been produced by tearing the metal
strap of a wrist watch down over the back of the hand.” The
physicians further announced that no weapon had been used
in the commission of the murder; that the marks on the body
had been imposed before her death, which they said had been
due to strangulation.

“We further found sand in the larynx,’ added Doctor
Murphy, ‘‘the presence of which indicates that the girl put
up a brave struggle for her honor and her life. The attempt
at criminal violation was unsuccessful. The girl was a virgin."

THis was the status of the mysterious murder when De-

tective Lieutenant Richard J. Griffin, of the Massachu-
setts State Police, was placed in charge of the investigation—
an assignment which was to send him hundreds of miles and

cause him many sleepless nights before he solved the strangest -

case in his long career as a police officer. And Griffin has
brought to a successful conclusion many of the, most impor-
tant criminal cases in Massachusetts. It is only.giving him a
proper introduction to say that his efficiency as a detective
has long been recognized by his associates and his superiors.

Street scene in the Massachusetts resort, showing the territory in which

Stella Kale was last seen alive

In 1904, he was a member of the Haverhill Police Department
and is still a valuable ally to the local force with whom he has
always worked in harmony. He is never “high-hat” nor
“up-stage’” and to everybody in Haverhill, where he has re-
sided for many years, he is always ‘‘Dick.”

Now I'd like to give you a brief sketch of the victim and
the facts which led up to her presence on Salisbury Beach
before following Detective Griffin in his quest for the mur-
derer.

About fifteen years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Pomykala

pevemiseunbemetiamnes

arrived ji:
country.

ing at N
Massachu:
Merrimac
100,000, a
(When I

found that
a two-fan
was attra
Of refinem:

HE Po:
lovelie
time of th
had just |
though Pol
American ;
kala. For
also usually
she perem;
was as Ste!
after)
Stanislau
Stella's ‘exa
name to'sor
directory hi
Mr. Pomyk

loving his h

Williams’ Phx
to the hour at
proprietor of t

cially fond o
fact that she
school, an-ho

her accompli:
Stella was m

uted to her |

As an evic
had presente:
with a ruby

vithout turn-
fore 6 o’clock
> 8th, a man
much sought
th Conway,
> time word
and that of-
already dis-

police drag-
irance at the
nchester the

in to Sher-
still another
Ireds of tips
o avail. All
month had
information
of the man
“Imer Harri-

July 5th, a
»cked on the
little village
-seven miles
ximately the
dian line.
vas pleasant
was obvious
he door that
lot of trou-
to eat.
netic and in-

e gave him a
e grate-
@: house
Fne things

ions.
considerable
cided to call
Holmes.

ce, “I’ve got
who doesn't
iis hunch of
better if you
him.”

tos stolen in
eriff Holmes
ler wouldn't
ver,” he told

owever, the

direction he’
on overtook
he stranger.
Lewis, but
is identity.
r arrest for
county jail
om the vil-

‘ith him at
earn some-
t very little
who called
ive enough.
the sheriff
s remained
ity. Finally
t Vermont
at Mont-

as he could
then asked
<. The state
investigate.
riff Holmes
‘d seen the
i the Salis-
struck him
he descrip-

Bureau

fistance

im out,
ce. He car-
the barber
Maine.
Montpelier

* k, arriving

there about 8 o'clock at night. The man
who called himself Harry Lewis was
brought from his cell by Guard William
Crowell.

Detective Griffin took one look at him and
said, “How are you, Taylor? Do you re-
member me?”

The prisoner said he’d never seen the
officer before.

“You’ve seen me,” Griffin told him, “in
Eastport, Maine.”

“I was never in Eastport, Maine,” the
man answered. “And I never saw you any-
where.”

“You were in Eastport, Maine, all right,”
Griffin insisted. “You worked in a barber
shop there and you lived in a rooming
house. A boy in that rooming house made
this sketch of you,” he added, taking the
drawing from his pocket and showing it
to “Lewis.”

_ The prisoner looked at it, but said noth-
ing.

“You went by the name of George Tay-
lor in Eastport,” Griffin continued. “Is that
your right name?”

The man finally admitted that he did use
that name sometimes.

“And you're a barber, aren’t you?”

“I’ve worked as a barber,” the suspect
said, “but I’m also a tailor’s helper.”

Griffin handed the man a piece of paper
and a pencil and told him to write the
name George Good and after it Caribou,
Maine.

The prisoner did as he was told, but
asked how to spell Caribou.

Griffin told him to write it the way he
thought it should be spelled.

He wrote it Carbou, without the “i.”

The detective looked at the writing and
smiled. “Now we've got something,” he told
Brown. “This man registered at a hotel in
Belfast, Maine, and signed his name George
Good. He put his address as Caribou and
left out the ‘i’ when he signed the register.”

Turning to the prisoner, Griffin said,
“You worked in a barber shop in Belfast.

_ We know who you worked for and all about

you. Now what’s your right name?”

“Taylor,” the prisoner said.

Griffin asked him to roll up his right
sleeve and let him see his arm. When this
was done the tattoo with the clasped hands,
plerced heart and initials “E, T.” were re-
vealed. He explained that the initials stood
for a girl’s name. He’d met her while
working for a circus.

The state detective then made a full
identification of himself and told Taylor
that he’d been working on the Stella Kale
murder case. “I think you’re the man who
strangled that girl,” he said. “That’s a se-
rious charge and I want you to know any-
thing you say to me I can use against you.
I want you to get that clearly understood.”

The suspect said that he understood, all
right.

He then told Detective Griffin that his
right name was George Taylor; that he
had been born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1882;
that he was a good buck-and-wing dancer;
and that he had been in Hampton Beach
on June 4th.

“I worked in a barber shop in Hampton
Beach all day Saturday and up until noon
Sunday,” Taylor said. “I bought . some
witch-hazel and drank it.”

“You also bought a pair of sun glasses in
a drug store,” Griffin added.

“No, I didn’t buy any sun glasses,” Tay-
lor said,

Griffin didn’t argue the point. “After you
left Massachusetts you went to New Hamp-
shire,” he told the prisoner. “A man gave
you a ride outside Kensington and you
sold him a watch that you said had be-
longed to your wife. Is that right?”

Taylor admitted it was.

“When Stella Kale was murdered she
was robbed of her watch and also a ring
with a red atone setting. What happencc

Y hae .

to the ring?” Griffin asked the suspect.

“I don’t know anything about a ring with
a red setting. I never had one.”

