New York, multiple executions, 1934-1964, Undated

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380 The Conflagration of 1798.

_ The sun had sunk beneath the western horizon and
inhabitants of the sity = seeKing sweet sleep when the Shrill ery ot
re! fire! em to leap from their
night, about 103 o’clock, on the 17th of November 1705, that the de
-igs spirit caused a fire to be kindled in a stable, in the heart of the rien
, y : ms : Lead Hd toa large amount was destroyed. That it was the
nord roseawe lary, Was never questioned, instigated by unrequited love
nestedy bed best ane bak young | oo Sanders, residing in Sche-
aly B g attention to the on g
nO pete ata eli that, from a just, real or Imaginary wean he
har her; kak hs viel to Bil tee aaca cena ogee
peruniee: t his were unsolicited and v
ae aon ao naturally be supposed, came with sriehing weight
ppon the eelings 0 a Hons man, proud in spirit and exalted in ‘his
that direct, and the unexpeoted bursting of hisigh hopes sed setae
g is high ho
ations, — ann to become a viper and to return the sng. Savion
ae tiend in this city, by the name of McBurney, who kept
Jewel yt op oe street. McBurney proved to be not only a sash t
alr iy ee sa win it for he not only carried out San.
gn, but sc e affair as 0 es i
° in any way criminate himself or his friend. Te pen fon teu
. — sa McBurney called in the negro Pomp, to assist him in
carry Se o plan ‘ revenge. He held out to the gazing eyes of
_ P, a toy Sreat value, a massive gold watch, to any one who would
sles ber nig , fire the stable of Mr. Gansevoort. It appears that Pom
emenie a ° moral courage to commit the act, or through selfish an
aad panie wo prenches with its commission, over whom, it is said
—_ ae control. The one was named Bet, and she was
ate fee on ae Rensselaer, who was subsequently mayor of this
a tdi eee and the other, named Dinah, a slave belonging
penile ale gtenie . was only about 16 or 17 years of age; she was
a pandsome We ; rot a great favorite with Mrs. Van Rensselaer
poe ene eekskill, where she was born and brought up in th
‘amily of Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s mother; and, soon after the | ‘ a
married, “ ras eck to this city by Mrs. Van Rensselaer pen aft
upon as giddy. thoughtless, bat wk wickad mi nie saa hole ers cera
we 8
rachis the negotiations with the girls, to ‘simle-thesesont he pa.
rend y became alarmed, and fearing the consequences that angie cosas.
oar eta sa aan them to relinquish the thought of coinmnit.
ing the ndis ae os same evening, Pomp was seen in his master’s
Taine co P ny with the girls, endeavoring to persuade them from
isn Ses te . tea ee to the breaking out of the fire he was
seen with th mn Middle alley, talking to them in a supplicating tone
Ra a e was overheard to say, that he would not give the
a ee oy committed the deed. -Upon the alarm bein n,
Mrs. Van — immediately thought of Bet, and, going to her
room, found ¢ she was missing. All the next day she was absent fi
, and the next time seen by her mistress she was in jail While

g given,

The Conflagration of 1793. 381

there she revealed to Mrs. Van Rensselaer the crime she had committed
and the manner she accomplished it. In an old shoe she carried live
coals of fire from the kitchen of Mr. Gansevoort to his barn and threw
them upon the hay. The fire not igniting as speedily as she expected,
she went again to the stable, and upon finding the coals dead returned
immediately to the kitchen and the second time carried coals in the same
manner into the stable. The conflagration speedily ensued, and resulted
ay previously stated.

The very next day after the fire of the 17th these same girls set on fire
the stable of Peter Gansevoort, in the rear of his house, on the corner
of Market street (now Broadway) and Maiden lane, which was also de-
stroyed, and the same evening visited the house on the opposite corner,and
attempted to set it on fire by putting coals of fire in a bureau drawer
containing clothes. In this they did not succeed for want of air.

Soon after the burning of Gen. Peter Gansevoort’s stable, Bet and
Dinah were arrested for the arson on the 17th, and on the following day
acknowledged their guilt, and also implicated Pomp, who was subsequently
incarcerated in jail. While there they were treated with the utmost
kindness. They were furnished daily with food from their respective
mistresses’ table, and Bet was frequently visited by Mrs. Van Rensselaer,
who felt a motherly affection towards her unfortunate slave. The three
were tried, convicted and sentenced t6 be hung. They were confined in
separate rooms in jail, but by means of a stove-pipe hole they were en-
abled to converse with each other. Possessed, as they must have been,
with the spirit of a demon, these girls entertained some feelings of honor.
A few evenings before the day fixed upon for their execution, the jailer
overheard a conversation between the trio, in which the wenches exone-
rated Pomp from all blame, and regretted that they had not heeded. his
advice. The following morning they went so far as to tell the jailer that
Pomp was innocent and that they alone were guilty. About this time,
Pomp was a great favorite among the leading citizens, and upon his being
pronounced innocent by the wenches, strenuous efforts were made to save
his iife. Judge Robert Yates and his daughter, Mrs Major Fairley, took
a lively interest in his behalf, as did also John Van Ness Yates, Sebastian
Visscher and others. The matter was brought before Gov. Geo. Clinton,
who was prevailed upon to grant a temporary respite. Pomp was subse-
quently, unknown to his friends, prevailed upon to make a confession.

He revealed what was known to be true, in regard to the origin of the fire,
but he also acknowledged having robbed the mail, which atthat time was

unishable with death. The girls were executed in the following spring
on Pinkster hill, which was then a few rods west of the Academy, or about
on the corner of Fayette and Hawk streets. The revelations made by
Pomp were given to Gov. Clinton, and a few months after the execution
of the wenches, Pomp suffered the extreme penalty of the law upon the
same spot. Sanders and McBurney were not arrested, for there was no
evidence against them except the assertions of Pomp, and he being impli-
cated in the crime his evidence could not be taken.

Before closing this sketch we cannot refrain from noticing a fact of
rather uncommon occurrence in these days and one well worthy of reflec-

tion: The daughter of Mr. Gansevoort was subsequently married, and
is now living in affluence near this city, in the enjoyment of the society of

An attumbt of the Albany five oF.
/!773 and the bxecuhins which ensued .
trom it. Establishes that the slave

Timp ’ Was ta povenite atten der 1”

add tin Te Bett and Peta.

Ahy @strblishes thar ‘Dean’ and Dinah’
(27-93) were | the Sime pers: So we
must delete the Larter. |

Teel Munsell Vol. 2 | i aa S78 ~“3SF
ang [$67

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Wh

ang,
treel

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Tory

Collecting on Vhe 1h
Frivately Published af

[ 378 ]

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THE CONFLAGRATION OF. 1793.

Sunday, the 17th of November, 1793, was a day long remembered by
the inhabitants of’ this city, and the few who stil] linger among us retain
a vivid recollection of the scenes enacted during that aight. The greater
portion of the then quict church-zoing people of that day had retired to
rest. and were slumbering upon their pillows, when they were awakened
by the alarming cry of’ tire. Speedily the flames lighted up the city, and
ina short time the inhabitants were out in large numbers to assist in
quenching the flames, tor then every citizen able to do duty, was a fire-
man. ‘lhe tire originated in a barn or stable, belonging to Leonard
Gansevoort, in the centre of the block then bounded by Market, State
Maiden and Middle lanes, in the rear of the store on State street, now
occupied by Hickcox & Co. There was a slight breeze blowing when
it was first discovered, and but litsle attention was paid to the alarm
by those residing in the immediate neighborhood. They thought that,
as it was only a frame building, the flames would be speedily quenched,
and without their assistance. But, instead of being subdued, the flames
spread so rapidly that in a short time they had reached most of the
adjoining property, and in a few hours the heart of the city was enve-
loped in smoke and flames. The fire laid waste all that portion of the
city previously described, from the dwelling house and store of Daniel
Hale, northerly to the dwelling house of Teunis T. Van Vechten, on the
corner of, Maiden lane and Market street (now Broadway), destroying
on that street the dwelling houses and stores of D. Waters, John G. Van
Schaick, K. Willet, John Maley, James Caldwell, Caldwell & Pearson,
C. Glen, P. W. Douw, Maley & Cuyler, and Mrs. Beekman. On State
street, there was consumed the dwelling house of T. Barry (then a new
and considered an elegant brick building), the store house of G. W. Van-
Schaick; the house ot (C. K. Vanderberg, partly occupied by Giles K.
Porter, merchant tailor; the dwelling of Leonard Gansevoort; the dru
store of Dexter & Pomeroy, and the dwelling of Mrs. Hilton. In Mid.
dle lane, there were a large number of stables, all of which were con-
sumed, greatly aiding in the spreading of the fire by the intense heat
made by the burning of pitch-pine timber, which was used for building
in those days. In Maiden lane the dwelling house of Mrs. Deforest
and the new and spacious store house of Maley & Cuyler were destroyed,
the latter firm being by far the heaviest losers by this calamity.

Soon after the fire had obtained the mastery and baffled all human
efforts, a cold rain storm set in, which, soon after turning to sleet,
greatly tended to check its progress. In those days, every man, woman
and child, able to handle an empty leather fire bucket, was pressed into
service. Every house was required to have three leather water buckets
hanging up in its halls; and, in case of fire, the inmates were required
not only to bring them to the scene of’ the disaster, but were compelled
to go into the buckct ranks and assist in passing the buckets to and from
the wells. or pumps to the fire. These ranks were formed in two lines,
opposite each other, the one to pass the water to the fire and the other

The Conjlagration of 1793. 379

he empty buckets. In the latter, it was no uncommon occur-

nae ime both male and female, old and young. A fire —— was F
novelty in those days; and yet Albany, with 5,000 inhabitants, —_
of two. But one of them could scarcely be called an engine. : =
largest was about as powerful as our present garden engines, and fe
other, which was called the house engine, was so light as easi 2 0 be

ried about by one man. Hose and suctions were then unknown.
The engines were filled by buckets and the water thrown from a pipe
fixed on the top of the engine. At the fire previously alluded to the
larvest engine stood at the corner of Market and State streets ; t e gat
ter was dammed up and the engine supplied by the water which ran down
the hill and which was gathered up in leather Mae al _

It will be recollected that all the stables on Middle lane ae ‘i
stroyed. They were constructed of very combustible aera 8, and
contained the usual winter stock of hay and straw. The _ was .
creat as to endanger the dwellings on Pearl street. aoe mo (as
he was then familiarly “talled), rector of St. Peter's mee ' ve a man
beloved by all who knew him, was quite active throughout this —
gency. It was mainly through his exertions and good mavagemen east
they were saved. He directed mops to be made of woolen abrios, | Ww ich
were kept wet and sone ee to = ——— and woodwork up

e heat of the fire.

he progress oreo dames was checked in , Magen 7 be —

il fortunately was here with his vessel. He raihe
Me Siraoted them to stop down a asked the fuges oe
street and Middle lane. This act checke . ep Ti of blankets neon
that direction. While this was going on, by the a s upon

i he progress of the fire was checke
ag hen pare senor betes aoe that it became evident that
on State street, but it was not before morning th } Pipher
its farthest point. The citizens devoted the grea
ae eok the faloniag Monday in raking and extinguishing the burning
mine was so plainly the work of an incendiary, that not only were
several slave arrested upon suspicion, but gemma: ie
ouncil was held and an ordinance passed forbi ing any gr
or mutatis of any sex, age or description whatever, from walking in the
‘és aoe lanes after 9 o’elock in the evening, or from being in any tavern
ort i house after that hour, under penalty of twenty-four hours
outing sarrt in the jail. At the expiration of such confinement they
mc Se brought before the mayor, recorder or an alderman, when
thaw a liberty to show, by their master or mistress, that they were
perl pon | wful and necessary business. If they established this fact,
‘aig discharged upon paying the jail expenses ; but if they ee
ae bbe further punished by fine and priapelansmrnia he ek
iti ive i ing out the perpetr

ch caurdied to the Hoglish law, ‘was vanishable with death.
Tt wa yank the law of this land, and as punishment was more summary
I mit j now, the guilty parties knew that hanging would follow =
ioe “Th roceedings in court which followed this fire attracted muc ;
seaition: 1 pccenlanl? among the colored population, in consequence 0
soveral of their number having been arrested upon suspicion of being
implicated in the arson.— Evening Journal.

THEY BEGAN AS HOPEFUL YOUTHS BUT THEY ENDED IN THE DEATH

HOUSE... AS CONVICTED COP KILLERS—ALL BECAUSE, BEHIND THE SCENES,

WAS THE POWERFUL INFLUENCE OF AN INCREDIBLY EVIL LITTLE MAN

courts and thrown into a soli-
‘tary cell in Sing Sing’s death
house. They said I was a murderer
—a cop-killer—and for that I had
to die,
In the eyes of the law I was found
guilty of having taken the life of a
brave police officer. But I know that

in the eyes of God I am innocent.
If you think this is the case of a

wise guy crook getting caught and
then starting to snivel about how he
was framed, you're all wrong. I don’t
want your sympathy. It’s too late
for that now. All I want to dois
straighten out the records so that if
in the end I have to walk that last
mile I’ll have the small comfort of
knowing that I’ve told my story; that
people know I am not being put to
death because I am a cold-blooded
killer, but because of a technicality
in the law.

The man who planned the crime
and did everything but pull the trig-
ger is escaping the penalty of the law
dished out to me because of that self
same technicality. I want the world
to know, as I know, the truth about
the old hypocrite who beat the rap.
The blood of five men stains his
hands. He can never wash it off. The
mark will be on him to the day of his
death.

Maybe you’ll find it easier to be-
lieve me when I tell you that I
haven’t reached my twentieth birth-

I WAS dragged through the

day yet. Never, before this crime,
have I been involved in anything il-
legal. My father is a minister of the
gospel. He is a just man who gave
me all the advantages in upbringing
that any youth could ask for. But
there was a strange quirk in my char-
acter. I had the wanderlust. One
year I wound up in Miami Beach
where I worked as a soda jerker, and
it was here that I met the man who
was to be my nemesis. He was a very
impressive figure and, when I learned

VICTIM OF YOUTHFUL THUGS: Patrol-
man James Killion lost his life when he
interrupted a Fifth Avenue stickup.

eee seals
he Fh AIRS. Ble ROE ite

‘a little about his past, I was even

more impressed.

His name was Nelson B, Clark and
he had been a candidate for gover-
nor of Massachusetts. Backed by the
late President Theodore Roosevelt he

had come within a small margin of

beating David Walsh, the man who
is now United States Senator, : toe
that high office.

Clark was short, bald, BSN ep

neatly dressed. He had an. assured
manner and glib, ready speech rad

charmed the listener. ‘

, This is the way I met him: There be”

was a pleasant, easy-going fellow
named Ray. Orley, about a year older
than I, who used to have his break-
fast at my counter. We hit up:one
of those quick Miami Beach friend-
ships and pretty soon I was going out
with him and a couple of girls he

knew. It was Ray who introduced.

me to “Pop,” as he called Mr. Clark.

Ray told me how much he loved
the old man; how he was a father to
him; how'the old man was«kindness

itself and how his prime considera-

tion was always the welfare of Ray
and his friends. It made a very
touching picture and everything the
old man said and did seemed to con-,

firm what Ray had told me, so that.

I, too, came to believe, in Nelson
Clark’s goodness. I didn’t find out
until much later the real story of the
connection between the pair, and
then it was too late to do me any

TE SMTMETUMT

SO inet bpeitie PE A

was even

Jlark and
or gover-
ced by the
osevelt he
nargin of
man’ who
ator, for

pectacled,
n assured
eech that

n: There —
ig fellow
‘ear older
is break-
it up one
h friend-
going out
girls he
troduced,
fr. Clark,
he loved
father to
kindness
ynsidera-
e of Ray
a very
hing the
i to con-
, so that
1 Nelson
find out
ry of the
air, and’
me any

by NEWM

and the foreman read the verdict:

“We find the defendants guilty as
charged in the indictment.”

Four frightened boys stood at the bar of
justice. Their faces were drained of color,
their hands gripped hard on the thick
wooden rail of the enclosure. Behind the
bench, a black robe draped over his shoul-
ders, sat the venerable Criminal Courts
Judge Morris Koenig. He rapped _ his
gavel once, lightly, and it had the sound
of doom. He held a paper before him, but
there was no need for him to look at the
words written ‘there. He peered over the
edge of his spectacles at the four con-
victed youths as he spoke:

“CT\HE judgment of the court is that you,

and each of you, Raymond Orley
Thomas Gilbride, Amerigo Angelini and
Newman Raymond, for the murder in the
first. degree of one James Killion, whereof
you are convicted, be, and you hereby are,
sentenced to the punishment of death; and
it is ordered that within ten days after
this day’s session of the court, the Sheriff
of the County of New York deliver you,
and each of you, together with the war-
rants of this court, to the Warden of Sing
Sing Prison at Ossining, New York, where
you shall be kept in solitary confinement
until, upon some day of the week so ap-
pointed, the said Warden of the Sing Sing
Prison at Ossining, New York, is com-
manded to do execution upon you, and
each of you, in the. mode and manner
prescribed by the laws of the State of
New: York.” ;

From out in the corridor came a hysteri-
cal scream, but in the courtroom there.
was dead silence. The boys had steeled
themselves for the shock. Newman Ray-
mond blinked his eyes, Angelini gulped
hard, and that was all, so far as an
demonstration on their part was concerned.

Court officers grasped the gg by the
elbows, led them across’ the Bridge of
Sighs to their cells in Tombs Prison.

This left only the case against Nelson
Clark to be concluded. It was obvious
from the facts that he richly deserved the
punishment meted out to his four instru-
ments. -But the law said no. He had
created’ the condition that had led to mur-
der, but technically, he had not partici-
pated in the final crime. . ;

Assistant District Attorney Eugene Fin-
negan, to whom the case ‘was now turned
for disposition, secured a conviction in the
Court of Special Sessions’ for the posses-
sion of a revolver, and the former candi-
date for governor was sentenced to a three
year term at the penitentiary. Still pend-
ing were the charge of criminally receiving
stolen goods-and a first degree robbe
charge which had been added later. It
was a weak case. Nof that there was any
doubt as to his guilt. It was simply that
the law required a certain minimum of
evidence.

The stolen watch was not enough. Cor-
roboration was needed and only the four
boys now in the death house could give
it. Up to this point they had steadfastly
refused to testify against the man they
still considered their friend.

Assistant District Attorney Finnegan
knew that it. would be a travesty of justice
should Clark, whose crime was blackest,
escape with only a three year sentence.

The Prosecutor refused to rest until he
had made every effort to see that justice
had been done. Following the unanimous
affirmation of the death sentences by the
Court of Appeals and, with the convicted: '
boys having only six more weeks to live, .
he journeyed to Sing Sing Prison to make
a last attempt to gain their testimony. In
the room of the warden’s office where the
interview took place, the condemned
youths huddled together as though to gain
courage from one another’s presence. They

tried to put up a brave front, but it was
useless.

Anxiously they asked if there was any
chance. Did they all have to die?

Finnegan explained that the only man
who could save them now was Governor
Lehman. The purpose of his own visit
was to satisfy Justice by securing their
testimony against the man who brought

them into the shadow of death. Nor did
he have any power to make any promise
for this testimony. At best, if they assisted
the State, their cooperation would be
brought to the attention of the chief exe-
cutive.

The boys looked at one another, but
no one spoke. The Prosecutor knew what
was in their minds. If one had the desire
to speak, he throttled it for fear his com-
panions would think him a squealer.

“I’m going to let you think it over,”
Finnegan said. “I’ll be back in a week to
get your decision. I just want to say this
before I leave. All I want from you is the
truth. If —_ happen for the worst, at
least, you will have gone out with the
slate clean.”

Before the week was up, he received
a@ communication stating that the boys
wished to see him. It could mean only

.one thing—they had decided to talk. At

the death house he confirmed this view,
for talk they did.

REPARATION for the trial of Clark

was rushed, and on the first day of
December, in the selfsame courthouse in
which his four proteges had been sentenced
to death, he faced the judge. Manacled in
airs, the four young men were marched
into the courtroom. Studiously they
avoided the eyes of their Fagin. Like

automatons they took the stand and told .

the whole story of their —oe with
old man Clark; told how he had planned
each of their jobs; how he furnished the
weapons for them; and how this stolen
cash was used to support him.

Under cross examination Ray Orley gave

roof that the old Fagin still had a power-
ful hold on him. .

“Didn’t Mr. Clark bring you up as his
own son?” the defense attorney rasped.

Orley nodded his, head and burst into

ars.

Clark, seated at the defense table, buried

is head in his arms and also wept, or
appeared to. .

The trial lasted eight days and at the
end of that, time the jurymen returned
from their deliberations with a verdict of
guilty of first degree robbery. Clark
smirked.

' The probation report drawn up on Nel-
son B. Clark by astute Irving W. Halperin,
Chief of the Probation Department, car-
ried the following statement: “Clark’s true
character is obscured by his shrewd and
studied reactions to any effort at exon

it. He meets pointed questions with blan

denials and with suave generalizations. He
is an enthusiastic, energetic individual of
wide experience and broad background.”

On December 18th, Judge Morris Koenig
sentenced Clark to ten years at Sing Sing,
this term to be served after the three year
term imposed earlier, making a total sen-
tence of thirteen years.

His conviction might have written finis
to the case except that the Prosecutor
had taken a deep interest in the case of
the four boys. Newman Raymond’s
plight, in particular, had stirred him. Here
was a lad never before involved in a crime
of any sort, drawn into a projected stick-
up by the taunts of Clark. When Patrol-
man Killion rushed into the luggage shop,
Raymond had instantly surrendered—in
fact, had both hands in the air when the
fatal shot was fired, yet he was scheduled
to = in the electric chair in just two
weeks.

Though: far 4rom being the type of offi-
cial who coddles criminals, in this case
Assistant District Attorney Finnegan made
one last attempt to stave off the death
penalty. He ordered Clark brought to his
oflice from the Tombs. ‘This procedure in
itself was an unusual act.

Clark was a bit thinner, his face more
pale, but otherwise he was the same
smooth, oily politician, in perfect control
of his feelings.

“I suppose you are wondering why you
ay been brought here,” the Prosecutor
said.

“Frankly, I am,” was the response.

“At the trial you made much of the fact
that you had a real affection for all four
boys—that you raised Orley as your son.”

Clark nodded and went on to say how
good he had been to the boys. Finnegan
interrupted him.

“I didn’t bring you here to listen to an
oration, but to give you a chance to help
them. They will die in the electric chair
in fourteen days. Only Governor Lehman
can save them, and even he can’t act
unless there is justification for it.

“Write him a letter; tell him the truth
about the part you played in the crime;
how they were only puppets manipulated
by you.”

“That’s a lie!” Clark shouted. “I al-
ways did everything I could do to help
them.”

Finnegan ignored the outburst. “You
have nothing to lose now. You have been
convicted and sentenced. So far as your
sentence is concerned, it won’t make a
bit of difference whether you continue to
protest your innocence or tell the truth.
But the truth might give the Governor
sufficient reason to commute the sentence.
Now will you help them or not? Can you
let_them die without raising a finger?”

Clark’s lips twitched. His hands worked
nervously. He was faced squarely with
making a choice between. maintaining the
fiction of his innocence for the satisfaction
of his ego, or saving the lives of the four
condemned boys.

He remained silent.

Finnegan then said: “I am sending you
back to your cell now, but.remember this:
when those boys die, you will be their
murderer. Your unspeakable crime was to
set them on the road to ruin—yet when
the chance came to you, to help right this
terrible wrong, and with no cost to your-
self, you refused.”

CUARE did write a letter to the Gover-
nor. It was a long, involved letter,
pace for clemency—for himself. The
lame, e said, rested squarely upon the
boys, and instead of sparing their lives, the
Governor should set him free. For sheer
effrontery and downright gall, it was the
most contemptible letter the state exe-
cutive had ever received.

Thursday night is execution night at

Sing Sing. Four pre-execution cells were
occupied. These are located closest to the
little black door in order to shorten the
distance the condemned man must walk.

Outside the prison walls stood Reverend
Raymond, his wife, and two daughters,
The minister had asked for permission to
walk with’ his son Newman to the electric
chair, but this could not be granted.

At precisely one minute to eleven, a cell
door swung open and Newman, the first
of the four boys to meet death that night,
started his short walk to the electric chair.

Eighteen minutes later all four were
dead.

Silently the witnesses filed out. The
guards left. .

Nelson B. Clark, the one time candidate
for Governor of Massachusetts, is paying
for his crimes. He is sixty-three years of
age, and the end of his thirteen year sen-
tence is a long way off.

TRUB DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

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were still ;
son for th;
latter indi:
manufactu:
where it h
The de
thoughtful!
thing to d
those stains
he next
Headquarte
dianapolis,
ensteen cut
from the j:
The followi:
to the effec
bloodstains.
In discuss:
erlor, Capt
uperintende
ue wi rue
Cc. ues, apta
know of”
Eckert smi
Hoe he sai
like this som:
jough Job pr
In the me
arrived at the
which is locat.
Marshall, Ili:
gunmetal Pa:
noted, they «
funds. Ail
“Dlay-suits,”
headed, slim a:
they were well
ing their vacat
On the afte
tective Hire dj
two coats wit]
stopped at a <
ark of a sma
aute, which j
anapolis. At t
True Derecriy:
town and of t]
waitress who ;
purposes let us
reason for this
in our story,
. “Say,” the re.
ing an admiring
ress, “we're al]
like to do a lj
Would you and
ike to step out
The pretty ¢;
and its well-d;

TANUARY, 1941

good, to save me from the trap.

Following Clark’s defeat for the
governorship of Massachusetts, he
liquidated his holdings in that state
and moved to Bartlett, California,
where he established the $300,000
Clark Chemical Company, Inc. The
depression changed him from a $36,-
000-a-year executive to a penniless
old man. But Orley, who had just be-
come his private chauffeur, loyally
stuck with him.

I’ve already told you that this Clark
was as smooth as’ grease... SO
smooth that his words had almost an
hypnotic quality. It wasn’t long be-
fore he exerted the force of his will
upon the impressionable boy, until,
like Svengali, he was complete mas-
ter.

During the short time they roamed
the country, Orley was the medium
through which he bilked hotels, stole
cars and left a trail of bad checks.
These were things I didn’t know then.

When it came tirhe for Ray Orley
and the old man to’ go back to New
York City and they asked me to visit
them I readily agreed; said that I’d
be happy to. ,

I corresponded regularly with Ray
Orley and, after the first of the New

Year, 1935, when I received a letter

from him containing still another in-
vitation to visit them, I quickly ac-
cepted. On the way north I stopped
off in my home town, I promised my
father that this was to be my last
trip away from home. This was going
to be a last fling. When I was
through I was coming home to settle
down for good.

M*2 I better skip over to New
York City at this point and set
the stage for what I was walking
into. And, because what I am going
to put down will appear so incredible,
I don’t want you to get the idea that
because I am a convicted murderer
I am lying. The facts that I now
state can be verified in the record on

the case. Incidentally, the line sepa-.

rating my innocence and guilt is so
fine that only a legal technician can
see it; it cannot be seen by anyone
interested in justice.

When Ray Orley and Nelson Clark
returned to New York City—remem-
ber Ray was twenty years old: and
Clark was sixty—they ran into two
youths, Thomas Gilbride and Ame-
rigo Angelini, both of whom became
friendly with Orley and, as a result,

came under the influence of Clark..

Under the guidance of and using the
revolvers furnished by the man who
was almost elected governor by the
state of Massachusetts, the boys com-
mitted four holdups. Such was the
power of his evil personality that he
was able to invest these crimes of
violence with the aura of respecta-

bility and legitimate enterprise.

Clark, Orley, Angelini and Gilbride
were in the living room of Clark’s flat
at 306 West 93rd Street in Manhat-
tan. Clark had his arm about Orley’s
waist while he bemoaned the coming
of a cheerless Christmas holiday.
The boys deserved better than that.

He struck a dramatic pose. “You
know there isn’t any sacrifice I
wouldn’t make for your welfare,” he
declaimed. “There’s no other course
open to us, but the one I now point
out.” He felt in his pocket for his
watch, forgetting for the moment
that it had long disappeared into a
pawn shop. “What time is it?” he
asked.

“Five minutes after three,” Ari-
gelini responded.

HANI

‘il 702 it

“Good, we'll just have time if we
work quickly.”

The boys gathered round him as he
seated himself in his easy chair.
Swiftly he sketched the layout of
Grayson’s, exclusive men’s furnishing
shop on Madison Avenue near For-
tieth Street. :

“You come in from the front en-
trance and walk about five feet.
From that point on people in the
street can’t see what’s happening.
Force all the customers and clerks
into the.rear of the store and make
them march up to the balcony.
Tommy, you-see that they remain
quiet. Ray, your job is to take care
of the cash register. You'll find it in
the cashier’s cage on the side. It
might be a good idea to take a couple

PENS ES

toueeyerst

of suits, |
pet name
near the .
one who!
entrance.
store you’
crowds in
The bo
Clark ro
kitchen.
pocket he
the old-
moved fr:
three ful
“We we
lips set i
gun into
into a th
companic
“Tams

ee eT ee ae ee

ah a Rr ES i a oe

\W YORK TIMES, THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1984 -

ure witbin the next agreed period
of years.” ; Y

PUERTO RICO SEEKS _
“10 AVOID ‘COLLAPSE’

|Sagar Cane Association Sends
| Letter te Roosevelt Asking
Action on Rehabilitation.

| ‘Wireless to Tas New Your nas. —
‘| SAN JUAN, P. R., Aug. 8.—Rep-
‘| resenting between 12,000 and 15,000
| @ugar cane farmers, the newly or-
ganized Colonos Sugar Cane Asso-
ciation, in an emphatic letter to
President Roosevelt containing reso-
lutions adopted by the organization,
urges that the administration of the
reconstruction program in Puerto
Rico be centralized ‘‘into some tnl-
fied authority familiar with our
local conditions and problems, ca-
pable of aggressive executive action
sympathetic toward Puerto
-and its people.” Bet
~The letter says the farmers re
ult | signed themselves to the fact that
tal | reduction in sugar production was
ch desirable, even though many ques-
of tioned the .manner of the island
MY! sugar quota allotment and despite
the fact that many still believe Ha-
he! waii, the Philippines and Cuba
ed profited at Puerto Rico’s expense.
D&| The AAA office established here,
All lit was believed, would put in mo-
a? ition forces to assure the develop-
yall ment of some plan. “This bas not
been done,” the letter says. The
he | farmers cannot.learn what program
al is contemplated for the island’s re-
ng- | Dabilitation, the letter declares. It
continues:
“Today we are facing what we be-

ny} not exist.

“We feel that it is not quotas or
@ plan that will make or break
ly | Puerto Rico. It is uncertainty as to

MRS. ANTONIO T0 DIE
“NAR Ton

Continued From Page One,
murder, Saetta said, he and Ap-
tonio and Feraci were together in
an eutomobile, and he, Sactta,
killed Antonio. He said he did not
know whether or not Veraci had
taken any par? in the kiling.

On the basis of this statement a
y of execution was granted by
yernor Lehman. The stay was

for twenty-four hours. On the
following day, however, and also

jin the final hour before the execu-

tion, other stay was granted,
this time until June 9. This stay
was granted so that Daniel H.
Prior of Albany, Mrs. Antonio's
attorney, might appeal for a new
trial for ber as a result of the
*“confession’’ made by Saetta. ..

County Judge Kerl H. Gallup of
Albany ruled that the confession
did not warrant a new trial; but,
on July 10, Governor Lehman
granted a third stay. This time, it
was to enable Prior to take the
matter before the Court of Appeals.

But on July 16 the Court of Ap-
peals denied the motion for rear-
gument. | es :

The latest appeal, made te Su-
preme Court Justice P, was
based on more “new evidence,”
namely, the statement of a priest
that he was the “unknown”’ person
who had telephoned Mrs. Antonio

said that he was “perfectly aware’’
of its gravity. oe
“I find, however,” he added,
“that the difficulty of its rendition
is due to considerations that have
no proper place in the stern admin-
istration of justice, eloquent and
potent as they may be, at the por-
tals of mercy.” .—_. oe
Prior had been unable to obtain
a copy of the opinion up to last
night. But he showed a deep inter-
est in fragments of it shown him
by newspaper men. ss ae
“Mrs. Antonio was informed of
Justice Brewster's decision while
she was exercising with a matron
along ea prison corrider in Sing
Sing. The keeper whe brought. her
the news said sbe seemed ‘“‘too
dumbfounded and thunderstruck’’
She had passed the morning in a
cheerful. mood. Friends bad sent
her an enlarged photograph of her
eldest child, Phyllis, 9 years old,

- [what is to be done that is bringing
he about our financial collapse.’’ :

¢ Lleonse No. L1378

which she placed in her ceil. She
also reseived a message from her

| 481 feet; Freeman Street, 350 to 505

In his decision, Justice Brewster |

‘gasoline containing 10 per cent of
Brazil started this

LR.T. TO EXTEND STATIONS.
Platform Changes to Be Made on
_ . White Plaine Line. = -

Plans for lengthening the south-
bound corms at seven stations
of the Interborough Rapid Transit
Company in the Bronx were. anh-
nounced yesterday by the Transit
Commiss

fon. They call for the ex- henge

penditure of $81,000, which will be
supplied from the company’s depre-
ciation fund. .

_ All. of the stations are on the
White Plains line and the platform
extensions will permit the accom-
modation of ten-car trains so that
overcrowding during the morning
"The following changes will be

e fo ng

made: Jackson Avenue, from 351
to 508 feet; Prospect Avenue, 349 to
496 feet; Intervale Avenue, 483 to

feet; 174th Street, 861 to 489 feet;
I77%th Street, 351 to 408 feet.

SEIZES SALMON POACHERS.

Government Official Spote Two
_ | Boats in, Alaskan Watere. |

~ ‘Bpectal Cable to Tas Naw York Tums.

KETCHIKAN, Alaska, Aug. 8.—
Spotted from the air from a plane
by Clarence Olsen of the Bureau of
Fisheries, two Ketchikan seine boats
and their crews were under arrest
today charged with fishing for sal-
mon in prohibited areas. @ fish-
eries agent said that he came upon
both boats while they were fishing
near the mouths of streams.

Olsen reported that the salmon
pack in the lower part of Southeast-
ern Alaska is considerably ahead of
the schedule as compared with other
years. an oe:

Brazil Adds Alcohol to Gasoline.
_ Special Cable to Tas New Yore Ynas.
RIO DE JANEIRO, Afig. 8.—Bg-

ginni tomorrow ng and
continuing until the alcohol supply.
is exhausted, gasoline venders with-

in the Federal district will sell
absolute alcohol.

INTIMATE BY WKN.
ways te the deers of merchants
s ere long end wide * * © others
@ © We endeever fe setis
aie.” thecetore trusting thet every

a erefore trusting thet
BR Hanalei, / a a

practice last year to help the sugar =
loauatry.

beth Resie-
the? eur

“IN KILLING OF FRIEND

Officials Say Shooting in Bronx
,Cafe Was Accidental but Con.
. flicting Stories Were Told. |,
‘Patrolman Thomas Kane, 20 years
old, attached to the Alexander Ave-

nue station, was arrested
fn the fatal

ANTONIO, Anna, FARACI & SAETTA, Whites,
electrocuted New York (Albarly) on 8-9-193h.

BY LEWIS THOMPSON

DARING DETECTIVE, SEPTEMBER, 1952

Ve three of them—the two young law students
and the girl—-were tired but happy as their LaSalle
sedan sped along the River Road, just outside Castle-
ton, New York. They had been dancing all night, and
were headed for their homes in Albany, a few miles
to the north. At that hour, 4:30 on Easter morning,
March 27, 1932, the road was deserted, and the only
sound above their intermittent conversation was the
steady hum of the tires on the concrete road.

Then the driver, John C. Cary, Jr., spotted the
form lying off the shoulder of the road ahead, and
braked to an abrupt stop. “You stay here,” he told
the girl, and then addressed William McDermott,
the other youth. “Let’s see what’s the matter.”

They got out of the car, but returned to it a few
moments later, bearing the semi-conscious body of a _
man. He appeared to be around 35, and well-dressed,
although the great splotches of blood which covered
his clothing did nothing to make their quality ap-
parent.

As they laid him on the back seat of the sedan,
he groaned and attempted to speak. “Take me
home,” he finally managed to get out. “Albany
... three Teunis Street ...name is... Salvatore
Antonio... .” Then he blacked out.

But Cary, behind the wheel again, had no in-
tention of complying with the wounded man’s

sity *
Aatried near the’ car while er. x companion
rushed ‘to, aoe the semi-conscious

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TRUE DETECTIVE,
October, 1953

True Detective Mysteries

(Continued from page 108)

leading Negro school, announced today.
This was one more than in the first six
months of 1932. Two of the six lynched
were white men.: Officers prevented four-
teen attempted lynchings.

MEXICO CITY, Mexico—Unless the
Governor of the state of Pueblo inter-
venes by commutation of their death sen-
tence, the two men convicted almost nine
ct ago for the murder of Mrs. Rosalie

vans, British ranch owner, will be exe-
cuted in the next three days. The mur-
derers, Francisco Ruiz and Alejo Garcia,
have resorted to every legal means to
avoid the death penalty.

JULY 3

NEW YORK, N. Y.—Four of the United
States Government witnesses in the in-
come tax evasion case against Irving Wex-
ler, popularly known as Waxey Gordon,
have been murdered since the prosecution
began, Assistant U. S. District Attorney
Thomas E. Dewey stated today.

EL RENO, Oxia—Three convicts, Cal-
vin Lee, Glen Park and S. M. Gralian,
escaped from the Federal Industrial Re-
formatory here.

NEWARK, N. J.—Gaspera Balsamo, 34,
of this city, was formally booked on a
charge of murder in connection with the
death of Mrs. Wilhelmina Simon, 39,
mother of seven children. An autopsy
showed that Mrs. Simon had _ been
strangled to death.

JULY 5

PHILADELPHIA, Pa.—Dominick Pic-
cola, 41-year-old machinist, was held for
questioning today on the strength of a
statement by his four-year-old son that
“napa hit mama.” Piccola’s wife was
killed with a hatchet.

RICHMOND, Va—Four civilian con-
servation corps workers from the Rox-
bury Camp near here have been arrested,
two being charged with murder and the
other two with assault. The charges are
the result of an investigation into the
death of Clifford Crist, 35, of Berkeley,
West Virginia.

BROOKSVILLE, Fra—Twenty na-
tional guardsmen were called from Tampa
today to quell a twenty-four-hour riot at
a state prison camp, Tooke Lake, twelve
miles from here. The riot followed the
escape of five convicts, two of whom were
afterward captured. Several sweat boxes
wefe burned during the uprising.

OSSINING, N. Y.—Mrs. Anna Antonio
is spending her last hours on earth making
clothes for her three children, Warden
Lawes having provided a sewing machine
for the purpose. Mrs. Antonio is under
sentence of death, together with Samuel
Feraci and Vincent Sacetta, for the fatal
stabbing of her husband in a plot to col-
lect his life insurance.

CLINTON, S. C.—wNorris Bendy, 35,
colored, arrested here for striking Marvin
Lollis, white truck driver. He was later
taken from the jail here and lynched by
four unidentified white men. His strangled
body was found in a churchyard. Gover-
nor Blackwood described the killing as
murder and has ordered an immediate in-
vestigation.

KANSAS CITY, Mo—E. C. Reppert
of the police department stated tonight
that Verne C. Miller, a former sheriff of
North Dakota, and William Weissman of
Kansas City, are being sought as the
identified slayers of four, officers and
Frank Nash, bank robber, in front of the
Union station here on June 17th.

RICHWOOD, N. J—A savage murder
of the revenge type was uncovered here
today with the finding of the body of a

. structing justice.

man about 35, with his head crushed in
and his body mutilated with knife wounds.
The man is unidentified but had the name
Marico tattooeg on his right arm.

JULY 6
CHICAGO, Itt—While a ransom for

$100,000 or more was said to have been -

paid today for the release of John Factor,
his kidnappers, with Factor still their
prisoner, were reported to be speeding
toward New Orleans, en route to Mexico.

ATLANTA, Ga—A new trial was re-
fused today for Angelo Herndon, Cincin-
nati colored communist. He was con-
victed of attempting to incite insurrection
and was given eighteen to twenty years by
the jury.

JULY 8
NEW YORK, N. Y.—Four bandits, one
wearing a policeman’s uniform, robbed the
Corn Exchange Bank Trust Company
branch at 110th Street, near Broadway, of
more than $23,000 today. The bandits
escaped.

JULY 9
LA PLATA, Mp—Armed guards pre-
vented a mob lynching of Page Jenafer,
colored farmhand, here tonight in connec-
tion with the murder of his employer,
Mrs. Evelyn Reifschneider, on her farm
near Waldorf, Maryland.

JULY 10
NEW YORK, N. Y.—The long heralded
anti-narcotic treaty which has been rati-
fied by thirty-six nations became effective
today. It is regarded as the most smash-
ing blow ever struck against the dope
traffic.

ALTON, Itut.—August Luer, well-known
78-year-old banker and _ packer, was
dragged from his home here Monday
night and carried off by a band of extor-
tionists. Ransom money for the return
of the aged and ailing banker was ex-
pected to be paid.

ALBANY, N. Y—It was learned here
today that John J. O’Connell, 24, member
of the O’Connell family, prominent in Al-
bany County politics, was kidnapped early
last Friday morning, and is being held
under threat of death for $250,000 ransom.

JULY 11

KANSAS CITY, Mo.—Mrs. Frank Nash,
widow of the convict killed in the Kansas
City Union Station massacre, has been
placed under arrest on a charge of ob-
She is reported to have
been the mysterious woman who made the
telephone call and plane trip to Joplin,
Missouri, prior to the killings.

ALBANY, N. Y.—Ransom money
amounting to $50,000 is reported to have
been collected by the politically powerful
O’Connell brothers in an attempt to ob-
tain freedom of their nephew, John J:
O’Connell, Jr., who has been held by the
kidnappers for five days.

MEXICO CITY, Mexico.—David
Emeno, General Manager of the Bank of
Montreal in Mexico, was shot and killed
here tonight at a bank board meeting.
‘-C. H. Whalley, a former employee of the
bank, has been arrested.

NORFOLK, Va.—Police have arrested
four men charged with an attempt to
kidnap Cecil C. Vaughan, wealthy Frank-
lin, Virginia, banker, and extort $100,000
from his relatives.

MILFORD, Conn.—Charles Wysocki,
17, of Union City, was arrested today,
charged with stealing a locomotive from
the company yards,

JULY 12
ALTON, Itut—The wife and sons of
August Luer, kidnapped last Monday

right, have given up
alive. The wealthy b
two men and a wom
palatial home, cut t
pushed Mrs. Luer int
ried off her husband ;

ST. PAUL, Minn
of Police Thomas E. }
pers attempted to mu
Engberg, prominent
geon. Dr. Engberg \
napped to perform 3
tion on a Dr. W. H
refused, the trio dru
him in an automobil
the Northern Pacific
He miraculously esca
train tossed the car f1
ditch. Dr, Hedburg,

discovered shot thro
cruelly beaten. Both
to recover,

JULY

ALBANY, N. y—
ample of the Lindbers
were to-day contactip
in the hope that thr
members. they would
the release of John J.
has now been in the h
for more than a week

JACKSON, Micu—
was sentenced to the p
for selling a pint of |i
from prison this aft
Served five years and

PARSONS, Kans.—]
Alva Payton, two of th
from Lansing, raided t}
Bank at Altamont.
and seriously wounded |
the cashier, as the two «
ing the bank with their
McCarthy’s wife and us:
but nothing daunted,
up a rifle, and getting
convict shot him throug
died instantly.

PHILADELPHIA, P
to-day invaded the offi
Kid Company here, ro!
&@ policeman who was :
payroll,

BOSTON, Mass.—Go
special message to the
requested authority to a
slon to investigate cri:
Boston. :

ST. PAUL, Minn —P
there were four men in t
napped Drs. Engberg an
case has several weird :
a theory that a maniacs
recting the attack. Altc
Police Dahill is unsat
stories told by the injur

MADRID, Sparis—Am
dor Bowers was to-day
Spanish Government th:
bail to the five Ameri
June Sth, on a charge
civil guard. Premier A
tention to the fact th
does not permit bail i;
nature,

CHICAGO, Itu.—Acco:
here to-day, three other \
marked for kidnapping by,
that abducted John Faci
are said to be: John D
president of the Yellow
Otto Lehmann, son of the
Fair department store :
Wright, former president

Park Board.

ATLANTA, Ga—The
preme Court to-day uphe!
tence given to the Revere

f the present
ely the toask

e Tammany;

¢ that nothing
nplished,””? Mr.

radio speech
nation as vice

> whom he re

. Childs, presi-
Club, . elected
e Alfred E.
with Mr Sea-

. and Leonard
1 to the Citi-

rman.

y was deliver-
tion WMCA,
present in the

ed by the an-
remarks, but
he was there

od listener.’

es - “Futile.

y of enactment

iy present

abury said.
ich the people
the political
needed at Al-
trict neutrality
determined ac
charter that
ople from the
ning in New
te and un-

. governments

nuine relief. to

ernor Lehman

“carefully con-

by former

. Seabury and
message per

ne of the two

ced in the spe- |

would abolish
asion and au-

or the
vernor, to ap-

u 1@. ‘ Ms
Seabury sald.
rder to be “free
fight for the
be. made in the

A 46

forees are
as a candidate
. Lehman has
didacy for the
ation.
rted that “‘the
” for residents
neo that ‘‘suit-
the Legisla-
ed and elected
¢ Message.
nessage sent to
p82 by Franklin
overnor, which
reform in
rament ‘“‘must
nce,” Mr. Sea-
“complete an-
naries and po
» urge that no
° He charged

bad *"\oaded’’ “—

Her.

tae,

usband Also Fact

“Mre: Anna Antonio, 28-year-old
mother of three children, and the
two men convicted as her accom-
plices, mus? die tonight in the elec-
tric chair at Sing Sing unless Gov-
ernor Lehman again intervenes on
their behalf. The men are Vincent
Saetta and Samuel Feraci.

Thrice saved from the chair by
executive clemency, the three, were
notified in the death house yester
day afternoon that Supreme Court
Justice O. Byron Brewster at
Elizabethtown, N. Y., had refused
a second plea for a new trial for
Mrs. Antonio... :

“T have taken no action,” was the
only comment the Governor would
make last night at Albany, when
questioned about the case. He
plans to remain in Albany today
and will be available up to the
time set for the executions. ss

An Associated Press dispatch
from Albany last night said that
Daniel J. Prior, counsel for Mrs.
Antonio, appealed to Governor
Lehman for executive clemency.
Mr. Prior . filed his appeal with
Charles: J. Poletti, the Governor’sa
counsel; who said the papers would
be turned over to Mr. Lehman for
consideration. Earlier in the eve-
ning, when informed of Justice
Brewster's decision, Mr. Prior had

| said he did not know what his next

step would be.
Accused of Killing Husband. .

Mrs. Antonio and the two men
were convicted in April, 1933, of con-
spiracy to murder her husband,
who was found stabbed and shot
to death on Easter Sunday, 1932, on
a highway between Albany and
Schodack. It was charged at the
trial that the three had planned and
carried out the murder so that they
might share in a $5,000 insurance

policy Antonio bad. Mrs. Antonio

was named as beneficiary in the
policy. : oe on a
The three conspirators were sen-
tenced to die in the electric chair
on June 28. Less than an hour be-
fore the time set for the executions,
however, Saetta made a ‘‘confes-
sion” in which he gave a new ver
sion of the killing, exonerating Mrs.
Antonio. a
For some time prior to the ‘mur
der, Sactta said, he had tried un-
successfully. to get Antonio to

repay him a $75 loan. Antonio, he

said, had refused persistently, and
had once threatened to take him
“for @ ride.” On the day of the

Continued on Page Eleven. —

‘woman killed Mrs. Jean- |
nette Bair, 30 years old, of 315 West
Ninety-ninth Street, who had been
divorced four months ago from
Leigh J. Bair, an insurance broker.
She was employed by Bing & Bing,
Inc., as renting agent for the Chris-
topher Street apartment house.

Nine Injured Slightly,
The injured, none of whom went |

to a huspital, were:

LOUIS SOBOL, 37. newspaper columnist,
who has @ duplex apartment in the peat-
house. He was thrown from @ couch and
eut on the right leg. : :

Mrs. LUCY POLIGNAN}, teoant on the fl
eighth floor, injured by somne falling ob- |
ject in her apartment. :

Mrs. BETTY COLLINS, third-floor tenant,
praised when thrown from a chair in her
apartment. ,

VINCENT BONAVIA, ‘seventh-floor tenant, ‘
biown through bathroom door, spraining
hande and knees.

ETHEL JACKSON, e maid im one of the
penthouse apertments, hurled through
bathroom door; bruised. : :

Misa MARGARET WILLIAMS, 16, ef 30
Christopher Street, showered with faliiay

giaas. :
Miss PEGGY WILSON, 16, of 30 Christo-

pher Street, cut by flying glass.
ANNA FILSINGEO, maid ia the Bodo
apar t, cut and bruised..

FRED WILLIAMSON, 20, 08 Horat
reet, cut by glass as he set in
ked at the epartment house door.
Scores of tenants in the ap
ment house were hurled from thei
feet or out of bed when the biast®
rocked the building. As they
rushed down into the lobby, som
leading dogs, several were hysteri
cal and all of them, particularly the
women, appeared to be sufferin
from shock. They had to wal
down, as the explosion put the el
vators out of commission.
Few of the tenants dared ven
ture into the street because of th
shower of broken glass. About
hour after the explosion a piece o
roof coping weighing between twen
ty and thirty pounds plunge
through the sidewalk canopy an
was shattered. After that th
square was roped off and police
serves, mounted and on foot, hel
back the curious thousands tb
had gathered. © é 3
Woman Found Unconscious.
The first firemen who arrived, le
by Battalion Chief Lamb, climbe
the Gtairs to the roof, followed” b
Patrolman Thomas Clancy. The
found Mrs. Bair lying on thy
kitchen floor in the pentho
apartment leased by Mise
Riga, who went on vacation thr
weeks ago with a request that ©
place be sublet. ;
Mrs. Bair was unconscious, b
the only external signs of inju:
were small burns’ under the le
armpit and on the right foreart
She was carried“into the Sob

Continued on Page

Five.

Two Airmen Off on Ontario-Baghdad Hop;

| ‘Seek Record

Though

UnusedtoLongFligh

The associates Preas.

. ’ . 4,

‘District Attorney Charles S. Whitman
They dare not talk. We must find a

New York and the Nation were
stunned by the revelations disclosed by
the murder of Herman Rosenthal. Was
it possible, people asked, that police,
gamblers and grafters were united in
an unholy partnership? Who would
win this titanic struggle for power and
right between District Attorney Charles
S. Whitman and Police Lieutenant
Charles Becker? Charles Francis Coe,
in his masterful, realistic style, for the
first time in his long and successful
career has undertaken a fact-detective
story in this the complete review of
what has been called “the murder of
the century.” In it he recaptures the
flavor and feel of the feverish decade,
the glitter and the tinsel of cancerous

. New York night life in the years before

the World War. Herewith is presented
the second instalment.

CHAPTER II

OW there was brewing the most
amazing trial in American juris-
prudence. Now there was com-

ing to a boil the most bitter legal bat-
tle of centuries. It is necessary to cast
backward and forward in order to
make clear what takes place as the
tangled skein is straightened and the
wheels of justice begin their grinding.
No better way can we do this than to
turn to reports of the second trial of
Lieutenant Charles Becker for his life.

Here we find remarks purportedly
made by District Attorney Whitman at
the virtual conclusion of the second
trial and there could be no better ex-
pose of all that took place between
that night in the Forty-Seventh Street
Police Station and the dawn of death
for the accused Police Officer. For
Whitman, in his summation, is reported
in the following words:

“One hears that ‘Whitman is a slimy
rat to prosecute or persecute a police
officer; Whitman wants Becker.’ With-
out question I did. I don’t know
whether Rose told this little creature
. .. this little monster I ought to call
him... Jack Sullivan... that Whit-
man wants Becker and I don’t know
whether Webber told him that or not
.» » » and I don’t care. They told a
great many things that are untrue and
that are true; but if they said ‘Whitman
wants Becker,’ they did not tell a lie.
Of course I wanted to get the big fish,
the big criminals ... and let the little
ones go. I want the man who is really
responsible for crime and not the poor
little chap.”

So we see that Charles S. Whitman
had not changed his plan one iota
from the moment he crossed glances
with Becker while Herman Rosenthal
lay chilling in death at the rear of the

‘station house. Accordingly, we can
..reconstruct. much of his. thinking ‘and |
“tmany of his actions which led*to, the
thrilling .and: sensational trials. .One.
*; thing he. must. have: been convinced of.’

instantly. That was that whosoever

“al /s-, VG3E

could give him testimony that would
reveal the source of graft and crime,
must also be a character of question-
able morals and standing. That is al-
ways a serious handicap to an investi-
gator. It i8 more so to a prosecutor.
What is the value of questionable tes-
timony? .

Of what avail is it to gather together
witnesses that are impeachable? What
good is a story which no one will be-
lieve? Not only did Whitman have
to gather: together his elusive facts, he
had to make them stick before a jury.
It was a colossal task, but the man
went about it with commendable de-
termination and indefatigable energy
and fearlessness. .

Just one clew was worth anything.
In all that maze of death and defiance
of law; in all that underworld tangle of
purposes and cross purposes, one slen-
der clew was available. That was a
license number on a motor car. Poor
Gallagher had gone to the police with
that single clew and for his pains been
locked in a cell like a common crimi-
nal. Whitman took that clew and
from it, by devious and often obscure
but always effective measures, builded
it into two sensational trials of Becker,
each resulting in conviction, and one
trial at which four vicious gunmen
were convicted. On that single license
number, invisible but indelible,
splashed the life blood of five men!

The plate was checked. In a round- -
about way it led to one Shapiro, a
renter of cars whose principal business
seems to have been to cater to the
Webbers, the Vallons and the Baldy
Jack Roses of the Underworld. He
had a strange tale to tell but he would
not tell it. The owner of the license
was one Louis Libby who resided at
No. 15 Stuyvesant Street. The police
found him in bed about an hour after
the shooting but routed him out and
took him to Headquarters, where he
was questioned by Second Deputy
Commissioner George S. Dougherty, in
command of the Detective Bureau, and
Inspector Hughes, in charge at Head-
quarters.

IBBY told a straight tale. “I know
nothin’ about the car after ten at
night,” he explained. “I got a partner
named Shapiro. William Shapiro. I
drive the bus daytimes an’ after ten
at night he takes the wheel.”

But they questioned more insistently
and soon drew an admission.

“Think well now, Libby,” they
warned. “What you say is as impor-
tant to you as it is to us. Lying will
never help in such a mess as this. ‘Do
you insist that you know nothing about
the movements of the car since. ten
o’clock last night?”

“Well, I ain’t.seen the: car. .”..-

“But you’ve heard from Jit, so‘ to

-speak?. You know where it has. been?”

““No. But Shapiro did call me-up
sometime durin’ the early mornin’ to

a ad

turned it to the advantage of the Law.
He held Shapiro and questioned him.
He undoubtedly sent men after per-
sons mentioned by Rosenthal. The
Bridgie Webbers and the Baldy Jacks.
He made them talk. He knew that he
dealt with jackals. He knew as a
clever lawyer how riddled would be
their testimony in any courtroom. He
knew what, had he been on the other
side, he could have done to the words
of men such as these.

Yet they were his only weapon.
Back of all their lies and frameups
and crooked wheels and blighted pasts,
the one fact remained that they, and
they alone, knew the truth. The pub-
lic realized this. A jury would realize
it. They were all witnesses whose tes-
timony would have to be corroborated
in every detail. Where was corrobora-
tion? Every man whose name ap-
peared was a man the public was apt
to mis ust completely. Every man
was one who, on cross-examination,
would find himself assailed by his un-
deniable past, his unwholesome record,
his pitiable Poverty of ideals and
character.

“But we'll: make it stick,” Whitman ;
said grimly. “They know the truth”
and it is the truth the people want.
They won’t talk. They dare not talk.
We must find a way to make them.
The only way to do that is to enmesh
them in the toils, hold a murder indict-

Baldy Jack Rose, the gambler, shown between
Deputy Commissioner Dougherty and Inspector
Hughes, was on the Spearhead of Whitman’s attack

ment over their heads and let them “Shapiro told me that Baldy Jack
squirm until they see the only way Rose called the Cafe Boulevard on the
out.” telephone about ten o’clock Monday
night and requested the starter to send

CHAPTER III the car to Sharkey’s Saloon on Four-

.FERST arrested, then, is Shapiro, teenth Street. (Tom Sharkey, the pro-

cooling his heels in a cell and doing
whatever thinking most appealed to
him. He was a cool customer. He
had seen these flare-ups on behalf of
the people too often to be swept off his
feet by this one. It would, no doubt,
“blow over.” The thing to do was to
sit tight until the proper course was
made clear. But there were other
thoughts; thoughts which criminals
have had ever since crime vied with
law. Nobody knows a crook any bet-
ter than another crook, and none
knows how quickly a “pal” of the
semi-world will run out when danger
threatens. No doubt Shapiro had a few
such thoughts and in them there could
be small comfort. There he sat with

shoulders. The men more responsible
for it were outside, building their
fences no doubt. Shapiro sent for his
lawyer, and he sent for a good one.
Aaron J. Levy, later to enjoy a dis-
tinguished judicial career, was then a

Bridgie Webber, the man on the
right, was an enemy of Rosenthal

member of the Assembly. He con-
ferred with Shapiro and issued a state-
ment on behalf of his client. This
was a newsy thing to do. ‘The whole
nation was roused by this time and
every authoritative word was con-
sumed avidly. The conversations be-
tween lawyer and client are privileged
and no lawyer may reveal what is said
without being himself guilty of crime.
So we cannot know all that went on
there in that dingy cell. But the sub-
stance of Levy’s statement for his
client had many facets and undoubt-
edly provoked many results that were
not forseen.

It revealed that Shapiro had talked
enough to entangle certain ominous
names in certain ominous manners,

prietor, was the former heavyweight
fighter.) Shapiro took the car to
Fourteenth Street and Picked up Baldy
Jack and a few friends. The car wait-
ed a while and then went uptown a
ways, then uptown quite a long ways,
far beyond 125th Street, though I can-
not give its exact movements. Com-
ing down town again, other friends of
Jack Rose’s were picked up, and some
of the first party got out. Iam not pre-
pared to say now whether Jack Rose
stayed in the car or not. Possibly he
left it and others took his place. I
shall talk with Libby and Shapiro
more at length tomorrow and then I
shall consult with Mr. Whitman. It is
better that these prisoners should turn
their information over to Mr. Whitman
than to the police.”

To anyone knowing the Under-
world, that statement was dynamite.

If we analyze it a little, we see that.
First, it says nothing beyond the mere
fact that Shapiro did rent his car and
took a mysterious and apparently for-
gotten ride “uptown.” That on this
ride various unnamed people were in
the car. That would throw the fear of
retribution into those in the car, into
every friend of Rose’s, and into every-
one who was trembling under the
shadow of a possible frame-up! Re-
member, we deal with shadows of the
lurking fear; with men who trusted no
one and_ suspected everyone; with
characters fantastic in their manipula-
tions; often with men whose minds
were laden with the lingering and
paralyzing fumes of narcotics.

.Go a step farther with this state-
ment. Realize that its every word was
weighed by the Tenderloin and be-
tween its every line appeared genuine
meanings of vast import to the quaking
queers of the acrid gun and grimy

‘alleys. Though it does not say them, it

clearly establishes some somber in-
nuendoes. ‘Let us interpret the state-
ment in hypothetical manner, as you
may depend upon it many did.
The newspaper sprawls across the
(Continued on Page 40)

: Ll
a

Harry Vallon and others of his hard-eyed ilk were a link
in the chain District Attorney Whitman was forging

pole at the time of the shooting and
who darted into the street and made
a valiant effort to overtake the fleeing
murder car, was questioned at length.
From his trained observations and
ordered narration of events, many sig-
nificant if not substantial facts were set
up. .

Among these was that about ten
minutes before the shooting took place,

Bridgie Webber, the well-known gam- -

bler, entered the restaurant alone.
With a broadly casual manner he
saluted Herman Rosenthal and walked
out. File stated that at that moment
Rosenthal was transiently seated with
“Boob” Walker and a man named
Hickey, and that just before the ghast-
ly murder, he had spoken to “Judge”
Crowley, Sandy Clemons and a fellow
named McMahon. File added the sig-
nificant and later important fact that
shortly after the murder he again saw
Bridgie Webber in the lobby of the
hotel.

Commissioner Dougherty, through
other sources, happened to know that
Rosenthal and Webber were on the
most unfriendly terms and that Web-
ber had accused Herman a few years
before of instigating a physical attack
upon him that resulted in Bridgie
getting a broken jaw. The jaw had
healed but the Commissioner was
pretty certain that the wound to
Bridgie’s pride and feelings had not.
So the Commissioner lost no time in
sending for Webber.

In the meantime, Whitman darted
accusations at the crooked portion of
the police. He did not mince words.
Determination was inherent in_ his
every word and gesture. The New
York World for July 17 ‘quoted him:
“Rosenthal said he wanted to come to
my house instead of my office because
he feared for his life. I accuse the
Police Department of New York,
through certain members of it, with
having murdered Herman Rosenthal.
Either directly or indirectly it was be-
cause of them that he was slain in
cold blood with never a chance for his
life. And the time and place selected
were such as to inspire terror in the
hearts of those the system had most
to fear. It was intended to be a les-
son to anyone who might have thought
of exposing the alliance between the

‘10

police and crime ... But the case
against Lieutenant Becker will be

pushed through with all possible vigor, ’

even though it is apparent that no con-
viction can result . . . Public opinion
will constitute a moral indictment...”
Later on he was quoted in the same
article, “The big thing in this case is
not the death of Rosenthal, but the
death of public confidence in our sys-
tem of justice that the murder has
gone a long way toward causing.”
Though it was not known, Whitman
already had started the wheels of jus-
tice grinding against those of the Un-
derworld and sparks were in the offing.
Rosenthal had agreed to give the
names of eight or ten men who would
corroborate the evidence of corruption
he was offering. The identity of these
men Whitman undoubtedly knew. He
probably worked on them alone. He
was certain that the defense of Becker
and others would be that the murder
was a result of an inevitable and not
particularly unusual gamblers’ war.
He knew that the crime would, if pos-
sible, be laid at gamblers’ feet on the
score that they had merely meted
forth the Underworld penalty their
code prescribed for a “squealer.”
This is all clearly indicated by fur-
ther quotation in the World. When

Big Jack Zelig: He was in Whit-
man’s path of men to be questioned

the District Attorney had finished his
considered statement, a newsman
asked him, “Do you believe that had
Rosenthal lived he would have been
able to convict Becker or that his
testimony would have laid bare the
operations of the system?”

To which Whitman replied: “I can-
not answer that question because it
relates to matters to be placed before
the grand jury. But I will say that
Rosenthal had put into my hands valu-
able evidence and had supplied impor-
tant leads that brought new’ material.
That he. was a source of grave peril to
the ‘system’ is apparent. He knew con-
ditions in the city as few men did, for
he’ had been a part of the things that
he intended to expose.”

Whitman knew well what Rosenthal
represented. The man had been a
street gamin from his earliest youth.
Thrown more or less on his own re-
sources at the tenderest of ages, he had
wangled a living selling newspapers.
This brought him in contact with all
sorts of people. It sharpened his wits
as nothing else might have done. Just
at the period, in the late nineties, when
New: York was ablaze with the irri-
descence of the mauve decade, when
automobiles were just approaching
common use, when Tammany was the
political religion of the powers and
when names later to glow with promi-
nence were just beginning to be heard,
conditions lent themselves. to the
Horatio Alger rise of a sharp-eyed,
quick-witted gamin. And the methods
of success frequently violated every
principle of the Alger recipe.

This was the case with Herman. He
admitted that as a child he had known
what it was to run a little card or crap
game on the East Side of the great
city, and weekly drop into a_ police
station and leave $25 there with the
captain. His attitude toward police,
and the law they represented, was es-
sentially one of tongue-in-cheek prac-
ticality. He had, perhaps, never
known honest law enforcement. Law
to him was a thing to be avoided
adroitly. It was a restrictive measure
for suckers; it was that rigid barrier

against a soft living to be made by
those outside the select few. One can
imagine him saying: “Why, law is nec-
essary to keep suckers out. If it were
not for law, everybody would be op-
erating a stuss game or a wheel and
nobody would make a living! There
would be nothing but shootings among
wise guys.”

B fhe mses things he had told Whitman.
In resentment against the raid by
his own partner, in deeper resentment
against the policeman who was sent to
linger in his very home, he never
changed his reaction to the law and its
purposes, All his life, through the
murk of the Ghetto and the roars of
the lower East Side, Herman had
dreamed of invading the gilded reaches
of the Tenderloin, where the big
money was. That was Becker’s realm.
Herman had managed to invade. He
had met the lances of the smartest
competition and done it with success.
He had tasted the sweet gravy of the
big money, only to have it dashed
from his hand by what he felt was
the leering gesture of his own partner
in the gaming house. Bitter indeed
was his cup, for this situation made
him appear before others of his pro-
fession qs the prize sucker of all time.
His vanity was deep wounded and his
resentments aflame. -

Whitman used this situation and

“And Becker Swaggered.. He Smiled. . .
Laughed at the Concern of His Friends.
But His Laughter Was Ill-Advised-——"

tell me the old bus had got mixed up “Nope. He ain’t the nervous kind.”

in a shootin’ scrape of some kind or “Pleasant was he; friendly?”

other. I don’t know no details.” “I guess so. Same as always.”
Shortly, with that lead, the police “Didn’t he have anything to say?”

picked up Shapiro. He had ail the The man hesitated, squinted his

silent virtues of the clan. Not a word eyes, scratched his ear in perplexity.

would he say. But they locked him Then, “You birds are coppers, ain’t

up to give him time to think things you?”

over and checked on the car itself, “Yes.”

That was more productive. The ga- “Well, in that case .. » Oh, you

rage keeper, realizing that wisdom lay needn’t show me the business, I be-

in truthfulness, was more willing to lieve you. I knew right away what

tell what he knew. you was without seein’ no badges...
“The car is over there,” he pointed. T’ll tell you this. We run an on-the-
“That's the Shapiro automobile.” level place here. We don’t know our
“It’s been out a good deal?” customers’ history an’ don’t make it
“Yeah. They sort of use it for hire.” our business to find out. So long as a
“It was out last night?” man pays his bill an’ acts right, that’s

the duffle with us. But we don’t hide
"UE HUH. It come back after two things from you boys. When that
o’clock this mornin’.” Shapiro come in shortly after two

“You’re sure about the time?” o’clock this mornin’, he stopped long

“Sure. We keep tabs on them things. enough to ask me a funny question.
Folks are apt to kick about charges, It wasn’t funny then. Lots of chauf-
or claim we’re usin’ their cars if we feurs swipe a little use of the bosses’
don’t keep tabs.” cars now an’ then, and so long as it

“I guess so,” the officer nodded un- wl
derstandingly. “So you're sure it was
out all evening and returned after two
o’clock this morning?”

“That’s right. I’m sure.”

-“Good. Who drove it in after two
o’clock?”

“Shapiro,”

“Was he in his normal spirits? Did
you notice anything unusual about
him?”

“He ain’t a guy that talks much so
I guess I didn’t notice.”

“He did not act abnormally in any
way? He wasn’t more nervous than
usual?”

Whitman’s only clew to the assassins who murdered
Herman Rosenthal at the entrance to the Metropole
Hotel, above, was the license plate on the gray touring
' car, left, which a witness had seen and remembered

. The trail of the gray murder car
ended at the garage below and
Whitman knew the case would be
even bigger than it appeared

ain’t laid to us, it ain’t any of ou
business. But his request looks funny
now...”

“What did Shapiro ask you?”

“Well, to anybody but coppers I’d
say it’s none of your business. But
this is different. Shapiro asks me to
say, if anybody asks, that the car come
back at midnight an’ never went out
after that.”

“He did, eh?”

“If he didn’t, I’m a barber on roller
skates!”

ie 3 ad he tell you why he wanted you
to lie for him?”

“Nary a tell. Just asked me to put
the business in for him that- much.
Made me think he’d stolen a little ride.
Why all the questions, fellahs? Was
the car used for a stick-up, mebbe?”

“Mebbe. Remember what you’ve
told _us. Impress it on your mind.
We'll have to use it again later, meb-
be.”

“T won’t forget.”

That little wedge was the first thing
the District Attorney and his staff had
to work on; that was the first clew:
the first break in this vital and historic
case. Whitman used it well. To his
staff he made his position clear.

“I want the big shots. I know there
is graft and corruption in the Police
Department. I’m sick of little pinches
that net the minnows. Right now we
start fishing for the whales of crime.
Get your harpoons ready. Nothing
will stop us. Be unafraid where the
chips fall.”

He was anxious to accept all the help
the police had to give but he was ada-
mant about changing his own course.
The police continued their investiga-
tions but made no more arrests that
day. Police Officer File, who was re-
ported as having a meal in the Metro-

-
.

May, 1935

The Master Detective

Five Men for One Murder

(Continued from page 48)

Blood,” repeated the laundry proprie-
tor, as if he doubted his ears. It was
plain to see that he was stunned at the
sudden realization that the two men
who had been getting calls over his
telephone were two of the most notori-
ous characters in New York. “Boy,” he
said, “if I’d known who they were I’d
never have let them use this phone.”

“When did you see them last?” asked
Dougherty.

“Just this morning. Goldberg—that’s
the name this Lefty Louie gave me—
got a call from a woman.”

“What time?”

“About nine o'clock.”

Dougherty turned to the detective.
“That checks,” he said. “Lefty’s wife
made a call from a pay station at
nine.” He turned again to the pro-
prietor.

“Where did he go after he got the
call?” he asked.

“Back next door, I guess. They
never seem to go anywhere; usually
Stay in their apartment.”

“How did you learn that?”

‘T TALKED to the superintendent of
the building. He happened to tell

me when | mentioned that two ‘of his

tenants got their calls here.” 5

“What apartment do they occupy?”

“Top floor front.”

Dougherty admonished the man to
keep a still tongue, then turned to his
subordinate. “Come on,” he said.
“Let’s have a talk with the superinten-
dent.”

The superintendent lived on the first
floor and when Dougherty talked into
the vestibule telephone connecting with
the man’s apartment, he said: “Is this
the superintendent? I’d like to see you
about renting an apartment.” He was
taking no chances on making any move
that might betray the real purpose of
his visit to anyone observing and over-
hearing him. Once in the living room
of the superintendent’s quarters, how-
ever, Dougherty revealed his identity
and the purpose of his visit.

Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood had
hardly left their apartment since they
rented it under the names of Goldberg
and Stein, the superintendent revealed.
The two men sent one of the employees
of the building out for food. They ex-
plained their unusual habits to the su-
perintendent by stating that they were
Inventors, and that they were on the
verge of an important discovery. A
maid who cleaned up the place re-
ported to her employer that at least
one of the men was always in the apart-
ment during her visits.

“I suppose, then,” said Dougherty,
“that the men are in now.”

“Tl imagine they are,” was the answer.

“Just what is the procedure that the
laundry man uses in calling them to
the telephone? | forgot to ask him
that in my rush to get over here to see
you.”

“He just goes to the vestibule and

calls their apartment through the house
phone.”

“T see,” said Dougherty. Then, to
the other detective, the Deputy Com-
missioner said: “Suppose we get that
laundry man in here and have him call

‘them to the telephone. We'll get a few

more men and nab them as they come
downstairs.”

“That sounds like the best way to do
it, Chief,” answered the detective.

Dougherty took up the superinten-
dent’s telephone and made a call. In
twenty-five minutes six picked detec-
tives had come to the apartment, crack
shots all.

There was no elevator in the build-
ing. The Deputy Commissioner and
the six marksmen began to climb the
stairs to the fifth and top floor where
Lefty and Gyp were occupying the
front apartment. A seventh detective
—the man who had spotted the hide-
out—remained downstairs with the
superintendent.

At the top landing, Dougherty and
five of the detectives tip-toed along a
corridor that led to the door of the
gunmen’s apartment. The sixth sleuth
remained at the stair landing. Then,
when the men who were presently to
come face to face with Lefty and Gyp
had taken their positions near the door,
Dougherty waved his arm and the sixth
sleuth began to retrace his steps to the
first floor. There he was to give the
word that all was in readiness for the
superintendent to ring the apartment.

he superintendent made _ his way
from his own quarters to the vestibule.
He was very nervous. He pressed his
thumb against the button of a house
telephone that connected with the fugi-
tives’ apartment. Up on the top floor,
the detectives in the corridor heard the
bell ringing.

“Mr. Goldberg?” asked the superin-
tendent when someone in the apart-
ment said “Hello?”

“Yes,” answered Lefty Louie.

“TELEPHONE call at the laundry,”
said the-superintendent.

“Tl be right there,” came the an-
swer. Dougherty and his men heard
the words plainly. Their right index
fingers touched the triggers of their re-
volvers, They were standing in single
file to the right of the door leading
to the gunmen’s lair. Dougherty was
the first, nearest to the door bt §

Footfalls on the other side of the door
came nearer. The man-hunters heard
a latch sliding back and a hand rattling
the knob. Then the door was flung
wide open.

Dougherty and his men sprang for-
ward like panthers. Lefty Louie was
knocked to the floor, two men astride
him. Dougherty and the others spotted
Gyp the Blood sitting in an easy chair,
a newspaper in his fade He didn’t
make a move as the Deputy Commis-
sioner and the sleuths rushed him with
drawn guns. One man clicked a pair

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“ ALL right,” went on

48 The Master

it's near an open air moving picture theater because Flor-
ence—that’s Gyp’s wife—happened ‘to say that her hus-
band was safe and didn’t even have to go out for enter-
tainment because he could see the movies from his window
any time he wanted to.”

Dougherty wrote the words “open air movies” on a
yellow pad. “There’s no doubt that Lefty and Gyp are
living together, | Suppose?” he inquired, thoughtfully.

“That's the impression
I have,” answered John,

“John,” said Dough-
erty, ‘“here’s what I want
you to do: Make it a
point to see these wo-
men again—tonight, You
know them pretty well,
of course ?”

John nodded.

Dougherty. “Act
excited, and tell them
that the police know
Where Lefty and Gyp
are. Tell them that you
know for a fact that the
police are closing in on
them in the Catskills.
That might lead them to
tell you where the two
men really are. Of
course, if you double-
cross me and tip the wo-
men off, you know that
you can expect no leni-
ency from this office next
time you're picked up
for anything.”

“Don’t worry, Mr.
Dougherty,” said John.
“You know me.”

‘Yes,’ remarked
Dougherty to an assis-
tant} when John had
closed the door behind
him. “I know him. He’d
double-cross me in a
minute if he thought he
could get away with it.’”.

Dougherty called in
several of the men who had participated in the trailing and
apprehension of the other two gunmen. He told them of
the information he had gotten from John B——, then
added: “What I want you men to do is to check up on
every open air moving picture theater in the city. Divide
the city up into sections, and do the work as quickly and
systematically as possible. If any one of you spots an open
air movie in the Vicinity of a laundry and an apartment
building or living quarters of any kind that affords a view
down into the theater, let me know at once. Have I made
myself perfectly clear?”

The sleuths nodded and departed.

Dougherty received two pieces of arresting information
within twenty-four hours, One was from John B——. He
had seen the fugitives’ wives the evening previously (which
Dougherty already knew through the detectives following
the women) and had learned that Gyp and Lefty were
hiding in Brooklyn. When John told the women that the
police hoped to bag the men in the Catskills, Gyp’s wife ran
true to the form that Dougherty had hoped for. She
laughed and said: “That’s very funny. The boys happen
to be in Brooklyn,”

Dougherty had hardly gotten into the work of concen-

Judge Samuel Seabury, as he appeared in 1914. He pre-

sided at the second trial of Charles Becker, which com-

menced May 5th, 1914, almost two years after Herman
Rosenthal’s death

Detective

trating his detectives jp Brooklyn when one of the men
originally assigned to check up on the open air movies in
that borough telephoned the following message to the Chief

“That Charlie Chaplin picture you wanted to see is play-
ing at the Acme Theater over in Brooklyn. The Acme is on
Ridgewood Avenue. Want to meet me there at seven to-
night?”

“It’s a date,” said Dougherty’, promptly. “I'll be there.”

Dougherty clapped on
his hat, rushed from
Headquarters and en-
tered his car. Half an
hour later, his machine
was parked two blocks
away from the Acme
Theater and Dougherty
met the detective down
the street from the mo-
vie house.

“There’s the laundry
Over there,” said the
sleuth, nodding toward a
building across the street
from the theater.

“And that’s the apart-
ment, | take it,” said
Dougherty, looking at a
building next to the
laundry.

“That's the way | size
it up,” answered the de-
tective. “Anyone in the
front apartments on the
third, fourth or fifth
floors is high enough up
to clear the front of the
theater and look at the
screen. The screen in the
theater, I’ve found out.
faces the apartment
building.”

“Let’s go over to the
laundry and see what
they know,” said Dough-
erty.

The two man-hunters
were soon engaged in
conversation with the
Proprietor of the laun-
dry, a small place.

“IT understand,” said Dougherty, showing the man photo-
graphs of Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood, “that these two
men have been getting telephone calls here.”

The laundry Proprietor recognized the pictures imme-
diately. “Yes,” he said. “They live in the apartment house
next door. Moved in a few Weeks ago. They came in here
and told me that they didn’t want a telephone of their

“own, but that they would Pay me a dollar a week if they

could get their calls on my telephone. It sounded like a
good proposition to me, so | told them all right. Say,
they’re rogues’ gallery pictures you've got there!” The
laundry man, who had talked quickly without realizing who
he was talking about, or to whom he was talking, looked
up at the Deputy Commissioner.

“Holy smoke!” the man exclaimed. “You're Mister
Dougherty from Headquarters, aren’t you? And these two
men are criminals.”

Dougherty smiled. “] was wondering,” he said, “just how
long it was going to take you to realize that. But it’s all
right. You have nothing to fear. These men are Lefty
Louie and Gyp the Blood—the two men you’ve been read-
ing so much about in the newspapers.”

“Lefty Louie and Gyp the (Continued on page 78)

of handcuffs on the prisoner while the
others covered him. Lefty Louie was
by this time handcuffed, too.

During all this, not a single word
had been spoken by anyone in the
room. Gyp was the first to speak.

“You went to a lot of trouble,” he
said to Dougherty, sullenly. “We
have no guns.”

“You must have changed your
habits since duly sixteenth, then,” was
the Deputy Commissioner’s reply.

Gyp exchanged a meaningful glance
with Lefty. Then he said: “We might
as well go, Lefty. These gentlemen
seem to want us for something.”

Like the other two men arrested for
the actual shooting of Herman Rosen-
thal, Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood
refused to talk at Headquarters. But,
like the other two, they were prone?
identified by William Shapiro, self-
confessed driver of the murder car.

The next sensation for the public
was Whitman’s announcement that he
was going to try Lieutenant Becker
first—and alone. Over the strong pro-
tests of the Police Lieutenant’s attor-
neys, Becker was brought to trial
before Judge Goff, sitting as Special
Trial Judge in the Criminal Branch of
the Supreme Court, on October 7th,
1912, less than three months after Ros-
enthal was shot to death in front of the
Metropole Hotel.

THE Three Musketeers of Larceny
Lane—Bald Jack Rose, Harry Val-
lon and Bridgey Webber—and_ their
gambler pal, Sam Schepps, testified to
their participation in the events leading
up to the murder, singling out Becker as
the guiding hand behind the scenes.
Rose’s confession, in which the Bald
One went into details about the hiring
of the four gunmen, was introduced
into the record. Several witnesses tes-
tified to the fact that Rose and the de-
fendant had been chummy for a long
time.

Morris Lubin, an ex-convict, was a
surprise witness against Becker. He
was brought from jail in Newark, New

ersey, where he faced a forgery charge.
his had been filed some time after the
murder of Rosenthal. Lubin testified
that he was standing outside of the
Metropole Hotel when the murder_was
committed and he identified Dago
Frank, Gyp and Lefty as three of the
gunmen. Before the murder, he swore,
he had seen Jack Rose and Becker to-
gether in the Lafayette Baths.

“Did you hear them say any words,
one to the other?” Lubin was asked
by Assistant District Attorney Frank
Moss, who conducted the trial.

“1 did,” he answered.

“What was said?”

“Becker said,” answered Lubin, “ ‘If
that b—— Rosenthal isn’t croaked, I'll
croak him myself.’ ”

Cross-examined by the Defense,
Lubin, in accounting for his actions
preceding the crime and explaining
how he hadpened to be at the Metro-
pole at the time of the shooting, said,
among other things, that he had at-
senda a performance at Hammerstein’s
Theater with a girl named Annie.
Pressed for the girl’s full name, he re-

The Master Detective

fused to give it, saying that it would
tend to “degrade and incriminate” him.
Then the Defense definitely established
the fact that Lubin was a liar by point-
ing out that he could not have attended
a performance at Hammerstein’s the
night of the crime for the simple reason
that the theater in question was closed
that night. ,

Lubin had a brother, Jacob, who
was also an ex-convict and who was at
the moment facing a: forgery charge
in Newark. The Defense introduced
two letters written to Becker’s attor-
tg by Jacob Lubin from jail in New-
ark. In the first communication Jacob
made the following assertion:

I was in Sam Paul’s club on
Seventh Street between Second and
Third Avenues where | overheard
a conversation between Sam Paul,
Nathan Paul and a couple of more
fellows and after a while Jack
Rose, Sam Schepps and another
fellow who | think was Vallon
came in and he joined into the
conversation as my friends that
were with me were well known to
the Pauls ... Rose made some re-
mark as to Rosenthal and said
that he ought to be croaked before
he opens up... One of them re-
marked that they would frame up
Becker.

In the second letter Jacob Lubin
said:

Well I will try and get bail if |
can and as soon as | get it I will
go and see the other people, of
whom one is a salesman and one is
a manufacturer, and get them to
tell the truth as to what they
know as to the frame-up. We are
not the only people that know.
There is plenty of them that knew
it but are afraid to open their
mouths.

When private detectives employed
by the Defense interviewed Jacob
Lubin in jail, the prisoner indicated
an unwillingness to aid Becker at the
trial unless arrangements could be
made to drop the charges against him
in New Jersey. That was not possible.
Then, just before the opening of the
trial, the Defense lawyers received this
letter from the convict:

Will you kindly see that your
man sends back my letters he got
from me and which he promised to
mail back to me but failed to do
so. These letters are not good to
anyone but myself.

While Jacob Lubin’s letters were in-
troduced at the trial, Lubin did not
testify.

Lieutenant Becker’s trial lasted a
little more than three weeks. Becker
did not take the stand. His lawyers
contented themselves with attacks upon
and attempts to discredit the testi-
mony of the State witnesses, and im-
plied, through cross-examination of the
Three Musketeers and Schepps, that the

four men had planned the murder and
framed Becker when they found them-
selves in official hot water.

The jury returned a verdict of first
degree murder, which meant the chair.
Becker smiled. His wife, a school
teacher, collapsed.

Becker, exuding confidence that the
verdict would be reversed, was removed
to Sing Sing Prison. District Attorney
Whitman busied himself with prepara-
tions for the trial of Dago Frank,
Lefty Louie, Whitey Lewis and Gyp
the Blood. The gunmen offered to
plead guilty if they would be spared
the chair. The District Attorney turned
thumbs down on the proposition and
went ahead with his original plans.

The chauffeur, Shapiro, was the prin-
cipal witness against the underworld
quartet. They, too—all four—were
found guilty of first degree murder.
They joined Becker in prison.

The four men who rode in the gray
touring car on that fateful night fought
savagely for a new trial. Delay fol-
lowed delay, then came the final and
official denial. And so, while Becker
was still carrying on his fight for a
second trial the executions of the four
killers were set for the early morning
hours of April 13th, 1914, and carried
out.

WitH the four gunmen in_ their
graves, the interest focused on
Charles Becker became stronger than
ever. This was especially so when the
Court of Appeals placed in the man’s
hands a strong weapon for his battle
for freedom—a new trial. The higher
Court reversed the verdict of the first
trial, principally because of the charac-
ter of the men who had offered the tes-
timony,, that directly linked the Police
Lieutenant to the murder. It found a
decided weakness in the evidence relat-
ing to the conference in Harlem, at
which Becker, according to Rose and
others implicated, gave final orders for
the death of Rosenthal. The Harlem
conference, the Court pointed out, was
not corroborated by any outsider, and
it was, from a legal standpoint, perhaps
the most important episode in the en-
tire scenario of death. The Court re-
fused to accept the testimony of Sam
Schepps in the nature of corroboration,
ruling that the gambler had acted in
collusion with the Three Musketeers in
planning the crime and could not,
therefore, be regarded as an outsider.
Of the other witnesses whose stories
linked Becker to the murder, the Court
singled out Morris Lubin, who had
sworn that he overheard Becker and
Bald Jack Rose plotting Rosenthal’s
death. °
“Lubin,” said the reversal opinion,
“was produced for the purposes of the
trial by the criminal authorities of a
neighboring state where he was con-
fined in jail... After being brought
to New York and before going on the
stand, the.witness, in a manner which
we cannot but regard as significant,
was given an opportunity for confer-
ence with Rose, the chief witness for
the prosecution, and who was imme-
diately to follow him upon the stand.

Yi bande bude Or

Their evidence was entirely har-
monious.”

The higher Court also found that
Judge Goff, who presided at the trial,
had, in his charge to the jury, outlined
in much detail the claims of the State
whereas he had failed to lay equal
stress on Defense arguments and evi-
dence that tended to contradict such
claims.

“In his (the Judge’s) extended re-
marks concerning the witness Rose,”
said the opinion, “and which seem to
us to have assumed somewhat the form
of an argument in favor of his credi-
bility, no attention is called to the fact
that he saved his own life by agreeing
to give evidence against Becker; no
reference is made to that aspect of the
case so vigorously urged by the de-
fendant that he and his associates had
framed and were testifying under a
conspiracy to convict Becker for the
purpose of saving themselves and that
the harmony of their testimony might
be the result of such conspiracy rather
than proof of truthfulness.”

BECKER'S second trial opened May
5th, 1914—almost two years after
Rosenthal’s .death—before Judge Sam-
uel Seabury, the man who was to break
the back of Tammany Hall in New
York nineteen years later and -bring
about the election of the reform Mayor,
La Guardia. The testimony offered by
the State was virtually the same as that
at the first trial with one important ad-
dition—the testimony of a colored
youth named James Marshall.

Marshall was a buck and wing dan-
cer in vaudeville, lived in Harlem,
New York’s so-called “black belt,” and
had, for some months prior to the
Rosenthal murder, acted as a_ stool
pigeon for Becker. He frequented
gambling houses in Harlem as a pa-
tron and obtained evidence on which
Becker subsequently staged raids.

The District Attorney’s office, in go-
ing over back records, found that
Becker had made a raid in the vicinity
of One Hundred and Twenty-fourth
Street and Seventh Avenue (where the
alleged murder conference was held)
shortly after the hour that Jack Rose

WE ARE CORRECTED

“Alan Hynd, in his story ‘Five
Men for One Murder’, in the
February issue, says that Fred
Johnson (the Postmaster of Hot
Springs) caught Sam Schepps.
He’s wrong. My father did and
if you will check back to the
newspapers you will see I am
right. The papers throughout the
United States told about the
‘small town cop’, and gave pic-
tures of him, who succeeded in
capturing Schepps.” . . . Mar-
jorie H. Howell, P O Box 39, Hot
Springs, Ark.

The Master Detective

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38 The Master

(Above) “Bald Jack” Rose, believed to be the man
who made a mysterious telephone call to Rosenthal
shortly before he was murdered

“Tomorrow morning, in my apartment in the Madison
Square Hotel.”

“What time?”

“Ten o'clock.”

The reporters shuffled out, Whitman closed the door
behind them and walked grimly to his desk. In a few mo-
ments, he was lost in the pages of a document that was, in
a day not far distant, to send five men then in the best of
health to the electric chair... .

At nine o’clock that night Herman Rosenthal and his de-
voted wife sat in the living room of their home on West
Forty-fifth Street. They were talking in low tones, for the
cop on the four-to-midnight shift was lolling on a chair in
the vestibule, just a few feet distant.

“I'd like to step out there and bust that flatfoot in the
snoot,” Rosenthal remarked to his wife.

“Now, Herman,” said Mrs. Rosenthal, “you’re in enough
trouble already. Those newspaper stories have stirred up
an awful mess.”

“What do I care! I’m going to fight this thing to the
finish. Everybody else’s running wide open. Why pick
on me?”

THE gambler—he was a stocky, middle-aged little man
with a pallid face, oily hair and sharp brown eyes—
arose and crossed the room.

“Where are you going. Herman?” his wife asked.

“Out, | want to get some air and the morning papers.
I'll be in between one and two.”

Fear flitted across Mrs. Rosenthal’s face. “Herman,” she
said, somewhat breathlessly as she arose and followed her
husband, “don’t go out tonight. I’m nervous. I’m afraid
something will happen to you.”

Rosenthal placed an affectionate arm about his wife’s
waist. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. They wouldn’t dare to
do anything to me. They know they'd be hanging them-
selves.”

Mrs. Rosenthal’s face was lined with anxiety as her hus-
band went out into the hallway and. put on his straw hat.
“I’m going out for a little while, teacher,” he remarked
sarcastically ta the policeman in the vestibule as he opened
the front door. “I hope you approve. If you don’t, you
know what you can do.”

Detective

Herman Rosenthal slammed the door behind him and
walked out into the sticky, breathless night. At almost the
same minute, the telephone of the World’s city editor rang.
“Hello?” barked the editor. “Hello,” came a voice. “Has
Rosenthal been killed yet?”

“We haven’t heard anything about it,” said the editor.

“Well, you will.” The instrument on the other end
clicked.

At a few minutes shy of midnight, the gambler walked
through the portals of the Hotel Metropole, on the north
side of Forty-third Street, a few paces in from Broadway.
The hostelry was one of the most famous in New York at
the time. It was operated by George Considine, one-time
manager of “Gentleman Jim” Corbett, heavyweight - boxing
champion of the world. Its thickly-carpeted, mirrored
dining-room, with glistening chandeliers overhead, was the
rendezvous for celebrities in the theatrical and sporting
worlds. Once a week, “Diamond Jim” Brady and others of
the town’s celebrated spenders would take over the dining
room for a big beefsteak dinner. Marie Dressler, Weber
and Fields, David Belasco, David Warfield, Jim Corbett
and others touched with the wand of glory were in attend-
ance at these affairs. All the guests wore big white aprons
and chef's hats as they drew up heir chairs and tucked
into squab and cocktails, sizzling porterhouse and cham-
pagne. The Metropole dining room was a lingering vestige
of the Gay Nineties amid the New York that was evolving
into the city that it is today.

Rosenthal was accompanied by three other men when he
walked into the Metropole dining room that night. took a

(Above) William Shapiro, the partner of the man who
owned the gray Packard. He claimed he had rented
it to a stranger on the night of the murder

table in the
only a few o
Rosenthal ca
repasts, paic
one of the fe
proximity to
It was on
went out intc
and bought
the front p:
papers under

D ISCERN|]
Forty-th
and taxicabs
anyone with
third Street {
that odd thi
Rosenthal h:
now, as he w
taxicabs tha
for fares wer
reason that
suddenly em
it, and ride :
As the su!
with the thre
up in front
vision of fou
Packard tou

(Above) Lee
pole, was al
the strange

empt:

- demanded five
se to open, and
-d at the end of
what the traffic
afternoon pool
yom, fifty; large
fty; large poker
tions.
te cases of astig-
district throbbed
, simply couldn't
Streets, and from
ry could see many
dows were closely
yailed during the
il the small hours.
were operated by
_ Then there were
re Door, the latter
ytia Hotel. These
Rosenthal took it
een singularly free

efore whom Rosen-
ient grounds upon

Five Men for One

which to proceed against the Police Department, the
gambler’s allegations set the White Light district crackling
with excitement. Not only the police, but other gamblers
who were hitting it off with certain crooked members of
the force, were enraged at the gambler. The reason why the
police took such an attitude was obvious. The reason why
the gamblers turned red with anger was two-fold: To save
their faces, the crooked members of the police force would
have to bite the hand that fed them by raiding many of the
joints that had recently sprung up
around the Times Square district
like mushrooms; and there sat in
the District Attorney’s chair a very
ambitious man named Charles S.
Whitman. As one gambling house

operator put it, Rosenthal’s bold move would cause
things to break “thirty-seven ways from jack.”
It was an open secret that District Attorney Whit-
man had his eyes on Albany and the Governorship,
and relished every opportunity to stand ‘in the spot-
light of public attention as a crusader. That Whit-
man would leap at the chance to dig deeply into the
Rosenthal charges was a foregone conclusion.

At the moment the District Attorney was taking
a short vacation in Newport, Rhode Island. He
cut short his holiday when he learned that Rosenthal’s
allegations had been made public, and. hastened to
New York. - He: admitted that Rosenthal had con-
ferred with him regarding gambling conditions, and
also that he knew the name of the Police. Lieutenant
whom Rosenthal accused.

The District Attorney, his clear eyes flashing, his

jaw firmly set, paced up and down his private sanctum |
in the Criminal Courts Building on Centre Street, the
target of a fusillade of questions from:assembled news-
paper men. It was Monday, July 15th.
" “Pye had Rosenthal’s story under probe for some
time,” he snapped. “There is truth in his charges,
but as yet my men have been unable to lay their
hands on any evidence that would stand up in court.”
The District Attorney stopped abruptly, stuck his
hands deep into his trousers pockets, and surveyed the
reporters.

“You can say this,” he went on, mt
have no sympathy for Rosenthal, the
gambler. As such, he is beyond the
pale. But I have real use for Rosenthal
who, abused by the police, proposes to.
aid decency and lawfulness by reveal-
ing conditions that are startling.”
Whitman stopped and moistened his
lips, as if to be certain that his next
words would strike as forcibly as he
intended. “Organized protection of the
underworld has returned,” he said. “The
boldness of the operations is astounding.
The trail leads to high places, and | am
going to follow it there, no matter
whose toes are stepped on.”

‘When are you seeing Rosenthal Rosenthal, the gambler,’

(Above) District Attorney Charles
Soesiae gi ; he said.
oe : abuse th ice,

again?” Whitman was asked. | — Fons

Murder

S. Whitman.
“But I have real
to aid decency and
that are startling.”

“J have no sympathy for
use for Rosenthal who,
lawfulness by revealing

(Below) A view of

Broadway, New q
York, from West

39th Street, as it
looked at the time
the startling events
chronicled in this

story took place

As you shall see, it was that headline that set in motion
a series of singular events that New York whispers about
even today. It was that headline that cost the lives of

<TNER more than twenty men...
veer Cot The story below the headline stated that Herman Rosen-
— thal, a notorious gambling-house operator in New York's
They Tenderloin district, had gone before a Magistrate and de-
ae manded warrants for the arrest of Police Inspector Cor-
OF nelius Hayes of the Fourth Inspection District, and Captain
William Day, of the West Forty-seventh Street station.
They, he alleged, had resorted to oppression ig the form of
peas keeping policemen stationed in his three-story brownstone
Sid ih home at 104 West Forty-fifth Street since the day, ‘three
' months previously, when the house had been raided as a
ce Raid— game-of-chance resort. He was not operating a gambling
lecting establishment now, Rosenthal stated, and he saw no reason
ae why either he or his wife should be obliged to answer the

door at 8 A. M., 4 P.M. and midnight to allow a policeman

ie to enter the domicile when shifts were changed.

By ALAN HYND

Staff Investigator for
THE MASTER DETECTIVE

Rosenthal went further. He made an open declaration of
war on the Police Department by charging that a certain
un-named Lieutenant of Police had been his partner in the
gambling enterprise at the time of the raid, collecting
twenty per cent. of the profits in return for a loan of fifteen
hundred dollars, which Rosenthal had needed to get things
going.

“This lieutenant and I were the best of friends,’ said

(Below) Lieutenant Charles Becker, who staged a

raid on Rosenthal’s gambling house and earned the

gambler's enmity—an action that was to have far-
reaching effects

Rosenthal, “until Police
Commissioner Rhinelander
Waldo told him that he
wanted my place raided.
The lieutenant suggested
that he stage a fake raid,
which I wouldn’t stand for.
Then he double-crossed me
and staged a real raid.”

The mysterious lieuten-
ant, the gambler went on to
say, was only one of scores,
of members of the Police
Department who were
feathering their nests with
graft extorted from the pro-
prietors of gaming resorts.
One policeman, whom Ros-
enthal described as a “little
fish,” he charged with pock-
eting ten thousand dollars
a month.

For the delectation of the
public at large, and to the
utter consternation of cer-
tain other individuals, Ros-
enthal dwelled fondly on
figures. That handful of
men who were a discredit
to the police force that has

(Right) The Metropole Hotel

on West 43rd Street. A non-

descript man in black entered

its dining room and touched

Rosenthal on the shoulder.

And Rosenthal went to his
death

(Below) George S. Dougherty,
second deputy Police Com-
missioner of New York City
at the time of the Rosenthal
murder. He was one of the
astutest of man-hunters

The Master Detective

always been one of the finest in the world, demanded five
hundred dollars to permit a gambling house to open, and
collected from three hundred dollars upward at the end of
each month of operation, according to what the traffic
would bear. Other opening prices were: afternoon pool
room, five hundred dollars; small craps room, fifty; large
craps room, two-fifty ; small poker club, fifty; large poker
club; a “c’”; plus the usual monthly collections.

Now, even those New Yorkers with acute cases of astig-
matism had long seen that the Tenderloin district throbbed
with gambling houses and brothels. You simply couldn't
miss them. From Thirty-eighth to Fiftieth Streets, and from
Sixth to Eighth Avenue the casual passer-by could see many
hundreds of private residences whose windows were closely
curtained. An air of rest and quiet prevailed during the
day; at night, visitors came and went until the small hours.
Some of the more famous of the joints were operated by
Arnold Rothstein and Honest John Kelly. Then there were
Canfield’s and The House with the Bronze Door, the latter
a few paces from ‘the old Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. These
places, however, up until the moment Rosenthal took it
into his head to blow the lid off, had been singularly free
from publicity.

Despite the fact that the Magistrate before whom Rosen-
thal made his charges found insufficient grounds upon

which to pro
gambler’s alle;
with exciteme:
who were hitt
the force, were
police took su
the gamblers |
their faces, th:
have to bite t}

operator put
things to brea

It was ano
man had his
and relished ¢
light of publi
man would le
Rosenthal cha

A’ the mon
a short v:
cut short his h
allegations ha
New York.
ferred with h
also that he k
whom Rosent!
The Distric
jaw firmly set,
in the Crimin
target of a fus
paper men. |
’ “T’ve had |
time,” he sna
but as yet
hands on any
The District
hands deep in
reporters.
“You can s
have no sym;
gambler. As
pale. But Ih
who, abused t
aid decency a
ing conditior
Whitman sto
lips, as if to
words would
intended. “O
underworld hz
boldness of th«
The trail lead
going to foll
whose toes art
“When are
again?’ Whit

HE CHAIR

The tall gunman whirled on the woman customer
who entered the store while a robbery was on.

ra
te?
— ‘

etraicigr ete eget

enennaseraaae

barrel pressing into his ribs and had no
other course but to obey. He meshed the
truck’s gears and started off toward the
high Williamsburg Bridge over the East
River to Manhattan.

By this time, police were arriving at
the Lee avenue store, where the clerk had
called Brooklyn headquarters. In the first
squad car were Detective John J. Lyons
and Detective Charles Mireau. Follow-
ing closely was an ambulance from Kings
county hospital.

A small crowd had gathered around
the store entrance, where the prostrate
form of Mrs. Betsch lay just inside the
door. Farther down the block, another
throng had gathered around the
body of the cab driver, sprawled on
the pavement beside his taxi.

The detectives made way
for the ambulance surgeon
to reach the wounded
woman. Kneeling beside
Mrs. Betsch, he made a
swift examination.

‘“She’s in critical shape,”
he pronounced, deftly band-
aging the wound in her
back to stanch the flow of
blood. ‘But if we get her
to the hospital immediately,
we may save her life.”

The surgeon motioned to
two white-clad attendants
and directed them to lift the
wounded woman into the
ambulance on their
stretcher.

From the store, the sur-
geon hastened to the street,
preceded by the detectives, \
and slipped through the
crowd to the side of the
stricken cabbie.

NE look at the man’s

fixed stare told the
surgeon the story. But
he made a routine check
with his stethoscope, lis-
tening in vain for heart-
beats or respiration.

“He’s dead.”

The ambulance already
had started for the hospital
with the critically-wounded °
Mrs. Betsch. The surgeon
went into a nearby drug
store to summon another
machine for removal of the
cabbie’s body after the po-
lice photographer had
snapped the scene.

Meanwhile, Capt. Lyons
and Detective Mireau, both
veterans of many success-
ful homicide investigations,
went into action. Quickly
questioning bystanders,
they found one who had
witnessed both shootings
from the street, a young
mechanic named Murtry
O’Connor. They led O’Con-
nor into the store, where
Golden, the clerk, was
waiting to tell his story.

Both witnesses described in detail
what they had seen; Golden, the robbery
and the shooting of Mrs. Betsch; O’Con-
nor, the flight of the three gunmen and
the slaying of Kitzman, the cab driver.
The loot totaled less than $24!

“Then that sedan stalled in the snow-
bank down the block was the getaway
car?’ Capt. Lyons said to O’Connor.
The witness nodded. Turning to Mireau,
the captain added: “Looks as if the sedan
is our best lead. Come on, let’s look it
over !”

