New York, B, 1935-1990

i |

hen Tracy arrived.
I’ve got some real

drawer of his desk

it expert today: -It’s
They’ve got a chain
which one sold it or
ig we can work on.
it a month old, and
Since the first lead
take this hat to the
y one can recognize

i, as Tracy took the

out at seven-thirty,
‘rinding routine that
\der shrugs.

1ing establishment of
vith him.

: he held the sweat-
pounded.

| thought. “I know

ame?”

endeavored to recall
ly exclaimed. “The
NS bai

9”

: shoes and one day |

fix it up.”

ie,

ww. He move a lot.”
ind returned to the
a drawer, called In-

sh to appear in the
gnia, trigger-man, and

MASTER DETECTIVE

SS eee

spector Ryan, and then set to work to find out something
about “Duke.”

With every detective in the district cooperating, word was
sent along underground channels that the police would be
interested in. meeting a short, dark hoodlum, nicknamed
“Duke,” but whose real name was Salvatore Scata.

I a case of this kind the underworld has its own reasons
for talking to the police. Sometimes men talk for ged
sometimes to show that they will help out the law for the

chance of a break; sometimes as payment for past favors.

Whatever the reason for the cooperative attitude was, word
began to trickle back that the wanted man was known to
hang out in the vicinity of Carroll Street and, for the past
few days, had been frequenting bars and grills. If Detec-
tive Tracy would go to Carroll Park, he might find the man
he sought.

It was still light when Tracy reached the park in South
Brooklyn. There were two taxis parked at the hack stand.
Talking to the driver of the first cab was a hatless youth,
swarthy, with collar unbuttoned at the neck. A red-striped,
yellow tie was knotted loosely at his throat.

Some one called Tracy’s attention: ‘“There’s your man,”
he whispered.

The detective’s face was grim as he walked up to the cab.

“Duke,” he said quietly, as if he knew the youth.

The latter turned questioningly—then, as Tracy’s strong
arms closed on ‘him, his eyes flashed wickedly.

“Lay off, you ——,” he cried.

The sleuth said nothing. He tightened his grip on his
struggling prisoner, however.

Tracy rushed his man to Headquarters, where Inspector
Ryan called in Mrs. Merz.

She looked at the youth, and
little rat!” she exclaimed. “You
no reason at all!”

- “Nuts to you!” said the s t.

“He was one of them,” Mrs. Merz
saw him come down the stairs.”

Later, Powers, the motorman, was brought in: He, too,
recognized Scata as the man who had been playing drunk on

her eyes snapped. “You
acta kill that man for

told Inspector Ryan. “I

limelight betrayed them.

MAY, 1939

(Left to right) Samuel Kimmel, Theodore Di
Salvatore Scata, first to confess, who implicated his partners in the holdup

the platform a. few moments before the shooting occurred.

Inspector Ryan turned to the prisoner with quizzical eyes.
“You see,” he said, “we've got you right on this job.”

Ryan’s voice was soft and persuasive. “Would you like
the idea of going to the chair, while your pals have the laugh
on you?”

A scowl passed over the prisoner’s face. He got the In-
spector’s meaning, and it was obvious that he didn’t like
it. Before Ryan was through, Scata had given him a list
of names and addresses. The Inspector called Captain Dals.

“We've had a break in the Avenue X murder,” he said. “I
want you to supervise the arrests.”

While Dals gathered together a picked squad of men,
including Detective Tracy and Detectives MeNally and
onload of the Sixty-second Squad, Scata told his story to

yan..

“That's my hat,” he admitted, as the Inspector produced
the battered felt. “I had the initials changed because, if I
lost it in a stickup, I didn’t think any one could trace me.”

“JT didn’t work,” replied Ryan, as he sized up Scata
through narrowed lids. Once the veneer of toughness had

ne, he seemed just about like any other youth. “By the way,

ow old are you?” the Inspector asked.

The prisoner colored slightly. “Eighteen,” he said. It was
a touchy subject with him.

Before the night was over, the police dragnet had snared
some surprised individuals. Out of those whose names Scata
had supplied, five were in the grip of the law. They were a
scowling, surly lot as Inspector Ryan passed in front of
them, checking them off. en

The first was Joseph Bolognia, aged twenty-three, possessed
of bushy red hair, and a long, bottle-shaped nose. Next to
him stood.Teddy Di Donne. He was the oldest of the lot,

aged thirty. Shuffling his feet in nervousness, was the third

man, Samuel Kimmel, twenty years old. Next came Eugene
Bruno, blond and sullen. Last of all was Dominick Zizzo,
sleek-haired and swaggering.

Of the lot, only “Red” Bolognia could be identified by
Powers, the motorman. He was the man who had followed
the collector. But Mrs. Merz was certain that Bruno and
Kimmel were the two who had remained hidden in the wait-
ing room, and who had rushed out after the
shooting. However, since Scata had named
the others as being involved, all were held.

The five prisoners, who had been picked
up at their homes and hangouts by the raid-
ing party of detectives, were apparently at
a loss to discover the reason for their ar-
rest. Taken to the lockup for the night,
they spied Scata, seated morosely on a cot
in his cell. For the next half-hour the air
was filled with strong language as the five
vented their spleen on the man who had
“talked.”

The next morning, all six were brought to
the Headquarters lineup. But a night in
which to think things over had made Scata
uncooperative. He refused flatly to talk
about the case, and no one would volunteer
to tell who had done the shooting.

Inspector Ryan, however, was not per-
turbed. He had an ace up his sleeve, and,
when the six prisoners were taken to District
Attorney William F. X. Geoghan’s office in
Brooklyn, they learned what it was.

As the men filed into the Prosecutor’s
paneled office, they looked around, open-
mouthed. Against one corner of the room
was an array of motion-picture cameras.
Portable lights had been set up, and sound
engineers were tinkering with microphones
and control boxes.

The youths nudged one another. This was
big-time stuff. Their eyes were glued on
the cameramen. They seemed fascinated by
their movements.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,”
began District Attorney Geoghan. “And I
want you to tell me what happened on
Labor Day.”

Seata cast a (Continued on page 60)

21


wung open and the collector unlocked his canvas bag, dis-
closing an array of sacks the size of small salt bags. There
were four sacks in the safe. Esposito threw them in his bag
ind they clicked metallically.

suddenly he saw a shadow coming over his shoulder where
no shadow should have been. He could sense Mrs. Merz
trembling. nig

For a split second Esposito’s nerves tensed automatically.
The shadow, coming up quickly, blotted out the light. He
turned quickly and started to rise. As he did so, something
crashed against the side of his head, and he saw the ceiling
lights revolve in a red glare, His right hand reached for the
revolver strapped to his hip. He couldn’t seem to find it.
Llindly he staggered forward.

The shadow was moving swiftly. It seized the canvas bag.
Another shadow was coming up to join it. There was a
flash of flame—then another. For a moment Esposito
swayed; then toppled forward to the floor.

A third shot rang out, followed by a sudden rush of
feet down the exit stairs. From below came the
grinding sound of a car making a fast getaway.

Acrid powder smoke hung in the air, and
wreaths of bluish-gray clouded the station ba
agent’s booth. Nerves shocked to numb-
ness, Mrs. Merz stared at the immobile
form of Esposito, with whom, but a
few minutes before, she had laughed
in friendly banter.

It was shortly after two
o'clock in the morning of
Labor Day, 1935, and there
were few passengers in
the Avenue X station.
But the train that
had brought Espo-
ro there was wait-
ug for him, and the
crew, alarmed by the
rattle ot gunfire, hurried to
the mezzanine platform to
find out what had happéned.

\mong them was Inspector
George Schumm, of the elevated
riilroad supervising force. He raced
down the stairs and his eyes took in the
scene at a glance. He stooped over Espo-
sito, felt his chest through the zipper shirt
he was wearing, snatched the unfired revolver
from the collector’s hip, and rushed to the exit
stairs. lo °
for a moment he stood there, scanning the street
But there was no sign of the murdering shadows, nor
of any one else. Inspector Schumm’s shoulders sagged.
Once again a bandit crew had descended like wolves, cutting
down life without mercy. His fingers twitched on the gun
butt in impotent rage as he thought of what he might have
done had he spotted the assassins.

But there was no time to waste in thinking of what might
have been. He hurried to thé change booth and grabbed the
company telephone.

“Dispatcher six eight five,” he snapped.

This was the call used in all emergencies. There was a
click and then a voice over the wire replied, “Six eight five.”

“Holdup and murder at Avenue X,” said Schumm. “Get
the police.”

Conditions were generally peaceful and even dull, in the
area covered by the Sixty-first Precinct; and the radio patrol
car assigned to the district: usually got calls of a routine na-
ture over the air waves. Hence, when the warning alarm
signal droned in the car manned by Patrolmen Sylbio Fer-
rari and Rocco Caputi, the officers did not expect that it
would be for them.

“Car eight four nine in the six one precinct,” came the-
cold, impersonal voice of the announcer.

“That’s us!” exclaimed Caputi. He .took the call book
from the dashboard. 9

“Proceed to Culver Line station at Avenue X. Signal
thirty-two. Time two-twelve. Authority GBV.”

Before the announcer started to repeat the call, Patrolman
Ferrari cut loose the siren wail and the speedy coupé sped
toward Avenue X, ' ¢

18

Signal thirty-two meant a crime of violence; hence the
officers expected the worst when they arrived at the station.
They took the steps two at a time, and burst into the
mezzanine as excited bystanders grouped around a figure on
the floor. Ferrari, short and broad-shouldered, pushed his
way through; opened the fallen man’s shirt to see if he lived.

5S he turned the body over, his eyes fell on the victim’s

face. The patrolman went pale. He saw then that the
man before him was his intended brother-in-law, for’ whom
no wedding bells would ever ring.

When Caputi, leaning over his fellow officer’s shoulder, saw
how things stood he called Headquarters and verified the
alarm. Then the sensitive network of the police web closed in.

“Homicide at Avenue X—homicide at Avenue X,” droned
Operator Number 4 at the Brooklyn Telegraph Bureau. His

hands were busy with plugs and switches as he sent the

alarm to the Chief Inspector’s office, the Brooklyn
Borough Commander, the Homicide Squad, District
Headquarters and the Medical Examiner’s office.
To the elevated station in speedy Department
cars came Deputy Chief Inspector John J.
Ryan, in command of borough detectives,
and Acting Captain Frank Dals, in charge

of the Tenth Detective District.

Inspector Ryan, a neat, soft-spoken,

gray-haired man with a ruddy glow

on his cheeks, greeted the men on
the scene with a nod. Quietly they
gathered around him to give their reports.

“Here’s what happened, Chief, as far as
we can make out,” said Detective Robert J.
Bowe, of the Homicide Squad. “Esposito makes
this trip every night at this time from King’s
Highway to Stillwell Avenue, collecting the receipts

of the stations along the way. He had $113 when he
reached the station and he had just taken $67 more from

the safe when he was shot and the bag with the money
was stolen.”

“Anybody see the shooting?”

“The station agent is still upset and we haven’t been able
to get much from her. However, the motorman of the train
saw something suspicious.”

“T’ll talk to him,” declared the Inspector.

Detective Bowe turned toward a knot of men standing
by the stairway, talking in subdued tones.

“Powers,” he called.

A figure in blue-striped overalls and black peaked cap
stepped from the group. It was Thomas Powers, motorman
of the train which had brought Esposito‘to the station.

“This is Inspector Ryan,” said Bowe. “He wants to hear
your version of what happened.” .

Powers nodded to the Inspector. “My train came into the
station at 1:55, on schedule. As I was slowing to a stop,
I noticed two men on the platform. One seemed to be in-
toxicated, and the other was slapping him on the face, trying
to revive him. I leaned out of my cab window to see if the
collector was getting off, as my orders were to wait for him
at all stations. When he stepped from the train I noticed
that one of the men, the fellow who was doing the slap-
ping, went downstairs after him.

“The other man stood still. Suddenly there was a sound
from downstairs. Immediately this fellow who appeared
drunk, turned and went down the stairs very rapidly. He
didn’t seem to be intoxicated any more, and right after that
came a volley of shots.

MASTER DETECTIVE

“The condu
what had hay
form below

“Sounds as
the Inspector

Powers wrinkle:
down, but I saw 1!
medium-sized and

Ryan turned
station platform |
in the way of clu

As Detective B
Inspector went to !

The woman’s fx
arms and I hear
thing I knew the «
bandits picked uj

“What did the 1

“One was short a

“See any one els

“There were tw:
waiting room after

“After?”

“Yes, they ran 1
down the steps.”

Inspector Ryan
heard the story.

like the work oi
ized gang. |
official, Insp
whether there wu...
“How many pers
going to make tl
“The collection:
take place every
crew are aware th
them, as the dispa
station. The stati:
the clerks in the r
“Any way of n:
off a mob of thug
“Our people ar
there are any ne
inclined to talk.”
“You'd better
have to check on

S the two me:
the stairs fro:
felt hat in his hai
“Found. this on
into the railing.”
The Inspector '
it. as though it h
inside and saw th
was dark and gre
But one thing
band were three |
inches from these
where it had bee:
Inspector Ryai
him. His eyes re
“Lieutenant,” |
we've come acro:
find out who mac
repair job done «

MAY, 4939


of violence; hence the
ey arrived at the station.
ne, and burst into the
iped around a figure on
\-shouldered, pushed his
18 shirt to see if he lived.

eves fell on the victim’s
He saw then that the
vrother-in-law, for’ whom

ow officer’s shoulder, saw
uarters and verified the
the police web closed in.
le at Avenue X,” droned
1 Telegraph Bureau. His
switches as he sent the
c's office, the Brooklyn
fomicide Squad, District
edical Examiner’s office.
in speedy Department
‘hief Inspector John J.
of borough detectives,
in Frank Dals, in charge
Detective District.
an, a neat, soft-spoken,
man with a ruddy glow

<s, greeted the men on

a nod. Quietly they
him to give their reports.
ened, Chief, as far as
uid Detective Robert J.
Squad. “Esposito makes
this time from King’s
«, collecting the receipts

He had $113 when he
ust taken 367 more from
he bag with the money

nd we haven't been able
e motorman of the train

hspector.
knot of men standing
tones,

and black peaked cap
omus Powers, motorman
sito to the station.

ove. “He wants to hear

My train came into the
was slowing to a stop,

One seemed to be in-
him on the face, trying
‘ab window to see if the
‘rs were to wait for him
rom the train I noticed
ho was doing the slap-
eniy there was a sound

iow who appeared
. very rapidly. He

and right after that

MASTER DETECTIVE

“The conductor shouted to me that he was going to see
what had happened, and a few people rushed to the plat-
form below.”

“Sounds as if the two men were putting on an act,” said
the Inspector. “Did you. get a good look at them?”

Powers wrinkled his forehead. “They kept their faces
down, but I saw that one of them had red hair. They were
medium-sized and rather young.” ~

Ryan turned to Bowe. “Take some men and cover the
station platform from end to end. See what you can find
in the way of clues,” he ordered.

As Detective Bowe left to carry out his instructions, the
Inspector went to the change booth to speak to Mrs. Merz.

The woman’s face was gray and drawn. “I saw a lot of
arms and I heard shots,” she told the Inspector. “Next
thing I knew the collector was on the floor. Then one of the
bandits picked up the bag and another shot was fired.”

“What did the men look like?”

“One was short and dark—the other had. reddish hair.”

“See any one else?”

“There were two fellows who rushed out of the
waiting room after the shooting.”

“After?”

“Yes, they ran right past the collector and
down the steps.”

Inspector Ryan was thoughtful as he
heard the story. To him it sounded

like the work of a carefully organ-
ized gang. He sought out the B.M.T.
official, Inspector Schumm, wondering
whether there had been a leak from within.
“How many persons knew that Esposito was
going to make this trip?” he asked Schumm.

“The collections are a matter of routine; they
take place every night. The members of the train
crew are aware that they will carry the collector with
them, as the dispatcher gives them orders to wait at each
station. The station agents know when he will arrive and
the clerks in the receiving office at the end of the line know.”

“Any way of narrowing it down in case some one tipped
off a mob of thugs?”

“Our people are pretty reliable—but I can find out if
there are any new employees in the office who might be
inclined to talk.”

“You'd better do that,” advised Inspector Ryan. “We
have to check on everything possible.”

A® the two men were talking, Detective Bowe came down
the stairs from the upper platform. He held a crumpled
felt hat in his hand.

“Found this on the stairs, Chief,” he said. “It was wedged
into the railing.”

The Inspector took the hat, and noticed black smudges on
it as though it had been kicked around. He examined the
inside and saw that it had no label. The leather sweatband
was dark and greasy. The hat was an old one.

But one thing struck the Inspector as peculiar. On the
band were three bright gold initials—J.C.C._—and, about two
inches from these, the leather was stitched with brown thread
where it had been torn.

Inspector Ryan scanned the faces of the detectives near
him. His eyes rested on Acting Lieutenant Baker.

“Tieutenant,” he remarked, “this is the first tangible clue
we've come across. Get this hat to the manufacturers and
find out who made it and where it: was sold. There’s been a
repair job done on it recently and the lettering is new.”

MAY, £939

“T’ll take care of it,” replied the Lieutenant as he took
the hat.

There was a stir among the persons gathered at the head
of the stairway, and Assistant Medical Examiner George W.
Ruger hurried through to.the spot where Esposito lay. His
actions were quick, thorough and precise as he emptied the
man’s pockets. By the side of the victim he stacked two
quarters, a dime, two nickels, a pencil-stub, a handkerchief,
a billfold and a list of apartment house numbers. In the
billfold was a picture of a dark-eyed, laughing girl standing
on the boardwalk at Coney Island, holding a man’s straw
hat in her hand.

“That’s his fiancée,” volunteered Patrolman Ferrari. ‘““They
were supposed to look at those apartments next week.”

Dr. Ruger shook his head sadly. “He never had a chance.
The bullet went right through his heart. He died within a

few seconds.”

As morgue attendants rolled the body onto a stretcher,
the Doctor spied a dull chunk of metal on the floor.

It was a 32 caliber bullet. Ruger marked his initials
on it and turned it over to one of the men from

the Ballistics Bureau.

“T’ll have a complete autopsy report in the
morning,” he told Ryan, “but I guess the
story will be the same. I cannot help
you very much.”
“No, I guess not,” admitted the In-
spector. “It looks like a tough
case.”

After the Assistant Medical!
Examiner had gone, Ryan
remained on the scene in

the hope that an ad-

ditional lead might
turn up; but as

one by one the de-
tectives reported  fail-
ure in their search, the
Inspector turned to Acting

Captain Dals.

“T’m going over to your head-
quarters,” he said. ‘“There’s not
much we can do here, and perhaps
if we talk things over we can figure
something out.”

Captain Dals’ headquarters at the Bath
Avenue Station was like a second home to
Inspector Ryan, for it was in that very district

that he had won his spurs as a squad commander.
His work in handling difficult’ investigations had

brought him rapid advancement from Acting Captain
to Deputy Chief Inspector in command of the entire
borough.

The officers settled themselves in Captain Dals’ office, and
Ryan picked up a pencil and pad.

Pe isc list the clues,” he suggested, “and see what looks
st.”

“The hat and the bullets,” began Captain Dals. “They'll
tell us something, but not much—a_ red-haired man
and one with dark hair, and two others who acted
suspiciously. The getaway was made in a car, but no one

obtained .the license number. Then there’s the stolen
money—too bad it wasn’t in marked bills—we might
get a break on it.”

Inspector Ryan’s eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘That's

it,” he said slowly.

Captain Dals looked surprised. ‘“What’s what?” he asked.

“The stolen money—imagine what $180 looks like in
nickels, dimes and quarters. Most of it was in nickels, so
that makes over 2,000 coins right there.”

So?”

“The small stuff will be weighing them down. Those
crooks will want to buy things or turn the money into bills.
That’s where they might give themselves away. On account
of the holiday the banks will be closed all day, but some of
the stores will be open.”

“I get it,” said Captain Dals. “You mean we can keep
our eyes on cigar stores, poolrooms and drug stores, which
keep open on holidays, and check them for any unusual pur-
chases with small change.”

“Exactly—and we can get word to the mght persons that

19

we're interested in learning of any one running around with
\ lot of loose change.”

“It’s a slim lead,” the Captain commented. “But it’s cer-
tainly worth a try.”

“We'll need about fifty men,” observed the Inspector as
he jotted down his plans for organizing the investigation.
“Later on when the banks open we can make apgther
check.”

The police spread their net and in a hundred places eyes
and ears were alert to furtive movements and guarded whis-
pers. :

Among those assigned to the case was Detective Charles
A. Tracy, of the Eighty-second Squad, attached to the Butler
Street station. The area covered by the precinct included
the notorious Red Hook section of the borough, a district
once famous for its brutal dock wars and gang murders.
A man had to be good to last in that precinct, and Tracy,
rugged and square-jawed, was one of the best. :

He was on the job early in the morning, talking to store-
keepers whose establishments would be open that day, ex-
plaining what he wanted to know. Because he was a square-
shooter, he received promises of assistance wherever he went.
When he had finished his rounds, he felt that he had his
district sewed up tight. If anything broke he believed he
would be in a position to hear about it.

When he returned to the station house toward evening,
he sank with a sigh of weariness into a chair in the squad
room. As he did so one of the detectives who had remained
on duty at the telephone, aimed a pad at his head. Tracy
caught it.

“That fellow wants to see you,” said the detective who
had thrown the pad. ;

Tracy read the name and address. It was that of a store-
keeper in the district.

Immediately the lines of weariness vanished from the
sleuth’s face. His eyes were steely, alert, as he rose to his
leet.

The other detective looked at him in surprise. “Must be
something good,” he commented.

“Tf it is, Pll tell you about it,” replied Tracy, smiling, as
he left the squad room and headed hurriedly for the street.

The storekeeper’s establishment was in
the heart of the Red Hook section. Tracy,
who didn’t want to herald his movements,
kept his hat down over his eyes as he got
off the street car. He walked a few blocks
and, when he arrived at the store, saw the
proprietor sitting on a stool by his news-
paper stand. The man nodded to him.

“Well?” asked the detective.

HE storekeeper motioned for Tracy to

follow him inside the store. As they stood
by the cigar counter, he pointed to the
cash _ register. ;

“Twenty-five dollars’ worth of nickels I
took in.”

“Who was it?”

“Some kid.”

“What did he look like?”

The storekeeper scratched his grizzled
head. “Short and dark, with a weasel-like
face.”

“Alone?”

“He was with a friend. His friend called
him ‘Duke’.”

“Ever see him before?”

“No, but if I see him again I’ll let you
know.”

Detective Tracy nodded. It gave him a
queer feeling to think that only an hour
before, at that very spot, he might have
learned something definite concerning the
shadowy gang of assassins, But, he re-
flected, at least there was a lead coming in-
to his own district. He would have to
keep his lines out and watch them.

When he returned to the station house,
he telephoned Inspector Ryan, informing
him of what had occurred. The latter told
him to report to Headquarters.

20

“Nice going,” said the Inspector when Tracy arrived.
“That’s the first lead we’ve had. Now I’ve got some real
work for you.”

“Swell. What is it?”

Inspector Ryan opened the bottom drawer of his desk
and took out the battered felt hat.

“Lieutenant Baker checked with a hat expert today. It’s
the type sold by the Adam Hat people. They’ve got a chain
of stores and there is no way of telling which one sold it or
who bought it. But there is one thing we can work on.
The lettering on the sweatband is about a month old, and
the stitching is also of recent origin. Since the first lead
points to your district, I want you to take this hat to the
repair shops there and find out if any one can recognize
the lettering and the stitching.

. “And good luck,” the Inspector added, as Tracy took the
at.

The next morning the detective was out at seven-thirty,
making the rounds. It was a weary, grinding routine that
resulted in many blank looks and shoulder shrugs.

But when Tracy came to the hat-cleaning establishment of
Mike Aloese, the breaks seemed to be with him.

“That's my stitching,” said Aloese as he held the sweat-
band up to his eyes. The officer’s heart pounded.

“Who is ‘J. C. C.’ then?” he asked.

The proprietor furrowed his brow in thought. “I know
that is my lettering—but what is the name?”

Tracy watched anxiously as the man endeavored to recall
who had given him the hat.

“Ah, I have it!” the latter suddenly exclaimed. “The
kid, Duke, he bring the hat to me to fix!”

Tracy was alert.

“Duke, eh? What does he look like?”

“Little dark fellow. He used to shine shoes and one day
he bring in this hat and says for me te fix it up.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Sally Scata—Duke is just a nickname.”

“Where does he live?”

The hat man shrugged. “I don’t know. He move a lot.”

Tracy put the hat under his arm and returned to the
station house. He. put the hat away in a drawer, called In-

Six who learned the futility of crime. Their wish to appear in the
Donne, Dominick Zizzo, Eugene Bruno, Joseph Bolognia, trigger-man, and

MASTER DETECTIVE _

spector Ryan, *
about “Duke.”
With every «
sent along und:
interested in
“Duke,” but wl

N a ease of tt

for talking t
sometimes to sh
chance of a bre
Whatever the re
began to trickl
hang out in the
few days, had |
tive Tracy woul
he sought.

It. was still lg
Brooklyn. Ther:
Talking to the «
swarthy, with ce
yellow tie was k

Some one calli
he whispered.

The detective -

“Duke,” he sa:

The latter tur
arms closed on |

“Lay off, you

The sleuth s:
struggling priso:

Tracy rushed
Ryan called in °

She looked a:
little rat!” she
no reason at al!

- “Nuts to you

“He was one «
saw him come cd:

Later, Powers
recognized Scata

limelight betraye:
Salvatore Scata, f

MAY, 1939


decided to let

findings thus
and _ transfer-
the hands of
d detectives.
) other Brook-
id at Antico’s
led a number
Butler Street
a systematic
2anwhile, cen-
reet house.

‘et, detectives
imed William
n a four-room:
hild. They had
ar and a half,
ad rented the
hom he knew
tzie foregath-
of friends: on
ber 1st, for a
ut 12:30 A.M.
went out for
Carthy. They
ours and made
heir talk that
t of bed. His
decided to go
om to ask the
> conversation.
ing money —
>, but mostly

r having dis-
y and one of
ps, suggested
ollar for some
ded to the pot,
of the gift to
‘ed them and
oon after, the
He thought it
>as 4 A.M.

McCarthy to
ught him face
. herded from
ta, too, was
y identified at
cipated in the
vous. He also
whose name
1e, and Joseph

tter the detec-
mes of Domi-
mmel and Eu-

’. Murphy was
of bringing in
789 McDonald
at 1:45 A.M.,
ember 5th, to
{ in one of the
with his fam-
in his pocket,
‘sssed had come
jup. His share
1 $36, $11 of
st at cards.

“The tip-off man had been Bruno,
he said, who rated only $15 for hay-
ing observed Edwin Esposito, the
revenue, man, making his regular
collection rounds on the’ Culver Line,

and for making the suggestion of ‘a .

holdup.

' Di Donne and Bolognia had taken
the larger share, about $69° each.
Kimmel and Duke Scata had also got
$36. Counting the $10 gratuity to
McCarthy, the total amount of the
loot taken was $271.

By morning light thé six culprits
were being interrogated at the office
of District Attorney William F. X.
Geoghan. Where six were concerned,
it was inevitable that there would
be conflicting stories. They began to
incriminate one another, but there
was no longer any question of their
guilt. :

The holdup had been planned two

weeks in advance. Three had arrived .

at Avenue X on the train that pre-
ceded the one taken by the victim.
The two men on the platform were
Duke Scata and “Red” Bolognia.
.Scata hadn’t been drunk. He was
scared and had changed his mind.
He had been given a gun but had de-
clared he would not use it. That was
why Bolognia was slapping his face.
The third man had taken ‘his post in

_ the’‘men’s room’ on the. mezzinine,
« to’ cover Bolognia’s getaway. |

_ At ‘the: eastern exit on McDonald
Avenue, Zizzo, Bruno and ‘Kimmel
were cruising idly in the Chevrolet
sedan which was used in. the geta-
way. ~ toate Bas te

' The car was afterward found in a
garage across the tavern at 228 Car-
roll Street. ‘ RANT: ty Se

"History was made when, for the
first’ time, newsreel men were invit-
ed ‘to 'make a sound film of the con-
fession. This was done at the direc-
tion ‘of District Attorney’ Geoghan.
That week, the sensational newsreel
picture was seen and heard by. audi-
ences throughout the United States.
As to its ultimate value, there was
no sure measure. It was not admit-
‘ted as testimony at the trial; which
began on April 27th, 1936, in Kings
County Court, before Judge Peter
J. Brancato. :

_ All six who plotted the ‘holdup
were tried for murder in the first
degree.. They were found guilty and
sentenced to death. Four eventually
received commutations, but the two
who proved to be the ring-leaders,
Theodore Di Donne and. Joseph
“Red” Bolognia, awaited their fate
in the death house. It was Bolognia
who had fired at Esposito, killing

him without giving him a chance.
Execution of the sentence was car-
ried out at Sing Sing Prison on Jan-
uary 4th, 1937.
The guns used in the robbery were
never found. The men had thrown
them into the water at the foot of
Hamilton Avenue. The tide, mud and
silt defied all efforts of the police
dredging crew.
Detective Charles W. Tracy col-
lected the $1000 reward. Had he been
a day later in trapping Duke Scata,
he would have’ received a larger
amount, for the BMT officials were
just about to increase the reward to
$5000 when news of the confession

‘was flashed. Because of his splendid

work in this case, Tracy was pro-
moted to first-grade detective and
was transferred from the Brooklyn
squad to Centre Street.
September 5th, 1935, had proved
a fateful day. It was the day on
which ‘Edwin Esposito was to have
been married. Instead he was buried
that afternoon, not long after the
six had been caught in the dragnet.
Before the end of that same day the
murder mystery was solved to the
complete satisfaction of Deputy
Chief Inspector Ryan who had as-
signed Tracy to the case.

THE END

FLAMES HID BLAME
(Continued from page 17)

They made a lane for him through
which he walked to the slain offi-
cer’s house.

On the porch he found Patrolman
Clarence Pope.

“I spoke to him for a moment,
when I first got here following the
sounding of the siren,” the local offi-

cer explained. ‘He told me that he ©

was the one who sounded it; said he
and his wife and the little boy were
asleep when someone rang the tele-
phone and told him that there
seemed to'be a fire in his house.”

“In his house!”

“Yes. What probably happened
was that they saw the reflection of
the flames and guessed at their lo-
cation. The chief told me that he
immediately awakened his wife and
child and then made a quick ex-
amination of the house. When he
found out that the fire was’ next
door, he sounded the siren.”

“Did you see him on the porch
after that?”

“Yes, indeed, practically all the
time until this happened.” -

“Was anyone with him?”

“Yes, his wife.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not that I saw. She wasn’t with

\

him all the time.”
- “Where did the shots appear to
come from?” is

Pope hesitated. He realized the
implications of his answer. And it
was plain to see he didn’t like them.

“From inside the Chief’s house,”
he answered.

Lamb looked startled. “Are you
sure ?”’

“Well, of course I couldn’t be sure.
But I believe that nearly everyone
else thought so.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I noticed that practically
everyone turned and looked at the
Chief’s house when the shots were
fired. And I heard several of them
say they were sure they came from
there.”

“Did you make any investigation
of the house at the time?”

“Yes, I searched it thoroughly. :

There was no one in it but the baby.”

“Could: anyone have got in from
the rear?”

“I don’t see how. I examined the
rear door and windows and found
them all locked from the inside.”

“Then the only adult in thé house
at the time the Chief was’ killed
was his wife?” i

“That’s right.”

“I guess the Chief and his wife
got along well together,” Lamb com-

mented casually. , .

Pope shot a sharp glance at him.
“Why, yes, they seemed to be very
fond of each other,” the patrolman
answered. “The general impression
is that they were very congenial.”

“Ever hear any gossip about either
of them?”

“Not the slightest.”

“How about the Chief?” Captain
Lamb persisted. ;

“Well, you know he was young,
only about thirty-one or two, and a
big handsome fellow. Everybody, ex-
cept the crooks, liked him. That, of
course, includes the ladies.”

“Stop stalling,” Lamb said sharp-
ly. “I know you liked the Chief too.
But this is a murder investigation.
Do you know anything definite about
any love triangle Cavanaugh was
mixed up in?”

“No, I don’t.”

“O.K.,” Lamb said. ‘We'll prob-
ably go into that angle a little later
on. In the meantime, I’ll take a look
through the house. Suppose ‘you
come along.”

Lamb, however, was no more suc-
cessful inside the house than Pope
had been. He found absolutely noth-
ing which would provide even the
most tenuous clue. Going out to the
porch again, however, his flashlight
brought into view something so ob-

51

POET eee ne ee
.


The ticket agent shook her head.
“No, sir. Never saw them before .. .
and I hope I never see them again,
either.”

Kopff smiled faintly. “Just one more
question for the time being. How

much money was there in your change
ba: »”

“Oh, about seventy dollars in silver
and bills—chiefly silver,” the woman
replied.

Kopff directed his attention to the

detectives? Tracy was talking with a-

middle-aged man who wore a com-
pany uniform, and McNally was ex-
amining a section of the wall behind
the agent’s booth.

The Assistant District Attorney
stepped over to McNally. “What is it,
Jim, the bullet?”

“Yes, sir.’ He handed it to Kopff,
who studied it curiously. “Found it on
the floor, just beneath this mark in the
wall. Also found a small piece of lead
right here, where you see this fresh
mark of scraped wood. The bullet
must’ve just struck the wall and then
fallen to the floor. Looks like a thirty-
two.”

“It is,’ Kopff confirmed. “Turn it
over to ballistics soon’s you get back
to Headquarters. In the meantime you
might be on the lookout for another
bullet. The agent tells me there were
two shots.”

At this moment Assistant Medical
Examiner George W. Ruger arrived.
He proceeded immediately with a
rapid yet careful examination. First

Receipts Collector Edwin Esposito:
for money. Note the holster that failed him

he examined the torn suit and shirt

that covered the victim’s heart, then
exposed the wounded flesh. He felt
along the ribs and along the sides.
“Two bullets, thirty-two’s, killed
him,” he announced at length. “One
through the left chest cavity and
through the heart and another in the

“lower lobe of the left lung. Doubtless

the autopsy will reveal an extensive
hemorrhage in the chest cavity.”

He packed away his paraphernalia
and took his leave.

Kopff went over to Tracy. The de-
tective said: “This is the motorman of
the train that carried the collector
every morning. He says he noticed two
young fellows upstairs when his train
pulled in, and he thinks there was
something peculiar about the way they
were acting.”

HE motorman said his name was
Martin Wilson. He added that, under
orders from his superior, he stopped
his train at every station, beginning
at Kings Highway Station and end-
ing at Coney Island, so that Esposito
could pick up the station receipts. He
was to wait until Esposito returned to
the special car attached to the rear

of the passenger cars.
“What time was it when you pulled

in here this morning?”
Right on

“Exactly one fifty-five.
time as usual.”

“All right, Mr. Wilson. You say you
saw two men acting strangely. I want
you to tell me everything you can

He always was on time
in a pinch

29


N THIS night the routine was
unchanged. Who could guess
that death lurked in the shad-

ows of the busy station? That it was
ready to strike after the next clattering
train had passed?

Mrs. Elsie Merz, ticket-agent at the
Avenue X station of the Brooklyn
Manhattan Transit Company, glanced
at her wrist-watch and put on her hat
and coat. It was precisely 1:55 a.m.
The next minute, she knew, the 1:56
would come rumbling in on the tracks
upstairs. Then Edwin Esposito, the
receipts collector, would come hurrying
down the stairs with his brown can-
vas satchel, take the change bags from
her safe and go hurrying back to the
waiting train. It would then be two
o’clock, and Mrs. Merz would darken
her booth and go home—all a matter
of routine. Yet on this night .. .

The screeching of halting wheels
confirmed Mrs. Merz’ expectation. A
moment later she saw the short, strong
figure of the 22-year-old collector rac-
ing down the stairs with his canvas
bag.

Mrs. Merz opened the door for him
and unlocked the little floor safe.

“Morning, Ed,” she greeted. “On
time as usual.”

The good-looking collector smiled
cheerily. “Always on time for money
. . . Seven bags today, eh? Must be
the holiday crowd.”

Mrs. Merz nodded and said conver-
sationally: “You'll be having a holi-
day of your own soon. Your wedding
isn’t far off now, is it?”

Esposito locked his bag with a quick
twist of the hand, then locked the safe.
From his stooped position he laughed
and replied: “Not quite two months.
Tomorrow morning my sweetheart and
I go apartment-hunting. I sure am
hap—”

The sentence never was finished.

“Stick ’em up! This is a holdup!” a
cold, deadly voice behind him com-
manded.

SPOSITO’S smile froze. He started
to his feet, his hand sweeping for

his holster.

“Oh, no you don’t!” another voice
grated. “You take this instead.”

The cold muzzle of a gun crashed
down on the collector’s uncovered
head and he fell flat. Still conscious,
he again tried to reach his holster.

Detective Charles A. Tracy: “Kin
y’help me out till the heat cools?”

By Julius |. Sanders

Special Investigator for
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES |

“Give it to him!” The order was
terse—brutal.

In the next second orange-colored
flame roared at the bleeding collector.
He fell back, twitched in brief agony,
then rolled on his face and lay still.
The bag beside him disappeared.

During this entire episode, which

‘was. but a matter of seconds, Mrs.

Merz stood paralyzed, unable to do
anything. Looking down at the blood-
covered collector, she realized for the
first time that murder and robbery
actually had occurred before her very
own eyes, and she began to scream
hysterically.

Minutes later the station was crowd-
ed with radio patrolmen, trainmen and
passengers.

Patrolman Sylbio Ferrari of the 61st
Precinct, unable to determine whether
life was extinct, turned the body over.
He grimaced when he recognized the
features of the young collector.

“It’s Ed Esposito,” he gasped, “my—
my sister-in-law’s boy friend!”

He seized the pulse, felt it anxiously.
His keen black eyes swept over the
motionless form and eaught sight of a
blood-spot about two inches in diame-
ter.
“Dead,” he murmured. “Shot to
death.”

At 2:30 Detectives Charles A. Tracy,
popularly known as the “Lone Wolf,”
and James McNally of the Main Office
Homicide Squad and Chief Assistant
District Attorney Frederick W. Kopff
arrived and took charge.

Tracy and McNally commenced an
examination of the scene, careful not

to disturb the body. Kopff turned to —

the trembling ticket agent.

“You knew the dead man?” he |

“Yes, sir. He’s Edwin Esposito, the |

man who collects the receipts every ~

morning at one fifty-six.” :
“He called for your receipts at that —
time this morning?”

" T’S right; right on time like he

always was.”

“Just what happened from the mo-
ment Esposito showed up for the re-
ceipts to the time he was shot and
killed? Remember, omit nothing,”
Kopff cautioned.

“Well,” the woman began, making
an effort to reassemble the tragic play,
“at one fifty-six Esposito came down
those stairs to take my change bags
from the safe. While he was putting
them into his bag three men suddenly
appeared. One of them ordered him to
put his hands up. When Ed tried to =
reach for his gun one man struck him ~
on the head and another shot him.”

“Can you describe those men?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.
I—I think one of them, the one who
hit Ed on the head, was about five feet
seven and wore a gray sweater and
dark trousers. And the other one—the
one who fired the gun—I think he was
a couple of inches taller and had dark
hair. I don’t think I could describe the
third man because he appeared and |
disappeared before I knew what was. ~
happening.” im

“Ever see those men in this station E

before, Mrs. Merz?” Kopff asked.


Shout those men so tar” as their de-
scriptions and actions are concerned.”

The motorman scratched his head,
wrinkling his shaggy brows.

“As best I know,” he began hesi-
tantly, “one seemed drunk. He was
standing against the wall of the sta-
tion, with his hand on his stomach, as
though he were sick. The other one—
he had his back to me—was slapping
him on the back. Immediately after I
stopped the train I looked back and
saw the collector get off and go down-
stairs.” The motorman took a breath
and paused refliectively. “Right away
one of the men on the platform went
down after him.”

“Careful, now,” Kopff urged: “Which
man was it who went down after the
collector? The man who appeared
drunk or the one who was slapping
him?”

“The one who was slapping him.”

“What next- did you observe?”
Kopff asked.

“Well, sir, the drunken fellow
started to follow his pal towards the
stairs slowly. When he got out of sight
two shots went off. I started for the
booth, but by the time I got there they
were gone. However, I did find some-
thing at the bottom of the stairs near
the booth. A gray hat.”

Tracy held up a gray fedora hat.
“This is it, Mr. Kopff. He’d turned it
ever to one of the patrolmen first
here.”

Kopff examined it carefully. It was
a fairly new hat with a short, snappy
brim. The size was seven and a quar-
ter. He noted with interest that the
sweatband was initialed in ink -with
unusually large letters—“J. C. C.”

There was something puzzling,
something odd about them. Would this
hat that seemed to blend with a
snappy, cocky individual prove to be

of any clinching significance? The size
and prominence of the initials troubled
him vaguely. Even as he started to
frame his next question for the motor-
man, he tried to analyze what it was
that troubled him.

: “Yow say you found this hat at the
bottom of the stairs, Mr. Wilson?”

The motorman nodded.

“Did you notice whether either one
of those two men had a hat gn?”

“I did,” the motorman answered.
“Only the fellow who seemed drunk
had one on—the same as the one I
found.”

UDDENLY Kopff realized what there

was about the hat that troubled him.
The initials! What bandit or killer
would go to the extreme of labeling
anything that could be traced to him?
These initials in all probability were
false!

Nicholas Ellinas, the conductor, a
middle-aged man who had been with
the transit company for sixteen years,
was the next to be questioned. He, too,
had seen the two young men on the
platform. And when the shots -were
heard he had dashed for the booth and
then to the street, where he saw, about
half a block away, a Chevrolet sedan
ro ag away from the station at high

Pei you ever see those men around
this station before?” Kopff inquired.

“No, sir. Never before.”

Thanking the man, Kopff took his
address and dismissed him.

Questioning of the dozen passengers
brought forth no additional informa-
tion beyond their having heard the
shots and screams.

Obtaining their names and addresses,
Kopff permitted them to leave.

From Ferrari, Kopff learned that
Esposito was to have married a sister-

Why did two bandits stage a drunken act on this
platform at Avenue X station shown in this picture?

x o

in-law of the officer’s;
been a hard-working, ambitious chap
and. had. never any fear of
being held up.

The morgue men arrived and carted
the body away in a wicker basket.
Photographers and finger-print experts
also came and set about their routine.

Later that morning Tracy checked
with the transit company officials and
the ticket agents along the line from
Avenue X to Kings Highway and
learned that their total receipts of
$375.00 had gone into Esposito’s bag.

The motorman, the conductor and
Mrs, Merz were summoned to Head-

that he had

anything in the prints taken from
walls of the booth or the safe. The wall
prints were smu
the safe belong
the dead man., For the’sake of thor~ ;:
oughness the prints were sent to Wash- ,
ington for additional. checking, but ~

little hope was held that they would

street.

quarters and shown the rogues’ :
lery. For hours they scanned an
sortment.of full views and profiles.
the homeliest, toughest “mugs” to
slickest criminals that ever

camera. But none of them

witnesses’ memories. o - ee

Nor had the finger-print men oan #

es and old; those on
to the agents and-

District Attorney William F. X.
Geoghan: He resorted to an ex-
periment in practical psychology

be identified. Who were the men who ~
had held up the station at Avenue X?
Who had shot Esposito?

Kopff, Tracy and McNally, at Head-

quarters with Deputy Chief Inspector

John Ryan, pondered ‘the case from the »
facts at hand. It was apparent that —
the actions of the two men on the’
platform had’ been deliberate—that
the job had been well planned.

f ~ discrepancy in the accounts of
the trainmen and the ticket agent,
Tracy pointed out, was an indication
that at least more than three men were
involved. Ellinas and Wilson had said
with certainty that they had seen two ~
men on the platform, while Mrs. Merz
said that she had seen three men. The
third man, it was likely, had been —
planted somewhere to wait for ap-
pearance of the collector and his pals
from upstairs. As for the possible
fourth man, he would be waiting at
the wheel of the getaway car on the

Two leads suggested themselves:
Loose change and a gray initialed hat.

“TI think our first move should be to
check all resorts and hangouts for any
excessive change spenders,” Tracy
proposed. “If those bandits are still
in Brooklyn or elsewhere in New York ™
they won’t have any opportunity be
converting the change because by now 4
everybody knows about the case.” ;

Kopff, Ryan and McNally —e ‘


Steen

BRENGARD, Alphonse, elec. NY (Nassau) Sept. 6, 1932

won 8 se

«
\
y

as

“ac

TOP!" snapped Patrolman Frederick S. Hirsch, Jr.,

as the car in which he was riding careened over the.

mud-filled ruts leading deep into the Water Works
Lane thicket.

Fred Kopter, Hewlett Centre merchant who had offered
his services a few minutes before to drive Patrolman Hirsch
to the lonely area near the village of Woodmere, Long Island,
in response to a “shooting”! call, slammed on both foot and
emergency brakes.

Hirsch flung open the car door in the same instant, leaped
from the running board, and stalked forward into the glare
of the headlights, gun levelled for action. Kopter climbed
out from behind the wheel, walking forward a few yards behind
Patrolman Hirsch.

The policeman and his merchant friend riveted their eyes

on a police roadster stopped just off the dismal roadway...

Headlights and tail light of the “P. D.” car were on. As
they neared the car they saw, sprawled in the center of the
head-lighted area, the figure of a big policeman. The fallen

“3% On

(Above) The Water Works
Lane at Woodmere, L. I,
that sheltered many clan-
destine affairs—arrow points
to spot where the officer fell.
(Left) Patrolman Jack Ken-
nedy, who was strangely
shot. (Right) Mrs. Jane

Kennedy, wife of the victim

officer moved slightly, gasped for breath. His face was ashen
“Good God!” ejaculated Kopter.

“It’s Jack Kennedy!” exclaimed Patrolman Hirsch, kneeling
over the prostrate form. Hirsch saw a widening dark stain

on Patrolman Kennedy’s coat, a few inches under his shield

Hirsch looked up at Kopter, saying, “It’s bad. Drive the

car down as close as you can,”’

ATROLMAN KENNEDY moaned, opening his eyes.
Hirsch turned back to the wounded man.

Weakly, Kennedy explained, “They got me—in the stomach.
I’m done for, Fred. They got away in 2 car.”’

“Did you get the number of the car?” pressed Hirsch.

Kennedy’s answer came faintly, “It was a New York plate—
8L865.”’

Hirsch quickly jotted the number in his note-book. Then,
with Kopter’s aid, carried Patrolman Kennedy to the waiting
automobile. The seriously injured cop's groans faded as
Kopter drove toward St. Joseph’s Hospital in Far Rockaway

ere

several miles away.

the police booth. 1}
ealled the precinct {
hospital.

It was midnight, J
Kennedy was felled |
Only a few minutes
Hirsch and his merch:
ing on the soggy mes

The night was ws
the area and rain
noticed only the om»
waited for the arriv:
ready should another
stillness was broken «
cricket, the recurring

The place, Hirsch
for petting parties.
road between Woodme


Eerste

had telephoned saying
ng from the direction

‘om the shooting scene.

blotter that the caller

‘estwood Road, Wood-

rt J. Rousse and that

He was immediately
w well illuminated by
‘ections. A drizzle of

ting ready to retire,”’
a shot. We thought
> but a moment later
‘Irs. Rousse called the
omobile speeding out
Westwood Road. A
d down to make the
oward Valley Stream.

Murder in Lovers’ Lane 27

passed. Gun-toters use fast cars and drive them hard in a
get-away.

Patrolman Hirsch reported to Lieutenant Morse the auto-
mobile registration number given him by Kennedy, “‘N.
Y. 8L865.”’ This first real clue to the gunman, we soon
discovered, was to inject plenty of mystery into the case.
Immediately my men proceeded with a
routine tracing of automobile regis-
tration numbers and a careful search
of the shooting area. While the search
went on, the rain poured down, the
black night pierced only by the police
hand lights. It was a chance in a
thousand of finding anything of value.

ITHIN the first hour my men

traced the name of the owner of
the car with the number 8L865. He
lived in Woodmere. He was routed
out of bed and told detectives that his
wife had the car on a vacation trip and
that she was at Spofford Lake, New
Hampshire.

I was working on another case the
night of the Kennedy shooting, and
was stopping at the Colonial Hotel,
Gardner, Massachusetts. About 4 a.
M. I was aroused by a telephone call.
My men, on the other end of the
wire, informed me of the shooting-of
Patrolman Kennedy and told me about
the suspected automobile.

I started for Spofford Lake at once.
It was not many miles away. If the
fugitive car was there, I felt it would
be wise to be on the scene early. Shortly
after daylight I found the machine.
The surprised housewife whom we
met at the cottage told us the same
story that detectives had told me
over the wire from Mineola a couple
of hours before.

It was a good three hundred miles
from Woodmere, L. I., to Spofford
Lake. The woman told us

she had driven to the lake
several days before. The
engine of the car was

The pitiful tattered uniform with
bullet-hole (circle marked) of Patrol-
man Kennedy was a constant, grim
reminder to all the Department that

“T walked out near the hedge in the rear of the house to the Officer must be avenged

see if anyone was in trouble. In a few moments I heard a
voice call, ‘I am a Nassau County policeman and I’ve been
shot.’ I picked my way through the underbrush. By the
aa I it here this policeman was already here.’’

fr. Rousse was a substantial banker in the county. He ‘ : sari
was permitted to return to his home, subject to further call. Neyer hh jel gy boten
A police cordon thrown around the area proved valueless. and then solved the mysterious
In the few minutes that had elapsed, the fugitives could midnight shooting that had balked
have been a mile removed from the scene for every minute the detectives for years

ATLL GALLS PN LER TERETE ST ONT

‘ath. His face was ashen

atrolman Hirsch, kneeling
tw a widening dark stain
v inches under his shield

“It’s bad. Drive the

ined, opening his eves.
nded man

v got me--in the stomach.
ie Car.

car?’ pressed Hirsch.

t was a New York plate—

in his note-book. Then,
Kennedy tothe waiting
. cop's groans faded as
fospital in Far Rockaway

several miles away. Kopter made but one stop, at
the police booth. He gave Kennedy a drink and
called the precinct for aid before continuing to the
hospital.

It was midnight, July 22nd, 1928, when Patrolman
Kennedy was felled by a bullet out of the darkness.
Only a few minutes had elapsed when Patrolman
Hirsch and his merchant friend found Kennedy writh-
ing on the soggy meadowland. ~

The night was warm. A heavy mist hung over
the area and rain threatened. Patrolman Hirsch
noticed only the ominous stillness of midnight as he
waited for the arrival of detectives. His gun was
ready should another shot ring out at him. But the
stillness was broken only by the occasional chirp of a
cricket, the recurring chorus of tree toads.

The place, Hirsch knew well, was a favorite one
for petting parties. It was a mile from the main
road between Woodmere and Valley Stream, out of sight


26 True Detective Mysteries

Officer ‘Big Jack” Kennedy, in 1931, bedridden and
wasting away, his superb physique shrunken to half
its weight—and his promising career blasted by the
phantom of Lover’s Lane. Mrs. Kennedy is at his side

The gray fedora hat—with the initials A. B.—
spurred on the detectives. It was the sole clue left
by the murderer at the scene of the shooting.
Would he ever be found and the mystery solved?

and almost out of hearing of any
settled area. The nearest house was
about one thousand yards away.

Why did Kennedy go into the pri-
vate Water Works Lane area that
night? Because he was acting on
departmental orders. He had _ re-
lieved Patrolman Charles P. Smilijan
as usual just before midnight. Soon
after he had climbed into the P.D.
Chevrolet, Kennedy turned into the lane, bent on driving out
both petting parties and marauders.

There had been several hold-ups of petting parties in recent
months. The robbers frisked the petters of their valuables
and young girls had been insulted or assaulted either by their
own companions or the roving thugs. Patrolmen would not
tour the water works property unless specially. ordered because
it was private property.

APTAIN EARL H. COMSTOCK and Detective Lieu-

tenant Emil Morse were among the first Nassau County
policemen to reach the scene in response to Kopter’s relayed
callfrom Hirsch. They found Patrolman Hirsch and a stranger
in shirtsleeves, waiting in the clearing. ,

“This is Mr. Rousse, a neighbor, whose wife called Sergeant
Baumann at the precinct,’ Patrolman Hirsch reported to
his superiors.

Sergeant John A. Baumann, Jr., on desk duty at the first
precinct, Merrick, had received the call that sent Hirsch

«

into the Water Works Lane. A woman had telephoned saying
that she heard sounds like shots coming from the direction
of the water works bridge, a few yards from the shooting scene.

Sergeant Baumann had noted on the blotter that the caller
gave her name as “Mrs. Anna Rousse, Westwood Road, Wood-
mere.”’

The stranger said his name was Robert J. Rousse and that
his wife had sent in the call for police. He was immediately
questioned at the scene, in the area now well illuminated by
automobile headlights from several directions. A drizzle of
rain set in.

“Mrs. Rousse and myself were getting ready to retire,”
Mr. Rousse explained, “when we heard a shot. We thought
it might have been automobile backfire but a moment later
it was followed by a volley of shots. Mrs. Rousse called the
police station and then we saw an automobile speeding out
of the water works road, approaching Westwood Road. A
green tail-light flashed as the car slowed down to make the
turn—then it sped away out of sight toward Valley Stream.

“T walkc
see if anyo
voice call,
shot.’ I p
time I got

Mr. Rou
was permit
A police c
In the fev
have been

Gearhart said he would.

But still there was no evident link
between the hold-up and the shoot-
ing on Old Mill Road. That didn’t
come until later.

Comstock found a clue before they
left for the night. He picked up a
man’s felt hat not far from where
Kennedy had lain, The hat was a
grey fedora, and in the lining, so
® they said, were a couple of initials.
4- Those initials, the police main-
=tain, were “A. B.”

a: we Kennedy was able to talk,
. he told them all he could. He
was lying there on his bed in the
+- Rockaway hospital.
/ “You'll be up and around in no

“time,” they told him.

a But big, strapping, Handsome
ie Jack knew that they were dishing
*-the bull. He knew that his legs
F.were paralyzed for good, that the

slug had torn through his liver, and

4 e. that his nervous system was shot
; to hell. 4

+ # The doctors knew it too. That

TE bullet had lodged in Kennedy’s

: spine. They couldn’t remove it

a without sending him “West”.

It was a tragedy, all right. Ken-
nedy lying there with bedsores
growing on his back and sides. They
turned him (Continued on page1l11)

A MOTHER—
pleads for her
son’s life. Mrs.
Brengard,
withHarry
Scholer.

THE PARENTS——
of Alphonse Brengard
view pictures of him.

77

* SOE Ses

ek ch we ato i et tha nn cig Si bisddet jhe Ee
Sa cars verte SER FR eh a

atk vs

—

110

Corbin was « hero to about half of
the people and a heel to the other half.
There was plenty of money on our
side, and knowing the favors we had
done in the past for most of the poli-
ticians, intluding the judges, I figured
Mr. Corbin would have a hard time
getting any convictions.

I drove on into Phoenix and found
the town with a bad case of jitters.
One of my friends on the morning
paper confirmed the caretaker’s report
on Al.

J. B. was released on bail about
noon and we had lunch together. He

was plenty worried, advised me to get.

out of town, and told me Ernesto Lira
in Prescott wanted a girl. I told him
I’d think it over.

gf hte days later J. B. ran out on
his bondsmen and I realized there
was nothing more for me in Phoenix.
When an old operator like Rhodes
jumps bond and becomes a fugitive
from justice, rather than face trial in
a court which by all odds should
have been friendly, you can guess the
amount of heat that had been turned
on.
I drove up to Prescott and made a
deal with Ernesto to handle his loca-
tions in the adjoining mining and
cattle towns.

Tall, suave, and very handsome,
Ernesto Lira drifted into town in 1920.
He started as a dealer in the Silver
Palace and by 1938 he owned most of
the gambling layouts in the northern
pe of the state. Unlike most gam-

lers, he took an interest in outside
rackets, his Eagle Club girls were the
prettiest in the West. At one time he
managed John Henry Lewis, before
the Phoenix colored boy won the light
heavyweight championship.

When I went there, Lira and Odessa
Webb, a Winslow girl who had once
earned the title of Miss Arizona, were
living together as man and wife.

got along swell with Ernesto,
probably because I made it a point to
get along with Odessa. He was crazy
about her and she had too much to
offer any man to worry about com-
tition. In fact, most of the people
in Prescott looked on her as Mrs. Lira,
and their popularity extended beyond
the limits of the underworld.

About the time I went to work for
him, Lira struck up a friendship with
Marcus Jay Lawrence. Lawrence, a
member of the wealthy Washington,
D. C. family, was a gentleman rancher,
having purchased the V Bar V cattle
outfit, He and his bride of two months
had separated and Marcus was ap-
parently trying to forget her, in the
smoke-filled gambling rooms and bars
of the little mountain city.

far as I could see, Lawrence and
Odessa were just good friends. Most
of the local beauties would have been
pushovers for a man with his money.

May tenth was Odessa’s birthday
and Ernesto was giving a swell party
for her. A broken rear axle in Flag-
staff kept me from getting there. But
Lawrence, Bij; George Vaughn, an-
other gambler, and his friend Marie
Russell, all ha:! dinner at Lira’s house.

At five-thi:'y the next morning
Dr. Ernest A. !}orn was called to the
Lira home. lic found the place a
bloody shamiles, broken furniture
and empty gl:sses scattered from the
front of the house to the back.

In the fron: bedroom Odessa was
only half co scious, her beautiful
body was nud: and bore the marks of
a terrific beating.

4
¥

CRIME DETECTIVE

In the second bedroom Marcus
Lawrence was in an even more serlous
condition. His face was battered and
torn, there were two deep wounds in
his nude body, and he was uncon-
scious.

Dr. Born did what he could for
Lawrence and Odessa and then con-
fronted Lira who had remained in the
front room. The gambling king
seemed dazed, unable to relate the
events which had taken place the
night before.

At eight-thirty, Marcus Jay Law-
rence died.

Undersheriff Robert Born of Yava-
pal County took charge of the case.

nder the bedclothes in the second
bedroom they found a small camera
and a shattered flashlight bulb.

- Odessa’s underclothes were on a chair

where she had evidently undressed,
a shotgun with its stock shattered
and torn from the barrel was under
the bed. Lira was arrested by Sheriff
Bob Robins’ men for murder and
taken before the County Attorney
Charles L. Ewing.

He readily, admitted he had fought
with Lawrence and had beaten Odessa
after discovering the two in an inti-
mate situation.

When I got back to Prescott I found
Lira in jail and Odessa in the hos-

tal.

The first jackpot of death had struck
close!

When Odessa was able to talk she
was taken before Justice of the Peace
Gordon Clark. Lira had never ex-
plained the presence of the camera
and the authorities were anxious to
hear Odessa’s version of the affair.

“Marcus and I had been having an
affair,” she admitted. “I knew Ernesto
suspected but we were careful not
to be caught. I went to the Verde
Valley and stayed with Marcus a
couple of nights in April and then he
came back to live with us.

“On the night of the party, Marie,
Big George and I went down town
about eleven leaving Marcus and
Ernesto at home. When I got home at
one, Ernesto had gone and Marcus
was there alone. telephoned the
Tivoli Club to try and find out when
Ernesto would be home, then went in
and got in bed with Mark.

feort thirty minutes later we
were lying there talking and I

decided to get up and get some pa-

jamas for

out of the closet with his camera and

flashlight. .. .

“Ernesto hit me with the camcra,
Marcus jumped up, and the fight
started.”

The gambler’s pretty mistress said
she could remember nothing from
then on. County Attorney Ewing
charged that Ernesto knew what was
going on, had deliberately planned to

et a picture of the wealthy rancher
in a compromising position, and sell
it either to Marcus or to Mrs. Law-
rence who was trying to get a divorce.

Ernesto insisted he wanted the pic-
ture as positive proof that Odessa was
cheating on him.

Personally I didn’t take much stock
in the blackmail theory but some of
the boys said Ernesto had been pay-
ing so much for protection that the
machines weren’t netting much profit.

They convicted Ernesto of second-
degree murder and sentenced him to
serve thirty to forty years in the state
prison.

In the meantime the gambling trials

arcus. Ernesto stepped.

in Phoenix had all been going against
the county attorney. The Chinaman,
Hoy, had been convicted along with
Bill Cluff, another operator, of giving
a bribe to Wilson. But the sheriff, Con-
stable Gaskin, Justice of the Pcace
Harry Westfall, and the other oper-

‘ators had either been acquitted or

the juries had been unable to reach

- a verdict. -However, with the trials

still going on there were only a few
machines running and I couldn’t see
any point in going back to Phoenix.

After Ernesto’s conviction half a
dozen little operators took over so I
headed south for Tucson.

I made a deal with a certain official
who owned some machines in the
southern counties to handle locations
for him.

But I couldn’t forget that only a
} sori of fate had kept me away from
that. house of death on the night of
Odessa’s birthday party.

In Tucson I soon discovered I had
stepped up against some pretty stiff
competition. arie James and her
husband Frank, along with another
small time operator by the name of

‘Howard Manning, had most of the

ood locations sewed up. Maric had

en in the racket since 1935. She
started out working for Nelson and
then switched over to Bill Cluff’s out-
fit. Cluff had sent Marie into the
Coolidge, Casa Grande, and Florence
territory, Marie was a good looking
girl and it didn’t take her long to
move Cluff’s machines into every good
spot in the valley. She played square
with: Bill for about a year and then
his take began to drop.

Bill was kind of an easy going sort
of a fellow and when Marie offered
to buy him out in the valley he took
her up on it.

Howard Manning financed the sale
and Marie and her husband handled
the operating end. Things didn’t pan
out as Manning thought they should,

‘and he pulled out. But he left the

James’ owning about a hundred slot
machines and some good locations.

I guess Frank never had much faith
in the racket, at any rate he put what
money he could get into the White-
way Saloon in Tucson.

It was the tag end of the tourist
season, most of the expensive resorts
were closed. I wanted to get a few
places set up and then go north for
the summer. With the big winter

laces shut down I figured the best
ocations were the popular bars in
Tucson.

For the first time I found mysclf up
against a woman competitor. Marie
James knew all the angles, and had
most of the locations under obliga-
tions to her.

HAT goes on in the racket may

be a mystery to legitimate citi-
zens in any community, but we on
the inside know everything. We have
to. When I heard Big Jim Everhart,
owner of the Colonial Club on Pen-
ington Street, was making a play for
Marie and that her husband was sore
about it, it sounded like good news to

me.

If Frank got mad enough over
Marie and Everhart it might disturb
their set-up and open a lot of loca-
tions for me. I made it a point to drop
into Frank’s White Way Saloon every
evening for the next two wecks. I
would pretend I had come to discuss
the - protection angle. Some of the
operators were afraid the raids in
Maricopa County might spread south

to wt

I'd Casus

Marie. | }

evenings
Just af'

of June ©

. Club wit!

cap. The
Everhart
At twe
in. She
had a co
for Ever!
“Jim 3
Shores a
Dick con
“It’s ok
said Dic
Dick’s
I had a
owner <
thirty.
machin¢
arrange
“Pm
‘Jet’s n
At te
and M:
and en
Buick
laughi:
Dick
Churc!
INE Lor
oe
it out
ting ve
the scr
of br
the m
what <«
tempt
hart.
The
of his
Devens ts

~ee

....number—” he murmured, “Wil-

youre grabbing, punk,” he said. ‘There’s a gun in
this hand. Just hold your water and sit tight for a
second. That cop isn’t going to nab anybody.”

The light pierced the brush again. ‘Come on, there!
Come on... .”

Al raised the gun in his hand. He took careful aim
at a spot just below the light. Then he pulled the
trigger.

The boom of a shot reverberated from the tree-lined
road and echoed from the rocks around Waterworks
Hill.

With two distinct thuds, the light and the policeman
fell to the ground. Al ran through the brush to the car,
with Frenchy following quickly on his heels.

“Come on,” Al said. ‘“We gotta get out of here fast!”

He kicked viciously at the starter and slammed the
gears home. Tearing through the coppice. growth, the
car surged forward into the night and the roar of its
motor became a diminishing hum which quickly melted
into the silence of the wooded dark.

The cop’s searchlight watched the night from the

ground where it had fallen. It was like a grotesque,
inarticulate eye which had witnessed the shooting on
Old Mill Road.
’ The cop himself lay there, writhing in agony. Al’s
shot had not finished him. His legs were paralyzed,
but the rest of him could feel. Pain came to hammer
at the base of his spine. Pain came to pound on his ear-
drums and scratch at his brain. Pain came to gnaw at
his stomach, where the, blood dripped out to spread in a
clotting stain on the dewy earth at
the edge of the road.

That blood was writing the
prelude to one of the mightiest
struggles with death that has ever
been recorded. That blood was
writing about one of the bravest
cops who ever Jived, and the great-
est fight he ever fought.

P in Nassau County, Long

Island, they still talk about
“Handsome Jack” Kennedy and the
way his brother officers found him
that night at the foot of Water-
works Hill.

For all of his pain, Jack had the
presence of mind to fire his service
revolver in ‘the hope of attracting
attention.

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Roos, who
lived not far away, heard the shots
and summoned the Woodmere po-
lice. ‘

Patrolmen Hirsch and Kattke

were dispatclicd to the scene.. They
found Jack lying there at the edge
of the road. Hirsch pillowed the
fallen office s head on his knee,
while Kattk« ran for water.
_ The woun‘ied man’s mouth was a
thin blue linc, flecked at the edges
with blood. He tried to form
words, but his lips only quivered
and smiled bravely.

“Talk, Johnny .. .” Hirsch begged.
“What is it, Johnny?”

Jack Kenncdy’s eyes were hollow
with pain. Sweat studs stood out
like rivets on his forehead. “License

lys ... 8L8—65. There were. .
two—two—”
76

pape SoS Se . . wa cena dill siti

His strength gave out. His head sagged, and he
dropped off into merciful blackness.

Kennedy’s brother officers rushed him to Saint Jo-
seph’s Hospital, in Rockaway, New York. He was oper-
ated upon immediately and then they put him to bed.
He stayed in bed for four long years, fighting death
every inch of the way.

There was a lot of talk down at headquarters on the
night Jack stopped that lead. The boys weren’t sure
what to think.

“He’s a gay guy,” they said. “He doesn’t throw any-
thing over his shoulder. Could be somebody got after
him and gave him the works.”

“If he two-timed that wife and kid of his,” they said,
“he had it coming. But maybe we got him wrong.”

The boys didn’t know what to think, but they knew
what they had to do. A man had been shot—a cop, at
that. And, somewhere, a hood was at liberty who had
to be found and brought to justice.

Patrolmen Earl H. Comstock and Emil E. Morse
directed a search at the scene of the crime. The police

- photographer took his pictures, and the detectives beat

the brush for clues. They were there when Brose Gear-
hart came back with a couple of pals to look for the men
who had held him up.

The policemen stopped his car, and Gearhart told
them his story. y

“Would you recognize
them if you saw those guys
again?”

AT THE TRIAL——
Brengard, shown with
his attorney, Placer.