Griffin asked him where he’d gotten the
watch,

“I don’t remember,” Taylor told him. “I
didn’t know I had it until I found it in my
pocket while I was walking along a road in
New Hampshire.”

“Taylor,’ Detective Griffin asked, “were
il at Salisbury Beach on Sunday, June

t da

“No. I bought that witch-hazel in Hamp-
Ae Beach. I don't know what I did after
that.”

“Do you remember where you spent
Sunday night, June 5th?”

“Yes, in Boston. Four men gave me a
ride there. I stayed in Boston that night.
The next day the same four men gave me
a ride to New Hampshire.”

George Taylor named many other towns
in which he’d stayed while the police were
looking for him. He also said that he’d
waive extradition and return to Massa-
chusetts with Detective Griffin.

Back in Salisbury Beach George Taylor
was placed in the line-up along with seven
other men. He was identified by several
concessionaires and policemen as the man
they had seen there on Sunday night, June
5th. The drug store man from Hampton
Beach identified him as the one who had
bought witch-hazel and sun glasses. The
New Hampshire man to whom he had sold
the wrist watch for three dollars also iden-
tified him.

After Detective Griffin fingerprinted the
prisoner he told Roscoe C. Hill, Chief of
the State Criminal Identification Bureau,
that he thought Taylor’s actions were those
of an old hand at crime. When the finger-
prints were checked with the files it was
discovered that they matched those of a
man convicted of robbery in West Vir-
ginia. He had been sentenced to 5 years
in prison. At that time he used the name
Elmer Thompson. That tallied with the

tattoo initials on his arm and turned out |.

to be the prisoner’s correct name. This
same Thompson had been wanted in con-
nection with the murder of a 12-year-old
boy who had been beaten and choked to
death in Buffalo, New York. That ex-
plained why he had used so many different
aliases. There was a $1,000 reward for his
capture in connection with his possible
complicity in that case.

Despite the fact that the prisoner’s name
was Elmer Thompson he was arraigned
in the District Court at Amesbury, Massa-
chusetts, on July 13th under the name of
George Elmer Taylor. He pleaded “not
guilty” to the charge of murdering Stella
Kale by strangulation. The Grand Jury
returned an indictment without the slight-
est hesitation early in the afternoon of
September 16th. ' :

The trial opened on October 10th. Taylor
took the stand in his own defense and told
the court that on the afternoon preceding
the murder he had consumed a_ large
amount of liquor and also three pints of
witch-hazel. After his last drink, around
3:30 Sunday afternoon, he claimed he had
no further recollection of what happened.
He said the next thing he recalled was
waking up in Boston.

The jury found him guilty of murder in
the first degree and he was sentenced to
death in the electric chair.

The usual appeal was made, but the con-
viction was upheld and Governor Frank C.
Allen refused to interfere.

The murderer of Stella Kale walked
calmly to the chair, unassisted, on March
6th, 1929.

Epitor’s NOTE:
The name Ralph Winters is fictitious.

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present out looking

au Kurten’s husband
One of the officers
it for several mo-
into the hall where
. When he returned
to his companions
- She says there’s
1our wait for Kur-
oartment, the police
ind found a single
rafter over one of
also found, in the
{ bureau drawer, a
he initials “I, R.”
r to one worn by
» she was murdered.
a box of stationery
the man who had
r telling where the
Vanders would be

tood examining the
nt, mild-mannered
blue eyes and thin,
‘ed in the doorway
instantly recognized
' officers, and said
“You were bound

or later. I knew
hose letters. But I
There is something
me do these things.
for me to do more

1e had been unable
to turn him over
' could collect the
» in marks that had
authorities for his

ere never able to
of the murders laid
was actually guilty
during the weeks
he was asked about
major crimes. The
other than those
» since the slaying
September of 1929,
ide Alherman, who
«ed and blydgeoned
“Maria Hahn, whose
il now been an un-

»t guilty by reason
ed by the lawyers
he killer before he
| of 1932. Although
nost unanimous in
suffered from some
abberation that led
commit his awful
was made to prove
the nature of his
same acts were

in conection with
vhich he was tried.
lozen of the score
used of attempting
on the stand. All
monster who. for
‘ity in a thrall of

the trial com-
in the Police Drill
May 2nd, 1932, re-
tuilty in the ten
Kurten stood trial.
ation for mercy
sentenced him

who brought death
iis path along the
ts of the city was
th later.

Tue Enp

THE GIRL ON THE BEACH

(Continued from page 41)

made a complete examination of the sun
glasses found near the dead girl’s body.
The frames and bows were made of simu-
lated tortoise shell. The amber lenses were
convex, as though ground.

The two officers studied the glasses under
a microscope. “Neither the glass nor the
frame shows much wear,” Stokes com-
mented. “They haven’t seen much use
from the looks of it.”

“And they're going to be almost impos-
sible to identify,” Griffin added. “Our-can-
vass shows that nobody in Salisbury Beach
sold them.”

The next stop was Hampton Beach.
Lieut. Griffin wanted a package of ciga-
rettes, so they entered the first drug store
they came to. The first thing that hit their
eyes was a display card holding eleven
pairs of sun glasses of various hues. The
card had contained twelve—one was miss-
ing. Both Griffin and Stokes could see
that these glasses were similar to the pair
they were trying to trace.

Griffin bought a package of cigarettes
from the proprietor and then motioned to
the sun glasses card. ‘“Doesn’t look like
they’re selling too well this time of the
year,” he said.

The proprietor gave him his change. “It’s
a little early in the season,” he said. “I’ve
only sold one pair.”

“Do you recall the person who bought
them?” Griffin asked.

“It happens I do. He was in here Sun-
day afternoon. I didn’t know him, but he
tried the — on twice and looked at
himself a long time in the mirror before
he bought them. I remember he said, ‘You
wouldn’t know me now, would you?’ when
he had them on. He also bought a bottle
of witch-hazel.”

Lieut. Stokes showed the proprietor the
glasses that had been found by the police
on the beach.

After a careful examination the dru
store man said they were identical wit
those on the card. He furnished a full
description of the man who had purchased
them. It tallied with that of the mystery
man at Salisbury Beach.

“Come to think of it,” the proprietor,
said, “that fellow came in here a second
time. He bought another bottle of witch-
hazel later.”

“What did he want so much witch-hazel
for?” Griffin asked. “Do you think he
could Have been drinking it?”

The drug store man smiled. “Could be,”
he said. “It’s been done.”

“When was he in the first time?”