Once outside, the detectives hurried to
the stalled car and searched it thor-
oughly. They found no clues of any sort
in the machine but Capt. Lyons directed
the police fingerprint expert, as soon as
he arrived, to dust the steering wheel and
door handles for possible prints.

Then the captain carefully took down
the numbers on the New York state li-
cense plates while Mireau noted the en-
gine and serial numbers.

“This machine’s probably stolen,” ob-
served Lyons. “The job sounds like the
work of experienced criminals who
wouldn't use their own car.”

Leaving the fingerprint man to com-
plete his examination, the detectives re-
turned to the store to conclude their
search for clues.

“No use looking for cartridge shells,”
remarked Mireau. ‘‘The clerk was cer-
tain the gunmen carried revolvers and
not automatics.”

“The clerk may have been mistaken,”
pointed out Lyons. “We'll go over the
flogr thoroughly and see what we can
find.”

Lyons started searching near the cash
register, where one robber. had_ stood,
while Mireau began looking at the en-
trance. The two detectives worked
toward the center of the store. They
found no shells but Lyons made a discovy-
ery which impelled him to stand up sud-
denly and ask the clerk: “Did you notice
if either of the robbers was smoking ?”

Golden thought a moment, then re-
plied: “Yes, the tall fellow who shot poor
Mrs. Betsch. He had a lighted cigaret

between his
it bobbed up
other fello
shooting.”
Mireau,
Lyons and |
tain held in
It was the st
brand cigar

“Did you
cigaret L&1
Lyons.

“No,” re}

in his mout
way, just be
dropped it
“But. Ca
do we kni
stub, dropp
“For sé
“First, |
exact spot
at the time
butt is not
man who }
did not ha
it must ha
such force
knocked ©

continued |

gumman.
“It’s sti
we didn't
butts.”
“Oh, mn
swept out
the robber
“Good!
sure this
whe slant

led to
’ thor-
sort
rected
pon as

ig) and

between his lips. I remember now that
it bobbed up and down as he ordered the
other fellow to hurry out after the
shooting.” .

Mireau, curious, strode over beside
Lyons and peered at the object the cap-
tain held in the palm of his right hand.
It was the stub of a half-smoked, popular-
brand cigaret with an ivory tip.

“Did you see the gunman drop the
cigaret before he left the store?” asked
Lyons.

“No,” replied Golden. “But it wasn’t
in his mouth as he turned in the door-
way, just before they ran. He must have
dropped it.”

“But, Captain,” put in Mireau, “how
do we know this isn’t just any cigaret
stub, dropped by a customer ?”

“Bor several reasons,” said Lyons.
“First, I found this butt at almost the
exact spot where the tall gunman stood
at the time of the shooting. Second, the
butt is not crushed, indicating that the
man who discarded it did so in haste and
did not have time to step on it. Further,
it must have been dashed to the floor with
such force that the glowing ash was
knocked off. Otherwise, it would have
continued burning. All this points to the
gunman,”

“It’s strange,” observed Mireau, “that
we didn’t find any other cigaret or cigar
butts.”

“Oh, no,” put in the clerk, “I had just
swept out the store for the night before
the robbers entered.”

“Good !” said Capt. Lyons. “Now we're
sure this stub was discarded by the man
who shot Mrs. Betsch.”

Armed with this slender clue and the

Assistant District Attorney James I. Cuff of Brooklyn, left, questioned prisoners
brought in by Detective Capt. John J. Lyons. It was Lyons who found the clue of
the ivory-tipped cigaret which helped to finger the grocery store bandit-killers.

data on the abandoned sedan, the cap-
tain and Mireau went out to their squad
car and drove back to headquarters.

Checking the car numbers with the list
of stolen vehicles, the detectives. soon dis-
covered evidence of a shrewd scheme by
the robbers to cover their flight.

The sedan, as they surmised, had been ,
stolen two weeks previously. But the’

license plates did not belong to it. In-
stead, they were the brand new plates
recently purchased by another motorist
and stolen from the back seat of his tour-

ing car outside the motor vehicle bureau
just after he had bought them.

“The gunmen,” theorized Lyons, “ob-
viously never expected that they would
be forced to abandon their car so close
to the scene. They counted on having
time to strip the plates from the sedan
before leaving it. Then, if a witness had
noted the license numbers of the getaway
car, there would be nothing to connect
the abandoned machine with those num-
bers.”

Mireau said, “Captain, is there any
doubt in your mind that this mob is the
grocery gang which has been specializ-
ing in store robberies a

“Not the least,” replied Lyons em-
phatically. “Their technique and de-
scriptions are identical.”

The detectives were referring to a

[Continued on page 94)

The tall man motioned the waitress to
one side and tried to make a date with
her when his companions could not hear.

0 eee waren cmeipenniacad

Officer Amos R. Anderson of Darien, : ¥
Conn., made a daring foray into a bandits’ ed
hideout to take their guns and make a #,

capture. He caught them without a shot. f FN

curb stood a large black sedan, its motor
idling. Another man sat at the wheel.
Pulling open the rear door, the others
piled in as the driver raced the engine.
Then the big car swung away from the r
curb and roared off down ice-coated Lee y is
avenue, * ;

Less than a block away, the sedan skid- J
ded and plunged into a deep snowbank
at the side of the street. The driver spun
the wheels desperately but the machine
failed to budge. “It's no use!” he cried
to the others. ‘‘She’s stuck for good un- r
less we get a tow truck,” ’

“Okay, we'll run for it!” directed the ,
tall dark gunman who had shot. the ae
elderly woman. “But we’ve got to split .
up. I'll meet you guys up at the regular ee ana
place.” ies

With this, the trio slipped out of the
stalled sedan and hurried away in differ-
ent directions,

The tall mob chief halted two blocks
farther down the avenue beside a taxicab
parked at the curb. Again showing his
gun, he pulled open the door and snapped
at the driver: “Grand Central Terminal,
buddy ! And move fast.”

The young driver, Samuel Kitzman,
suddenly ducked his head and cour-

ageously tried to slip out of the cab to ts
call police.
“Why, you!" snarled the bandit,
pressing the trigger of his gun. The re-
volver roared once and the cabbie fell
heavily to the pavement, blood streaming t
from his left temple. iS
Leaping over the body of the cabbie, i
the gunman ran half a block still farther

down the avenue. There he halted again
beside a parked delivery truck. Qnce
more producing his revolver, he ordered
the startled driver to get going.

Harry Monik, the driver, felt the gun

wee

inx.

4
&
Pd

N° SINGLE murder case since the turn of the century has so startled the

United States as the slaying of Herman Rosenthal, “big time” New York
gambler. During the past months we have received hundreds of requests to
publish the sensational details and all of its ramifications. We recognized

immediately that the Rosenthal-Becker case was a fact-detective story that -

needed a master hand to record its exciting details in prose that pulled no
punches. We found him. Such a writer is Charles Francis Coe, who hitherto

has devoted his talents only to realistic fiction,

Now, for the first time, he

turns to a new medium and the result is an unsurpassed fact-detective story.
OFFICIAL DETEcTIVE Stories presents the first instalment herewith.—The Editor.

the oppression of July weather.
It was the Broadway of forgotten
glamour. Movie theaters were just be-
ginning to replace legitimate ones;
vaudeville was the apex of entertain-
ment; cocktail bars frequented by
the gentler sex were an unimagined
addition to metropolitan life; the
Bowery had slowly merged with Four-
teenth Street, and Fourteenth with
Thirty-Fourth, and Thirty-Fourth
with Forty-Second.
Under the roaring elevated border-

Bee cones was sweltering under

ing Chinatown, the ancient Bowery
still spewed its ribald affairs upon the
pages of the press. Tom Sharkey’s
place on Fourteenth Street was in its
glory. Its long bar leading to the three
steps by which one gained “the back
room” was well lined with thirsty and
fun-loving patrons. Here and there,
near-by, odious opium joints lent their
sweet odor to linger in stuffy portieres
and trace their devastating lines across
the weak faces of victims.
Forty-Second Street was the center
of the more sophisticated habitues of

~ BROADWAY JACKAL

ee By
Charles Francis Coe

the New York Tenderloin. Between
Broadway and Sixth Avenue, these
strange folk centered. Gambling
houses hidden by the dignified brown-
stone fronts of a vanished aristocracy,
flourished; brownstone fronts that
were the seeming epitome of rectitude,
their long steps leading into the sanc-
tified exclusiveness of manifold petti-
coats, morning coats and fancy car-
riages with spirited horses and proud
coachmen,

But all was not as it seemed in these
erstwhile hallowed places. The aris-
tocracy had gone to avoid the first
flickerings of the Great White Way.
They had moved northward, or onto
Long Island, and surrendered their
prerogatives to the advance of the
Tenderloin. Broadway and Forty-
Second Street was the center of a
laughing, playful, dire, encompassing
and destructive world. Through the
glare of its white light trod one
character who cast his heavy shadow
over the lives of gamblers, gunmen,

Police Lieutenant Charles Becker:
He “cast his heavy shadow over
the lives of gamblers, gunmen,
dope peddlers and petty thieves—”

dope peddlers and petty thieves. This
man wore a uniform of blue, a cap of
white and a shield of gold. Many the
man who avowed that the shadow of
this shield had passed through this
blue coat and darkened the heart
which beat under it. This character
was a lieutenant of police. He was
Charlie Becker.

In his walk there was a swagger. In
the set of his shoulders there was
every significance of power untold. In
the light of his eye lay certainty of

‘his strength. About his lips curled a

vague cynicism born of understand-
ing of those who glided about him in
the business of violating the law with
safety; of chiseling money from suck-
ers; of splitting these ill-got gains with
police,

In the set of his heavy chin there
was evident defiance of those who
would curb his will or hamper his
style. Becker was a man of Broad-
way. He was commander of the
Strong Arm Squad of the New York
Police. He was a fearless man, a hard
man. Many there are who will swear
that he was a thief and a grafter and
a killer. Others will swear that he
was not. Court records, and the limbo
of the Sing Sing electric chair, hold
with the former, for Becker died in

Yuclaat tix tf, Y 93 F

that chair. He died there with a smirk
of fearlessness on his heavy face and
a final word of challenge and defiance
to those who had placed him there.
With him, in his final scene on earth,
were four other men. These were
young men who, in the final moments
of life, traded a smoking pistol for a
crucifix; a twisted and sardonic curse
for a soft-spoken prayer. These were
gunmen. They were professional gun-
men who made of murder an imple-
ment of commerce and cashed into
money the blood stream of their, vic-
tims. This quintet who paid with their
lives for what they had done, opened
the eyes of America to a new scheme
of crime. They brought to the public

‘consciousness the presence in this

country of a new order of murder.
Their story inflamed the press of the
pong and their fate embittered thou-
sands.

Al these fantastic characters will

appear as this story unfolds. Suf-
fice at the moment to state that the
press began carrying, on these ‘stuffy,
hot days of July, 1912, a new sort of
name for the American breakfast ta-
ble, and a new sort of problem for the
American police. “Lefty” Louie. “Gyp
The Blood,” “Dago” Frank. These were
new names, queer names, seemingly
taken from the imaginings of a fiction-
ist such as Jules Verne. “Baldy Jack”
Rose. “Bridgie’ Webber. But they
were real names, in the sense that they
identified real people. And the new
problem came in that these first-named
men, strictly for pay, without malice
toward their victim, without even
knowing him by sight, slew. They
murdered as a carpenter drove a nail
or a bricklayer laid a brick. Killing
was their business. They worked, it
appeared later, for a gang leader
named Jack Zelig. He sold their ser-
vices as blithely as a merchant might
sell a suit of-clothes, or a hatter a hat,
And their services were deadly. Pre-
sumably, they were the first of the
American Gangsters who capitalized
commercial murder.

These men, under direction of high-
er-ups, struck their death blow in the
very heart of the Tenderloin, at the
very peak of its business rush. Like
maddened vultures they swooped down
through the White Lights, tracked
across Broadway just a step into
Forty-Third Street, and there amid
acrid smoke from pistols, rouge on the
suddenly paling faces of women, snarls
from dope addicts and a scattering of
hangers-on in the glare of the street,
they slew and fled.

There on the very threshold of the
Metropole Restaurant, center of the

For a Gambler's Kingdom with Its Fabulous Fortunes and |
Power—the Glitter of New York Night Life Was Punctuated

with Sudden, Stark Murder When Herman Rosenthal—

privileged of the Tenderloin and fa-
vored spot of the wise guys, they
struck down a “squealer.” The “squeal-
er” -was Herman Rosenthal. He was a
gambler. The evidence later adduced
proved to the satisfaction of a jury that
he was, in his gambling hell, a part-
ner of the big man in the blue uniform
who wore the gold shield! The same
evidence indicated also that he had
been slain under the orders of the uni-
formed police lieutenant, by gunmen
paid by the Lieutenant and operating
under his boastful assurance that
“nothing can happen to anybody who
croaks Rosenthal.”

«That was the amazing setting. All
seemed well for the plotters of death.
All seemed safe for the gunmen. All
seemed peaceful for the gambling dens
that spewed their gangrenous gold into
the soft palms of human vultures who
preyed upon the unwary and paid
“The Law” for the right to do so, All,
I say, seemed well. But all was not
well, For down at the lower end of
the Big Street there was a man in pub-
lic office whose chin was as square as
that of Becker’s and whose sense of:
public duty took a different course.

This man knew the Law and his
duty under it. He knew that the New
York Tenderloin seethed with crook-
edness, squirmed with graft and fat-
tened upon a vicious circle of well-
wrought conditions that seemed almost
above detection and destruction. He
knew that a reign of terror sealed the
mouths of the jackals who’ could tes-
tify if they dared. He knew that ap-
pealing to certain members of the po-
lice for protection was akin to appeal-
ing to the jackals themselves. And
under this knowledge and these con-
ditions, he squirmed impatiently and
prayed for a break that would equip
him to defy the wrong and assert the
right.

E WAS a comparatively young man

then. He was District Attorney. His
name was Charles S. Whitman. He
looked down the corridor of a brilliant
political future. He had ability, fear-
lessness and no entangling alliances to
hamper his blows when the time came
to strike.

So the stage was set. At one end of
the street swaggered the uniformed
Becker stating his law to those who
dared not disregard his fiats. At the
other end of the street sat Whitman,
backed by right, waiting with the law
of the people to do battle with the
law of might.

The battle cry sounded on the morn-
ing of July 16, 1912. It sounded there
on the threshold of that Tenderloin
cafe, The Metropole. In the place, at

the time, were many of the great of the
theater, for the restaurant was a fa-
vored gathering place. It had resound-
ed to the genial wit of Wilson Misner,
the endless and uproarious humor of
Walter C. Kelly, better known to thea-
ter-goers as “The Virginia Judge.” .
Under its bright lights had passed the
great and near-great of the theater,
the boxing world, the literary world
and the world of commerce and fi-
nance. Along with “Jack’s” on Sixth
Avenue, it was a high spot of the day.
There one could often find Richard
Harding Davis, ace news writer of the
time and one of newspaperdom’s few
contributions to the world of literature.
Later we shall-give you Davis’ opinion
of that which took place in this ap-
palling affair.

Just now we must go back a little.
We must pick up the strands of the
mesh so that we may weave a clear
pattern. Herman Rosenthal was a
gambler. He ran “joints” where rou-
lette wheels spun and ivory balls

District Attorney Charles S. Whit-
man: “He knew that a reign of
terror sealed the mouths of the
jackals who could testify if——”

clicked fortunes, good and bad. For
the players, these fortunes were mostly
bad. Herman operated in one of the
sedate brownstone fronts. Immacu-
lately attired ladies and gentlemen
were admitted only by recognition, to
lavishly furnished parlors where
lurked the goddess of luck, mostly bad.
For the elite and wealthy there was
a thrill even in losing. For Herman
there was a soft living in furnishing
that thrill. For Becker, it was sworn,
there was a copious graft, for he would
threaten raids and relent only when he
was amply paid for relenting. It was
a workable scheme and it worked. But
like all schemes outside the law, it
came ‘a cropper that cost six lives,
roused a nation to a new menace and
changed the course of life for a youth-
ful prosecutor who used his head and
his heart to fulfill a sworn duty.
Herman Rosenthal himself swore
that he had been financed in his gam-~
bling den to the extent of $1,500.00 by
Charlie Becker, the man in the blue
uniform. Becker, said Rosenthal, was
to get a chattel mortgage on the fur-
nishings of the gambling house, and a
25 per cent cut of the profits. In or-
der to protect both, Becker insisted
upon installing one Jack Rose in the
Rosenthal menage. Baldy Jack, as

Three Tickets for the Chair

series of 32 holdups in New York City
during the preceding three months, most
of them in stores of a retail chain and
the rest in delicatessens, meat markets
and restaurants. In the most recent of
these in Brooklyn borough on January
30, Morris Summer, a manager, was shot
and seriously wounded.

Meanwhile, at the order of Lyons,
Detective Mireau had turned over the
cigaret stub found at the store to the fin-
gerprint experts. They set to work on it
at once. ;

Shortly afterward the fingerprint re-
port reached the captain. Only smudged
prints had been developed from the get-
away car and these were valueless. But
from the butt, the experts had succeeded
in bringing out two fairly clear prints of
a man’s thumb and forefinger.

It was now after 3 a. m. on Sunday,
February 14, and the detectives went off
duty to catch a few hours of sleep.

Later that morning, Lyons and Mireau
met at headquarters with their superior,

[Continued from page 65]

Inspector John D. Coughlin, and debated
their next move. ‘

Capt. Lyons had reported to the in-
spector on the evidence collected thus
far; the incomplete prints from the cigaret
butt, the license, engine and serial num-
bers of the getaway sedan, the witnesses’
descriptions of the thugs and the .32
caliber bullet removed from the wound of
Mrs. Betsch.

“And to that,’ continued Lyons, “we
can add another thirty-two slug, taken
from the slain cab driver.”

How could the detectives develop this
evidence into a lead? They approached
the problem from every angle.

“All we need,” Inspector Coughlin
finally concluded, “is a break. That might
come in several ways. First, the gang
probably will try to knock off another
store soon. We must be alert and make
a capture. If it’s the same gang, we can
pin the shootings on them easily. Sec-
ond, we may recover the death-weapon
if the gunman should be picked up on

some other charge, or on suspicion. Third,
we might pick up a suspect in another
case Whose prints would match those on
the ivory-tipped stub.”

Coughlin’s foresight -—proved remark-
ably accurate. Late that night, a patrol-
man observed a tall, dark young man in
a black overcoat and gray felt hat loiter-
ing suspiciously outside a chain store on
Pacific street.. Acting on orders sent out
by the inspector, the officer arrested the
man on suspicion, Frisking him for
weapons, he found none, but instead dis-
covered, in one of the suspect's pockets, a
box of ivory-tipped cigarets!

Formally booked on suspicion of homi-
cide, then fingerprinted, the tall young
man gave his name as Stanley Fremont.
He vigorously denied that he had any
part in the Lee avenue robbery or in-
tended to rob the Pacific street store.

Checking with the identification bu-
reau, the detectives found, however, that

Fremont had a long record of petty
crimes to his discredit.

John Maxwell, at left, wearing cap; Casimir Barszyouck, smoking, and William Barszyouck, bow tie, leave Darien, Conn., in
company of officers for murder trials in New York City. Allthree youths were found guilty of murder in the first degree.

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While the sleuths were waiting for the
fingerprint report, they sent ° cers to
summon the two witresses. O'Connor,
the mechanic, and Golden, the clerk.

As the witnesses were on their way to
headquarters, the report on Fremont's
prints was srought in to Inspector
Coughlin.

The inspector, Lyons and Mireau
studied it nopetully. They were mildly
dismayed to jearn that the results of the
comparison were indefinite. Fremont’s
prints and those from the cigaret stub
bore a strong resemblance but could not
be matched positively because the prints
on the butt were not extensive enough.

The witnesses arrived and were led in,
one at a time, to confront the suspect.
Both were hesitant. O’Connor said it was
possible that Fremont was the tall gun-
man who had slain the cabbie but he
could not sweat to it. Golden was still
more uncertain that Fremont was the
one who had shot Mrs. Betsch.

“Tt seems strange,” observed Capt.
\ “that Fremont should have been
without a gun, Perhaps he saw the ot-
ficer approaching and discarded it.”

“Not chance,” put in Detective
Mireau. “I talked with the patrolman,
who said he approached him from the
rear and surprised him.”

“We ought to make every effort to find
that gun,” declared Coughlin. “TTL have
a search warrant issued for you to enter
Fremont’s house.”

The inspector immediately sent a re-

quest to magistrate’s court and the war-
rant was obtained promptly. Lyons anc
Mireau soon were on the way in their
squad car to an address given by the
suspect.

There they entered a three-story, old-
fashioned prownstone house and during
the next three hours, searched it from
cellar to attic. But they found no weapon.

That night and all the next day, Lyons
and Mireau worked patiently, delving into

the suspect s background and activities. -

But they learned little of value.
Days and weeks slipped by as the de-
tectives strove unceasingly to turn up the

would clinch the case.

Still Fremont remained the only sus
pect. And in the middle of March, when
Mrs. Betsch finally died of her wound,
he was charged with the second murder.

Another month passed and District At-
torney Charles J. Dodd ordered Assistant
District Attorney James I. Cuff
sent the evidence to the April grand jury.

On April 29, Fremont was indicted for
first degree murder. He pleaded not
guilty as the district attorney promised
a speedy trial.

Then, eight days later, on the very
eve of his trial, the grocery gang struck
again—this time 300 miles away from
New York, in Cambridge. Mass.!

Capt. Lyons and Detective Mireau sped
in their squad car to Grand Central Ter-
minal and took the next fast train for the
New England city.

Arriving 10 Cambridge, they went at
once to police headquarters, where they
jearned the details of the robbery. The
job had been pulled the night before, just
as the store manager was preparing to
clase. Lyons and Mireau next went to
question the manager.

The manager described the robbers in
close detail. This time, the tall, dark gun-
man had looted the till of $50. He stood
close to the manager. who noticed that
an ivory-tipped cigaret hung from the
gunman’s lips |

The pattern was identical with the New
York robberies. The third member ©

ie peas wast s.

the trio had sat at the wheel of a waiting
car—another sedan—with its motor run-
ning, and had whisked the others away

in as New York City,” declared Lyons.
“We'll canvass all gas stations and diners
between here and New York. Undoubt-
edly, they stopped somewhere and some-
one must have seen them.”

After several fruitless inquiries, they
suddenly met success. Ina sinall roadside
diner, they located a pretty brunette
waitress who gave them the information
they sought.

“Sure, those fellows were in here; |
can tell a New York accent a mile off,”
she said. “They stopped in last night
about nine-thirty. The tall man tried to
make a date with me. He motioned me
to one side so the others wouldn't hear
and asked me to meet him this afternoon
down in Darien, Connecticut. FE
a phone number to call when I got there.
To get rid of him, I said I’d be there. But
I'm not going

The Cambridge detectives drove Lyons
and Mireau at once to Darien. There, the
New. York sleuths quickly checked the

Men and women are needed for volunteer
work in the Citizens Service Corps on
conservation, salvage, sale of War Bonds
and Stamps, transportation surveys, com~
munity welfare work. Visit your local
Civilian Defense Volunteer Office today.

phone number with the telephone com-
pany and Jearned that the phone was
located in a cheap rooming house in a
side street.

At Dariet police headquarters, they

picked up Patrolman Amos R. Anderson,
husky young motorcycle COP, who le
them to the rooming house.

Outside the shabby four-story frame
building stood a powerful sedan with
New York license plates!

Jurisdiction in the capture now be-
fonging to Darien police, Anderson in-
sisted upon entering the house while the
other officers covered front and rear ef-
trances. Gripping his heavy service re-
volver, the young patrolman mounted the
front steps. *

He flung open the door and burst, into
the house.

From a room toward the rear, the door
of which was also closed, he heard a
sharp exclamation. Anderson was there
in two leaps. His shoulder hit the flimsy
panel and then he was in the room where
three startled young men were scrambling
to their feet.

Their hands shot up quickly at sight
of the menacing service revolver. A mo-
ment later and they were filing from the
place, arms high, in front of the smiling
officer. He had made the capture without
fring a shot.

Searching the trio, the detectives found
that each carried a fully-loaded 32 caliber
revolver which they never had a chance
to draw. And in the yest pocket of the
tallest thug. they discovered another box
of the ivory-tipped cigarets.

Handcufted, the three were driven back
to Darien headquarters, where Capt.
Lyons immediately notified Inspector
Coughlin in Brooklyn by telephone.

Coughlin promised to dispatch murder

warrants for the trio on the next train.
Booked on an open charge, the three
identified themselves. The tall, dark gun-
man with the ivory-tipped cigarets said he
was John Maxwell, 21, of Manhattan.
The other two said they were brothers.
Casimir and William Barszyouck, 21 and
28, respectively. of Brooklyn. They em-
phatically denied any connection with
the New York or Cambridge robberies.

Later that day, the warrants arrived.
The three prisoners waived extradition
and were taken back to Brooklyn that
night by Lyons and Mireau.

Rushed to Brooklyn headquarters. they
were fingerprinted, then led before In-
spector Coughlin and Assistant District
Attorney uff for questioning.

At first. all continued to deny their
guilt. Little by little, they were broken
down, The witnesses, O'Connor and
Golden, confronted them and positively
identified Maxwell and William Bar-
szyouck as the gunmen who had been
in the Lee avenue store but they were
not sure 1 Casimir was the third robber
who had driven the getaway Car.

A third witness. who had been turned
up. meanwhile by other detectives, COn-
fronted the three and identified Maxwell.

After the trio had held out under three
hours of merciless grilling. the ballistics
experts and the fingerprint men sent in
their reports.

The lethal slugs both had been fired
from the 32 carried by Maxwell. And
Maxwell's prints bore an even greater
resemblance to those on the cigaret stub
than did Fremont’s.

Confronted with this overwhelming
evidence, Maxwell proke. Sweating and
writhing in his chair, he gasped: “T did
it! I shot them. But I had to—they would
have turned us in!”

After expressing this weird example of
criminal philosophy, Maxwell proceeded
with his confession, implicating the
Barszyouck brothers. William always had
accompanied him into the stores, he said,
while Casimir waitec outside at wheels
of their various stolen getaway Cars.

A police stenographer took down Max-
well’s statement, which he made while
being questioned separately. Shown his
confession, the Barszyouck brothers also
admitted their guilt. In all, the three con-
fessed 23 robberies in New York City,
including’ the fatal Lee avenue job.

Early the next day, Cuff obtained the
dismissal of the indictment against Fre-
mont and ordered -his release.

Maxwell and the Barszyouck brothers
swiftly were indicted and separate trials
were scheduled. William Barszyouck was

jJaced on trial first early in June before
Justice Stephen Callaghan and a jury in
Brooklyn supreme court. hree days
later, he was convicted of first degree
murder.

Casimir’s trial followed at once, and he,
too, was found guilty as charged. Max-
well was the last to be tried. On June 15,
he also was convicted after the jury had
deliberated only 48 minutes.

Justice Cc
die in the electric chair at Sing Sing.

had been denied, the
three were prepared for execution.

The younger Barszyouck was first
strapped into the chair. At 1:11 he was
dead.

William Barszyouck followed 1S
brother into the chair. He died at 11:20.

Seven minutes later. John Maxwell
paid his life for the cold-blooded murders
of two innocent bystanders.

(The name Stanley Fremont as used in this stury
is not real but fictitious Ed.)

center of the privileged of the

“There on the very threshold of
Tenderloin and favored spot of

the Metropole Restau rant,

the wise guys, they struck down... Herman Rosenthal,” right

Rose was called, performed to the sat-
isfaction of Becker if not that of Ros-
enthal. The plan worked well and
with profit for some little time. Then
Becker suddenly served notice that the
Commissioner of Police was after him
to “raid Rosenthal.” Herman resented
this, but agreed to install some cheap
furniture, warn off his valued trade,
and permit the man in the blue uni-
form to stage a raid that would satisfy
the law and do no one any harm.

For reasons best known to himself,
Becker changed this plan. Without
the slightest warning he appeared on
the brownstone steps of the gambling
den followed by members of his fa-
mous Strong Arm Squad. They bat-
tered in the door and, like the pointed
drill of a dentist, revealed the decay
behind it. Becker entered the
house he was met by the astonished
wife of Herman Rosenthal, according
to testimony, who looked at him and
gasped: “Why, Charlie, what are you
doing here?”

Richard Harding Davis tells us that
the Lieutenant’s response was: “Hush!
Tell Herman it had to be him or me.”

So Becker protected the public
morals! So he prophesied with un-
knowing precision, for it did have to
be either Herman or him, and in the
end, it was both of them.

This raid took place in April, 1912.
Following it, a uniformed officer was
placed in constant watch over the
premises. No power that gamblers,
politicians or “fixers” could exert, was
able to remove that guard.. As a re-
sult, the gravy to which Rosenthal had
become accustomed was no longer
brewed. He hungered for the sweet-
ness of the golden nectar the roulette
tables had produced. He was unable
to see why Becker, his own partner
in the establishment, and mortgagee of

the chattels, should place him in such
a fix.

Through long Spring days and into
the heat of Summer he grumbled of
his fate to unheeding ears in the glar-
ing Tenderloin. These ears knew well
the tale, and knew well the dangers
of its telling. Becker was Becker.
Herman’s friends softly suggested this
fact. They warned him. They begged
him, after the manner of their kind,
to take this rap and forget it before
he talked himself into a worse jam,
But not Herman. The outrageous in-
justice of the whole thing palled upon
him, Anger grew into hatred and re-
sentment into determination. He told
himself and others that if Becker did
nothing to square the mess, he would
do something himself. He would not,
he said openly, “be the goat.”

HERMAN was well liked by the mem-

bers of his fraternity, but not well
enough liked to hold sympathetic ears
for this sort of talk. In his little world
he talked blatantly of what he was
going to do, unless others did certain
things. Geographically, his was a lit-
tle world, for it was virtually bounded
by Forty-Second and Forty - Fifth
Streets, north and south, and Sixth
Avenue and Broadway east and west,
Actually, it was a vast world, for into
the Tenderloin poured people from all
over Creation. His story spread. He
became obsessed by the injustice that
had befallen him.

Finally he reached a point where he
declared that he could tolerate things
no longer. Determination bloomed
into a hunger for vengeance. Just as
Becker had broken him, so he would
break Becker. His associates became
fewer and fewer. Scarcely anyone
dared be seen talking with him else
their motives be construed to indicate

an alliance with him in his vengeful
purposes. It became known that he
had tried to see Police Commissioner
Waldo. In that he had failed. Then
it was bruited about that Rosenthal,
seething with his mad determination to
show up the whole system of graft in
the Police Department, had sought an
interview with Mayor Gaynor. That,
too, had been fruitless.

Then came the final step. The step
which found Herman Rosenthal on
solid ground so far as his determina-
tion was concerned, but on the shiftiest
of sands so far as his life itself was
concerned. Rosenthal went to District
Attorney Whitman!

He had a conference with him.
Something of his story broke in the

daily press. The Tenderloin was
tumultuous with apprehension. Every
knowing man within its boundaries
shuddered at what impended. The
heavy shadow of Charlie Becker still
swept across its glaring streets. His
square chin remained set, his cynical
smile still bespoke his immense con-
fidence in himself and his strange
powers.

HE SWAGGERED more than ever,

He was more visible to the curious
than he had been. His voice was
stronger and his words and promises
immense. Fearlessness was in his every
gesture. But the rumors persisted.
Rosenthal became more open in his
threats. Members of the Underworld
grewmore guarded in speech and move-
ment. Such names as Bridgie Webber,
Harry Vallon, Baldy Jack Rose were
muttered over twisted lips, for these
men were gamblers and they were
tied into this ominous picture inex-
tricably. They were men with dark
and _ strange contacts in the under-
world. Days and days before Rosen-
thal was so spectacularly murdered at
the Metropole, hundreds knew that his
hours were numbered. Hundreds knew
that the word was out. They waited
with bated breath.

July- dragged along through a suc-
cession of hot days and sultry, nights.
During the days, the Tenderloin slept.
During the nights, it roved its limited
orbit and muttered of things to come;
horrible things which would bring
death and _ travail; things which, no
matter what their final course, would
“clamp on the lid” and cost them all
money,

To the swaggering
Becker, Herman Rosenthal could no
longer be laughed off as a sorehead
gambler. Things had gotten out of
hand. Rosenthal had found a ready
ear in Charles S. Whitman. The Dis-
trict Attorney had listened. Sub-
poenas were out summoning Baldy
Jack and others to appear before the
Grand Jury and subject themselves to
questioning. Herman had made an
affidavit frankly, openly and directly
accusing Police Lieutenant Becker of
corruption and graft. Whitman was
about to receive his long-awaited
break. The door to a clean-up in the
name of Law and Order was opening.

A pall fell upon the Tenderloin.
Surely, they reasoned with the sly

July 15 came.

that air of the injured innocent still
festooning his manner. Acquaintances
spoke to him, moved on. To each of
them he spoke of but one thing. This
was his “squeal.” ;

-“I done the right thing, didn’t 1?”
he would demand in querulous tones.
“Ain't I done the right thing? Would
you take a rap like mine an’ not kick
back? Are we goin’ to let that guy
get away with everythin’?”

If his auditors failed to answer, or
passed off their response with no com-
mitment, Herman seemed not to notice
the fact. If they hurried along after
the most casual exchange of amenities,
he seemed not to realize it, or why it
might be so. Suddenly he had been
elevated from a man of the Tenderloin
to THE man of the Tenderloin. He
was featured in the press. Great
names and great offices were linked
with his own in a story that everyone
knew must break big. Perhaps he
basked in his new-found importance;
was warmed by the calcium light of
public attention.

TVELve o’clock slipped away to make

room for one o’clock. One o’clock’

went the way of all flesh and it neared
two. Still Herman sat at his table, the
cooling breezes from fans playing
softly with the hair on his forehead,
sweeping on across the outer sidewalk
where soon Herman was to stretch his
length while death engulfed him and
his now bright eyes were to glaze, and
stare unseeingly at the bright lights
which so long had been his aura. Pa-
pers he had read surrounded him.
These he showed to those who lingered
long enough to read. Over the table
hung an air of expectancy which
seemed to impress everyone but Ros-
enthal himself,

Two o’clock, and the street outside,
in the immediate vicinity of the res-
taurant, was mysteriously deserted.
There were those who later said that
everyone in the neighborhood knew

"Tonight Will Be Perfect, Jack. We

Must Shut Up Rosenthal .. . Believe

Me, Nothing Can Happen to Any-
body That Does This Job—"

what was impending but Herman
Rosenthal himself. At a_ distance,
these witnesses maintained, small
groups of knowing men_ gathered,
watched with slanted eyes and twisted
lips for that which they deemed to be
inevitable.

Bridgie Webber, these people said,
entered the restaurant at this hour.
He was smiling gaily, had a wave of
the hand for all and sundry. There
was about him perhaps too much of an
air of friendliness toward all the
world. In due course he passed the
Rosenthal table. To Herman he spoke
pleasantly, rested a fleeting hand in
friendly gesture upon the shoulder of
the man who was right then but inches
and moments from cold death.

“Hello, Herman,” he greeted through
a smile that later was branded as a
death lure. Then he passed on.

Five minutes later a gray touring
car entered Forty-Third Street and
came to a gliding stop opposite the
Metropole. From it emerged a group
of young men. They were nattily
dressed, their nails manicured, their
snap-brim, soft hats crushed into the
last word of Broadway fashion.
Strangely, gruesomely, not a man of
these hired killers had ever seen Her-
man Rosenthal. Not one of them knew
him. It was necessary that he be
pointed out to them in order that they
might train the muzzles of their guns
upon him and batter him to death for

no reason other than inconsequential
financial return and the good graces
of men who wore uniforms.

This was the first recorded murder
of the kind. Later, when Prohibition
bred bootleg gangs, this technique was
developed to the nth degree, but now
it was new. Sleeping America was
to hear shortly the first of its mer-
cenary murders. Just as the roar of
Lexington muskets fired “the shot
heard round the world,” so were these
young gangsters to fire “the shot heard
round the Underworld.”

One man slipped into the restaurant,
his manner casual, his face beaming a
smile. He strode straight to Herman
Rosenthal’s table and there he was
greeted as a friend. Their conversa-
tion was brief. Rosenthal, finished
with his meal, rose readily enough at
the other’s invitation. Herman stopped
to gather together his precious news-
papers. With them under his arm he
turned to the door and the sidewalk,
accompanied by the man who had in-
vited him out. Across the street the
four men waited. But not for long.

Led by his guide, Rosenthal stepped
onto the sidewalk. It seemed strange
that none was near at hand at the mo-
ment. Only Herman and his friendly
guide, and suddenly, from across the
street, the darting figures. These men
had not known Rosenthal, though they
were about to kill him. It appeared
later that they must await a signal

The “Murder paymaster,” Sam Schepps, front right, arrived in New York with his attorney, Bernard Sandler, left

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from this guide. The signal came
when, witnesses said, the guide sud-
denly snapped the brim of his soft hat.
Then the four came close, whipped out
pistols, leveled them into the very face
of an utter stranger to themselves, and
blasted Herman Rosenthal into sordid
death there on the sidewalk before the
Metropole. So short-lived fame brought
eternal reward. So the Underworld
spoke. So the terror that was so real
to everyone else and so intangible to
Herman Rosenthal, justified itself. So
America roused to a new menace and
New York caught its breath with
horror.

Evéry honest member of the Police
Department, and there are a thousand
to every dishonest one, gritted his teeth
in impotence. So the press was sent
roaring into the greatest and most
sensational story of years. So the
rumbling of that which was to come
caught voice; The gunmen returned
to their car, leaped aboard, raced away
toward Sixth Avenue. One policeman
gave chase but was distanced. An-
other commandeered a car and sought
with futility to catch up a trail already
vanished. The gunmen were gone and
Herman Rosenthal lay grotesquely on
the sidewalk he so often had trod, his

“... the real boss of the killers was
a man named Jack Zelig,” above

dead body surrounded by his precious
newspapers, his demise the seed of
sensational revelations to come. Here
was a dead gambler whose life was to
be paid for by the lives of five other
men. :

It is related that Charlie Becker got
telephone reports of the killing and,
within an hour, appeared, his chin set
and his swagger undiminished, at the
Forty-Seventh Street Police Station.
He went there because -the police of
that station were holding incommuni-
cado the only real witness who had
information of value and was willing
to give it. This was an actor named
He had heard the shots,
seen the fleeing car and caught its li-
cense number,

ITH this valuable information he

had gone to the police and made
his report. For his trouble he was locked
up. Becker found this to be so.
found something else to be so.
station, about three o’clock in the
morning, Becker found another man.
He was a man of square chin and .
bright eyes as fearless as Becker’s own.
He was a man who asked many perti-
nent questions and seemed not afraid
to make known what he wanted. He
faced Becker. Becker faced him.
There in the almost squalid quarters
challenges flashed from eye to eye;
these challenges were accepted. The
one man of the blue and the gold felt
secure in his position, now that Her-

astuteness of long experience, Herman
Rosenthal would “get his” before the
true story broke. It was not a story
new to them. All of them knew that
Herman spoke of things which had
been common knowledge for endless
months. The crux of the situation was
not that Herman was revealing secrets,
it was that Herman was striking back
at the unstrikable; that Herman was
openly and defiantly assailing the un-
assailable. History would be written
and it would be grisly history and
steeped in blood. Becker was not a
man to take it “lying down.” He would
die with his boots on. He would deal
with a “squealer” just as they them-
selves would deal with one. So they
waited.

At that particular time, the real gang
boss of the killers was a man named
Jack Zelig. He was in the Tombs
prison. He was locked up on a charge
of carrying concealed weapons, the
penalty for which had just been made
extremely heavy by a new State law.
If you listened to the common con-
versation of the moment, you knew
that Zelig had been framed, At the
time of.his arrest he had insisted that
several spectators noted that he was not
armed. But when he arrived at the
police station a pistol was found in his
possession. It became a matter of later
testimony that Becker admitted openly
that Zelig had been framed, that “his
boys” had plenty of spare pistols and
could take care of any other refractory
Underworldites who sought to curb his
power.

Zelig was bitter. Others were chaf-
ing at the bit. Others said that Charlie
Becker was ruthless, a dictator of the
worst type, a despot who laughed at
law and spurned the very lives of
others. Baldy Jack Rose, Harry Val-
lon and Bridgie Webber were seen in
conferences of mysterious nature and

.
5
4
;
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hs, £22 2

increasing frequence. Men of the press
gathered more news than they dared

print. A veritable pall hung over the
bright lights of the darkened world;
it hung like the shadow of Becker and
the ominous mutterings and threats of
the irrepressible Rosenthal. It was the
pall of apprehension and the black
shadow of wholesale death.

July 15. Becker, later testimony de-
clared, sent for his jackal and graft
collector Jack Rose on this day, for the
next day Rosenthal was to talk again.
To Rose he said, “Tonight will be per-
fect, Jack. We must shut up Rosen-
thal. We must shut him up for good,
If we do it tonight, people will
think that it was done by gamblers
who were afraid of his squeal. Believe
me, nothing can happen to anybody
that does this job.”

ECKER was smooth. He was think-
ing clearly and with dispassionate
logic. He was playing the averages in
his favor all the time. Perhaps there
were those higher than Becker who
also were involved. It seems strange

that a mere lieutenant should have had
such indestructible confidence in his
own power.

In any event, there was

nothing of fear in the words or deeds
of this man, He directed like a gen-
eral in battle. He manifested an im-
personal interest in events which
amazed even the closest observers.

Yet later developments proved that
there were as many as a dozen in the
conspiracy of murder which was
hatched. Hundreds in the Underworld
knew what was happening though they
might not have known the actual de-
tails. It was common conversation
that Rosenthal never would get an-
other chance to talk with Whitman or
the Grand Jury. Yet not one of Her-
man’s friends sent him away for safety,
not one of them made his predicament
sufficiently clear to him to save his life.
The fact is mentioned to indicate the
complete terror which guided the lives
of these jackals where Becker and the
police were concerned.

Slowly the warm July day sweltered
away into the white darkness of
Broadway. Slowly, though noisily, it
drifted into the limbo of time past.
The sixteenth opened with the usual

blatant music of the Tenderloin, the,

usual furtive figures in darkened door-
ways, the usual pasty-faced addicts
who stream along the Alley of Errors.

Midnight. The Metropole was comin
into its own. Theaters were darkene
and stage doors emitted gay and flash
dwellers of the night to whom mid
night is as noon. These went fre
quently to the Metropole. They wer
there now.

The place was bright. Fans purre
a cooling message over the heads «
diners seated at tables. Sparklin
drinks to ease parched throats or in
spire drunken forgetfulness flashed i
the glare. Ladies were there, an
men. Laughter was rampant amon
the innocent and somber breathless
ness was evident among those in tl
know.

B apa early editions of morning pape:
were on the streets. In them ay
peared Herman Rosenthal’s affidav
charging Charlie Becker with corruy
tion, double-crossing and graft. Dyn:
mite lay in these papers. Rosenth:
approached the Metropole and paus«
at the corner to purchase copies «
them. He bore the air of the injur«
innocent. He wandered into tl
Metropole and seated himself at
table near open windows. This pla
was almost as a club to Herman. fF
knew everyone there and _ near
everyone knew him. He nodded agrec
ably to many. About him was the ev
dent consciousness that he had becon
a conspicuous figure. His entran
oe whisperings all over the restat
rant.

“There,” people said with bat
breath, “is Herman Rosenthal. He
the gambler who is showing up the px
lice. I guess he’s telling the truth «
right. But I wouldn’t want to be
his shoes.”

Herman sat down. He ate sparing
and while he did so, read the newsp:
per accounts of his own notoriety ar
purposes. He smiled grimly, yet wit

From this gray touring car a group of young men fired “the shot heard round the Underworld”

man Rosenthal was quieted. The other
felt secure in his, for behind him rested
the Law in all its power.

So began that epic fight.

Charles S. Whitman would not be
dissuaded. He was after the big game
and not the small fry. Too long he
had seen staged fictitious raids to sate
public resentment against gambling
hells. Too long he had heard mutter-
ings of police graft, of fixings, of de-
fiance of the Law. He was the District
Attorney. Probably more than any
other one man, his was the power and
the duty to enforce Law.

We can imagine his thoughts as he
faced Becker there in the Lieutenant’s
own bailiwick. Whitman knew politics.
Whitman knew the innumerable ten-
tacles of the Underworld. He knew
that they might reach far and wide and
high. He knew, for he must have
known, the tortuous road that awaited
fearless and honest law enforcement.
But he made his decision. His jaw
set. Duty was duty and Whitman was
Whitman. His was a clear course and
he did not hesitate before seemingly
insurmountable obstacles.

Even as these men faced each other
for the first time, other men, their hats
tilted, their faces twisted in cunning

Baldy Jack Rose was “tied into
this ominous picture inextricably”

understanding, gathered about the
fallen Rosenthal.

“Well,” they said, with the ghoulish
manner of the prophet whose death
warning has come true, “he got his.
Only a damned fool would try what he
tried. He ain’t got no sense. How
can you beat guys like he tried to
beat?”

Tas was the expression of the Un-

derworld. Had you asked any of
these men at that moment what would
accrue as a result of all this, not a
single one would have dissented in the
belief that it would “blow over” in a
week. These things had to happen
in the Underworld. What other meth-
od was there to handle a squealer?
When the Law and the Underworld got
together and divided profits, who was
there to interfere? Who could do a
blessed thing? So it always had been.

But there was a new element now.
It was an element unknown to these
twisted lips and slanted eyes. It was
a District Attorney who would not
quit. One who knew his duty and

‘was determined to do it. It was a man

with a brilliant political future who
was willing to stake that and every-
thing else on the idea that what the
people expected of him was law en-
forcement. Just as the mercenary
murder of Rosenthal struck a new
note,’ so did the devotion to duty of
Charles S. Whitman strike a novel one.
That is a lamentable truth, but a truth.

Mrs. Herman Ros-

énthal: “Why, Char-

lie, what are you
doing here?”

Rosenthal failed in

his attempt to see

Police Commission-
er Waldo, right

While Rosenthal was being bi
and rumors were flying thick and
Whitman was laying the ground
one of the strongest and most effec
pieces of detective work the nation
ever seen. He gauged the difficu
ahead, measured his chances to
and to lose, counted the Right on
side and set about gathering fact:

“I don’t want the small fry,’
snapped. “What I am after is
higher-ups. If they are guilty, I
get them. I know there is corruy
and graft in the Police Departmen
know there is great substance to
things Rosenthal related to me. I;
ferret out the truth, let the chips
where they may. No one will frig
or buy me off, no one will prevent
investigation. No matter wher
leads, this thing will not be dro)
until it is finished.”

|% HIS own way he began worl

Most of his witnesses essentially
to come from the Underworld. Ev
where he turned he encountered
silence of terror. Why, habitues oi
semi-light asked themselves, lay th
selves open to exactly what had o
taken Herman Rosenthal? In that
titude lay extreme wisdom. But W
man had an idea or two of his
The more difficult things became,
more determined he was to beat t
and bring murderers and corrupt
ists to the bar of justice.

In the end, he did everything h«
out to do. The steps by which he
it will be related in chronolo;
order. For the moment, it suffice
give readers the foregoing pictur:
the setting of the stage. Now we
proceed through the masterful de
tive work, the simple but indestri
ble logic and the fearless and unsw:
ing determination that laid hold v
the Underworld as a result of the n
der of Herman Rosenthal.

The trail which Mr. Whitman
out upon there in the Forty-Sev
Street station led through the mir
corruption, down the abyss of b
conspiracy.

Whitman looked down that t
Becker refused to see it.

Read the next exctting instalmen
Charles Francis Coe’s thrilling stor
the sensational Rosenthal-Becker «
in the February 15 issue of Orri
DETECTIVE SToRIES, which will be
sale Friday, January 28.

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March, 1935

mark as the old ones. In that way, a
person may have the same laundry
mark for a period of years, even if he
has changed laundries a dozen times.

“All of which means that Whitey
Lewis’s shirts, socks and underwear
are all probably marked D2Y. Go to
every laundry within ten miles of Tan-
nersville and find out if they’ve got a
new customer whose clothes came in
with that mark on it. If they have, get
the usual information, but don’t make
any move at an arrest until you
communicate with me and get further
instructions.” Dougherty smiled at the
men before him. “All right, fellows,”
he said. “Get going—and the best of
luck.”

The detectives dispatched to the Cats-
kills had no sooner got themselves set-
tled in their new surroundings than
other sleuths, working in New York
with stool pigeons, learned that the
wives of Lefty Louie and Gyp the
Blood were living in an apartment_on
One Hundred and Tenth Street. The
stool pigeon who turned this informa-
tion over to the police revealed that the
women, posing as sisters, were going
under the name of Collins. Whether
the two gunmen were also quartered in
the apartment the police informant
didn’t know.

When Dougherty learned about this,
he called in a middle-aged woman who
had frequently carried out special as-
signments for him.

“| WANT you,” he told the woman,
after outlining his information to
her, “to go up to that apartment and
get in under the guise of a lingerie sales-
lady. Go to every apartment in the
house, and take in the apartment where
those women are living in your natural
stride. After you have called there, go
to the apartments in the building where
you haven’t yet visited so that your
presence will not arouse the slightest
suspicion.

“Now,” went on the Deputy Com-
missioner, “when you ring the doorbell
of the apartment you're interested in,
make your wares as attractive as pos-

Day after day crowds stood watching the Bridge of Sighs to see Charles Becker walk
across to court

The Master

sible so as to get into the place. If you
think the situation warrants it after you
size up whoever answers the door, say
that the goods you have for sale have
been stolen and that you'll let them go
for a song. Anything to get in in a
natural way. Then take a good look
around for any evidence of men living
there. Is that clear?”

The woman nodded, and departed.

That afternoon, the feminine detec-
tive, carrying a large sample case con-
taining lingerie, rang the bell of the
“Collins” apartment. A comely, red-
haired girl in her early twenties an-
swered the door. After listening to a
brief sales talk, in which the detective
found it unnecessary to say that the
goods were stolen, the ginl admitted
the caller into the apartment, where
she was joined by aa second girl. This
girl was also in her twenties.

Detective

HE woman sleuth spent half an hour
in the apartment, a nicely furnished
two-room affair, and took an order for
several articles. When the “saleslady”
reported back to Dougherty she re-
vealed information that somewhat dis-
appointed the Deputy Commissioner.
The condition of the apartment, she
said, and the undisturbed actions of
the girls in the presence of a stranger
firmly convinced her that the men were
not living there.

“Was there a telephone in the place?”
asked Dougherty.

“No, just the house telephone. And
they can’t make calls to the outside
on that. They must call from pay sta-
tions.”

“Nice work,” said Dougherty. “Be
sure to deliver the order they gave you.
And now I’ll want you to do something
else: I’m going to have an apartment
rented in that vicinity, one that will
afford a view of the entrance of the
house where those women live. You'll
go to that apartment with some of my
men and point out the women to them
so that they’ll know whom to follow.”

Despite the fact that there were no
immediate prospects of an arrest, the
Deputy Commissioner now had his

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a a Sua ie ap sats ee Ais an ts trate pteiecasshs ny om

FIVE MEN for

What Really Happened in

t(Above) Crowds gather to watch the
members of the jury who were chosen for

+the trial of the men accused of the Rosen-
: thal murder, as they return from a drive

(Left) Whitey Lewis, wearing cap, on his

way to Headquarters to be questioned by

Deputy Commissioner Dougherty. He is

shown between two detectives after his

arrest in the Catskills and return to New
York

Manhattan gambling life in general.

Suspicion attaches itself to Lieuten-
ant Becker and to rival gamblers,
among them the Three Musketeers of I
Larceny Lane—Bald Jack Rose, I
Bridgey Webber and Harry Vallon. I
Rose confesses, implicating the two
other Musketeers and another gam-
bler, Sam Schepps, and avows that
Lieutenant Becker instigated the crime

to still Rosenthal’s tongue. Rose says r
‘ the gunmen were Dago Frank Ciro-
The story so far: fici, Harry (Gyp the Blood) Horowitz, Lefty Louie Rosen-

; : berg and Jack (Whitey) Lewis.
HERMAN ROSENTHAL, big-time gambling house The ‘four gamblers agree to testify against Becker when

operator, is shot to death by unidentified gunmen as the District Attorney promises not to seek their indictment Si
he emerges from the Metropole Hotel, in midtown New for murder. The hunt for the four gunmen, under the direc- if
York, at 1:57 a. M. July 16th, 1912..At the time of his tion of Deputy Police Commissioner George S. Dougherty, th
death, Rosenthal, raided by the:police, was in the midst of _ is under way in Manhattan and in and around Tanners- W
a series of secret conferences; with District Attorney Charles ville, New York, a Summer resort in the Catskill Mountains,
S. Whitman, charging that politically-powerful Lieuten- The police hope to nab Dago Frank through trailing a v1
ant Charles Becker of the Police Department was collect- _ girl friend, Rose Harris. The wives of Lefty Louie and Gyp al
ing graft from emporiums of chance, and blowing the lid off the Blood, living in a New York apartment under assumed Ww

50 April, 1935

emp pD VPrapomruymp
OLIN Jt te LV 3

April, 1935

lines out for all four of the gunmen.
Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood would
more than likely cross the police path
if their wives saw them or communi-
cated with them, for the Deputy Com-
missioner was formulating plans for
listening in on their telephone calls
and conversations, looking over envel-
opes of letters they received and sent,
and trailing everyone with whom they
communicated to any extent. As to
Dago Frank, the channel through which
he was being sought was still Rose
Harris, the girl whose bail he had raised
when she had been arrested on a routine
charge just before the murder, and who,
it had since been learned, was an_in-
timate friend of the Dago’s. The
Harris girl had made no untoward
move as yet, but Dougherty had issued
strict instructions to those trailing her
not to relax their vigilance for a mo-
ment. As to the fourth gunman,
Whitey Lewis, the police were hoping
that the laundry mark D2Y would
prove to be a trap.

JN the meantime, District Attorney
Whitman and his men were hard at
it. At 3 o'clock on the morning of Au-
gust 2nd, more than three weeks after
the crime, Whitman and three of_his
detectives checked into the Hotel Tou-
raine in Boston. They were dog tired
after a fast run by automobile from
New York, but they denied themselves
sleep. After being assigned to their
rooms, they left the hotel immediately,
had a bite to eat at a cheap, all-night
lunch-room, then sped off into the dark-
ness on a mysterious mission.

The Boston Police, learning of their
presence in town, dispatched detectives
to the hotel to see if they could be of
assistance. Mr. Whitman and his men
returned about noon, and the local au-
thorities conferred with them. But the
conference was of short duration. Mr.
Whitman politely turned down the
proffered assistance, and just as po-
litely refused to divulge the nature of
his mission in Massachusetts. Late
that night, still without sleep, the party
started back to New York, their pres-
ence in Boston as much a mystery as
ever.

Meanwhile, up in the Catskill moun-
tains, Dougherty’s men were going over
the Tannersville area with a fine-tooth
comb. One man spent most of his time
loitering about the local post-office,
where everyone in the village came for
mail. He cleverly accounted for his
presence by making a pest of himself
at the post-office with frequent inquir-
ies about an_ envelope containing
money from home. His eyes were
peeled for sight or news of the gun-
men.

Four other detectives were covering
a wide area. They went fishing, they
went hiking through the woods and
did a variety of other things common
to vacationists, all the time searching
for the possible hide-out of the killers.
The sixth man was busy checking up
on the laundries. It was: he: who came
across the first clue.

Going into a laundry in a village
near Tannersville, the detective inter-
viewed the manager and asked if any

The Master Detective

clothes had come in since the date of
the Rosenthal murder bearing the mark
D2Y. The manager sent for the records
and thumbed over them.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb stopping
at an entry half way down a page.
“We received a small bundle of shirts
and underwear bearing that mark on
july 20th.” That was the Saturday fol-
owing the murder.

“Who sent the laundry in?” asked
the detective.

“The name was given as Langer—
Frank Langer.”

“And the address?”

“The Inn at Tannersville.”

The detective hastened to the Inn,
and looked over the register. One
Frank Langer, giving his address as
Detroit, had checked in two days after
the murder. One look at the handwrit-
ing convinced the sleuth that Langer

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was none other than Whitey Lewis, for
he had studied the handwriting of the
four gunmen for just such an even-
tuality as this.

The man-hunter sought out the man-
ager and, after revealing his identity,
asked if Langer was still in the hotel.
The manager learned that the guest had
checked out three days after his arrival.

“Would any of the employees here
be likely to know where he went?”
asked Dougherty’s man.

“T wouldn’t know offhand,” was the
manager’s answer. “I’d have to ques-
tion the employees about that. You see,
it’s been more than two weeks since he
left. Many guests have come and gone
since then.”

It seemed like a long chance, but the
employees, from waiters to bellboys,
were quizzed. A rogues’ gallery photo
of Whitey Lewis was shown to them,
and a bell-boy recognized it.

“I remember him,” said the bell-boy.
“[ put his bags in Butch’s wagon the

day he left a couple of weeks ago.”

_ Who is Butch?” asked the detec-
tive.

“He’s got a wagon he uses to take
people’s baggage to the railroad sta-
tion.”

The detective showed photographs of
the three other gunmen to the hotel
employees, but none recognized them.
It looked, then, as if Whitey Lewis
had been travelling alone. So the man-
hunter left the hotel in search of Butch.

The drayage man was located in
short order. Shown a picture of Whitey
Lewis, he recalled the man well. “Sure,”
he said, “I took him over to a cabin in
Fleischmans which he rented.” Fleisch-
mans was another resort in the Cat-
skills, a few miles from Tannersville.

The detective hopped into Butch’s
wagon and took his badge from his
pocket. “There’s nothing to be scared
of, Butch,” he said. “We're going for
a little ride. Take me over to Fleisch-
mans and point that cabin out to me.”

Through the trees, several hundred
yards from the place, the detective saw
the cabin that the gunman had rented.
It was situated on the knoll of a little
hill and afforded a good view of a large
clearing on all sides of it. To approach
it during the day, the detective knew,
was out of the question.

The sleuth returned to Tannersville,

and conferred with his brother officers. -

They decided to visit the cabin under
cover of darkness that night.

“But we'll have to call the Chief
first,” one of them suggested. “Remem-
ber his orders.”

DOUGHERTY was reached on the
long-distance telephone and, by
means of code language, informed that
Whitey Lewis’ cabin had been located.
“How do you know he’s still there?”
asked the Deputy Commissioner.

“He has baggage with him, and we’ve
covered every drayage man for miles
around. We found the one who moved
him in, but nobody has moved him
out.”

“All right. Look the place over, but
don’t make an arrest unless you spot
three and four too. I want to get them
all.” Three and four were the numbers
Dougherty and his men were using to
designate Gyp the Blood and Lefty
Louie. Whitey Lewis was number one,
Dago Frank number two.

“But what about Number Two?”
asked the detective.

“Oh,” laughed Dougherty, “you won’t
have to bother about him. I forgot to
tell you. We picked up his trail half
an hour ago. We may have him under
lock and key tonight!”

Is Dago Frank’s arrest really as
imminent as Deputy Commissioner
Dougherty believes?

Will the detectives in Tannersville
meet with ds much success as the New
York detectives in nabbing the other
three suspected gunmen?

Read of the smashing surprise that
awaited them when they surrounded
the isolated cabin which Whitey Lewis
had rented?

The next installment of this en-
grossing account will be in the April
MASTER DETECTIVE, on sale at all
news stands March 15th.

March, 1935

“The crow:
being broug
nocent,, it \
trouble. Be
your duty,
down Iléere
not normal
flamed by t
We were
Deputy Th
few momen
was smiling
Oh bi,
tiary,” he s:
Accnaacs
South Caro
Columbia.
“Got any
asked abrur
“Ves?
there’s a fo:
consider a ;
time, too.”
Could Bc
] shuddered
that this m
such a brut
with him h.
ant.

I FOUND
against |
though pure
quite damn
When Hi
chum had
S iat f:
t Tris,
anguwd fr
Thrift Shoy
across the s+
went across
Bob Wiles
wheel of th
“Hello, |
want to se
“1 don’t
smilingly.
“Someon
Harris. “|
“No, but
plied. He
took out a
lecting stu
want some
“T can’t
“but when
boys were
understand
down here.
“T don’t
Luther Ga:
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“Well,”
to get bac
He was
when he nr
bootblack,
street. * Ec
the police,
had said a
He said. nc
Wiles aed
shined an
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and could:

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Luin abate

ONEMURDER

the Beeker-Rosenthal Case

n a drive

oa — ALAN HYND

oto New Staff Investigator for
general. , THE MASTER DETECTIVE

atch the 1
hosen for
ie Rosen- )

Lieuten-
zamblers, :
ceteers of names, are being shadowed, and Dougherty’s detectives
k Rose, have just learned the whereabouts of a cabin that Whitey
Vallon. Lewis has rented in a desolate section of the Catskills.
the two
ler. gam- The Story Continues: :
ows that - —Part Six—
the crime
ose says HE detective who had been talking to Deputy Com-
ae ee: i missioner Dougherty over the long-distance tele-
re ROSeTE ' phone hung up and turned to his fellow sleuths.
“The Chief,” he said, in a low tone, “says he ex-
bar when pects to pick up the Dago in New York tonight. He
idictment : says for us to keep an eye on Whitey Lewis’s cabin and see
the direc- if Gyp and Lefty show up. Unless we can nail all three at
ougherty, the same time, we're not to make a move until he gives the
Tanners- word.”
fountains. While the men in the Catskills were laying plans for a
‘railing a 5 visit to Whitey’s cabin after darkness had fallen, Dougherty (Above) Pie (steer Ge BO cH sm dininic the tel
and Gyp and the man-hunters concentrating in Manhattan were tense (in ovat) Wather Avomey Chane & Whitman, or
acne ‘ with the expectation of Dago (Continued on page 55) prosecuted the case

‘pril, 1935 51

“You tell me,” the reporter sneered.
“I’m asking you. Second, there are
‘oarings of enormous police corruption
n which Becker appears to be an im-
yortant factor. Was it the police who
‘amed Rosenthal to stop his revela-
‘ions of corruption and so cover their
wn tracks? That is the way I see this
iing. If mere gamblers knocked Her-
jan over to prevent a shake-up in
‘ir business, then Becker is out,
rafter or no grafter. If the thing goes
eeper, and the very police themselves
camed and murdered Rosenthal, then
hat is a situation tantamount to an-
irchy. That is what Whitman suspects.
That is what he wants to find out.”

“He must know plenty. Who are
these guys whose names drive that of
the President off the front pages? Look
em over. Tinhorn gamblers, shake-
iown chiselers, shadowy little mice of
the alleys and dark places. Without
the bigger picture of police corruption
behind this crime, these eggs would be
tried in a dirty courtroom and make a
stick on the back page only when they
went to the chair.”

“To that, I agree.”

“Sure. What’s being tried is Becker,
ind all that his guilt would represent.
The rest is the well-known bunk, im-
portant only because it lights the way
to the real sore spot that Whitman
wants to heal.”

I have always remembered that con-
ersation as a sort of probe which
reached the heart of the situation.
Slowly that acceptance of the facts
became universal. By the time the trial
was well under way, it was the uni-
‘ersally established issue. It seemed
that the people already had accepted
the charge that the Police were cor-
rupt. Now they wanted to know
whether these officers represented a

system that thought it “could get away
with murder.” If they did, then the
people wanted something done about it
and they wanted it done quickly and
definitely. When Waldo himself offered
to produce a police captain who had
made affidavit that he had been ap-
proached for $15,000 to be promoted to
Inspector, people began to realize that
this was more than just a ring of
crooked policemen. It began to appear
that even the honest and higher police
officers were impotent against a set of
politicians who ran things to suit
themselves.

NOTHER vital question was this:

Could police officers deliberately
frame up a man like Jack Zelig for
carrying weapons, then arrange his
release so that he would be free to in-
struct gunmen to kill for the police?
It seemed fantastic, yet it was ad-
vanced that this was the exact situa-
tion. Decent people shuddered at the
mere thought of such conditions. You
can, therefore, perhaps imagine what
a bombshell October 5 brought. With
the whole nation seething with these
vibrant questions, another murder took
place!

On an open street-car, riding as any
normal passenger would, was this same
Jack Zelig. Perhaps he was basking in
the notoriety which so suddenly had
elevated him to the cynosure. People
of his type usually do. But his dream
ended in the most dramatic and in-
credible manner. The car stopped, men
boarded it. None gave them particular
attention until one of them stepped be-
hind Zelig, carefully placed the muzzle
of a revolver under Jack’s ear, and
calmly pressed the trigger. Zelig never
knew what hit him.

One Philip Davidson was charged

Mrs. Charles Becker, who fought
with honor for her husband’s free-
dom, listened with tensity to the
testimony of Jack Rose,

“His dreams ended in the
most dramatic and incredible manner—”

with this killing and held by the police.
In police circles it was said that this
murder had a much deeper significance
than the best explanation it ever got.
But there again rumor had to suffice.
Davidson claimed that Zelig, earlier in
the day, had backed him into a tene-
ment hallway at pistol point and taken
from him $400. A check-up revealed
that Zelig might have been put on the
spot. He had been telephoned at a
restaurant, and left the place saying
that he was being called to a point on
Fourteenth Street. He jumped on the
car, then veord was flashed back to the
restaurant that he had been killed.
How frequently identical arrangements

-resulted in death in the Prohibition

gang wars to come. Nowadays, we
might say Jack Zelig had been “put on
the spot.”

|* THE State had a strong witness, it
certainly must have been none other
than this same man whose lips now
were sealed in death, and whose testi-
mony never could be given. Chins
tightened when this fact became evi-
dent. There are those who will claim
that the death of Zelig did more to
throw the shadow deeper over Becker
than anything which might have hap-
pened. There are others who will
claim directly the opposite. But out of
this morass of murder and _ intrigue,
the case of the State against Charles
Becker suddenly was called. A venire
was set and jurors summoned. The
world sat back with bated breath.
Probably no trial ever brewed such
a tempest in the public mind as this
one. Inevitably, rumor grew out of
rumor, and with each bursting chrysa-
(Continued on Page 51)

—

te,

The Nation called it the “murder of
the century” when Herman Rosenthal,
well-known gambler, was shot in cold

ing the Lieutenant
chair,

win this battle of wits?
Now go on with the story,

reatened to ;

YY Was

Deputy
Waldo.

Ommissioner under Because

Here ig

By Charles Fra

critics.

ncis Coe

the jury that listened to one of the most dramatic trials of the century

Herman Rosenthal, Though Dead,

Seemed to Have Returned
Spirit to Make Good

in
His Promise

to "Break Becker"

If the people generally became con-
vinced that th

consumption, that
closed, but private and direct. orders
that they be allowed to le

examine
to whom he had talked at Hot Springs.
It was claimed by Becker’s counsel

that Sch

ot Springs things which could clear

derloin. But they’re wrong. Mark m
words. Whitman will die before he
= Becker is on his way to the
chair,”

“You think he is being framed?”

“T do not. He’ll get a fair trial, all
right. But believe you me, he won’t be
pulled through i
He’s up against
man, i

8uilty of graft-
ing, does that necessarily make
him guilty of murder?” J] queried.

be tried for murder,”
“On the same evidence? Two issues
are clear. First, Rosenthal was brutal-

ly murdered.
Planned and executed with amazing
callousness,

Did

—————

= i
Py wi

——— nanan

SS ern ee eee

= hiner

were to get one thousand dollars for

every boat we blew up. The Hiye
Maru was to be our first one.”

“Who were the ‘Oriental interests’?”
Scrafford barked at him. a

“I don’t know. Forsythe did all the
business. I was just going to help
him and get part of the money.”

Scrafford repeated his questions and
traps a dozen times, but always Par-
tridge insisted that he had never met
the persons who were putting up the
money to bomb the Japanese ships.

Scrafford, however, was far from
satisfied with the story that Partridge
did not know the leaders in the dyna-
mite plot. He started a more thor-
ough investigation.

A check proved that Forsythe was a
Canadian school-teacher. His relatives
and friends were shocked by his death
and even more greatly shocked by the
news of the plot.

Some laid it to an unrequited love
affair that Forsythe had suffered a
few years back. A girl he had loved
spurned him and he was determined
to win a fortune and to try again to
win her love. 7

The fact that Forsythe and Par-
tridge both were practically penniless,
yet had money to buy the dynamite
and take trips to San Francisco, fur-
ther proved the fact that higher-ups
were involved in the plot and were
financing it, as well as paying a re-
ward for the completion of the deadly
bombings. :

Government agents were called into
the case to question Partridge and to
continue the search for the ringlead-
ers in the plot.

Both the Japanese and the Chinese
consuls discreetly refused public com-
ment on the affair, but secretly were
interested in the attempt to blow up a

Jinx of a Broadway Jackal (Cont'd from Page 17) opric, Read tt

lis of gossip, more fantastic things
were bruited about. With an avidity
indescribable and, in calmer moments,
unbelievable, the man in the street
pounced upon and devoured and en-
larged upon these rumors and often
stated as proved and unassailable fact
that which obviously was nothing more
than idle rumor.

Because the testimony against Beck-
er was given by men who frankly ad-
mitted they had planned the killing
under his orders, many resented its
acceptance by the Court. Many felt
that, even though Becker was guilty
as charged, these others who were
strapping the fetters of the electric
chair about his great body were just
as guilty as he. There were thousands
who believed that Charlie Becker was
a violator of his public trust, that he
was a police grafter, but who refused
to believe that he was a murderer and
deeply rebeled against the manner of
his trial.

“Becker is being framed!” “Whitman
is using this trial as a political stepping-
stone.” “Baldy Jack Rose and these
others are squealing to save their own
skins. They are as guilty as Becker.”
One man said, “Is it not true that
gamblers would hate an honest cop?
Becker’s duty was to raid these places,
and he did his duty. For that, we are
asked to take the testimony of men
who had every reason to hate him,
and on that testimony send him to the
chair.” ; ;

One of these rumors burst like a
star-shell in the night. It was to the
effect that a certain well-known oper-
ator in Wall Street was ready to take
the stand and testify that the myster-
ious bank deposits of Becker and his
wife were not mysterious at all. He
would, rumor stated, testify that he
and Becker had pooled their interest
in certain stock transactions and, under
his guidance and manipulations, a
modest investment within the Lieuten-
ant’s scope had flourished into the

nearly $60,000 of deposits Whitman ~

had found in Becker’s name, But, like
other rumors, this one shattered upon
the rock of fact and no operator was.
summoned. .
Still another strange thing charac-

Japanese boat in American waters.

The search for the bomb started
again at daybreak. The searchers no
longer were under the strain of the
night before. Nearly all of them felt
that the bomb, which had failed to ex-
plode at the set time, could be recov-
ered without great hazard.

They knew, however, it must be
found or it would be a constant menace
to shipping in the harbor. Not only
that, but the Captain of the Hiye
Maru would hesitate to move his ves-
sel for fear the movement might set
off the charge.

The morning passed without suc-
cess, but at 1 p.m., Customs Agents H.
A. Brown and M. W. Pernak found
the dynamite-packed suitcase floating
partly submerged under the dock. It
was fastened to a water-soaked rail-
road tie.

The deadly luggage was gently lifted
aboard the Coast Guard Cutter G6. It
took more than two hours to lift it
from the water to the bow of the ship,
handling it so that it would not ex-
plode or set the mechanism going by
being jarred. Even now, there was
great danger of an untimely explosion.

|? WAS opened on a mud flat. De-
tectives Red O’Brien and his part-
ner, F. A. Himes, volunteered to open
the machine.

The suitcase was covered with tar,
but as they lifted the lid, they saw
that water had leaked in through a
small crack. It was this that had
stopped the bomb from exploding.

O’Brien snipped the wires from the
clock that were fastened to the bat-
teries which would have ignited the
369 sticks of dynamite packed in the
case,

As he looked at the face of the clock,

terized this trial. Not at any time was
there mention of “the woman in the
case.” Great murder trials rarely are
without the emotionalism natural in
the love relationship between man and
woman. Hatred, envy, jealousy, all of
the usual motives in murder trials
utterly were missing in this sensational
case, and that alone lent new color to
the processes in the Court. Only now
and then were women even mentioned,
and then never in direct connection
with Becker, for he remained without
the slightest accusation against his
home life. In this there may have been
a sardonic commentary that would
send a shudder down the spine of de-
cent people, for the only allusion to the
weaker sex was that one previously
mentioned in connection with the al-
leged “ring.”

These poor souls were an army of
1,200 forgotten chattels whose rela-
tionships with men never could be
casual and whose endless intimacies
were bereft, by repetition, of intimacy.
Perhaps the saddest of all the facets
of this trial is this vast impersonal,
shifting and vanishing army that
hovered over the Tenderloin like a
plague. Often the major events of a
scene are major only because upon
them is impinged a broad and deep
human outrage which may not be
dragged into the fore. .

But there was one woman in the
case, and that was a woman of stellar
qualities. Mrs. Charles Becker had an
abiding faith in the innocence of her
husband and a fearlessness in her fight
for his life which forever must stand
as a monument to the fidelity and loy-
alty of a good woman and true. Her
name stands honored amidst the mo-
rass of cross and double-cross into
which Fate had hurled her. To the
last drear moment of life in her be-
loved husband’s body, she remained
steadfast, scoffed at his accusers and
defied those who heaped opprobrium
upon the family name. And on beyond
that, until, not long ago, death en-
veloped her own fiery spirit, she fought
for her husband’s memory. The world
would be a better place were it more
densely populated by Mrs. Charles
Beckers!

he realized how close the bomb had
come to being exploded. The timer
was set to send the electric current into
the caps at 1:33. The paper face of
the clock was swollen with the water
and had stopped the hands at 1:31.

Had the hand moyed forward those
tiny two spaces on the face of the
clock, the hand would have closed the
circuit and the fatal explosion would
have occurred. Just two minutes...

“Two minutes from war!” was
Scrafford’s way of putting it.

Partridge gave Scrafford the location
where the rest of the dynamite was
hidden. In Tacoma they found 568
sticks sealed in five-gallon oil-cans,
and the remaining sticks loose in an
old shack that the two plotters had
used.

At the present time, Partridge still
is being held by the local police. He
maintains that he does not know the
names of the arch plotters who fi-
nanced Forsythe.

Federal agents are combing San
Francisco in an attempt to learn these
names.

A special session of the Federal
Grand Jury is being called early in
February to hear the details of the
bombing plot and will decide what
charge shall be placed against Par-
tridge.

And, although Partridge is in jail,
Forsythe dead; and the Hiye Maru
is en route across the Pacific with her
cargo of scrap iron for Japan... the
case is far from closed.

Federal agents will continue to
search for the brains and financial
backers behind the plot which might
have had disastrous results had it
not been for the swollen clock face and
the vigilance of Captain Marshall
Scrafford and his daring detectives,

First in
CTIVE STORIES

Each opening of the Court sessions
was featured by vibrant curiosity as
to what the day would bring. Hart
and McIntyre battling against Whit-
man and Moss, with the life of a man
in blue and gold hung in the balance
for a prize! Drama that was tense
beyond description; raucous and fiery
and sarcastic valuations strung into
words and tossed into the open for
men to devour! Whitman spared no
blows.

It would be needless repetition to
report the testimony of eacn witness.
There is a laboriousness and a redun-
dance needed in the law that we can
dispense with here. I shall try to re-
port upon those witnesses only whose
contribution was important and of
telling effect. Frank Moss, assistant
to Whitman, examined witnesses for
the prosecution and he was a gifted
examiner; a shrewd lawyer; a fine
court prober. Each and every word
or gesture assumed vital importance
there in the courtroom. These lawyers
were like highly trained fighters;
sparring with each other, seeking for
an opening, striking like lightning at
the slightest sign of vulnerability in
the opposition. Sometimes one won-
ders if Justice is not becoming too
much a matter of skilled pleaders and
too little a matter of Equity. Such a
trial this might have been. Lawyer
fought lawyer and there’ was un-
doubtedly in the heat of the trial a
definite personal equation, just as there
is between fighters from bell to bell.

tOTHEY’RE battling each other for

Becker’s life,” one man said. “Be-
lieve you me, there’s plenty hate in
that courtroom.”

This is hardly to be accepted as fact
for, as a member of the legal profes-
sion, I can say that I never have
known a time when lawyers of the
type engaged in this trial would bar-
ter fame for a man’s life, or do less
than their mightiest to defend a client.

One witness, Ryan, admitted being
within fifteen feet of Rosenthal when
the shots were fired. He saw the gun-
men, heard four shots. He said that
the belching pistol he particularly saw
was held only a few inches from Her-

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man’s face when the firing began.
Moss tried diligently to get this Ryan
to identify one of the gunmen; - but
with what the Tenderloin called ex-
cellent judgment, Ryan refused to do
this.

Another witness, one Stanich, testi-
fied that he saw the gray Packard car
draw to a stop, saw three men leave
it and, stupefied with amazement, saw
them murder Herman. But of these
three he could identify only one, Frank
Muller. Under cross-examination the
defense asked him the sources of his
income. His answer was expressive,
if not illuminating.

“Those are my own business.”

Pressed along this line by clever
questions, the following dialog en-

sued:
"YW/JERE you ever convicted of a
crime in Austria?”

“That is my own business.”

“Did you tell the grand jury that
you were talking to a prostitute at
Broadway and Forty-Third Street just
before the shooting occurred?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

Every time the prosecution offered a
witness leading directly to the matter
of the murder, the defense was able to
destroy a good bit of the credibility of
that witness by connecting him with
the sordidness of the Tenderloin, or ty-
ing him in fairly deliberately with the
nauseating business of white-slaving.
These nuances of feeling have their
effect on a jury, whether or not they
are admissible evidence or ordered
stricken from the records. In such a
trial as this one, a jury quickly comes
to sense the awful responsibility which
is theirs. Too, they sense that oppos-
ing counsel are out to impress them,
and often a clever lawyer may estab-
lish in the jury’s mind a fact, or a
feeling, not actually permitted by law.

This witness Stanich admitted that
he came to the United States as Dario
De Fiore but claimed that his correct
name was Stanich. He admitted also,
under adroit pressure, that the first
man he had talked to about being a
witness in the case was District Attor-
ney Whitman. Clearly, now, the lines
of battle were being laid. Whitman
was using a flat and outright State’s
evidence prosecution. He was resting
the case of the people upon the pur-
chased testimony of Tenderloin habi-
tues and the purchase price had been
their own immunity. On such a pro-
cedure there are at least two schools
of thought.

Those opposed to it point out the
Tidiculous ease with which an honest
and fearless officer may pay a devilish
price for doing his duty. Those up-
holding it point out that “it takes a
thief to catch a thief.” How, they in-
sist, can you expect to find clean and
honest and unimpeachable witnesses
to the treacheries of the Tenderloin?
Where lives a human, aware of the
crookedness and sordid trading of the
shadowy places, who himself is not
contaminated? Not to use stools would
make of Law Enforcement a mere
joke. Information must be had and
it must be gained wherever it ‘is.
Therefore, Whitman, these said, had
every right to barter the freedom of
the small fry that he might slip the
net over the heads of the higher-ups.

One witness appeared for investiga-
tion while handcuffed. He had been
brought from a New Jersey jail. Whit-
man made no attempt to hide the shady
character of his witness. On the con-
trary, with rare wisdom, I think, he
almost flaunted their sordidness. That
was the wisest course for him. He
made it clear that the only way to trap
a jackal was to use decomposed bait.
He established a clearly demonstrable
motive and consideration for these men
to come into Court and “hang Becker.”
He did this by giving them their own
freedom as a price for trapping the
big game.

This witness who was no stranger to
handcuffs, one Morris Luban, had been
brought to talk with Assistant District
Attorney Minton on the day before he
testified. He and his brother were in
jail charged with forgery, and there
was no doubt that he offered testimony
in the hope of gaining advantage to

elf in the way of freedom. Freee

i Sal

dom, be it said, or immunity, were the .

only things with which Whitman could
work,

The newspapers made report of this
Luban incident by pointing out that
Luban first talked with Whitman and
that later Baldy Jack Rose was called
into the conference. He. talked with
Whitman and the Lubans for half an
hour, then Jack’s brother was hailed
in, and finally one Max Bresher, a
rather well-known figure in the sport-
ing world. There were those who be-
lieved this was downright coaching of
witnesses to the detriment of Becker,
and there were those, doubtless in the
great majority, who felt that Whitman
was fighting with his back to the wall
and had to use what evidence existed,
not what evidence he might have
liked to find.

Laconically, Luban testified with
reference to the actual murder. “He
was going outside. I started to follow
him and then he was shot. I was
standing inside the door.” Again, “I
saw four or five people around Herman

Detective John S.

found a witness who helped a lady

and a gentleman in uniform launch

a canoe in the James River. The
story is on Page 30

Shoemaker

when he was shot. I guess I could
identify two or three of them.”

The Court ordered the gunmen
brought in for identification. Lawyer
McIntyre for the defense objected
strenuously when these men were
brought in, parade fashion.

“Surely,” he urged the Court, “this
is no way to identify. The age-old
practise of mixing these men with
others is not going into the discard?”

“J do not wish to hear anything
further,” the Court snapped. “I have
overruled your objections twice before
and I hope counsel will interpose no
more objections.”

Even the Court seemed affected by

.the tensity of this trial and the

vibrant clashes accruing between coun-
sel. Luban pointed out Dago Frank,
Gyp the Blood, and Lefty Louie, all
of whom protested against the manner
of identification. One of them said,
“We're willin’ to be identified but this
ain’t a fair chance.” There were those
who agreed with the killer, but there
were others who did not, ,

The real bite of the Luban testimony
came later, after he had stated that
he knew Shapiro and “saw him in
front of the machine.” Under ques-
tioning, it was brought out something
like this: ,

“How long have you known Herman
Rosenthal and Jack Rose?”

“Twelve years.”

“Have you ever heard Becker and
Rose in conversation?”

“T have.”

“You have heard them talking to
each other?”

“I have. Yes, sir.”

“Where in particular? Can you re-
call definitely such a conversation?”

“Yes, sir. It was at the Lafayette
Baths about three weeks before Her-
man was murdered.”

“What was said? Who spoke?”

“Becker was talking.”

“Can you give the words he spoke?”

“I can. Yes, sir.”

. “Give me those words.”

“He said, ‘If that —— Rosenthal
ain’t croaked, I'll croak him my-
self.’”

Certain evidence which the de-
fense wished: entered was denied at

that point and ruled out. The best .

that the Becker lawyers could do
with this damning evidence was to
gain an admission that Luban had
talked with Baldy Jack “about fif-
teen minutes” the night before he
testified. One sharp question put was,
“Somebody in the District Attorney’s

' office put you and Jack Rose together,

didn’t they?”

The form of the question was ob-
jected to, and sustained, but was
finally allowed in altered form and
evoked the following reply: “Mr.
Whitman and Mr. Minton were pres-
ent; so was my brother Jacob.” Then
he admitted that he had seen the four
gunmen right there in the courtroom
before he identified them. Finally he
was asked, “How is it you came over
here to testify?” He answered, “That
is something I’d like to know my-
self. Mr. Minton brought me.” Minton
was an assistant of Whitman’s.,

Cleverly the defense propounded
questions which must, apparently, re-
quire a denial, and which seemed by
their form and nature. to expect no
answer other than a denial. But this
was good defense, for it established
exactly what the defense was contend-
ing. For instance, trying as they were
to show that the whole trial was a
frame-up of shorthorn gamblers to
even a score with a raiding police
officer, they asked Luban: “Did you
ever say to Becker that they were
trying to frame him up but you would
tell the truth and stop them?” An-
swer: “No, I never did.”

Again, “Did Mr. Whitman say to
you that influence would be used to
gain you immunity from your trouble
in New Jersey?”

Luban answered, “If I could prove
the frame-up against me. When I
came over here I expected some fa-
vors from the State of New York,
positively.”

Later he said he suddenly had re-
called hearing the conversation at the
Batiis and told Baldy Jack Rose, who
suggested that he come over and be
a witness. But he added that he talked
to Whitman before he did to Rose,
and when the attorney for the defense
shouted, “If you had already talked to
the District Attorney, why did you
talk to Rose?” Whitman was on his
feet objecting to the -question and
this objection was sustained by the
Court. Another objection was sus~
tained when defense asked, “Have you
any reason to give this jury why Jack
Rose was brought to you?” Ultimately
Luban mumbled, “I believe I was in
the room an hour before Jack Rose
came in.”

[_UBAN made a questionable witness
in some respects but apparently the

jury credited his testimony in spite
of defense attempts to establish flaws.
For instance, when asked to explain
why he was in the Metropole just
before the shooting, he swore that
he was there talking to a girl named
Annie. He refused to tell her last
name. This Annie, he said, was a gir]
he had known for seven years. She
was then twenty-two years old. He
was asked to describe his relationship
with Annie but this he refused to do
on the ground that to answer would
tend to incriminate and degrade him.
He also swore that on the night of
July 15 he had taken this Annie to
Hammerstein’s Theater on Seventh
Avenue and then walked with her to
the Metropole.

“Why did you walk with Annie to
the Metropole?”

“TI was looking for somebody.”

“Who?”

ain wd

TARA BRE

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They expressed their willingness to
work in behalf of the police. Sheeney
Sarah disclosed a bit of information
in which Dougherty was interested.

“One of the men with me the night
before last,” said Sheeney Sarah, “got
to talking about this shooting. He said
he had seen it with his own eyes and
one of the fellows was left-handed.”

“Did he say who the gunman was,
Sarah?” asked Dougherty.

“No, just said he was left-handed,”

“Who was the man who gave you
this information?”

“I don’t know his name. Never saw
him before. I met him on Broadway,
right near the Astor.”

Sheeney Sarah was no sooner out of
Dougherty’s office than the veteran
man-hunter began looking through the
rogues’ gallery information for left-
handed gunmen.

Within a few hours, Dougherty had
on his desk photographs of every left-
handed thug known to the police. There
were more than a hundred in all, and,
inasmuch as the police information
linked none of them to Big Jack Zelig
or Dago Frank, the Deputy Commis-
sioner, faced with the problem of hunt-
ing the needle in the haystack, had
nothing to do but wait until he laid
hands on a group photograph of the
Sam Paul Association.

Not one, but three photographs, were
turned in the next day by one of the
sleuths on the case. Eagerly, Dougherty

_ Spread the rogues’ gallery photographs

out on a big table, so that he could see
every one, then began to search the
faces in the group pictures. All three
had been taken within the previous
twelve months, so Dougherty knew
they were “fresh,” and that most of
the men who appeared in them would
still be alive and around New York.

The first face that Dougherty recog-
nized was that of Dago Frank. He was
right in the middle of a group that had
been snapped at a Sam Paul clam-bake
a few months before. Dougherty paid
particular attention to the figures im-
mediately around the Dago, figuring
that fast friends usually get as close
together as possible in group: pictures,
Three faces from that of Dago Frank
was the likeness of a squat, grim-visaged
young man who appeared to be about
the Dago’s age, in his early twenties.
That face seemed familiar, and Dough-
erty took his eyes from it long enough
to glance over the rogues’ gallery
photos on the table. Presently, a grim
grin lighted his face. He was looking
intently at one of the rogues’ gallery
photos, :

He picked up the gallery likeness that
had so caught his attention, and handed
it to an assistant.

“Here,” he said. “See if that looks
like anybody in this picture here.” He
indicated the group picture.

The assistant studied both pictures,
then promptly singled out the face of
the man standing near Dago Frank in
the group photo. ;

“What does it mean, Commissioner?”
the assistant asked.

“It means that this fellow” —
Dougherty held up the gallery picture

The Master Detective

—“is probably one of the gunmen who

shot Rosenthal. My information has

it that one of the killers was left-

handed, and so is that man. Further-

more, he’s apparently a friend of the
ago,”

“Who is he, Commissioner?”

“His name’s Louis Rosenberg, but
his nickname is Lefty Louie. He’s done
time for shooting scrapes, and he’s a
tough customer.”

wo gunmen were now being sought
—Lefty Louie and Dago Frank. Were
they actually involved in the murder,
and if so, where were they? And who
were their accomplices? Eye-witnesses

The home of “Lefty Louie” and
“Gyp the Blood’, two men who
were closely questioned by the police
investigating the Rosenthal murder

had informed Dougherty that four or
five men had been seen firing at the
gambler.

The driver of the murder car, now
that he had recovered from his previous
experience in Dougherty’s office, was
brought in again. He had no sooner
Seated himself than Dougherty flashed
. picture of Lefty Louie in front of

im.

“He was in your car that night, too,
wart he!” demanded the police offi-
cial.

Shapiro looked at the picture. “Yes,”
he said. “He was there, too.”

The driver of the gray car passed a
hand over his forehead, then foae his
head. “What’s the use?” he said. “I
might as well tell you everything |
know. I didn’t know anything about
this thing before it happened, and why
should [ hold out for others?”

Dougherty motioned to a stenog-
rapher, and the girl took a seat, her
pencil poised above her notebook.

“Go ahead, Shapiro, spill it,” said
Dougherty. And Shapiro talked:

Jack Rose had hired the gray cara
few hours before the murder. With
Rose when Shapiro picked him up at
Sharkey’s saloon was Sam Schepps, The
two men were driven to Webber’s poker
room where they remained for a short
while, then were taken to Dago Frank’s

house, where they picked up the gun-
man. Dago Frank, Rose and Schepps
were taken back to Webber’s, where
Shapiro waited outside.

“Rose told me to park across the
street and not in front of the poker
room,” Shapiro went on. “I waited
there about twenty-five minutes and
was looking out of the corner of my
eye when | saw Jack Rose come out
of Webber’s place. With him were
three men. I started across the street
to pick them up, but Jack waved his
hand at me, meaning to wait. I stood
still. I heard a lot of funny things said
while Rose, Vallon and Schepps were
riding around in my car earlier in the-
evening and I was wondering what they
were up to.

“Then Rose and the others came over
to where I was and as they got in |
noticed that Sam Schepps was one of
them and Harry Vallon was the other.
The third man'I couldn’t make out at
first because Rose kept him behind the
others and held him back to whisper
something in-his ear. Then, when this
fellow pa his foot on the step, Rose
patted him on the back and said, ‘Now,
make gad or something like that.

“I then started with my passengers
toward the Metropole and as I turned
into Forty-third Street I saw Jack
Rose in the shadow on the north side
of the street. His hat was pulled down
on his head and he seemed to be stand-
ing still. Someone in the car said,
‘There’s Jack now,’ and one of the
others said, ‘Close your trap, you
damned fool.’ When ‘I looked back I
saw Rose standing in the middle of the
block talking to someone.

“When I arrived in front of the
Metropole Hotel, one of the men in the
car said, ‘Don’t stop here” [| think it”
was Schepps, so I drove down to Broad-
way angi: came back, stopping along
the south side of the street about a’
hundred feet east of the Metropole
entrance. Vallon, Schepps and the
third man got out of the car and Vallon
told me not to move away. I felt that
there was something going to happen,
but I had no idea what it was.

at SAW Webber po into the hotel,

salute Rosenthal, who sat near the
entrance, and then walk out: and I saw
Vallon approach a man in front of the
entrance and ask him to call Boob
Walker, who was sitting with Rosen-
thal. This man refused to do as re-
uested. I was dozing when I heard
the first shot. I had t ought this was
to be a beating u party, but I real-
ized it had turned to murder. There
was nothing for me to do but start the
car at once, which I did. The gunmen
piled into the car and one of them
ordered me to beat it.

“I didn’t have time to think but [
turned on the spark, started the engine
and shot away. One of the men hit me
across the head and | nearly lost con-.
trol of the wheel. [| was shooting
across Forty-third Street when one of
them told me to turn up Madison Ave-
nue, which | did, going thirty-five miles
an hour. I was running with all head-
lights on and hoped that | would be
picked up by a policeman. During all

February, 1935

this time, I heard the men in the car
talking about Rose and Becker and
earlier in the evening I had heard some-
one in the car say that Becker had the
police fixed. I knew from the conver-
sation of the men who were escaping
from the murder that they believed
that the assassination of Rosenthal had
the approval of the police. In this
connection, I heard the names of
Bridgey Webber, Schepps: and Vallon
mentioned, besides that of Rose.” :

When Shapiro had completed his
confession, Dougherty asked him who
Dago Frank’s and Lefty Louie’s gun-
men companions were.

“I didn’t know them, but I found
out from the conversations in the back
of the car,” said Shapiro, “that they
were two.young fellows in their twenties
known as Whitey Lewis and Gyp the
Blood.”

Dougherty bangéd a fist on the desk.
“I know them—both of them!” he said.
“Whitey’s right name is Muller and
Gyp the Blood’s name is Harry Horo-
witz. A couple of bad actors—both
have served time.”

SHAPIRO, limp and shaky, was led

back to the Tombs. He said he knew
nothing more than he had confessed to,
and Dougherty believed him. Within
fifteen minutes, the machinery of the
entire Police Department was in motion
in the hunt to find Whitey Lewis and
Gyp the Blood. Dougherty ordered
two thousand circulars printed, bear-
ing the pictures of the four gunmen,
the missing Sam Schepps, and the third
“musketeer,” Harry Vallon. These circu-
lars were ordered sent out to law en-
forcement agencies in all parts of the
country.

Several days passed, without definite
results. Dougherty and his men were
confident of ultimate success in their
search for the six missing men,

Then came the rumors that Jack
Rose had made a confession to the Dis-
trict Attorney. Dougherty couldn’t and
didn’t try to confirm this, for the breach
between the Police Department and the
District Attorney’s office was rapidly
widening. Then came a statement from
Whitman. He would, he said, give
immunity to every active participant
in the crime if the participants would
tell all they knew and inform him as
to the identity of the man or men who
actually plotted the murder. It was a
sensational statement and it brought
immediate results. Harry Vallon sur-
rendered to the District Attorney. If he
admitted anything Whitman wouldn’t
disclose it.

Down in Hot Springs, Arkansas,
there was a very alert law enforcement
official named Fred E. Johnson. He
held two Federal posts—those of Post-
pester and Deputy United States Mar-
shal.

Johnson always kept an alert eye on
strangers who sauntered into the post-
office and asked for mail at the general
delivery window. It was, therefore,
with a great deal of interest that he
had been surveying a gentleman who
called himself Samuel F Franklin of
New York City. He had been watching
him almost from the time Franklin

The Master Detective

first put in an appearance, a few days
after the Rosenthal murder,

The man was staying in an expen-
sive apartment in a classy section of
the resort town. He seemed to have
plenty of money. That in itself wasn’t
a suspicious circumstance, but Franklin,
a man in his middle thirties, gave John-
son the distinct impression that he had
not earned the money in the marts of
trade. Franklin, in other words, im-
pressed the Federal official as a shady
character.

Within two weeks of his arrival,
Franklin had become something of a
social lion. A well-groomed man of
pleasing mien, and an interesting con-
versationalist, he soon got in with the
smart crowd, both visitors and local
residents, and found ‘himself invited to
most of the swanky affairs.

Johnson made it his business to en-
gage Franklin in conversation at one of
these functions—held at the home of
the County. Judge.

“You're from New York, I under-
stand, Mr. Franklin,” said Johnson.

“Yes, I’m a New Yorker.”

“I’ve often wanted to visit your city,”
the Federal official went on. “Must be
an interesting place, and very exciting.
aig a murder case you’re having up
there right now.”

Franklin shot a sharp glance at
Johnson. “Yes,” he replied. “You
mean that Rosenblum murder?”

“The name, I believe,” said Johnson,
“is Rosenthal.”

“Yes, that’s right—Rosenthal. He
was a gambler, as | recall.”

Johnson permitted Franklin to as-
sume the burden of the conversation
from that point on, and noted that the
visitor quickly manoeuvered the talk
into other channels,

That very night, Johnson was sit-
ting in his home, looking over the
police circulars that had come in that
day, and which he had not had a
chance to examine during business
hours. He turned over one from the
New York Police Department.

DAPPER Sam Franklin walked into
the post-office the very next morn-
ing. Johnson was waiting for him, and
before Franklin had a chance to ap-
proach the general delivery window and
ask for his mail, Johnson rushed up to
him, grabbed his hands, and slipped a
pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
“To what, may I ask, do I owe this
pleasure?” Franklin coolly inquired.
Johnson reached into his pocket and
drew forth the police circular. He held
it before Franklin’s eyes. “You might
as well admit it, Franklin,” he said.
“Your name is Sam Schepps, and you’re
wanted up north in connection with
the Rosenthal murder. I’ve had my
eye on you since you came to Hot
Springs, but just happened to connect
you up with this circular last night.”
Vigorously protesting, Franklin was
taken to Johnson’s office. “Now sit
down in that chair,” said the Postmas-
ter-Marshal, “and behave yourself.”
The expression on the face of John-
son’s quarry indicated that the man
realized he was dealing with a law en-
forcement officer who meant business.

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The Master Detective

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Five Men for One Murder

to say something more when he
slumped down in his chair. He looked
as if he were going to faint any second,
and Dougherty realized that he was in
no condition to undergo lengthy ques-
tioning. Shapiro, by his own’ admis-
sion, was the driver of the murder car,
but Dougherty was of the opinion that
the man was not one of the killers or
plotters. He was not the dyed-in-the-
wool criminal type, and the Deputy
Commissioner suspected that he had
been drawn into the case through cir-
cumstances,

DOUGHERTY turned to a detective.

“Take him back to his cell,” he
said, “and give him a chance to
straighten himself out,”

It was a tough break for Dougherty,
this business of being obliged to post-
pone questioning a prisoner when the
man seemed about to divulge some
highly important information.

But Dougherty was certain of one
thing. Dago Frank Cirofici, the young
unman in the employ of Big Jack

elig, had had a haret in the crime.
Accordingly, he issued immediate
orders to two detectives workin on
the mystery to go out and arrest Bago
Frank if the gunman were still in town,
secure in the belief that he couldn’t be
tied up with the crime; or to get a
line on his whereabouts if he had run
away. And, just as important, Dough-

(Continued from page 45)

erty wanted to know the identities of
the Dago’s associates.

“Be careful of this fellow,” Dough-
erty instructed his men. “He’s always
armed—and he shoots to kill. If he
tries that, shoot first, but don’t kill him
unless you have to.+ | can’t get much
information out of a dead man, you
know.”

Fragments of information, seemingly
unimportant to even some of the detec-
tives and_ stool Pigeons who turned
them in, were filtering through to the
master detective in Police Headquar-
ters. All fitted nicely into the picture
which, as a whole, Dougherty was see-
ing more clearly by the hour. And be-
fore nightfall, another batch of instruc-
tions had gone out from the Deputy
Commissioner’s office.

A girl named Rose Harris, who had
a small apartment at 523 West One
Hundred and Thirty-fourth Street, was
put under night and day surveillance.
The day before the murder of Rosen.
thal, she had been picked u by the
police on a minor charge. The detec-
tives searching for Dago Frank, while
disappointed to learn that he had left
for parts unknown just after the mur-
der, ascertained that he had for some
time been friendly with the Harris girl,
and had furnished her bail money when
she was arrested.

The Sam Paul Association, at whose
annual outing the Three Musketeers

had been present the day before the
crime, and at which the suggestion to
murder Rosenthal had been made, went
in heavily for group photographs, one
of the stool pigeons reported. When
Dougherty found out that Big Jack
Zelig and some of his guerillas often
attended these affairs, he instructed
that one or more of the group pictures
be obtained by hook or crook.

“I don’t give a damn how you get
them,” were his explicit instructions.
“We’re not going to wear kid gloves in
dealing with this bunch.” ;

Mouths that had been exceedingly
clam-like at the time of and imme-
diately following the shooting, were
now beginning to loosen. Dougherty’s
men, on the Deputy Commissioner’s in-
structions, passed around word in
various quarters that if certain people
didn’t open up and tell what they had
seen and heard, they’d find themselves
borne down on and sent away for va-
rious offenses in connection with which
the police had previously been lenient.

AMONG those at whom this threat

was directed were four of Manhat-
tan’s better known prostitutes—Sheeney
Sarah, Flabby Annie, Black Mary and
Boston Nell, all well known characters
in the New York of that day. All
were picked up and questioned. Annie,
Mary and Boston Nell hadn’t any in-
formation about the murder, they said.

Nor had the man in the handcuffs mis-
judged Johnson.

Johnson’s hand started for Franklin’s
inner jacket pocket, and the prisoner
raised his hands in a gesture of re-
straint. Johnson knocked the suspect’s
hands down and proceeded to draw
forth an envelope. It was freshly
stamped, ready for mailing. It bore
the name and address of a New York
lawyer.

Johnson ripped open the envelope,
and found another one within. On the
second envelope were the words: “For
Jack Rose. Confidential.”

“Hey,” exploded Franklin. “You
can’t open mail. It’s against the law.”

“SOS murder,” replied Johnson, tear-

ing open the second envelope and
extracting the message that had been
penned for the eyes of Jack Rose alone.
It was a long letter, Johnson saw at a
glance, so he took a chair opposite his
prisoner to make himself comfortable
while reading it. Addressed to “Dear
Jack” and signed “Sam,” the epistle
read as follows:

Your letter followed me and
contents noted. All I can say is
I am mighty sorry it has turned out
this way for you, dear old pal.
However at this stage of the game
I can dispense with sympathy, as it
can’t help any now. I have read
little about the case so far and I
can’t bear to think of it any more.
What you asked of me I considered
very carefully and looked at it
from all sides, and find I am in
very bad regardless of the leniency
you say Mr. Whitman holds out
for me.

That you had a guilty knowl-
edge of the facts before its perpe-
tration is a fact from your con-
fession. So why do you want me
to corroborate a few lies, for in-
stance, such as that I paid $1,000

- to L. L. on 42nd Street and a few
others which | dare not mention.
However Jack, my name ‘is Sam,
and I don't go back on a pal such
as you. If you had trusted me
with more of your confidence this
terrible state of affairs never
would have come to pass. But
what is done can’t be- undone. I
have no right to preach to you and
I can’t. I am at present in poor
health having taken treatment and
am all broken up with worry and
sickness.. However, if you decide
to state truthfully the entire state
of affairs and what part you had
in same, I will come gladly for
you, Jack, because you know what
I think of you.