Gearhart :

But still ti
between the
ing on Old
come until |

Comstock
left for the
man’s felt |
Kennedy hi:
grey fedor:

‘they said,

Those in
tain, were °

HEN k
he tolc
was lying
Rockaway !
“You'll |
time,” they
But big
Jack knew
the bull.
were paral
slug had t
that his n
to hell.
The doc
bullet hac
spine. . T!
without se
It was a
nedy lyin
growing 0!
turned hin


ourist
‘sorts
. few
h for
vinter
» best
irs in

elf up
Marie
d had
dliga-

t may
2 citi-
ve on
» have
-rhart,
. Pen-
ay for
is sore
ews to

. over
listurb
’ loca-
o drop
every
ks. I
jiscuss
of the
ids in
eouth

; - ,

to where we were, and every night
I'd casually ask Frank for news of
Marie. I knew she was spending her
evenings with Jim and so did Frank.

Just after midnight on the morning
of June 9 I dnegped into the Colonial
Club with Dick Rawls to have a night-
cap. The place was almost -deserted.
Everhart waited on us personally.

At twelve-thirty Marie James came
in. She came over to our table and
had a couple of drinks while waiting
for Everhart to close up.

“Jim and I are going out to Desert
Shores and dance, why don’t you and
Dick come along?” she asked.

“It’s okay with me if June wants to,”
said Dick.

Dick’s acceptance put me in a spot.
I had already pieces’ ae meet the
owner of the Century Club at one-
thirty. I was anxious to place some
machines and we had just about made
arrangements for a deal.

“I’m dead tonight,” I told them,
“let’s make it later in the week.”

At ten minutes after one Everhart
and Mrs. James came out of the club
and entered the saloon keeper’s bi
Buick coupe. They were talking an
laughing gaily. Bai

Dick and I were around on the
Church Street side of the club say-
ing good night to some friends.

verhart started his car and nosed
it out from the curb. Marie was sit-
ting very close to him. Then there was
the screeching of rubber and the grind
of brakes as a car swerved out into
the middle of Penington Street in
what appeared to be the driver’s at-
tempt to avoid a collision with Ever-
hart. f

The big saloon keeper leaned out
os his open window, “Say, I’m sorry,

CRIME DETECTIVE

There was an ona roar of gun
fire topped by Marie James’ screams
as the driver of the second machine
emptied a heavy caliber revolver at
the couple.

Then the second car sped away and
Dick and I ran towards the coupe.

Everhart was dead, there was no
mistake about that. Mrs. James was
weeene. and hysterical.

The Pima County courthouse and
sheriff’s office is directly across the
street from the Colonial Club. Deputy
John Phebus who was on duty heard
the shots and started out to investi-
gate. As he reached the door Frank
James came in.

“I just killed a guy who was run-
ning around with my wife,” he an-
nounced coolly.

In court James repeated his state-
ment.

“She told me that if she was going
to sleep with a saloon keeper she’d
sleep with one that had money .. .
one who could give her.what she
wanted. She asked for.a divorce and
said she’d be willing to testify that
she and Everhart had been having an
affair.”

They sent Frank James to prison
for ten years. Marie left town, making
it easy for me to move in on their
locations.

The second jackpot of death was
paid off so close that I could feel the
hong of the slugs as they whistled
past....

We have a saying in the racket saat

ay

ta ipeni come three in a row. M

ll quit, get out before the third one.
But just now the deal is too sweet.
have things my own way, the take is
pune up, and the owners of fhe best
ee are still willing to make a
“ ea ‘ha

CRIMINAL CASE

over and they turned him_ around,
but_the sores’ got bigger. They put
him in an air-bed, and a water-bed,
and in a strap-bed, too. The bed-
sores kept on growing. |

They started to give him transfu-
sions. The cops donated their blood.
When, finally, Kennedy went away,
they buried blood which had been
pumped through his veins from three
hundred different hearts! —Three hun-
dred transfusions in four nightmarish
years! ,

It was a tragedy, all right, to see
Kennedy lying there wasting away.
But he smiled and was brave, and he
made believe he was taking it all in
his stride. They cut off his leg, and
they gave him their blood, but he
wasted away just the same. He
weighed about eighty pounds on July
13th, 1932.

That was the day that he died. |

There was a Mary Hoffman with
him at the time. She was a practical
nurse who had been taking care of
him for quite a while. She wasn’t a
graduate nurse, but she was pleasant
and he liked to have her around. She
was exercising his leg when death
won the last battle in that long, four-
year fight.

Maybe Handsome Jack Kennedy

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 77

ave death a little help, that day.
t’s hard to say. 3 3 ;

There’s « complication in medicine
that doctors call pulmonary embolus.
It’s a kind of blood-clot in the veins
of the lung. When it hits a valve in
the veins, it’s like a cork. ‘ Then it
stops the flow of blood long enough
to cause a back-up in the heart; and
after that it’s curtains and a patch of
sod where the myrtles twine.

Maybe that’s what happened to
Handsome Jack Kennedy. Maybe not.

In my mind’s eye I can see Mary
Hoffman exercising Jack’s leg.

“A hundred times,” she told him.
“Be sure and tell me if it hurts.”

“Sure,” Jack told her. “Sure.” He
didn’t say: “How the hell can I tell if
it hurts? It’s paralyzed, you damned
fool!”

She was spontng away from him as
she flexed the joint and straightened
it out again. nd Jack was looking
around the room. He was looking at
the table alongside of his bed. He was
looking at the water which was there,
and at the codein that was supposed
to relieve his pain,

He must have been tired of fight-
ing. Four. years is such a long time
to fight, when you’ve got nothing to
win but a day or a month or a year

111

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Y CAMERON

cher stepped out of
street station house.
.e grimy remains of
ows on that night,

rien asked his part-

paper on which he
-yed to him by the eS ; : . ned
lumber *68 on First _ ; q iit hae Tn

d that there seemed me: ge 3
not two women in a
ble than a homicide.”
n First Avenue, into
ss from number 68.
‘re was no indication
sider might designate

hearing nothing, ex-
“Here’s a Weiner,”
naking fence friend.

nswered. “He hasn’t
st not that I’ve heard
collared in Brooklyn

inds of a disturbance,
» quiet. There were no
ving very loudly from
them.

the radio on,” O’Brien

partment with a door
i, receiving no answer,
the living room was
of the room a man lay
y body was awkwardly
ing gown was stained
nd blood oozed slowly

man’s bald head lay
eaf ears not far from a

sing act of this

DETECTIVE

LAY DOWN THAT GUN!

Continued from page 11

herself called by Judge Samuel Leib-
owitz “as vile a murderess as ever
lived.” But there was no evidence
against the Red Rose.

During that year Rose’s daughter
Sylvia, now Mrs. Weiner, had been
held in $50,000 bail and had also kept
her counsel.

When mother and daughter re-
turned to their Brooklyn home Chippy
Weiner, long an admirer of the Red
Rose, transferred his attentions to
the daughter. After her marriage to
Weiner, Sylvia’s relationship with her
mother was, police knew, strained.

But her relationship with her hus-
band had not been less strained. Sev-
eral times Weiner had disappeared
from ‘his First Street home for weeks,
and quarrels were frequent between
the two. This time, apparently,
Weiner had been planning to leave
his home when he was shot down.

Before O’Brien and Gallagher could
begin their canvass of the building,
they heard the siren of a radio car and
a minute later half a dozen officials
piled into the apartment—Lieutenant
Ben Miller, in command of the Ninth
Squad, Inspector Abraham Miller, in
charge of the detective district, and
detectives from the Homicide Bureau
of the Manhattan District Attorney’s
office.

Lieutenant Miller took one look at
the gray-faced Chippy as the doctor
worked over him. “And where is
Sylvia?” Miller asked.

“Not here,” O’Brien answered. “The
baby’s inside, though.’

“She’ll be back, then. No gun, I
suppose. How’re the bullets, Doc?”

“Some are inside,’ the doctor an-
swered. “Two made exit wounds, so
they must be around. We’ll be taking
him out of here in a minute. Then
you can look for them.”

As Weiner was lifted in a stretcher,
detectives saw two shells on the spot
where he had been lying. The others
were found, with the spent bullets,
and a fifth bullet was cut out of the
wall above the baby’s crib.

In the bloodstained dressing-gown
pocket detectives found a thick roll
of bills, $550 in twenties, tens: and
fives.

“This wouldn’t have been robbery
at any time,’ Miller commented, as

he checked the bills. “With Chippy,

’

there could be plenty of motives.

Now the corridors of the building
were well populated. Tenants ques-
tioned on the spot had been out, asleep
or listening to their respective radios.
No one had seen or heard anything.
No one knew where Sylvia Weiner
was.

It was almost an hour since Weiner
had been shot, according to the doc-
tor’s estimation from the condition of
his wounds.

“He got it about ten-fifteen then,”
Miller said. “You, O’Brien and Gal-
lagher, answered a call received at
ten-thirty. And you were here less
than five minutes after the call ‘came
in at the office? If Sylvia’s coming

64 back, she ought to be here soon.”

; es a quarter past eleven there was
a stir in the now-crowded street
outside number 68. Photographers’
bulbs flashed as a woman hurried to-
ward the clustet of police cars and
people. A uniformed policeman
stepped to her side. Sylvia Weiner was
escorted into her apartment.

She was pale and breathless. Over
her dark luxuriant hair shé wore a
broad-brimmed romantic hat in the
latest fashion. A gray Persian lamb
coat hung from her shoulders over a
smart black dress. Her rounded legs
wore dark nylon hose, and on her feet
were trim, open-toed, ‘high-heeled
shoes.

Lieutenant Miller led her. to the
body of her husband just about to be
carried down the narrow stairs for a
trip to Bellevue Hospital. For a mo-
ment she stood looking down at the
45-year-old fence she had married
over her mother’s jealous: protest.
Then she raised her head and her
dark eyes sought the bedroom.

“The baby’s all right,” Miller said,

“but a bullet hit the wall right. over_

him.” ’
Sylvia Weiner sagged. Then she
straightened. She said nothing.
“Where have you been all eve-
ning?” Miller asked. ‘“We’ve been
waiting for you.”
“T was walking,” she replied.

“You walk on air?” Miller pointed

to her unsullied shoes, her unsplashed
hose. “I see the snow and slush didn’t
touch your feet. Not even through

those open toes. This wasn’t a nice’

night for a walk. How long were you
out?”

“T went out at nine-thirty,” Sylvia
said. “I went for cigarettes. Ben was
here with the baby, so I decided to get
some fresh air, stayed out and just
walked.”

Miller had little hope of extracting °

information at that moment from the
woman who had kept complete silence
during a whole year. He expected no
help from the daughter of the Red
Rose, especially when her “walk” had
been so well timed to avoid collision
with her husband’s attackers.

“Where was your husband going?”
Miller asked, pointing to the partly
packed bags.

’ Sylvia shrugged. “I didn’t know he
was going anywhere.”

Asked if he might examine the con-
tents of her handbag, Sylvia handed
it over with a ghost of a smile. In it
Miller found the usual assortment of
cosmetics and a small gold purse hold-
ing $765 in cash.

“You weren’t going i lahat he
asked, holding up the bills.

“Was all that in there?” Sylvia
countered. “I didn’t realize it. I
thought I had about five dollars with
me.”

‘While Miller was questioning Syl-
via, the entire apartment had been
thoroughly searched. Detectives found
several bolts of fine fabrics, many
times more than a housewife usually

uses. Sylvia. was shown the huge

quantity of expensive stuff. She had

no idea, she said, where her husband
had bought the materials nor why
they were in full bolts. She had been
considering reupholstering her living
room furniture, she said. :

“Could these bolts have been
brought here by some of your hus-
band’s friends?” she was asked.

Sylvia calmly said she didn’t know
her husband’s friends. In fact, she
insisted, he was too busy for friends,
as he worked every day from nine
till five for a yarn company. Though
she knew Chippy’s record—his trial a
few. years earlier for receiving stolen
goods was available to police—she
stuck to her story about the bolts of
material.

Police knew what the presence of
bolts indicated.. Chippy had by no
means given up his hobby of fencing
for big-time loft burglars. Even
though he had been acquitted of the
charge of criminally receiving stolen
goods, his reputation as a trustworthy
fence had been irreparably damaged
in the New York underworld. During
his trial, two of his partners turned
state’s evidence because he had
cheated them of their shares of
$19,000 in loot. Since that time Chippy
had seemed to concentrate on book-
making, but the bolts of expensive
material showed he had not entirely
quit his old racket. -

Aside from the material and the
bullets and shells, nothing important
was found in or near the apartment.
An emergency crew worked feverishly
on a foot-by-foot search of streets,
rooftops, stairways and alleys be-
tween building in the entire block
of the murder. Three hours after
the shooting no gun had been found.

O’Brien and Gallagher and several
additional teams of men continued to
question every household in the block
and the nearby streets.

At Bellevue Hospital Chippy Weiner
had been brought back to conscious-

sness. A cynical half-smile creased .

his pallid face when Lieutenant Miller
bent close to him.

“He can’t talk,” the doctor said.
“But he can hear you.”

Lieutenant Miller held out a small
pad and a pencil. “Tell us who shot
you, Chippy,” he said.

He extended the pad. Weiner lifted
his right hand with great effort. The
hand made several sweeping gestures,
finally flicked the pad out of Miller’s
extended ‘hand onto the’ floor of the
operating room. Chippy almost
grinned. He was keeping his silence.

“That’s all now,” the doctor said.
“We're going to operate. It won’t
take long.”

Miller waited. At 2:30 the doctor
emerged from the operating room
shaking his head. .“He died on the
table,” he announced.

BA at the squad office Miller
i found O’Brien and Gallagher
waiting with almost cheerful expres-

sions on their faces. “Maybe it’s just

gossip,” O’Brien said, “but we’ve got
the name of a woman Chippy was

going a
apartme
she hea
mer wt
Our gos
band qu
Connie,
told Ch
appear
Says.”
This
was ins
circulat:
city.
Weiner
connect
Connie
might p
question
All di
Sylvia v
spector |
trict Att
repeated
no detail:
when as}
were inn
a two-h
When
Connie s
her,” she
more.
¢ Detect
gossip }
Connie \
agination
teletyped
terious
ex-convic

N the
was
funeral c!}
find an as
and enen
hey fou
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of Weine:
tentions o
tend the
Immedi
was arres
a materia
she had
only 45 n
was shot,
an hour af
that her
lucky acci
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on the or:
at the ver
holding in
Sylvia t
month old
quietly w
tion. .
Later t}
received a
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seen with
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Hooper St:
her shop.
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We'll be ri
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Maybe som
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Y the
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there had
and came
that Conni
close friend


See ie

10

blaring television set which loudly and
brightly brought a boxing match into
the room.

All about the room, on piano, sofa
and chairs, were half-filled suitcases
and piles of clothing awaiting packing.

“It’s Weiner,” O’Brien said. “He’s
been hit at least three times, but he’s
breathing. Better call for an ambu-
lance.”

Gallagher stepped across the lavish-
ly furnished room to turn off the
blaring television set before he lifted
the phone. As he picked it up he called
O’Brien. :

“Chippy must have tried to put’
through a call after he was shot,”
Gallagher said, as he pointed to drops
of blood and smears on the telephone
table.

O’Brien saw several stains on the
rug, in an irregular trail, between the
phone and the present position of
Weiner’s body. Looking down at the
scarcely breathing man, O’Brien saw
two rings with large diamonds and a
wristwatch with a heavy gold bracelet.

As Gallagher asked for an ambu-
lance and gave the Ninth Squad office
the meager details observed in a first
glance, O’Brien quickly covered the
rest of the apartment.

In a bedroom adjoining the living
room a baby lay quietly sucking a
plump thumb. And in the wall above °
the crib a ragged telltale hole in the
plaster showed that a bullet had em-
bedded itself there.

O’Brien looked down at the baby.
“If only you could talk, kid,” he said
softly.

7pPeE condition of the apartment was

eloquent to a point, Weiner’s dozen
hand-finished suits, scores of pairs of
made-to-order shoes, .and an elaborate
wardrobe of twenty-odd colorful sports shirts, all either
tossed into his luggage or piled near the. open bags,
bespoke imminent departure. Yet the jammed clothes

closets still held Mrs. Weiner’s equally elaborate ward-'

robe, and her luggage was nowhere in sight. Her dozens
of suits, dresses, coats and accessories were in place.
Apparently she was not going on a trip. mse

“She went somewhere. Just in time, maybe?” O’Brien
said to his partner.

Gallagher shrugged. “You remember who she is? I
wouldn’t doubt she’d know when to take a little walk.
But she wouldn’t have left the baby here if she ex-
pected trouble, would she?”

The question hung unanswered as the two detectives .

continued their inspection of the apartment: There was
nothing they could do to revive the scarcely breathing

Weiner. His three visible wounds required expert at- ,

tention and the detectives knew better than to move
him, as he was obviously near death.

The apartment, in perfect order aside from the blood-
stains in the living room, showed no signs of a struggle.

Weiner’s attacker must have been freely admitted, -

must have been known to Weiner or his wife, or both.

Cd

IF THE LITTLE FELLOW COULD TALK!—
The Weiner baby, Louis, shown here in the arms of a neighbor,
must have seen the slaying. One of the wild shots struck his crib.

“No use checking with the phone company,” Gal-
lagher said, as he lifted the receiver to do it. “Unless
that was a long-distance call; they won’t have a record
of a local call from a dial phone. But we'll try it anyway.
Maybe Chippy wanted to cancel his reservation on a
train to Florida.”

As Gallagher was talking with the phone company a
white-coated surgeon’ entered the apartment, followed
by his ambulance driver. The doctor cut away the
blood-soaked dressing gown and quickly found a fourth
wound. Four bullets had punctured the little man, one
each in neck, shoulder, thigh and abdomen. Both in-
ternal and external hemorrhages had pushed Weiner
beyond a possibility of recovery.

“How long will he have?” O’Brien asked the doctor.

The doctor didn’t look up from his work to staunch
the flow of blood. “Don’t know. When I get him fixed
up a bit we’ll take him to the hospital. We can operate,
but I don’t think he’ll last more than a few hours.
Maybe we can bring him to, but I don’t think he’ll be
able to talk. That bullet in the neck. Yes, he could have
talked for a while immediately after he was shot.”

Weiner not only could have, but probably had talked

AFTER THE TRAC
Victim’s wife in a

the District Attorne
was feared she Mic


of a neighbor,
struck his crib.

ompany,” Gal-
» do it. “Unless
‘'t have a record
ll try it anyway.
reservation on a

hone company a
rtment, followed

cut away the
ly found a fourth
e little man, one
domen. Both in-

pushed Weiner

sked the doctor.
work to staunch
I get him fixed
We can operate,
an a few hours.
n’t think he’ll be
es, he could have
he was shot.”
bably had talked

AFTER THE TRAGEDY— P *

Victim’s wife in a calmer mood as she appeared at
the District Attorney’s office the day after murder. It
was feared she might be harmed by Weiner’s slayer.

to some one within minutes after he was shot. But with
no‘ hope of tracing the call, it was going to be a tough
job to find the person he had called.

“We can start on the neighbors while we’re waiting
for Lieutenant Miller,” O’Brien said.

He looked rather resigned. Detectives on the East
Side, the most crowded, defensive, slum area of the
city, knew what to expect-of neighbors in such a case.
All the tenants of the building would, they were certain,
prove to have been quite deaf’ and blind during the
period of the shooting.

Since Benjamin “Chippy” Weiner was well known
in the neighborhood, it was likely the anticipated deaf-
ness and blindness would be more pronounced than
usual. Weiner, well acquainted with police since 1922,
when he first clashed with the law in his native haunts
of Brownsville (another poverty-stricken, crime-ridden
section of the city of Brooklyn), was known to many
East Siders as a bookmaker, fence, thug, thief and
welcher. His associates hated him, feared him, ratted
on him. His record included a sentence of five to 15
years in 1927 for assault and robbery and a return visit
to Sing Sing in 1938, when he was again in for robbery.
In March, 1947, he had been charged with bookmaking
and paid a fine of $175.

His wife, detectives knew, was equally well known
to neighbors. Sylvia Pantiel Weiner had first hit the
headlines: when, in 1940, she was held as a material
witness against her mother, a red-haired Brooklynite
whose nickname among Murder, Inc. mobsters was
“The Red Rose of Williamsburg.” Mrs. Pantiel was
jailed in the murder of Ruby: Shapiro, a victim of one
of Brooklyn’s notorious loan shark gangs whose policy
was to terrorize those who borrow, at exorbitant rates,
into repaying all or more.

The Red Rose was questioned repeatedly, but kept
her silence during a year of investigation. When she
was finally freed she heard (Continued on page 64)

'

HELD IN PROTECTIVE CUSTODY—

Connie Fernandez, sweetheart of the slain ex-convict,
is shown being booked after her arrest as a material
witness in the investigation of the Weiner murder.

1]


Lo RC YR ll

FoI

oway lines, ©
od to draw
Two slugs.
ation floor.

three days
fourth day
on another
to follow

1 witnesses’
‘m intently.
- of Deputy

most of the
y collector’s

That fact
substantial
suld request
‘ck all hat
ps in their
they might
ibers doing

grin. “I’ve
more than
rt from the
t a cleaner
red the hat.
re why the
ning put in
: in perfect

' said with
stomer—did

im. “Claims

lowever, his

laboratory
y, not more
‘hunky. He
rning before

s bewilder-
k that they
ave the hat
» I don’t get

mitted. “But
3rooklynites,
re in town.”

somewhere

“T want to
-y dump in

sort might
th. If they’re
VT, change,
e it.”

Here they are, the six hoodlums who

‘.. planned and executed the holdup mur-
‘der of Edwin Esposito. Left to right:
_ Joe Bolognia an

Teddy DiDonne who

. Ryan-mulled it over and finally said,
“Okay. You’re on the night trick until

‘you get something or give up.”

The wiry young detective made the
rounds of cheap night clubs, taverns,
pool parlors and dancehalls. In each

-Tracy, in an ill fitting suit, wilted. shirt

and loosened tie, blended into the pic-
ture. He got by without a second
glance; no one would take him for a
detective.

The third night Tracy sauntered into
the Gay Canary Club, sat at the crowd-
ed bar and ordered a short beer. He

- lighted a cigarette, sipped his drink,

then looked around. .

A four-piece orchestra, tucked away
in a corner, blaréd at the ceiling. while
five or six couples tried to maneuver
on the midget ‘dance floor,

A girl sat beside him and asked,

“Care to dance?” She was a slender
. blonde whose red mouth was set in a

smile.

Tracy shook his head. “Sorry, sister.
I don’t dance.” :

“Come on, be a sport.” Her voice
dropped as she touched his arm. “I
only want to help.”

Tracy shot her a questioning glance.
The girl widened her smile.

“If you won’t dance, maybe you’d
like to discuss B.M.T.  stock—Mr.

- Tracy.”
The detective crushed his cigarette. ©

“Let’s dance.” 3
He led her ta the floor, put his arm
around her waist and mixed into the
crowd. “Okay,” he said. “What is it?”
“Don’t you remember me? Marian

’ Stevens. Four years, petty larceny. You

sent me to the reformatory.”

“Duke Was Enough":

The music crashed to an end. Tracy
uided the girl to a corner table. He
ooked at her closely, stared at her hair

and nodded.

“I remember. You weren’t a blonde
then. Behaving yourself?”
“Don’t worry about me. I learned

* my lesson; I’m no criminal, never was.

It was just a mistake.” She blinked and

~ said, “But that’s beside the point now.

died in the electric chair at Sing
Sing, and Dominick Zizzo, Eugene Bru-
- no, Sammy Kimmel and Salvatore "Duke"
Scata who got off with life sentences.

-

You were fair to me, and I want to
return the favor.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re working on that B.M.T. mur-
der, aren’t you? I was in one of the
places you stopped at last night. I heard
you ask the barkeep whether he’d no-

ticed anybody shoving a lot of loose:

change around.

“I didn’t know anything about the
killing then, except what I read in the
papers. But about 10 or 11 o’clock this
evening I was in a Flatbush Avenue
bar with another girl, and some young
squirt starts getting chummy. He or-
dered drinks and when he paid off he
brought out a load of small change and
had to cup it with two hands. He just
wanted to show it off. I asked him
where he got all the silver, and he said
that’s the way he was paid. I made a
crack about ‘Some boss you have,’ and
he changed the subject.”

“What else did he tell you?” Tracy
asked. “You get his name, his ad-
dress, what he does?”

“Look! I couldn’t drag everything
out of him. But his name is Duke. I
asked his last name but he said Duke
was enough. Then he made a crack
about Brooklyn having lots of good
looking girls. So I wanted to know
where he came from, and he said Hart-
ford, Conn.”

“Swell!
like?” .

“Well, he’s average height but looks
short because he’s built a little heavy.
His hair’s black, parted in the middle,
and he sure uses plenty of grease on it.
He’s got a long nose that’s a little
crooked at the bridge.”

Tracy jotted down the number of the
Flatbash Avenue cafe and left for the
place at once.

A bull-necked bartender there lis-
tened to the detective’s questions, then
nodded. “I know the guy you’re talking

‘ about. He’s called Duke, but his real
name is Salvatore Scata. He had a load
of small change on him, but I don’t
know where he got. it.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Y’yot me there, boss, honest. Tell

Now what does he look

ee

Officials examine the body of the
slain collector on the Avenue X
station platform in south Brook-
lyn. Nearby a hat was picked up.

you what, though. If you go over to
Smith Street you'll find him hangin’
around most of the time in a candy
store with a flock of other guys. I see
him there pretty often on account of
I live only a couple of blocks away
from the place.”

Tracy went home for a much needed
nap, but by 9 a.m. he was in Inspector
Ryan’s office. They phoned the Hart-
ford police and within two hours
learned that although Duke Scata had
no police record in Hartford he had
had several close shaves with the au-
thorities. Tracy got a short list of
names of questionable Hartford char-
acters who had been Scata’s pals in
that city.

A plan to trap not only the oily Con-
necticut hoodlum, but his accomplices
in the subway slaying as well, was
brewing in Tracy’s mind. And when he
submitted it to Ryan it got the in-
spector’s immediate approval.

“I think it'll work, Charlie. But it’s
risky, and you’ll have to watch your
step every inch of the way.. Don’t
forget, they’re killers.”

Phone Call For Help

That he was dealing with murderers
was uppermost in the mind of the tough
looking, ill-dressed young man who
entered a pay telephone booth and

dialed a hum- (Continued on page 41) 27


v opinion, all drug
implexioned, ema=
1, Addicts wealthy
controlled dosage,
s and pharmacists
by the constant

ay take dope for:

- best friends be-
and physiological

| pickpockets who
lace of the needle
' a different pre-
n gradually builds
irug so that they
» to satisfy their
; live in a frenzy
ir energy is ex-
daily dose. And
it with dope ped-
ed two grains of
ay as high as $20
urrent quotations.

. to dangerous drugs
in postwar periods.
; of the Bureau of
se following World
1918 there was ong
{00 of the general
ate of addiction had
every 1,000, and by

't Shina, Macao,
nee were the
iggling opera-

_ %ecently, how-

1, India and Mexico

» in the nefarious

Jexico opium pop-

n Sonora, Sinaloa,

ia provinces. Bor-

ound Mexicali and
fornia and Laredo,

0 Thet, Wong Wing
ng and Wong Bing
. Smith, Jones and
s. The four Chinese
sizure of 17 pounds
Phoenix, Ariz., in
0 Thet at the time
dle on his person of
Uncle Sam assessed
e tax evasion. The
evenue appropriated
, tax on the opium
y $3,100 left. It was
e currency used . by
e incriminating pur-
> government’s case.

or dope peddlers in
ntele. The peddlers
nly in places where
e stuff in a hurry if
ipproach. Whenever
is near a body of
for example. Many
iandle their wares in
ce with the law has
ome stooge to carry

\ return for a daily

agents find New York
ome spot in the coun-
‘ California and Ohio,

—Mu.Ton BERLIN.

Schedule for a Crime

‘(Continued from page 27)

ber. When a cautious voice came over the
wire, he asked, “Duke—Duke Scata?”
“Yeah, who's this?” :
“Al Piazza from Hartford. I gotta see
you, Duke.”
“Never heard of you. What's the gag?”
“No gag, Duke. I just got in from Hart-

§.'ford this morning. I’m hot for a stickup

job there. Al Renza says I should look you
up first thing.”
“Al Renza?”

“Sure. He says you're a pal of his, that

‘ou to. Whatta

you'll help a guy if he asks
I don’t know

you say? I’m in a spot an
where to go now.”

“What do you want me to do anyway?
I got enough trouble of my own. How’d
you know I was here at this number,
anyway?”

“Al gave me your address and some kids
in the neighborhood said you were there.
I got the number from the operator be-
cause I figured it’s a lot safer phonin’ you
than running all over Brooklyn . .. Whatta
you say, Duke?”

“I don’t know, Piazza. I don’t know

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it,
pal. You’re sure different from what Renza
filled me up with. Sorry I bothered you.
So long.”

“Wait a second. Where’re you calling
from?”

“I’m in a cigar store booth down in
Court Street.”

“Okay. Grab a subway train and meet
me at Smith and Carroll. I'll be waiting
there in a black Ford sedan.”

Tracy said, “Thanks a lot, Duke,” and
hung up.

Within 20 minutes he appeared at the
designated spot and found the waiting car,
with a black haired young man at the
wheel. He poked his head in through the
open window. “Duke?”

The youth eyed him carefully. “Piazza?”

“Yeah. Glad to meet you, Duke.”

“Climb in, so we can get out of here.”

Tracy slid in beside him, and as the car
pulled out into traffic he said, “Thanks for
changing your mind. You don’t know how
much you’re helping me_ out. The heat
oughta cool off in a couple weeks, Them
cops start getting. lazy when they sce
there’s no chance of finding a guy.”

For several minutes they twisted through
Brooklyn streets. Tracy kept watching as
block after block of business buildings and
jammed apartment houses rolled by.

“Boy, this eiyoeew ie is the place to lose
yourself in,” he said. “A guy couldn’t hide
out in Hartford for long.’

“You weren’t in Hartford when I was,”
Duke said. .

“I blew in from Boston just after you
left, about a year ago. Met Renza. We got
on good.” -

“A card came from Al yesterday. morn-
ing,” Duke, said tonelessly. “He figured he
might run down here thi weekend. He
didn’t say anything about you. That’s kind
of funny.” y

Tracy’s heart skipped a beat. But he
slitted his eyes and turned brazenly on the
mug at the wheel. “What’s funny about
it? The people in Hartford guess about Al’s
contacts, but they don’t know nothin’ for
sure. So right after I croak a guy in a
stickup he’s sup to write on a card
that a pal of his is going to visit you down
here, eh? You’d have half the bulls in
town tailing you if he’d done that. If he’s
coming down himself, then you can check
up on me easy where he gets here.”

That seemed to satisfy Duke. “So you

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bumped a guy, huh? Got any dough?”

“Coffee nickels, no more. The lug in the
store put up a fight and I had ‘to wing him
and t it without even making the
damper. I didn’t know until Tuesday
morning. that I’d croaked him. Youw’re
lucky, Duke, you ain’t messed up with no
artillery activity.” .

Scata sinned. “Says you? The boys and
me are slightly overheated ourselves,
Zo is why we hang out in a dump like

is.

The car slid up a side street before a
rickety old wooden flat building, and Tracy
followed Duke up three flights of narrow
stairs and down a smelly hallway.

“Let me do the talkin’,” Scata urged,
tapping on the door before he inserted a
key. “The boys are nervous yet.”

Pals Suspicious

“The boys are nervous yet—” Now

Detective Tracy was positive he was on
- the right trail, although he realized that

at present it was one which might at any
minute become an ambush for himself.
They entered a cheaply furnished room
in which the shades were drawn. A light
gleamed in the adjoining chamber, whence
a deep voice boomed, “That you, Duke?”:
“Yeah, it’s me, Joe.”
Scata led Tracy into the living room
where two men sat playing cards. They
rose with questioning scowls. “Who's this
wuy?”" one demanded,
: “Joe... Teddy, meet Al Piazza from
Hartford. He’s okay. A pal of Renza, my
old sidekick up there.” Scata turned to

Tracy with a grin. Bi awe £ there, he had.
len

the same kind of an acci
cently with a gun... .”:

“Shut your trap, Duke!” Teddy snapped.

“What’s eating you?” Scata answered.
“I don’t like people telling me to shut my
face.” -

“And I don’t like people telling strangers
my personal business..You ever see this
guy before?” '

“No, he just got in. He’s hot for a killing
in Hartford and Renza steered him to me.
What’s wrong with that?”

a maybe ., .”

Trouble was brewing—-too soon. Tracy
silenced both. “Look, Teddy, I know how
you feel. I'll leave if you don’t want me
around. If you say so, I’ll blow and we'll
forget everything. If you say stay, I’ll hang

t you did re-

around and mind my own business. I need’

a hideout for a few days, but I can prob-
ably find one someplace else.”

“Then scram,” Teddy invited.

‘Tracy turned towar
Duke,” he said. “I'll try to square this
with Renza. I'll tell him it wasn’t your
fault, but A know how AI is about a pal.”

Scata b
pal of Renza’s on the lam, and he turned
him out, that meant Duke could never go
back to Hartford again. He made a last

appeal to his fellow mobsters.

“We can’t let him go,” he said. “He al-
ready knows enough to guess about that
subway job of ours. He’s strange in Brook-
lyn. He’s liable to walk right into some
smart copper’s mitts. And then what? He
probably wouldn't feel too bad about trad-
ing us in for the way we're treating him,
I say he’s gotta stay.”

Teddy thought this over. “Let’s phone
Renza,” he said.

Tracy smiled. “Go ahead,” he said. “Give

him the number, Duke,”

Then Joe, the bigger, older gangster
stepped forward. He had been studying
the detective closely. “I don’t think we
have to do that,” he said. “Piazza’s face
seems kind of familiar to me. I’ve seen him
someplace before.”

“Maybe in Boston or Hartford,” Tracy
suggested.

Joe shook his head. “I ain’t never been

the door. “So long, -

anched. If Piazza was really a -

e 3

sag
as

a

=
*

there. No, I’m beginning to remember now. > &

You’re a cop. I;seen you once in court.

Your picture was in the papers the other x

night. Give it to him, Teddy!”

Tracy ducked a fist, tripped the slugger, “=

a

twisted away and backed against the wall
with his gun in his hand. Slowly the trio
raised their arms, He circled behind them,
digging three sets of handcuffs from his
belt. With these he secured his prisoners
and then frisked them, Duke had only ‘a
knife,-but both Joe and Teddy were carry-
ing .32-caliber revolvers,

“Okay, my little innocents,” he said |

calmly, “start marching for the callbox at
the corner.”

Enroute to headquarters Duke sobbed
that he was not a stoolpigeon, but his
cohorts, Teddy DiDonne and Joe Bolognia,
wouldn’t believe him. Soon Inspector
Ryan, Assistant D. A. Kopff and Tracy
were questioning the suspects. Bolognia
and DiDonne clammed tight, and Duke
remained silent out of fear of his pals.

However, when Scata was separated
from DiDonne and Bolognia and bluntly
faced with the prospect of dying in the
electric chair as the trigger man in the
crime, he broke completely.

“I don’t wanna die!” he cried. “I didn’t
kill anybody! I never fooled with any

guns!”
“Who shot ito?” Kopff demanded.
“Teddy did—DiDonne. When the guy
wouldn't put up his hands, DiDonne gave

it to him,
Chair For Two

The rest of the story spilled from the
wilted youth’s lips. .

“We decided one night in a tavern that
we ought to pull a profitable heist, and
somebody suggested the B.M.T. We

‘watched that collector guy for nearly a

week until we knew the schedule for sure,”
Duke said. “We picked out the Avenue X
station because it looked like a cinch.”
“Hold it a second,” Ryan broke in. “Who
else besides you, DiDonne and Bolognia
was in on the holdup?” ,
“There was Sammy—Sam Kimmel, Eu-
gene Bruno and Dominick Zizzo. Y’see, the
whole thing worked out like this—I was
‘supposed to act like I was sick or drunk
when the train pulled in, and Joe Bolognia
was to make it look like he was helping
me out. Then when the collector guy went
downstairs for the dough we'd slip right
down after him. While we were putting on
the act DiDonne, Bruno and Kimmel were
waiting for the signal in the men’s room
right in back of cashier’s booth. Zizzo
was downstairs, in the street with a car,
with the motor running just like we
planned, 2 :
“Only it didn’t ‘go off as good as we
figured,” he went on. “When a guy re-
fused ‘to put up his hands. like Bolognia.
told him, DiDonne let him have it twice.

The shooting got us all mixed up and we ~

scrambled out of the place as fast as we
could.” :

“You lose a fedora hat then?”

“That's. righteT did”

“What about the J.C.C. initials and the
new lining in it?” , a

“I don’t know. I guess I thought I was
being wise when I had them initials made
and got the lining put in.”

Rounding up Kimmel, Bruno and Zizza
was easy. But despite the confession of
Duke Scata none of the others would
break his silence. :

But when the district attorney decided
Duke’s confession should be retold before
a motion picture camera and microphone,
and Duke, hair slicked back, clothes in
trim, began to narrate the story of the
crime while the camera whirred away,
DiDonne and Bolognia took the seal off
their lips, :

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“Get that ham actor outta the way,”
Bolognia said. “Don’t .waste the film, Me
and Teddy here can: make you a real pic-
ture. After all, I’m the guy who told that
dumb cluck to stick ’em up.” ‘

Impelled by their own egos, they volun-
tarily strutted before the camera, baring
their parts in the cold-blooded crime for
$70 in small change.

The six criminals went on trial May 6,

‘1936, before County Judge Peter J. Bron-.

cato. On May 11 the jury brought in a

verdict of guilty of first degree murder,

and Judge Broncato sentenced all six to
die in the chair at Sing Sing prison on
June 22, 1936. ;

The sentence was appealed, and al-
though the higher: court ‘affirmed the
judgment Governor Herbert Lehman saved
Scata, Zizzo, Kimmel and Bruno from the
chair by commuting: their sentences to
life imprisonment.

The leaders, Bolognia. and DiDonne,
however, in March of 1937, were put to
death in a highly charged hot seat.

Eprror’s Nore: To spare possible em-
barrassment . to ¢ innocent - persons, the
names Bella Green, Marian Stevens and
Al Renza, used in this story, are fictitious.

Answers to
“‘The D. A. Asks’’

(Questions on page 4) -

1. It does at common law and in many

states by statute.
Pa. 54.) However, in some states it has
been held that such an omission is not
legal error by the court. (State vs. Hoyt,
47 Conn. 518.) In any event, he can be
resentenced.
’ 2. In general it is a legal move to get
the court to withhold imposing sentence.
It is based usually on the theory that all
the things proved against the accused do
not constitute a crime. (State vs. Hobbs,
39 Me. 212.) :

3. The governor of the state had granted
him a full pardon Thursday night. The
pardon barred punishment. (Blair vs.
Com., 25 Gratt [66 Va.] 850.)

4. Court has discretion to do what it
thinks best. Many courts in such circum-
stances postpone sentencing until the exis-
tence of insanity can be medically deter-
mined. (Williams vs. State, 45 Fla. 128.)

5. None on the question of guilt or inno-
cence. However, evidence may be re-
ceived in mitigation or aggravation of the
sentence to be imposed. (Tracey vs. State,
46 Nebr. 361.)

6. No. Character evidence may be heard
and considered as a guide in determining
the severity of the sentence. (State vs.
Summers, 98 N. C. 702.) 2

7. No, but that does not set him free or
entitle him to a new. trial. He must be
resentenced in the proper, legal manner.
(Cole vs. State, 10 Ark. 318.)

8. Empanel a jury and go to trial on the
issue of identity.
19 Southwestern Reporter 900.)

9. Sometimes. In some states minors are
given less severe punishment than adults.
Elderly culprits sometimes get a break
from the court, especially if their past
records are good. (State vs. Gavner, 30
Mo. 44.) :

10. Depends on state law.. It has been
held that the allocution is not required on
a guilty plea. (Carper vs. State, 27 Ohio
State 572.) Usually, court will take testi-
mony on a guilty plea as a guide to sever-
ity of punishment; statutes in some states
require It, (Smith vs, People, 32 Colo. 251.)

(Rizzolo. vs. Com., 126-

(Washington vs. State,

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43

oe ae oe “-


Which of these six young men .
fore County -Judge Peter J.
roncato’s bench lost a hat? Left

right: Salvatore Scata, Joe
plognia, Teddy Di Donne, Domi-
ick Zizzo, Sam Kimmel, E. Bruno

¢Nally and Tracy began the rounds
‘all possible places, while Ryan is-
d-an eight-state alarm. Detectives
all boroughs of New York were
igned. to check-ups similar to
icy’s and McNally’s.
Late that night, tired and disgusted,
two detectives called Headquarters
report that they had been unable to
| a lead. Negative reports came
ggling in from the other detec-

next morning Chief Ryan re-

ed a telegram from the FBI fin-
“print division stating there were
} records of the prints he had sub-

“(NE thing the disappointments
od heer The bandits who shot Ed-
posito either were neophytes in
me or criminals who by sheer
everness and luck had managed all
mg to avoid capture.
0 days went by with detectives
uniformed officers all over New
-day and night on the lookout for
‘Men answering the descriptions
m by the witnesses.
ere was anything*-even the
opening—to be found. Had
ts fled the city? What proof,

that they still were in New York?

Reluctantly the authorities had to ad-
mit there was nothing. —

On September 5, 1935, while the
Brooklyn detectives doggedly con-
tinued their hunt, Tracy again studied
the fedora hat.

It was, he noted, a comparatively
new hat. Despite its soiled and rum-
pled condition, he was certain it re-
cently had been cleaned and repaired.
What bolstered this certainty was the
fact that the satin lining was abso-
lutely clear of the usual trade-mark.
Could he make something of this fact?
Would the hat give him a lead?

Grabbing hold of a local telephone

“book, he tore out the pages listing the

names and addresses of hat-repair
shops. It was a long list, and he re-
alized the odds were heavily against
his purpose. He strode into Chief
Ryan’s office and explained what he
had in mind—to question every hat-
cleaning establishment in the city.

“You’re taking on some job,” was
the dubious comment. “But if it’ll give
any kind of a wedge to this sealed lid,
go to it.”

Tracy’s undertaking proved an
arduous, disconcerting task. Another
two days passed, and newspaper head-
lines blatantly reported the police as
being baffled and at a standstill.

Tracy was hardly two-thirds through
his list. Every hat cleaner and re-

They tiked to strut before movie
cameras. First row, Salvatore
Scata and Dominick Zizzo; second
row, Sam Kimmel and Joe Bolo-
gnia, and the third row, Eugene
Bruno and Teddy Di Donne

pair shop he thus far had interviewed
had given him the same discouraging
shrug and reply.

In the late afternoon of the fifth day
after the murder Tracy pulled up be-
fore an unpretentious shoe-repairing
and hat-cleaning establishment on
Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn. There a
slight middle-aged man, who said he
was Mike Allini, an employe, recog-
nized the hat.

“Sure, I see this hat before,” he said
readily. “IT sew up the band and put
in new lining; but I dunno nothin’
about the man. Only know what he
leoks like. Couple times, now and
then, he used to come in for a shine.”

Though no one else in the store
could volunteer anything more helpful,
the detective left the place with the
satisfaction that the description blend-
ed perfectly with the one given by the
trainmen and the ticket agent. It also
strengthened his conviction that the
bandits were Brooklyn men. But how
go on from there?

Tracy reported directly to Ryan,
who was impressed with the result,
vague as it was.

“I can’t help but feel, Chief, that
those men are still here in Brooklyn,”
Tracy said. “They’re playing wise by

(Continued on Page 35)

31


is. 4 the eee

staying under cover and going easy on
their haul until the hunt tapers off. If
you have no objection I’d like to work
the dives alone for a little while. It’s
worked for us before, you know, and
it may work again. At least we have
the thing localized in our hunt for
change-spenders.”’

Ryan laughed. “The guise of the
Lone Wolf, eh? The newshounds’ll eat
you up if you break this case that
way. They love that stuff.”

That evening Tracy sought out the

questionable resorts, scanning faces

and applying pointed questions to pro-
' prietors and employes. This job, too,
was as tedious as the one checking the
=. hat-repairers.
a Several minutes before 3 a.m. he
“.sauntered into the Purple Doll Club,
where couples were on the dance floor,
at tables and at the bar. As his ob-
servant gaze swept the crowd, a slen-
der white arm, exposed in its eve-
“ning wear, tapped him on the shoulder,
-and a throaty, husky voice said:
..*Hello, Mr. Tracy.”
The detective wheeled and faced a
slim, blue-eyed blonde in a blue and
*“*coral gown, whom he recognized as
Lucy Marino, a former reformatory
inmate he once had done a good turn.
“Listen, Mr. Tracy,” she whispered
~secretively. “I know from the papers
- you're working on that B. M. T. mur-
“der, and I think I got a steer for you.”
- Tracy retreated with her to a table

‘in a far corner of the room, partially

‘hidden by a tinsled art display.

- “JT just learned this early this eve-

“ning,” she rushed on. “There’s a young

‘guy called Duke—I don’t know what

his real name is—who was in several

joints I happened to be in. He had a

“couple of dames with him and he was

“paying off for everything in silver—
» “spending nickels, dimes, quarters from
= left to right. He kept bragging he
“ *eould buy the dames anything they

“wanted.” .

z CHANGE-SPENDER at last! But
‘ was he one of the bandits?

BARREL ATS

“2 “Where is this Duke now?”
*% “TI don’t know, Mr. Tracy. He walked
t ahead of me in the last place. But
i “I think I can put you onto him. Lis-
« -ten, his face isn’t new: to me because
_ I’ve seen him a number of times in a
“eandy store over in Court Street. You
* might find him there around ten-thirty
this morning if what he told those
als is on the level. You see, I heard
Ein say that if they wanted to go out
with him again tonight they should
phone him at the store.”
Tracy beamed gratefully. “That’s
ct of you, Lucy! Anything else be-
I call it a night?”
= “Yeah,” Lucy said. “Maybe this’ll
Mean something. When I first saw him
-haul out a pile of change, I asked
@. Somebody who. the kid was and was
» told that he comes from Hartford, Con-
* necticut.”
> Repeating his thanks, Tracy hur-
» Tied back to Headquarters, made his
»Téport and there grabbed several hours
© Of much-needed sleep.
~At 10:30 that morning a slender,

<a

an shirt and brown cap, called a

» umber supplied by Information.
Lone Wolf Tracy was masquerading
“a masquerade that meant death if
i© were unmasked. Would the risk be

® SWer to his call. Was luck with him?

»& voice came on the line.

~~ “Hello.” The voice was flat, emotion-

Tracy’s was more breathless.

“Say, mister,” he chirped, “I wanna

talk wid a guy named Duke. This is a

® Pal of his callin’.”

So far, so good. But could he fool

—ee

For $70.00 at Avenue X (Continued from Page 31) ogricy

Duke? A moment later, Tracy was
saying: “Duke... .?”

“Yeah,” came a_ guarded voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Duke, this is ‘Al Piazzo’ from

Hartf’d. I’m hot an’ I gotta fin’ a bunk
quick. Kin y’help me out till the heat
cools?”

There was a pause, a seemingly long
one. Had Duke smelled a rat? Tracy
couldn’t be sure, for Duke’s voice,
still guardedly, said, ‘‘Never heard of
you. Don’t know what you’re talking
about. Y’got the wrong number, I
think.”

“No, I haven’t, Duke. Listen, please
... I never met you, but a pal o’ mine
named Al in Hartf’d tol’ me when I
beat town t’ look y’up, that maybe y’d
bunk me.” Tracy tried to put despera-
tion into his disguised voice.

“Al, eh? You mean Al
asked Duke.

For the fraction of a second Tracy
hesitated. Then, in a hoarse rush of
words, he exclaimed: “Yeah, yeah,
Duke—Al Renza! He says you'll help
me out if I mention his name.”

“He did, eh?” Another instant of
silence followed. Finally the voice said:
“Okay, Piazzo. Meet me in fifteen min-
utes at Smith and Carroll Streets.
G’by.”

The inelegantly dressed caller step-
ped from the booth, took a deep breath,
looked at his wrist-watch and scurried
for the corner subway stairs. So far it
had been easy. Now came the real
test. What if Duke had seen him be-
fore and would recognize him now?

Minutes later he was at the ap-
pointed corner, looking up and down
the street with a furtive eye. As he
restlessly bit his finger-nails, a Chev-
rolet sedan pulled up beside him. A
low-pitched voice called: “Hey, you!
You Piazzo?”

“Yeah, I’m Piazzo,’’ Tracy answered
eagerly. “You Duke?” .

“Yeah,” was the reply. “Hop in,
quick!”

Tracy hopped in with alacrity be-
side the driver, a slim, black-haired
young man, with a weak chin and dap-
per appearance.

Several blocks were traversed in si-
lence before Duke demanded: ‘“How’d
you know where to phone me, Piazzo?”

“Oh,” Tracy replied readily, “I was
knockin’ aroun’ all night long from
one dive to another, askin’ those who
looked like right guys if they knew
anybody from Hartf’d called Duke. I
fin’lly bumped into some guy, who
said you hang out at a candy store on
Court Street.”

Duke smiled thinly, his eyes on the
road. “Lucky, huh? . .. Who was the
guy?”

The “hunted one” shrugged. “Don’t
know .. . Young guy, short, kinda
pale-lookin’. Didn’t gab much wid
him. Didn’t wanna get anybody too
suspicious . . . Uh, where we goin’,
Duke? To a hideout?”

Duke ignored the questions. ‘‘What’re
you on the lam for, Piazzo? Y’forgot
to say.”

“Stickup I pulled. Got nearly a cen-
tury from a gas station and plugged
the attendant. I couldn’t help it. He
made a move fer somethin’ an’ my trig-
ger finger got jittery. Don’t know yet
whether he’s dead or not.”

Duke whistled and lapsed into si-
lence, his mouse-like face void of ex-
pression. Was he leading the detective
into a trap? Had he already seen
through Tracy’s thin disguise?

Renza?”

Tee asked again: ‘‘Where’re we

goin’, Duke?”

“To a place where some of my pals
are hanging out—the other end of
Smith Street. If it’s okay with them,
maybe you can stay there a while.”

Tracy sighed thankfully—both in
and out of character. “Gee, that’s
swell of you, Duke! If they do, I’ll

never forget none of you.” And he
meant it, although he guessed Duke’s
pals would have more excuse to re-
member him—if he could beat them
to the draw.

Assured now of protection, Piaz-
zo became loquacious. “Say, what’re
you doin’ now, Duke? Makin’ out
okay?, Al says you’re a pretty right
guy—an’ slick, too. Think a lot o’you,
he does.”

HE driver snorted. “Kinda sur-
prises me, that. I didn’t think that
guy would praise his own brother.”
Tracy laughed somewhat forcefully.
“You know how some guys are. Never
know what to expect from ’em.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Some guys are
all the time full of surprises, huh?”

Mrs. Sarah Elizabeth Powers: She
still has much to learn about in-
surance. Read the story on Page 32

Duke looked -at Tracy out of hooded
eyes..Did he suspect—?

“You bet!” “Piazzo” agreed. “Say,
by the way, this burg here sure got
some excitement the other day.
Y’no, that train-station stickup. Smart
guys who got away with that. Kin y’
imagine! Gettin’ away with a nice pile
o’ change, killin’ a guy, an’ lettin’ the
bulls go aroun’ in a fog! I calls that
real work. Bet those guys are profes-
sionals, wid brains an’ real methods
an’ everything.”

Duke shifted his position, making
no reply. Would he be taken in by
this flattery?

“Y’know,” continued Tracy, his en-
thusiasm soaring, ‘“‘that job had class
to it. Look how the newspapers—all
over the country, I bet—tellin’ the
world how dumb the cops are. When
things quiet down fer me, I sure would
like t’meet up wid real guys like
that!”

The car slid to a halt before a three-
family brownstone house. Duke’s hand
paused on the door handle as he
looked straight at his prattling pas-
senger.

“This is the place, pal. If the boys
okay you, you can stay.” He dropped
his voice to a confidential whisper.
“And if you prove to be a _ good
enough guy, maybe we can fix it so
you can join this gang you’re raving
about. We happen to be—”

“Geeze!’’ Piazzo exclaimed incred-
ulously. “You fellows ain’t them
guys?”

A snaky, superior smile twisted

Duke’s thin lips. “Maybe we are,”
he said. “Let’s get out.”
Duke ran ahead. He pressed a bell

Read It First in
AL DETECTIVE STORIES

button three times, then let himself
in with a latch-key. Tracy followed
him up two flights of stairs and into
a small-sized apartment, where two
men, dark-haired. heavy-set and
hard-looking, were playing cards.
They looked up at the newcomers,
nodding curtly to Duke and staring
with hostile eyes at the stranger.
Tracy mentally held his breath—the
next moment would spell success or
defeat. Or death...

Duke made the introductions. “Boys,
this is Al Piazzo from Hartford. He’s
on the lam for a gas-station stickup
... Al, meet Joe Bolognia and Teddy
Di Donne, the big shots of our outfit.”

Bolognia slammed his cards to the
table. “Shut up, you fool!” he barked,
withering the youth with a menacing
stare. He turned to Tracy. “So you're
from Hartford and on the lam, huh?
Ever been in Brooklyn before?”

“No, never. Why?” Tracy asked,
looking surprised and wondering if he
could draw his gun fast enough if
things went bad.

“Because I’ve never been to Hartford
either, and there’s something very
familiar about your puss.”

“T don’t get all this, Joe,” Duke
wiined, his face a study in perplex-
ity.

Di Donne leaped to his feet. “Sure,
there’s something familiar about him!”
His hand cracked against Duke’s face.
“You stupid double-crosser!”’ he cried.
“You brought a copper here!”

Bhan pay-off! Tracy had been recog-
nized!

At the word “copper” Duke shrank
back, Di Donne’s hand flew to his side
and Bolognia’s fist doubled itself and
sped for the copper’s jaw.

With lightning rapidity, Tracy’s head
jerked away, missing the blow by
inches. The same instant his service
revolver gleamed, his finger tense on
the trigger. Fairly bursting with ex-
citement, his eyes studied the room.
Where was the fourth bandit?

“The very first move any one of you
makes,” he bellowed, “starts this gun
goin! Now line up, face against the
wall, with your hands in the air.”

The men obeyed, Di Donne and
Bolognia snarling and cursing. “I knew
he was a cop right away,” Di Donne’ -
growled. “His picture was in this
morning’s Mirror.”

Frisking them, Tracy deprived Bo-
lognia’s holster of a .38 automatic and
Di Donne of a .32 pistol. Duke was
weaponless. Keeping his gun trained
on their backs, the detective backed
away to a corner where a hand-set
phone was resting on a cheap piece of
furniture. He dialed Chief Ryan’s of-
fice and in a few words explained the
situation. Apparently the fourth bandit
wasn’t around...

Minutes later squad cars screamed
their way to the house. The trio were
hurried into the cars and driven away.

After explaining to Ryan that other
members of the gang were expected at
the house shortly, Detectives McNally
and Murphy were ordered to watch the
house, with several uniformed officers,
and seize all who tried to enter the
apartment.

At Headquarters the three men
withstoce the barrage of questions
hurled at them, denying any com-
plicity in the holdup and shooting.

Tracy singled out the blubbering
Duke, whose name was proved to
be Salvatore Scata.

“Listen, Scata,” he said grimly, “you
might as well start talking because
we’ve got a mob of witnesses who
swear you're the one who killed Es-
posito. That means the chair for you,
Sceata. The chair!”

The youth’s pores oozed sweat. The
fear of death broke him completely.
He talked, telling everything.

The robbery plans, he said, were

~ March OFFICIAL

DETECTIVE STORIES Will Go on Sale Friday, January 26

35


Donne, Bolognia,
self and three other men, Sam Kim-
mel, Eugene Bruno and Dominick

Zizzo, at a tavern a week before the

murder. They had watched Esposito
and knew his actions and schedule.

On the night of the murder, Scata
and Bolognia were on the platform,
waiting for the train. Scata put on the
drunk act as planned, with Bolognia
pretending to aid him. Downstairs, in
the meantime, in the toilet behind the
agent’s booth, Di Donne, Bruno and
Kimmel were waiting for their cues.
Outside, at the wheel of the Chevrolet
sedan, Zizzo was racing the motor for
the getaway. ;

When Esposito was ordered to “stick
‘em up!” Di Donne suddenly appeared
in time to order Bolognia to strike
the collector on the head. The shots
fired were from Di Donne’s gun. The
moment the roar of the bullets was

‘sounded, Kimmel, Bruno and Scata
lost all memory of their allotted duties
and scrambled for the waiting car. Di
—— and Bolognia followed with the
oot.

Tracy brought forth the fedora hat.
“This is yours, isn’t it, Scata?” he said.

Scata admitted it was.

“How come the initials J. C. C.?”
Chief Ryan wanted to know.

"Live With Me and Be Killed" (Continued from Page 34) orice,

down and answered it—it was a box-
number advertisement. He left the
next day. That was about two weeks
ago and we haven’t seen him since.”

The Sheriff asked him if he had read
the advertisement or if Parks had dis-
cussed the job with him.

Carroll shook his head slowly. “Jim
wasn’t the kind that talked much,” he
said. “All he told us was that the ad
looked good and he clipped it and put
it in his pocket. Then when he got the
telephone call from these people who
had advertised he packed his bag and
left, saying he’d see us in a day or two
and tell us all about the new job. One
thing I’m certain, it wasn’t a printing
job. It was some business where he
had to go live and drive someone in a
car or something.”

[= WAS all very vague, this answering

a blind-box advertisement and
suddenly disappearing, the Sheriff
thought. But he knew something about
college students and their habits. The
two Carroll brothers, with the indif-
ference of youth, undoubtedly had con-
cluded that their friend had found a
comfortable job and that when he
wanted them to know about it he
would pay a visit to The Hall. In the
meantime they had their studies and
the jobs they were holding to pay for
their tuition to occupy every waking
moment of their own time.

“Could you give me an idea of the
date that advertisement appeared in
the Telegraph?” he asked hopefully.

Paul Carroll was thoughtful for a
moment. “It would be around the first
week in this month,” he said at last.
“Jim was feeling pretty blue. Then
he got a postcard from Mr. Anderson
at the home and it cheered him up a
bit. Right away I saw him reading the
ad in the paper.”

The Sheriff allowed the young man
to go back to his studies. The paper
which contained the ad would be the
one that appeared on the day after
Superintendent Anderson mailed the
cheery card from Hapeville. By this
time Mr. Anderson was already on his
way to Macon, the Sheriff judged.
There was nothing to do but wait until
he arrived, find out the date the postal
was mailed if the superintendent
could remember, and then trace every
blind-box ad that appeared in the
Telegraph on the day the card was
delivered.

Superintendent Anderson arrived in
Macon late that afternoon. The news-
papers already had printed the fact
that the murdered youth was an or-
phan from the Hapeville Home. Scores
of persons who knew young men from
the institution had been to the morgue
to see the body. Others had telephoned
the Sheriff with clews, hints or sug-

36

him-

he said, “so it couldn’t be traced back
to me in case something happened to
it. I thought it would give the cops
the runaround.”

Two hours after Scata’s confession,
McNally and Murphy arrested Kimmel,
Bruno and Zizzo. When, like Di Donne
and Bolognia, they refused to talk,
District Attorney William F. X. Geog-
han resorted to an experiment in psy-
chology. The morning after their arrest
he had the six men brought into his
private office, where they found to
their surprise and curiosity a set-up
of Klieg lights and newsreel cameras.
He placed Scata before the lens and
requested him to repeat his confession.

Scata began first to comb back his
hair and straighten his clothes.

“Wait a minute,” Bolognia said. “Do
you mean that Duke here is going to
be in the movies?”

“That’s right,” the District Attorney
said. “Not only will millions of people
the country over see and hear him
but the jury as well. There'll be no
mistake as to what either Scata or the
rest of you have to say about your
crime.”

The cameras began to grind. Scata
began to speak, at first nervously, then

gestions. The murder of an orphan
youth had stirred the public’s sym-

pathy and the Sheriff and his deputies ~

were taking the heat.

Anderson -was wiping mist from his
eye-glasses when he walked into the
Sheriff’s office and introduced himself
in a shaking voice. He had just been
to the morgue, he said. The dead boy

An early photograph of James W.
Parks who died when he tried to
earn his way through college

—no doubt about it—was the orphan,
James W. Parks.

The Sheriff told him that he had
located Paul Carroll and had obtained
the orphan’s tragic history. He ex-
plained the significance of the adver-
tisement and held his breath when he
asked the superintendent if there was
any way to learn the exact date the
card was mailed.

“It was my last note to the boy,”
said Anderson, “and naturally~ before
I left I made a record of my cor-
respondence with him.”

Opening the brief-case which he had
carried under his arm, the orphanage
superintendent consulted his notes.
“The card was mailed May 6,” he said.
“A letter May 1. That is all the cor-
respondence I had with James.”

The Sheriff sighed with relief. The
task of tracing every advertisement

et SS

ished, Bolognia stepped forward.
“Wait a minute. I got something to
say about this job, too. Shoot those
cameras again, boys! I’m the one who
told that collector guy to ‘stick ’em
up!’ And when he tried to draw on
me, I slugged him on the head. Like
this, see...” /

Ts fascination of the lenses and his
contempt for his pal’s_ bluster
caused Di Donne to swagger into the
glare of the camera lights, with a
derisive sneer on his sallow face.

“That’s right, sure,” he said scorn-
fully. “But when that collector still
tried to get us I just squeezed that
trigger of mine and let him have it.”

As the cameras continued to grind,
the lure gradually overcame the stub-
bornness of Bruno, Kimmel and Zizzo,
and they strutted before the machines,
too, recounting their share in the
crime.

The following day the Ballistics Bu-
reau confirmed the relationship be-
tween the bullets found in Esposito’s
body and the gun taken from Di
Donne. Two days later the six were
indicted by the grand jury for first-
degree murder.

On May 6, 1936, Scata, Bolognia, Di

that appeared in the Macon Telegraph
on May 7 would be slight compared
with the incalculable value of the lead
he expected the work to yield. Leav-
ing the superintendent to make his re-
port and positive identification of the
body to the coroner, Sheriff Hicks and
Deputies Stephens and J. Harris set
out for the newspaper plant.

In the library at the newspaper office
the Sheriff thumbed through the files
for the current month, which were
clipped to a steel frame. He turned
eagerly to the want-advertisement
section for May 7. The Telegraph is
not’ a large newspaper and its want-
ad columns are by no means exten-
sive. There were the usual “catch ads”
under the “Male Help Wanted” cap-
tion, advertisements designed to sell
young men correspondence courses in
one subject or another. Four adver-
tisements asked for chauffeurs and
housemen, but all of these carried the
names of the advertiser.

The only local “blind ad” in the
column did not call for a reply to a
newspaper box but to a box in the post
office. The Sheriff pursed his lips in
puzzled surprise. “That’s an odd one,”
he said. “It might be the one he an-
swered.” He read the ad aloud:

“Wanted young man _ twenty-one
years of age; single; no encumbrances;
to live as one of family and assist in
very pleasant business. Prefer an or-
phan, one reared in the country; good
disposition. Good home and salary.
No experience needed; references re-
quired. Apply P. O. Box 385, Macon,
Georgia.”

The Sheriff carried the file into the
business office and asked a_ bright
young clerk if she remembered the ad.
The girl read it and smiled prettily.
“We’ve had several like that,” she
said.

“Mailed or brought in?” asked Dep-
uty Sheriff Harris quickly.

“Two were mailed but the adver-
tiser brought this one in and paid for
it at the desk,” said the girl. “I took
it myself. It was Mrs. Powers—Mrs.
Sarah Powers, an old lady who lives
at the corner of Cherry and Second
Streets. She has an apartment there
and takes roomers.”

Sheriff Hicks looked disappointed.

“IT know her,” he said. “Known her
for 40 years. Knew her husband—he
died years ago. There’s no way on
earth she could be mixed up in—”

“What’s she advertising for, you
reckon?” asked Deputy Sheriff Ste-
phens suspiciously. “That’s the only
ad in the bunch that looks queer.”

The Sheriff studied the matter for a
moment.

“They used to be in the grocery
business,” he said. “She’s past sixty
and maybe she wants to get back into

‘recklessly, pompously. When he fin-—

_hothing about James W. Parks.

. ie CR aS A Diab.
Donne, Zizzo, Kimmel and Bruno went
on trial for their lives before a jury
and County Judge Peter J. Broncato.
with Assistant District Attorney Kop
prosecuting. "

Though the newsreel. confessions
were withheld voluntarily from the
jury by the prosecution, the jury,
nevertheless, found in the mass of eyij-
dence and the parade of witnesses
enough to convince them of the ban-
dits’ guilt. Five days later, on May 11,
they returned a verdict of “guilty ag
charged in the indictment.”

Judge Broncato sentenced them
die in the chair the week of June 2,
1936. Appeals stayed the execution,
And on January 6, 1937, though the
Court of "Appeals upheld the verdict,
Governor Lehman commuted to life:
imprisonment the sentences of Scata,
Bruno, Kimmel and Zizzo. =

Bolognia and Di Donne were not so
fortunate. Two months later, crying,
screaming, pleading, almost insane
with fear, they were carried to the=
chair, a manner very much different,
from the one they used to strut arro=:
gantly before the eyes of the cameras?

“a

The names Lucy Mgrino and Alt
Renza are fictitious for obvious rea~:
sons. g

a

4

Read It First in
AL DETECTIVE STORIES

business and needs a young fellow to.
do the hard work. There’s no hari
in going to see her, of course. You:
two do that and I'll begin to check
these ads back a few days. The young
fellow may have been reading an old
mg when his chum saw hini clip the
a Td %
He cautioned the deputies not to’
embarrass old Mrs. Powers with:
pointed questioning. .The chances:
were, he said, sHe’d know absolutely

=

In the ‘next half-hour the Sheriff
went through the want advertisements ©
for a week prior to May 7. The stenog-*
rapher remained to help him, although |
it was 5:30 p.m. and time for her to
close the office for the day. By six
o’clock the Sheriff had a list of Macon.
residents who had placed blind ads 4
in the help-wanted columns and a list™
of others who had used their own™
names, addresses or telephone num-
bers.

While listing the advertisements the
Sheriff mulled over in his mind every
phase of the orphan’s death. The card.
was significant as being purposely left
in the pocket so that identification of
the body would be certain, he thought.
He was positive that the killer had sat
beside his victim fora long time be-
fore pulling the gun—this indicating
that Parks and his slayer were well”
acquainted. In fact, the victim might”
have been asleep when the first shot
was fired. It seemed plain that the
dead man’s pockets had been rifled of*
all identifying papers before or after ¢
he was slain. His underwear was new ~
and his suit had never been to thes
cleaners. Did the killer know these.
things or were they merely coinci-
dental? ‘

There was the question of motive.4
Although he had side-tracked the idea
of a lovers’ quarrel, the Sheriff con-
sidered it again as he scratched the #
addresses from the advertising lists. -
Still it did not seem to fit the case
at all. ;

UDDENLY the officer straightened
up and pushed the newspaper file’
away from him. The stenographer:
looked startled. §
“Have you seen enough of the files?”s
she asked.
“Yes—yes,” Sheriff Hicks answered;
abstractedly, turning to walk out of3
the office. ye

Sheriff Hicks had a theory.

It was born of the scrap of postcard
and the theory that young Parks’ slay=
er had wanted him traced to the or-3
phanage. 4

Why would it be necessary for a>
killer to make certain his victim, aj
homeless young orphan, would
identified?


a4
i
}

arles, white, elec. NYS (Erie) July 31, 1907

- ™ . wien

7)

By LLOYD GRAHA!

Buffalo’s Strangest t

ing of December 4, 1903, as residents of Buffalo, N. Y., ;
read in their morning papers of the startling climax t«
a mystery that had fascinated them for almost a month.