“About noon. Then he came in again
in the middle of the afternoon.” |

Griffin asked if the man had appeared
to be drunk either time.

“No,” the proprietor answered, “I
wouldn’t say he was drunk, but he did a
lot of talking and acted queer. He asked
what kind of place Salisbury Beach was
and after that said that he was going over
there.”

The drug store man didn’t remember
anything else about the customer. They
thanked him and left.

The men at the Casino barber shop said
no one answering the description of the
person Stokes and Griffin were seeking had
ever been employed there.

“It’s still possible that half of his story is
true,” Stokes said to his partner. “The guy
a be a barber. Let's check the other
shops.”

e owners of several establishments
were questioned. Fi one man thought
he remembered such a person.

“I think your man came in here last

Friday,” this witness stated. “I told him
we didn’t need anybody. He left, but he

came back in Saturday. We were quite |

busy so I put him to work. He stayed at
my place Saturday night and worked until
noon Sunday. He wasn’t a bad barber.
One of my men asked for the week off and
since this man was available I gave my
regular barber the time off. This new fel-
low I hired didn’t show up after noon on
Sunday.”

The owner of the barber shop went on
to say the man had left a comb and scis-
sors there and also some other things at
his house.

When the two state detectives searched
the room the barber had occupied they
founda pair of shoes, a shirt and a collar
and tie.

“What name did this man use? Griffin
asked.

a Harris,” the barber shop owner
said.

Neither the collar nor the shirt bore
any laundry marks.

When Griffin and Stokes had finished
questioning the witness they had a fairly
complete description of the man they were
seeking. He was thought to be a little
over 40 years old, weighed in the neigh-
borhood of 160 pounds, was about five
feet six inches tall. His complexion was
dark, sallow. He wore a small mustache.
The most important mark of identification,
however, was a tattoo on the inner side of
his right forearm. This design showed a

air of clasped hands and a heart pierced
4 ~ dagger. Above this were the letters,

This information was turned over to the

‘ newspapers and published throughout New

England together with a photograph of the
sun glasses found on the beach. The
Commonwealth of Massachusetts offered a
reward of $1,000 for information leading to
the capture of the murderer. The select-
men of Salisbury added $500 to that
amount.

Among those who read the stories in
the papers was a youth in Eastport, Maine.
He studied the description of the suspect
carefully and concluded that a man who
had roomed in his father’s house, and
called himself George Taylor, came quite
close to answering it. The boy’s father
had met him in the barber shop where
“George Taylor’ had worked. The man
was a pretty good buck-and-wing dancer.
He had told Eastport people that he was
a performer and had traveled with sev-
eral carnival shows. He gave his full name
as George Elmer Harrison Taylor.

The boy also remembered something
else. While the man was staying in his
father’s house the youth had made a pen
and ink sketch of him. The barber had
thought it a good likeness and compliment-
ed him on it. He sorted through a lot of
old drawings and managed to find the
long forgotten picture. After comparing
it with the description of the wanted man
in the newspaper the youth was satisfied
that the man he had known as Taylor was
the barber suspect that they were looking
for.

His father suggested he mail the draw-
ing to Lieut. Griffin. “The papers say
there’s no photo of the wanted man,” he
had told his son, “and there’s a $1500 re-
ward for information leading to his 3
ture. Maybe your sketch will help the
police. You might even get part of the
reward.”

The boy followed his father’s suggestion
and also forwarded a letter telling all his
family knew about Taylor.

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wpe

Murdered girl’s friends carry
her casket from the church

tell Lieutenant Griffin he had
given Stella a ring with a ruby
setting and also a wrist watch.
Neither piece of jewelry had
been found on her. body.

The state officer asked Ralph
Winters about these items early
the following morning.

“Yes,” the employer an-
swered. “I knew about the
wrist watch and the ring with
the red stone her father had
given her. She wore both of
them all the time and was
doubtless wearing them Sun-
day night.”

A check-up at the jewelry
store where they had been
He pam now provided Grif-

with the case and move-
ment numbers of the Waltham
wrist watch. He turned these
over to newspapers throughout
Massachusetts and asked them
to publicize the numbers and
description and ask anyone who
knew anything about such a watch to come forward with
their information.

Lieutenant John Stokes, later to become state police
commissioner, joined hands with Griffin and the Salisbury
police in a determined effort to solve the brutal murder.

All suspicious characters who were known to have been
in the vicinity of the beach resort were brought in and
questioned. Men who were known to have been drunk
after 9:30 Sunday night were given the same going-over.
All shops selling sun glasses were canvassed.

While this was going on a girl who had known Stella
Kale came forward with an explanation for the “It’s All
Over”, “Daddy” and “Jimmie” written on the envelope
found near the body.

“I wasn’t with Stella,” this witness stated, “but I saw
her at an orthophonic concert on the beach Saturday
night. ‘Its All Over’, ‘Jimmie’ and ‘Daddy’ were numbers
played by the musicians. I think Stella made notations of
them as numbers she especially liked.”

A subsequent investigation showed the girl to be
correct about those numbers having been played at the
concert the previous Saturday. No clue there.

The canvass of the immediate neighborhood turned up
one woman who told Officer Eugene Berry she had been
— on Sunday. night by a girl screaming on the

ach.

“About what time did that happen?” John Stokes.

asked when he questioned her.

“I know it was at just nine minutes after 10,” the
woman replied. “I’m so sure because I turned on the
lights and looked at the clock.”

More than usual importance was placed on this state-
ment because the medical examiner had estimated that
Stella Kale had died somewhere around that time. *

One of the concessionaires reported that he had ob-
served a suspicious looking stranger near the roller
coaster. “He’d been drinking heavily,” this witness said,
“and seemed to be looking for trouble. That was about
9:15 Sunday night. I went over to him and told him the
roller coaster was closed. He mumbled something, but
moved on down, the boardwalk. I saw Stella Kale walk

the boards in that same direction shortly afterward.”
“Could you identify that man if you saw him. again?”.:»
Stokes asked. ‘
“Certainly, I could,” the concessionaire replied. “He
was in his early forties, medium height, bald, moderate
build. He had a small mustache and was wearing
tortoise-shell sun glasses with yellow lenses.”

John Stokes shook his head. “That’s important in-

formation,” he said. “Why didn’t you come .to us with —

it before?”