Yes, I have been, and am very
sorry for it, as now to prove my
loyalty to you I -must be a
“squealer.” Still I am_ willing
even at that cost on these condi-
tions: that you will only expect me
to tell the truth and nothing but
the truth, or else write word for
word what you expect of me. Also,
I will not be ready to see Mr. W’s
representatives until after the 19th
of August. ‘If the foregoing is sat- _
isfactory,'I will come, but you must.

The Master Detective

send me a wire to this effect be-
fore the 19th; then I will be ready
to meet the man and go back to
N. Y. with him. He won't find me
if I don’t get this wire. I shall
change my address today, but if
O. K. I will meet on the 19th at
the Arlington Hotel the man he
will send. Let me know his name
in advance. I am sick of being
hounded and seeing my mug in the
papers every day. Best wishes to
you and may God help us.

When Johnson had finished reading
the letter, he looked up. He was just
in time to see the mysterious Mr.
Franklin attempting to get his hand-

Lieutenant Charles Becker, accused
by Rosenthal in an affidavit made
shortly before his sudden death

cuffed hands into his right outer jacket
pocket.

“Well, what’re you up’ to now!”
growled Johnson. He arose, walked
over to the prisoner and reached into
the man’s pocket. Resigned to circum-
stances, Franklin made no attempt to
interfere with the official as the latter
drew forth another letter. This one
was not in an envelope. It had been
received by Franklin, and was ad-
dressed to “Dear Sam” and was signed
“Jack.” ee. who had followed
the details of the Rosenthal case
through the newspapers, immediately
surmised that the letter had come from
Bald Jack Rose, and it was with
avidity that he delved into its word-
ing:

I don’t know what you have
heard or read, but it has got down
to the stage when the electric chair
stares us in the face. The first man
to try and get from under was
Becker. There were many people
who saw everything that night. I
was deserted like a dog by Becker.
When I saw what the situation was. .
I opened up negotiations with the
District Attorney, who offered me
a sort of cover’ that I cannot go
into details by writing. I insisted
that the same protection given me
be extended to Harry, Bridgey and

you, to which he finally agreed.
e all are pleased with the agree-
ment and all our worry has been
to get you to come in and go be-
fore him before it is too late.

My advice is to let me send a
representative of the District At-
torney to bring you here. This
would prevent the police. getting
you and putting you through the
third degree. Don’t say a word to
anyone. You know Sam that you
have been too loyal and too dear
a friend of mine for me to ask you
to do this if I wasn’t positive that
you haven’t got a chance ,other-
wise,

When | prea had completed his
reading of the second letter, the entire
situation was clear to him. There was
not a scintilla of doubt that the man
sitting there in the chair was the much-
sought Sam Schepps, and there was
no doubt that the man who had
written. to him was Jack Rose. The
letter removed from the prisoner’s
outer pocket was the one that had

rompted the letter that “Franklin”

ad penned to Rose. The “Harry” in
Rose's letter, Johnson was certain, was
Harry Vallon, and the “Bridgey” could
be no one but Webber.

Johnson looked intently at the
prisoner. “Now will you admit your
identity?” he asked.

“Franklin” nodded. “What the hell
else can I do? Sure, I’m Sam Schepps.
pow what do you intend to do about
it?”

“I’m going to notify New York. It’s
for them to decide the next move.”

Johnson shot a wire to the New York
Police Department, which in turn noti-
fied the District Attorney’s office. Mr.
Whitman dispatched an assistant, J.
Robert Rubin (now a prominent offi-
cial of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the
motion picture company) and two de-
tectives to Hot Springs to bring
Schepps_ back. He also wired Acting
Mayor Thomas Pettit of the Arkansas
town the request that Schepps be ques-
tioned by no ‘one, pending the arrival
of the District Attorney’s representa-
tives.

MEANWHILE, in Hot — Springs,
Schepps was taken to the Mar-
quette Hotel, where he was placed un-
er special guard. While Whitman’s
representatives were en route to Arkan-
sas, the prison received the following
wire from a New York lawyer friend:

DON’T TALK TO ANY PER-
SON UNTIL YOU REACH NEW
YORK AND SEE WHITMAN
WITH WHOM SATISFACTORY
ARRANGEMENTS HAVE
BEEN MADE IN YOUR BE-
HALF

Schepps was granted permission to
reply to the message, whereupon he dis-
atched the following telegram: to the
awyer:

TELEGRAM. -RECEIVED
AND SHALL OBEY INSTRUC-
TIONS WAITING AT HOT
SPRINGS FOR W'MAN

February, 1935

It was while action was under way
to bring Schepps back to New York,
that Dougherty was summoned one
night to the apartment of the District
Attorney. It was late in July, more
than a fortnight after the murder.
Calmly, Whitman announced that Bald
Jack Rose had made a full confession,
and while Dougherty sat back puffing
on a cigar, the District Attorney re-
lated the tale of horror that Rose had
unfolded to him. Here it is:

In August, 1911, almost a year be-
fore the murder, Lieutenant Becker and
his Strong Arm Squad raided a gam-
bling house at 155 Second Avenue, of
which Rose was part owner. The next
day, Rose met Becker in Essex Market
Court and grew rather chummy with
the police official during a talk. At
Becker’s suggestion, the two repaired
to Hirchhorn’s Saloon at Second Ave-
nue and First Street later in the day,
and Rose paid Becker two hundred dol-
lars when the latter promised to have
the charges dismissed.

Not long afterward, the Lieutenant
having made good his promise, Rose
and Becker met in a New Jersey road-
house. They sat around, drinking and
talking, and Becker divulged that he
was about to start out on a long line
of raiding and intended to clean up a
pile of coin for himself.

“TLL knock some big joints off, and
collect to have the charges dis-
missed,” the Lieutenant - explained.
“Then I'll threaten others, and make
them come across if they want to stay
in business. But I’ll need a collector.
How would you like the job? There
would be twenty-five per cent. of
everything you collect in it for you.”
Bald Jack, tickled to death, agreed, and
the two crooks shook hands on it.
Becker staged a series of spectacular
raids that made the gambling house
fraternity sit up and take notice, then
sent Rose around to collect for the fix.
Bald Jack was also instructed to call
on the owners of joints that had not
been raided and inform the proprietors

The Master Detective
that they would have to kick in with
several hundred dollars a month, de-.

pending on what the traffic would bear,
if they didn’t want their places closed
up. : :
Bald Jack ran into a degree of woe.
He had never been known in the under-
world as a collector or a man who stood
in with the police, and many of the
gamblers were reluctant to deal with
him, suspecting a skin game. So, with
Becker’s permission, Rose called in
Bridgey Webber to help him with the
collections. Bridgey, it appeared, was
regarded as an honest thief. The money
began to roll in, and all hands were
satisfied. Becker had accounts under
various names in several banks.

EVERYTHING was all right until

Becker got pally with Herman Ro- |’

senthal. The Lieutenant and Rosenthal
entered into a pact whereby Rosenthal
was to tip off Becker about gambling
houses and pool rooms that were vul-
nerable spots for the Strong Arm
Squad. This worked to the advantage
of both men. The more places Becker
got a line on, the more money he could
put away. The more places raided,
the less opposition Rosenthal had.

Then came the sad day when Police
Commissioner Waldo heard that Rosen-
thal was running wide open, and had
apparently escaped the eagle eyes of
the Strong Arm Squad. Waldo called
in Becker and ordered that he raid
Rosenthal. The Lieutenant, needless
to say, was in an embarrassing posi-
tion, inasmuch as he had shortly before
gone into partnership with Rosenthal in
the operation of the chance emporium
at 104 West Forty-fifth Street.

Becker, to save his face and his
lucrative job, double-crossed Rosenthal
and staged a raid, which incensed
Rosenthal. The two men had several
meetings, but Becker, even by cancelling
the loan of fifteen hundred dollars
which he had advanced to Rosenthal
through Rose, couldn’t placate the
gambler. When Rosenthal threatened
to tell all he knew, Becker grew des-

In the center of this group (marked by cross) is “Whitey” Lewis, hiding his face
with a handkerchief. Police were interested in knowing his whereabouts at the
' time of the crime

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spenene ce

perate, knowing that Rosenthal had the
goods on him:

One day Becker approached Rose
and said: eck. I want this fellow
Rosenthal taken care of.”

You want him beat up?” asked the

Bald One.

“Beat up hell! I want him shot,
murdered, his throat cut—anything to
take him off the face of. the earth.”
Thus spoke Police Lieutenant Becker,
according to Jack Rose.

“Who do you want to do it?”

“Get some of Bi Jack Zelig’s gang.
They ought to be able to make a swe
job of it.”

Rose went out to a house in Brook-
lyn where Lefty Louie and Whitey
Lewis were living at the time and had
a talk with them. He began by tell-
ing them that Lieutenant Becker had a
job he wanted done.

“What job?” asked Lefty Louie,

“He wants Herman Rosenthal
croaked.”

“What for?” inquired Lefty Louie,

“Well,” explained Rose, “Rosenthal
is getting ready to squeal on everybody
in town, and Pilnesent Becker wants
him croaked.”

“WHAT have we got to do with
that?” asked Whitey Lewis.

“Just this,” answered Rose. “If you
fellows won’t do the job, Lieutenant
Becker is going to frame you and send
you up the river. Now, will you do
ite”

“Have you talked to Big Jack about
this?” aiked Lefty Louie,

“I haven’t, but someone else has.”

“Does he think it is all right to go
ahead ?”

“Yes,” answered Bald Jack. “Big
Jack will agree to it.”

“All right, we'll get Rosenthal,” an-
swered Lefty Louie. “When do you
want the job done?”

“AS soon as possible.”

“Well, all you’ve got to do is just
let me know where this fellow is and
we'll take care of him. We'll get the
Dago and Gyp to help out.”

Rose returned to Manhattan and saw
Becker,

“Any morning now,” he told the
Lieutenant, “you’ll wake up and read
in the papers that Rosenthal has been
croaked.”

“That’s great.” answered Becker,
rubbing his palms together. “Now
keep sie those fellows. Tell them to
drop everything else until they get
Rosenthal off the earth.”

Rose began to trail Rosenthal, wait-
ing for a propitious time to summon
the gunmen to their grim task. But
Rosenthal was steering clear of “spots,”
consciously or by chance.

Several days fo and Becker
called at Rose’s home. “What’s the
ideaP” he began. “I see Rosenthal js
still at it, but I don’t see those fellows
at it.”

“We haven’t had the right chance
yet, Charlie,” Rose replied. “Just be
patient for a little while.”

“You better make it quick, or [’ll

do, it’ll be just too bad for you fellows,
It’ll mean up the river for sure.”

The Master Detective

More. time passed—almost a week,
Again Becker prodded Bald Jack.

“Those fellows,” Rose explained, “are
waiting to get Rosenthal downtown.”

“What difference does it make where
they get him!” demanded Becker,
“They needn’t be particular about the
place or the time. They can do it
right in Times Square in broad day-
light. What’s to stop them? I'll fix
everything.”

More pages dropped from the calen-
dar—and. nothing happened. Becker,
growing increasingly impatient, began
to work on Bridgey Webber.

“Bridgey,” he ‘said one night in
Rose’s presence, “| guess Zelig’s boys
don’t take much stock in what Jack
here says, so I want you to go to them
and arrange it. And don’t waste any
time.”

“But, Charlie,” countered Webber,
“aren’t you taking an awful chance?”

Becker waved his arm in a depreca-
tory gesture. “Listen,” he said. “Any-
body who is mixed up in this thing
will be benefiting the city. And don’t
worry about getting into any trouble.
I can even fix the old man in City Hall
if necessary.”

Webber was impressed, and promised
to arrange matters as quickly as pos-
sible. Several days went by and still
nothing happened. Becker Called Rose
on the telephone. He wanted action,
and he wanted it quickly. He told
Rose to meet him that night at the cor-
ner of Seventh Avenue and One Hun-
dred and Twenty-fourth Street—and to
bring Webber along.

Rose, accompanied by Harry Vallon
and Sam Schepps, went that night to
Webber’s place, but Bridgey was no-
where around. Leaving Schepps_be-
hind, with instructions to bring Web-
ber to the appointed spot in Harlem if
and when he located him, Rose and
Vallon proceeded by automobile to the
meeting place. When the two men ar-
tived, Becker was not there. Rose
Stepped into a cigar store to buy a
package of cigarettes and make a tele-
Phone call, and when he came out,
Becker was there, talking to Vallon.
Shortly afterward, Schepps and Web-
ber arrived, and the five men went to
a vacant lot near by and sat on a board
and began to discuss the sinister
scenario.

as | HAVE _ been informed,” said
Becker, “that Rosenthal is trying to
arrange a meeting with District’ Attor-
ney Whitman.”
: ‘Who told you that?” inquired Web-
er.

“Jack Sullivan. But that’s not the
important thing. The important thing
is that I want this ... EP en Sea sg
croaked right away. Are you guys
Walotal or what?” Becker turned to

ebber. “Now, Bridgey, I want you to
make short work of this thing.”

“All right, Charlie,” said Webber.

Vallon, and the four gunmen—Lefty
Louie, Dago Frank, Gyp the Blood
and Whitey Lewis—were sitting in
Webber’s place.

“T'll go out and take a look around

and see if I can find him,” Webber said
at length. He arose, left the place and
returned in half an hour. “He’s in the
Garden Restaurant at Fiftieth Street
and Seventh Avenue—and he’s alone,”
Bridgey reported.

Everybody but Webber left. The
four gunmen stationed themselves across
the street from the restaurant. Vallon
remained some distance down the thor-
oughfare, and Rose walked to the door-
way of the eating establishment te get
the lay of the land. It was five min-
utes after midnight.

Rose saw at a glance that failure was
to be the order of the evening. Mrs.
Rosenthal and several men were now
sitting at the table with the gambler.
So raed Jack went across the street and
dismissed the killers.

Becker was furious at the delay. He
had learned that Rosenthal had made
charges to the District Attorney. Rose
told him, on Saturday, July 13th, that
he was going to attend’ the Sam Paul
outing on the morrow and that final
plans for the murder would be formu-
lated then.

"THERE was plenty of action on the
night of Monday, July 15th. Vallon,
Schepps, Rose and the four gunmen
met in Webber’s late that night. Sha-
pe sat outside in the gray car which
ose had previously hired and paid for,
At length, Webber got up and left.
He returned in twenty minutes and an-
nounced: “Rosenthal is at the Metro-
pole. I just saw him.” That was at
1:45 o’clock.

Webber, Vallon and the four gunmen
walked from the place without Saying a
word. That was the last time Vallon
or the gunmen were seen in Webber’s
that night. Rose and Schepps, who re-
mained behind, were sitting talking
when Webber came in and announced
that. Rosenthal’s tongue was stilled for-
ever.

Rose went out not long afterward
and telephoned Becker at. his home.
“Did you hear the news?” asked Rose.
“Yes,” replied Becker. “A newspaper
called me. I congratulate you.”

“T'll be at Bridgey’s,” said Rose. “Are
you going to stop around there?”

“Yes, I’ll be around later. Wait for
me.”

When Rose returned to Webber’s, he
went into a huddle with Webber,
Schepps and Jack Sullivan, who had
appeared meanwhile. The four took
turns looking out into the street for
Becker. The Lieutenant came along
just before daybreak and .Webber,
Schenne and Rose joined him in a
doorway next to the gambling joint.
Sullivan did not participate in the con-
ference,

“Well,” said Webber, opening the
conversation, “the job is done, Charlie.”

“Yes,” answere Becker, “and I’m
glad of it.”

Becker went on to say that he had
stopped at the police station on the
way downtown and that he had seen
District Attorney Whitman there.

“Charlie,” said Rose, “that means
danger.”

“Like hell it does,” said Becker, with
a confident sneer.

i ——etrt & © O

February, 1935

“Did you see Rosenthal?” asked Rose.

“Yes, | saw the... ....,” replied
the Police Lieutenant. “I took a good
look at him on the floor. It certainly
was a pleasing sight to me to look and
see that équealer lying there.” Accord-
ing to Jack Rose, these were Becker’s
exact words.

Rose informed Becker that some
money would be needed to pay off the
gunmen and Becker instructed Webber
to give Rose any amount the latter
needed. Webber turned a_ thousand
dollars over to Bald Jack.

In the afternoon, Rose met Left
Louie by appointment on Fiftiet
Street and handed him the thousand
dollars with the remark:

“Here’s the cut; you take two fifty,
and give the rest of the boys the same.
You'd better all blow until things quiet
down.”

Rose then went into hiding at Pol-
lok’s apartment on Riverside Drive,
and Schepps visited him early that eve-
ning, bringing with him the late edi-
tions of the afternoon newspapers with
their screeching headlines anent the
black deed with which the “Bald One”
was so thoroughly acquainted.

ROSE kept under cover and, through
Becker and Pollok, remained in close
touch with developments. Becker in-
sisted that Rose remain under cover in-
definitely, but when Bald Jack read the
statement given to the newspapers by
the lawyer for Shapiro, the chauffeur
of the murder car, he decided to sur-
render and brazen it out. Then, when
he was later offered immunity by Whit-
man for turning State’s evidence, he
made a clean breast of everything.
When the District Attorney had
completed the recital to Dougherty, the
two men went into a conference. As
Dougherty left Whitman’s apartment,
the newspaper reporters on his trail

The Master Detective

questioned him about his conference
with the District Attorney.

“I can’t answer anything now, boys,”
said the Deputy Commissioner. “But
you follow me, I’m going to give you
a break.”

The news hawks knew that something
big was in the wind, and they piled
into taxicabs and followed Dougherty’s
car as it sped toward the Bronx. At
length, the police official’s machine
pulled up in front of the Bathgate
Avenue Police Station, and Dougherty
hurried inside, the reporters at his heels,

DOUGHERTY went straight to the

office of Lieutenant Becker, who
had recently been transferred to duty in
the Bronx, pending the outcome of the
Rosenthal investigation, and knocked
on the door. “Come in,” said Becker.
Dougherty entered and closed the door
behind him. All the reporters heard
was the low mumble of voices.

Then the door was flung open. Out
walked Dougherty and Becker, side by
side. Dougherty’s ruddy face was
etched with severity. What must have
been his thoughts at that moment!
Becker, on the other hand, strangely
enough, was smiling blandly. Then a
reporter looked down and saw that the
two men had a very good reason for
walking side by side. A pair of hand-
cuffs linked them!

What were the emotions of. this
important police official, Lieutenant
Becker, at being arrested and hand-
cuffed like the criminals it was his
duty to apprehend?

What was behind the stories told
by Webber and Vallon, Shapiro and
Rose? Were these the actual facts,
or merely an attempt to frame a police
official? Don’t miss the next install-
ment of this thrilling narrative in the
March issue of THE. MASTER DETEC-
TIVE, on sale at all news stands Feb-
ruary 15th. .

District Attorney Whitman (with cane) is shown surrounded by reporters, eager
for the newest developments in the Rosenthal murder

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GAN Fine Pead bese sake Ceveees MMO Mcboud a
TTTITIIITIiiliiiiiiiiiititil

Pete seca ee

trouble?”

you here?”
‘gelini said, “Tt

S pocket and
7 far on that,”

‘ey there was,”

at least you'll
t of it.”

‘ve none of it,
one was to act
. For myself

rite knew that
> Of @ robbery:
3 & receiver, a
ong term im-
€ made sure
’ the proceeds

Then each of :

3 Support,

ging on the —

climbed into
Ss. It was a
d pepper and
‘rkably. well,
. the mirror,
ing now to

make him add it to his wardrobe.
“But mind you, Ray,” he cautioned,

“T accept this only as your Christmas
gift to me; an expression of your’

feeling for me.” |

The old man collected the revoly-
ers, placed them back in the icebox
and snapped on the padlock.

The $40 went fast and five days
after the robbery of Grayson’s, the
gray-haired, dignified-looking former
candidate for governor was “casing”
another job.

He found it in Paul’s Luggage Shop |

at 875 Sixth Avenue. The job, under
Clark’s planning, came off without a
hitch. The boys, knowing how badly
the old man wanted a watch, took
one from the wrist of one of the
salesmen,

When the boys got back, Gilbride
went up to the old man and said:
“I have a Christmas present for you,
Dad.” He held out the wristwatch.

“Thank you, my boy, thank you,”

Clark exclaimed fervently, grasping

the gift and strapping it to his

wrist. He. stopped short and slipped
back into character. “It’s beautiful,

Tommy, but really I can’t accept it.”
He began to unbuckle it.

“Don’t do that,” the boy protested.

Orley joined in the plea.

Clark gave a sigh of resignation.
“I accept it then, but only as a gift;
as your expression of the season’s
greetings to me.” He looked at the
three youthful faces and they stirred

memories within him. He spoke as
though he were addressing an audi-
ence. “Once I stood upon a platform
looking out over a sea of faces, all
looking up hopefully. In me they be-
held their political salvation. I stood
there dedicated to the service of
youth. But Fate decreed that an-
other take over this stewardship. To-
day I can truthfully say that I don’t
regret the past one bit. For I have
with me the three people I love most
on this earth.” He took off his heavy-
rimmed glasses and brushed a tear
from his eye.

The words had a profound effect
upon the boys. As a speaker the old
hypocrite was a spellbinder.

But the money that came in from
these jobs didn’t last long. And soon
the former: candidate for governor
was out “casing” another job.’ This
time it was the Burns Bros. Coal
Company, located on the west bank
of the East River at 40th Street, a
district crowded with mammoth meat
packing plants and powerhouses.
Judging from the size of the plant
and from the number of employees

' that he saw about, he felt that the

payroll would reach $5,000.
When Clark put it up to the boys
Orley said: “Do we have to do it?”
This came as such a shock to the
old man that for a moment he was

‘speechless. Then, with tears welling

in his eyes and a sob in his voice, he
said: “My son, I have never de-

EXPRESS ‘TO SING

gelini™end | Ray! Orley igcaniera)
and Newman. Raymond..and’ Thomas G
bride (backs ta camera) “are: studies
in. bitterness as they start for” prison.

"EUGENE FINNEC
attorney: ‘His“Interes

quartet; he persisted a tit he put Nelson
Clark where he belonged—behind bars.

manded that you do anything and I
shall not demand that you do this.
All I have ever done was to act in
your best interests. If you feel now
that your footing is sure, I say, go,
and may God bless you.”

Ray Orley leapt to his feet and em-
braced Clark. “Don’t say that, Pop.
You know I’d never leave you.”

“What kind of a job is it?” Angel

- asked. .

(Continued on page 48)
21

end with the convictiotf ofthe cop-killing

Ra er

me if we of nye too. Angel”—this was his
pet name for Angelini—“you stand
um as he near the door and take pe of any-
sy chair. one who might make an inopportune
ayout of entrance. Once you're out of the
irnishing store you're safe. You'll be lost in the
ear For- crowds in half a minute.”
aa The boys had no questions to ask,
‘ron en- Clark rose and walked into the
ive feet. kitchen. (ace! a key from his.
2 in the e pocket he opened a large padlock on
ppening. im the old-fashioned icebox and re-
4, gieckt yh ag the bottom compartment 1 eh — aaa x a
ree fully loaded revolvers. th ‘Leib : Seco
balcony. “we won't fail you,” Orley said, his mame \A\ : _ Sw
' remain lips set in a grim line. He slipped the vate | “a a —
ake care. gun into his jacket, then struggled
ind it in into a threadbare overcoat. His two
side. It companions did likewise.
a couple “I am supremely confident that you

WHERE CRIMES WERE HATCHED: In this
house in West 93rd Street, the boys’
Svengali, Nelson Clark, exerted his evil
will upon the impressionable youngsters.

He masterminded the crimes and led a
life of leisure on the Ill-qotten gains.

will experience no difficulty,” the old
man said, ushering the boys to the
door. “But if something should hap-
pen it might perhaps be better if you
said nothing about me, because from
the outside I could fix it easily.”
when the boys had gone Clark set-
tled down in an easy chair to await
their return. Being well versed in
criminal law he had taken ample
protection so that even if the boys
were caught and squealed, an eventu-
ality which he held most unlikely, he
would still be immune from any pun-
ishment. Also, he insisted that each
of the boys have in his possession at
all times a key which fit the padlock
on the strange hiding place for the
guns, In this manner he could weasel
out of any responsibility since he
could prove that others also had
H ready access to the icebox.

1 tua AVENUE swarmed with

pre-holiday shoppers and the

three youthful triggermen had to el-
pow their way to the store,
happened to be a temporary lull in
trade at Grayson’s and there were
only four customers in the place.

. Orley mentally paced off five yards
as a clerk hurried forward to greet
io fumbled the revolver
out of his pocket and aimed it at the
startled employee.

“Get to the pack of the store and
don’t make a sound!” he ordered in
a voice that cracked under the strain.
The gun wobbled nervously in his
19

/
|
1

-y)

hand as he thrust it forward.

The clerk raised his hands high
over his head and ran toward the
back. Orley’s unsteadiness was most
effective. The victims dared not
make a move for fear the nervous
bandit would shoot. Gilbride held
them at bay while Angelini, standing
near the entrance, peered anxiously
through the plate glass at the pass-
ing throngs.

Orley hurried to the cash register,
Struck the “no sale” key and the cash
drawer clanged open. He scooped out
$40 in bills and silver and stuck it
into his pocket. Then he moved along
the line of suits anid folded up four
which he thought might fit Clark.

“Don’t any of you say a word for
five minutes after we’re gone,” Gil-
bride warned the clerks and custom=
ers. “Just stand where you are and
nobody’ll get hurt.” Then he backed
up to the front door where Orley
handed him two of the suits.

Angelini remained on guard for a
full minute while his two companions
Slipped out and were Jost in the
crowd. Then he, too, made his get-
away.

When the detectives from the 15th
Squad responded to the alarm they

NELSON B. CLARK: Once a candidate for
governor of Massachusetts, this evil old
hypocrite used@a glib tongue and an as-
sured manner to gain his sinister ends.

found no clues beyond a bare de-

- Scription of the stickup men. This

usually is of little aid in solving a
case in a city of 7,500,000 people.
Although it was only a few minutes
past five o’clock, darkness had al-
ready fallen over the city when the
boys returned to Clark’s apartment.
Orley knocked twice. The door
opened a crack, then swung wide and

i Pe $ Pilion q
The cop, took BNE step Ye When
a stab UF flame ‘spl.t the gloom. His res
. volWér slipped: from: nerveless fingers, he.
ined with pain and fils knees sagged
pecially): posedy 99.

Neen

the three boys filed in. ‘

“Did you have any trouble?”.

“It was easy.”

“Did anyone follow you here?”

“Not a chance,” Angelini said. “It
was a clean job.” ann

Orley emptied his pocket and
counted the money.

“You can’t get very far on that,”
Clark said pointedly, .

“That’s all the money there was,”
Orley protested. “But at least you'll
get some new suits out of it.”

“No, my son, I'll have none of it.
What I have always done was to act
in your best interests. For myself
IT ask nothing.” :

The scheming hypocrite knew that

to accept the proceeds of a robbery’

rendered him guilty as a receiver, a
felony punishable by long term im-
prisonment. Hence, he made sure.
that after each robbery the proceeds
were split three ways. Then each of
the boys took care of his support.

_ After considerable urging on the
part of the boys, Clark climbed into
one of the stolen suits. It was a
handsome single-breasted pepper and
Salt model that fit remarkably well,

‘Clark surveyed himself in the mirror,

It didn’t take much urging now to

gs z

tn =

unless by some miracle——”

There was no need for him to finish
his sentence. Everyone in the room knew
what he meant. And police officers don’t
expect miracles.

“If we could only find one bit of evi-
dence Lawrence doesn’t know about,”
mused Willmann, “All these other things
he’s had time the past week to think up
an explanation for. Just as he'll have
one for the mat and the gasoline can.
But if we had something he isn’t pre-
pared for—if we could. catch him off
guard just once... .”

“It’d have to be awful good to break
him,” said Newbold glumly, “That Law-
rence is plenty shrewd. Why even if we
did find the body it probably couldn’t be
identified. Look at the way he made
sure to take all her rings.”

“That reminds me,” said Willmann,
“where’s that cedar box I brought in
yesterday, Bernhardt? There was some-
thing I meant to look at again.”

Willmann didn’t expect anything to
come of it. When he took the cedar box
and probed about until he lifted out the
smaller ring box he was merely following
the good sleuth’s first rule—never leave
a detail neglected.

“I just wondered,” he mused, “why a
woman would keep her ring box here in
a pile of junk instead of in her dresser
drawer. But I guess it was just an old
one she’d given the kids to play with.
The top lining’s even loose. Say, he
whistled, “there’s something in here!”

After a few second’s probing, he spread
out on his desk a wadded-up twenty-
dollar bill.

Willmann stared at it thoughtfully for
a long minute. Then looked up. “No-
body but a woman would think of hiding
money away in an empty ring box,” he

NATIONAL DETECTIVE CASES .

said. “It could just be— Give me that
telephone, Harry. I want to speak to
the woman who was Elwyn Lawrence’s .
best friend.”

A few minutes later he turned away
from the phone. He took out his watch.
“Thirty minutes to go,” he mused, “Tell
Grupp to bring Lawrence up,” he said.
“T think we’ve got it.”

ND Willmann’s hunch proved true.
In the “empty” ring box, the sheriff
had found the one clue for which Law-
rence was not prepared. For Elwyn Law- -
rence had shown her friend where she
had the money hidden. And told her
why she had hidden it. there—where her
husband would never find it. °

Little did she know that in doing so
she was providing the means by which
he would later be brought to justice for
her brutal. murder. A means without
which he might have escaped punish-
ment forever for one of the most callous
crimes in the history of St. Louis County,
despite the weight of circumstantial evi-
dence against him!

When Lawrence was shown the box he
said it was just an old box Elwyn had
used to keep her engagement ring in. He
hadn’t seen it’ in a long time. No, it
didn’t mean anything to him.

But it did when Willmann pulled out
the hidden twenty-dollar bill and con-
fronted him with Mrs, Carney’s state-
ment.

“Of course the box didn’t mean any-
thing to you!” Willmann shouted. “Be-
cause your wife told her friend she had
hidden that money there for the time
when you drove her out of her house—

so that she would have it to get herself -

and the children to Hopkinsville!
“Tf your wife ‘left’ you, why didn’t she

take along this money she’d been saving
for ‘just such a time?” he asked quietly.
And for the first - Lawrence had
no answer.
“Nobody will ever believe your story
now,” said Newbold. “Why don't you tell
us the truth? Tell us where her body, is.

. The least you can do now is to give hera |

decent burial.”

The rest of the case is headline history.
Lawrence broke suddenly into sobs, “I
might as well tell you the truth,” he said.
“Yes, I killed her.”

Then, in a dictated statement which |
he later signed, he told how he beat his
wife to death with a claw hammer in the
bedroom of their home after she had
again refused his demands for a divorce.
Then he wrapped the body in an old
quilt, tied it with electric cord, took it
out to a ravine just off Carson and Nat-.
ural Bridge Roads and set fire to it,

Willmann took Lawrence back to the.
cell where, having been indicted by the

January term grand jury, he now awaits .

trial for murder in the first degree.

As the sheriff turned the key he looked
grimly at the confessed murderer who,
after his brief breakdown, had com-.
pletely recovered his composure, The
man who, according to his own story;
had killed his wife with a hammer,
burned her body in a gully, and then re-
turned to eat the meal she had prepared
for him.

“You-don’t even seem to be sorry,” said
the sheriff.

“Why should I be?” Lawrence replied.
“Tt doesn’t make any difference. She

.. was making life miserable for me.”

Mrs. Chester Briggs and Mrs. Latley
are fictitious names, used to spare em-
barrassment to innocent persons.

“HE SENT ME TO MY DOOM!”

(Continued from page 21)

“ A payro! ”
“How much money?”
“Five thousand dollars.”

Gilbride whistled.’ “That ain’t hay. .

We could live a whole year on that.”

T was at this point that I arrived in
New York City to visit Clark and Or-
ley. I got off the bus and took an up-
town subway; walked from the station to

Clark’s West 93rd Street flat. I was look-;

ing over the nameplates in the vestibule
when the door opened and Clark came
out. There was @ gray suit that needed
pressing folded over his arm.

“Well, if it isn’t Newman Raymond,”
he said in surprise. .

“Hello, Mr. Clark,” I said.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Ray Orley invited me to visit him
and here I am.”

Clark’s face wreathed in a smile.
“You’re mighty welcome to stay with us
for as long as you like.”

I walked up to the tailor shop with

Clark and then returned to the apart-
ment with him. We chatted casually for
a while and then Clark mentioned the
fact that the three boys were going out
to do some work the following day which
would bring in a large sum of money,

“How would you like to go along?” he
asked.

“Very much,” I said, happy over the
- prospect.

“Right after it’s over we're all leaving
for Miami. You’re welcome to join us if
you wish.”

“T can’t go that far south, but Ill go
part of the way. You see, I’m returning
home to settle down... . But, I’m curi-
ous ... what is this job, Mr. Clark?”

“Payroll,” he said.

I didn’t like: the sound of that. “You
mean a stickup?” I asked.

“That’s right,” Clark said, looking at
me through narrowed eyes,

I shook my head. “Not for me, thank

you.”
“What's the matter, you yellow?”

I felt hot anger surge through me, “I
am not,” I shot back. “I just don’t go in
for that sort of thing.”

Clark changed his tactics.. His voice
was wheedling. “You have the wrong
idea about this, my boy. This is the
safest thing on earth.”

When Orley, Gilbride and Angelini
came home later that afternoon, Clark
told them that it would be a good idea if
I were to accompany them since they
could use the services of an extra man.
Then Clark left the room while the three
started working on me. I liked Ray a
lot. I liked his friends, too, and they
were beginning to make me feel like a
heel for staying out of it. I felt myself
weaken,

“What will I have to do?”

“Not a thing,” Ray said breezily. “You
just stand there and watch what we do.
It’s easier than rolling off a log.”

“Do I carry a gun?” *

Ray nodded. : P

“Well, I’m not so sure-——”

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Uline history. ©

ito sobs, “I
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ment which
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”

vreezily. “You
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a log.”

“FROM AUTHENTIC DETECTIVE CASES”

“what's the matter, are you & COW-
ard?” Gilbride cut in.

“you take that back,” I cried, leaping
up. . ;
Ray stepped between us. “Take it easy,
Newman. Tommy was just kidding.”

_I shrugged my shoulders. “What the
heck! . All right, I'll go. I’m not scared.”

A’ exactly ten the following morn-
ing Clark opened the padlock on the
icebox, removed four revolvers and
passed out one to each of us. Then we
got into our overcoats and walked out,

“Take care of yourselves,” Clark called
after us. :

‘Orley had a car downstairs and he
drove it through the heavy maze of traf-
fic on First Avenue and turned eastward
into 40th Street. He went to the end of
the street, backed around and faced First
Avenue again.

“That’s the place on the left,” he said.

We all examined it carefully. |

“There’s only one thing we’ve got to be
careful about,” he cautioned Angel.
“You've got to tear the telephone out.”

“why do we have to do that? We're
going to tie them up anyway.”

“We're just going to make sure. Be-
sides that’s Pop’s order.”

I stepped one foot on the running
board and the blood in my. veins froze.
Coming down the street was a police car
with two uniformed men in it, For a

minute I was paralyzed with fear.
‘ «what'll we do?” I whispered hoarsely.

The police car rolled to the end of the
street, swung about and drove slowly
back again, coming to a halt on the cor-

ner of First Avenue. I couldn’t be sure ©

whether it was waiting for the traffic
light to change or whether it was parked
there so they could keep an eye on Us. .

Tommy was nervous. “T think they
spotted us,” he said. “Let’s get out of
here fast.”

Orley slipped back behind the wheel,
drove directly behind, the police car.
When the traffic light changed the police
car turned north. Orley drove south.
There was sweat on my forehead and I
brushed it away with a glove.

“Boy, that was a close call,” I said. “It
would have been just too bad for us if
they had come a minute later.”

All thought of pulling the payroll rob-
bery was gone. Orley drove aimlessly

through the city. There was only one ~

thing on his mind. Pop would be. mighty
disappointed if we came back empty-
handed. Tommy and Angel felt the same
way about it. After all, Clark was count-
ing so much on that trip to Florida and
so were they. Ray Orley decided for. us
that we would cruise about the streets
and select a likely looking store so that
we would pick up enough at least to pay
for a vacation. :

We were driving southward along Fifth

Avenue when Orley spotted Groppers’.

Luggage Shop at 548 Fifth Avenue. Or-
ley had to circle the block three times
before we found a place to park the car.
Then the four of us climbed out and en-
tered the store. A clerk came up to us
and asked what we wanted.

“J want all the money you’ve got in
the place,” Orley said, pulling out his
gun, “This is a stickup.” :

I took the gun out of my pocket and

my hand trembled. Tommy and Angel
also had their guns out. There was the
proprietor, two clerks and four customers
in the place and we started to herd them
toward the rear. I stood in the middle
of the store while Orley and Tommy
forced the customers. back,

It so happened that a taxi driver who
was parked near the entrance saw the
clerk’s arms go upwards and he slipped
out of his cab and raced for the nearest
policeman, Patrolman James Killion, who
was directing traffic on the corner of 45th
Street and Fifth Avenue. —

Angel was standing near the door as
lookout man when he saw the cop dart
through the traffic and race toward him.
“Tt’s the cops,” he yelled in terror, dash-
ing back into the store.

Tommy and I flattened ourselves be-
hind counters. Angel rushed into the
rear where the customers were, while Or-
ley ducked into a dimly lit self-service
elevator that was on the right hand side.
Victims and stickup men alike were out
of sight as the cop burst through the
front door.

“Come out with your. hands up!” he
roared.

That was enough for me. I threw my
gun away so that it bounced on the floor.
My hands went upward and I stepped
out in surrender. The cop took one step
toward me when a stab of flame split the
gloom behind the grill work of the eleva-
tor déor. A slug tore through the cop’s
chest. The revolver slipped from his
nerveless fingers and clattered to the
floor. His mouth made gasping noises,
then his knees melted and he pitched
over on his side.

I. didn’t know what to do. I could only
stand there with my hands held high
over my head. Terror-stricken, I could
see an ever-widening circle of red stain-
ing the cop’s coat. A minute later a sec-
ond cop—Patrolman Harry Quinn—
rushed in with his gun drawn. The vic-
tims in the back of the store were shout-
ing and he rushed past me toward them.
Ray ducked out of the elevator and,
dropping the hot gun, dashed out of the
store and into the crowds on Fifth Ave-
nue. Tommy and Angel were. just. as
frightened as I was. They threw their
guns away and came out with their
hands up.

Ray didn’t get very far. He ducked
around the corner of 44th Street and ran
toward Sixth Avenue, but he was spotted
by a mounted cop named George Fergus
who trapped him when he tried to take
cover in an office building.

The cops treated us kind of rough and
all of us showed some signs of this treat-
ment. We were handcuffed and taken
to the West 47th Street police precinct
where Lieutenant John Moffett of the
Homicide Squad told us that the cop was
dead and that we were charged with
murder.

Ray Orley became hysterical. “IT swear
I didn’t mean to kill him,” he screamed.
“T didn’t aim at him. I only wanted to
scare him off.”

There was a cold look in the lieuten-
ant’s eyes. When he questioned us about
other jobs, we quickly told him the truth.
We were anxious to make a clean breast
of it. Tommy, Angel and Ray told about
the jobs they were on, while I confessed

that this was my first. The only thing
we held back on was Clark’s complicity.

But this didn’t keep Clark out of it en-
tirely. When Ray gave Lieutenant Mof-
fett his home address, the lieutenant sent
Detectives Russell and Sheldrick to
search the flat. Without bothering to
knock they burst in on a dignified old
gentleman who demanded, sternly, the
meaning of this unwarranted intrusion.

Detective Russell flashed his shield.
“Police Department,” he said. “Do you
know any boys by the name of Raymond,
Orley, Gilbride and Angelini?”

“Certainly. I know them all,” the old
man replied, a worried frown creasing
his face. “Why? Has there been any
trouble?”

Russell nodded. You’d call murder
trouble, wouldn’t you?”

Clark’s face went white. For once he
was speechless.

He was taken down to the West 47th
Street police precinct where each item of
his apparel was checked with the prop-
erty clerk at Police Headquarters. It was
thus that the expensive Gruen wrist-
watch which he wore was traced and
found to be part of the loot taken in the
holdup of Paul’s Luggage Shop. Later, as
a result of the publicity that the case re-
ceived, a tailor called the police and told
them that Clark had left his suitcase in
his shop. This was opened by Detective
Russell who found a revolver in it. As a
result of this two indictments were filed
against the old man; one charged him
with the possession of a gun and the
other with having criminally received
stolen property.

While seated in Tombs Prison Clark
played the role of a martyr to a cause.
He said that all his life he had cham-
pioned youth and now he was paying for
these unselfish acts of kindness.

For my own part I wasn’t worried too
much. I had faith that the jury would
see that the person most culpable was
Clark: that it was at his urgings ‘and
under the influence of his superior will
that we, with no previous police records,
had been forced into a life of crime.

The law said that Clark could not be
tried for murder. While he had planned
the coal company robbery, this was
abandoned, and for that reason he could
not be tried for the subsequent crime.

Nelson Clark was saved by a technical-
ity in the law. I found out that there
was another technicality which said that
I was either entirely innocent of the
crime or else I was guilty of murder in
the first degree and would have to pay
with my life in the electric chair. That's
because this was a felony murder and
every person involved in the stickup like-
wise becomes involved in the murder.

O* April 10th, 1935, the four of us
went on trial for our lives in the
Court of General Sessions in the old
Criminal Courts Building. The prosecu-
tor was Miles O’Brien who was head of
the Homicide Bureau in the district at-
torney’s office. He presented his case in
a fair, straightforward manner. He
proved that the four of us had gone out
to commit a robbery; this is a felony. And
as a result of this robbery a police officer
was murdered. That meant all of us
were guilty of murder in the first degree

elf up;

you can
f them.
‘e them

viciously.

ior and
he part
em how
ipulated

<plained
» lose by

2en coNn=
to con-

didn’t

rence to
nish the
to com-

*k’s face
s excite-

uchinery '

is faced
raking @
> fiction
lives of
nuch,
yrosecu-
* to your
> this: if
en their
oeakable
road to
to ward
nk that
sell.”
wrote a
plaining
ind had

on night
xecution
tle black
nee that
precisely

the pre-

; feet. A
from his
rt, black
felt slip-
yped him
and they

n just as °

site was
‘sy room,
{on hard

In the
urdy. oak

nond was
uckled a
ickled his
-hind the
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rintained
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“FROM AUTHENTIC DETECTIVE C

of the ceiling ventilator made & whirring

sound. Again the switch was thrown.
A doctor stepped on the rubber pad

and applied his stethescope to the chest.

“J pronounce this man dead,” he said.
The time was 11:03 p.m. The body was
quickly wheeled out.

Murphy told him they probably belonged

to the victim, not the killer.

“She wore glasses and we didn’t find

any with the body.”

The sheriff put them in his pocket, too.
“They explain one thing. We know how
she happened to be upstairs. The strug-
gle evidently began here. She knew her
way about the house and fied to the sec-
ond story, probably thinking she could
lock a door on the murderer, but the poor =

kid didn’t have time.”

ESER and Murphy next went to the
home of the grocery boy, Benny
Jerome. Benny wasn’t at home, but they
were directed to the United Brethren
Church where the young people’s class
was practicing for their Christmas pro-

gram.

Benny was & slender, freckle-faced
youth, as neat in appearance as the Sci-

fers boys.

He had heard about the murder and

appeared deeply shocked.

“T knew Elaine, of course,” he said
frankly. “Everybody did. She was one
of the most popular girls in school. Sun-
day School, too. She hardly ever missed.
I don’t see how we're going to have our

program without her.”

He admitted having called at the Sci-

fers house that day.

“tt was just before four o'clock. About
a quarter to four, maybe. I started out
at half past three and made a stop or two
before I got to the Scifers. I didn’t see
anyone there put I-did hear the piano,
and someone was singing. A girl. I didn’t
know it was Elaine. I was only there long

enough to leave the groceries.”

“Did you see anyone outside the

house?”

“No, sir. The wind was awfully sharp.
I guess people stayed inside unless they
had some reason to be out, There was

hardly anybody on the street today.”

_ *Jyst how well did you know Elaine,
Benny,” Murphy inquired quietly. “Did

you ever gO with her?”

“No, ‘sir. I don’t go with girls...

much. We were just good friends.”

“pid either of the Scifers boys ever

go with her?”

Leland went with older girls.”

“Just what are your chief interests,

son? ‘Yours and Leslie’s?”

| “Well, we play tennis some, and basket
pall, and there’s @ rifle club. I don’t
’ belong because I -haven’t a gun but I
shoot with the boys sometimes. Leslie

walked in. He
and was silent as
the chair. At 11:08, he

-At 11:05 Angelini was
looked dazed
strapped into
was pronounced dead.

At precisely 1
his appearance.
rette and before sea

Mm, Gilbride made
He was smoking a ciga-
ting himself, flipped

TERROR'S TARGET

(Continued from page 15)

he added as an afterthought.
ers were frank and
He met their gaze

reads a lot,”
The boy’s answ
straightforward.

the street, they turned next
ome. The elder daughter
tified the glasses as
thing about the pin
the dead girl’s
’% think her young
ved in any school-

to the Allen hi
was there. She iden
Elaine’s but knew no
that had fallen
jacket. No, she didn’
sister had been invol
girl romance.

Returning t
was serving as a Sor
they found, sitting in
them, the deputy
check the various §

o the Scifers’ house, which
+ of headquarters,
his car waiting for
d been sent to
tories the officers had

a ride to Chinook. I
ulbert but I talked to
who saw Leslie in
w story: tallies.
as with. It seems
f the double feat-

“Leslie did catc
didn’t find Paul Ca
three different persons
And the sho
talked to the boy he w:
they didn’t like p
ure and left before

“T suppose he really went to the tab-
“yes, he led a sort
His story checks,
looks like we’re running in ac
the deputy finished gl
how any of th
Some stranger
the street an
house when he fo’

Reser was doubtfu
followed to th
her shadower at 3:45 w
delivered the
side, surely,
been singing,
if he had lurked outsi
bors have seen
the puzzle for the moment
The fingerprint

of prayer service

“JT don’t see
le can be involved.
must have seen the girl on
ad followed her into the
d she was alone.”
1. If Elaine had been
e house at 3:30, where was
hen Benny Jerome
groceries? He w
or the girl wouldn't have
serene and unafraid. And
de, wouldn’t Benny
or the neigh

d the house.
officer was packing
tests told them noth
ints were of members of the
ight to be there. The
belonged to the girl
nt of surprise, or per-
laid her hand on the

numerous pr
family and had a r
only strange print
victim, In a mome
haps fear, she had
ase of the piano.

It was late and v
in their overcoats they
phy’s suggestion, an ow
for a cup of hot coffee.
school age serve
excited and awed by the
phy showed her

“Do you know
sort. of thing &
as he does his fraterni

ery cold. Shivering
sought, at Mur-
1 lunch counter
A girl of high-
d them. She,
tragedy. Mur-

Benny shook his head “Leslie doesn’t
go with girls much, either, and I guess

what this is? Is it the
boy would put
ty pin, maybe?”

ASES”

it away. At 11:13 he was dead.

Orley went last. He entered the death
chamber at 11:15, and was pronounced
dead at 11:18.

Silently the witnesses filed out. The
only noise was made by the ventilator
sucking out the acrid fumes.

She looked at it closely. ‘I wouldn’t
think so, Mr. Murphy. A frat pin means
something special. This is a Sunday
School award of some sort. I’ve seen it
pefore,” she said, knitting her pretty
brows in & puzzled frown. “Bither this
one or one just like it—but I can’t think
where.”

“Did you ever see Flaine Allen wear~
ing it?”

She shook her head. Murphy encour-
aged her to talk and finally got the lead
he had hoped for. Elaine and a boy
named James Cason had shown a special
interest in one another.

“They never really went together but

_ they used to write notes all the time, and

they talked a lot in the halls. I think
they liked each other all right.”

ah ige morning of December 24 dawned
clear and cold. Young James Cason
was setting up @ Christmas tree and came
to the door with a string of popcorn in
one hand and a frosted glass star in the
other. He was & handsome youth, seven-
teen or so, with excellent manners and a
quick, engaging smile. i

It vanished at their first question.

“yes, I liked Elaine,” he said soberly.
“T Jiked her a lot, but she got mad at me.
I haven’t seen her—not to talk to, I mean
—for more than a week.”

This tall, straight shouldered boy was
one to catch a young girl’s fancy, the
sheriff thought.

“Was Elaine interested in any other
poy? Would that be the reason she got
mad at you?” Reser persisted.

But he faced a blank as far as any:
real information was concerned. The
Cason boy either didn’t know or refused
to answer. They left the house with the
feeling that he was withholding some-
thing.

“Surely a boy wouldn't shoot a girl
simply because she got mad at him,”
Murphy remarked.

“Murder has been done for less,” Reser
replied.

“I suppose sO... I expected you to
ask him about the rifle club. _He’s the
sort of boy you'd expect to belong to
clubs—and whoever killed that girl was
a good shot.”

“J know, but there wasn’t any point
in talking about it now. I thought we’d
see the school principal first, and may-
be the Sunday, School superintendent.”
Reser tightened & muffier about his
throat, “You know, Murphy, I think
we're on the right trail, though I can’t, as
yet, see where it’s taking us. The deeper

I a. a a i a ee a

and the penalty for this is death. He
asked for the death sentence.

Our defense was a simple recital of the
facts and a plea for mercy. The trial
lasted three weeks and at the end of that
time the jury, after a brief deliberation,
filed back into the jury box. We were
ordered to rise and face the jury. The
jury stood and faced us. The foreman
read his verdict. It was... guilty!

The four of us stood at the bar of jus-
tice. My hands gripped the thick wood
rail of the enclosure so hard that the
knuckles were white. My mouth was dry
and my heart pounded as loudly as a
drum. Behind the bench, a black robe
draped over his shoulders, sat Judge
Morris Koenig. He rapped his gavel
once, lightly, and it had the sound of
doom. He held a paper in front of him
and he read from it:

“The judgment of this Court is that

LAST STOP! Amerigo Angelini, w+ Orley, Thomas Gilbride and Newman Raymond
tatio Sing Sing’s death house Is straight ahead.

descend the steps at Ossining s n.

you, and each of you, Newman Raymond,
Raymond Orley, Thomas Gilbride, and
Amerigo Angelini, for the murder in the
first degree of one James Killion, where-
of you are convicted, are sentenced to
the punishment of death; and it is or-
dered that within ten days after this
day’s session of the Court, the sheriff of
the County of New York deliver you, and
each of you, together with a warrant of

this Court, to the warden of the Sing
Sing Prison at Ossining, New York, where
you shall be kept in solitary confinement
until the week beginning Monday, the
eighth day of July 1935, and, upon some
day of the week so appointed, the said
warden of the Sing Sing Prison at Os-
sining, New York, is commanded to do
execution upon you, and each of you, in
the mode and manner prescribed by the
laws of the State of New York.”
-Nelson Clark was convicted in the
Court of Special Sessions on the gun
charge and was given a three-year term
in the penitentiary. This left the crim-
inally receiving indictment still hanging
over his head and the prosecution didn’t

NATIONAL DETECTIVE CASES

want to go to trial on it because, without
our testimony, it was a weak case.

HEN the Court of Appeals affirmed
the death sentence we decided that
the time had come for us to tell the
truth. The man who broke us down was
Assistant District Attorney Eugene Fin~-
negan. He had put the matter squarely
up to us. He told us that he was inter-
ested only in justice. All he wanted from
us was the truth. Perhaps it would be
enough to get us a pardon from the
governor, He couldn’t say. “But even if
things happened for the worst, at least
we would go out with the slate clean.
We were taken back to the Court of
General Sessions and we testified against
Clark. He was convicted and sentenced
to another ten years, the term to run
consecutively, which meant that he had a
total of thirteen years to serve.

We were returned to the death house
at Sing Sing prison. I try not to think
of what lies aliead but fear is creeping
through me. It numbs my feet, my
hands, and my heart. As the day draws
near, I turn more and more to prayer. x
know my only chance now is in District
Attorney Finnegan who has taken an in-
terest in my case. God grant he can do
something before it is too late....

SSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY
FINNEGAN made one last attempt
to stave off the death penalty for New-
man Raymond, who, he felt, was far less
guilty in the murder than Clark himself.

He had the former candidate for gover- |

nor brought to his office.

Clark, while a little thinner, still was.
the same oily politician. When he start-
ed to talk about how interested he was
in the welfare of the boys and how he
felt no malice toward them for having
placed him in this predicament, Finne-
gan brushed the words aside. .

“I didn’t bring you here to listen to an
oration.”

“Sir,” Clark said, drawing himself up;

“IT brought you here so that you can
prove what you really think of them.
I’m _ giving you a chance to save them °
from the electric chair.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What am I supposed to do?” :

“Write a letter to the Governor and
tell him the exact truth about the part
you played in the crime; tell them how
the boys were only puppets manipulated
by you.” . :

“That’s a lie,” Clark shouted.

Finnegan was patient. He .explained
that the old man had nothing to lose by
doing this; that he had already been con-
victed. and sentenced and that to con-
tinue protesting his innocence didn’t
make the slightest bit of difference to
him, Clark, but that it might furnish the
Governor with sufficient reason to com-
mute the death sentence. :

The prosecutor could see Clark’s face
twisting and twitching in nervous excite-
ment, He could almost see the machinery ’
of his mind. The hypocrite was faced
squarely with the necessity of making a
choice between maintaining the. fiction

of his innocence and saving the lives of '

the boys he claimed to love so much.

‘When he made no answer the prosecu-.”’

tor said: “I am sending you back to your
cell, but I want you to remember this: if.
those boys die you will have been their
murderer. Yours will be the unspeakable
crime of. having set them on the road to
ruin and yet not lifting a finger to ward
off their inevitable doom. Think that
over when you get back to-your cell.” _~

Clark did think it over. He wrote a
letter to Governor Lehman explaining
how he, Clark, was innocent and had
been framed by the boys!

HURSDAY night is execution night *
The pre-execution

in Sing Sing.
cells are located closest to the little black’
door in order to shorten the distance that
condemned men must walk. At precisely
one minute to eleven, one of the pre-
execution cell doors swung open. ;
“Tt’s time to go,” a guard said.
Newman Raymond rose to his feet. A
patch of hair had been shaved from his

head. He wore a white shirt, black —

trousers with one leg slit and felt slip-
pers, A pair of guards gripped him
under the armpits. Three steps and they
were at the door. It swung open just as
they reached it. Directly opposite was
the door leading to the autopsy room,
To the right witnesses sat tensed on hard.
wood benches ranged like pews. In the
center of the floor stood a sturdy. oak
chair, wires leading to it. ‘

Another three steps and Raymond was .
seated in it. Expert guards buckled a
strong strap across his chest, buckled his
arms and legs with straps. Behind the
chair a guard dipped a helmet in a
bucket of brine, raised it aloft. :

Throughout it all, Newman maintained |
silence. He stared unseeingly at the wit-
nesses in front of him. The helmet.
slipped over his head, a black mask con-
cealing the face. .

A keeper nodded his head. Robert El-
lot, the executioner, standing behind a
partition, threw the switch. The body
was thrown against the straps. A thin
curl of smoke rose up. The huge blades

ball,
belon;
shoot

A NT CY
IN‘

TT TN'T
BLINI,

Ly 7 DR [ & y xg Oe 8 is V
0, 1988 §)) |,

TUARY
— "Ty

ERHIT?
vias

“sey Affidavit,
Thousands

Daughter.

; CHARGES

uthorities Quote
using Mrs.
»peration.

N..J., "Jan. 8
fewitt, the 21-
° is suing her
) damages in
ounds that she
sterilized, was
fidavit on file
| easily infatu-
orm.
gned by the
n Wewitt Me-
B ry Court
"Ongar by Miss
unting of her
the young wo-
h a chauffeur
’., four years
to «
ad cnconades
to him,’’ the

{cCarter said,
er daughter's
iny references

d not be writ- | in

‘re, indeed, of
justified their
a,’ Mrs. Mc-

Makes Him Marked Man

Police Commissioner Lewis J;
Valentine ,arrived at City Hall
yesterday for the first time
in a long, underslung limonpsine
with which pe was quite dis-
pleased. | | :

“This thing makes me feel like
a cat with a big bell around its
neck,” he said. ‘I wish I could
have a car that was a little less
gaudy. This is too good-looking,
too flashy. With all that nickel.
plate and chromium, the thugs
will see me coming a mile away.”

Mr. Valentine’s car is one of
three put into service yesterday.
The others will be used by First
Deputy Commissioner Harold
Vowler and Chief Inspector
John J. Seery. The Police
Commissioner said the car manu-
facturers had objected to his re-
quest that the bright trimmings
be taken off, on the ground that
the car would then be more con-
spicuous than it is now. He.
added that the sooner the polish
wore off the better he'd ilke it.

the first time I knew that here was
no insane person.

“I observed three months of
abuse of her by her mother. She
was kept in pajamas upstairs. Mrs.
McCarter remarked she didn’t want
to come downstairs because she'd
realize then there was nothing
wrong with her and would want to
go out. The girl was afraid to eat,

e@-<old me she had been threat-
ened with poison but had been
forced te deny that threat in writ-

se °°
“‘Her letters were censored. So
were her telephone calls. She was.
forced to sign letters asking money:
from the

eer

| West Ninéty-third Street, Manhat-

| Cigarette away, sat down at 11:10

POUR PUT 10 DEATH
FOR MURDER HERE

Young Thugs Go to Chair in
Sing Sing for Kiling Police-
man in 5th Av. Hold-Up.

PLEAS TO GOVERNOR FAIL|lewyer, sei

Le Se

Prominent. Persons Sought to

Save Orley, 21; Raymond, 21; |
Gilbride, 20; Angelini, 20.

. Special to Tas New Yorx Truzs.
‘OSSINING, N. Y., Jan. 9.—Four
youths convicted of the murder of
@ policeman during a hold-up in
New York a year ago were put to
death together tonight in Sing Sing
prison. Up to the last they hoped
for a reprieve or commutation from
Governor Lehman. _

_The condemned prisoners were
Ray Orley; 21 years old, of 306

tan, a chauffeur; Newman Ray-
mond, 21, of Alexandria, Va., a
sailor; Thomas Gilbride, 20, of
99-21 Forty-third'-Avenue, Corona,
Queens, a chauffeur, and Anierigo
Angelini, 20, of 101-26 Forty-fifth
Avenue, also Corona, a clerk.
Raymond went to the chair at 11
o'clock and was pronounced dead
at 11:08. Angelini was placed in
the chair at 11:08 and pronounced
dead at 11:08. Gilbride, flipping a

and was dead at 11:13. Orley was
placed in the chair at 11:15 and
found lifeless at 11:18. Raymond

James
Charles McLaughlin and ©

father,
— sisters. -

r., now a builder ir Alexandria;
Was once an independent
for Mayor of New York:

received his father, Daniel.
lini was visited by his
ter and two brothers,

charge of dangerous drivi;

acquitted Lord de Clifford ‘eg
charge of manslaughter, °
from the same accident. It éccurred

at Kingston-on-Thames and
las George Hopkins,

gressive party candidate for Gori,
nor of Massachusetts, who was |

Victed of disposifig of stolen wee
for the gang, wrote to Bondy

Lehman taking responsibility: tt
the youths’ criminal Careers ‘aaa’
asking y{lemency for them, ,
the New York nitertiqns "|

now, and will begin another tem |
tence in Sing Sing when he » #4
out his present term. | ies
Representatives of welfare a:
George Gordon Bolt de

other prominent Pe.
sons, besides relatives, also
commutation of the death senteree

because of the boys’ ages. 3
The last time as many as ‘toa
on |

2
|

pergons were put to death at
in Sing Sing was Dec. 9,
Cassidy, - Joseph

Milano died for the inde
subway change agent in a
hold-up, ee,
Raymond was visited today by his:
mother, step-mother his:
Newman

mond also visited Orley. Gilbride
mother,

LORD DE CLIFFORD FREED.
Progecution Offers No Evidence bi
Dangerous Driving Charge, .°' /

i ee yee

LONDON, Jan. 9 UP ae Young a

Lord de Clifford, '28-year-olg e
of ancient lineage, was
in Old Bailey Court t

oday' on @.

ing ariatag

from an automobile accident. Te.
prosecution offered no evidences”

“The House ‘of Lords on Dee.-3§° |
Dougy

estate without reading comenenen
them.’’ {was accompanied to the death/| was killed. * ieee |
|chamber by the Rev.. Anthony Pe- ke

| GRAP E RACKET ATTACKED. itersen, Protestant chaplain, and
' - ithe others by the Rev. John Mo-

Californian Asks . Congrese to: Caffrey, Catholic chaplain.

Extend Inquiry to Abuses Here. 1 Robert Elliott was in charge of
_ ... | the death chamber tonight. He also
WASHINGTON, Jan. 9 UP).—

will be in charge when Bruno Rich-
Representative B. W. Gearhart,

ard Hauptmann {gs put to death at
Republican, of California, asked} ‘t?® New Jersey prison in Trenton
Con ‘to take steps to end

gress today for the murder of the Lindbergh
alleged racketeering in New York maby. | |
auction markets for fresh fruits The four were convicted of shoot-
me vegetables. ;

ing and killing Patrolman James
introduced a resolution to au-

Killion last Jan. 18 while they were
thorize the Trade Commission to up & luggage shop at 548
extend its current inve of

ci |
Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. The rob-
farm income to Jan. 31, 1987, to

bers were captured by other polic
cover thdse products, with empha- Sine Sing Ie wre Bio! i: eal
sia on table and juice grapes, as] Nelson Clark, 67, onetime Pro-
well as chokes and |= ?

ragus.
C. J. Carey, chief of the market ‘

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of dollars in
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Together with her parents, Anna lived within a mile or two
of the State Capitol building in Albany, : New York. After a
certain amount of schooling she went to work to help fill out
the family finances. She didn’t work for long, however, because
she fell in love with Salvatore Antonio.

Salvatore had been around almost as long as she could
remember. She'd seen him at Italian festivals, on the street, in
school. But being a few years older than Anna, he hadn't paid
her any attention until approaching maturity developed her charms.

“How blind I have been all these years,” he told her on their
first date. “1 should have realized long ago that you'd grow up
to be the nicest girl in Albany.”

Anna blushed. She didn’t tell him that ever since she had
been in grammar school she’d secretly admired him for being so
big and strong; she knew intuitively it's better to keep a man
guessing. .

“Lots of boys seem to think I’m rather attractive,” she said.

“Boys maybe, yes. But it takes a man to appreciate yOu.
One like myself, who has been around a bit.” ,

He led her into a park and they found a bench partly shielded
by shrubs. Light of the new moon filtered down through ‘the
branches of the trees which .were just coming into full leaf. He
put his arms around her, pressed his lips against hers.

“Your kiss, cara mia,” vowed Salvatore, “it is headier than
Chianti wine.”

He tried to go further with her, but she restrained him. “Toam
a good girl,” she said, standing up and clutching her purse. “y
must go home now.”

When he found after a few months that he couldn’t possess her
any other way, Salvatore begged the jet-haired girl to marry him.

‘Anna's parents weren't exactly overjoyed by the proposal.

“Be patient,” her mother counseled. “You can do better.”

“Salvatore Antonio!” her father boomed. “That loafer, that
bum! He doesn’t seem to do anything to earn a living. How
would he ever he able to support you?”

“But papa, he always has money. He must make it some way.”

“Then he’s dishonest. I won't have you marrying a crook.”

In the end, Anna won out. Though they still had misgivings,
the parents allowed her to become Mrs. Antonio.

OW ANNA learned the source of Salvatore’s income. He was

a small-time bootlegger. Except when he was out making
deliveries of straight alcohol or homemade gin to his customers,
he spent most of his time around their little flat. He slept late
in the morning, and he worried about the cops. Sometimes he
sampled his merchandise too liberally.

“It’s better than being a hod-carrier,” he declared when Anna
criticized his occupation.

Despite her disillusionment, Anna was reasonably happy as a
bride. It gave her satisfaction to keep the apartment tidy. She
took pains to learn how to cook Salvatore’s favorite dishes—
spaghetti Caruso, gnocchi a la Romana, veal scallopini, chicken
cacciatore and lasagna—exactly the way he liked them. He gained
a lot of weight but Anna, until she became pregnant, didnt put
on a pound...

Their first child, a daughter whom they named Phyllis, was
born less than a year after the wedding.

“A girl—that’s fine,” said Salvatore as he passed out the
cigars to his “clients” and confederates in the alky business. “But
the next one will be a boy. 1 want sons——four, five, six sons.”

He had to wait almost three years before the next child came
along. It was another daughter. Marie.

The honeymoon was long since over. Brushes with the law
had made Salvatore irritable’ Being around the house so much,
he found plenty of little faults in Anna to criticize. His bad
temper scemed to increase along with his waistline.

“What's the matter with you, that you can’t bear a boy?” he
snapped. “In my family there have always been plenty of sons.”

“The fault’s yours, not mine,” Anna retorted. “Why should I
have a son when he would only grow up to learn his father was
a bootlegger, and not a very successful: one at that! Why can’t
you follow an honorable trade? Why don’t you bring more money
into the house so I may buy a new dress once in a while?”

Salvatore cursed her in Italian and gulped a tumblerful of

Ex-Gov. Herbert Lehman, who could find “no just and
sound reason” for exereising executive clemency.

the vile gin he made by blending alcohol with distilled water
and essence of juniper. “I'll make more money!” he yelled. “You
will see!” .

He took up a sideline—dope.

JN THE NEW enterprise he had to play along with Vincent

Saetta and, to a lesser extent, with Sam Feraci. Saetta and.

Feraci were bootleggers, too, well-known in the underworld of
Albany. .

Saetta was a squat fellow with hard eyes and thick lips, reputed
to be a fast man with a gun or a shiv. Feraci was a weaker
character, yet tough enough to hold his own in the racket of
peddling booze and narcotics. They were both about the same age
as Salvatore. Either of them would slit his own grandmother’s
throat if it meant a quick buck.

Even with marihuana and heroin added to his standard “line”
of alky and gin, Salvatore didn’t grow rich. He was too afraid
of taking risks, and there were many other peddlers, Still, after
a fashion, it was a living.

The passing years didn’t improve Anna's looks. Increasing
quarrels with her husband left their mark. So did the task of
caring for two young children and running a household on a re-
stricted and uncertain budget.

Anna became thinner, and her features took on a shrewish
sharpness. No longer was she the appealing girl Salvatore had
kissed as they sat on the bench in the park.

Anna started to do some drinking, herself. Not a great deal.
Just enough to dull the pain of being tied to Salvatore.

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. “Don't worry about us gettin’ caught.”

r.”* But the cops ear ht three killers!

By L.L. ALBERTS

HIS IS A LOVE STORY. It can’t be called an old- seed of bitterness, and how the seed can grow like a poisonous

fashioned love story, nor is it one that has a sugary Holly- plant and drive a person to kill.

wood ending. It is, instead, the kind of chronicle you find To kill, and to walk the last mile... -

on police blotters—a tale of love gone sour, of love turning

to hate, of hate leading to murder and the hot seat in Sing ANY GIRLS of Italian stock are beautiful, and some of them
exceptionally so. Anna Capello did not belong to this latter

Sing Prison.
Every five minutes, according to the FBI, somebody is the category. In fact, she made no pretense of being beautiful. And

victim of a homicide or a felonious assault somewhere in the yet folks who knew her best. said that when her face was in
United States, and many of the crimes of violence spring from animation she could be quite attractive. She had a good figure, }
marital discord. This love story helps to explain why the rate just a little on the thin side, and her cyes were unusually, dark

is so high; it tells how the first kiss can be replaced by the first and large, and she had a wealth of black, curly, glossy hair.

Reac PETTECTIVE

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“He'll be cold before the church bells
ring on Easter morning,” Saetta promised.
“You can lay the odds on that. Sal’s as
good as dead right now.”

ON THE Friday before before Easter,
’ Saetta and Feraci hunted up a pawn-
shop where they weren't known. Feraci
felt that they ought to have a knife that
couldn’t be traced to them. They bought
a fine one—a bone-handled tool with a
‘sharp, shining eight-inch blade.

The pair called at the Antonio home on
the following night.

“Sam and I are goin’ to have a few
drinks, on account. o’ tomorrow bein’
Easter,” Saetta announced. “How about

| joinin’ us, Sal?” he asked Salvatore.

Salvatore ‘thought it was okay. “Sure,”
he said: “But let’s drink here. I got plenty
in the house.”
“Aw, it'd be better outside,” Saetta told
him. “‘We feel like goin’ someplace.”
Salvatore Antonio was far from a sus-
picious man, despite his experience in
various illegal rackets and all the double-
crossing he must have witnessed among
the various underworld characters with
whom he had associated.

“Well, if you want to,” he said, “but
we got plenty here, and—”

“Aw, come on!” Saetta cut in.
- “Sure,” Feraci piped up. “We'd oughta
celebrate Easter.”

So Salvatore put on his hat and coat
and went with them, not even saying

Down in the street, at the curb, the
three men got into Saetta's car. Feraci
pulled a flat bottle of gin out of the glove
compartment, They drank until the bottle
was empty, most of the liquor being ac-
counted for by Salvatore.

By the time they pulled away from the
curb the intended murder victim was
groggy, and his “friends” had developed
just the right amount of alcoholic courage.
Saetta glanced at his watch. It was ten
minutes past midnight.

“Sam and:I heard of a new speak out in
the country a ways,” Saetta said. “We'll
go there and have a few more drinks.”

He drove across the bridge to Rens-
selaer and then down Route 9J along the
Hudson. The sky was overcast, and the
river looked cold and black.

Near the village of Castleton Saetta
turned off onto a side road and went an-
other mile or two until they reached the
spot he and Feraci had picked for their
| deed. It was completely isolated. There
wasn’t a house in sight, there was no

brakes and shut-off the ignition.

“Come on, Salvatore,” Feraci said,
opening the'door on his side, “we get out
here.” : ;

“But—but there’sh no ~sh-shpeakeasy
*roun’ here. What we gettin’ out for?”
Salvatore came back.

“Because we don't want to spill no blood
on the cushions,” Saetta rasped, giving him
a shove.

The idea that his long-time pals were
going to kill him percolated slowly into
Salvatore’s befuddled mind. He tried to
run, stumbled in the ruts, fell headlong.
They picked him up roughly and marched

West Coast Salesmen, write Box 1087, San Jose, Calif.
. * A

him a dozen yards down. the road, Then

goodbye to Anna, whose eyes glittered .
| with the anticipation of triumph:

traffic: at that hour. Saetta applied the

they shot him in the back and stabbed him
15 times. They left him spread-eagled in
the dirt, the bone-handled knife protruding
from his chest. ~_ ;

Miraculously, “Salvatore Antonio still
breathed when’ early risers found him.
But he died on the way to a hospital,
without recovering consciousness.

JN HER little flat that Easter morn, with
the children clinging to her skirt, Anna
heard the gladsome tidings. “You've done
well,” she told the assassins. “The re-
mainder of the money will be promptly
paid.” eA

She reckoned {without the police.

At first they suspected, as she had hoped,
that it was a routine gang murder. But.
before long they heard the neighbors’ tales
of the maritaldiscord in the Antonio
household, They listened to witnesses who

-had seen the victim leave the apartment

building with Saetta and Feraci. They.
found the store where the knife was pur-
chased. They made plaster casts of the
.tire tracks on the lonely road near Castle-
ton and discovered they matched the
treads of the tires on Sactta’s car.

Arrested and subjected to relentless ques-
tioning, the killers confessed. “His wife
paid us to do it,” they said.

Detectives picked up Anna, and she too:

admitted the plot.

The court docket of Albany County was
crowded, so the trio didn’t go on trial
until April, 1933. A jury found them
guilty with no recommendation for mercy,
and Judge Earl Gallop sentenced them to
pay the supreme penalty. Anna, of course,
never receivedthe $5,500 from the in-
surance companies.

Up to that time, only eight women had
been executed in the State of New York.
The newspapers built up considerable sym-
pathy for the dark-haired, big-eyed crea-
ture in Death: Row, and sentimentalists
demanded that she be spared. The fight
over her fate raged for more than a fear.

In the end, the final decision rested with
Herbert H. Lehman, who had‘ succeeded
Franklin D. Roosevelt to the governor-
ship. i :
Governor Leliman announced his stand
on the case in the summer of 1934:

“The law makes no distinction of sex
in the punishment of crime, nor could my
own conscience permit me to do so. Each
of the defendants is guilty. The crime-and
the manner of its execution are abhorrent.
I have found_no just and sound reason for
the exercise of executive clemency.”

In her cell’ at Sing Sing Anna Antonio

sobbed. “Only God can help me now!”:

she cried. * ;

It was 11:15 on the night of August
9th when the frigid widow went screaming
to her doom. ©

Ten minutes later Sam Feraci passed
into the chamber from which there is no
return. es

At 11:35 they strapped Vincent Saetta
in the chair. He muttered a laconic: “So
long, people,” before 2,200 volts of light-
ning jolted him into eternity.

The murder of Salvatore Antonio had
become merely another statistic in the
nation’s shocking record of crime. As
Omar Khayyam put it centuries ago, “The
moving finger writes—and having writ,
moves On, +.« +"

;™ is. 3

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party at Pug!
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friend Chief |
Police Headqi
was off duty
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When Plum
day in 1939,
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.over the head
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Plummer ¢
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County Solici:
Somersworth,
Clyde Cotton.
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Thomas P. C!
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jong with Vincent
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the underworld of

4 thick lips, reputed
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own grandmother's

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» Salvatore.

‘Only God can help me now!” erled Mrs. Antonio w
She was correct. Photo above shows body of xelf-made widow being transported through gate at Sing Sing.

She began now to develop the frigidity which is common to
so many wives conditioned by long series of disappointments and
frustrations. Sometimes it was almost unbearable to sleep in .the
same bed with Salvatore. At times she couldn't stand to have him
touch her. When she was compelled to yield to his desire she did
so with mechanical weariness, without any response of her own.

“I would love you more if you looked better to your family’s
welfare,” she told him. “We. hardly ever have any money in the
bank. And insurance. How is it that you have never taken out
some life insurance? One never knows—something might hap-
pen to you some day.”

“Give me a son,” Salvatore came back. “Only then will I
think about buying insurance. Holding insurance is like going
to the race track—you are gambling that you will die. If there
is no man-child to survive me and collect the bet, why should I
bother?” ;

Sometimes Saetta and Feraci came to the flat. They would sit
with Salvatore around the bare kitchen table and guzzle gin or
raw red wine while Anna kept the children out of the way.

Salvatore thought his theory about taking out insurance was
pretty clever, and he expounded it to his underworld associates.
“It's the same as stepping up to the fifty-dollar window at
Saratoga. Let's say the long-shot I pick comes in. I am no longer
on earth to reap the benefits, and there must be a bambino... .”

He pounded the table. “I tell you, if Anna can't give me a son
I might go out and find some other woman who will!”

Anna overheard the remark. “If you do that, Salvatore, I will
hill you!” she said between clenched tecth. ,

hen she lost the final chance to escape the chair.

T LAST, three and one-half years after the arrival of the
the second daughter, Anna gave birth to a sof.

Salvatore was elated. “1 will name him Frank, after Governor

Roosevelt,” he said. “That Roosevelt, he’s a great man. Some
day he will be President. My little Frank—he will grow up to
be a great man, too.”

“As you wish, Salvatore,” Anna responded. Hatred for the
overbearing braggart she’d married soaked her soul in venom.
“Now, how about the insurance?” 4

“I will place my bet right away. Today. For Frank.” He
laughed until he shook all over. “Maybe I will even give the
agent a cigar when he takes my first premium money.”

“But you will name me the bencficiary?”

Salvatore thought that over for a few minutes, and then he
shrugged. “It is customary, I suppose. Maybe the law requires
it. You understand, though, if anything should ever happen to
me the insurance would really be for Frank and for other sons
we will have.”

“Of course. Only there won't be any more children, neither
daughters nor sons. I’m not coming to your bed any more,
Salvatore. From now on, L sleep alone.”

“We'll see about that. We will see... .”

The bootlegger took out policies on his life totaling $5,500.
In each of them Anna was named the beneficiary. He brought
the impressively engraved certificates home and presented them
to her with a flourish, saying: “Now I hope you're satisfied.”

Tight-lipped, her eyes hard and inscrutable as obisdian, she
forced herself to give him a peck on (Continued on page 48)

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SCREAMING DOOM OF FRIGID WIFE

(Continued from page 19)

ithe cheek. Then she tucked the precious

papers away in an old coffeepot on the
top shelf of the kitchen cabinet.

Ly SPITE. Salvatore’s concession in ob-

taining the insurance, Anna stuck to
her threat to repel his attempts at love-
making. Only rarely did he possess her,

‘and on those occasions it was when he got

drunk and took her by force.

Inevitably, conditions in the household
became worse.

When Saetla and Feraci visited, and
Salvatore lapsed into an alcoholic stupor,
Anna tried to enlist their sympathy. “Tell
me,” she said, “do you know of any other
husband as cruel as my Salvatore?”

Saetta appraised her through slitted lids.
“Life with him cannot be too pleasant,”
he said. “But, then, it is natural for hus-
bands and wives to fight.” He turned to
his partner in crime. “Sam, will you leave?
| wish to speak to Anna alone.”

After Feraci had gone out of the flat,
Sactta tried to make love to her. He was
not successful.

“It's not that I don’t like you, Vincent,”
the woman said. “I’ve suffered so much
from. Salvatore, Po don’t want to have
anything to do with aay man. The very
thought of it goes against me... . Ah, if
1 could only do something about Salva-

| tore.”

“Perhaps you will think of a solution
before long,” Saetta comforted her vaguely.
“Or—who knows?—you may start to get
along better together.”

Exactly the reverse of this prediction

} was true.

The tension between the Antonios
mounted to an explosive pitch. Night after
night) the neighbors would hear them
quarreling, and sometimes they tried to
intervene.

Saetta and Feraci sought to bring a
semblance of peace to the couple, but
without any luck.

One evening Salvatore complained ob-
scenely that Anna had overcooked the
spaghetti, She picked up her own plate of
food and hurled it squarely in his face,

On a: Sunday when their son was ap-
proaching his first birthday Salvatore gave
his wife the worst beating she'd ever re-

| ceived. The next day she went to the police

and told them about it.

Two detectivesy came to the flat) and
arrested Salvatore. They lodged him inoa
cell overnight, but in the morning he was
released.

“So you tried to teach mea lesson, eh
he muttered when he returned home.
“Well, it will do you no good. Talk to ‘the
coppers about me again and VI kill you.”

“Not if 1 kill you first!’ Anna retorted.

Through twisted reasoning she came to
the conclusion that she could not squeal

/ on his peddling of dope and liquor. She

desperately wanted him out of the way,
yes, but it would be foolish to cut off
their means of livelihood. How would she
and the children be provided for if) Sal
vatore went to prison? ‘Chere had to be

money for food, for light and gas bills,
for the rent... .

ONEY! Her thoughts turned to the

insurance policies, as they had many
times before. To Anna, $5,500 was a for
tune. With that much cash, and with her
beast of a husband out of the way, her
troubles would be over. She could be
happy and carefree again; it would be
almost as if she were once more a laughing
girl of 17.

Salvatore’s death was what she desired

above all else, Yet how could it be ar-
ranged?

She could take a razor and slice across
his throat as he lay asleep some night.
She could turn on him the gun he some-
times carried for protection in his business.
She could slip a carving knife between his
ribs the next time he attacked her.

Anna had read newspaper accounts of
murder trials. Only the last possibility,
she knew, would give her a chance to
escape punishment from the law. Even
that was uncertain; a jury might decide
she had not acted wholly out of self-de-
fense. Locked up in prison, cut off from
the children, she would not be able to
enjoy the insurance money. ‘That was not
the answer.

No, it must appear that Salvatore had
been slain by someone else.

At this time, a year or so before the
repeal of Prohibition, there were many
gang killings. They happened in Chicago,
in New York, even around Albany. Con-
sidering Salvatore’s long record as a dope
and oaltky peddler, what could be more
natural than to have him taken for va
ride?” — Instead) of suspecting her. by
Anna’s reasoning, the police would blame
his shadowy enemies in the underworld.
Gang murders went unsolved more often
than not

Well, then, whom could she hire to do
the killing? Vineent Saetts and Sam
Feraci, of course! Maybe they weren't too
smart, but they should be able to handle
a thing like this so it} would look right.
Supposedly they were Salvatore’s friends.

But Anna had come to know them well, ~

and she guessed that they would be willing
to do anything for a proper fee.

She arranged a rendezvous with the pair
at a restaurant not far from the statehouse.

On her way to keep the appointment,
she passed the park where Salvatore had
taken her on their first date so many years
before. It was the first warm day of
spring carly spring, 1932) 0 and the trees
and shrubs were budding. Young lovers
sat on the benches, so absorbed in one
another that they failed to notice Anna
walk by. She shrugged a little, held) hes
purse a litthe tighter under her arm. This
was no time for sentiment. ;

TAE VIA and Feraci were not shocked

when she told them the purpose of the
meeting. As she'd expected, they looked
upon the murder of Salvatore Antonio as
a strictly business proposition,

“A job like
Saetta deciared
in his mind.
real dough.”

“How much”

“Ato least 1
Feraci suggeste

Anna_ shook
could find ple;
Jess.”

For close on
Finally Anna s;
for the two of |
the rest after |
the best 1 can ¢

The men lo
Feraci nodded
“we'll take it an
the hundred?”

Anna opened
sheaf of bills sh.
long period by .

LOUISVILLE, §
photograph, wi
allegedly told *
officers to th
MeCormach, wi
Flanking the ac.

bills,

o the
many
a for-
th her
y, her
ild be
ild be
ighing

iesired
be ar-

across
night.
some-
isiness.
cen his

ints of
sibility,
ince to
Even

~ ide
de-
om
ible to
vas not

ore had
ore the

many
“hicago,
v. Con-
a dope
© more
for “a
her, by
d blame
erworld.
re often

re to do
id Sam
ren't too
» handle
ok right.
friends.
em well, =
e willing

\ the pair
atehouse.
ointment,
itore had
any years
1 day of
the trees
ng lovers
‘d in one
uce Anna
_ held her
irm. This

1ocked
of the
looked
\ntonio as

a ss

Pdi wae ~

<i sd Siblina 2

4
3
'
4

<p — _ “~

“A.job like that’s always dangerous,”
Saetta declared, weighing the possibilities
in his mind. “It should be worth some
real dough.” ; :

“How much?” Anna asked.»

“At least a grand for each of us,”
Feraci suggested. ts

Anna shook her head. “Impossible. 1
could find plenty of people to do it for
less.” ,

For close on to an hour they bargained.
Finally Anna:said: “Eight hundred dollars
for the two of you. One hundred now, and
the rest after I collect the insurance, That’s
the best I can do.” '

The men looked at each other, and
Feraci nodded. “All right,” Saetta said,

“we'll take it and do a good job..; Where's
the hundred?” os:
Anna opened her purse and took out a
sheaf of bills she had accumulated over -a
long period by skimping on grocery bills.

“Here,” she told them. “Be careful you
don’t get caught.”

Saetta laughed. “Don’t worry about us
gettin’ caught. Them dumb cops couldn't
catch a. streetcar.” .

Actually, he didn’t feel as confident: as
he sounded. Confronted by an assignment
for murder, Feraci developed a case of
cold feet even worse. A week went by
and they did nothing.

Anna fretted. Salvatore’s insults seemed
more intolerable than ever. ‘She suspected
him of paying visits to another woman, a
young widow. At night she lay alone in
bed, staring at the ceiling, computing her
profit after Saetta and Feraci and the
undertaker were paid off, thinking of the
new spring outfit she would be able to buy.

She met Saetta and Feraci again. “Why
are you so slow?” she berated them.
“Either do. the job or give me back the
payment I made.”

LOUISVILLE, KY.—Leonard Tarrence, 22, center figure in the above
photograph, watches recovery of attorney’s body from ereek after he

allegedly told Sheriff Bernard Bax that he killed him.
scene.” The body of the victim,

officers to the
McCormack, was pulled

Tarrence led
Francis J.

om the creek on the outskirts of the city.

Flanking the accused are Criminal Judge Loraine.Mix and Sheriff Bax.

_girl scandals and revolting juvenile crimes.

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Name

. -
A TTT

Pee

p eaval, and few
Honey. Their gory
the results of af-
t,/ Furthermore, they
by the more refined
tht a ‘p Yreanis ‘0: fing out ‘life—asphyxia-

z oe Fe i Ry flor’ on po . And, if they choose
Vie © é ian kay nods, they usually induce

a ae vate pore see sto thelr: m le: ‘accomplices to handle the

owever, was a notorious
Not only did she slay for

reasons, but she herself
d fiendishly battered her

ounty, New! York, but her
did not fare well. Seeking
sy, she insured her handyman,
iipy Wright, for $10,000, with her-

as beneficiary. For almost a year

Hiraculously, the man survived. Con-
sWequently, Eva Coo decided to take
more direct action. To aid her, she
enlisted the services of a friend, 29-
year old Martha Clift.

* *- &

IRST, Mrs. Coo bought a mallet

and an ancient rattletrap of a car.
Then she had Martha Clift drive her
and Gimpy, whom she filled with
brandy, to a secluded road a consid-
erable distance from her property.

Pretending that she wanted some
shrubbery dug for transplanting in
her yard, Mrs. Coo induced Gimpy to
leave the car, The moment his back
was turned, she struck him over and
over again with the heavy end of the
mallet. And when she was sure the
man was dead, the heartless woman
instructed Martha to shuttle the car
“over him five or six times.
Successful thus far, the murderess
“and her accomplice wrapped the body
in an old quilt and.drove to a spot
a short. distance from her home,
where the remains were dumped. She
hoped to make it appear that the in-
toxicated handyman had strayed into
the road and been struck by a hit-
and-run driver.

The authorities seemed satisfied

fallen beneath the wheels of a passing

, been made.

Coo owned a roadhouse in Ot-

itie fed him poisonous alcohol, but

that Wright, in a drunken stupor, had / ;

Coo believed she had committed the
perfect crime. On the third day, she
realized that her luck could not last.
The insurance company’s investiga-
tor was skeptical and would not turn
over any money to the beneficiary of
the policy until further inquiries had
Furthermore, Martha
Clift confessed the crime to a horri-
fied friend, and before long Eva and
Martha were indicted for murder.
On the day of the trial, Martha

-Clift turned state’s evidence and in

return for this favor was allowed to
plead murder in the second degree.
After testifying against Mrs. Coo, she
was sentenced to serve a term of from
20 years to life at the women’s prison
at Bedford Hills, New York. Eva Coo
was found guilty as charged, and re-
manded to the state prison for execu-
tion. When she arrived there, she was
dubbed the “tiger woman.”

Yet this murderess who was pic-
tured to be the type of individual who.
would claw anyone at the slightest.
provocation, displayed none of her
tigerish qualities while in condemned
row. In fact, she was always quiet and
never asked for any favor. Matrons.
who watched over her stated that Eva
Coo seemed to regard her stay in the ©
death house as a sort of vacation. :

On the night the slayer was sched-
uled to die, the warden stopped in -
to see her at her request. “What did
the Governor say?” she asked without.
the slightest traces of hysteria or
emotional unbalance.

The warden shook his head. “I’m
sorry,” he said frankly. “He refuses
to intervene.”

“Oh, well,” Eva Coo replied, shrug-
ging her shoulders, a gesture of resig-
nation prison officials’ had often seen
before. “I guess little Eva was never
in line for a break.” A few minutes
later, she went to her death.

: ‘te eek lobevel ‘was known
as “tiger: women,” yet .
s she was” ‘well-behaved dur<°

cher stay In death rew.

Epitor's Note: This is the second in a new series on the
part played by women in crime. Watch for more of these
articles in early issues of INSt1pE DeteEcrTiveE,

HE SOFT air of early spring came through the windows,
T resting the curtains. A shaft of moonlight lay across

the floor of the bedroom. In an adjoining chamber a
baby cried. A small woman with a sharp, pointed face and
black bobbed hair got out of bed, clasped her flimsy night-
gown around her, and went into the next room. She quieted
the infant, saw that the two other children were covered,
then returned to her own bed and looked down at the bulk
of her husband.

He was an Italian, with
rubicund cheeks and flabby
features that told of in-
temperate living. He
snored lustily in his drunk-
en slumber. His legs were
spread out beneath the
blankets; his arms were
relaxed in a careless pose
of death. His chest, cov-
ered with a matting of
black hair, rose and fell
rhythmically.

“Pig!” said the woman,
staring at him with blaz-
ing hatred in her eyes.

She went to the kitchen,
returning with a _long-
bladed knife that glittered
in the moonlight. She
crouched over her _ hus-
band. Slowly the steel rose
until it was at arm’s length
above her head, poised for
a murderous downward
plunge. Abruptly the wo-
man regained control of
her passion.

“No, no,” she whispered.
“It must be done some
other way. To kill him in
his own bed is too dan-
gerous. Everybody would
know I had done it.”

She replaced the knife
in the kitchen, tip-toed
back to bed. She lay
down, not to sleep but to
scheme, .

N Easter morning,

1932, motorists on
their way to church
found Salvatore Antonio
sprawled by the roadside a
short distance outside the city limits of Albany, New York.
Two leaden slugs had grooved into his spine, and his face,
chest and arms bore a dozen gaping wounds. The man died
en route to a hospital, without a moment of consciousness in
which to name his assailants.

Antonio was not unknown to the police. , He was a small-
time bootlegger and dope peddler, and had been in court
various times. Detectives theorized he had. been slain in an
underworld vendetta—but then they heard about the quarrels
between him and his puny wife, Anna.

“They fought so hard you’d think they were mad,” said the

EIND

CALCULATING MURDERESS?
The state of New York maintained that black-eyed Anna
Antonio, though she had not struck the death blow, was
as guilty as the two men who had killed her husband.

neighbors. “Day and night they were at it. You could hear
them almost a block away.”

It developed that the stalwart Salvatore was not satisfied to
have two fine daughters and a son. He wanted his twenty-
seven-year-old wife to bear more children, and she refused.
For her part, Anna was discontented with the drudging life
she had to lead. She desired good times, pretty dresses and
flashy rings on her fingers, and she berated her husband
for not being able to provide them.

In her ninety-pound body, the investigators learned, Anna
had a tremendous capacity for bitterness. There was ample
evidence that she hated her husband with all her heart and
soul. She’d been overheard threatening his life. Once she
swore out a warrant for
his arrest on a charge that
he beat her.

As if this fierce hatred
were not sufficient motiva-

certained that Salvatore
Antonio had carried $5,000
insurance on his life. Five
thousand dollars would
buy a lot of dresses and
jewelry,

Further questioning of
neighbors brought out the
names of Vincent Saetta
and Sam Feraci. The de-
tectives’ eyes gleamed. Lit-
tle Anna could scarcely
have done her husband to
death beside the highway
—these men might have
assisted her. Like the vic-
tim, they had previously
come under official scru-
tiny. They had been
loosely associated with
their countryman in vend-
ing dope and_ alcohol.
Somebody had seen them
visiting’ the Antonio house
just a day or two before,
when Salvatore was not at
home,

“No, Anna wasn’t carry-
ing on with either one of
them,” the eager infor-
mants told the police, “but
for a little money those
two would...”

The sentence was fin-
ished by a_ meaningful
drawing of the forefinger
across the throat.

A hardware store pro-
prietor volunteered the in-
formation that shortly before the murder Feraci had come in
and purchased the largest jacknife he had in stock. And
Saetta had bought bullets for his revolver.

Somebody else had seen Feraci, Saetta and Antonio drink-
ing wine together on Easter eve. They used Feraci’s car in
making their tour of the speakeasies. Antonio had been drunk
almost to the point of stupefaction; his two “friends” were
drinking only lightly, remaining sober—as if they had a job

‘to do.

The police descended on the boarding house where
Saetta and Feraci had a room and (Continued on page 65)

No. 2—THE FLAMING HATRED OF ANNA ANTONIO

Nw weet
A f ,
A Vy et. 1 dd L LA~

tion, the Albany police as- °

Da kote

(Contin:

from her wrists
clues, the handk
uable. After g/
served quietly,
one corner,”
They left th
Sheriff Spitzen!
office. Here th:
to a sun-tanned
“This is Ari
berger. “He's
Berry. He was
when he almost
weeds. He can
only a couple of
ing to stay in t
to see if I can ge
You'll see when
dumped out of a
The young fz
by his horrible «
two Sioux Falls
the light of the
out a thicket «
In five minutes
were ready to rr
had satisfied the
evidence of a s!
the sheriff had s
into the thicket
body evidently |
The thick we
vented the tires
the ground. 7°
could be found
be the evidence
another of th
Sheriff © Spi
awaiting them
Charles. “I've ,
said, “and it loo’
just a few mile
abandoned a Pi
Saturday morni:
“Let’s ‘get ov
said Gullick im;

r married H. T. Parks
a man of about forty,

a man, my stepfather
xplained. “I never had

! anybody until he beat’

hold of his gun and
as in February, 1924.
© a great satisfaction,”
i Warren to Houston
t employment with a
’ company there,
ised a lot of horses in
‘nd they had a veterin-
,” Bakerein went on.
ssed his office and saw
it up to the medicine
a bottle. I examined
‘ained strychnine tab-

alin my pocket, I
i'd be able to use it
iidn’t have anyone in

‘* I met a= sailor
° bought some canned
_ Polson and started
‘i¢.canned heat that
Poisoning Honeycutt,
cate when I slipped
nto his ‘glass,
It, didn’t seem to
atter a while he
and we got up and
We walked about
died. He died froth-
gave me a lot of
I don’t know why,

cath, Bakerein said
James De Vorl and
' as a sailor on the
Dalafden, which
“Srter: At Hotenau,
od went by train

- Sailor in a cafe
“ler's coffee stirred
ot murder, Some-
breast, an irresis-
n. It was the urge,
‘re to kill,
‘ dreaming his life
turned his head
_, strychnine tablets
‘lor died almost in-

<erein sailed on’ an
iedras, Venezuela,
ent ashore with a
was evening. The

celebration and
ad merriment were

with the others,
turned, It was too
served, Bakerein
lets into a keg of

' drink out of the
smiling at the
/thers would have
c three started
whole crew quit

is though noth-
questioned me,
in 1927, I was
iss a drug store
>. Operated by
! was out of
cral ounces of
im some flimsy
tuff for three
stions.””
d until months
j in the Phil-
ted Its potency
ed within two

York the next
There I got a
atory as re-

search assistant. I felt I needed to know
about poisons,”

YET THIS insensate killer who loved to
watch people die, could show compas-
sion. Of. little Eleanor Roy, he said, “I
felt sorry for Roy’s daughter. She had to
work pretty hard. I never harmed her—
in fact, I have never harmed any woman.”

One women who probably did not agree
was Mrs. Clara Gaw, mother of Henry
Gaw, who later traveled from Denver to
see her son’s ‘killer tried.

Bakerein also described his two De-
troit murders, both of which had been
committed with a gun. Short of money
on the fight of February 9, 1930, he had
hailed Otis South, a cab driver. On a
lonely section of Joy Road, Bakerein held
up South, and when the cab driver re-
sisted, shot him dead. The killer took ten
dollars and a gold watch from his victim.

Two weeks later, on February 23, Walter
Awe, a railroad detective, found Bakerein
prowling in a freight car. Ordered to
come out, Bakerein leaped savagely at the
startled detective, grabbed his gun and
shot him fatally. Both of these slayings
had been unsolved until now, and were con-
firmed by Detroit authorities,

Bakerein’s capture and his callous con-
fession of multiple murder made headline
news in New York newspapers for weeks.
Enraged citizens demanded that he be sent
to the chair.. Ministers pointed to him as
an example of the Anti-Christ. But an in-
sane man could not be electrocuted. Was
Bakerein insane?

Chief Deputy Mulrooney and the district
attorney’s office turned the prisoner over
to Dr. Otto A. Schultzer, medical examiner,
and Dr. Perry Lichtenstein, noted psychia-
trist. The two experts gave the grinning
mass killer every test known to science,
but at the end they were not certain. They
pronounced him technically sane. “But he
is a constitutional psychopath and a moral
monstrosity,” the doctors declared.

In view of the implied doubt about
Bakerein’s sanity, the district attorney per-
mitted the defendant to plead guilty of
murder in the second degree. And on May
20, 1930, James Bakerein, the man who
took pleasure in murder, heard himself
sentenced by Judge Charles C. Nott to
serve from forty years to life in Sing Sing.

Only a month later, Bakerein was ad-
judged insane by the prison psychiatrist
and was transferred to Dannemora State
Hospital for the Criminal Insane. He is
still there—one of the most deadly creatures

who ever walked abroad in this world.

Find the Woman!

(Continued from page 44)

arrested them.

At first they were voluble in protesting
their innocence. Take their old pal Salva-
tore for a ride? Why, by the Holy Mother,
it was unthinkable! Surely the officers
were joking. But fear was in their eyes
as they tried to establish their flimsy
alibis, and it wasn’t long before they
“cracked” under the questioning of the
hard-handed detectives. They admitted
they had gotten Salvatore intoxicated for
a purpose. When the time was ripe, they
rode out on the highway toward Castleton.
They made him get out of the car, and
then they shot and stabbed him. Quickly
they returned to the boarding house, where
they washed the gore off their hands and
clothing. .

“But it ‘wasn’t for ourselves we did it,”
they squealed. “We ourselves had nothing
against Salvatore. We did the killing be-

INSIDE DETECTIVE

cause Salvatore’s wife, Anna, hired us to
put him out of the way.”

MES: ANTONIO, they said, came to
them a few weeks before and con-
fided her burning desire to see her husband
dead. She had almost done it herself
at home, she said, but then decided it would
be better if somebody took him for a ride.
She mentioned the insurance and said she
could pay well for the job. After an hour
or so of dickering, Saetta and Feraci
agreed to do the murder for $800, a pay-
ment of $75 in advance and the balance to
be turned over after the insurance was
paid.

The two had taken their time about it.
Anna, either at their boarding house or in
her own home, had ranted and railed, had
called them cowards. They couldn’t stand
it any longer, and they were badly in need
of money, now that they had spent the
down payment. And so, on Easter eve,
they gave Salvatore “the works.”

When the pinch-faced Mrs. Antonio was
led into police headquarters and confronted
with this story, she made a partial con-
fession. She entered into a deal with
Saetta and Feraci, she said, but they were
only to have given her husband a sound
beating “to teach him a lesson,” and not
kill him. But later she changed her tune.
She was as guilty of the slaying as her co-
conspirators; all she could hope was that
the law would be merciful.

But because the crime had been so
fiendish, so coldly calculating, the jurors
saw no cause to be lenient. A man had
been shuffled out of the world because of
a few dollars and a woman’s hate; his
killers would have to die. Anna and Fer-
aci and Saetta were sentenced to the elec-
tric chair in April, 1933.

Up to then only eight women had died
at the hands of the Sing Sing executioner,
eal recent being Ruth Snyder in

The Court of Appeals was petitioned—
and affirmed the sentences.. Governor Her-
bert Lehman got pleas for mercy—and de-
nied them. After several stays, while Anna
Antonio went half mad and Feraci and
Saetta lost all hope in the death’ house, it
appeared certain the execution would have
to be carried out.

Then, at the last minute, Sactta babbled
that he had “new evidence”; now he was
willing to tell “something never told be-
fore.”

Once more death was postponed—for
twenty-four hours. Then this stay was ex-
tended for examination of the “new” infor-
mation. The governor went over the case

again, and so did the Court of Appeals.
But it was found that Saetta’s claim was
unfounded, merely the last desperate bluff
of a condemned man. The exccution date
was at last set for August 9, 1934.

Bets were still being made in the Sing
Sing yard that Mrs. Antonio would not
pass along the “last mile,” that the govy-
ernor would not let her die.

But at ten minutes after eleven the night
of August 9, the guards and the priest
came to the whimpering woman's cell, told
her it was “time to go.” Her thin frame

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Chief engineers, operators, Station man-

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Broad- Puli time jobs with. Radio Jodbers,
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Station Radio open full or part
time Radio sales and repair busi-

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Radio Broadcast Oper- and pay’ up to $6006 a year. Auto-

ator’s license and im- . a
mediately joined Sta- Se acide oakeine git bos pind tol
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Own Many Make $5, $10, $15 a Week
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ead Extra Money Job Sheets; show you
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National Radio Institute
Washington, D. C.

Mail this Now FREF 2:

RICH REWARDS
IN RADIO

1228 Shepherd St.,

shaking, she plodded down the corridor | # Cael Gcketaeen,
and into the little room where a score of | # Beri. SBFS. stitute ;:
witnesses faced the grim, black-painted in- | Washington, Db. c. : 1
strument of death. The chair swallowed Dear Mr. Smith: Without ob- 1
her. In a few minutes she was pronounced | # wards In Radio.” whieh points H

i me
dead. Feraci and Saetta followed her, and | Sealine Radio and explains '
‘the crime against Salvatore Antonio was | 4 your 50-50 method of training men at home 1 “ 1
avenged. spate, time to become Radio Experts, (Please write ‘
rar : >lainly. :

In this instance officialdom refused to be- H AGE... ..ee eee 4
come maudlin, or to be swayed by sob] 4a_ a
; U H d |i NAME ....cccccccenccseccncsccccece eersece eeeeeee Py
sisters’ pleas, simply because the condemne 4 7
person was a woman. The state of New | 5 Appness cee Hl
Seng NEL BP ADDREGR *....ccccesecesceseneesessvcceoenes [
York, as Governor Lehman pointed out, | :
had demonstrated that “the law makes 0 | Boppy... cee seeeeeeeee STATE......+. 1

distinction of sex.”