It was a news story that answered the mystery that had led ;
Buffalo police through a tangled and baffing maze of clues.
The enigma concerning Franz and Johanna Frehr, an elderly
couple, was solved.

It all started on the afternoon of November 23, 1903, when
Mrs. Minnie Baum decided to pay a visit to her old friends and
neighbors, the Frehrs. Mrs. Baum liked the kindly old couple,
whom she had known since she was a little girl, and she felt
that she had been neglecting them.

As she walked briskly along Jefferson avenue that November
afternoon, she wondered how Mrs. Frehr’s rheumatism was
getting along. The last time she had seen her, the aged woman
had supported herself as she walked around the parlor by clutch-
ing at convenient pieces of furniture. But then, thought Mrs.
Baum, the woman was at least 86!

She quickened her steps. She liked Mr. Frehr as well as she
did his wife. A year or two older, he was a great deal spryer,
and his alert brown eyes always twinkled merrily beneath bushy,
snow-white brows. He always complimented her on her pre-
serves, and Mrs. Baum was glad that this afternoon she was
taking several jars to them.

She climbed the steps to the Frehr house, knowing that Mr.
Frehr would open the door in answer to her knock, as he always
did, his slight figure hidden behind the worn cabinet-maker’s
apron he continued to wear from lifelong habit. His cabinet-
making days were far behind, but the aged man wouldn’t have
felt properly dressed without his apron.

s OFFEE grew cold and eggs went unnoticed on the morn- ;

Capt. Michael Regan, above, heard two worried

daughters tell of the sudden and unexplained

disappearance of their aged parents from their

home on Jefferson avenue, Buffalo, shown by
the arrow in the picture at the right.

°

44 DARING


True Detective Mysteries |

|
cold. If it was involved in the Kennedy shooting, it would have had to average nearly forty- an
three miles an hour the entire trip—even if it had just arrived. I did not believe it

possible that this particular car could be involved. -

It had the registration number 8L865 but it was plain that someone had
slipped up on the fugitive car numbers. I turned back to Headquarters.

In the meantime, Patrolman Kennedy was between life and
death at St. Joseph’s Hospital. At his bedside were Chief Abram
W. Skidmore; Assistant District Attorney Richard H. Brown;
Lieutenant Morse and Dr. Benjamin W. Seaman, police
surgeon. They waited impatiently for Kennedy to
come out of a coma but it was mid-afternoon be-
fore the wounded cop could talk coherently.
During his fleeting moments of consciousness,
Kennedy revealed that he had stop in
the lane when he spied another car’
backed into the bushes.

Halting to gain his labored
breath, Kennedy told Chief
Skidmore: “I pulled in close
to the radiator of the car—

I was moving slowly. My
headlights didn’t disclose
anyone in the parked

machine. I intended to drive past just a few feet

carbo

and then stop. Just as the rear of my car cleared death

the front of the other—my front bumper struck a ‘of the

stump.” The

Lieutenant Morse and others had examined to Ke

the ‘police car and found that the bumper slid over mud :

the top of the short stump—then down, catching mark.

the P. D. car in a fish-hook hold. It took two men whizze

to lift the tightly wedged police car off the stump. Ken

beneat

KENNEDY couldn’t help us out much. When registr

COMPANY Jf he realized his car was wedged tightly, he shut the na
a ee i the motor off and got out. He looked around the lights.

went tte oo ee ; ia parked: car and searched inside. Then he started own gi
Prertse ig .to walk around toward the front but he stopped fleeing
Sete ea short as a deep voice called out of the darkness just Still
140829 ve ahead, ‘“‘Who’s there?” roll ov
% “A policeman,” Kennedy quickly replied. shots.

Without another word being said, a single shot even s
rang. out—the first shot heard by Mrs. Rousse. him fr.

’ Kennedy told us he thought he heard a second reloadi
shot, but we later proved that only one was fired, for hel)

its echo resounding in the still, moist night air. “Loc

Kennedy told us that, although he knew he was Skidm«
hit, perhaps vitally, he struggled to keep conscious } piece o
and look at his assailants. He saw one form dash No t

past him. Then the doors of the car slammed shut, failure
the motor roared, spitting flakes of incandescent Lieuter


Murder in Lovers’ Lane 29

In the cap lining he found several sheets of paper. On one was the number 8L685. This,

we discovered at once, was not the number Hirsch gave us. It was plain to see that

in the telling, the six and eight had been reversed. Kennedy told us he might

have been mistaken in the number he repeated to Hirsch—but he was

‘more certain of the number he wrote down himself. It gave us new hope.
‘What make of.car was it, Jack?’’ questioned the Chief.

“I am positive that it was a Willys-Knight sedan,” whispered

f Kennedy. “I could see the maker’s emblem plain. It

be F ' ot tv looked like it was maroon color.”’

e We were hardly started on the probe of one of the

most gruelling “murder” cases in the Long Island

ger area. I say “murder” because the best doctors

ee told us that Kennedy could not live. Patrol-

=— Ms: Pi aking 8 Eg _ MSR man Kennedy was one of the biggest

g men in the entire Nassau County

Police Department of more than

four hundred members. He had a

handsome face and. stalwart

figure. He was a policeman

whose judgment and _ in-

telligence were recognized.

His future was bright

up to the shooting.

ee re
Priomletere

just a few feet
my car cleared
imper struck a

had examined
imper slid over
jown, catching
took two men
off the stump.

much. When
ightly, he shut
ced around the
nen he started
ut he stopped
e darkness just

replied. shots. There was no answering sound, the shots .
a single shot even silencing the crickets. Increasing agony tore
rs. Rousse. him from head to foot but did not stop him from
eard a second reloading his gun and sending another staccato call
one was fired, for help into the pitch darkness.

oist night air.
knew he was
keep conscious
one form dash
slammed shut,
f incandescent

carbon behind. Kennedy saved himself from instant
death when he pulled his left arm and head out

‘of the path of the wheels of the fugitive car.

The spinning wheels ground on the mud, so close
to Kennedy’s uniform that it was spattered with
mud and his coat sleeve was creased by a wheel
mark. With its headlights darkened, the auto
whizzed almost over Kennedy’s prostrate form.

Kennedy groped for his gun, pinned in the holster
beneath him. He caught a fleeting glance at the
registration number of the thug car as it sped through
the narrow beams of light from the police car head-
lights. Laboriously Kennedy delayed drawing his
own gun to scrawl the number he had geen on the
fleeing car, on a pad in his cap lining.

Still fighting off oblivion Kennedy managed to
roll over. He drew his gun and fired a volley of

“Look in my cap,’’ Kennedy instructed Chief
Skidmore, “I wrote the auto numbers down on a
piece of paper.”’

No time was lost to find the pad after our first
failure in checking the number reported by Hirsch.
Lieutenant Morse searched Kennedy’s uniform.


r, municipal directories;
3; another, operators’
e state-wide search of

umber he had written
rgeant Jesse Mayforth
e number 8L685 was
t owner, not a stone’s

located Geer and re-
kly admitted that the
ned by him. He told
eggers and that it had
ipped over the United
he year.
1ibition men by tele-
showed that the car
N. Y., garage. We
ves that the car was
not been sneaked out

(Left to right)
George Fitzgerald,
Mrs. Fitzgerald and
Patrolman Jack
Delaney. Mrs. Fitz-
gerald, before her
marriage, was shot
in the arm—a
wound that led to
a surprising sequel
in another state

(Right) William
French, who told
a story that startled
the police, and ex-
treme right, Officer
Louis Schwab at
Nassau County
Headquarters

Murder in Lovers’ Lane 31

and fallen in the hands of gangsters. We readily found the
car. It had not been moved since first impounded and the
registration plates had not been removed. There was no
doubt the car could not have been used in the Kennedy shoot-
ing. Our case again had cracked up against a blank wall by
eliminating the very license numbers which we had hoped
would lead us to a speedy solution.

Anybody. owning an automobile with the registration
number approximating that jotted down by Kennedy would
now become a red hot suspect. The same applied to any-
one with the “A.B.” initials. We realized very well that
there were hundreds of Willys-Knight automobiles in exis-
tence and many people with the initials “A.B.” It was a
disheartening start but we were ready to grasp at anything
to identify a suspect. Newspapers had as much information
as we did in the early stages of the probe. We decided to
reveal everything we knew, scant though it was, in hopes
that publicity would return us some information. After all,
it was one of those cases in which there was a possibility of
locating the fugitive if he was scared out of his usual haunts.
If the fugitive did go into hiding—we did not get an inkling
of it.

We investigated a rumor that a policeman and a woman
had been seen in the vicinity of the Woodmere railroad sta-
tion shortly before midnight, July 22nd. The rumors reached
the ears of Kennedy and his wife. It meant only intensify-
ing their hope that the truth of the shooting be revealed—
that the suspect be caught to end rumors. There was nothing
to substantiate the theory that Kennedy might have been
on the wrong end of a petting party. Chief Skidmore and
myself refused to entertain the idea on flimsy rumors. After
all, Kennedy had not been on duty very long that night
when the bullet found its mark. (Continued on page 107)

30 True Detective Mysteries

(Left to right) Sergeant Harry F. Butts and In-
spector Harold R. King, co-author of the story, examine
a gun of mystery that led to a strange denouement

Not long before that tragic July night he had married
Jane. A little more than a year after their marriage—and
a few months after the shooting of Patrolman Kennedy, his
young wife was visited by the stork. Fate decreed that the
child never knew its father excepting as a bedridden cripple.
Kennedy lived for the day when he could go back to their
modest little flower-surrounded home on Fourth Street,
New Hyde Park.

Mrs. Kennedy’s life was blighted by the prolonged tragedy
in her home. She knew as did the rest of us that Big Jack
would not recover. She joined him in praying that his cruel
assailant be caught if only to see her bedridden husband
before he died.

ENNEDY was not shot without some reason. Every

logical motive was considered by us but without clue to

get at the truth. We felt sure that someone had been doing

something unlawful in the thicket that night; that the gun-

toter fired the moment-he realized a policeman was approach-

ing; shooting to kill to clear the way for escape. But what
was the crime and who fired the shot?

No reports of any hold-ups or assaults came in to the
precinct that night, nor the next. So far as facts were con-
cerned, it was a clueless and motiveless case outside of the
registration numbers.

Back at the scene, deep darkness broke into sombre, rain-
laden dawn. As sunlight seeped through we got a break.
Captain Comstock and Patrolman Michael Delaney spotted
a gray fedora hat. It was little more than a dozen feet from
the place where the fugitive’s car had been parked. The
telltale hat might well have been picked off a fleeing man’s
head by an overhanging bush.

Eager inspection of the hat showed that the initials “A.B.”
were printed in the lining. The trade mark showed it had
been purchased from Samuel I. Goldman, Mamaroneck,
N. Y., on the mainland side of Long Island Sound. A visit
to the hat shop was fruitless. Hundreds of exactly the same
type of hat had been sold at the store during the winter;
no record was kept of cash purchasers.

<a »~
Bie <<

A ‘as — we

books of the New York city area; another, municipal directories;
another, automobile registration lists: another, operators’
license lists in addition to the routine state-wide search of
criminal records.

As soon as Kennedy revealed the number he had written
down, it was relayed to Detective Sergeant Jesse Mayforth
at Headquarters. He found that the number 8L685 was

.assigned to Edward Geer, a restaurant owner, not a stone’s

throw from Headquarters, in Mineola.

Within a few minutes detectives located Geer and re-
turned him to Headquarters. He frankly admitted that the
car with the 8L685 registration was owned by him. He told
us that the car had been used by bootleggers and that it had
been seized while a load was being shipped over the United
States border from Canada earlier in the year.

We got in touch with Federal prohibition men by tele-

(Left to 1
George Fitzg
Mrs. Fitzgera
Patrolman
Delaney. Mrs
gerald, befor
marriage, wa
in the ar
wound that

a surprising

in another

(Right) W
French, wh<«
a story that st

Our quarry was a man with the initials “A.B.”’; who phone without delay. Their records showed that the car the police, a
owned or had access to a Willys-Knight sedan with the num- was ordered impounded in a Buffalo, N. Y., garage. We yao el
ber 8L685 and who toted a gun. Our investigation narrowed hustled to Buffalo to re-assure ourselves that the car was [es Meaeas Cc
down to a search of records. One man thumbed the telephone actually under lock and key and had not been sneaked out Headquar

|


112

of a life that’s giving you hell every
minute of the day

Nobody can sa; what John Ken-
nedy was thinkin: about while he
—e at that codein near his bed-
side. '

Maybe. he was thinking: “It’s nice
to have that stuff around .. . just in
case I get too tired. I’d only have to
take twice as much as they. usually
. ’'d be walking

peace... and even happiness. For
me, there would he rest.” : :
: Hoffman kept exercising his
ae She was counting out loud.
“Fifty,”. she said, “fifty-one, fifty-
two -three—”’
“And fifty-four,’ Jack may have
thought. “And fifty-five. What the
hell is it all about? Who do I think
I’m fooling? Mary’s exercising a
aralyzed leg, and she thinks she

ows. the score. I could swallow
half that codein before she got to
sixty-one.”

“Sixty-two,” Mary Hoffman droned.

“Sixty-three. Sixty-four—”’ When.

she got to one hundred, she turned
around, Jack Kennedy was lying
there with his cyes closed. Mary
Hoffman looked at him.

“Jack,” she said softly.

She took a step toward him. Then
she stood stock still, and her eyes
opened wide. She brought her wrist
up hard against her parted lips. She
stood there swaying for a second, and
then she lifted her cold finger-tips to
her throbbing temples.

“Jack!” she shrieked.

But John Kennedy didn’t hear her.
Handsome Jack was resting after his
valiant fight. He was deserving of
the epitaph he had so bravely won:
“Here lies the bravest cop... we ever
knew. He died on July 13th, 1932.
God rest his soul.” -

OUR years before his death, Ken-
inedy had been shot. . Still another
year passed before the Nassau County
olice had any ideas about whom to
bring into court to stand before the
bar of justice. :

As it happened, it took a fluke to
give the cops their lead.

A couple of ten-dollar storage bat-
teries disappeared from a cow station
on the Sunrise Highway. The police

icked-up a fifteen-year-old kid and
took him to headquarters for ques-
tioning.

Detective James McKeogh looked
the kid in the eye and said: “O.K.,
punk. Start singing.” ?

The kid sang. He talked himsclf
out of the robbery charge, but he told
about a couple of other things which
were of much more significance to the
authorities.

“It’s a tough gang, these guys I go
wit’,” he whined. “They give me a
bad name. Honest, boss, I didn’t steal
nuthin’; I just listen to them talk, but
I don’t do nuthin’. They tell me all
kinds of stories, and I listen and I
keep my ‘trap shut; but honest, boss,
I don’t do a thing.”

“What do they tell you?” McKeogh

asked.:

“Strictly the stuff, boss. All about
robberies, shootings, cop-killing. Just
talk, boss.”

McKeogh’s eyes bored deep into the
kid’s. “Cop killing?” he asked
slowly.

. Woodmere police.

CRIME DETECTIVE

“Sure,” the kid said. “Talk don’t
cost nuthin’, One guy is drunk once,
while we’re jel wir gan J in Woodmere.
He says he helped shoot a cop five
years ago. Strictly the stuff, boss.
It don’t mean a thing. Just shooting
off his mouth.”

The detective was remembering the
shooting at Old Mill Road, five years
before. He pressed the kid for more
information.

“Who said this? What’s the guy’s
name?”

_ The kid sat there for a second, try-
ing to remember.

“Frenchy, they called him,” he said
at length. “Bill French, I think it
was.’

Later, Detective McKeogh sent the
boy home and told his squad com-
mander, Sergeant John T. Keudel,
what he had learned. With Detective
John P. Jacoby, they went to the

“Who’s Bill French?” they asked.

It developed that French was one of
the town roustabouts; seemingly
harmless enough .. . a self-styled
tough-guy, who drove a garbage truck
for a private disposer. The police
knew French well and found it diffi-
cult to believe that he was their man.

“We'll round him up, just to make
sure,” Inspector King of the Wood-
mere Police said. “It won’t hurt to
find out what he’s doing these days,
anyway.”

ATER that night, when King and

McKeogh broke into the shack at
the rear of 22 Zavatt Street in In-
wood, Long Island, they located Bill
French. And when they found him,
they didn’t have to guess three times
to figure out what he was doing.

On a cot behind his garbage truck,

Bill French was sleeping like a spent
animal, by the side of his mistress.
_ The detectives stared at the sleep-
ing pair for a second. Then one of
them walked over to the cot and
prodded French into wakefulness
with his flashlight.

“Get up there, you filthy rat,” he
gritted. “Get up!’

French stirred and then sat bolt
upright in bed. He took one look at
the detectives and then, quick as a
flash, reached under the bed and
pulled out a gun.

McKeogh was ready for him. He
knocked the revolver out of French’s
hand and hit the youth a clip on the

jaw.

“No you don’t .. . you cop-killing
rat! This is one trip you didn’t change
your luck!”

The woman awoke and _ cringed
against the wall, mute with terror.
a sOucae King threw her clothes at

er.

“Cover up there, sister,” he_said.
“You're getting another ride. Down
to headquarters, this time.”

At the Woodmere Police Station,
the girl was identified as Pearl Smith,
and William French was prevailed
upon to make a little speech.

He admitted being in on the Ken-
nedy killing.

“T didn’t do the rod-work, though,”
he protested. “Al Brengard did that.”

“Who’s Al Brengard?”

“He used to be a state trooper,”
French said. “Big guy. A _ boxer.
We was:buddies. We robbed a couple
that night on Old Mill Road, and then
we ran into that cop. Al Brengard
shot him.”

“Where's Brengard now?”

“He’s in jail,” Frenchy said. “He
shot a dame over in Jersey. They got

him in the lock-up at Trenton.”
Investigation proved that this
was so. Alphonse Brengard was in
the Trenton State Prison, serving
time on an assault charge involving a

gun.
It developed that the ex-troopcr

had gone to live at Fairview, New

Jersey, At which place he met a Miss
Jane Kivelin. ,

When he caught the girl going
out with other men, Brengard jour-
neyed back to Woodmere to get the
revolver which he had hidden in a
chicken coop after shooting Hand-
some Jack Kennedy.

With the gun in his pocket, he
waited for Miss Kivelin to return
home from a date with a rival. Then,
as the girl walked up to the porch,
he emptied the revolver.

Fortunately, none of the shots took
great effect, and the girl recovered.

harges were pressed, however, and
Brengard was brought to trial and
convicted of assault.

Extradition from the Jersey prison
was infeasible, but the Nassau County
police arranged some sort of a deal.
The New Jersey Governor, for no
apparent reason, commuted = Bren-
gard’s sentence; and one fine day the

rison board set the former puygilist
ree.

Alphonse Brengard, happy as a lark,
walked out of the Trenton Peniten-
tiary. He walked three steps away
from the a gates and encoun-
tered two burly men.

“Pardon me,” he said, attempting
to pass.

“You just were pardoned,” one of
the men said. “What do you want to
be pardoned again for?”

he ex-trooper looked at the men
in amazement. “How’d you know?”
he asked.

One of the men took out a pair of
handcuffs. He snapped them on Bren-
gard’s wrists.

“We know lots of things,” he said.
“That’s why we came to bring you
these bracelets, and to give you a nice
aeroplane ride, all the way back to
Lane weoreateygt eas " ,

rengard go e. “Long Island?”
he echoed f .

“Yeah,” they told him. “Woodmere,

Long Island.”

Wi Brengard in the Mineola
jail, ballistics experts went to
work on the bullets which the pris-
oner’s gun was known to have fired.
They lh conclusively that the
slug taken from Jack Kennedy’s spine,
the bullets removed from Jane Kive-
lin’s shoulder, and the bullets fired
into the ballistics machine, were all
shot from the same gun.

This, then, was ‘the status of the
case of the People versus Alphonse
Brengard when I entered it.

The state had Brengard’s gun, the
slug which had lodged in Kennedy’s
spine, and a hat which was claimed to
have been dropped by Brengard five
years before, in the brush near Old
Mill Road.

Moreover, the state had a tremen-
dous amount of public sentiment
behind their cause. They also had
witnesses, Brengard’s record, Bill
French’s confession, and a_ clever
prosecutor to make the best of every
possible point

I promised Alphonse Brengard that
I would try to help him save his life.
On January 15th, 1934, I went into the
Nassau County Court’ and proceeded
to present Brengard’s case before
Justice .Cortlandt A. Johnson and a

jury of tw«
There is
the censur:
Brengard’s
that withir
gret for h:
man in a b
live in a
which are
live in a c
nocent unt
If it ca
Jack Kenn
the law, th
lar, the la.
tigated mi
The law
for homici
occurs mo:
after the <
deny that
long year:
Mill Roac
As am:
sure just
Kennedy
Even now
on the eve
my own <
conjectur:
There >
ormed «©
hat fact
of the tri:
viewed t!
the death
a practice
registered
The Sta
like emb:
gard’s sho
ations, ™
cause of «
autopsy t:
I stron:
policema:
death be:
years of |
for any n
I find
there was
and that |
Somehow
by his ow
no autops.

HIL}
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before
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jury of twelve good men and true.
There is no doubt that I incurred

the censure of some in undertaking

Brengard’s defense. To those I say

that within myself I can find no re-
ret for having attempted to aid a
man it a battle for his own life. We
live in a free country, under laws
which are designed for justice. We
live in a country where men are in-
nocent until they are proven guilty.

If it can be said that Handsome
Jack Kennedy was shot in upholding
the law, then in this case, in particu-
lar, the law is something to be inves-
tigated minutely. ;

The law holds that an indictment
for homicide will not lie where death
occurs more than one year and a day
after the alleged assault. No one can
deny that Kennedy went West four
long years after the shooting on Old
Mill Road.

As a matter of fact, no one can be
sure just what the exact cause of
Kennedy's death might have ‘been.
Even now, as I look back in retrospect
on the events of the trial, I have only
my own opinion, which at best is only
conjecture.

There was never an autopsy per-
ormed on Handsome. Jack’s body.

hat fact came out during the course

of the trial. Dr. Milch had not even
viewed the corpse. He just signed
the death certificate on the say-so of
a practical nurse who was neither
registered nor graduated.

The State maintained that a cork-
like embolus, resulting from. Bren-
gard’s shot—not from the many oper-
ations, mind you—was the direct
cause of death. There never was an
autopsy to prove it.

I strongly suspect that the valiant
policeman gave up his fight with
death because life, after four long
years of battle, wasn’t worth fighting
for any more.

I find myself remembering that
there was codein near Kennedy’s bed
and that the nurse’s back was turned.
Somehow, I feel that Kennedy died
by his own hand. I repeat: there was
no autopsy to prove I am wrong.

HILE Alphonse Brengard’s life

hung in the balance, Elvin N
Edwards, a brilliant prosecutor, added
weighty words and impressive wit-
nesses to the State’s side of the scale.
Yet none of those eminent medical
men could definitely state the exact
cause of Kennedy’s death.

One witness alone, a Dr. Seaman,
mentioned that “in all probability, the
death was embolic.”

I cannot forget that- Dr. Seaman
answered this question after a five-
minute recess with the district attor-

ney and the judge. I cannot forget .

that the good doctor was unable to

CRIME DETECTIVE

state the exact cause of death imme-
diately before that five-minute recess
was granted.

All the principals were there at the
trial. Brose Gearhart was there, and
Jane Kivelin. The detectives came,
and the doctors, and everyone else.
Everybody came around to help take
Brengard’s life.

There was a little trouble about
clues. The exhibits seemed to have
disappeared. The State was sup-

_posed to produce a grey fedora hat

with Brengard’s initials in the lining.
The lining couldn’t be found. It just
disappeared.

Miss Kivelin took the stand and
made the mistake of mentioning
Brengard’s attempt on her life.

“I object!” I cried. “I move for
mistrial!”

The court had another idea.

“Strike that out,” the stenographer
was instructed. “Take that fact out
of your minds,” the jury was told.

They don’t manufacture that kind
of an eraser, I’m sorry to say. And
Brengard’s sorry too, because he’s
dead.

That jury brought in a verdict of
guilty for Alphonse Brengard. They
listened to my summation and they
nodded their heads. They heard the
court charge them to “forget certain
irrelevant and immaterial testimony
which might be damaging to the de-
fense,” and they nodded their heads
again. They were asked to decide
whether Al Brengard’s bullet was
the exact cause of Kennedy’s death.
And although eight doctors didn’t
know, the jury was certain.

“Sure,” they said.
ong: Send him to the chair.”

rench got second degree murder;
we got the works. ;

Of course I appealed the verdict,
but it didn’t help us much. The law
seemed pretty strong, but there
wasn’t a reversal. “No,” they said.
“Al Brengard killed a cop.”

On September the 6th, 1934, at
eleven P. M., I sat in my room and
prayed, for a silent minute. It was
too late to do anything more for Al
Brengard. Al was walking down the
last mile, with his head shaved, and
his trouser-leg slit, and his eyes on
the Crucifix in the hands of the Priest
who walked before him. Then he sat
in the chair for six minutes, before
he died.

yom gy Brengard was dead, and
I, who had tried to help him, could
only pray that God have mercy on
his soul. ‘

But I was praying for more than
that. I was asking judgment for my-
self. I was praying that my duty, as
I saw it, had been done as best it
could; that I had not failed a fellow
man.

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{

The LOVERS’ LANE

KILLERS and the *

FOUR-YEAR DEATH

CUTS Tarte cuneate ke ke Ce
CRIME DETECTIVE MAGAZ NE, 2-19h2

A PAIR OF PETTERS—— ;
had been robbed before Kennedy was shot.

ASSAU County Patrolman Jack Kennedy eased his

radio cruiser down a winding dirt road near the

waterworks in Woodmere, L. I. That night in

July, 1928, was clear, and multitudes of stars
stippled the inky sky.

It was an ideal night for petting parties on wooded
lovers’ lanes. Kennedy’s mind, however, wasn’t on
romance. He was making his regular rounds of patrol.

Around a bend in the road the headlights on his
car picked out a sedan pulled back, well into a thicket.
Kennedy braked to a stop, then backed up until the
sedan was outlined in his headlights. After a discreet
interval he got out of his car, loosening the revolver
in his holster.

“Tm a police officer,” he called and walked warily
towards the car. It was empty.

Kennedy opened the door and went through the
car pockets, looking for a driver’s license or other papers
of identification. In the midst of his inspection, Kennedy


Elvin N. Edwards secured two
convictions in Kennedy case.

Pome xerrm Sy
toy
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be
,

a lovely winding wooded lane,
was a nightly petters’ paradise.

“Who the hell is that?” called a man’s voice.

“I’m a cop,” Kennedy answered. “Come here.”

His answer was the roar of a gun. Twice it flared
from the darkness and Kennedy, 6:-feet 4 inches, the
perfect picture of an officer, fell with a bullet in his
abdomen. As he sprawled on the ground, blinded by
the glare of his own car’s headlights, the patrolman
grabbed his service revolver and fired six shots at two
shadowy figures in the underbrush.

Then a numbing haze settled over him. He struggled
to reach the cartridges in his belt to reload his gun, but
couldn’t. The revolver slipped from his fingers. Ken-
nedy slumped prone on the ground.

Dimly he heard his assailants approach and stand
over him. .

‘“‘He’s a dead pigeon. C’mon, let’s get the hell out of
here.”

The speaker stepped callously over the prostrate
patrolman and slid behind the wheel as his com-
panion climbed in the other side of the sedan. Kicking


Left to “Fight: D=**-47yo James Neylon, ' Santo
Sal": Bretaano. Willie Rosenberg. and’ Detective
“John O'Brien after a. singing festival at ‘head-
‘quarters: had cleared up the murder of We ter.

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- —_ ———
« -

BY DAVID R. GEORGE

New York City the night of January 13, 1948. For three

weeks after the big storm at Christmas cold, leaden skies
had sifted fresh mantles of snow down upon Manhattan
faster than an untiring corps of sanitation workers could
handle it.

Under the sooty blanket that covered the city, the apart-
ment house at 68 East First Street still seemed almost pala-
tial in its surroundings. Less than a block away the elevated
trains rumbled above the Bowery, where shivering dere-
licts spent their panhandling gains in malodorous gin mills
and flophouses redolent of strong chemical sprays. Most of
the whole Lower East Side was a slum, but this building was
fairly new and, by comparison, expensive looking.

It was 9:30 o’clock. In the luxuriously furnished living
room of an apartment on the fifth floor at No. 68, a balding,
chunky man in his early 40s lolled in a club chair. His blue
silk pajamas and slippers indicated that he had no plans

G ew stood an inch deep on the streets and sidewalks of

Above, right: Mrs. Lottie Bruches, a neighbor,
holds the infant around whose crib a fusillade
was fired, wounding Chippy fatally. One of the
slugs went through the crib, but missed the tot.

Above, left: Terror-stricken for her husband and
six-months-old baby, Sylvia Weiner returned home
soon after Chippy was shot.
been walking, but her shoes were not damp.

Left: Benjamin "Chippy" Weiner had a $35 job
with a textile firm. But if he was leveling,
then how could large sums of cash, his expen-
sive apartment, his wife's furs be explained?

She said she had

for the evening other than watching the Madison Square
Garden fights on the television screen before him.

A bedroom door opened and a tall, striking brunette came
in, shrugging into a fur coat. She donned her hat before a
wall mirror, then turned back and tiptoed into the nursery
where her six-months-old son lay asleep. Softly she closed
his door and crossed the living room toward the corridor
exit. Her husband looked up.

“Where to, Sylvia?” he asked.

“Just for a walk. I’m restless tonight. The air will do
me good.”

He glanced at her feet, modishly shod in open-toe shoes.
“On a night like this you’ll go walking in them?” he said.
“You'll get pneumonia.”

She paused with her hand on the latch. “Mind little
Louis,” she said, ignoring his rebuke about her shoes.

“Yeah. When the fights are over I’m going to bed. Got
your key?”

Dry shoes and slushy streets didn’t make sense

*


adi dddY VAR, UNE diways. 4 Ws We

toe Jate. Goodnight.” .

Sylvia Weiner had not returned at
10:12 when five shots rang out in the
apartment and her husband Benjamin
staggered into the hall with blood
streaming down his clothing.

Other tenants came hurrying as
Weiner collapsed and fell heavily to
the floor. First to reach the wounded
man was Patrolman Louis Furcht, off-
duty from his assignment at the East
126th Street precinct station. He found
Weiner bleeding from wounds in the
neck,, shoulder and abdomen. The vic-
tim tried to speak and Furcht bent
close to hear his words.

“Take care of the baby,” Weiner
whispered. “Take care of my kid.”
Then he fell back unconscious and
Furcht, with the aid of other neighbors,
carried him into the apartment and
placed him gently on the bed. The in-
fant, now wide-awake, was standing
up in his crib, crying lustily. Lottie
Bruches, a tenant on the floor above,
took the little boy in her arms and
carried him to her own rooms.

Minutes later, police cars from the
Fifth Street precinct station arrived,
followed by an ambulance from Belle-
vue Hospital. Detective Lieutenant
Benjamin Miller hurried’ up to the
apartment with Detectives John O’Brien
and James Neylon. The ambulance
surgeon bent over the victim.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor
said, “buf he may have a chance if we
get him to the hospital at.once.”

While Weiner was carried away on

a stretcher, Lieutenant Miller turned.

Deputy Inspector Conrad Rothengast,
a veteran cop in the Broadway-Hell's
Kitchen district during Prohibition,
directed the probe in this bumpoff.

Right: Chippy once was sweet on "Red
Rose" Pantiel (left) and then jilted
her to marry her daughter Sylvia (at
ight). He also had another girl...

’ Far right: Adthough Sal Bretagna had
boasted he never would be taken alive,
he surrendered meekly and rode a Pull-
man back to New York—and the chair?

*

ww WME A CAMA WAAAARCAAA A CAALAAY CAAALA aac
other tenants.

All told the same story. They had
heard the sound of shots shortly before
they found Weiner in the hall. No one
had been seen entering the building
before the shooting or leaving after-
ward. There had been no one in the
apartment except the child after Weiner
lurched out. And no one had seen Mrs.
Weiner go.

Notorious Hood

Miller studied the notebook in which
he had written the victim’s name.
“Benjamin Weiner,” he repeated to the
others. “Good heavens! He’s Chippy
Weiner who ran with Lepke in the
Murder, Inc., mob!”

Weiner had a record as a hood with
the greatest of all New York’s criminal
gangs, the strange, brutal combine
prhose chieftain, Louis “Lepke” Buch-
alter; died with two of his henchmen
in Sing Sing’s electric chair the night
of March 4, 1944. Chippy had served
terms for assault and for robbery, but
had been out of prison for nearly three
years and in that time had taken on
the aspect, at least, of a con reformed
and going straight.

By now the newspaper reporters
from the headquarters beat were on the
scene. With flashlight bulbs flickering
in the night as the photogs shot plates
for the late morning editions, the re-
porters gathered the facts of the shoot-
ing from the cops and those witnesses

- they could find.

One of them, phoning a rewrite man
at a desk in the city room of one of

eat wat Abad ddddagy AMAMAUALAD AAL AAAALALAYS Yd
Manhattan, wound up his narrative
with a cynical laugh. “Sure and the
devil must be grinning tonight,” he
said. “Chippy Weiner, a hitter for
Lepke’s mob, chopped down while he’s
minding his own baby! Naw, the kid
ain’t hurt, but one slug must’ve parted
the hair he ain’t grown yet, the way it
slammed through his crib into a wall.”

Back in the four-room apartment,
detectives were interested by three
partly-filled highball glasses on a cock-
tail table in the living room. A bottle
of whisky and a siphon of soda stood
beside the glasses.

“Looks like Weiner had visitors and
they got a little rough,” observed Mil-
ler. “We'll have the fingerprint boys
go over the glasses for prints.”

“If Chippy was entertaining guests
in his pajamas,” Neylon suggested,
“that probably means he wasn’t expect-
ing them.”

In a thorough examination of the
apartment the detectives found no clues
except the slug imbedded just above
the baby’s crib. There were four other
bullets still in Chippy’s carcass.

In the bedroom they made some
other interesting discoveries, however.
Stacked in the closet were three bolts
of cloth with flowery designs. In the
pocket of Weiner’s bathrobe was $510
in bills, and still $765 more was stuffed
in a gold mesh evening bag on the
dresser. -

“This doesn’t look like a robbery,”
Miller said, “but the thing that intrigues
me is how did Chippy buy all these
expensive furnishings and have hun-


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he was on the level?”

“The cloth probably is stolen, black
market stuff,” suggested O’Brien. “We’d
better have it checked by the safe and
loft squad.”

As the detectives were completing
their search they were joined by Dep-
uty Inspector Conrad Rothengast and
Inspector Abraham Goldman from
headquarters. Then the front door
burst open and Sylvia Weiner hurried
into the apartment breathlessly, her
face pale and her dark eyes wide with
terror.

“I saw the police cars downstairs,”
she said, confronting the officers in
the bedroom. “What happened here?
Where’s my baby!”

‘Don’t worry about your child, Mrs.
Weiner,” Inspector Rothengast said
gently. “He’s safe upstairs with one of
your neighbors.”

“Is it—my husband?”

Rothengast nodded. “He was wounded
by some men who got away. He’s been
taken to Bellevue and he’s still alive,
but his condition is critical.”

“Oh, I must go to him—poor Chippy!”

Rothengast, a veteran cop who’d
served in the Broadway-Hell’s Kitchen
precinct during the roaring Prohibition
era, motioned her to a chair. “Before
you go,” he said, “we’d like to know
what Chippy was doing tonight, and
where you have been.”

“He was watching the fights on tele-
vision and minding our little boy,” Mrs.
Weiner explained. “He’s so devoted to
that kid. I’ve been out for a long walk.”

“What time did you leave here and

tee Bel Bron a

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Whstsc Us Yuu ¢&, MODEL AE Ess siggeiwoe-

bY -

“About 9:30. I walked for awhile in
the little park at First Avenue and
First Street, and then struck up Second
Avenue for a bit. I was restless and I
wanted to quiet my nerves.”

“But it’s 11 o’clock now,” Goldman
put in. “You. were gone an hour and
a half just walking—in the slush?”

“That’s right,” she replied firmly. “In
the slush. I did stop to buy some
cigarettes.”

Goldman pointed to her open-toe
shoes, which were clean and dry.
“There’s no sign you’ve been walking
in any slush.”

Mrs. Weiner lighted a cigarette. “I
was careful,” she explained blandly.

Dies Mum

There was doubt in the minds of the
officers that Sylvia Weiner’s absence at
the time her husband was shot had
been wholly explained. But there was
nothing to back up their suspicions at
the moment, and they knew they could
question her at length later.

After allowing her to go upstairs to
see her baby and to make arrange-
ments for his care, they escorted her
to Bellevue Hospital to visit her hus-
band. In the emergency room she em-
braced him tearfully.

Now conscious, Weiner was unable
to speak. Doctors explained that one
slug had pierced his larnyx. Rothen-
gast handed him a pad and pencil.

“Tell us who shot you, Chippy,” he
ordered. “Write down their names.”

For answer Weiner pushed the pad
away. Was he true to the strange code

of the underworld as he
lay dying, or was he
afraid to accuse the chop-
_per, lest vengeance be
-taken on Sylvia and the
baby?

Rolled into the operat-
ing room for emergency
surgery, Chippy died at
2:45 am. He gave no
information.

His wife wept bitterly
at the tragic news, and
obviously was in no state
for further interrogation.
After instructing his men
to see that she was kept
under 24-hour surveil-
lance, Rothengast had the
detectives escort her
home.

Early next day, Roth-
engast and Goldman, ac-
companied by Lieutenant
Miller, met at the office
of Assistant District At-
torney Louis A. Pagnucco
in the Criminal Courts
building in Worth Street.
Pagnucco, an able aide of
District Attorney Frank
S. Hogan, had specialized
in other tough homicide
cases like the murder of
Chippy Weiner, and had
gained an amazing
knowledge of New York
City’s underworld and its
many ramifications.

“The possible angles on

A strange role for Chippy Weiner
—holding a baby. It was while he
was minding the youngster in his
wife's absence that he was "hit."

this case are almost too many to count,”
Pagnucco told the police officers, riffling
through a large file on his desk, much
of which had been supplied by the New
York State Parole Board. “You knew,
of course, that Weiner was an associate
of Lepke. Chippy’s wife, Sylvia, is the
daughter of Rose Pantiel, whom Mayor
O’Dwyer, when. he was District Attor-
ney of Brooklyn, called the notorious
‘Red Rose of Williamsburgh.’ ”

In 1941, he went on, Rose Pantiel had
been freed for lack of evidence in the
1935 murder of Rubin (Ruby the
Mock) Shapiro. Red Rose was accused
of luring Shapiro into a car and deliv-
ering him to his assassins. O’Dwyer
charged she was a member of the Max
Meyer Ludkowitz loan shark gang that
suspected Shapiro of financing a rival
mob.

This feud resulted in at least 12 kill-
ings over several years, and it was con-
tended that the Red Rose, whose nick-
name derived from her red hair, used
her home as headquarters for the gang

despite the protests of her repay 4
ing stationer husband. Sylvia was hel’ ~
for a time as a material witness in the e

Shapiro case on O’Dwyer’s claim-that
she was present when the murder was»

planned.

“Weiner was working for Lepke »

when he became mixed up with Red
Rose,” Pagnucco continued. “Chippy
fell hard for Mrs. Pantiel and became
her sweetheart after her husband died.
But then his feelings for her cooled and
he tossed her over for her own daugh-
ter, Sylvia, whom he married.”

“Quite a triangle,” put in Rothengast.

Pagnucco nodded. “Not only did
Sylvia take Weiner away from her own
mother but, according to the parole
authorities, Chippy secretly has been
keeping company for a long time with
a third woman, an exotic Latin beauty
named Carmen Gomez over in Brook-
lyn. Obviously Sylvia Weiner must
know more than she’s told you. I want
you to bring her in for further ques-
tioning, and (Continued on page 52)

1;

"Whaddayamean, Chippy'sarightguy?" (Continued from Page 2)

Inspector Rothengast listened long and
intently, making a few notes on the
scratch pad in front of him.

“That’s it,” he said. “That's got it.
A good job, and thanks.”

He stood up, fingering a sheet of
paper from the scratch pad.

“The Red Rose wasn't kidding,” he
said. “Chippy has a friend. It’s in the
parole records.”

Pagnucco expressed interest. ‘‘Who?”

“Some doll by the name of Josephine
Garcia, and you won't have to guess
twice where she lives.”

“Williamsburgh?”

“You broke the bank. Williams-
burgh. Chippy told the parole board
he’d known her for twenty years.”

Inspector Rothengast asked Brook-
lyn to pick Josephine up and deliver
her to Pagnucco’s office in the Criminal
Courts building.

“Too much static over there,” the
Inspector remarked. “Much quieter
here.”

The two men grabbed a lunch that
was as quick as it was late and settled
themselves in Pagnucco’s office. It was
mid-afternoon when a secretary an-
nounced that a police officer and a
woman were waiting.

“Send them in,” Pagnucco directed.

The blue-uniformed policeman sa-
luted Inspector Rothengast smartly,
motioned .the woman toward a chair
and turned to go.

“She give you any trouble?” de-
manded the Inspector. ‘

“Not a bit of it, Sir,” the officer re-
plied gallantly, turning a big smile in
the woman’s direction.

She returned it. “I give no trouble,
nevair,” she said, flashing white teeth
ringed by crimson lips.

The woman spoke in a well modulated
voice with a noticeable accent.

“You’re Josephine Garcia?” asked
Pagnucco..

“Por seguro, That is, of a certainty.
You think my handsome policeman
makes the mistake, hm?”

“Miss or Mrs.?” the’ Prosecutor de-
manded.

“Well, there is no Senor Garcia,” the
woman replied, dodging a direct answer.

“But there was a Senor Weiner,” In-
spector Rothengast suggested dryly.

OSEPHINE'S face clouded and she bit

her lower lip.

“You are cruel, Senor,” she replied
in a low voice. “You know the answers
to those questions. Must you ask them?”

“There dre a lot of answers we don't
have,” Pagnucco broke in roughly.
“You have them.”

Josephine shrugged her shoulders al-
most imperceptibly. “Not I, Senor.”

“Who killed Chippy Weiner?”

Josephine’s big, brown eyes opened
wider. “I do not know, Senor, else 1
would be telling long since.”

“She probably knows a lot about it,”
Inspector Rothengast remarked cas-
ually. “Chippy Weiner, domesticated,
a baby-sitter, couldn’t have been Jo-
sephine’s idea of fun.”

The woman said nothing, but picked
steadily at a wisp of handkerchief.

“How about it, Josephine? When did
you see Weiner last?”

She said dully, “A week ago. He came
to my apartment. He had quarreled
with his wife again.”

Urged to pursue this line further,
Josephine described how unhappy
Weiner was at home, and how he habit-
ually sought her company as solace.

What did the Weiners quarrel about?

Josephine shrugged again, an ex-
pressive Latin shrug.

“Me, I guess. And once it was Jerry.”

Pagnucco and Rothengast leaned
forward.

“Who is Jerry?” they demanded.

“I do not know. Please believe me!
But Chippy said a lot of words in front
of the name. Need TI repeat?"

They shook their heads. Not nec-
ORAATY

“Dido't Welner give atiy other tic
cation of who Jerry was?"

“No,”

“Do you think Welner knew Jerry?"

“Oh, but yes. He talked of killing
him and then he said, ‘Chiquita, I
would be a jork to go to the hot seat
for that bom.’”

Pagnucco and Rothengast laughed
in spite of the gravity of the situation.
Shewish had to admit the reasoning was
sound.

Bur now there was a new entry in
the field, a real dark horse.

Weiner may have had qualms about
bumping Jerry, but there was nothing
to indicate that Jerry was. similarly
inhibited.

But who was Jerry?

One person certainly knew—Mrs.
Sylvia Weiner. But getting her to ad-
mit it was something else again.

Anxious to begin their inquiries

Sylvia. It’ll be tough on you if you lie
about it.”

Mrs. Weiner carefully flicked an ash
from her skirt. “I wouldn’t lie.”

There were more questions .. . ques-
tions .. . questions . . . but in the end
the interrogators were no further
ahead than when they started. At last
they gave up and told Mrs. Weiner
she could go home.

“That dame’s the slickest thing this
side of the Radio City ice rink,” de-
clared Lieutenant Miller. “She’s mak-
ing saps out of us.” re

Inspector Rothengast said they were
overlooking something.

“Mrs. Weiner was gone from the
apartment for an hour and a half. We
know from the condition of her shoes
that she didn’t do much walking in that

The Most for YOU

HE Publishers and the Editor of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
STORIES Magazine call to your attention with justifiable
pride the fact that, due to the Government's curtailment in
the supply of paper, we have cut to a bone minimum the
quantity of paid advertising we carry.
order that we might give you the maximum amount of enter-
tainment possible in every issue.
loss in cash revenue for us—but it meant also the maximum
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no paid advertising from this page to the end of this issue.
And you will find no cluttering of these pages with distract-
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we now devote only to complete, up-to-the-minute detective
stories. “Good solid reading on every page!” Those words
could well be regarded as a slogan—a dedication!—convey-
ing the essence of the spirit with which OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
STORIES Magazine comes to you every month, for your
complete enjoyment.—The Editor.

This was done in

This of course meant a

To this end we cheer-

along this new line, Pagnucco told Miss
Garcia she could go.

“Home, that is,” he cautioned. “We'll
want to talk to you again.”

Josephine said she would be avail-
able. She turned and left the room,
no vitality in her walk. The young
Prosecutor felt a moment of compas-
sion for her, but it was no time for
superfiuéus thinking.

They returned to Lieutenant Miller’s
office, where Sylvia Weiner was sitting,
as cool as a tiny brunette sphinx,
smoking a cigarette.

The questioning began again, and
Sylvia parroted her story—how she had
left the apartment in opened-toed
shoes to walk in the snow for ninety
minutes and buy two packs of ciga-
rettes.

“But your feet were dry,’’ said the
exasperated Lieutenant Miller for per-
haps the hundredth time.

“I was careful,” Sylvia replied calm-
ly. “I walked only in the cleared
places.”

“Did you see Jerry?’ Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney Pagnucco inquired cas-
ually, his keen eyes on Sylvia's face,

It might have been made of plastic
for all the emotion that registered,

“Who'n Jerry? onhie  toquired, oT
don’t know any Jerry.”

Pagnucco’s shoulders sagged but he
plugged on. "We know all about him,

snow. But at the same time she wasn’t
just hanging around outside, either.
Now where did she go, and how did she
go?”

Pagnucco snapped his fingers.

“That's it! A taxi!”

Rothehgast said that seemed to be
the obvious answer.

“We'll have to check the cab com-
panies,” he declared. “It’s a big job,
and maybe a hopeless one, but it’s got
to be done. If a cab driver picked up
a fare on First Street last night, he’ll
remember it, particularly in the case
of Sylvia Weiner, who isn't a bad pack-
age. I’ll put some men on it.”

So the slow and tedious canvass of
the taxi companies began, plus a check
on owner-drivers who had stands in
the vicinity of the Weiner apartment.
Since the pick-up, if any, had been
made at night, the main part of the
check would have to be made as the
night operators came on duty.

PRESHENED by a few hours’ rest, In-
spector Rothengast was at his desk
when a clerk announced the arrival
of Patrolinan George Rothwell and a
wizened little man with a_hackie’s
badge pinned to his eap,

“Thin ia Mread Littwoller, Inspector,”
said Patrolman Rothwell. “I think
he’s your man for he picked up a woman
about twenty minutes to ten last night

a short distance from Weiner's place.”

Littweiler waved an airy greeting
“It’s about the killing, ain’t it?’’ he in-
quired, his little eyes glistening with
excitement.

“Who said anything about that?’
Rothengast inquired bruskly.

But Littweiler was not abashed. ‘!
can add two and two. Chippy Weiner
gets bumped in the apartment near
where I picked up the dame, and the
cops come around asking questions. |
don’t need no diagram.”

The Inspector saw that it was futile
to attempt a smoke screen.

“You're right, Fritz. That woman
who hailed you probably was Mrs
Weiner. Where did you take her?”

“To the Hotel New Yorker,” said
Littweiler promptly, “but she didn't go
there. Some Joe was standing under
the canopy and he came right over and
climbed in. Then she says to go to the
St. George.”

The Hotel St. George is in Brooklyn,
just over the Brooklyn Bridge.

Littweiler said the woman instructed
him to wait, walked into the lobby with
the man and came out almost immedi-
ately. He drove her back to Manhat-
tan, cruised about aimlessly for a few
minutes, then was told to return to the
spot where he had picked her up. That
was a few minutes before 11 o’clock.

H4> Littweiler heard anything that
was said between the two?

The little cabbie grinned wickedly.

“Ordinarily I could say yes, Com-
missioner, but it was cold last night
I had the sliding window closed all the
way and you couldn't of heard a
Ubangi chewing bubble gum _ back
there.”

Inspector Rothengast masked his
disappointment. “I guess that’s all,”
he said, taking Littweiler’s address and
badge number. ‘Hope you didn’t lose
much business.”

“S’okay, s’okay,” replied Littweiler,
who regretted not at all the oppor-
tunity to do the police a favor. It paid
to be nice to cops.

When the cabbie had gone, Inspector
Rothengast tried to figure what the

- purpose of Sylvia Weiner’s strange ex-

cursion might have been.

Was the man she met “Jerry?”

If so, why the ride in the taxi, the
quick goodnight, and home again?

And why the Hotel St. George? It
wasn't a hot spot, just a nice place to
meet and have a drink.

The St. George had a swimming poo!
par excellence. One of the biggest in
the country. Inspector Rothengast
knew that parties from Manhattan
frequently crossed the bridge to the St
George for no other reason than to
swim in the pool.

Was Sylvia Weiner’s companion a
member of such a party? Was it Jerry?
If so, did Jerry have a room at the St
George, or did he go there only for a
swim?

Did he have a room at the New
Yorker?

Those questions had to be checked.
and Inspector Rothengast put men on
it. No telling what they would turn

up.
But no sooner had he given the or-
ders than Detective O’Brien called
from Jersey City.
“There was a big heist over here.”
O’Brien reported slowly. “A truck on

. Hudson Boulevard, nicely parked, with

the flares out and all. About nine
thousand dollars’ worth of stuff un-
loaded and re-loaded. The driver
claims to have been knocked out with
drugged coffee.”

The Inspector expressed
“When?” .

“Three weeks ago. The Jersey cops
figure it was a phony.”

“And—”

"T figure It was, too, but it's on thi
record. A driver named Jerry Fast re-
ported it,”

interest

“The driver's name was Jerry”
Rothengast asked. “Jerry?”
“Yeah, Inspector, What's (he exeue

ment?” :
A

“Tt's hot, O'Brien. Red hot. Get
everything you can on it. Mverything,
Over here we have a Jerry that’s close
to the chair,”

Quickly he explained the result of the
taxi search.

“If Chippy Weiner was in on the hi-
jacking,” said the Inspector, “he may
very well have tried to chisel. Remem-
ber, you had information there was a
cross in the deal? Naturally, the driv-
er would be in on the payoff, if there
was one,

“And if there wasn’t one, the driver
would naturally want to know why. We
have information that Sylvia Weiner
was friendly with a man named Jerry.
That could be Jerry Fast. Get on his
trail and see where it leads.”

After having replaced the telephone,
Inspector Rothengast leaned back in
his battered chair and tried to put the
pieces together.

What was the score now?

CHIPPY WEINER was known to have
been hijacking trucks in New Jersey.
Some of the loot was found in his
apartment. Underworld rumor had it
that Chippy was slow on the payoff.
So he was killed by somebody who
gained access to his apartment in the
guise of a friend.
Mrs. Weiner was conveniently absent
at the time. She had gone out for ap-
parently no reason.

Had Sylvia Weiner known that her:

husband’s executioners were scheduled
to appear when they did?

The Inspector could draw no other
conclusion from her aimless wander-
ing. Out in the snow without galoshes,
the taxi ride to the Hotel New Yorker,
and all the rest.

Pr dee hadn’t even had a drink out
of it.

Rothengast remembered the taxi
driver’s words:

“I cruised around aimlessly until
finally she said to go back to the place
where I picked her up.”

It seemed obvious to the Inspector
that Mrs. Weiner had known or sensed
something was to happen. Although
this necessarily did not imply that she
knew her husband was to be rubbed out.

The key to the puzzle lay with Jerry,
and Rothengast wondered how long it
would take to pick up Jerry Fast.

But if Rothengast expected immedi-
ate action, he was doomed to disap-
pointment.

Those disappointments began ‘almost
at once.

Detectives checking the Hotel St.
George could find no trace of any
Jerry Fast, either among the hotel’s
registered guests or on the swimming-
pool register list.

O’Brien, sifting through the tangle
of facts in Jersey City, got little beyond
his original information. Jerry Fast,
the hijacked truck driver, had given a
phony address. The haulage company
for which he worked, having fired him
on the spot after learning of the hi-
jack, was of no help. Fast’s address
and credentials were equally phony.

Assistant District Attorney Pagnuc-
co, having failed repeatedly to get any
information from Mrs. Weiner, at last
had no recourse left except to jail her
as a material witness.

Unable to raise $30,000 bail, Sylvia
ie to a cell, her bright red lips still
sealed.

THE hours passed, and then the days.

The shooting of Chippy Weiner, one-
time big shot in Murder, Inc., faded
from the headlines and finally disap-
peared.

But District Attorney Hogan would

not let the case die.

Neither would his new chief of the
Homicide Bureau, Assistant District
Attorney George P. Monaghan, who
had succeeded the veteran Jacob
Grumet as Manhattan’s murder man.

Monaghan conferred endlessly with
Pagnucco, who was “carrying” the
Weiner case and knew as much about
it as anybody in the city.

“It'll break,” Pagnucco predicted
confidently. “It’ll break when we least
expect it, and in a manner we don’t
expect. I'll wager there are twenty
persons who know right now who killed
Chippy, They'll never talk, until we
Make them,"

42

On the afternoon of February 12,
1948, & green light glowed on the big
switchboard of the New York County
District Attorney's office,

“Mr, Pagnucco, please,” said a husky
voice. ;

The busy operator plugged in the As-
sistant Prosecutor’s extension and
worked the bell lever back and forth.

“For the boss, Kid,” said the opera-
tor, as Pagnucco’s secretary answered.
“Some man.”

As LUCK would have it, Pagnucco was
at his desk to take the call.

“You don’t know me,” said the husky,
carefully modulated voice. “I’ll only
say this once. Watch Arthur Leven-
thal’s jewelry store on Broadway in
Williamsburgh tonight. Goodby.”

Pagnucco had noted the name and
address automatically. Now he tried
to trace the call, but it was hopeless.

The next step was to see that Leven-
thal’s store was given some attention.
That was easily arranged. +

But the tip had not been accurate.
A police guard arrived early in the eve-
ning. An hour earlier, late in the
afternoon, two bandits stormed the
place and beat the proprietor unmerci-
fully when he resisted their demands
for the cash-register contents.

Leventhal was no coward. He fought
back, so valiantly that in the end the
bandits fled empty-handed.

The proprietor staggered to the door
just as a black sedan sped off. The
little jeweler squinted at the disap-
pearing tail light, then hobbled back to
his desk and jotted down some figures
—the license number of the car,

An hour later, square-jawed detec-
tives were pounding at a door in a beat-
up section of lower Brooklyn.

The door opened at last and a young
man asked politely what the trouble
was.

“You Ed Sylvester?”
“Yeah.”

“Gotta car?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“TI loaned it to a friend. Why?”

“Never mind why. Where’s the car
now?”

“I don’t know. I guess he’ll bring it
back.”

“Who's the friend?”

Sylvester became surly. “What’s all
this about?”

“Answer the question.”

“His name is Jerry Fast,” said Syl-
vester, licking his lips. ‘What’s he
done?”

“Who said he’d done anything?”

“Well, I figure—”

‘ an figuring. Where does Jerry
ve ”

Sylvester mentioned an address in
the Williamsburgh section.

‘i “That’s all, Junior,” said one detec-
ve,

Back in the squad car, one detective
said to the other:

“Wasn’t there a confidential on Jerry
Fast, wanted for questioning in Man-
hattan? In connection with the Weiner
thing, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said his companion. “We
won’t see enough of him to say more
than hello.”

Fast was home, belting a bottle in
the kitchen, when the detectives ar-
rived, one at the front door, the other
at the back.

He was a tall, handsome youth with
@ mop of yellow hair and skin like a
fuzz-less peach, but his blue eyes were
dull, like two blobs of paint on a wall.

“Whatnhelldoyawant?” he demand-
ed, slurring the words together.

“You,” said the detective who had
arrived by the back door, fingering the
sapper in his left trouser pocket.

Fast stared. ‘“Whaddidido?”

“Leventhal, the jeweler, will tell you,
Sonny Boy. Now get your coat and
come along.”

Fast, moving like a long-legged au-
tomaton, got himself clothed for the
street and moved off to the squad car,
which drove him to Headquarters. He
said scarcely a word.

Leventhal was there in a few minutes.

“You got one of them, eh?” he in-
quired, raising an eyebrow.

“Take a look,”

The Jeweler peeked into the squad

room, Whore Mant saat ina hard wooden
chair trying to blow smoke rings.

Leventhal nodded his bandaged
head. “That's him! That's one of the
bums. Where's the other, the little
gorilla with steel wool for hair?”

The detectives counseled patience.
“This baby is hotter than a fresh ap-
ple pie. We'll get the boy friend, don’t
worry. In the meantime, you better
get some sleep.”

Assistant District Attorney Pagnuc-
co, alerted by District Attorney Miles
McDonald of Brooklyn, arrived a short
time later.

“Well, well!” he said, rubbing his
hands. “This is a pleasure.”

“Whatnhellyouwant?” demanded
— taking refuge in a stock expres-
sion.

“Shall I soften him up?” the big de-
tective demanded. «

Pagnucco shook*his head, “Nah!
Sylvia Weiner did that.”

The big, blond Fast reddened like a
thermometer exposed to the sun.

He half rose from his chair.

“Keeperoutathis, yacrum.”

Pagnucco looked around at the grin-
ning detectives. “Do you think he’ll
be such a fly boy when I book him for
homicide?”

Fast’s dull blue eyes fairly popped.
“Homicide! Whodikill? Whatsis?
Whaddaya tryinta framemefor? Wha-
killing?”

Nobody answered.

SUDDENLY Fast’s whole demeanor
changed. His eyes slitted craftily.

“Nowigettit,” he said in his peculiar,
slurred speech. “Weiner.”

“That’s correct. Chippy Weiner,
a right guy.

“Whaddayamean, Chippy’saright-
guy?” Jerry bellowed. ‘He’saheel.”

“Okay, so he’s a heel,” replied Pag-
nucco. “You rolled over and played
dead for a hijacking job, and Chippy
didn’t pay off. Did he?”

“No,” replied Fast. ‘“Butwhadda-
hell, I dinnunkillim.”

“Four thirty-eight slugs did that,”
the Prosecutor retorted dryly. “Where
were you on the night of January thir-
teenth?”

“Addamovie,” Fast replied promptly.
“Ikkunprovit.”

Pagnucco regarded the golden-haired
youth with tired, wise eyes.

“You're not even a good liar, Jerry,”
he said. “Don’t you know I wouldn’t
have asked you the question if I didn’t
have the answer? Where were you?”

“I haddadate,” the man said sul-
lenly,

“We know that,” Pagnucco said
quietly. “But there is one interesting
point, Fast. Who made the date, you
or Sylvia?”

Fast sulked for a long minute, “I
did.”

“Why?”

“Whaddayamean why? I wandada
seesylvya.””

“Naturally,” replied the Assistant
District Attorney. “But it is quite a
coincidence that you took her out of the
house for a taxi ride at just about the
time her husband was killed. That is
a coincidence, isn’t it, Jerry?”

No answer.

“She left you standing in the lobby
of the Hotel St. George,” Pagnucco con-
tinued. “Did you take a cab from
there to Chippy Weiner’s apartment?”

Fast’s face whitened.

“T didungo nearthaplace.”

“What did you do?”

“Wenthome.”

“Weren’t you worried?”

“Worriedaboutwhat?”

“Whether Mrs. Weiner stayed out
long enough for the—er, job to be com-
pleted.”

FAST fidgeted. He ran his fingers
through his long hair.

“Who pulled the trigger, Jerry?
Whose prints were on the beer glasses?”

“Shodglasses,” Fast corrected auto-
matically. Then he gulped and licked
his lips.

Pagnucco smiled gently, almost
sweetly. “I stand corrected,” he mur-
mured. “How did you know what Chip-
py’s guests were drinking?”

Trapped by a slip of the tongue, Fast
was persiiaded (oO tell the story,

Yes, he knew that certain parties

were pinning for Wolner, atl no, he
couldn't identify them.

It was an involved story. Weiner
had engineered the hijacking of Jerry's
truck, loaded with furs. Weiner had
been paid for the job—but he hadn’t
delivered the furs, and he hadn’t cut
Jerry in for his share.

The boys who put up the money got
tired of waiting, Fast said. He knew
what was coming, and he was anxious
to keep Mrs. Weiner out of it. He
got Mrs. Weiner out of the apartment
by a telephone call. When the killers
saw her leave, they went in.

Who were they?

“Idunno, honest,” said Fast.

He weasled his way through a maze
of improbabilities.

AxzOUT. the whisky glasses. On the
morning of the fourteenth, January
14, two men had come to his home.

“Chippy’s taken care of,” they had
said. They proceeded to describe the
social evening—the television, the
drinks, the sleeping baby.

Fast’s story didn’t ring true, but
Pagnucco was unable to shake him.
Jerry told it over and over again. It
was a hijack killing, he insisted. The
slayers were strangers to him, yet he
knew the killing was coming up.

Wearied by hours of talk, the Assis-
tant District Attorney at last gave up.
“Book him,” he said. “Assault and
robbery.”

Refreshed by a night’s sleep, Pag-
nucco conferred the following morning
with Inspector Rothengast.

The Inspector, hearing Pagnucco’s
remarkable revelations from Mr. Fast,
uttered a small horse laugh.

“Fantastic,” he said.

“Of course,”. Pagnucco agreed, “but
he’s stuck with that story.”

Rothengast leaned back in his chair
ne, aeons a@ pencil idly against his
teet

“Jerry Fast knows something, In-
spector,” Pagnucco argued. ‘He knew
this caper was coming off, and he got
Sylvia out of there so she wouldn’t get
all dirty.”

“Yeah.”

Tap, tap went the pencil.

“Fast had a partner in that stickup,
didn’t he?” the Inspector demanded
suddenly.

Pagnucco nodded a quick agreement.

“Who was he?”

The Prosecutor shrugged. “I don’t
know.”

Rothengast reached for the phone to
call Brooklyn.

Had Leventhal identified the second
man in the holdup of his store?

Leventhal had, by means of rogues’
gallery photos. .

It was routine. Brooklyn detectives
had taken him to the Criminal Identi-
fication Laboratory at Centre Street,
and Leventhal had picked out the pic-
ture of one Sal Bretagna, a small-
change hoodlum with a long but not
impressive police record.

Mr. Bretagna was “at large.”

**THAT bears looking into,” said
Rothengast. “Jerry Fast is no
stickup artist. He’s a truck driver.
What is he doing heisting a’ jewelry
store with a character like that?”

Pagnucco pulled at his lower lip.
“We'll see.”

Both Jerry Fast and Mrs. Weiner
were behind bars, the truck driver
charged with a serious crime, the
widow held as a material witness.

To Mrs. Weiner, in the Women’s
House of Detention, Pagnucco said,
“Sylvia, we know all about Jerry Fast
and your taxi ride. Don’t lie any more
about that. Did Chippy know a Sal
Bretagna, or do you know him?”

Sylvia Weiner shook her head.

“He didn’t, honestly,” she said. “I
do hope you believe me, Mr. Pagnucco.”

“But you haven’t answered all the
questions,”

The woman’s face suddenly seemed
old and frightened.

“Must I?”

“Yes, Sylvia. It will save time. Who
is Sal Bretagna?”

“A beast!” she declared suddenly.
“A dirty beast!”

“And your husband didn’t know

hing"
“That's right.”

te

“The you better explo!

“Sal is owned body and soul by Billy
Rosenberg. Body and soul. Chippy
owed Rosenberg some money, I don't
know how much. Billy was pressing
him for it. I heard him.

“Bretagna would wait in the car
outside. He’d wait for me, when I took
the baby out. Then he—oh, Mr. Pag-
nucco, I don’t want to talk about it!
It was just horrible, that’s all!”

She fell to crying, and Pagnucco had
a matron take her away. .

He had enough information to work

on.
By phone, he advised Inspector
Rothengast, “William Rosenberg. A
small-time mobster or loan shark.
Where do we find him?”

The Inspector said that shouldn’t be
too hard.

ae keep" book on those babies,” he
said.

ROTHENGAST was as good as his
word. Within 24. hours William
Rosenberg was in.

“Cell pals at Sing Sing, they were,”
said the Inspector. “Billy and Chippy
and your Mr, X, Sal Bretagna.”

“Sure, Copper, sure!” declared Ros-
enberg. “I make a buck the easy way,
you make it the hard. That’s no crime.”

Rothengast eyed the gaunt and bald-
ing prisoner with a cold, granite eye.

“Tell him,” he instructed Detective
O'Brien, who had rounded up the pris-
oner.

Fiery Death for the Widow of

By a few veiled remarks Rowe learned
that Mrs. Drews was unaware of the
death of her landlady.

Good. That made his task easier.

Rowe explained that he was con-
ducting a routine investigation, the
nature of which he couldn’t divulge.
Mrs. Drews answered his questions
readily, explaining that.she hadn’t left
the house between Thursday noon and
Friday evening.

“I’m getting my house in shape,” she
said. ‘You see, I was just married
Saturday.”

Rowe grinned and extended his best
wishes. “Well, then I won’t waste your
time. Who's the lucky fellow?”

“William Drews. He is the other
tenant in the house.”

“Is he around?”

“He’s getting ready to move in with
me. You'll find him in the other apart-
ment.”

William Drews was a mild-mannered,
middle-statured man of about fifty. He
was packing some books and-clothes
into a cardboard box and looked at the
Sheriff from behind rimless glasses.

is HEAR you just jumped off the deep
end.” Rowe smiled, offering his
hand in congratulation.

Drews got to his feet, stuck out his
hand and shook Rowe’s hand warmly.
The Sheriff held on to the hand—tight.

Two livid scratches marred the back
of the bridegroom’s fist.

“Where'd you get ‘em?” Rowe asked,
still smiling.

“Oh, those.” Drews shook his head
slowly in a gesture of self-condemna-
tion. “I was chopping some wood the
other day and I accidentally scratched
myself.”

“I see.
days?”

Drews explained that he was tem-
porarily unemployed but that he had
a job lined up and expected to return
to work the following week.

“Did you have a big wedding cele-
bration?”

“Just our closest friends. I threw a
party for them Saturday night at Saw-
yer’s tavern.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“Oh, I had a few bucks saved up.
Besides, I did some work on a real-
estate deal with Hugh Ferguson, the
lawyer, and just got my commission
last week. That hundred and ten bucks
fame in mighty handy,”

Drews said that he had been with

Aren’t you working these

"Willle," awl Detective O'Merlen,
savoring the job, ‘did you know Chippy
Weiner?” ;

“Sure.”

“Did you go to see him on the night
of January thirteenth?”

Rosenberg thought for a moment.