“IT realize I should have,” the witness agreed, “but I’m
one for minding my own business. We see a lot of odd
people here on the beach. I didn’t think anything about
this man until I talked with another concessionaire. He’d
noticed this guy, too. Said he’d seen him in front of the
dance hall doing a few simple buck-and-wing dance

steps. Later he tried to strike up an acquaintance with |

a girl. She wasn’t interested. After I heard about that
I decided it was important to talk with you.”

Several officers on duty at and near the beach on
Sunday night recalled seeing this same man. One of them

- had seen him around 9 o’clock wearing sun glasses and

then again around 11 o’clock without the glasses.

Stokes asked this officer from which direction the man
was walking when he wasn’t wearing glasses. —

“He was coming from the direction in which the girl’s
body was found,” the policeman remembered.

A further check-up on this man uncovered the fact that
still another police officer had been asked about a good
place to eat by a man answering the same description.

“I referred him to.a diner across the square,” the
policeman told Stokes. “Later he asked me about car
service to Hampton Beach. He said he was a barber
working at the Casino there and he didn’t want to miss
the last bus back.” :

Stokes asked if the man'in question was wearing glasses
when he asked about the bus to Hampton Beach. The
policeman couldn’t be sure on that point.

Stokes and Griffin decided to go to Hampton Beach at
once.

Before leaving, however, they (Continued on page 71)

The first definite clue as to the suspect’s
whereabouts came from Kensington, New
Hampshire. A man from that town was
driving near Hampton Falls Hill when he
overtook a man walking and stopped to
give him a ride.

The hitchhiker told this man his name
was Hill, that he was from Pittsburgh,
was a barber and that he was having a
hard time finding work.

“He was about 5 feet six inches tall and
weighed around 160 pounds,” this man told
police later. “He wore a blue coat, brown
trousers and black shoes. His complexion
was dark, almost swarthy, and he had a
small mustache. He said he hadn’t had
anything to eat for two days; and I gave
him part of my lunch.”

The most important part of this man’s
information, however, had to do with a
wrist watch.

“My wife is dead,” he had told the man
who picked him up. “I’ve got her watch
and I suppose I'll have to sell it. I paid
$20 for it.’

After they arrived in Kensington he
had brought the watch out. He offered to
sell it for three dollars.

“The watch had been in a wallet,” this

CASE CLOSED

witness told police, “and when he took the
watch out a ring with a red stone dropped
to the ground. He said the ring was his
wife’s, too, and put it back in his pocket.
I showed the watch to my wife. She liked
it, so I paid. this man three dollars for it.
Then he left.”

The next day the New Hampshire man’s
wife read a description of the wanted man
in the newspapers. The story also told
about the missing Waltham wrist watch
and listed its case and movement num-
bers. After checking these with the newly
acquired timepiece, she had told her hus-
band, “You’ve bought that murdered girl’s
watch.”

Her husband had left his work immedi-
ately dnd driven to Amesbury where he
turned the watch over to State Detective
William F. Murray and explained how he
got it.

Lieut. Griffin was notified and he started
out for New Hampshire. A police alarm
was broadcast throughout the New Eng-
land states. Massachusetts, New Hamp-
shire and Vermont officials launched the
greatest police manhunt in New England
history.

Aided by local officers, Griffin followed

by Joey Oakes

“Don’t worry, Spike. VI see that the right people get the money
now that you told me where you hid it!”

through on clue after clue without turn-
ing up his quarry. Shortly before 6 o'clock
on Wednesday evening, June 8th, a man
who was believed to be the much sought
after barber appeared in North Conway,
New Hampshire; but by the time word
had been flashed to Griffin and that of-
ficer arrived, the fugitive had already dis-
appeared.

This same man eluded the police drag-
net after putting in an appearance at the
101 Wild West Show in Manchester the
following Friday.

One false clue took Griffin to Sher-
brooke, Quebec, Canada and still another
sent him to Montreal. Hundreds of tips
were followed through to no avail. All
this took time and soon a month had
passed with still no definite information
as to the exact whereabouts of the man
who called himself George Elmer Harri-
son Taylor.

Then, on the morning of July 5th, a
weary, foot-sore traveler knocked on the
front door of a house in the little village
of Johnson, Vermont, thirty-seven miles
east of Burlington and approximately the
same distance from the Canadian line.

Although this stranger) was pleasant
mannered and soft spoken it was obvious
to the man who answered the door that
the caller had been through a lot of trou-
ble. He asked for something to cat.

The Vermonter was sympathetic and in-
vited the man inside where he gave him a
cup of coffee and some food. As the grate-
ful visitor ate the owner of the house
talked with him and some of the things
said aroused the host’s suspicions.

After giving the situation considerable
thought the Johnson man decided to call

_ his friend, Sheriff Edward E. Holmes.

“Ed,” he said in a low voice, “I’ve got
a fellow here in the house who doesn't
look right to me. Maybe this hunch of
mine is no good, but I'd feel better if you
came over and took a look at him.”

There had been several autos stolen in
the county recently; and Sheriff Holmes
thought a peek at the traveler wouldn't
do any harm. “I'll be right over,” he told
his friend.

By the time he arrived, however, the
stranger had gone.

The two men set out in the direction he
had started walking and soon overtook
him. The sheriff questioned the stranger.
He said his name was Harry Lewis, but
had nothing to establish his identity.
Sheriff Holmes put him under arrest for
vagrancy and took him to the county jail
at Hyde Park, some 5 miles from the vil-
lage of Johnson.

The county officer talked with him at
great length in an endeavor to learn some-
thing about his background, but very little
was accomplished. This man who called
himself Harry Lewis was talkative enough.
He said nothing, however, that the sheriff
could substantiate and Holmes remained
in the dark as to his true identity. Finally
the officer decided to contact Vermont
State Detective Edwin Brown at Mont-
pelier.

Holmes told Brown as much as he could
about the mystery prisoner and then asked
him if he’d come and take a look. The state
detective said he’d be there to investigate.

Brown talked first with Sheriff Holmes
and then with Harry Lewis. He’d seen the
circulars on the man wanted in the Salis-
bury Beach murder case and it struck him
that this man Lewis answered the descrip-
tion. The state detective called the Bureau
of Identification in Boston long distance
and talked with Detective Griffin.

The Massachusetts officer heard him out,
then left for Montpelier at once. He car-
ried with him the sketch of the barber
made by the youth in Eastport, Maine.

Griffin picked up Brown in Montpelier
and they drove over to Hyde Park, arriving

. .

there about 8 ~

who call
brought
Crowell.

Detective
said, “How ar:
member me?”

The prisone:
officer before.

“You've see:
Eastport, Main

“I was nevi
man answered
where.”