.
ee LL

ANTONIO, Agana, et al

neerned about
llowed to use

ce a week. The
m, and her rela-
that nothing can

- lady killers be-
Pras row at the

tempt to interest
washing clothes, OF |

aing to the, ra
s Creighton

dio.
prooded so

TRUE CRIME EXPOSES,

much that she became paralyzed. Mrs. Creighton and
Everett Applegaite were jointly convicted in New York for

. the murder of Applegaite’s wife. Evidence revealed that

Mrs. Creighton’s daughter had been friendly with Apple-
gaite, and that the mother had conspired with him to mur-
der his wife so that he might marry the girl. As the day

of execution approached, Mrs. Creighton became stricken ©
, andshad eventually to be wheeled to the chair.

‘owever, records reveal that she was the only murderess

|| within the past decade who was unable to walk the last

‘mile. Most female slayers meet their fate stolidly, and
Anna Antonio, perhaps, showed more bravery at the end
than the most fearless triggerman. In 1932, her! husband

m™. . was found dead on a lonely road near Albany, New York.
| Developments swiftly revealed that Anna had hired two
| gunmen, Vincent Sciata and Sam Feraci, to murder the
._ man so that she could collect $5300 insurance on him,
' The accused woman denied the charges. The jury, though,
| did not believe her story, and after.a long trial, Anna and

March, 1943

Female slayers awaiting execution

usually listen to the radio or brood

about their impending fate.
(Specially Posed)

her two, confederates were found guilty and sentenced to
death.”

On the night set for the execution, Sciata confessed that
Anna Antonio was innocent, and the slayers were all given
a 24-hour stay. Because of the length of time required to
study the confession, Anna was given another, and still

_ another reprieve, totaling three times in all that she had

faced execution, ony to be snatched back at the last minute.
Finally, after the court of appeals had refused a second
review of her case and the sentencing, judge had denied
her plea for a new trial, Mrs. Antonio’s fate again lay in
the hands of the Governor. While waiting for his decision,
the condemned woman spent her last day listening to the
radio. “I’m nearly dead now,” she told a matron. “I have
already died'a thousand times. Why don’t they finish the
job!” ;
' Hardly had she uttered those words when, as if in an-
swer to her exclamation, a report flashed over the radio.
The Governor had declined to grant any further reprieve.
(Continued on next page}

showed clearly that a car had gone off
the road, parked a while, then returned
to the highway and disappeared toward
the town of Shodack.

“The killer’s car stopped here,” Fitz-
patrick said to his men. “Looks very
much like our mystery victim was taken
for a ride.”

Nothing more was discovered. Fitz-
patrick and District Attorney Delaney
had to be satisfied with the tire marks
and the knife as clues. As they and the
troopers returned to Albany, Fitzpatrick
placed several uniformed men to guard
the tire marks until identification ex-
perts could be sent back to photograph
and take plaster impressions of the
marks. ;

At headquarters the officers found the
dead man’s fingerprints in their files.
Their cards, with photographs and
prints and the ex-prisoner’s record,
declared the victim to be Salvatore An-
tonio, whose chief specialty was selling
narcotics.

Salvatore Antonio, according to the

Chief of Police John Van de Wal of Castleton on the Hudson
points to where the midnight ambush took place on the roadside
near Albany, N. Y. Salvatore Antonio, above, without necktie,
was the victim of the raven-haired woman, at top, and her scar-
let lover, at right, who took his life with coldblooded efficiency.

ADVENTURES

Anna had become so tired of her husband
that she had been heard to tell him in a
shrill voice, “Sal, I hope you die! I hope
you die soon!”

To which Antonio had replied in tones
audible three houses away, “Me die? It is
too bad for you, but I will never die.” He
had laughed, adding, “I will live a long
time. And I will have many sons.”

When Chief Smurl was informed of
this, he said to Peacock, “Well, John, it’s
not evidence. But it certainly puts the
chill on two of our theories—the gang-
ride vengeance stuff and Anna’s dope-
ring suspicions.”

“When in doubt, I say snuggle up close
to home,” Peacock remarked. “Right this
minute I’m engaged in finding out what
the Antonio relatives really think.”

“Including Joe Marco?”

“Including Joe, if my fellows can find
him. All we know so far, Joe’s headed
west.”

It was a fact, the disturbing element
in the Antonios’ home life had some weeks
earlier removed his affectionate dispo-
sition hundreds of miles west of Albany.
However, the same Antonio relative who
gave this news that eliminated Marco from
the murder case also gave Peacock’s in-
vestigator a startling new view of Mrs.
Anna Antonio.

The Albany officer went as far as Buffalo
to get half an hour’s private conversation
with this lady. Then, one bright April
day, he returned in quiet satisfaction to
Peacock’s office. What he had brought
back was quickly rushed to Chief Smurl’s
office and thence to District Attorney De-
laney’s. The fruit of his quest to Erie
County was only a folded sheet of note-
paper. But, in grim relation to a victim
who had been shot five times and stabbed
thirteen times, the words on the paper
were not commonplace.

It seemed that Anna Antonio, this past
February, had addressed an imprudent ap-
peal to a member of her husband’s family.
Anna had explained that she was sick of
being married to Sal. She wanted him
to release her and let her get a divorce.

Sal refused. He didn’t believe in divorce
or intend to be divorced. What he did
believe in was having a young wife at
home, a mother for his children, and
especially a prospective mother for his
still anticipated brood of “many sons.”

And so, in this note, Anna had written:
“But I refuse to live with your uncle any
longer. If they won’t give me a ‘divorce
there are other ways. I'll get rid of him
one way or another. I must get rid of
him.” ,

Written originally to a niece, this letter
had been circulated discreetly among other
members of Sal Antonio’s family. Now
it was in the Albany County district at-
torney’s office. It seemed an authentic
piece of evidence, bearing on that all
important factor—motive.

Anna apparently had consulted an at-
torney about a divorce action. But the
lawyer disappointed her. She had no
grounds for- divorce in New York State,
he had told‘her, nor could she hope to sue
successfully for separate maintenance.
Anna, the lawyer argued, had her com-
fortable home and three youngsters re-
quiring her full-time attention. Why not
settle for that?

Delaney, his staff and the police officials
had to decide their next move. The “help,
pals” aspect of the murder case had still
to be elucidated. Salvatore Antonio had
been done to death Easter morning by men
whom he knew, men he had thought of as
friends. That, plus geography, relieved

T young Joe Marco of suspicion.

D Who, then, among Sal’s railroading ac-
quaintances had he known well enough to
call pals—and his restless young wife,

74 Anna, had known well enough to call upon

in a plot intended to supplant an im-
possible divorce with a cruel and calcu-
lated murder?

While this was being debated there came
a phone call from Captain Doyle of the
railroad police. He said that Lieutenant
Joe Genova had just hopped off an east-
bound Central train and could they come
right over?

When Doyle and Genova were ushered
in, the latter said, grinning. “From what
I’ve been able to pick up, the best guy
to help you trace Vince Saetta is a great
pal of his whose name is Sam Feraci.
Feraci was also a long-time friend of Sal
Antonio’s. It shouldn’t be hard to put a
tail on Feraci, see if he leads to Saetta.”

“Where’s this Feraci to be found?” De-
laney asked.

“Most likely right here in Albany. Ac-
cording to my information, he’s been

CAR HOP

The young man bowling along a
highway in Kalamazoo, Michigan, had
just one thought in his mind—he
wanted something to eat and he
wanted it right now. His eyes searched
the road far ahead for some sign indi-
cating a restaurant, a diner or a lunch
counter.

Faster he drove, and faster, impelled
by gnawing hunger. Suddenly a small
obstruction in the road sent his car out
of control. It lurched across the road,
crashed through the plate glass window
of a drugstore and came to rest on
the lunch counter.

But the sandwiches and malteds that
might have assuaged his appetite were
only a small part of the $3000 dam-
ages caused by his erratic entrance.

"| was hungry," he mourned as he
was led away to be booked on a reck-
less driving charge. "I was in a hurry
to find a restaurant."

—Walter J. Newsome

knocking around this part of the state
as an odd-job man with a bootleg ring. I’m
told he lives just across from Union Sta-
tion, at Broadway and Columbia Street.”

The address was electrifying.

Had Anna taken Di Julio’s taxi to Broad-
way and Columbia that early morning, not
to go to the the railway depot, but to cross
over and call upon, or wait for, Sam
Feraci?

Peacock’s best men were withdrawn
from every other assignment and trans-
ferred to a shadowing job. Anna Antonio
was also placed under a round-the-clock
surveillance.

It was nearing 5 o’clock the next after-
noon when the real break came. Peacock
took the phone call. One of his men
was reporting. “We located Feraci at
Broadway and Columbia,” he began. “He
came out and we tailed him. Sure
enough, he led us to a fellow: who an-
swers the description of Saetta. And we’ve

. been able to connect these two with Sal

Antonio. The three men were in a res-
taurant together. It was around midnight,
the Saturday night before Easter.”

The whole police operation had con-
sumed about an hour. First, Feraci’s
shadows had observed him entering a
restaurant on Greene Street. Here, pres-
ently, he had been joined by the man
whom they took to be Vincent Saetta.
After a rather light meal together, the
two rose and parted solemnly, going their
separate ways with the covering detec-
tives dividing up to follow both trails.

Second, a detective had been detached
from the tailing force to go in and talk
with the Greene Street restaurant owner.
This man admitted knowing Feraci well,
Saetta but slightly. Shown a photograph
of Salvatore Antonio, he admitted having
recognized it when he had seen it in the
papers after the murder.

Now he wanted no kind of trouble with
the police. So he told his police inter-
viewer what he knew. On Saturday, March
26th, Feraci and Antonio, subsequently
joined by Saetta, had been in his place and
had eaten a late supper. A few minutes
after midnight the three left the restaurant
together.

As soon as the police revealed what
progress they had made to the district
attorney, Delaney made his move. Bench
warrants naming Feraci and Saetta were
obtained and promptly conveyed to Pea-
cock’s men, who had spread themselves
like a net around the unsuspecting sus-
pects.

Feraci protested loudly when picked up;
Saetta, for his part, said virtually nothing.
Delaney informed each man as to his rights
and told him frankly why he was being
detained. And each conceded that he had
known Salvatore Antonio, had even gone
about with him.

Feraci said that the murder of Antonio
had grieved and puzzled him. While Saetta
remarked in his husky monotone, “It was
a low, stinking shame. Sal was a real good
guy.”

For that Saturday evening, March 26th,
and the first 12 hours of Easter Sunday
each man had ready a careful account of

his every step. They had, they claimed,.

said good night to Sal right there on
Greene Street, just outside the restaurant.
Then each had joined friends. Sal had
been urged to come along, but had de-
clined, saying that he had promised himself
to hit the sack early.

Delaney conferred with Assistant Dis-
trict Attorneys Casey and McGuiness.
“Every letter-perfect alibi smells bad,”
he said. “You get two of them together
and it’s like a rubber-factory fire. This
pair knows plenty. I’m always suspicious
of slicked-up alibis. Yet they’ve stayed
around town, as if they had nothing to
hide. Why?”

Bit by bit, under Delaney’s adroit pound-
ing, the Feraci and Saetta alibis were shak-
en loose from their fabricated foundations.
It was Vince Saetta who caved in first. He
admitted that he had been present when
Sal Antonio was done to death, but he
stressed that his part in the slaying had
been strictly that of Feraci’s hired hand.

On the night before Easter, the two met
Antonio by appointment and had supper
on Greene Street. They then induced Sal
to drive with them to Hudson, some 30
miles to the south in Columbia County.
Here they had downed a number of
drinks. On the ride home along the Cas-
tleton-Albany road they had made an ex-
cuse to stop and get out of the car, which
was Feraci’s. Sal had been decoyed off
the road and down into a ravine. Here
he had been shot several times by Saetta,
then stabbed again and again by Feraci.

But Sal refusing to succumb, had pleaded
with the knife-wielding Feraci. ‘Help me!
Help me, pal! Why you do this to me?”

To this ap
Feraci had a
got to go th

When Sar
accomplice h
most vital 4d
who was pa
job. But no
Antonio as tl

Anna, he &
and persuade
Feraci $800,
mate. This
husband’s in:
slaying must
as Sal plann
insurance pol
- Because of
according to
felt obliged t
approached V
provide a gun
but he raisec
learned that 1
a man of who
who had once
rap by some }

Of the pro
managed to
The newly-n
had come a:
Columbia Sti
nished room.
morning and
“40 bucks, as
had inquired
by Feraci th
soon we sp
then, howeve
pinned down
wait around -
of $760.

Anna Anto)
‘tody, accusec
At first she f
ment. Then,
nation drew
serted that “c
were schemin
But on May 4
after the mu
from her he:
that she wore
Delaney’s offi

“All right, :
you all about

In the ens
which she tri
a revolting
“Everything
Yet he had |
and all of his
Feraci, had c
Teunis Street

Now, at last
lied about no
coming to th
to bring up th
it had been tr
first set Smui
about her.

Anna quick
Now she revi
only meant t
good beating.
up, her hust
divorce.

Feraci and
sel, also triec
sions. Anna,
pudiated all
torney was
gained nation
ing the notor
“Legs” Diamc

Not until A
three begin,
Gallup presid
defense lawye
ing with whic
Attorney Del:

The prosec

in a res-
midnight,
er.”
had con-
Feraci’s
mtering a
fere, pres-
the man
nt Saetta.
‘ether, the
zoing their
ing detec-
th trails.
1 detached
a and talk
ant owner.
eraci well,
ohotograph
ted having
n it in the

‘ouble with
ylice inter-
day, March
tbsequently
_s place and
2w minutes
> restaurant

ealed what
the district
cove. Bench
saetta were
‘ed to Pea-
themselves
vecting sus-

. picked up;
ly nothing.
to his rights
' was being
that he had
{ even gone

of Antonio
While Saetta
one, “It was
3; a real good

March 26th,
ster Sunday
1 account of
aey claimed,
nt there on
e restaurant.
Js. Sal had
but had de-
aised himself

ssistant Dis-

McGuiness.
smells bad,”
1em together
y fire. This
ys suspicious
iey’ve stayed
d nothing to

adroit pound-
is were shak-
{ foundations.
od in first. He
oresent when
leath, but he
» slaying had
3 hired hand.
, the two met
i had supper
a induced Sal
ison, some 30
mbia County.
«© number of
long the Cas-
made an ex-
-he car, which
a decoyed off
“ravine. Here
nes by Saetta,
a by Feraci.
b, had pleaded
ci. “Help me!
this to me?”

Aeaamt te 2 th

To this appeal from his dying friend,
Feraci had answered, “I can’t help you. I
got to go through with this.”

When Sam Feraci heard all that his
accomplice had disclosed, he filled in the
most vital detail. Saetta hadn’t known
who was paying Feraci for their grisly
job. But now Feraci named Mrs. Anna
Antonio as the murder sponsor.

Anna, he declared, had begged, wheedled
and persuaded him, and promised to pay
Feraci $800, if he would rid her of her
mate. This fee would be paid out of her
husband’s insurance, she said. And the
slaying must come soon, she had warned,
as Sal planned to allow one of his two
insurance policies to lapse.

- Because of this obvious need for haste,
according to the Feraci confession, he had
felt obliged to take in a partner and had
approached Vince Saetta. Vince agreed to
provide a gun and do.the shooting for $100,
but he raised the ante to $200 when he
learned that the victim was to be Antonio,
a man of whom he was personally fond and
who had once helped him beat an arsonist
rap by some pretty fancy lying. .

Of the promised $800 all that Anna had
managed to scratch up was $40 in cash.
The newly-made widow, Feraci related,
had come as agreed to Broadway and
Columbia Street, to see him in his fur-
nished room. It was then 5 a.m. Easter
morning and she had brought along the
“40 bucks, as evidence of good faith.” She
had inquired anxiously and been assured
by Feraci that the “job’s all done and
soon we split that insurance.” Since
then, however, he and Saetta had been
pinned down here in. Albany, compelled to
wait around to collect their blood-balance
of $760.

Anna Antonio was now taken into cus-

‘tody, accused of premeditated homicide.

At first she feigned outrage and astonish-
ment. Then, as the threads of incrimi-
nation drew tighter around her, she as-
serted that “old gangland enemies of Sal’s
were scheming this up,” just to frame her.
But on May 4th, 1932, a month and 8 days
after the murder, she suddenly snatched
from her head a hat of deep mourning
that she wore and sailed it angrily across
Delaney’s office.

“All right, all right!” she cried, ‘Tl tell
you all about it.”

In the ensuing lengthy statement by
which she tried to explain and to palliate
a revolting crime, Anna insisted that
“Everything about Sal had been wrong.”
Yet he had been friendly and hospitable
and all of his men friends, including Sam
Feraci, had come often to their home on
Teunis Street.

Now, at last, Anna admitted that she had
lied about none of Sal’s men friends ever
coming to the house because she feared
to bring up the name of Feraci. Ironically
it had been the absurdity of this lie which
first set Smurl and Peacock to wondering
about her.

Anna quickly regretted her confession.
Now she revised it, alleging that she had
only meant to hire Feraci to give Sal “a
good beating.” She believed that, beaten
up, her husband would consent to the
divorce.

Feraci and Saetta, having retained coun-
sel, also tried to repudiate their confes-
sions. Anna, in due course, entirely re-
pudiated all versions of hers. Her at-
torney was Daniel H. Prior, who had
gained nation-wide attention by represent-
ing the notorious underworld figure, Jack
“Legs” Diamond.

Not until April, 1933, did the trial of the
three begin, with County Judge Earl H.
Gallup presiding. And even the talented
defense lawyers found that they had noth-
ing with which to prevail against District
Attorney Delaney.

The prosecution was on particularly

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strong ground when stressing that while
Sal Antonio had intended to maintain his
life insurance with the Brotherhood of
Railroad Trainmen, he planned to allow
a second policy to lapse, so that the $5300
which Anna originally stood to receive as
his sole beneficiary would have been re-
duced by nearly half had the marked
man been allowed to live a few weeks
longer.

On April 15th the jury deliberated for
6 hours, then found all three guilty of
murder in the first degree. On the 19th
Judge Gallup intoned their uniform sen-
tences, death in the electric chair during
the week of the 29th of May.

This touched off an intensive campaign
of public clamor and legal maneuvering.
The executions were stayed to permit an
appeal to the Appellate Division of the
State Supreme Court, but the appeals
were denied, the sentences of Anna and
her accomplices reaffirmed. On three sub-
sequent occasions Anna was granted a re-
prieve, causing Vince Saetta to exult in
his death cell, “We’ll beat this case yet,
because there’s a woman in it.”

On Thursday morning, August 9th, 1934,
Anna was listening to the radio in her
cell when suddenly the music stopped
and the voice of a news commentator
broke in: “Mrs. Antonio must die in the
chair tonight.” A death house matron
hastily switched off the rest of it.

Governor Herbert H. Lehman had an-
nounced in Albany that he could find no
possible reason for granting Anna An-
tonio a fourth reprieve. Anna said that
she wished to see her son for the last
time, but not either of her young daugh-
ters. So the little boy of 3 was brought
to her cell and permitted to stay with his
mother from 8 to 9:30 p.m. almost half of
the remaining minutes of her life.

When the 9:30 limit came, Anna gave

the little boy an apple, saying, “I hope
you, grow up to be a good man, Frankie.”

The child, too young to understand from
what bitter depths of experience this ad-
monition rose, nodded and lightly prom-
ised and took a happy bite of the apple.

Anna had never been robust looking
and these months of waiting and contriv-
ing, the long death cell gamble here in Sing
Sing Prison, had brought her down to a
fragile 85 pounds. The matrons and
warders assumed that they were going to
oh to carry her to the execution cham-

er.

But now it was 11 p.m.—the hour had
come; and Anna found strength and sur-
prising inner calm. She walked in quite
steadily and seated herself in the chair.
At 11:16 she was officially pronounced
dead—the fourth murderess to die by elec-
trocution in the state of New York.

Her two male accomplices came after
her. Sam Feraci, 43, entered half-smiling.
He said, before he sat down, “I hope you
live forever. Goodbye, pals.”

His lifetime ticked its last second official-
ly at 11:22. And eight minutes later the
third of the trio, Vincent Saetta, 34, closed
out the case which had begun so early
that Easter morning two years, four months
and 13 days ago.

Theirs had been such a despicable crime,
stupid and bungled and utterly profitless.
The two men killed their pal and got $40.
Anna Antonio, who promoted the murder,
did get a sort of divorce, including sep-
arate maintenance. o¢o¢

EpirTor’s NOTE:

The name, Joe Marco, as used in the
foregoing story, is not the real name of
the person concerned. This person has
been given a fictitious name to protect
his identity.

Ne em ae mete

ANTONIO, FARACI & SAETTA

By JULIUS I. SANDERS

midnight blackness as the pow-

erful sedan hurtled over the de-
serted Albany-Castleton road. The young
driver’s fingers gripped the steering
wheel tensely. His pale face stared
at the road ahead. Beside him, limp and
bleeding, was the bulky, sagging figure
of a man whose eyes held the glaze of
one close to death.

Occasionally, when the car swayed
under the pressure of the accelerator, the
wounded man’s lips moved and inaudible,
incoherent sounds escaped his blood-
flecked mouth.

Minutes later the car had forsaken the
loneliness of the highway and screeched
to a halt before a hospital. Dousing the
lights, the driver leaped from the car and
hurried up the flight of stairs to the re-
ception desk in the lighted corridor.

A word into a telephone, the pressing
of a button, brought instant action.
White-robed interns, a husky ambulance
driver and competent nurses appeared
swiftly. A word from the desk nurse
hurried them to the car outside.

Firm, competent hands lifted the dying
man from the car. His clothes were dirty
and stained with warm, sticky blood. His
pulse was feeble.

‘““We’ve got to work on him fast,” a
doctor said. “He’s almost done for.”

The man was placed on a stretcher and
carried into the emergency ward. There,
under bright lights and the watchful eyes
of physicians, a multitude of knife and
bullet wounds were revealed. Blood was
still running profusely from each of the
wounds ; the intense pallor that crept into
the man’s puffy face was the unmistak-
able mask of death. Aid was too late.

Bice yellow beams pierced the

A SHEET was spread over the lifeless

form and a doctor picked up a tele-
phone and requested the desk nurse to
send for the police.

“It’s brutal murder. The poor devil
never had a chance.”

By 1 o’clock, this tragic night of March
27, 1932, the hospital was the scene of
official activity. In charge was Chief of
Police William J. Fitzpatrick of Albany,

_N. Y., with Detectives Tom Straney,

WHIT

am Vw

Frank Herzog and George
Griggs. An identification offi-
cer immediately began taking
the victim’s fingerprints, then
his picture from _ various
angles.

Fitzpatrick went through
the dead man’s clothes. A few
dollars in currency and change were all
he found. There was not any identifi-
cation.

“It’s far from a robbery motive,” Fitz-
patrick said. “Somebody was out to get
him—and good.”

“It’s a miracle that he lived the hour
or so he did,” a doctor said. “He’s been
stabbed almost a dozen times in the chest,
arms and back and shot four times in the
chest, neck and thighs. The agony must
have been excruciating.”

“Who brought him in?” Fitzpatrick
asked.

“A young man. The victim was found
on the highway between here and Sho-
dack. The witness is outside at the desk.”

The chief strode out of the emergency
room and into the long, antiseptic smell-
ing corridor. The young man was sitting
near the desk, twirling his hat mechan-
ically and staring blankly at the floor.
At the sound of the chief's voice he leaped
to his feet, his eyes alert, his manner
tense.

“You brought that man here?” Fitz-
patrick asked quietly.

“Yes, sir, I did. Found him in the
middle of the Albany-Castleton road
while I was coming into Albany a little
after midnight. I saw him just in time.
If I hadn’t, I’d have gone right over him.
As soon as I saw that he was alive, I
managed to get him into my car and over
here.”

“Where do you live?”

“Here, in Albany.” He gave the chief
his name and a street address. Both were
entered into the officer’s notebook.

“Ever see the man before?”

The youth shook his head.

Fitzpatrick offered him a friendly smile
and said, “I’m sorry you have to lose a

‘ Hees

ES, ELEC. um SING (ALBANY) oN

night’s sleep, son, but would you mind
showing us the spot where you found
him? As soon as you do that you can
go on home.”

“Why not?” the youth said softly.

O NCE again yellow headlight beams
sliced the darkness of the Albany-
Castleton road as police cars followed
the youth’s sedan. Accompanying police
now were District Attorney John T. De-
laney and state troopers summoned by
Fitzpatrick. Ata spot approximately two
miles from Albany’s outskirts the caval-
cade came to a halt.

The officers got out and examined the
road. It was visible from all directions,
unhampered by houses, barns and display
signs. Portable searchlights were turned
on the road and the adjacent fields.

“This is it, all right,” the district at-
torney said. “Here’s a pool of blood,
right where he fell.”

“Here’s something else,” said Detec-
tive Straney. He held a blood-stained
knife up under the lamps. The blade was
long and sharp.

Fitzpatrick’s gaze was on the right side
of the road. He walked across the high-
way, examined the tires on the youth’s
sedan, then turned his flashlight on the
roadside. Deeply impressed marks of
tire treads, fresh and undisturbed, were
in the soft soil. The impressions were no
more than five or six yards long. They

STARTLING DETECTIVE

SPSS

trance on the dead run. In their fists
they gripped automatics.

“Up with ’em—get ’em up!” cried the
man in the lead.

One of the bystanders, gray-haired
Reverend Morris Summer, was slightly
hard of hearing. His back was turned
to the door, and he failed to notice any-
thing amiss. He started to walk towards
the rear of the establishment, when one
of the gunmen caught up to him, pulled
the trigger. Summer spun to the floor,
shot through the stomach.

Rushing past his prostrate form, the
invaders made for the cash register,
where in short order they pocketed fist-
fuls of currency, and before the’stunned
spectators could recover from their as-
tonishment, fled from the scene. ;

Investigating this second outbreak of -
ruthless gunplay, police found that the
descriptions of the masked raiders tallied
with those in the A & P holdup, while
a check on the bullets removed from
the victims’ bodies revealed that they
had been fired from a foreign type of
weapon.

Wik a general alarm sent out advis-
ing all concerned to be on the look-
out for the bandit trio, the tempo of op-
erations reached a new intensity. On
February 2nd, a United Cigar store on
Pitkin Avenue was held up by the same
mob, followed in the space of a week by
raids upon six A & P shops, three cigar
chain stores and two restaurants. Sheafs
of blue reports piling up at Detective
Division Headquarters told of a reign of
terror unequalled since the days of Reese
Whittemore, the Candy Kid.

On Februaty 13th, in the late after-
noon, a dark sedan drew up to the A & P
at Lee Avenue and Rutledge Street. It
was snowing and the car skidded slight-
ly as it came to a stop and three men
sprang out.

Albert Goldin, the manager, happened
to be bending over his account books
as they entered the store, and when he
looked up he found himself confronted
by two guns aimed at his head. “Get
in the: back!” was the command.
Goldin and his clerk, outnumbered and
completely covered, had no course but
to obey. As they retreated, the bandits
set to work on the cash register. They
looked with disgust upon the contents.
“Hey you!” called one of the gunmen.
Goldin went to see what they wanted.
“Tg this all the money you’ve “got?”
they demanded.

He nodded. “I just sent the boy to
the bank——” he started to explain. But
before he could finish, the hooded bandit,
with an ugly snarl, lashed out with his
gun butt, and cracked the manager be-
tween the eyes.

At that very moment, 65-year-old
Mrs. Mary Betsch, a customer of the
store, happened by to make some pur-
chases. She was just crossing the thresh-
old when she saw Goldin being struck.
Immediately she recoiled.

The third man of the combine, who
wore an aviator’s helmet in addition to
his mask, saw the move. “Don’t go
away,” he warned. “Come into the
store.”

But afraid of what she had already
seen, the woman backed away. The ges-

wy > i Cae: ae Oe 8 9 wo

. HAT do you say—shall we
take it?”
The speaker, a short, thin,

sharp-faced man, whispered
the question out of the side of his mouth.
He and his two companions sat in a
car in front of 486 Dean Street, Brook-
lyn, New York, looking into the brightly
lit windows of an A & P Store, where
packages of groceries and canned goods
were ranged in neat array.

Inside, the ruddy-cheeked, genial man-
ager, Joseph Mullarky, was cutting some
butter to fill an order, when the entrance
of the three men cut him short. Some-
thing about the way they hunched their
shoulders forward and held their hands
in their pockets spelled trouble. Their
faces seemed strangely obscured, and not
until they stood before him did he real-
ize why. They wore flesh-colored masks
over their eyes.

The leading man whipped out a slen-
der black automatic. “Get into the back
room!” he snapped.

Into Mullarky’s eyes came a defiant
gleam. While he raised his hands, he
never took his eyes from the gunman.
Slowly he edged backwards until his
heels touched the wall. Then his fingers
seized a can of fruit. The rest happened
in a flash. With a quick jerk of his wrist,
he let the can fly at the gunman’s head.
It whizzed past his ear, crashed into the
plate glass window in front. The crack
of shattering glass broke the stillness of
the night, while above it roared the sin-
ister crackle of gunfire as the bandits,
stung by the show of resistance, went
into action.

Their first shot ripped into the wall.
The second volley found a target. Mul-
larky tumbled over the‘ counter with a
bullet in his throat. As he lay there,
another of the hooded three stood over
him, shooting at his inert form.

The store was but a block from the
new Brooklyn Police Headquarters on
Bergen Street, and evidently the trio was
aware that their gunfire would soon

Handcuffed, John Maxwell, Kasimir Bar-
seck and his brother William sullenly
await transfer to prison

make the neighborhood an unhealthy
one for them, for after rifling the cash
drawer, they immediately took to their
heels. One or two passing pedestrians
saw them dash out of the store..

A moment later, their dark car, gears
straining, sped away from the curb, took
the next corner on two wheels.

Soon police whistles were mingling
with the clang of an ambulance gong
as, converging on the scene of the crime,
the forces of the law rushed to cope
with the situation. They found little
enough to work with. Not only were
there no clues but Mullarky was in a
deep coma, unable to speak. The am-
bulance surgeon who bent over him with
a stethoscope, shook his head. “He’s go-
ing out fast—it’s only a matter of min-
utes now.”

H® was right. No sooner had the store
manager been brought into the Holy
Family Hospital emergency ward than
he succumbed, and with him went the
slim hopes of the police who had wanted
to obtain from him an accurate descrip-
tion of the gunmen.

In a city like New York, holdups are
not infrequent, and even the shooting of
a defenseless storekeeper seldom rates
more than passing notice in the press.
The killing of Joseph Mullarky, which
had occurred on the evening of January
22nd, 1926, was destined to be a differ-
ent matter, however, for it was but a
prelude to as vicious a reign of terror as
was ever attempted by the criminal un-
derworld.

Scarcely a week had passed when, on
January 30th, the bustling proceedings
of the Mapleton Live Chicken Market
on Bushwick Avenue were interrupted
hy the sudden appearance of three
masked men who came through. the en-

7 w ie
Fe <
Ki i ae,
te ie? Ke
OR Ta at DF

BY GEORGE COURSON

BLOOD MONEY FOR HIRED KILLER
(Continued from page 25)

she said suddenly.

“What rackets? With whom?”

Anna didn’t answer, but kept walk-
ing up and down. Several times she
turned as if about to answer the de-
tective’s questions.

“Come now, Mrs. Antonio,” Peacock
implored. “If we’re to find your hus-
band’s killers you must tell me every-
thing. I assure you that you have noth-
ing to fear. We will give you all the
protection you want, if that’s what
you're afraid of.” .

“Very well,” the widow said finally.
“Tl tell you.”

She went on to say that for several
months she had suspected that Sal was
involved in something. She knew that
he had some source of income besides
what he made as a railroad brakeman.
Anna suspected that her husband had
been involved in the smuggling or sell-
ing of narcotics.

“What .made you that?”
Peacock asked.

“Sal has always been the kindest,
most considerate man,” the widow ex-
plained. “But lately he was getting
more and more irritable. It didn’t hap-
pen all at once. But gradually he be-
came more and more harsh and abrupt;
as if he had something terrible weigh-
ing on his mind. He got to the point
where he would snap at the children
for no reason at all.”

“And that’s all you had to go on?”
Peacock asked.

“Yes.”

“Come now, Mrs. Antonio,” Pea-
cock insisted. “A woman can’t suspect
her husband of something as serious
as having been involved in the dope
racket without having some more tan-
gible evidence to go on.” -

“A wife knows things about her
husband without having any proof,”
Mrs. Antonio answered.

suspect

ESPITE Peacock’s prolonged and

insistent questioning on this point,
the widow refused to reveal anything
further or cite anything in the way
of proof of her accusation against her
late husband.

The assistant chief of detectives re-
ported the results of his interview with
the widow to Chief Smurl. The chief,
in turn, informed Peacock that he had
a promising lead. Smurl said that he
had been in touch with Captain Joseph
P. Doyle, head of the New York Cen-
tral’s police department, seeking back-
ground information on the murdered
man. Doyle had referred the matter
to his chief assistant, Lieutenant Jo-
seph Genova.

“Lieutenant Genova said he would
phone if he had anything,” Smurl
said.

No sooner were the words spoken
than the phone rang. It was the rail-
road police lieutenant. Genova reported
that 18 months before, two men had
been suspected in a railroad arson case

in Cattaraugus County, over in the
western part of the state. The two men
had subsequently been cleared. Their
names were Salvatore Antonio and Vin-
cent Saetta.

“Well, at least we’ve got the name of
one of the victim’s associates,” Pea-
cock offered.

“Yes, we've got to get hold of this
Saetta as soon as possible for question-
ing,” the chief added.

Lieutenant Genova furnished all the
information he had on Vincent Saetta,
including a description. Chief Smurl
sent a brace of detectives over to the
address Saetta had. given 18 months
before. The investigators found that
the wanted man no longer lived there.
No one had a line on the ex-railroad
employee’s current whereabouts. A
check revealed that Saetta had no po-
lice record. Nevertheless, an all-points
bulletin was put out on him.

In the meantime, Peacock sent out
men to canvass the Teunis Street neigh-
bors. This effort furnished some in-
teresting information. One thing was
immediately apparent. Anna Antonio
had lied when she said that none of
Sal’s friends had ever been to the
house. Two neighbors reported that
they had seen men call at the Antonio
home as often and as regularly as at
any other house on the block. That
these men were the dead man’s friends,
there was little doubt. Both neighbors

reported that they had often seen
Sal greet them at the door.
Furthermore, it was learned that

there was a discrepancy in the widow’s
account of the events of Easter morn-
ing. A woman neighbor, who said she
had been plagued by insomnia as the
result of a toothache on the morning in
question, swore that she had seen some-
one hurrying out of the Antonio dwell-
ing at about 4:30 a.M. It had still
been dark, and the informant took it
for granted that the hurrying figure
was Anna Antonio. Whoever it was, the
figure was observed to hail a passing
taxi and ride off.

District Attorney John T. Delaney
had been following the developments in
the case and at this point he requested
that the widow come to his office for
a talk. Seated in the office, Anna An-
tonio was informed of the neighbor’s
observations. She made no effort to
deny that the figure seen in the street
at 4:30 a.M. on the 27th was her.

“Of course it was me,” Anna said
heatedly. “I was beside myself with
worry. I must have gone out to the
street and looked up and down the
block for Sal a hundred times.”

“But why did you hail a taxi?” De-
laney asked.

“Taxi? What taxi?” Anna said. “I
didn’t hail any taxi.”

“Your neighbor swears she saw you
get into a taxi.”

“She’s crazy,” the widow insisted.
“Just let her tell you that in my
presence.”

The district attorney asked several
more quesitons about the matter, but
Anna would admit nothing. Next, the
D.A. arranged for Mrs. Antonio to

be questioned by Richard A. Kelly, the
federal narcotics agent for the Albany
district. Kelly questioned the young
woman long and thoroughly, weaving
into the conversation many names and
allusions which would have registered
with anyone even remotely connected
with the dope racket. But the widow
didn’t react and finally the agent thank-
ed her and left.

“What do you think?” Delaney asked
the narcotics agent in another room.

“She knows nothing about the drug
racket,” Kelly said. “I doubt if her
husband was in it either. The higher-
ups in the racket would have gotten to
the wife before this. It seems as if
Mrs. Antonio is covering up for some-
body, though.”

The widow was released and Chief
Smurl turned his attention to another
phase of the investigation. He sent out
men to question cab drivers, both
independent and employees of the
large cab companies. In a few days
results were forthcoming. By checking
all route sheets and timetables, detec-
tives were able to find the cab driver
who had picked up a woman fare on
Teunis Street at 4:30 Easter morning.
The description the cab driver gave of
his fare tallied exactly with that of
Anna Antonio. It was arranged that
the hackie view the widow without
her being aware of it.

“T wouldn’t want to swear to it, but
if I had to, I would say she is the wo-
man I picked up that morning,” the
cabbie avowed.

“Where did you take her?” the chief
of police asked.

“Broadway and Columbia Street.
Union Station.”

“Did she have any baggage?”

“No.”

ATER that day District Attorney

Delaney conferred with Chief
Smurl and Peacock. It was decided
that the gangland slaying angle be put
aside for a while. There were several
important questions that needed an-
swering first. Why had Anna Antonio
lied about her husband’s friends? For
whom was she covering up? Why did
she go to Union Station that Easter
morning? g

“One thing is sure,” the D.A. said.
“She didn’t go there to catch a train.
She had no baggage.”

“What's more,” Chief Smurl put in,
“she didn’t go there to meet an in-
coming one, either. Our men found her
at home alone, a short time later.”

Further canvassing of the neighbors
turned up more interesting informa-
tion. Apparently, things had not been
too serene in the Antonio household
of late. From what the neighbors said,
Sal and his wife had engaged in fre-
quent and violent quarrels. Most of
these revolved around one Frank Sca-
lise. He was a cousin of the dead man
and the Antonios had accepted him
as a boarder to help out with ex-
penses, Frank’s habit of hanging about
the house while Sal was at work and his
inordinate fondness and attention to
the young wife had aroused neighborly

ses arrevenenicaine-conteonnanecnt apis aaniiser

interest and infuriated the jealous hus-
band. At length Salvatore had kicked
his cousin out.

But things did not get any more
peaceful in the Antonio household.
It was about this time that neighbors
heard Anna shout one night, “Sal, I
hope you die! I hope you die soon!”

Chief Smurl was informed of this
and he decided that intensive ques-
tioning of all the dead man’s relatives,
including Frank Scalise, might turn up
more pertinent information of this
sort. The recent source of unpleasant-
ness in the Antonio household could
not be found immediately. However,
several other relatives were questioned;
one as far away as Buffalo, New York.
The detective who went all the way
out there, did not go in vain. In fact,
he hit pay dirt. He reported back to
Chief Smurl with a most significant
letter Anna Antonio had written.

It seems that during the February
past, Anna had imprudently addressed
an appeal to a member of her husband’s
family. In the letter, Mrs. Antonio had
said that she was sick and tired of
marriage to Sal. She wanted a divorce.
She had asked her husband but he had
refused, saying that he didn’t believe
in divorce. In the letter, Anna begged
her in-laws to intervene and persuade
Sal to divorce her. “If he won't do it,
there are other ways of getting rid of
him,” the letter ended.

This was an important piece of evi-
dence as it provided a possible motive
for Anna wanting her husband out of
the way. Further checking revealed that
Anna had gone so far as to consult a
lawyer about the possibilities of a di-
vorce without the husband’s consent.
The lawyer had said she did not have
grounds for divorce in New York
State.

The investigators now turned their
atention back to the dying man’s last
words, “Help, pals . . .” Who, they
wondered, had the victim known well
enough to call his “pals?” Frank Sca-
lise was eventually located and he es-
tablished that he had been in another
state at the time of the murder. That
let him out.

Smurl contacted Lieutenant Genova
of the railroad police and asked him
to check around and see if he could
come up with the name of someone that
Vincent Saetta had been friendly with.
The hope was that perhaps the police
could get a line on the much-sought-
after Saetta through his acquaintances.
A few days later, Genova came up with
a name—Sam Feraci.

Feraci, it developed, was also a long-
time pal of the murdered man’s. He was
known to have been mixed up with a
bootleg ring operating in the area
around Albany.

“Do you have any idea where we can
find this Feraci?” the police chief asked
Genova on the phone.

“You'll probably find him right here
in Albany,” the railroad cop replied.
“His last address was right across from
Union Station, on Broadway and Co-
lumbia Streets.”

chief. Could Anna Antonio have taken
a cab to Feraci’s house on Easter
morning, Smurl wondered. Several men
were detailed to keep the widow under
constant surveillance. Feraci was lo-
cated at the Columbia Street address
and also had a tail placed on him. For
several days detectives followed Sam
Feraci around without coming upon
any further leads. Then one of the de-
tectives reported back that Feraci had
led them to another man who fit the
description of Vincent Saeta, which
had been supplied by Lieutenant
Genova.

“Keep them both under surveillance,”
Smurl ordered.

ERACI was followed to a restaur-

ant on Greene Street. He was soon
joined by the man who was thought
to be Saetta. The two ate a light sup-
per, spoke little and then departed,
each going their separate way. Five
minutes later, a detective entered the
restaurant and questioned the owner.
The proprietor was shown a photo-
grgaph of Salvatore Antonio and asked
if he had ever seen the dead man with
the two who had just left.

The restaurant owner said that on
March 26th, Saturday, Antonio had
been in with the other two at a little
past nine in the evening.

“What did they do?” the detective
asked.

“They ate supper and then they hung
around for quite a while.”

“What time did they leave?”

“A little past midnight.”

“Did they leave together?”

tyes.”

This information was relayed to Dis-
trict Attorney Delaney and he promptly
obtained bench warrants for the arrest
of Sam Feraci and the man who was
thought to be Vincent Saetta. The sus-
pects were quickly apprehended.

Taken into custody, Saetta readily
admitted his identity. But both he and
Feraci loudly and vehemently protested
their innocence. Both admitted having
known the murdered man, but both
insisted they were completely baffled
as to why they had been arrested.

Each had a ready alibi for the hours
between midnight and noon of Easter
Sunday morning. They claimed that
they had said goodnight to Sal outside
the Greene Street restaurant. Each had
then joined friends, with whom they
had stayed until after dawn. They had
asked Sal to accompany them, but he
had begged off claiming he wanted to
hit the sack early. Both Feraci and
Saetta supplied the names of the friends
they claimed they had spent the morn-
ing with.

To the D.A. the alibis seemed too
pat. He hammered at the two men with
questions. Finally he had the suspects
placed in different rooms and interro-
gated through the night by relays of
skilled detectives. Bit by bit they chipped
away at the alibis until they crumbled
altogether. Saetta broke first.

“O.K.,” he said. “I was there when

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Saetta admitted that on the Saturday
night before Easter he and Feraci had
met Sal Antonio in the restaurant as
had been arranged. Thy had eaten sup-
per knowing it was to be Sal’s last.
After midnight they persuaded the vic-
tim to accompany them on a drive to
the town of Hudson, some 30 miles to
the south. There they had a number of
drinks. On the way home along the
Castleton-Albany highway they stopped
and made an excuse to get Sal out of
the car, which was Feraci’s. It was
about four a.M. They decoyed the vic-
tim down off the road into a ravine.
There, Feraci stabbed Sal a number of
times. “I used the gun,” Saetta con-
cluded.

“Did Antonio say anything to you
before he died?” Delaney asked.

“He pleaded with us to help him,”
Feraci answered. He told Antonio, “ ‘I
can’t help you now. I’ve got to go
through with this.’ ”

Sam Feraci was confronted with his
accomplice’s confession and he crum-
pled like a punctured balloon. He filled
in some vital details. For a starter
Feraci named Anna Antonio as the
sponsor of the whole brutal tragedy.
Feraci said that Anna had _ begged,

wheedled and persuaded him to get

rid of Sal for her. Finally she had of-

fered $800 to do the job.

“She said she was going to pay me
out of the insurance money she would
collect on Sal,” Feraci said. “But she
told me Sal was going to let one of his
policies lapse, so I had to do the
job quick. I knew I would need help
so I asked Saetta. He agreed to provide
the gun and do the shooting for one
hundred dollars. But when he heard
the victim was to be his long-time friend
Sal Antonio, he upped his price to
two hundred dollars.”

“Did Anna Antonio pay you?” the
D.A. asked.

“She came to my room at five A.M.
Easter morning with forty bucks as
evidence of good faith. She was anxious
to know if we had pulled the job off. If
we didn’t have to stick around Albany to
wait for the insurance company to pay
off the rest of the eight-hundred, we
would have been far away from here
by now.”

Anna Antonio was promptly taken
into custody and accused of murder.
At first she protested her outrage and
innocence vehemently. But as District
Attorney Delaney hammered at her

LOVE CHEATS FATAL ROMANCE
(Continued from page 21)

earned a law degree. Returning to Cas-
per, he ran for city attorney and was
elected. Later he became assistant coun-
ty attorney for Natrona County, of
which Casper was the county seat. He
had resigned the fall before and returned
to Illinois for hospitalization. In later
years he had become an alcoholic. He
also had a history of tuberculosis. Dur-
ing his time at Casper he had bought
the isolated ranch in the shadow of the
Pedro Mountains, intending some day
to turn it into a dude layout. On the
advice of his Illinois doctors, who had
recommended a high, dry climate for
his ailing lungs, he had returned to the
ranch in early June, resolved to build it
up into a vacation, attraction for eastern
dudes. His wife Hazel, a small, pretty,
vivacious woman of 40, had accom-
panied him to Illinois, also her home
state, and returned to the ranch with
him. As a prosecutor in Casper, the
Sheriff pondered, Combs had been in a
position to make enemies because he
had been responsible for a number of
persons going to jail. Maybe that’s
where the answer to his murder lies,
the sheriff thought.

The men around the car noticed Mrs.
Combs coming across the sagebrush flat
and stood waiting for her.

“What’s the trouble, Hank?” she
asked, as she came up, eyeing the sheriff
and the coroner as she spoke. “Has
Sewell passed out?”

“You'd better ask Sheriff McPherson

with bit after bit of incriminating
evidence she weakened and finally con-
fessed. So on May 4th, 1932, one month
and eight days after Easter Sunday,
the case was wrapped up. .

Anna Antonio made a lengthy state-
ment in which she corroborated much
of what Sam Feraci and Vincent Saetta
said. Before the trial began in April of
1933, each of the accused tried to re-
pudiate his confession. Anna claimed
that she only meant to hire Feraci to
give her husband a good beating. She
said she believed that if her husband
were beaten up he might consent to the
divorce.

On April 15th, the case went to the
jury and after six hours of delibera-
ation they found all three defendants
guilty of murder in the first degree.

On August 9th,, 1934, at 11:16 P.M.
Anna Antonio went to her death in the
electric chair at New York’s Sing
Sing Prison. Six minutes later Sam
Feraci followed and at 11:30 Vincent
Saetta paid with his life for a wanton,
bungled murder which netted only forty
measly dollars. *

Editor’s Note: The name Frank Scalise
is fictitious.

here,” Lundberg said.

The sheriff, as gently as he knew how,
told Mrs. Combs what had happened,
and the woman’s large brown eyes filled
with tears and she sank down on the
car’s running board, moaning to herself.

After she had wept for several min-
utes, she stood up and Old Jim helped
her back to the ranch house. After the
death car had been fruitlessly searched,
the three remaining men drove back to
the Campbell place, where McPherson
called the state police at Cheyenne, re-
ported the situation and asked that tech-
nicians be sent out from the crime lab-
oratory. He then called his office and
asked Chief Deputy Blaine to bring out
four men to help in the investigation,
and also to inform County Attorney A.
R. McMicken of the killing. Coroner
Hall ordered a hearse from Casper,
which was much nearer to the Combs
ranch than Rawlings. Hall said he would
have the autopsy performed in the Na-
trona County seat.

McPherson talked with the Camp-
bells, but they were unable to throw any

light on the murder, and the sheriff,

Hall and Lundberg then returned to the
Combs ranch house.

Calling everyone into the living room,
the sheriff said, “Where were you all
last night when this thing happened?”
The coroner had estimated that Combs
had died between 11 o’clock and three
in the morning.

Each of those present told of the
gathering the night before at which they
had talked of future plans for the
ranch, drank coffee, ate cake, listened
to the radio and then gone to bed at
11 o’clock. Each corroborated the

other’s statement. When they had fin-
ished, the sheriff called Old Jim Sawyer
aside.

“How did you happen to be the one
to find the body?” he asked.

“Got up with the birds as usual,” the
ranch hand said, “and spotted the boss’
car at the spring. Heard him tell before
I left last night he was driving down for
a bottle of beer. Now Combs hits the
bottle pretty hard and I thought he
might need some help. I walked over
and found him like you saw.”

Sawyer was the only one not in the
ranch house when the murder happened,
and for this reason appeared to the
sheriff to be the most suspect. He began
to question him about his relations with
his employer.

Old Jim said he had done odd jobs
off and on for Combs for years, and
when Combs had returned to the ranch
eight days earlier he had stopped off at
Casper and brought him out. Old Jim
said he liked Combs a lot and had al-
ways gotten along fine with him. The
ranch hand said that he had spent most
of his life as a sheep herder before mov-
ing to Casper. ie

“How did Combs and his wife get
along?’ McPherson asked.

“All right as far as I know,” Old Jim
said.

“And he and Lundberg?”

Old Jim shrugged and remained silent.

“All right, Jim,” the sheriff said. “Out

with it.”

“They seemed to hit it off okay,” the

ranch hand said. “But, and maybe I
shouldn’t say it, Mrs. Combs seems to
have her cap set for Lundberg.”

“But she’s fifteen years older,” Mc-

PALICE FMES

Shi eRe iE hale

OBERT) eee HeaeGu he

1b A BES ae eg

LEI IRR RBS VRE BL TE

RDER

By
ALAN HYND

Staff Investigator for
THE MASTER DETECTIVE

answer that,” responded Dougherty.

“Has anyone made a confession?” queried one of
the reporters.

“Yes,” answered Dougherty. “There have been two
confessions: That is two that I know about. Maybe
there are some | don’t know about.”

All of those present, including Dougherty, noticed
that Lieutenant Becker stiffened perceptibly when the
confessions were mentioned. Becker. remained silent,
however.

When the reporters plied him with more questions
Dougherty raised his free armas if to say, “That's
enough.” All other statements would have to come
from the District Attorney, he said. “I’m not prose-
cuting this case,” he explained. “I’m just making
the arrests.”

aries
aK

Bt ak
ig ¢

‘
ame

(Above) Tannersville,

sylvan retreat in the Cat- Dougherty and Becker walked from the station.
skills, where the detec- The round green globes over the entrance cast a pale
tives hunted the elusive J glow on their faces as they went down the steps
tag Rog. ae 9 g ye toward the waiting police car, the reporters at their
(Below) The Bridge of iar heels. It was a situation without parallel in the an-
Sighs, leading to the nals of the Police Department, an important official
Tombs Prison, New York paige being picked up while on duty to face a murder
City, over which five [ies charge .

men were to walk for the 8°.

Rosenthal killing My | The chauffeur driving the car conveying Dougherty

aS aN, and Becker made a fast run to lower Manhattan and
drew up before the Criminal Court Building. The
street was silent and deferted, for it was after mid-
night. The windows in the court building were dark,
save for three that shone brightly. They indicated
the chambers of Judge Mulqueen. District Attor-
ney Whitman had telephoned to the Judge, arousing
him from bed, just as Dougherty had started for the
Bronx police station to arrest Becker. John W. Hart,
Becker’s attorney, to whom the prisoner had tele-
phoned the moment he was apprehended, was also in
the Judge’s chambers. Hart was pacing the floor
nervously, and the Judge was still rubbing the sleep
out of his eyes when Dougherty and the captive and
the newspaper reporters trooped in.

Although the circumstances surrounding it were
dramatic, the arraignment was a mere formality. In
a monotone, the Judge read the charge to Becker,
then asked the defendant if he pleaded guilty or not
guilty.

“Not guilty,” said Becker. There was not a trace
of emotion in the man’s voice, nor on his face.

Still handcuffed to Dougherty, Becker was taken
through the building and over the Bridge of Sighs,
which linked the court structure to the Tombs.
There he was placed in a cell and, after a short con-
ference with his lawyer, he (Continued on page 71)

heard the rumor that he was talking to
the District Attorney I figured he’d tell

lies about me so as to drag my name into -

the investigation, just the same as he'd
tell lies about anybody to get even with
them. So I went to Dora Gilbert and
had her swear to an affidavit telling
what sort of a fellow Rosenthal really
was.”

“Did she say he was a liar?”

“Yes, she swore to it. She bore me

out in my belief that he’d.go to any =~

lengths to get even: with anybody.”

“What was Rosenthal sore at you for,
Jack?” queried Dougherty.

“Oh, I don’t know. Jealousy; maybe.
I always had pretty good luck playing
the ponies, and he didn’t.- I’m pretty
well fixed for cash, and he wasn't.”

“Jack,” said Dougherty, “if you and
Rosenthal were enemies pi did you
lend him fifteen hundred dollars a few
months ago?”

The question sent Rose against the
mental ropes, but he quickly recovered

The Master Detective

Bald Jack, two detectives from the Dis-°

trict Attorney’s office appeared and an-
nounced that Mr. Whitman wanted to
question Rose in his office. Dougherty
acquiesced, but was none too pleased.
This incident, although Dougherty
didn’t realize it at the time, marked the
beginning of an open breach between
the Police Department and the District
Attorney’s office, a breach of far-reach-
ing importance.

Dougherty sat back in his chair to

: reflect. Why had the man: been so

himself. “Oh, that was‘a business trans- |

action and was secured. And anyway,
we were friends when I made that
loan.”

“IT see.” Dougherty stroked his chin, '

and riveted his gaze on’ Bald Jack.
“Why was it,” he asked, “that you
handled the transaction under the name
of Donahue?”

ROSE was apparently prepared for
the question for he answered with-
out hesitation. “Oh, that,” he said, “that
was just because Rosenthal didn’t have
a very good reputation, and | didn’t
want it on any records that I was in
any business dealings with him, I only
went into the deal because of what
Rosenthal paid me for the loan.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Enough. I’ve forgotten the exact
amount.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dougher-
ty saw Lieutenant Becker entering the
adjoining room. He quickly focused
his gaze on Rose, and as quickly

switched the questioning to another |

tack.

“How are the pores running for you |
” ' on the surface we appear to be friends.

these days, Jackr” he asked.
“Fine. They’re—”

Rose didn’t finish the sentence. An .

expression of mingled surprise and fear
flitted across his face as he stared
straight ahead, through the door into
the next room. Dougherty pretended
not to notice.

“What I want to know, Jack,” pur-
sued the Deputy Commissioner, » “is

whether you are hitting any long |

‘and was not exactl

. police despite the fact that his record

‘ Was pepesenyely clean. What inter-
te)

shots?”

Rose turned to Dougherty. “Yes,
once in a while,” he answered, with an
effort.

Dougherty continued to talk for a
few minutes about subjects foreign to
the murder. At length he noticed that
Rose seemed more at ease. The Deputy
Commiésioner turned, and ‘saw Lieuten-
ant Becker going back to his own office.

It was Dougherty’s plan to release
Rose, and continue to have him shad-
owed. But District Attorney Whitman
had been informed that Rose was in
Dougherty’s office, and just as Dough-

affected when he caught sight of
Becker in the next room? Had Rose
gone to the home of Rosenthal’s first
wife to secure that affidavit for him-
self—or for Becker? What, if any-
thing, did Sam Schepps, Broadway
gambler and consort of Rose on the
night of the murder, know about the
crime?

Dougherty pressed a buzzer and
asked that the files on Schepps be
brought in. Then he instructed that
Lieutenant Becker report to him at
once. .

Becker was hardly his natural, swag-
gering self when he came in. He be-
trayed unmistakable traces of inward
nervousness as he took a seat opposite
his superior officer.

“Did you get a good look at Rose?”
asked Dougherty.

Becker nodded.

“How do you think he reacted to be-
ing here?”

“T didn’t see much of a reaction one
way or the other, Commissioner,” re-
plied the Lieutenant. “You see, when
I was looking on, you weren’t asking
him any questions about the Rosenthal
murder. You were talking about horse
racing and other things.”

“That’s too bad, Charlie. I wanted
to get your opinion. Of course I had no
way of knowing just when you were
looking on. By the way, do you know
much about Rose?” j

“J KNOW who he is. I raided him
“once, and have spoken to him several
times since then. As a matter of fact,

I always make it a point to cultivate as
many of those men as possible. You
never know when they may turn over
a piece of valuable intorenatiie.”

_ “Yes,” answered Dougherty, “that’s
right.”

When Becker was dismissed, Dough-
erty looked over the information relat-
ing to Schepps. The man had been in-
volved in many gambling enterprises,
a stranger to the

ested Dougherty, however, was the fact
that the police information had it that

. Schepps, a man in his early thirties, was

closely allied to the , underworld.

. Among his friends, it was known, was

Big Jack Zelig. .
Now, this turned out to be a most

. arresting fact. For Big Jack Zelig was

known to be a gang leader. It was such
a man, the Deputy Commissioner was
convinced, who had effected the murder
of Rosenthal, at ‘the behest of those

erty was about to end the session with : who plotted the crime. Sam Schepps

and the Three Musketeers, although not
ignorant of the fact that such things as
firearms existed, were definitely not the
type of men who would go out and
shoot anyone down in a prominent
thoroughfare.

The next step was to look up the in-
formation on Big Jack Zelig. Flere
again Dougherty uncovered something
that made his blood flow a little faster.
Big Jack had, some months previously,
been arrested for toting a gun. And
who had gone on his bail but the Three
Musketeers! ;

Dougherty hurried to Commissioner
hoagie office and laid the fact before

im.

“There’s no doubt,” he said in _re-
capitulation, “that I’m on the right
track. Zelig had the men to do the job.
Rose was in the murder car that night.
Schepps, a friend of Zelig’s, was with
Rose that night. Rose, Webber, and
Vallon were also friends of Zelig’s, and
Webber and Vallon were both seen near
the Metropole about the time of the
shooting.

“AFTER the murder, Rose lay low at

Pollok’s apartment, and we know
that Lieutenant Becker was in telephon-
ic communication with that apartment.
All of which, at least to me, links Web-
ber, Vallon, Rose, Schepps and Becker
to the crime. All I have to do now is
find out who the gunmen were. That,
and a lot of other things.”

“But,” said Waldo, “you have no evi-
dence upon which to base a single ar-
rest.”

“That’s true,” said Dougherty. “But
I'll get it. Don’t worry about that,
sir,

Dougherty learned that Sam Schepps,
whose home address he didn’t know,
hadn’t been seen around his usual
Broadway haunts since the day after
the murder. Vallon, too, was very much
among the missing. It was these two
men who particularly interested Dough-
erty at the moment; these two, and
the gunmen, whoever they were.

The stool pigeons were by this time
deep in their tasks, and stool pigeons
were stool pigeons in those days, One
of them called Dougherty on_ the
telephone. He gave a name that iden-
tified himself, and the Deputy Com-
missioner recognized that he was talk-
ing with one of the men he had as-
signed to gamble in Bridgey Webber's
peace and pick up whatever information

e could get. A stubby pencil in
Dougherty’s hand moved rapidly across
a memorandum pad as he listened to
the words that came over the phone.
When he hung up, he glanced at what
he had written. This was it:

Ask driver
125 st
4—|—7—15
works for
26—5—12—9—7

Dougherty began counting on_ his
fingers, and placed underneath each
numeral the corresponding letter of
the alphabet. The memorandum pad
now read: © .

epae’

January, 193:

Dougherts
bits and thr
basket. TI
through a {
certain car¢
pressed the
appeared, hx
gallery phot

Five min
studying th
of a man i
subject was
with a broa
a scarred f
picture ove
words at th

Cirofici
Dago F
240 W.

.7 — for Jac!

Shapiro,
gray car, h

Thomas?” |
“Yes.”
“Where i
“He went

night.”

“When w

“He shou
days ago,
from him.”

“Did he |

“No, his
in Clay Ce:

“How dic

The won
long mome:

“Say,” sh
been doing
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I smiled
mitted that
the law. “\
ing that wi
to know if

I turned :
who had re:
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small, pale
appeared \
name was
was employ
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great shock
aggressive €
ter appeara
Britt. He
casual cust
though an
that he ra
the city, n
who took 1)

The thir
“Jack” Wa

What Really

The Story Thus Far:

H ERMAN ROSENTHAL, big-time gambling house

operator, is shot to death by several unidentified
gunmen two hours after midnight on July 16th, 1912,
as he emerges from the Metropole Hotel, one of New
York City’s bright light hostelries, on Forty-third
Street, near Broadway. Suspicion attaches itself to
several rival gamblers, and to Lieutenant Charles
Becker, swaggering head of the Police Department’s
Strong Arm Squad.

At the time of his death, Rosenthal, raided by the
police, was in the midst of a series of secret confer-
ences with District Attorney Charles S. Whitman,
charging that Lieutenant Becker was collecting graft
from emporiums of chance, and blowing the lid off
Manhattan gambling life in general. Among rival
gamblers for whom Rosenthal’s charges were making
life uncomfortable are the “Three Musketeers of
Larceny Lane’—Bald Jack Rose, Harry Vallon and
Bridgey Webber. The latter two were observed near
the hotel about the time of the shooting, and the in-
dications are that Bald Jack Rose and Becker are
close friends.

A chauffeur named William Shapiro confesses to
being the driver of the murder car, implicating Jack
Rose as one of the plotters of the crime, and naming
the gunmen—Dago Frank Cirofici, Harry (Gyp the
Blood) Horowitz, Lefty Louie Rosenberg and Jack
(Whitey) Lewis. The gunmen are missing. Webber,
Vallon and Rose are questioned and the latter con-
fesses that, at the instigation of Lieutenant Becker,
he and the other two “Musketeers” planned the slay-
ing. A friend of the trio, a gambler named Sam
Schepps, whom Rose also implicates, is arrested in
Hot Springs, Arkansas; and, immediately following
Rose’s confession, Deputy Police Commissioner
George S. Dougherty, handling the probe for the
police. goes to the station house where Lieutenant
Becker is on duty and slips a pair of handcuffs on him.

The Story Continues:

Part V

HAT is the charge against Lieutenant
Becker?” Dougherty was asked by one of
the group of reporters waiting just outside
of Becker’s office.

“Murder,” answered the Deputy Police
Commissioner. “The murder of Herman Rosenthal.”
Dougherty turned to the man in handcuffs. “Do you
want to make any statement to the boys before we
go, Charlie?” he asked. “It’s your privilege, you
know.”

Becker smiled. “No, thanks,” he said. Then, turn-
ing to the assembled reporters, he added: “I have
nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.”

“Are you innocent?” asked one scribe.

“I have already told you I have nothing to say,”
replied Becker.

“On what evidence is the arrest based?” Dougherty
was asked,

“You'll have to get District Attorney Whitman to

igh not
ings as
ot the
at and
minent

the in-
Here
rething
faster.
iously,
And

» Three

issioner
before

in re-
2 right
the job.
t night.
is with
‘r, and
s’s, and
en near
of the

low at
e know
lephon-
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‘s Web-
Becker
now is

That,

no evi-
igle ar-

. “But
it that,

schepps,
t know,

usual
y after
y much
ese two
Dough-
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his time
pigeons
ys. One
on the
at iden-
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‘as _talk-
had as-
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mation
encil in
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tened to
» phone.
at what

on_ his
th each
etter of
um pad

January, 1935

Ask driver

125 st
4—I—7—15

d ago
works for

26—5—12—9—7
ze lig

Dougherty tore the paper into tiny
bits and threw the pieces into the waste
basket. Then he began thumbing
through a file case. He stopped at a
certain card, walked to his desk and
pressed the buzzer. When an assistant
appeared, he asked for a certain rogues’
gallery photograph.

Five minutes later Dougherty was
studying the photograph. It was that
of a man in his middle twenties. The
subject was a vicious looking customer,
with a broad nose, thick, ugly lips and
a scarred face. Dougherty turned the
picture over and saw the following
words at the top on the back:

Cirofici, Frank, known as

Dago Frank and the Dago.

240 W. 125 St. Gunman. Works
for Jack Zelig.

Shapiro, driver of the mysterious
gray car, had admitted to his lawyer

fire
‘ .

The Master Detective

that he had driven Base Rose in the
vicinity of One Hundred and Twenty-
fifth Street—the street upon which
Dago Frank lived—the night of the
crime. Dougherty sent for Shapiro.

When the driver entered his office,
Dougherty handed him the picture of
Dago Frank.

“He was in the car, wasn’t he?”
Dougherty waited, grimly.

Shapiro’s right hand shook slightly
as he studied the picture. The color
left his face. He looked up = at
Dougherty.

“Might as well tell me,” said
Dougherty. “It might save you from
the electric chair.”

Is Shapiro about to confess to all he
knows?

Who are the actual killers, and
where are they now?

Was Lieutenant Becker the brains
behind the sinister mystery? If not,
who was and what was the motive?

Don’t miss the next installment of
this thrilling account of one of New
York’s most notorious crimes, to ap-
pear in the February issue of MASTER
DETECTIVE, on sale at all news stands
January 23rd.

The Body in the Barrel

(Continued from page 39)

Thomas?” I asked her.

“Yes,”

“\Vhere is your husband?”

“He went to Kansas City last Friday
night.”

“When will he be back?”

“He should have been back several
days ago, but I haven’t even heard
from him.”

“Did he leave in his car?”

“No, his car is stored at his sister’s
in Clay Center, Kansas.”

“How did he gor”

The woman studied my face for a
long moment with cool, quizzical eyes.

“Say,” she said finally, “What's Ace
been doing now? You're the cops, aren’t
your”

] smiled at the appellation and ad-
mitted that we were representatives of
the law. “Your husband has done noth-
ing that we know of—we just wanted
to know if he was here.”

| turned my attention to the two men
who had remained quietly sitting on the
counter stools. One of these was a
small, pale, peaked-faced fellow. He
appeared very nervous, and said his
name was Frank Johnson and that he
was employes about the place as odd
job man, living on the premises. The
other man was about fifty years old,
barrel-chested and heavy muscled. A
great shock of iron grey hair and hard,
aggressive eyes gave him a rather sinis-
ter appearance. This man I knew to be
Britt. He told us that he was just a
casual customer at the restaurant, al-
though an old friend of Thomas, and
that he roomed at a private home in
the city, naming a respectable family
who took in occasional roomers.

‘The third man said he was J. E.
“Jack” Wagner, and a brother-in-law

to Asa Thomas, in whose employ he had
been for some time.

“Mrs. Thomas, we found a dead man
this afternoon and—”

“Yes,” the woman interrupted, shud-
dering, “I heard about that and I’ve
been sick at my stomach ever since.”

“And it was thought he resembled
someone who has been seen in your
restaurant,” I finished.

“What did he look like?”

1 ignored her question. “Please de-
scribe your husband, Mrs. Thomas.”

“Oh, he’s about five feet ten, and
weighs | would say about a hundred
and seventy-five. He’s built awful
heavy in the arms and shoulders, He
used to be a boxer.”

“Any scars, marks, tattoos, or other
identifications?”

“Why, yes, some tattooings,” the wo-
man answered after a moment, “I never
knew what they stood for. He never
would say.”

Wagner laughed. “There’s a lot of
thine I'll bet Ace never told Mae,” he
said,

“What color was Thomas’ hair,”
Hubbard inquired.

“It was dark.”

“By the way, Mrs. Thomas,” .re-
minded the deputy sheriff, “you haven’t
told us yet how your husband went to
Kansas City.”

The woman glanced at Wagner.

“Ace left with a man named Pag-
gett,” Wagner answered for'her. “Mae
was. in bed.”

“Who is Paggett?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him be-
fore.”

“Do you know him, Mrs. Thomas?”

“TL never heard of him before that
night.. But Ace had a great many

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ARABIAN
NIGHTS

THE ORIGINAL on 5Q 98

TRANSLATION .. .

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ii AMM A a abi

r| ONE MURDER |

im | the Beeker-Rosenthal Case
By
ALAN HYND

Staff Investigator for
THE MASTER DETECTIVE

and Gyp the Blood, living in a New York apartment
under assumed names, are being trailed. A report is
turned in that these two have been seen in the com-
pany of one John B——, a stool pigeon. He is
brought in to Dougherty for questioning. “John,”—
the Deputy Commissioner’s voice was cold and hard
—‘“where are Louie and Gyp?”

The Story Concludes:
Part VII

HEN Dougherty shot his question at John
B—— the man answered with an air of
absolute sincerity: “Mr. Dougherty, I don’t
know. I swear to you | don’t know. All
I know is that the girls can reach them on

the telephone by calling a certain laundry. Gyp and

Lefty are living near a laundry.”

“Where is the laundry?”
“1 don’t know;:I haven’t any idea. But I do know

Capitol at Albany, N. Y., where Mrs. Becker

ga So husband’s life. “I am sorry, Mrs.
a ment that would justify my interfer-
tne course of the law”
Nockor
etek New York a few days before. Efforts ‘
Sian are made to trace them through a trunk
alice checked to the West Shore Railroad
ie station, but these are unsuccessful. ;
ile Shortly after this Whitey Lewis is t
cae nabbed at Tannersville as he rushes for
a New York train. Meanwhile, in New
‘a York, Dago Frank has been trapped ;
. at the apartment of a girl friend, Rose Lore Charles Becker and his devoted wife. When the verdict of
dh rst degree murder was returned against her husband, Mrs. Becker

Harris, | whom the police have been collapsed. Later, she worked almost up to the minute of his death
shadowing. The wives of Lefty Louie in an effort to save him

dit ek alli

| i now?”
Dough-
humor.
‘lephone
aersville
been as-
re Rail-
Deputy
reath.
etective.
ippened.

he arms
ned for-
. “You
ted that

nce, em-
hat has

e did it

man in
supposed
working
ien there
vise, He
»ple who
je as the
nce in a
irs for a
when he
s eye on

that it
e to

id get

ace of

ye down-
vhat hap-

i?” asked
ind nine-

ling when
1 went on

went off
least one
yr had his
te. They
and they
way. But
s on duty
en on the
nd not on

e between

nine be-
when one
‘agged out
man hap-
*k right at

t was nine.
along and
which sent
He wasn’t
,/t minutes,
1’t look for

» because it
t it might
, loyees had
* -tion where
irty. Then
was miss-

ase it

and de-

papi nea

“s
Ca

+ Ree ane

ae OR
ar SOOTY ae

eee

April, 1935

duction that had resulted in tracing
the trunk to the terminal would count
for naught. No matter how you looked
at it, it was one of the most unfortu-
nate breaks of the entire investigation.
The man on duty in the baggage room
had succeeded in making a surrepti-
tious examination of the trunk’s con-
tents. They consisted of clothes and
other personal effects and yielded no
clue that might lead to the where-
abouts of the fugitives. But Dougherty
knew that if Gyp and Lefty were in-
terested enough to order the trunk
picked up that it would eventually lead
to their lair. It was his surmise that
the two gunmen would send friends to
the station, but he did not overlook the
possibility of their calling in person.

DJDOUGHERTY looked up at the de-

tective before him. “Make a careful
note,” he instructed, “of everything |
say.” The sleuth reached into his pocket
for a pencil and a sheet of paper. “Get
hold of all the baggage room employees
and every porter who works in that ter-
minal,” went on Dougherty, “and show
them pictures of Lefty and Gyp. Ask
them if they saw those men in the sta-
tion between nine and nine-thirty this
morning. Get hold of every porter
who carried a trunk from the baggage
room out to the station plaza during
that time. Find out if possible if the
trunk was placed in a private car or
in a taxicab. If it was placdd in a
private car, I want any information
about that car or its occupants that
you can lay your hands on. If it was
strapped on to a taxicab | want every
taxi driver in the city questioned, if
necessary, to find out which ones got
trunk jobs at the terminal between nine
and nine-thirty this morning, and
where they took those trunks.”

The scene of the drama again shifted
to Tannersville in the Catskills. It was
two minutes before four o’clock. Ten
persons sat in the little railroad station,
waiting for the four-fifteen. There were
two middle-aged couples; two men
traveling together, carrying brief-cases
and discoursing volubly anent the state
of affairs in the roofing business; a man
who had all the appearance of a dirt
farmer dressed in his Sunday best; an
individual in the habiliments of a
priest; and two young ladies whose
faces bore the tan of a vacation sun.
All but the two young ladies were de-
tectives from Dougherty’s office; all
but the two young ladies had but one
thought in mind.

The hands of the antique station

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Detective Stories

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clock moved slowly onward, It was
ten minutes after four, and still no sign
of the man that eight of those who sat
in the station were looking for. An-
other minute passed, another and an-
other. Four-thirteen; in the distance
the train appeared around a_ bend.
Then a young man rushed into the sta-
tion and approached the ticket window.

“Whew,”. he said, wiping his brow,
“almost missed it, didn’t IP One-way
to New York.”

THE young man was not Whitey

Lewis.

The train thundered down the track
and presently panted into the station.
The detectives, the two young ladies
and the.young man who had arrived at
the last minute were now out on
the station platform. Was the latter the
person who had called up earlier in
the day inquiring as to the time
of the afternoon train? It hardly seemed
likely, for he carried only a small hand-
bag, whereas the man who had tele-
phoned had inquired about checking
baggage through to New York.

The three bona. fide travellers got
aboard the train, the conductor pulled
the bell. rope and the train was about
to pull out when suddenly there came
a shout:

“Hey! Hold it! Wait for me!”

As one, the eight detectives turned
their eyes to the source of the voice.
There in a rig containing a_ small
trunk sat one of the four men charged
with the murder of Herman Rosenthal.

uickly the detectives assumed the
attitude of passengers who had just
alighted from the train. Casually,
they walked over toward Whitey
Lewis. The gunman, who had mean-
while hopped out of the rig in a rush

The

toward the train, approached the two
sleuths’ who carried brief-cases. With
the quickness of a wink, the detectives
dropped their brief-cases and lunged
for Lewis. The three men went to the
ground in a heap but each detective
kept a firm ae on Lewis,

After he hit the ground, face up-
ward, Lewis shouted:

“What the hell’s the idea!”

“We've got you at last, Lewis,” said
one of the detectives, still in a recum-
bent position. “We're from Deputy
Commissioner Dougherty’s office and

Master Detective

-you’re under arrest for the murder of

Herman Rosenthal.”

The ticket agent had *rushed out and
held up the train and when the passen-
gers saw the excitement they alighted
and milled about the prisoner and his
captors. Lewis, still too affected by the
suddenness of his arrest, made no pro-
test as he was taken aboard the train,
tee in a stateroom and started for

ew York.

Early that evening Lewis was ques-
tioned by Dougherty. Like Dago
Frank, he refused to talk, no matter
what accusations or importunities
flowed from the Deputy Commission-
er’s lips.

THE herculean task of questioning
the porters and taxicab drivers was
hardly under way and had as -yet
brought nothing promising when one
of the man-hunters shadowing the
wives of Lefty Louie and Gyp. the
Blood reported that the women had
been seen in the company of one John
B——, an underworld hanger-on.
“John B——,” mused Dougherty
when the man’s name was mentioned.
“Why, I know that man. He once did
some stool pigeon work for me. Bring

him in immediately. I'll talk to him.”

When John B——, whose name is be-
ing withheld because he is still alive,
was brought into Dougherty’s office,
the Deputy Commissioner plunged di-
rectly into the business at hand.

“John” he said, “as you probably
know, I’m anxious to get my hands on
Lefty Louie and Gyp the Blood.”

John, an emaciated little man, and a
dope addict, nodded.

“NOW, John,” went on Dougherty,
“You have been seen with the
wives of Lefty Louie and Gyp the
Blood. And don’t attempt to tell me
you haven't.” Dougherty leaned close to
the man and narrowed his eyes. He
didn’t know how much John knew or to
what extent, if any, the wives of the
hunted men had taken him into their
confidence. But he decided to find out
by John’s reaction to a question.
“John’—the Deputy Commissioner’s
voice was even and hard—‘“where are
Louie and GypP”

Will John B tell the truth to
Deputy Commissioner Dougherty as to
the whereabouts of Lefty Louie and
Gyp the Blood?

Are the detectives at last about to
get one of those breaks which have
hitherto favored only the fugitives?

Will they succeed in capturing the
last two elusive gunmen for whom they
have been searching so persistently
and patiently?

-And what has been happening in the
meantime to ex-Lieutenant Charles
Becker and the Three Musketeers of
Larceny Lane, now safely under lock
and key?

For the final sinister events of this
absorbing fact narrative, read the con-
cluding installment in the May issue
of THE MASTER DETECTIVE, on sale
at all news stands April 12th.

rf é

the rough and t saga ofa

His great fists helpless against the

Desperate men, scurrying throug
na) ped by the men they had set out to arrest.
ere is drama, packed

ing fists lead him on a meteoric trail to fame and fortune.
shattering impact of a murderer’s attack, the
away. The glamour of ring and the mystery of a baffling murder mingle here to give you an unusual story.

TWENTY-SEVEN MURDERS—TRAPPING THE MASS KILLER OF RED ROW

‘Sheriff, there’s @ prison break . . . San Quentin is on the wire.” d
vade the outflung net of the law. Then suddenly the startling news—two officers kid-

convicts and police face each other in desolate Death

the countryside to ¢

with thrills and fast-moving action. Nerves frayed to the jagged edge,
Valley. Find out what happens when rats are caught in a trap. P

“The fog, like some shapeless, poisonous monster, writhed inland on its clamm
“fey. inous reuddenly it was shattered ... a shot and then

Read this impressively written story then decide ;
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“DETECTIVE CASES

for May contains the most absorbing fact detective
stories ever put between covers.

THE MURDER OF THE MIDDLEWEIGHT WORLD CHAMPION

This is the story of a dastardly crime, a murder in which the most glamourous figure the prize rin,

bl ining town where a mere youth beats into unconsciousness four hard.
But what was the strange fate hovering about him while he laughed with
champion fell, while through the woods a mysterious figure stole softly

DEATH ON THE DESERT

THAT. PHANTOM KILLER IN THE FOG

‘

Among these are:

g has ever known was the unsuspecting victim. Read
-bitten

a city with 600 persons mysteriously missing. Learn what horror was found
in the slime of the River Leine when police ordered the stream drained. This is a classic of crime history that you can’t afford to miss.

belly and settled malevolently amid the marshy lowlands. Sil

clamor of Anna dogs. 4 “pi sited
of land

was the phantom in the fog who killed rich, politically powerful Frederick Schneider?

loughs. See how the youngster’s hammer-
anate joy of life?

on the outskirts of metropolitan New York?

5 hee cae

~~ 4 a | } - 4 A Gap
ISEAKER, C harfoae #7.4

FIVE MEN for ¢

What Really Happened in = ,¢

The story thus far:

H ERMAN ROSENTHAL, big-time gambling house

Operator, is shot to death by unidentified gunmen as
he emerges from the Metropole Hotel, in midtown New
York, at 1:57 a.m. July 16th, 1912." At the time of his
death, Rosenthal, raided by the police, was in the midst of
a series of secret conferences with District Attorney Charles
S. Whitman, charging that politically powerful Lieutenant
Charles Becker of the Police Department was collecting
graft from emporiums of chance, and blowing the lid off

Manhattan gambling life in general.

Suspicion attaches itself to Lieutenant Becker and
to rival gamblers, among them the Three Musketeers
| | of Larceny Lane—Bald Jack Rose, Bridgey Webber
| | and Harry Vallon. Rose confesses, implicating the
two other Musketeers and another gambler, Sam

Schepps, and avows that Lieutenant Becker instigated
| the crime to still Rosenthal’s tongue. Rose says the
| gunmen were Dago Frank Cirofici, Harry (Gyp the
| Blood) Horowitz, Lefty Louie Rosenberg and Jack
| (Whitey) Lewis and all the facilities of the police de-

partment are put to work to round up the four

{
(Above) Birds-eye view of the State Capitol at Alban
| made a last appeal to the Governor for her husbar
| Becker,” he said, ‘‘there is nothing in this state- ment
| | ing with the course of the
| |
The four gamblers agree to testify against Becker Ne
when the District Attorney promises not to seek are
their indictment for murder, The hunt for the four ein
gunmen, under the direction of Deputy Police sta
Commissioner George S. Dougherty, is under way Sh
in Manhattan and in and around Tannersville, nal
New York, a summer resort in the Catskill moun- =
tains. yc
(Above) At left, Judge Goff, who presided at the first Photos of Gyp the Blood and Lefty Louie are at
| trial of Charles Becker, talks with Charles Whitman, who shown to the ticket agent in Tannersville, and he i t
as District Attorney prosecuted Becker and later, as Gov- . Spade . ht tick ‘
ernor, refused to save him from the electric chair recognizes them as two men who bought tickets to sh;
| 46 ,
‘ 3 awed Cal ps ee ae cad

Z be | é AL 7 |
Me che Met € — J LAL

come out. I also want to call your
attention of what every word. I know
what I am talking about and I am
not dreaming.”

B Bics days before Morris Luban ap-
peared as a witness against Becker,
Mr. McIntyre received the following:

“October 8, 1912.
“Mr. McIntyre,
“New York.
“Dear Sir;

“Will you kindly see that your man
sends back my letters he got from
me and which he promised to mail
back to me but failed to do so. This
letters are not good to anyone but
myself,

“Respectfully yours,
“J. Luban.

“Essex Co. Jail, Newark, N. J.

Val O’Farrell, well-known private
investigator, also fell into the luxury
of a communication from brother
Jacob, as follows:

(No date)
“Mr. O’Farrell;
“Dear Sir;

“I forgot to call your attention to
the fact that there is no use in trying
to do anything for me with the Pink-
ertons as they are personally enemies
of mine. They were trying to frame
me up a couple of times but never
succeeded. Last time they were try-
ing to frame me up in Brooklyn and
the case never came to trial. My
lawyer was going to sue them for
false arrest and that is the reason
they framed me up here in Newark.
Special Meyer has a personal grudge
against me because I had a quarrel
in the Headquarters and called him
all kinds of names, so I think it is

-useless to try even besides that I

don’t need their favors they have ab-
solutely nothing on me and even if
I will be indighted, my case will not
come up to trial. If you want to con-
vince yourself look up the charge and
you will see for yourself. I also call
your attention if you are on friendly
terms with Sam Paul and Al, don’t
mention anything to them about me
as I know they are too friendly to-
ward the four in the west side prison
and they would any time sooner see
Becker go away than Bridgy or S. S.
I also want to ask you if you want to
do anything for me and you can do
it or do so as soon as possible so
that I have time to look up them
people you want in the case, and will
also try and go up and go to see
Schepps and get some more informa-
tion that might convince your client.
I wrote Sam Paul a friendly letter
but never mentioned anything about
bail or so. If you cannot see me per-
sonally you can write me anything
you like as no letters are opened here
only by the prisoners. I got a way
of sending my letters out private so
nobody reads them. I could not think
of sending all I know about this af-
fair but next time I will see you I
may be able to tell you more.

“Yours respectfully,
“Jake Luban.

“Essex Co. Jail.

“P. S. Will you kindly let me know
immediately if you can do anything
for me as to my freedom. Of course
this is confidential between us two
as it would not do that anyone else
would know that you are doing any-
thing for me. Please as soon as you
make a copy of Sam’s letter send it
back to me. Next time when you get
a_card from Mr. McIntyre .to Warden
MacCimie and you will be able to call
me out and talk to you outside. The
warden will gladly allowed by request
of Mr. McIntyre.”

Just as a diamond cutter doubtless
perfects, then forgets, each of the indi-
vidual facets of the stone that comes
into being under his deft fingers, so
the angles and flashes of this great
trial had their moment in the sun,
then vanished from public con-
ception except as each was evaluated
within the composite whole. It would
be redundant to go into the testimony
except for purposes, and to degrees,
necessary to portray the march of
legal warfare into the realms of life
and death..

The trail of witnesses summoned by
the prosecution was said by some to
be “a who’s who of the Tenderloin.”
Undoubtedly that statement was justi-
fied to no small degree. But the real
Sensation, of course, was the sojourn
on the witness stand of Baldy Jack
Rose. This testimony was made the
more amazing to the people of the
great city because it followed so close-
ly upon the funeral of slaughtered
Jack Zelig, and that funeral had
spread the terror of open gang war.
Twenty uniformed police surrounded
the home of Zelig on the lower East
Side and very few of his cronies were
allowed the privilege of paying their
last respects by entering the room
where he lay. On the street, all people
were “kept moving.” As the cortege
crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, it
was relieved by another uniformed ar-
ray and so escorted to the cemetery.
Here, I think, was a due and definite
forecast of the gangster days in the
offing. To the people of that time, it
seemed an incredible declaration’ of
war on the part of hoodlums against
Law and Order.

James Sullivan, attorney for Jack
Rose, was credited with the statement
that his client “was next on the list
to be killed.” He was reported to have
said that the West Side prison, where
the Whitman group of most important
witnesses was incarcerated, had been
called on the telephone while he and
Whitman were holding final confer-
ence, that a husky voice might have
opportunity of stating that “Rose will
be next.” It was said that half of the
witnesses for the State and several of
those for the defense stood, with some
reason, in mortal fear of gunmen’s
flying bullets.

= length to- which this fear went,
and also the determination of Whit-
man to fight back as hard as the un-
ruly fought him, is best attested by
reports that Thomas Coupe, a clerk
at the Elk’s Club, fled the country and
went to London. In a communication
to the District Attorney he was said
to have stated that he would not re-
turn to testify unless his entire ex-
penses were paid and an insurance
policy taken on his life for $10,000.
These terms were reported accepted
by Whitman. Another foreshadow of
the big-time gang money to come with
Prohibition. While, later, millions of
dollars became “important money” in
the underworld, these smaller figures
were relatively important in their
time and they were the seed from
which sprang such vast sums of cor-
ruption in years yet unborn. .
October 11 saw Rose summoned to
the stand. The nation sat hushed.
When told that the testimony would
require a considerable period of time,
Judge Goff adjourned until the fol-
lowing morning. That gave , Baldy
Jack all the day of October 12, and it
must be said that but once, during the
most exacting direct examination and
the most tortuous and at times scorn-
ful cross-examination, he carried on
like a soldier. Just such a witness as
Rose was needed to reduce this trial
to clarified issue. Whitman showed his
hand and the defense showed its.
Rose testified to the same sort of
thing which was embodied in his con-
fession. He spent the entire day _on

Next Issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE

STORIES Will

Be on Sale

Wednesday, March 16

the stand. Whitman, through the eyes
of Rose, probed the slime of the Ten-
derloin; through the words of the man,
painted what those eyes saw for the
consumption of a thrilled public. The
gist of the evidence was that Becker
knew Rosenthal’s hatred of him and
the gambler’s determination to “squeal
and break Becker.” Rose then told of
various conversations in which Becker
cajoled and threatened, saying, “We
have got to put Rosenthal where you
nor I nor anybody else will ever have
to worry about him again.”

With the most damning accuracy,

THE TWISTED CAREER
OF THE ROSS KIDNAPER

Continued in the Next Issue—the
First, Exclusive Story of This Case

OFFICIAL
DETECTIVE
STORIES

Out Wednesday, March 16

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he dovetailed together the items which
laced the arms of death about the stal-
wart and unmoved man seated at the
defense table. Hour after hour under
the probing of Whitman, the case of
the people against the man in blue
and gold hardened, became as con-
crete, rose ever and ever to more
complete dimensions. And through all
this, the hairless man on the stand
held his calm and iron composure and
the man at the defense table gave him

_ almost no heed. Becker sat, chin in

. jail.

hand, and brushed aside every emo-
tion which doubtless assailed him.

As he related these horrible facts,
Rose’s voice struck almost a mono-
tone. Through the hours preceding
the killing, when he and Vallon and
Schepps went to get the murder-car
and drove in-it,to get Dago Frank, on
to the hour they returned to Bridgie
Webber’s and there met the other gun-
men, through the guarded conversa-
tion they held there, and a drink, per-
haps to stimulate nerves for ghastly
work ahead, Rose related.

“Then Bridgie said, ‘Herman is at
the Metropole,’ and everybody went
out,-but I stayed back there and had
a drink and was writing when I got
word that Herman was croaked.” -

Under questioning he said that he
then went to the Lafayette Baths and
telephoned Becker. Z

“‘you heard the news, Charlie?’

“‘yves, I congratulate you.’

“ ‘How did you get the news so soon?’
I asked Charlie.

“<I got it from a newspaperman.’

“‘*Are you coming downtown?’

ttf@™HARLIE answered, ‘I’ll be right
down’.”

That was at about two-thirty and
Becker, said Rose, did not arrive for
their rendezvous until ‘about dawn.”
They met on the sidewalk outside
Bridgie Webber’s gambling-place and
once again, according to Rose, Becker
expressed himself as “glad it’s done.”
Becker, said Rose, explained that he
had been delayed in getting downtown
because he stopped at the station-
house to view Rosenthal’s body. That
later became a big issue in the case,
for Whitman thundered it into his
summation as proof that Becker was a
callous killer.

As for the rest of the testimony, it
ran exactly along the lines to be imag-
ined from all that has thus far been
written. It portrayed Charlie Becker
as the master planner of murder. It
revealed the gamblers as jackals doing
his bidding for fear that, if they failed
him, they would be framed as Zelig
had been framed. It showed the man
on the witness stand as the collector
of graft turned over to Becker. Rose
made no “bones” about branding
himself. At various times he admitted
that throughout his life he had been
identified with illegitimate business.
He admitted he was a collector of graft
and a doer of the bidding of the ac-
cused police officer. He admitted that

The Twisted Career

deep breathing announced that he was
sleeping, Seadlund got the weapon
from beneath his mattress.

With infinite care, the hoodlum be-
gan picking at the mortar-and plaster
around an air vent in a corner of the
cell. A dozen feet away, a guard
dozed, and heard no suspicious sounds.

After hours of labor, the grill work
was loosed and Seadlund pulled it off.
He then removed some bolts holding
the vent in place and shoved it aside.

On the other side was a large bare
room in an unfinished portion of the

guard had not moved from his chair,
and then began squeezing through the

_ opening.

Half way, he became jammed. The
hole was too narrow. Patiently, he set
to work again and, after a half-hour,
he had removed a row of bricks. Now
there was room to wriggle through.

Behind him, he left the letter he had
been writing. Still in the files of the
Sheriff’s Office in Crow Wing County,
it reads:

Seadlund made sure that the:

sill, : PP ne aOR

even with the dead Herman Rosen-
thal, he and Becker had planned busi-
ness ventures in the field of gambling.
Becker, it appeared, was to finance a
house to the extent of $5,000 and Rose
was to assist in running it and see to
it that money was divided equally, for
which he, Rose, was to receive 25 per-
cent. But he added “I told Becker no-
body ever made any money in the
gambling business with Herman Ros-
enthal.”

It was, according to Rose, because
of a disagreement over the split of
money taken in Rosenthal’s house that
the all-important raid took place which

Sixty Katz: “Il can get heroin for
$20 an ounce—.” See story on
Page 18 of this issue

so hurt and baffled Rosenthal and
started him on his disastrous cam-
paige of squealing and “breaking the

ieutenant.” One comment was par-
ticularly bald and effective. When
Rose told Becker, so he said, that he
would get a couple of gunmen and go
around and. give Herman Rosenthal a
beating he never would forget, Becker
was said to have evinced impatience
and said, “Oh, Hell, I don’t want the
fellow beaten up. If I did, I’d beat him
up myself or have him beaten up for
resisting arrest. But a_beating-up
won't do for him. He must be put
where you nor I nor anybody else will
ever have to worry about him again.”

Later Baldy Jack testified to the
payoff of the $1,000 to the gunmen so

that they could lie low, and of how
he and Sam Schepps hid away at Pol-
lok’s place. Then of how, when all
the world was seeking him in connec-
tion with the murder, Becker calmly
telephoned him and sent his lawyer,
Hart, to the Pollok apartment with an
affidavit to sign which was planned to
defeat any prosecution of Becker later
on.

Then began the cross-examination,
for which a hungry nation waited.
Hour after hour this testifying went
on and the bald man with the thick
lips sat steadily in that witness chair
and answered as best he could the
adroit and confounding questions
hurled at him. Only once he faltered.
That was when he leaned forward
and rested his face in his hands and
sought to gather himself. Then the
court ordered a brief halt to revive
him. Later on, when dusk had gath-
ered outside the grimy building and a
kind darkness had blanketed the slums
near at hand, this question-and-an-
swer battle still was waging. Rose
stood pat. He spoke virtually without
emotion, in a slow drawl, and in the
end, he wore down defense counsel,
who pleaded with the Court for ad-
journment because of his own fatigue.
But the battle went on until nine that
night.

The most that the defense could get
by way of tearing down the evidence
Rose offered ran in spots like this:

“Have you always been a man of
veracity? Always tol the truth?”

“No, sir.”

“Have your business affairs always
been conducted openly and within the
law?”

“No, sir.”

“You say you practically planned
this horrible murder?”

“Becker planned it and I helped, as
I have stated.”

“Did you not know what a horrible
deed that was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did know?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“But that did not dissuade you in
planning it?”

“No, sir.”

“Where was your conscience?”

“I never consult my conscience...’
There the voice of Rose broke per-
ceptibly.

Becker’s lawyer, sensing an open-
ing, thrust for it with resonant voice
and thunderous demand, “Have you
got a conscience?”

Rose had gathered himself together.
He faced the lawyer squarely, meas-
ured his words in that deadly mono-
tone, banished all uneasiness and said,
“TI don’t know. I never saw it.”

The attorney took another tack. ‘Do
you now,” he snapped, “intend to lead
a respectable life?”

“Yes, but not in this community. I
value my life too much and I wouldn’t
be a free man here.”

Here again lifted the head of the
gang war that was such a menace to

everyone involved in this legal battle.
It rose, too, when the witness implied
that he became a State’s witness only
“when the electric chair was staring
me in the face,” and after Becker al-
legedly had, in order to protect his
own life, “threw me to the dogs and
would let me lie there.” He admitted
that everything he now said on the
stand was the truth.

McIntyre resorted again to the age-
old trick of asking questions about al-
leged conversations. Rose had an an-
swer as complete as any ever given
by a witness. It was a simple answer,
all embracing. Asked if he had ever
told people that he was going to frame
Becker to save his own skin, he said,
“No such conversation ever took
place.” And he answered that same
thing to every approach with such
questions which a shrewd counsel
might conceivably have directed more
to the jury than to the witness himself.
Rose admitted every charge that he
had a bad record for truth and legiti-
mate occupations. McIntyre pleaded
several times for adjournment on the
score that he was exhausted and the
life of the defendant rested upon the
proper examination of the witness.

Goff refused, on the ground that it
had been agreed that the trial would
proceed uninterruptedly. The life of
the Judge was being threatened, that
of Whitman and Moss and the attor-
neys for the defense. Known criminals
were excluded from the Court. Ten-
sity reigned.

B airtel tedkd that appalling day,
Charlie Becker sat unmoved, even
smiling, at the defense table. In the
front row of spectators, her clean, fine
face constantly flashing assurance to
her accused husband, sat Mrs. Charles
Becker. Drama was written in words
of death and with a pen of fire as the
court stenographer’s hand fied across
the pages of his book with a speed in-
credible in the deep pathos, comedy
and drama which he wrote. That night
the great city was buzzing. Rose had
told all. Herman -Rosenthal, though
dead, seemed to have returned in spirit
to make good his promise to “break
Becker.”

From the grave itself rose a “stop
signal” that made the underworld fal-
ter, the Tenderloin quake and decent
people catch their breath with horror.

What defense will Becker’s attor-
neys bring against the pile-driver
blows of District Attorney Whitman?
What will the jury’s verdict be? Has
Whitman depended too much upon the
testimony of witnesses whose reputa-
tion constantly is being attacked by
defense counsel? And what of the
four gunmen? Can Becker avoid the
electric chair? Continue reading
Charles Francis Coe’s masterful analy-
sis of this “murder of the century” in
the fifth instalment, to appear in OFFI-
CIAL DETECTIVE STORIES, dated March
30, on sale Wednesday, March 16,

Read It First in

of: the Ross Kidnaper (Continued from Page 7) OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

“Please don’t misconstrue this es-
cape as an expression of guilt; it isn’t.
I honestly intend to return and clear
myself. Perhaps the guilty party will
be apprehended by then. The prospect
of staying here until trial in September
does not appeal to me, though I would

have except for the young lady’s mis-:

take in identification.

“I sincerely hope that everyone re-
alizes that my leaving was made pos-
sible only through the structural de-
fects in the place and not through the
negligence of the personnel. Lynn
(referring to his cell partner) may
have suspected my actions, but he said
nothing to me and took absolutely no
part irf this affair. Fix the wall with
the $19 of mine which you took from
me and which is honest money.”

When he got to the other side, Sead-
lund found that the windows and doors
of the unfinished room were barred
and locked. He cursed long and si-
lently: Was there no escape for him?
His eyes fell on a trap door in the
ceiling. Making a platform of boxes,

he climbed upon it. He cried out in
elation; the door was unlocked!

Lifting it, he clambered out onto the
roof. But still freedom seemed distant.
There appeared to be no way of de-
scending to the ground. After some
thought, the resourceful hoodlum re-
turned to his cell. The guard, snoring
softly, had not noticed his absence.

Tearing his blanket into strips,
Seadlund fashioned a rope. After fas-
tening one end of it to a chimney, he
dropped the other end to the lawn.
With a prayer that the makeshift rope
would hold, he gripped the knife be-
tween his teeth and began to descend.
He heard footsteps when he was about
fifteen feet from the ground. The
sleepy guard had stepped outside for
a breath of fresh air.

IS arms straining from the effort,
Seadlund hung motionless. The
turnkey lighted a cigarette and yawned
audibly.
Several minutes passed. The strain
was unbearable. His teeth seemed to

be biting right into the steel of the
knife.

But, he comforted himself, if he
was forced to drop to the ground it
would be the guard who would be
more surprised.

“Before he knows what’s happen-
ing,” thought the criminal, “I’ll have
this knife buried in his hide.”

How could this youth, with such a
clean start in life, perpetrate the crue!
kidnaping of aged Charles S. Ross, re-
tired Chicago manufacturer, transport
him across a State line and leave hi:
body to moulder in a secret dungeon ii
the north woods? Did he successfully
escape from the Brainerd, Minnesota.
prison? Did he take the jailer’s life’
To what cross-purposes did his twisted
career take him next?: For a proper
understanding of the Ross kidnaping
you must not miss an instalment of this
exclusive story of Seadlund’s criminal
life. The next will appear in OFFIcIAl
DetTecTIvE Stories of March 30, to be
on sale Wednesday, March 16. (Get
the every other Wednesday habit.)

ASTOR

Cees 28 TE
BOK AR DURBE

By Charles
Francis Coe

CHEVROLET

PLANTERS

t j
Qik:
hd

a
* A as i
Meee
won Mu ee
& ORCHESMRA 1 sepa

SHAN ME
VAUDEVILLE
’ biinust

Vaudeville houses of Broadway were darkening their foyers ... when came the words of the foreman—“Guilty”

The murder of Herman Rosenthal,
New York gambler, was the first slay-
ing of its kind in the United States in
which paid gunmen participated. It
precipitated a breath-taking investiga-
tion that spotlighted the entrenched
vice of the nation’s largest city. The
crime that many called the “murder
of the century” crystalized about the
personalities of District Attorney
Charles S, Whitman and Lieutenant
Charlie Becker, the man in the blue
and gold uniform of the New York po-
lice force. Using as a basic clew the
numbers on a set of license plates,
Whitman traced the slaying to Becker’s
door. He swore he would send the
Lieutenant to the electric chair as the
instigator of the plot against Rosen-
thal’s life. To do this he depended
largely upon testimony from shifty
king-pins of the underworld. Baldy
Jack Rose, Bridgie Webber and Sam
Shepps were of this kin and all key
witnesses. Virtually upon the eve of
the trial Jack Zelig was slain. Zelig
would have been an important wit-
ness against Becker—but he was sent
on the way to death. Amidst the whis-
perings of the underworld that the
whole trial was “framed” and that
Becker would go free, Whitman
pounded home his arguments in a
thundering, masterful manner. Next
came the turn of the defense—and an-
other exciting drama was expected in
the battle for Becker’s life. Now go on
with the story.

OLLOWING Rose, Whitman put
Bridgie Webber and Harry Vallon
on the stand. In every way, and

to the minutest detail, these men cor-
roborated the story sworn to by Rose.
In frenzied attempt to destroy this
mastadonic evidence against his client,

Hart, of defense counsel, finally asked
Vallon, “How many times have you
rehearsed this story?”

“Never,” the self-confessed gambler
avowed.

One thing more that Whitman wisely
stressed now was the alleged meeting
of the murder schemers and Becker
at 124th Street and Seventh Avenue
at the time the murder presumably
was planned and the orders given to
slay Rosenthal. The defense was to
attack this in every way possible and
Whitman simply had to make it stick
in order to tie the defendant into the
picture past all hope of escape. He did
this with the same trip-hammer logic
and force he had shown at every turn
of the investigation and the trial.

It was on October 15 that the man
who many thought the key witness of
the entire prosecution took the witness
stand. No matter what Rose and Vallon
and Webber had said, it had to be cor-
roborated. The much sought Sam
Schepps, who had so long been tie
bone of contention between police and
prosecutor, was the man depended up-
on for that vital contribution. His
testimony it was which damned Becker
with crushing finality. He added even
another link in the evidential chain
which was fettering the man in blue
and gold. Though he had been merely
a passenger with Ruse in rounding up
the killers, according to testimony, he
admitted that after the killing he went
to Becker’s house.

Here is what he testified about that
amazing visit. “I said to Becker, ‘Rose
told me to tell you that he is sick end
feels terrible, and he wants me to find
out what you are going to do.’”