“Want to think that answer over,
Willie?”

Rosenberg was silent for another
long minute.

“I seen Chippy a couple of times in
January,” he said at last. “I don’t re-
member just when it was.”

“About the dough?”

If Rosenberg was surprised at the
question, he did not show it.

“Yeah. The five hundred clams.”

“On the night of the thirteenth,”
continued O’Brien, “Chippy was
killed.”

“Tough. Very tough.”

PF jose, men came in and bumped him
off.”

“So I seen in the papers.”

“You know what, Willie?”

“What?”

“When Chippy’s buzzer sounded, it
was so loud that a neighbor thought
there was somebody at his own door.
He opened it, then stepped into the
corridor, He heard voices, and do you
know what Chippy Weiner said? He
said, ‘Hello, Farbie, come in.’ ”

Silence.

“I thought you ought to know,”
O'Brien continued smoothly, “because

friends Thursday night and Friday
night, but that he was out of the apart-
ment most of the day Friday, com-
pleting arrangements for his wedding.
No, he couldn’t account for all of his
time but he could give the names of
= persons he had seen during the
ay.

Rowe was disappointed. For a minute
Drews had looked like a hot suspect.
Yet, if he were guilty, he would have
gone to great lengths to provide an
alibi. Surely he wouldn't have left
gaping holes in the day’s activities.

Time was racing along and the Sher-
iff still had much ground to cover.

The tenants in the second apartment
house were even poorer suspects. They
were all substantial family people and
the heads of the respective households
held fairly good jobs. Rowe took state-
ments from the housewives; before he
went back to the office, he made three
stops, interviewing the three husbands.

All of the stories jibed fairly well
and would have to be verified by addi-
tional legwork.

What made this investigation so dif-
ficult, Rowe reflected as he walked up
the Door County Courthouse steps to
his office, was the difficulty in estab-
lishing the approximate time of the
slaying. It could have occurred any
time between 6:30 p. m. Thursday and
early Friday afternoon—a wide enough
loophole for the guilty party to slip
through.

Chief Parkman was waiting for him.
Across the table sat a handsome, well-
built youth. ‘i

George Tappa. The lad who cus-
tomarily carried out Mrs, Cody’s ashes.

He was a serious-minded young man
and repeated the story he had given
Parkman. He had seen Mrs. Cody last
Wednesday evening when he rang her
bell and asked whether she needed any
help. The widow had thanked him and
ao to come back the following
week.

“Vou knew the layout of her house
well, didn’t you?” asked Rowe.

“Not too good. Usually I just car-
ried out ashes and trash from the base-
ment. Once in awhile she would call
me upstairs and give me a glass of milk
and cookies, I never wanted’ to take
money for helping her, but she always
insisted on giving me a quarter. She
was a fine old lady. I was sorry to hear
what happened to her,”

Rowe asked for an accounting af

your tieknanie ie lMarble,
people have told me that.”

Silence,

“This tenant is going to tell it to the
grand jury. Mrs. Weiner is going to
testify. It looks like Farbie will cook.”

hanna swarthy face now was
pale. .

“I—” he said and stopped.

O’Brien said nothing, lighting a
cigarette.

Rosenberg slumped in the chair, his
whole body going slack.

“I didn’t know he was going to fog
him,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know.”

A duvet

‘*THAT who was going to fog who?”
demanded Rothengast.

“Bretagna,” muttered Rosenberg.
“That moron is trigger-happy. He had
the heater out before I could stop him.”

The search for Bretagna was suc-
cessfully but not quickly concluded.
He was gone from his tailor shop on
Meserole Street in Brooklyn. 2

Police Commissioner Arthur W.
Wallander announced that Bretagna
was a killer and desperate—that he
probably would try another holdup for
getaway money.

On March 16, 1948, Santo Bretagna
was captured in a Boston saloon, his
affinity for female companionship
having proved his undoing.

He waived extradition.

Back in New York,. Bretagna was
questioned by District Attorney Frank

Hogan, his homicide assistant, Monu
han, and Pagnucco.

Monaghan quoted Bretagna as he
ing said the slaying was inspired
Sal's outraged sense of justice—tt
Chippy Weiner should have “gyppe
his friend, Rosenberg, out of $500.

Bretagna said further, according
the District Attorney, that the sho
ing of Chippy Weiner was Rosenber:
idea, not his. :

“When he went to get a fresh bottl
Bretagna was quoted, “Rosenberg t«
me to let him have it.

“And,” he continued, almost chi)
ishly, “I did.”

As for the Leventhal holdup, Bi
tagna said he was in need of money {
his getaway. He didn’t get it, a
hung around New. York for anotl
day.
“If I’d had a roll,” said Bretagr
“I'd be a long way off.”

On March 19, 1948, the New Yo
County grand jury indicted Bretag:
and Rosenberg for murder in the fi)
degree.

At this writing no date has been :
for their trial. Mrs. Weiner still is b
ing held as a material witness as tl
story is written. And Jerry Fast is he
pending further investigation into t
robbery charges.

The names of Jerry Fast, Josephi
Garcia and Ed Sylvester in this sto
are fictitious.

Sturgeon Bay. (Continued from Page 33)

Tappa’s time Thursday evening and
Friday morning. The youth explained
that he had “just monkeyed around”
Thursday night, visiting a bowling-
alley and an ice-cream parlor. And
Friday was a school day.

After Tappa was excused, Parkman
said, “You see, we could round up plenty
of possible suspects, but what good are
ri 5 ae unless you can tie them to the
crime?”

“WELL, we still have the gloves,” de-
clared Rowe. “If they fit one of
the suspects that’s something we can
hang our hats on,”

District Attorney Minor came in. He
had been probing into Mrs. Cody’s past
and talking to her friends and ac-
quaintances.

“I can’t tell you what connection this
may have with the case,” he said, “but
I learned from several sources ‘that
Mrs. Cody was rumored to have a third
husband.”

Parkman and Rowe exchanged
glances. “What do you mean by ‘rum-
ored?’ ” asked Parkman.

“Exactly that. The oldtimers about
the city seem to recall that about a year
after Doctor Robb died, Mrs. Cody
married a man named Kersten. The
whole deal was unusual. They weren’t
married in Sturgeon Bay or Door
County and they lived together for only
a short time. Then Kersten suddenly
disappeared. Mrs. Cody apparently
made no effort to divorce him. In fact,
she never used his name.”

Rowe asked, “You think it might be
a rumor and nothing more?” ‘

The District Attorney shrugged.
“All I know is that I heard it from
more than one person. It was juicy
town gossip at the time, but all pretty
mysterious because Mrs. Cody seldom
talked to anyone.”

“Is this man Kersten still alive?”

“Some of the town’s grandpas think
they’ve seen him occasionally through
the years, But if he’s alive he must be
about eighty years old.”

Was it possible that Kersten some-
how was involved in Mrs. Cody’s death?
The officials talked it over thoroughly
and tentatively decided in the negative.
For at eighty Kersten probably lacked
strength to carry fhe body into the
basement and stuff It into the furnace.

Still, there were certain facets of this
new angle that made sense, Mrs.
Cody's original wealth had boon dinnl-
pated even though she lived frugally.

Was it plausible to assume that Ke
sten had been taking money from h
throughout ‘the years, that he car
back Thursday or Friday and quarrel
with her when she refused or was u)
able to give him more money? Wou
that also account for the disappea
ance of the rings?

“We've got to keep our heads cle:
on one point,” commented Minor. “4
ordinary thief or hoodlum wouldr
have taken the time to dispose of t!
body. He would have cleared out
quickly and unobtrusively as possib
No, the killer knew that eventually |
would be suspected and felt it was in
perative to get rid of all traces of t!
crime.”

The District Attorney volunteered
check with Mrs. Cody’s relatives
Milwaukee and with marriage-licen
bureaus throughout Wisconsin, Mi:
nesota and Michigan to determi:
whether the slain woman actually h:
married a third time.

Two officers were assigned to the bi
depot and railroad station. If Kerst:
were a reality and if he were involv:
in Mrs. Cody's death, somebody shou
recall his entering or leaving tow
After all, men of eighty ordinarily dor
travel on trains or buses.

BY THE following afternoon some .
the loose ends of the case were ti
up—and officials were still nowhe
near a solution. .

From Milwaukee Doctor  Pess)
phoned that he had completed his e>
amination of the five pounds of charr«
bones he had brought back to his la!
oratory. They were those of a sma)
old woman—in all probability M:
Cody. Death had not been caused t
a blow or a bullet and the body det
nitely hadn’t been dismembered befo)
it was cremated.

The next report came from the Sta!
Crime Lab in Madison. Charles Wi
son, the director, said most of tl
prints he had lifted in Mrs. Cody’s hon
were pretty smudged. He had a fe
fairly good prints, but there was no wa
of determining whether they belonge
to the dead woman. ‘

The dust he had extracted from th
gloves found in the dead woman
kitchen contained only particles of di:
and ashes. Quite likely they hadn
been worn by the killer, else Wilso
would have found traces of blood

And the bloodstains taken from 11:
Cody bathroom didn’t match the stair

“4


Prosecutor Pagnucco eyed The Rose
coldly,

“Coming from you,
funny.”

The flaming red head went up de-
fiantly.

“I'm telling. you, Bud, Chippy’s
double zero ain’t in Brooklyn. You're
welcome to look. Take all the time you
want. But don’t forget what I told
you—he wasn’t named Ghippy for
nothing.”

The young Prosecutor watched his
famous visitor for a long time. Then
suddenly:

“Goodby, Rose.”

“Goodby.” |

“Don’t ever cross the River, Mrs.
Pantiel.”

that sounds

Asst. DA Pagnucco: "You
made one big mistake"

Sal Bretagna: "If I'd had a
roll, I'd be a long way off"

The Rose gave a short laugh. ‘“There’s
one more river I gotta cross,’’ she said
in her melodious voice. ‘“You’re not
interested in that one—not now.”

Pagnucco watched her go thought-
fully. The woman was a consummate
actress, he knew. But he felt she was
telling the truth—that she knew noth-
ing and cared less about the fate of
Chippy Weiner. :

The Rose had left him something, the
not-too-veiled suggestion that Weiner
was not quite the husband he should
have been.

Who was his girl friend? How long
had Chippy known her?

Those and many other questions
could be answered only by talking to
Madam X herself.

Pagnuceo realized, scarcely giving
the matter another thought, that it
would be futile to ask Mrs. Weiner
about a posnible rival, Mer pride would
hol permit her lo adinit the presence
of another woman.

How then to locate her?

Pagnucco concluded the best thing
to do would be to talk to Inspector
Rothengast, acquaint him with what
The Red Rose had said, and map out a
plan of action.

The Inspector listened with interest.

“There could easily be a woman in
it,” he remarked. “This is a tough case
because everybody concerned in it has
eee to hide. Nobody wants to
talk.”

After thinking the matter over for a
minute, Inspector Rothengast said, “I
think we might try the State Parole
Board.” :

Pagnucco raised his eyebrows quiz-
zically.

“That's

right,” said Rothengast.

be

“Chippy was a paleface—an ex-con.
Served a lot of time, and he was on life
parole. It’s been my experience that
ex-cons like Chippy. level with the pa-
role board if nobody else. You see, it’s
too easy to get picked up for a parole
violation. You don’t even go to court.”

Assistant District Attorney Pagnucco
nodded agreement and Inspector Roth-
engast got the inquiry started “through
channels.” He wanted all the informa-
tion the parole board had about Chippy
Weiner.

In the meantime, Lieutenant Miller
had been questioning Mrs. Weiner off
and on, as sternly as possible.

“That dame’s smooth,” he confided
during a breathing spell. ‘‘There’s ab-
solutely nothing we can put a finger
on, but her story is mighty thin.”

Lieutenant Miller said he’d had Syl-
via go over her story time and again.

“It’s too pat,” he declared. “She
gives you the same thing over and over.
Up this street, down that one—quieting
her nerves, she says. There was some
business about buying cigarettes in a
little shop on Allen Street. Two packs
of Pall Malls. I had a couple of the
boys check. The proprietor doesn’t re-
member any woman in his store last
night who comes anywhere near an-
swering Mrs. Weiner’s description. It
was such a lousy night, so much snow
around and all, that he’s certain he
would have remembered her if she’d
been in.” ‘

“And what does Mrs. Weiner say to
that?” inquired Pagnucco.

Lieutenant Miller made a gesture of
disgust. - “Typical stuff. She smiles
sweetly and says the proprietor must
have a poor memory.”

“Keep at it,” Inspector Rothengast
ordered as the telephone rang. He
picked up the receiver, identified him-
self: curtly, and listened. :

“Yes. Yes. Like that, huh? Yes, t)
sounds like a good lead. Sure, foll
it up.”

The Inspector rubbed his hands
he stepped away from the telephone

“This looks good,” he informed P:
nucco. ‘O’Brien and Neylon have b«
snooping around over in Jersey. 1
Jersey City cops had a few lines out, a
they picked up. some _informati:
Weiner was neckdeep in a hijacki
mob over there, but we suspected t}
anyway. What we didn’t know is t
mob has busted up.

“The word is—and that’s what
wanted to get—that Weiner chiseled
the last payoff. A couple of the b
were left holding the bag, and tl
didn’t like it.”

SP HAE would do it,’”’ Pagnucco sa
“Any idea who the two disza
pointed gentlemen are?”

Inspector Rothengast permitted hi
self a frosty smile. “If I knew, woul:
be here talking to you? There’s a
of spade-work to be done yet. E
O’Brien and Neylon are pretty w
convinced that the hijackers are lo
talent. The trail will lead here.”

The Assistant District Attorr
chewed idly on a match. “We figu
Chippy’s visitors were friends of hi:
that is, he thought they were frien
siter all, he didn’t have to let th:
n.”

Rothengast said that still.could hc
“Maybe he was just stalling. Perh:
he promised to pay them off, and tl
dropped around last night for an :
counting. I don’t know. There :
plenty of angles to the thing. But
certainly, want to talk to those t
trusting partners. It looks like ti

- paid off first.”

The phone rang again and once m
(Continued on Page 41)


DY Ju) aN La

hi

THE two young women who wantonly
murdered a bus driver, as related in “Neu-
ter Gender” in our last issue, were con-
victed on February 15th of the charge and
sentenced to life imprisonment at hard
labor in the New Jersey State Reformatory
for Women.

“rie First to Fight,” is not an empty

| pe as this writer learned from
first-hand observation on the battlefields
of France. And twenty years later it was
again brought forcefully to his attention.
In the March issue in a case titled “The
Clue of the Tilted Mirror,” we used the
expression “a lowly enlisted man of the
United States Marines.” The author
meant lowly in the economic sense; how-
ever, the expression should have been
edited out. AMERICAN Detective offers its
humblest apologies to the United States
Marines. So with our white flag flying,
we hope the barrage will be lifted.

Wenvett F, Bowers, “Philadelphia’s
Sex Mad Slayer,” pleaded guilty to the
murder of Mrs, Wilma V. Carpenter, which
Story appeared in our March issue, this
year, and received the death sentence. His
only comment was: “T can take it.”

PERSONAL to Sergeant James D. Hous-
ton: I remember Captain Thomas Quig-
ley. His office was in a shack on the
crest of a long low hill that climbs out of
Gondrecourt, I Saw his battalion of the
Fifth Marines’ hike down that long slope
into—history.

” series we told you of the
effective “shake and shoot” method em-
ployed by the mobsters to rub out their
competitors, It is still being used with un-
varying success. Three gunmen, apparently
known to their Prospective victims, entered

Atso in the March issue under the title,
“A Strange Type of Murder,” we told you
of the Slaying of George S, Buchanan, a
linotype executive, by Claude Hall. On
February 11th Hall committed Suicide by
hanging in his cell.

He left a written confession of two
other killings,

On January 28TH, Mrs. Marie Porter
died in the electric chair at Menard Peni-
tentiary. She was the first woman to be
executed in Illinois in ninety-three years
and the second in the State’s history. She
was ‘executed shortly after her hired killer
and Sweetheart, Angelo Giancola, had been
put to death. They paid with their lives
for the murder of William Kappen, Mrs.
Porter’s brother, who was slain on the
evening of his wedding day for three thou-
sand dollars worth of insurance, Awmerr-
CAN DETECTIVE told you about it in the
October 1937 issue, “The Mystery of the
Missing Bridegroom,”

“Are you going to read Ameri-
can Detective all night?"

a Chicago Heights bakery owned by Joe
Di Giovanni and his brother Sam. They
asked for Sam Costello, who stepped for-
ward smiling, his hand extended. As the
leader grasped Costello’s hand all three
drew revolvers and began firing. More
than forty shots were fired. before the
killers left in a black sedan. They left
behind them Costello, dead, Nick Costello,
a brother, wounded in the groin and thigh,
Joe Di Giovanni and Malo Bagagli both
shot in the right leg.

The older Costello was reputed to be
the boss of the slot machine and gambling
syndicate in the southern section of Cook

Unoer the title “Numbers,” in the April
1938 issue, we told you the story of Dixie
Davis. We had just gone to press with
this story when Dixie was caught in Phila-
delphia. He was in bed with a show girl
when the cops walked in on him. Isabel
Stephen who wrote this story two weeks
before he was captured, called it to a turn.
We quote: “A typical playboy in manner,
he is addicted to the company of orchidaci-
ous show girls and actresses, It is not
likely that he is holed up at any distance
from the bright lights of a large city, for
wine, women and music are as necessary
to him as oxygen,”

His bedfellow was Hope Dare, a glam-
orous red-head who has appeared in many
Broadway shows. :

96

In “Newsreel Confession” in the Novem-
ber 1935 issue we gave you the story’ of
a gang of seven who killed Edwin Espo-
sito, a subway fare collector in Brooklyn,
New York, in 1935. For this crime two
went to the electric chair at Sing Sing and
four are serving life sentences, The sey-
enth, Rosario Marchiano, was not caught
until February, 1937, when he was arrested

iDLONNE, elec, NY (Kings) 1/7/193.7
ed aN LNs

“AOL By

LE

in Detroit for Stealing a fifteen hundred
dollar accordion,

Last month you read of those long
wanted Florida bank bandits Hugh Gant

and Alva Hunt who were rounded up by § _
the G-Men in Texas. “Trail’s End” was the eS . ,
title. On February 28th they were con- ° REPLENISHI'
victed of bank robbery and sentenced to een =
serve twenty-five years each in a federal ‘ LOVE 99
penitentiary. Uncle Sam_ works fast. ; : and ms
DESIRE =p,
Wrutam J. STEPHAN, thirty-one-year- por hy pty

old Camden furniture salesman, was the
one hundred and twenty-first person to die.
in the chair in the New Jersey State

tried in vain
Seventeen con
the original p:

Prison. He was electrocuted on February THE TIME
8th for the slaying of Curtis W. Dobbins, a’ TAMED S
young executive of the Radio Corporation bythe st
of America on August 11th, 1936, There ONE =?!
is some doubt in the minds of people who _MAN » th
have studied this case that Stephan was had Saheried

guilty of this crime.

deceit conceal
and pleasure-

in che final ;
igh heavens.” Two other detective maga- man. Even at
zines have run this story but the whole :
story has never been told, If you would eit
like to know how it is possible for a man A an
to be legally executed when there is a id al
reasonable doubt as to his guilt, drop a line pacuaas fe

to AMERICAN Detective,
If there is sufficient’ interest shown, we'll
run it for you,

heart-stirring,
his wife and
who proves |

expected. Th
tion “What <
Lee Bratey-was convicted of bank-rob- waliiatel bs
bery, then he was convicted of the sensa-
tional dynamite slaying of Harold Bake, T HE
at Sioux Falls, South Dakota, as told in .
“Blast of Doom” in the April, 1937 issue.
The last week in January of this year he oer’
was indicted by a federal. grand jury under BY MAST
the Fugitive Felon Act. ; NOT ON’
Bradley is sick and ti d of courtrooms, @ Think of
If he lived to be a ¢fouteand, he never —all recen

would get out of jail. half the p

daring boo!

THE Police Department of the City of thralling, s

New York offers $1,000.00 reward to any * ae pest
Person or persons (except members of the intrigue . .
New York Police Department) for in- action... ¢)
formation leading to the arrest and con- to make pc
viction of an unknown white man who
killed Patrolman Edward P, Lynch at [= €
7:45 p, M., on December 7th, 1937, Seats
The firearm used by the unknown man iy delight
was a Colt .38- Special revolver or a i“ five da
Spanish. imitation of a Colt .38 Special coupon
revolver, : , a | _————
The ammunition used was a Western : : M

copper-coated .38 Smith and Wesson Spe-
cial cartridge, :

SATIS

See you on The Rock Pile.

hs
OB Fatale oy Bis)

+e Shr MET ak. 3
jai! PENS Spnchideeatil >
a (ae Spee Tp x

= a aT

Se

Ubu CL “L= CC _ #2 <4

wa LPG

Vaasa VU Sf-


tne oS

BOLOGNA, Joseph & DiDONNE, Theodore, whs, elef NY@ (Kings) Janvary 7, 1937

B

Chance had little to do with Pat-
rolman Syl Ferrari's extra-duty as-
signment on the morning of Labor
Day, September 2nd. He himself had
asked for it because he wanted time
off on the 5th. There was going to
be a big wedding in Brooklyn that
night.

The bride-to-be was his wife’s
young sister; the groom, his friend
Ed Esposito, a serious fellow, who,
at twenty-two, held a responsible
job with the Brooklyn Rapid Transit
Company. Ed, in fact, was on night
shift too, so as to be free for the
most important occasion of his life.

It could hardly be called chance,
either, that Ferrari happened to be
cruising in his patrol car along Ave-
nue Y, just before 2 A.M., when
Ed was riding the last train of the
schedule on the Culver line. Both

12

Police Came Soon, But Not In Time.

men carried guns, but that wasn't
a coinicidence. Ferrari was a cop
with a .38 Service Colt. Esposito, be-
ing a revenue collector for the com-
pany, was entitled to pack a .45. All
these elements may seem like
chance, yet chance was never a part

, of this case.

The Culver line was an. elevated
spur of the BMT subway system. At
the Avenue X Station, the ticket
agent—a woman named Elsie Mertz
—prepared to close up the booth
promptly at 2 A.M. She had already
counted the total collections and en-
tered the amount in her book. The
bulk of the money was in nickels
which she had put into a sturdy can-
vas pounch. Now she attached a tag
bearing the amount of the contents,
the name.of the agent, and the date,
and dropped it into the wall safe

By DAVID REDSTONE

through a chute. It clanked heavily
when it fell on top of two similar
pouches deposited there on previous
shifts that day.

There was nothing for Elsie Mertz
to do now except wait for the rev-
enue man to come and take the
money.

There were the customary precau-
tions against robbery, which she
knew by rote. Once the money went
into the chute, she couldn’t hand it
over to holdup man even if her
life depended on her obeying the de-
mand.

The wall safe was so constructed
that it required the cooperation of
two persons to open it — one from
within the ticket booth, the other
from. outside.

The procedure never varied. After
the revenue collector had worked

ete

ERNAR McFADDEN'S LATEST DETECTIVE MAGAZINE, April, 1947

ADAMH +

the combina
to the ticke
an iron bar,
lector to o;
the pouches
door was s
matically lo
placed by th
was able to
go home.
No robber
ed on the Cu
Elsie Mer
watch. It wa
Just then
of the thre
from the dir
put on her
and gloves,
the train c:
tracks above
Habitually
familiar qui:
man on the
generally tl
sound after
stop.
She knew
a fellow wh
greetings. He
to do at eac!
pretty busy.
bags, stuff t!
bag he carri
run back u;
train that w
next station
was always
ways in a hu
She had
for just a sec
window of th
to open the <
gave her the
“Okay,” he
She raised
when she hi
automatic lo
light and, le:
ped the oute
brushed pass:
tion. One of
sito’s side, c:
of kneeling


REDSTONE

Hy
nen

e. It clanked heavily
1 top of two similar
ed there on previous

thing for Elsie Mertz
~pt wait for the rev-
come and take the

ae customary precau-
robbery, which she
Ince the money went
she couldn’t hand it
p man even if her
a her obeying the de-

2e was so constructed
d the cooperation of
open it — one from
set booth, the other

‘e never varied. After
ollector had worked

mens.

seas.

PSRs TR ER

The First Officer on the Scene Found His Best Friend
Shot Down In Cold Blood. He Vowed Vengeance. And

Found It When The Ki

the combination, he gave the signal
to the ticket agent who had to lift
an iron bar, which permitted the col-

~ lector to open the door and reach

the pouches. This done, the outer
door was slammed shut and auto-
matically locked, the iron bar re-
placed by the ticket agent who then
was ‘able to padlock the booth and
go home. ’ ;

No robbery had ever been attempt-
ed on the Culver line.

Elsie Mertz glanced at her wrist-
watch. It was 1:54.
' Just then, she heard the rumble
of the three-car train approaching
from the direction of Avenue U. She
put on her hat, found her handbag
and gloves, and waited. Presently,
the train came roaring in on the
tracks above the mezzanine.

Habitually, she listened for the
familiar quick step of the revenue
man on the iron stairway. It was
generally the first distinguishable

’ gound after the train had come to a

stop.

She knew young Esposito. He was
a fellow who rarely had time for
greetings. He had a number of things
to do at each station that kept him
pretty busy. He had to check the
bags, stuff them into the Gladstone
bag he carried, sign his name and
run back upstairs to the waiting
train that was to take him to the
next station on the line. Esposito
was always a little breathless, al-
ways in a hurry.

She had a glimpse of his face
for just a second through the barred
window of the booth before he kpelt
to open the safe. After a second, he
gave her the signal.

“Okay,” he called.

She raised the bar, then lowered it
when she heard the slam of the
automatic lock. She turned out the
light and, leaving the booth, snap-
ped the outer. padlock. ._Two men
brushed passed her in a blur of mo-
tion. One of the pair was at Espo-
sito’s side, catching him in the act
of kneeling to fasten the hasp of

%

Edward Esposito
Instead of Nickels, Death.

the Gladstone bag. Elsie Mertz saw
an arm strike down and heard the
command: “Freeze!”

Before the revenue collector could
get to his feet, there was a sharp
crack and a blaze of fire from a
gun in the man’s hand. The revenue
collector had been given no time
either to obey or resist. The woman
saw him collapse with a groan, his
knees on the floor and one hand sup-
porting the weight of his body. In,
terror she beheld the gunman’s
snarling face and her nostrils caught
the reek of smoke from the gun
barrel.

“Don’t shoot me — don’t shoot
me!” she cried.

The order of events that followed
was confused in her mind from that
time on. She remembered the gun-
man picking up the Gladstone bag
and running toward. the east exit
leading to McDonald Avenue, his
accomplice close behind him. Two
more streaks of fire came blasting

ller's Clever Ruse Backfired.

. in the direction of the ticket booth

and then she lost consciousness.
George Schumm, a BMT station
inspector, camé down the stairs and
stumbled over something in his path
just as his feet touched the mezzan-
ine, but he recovered his balance
and brought himself to a stop at the
sight of the fallen revenue collector
who kneeled and scrabbled at the
floor in the grotesque attitude of
scrubbing the mezzanine.

“Eddie! Are -you hurt?’ Schumm
gasped, and went to him. A choking
sound escaped Esposito’s lips and his

body convulsed and flattened out,
face to the floor. Schumm reached

for the gun ia, the closed-flap holster,
snatched it out and made for the
exit. Over the iron railing he saw
a small sedan pick up speed and
proceed west on McDonald Avenue.

. When Schumm gained the street it
> was too late, and in any event it was

impossible to see the license num-
bers in the darkness. There wasn’t
a soul in sight. Then he went back

-upstairs to see what could be done

for, Esposito.

Elsie Mertz was conscious now,
though hysterical. Trainmen and
passengers had descended from the
track level and formed a crowd by
the ticket booth. Thomas Powers,

‘the motorman, was beside the body

of Esposito, and he shook his head
when Schumm came up. The latter
grabbed the phone in the call box
and rang for the chief dispatcher to
tell him of the holdup at Avenue X.
In a couple of minutes, police of the
62nd Radio Patrol arrived. Some ten
or a dozen passengers were herded
up to the platform.

The first officer to arrive was Pat-
rolman Sylbio Ferrari. His face turn-
ed to stone when he saw the dead
man’s countenance. Patrolman Rocco
Caputi was beside him.

“How can I tell her?" Ferrari
groaned.
Caputi didn’t know what he

meant, but recognized the intense

13

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:

__ March OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES Will Go on Sale Friday, January 26

18M Rs ogee

‘Me

For $70.00 at Avenue X (Continued from Page 31) ogricy

staying under cover and going easy on
their haul until the hunt tapers off. If
you have no objection I'd like to work
the dives alone for a little while. It’s
worked for us before. you know, and
it may work again. At least we have
the thing localized in our hunt for
change-spenders.”

Ryan laughed. “The guise of the
Lone Wolf, eh? The newshounds'll eat
you up if you break this case that
way. They love that stuff.”

That evening Tracy sought out the
questionable resorts, scanning faces
and applying pointed questions to pro-
prietors and employes This job, too,
was as tedious as the one checking the

rers

where couples were on the dance floor,
at tables and at the bar. As his ob-
servant gaze swept the crowd, a slen-
der white arm, exposed in its eve-
ning wear, tapped him on the shoulder,
and a throaty, husky voice said:
“Hello, Mr. Tracy.”

The detective wheeled and faced a
slim, blue-eyed blonde in a blue and
coral gown, whom he recognized as
Lucy Marino, a former reformatory
inmate he once had done a good turn.

“Listen. Mr. Tracy,” she whispered
secretively. “I know from the papers
you're working on that B. M. T. mur-
der, and I think I got a steer for you.”

Tracy retreated with her to a table
in a far corner of the room, partially
hidden by a tinsled art display

“I just learned this early this eve-
ning.” she rushed on. “There's a young
guy called Duke—I don't know what
his real name is—who was in several
joints I happened to be in. He had a
couple of dames with him and he was
Paying off

left to right. He kept bragging he
could buy the dames anything they
wanted.” j

CHANGE-SPENDER at last! But
was he one of the nowt
“Where is this Duke now?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Tracy. He Walked
out ahead of me in the last place. But
I think I can put you onto him. Lis-
ten, his face isn’t new. to me *because
I’ve seen him a number of times in a
candy store over in Court Street. You
might find him there around ten-thirty
this morning if what he told those
gals is on the level. You see, I heard
him say that if they wanted to go out
with him again tofiight they’ should
Phone him at the store.”

Tracy beamed “gratefully. “That’s
Swell of you, Lucy! Anything élse be-
fore I call it a night?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “Maybe this’l
mean something. When I first saw him
haul out a pile of change, I asked
somebody who the kid was and was
told that he comes from Hartford, Con-
necticut.”

Repeating his thanks. Tracy hur-
Tied back to Headquarters. made his
_Teport and there grabbed several hours

Of much-needed sleep.

e*’ At 10:30 that morning a slender,

~-uNcouth-looking fellow wearing a dus-
_W, ill-fitting blue suit that was not in-
Compatible with his wiry stubble. un-
. Clean shirt and brown cap, called a
“Number supplied by Information.
ne Wolf Tracy was masquerading
; “a masquerade that meant death if
he were unmasked. Would the risk be
» Worth it? Could he go through with
; his plans?

He listened nervously for the an-
Swer to his call. Was luck with him?
(Yoice came on the line.

“Hello.” The voice was flat. emotion-

] less. Tracy’s was more breathless

y, mister,” he chirped, “I wanna
talk wid a guy named Duke. This is a
Dal of his callin’.”
far, so good. But could he fool

for everything in silver—/
spending nickels, dimes. quarters from/

Duke? A moment later, Tracy was
saying: “Duke. ..?”

“Yeah,” came a_ guarded voice.
“Who’s this?”

“Duke, this is ‘Al Piazzo’ from

Hartf'd. I’m hot an’ I gotta fin’ a bunk
quick. Kin y’help me out till the heat
cools?”

There was a pause, a seemingly long
one. Had Duke smelled a rat? Tracy
couldn’t be sure, for Duke’s voice,
still guardedly, said. “Never heard of
you. Don’t know what you're talking
about. Y’got the wrong number, I
think.”

“No. I haven't, Duke. Listen, please
... Tnever met you..but a pal o’ mine
named Al in Hartf'd tol’ me when I
beat town t’ look y'up, that maybe y'd
bunk me.” Tracy tried to put despera-
tion into his disguised voice.

“Al, eh? You’ mean Al
asked Duke.

For the fraction of a second Tracy
hesitated. Then, in a hoarse rush of
words, he exclaimed: “Yeah, yeah,
Duke—Al Renza! He says you'll help
me out if I mention his name.”

“He did, eh?” Another instant of
silence followed. Finally the voice said:
“Okay, Piazzo. Meet me in fifteen min-
utes at Smith and Carroll Streets.
G'by.”

The inelegantly dressed caller step-
ped from the booth. took a deep breath.
looked at his wrist-watch and scurried
for the corner subway stairs. So far it
had been easy. Now came the real
test. What if Duke had seen him be-
fore and would recognize him now?

/Minutes later he was at the ap-
joe's corner, looking up and down

nN

Renza?”

e street with a furtive eye. As he

tTestlessly bit his finger-nails, a Chev-

folet sedan pulled up beside him. A
low-pitched voice called: “Hey, you!
You Piazzo?”

“Yeah, I’m Piazzo,”’ Tracy answered
eagerly. ‘“‘You Duke?”

“Yeah,” was the reply.
quick!”

Tracy hopped in with alacrity be-
side the driver, a slim, black-haired
young man, with a weak chin and dap-
per appearance.

Several blocks were traversed in si-
lence before Duke demanded: “How'd
you know where to phone me, Piazzo?”

“Oh,” Tracy replied readily, “I was
knockin’ aroun’ all night long from
one dive to another, askin’ those who
looked like right guys if they knew
anybody from Hartf’d called Duke. I
fin'lly bumped into some guy, who
said you hang out at a candy store on
Court Street.”

Duke smiled thinly, his eyes on the
road, “Lucky, huh? ... Who was the
guy?”

The “hunted one” shrugged. “Don’t
know . Young guy, short, kinda
pale-lookin’. Didn't gab much wid
him. Didn't wanna get anybody too
suspicious . . Uh, where we goin’,
Duke? To a hideout?”

Duke ignored the questions. ‘“What’re
you on the lam for, Piazzo? Y’forgot
to say.”

“Stickup I pulled. Got nearly a cen-
tury from a gas station and plugged
the attendant. I couldn’t help it. He
made a move fer somethin’ an’ my trig-
ger finger got jittery. Don’t know yet
whether he’s dead or not.”

Duke whistled and lapsed into si-
lence, his mouse-like face void of ex-
pression. Was he leading the detective
into a trap? Had he already seen
through Tracy's thin disguise?

“Hop in,

TRACY asked again: ‘Where’re we
goin’, Duke?”

“To a place where some of my pals
are hanging out—the other end of
Smith Street. If it’s okay with them,
maybe you can stay there a while.”

Tracy sighed thankfully—both in
and out of character. “Gee, that’s
swell of you. Duke! If they do, I'll

never forget none of you.” And he
meant it, although he guessed Duke’s
pals would have more excuse to re-
member him—if he could beat them
to the draw.

Assured now of protection, Piaz-
zo became loquacious. “Say, what're
you doin’ now, Duke? Makin’ out
okay?, Al says you're a pretty right
guy—an’ slick, too. Think a lot o’you,
he does.”

HE driver snorted. “Kinda sur-
prises me, that. I didn’t think that
guy would praise his own brother.”
Tracy laughed somewhat forcefully.
“You know how some guys are. Never
know what to expect from ‘em.”
“Yeah. I guess so. Some guys are
all the time full of surprises, huh?”

Mrs. Sarah Elizabeth Powers: She
still has much to learn about in-
surance, Read the story on Page 32

Duke looked at Tracy out of hooded
eyes..Did he suspect—?

“You bet!” “Piazzo” agreed. “Say,
by the way, this burg here sure got
some excitement the other day.
Y’no, that train-station stickup. Smart
guys who got away with that. Kin y’
imagine! Gettin’ away with a nice pile
o’ change, killin’ a guy, an’ lettin’ the
bulls go aroun’ in a fog! I calls that
real work. Bet those guys are profes-
sionals, wid brains an’ real methods
an’ everything.”

Duke shifted his position, making
no reply. Would he be taken in by
this flattery?

“Y'know,” continued Tracy, his en-
thusiasm soaring, “that job had class
to it. Look how the newspapers—all
over the country, I bet—tellin’ the
world how dumb the cops are. When
things quiet down fer me, I sure would
like t’meet up wid real guys like
that!”

The car slid to a halt before a three-
family brownstone house. Duke’s hand
paused on the door handle as he
looked straight at his prattling pas-
senger.

“This is the place, pal. If the boys
okay you, you can stay.’ He dropped
his voice to a confidential whisper.
“And if you prove to be a good
enough guy, maybe we can fix it so
you can join this gang you’re raving
about. We happen to be—”

“Geeze!” Piazzo exclaimed incred-
ulously. “You fellows ain’t them
guys?”

A snaky, superior smile twisted
Duke’s thin lips. “Maybe we are,”
he said. “Let’s get out.”

Duke ran ahead. He pressed a bell

Read It First in
AL DETECTIVE STORIES

button three times, then let himself
in with a latch-key. Tracy followed
him up two flights of stairs and into
a small-sized apartment, where two
men, dark-haired. heavy-set and
hard-looking, were playing cards.
They looked up at the newcomers,
nodding curtly to Duke and staring
with hostile eyes at the stranger.
Tracy mentally held his breath—the
next moment would spell success or
defeat. Or death . .

Duke made the introductions. “Boys,
this is Al Piazzo from Hartford. He's
on the lam for a gas-station stickup
_. . Al, meet Joe Bolognia and Teddy
Di Donne. the big shots of our outfit.”

Bolognia slammed his cards to the
table. “Shut up. you fool!” he barked,
withering the youth with a menacing
stare. He turned to Tracy. “So you're
from Hartford and on the lam. huh?
Ever been in Brooklyn before?”

“No, never. Why?” Tracy asked.
looking surprised and wondering if he
could draw his gun fast enough if
things went bad.

“Because I've never been to Hartford
either, and there's something very
familiar about your puss.”

“I don’t get all this. Joe,” Duke
whined, his face a study in perplex-
ity.

Di Donne leaped to his feet. “Sure,
there’s something familiar about him!”
His hand cracked against Duke's face.
“You stupid double-crosser!” he cried.
“You brought a copper here!”

TRE pay-off! Tracy had been recog-
nized!

At the word “copper” Duke shrank
back, Di Donne’s hand flew to his side
and Bolognia’s fist doubled itself and
sped for the copper’s jaw.

With lightning rapidity. Tracy's head
jerked away, missing the blow by
inches. The same instant his service
revolver gleamed, his finger tense on
thé trigger. Fairly bursting with ex-
citement, his eyes studied the room.
Where was the fourth bandit?

“The very first move any one of you
makes,” he bellowed, “starts this gun
goin! Now line up, face against the
wall, with your hands in the air.”

The men obeyed, Di Donne and
Bolognia snarling and cursing. “I knew
he was a cop right away,” Di Donne
growled. “His picture was in this
morning’s Mirror.”

Frisking them, Tracy deprived Bo-
lognia’s holster of a .38 automatic and
Di Donne of a .32 pistol. Duke was
weaponless. Keeping his gun trained
on their backs, the detective backed
away to a corner where a hand-set
phone was resting on a cheap piece of
furniture. He dialed Chief Ryan’s of-
fice and in a few words explained the
situation. Apparently the fourth bandit
wasn’t around...

Minutes later squad cars screamed
their way to the house. The trio were
hurried into the cars and driven away.

After explaining to Ryan that other
members of the gang were expected at
the house shortly, Detectives McNally
and Murphy were ordered to watch the
house, with several uniformed officers,
and seize all who tried to enter the

apartment.
At Headquarters the three men
withstoce the barrage of questions

hurled at them, denying any com-
plicity in the holdup and shooting.

Tracy singled out the blubbering
Duke, whose name was proved to
be Salvatore Scata.

“Listen, Scata,” he said grimly, “you
might as well start talking because
we've got a mob of witnesses who
swear you're the one who killed Es-
posito. That means the chair for you,
Scata. The chair!”

The youth’s pores oozed sweat. The
fear of death broke him completely.
He talked, telling everything.

The robbery plans, he said, were

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35

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drawn up by Di Donne,

murder. They had watched Esposito
and knew his actions and schedule.

On the night of the murder, Scata
and Bolognia were on the platform,
waiting for the train. Scata put on the
drunk act as planned, with Bolognia
pretending to aid him. Downstairs, in
the meantime, in the toilet behind the
agent’s booth, Di Donne, Bruno and
Kimmel were waiting for their cues.
Outside, at the wheel of the Chevrolet
sedan, Zizzo was racing the motor for
the getaway.

When Esposito was ordered to “stick
‘em up!” Di Donne suddenly appeared
in time to order Bolognia to strike
the collector on the head. The shots
fired were from Di Donne’s gun. The
moment the roar of the bullets was
sounded, Kimmel, Bruno and Scata
lost all memory of their allotted duties
and scrambled for the waiting car. Di
penne and Bolognia followed with the
oot.

Tracy brought forth the fedora hat.
“This is yours, isn’t it, Scata?” he said.

Scata admitted it was.

“How come the initials J. C. ¢.?”
Chief Ryan wanted to know.

"Live With Me and Be Killed" (Continued from Page 34) OFFIC!

down and answered it—it was a box-
number advertisement. He left the
next day. That was about two weeks
ago and we haven’t seen him since.”

The Sheriff asked him if he had read
the advertisement or if Parks had dis-
cussed the job with him.

Carroll shook his head slowly. “Jim
wasn’t the kind that talked much,” he
said. “All he told us was that the ad
looked good and he clipped it and put
it in his pocket. Then when he got the
telephone call from these people who
had advertised he packed his bag and
left, saying he'd see us in a day or two
and tell us all about the new job. One
thing I’m certain, it wasn’t a printing
job. It was some business where he
had to go live and drive someone in a
car or something.”

x
|7 WAS all very vague, this answering

a_ blind-box advertisement and
suddenly disappearing, the Sheriff
thought. But he knew something about
college students and their habits. The
two Carroll brothers, with the indif-
ference of youth, undoubtedly had con-
cluded that their friend had found a
comfortable job and that when he
wanted them to know about it he
would pay a visit to The Hall. In the
meantime they had their studies and
the jobs they were holding to pay for
their tuition to occupy every waking
moment of their own time.

“Could you give me an idea of the
date that advertisement appeared in
the Telegraph?” he asked hopefully.

Paul Carroll was thoughtful for a
moment. “It would be around the first
week in this month,” he said at last.
“Jim was feeling pretty blue. Then
he got a postcard from Mr. Anderson
at the home and it cheered him up a
bit. Right away I saw him reading the
ad in the paper.”

The Sheriff allowed the young man
to go back to his studies. The paper
which contained the ad would be the
one that appeared on the day after
Superintendent Anderson mailed the
cheery card from Hapeville. By this
time Mr. Anderson was already on his
way to Macon, the Sheriff judged.
There was nothing to do but wait until
he arrived, find out the date the postal
was mailed if the superintendent
could remember, and then trace every
blind-box ad that appeared in the
Telegraph on the day the card was
delivered.

Superintendent Anderson arrived in
Macon late that afternoon. The news-
Papers already had printed the fact
that the murdered youth was an or-
phan from the Hapeville Home. Scores
of persons who knew young men from
the institution had been to the morgue
to see the body. Others had telephoned
the Sheriff with clews, hints or sug-

36

to me in case something happened to
it. I thought it would give the cops
the runaround.”

Two hours after Scata’s confession,
McNally and Murphy arrested Kimmel,
Bruno and Zizzo. When, like Di Donne
and Bolognia, they refused to talk,
District Attorney William F. X. Geog-
han resorted to an experiment in psy-
chology. The morning after their arrest
he had the six men brought into his
private office, where they found to
their surprise and curiosity a set-up
of Klieg lights and newsreel cameras.
He placed Scata before the lens and
requested him to repeat his confession.

Scata began first to comb back his
hair and straighten his clothes.

“Wait a minute,” Bolognia said. “Do
you mean that Duke here is going to
be in the movies?”

“That’s right,” the District Attorney
said. “Not only will millions of people
the country over see and hear him
but the jury as well. There’ll be no
mistake as to what either Scata or the
rest of you have to say about your
crime.”

The cameras began to grind. Scata
began to speak, at first nervously, then

gestions. The murder of an orphan
youth had stirred the public’s sym-

pathy and the Sheriff and his deputies -

were taking the heat.

Anderson :was wiping mist from his
eye-glasses when he walked into the
Sheriff’s office and introduced himself
in a shaking voice. He had just been
to the morgue, he said. The dead boy

An early photograph of James W.
Parks who died when he tried to
earn his way through college

—no doubt about it—was the orphan,
James W. Parks.

The Sheriff told him that he had
located Paul Carroll and had obtained
the orphan’s tragic history. He ex-
plained the significance of the adver-
tisement and held his breath when he
asked the superintendent if there was
any way to learn the exact date the
card was mailed.

“It was my last note to the boy,”
said Anderson, “and naturally- before
I left I made a record of my cor-
respondence with him.”

Opening the brief-case which he had
carried under his arm, the orphanage
superintendent consulted his notes.
“The card was mailed May 6,” he said.
“A letter May 1. That is all the cor-
respondence I had with James.”

The Sheriff sighed with relief. The
task of tracing every advertisement

as

cameras again, boys! I’m the one who
told that collector guy to ‘stick ‘em
up!’ And when he tried to draw on
me, I slugged him on the head. Like
this, see...” ‘

TT! fascination of the lenses and his
contempt for his  pal’s_ bluster
caused Di Donne to swagger into the
glare of the camera lights, with a
derisive sneer on his sallow face.

“That’s right, sure,” he said scorn-
fully. “But when that collector still
tried to get us I just squeezed that
trigger of mine and let him have it.”

As the cameras continued to grind,
the lure gradually overcame the stub-
bornness of Bruno, Kimmel and Zizzo,
and they strutted before the machines,
too, recounting their share in the
crime.

The following day the Ballistics Bu-
reau confirmed the relationship be-
tween the bullets found in Esposito’s
body and the gun taken from Di
Donne. Two days later the six were
indicted by the grand jury for first-
degree murder.

On. May 6, 1936, Scata, Bolognia, Di

that appeared in the Macon Telegraph
on May 7 would be slight compared
with the incalculable value of the lead
he expected the work to yield. Leav-
ing the superintendent to make his re-
port and positive identification of the
body to the coroner, Sheriff Hicks and
Deputies Stephens and J. Harris set
out for the newspaper plant.

In the library at the newspaper office
the Sheriff thumbed through the files
for the current month, which were
clipped to a steel frame. He turned
eagerly to the want-advertisement
section for May 7. The Telegraph is
not'a large newspaper and its want-
ad columns are by no means exten-
sive. There were the usual “catch ads”
under the “Male Help Wanted” cap-
tion, advertisements designed to sell
young men correspondence courses in
one subject or another. Four adver-
tisements asked for chauffeurs and
housemen, but all of these carried the
names of the advertiser.

The only local “blind ad” in the
column did not call for a reply to a
newspaper box but to a box in the post
office. The Sheriff pursed his lips in
puzzled surprise. “That’s an odd one,”
he said. “It might be the one he an-
swered.” He read the ad aloud:

“Wanted young man_ twenty-one
years of age; single; no encumbrances;
to live as one of family and assist in
very pleasant business. Prefer an or-
phan, one reared in the country; good
disposition. Good home and salary.
No experience needed; references re-
quired. Apply P. O. Box 385, Macon,

rgia.”

The Sheriff carried the file into the
business office and asked a_ bright
young clerk if she remembered the ad.
The girl read it and smiled prettily.
“We've had several like that,” she
said.

“Mailed or brought in?” asked Dep-
uty Sheriff Harris quickly.

“Two were mailed but the adver-
tiser brought this one in and paid for
it at the desk,” said the girl. “I took
it myself. It was Mrs. Powers—Mrs.
Sarah Powers, an old lady who lives

‘at the corner of Cherry and Second

Streets. She has an apartment there
and takes roomers.”

Sheriff Hicks looked disappointed.

“T know her,” he said. “Known her
for 40 years. Knew her husband—he
died years ago. There’s no way on
earth she could be mixed up in—”

“What’s she advertising for, you
reckon?” asked Deputy Sheriff Ste-
phens suspiciously. “That’s the only
ad in the bunch that looks queer.”

The Sheriff studied the matter for a
moment.

“They used to be in the grocery
business,” he said. “She’s past sixty
and maybe she wants to get back into

. a eh” oc. |)
Donne, Zizzo, Kimmel arid Bruno went
on trial for their: lives before a jury
and County Judge Peter J. Broncato,
with Assistant District Attorney Kopft
prosecuting. rd
Though the newsreel confessions
were withheld voluntarily from the
jury by the prosecution, the jury,
nevertheless, found in the mass of evj-
dence and the parade of witnesses
enough to convince them of the ban-
dits’ guilt. Five days later, on May 1},
they returned a verdict of “guilty as.
charged in the indictment.” os
Judge Broncato sentenced them to*
die in the chair the week of steel
1936. Appeals stayed the execution,
And on January 6, 1937, though the
Court of ‘Appeals upheld the verdi ‘
Governor Lehman commuted to lif
imprisonment the sentences of Sca
Bruno, Kimmel and Zizzo. F.
Bolognia and Di Donne were not
fortunate. Two months later, crying?
screaming, pleading, almost insane’
with fear, they were carried to the:
chair, a manner very much different,
from the one they used to strut arro=
gantly before the eyes of the cameras?

The names Lucy Mgrino and Al
Renza are fictitious for obvious rea-.
sons.

ering

Read It First in
AL DETECTIVE STORIES

business and needs a young fellow to:
do the hard work. There’s no harm,
in going to see her, of course. Yo

two do that and I'll begin to check’
these ads back a few days. The young
fellow may have been reading an old
poor when his chum saw him clip the:
ad.” 3

He cautioned the deputies not to!
embarrass old Mrs. Powers with:
pointed questioning. The chances«
were, he said, she’d know absolutely}

. nothing about James W. Parks.

In the next half-hour the Sheriff
went through the want advertisements
for a week prior to May 7. The stenog- :
rapher remained to help him, although?
it was 5:30 p.m. and time for her to
close the office for the day. By six
o’clock the Sheriff had a list of Macon_
residents who had placed blind ads-
in the help-wanted columns and a list!
of others who had used their own
names, addresses or telephone num-
bers.

While listing the advertisements the
Sheriff mulled over in his mind every
phase of the orphan’s death. The card.
was significant as being purposely left
in the pocket so that identification of
the body would be certain, he thought.
He was positive that the killer had sat
beside his victim for a long time be-
fore pulling the gun—this indicating
that Parks and his slayer were well :
acquainted. In fact, the victim might’
have been asleep when the first shot
was fired. It seemed plain that the
dead man’s pockets had been rifled of:
all identifying papers before or after +
he was slain. His underwear was new
and his suit had never been to the
cleaners. Did the killer know these
things or were they merely coinci--
dental? ‘.

There was the question of motive. ¥
Although he had side-tracked the idea
of a lovers’ quarrel, the Sheriff con-
sidered it again as he scratched the
addresses from the advertising lists. 3
Still it did not seem to fit the case!
at all.

UDDENLY the officer straightened

up and pushed the newspaper filed
away from him. The _ stenographer:
looked startled.

“Have you seen enough of the files?”
she asked.

“Yes—yes,” Sheriff Hicks answered
abstractedly, turning to walk out of
the office.

Sheriff Hicks had a theory.

It was born of the scrap of postcard 3
and the theory that young Parks’ slay~'
er had wanted him traced to the or-§
phanage. 3

Why would it be necessary for a
killer to make certain his victim,
homeless young orphan, would bes
identified? a


5 aan ve POLY SLY eet eT

“No,” shouted Burness, “not for $250.
Not for $5,000!”

With that. Bonier had whirled in rage
and dashed out of the office.

Captain Regan reviewed the facts. No
one but Bonier had ever said that the
Frehrs had left their home. No one but
Bonier had claimed to have seen them
leave. In view of this, they might. still be
there, terrible as the thought was.

That night Regan assigned Sergt. Wil-
liam Jordan and Patrolmen Farley and
Pollow to go to the Jefferson avenue
house and make a complete search.

They began, slowly and methodically,
to search the house. They found no
clues. After three and a half hours of
turning the interior upside down and in-
side out, they gave up the house and began
looking around the yard. As they prowled
about the grounds with lanterns, looking
for some signs of. loosely packed earth,
Sergeant Jordan became interested in a
weather-beaten shed. There had been
another shed in the rear, but Bonier had
torn it down and piled the wood in this
one.

“Take out that wood,” said Jordan.
“Let's see what's under it.” It was a
strenuous, awkward job by the light of
a kerosene lamp, but by 2 o’clock in the
morning the shed was cleared.

A careful examination of the ground
revealed that some of it seemed more
loosely packed than the rest. With shovels
and pickaxes, the trio went to work in
the yellow, flickering lamplight. The dirt
was soft and yielding.

“Easy with the picks, men,” said Jordan.
He had scarcely uttered the words when
Pollow looked up, his pick in the ground.
He had dug down about a foot and a
half.

“T struck something that doesn’t feel
the same,” he said.

“Pull up your pick,” said Jordan. “Take
it easy.”

Slowly Pollow pulled up his pick. It
didn’t come easily, but suddenly it was
released. A human arm flew free of the
dirt. The point of the pick had caught in
the sleeve at the elbow.

The three men stared at the grotesque
arm, with its gnarled, inert fingers, white
and horrible in the yellow lamplight. Then
they went to work again.

In a few minutes they had the body of
old Franz Frehr out of its shallow grave.
They continued to dig, and in less than
15 minutes they had brought forth the
body of his wife...

Both had been buried face down, one
on top the other, with more than a foot
of earth between. Both skulls had been
crushed. Searching a bit more in the
earth, the officers came; upon a blood-
stained hammer.

This was the story that the residents of
Buffalo read over their morning coffee on
December 4, the story of how three police-
men, digging for hours during a cold, dark
Detember night, beneath a yellow kero-
sene lamp, had discovered the missing
Franz and Johanna Frehr.

The evening papers carried new sen-
sational headlines. Charles Bonier had
been picked up in Erie at a hotel. His
arrest was made in the early hours of the
morning, about the same time police had
discovered the murdered couple’s bodies.

With the discovery of the corpses, Mrs.
Lindholm, Bonier’s housekeeper, had been
taken to headquarters. In the trial that
followed shortly afterwards, she was the
State’s most incriminating witness
against Bonier. °

He, cool and slow-talking, stuck to his
story. He admitted he had forged the

60

deed, but after finding the Frehrs had
gone. He expressed amazement that
their bodies had been found on the prop-
erty. He claimed that he had gone to
Erie on business, and had every intention
of returning.

He was unable, however, to explain
why he had ignored the John Doe pro-
ceedings, and why he had registered at an
Erie hotel as John Meyers, West Seneca,
N. Y. In the face of a court order of
dispossession, he stolidly denied that he
had been forced to move on Noveinber 20,
from the Monroe street house where he
had lived, because he could not pay the
rent.

When he was seized in Erie, Bonier
had $145 in currency and five $10 gold
pieces. He claimed that this was money
he had saved from his days on the farm.

During the trial, Mrs. Lindholm testi-
fied that he had come home the night of
November 19 around 10 o’clock, instead of
in time for the evening meal.. He was

tired, she said, and his boots were muddied
to the tops. The prosecution, finding the
boots, showed that the mud was the same
as that in the Frehrs’ grave. Relatives
identified the wallet and change purse
that had been taken from Bonier in Erie
as belonging to the cruelly murdered
couple.

Bonier, throughout the trial, denied
everything except the forgery which, he
said, he thought was justifiable under the
circumstances. When tripped time and
time again with irrefutable evidence
against him, the aged man would merely
shake his head and mutter “nein.”

Within two hours, the jury found
Bonier guilty of murder in the first de-
gree, and he was sentenced to die in the
electric chair at Auburn prison. With
defense efforts in his behalf, he staved off
the inevitable until June, 1904. Then. at
the age of 77, he was executed in the elec-
tric chair for the murder of Franz and
Johanna Frehr.

CHAMPION PISTOL SHOT

No man has a better eye than Mrs. Esther Sichler, California markswoman. She hit
a 3-inch bull’s-eye 20 consecutive ‘times at 25 yards with a .38 revolver. Holder of
four other world titles she is the wife of a sheriff captain.

you'd
the r<

Hut
the hi
agains

Pro
hole 1
sleep

blow
Thurt
knew
He
in the
“Dy

any o
it wit
miner
He
scene
Bac
more
ne & 3

man,
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Af
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hous
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wT
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body
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nece
Nell
T
wer
Thu
+

said

36

Charles Bonier (above), who answered
police queries regarding his dealings

When Buffalo police began digging under this rickety wooden shed at the Here
rear of the Frehr residence, they made a gruesome discovery in the night cent

A shroud of mystery was worn by this man with the dark

past yet a certain property deed seemed absolutely legal

HERE was a strong and bitter wind

off Lake Erie as Mrs. Wilhelmina,

Bundschu hurried through the city
streets on her mission of mercy. The

. skies over Buffalo were black with the

menace of an approaching storm and as
she paused at a corner to let a livery rig
go by, a flurry of snow whipped against
her face.

It was late November, almost Thanks-
giving, and she dreaded the thought of
the old people living alone through an-
other winter, hardly able to take care of
themselves in the bleak little house.
Uncle Franz was eighty-two, Aunt Jo-
hanna, eighty-six. It would be so much
simpler if they would close the house—
or better, sell it—and move in with the
Bundschus. dj

The old German section was trim and
snug even in this forbidding weather. A
late-season cyclist swept past her as she
crossed Jefferson Street toward the old
weatherbeaten house with the front win-
dows boarded up. She went to the side
door and knocked and immediately she
heard a chair scrape within, followed by
a silence. i

“It’s me, Uncle Franz,” she called. “It’s
Wilhelmina.” °

Footsteps came padding softly to the

‘door, A key turned and the door opened

and a bearded face was staring inquir-
ingly at her. 1}

“Oh, Uncle Franz,” she exclaimed, “T

thought ” Then she stopped and
caught her breath. It was not her uncle
at all. |

Instead of the white beard and baby-
blue eyes of Uncle Franz Frehr, the face
of another old man was in the door. He

was full-bearded, too, but his beard was.

iron gray and the eyes, instead of |twink-
ling, were dark and inquiring. |
“What is it?” the man said. She caught
her breath: like her uncle this old man,
too, had a German accent. - |
“Why—why, I’ve come to see my uncle
and aunt, the Frehrs.” lik
“They’re not here.”
“What? What do you mean? They’re
always here.” |
“Not now. They’ve moved away. They
sold me the house.” |
2OR, they sold you the house?”
“That’s right. They moved out yes-
terday. They didn’t say where they were
going,” ' | ;
Mrs. Bundschu was speechless, com-
pletely taken by surprise. She mumbled
her thanks and walked out of the door-
yard feeling very desolate. She knew it

was not unheard of for the old people.

to move, but the strange, unfriendly

. ber 21st.

thing was that they had moved withou
even telling her. Uncle Franz had a step

daughter living in Buffalo.
had moved there.

By the time she got back to her ow
home on Eureka Place she was talkin
to herself. When her husband got hom
she told him about it but he was baffle
too.

“Maybe they didn’t have time to le
us know,” he said. “We'll probably hea
in a day or two where they are.”

That was Saturday afternoon, Novem
Sunday came and went anj
there was no word arid Monday an{
Tuesday dragged by. .On Wednesda}
she had a caller, young Lottie Heinike
the Frehr’s granddaughter. Lottie ha¢
gone to call on the Frehrs, to find they

Perhaps ht

’. had moved away.

“Mamma and I thought they must bh
here,” Lottie said.

“And I thought they might be at you
house,” replied Wilhelmina. “Tomorroy
is Thanksgiving, and I had promised t
fix their dinner. Wouldn't you thin
they would at least let us know wher
they are?”

“Who is that old man?” asked Lottie
“He says he owns the house”

“I’m afraid he does,” sighed Wilhel-
mina. “The other day—a week ago-
when I was leaving there he came in
His name is Bonier. Uncle Franz tol
me that Bonier wanted to buy the house
but I had_no idea he would sell. It’s al
so strange, happening this way—prac:
tically overnight.”

Wh

schu
ately
minut
old F:
open:
the d
a cha
“MM:
aunt
you h
“Bi
said |
boug)
told t!
move:
just :
“6
Boni:
ra}
by tv
“Di
al
$3,201
erty «
of co
went
and
prop:
“T)
they
“VU
gave
hom«
can’t
they
“O
Thar

ng cottage,

heard what
ecause the

ad thought ©

e from an
3, however,
rd the two
ght. Both
rl had at-
ocal lodge
me only a
ng out.

xed Green-
our of the
o’clock, it

1 a verdict
and Judge
ling to life

win his
it because
igainst all
the case,

who had
onotonous
Quentin’s
ased him
tilted pan.

the identity
a and L, D.

ts.)

| with re-

said the

S

, the old

1 captain
_ Burness
rehr had

RANOREN 2B OR SE) SEY AG
7 ‘ f ; My : ae ALN pos}
é Me a ¥

gone to sign the deed to his house, and he
could only wonder at what brought Frehr
‘to the office. /

Regan found the notary furious: and
grim, alone in his office. The man. he
had thought’ was Frehr had gone. The
facts he told Regan fitted into a pattern,

now forming in the police captain’s mind, _

that could only spell tragedy for the tmiss-
ing couple. Regan looked forward to the
court session the next day, when, he
knew, a number of things about the mys-
tery would be cleared up. ;

John Doe proceedings were re-opened
the next day, December 3. The court
examined the deed which had been pro-
cured from the county clerk’s office,

Under New York state law, the dower
right of a wife is protected by the neces-
sity that she must’ sign*conveyances on
her husband’s property by which her
dower right may be affected. In this in-
stance, Johanna Frehr’s signature was
not on the deeds. Instead, the “Franz
Frehr” who. had signed. them before
Notary Burness had proclaimed himself a
widower!

Mrs. Bundschu and Mrs. Heinecke were
united in their declarations that the signa-

ture on the deed was not that of the.

Franz Frehr who was their father. Police
speedily verified the fact that the signa-
ture was not genuine by going to the bank
where Franz Frehr had a savings account.

The court clerk then called the name of
the next witness, Charles Bonier. There
was no response. Nor did he appear in
time to testify after the other witnesses
had been sworn. Mrs, Lindholm, the
housekeeper, was present and said that he
had left the house early. that morning.
When she had asked him where he was
going so early, he laughingly replied that
he was going to court early to get a front
seat. She had expected him to be in
court when she got there, but ... She
spread her hands expressively.

Police were dispatched immediately. to
arrest him for not appearing in court in
accordance with the subpoena, and found
him gone. They searched the house and
there was no trace of him, They did,
however, find a letter from a widow living
at West 18th street, Erie, Pa., inviting
Bonier to call on her. Captain Regan
wired the Erie police to check up on this
address, and also gave them a complete
description of Bonier.

With Bonier actually wanted, Notary
Burness told the story that accounted for
his false alarm on Frehr the previous
afternoon.

When he. saw the old man in the outer
office, Burness had telephoned the good
news, as he thought, to the police. Then
he had gone out to greet his visitor.

“Thank God, Mr. Frehr, you have
turned up,” the notary had said. “Every-
body has been wondering where you
were,”

The old man, nervous and irritable,
snapped out that he was not Frehr, but
Bonier. He said he was in trouble, that
he had paid good money for the Frehr
house and the Frehrs had run out on him
without giving him the deed or so much
as a receipt. He had not known how to
protect his investment without resorting
to forgery of Frehr’s name. Burness was
amazed.

“Tam going to have trouble in court
tomorrow,” whined Bonier, “unless you
will swear that I am Franz Frehr. ‘Tl!
give you $50 if you'll swear that.”

The outraged Burness was emphatic
in ‘his refusal.

“T'll give you $250,” said Bonier.

>

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cents,


ied at the
the night

ea|

d without
ad a step-
erhaps he

/ her own
is talking
got home
as baffled

. Here at 339 Jefferson Street, where the Frehrs lived for more than half a
century, their niece arrived one day only to have a stranger greet her

me to let &

ably hear

1, Novem-
went and

aday and}, told them I wanted to move right in. We

‘ednesday
: Heinike,
ottie had
find they

A photograph of Franz Frehr as a
young man before he grew a beard

: HUMPHREY
ng, WILCOX

When the child had gone, Mrs. Bund-
schu decided to find out more immedi-

ately. She bundled up and in a few

minutes was knocking on the door of the
old Frehr homestead. The bearded man
opened the door again and admitted her to
the dining room. Wilhelmina sank into

> a chair.

“Mr. Bonier, I must find out where my
aunt and uncle are,” she said. © “Can’t

~ you help me? I’m terribly worried.”

_ “But, my dear madam, I don’t know,” °
a said the old man. “All I know is that I

bought the house from them Friday and

4 moved in Saturday. I saw them leaving

‘must be ff

eat your
‘omorrow
omised to
ou think
‘Ww Where

-d Lottie.

i Wilhel- fF

ek ago—
came in.
ranz told
he house,
.“ It’s all
y—prac-

> just as we came.”

“But my aunt could hardly walk, Mr.
Bonier.”

“I know. They left in a carriage, driven
by two men.”

“Did they have the money then?”

“They must have. I paid them Friday,
$3,200 for this house and for the prop-
erty on Cherry Street, and the furniture,

: of course. See, I have the deeds.” He

went to the sideboard, opened a drawer
and showed her the deeds to the two
properties.

“Didn't they give you any idea where
they were going?”

“Well, yes,” he said, hesitantly. “They
gave me to believe they were going to a
home—an old folks’ home. Of course I
can't say they went there, but that’s what
they said.” ‘

“Oh,” said Wilhelmina. ‘Oh, I see.
Thank you for trying to help me.”

She got up and opened the door. The
old man followed her out to the street.
“I wish I could help you find them,”
he said. “I don’t like to see you so wor-
ried.” He took her hand in his two big
hands and pressed it and wished her

- luck.

More at sea than ever, Mrs. Bundschu
started home again, then on an impulse
stopped in at the precinct station. Cap-
tain Michael Regan, a giant of a man,
listened carefully to her story.

“What do you expect the police to do,
lady?” he asked.

“Why, find them. Somebody must
know where they are. I’ve got to find
them.”

“Maybe they don’t want you to find
them, did you ever think of that? Some-
times old people have their own ideas.”

e
Bur she protested it did not make
sense. They were both so old, her aunt
really feeble. Why should they suddenly
move away without even telling her?

“They had no idea of selling a week
ago,” she said.\“When Mr. Bonier came
walking up to the house they were prac-
tically laughing at him because he wanted
to buy it. Then they drove away ina
hack with all that money—I’m afraid
something really serious has happened to
them.”

‘Captain Regan pulled at his mustache,
then summoned a patrolman from an-
other room. '

“This lady wants to find out what hap-
pened to her uncle and aunt,” said Regan.

“Their name is Frehr and for more than
fifty years they’ve lived at 339 Jefferson
Street. Now it seems they’ve sold out
and disappeared. Go over there and find
out what you can. See if you can’t find
out where they’ve gone.”