“You were |
Griffin insiste:
shop there a:
house. A boy
this sketch of
drawing from
to “Lewis.”

The prisone
ing.

“You went
lor in Eastpor
your right na:

The man fir
that name son

“And you'r:

“I've work:
said, “but I'm

Griffin han
and a pencil
name George
Maine.

The prison
asked how to

Griffin told
thought it sh:

He wrote i'

The detect:
smiled. “Now
Brown. “This
Belfast, Main:

Good. He pi

left out the ‘i

Turning tc
“You workec
We know wh
you. Now wl.

“Tayl .

Griffi
sleeve al™—"
was done the
pierced heart
vealed. He e>
for a girl's
working for .

The state
identification
that he'd be«
murder case
strangled th:
rious charge
thing you sa:
I want you t:

The suspec
right.

He then t
right name
had been bo:
that he was ;
and that he
on June 4th.

“I worked
Beach all d
Sunday,” T
witch-hazel

“You also
a drug store

“No, I did
lor said.

Griffin dic
left Massac}
shire,” he t
you a ride
sold him a
longed to y

Taylor ac

“When S
was robbe«!
with a red

apparently did not belong to the dead
girl.
St. John showed it to Shari Miller’s
friends and hit the jackpot when one
aid it looked like the one he fished out
f a trash bin and sate gave Shari as a
present. .
**It had the real prstiy snail design,”’

he said, That’ a what caught my atten-
~ tion.’ 4
items taken; from, Bradford’s

apartment—a set of knives, a key ring,
a belt and belt buckle and some jewel-
ry, were also identified as belonging to
Shari Miller... :

In mid-August, 1984, Bradford was
arrested for the murders of Shari Miller
and Tracey Campbell. Several days la-

ter he appeared in court and pleaded no ~

contest to the forcible rape of his form-
er girlfriend.
-Led off to prison to begin an eight-

year stretch, Bradford hotly denied he »

was guilty of the murders. of the two
aspiring models..

Defense attorneys took a few shots
of their own. ‘ “The prosecution has de-
scribed this case as a jigsaw puzzle,”’

said one in June of 1987. “‘Itis a jigsaw
puzzle that investigators first -de-

termined the shape of and then cut the .

pieces accordingly. They decided Bill
Bradford was guilty, then molded the
evidence to fit that conclusion.”’

They portrayed Shari Miller as a
loose-living, drug-using ‘‘biker lady’’
who could have been murdered by any
of a dozen potential suspects, including
a boyfriend with whom she had quar-
reled.

They said the fact that some of her
possessions were found in Bradford’s

apartment proved nothing, because she

was living out of her car and had a habit |

of storing things with friends, or barter-
ing goods for favors.

As for Campbell, an attorney in-
sisted, there is no evidence that Bill
took her anywhere, other than to the
corner.

He said the victims were murdered

_by different means—Miller with a

rope, Campbell with a leather
‘shoelace—at different times.

He said the fact that Tracey’s face
was covered with a snail design blouse

identified as belonging to Shari Miller
was not to be given much credibility
because, ‘‘The testimony was from a
‘rag picker and her friend’.

‘*The prosecution has no motive, no
direct physical evidence, linking Bill to
the slayings.’ '

Deputy District Attorney David
Conn who will prosecute the case,
agreed detectives had come up with no
fingerprints, blood or hair samples or a
murder weapon. ‘‘We also don’t havea
motive, because there is none,’’ he
said. ‘‘These are pointless murders.”’

Instead, the murders areJinked by a
profusion of circumstantial evidence,
that when viewed as a whole created. a
perfect picture of Bradford as the kil-
ler.

Conn said Bradford used the prom-
ise of a modeling career to lure the girls
into the deserts and ultimately to their
deaths.

A Los Angeles j jury will be presented
with the puzzle pieces and asked to —
draw their own conclusions. Until then
Bill Bradford must be considered inno-
cent of all charges againsthim. *

Ravished Redhead On Blood Beach

z drake fipticed at Salisbury Beach
and the’ Hampton Beach purchaser of
dark glasses matching: so closely,
Stokes and. Griffin, felt the. trail was

getting hot.

It was with highh hopes that they. hur-

_ ried to the casino barber shop. Howev-

er, no.one fitting the description was

theory to the end, the two officers pro-

ceeded to check all barber shops i in the...

town. They located one proprietor who

had some helpful information.

‘*A man such as you described came
in here: last. Friday: afternoon looking
for work,’’. he informed the in-

ged vestigators. **I told him there was no
’ opening.: He. came, back Saturday

morning and as one of my regular barb-
ers was out sick, I put this new man to

_ work, He was here until closing time. I

paid him for the day and told him to
drop by Monday and I would use him if
my regular man was still sick. He never
showed up.’

-\ The itinerant "barber had given his

name as Elmer Taylor and a fast check

rooming houses showed he had

_ *nt Friday, Saturday and Sunday
nights in a place on Elm Street.

The landlady said he had paid by the

-known there. Following ‘out their.

(continued from page 17)

day, so she had not been surprised
when he didn’t return to his room after
the week-end.

‘Information furnished by this
woman, the barber shop proprietor and
druggist gave Stokes and Griffin an

almost complete picture of the man’

they were’ seeking.

ly bald. Weighed perhaps 160 pounds.
Medium height. Dark, sallow com-
plexion. Small mustache.

Most important of all, he had a tattoo
design on his forearm: clasped hands
beneath a heart pierced by a dagger
with the letters ‘‘E.T.’’ above. :

The first lead came in from Eastport,
Me. A rooming house man there noti-
fied Massachusetts authorities that his
son, Harold Chute, had studied the de-
scription in the papers and was con-
vinced that a man who stayed at their
placed should be investigated.

’’He was using the name George
Taylor,’’ the elder Chute told Lieute-
nant Stokes over long distance. ‘‘I met
him in a barber shop where he was
working and he stayed with us a week
and moved on. One night ‘he did. a .
buck-and-wing dance for us. He
claimed he’d ‘been a vaudeville head-
liner at one. time.”’

The Eastport man said ‘his son
Harold was an amateur artist and that

- he had happened to make a sketch of
He was around 40 years old. Partial-

the barber. Since the police had no
photo and there was a substantial re-
ward, the boy wanted to forward the
drawing. Lieutenant Stokes was all for
it. The art work arrived and was repro-
duced in newspapers throughout the
northeast.

The next clue came from Plymouth,
N.H., where a man had picked up a
hitchhiker on Route 3.