It appeared to many from this state-
ment that already Baldy Jack was be-
ginning to rue his bargain with Becker

and to worry about just how staunch
the Lieutenant’s loyalty to him might
prove. It is a wise man who depends
little upon what has been called “honor
among thieves.” It is axiomatic that
only an underworld sucker trusts the
man on his right or left. Things may
appear all right so long as they go
right, but once let trouble rear its
head and the experienced man of the
Tenderloin will begin looking out for
himself. Friendships of the shadows
are most apt to be friendships of the
dollar. Men operating outside the law
have a full knowledge of the insecurity
of their position.

CCORDING to Schepps, Becker

said to him, “Tell him not to
worry, everything is all right. They’ve
got to prove who killed Rosenthal be-
fore they convict anyone.”

The State presented as its first wit-
ness next day, Mrs. Lillian Rosenthal,
wife of the murdered Herman. Her
brief testimony is related here merely
for the value it possesses as a side-
light, and to give additional indication
of the thoroughness of Whitman’s
prosecution. Though Herman Rosen-
thal was a well-known figure in the
expensive restaurants about town,
though he numbered among his in-
timates scores of celebrities, though he
had for years been a canny operator of
gambling places, his wife testified that
everything he left her was about $100!

It always has seemed to me that any
better argument against crime, than
just what it pays, does not exist.
Imagine a man who gave his entire
mature life to a business, spent thou-
sands in keeping the business going
and finally gave his very life itself to
protect that business, having for a total
reward $100 to leave his widow. That

is the best evidence I know of the
sordid hopeiessness of law violation.
So much for that.

Whitman’s purpose in introducing
this evidence was easy to be seen and
readily admitted. There had been
claims that a group of gamblers had
paid Rosenthal $25,000 to leave town
and stop talking to the Law.

Later Mrs. Rosenthal testified to the
keen and close friendship between her
husband and Becker, and then as to the
unexpected raid led by the Lieutenant
upon her kusband’s gambling house.
She repeated what others had said.
She claimed that when she charged
Becker with faithlessness and demand-
ed an explanation, he retorted, “It had
to be Herman or me.”

I do not find any record of testimony
indicating that there was anything
surprising in the wife of a known
gambler cemanding an explanation of
a raid from a minion of the law, but I
submit that such testimony might be
highly interesting if it existed. But
there was testimony from two waiters
who said that they often saw Rose and
Becker together in their dining-room
and on at least one occasion they had
seen Rose pass Becker “a roll of bills.”

By way of completing his case,
Whitman offered Pollock and his wife,
who testified how Rose had stayed at
their home. Then, like a bombshell
after the firing had ceased, one James
D. Hallen, who had been imprisoned
in the Tombs with Becker, swore that
he heard the accused man say to De-
tective White, who had then been
locked up on a charge of framing the
dead Zelig, ‘“‘When this sensation blews
over the public will give me a medal
for killing that crook Rosen-
thal.”

That completed the case of the

ODIO

2-90 -/%.

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: FREE HOW To DRAW Eiaune duty toward me as he had aught to
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ye oe. “Yeah. I spoke to him. I asked him so will my brother and my friends
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End Self Denial ABOUT SEX AND LOVE! stein Eneete was closed on the night obligation to the Pauls and I hope] the hundreds of short stories that describe '
‘“ os of July 15. we will be able to do you some good.
4 brother of the wit- i . . Contents of 5-Volume Set
Jacob Luban, brother 0 e wi Respectfully yours, Vet 1 The Seertt Albom of Afric
ness, had written several letters _to “Jacob Luban oe : wet aeegt anon . oem
Becker while the defendant was in- Co. Jail, N k, New J . Votoms The Secrat Albion of Asia
carcerated in the Tombs. For what ssex Co. Jail, Newark, New Jersey. Volume 4—The Sccret Album of Ameri
aed indicate, they are reproduced “p, S. as when this took place my Volume 5—The Secret Album of Ocean
ere: \ : brother, another and myself were
there on some business we had with 5 PICTURE-PACKED VOU
: “Mr. Charles Becker, Sam Paul.’ of ire Epa ag volumes A saree hou
Bas Z “Tombs Prison, gether for convenient reading). Jip into aus
~ i j these volumes, and as you turn its daring page
em ® | Dear sir _ Another liter written by Jacob | Rta aa ans
= wa? . and uncensored photo, is the J F
“ + + SE
e I write this letter to let you know EST COLLECTION oF STRANGE AND a
Sex Secnéts Daningly Revealed | snat 1 was in Sam Paul's Club of Newark, Sept. 24, 1912, | PHONCORAFRE sacha tne mint
Seventh Street between Second and “Mr. Charles Becker, ous Cute _ Love Customs. These hundrs
WAY with false modesty! i h verheard a « x . vindreds of large pages will give you di
At last a famous doctor has told all the secrets ae Bin a Nathan ble! Dear Sir; nights of thrilling instruction.
of sex in frank, daring language. No prudish r ’ “J received a letter from Mr. Mc- Ss ; Ph
beating about the bush, no veiled hints, but and a couple of more fellows and Jptyre that as soon as I got out I pecimen otos
- TRUTH, blazing through 576 pages of | after a while Jack Rose, Sam Schepps hould t him. I certainl Various Serret Societies —— Civilized Love vs
straightforward facts. and another fellow who I think was s ou some to see nim. ertainly Strange Crimes, ¢ riminals — Flagellation and >
: * : - Mies he will if I get out in time if I am not Oriental Modes of Love — Omens, Totems &
Love is the most magnificent ecstasy in the | Vallon came in and he joined into 5,4; : Mysterious Customs — Dress & Undress Rou!
world .. . know how to hold your loved one : ; h indighted yet. The prosecution has ab- Word——Polygamy of Primitives — Exotic Rites &
cee Gan't, sie half-truths from unreliable the conyemre tae as ny See — solutely no case against me and that 1,000 Strange and Secret Photos
sources. ow you can know how to en were Wl me are we nown to eg ‘
ignorance... fear... and self denial! Pauls. Sam told me to go right a is the reason they dragged it along. SEND NO MONEY
MORE THAN 100 VIVID PICTURES I received a letter this morning from Simply sign & mail the coupon. Remember, ea
head as we are O. K. Rose made

¥ F ve li 7 Sam Paul tellin me he has trouble 5 Volumes is 92 inches high, and opened ove

nae i ie aoe ye nee nn Eee some remark as to Rosenthal and of his own ea aiid don’t. know no- | Wide! Remember sito tne aa im expensit “

ing... know what to do on your wedding night to said that he ought to be croaked body in Newark to my bail but ex- sold 105 Fee ad a FIN out the coupon

ayoid the torturing result of ignorance. before he opens up One of the y y in the next nail, and receive this huge’ worl
E h rtai ' ¥ P , pects the boys out soon and then he vars ’ e ize work
verything pertaining to sex is discussed in dar Pauls advised that they better 4

ing language. All the things you have wanted to A : ithout will come over and get me out. Well,

know about your sex life, information about which manage to keep him quiet wit oul I will try and get bail if I can and

other books only vaguely hint, is yours at last, making too much of a fuss about it az soon as 1 get it I will go and see j
Some will be offended by the amazin frankness j i 7 ; ow ¢)

of this book and its vivid illustrations, hat the world and if he didn’t keep shush then they the other people of whom one 1s a N NLY

has no longer any use for prudery and false modesty would take proper actions to do away

Wuteamt to kuow sy, andgou sontd hoo eng, | with him. On€ of tae pecker as salesman and one 9. (rath es whal 08
. Ser "4 +.-a mys >
.,. If is your greatest power for happiness. You owe that they would frame up Becker as they know as to the frame up toward

> ne
RE all

aos oemenn emergent « -*»
. 7

it to yourself. . . to the one you love, to tear aside he would understand who done the ‘
the curtain of hypocrisy and learn the naked truth! job and would make a lot of trouble you. We are not the only people that

Knowledge is the basis of the perfect, satisfying know. There is plenty of them that,

love-life . . . end ignorance, fear and danger today! for us so another one remarked that know it but are afraid to open their
Money back if you are not completely satisfied! they could get Becker dropped as easy aoe If : don’t get = nA bal in For THE ComPLETE

What Every Man ond State Ave as they could anybody else as he iS {ime you can send one of your at- VoLUME $ET

Won Ordering
Ww after them too much already, One of :
hg Pager after them too muted that if Becker, Srneys Sone he is. oe Bo Tocet

Mistakes of Early Marriage

Joys of Perfect Mating were to make any trouble they would : :

peermarme were to mas Py one: way or an- PeSPS at Show ‘him some facts. that
other tn it he = a was will open his eyes. I will show him

ind reat eft the ae Ad ae MY the reason they committed the crime a . Re

riend and ? ie e club rooms, WE and also the reason they are now nee ;

were discussing what they were talk- TPT imi

FORMERLY

eis anal

Prostitution
Birth Control
Can Virility Be Regained
Glands and Sex Instinct

How to Attract and Hold Men ~
Sexual Slavery of Women
Essentials of Happy Marriage

: : Ce : : trying to frame you up and will also METRO PUBLICATIONS.
ie SEND NO MONEY * ** MAIL COUPON TODAY! re apy, : Rivpeng ar tae prove how good these people stand in 70 Sth Ave., Dept. 3103, New York, N
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tf FREE PIONEER PUBLICATIONS, ING. but I hope I will be out before your © t I f (5 large volumes bound together). I will 1
{ Dept.342A, 1270 Sixth Ave., New York,N.Y. . : favors they get there tha know oO er) al
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ae: : “a é rial comes up and will come to see : é . man $1.98, plus postage o
Bh Please send me, ‘Eugenics and Sex Har and could easily be proven by cer I am not delighted, I will return the book
Bi New: mony’ in plain wrapper. I will pay the | YOU. I am held here but my case does tain records to be looked up BB witt refund my $1.98. (No foreign ordes
wot par postman $2.98 (plus postage) on delivery. | not amount to anything as I am “ ; . or ay at this low price!)
CONTROL iH Tam not completely satisfied, 1 em te | seamed up by a couple of fellows Hoping I will be out in time I re-
} FACTS urn the book an he entire purchase price i Name weccceescccecccesescerrecree®
. w : mam ame ..-- . .
+ ad will be refunded immediately. Also send that have a grudge against me. After ’ a
¥ tH: me FREE OF CHARGE, your book on a .
ean “New Birth Control Facts.” you were arrested I was talking to “Respectfully yours, Bh Address ....-0-e eee reer eeee nee
aa Fog ee Se eee a couple of the head East Side “Jake Luban. I. cae ee eee sense en State
% table of Ot the gamblers who told me to keep my | ((] CHECK HERE, if you are enclosing
4 4 G H
' fthythmie controi Address... «soe sessseee:s-49e..- | mouth and not mention a word to «“p, S. I call your attention not to} @ thus saving the mailing costs.
method, Foreign Orders 15 Shillings in Advance - . ‘
\ anyone or I would get myself in make public any of my letters until 1! gee oe

} 54

records, lived in Teunis street in Albany.
His nefarious underworld dealings had
been so well organized since his arrest a
number of years ago that he had been
able to keep himself clear of police in-
vestigation. Thus it was that neither
Fitzpatrick nor the others recognized
him when they viewed his mutilated body.

Before a visit was made to Antonio’s
home, the murder knife was submitted to
a fingerprint expert. Only smudges,
round and blank, revealed themselves.
The killer had worn gloves,

District Attorney Delaney shrugged
off his disappointment. “I wasn’t too
hopeful of prints,” he said. “I’m surprised
we even got the knife.”

“So am I,” Fitzpatrick said. “But not
so much at the discovery of the knife.
Why, I’m curious to know, should An-
tonio’s killers use both a gun and a knife ?
Either weapon would have been just as
effective.”

DELANEY gestured wearily. “If
we're really stuck with a gang mur-
der then there’s no need bothering our
heads about the number of weapons used.
When rats of that sort are out to erase
somebody they use anything on hand.”

Fitzpatrick called over Detectives
Griggs and Herzog. “You two call on
Mrs. Antonio. Break the news to her and
get everything you can out of her about
her husband’s activities. While you're
doing that, we'll check with the federal
people on Antonio.”

The Antonio house in Teunis street
was 4 two-family structure. Herzog
pressed a thumb firmly against the bell
button and somewhere in the house a
tinkling noise sounded. A light went on
in a window on the side of the house.
Another light went on downstairs and a

Detectives George Griggs, below, and Frank Herzog,
circle, played leading roles in unmasking the hypocritical
scarlet lovers when they unearthed minute clues that

cracked the baffling highway murder case.

growing shadow suddenly appeared on
the curtained door window. The knob
turned hesitantly and before the door
swung slowly open a thin voice said,
“Who is there?”

Herzog’s voice, authoritative and re-
assuring at the same time, said, ‘““The
police.”

At the word “police” the door opened
and a woman of about 28 stood before
the officers in a frayed bathrobe. Her eyes
questioned them mutely. '

“You’re Mrs. Antonio?” Herzog said
softly.

She nodded, then waited for the of-
ficer to continue.

“Your husband home?”

“My husband? No. He’s not here.
He hasn’t come home yet. Why, is some-
thing wrong ?”

“Do you mind if we come inside?”
Herzog said gently.

The woman silently stepped aside and
opened the door wide.

In a small, neat living room crammed
with modest, inexpensive furniture and
surrounded by a number of family and
religious pictures on the walls, Griggs
and Herzog got a better look at the slight
but attractive woman.

“Tell me,” she said, tugging nervously
at her fingers, “what is the matter? Has
something happened to Salvatore ?”

“Your husband, Mrs. Antonio,” Her-
zog said slowly, “is dead. He was shot
and stabbed a couple of hours ago, just
outside the city.”

The woman paled. She reeled slightly,
then groped blindly for a chair and col-
lapsed into it.

“Salvatore dead?” she whispered.
“Why? For what reason?”

Griggs watched her sympathetically.

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” he
said. “We don’t know who killed him,
although we have a good idea why he was
killed. Right now we—”

“You have an idea why Salvatore was
killed? Why? I’ve got to know. Salva-
tore was a good man.”

Anxiety, horror and grief were merged
into one pattern of pathetic emotion that
tore at the frail young widow.

“Your husband,” Griggs said, ‘‘was
mixed up in the dope racket. Did you
know that?”

6 Rcse young woman was startled. She
shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I
never knew. He never talked about what
he did away from home.”

“Can you tell us, Mrs. Antonio, what
time your husband left here last
night ?”

“Salvatore left the house early. About
six or seven o’clock, I think. He told me
he had to see some people in Hudson on
business and that I shouldn’t expect him
home early.”

“Who are the people he had to see?”
Griggs asked.

“I don’t know,” she said brokenly. “He
never discussed his business and I never
asked him.”

“Did he leave here alone?”

“Ves.”

“In his car?”

“No. Our car is not working.”

“IT see,” Griggs said. “Didn’t your
husband tell you that somebody was after
him ?”

“No. He wouldn’t anyway. He
wouldn’t want to frighten me.”

The sleuths ceased their questioning.
The woman was suffering from shock.

STARTLING DETECTIVE

i
}
i

saber a Catthawtnaesten,

Chief William J. Fitzpatrick of Albany,
N. Y,, police, right, was the spearhead of
the investigation which netted the lovers
and their tight-lipped accomplice, below.

They returned to headquarters and re-
ported to Fitzpatrick.

The chief, meanwhile, had already
communicated with the federal author-
ities about Salvatore Antonio’s record
and racket associates. He had been in-
formed that Antonio was known to the
narcotic bureau as a member of a dope

ring operating in Schenectady, N. Y.

“Whether something went wrong be-
tween Antonio and the ringleaders, the
federal men can’t say as yet,” Fitzpatrick
said. “They’ve been watching every-
body concerned and they’re quite certain
there was nothing amiss between An-
tonio and the gang.”’

“Well, there must’ve been something
out of the way, or else those babies
wouldn’t have finished him the way they
did,” a detective said. “When we start
checking in Schenectady with the federal
men we'll soon know how much of a rift
there was between Antonio and his dope-
selling pals.”

“No doubt,” Fitzpatrick said. ‘““Mean-
time, what did you boys get from Mrs.
Antonio?”

They told him and the chief listened
intently. ;

“Doesn’t know a thing about her hus-
band’s dirty work, eh?” Fitzpatrick’s
lips curled; his tone was challeng-
ing.

ADVENTURES

to investigate.

im imme-
tore door

impression

er. When it

upp? Cooperation.

i said. “Dro
said P

ypeadquarters in

none, he placed
way;

ban’; :
then the ci
rer he e cigar

olman Saylor a
kthis voice.

it4. “Ts anythin
througii vakdeamlial

cording to inves...
Antonio has complete kiss
husband’s doings.”

Neither detective said anything. They of

were thinking about their conversation
with the widow. Had she known before
their arrival that her husband was dead?
Did she know when her husband left her
that day that he was going to his death?
Recollection of what she said about An-
tonio’s being good to her contradicted the
questions of her foreknowledge of his
murder.

Fitzpatrick noticed their silence.
“Wondering why she lied to you?” he
asked.

Herzog nodded. “There can be a lot of
reasons. But don’t you think fear would
be the most logical one? If she does know
about the racket, perhaps she’s afraid to
admit it or say anything about it because
the mob would make her a victim, too.
That’s a strong enough reason, I think.”

“Quite,” Fitzpatrick said quietly.
“Nevertheless, if she knows anything
she’s got to come across with it. Since
she’s made up her mind not to talk, you
and Griggs watch her movements care-
fully. Check on her thoroughly.”

While Fitzpatrick, later that morning,
got together with state police and fed-
eral men about information known to
them concerning Antonio and his racke-
teer associates, Griggs and Herzog were
busy learning what they could about the
dark-eyed widow.

Throughout the day the window shades
of the Antonio house remained down.
Mrs. Antonio was confining herself to

Wilson dispatched Officers Harley Watson and Robert Steit
to the missing man’s apartment. What they found answered #&
startling fashion the riddle of the employe’s non-appeara
On the floor of his five-room flat lay the body. of 69-year
Herman Burger. How the aged widower met death was obvj
His face and head had been subjected to a terrific batterir

TRANGLER

familiar routine of opening the store. But this morning it was
different. The cigar store owner slipped into his clothes and
hurried down to his place of business. Once inside, his first
ag act was to telephone Burger at the latter’s apartment. When
he failed to get a reply, he promptly contacted Chief of Police
Arch T. Wilson. Explaining the situation, he asked the chief

grief.
sleuths
ken the

1e house
neighbor
aio house
_ ar frown
n the mur-
mentioned.
p family per-
But I’ve seen
we man always
eing involved

Baw detectives were interested. They
knew from the young woman’s tone
that she had something more to say.

“T don’t know whether this has any-
thing to do with his murder, of course,
but early this morning around two o’clock
I heard the backfire of a car. I was just
going back to bed from the bathroom and
I looked out and saw a taxicab outside
the Antonio house and somebody hurry-
ing from the house into the cab.”

“‘Didn’t you see who that person was ?”
Griggs asked.

“No. I wasn’t that interested.”

“How about the cab? Did you see what
company owned it?”

“No. It was a dark-bodied car. What
told me it was a cab were the lights on
the roof right over the windshield.”

“Anything else?”

“No. That’s all I can tell you, I guess.
I—” The young woman’s pretty face sud-
denly turned scarlet.

“Yes?” Griggs asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing,” was the hasty reply.
“Nothing at all. I—I mean there’s just
nothing else that I could possibly add.”
Her embarrassment was so great that the
detectives did not extend their visit.

Outside, away from the house, the de-
tectives regarded each other quizzically.

[Continued on page 74]

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Scarlet Lovers and the Midnight Ambush

[Continucd from page 49]

“What do you make of it?” Herzog
asked. “Why, a blind man could see she
was holding something back.”

“I don't know,” Griggs said. “Only
thing I can figure is that she knows some-
thing that must have a connection with
the killing. Before we check the cab
angle, let's find out what there is to know
about her. If she’s hiding something, I
want to know what it is.”

The detectives applied themselves to
this particular phase of the investigation
diligently, intrigued by the sudden em-
barrassment that made the pretty inform-
ant’s face flush. .

Within the hour, after numerous in-
quiries, the sleuths were convinced that
no relationship existed between the
woman and any member of the Antonio
family.

Everybody questioned readily admitted
that the pretty young wife and her
husband, a bookkeeper, were of ex-
cellent character and had been living in
Teunis street but a few months.

What, then, the officers wondered, was
the neighbor’s secret?

The question continued to remain a
tantalizing puzzle as the sleuths pursued
the lead of the taxicab before confront-
ing the widow with this new develop-
ment.

Who, the detectives puzzled, arrived
or left the Antonio house at 2 o'clock in
the morning, less than two hours after
Salvatore Antonio’s death at the hospital?
Was it somebody from the dope ring who
had come to warn the victim’s wife
against talking to the police? Was it be-
cause of such a warning that she had lied
and disclaimed knowledge of her hus-
band’s activities?

There are only a few cab companies in
Albany and this fact made the detec-
tives hopeful that the job of locating the
cab glimpsed by the neighbor would not
be a difficult one. In each taxi company
the managers got out the reports of their
night drivers and checked them for the
Teunis street address.

It was at the third company that the
detectives achieved their goal. One of
the firm’s drivers had driven to the An-
tonio place early that morning. Obtain-
ing his home address, the detectives paid

‘him an immediate visit.

Short and squat, with beefy shoulders
and a fleshy face that was dark with stub-
ble, the cabbie received the officers ner-
vously.

“What’s wrong? Somebody lose some-
thing in my cab?”

“No,” Griggs said. “We’re here for

information. You drove somebody out to-

Teunis street around two o'clock this
morning, didn’t you?”

The cabbie shook his uncombed head.
“T didn’t drive anybody there at that
time.” |

“Don’t try any lies on us, mister,”
Griggs said, “or you'll regret it. We know
from your own report slips that you
went to that address this morning. Now,
give with the right answers. Who did
you drive there?”

“Look,” the driver said, “I’m telling it
to you straight. I didn’t say I didn’t go
there. I say I didn’t drive anybody there
at two o’clock like you say.

“Look. A few minutes before two
o’clock I get a call to come pick some-
body up there. I go right away—alone.
I pick up a lady, take her to a corner

downtown on Broadway, then drive her
back home. That’s all, see?”

The detectives nodded. They saw
something wrong with their picture of
Mrs. Antonio.

“Did she go anywhere when “you
dropped her on Broadway?” Herzog
queried eagerly.

“No. She went over to two men who
were standing against a building. She
talked a few minutes with them, then
came back into my cab and I drove her
back to Teunis street.”

“Did you get a good look at the men?”

“No. I couldn't see them well because
she was standing right in front of them
and they kept their heads down.”

“Did you recognize the woman you
drove from and to Teunis street?”

“You mean, do I know her? No. I don’t
know her at all. This morning was the
first time I ever saw her.”

"THE detectives concealed their disap-
pointment. They warned the driver to
report to headquarters if he saw the
two men again.

Griggs and Herzog returned to head-
quarters and related the new develop-
ments to Fitzpatrick. The chief heard the
report grimly.

“You boys have hit on something im-
portant, something that’s downright dif-
ferent from what we’ve been figuring.
It’s hard to believe that a couple of mob-
sters would telephone Mrs. Antonio to
meet them on the street in order to tell
her Salvatore was dead and that she
should keep her mouth shut. Yet if it
wasn't that, why did she go out to see
them? I’m afraid we'll just have to make
her talk. And that goes for that woman
neighbor, too. She knows something.”

Fitzpatrick picked up a telephone to
convey the detectives’ report to the dis-
trict attorney. While waiting for the call
to go through, he explained to Griggs and
Herzog that Delaney’s men were at-
tempting to locate a dope peddler known
as Sam “Red” Faraci, who was a close
friend of Salvatore Antonio and familiar
with the latter’s doings and associates.
If anyone could tell what was behind
Antonio’s murder, the officers felt, Sam
Faraci was the man.

The conversation that followed the
next moment was brief. After Fitzpatrick
replaced the receiver, he said, “Sam
Faraci is living right here in Albany. He
hasn’t been seen in-thirty hours. His wife
doesn’t know a thing and Delaney’s men
believe her.”

Having been steadily on the go for
more than 15 hours, Herzog and Griggs
signed off until late that evening. Mean-
while day men kept the Antonio and
the neighbor woman’s houses under sur-
veillance and attempted to pick up Sam
Faraci’s trail. Other investigators were
sent to Schenectady to join the federal
men on the chance that Faraci, knowing
of his friend’s death, had taken refuge
with members of the dope ring.

Fitzpatrick remembered the casts of
the murder car’s tire prints. Whose car

made them? And who owned the knife

that helped slay Antonio?
Chief Fitzpatrick’s next move was to
visit Anna Antonio. She was shown the
knife and asked to identify it. Her face
was expressionless.
“T never saw it before.”

point
the
insid:
the c_
Re
quest
OW he
on B
Anto
Th:
she h
terro:
“a
again
about
men,
of gri
and v
hd Ga
I swe
me tc
had h
They

Faraci
strang:
ticular
“T do
I? I ha
“Do
a heav
“No.
That
aware ©
Antoni:
pattern
dope }
rounde:
narcoti
of Ant

»bush

dr or

he, cuw
picture of

vhen you
” Herzog

men who
ding. She
em, then
drove her

the men?”
‘ll because
it of them
a"

oman you
it?”

No. I don’t
g was the

eir disap-
e driver to
gaw the

to head-
vy develop-
f heard the

ething im-
nright dif-
n figuring.
yle of mob-
Antonio to
per tll
| th fe
“ee it
out to see
ve to make
1at woman
ething.”
lephone to
to the dis-
for the call
Griggs and
were at-
ler known
as a close
nd familiar
associates.
was behind
s felt, Sam

lowed the
Fitzpatrick
aid, “Sam

Ibany. He
s. His wife
aney’s men

the go for
and Griggs
ing. Mean-
ntonio and
under sur-
ck up Sam
ators were
the federal
i, knowing
ken refuge

e ercte of
Wh ar
tk fe

love was to
shown the
t. Her face

The chief pursued the question no
further. Instead, he said, “T’d like to have
a look at your car. | understand it’s out
of order.”

A look of surprise flashed across the
woman’s face. “You want to see the auto-
mobile that's in the back? What’s that
got to do—” ,

“J want to see it, that’s all,” Fitzpatrick
said flatly.

He went through the kitchen, noting
the dishes piled up in the sink and the
table still laden with left-over food. In
the garage, which was unlocked, he in-
spected the tires and the inside of the
black sedan. The examination was disap-
pointing, The tires were nowhere near
the pattern he had in the cast. Nothing
inside the car indicated a connection with
the crime.

Returning to the house, he asked the
question that was perturbing him most:
“Who were the two men you talked with
on Broadway early this morning, Mrs.
Antonio?”

The question rocked the woman as if
she had been lashed by a whip. Fear and
terror appeared in her eves.

“I advise you not to attempt to lie
again,” Fitzpatrick said. “We know all
about your cab ride to meet those two
men, If you want to save yourself a lot
of grief you'll tell me who those men are
and what you talked about.”

“II don't know who those men are.
I swear I don’t. They called up and told
me to meet them there, that something
had happened to Salvatore. I met them.
They told me to keep my mouth shut, to
say nothing to nobody.”

“You mean they warned you against
talking about your husband’s connection
with the dope ring?”

“I don’t know of any—”

Something in Fitzpatrick’s gaze caused

her to break the sentence. “Yes,” she

said huskily. “They didn’t want me to
talk about his business or tell any names.”

“Then you know who killed your hus-
band, Mrs. Antonio?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know who killed
him. I don’t know why he was killed.”

“You won't have anything to fear if
you'll help us get the men who killed him,”
the chief said. “You should at least be
able to give me a description of those men
you met this morning.”

Mrs. Antonio shook her head. “I’m
afraid I can’t. I was nervous and sick
when I met them. They had their hats
pulled down and their coat collars up
so I couldn't see their faces. They were
tall men, with broad shoulders.”

“Did you recognize their voices?”

“No. I never heard them before.” -

“I see.” Fitzpatrick’s face was grim.
“You do remember that your husband
was a very good friend of a man named
Sam Faraci, don’t you?”

Mrs. Antonio nodded. “Yes, I remem-
ber him. He was a good friend of Sal-
vatore’s. He would do anything in the
world for him.”

“Perhaps, but do you know where
Faraci is now? He’s disappeared, and it’s
strange that he should do so at this par-
ticular time.”

“TI don’t know where he is. Why should
I? I haven't seen him in a long time.”

“Do you know if Faraci owns a car;

a heavy car?”

“No. I’ve never seen him drive one.”

That evening Fitzpatrick was made
aware that the murder case of Salvatore
Antonio was running away from the usual
pattern of gang killings. Schenectady
dope peddlers, big and small, were
rounded up and questioned by police and
narcotic agents as to their knowledge

of Antonio’s death. Investigations of the

men arrested were launched. They failed
to reveal the usual leads and possibilities
that generally crop up in the general run
of gangland assassinations.

When Detectives Griggs and Herzog
reported for duty they found a weary,
sleepless chief pondering the disconcert-
ing lack of progress on the dope ring
angle. Nothing, thus far obtained from all
those arrested and questioned by state
police, had revealed any murder motive.

“Faraci might know something,” Griggs
ventured. “What’s behind his disappear-
ance?”

“I don’t know. According to his wife,
he went away at least fourteen hours
before Antonio was bumped off. Where
he went is still a mystery.”

“Perhaps another visit to Mrs. Faraci
would help,” Herzog suggested. “Also, a
visit to that neighbor woman, Even
though she and her husband have a good
reputation in town, she knows something
about this case.”

It was 8 o'clock when the sleuths rang
the Antonio neighbor’s bell. They were
admitted into the living room by the
woman's husband, who impressed the de-
tectives with his serious manner.

“She told me all about your questions,”
he said amiably, “and although I don’t
blame her for feeling embarrassed, I told
her she should have—”

At this point his wife came into the
room, her cheeks once again turning red,
her eyes avoiding the sleuths. She said
huskily, sitting down beside her husband,
“I suppose my husband told you—”

“No,” Griggs said. “But I-suggest you
tell us now yourself. Suppressing any-
thing that has a bearing ona murder in-
vestigation may lead to trouble.”

“Oh, but I don’t know whether this
has anything to do with her, husband’s
death or not.”

“Suppose we be the judge of that.
What is it?”

The woman’s cheeks reddened even
more. She looked appealingly at her hus-
band. When he nodded silently, she said
hesitantly, “Well, it—it’s something I
saw several weeks ago. I was upstairs in
the bedroom in the rocker by the window.
It was about five o’clock and I saw Mrs.
Antonio and another man, both of them
nude, in her bedroom and—and—”

“Ever see the man before?” Herzog
said quickly.

“No.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“No. I left the window the minute I saw
what I did.”

“How do you know the man wasn’t
Mr. Antonio?”

“Because I saw Mr. Antonio leave the
house several hours before in his car.”

THANKING the couple, the detectives
left and made for Faraci’s house, their
minds teeming with questions. Was the
motive for Antonio’s death linked with
his wife’s unfaithfulness? Had he dis-
covered his wife's treachery and in turn
been killed by his wife’s lover? If this
theory was correct, why had the slayer
gone to the extreme of using a gun and
a knife?

“Two guys did that gun and knife job,”
Griggs said with certainty. “The question
is how do two guys figure in on a love or
jealousy motive?”

Mrs. Faraci heard the officers’ questions
gravely but declared herself in ignorance
of her husband’s whereabouts and asso-
ciates.

“Did he go away with anybody in a
heavy automobile?” Griggs asked.

The woman pondered the question. She
said she did not know and suggested the

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‘@officers ask Vincent Saetta, who lived on
* Columbia street. Saetta owned a heavy
car and was friendly with Faraci.

At the Saetta residence, Mrs. Saetta,
her face lined with concern, said her hus-
band had gone off early the evening be-
fore with Sam Faraci in Saetta’s car and
had not yet returned.

“Where does your husband park his
car when he’s home?” Herzog queried.

The woman pointed toward the back
yard. With her permission, the detectives
went to the yard and inspected the soil.

Griggs whistled abruptly and gripped
his partner’s arm.

“Identical!” he exclaimed. “If Saetta’s
car isn’t the one that took Antonio for
a ride, I'll eat my hat. Saetta and Faraci
are the guys we want—and for more than
mere questioning.”

Action following this discovery was
swift. A check of the motor vehicle bu-
reau’s records revealed Vincent Sactta’s
Oldsmobile plate numbers. Immediately
a description of the car, the owner and
the plate numbers were broadcast over
the state-wide teletype system. Compari-
sons of the cast prints and those taken
from the. Saetta soil definitely clinched
the fact that Saetta’s car had made the
prints at the crime scene.

Mrs. Antonio was taken into custody
and questioned about Saetta, Faraci and
the man reputed to be her lover. She tear-
fully denied any knowledge of Saetta or
Faraci, as far as their connection with
the crime was concerned. She knew them
only as friends of her husband and could
not understand their motive for killing
him. At the same time, she vehemently
denied having a lover, insisting that she
had been true to her husband. But when
told of what the neighbor had witnessed,
her olive skin flushed a dark red.

“It’s a lie!” she cried angrily.

“You were seen and the witness saw
the man and identified him. We know
who he is, so it makes little difference
whether you talk or not,” she was told.

‘THE woman suddenly looked faint.
The color in her pinched face faded.

“Why did he kill Salvatore?” Fitz-
patrick demanded, taking advantage of
the ruse’s effect. “It wasn’t a gang killing
at all, was it?”

Anna Antonio refused to utter another
word.

Fitzpatrick and the district attorney,
baffled as they were by the woman's
silence and the shield she erected to pro-
tect the man believed to be her lover,
at first considered her illicit love affair as
something only incidental to the major
issue that involved only Faraci and Saetta
as Salvatore Antonio’s executioners. Why
two friends of the victim should suddenly
turn against him was still to be answered.

But during the review of the investiga-
tion reports the accumulated facts on
Mrs. Antonio’s background began to
assume an entirely different meaning.
They were flexible facts and they could
mean things other than what Mrs.
Antonio had meant them to mean.

What proof was there other than Mrs.
Antonio’s word that she had been sum-
moned to Broadway by a telephone mes-
sage from two strange men who wanted
to tell her about her husband’s death?
Why could not Mrs, Antonio have been
expecting such a call, knowing her hus-
band was going to be killed? What better
subterfuge could she have used to protect
herself than the lie that gunmen had
warned her to keep her mouth shut? It
fitted in perfectly with her husband's
background and was perfectly possible
for police to believe. Why could not

Faraci and Saetta have been the two
men who telephoned her? -

Faraci and Saetta, then, had to be ar-
rested before these questions could be
answered in terms of conclusive facts.

As the detectives and Fitzpatrick were
scanning the records of the two fugitives,
Griggs pointed to Faraci’s photograph.

“Take a look at the guy’s hair. It’s red
and curly and well groomed, and his mug
is handsome, too. I wonder if Mrs.
Antonio wouldn't have fallen for a guy
like that.” :

“It’s possible,” the chief said, “but we'll
have to get that from Faraci himself, or
from Mrs. Antonio.”

The phone at Fitzpatrick’s elbow rang.
The chief answered it. His face lighted up
as he listened. Then, with a_ hearty,
“Thanks a million,” he dropped the re-
ceiver back onto its hook,

“They're in the bag,” he exclaimed jubi-
lantly. “Faraci and Saetta were just
arrested in Poughkeepsie by a cop who
spotted their plates. Troopers are bring-
ing them back here now.”

Hours later handsome Sam Faraci and
sharp-eyed, big-mouthed Vincent Saetta
were back in Albany, circled by city and
county detectives and troopers. Defiant
and without fear, they denied knowing

anything about Antonio’s death. They |

offered alibis that fell to pieces when
checked.

“No use stalling any more,” Fitzpatrick
warned, “Your lies won't save you. Mrs.
Antonio is here and we know that vou
two telephoned her that you had killed
her husband. We know, too, Faraci, that
Mrs. Antonio was seeing a certain man
when her husband wasn’t home. We have
a witness who saw her and a man with
red hair—very much like yours—making
love one evening several weeks ago. We
know a lot more, so quit your lying.”

The two prisoners wilted. ~

“All right, I'll talk,” Faract said, wiping
the perspiration from his face with the
sleeve of his jacket. “But it’s not what
you think. I wasn’t in love with Mrs.
Antonio. She made me—us—a_ proposi-
tion. She said her husband was insured
for more than five thousand dollars and
that she would give Saetta and me eight
hundred dollars apiece if we got rid of
him. I didn’t want to do it but she kept
talking about the eight hundred dollars
until we said all right and promised t
kill Salvatore. ;

“We knew where Salvatore was going
when he left the house Sunday evening
and we met him outside of Albany. He
had some drinks with us and. we offered
to drive him where he had to go. We
went with him. He finished his business
and then we started to drive him back
here. But when we got near Albany,
Saetta turned the car around and stopped
off the road. We told Salvatore he was
going to die. I pulled out the knife and
Saetta the gun and we gave it to him.
We left him in the middle of the road
and drove away.

“A couple of hours later, we called
up Mrs. Antonio and told her that he was
dead and that we wanted fhe money. She
told us to go X\way, thaf the police had
been to her houve.”

Faraci, Saetta ayd
quickly indicted fo
husband. A fgw mo
on trial betote €
Gallup and were fg

Mrs. Antonio were
he murder of her
s later they went
* Judge Earl M.
ruilty of murder
p sentence was’
death in the electric chaif.

On Aug. 9, 1934, \Mrs. Antonio, the first
woman since Ruth\Snyger to die in Sing
Sing’s eléctric chair, Went to her doom,
with her Rsromprces, Faraci and Saetta.

omen

him a clue—_
ceeded to che
Wilson hu:
tion and wal} |
surprising the
I want to che |
stand outdoo:
your door clo.
I want you t
one by one.”
a few minute:
place.
“Okay,” he's
The man’s {
mark. “Let me |
“What’s it all
Wilson laug
important,” hi
to find out wl
been touched,
“But how or
Wilson laug
he said. “But
that your cas}
noise—those b
can hear them
the street. ¢
‘ robbed this pl
and he wasn't

anybody heari:

curious about
that hour of tl

Wilson was > |

as he walked d
did he now knc
ber was someo
with Burger’s
in which busin

cigar store, bu

murderer knev

could be hear —

stamped him a
use an equival
his trail effectiy
when the ‘chief
calls to people +
had been friend:
one who knew
Burger’s called

HEN Wilso:

tacting seve:
were usually on
Adrian at night,
job to gather a !
acquaintances. V
man of voting a;
minutes he was
a pleasant, casuz
someone who hz
store the night
10 o’clock.

He made sevei
got results. Wh
ing, he hung up:
stand. On the v
facts that he had

A friend of Bi
the cigar store a
hour when there
people on the str«
a stranger in fré
young, sallow 1
stood in the door
about 22 years olc
viously nervous.
had seen him ha
that he had just

The chief now
somewhere. He }
killer, an approxi
der, and a hunch

wow

MEDIA ACCOUNT OF TRIAL:

SWS SY SEK WO ne,
QRONGANENT GF CNET ERES NO GSMA

iroaseN, y ASS SSOWUD TRG Quan CONSCIENCE OR,
3S. ak OF “a, ae erent OF ONAL
@A AWS. REBg “¥ ADA VS GOVT

ANESEON GOR ine, CKERCIER
TAR eS Kote mgrag Se
MEDIA ACCOUNT OF EXECUTION:
CELSAA SAVER, LORS SOREL Gene Rye ces

NS SIV \

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BRCAQ ED: WE Raory PRS.
RNRESTIROCSTQQ Ae ee -

PERIOD OF INCARCERATION ‘
ND snos.

STAYS OF EXECUTION. © ee Behan

Nase fo 4, pelosi AND u54
EXECUTIONER 41° 4-0). irrory
LT '- lw
WITNESSES ° ”

SEALER Toc Gaeuy RAR 9

LAST WORDS | iene i
SRE REMANCEDS TALE @ PRAUEDS Pe See ce? CONS
OTHER INFORMATION

SON PRSAMHOR Qeatn HER “BG. ald ean WES Allard

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PLAM YT METS DO
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SESS LOTTO) SMOGTES

NEW YORK TIMES, August 9, 193).

Ml the News That's

- Fit to

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FIGHT

to Make
to Have
amed.

N RADIO

apable of
hilds
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>f enactment

the present

27,956.

Print.”

British Consal Reports
‘Change’ in Dollar Motto

Wireless to Tas New Yore Tiss.
LONDON, Aug. 8.—Sir Gerald
Campbell, the British Consul
General to New York, amused a
‘meeting of the North American
Luncheon Club here today by re-
lating that in the United States

he had heard it humorously sug- .

gested that the motto “In God
We Trust’ on the dollar should
be changed to “I Hope that My
Redeemer Liveth.”

Sir Gerald, who returned to
London recently to be elevated to
the knighthood, quoted this bon
mot to show that the business
men of the United States were
keeping their sense of humor de-

_epite the depression.

MRS, ANTONIO'TO DIE}

IN CHAIR TONIGHT

Woman, 3 Times Reprieved,
Loses Last Legal Move—
~ Only Hope Is in Governor. .

SHE IS STUNNED BY NEWS

Two Accomplices in Murder of
.Her Husband Also Face
Execution of Sentence. .

Mrs. Anna Antonio, 28-year-old
mother of three children, and the
two men convicted as her accom-
plices, must. die tonight in the elec-
tric chair at Sing Sing unless Gov-
ernor Lehman again intervenes on
their behalf. The men are Vincent
Saetta and Samuel Feraci.

‘Thrice saved from the chair by
executive clemency, the three, were
notified in the death house yester
day afternoon that Supreme Court
Justice O.
Elizabethtown, N. Y., had refused
a@ second plea for a new trial for
Mrs. Antonio.

“T have taken no action,” was the
only comment the Governor would
make last night at Albany, when
questioned about the case. He
plans to remain in Albany today
and will be available up to the

lon nb Ono tthe acaoutiana=

Byron Brewster at}

AN TONIO (Remale), FARACI and SAETTA, whites, elec. N.
8-9-1936

Satered as Second-Ciass Matter,
Postoffice, New York, N. ¥.

Y. (Albany)

PENTHOUSE BLAST Cuba Takes Over P :

American- Ownec

KILLS A WOMAN, |
ROCKS THE VILLAGE

Nine Hurt as Gas Explosion
Atop Apartment House Is
Felt Half-Mile Away.

VICTIM'S SUICIDE IS HINTED

Divorcee Overcome by Fumes
_ First, Inquiry Indicates—
Debris Rains in Street.

A mysterious gas explosion at
noon yesterday blew out the walls
of a seventeenth-floor penthouse
atop 45 Christopher Street, in the
heart of Greenwich Village, shook

| buildings within a half-mile radius,

killed one woman, caused injuries
to nine other persons and brought
physical shock to hundreds.

For several minutes. after the
blast plate and window glass, frag-
merits of Venetian blinds and bits
of brick and mortar rained down
on Sheridan Square just east. of
Seventh Avenue—the building is be-
tween Seventh Avenue and Waverly
Place—covering the pavements with
débris. :

The woman killed was Mrs. Jean-
nette Bair, 30 years old, of 315 West
Ninety-ninth Street, who had. been
divorced four months ago from
Leigh J. Bair, an insurance broker.
She was employed by Bing & Bing,
Inc., as renting agent for the Chris-
topher Street apartment house. .

Nine Injured Slightly. -
The injured, none of whom went

to a huspital, were:

LOUIS SOBOL, 37, newspaper columnist,
who has a duplex apartment in the pent-
house. He was thrown from & couch and

_ @ut on the right leg..

Mrs. LUCY POLIGNANI, tenant on the

eighth floor, injured Pie soine falling Ob-.

ject in her apartment.

Mrs. BETTY COLLINS, third-floor eeprbe
bruised when thrown from & chair ia her
apartment.

VINCENT BONAVIA, seventh-floor tenant,
diown through bathroom door, spratning
hands and knees..

ETHEL JACKSON, 6 “maid fn. one of the

thouse apartments, huried .through
athroom door; bruised.

Mise MARGARST =fmoater si 0, of 38

Christopher Street, showereé with falling

glass.
Mise PEGGY WILSON, 16, of 30 Caristo-

Onsts

the Manager i in Move te Ren

bat Pledges Responsibility fer
Sabotage and Interference ¥

By J. D. PE

ees i Bpectal Cable to THB
HAVANA, Aug. 8.—The Cubdan
Government took over late this
afternoon the Cuban Telephone
Company, an affijiate of the Inter-
nattonal Telephone and Telegraph
Company, as a result of the diffti-
culties between the company. and

government has failed to settle.
Eduardo I. Montoulieu, who was
appointed supervisor of the com-
pany’s affairs by a decree on July,
24, which ordered the company to
reinstate all the employes who had
been ‘working on Feb. 20, assumed
the managership $f the company
today. He relieved H. C. Hart, vice
president and general manager,
who was forced to resign under
government pressure.
The government representatives
officially took charge and started
operation of the company in the

its striking employes which the}mer

presence of Ellis Briggs, second |:
secretary of the United States Em-|

bassy, labor representatives, com-
pany officials and Colonel Fulgencio
Batista, chief of staff of the army.

The government is assuming full

§{39795372 BUDGET |0

Tentative Figure, $3,184,59| coll

Over Last Year’s, Restores
_ Some Jobs and Classes.

CALLED: LOWEST POSSIBLE] TF

No Summer Course Provided—| Po

Civic Groups Invited to Pub- |

lic Hearing Tomorrow.
ag "B66 =

The tentative budget estionate ot |

FIXED FOR SCHOOLS

the Board of Education. for 1935 to-/ 0°

| the younger of
iree already, and
if anything goes

‘oaxed the engine
Not until they
side of the river
man next speak.
v1 wear?” he sud-

ii,” said Monick.
.s the demand.

nded it over, and
ok off his helmet.
bandage covering

he said as he
is head. “I can’t

o Manhattan at a

unmen gave orders
Vith the mobsters
\fonick was forced
iy, towards Times
hey passed a half

en, but little did

the bland looking

the truck were the

of the Brooklyn
ing for weeks.
i2nd Street. The
} with homeward-
who surged in a
subway entrances.
one of the bandits
he eollar. “Come
t going.”
1 the driver.

answer. Instead
ad of him into the
rong managed to
‘kman’s baek, un-

observed by the scores of pedestrians
around them.

Downstairs they went, through the
subway turnstiles to the Brooklyn plat-
form. Monick was perspiring as_ they
Squeezed him into an express train, to
a spot near the door. Not until they
reached 14th Street did the gunmen
make a move. Then Monick was given
a sudden shove that sent him sprawling
to the platform, just as the doors closed
and the train got under way.

Dazedly he realized that bis ordeal was
over and that he was free at last. Hurry-
ing uptown, he found his truck parked
sifely where he had left it. Then he
drove to the West 47th Street Precinct
house to report to the desk sergeant
the story of his kidnaping and release.

INCE an alarm had already gone out
on the double murder, the matter was

immediately referred to the Brooklyn |

Detective Division where Captain Daniel
Carey of the 7th District soon gleaned
from Monick a description of the three
men. When he heard that one man had
been bandaged behind the ear, he ques-
tioned the truckman closely about the
exact position of the bandage, and as
Monick demonstrated, Carey realized
that the gunman had probably recently
recovered from a mastoid operation.
Aside from this, there was not much
to go on. The getaway car which had
been wrecked in the snowbank had_al-
rendy been examined and was found to
have been stolen from William Luxem-
berg on January Ist, while the license
plates were from another vehicle stolen
on that same date. Thus, although fin-
gerprint smudges were found on the

steering wheel, the identity of the hood-
ed mobsters remained a mystery, for the
patterns could not be traced to any of
the police records available at Head-
quarters. With the murders of Mullarky,
Kitzman and Mrs. Betsch now definitely
linked to the same terrorists, all avail-
able men were thrown into the manhunt.
But try as they might, the authorities
drew nothing but blanks.

Weeks passed and leads dwindled to
an insignificant trickle. Then the masked
trio struck—in a totally unexpected di-
rection at Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Towards noon on Saturday, May 8th,
the hoodlums burst in on the A & P
store at 118 Magazine Street, near Cen-
tral Square in that famous university
town. Approaching on the run, the lead-
ing man swung bis gun at the manager’s
head, sent him spinning to the floor,
while eager hands attacked the cash
drawer, stuffed the contents into a leath-
er satchel. Then, as quickly as they had
come, the trio made off.

When the dazed manager regained his
feet, he found that they had already

vanished, and so swiftly had they made:

their departure that no one could be
found who recalled either their car or
its license number.

Called to the scene, Boston police offi-
cials listened grimly as the storekeeper
described the method of attack.

“Sounds like the masked bandits that
have been giving them so much trouble
in New York since the first of the year,”
they agreed, and the upshot was that a
five-state alarm was sent over the net-
work of wire facilities, warning all offi-
cers to be on the alert for a fast speeding
ear, bearing three men, and probably

carrying New York license tags. “Use
care in apprehension,” was the laconic
note at the end.

At one o’clock in the morning on May
9th, Motorcycle Patrolman Amos R. An-
derson, who is now a Lieutenant, of
Darien, Connecticut, had parked his ma-
chine by the curb at Main Street and
the Boston Post Road, and was talking
to a friend about major league pennant
prospects, when from the distance came ©
the highpitched sound of a racing auto-
mobile. Instinctively, Anderson turned
to see what was coming.

Ov of the night, two circles of light
bore down upon him, and a mo-
ment later « Buick coupe sped into view.

Anderson, who was on the alert for
rum-running suspects, cut short his con-
versation. “I don’t like their looks,” he
said, as with a swift motion of his foot,
he pushed his motorcycle away from the
curb. Pointing the wheel down the road,
he gave the accelerator grip a. hard twist
to the right and the motor roared in
response.

Fast as the coupe was going, Ander-
son drove his machine still faster, and
slowly the distance between them nar-
rowed. Less than a mile away, he came
abreast, motioned the driver to pull to
the side of the road.

At his command, the car slowed, came
to a stop.

Anderson swung off his machine, cas-
ually approached. Inside the coupe, three
pairs of eyes bored into him.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, folding
his driving gauntlets. He came up close,
put one foot on the running board, and
looked into the (Continued on page 92)

(Left to right) Kasimir Bar-
seck, William Barseck and
their companion in crime,
John Maxwell, try to evade
the searching questions of
District Attorney C. J. Dodd

Sa ahi al YA

Case of the Hooded Three

driver’s face. The latter stared back
coldly. “We've been to a party—we're
lute getting home.” He went on to ex-
plain that they were married men and
<a hoped the officer would under-
stand.

Anderson studied them. As he did so,
he saw protruding from the seat cushion
the tooled butt of what seemed to be a
black automatic. He gave no sign that he
noticed it, however. “Well,” he said. “I
guess you fellows are all right. Sorry I
troubled you.”

With that he turned his back on the
trio. Not until he reached his motor-
cycle did he make a move. Then with a
quick gesture, he turned the headlight full
into their eyes, and at the same time
whipped his own revolver from its holster.

“Hands up and keep ’em up!” was his
crisp command.

Be ORE the effect of his surprise move
wore off, he was back at the coupe.
pressing the cold muzzle of his pistol
against the driver’s skull. “One false move
and I'll kill this man,” he announced.
Then, using the driver as hostage, he made
the others get out of the car, and stand
with upraised arms while he relieved them
of the guns which they carried in shoulder
holsters.

“Now.” he said, when he had deposited
no tess than four guns in the saddle-bag
of his motoreyele, “we'll take a little
ride down to Headquarters.”

Although outnumbered three to one,
Anderson did not hesitate to enforce his
will upon his captives, and five minutes
later, the coupe with the prisoners arrived
at Darien Police Headquarters where Cap-
tain Harry C. Smith, who was in charge
of the night force took them in hand.

To a man, the trio denied any connec-
tion with criminal activities, but the dis-
covery of a leather satchel ended all dis-
cussion. Inside were not only cash and
currency in wrappers, but a handful of
checks drawn on Cambridge banks, made
payable to the Magazine Street A & P
store. But even more incriminating were
three flesh-colored masks found beneath
the front seat of the car, for the Con-
necticut police had been advised’ before-
hand concerning the hooded terrors.

Word of the arrest was flashed to New
York, and Brooklyn District Attorney
Charles J. Dodd, with Inspector John D.
Coughlin, Captain John Lyons, and De-
tectives John Cordes, Edward Tracy, and
Joseph Daly sped to Darien to question
the trio who had admitted their identity
as Kasimir and William Barseck, brothers,

Kasimir Barseck, one of the hooded
, three

(Continued from page 47)

and John Maxwell.

It, was Captain Lyons who spotted the
first interesting clue. Looking over Max-
well he noticed that the latter had a
series of newly healed scars behind his
left ear, at the very spot where, according
to the reports, the gunman who had
changed hats with Monick, had been
bandaged.

Then Cordes, who was looking over the
weapons taken from the trio, found that
two were foreign-made sutomaties, 1
Mauser and a .765 Walthers.

Now the reason for the prisoners’ stolidly
maintained silence was more apparent, and
after a conference with the Boston police
over the telephone, it was decided to re-
move the captives to New York. Accord-
ingly, the transfer was soon under way,
and by the time the officers reached the
city they had succeeded in learning from
their charges, the location of their hide-
out, which they admitted was in a rooming
house at 937 Jefferson Avenue. Here two
more guns were picked up by Detective
Cordes.

Then the witnesses were brought in, and
it was really they who clinched the case.
Unerringly Monick picked out the mob-
slers from u group which included a dozen
other prisoners. Next a check on hospital
records was undertaken, and it was found
that) Maxwell had been discharged from
the Manhattan lye and War Infirmary a
weck before the outbreak of the first
shooting in January. As a result, the trio
were soon locked up in Raymond Street
Jail to await trial on charges of first
degree murder.

Ordinarily the prospect of a possible
death penalty is sufficient to subdue even
the most recalcitrant hoodlum. Not so
with the Barsecks and their pal Maxwell,
however. Within a week, Kasimir, who
was the oldest, was plying a short-term
prisoner who worked in the kitchen with
questions about the layout of exits and
stairways.

So persistent was he, that the short-
termer grew suspicious. “Say, what’s the
idea of trying to pump me like that?” he
demanded.

Kasimir studied him for a moment. “You
look straight,” he replied. “I'll tell you
what we'll do. “If you’ll show us the way,
we'll take you with us when we crash out.”

He went on to explain that they had
friends on the outside who were going to
enter the main gate on the pretext of
offering $2,000 cash bail for some minor
prisoners. Once inside they would shoot
the keepers at the gate and the bull pen.

“At the same time,” explained Barseck,
“we'll be sawing our way out with hack-
suw blades, and we can rush the head
keeper when he comes to the kitchen to
feed the fire room force. This will give
us the keys and the way will be clear.”

It was a fantastically bold plot con-
ceived in desperation. The kitchen worker
promised to think it over. But after
sleeping on the matter he decided that it
would be foolhardy to go through with it,
and before twenty-four hours passed he
revealed what he had learned to Warden
Harry Honeck.

Immediately the latter took the precau-
tion of throwing an extra police cordon
about the gates, and the practise of allow-
ing bail to be posted during the night after
night court had closed was discontinued.

The first intimation that the Barsecks
had that their scheme had collapsed came
when a group of determined looking guards
routed them from their adjoining cells,
slapped them into solitary confinement on

William Barseck

the upper tier, while the hacksaw blades
which they had accumulated at so great an
effort were quickly confiscated from. the
mattresses where they had been hidden.

Realizing that the desperate nature of
the accused made speedy disposition of
the charges imperative, District Attorney
Dodd's staff worked overtime, and after
securing a Grand Jury indictment, ar-
ranged for trial during the first week of
June before Supreme Court Justice
Stephen Gallaghan,

‘There was little that the mobsters could
offer in the way of defense, and with the
damning evidence of their abortive jail-
break against them, the verdict from the
start was «a foregone conclusion. Only
Maxwell protested, when called before the
bar, he was asked whether he had any-
thing to say before sentence was pro-
nounced.

“Yes,” he replied. “I do not think I
have been given justice. The evidence
was not convincing.”

The Judge looked at him sternly, “You
murdered in cold blood. You will have to
pay the penalty.” Thereupon he pro-
nounced the death sentence.

Fok a year the trio were held in Sing
Sing Prison awaiting the Court of Ap-
peals review of their case. When the deci-
sion went against them, they managed to
start the first hostile demonstration in the
death house in its history. Banging on the
bars of their cells with their tin plates,
they jeered at the guards and attempted
to incite the other inmates to mutiny.
Then Warden Lewis E. Lawes took a hand,
Although he is noted for his humane treat.
ment, there is nothing sentimental or soft
about his attitude towards those who de-
liberately violate disciplinary rules, and at
once he took measures which promptly
restored order.

“They had high ideas,” he said later, in
commenting upon the incident.

Inexorably the brief span of life allotted
to the killers by law approached its end,
and on the 7th of September, the prepara-
tions for that grimmest of all prison
routines, the electrocution, had been com-
pleted.

Slim, sandy-haired William Barseck was
the first to meet his doom, and he was
followed the same night by his brother
and John Maxwell. The Law had its final

say.

Her command meant death—they had no
course pwd J obey.
ea

QUEEN OF THE DEADLY DRONES
in next month's TRUE DETECTIVE

TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

started |
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making
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for mur
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proved tu
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worth!

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size eight:

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of silk for
you sent i
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“scientist”
method of «
turn for a do
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make exact d
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originals an!
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NOVEMBER, 1!

BARSCZYOUK, Casimer & William and MAXWELL, John, whitesge=
elec. NYSP (Kings) December 9,5 1926 REE

THREE TICKETS

“NEW persons hurried along the
streets of Brooklyn, New York, that
cold night of February 13.

Inside the grocery on Lee avenue, a
lone clerk, dark-haired young Albert
Galden, stood at the cash register count-
ing the day's receipts before closing up.
Behind him, a clock on the wall pointed
to 8:45.

Golden looked up abruptly as two slim
young men flung open the front door and
strode toward him. Their wide-brimmed
felt hats were pulled low over their eyes
and their hands were thrust deep into
the pockets of their black overcoats. The
taller ot the two halted midway to the
back of the store and turned to keep his
gaze on the door. The other man walked
up to Golden and pulled out a small-
caliber blue-steel revolver.

“Put up your hands!” he said. The
clerk quickly obeyed.

Slipping behind the counter, his gun
held on the clerk, the robber scooped up
the bills and coins from the register
drawer. Then, scowling in dissatisfac-
tion, he demanded: “Where’s the rest ?”

“That’s all I’ve got, except for some
checks!” said Golden earnestly. ‘“T don’t
suppose you'd want those.”

For answer, the gunman struck the
clerk in the face with the barrel of his re-
volver.

At this instant a small, gray-haired
woman appeared in the front doorway.
She was 63-year-old Mrs. Mary Betsch,
who lived around the corner.

“Can IT still get some butter?” she
called out cheerily to Golden. Then her
expression changed as she became aware
that a robbery was in progress. Bravely,
she turned to go out and give the alarm.

Two shots roared from the other rob-
ber’s gun. Struck in the back, the victim’s
frail body contorted in pain. With a
moan, she slumped to the floor.

“Come on!” shouted her assailant to
the first gunman. “Take that money and
let's get out of here—fast !”

Their faces white, the robbers ran to
the door and out into the street. At the

At the entrance to the Brooklyn, N. Y.,
grocery, arrow below, bandits shot down
a woman victim. The leader killed a man
a short distance away during the flight.

By DAVID ROBINSON GEORGE

ture was a fatal one. A moment later
there was a spurt of flame. She stag-
gered, and fell without a sound.

A second later, the trio streaked from
the store, and niade for their car. As
it got under way, the man with the
aviator helmet smashed the rear win-
dow, thrust his gun muzzle through the
opening, and raked the street with fire
to discourage pursuit.

The car gathered speed quickly, and
was darting along at a fast clip, when
at Lynch Street the driver attempted
to take the turn short. There was a
squeal of protest from the tires, followed
by the high-pitched sound of a skid.
Across the intersection, completely out.
of control, spun the car, and a moment
later it sideslipped into a snowbank.

As one man, the three bandits hit the
street, guns flourishing.

Approaching the corner of Lynch
Street was a taxicab driven by Samuel
Kitzman, with nineteen-year-old Marie
Davis, a passenger. As it came near the
snowbank, the man with the flying hel-
met jumped on the running board.

“Stop!” he commanded, while from
the other side two more men jumped
aboard and began to crowd the driver.

“What’s the matter with you guys?”
flared Kitzman. “Can’t you sce I’ve got
a passenger?”

“You'll take us, too, or you'll be a
dead chauffeur,” snarled the man on the
right

Kitzman laughed, reached out a hand
to shove the intruder away. “Quit,
kid—” he began, but he never finished
the sentence. A moment later there was
a spurt of orange flame above his car,
and he dropped forward over the whee!

Terrified by the scene she had just wit-
nessed, the passenger collapsed, and the
taxi lurched into a line of parked cars.

Two murders within five minutes on
the same avenue set the entire vicinity
into an uproar. Down the road came a
truck drived by Harry Monick. Going
at a slow pace due to the snowy ground,

_he approached the Lynch Street corner.

There was a taxi cab stalled ahead, and
as he swerved to pass it, he heard some
one yell: “Stop them!”

E looked around to see a man spring
to the side of the compartment. He
was wearing a flying helmet and he held
a gun in his hand. “Keep going,” he or-
dered. At the same moment two men
jumped aboard on ‘the opposite side.
Hemmed in by the trio, who had now
discarded their masks, Monick blinked,
swallowed hard. If any one had told him
that such a hectic scene could be en-
acted on the streets of Brooklyn, he
would have laughed in scorn. Yet here
he was in the very midst of melodra-
matic events, and as he realized that he
was in the hands of desperate men, he
decided to obey orders. He drove through
back streets to Williamsburg Bridge.
“Ts this as fast as you can go?” they
demanded as the truck began to labor
up the incline toward the center of the
span. Monick’s answer was to step on
the accelerator pedal until it} touched
the floorboard. The truck motor re-
sponded with a cough.

(Below) Patrolman Amos R. Anderson, of
Darien, Connecticut (now a Lieutenant),
captured the trio singlehanded in a
daring surprise move with his motorcycle

tbat HE ede

“Don’t stall,” warned the younger of
the trio. “We finished three already, and
you'll be number four if anything goes
wrong.” ;

Monick bit his lip, coaxed the engine
to maximum speed. Not until they
neared the Manhattan side of the river
did the helmeted gunman next. speak.
“What size cap do you wear?” he sud-
denly asked.

“Seven and one half,” said Monick.

“Give it to me,” was the demand.

The truck driver handed it over, and
noticed as the man took off his helmet
that he had a strip of bandage covering
the back of his ear.

“This will do fine,” he said as he
slipped the cap on his head. “I can’t
fool around buying one.”

The truck rolled into Manhattan at a
steady pace, and the gunmen gave orders
to proceed uptown. With the mobsters
pressing close to him, Monick was forced
to drive up Broadway, towards Times
Square. On the way they passed a half
dozen traffic policemen, but little did
any one realize that the bland looking
individuals seated in the truck were the
killers for whom most of the Brooklyn
force had been searching for weeks.

Soon they reached 42nd Street.. The
sidewalk was thronged with homeward-
bound office workers who surged in a
thick tide toward the subway entrances.
As the truck stopped, one of the bandits
grabbed Monick by the collar. “Come
on,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

“Where?” demanded the driver.

The gunman did not answer. Instead
he pushed Monick ahead of him into the
crowd, and in the throng managed to
keep a gun in the truckman’s back, un-

ne oe a ee

mn
Dete
Care
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ise and
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d Dale
August
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‘nced

: 199

March, 1935

tened “Blonde Tigress” told reporters:

“I am absolutely innocent. I have
been on other robberies but, so help me
God, I didn’t know there was going to
be a robbery that time.”

Riding in the car ahead, Minneci
was taken off at the State Penitentiary
at Joliet. He gave the conductor a
package of cigarettes for Eleanor and
said: “Tell her I’ll be seeing her.”

Maybe he will, but I doubt if it will
be on this earth. Under a life sentence
the two would be eligible for parole in
twenty years. Given 199 years they
will not be eligible for parole for sixty-
five years. Thus, should they live, they
will be free to shake hands and talk
over old times with Eleanor admitting
to the age of 94 and Leo just one year
her junior.

EGAL maneuvers gave George Dale

an existence of a sort beyond the
October date set by the court, but the
day of reckoning caught up with him a
few minutes after 5 o'clock the morning
of April 20th, 1934. He walked steadily
that long, long walk to the chair, and
asked no one to help until the mask
was fitted over his face. Then, he
cried: “Lord, have mercy!”

He had kept his nerve up during
those last hours in the death cell, writ-
ing letters, listening to a radio and
working a jig-saw puzzle. Just one
thing had upset him, and that was his

The Master

failure to hear from the “Tigress.” As
the end drew near with no word from
the woman he had striven so earnestly
to save, Dale commented bitterly:

“That’s the way with a lot of wo-
men!”

Then, as quickly, he tried to find
comfort for himself and an excuse for
her, by adding: “Maybe, though, it’s
just because they won’t let her write
to me.”

In any case, soon after his body had
been taken to the county morgue a
guard found a letter addressed to
Eleanor Jarman under a pillow in the
death cell. It read:

“Dear Eleanor—I just thought that I
would write you a few lines for the last
time. Don’t think I have forgotten you.
I wrote several letters before, and |
know that perhaps you didn’t receive
them and thought maybe I didn’t think
or care any more. Anyway, I hope you
have become a Christian and I wish to
thank you for all the happy moments
we have spent together. Give all my
best regards and tell the children hello
for me when you write home. | will
pray for you. Everything is fine for
me. Love to you and the boys.

GEORGE.”

Detective

There were a row of X’s after the sig-
nature—kisses from a man soon to die
to a woman condemned to living death
behind prison bars. :

Five Men for One Murder

(Continued from page 41)

lay on his cot, and dropped off into a
sound sleep.

District Attorney Whitman could not
be reached for a statement that night,
but in the morning he revealed not
only that Rose had made a full confes-
sion, but that the two other Musketeers
of Larceny Lane—Bridgey Webber and
Harry Vallon—had confessed also.
The District Attorney gave out the sub-
stance of Rose’s confession, but did not
mention the gunmen by name. He ad-
mitted, however, that Rose had named
the actual killers, and that the chauf-
feur of the murder car, William Sha-
piro, had named them too. The con-
fessions of Webber and Vallon, Mr.
Whitman said, corroborated Rose’s con-
fession on important points.

One reporter, in the midst of all the
excitement, thought to ask the District
Attorney if the Three Musketeers were,
like Becker, charged with murder. “No,”
Whitman answered, “they are not. |
am not going to seek their indictment,
for they have promised to testify
against Becker.”

Up to the time of Becker's arrest
the public believed, through reading
between the lines in the newspapers,
that the Police Lieutenant was guilty.
When, however, it was revealed that
the District Attorney was not charging
murder to the Three Musketeers, men
who by their own admission were -di-
rectly involved in the crime, the popu-
lace, or at least part of it, thought it
saw a horse of a different color. The
new sentiment was crystallized when

Hart, Becker’s lawyer, made the fol-
lowing statement the morning after
Becker was arrested:

“This whole thing is a frame-up on

Becker. Becker is no angel, but he had
nothing whatever to do with the murder
of Rosenthal. Vallon, Rose and Web-
ber saw a chance to save themselves by
throwing Becker to the wolves. They
have nothing on him but, being faced
with murder charges themselves, they
invented their stories.
“WHY, only last Thursday they were
scared to death. In the Tombs, one
of them, who figured in yesterday’s
confession, turned to a lawyer and in
the presence of the other two said:
‘My God, | can’t stand this any longer.
Why, they’re trying to send me to the
chair. Look here, just how bad do they
want Becker? What’ll they do for me
if I give him to them?’

“If Becker were the brains behind
the murder of Rosenthal, why didn’t
Rose, Webber and Vallon tell ‘all they
knew at first? Then they would have
saved themselves a lot of trouble. But
no; they waited until they thought the
public was convinced that Becker was
guilty and was ready to take their story
at one gulp.”

The hunt for the four gunmen, Dago
Frank, Gyp the Blood, Lefty Louie and
Whitey Lewis was still unproductive of
results when Sam Schepps, close friend
of Jack Rose, in whose possession had
been found incriminating letters, was
arrested in his hide-out, Hot Springs,

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Arkansas. He started back for New
York in custody of attaches of the Dis-
trict Attorney’s office. The gambler
and his captors changed trains at St.
Louis and the immaculately-attired
Schepps, as unruffled as a sheet of glass,
gave out a newspaper interview there.

“| have no opposition to Whitman
getting me,” said Schepps, “for I was
half inclined to turn myself in several
times, only I wanted to get my bear-
ings first. Take that letter that I had
written to Jack Rose, for instance, that
they got when I was arrested in the
post-office. In that, didn’t I talk of
coming in? And take that letter | had
received from Jack just before my
arrest. Why, that letter was begging
me to come in, and it was from the
best pal that I have in all the wide
world.

“‘T HAVEN'T told anything about the

night of the tragedy as_ yet,”
Schepps went on, “although I know
certain things. They haven't got me to
say Becker ordered the killing of Ros-
enthal. And | haven’t said I was in
the automobile.

“Naturally, | want to negotiate with
the District Attorney at a price that
will help me. I have certain important
things to tell, but I won’t tell them to
anybody but Whitman. If I told them
to you newspaper reporters, my story
would get to the District Attorney be-
fore | got there, and where would | be
then? What would | have to offer?”

Schepps was smiling as the train
bearing him to New York puffed out of
the terminal in the Missouri metropolis.
Half an hour before the train was due
in Albany, on the last leg of its journey
to New York, a large maroon sedan
drew up to the railroad station. Four
men with grave faces sat in the car,
waiting for the train to pull in. One
of them was District Attorney Whit-
man, the others detectives and a steno-
grapher from his office.

Whitman and his men boarded the
train when it arrived, and the District
Attorney and the stenographer went to
Schepps’ compartment where Whitman
began to question him. The question-
ing went on without interruption dur-
ing the four-hour journey down the
shores of the Hudson River to Grand
Central Terminal, New York. Only
Whitman and the stenographer were in
the compartment with Schepps. The
others stood outside in the corridor, on

uard. On the way down to New
ork the train passed Ossining, where
the great stone walls of Sing Sing Prison
reared above the Hudson’s placid blue
waters and where a grim drama was
soon to take place in this case.

Just what Schepps told Whitman be-
tween Albany and New York the Dis-
trict Attorney kept very much to him-
self. But whatever the man said was
of great significance, for Whitman had
previously announced, when making
public the fact that the Three Mus-
keteers had confessed to participation
in the crime, that Schepps was not re-
garded as an actual participant. Now,
under the rules of evidence, there had
to be some independent corroboration
of the confessions. Was Schepps going

The Master Detective

to offer such testimony? If so, the fate
of Lieutenant Becker rested in his
hands.

Whitman was in high humor when
he and his men walked through the
Grand Central train shed with the
prisoner. As the party passed through
the gates leading into the station
proper, two men from Deputy Com-
missioner Dougherty’s staff approached
and said that they had _ instructions
from their Chief to bring Schepps to
Headquarters for questioning. Whit-
man’s face grew suddenly stern. Turn-
ing to his own detectives, he said:
“Don’t permit these men to lay hands
on the prisoner. I think the Police
Department has already had enough to
do with this murder!”

Schepps was hustled off to a waiting
automobile and started for the Tombs
almost before Dougherty’s men had a
chance to realize what had taken place.

Lieutenant Charles Becker, after his
arrest in connection with the Rosen-
thal murder

In one way, Whitman’s action was
understandable. He was a thoroughly
honest man and a crusader, and he was
sincere in his war on the crooked work
that was known to exist in certain quar-
ters of the Police Department, and
was, therefore, reluctant to run the
slightest risk of anything going awry,
now that so much progress had been
made. But why he openly bucked
Deputy Commissioner Dousherty was
not so easily understood, as Dougherty,
a straight-shooter, had been the man
who had done more than anyone else to
bring the probe to the point that in-
dicated ultimate solution.

The details of the deal that the Dis-
trict Attorney had made with the Three
Musketeers were revealed by James M.
Sullivan, counsel for Rose, and his per-
sonal friend.

“I took up with Mr. Whitman the
matter of the confession by Rose a few
days ago,” said the lawyer, “and came
to a practical understanding with him.
I told him that my client would tell
all he knew if promised immunity. I
recognized that Mr. Whitman wanted
to get at the man really responsible for
the murder of Herman Rosenthal and
I explained to him the part my client
had played and how his testimony
would put the murder squarely up to
Lieutenant Becker. Mr. Whitman
asked for time to consider the matter,
and we held another conference later.”

At that conference, Max D. Steuer,
the criminal lawyer, appeared in behalf
of Webber and Vallon. The District
Attorney agreed not to seek murder in-
dictments against the Musketeers if
they confessed. Then Rose, Vallon and
Webber came through with signed state-
ments that resulted in the arrest of
Lieutenant Becker, an arrest that
would not have been possible had there
not been a “squeal.”

“Rose,” explained his counsel, “is not
a squealer in the ordinary sense of the
term. No matter how low he may be,
no matter what his crime has been, let
it be understood that he held out and
refused to entertain any proposition
for a confession until the men who
should have stuck to him deserted him.
When he found himself without friends,
without money, his family without aid
or financial assistance, he decided that
he should not be made the goat and
that those who had brought him into
this awful affair must suffer their share
if they would not help him out of it.

“I was instrumental in getting Rose
to confess, and the thanks of the com-
munity are due to District Attorney
Whitman for his persistent and unre-
lenting search for the true criminals in
this hideous murder.”

Lieutenant Becker had not been in
the Tombs twenty-four hours when the
Musketeers sent out frantic calls for
their lawyers. Steuer and Sullivan
arrived at the grim old fortress
promptly and, after a conference with
their clients, left the same way, en
route to the District Attorney’s office.

Reporters keeping an eye on every
move wondered what was in the air.
They found out when Rose, Webber
and Vallon were transferred, under
heavy guard, from the Tombs to the
more pleasant West Side Jail on West
Fifty-fourth Street; Mr. Whitman ex-

laining that the three feared for their
fives if they were incarcerated in the
same prison as Becker. Schepps went
along too.

WHATEVER belief existed that

Schepps and the Three Musketeers
were receiving favoritism at the hands
of some one in authority was not les-
sened when a morning newspaper made
an investigation of the activities of the
quartet in the West Side Jail. They had
turned the place into a veritable social
headquarters. Every comfort that
money could buy was theirs, and they
received large delegations of relatives
and friends at all hours of the day and
night, whereas other prisoners were
permitted to speak to but one person at
a time, and only during the regular
visiting hours.

Prison fare didn’t worry them in the
least. They didn’t eat it. They sent
messengers to such places as Delmon-
ico’s, Rector’s and Sherry’s for specially
prepared food. :

“It’s this way,” explained the war-
den. “They’re particular fellows, used
to the best. They seem to have plenty
of money, and if they want to buy
food in the best restaurants, why that’s
all right with me. If they don’t eat
the food we provide, the county 1s in
that much money.”

March, 1935

The tig
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I had to sénd
to stop sendi
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yer a list of s
Included were
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can’t expect n
without any b:

Fearing that
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the Musketeer
eanty terme

rison Athletic

“Y ESTERDA
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games of the ne
When she arriv:
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Pettit of Hot
Marquette Hot
had been held
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ACTING
AND W
REACH
AFTER SO
TAKE THI
RETURNIN:
YOU AND
FOR COURT
WHILE I W
CERELY Al
FAVORS A
WAY OF
THANKS U
TER EXPR
PERSON.

To Chief oft]
Hot Springs, w!
sible for Sche;
his apprehensjo)
wire:

sidered too trivial to pass on to him.
Suddenly Dougherty swung forward:

“You say Lefty Louie and Gyp the
Blood are both married.” Dougherty,
in a roving glance, took in two detec-
tives who had so reported. “Now, the
gang has probably split up for its own
safety, but, according to my way of
thinking, Louie and Gyp would be the
two who would be most likely to hide
out together. Their wives, either living
with them, or somewhere else, could run
errands for them and keep them in-
formed as to what’s going on in gen-
eral. In that way, the two men
wouldn’t have to show their faces.
Such an arrangement would be perfect
for their purposes.

“But who are the wives and what
do they look like? That’s what I want
to know. There are no records of the
marriages at the local license bureau.
They were probably performed some-
where else; either that, or the women
are common law wives. I’ve got to find
out who those women are so that |
can trail them—and it’s through trail-
ing the women that these men will
ultimately be found.”

Dougherty looked again at the two
detectives who had learned of the mar-
ital status of the gunmen. “Do you
men think that you can get that infor-
mation from the sources you have con-
tacted?” he asked. The sources in
question were stool pigeons thoroughly
acquainted with the underworld.

“I think so, Chief,” answered one of
the sleuths. “My man has never laid
eyes on the women, but someone he
knows has seen them. If he can locate
that person we'll get the descriptions
you want.”

“BFine, Now, here’s another possibil-
ity: If Louie and Whitey had that room
over in Brooklyn for several months,
the chances are that they had some
laundry done somewhere in_the_neigh-
borhood at some time.” The Deputy
Commissioner now addressed the men
who were concentrating on the Brook-
lyn angle. “Ask the landlady of that
place where they had any laundry done,
and if she doesn’t know, check up on
every washerwoman and laundry with-
in a mile of the place. What I want
is the laundry mark that was put on
their garments.”

Dougherty glanced down at a sheet
of paper on which he had scribbled
notes during the conference with his
men. Singling out two sleuths, he said:

“It’s pretty hot weather, and these
tough fellows like their comfort as
well as anybody else. Find out where
most of Big Jack Zelig’s gang spend
their time when they go out of town to
cool off in the summer. The chances
are that many of them, wanting to be
together, go to the same place. If you
learn of such a place, let me know at
once and we'll check up on it. We
might stand a good chance of finding
one or more of the men we want there.
Find out in particular if any of the
crowd likes the Catskills.”

The Catskill mountain area was
within easy distance of New York and
its cool breezes, sparkling brooks and
sylvan retreats were favored by rich
and poor alike during the hot months.

The Master Detective

There were, Dougherty knew, accom-
modations to fit every purse and per-
sonality. A fine hotel, with correspond-
ing prices, was to be found here, and
a little cottage, with a rental next to
nothing, there. There were miles and
miles of back woods country, with roads
that were barely negotiable—a_per-
fect place for criminals to hide out.

Dougherty’s theories brought results
within forty-eight hours. Many of Big
Jack Zelig’s guerillas, it was learned,
were in the habit of spending a good
part of the summer in and around Tan-
nersville, in the Catskills.

“The Tannersville area, eh?” said
Dougherty. “I know it well. Just the
kind of a place the Rosenthal gunmen
might go to. There are a hundred good
hideouts to every square mile.”

The detectives working in Brooklyn
learned from the landlady of the room-
ing house where Lefty and Whitey had

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stayed that the two men never sent
their laundry out. They usually packed
it in suitcases when they left on one
of their mysterious missions, and ap-
parently had it done while they were
absent from Brooklyn.

“But once in a while | would wash

some shirts for them,” the woman
added. “When they were in a hurry
I’d rinse out a shirt and iron it right
away.”
“They didn’t, by any chance,” asked
one of the man-hunters, “leave any of
their clothing around the house any-
where when they moved, did they?”

“No, they took everything,” said the
landlady. “You saw the room. It was
empty.”

“V’d like to find one of their shirts,”
said the sleuth.

“Even an old one—one that’s torn?”
asked the woman.

The detective’s eyes widened. “Yes,”
he said. “Why, do you have an old
one?”

“1 did have,” said the woman. “I

don’t know whether I have it yet or
not. One time a few months ago | was
washing a shirt for this Mister Lewis
and it was pee frayed. I told him
it would make a better dust cloth than
a shirt and he laughed and said keep
it. So I used it for a dust cloth and
when it got all dirty I threw it with
a pile of rags down the cellar. [ don’t
know whether it’s there or if | burned
it.”

“Let’s take a look,” prompted the de-
tective.

Dougherty’s man followed the
woman to the basement and saw, in a
corner, a pile of rags and debris.

“If it isn’t burned it’s right here in
this pile,” said the woman.

While the detective looked on, the
landlady rummaged through the debris.
At last, she held up a dirty, tattered
garment.

“Here it is,” she said. “This is
Mister Lewis’s shirt with the stripes
in it.”

The sleuth grasped the garment
eagerly and looked inside the neckband.
His lips curled into a smile of satisfac-
tion, and his eyes brightened. The
laundry mark was intact and distinct.
It was D2Y.

Dougherty sat in his office that after-
noon with the soiled shirt in his hand,
looking at the laundry mark. Half a
dozen detectives, with suitcases packed,
stood around him.

“I want you men to go up to
the Catskills,” instructed Dougherty,
“You're vacationists. Split up and don’t
be seen talking to each other. You know,
the usual way. Make your headquar-
ters in and around Tannersville. I’ve
learned that Zelig’s gang make that dis-
trict their summer headquarters and, in-
asmuch as it’s a good hiding out place,
it wouldn’t surprise me if one or more
of the men we want are up there.

“According to Jack Rose’s confession,
the gunmen got only two hundred and
fifty dollars apiece for the job, and
that wouldn’t take them very far. And
the chances are that they didn’t intend
to go very far, anyway, because they’d
feel safer in a territory that they were
acquainted with.”

Dougherty paused to allow the de-
tectives to complete making notes as
to their instructions. Then he con-
tinued: “Take this number down—
D—2—Y.” He waited while half a
dozen pencils made the notation. “Got
it? Now, that’s the laundry mark that
was found in Whitey Lewis’s shirt
here.” He held the garment up. “One
of my men got it over in Brooklyn a
little while ago.

“As you probably know, laundries
have an odd way of arriving at their
marks. Almost every laundry has a
system of its own in marking clothes
sent out for the very first time, but
when a new customer sends old gar-
ments out the laundry will follow the
mark that has been put on by the pre-
vious laundry, unless it has assigned
the same mark to one of its other cus-
tomers. But the chance of duplication

in the marks is one in a thousand
‘owing to the varied systems of mark-

ing. When the customer sends in some
new clothes, they are given the same

March,

*k a
person
mark f
has ch.

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The
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make

March, 1935

The investigator questioned Schepps
as to the source of all the money the
prisoners seemed to have. ‘I can’t
speak for the others,” said Schepps,
“but as for myself, | have plenty. Why,
| had to send out word to my friends
to stop sending me money. You've
never seen anything like it.”

While the newspaperman was visiting
the jail, Bernard H. Sandler, Schepps
attorney, called for a conference with
his client and Schepps handed the law-
yer a list of pad that he needed.
Included were toilet articles and wear-
ing apparel adapted to the most fas-
tidious tastes. “And,” added the
prisoner, “get me a rug for this cold
floor and a comfortable chair. They
can’t expect me to sit on this stool
without any back.”

Fearing that they might soften up if
they did not get exercise, Schepps and
the Musketeers organized what they
quaintly termed the West Side Court
Prison Athletic Club.

“YESTERDAY,” said the newspaper
in reporting what was going on.
“Mrs. Webber for the second time had
the privilege of witnessing the daily
games of the newly formed athletic club.
When she arrived Monday with a large
basket of fruit, her noseand and the
other prisoners were in the exercise cor-
ridor. Someone suggested that there
was room for a thirty-yard dash if
only one person ran at a time, and this
reminded Rose that he carried a stop
watch. The club was at once organized
and a series of races took place. Web-
ber (who had been observed running
away from the murder scene) has won
the sprint on both days, his best time
for the length of the corridor being
five seconds. Rose has proven himself
to be the best broad jumper.”

If certain people smiled when they
learned about the athletic club, they
laughed right out loud when the press
published the contents of two of the
many messages that Schepps composed
and sent out through his lawyer. One
telegram was sent to Acting Mayor
Pettit of Hot Springs, owner of the
Marquette Hotel there, where Schepps

had been held in custody while await-

ing removal to New York after his
arrest. It read as follows:

ACTING MAYOR PETTIT
AND WIFE

REACHED THIS CITY
AFTER SOME DELAY AND
TAKE THIS OCCASION OF
RETURNING THANKS _ TO
YOU AND YOUR_ FAMILY
FOR COURTESIES EXTENDED
WHILE I WAS THERE I SIN-
CERELY APPRECIATE YOUR
FAVORS AND TAKE THIS
WAY OF CONVEYING MY
THANKS UNTIL I CAN BET-
TER EXPRESS MYSELF IN
PERSON.

To Chief of Police George Howell of
Hot Springs, who was directly respon-
sible for Schepps’ safe-keeping after
his apprehension, the prisoner sent this
wire:

The Master Detective

ARRIVED HERE SAFELY
EVERYTHING SATISFACTORY
MANY THANKS TO YOU AND
CAPTAIN LEONARD FOR
COURTESY EXTENDED HOPE
TO SEE YOU AT NO DISTANT
DATE FOR I WILL BE GLAD
TO VISIT YOUR CITY WHEN
ie AFFAIR IS CLEANED

But if some people laughed at the
telegrams, others frowned. The word-
ing of the messages clearly indicated
that Schepps, although involved in one
of the most sinister murder cases that
New York had ever known, was not
taking his plight seriously. Not only
that, there seemed to be no doubt in
his mind that it would be but a ques-
tion of a short time before he was
again breathing the air of freedom.

With the three self-confessed plot-
ters, Schepps and the alleged master
mind in cells, the Deputy Police Com-
missioner bent every effort to lay hands
on the four gunmen at the earliest

ossible moment. District Attorney

hitman was working along the same
lines. He instructed the detectives at-
tached to his office to go out and arrest
the gunmen, if possible, before Dough-
erty’s men could get them, and issued
standing instructions to summon him
at any hour of the day or night, no
matter where he was or what he was
doing, if anything important should
occur. Whitman made no secret of his
desire to be on the scene when any-
thing spectacular happened. The Guber-
natorial bee was buzzing in his bonnet
and he knew that his stock would be
bullish if he succeeded in satisfactorily
cleaning up the Rosenthal mystery.

EFTY LOUIE, Dago Frank, Whitey
Lewis and Gyp the Blood had made
a thorough disappearance. After a search
of several days, more than a score of
the best detectives in the Police De-
partment and half a hundred stool
pigeons had absolutely no information
as to where they might have gone. In
the cases of Gyp the Blood and Dago
Frank, tracing the men was difficult
because for a long time neither of them
had had a permanent address. On the
other hand, Lefty Louie and Whitey
Lewis had, the sleuths learned, rented
a room at the address in Brooklyn
(where Jack Rose approached them
about the murder) for several months
prior to the crime. They didn’t spend
a great deal of time at the Brooklyn
address, their headquarters apparently
being elsewhere. Often they would be
absent for days at a stretch. But they
paid their rent there continuously.
Dougherty sat in his office in his
favorite posture of reflection, leaning
back in his chair. Seated around him,
their faces drawn and eyes red from
lack of sleep, were several detectives.
They had been there for two hours,
telling their chief over and over again
just what had been done in the unsuc-
cessful hunt for the killers, and answer-
ing questions that the Deputy Commis-
sioner shot at them in a steady fire in
the hope of uncovering some bit of in-
formation that they might have con-

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their lives, how they lived, and finally
the small thefts were brought up. Nota
word was said about the murder. The
pook states: “Several facts of importance
pearing on the murder were in this man-
ner unconsciously revealed. Finally there
was enough evidence to open a murder
trial. There is no doubt that if the in-
terrogation from the beginning had been
directed towards the murder, the pair
would have grown suspicious and never
hinted a word which would have served
as a guide.”

Another example that O’Connell could
have cited comes directly from his own
career. A busy branch of a large bank
at Union Square reported that it had
accepted a number of checks totaling
$28,500 on a mercantile house which
later proved to be clever forgeries. None
of the checks was very large and all had
gone through without any question. The
tellers could not recall who had passed
the checks. O’Connell was a detective
lieutenant at the time. The officials of
the mercantile house were unable to ex-
plain how the forger had obtained pos-
session of the blank checks. Reasoning
that it was an inside job, O’Connell
checked the operations of every em-
ployee. His suspicions centered on a

young part-time clerk who was attend- |

ing New York University.

Without telling the clerk that he sus-
pected him of the forgeries, O’Connell had
him write several of the forged signa-
tures. He previously had checked closely
into the background of the young college
student and found him living his normal,
frugal existence. He continued to talk to
him about his school work and other
topics, none of which related to the
crime. The youth was sitting tense in a
chair, all set to deny any connection with
the forgery.

“Come on, Sonny,” O’Connell told him,
“we’re going home.” He drove the youth
to the mercantile house. Finally he halted
in front of the president’s office. ‘‘Go on,
Sonny,” he said in a gentle voice, nudg-
_ ing the boy, “go on in and tell him all
about it.” The surprised youth entered

the president’s office and gave a complete ©

confession, revealing where he had

* Chief Inspector (center) with Lieut. Briller and Sgt.
Weber of New York City's Emergency and Disaster Unit

cached the stolen money. O’Connell re-
ceived an excellent police duty commen-
dation for performing “highly intelligent
detective service.”

He was one of the 360 lieutenants who
took the competitive examination for
captain. When the papers were graded,
O’Connell was number one on the list.

.On November 2lst, 1928, he was pro-

moted to captain. Warren was the Police
Commissioner.

New York newspapers at that time
were full of the actions of Valentine, then
a Deputy Chief Inspector. Ignoring the
threats of powerful politicians, he was
raiding Tammany Hall clubhouses where
professional gamblers and gangsters were
banking the games. These big-shot poli-
ticians were racing to City Hall demand-
ing of Mayor Walker that they be given
Valentine’s scalp, but Commissioner
Warren stood by the plucky inspector
who refused to be intimidated and who
later became known as “The Tammany
Terror” because of his unrelenting fight
against Tammany Hall interfering with
the work of the police. .

At the same time there were other
kinds of delegations streaming to City
Hall raising a furore. Jamaica Precinct
in Queens County then was the largest
in the city, covering 35 square miles with
a population of 350,000. It was the second
most important precinct in the city, so
Commissioner Warren said. Most of the
residents then were owners of one-family
homes and well over 300 civic organiza-
tions flourished. Each civic group hurled
charges of inadequate police protection

at every meeting and each time they were |

particularly displeased over something,
a delegation would raise voices at City
Hall. To make matters worse, a burglar
was robbing home after home in the
swanky Jamaica Estates section and sev-
eral women reported that attempts had
been made to criminally attack them on
the lonely streets. The local newspapers
were gaining circulation with screaming
headlines reading, “Phantom Burglar
‘Strikes Again,” and with -ringing edi-
torials deploring that the streets no
longer were safe for women. .
Commissioner Warren called O’Con-

gives thorough

nell to his office. “I’m appointing you
captain and I’m placing you in charge
of the Jamaica Precinct. Stop those
parades to City Hall. If you make good
there I’ll promote you as quickly as
possible.”

O’Connell rolled up his sleeves and
went to work. In his first day in the pre-
cinct he sent a letter to the heads of
civic organizations and set a date for a
meeting with them. Previously, officials
had ducked to cover from the fighting
home owners.

The civic leaders stared with suspicion
at the new captain when he met with
them. They were prepared for excuses
and apologies but not for what came.
O’Connell rose to his feet and said simply,
“Gentlemen, let me have your grievances
and I will take care of them.”

For a few moments the group stared
in surprise and then their complaints

started pouring forth. In the main they ©

boiled down to inadequate protection as
exemplified by the attacks on the women
and the burglaries by the Phantom, and
that vacant lots were being used as un-
sightly dumping grounds for abandoned
cars, thereby lowering realty values. As
each complaint was voiced, O’Connell
firmly replied, “It will be taken care of.”
He drew the line at the usual civic pride
requests for needless traffic lights.

And as O’Connell promised, the com-
plaints were promptly attended to. The
new captain increased the number of
men patrolling the Jamaica Estates sec-
tion, created a competitive spirit among
his men, and in five days the Phantom
Burglar no longer was a phantom but a
cowering prisoner. O’Connell attended
a meeting of the realty board and notified
its members that all lots had to be cleaned
up immediately. He softened the blow
when he revealed that he had obtained
the loan of dozens of trucks from the
street cleaning department to aid in the
cleanup. More mobile units were created
to give speedier patrol service through
the large area. He threw open to the
public the street police telephone ’boxes,
the first time this was done, and urged
women to go to the nearest box if they
thought a man (Continued on page 106)

te In classes such as this (below) the Police Academy
investigation

instruction in criminal

the hideout of the two gangsters. At
O’Connell’s suggestion every precinct in
the outlying sections of the city was di-
rected to report the location of any open-
me air movie house in its area. The order
went out at 2:45 p.m.

As each stationhouse reported the lo-
I cation of an open-air movie, detectives
were rushed to the vicinity. In the East
New York section of Brooklyn several
. detectives spotted the sweethearts of the
| ree gangsters entering a delicatessen store
|? where they purchased a large supply of
provisions. The detectives followed the
women to an apartment house, broke in
and seized “Lefty Louie’ and “Gyp the
Blood” at four-fifteen that afternoon.

During this period O’Connell was
evolving theories about detective work.
He realized that nothing can be taken
for granted and that a detective must
check on every possibility, no matter how
unimportant it might seem. One day
while he was the homicide expert of the
Second Branch a report was received
from a local precinct saying that a man
had been critically injured. It was a tri-
angle love affair. The wife of the injured
man had been seen frequently with the
attacker, the owner of a rooming-house.
She could not be found after the attack
on her husband. Neither could the at-
tacker, who also was married.

The local officer, logically enough, con-
cluded that the missing pair had fled
together. Since the injured man might
die, O’Connell was told to investigate the
case. He read the report and frowned.
He spotted a possible flaw in the reason-
ing of the local officer. If the man and
woman were running away, why should
the man beat up the husband? Usually
in a situation of this kind the couple slips
away as quietly as possible.

O’Connell interviewed ‘the missing
man’s wife. The wife said she did not

for permission to inspect the rooming-
house. The woman reached into a closet
and removed a large bunch of keys. The
detective noticed another bunch of keys
on a ring and questioned the wife about
the second group. She revealed that her
husband owned another building across
the street.

“We'll start at that one first,’”” O’Con-
nell replied and began a thorough search
of the second building. He decided to
make the search from the top down and
-the top meant just that. He began the
search by examining the roof. He went
through every room in the four-story
building. On the first floor he found that
he did not have a key for one room. The
wife said her husband had been painting
’-and papering the room shortly before

he disappeared and he probably took
-- the key with him. She told him he could
~ look through’ the window and see that
-the room was empty and unoccupied. “‘T
still want to examine the room,” O’Con-
nell replied and battered down the door.
The wife was right. Her husband was
not in- the room and it was empty—but
’ jn. a‘closet was the butchered body of
'.. the other woman. By making a thorough
“inquiry, O’Connell had uncovered a
» murder. ;

O’Connell continued to take promo-
tion examinations and he was made a
- lieutenant while he was in Los Angeles

know where her husband was. He asked |

where he had tracked down a swindler
wanted for a $100,000 crooked realty
deal. He was transferred to desk duty

for twenty days and then was brought

back as an aide to the chief of staff. He
was assigned to represent the department
at the National Police Conference com-
posed of executive heads of Metropolitan
police departments. He took a leading
part in building up the organization into
an international group. He also was busy
translating his experiences as a detec-
tive into a modern training course.

The course stressed the need of scien-
tific approach in combating crime.
O’Connell had learned the need the hard
way through actual experience. Several
safe thieves cut a hole through the ceil-
ing of a book publishing house. O’Connell
picked up one suspect who denied any
knowledge of the crime. The detective
found some plaster in the trouser cuffs
of the suspect and after some difficulty
found someone capable of making an
analysis. It matched with a sample of
the plaster from the ceiling of the pub-
lisher’s office. When the prisoner was
confronted with this new fangled scien-
tific evidence, he confessed.

O’Connell was assigned to investigate
another safe robbery on lower Broadway,
during which a large number of nego-
tiable bonds and valuable jewelry were
stolen. The robbers had left behind a
pair of suede gloves and a screw-driver.
O’Connell decided to see if he could
trace the items. He trudged from the
Battery to 125th Street and visited hun-
dreds of hardware and haberdashery
shops. He finally found two storekeepers
not far from each other who recognized
the merchandise. They were able to fur-
nish a description of the buyer whom
O’Connell recognized as a known safe-
cracker. He found the man and located
some of the stolen property in the thief’s
room.

O’Connell’s training course, which he

‘

was giving to New York detectives, was
made available to police departments
throughout the country and abroad. In
1923 at a meeting of the International
Police Conference, he was commended
for making the best contribution of the
year to police work in writing his cur-
riculum and syllabus for training detec-
tives. At the same time the New York
department added another commenda-
tion to his growing list, citing him for
working out an international police code.

The citation reads: “For promoting
co-operation between this Department
and Police organizations of the United
States and foreign countries whereby
methods of identification of criminals
by telephone, telegraph, radio and mail
have been adopted.”

He was promoted to Acting Captain
to represent the department at another
annual international police conference.
At these meetings he saw the rapid
strides being made by European scien-
tists in police work. He met many noted
criminologists, including Dr. Soderman,
co-author with him of the book previ-
ously mentioned. Upon ‘his return he
resumed the rank of lieutenant and was
placed in command of his own detective
squad.

O’Connell never believed in the rubber
hose as a means of breaking down a
prisoner. In his training course he urged
detectives to use common sense psy-
chology to get a prisoner to talk. He ad-

vised detectives to study their suspect,

figure out his weak points and attack
him from that angle. ‘ it,

In his book, Modern Criminal Investi-
gation, he cites the following example.
Several years after a merchant had been
robbed and killed police received vague
information that a waiter and his wife
might be the killers. An investigation
disclosed that the waiter had committed
some small thefts in the past. The couple
were picked up and questioned about

In lab, the Chief (left) © /

inspects a plaster cast

FRIED eB eld

| THE CHIEF
INSPECTOR

(Continued from page 13)

was following them. He startled residents
of the precinct when he announced that
he was providing police escort service for
any woman who was afraid to venture
out on the streets. “Telephone in advance
what time you expect your train to arrive
at the station and a patrolman will be wait-
ing to escort you home,” was his novel offer.
The announcements were a double-bar-

relled weapon. He knew reports that addi- -

tional police were patrolling the streets
plus the promise of escort service would
drive mashers and sex criminals from the
streets. Within two weeks there were no
more reports of women being attacked.

By the end of the month the troublesome
Jamaica Precinct was a quiet, relatively
peaceful place and O’Connell was promptly
transferred to do another job, this time to
the famous old West 47th Street house in
the theatrical district. He was transferred
on December 29th to handle the huge New
Year’s Eve crowd of revellers who throng
Broadway and Times Square. At his sug-
gestions no street cars were allowed to run
on Broadway through the theatrical dis-
trict and Times Square belonged wholly
to the merrymakers. The public liked the
idea, fewer accidents were reported and
the following morning Warren’s promise
was filled by Commissioner Grover Whalen.
The title now was Deputy Inspector
O’Connell.

O’Connell’s reputation as a detective and
an officer had spread and he found himself
addressing college students at Fordham,
Colgate, Columbia, New York University
and in the College of the City of New York.
He has lectured even at staid Harvard.

He still was representing the department
at the International Police Association con-
ventions and has been abroad three times.
At one of the conventions he demonstrated
that he had lost none of his skill as a de-
tective in logically attacking a problem.
The trunk of one of the delegates from
another country had been lost between
Paris and Rome. Detectives of the famed
Sareté of Paris had been unable to find
any trace of the trunk. Rome police made
an equally fruitless search. The delegate
was disconsolate, since the trunk contained
all his-and his wife’s clothes. O’Connell of-
fered to find the trunk for him. The other
delegate scoffed, pointing out that the pride
of the police of France and Italy had been
unable to solve the mystery.

“Come with me,” O’Connell directed and
drove to the Rome railway station. He
flashed his badge and entered the baggage

room. For the next fifteen minutes the two .

men tossed luggage about. There at the bot-
tom of one pile was the missing trunk.

In the fall of 1929 New York newspapers
commented on the fact with a chuckle, that
_the police department was organizing a
Police College to train new officers and to
maintain training for detectives. The idea
of police officers sitting in classroom ab-
sorbing information struck reporters as
humorous. One paper wrote: “Here sea-
soned detectives qualify for their ‘T.D.,’
which fits them to confer upon others in
turn, the famous Third Degree.” The task
of drawing up plans and running the col-
lege was turned over to O’Connell.

But when the plans for the Police College,
now known as the Police Academy, were
revealed, newspapers began to discuss the
proposal seriously. Noted university pro-

fessors and scientists had agreed to lecture
at the police school. O’Connell had con-
sulted famous educators and had drawn up
a curriculum that made the school worthy
of the designation of college. In addition to
the basic recruits training school and the
detectives training school, specialized train-
ing was offered in the school of horseman-
ship, the motor transport school, aviation
school, officers training school where men
who wanted to study for promotion could
receive free instruction, pistol instruction,
teachers training, specialized training for
members of the motorcycle and emergency
squads, a school of law and another on traf-
fic and street safety.

It became the largest institution of its
kind in the United States, with 3,200 stu-
dents, and was open daily from 8 a.M. to 10
p.m. Police officers from other cities and
other countries came to the school for train-
ing. Courses were given in psychology,
sociology and in scientific fields.

The following is an excerpt from the

original prospectus of the college as pre-

pared by O’Connell:

“The course in the Detectives’ Training
School will embrace duties of commanding
officers. Experts are required to conduct the
affairs of business concerns. To an even
greater degree do Police Departments de-
mand a higher grade of intelligent experts.
The technical and difficult task of policing
an area or detecting crime in a given area
should be placed in the hands of men whose
competency has been enhanced and de-
termined, who are able to respond to the
numerous calls made upon them for com-
mon sense interpretation and. efficient
service. ,

“Instruction will include sociology, psy-
chology, detective administration, crimi-
nology, advanced law, evidence, statistics,
ballistics, advanced criminal identification
and investigation, and other sciences re-
lated to police service. The modus operandi
of racketeers, gunmen, safe-blowers and
professional thieves will be covered in
modern ways.