The policeman clapped on his helmet,
thrust a stick under his arm and strode
away. Wilhelmina sank down on a bench
to wait, feeling better already. In an
hour the man was back. ‘

“I talked to the old man there» said
the officer. “His name is Charles-Bonier,
He says he bought the house and lot from
the old man for $3,200 in cash. He says

the old couple went away in a carriage *

and he thinks they’ve gone to a home.
Says he heard them say something about
St. Francis’ home. That’s in-Garden-
ville.” : :

“Does that answer your question,
lady?” asked Captain Regan.

“No,” said Wilhelmina stubbornly. “I
haven’t found them yet. I want to find
them.”

“Listen, madam,” said the patrolman
who had just made the personal investi"
gation, “‘did it ever occur to you maybe
they don’t want you to know where they
are?”

Mrs. Bugdschu looked at him, shocked
and unbelieving. Y

“I might as well tell you plain,” said
the officer. ‘The old couple told Mr.

Bonier. they wanted to get away from -

their relatives. The old couple felt that
the relatives were only interested in
their money.” (Continued on page 93)

tl tt nett Le ee

oR INERT

~ae

SoSTRRER RRR > + a eepeeee ae

_ A Spat of Orange Flame in the Nassau County, New York, Patios ;
_ Paradise — a Cop Lay Dying — But His Slayer Forgot a Hat—.

If the marauders noticed Kennedy
resuming the struggle to reach his gun
as they went past him, they were too
intent on their getaway to do him fur-
ther harm. Soon they disappeared in
the darkness, and a minute or two later
the wounded officer heard the sedan’s
"motor roar to life. They had left him

for dead, but he was just dying—his

life bleeding away...

Weak from loss of blood, and the
paralyzing shock of the slug which had.
struck his spine, Kennedy lay quiet
again until the sound of the escape car
receded and absolute quiet returned
to the misty woodland. :

Suddenly he realized the full danger
of his situation, Though he had not
lost consciousness, the bullet had
struck a vital spot. He knew his life’s
blood was fast ebbing into the mire.
The chill) drizzle was penetrating his
uniform. In this out-of-the-way spot
he was not likely to be discovered un-
til long after daylight. He had to
summon help at once, before paralysis
overcame him completely.

Once more he began the torture of
trying to extricate his hands and arms
from beneath his numbed body. His
eyes were shuttered in pain as he tried
to make shocked, lifeless muscles obey

will...

. _He was-able to roll his head and
‘Shoulders slightly. His elbows pushed
down into the mire. Slowly and with
great effort he pulled his fists outward,

making furrows in the soaked earth
beneath his massive frame. -

At last his left hand was free, then
his right. Unsteadily he groped for
his holster, found it, drew out his gun,

‘Pointing the revolver upward, Ken-
nedy pressed the trigger convulsively.
After a pause he cried “Help! Help!”
in as loud a voice ‘as he could muster.
Then he lapsed into merciful uncon-
sciousness. : :

Five minutes later Patrolman Fred
Hirsh, on duty at the Woodmere Po-
lice Lodge, received a startling tele-
phone message from the residence of
Robert J. Roos.

“I heard shots from the direction of
Waterworks Lane,” Roos told him.

“Some! ly seemed to be shouting for:

help, too. oes

By good fortune, Roos’ wife hap-
pened tobe on the back porch of their
home, taking food out of an ice-box,
at the moment Kennedy fired the shots,
Had it not been for this circumstance,
the wounded officer might ‘have died
there in the dark. The Roos home was
the closest residence — probably the
only one where his appeal could have
been heard. ;

Hirsh speeded to the neighborhood
in a prowl car. After some searching
he came upon Kennedy lying prostrate
in the trail leading off Waterworks
Lane. He did what he could for his
fellow officer, then’ hurried to a patrol
box to flash an alarm.

William French, right, pointed out to police the

spot where Kennedy was shot, as shown below

Soon Kennedy was borne away from
“Petter’s Paradise” in a siren-scream-
ing ambulance. At a hospital in Far

Rockaway, doctors waited to start the '

long fight to save his life, -
Inspector ‘Harold R. -King, famed
detective chief of the Nassau County
Police, got out of bed to rush to the
scene of the crime. He was joined

there by Chief Skidmore, District At--

torney E. N. Edwards, and other ‘in-
vestigators, The detectives were grim
as they sought clews. It was possible

‘the case might develop into murder,

and Handsome Jack Kennedy had been
one of the best-liked officers.

_ In the narrow cut-off from Water-
works Lane the detectives saw the
tire-tracks and footprints thrown into
bold relief by their electric torches,

and were able to reconstruct the
shooting. : oe .

“He never had a chance to defend
himself,” said Inspector King, his jaw
muscles taut. “We'll have. to square
this for Jack, or no officer's life will
be safe.” : :

The treads'on the tires of the bandit
car were so worn they provided no
imprints in the mud that might be
traced. Neither did the footprints of
the gunmen disclose any distinct pe-
culiarities that might help crack the
mystery. :

“Here’s something that ought to give

“a lead!” exclaimed one of the detec-

tives, picking up an object that lay

“near the drenched bushes by the side

of the road.

|7 WAS a battered felt hat. Inspector

King ‘examined it in the glare of
headlights. At first he seemed doomed
to disappointment, because the fedora
was a common make—one of many
thousands being worn in the metro-
Debate area. But. then he emitted a
low whistle of satisfaction.

“This may put somebody right in

. the hot seat,” he said, extending the

headgear to Prosecutor Edwards.

Inked on the sweatband were two
initials—“A, B.”

Leaving some of his men to seek
other clews, Inspector King went to
Far Rockaway, and was admitted to
the room where Kennedy lay. ;

District Attorney E. N. Edwards:.
“The case is full of riddles—”


might have remembered the purchaser
-also had to report failure. :
“We’re not licked yet,” Inspector
King .declared. “Sooner or later our
fugitive ‘A.B.’ will land in trouble on
some score. And when he does’. . .”
There was no need to finish the
sentence. Kennedy’s fellow officers
knew that if the gunman of Lovers’

Lane .ever were -trap) the State
would have to demand the supreme __
penalty

For Handsome Jack, his vitals punc-
tured and his spine shattered, could not
survive. A deliberate torturer could
not have inflicted a wound better cal-
culated to make a man suffer. He clung
‘to life in a. Hell of unrelenting pain,

*and-no matter how he fought there
eo to be only one outcome—
leath,

While Inspector King issued the first
of a series of circulars sent pone
to authorities throughout the country,
describing the Kennedy case and seek-
ing aid in the gunman’s capture, Hand-
some Jack underwent one operation
‘after another. A total of a dozen opera-
tions were performed on him.

As weeks dragged into months and
the months into years, with no activity
in the investigation except for the
regular issuance of new circulars, Ken-
nedy kept up his losing battle. Through
it all, he retained the cheerfulness that are
had made him so B stag oes in the past. Se
Most of the time the lower part of his Pagrus
body was in a cast, and his arms were ne
held .aloft by a system of ropes and
pulleys, but he never complained. He
was shunted from hospital to hospital
for special treatment. His. 200 pounds

A deliberate torturer could not
have inflicted a wound better cal-
culated to make a man. suffer—
Kennedy lived four years like this

Is

. fell off to 150, then to less than 125. | the
Doctors found it necessary to amputate C7
a leg. As if his physical pain were not
enough, he had financial troubles. Un-
der the law, he was now entitled only

_to a meager pension, barely enough to~
support his wife and child.

- But Handsome Jack smiled through |
it all. And Inspector King, keeping the. ;
case alive with his circulars, waited
impatiently for the break which was ;

bound to come through - relentless f oe
Police routine. "

In the Summer of 1932, four years
after the bandit slug bored into his
vitals, John Kennedy died. -His face
gaunt and pale against the pillow, he
looked through half-shut lids at his
dark-haired wife, .and his son, Jackie,
now almost five, and said:

“It’s best that I go ... Take good
care of—of Jackie...”

Those were his last words. -

Since the. case now had become one
of first-degree murder, Inspector King
issued ‘a-new batch of circulars, mean-
time cursing the Devil’s fortune that
had: blessed the Lovers’ Lane holdup
man for four long years.

From time to time responses came
from various parts of the country. Re-
ports.were traced down diligently and
suspects were questioned rigorously
but the mysterious “A.B.” continued
to go undetected. It began to appear
porn he had committed a “perfect
crime.

Four years of immunity for the
killer lengthened into.five. _.

On an afternoon in September, 1933,
Inspector King had a call at Head-
quarters from the police in New York’s
Borough of Queens. ,

“Are we-still interested in the Ken-
nedy case?” he barked into the trans-
mitter, ““You’re damned _ right! .I’ll be
there in half an hour!”

The call had -been to report the ap-
prehension of three “baby hoodlums”
who had been picked up for petty
theft and -who, ‘upon questioning,
boasted they had heard a man “talking
about killing a guy out on the Island.”

The youths were accused of stealing

(Continued on Page 50)

ee:
ec? Ses ae
er We


The courageous patrolman had re-
gained consciousness. His police in-
stinct uppermost despite his

inj
he insisted on an Lengua recital 22.

the midnight encounter.

“What I can’t understand, Chief, is.

why they did it,” he said weakly. “All
I did was announce myself as an offi-
cer, and then the shot came out. of
haan nepeakde: lated
e Inspector n is

“That in itself may be a clew. If
the man who fired the shot was so
ufraid of a possible arrest, he either
vas a nervous amateur or a previous
offender. But the amateur would have
‘orgotten all about his car;"he would
lave run away from you instead of
oward you.”

“You meari—the Baumes law?”

“Right! That man in all probability
vas an habitual criminal who was
fraid he might get life automatically
inder the Baumes law if another con-
‘iction. was added to his record. When
‘e saw you standing there in the
tail, all he could. think of was that
entence hanging over his head. But
here must be another link; if he had
ust committed a stickup, for example,
nd thought you were nabbing him for

/ENNEDY told his chief the license
\ number of the Willys-Knight as he
ad remembered it from his fleeting
lance—New York 8L—685,

“Good boy, Jack!” King jotted down
1e figures in his: notebook. “You'd
ee tae’ Inspector King

n the corridor r en-
suntered one of the doctors in at-
ndance. F

Wicd does it look?” he queried
rsely. :
“Very doubtful. The bullet ripped

through his liver and struck the spine
causing paralysis, He may | pull

through, but it’s too soon to tell for -
sure. Certainly

% e he'll never walk
again...”
King’s eyes were hard as agate as
he drove to Headquarters. He was
thinking of how happy Handsome Jack
always seemed, and of his attractive
wife, and ten-month-old son.
Meanwhile, other investigators: got a
tip on a robbery committed in Water-
works Lane just prior to the time. of
the shooting. Following the lead, de-
tectives interrogated a red-faced young

man who admitted he had been held -

up as he sat with his “best girl” in a
parked car, '

“There—there were two men,” he
stammered. “One had a gun. No, I
can’t tell you what either of them
looked like. I—I was too scared,”

Police Chief Abra-
ham Skidmore pre-
sented Mrs. Jane
Kennedy with a
posthumous award
for her husband’s
bravery under fire

Alphonse Brengard,
shown below with
his attorney, treas-
ured a State Troop.
er’s service revolver

He said no attack had been at-
bg er upon his companion.

Piecing together the events of the
night, the police reasoned the two
. Sunmen had driven into the dead-end
trail and parked there for conceal-
ment. Then they cut through the woods
to the point where the youth and the
girl were making love. After the rob-

ry was committed, they hurriedly
mecanes their ag, wes Ley tage

EY an getaway ‘ore the:
pewiseon Leek habe time to notify the
authorities. But Patrolman Kennedy
had stood in their path.

When Inspector King, back at his
office, heard this piece of news, he
was more than ever convinced that the
man who fired the shot was an habitual
criminal. Probably his accomplice was
an old-timer, too. ; .

The Nassau police lost no tim

checking the license number Epeset
by Kennedy. They found it had n
issued to a resident of Manhattan who
was above suspicion. The most promis-
ing clew went glimmering entirely
when it was learned the holder of the
plates was on a motor trip hundreds
of miles away and could not possibly
have been at the scene of the crime.
A check was begun against various
combinations of the numerals recalled
by Kennedy. But despite every twist-
ing of 8L—685, and espite every re-
sultant inquiry into the record of
various auto owners, this angle of the
investigation led nowhere. :

WEEN the. wounded patrolman was gun,
moved to the Nassau County Hos-

pital at Mineola, the County Seat, he
was questioned anew about the license
PeeThae "just th I_remember
at’s ie way remem
it—8L—685,” he responded, puzzled.
“The number is as clear in my mind
as if it had been etched into a piece
of glass. Why, it couldn't be any

While detectives set out on a quest
for en Willys-Knights—a hunt
destined to be as unproductive as the

cense search—surgeons removed the
bullet from its lodging-place ' beside
Kennedy’s spine.

The slug was forwarded to a noted
ballistics expert, Colonel Arthur Jones
ot Bridgeport, Connecticut, and in due
course was returned with a report. It
was a .38 caliber slug—and it probably
had been fired from a police service
revolver! .

“The Smith and Wesson gun used
in the attack was of a
issued to City, County and State law-
enforcement officers,” Colonel Jones
wrote Inspector g.

The expert’s findings did not enable
the police to trace the bandit gun, but
were placed on file as evidence in case
the revolver ever were produced.

“It’s unthinkable that another officer
could have shot Kennedy,” King re-
marked to the District Attorney.

“The case is full of riddles,” Prose-
.cutor Edwards responded. “Don’t for-
get that police guns frequently fall into

the hands of criminals. Maybe not in-
Nassau County, but in New York.”

“Yes, and it might have been'a New
York hoodlum who ‘committed the
crime, It’s an easy drive out from the
city, and this gunman and ‘his pal
might have felt safer operating outside -
their home territory.”

With his usual thoroughness, Inspec-
tor King contacted the Detective Bu-
reau of the New York City force, but
again a blank wall blocked the inves-
tigation, The Manhattan police had no
criminal on record as Possessing the in-
itials “A.B.” and owning an old Willys-
Knight sedan, nor could they suggest
any means of locating the .38 caliber

In the pursuit of other leads, the
fedora apparently lost by one of the
bandits had not been overlooked. Nas-
sau detectives spent long hours check-
an over residents of the entire metro-
Ee tan area whose initials were “A.B,”

undreds of men unlucky enough to
have these initials were asked about
their past, their means of earning a
living, and their whereabouts the night
of July 22.

This phase of the inquiry was ‘like
looking for a needle in a haystack. The
right “A.B.” could not be found. Like-
wise, detectives assigned to attempt
tracing the hat to some clerk who°

type frequently ©


r I had caused his disappearance, and
iaturally it would seem that, if we
aduced him to leave, it must be be-
ause he had something discreditable
o reveal. Now, everything he could
ay has already been said and pub-
ished. It is absolutely necessary to
ay position in the department that his
tatement be faced and disproved.’
“This I was prepared to do. His
harge that I was the owner of the
hattel mortgage Rose stood ready to
lisprove, and beyond that there was
iothing worthy of notice in _ his
harges...

«“. . . When I learned ... of Rosen-
hal’s death I said at once to my wife,
s she can testify: ‘I never now can
neet and disprove those charges Ros-
nthal made against me, and, while
hey cannot be prosecuted, they will
‘et hang like a cloud over me in the
lepartment.’ There was but one way
n which it might be possible to offset
he injury his death threatened to
‘ause me, and that was by discovering
ome clew to his murder which would
‘reatly enhance my reputation on the
orce. My wife agreed ... When I
eached the station house I found
here was no opportunity by which I
‘ould contribute to the discovery of
he criminals, because the entire prob-
em of the crime was already in proc-
‘ss of solution by yourself. But sure-
y, Sir, it is an extraordinary idea

Red Horror

iuto accessories. At the Queens Pre-
‘inct Headquarters, they had attempted
o brazen out their offenses by parad-
ng knowledge of a crime of far greater
»roportions.

“We were in a tavern one night,” one
of them boasted to the Queens detec-
ives, “and heard a fellow talk about
hooting somebody—lI think it was a
:op—in 1928. You ought to let us off
f we told you what we knew .. .”

Fresh in the detectives’ memory
vere the details of the Kennedy case,
is set forth in Inspector King’s series
of circulars. Maybe the kids were try-
ng to lie their way out of a tight situa-
ion, but on the other hand, no lead,
1owever unlikely, was to be overlooked
n a murder case.

Ae so the call was put through to
Nassau County Headquarters.

When Inspector King arrived and
ook a hand, the three young toughs
earned how hard-boiled a police in-
juisition can be. Their braggadocio
juickly disappeared, and was replaced
oy abject fright which prompted them
0 tell all they knew, regardless of con-
sequences,

“The man we heard talking about it
vas named Bill—Bill French,” one of
che kids babbled, “He got drunk in this
ylace one night, and we sat and lis-
ened to him.”

“Where does this man French live?”
snapped Inspector King.

“Why—why, out on the Island
someplace, I think.”

“I remember—he mentioned In-
wood,” broke in another member of
the trio. “The bartender told him he’d
better go home, and he said it was a
long ways out to Inwood.”

The village of Inwood was in Nas-
sau County, just a few minutes’ drive
from the murder spot in Lovers’ Lane!
At last the jig-saw pieces of the mur-
der puzzle were falling into place!: .

It was late that night when Inspector
King and his men located the home of
William French in Inwood and got him
out of bed with their imperative sum-
mons. Standing in the hallway of his
home, bleary-eyed from slumber, he
readily admitted his identity.

“What do you want me for?” he
mumbled. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Maybe you haven’t recently,” said
Inspector King, “but how about that

that the appearance of a man at the
place where murder has been done is
evidence of his having perpetrated

| eee

“Tf, Sir, I have spoken frankly of
what I conceive to be wrong done me
by the excessive zeal with which I
have been pursued, yet I ask you to
believe that I am entirely free from
anything like personal resentment. In
these days, when we read of men dy-
ing by tens of thousands every day in
battle, the disposition that may be
made of one poor human life scarce-
ly seems worth the trouble which the
perusal of these very voluminous pa-
pers must entail. But I do not feel I
should withhold a single word that
might by any chance aid you in
reaching a conclusion which will win
approval of your own conscience and
of the people who have entrusted you
with the sovereign power to take my
life or spare it. I have the honor to
be, Sir, Your Excellency’s most humble
servant,

(Signed) “CHARLES BECKER.”

One of Becker’s last letters to his be-
loved wife was dated June 9, 1915. I
submit it as a beautiful thing; a thing
springing from the depths of a man’s
soul and finding response not alone in
the heart of the woman he loved, but
also in the heart of every person to
whose attention it ever has come. I
honor him for that letter.

My heart’s blood,
Your dear letters came and with
them a whiff of cheer. As I hope
to see you today, | shall say noth-
Ing, except to tell you my heart
cries out for you, for your love
and for your caresses. There is
no way in which I can tell you all
you are and have been to me. You
are simply the flower of my life,
the guiding star of my hopes and
my comfort in my anguish of soul.
This 1 know, my spirit shall ever
hover near you until we meet in
the green pastures beside the still
waters in the great beyond.
Your lover,
(Signed)

So Charlie Becker traveled the long
trail with but a single ending. It is
recorded that he “waltzed the last
mile” with high fortitude and the sin-
gle statement, “I am being sacrificed
for my friends.” There in the shadowy
Death House at Sing Sing, he and the
four gunmen went to their legal
deaths. So closed the case of the
murder of Herman Rosenthal, which
had so dramatically opened that sultry
— on the threshold of the Metropole
cafe.

Charlie.

But so long as men remember and
disagree, there will be discord as to

the justice done. Many still believe
that the man in blue and gold went to
a deserved death. Others will insist
that he was innocent of murder and
framed by his enemies. So long as
man is man there will be these dis-
cordant notes in judgment. The pur-
pose of this story has been merely to
set forth the facts as clearly as possi-
ble and let the reader form judgment.

So-called “gunmen” and “gangsters”
have followed in the wake of these
dramatic leaders. But I hold that none
has offered a case more replete with
drama, more thrilling with doubts,
more exacting from the standpoint of
court procedure or more heart-rending
in its various facets, than this same
battle of the titans, Becker and Whit-
man.

HE Lieutenant faced his God and

the justice mankind offered him in
the same steady, unemotional manner
in which he had faced his trial. These
facts become the more amazing in view
of the deep spiritual side of his nature,
and his infinite tenderness, as revealed
in the touching last letter he wrote
his beloved wife. Have we all dual
personalities?

For additional illustrations with this
story see Pages 46 and 56,

Fir

in Love rs’ Lane (Continued from Page 33) OE ge m poping

night in the Summer of 1928, French?
How about the Nassau policeman you
and your pal killed?”

Still dazed by sleep, the heavy-set,
dark-browed captive retorted:

“But I swear to God, Inspector, I
wasn’t the one who had the rod.”

“You admit you were there, though!”

“Oh, well—I don’t know. Jeez! Give
a guy time to wake up!”

“Come on! It’s the chair if you don’t
come clean!”

“Okay! Okay! Maybe I was there.
But I was just in on the holdup. If I
had known any killing was to be done,
I wouldn’t have had any part of it!”

With these damaging admissions,
forced from a brain dulled by sleep
and alcohol, it was not difficult to pro-
ceed to the identity of French’s com-
panion. At first he balked, but per-
sistent questioning broke him down.

“All right,” he said at last, “maybe
I’m a rat, but I’m not taking the rap
for anybody, see? The guy you want
is Alphonse Brengard. We palled
around together five years ago. He
used to be a trooper, and I think he’s
doing a stretch right now over in Jer-
sey some place.”

More pieces fitted together in the
murder puzzle!

With grim satisfaction, Inspector
King recalled the initials “A. B.” and
the ballistics expert’s opinion that the
.38 bullet came from a service re-
volver.

Now the story tumbled from the lips
of the suspect.

“Al and I needed dough, ’cause
neither of us were working,” he ex-
plained, “We both had taken girls for
petting parties in Waterworks Lane
and in the little lanes that jut off
from it, so we knew lots of people
parked in that neighborhood at night
and that it would be easy to hold ’em
up. We did a few stickups and didn’t
have any trouble.

“Then on this night of the shooting,
we parked Al’s car—yeah, it was a
blue Willys-Knight sedan—and went
peowiee through the woods along the

ne. We spotted a high-school kid
parked with a girl friend, and held
’em up for a few bucks.

“Coming back to our car, we saw
the tail light of the cruiser, and a guy
in uniform was standing in front of
it. Al yelled at him, and he said he was

a cop. Al yelled something back, and
before I knew what was happening
he had his gun out and was shooting.

“Al wanted to make sure the guy
was finished off, but I told him not to
stop. We shoved the Willys down to
Waterworks Lane and got out of there
as quick as we could. From that time
v4 I didn’t want to see much of

As the swivel-tongued Bill French
was being rushed to Headquarters in
Mineola, he revealed to Inspector King
that Brengard had lived in Valley
Stream, another Nassau County village,
and that he had quit Troop K of the
New York State Police after several
months’ service when a dishonorable
discharge was threatened. Brengard,
French said, had gotten his .38 while
still a trooper, and habitually had car-
ried it in the dashboard compartment
of his car,

A‘ MINEOLA, French repeated his
story in the presence of District At-
torney Edwards and a police stenog-
rapher,

An immediate check against motor
vehicle registration records showed
that in 1928 Alphonse Brengard held
the license New York 8L—6685.

Patrolman Kennedy had omitted one
of the sixes in making a mental note
of the number the night he sustained
his mortal wound!

With French lodged in the Nassau
County jail, Inspector King and a de-
tective detail dashed to Valley Stream
to check up on the present where-
abouts of Brengard, the renegade
trooper. They found that his former
confederate’s statement was the truth
—he was “doing a stretch” in New
Jersey. Even while the law sought
him, he was protected by the law.
Somehow the Jersey authorities had
failed to connect him with Inspector
King’s circulars concerning the Ken-
nedy murder when they picked him
up and sent him to prison.

At Hackensack, New Jersey, a year
or two before, Brengard had shot and
wounded a girl named Olga Muller
after she rejected his bid for her fa-
vor. It was this crime for which he
received an indeterminate sentence in
the State Penitentiary at Trenton.

Inspector King, accompanied by
Prosecutor Edwards, a _ plain-clothes

detective and the accused Bill French,
flew to Trenton as soon as Brengard’s
oe gaieaal definitely was estab-
ished.

French was in another room when
the hulking, lantern-jawed Brengard
was ushered into the Warden’s office.
To King and Edwards he admitted
that he had owned a Willys-Knight
sedan in 1928.

B Garon French was brought in to con-
front his former pal. Brengard
blanched, apparently aware of what
was coming.

“Is that the man who killed Patrol-
man Kennedy?” the Nassau detective
chief demanded.

“Yeah, he’s
French.

Alphonse Brengard raged like a
trapped animal. Charges and counter-
charges flew between him and Bill
French. King and Edwards sat back
~ watched ‘each incriminate the
other.

After a special session of the New
Jersey Parole Board, Brengard was
extradited to Mineola for trial on a
charge of first-degree murder.

As the trial date approached, the
former trooper tried to lay all the
blame on French. French, he claimed,
borrowed his car on the murder night,
and the gun and hat were in it at
the time. But his new story did not
jibe with proved facts, nor with re-
marks he made in the heat of anger
during the scene in the New Jersey
Warden’s office.

Alphonse Brengard and William
French went to trial jointly a few
months after solution of the five-year-
old mystery. The jury, like King and
other investigators, believed the ex-
trooper to be the actual slayer, and
regarded French merely as an accom-
plice in the Lovers’ Lane robberies.
Both were convicted. French drew a
20-year sentence. Brengard was con-
demned to die.

There was one appeal and one stay
of execution, but the night of Sep-
tember 6, 1934, Brengard shambled
into Sing Sing’s death chamber and
paid with his life for the slaying of
Patrolman Kennedy.

Then, and not before, was the baf-
fling case marked “closed” in the
records of Inspector King.

the one,” mumbled

Next Issue of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES Will Be on Sale Wednesday, April 13

50

Q11


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ed to a truck farm- |»
new black Chevrolet “5
Willys-Knight. The
rily to King’s office © ©
ish an air-tight alibi

sai 2 inspector ~ *
wa itive about .. .
net so sure of -% :
idn’t see it clearly ;
ee tricks.” - %
da went glimmering .-
cked the shop on ©
rk City where the
uught. The Manage- . < +
10 possible way of ~~ .

n that the gunman
-convict, other in-

ly went over lists °°:

from Sing Sing ~
> State. A few were ~.
nitials “A.B.” but > }
nined that none of
aything to do with == |

culled from the
me directory and
utility companies.
rously questioned, _

ling phase of the
Nassau County
ys-Knight sedans.
were located and °@
ie detectives drew “4

wspapers of Long
tan area had de-
licity to the case,
in a flood of tips.
to be run down—* 7
ne proved to

Chi

ws

kidmore
, Ins or King
> Situauun whe
ads and never’
hope that La

is case.” %
or even ye

r about.” : Se

in the end we'll lay our hands on ‘A.B.’
A fellow like that is bound to get in trou-
ble sooner or later. There’s a good chance,
too, that a stool pigeon might give him
away.” :

“T'd hoped we could wrap up this thing
quickly,” sighed Edwards, “but I agreed
with you that it now appears we’ll have
to play a waiting game. I’d suggest send-
ing out batches of circulars at regular
intervals to keep the case fresh in the
minds of law officers throughout the East.”

“That will be done,” King promised.
“Matter of routine.”

Jack Kennedy was transferred from St.

Joseph’s in Far Rockaway to a hospital in -

e first.

Mineola, the county seat, and in
of a long series of operations surgeons
removed the bullet that had lodged in his
spine. Inspector King sent the slug to
Colonel Arthur Jones of the Remington
Arms Company for ballistics examination.

The report that came back from Jones
packed a surprise. The slug was a .38 cali-
ber, and had been fired from a Smith and
Wesson revolver—the weapon used
extensively by police officers! Thus the
Nassau County investigators had to keep
in mind the possibility that the shooting
may have been done by a renegade cop.

Colonel Jones also reported that the
rifling marks on the slug were perfectly
clear; if the gun was ever found it could
easily be proved to be the one used in
Waterworks Lane.

The spinal damage suffered by Patrol-
man Kennedy, along with the paralysis it
caused, was very severe. No expense was
spared in the attempts to save him. He
was placed in half a dozen different hos-
pitals where top-notch specialists worked
on him. All told, he underwent 14 opera-
tions. ;

One specialist finally told Inspector King
that the case was hopeless. “He may linger
for a long time,” he said, “but eventually
his wound will prove fatal. He may as well
be kept at home most of the time.”

Other members of the force frequently
visited Kennedy at his bedside, and on
several occasions he was taken by ambu-
lance on a trip to headquarters. He never
complained, always maintained his good
spirits. The one question he always asked
his buddies was: “Any news of ‘A.B.’ yet?”

Invariably the answer had to be in the
negative. Over the years new leads trickled
in, all of which proved upon investigation
to be without foundation. Prisoners in-
volved in other cases were quizzed on the
shooting, but none would admit any con-
nection with it. The mystery threatened to
pass into the limbo of the “Unsolved.”

“Handsome Jack” clung to life for four
long years. Then, in the summer of 1932,
he died. Inspector King sent out a new
batch of circulars stating that “A.B.” and
his pal were now “wanted for murder.”

Due to publicity given to Kennedy’s
death and his impressive funeral; there
was a fresh wave of interest in the case
and once more the tips poured in. They
proved just as worthless as the ones re-
ceived previously. Another full year was
to pass before the real break arrived.

One night in September, 1933, three
youths were picked up in the Borough of
Queens, a part of New York City adjoin-
ing Nassau County, on suspicion of looting
parked automobiles. They were taken to
the stationhouse in Jamaica for booking.

“Why do you bulls waste your time
chasing us juvenile delinquents?” one of
the hoodlums whined to the desk sergeant.
“Why don’t you go out and crack some
really big cases for a change?”

The sergeant yawned. “Such as what,
for instance?” he asked with mock polite-
ness. “You want us to find Judge Crater?”

His attitude angered the young thug.
“You think I’m just a dumb kid, eh?” he

coppers. 1 could tell you pienty about who
plugged Jack Kennedy out in Nassau.”

The sergeant snapped to attention. “You
on the level, bub?” he demanded.

“You’re absolutely right!” was the reply.

The desk sergeant conferred with a
superior, who put through a call to In-
spector King at Mineola. “Probably an-
other bum steer,” King said, “but we can’t
take any chances. I’ll be right in.”

Flattered at being in the spotlight—and
hoping, as a reward, to get out of the petty
theft rap—the youth talked readily when
King confronted him.

“The man you want,” he declared, “is
named George Randall. He’s a short, stocky
guy. I don’t know what he does for a
living, but he lives right out in Nassau—
in the town of Inwood.”

“How do you know all this?” King
demanded.

“I’ve known Randall for two or three
months. The other night I bumped into
him in a tavern here in Jamaica. He was
really liquored up—worst I’d ever seen
him—and he wanted to talk. He told me
all about how he and a pal of his shot
Kennedy. He bragged about how smart
they were because they’d never been
caught.”

The value of the lead was still ques-
tionable, but King lost no time in driving
back to Mineola. He picked up a couple
of aides and continued on to the address
given in the phone book for George Ran-
dall in Inwood.

The man who confronted them when
they rang the doorbell had none of the
drink inspired braggadocio described by
the teen-age hoodlum. He was cold sober
—and scared.

“Yes, I’m George Randall,” he said after
King identified himself. “What do you
fellows want?”

“I think you may be able to guess,” the
inspector told him. “You’re coming with
us to headquarters to talk about some-
thing that happened over in Woodmere
five years ago.”

Randall, a stocky man with black hair,
blanched. “I’ve been afraid of this,” he
said. “All right, I'll go with you.”

Arriving at King’s office in Mineola, the
suspect seemed almost relieved to be in
custody. “I’ve felt like a hunted man for
five years,” he said. “Having this thing
hanging over me has been one continual
hell. Believe it or not, I’ve got a con-
science, too.”

“You admit, then, that you were one
of the men who surprised Kennedy in
Waterworks Lane that night?” King asked.

“Yes, I was. But I didn’t do the shoot-
ing. I wasn’t even carrying a gun.”

“I believe you, Randall,” King said.
“That ties in with all the evidence. Now,
who was your pal? The man with the
initials ‘A.B.’?”

“Alphonse Brengard,” came the answer.
“And you won’t have any trouble locating
him, because he’s doing a stretch in prison
over in New Jersey right now.”

Brengard, according to Randall, for-
merly lived in the Nassau County town
of Valley Stream. For a time he was a
professional heavyweight boxer. Discour-
aged by a succession of defeats, he took
the tests for the state police, squeezed by
with a mark that was barely passing and
became a member of Troop K in West-
chester County.

His superiors soon discovered that Bren-
gard was not good trooper material. He
was suspected of taking bribes, and his
off-duty conduct was far from exemplary.
After a couple of months he was dis-
charged from the force. Somehow, he
managed to keep his Smith and. Wesson
service revolver,

Back in 1928, Randall recalled, Bren-
gard had owned a second-hand Willys-

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bered the license number—8-L6853. Jack
Kennedy, in supplying the number, had
omitted the final digit.

Randall admitted that he and Brengard
had pulled a number of stickups in Water-
works Lane. On that fateful night of July
22nd the hold up of John Soames and
subsequent shooting of Kennedy occurred
exactly as the investigators had recon-
structed them.

“Brengard was afraid Kennedy would
arrest us,” Randall explained. “Besides,
he had an awful hatred of all coppers ever
since the state troopers fired him.”

The killer got in trouble in Jersey in

1931. He shot a girl friend during a quar-—

rel and drew a term in the state peniten-
tiary at Trenton for assault.

After lodging Randall in a cell, Inspec-
tor King called the New Jersey prison and
confirmed that Brengard was still an in-
mate there. “Good!” he said. “The D.A. and
I will be over tomorrow to talk to him.”

King and Prosecutor Edwards flew to
Trenton in a police plane. The warden
greeted them and had Brengard brought
to his office.

“What’s this—another frame?” the sus-
pect sneered when told of the accusation
against him. “Sure, I used to pal around
with George Randall. I had a blue Willys-
Knight for a while, too, and maybe I
used to have a Smith and Wesson .38. But

Be

works Lane, and I sure didn’t plug that °&

cop.
“You'll get a chance to try to prove that
before a jury,” Edwards promised him. -
A few months later Brengard was re-:
leased from prison to go on trial in’

Mineola along with Randall. On the stand -~

in his own defense, he accused his former

pal of the actual shooting. Randall, he ©.

claimed, had borrowed both his car and -
his gun on the murder night to pull some
stickups. But he was unable to explain

_ away the evidence of the hat found at the *%
scene of the crime. me

The jury voted both the defendants
guilty, but recommended that Randall get
off with a lesser sentence because he was
not the actual killer and had cooperated
with the police. Brengard drew the su-
preme penalty; Randall, a term of 20 years.

Legal delays stalled execution of sen-

tence for a year. But on the night of Sep- - -

tember , 6th, 1934, Alphonse Brengard
walked to Sing Sing’s electric chair and
paid with his life for the cruel, senseless
murder of “Handsome Jack” Kennedy.

Eprror’s Note:

The names, John Soames, Clyde Berl
and George Randall, are -fictitious.

THE SECRET CRIME IN ISLAND PARK

(Continued from page 37)

which was still quite cool inside and tightly
closed.

Officers checking further into the Her-
mit’s whereabouts managed to locate an-
other woods dweller who said the recluse
gave him a stove in the middle of July.

“And if he’d been coming back,” this
man said, “he’d never have parted with
that stove. He told me he paid two dollars
for it, and he thought it was really some-
thing.”

The investigators went over the police
records carefully in an effort to check up
on persons accused or suspected of crimes
against women, but all of these people
were either in prison or they had iron-
clad alibis. None seemed to fit into the
Macklin case.

A 24-hour watch was placed in the park
in the hope that the killer would return
to the scene of the crime. A phantom
figure did appear one night, but when an
officer ordered him to halt he made a mad
dash for the underbrush and managed
to get away. The officer fired several shots
in an effort to stop the fugitive, but with
no success.

The excitement of the finding of a dead
girl’s body in the ice house, plus the police
investigation in the area, the shots and
the phantom figure in the night upset the
entire neighborhood. Women kept their
doors locked and refused to allow their
daughters outside at night. All strangers
were looked upon with suspicion and the
Springbrook community was gripped with
fear.

A week passed and then a woman living
in the area came forward to say that on
the afternoon Hazel Macklin disappeared
she had been waiting for a trolley at the
Springbrook stop.

“I saw a young girl wearing a red
sweater coat, white shoes and stockings get
off the car,” this woman told Detective
Chief Kuespert. “She was carrying a tele-
scope valise and she stood on the sidewalk
looking as though she expected someone to

meet her. My car started to move on, but
as it did I saw a woman come up to the
girl and speak to her. This woman wore
a long black skirt and a long jacket. She
wore a heavy veil. As they started away,
I noticed that the veiled woman walked
exactly like a man. I’ve been away a while
and when I returned and heard about this
horrible murder I got to thinking about
the girl in the red sweater and the woman
who walked like a man. That’s why I came
to tell you about it.”

“Did you get a look at this woman’s
face?” Kuespert asked.

“No, I didn’t,” the informant answered.
“It was covered by the veil. But there was
something familiar about that get-up. It
was the long jacket the woman wore. It’s
exactly like one I’ve seen an ex-minister
around here wear. He lost his church be-
cause he showed too much interest in the
women in his congregation.”

The detective realized that after every
murder there are many people who believe
they have information of value to the po-
lice. Most of the time it fails to help with
the solution of the case, but Kuespert
knew that he couldn’t afford to overlook
anything.

The former minister in question lived in
the Springbrook area, and a little check-
ing showed that he had come to South
Bend after resigning from a church in a-
small Indiana town. He’d shown undue
interest in women, particularly young
girls. One husband had grown suspicious.
He told his wife that.he had to make a
trip out of town, but he stayed around in
the background. That night he went to
his home and found the minister and his
wife together. The preacher made his
getaway through a rear window, but the —
affair brought about his resignation. He
had, however, continued to wear clergy-
men’s clothes at times. The long black

coat the woman had nientioned was just .-.

such a garment.

Brought in for questioning, the former ~~

mee oo, SOR ee

“et ats

i

or ee mee ee i


BRESNAHAN, Peter, hanged at Canton, New York, on July 26, 1878,

"Canton, Ne Ye, July 26, 1878 = Bresnehan was hanged today for the murder of Nichoel Daul-
thier in April last." OBSERVER, Raleigh, N. C., July 27, 1878.
See NPG 6-15-1878 (10-1); NPG 7-27-1878, page 3.

The following is from an undated newspaper clipping furnished on 122-1981 by Mary H,. Small-
man, Ste Lawrence County Historian, 33 East Main St., Canton, NY 13617:

no such
".,,there was KWAK trouble and the condemned man, Peter Bresneham of Depeyster, died ins-
tantly. Bresneham was convicted of the murder of Michael Dalter, whom he attempted to robe
Before his death,at the instigation of his wife, Bresneham, who was between 50 and 60
years old, confessed to seven murders other than the one for which he was hanged. Some of
these murders were committed in the United States and some in Canada, Since the county
had tobear the expense of transporting to gallows, Sheriff Gheeler thought that if execu-
tions were to be so frequent, it would be cheaper to have a gallows built, Accordingly,
this was done by Warren Brown and Eugene Smith, two carpenters. The gallofsswas painted
by a man named Bragdon, It was painted black with white ends, A 300-pound weight in the
form of a trapazoid some two feet high was cast at what is now the Dishaw Foundry on
Water St., Canton. This weight, which jerked Bresneham to his death, stood for many years
in the side yard of the home of the late justice of the peace, C, Y. Fullington of Cantone
The lifting of this weight was a standard test of strength among the young men of the
village. To insure the proper functioning of the home-made gallows, a bag of sand of the
same weight as Bresneham was used to test the machine, Bressenham wore a black cloth bag
oer his head, The bag was sewed by Mrs, Wheeler, according to Mrs, Woods, her daughter.
Bressenham died almost instantly, His body was claiméddby the late Dre J. C. Wilson of
Canton and taken into the rooms in the Austin Block over what is now the St. Lawrence
Count y National Bank of Canton, “ere Dr. Wilson with other doctors dissected it, When
they finished with it, it was placed in a box and sunk in Little River, After remaining
here for sometime it was exhumed and the skeleton was mounted and given to St. Lawrence
University. t+ stood for many years in the laboratory of the late Professor Henry Priest."

Do Uda

A AR MRT gh

Cosimo,

)
-

y l

, elec. NY (Kings) 8/26/1926,

608 154 NORTH EASTERN REPORTER (N. ¥.

1
PEOPLE of the State of New York, Respond-
ent, v. Cosimo BRESCIA, Appellant.

(Court. of Appeals of New York. July 9, 1926.)

Appeal from a judgment of the Supreme
Court, rendeted March 12, 1926, at a Trial
Term for the County of Kings, upon a verdict
convicting the defendant of the crime of mur-
der in the first degree.

Raymond Malone, of New York City, for
appellant.

Charles J. Dodd, Dist. Atty., of Brooklyn
(James I. Cuff, of New York City, of coun-
sel), for respondent.

PER CURIAM. Judgment of conviction
affirmed.

HISCOCK, C. J., and CARDOZO, POUND,
McLAUGHLIN, CRANE, ANDREWS, and
LEHMAN, JJ., concur.

2

In the Matter of the Claim of W. C. GRATH-

WOHL v. NASSAU POINT CLUB PROP-
ERTIES, Inc., et al., Respondents. State
Industrial Board, Appellant.

(Court of Appeals of New York. July 9, 1926.)

Appeal from an order of the Appellate Di-
vision of the Supreme Court in the Third
Judicial Department (216 App. Div. 107, 214
N. Y. S. 496), entered March 12, 1926, revers-
ing an award of the State Industrial Board
made under the Workmen’s Compensation
Law and dismissing the claim. Claimant
was employed as foreman of a development
project covering a number of miles. To visit
the different parts of the property he used
his own automobile, driving it back and forth
from his home. He received the injury com-
plained of while cranking the car in his own
garage preparatory to starting to his work.
The Appellate Division held that he was not
in the course of his employment when the
accident happened.

Albert Ottinger, Atty. Gen. (E. C. Aiken,
Deputy Atty. Gen., of counsel), for appellant.

William B. Davis, of New York City, for
respondents.

PER CURIAM. Order affirmed, with costs,
against State Industrial Board, on opinion
of Kellogg, J., below.

HISCOCK,.C. J., and CARDOZO, POUND,
McLAUGHLIN, CRANE, ANDREWS, and
LEHMAN, JJ., concur,

|

PEOPLE of the State of New York, Respond-
ent, v. Michael NEMO, Appellant,

(Court of Appeals of New York. July 9, 1926.)

Appeal from a judgment of the Appellate
Division of the Supreme Court in the Second
Judicial Department (215 App. Div. 696, 212
N. Y. S. 893), entered November 18, 1925,
which aftirmed a judgment of the Richmond
County Court convicting the defendant of
the crime of extortion.

Alfred V, Norton, of New Brighton, for
appellant.
. Albert C. Fach, Dist. Atty., of Stapleton
(Lester L. Callan, of New York City, of coun-
sel), for respondent. .

PER CURIAM. Judgment affirmed.
HISCOCK, C. J., and CARDOZO, POUND;

McLAUGHLIN, CRANE, ANDREWS, and
LEHMAN, JJ., concur,

4

William L. WOODWARD, Respondent, v. Ed-
win A. STEVENS, Jr., et al., Appellants.

(Court of Appeals of New York. July 9, 1926.)

Appeal, by permission, from a.judgment of
the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court
in the First Judicial Department (215 App.
Div. 768, 213 N. Y. S. 939), entered December
24, 1925, unanimously affirming a judgment
in favor of plaintiff entered upon a decision
of the court at a Trial Term without a jury.
The action was to recover for legal services
rendered in connection with the determina-
tion of the tax liability of the estate of Ed-
win A. Stevens, deceased, under the -Federal
Estate Tax Act (U. S. Comp. St. §$ 6336%4,a-
6336%,k). Decedent was a resident of the
state of New Jersey and his will was probat-
ed there. Defendants Edwin A. Stevens, Jr.,
and Basil M. Stevens qualified as executors
in that state. Defendant John Stevens waa
one of the surviving trustees under a deed
of trust made by decedent in his lifetime. It
was contended that the defendants, foreign
executors, were not subject to suit in this
state.

Charles J. McDermott and Henry C. Tur-
ner, both of New York City, for appellants.

Edmund L. Mooney, of New York City,
Jacob Quat, of Mt. Vernon, and Henry T.
Stetson, of New York City, for respondent.

PER CURIAM. Judgments reversed, and
complaint dismissed, with costs in this court

OO Whe
‘tf ©)
YC ae ae

Pagnucco clicked his tongue. “Give
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O'Brien nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess so.
But anyway, inside we found the place
all shot up. Somebody dumped five
slugs in the joint and four of them got
Chippy. Every one went through him
and hit the wall. The fifth drilled a
hole in the crib, and it’s just blind luck
that little Louis wasn’t rubbed out
along with the old man.”

Lieutenant Miller said, “The way we
see it, Inspector and Mr. Pagnucco,
Chippy knew his killer. He was in
pajamas, not expecting company, but
whoever arrived got right in. We
think it was two men.”

“Why?” demanded Rothengast.

Miller lighted a cigarette, weighing
his words. “For several reasons.
Weiner had the television on, watch-
ing the fights. He was in an easy chair.
There were two other chairs pulled up
close—you know, like theater seats.
Weiner smoked cigars, nothing else,
and Mrs. Weiner uses Pall Malls.
There were two Camels in an ash-tray,
all crumpled up and barely smoked, as
if the guys who punched them out
were nervous.

“And one more thing. In _ the
kitchen were three highball glasses
and three jiggers. One glass and jigger
had been used, undoubtedly by Weiner.
The others were dry—but there was an
emply bottle of rye on the sink top,

“In Weiner’s bedroom closet was
half a case of rye. Th makes sense that
aflor puitbing oul the paetips, Welner
discovered he had no more rye in the

a ee

a ei

“ * tay

kitchen and went to the bedroom to get
it

“And that’s when he got it. Bullets,
not rye.”

A vast silence filled the room.

“Nuts!” declared Detective Neylon.
“Fourteen thousand, five hundred and
sixty-three suspects!”

Assistant District Attorney Pag-
nucco smiled: grimly. “I know what
you mean, Jim. But this thing's got to
be solved. Slip up on this one and
every gunman in New York will be
settling .some private score.”

“There’s one thing we can rule out,”
Lieutenant Miller declared, “and that’s
robbery.”

se AH,” said.O’Brien. “Enough gelt
in that place to start a bank. In
Chippy’s bathrobe, tucked like a hand-
kerchief, was $510 in bills. In Mrs.
Weiner’s gold-mesh purse, lying on the
dresser in plain sight, was $765.”

Pagnucco grunted. “Dirty money,
It has to be. People with that kind of
dough don’t live on First Street, al-
though the Weiner apartment was
comfortable enough. I heard some-
thing about some bolts of cloth.”

“A closet-full. I don’t know what
the stuff is worth, but the Safe and
Loft Squad is looking into it. My guess
is, it’s hijacked.”

Pagnucco looked thoughtful. “Any-
thing direct?”

The Inspector shook his head, “Not
really, Just suspicion, You see, the

New York mobs do their hijacking in -

Jersey, The atull gets here all right,
Mul the Whietiiod over the Miver,”
“Something to look into,” said Pag-

‘Gangster Chippy Weiner, whose last thought was
for his son. Left, Mrs. Weiner, pictured at the
moment she learned her husband had been slain

nucco, making a neat notation in a
small book he carried. “Now let’s
hear about Mrs. Weiner.”

Detective O’Brien unleashed a low
whistle. “You shouldn’t bring that
up!” he said, pretending to complain.

Pagnucco straightened. “Go on,”
he said softly.

“That’s The Red Rose’s daughter.”

The trim young Prosecutor sat as if
paralyzed.

Then he let his breath come out in
a long whooooosh. “Do you know what
that means?”

“Sort of,” said O’Brien. “I worked
in Brooklyn,”

Inspector Rothengast said he had
not, and he begged some enlighten-
ment,

“The Red Rose,” said Paanucco, ‘is
Mrs, Ittose Pantiel, ‘he ited Itose of
Williamsburgh,

“Our departed friend, Chippy Wei)
er, I see now, was the Chippy Wein
who tagged along after Lepke Buc)
alter, boss of Murder, Inc.—the san
Chippy who fell for The Red Ro
We've got it all in the files. Chip)

‘was all set to marry her after T)

Rose’s husband ,died—of cancer, I b
lieve—and along came Sylvia.”

“And he married Sylvia,” observ:
Inspector Rothengast. ‘‘Maybe T!
Rose didn’t like it.”

Pagnucco nodded solemnly. “Thai
just it. Maybe she didn’t like it.”
. Detective O’Brien had been taking
all in and now he shuffled his feet res
lossly,

“As long as we're on the subject
he said, “let me remind you that Sylv
Weiner atill has a few questions bon
swer, Like I said, she went oul.
half-past nine, leaving Chippy to «

“


eee el

BRETAGNA, Santo

in the newest of new looks,
leaned over the bed on which

the man was dying in New York City’s
vast, sprawling Bellevue Hospital.

“Oh, Chippy, Chippy!” she moaned,
and a tear squeezed slowly from each
eye and coursed down her cheeks.

The man standing at the foot of the
bed, Deputy Chief Inspector of Police
Conrad Rothengast, let out his breath
slowly and silently.

So it was Chippy Weiner!

Rothengast hadn't been sure. No-
body had, when they took the bullet-
riddled body of Benjamin Weiner out
of the swank apartment in the Sixties
on East First Street, Manhattan.

Neither name, Benjamin or Weiner,
was exactly uncommon to Manhattan’s
Lower East Side. But a Weiner with
the nickname Chippy was something
else again. ,

Chippy Weiner!

Inspector Rothengast sighed again.

This case was going to have more
angles than a cut-glass chandelier, For
Chippy Weiner was a former member
of the crime syndicate, Murder, Inc.,
and the man who pumped four slugs
into his body could have been any one
of the surviving mob members.

Rothengast was under no illusions
that with the smashing of the murder
ring, all the satellites had been brought
to justice. By no means.

But his attention centered now on
the still form before him.

“He can’t talk,” whispered an intern.
"Bullet plerced his larynx."

Inspector Rothengast nodded, “He's
conscious, Maybe he can write.” Roth-

24

A N ATTRACTIVE woman, dressed

x) 4

NY (

NY

Co.) Mare

Lite

ht

_ By Henry Beechhurst

Special Investigator for
OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

engast drew a small pad and a silver
oo from his pocket, adjusting the
ead.

“Only a minute!” the intern warned:

The Inspector placed the pad in the
limp fingers of Chippy’s left hand and
forced the pencil into the other.

“Tell me who shot you, Chippy,”
Rothengast said as kindly as he could.
“You're going out, fellow. Get it off
your chest.” ,

. The dying man’s gaze turned toward
the stalwart figure of the Inspector,
and his blue lips curled in a faint sneer.
Weakly but unmistakably he pushed
the pad and pencil away, letting them
fall to the floor from almost lifeless
fingers. His mouth formed a word of
derision which the Inspector under-
stood well although no sound accom-
panied it. :

Then his eyes closed and the intern
leaped forward.

“That's all,” he commanded. “You'll
have to leave."

Rothengast stepped from the room
with Mrs, Weiner and waited,

A few minutes later a white-sheeted
figure was rolled into the hall and onto
the elevator, which moved slowly and
silently upward toward the operating
rooms. : ‘

At 2:45 a. m. January 14, 1948,
Chippy Weiner was dead.

True to that strange, implacable code
of the underworld, he had not squealed,
and the mystery of who killed Chippy
Weiner remained for the police to un-
ravel, if they could.

In death, as in life, Chippy had no
truck with the coppers.

At Centre Street, world-famous
Headquarters of the New York Police
Department, there was a council of
war.

Among those present were Inspector
Rothengast, Detective
Benjamin Miller, Detectives John
O’Brien and James Neylon, and
Assistant District Attorney Louis A.
Pagnucco, crack assistant to District
Allurtiey Prank 8. Hogan, the ering

buster,
“Let's have it from. the besxinning,

Lieutenant .

3, 1949,

O'Brien,”
quested.

“Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Weiner,”
O’Brien intoned, “were spending the
evening at home. Chippy—Mr. Weiner,
that is—said he was going to watch the
fights on his television set. And what
a sweet set that is!”

“Save the commercials and get on
with it,” Lieutenant Miller directed.

“At half-past nine.” continued
O’Brien, “‘Sylvia—that'’s Mrs. Weiner—
said she was going fora walk to get
some air. She hated fights—she said.
Little Louis, the Weiner kid, was sleep-
ing in a crib in the bedroom.”

“How old is the baby?”
Pagnucco,

“Six months.
Yelled like Hell.”

“Get on with it!” Lieutenant Miller
broke in again.

“Chippy is wearing light blue pa-
jamas, a sort of robin’s egg blue, and
fancy slippers. He says he’ll keep a
close watch on the kid and Sylvia goes
out.

“At ten twelve the place sounds like
a Chinese New Year. You know, fire-
crackers. Other tenants on the floor
come running out into the hall anc
there is Chippy, dragging himself
through the door. He drops, right out-
side. Not another soul in sight.”

AGNUCCO cleared his throat. “Dic
he say anything then?”

Inspector Rothengast re-

asked
Husky brat, too.

O’Brien shook his head. “Appar-
ently not. We talked to everybody or
the floor, (hose who got ta him first

and all they remember Chippy sayin;
was, ‘Take care of the kid.’ ”

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5

OCTOBER, 1948

VERY CAUTIOUS YOUNG MAN...... 4
Colorado: But he wound up in a morgue

CLUES TO THE OUTDOORS..... sone” ©
Preparations for fall hunting

THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY ASKS..... 8
What do you know about the law?

PHOTO FLASHES.................. 9

Hints for the amateur cameraman

RIVER GRAVE FOR A BROADWAY
GOT vice ccscceccosccessetecee I
New York City: The second murder got her

PROPHECY OF DOOM.............. 14
Georgia: The chair was in the cards

HEADQUARTERS QUIZ.........

A test for armchair detectives

MIDNIGHT HORROR IN LOVER'S LANE 20
Illinois: What happened to Mary Jane?

DROP A STITCH AND CATCH A
KILLER ........ cc ce cece cece ee 22
Detroit: A scarf turned the trick

DETECTIVE NEWS-IN TABLOID...... 25
A picture tour :

MURDER FOR IMPATIENT LOVE...... 26
Colorado: It was a too-perfect crime

DEATH DONE IN OILS.............. 30
New Orleans: The victim sat for a portrait

TARO is ci vnecives nian & 8 casccccse -O2
California: Confession followed confession
A GUEST AT THE INN............ 34

England: The trail led to a rendezvous
CASE OF THE HALLOWEEN GHOST 38

Washington: A note was missing

THE HELLCAT'S GOOD TURN...... 43
Indianapolis: He didn't mean it that way
WANTED! ............ setsccecsese &

The roster of fugitives

POSTMASTER: Please send notice on Form 3578,
and copies returned under Label Form 3579, to
261 Fifth Avenue, New York 16, New York.

veces WY.

FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE, Volume 12, No. 6,
October, 1948. Copyright 1948, by Dell Publish-
ing Co., Inc. George T. Delacorte, Jr., President;
Helen Meyer, Vice-President; Albert P. Delacorte,
Vice-President. Published simultaneously in the Do-
minion of Canada. International copyright secured
under the provisions of the Revised Convention for
the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works. Pub-
lished monthly. Office of publication at Washington
and South Avenues, Dunellen, N. J. Executive, edi-
torial and subscription office, 261 Fifth Avenue,
New York 16, N. Y. Chicago advertising office, 360
N. Michigan Avenue, Chicago 1, Ill. Printed in the
U. S. A. Single copy price 15c. Subscription in
U.S. A. $1.80 a year; elsewhere $2.80 a year. No
Canadian subscriptions accepted. Single copy price in
England is 1s. 6d. Entered as second-class matter
July 28, 1942, at the Post Office at Dunellen, N. J.,
under the Act of March 3, 1879. The publisher
accepts no responsibility for the return of unsolicited
material. All manuscripts should be accompanied
by stamped, self-addressed envelope.

ee sentenced to the chair.
: meee ;

with the chief...

@ IN OUR meanderings here and there,
at points of interest, at events where
people gathered, we have noticed that
nearly everyone sports a camera of some
sort.

Consequently we did a little research
and came up with the discovery that
photography is possibly the most common
hobby of the American people today.

Nearly everyone shoots pictures regularly,
summer and winter, indoors and out, color
and in black and white.

We know our readers of Front Pace i
DETEcTIVE are a real cross-section of
American people. We know that most of
them have some sort of interest in cam-
eras and the pictures they make. We want
to be of service to our readers as well as
to entertain them. _

So, starting with this issue, amateur
photographers will find a special feature
in each copy of Front Pace Detective, an
article written especially for this maga-
zine and directed at the hundreds of
thousands of camera bugs who read it. -

The feature Photo Flashes, which you
will find on Page 9, is authored by
Ross Madden, a well known photographer
whose pictures and writings on photog-
raphy have appeared in a number of na-
tional publications heretofore.

We think you'll like his stuff. We'd
appreciate letters from you, telling us
what you’d like to see in’ the feature,
what you feel are the primary helps which
Photo Flashes gan provide. .

SPEAKING of pictures—we recently saw
the newest Warner Brothers movie chiller
Rope, a new film directed by Alfred
Hitchcock, in which the master of cinema
effects has experimented most successfully
with a new technique in crime dramas.
There is no mystery as to who com-
mitted the murder, or why. You see the
crime enacted in the very first sequences
—in technicolor. The suspense develops,
with the aid of actor Jimmy Stewart, as
the cast takes supper off an old chest in
which a body is concealed. If you like
psychological murder melodrama, here’s
rare and tasty morsel_of it.

AND SPEAKING further of pictures—the
one at the top of this column is another
reminder that crime does not pay.
Santo Bretagna (left) and Willie Rosen-
berg know it now. For blasting down a
one-time New York hoodlum (this story
was told in Chippy Meets A Chopper, in
the July issue of Front Pace DETECTIVE)


Detectives James Neylon and John O'Brien, in dark hats, with Sal Bretagna and Willie Rosenberg, two men who wanted to settle a $500 debt

the baby-sitting, and she prances in a
few minutes after we got there.

““*Where have you been?’ says I, let-
ting her squeeze a tear or two out first.
‘For a walk,’ says she, and I look at
her open-toed shoes, knowing full well
the sidewalks are almost ankle deep in
slush from the Big Snow. The lady’s
tootsies are dry and warm-looking and
I remind her she maybe had a private
helicopter. ‘No, I was careful,’ she
says, flashing an unopened pack of
Pall Malls. ‘I bought some cigarettes,
took a turn in the Park, and came
home.’

‘oy His was more than an hour, mind
you, since she left, so I casually
touch her coat, and then her hand.
They ought to be cold, seeing as how it’s
cold out, but her hand is warm as toast
and her coat, too. But further question-
ing is not indicated because Mrs. Weiner
wants to be off to the hospital to see
Chippy if she can before he dies.”

Inspector Rothengast remarked
gruffly that Sylvia Weiner was in good
hands, a police matron disguised as a
nurse, and that she would bear careful
questioning. The Inspector also said
that in his opinion, the newly made
a was not going to be of much

elp.

“She didn’t grieve a lot,” he de-
clared. ‘That could be because people
from Williamsburgh are usetl to seeing
violent death. And she had an asso-
ciation with the gang; I wouldn’t put
any stock in her lack of tears. But
she knows something. Maybe even
who might be involved.”

“Like,” suggested Detective Neylon,
“the woman scorned?”

“It’s an angle,” Inspector Rothen-
gast admitted. “There are more leads
in this case than a bridge tournament.
But right now, I think some sleep
the best bet.” ,

The following morning, New York
City’s ponderous police machinery was
going full steam ahead.

Assistant District Attorney Pag-
nucco, unlike some prosecutors, was
not content to wait until the police
dumped a case into his lap. He was up
bright and early, sifting over the evi-
dence, discussing theories with In-
spector Rothengast.,

Some of the early findings were
negative.

There were, for example, the bullets
dug out of the plaster in the Weiner
apartment, embedded there after hav-
ing torn through Chippy’s body as he
sought to hide behind his son’s crib.

26

Ballistics took them, microscoped
them and reported—not recognizable.
Meaning that the .38 which fired them
had not fired any other bullet in the
police crime laboratory files.

Nor had any finger-prints been
found in the Weiner apartment, aside
from those of Chippy and his wife.
The visitors had not touched the
whisky glasses, nor anything else that
would hold an identifiable print.

On the theory that the gunmen
might have ditched the weapon as
they fled, Inspector Rothengast had or-
dered a thorough search of Weiner’s
apartment building and the curbs and
sewer basins in the vicinity. Nothing.

But the Safe and Loft Squad re-
ported something more concrete. The

Inspector Rothengast put two good
men on it. He wasn’t after a hijacking
arrest now. He wanted to know “the
word.”

What was “the. word” on Chippy
Weiner? Did he cut clean? Men who
live as Chippy Weiner apparently lived
do not work the double-cross for long.

But the Inspector had other lines out,
and the first one to set hook dragged
in Rose Pantielt, The Red Rose of Wil-
liamsburgh.

Here was a character. A stout, not
unattractive matron with flaming red
hair and a brain as keen as a rapier.

In Pagnucco, however, The Rose met
her match but not her master.

Locked under that flery thatch were
secrets that could explode like coal

"Chippy Was a No-Good Heel
. . « He Used to Run with the
Lepke Mob, Sure . . . But Then
He Got a New Gimmick, Over
On the Docks ... I'm Telling

You,

bolts of cloth found in the Weiner
apartment were identified as part of a

‘$19,000 cargo hijacked from a Fourth

Avenue woolen firm back in October
of 1947.

Now that posed a problem.

Obviously Chippy Weiner had been
in on the job, but the amount of cloth
recovered from his home was inconse-
quential. Too thin in value to be a
shooting matter.

Perhaps something ‘more sinister lay
behind it.

Bud, Chippy’'s
Zero Ain't in Brooklyn .. .

Double

dust in a mine, a chain reaction leap-
ing from pit to pit until at last it en-
gulfed everything. But The Rose
wasn’t talking.

It had taken some doing to find The
Rose. The jungle telegraph had
thrummed its message over the River
within minutes after the dying Chippy
Weiner had been carted off to Bellevue
Hospital.

The Rose was ‘“‘on vacation.” Shrugs.
Stares. Hands spread apart, palms up.

Inspector Rothengast took a check-

rein on his temper, then finally blew

up.
“All right!” he said. “Lay it on the.

line!”

The line was this: Either The Rose
came forward for a talk with the DA,
or the police would go through Wil-
liamsburgh like a rabbit through a let-
tuce patch. The dragnet.

Everybody would be picked up. Most
would be free in a few hours; some
might languish awhile behind bars.

Williamsburgh does not like the
dragnet. As they say in Brooklynese,

“It hoits. They trun the book atcha.”"

The Rose came into Pagnucco’s -of-
fice late in the morning of January 14.
“You want to see me, Lou?” she
asked, never one to stand on formality.
The Prosecutor had to smile. He
never had met the woman before.
“Why, yes, Rose. It’s the Weiner
thing. Your son-in-law, you know.”

“And not a very good one,” The Rose —

replied calmly. She lighted a cigarette.

“Meaning?” :

“Meaning he wasn't named Chippy
for nothing.”

“T see.”

“Do you?”

“You’re telling me that Chippy
Weiner had a girl friend?”

“You guessed it.”

“Who?”

The Rose smiled cynically.

“I don’t know—of course.”

“You don’t care about avenging your
son-in-law’s death, I take it.”

“T’ll work on Hitler, first.”

HE Prosecutor settled back in his
chair and made a steeple of his
fingers.

“This thing points ‘to Brooklyn, Rose.
It looks like we’ll have to go over there
and put some people through the
strainer. Those that are left, I mean.
We won't dig up anybody.”

For the first time: The Red Rose
showed emotion.

“Look, Mr. Pagnucco—I’m sorry I
called you Lou, that was an act—you’ve
got to believe me. I know my people.
They don’t know a thing about the
caper. Honest. Chippy was a no-good
heel who wouldn’t bounce in a rubber
ball factory. He used to run with the
Lepke mob, sure. And he went up the
river. But the mob’s gone now. When
Chippy came down, he didn’t go back
to Brooklyn. Then he got a new gim-
mick, over on the docks. It’s a new
squad. That’s your play. Don’t go
stirring things up over there. We're
fighting for air.”


want ‘to : pay back

(Photo, by ‘professional


*

~

26

“Young, old or middle-aged?”

-“Young, I’m sure. They all were.”

“That’s fine. You’re getting it all
back. Now what did these two men
you saw with guns look like?”

“Well, both were about medium
height.” She nodded at Tracy who was
taking notes. “About your height.”

“Five feet ten, then,” the detective
said. ; y

“And they both’ had black hair,
straight and shiny. ,
- “They were not wearing hats, and
it seems to me one had on a dark suit
and black shoes, and the other a gray-
ish sweater. He was a little thinner
than the one who said ‘Put ’em up!’
and his face was very white but he
wasn’t scared, I know that. He sort of
laughed when poor Mr. Esposito got
shot.”

“Which one did the shooting? Or did

they both fire at him?”

“TI don’t know, sir. I think it was the
one in the sweater.”

“Do you remember having ever seen
these men before?”

“Never,” she said emphatically.

“l}Tlow much money was there in the
bags they took?” .

“Seventy dollars. About $60 of it
was in nickels, dimes and quarters—
small change.”

Initials In Hat

The investigators got no worthwhile

information from the conductor of Espo-
sito’s train, but the motorman had a
clue. .

“I came down right after the con-
ductor. yelled that Esposito was dead.
And while he phoned the police I
looked around and found a hat about
three feet away from the body. I gave

‘it to the first cop that showed up.”

A husky red-headed uniformed offi-
cer hurried over with the hat. “This is
it, Mr. Kopff.”

Tracy and McNally edged closer to
view the headgear. It was pearl gray
with a snap brim and a size seven tag
inside. On the wide leather inner band

Detective Charles Tracy played the
role of a fugitive gunman in order
to gain the confidence of the sub-
way killers. He bagged the gang.

were three block-shaped initials in
black ink, “J.C.C.”

“Funny,” Tracy observed, “that
there should be such a plain set. of
initials in a new hat, but no trade name
in the lining.”

McNally agreed. “Looks like the
original lining was‘ taken out and this
one sewed in. I don’t get it. Why should
any darn fool leave these initials on the
band? And Mrs. Green said the bandits
were bareheaded.”

The motorman had something more
for the police. “It’s what I saw when I
pulled into the station at 1:56. Two
guys were standing close to the plat-
form edge. One of them was doubled
up like he might be sick, and the other
one was holding him. When I looked
back after the train stopped, they were
gone.”

The conductor had seen them too. It
was probable, the officers reasoned, that
while awaiting the arrival of the train
on which the collector rode, the bandits
had played the roles of a drunk and a
helpful friend so as to avoid suspicion
of purposeful loitering on the platform.

Questioning disclosed the dead man's
routine. Six nights a week it had been
his job to begin the run from the Times
Square station at 1 a.m. and pick up the
bags of the night’s intake from each
change booth between Times Square
and the Coney Island terminal. Up to

Axenue X, Esposito’s collections, minus -

the stolen $70, had totaled close to
$400. ‘

Kopff permitted the trainmen to re-
sume their interrupted schedule. He
himself soon departed, leaving the in-
vestigation to ‘Tracy and McNally.