“*He answers the description of the
Suspect you’re looking for,’’ the Ply-
mouth man said..‘‘While he was in the
car he told me he was broke and show-
ed me a wrist watch that he said be-
longed to his dead wife. He only
wanted $3.00 for it, so I bought it be-
cause it was a good Waltham.

**My wife had read about the murder .
of that girl at Salisbury Beach. She dug
out some old papers on the watch and

(continued on next page)

espe ant mmm cane ae

a ne rere eg ne ail

~ Ravished R

compared the numbers on the watch

_ .with those printed in.the stories. The
‘ time-piece I got from the hitchhiker is

the one you’re looking for!’’
Lieutenant Griffin hurried to New

Hampshire. After he had checked the

watch against the known numbers, a

_ police’alarm was broadcast throughout

New England for. the hitchhiker.
“Leads poured in, but nothing de-
veloped:: Lieutenant Griffin: went. to

~ Bennington, Vt., to check one clue.

Stokes traveled all the way to Canada

_ to'interview a prisoner there. Dozens of
' \.bald-headed' men ‘with ‘a small mus-:
_tache were questioned. __

_ ‘)Then,/on the morning of July 5, a
farmer-near the small town of Johnson:
in northern Vermont answered a knock :
on his door to face a bedraggled stran-:

ger who asked for something to eat.

to what he had to say. It was obvious to
the farmer that the vagrant was running

away from something. The benefactor |

thought about the man after he had left
and decided to tell his friend Sherriff
Edward E. Holmes about the visitor.

_ The Lamoille County officer lis-
tened interestedly and, on learning that

the hungry traveler had headed toward
Route:15, he set out to patrol that high-
way. Soon he picked up a man who told
him that his name was Edward Town-

send but-could produce no means of

identification. — . hie)

-Lengthy questioning aroused the
county officer’s suspicions even more.
He held thé vagrant and contacted the
Vermont State Detective Edwin Brown
in Montpelier.

“*T’ll come. over and take a look,”’
the latter offficer said. ‘‘Meantime,
keep putting questions to him.”’

Detective Brown was fully ac-
quainted with the unsolved murder at
Salisbury Beach, Mass. One look at the

a man who called himself Edward Town- —

send satisfied Brown that he answered

the description of the missing barber. .

Detective Brown phoned Lieutenant
Stokes in Boston and the Massachu-
setts officer ‘started for Vermont at
once. ie f

He arrived in Hyde Park, where the
Suspect was in. custody, early that
night. The man who called himself Ed-

_ ward Townsend was brought from his

cell. Stokes looked at the vagrant and
challenged him.

86 jae |
eee Ah

edhead On Blood Beach

(continued from page 45)

**Your name is not Townsend,’’ he
said. *‘It’s Elmer Taylor. You worked
in a barber shop in Eastport, Me. A boy
where you roomed made a sketch of
you.”’

The prisoner refused to admit this
until confronted with the drawing it-
self.

_ *‘Roll up your right sleeve,’’ Stokes
ordered. ‘*I want to look at your arm.”’
‘Elmer Taylor, alias Edward Town-
send, complied after a mild protest.
‘There was the tattoo with the clapsed

hands, pierced heart and initials,

vig 5 Wa

Stokes said, “‘I’m from Massachu-

setts. A girl named Stella Kale was
murdered at Salisbury Beach. We’ve
been on your track for a long time.
~””You were there all right,’’ Stokes
countered. *‘We know you worked at

_ Hampton Beach on the Saturday before

the crime. You bought sunglasses in a
drug store there and we found them
_hear that girl’s body. You went to East-
port, Me., worked there a week. That
is where the sketch was made. Then

you sold a wrist watch you took from.

Stella Kale toa man in Plymouth, N.H.
What happened to the ring with the
ruby setting?’’

There was no answer. The prisoner
just sat there stunned by the evidence
amassed against him. Finally he said,

*‘Alright, I did work in Hampton Be-.

ach. I bought sunglasses and witch
hazel there, but I don’t know what hap-
pened after that.’’

Stokes enlightened him. As the
questioning continued throughout most
of the night, the man said his real name
was George Elmer Taylor and that he
was from Cleveland, Oh. In better days
he had been a good buck-and-wing
dancer, but that was before he started to
drink heavily.

Taylor waived extradition back to
Massachusetts. Placed in a police
lineup at Salisbury Beach along with

six other men, he was identified by the |
concessionaire who had steered him
away from the roller coaster tracks, by

the druggist in Hampton Beach and by
several other people.

Fingerprints showed he had been
convicted of armed robbery in West
Virginia, serving a five-year prison.
term under the name Elmer Thompson.
This same man had been wanted for

questioning in connection with still an-
other murder in Buffalo, N.Y.

Police believed the man’s real name
to be Elmer Thompson, but he was
arraigned on a first degree. murder
charge in District Court, Amesbury, on
July 13, 1927, under the name of
George Elmer Taylor.

Brought to trial October 10, the de-
fendant took the stand in his own behalf
and testified that on the afternoon pre-
ceding the crime at Salisbury Beach he
had been drunk on liquor and: witch
hazel. | .

“The last thing I remember was my
drinking at Hampton Beach,”® he said.
**That was Sunday afternoon. When I
woke up Monday I was in Boston.’’..

Thanks to some brilliant detective

"work and the complete cooperation of

public spirited citizens and newspap-
ers, the evidence against the accused
man was overwhelming. The jury
found him guilty as charged with no
recommendation for mercy. Elmer
Thompson, alias George Elmer
Taylor, was put to death on March 6,
1929. *!

Welcome To
_ Little Hell

(continued from page 13)

said. ‘“Then I was on the telephone,
and he was going out the door, holding
the prescription bottle in one hand and .
searching for his credit card.

“*T asked him, ‘Honey, do you need a
flashlight?’ I thought he’d come back.
That’s the last thing I said ‘to him:
‘Honey, do you need a flashlight?’
Then he was gone. Then I looked to see
the empty prescription bottle.’’

““Well, don’t worry,’’ police told
the distraught woman, trying to com-
fort her. ‘‘He’s probably out with the
boys.”’

“**No, he isn’t,’’ Mrs. Sax insisted.
‘*He isn’t out drinking. He isn’t like
that. . ;
‘‘The car has been stalling for the
last two days, and I had to instruct my
husband how to adjust the carburetor.
Perhaps something happened to the car
and he’s stalled somewhere and
doesn’t know how to get home. Ever
since his illness he has occasional
memory lapses.’’ .