“The course will cover divergent criminal
types and factors underlying the geo-
graphical distribution of the professional
criminal, gangsters, gunmen and racketeers
and the nature and technique of their or-
ganization. It is also realized that detectives
should have knowledge ofthe fundamental
principles underlying human behavior, es-
pecially those conduct disorders designated

MOTHER GOOSE’S
ANTI-INFLATIONARY RHYMES
By Berton Sraiey

JACK AND JILL
Jack and Jill paid up a bill
A long due obligation.
(It was an act by which, in fact,
They helped to check inflation.)

as criminal or contrary to law.

“To the faculty of the college we are
honored by having members of the staff
of Columbia University, New York Uni-
versity, the College of the City of New
York and experts from the fields of science
in criminal investigation and identification.
Education is the turn to the right, to the
road. leading to knowledge. Knowledge,
plus experience, leads to wisdom. Wisdom
rightly applied leads to efficiency.”

It concluded with the following prophet-
ic words: “Ultimately will follow the con-
fidence, support and co-operation of the
public and that long awaited recognition—
the recognition of police work as a pro-
fession, a reward of increased efficiency,
and the further recognition of our depart-
ment as a model of efficiency throughout
the world.”

O’Connell also served as associate editor
of the American Journal of Police Science.

Once the schoo! began to function smooth-
ly, the big, broad-shouldered man began
to look for more work. He always has been
interested in adapting scientific advances to
police work and in 1934 with the vigorous
approval of Valentine, then Chief Inspector,
he organized the Technical Research Lab-
oratory as an adjunct of the school. Young
college graduates who specialized in physics
and chemistry were attracted to the de-
partment and were assigned to the labora-
tory. He also had assigned civilian spe-
cialists for a few posts. The work of this
famous laboratory, now connected with
the detective division, has figured prom-
inently in the solution of many murders
in New York.

Last year’s annual report reveals that
the laboratory made 3,902 tests for narcotic
drugs and 1,686 examinations of various
liquor and mash, including 18 found not fit
for human consumption. In addition, there
were 26,312 scientific examinations ranging
from automobile headlight lens and tire
impressions to X-rays. The list includes
such items as 157 tests for the etching of
deleted numbers, 650 for indented writing,
102 of powder residue, 192 of, tool impres-
sions and 101 of gas analyses.

In addition, the laboratory made a num-
ber of secret investigations for the Army,
Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps as
well as for Federal, State and public ser-
vice agencies. The laboratory chemists and
technicians were able to give a definite
opinion or result in 99 per cent of all the
cases they handled!

When Valentine became Commissioner
the school began to expand its activities
even further. Disturbed over the number
of school children injured by automobiles,
the Commissioner put O’Connell to work
on the problem. O’Connell co-operated with
the Board of Education in drawing up a
safety education course designed for
teachers. He also offered courses for school
teachers on the prevention dnd treatment
of juvenile delinquency, and another on the
physical and moral welfare of children.
Teachers did not scoff at learning from
cops. As a matter of fact, more than 5,000
eagerly attended the courses and Commis-
sioner Valentine added another commenda-
tion to O’Connell’s record.

Although running the Police Academy
and the Technical Laboratory are usually
full-time jobs in themselves, o’Connell
welcomed additional duties. He became the
commanding officer of the Motor Transport
Maintenance Division, responsible for keep-
ing more than 1,000 department vehicles
running at all times. He also was managing
editor of Spring 3100, the official publica-
tion of the department.

When the 1939 World’s Fair opened, an-
other duty was added to his list. He became
the liason officer between the Fair and the
department. Visitors to the Fair in 1939 or
1940 might recall the police shows put on

in the
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in the city building. The hit show of the
°39 season was Murder At Midnight, show-
ing just how police went about solving a
murder. Author and director of the popular
show was O’Connell. He also wrote the
show for the ’40 Fair, The Brave Are Not
Afraid, at which out of town visitors gasped
when frail policewomen tossed husky offi-
cers in the air. The show highlighted the
fact that policewomen in New York are
taught ju-jitsu and are fully capable of
taking care of themselves.

O’Connell was well qualified to offer
schoolteachers a course on the problem of
juvenile delinquency. He is chairman of the
committee on Juvenile Delinquency ahd
Crime Prevention of the International As-
sociation of Chiefs of Police and has written
and lectured on the problem. He also has
lectured frequently on safety traffic en-
gineering in a campaign to reduce the
number of automobile accidents, particu-
larly those between car and pedestrian.

He continued to rise in rank while head
of the police school. He was promoted to
Deputy Chief Inspector a year after the
school was organized. In June, 1941, Com-
missioner Valentine promoted him to As-
sistant Chief Inspector, the second highest
rank in the department, and made him
Chief Inspector on July 8th, 1942.

Yellowing files in newspaper offices re-

veal how on one occasion O’Connell proved °

himself a first-class diplomat. He arrived in
a Mid-Western city just as the newspapers
there’ began to play up a crime wave. Re-
porters learned of his arrival from a hotel
clerk and within an hour they were camp-
ing outside his room demanding an inter-
view.

“Are you here to make observations on
crime in this city?” the reporters asked.

“The only observation I have made in
this city is that the women are very beau-
tiful,” was his reply.

Newspapers in that city promptly forgot
about the crime wave and headlined with
civic pride the observation made by O’Con-
nell. Press associations picked up the re-

mark which was reprinted in papers all
over the country. The grateful mayor of
that city wired to New York requesting that
O’Connell be sent there on a visit every
year. “He drove the crime wave out of the
newspapers and gave us a million dollars’
worth of publicity,” the telegram declared.

When Germany began its blitzkrieg
against Poland on September Ist, 1939,
O’Connell was at home packing his trunks
getting ready to leave for Turkey where he
was to modernize the police department of
that nation. He had the steamship ticket in
his pocket and was scheduled to sail short-
ly. He had been selected by the Turkish
government with the approval of our State
Department and Commissioner Valentine.
The outbreak of World War II abruptly
canceled the plans.

The entry of this country into the war
brought a new problem for O’Connell.
Working directly under Commissioner Val-
entine he organized the Air Raid Wardens

Service, dividing the city into zones and’

setting up a system that soon was copied
by many other large cities along the Eastern
seaboard.

In addition, he planned basic courses
of instruction for zone wardens, post war-
dens, and _ specialized first-aid courses.
More than 200,000 men and women took
the courses organized by O’Connell.

Framed on O’Connell’s desk is the motto:
“Keep Smiling.” The office of Chief Inspec-
tor, commanding the more than 18,000 men
who protect the world’s greatest city, is no
sinecure. Whenever situations become
tense O’Connell glances down at the motto
and relaxes. Relaxed, he can work at top
speed.

His philosophy of work is simple. “You
have to be interested in your work to do a
good job,” he advises his men.

O’Connell is the 25th Chief Inspector
since the post was created in 1808. The
scholarly looking man with thinning gray
hair and three gold stars on each sleeve is
the “Silver Jubilee” Chief of a great depart-
ment, and he lives up to its traditions.

| BUREAU OF PUBLIC
_ SERVICE —

(Continued from page 62)

present upon summons. If necessary, an
ordinance can be passed enabling police to
force attendance upon those who do not
appear, or they may be taken into court,
convicted of contributing to the delin-
quency of their children, and sentenced by
the judge to attend.

The plan will work—it is working at the
present time in San Francisco, Dearborn,
Michigan, and a few other communities. I
hope it is adopted by every town and city
in America.

@ THERE ARE several other projects for
community betterment which I am advo-
cating in my talks. I am urging that pres-
sure be applied, if such be necessary, to
keep the recreational facilities of the pub-
lic schools—the gymnasiums, industrial
arts shops, laboratories, libraries, play-
rooms—open for the young people during
after-school hours, evenings, week-ends, on
holidays and during vacation periods.

In a majority of towns and cities, these
rooms are locked-up except from 8 a.m. to
noon, and 1 until 4 p.m., five days a week—
except during usual school hours: Young
people do not get into trouble while they
are busy with lessons and classes. They

get into trouble after school hours, when
there are no wholesome facilities for recre-
ational activities to occupy their minds and
hands and keep them out of mischief.

It seems ridiculous to me that in this
country of ours we have many millions of
dollars invested in recreational equipment
in our public schools, and then keep these
facilities under lock and key during the
hours they are needed most by our young
people.

Teachers are overworked and underpaid
—I am suggesting that they be paid for
supervision of this after-school recreation,
thus increasing their yearly stipends. Yes,
it will add a little to the school budget, but
taxpayers will get back the cost many
times over in reduced delinquency, and in
other benefits for children, and also adults.

Second, I am advocating that towns and
cities throughout America start money-
raising campaigns immediately to build
recreation centers for the use of children
through posterity, as memorials to the
young men who will have lost their lives
on the foreign battlefields of this war.

Wouldn’t a well-equipped community
center make a much better memorial than
another statue in front of the City Hall?
There is no reason to believe any dead man
wants a statue.

And I am advocating that a psychiatrist
be made as much a regular member of the
faculty of every school as the principal or
superintendent. It has been estimated that
as many as 85 per cent of the criminals in
the United States today showed anti-social
characteristics during their school years.
A psychiatrist would recognize these symp-
toms, and often trace the motives and pre-
scribe permanent cures. In almost every

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NAME —
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CITY ZONE STATE

107

me rang
le party
f he in-
ent with
morning
er party
aid he’d
y again.
nan who
sounded
| was so
ant Her-

threaten
strict At-

> woman
Herman
ere very

| his eye-
Irning to
mention

or of the
ficials sat
in,” said
ered.
“We've
snse com-
one gray
he whole
yne-three-
ne of one
tuyvesant

t down on
ved. “Tell
f a dozen
» pick up
‘body else
addresses
vate resi-
irty-five if
e was de-
d out an
Hughes to

; had been
tors and
suse in the
Rothstein,
ecome the
< gamblers
ullet route
because he
vas among
‘ty-seventh
hn Kelly,
he roulette
ping dom-
deal, was
‘entry were
ad the re-
Rosenthal

were still
when the
ighes’ desk
ing Hughes
at crackled
vould have
m satisfac-

the person
ed. Hughes
d hastened
sherty was.
the owner

von

November, 1934

of the Packard,” he reported to the
Deputy Commissioner. “But he wasn't
driving the car. Neighbors saw him
go into his house at one-thirty—almost
half an hour before Rosenthal was
killed. He was in bed when our men
got there, and it doesn’t look as if he
was faking because they say he looked
like he’d really been asleep for some
time. His eyes were puffy and red, and
he blinked naturally when the lights
were turned on.”

“Where’s the car now?” asked Dough-
erty.

“In a garage down on Washington
Place. Libby’s in partnership with a
guy named Shapiro, and the two of
them rent out the machine as a taxi.
Libby drives during the day and Sha-
piro at night.”

“All right,” said Dougherty. “Have
Libby brought in, and have the men
shift over to that garage. Have them
examine the car for prints, and have
them see how hot the motor is. Tell
them to find out what time it went
out, who took it out, and when it came
in. And pinch Shapiro and anybody
else who looks like he might know any-
thing.”

‘In less than half an hour, Inspector
Hughes got another telephone call. Once
again he listened intently, then told
the party on the other end to hold the
wire while he consulted with Dough-
erty.

“THEY'VE found the car, Commis-
sioner,” Hughes told Dougherty.
“It’s on the floor. Just came in a little
while ago. Motor’s still hotter ’n hell.
It’s had a long, hard run—some place.”

“Did they get Shapiro?”

“Yes, they’re bringing him and the
garage employees in. Shapiro claims
he rented it to a fellow he didn’t know,
about midnight, and says the fellow
brought it back just a little while ago.
He claims he didn’t drive it himself,
but the men think he’s lying.”

“Have the car powdered for prints,
and then have it driven up here.”

Hughes rushed back to the telephone
and was relaying Dougherty’s orders
when the Deputy Commissioner was
struck with an idea.

“Say,” he said to Whitman, “that
affidavit of Rosenthal’s mentions the
fact that he met Becker in the Lafay-
ette Baths. I think I'll send a man
down there to find out who the Under-
taker met there if he went to the place
very often.”

In three minutes, a detective was
walking under the station house’s green
lights out into the street, carrying out
Dougherty’s orders.

It was after four o'clock in the
morning when Shapiro, Libby and the
employees of the Washington Square
garage were brought into the station
and lined up against the wall for the
scrutiny of those who had seen the
murder car.

The chorus man from the Metropoli-
tan Opera was the first to look over the
line-up. He searched each face care-
fully, looking for the man who had
driven the age Packard. When he
came to Libby, he stopped. His gaze

The Master Detective 57

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NASER. D ETRA7TIVE

The Story So Far:

ERMAN ROSENTHAL, widely-known gambling
house operator, is shot to death by several unidenti-

fied gunmen as he emerges from the Metropole Hotel, :

on Forty-third Street, near Broadway, New York

City, at 1:57 o’clock on the morning of Tuesday,
July 16th, 1912. The slayers escape in a gray touring car.
Suspicion attaches itself to several gamblers, and to politically
powerful Lieutenant Charles Becker of the Police Department.
Just prior to his death, Rosenthal had gone to District Attor-
ney Charles $. Whitman and charged that Lieutenant Becker
was collecting graft from a string of gambling houses, Among
the gamblers suspected of having had a hand in the crime are
the Three Musketeers of Larceny Lane—Bald Jack Rose, Harry
Vallon and Bridgey Webber. Vallon and. Webber were both
seen near the hotel about the time of the murder and, Rose, it
is learned, is a friend of Becker. It is further ascertained
that Sam Schepps, another figure in the gambling world, is
friendly with the Three Musketeers. Rose and Webber are
picked up for questioning, but admit nothing to incriminate
themselves. Before the police are really through with Rose,
however, he is taken over by the District Attorney, which
narks the beginning of a breach between the District Attorney

(Right) “Dago Frank was in the car,” admitted Shapiro. The
Photo shows Frank Cirofici trying to ‘dodge the camera as he is
taken to Headquarters for questioning

(Below) The left-handed gunman known as “Lefty Louie” who
was also found to have been in the gray Packard car on the fatal
night when Rosenthal went to his mysterious death

FEGR OAR Y, ITE.

FIVE MEN fort

“

aia a

mae
anus

ne ica ES SES cet

By ALAN HYND.

Staff Investigator for
THE MASTER DETECTIVE

and the Police Department. Vallon and Schepps are missing.

Detectives go deep into the underworld in an attempt to Jearn
who did the actual shooting. A stool pigeon turns in the name
of a young thug named Frank Cirofici, better known as Dago
Frank. Deputy Police Commissioner Dougherty brings in

William Shapiro, suspected of being the driver of the murder.

car, flashes a picture of Dago Frank before him, and demands
to know whether the Dago was one of ‘the killers.

Part Four
The Story Continues:

SHAPIRO was trembling, actually on the verge of cracking
. up. “Yes,” he said, breathing heavily, “Dago Frank was in
the car.” The man was about (Continued on page 55)

(Lower Center) “Samuel F. Franklin,” something of a social lion at

Hot Springs, Arkansas, turned out to be &@ man much wanted by the

New York Police for questioning in the mystery. He is shown
between two guards ;

(Below) Harry Horowitz, who went under the sanguinary name of
“Gyp the Blood.” He was another of the suspects that the police

‘needed to solve their baffling puzzle

burned into Libby’s face, and at length
he said simply but dramatically: “That
is the man. That is the man I saw at
the wheel.”

Libby sneered. District Attorney
Whitman looked askance. Dougherty
raised his eyebrows. How could Libby
have driven the murder car and been
home in bed at one and the same time?

The other witnesses paraded before
the line-up, one by one. No other
identifications were made.

Dougherty took Shapiro into a side
room and started to put him through
a barrage of questions. The canny
man-hunter guessed that Shapiro knew
more than he was telling about the
course that the gray car had taken
that night. It was while Dougherty
was questioning Shapiro, and not get-
ting very far, that the detective who

The Master Detective

had gone to the Lafayette Baths
knocked on the door.

“It’s pretty important, Commis-
sioner,” he said, and Dougherty arose
and joined him in the corridor.

“Lieutenant Becker was a frequenter
of the Lafayette Baths,” said the
sleuth, “and often met Jack Rose
there.”

“Yes!” Dougherty was impatient.

“Lieutenant Secher was there last
night, sir, in company with Bald Jack,
about eight o’clock. They left sep-
arately—Becker about nine o'clock, and
Rose shortly afterward. Becker re-
turned about a quarter after two and
made a telephone call.”

“Come! Come!” snapped Dougherty.
“Who'd he call?”

“He called Bald Jack Rose. The
operator knew the number, and gave

it to me. But he didn’t hear any of
the conversation.”

“He was certain—dead certain—that
Rose was the person who was called
and that it was Beck—”

The last syllable of the Lieutenant’s
name froze on Dougherty’s tongue for,
standing not three feet away, his dark
eyes smouldering, stood Lieutenant
Becker...

What does Lieutenant Becker know,
if anything, about the murder of Her-
man Rosenthal?

What is Shapiro, Libby’s partner,
holding back?

What sensational disclosures are
about to be made?

See the second installment of this
fascinating case in the December MAS-
TER DETECTIVE. On sale at all news
stands November 23rd.

Unmasking Ohio’s Mystery Monster

as he looked first at Carson and then
at Miller. He mumbled an almost
inaudible greeting to the pair, undoubt-
edly observing Miller who was obvi-
ously squirming under the collar. The
serene composure of the latter's com-
panion must have confused him.

Don stepped forward, effecting a
friendly though insincere salutation.

“1 told you about my uncle,” he
managed to stammer. “Well, this is
him. He works on the railroad and
he has promised to help me out.”

FRAN KS peered suspiciously into the
“uncle’s” immutable face but appar-
ently discerned no trickery. His man-
ner became distinctly easier and more
affable.

“1 don’t know why you had to come
with him,” he admonished, “but since
vou did, let’s get down to business.
You know what | want from the kid?”

Carson’s face lighted up actually as
if he were expecting some welcome
piece of news. eat

“Yes, yes, | know,” he put in, in al-
most a patronizing tone. | believe
you know certain facts about my
nephew’s life which he possibly would
not want his wife to know.” :

Franks answered this question with
an uneasy shifting from one foot to
the other. ;

“The boy may have done a few in-
discreet things,” Carson laughed, “and
sure as not his pretty little wife would
raise the devil if she got wise to them.
It’s a pretty poor game you're play-
ing, but | understand that you have
promised to keep your mouth shut if
we pay you five hundred dollars.”

“Sure, that’s what I told the kid and
1 think I am due something for keep-
ing quiet. I need rt badly,”
Franks explained apologetically.
“You've got the money and it doesn’t
mean as much to you as it does to me.”

Miller stood by silently as this trans-
action progressed.

“Seems to me as if you're taking a
bit for granted,” Carson interposed,
“but it’s only natural that we must pay

(Continued from page 45)

for our sins. I would have had the
money for you this evening except for
the fact that I: did not get in from my
run. until the banks had closed. I
haven’t the money this evening.”

Franks glared menacingly at both
Carson and Miller, and the latter
wilted.

“But suppose,” the detective went on
blandly, “that we meet again tomor-
row at this same hour at the corner of
Rich Street and Grant Avenue. |
promise you that I will have the money
then, and will turn it over to you if
you agree to lay off this kid and forget
the matter altogether.”

Franks made no effort to conceal
his palpable dissatisfaction over such
an arrangement, but assented when he
realized that there was no possibility
of the money being obtained at this
interview.

The three, with all appearances of
sociability, started walking east on
Rich Street, Carson systematically out-
lining, as they did so, plans for deliv-
ering the money on. the following eve-
ning at seven-thirty. For the most
part, Franks remained sullen and reti-
cent, his frequent backward glances
indicating that he was far from being
at ease.

HE was nervously scanning the entire
street, though his observation ap-
parently failed to catch the slow-mov-
ing automobile a half a block behind
which carried Detectives Palmer An-
derson and John Dunn, posted by Car-
son to trail Franks after he and Miller
had taken their departure.

They continued leisurely up East
Rich Street to Grant Avenue where
Miller and his. “uncle” bade Franks
good-bye, leaving his further activities
to be marked by the two trailing
sleuths.

Franks proved too elusive for Car-
son’s aides, however, and they reported,
in conclave with him that night, that
he had dropped from their sight at
Twentieth Street and Mount Vernon
Avenue. Chances for his hide-away in

this locality were excellent. The many
poolrooms, operated by negroes, back-

stair bar rooms, and cellar gambling
dives provided hundreds of secluded
pavens for hunted denizens of Colum-
us.

Little alarm was felt by Carson that
the fugitive had permanently disap-
eared, since he considered that the
atter’s itch for easy money would
send him to the designated meeting
place on the following night. There-
fore, the trio dismissed the case from
their immediate attention and sepa-
rated, after laying plans for meeting
Franks the next night.

TRUE to the detective’s prediction,

Franks arrived at the spot named
promptly at seven-thirty. The gang-
ster appeared as keen and alert as he
had before but evidently the true
character of Miller's “uncle’ had not
dawned upon him. He did not seem
disturbed over the fact that the “uncle”
was alone (Miller having remained at
home out of actual fright), and he
made hasty overtures towards per-
emptory settlement of the business at
hand.
_ Carson, as if desirous of consummat-
ing the transaction, drew Franks to one
side in the protecting shadows of a
near-by building which served to im-
pair the latter’s chances of observing
the approach of the detectives’ two
aides, Anderson and Dunn, who had
secretly lurked in the neighborhood for
some forty-five minutes before the
financial conference got under way.

Franks’ first warning that something
had slipped in the general procedure
came when Anderson and Dunn sud-
denly confronted him, revealed their
identity and demanded to know what
business had brought him to the street
corner.

“What’s your mamer” Anderson
queried.

“Maybe that’s none of your busi-
ness,” was the angry retort.

“Don’t get hard, buddy,” Dunn
broke in. “You're pulling a poor racket

November

and we’ré
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}

Flubacher, Griggs and Herzog can-
vassed the area around Castleton, showing
Antonio’s picture to everyone they
encountered. Only one person was posi-
tive that he recognized the photo.

This man operated an all-night diner
on Route 9-J about a mile below the
murder scene. Between 1 and 2 o’clock the
previous night, he recalled, three men had
driven up from the south in an Oldsmobile
coupe. They parked and entered.

Then he went on: “That fellow there—
the fellow in the picture—was with two
other men about his age. All three were
flashily dressed, like movie gangsters. I
was nervous and afraid of a stick-up, but
nothing happened. All they did was order
hamburgers and coffee and then leave,
headed toward Albany.

“One of the other guys had a big mop of
brown hair—and the third guy had black
hair, but it was receding from the left side
of his brow. Nope, there was no dame with
them and none of the three was what you
could call red-headed.”

At 8 p.m. the officers once more made
their way to the home of Louis Passelli
and now found him in, returned from his
picnic. He was a big, jovial, well-to-do
contractor, and he lived with his wife and
a flock of noisy, handsome children.
Between puffs on a black cigar, he told his
callers of having loaned Antonio money
and of the half-hearted moves he had
made to effect its return.

“Sal and I grew up together,” he related,
“and until we got married we were pretty
close. But then we drifted apart. Our
wives didn’t see eye to eye. Mine is the
matronly type and very religious. Also,
Sal started running with a crowd I didn’t
care for, Some of them were bootlegging
and there were other things I heard they
were doing. Again, our lines of work were
different—Sal with the railroad and me on
my own, taking my chances contracting.

“Still, on every occasion Sal and I ran
across one another we had a lot to talk
about—old times. Once he told me he was
broke and I offered to lend him money.
He didn’t ask for it. But the months
passed, there was no repayment, and I got
the feeling that he was avoiding me. So I
wrote him that registered letter and after-
ward regretted doing it.

“So I called him up and told him to for-
get it, even before he had received the
letter. He was all apologies. He said he
couldn’t pay me back all of it at the mo-
ment, but that he would return $100 on
Saturday night—last night. He would drop
by my house sort of late, he said, but he
failed to show up.”

Passelli, a bald-headed man, was obvi-
ously neither of the two assassins. He
owned a Buick sedan, not an Olds, and he
had the best of alibis for the time of the
attack on Antonio. He and his wife had
attended a pre-Easter mass the night
before, and the priest had returned home
with them. The priest was with the
Passellis until 2 a.m.

Detective Griggs, however, had one
further question. “You mentioned,” he
reminded, “you had heard Antonio was
running with a crowd who bootlegged and
did other things. What ‘other things’?”

Passelli seemed reluctant to reply.

“Like peddling dope?” Griggs pressed.

Passelli nodded.

“Right here in Albany?”

Passelli shook his head. “No.” he said.
“In Schenectady. And I also heard he’s
been in trouble with the mob there—or at
least with one member of the'mob. It
appears he made a big sale and was
supposed to turn over $1,000, but didn’t
come through.”

72 2

There was substance in what Passelli
had said, Griggs and Herzog learned the
next morning when they drove to
Schenectady. They showed detectives
there Antonio’s picture and got a quick
reaction.

“Yes,” a Schenectady officer said,
“we've been watching that fellow in con-
nection with a dope situation here. We’ve
never been able to pin anything on him or
his Albany buddy, a guy named Vincent
Saetta. Maybe you know Saetta—a tough-
looking character, beginning to lose his
hair?”

Back in Albany, Griggs and Herzog dug
through police files hoping to find a
picture of Antonio’s colleague, who pre-
sumably, was owed $1,000 by the victim.
Saetta had been reported on the hunt for
Antonio and had been placed in his com-
pany just before the murder. They found
a rogues gallery mug shot of Saetta. His
record showed that he had been picked up
on a vagrancy charge.

The detectives checked at Saetta’s
Albany address, talked with his landlord
and were told that he not been seen there
since early Saturday night.

“Did he drive off in his car?” one of the
officers asked.

“Not in his car,” the landlord, careful of
the facts, replied. “He doesn’t own a car.
But when I last saw him Saturday he was
in a 1930 Oldsmobile coupe belonging to a
buddy of his named Sam Faraci.

“What does Faraci look like?”

“Well,” said the landlord, “the only
thing I ever noticed about him was his
bushy hair.”

The detectives spent the next hour
checking Albany sporting goods stores
looking for the place where the Win-
chester hunting knife had been purchased.
In the fifth such establishment they re-
ceived a quick response when they
showed a clerk the weapon and Saetta’s
picture.

“Sure,” said the clerk. “I remember
that fellow. He came in here Saturday
afternoon with another guy who had a
mop of black hair and they bought that
knife. Look,” he added, pointing, “that’s
our wrapping paper and green string.”

There was no doubt in the detectives’
minds that they had nailed down the
identities of Antonio’s killers. But as they
awaited the result of a Motor Vehicle
Bureau check for Faraci’s address, they
mulled over a question that had occurred
to both of them. They could understand
that if Antonio had been trying to do
Saetta out of $1,000, then Saetta might
have adopted rough collection tactics. He
might have, for instance, administered a
severe beating to Antonio, along with a
warning that if Antonio didn’t pay up,
he could expect more and worse in the
near future. But why would Saetta have
killed him, thus destroying his chances
of ever getting the money?

Shortly after noon, the Motor Vehicle
Bureau was ready with its report. Sam
Faraci, who lived on Hamilton Street,
Albany, was listed as the owner of a 1930
Oldsmobile coupe, license number 6J6-744.

Griggs and Herzog sped to the Hamilton
Street address. The landlord of the room-
ing house declared that Faraci had cleared
out early Sunday morning. However, he
had not left alone. With him had gone his
girl friend, a well-stacked blonde named
Gertrude King, who had also been an
occupant of the rooming house. “They
drove off in Faraci’s Olds,” said the pro-
prietor, “There wasn’t any other man with
them.”

By Monday evening the detectives had
sent out a thirteen-state alarm for Saetta
and Faraci. The charge was murder.

But, having spread this “wanted” alarm,
Griggs and Herzog did not sit back idly.
Certain elements of Anna Antonio's char-
acter and personality still intrigued them
and they returned to her neighborhood.

On Tuesday afternoon they observed a
milkman making a collection along Teunis
Street. “Yes,” he said, when the detectives
approached him, “I know Mrs. Antonio.
She’s one of my customers.”

Then he paused, as if trying to recall an
almost forgotten fact. “But there was
something odd about Mrs. Antonio,” he
went on, “that happened early Sunday. It
was about 4:30 in the morning. I was just
starting out on my deliveries. A couple of
blocks from here, at Clinton and Fourth, I
saw Mrs. Antonio standing on the corner.
Then a cab pulled up. She got in it and it
drove away. About twenty minutes later,
while I was still working in that neighbor-
hood, the cab pulled up again at Clinton
and Fourth. Mrs. Antonio got out and

headed for her house.”

On what unlikely errand was the dead
man’s wife engaged at such an unlikely
hour on the morning of his murder? And
did this excursion explain why, when they
had called on her between 6 and 7 a.m.,
her lipstick was in full battle array?
Where had the taxi taken her? But one
aspect of the episode left no question in
the detectives’ minds. Obviously Anna
Antonio had entered and left the taxi two
blocks from her home so that no neighbor
could be a witness to her goings and
comings.

Griggs and Herzog made a swift canvass
of the Albany taxi companies, examining
trip sheets from the previous Sunday
morning. The Quarter Taxi Company
came up with the answer.

One of their cabs, driven by Joseph di
Jullio, had responded to a telephone call
shortly before 4:30 on Sunday morning.
He picked up a passenger on the corner of
Clinton and Fourth. Driver di Jullio,
whom the detectives located at the cab
stand in front of the taxi company office,
readily recalled the pre-dawn trip.

“You don’t get much business at that
hour,” he said. “This was a pretty simple
deal. When I got to Clinton and Fourth,
the woman was waiting. She got in the cab
and told me to drive her to Broadway and
Columbia. I took her there, and she told
me to wait. She got out and joined a man
who was standing under a street light. She
only talked to him a minute, but I saw her
hand him something, but I couldn't tell
you what it was. Then she got back in the
cab and I drove her to where I had picked
her up.”

Herzog felt in his pocket. “You say,”
he reminded the cab driver, “that this
fellow was standing under a street light.
Did he look like this man?”

With that Herzog handed the cabby the
photo of Vincent Saetta.

“Yeah,” the driver replied. “That’s the
guy.”

The detectives ‘suppressed their initial
impulse to take Mrs. Antonio into custody
immediately. She had been in direct con-
tact with one of her husband’s killers and
it was now obvious that she was somehow
implicated. But inasmuch as Saetta and
Faraci were still fugitives, Griggs and
Herzog decided to play a waiting game.

It was only necessary, however, for the
detectives to play their waiting game for
less than 24 hours. On Wednesday, an alert
policeman in Poughkeepsie—70 miles
south of Albany—spotted a 1930 Oldsmo-
bile coupe bearing the license number
6J6-744 and containing two men and a
woman.

The officer was Patrolman John Camp-

ion, and he rems
had received a
cerning such
occupants. At gw
Street in Poug
Saetta, Faraci a!
all admitted their
denied knowing 2:
of Salvatore Ant
A phone call t«
Herzog to Pough:
left town, they 0:
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custody at Alba:
In an initial stat
claimed they ha
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New York City
Gertrude, whe:
contradicted thi

had absolutely :
Antonio killing
“We did not
Sunday mornin:
Sammy Faraci
afternoon and 4
house until aft
he told me w:
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shortly before
Broadway and
up Faraci’s fri

When fac

Faraci began *
he bent, and t’
a story of cons
a story calcu!
of such a char
A few week
had hrought
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the gyp artist
ing up.
Faraci said
the previous
Antonio’s hau
lured him int
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had some h
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headed back
At a point
tinued, Saet*
car. When h
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There Saette
figured on
just thought
going-over.
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Faraci had
believed all
that he had
stood the dz
companied ©
hunting kni!
For the x
pect of Fa:
existence, {
Saetta from
had not se¢
Faced with
little sweat:
his hide by
principal ir
Antonio
Some we:
tonio, who:
with a pri
bad blood

over the

ani ec SP

WOMEN who

#23 in series

walked the last raalits

Hired killer agreed to do the job, but
doubled his price on finding victim was a

personal friend who’d done him a favor

by R. J. GERRARD

IS WAS THE END of the
line, this roadside. Human
endurance, the desperate re-

solve to get some place despite
numbing pain, the weakness from
awful bleeding—they can take
you just so far. The man on hands
and knees crept another foot, two
feet, a last long yard farther, then
crumpled and lay on his face. He
was so weak now that he couldn’t

lift his head. He felt rather than.

saw the broad, bright apron of
light flow up to and over him.

The Albany-Castleton road was
empty of traffic at this hour, except
for the one speeding car. It was close
to 4 o’clock on the morning of March
27th, Easter Sunday. There were two
young men in the car. Both saw the
crumpled figure in the path of the
headlights.

“Hey, look!” the driver cried, brak-
ing instantly. The car slurred to a
jolting stop. The driver slid out from
under the wheel. His companion had
his door flung open, was scrambling

TRUE DETECTIVE, Nev., 1955

out on the other side. The car’s head-
lights bore closely upon .the stricken
figure at the edge of the ribbon of
cement and gave to his plight a grim
and commanding clarity.

There was life in this mah, not
much, but a spark, a_ thread-thin

‘chance of survival. And when his

would-be rescuers, aghast at the sight
of so many savage injuriés, lifted him
gently to carry him to their car, he
opened his eyes that were veiled with
Pain. .

Then he spoke, husky and pleading
words, “Help, pals—don’t stab me
again.” This was all the bloodstained
stranger managed to say before lapsing
into unconsciousness.

The car, now bearing three, raced
on toward Albany.. A short distance
outside the capital of New York State,
State Trooper Cassen, Patrolling the
highway, flagged the car down.

“What’s the big rush? A fire, or a
sunrise service?”

“Ambulance service,” the driver

‘countered. “Take a look at the poor

guy in back.” ;
Cassen looked, asked brief questions.
No, they hadn’t hit this man. He

| hope you die goon!”

seemed to have been stabbed, maybe
shot, too. They repeated the only words
the man had spoken.

“Okay. We'll rush him to Me-
morial,” Cassen said. “Follow me. J’ll
buzz you through. Let’s go.”

Memorial Hospital in Albany re-
ceived the stranger and hurried him
to an operating table. A skilled house
staff began trying to do something
about nearly a score of wounds. They
proved to be of varying depth and
deadliness and, in combination, quite
beyond the help of medical or surgical
science.

At 6:15 a.m. the man was pronounced
dead, but not as a stranger. Items
found in his clothes indicated that his
name was Salvatore Antonio. He was
a resident of Albany, living at 3 Teunis
Street, employed by the New York
Central Railroad.

Trooper Cassen had promptly noti-
fied his immediate superior, Sergeant
William H. Flubacher. The hospital
authorities had notified city police
headquarters and the sergeant of state
police and John J. Peacock, Albany’s
assistant chief of detectives, were at
Memorial when Antonio expired.

Chief
soon aft
get any
he died?

“No, C
sciousnex
chief w

murmure
again,” t
unconscic
who had
Antonio
Also he }
5 times.
added, ‘41;
“Where
say they j
side?”
“Troope
Their stc
Flubacher
Smurl
men, whx«
as John |
mott, law
away fron
vacation,
ward at 1
of their pr
Sunday.

Me ee

” alarm,
back idly.
tonio’s char-
gued them
hborhood.
»oserved a
ng Teunis
tetectives
Antonio.

to recall an
there was
itonio,” he
Sunday. It
I was just
\ couple of
id Fourth, I
the corner.
n it and it
nutes later,
t neighbor-
t Clinton
out and

s the dead
n unlikely
rder? And
when they
ind 7 a.m.,
le array?
’ But one
juestion in
isly Anna
e taxi two
2 neighbor
oings and

ft canvass
examining
s Sunday
Company

J »seph di

hone call

ss at that
tty simple
d Fourth,
in the cab
idway and
i she told
.ed a man
t light. She
t saw her
ildn’t tell
pack in the
had picked

neir initial
to custody
lirect con-
<illers and
somehow
2etta and
riggs and
ting game.
, for the
game for

ion, and he remembered the briefing he
had received at his station house con-
cerning such a vehicle containing such
occupants. At gunpoint, on busy Market
Street in Poughkeepsie, he arrested
Saetta, Faraci and Gertrude King. They
all admitted their identities, but both men
denied knowing anything about the death
of Salvatore Antonio.

A phone call to Albany sent Griggs and
Herzog to Poughkeepsie, but before they
left town, they ordered the arrest of Anna
Antonio. When they returned with their
prisoners late that night, she, too, was in
custody at Albany police headquarters.

In an initial statement, Saetta and Faraci
claimed they had left Albany on Saturday,
a good many hours before Antonio’s mur-
der. With Gertrude King they had visited
New York City and put up at a hotel. But
Gertrude, when interviewed separately,
contradicted this story and at the same
time convinced her questioners that she
had absolutely no guilty knowledge of the
Antonio killing.

“We did not leave Albany until early
Sunday morning,” she declared. “In fact,
Sammy Faraci went out late Saturday
afternoon and didn’t return to the rooming
house until after 2 a.m. It was then that
he told me we were beating it out of
town—something I didn’t know before.
We packed and left the rooming house
shortly before 5 a.m. At the corner of
Broadway and Columbia Street, we picked
up Faraci’s friend, Saetta.”

When faced with this contradiction,
Faraci began to sweat. For an hour or so
he bent, and then he broke, pouring out
a story of conspiracy to murder—and yet
a story calculated to keep himself clear
of such a charge. ‘

A few weeks before, he claimed, Saetta
had brought up the subject of Salvatore
Antonio gypping him out of $1,000 on a
dope deal. Saetta, according to Faraci, was
determined to teach Antonio a lesson and
he proposed that the two of them beat up
the gyp artist and frighten him into pay-
ing up.

Faraci said that he agreed and that on
the previous Saturday night, knowing
Antonio’s haunts, they staked him out and
lured him into the car on the pretense of
taking a pleasure ride. They drove south,
had some hamburgers and coffee at a
diner in Castleton-on-Hudson, then
headed back toward Albany.

At a point along the road, Faraci con-
tinued, Saetta ordered him to stop the
car. When he pulled over, Saetta forced
Antonio out of the car and into the woods.
There Saetta stabbed his victim. “I never
figured on murder,” Faraci insisted. “I
just thought we would give Antonio a
going-over.”

The officers believed that most of what
Faraci had said was true. In fact, they
believed all of it except his contention
that he had no intent to murder. There
stood the damning fact that he had ac-
companied Saetta in the purchase of the
hunting knife.

For the moment, the most valuable as-
pect of Faraci’s statement was its very
existence, for it acted as a lever to pry
Saetta from the stubborn position that he
had not seen Antonio for several weeks.
Faced with Faraci’s squeal, Saetta did a
little sweating of his own and tried to save
his hide by pointing a finger at the third
principal in the murder conspiracy—Anna
Antonio.

Some weeks before, he said, Mrs. An-
tonio, whom he knew, approached him
with a proposition. She was aware of the
bad blood between him and her husband
over the dope-tinged $1,000. She told

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Saetta that her husband would never pay.
However, she said, there was a way he
could get $1,000, and more—but indirectly.
The method was simple: Kill Antonio and
share in the proceeds of his life insurance,
which amounted to $5,500.

Anna Antonio paid Saetta $100 up on
sealing the bargain. Following the murder,
when she took the taxi to meet him in
downtown Albany, she handed him $300
more to finance a trip away from the city
while “things were hot.” And she promised
to pay him $1,600 more when she had col-
lected from the insurance company.

Once in this talkative mood, Saetta was
not content to put the finger on Mrs. An-
tonio alone. “Faraci’s a liar,” he asserted,
“when he says he didn’t know what this
deal was all about. When I told him the
story and said I had a gun, he said, ‘Let’s

make sure. Let’s use a knife on Antonio
too.’”

Anna Antonio met this blistering array
of evidence with denials, half-truths and
stolid silence. And the closest she ever
came to an acknowledgement of active
participation in the conspiracy was a
statement that she once had heard Saetta
declare he was going to kill her husband
and that she had remarked: “I don’t care
what you do.”

Sexy Anna Antonio, Saetta and Faraci
were tried on charges of murder in the
first degree. All three were found guilty
and after the death sentence had been
imposed on the trio, an exhaustive legal
battle to save them began. It did not end
until more than two years after the mur-
der. But on August 9, 1934, the three
walked that long last mile and died in
Sing Sing’s electric chair.

> 73

d, maybe
aly words

to Me-

w me. I'll

bany re-
cried him
led house
something
nds. They
lepth and
ion, quite
or surgical

ronounced
ar. Items
-d that his
» He was
it 3 Teunis
Yew York

iptly noti-
, Sergeant
ie hospital
ity police
int of state
:, Albany’s
s, were at

expired.

hat

Chief of Police David Smurl arrived
soon afterward. ‘Were you able to
get any statement from him before
he died?” he inquired.

“No, Chief. He never recovered con-
sciousness,” said Peacock. He told the
chief what Salvatore Antonio had
murmured, “Help, pals—don’t stab me
again,” to his rescuers before becoming
unconscious. According to the doctors
who had tried vainly to save his life,
Antonio had been stabbed 13 times.
Also he had been shot at close range
5 times. “It sounds to me,” Peacock
added, “like a gang-ride killing.”

“Where are the two fellows who
say they found him dying by the road-
side?”

“Trooper Cassen had them wait.
Their story seems okay,” Sergeant
Flubacher said.

Smurl] interviewed the two young
men, who had identified themselves
as John Crary and William McDer-
mott, law students. They had been
away from Albany during their Easter
vacation, but had been driving north-
ward at the very late hour because
of their promise to be home for Easter
Sunday. (Continued on page 70)

Hearse bearing body of execu

Wenan who instigated plot, with man (I.) who told dying friend, “I got to go throug

rane

ted murderess pa

<M natn anaes anathema:

h with this.” The other man provided a gun

“I Hope You Die
Soon!”

(Continued from page 47)

“What about Antonio’s family?” the chief
asked Peacock.

Peacock explained that he had _ sent
detectives to Teunis Street to locate some
member of the slain man’s family. Neither
Salvatore Antonio nor the address where
he lived was listed in the telephone direc-
tory.

Just at this moment Peacock’s men ap-
peared. With them was the wife of the
dead man.

“This is a very sad thing,” the Albany
chief began. “I’m very sorry we have to
trouble you, as we must, Mrs. Antonio. But
we may as well face it—your husband, Sal-
vatore, is dead and he was murdered. Find-
ing out who killed him and then finding
them, that’s our job, you know.”

“Of course,” said Anna Antonio in a
faint voice. “And, you say—them? You
know about them?”

“We know little enough, as yet,” Smurl
admitted. ““But your husband suffered
both knife and gunshot wounds, so it seems
almost certain that he had more than one
attacker.”

Anna Antonio nodded sadly. She was
a dark-haired, slender and attractive young
woman of 27, the mother of three children.
She was neatly and becomingly dressed
and obviously strove with more than ordi-
nary courage to maintain her composure.

One of the detectives who had escorted
her here was saying aside to Peacock,
“Did this thing hit her hard! Knocked
the poor kid all to pieces. For a while it
looked like she wouldn’t be able to make
it.”

Peacock commented, “She seems to be
doing better right now. And she’s care-
fully dressed, considering.”

“She was just like you see her when we
rang the bell. She told us that she’d been
so worried because Sal didn’t come home,
she wasn’t able to sleep, so she got up
and dressed to go out looking for him. She
was pacing the floor when we rang.”

Chief Smurl deferred asking Anna An-
tonio to come with him and make formal
identification of her husband’s body. In-
stead, he asked her many questions. Anna
answered him with a visible effort. She said
she wanted to help the police catch who-
ever had murdered Salvatore. She didn’t
think he had any enemies. She couldn’t
account for this night’s violence and
tragedy.

“When did you last see your husband?”
the chief asked her.

“About half-past eight last evening.”

Her husband, she went on, had come
home as usual, around 6730 P.M. He had
taken a bath, changed his clothes and had
his supper. Then, about 8:30 p.m., he had
gone out again. He had not said where
he was going or mentioned the name of
anybody he expected to see. Usually he
was more communicative. It hadn’t
seemed strange to her that he failed to
say where he was going. Men who work
hard all the week for the railroad like
to go places on Saturday night.

As for herself, she had three young
children, ages 7, 4 and 1. She had had
to look after them and get things ready
for Easter Sunday, when she and Salva-
tore would take them to church. All this
had kept her at home throughout Satur-
day evening.

Chief Smurl asked her if there was any-
thing he or his department could do for
her or the kids. Anna Antonio answered

gratefully that she didn’t know where
she could find the time or courage to
notify certain of her husband’s close
relatives outside of the Albany area. The
chief took the names and addresses and
agreed to have an officer attend to it.

Then he asked the young widow if she
now felt equal to looking at the body of
her slain husband, to make the necessary
formal identification. Anna, with obvious
reluctance, said she felt sure that Salva-
tore would not have wanted her to dele-
gate this duty to anybody else.

After she had gazed tearfully at the still
form and signed a document, she was
escorted back to Teunis Street by one of
the detectives. Here all was quiet, a next-
door neighbor. keeping an eye on the
three Antonio children.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Lubacher had
sent state troopers to locate and safeguard
the spot on the Albany-Castleton road
where Crary and McDermott had discov-
ered the dying man. And now Smurl, Pea-
cock and Flubacher drove down there,
first to let the two law students reenact
the scene of discovery and then to make
an intensive ‘search of the adjacent -area.

By the time they arrived it was well into
the morning of a rather chilly and threat-
ening Easter. Cassen and his fellow troop-
ers had already picked up the trail made
by the savagely wounded Antonio as he

struggled from the place of attack to the

roadside. It appeared, from the telltale

MASTER

DETECTIVE

November issue on sale
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pattern of bloodstains, that Antonio had
been left for dead in a deep ravine some
distance from the highway. Yet the 38-
year-old victim had managed to cross more
than 100 feet of scrub and undergrowth,
every foot of the way upgrade, to reach
the roadside.

There were no footprints clear enough
to offer any sort of evidence. But the
police took photographs of the scene.
‘Suddenly Trooper Cassen, acting on
Flubacher’s order to search a wide arc
beyond the attack point, let out a shout.
He had come upon a large knife of ordinary
make, its keen new blade thickly encrusted
with dried blood. Not many yards from
this discovery Sergeant Flubacher found
a snub-nosed .32 revolver. There were
six exploded shells in its cylinder. Both
the knife handle and the nickel-plated
revolver had been carefully wiped free of
fingerprints. And the small gun’s serial

number had been largely obliterated with
a file.

“So. what I first suspected stands up,”
Peacock said.
gangland ride.”

“Or was made to look like it,” Smurl
observed.

“It looks like a typical

A check of the fingerprints of the slain
Salvatore Antonio established that he had
no police record. And on Monday morn-
ing Chief Smurl had a call from the offi-
cer to whom he had delegated the chore
of notifying the victim’s relatives.

“I rang them up and broke the bad
news,” he said. ‘Now I haven't one word,
Chief, that you can say is specific. But I
got an impression that things haven't
been too smooth in the Antonios’ house-
hold. And Antonio’s relatives apparently
have no great liking or sympathy for his
wife.”

“How did they take the news of the
murder?”

“Very shocked. But you know how
people who have been surprised and
shocked are taken off guard and some bit-
terness creeps in.”

Chief Smurl passed it on immediately
to his detective bureau and Peacock. And
the latter decided to drop around to Teunis
Street and have a private talk with young”
Anna Antonio. He found the widow much
upset because there had been some delay
in connection with the autopsy. The un-
dertaker had complained to her about it.
The proposed rather sumptuous funeral
for her husband might have to suffer a
day’s delay, she feared.

“In a case of this kind the autopsy is
prescribed by law. It’s not just medical
interference,” the detective chief explained.
“I am sorry if you have to postpone the
funeral, but I am here on an even more
serious matter. There is much that sug-
gests your husband fell victim to a gang-
land slaying.”

He was observing her closely when he
went on, “What knowledge do you have
of his recent contact with men who might
be tied in with some sort of racket?”

“Sal’s friends never came here to his 4

home,” the widow replied sadly.

“Not any of his friends?”

“Not one.”

“He must have talked about them, men-
tioned names?”

“He never did.”

“Then you can’t help us, even with 4

names?”

Anna shook her head. “I would if I
could, sir, but—” The black-garbed, raven-
haired young woman with the big dark
eyes broke off with a shrug.

“You’d been married how long?”

“Nine years.”

“Excuse my asking this, but I have to.
Has it been a happy marriage?”

“Oh, yes, sir, very happy. :
three lovely children. Two girls and a -
boy—”

“You were happy,” Peacock interrupted
sharply, “and yet your husband’s friends
never called here and you never even
heard him mention them by name?”

Mrs. Antonio sprang to her feet and be-
gan to pace the floor of the small, tidy
parlor which was heavily curtained. Pea-
cock studied her slender grace, her ill-
concealed agitation. What is it, he asked
himself, that this girl knows about, but
fears to tell me?

“I’m afraid there were rackets,” she con-
ceded suddenly.

Peacock assured her that she would en-
joy the full protection of the city police
and, if necessary, of the state police. All
she need do was recall whatever she could,
tell them everything she knew.

Anna Antonio told him that, for some
time past, she had suspected her husband
of getting an income from some other
source besides his brakeman’s job with the
New York Central. "Sal had been a faith-
ful, considerate and understanding hus-
band, a kind and wonderfully devoted
father to the children, but she suspected
him of dabbling in, or somehow being in-

volved with, the smuggling and selling of ,

narcotics.

We have

Nothing of
crept into the
seemed to cha
gradually. He
harsh and abr
ing, or else m«
when he didn
to be irritable

“I got to fe
Anna explain:
to cross or pr

Peacock, lis:
her every ge
He said, “You
husband with
and not have
Or maybe fou
was up to?”

“Mister, a \
she just feels
all wrong,” «
more than th
rogation was
She refused t
of actual pro
band with the

Peacock re
frustrating in
hurried to }
Captain Josey
New York C
tem. Captai)
had already |
his subordina’
who rememb
file concernin
Salvatore An
could have it
and let him }

Doyle and
terday’s sup
when Genove
taraugus Cot
the state, tw

, inconclusivel)

case. Their
tonio and Vi
More than
this had first
railroad polic
the Central h
ber of other
nal reasons f
tonio had be
more than o
had been un:
with any sub
in simple fa
dent hadn’t }
“Well, at
one fellow th
been pals w)
as my men p
in for questi
They didn’
ever. The
railroad emp
residence fo
name had no
roll for som:
police recorc
ters.
“Which do
Smurl, “that
“Or pushi
“Around rai!
hard, danger
duck it to ta
derworld.”
Peacock a)
trace and lc
cellent coope
The railroac
to learn wi!
workers had
the slain Sal
And what
Teunis Stree
some of his
neighborhoo:
their neighk
Anna Anton

she slain
t he had
y morn-
the offi-
ae chore

the bad
ne word,
But I
haven’t
3’ house-
yparently
y for his

s of the

ow how
sed and
some bit-

nediately
ck. And
to Teunis
ith young
ow much
me delay
The un-
about it.
; funeral
suffer a

utopsy is
t medical
»xplained.
tpone the
ven more
that sug-
>a gang-

when he
you have
tho might
icket?”

re to his

em, men-

ven with
‘ould if I

ed, raven-
big dark

59?
5:

I have to.

We have.

rls and a

nterrupted
i’s friends
ever even
ne?”

et and be-
small, tidy
ined. Pea-
e, her ill-
, he asked
about, but

,’ she con-

would en-
city police
yolice. All
she could,

. for some
or husband
ome other
»b with the
en a faith-
iding hus-
ly devoted
» suspected
v being in-
i selling of

Nothing of this dangerous traffic had
crept into the Antonio home, but Sal had

seemed to change. Oh, not all at once, but
gradually. He had become short-tempered,
harsh and abrupt in his manner of speak-
ing, or else moody ana sullenly silent even
when he didn’t have the slightest excuse
to be irritable or suspicious.

“T got to feeling sort of afraid of him,”
Anna explained, “so I never did anything
to cross or provoke him.”

Peacock, listening intently, was watching
her every gesture and facial expression.
He said, “You can’t have connected your
husband with anything as serious as this
and not have seen or heard something?
Or maybe found some evidence of what he
was up to?”

“Mister, a wife who has been so happy,
she just feels it when things begin going
all wrong,” Anna said cryptically. And
more than this the most persistent inter-
rogation was unable to get out of her.
She refused to cite anything in the shape
of actual proof that linked her late hus-
band with the drug traffic.

Peacock reported the results of this
frustrating interview to Chief Smurl, then
hurried to keep his appointment with
Captain Joseph P. Doyle, the head of the
New York Central Railroad’s police sys-
tem. Captain Doyle told him that he
had already been in touch by phone with
his subordinate, Lieutenant Joseph Genova,
who remembered something he had on
file concerning a Central employe named
Salvatore Antonio. As soon as Genova
could have it checked, he would call back
and let him know.

Doyle and Peacock were discussing yes-
terday’s supposed “gang-ride rub-out”
when Genova rang up to say that in Cat-
taraugus County, in the western part of
the state, two men had been briefly and
inconclusively suspected in a railroad arson
case. Their names were Salvatore An-
tonio and Vincent Saetta.

More than 18 months had elapsed since
this had first come to the attention of the
railroad police, Genova said. In that time
the Central had been plagued with a num-
ber of other arson cases, so that the origi-
nal reasons for suspecting Saetta and An-
tonio had been reviewed and scrutinized
more than once. But the railroad police
had been unable to connect these suspects
with any subsequent arsonist outrage and,
in simple fairness, the Cattaraugus inci-
dent hadn’t been counted against them.

“Well, at least we have the name of
one fellow that Sal Antonio seems to have
been pals with,” Peacock said. “As soon
as my men pick up Saetta, we’ll have him
in for questioning.”

They didn’t easily pick up Saetta, how-
ever. The last address he’d given the
railroad employing him had not been his
residence for over two years. Saetta’s
name had not appeared on a Central pay-
roll for some weeks past. Yet he had no
police record known to Albany headquar-
ters.

“Which doesn’t mean,” Peacock said to
Smurl, “that he isn’t hip deep in rackets.”

“Or pushing dope,” the chief agreed.
“Around rail yards and freight trains it’s
hard, dangerous work. Some guys would
duck it to take a fat income from the un-
derworld.” .

Peacock and his detectives, in trying to
trace and locate Vincent Saetta, had ex-
cellent cooperation from Doyle and Genova.
The railroad operatives likewise sought
to learn who else among the Central’s
workers had been on intimate terms with
the slain Sal Antonio.

And what of the rumor and gossip of
Teunis Street and vicinity? Peacock had
some of his best men quietly probing that
neighborhood. Fortunately for Peacock,
their neighbors had never found Sal or
Anna Antonio uninteresting. One was a

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TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

Every Wednesday Evening on Mutual Stations

woman with a recurrent toothache, another
was a man who relieved his insomnia
with alert and harmless spying. These two
and other nearby observers soon gave Al-
bany’s police headquarters a pretty clear
conviction that Anna Antonio was a liar.
Why?

It was certainly absurd for her to have
lied to Peacock by insisting that her hus-
band’s men friends never had come to see
him at his home. Quite the contrary ap-
peared to be true. Men had called at the
Antonio home as regularly. and normally
as anywhere else on the block. These had
been Sal’s friends, presumably, since he
was often seen greeting them, or seeing
them to the door, with every sign of cor-
diality.

What was more, there was a discrepancy

_in Anna’s account of this past Easter morn-

ing. The neighbor with the jumpy tooth
and the neighbor whose insomnia kept
him awake had each seen somebody has-
tening away from the Antonio dwelling a
little after 4:30 a.m. It was still dark then,
the street lighting at this point poor, and
both observers had taken it for granted
that the hurrying figure was that of Anna
Antonio. Whoever it was, this person had
managed to hail a cruising night-owl cab
at the next street intersection and drive
off rapidly.

District Attorney John T. Delaney of
Albany County was taking a lively. interest
in the Antonio murder and, on learning
of these developments, he requested Anna
Antonio to call on him at his office.

Told, when she came, that she had been
seen out of doors before dawn on Easter
morning, Anna surprised Delaney and the
others when she did not deny it. “But I
was beside myself,” she cried. “I kept
going out, as far as the curb even, to look
up and down the street in hopes of seeing
Sal coming home.”

“And then you took a taxi.”

This Anna vehemently denied. She de-
manded to be allowed to confront which-
ever of her nosey neighbors had accused
her of any such. thing.

The district attorney’s pleasant smile
was deceptive and disarming, and meant
to be. “My dear Mrs. Antonio,” he said;
“nobody’s accusing you. Certainly none
of your neighbors accuses you.”

“Then who said that? That I left my
three young children alone by themselves
and went gallivanting off some place in a
taxi?”

“You didn’t take a taxi, then?”

“At that time of night? To where?” Anna
demanded.

One of his assistants came and spoke to
Delaney in an undertone. The district at-
torney, with a word of apology, rose and
went to the door. ‘Come in, Dick,” he in-
vited.

The energetic, solidly built and conserva-
tively dressed man who entered was
Richard A. Kelly, the federal narcotics
agent for the Albany district. Although
here by appointment, he pretended that it
was a casual visit. Delaney introduced him
to Mrs. Antonio.

“I’m glad to see you,” Kelly began, and
added a few courteous words of condol-
ence. “I have heard from Chief Peacock
what you confided to him about your hus-
band and your suspicions that he’d become
involved with the drug racket. It’s the
most vicious of rackets, Mrs. Antonio. You
have children, I know, so you have a stake
in narcotics. enforcement. Let me have
any facts that you can. Just tell it to me
in your own words.”

Anna’s own words were many and
varied, but the facts, if any, got lost. Kelly
asked leading questions. By design he
worked in names and allusions which
ought to register. But she reacted not at
all. Finally the agent thanked her and
took his leave.

In an out
asked, “Do )
that could h

“I think sl
and trying
Kelly said.
was murder
Sal was real)
have silence:

Peacock ir
could return
got hold of °
exclaimed.

Two of P
piled a list
streets of 4¢
morning, adc
pendent driv
more flexib]
tripsheets ha:
who clearly
4:30 am. a
at the corne
Street observ
this fare tal
Anna Antoni

“She seem:
to Union Sta‘
and Columbi
gage and tip)
added.

Delaney r«
Anna Antoni
that there wv
with her at
of the devel
have to sum
mured some
eager to*hel
the door wl
her.

The official
he could get
attracting he
gone, the ta>
ment to mak«

“Tf it mea
lady like her.
he told them.
practically su
at Union Stat
five o’clock E

District At
ferred with |
with Smurl
sions they rez
he said, “We
for the time
Antonio. We
lied and for \
why she hurr

Certainly A
way and Colu
taking an ea)
likely that sh
meet one. F
found her at )
when they c
about her hu:
to them that
cause of wor)
when she hea

Peacock’s
neighbors wh
“without hard
get so loud,” a
rows. The co
Anna, who w
been only a g)
expanded in
rowed down i
it concerned

His name \
relative of S
mirer of Salv:
Antonios, to h
had accepted .
Joe’s persisten
the house wh
railroad had

Ultimately
out. And sx

ie, another

insomnia
These two
n gave Al-
retty clear
was a liar.

er to have
it her hus-
‘ome to see
yntrary ap-
illed at the
d normally

These had
y, since he
, or seeing
sign of cor-

discrepancy
jaster morn-
umpy tooth
somnia kept
nebody has-
)» dwelling a
ll dark then,
nt poor, and
for granted
chat of Anna
s person had
ight-owl cab
nm and drive

Delaney of
ively, interest

on learning
yuested Anna
office.

she had been
wn on Easter
laney and the
ry it. “But I
ied. “I kept
even, to look
opes of seeing

”

aied. She de-
mfront which-
s had accused

sleasant smile
ag, and meant
onio,” he said,
*ertainly none
you.”

Chat I left my
by themselves
ome place in a

hen?”
9 where?” Anna

1e and spoke to
The district at-
ology, rose and
in, Dick,” he in-

ilt and conserva-
o entered was
ederal narcotics
trict. Although
sretended that it
y introduced him

Kelly began, and
yords of condol-
n Chief Peacock
about your hus-
that he’d become
racket. It’s the
Irs. Antonio. You
you have a stake
t. Let me have
Just tell it to me

were many and
ny, got lost. Kelly
s. By design he
allusions which
she reacted not at
thanked her and

In an outer office the district attorney
asked, “Do you think she knows anything
that could help you?”

“] think she’s covering up for somebody
and trying to hide how scared she is,”
Kelly said. “I don’t think Sal Antonio
was murdered to silence him, though. If
Sal was really in with dope-runners they’d
have silenced her long ago.”

Peacock intercepted Delaney before he
could return to his private office. “We've
got hold of the 4:30 a.m. taxi driver,” he
exclaimed.

Two of Peacock’s detectives had com-
piled a_ list of every fleet cab on the
streets of Albany after 3 aM. Easter
morning, adding to it a number of inde-
pendent drivers whose schedules would be
more flexible. Systematic checking of
tripsheets had brought them to J. Di Julio,
who clearly recalled having picked up at
4:30 a.m. a nicely dressed young woman
at the corner designated by the Teunis
Street observers. Di Julio’s description of
this fare tallied with the appearance of
Anna Antonio.

“She seemed in a terrible rush to get
to Union Station. I took her to Broadway
and Columbia Street. She had no bag-
gage and tipped me 15 cents,” the driver
added.

Delaney returned to his office, where
Anna Antonio was waiting. He told her
that there was nothing more to discuss
with her at the moment. In the course
of the developing investigation he might
have to summon her again. Anna mur-
mured something about being “always
eager to*help” and walked out through
_the door which Peacock held open for
her.

The officials had placed Di Julio so that
he could get a good look at her without
attracting her attention. When she had
gone, the taxi driver took a careful mo-
ment to make up his mind.

“Tf jt means trouble for a nice little
lady like her, I’d be sorry to swear to it,”
he told them. ‘But, without swearing, ’m
practically sure it was her I dropped off
at Union Station just a few minutes before
five o’clock Easter morning.”

District Attorney Delaney now con-
ferred with his prosecuting assistants and
with Smurl and Peacock. The conclu-
sions they reached were summed up when
he said, “We'll table the gang-ride angle
for the time being. Concentrate on Anna
Antonio. We want to know why she has
lied and for whom she’s covering up. And
why she hurried to the station.”

Certainly Anna hadn’t hurried to Broad-
way and Columbia Street with the idea of
taking an early train. Nor did it seem
likely that she had sped to the station to
meet one. For Peacock’s detectives had
found her at home and completely dressed
when they came with their tragic news
about her husband. Anna had explained
to them that she was unable to sleep be-
cause of worry and was pacing the floor
when she heard their ring.

Peacock’s men, still probing, found
neighbors who now recalled having heard,
“without hardly having to listen, it would
get so loud,” any number of Antonio family
rows. The quarreling of Salvatore and
Anna, who was his second wife and had
been only a girl when he married her, had
expanded in candor and abuse, but nar-
rowed down in subject matter until mostly
it concerned just one young man.

His name was Joe Marco. He was a
relative of Salvatore’s and a frank ad-
mirer of Salvatore’s wife. For a time the
Antonios, to help out with their expenses,
had accepted Joe Marco as a boarder. And
Joe’s persistent inclination to hang around
the house while Sal was working on the
railroad had aroused neighborly interest.

Ultimately Sal had kicked his cousin
out. And somewhere about this time,

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distinguishing marks on it—the name Ed
and the number 7?”

“No. But you can clearly see the marks
where the name and number were before
someone took them off.”

“Who is this guy? Where did he get
the coveralls?” :

“He’s a young kid and I’m sure he’s
telling the truth. He says he bought the
coveralls for two dollars from a fellow in
Carnuel.”

“Does he know his name?”

“The last name is Paz. The kid doesn’t
know the first name.”

The officers knew that the name Paz
is quite common in that section of the
country. Several families lived in the area
who bore the name. .

Hathaway considered Scroggins’ story,
then listened to Salter’s information.
When Hathaway had digested all the
facts he said, “Scroggins, let that kid
out of jail. You and Salter take him with
you and visit all the members of the Paz
family you can find, See if he can identify
the man who sold him the coveralls.”

It was Saturday morning, April 26th,
when the two officers set out, taking a
frightened 16-year-old boy with them.
Salter and Scroggins were thoroughly
convinced of the lad’s innocence. All they
wanted from him, they explained, was
that he point out the person from whom
he had obtained the dead man’s clothing.

That pointing out occurred just before
noon in the town of Carnuel. Two young
men were standing before a house. The
boy with the policemen pointed excitedly
at one of them.

“That’s him,” he said. “That’s the fel-
low who sold me this suit.”

Salter strode over to the indicated
youth. He was about 17 years old, clad

in levis and a checkered shirt. Salter said,

“What’s your name?”
“Johnny Paz. And I don’t know what
this kid’s talking about.”
“Do you live here?” asked Scroggins.
Paz nodded. Scroggins spoke to Salter.
“Stand by. Keep an eye on these two.
Pll take a quick look in the house.”
Scroggins went inside the building.

Johnny Paz and his companion exchanged

a swift uneasy glance. A few minutes
later Scroggins reappeared. In his hand
he held a leather jacket. He said to Salter,
“I found this in a bedroom. It has-a
cleaner’s mark on the collar. It reads:
Ed M.” He paused and added, “Moreover,

_there’s an old Ford parked in the back

vard.”
Paz said hastily, “That’s not my car.
It belongs to. my cousin.”
“We'll check that,” said Salter. “We'll

\
‘

take you and the car back to headquarters
with us. We have some questions to ask.”

Paz’ companions shuffled uneasily;
started to move away.

Scroggins regarded him suspiciously, °

then called him back. “You'd better come
along, too. You might know something
about this.” ,

The youth who gave his name as Frank
Francia protested to no avail. A few min-
utes later the officers, the two youths
and the ancient Ford were headed toward
Albuquerque.

There, the registration of the Ford was
checked. It belonged to a Paz, all right.

But not to Johnny. The ownership was

recorded under the name of Nasareno
Paz of 203 East Street in Albuquerque.
Johnny admitted that this was his cousin,

Hathaway despatched Salter to pick up
Nasareno, while Scroggins, Dow and As-
sistant District Attorney Murphy pro-
ceeded to question Johnny Paz and Frank
Francia,

Murphy said, “You boys may as well
talk. We have one witness to the fact
that you sold a pair of Marso’s coveralls.
We found his jacket in your house, Paz.

We can produce a witness to whom some-
‘one sold a wrist watch. It’s quite likely

he'll be able to identify you.”

Johnny Paz thought this over. Finally,
he said in a low voice, “All right. I was
there. But I didn’t shoot the guy. Francia
did that.”

Frank Francia glared indignantly at his
friend. “That’s a lie,” he yelled. “It was
Nasareno who shot him. Tony Riboni and
I only shot at the car.”

Now Murphy and Scroggins breathed
easier. “You've said this much,” said
Murphy. “Now, let's have the details.”

The suspects began to talk. Save on
one point their stories coincided.

The quartet—the two Paz’, Francia and
Riboni—had seen Marso change the fifty
dollar bill at the gas station. They had
decided to ambush him on the highway.
A bullet in his front tire had stopped the
car. Then they had jumped him. Two of
them were armed with .22 rifles. Francia
used a Craig 30-40.

They had transported Marso’s body to
the arroyo in the Lincoln, transferred the
dead man’s possessions to Nasareno’s car,
and abandoned the Lincoln in the canyon.
However, on the evening of February 7th.
they had decided to burn the Lincoln.
They returned, drove it five miles away
from the arroyo, doused it with gasoline
and fired it.

The sole discrepancy in the two con-
fessions was that Johnny Paz insisted

’ watch was summoned. He positively iden- @

-longer. He added his signed confession

that Francia had fired both bullets into a
Marso’s chest. Francia swore that Nasa-=

reno Paz, not he, had done the shooting. = .

It was at that point when Salter came
in with Nasareno Paz in tow. Nasareno
stated flatly that his friends were out-—
rageous liars, He knew nothing about
anything. Certainly he had neither robbed
nor murdered Edward Marso. Be

In spite of this Salter announced that ~
he had found a canvas bag of mechanic’s ie
tools in Nasareno’s house. Stencilled on ~
the bag was the name of Edward Marso, *

At this point the attendant who had 7
exchanged two dollars in gas for the wrist =

tified Nasareno as the man who had made ~
the swap. : Ie

Murphy now elicited the fact from =~
Johnny that the fourth member of the
gang, Tony Riboni, had left the region ¥
to visit relatives in Grandview, Washing- “©
ton, on April 11th. This was reported to
Chief Roach who at once telephoned the
Grandview police. : ri

Riboni was picked up within twenty- ~
four hours, held by the Grandview author-
ities. Then after three days in jail, Nasa- ©
reno Paz decided not to hold out any ~

to those of his cousin, Johnny and Frank
Francia. And on May Ist, Chief Roach re-
ceived word from Washington that Riboni ~
hs also admitted his part in the af- 3
air. M:
The Craig 30-40 was found after Nasa- |
reno admitted he had hidden it in an un- ©
used garage near his own home. The ~—
statements of the three suspects in cus-
tody, plus the evidence presented by the
inveStigating officers, was enough for the
district attorney’s office to begin prelim-
inary legal action, and on May 7th, mur-
der charges were filed in the District
Court against the four accused youths for
the February 6th murder of Ed Marso.

In the meantime, State Patrolman Jack
Salter was sent to Grandview, Wash., to
pick up the fourth suspect. Salter returned
Anthony Riboni to Bernalillo County on
May 14th, and there it was determined
that his prisoner was wearing a belt that
had belonged to the murdered race car
driver. : 3

In Albuquerque, Captain Hathaway lay @
in his bed and gave great credit to the
nih policemen and sheriff's deputies. He
said: &
“They did all the work. I just sat back @
and tried to direct the investigation as
best I could. I was happy to have served
on this case, and hope that the doctor
will permit me to continue to take a lim-
ited part in future investigations.”

Saat Waar eRe Ai gl paisa

" gurhitoAidy,

Case of the Silent Widow

[Continued from page 39]

information there was about the dead
man and his habits. Then Smurl and De-
laney had Anna Antonio brought into the
district attorney's office for further in-
terrogation.

The new widow, now dressed in smart
and attractive black, listened impassively
while the officers related what they knew
of her husband’s illegal activities.
“Surely.” Delaney insisted with some
heat, “you must have been aware of what
your husband was doing. Who were his
buddies: in this dope racket? What was
the trouble over? Why didn’t you tell us
about it before?” :

The succession of questions seemed to
unnerve the woman somewhat. Her liquid

68.

black eyes fell on one, then the other of
her questioners, while she twisted her
gloves in her fingers. “I was afraid! I was
afraid!” she blurted out finally,-in a tear-
tinged voice. “There was some trouble,
but I swear I don’t know what was behind
it. A couple of weeks ago my husband
told me never to answer the door unless
I was sure of who was there. He said some
men were after him—but he wouldn’t tell

_ me who they were. That’s all I know.”

“You never saw any of these men?
You don't know any of their names?”

“No. I don't know who they are or any-
thing about them.” ‘

And that was the extent of any admis-
sions Anna Antonio would make. Smurl
and Delaney permitted her to depart. and
then mulled over the import of the inter-
view. Smurl summed up their common
conclusion when he said: “She knows
more—a lot more—but she's holding back.
The question is: why?”

Later in the day Detectives Griggs and
Herzog showed up at Chief Smurl’s office
with little to report. As a result of their
foray into the Tenderloin they had heard
vague rumors of some “trouble” between
Antonio and his underworld pals, but no
one seemed to know—or be willing to say ©)
—who the pals were, or the nature of the =
dispute. Se

The chief had another assignment for 7
them. “Take a run out to the Teunis Street
neighborhood,” he told them. “See what
you can find out about what was going on WA
in the Antonio house. Who visited there, — =
and the rest of it.” ws

By midnight, the detectives had come™
upon a rich lode of information. None of @
it bore at all on the dead man’s gang, 2 |
activities, but, on the contrary, was con- «
cerned with the reportedly unwifely con-"% |
duct of Anna “Antonio. The lady, ‘it
appeared, had a quick and roving eye for.
men other than her husband.

Passelli, and contained a spirited demand for the repay-
ment of a loan the writer apparently had made to Antonio.
However, while the tone of the missive was urgent, it was
by no means ominous or threatening. Nevertheless, the
officers hurried to West Albany to interview Louis Passelli.
They found him readily enough, and the man seemed genu-
inely shocked to hear that Antonio had been murdered.
He acknowledged that he had written the registered letter,
and described the situation between himself and the dead
man as exactly what the communication suggested. More
to the point, he was able to give an account of his move-
ments on the previous evening that the detectives were
able to verify on the spot. Clearly, this single crumb which
Anna Antonio had thrown their way was entirely without
substance. ,

The investigators’ next move was to pick up young
Cary, and, with the law student as a guide, drive out to
the spot on the River Road where Antonio had been found
only a few hours earlier, A scrutiny of the scene indicated
that the attack had occurred beyond the road shoulder, at

_ the edge of some low brush which separated the shoulder

from an adjoining field. A quantity of blood stained the
ground there and a trail of it leading to the road’s edge
suggested that after being shot and stabbed, Antonio had
dragged himself to the highway.

'
'

nificant information. A routine check of police records,

‘ Smurl informed the newcomers, revealed that Salvatore
Antonio had been arrested in Albany on a narcotics charge
five years before. ‘There was no indictment,’ Smurl went
on, “but I’ve been talking with Dick Kelly, the Federal
narcotics man here. He tells me that Antonio was known to
be part of a dope ring that operates in Schenectady,
although they’ve never been able to get the goods on him.”

“All of which,” District Attorney Delaney pointed out,
“seems to clear up several points. It explains how Antonio, °

,a railroad brakeman, had such expensive clothes, and a
wad of money in his pocket. It also looks as though some
of his pals might have been after him. Quite possibly he’d
given them some kind of double-cross.”

“That’s probably the case,” Smurl agreed. “But what
beats me is Mrs. Antonio. I don’t see how she could help
but. know what her husband was up to—and if she did

- know, she certainly gave us a runaround this morning. I
think we'll have another talk with her.”

The next five minutes were devoted to a council of war.
Since the day was Sunday, and all such establishments .
were closed, a check of the possible source of sale of the
hunting knife was deferred until the following day. But
Corporal Flubacher agreed to undertake a survey of houses,
lunch rooms and gas stations both to the north and south
of the River Road murder scene, in the hope that someone

— The path of the-man’s bloody journey crossed a set of might provide pertinent information concerning the mur-
Bi tire markings which were embedded in the soft earth of der car and its occupants. Chief Smurl phoned the Sche-
g the shoulder. These markings indicated that a car had nectady police and asked them to find out what they
a pulled up from the south, paused for an interval, and then could about Antonio’s associates in the gang he reputedly °

ae had driven off ina northerly direction. On the reasonable belonged to, Herzog and Griggs set out to canvass Albany’s

ve an assumption that it might well have been the vehicle which Tenderloin district—inhabited by many of the city’s shadier

to. a drove Antonio to the scene of his death, the detectives, characters—to garner whatever [Continued on page 68]

e with portable equipment, made a moulage of the treads. :

A search of the brush yielded one important object. This
was a bloodstained hunting knife, around the handle of
which a fragment of paper was tied with a string. “It looks
brand new,” Flubacher commented. “I’d say that whoever
used it tore off the wrappings in a hurry, but didn’t bother

with this bit of paper and string, If it was bought here-

abouts, we can probably trace it.”

The gun, however, was a different story. Search as they
would, the detectives could not turn it up, and they were
forced to conclude that the killer, or killers, had driven
away with it. ;

Back at Albany police headquarters, the officers found
Chief Smurl discussing the case with District Attorney

John J. Delaney, and in possession of what seemed sig- .

The knife wielder and owner of the get-away car, at left,
and the man, right, a Judas who sold out his friendship for
a few measly dollars to arrange the cruel assassination.

The evidence at the trial revealed that the reason for the
widow’s muteness was fear because of her guilty knowledge.

= een En

TAREE KRACK

car.

An officer points to the muddy turf alongside the Albany-Castleton road to which Photo of the victim and his wife
the victim had crawled after having received numerous revolver and knife wounds. taken shortly before his . death.

\ «

request. If anything could help him, he realized, it was im-
mediate medical attention. At top speed, the car headed for
Albany’s Memorial Hospital, on North Pearl Street.

By 5, the still-unconscious Salvatore Antonio was on the
hospital’s operating table, but no medical skill could save
him. He died without uttering a word concerning what had
happened to him.

But when Dr. Orvis A. Brenenstuhl, coroner’s physician,
who had been alerted by hospital authorities, along with the
police, examined the victim, there was no doubt that murder
had been done. ‘The man was shot four times,” Dr. Brenen-

stuhl asserted, “and then—to make sure he would die, I sup-.

pose—he was stabbed eighteen times. I would say the
attack occurred between 1 and 2 this morning.”

Those who heard this pronouncement included Corporal
William H. Flubacher, who had been summoned front the
nxearby East Greenbush Barracks of the New York State
Police; Albany*Chief of Police David Smurl; and City De-
tectives George Griggs and Frank Herzog. This quartet
had already talked with young Cary, and from him had
heard the victim’s name and address and an account of the
circumstances under which he had been found.

Now, at Chief Smurl’s direction, Detectives Griggs and
Herzog set out to visit the Teunis Street number. The
house in question, they soon observed, was a two-story
private dwelling. Their long peels on the bell went unan-
swered for some time, but finally they heard a movement

- within and then the front door was opened by a black-

haired, black-eyed, slim, pretty young woman of about 25,
who looked at the officers inquiringly. ;

In reply to their question, she declared she was Salvatore
Antonio’s wife, Anna. When the detectives informed her of
the doleful nature of their business, she gripped convul-
sively at the doorway, the color drained from her face, and
she muttered: “Oh, my God!”

She nodded numb agreement to the detectives’ solicitous
request that she accompany them to the hospital, changed
quickly from the nightgown and wrapper she had been
wearing into street clothes and set off with them in their

It was 6:30 when the group reached the hospital, and
within a few minutes Mrs. Antonio had looked down at the
body of the murdered man and sorrowfully identified it as
/.

cogent answers to the questions the investigators put to”

“someone, say, who would want to see him dead 2”

_ tered letter was being held-for my husband at the main_

her husband’s. Although, following this ordeal, the woman
seemed dazed and grief-stricken, she nevertheless gave

her in the course of an interview held in a hospital ante-
room.

Her husband, Anna Antonio said, had been a brakeman
on the New York Central Railroad. He was 36—ten years
her senior—and they had been married almost that long.
They owned the house:in which they lived, and he had
always been a good and thoughtful mate. “But I must say,”
she went on, “that he never told me much about what he
did when he was away from home. Last night he left the
house about 6:30, He didn’t say where he was going, or
what time he would be back. He had friends—men friends,
I’m sure—and he seemed to feel that what he did with
them was his business and not mine:” as

“But what about his enemies?” Chief Smurl put in

“I don’t know of anybody like that,’ the woman replied.
“Mrs. Antonio, there was over a hundred dollars in your
husband’s pocket,” Corporal Flubacher pointed out. “Obvi-
ously, robbery wasn’t the motive here, yet you say you
know of no personal reason that would explain his death.
But about this money. That’s a lot for a man to be carrying °
these days. Was your husband usually so weH heeled?” .
“I couldn’t say. When I needed money I asked for it—and
he gave it to me. It was always for the house, or once in
a while for a dress or something like that. But I don’t know
about his financial affairs.” Bet
“Think hard, Mrs. Antonio,” Smurl exhorted. “Wasn't
there some: little incident recently—maybe a very trivial
one—you may have forgotten to tell us ?” meas
Anna Antonio closed her eyes for a moment, as if to.
concentrate. Finally she said: “Only one thing. About a.
week ago, there was a message in the mailbox that a regis-

post office. I gave him the notice, and reminded him about
it several times. But he didn’t seem to want to pick up the_
letter, and as far as I know, he never did.” ite
It was little enough to go on, but the investigators de-
cided it was worth a fling. Accordingly, Flubacher, Griggs :
and Herzog drove to the post office and, after talking with 9%
postal authorities, were permitted to scan the letter in ques-3
tion. It was from a West Albany man named Louis

both bullets into — "
swore that Nasa- ~

one the shooting.

vhen Salter came &

in tow. Nasareno
riends were out-
) ‘hing about
ig ther robbed
4

r announced that
yag of mechanic’s
ise. Stencilled on
Edward Marso,
‘endant who had
1 gas for the wrist
le positively iden-
an who had made

1 the fact from
1 member of the
1 left the region
idview, Washing-
was reported to
-e telephoned the
¢ ,
» within twenty-
randview author-
ays in jail, Nasa-
*to hold out any
igned confession
dhnny and Frank
:, Chief Roach re-
igton that Riboni
part in the af-

ound after Nasa-
dden it in an un-
own home. The
suspects in cus-
presented by the
‘s enough for the
to begin prelim-
n May 7th, mur-
in the District
7 vouths for
a Ed Marso.
‘a2 auvlman Jack
dview, Wash., to
t. Salter returned
alillo County on
was determined
aring a belt that
| irdered race car
in Hathaway lay
at credit to the
__ iff’s deputies. He
. I just sat back
investigation as
y to have served
that the doctor
1e to take a lim-
tigations.”

tives Griggs and
ef Smurl’s office
qa result of their
1 they had heard
rouble” between
orld pals, but no
be willing to say
he nature of the

assignment for
he Teunis Street
hem. “See what
iat was going on
10 visited there.

had come
1 1. None of
‘ad man’s gang
trary, was con-
y unwifely con-

nd.

1
=

Cd i
cote fe tinge a ER Be pay

}
‘

‘

* ’

This impression was conveyed by many
of those with whom the detectives spoke,
but one of the informants, in particular,
gave evidence of the most concrete na-
ture. This was a plumber in the neighbor-
hood who told the officers that a few
weeks before, he had received telephoned
instructions from Mrs. Antonio to come
to her house and repair a leak in the up-
stairs bathroom. “I told her I’d be there
that afternoon,” the plumber declared,
“but as it turned out.I couldn’t make it.
The next morning, though, I went, and it
must be that she didn’t expect me.”

The plumber went on to say that wher
there was no answer to his knock, he
entered the house anyway and proceeded
to the upper floor. As he was walking
down a hallway there, headed for the
bathroom, I came across Mrs. Antonio
and a man—not her husband—both in
scanty attire. When Mrs. Antonio saw
me,” the plumber explained, “she

another room. I left the house as fast as I
could, and so far as I know, the plumbing
in her home has never been fixed. No, I
have no idea who the man was.”

When Chief Smurl and District At-
torney Delaney had been informed of this
intriguing intelligence, they realized that
if it had any significance concerning. An-
tonio’s murder, it was at complete vari-
ance with the gang theory of the crime.
Mrs. Antonio’s lover, either with or with-
out her knowledge, would not have been
the first man to kill the unwanted side of
an eternal triangle.

As for the practical implications of this
information, the investigators felt it
would not be expedient to charge Mrs.
Antonio immediately with what they had
learned. She was much more devious and
subtle than she appeared on the surface,
they believed, and they were sure that she
would deny any faithlessness to her hus-
band. More could be gained, they felt, by
keeping the house under constant surveil-
lance and continuing their neighborhood
inquiries,

But the next day, the investigation’s
pendulum swung back Strongly in the
direction of the narcotics gang, when, in
the early morning a report was received
from the Schenectady police. It declared
that a narcotics racket was operating in
their city, that Antonio undoubtedly had
been one of its leading spirits, and that
there had been a recent dispute involving
Antonio and Vincent Saetta, another
member of the gang. The dispute, so the
story went, concerned a thousand dollars
which Antonio was said to have collected
from a narcotics sale, and which he had
failed to turn over to Saetta, to whom it
was supposed to have gone,

To Albany headquarters, the name Vin-
cent Saetta was not unknown, They were
aware that in spite of his Schenectady
activities, he lived in Albany, had no
visible means of support, and in the past
he had been picked up and questioned for
various minor crimes, but had always
escaped being implicated,

It was no trouble to determine where
Saetta lived, but when officers called at
the address, they learned little for their
pains, Saetta was not at home, relatives
told the detectives, and had not been
there since late Saturday afternoon. They
had no idea where he could be found.

“Where’s his car?” one of the investi-
gators asked.

“He doesn't own one,” was the reply.

The fact that Saetta had “disappeared”
when he did seemed pointed. It becomes
more pointed when news of his disappear-
ance was correlated with the work of
other detectives who had been assigned
to trace the source of sale of the hunting

eaten there the

knife and to continue inquiries in the
Tenderloin concerning Antonio.

The first contingent of these officers
had found some important evidence in a
sporting-goods store called Jack’s, on
Broadway near State Street. There a
clerk identified the knife as one he had
sold at approximately 6 o'clock Saturday
afternoon, and he identified, too, the bit
of paper and string tied about its hilt as
part of the wrapping in which he had
handed it to its purchaser.

“The man who bought it,” the clerk
said, “was of medium height, but the most
I remember about him was that he had a
high hair line, his hair was thin, but black,
and combed to the side,”

“Like this?” one of the detectives
asked, proferring a rogue’s gallery picture
of Saetta. “hy rey

5 i |

“Why, that’s the man himself!” the
clerk exclaimed. “Then there was this
other fellow who came in with him. He
had a big mop of wavy brown hair and

he was kind of pop-eyed. When they left:

I walked to the door with them, and [
saw them get into a car that was parked
at the curb. The pop-eyed fellow drove,
and although I’m not quite sure about it:
I seem to remember that the car was a
late-model, Oldsmobile coupe.”

Saetta’s unnamed, “pop-eyed” compan-
ion was given an identity when other de-

' tectives talked with the counterman of a

restaurant located on Green Street in the
Tenderloin district. The restaurant em-
ploye recognized pictures of Antonio and
Saetta, and declared that the* two had
previous Saturday eve-
ning. “They were with a guy I happen to
know,” he went on. “His. name is Sam
Faraci. The three of them left here—it
was around 9 o'clock—and got into Far-
aci’s car,” peo

Then, State Police Corporal Flubacher
phoned Smurl. Along with John Van de
Wal, Castleton chief of police, they had
been checking establishments on. the
River Road, and had important progress
to report. “We’ve shown Antonio’s pic-
ture around,” Flubacher said. “There’s a
man here in Castleton who remembers
seeing. Antonio early: Sunday morning.
This man works in a Castleton diner, and
he tells us that Antonio was in his place,
with two other men, around 1 o'clock.

_They all had coffee, and left. He thinks

they drove north on the River Road. This
diner is only a couple of miles from where
the body was found.”

In Chief Smurl's opinion, there was little
doubt that Saetta and Faraci were the
men responsible for Antonio’s murder.
The method by which it had been accom-
plished—by both gunshot and knife—

"Strongly suggested that a different man

had handled each weapon. Saetta was
known to. have had a thousand-dollar
grievance against the dead man, and if he
had sought revenge, what had happened
to Antonio was typical of gangland men-
tality. Lastly, and most concretely, Saetta
and Faraci were known.to have bought
the deadly knife, and to have been in
Antonio’s company to within minutes of
the probable time of the attack on him.
In the light of this unfolding informa-
tion, Anna Antonio’s personal peccadillos
seemed to have only a remote possibility
of connection with the case—if any at all.

‘It was entirely probable that the woman

could have behaved immorally without
inspiring anyone to violence. Her reticence
to talk about her husband and his affairs
might well have stemmed from a wish to
keep her own transgressions from the
light of day. All this, Smurl realized, was
reasonable, But the chief, as well as being
a reasonable man, was also a thorough

i
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}
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Jinx of a Broadway Jackal (Continued from Page 11) ogpicid

soiled tablecloth on a table set in the
angle of the walls ina grimy restau-
rant. Cigarette smoke twists upward
into the murk of an almost invisible
ceiling. The scene could be one of a
thousand identical. Over the table
two, or perhaps three men crouch,
their elbows hunched, their fingers soft
with the caress of laziness, their eyes
slanted and their lips twisted with
scorn of Law.

“Did you get a load of Shapiro’s
statement? Here, read it. Smart,
huh? It'll put the fear of fire into
plenty hearts.” :

“Why? He ain’t said nothin’, Look,
what does he say?”

“That’s it. He’s got plenty to say,
that bird. An’ he says it like a wise
guy should. You could take that
statement into any court an’ make
about as much impression with it as
you would spittin’ in the Grand Can-
yon.”

u" HY? Come clean. The poor
guy’s in. He’s got to say
somethin’.”

“Snap out of it, sap. Are you be-
lievin’ he don’t remember who. was in
that puff box they was ridin’ around
in? Do you think he can’t remember?
Ask yourself, Simp. It ain’t what’s
here that means somethin’, it’s what
ain’t here, but is, see?”

“Go ahead, wise guy, speak your
piece. What’s there, but ain’t there?”

“First, a gang at Sharkey’s calls for
acar. Baldy Jack is doin’ the talkin’.
Ain’t Baldy Charlie Becker’s collector?
Ain’t there plenty people think he’s’a
stool for the copper?”

“Sure, but...” :

“Ain’t that a tip-off then? ‘When
Shapiro cracks that name don’t he

right away admit the course this inves-.

tigation is takin’? Couldn’t that be a
straight tip to Baldy Jack not to try
no frames?”

“Well, it could be.. .”

“Yeah. Mebbe it is. Now what about
all them guys that was ridin’ with
Baldy? Are they goin’ to believe that
Shapiro can’t remember who they
was?”

“I guess they ain’t.”

“You can bet they ain’t. So what
does this statement do? It puts them
on notice too. It says, ‘I ain’t talked
yet, an’ I won’t, unless somebody starts
slippin’ the spot on me’,”

“T see that too, but...”

“Why warn ’em? Simple. Shapiro
wants a few friends workin’ for him
while he’s sittin’ there in the hoose-
gow. He’ll stop a frame quicker by
that statement than he would by a
hundred coppers workin’ for him. He
ain’t showin’ his hand, he’s just tippin’
a crooked dealer that he’s got one, that
he knows he’s got one, an’ he’ll play it
smart when the play begins, if they
force him to it.”

“That’s pretty smart.”

“There’ll be plenty sense shown in
this jam before it drops outa the
papers. There’s plenty angles, kid...
See how that ride is described? Shappy
don’t even say how long they was
ridin’. He don’t even say where they
went. He leaves everythin’ wide open
to fit into any testimony he might
want to offer later on. Who can frame
that? He says these guys took the ride.
He says they went uptown, then back
down again. Mebbe his memory’ll get
better when the heat goes on. See? He
fixed himself for any story he wants
to tell later, but he served notice on
everybody not to take liberties with
his future.”

“That is smart, come to think of it.”

“Don’t do too much thinkin’, it’ll up-
set your stomach. But learn to read
writin’. Nobody smart ever writes what
he means.”

“I guess not.”

“An’ for a last fling at the world of
understandin’ which has so long been
denied you, cop that last crack .. .”

“Which is that?”

“This one right here.” A polished
nail tipping a -finger stained yellow
with nicotine jabs daintily at the
printed paper there on the table. “This

one about singin’ for Whitman an’ not
the police. That’s the pay-off!” .

“Why?” .

“It’s so smart it hurts. To the peas-
ants that believe what they read, it
means that Shapiro knows the coppers
are crooked, an’ in the interests of Law
an’ Order he is crackin’? where it will
do the most good, to Whitman. Savvy
that? A cute play. But when you get
down to the guys that got the brains
to know A from Z, it’s a straight tip-
off. to anybody and everybody that
Shappy knows where his bread is
buttered an’ will play with Whitman
in order to get the coppers. See? They
must know plenty more than us, Whit-
man must have a lot to go on. The only
proof he can get will come from guys
with records. He’ll have to buy that.
There ain’t no other way to get it.”

“How do you mean, buy it? What-
ever it is, it’ll hang Shapiro as quick
as it does the rest of them.”

“Bunk! How many gamblers you
ever known that toted a gat? How
many you ever known with the guts
to shoot anybody? They hire that stuff
done for ’em, cull. That’s the way they
work. That’s what they done here.
Mebbe Becker fixed this rub-out an’
mebbe he didn’t. Mebbe Jack Rose an’
Bridgie fixed it, an’ mebbe they didn’t.
But whoever done the fixin’, Shapiro
is playin’ along with them in this state-
ment. He’s said some smart things in
print an’ some smarter ones between
the lines. Now he’s sittin’ pretty an’
waitin’ with what he’s got to sell.”

“I guess that’s about it.”

“Bet your right eye that’s it. It’s

' plain as a wart on a movie star’s
.-snozzle! If Whitman has got to buy his

information, Shapiro is now sittin’ just
right to sell his. An’ he’ll get a sweet
price, too!”

“Hell is goin’ to pop around this
town. If I. was some of them guys I
would blow.”

Ar that was about the acceptance
the Tenderloin gave to Shapiro’s in-
nocent appearing statement. Later on,
Shapiro talked to Whitman and he did
sell what he had to offer. So did Rose
and Webber and Vallon, the gamblers.
They sold what they knew for absolute
immunity, even though they admitted
complicity in murder! Whitman’s only
stipulation was that they had not
actually fired a shot at the murdered
Rosenthal. It was a big price to pay,
but it may not have been too big a
price. It sent Charlie Becker to the
chair. It sent the four crazed gunmen
to “ride the thunderbolt.” It tore the
city to its very foundations and filled
the press with circulation-building
revelations that came like flashes of
lightning to illumine unaccustomed
corners of the Underworld.

Promptly the police began a search
for Baldy Jack Rose. It must be borne
in mind that the police and the District
Attorney were now in a race to capture
wanted men. The eyes of creation were
on this race and much was at stake.
Each time the police could capture a
man, it bespoke their own purposeful-
ness in breaking down the attacks on
their department. Each time the Dis-
trict Attorney could get one, it meant
a chance to quiz him before he passed
through the hands of the police.

No one could locate Baldy Jack. But,
knowing full well the association be-
tween Rose and Webber, the police,
through Detective Shevlin, picked up
Bridgie Webber and took him to Head-
——— There he was questioned by

‘commissioner Dougherty. He gave his
age as 35 and his occupation as “brok-
er.” When asked to describe his move-
ments on the Monday and Tuesday
vital to the investigation, he said: “I
left my home 193 Second Avenue
about noon Monday and went to Bath
Beach; left Bath Beach about two-
thirty p.m. and went to my Clubhouse
at 101 West Forty-Second Street. From
there I went to the Garden and saw
the fights, returning to my Clubhouse
about eleven forty-five p.m. I remain-
ed there until about twelve-fifty a.m.

then walked to Broadway and to the
Metropole looking for William A.
Pinkerton. I saw Rosenthal sitting with
Boob Walker, Hickey, Butch and Moe
Brown. I expected to meet Pinkerton
there. I greeted Herman and he greeted
me. Boob asked me to buy some tickets
for an affair from him and I told him
to come around to the club the next
night. I returned to the club and sat
in front of the door until about two-
thirty, when I heard Herman was shot.
I don’t know who told me. Between
four-thirty and five o’clock Jack Sulli-
van and I went to the Lafayette Baths.
Before we left, Sullivan and I had
coffee in Childs’. I didn’t drink mine.
Rose was at the Baths asleep. Before I
left, Sam Paul (another gambler of
note) was there between eleven forty-
five and one-fifty looking for Sullivan;
Sullivan got there around two o’clock.”

That was a pretty accurate state-
ment as to time. Imagine being asked
suddenly to account for your time and
name the exact minutes as closely as
Bridgie Webber did on that vital occa-
sion. It takes a fine memory, to say
the . least.

Later, in response to other questions
directed at him by Dougherty, Bridgie
stated that he had known Herman all
his life. He said that, when “Tough
Tony” blackjacked him .on_registra-
tion day three years before, “Rosenthal
took me to the doctor and. took me
home. People wanted to make me be-
lieve that Herman had me beaten up.
I didn’t believe it. I never was in busi-
ness with him. I didn’t see Rose on
July 15. I don’t know anything about
the murder.”

After that questioning, Webber was
released, but on July 21 he was picked
up and questioned once more, and on
that.occasion he was not released. In
fact, after some of his answers, he
began to look like a man with a situa-
tion which might prove helpful to
Becker, for here are a question. and
answer which light up the possibilities.

Dougherty said, “Bridgie, are you
sure there was no difference between
you and Rosenthal?”

Webber answered, almost evasively,
“I never paid any attention to it.”

“Are you sure that you did not be-
lieve this story about Herman fixing
it up with Tough Tony to assault you,
and beat you up?”

“IT never believed that.”

‘Did you believe that Tough Tony
and Rosenthal were good friends?”

“No. I never knew much about that.”

“Do you know who it was that got
Tough Tony out of jail?”

“Yes. It was Herman Rosenthal.”

“Just supposing that this story might
have been true, that Rosenthal did fix
it with Tough Tony to shellac you,
what would have been his motive?”

“Jealousy.”

“I see. Did you know. Charlie
Becker?”

“Sure thing. I guess everybody
around knew Charlie Becker. But I
never paid him any money.”

truth was that Bridgie Webber
was a well-known and well-to-do
East Side gambler. He was a crony of
many Tammany politicians and un-
doubtedly wielded considerable influ-
ence in that citadel of political control.
He and Rosenthal were political as
well as business rivals. There could
be no doubting that. Herman was
“Big Tim” Sullivan’s favorite and
Bridgie represented “Little Tim.” Both
these men were important political
factors.

It can be seen in view of all that is
to come, that already lines of battle
were being laid. For the titanic strug-
gle, so little of which actually ever
reached the surface, that lay ahead, the
police were girding their loins and the
District Attorney was sharpening his
weapons. It was to be a battle to the
death. Becker on the one hand, was
the prized game, for to convict him
would be to indict the whole system of
corruption in the Police Department
and perhaps break it up.

Webber and Rose and Vallon were

Read It First in
L DETECTIVE STORIES

the spearheads of the other side. It
soon became evident that Hermafi
Rosenthal had come to his tragic and
violent death at the hands of one of
two forces. Either he was the victim
of a gambler’s warfare and had mere-
ly collected the inevitable reward
meted out to a squealer, or he had
been murdered by hired gunmen at the
instance and direction of Charles
Becker, the man in the blue and gold
of Law Enforcement, to prevent fur-
ther disclosures to Whitman. That
much everyone was allowed to know.
Now the question was, which?

|= wisdom of Shapiro’s statement
can easily be seen now. Undoubted-
ly Mr. Levy must have seen with
clairvoyant eye when his client made
that statement, for Whitman had, cer-
tainly, to buy his information. Realiz-
ing this, he was to take some amaz-
ing steps in the erection of his forti-
fications. Convinced as he was, be-
yond any and all doubt, that Charlie
Becker wds a murdering swashbuckler
who laid low every principle of Justice
and swaggered behind a golden badge
that he might gather a golden harvest
at the price of honor and order and
decency, there was no stopping a man
like Charles S. Whitman.

One other particularly ugly rumor
found credence. This was to the effect
that, on the night of the murder, when
the battered body of Herman Rosen-
thal arrived at the Forty-Seventh
Street Police Station, there was a de-
liberate attempt to place. upon the
body, or identify with it, a pistol with
a single shot fired. This, of course,
would have established many, many
things that would indicate a gamblers’
war in which Rosenthal himself was
engaged, of which he was full aware,
and in which he had fired in defense
of his life. :

It was also said that the man who
prevented the planting of this pistol
was none other than Charles S. Whit-
man himself. If that rumor were
truth, we can understand why Whit-
man was so dead certain of the truth
of all his allegations, why he was so
deadly in his persistence, so relentless
in his search and so pitiless in his ex-
pose of all that threatened Becker. It
must always be borne in mind that
there still are people as certain of the
innocence of Charlie Becker as Whit-
man was of his guilt. To isolate the
thinking and feeling of these men is
not easy and anything which assists in
establishing the motives and forces
which impelled them clarifies the en-
tire case.

With Shapiro in jail, Webber in jail,
and Baldy Jack Rose soon to give him-
self up at Headquarters, Whitman was
making progress. Though he said lit-
tle he was sawing wood. Evidence
was piling up in his files. None knew
what this might be. None knew exact-
ly where it might lead. Investigations
were plunging ahead regardless of
whose toes were trod upon. Politicians
of previously impregnable power were
quaking in their shiny boots. Under-
world characters were hiding away and
whispering over twisted lips in dark
corners. But Becker swaggered. He
smiled broadly, ridiculed the insidious
charges against him, laughed at the
concern of his friends.

But his laughter was ill-advised, as
shortly will appear. :

Why was Lieutenant Becker so con-
fident? How was District Attorney
Whitman going to change Becker’s
broad smirk into a quivering frown?
How soon would he be able to act?
What loose threads in the tangled in-
vestigation had he yet to gather? Read
the answers to these and other ques-
tions in the third thrilling instalment
of Charles Francis Coe’s Jinx of a
Broadway Jackal, to appear in the
March 1 issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
Stories which will be on sale Wednes-
day, February 16.

oe we al ue

Ske

Wik

see
-@

” ote Be Pe Bb Se ewe

The Story Thus Far:

HLERMAN ROSENTHAL, widely-

known gambling house operator, is shot

‘to death by several unidentified gunmen as he

emerges from the Metropole Hotel, on Forty-third

Street, near Broadway, New York City, at 1:57 o’clock on

the morning of Tuesday, July 16th, 1912, The slayers escape
in a new gray Packard touring car.

.
e

a
; } ULLa 4 7 (S54

‘,

73:

ne
had

(Left) Interior of Trinity
“Church, New York, where

; Dougherty picked up an
important clue.: (Above)
Bridgey Webber; (at top)
‘Otto: Aversi, chauffeur;
.,: Cupper right) Jack Zelig;
Uower right) Jack Rose;
‘call questioned in the in-.

vestigation

It is disclosed that, a few days
before his death, Rosenthal went to
ator For or District Attorney Charles S, Whitman and
BUEN get oe charged that certain members of the New York
Police Department—politically powerful Lieutenant

m4 org pt a ¥ Charles Becker in particular—had been extorting money
; et gee from gaming-house proprietors for protection. Becker was

' then Ee aware of Rosenthal’s charges and, inasmuch as the gambler

I: had an ee with the Dis- (Continued on page 73)

the Beeker-Rosenthal Case

-up of seven

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continued
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ied of im-
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discarded
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confidence
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confessing
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> Alan

. fre

January, 1935

The Master Detective

Five Men for One Murder

(Continued from page 41)

trict Attorney later in the day of the
murder, for the purpose of making more
detailed charges, Lieutenant Becker had
a good motive for wanting him put out
of the way. There are many others,
however, who could well have desired
Rosenthal’s demise, among them rival
gambling joint operators, forced to
close up and lay low because of the
cyclone of publicity that followed Ros-
enthal’s allegations.