With the station cleared of policemen
and curious citizens, the sleuths got to
work, seeking the slugs which had
killed the young collector.

Less than a dozen feet from the body
a battered .32-caliber bullet was cut
from. the scarred wall of the change
booth. On the floor lay another pellet
of the same size. Tracy tucked them
into an envelope and marked it for
firearms identification men,

Morgue attendants removed the .

corpse and the detectives started back
to headquarters.

“It was a smooth job,” McNally said.
“They had that guy’s schedule mapped
out to a T.”

Firearms experts late the following
afternoon reported no clues from the
.32-caliber:death bullets. The trainmen
and Mrs. Green were summoned to
headquarters and scanned the photo-
graph files of known holdup men, but
without result.

From the police laboratory came a re-
port on the gray hat. A microscope and

chemical tests revealed the owner of .

the hat had straight black hair, used a
cheap pomade and had need of a hair-
cut. Dust particles also disclosed him
to be a confirmed city dweller.

“I can just picture the type of guy
he is,” Tracy said. “The long-haired,
oily, cheap dancehall hanger-on.”

1 Headgear Traced

Although all precincts in Manhattan,
Brooklyn and the Bronx sought in their

own districts a lead to the bandits, .

adie

relief.

‘than 23, five feet six, and chunky.

A collector for the subway lines, © ~

Edwin Esposito attempted to draw
his gun in a stickup. Two slugs
cut him down on the station floor.

nothing developed in the three days
after the killing. On the fourth day
McNally was called out on another
assignment, leaving Tracy to follow
up on the case.

He picked up reports and witnesses’
statements and studied them intently.

Then he went to the office of Deputy’
Chief Inspector John Ryan. .

« “Inspector,” Tracy said, “most of the

,Stolen money in the subway collector’s
‘murder was in small change. That fact

and the hat are the only substantial
clues so far. Now if you could request
precinct detectives to check all hat

cleaning and repairing shops in their’
districts, there’s‘'a chance they might’

find somebody who remembers doing
the lining job.”

Ryan interrupted with a grin. “I’ve
already done that, and not more than
15 minutes ago I got a report from the
Bergen Street station that ‘a cleaner
here in Brooklyn remembered the hat.
He couldn’t see at the time why the
customer wanted a new lining put in

-when the original one was in perfect

condition.”

“That’s a break,” Tracy said with
“Who was the customer—did
he say?”

The inspector looked glum, “Claims’

he never saw him before. However, his
description bears out the laboratory
report—a_ black-haired guy, not we

e
brought the hat in the morning before
the shooting.” t

Tracy’s face showed his bewilder-
ment. “It makes you think that they
deliberately intended to leave the hat
there. And if that’s the case, I don’t get
it.”

“Neither do I,” Ryan admitted. “But
I'd gamble the killers are Brooklynites,

“and I think they’re still here in town.”

“Then maybe I can get somewhere
on the loose change angle, inspector,”

‘the detective said quickly.’ “I want to

circulate around in every dump in
town where guys of that sort might
spend their time and dough. If they’re
shedding any of that B.M.T. change,

_somebody’s bound to notice it.”

le a ees

err
?

'
4
t


The Case of the Scarred Prizefighter

and it was apparent that the occupant of
the room was in a jovial mood. He list-
ened to the reader’s suggestion, slapped

him on the back and agreed to make a

night of it. ;

The two officers were secreted in an
adjoining doorway when the men came
out.

Quickly they closed in. Lovan saw them
coming and wheeled. His big fists were
poised, ready to strike.

But he was no match for the husky
officers. One hit him high, the other
low.
he found steel bracelets on his wrists.

When Lovan got his breath back :

(Continued from page 49)

“What’s this for?” he demanded an-
grily. “Are you fellows crazy or what?”

Neskas held the Line-Up clipping in
front of him. The, effect was electric.
Lovan’s eyes openeit wide, and beads of
perspiration broke out on his brow.

“Where did you get that?” he de-
manded.

“Tt’s been all over the country,” said
Neskas. “You never had a chance.”

Brought to the district Police Head-
quarters, the prisoner realized that pre-
tense was useless. Confronted with his
own photograph, description and finger-
print classification, he admitted that his

true name was Willie Mitchell, otherwise
aia as the prizefighter, Battling Buf-
alo.

Notified of the arrest, the Oakland au-
thorities prepared to remove the man for
trial, and Mitchell was brought back to
the city from which he had fled so hur-
riedly after the murder of Fannie Nolden.

Once again Master Derecrive Line-Up
had proved itself one of the most valu-
able means of securing the apprehension
of badly wanted fugitives, and to the
St. Louis reader, whose name is being
withheld for his protection, went the mag-
azine’s check for $100,

Clue of the Crumpled Hat

furtive glance at the cameras. “Are -you
going to work those things?” he asked.

Geoghan nodded. There was a_per-
ceptible stir among the prisoners. Bruno
smoothed back his blond hair. The others
straightened their ties and coats. Spots
of excitement burned on otherwise pale
cheeks. The lights were switched on, and
the cameras started to whir.

fi HO fired the shots?” asked the Dis-

trict Attorney. His eyes were fixed
on Seata. The latter, seeking the center
of the picture, jostled Bruno to one side.

“Why, that fellow there,” he said, point-
ing to Bolognia, “I heard Red shooting.”

“Is that right?”

Bolognia smiled slightly. He seemed
excited by the part he was playing.

“You heard what Scata said, is that
right?” prodded Geoghan.

“Sure, I’m the fellow. The collector
was on his knees opening the safe. I
went over to him and, as he turned around,
I hit him on the head.”

“With what?”

“The butt of the gun.”

“Then what did you do?”

Bolognia gulped. “He tried to get up
and reach for his pistol. I must have
pulled the trigger. But I don’t know
where I pointed the gun,” he added.

“Then what?” pressed Geoghan.

“T picked up the bag and ran down
the stairs.” .

“In other words, the man who hit the
collector was the man. who picked up
the bag?” ; .

“That’s me,” Bolognia assured him.

“You admit it?”

“Ves.”

Not to be outdone, the other members
of the gang, hungry for the limelight,
stepped forward and actually boasted ‘of
the parts they had played in the cowardly
crime. Zizzo told how he had driven the
getaway car. Kimmel and Bruno, who
were supposed to have taken the money
after the stickup, admitted that they had ,
been hidden in the waiting room. Di
Donne then told how he had directed
operations from the stairway and acted .
as lookout. : x :

The gang admitted having a hideout
in an apartment at 237 Smith Street,
where for a week they had planned the
robbery after receiving a tip from an un-
disclosed source. They expected $4,000
as the least amount that the collector
would be carrying.

By the time that the last reel of the
cameras had unwound, the whole story .
of the wanton murder of the young’ col-
lector was on record from the lips of the
gangsters. Their own bravado had con-
demned them, for while they talked, a

60

(Continued from page 21)

stenographer had recorded every word.

After that, the prosecution had the whip
hand. When Chief Assistant District At-

torney Fred L. Kopff brought the peo-
ple’s case to trial, the jury was quick to
accept the unmistakable evidence of the
confessions, although the newsreels them-
selves were not introduced. Verdicts of
guilty of first-degree murder were re-
turned on May lst, 1936, and the man-
datory penalty was—death for all con-
cerned in the electric chair,

Sent away to the confines of the death.
house at Sing Sing, the six convicts be-
gan_a battle for their lives,

“Six lives for one is not fair,” they
claimed; and at first no one was inclined
to listen.’

Bruno, Zizzo and Kimmel, who were
branded murderers because of the fact
that the killing had occurred during the
commission of a felony, although they did
not have guns in their possession, pleaded
for mercy. The Court of Appeals, which
reviews all capital crimes automatically,
heard the cases and unanimously agreed
that Scata, Bolognia and Di Donne were
given'a fair trial and that the verdict
was just. For Bruno, Zizzo and Kimmel,
however, two judges dissented. This was
a minority of the court, so the sentences
stood. January 7th, 1937, was fixed as
the date that all were to die.

The largest mass execution in the his-
tory of Sing Sing loomed a step nearer
realization, and the inmates of the death
house were terror-stricken. Caged in
separate cells, they hardly spoke to one
another, each-one holding the others re-
sponsible for his fate.

The days rolled by and soon six men,
five of them at an age when they should
have been starting out in life, sat in their
cells, fighting down the thoughts of the
death that awaited them within twenty-
four hours.

Desperately they clung to one thread of
hope—action from the Governor of New
York, Ficrbert H. Lehman. The previous
night, a ma.» meeting of Italian mothers
had paraded before the Governor’s home,
praying that he save the six condemned
men. But the hours passed and there
was no word.

Then, on the afternoon of January
6th, Warden Lawes received a message
which sent him hurrying to the death
house. The men heard his voice greeting
the guards and moved close to the bars.
The condemned could not see one an-
other, but a few seconds after Lawes had
entered, tears of joy came to .Kimmel’s
eyes.

“I don’t know what to say. I feel so
happy,” he declared,

Again there was a whisper of the War-

den’s voice.

“Thanks, Warden,” said Bruno, his blue
eyes staring from his face.

Zizzo trembled as Lawes came by. He
hardly heard what the warden said. It
was something about “reprieve—life.”

“Wonderful,” mumbled Zizzo.

But a despairing cry came from a cor-
ner cell. “Is that all?”

Lawes nodded. Di Donne’s knuckles
were white as he gripped the bars.

Red Bolognia’s face was pressed against
the steel. He could almost touch the
Warden as he passed. “Any news?” he
asked, trying to be casual.

“Three have been commuted.”

Scata heard, and flung himself on his
cot. Three were to live—but three were
to die, and he was one.

[TX the anterooms of the death house,

the families of the three whose lives
had been spared were embarrassed in the
. presence of the parents of those who were
soon to die.

Explaining the reasons for his actions,
Governor Lehman issued an official mem-
orandum, stating: “Two judges of the
Court of Appeals dissented as to the con-
viction on the ground that error in the
trial judge’s charge to the jury substan-
tially affected the rights of these three de-
fendants. I am commuting to life im-
prisonment .the sentences of Eugene
Bruno, Samuel Kimmel and Dominick
Zizzo.”

Twenty-four hours later the three con-
demned were given their last supper. Each
of the three had given up hope. But
the wires between Brooklyn and Albany
were burning all evening. Finally, Dis-
trict Attorney Geoghan released a tele-
gram in which he urged clemency for
Scata, in view of the assistance he had
rendered the police. To Warden Lawes
was flashed word that this man was to
be spared. The Governor would com-
mute his sentence to life.

Scata babbled hysterically in Italian as
he was led from the death house into the
ordinary prison to join his three com-

‘panions. But two were still doomed.

At ten-fifteen that night, Warden
Lawes brought Red Bolognia and Theo-
dore Di Donne bottles of ginger ale to
quench the dryness in their throats. At
ten-fifty the last walk began.

Di Donne stepped up to the chair.
Four minutes later he was pronounced
dead. The execution of Joseph Bolognia,
the trigger-man, followed.

It is to be hoped that youths who may
contemplate iisitovding the dark pathway
of crime, will learn from the fate of these
criminals that the trail’s end is a shame-
ful death—or years behind prison walls.

MASTER DETECTIVE

Broac

The Sheriff did
“Well,” Mabry
cited, and when
can't tell what li
it looked like he
shot and killed }

Although he |
the Shenfi’s mn
gaze ran appro\
almost perfectly
the young man
serious face. It
the Sheriff, as
man with the
prizefighter sho
protect himseli
man.

He was too wi
taineers, howe
thought.

JPURTHER q!
fact that the
o’clock, three

plained the d
way of coming
offered to bring
Mays learned,

fallen.
“Sure no oné
“Sure. . The:

except neighbo
it until you

The Sheriff.

Mabry, got in
the seven milk

As Foster hs

the body. Cun
waiting for

corpse lay al
steps leading

With the a
aminer, Mays
Examination «
nor was ther
construed as «:
If, as Mabry
the act of ass:
strangely diss
Oddly eno
locked.

“Did Recs
neighbor.

“No, sir. |
somewhere.
they're alway
the other oi
or two.”

But other
information |
attend a m
hardly be ho
hours. So 1
taken to Stu

Questione:
tained that
Still, as May
like the vic)
built youth
bare hands.
dead man’s

The folloy
to the Recs
and pale, «
informed th:
tragedy.

“Where
Recs?”

“T went
dance. Iw:
music. It !
last heard

“You wel

She hes!

may, 1939


vOsEpN & Di DIONNE, Theodore, whites, elec. NY

*

{ It looked had for the daring Brooklyn dick when he was unmasked

i 7

T 1:56 a.m. a Manhattan-bound B.M.T. elevated-

A subway train from Coney Island rumbled out of

the Avenue X station in Brooklyn on its final run

of the night. On the opposite tracks a train for Coney

Island, less than half filled, stood waiting. The platform,
two stories above the silent street, was deserted.

Each morning, true to its schedule, this Coney Island .
train paused in the Avenue X station while a collector
visited the agent’s booth downstairs to gather up several
bags of change. This ordinarily took the man no more
than 60.seconds.

But on this dark morning of September 3, Collector
Edwin Esposito was late in getting back to the train, and
murder was the reason.

As usual he hurried downstairs, gathered up the bags
of coin and said, “See you tomorrow,” to Mrs. Bella
Green, the middle-aged cashier. Then a voice behind
him very quietly ordered, “Put up your hands! This
is a heist!” ,

Mrs. Green screamed. °

“Close your mouth, lady, or I’ll fill it with lead!” the
gunman snarled.

Esposito’s right hand went for the pistol at his side.

“Give it to him!” a second bandit yelled, and two
bullets, fired so quickly they seemed to have but a single
roar, ripped into the subway employe’s body and he
toppled to the cement floor, with his hand frozen to his
holster.

The train’s conductor came plunging down the stairs.
He found Mrs. Green in hysteria, Esposito bleeding on
the platform. }

Within the next 30 minutes the station was overrun
by police. Among the many officers who answered the
alarm were Detectives Charles A. Tracy and James
McNally of the homicide squad and Chief Assistant
District Attorney Frederick W. Kopff, who had been
summoned from his home.

count orgs: Examiner George ae eng re-
ported on his preliminary examination of the body.
iF “He. died instantly. Internal hemorrhage. One bullet BY JO S EF L E S T E R
pierced his heart, and another punctured his left lung.
‘ Both shots came from behind.”

i Mrs. Green told of the holdup slaying.

“Can you describe’ these men?” Kopff asked.

{ “I don’t know. It happened so suddenly, so unex-
pectedly, I...” ’

“Come, now,” the assistant district attorney urged.
“I realize you’ve had a nasty experience, but this is
murder and you’re the only witness. Try and think, Mrs.
Green.”

“But I can’t think; I’m all confused, upset. I want to
help, but I just...”

“Surely you remember the collector calling for the
receipts.”

“Oh, yes. The poor fellow came down just as he did
every night for so many months. He said he was going
to get married in a few weeks. Then they stepped up
jhe behind him with guns. They told him to put up his
| : hands. He reached for his own revolver and so they
shot him.”

“By ‘they’ you mean two men?”

“Yes, two.” She hesitated. “But I had a funny
feeling there was another man standing near the exit.”

| In court some of the gang (in the
line before the judge's bench) hid
ee behind handkerchiefs from the pho-
24 tographer. All six were convicted.

a


ae i ir a !
Shuh nodded. I fi
of the two daughters who had reported

said might well be true.
“Tell me just what happened—from the beginning,” Shuh

72

with the susp

asked. “When did you buy this place? Where did you live be->.

fore coming here ?”’

Bonier shrugged. “I’ll tell you everything there is to tell,”
he said wearily. “I used to be a farmer out in Gardenville, A
few years ago my wife died , . .” He shook his head sadly, .
then went on. “I moved .into the city. I lived in a house on
Monroe street.” ‘grt

“This woman here. Is she your: daughter?”

“Nein, nein! Mrs. Lindholm just keeps house.for me. She
was with.me in Monroe street. For a long time I had my eye
on this house. I talked to Franz Frehr about buying it. One
week ago today, the 19th, I came here. ‘Mr. Frehr,’ I said, ‘I

came to buy your house.’ He said to me: ‘Show me the money. | | j

If you have the money with you, all right. If you haven’t, we
won't talk about it.’”

“T had the money, $1,700 in paper money and $500 in gold
coin. We sat right here at this table and counted the money
until 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I came about 2 o’clock.” r

“You paid him $2,200 dollars in currency and gold?” Shuh
asked. Ns i

“That’s right. See, I have the deed, here.” Shuh glanced
casually over the legal document which the old man handed him.

“When did you see them after that?” said the detective.

“T didn’t see them again. The next morning when I came, I
turned into Jefferson from Williams street and a carriage was

driving away from the house. Behind it was a coal wagon with .

two trunks. They went away. They didn’t tell me where.”

“All right,” said Shuh, “I guess that’s all.” He rose to leave.
“T see you’ve been doing some papering here. You must have
moved right in.”

“Ja, I moved right in. I’m fixing the place up, now. I have
torn down a shed the people next door objected to. I’m putting
up new paper.” He grinned at Shuh. “Ja! I moved right in.”

After this conversation Detective Shuh talked with some
of the neighbors. No one had seen the Frehrs since the afternoon
of November 19, the day Bonier bought the property. One neigh-

DETECTIVE

thecase. What Bonier

bor who lived a few doors away and knew the Frehrs as well
as anybody in the neighborhood, said he was not surprised they
were gone. Hé confirmed Bonier’s opinion that they wanted to

. keep away from relatives, but said he thought they might have

gone to live with friends, on a farm near Ashtabula, O.
Other neighbors thought they might have taken a trip to Ger-
many, having heard the old couple express the wish that they

_would like to see the Fatherland again before they died. Some

favored the story of their going to a home for the aged. All
knew that they had been anxious to sell the house, and many
thought the old couple were eccentric and suspicious of their own
relatives whom they regarded as mercenary,

fh area next few days found Detective Shuh occupied with
checking the various homes for the aged, and also checking
the various livery stables in that part of the city in the hope of

determining the driver, carriage, and destination of the missing’

couple. A report came in that an uncommunicative couple had
arrived on the day in question at the St. Francis home, but in-
vestigation disclosed that they were not the Frehrs.

Captain Regan was now receiving constant pleas from Mrs.
Bundschu and Mrs. Heinecke for information. The Buffalo
newspapers, which were now following the case with front page
stories, insistently demanded action. Detective Shuh and other
officers assigned to the case, despite earnest and intensive in-
vestigation, seemed to be getting nowhere. The Frehrs had
dropped completely out of sight. Newspapers hinted at foul play.

[Continued on page 58]

47


t

n-
_Y,,
x to

| led
lues.

lerly

vhen
and
uple,
felt

nber

Was
man
itch-

Mrs.

; she
‘ver,
ishy,

— rreee “

’slowly with a pronounced German
accent. ‘This is the street and the Frehrs did live here. I bought}
house a few days ago. The Frehrs have moved.

MOR, I see,” said Mrs. Baum. “Well, thank you, Mr. ...

“Bonier is the name. Charles Bonier.” '

“Well, thank you, Mr. Bonier.” She was about to descend the st€ps
then turned. “The Frehrs_ were good friends of mine. Could you tell) :
where they’ve moved toy, yer - : 3

He shrugged his Sa Achyilim Wai ie |
something about moving ople’s ‘he ; ab fea ; nner '
again. “I do not knov a3 aE A SA wieaur ne ital : el UREA Ry, snes |

“T see,” she said. ras prett P eumatism: 7 ae toa aN : spi: |

“No,” said Mr.

Bonier, Mrs. Baunt) uae
had ever heard before It was
last time she called. ec
plans to move. Perhaps :
sons which she knew nothin she: t the:
she had seen in back of Bo lier as. the do hably his a
ter, she thought, or pos! § i Etta ; |

Because she had genuine affectit ‘the couple, and bec: ‘she : -
slightly piqued at their movi: mt.telling: at ‘evening ,
her calling on their daugh
She, if anybody, would kno}

DETECTIVE


4

Edward E. Coatswo: +
Erie county, N. 3 oak

“Gone!” exclaimed Mrs. Heinecke, in amazement. “But they
can’t be gone. Why, I saw them two weeks ago and they didn’t
say anything to me about moving. Are you sure they’ve gone?”

Mrs. Baum told of her call to the Frehr home and of her con-
versation with its new owner. Mrs. Heinecke frowned as she
thought about it.

“IT believe Ihave heard them talk about selling the place,”
she said slowly. “But I didn’t take it seriously, And I think I
have heard. them mention a Mr. Bonier, but I’m not sure.” She
was frankly and unhappily puzzled.

“He’s bought it, all right,” asserted Mrs. Baum. “He’s living
in it.’ She was more worried in the knowledge that the couple
hadn’t told even their own daughter.

“TF wonder what’s become of their furniture and their belong-
ings?” mused the latter. “I’m going right over there and find
out where they’ve gone. This Mr. Bonier must know!”

A short time later, Mrs. Heinecke called at her parents’ home
on Jefferson avenue, determined to find where they had moved
to. Strained, nervous, and irritable, she antagonized the none
too even-tempered Mr. Bonier with her questions, In five min-
utes she left, having learned nothing more than Mrs, Baum had
told her. ‘<

For two days, Mrs. Heinecke and her family were patient. It
seemed hard to believe that her parents would not let her know
where they had gone, and yet that was exactly what they had
done. Mrs. Heinecke was worried.

On Thanksgiving Day, she went to the No. 8 precinct station
and told her story to Capt. Michael Regan, who later became
head of the Buffalo police department. Captain Regan listened to

46

her sympathetically. When she was finished; he looked at her

keenly. Hadn’t she any idea where her parents might be?
Mrs. Heinecke hesitated, but finally admitted that there was

a slight chance that they might be living with Mrs. Philip
Bundschu, who lived at Eureka place.

Captain Regan shook his head. “What would you say if I
told you that Mrs. Bundschu has been here with the same story cd
His tone changed suddenly when he asked: “Are you, or are
you nat, related to the Frehrs ?”

“Of course Iam!” cried Mrs. Heinecke. “I am Mr. Frehr’s
daughter by his first marriage, back in Germany. Mrs. Bundschu
is his daughter by the present Mrs. Frehr, who is my stepmother.
That’s the truth. Of course, Mrs. Bundschu likes to think
she. a

“All right,’ murmured the captain, nodding his acceptance
of the story. “I’m not interested in the family affairs. Mrs.
Bundschu thought they might be with you, and you thought they
might be with her. They aren’t with either of you. Our job is
to find just exactly where they are.”

Captain Regan was rather abrupt about it. Family differences
irritated him. He wouldn’t blame the old couple much for trying
to get away if there were family quarrels. He called in one of
his ablest men, Detective Emanuel Shuh, explained the situation
and told him to go around to Jefferson avenue and see what he
could find out.

When Shuh called on Charles Bonier, it was plainly evident
that the new owner of the house was becoming annoyed trying
to answer questions about Mr. and Mrs. Frehr.

“T tell you what I told the others,” snapped the old man, after
Shuh had displayed his badge. “I don’t know where the Frehrs
went. All I know is that they spoke about going to an old peo-
ple’s home.”

“But why? Why would they go to a home when they had
relatives in the city ?”

“Ach, that is just it!” Bonier exclaimed. “It was this way.
The Frehr’s are funny people.”” He made a significant motion
towards his head. “They didn’t like the relatives. They said the
relatives were just waiting around for them to die and leave the
money and the property. The Frehrs are just as happy if the
relatives don’t know where they live now. Understand?”

abs ay PS ee ie
‘Charles Bonier,

ow, told polic and Telatives he

hr home from the aged couple
ously disappeared. .

DARING

Sieg atendt


RTE ee EET TY ee ET

Carson not only got the idea but he
brought his wife over to visit the Green-
ing woman the same day. As a re-
sult, Palmer and Younglove knew what
Greening’s defense would be. Feeling
more comfortable, Palmer paid a call at
the home of one of Greening’s neighbors.
Departing with a renewal of an earlier
promise of the man to testify at the trial,
the district attorney felt positively smug.

Now, he thought, the prosecution could
rest.

Well-dressed, tidy and almost attrac-
tive, Mrs. Greening took the witness
stand on the day of the trial. Between
sobs, she told the jury that she was not
legally married to Greening. This, she
said, was the reason they had not in-
formed police that Quinn was dead.

The little Irishman, she testified, had
come home with her common law hus-
band at about 3 o'clock in the morning.
Drunk and unruly, Quinn had refused
to go to bed. He wanted to stay awake
to catch a train.

Leaving the two men to finish a bottle
of whiskey they had brought along, Mrs.
Greening, according to her story, went
upstairs to her bedroom. Later she
heard someone enter the room. She knew
it wasn’t Greening and ran into the
kitchen, where Quinn overtook her and

The case seemed to be at a standstill,
when Mrs. Bundschu retained a lawyer,
former Surrogate Judge Jacob Stern. He,
it was, who suggested John Doe proceed-
ings. By this action, nearly everyone in
the neighborhood was subpoenaed to ap-
pear before Police Magistrate Murphy on
December 2, to tell, under oath, what they
knew about the Frehrs.

The first day in court in the John Doe
proceedings revealed little that Captain
Regan did not already know. There was
a parade of neighbors and friends of the
Frehrs. Mrs. Bundschu and her husband
appeared, as well as the whole Heinecke
family. Charles Bonier and his house-
keeper, Mrs. Lindholm, waited patiently
but were not called the first day. They
were told to return. the next day at noon
when the police jiidge would re-open the
proceedings.

During the first session, Magistrate
Murphy had demanded that the deed
signed by the Frehrs be presented in
court, and arrangements had been made
to obtain it from the county clerk’s office,
where it had been sent for recording.

In his office at the Precinct station,
Captain Regan was anything but happy
over the day's results. Newspapers were
playing the case up and criticising the po-
lice department. Yet he knew that there
was not one possible thing left undone.

The attitude of the Frehr daughters»

puzzled him. It was clear that there was
no love lost between them. He had found
also, mostly through Detective Shuh’s
investigations, that both sets of relatives
and a number of the neighbors knew that
the aged couple had kept several hundred
dollars in their home, most of it in gold
coin. He also knew that Mrs. Bundschu’s
husband had-been out of work for, some
time, and that Mrs. Bundschw had been
the most conspicuous in her efforts to
trace her parents.

More and more the idea of foul play °

58

they struggled. As he threw her down
and began beating her head against the
floor, she said she screamed for Greening.

“Next I remember,” the woman con-
cluded, “Martin had me in his arms and
was putting me to bed again. I asked
what had become of Quinn, and Martin
told me he was dead.”

Greening, a big, good-looking, athletic
blond, smirked as he told the same story.
The shooting occurred about daylight, he
said, but because Mary was not his wife
he had tried to conceal the crime by
digging a grave in the back garden of
the Marsh street house. The ground was
too hard, however, so he kept the body
in an upstairs room for two days.

Finally, he testified, he had hired the
Mallagh buckboard, hauled the body out
to the road, and rolled it down the bank,
where old Bill Seeley found it later.

He retired from the stand, apparently
satisfied with his cunning defense, and
District Attorney Palmer called Chris
Hanson to the stand, the surprise witness
whom Palmer had uncovered.

Simply and straightforwardly, Chris
Hanson testified that he had _ been
awakened shortly before midnight by
voices raised in anger. He went to his
rear door and snapped on the light. The
quarreling ceased and Hanson saw a

‘Journey to Nowhere

[Continued from page 47]

formed in his mind. The folly and stu-
pidity of people keeping large sums of
money in their. homes, especially gold
coin, persisted in his thoughts, His theor-
izing was suddenly interrupted by the
telephone.

“The Frehrs are found!” shouted an
excited voice at the other end of the wire.
“Old Mr. Frehr just walked into my outer
office!”

It is not gold!”

man disappear into the Greening cottage.

A short time later, Hanson heard what
sounded like two shots. Because the
Greening house was dark, he had thought
the noise might be a backfire from an
automobile. The next morning; however,
his daughter, said she had heard the two
odd shots a little after midnight. Both
fixed the date because the girl had at-
tended a dance given by a local lodge
that night. She had been home only a
short time when the shots rang out.

This testimony definitely spiked Green-
ing’s defense. Fixing the hour of the
shooting at sometime before 2 o'clock, it
proved him a liar.

The jury speedily brought in a verdict
of guilty of first degree murder and Judge
E. P. Unangst sentenced Greening to life
imprisonment.

Greening tried in vain to win his
freedom from San Quentin, but because
he had made violent threats against all
the officers connected with the case,
parole was denied him.

For eight years the man who had
murdered for gold heard the monotonous
wash of waves washing San Quentin’s
grim walls. Then death released him
from the trap sprung by the tilted pan.

(Editor’s note: In order to protect the identity
of innocent persons, the names of Emma and L. D
Carson, used in this story, are fictitious.)

r fo tide Regan’'s heart leaped with re-
ief.
“Who is this?” he demanded.

“This is Vincent Burness,” said the
caller, who then gave his address.

“Good,” said Regan. “Keep the old
man there until I arrive.”

Hurrying to Burness'’ office, the captain
felt triumphant. He knew that Burness
was the notary before whom Frehr had

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Moynihan and John Boyle, in their clos-
ing arguments, dwelt long on the relation-
ship between Louis Weitzman and the de-
fendant. The jury was asked to conclude
from the evidence that Irving, knowing
his brother would receive the insurance
on Daiches, planned and directed the
murder so he could borrow or beg money
he needed in his bakery business.

On February 28rd, I sat at the press
table in Judge Harry B. Miller’s Crim-
inal Court when twelve grave jurors filed
into the room. Weitzman’s supercilious
smirk so often seen as his high-priced
lawyers ridiculed the state’s case for ten
days was missing, and his face went gray
as the clerk solemnly read:

“We, the jury, find the defendant, Irv-
ing Weitzman, guilty of murder in the
manner and form charged in the indict-

True Detective Mysteries

ment, and we fix his punishment at im-
prisonment in the penitentiary for the
term of his natural life.”

Emblen was remanded to jail to await
trial on the conspiracy charge. The prose-
cution announced that his confession, his
testimony before the grand jury where he
waived his rights to immunity, and the
testimony of Murphy would be used
against him at a later date. Murphy, the
state’s star witness, was returned to a
secluded hotel where he is kept constantly
under heavy guard. There he will remain,
te be used as a witness against Emblen;
against Jack London, his erstwhile pal, if
and when he is captured; and against
Weitzman again, if the Supreme Court
grants him a new trial on his appeal.
Murphy will be tried after prosecution of
his alleged partners in crime is completed.

Murder in Lovers’ Lane

(Continued from page 31)

Newspaper publicity resulted in a tip
worth following out. We received an
anonymous telephone call telling us to
go to Valley Stream and talk to a young
fellow by the name of Brose Gerhardt.
We would find out, the informant told us,
that there had been a petting party hold-
up just before the shooting of Patrolman
Kennedy. Before we got this information
we were sworn to shield the name of the
girl, then a minor.

Within the hour we located Gerhardt
at his home. He proved to be a young
man with romantic habits. Reluctantly
he told us that he had parked his car,
with Miss Helen “* a short time be-
fore midnight near a little bridge in Water
Works Lane. His realization that he had
placed himself in the position of a suspect
encouraged him to tell us:

“I drove in and parked off the lane,
leaving just room enough for another car
to pass me. I turned off all lights except
the dash light inside the car. I was talk-
ing to Helen when another automobile
passed. A few minutes later there was a
noise at the side of my car and a voice
said, ‘Stick ’em up.”

“The man opened the door of the car
and I got out. He told me to put out the
light, which I did. I gave him my pocket-
book and watch. I asked him for the
wallet back because I didn’t want to lose
my license papers. The man returned the
pocketbook after taking out the money—
about $1.50 in cash.

“fT COULDN’T see the man, it was so

dark. There was another man toward
the back of the car, I couldn’t see his face
either. One of them seemed taller than the
other. The one that took my money told
me to get back in the car. He then ordered
me, ‘Now beat it!’ I started the engine
and drove away as fast as I could.”

Gerhardt was sternly asked, “Why didn’t ,

you tell us this before?”

“Because I didn’t want to get mixed up
in any shooting affair,” he nervously
replied.

We told him that it was a lucky day for
Helen that the hold-up occurred. We
found that she was from a respectable
family. Our faith in her was not mis-
placed because we learned some years later
that she had married happily.

From our point of view Gerhardt was
in a serious situation because of his failure
to come forward with what he knew. He
insisted that he drove the girl home to
Valley Stream, then rounded up several
young companions and returned to the
Water Works woods, intent on inter-

* Fictitious.

cepting the men who broke up his pet-
ting party and submitting them to a
beating.

Gerhardt related that he was surprised,
and scared, when he returned to the woods
with his friends and found the area swarm-
ing with policemen. It was not until he
talked to one of the searching party that
he discovered that a policeman had been
shot, Gerhardt said. We escorted him
over the scene and he pointed out where
he had been parked and the direction the
gunmen came from. His version was that
the men came from, and went back
towards, the place where Kennedy was
found.

We checked his story, step by step.
Gerhardt had a light car and the license
number was entirely different from the
number given us by Kennedy. Exami-
nation of the tire marks of Gerhardt’s car
in the mud were unlike those of the
heavier car which had been driven out
of the thicket by Kennedy’s assailant.

ERHARDT told us that when he saw

all the commotion in the woods he
was scared, called his companions off, and
went home. His young pals who intended
to wreak vengeance on the gunmen cor-
roborated Gerhardt’s story, as did Helen.
There was nothing for us to do but elimi-
nate him as a suspect.
_ If the questioning of Gerhardt did noth-
ing else, it convinced us there were two
men involved in the Kennedy shooting.
Our theory that Kennedy was felled to
clear the way for fugitives escaping from
some crime was also corroborated by Ger-
hardt’s story. Kennedy just happened to
be in the way when the two men were
escaping after holding up Gerhardt and
his girl friend.

I felt certain that we wanted a man
who had a steady, unflinching hand in a
moment of danger; one who knew guns
and who knew when and how to shoot to
kill. The marksman, I believed, aimed
at Kennedy’s silver police badge which
reflected whatever skylighting there was at
midnight in the dense thicket. The bullet
missed the badge only by inches, striking
Kennedy in the upper abdominal region,
to the right’ of the center button line and
not far below the heart.

Despite the fact that we checked up
all owners of Willys-Knight sedans in
Nassau and New York City Counties we
found only one with the initials, “A. B.”
He was August Bruning of Baldwin, L. L.,
a building contractor. He promptly offered
to give us all the help he soul. His alibi
was perfect. He had been with a number
of friends the night of the Kennedy shoot-

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108

ing. These friends, questioned separately,
told identical stories. As a last assurance
we compared the hat found at the shooting
scene with those worn. by Mr. Bruning.
They were entirely unlike and several sizes
different. Once again we were stumped
for a suspect!

We were convinced, of course, that the
numbers given us by Kennedy were wrong.
Neither the number given us by Hirsch
nor that given by Kennedy could have
been the fugitive car in the Woodmere
thicket, July 22nd at midnight. Innumer-
able combinations of the numbers 8L685
were examined but none of these had been
assigned to Willys-Knight automobiles in
1928. Kennedy, in his agony, handicapped
by poor visibility, had made’ a mistake
which was almost fatal to the solution of
the case. It was possible that faked dupli-
cate numbers ag been used. But if Ken-
nedy was wrong on the number he might
also be wrong on the make of car. We
were not sure of anything.

Wis the assurance that Kennedy
could not live long, we strove to ex-
haust. every possible clue. Kennedy was
still fighting off slow death when we pre-
sented the known witnesses to the grand
jury. An indictment was handed down
charging “John Doe and Richard Roe,”
fictitious legal names when culprits’ real
names are unknown, with first degree as-
sault. We asked for the two indictments in
the belief that one man, probably the one
that actually held up Gerhardt was the
gunman and the other who stayed in back
of Gerhardt’s car, the accomplice. We still
had to furnish the right names when we
got our men.

Hopes of uncovering a suspect with the
initials “A. B.” among automobile regis-
tration lists waned. We searched through
more than 100,000 registration cards with-
out an inkling of the identity of the princi-
pal suspect. Our almost hopeless task
continued to be that of finding a man
with the right initials whose head would
fit the gray fedora hat. There wasn’t even
this thin clue as to the identity of his
accomplice.

We were stirred to renewed action time
after time during the following months.
It was one of the most pitiful cases in
Nassau County police history because of

_the living death visited on Kennedy. It

was costing the county thousands of dol-
lars, not only in tracking the fugitives but
in giving
surgical science. Worse, Kennedy knew
from the start that he must die ahead of
his time, as he finally did, without ever
walking again. We were proceeding with

the feeling that it was a murder—even’,

though the hopeless victim was not yet
dead.

Gradually “Big Jack” Kennedy shrunk
from two hundred pounds to one hundred
and twenty-four. Pain and suffering from
the poison set up by the bullet, which
severed vital organs and lodged in his

spinal column, wasted him away. He was -

carried from one hospital to another,
undergoing thirteen operations. The last
one was for the amputation of his right
leg. Doctors knew what they were talking
about when they said he could never walk
again. He became paralyzed from the hips
down, wavering between terrific pain and
complete numbness.

At first Kennedy wanted to recover.
As his- condition grew worse, hope waned.
He debated whether life or death was

-most desired. Time and again he told

friends that he wanted to live only to see
his attackers caught—that they might
clear his name from vicious rumors. Mrs.
Kennedy, too, shared that wish.

While our discouraging search. pro-
gressed, Kennedy’s desire to live was over-
come by racking pain. He no longer cared

ennedy every aid of modern:

True Detective Mysteries

to see his wrecked life avenged. Now he
pleaded for death to smother his suffering.
He threatened to take his own life if
nature did not mercifully intervene.

“Just let me take an overdose of co-
dein,” Kennedy pleaded with his patient
nurse, Mrs. Mary Hoffman, a family
friend of long standing.

Mrs. Hoffman, who had watched over
Kennedy for months, shook her head.
She kept the drug out of his reach. Her
task was slowly to exercise his left leg, a
tedious task, but the only way available
to keep circulation throbbing in his para-
lyzed body. Medical science could not

halt Kennedy’s life ebbing by the hour.~

Days grew into weeks, weeks into
months, and months into years. On July
13th, 19382, ten days short of four years
after his ambush in the Water Works Lane
thicket, Kennedy went to sleep forever.
The exertion of merely trying to lift his
remaining leg an inch above the bed had

Chief Abram W. Skidmore who in-
vestigated the baffling enigma of the
officer’s killing

overtaxed his once stout heart. A merci-
ful end had come to “Big Jack” Ken-
nedy—though it had seemed an eternity
to him.

We who were actively working on the
case turned out with other members of
the Nassau County Police Department to
pay our last respects to Patrolman Ken-
nedy. On July 16th, 1932, he was accorded
a full inspector’s funeral. Memory of him
being Jowered into a grave gave us new
Incentive to push the investigation to a
satisfactory end even though it took years.

While murder cases had come and gone,
that of “Big Jack” Kennedy was now
No. 1 in the unsolved homicide files.

One of those cases which had come and
gone was the murder of Patrolman Hirsch,
who had found Kennedy, and who was
felled under similar circumstances as
Kennedy. On the night of May 6th, 1931,
just after midnight, Patrolman Hirsch
stalked to a car parked in the bushes fac-
ing out toward Washington Avenue, North
Merrick.

A young man and girl sat in the
machine. Hirsch asked for the driver’s
license but was met by a volley of shots.
He fell face forward on the running board
of the car, his gun dropping inside.
Hirsch’s slayer was Francis “Two Gun”
Crowley, a known “cop hater.” Crowley’s
freedom ended when he and a murderous
pal, Rudolph “Fat” Durringer, were cap-
tured in the notorious siege of a fifth floor
apartment at West 90th Street, Man-
hattan, New York City. Crowley’s career
was ended in the electric chair. Patrolman
Hirsch’s death had been avenged—Ken-
nedy’s, we pledged ourselves, would be.

Kennedy’s tattered uniform was a con-
stant reminder of Case No. 1. For more
than a year after Kennedy’s death we
searched for the slayers but made little
real progress. At intervals we sent out
information to other departments, re-
peating the circumstances, a routine effort
to keep the case alive.

I was working at my desk in Head-
quarters in the afternoon, November 28th,
1933, when the telephone rang. Detective
James P. McKeough, of the 105th Squad,
Queens County, was on the other end. He
told me he was holding three young men,
one of whom claimed, “I know a guy who
knows a guy who killed a cop.”

Within the hour Captain Herbert Gra-
ham, in command of the 105th Squad,
greeted myself and other Nassau detec-
tives, escorting us to the detention room.
We talked for more than an hour with
the young men, who were witnesses in a
Cunilaty case. They gave their names as:
Nicolo Ballisteri, eighteen, 146-84 Drum-
mond Street; Charles Swartz, eighteen,
183-02 Meyer Avenue and Jack Andeser,
twenty, 179-09 Commercial Avenue, all
of Springfield, Queens County.

The witnesses told us that they knew
a fellow who lived in Inwood, Nassau
County, who often boasted to them that
he knew a cop killer. Asked if they could
oint out to us the house where the
oaster lived, the youths replied that they
could, and would. That very night they
pointed out the house, a shack in the rear
of 22 Zavatt Street, Inwood, a few miles
from the Kennedy shooting scene.

We planted detectives in the vicinity
and then went away, planning to return
after midnight, when our quarry would
be most likely at home and in bed. :

Just after midnight we returned to
Inwood where our men had seen a man
and a woman go into the house. The
house was dark, so we felt pretty sure he
had gone to bed. We surrounded the
place and then, with a resounding crack-
ling of wood, we broke down the doors
and swarmed in.

Poking a scared thin face out of the
bed covers was the man described to us
by the three witnesses. He didn’t have
a chance to reach for a pearl handled 32
caliber revolver tucked in his pants
pockets. We got the pants, thrown across
a chair, first. The gun was fully loaded.

NOTHER form cuddled in the bed
rolled over and mumbled. We stripped
the covers down and a short fat negress
looked into our battery of guns. It was a
toss up which of the two was most fright-
ened. We recognized the man suspect as one
we had convicted of a petty crime, serving
several months in jail, since the Kennedy
shooting. That was a surprise on us.

The suspect gave us the same name he
had given us before: William French,
aged twenty-four, a former motordrome
rider and carnival handyman. He insisted
at the outset that he knew nothing about
any murder. While we talked to him,
French became more nervous. When he
denied that he had said anything to any-
one about a “cop murder,” we felt certain
that he knew something—and was lying.
Our informers had nothing to gain by
inventing their story.

Back at Headquarters we were grilling
French when he finally drew a deep
breath and announced he would tell the
truth. He said he knew who killed patrol-
man Kennedy. He swore that he was glad
to get the thing off his mind, that the
agonized face of the fallen cop had
haunted him ever since,

“What’s the fellow’s name who killed
the patrolman?” I asked.

“Al Brengard killed the cop!” French
exclaimed,

Visions of a solution now seemed real.

Al Brengard
French

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bergh case <
ft dea
hat lining w:
we had mad
before lettin
Headquarters

Authorities
prison in Tre
a man name
custody. Th:
for a shootin
action. Dist
wards, Nasse
had kept in
made, telep!
little more t
house.

“Get Rand
at once,” D
structed the
King and m)
ton. Be reac
be right ove:

When we
of hours late
had been ass
eighty miles
hours later
before us, h
Trenton. W
we saw that
weighed nea!


> a con-
or more
rath we
le little
‘ent out
nts, re-
ne effort

1 Head-
yer 28th,
detective
1 Squad,
end. He
ing men,
guy who

ert Gra-
. Squad,
u detec-
yn room.
yur with
sses in a
imes aS:
4 Drum-
eighteen,
Andeser,
onue, all

ey knew
. Nassau
vem that
ey could
here the
that they
ght they
the rear

niles

inity
v return
‘vy would
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uned_ to
na man
ise. The
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ided the
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it of the
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in’t have
indled 2
iis pants
wn across

y loaded.

the bed
e stripped
it negress
It was a
ost. fright-
rect as one
ie, serving
Kennedy
mM us.
name he
1 French,
otordrome
fe insisted
ing about
{ to him,
When he
ig to any-
elt certain
was lying.
» gain by

re grilling
v a deep
d tell the
led patrol-
e was glad
that the

1 had

killed
1!” French

emed real.

—“e-mCmCm:tSsS

Al Brengard fitted the initials, “A. B.”
French really seemed relieved at getting
the story out of his mind. Besides, he
seemed too fidgety and nervous to be the
fellow with a sure trigger finger. I still
clung to the idea of the principal suspect
being a cool, steady, quick shooter. French
didn’t fit into this picture at all. We
pressed him for more information. Now
it came easily.

“Brengard lived on Waldinger Street,
Valley Stream,” French revealed. “He
owned a maroon colored Willys-Knight
car. He carried a gun and kept. it under
the cowling, on top of the ignition wires.
Yes, he lost a gray fedora chat the night
of the shooting. I think it was July 22nd,
1928.”

French had only one request to make
to us. He pleaded with us not to let
Brengard know that he had squealed. |

“Brengard discovered his hat was mis-
sing,” French told us, “after we went to
a lunch cart in East Rockaway, following
the shooting. Brengard told me if I ever
opened my mouth about the shooting he
would kill me too.”

French told us that he wouldn’t dare to
talk now only he knew Brengard was 1D
prison in Trenton, New Jersey, for another
shooting. The wires burned to Trenton as
we sought more information as to Bren-
gard’s whereabouts. In the meantime we
learned at Brengard’s home that he had
been away several months.

E brought out the gray fedora hat
and experienced a shock. The lining
on which had been printed the initials “A.

” was missing. Without the lining the
hat was the same as any of the thou-
sands of gray fedoras. . :

During the probe the initialed hat_lin-
ing was turned over to Detective John
Fogarty, a special investigator working
with us on the case. Detective Fogarty
was to have had photographs of the lin-
ing taken and then give ita moth-proofing
treatment which would not disturb the
initials. Moths had got into the hat and,
had we done nothing, would have de-
stroyed the lining.

Shortly after Detective Fogarty took
the lining he was retained as a special
detective by Colonel Charles A. Lind-
bergh during the tragic baby kidnapping
probe. Fogarty never told us what he
had done with the lining and as we had
no particular use for it, we had not in-
quired. Bogasty was back from the Lind-
bergh case only a short time when_he
dropped dead from a heart attack. The
hat lining was never found. Fortunately
we had made a facsimile of the initials
before letting the lining go out of the
Headquarters files.

Authorities at the New Jersey state
prison in Trenton reported that they had
a man named Alphonse Brengard in their
custody. They told us he was sentenced
for a shooting in that state. We flew into
action. District Attorney Elvin N. Ed-
wards, Nassau’s veteran prosecutor, who
had kept in touch with every move we
made, telephoned to Roosevelt Field, a
little more than a mile from the court-
house.

“Get Randy Enslow to warm up & plane
at once,” District Attorney Edwards in-
structed the operations. office. “Inspector
King and myself are going to fly to Tren-
ton. Be ready in twenty minutes? We'll
be right over.”

When we arrived in Trenton a couple
of hours later, we were told that Brengard
had been assigned to a prison farm some
eighty miles from Trenton. It was several
hours later when Brengard was ushered
before us, having been brought back to
Trenton. When he came into -the room
we saw that he was about six feet tall;
weighed nearly two hundred pounds; had

True Detective Mysteries

a clean shaven face outside of a mus-
tache. He had a prominent Greek nose
which looked as though it had been broken
at some time. His lips were rather large
and salmon pink. His face reminded me
of an Indian, for stoicism, not color. We
were to learn that his expression changed
easily from disinterested blankness to
cruelty. He seldom smiled and then a
wry, unlaughing smile. His eyes were big,
gray, unflinching—his hands firm and
steady. He was, in short, the type of man
we had visualized.

Al Brengard was serving a sentence of
two and a half to five years for felonious
assault. He had been working as a fore-
man in the Ford plant in Edgewater,
N. J. He was discharged for showering
attentions on a girl employee. Brengard
blamed his dismissal on Miss Olga Muller,
a comely Cliffside girl.

On November 14th, 1932, he waylaid
Miss Muller in front of her home. She was
then accompanied by George Fitzgerald,
ee garageman in adjoining Fairview.

iss Muller tried to advoid Brengard.
When Fitzgerald stepped in to defend her,
Brengard whipped out a gun and fired a
shot. It struck Miss Muller in the arm
Patrolman Jack Delaney, namesake of
the Nassau County policeman who had
found Brengard’s hat July 22nd, 1928, ar-
rested Brengard in Fairview for shooting
Miss Muller.

We knew of nothing that Brengard had
done up to the time of our visit in Tren-
ton to lift him out of the ranks of the
masses of men of his age. His neighbors
knew little about him, except he drove
an automobile recklessly, and, one night

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in July, 1928, had crashed into a neigh-
bor’s hedge. We never knew for sure
whether it was the night of July 22nd—
after the shooting.

Mr. Edwards was the first of Nassau’s
visitors to speak to Brengard, saying,
“We are from Nassau County and we
want to have a talk with you.”

Tf there was any change in Brengard’s
expression, we could not notice it.

“Why, sure,” coolly returned Brengard.

“A fellow by the name of William
French has implicated you in the murder
of Patrolman Kennedy. Whatever you say
may be used against you,” advised Prose-
cutor Edwards.

Al DON’T know any fellow by the name
of French.” Brengard promptly re-
plied, entirely unmoved by the murder
suggestion. Extended questioning was of
no value. Brengard insisted that he knew
nothing about any hold-ups of petting
parties. He parried every verbal trap that
was set for him.

“You know,” Brengard informed us,
“J was formerly a New York state trooper;
Troop K, Westchester County. I was also
an amateur boxer. Why, I even had an
application in to join the New York City
Police Department. I intended to take the
next examination for the Valley Stream
Police Department. I don’t know any-
thing about any shooting in Nassau
County.”

His flat denials and avoidance of pit-
falls might be expected from a man
schooled in police work. He was not
going to implicate himself in any way.
We knew we would have to prove our
suspicions without any help from Bren-
gard if we were to convince a jury that he
murdered Kennedy. Chief Anthony Ma-
grino of Fairview and Detective John P.
Godetti of Lindenhurst, N. J. produced
the gun they had taken from Brengard—
and also the bullet which had pierced
Miss Muller’s arm.

Convinced that we could get nothing
more from Brengard_ without confronting
him with definite evidence, we flew back

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110

Captain Earl Comstock

On October 2nd, 1933, we turned over
all firearms, empty shells and bullets, col-
lected for evidence, to Sergeant Harry
Butts of the New York City Ballistics
Bureau. We noticed that the identification
numbers were filed off Brengard’s gun.
This did not seriously disturb us, for he
had failed to find the secret numbers
inside the weapon. If the gun was sold
in legitimate channels, we would be able
to trace it from the factory to the person
who sold it to him.

Sergeant Butts carried out a compar-
ative examination of Brengard’s gun, the
bullet taken from Kennedy’s spine, the
bullet taken from Miss Muller’s arm;
French’s gun and the Kennedy gun with
the empty shells from which he had fired
the “signal” shots.

French seemed more anxious than ever
to talk about the shooting when we saw
him upon our return from Trenton.

“Did you actually see Brengard shoot
Kkennedy?” we asked him.

“Sure I did, I was right behind Bren-
gard,” French replied.

“Will you go down to Trenton and tell
Brengard to his face what you have told
us?” I challenged French,

Scared, but determined, French volun-
teered, “Sure I will if you don’t let him
get near me, He'd kill me if he got a
chance.”

The very next day the airplane was
pressed into service again; Randy Enslow
at the controls; Assistant District Attor-
ney Albert M. DeMeo, French and my-
self as passengers. French was thrilled
with the ride, saying it was his first air
trip.

E lost no time, upon arrival at the

Trenton prison, to bring French face
to face with Brengard. We kept faith with
French in our promise not to let him be
harmed by Brengard. Brengard was man-
acled to guards. We thrust French out
in front of Brengard, who glared at French
but did not speak.

“Tell him what you told us,” I in-
structed French.

French, looking askance at Brengard,
exclaimed nervously, “You shot Kennedy
and I saw you do it!”

French was given courage to make the
accusation by the belief that Brengard
intended to pin all the blame on him.
After the accusation Brengard’s pink com-
plexion blanched. He stood stiffly, glar-
ing at French. Not a sound escaped his
lips. The pageant of murderer facing
murderer ended when we led French out
of the barred room. Brengard still refused
to tell us anything. He was returned to his
cell and we began a stormy air journey
back to Mineola, with French. Wind and
rain bounced the plane like a pin# pong
ball. French didn’t like the return jour-
ney so well. He was pretty sick when

True Detective Mysteries

we put down at Roosevelt Field. We
were not feeling any too good either.

Our next problem was to get custody of
Brengard. This was not so easy because
he was serving a sentence and was not yet
eligible for parole. District Attorney Ed-
wards began negotiations with Governor
Moore and the New Jersey parole board.
Governor Moore conferred with the par-
don board for several days finally result-
ing in a decision to release Brengard to
us for a period of thirty days, subject to
return of Brengard should our probe fail.

Brengard was released to us October
9th, 1933. We hustled him to Mineola
where we questioned him for hours. In
the all night session were Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney DeMeo; Lieutenant May-
forth, then a sergeant; Lieutenant Morse;
Detectives Charles Jones, Joseph Culkins
and myself,

The first break came when Brengard an-
nounced, “I am tired of protecting this fel-
low French any longer. Now I'll tell the
truth about this—as far as I know. French
borrowed my car that night Kennedy was
shot—said he wanted to visit friends. The
registration was 9L6865—it was a maroon
Willys-Knight sedan. French didn’t re-
turn the car until the next day when he
met me on Farmers Avenue, Queens, near
where I was training in a gym for a fight.

“My revolver was slung over the ig-
nition wires under the cowling. I think
my hat was in the back seat—I don’t
wear any in summer. When I read in
the papers that a cop was shot and saw
the registration number 8L865 and that
the car was the same as mine I became
suspicious. When I fished out my gun
and found one shot fired—I became pan-
icky. Immediately I filed the numbers
off the gun and hid it in the back of the
chicken coop at my home. I noticed too
that my hat was gone. I didn’t want
to get mixed up in any shooting that
French committed. I’m sick and tired
of shielding French!”

I asked Brengard, “Why should French
say that you shot Kennedy if you didn’t?”

“Ti tell you why,” Brengard explained.
“French has been hanging around with
certain fellows who might want to get
even with me. They might want to put
me on the spot, letting French think that
if he accused me he might get away with
it—and I’d get burned.”

Brengard told us he was sure that he
was in the gym the night of the shoot-
ing but he couldn’t tell us where the
place was, nor the names of trainers or
sparring partners. He was lying about
this, because the state boxing commission
had not renewed his license to box—and
he wouldn’t be training without one.
With this alibi exploded, he tried another
—that he was playing billiards with a
policeman in our department that night.
A relative of Brengard tried to get the
policeman to corroborate the alibi but
the policeman refused, telling us abo..t
the fixing effort instead.

Brengard’s alibis shattered, we renewed
our search for the elusive maroon Willys-
Knight automobile. Brengard insisted
that the last he saw of the car was when
it was repossessed. The dealer who re-
possessed it had gone out of business—
but we located him in Chicago. Lieuten-
ant Mayforth traced the car from subse-
quent owner to another. Finally he found
what was left of the car in a junk pile in
Hicksville, L. I. The only identifying
part of the once proud machine left was
the engine block—from which we pried
the number plate of the maker. It
meant progress to us, for now we had the
junked car, the guns, bullets and the
gray fedora, without lining.

We asked Brengard to try the hat on.
It was a perfect fit. He remembered

printing the “A. B.” initials on the lining
himself. We asked him to show us ex-
actly how he had printed them. He
wrote the initials on a slip of paper. They
were identical with the facsimile we had
made before sending the lining for moth
proofing.

By this time Sergeant Butts was ready
with a report. He informed us that his
microscopic examination showed that the
bullet that killed Kennedy was from the
same gun as the bullet which hit Miss
Muller, now Mrs. George Fitzgerald—and
that the gun was taken from Brengard in
New Jersey. Brengard had shot that gun
straight and true on the state trooper
shooting ranges. Tracing the secret num-
#ers we learned that Brengard bought the
gun from a sergeant in the state troopers
for $28, a perfectly legal deal.

i es): bullet that hit Kennedy was a 38
caliber Smith and Wesson special. So
was Brengard’s gun. French’s gun was
a .32 caliber Iver Johnson, too small to
fire a 38 bullet. Kennedy could not have
been shot with his own gun. His was a
388 caliber regular size, slightly smaller
than the “special.” Certainly there was
no doubt that Brengard’s gun fired the
shot—nor was there any doubt that Bren-
gard pulled the trigger, July 22nd, 1928.
Punch marks on the primer of the shells
from the Brengard gun were entirely dif-
ferent than those from the Kennedy gun.

The grand jury promptly indicted both
French and Brengard for first degree mur-
der. We were ready for trial but French
claimed he had appendicitis. Doctors re-
ported that he was feigning—that the
pain was on the wrong side—that French
— just scared sick at the prospects of
trial.

Charles N. Wysong, assigned to de-
fend Brengard, chose S. Frederick Placer,
young, energetic defense lawyer as trial
counsel. Samuel Greason was assigned to
defend French.

District Attorney Edwards moved for
trial on January 15th, 1934. In two days
a jury was drawn, one juror being ex-
cused because he knew French at motor-
drome races. Brengard sat stiffly, cool
and emotionless for nine trial days, sepa-
rated from French by deputy sheriffs,
French sat cowering, head down. un-
smiling as the jury heard the damning
story he had told—and which might
send them both to the electric chair.

French’s story, read into the records
from sworn police statements, practically
constituted the State’s case. Technically,
French’s_ statements could not be used
against Brengard—nor Brengard’s against

(At right) The long-sought “A. B.”
on his way to trial

French. All «
testimony of
roborated Fre:
Prosecutor
strong case, ba
that he saw B
From noon w
trial day the }
Both defend
order of the c
deputies and «
“We find Al
murder in the
foreman, and,
Wilham Frenc
second degree
The electric
gard; a life
French. Neit)
word during
later when Ji
pronounced th
gard, the prisc
at the bench
“That’s the
thing for noth

Lieutenant }
tracking dov

French’s ch
silent after he
prison for life.

A few days
were ushered i
last ride, dest
There they n
trial by the C
quirement bet
consummated.

Back at H
Kennedy case
case file. In it
lings yacht m
the Kennedy «

The four yc
man “Big” .
avenged.

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mn the lining
show us ex-
them. He
paper. They
mile we had
ing for moth

ts was ready

us that his
ved that the
vas from the
ich hit Miss
zgerald—and
Brengard in
hot that gun
state trooper
secret num-
1 bought the
tate troopers
I,

dy was a 238
n special. So
h’s gun was
too small to
vuld not have
His was a
rhtly smaller
ly there was
cun fired the
»t that Bren-
22nd, 1928.
of the shells
entirely dif-
Yennedy gun.
indicted both
degree mur-
! but French
Doctors re-
ng—that the
—that French
prospects of

gned to de-
lerick Placer,
wyer as trial
s assigned to

s moved for
In two days
or being ex-
ch at motor-
stifly, cool
il days, sepa-
uty sheriffs.
down, un-
the damning
which might
tric chair.
the records
s, practically
Technically,
not be used
sard’s against

ht “A. B.”

French. All our evidence, including the
testimony of Gerhardt, however, cor-
roborated French’s version.

Prosecutor Edwards tied together a
strong case, backed by French’s statement
that he saw Brengard fire the fatal shot.
From noon until nightfall of the ninth
trial day the jury debated.

Both defendants, remaining seated by
order of the court, heard their fate while
deputies and detectives clustered around.

“We find Alphonse Brengard guilty of
murder in the first degree,’ droned the
foreman, and, a second later, “We find
William French guilty of murder in the
second degree.”

The electric chair beckoned to Bren-
gard; a life term in Dannemora, for
French. Neither defendant uttered a
word during the long trial, but a week
later when Judge Cortland A. Johnson
pronounced the death sentence for Bren-
gard, the prisoner sarcastically looked up
at the bench and snarled:

“That's the first time I ever got some-
thing for nothing!”

Lieutenant Emil Morse, prominent in
tracking down the phantom slayer of
Lovers’ Lane

French’s chin fell, but he remained
silent after he heard his commitment to
prison for life.

A few days later Brengard and French
were ushered into an automobile for their
last ride, destined for Sing Sing prison.
There they must await review of their
trial by the Court of Appeals, a legal re-
quirement before capital punishment is
consummated.

Back at Headquarters we lifted the
Kennedy case out of the No. 1, unsolved
case file, In its place we dropped the Co®
lings yacht murder. Those six years on
the Kennedy case gave us courage.

The four year living death of Patrol-
man “Big” Jack Kennedy had been
avenged.

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True Detective Mysteries

111

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-_—e

DIU ING Dl, st lLphon iG,

Patrolman John F, Kennedy, victim of a gun-
man’s cowardly attack, is shown as he appeared
in a hospital after one of his many operations.

N ALL MY TWENTY YEARS of investigating

crime in Nassau County, which is peopled largely

by wealthy estate-owners who commute to and from

New York City, I have never encountered a case
with so many ironic twists of fate, nor one that demanded so
much painstaking detective work, as the cold-blooded murder
of John R. “Handsome Jack” Kennedy, a young patrolman on
the Nassau County police force.

The case had “everything,” as the newspapermen say; there
was action, mystery, suspense, pathos, a little humor, and
finally—after six years and six weeks !—stern, inflexible jus-
tice. And of especial interest to myself was the fact that it
cleared up a highly important point of law; that is, the ques-
tion of whether a man may be considered a murder victim if
he dies of a wound more than a year after that wound has
been inflicted.

The Kennedy case had its tragic beginning on the night
of July 22, 1928.

When the good-looking patrolman reported for duty at mid-

42

@ A SINGLE SHOT IN A LONELY LANE OPENS A

by District Attorney
of Nassau County, New York

A gray fedora hat, with the initials “A, B2” printed
in the lining, was the only clue found at the scene of
the crime in “Petters’ Paradise.”

night, it was chilly and drizzling; decidedly a nasty night for
patrol duty. Consequently he drove to his home the officer he
had relieved. The latter gave Kennedy the following infor-
mation:

“Better scout around in Waterworks Lane, Jack. A few
minutes ago I saw a car going up there—petters, probably.
The Chief says we’ve got to keep the love birds out of the
jungles.”

“O.K.,” Kennedy responded. He dropped the other officer
at his home, performed a few minor bits of routine, and then
drove toward Waterworks Lane.

This road—in reality, nothing’ more than a single-track
wagon trail—cuts through a densely wooded section of ground
near the village of Woodmere. It is unlighted and but little
traveled. In 1928 it had come into favor as a romantic spot
for lovers’ trysts; they called it “Kiss Lane” and “Petters’
Paradise.” Because there had been many recent robberies
and assaults in the lane on the part of nocturnal “love pirates,”
Chief Abraham S. Skidmore had issued strict instructions to

VNarre Le 432

®

Elvin N

As told tc

This burly
matic figur
him from

MYST

his men to all
Kennedy, pr
into the pitch-
when, in a sm:
proper, he spc
of his police cr
blue Willys-K1
headed toward
There was |
up alongside t!
his roadster h
cruiser was se
Kennedy got
Willys-Knight
crouched down
Ordinarily,
returned to the
Lane, and cont
back later to Ic


2

\ttorney
1, New York

Elvin N. Edwards

As told to Martin Fiske

B.” printed °
the scene of
ec

ENS A

a nasty night for
ome the officer he
following infor-

ie, Jack. A few
petters, probably.
birds out of the

the other officer
routine, and then

n a single-track
section of ground
ted and but little
a romantic spot

e” and “Petters’

recent robberies
al “love pirates,”
ct instructions to

This burly convict and former New York State Trooper was an enig-
matic figure in the Kennedy case. Detectives received information about

Up_at Sing Sing, the electric chair
waited for six years to embrace the

him from a squealer of doubtful veracity, and located him in prison. man who shot “Handsome Jack.”

his men to allow no cars to be parked in it after nightfall.

Kennedy, proceeding to carry out this order, drove slowly
into the pitch-black roadway. He had gone about 600 feet
when, in a small cul de sac or blind lane leading off the road
proper, he spotted a darkened machine. As the headlamps
of his police cruiser flickered over it, he noticed that it was a
blue Willys-Knight sedan ofa rather ancient vintage. It was
headed toward him.

There was barely enough room for the patrolman to drive
up alongside the other car. In so doing, the right fender of
his roadster hooked over a stump, with the result that the
cruiser was securely anchored. ;

Kennedy got out of the car and turned a flashlight into the
Willys-Knight, believing that the supposed petters might be
crouched down below the windows. But the sedan was empty.

Ordinarily, the officer at this point probably would have
returned to the wheel of the cruiser, backed into Waterworks
Lane, and continued on his regular beat; he might have come
back later to look for the people who had occupied the Willys-

"MYSTERY WHICH SEEMS TO DEFY SOLUTION @

Knight. But the patrol car was hopelessly snagged. Ken-
nedy lifted with all his strength—he was a powerful man,
weighing about 190 pounds and standing six feet three inches
in height—and was unable to budge it. He was walking
around the rear of the cruiser, wondering what to do, when
he was startled by an angry cry that came eerily out of the
darkness :

“Who’s there? What do you want?”

“I am a Nassau County policeman,” Kennedy replied.

Instantly a shot was fired. Kennedy, attired in full uniform
with a shield on his visored cap and a badge on his breast,
and standing in the gleam of illumination streaming from
the side of his tail-light, made an excellent target. The one
bullet was sufficient. It plowed through his liver and lodged
in his spine. His face a mask of pain and horror, the young
policeman slumped down to the muddy roadway.

He was fully conscious; the most serious immediate effect
of the leaden slug was to paralyze him from the waist down.
He heard the sound of feet running through the brush and

43

INSIDE DETECTIVE

TONGUE WAGGLED

Right: William French, in sweater,

stands with officer in front of police

plane used in solving the murder.
He was an important witness.

OFFICER'S WIDOW

Below: . Mrs. Jane Kennedy is
shown at her home with her son,
John, Jr. She injected a parting
note of romance into this case.

on to the lane. There were two persons. They were ap-
proaching him. One thought was in Kennedy’s mind: they
were coming to finish him off! Frenziedly he struggled to
reach his gun. The weapon was in its holster beneath his
coat, however, and he had fallen with both his hands be-
neath him, so he was powerless.

. The running feet came closer, then veered away. Two men
went around to the other side of the Willys-Knight and
clambered into the front seat, They uttered no word; they
did not pause to ascertain whether their. victim was living or
dead. The motor roared, the sedan’s lights were switched
on, and the car jolted down into Waterworks Lane and dis-
appeared.

N THAT BRIEF MOMENT Kennedy, despite his

agony, made a mental note of the license number: New
York—8L685. At least he thought that was the number. As
it turned out later, this was the most perplexing clue in our
entire investigation.

It was now about I a. m. Lying on the damp ground, his
clothing becoming soaked from the steady drizzle, Kennedy
fully realized the seriousness of his predicament. To lie there
until somebody chanced to find him—possibly until daybreak
—would mean almost certain death. Desperately he tried to
change his position. If he could but reach his gun and fire a

ay

signal, help would be forthcoming. Perspiration rolled down
his foréhead. His huge shoulders twisted. Gradually, inch
by inch, he moved the upper portion of his body until his
hands were freed. Then another struggle, to get his gun out
of the holster. At last he clutched the butt, raised the muzzle
upward, and squeezed the trigger.