_ (continued on next page)

ues J
?
* de —_—

—

A CRIME
YLASSIC

by KEN CARPENTER

onday morning came

quietly to Salisbury

Beach, Mass. Retard-
ed by fog rolling in from the
Atlantic, the curtain of night
rose slowly. Strollers on the
boardwalk were few as vaca-
tioners slept late. Conces-
sionaires were in no hurry to
open their games of chance.

The beautiful redhead lying on her
back just above the high tide mark
was alone on the beach. Her torn dress
was pulled high over shapely legs.

A few hours earlier she had been
warm, feminine, desirable. But the
sound of the surf, music from the
merry-go-round and the raucous voic-
es of barkers had drowned out her fran-
tic cries for help. She would scream
no more, for her beautiful body was
cold in death.

The morning sun burned the fog
away before the grim discovery was
made. A little girl, running barefoot
in the sand, stopped short when she
saw the battered corpse.

“Mother!” she shrieked at the top
of her voice.

The startled woman ventured one
quick look and called the police.

Officers James E. Kelly and James
Hughes hurried to the scene as Salis-
bury Beach awakened to the awful
realization that murder had been a noc-
turnal visitor. As word spread, the
policemen had all they could do to
hold the crowd back.

Chief of Police Sidney Smith moved
through these people and spoke with
Kelly and Hughes.

“We haven’t been able to do much,”

Lt. John Stocks wore out his shoe
leather tracking the fiend. Beautiful
Stella Kale choked to death under
killer’s vice-like grip.

Patrolman Kelly explained. “The
most important thing was to keep
people from disturbing whatever
evidence is here.”

The ferocity with which the vic-
tim had been attacked was plainly
evident. The girl’s dress and under-
clothes were ripped to shreds. Blood
trickling from her mouth had dried
on one check. The face and neck
were discolored, the eyes black-
ened and ugly bruises covered her
chest and legs.

Smith took a look around. Deep in-
dentatiogs in sand near the body indi-
cated a Violent struggle. The chief
found a small notebook, white enve-
lope with writing on it and a compact
nearby. Also a pair of cheap sunglass-
es. That was all. Chief Smith walked
over to Kelly and Hughes after study-
ing these articles.

“Whoever did this,” he said, “took
the girl’s pocketbook to delay identi-
fication. Let these people view the
corpse one at a time. We’ve got to
find out who she is.”

The first man to step forward
paused momentarily at the grue-
some sight, shook his head and
moved on. This was repeated more
than a dozen times before a witness
turned to Smith.

“T think that is
“She didn’t con
The chief ask
the remains caret
do you mean sh
Are you a relat

“It's Stella.”
“The dress is
wearing,one lik
my photo studi
stairs room.”

Medical Exan
phy arrived wit
at that point. A
examination was

Chief Smith «
girl had been raj

“Either that or
hard,” the doct
fought like a t
strangled, thoug!
us a more comp

After a car fro
al parlor in Am
body away, Patri
es asked every
who had made
leave. Smith q
there on the bea

“Tell me about
he said. “When
What is your nai

The witness s
Hennessey.

“T run a phot
in the winter,
spend my summ
here on the boa:
I saw Stella wa

eit

| ed. #The
| us to keep
| whatever

ch the vic-
vas plainly
s and under-
ireds. Blood
h had dried
» and neck
eyes black-

covered her

ind. Deep in-
e body indi-
The chief
white enve-
ind a compact
heap sunglass-
Smith walked
es after study-

1e said, “took
delay identi-
ple view the
We've got to

tep forward
t the grue-
head and
epeated more
fore a witness

“I think that is Stella Kale,” he said.
“She didn’t come home last night.”

The chief asked the man to study
the remains carefully and added, “What
do you mean she didn’t come home?
Are you a relative of hers?”

“It’s Stella,” the witness repeated.
“The dress is torn, but Stella was
wearing one like it. She worked in
my photo studio and lived in an up-
stairs room.”

Medical Examiner Daniel D. Mur-
phy arrived with Dr. Timothy Leary
at that point. A hurried on-the-scene
examination was made.

Chief Smith wanted to know if the
girl had been raped.

“Bither that or somebody tried mighty
hard.” the doctor told him. “This girl
fought like a tiger. I'd say she was
strangled, though the autopsy will tell
us a more complete story.”

After a car from O’Donnell’s funer-
al parlor in Amesbury had taken the
body away, Patrolmen Kelly and Hugh-
es asked everyone except the man
who had made the identification to
leave. Smith questioned this man
there on the beach.

“Tell me about this girl and yourself,”
he said. “When did you see her last?
What is your name?”

The witness said his name was Frank
Hennessey.

“I run a photo studio in Amesbury
in the winter,” he told the chief. “I
spend my summers at a second studio
here on the boardwalk. The last time
I saw Stella was 9:30 last night.”

Jury members at sp

ee tie es
Soe ati et Paar
Gi neseneen’mmviganen al tes
i, Pos
=,

a rd

ot on beach where corps

That was Sunday. The body had been
found at 10 o’clock Monday morn-
ing, June 6.

“This girl’s people live in Lawrence,”
Hennessey continued. “She came into
my Amesbury studio last February to
have some pictures made and we got
into a discussion of photography. The
mechanics of the business interested
her and she was anxious to learn
about developing and printing pictures.
I told her the best way was to take a
job in a studio.”

The photographer went to explain
how he had told Stella Kale about his
summer studio at Salisbury Beach
and that he engaged a girl each sea-
son to help him.

“She wanted the job,” he said, “and
I gave it to her. She started work last
week, on Memorial Day, and I let her
live in a room above my studio.”

As Hennessey spoke, Chief Smith
studied him carefully. The photogra-
pher appeared to be deeply moved
by the tragedy.

\ ae

dea

e was found.

me murder was
n a stretch of

h — or so the
;. But someone

ty Sonate Ge

sae Evi) cone

SS ot

“I naturally have to be careful about
girls I hire,” he told the officer, “and
Stella was a nice, pleasant young
woman in every respect.”

Chief Smith examined the notebook
found near the body. The writing in-
side had to do with photographic for-
mulae for developing and printing
pictures. The name “Bill” was scrib-
bled on the envelope.

“Do you know anybody named Bill
who might have been with the girl
last night?” the policeman asked.

Hennessey shook his head.

“She had only been here a week,”
he said. “I never heard her mention a
boy friend.”

The employer answered more ques-
tions concerning the last time he had
seen Stella Kale.