William Shapiro and Louis Libby,
owners of a car answering the descrip-
tion of the murder vehicle, are picked
up within a few hours of the crime, and
it is learned that before the murder a
gambler known as Bald Jack Rose, a
bitter enemy of Rosenthal and suspected
of being a close friend of Becker, hired
the gray car. It is also established that
two bosom friends of Rose—Harry Val-
lon and Bridgey Webber, gamblers and
underworld characters—were seen near
the Metropole Hotel at the time of the
murder.

Deputy Commissioner George S.
Dougherty, in charge of the investiga-
tion for the police, orders Rose, Vallon
and Webber, known as the Three
Musketeers of Larceny Lane, picked
up. Meanwhile Lieutenant Becker and
several others suspected of knowing
something about the murder, are being
shadowed.

It is early evening, less than eighteen
hours after the crime, and Deputy Com-
missioner Dougherty is at his desk in
Headquarters. An assistant enters and
whispers a few hasty words in Dough-
erty’s ear. The. Deputy Commissioner,
startled, stares straight ahead, a strange
light in his eyes... .

The Story Continues:
Part THREE

IKE a man making a supreme
effort to pull himself out of a
trance, Dougherty shook him-
self, and reached for the tele-
phone.

“Get my home,” he: said to the
Headquarters operator. While awaiting
the connection with Sheepshead Bay,
Dougherty looked up at his informant
and asked: “When was this thing sent ?”

“Some time after three this after-
noon.” : ‘

“And your informant had no idea
whatever as to who had it sent?”

“No, just somebody interested in
frightening you off the investigation.”

Just then the voice of the Deputy
Commissioner’s wife came through the
receiver.

“Hello, mother,” said Dougherty.
“This is George. Listen to every word
I have to say: I’ve just learned that a
package has been sent to you containing
a bomb. Don’t open anything—don’t
even let any package enter the house.
I don’t know how it’s coming, whether
by parcel post, special delivery or what.
But don’t open anything. Have the po-
lice there at the house take charge of
any package that comes, and have them
notify me immediately when it arrives.

There’s nothing to worry about if you
follow my advice. Now let me speak
to one of the officers.”

Dougherty informed the officer that
a detective hat learned about the bomb
through a stool pigeon, and repeated his
request that he be notified immediately
upon the arrival of any package for his
wife, and reiterated his warning about
opening the package.

The call completed, Dougherty re-
laxed in his chair momentarily. “A fine
piece of work,” he told the detective
who had come in with the information.
“It has probably saved my wife’s life.
Whoever sent that knows considerable
about our private affairs. Mrs, Dough-
erty receives a good many packages
from friends.” Dougherty lapsed into
sudden silence. Then he banged his fist
down on the desk. “By God!” he
barked. “I’ve often spoken here in
Headquarters about my wife getting a
a of packages. I wonder if he’s behind
this... .”

DPJOUGHERTY spent an hour sitting

at the telephone. By prearrange-
ment, the several detectives he had
assigned to various phases of the inves-
tigation were calling in five minutes
apart.

“I’m shooting pool, but I’m not hav-
ing much luck,” reported one man. That
meant that Jack Rose, the man whose
round, hairless cranium resembled a
billiard ball, could not be located.

“Nothing exciting at the funeral,”
came another voice. Into that remark
Dougherty read the meaning that
Lieutenant Becker, known as the Un-
dertaker because of his propensity for
black wearing apparel, had done noth-
ing out of the ordinary, nothing to in-
crease the suspicion against him.

So it went, call after call. Many of
the detectives who telephoned in to
their chief had no idea of the relative
importance or unimportance of their
reports. It was only Dougherty, the
master player who was directing the
moves on the human chess-board, who
was in a position to get the proper per-
spective on the grim game as a whole.

Then came a call that heightened the
color in the Deputy Commissioner’s
cheeks and brought added sparkle to his
eyes. When the informant had finished
talking, Dougherty hurriedly arose and
dashed from the room. “Back in half
an hour,” he said as he left. Bap
“ Down in Center Street Dougherty
popped into his car and instructed the
chauffeur to make all: haste to Trinity
Church, the historic old edifice on lower
Broadway, at Wall Street. The chimes
in the church tower were striking the
hour of nine as the Deputy Commis-
sioner went into the House of God on
official business,

In a rear pew, going through the mo-

tions of kneeling in prayer, was a shifty-.

looking man. He was about forty. His
strawberry-colored hair had long since
thinned out to the brink of baldness, his
skin was taut and like parchment and
his small eyes gave the impression of

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' Five Men for One
_... Murder
(Continued from page 51)» }.

Frank’s arrest. Rosé Harris, the girl
with whom the Dago was known-to-be
intimate, and whose apartment: at 523
‘West One Hundred and .Thirty-fourth
Street had been shadowed. night. and
day since the Dago’s name, first..en-
tered the investigation, had been seen
earlier in the day in a whispered.con-
versation with one of the henchmen of
Big Jack Zelig, the East Side. gangster
for whom, the Dago had worked as a
thug. Later, on, the Harris girl stepped
into. a public telephone booth to. make
a call and a detective in the next booth
overheard her. telling the person on the
other end that she couldn't keep a pre-
viously arranged appointment for that
night because she was expecting a visit
from someone she' hadn’t seen for sev-
eral. weeks. Putting two and two to-
gether, Dougherty suspected that Rose
Harris’s visitor that night would be
Dago Frank.

Rose Harris occupied the second-floor
front apartment of a four-story stone
building. Detectives planted in the
neighborhood saw the lights go on as
darkness came, and settled down to
wait for their quarry. Dougherty’s in-
structions were not to arrest the Dago
on sight, but to wait a reasonable time
on the chance that another of the gun-
men might also show up.

[" was. twenty-five minutes after nine
o'clock when a taxicab rounded into

One Hundred and Thirty-fourth Street |

and stopped in front of Number 523.
From their vantage points on the other
side of the street the watchers saw .a
slight figure ..ep from the vehicle, pay
the driver and ‘hurry into the -building.
One of the detectives emerged from his
hiding place in ‘a vestibule, walked
down the thoroughfare a few paces and,
as he passed ‘another ‘sleuth, whispered,
“That looked like the Dago,” and kept
on: going.

“That was him all right,” came the
answer. “Call the Chief.”

Dougherty was waiting for the call

down in Headquarters. When it came
in he gave the following instructions:

“Wait until midnight. If no. one ‘elsé
aie up follow the orders you already
ave.” sone

Midnight came. Dago Frank had
not been seen to leave the building and
so far as-the detectives could: ascertain
he was the only Visitor that Rose Har-
ris had,

One Hundred and Thirty-fourth
Street, in that block where the killer
was paying a social call, was dark and
quiet, save for an occasional dart of
heat lightning and the rumble of thun-
der low in the heavens. One by one,
half a dozen detectives sauntered up to
Number 523 and disappeared into the
hallway. As they ascended ‘stealthily

to the second floor they heard filtering

through from ‘the apartment~in ” the
front the blare of a gramophone play-
ing’one of the hit tunes of the day, Irv-

Bape mid pr Shipping Port

‘anywhere near its price—and
you, too, will discover it’s bet-

smooth and mellow—a whiske
made by the costly old-fash-

SHE: “This patty is @ven better than your last one, Jack!”

HE: “Perhaps that’s because I've foun
Shipping Port!’

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Because it’s so velvet-

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ing Berlin’s, “Everybody’s’ Doin

Down in the street, a young man
wearing the khaki uniform of a’ West-
ern Union messenger approna Num-
ber 523 on a bicycle. ‘The little bell on
the handlebar of the “wheel” shrilled,
and the detectives in grim assembly in
the hallway of the second floor heard
it plainly. ,

he young man in khaki, a yellow
envelope in his hand, parked his icycle
at the curb and hastened into the house.
Loudly he scurried up the stairs, whist-
ling as he went: As he reached the
landing, the gramophone in the front.
apartment came to the end of “Every-
body’s Doing It,” and all that could be
heard was the tune the new arrival was
whistling.

The young man carrying the yellow
envelope paid no attention to the six
grim figures clustered on either side of
the door leading into Rose Harris's
apartment. He whistled his tune with
greater enthusiasm as he shuffled alon
to the door and rapped on it severa
times. i

NBR py”

IN a moment a feminine voice behind
the door inquired: “Who is it?”

“Western Union,” was the answer.
“Telegram from Detroit.” Rose Harris,

the police had learned, had relatives in.

Detroit.

When Rose ‘Harris opened the door,

the khaki-clad figure moved over the
threshold, holding out the yellow en-.
velope in his left hand, His right hand,
behind him, clutched a thirty-eight-
caliber revolver. Not six feet away,
sprawled on a couch and paying no at-
tention whatever to what was going

on at the door, was Dago Fr Ciro-.

fici. eed CF ARE 55 92
The “messenger”: quickly brought his
right hand into view. “Don’t move,
Frank,” he said calmly to’ the recum-

bent figure on the couch. The, Dago ..
turned Shis head and his aetree
smouldered as the’ detective ‘who: had | «

_masqueraded as the Western Union
messenger walked forward and stood
over him. P< Shelia

“At the sound of the “messenger’s”
words the other sleuths rushed into; the

room and manacled Dago Frank's .

pre

\The* captive, sullen’ and silent, “was”
“driven to Headquarters without unto-

ward incident and taken before Dough-

"erty. For two hours the Deputy Police ‘

‘Commissioner and the arresting officers

worked on him for a confession, for
some admission as to’ the whereabouts
of the three other gunmen, for aby
thing, in fact, that would help pave the
road to complete solution ot the mys-

tery.

During the first half hour of the
questioning, all Dago Frank would say
was, “Me no talk.” For sixty min-

utes after that, with Doughefty and his

men storming about the .room, the .

Dago remained silent. Then during the
last half-hour he opened his mouth
again to say from time to time, in re-
sponse to the accusations hurled at him,
“Me no talk.”

‘Plagiarism

‘Stories have been submitted to
this magazine which are copies of
those that have appeared in other
Magazines. — /

“We advi
lagiarism

|, be the ori

“ who. ‘submi

“The six men climbed into the rig and
the load.was too heavy for the horse.
- Two of the sleuths were obliged to get
out and walk.
Lightning flashed, thunder roared
and the rain came down with fury as
~ the brown beast drawing the rig moved
slowly over narrow winding roads
leading into the mountain fastness and
the objective of the grim journey. At
length, three-quarters of an hour after
the start, the horse came to rest in a
clearing off a road several hundred
feet from the cabin that was of such
interest to the New York Police De-
partment. The detectives alighted and,
joined by the two who had made the
trip on foot, set out silently for the
knoll upon which the cabin rested.

The nent in the little cabin were
burning brightly. The place consisted

of two rooms and the window shades
of each were up.

“This will be easy,” remarked one
detective.

tO Wea et ae

-2Take chim‘ away!” ordered Dough- |
erty, “Maybevhe'll talk when he knows |
he’s on: his way tothe: electric: chair.’
At. ‘this, .the-Dago--turned to the |

Pe!

Yr
t]

hands before he had recovered from Deputy Commissioner, grinned, A bright lamp in the bedroom revealed c
the initial shock. . The -raid. couldn’t his shoulders and said, “Me that room to-be empty.: g
have taken place at a more opportune no talk, ‘You no can make me talk.” “Maybe Whitey fives with these n
‘-time. The Dago,’ a confirmed dope ‘Up in the Catskills the countryside people as a blind,” suggested a detec- N
- fiend, had been smoking opium and the was can: electrical : tives iyi 31) biuinis ir
“drug had slowed down his’ naturally ~ i i _ “That's possible, but not probable. | Gage”
Y quick brain. And so the first of the d ves. t ty there had = don’t think he'd go to that much hb
‘gunmen was taken withoutea s' le, | met ata’ ot outside of trouble,-.We'’d better wait here for a - RT
*° Dago Frank carried a revolyer ‘his a Tannersv while and see if anyone shows up.” ir
‘hip pocket. -The detective who, relieved — same The ..hours.. passed. About. eleven
him of it noticed:that it,was of thirt o'clock the lights went out and the oc- 4
_ eight caliber. He held out the weapon,’ cupants of the cabin went to bed. The q
The same. calibe t sleuths, -soaked' to the skin, disap- ti

lets that kille thalthebres| | @Butch, pene ! 4
‘ Mee cd to ci ae T ‘i ‘the ‘day.. ape Pe

the possibilities tha
for the science of.

infancy and it wasknot: Thossible’ to!” 1 vy, Bute 4

7 determine beyond ou Sto: he bie fus '2 itch ‘ gy E
satisfaction of Mia cet as Masauet {

been

'
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,
t x
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borne
all six
side of
igh the
about
mately
e com-
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illumi-
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in defi-
e room.
‘evealeci

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a detec-

bable. I
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eleven
| the oc-
ved. The
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ind went
utch was
r of them
hind. All
le, Butch,
wet and
grumbled
ited him
He didn’t

is wife for
s, not
talka-

et 2a
BS iitanen A

- The

your shaves wit

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y | Name

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a City State

tive to know about their presence in
Tannersville, warned Butch not to di-
vulge anything to his wife.

Dougherty, in Headquarters, had
just learned that Dago Frank had been
picked up when he received a long-dis-
tance cal from. Tannersville. He lis-
tened attentively to the report of what
had happened at the cabin, then in-
structed that the real estate man who
owned the place be questioned in the
morning.

THE real estate man’s information
was interesting, but somewhat dis-
couraging. He identified the rogues’
gallery photo of Whitey Lewis as the
man who had represented himself as a
Mr. Langer and rented the cabin, pay-
ing a month’s rent in advance. After
being in the place for only two days,
however, Langer again sought out the
real estate man, said that he was leav-
ing the vicinity, and demanded that
part of his rent be returned to him.

landlord refused, whereupon
“Langer” assumed a menacing atti-
tude, which resulted in the landlord
giving back part of the rent. Just
where Langer went and who moved
his baggage the real estate man didn’t
know. He rented the cabin to the
colored family the day after the gun-
man vacated the place.

This turn of affairs convinced
Dougherty that quick action was neces-
sary. Already very much on the jump,
the three gunmen at large woul be
considerably more so, the Deputy Com-
missioner realized, once they learned

that the Dago was in custody. So
Dougherty dispatched twenty more de-
tectives, some of them women, to comb
the Catskills.

The new move brought results of a
fashion. Eavesdropping on conversa-
tions in the summer hotels, in saloons
and in gambling places resulted in the
information that not only Whitey
Lewis, but Gyp the Blood and Lefty
Louie had been observed in several of
the resort towns. But the information
was of the most intangible kind; the
police, through listening to that person,
through questioning this one, were still
unable to get a definite line on the
whereabouts of the fugitives.

DOUGHERTY ordered that every
foot of the Catskills within ten
miles of Tannersville be gone over. One
detective walked into a general store
and offered to solicit new business on a
commission basis. The proprietor of
the place gladly accepted the proposi-
tion and the sleuth, driving a horse and
buggy, had a good excuse to call at
cabins in the more remote reaches of
the mountains. Other detectives, on
foot, went deep into the fastnesses at
night, looking for the lights of cabins
that had gone unobserved during day-
time searches. This was perilous work.
The mountain roads were treacherous;
a false step in the blackness and one
was likely to topple over a crag.

Up until now, the fact that the po-
lice were tracking the gunmen in the
Catskills was kept under cover as much
as possible. But when several days

brought no results, Dougherty decided
on a new tack.

“I think our best bet is to smoke
those three out,” he said to Police
Commissioner Waldo during a confer-
ence in the latter’s office. “We'll let
out the word that we think they’re in
the mountains and that may lead them
to an attempt to move somewhere else.
Then we would catch them on the
move.”

“A GOOD idea,” said the Commis-
sioner.

Plentifully supplied with pictures of
the fugitives, Dougherty’s men the next
day posted the photographs in promi-
nent places throughout the vacation
area. They also called at every rail-
road station for miles around Tanners-
ville, showed ticket agents and other
employees the pictures of the men they
wanted and told them what they
wanted them for.

When the ticket agent at Tanners-
ville looked at the likenesses of Gyp
and Lefty, his eyes narrowed.

“Recognize em?” asked the detective
calling on the agent.

“1 think I do; I’m not sure, but |
think these two bought tickets to New
York day before yesterday.”

The detective made no effort to con-
ceal his excitement. “Can you be cer-
tain?” he asked.

“Wait a minute,” answered the
agent. The man came from behind the
ticket window and walked out on the
station platform. “Joe,” he called to a
figure clad in blue overalls. “Joe’s the

baggage man here,” the agent said to
the detective. “Maybe he’ll know some-
thing.”

Joe came up and was quickly in-
formed as to what was wanted of him.
He looked at the pictures. He was a
typical rural type, slow but sure. At
length he looked up.

“Ves,” he said. “I saw these two day
before yesterday. They went out on
the four-fifteen. Checked a _ trunk
through to the West Shore Station in
New York.” ; ‘

So Gyp and Lefty had slipped right
through the police net! ne

The Deputy Police Commissioner
drummed his fingers on his desk and
his eyes flashed as he listened to the
long-distance telephone message that
came through from Tannersville. Two
detectives sitting in his office reached
for their hats while Dougherty was
still listening to the voice coming over
the wire from the mountains, knowing
from their Chief’s facial expression that
they were to be sent out immediately.

he said. “Gyp and Louie got away
from us—two days:ago.”

THE veteran police official explained
what had happened. Then he said:

“Jump down to the West Shore Station -

and see if you can find out anything
about their trunk that came through
from Tannersville. We’ve got to trace
it, and if we do we’ve as good as got
our men.”

Dougherty waited in his office for
the call. These days he was leaving
Headquarters very infrequently, any-
way, now that he felt he was closing
in on the gunmen. Telephonic reports
were constantly coming in from his
scattered forces and he wanted to be
there personally to get every one. For
he alone, pulling all the strings, was in
a position to judge the importance of
each bit of information that filtered
through. :

The message from the detectives who
had gone to trace the trunk brought
a grim smile to Dougherty’s face. A
trunk that had come through on the
train that left Tannersville at 4:15 two
afternoons previously was still in the
baggage room at the terminal, un-
called for! ;

“Great,” said Dougherty. “Stick
right there and keep an eye open. Vil
have you relieved tonight.’ ;

Twenty-four hours passed. Nothing
happened in the Catskills or at the rail-
road terminal in Manhattan. At the
latter place, six detectives were con-
stantly on duty. One sleuth was
planted in the baggage room as an em-
ployee, and it was up to him to keep
an eye on the trunk and flash a signal
to one of his brother officers when-and
if the piece of luggage was called for.

Up in the Catskills, the design of
the net in which Dougherty hoped “to
snare Whitey Lewis, was becoming
more elaborate. Not pom were detec-
tives posted at railroad stations all
along the line, but the ticket “agents
were instructed to notify. the sleuths
should anyone so much as’ telephone
for information about trains’to New
York. Since Gyp and Lefty had

The Master Detective

boldly entrained for. the metropolis
without feeling the pressure of official
hands on their shoulders, Dougherty
calculated that Whitey Lewis, if he
had not already gone, might do the
same thing, despite the fact that his
picture now darkened many a public
bulletin board. .

Herman Rosenthal had been in his
grave almost a month when, one morn-
ing, the ticket agent at Tannersville
received a telephone call.

“When’s the afternoon train to New
York?” asked the voice.

“Four-fifteen.”

“Will there be somebody there to
check my bags right through to the
West Shore Railroad in New York?”

Have You
A STORY?

If you have in mind any fact
case, with actual photographs,
deemed suitable for publica-
tion in this magazine, please
address the Editor, THE
MASTER DETECTIVE, 1926
Broadway, New York City,
and ask for our “Letter of
Suggestions,” covering full in-
formation relative to writ-
ing the accounts of fact crime

cases for this magazine.

“Yes,” replied the agent. “The bag?
gage man will be here until seven to-
night.”

“Okay.”

When this information was relayed
to the detective on duty in the station
he felt certain that Whitey Lewis was
the man who planned to take the four-
fifteen.

Not knowing whether it would be
Dougherty’s plan to arrest Lewis singly
or to trail him into New York where
he might be planning to contact Lefty
and Gyp, the man-hunters in the Cat-
skills called Dougherty on the long-
distance telephone, informed him about
the latest development and asked for
instructions. The facial expression of
the detective doing the telephoning was
one of bewilderment as he listened to
the words of the Deputy Commissioner
coming over the wire. He slowly re-
placed the receiver and turned to the
other detectives clustered: about the
telephone.

“I can’t make the Chief out,” he said.
“He says to nab Whitey and to hell
with ‘everything: else. Says don’t - let
bim ‘get away, with the accent on the
‘him.’ He seems to have something on

his'mind, and ‘sounds like he’s in bad’

humor. Wonder what's happened now?”

Plenty had happened, and Dough-
erty had reason to be in bad humor.
Not two hours before the telephone
call came through from Tannersville
one of the detectives who had been as-
signed to duty in the West Shore Rail-
road Terminal rushed into the Deputy
Commissioner’s office, out of breath.

“My God, Chief!” said the detective.
“Something terrible has happened.
That trunk is gone!”

Dougherty’s hand clutched the arms
of his swivel chair and he leaned for-
ward. “What!” he demanded. “You
mean to say that someone lifted that
trunk from under your noses!”

The detective shifted his stance, em-
barrassed. “That’s exactly what has
happened, Chief.”

‘Well, how in heaven’s name did it
happen?” asked Dougherty.

“Well sir, as you know, our man in
the baggage room who was supposed
to tip us off had to keep busy working
just the same as the regular men there
so that nobody would get wise. He
would take tube from the people .who
called for baggage just the same as the
regular employees and every once in a
while he’d have to go downstairs for a
trunk or a bag and naturally when he
did that he couldn’t keep his eye on
that trunk from Tannersville.

“We all figured, of course, that it
would be impossible for anyone to
come in and call for that trunk and get
out with it during the short space of
time that our man would be down-
stairs. But apparently that’s what hap-

pened.”

“When was the trunk lifted?” asked
Dougherty.

“Some time between nine and nine-
thirty.”

“Sure it was there this morning when
the man in the baggage room went on
duty?”

* ABSOLUTELY. After he went off

duty at six last night at least one
of our men on the station floor had his
eye on the trunk every minute. They
knew exactly where it was and they
could see it a hundred feet away. But
naturally when our man was on duty
in the baggage room the men on the
floor kept their eyes on him and not on
the trunk.”

“How does he fix the time between
nine and nine-thirty ?”

“The trunk was there at nine be-
cause he had his eyes on it when one
of the other baggage men dragged out
a trunk right near it. Our man hap-
pened to look up at the clock right at
that time and noticed that it was nine.
Just then someone came along and

ave a check to our man which sent

im downstairs for a bag. He wasn’t

one more than three or four minutes,
ut when he came up he didn’t look for
the trunk from Tannersville because it
never occurred to him that it might
be gone. None of the employees had
any reason to go to the section where
it was until about nine-thirty. Then
our man discovered that it was miss-

ing.”
‘Doughert was boiling mad. It
looked as if feats of detection and de-

nee .
co UE trae

A world startling detective case
that made and broke reputations
and swept five men, fighting
every inch of the way, along
the road to the electric chair

N subway trains roaring through the caverns that lie
beneath the metropolis, at breakfast tables, in man-
sions, New Yorkers, on the steaming morning of
Saturday, July 13th, 1912, blinked their eyes as they
saw, at the top of column five, page one, of the
crusading New York World, the following headline:

(Below) Herman Rosenthal, notorious gambler, whose

sensational charges brought about his own sudden death

and rocked the whole personnel of the New York City
Police Department

GAMBLER CHARGES
POLICE LIEUTENANT
WAS HIS PARTNER

Herman Rosenthal Says that Officer Got
20 Per Cent. of Profits But They
Quarreled—Now Asks Magistrate
for Warrants for Inspector
Hayes and Captain Day

Aiceces He Is BEING
OPPRESSED BY “SYSTEM”

He Says He Demurred at a Fake Raid—
Declares Small Officer is Collecting
$10,000 a Month and Others Are
Growing Rich on Graft De-
rived From Many Gam-

bling Houses

Che

(Below)
Broadw:
York, fr
39th Str
looked ai
the start]
chronicle:
story tc

a series of
even today
more than

The stor
thal, a not
Tenderloin
manded wz
nelius Haye
William D.
They, he al
keeping pol
home at 10
months pre
game-of-cha
establishmer

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door at 8 a.
to enter the

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i
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OSE ARETE EG TOIT

to lie on the floor and then stuffed all
the currency in sight into his over-
coat pockets. Leaning over Miss
Schwartz, he forced her to relinquish
several one-hundred-dollar bills which
she had clutched in her hand.

Then, with $4,671 in loot, the stick-
up man began backing out. At that
moment the door of a private confer-
ence room in the rear opened. C. T.
Weiland, the Cashier, stepped out.

Aiming his gun at Weiland, the
hoodtum cried: .

“Another step and I’ll shoot.”

Weiland halted abruptly and quick-
ly’ raised his hands.

“T’ll be seeing you,” yelled the ban-
dit derisively, slamming the door be-
hind him.

He ran to his car, parked at First
and Lewis Streets, about 100 feet away,
and sped north over the bridge to-
ward the Twin Cities.

In response to telephone calls from
Police Chief R. L. Brown, all roads
leading from Shakopee were blocked
by- Sheriff A. F. Mesenbrink and his
deputies.

After leaving town, Seadlund drove
off the main highway into a wooded
tract. He halted the car and changed
the license plates. Then he donned a
stained and tattered Mackinaw coat
and slouch hat. He hid his penetrating
eyes behind shell-rimmed glasses.

Taking a five-gallon can filled with
mud, which he had previously pre-
pared and hidden in a culvert, he
smeared it over the polished body of
the car and tied several bags: of pota-
toes and boxes of other farm produce
to the bumpers and running-board of
the vehicle.

In this effective disguise, Seadlund
passed through the police blockades
fifteen minutes after the robbery.

He then started for Spokane. On
the way he stopped off in several large
cities. For the first time since Dixie
had robbed him he consorted with un-

derworld women. But he did not give
any of them a chance to roll him. Be-
fore he went out on parties he hid the
bulk of his loot, carrying only a few
hundred dollars.

He arrived in Washington on Febru-
ary 3, 1937, and resumed work on his
lumber tract. Business was brisk and
he managed to make $500 in a few
weeks from the sale of wood, despite
the fact that he paid his men higher
wages than any other employer in the
section. ;

Because of his reluctance to talk
about his past and his unexplained
absences from the vicinity, woodsmen
began to regard him as a man of mys-
tery. There was much gossip about
the source of his funds. These rumors
finally reached Seadlund’s ears. Some
of the canny forest people had guessed
he might be a crook:

Fearful that the police might hear
the gossip and uncover his secret,
Seadlund left Washington in June,
1937, driving eastward. Near Supe-
rior, Montana, he halted his car when
a young fellow beside the road sig-
nalled for a lift. The youth, about 20
years old and curly haired, sank into
the seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

“No fun hiking,” he commented.

“How far are you going?” asked
Seadlund.

His passenger laughed.

“Anywhere,” he replied.
traveling for my health.”

Seadlund eyed the youth sharply.

“Are you on the lam?” he queried.

“You talk my language,” answered
the other.

Seadlund learned that his companion
was James Atwood Gray.

“I’m tough,” Gray said, boasting. “I
killed a couple of men down South
and got plugged myself by police in
Atlanta.”

Gray, an imaginative youngster, ap-

“Y’'m just

. pealed to Seadlund as an ideal person

for a partner in crime.

“How ’bout joining me?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Gray. “I’m out for
big money.”

In a tourist cabin that night, the two
continued to talk.

“IT ain’t going to be satisfied with
small change,” Gray insisted. “If I
put my neck out, I want to get large
stakes.”

After a long discussion they decided
that kidnaping for ransom would be
the most profitable venture.

SEADLUND uttered the boast that
has been the swan song of so many
other criminals.

“I’m smarter than the G-Men,” he
declared. “They’ve been lucky in
grabbing off some kidnapers, but those
fellows were dumb. They left a trail
that a hick cop could follow.”

The next point that came up was
the choice of victim.

“I have a fellow picked out,” Sead-
lund announced. ‘“We’ll grab Dizzy
Dean, the ball-player. The St. Louis
team ought to be glad to pay $100,000
for his release. He means more than
that to them.”

Before retiring, the conspirators
agreed that in the event they found it
too difficult to abduct the star pitcher
of the St. Louis Cardinals, they would
turn to the roster of the New York
Yankees.

“That outfit has all kinds of dough,”
Seadlund pointed out. “Colonel Jake
Ruppert would give a hundred grand
to get back one of his good men, such
as Lou Gehrig or Joe Di Maggio.
We'll get busy on the snatch first thing
tomorrow.”

How did Seadlund switch from ball
players to Charles S. Ross, the man he
kidnaped and killed? What was the
remainder of his career like? Be sure
to read the next instalment of this
story in the April 13 issue, on sale
Wednesday, March 30,

t First in

Jinx of a Broadway Jackal (Continued from Page I opricint aetnetite STORIES

would go, even that Rose might some-
time be a witness against him, and he
sought to disarm the gambler by this
affidavit. Again, he rasped, “Why, if
Becker had no interest in the murder,
did he visit the police station where
Rosenthal’s body lay? Becker was off
duty. What reason did he have to go
there?”

One is privileged, I am sure, to pon-
der that statement, and wonder what
were the feelings of the man in blue
and gold when that question thundered
into the ears of the jury. That was the
visit where Becker noted the presence
of Whitman. That was probably where
their eyes first crossed. Undoubtedly
that was the opening shot in the
mighty war which now was drawing
to a close. Did Becker, sitting stolidly
there in the courtroom, giving no
evidence of what his feeling might be,
wish at that instant that he never had
gone to the place to see the dead Ros-
enthal?

October 24 saw the completion of
the legal battle. Judge Goff charged
the jury and left with twelve good
men and true, “drawn from the
country,” the life of Charlie Becker.
Their ears must have rung with the
fire of the legal battle staged for their
express benefit. Their long days of
tense listening must have formed for
them an opinion for which the world
was waiting.

The charge of the Court seemed fair.
Referring to Schepps, it told the jury
that they and they alone must decide
whether he was an accomplice to the
murder, or a corroborating witness, If
an accomplice, .the case of the State
must fall. If a witness, then it depend-
ed again on them. If the story of Rose
impressed them as truth, they must
remember that Becker could be as
guilty as the men who fired the actual
bullets. If Rose impressed them as a
liar and conspirator, then, again, the
case of the State must fall.

As the jury left the room to ponder
its all-important problem, Becker was
led away. Grimly, he turned to some-
one near at hand and said: “That was.
not a charge to the jury. It was a thin-

op10

veiled summing up of the case for the
prosecution, It was absolutely partial.
There was no justice in it. The court
was simply directing the jury to con-
vict me.”

Strangely enough, it was but two
minutes past midnight when the jury
announced its verdict through Foreman
Skinner. Up the “entrance to error,”
as Broadway impresses one, the Ten-
derloin was just beginning to stretch
itself. The all-night restaurants were
beginning to see tables filled, the
vaudeville houses of Broadway were
darkening their foyers, the shining
glasses of frivolity were tinkling their
briefly cheering message and pouring
forth the sparkling extravagance that

has written the doom of so many:

promising careers. As an overtone,
there in the hushed courtroom, and an
undertone there in the Roaring Forties,
came the words of the Foreman.

“Guilty!”

Becker was stolid and silent as the
jury was polled. Mrs. Becker, it is re-
ported, fainted in her chair there be-
hind the rail that kept her from the
man she loved.

OFTENTIMES it is possible to gauge

the feeling roused by events by
moving slightly farther away from the
events themselves. One gathers a bet-
ter perspective. Let us, for a moment,
do that, so that we may weigh coming

,events with perhaps a surer sense of

their value and none of the obscurity
that so often surrounds technical do-
ings in a courtroom.

First, we have a man of unques-
tioned power along the Big Stem,
standing before a Court awaiting the
death sentence. That same man, if you
listened to the talk of the Tenderloin,
as this writer did, had held a position
which was the envy of many a higher
officer of the police department. In
order to hold that position, Becker
must have had influence of a powerful
nature. Even to get the detail was
evidence of that power. Whether or
not the police knew of the collections
going on, everyone else was morally
certain that such graft was piling

riches into certain select coffers. It was
common gossip that this was so.

Men winked knowingly, grunted
helplessly in the face of such condi-
tions. One said to me, “See that uni-
formed copper over there?”

When I admitted that I saw the
minion of the law, this man went on,
Meh iy he don’t look like an idiot, does

e?”

“Anything but. A smart, clean-cut-
appearing fellow. Why? Are you in-
ferring that he is a chiseier?”

“Not a bit of it. He ain’t. I know
him. He’s a fine guy, well married,
member of a church and has two kids
in school. Nobody’s foolin’ him any.”

“Why bring him into the Becker
case?” I persisted.

“Just to show you how those things
work. Figger it out for yourself,
There’s gamblin’ joints operatin’ right
under that smart copper’s nose. It's
job to close ’em. But he don’t do
i ”

“Why?”

“He’d be a sucker, I guess if you
went to the station house you’d find
where he has reported strange doin’s
at each of these joints. He reports those
things to protect himself. He don’t ex-
pect anything to come of the reports,
but if it does, if there comes along a
blow-off, this young copper is in the

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"They'll Never Send Becker to the Hot Squat. In

Six Months at

People against Becker. Be it remem-
bered that at the opening of the trial
Whitman had responded, to the ques-
tion of His Honor: “The State is ready,
Your Honor.” A _ great majority of
people were ready, when he closed his
case, to agree that this had been the
fact. Whitman had made a mighty
case out of a dead gambler and a
license plate.

The defense opened on October 18.
It offered one Jack Sullivan, often
called “king of the newsboys.” Sullivan
testified in a direct manner and with
real fearlessness. In addition to deny-
ing large portions of the evidence
given by the gamblers, he added,
“Webber and Rase both. told me they
were going to frame Becker and turn
him over to the District Attorney.”

Judge Goff saw fit to restrict the
witness to contradictions of the testi-
mony of previous witnesses and this
restriction palled upon Sullivan, who
more than once showed his resentment.

Again and again he begged the Court.

to “give me ten minutes to explain this
thing.” Once, with tremendous gusto
and unlimited drama, he said he
wanted such a chance to explain, “not
only for my sake but for God’s sake.”

When he was cross-examined, Sulli-
van showed fight. Once he was asked
if he ever had taken money from
houses of ill repute, to which he an-
swered, “You might as well ask if I
ever collected money from Standard
Oil, or Archbold.”

Oddly enough, the defense nearly
forced Whitman himself on the stand
as one of its own witnesses. This was
in reference to stipulations to Rose,
Webber, Vallon and Schepps. The
prosecutor swore that he had not
promised the four unrestricted im-
munity.

Later, Commissioner Waldo testified
that he had given the orders to keep
the uniformed policeman in Rosen-
thal’s house after the raid, and that
Becker had not done this. A reporter
swore he was with Becker personally
from 3:45 until 8 a.m. the morning
of the killing and that the defendant
had not, during those hours, talked
with Webber or Rose. This contradict-
ed the famous conference described by
these men as taking place ‘about
dawn!”

To contradict the testimony of
Luban, suppsusedly an eye-witness to
the murder, one Jacob Goodman, man-
ufacturer of artificial flowers, swore
that Luban had been with him in

Most He'll Be

Brooklyn until one. o’clock on the
morning of the killing. Luban’s story
had been that he did not go to Brook-
lyn until about six that morning.
Strangely, a girl testified that Luban
had been with her, at home, until 1:15
a.m. the night of the murder.

Joseph Shephard, erstwhile member
of the Strong Arm Squad, testified that
he had gathered evidence against the
Rosenthal gambling place, reported to
Becker, procured the necessary legal
authority preparatory to the raid. He
said he did this under Becker’s orders.
Still other witnesses swore that Rose
and Webber had threatened to kill
Rosenthal weeks before the actual
murder.

On October 21, the commission
which had gone to Hot Springs to ques-
tion people there about what Schepps
had said before and during his arrest,
had the following read into the records
as a direct statement of Schepps: “I
don’t want you fellows to think we
killed a man who was of any account.
That fellow Rosenthal was a cur. He
should have been killed. I don’t want
you fellows to think of me as a com-
mon murderer.” To offset any belief
on the part of the jury that the raid on
Rosenthal’s place was a “fake,” five
policemen testified that this was not
the case.

MOST §surpiising development

came on October 22. Jack Sulli-
van was recalled as a defense witness.
The defense had rested and resented
this recall. Judge Goff then ordered
Whitman to question Sullivan “as part
of the case of the defense.” Sullivan
is reported to have testified:

“Rose told me that he and Vallon
and Webber and Schepps were going
to frame up Becker. He asked me to
corroborate his testimony ... They
all asked me to... Kept at me day
and night.” Later on, “Rose got a let-
ter from the District Attorney one day
and after he had read it came to me
and said, ‘Jack, the District Attorney
writes me that he wants to know if you
are going to corroborate us? He says
if you do so, it will be all right; if you
don’t you'll be indicted.’ ”

As a final gesture of dramatic testi-.
mony, Sullivan said: “Webber said to
me, ‘The only way for you to get out
is to do as Mr. Whitman says and
swear that you saw Becker with Jack
Rose and me a few hours after the
murder. If you do that, you’ll get out,
like we will, after the trial. If you

Out and Around—" —

don’t, you’ll be indicted and spend six
months in jail.’” :

October 23 was a stellar day, for it
saw the completion of summations.
These final orations to the jury were
avidly awaited by the whole world,
and particularly by the legal profes-
sion. On their completion it was gen-
erally agreed that they had served a
noble purpose, each for its own cause.
Lawyer McIntyre sprayed the guns of

_scorn upon the array of witnessses

called by the State for the solemn pur-
pose of taking a man’s life. He de-
manded in thunderous tones to know
why Becker had been tried before the
murdering gunmen and implied that,
had the gunmen faced a court and
been acquitted, the whole purpose of
the Becker trial would have collapsed
in the palm of those engineering it. He
used every inch of latitude the law al-
lowed in his attack upon the case
against him,

William Shapiro, death-car
driver, was reported ready to
sign a note of agreement with
District Attorney Whitman

Jack Sullivan: “Webber and Rose
both told me they were going to
frame Becker and turn him over

to the District Attorney—”

4
He portrayed Becker as the victim
of a well-thought-out plot; a conspir-

acy conceived and enacted by Rose, -

“the Hell of the assassins,” and by
Assistant District Attorney Moss, “‘The
brains behind the gunmen, with a tre-
mendous motive for murder.” Once he
thundered against the corroborating
witnesses as “crooks and murderers.”
As a final shot at the case of the State,
he said it was a monstrosity, that Dis-
trict Attorney Whitman, “actuated by
ambition,” had “fathered a prosecu*
tion framed up by crooks.”

It was interesting, and to millions
disappointing, that defense counsel did
not summon Becker to the stand. Wise
observers remembered that to do so
would lay him open to the shafts of the
prosecution, force him to testify with
reference to police graft and gambling
and the infamous “ring” with which so
rig had come to believe him identi-

ed.

Moss summed up for the State. He
demanded that the jury tell themselves
how a motive could be lacking on
Becker’s part, when, two days after
the murder, he demanded from Rose
an affidavit. Moss maintained that it
was true that Becker finally was
frightened and not certain how things

(Continued on Page 55)

Attention turned now to the impending trial of the four gunmen—Dago Frank, Whitey Lewis, Gyp the Blood and Lefty Louie

oD10

Wp ee
SS mi hcl chi iy Miata

ere
ase

eel

cléar becatise he has reported all that
is expected of him.”

“Pair enough. But how does he
know there is gambling?”

“He only knows it with his common
sense. He can’t testify to it. All his re-
port shows is that a good many. people

are going in.and coming out of a cer=-~

tain house during the late hours of the
night, These people he can report as
well-dressed, fast-living people by
their appearance. He can check from
the County records the owner of the
building and easy enough find out if
it’s leased, and who leased it. But his
duty don’t go that far. If he went be-
ond what is expected of him, he’d find
imself poundin’ a lonely beat on
Staten’ Island, or out in the fringe of

Brooklyn.”
ye GIVE a good deal to know what

he honestly ‘thinks of the Becker
Case,” I ventured.

“Why? He thinks about as the rest
of us. He hates to have the uniform
“he weais ridiculed before his wife and
kids. He hates that plenty, an’ he’d
fight to save its dignity. But in-his
heart he knows that law ain’t bein’
enforced an’ that anybody with pull
enough can operate a snatch-pot with
a wheel an’ cards. He’s got the sense
to know that they pay for the privilege.
Every copper around here knows what
spots are hot an’ what are cold, They
only knock over the cold ones.”

“In the final analysis,” I said thought-
fully, “if what you say is true, this
business of graft is not only an avenue
to operating an unlawful house, it’s
insurance that the police will close
your competitors if any should open
and not pay the freight.” -

“Sure. I don’t know whether Char-
lie Becker was on the take or not. But
I do know everybody around here
thinks he was. They think he holds
his detail by the amount he is- able
to pay for it. He is supposed to pay
those higher up. That is the big thing
Whitman has done. Tammany Hall
has a fine finger in the Police De-
partment, as the testimony shows. It
is the biggest and strongest political
organization in the world an’ if-it sets
out to beat Whitman, it may do it.
The angle is that this prosecutor is
seeing his duty ahead of his desires.
Talk all you want about him bein’
built up at Becker’s expense. He’s
takin’ a chance on turnin’ every politi-
cal power in town against him. Don’t
shut your eyes to that. If he goes
higher in politics, it won’t be Tammany
that sends him up. It will be the
every-day people, that man in the
streets who is damned well fed up with
police domination and corruption.”

That, I say, was the sort of talk
which filled the supposedly smart
minds who knew the Tenderloin and
its habitues. Pressed for closer de-
tails, for more definite charges or
statements, they would find safety in
the invariable silence of those who
dare not talk too much. But several
were willing to hazard a few guesses
and some of these guesses appeared to
come mechanically close to the truth.

The owner of a small but well-
patronized restaurant where the elite
were accustomed to gather, told me:
“This verdict is the bunk.” He really
meant it. He truly believed that the
entire trial had been conducted solely
to convince the voters that an honest
effort had been made to clean up a bad

-mess which, inadvertently, had been

allowed to come to public attention.

“Guilty?” This restaurateur grinned.
“What else? If they acquitted him
they’d have the papers around their
necks and the furor would continue.
As it is now, Becker will live on the
fat of the land up in Sing Sing, the
public interest in the case will die
down, a new trial will be granted on
some technical point and in a few
months Becker will be vindicated and
walking the streets again in his blue
and gold uniform,”

I pressed him, and I repeat the fact
here because I feel it important to
show how utterly these New Yorkers
believed in the potency of the political
machine under which they lived. “Do
you,” I demanded, “actually believe
such utter piffle as you state?”

“Ppiffie? I’ve operated a restaurant

in this town for fifteen years. I’ve
had all these lugs come in and eat half
a hundred times. I know them. They
are good publicity for me. They never
pay their bills and they are apt to
cause a little trouble now and then,
but decent people seem to be attracted
to crooks and shady characters. Tell a
society lady that you will show her a
crook and she’ll walk five miles to
take a peek. I don’t know why this is
so, I merely tell you that it is. . To
have it known slightly that such as
these come into your place, is to lend
your place of business added attraction.

“One man subpoenaed in this trial
once sat at a corner table here and a
very rich banker and his wife came in.
I told them who the lug was and they
had him over to their table. At half-
past one that night they left with him
‘to see some places.’ Next night the
lug veturned and handed me a fifty-
resea} bill for the ‘steer’ I had given

im.”

“T can understand that, but it doesn’t
answer my question. Do you really

Elias Dutton and G. W. Grant
escaped burning to death in the
Barbours’ apartment only because

the windows were closed. See
Page 21 for this unusual story

believe that this whole trial of Becker
could have been a smoke screen?”
“I'm tellin’ you what the wise guys
around the alley are sayin’. What’s so
unreasonable about it? Ain’t it the
surest way to clean up a hopeless
situation? People are funny. Once
this trial is over and off the front pages
for a month, it will be forgotten. Next

time it comes up it will get no play -

at all. People are never interested in
come-backs. Wait and see what hap-
pens. They’ll never send that Becker
to the hot squat. In six months at the
most, he’ll be out and around. Then
Heaven help some certain people that
have been getting publicity lately.”
As aforestated, I repeat this from
memory because it so clearly indicates
to me the amazing reactions the people
of that day had to the powers of the
politicians running the police depart-
ment, It shows the might of the ma-
chine over which Prosecutor Whitman
had to triumph. It established the
almost insuperable barriers reared be-
tween him and the cleanup he had
sworn to make. Also, it shows what
a masterful and fearless job he did.
What this man of the restaurant
circle said seemed to be borne out by
the facts, for on the very day of the
verdict, the defense announced not
only an appeal, which in capital cases
is to be expected, but also the grounds
on which such an appeal would be
based. They were straightforward

grounds, well settled in law. Here they

are:

1. The verdict was
weight of the evidence.

2. Justice Goff’s charge to the jury
was of a nature to prejudice the jury
against the case of the defendant.

3. Justice Goff failed to rule that
Sam Schepps was an accomplice to

against the

fag ta a

ee
Ling ks whe ae aad in ARIA tae

the murder itself and therefore un-
available as a corroborator.

4. That the Court erred in ruling
certain defense testimony inadmissible.

The filing of this appeal, under the
codes of the State of New York, auto-
matically stayed the execution of the
condemned Lieutenant. One of the pic-
tures of the man which seemed to re-
main most vividly in the public
remembrance was the fast, steady and
firm step with which he left the court-
room immediately following the ver-
dict. Not once did he falter, Sur-
rounded by bailiffs of the Court, he
flashed only a passing, sneering and
disdainful glance at judge and jury,
then turned and, carrying still the
erectness of figure and the gait which
some said was swagger, he strode
through the aisle of the room and
vanished through the door leading to
“The Bridge of Sighs,’ and so to the
Tombs,

For the moment, attention turned
now to the impending trial of the
four gunmen, Lefty Louie, Gyp the
Blood, Whitey Lewis and Dago Frank.
With Becker tried and convicted, these
four slipped into the cynosure of pub-
lic attention. Betting on the result of
their trial became an activity of gen-
eral interest along Broadway. Odds
slipped back and forth, but always
favoring conviction. Rumors had it
again that these men would be ac-
quitted through political influence in
order that their trials might later come
to the rescue of Becker and so re-
establish the supremacy of those nebu-
lous but all-powerful figures known as
“the politicians.”

On Saturday, October 27, Shapiro,
driver of the car, was reported as be-
ing ready to sign a note of agreement
with Whitman on the following Mon-
day. Whitman was then busy prepar-

_ ing the case against the four killers

and it was presumable that Shapiro
was attempting to make the same sort
of deal for himself that others had
made for themselves in the Becker
trial. In other words, it was said, Sha-
piro would identify all the gunmen and
be a State witness who would send
them to the chair, provided he him-
self was granted immunity.

From his own viewpoint, this would
have been a smart thing for Shapiro.
Lieutenant Becker quickly struck back
at any such plan as Shapiro was pre-
sumed to have suggested. He had good
grounds to do so and perhaps Whit-
man again evidenced that mastery of
preparation which was characteristic
of him. Becker stated that any such
thing as Shapiro identifying the four
gunmen positively as_ being there on
the scene and guilty of the actual kill-
ing would be a death-blow to his own
appeal. He did not spare words in
making such statements.

October 27 saw still another amazing
development. These things seemed like
the flotsam and jetsam which arise to
the surface of the water in the wake
of a passing steamer. They came to
light from the mystic depths of secrecy
and well may have been inspired by
the blow which fell with Whitman’s
triumph in the Becker trial. Each of
the four gunmen was portrayed as beg-
ging to be allowed to make a complete
confession and plead guilty to a charge
of manslaughter and expiate their
crime by serving a ten-year sentence
on this reduced charge. Whitman said
no.

By this time each of the principals
in the frenzied case had been the re-
cipient of death threats, and Whitman,

with characteristic bull-dog determi-

nation and fearlessness, did not relent
even when it was necessary to place
over each of these principals a special
guard to prevent execution of these
threats. Even Mr. McIntyre, counsel
for Becker, was threatened and
guarded.

It appears now, over the comfortable
elapse of time which has restored per-
spective though it may have obscured
some of the vibrant lights then playing
through lesser facts, that the battle
between police and prosecution had in
no sense lessened. The trial of the
four killers before the hearing of
Becker’s appeal was a thing the police
sought with every possible power to

forestall. Whitman fought just as hard
to gain his double objective. Shortly it
became apparent that he would win.
Wide awake to every possible angle
of the case of their client, counsel of
the Becker defense took a swift and
intelligent tack. On October 28 they
announced that Harry Vallon was the
real gunman who had fired the shot
killing Herman Rosenthal, and they
asked for a new trial.

This story has to do primarily with
the Becker case and we touch upon
the cases of the four gunmen only as
they were incidental to the prime mat-
ter. It is simpler to state, at this point,
that Whitman again carried the day.
The men were brought to trial and
convicted of the murder. Upon their
heads fell the sentence of death, just
as it had upon that of Charlie Becker.

Becker’s appeal dragged along until
February, 1914, when hearing was
given it and the newspapers sprang
again into vibrant scareheads of news.
The conviction was reversed! Becker
must be tried again. The Tenderloin
chuckled with knowing wisdom,
winked suggestively; my restaurant
owner acquaintance prodded me be-
tween the ribs with a ponderous thumb
and recalled his aging prediction with
that gusto which is a part of the age-
old “I-told-you-so” formula.

Probably the strongest ground upon
which the reversal was based directed
against the rulings of the Court at the
first trial and the same old bugaboo
of the character of the witnesses called
against the defendant. These witnesses
were frankly referred to as “dangerous
and degenerate.” The higher Court did
not indicate that their testimony should
be disregarded, nor yet that it lacked
the weight to convict. But it did insist
that in view of the type of evidence
admitted, the trial itself should have
been conducted with every possible
consideration to the defendant, and
with every opportunity given him to
present evidence which would discredit
the witnesses against him.

Broadway had a cute angle on that,
too. It pointed out that the then Gov-
ernor Dix had appointed Justice Gofl
to preside at the Becker trial. This
was not a routine matter and Broad-
way said that Whitman had asked the
Governor for a judge who would be
impossible’ to reach by_ influence,
friendships, political considerations 01
any other factor but justice. With its
usual alert ability to suspect and twist
and misconstrue, Broadway whispered
that the appeal had been successful
because the first trial had been held
before “Whitman’s own Judge.”

Over the years, I think we can
safely say that the appeal was granted
more on the broad principle that a
man’s life is the highest price he may
pay for a thing, and the law is re-
luctant to exact such a price from him
so long as there remains a vestige of
doubt that might be established. It is
equally probable that the higher tri-
bunal realized the far-flung public
feeling that was a constant background
of the trial, and weighed the effects
of this background upon the jury and
the principals.

‘s ANY event, a new trial was grant-
ed. Whitman gritted his teeth anc
prepared to meet whatever the defens:
could bring forth. New York sighed
settled back, regrettably licked its fig-
urative chops in anticipation of sensa-
tional events in the offing.

Perhaps the underworld is right
after all. Perhaps Becker will go free
Certainly District Attorney Whitina
expects the battle of his life in the
second trial. It will be a more stren
uous and vital fight than the firs
when the citizens of New York len
their support. What will the outcon:
be? Will Lieutenant Charlie Beckei
the man in the blue and gold, reali,
go to the chair? You won't want |
miss the concluding instalment ©
Charles Francis Coe’s first fact-detec
tive story, Jinx of a Broadway Jacka
in the forthcoming issue of OFFICIs
DETECTIVE STORIES, which will be date
April 13 and on sale Wednesda
March 30—watch for the Wednesda:
and get the every-other-Wednesdu
habit.

(Memorandum decision, 199 NORTHEASTERN 511,

ANGELINI, Amerigo, ORLEY, Ray, RAYMOND, Newman, and ROONEY, Thomas, all white, electrocuted
at Sing Sing Prison (New York) on January 9, 1936.

"Ossining, Ne Ye, Jan. 9, 1981 - Four youths calmly went to their death tonight in the elec-
tric chair at Sing Sing Prison for the slaying of a New York policeman in a luggage store
holdup, They went to the chair praying, but apparently without fear, ‘They made no remarkse
Newnan Raymond, Jr., 2leyears-old, entered thedeath chamber at ll p.m, and was pronounced
dead at 11:03, He was followed by Amerigo Angelini, 20; Thomas Gilbridge, 20, and Ray Orley,
1. It was the first time in 15 years that l men had been executed here in one night, Ray-=
mond walked to the chair accompanied by the Rev. Anthony W. Peterson, Protestant chaplain,
who prayed with him after he had been strapped in the chair. Angelini also walked directly
to the chair. He said nothing but prayed silently and kissed a crucifix after thehood had
been placed over his head, Gilbride (evidently Rooney), the third to go to the chair, en-
tered the death chamber smoking a cigarette. There was a smile on his face as he threw the
cigarette down just before sitting down, Orley walked to the chair, sat down and placed
his arms in position for the straps. He too kissed the crucifix after the hood had been
put on." TIMES-PICAYUNE, New Orleans, La., Jan. 10, 19% (1/3.)

ANGELINI,. ORLEY, RAYMOND AND ROONEY , whites, elec.

(New Yor)j) 1/9/1936...

EARLY half the state of Massachusetts tried to seat
Nelson B. Clark in the governor’s chair; nearly half
the police force of New

in the electric chair. It was the same Nelson B.
Clark. . The-’same incredibly smooth brain that engineered
the political campaign leading almost to the state house
likewise engineered 'the crime campaign that led four to the
electric,chair, But Clark never saw the death house. Oh,

~ no, not'Nelson B., for the same brain that could plot its way

TRUE DETECTI VE, January, 1941.

ork City tried to seat him’

~ into trouble could also plot its way out, even though it .

Sing Sing

Newman Raymond threw down
his gun and surrendered, but by
that time it was too late

meant one of the-most contemptible actions ever performed
by man.

Nelson Clark came from Boston. In 1915 he ran for gov-
ernor, stumping Massachusetts as the candidgte of the
Progressive party. He nearly made it. Cunning and shrewd
to the point of genius, he could play upon the emotions of
his audience with a persuasiveness that amounted to hypno-
tism. Later he campaigned for Congress against the talented,
David I. Walsh, now senior U. S. Senator from the Bay
State, losing out by a narrow margin, but putting up such a

TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

orformed

for gov-

of the
d shrewd
otions of
o hypno-
- talented,
the Bay
yposuch a

PY STTRTES

good fight his prestige was enhanced by the defeat. That was the part of
his nature his opponents seldom recognized—his ability to turn defeat. to his’

own ends. The late President Theodore Roosevelt saw in Clark a good

man to have on his side of the political fence, and after the formation of ,

the American Legion following the World War, Roosevelt loaned his influence
to establishing Clark as head of the Massachusetts division, and here Clark
served admirably, using his brief service in.the army as the basis. of his

claim to the post.

Thus it is apparent that on. his legitimate side the spritely, energetic

little man enjoyed the confidence of many men in high places. He also knew
what to do with that confidence. He sold it. So successful. was he in trading
in big names that by the time 1930 rolled around, he was head of the Clark

Chemical Company, was worth more than a quarter of a million dollars, and -

was drawing down an annual salary of $36,000. It was good while it lasted,

but with the depression his bubble blew up like one of his own chemical _

solutions.

- Clark was frantic. His head was in a whirl, mostly with ideas as to
how to recoup his fortune, and recoup it fast. He thought of political
corruption. Too slow. He thought of swindling. That enticing angle
occupied his attention for a long time. He had the big names to trade on,

he had an imposing reputation, and he had all the instincts. of a con-man *.
plus a compelling personality. But—and it was a big “but’—swindling .—
: operations called for. personal..contact.
-with his selected victims, and. Nelson
Clark was not the man to‘take personal”

At left is Nelson B. Clark,
ex-candidate for governor
in Massachusetts. He ran
a crime school that put
four boys in the electric
chair. (Below) Mrs. Kil-
lion, widow of the slain pa-
trolman, with her children

risks. If a selected victim were to turn

the tables, Clark wanted to be well re-—

moved from the scene of danger.--.. :
In the end he decided the simplest

method was the: most direct—just. go

out with a gun and demand the cash.
As for the element of personal danger,
that could be taken care of easily

enough by hiring some sucker to do the . r

strong-arm work while he sat safely. at

home. In the event the sucker was’.
caught, all he, Clark, had-to ‘do. ‘was

deny. that he ever saw the man:. It was
treacherous, and it called. for a lot. of

double-crossing, but, at least it. looked:

safe—and_profitable. ~ oe
So Nelson B. Clark, . big-shot. politi-

cian, high Legionnaire and prominent

business tycoon, had turned to crime.

feel best place to begin, he decided, ee

was in a big city where. he was un-
known. The answer was New York.
The man best suited for the rough stuff

should be some one he could .trust. Ray

Orley was the boy. The reason for this
choice lay in the fact that young Orley

earnest young man, a chap who worked
hard, worked well, and believed in keep-
ing himself neat and clean. A good, -all-
around boy. Clark had met him when
Orley was seeking a job in the chemical
plant, and had taken a’ keen fancy to
the boy. Instead of putting him .to

.work'in the laboratory, he took him into

his personal employ as a chauffeur, and
under the pretense that he was a lonely
old bachélor seeking to help the youth
of America, practically adopted Orley
as his son. The two became insepar-
able, and soon the friendless youth
began to look upon the graying busi-
nessman as a father. That, of course,
fitted nicely into Clark’s plans. No

By
FRANCIS
PRESTON

Se ene See

Bree eer

382 eccentricities of the Slave Pomp.

the early partner of her joys and of her sorrows Although she has out-

lived the scriptural term of life, she is still in the enjoyment of compara--

tively good health, with the proud satisfaction of being surrounded by

her children, her grand children, and her great-grand children.

CHARACTER AND ECCENTRICITIES OF THE SLAVE POMP.

Before and for a jong period after the revolutionary war, almost every
family in this city had its slaves, to do the drudgery work in and about
the house. Every family raised its own vegetables, in gardens, either
adjoining the house or upon what was called the hills, and it was also the
duty of the colored people to till these grounds. Among the colored
inhabitants of this city was a youth of about twenty-five years of age,
who, by his acts of wickedness, not only cost his master much anxiety of
mind, but also large sums of money. His name was Pomp, and he be-
longed to Matthew Visscher. Where he came from is not known, but it
is supposed that he emigrated from the city of New York. Among some
old papers recently overhauled, the bill of sale of Pomp was found,
which we copy, verbatim, for the benefit of those who are curious in

those matters :

;, ; “ALBANY 30 January 1788.
Received of Matthew Visscher Esqr. the sum of ninty pounds, Ne
York currency it being for a negro boy named Pomp of about the age of
eleven years sold him this day, and I do hereby warrant the said negro
boy Pomp, against all claims and demands that may be made against him.

Present JacosB RosrBoom Jr
Henry WENDELL.”

In his youthful days, Pomp was not looked upon as a bright, or even
an intelligent boy; but was honest, trustworthy and a faithful servant.
As he grew older, he became more and more indolent, and courting the
company of females of his own complexion, he became a frequent truant
from home and unreliable as a servant. When near the age of manhood,
he became independent in feeling but was not impudent. Those who
remember Tobias Morgan, of a more recent day, can picture to the
mind’s eye Pomp. Tobias, from 1834 to the time of his death, always
paraded with the Burgesses corps, when they were called out for duty.
Tobias was in his glory when he was decked out in his gayest apparel,
and so was Pomp. Tobias, however, was not a favorite among the females,
while Pomp was a gay fellow among the wenches (as they were then
called), and in dress he was frequently foppish. In his efforts to imitate
in dress those who mingled in a different societ , he became a thief.
Having the freedom of his master’s house, he, upon several occasions,
stole large sums of money belonging to his mistress, and after obtaining
what he desired in the way of dress, he would place the remainder where
it could be found. Although he frequently deserved the application of
the birch rod upon his back, he was never whipped by either his master
or his master’s son, but was always treated, after he reached the age of
manhood, much better than his conduct merited.

During the revolutionary war the inhabitants of this city were mainly

Eeceniricities of the Slave Pomp. 383

dependent upon their own resources in obtaining wearing apparel — the
stock of woolen and cotton goods imported previous to the declaration of
independence having been bought up and held at such prices that home
manufacture was resorted to, and it was then no common occurrence to
see a spinning wheel whirling around daily in almost every house, and
the younger members of the family were engaged in making yarn. *

Soon after the close of the war, business revived, importations were
resumed, and speedily rich silks, satins and broad-cloths took the place of
linsey-wolseys and home-made woolen eloths. Extremes in everything
usually follow each other, and in this respect the change of fashion was
not an exception to the general rule. The gayest colored fabrics were
selected by both males and females for dresses and garments. Colors of
the rainbow took the place of the sombre brown and the heavy black
previously worn by females, while blue, pea green and scarlet broad-cloths
were selected by the males for dress coats. Then the bon ton (as even
some do now) must needs go to New York to- purchase their garments,
for each and every one must have something different from his neighbor.
Sail vessels were then the only means of conveyance to that city, and a
trip to New York and back occupied from a fortnight to a month, as captains
then in command of vessels dropped anchor at nightfall and seldom
caused the oars to be plied during a calm. A passage to or from New
York in less then a week was considered a great feat; and the captain
who was so fortunate as to bring a copy of a New York paper containing
the news by a foreign arrival, was welcomed by the proprietors and
editors of the Albany Gazette, for then they were enabled to regale
their readers with columns of news from the old country. The negro
Pomp, upon seeing his master return from New York. at the close of a
legislative session, decked out in a pea green colored broad-cloth coat,
short collar and gilt buttons, took such a fancy to it that he was again
tempted to resort to his old tricks to gratify his wishes. He stole a large
sum of money from his mistress, and with his ill-gotten treasure he fled
to New York, laying for several days in the hold of a vessel, unknown to
the captain, until it was too late to put him onshore. The first tidings of
the whereabouts of Pomp were received by his master from the captain
of the vessel in which he fled. He left him in New York, and on the
day the vessel left that port he discovered Pomp parading in Broadway,
wearing a bright red cloth coat, cut in the prevailing fashion, adorned
with gilt buttons. Pomp’s conduct previous to this occurrence had been
so annoying, both to his master and mistress, that this act settled his
doom. His master then concluded to get rid of him forever, and accord-
ingly directed a friend in New York to arrest and sell him to the highest
bidder. This brought Pomp to his senses, for the negro was conscious of
having a kind and indulgent master. Upon his knees he implored the
agent in New York not to sell him, but to write home to his master and
tell him that if he would forgive him this time he would never again
offend or give him any trouble. The letter was sent, but areply was
not received until after Pomp had been sold. The bill of sale, however,
had not been signed, and the purchaser, hearing of his previous pranks,
was easily induced to yield him up, and Pomp returned home to commit
a greater crime and to receive a severer punishment—the forfeiture of
his life as an incendiary.— Lvening Journal. —

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YSTERIES

proceeded to identify himself, enlarging that, while the boys told the truth to un-

upon his impressive career and naming & burden their own consciences, they refused

score of prominent people as his friends. to testify against Clark.

Despite his explanation, he was taken to On April 10th, 1935, the four youths
were placed on trial for their lives in the
Nelson B. Clark was a puszle to the Court of General Sessions in the old Crim-
police. On the face of it, it didn’t seem inal Courts Building. Miles O’Brien, Chief

the West 47th Street police precinct.

possible that he could in any way be in- of the Homicide Bureau in the District
volved with a bunch of thugs. Nor did Attorney’s office, handled the case himself.
the statements of the boys implicate the ' This writer, a close friend of the prose-
old man in any way. They freely confessed cutor, covered the case from its inception
participating in seven robberies, but de- and, being vitally interested in the moral

nied that Clark knew anything about them. problems it presented, discussed it at

Yet it didn’t seem reasonable to suppose’ length with him. It was the most difficult

that he knew nothing about crimes which assignment in a quarter century career in
had been planned in_his ' home. The which he had handled some of. New York’s

affluence of his young friends when they most memorable murder cases.

had no jobs must have at least caused him Obviously the person most culpable was
to wonder. Captain Mullins decided to Clark. His urgings and superior will had
re-

vious police records, into a life of eae.
The fact that a former candidate for Yet there was one big flaw in the case
governor was involved in a murder case against Clark, and on this he stood pat.

hold him as a material witness to give his forced the boys, none of whom had
men additional time to check,

put the story on the ‘front page. He practically admitted that he

planned the coal company robbery, but

TAILOR reported to the police that a this, he pointed out, was abandone:
man resembling t

Russell drove to the tailor shop at West boys pulled that job on their own.
94th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. Open-

in the bottom a revolver wrapped in a suit mond had thrown

of underwear.

no attention to
one would pay dearly fo
ties, he was stripped to the skin and 1
searched. Each item of his apparel was blindly.
checked with the property clerk at Police

Headquarters. The expensive Gruen wrist I ASKED Prosecutor O’Brien whether he

watch which he wore brought the immedi- would ask for the extreme penalty.

ate attention of the investigating officers. “T must never permit any personal feel-
It didn’t look to be the kind of watch a ings to interfere with the rosecution of
man like Clark would buy. It was traced a case,” he told me. “In this instance it
and found to be part of the loot in the would make no difference, since the law
holdup of Paul’s Luggage Shop two months permits no alternative. The killing re-
before. , sulted during the commission of a felony,

‘As a result of this discovery, two indict- and as such it constitutes murder in the
ments were filed ‘against Clark. One first degree. It makes no difference
charged him with the violation of the whether or not there was any intent to kill
Sullivan law for the possession of the gun on the part‘of Orley. The law ‘is clear on
found in his suitcase, and the other charged that score. Every person involved in the
him with criminally receiving stolen prop- stickup is likewise involved in the mur-

der.”

erty.

With his protestations of innocence dis- I mentioned ‘the fact that the strong
regarded, he adopted the hurt attitude of feeling in favor of the boys would make
a man who suffers through the error of it difficult for him to secure a conviction.
others. He claimed that all his life he The Prosecutor realized this. “But if you
t it,
ing for these unselfish acts of kindness. he said with emotion, “my sympathy lies
Clark played the role of a martyr as he , with the brave officer whose life was cut
sat in his cell in Tombs Prison. Nothing short in its prime and with the widow and

had championed youth and now was pay- want to know how I really feel abou

he published photo- the law held that he could not be tried

raph of Clark, had left a battered suitcase as an accessory for the subsequent crime
in his keeping the day before. Detective in which the murder resulted, because

The defense of the boys, a simple re-

ing the valise he dug through soiled linen, Cital of the facts and a plea for mercy,

a suit, ties, shoes and toilet articles, finding created strong pag 1 ON pest ga Faye

rendered even before the fatal shot was
Now all doubt was dissolved. Paying fired, yet now he stood in the shadow of
Clark’s threat that some the electric chair. Neither Angelini nor
r these indigni- Gilbride had resisted arrest. Orley, who
pulled the trigger, swore that he had fired

eat

and

the

would cause him to lose his faith in youth, two children who face the future, heart- Enjoy my Apricot Nectar—

he averred. It was evident that he exer- broken.”

cised an almost hypnotic control over Or- The trial lasted three weeks. Prosecutor
ley even from behind bars. The other O’Brien presented the case in the imper-
three likewise blindly followed Clark’s dic- sonal, methodical way which had proven
tates. Proof that he still maintained this so effective in the past. At the end of
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JANUARY, 1941

cor-
line
out
iront

were
ision.
iting

it in
aved

Then
p the
Clark
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Slow-
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were

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rocket
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fe was
sun in
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careful
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plans,

nove
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PRES

“Look, Pop, how much does this guy
owe you? Maybe I ought to count the
money first so I don’t take too much.”

“You let me worry about that point,”
snarled Clark. “It’s the clink if we get
caught, no matter how much we get, 80
get all you ¢an.”

Orley became apprehensive. “This
sounds like a real stickup,” he protested.

“A real stickup? Sure it is. So was
the last one. What do you think is in
that gun—blanks?” Clark fixed the boy
with a burning gaze. “Now listen,” he
said slowly, “you go over, and you do

this job, and you come straight back’

here.‘ Do you understand?” .

Orley. nodded, his face . tense.

“All right. Get!”

Orley left abruptly, committed the
robbery and returned before the over-
whelming influence of the old man’s
orders faded from his mind. And by
that time it was too late because once
more he was within reach of that malev-
olent influence.

It wasn’t long before Clark felt handi-
capped by having only one operator in
the field. Sensing that his power was
greatest over boys, he urged Orley to
bring in any friends he felt would ap-
preciate the chance to get ahead. Orley
by now was little more than a slave,
blindly following his leader’s instructions
without thought or argument. He spent
most of his waking time alone in the
apartment, haunted by his own fears.
Only when Clark returned after hours in

the field casing jobs did Orley draw new’

strength. Pepped up by the vital energy
of the corrupt tycoon, Orley was able
to forget his fears and enjoy life like his
old self. The idea of bringing new re-

TaANwARY, 1941

Two visits to the con-
demned boys in Sing Sing
gave Assistant District
Attorney Eugene Finne-
gan evidence he needed

cruits into the business appealed to him.
With some one else to share the danger,
maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad. He knew
some fellows—nice boys they were,
whom he had met down at the pool hall.
Maybe Clark would like to talk with
them. He’d bring them around.

So began Clark’s school for crime.
Soon enrolled in the ranks were Amerigo
Angelini and: Thomas Gilbride, two boys
of more than normal intelligenée but
possessed of a tendency to lean slightly
toward the lai; side. Under proper di-
rection, both youths could have gone far
in legitimate channels. They had agree-
able personalities and stores of unde-
veloped energy that required only the
right inspiration for release. Clark sup-
plied that inspiration, but he fouled it
with his own corrupt personality. In
less than two weeks he had Angelini and
Gilbride under his spell, firmly convinced
that wrong was right if he said so.

To provide a classroom for his crime
school, Clark took an apartment at 306
West 93rd Street, and here he installed
the boys as members of his “family.” At
his request they called him “uncle” and
he referred to them affectionately as his
nephews. .

* BLUFFING had no part in the old

man’s crime program. He believed
in having his boys back up each stickup
with loaded guns. To secure weapons he
would have one boy go into a pawnshop
to make a selection. This lad would
return and describe. the desired gun,
whereupofi the second boy, usually
Orley, would go in and make the pur-
chase, instructing the pawnbroker_to
mail it to a Jersey City address. The
third boy would accept delivery and
bring the gun back to Clark. By this-

_round about method, Clark believed he

was protecting himself, since no one boy
figured in the transaction for more than
a few moments. Tracing the three of
them would be well-nigh impossible.

He used similar elaborate setups to
protect himself in each robbery.

“Just get the cash, boys,” he would
say. “The cops can’t trace a dollar bill,
but they’re death on gold watches and
the other stuff. When we get enough
dough, we'll all go to Florida and have
a wonderful winter.”

The plan he finally developed called
for Angelini, dubbed “the Angel,” to
stand watch outside the victimized

. flaw, the worship the

The luggage shop in
‘which the shooting of
Patrolman Killion
took place occupied
store at left center

establishment while Orley and Gilbride’

went in for the stickup. Both boys car-
ried guns and waved them around until

clerks and customers were thoroughly:

cowed, whereupon Orley would. hold
them together while Gilbride rifled, the
cash registers. The Angel would cover
their retreat. from the. outside.

For a time the plan worked without.

a hitch. Robbery after robbery was
pulled, usually in small shops, until the
loot was totaling thousands. of dollars.
As each job was og without’ a

oys had for the
old man increased. During the robbery
of Paul’s Luggage Shop, Gilbride spotted
a brand new, expensive wrist watch. Im-
pulsively he snatched it up, and upon his
ren home presented it to Clark for a
gift.

Clark was suspicious. ‘“Where’d you
get it?” he demanded sharply.

Fearing his gift.would not be appre-
ciated if it was considered just a piece of
loot, Gilbride replied:

“Uncle, I’ve been saving all my money
to buy that for you. And when this
job went off so smooth today, I had
to get it to show my appreciation.”

“You're sure this isn’t something you
picked up in the shop?”

“Absolutely.” :

_ Vanity now replaced suspicion. Gloat-
ingly, Clark figured he had such a hold
on his “family,” he could take away
ninety per cent of their loot, and they
would. still buy him presents with the
remainder. What a snap! .

From time to time, new boys joined
the group, hung around for awhile and
dropped out. Clark felt safe. No boy
ever left without being seriously impli-
cated in one or more crimes himself, so
the chances of his squealing were remote.
Clark always made it clear that he would
not hesitate. to inform on. a squealer.
In January, (Continued on page 84)

Death house bound
are the four . stooges,
From left to right they
are Angelini, Orley,
Raymond and Gilbride

one.can be more easily betrayed than
one ‘who trusts you implicitly.

“My boy,” said Clark shortly after
their arrival in. the big city, “it looks
like your poor old father is through.

- It was about as hypocritical a state-.

ment as a man could make, but Orley
fell for it, as the old man knew he
would. “Aw, Pop,” he expostulated, “I
can get. something to do. We'll. make
out all right.” |

“You mean you won’t leave me now
that I’m broke?”

‘OF. course not.” The youth’ was

nearly sobbing now in his effort
to convince Clark of his sincerity. “You
know I’d do anything in the world for
you.” é ‘ "i j
‘That was what. the wily old Fagin

‘wanted to hear, ' Slowly he began to

work on the boy’s loyalty, exerting the
full power of his hypnotic personality,

en one considers that he could sway
yast audiences with this same power, it
is no wonder Orley collapsed completely
under ‘its concentrated force. Even. if
he had been predisposed to turn against
his so-called benefactor, it .is doubtful
if he could have withstood the strange
spell cast by this undersized wizard,
Hard-boiled boards of directors had not
been able to cope with it.

“Well, I'll sell you: son,” Clark began
when Orley was reduced to the point of
agreeing to anything, even to giving up
his life if the old man demanded the
sacrifice. “We won’t have to starve. A
lot of people owe’ me money in this
town who won’t pay. What we'll do is
to collect.”

_.. “Of course. That'll be easy.” The
thought of any one refusing to pay his
-debts to his adopted father caused
‘young Orley to bristle. “T’Il collect.

50 %

Chief of the Homicide
Bureau Miles M. O’Brien
Prosecuted the boys, but
the man he wanted to put
in the chair was Clark

I'll make sure that you get your money.”

Clark absently pulled a gun from his
pocket and laid it on the table. He
never looked at the gun, never referred,
to it again. It just lay there. . :

“I was hoping you would sa that. I

of a jewelry store ores the way wer
me a pretty penny, but every time go
i . the back door. Once he |

in, he leaves }
two ruffians come in and throw me

out bodily.” The old man rubbed his
bones ruefully, as though recalling a
painful incident. “I hurt my knee. You
may have noticed me Jimping lately.” |

Orley was in a fury at this treat-
ment. “They can’t do that to you.

i anh 1 eres Fe &
y (i a -

Why, I'll take a poke at him myself.” |

Clark shook his head sadly. “No,
they’ll only, beat you up, and I wouldn’t

want you hurt for the world.” His |
eyes flickered momentarily, and without

knowing how it happened, Orley found

f staring fixedly at the gun. It |

seemed to fill the whole room.

“T’ll use this,” he cried. “They won't |

dare touch me if I use this,”

‘Clark demurred. “That would look |

like a holdup,” he Suggested craftily. |

“Why would it? He owes you the
money, doesn’t he? Well, I guess we
got a right to get it back. They can’t
Owe you money and kick you around.
I'll show ’em.”

In feigned horror, Clark raised, his
hands in protest. For half an hour he

fenced with the boy, urging him to

ten to reason: Yet through all his
arguments there ran an insidious thread

of persuasion that left the impulsive |,

youth utterly bewildered. Seeing that’
at.last he had the- boy where he wanted
him, Clark said sadly:

“All right, if I can’t talk you out of
it, at least fet me tell you how it can

done.”

Orley looked startled. “Oh, don’t be
alarmed,” the hypnotic Fagin continued

‘smoothly, “I have been in’ the place

several times and know exactly where
everything is. Now listen: I want you
to. walk right in as though you are go-:

ing to buy a watch. When the clerk
: pe :

you what you want, show him your
gun and tell him it is a stickup. Don’t
let him raise his hands, Go behind the
counter, open the cash register and take
everything in sight. Don’t bother with
the jewelry as we have no way to get
rid of the stuff. Walk out quietly, turn

to the right and take a cab at the cor-
‘ner. Take the first cab in the line
because that one can pull right out
without jockeying around a car in front

| of it. All clear?”

“All right, go ahead. I
for, you.”

_ “You mean now?”

__ “Of course. There is no point in
waiting. Go right ahead.” He waved
his hand impatiently at the door.

For a second the boy wavered. Then -

with a quick gesture he snatched up the
gun and bolted out of the door. lark
_ Watched: him go, a look of scornful
_ amusement in his faded blue eyes. Slow-
ly he nodded his head in satisfaction.
‘The wheels of his crime campaign were
istarting to roll,

hundred dollars. But in that half hour
/more than a robbery had taken place.
The boy himself was changed: - He was

“I guess I’ll make a good collector,

“A collector? Oh, yes, sure, a col-
lector. Son, you'll make a dandy.”

Clark waited a few days before he
‘brought up the subject of another “col-
lection.” This time he was not so careful
‘in creating illusions. In fact, he was so
coldly calculating in outlining his plans,
and in instructing Orley on each move
he was to make, that the- boy became
suspicious. ;

Hs TRUE DETECTIVE MysTuRrES

astullee ete ; eee

Orley nodded dazedly. Things ‘were
| Inoving far too fast for his Tr eceesion.
f i ll be waiting

the fiel:

strengt]

>» -of- the
*-to-forge

old-self.

' . SANUARY,

‘ i 1935, Newman Raymond, an old friend of

Orley’s from the pre-Clark era, came up
from the South. He was a quiet, retiring
lad, the son of a highly respected and
popular minister. If there was one thing
farthest from his mind that morning he
called upon Orley, it was crime. All he
wanted to do was talk to his old friend,
and see the sights of New York that
Orley had been so enthusiastic about in
his last letters. ;

He reached for the bell, and as his finger
made the contact it sealed his doom,
although the poor boy didn’t know it, of

course, -
Orley and Gilbride and Angelini showed
young Raymond quite a ‘time. Then on
the 18th of the month they decided Ray-
mond should help them out on a little
job. Clark. had already sized it up and
it was a cinch, alittle coal firm on First
Avenue. Raymond refused to have a thing

to do with it. : Korda nay y
“Nor on your life,” he protested. “I’m
no crook’ and I’m getting out of here.”

Clark laughed, but his eyes were frozen
blue. No.boy was leaving his place until
he was involved in at least one crime.
“Just sit down and take it easy,” he said
soothingly, “No boy of mine is going out
on a job’ unless he wants to. Quit picking
on him, Orley. If he’s a* little weak-kneed
right now, he’ll get over it in time.”

“Tt’s° not. that I’m weak-kneed,” Ray-
mond protested. “It’s just that I don’t
like ‘the idea.” 4

At this all the boys laughed loudly, and
Clark permitted himself a wide grin, Ray-
-mond flushed. For an hour the boys baited

~ him, while Clark taunted ‘him with jibes
disguised as purring sympathy. In the end
‘Raymond leaped up, just as had each boy
before him, and said: ‘ .

“Give me a gun: I’ll show you if I’m
affaid.” if

€lark chuckled, gave him a gun and
passed out weapons to the rest. ie

“Tt’s: all. set; boys,” he ‘said, pote
each-on, the shoulder. “Hurry back.” |

Orley..drove the car the crime combine
had piirchased when they enlarged their
scope ‘of, operations. He had‘no difficulty
in locating the coal ‘company, but just
as he was about to park, a police car slid
up and stopped beside a call box. Twice
he circled the block, and on the second
time around he saw the squad car pull
away. He parked, but before he could get
out, another squad car stopped to use the
same call box. That was too much for
Orley. : :

“Let’s get out of here. This place is a
regular cop’s telephone booth. I know a
place over on Fifth Avenue that’s twice
the setup this is.’ He jumped behind the
wheel and turned west. The other boys
said nothing. By the time they reached
Groppers Luggage Shop at 548 Fifth Ave-
nue, Orley had given each his instructions.
Angelini was on lookout as usual; the rest
were inside with him.

But this was not to be the simple. hold-
up Orley planned—far from it. The street
was crowded with people who scurried
along in haste against the cold wind.
Few looked up as the boys parked the car
and hurried to their positions, but their
very number made a quick getaway
hazardous. ;

As they entered the shop, a clerk came
forward and asked them what they wished.

“T want all the money you’ve got in the
place,” Orley ordered. “This is a stickup!”

Instinctively the clerk threw his hands
over his head, one of the points Clark
had warned his boys to guard against.

(Continued from page 51)

However, it was too late now. Orley prod-
ded him with his revolver toward the rear
of the store.

A taxi driver parked near the entrance
saw the clerk’s arms go ceilingward. He
slipped out of the cab and raced for the
nearest police officer.

Orley, Raymond and Gilbride shoved
the proprietor, two clerks and four cus-
tomers to the rear of the store. When
they had been herded behind a pile of
trunks that cut off the view of any passers-
by on the street, the victims were ordered
to lie face downward on the floor. Gilbride
and Newman stood guard while Orley
went toward the cash register.

Suddenly Angelini, standing at the door,
saw a patrolman dart through the traffic
and race toward him.

“It’s the cops!” he yelled. He saw
that it would be certain capture to dart
down Fifth Avenue. He rushed into the
store and raced for the rear exit.

Raymond and Gilbride dropped in their
tracks, flattening themselves on the floor
behind the counter. Orley ducked into
a self-operating elevator on the right. He
was too frightened to push the right but-
ton, and there he stood, the door still,
open. .

Patrolman Thomas Killion had been di-
recting traffic on the corner of 45th Street
and Fifth Avenue when he got word of
the holdup. A tall, dark-haired officer
with a distinguished record of eight years’
service, he whipped out his revolver and

‘without a moment’s hesitation ran into the

store. .
Victims and stickup men alike were out
of sight. ‘

“ ME out with your hands up!” he
called.

Newman Raymond threw his gun out
and it fell to. the floor with a clatter. He
surrendered, coming from behind the coun-
= ihe his hands extended high over his

ead.

A stab of flame split the gloom behind
the grill work of the elevator door.

Patrolman Killion staggered at the im-
pact of the slug. The revolver slipped
from nerveless fingers. His mouth opened,
then he pitched over on his side, an ever-
widening circle of red staining his tunic.
An instant later Patrolman Harry Quinn
gun drawn, rushed in. At the sound of
the pistol shot the clerks and customers
began shouting. Quinn saw his partner
lying prone on the floor in front of him.
Angrily he moved past the body, his back
for a moment turned to the elevator. Or-
ley, dropping the hot gun where he stood,
leaped out of the elevator cage and dashed
for the open front door. An instant later
he was lost in the crowds on Fifth Ave-
nue.

Newman still stood with his hands above
his head. Angelini, blocked in his attempt
to escape through the rear, dropped be-
side Gilbride behind the counter. Both
still held their guns, and Quinn stood ex-
posed to their fire should either make a
conclusive move. The officer didn’t hesi-
tate. Guided by a clerk who stood up
long enough to point out the crooks’ hid-
ing place. Quinn vaulted the counter and
swung with the butt of his gun. It was
over in an instant. Two thoroughly cowed
boys joined Raymond in the center of the
store. -

‘Quinn turned to his partner, Killion. He
was dead.

Meanwhile Orley ran to the corner, west
on 44th Street and raced toward Sixth
Avenue. Mounted Patrolman George Fer-
gus saw the youth running. He didn’t

know what he was fleeing from, but the
entire thing looked highly suspicious. Rein-
ing his mount, he galloped through heavy
lanes of traffic, drew abreast of the youth
near the corner of Sixth Avenue. Orley
heard the pounding of the hoofs and, sec-
ing that he was unable to out-distance his
pursuer, desperately plunged. into an office
building. While he was pushing hysteri-
cally on a door plainly marked “Pull,”
Fergus walked in‘ and snapped on the
cuffs,

Outside with his captive, Fergus retraced
the route of the chase. On Fifth Ave-
nue he saw an ambulance, police cars and
a huge crowd gathered around the luggage
shop. He led Orley into the place, and the
latter was immediately identified as one
of the stickup men.

Gathered at the scene of the crime were
Captain Edward Mullins, head of the
Homicide Squad; Lieutenant John Mof-
fett, Detectives George Dunphy, Edward
Shields and George Swander, all of the
Homicide Squad; and Detectives John
Russell and Joseph T. Sheldrick, both of
the 18th Squad.

They questioned Orley, their faces tense.
To a cop the worst crime on the calendar
is the murder of a fellow officer. It took
minutes before the charge penetrated Or
ley’s mind.

“Yes, it’s murder,” Captain Mullins’
words cracked like a whip.

_The youth was hysterical. .“I swear I
didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t aim at
him. I only wanted to scare him off. I
shot wild.”

One of the routine questions asked of
the prisoners was their home address and,
having learned that it was 306 West 93rd

| Street, Detectives Russell and Sheldrick

hurried there.
_ Without bothering to knock, they burst
into the flat. Seated on the edge of a
chair in the living-room, a derby perched
on his head, was dignified, gray-haired
Nelson Clark, who sternly demanded the
meaning of this unwarranted intrusion.
_ “Police Department,” Russell said lacon-
ically. “Do you know any boys by the
name of Ray Orley, Newman Raymond.
Thomas Gilbride and Amerigo Angelini?”
“Why, yes, I know them all,” Clark re-
plied, masking his face in a worried frown.
“Why, has there been any trouble?”
“There has.”
“T’m sure there must be some mistake.”

“THERE'S no mistake about this mur-
der,” Russell responded sharply.

Clark’s face went white. Murder! His
mind whirled madly. What could have
happened? He was bursting with repressed
fear, but knew that if he asked too many
neers it would direct suspicion to him-
self,

“T can’t believe it,” he managed to say
mildly. “Not those. boys. Definitely a
mistake has been made.”

A search of the apartment proved fruit-
less. The detectives told Clark that he
would have to accompany them to the
station house for further interrogation.

“I don’t see why that is necessary,”
Clark remonstrated. “I am perfettly will-
ing to answer any questions you ask.”

The detectives insisted that as the ad-
mitted guardian of the boys, his presence
at the station house was a necessary part
of the investigation.

At this he exploded angrily. What right
had they to speak to him in this manner,
he rasped. If they thought they were deal-
ing with a common criminal they would
learn, much to their regret, that they were
making a grave mistake. He thereupon

~ TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

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Puppets of the Fatal Fagin

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“Have you fellows,” Chief Smurl asked
Griggs and Herzog, “made any inquiry
about Antonio in the vicinity of hishome?”
And when he was told that they had not
done so as yet, he added: “I’m wondering
about his wife, Anna. Quite a sexy little
number. Ten years younger than her
husband and with him being gone from
home so much. .. How was it she had that
tight-fitting black dress, black gloves and
black pocketbook ready as though she
was expecting a funeral? If you get any-
thing on her, don’t charge her right away.
Let’s take this thing easy.”

Griggs and Herzog met the postmaster
in front of the branch station. He soon
obtained the registered letter addressed to
Salvatore Antonio from the safe. The de-
tectives opened it and saw that it was
from a West Albany man named Louis
Passelli. More than a year before, the
letter indicated, Passelli had loaned An-
tonio several hundred dollars. Now he was
making a formal demand for repayment
prior to filing suit. But the letter was not
otherwise threatening. In fact, it seemed
good-humored and Passelli appeared only
moderately irked.

The detectives called at Passelli’s home,
a substantial structure reflecting comfort
and good taste, but were informed by a
neighbor that the entire family was off on
an Easter picnic and would not return
until dark. The officers scouted the area of
3 Teunis Street, where they made discreet
inquiry among local residents concerning
Anna Antonio and her late husband.

Most persons seemed reluctant to talk
about the couple, which led Griggs and
Herzog to believe that something unpleas-
ant darkened the picture. They continued
digging and eventually. encountered a
plumber in his home alone.

“About Antonio himself,” the plumber
declared, “I know nothing. But for the
past couple of years Anna has had the
reputation of running around with other
men, I wouldn’t mention this—I am not a
gossip—except for what I know of my own
knowledge.”

A couple of months before, the plumber
went on, Anna had phoned him to repair
a leaky faucet in her upstairs bathroom.
He had promised to do the job that same
afternoon, but a situation of greater emer-
gency, a flooded basement, had arisen in
the home of another of his customers. He
had put off calling at the Antonio house
until the following morning.

When he did, there was no answer to
his knock. However, he found the street
door unlocked, and he presumed to enter.
Tools in hand, he climbed the carpeted
stairs to the second floor.

“At the top of the stairs,” he continued,
“T found myself facing an open bedroom
door. I looked in. Anna Antonio was lying
on the bed naked and there was a man be-
side her. That man was not her husband.
She screamed when she saw me, jumped
up and slammed the door. I ran out of the
house just as fast as I could.

“Who the man was, I don’t know, but
this much I remember: He had red hair.
It may be that that faucet is still leaking.
In any event, I never went back.”

The detectives returned to headquarters
to report their findings to Chief Smurl
and to join Corporal Flubacher, who
awaited them. In a discussion of the case,
the four officers at first agreed that Anna
Antonio’s actions had certainly not been
those of a perfect wife. Since she was
carrying on an affair with another man,
there was a classic, age-old reason why
she might have wanted to rid herself of
her husband. Perhaps her red-headed
lover had been her accomplice.

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THERE WERE TWO
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A?
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Bushy-haired badman, right, was first
to crack under official questioning,
but he shied away from admitting the
actual killing. Instead he pointed the
finger at his balding buddy, also at
right—an upstate New York hood.
He, in his turn, pointed even further.

DOPE,
DOUBLE CROSS

aned DEATH

The victim knew he had reason to fear
one enemy, but he never suspected there

was an even greater threat to his life

Go rtly before 5 o’clock on the Easter Sunday morning
of March 27, a sporty sedan, traveling at a fast clip, hurtled
through the semi-darkness of North Pearl Street, Albany,
N. Y. It came to an abrupt stop before the emergency ward
of Memorial Hospital.

Three people, all in evening clothes, occupied the front
seat. A handsome young man of about 21 was at the wheel;
a pretty girl of around the same age was in the middle;
and another clean-cut looking young man was on the
right. All three seemed excited.

Doubled up on the back seat of the car lay the silent
figure of a third man. He was older—about 35—and wore
a sharply tailored, but expensive suit. The toes of his shoes
were severely pointed and his necktie was loud and flashy
and from socks to collar his clothing was blood-soaked.

The driver of the car jumped out, dashed into the emer-
gency ward and asked for help. He had with him, he said,
a badly hurt man who needed immediate attention. Two
attendants grabbed a stretcher and trotted to the car. Soon,
the man from the back seat was deposited on a table in
the emergency ward where a physician examined him.

Meanwhile, the three young people waited in an ante-
room, After a while, the physician came out to the ante-
room to use the phone there, but he spoke in a voice so
low that the three could only make out that he was calling
the Albany police.

Victim, shown with arm around his sexy
wife, Anna, managed to survive 18 stab
wounds and four bullet holes long enough
to give his name and home address.

| | 46 Sd

|
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+ SANA RRR SNE TAT er PER, - * rr aE

BY CHA!

“But th
young mé
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Dr. Bren:

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hi tects ne Aes NR RRS a Bes i Tectia seutetine

BY CHARLES BOSWELL

“But the accident didn’t happen in Albany,” one of the
young men interrupted. “It was near Castleton. The State
Police ought to be notified.”

The physician had already replaced the receiver and now
he turned from the telephone. “Accident? There wasn’t any
accident. That fellow’s been shot and stabbed.”

He phoned again, this time for the coroner. “Memorial
Hospital,” he announced flatly. “We have a corpse for you,
Dr. Brenenstuhl. Homicide. It couldn’t be anything else.”

The two young men looked at each other strangely. The
girl with them buried her face in her hands. “Oh, it’s ter-
rible,” she moaned. “The poor man is dead.”

“Yes,” said the physician. “Never regained consciousness.
Died a couple of minutes after we got him on the table.”
He sat down and lit a cigaret. “You kids had better stick
around. The police will want to talk with you.”

The first officers to arrive were Detectives George Griggs
and Frank Herzog, both heavily muscled, middle-aged men.
Their impassive faces reflected years of experience in deal-
ing with crime. They greeted the physician as though en-
countering him at a lodge meeting. Soon, Dr. Orvis A. Bren-
enstuhl, the coroner, entered the ward and went inside

with the officers for a look at the'body. The detectives re-
turned shortly and Griggs addressed the youngsters: “Tell
us what happened.”

The driver of the car acted as spokesman. He was John C.
Crary, Jr., he said, and his friend was William McDermott.
Both were law students. Then he introduced the young lady
as Cornelia Halpern: The three had attended a dance a con-
siderable distance south of Albany and later stopped for
something to eat. They had not started for their homes in
Albany until quite late.

The detectives recognized all their names as those of
prominent local families. Moreover, from the appearance
of the young people, it was apparent that they were in no
way involved in the death of the man they had brought
to the hospital.

“It was about 4:30, I’d say,” Crary continued. “We were
on the River Road—Route 9-J—and had just passed through
Castleton-on-Hudson heading north. My lights picked up
something that looked like a man lying in the road. I stopped,
and Bill and I jumped out. The man was groaning. We fig-
ured he’d been hit by a car because there was blood all
around. For a few seconds he was [Continued on page 70}

A car had halted at this spot along the Albany-Castleton road, and when it started up again,

two men believed they had left a corpse in the woods at right. But the “corpse” still breathed.

Dope, Double Cross and Death

[Continued from page 47]

conscious and told us his name—Salvatore
Antonio. Then he muttered an address
here in Albany—3 Teunis Street. He lived
there, he said.

“He tried to tell us something else, but
couldn’t, His mouth filled with blood and
he lost consciousness. We saw no lights or
any houses around, so there was nothing
for us to do but put him in the car. Then
we raced for Albany, right to the door of
the hospital here. It was only about seven
miles.”

Detective Herzog looked at his watch
and phoned the home of Chief of Police
David Smurl and briefed him on the case.
Smurl said he’d rush to the hospital and
suggested a check be made at 3 Teunis
Street.

The detectives dismissed young Crary
and his friends, but with the understand-
ing that Crary, later in the morning, would
guide them to the spot on Route 9-J where
he had found Salvatore Antonio lying.
Another phone call was made to state po-
lice Corporal William H. Flubacher. The
corporal, based at East Greenbush only a
couple of miles to the east of Castleton,
agreed to wait for the appearance of Crary
and the Albany officers.

Then the detectives drove to Teunis
Street, in one of Albany’s shabbier resi-
dential sections, and knocked on the door
of the two-story frame house at No. 3.
It opened almost immediately to reveal a
dimly lit hallway and a woman with a
startled look on her face.

The woman appeared to be in her mid-
20s. She was black-haired, black-eyed
with a shapely figure, and wore only a
revealing nightgown. “Oh,” she said. “I
thought it was my husband—that he had
forgotten his key.” But she did not retreat
to cover her semi-nudity. She stood her
ground as the light from within shone
through her flimsy garment.

oxy :
Your husband?” asked Detective |

Griggs. “Is your husband Salvatore An-
tonio?”

The woman nodded. “My name is Anna
Antonio.”

Griggs took a deep breath for the dis-
tasteful task of breaking the news of her
husband's death.

Griggs, as he spoke, watched the
woman's reactions. She gasped and put
a clenched hand to her mouth, smearing
her lipstick. “Oh, no, no, it couldn’t be!”

Detective Herzog asked her to describe
her husband. The description fitted the
dead man perfectly, even to the clothes
he wore. He was ten years older than
she, she said, and they had been married
for ten years—since she was in her ’teens.

Her husband worked as a railway
brakeman. Saturday was his day off. The
night before—Saturday night—he had left
the house after dinner at around 7 o’clock,
and she had supposed he had gone out to
find a card game with some of his friends.
He had not mentioned where he was going.
She had waited up for him until after
midnight and then had retired.

The officers informed her that it would
be necessary for her to come with them
to the hospital to formally identify the
body. While she went to the second floor
to dress, the officers sat in the downstairs
living room and were interested to ob-
serve that by the standards of the neigh-
borhood, it was expensively, even luxur-
iously furnished.

Anna Antonio finally came down. She,
wore a somber black dress, black gloves,

70 >

and carried a black pocketbook. But the
dress was beautifully made and it fitted
its wearer perfectly, especially about the
hips and breasts.

At the hospital, as the sheet was pulled
from the face of the dead man, Anna
Antonio took one look and cried out: “It’s
Sal! Oh, God, it’s my Sal!” She covered
her face with her hands and her shoulders
shook. While Herzog led her into the ante-
room, Coroner Brenenstuhl had a word
with Detective Griggs.

Antonio, he said, had been shot four
times at close range with a .38 caliber re-
volver. He had been stabbed 18 times with
a broad-bladed, single-edged weapon,
perhaps a hunting knife. The attack had
taken place between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m. and
the wonder was that Antonio had lived
for another three or four hours.

Remarkably, none of his vital organs
had been pierced. He had simply bled to
death, and yet his murderer or murderers,
in leaving him, had had every reason to
believe that if he wasn’t already dead,
he would die in a matter of minutes.

The coroner had found less than $10
in the dead man’s pockets, but in the shoes
there were two $50 bills. Antonio’s wallet
contained only an employe’s railroad pass
and a postoffice notice that a registered
letter was being held for him as the mail-
man had been unable to deliver it.

Chief of Police Smurl arrived at the
hospital. With the detectives and Anna
Antonio, he adjourned to police head-
quarters where the widow was questioned
further. The subject of her husband’s
finances arose. How had Salvatore, on a
brakeman’s earnings (it was the depres-
sion year of 1932) been able to furnish
and equip their home so lavishly? And
what was he doing running around with
a $50 bill in each shoe?

Anna didn’t know, or so she claimed.
When she needed money, she asked her
husband for it and got it. He had always
been generous. If he had had an income

- other than his wages, she was unaware

of it. Under pressure, she disclosed that
not only on Saturday nights, but fre-
quently on week nights he had been out
until all hours.

“Another woman?” Smurl suggested.

“No,” said Anna uncertainly, “I don’t
think so.”

Detective Griggs displayed the regis-
tered letter notice he had obtained from
the coroner. Anna declared that it had
lain on the hall table of her home for
considerable time and that she had called
it to her husband’s attention twice. But

- he had not bothered to pick it up until

the preceding Thursday. On Saturday she
had asked him what it meant. “I don’t
know,” he had told her, “I haven’t stopped
by the postoffice to get the letter.”

At 7:30 the officers dismissed Mrs.

Antonio, but told her they would probably
want to talk with her again. After she had
left headquarters, Griggs said to Herzog,
“What do you think?”
’ And Herzog replied, “I think like you
do—she isn’t telling all she knows. To me
it’s inconceivable that a woman as vig-
orous and as strong-minded as Mrs.
Antonio would allow her husband free
rein to go and come as he pleased, without
some explanation. Also, there’s the matter
of her lipstick. ..”

“Exactly,” Griggs agreed. “When we
knocked on her door, we didn’t awaken
her. She was already up, even though she
was wearing that sexy nightie. Her lip-
stick was heavy. When she put her hands
to her face she smeared it badly. Either
she was expecting a visitor, or she had
seen someone shortly before and had not
had a chance to take off her make up.”

At 8 am., John C. Crary, Jr., true to his

word, visited headquarters, ready to guide
the officers to the spot on Route 9-J where
he and his friends had found the dying
man. On their way, the detectives picked
up State Police Corporal Flubacher.

The spot, as it turned out, was unmis-
takable. Dried blood covered the nearly
white concrete of the highway and a trail
of it led off across a shoulder of the road

-to a patch of woods to the west.

In the woods was another wide area of
blood and the depressed condition of the
moss and grass beneath the trees indicated
that a number of persons—certainly as
many as three—had stood there. Also, in
the soft sand of the road shoulder were
the impressions of tire treads.

From beneath a clump of bushes,
Corporal Flubacher picked up a blood-
stained hunting knife. It was new—so
new, in fact, that its store wrapping of
manila paper, tied with green string, had
not been removed entirely. Only the
blade was naked. Conceivably, the wielder
of the knife had bared the blade in ahurry.
Either that, or he had left the handle
covered with paper to guard against tell-
tale fingerprints.

But nowhere to be found was the re-
volver used to pump four slugs into Sal-
vatore Antonio. His murderers apparently
had taken it with them. Yet, even with the
revolver missing, what had happened
was evident.

Two or more assassins had driven An-
tonio to the spot—a lonely one—where
they planned to kill him. They forced him
into the woods, shot and stabbed him and
left him for dead. But there was still life
in Antonio and after the assassins had
gone, he had dragged himself out of the
woods, over the road shoulder, and had
collapsed in the middle of the highway
oo Crary and his friends had found

im.

With portable equipment from his
state police car, Corporal Flubacher made
moulages of the tire impressions, while
Griggs and Herzog again examined the
hunting knife.

“Tf this thing was bought locally—and
recently—we shouldn’t have too much
trouble tracing it,’ Herzog commented.
“But not today. No sporting goods store
is going to be open on Sunday.”

Corporal Flubacher said that it would
take some while for his moulages to set.
“You fellows can go on back.to Albany
if you want to,” he suggested.