In a direct air-line across a swampy section, 200 yards
from the spot where Kennedy lay, was the residence of Mr.
and Mrs. Robert J. Roos in the exclusive village of Wood-
mere. Leaving the bridge table to get refreshments from the
ice box for their guests of the evening, Mrs. Roos stepped
out on the back porch. She heard two shots, then the cry:

“Police officer. ... I have been wounded. . . . Help! Help!”

The appeal out of the night was strange, unreal. Mrs.
Roos could scarcely believe that she heard it. But it came
again—the shots, the shouted plea. The Woodmere matron
summoned her husband, and he in turn called Police Head-
quarters.

Over the teletype at a police lodge in the district another
policeman, Fred Hirsh, received the report that an officer was
believed to have been wounded in Waterworks Lane. _Inci-
dentally, it is one of the weird angles to this real-life mystery
tale that Hirsh himself was murdered by a bandit a year
afterward ; his assailant was none other than the vicious “Two
Gun” Crowley, whom I prosecuted and who died in the electric
chair at Sing Sing.

Officer Hirsh and a companion hastened to “Petters’ Para-
dise” and found Kennedy lying on his back, his agonized face
glistening with sweat and rain, his uniform covered with mud.
After doing everything possible to make Kennedy comfortable,
Hirsh drove back to a police booth on the main highway
where he telephoned for an ambulance and flashed the news
of the shooting to Inspector Harold R. King, Long Island’s
ace criminal investigator.

Inspector King called me at my home at 2 o'clock. “Thought
you would want to come along,” he explained. “Kennedy
evidently is fatally wounded, and it looks like a tough case.”

“T will be right over,” I replied. The Inspector and I have
always worked together on homicide investigations in Nas-
sau County; the practice has invariably been of great value
to me when it came time to prepare my cases for trial.

When Inspector King and I arrived at the scene of the
shooting we found that Patrolman Kennedy had already been

removed to St. .
with Chief Skic
immediate vicir
ripped off cloth
boxes—anythin;
as to the identi
search yielded «
That was ag
were the initial
Next, we we
was in a weake
essential; a few
allow suspects t
The courage:
counter much i
did not get a g
identify them.
blue Willys-Kr
8L685.
As we left }

motive for this «
because he anno
lovesiek swain ris
“It’s something
And he was rig
tion that a young
in Waterworks L
had been robbed
We got in toucl
barrassed, he adi
The robbery, he :
before Jack Kenn
had been parked
dits would have h:
sedan they had lef
There was our
been stricken by
say, “I am a poli
jolt up the river
haps this was his
have been sentenc
rate, he gave no
and fired from the
deed. The traged:
Kennedy had a wi
ten months old at


ion rolled down
Gradually, inch

body until his
get his gun out
tised the muzzle

tion, 200 yards
esidence of Mr.
llage of Wood-
ments from the
. Roos stepped
hen the cry:
Help! Help!”
unreal. Mrs.
But it came
odmere matron
{ Police Head-
listrict another
t an officer was
cs Lane. Inci-
eallife mystery
bandit a year
e vicious “Two
d in the electric

“Petters’ Para-
s agonized face
‘ered with mud.
dy comfortable,
main highway
ashed the news
. Long Island’s

clock. “Thought
ed. ‘‘Kennedy
a tough case.”
ctor and I have
ations in Nas-
of great value
or trial.

e scene of the
id already been

INSIDE DETECTIVE

removed to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Far Rockaway. Together
with Chief Skidmore and other officers we began to scour the
immediate vicinity for clues. We wanted footprints, buttons
ripped off clothing, cigar or cigarette butts, discarded match
boxes—anything, in brief, that might give us some slight lead
as to the identity of the assailant or assailants. The diligent
search yielded only one article that might be useful.

That was a gray fedora hat of popular make. In the lining
were the initials “A.B.,” printed in ink.

Next, we went to the hospital to interview Kennedy. He
was in a weakened condition, of course, but the interview was
essential ; a few minutes’ delay in obtaining information might
allow suspects to escape.

The courageous patrolman told the story of the night’s en-
counter much in the manner that I have recited it here. He
did not get a good look at the men; he would not be able to
identify them. He knew, however, that their car was a
blue Willys-Knight sedan, and he thought the license was
8L685.

As we left Kennedy, Inspector King and I debated the

motive for this crime. Why should a man be shot sitnply
because he announced himself as a policeman? Would a
lovesick swain risk the electric chair simply to avoid detection?

“It’s something more than that,” the Inspector said.

And he was right. Just before dawn we received informa-
tion that a young man by the name of Bros Gearhart had been
in Waterworks Lane with a girl friend that night, and that-he
had been robbed of some small change by two stickup men.
We got in touch with Gearhart at once. Somewhat em-
barrassed, he admitted his presence in ‘Petters’ Paradise.”
The robbery, he said, must have occurred just a few minutes
before Jack Kennedy was shot. Gearhart and his companion
had been parked farther up the lane; in the interim the ban-
dits would have had time to cut back through the woods to the
sedan they had left in the cul de sac.

There was our motive, then. One of the stickup men had
been stricken by unreasoning fear when he heard Kennedy
say, “I am a policeman.” He envisioned capture, and a long
jolt up the river on a first-degree robbery conviction.. Per-
haps this was his fourth offense, with the result that he might
have been sentenced to life under the Baumes Law. At any
rate, he gave no explanation, no warning; he drew his gun.
and fired from the shelter of darkness. It was a most cowardly
deed. The tragedy of the attack was deepened by the fact that
Kennedy had a wife, Jane, and a son, John, Jr., who was only
ten months old at the time of the crime.

N THE MORNING of the 23rd orders thick and fast

were showered upon the Nassau County detectives and

the New York City authorities who were helping us in the
investigation :

“Check the Motor Vehicle Registration Bureau | for

license 8L685. . . . Go through the phone directories and list
all the “A.B.s.” Cover the entire metropolitan area.  In-
vestigate every “A.B.” found. ... Trace the hat; see who

manufactured it, what jobber handled it, and finally what re-
tailer sold it. Can the storekeeper remember the purchaser?
(The fedora, which apparently had been brushed off the
bandit’s head by low-hanging boughs of trees as he ran
toward the Willys-Knight, seemed to be about a year old.)
. . . Take a complete statement from Gearhart. Could he
identify the bandits? . . . Interview Kennedy again to de-
termine if he can remember any additional details. . . .”

The well-oiled, smooth-functioning police machinery .swung
into action. It worked with speed and precision, and yet—
there were no results.

The license tag 8L685 was attached to an automobile,

»,

\
4
“4
|
\

MIDNIGHT TRAGEDY

Left: Photodiagram indicates how

a mysterious gunman fired out of

the woods upon Patrolman. Ken-

nedy in a lovers’ lane near Wood-

mere, Long Island, the night of

July 22, 1928. - The bullet lodged
in Kennedy’s spine,

FALSELY ACCUSED?

Below: Why did he file the num-
bers off his gun? Why did he
leave his usual haunts after the
shooting? The former State
Trooper, a leading suspect, smiles
confidently as he is brought into
the courthouse at Mineola, N. Y.


the bedside
four years,
d penetrated
-ks Lane.

e ever calls
en” case—a
ce continued

nd his aides
vardens and
he case and
| gossip was

x break.

djoins Nas-
three pasty-
a ten-dollar

1 remarked,

you bother
like stolen
‘hy, I know
kill a cop!”
his name ?”
refused to
he informa-
s boast, and
ie, however,
me—

had become
is tongue to
| where the
vere passing
> mentioned
occurred in
sland,” and
ed for four
mnded,.

ad recently
King’s cir-
iately of the
notified his

touch with‘

nvestigator.
ced to the
1 house over
arkway and
d joined the
ners. From
‘imate asso-
od, right in

Long past
nked out of

snumbed by
iately. Yes,
-ful night in
10, after the
umped into
he, French,

igard—A.B.

now and let
2y. ”

INSIDE DETECTIVE

Inspector King’s telephone call roused me out of bed at
4 in the morning. “It looks like the genuine stuff,” he told
me. “I think we’ve finally solved the Kennedy case.”

ATER, I QUESTIONED FRENCH at my office in the
courthouse. The prisoner was a sallow-faced man with
slicked-back hair. He was rather slight in build. His eyes
were shifty. As soon as I saw him, the question occurred
to me: “Is this man in reality the killer, and is he trying to
sidestep the chair by casting the blame on somebody else?”
A court stenographer was in the room to set down every
word that French uttered.
“French,” I began, “of course, you realize that you will
be tried for murder. The fact that you concealed your knowl-
edge of this crime, assuming your story to be true, puts you in
a tight spot. I cannot make any promises, but if you did not
do the shooting, and if you tell the truth now, a jury might
give you a break. It is your only chance.”

French said, “Mr. Edwards, I will tell you the truth.”

Then he went into his story. He and Brengard were in
need of cash, and they hit upon
the idea of robbing lovers in se-
cluded Waterworks Lane. On the
night of the crime they ran up
into the lane in  Brengard’s
Willys-Knight, turned off into the
cul de sac, prowled.through the
woods until they sighted a ma-
chine occupied by supposed pet-
ters, and held up Bros. Gearhart.
The robbery netted less than a
dollar.

Returning .to their car, French
went on, they saw the tail lamp
of the police cruiser, and observed
Patrolman Kennedy. Brengard
shouted, “Who’s there?” and
when Kennedy replied that he was
a policeman, Brengard pulled out -
his gun and fired. They got out
of the vicinity as soon as pos-
sible and separated.

After French was led -away
from my office, to be placed in
a cell, I turned to Inspector King
and asked, “What do you think

2,000 JURIES—

“T am inclined to think he’s
telling the truth,” the detective
replied. “It’s the same story he
told to us after we pulled him
out of bed—no changes whatsoever in the important details.”

“Of course, he might have rehearsed it carefully... .
But the thing to do right now is to locate Brengard—quick !
He might hear of French’s arrest and make a getaway.”

As it turned out, there was no cause for concern on this

.point.

We learned that Brengard’s home was in Valley Stream,
not far from Mineola. We ascertained, too, that he had
owned a blue Willys-Knight sedan in 1928—and that, the
license plates for it that year read 8L6685. Kennedy in mak-
ing his mental note of the number had omitted one of the
6s! In a compartment behind the dashboard of the car
Brengard had been in the habit of carrying a .38 calibre
Smith and Wesson service revolver.

Some of these facts had been given to us by French. We
checked on every point in his crime narrative and found it to
be true. His story, then, apparently was an honest one. But
still it was our business to be skeptical.

Who was this man, Brengard? We got the answer to
that, too.

He was a tall, husky individual who at one time had ac-

quired a local reputation as a heavyweight prizefighter. For.

24,000 JURORS—
HAVE HEARD HIM!!

ISTRICT ATTORNEY Elvin N. Edwards,

co-author of this story, is one of the most serve. The interview ran some-
experienced public prosecutors in the United
States. He has established an enviable record,
both in the matter of helping to solve crimes and
in convicting criminals.
decades he has addressed 2,000 juries, prosecuted
such famous characters as “Two Gun” Crowley,
and sent thirteen men to the electric chair. The
Kennedy murder investigation, which he de-
of it?” scribes so graphically in these pages, probably
will stand as his last famous case, since he is now
retiring to the private practce of law.

several months he had served as a member of the New York
State Police, being attached to Troop K, stationed at White
Plains. White Plains is near Mamaroneck, where, if you
will remember, the hat initialed “A.B.” was purchased. Bren-
gard had obtained his gun while he was a trooper. He had
left the force when a dishonorable discharge seemed imminent.

Investigation at the man’s old haunts disclosed that he had
gone to New Jersey and become involved in trouble arising
over a girl, Olga Muller, a resident of Hackensack. . He had
shot and wounded her after she repulsed his advances. The,
story of this attack is rather interesting in itself. -Brengard
had been friendly with the girl for some time, but her affec-
tions for him cooled. At their “parting scene,” in a drunken
rage, he threatened to kill her. To carry out his threat, he
got in his car, drove some twenty-five or thirty miles out to
his Long Island home, got the revolver which he had con-
cealed in a chicken coop after the Kennedy tragedy, and then
drove all the way back to New Jersey and fired upon Miss
Muller.

For this crime he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to
a term in the New Jersey State
Penitentiary. Thus our quarry
already was in custody!

Inspector King and I, taking
Bill French with us, flew to Tren-
ton in the Nassau County police
airplane. We told our mission to
the warden, and he volunteered
his co-operation.

When Brengard, a_ hulking
figure, stalwart although quite
slender, was first brought into
the warden’s office for question-
ing, French was not present; we
were holding the squealer in re-

ae

thing like this:

Q—Do you know William
French.

A.—Yes.

Q.—Did you at any time ever
let him use your car, the blue
Willys-Knight sedan?

A.—No.

Q:—You owned such a car,
didn’t you?

A.—Yes, but I couldn’t keep up
the payments and the finance com-
pany took it away from me.

Q—Is French an enemy of

yours? Do you think he has any
reason for holding a grudge against you?

A.—No, I don’t think so. Of course, he might have started
running with fellows who didn’t like me, and they’might have
turned him against me in some way.

Then we brought in French, who promptly identified Bren-
gard and repeated his assertion that he was the man who shot
Patrolman Kennedy.

Brengard was silent; but later, when we were alone, he

denied that he did the shooting or was present when the
crime was committed.
- Back in Mineola, the grand jury in due time indicted
both French and Brengard on a charge of murder in the first
degree. The New Jersey parole board was apprised of this
development, and held a special session at which it was
decided that Brengard’ should be turned over to us for trial.
We returned him to Nassau County by plane. He seemed to
enjoy the ride.

A short time later, the manacled ex-pug and slaying suspect
was sitting in headquarters waiting to see a lawyer. In
the room with him was Albert M. DeMeo, one of my
assistants.

DeMeo, so to speak, “went (Continued on page 62)

47

Within the last two


HE statement ran: ;

“T have been cautioned that anything I
may say may be given in evidence, and to
show I understand this I sign my name.

“I was born at St. Neots, Huntingdon-
shire, and have been in London since I
was five years of age. I was away at
sea for two and a half years, and served
in France for three and a half years, being
wounded three times, once seriously. I also
served in the Royal Irish Constabulary.

“Since then I have been working for
about ten years with Messrs. Westacott, of
Camden Town, and as a jobbing builder.
While there I got to know Spatchett.

“On Monday Spatchett came into my

office, where I have a tool shed, about 5:30 ©

in the afternoon. He came in connection
with some work for Messrs. Westacott. We
stood together talking for about five
minutes, and I told him I had a revolver
in mv desk.

“He seemed interested, and I showed
him the revolver. He cocked it. I told
him it was loaded. It was a service Web-
ley revolver, and he handed it back to
me, saying, ‘You had better see to it, as
you know more about them than I do and
I have to get back to the office.’

“As he was going through the door the
gun went off and shot him. He fell to the
ground, groaning. I realized my position
and lost my head. I went out. When I
got back I found he was dead. I took the
gun away and did not tell anyone I had
shot. him. I left him for the time being
where he fell and went home.

“Next morning, about 7:15, I dragged
him into the office. I did nothing further
until I had been:to Westacott’s and asked
if there was. any work for me. I put him

INSIDE DETECTIVE

under the desk and went to Carlton Street,
where I had three men and a boy working
for me. While looking at the work there
the idea struck me to destroy the body by
a fire at my shop, making out that the
body was mine. The idea seemed too ter-
rible at first and impossible... .

“Then I went home to dinner and packed
my bag, took my tools, and returned to
the shop about 3 o’clock. I was there
some time. I had put the body under the
desk in the morning.

“I put the body in the office chair, pour-
ing over it oil and paint. I gathered up a
lot of paper on the floor and stood a candle
in the middle of it, lighting the candle.
Then I pulled the outer door to and locked
it. I wrote a note on a paper and put it
in the tool shop, making out that I had
committed suicide.”

‘Furnace, according to the latter part of
his rambling and at times almost incoher-
ent statement, assumed the name of Ray-
mond Rogers and went to Southend-on-
Sea where he first engaged a room in
Hartington Road (from -which he fled
when he suspected that the landlady had
recognized him) and then in Whitegate
Road, where he was finally arrested. :

The confession concluded: “I stayed
indoors all the week, being afraid to go
out, and I told my landlady I had in-
fluenza ... I took nothing out of Spatchett’s
pockets other than the money.”

Of course, this remarkable document
caused a sensation. Whether it was com-
pletely true was debated on the street cor-
ners, in the pubs, and even in the lobbies
of London’s most exclusive hotels, Had
the shooting been an accident, as Furnace
claimed? Or had it been deliberate and

pre-meditated? Public opinion seemed
strongly in favor of the latter theory.

The coroner commented wpon it as
follows :

“This statement of his, to my mind,
seems to be a statement of a rationally
minded person. It may contain mistakes
or deliberate misstatements, but that is not
to be considered.”

Furnace’s motive in committing this
heinous crime, of course, was his urgent
need for money. He was in serious finan-
cial trouble and indebted to various trades-
people, as well as to his landlord.

Inspector Ockey divulged the informa-
tion that the bottle of poison had been hid-
den, in the lining of Furnace’s overcoat,
where it had escaped the prying fingers
of the detectives who had searched him.
To get at it, all Furnace had to do was pull
out a few stitches.

Which goes to prove that even Scotland
Yard can make a mistake!

In this connection, perhaps it is worth
mentioning that the coroner told the jury
that the police responsibility in the matter
of the poison was no concern of theirs.
“There 1s no reason’ why you need express
any opinion as to the presence of that
bottle,” he declared.

A verdict of suicide was inevitable.

On Friday, January 20, as an epilogue
to this outstanding case, the late Samuel
Furnace was, to all intents and purposes,
“tried” and “found guilty” of the murder
of Walter Spatchett. This unprecedented
trial of a dead man occurred when a
coroner’s jury, at the resumed inquest into
the death of the young rent collector, rend-
ered a verdict that he had been wilfully
murdered by the Camden Town builder.

Cop-Killer!

fishing.” He inquired, “Are you going
to take the rap for French?”
_ The remark got under Brengard’s skin,
just as the assistant prosecutor hoped it
would, ;
“I’m tired of protecting French,” he
blazed. “I’m going to tell what really hap-
pened, and from now on he can look out
for himself. Here’s the story: At 10
o’clock the night of the shooting French
came to me and borrowed my car. He
said he would return it the next morning.
My gun was in the car, and I had left my
hat in it, too. I knew nothing of his plans.
The following day, when he returned the
car, I noticed that he looked pale and

. seemed to be worried about something.

Then I read that Kennedy had been shot
during the night, and that the license num-
ber he thought he had seen on the getaway
machine was similar to mine.

“TI was suspicious,” Brengard continued,
“so I looked at my revolver and saw that
one shot had been fired. My hat was gone
out of the car. I realized that French was
the man who shot Kennedy. However, I
never did anything, for fear that I might
be involved. Later, I took the gun .and
filed off the numbers so that it couldn’t be
traced, and hid it in the hencoop on my
mother’s place.

“T was not in Waterworks Lane that
night, and I did not do the shooting.
French is the guilty man... .”

_ Here, in Brengard’s impassioned story,
was an unexpected new twist in this amaz-
ing case, Was he telling the truth? Was
he, in..fact,.an. innocent..man,. -a- grossly:
maligned man? Perhaps our investigation
would have an ©’Henry surprise ending.

62

(Continued from page 47)

But as soon as we compared Brengard’s
version with the known facts, we detected
many fallacies. He obviously was offering
a flimsy fabrication in an attempt to save
his neck. These were the outstanding
points that refuted his story:

1. Gearhart was certain he had been
robbed not by one man, but by two.

2. When we first questioned Brengard
at the New Jersey penitentiary he stated
unequivocally that he had never let French
borrow his car.

3. The hat marked “A.B.” was found
some distance from the point where the
Willys-Knight was parked. It is unlikely
that it would have been at that spot had it
simply fallen out of the car.

4. Kennedy declared he heard the foot-
falls of two persons, not one.

5. (And this -was important)—Brengard
possessed some knowledge of the law. He
had attended a police school in training
to become a State Trooper. He was a
larger, stronger man than French. Had he
been innocent,. he would have had sense
enough to avoid trouble; he would have
marched French to the police station and
forced him to confess.

6. The fact that Brengard filed the num-
bers off his gun, concealed it, and then ran
away, seemed to be proof of his guilt. An
innocent man does not act in this manner.

I cited these six points to the jury which
heard the trial of Alphonse Brengard and
William French. The jurors agreed with
me that the circumstantial evidence against
the former trooper was overwhelming.

et was found guilty and sentenced
to die.

French was sentenced to twenty years.

Brengard’s lawyers appealed, and it was
the higher court that settled the fine point
of ‘law involved in the case. Up to now,
an ancient common law rule held that if
a man lingered for a year and a day, or
longer, after sustaining injury from another
person, there could be no prosecution on a
homicide charge. This was cited in the
defense brief. We, for the State, offered
scientific evidence to show that Kennedy’s
death, while it occurred four years after
the shooting, was caused directly by the
wound Brengard inflicted upon him. We
contended, therefore, that it was murder.

I am happy to say that the higher court
decided in favor of the prosecution,

After one stay of execution—granted on
the basis of a mysterious letter which
blamed someone else for the crime, and
which was found to be a fake—Alphonse
Brengard walked the “Last Mile” at Sing
Sing.

He lived two minutes past schedule,
since Robert Elliott, the executioner, had
to make a readjustment of the electrode on
his leg. But at 11:09 p.m, September 6,
1934—six years and six weeks after the
tragic midnight encounter in “Kiss Lane’—
a stethoscope was applied to Brengard’s
broad chest, and he was pronounced dead.

Is this a ‘grisly note for the ending of
our story? Well, then, as a_ parting
gesture, let’s inject a little “love interest.”

It concerns Mrs. Jane Kennedy, the
brave patrolman’s widow. On the day
before Brengard’s execution she announced
her forthcoming marriage to Mr. Law-
rence Skilleter, of 121-10 153d Street,
Baisley Park, Borough of Queens.

And that is the end of the story!

‘

copy. (That co;
ly in conjunctio
I was surpri:
handwriting on
It was practica’
that he probabl:
a considerable
not the script «
cation. Theref
dealing with a
vidual—a_pers«
not, was sane.
more puzzling.

N. the Sunc
the Budd }
two articles att
his Swedish cx
quart pail of c
the cake and tl
My men we
Western Union
sent the wire, ;
tors .of bakerie
foufid, after son
the cake and tl
King located a
sold Howard tl
the cottage che
bered the sale b
he had in stock
lute proof that
farm and his e
Of course, by
bet our month’s
of Grace Budd’
Howard. That
which we knew
‘continue to call |
tity is disclosed
The disappea
public’s imagina
played up the c
As a result of
a few clues whi
while, as well ;
which were wi
ever.

The most im;
by the officers o
Brooklyn. The:
prior to Grace’s
applied to them
ing a girl. He
thirteen or fou
lived at the hor
a ward for the .
orphan he had
for adoption, gin
ward Corthell.

In its usual rm
up on his refere
it or not !—was
State Prison.

The warden -
Dr. Corthell ver
had been a guest
before. In other
sought to adopt
convict. The w
which went back
five years in Ma
ceny, and includ
arrests and prisc

Naturally the
been denied. V
society read abou
recalled the aff:
the doctor answe
tion of Grace’s

supplied by Mrs.
_ King and I m
in my office be

ee


INSIDE DETECTIVE

owned by a respectable citizen, which happened to be in
Canada on the night of the crime.

There were scores of “A.B.s,” and many interesting and
unusual circumstances were brought to light when the per-
sons with those initials were questioned by our detectives.
But every single one of them was able to prove conclusively
that he was in no. way'connected with the shooting.

The hat was eventually traced to a clothier in Mamaroneck,
New York, but he had no recollection of the man who had
purchased it.

Meanwhile Kennedy was taken to the Nassau Hospital in
Mineola, the county seat,’ where the first of many operations
was performed on him. The expenses for his treatment were
paid by the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association.

The bullet was removed from his spine. We sent it to a
ballistic expert, Colonel Arthur Jones of the Remington Arms
Company, Bridgeport, Conriecticut. After a careful examina-
tion he sent back a report that the slug had ‘been fired. from
a .38 calibre Smith and Wesson revolver, a heavy service
revolver of the type which is used by many police officers.

Of course, the bullet was re- ~
turned to us. Together with the
gray fedora, we passed it on to
the property clerk in the Mineola
courthouse. Some day, we felt
certain, those two articles would
be examined by a jury. They
were our two tangible clues. The
intangible clues were the license
number as remembered by Ken-
nedy (we suspected the number
on the bandit car was something
like 8L685), and the circum-
stances of the stickup in which
Gearhart was victimized.

A bullet, a hat, a false number,
a stickup; was this enough to send
a man to the chair? To nab the
gunman and exact the supreme
penalty; that now became our ob-
jective—for Kennedy died.

From the first the doctors said
there was no hope. Kennedy
possessed the vigor of youth and
a magnificent -physique that had
been developed by clean living,
but the wound he had sustained
was of such a nature that it
spelled inevitable death.

There is no need here to go
into the long and weary fight he
waged against death. He underwent, in all, more than a dozen
operations. One leg was amputated, the other remained para-
lyzed. He lost weight steadily, and his once plump face be-
came wan and haggard. He became the shadow of aman. He
went from one hospital to another in our section of Long
Island, and at intervals rested in his home at New Hyde Park.

During this period, it was reported, all was not well be-
tween Kennedy and his wife. On one occasion she left their
home, taking little Jackie, and lived temporarily with her
parents in the suburb of Hollis. This may have been due in
part to the fact that Kennedy, taken off the active service list,
received a pension of only $90 monthly. All in all, “Hand-
some Jack” went through an ordeal such as few. men have
experienced.

But he was game. He always was cheery, seemingly con-
fident. Once he was driven in an ambulance to the police
‘headquarters to visit his old pals on the force. His buddies
felt like sobbing when they saw how he had wasted away,
but they put on an air of gaiety. Although they were all
brave officers, more than one probably thought, “I wonder if
I will be next.”

Mrs. Kennedy, an attractive, dark-haired woman, and John,

46

é a
REHEARSAL

Bill French (hatless) at scene of
the crime relates how the shooting
occurred, Was he telling the truth?

Jr., who now was almost five years old, were at the bedside
when Kennedy died in July, 1932. Death came four years,
almost to: the day, after the .38 calibre bullet had penetrated
his spinal column in the dense gloom of Waterworks Lane.

Now, no police department worthy of the name ever calls
an unsolved case “closed”; it is, instead, an “open” case—a
case on which the efforts to pierce the mystery are continued
many years after the crime.

In the Kennedy investigation Inspector King and his aides
periodically sent out circulars to hundreds of wardens and
police officials, reviewing the salient points of the case and
asking to be notified in the event any underworld gossip was
overheard concerning it.

It was through this routine that .we got our big break.

N THE BOROUGH OF QUEENS, which adjoins Nas-

sau County, an alert policeman apprehended three pasty-
faced, ’teen age hoodlums accused of stealing a ten-dollar
storage battery. This was in September, 1933.

The youths denied the theft. One of them remarked,
boastfully :

“Shucks, why do you bother
about little things like stolen
storage batteries? Why, I know
a guy who saw a man kill a cop!”

“Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”

At first the youth refused to
come through with the informa-
tion. He regretted his boast, and
was terrified. In time, however,
he blurted out the name—

“Bill French.”

French, he related, had become
drunk and allowed his tongue to
waggle in a pool hall where the
three baby hoodlums were passing
the time of day. He mentioned
that the shooting had occurred in
1928 “out on the Island,” and
that the victim lingered for four
years after being wounded,.

The officer, who had recently
read one of Inspector King’s cir-
culars, thought immediately of the
Kennedy case. He notified his
superiors, who got in touch with
the Nassau County investigator.

Inspector King raced to the
Queensborough station house over
the Grand Central Parkway and
Queens Boulevard and joined the
New York City detectives in examining the prisoners. From
the trio of toughs, and from French’s more intimate asso-
ciates, it was soon learned that he lived at Inwood, right in
Nassau County!

Again there was a race over the boulevards. Long past
midnight, the mysterious William French was yanked out of
bed in his suburban home.

In that “twilight hour,” his faculties still benumbed by
slumber, he was persuaded to talk almost immediately. Yes,
he had been at the scene of the crime on the fateful night in
July, 1928. Yes, he was one of the two men who, after the
single shot, came running out of the woods, jumped into
the Willys-Knight, and drove rapidly away. But he, French,
did not fire the fatal bullet.

“Who did, then?” snapped Inspector King.

“Well, I hate to squeal, but .. .”

“That’s right—out with it!”

“He’s a pal of mine. Alphonse Brengard.”

The Inspector’s eyes flashed. Alphonse Brengard—A.B.
The initials in the hat. It checked!

“O.K.,” he said. ‘“We’ll take you to Mineola now and let
you repeat this statement to the District Attorney.”

Inspector King
4 in the morning
me. “TI think we

ATER, I QU)
courthouse.
slicked-back hair.
were shifty. As
to me: “Is this 1
sidestep the chai
A court steno;
word that Frenc
“French,” I be
be tried for mur¢
edge of this crim:
a tight spot. Ic
do the shooting,
give you a break
French said, “
Then he went
need of cash, ar
the idea of robb
cluded Waterwor
night of the cri
into, ~the lane
Willys-Knight, ti
cul de sac, prov
woods until the:
chine occupied |
ters, and held uj;
The robbery net
dollar.

Returning to t
went on, they s:
of the police crui
Patrolman Kem
shouted, ‘Who’
when Kennedy re
a policeman, Bre
his gun and fire:
of the vicinity ;
sible and separat

After French
from my office,
a cell, I turned t.
and asked, “Wh
ef it?”

“T am_ incline
telling the truth
replied. “It’s th
told to us after
out of bed—no ¢

“Of course, h
But the thing to
He might hear «

As it turned «

. point.

We learned tl
not far from M
owned a blue \
license plates for
ing his mental 1
6s! In a com;
Brengard had b
Smith and Wess

Some of these
checked on every
be true. His sto:
still it was our |!

Who was this
that, too.

He was a tall,
quired a local re;


Oe

n to rent the
idn’t say why
main connec-
xican export-
‘se still owed

iamonds, and
The building
a fiction. He
get the boys

with Ramos
rt to pin the
uring of the
nan, but his
Still there
» hold either
estioning but
available.
iately to the
xplained the
get a com-
‘e there was
They had to
ants for the

-points pick-
rd and Wil-
kept tab on

? P. A. Cun.
-d to report
tody. They
» bound bus
1 enough -to
idio officers
ngeles tele-

s and con-
air sullenly

mzalez had
auctioneer
Mrs. Berry

. to attend
ow showed
her to the
1 prevailed
| show her
’t fail - to

home sev-
nervously
hey finally
elsewhere,

them $200
delivered
$25 to be

‘r $50, tell-

uit for the
Is,

Ramos of

VOK was
e and the
»bery and
d held to

innocence.
ez agreed
rm for his
imony the
ed.
ading not
ior Judge
s story on
lence was
tion com-
gems to

on both.
{ Richard

Kay was
10, 1947,

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he sentenced the youth to ten years concur-
rent probation on each count, ‘the first year
to_be served in a county road camp. .

He sentenced Edward Kwok to two con-
current terms of from one year to life in San
Quentin.

. Kwok’s attorney filed an appeal with the
state Appellate court on the ground that he
had been convicted on the tinsupported testi-
mony. of an accomplice and he was released
on bond pending decision. Lieutenant Ruiz
and Detective p Bo visited him several
times, pointing out that he stood small chance
of winning his appeal. If he would.return. the

stolen diamonds it might go easier with him’

when he applied for probation. ;

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”
he said. “I don’t know anything about Mrs.
Berry’s diamonds.”

On November. 15, 1948, the court upheld
his conviction. He was taken to San Quentin
to start servmg his double sentence. It was
apt punishment for a man who,: by selling
and then stealing. the jewelry he sold, had
sought to double in diamonds.

Eprror’s Nore: To spare possible embar-

rassment to an innocent person, the name

Pete Ramos, used in this story, is fictitious.

Deadly Blast in
Lovers’ Lane

(Continued from page 40)

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They got into the sedan on the side opposite
me, and it was pitch dark. Nothing unusual
about their voices, either.”

Stopping several times to rest, Kennedy
went on to give a step-by-step account of
what. had happened in Waterworks Lane.
The point which most impressed King and
Edwards was the fact that, without any other
provocation, the gunman had fired immedi-
ately after Kennedy identified himself as a
police. officer. :

. “Think carefully, Jack,” King said. “Have
you any enemies—hoodlums . with whom
you've tangled while on duty; anyone who
might have a motive for murder? Since you
were standing in the illumination of the tail
light; you might have been recognized.”

Kennedy thought for a moment, then re2
plied, but his answer was in the negative.
“Can't think of anybody.. No enemies, to my
knowledge.”

“And you're sure there were two men; not
aman and a woman? Could have been some
husband playing around with a girl friend
and panicky at. the idea of getting caught.”

Kennedy shook .his head. “Not a chance.
There were two men. I heard them both.”

After they left the hospital, King and Ed-
wards speculated on the apparent lack of a
motive for the shooting. /

“The gunman and his pal must be the same
thugs who have been sticking up the petters
in Waterworks Lane,” the district ‘attorney
suggested. “Could be that the guy with the
itchy trigger finger is an insane cop hater.”

“That’s possible,” King agreed. “Then
again he might be a three-time loser—an
ex-con who is afraid that if another rap gets
oe him he'll be sent up the river for
life.” 3

Spade SKIDMORE, with whom King
and Edwards’ conferred briefly at head-
quarters before going home for a few hours’
sleep, inclined toward the inspector’s theory.
He recalled several other cases in which a

desperado had shot his way out of a trap.

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te,

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NY (Nassau) September 6, 1932

yetaway.
: officer.

e sedan,

a brief
‘ruitless.
continue
>. owner

ing the
ender—
et three
ie clear.
he rear

when a
hat are
s. sedan
a spurt

dy’s

ind,
. Jnto

rd two

im, all

f,” the
ght on

1. The
uggled
under-
ond to

d slam

By Stanley Forbes

ALTHOUGH HE knew the odds were all against him. Patrolman
John Kennedy (above, with wife) fought death for four years before
succumbing to the fatal wound inflicted by the cowardly gunman.

KENNEDY'S death gave added impetus to the case and on the day
of his burial in Freeport, L. I, attended by. police dignitaries,
every man in uniform swore his friend’s death would be avenged.

39

parent

INSIDE DETECTIVE, COhiL hei ¢G

haws% 1046


PETTERS WERE PREY TO PILFERING THUGS, BUT A PATROLMAN WAS TAGGED FOR MURDER

FROM THE INSIDE FILES OF LONG ISLAND

AS HE SETTLED behind the wheel of the patrol car and
started on his tour of duty that midnight, John R.
“Handsome Jack” Kennedy reflected that it was a good
night for murder. Even though the date was July 22, there
was a chill in the air, and a wind whipping off Great South
Bay drove before it a drizzle that slicked the .roads and
turned driving into a hazard. Widely separated street lights
in the Nassau County, N. Y., villages were mere pinpricks
in the gloom.

Jack Kennedy, a young patrolman on the Nassau County
force, would have felt better about the hours. ahead~ if
‘there were a partner riding in the car with him. But he
was alone, solely responsible for giving protection ‘to a
large area in the vicinity of Woodmere. He consoled him-
self by thinking of the home he had just left—of his
pretty, dark-haired wife, Jane, and of his small son, Jack, Jr.
Some day soon, he hoped, his duty hours would be changed
so that he could spend- more time with them.

In line with instructions he’d received from Chief
-Abraham_S. Skidmore, Kennedy turned his prowl car in
the direction of Waterworks Lane.

This road, hardly more -than.a wagon trail . running
through: a wooded section just outside the village limits
of Woodmere, was an ideal trysting spot. It was unlighted
and there was no through traffic to distract the couples.

But the same factors that recommended it as a rendez-
vous also attracted small-time thugs and gunmen. In the
past few: weeks several holdups and assaults had been
committed in the area and as a result, Chief Skidmore
issued strict orders to his men to keep cars out of the
road after nightfall.

Heading into Waterworks Lane, Kennedy saw nothing:
until he had gone some 200 yards. Then, ina small
dead-end side road, he spotted another machine. The
officer maneuvered his own car beside it, and in so doing
hooked a ‘fender over a stump. Cursing his luck, he
grabbed a flashlight and got out of the cruiser to make
an inspection.

The parked car, with the lights turned off; was an old
Willys-Knight sedan. It was headed: out toward Water-

INVESTIGATORS were faced with the tedious job of sifting this
thick shrubbery for clues, but their tenacity netted one val-
uable lead . . . a hat with initials

that helped catch a killer.’

works Lane proper, as if’ prepared for a quick getaway.

“Hello in there!” Kennedy called. “I’m a police officer.
Open the door !” .

There was no response. Shining his torch into the sedan,
the patrolman saw that. it was empty. He made a brief
search of the immediate terrain, but it proved fruitless.
Kennedy shrugged. There was nothing to do but continue
his patrol and return later, on the chance that the-owner
of the blue Willys-Knight would show up then.

First, however, he had the problem of getting © the
prowl car free of the stump. He tried lifting the fender—
and Kennedy was a powerful man, standing six feet three
and weighing 190 pounds—but failed to get it in the clear.
Wondering what to do next, he walked around to the rear
of the cruiser.

He was standing in the glow of the tail ‘light when a
hail came out of the darkness.

- “Who in hell are you?” a man’s voice called. “What are
you doing out here ?”

“I’m a police officer,” Kennedy replied. “Does this. sedan
belong to you?”

The shocking reply came in the blast of a gun, a spurt
of orange flame. A red hot slug tore inta Kennedy’s
abdomen and lodged in his spine. Clutching atthe wound,
the officer bent almost double, tottered, and collapsed onto
the soaked ground.

Still conscious despite his agony, Kennedy heard two
persons running toward him through the woods.

“A dirty copper!” a man _rasped. “You nailed hjm, all
right! Let’s get out of here!”

“Better make sure: first that he’s really finished off,” the
gunman suggested as the two neared the Willys-Knight on
the side opposite Kennedy.

“Naw, he’s done for! Come.on, we gotta move !”

Kennedy had fallen with his arms beneath him. The
bullet had paralyzed him from the waist down. He struggled
to free his hands so that he could get at the holster under-
neath his raincoat. But his muscles wouldn’t respond to
the impulses of his brain. *

Powerless, he heard the men get into the sedan and slam

FIVE YEARS seemed like a long time between himself and a crime,
but the ferret-faced gunman (striped suit, below) failed to reckon

- with . officers who wanted to square accounts for a teammate.


the door. They switched on the lights and
started the motor. In another instant the
car roared away. The officer got a brief
glimpse of the license plate. He thought it
read “New York—8-L-685.” He repeated
the number over and over so that it would
stick in his memory.

OR WHAT SEEMED like an eternity,

but was a period of only five or ten
minutes, Kennedy lay still. Frantically he
tried to hit on some plan of saving him-
self. It was now about 1 o’clock in the
morning. The odds were against any
more cars coming into Waterworks Lane
before daybreak. If the officer lay on the
road all night he would bleed to death.
Somehow he had to summon help.

Kennedy found that by a superhuman
effort he could move his head and shoul-
ders. After several moments he was able
to prop himself up on one elbow. He
rolled on his side and freed his arms
and hands. Then he struggled to force
his right hand underneath his coat, suc-
ceeded at last in bringing out his service
revolver..,

He pointed the gun in the air and fired
three shots. ;

“Help!” he called. ‘Police officer—

Pve been wounded—Help—I’ve been shot
in Waterworks Lane... .” -

Again his finger crooked around the
trigger and shots rang out in the night
until the gun was empty.

Miraculously his appeal was heard. On
the other side of the woods, some 300
yards distant, was the home of Robert
Roos. At the moment Kennedy made his
appeal, Mrs. Roos was on the back porch
of the residence preparing to lock up for
the night. She was startled by the shots
and the cries.

Running back in the house, she told
her husband what she had heard, and he

THE BOASTFUL tongue of a small-time crook. led police to
the arrest of this stocky suspect’ (left, above). He admitted his
pari in the lovers’ lane shooting and named his crime. partner.

in turn called the Nassau County head-
quarters. The night sergeant flashed a
report to the police booth nearést the
scene of the’ crime, and Officer Fred
Hirsch hurried to investigate. He located
Kennedy after a few minutes’ search.

“Two men. ” the. stricken officer
gasped. “—blue Willys-Knight sedan—
get out an alarm... .”

“Okay, take it easy, Jack,’ Hirsch
counseled, “We'll take care of you first
and then get after them.”

After making Kennedy as comfortable
as possible,. Hirsch summoned’ an am-
bulance and notified headquarters, then
returned to. Waterworks Lane.

The petters’ paradise was soon ‘swarm-
ing with activity. The ambulance arrived,
and attendants carefully lifted Kennedy
into it and started him on the trip to St.
Joseph’s. Hospital in Far Rockaway,
Police cars converged on. the lane, and
powerful floodtights were directed on the
spot where the attack had taken place.

Detectives and technical men under the
direction. of Inspector Harold R. King
and District Attorney Elvin N. Edwards.
began an inch-by-inch survey of the
scene, hoping to pick up a lead to the
phantom gunman and his companion.
Meanwhile a flash had gone out to all
police departments on Long Island and in
New York City to be on the lookout for
an old blue Willys-Knight sedan.

The search at the crime scene was un-
productive until Qfficer Hirsch, who had
ventured alittle way off the road into the
woods, came upon a hat. He took it to
Inspector King.

“Must have been knocked off one. of
the men’s heads when he ran underneath
a branch,” King. commented.

“That’s right,” Prosecutor Edwards
agreed. “And that determines the direc-
tion from which the shot was fired.”

King examined the
headgear closely. It

was a snap brim gray
fedora. which showed
signs of wear, possibly
about a year old. He
turned the hat over
and looked inside.

STICKING with the case through-
out, District Attorney Elvin Edwards
was in on the. eventual solution.

“Here’s something!” the inspector ex-
claimed. “Might be just the break we
need !”

He pointed to inked initials in the
sweat-band. They were “A-B.”

“You might call that a signature to
the crime,” Edwards: observed. “Enough
to send our man to the electric chair,
provided Kennedy doesn’t. . . .”

Inspector King shook his head. “Pro-
vided he doesn’t recover? I’m afraid he
won’t—afraid this will be. a case of
murder, The doc who rode the ambulance
figured offhand he didn’t have much
chance.”

The telltale hat was of a popular make,
and’ stamped in the sweatband was the
name of a haberdashery on Broadway in
Manhattan.

Aside from the headgear, the only
evidence the officers could find at the
scene were tracks of the Willys-Knight.
These were photographed, but the treads
were so worn it was doubtful whether
this clue would be of value.

Instructing some of the detectives to
return to the scene for an additional sur-
vey after daybreak, Inspector King and
Prosecutor Edwards drove to the hospital
in the hope “Handsome Jack” would be
able to talk.

The doctor on duty advised them to
make the interview as short as possible,
then led them into Kennedy’s room.
Though weak from shock and loss of
blood, the officer was fully conscious and
anxious to give information that might
clear up the crime. He smiled wanly at
his superiors as they drew up chairs.

“If it isn’t too much for you, Jack,”
said King, “tell us anything at all that will
help, So far, we just know that the two
men were in a blue Willys-Knight sedan ;
an old one. That’s the dope you gave
Hirsch.”

“The license plate—forgot to mention
it,’ Kennedy told them weakly. “I’m not
sure, but I think it was New York—
8-L-685.”

“Good!” the inspector said, putting the
number down in his notebook. “Now, can
you give a description of the men?”

“None at all. (Continued on page 69)

INSPECTOR Harold King vowed to
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to find him waiting in another jail.

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al criminal under New York’s Baumes law.
Skidmore reported there had been no new
developments while King and Edwards were

at the hospital.

News of the shooting traveled fast through
Nassau County and by 8 a.M., shortly after
he returned to his office, Inspector King got
a break as a result of the word-of-mouth
publicity. :

A pale, nervous young mari called on him
and introduced himself as Charles Forest.

“T hate to get mixed up in the case, in-
spector,” he said, “but I feel it’s my duty to
tell you what I know. I was parked in
Waterworks Lane around midnight last
night with my girl friend when two men
sneaked up to my car, flashed a gun, and
made me fork over about $5 in change, all
the money I had. I figure it must have been
just five or ten minutes before Kennedy was
shot, and the two men you're hunting are
without doubt the ones. who pulled the
stickup”» * 7

“That explains a lot,” King remarked after
complimenting the youth for coming forward
with his information. “The gunman shot
Kennedy because he was afraid he’d be
pegged for the holdup.”

Forest revealed that his car had been
parked 100 yards or more down Waterworks
Lane beyond the side road where the shooting
occurred. As soon as he had handed over
his money, he drove away. ;

“Would you be able to identify the ban-
dits?” King asked.

“I’m afraid not, on account of the dark-
ness.. All I could tell about them. was that
one—the fellow with the gun—was above

average height. The other man was shorter.” °

“Were they both wearing hats?”

“T’'m sure the big guy had on a hat. I’m
not positive, but I believe his pal was bare-
headed.”

The inspector nodded with satisfaction.
Here .was fair indication that “A. B.” was
the thug who pulled the trigger.

Under the direction of King, Skidmore
and Edwards, the investigation spread out on
all fronts.

One detail of detectives was assigned to
the job of checking up on every “A. B.” to
be found in telephone directories and gas and
electric service lists in:-Nassau County and
the metropolitan area. Because the man was
suspected of being an ex-con, prison records
also were checked for recent releases of felons
who had those initials.

Scores of “A. B.s” were questioned, and
for a time a few of them promised: to be hot
leads. In the end, however, every single one
was able to prove his innocence.

Two detectives were dispatched to Man-
hattan with the hat to visit the haberdashery
where it was sold.

“Yes, that hat came
right,” the proprietor admitted.
hundreds of them.”

“Do you remember who bought this one?”
one of the investigators asked. “Or.do you
have any list of customers that might give us
a lead?”

The haberdasher shook his head. “Tt
would be impossible to remember anything
like that,” he said, “especially since the hat
must have been purchased a year or more
ago. And we don’t keep any kind of a
file on our customers; we don’t have charge
accounts—all our business is done on a cash
basis.”

A third lead was the license number of the
Willys-Knight. A check with the motor
vehicle registration bureau quickly disclosed
the owner of the car bearing the tag 8-L-685
but his machine was listed as a Ford and
not a Willys-Knight!

. “Kennedy could have been mistaken about
the make of the sedan,” Inspector King haz-
arded. “Or else... .”

“Or else he could have been wrong about

from my store, all
“We sell

ee

the license,” Chief Skidmore finished for him.
The motorist holding the 8-L-685 num-

ber was located’ at noon. He proved to be a

respectable businessman. , .

“Me.involved in a shooting?” he sputtered -

incredulously.
anyway?”

“Maybe you can tell us where you were in
your car.last night,” an investigator sug-
gested. :

“Sure! I was upstate on a selling trip, and
driving home I stopped overnight in Pough-
keepsie, I drove down from there’ this morn-
ing—just got in a little while ago.”

The man’s story was quickly verified, and
thus another promising lead fizzled out.

King’s men checked on other licenses,
switching the combination of numbers, but
here again they struck.a dead end. Ques-
tioned again at the hospital, Kennedy was
unable to give any further information about
the license plate or the car beyond what he
had already told King and Edwards.

“D’m sure it was a blue Willys-Knight,” he
declared, “but my memory may have played
a trick on me in regard to the license.”

In the next few days the Nassau County
police made an effort to track down the
owners of thousands of.cars of the descrip-
tion given by the wounded patrolman. But
this monumental task failed to produce re-
sults.

In the meantime Kennedy. was removed to
another hospital in Mineola, the county seat,
and an operation was performed for removal

“What do you take me for,

‘of the bullet from his spine.

At this time, 1928, Nassau County did not
have a ballistics expert, so the slug was
sent for examination to Colonel Arthur Jones
of the Remington Arms Company in Bridge-
port, Conn. .

“This bullet,” he reported, “was fired from

.a ‘.38-caliber Smith & ‘Wesson revolver, of
‘the type used by many police officers. The

rifling. marks are clear, and if the gun is
recovered we should be able definitely to
establish the fact that the slug was fired
from it.”

“That’s slight consolation,” Inspector King
told Skidmore. “All we need is the gun.
All we need is the right ‘A. B.’ All we need
is a different license number. . . .”

“T’yve never seen a case with so many bum
leads,” Skidmore agreed. “All we can hope
for is a break. It may take months, or even
years, but someday we'll crack the case.”

“T hope you’re right,” the inspector said.
“If our man is an habitual criminal he’ll get
in trouble again.”

“Yes, and don’t forget the possibility of a
squeal by a_ stool-pigeon. Whoever shot
Kennedy will be a marked man in the under-
world. He’s bound to have enemies, and
sooner or later one of them will talk.”

HE TAGGED hat and :38-caliber slug

were turned over to the property clerk in
the courthouse at Mineola, and reports of
the investigation including the statements of
Kennedy, Forest and other. witnesses went
into the police files. Someday, in the opinion
of the investigators, this mass of evidence
would be used to good effect in court. The

case was by no means placed in the “inactive”

classification. Scores of prisoners involved
in other crimes were quizzed about it, and
fresh circulars repeating the facts of the
assault were sent periodically to other police
departments.
Prosecutor Edwards settled down to a period
of watchful waiting.

Jack ‘Kennedy meanwhile went through an
ordeal such as few men are called upon to
suffer. With youth and a healthy physique
in his favor, he made a valiant and sustained
fight: for life.

He was shuttled from one hospital to an-
other, coming under the care of a dozen dif-

ferent specialists, and in. between times he.

Inspector King, Skidmore and~

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rested at his home in New Hyde Park. . Al-

| together, 14 operations were performed on

him. ,

Even though the brave officer wasted away
until he became-a shadow of his former self,
he kept up his spirits and refused to complain.
He joked with other members of the force
whien they visited his bedside and otr several
occasions he insisted that an ambulance take
him to headquarters so that he could talk
with this former buddies. :

But Jack Kenhedy’s long struggle. eventu-
ally had the tragic ending which the doctors
had considered inevitable. In July, 1932,
four years after he was shot in Waterworks
Lane, he died as a result of his wound. Now
the case was one of murder ! ;

1 SPECTOR KING issued another batch
of circulars telling of Kennedy’s death and
urging law enforcement officers ‘to be on the
lookout for the slayer, and to: be alerted for
any information which might lead to a
break. These circulars went to many prison
wardens, as well as to police departments.
In the following year, however, the Nassau
County officers continued to draw nothing
‘but blanks. Tips came in from time to time,

and a number of suspects were: grilled, and.

still the Kennedy murder remained unsolved.
It began to appear as though Handsome
Jack’s déath would never be avenged. :

But then in September, 1933, a seemingly
trivial incident reopened the case with a

ng.

In New York City’s: Borough of Queens,
which adjoins Nassau County, an officer
nabbed ’three young hoodlums who were ac-
cused of stealing a storage battery. The
leader of the trio was openly defiant and
made some choice cracks about “dumb cops.”

“The trouble with you bulls,” he snarled
as he was being led to a cell, “is that you

worry about a little thing like a missing $10:

storage battery when you can’t éven crack a
murder case.”

“Oh, is that so?” queried the arresting of-
ficer with mock politeness.. “Maybe a smart
lad like you would be able to solve a murder
for us.”

“Don’t think I couldn’t, copper, if I wanted
to talk.” .

“Trying to pull a bluff, eh?”

The youth flushed with anger. “Bluffs ain’t
in my line, copper. Ever hear of a case that
happened out on the Island five or six years
ago? A guy named Kennedy got plugged.
He was a copper, too, and it probably served
him right. He lived for a long time, but
finally kicked the bucket.”

“Seems. to me I did hear about that case,”
said the officer, who instantly remembered
reading Inspector King’s latest circular. “But
you don’t mean to tell me that you shot
Kennedy? Why, when that happened you
were just a kid in knee pants.”

“Okay. But maybe I know somebody who
was mixed up. in the case.”

The officer pretended indifference. But as
soon as the hoodlum was locked in a cell, he
reported to his precinct captain who put
through an urgent call to Inspector King. It
was near midnight, but King left immediately

to interview the teen-age thief.

The youth wasn’t hard to crack. Sur-
rounded by detectives, he realized the serious-
ness of his situation and changed his arrogant
tune.

“The guy I’m talking about,” he blurted,
‘ts ‘hamed Bill French. I met him in a
poolroom one night. He’d been drinking a
lot and shot off his mouth plenty. He said
he and another guy pulled the job and boasted
a how they would never be tripped up
or it.”

“Where does French live?” King asked:

“Out in Nassau—Inwood, I think.”

Inspector King. raced back to Mineola
in his official car, picked up District  At-

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| M-M-M. Wonder what that
means?” : .
Officer John F. Kennedy’s
ishlight beam was like a pinprick
light in a bottomless pit. Once
ore he directed it through’ the win-
»ws of the parked sedan. The old
illys-Knight was empty, although the
armth of the manifold told him it
id been driven to the secluded spot in
overs’ Lane within the past quarter
an hour. :
Petters, he thought, don’t leave their
rs and go off in the woods on a night
te this.
He shivered as the damp chill of
e night bit into his clothes. It was
st midnight on July 22, 1928. A
rsistent drizzle filtered through the
»es in the secluded lane, During the
y rain had made a quagmire of the
ad and in the woodland on either
le of the lane, the underbrush was
ipping—the earth, soaked. Indeed,
was no night for lovers. :
Kennedy and other members of the
lice force of Nassau County, Long
and, had received orders to stop
‘ting parties in the vicinity of

iterworks Lane near the village of.

odmere., - AEE

3andits, of late, had been holding
young couples parked at night in
: neighborhood. Youths had been
‘bed of money, and their girl friends
1 been subjected to indignities. As
no criminal attacks had been re-
ted, but Chief Abraham Skidmore
2w that if the “love pirates” went
nolested, they would commit crimes
increasing seriousness.

tidding lonely lanes of petters had
ome a routine duty with the force,
m the Chief’s urgent orders.
‘atrolman Kennedy, who stood six
t three inches and was known as
indsome Jack,” had driven into the
row, rutted yeedty Meer in his
wlcar. With-some culty he had
aeuvered. his machine alongside the
lys-Knight, and had stepped out to
<e his inspection,

‘ather than wait for the supposed

CLeanA 2

aa = =
aS sh A

By West F. Peterson

Special Investigator for .
- OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

romantic couple to return to the blue
sedan, he decided to return later to
warn them of the danger of bandits.
He slipped the flashlight in his side
pocket and turned back toward his
cruiser.

Attempting to back out of the dead-
end trail; he discovered that a front
fender of the car had become snagged
over a jagged tree stump... Again he
stepped into the roadway, shutting off
the motor, but leaving the headlights
burning. He lifted the fender with
all the force of his 200 pounds, but
could not release it, ° - ;

The strapping patrolman, deciding a
jack might do the trick, walked around
to the back of the cruiser to open the
trunk containing the tools. At that
moment a harsh cry came from ‘the
brush: :

“Who in Hell are you, and what are
you doing here?” .

JC ENNEDY whirled, tried to pierce the

darkness with his eyes. Though
Kennedy was silhouetted against the
lights: of the car, the owner of. the
snarling voice was hidden completely
among the trees that bordered closely
on each side of the lane.

“I’m a. police officer,” Kennedy said,
moving so that his badge glinted in the
glow of the lights. “Come out in the
open quick, or I’ll.. .”

For answer came fiendish laughter,
then. the grated words: :

“A copper, huh? Okay—take this!”

Orange flame’ spouted from the
blackness; the woodland hush was

Inspector Harold King: “We'll
have to square this for Jack or
no. officer’s life will be safe—”

Officer John EF. Kennedy ff&ced

a blazing gun In the hands of a

killer who hid in‘the bushes of
Lovers’ Lane, left

shatteved by the sharp report of. pistol
e.

Handsome Jack Kennedy’s face froze -

with anguish. His body twisted, his
knees buckled. He slumped into the
mud at the rear of the cruiser, both
hands pinioned beneath his large
frame.

Out of ‘the black woods ran two
shadowy: figures. Kennedy could not
see them, but he heard their feet
pounding in the mire. They were ap-
proaching instead of running away;
Probably their intention was to make
sure the single shot had killed. Would
is shoot again? .

e officer struggled to get his right _

hand free and on the butt of his service
revolver. But numbing paralysis af-
fected him. He lay Powerless to de-
fend himself, sweat beading his fore-
head, as the night marauders sloshed
closer and closer. Through his mind
flashed a vision of his wife and infant
son—what would become of them if he
died at the hands of these cold-blooded
gunmen?

Then one of his attackers spoke.
“Let the copper go. You potted him
all right. Better get out of here
quick!”

From the other figure came a grunt
of assent.

The spattering footsteps changed di-
rection. One of the men leaped into
the mystery sedan, tromped on the
starter. The motor did not respond.

“Come on,” said his partner, “help
me push it back to Waterworks Lane.
It will be easier to start on the slope.”
.. With frenzied strength the two men
shoved against the front of the car
until it slipped down the trail, guided
by the deep ruts.

Kennedy’s head was turned so that
the legs of his assailants and the low-
er part of the car came within his
range of vision: For a few flashing
seconds the tail lamp of. the cruiser
shone upon the Willys-Knight’s license
plate. His eyes held to the number
and it was riveted in his mind—
New York 8L—685.

i ie Me

a

72

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torney Edwards anda couple of detectives,
and drove to Inwood, where French’s home
was.located, without any trouble. When they
rang the bell a sleepy-eyed man in pajamas
and bathrobe came to the door. He was a
sallow-faced, black thaired fellow of medium
height.

“What do you want in the middle of the
night?” he mumbled. A flash of King’s badge
shook him out of his stupor.

“Come on, get dressed, French,” the inspec-
tor snapped. “We're taking you to head-
quarters to talk about something that hap-
pened way back in the summer of 1928.”

The sudden fear in the suspect’s eyes told:

he creer that. they had struck pay dirt at
ast.

At headquarters, Bill French surprised his
captors by being almost eager to talk. Ob-
viously it was a relief for him to get rid of
the guilty secret he had guarded so long. He
admitted he was. one of the two men’ in
Waterworks Lane on the murder night.

“But I didn’t do the shooting,” he pro-
tested. “My pal did that—he always was kill-
crazy.

“What’s his name?” snapped Prosecutor
Edwards.

French hesitated, then said,
Brengard.”

Alphonse Brengard—the mysterious “A. B.”

-According to French’s account, he and
Brengard were badly in need of cash and hit
upon the idea of holding up couples in the
Woodmere lovers’ lane. On the night in
question they -parked in the side road—the
blue Willys-Knight belonged to Brengard—
and circled through thé woods until they
found the car in which Charles Forest and
his girl friend were sitting. After taking
Forest’s money they hunted in vain for more
victims and then returned to the side road.
When Kennedy identified himself as an offi-
cer, Brengard pulled his gun and fired.

French recalled that the licensé on Bren-
gard’s machine was 8-L-6685: There were
two 6s instead of one. That was the mistake
Kennedy had made! :

“Who is this Brengard?” King demanded.
“Where can we find him now?”

“He’s a no-good bum who: used to be on
the state police and who used to do some
ring-fighting. Where can you find him?”
French laughed mirthlessly.. “That ought to
be easy. Last I heard, he was in the pen over
in New Jersey!” .

Further questioning, in addition to speedy
investigation in other channels, brought out
the complete facts about the man French
named as the actual killer.

Brengard was a big fellow, a native of the
nearby town of Valley Stream, who had built
up a minor reputation in his early days as a
i Deserting the ring, he man-
aged to pass the state police examination and
spent several months in the force, being at-
tached to Troop K in White Plains. He got

“Alphonse

into trouble as -a trooper and turned in his
resignation when it appeared he was facing
a dishonorable discharge. :

In 1928, Brengard had indeed owned a

blue Willys-Knight sedan, but had to return
it to the finance company when the couldn’t
keep up the payments. He had kept his
Smith & Wesson service revolver when he
left the state police, and he always carried it
either on his person or in the car.
_ Some time after the Kennedy shooting, the
investigators learned, Brengard became in-
fatuated with a girl who lived in Hackensack,
N. J. But the girl refused to have anything
to do with him, and Brengard, in a drunken
rage, had shot her with the same gun he used
against Kennedy. Tried and convicted, he
was sentenced to a term in the New Jersey
state prison at Trenton.

Several hours after getting the story of the
crime, Inspector King and District Attorney
Edwards flew to Trenton in the Nassau
County. police plane. Brengard was brought
to the warden’s office for questioning.

The hulking convict admitted owning a
blue Willys-Knight, admitted being friendly
with French at one time, and said he had
owned a Smith & Wesson revolver but
had’ long since disposed of it. However, he
vehemently denied being in Waterworks Lane

the night of the shooting and protested that .

he was being “framed.”

A few weeks later a Nassau County grand
jury indicted both French and Brengard for
murder in the first degree. By arrangement

with the New Jersey parole board, Brengard’

was released from prison so that he could be
returned to Mineola to stand trial.

Now Brengard turned on French and told
a fantastic story accusing him of the crime.
French, he claimed, had borrowed his car the
night of the shooting, and had used his gun.
He claimed his hat had been in the car and
must have fallen out when French made his
getaway. But the police had plenty of evi-
dence to prove this tale a complete fabrica-
tion.
“Put on trial, both Brengard and French
were found guilty, but the jury recommended
the latter get off with the milder punishment.

‘As a-result, French drew a 20-year sentence

at Sing Sing, and Brengard was condemned
to die. ‘

Brengard’s lawyers appealed, but in vain.
After’ one stay of execution, caused by a
phony letter promising new evidence, the
hulking renegade trooper walked the “last
mile” in Sing Sing prison the night of
September 6, 1934. :

It had taken more than six years, but at
last the cowardly murder of Jack Kennedy
could be marked “closed!”

Eprror’s Note: To spare possible embar-
‘rassment to an innocent person, the name
Charles Forest, used in this story, ts not
real but fictitious.

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“The petters didn’t have much
money. The man had $1.60; the girl
nothing. I grabbed that while Bren-
gard covered them with the gun. We
told them to ‘beat it—fast,’ and then
started back for our Car.

“We saw the other car parked in
front of ours with its headlights on.
It was too dark to tell it was a police
car, but we knew someone was g01ng
through our machine. I thought it
was another stickup.

“Al called out, ‘Who the hell is
that,’ and let Kennedy have it when
he found he was a cop.

“After we got out of there, Bren-
gard drove to a restaurant in Far
Rockaway where we talked it over
in a little booth over some cups of
coffee. He told me this was going to
end our operations on Long Island
for a while and advised me to beat it
to another state.

“I didn’t see Brengard until four

.years later, just a couple of weeks

after Big Jack Kennedy’s death. It
was in Jamaica near the bus terminal
on Hillside Avenue.

“Have you been arrested yet?”
Brengard asked.

“No.”

“Well, keep your mouth shut and
get out of here, or you'll get the same
dose,” Brengard warned him.

“And that’s the kind of a guy I’d
been protecting from a murder rap,”
French told the detectives. “He prac-
tically swore he’d shoot me on sight.
I’m glad I was picked up.”

French related how he and Bren-.

gard had discovered Al’s hat was
missing while they were drinking
coffee in the Far Rockaway restau-
rant.

“We can’t go back now,” French
reported the ex-trooper as stating,
“that place will be crawling with
uniforms. Well, even if they find it
near the scene and tie it up with the
shooting, it won’t be much of a clue
_.. it’s one of the most common
brands in the country.”

French repeated his story verbatim
to the Nassau County Grand Jury
after signing a waiver of immunity.
First degree murder _ indictments
were handed down by the jury
against him and Brengard.

After a two week delay, the New
Jersey parole board agreed to the
extradition of Brengard so that he
could be placed on trial for first de-
gree murder at Mineola. He was
flown back from Trenton in the po-
lice plane on Oct. 2 accompanied by
District Attorney Edwards and In-
spector King.

In the big county police headquar-
ters -under grilling by King, Edwards,
and Assistant District Attorneys Al-
bert DeMeo and Philip Huntington,
the big former state trooper proved
a hard nut to crack.

“I'm an old hand at this sort of
thing, myself,” Brengard told his
questioners at the outset. “Let’s get
this straight:

“I don’t know anything about this
case because I wasn’t there. I was
home with my parents at 123 Wald-
inger Street, Valley Stream, during
the time of the shooting. I knew
French only slightly and I never
went out with him to commit a crime.
I never had a grey fedora hat. Now,
let’s go on from here!”

Before Brengard could finish one
frenzied denial they’d shoot another
at him. Finally King ordered French
brought over from the county jail

”

across the street, and at 1:30 a.m. the
two former pals stood face to face.

“You shot Kennedy in my pres-
ence,” French said coldly. “You can’t
touch me now. They’ve got you dead
to rights. I’m going to tell—”

With an oath, Brengard was out of
his chair and halfway across the
room before detectives could pounce
on him. It took three men to hold
him, and during the melee, French
darted behind the chair of Inspector
King.

When quiet had been restored and
while Brengard was catching his
breath, King motioned for the jailers
to take French back to his cell.

“I think,” he observed dryly, “he'll
feel a little safer behind the bars.”

AS soon as French left the room,
Brengard turned to King and
snarled:

“Now I’ll tell you what I know
about French. I’m tired of protecting
that heel. I’ve done it long enough.

“On the night of July 21, 1928, I met
French on Springfield Avenue and
Farmers Boulevard, Springfield. He
borrowed my car for what he claimed
was to be a ‘hot date.’ I didn’t dis-
cover until the next day how hot a
date it was.

“In the car was my gun, always
kept in a side pocket, and my light
grey fedora hat. A very haggard and
nervous French returned my car the
next morning and apologized for
losing my hat. He said his sweet-
heart had tossed it into the Narrows
when they had parked the car near
Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn.

“Later that day after I’d read the
newspapers about the Woodmere
shooting, I looked at my gun. Two
shots had been fired. I also noted the
similarity between the license num-
bers of my car and the one in the
police alarm.

“IT went to French and threatened
to turn him in. { used to be a cop
myself and, crook or not, I couldn’t
stand seeing any rat’s taking a pot
shot at the uniform and getting off
scott free.

“French turned the tables on me.
He readily admitted the shooting, but
he said I was in it as deep as he. We
had done some gas station stickups
together and he said he’d swear :.
was his accomplice in the shooting
if ever I dared peep.

“So. to avoid trouble, I filed the
numbers off my gun, hid it in a
chicken coop behind my parents’
home, sold my car and cleared out
for Jersey within the week. I was
determined never to set eyes on
French again.”

“Where’s that gun now?” King shot
back at Brengard.

“It’s still there,” Brengard said.
“At least, it ought to be. I haven't
seen it since.”

With that one answer, Brengard
ripped down the ingenious fabric of
fact and fancy he had woven to try
and save himself from the electric
chair.

When King and District Attorney
Edwards had flown to Trenton to
pick up Brengard with the extradi-
tion papers, Assistant District Attor-
ney DeMeo had been assigned to
round up all the evidence in Bren-
gard’s shooting scrape in Fairfield,
N. J., in which he’d sent a bullet into
his former sweetheart when she tried
to jilt him.

rom Police Chief Anthony Ma-
grino, DeMeo had obtained the gun
impounded on Brengard’s arrest the


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On Sept. 6, 1934, the sentence of
the court was carried out and Al-
phonse Brengard, 32, former state
trooper, paid with his life for: the
murder of another police officer.