“She came down from her room
about 9:30 last evening,” he told
Smith. “I was standing in front of
the studio and Stella said ‘Hello.’ |
asked her if she’d like a soda. But she
seemed to be in a hurry and said

‘it would be

iH
>
cD

qc)
Oa
Sp |
Ei

New
England

RIGHT spring sunshine poured
B down on the village of Weston,
Mass., turning the steeple on the
old-fashioned meeting house to a molten

gold.
. But on the horizon lurked threatening
Crime clouds. !
In a way the clouds were ominous. A

storm was about to break upon Weston.
The close of that eventful day would
witness the enactment of a crime destined
to go down as one of the most infamous
the nation has ever known, and in which
more than 100,000 people, including the
President of the United States, played
an active part.

All unknowing the important part he
had been cast to play in this approaching
drama, Arthur J. Woodward of Quincy,
Mass., urged his tired horse toward the
village center this last day of March,

Classic

By LOWELL
AMES NORRIS

1904. Behind him was a wagon load of
fish he expected to sell for his grand-
father before evening. Beside him on
the seat, taking advantage of an unex-
pected lift, were two casual acquain-
tances—a young and attractive girl and
her young man companion.

Arthur Woodward did not object to
company. He cast an appreciative look
over the girl's pretty face and provoca-

tive figure, enviously regarding her
companion as the wagon jolted to
Weston.

Near a wooded knoll the young man
turned to the girl.
“How's this?” he

asked casually.

Orie of the m dramatic scén
of the murder frial. Here a. corm
_ .,temporary artist has sketched Profs”
Edward S.°Wood, of the Harvar,
~-. Medical School, as he exhibi
‘ ée- < + fi

> HP ae ic nibs: —

‘former ‘Weston

icAulif former W

“Page was found. , r

Floor plan of the upper story
of the Page home. Miss Page’s
body was found crumpled be-
side the bed. A man’s name and
address, found scribbled on a
note in a dresser drawer, pro-
vided a strange clue.

Tnvestigation At th sopra
dg'a view of th ‘Page the
‘gabled room where the: body “of

t role

. aie Sees cnt
. > YR eRe
abel 5 acer canner

flash of bare limbs. Then, nervous
fingers rearranging her hair, she thanked
Woodward for the lift. Woodward
smiled and drove on, looking back. The
couple had left the road and were
climbing the hill. He caught a glimpse
of them as they reached the crest. Then
he saw the man draw the girl tight and
kiss her.

The wagon rumbled around a curve,

BTW Ne 5% ae

AOR eM, ;

Woodward turned and clucked to his
horse. As he did so he noted for the
first time a strange object in the seat
beside him.

He started in surprise .

An Eerie Homecoming

SDWARD PAGE was among. the

many who had been lured into the

open by the deceptive warmth of that
early spring day.

It was almost 2 o'clock when he turned
toward his home, his errands in the
village completed.

A. brisk wind was now blowing from
the northeast. Threatening clouds swept
low over the village, carrying wisps of
snow. ‘The storm was breaking.

Page, almost 80 years old, took his
time as he hobbled along South avenue
to his home. Once he had lived in a
brownstone house on Commonwealth
avenue in Boston, with summers: spent
in Weston. But financial reverses had
come and Page remodeled his summer
home into an all-year residence.

Here he lived with his unmarried
daughter, Mabel, attractive and popular,
although approaching middle age; and
his son, Harold, employed in the freight

STARTLING DETECTIVE

“Shall we go on from here on
foot?”

She nodded, at the same time giving
Woodward a flirtatious nudge. The fish
peddler stopped his horse.

The young man sprang to the road and
held out his arms. The girl rose to her
feet. There was a swirl of skirts as she
jumped high to avoid the wheel, and a

spinster of We

Mass. Her aged fatHe
found her dead. The an Ba en ray a ony ia
‘ coroner said it was sti-. on: ANC Re ‘a ; AN ers 4 fz “

cide, but the undertaker
goon discove that it
was a bru murder.’

The Page house, as it appeared the
day after the murder. Unseen, a man
slipped into the home to rob, and :
departed with blood on his hands. . oe

PEPIN soricge PROTA Me Per amy,

vat

department of the Boston & Albany rail-
road at Boston.

Page stopped by the stone steps of the
front walk, climbed them slowly and
headed toward the side door, always un-
locked when his daughter was working
about the house as she was today. He
turned the knob and tried to enter. To
his surprise the door was locked. He
knocked. There was no answer.

The old man did not seem surprised.
He remembered that Amy Roberts, the
maid, had gone to Cambridge for the day
and that Mabel intended to finish the
rubberized fishing bag she was making
for her brother's birthday. VPage re-
traced his steps to the front door which
his daughter usually kept locked. He
jerked the glass bell pull. The bell
jangled eerily through the house, but he
heard no welcoming footsteps. Then he
tried the door. It swung open as though
impelled by unseen hands.

Page walked in, pausing by the living
room door, half expecting to see Mabel
bent over her sewing. The room was
empty.

He continued into the kitchen and
went into the pantry. He took a slice
of bread. poured himself a glass of cider
and began to eat. The silence became

ADVENTURES

oppressive by the time he finished his
simple snack.

He rose and walked into the front of
the house. All indications pointed to
Mabel’s recent use of the room. He saw
her thimble, carelessly thrown upon some
gaily colored pieces of calico on a table
near a high sewing basket, and a chair
littered with odds and ends.

“Mabel,” he cried, speaking for the

A specimen of the murderer’s
writing, as it was pieced to-
gether, is shown below the
name and address left behind
to sidetrack investigators.

first time. “Mabel, where are
you?”

The house remained silent.
Yet Page felt sure his daugh-

ter had not gone out. He had

seen no note upon either of
the outside doors. Since the
rising wind, already howling

through the creaking eaves, might have
blown it away, he opened the hall closet
and looked inside. His daughter's cloak
was in place.

Thinking that she was upstairs asleep.
he made his way to the second floor.
The two doors opening into Mabel’s
bedroom were shut.

He tapped lightly and opened one of
the doors.

The bed was smooth and undisturbed
but just beyond his eyes made out a
woman’s form on the floor. Page hobbled

[Continued on page 73]

wn
Pasir

Metadata

Containers:: Box 20 (2-Documentation of Executions), Folder 4
Resource Type:: Document
Description:: George Taylor executed on 1929-03-06 in Massachusetts (MA)
Rights:: In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted
Date Uploaded:: June 30, 2019

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