On their return, the detectives called
at the branch postoffice serving 3 Teunis
Street. It was locked up tight. Griggs
phoned the postmaster, told him about the
registered letter, and he agreed to meet
them within an hour. In the interim, the
officers dropped in on their headquarters
where they found Chief Smurl in confe-
rence with District Attorney John J.
Delaney and Dick Kelly, a federal nar-
cotics agent assigned to Albany.

This conference had come about as a
result of a routine check of arrest
records—city, state and federal. Five years
before, in 1927, Salvatore Antonio had
been arrested, fingerprinted and photo-
graphed by federal agents on a charge of
selling narcotics. But the only evidence
had been an addict’s word against Anto-
nio’s, and Antonio had denied trafficking
in dope. So the case against him—if there
had ever been a case—had fallen through.

“It makes sense,” said Detective Griggs.
“If Antonio’s been peddling dope, that
would account for his having much more
money than the average railroad brake-
man. Also, traveling from place to place
could mean that he was running the stuff
in from up the line, or selling it down the
line.

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up and gently placed him in the rear
seat of their car. They roared off down
the Castleton-Albany highway. They
had never bargained for anything like
this on that chill Easter Sunday morn-
ing of March 27th.

“Step on it,” one of the young men
said. “This guy’s dying.” ;

“I’m pushing it as fast as I can,
now.”

State Trooper Cassen saw the head-
lights flash by shortly before 5 A.M.
and his trained eyes told him that the
vehicle was doing close to 90 miles per
hour. He jumped on the starter of his
cycle and roared out of the access lane
in pursuit, siren screaming.

“O.K. Buddy,” the trooper said
beaming his light on the young driver’s
face. “Let’s see your papers. I clocked
you at better than ninety.”

The driver bade the officer look into
the rear seat and explained the reason
for their haste.

“Right!” Cassen said. “Follow me.
I'll whip you through to Albany.”

N a short time, the motorcycle and

the car behind pulled into Albany’s
Memorial Hospital. Emergency at-
tendants removed the wounded man
from the car. Trooper Cassen and the
two young men trailed into the re-
ceiving room. The trooper turned his
attention to the two young men.

“Did you hit this guy?”

“No, certainly not. We found him
like that on the center of the high-
way,” the driver said.

The Samaritans revealed that they
were college students who had been re-
turning to spend Easter Sunday witk
their parents in Albany. They had
suddenly spotted the wounded man ly-
ing in the highway, they said, and they
had picked him up.

Trooper Cassen took their names
and asked them to wait. Then the of-
ficer filled out some routine reports on
the matter.

The wounded man was rushed into
surgery and skilled hands administered
every effort to save him. But Sal had
been stabbed 13 times and shot 5
times. Nothing could help him. At
6:15 A.M. he was pronounced - dead.
The attendants searched through the
deceased’s pockets and found papers
identifying him as Salvatore Antonio
of Teunis Street, Albany, New York.
Also found was a card which revealed
that the dead man had been employed
by the New York Central railroad.

Trooper Cassen promptly notified his
superior, Sergeant William H. Flu-
bacher. The hospital authorities phoned
the city police and in response, Assis-
tant Chief of Detectives John J. Pea-
cock and Albany Chief of Police David
Smurl arrived at the hospital. Trooper
Cassen filled the newcomers in on the
events thus far.

“Were you able to question the
dead man at all?” Peacock asked ‘the
trooper.

“No, he never regained conscious-

ness.” :
The police officials then questioned

Detective Frank Herzog.

the two youths who had aided Antonio.
They said that the wounded man’s
only words had been, “Help, pals.
Don’t stab me again.”

From the doctors who operated on
Antonio the investigators learned the
brutal nature of the wounds.

“Sounds like a gangland slaying to
me,” Peacock said. ;

A hospital attendant came up and
handed the assistant detective chief
the papers found in the dead man’s
clothing.

“Better get a man over to Teunis
Street,” Peacock said. “See if you can
get a relative to come down here and
identify the body.”

Two detectives were dispatched to
carry out this errand. In a short time

Detective George Griggs.

they were back in the hospital with the
wife of the dead man, Anna Antonio.

“I'm afraid I have bad news for
you, Mrs. Antonio,” Peacock said.
“Your husband has been murdered.”

The wife, a slender, attractive, dark-
haired young woman in her late twen-
ties, nodded slowly.

“I know,” she said ‘softly. “The de-
tectives told me when they came to the
house.”

Mrs. Antonio put her hand over her

eyes and suddenly staggered. She only -

kept herself from falling by steadying
herself on a chair.

“Take Mrs. Antonio into another
room where she can rest for a while,”
Chief Smurl instructed.

When the wife was out of the room,
Peacock turned to the detectives who
had gone to fetch her.

“How did she take the news?” he
asked.

“It hit her hard,” the detective re-
plied. “Knocked her all to pieces. For
a while it didn’t look like she would be
able to take it.”

“She seems better now,” Peacock
said. “She’s even neatly dressed and
presentable. Has makeup on, too.”

“She was dressed that way when we
arrived.”

“At this hour of the morning?”
Peacock said. “Did she explain it?”

“Yes,” the detective said. “She told
us that she had been worried because
her husband hadn’t come home. She
said she wasn’t able to sleep, so she
got up and dressed to go out looking
for him. She was pacing the floor when
we rang.”

HIEF Smurl went into the room
where Anna Antonio was resting
and asked her if she was up to answer-
ing some questions. The wife said
that she was, and in response to Smurl’s
interrogation stated that she was an-
xious to help catch whoever had killed
her husband. Mrs. Antonio said that
she didn’t know of anyone who might
want to see Sal dead and could in no
way provide a motive for the murder.
Anna Antonio said that she had
last seen her husband at about 8:30
Saturday evening. He had come home
at 6:30, as usual, bathed, changed
his clothes and had a snack.

“At about eight-thirty, he went out
again,” the wife continued.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No. He didn't say where he was go-
ing,” Anna Antonio replied.

“Did he mention the name of anyone
he was expecting to see?”

“No.”

“Was it usual for your husband to go
out without telling you where he was
going?”

“No, but it didn’t seem so strange
to me. He worked hard on the railroad
all week. On Saturday nights he liked
to go out. I couldn’t have gone with
him anyway because of the three young
children.”

“Well, I guess that’s all the ques-
tions for now,” Chief Smurl said. “If
there is anything I can do for you or

POLICE FILES

the kids, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Well, there is one thing,” the newly-
made widow said. “Sal had a lot of
relatives living all over the state. Would
it be too much trouble for you to wire
them and break the news?

Chief Smurl assured Anna that his
office would take care of that detail and
he obtained a list of all the dead man’s
relatives.

“There is just one more unpleasant
thing left,” the chief said. “I hate to
ask you to do it, but would you mind
identifying your husband’s body?”

“Of course. Sal wouldn’t have wanted
anyone else to do it.”

In response to Trooper Cassen’s
call, a detail under Sergeant Flubacher
had gone out to the spot on the Cas-
tleton-Albany highway where the dead
man had been found, to search the
area. They were soon joined by Pea-
cock, Smurl, the two college students
and a number of detectives and patrol-
men. The two college boys re-enacted
exactly how they had discovered the
wounded Sal Antonio.

It was well into the morning by this
time and the investigators were able
to see a trail of bloodstains left by the
victim as he crawled up the embank-
ment to the highway. It appeared that
Antonio had been left for dead. by the
murderers in a deep ravine some dis-
tance from the highway. That the mor-
tally wounded 38-year-old railroad
worker had been able to crawl that dis-
tance up-hill seemed something of a
miracle. There were no _ footprints
clear enough to be of any use in the
investigation. The scene was photo-
graphed and then all those present
fanned out in a wide arc and thor-
oughly combed the area.

Not far from the attack scene, a
large knife of ordinary make was
found. It was new and its long sharp
blade was thickly encrusted with dried
blood. A few yards away, a snub-
nosed .32 revolver was discovered. Six
spent shells were still in the cylinder
and the serial number had been filed
away. Both the knife and the gun had
been carefully wiped free of finger-
prints.

“It still looks like a typical gang-
land slaying,” Peacock commented.

“Or maybe it was rigged to look like
one,” Smurl added.

N Monday morning a fingerprint

check was run on the murder vic-
tim and it was ascertained that Salva-
tore Antonio had no police record.
That morning, the officer who had been
given the task of informing all the
victim’s relatives of the tragedy re-
ported to the chief of police and in-
formed him that the job had been
completed.

“There’s nothing I can put my fin-
ger on,” the detective said, “but from
all the phone calls to the relatives I got
the idea that things haven’t been go-
ing smoothly in the Antonio household
of late.”

Chief Smurl passed this information
on to Peacock and the latter decided

POLICE FILES

The slain man’s widow told investigators she feared gang trouble.

to go around to Teunis Street for a
private talk with the widow. He found
her in a very nervous state. She was
visibly upset when Peacock informed
her that an autopsy would have to be
performed.

“But Mrs. Antonio,” the assistant
chief of detectives explained, “the au-
topsy is not a matter of choice. The law
compels us to perform an autopsy in
cases of this kind.”

“I understand,” the wife said. “It’s
just that now the funeral will have to
be postponed and the funeral director
at the mortuary has been making things
more difficult.”

“I've come on a more serious mat-
ter, Mrs. Antonio,” Peacock said. “We
have reason to believe that your hus-
band was the victim of a gangland
slaying. Can you tell me anything
about your husband’s recent associates
or friends?”

The investigator watched the at-
tractive woman closely as she answered.

“Sal’s friends never came here to the
house,” she said.

“You never met any of his friends?”

“No. Not one of them.”

“He must have talked about them,”
Peacock pressed. “Didn’t,he ever men-
tion any of his friends’ names?”

“No. He never did.”

“I guess you can’t help us on that
score, then.” ‘

“I would if I could,” the young wom-
an said, beginning to sob. “But...”

“How long had you been married?”
Peacock asked quickly.

“Nine years.”

“Were you happy?”

“Oh, yes. Extremely happy. We have
three lovely children. Two girls and
a boy.”

“You were happy and yet none of
Sal’s friends ever came here,” Pea-
cock mused aloud.

A hurt, surprised look crossed Anna
Antonio’s face. She sprang to her feet
and began to pace the floor nervously.
The investigator eyed her curiously and
wondered what it was the attractive
= widow was trying to hide from
im.

“Sal was involved in the rackets,”

(Continued on page 42)
25

? : a
ere questioned

ut they clung “

Faraci claimed
Antonio, and
man had been
is unthinkable
harm. A dra-
““"* evening

ioned to
e ushered
soners. “These
your husband,
t attorney ad-

you ever seen ~

lankly at the

“No,” she de- 5

unproductive
len persisted,
‘zog, who had
is digging for
orhood of the
th an intrigu-
product. of a
sh a milkman
_ the pre-dawn
.o, and had a
‘der case. “A
yted to Griggs
1a way, I was
When I saw
ise early Sun-
e been on her

nkled. “You
» in the police

1 to look puz-
left on foot.
lown to Clin-
» a taxi that
-. I was in my

she - walked

1 \ifter 4,
suany deliver

t appeared to
th Anna An-
d to mention.
nately a half—
tricken form
- Road to the
1e detectives
this middle-

assed direct
nd employed
would be in-
talk to the
\ painstaking
Sompanies in
n the detec-
‘cords of the
o’clock Sun-
d received a
-o dispatch a
‘1 Street and
, of the cab
located, and
detail. “This
ga few sec-
urb. She got
o the corner
. When we
d went up to
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and handed
fter that, I
4th and she

i liately
pot of Anna
the precise
» Lisa King,
‘d up Saetta
w York at

around 4:30. Apparently, then, Saetta was
the man Anna Antonio had met. Yet,
when faced with him in the district at-
torney’s office, she had denied ever having
seen him before. If she had lied, why had
she done so?

That the man in question was Saetta
soon became a matter of irrefutable fact
when the taxi driver unhesitatingly: iden-
tified a picture of him.

It was early evening by the time Griggs
and Herzog had sifted this story to the
bottom. They reported their findings to
Chief Smurl and District Attorney De-
laney, who, in turn, instructed them to
place Anna Antonio under arrest. Within
an hour, she was in Delaney’s office, fac-
ing a stern-visaged quartet of inquisitors.

She appeared to wilt when, in hard,
crushing sentences Delaney and Smurl
flung at her their knowledge of her taxi
trip to and from Columbia and Broadway.
At the end of their recital, she began to
weep and sobbed out an explanation. “I
was afraid to tell you,” she cried. “He
said he’d kill me if I mentioned it. This is
what happened... .”

Anna Antonio went on te say that she
had received a phone call at 3:45 Easter
morning. The caller, a man, told her to
meet him at once at the corner of Co-
lumbia and Broadway, under threat of
death if she did not comply. When she
reached the designated point, she de-
clared, the man told her that her husband
had been “taken care of,” and that if she

breathed a word of anything she might |

know to the police, she would be dealt
with in the same manner. As for the
man’s identity, she declared, she did not
know it, for during the course of -their
brief conversation, he had stood in the
shadows, with his hat brim pulled down
over his face. _ :

“Not a bad try, Mrs. Antonio,” Delaney
struck back. “But it doesn’t account for
a lot of important points. You say vou
didn’t know that the man you spoke to
was Saetta. But the taxi driver, sitting in
his cab, saw his face and has already
identified his picture. And if the conversa-
tion was as you describe, why couldn't
he have told you all that over the phone?
There was another purpose for your meet-
ing Saetta, wasn’t there? It was to give
him money, wasn't it? And because you
didn’t want anyone to know you were
making the trip, you had the taxi meet
you two blocks from your house. You
were in league with Saetta, weren't you?
You had to pay him for a job well done!”

The woman, slippery as she had proven
herself to be, was no match for the over-
whelming logic of the district attorney’s
rebuttal. “It’s true,” she declared numbly
“—or part of it’s true, anyway. I did
know that the man [ met was Saetta, and
I did give him some money. But I didn’t
want him to kill my husband. Salvatore
had been mean to me and I just wanted
him beaten up a little—to learn a lesson. I
didn’t think Saetta would kill him, and

_he told me he’d only driven some sense

into Salvatore with his fists. I didn’t know
he was dead until the police came.”

This statement was sufficient to hold
Anna Antonio on a charge of being an
accessory to a murder, and she was so
booked. Yet, in the opinion of the investi-
gators, she had not vet told the entire
truth. They were to learn what they con-
sidered a closer approximation of it before
the evening was over.

The first step in this final phase of the
case was made possible by the unfortu-
nate Lisa King, who had found. herself,
innocently, in the midst of a crime which
horrified her. She had always clung to
the belief that her lover, Faraci, was in-
nocent, and had been continuously urging

him to tell the police the entire truth.
That evening, immediately after the in-
terrogation of Anna Antonio was over,
Faraci showed signs of weakening under
her importunities, “They know vour car
was at the murder scene,” Lisa told him.
“The tire moulage checks exactly. Tell
the truth, Sam!” .

Faraci thought it over, and, in the pres-
ence of detectives, said: “All right. I was
with Saetta when he did it. But I didn’t
do it.”

This was grist for Delaney’s mill. Sa-
etta had now had the finger put on him
by the other two. It was time: to confront
him with this fact, and see how he would
take it. The strategy worked admirably.
After the district attorney had informed
the suspect of the statements of Anna
Antonio and Faraci, Saetta had the clas-
sic reaction. “All right,” he said. “If they’re
trying to pin the whole thing on me, I'll
tell you what really happened.”

According to Saetta, he had known
Anna Antonio for a long time. Early in
March, he said, she had gotten wind of
the differences between him and her hus-
band over the thousand dollars. Unknown
to Antonio, she had arranged to see him
secretly in the lounge of the Leland The-
ater. At this meeting, Saetta went on,
the woman baited him about the thousand
he felt he had coming, and then suggested
a way for him to get his money. “She
said she was tired of her husband,” Saetta
declared, “and wanted to be free to live
her own life. I had a good idea what that
meant. She said that if I bumped him off,
she’d give me half of the $2,500 insurance
on Antonio's life. I agreed and she handed
me $40 to clinch the deal.”

But he had delayed carrying out the
murder, Saetta continued, until Anna An-
tonio prodded him to action. “Last Satur-
day afternoon she called me. She said: ‘I
could have bought myself a new dress
with that forty. Listen, you’ve got to do
the job—right away. Tonight.’ I told her
I couldn't do it alone. She snapped at
me: ‘Well, get someone to help you—but
do it.’”

In compliance, Saetta got hold of
Faraci, who had a car. They made a date
with Antonio to meet him at the Green
restaurant. After eating there, the trio
went for a drive and set out for a spot the
killers had previously decided upon as a
good site for the murder. When they
reached it, after having coffee at the
Castleton diner, Saetta and Faraci lured
Antonio from the car. “I shot him,” Saetta
explained, “and Faraci stabbed him. We
threw the knife into the bushes, but took
the gun with us. On the way back to
Albany, I took the gun apart and threw
the pieces along the roadside.”

After cleaning up, Saetta concluded his
story, he called Anna Antonio and told
her he needed some more money. “She
said for me to meet her at Columbia and
Broadway, and when she got there, she
gave me forty dollars more. Then the
three of us drove down to New York.”

Charged with murder in the first de-
gree, Anna Antonio, Saetta and Faraci
were brought to trial together on March
22, 1933, before Judge Earl H. Gallup,
The proceedings lasted for almost a
month, and were marked by the frequent,
and sometimes acrid, wrangling of the
prosecution and the three defense at-
torneys, each of whom defended his own
client with spirit and vigor. But it was a
hopeless endeavor. The jury found all
three guilty, and the judge sentenced
them to death. Two years later, and in
spite of the most energetic attempts of
their lawyers to save them, the trio were
executed in Sing .Sing’s electric chair.

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and cautious one. He therefore did noth-
ing to suspend the surveillance previously
posted on the Antonio house. That order,
he thought, could well be deferred until
the case was wrapped up.

A call to the state Motor Vehicle-Bureau

' yielded the information that a Sam Faraci,

whose address was given as Hamilton
Street, Albany, owned a 1930 Oldsmobile
coupe. Its color was listed as green, and
the license plates which had been issued
for it bore the number 6J-67-44.
Detectives hurried to Hamilton Street.
Faraci’s address turned out to be a room-
ing house, and the landlady of which de-
clared that Faraci was not at home, nor
had she seen him since the previous Satur-
day afternoon. “But I heard him,” she
went on, “around 4:30 Sunday morning.
He drove up and got his girl friend, Lisa

‘King. She had a room here, too. They

took their baggage, I discovered later,
and neither of them has been back since.”

From headquarters, Chief Smurl im-
mediately initiated a tri-state alarm for
the Oldsmobile coupe and its occupants.
Then, as his last act of the day, he again
had Anna Antonio brought to District
Attorney Delaney’s office for an inter-
view.

“Mrs. Antonio,” the district attorney
began, “we have reason to think we know
the identity of your husband’s murderers.
Do you know the name Vincent Saetta?”

Anna Antonio looked thoughtful for a
moment, then gave an emphatic answer.
“No,” she said, “I never heard of him.”

“And you never heard of any trouble
between Your husband and anybody over
a thousand dollars?”

The woman shook her head. “It's all

news to me.” ;
“What about the name Sam Faraci?”

66
I never heard my husband speak of
any such person.”

Tuesday passed with no new develop-
ment in the case, as did most of Wednes-
day. But at 3 o’clock Wednesday aft-
ernoon, a call came into Albany head-
quarters from the police of Poughkeepsie,
New York, a city 75 miles due south and
on the Hudson. The substance of their
report was that Officer John Campion, of
the Poughkeepsie force, had, only a half

hour before, spotted an Oldsmobile coupe, -

bearing License No. 6J-67-44, on Market
Street. Seated in it were two men and a
young, attractive woman. When ques-
tioned, the occupants of the car, after
some dissimulation, finally admitted that
they were Vincent Saetta, Sam Faraci,
and Lisa King. They had submitted to
arrest and were now being held in the
Poughkeepsie jail. '

Chief Smurl sent a squad of men to
Poughkeepsie and by 8 that evening they
had returned with the prisoners. When
first interrogated at the office of District
Attorney Delaney, Saetta and Faraci de-
clared that they had left Albany for New
York before midnight Saturday and had

‘not been back since. Lisa King, however,

who was patiently telling the truth, gave
a different version of their time table.
She confirmed the Hamilton Street land-
lady's statment that Faraci had picked

“her up at the Albany rooming house at

approximately 4:30 Sunday morning.
Then, she said, Faraci drove to the corner
of Columbia Street and Broadway, where
Saetta awaited them. They set out for
New York immediately, and on reaching
there, she and Faraci put up at a hotel
together, while Saetta stayed with a rela-
tive,

To the investigators it was clear that
the two men were guilty of Antonio’s
murder, although their best interrogatory
efforts were unable to produce an admis-

sion, Saetta and Faraci: were questioned
separately and jointly, but they clung
stubbornly to their denials. Faraci claimed
never to have even seen Antonio, and
Saetta declared the dead man had been
his best friend and it was unthinkable
that he would do him any harm. A dra-
matic moment occurred that evening
when Anna Antonio, again summoned to
the district attorney’s office, was ushered
into the presence of the prisoners. “These
are the men who killed your husband,
Mrs, Antonio,” the district attorney ad-
dressed the widow. “Have you ever seen
them before?”

Anna Antonio looked blankly. at the
pair and shook her head. “No,” she de-
clared; “never.”

The next day, while the unproductive
questioning of the two men persisted,
Detectives Griggs and Herzog, who had
been engaged in continuous digging for
information in the neighborhood of the
Antonio house, came up with an intrigu-
ing fact. It was the end product of a
conversation they had with a milkman
who served Teunis Street in the pre-dawn
hours, knew Mrs. Antonio, and had a
great interest in the murder case. “A
terrible thing,” he commented to Griggs
and Herzog, “and | guess, in a way, I was
in at the beginning of it. When I saw
Mrs. Antonio leave the house early Sun-
day morning, she must have been on her
way to the hospital.”

Herzog’s forehead wrinkled. “You
mean when we picked her up in the police
car?”

It was the milkman’s turn to look puz-
zled. “Why, no, when she left on foot.
She walked the two blocks down to Clin-
ton and 4th, and got into a taxi that
seemed to be waiting for her. I was in my
milk truck, following, as she - walked
along.”

“What time was this?”

“Oh, ['d say a few minutes after 4.
That’s about the time I usually deliver
milk in her block.”

Here was evidence of what appeared to

be a furtive excursion which Anna Aln-

tonio had conspicuously failed to mention.

It had taken place approximately a half
hour before her husband’s stricken form
had been found on the River Road to the
south of Albany. What, the detectives
wondered, had been behind this middle-
of-the-night mission?

To find out, they by-passed direct
questioning of the woman and employed
a more oblique approach. It would be in-
teresting, they decided, to talk to the
driver of the taxi involved. A painstaking
canvass of the several taxi companies in
Albany yielded results when the detec-
tives scrutinized the trip records of the
Quarter Cab Company. At 4 o’clock Sun-
day morning, this outfit had received a
phone call from a woman to dispatch a
taxi to the corner of Clinton Street and
4th Avenue. The chauffeur of the cab
which responded was easily located, and
he recalled the trip in graphic detail. “This
woman,” he said, “came along a few sec-
onds after I drove up to the curb. She got
in the cab and told me to go to the corner
of Broadway and Columbia. When we
reached there, she got out and went up to

post. They talked for a few minutes, then
she opened her pocketbook and handed
him some folding money. After that, I
took her back to Clinton and 4th, and she
paid me off.” au

Griggs and Herzog were immediately

struck by the fact that the spot of Anna

Antonio’s rendezvous was the precis€ _

corner at which, according to Lisa King,
she and Sam Faraci had picked up Saree
prior to setting off for New York at

4
bi

°
is snes as
Ceiba diiteencaie 4k ante ca

seats

ITS ae

ORO st Rt i ne

4) ed

% THE WOUNDED MAN clutched
his stomach and felt the warm blood
trickle over his hand. He managed
to look up and then, with supreme
effort, staggered to his knees. “Please,”
he said weakly. “Please don’t stab
me again.” .

Sal Antonio felt the cold steel of a
knife tear into his body. Then came
bullets. The helpless man fell back-
ward as the lead tore into him and
crashed him to the ground.

He lay there, unable to move, while
his assailants ran away and disap-
peared in the night.

Sal felt no pain. He lay quite still.
His chest and stomach felt queerly
warm on that chill night. Slowly, the
wounded man worked his hand up to
his chest. It was sticky and wet with
blood. The realization that he was
dying came over Sal Antonio. He knew
he had to get help fast. He tried to
roll over on his side and was stabbed
in the chest by a white-hot poker. His
head swam and beads of sweat stood

POLICE FILES MAGAZINE, ye 196),
: tt pe fa KY t Aig

Fatally wounded victim was found at point indicated by Chief John Van de Wal of Castleton,

BLOOD
MONEY
FOR
HIRED
KILLERS

by Peter Osdel

N.Y.

out on his forehead. He had never
felt pain like that before. Sal felt a
black blanket slowly coming over him.
He knew he mustn’t faint. He lay still

again and waited for the pain and diz- '

ziness to pass. After an infinity of time
Sal decided to try and move again. He
worked his arm up under his body
and tried to raise himself. A thousand
burning needles pierced his brain, his
arms would not hold the weight and
he fell flat on his face. Sal gritted his
teeth and reached his arms out in
front of him. He dug his fingers into
the earth and pulled his torn and bleed-
ing body forward. He moved about
a foot. The effort had been enor-
mous. Sal Antonio lay there panting
and gathered the strength for another
pull. He put his hand out and pulled
again. Pain wracked him and clouds
descended on his mind. Another pull.
Another foot forward. Sal felt the
ground begin to rise. Then he remem-
bered that he had been at the bottom
of a hill. Another pull. Pain. An in-
finity of hell. Another agonizing foot.

At last, Sal Antonio reached the
top. His hands felt cold concrete be-
neath him. He made another desper-
ate effort to rise and fell forward,
sprawled in the middle of the high-

POLICE FILES

There was a price on the

man’s head. That’s why he was

stalked like an animal

way. Sal saw the pin points of light
way off in the distance and prayed
that he would have the strength to wave
his arm when the car approached.
He saw the light grow brighter and
tried to get his arm up. It was no use.
But the car had seen him. It screeched
to a halt and Sal listened to the doors
being flung open. He felt bathed in
the glare of the headlights.

Sal opened his mouth to tell the
two young men, who bent over him,
what had happened. But Strangely, he
heard himself say, “Help, pals. Don’t
stab me again.” His mouth kept mov-
ing but no sounds came forth. Black
clouds raced across his mind. Sal be-
gan to grow warm. His heavy lids
flickered and then shut. At last the pain
stopped. He knew peace.

The two young men picked Sal

Sal Antonio and his pretty wife, Ann,
before a ride ended in violent death.

These two men listened to someone who wanted Sal Antonio out of the way for all time.

POLICE FILES

229

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<«

“the shades. °~. ..

In response to a call front Becker, ‘the

‘chauffeur had picked the Lieutenant

up at:the office of James Hart, one of

‘Becker’s attorneys, at 60 Broadway, at

seven Pp, M. The lawyer and the Police
Lieutenant had held a conference, prior
to Becker’s departure for Madison

Be hy Garden.

he story told to Dougherty by Ike
White, the New York World ‘reporter,
was of great interest to the Deputy
Commissioner,

“Lieutenant Becker and his lawyer,
Mr. Hart, called at the editorial offices
of the World last Saturday night,” said
White. “Lieutenant Becker was turned
over to me, and inquired if: Herman
Rosenthal had made an affidavit against
him. I replied that the World was in

ossession of such an affidavit, although

was at a loss to understand how
Becker knew about it, because we hadn’t
published anything about it at that
time.’ :

“Becker asked to see the affidavit, and
it was shown to him. He said he wanted
time to consider the charges, and that
he would issue a lengthy statement. We
never did get the statement. —

“Before he left, Lieutenant Becker
borrowed some clippings about Rosen-
thal, which he said he wanted in con-
nection with the preparation of his
statement, He returned those clippings
to me about two hours before Rosen-
thal was shot.” met oS

How. Dougherty wondered, had

Becker obtained the information
that the World was in possession of
Rosenthal’s affidavit?

Dougherty left his office, got into his
car and drove to a point near Becker’s
apartment house. There, by prearrange-
ment, he met one of the men who was
assigned to cover the place. There had
been interesting developments the night
before, which were now reported to
Dougherty. ;

Early the previous evening, a hanger-
on in the haltvay world named Harry
Pollok was seen entering the house
where Becker had an apartment. The
Becker apartment was on the fifth floor
front, and shortly after Pollock entered,
sleuths covering the building «saw
Becker come to the windows an lower

‘ Pollok ‘came out an hour later, ‘and
was trailed to his home in an apart-
ment house‘on One Hundred‘and Sixty-
third Street. Not long afterward,
Becker emerged, ‘and’ le, too, .was’ fol-
lowed to the building where - Pollok
lived. Becker stayed there for: more
than an hour, when he returned home.
Dougherty hada hunch. Ten min-
utes “later, his car ‘drew up to a stop
half a block down the’ street from Pol-
lok’s house. ‘Dougherty alighted, and
walked quickly to the apartment build-
ing. Hé inquired for the superintendent,
and was presently in that man’s’ apart-
ment. Dougherty drew forth his gold
badge, explained who. he was, and asked
that the elevator men and the doorman
be brought in, one by one.
As each man came in, Dougherty
flashed’ a picture in front of him;
“Ever seen that facer” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the third employee

Detective

The

to be questioned. “That man’s staying
up in Mr. Pollok’s apartment. | remem-
ber taking him up yesterday. There
was a woman in the elevator and he
took his hat off. He didn’t have a hair
on his head. He looked so funny | al-
most laughed.”

So that’s where Bald Jack Rose was
hiding out!

Dougherty wanted Bald Jack, but he
wasn’t ready to pick him up just yet.
He made a telephone call from the
superintendent’s apartment and fifteen
minutes later a detective took up a vigil
in the vicinity, and Dougherty went
back to Headquarters.

Arresting news awaited the Deputy
Commissioner, In the dead of the pre-
vious night, Dougherty and two of his
most trusted men had installed a dicto-
graph in Lieutenant Becker’s desk at
Headquarters, just two offices away
from Dougherty’s. Just picture that sit-
uation: A high police official hoping to
solve a major murder mystery by lis-
tening in on the conversations of an-
other important official, not fifty feet
away,

Becker had a private telephone at
his desk, and Dougherty’s men, listen-
ing in on the dictograph while their
chief was up at Pollok’s house, over-
heard Becker calling a number which,
they later learned, through inquiry of
the telephone company, was Pollok’s
number.

“Hello there,” Becker was overheard
saying. “There’s nothing to worry
about. Just lay low until it blows over.
I'll keep you posted. By the way,
where’s Sam? . . . Good, tell him to
saa 4 there.”

nother arresting report awaited
Dougherty. A ooahans addressed to
Mrs. Dougherty had arrived at the Dep-
uty Commissioner’s home in Sheepshead
Bay and the local police there had in-
tercepted it, Dougherty called Sheeps-
head Bay and learned that the package,
about the size of a one-pound box of
candy, had come by parcel post. It had
been mailed at the main post office in
New York, the name and address on it
were in nondescript lettering, and the
parcel bore no return address,

DOUGHERTY instructed the police

to remove the. outer wrapping, then
soak the package in water. The outer
wrapping he directed to be sent to him

Master

. by special messenger,

-The Deputy Commissioner decided
that the time was now ripe to once
again question the close-mouthed Wil-
liam Shapiro, part owner of the car
thought to have transported the gun-
men, Meanwhile, however, Shapiro had
engaged a lawyer, Aaron J. Levy, now
a Justice of the New York Supreme
Court, and upon advice of Levy,
Shapiro wouldn't talk, Shapiro did talk
to his counsel, however, and Mr. Levy
issued the following statement to the
press:

Shapiro told me that Jack Rose
called the Café Boulevard on the
telephone about ten o’clock Mon-
day night and requested the starter
to send the car to Sharkey’s saloon
on Fourteenth Street. Shapiro took

the car there and picked up Jack

Rose and one or two others. The

car waited a while and went. up-

town a way, then uptown quite a

long way, far beyond One Hun-

dred and. Twenty-fifth Street,
though I cannot give its exact
movements,

Coming downtown again, other

friends of Jack Rose were picked
up and some of the first party got
out. I am not prepared to say
now whether Jack Rose stayed
in the car or not. Possibly he
left it and others took his place.
I shall talk with Shapiro more at
length tomorrow and then I shall
consult with Mr. Whitman. It is
better that Shapiro’s information
be turned over to the District At-
torney rather than to the police.

The first Dougherty knew of Sha-
piro’s statement was through the news-
papers. He was reading the statement
In one of the evening editions when the
telephone bell rang. One of the sleuths
covering Pollok’s house reported that
Jack Rose had just left the place.

“Sure he’s properly covered?” asked
Dougherty.

“Don’t worry about that, Commis-
sioner,” came the reply.

Where was Jack Rote going, and
what was he up to? wondered Dough-
erty. The question was answered within
half an hour when there was a knock on
Dougherty’s door.

“yhk ROSE is outside and wishes to
see you, Commissioner,” was the
startling announcement.

Dougherty smiled grimly. “Show
him right in,” he said.

Bald Jack walked in and helped him-
self to a chair near a window.

“What’s on your mind, Jack?” asked
Dougherty.

“I see by the papers that my name is
mentioned in connection with the
Rosenthal case, so I thought I’d come
in and clear myself.”
cart didn’t you come in before?”
“Well, | wasn’t exactly afraid, but |
felt that because I had been in the car
that I might be suspected, so I lay low
and listened until [| heard ‘what
Shapiro’s story was. When I read a
little while ago that he had told pretty
much the truth, I felt that I might as
well come to the front and tell my
story. After all, there’s nothing to be
gained by my staying back, because |
know absolutely nothing about the
murder of Herman.”

Dougherty asked Rose what he had
done before the murder, and the Bald
One told the following aes

Monday night he had dined in
Luchow’s, then gone to the Lafayette
Baths. Accompanied by Harry Vallon,
one of the Three Musketeers, and Sam
Schepps, well-known Broadway gamb-
ler, he had gone to the home of Dora
Gilbert, the first wife of Rosenthal, to
get an affidavit reflecting on Rosen-
thal’s character.

“Then,” went on Rose, “Schepps rode
with me to Seventh Avenue and One
Hundred and Fortieth Street, where |
stopped in to see my brother-in-law. [|
returned to Sixth Avenue and Forty-

eT oa

a coupl
Lafayette pb
Rosenthal w:

“Nice of 5
Dougherty. ©
was playing
Rose at his ex
tended that,
more interest
in the murd
crime, but di
racing, a sul®
heart.

Sugary
radually.

' “Tell me,
know Lieute:

“Yes, I do.

“How'd yc

“He raidec
about a yea
quainted wit

og ge
me,” he said,
ently.” Dou;
reappeared 11
was Police (
Waldo.

“Mr. Doug
acquainted \
Waldo began
what do you

‘Ty DON’T
you mear
Rose. It wa
Jack had ev
the Police C
had seen Wa
many times,

“T mean,”
happen
Becker
ings of

Dougherty
evaded the (¢
with someth
again. “No,”
ant Becker, s
oughly hones

Waldo wa:
est man him:
lieve the w
rubbed his h
] tell you,” h

-Dougherty
the room fi
reached into
piece of yellc
scribbled dov

“T was coi
when Rose
handing him
Becker’s ban’
ten months.”

Waldo gla
totalled mor
lars.

“As you k
erty, “Lieut:
twenty-four
He certainly
out of his ea:

“But.” cou:
proof that tl
even though }
The Lieutena
relative left |
a will, and 1

ick
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Show
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e?”

but I
le car
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what
ead a
yretty
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t the

e had
Bald

‘din
ayette
‘allon,
{| Sam
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Xosen-

s rode
1 One

I
I

second Street, where Schepps and |
split up. I stopped in a saloon and had
a couple of drinks, then went to the
Lafayette Baths. I was there when
Rosenthal was killed.”

“Nice of you to stop in, Jack,” said
Dougherty. The Deputy Commissioner
was playing smart; he wanted to put
Rose at his ease. The police official pre-
tended that, just at the moment, he was
more interested in Rose personally than
in the murder. He didn’t discuss the
crime, but discoursed at length on horse
racing, a subject dear to Bald Jack’s
heart.

ete ake came back to the crime
gradually.

“Tell me, Jack,” he asked, “do you
know Lieutenant Becker?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“He raided a peng place I ran
about a year ago, and | became ac-
quainted with him then.”

reget | stroked his chin, “Excuse
me,” he said, arising. “I’ll be back pres-
ently.” Dougherty left the room and
reappeared in five minutes. With him
was Police Commissioner Rhinelander

- Waldo.

“Mr. Dougherty tells me that you are
acquainted with Lieutenant Becker,”
Waldo began to Rose. “Now. tell me,
what do you know about him?”

“T DON’T exactly understand what
you mean, Commissioner,” answered
Rose. It was the first time that Bald
Jack had ever come, face to face with
the Police Commissioner, although he
had seen Waldo’s picture in the papers
many times, Rose was plainly nervous.
“1! mean,” answered Waldo, “do you
happen to know whether Lieutenant
Becker was involved in crooked deal-
ings of any sort?”

Dougherty noticed that Bald Jack
evaded the Commissioner’s gaze, then,
with something of an effort, met it
again. “No,” was his answer. “Lieuten-
ant Becker, so far as I know, is a thor-
oughly honest man, Commissioner.”

Waldo was visibly pleased. An hon-
est man himself, he didn’t want to be-
lieve the worst about Becker. He
rubbed his hands together. “What did
I tell you,” he whispered to Dougherty.

Dougherty asked Rose to step out of
the room for a few moments. He
reached into his desk and drew forth a
piece of yellow paper on which he had
scribbled down a list of figures.

“I was coming in to show you this
when Rose arrived,” he told Waldo,
handing him the paper. “It’s a list of
Becker’s bank deposits during the last
ten months.”

Waldo glanced at the figures. The
totalled more than fifty thousand dol-
lars.

“As you know,” commented Dough-
erty, “Lieutenant Becker’s salary is
twenty-four hundred dollars a year.
He certainly hasn’t banked that money
out of his earnings.”

“But,” countered Waldo, “this is not
proof that the Lieutenant is dishonest,
even though he has banked a huge sum.
The Lieutenant himself told me that a
relative left him a considerable sum in
a will, and that he had invested it in

7 thie
;
é

The Master Detective

- various legitimate business enterprises.”

Dougherty had other ideas.

“I believe,” he said, with quiet con-
viction, “that these figures prove Becker
is a crook, if he is nothing else. The
amounts of the deposits seem to bear
out Rosenthal’s charges to the District
Attorney as to how much graft was
paid each month by the operators of
gambling joints.”

“Bring Rose in again,” said Waldo.

When Rose appeared, Waldo asked
him point blank: “Mr. Rose, did you
ever pay over any money to Lieuten-
ant Becker for any reason, or did you
ever see or hear about anyone paying
him for anything?”

“No,” said Bald Jack, quickly.

“That’s all that concerns me at the
moment,” said Waldo. He rose abuptly
and left the room,

It was plain to Dougherty that
Waldo was reluctant to believe the
worst about Becker. The Lieutenant’s
strong, —_ personality had, it was
obvious, completely won over the Com-
missioner in the face of damaging facts.
Another thing was plain to Dougherty:
Rose had been quick to grasp Waldo’s
attitude, and a feeling of self-confidence
seemed to surge over the man.

Rose sat facing a closed door that
led into the next room. Dougherty
again excused himself, and went into
the next room, leaving the door ajar.
From the next room, he proceeded to

Lieutenant Becker’s office, just beyond. |-

Becker was at his desk, going over
some routine reports, when Dougherty
entered.

Becker arose when he saw Dougherty.
“Yes?” he inquired politely.

“Charlie,” said Dougherty, “I’ve got
a man in my office on the Rosenthal
case, In about five minutes slip into the
next office and take a look through the
door at him. I'll leave the door open.
] want to get ey reaction on him.”

“Certainly. Who is he?”

“You'll find out when you see him.”

“Very well. Anything new on the
case?”

“NO. nothing pee Have you
heard anything?”

“Not a thing, But I’ve got my ears
to the ground.”

“Fine,” said Dougherty.

Dougherty went into the next office,
thence to his own, making certain to
leave the door between his office and
the adjoining room wide open. He took
a seat at the right of Bald Jack, a seat
that afforded him a good view of the
suspect, and also a good view of the
doorway leading to the next room.

Resuming his questioning, Dougherty
asked Rose the why and wherefore of
his visit to the home of Dora Gilbert,
Rosenthal’s first wife, for the purpose
of obtaining from the woman an affida-
vit reflecting on the gambler’s charac-
ter.

“I wanted that affidavit,” answered
Bald Jack, “because I knew Rosenthal
so well.”

“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, when he was sore he’d sa
anything, no matter how much trouble
he got people into. He was sore at me
for some reason or other and when I

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74,

being a day’s march from the surface
of his ‘face. a

The man looked up, caught sight of
Dougherty and left the church. The
_ Deputy Police Commissioner stepped
into a pew and kneeled down at a point
not three feet from where the other
man had been. When he had completed
the gesture of praying and arisen, he
had, clenched in his right hand, a little
ball of paper that he had picked up
from the floor..-

Dougherty ‘left the church, entered
his car and. told thé driver to go back
to Headquarters. ‘He unrolled the ball
of paper, struck a match and saw in the
shimmering: yellow glow the following
words, scribbled in pencil:

Boob Walker and Moe Brown
and a man they call Butch was
with Rosenthal in the Metropole
Hotel before he was shot.

DOUGHERTY struck another match
and read the message a second time
to make certain that he had it straight,
then tore the paper into tiny bits, drop-
ping them from the car window, a few
at a time. The stool pigeon he had con-
tacted in the church had turned in a
good piece of work. Dougherty hadn't
the slightest idea as to the identity of
the man called Butch, but Boob Walker
and Moe Brown he knew as prominent
figures of the bright light district.

It struck Dougherty as strange that
none of the Metropole employees had
recognized Rosenthal’s companions in
the dining room; it also impressed him
as singular that Lee Harrison, the actor
who had the reputation of knowing just
about everyone in the life of Broadway
after dark, and who had seen Rosenthal
entering the dining-room with - three
companions, hadn’t recognized _ the
gambler’s friends. But after mulling
over the situation, the veteran police-
man decided that Harrison ag
hadn’t taken a very good look at the
men with Rosenthal, and that the Met-
ropole employees either hadn’t taken
a good look at them either, or were
withholding the names of the men for
fear of. reprisal.

Boob Walker and Moe Brown were

Detective

The Master

“Yes,” said Rosenthal, “TU give you

‘three to one that Becker’s sweating

blood.”

“Aren't you afraid of somethin’ hap-
pening, Herman?” queried Butch.

“Me? Say, nothing will happen. to
me. My wife just asked me the same
thing a little while ago. Why, they
wouldn’t dare to do anything to me
with all this fuss in the papers. I un-
derstand my name was mentioned a
lot at the Sam Paul outing Mersenin b
and somebody suggested that I be
eed but nothing has happened so
ar.”

. The remainder of the time the three

‘men spent with Rosenthal, at the bar

and in the Metropole dining room, was
occupied by general talk—baseball,
horse racing, prize fighting, musical
comedy, women, and other subjects dear
to the hearts of tenderloin habitués,

When the trio had completed their
stories, Dougherty asked them as one:

“While you were with Rosenthal in
the Metropole, did anyone except the
waiter come up to your table, or did
anyone in the dining room speak to you
or Rosenthal?”

“Yes,” answered Boob’ Walker.
“Bridgey Webber popped in and came
over to the table for a minute.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing in particular; just said
‘hello’ to all of us.”

“Did he have anything to eat?”

“No, he just popped in, and popped

Tight out again.”

“Just what did he say to Rosenthal?”

““Hello there, Herman,’ or something
like that.”

“What time was that?”

THE three men fixed the time as ap-
proximately fifteen minutes before
the murder.
Bridgey Webber’s presence in the din-

‘ing room not long before the murder,

coupled with the fact that he had been

, observed hastening from the vicinity

dee up in short order and questioned. :

y Dougherty. Their stories, and the
story of their companion, Butch, who

was also apprehended for interrogation.
after being identified by Brown and:

Walker, dovetailed to a nicety.

The three ‘men had‘ put::distance be-
tween themselves and the crime scene
as quickly as possible after the shooting,
not wishing to become involved. Now
that they had been brought into the
case, however, they had nothing to con-
ceal. They talked freely..: - _ .

They had known Herman Rosenthal
for some time, they said..On Monda
night, shortly after Rosenthal left: his
home for the last time, he dropped into
Padell’s, a saloon in the Times Square
section. Boob,.Moe and Butch were
standing at the bar doing’ a little seri-
ous drinking, and‘the gambler joined
them.

“Well, Herman,” said Boob, “you’re
certainly getting yourself all‘ over the
front pages.” . hh

immediately after the shooting, in-
trigued Dougherty. At the moment,

: Webber was in an adjoining room, hav-

ing been picked up at his gambling em-
ai gh in the Forties. He had not yet
een questioned.

Dougherty glanced down at a yellow
pad before him upon which he had
scratched hasty notes while Boob, Moe
and Butch were telling their stories.

: “Sam Paul” was the most important

‘notation on the pad, Paul was one of

the brighter luminaries in Manhattan’s
gambling constellation. He was the big
shot of a tenderloin organization known
as the Sam Paul Association, a strictly
stag outfit that went off, occasionally,
on clam. bakes, barbecues and excur-
sions up the Hudson. The annual out-
ing of the association, held on a
specially-chartered steamboat groaning
with cases of foodstuffs and barrels of
beer, had in attendance the “who’s who”
of the sporting and gambling frater-
nities. The 1912 outing had been held
the Sunday before Rosenthal met his
death and it was during that shindig,
according to Rosenthal’s story to his
three dining companions, that the .sub-
ject of murdering him had been brought

up.

“Did Rosenthal,” Dougherty asked
the three men, “say who it was at the
Sam Paul outing that suggested that he
be killed?” —

The gambler, it developed, hadn't
gone into details along that tack.

The trio were dismissed with the
usual admonition to keep their mouths
shut. Then Dougherty ordered that
Bridgey Webber be brought in. Bridgey
was a typical Times Square “smoothie.”

He twirled a cane as he sauntered in-
to Dougherty’s presence. A trace of dis-
gust crossed the official’s face as he
studied Bridgey.

“Webber,” began Dougherty, “I want
you to start in by telling me everything
you did from the time you got up yes-
terday morning until the time Herman
Rosenthal was murdered.”

“Gladly, Commissioner,” answered
Bridgey, glibly. “Gladly. I left home
—one ninety-three Second Avenue—
about noon and went to Bath Beach.
I got back to town about four o’clock
and went to my clubhouse. I—”

“Your gambling joint, you mean,” in-
terrupted Dougherty. Webber smiled
brazenly.

“As you will, Commissioner. I stayed
there until early in the evening, when
I went to Madison Square Garden to
the fights. After the fights, | went back
to my club, or gambling joint, as you
call it, and stayed around there until
about a quarter to one. Then I left
and went over to the Metropole. I was
looking for William A. Pinkerton. |
wanted to see him about something—
a private matter—and I thought I'd
find him there. I looked around, but
didn’t see him.

“I looked into the dining room.” con-
tinued Webber, “and saw Herman Ros-
enthal sitting at a table with Boob
Walker and a couple of other fellows.
I went over and spoke to them for a
few seconds, then left and went back
to my place. | got there about a quar-
ter past one and was there until about

half past two, when I heard that Her-

man had been shot.”
“Who told you about the shooting?”
“One of the fellows. I’ve forgotten.
We were all quite excited about it.”
“Then you were in your own place at
three minutes of two—when Rosenthal
was shot down?”
“You've got it right, Commissioner.”

“ EBBER,” barked Dougherty, “you

were seen running from the Metro-
pole not thirty seconds after the sound
of those shots!”

“Commissioner, do you doubt my
word?” ;

“I wouldn’t,” said Dougherty, “be-
lieve you on a stack of Bibles.”

Dougherty froze the gambler with
an icy stare.

“Three years ago, on registration
day,” continued Dougherty, referring to
a paper he had just removed from a
drawer, “a guy named Tough Tony
Ferracci pinne eh ears back for you
with a blackjack and you were taken
oe hospital. Remember that?”

es.”

“Tough Tony was arrested, and Her-
man Rosenthal went on his bail. Re-
member that?”

er Jak

any

Tal

you an
friendly.
“But—
“Don’t
have pler
body knev,
enemies i
thal of |
blackjack
“That’s
each othe,
a thing li
who wan
me and :
done, bu
Herman °
a matter
his death.
a messen.
lars to \

enthal tel
“She d:
Doughe
went alor
outing on
“Noboc
So Wel
outing!

“P—P!P y

brav
Vallon?”
“Twas
I’d see th
the day.”
And so
Larceny
festive af
had haan

“

gampier.
Sunday.
about five
Baths. H
“Who'd
Baths?”
“Jack ¢
Doughe
Bridgey \
apparent]
unaware
his trail.
Doughe
the imme
and Sam
tive. Dot
van, the r
fayette B
Sullivan,
with prot:
King of |
had been
fluent dis
magazines
erty, the -
timate ter
Sullivar
early the
the News!
actions pr
lowing thi
recital:
Early o:
15th, he —
Deacon T:
York Am.

isked
t the
“at he

adn't

| a) the
| ouths
| {na
idgey
thie.”
od in-
if dis-
as he

want
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p yes-
erman

wered

home
snue—
Beach.
y'clock

n,” in-
smiled

en
when
den to
it back
as you
e until
I left
I was

I'd
id, but

1,” con-
in Ros-
1 Boob
fellows.
n for a
it back
a quar-
il about
at Her-

voting?”
rgotten.
tit.”

place at
osenthal

ssioner.”

ty, “you
e Metro-
he sound

uubt my
tty, “be-
ler with

zistration
ferring to
{ from a
gh Tony
k for you
ere taken
at?”

and Her-
bail. Re-

“Why, er—yes. | think I recall it.”

“You know you do. Now, after that,
you and Rosenthal weren't very
friendly. You—”

“But—’”

“Don’t interrupt me, Webber. You'll
have plenty of chance to talk. Every-
body knew that you and Rosenthal were
enemies and that you suspected Rosen-
thal of having hired Tough Tony to
blackjack you.”

“That’s not so. Herman and I knew
each other all our lives. He’d never do
a thing like that to me. A lot of people
who wanted to make trouble came to
me and told me Herman had the job
done, but I never believed it. Why,
Herman was like a brother to me. As
a matter of fact, I’m all broken up over
his death. Just a little while ago, I sent
a messenger over with a hundred dol-
lars to Mrs. Rosenthal to help cover
the funeral expenses.”

“Yes,” said Dougherty. “Mrs. Ros-’

enthal telephoned me and told me.”

“She did?”

Dougherty ignored the reply. “Who
went along with you to the Sam Paul
outing on Sunday?”

“Nobody; I went alone.”

So Webber had been present at the
outing!

“plo you spend much time at that
brawl with Jack Rose and Harry
Vallon?”

“| wasn’t with them in particular.
I’d see them from time to time during
the day.”

And so the two other musketeers of
Larceny Lane had also attended the
festive affair at which the suggestion
had been made to murder Rosenthal!

“Where are Rose and Vallon now?”

“How should | know?” answered the
gambler. “I haven’t seen Vallon since
Sunday. The last time I saw Jack was
about five this morning in the Lafayette
Baths. He was asleep.”

“Who'd you go with to the Lafayette
Baths?”

“Jack Sullivan.”

Dougherty dismissed Webber, and
Bridgey walked out into Centre Street,
apparently quite pleased with himself,
unaware that two detectives were on
his trail.

Dougherty pressed a buzzer. “Order
the immediate arrests of Jack Sullivan
and Sam Paul,” he instructed a detec-
tive. Dougherty knew all about Sulli-
van, the man who had gone to the La-
fayette Baths with Bridgey Webber.
Sullivan, thirty-five, short, squat and
with protracing jaws, was known as the
King of the ewsboys. For years he
had been one of Manhattan’s most af-
fluent distributors of newspapers and
magazines. More important to Dough-
erty, the man was known to be on 1n-
timate terms with the underworld. |

Sullivan and Paul were brought in
early the next morning. The King of
the Newsboys, asked to account for his
actions prior to and immediately fol-
lowing the murder, gave the following
recital:

Early on the evening of Monday, the
15th, he met Lieutenant Becker and
Deacon Terry, a reporter on the New
York American, in front of Madison

The Master Detective

Square Garden and attended the fights
with the two men. After the fights, the
three piled into a car that Becker had
at his disposal and went to the Prince
George Hotel, and had a few drinks.
Becker then instructed the chauffeur of
the car to drive to the Thirty-third
Street tube to New Jersey, where Terry,
who lived in Jersey City, took a train
home.

Becker and Sullivan were then driven
to the New York World Building on
Park Row, where Becker went to the
editorial rooms and returned some or:
pings that he had borrowed from Ike

hite, a reporter. Becker then drove
back to the Times Square sector and
dropped Sullivan off at Bridgey Web-
ber’s gambling joint, where Sullivan had
an appointment with Sam Paul. Becker
did not go into Webber's, but instructed
the chauffeur to drive him to his home.

“Who was the chauffeur?” Dougherty
asked at this point.

“Otto Aversi,” answered Sullivan, “He
drives for Colonel Sternberger, the Wall
Street broker. Colonel Sternberger is a
friend of Lieutenant Becker’s and the
Lieutenant often uses his car and chauf-
feur.”

Dougherty turned to one of the de-
tectives present. “Pick up Aversi,” he
ordered. “Also Ike White.” Then, again
focusing his attention on Sullivan, he
said: “Go on.’

“Well,” said Sullivan, “I had this ap-

intment to meet Sam Paul at Web-

er’s, but Sam wasn’t there. So I went
around to the Cohan Theater soda foun-
tain and was having a soda when I
heard the shots. I ran over to the Met-
ropole and saw Herman there, lying on
the pavement dead. Then I went around
to the Hotel Lincoln where Paul lived,
and woke him up and told him about
the murder. I paid him a hundred and
fifty dollars | borrowed from_ him.
That’s why I was hunting him in the
first place.”

IN answer to a question by Dough-
erty, Sullivan said that Becker
dropped_him off at Webber's at 1.30
o'clock. That, the Deputy Commissioner
noted, put Becker in the immediate vi-
cinity of the murder scene within half
an hour of the crime. But, according
to Sullivan’s story, Becker had been far
distant from the scene when Rosenthal
was dropped in his tracks.

After Sullivan had been permitted to
depart, Sam Paul was brought in. Paul,
just this side of forty, described himself
as a “stock dealer,” and this brought a
faint smile from Dougherty. Briefly,
Paul corroborated Sullivan's story in so
far as it related to Sullivan’s visit to
the hotel. Paul denied knowing Becker,
or knowing anything about the murder.
He admitted that Rosenthal’s charges
had been freely discussed during the
outing of the Sam Paul Association the
previous Sunday but denied that anyone
had suggested that Rosenthal be done
away with.

Aversi, the chauffeur, was picked up
and brought to Headquarters. He cor-
roborated to the letter Sullivan’s story
of Becker’s movements gn the night of
the crime. He added certain details that
had happened earlier on the fatal day.

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May, 1935

looks up and speaks to Mrs. Becker. “I
am sorry, Mrs. Becker, but there is
nothing in this statement that would
justify my interfering with the course
of the law. Your husband, Lieutenant
Becker, must die.”

The next day Mrs. Becker appears
before the bars of her husband’s cell.
She breaks the news. “You'll just have
to trust in God from now on, Charlie,”
she says.

“God!” snarls Becker. “I’ve lost my
faith in God.”

The zero hour—I1 p. M.—approaches.

Many miles north, in Albany, the
lights in the Governor's office are still
burning. A curious crowd has gathered
around the Capitol. Mrs. Becker, a
crumpled handkerchief in her hands, is
talking to the Chief Executive. Mr.
Whitman is listening intently.

“1 know my husband is no saint,”

The -Master Detective

the woman is saying, “but he is not a
murderer. By all that is holy, won't
you save him, Your Excellency?”

Whitman shakes his head. “You are
a brave woman, Mrs. Becker,” he says,
“and you are a fine woman. But, un-
fortunately, the qualities you possess
can not interfere with the course of the
law. I can not—I will not—hold ‘up
the sentence that has been imposed
upon Lieutenant Becker. . . ys

In Sing Sing, the red iron door opens
and closes behind Charles Becker. The
warden is in front of the man who was
once drunk with power, there is a guard
on either side, and a priest in the rear
chants the litany.

Thus, the fifth man pays with his
life for what was done to the little
gambler who dropped in his tracks that
steaming July night in front of the
Hotel Metropole.

How a Reader Cornered John Martini
(Continued from page 49)

of the Ogden Police Department got in
immediate touch with Sheriff A. A.
Ross of Humboldt County in Eureka,
California. Martini waived extradi-
tion and Deputy Sheriff Allie Dutton
was dispatched to Ogden to bring the
fugitive back. He pleaded guilty when
arraigned and was sentenced by Super-
ior Judge Harry W. Falk to the Cali-
fornia State Prison at San Quentin.

MARTIN'S record, on file at the Bu-
reau of Criminal Identification at
Sacramento, California, began in 1918
when he was charged with Grand Lar-
ceny of an automobile. It continued
through the years, first for one offense
and then for another. One or two
charges were still pending. There were
arrests for vagrancy and once he had
been arrested for a State Prison act.

And then on September 4th, 1934, when
the man was thirty years old, came the
most serious offense of all—rape.
“We were. glad to assist in ringing
_one more criminal to justice,” Chief of
Police Moore wrote the editors of THE

‘; Master DETECTIVE, praising the LINE-

Up service after the capture.

“! had this man circularized all over
the United States before sending his
photograph for use in THE Master DE-
TECTIVE LINE-UP,” Sheriff Ross wrote
the publishers. “Apprehended as he
was through the Line-Up, | think it
was a good piece of work on the part
of your magazine.”

And so do all other law-abiding citi-
zens. Our $100 reward was paid to
“John Jones,” his real name being with-
held in accordance with the Line-UP’s

policy.

Let the Police Alone

(Continued from page 5)

removal. Fortunately, the timely inter-
vention of The International Associ-
ation of Chiefs of Police and other or-
ganizations bore weight and Mr.
Hoover was retained to establish what
] hope is a precedent ; namely, to in-
fluence state and municipal authorities
to take steps towards insuring the re-
tention of deserving police officials re-
gardless of politics.

In our borderline city of Wyandotte
we have what | consider an ideal police
set-up. Three years ago this city bore
the reputation of being a lawless place
where rackets flourished and crimes
ranging from murder to common theft
were committed with little or no regard
for the law.

Public sentiment demanded a clean-
up. | was offered the job and placed
under contract for one year. I was
promised nothing but co-operation and
got it. My first job was to install a
modern record keeping system and a
police training school. 1 did nothing
that countless hundreds of other chiefs
could not do as well. But I was left

alone. In a short time | noted that the
morale of the department was infinitely
greater now that there was but one
boss. But read the following statistics
from our annual report and judge for
yourself.

In 1933 two hundred and sixty-nine
major crimes were recorded. In 1934
only one hundred and thirty-eight were
recorded—a decrease of approximately
45%. Robbery showed a_ reduction
of 48%; Burglary 30%; Larceny and
Theft 58% and Auto Theft 36%.

THs substantial decrease in crime |
attribute directly to the improved
morale and attentiveness to duty of
city officers because they have been
allowed to work unbampered.

The year of my birth—sixty-five
years ago—saw the birth of The Inter-
national Association of Chiefs of Police.
One of the initial objectives of that or-
ganization was to ‘divorce crime from
politics.” Now, in the sunset of my po-
lice career, perhaps | will see that hope
fulfilled. 1 hope so.

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walking on the street When he noticed
clouds of smoke billowing from the lower
floor of a factory on the corner of Bed-
ford and Commerce Streets. He raced to
a fire box and turned in an alarm. The
entrance to the building was on Com-
merce Street. By the time he reached
the doorway, the front of the building was
a roaring inferno. The fire escape was
on Bedford Street with the ladder leading
to the street drawn up at the second
floor beyond reach from the sidewalk.
The clanging machinery in the factory
operating at full blast was drowning out
his shouts. Using the cracks in the mor-
tar between bricks as a fingerhold, he
managed to climb the vertical wall to
the second floor and sound the alarm to
the employees in the factory who still
were not aware of the blaze. He led more
than a hundred girls down the fire escape.
He found a crippled boy on the third floor
and carried him down just in time. A
few moments after he landed safely in
the street the side wall with the fire
escape caved in. ‘A total of nine firemen,
including a captain, were killed in the
disastrous blaze which razed the build-
ing. All employees in the factory were
led out of the building by O’Connell.
The work as a plainclothes man was
whetting his appetite for detective work

and on July 10th, 1911, he was assigned
to the detective bureau, still as a stenog-
rapher, But he kept trying his hand at
cases and in exactly fifty days he reached
the top as a first grade sleuth. He re-
mained in the detective bureau for fif-
teen years until he became captain.

A first grade detective must produce
to keep the designation; he cannot rest
on his laurels. O’Connell kept the rating
for nine years straight until he was pro-
moted to lieutenant and the grade no
longer applied. During this time he re-
ceived six citations for brilliant detective
work,

New York was shocked in 1912, when
two bank messengers were held up ina
taxicab by a group of armed bandits
who escaped with $25,000. The robbery
took place in the downtown financial
section and created a furore, as it was
the first armed daylight stickup in the
city below Fulton Street since 1884.
O’Connell was one of the men called in
to work on the case, and from a descrip-
tion of a man seen flourishing money in
a saloon shortly after the robbery he
succeeded in tracing one of the bandits
to Boston. Later he was planted in a cell
between two suspects and obtained in-
formation implicating the cab driver.
So great was the public excitement at

EDWARD D. RADIN

the time that a book, The Great Daylight
Robbery, was written about the case.
ewspapers still refer to O’Connell’s
work in the Rosenthal murder. Rosen-
thal, a notorious gambler, was killed on
the eve of imparting information to the
District Attorney which would impli-
cate Police Lieutenant Becker for taking
bribes to protect Rosenthal’s gambling
houses. Information was received by
Second Deputy Commissioner Dougher-
ty that “Gyp the Blood” and “Leftie
Louie,” two of the gunmen sought for
the killing, were living somewhere in the
suburbs. The informant said it was
“about one hour’s train ride from City
Hall.” Acting on the tip, detectives
scoured the countryside. For a week
sleuths ranged through Long Island,
Westchester and parts of Connecticut.
Maps and timetables were consulted.
Engineers plotted out distances on
graphs. The search went on but all the
detectives had to show for their labors
were muddy shoes and mosquito bites.
O’Connell went to Dougherty and said
he thought the search was being made
in the wrong place. He pointed out that
there were many places in New York
City an hour’s trip by subway from City
Hall. The tip had contained information
that there was an open-air movie near

JE VDE

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HE office of the Chief Inspector of the New York City Police Depart-

ment is on the first floor at Headquarters. It typifies the fact that

the “Chief” must be on the “ground floor” so far as the department
and crime is concerned, since he is directly responsible for conditions
to Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine.

John J. O’Connell, the present Chief Inspector, is well aware of his
responsibility. When an aide recently chided him for working so hard
and keeping such late hours on the job, O’Connell promptly silenced
him with, “The Commissioner works longer hours than I do.”

Chief Inspector O’Connell is the high-
est uniformed officer on the force whose
post corresponds in other cities to the
rank of Chief of Police. More than half
of the present-day New York City force
was trained by him during his long tenure
as founder and director of the police
college. It was Commissioner Valentine
who laid down the broad policies con-
taining his ideas and ideals, and it was
O’Connell, who for twelve years as dean
of the Police Academy, indoctrinated
each new recruit with these ideas and
ideals in a series of courses he prepared.

In addition, O’Connell has helped

history of the department. Another man
promoted was O’Connell, whom Valen-
tine has made Chief Inspector.

When he was promoted to Sergeant
on that day of October 15th, 1913, O’Con-
nell was risking a cut in pay in order to
be promoted. This seeming paradox came
about because O’Connell at that time
was a first grade detective and was draw-
ing a lieutenant’s pay. The ambition of
most detectives is to become a member
of that small, select circle, a first grade
man. When O’Connell took the promo-
tion examination he was risking every-
thing other detectives dreamed of achiev-

* A great detective stresses science as an

essential weapon in the modern war on crime

train countless other officers in this
country and abroad through the medium
of his book, “Modern Criminal Investi-
gation,” recognized‘as one of the basic
textbooks of police work. Written with Dr.
Harry Soderman, noted European crimi-
nologist, and containing an introduction

= = by Commissioner Valentine, the book was
~~ first published in 1935 and since that

time has gone into its eleventh printing.
But the unusual is typical of the career

of Chief O’Connell. He became a traffic

officer because he was over six feet tall
and a detective because he knew short
hand,

He met Commissioner Valentine for
the first time on a brisk mid-October day
in 1913 when a group of patrolmen re-

ie ported to Headquarters. The uniform of

each man was freshly pressed, shoes
were highly glossed and gleaming brass
buttons supplied evidence of much dili-
gent polishing the previous night. Each

“-man stood at rigid attention as his name

was called. When the simple ceremony
was over the small group of officers were
sporting new badges signifying their.
promotion to the rank of sergeant. One
of the men promoted that day was Val-
entine, who worked himself up from the
ranks and has held the post of Com-
missioner longer than anyone else in the

ee en

ing, since a promotion usually means
that a detective must leave the bureau
and a sergeant’s pay is several hundred
dollars lower yearly than a first grade
detective.

But O’Connell knew what he was do-
ing. He wanted to rise higher than a
detective could. Actually, the promotion
did not have the dire results predicted
by his friends: O’Connell was the homi-
cide specialist. of the Second Branch,
which at that time extended from Union
Square to Columbus Circle—14th Street
to 59th Street—river to river, and em-
braced the busiest quarter of the city.
Fortunately for him he remained a first
grade detective still drawing lieutenant’s
pay.

O’Connell was appointed to the force
on October 16th, 1905, and began. his
career as a patrolman in the financial
district. A short time later he found him-
self ducking cars at the busy intersection
of Broadway and 42nd Street, better

‘known as Times Square, The subway had

opened and horseless buggies were be-
ginning to create a traffic headache in
Manhattan. McAdoo was Commissioner

‘and he ordered that one hundred patrol-

men be assigned to traffic duty, the only

O’Connell was transferred to the traffic
detail and learned at first hand the prob-
lem of controlling traffic and crowds.
The work was none too exciting and
on many cold nights standing at the north
corner of 42nd Street he fervently wished
that he could shrink a few inches in
size. He possessed one knowledge which
few officers had. As a youth he had won
a scholarship to LaSalle Academy where
he studied shorthand and had worked
as a stenographer prior to his appoint-
ment. When others learned of his steno-
graphic ability he was snapped up by
Inspector Flood, commander of the tu-

in plainclothes for clerical duty. He also
worked in plainclothes under Inspector
William ‘Doc’ Hogan and “Chesty”
George McCloskey, colorful figures in the
department’s history.

On May 28th, 1906, he received the first
of eight departmental honors when he
was commended for personal bravery in
leading more than a hundred employees
out of a burning building. O’Connell was

qualification—they must be at least * WN, Y. Police Depart-

six feet tall. As a towering newcomer,

ment’s John J. O'Connell

a el a ob

said the meeting took place. All of the
witnesses in the raid were policemen,
except Marshall. The District Attor-
ney’s office got on Marshall’s trail, had
a talk with him, and put him on the
stand.

This was Marshall's story:

On the night of June 27th, 1912 (the
night of the alleged murder conference)
he was on his way to report to two of
Lieutenant Becker’s officers, who were
to participate in a raid, when he saw
Becker standing on the corner of One
Hundred and Twenty-fourth Street and
Seventh Avenue, talking to two men.
Becker called to Marshall, and the
stool-pigeon dancer crossed the street.
As he got within a few feet of Becker,
the men to whom the Lieutenant was
talking stepped back into the shadows
while Marshall received instructions re-
lating to the raid. In less than a min-
ute, he was on his way again.

MARSHALL said that one of the
men with Becker was Jack Rose.
He didn’t know who the other man was.
Under cross-examination, the negro ad-
mitted that he had never seen Jack
Rose before that night, that he had seen
him then only for a moment or two at
a distance of several feet and while it
was dark, and that he had next seen
and identified him twenty-one months
later when members of the District At-
torney’s staff took him to a room in
which were Rose and several other
men.

That, in a nutshell, was Marshall’s
testimony. It was the only testimony
that the State introduced as outside
corroboration of the Harlem confer-
ence; it was, in fact, the only outside
testimony of any kind that corrobo-
rated any part of the confessions of the
plotters, insofar as concerned Becker.
But it was enough for the jurors. They
brought in a verdict of first degree mur-
der.

For the second time, Becker heard
the death sentence pronounced upon
him, and he was removed to Sing Sing
pending the outcome of another appeal.

Nine months after the second trial,
while Becker’s attorneys were making
their last stand, two policemen in Phil-
adelphia, ninety miles away, arrested
a negro for being drunk and disorderly.
The prisoner gave his name as James
Marshall.

“James Marshall?” asked the desk
lieutenant while the man was_ being
docketed. “You're not that buck-and-
wing dancer who testified in the

Rosenthal case over in New York, are

your”

“That’s me,” said Marshall. “I’m
that witness.”

When the word went abroad that the
key witness in the Becker case was un-
der arrest, the Philadelphia newspapers
sent reporters to interview Marshall. A
reporter named Joseph Fenerty of the
Evening Ledger was the first on the
scene and, judging from his actions
following a talk with Marshall, the ne-
gro had given him a sensational state-
ment. Fenerty left the police station in

‘repudiated everythin

The

a rush, and later in the day the Ledger
carried a front-page story avowing
that Marshall had retracted his entire
testimony at the Becker trial!

Marshall put his statement in affida-
vit form. He charged that F. B. Groehl,
one of District Attorney Whitman’s as-
sistants, had caused him to testify as
he did, under threat of prosecution in
another matter, when, as a matter of
fact, he had never laid eyes on Jack
Rose until after Becker’s first convic-
tion was reversed.

“He (Groehl) told me that he
wanted me to testify in Becker’s case,”
said the affidavit, “and to say I saw
Becker at 124th Street and Seventh
Avenue in New York, speaking to Jack
Rose ... He wanted me to swear that
Becker was speaking to Jack Rose at
that time. I did not know that the man
speaking to Becker was Jack Rose ex-
cept from what Mr. Groehl told me
and what | had read in the newspapers
...I1can positively state now that at
the time I saw Becker at 124th Street
that I could not possibly identify Rose
as one of the men who was speaking
to Becker and I would never have
identified this man as Rose were it not
for what Groehl told me and what I
read in the newspapers.”

It need hardly be said that Mar-
shall’s affidavit threw a bombshell into
the entire Rosenthal case. It was New
York’s main topic of conversation.
Becker’s . hopes for freedom flamed
high.

Then Marshall made another affi-
davit. This one was upon his return to
New York, and after a conference with
Mr. Groehl. In this second affidavit he
he had said in
the one made in Philadelphia, and re-
affirmed what he had testified to on the
witness stand. Marshall insisted that
he had signed the Philadelphia affidavit
under duress on the part of Fenerty,
the reporter, and lawyers acting in be-
half of Becker.

Master Detective

‘T DID not intend in any way to indi-
cate that Mr. Groehl told me in ad-
vance what it was he wished me to tes-
tify to,” said Marshall’s second sworn
statement. “It was not until after |
told Mr. Groehl that I had seen Becker
talking with a man at 124th Street and
Seventh Avenue—that I believed that
man to be Jack Rose from the pictures
of him that I had seen since; and that
if I could see him again I could iden-
tify him—that Mr. Groehl told me he
wanted me to so testify. He did not
at any time suggest to me, before | told
him what the facts were, that he wished
me to testify as I did.”

Dramatic events were in the making.
Charles S. Whitman, the man who, as
New York’s District Attorney, had
prosecuted Becker, was elected Gover-
nor of the State. Should all other ap-

eals fail, Becker’s life would be in the
Fonds of the man who had put him in
the shadow of the chair.

The Three Musketeers, Sam Schepps,
the chauffeur Shapiro and the others
who had been involved in the crime
were walking the streets free men while

Whitman sat in the Governor’s chair
and Becker sat in the death house
Part of the public thought Becker was
guilty and had been proved so. Others
thought the man was guilty but had
not been proved so. Still others were
convinced that the Police Lieutenant,
while a crook, had no knowledge of the
Rosenthal murder and had been the
victim of a conspiracy on the part of
some of the real criminals to save their
own necks.

What would the final verdict be?

Becker was pushed nearer to doom
when the Court of Appeals upheld the
verdict of first degree murder. The
higher Court this time found that the
testimony of the buck-and-wing dancer
constituted sufficient corroboration of
the stories of Rose and the others to
convict Becker. Accordingly, Becker's
execution was set for the week begin-
ning July 26th, 1915.

On July 23rd, Becker’s attorneys ap-
plied to the Supreme Court for a new
trial. Pending the outcome of this mo-

tion, the execution was postponed until
July 30th.

ON July 28th, Becker anxiously
awaited word of the result of his
latest appeal.

Down the corridor comes the sound
of footsteps and Assistant Warden
Johnson appears.

“You've got bad news, John!” Becker
says to Johnson before the assistant
warden has a chance to speak. Johnson
doesn’t answer with words; he merely
nods.

“What did they say?” Becker asks.

“Just that the decision of the lower
court has been upheld. The news just
camefover the telephone. Your wife is
here.”””

, Becker suddenly becomes calm.

“I can’t let her see that I’m upset,”
the prisoner tells the assistant warden.
“Have her brought in.”

Becker hands his wife an envelope.
“It’s all right, John,” he says to John-
son, who is standing alongside Mrs.
Becker. “You know what’s in this.”
Johnson nods. It is a twelve-thousand-
word statement that Becker has la-
bored over. It is his final appeal to the
man who sits in the Governor’s chair
up in Albany.

The next day the wife of the doomed
Police Lieutenant walks up a_ long
flight of glistening marble steps and en-
ters the portals of the State Capitol.
In five minutes, she is ushered into a
softly-carpeted, quietly furnished
room.

Whitman, Governor of the Empire
State, looks up and motions Mrs.
Becker to a chair. An assistant takes
an envelope from Mrs. Becker and
hands it to the State’s chief executive.
The Governor opens the envelope and
begins to read the long statement that
has been prepared by the man who
was once the head of New York's
feared Strong-Arm Squad.

At length the Governor is finished.
It has taken more than an hour. He

coal

at- mo TI

acct

HeaamMmane +44

put his arms around me and kissed me.
He said, ‘Anything in the world for
you, Herman. I'll get up at three
o'clock in the morning to do you a
favor. You can have anything I’ve
got.’ And then he called over his three
men, James White, Charles Foy and
Charles Steinhart, and he introduced
me to the three of them, saying, ‘This
is my best pal and do anything he
wants you to do.’ We went along and
we met pretty often. Sometimes we
would meet at the Lafayette Turkish
Bath. Other times we would meet at
the Elks Club, and many nights we
would take an automobile ride, and he
told me then that he wished he could
put in six months of this because he
would be a rich man. He was getting
hold of a lot of money. I told him
then, ‘Don’t you think you are taking a
chance by me being seen with you so
often?’ And he told me, ‘I dont have
to fear. Not when that guy down at
Headquarters (meaning Commissioner
Waldo) puts it up to me about meeting
you for a purpose—to get information
from you.’

“Hé came to my house very often
during the months of January and Feb-
ruary, and he used to tell me a lot of
things about how much money he was
making, and that he was making it
awful fast. So I told him the latter
part of February, ‘I want to borrow
fifteen hundred dollars from you.’ He
said. ‘You’re on, on condition that
you'll give me twenty per cent of your
place when you are open.’

“So | told him that was satisfactory
to me, so he said, ‘Well, you go down
to my lawyer in a week or so and he
will give you what you want and you
sign a chattel mortgage on your house-
hold furniture,’ and he said for me to
bring my wife down with me, for her
to sign. So I pleaded with him |
wouldn't do that.

“ ‘| DON’T want her to feel as though

you didn’t trust me with fifteen
hundred dollars without signing over
my home,’ I said. He said, ‘All right.’
So | went down to see a lawyer he
named in the St. Paul Building, and he
says, ‘Are you Mr. Rosenthal ? | said,
‘Yes, | suppose you know what I’m down
here for. He said, ‘Yes, but how do I
know you are Mr. Rosenthal?’ So I said,
‘Why, call Charlie up.’ So he called
up Spring 3100 and _he asked a man to
connect him to C. O. Squad and
this conversation followed: He. said,
‘Charlie, that party is down here.’ And
the lawyer said, “Yes, he has a brown
hat and a brown tie.’ He said, “All
right,’ and with that he rung off. Now
the lawyer told me, ‘You have to sign
this note and these papers.’ And I did
as he told me, signing the note for
fifteen hundred dollars, and the lawyer
said, ‘It will cost you fifty dollars now.’
And | said, ‘For what?’ He said, ‘For
drawing up the papers.’ So | asked
him then, ‘Will I tell Charlie about it?”
So he said, ‘I would rather not if I were
you.’ Well, I said, ‘All right, I’ll come
and see you some time.’ Well, I went
along for a few weeks when finally
Lieutenant Becker met me by appoint-

The Master Detective

(Continued from page 51)
ment and told me what a hard job he
was having in stalling Waldo. That
Waldo wanted him to ‘get’ me. ‘I have
told Waldo that I have got my men
trying to get evidence, and by doing
so, I kept stalling him.’ | met him three
nights after that again. He told me
that | must give him a raid. He said,
‘You can fix it up any way you like.

MASTER DETECTIVE
LINE-UP CAPTURES

H. B. (BUNN) MULLEN, convicted
bank robber and escape from Tennessee State
Penitentiary. Mullen’s photograph was

_ recognized in May, 1934, Line-Up of Master
Detective by Chief Deputy Sheriff J. E.
Decker of Dallas, Texas, who arrested Mul-
len on May 24th, 1934. Our $100 reward
paid to Chief Deputy Sheriff Decker.

No. 2

CHARLES C. COATES, convicted robber
and escape from Missouri prison. Captured
in St. Joseph, Mo., 5-19-34 by Detective R. G.
Chrisman of the St. Joseph police, who recog-
nized. Coates’ photograph in May, 1934,
Master Detective Line-Up. Our $100 reward
paid to Detective Chrisman.

No. 3

MAX CHIPMAN, wanted for kidnapping
and murder by Boston authorities. Captured
in Kansas City, Missouri, on April 25th, 1934,
by Detective Lieutenant George Augusta
and Detective Joseph Decker of the Boston
Police Department acting upon letter re-
ceived from Kansas City reader who recog-
nized Chipman’s photograph in the April,
1934, Master Detective Line-Up. Our $100
reward paid.

No. 4

WILLIAM AYERS. _Forger. Wanted as
an escape by Warden T. P. Hollowell, Fort
Madison, Iowa. Identified by Patrolman
O. P. McDaniel of Macon, Geor ia, Police
Department, who saw Ayers’ photograph
in May, 1934, Master Detective Line-Up
and who captured Ayers on July 3rd, 1934.
Ayers has been returned to Iowa State
Penitentiary. Our $100 reward paid to
Patrolman McDaniel. See capture story
on page 86.

No. 5

EDWARD CASTEEL. Burviney and
Larceny. Wanted as an erage by Warden
J. M. Sanders, Jefferson ity, Missouri.
identified by Detective Melvin C. Swepston
of Saint Joseph, Missouri, Police Depart-
ment, who saw Castecl’s poctoarer in the
August, 1934, Line-Up o the Master De
tective. Detective Swepston, with his part-
ner, Detective Vernon Campbell, captured
Casteel on July 19th, 1934. Casteel has
been returned to D t of Penal
Institutions, Jefferson City. Our reward of
$100 paid to Detective Swepston, whose
story of the capture appears in this issue on
page 86.

No. 6

GEORGE E. GILBERT. Wanted for
escape while serving term for armed robbery
at Massachusetts State Prison Colony, Nor-
folk, Mass. Identified by unnamed informant
who saw Gilbert’s photograph in July, 1934,
Master Detective Line-Up. Gilbert arrested
in Los Angeles July 3rd, 1934. Gilbert re-
turned to Massachusetts to complete his
prison term.

Get an old roulette wheel and 1’ll make
a bluff and smash the windows. That
will satisfy Waldo, I suppose.’ 1 told
him then that I would not stand for it.
That if he wanted to raid me he would
have to get the evidence, that I would
not stand for a ‘frame up’. ‘Well,’ he
said, ‘I’ll do the best I can to stall him.’

“Two nights afterward he called me

on the wire at my home and told me to
o and see a certain party at ten-thirty

in the evening at Fifty-ninth Street and
Broadway at a place called Pabst’s.
When I reached Pabst’s there was no-
body there to meet me. Then I sus-
pected something was wrong, so when
| came back to my home, I found the
windows broken, the door smashed and
the patrol wagon waiting outside. |
wanted to go in, when Policeman James
White told me to get away, not to come
in. ‘It’s all right. Everything is all
right. It’s Charlie making the raid,
and it’s all right,’ he said.

“So | stood across the street and
waited until everything was over and
went into my house, when my wife told
me that Charlie said he had to make
this raid to save himself. That it was
all right, not to worry, ‘and tell Herman
to go down to the St. Paul Building to-
morrow and get the papers from the
lawyer. You tell him I’m standing the
expenses of this raid, fifteen hundred
dollars. You tell Herman he and | are
even, and I’ll see him tomorrow.’

“THEY arrested James Fleming and
Herbert Hull and charged them
with being common gamblers. The next
day in Court, Charlie told me to waive
examination, that he wanted to make
the raid natural and that he would turn
it out in the Grand Jury room. | said,
‘Can I trust you?” He said, ‘Why it’s
all right. You can.’ So | had the case
adjourned until the next day to think
the matter over. So I waived examina-
tion next day. I met Lieutenant Becker
three or four nights later and hired a
taxicab from Frowley’s on Forty-fifth
Street and Sixth Avenue. He jumped
into the taxi with me. We rode down-
town very slowly, talking over differ-
ent things and we finally had an argu-
ment. When we left we were on very
bad terms.

“The last word I said to him that
night, ‘You know your promise?’ ‘Well,’
he said, ‘we'll see. About a week later
the Grand Jury handed in an indict-
ment against James Fleming and Her-
bert Hull. [I called Mr. Becker on
the telephone that afternoon and
asked him what he meant by not living
up to his promise. He told me, ‘Aw,
you talk too much. | don’t want to
talk to you at all.” I said, “You had
better consider. You know what you
are doing.’ ‘Aw,’ he said, ‘you can go
to hell.’

“T have never spoken to him since,
but I tried to right this wrong and sent
some people to Commissioner Waldo to
explain things to him without any sat-
isfaction. | went to District Attorney
Charles Whitman and | laid the matter
before him. He told me it wasn't
enough evidence for him to indict
Becker. But he said, ‘I'll investigate
this matter thoroughly.’

“! have repeatedly sent persons to
Becker to ask him to take the police-
men out of my house and he told them
to tell me that as long as he was in the
Police Department he would see that
the ‘copper’ was not taken out. And he

(Continued on page 56)

November, 1

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R DETECTIVE.

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on page 86)

November, 1934

The Master Detective

Five Men for One Murder

street was alive with people less than a
minute after the man who talked had
met his fate. Seven policemen, all of
whom had been at posts within twenty
seconds of the murder scene, were there,
as was Detective William J. File, who
had been having a late snack in the
Metropole dining room when the shoot-
ing took place. File, in fact, was the
first man to reach the scene. Gun in
hand, he was about to board a taxi to
give chase to the gray car when a
policeman, mistaking him for the in-
dividual who had done the shooting,
lunged at him, threw him to the pave-
ment, and took his gun away from him.
Precious moments were wasted as File
established his identity to the satisfac-
tion of the bluecoat. By that time, the
gray car had turned north on Sixth
Avenue, out of sight, and File sensed, as
he made his belated start in the taxi,
that he was off on a wild goose chase.

One of the early arrivals on the scene
was a New York World reporter who
was even then, while still in his late
twenties, becoming widely known as a
figure about town. He was Alexander
Woollcott, now widely known as a
raconteur.

W OOLLCOTT, as did other smart

reporters, made it his business to
know as many people in as many walks
of life as possible. He had, then, more
than a nodding acquaintance with the
half-way world. When he reached the
scene, he walked up to an underworld
friend.

“Who do you suppose killed Rosen-
thal?” asked Woollcott of the man.

The man appraised him with fishy
eyes, then surveyed the crowd, “I
haven't,” he answered out of the side of
his mouth, “the slightest idea. But from
where I stand | can see six murderers.”

At a few minutes after three o'clock,
while the body of the gambler still lay
on the sidewalk pending the arrival of
the Coroner, a big ruddy-faced man
with determination written all over his
chin, walked briskly under the green
lights of the West Forty-seventh Street
Station. He was George S. Dougherty,
one of the New York Police Depart-
ment’s most astute man-hunters. At
the moment, he held the position of
Second Deputy Police Commissioner,
and was in charge of all detectives. He
lived in Sheepshead Bay, home of the
famous automobile racing course, and
had sped into the city by motor after
having been aroused from his sleep
by a report of the murder.

The police had been busy during the
hour that had elapsed from the time
the gambler was dropped in his tracks
in the glare of the white lights of Broad-
way, until the moment Deputy Com-
missioner Dougherty stalked into the
dingy police station.

Inspector Thomas Hughes approached
Dougherty. “I suppose you are ac-
quainted with the background of this
case, Sir,” he said,

Dougherty nodded grimly. “Yes,”
he answered. “What have you got?”

(Continued from page 39)

“We've rounded up everybody we
could lay our hands on who saw the
shooting and the car,” answered the In-
spector. “They’re in the next room.”

Dougherty stroked his chin. “Any-
body recognize any of the killers?”

Inspector Hughes shook his head.

“No trace of the car?” inquired the
Depity Commissioner.

“No. It got a good start up Sixth
Avenue before Detective File could
prove to one of our policemen that he
was a detective, and hop into a cab
to give pursuit. He managed to trace
it up Sixth Avenue. It. passed traffic
for several blocks and just missed sev-
eral other machines and a lot of pedes-
trians. The last trace of it was when
it zag-zagged across Columbus Circle,
Bs it missed a smash-up by an eye-
ash.”

“What about the license number?”

“We have part of it,” said Hughes.
“That is, several pedestrians and police-
men who got a glance at the rear tag
give different numbers or incomplete
numbers—but almost everybody is
agreed that the first two numerals were
four and one and that the last nu-
meral was-a three. It was a New York
license, of course.”

Dougherty bit off the end of a cigar.
“Those three numerals,” he said, “are
better than nothing. Most New York
tags have five numerals. We _ are
pretty sure of the first, second and fifth.
All we have to do is fill in the third
and fourth. Now, the lowest possible
combination of the third and fourth
numerals is naught, naught, and the
highest possible combination is ninety-
nine, That means that there are exactly
a hundred possible combinations of
numerals in the third and fourth posi-
tions. Get me?”

Inspector Hughes nodded. “What you
want us to do is check up on the hun-
dred cars whose numbers begin with
forty-one and end with three,” he sug-
gested,

DOUGHERTY nodded. “Exactly.

Only you can pass up all out of
town machines for the time being. Some-
thing tells me this was a local car. You
can also pass up all except gray Pack-
ard touring cars. Your search will prob-
ably narrow down to a half a dozen
cars at the outside.”

Inspector Hughes walked off and dis-
appeared into another room. In two
minutes, a dozen police officers and de-
tectives were sitting at telephones in
various parts of the station house, pads
and pencils before them, checking up
license numbers with the Motor Vehicle
Department.

Without, there was the scream of a
siren, and the screeching of brakes as
an ambulance drew up to a stop in
front of the station house. Two in-
ternes in stiff white uniforms walked
in with a stretcher bearing the mortal
remains of the slain Rosenthal. The
body had no sooner been laid on the
floor before the Captain’s desk—Cap-
tain Day, whom the dead man had so

RES STE SNA ALIAS IRR

recently charged with oppression—than
in walked the District Attorney. Mr.
Whitman, like Dougherty, had been
awakened from a sound sleep. Dough-
erty informed Whitman of the develop-
ments up to date. He had just about
completed his recital when a tall, com-
manding figure in his early forties, at-
tired strictly in black, entered. He was
Lieutenant Charles Becker, politically
powerful leader of the Department's
Strong Arm Squad—the Squad that in
those days patrolled Times Square in
plain clothes, and upon whose shoulders
devolved the duty of cleaning up the
gambling houses. Had you looked at
Lieutenant Becker as he swaggered
under the green lights that night you
would have known instantly that he
was drunk. But not on liquor. On
power. A well-known personage in the
sporting and theatrical district, Becker
ruled with an iron hand. Arrogant,
brilliant, handsome, he was feared and
hated by many, respected by all. It
was an unheard of thing for a restau-
rateur or a saloonkeeper to present the
Lieutenant with a check after he and a
party of guests had supped and drunk
their fill. It just wasn’t done. “The
Undertaker,” as Becker was called be-
cause of his propensity for wearing
black, stood too close to the higher-ups
at Headquarters.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said
Becker to Whitman and Dougherty.

THE Lieutenant stooped down and
removed the sheet from Rosenthal’s
face. “So they got the rat at last, eh?”
he muttered. “Well, good riddance of
bad rubbish. Know who did it?”

Dougherty searched Whitman’s eyes
as the District Attorney’s cold gaze fol-
lowed Becker. Then Whitman reached
into his inner jacket pocket, and with-
drew the document in which he had
become so immersed just after the re-
porters had left his office the previous
morning.

“Here,” he said to Dougherty, hand-
ing him the paper. “Read this affi-
davit I got from Rosenthal a few days
ago.”

Dougherty put on a pair of glasses
and began to read:

“The first time I met Charles Becker,
now a Lieutenant of Police in New York
City and who was holding the same
office at the time of our first meeting,
was at a ball given by the Order of Elks
in 43rd Street, near 6th Avenue, and
we had a very good evening, drank
freely and became very good friends.
Our next meeting was by appoint-
ment on New Years Eve, 1912, at
the Elks Club. Dinner was served for
ten in our party, including Lieutenant
Becker, Mrs. Becker and Mrs. Rosen-
thal. Mr. George Levy and daughter,
Mr. Samuel Lewis and Mr. Louis
Hyman.

“We drank a lot of champagne that
night, and later in the morning we were
all pretty well under the weather. He

SMERTITL IE oe

did also say that | would be driven
from New York. I believe that the
reason Lieutenant Becker wants to drive
me out of New York is because I have
not hesitated to tell anybody the truth
regarding my own experience with
Lieutenant Becker, as representing the
police.”
Herman Rosenthal.

Sworn to before me this 13th day of
July, 1912.

G. C. Fiegel, Notary Public, New
York County, New York.

It took Dougherty some time to
peruse the document, for he read cer-
tain portions of it over and over again.
Finished at last, every detail in the affi-
davit tucked away in his mind, the
Deputy Commissioner handed the
paper back to the grim-faced District
Attorney.

“So the Undertaker is the man who
was collecting twenty per_ cent. of
Rosenthal’s takings,” mused Dougherty.

“None other,” answered Whitman.
“What do you make out of these
charges, in relation to what happened
a little while ago?”

“WELL” he said, “I'll tell you.
There’s no doubt that the Under-
taker had sufficient motive and means
for getting Rosenthal out of the way.
His job was at stake, and Rosenthal ap-
parently knew quite a lot. On the other
hand, Rosenthal’s squawk naturally put
him in bad with the other gamblers.
The publicity meant that they would
have to close up. That gave them a
motive for doing away with him.”

The Deputy Commissioner stopped
and looked around to make certain that
Lieutenant Becker was nowhere within
earshot. “Now,” he went on, “if the
other gamblers arranged for the shoot-
ing party, their psychology was this:
They figured that suspicion for the
crime would naturally fasten itself on
the Undertaker, inasmuch as he was the
principal person accused by Rosenthal.
And they wouldn’t give a damn about
the Undertaker, one way or the other,
because they probably hated him for
collecting so much graft from them.

“T can’t see how the Undertaker could
be so dumb as to have Rosenthal
bumped off under the circumstances,”
concluded Dougherty. “Yet—"

Dougherty’s last sentence was clipped
short as Lieutenant Becker swaggered
into the room.

“Commissioner,” he said to Dough-
erty, “the men have checked over
seventy-five license numbers, and_they
still can’t get a line on that gray Pack-
ard.”

“It only takes one number,” was
Dougherty’s cryptic answer, “and there
are still about twenty-five more.’

Leaving Becker standing alone before
the Captain’s desk, Dougherty and
Whitman walked with rapid strides into
the adjoining room, where witnesses to
the shooting, and those who had seen
the fleeing car, had been herded.

Charles Gallagher, a chorus man at
the Metropolitan Opera House, said
that he had been walking along Forty-
third Street, across from the Metropole,

The Master Detective

(Continued from page 54)

a few minutes before the shooting, and
had noticed the gray car. The engine
was running, but throttled down. Mildl
curious, not exactly suspicious, Gal-
lagher looked into the car. He saw
several huddled, indistinguishable forms
in the rear. In the front seat was the
driver, The chorus man got a good look
at him. He didn’t recognize him as
anyone he had ever seen before, but
said he would know the face if he saw
it again.

An actor who had trod the boards
in several Broadway dramatic shows—
Lee Harrison—came forward with in-
formation that revealed how carefully
the murder had been planned.. Harri-
son, who had the reputation of having
a bowing acquaintance with more
Broadwayites than anyone else, lived
in the Metropole in a first-floor front
room, directly over the entrance. Re-
turning to his room at midnight, he
had seen Rosenthal in company with
three other men, entering the dining
room. He knew the gambler, and spoke
to him. He did not know the doomed
man’s companions, nor had he ever laid
eyes on them before.

Going up to his room, the thespian
read the newspapers until after one-
thirty, then began to prepare for bed.

He undressed near one of the windows, °

looking out into the street as he did.
He was impressed by the fact that the
thoroughfare was singularly free of
parked taxicabs and, being of a curious

-turn of mind, went to the extent of

finding out why. He soon learned the
answer. As soon as a taxicab pulled
up,.a man would suddenly appear
seemingly from nowhere and hire it.
It was not until the shooting started
that the actor attached any significance
to his observations. Other witnesses
told stories similar to those of Harri-
son and the chorus man. But there
was nothing definite. The license num-
ber still looked like the best ‘bet.

HORROR written on her face, her
eyes swollen and red, the widow of
the slain man was brought into the sta-
tion. Her attention was skillfully di-
verted from the body on the floor as
she was led into a back room.

The Deputy Police Commissioner
seated her in a chair, then he and the
District Attorney began to question her.
Mrs. Rosenthal was hysterical, but not
too hysterical to reveal two vitally im-
portant facts! That her late husband’s
bitterest enemies were Lieutenant
Becker and a man named Jack Rose.

“You mean Bald Jack Rose?” pressed
Dougherty.

“Yes, Bald Jack,” answered the
widow.

Dougherty reached into the recesses
of his memory. He knew all about
Rose. Middle-aged, the man_ had
earned the sobriquet of Bald Jack and
Billiard Ball because of his full round
face, the total absence of hair any-
where on his head or temples and the
lack of even a semblance of eyebrows.
Rose was a shady character, a gambler
as crooked as the night is long.

“Did Rose ever threaten your hus-
band?” asked Dougherty.

“Well, last night the telephone rang
and Herman answered it. The party
on the other end asked him if he in-
tended to keep his appointment with
the District Attorney in the morning
and he said yes. Then the other party
called him a vile-name and said he'd
never see the District Attorney again.
When he hung up, | asked Herman who
had called him, and he said it sounded
like Bald Jack. That’s why I was so
terribly nervous. I didn’t want Her-
man to go out tonight.”

“Did Lieutenant Becker ever threaten
your husband?” put in the District At-
torney.

“Not that I know of,” the woman
replied. “But I often heard Herman
say that Becker and Rose were very
friendly.”

The District Attorney raised his eye-
brows. “H-m-m,” he said, turning to
Dougherty. “Rosenthal didn’t mention
anything about that to me.”

There was a rap on the door of the
little room where the two officials sat
with the widow. “Come in,” said
Dougherty. A detective entered.

“Good news, sir,” he said. “We've
finished checking all those license com-
binations, and there’s only one gray
Packard touring car among the whole
bunch. The number’s four-one-three-
one-three, listed under the name of one
we Libby, thirty-five Stuyvesant

ace.”

JDOUGHERTY banged a fist down on
atable. “Great!” he snapped. “Tell
Inspector Hughes | want half a dozen
men sent to that address to pick up
this man Libby. And nail anybody else
you find there. Most of the addresses
on Stuyvesant Place are private resi-
dences, Clean out number thirty-five if
it’s necessary.” The detective was de-
parting as Dougherty called out an
afterthought: “Tell Inspector Hughes to
send only crack shots.”

In the meantime, detectives had been
busy rounding up operators and
habitués of every gambling house in the
Tenderloin sector. Arnold Rothstein,
who, years later, was to become the
most famous of all New York gamblers
and who met death by the bullet route
in the Park Central Hotel because he
welched on some I. O. U.’s, was among
those brought to the West Forty-seventh
Street station. Honest John Kelly,
where the boys who played the roulette
wheels and shook the galloping dom-
inoes always got a cree deal, was
another. But the gambling gentry were
as one denying that they had the re-
motest idea of who killed Rosenthal
or why.

Dougherty and Whitman were still
questioning the gamblers, when the
telephone on Inspector Hughes’ desk
rang. Had you been watching Hughes
as he listened to the words that crackled
through the receiver, you would have
seen his eyes light with grim satisfac-
tion.

“Hold on!” he said when the person
on the other end had finished. Hughes
bounded from his desk and hastened
into the room where Dougherty was.

“They’ve located Libby, the owner

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table in the rear, and ordered refreshments. There were
only a few others in the dining room at the time, and when
Rosenthal came in, most of them made short work of their
repasts, paid their checks and departed. Rosenthal was
one of the few people in New York who didn’t realize that
proximity to him was decidedly unhealthy.

It was one forty-five. Rosenthal left his companions,
went out into the street, walked to the corner of Broadway,
and bought three morning papers. He glanced hastily at
the front pages, saw his name in headlines, folded the
papers under his arm, and started back for the Metropole.

D ISCERNING as he was, he apparently didn’t notice that
Forty-third Street was strangely devoid of pedestrians
and taxicabs. No doubt his mind was on other things. But
anyone with half an eye who had been standing in Forty-
third Street for the previous hour could have told Rosenthal
that odd things were happening. From the moment that
Rosenthal had entered the hotel about midnight, up until
now, as he walked back to the hostelry with his papers, the
taxicabs that customarily waited near the hotel entrance
for fares were conspicuous by their absence, for the simple
reason that as soon as a cab drew up, someone would
suddenly emerge from the shadows of a doorway, engage
it, and ride away.

As the subject of headlines approached the Metropole,
with the three newspapers under his arm, two taxicabs drew
up in front of the hotel, and cut Rosenthal off from the
vision of four men who sat in crouching positions in a gray
Packard touring car directly across the street. Oaths, in

(Above) Lee Harrison, @ Broadway actor, living at the Metro-

pole, was also an observant man. His testimony explained

the strange fact that the street in front of the hotel was so
empty of parked taxicabs just before the killing

One Murder 39

(Above) Horror written on her face, her eyes swollen

and red, the widow of Herman Rosenthal gave the

names of the two men she believed to be her husband’s
: bitterest enemies

guttural tones, flowed from the lips of the men in the gray
car. When the two taxis drew away, Rosenthal had re-
joined his three friends at the table in the rear of the dining
room.

The gambler lit a cigar, and his lips curled into sneering
satisfaction as he read accounts of the latest developments
to spring from his sensational charges.

“I'd lay low for a while if | were you, Herman,” one of
his friends suggested.

Rosenthal looked up from his paper and peered into the
eyes of the other man. He didn’t speak because he didn't
have to. The expression on his face said: “Just let some-
body try something and see where it gets them.” The
gambler dropped his gaze, and again became immersed in
the front-page type.

A nondescript man in black entered the dining room, and
looked around. When he saw the four men at the rear
table, he proceeded there hastily. He tapped Rosenthal on
the shoulder. Rosenthal looked up. “Oh, hello,” he said.
It was evident to the three others at the table that the
gambler knew this man, but they did not. “Herman,” said
the man, “someone outside wants to see you. It’s impor-
tant.” The man retraced his steps. Rosenthal folded up
his newspapers, bade good-night to his three companions,
walked over and got his hat from a clothes-tree and pro-
ceeded toward the hotel entrance. It was precisely three
minutes of two o'clock.

When Rosenthal walked out into the deserted street he
looked about him. When he saw no sign of the person
who had wished to talk with him, his quick brain must have
flashed the message that something was amiss. But it was
too late. The doors of the gray touring car across the
street were quickly flung open and four men with revolvers
in their hands ran to the middle of the thoroughfare. There
was a flash of flame on the heavy mid-summer air, accom-
panied by a quick sharp report. The first bullet fired went
straight through Rosenthal’s heart and in that fleeting mo-
ment when he spun around, dead, but still on his feet, a
fusillade of whining lead tore through his frame.

The pavement near Rosenthal’s body had barely begun
to take on a crimson hue when the gray touring car roared
off toward Sixth Avenue. The (Continued on page 51)

Metadata

Containers:: Box 28 (2-Documentation of Executions), Folder 8
Resource Type:: Document
Description:: Bet executed on 1794-03-14 in New York (NY) John Stevens executed on 1744-08-21 in New York (NY) James Johnson executed on 1745-02 in New York (NY)
Rights:: In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted
Date Uploaded:: July 2, 2019

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