‘Three weeks later, belated recog-
nition was accorded the bravery of
Big Jack Kennedy when Police Com-
missioner Skidmore awarded the de-
partment’s highest honor, the Sykes

CRIME

DETECTIVE

H{e pointed to the two bodies. John
had been placed crosswise at William’s
feet. “It would have been simpler to
lay them side by side.”

“Like a T,” one of the deputies
remarked.

And something clicked in Payette’s
memory. He remembered rumors that
he had heard. He remembered that
these two boys were the only human
beings who knew Anna Bauer’s be-
trayer.

“Seems hardly likely a fellow would
kill two boys for the sake of a rustled
cow,” Starwich remarked.

. “Me,” Payette said grimly, “me,
I’d like to have a talk with John
Tornow.”

The local deputies nodded. They,
too, had heard rumors of John Tor-
now’s fondness for his niece Anna
Bauer.

The bodies were removed to the
Bauer homestead and the Sheriff
started looking for his suspect. But
John Tornow seemed to have dis-
appeared from the face of the earth.

Sheriff Payette and his posse hunted
the foothills of the Olympics, check-
ing every clue, however vague.

For a month the hunt was kept up
with every miner and farmey on the
Wynoochee, the Satsop Valley and
Oxbow country assisting.

But as the days passed without sight
of Tornow, the Sheriff became con-
vinced that only winter’s snow. and
ice would drive him out.

Again and again prospectors, trap-
pers, miners, or cattlemen would re-
port that they had seen his fleeting
shadow in the distance, or had found
signs of one of his camps.

But when winter came ‘in earnest,
Sheriff Payette had to admit that
Tornow was too clever, too good a
woodsman to be caught easily.

A government survey party, return-
ing from the — on top of the
range, reported that they had seen,
high up in the snow country, a tall,
thin man, who wore a bear skin for
an overcoat.

“His face,” the surveyor told Sher-
iff Payette, “was covered with long
blond whiskers so thick that only
the tip of his nose protruded. I saw
him shoot a bear with the accuracy
and speed that only a super rifleman

ssesses. He told us that he had a

ut at the foot of a cliff.”

“Blue eyes?” Payette asked.

“As blue and as hard as the gla-

ciers,” the surveyor replied.
“That’s John. Tornow. The dead-
liest shot in these parts.”
Sheriff Payette thanked the sur-
veyor and called for volunteers. Four
trappers offered to go with him.

Medal for Valor, to his_ bere
widow, Mrs. Jane Kennedy, at
Mineola Fair.

(Eprror’s Notre: The names “ |
brose Heargart” and “Mrs. .
Loray” used in this story are ficti —
and used to conceal the identit
persons who were absolved of |
complicity in the crime.)

STALKING THE KILLE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35

Equipped for the torturous triy
men climbed the mountain.

T noon of the third day
found a tumbled down s
Yet the evidence was clear that s
one had used it lately. From
ridge pole hung a broken boar
which someone had scrawled, ©
a dead fir branch for a pencil:

If you don’t want to die
don’t come any further.

Yet the posse carried on, but
weeks later, when their food
nearly gone, the first of the te:
winter storms broke over the r.
and only by roping themselve
gether, by throwing away ever)
essential piece of equipment, di
posse manage to get back tc
lower, warmer regions, where fri
trees gave them some shelter, \
they could once again have a f
thaw out their frozen limbs.

In the spring of the next yez
the first day of May, deputy McK
spoke to Al Elmer, a state game
den. “It’s getting warmer up i
ranges again.”

Elmer nodded his head. “Y
know what’s. biting you. You
to find John Tornow. Okay, ‘
I’m game. I'll go with you.”

And so on March 8, the two tr
woodsmen set out. Ten miles u
Wynoochee they ran _ across
Lathrop, a trapper. “I was 01
way down to see you,” Lathroj
Al Elmer. “My partner, Charley
found half an elk not very far
our cabin in the Oxbow. We
want to get blamed for shootin
of season, so I was going to 1
it to you.”

McKenzie looked at Elmer.
go up there. Perhaps,” he said,
would be as good a spot as a
start from.”

That night they camped in the
per’s cabin. McKenzie borrowed
bear grease from Blair to ruk
his new boots.

The next morning, as the men
they saw, about four miles no)
them, a small thin column of s
Hurriedly McKenzie and Elme
their breakfast. Then they struc
in the direction where they hac
the smoke column.

“Have a good supper read
us,” Elmer called back to the
trappers. “Piece of juicy elk
would suit me fine.” __

That evening Blair and Lz
waited for the two officers to r
But when night came neither of

m- the
ace.
pres-
u can’t
u dead

ou,
3S
ouNnCce

>» hold
‘rench
pector

d and
g his
Jailers

“he'll
rs.”

room,
J and

know
ecting
lough.
I met
> and
1. He
aimed
t dis-
hot a

lways
light
d and
r the
| for
weet-

year before. The weapon had been
turned over to the New York Police
Ballistics Bureau and this time the
report provided a direct link bétween
the lethal slug taken from Kennedy’s
spine and the former state trooper.
Just before King had entered the
private offices of District Attorney
Edwards where the grilling was un-
derway, he had been handed a report
from Sergeant Harry Butts of the
New York Department. It read:
“Fairfield, N. J., gun, .38 caliber,
Smith and Wesson, is definitely mur-
der weapon in Kennedy slaying.”

DELAYED by legal skirmishing,
the trial of Brengard and French
for first degree murder did not get
under way until nearly four months
later on Jan. 15, 1934.

Brengard’s counsel, former District
Attorney Dana Wallace, sought to
have the trial shifted to New York
City, claiming that his client could
not receive a fair trial at the hands
of a Nassau County jury because of
the wide publicity given the case over
five and a half years.

Wallace contended that District
Attorney Edwards had no right to
bring Brengard to Nassau County
when he was serving a felony term
in another state, especially in view
of the fact that Brengard had not
signed an application for parole.

Wallace also argued that neither
defendant could legally be prose-
cuted since no murder indictment
was possible under the English Com-
mon Law unless the victim died with-
in a year and a day of the time of
assault. Kennedy had lived not one
but nearly four years, Wallace
pointed out, and had undergone 13
operations during that time, almost
any one of which was sufficient to
have caused his death.

District Attorney Edwards coun-
tered every argument successfully
and in the last cited a decision of the
New York Court of Appeals which
held the English common law was
no longer valid on the point of time
in murder indictments.

Before the case came to trial, In-
spector King unearthed one more bit
of evidence which made the state’s
case airtight. He found the princi-
pals in the petting party held up by
Brengard and French a few minutes
before their encounter with Kennedy.

The man, Ambrose Heargart, said
he could positively identify Brengard
as the gun toter.

“I couldn’t be wrong about that,”
Heargart said. “That gunman was
tall and heavy-set and he was so in-
censed at finding only $1.60 in my
wallet he wanted to drag me out of
the car and beat me up. He was dis-
suaded by his smaller companion.”

King sent a man to Elmira, N. Y., to
pick up the woman in the case, now
married under the name of Mrs. Ruth
Loray, but found her in a hospital
expecting a baby.

When the trial opened on Jan. 15
after four days spent in selection of
a jury, Brengard had new counsel,
S. Frederick Placer of Manhattan,
and French was represented by Sam-
uel P. Greason of Garden City.
County Judge Cortland A. Johnson
was on the bench.

Inspector King’s testimony was but-
tressed by the testimony of Sergeant
Butts, Manhattan ballistics expert,
who proved that the bullet which had
torn. through Kennedy’s abdomen
and lodged in his spine was fired from
Brengard’s gun, the same weapon

used in the New Jersey shooting and
found on Brengard by the Fairfield
police.

Brengard’s defense was an alibi
that he was at home during the en-
tire night of the shooting. His mother,
Josephine; his father, Charles, and a
neighbor, Mrs. Caroline Frank, all
took the stand to swear that they had
seen him in the house at 123 Wald-
iner Street, Valley Stream, before
and after midnight on July 21, 1928.

French made no defense at all. Ap-
parently relieved that he had not
been called to the stand as a state’s
witness, he dozed throughout the
summation while his own lawyer
called him a “degraded, moronic tool
of the clever Brengard.”

The jury was out six and a quarter
hours, deliberating—not on the ques-
tion of guilt or innocence, but on the
degree of guilt.

Foreman Ernest Lean of Floral
Park brought his jurors back three
times for information on points of
law from Judge Johnson. The first
two requests were for a redefinition
of first and second degree murder
and the last was to learn if a verdict
of one degree could be levied against
one defendant and one of a lesser
degree against the other.

At 7 p.m. on Jan. 24, 1934, the jury
pronounced Brengard guilty of first
degree murder and French guilty of
murder in the second degree.

> Jan. 30, Judge Johnson, sen-
tenced Brengard to death in the
electric chair at Sing Sing and sent
French to Dannemora State Prison for
20 years to life.

But Brengard was not to go to his
doom without one more macabre
chapter. Governor Lehman stayed
his execution on receipt of a plea from
his defense counsel that he had new
evidence in the case that showed the
former state trooper was absolved
of the crime.

He cited an anonymous letter from
Brooklyn which charged that Martin
“Buggsy” Goldstein, later executed as
a mobster for Murder, Inc., did the
actual slaying. The letter also stated
that a woman known as “Alvarez”
was present at the time.

Brengard’s counsel was denied the
right in Jamaica Special Term for a
new trial unless he could produce
more positive proof than an anony-
mous letter. “Why doesn’t the district
attorney with all his law enforce-
ment agencies at his command pro-
duce Goldstein?” Brengard’s counsel
asked.

Edwards replied that Goldstein
had a record as long as an elephant’s
trunk and would hardly be likely to
be the type to be happy when told
a policeman was looking for him.

The convicted  slayer’s mother,
Mrs. Josephine Brengard, took to the
radio and broadcast an appeal to
Goldstein, if he were innocent, to
present himself at Mineola for in-
vestigation.

Although the majority of her
hearers scoffed at a mother’s plea for
a convicted murderer, and a Broad-
way betting commissioner laid odds
that Goldstein would never appear,
the diminutive Brooklyn mobster
showed up next day at the Mineola
offices of District Attorney Edwards,
accompanied by his lawyer.

He had an iron-clad alibi. At lib-
erty now under $15,000 bond on an
attempted murder charge, Buggsy
had been in jail doing time for as-
sault on the night Kennedy was shot. |

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Alphonse, white, elec,

“Handsome Jack” Kennedy before being shot (r.) and after

fatal wound (above) inflicted by gunman who ambushed him

HATE HAUNTS A LOVERS’
LANE—SAVAGELY STRIKES

@ DOWN A POLICE OFFICER

NewYork


d again
passed
it large,
se. On
the Dis-
id, after
finally
of four
her at

1g pretty
icco ob-

1 tossed
what he
member

1s a ma-
| set at
nable to
ver, re-

ietectives
{ to bring
rciates of

ented by
banknote
id a pack-

“box.

age of a dozen burning love letters
signed by some one other than Weiner.

ieutenant Miller grinned ruefully
as he inspected the contents of the
All the letters were dated and
written during the years of Sylvia’s
marriage to Chippy.

“Maybe our jealousy motive isn’t
so dead as I thought,” he said. “Yet
I can’t accept it. Sylvia and Chippy
had had fights before. Connie was
in the picture, and Sylvia knew it.
She could have ended her marriage
without murder. No, this killing was
business.”

FTER two weeks in jail Connie
Fernandes’ memory was restored

She told of her last conversation with
Chippy, but she insisted he had not
told her who shot him. Connie’s bail
was reduced to $1,000 and she was re-
leased. ;

Nothing remained of the case but
the four bullets and the shells, their
identifying marks catalogued and
filed away at the Ballistics Bureau.

“What other crimes have we had
where a .38 automatic was used?”
Miller asked Rothengast. “That’s a
long shot and lots of work, but we
have nothing else left_to work with.”

Rothengast approved the idea. An
hour later Ballistics Bureau men were
yanking out files for the past three
months to find any reports on .38-cali-
ber automatics. In’ station houses all
over the city records and memories
were being searched for the same
broad category of incidents. Since
it was obviously impossible to search
the entire city for the missing gun,
this was the -next best procedure,
though it might turn up nothing and
it meant much tedious work.

Two days later a score of reports
were in Miller’s hands. One from
Brooklyn told of the holdup, on Jan-
uary 10, of a butcher, Otto Zeigler,
at 1260 Myrtle Avenue. Four young
hoodlums had held up the shop and
fired a single shot at the frightened
butcher, who fumbled as he handed
over cash from the store register.
Ziegler had been hospitalized and a
38-caliber bullet removed from his
abdomen. The bullet’s shell had been
picked up by detectives of the Ralph
Avenue precinct.

Miller called Captain DeMartino,
in charge of the 19th Detective Dis-
trict, which includes Ralph Avenue.
“Anything new on that shooting of a
butcher named Ziegler?” Miller asked.

“Not yet,’ DeMartino -answered.
“He gave us descriptions, and he’s
recovered now. He went down to
headquarters, but he couldn’t identify
any of the photos in the gallery. He
says they were very young—teen-
agers.”

_Four teen-agers didn’t sound much
like the kind of big-time burglar
Miller expected to prove Weiner’s
killer. But the gun was a possibility.
Miller called the Ballistics Bureau.
They immediately found their report
on the bullet and shell in the Zeigler
hodup.

Placing that analysis alongside the
report on the Weiner bullets, Acting
Lieutenant Robert Pardua scanned the
list and photos of identifying char-
acteristics. He checked once, caught
his breath, checked. again.

The impressions léft by the firing
pin on the head of the shell were
identical. The marks of the extractor
were identical. Last, the scratches
made by the ejector as it discharged
the shell from the chamber,. were

-

7 ” ‘
mates! There was no possible doubt—
the same gun had been used in the
Ziegler holdup and the Weiner mur-

der!
“Thanks, Pardua,” Miller said eag-
erly. ‘“Who’s excited? All we know

- is that the gun was used. We haven’t

got the men who did the Ziegler job.”

At Captain DeMartino’s office in
Brooklyn, Detectives Samuel Siegel
and Sigmund Wishniewski were called

in. Both men had been assigned to

the Ziegler .case.

“We haven’t found the four shells,”
Siege! said. “We have a line on sev-
eral quartets of ‘teen-agers who hang
out together pretty constantly. One
set of thugs is said to be able to get
guns, but so far we haven't enough
on them to bring them in. Okay—
we'll keep on it:” ,

hat interview was on February
11. The next night, Lincoln’s birth-
day, four teen-aged youths entered
a jewelry shop at 1605 Broadway.
The jeweler, Leventhal, stared in-

credulously when one of the quartet
qttaveringly announced,. “This is a
stickup.” ie

“Are you kidding?” Leventhal

asked, staring at the downy face .of
the self-proclaimed, stickup man.

Theyoung thug yanked a hand out
from under his coat. The, nervous
fingers held a revolver. Leventhal at-
tempted to duck and bring down the
youth. The butt of the gun came
down on his skull, but Leventhal let.
out a rousing yell and the four gun-
men fled. They had disappeared by
the time excited neighbors phoned
police. :

Detectives Siegel and Wishniewski
took the jeweler’s accurate descrip-
tions of the four. The descriptions tal-
lied with the group the detectives
had been tailing.

Early on the morning of February
13 the four teen-agers were brought
to DeMartino’s office, where Leventhal
tentatively identified two of them.

-Of the four only one, 17-year-old Ed-

ward Fennessey, decided to talk.

“And picid aay in the Ziegler job?”
he was asked.

The boy nodded. “I didn’t mean to
shoot,” he said. “It was an accident.
I had the gun just to frighten him.”

“It wasn’t an accident that you
owned a gun, was it?”

“Tt wasn’t my gun,” Fennessey an-

swered. “I borrowed it froma guy.” |.

Asked where the gun was now,
Fennessey said he didn’t know. “I
would have bought it from the guy,
Santo Bretagna, but he wouldn’t sell
it. He said he needed it because he
was. going to shoot a guy.”

Fennessey, still talking freely, and
unaware that the gun he had rented
for a holdup was the Weiner murder
gun, led police to the hangouts where
he had met Bretagna when he wanted
to see him. Bretagna, of course,
was missing. He hadn’t been seen
since January 13.

Fennessey had not seen Bretagna
since January 11, the day after the
Ziegler héldup, when Fennessey had
returned the murder gun and offered
to buy. it.

Men from the Homicide Bureau

. arrived with photos of Bretagna taken

from the tecord room where. the
28-year-old ex-con’s record told of
armed robbery, numerous ‘arrests and
more than a suspicion of murder.
Fennessey identified Bretagna as the
owner of the gun. , :

Further inspection of, Bretagna’s
record led detectives to Willie Rosen-~

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67


going around with. ‘A woman in an
apartment near the, Weiners’ says
she heard them fighting in the sum-
mer when the windows were open.
Our gossip says Sylvia and her hus-
band quarreled over some one named
Connie, and that at least once Sylvia
told Chippy to get out. He did dis-

appear for several weeks, our woman —

says.”

This information, flimsy as it was,
was instantly added to the requests
circulating to every precinct in the
city. Since many. detectives knew
Weiner on sight, one of them might
connect him with a woman named
Connie and the mysterious Connie
might prove to be less resistant to
questioning than Sylvia Weiner.

All during that day, January 14,
Sylvia was questioned by Miller, In-
spector Rothengast and Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney Louis Pagnucco. She
repeated her incredible story, added
no details to trip over, simply shrugged
when asked why her open-toed shoes
were innocent of mud and slush after
a two-hour walk in the snow.

When she was asked if she knew
Connie she froze. “I’ve never seen
her,” she said, and would add nothing
more.

Detectives needed no more. The

1 gossip had been telling the truth.
Connie was no figment of a rich im-
agination. A repeat went out on the
teletyped request to unearth the mys-
terious woman friend of the dead
ex-convict.

OX. the following morning Weiner
was buried from a _ Brooklyn
: funeral chapel. Detectives, hoping to
| find an assemblage of Weiner’s friends
i and enemies, attended the funeral.
| They found only the widow and a
few relatives. -Rose Pantiel, so fond
of Weiner before he showered his at-
tentions on her daughter, did not at-

tend the services.
Immediately after the funeral Sylvia
was arrested, held in $25,000 bail as
a material witness. By her own story,
she had been out of the apartment
only 45 minutes before her husband
was shot, and she had remained away
an hour after that. Pagnucco believed
that her well-timed absence was no
lucky accident and that she had left
by agreement with her husband or
on the, order of the actual killer; or,
at the very least, that she was with-

holding information in her old style.

Sylvia turned over her baby, six-
month old Louis, to a neighbor and
| quietly went to the House of Deten-
tion. i
Later that day Lieutenant Miller
received a message from the Clymer
Street station house in the Williams-
| burg section of Brooklyn. A Connie
i Fernandes, proprietor of a beauty
parlor at 312 Hooper Street, had been
seen with Weiner and it was hinted
that he had sometimes stayed for
days, even weeks, at her home.at 302
Hooper Street, just a few doors from
her shop.
“Ts she still there?” Miller asked
eagerly. “You're tailing her. Good.
We'll be right over. ny record on
her? No, eh? Well, you can’t tell.
Maybe some of the men in your office
know something about~ her.”

B* the time Miller reached the
Williamsburg precinct, detectives
there had dug into their memories
and came up with the information
that Connie Fernandes had been a
close friend of the late Frank (“The

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NAME. AGE
ADDRESS.
CITY.

STATE.

Dasher”) Abbandando, a leader of
Murder, Inc. The Dasher died in the
chair at Sing. Sing.

‘When Miller and other detectives
appeared at Connie’s beauty shop the
plump, dark-haired proprietress burst
into tears.

Far ‘from offering the cool per-
formance of Weiner’s widow, his
girl-friend, a 36-year-old divorcee,
admitted at once that she had seen the
slain mobster the evening before he
was killed and had spoken with him
only an hour before he was shot
down.

“It was just a personal call,” she
said. “If he expected any trouble he
didn’t mention it-to me. Yes, I knew
he was thinking of going away, but
his wife didn’t know it.”

Connie answered questions freely,
but insisted she could offer neither
motive nor suspects. She repeatedly
said that she had not spoken to her
oe after her call to him at

Since she had phoned: him at his
home at 9:15 and Sylvia said she had
left the apartment at 9:30, there was
the possibility that Sylvia and Chippy
eg quarreled over Connie’s phone
call.

“It’s a nice neat motive,” Miller
told Inspector Rothengast, “but I
don’t believe it. Sylvia could have
walked out mad, but her husband
wasn’t packing to leave her. He was
trying to get out of town. The jealousy
story stands up—especially if you
add the Red Rose whom we haven't
turned up yet—and if we give it to
the papers it may help-us. Some of
our disappearing loft men may come
out of eg Men all over the city
are looking for Chippy’s old pals, but
not one has been outdoors since he
died. Why don’t we make like we
think jealousy is the ticket?”

NE? day the New York papers
spread the plausible story of
Weiner and his women. Connie Fer-
nandes. was released after question-
ing. She returned to the slightly
envious stares of her customers in
her beauty shop. Connie knew she
was under observation and when de-
tectives dropped in at°her shop she
continued to answer questions readily
but added nothing to her original
statement.

§Under Inspector Rothengast’s orders
a new search began for cash or val-
uables Weiner might have hidden
away. Every bank in the city was
to be visited to determine whether
Weiner had a safe-deposit box. The
search of his apartment had shown
only one bankbook, in Sylvia’s name,
with more than a thousand dollars on
deposit. Since the apartment was
expensively furnished’ and both
Chippy and his wife had opulent
wardrobes, police knew the dead
mobster must have had more cash
than that found in his dressing gown
gnd the amount in Sylvia’s account.

At the Ballistics Bureau, reports
were ready on the bullets found at
the scene of the murder. The bullet
taken from the wall was useless, flat-
tened beyond analysis. Of the other
four, three were in condition, allow-
ing complete analysis. The shells
were also useful.

“So we know it was a .38-caliber
automatic,” Miller said when he had
studied the ballistics report, “only we
haven’t got the gun. However, we
may get it some day, if it’s not at
the bottom of the East River.”

Six days hall passed since the mur-
der, and detectives had amassed a
wealth of information, none of it
pointing anywhere. The tangle of
associated facts and possibilities grew
larger but conclusions grew more
distant.

Connie Fernandez’ old_ friendship
with a leader of Murder, Inc. did not
tie any one to this murder. Weiner’s
old relationship with Rose Pantiel
had ended before the Red Rose was
held as the bait who lured a man into
a car where Murder, Inc. killers shot
and stabbed him to death.

But the newspaper emphasis on the
jealousy motive in Weiner’s death did
ear fruit. Several parolees and gun-
men whose names had often been
linked with Weiner came out of hiding
two days. after the appearance of
news stories of the women in Chippy’s
life. Lieutenant Miller’s men and de-
tectives all over the city were soon
parading Weiner’s pals and enemies
to the East Fifth Street station house
for grilling.

The enemies had alibis for the night
of January 13, and the friends could
supply no new information. As the
uestioning of dozens of loft burglars.
thought to have used Chippy as a
fence, continued, Brooklyn detectives
learned that Rose Pantiel had been
spending much of her time on the
East Side in recent months, staying
with a woman friend whose home
on East Third Street. was just two
blocks from Chippy’s.

An hour later O’Brien and Gallagher
and two men from the district attor-
ney’s office were watching a single
block of East Third Street. Early
that morning they saw a stocky fig-
ure with a scarf over her head. The
winter wind blew back the scarf to
reveal the red hair that gave the
Red Rose her nom de guerre.

“Sure, I’ll come along,” she said
when they stepped to her side. “I
have nothing to hide.”

This time the Red Rose talked. She
detailed her movements on the eve-
ning of the murder and the district
attorney was satisfied, after a few
hours of checking her statements,
that while Rose had been only two
blocks away when Chippy was killed
she had not been present. Rose was
released on the same day she was
taken in for questioning.

Connie Fernandes was visited again
and again, but as the weeks passed
and Weiner’s killer was still at large,
Connie’s memory grew worse. n
January 30 she was taken to the Dis-
trict Attorney’s office again and, after
an hour’s-long session, she finally
confessed that Chippy, dying of four
bullet wounds, had phoned her at
her home.

“He must have had something pretty
important to tell you,” Pagnucco ob-
served.

Connie bit her full lip, then tossed
her head. “I don’t remember what he
said,” she cried. “I can’t remember
a word.” .

She was promptly jailed as a ma-
terial witness and her bail set at
$25,000, which she: was unable to
raise. Her memory, however, re-
mained weak.

A week iater, though detectives
throughout the city continued to bring
in known or suspected associates of
Weiner, no lead was uncovered.

But the canvass of bank vaults
finally disclosed a box rented by
Sylvia Weiner. In it was a banknote
showing deposits of $2200 and a pack-

age of
signed b
Lieute
as he i:
box. A\)
written
mMarriagé

She cou
without
business

FTE}
Ferr
She told
Chippy,
told her
was redu
leased.
Nothin
the four
identifyir
filed aw:
“What
where a
Miller a
long shot
have not
Rother
hour lat:
yanking
months t
ber auton
over the
were be
broad c:
it was ol
the entir:
this was
though it
it meant
Two d:
were in
Brooklyn
uary 10,
at 1260 M
hoodlum
fired a si
butcher,
over cas!
Ziegler h
.38-calibe
abdomen
picked u;
Avenue ;
Miller
in charge
trict, whi
“Anything
butcher n
“Not y
“He gave
recovered
headquart
any of th:
Says they
agers.”
Four te
like the
Miller ex
killer. Bu
Miller ca!
They imn
on the b
hodup.
Placing
report on
Lieutenant
list and p
acteristics.
his breath
_The imp
pin on th
identical.
were ident
made by t
the shell

| 68

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berg, 42-year-old criminal who has
spent 18 years in various New York
prisons on robbery charges. Rosen-
berg’s record showed that loft jobs
had been among his specialties.
That evening one of the scores of
teams of detectives seeking him
found Rosenberg in an East Side res-
taurant. He admitted he and Bretagha
had been working with Chippy Weiner
and recently had planned, and car-
ried out a fur theft in New Jersey
for which Rosenberg and Bretagna
were to thave collected $40,000.
“We never- got our. commission,”
Rosenberg complained. “I wanted to
collect just as bad as Bretagna but
I wouldn’t shoot Chippy to get my
money. Id scare him, sure, but I
didn’t do it.”
Rosenberg was jailed in $75;000
bail as a material witness. ,
Jack Bretagna, Santo’s brother, was
jailed and held along with the four
teen-aged thugs who had been able
to find Bretagna whenever they
wanted a’ gun to use on a job.
And what of Santo Bretagna? The
entire country had been finecombed

for him. His picture had been run
time and again on the front pages of
newspapers.

There were rumors that Bretagna

. was hiding in the great. city of New

York; that he was holed up in a re-
mote mountain cabin; that he had
vowed to shoot it out with any cops
who might trail him to his lair; that
he had bumped himself off.

All these reports were erroneous.
For on the night of March 14, 1948,
the ex-convict who boasted “I won't
be taken alive” surrendered meekly
when police cornered him in a bar in

‘ Boston, Mass.

Bretagna, a reputed two-gun man,
was unarmed and had less than a dol-

. lar in his pocket when Detective

James Neylon of the New York Homi-
cide Squad and Detective Robert
O’Brien of Boston appeared suddenly
on each side of him in a bar on Scol-
lay Square, in the heart of metropoli-
tan Boston. The place was surrounded
by policemen. “I’ll go with you,”
Bretagna said calmly. “I’ll waive ex-
tradition. Ill do my fighting in
New York.”

“FIND THAT CORPSE!”

Continued from page 43

it. In the end, he asked it bluntly. “Is
there another woman involved in your
separation?”

Mrs. Upton met the question
squarely and without fluttering. “I
don’t know,” she. replied. “Frank
didn’t say, and I didn’t snoop.”

“Could there have been?”

Mrs. Upton thought a moment,
brushing a straggle of hair off her
forehead. “I suppose so. Lately he’d
been skipping ‘supper more _ fre-
quently, coming home at midnight or
later. If he explained—which wasn’t
often—he simply said he’d been drink-
ing beer with the boys from the
a He could have been somewhere
else.”

Pearce, remembering the mysterious
couple Upton had met the night he
disappeared, could readily believe the
missing man ‘might have spent his
after-work hours elsewhere—possibly
witha woman. He wondered if Upton
had left any clues among his personal
belongings. Mrs. Upton led him to her
estranged husband’s room and dis-
creetly left him.

OR half an hour, Detective Pearce

poked among Upton’s belongings,
seeking a letter or note or other clue
that might indicate a double life. He
found nothing.

He went outside to the Upton car,
a forlorn light two-door sedan, and
opened the glove compartment. He
found a messy disarray of things—a
cracked pair of sun-glasses, two road
maps, an oily rag, a flashlight, two
spare fuses, and a tattered gas-ration
book. All were covered with an ac-
cumulation of dust.

He found the fine blanket of road
silt had sifted into the upholstery,
too, for when he raised his arm, it
was smudged with buff-colored
streaks. He brushed them off and
wandered to the trunk. It contained

_ factors.

a box, a spare tire, a tube, jack tire
iron, lug wrench and hammer.

Obviously, Upton had left nothing
at home that would explain his dis-
appearance. Seemingly, he had left
abruptly—for some 9 as ag a reason
—and disappeared utterly, leaving his
family in hard straits.

Detective Pearce knew then that he
had to find the mysterious couple
Upton had met in the tavern ren-
dezvous along his route home. Ap-
parently they’d been the last to see
him. He hurried back to _ head-
quarters to report his latest findings
to Captain Meehan.

“Tf it wasn’t for one thing, I’d be
inclined to think that Upton simply
pulled’ stakes, to readjust a life he
didn’t like,” the veteran sleuth con-
cluded.

“You mean his paycheck—the one
he didn’t claim at Olds,” Captain Mee-
han guessed shrewdly.

“Exactly. A man like Upton
wouldn’t leave that kind of money
unless he had an excellent reason. He
might have had a reason we can’t see
yet—but it’s far more likely that he
hasn’t claimed the check because he
can’t.”

Captain Meehan agreed. It was a
weird case, based on will-o’-the wisp
It might be murder—but
there was no body to prove it—only
a single vague phone call. It was a
flimsy case. Captain Meehan shud-
dered to think of the gleeful head-
lines ‘that would certainly result if his
men, prodded by coincidental circum-
stances, made an arrest for murder—
only to have the “victim” appear as
mysteriously as he had vanished, ask-
ing, “What the hell goes on here!”

It was a case that called for utmost
discretion and patient hard work.
Captain Meehan, itching to be away
from his desk, decided to dig in with
Detective Pearce and to use another

RT

district of
Peoviak. T
“Persona!
convinced
case on ou:
work cut o
find that c

EEHA)
farm n¢
and neighbx
missing ma
remarks or

Sergeant
plant to qu
Upton’s wo:
a lead that
appearanc:

Detective
tavern fron
with the m
drove, Pear
centration
vague feelin
vital clue ir
looked its s
he retraced
facts—to ni
shrugged of
centrated or

At the ta:
from the c
names of a!
who were i:
left. Ther
cident ha
before.

The patie:
tavern pat:
the afterno
It was a dis
recalled seei
afternoon—:
terious com;
the trio driv

By the tin
nearly midr
day. He fell
a feeling hi
thing.

Captain
learned littl:
what Mrs. U
couple got a
bors had exp:
before. Cay
interviews,
court record
ton had, jnd:
months befo:
case later.

Neither C
geant Peovia
could find
woman in U;

N THE f
Pearce b
filling statior
rants along U
to pick up hi
Midmornin
the sprawlin
His jumps w
his stops we:
turned up.
after crossri
ways for a
on an isolat:
“Sure,” a
said, “I knew
his gas fron
where he w
sight. That's
Pearce que
remarks the
ing his last fe
of some kind.
to help, repor
servations.
But then

about those men so far as their de-
scriptions and actions are concerned.”

The motorman scratched his head,
wrinkling his shaggy brows.

“As best I know,” he began hesi-
tantly, “one seemed drunk. He was
standing against the wal} of the sta-
tion, with his hand on his stomach, as
though he were sick. The other one—
he had his back to me—was slapping
him on the back. Immediately after I
stopped the train I looked back and
saw the collector get off and go down-
stairs.” The motorman took a breath
and paused refiectively. “Right away
one of the men on the platform went
down after him.” '

“Careful, now,” Kopff urged: “Which
man was it who went down after the
collector? The man who appeared
drunk or the one who was slapping
him?”

“The one who was slapping him.”

“What next> did you observe?”
Kopff asked.

“Well, sir, the drunken fellow
started to follow his pa) towards the
stairs slowly. When he got out of sight
two shots went off. I started for the
booth, but by the time I got there they
were gone. However, I did find some-
thing at the bottom of the stairs near
the booth. A gray hat.”

Tracy held up a gray fedora hat.
“This is it, Mr. Kopff. He’d turned it
over to one of the patrolmen first
here.”

Kopff examined it carefully. It was
a fairly new hat with a short, snappy
brim. The size was seven and a quar-
ter. He noted with interest that the
sweatband was initialed in ink with
unusually large letters—“J. C. C.”

There was something puzzling,
something odd about them. Would this
hat that seemed to blend with a
snappy, cocky individual prove to be

es

Se ee oe

” pegrnauprer? Kate fenainatoge

Why did two bandits stage a drunken act on this
platform at Avenue X station shown in this picture?

of any clinching significance? The size
and prominence of the initials troubled
him vaguely. Even as he started to
frame his next question for the motor-
man, he tried to analyze what it was
that troubled him.

“You say you found this hat at the
bottom of the stairs, Mr. Wilson?”

The motorman nodded.

“Did you notice whether either one
of those two men had a hat on?”

“I did,” the motorman answered.
“Only the fellow who seemed drunk
had one on—the same as the one I
found.”

6 UEOENLY Kopff realized what there

was about the hat that troubled him.
The initials!) What bandit or killer
would go to the extreme of labeling
anything that could be traced to him?
These initials in all probability were
false!

Nicholas Ellinas, the conductor, a
middle-aged man who had been with
the transit company for sixteen years,
was the next to be questioned. He, too,
had seen the two young men on the
platform. And when the shots ‘were
heard he had dashed for the booth and
then to the street, where he saw, about
half a block away, a Chevrolet sedan
speeding away from the station at high
speed

“Did you ever see those men around
this station before?” Kopff inquired.

“No, sir. Never before.”

Thanking the man, Kopff took his
address and dismissed him.

Questioning of the dozen passengers
brought forth no additional informa-
tion beyond their having heard the
shots and screams.

Obtaining their names and addresses,
Kopff permitted them to leave.

From Ferrari, Kopff learned that
Esposito was to have married a sister-

‘ ,

in-law of the officer’s; that he had
been a hard-working, ambitious chap
and. had never mentioned any fear of
being held up.

The morgue men arrived and carted
the body away in a wicker basket.
Photographers and finger-print experts
also came and set about their routine.

Later that morning Tracy checked
with the transit company officials and
the ticket agents along the line from
Avenue X to Kings Highway and
learned that their total receipts of
$375.00 had gone into Esposito’s bag.

The motorman, the conductor and
Mrs. Merz were summoned to Head-

sortment.of full views and profiles of:

the homeliest, toughest “mugs” to the

slickest criminals that ever stared at a

.Nor had the finger-print men found i
anything in the prints taken from the. he
walls of the booth or the safe. The wall {:
prints were smudges and old; those on
the safe belonged to the agents and-%
the dead man. For the sake of thor- “#¥
oughness the prints were sent to Wash-
ington for additional checking, but "ia
little hope was held that they would ‘$.

witnesses’ memories. +0 ‘s

everybody knows about the case.”

District Attorney William F. X.
Geoghan: He resorted to an ex-
periment in practical psychology

bisa J

be identified. Who were the men who -:
had held up the station at Avenue X?
Who had shot Esposito?

Kopff, Tracy and McNally, at Head-
quarters with Deputy Chief Inspector -
John Ryan, pondered the case from the
facts at hand. It was apparent that
the actions of the two men on the
Platform had been deliberate—that
the job had been well planned.

ma

T= discrepancy in the accounts of
the trainmen and the ticket agent,
Tracy pointed out, was an indication
that at least more than three men were
involved. Ellinas and Wilson had said
with certainty that they had seen two
men on the platform, while Mrs. Merz
said that she had seen three men. The
third man, it was likely, had been
Planted somewhere to wait for ap- .
pearance of the collector and his pals Ss
from upstairs. As for the possible .%
fourth man, he would be waiting at >
the wheel of the getaway car on the
street.

i

fae

=F i bf i

in Brooklyn or elsewhere in New York>
they won’t have any opportunity of>
converting the change because by now

Kopff, Ryan and McNally assented.


Which of these six young men
we before County -Judge Peter J.
m Broncato’s bench lost a hat? Left
ite right Salvatore Scata, Joe
RiGee Bolognia, Teddy Di Donne, Domi.
Sr caa--nick Zizzo, Sam Kimmel, E. Bruno

mi.
=a ally and Tracy began the rounds
"6f all possible places, while Ryan is-
#wmued an eight-state alarm. Detectives
“tin all boroughs of New York were
igned to check-ups similar to
’s and McNally’s.
: Late that night, tired and disgusted,
two detectives called Headquarters
®.report that they had been unable to
a lead. Negative reports came
ggling in from the other detec-

next morning Chief Ryan re-
ed a telegram from the FBI fin-
print division stating there were
Tecords of the prints he had sub-

(NE thing the disappointments
: Proved. The bandits who shot Ed-
Win Esposito either were neophytes in
: sgyime or criminals who by sheer
€rness and luck had managed all
to avoid capture.
eare days went by with detectives
“Uniformed officers all over New
York day and night on the lookout for
8Q¥-men answering the descriptions
ten'by the witnesses.
v was anything~even the
Pst opening—to be found. Had
dits fled the city? What proof,
f@vidence was there to believe

that they still were in New York?
Reluctantly the authorities had to ad-
mit there was nothing.

On September 5, 1935, while the
Brooklyn detectives doggedly con-
tinued their hunt, Tracy again studied
the fedora hat.

It was, he noted, a comparatively
new hat. Despite its soiled and rum-
pled condition, he was certain it re-
cently had been cleaned and repaired.
What bolstered this certainty was the
fact that the satin lining was abso-
lutely clear of the usual trade-mark.
Could he make something of this fact?
Would the hat give him a lead?

Grabbing hold of a local telephone
book, he tore out the pages listing the

names and addresses of hat-repair
shops. It was a long list, and he re-
alized the odds were heavily against
his purpose. He strode into Chief
Ryan's office and explained what he
had in mind—to question every hat-
cleaning establishment in the city.

“You're taking on some job,” was
the dubious comment. “But if it’ll give
any kind of a wedge to this sealed lid,
go to it.”

Tracy’s undertaking proved an
arduous, disconcerting task. Another
two days passed, and newspaper head-
lines blatantly reported the Police as
being baffled and at a standstill.

Tracy was hardly two-thirds through
his list. Every hat cleaner and re-

They tiked to strut before movie
cameras. First row, Salvatore
Scata and Dominick Zizzo; second
row, Sam Kimmel and Joe Bolo-
Qnia, and the third row, Eugene
Bruno and Teddy Di Donne

pair shop he thus far had interviewed
had given him the same discouraging
shrug and reply.

In the late afternoon of the fifth day
after the murder Tracy pulled up be-
fore an unpretentious shoe-repairing
and hat-cleaning establishment on
Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn. There a
slight middle-aged inan, who said he
was Mike Allini, an employe, recog-
nized the hat.

“Sure, I see this hat before,” he said
readily. “I sew up the band and put
in new lining; but I dunno nothin’
about the man. Only know what he
leoks like. Couple times, now and
then, he used to come in for a shine.”

Though no one else in the store
could volunteer anything more helpful,
the detective left the Place with the
Satisfaction that the description blend-
ed perfectly with the one given by the
trainmen and the ticket agent. It also
strengthened his conviction that the
bandits were Brooklyn men. But how
go on from there?

Tracy reported directly to Ryan,
who was impressed with the result,
vague as it was.

“I can't help but feel,
those men are stil] here in Brooklyn,”
Tracy said. “They're playing wise by

(Continued on Page 35)

Chief, that

31


pop trp tes we mt wepereiry

remnants! mh

wee

Eno sade hater

a

BOLOGNIA, Joseph & DiDONNE, Theodore, whs, elec. NY (Kings) January 7, 3937

N THIS night the routine was
unchanged. Who could guess
that death lurked in the shad-
ows of the busy station? That it was
ready to strike after the next clattering
train had passed?

Mrs. Elsie Merz, ticket-agent at the
Avenue X station of the Brooklyn
Manhattan Transit Company, glanced
at her wrist-watch and put on her hat
and coat. It was precisely 1:55 a.m.
The next minute, she knew, the 1:56
would come rumbling in on the tracks
upstairs. Then Edwin Esposito, the
receipts collector, would come hurrying
down the stairs with his brown can-
vas satchel, take the change bags from
her safe and go hurrying back to the
waiting train. It would then be two
o'clock, and Mrs. Merz would darken
her booth and go home—all a matter
of routine. Yet on this night...

The screeching of halting wheels
confirmed Mrs. Merz’ expectation. A
moment later she saw the short, strong
figure of the 22-year-old collector rac-
ing down the stairs with his canvas
bag.

Mrs. Merz opened the door for him
and unlocked the little floor safe.

“Morning, Ed,” she greeted. “On
time as usual.”

good-looking collector smiled
cheerily. “Always on time for money
. . . Seven bags today, eh? Must be
the holiday crowd.”

Mrs. Merz nodded and said conver-
sationally: “You'll be having a holi-
day of your own soon. Your wedding
isn’t far off now, is it?”

Esposito locked his bag with a quick
twist of the hand, then locked the safe.
From his stooped position he laughed
and replied: ‘Not quite two months.
Tomorrow morning my sweetheart and
I go apartment-hunting. I sure am
hap—”

The sentence never was finished.

“Stick ’em up! This is a holdup!” a
cold, deadly voice behind him com-
manded.

SPOSITO’S smile froze. He started
to his feet, his hand sweeping for
his holster.

“Oh, no you don’t!” another voice
grated. “You take this instead.”

The cold muzzle of a gun crashed
down on the collector’s uncovered
head and he fell flat. Still conscious,
he again tried to reach his holster.

Detective Charles A. Tracy: “Kin
y’help me out till the heat cools?”

28

By Julius |. Sanders

Special Investigator for

“Give it to him!” The order was
terse—brutal.

In the next second orange-colored
flame roared at the bleeding collector.
He fell back, twitched in brief agony,
then rolled on his face and lay still.
The bag beside him disappeared.
During this entire episode, which

‘was but a matter of seconds, Mrs.

Merz stood paralyzed, unable to do
anything. Looking down at the blood-
covered collector, she realized for the
first time that murder and robbery
actually had occurred before her very
own eyes, and she began to scream
hysterically.

Minutes later the station was crowd-
ed with radio patrolmen, trainmen and
passengers.

Patrolman Sylbio Ferrari of the 61st
Precinct, unable to determine whether
life was extinct, turned the body over.
He grimaced when he recognized the
features of the young collector.

“It’s Ed Esposito,” he gasped, “my—
my sister-in-law’s boy friend!”

He seized the pulse, felt it anxiously.
His keen black eyes swept over the
motionless form and caught sight of a
blood-spot about two inches in diame-
ter.

“Dead,” he murmured. “Shot to
death.”

At 2:30 Detectives Charles A. Tracy,
popularly known as the “Lone Wolf,”
and James McNally of the Main Office
Homicide Squad and Chief Assistant
District Attorney Frederick W. Kopff
arrived and took charge.

Tracy and McNally commenced an
examination of the scene, careful not

OFFICIAL DETECTIVE, February, 1940

OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES

to disturb the body. Kopff turned to
the trembling ticket agent.

“You knew the dead man?” he
asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s Edwin Esposito, the
man who collects the receipts every
morning at one fifty-six.”

“He called for your receipts at that
time this morning?”

u T’S right; right on time like he
always was.”

“Just what happened from the mo-
ment Esposito showed up for the re-
ceipts to the time he was shot and
killed? Remember, omit nothing,”
Kopff cautioned.

“Well,” the woman began, making
an effort to reassemble the tragic play,
“at one fifty-six Esposito came down
those stairs to take my change bags
from the safe. While he was putting
them into his bag three men suddenly
appeared. One of them ordered him to
put his hands up. When Ed tried to
reach for his gun one man struck him
on the head and another shot him.”

“Can you describe those men?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.
I—I think one of them, the one who
hit Ed on the head, was about five feet
seven and wore a gray sweater and
dark trousers. And the other one—the
one who fired the gun—I think he was
a couple of inches taller and had dark
hair. I don’t think I could describe the
third man because he appeared and
disappeared before I knew what was
happening.”

“Ever see those men in this station
before, Mrs. Merz?” Kopff asked.


The ticket agent shook her head.
“No, sir. Never saw them before . . .
and I hope I never see them again,
either.”

Kopff smiled faintly. “Just one more
question for the time being. How
much money was there in your change
bags?”

“Oh, about seventy dollars in silver
and bills—chiefly silver,” the woman
replied.

Kopff directed his attention to the

detectives?’ Tracy was talking with a°

middle-aged man who wore a com-
pany uniform, and McNally was ex-
amining a section of the wall behind
the agent’s booth.

The Assistant District Attorney
stepped over to McNally. “What is it,
Jim, the bullet?”

“Yes, sir.” He handed it to Kopff,
who studied it curiously. “Found it on
the floor, just beneath this mark in the
wall. Also found a small piece of lead
right here, where you see this fresh
mark of scraped wood. The bullet
must’ve just struck the wall and then
fallen to the floor. Looks like a thirty-
two.”

“It is,” Kopff confirmed. “Turn it
over to ballistics soon’s you get back
to Headquarters. In the meantime you
might be on the lookout for another
bullet. The agent tells me there were
two shots.”

At this moment Assistant Medical
Examiner George W. Ruger arrived.
He proceeded immediately with a
rapid yet careful examination. First

Receipts Collector Edwin Esposito:

he examined the torn suit and shirt
that covered the victim’s heart, then
exposed the wounded flesh. He felt
along the ribs and along the sides.
“Two bullets, thirty-two's, killed
him,” he announced at length. “One
through the left chest cavity and
through the heart and another in the

‘lower lobe of the left lung. Doubtless

the autopsy will reveal an extensive
hemorrhage in the chest cavity.”

He packed away his paraphernalia
and took his leave.

Kopff went over to Tracy. The de-
tective said: “This is the motorman of
the train that carried the collector
every morning. He says he noticed two
young fellows upstairs when his train
pulled in, and he thinks there was
something peculiar about the way they
were acting.”

HE motorman said his name was
Martin Wilson. He added that, under
orders from his superior, he stopped
his train at every station, beginning
at Kings Highway Station and end-
ing at Coney Island, so that Esposito
could pick up the station receipts. He
was to wait until Esposito returned to
the special car attached to the rear

of the passenger cars.
“What time was it when you pulled

in here this morning?”
Right on

“Exactly one fifty-five.
time as usual.”

“All right, Mr. Wilson. You say you
Saw two men acting strangely. I want
you to tell me everything you can

He always was on time

for money. Note the holster that failed him in a pinch

29


itting these can-
been duly en-

his throat, and
. criminal, when
to want to buy
3 prove nothing
1e didn’t return
that Governor
med extradition

sign the extra-
ler. “That part
1at Burns didn’t
ct is that he did
ill and further-
’ condition that
be thrown back
application for
nad superseded
, and while this
pending before
t I refer to was
sented in these
S$ prison com-

can do no more
r parole,” coun-
»wer in Georgia

erposed a ques-
to say in effect
ative of Georgia
state of Georgia
’ to make the

sistant Attorney
not be author-
_y there can be
ve has no power
t made was in
that if the fugi-
ed himself as a
sht be granted.”
ct the money?”

‘ted Kelley.

he was not
..-- application
ably be looked
e did.”
e audience and
arply for order.
on to say that,
sstion involved,
show that any
*n made.
the Illinois Su-
fandler. “Since
is the man who
ired in his own
iis testimony be

ion,

Richards again
{ welcome clear-
the question of

‘ replied Kelley
ot in question.”
yr not any defi-
rovernor Moore
' word of a Su-
e credited. Mr.
me to be a rea-

oral Kelley was
ing a moment,
ld withdraw his
then gave in-
dispatched, re-
a statement on
Chief Executive
troopers be sta-
rn Union office
assigned to de-
escorted to the

his story will ap-
£ DETECTIVE.

(Continued from page 37) |

Wilhelmina quivered under the blow but
she rallied fast.

‘I don’t believe Uncle Franz and Aunt
Johanna ever said that,” she declared. “It
just isn’t like them. I took care of them. I
scrubbed their floors and did other things
for them.”

“Did you get paid for it?”

“Well, yes. Last Wednesday after I cleaned
up, Uncle Franz handed me three dollars
but I gave him back a dollar because that
was too much. Anyhow, that’s got) nothing
to do with it. I want to find them. I think
they’ve met with foul play.”

As soon as she said it, she knew that was
the black fear that had been in the back of
her mind all these days. She could tell
the policemen thought she was unreason-
able, but she was insistent, and Captain
Regan said -he would make an effort to
locate the old couple.

Thanksgiving Day came and went with
no word, but Friday morning a helmeted
officer came to her house at 67 Eureka
Place.

““® GUESS your worries are over,” he said.

“We've found the old couple. They came
to St. Francis’ Asylum in Gardenville last
Saturday night.”

“Oh, thank God!” cried Wilhemina. “Are
you sure the name is Frehr? Franz and
Johanna Frehr?”

“No, that’s not the name they gave, but
you can’t miss them from the description.
An old couple in their eighties, the man
with a white beard and an old lady with
white hair. She’s an invalid. They came
in a carriage.” |

“It must be them,” said Wilhelmina. “TI’ll
go right out, and thank you very much.”

It was a long journey to the home but
she got there before noon and inquired
for the Frehrs. She described them.

“You must mean the Grumbrechs,” said
the superintendent. ‘‘Why would they use
another name?” ' |

“Could you take me to them at once?”
Wilhelmina asked, avoiding the question.

They went upstairs and down a corridor
to a pleasant room, Qype glance told Mrs.
Bundschu her errand had been fruitless.
The Grumbrechs were a dear old couple,
but they were not her aunt and uncle.

She hurried back to.the city as fast as
the hired carriage could take her, and went
immediately to the office of a lawyer named
Stern, former Surrogate of Erie County.
He listened quietly while she laid her few
facts and many fears before him.)

“You see, I’ve got nothing to go on,” she
said. “But I know something awful has
happened to them. I feel it.”

“Madam, your fears are not unreason-
able,” replied Stern. “After all, they had
$3,200 in cash. That would be enough to
tempt any lawless individual who knew
it. Perhaps they went to the bank with it.
Let’s find out if they got that far.”

Wilhelmina told him where the Frehrs
had their only account. He called and ex-
plained the situation to a bank officer, who
looked up the Frehrs’ account. Nothing
had ‘been deposited, nothing withdrawn
for a period of some months, Stern learned.

Mrs. Bundschu told him that was not sur-
prising, because her uncle did not trust
banks. It would be like him to hold onto
the cash and hide it somewhere.

“He always had money in the house,” she
said. “He had hundreds of dollars in the
house. He kept gold pieces in his pocket

Sa ee - se ee + eggs se gery eetgcent

and would show them to people. He wasn’t
a miser. He just loved to have his gold
where he could touch it.”

“Then you think. when they left the
house they might have had a total of per-
haps $4,000 in cash? Would he have as
much as seven or eight hundred before he
got the $3,200 for the property?”

“More than that,” said Mrs. Bundschu. “I
would say at least $5,000. The worst is, a
lot of people knew it or suspected it. He
would show money to anybody who came
in. He was very proud of it. He had
worked hard to get it and he had it. My
uncle is a cabinetmaker. He has his own
shop up in the attic.”

Stern made rapid notes of all she told
him and soon he saw there was common
sense back of her fears. Knowing the old
couple and the pattern of their lives, there
was. logic in her refusal to accept their
sudden departure as natural.

Stern also wanted to make a thorough ex-
amination of the transfer of the property.
It had been an unusually speedy trans-
action, But the all-important question,
whose answer held all the other answers,
still was, “Where are the Frehrs right
now?”

Stern promptly called upon the city’s
Superintendent of Police, Brigadier Gen-
eral William S. Bull, and laid the facts be-
fore him.

“This old couple dropped out of sight a
week ago,” Stern said. “If they have gone
to a home, it must have been at a distance
because your officers have checked all the
homes in and around the city. Moreover,
the last time they were seen, they were
in a livery hack with two men in the driver’s
seat. We have reason to believe the Frehrs
had as much as $5,000 in cash with them
at that time.”

Superintendent Bull agreed it was a mat-
ter that called for investigation. He issued
a general alarm to all precincts, instructing
all police to search for Franz and Johanna
Frehr, recently of 339 Jefferson Street.

Once more all the institutions were
checked carefully. Hospitals and nursing
homes were given descriptions of the couple
and morgue attendants warned to be on the
alert. Police of all suburban communities
in Western New York, county sheriffs all
over the state, and even cities hundreds of
miles away were asked to join in the search.

VEN more important, the city’s news-

pape¥s now broadcast to the general pub-
lic that a pair of elderly and well-to-do
old residents had completely disappeared
from sight, along with some $5,000 in cash,
of which some hundreds of dollars were
probably in gold.

The city was startled by the news, no part
so completely as the old German neighbor-
hood where the Frehrs had lived all their
lives. Because of their age and feeble-
ness, the Frehrs had not ventured out of
the house during the severe weather and
so had not been missed by neighbors who
had known them for years.

One old friend, Herman Rolfus, who lived
at 362 Jefferson Street, believed he had the
answer to the enigma.

“I have known the Frehrs for fifteen
years,” he told police, “and I know they
were sick and tired of Buffalo. Franz
told me the city was getting too big and
noisy and he wanted to get out. I think
you'll find they’ve gone down into Ohio.
They have some friends in a little village
near Ashtabula, and I know that’s where
they wanted to go. It would be just like
them to take their money, get on the train
and tell nobody.”

The city’s railroad stations, however,
were thoroughly checked without finding
anybody who could recall such a couple
leaving the city. Mrs. Bundschu discounted
the story. She felt sure her aunt would
not be physically able to make the trip.

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lente tonal: 4

,0k out a
as the size
so it tele-
that wallet
ialf inches

th him the
m for his
1 hundred-
ake such a
the police
nee that it
s banks to
‘en there to

> court.

nt out that
red in this
a summons.
is been very
or informa-
this disap-
a subpoena.

_ptain Regan
» dispatched
him in here

‘erson Street
se, A young

court.”

5 morning.”
nother. The
o'clock and
another per-
i from this

1 more par-

.e was Mrs.

seen Bonier’s
months.

Is he dead?”

i and fright-
1er two chil-
. She knew
er seen them.
ad come one
», on Monroe
i bought the
.oved in the

us, madam,”
ny people are
ise. There’s
ng on here.”
3, but she got
‘kly and, on
gave him the
They paused
,ough for the
to men whom
rehr premises
. for Bonier’s
hurried back
reported Bon-
onished court.
e crack man-
ce force were

the trail of

a description
id man, who
4d pounds. The
otified to be on
Routine checks
ce railroad sta-
is,

1 to the office
orth and ques-
itely, she knew
met him some
1ouse, later en-
eet. When he
x him, she had

3onier on Mon-
» home Friday

night, November 20th, and said he had
bought the Frehrs’ property. :

“We moved in the next day,” she said, “I
know nothing more about him except that
he is a retired farmer from Gardenville.”

“Do you know any reason for his dis-
appearance?” *

“None whatever. He said he was going to
the hearing. When I asked him why he was
going so early, he said he wanted to get
a good seat.” |

“Did Mr. Bonier have any considerable
amount of money with him, do you know?”

“Yes, I believe he had his wallet with
quite a lot of money in at

“How did you happen to see that?”

“Because he paid me just before he left.
He hadn’t paid me in all the time I had been
with him, and he gave me $110 this morning.
He also gave me another $100 and said I
was to use that to run the house with.”

“Did he say where he got this money?”

“Well, no, except that he makes deals.
He says there are few can get the better
of him in a deal, and I believe it. He’s
very shrewd.” |

Coatsworth conferred with Inspector
John Martin and Chief of Detectives J ohn
Taylor of the police. “So he’s good at
‘making deals,’ is he?” Chief Taylor mused.

Gg AM inclined to think this man has

deliberately walked out on us,” Coats-
worth said. “Captain Regan tells me Bon-
ier has been very surly and resentful.
These hard-fisted old Germans are likely
to think they’re a law unto themselves.”

The officers agreed it would be well to

look into Bonier’s background, and detec-
tives were sent to Gardenville to see what
they could learn. Coatsworth went back
to talk to the young woman. He was now
confident that she could supply more in-
formation. 1}
_ He asked her more about the money and
learned she had been paid in gold pieces,
five $20 pieces and one $10 piece. This she
had sent to her sister, by the children,
“for fear Mr. Bonier might change his
mind.”

“When Mr. Bonier started out this morn-
ing, do you think he feared someone might
kidnap him or otherwise do him violence?”
Coatsworth asked.

“Yes, I do,” she replied. “Before he left
he put a revolver in his pocket. He showed
it to me and told me it was a .38-caliber re-
volver. I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Bon-
ier if I were you. He’s very well able to
take care of himself. He’s over sixty, but
he’s as strong as a bull, and fears no man.”
- «We're not exactly worrying about Mr.
Bonier’s welfare,” replied the District At-
torney. “He is the person who may have
cause to worry.”

The information and the woman’s candor
intrigued Coatsworth. He questioned her
further and she answered all questions with
evident honesty, but she had no informa-
tion that might explain either the disap-
pearance of the Frehrs or of Bonier.

A report came in from the men assigned
to search the old Frehr house. In the attic
they had found the old man’s cabinet-
maker’s shop, complete with all tools!

“They’re a little dusty,” said the officer.
“I guess he hasn’t done much work lately,
but it seems queer an old craftsman would
just walk off and leave his: tools. An-
other thing, there are clothes hanging in
the closets that look like they belonged to
the old folks.”

Coatsworth went back to Mrs. Lindholm
and asked about this.

“They left everything,” she said. “That
seemed funny to me, too. They left their
bed clothes and knickknacks and every-
thing. They must have just put on their
hats and coats and walked out. They even
left their money.”

“What's that?” asked the District At-
torney quickly. ,

1

“A few days after we moved in,” she said,
“I looked under one of the beds and I saw
a satchel. I knew it wasn’t one of Mr, Bon-
ier’s, and it wasn’t mine, and I pulled it out.
I opened it and I saw a lot of gold coins.
I closed it up and put it back.”

“Do you mean it’s there now?”

“No, sir. When Mr. Bonier came home I
told him about the satchel. He _ said,
‘That is strange, they must have gone away
and left their money behind.’ So we got it
and he opened it. There must have been
$500 in gold in it, in $20, $10 and $5 pieces.
There was also a big wallet full of paper
money. Mr. Bonier just put the wallet in
his pocket. Then there was a woman's
purse with some jewelry in it, and he gave
that to me.” 5

Coatsworth hurried to see the police in
charge of the search. ‘

“We must find Bonier at all costs,” he
said. “The man is a thorough scoundrel.
Whether or not he had anything to do with
the disappearance of the Frehrs, he is a
crook and a robber.”

“We've got a clue to his trail right now,
Mr. Coatsworth,” said the Chief of Detec-
tives.. “Our station squad found a ticket
agent who sold a ticket to Erie, Pennsyl-
vania, this morning to a man who answers
Bonier’s description to the last detail. We’re
trying to reach Erie police now.”

Late that night the Buffalo officers got a
call from the Erie Chief of Detectives.

“We think we have caught up with your
man,” he ‘said. ‘“He’s registered in a small
hotel under the name of John Meyers of
West Seneca, New York, but he answers
the description of Bonier. We'll nab him
when he comes out of his room in the
morning.”

‘Detective Henafelt of the Buffalo force
promptly left for Erie on a midnight train.

When a powerfully built, bearded man
stepped into the hotel lobby the next morn-
ing, three detectives quickly closed in on
him.

“You're Charles Bonier, I believe,” said
Henafelt. ; :

“No, My name is Meyers.” But asked
for proof, he had none, and papers in his
pocket identified him as Bonier.

“Did you forget the inquiry?” Henafelt
asked.

“No,” said Bonier. “I had some business
here and I thought I could go there any
time.”

“MAHEN you are willing to go back and
help us?” Henafelt asked.

“Of course. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Henafelt, well aware that he would have
a problem if Bonier challenged his author-
ity, was glad to have the man accompany
him voluntarily. An hour later they were
on a train bound for Buffalo and Henafelt
breathed easier when they crossed the line
into New York State.

Arrived in Buffalo, Henafelt snapped a
handcuff on Bonier’s wrist and took him
quickly to headquarters. A few minutes
later Coatsworth and Chief Taylor were
questioning him.

“Why did you run out on us, Bonier?”
asked Coatsworth.

“I did not run away,” said Bonier, “I
was simply attending to business. I had
answered all the foolish questions of the
police. I know nothing of the Frehrs ex-
cept that I bought a house from them.”

“Tt wasn’t because you feared some-
body you might see at the hearing?”

“Of course not. Why should I fear any-
one?”

Coatsworth stepped to the door and
opened it.

“Come in here, Mr. Burzynski,” he said.
The notary who had executed the deeds
stepped into the cell block.

“Who is that man?” said Coatsworth,
pointing to Bonier.

“Why, it’s Mr. Frehr,” said Burzynski.

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96

’

“This is the man who came to you with
the deeds and told you to make the proper-
ty over to Charles Bonier?”

“Yes, that’s Mr. Frehr.”

Bonier looked calmly at the District
Attorney.

“It is'true,” he said, ‘that I told this man
I was Mr. Frehr, but it was necessary to
my business. I paid the money to Mr.
Frehr on Thursday, as I told you. I told
him he must make the deeds over to me
on Friday, but when I arrived at the house
I saw the carriage driving away. I sup-
pose the Frehrs were inside, because they
were not in the house. The door was open.
I walked in. The deeds were lying on the
table. What else was I to do?” '

“You are guilty of forgery on those deeds,
Bonier.”

“Very: well, I am guilty of forgery.”

“And I’d like to know what other guilt
is on your black heart,” added Coastworth
as he eyed the big man coldly.

“No other. I am only guilty of forgery
and it is only a technical forgery because
the old man forgot he would have to be
present and sign the property over to me.”

“What about the old man’s gold? The
gold that was in the satchel under the bed.
Mrs. Lindholm has told me about it.”

“She lies. I found no gold.”

E stuck to this story, answering ques-

tions coolly, guarding against traps. But
Coatsworth was confident the case was near
solution, and that Bonier must soon be en-
meshed in his lies. He demanded particu-
lars of the making of the deal on Friday,
November 20th, and the payment of the
money.

“What time did you arrive at the Frehrs’
house and what time did you leave?”

“T arrived at about two in the afternoon
and I left a couple of hours later.”

“Where did you go then?”

“Back to the house on Monroe Street.
I was there for supper.”

Coatsworth checked this statement with
Mrs. Lindholm.

“He was not there for supper that night,”
she said flatly. “The children and I had sup-
per alone. He came tramping in about eight
o’clock in his muddy boots and dirtied my
floor all up.”

Coatsworth leaped to his feet.

“What did you say about muddy boots?”

“His boots were all smeared with mud
that night and I had to clean them.”

Coatsworth hurried back to see Bonier.

“Mrs. Lindholm says you were not there
for supper and when you did come home,
your boots were muddy. Where did you get
mud on your boots?”

“Digging celery in the back yard of my
new property,” said Bonier with a grin.

It was by this time late at night, but
Coatsworth was determined to find every
hole in the man’s story. Detectives from
the 7th Precinct went to the old Frehr
house with lanterns and poked into the
back yard. Sure enough, there was a small
celery patch with signs of recent digging.

While they conferred in muffied tones,
their lanterns flashing over the bleak yard,
a window was lifted in the house next
door.

“What are you doing there?” a neighbor
demanded. The officers made themselves
known.

“There’s such goings-on around here a
man can’t sleep,” he went on angrily.
“What’s all the fuss about?”

“What goings-on have you seen?” said
the officers. “Never saw anybody dig a
grave, did 'you?”

“No, not that,” said the neighbor, “but
my wife saw them build a shed in a pour-
ing rain.”

At the officers’ request, the wife thrust
her head, incased in a lace night-cap, out
of the window.

“If you want to know what I think, noth-

ing’s been right since the Frehrs moved
away,” she said tartly. “Only a few days
ago when we had that awful rain that
turned to snow this big bum tore down a
shed and built another.”

“Could you'explain that, missus?” said
an officer.

“Explain it? It’s because hé’s a nut. It
wasn’t good enough for Old Blackbeard—
that’s what I called him to his face. So he
tears it all down. And makes a big racket
for nothing!”

“He was an unpleasant character, was he?”
asked one of the detectives with a grin.

For answer the head disappeared and
the window slammed down.

The sleuths peered into the shed. It was
of rough construction, but strongly made,
and filled to the door with wood. The shed
was six feet long by five feet wide, and
high enough in front for a man to stand in,
The officers hurried back and reported this
strange fact to their superiors.

When the. news reached District Attor-
ney Coatsworth, he was jubilant. The news
that the shed had been built directly op-
posite the kitchen door made his hunch
stronger. He ordered prompt action.

At midnight a patrol wagon left the pre-
cinct station and soon drew up at the little
house. Out of it got four officers and Cap-
tain Regan, each man bearing a lantern.
They marched back into the yard, doffed
their helmets and overcoats and proceeded
to empty the shed.

It was a disagreeable job, for it was
packed to the door with heavy planks, with
nails protruding, but at last all were out.

When the last plank was lifted, Detective
Laszewski stooped down and picked up a
brass hammer. This they examined briefly

by lantern light. Then they wrapped it in .

paper and set it aside.

Just inside the door, and extending the
length of the hut, they found iron plates
lying» on the ground. These were lifted
aside, and revealed fresh-dug earth. Into
this they cautiously thrust spades. The
ground was stiff from frost, and they had
to proceed with care. After an hour they
had dug down only a foot. Then Patrolman)
William Farley’s spade struck something
soft, unyielding. Patrolman Albert Pollow
dropped to his knees, plumbing beneath
the surface with his fingers.

“Here,” he said, and lifted carefully.

From beneath the soil he brought up a
human arm, the fingers stiff and pointing an
accusation. A few minutes later they had
unearthed the corpse of Franz Frehr.

ELOW this they found the body of
innocent old Johanna, who deserved a
better fate.

The body of the old tady was attired in
her house-wrapper. The old gentleman
wore the little cabinet-maker’s apron that
he always wore when at home. The harm-.
less, peace-loving Frehrs had been found at
last. 4

It was three o’clock in the morning by the
time both bodies were unearthed. Medical
Examiner Danser examined them briefly,
ordered them taken to the morgue.

Confronted with this damning evidence,
Charles Bonier shrugged indifferently.

“It’s too bad,” he said, “but what has it
to do with me? You had better find the
men who drove that carriage.”

“There never was a carriage, Bonier. We
have checked now with neighbors who saw
you arrive that day. - There was no carriage.
You murdered the Frehrs. You killed them
with that hammer, so you could get their
house and their money. You buried them
there, thinking nobody would ever know.”

“Prove it,” snapped Bonier. “Find one
person who saw me.” Then he refused to
answer any other questions and demanded
a lawyer. Daniel B. Murphy was assigned
to defend him and promptly made a public
plea that Bonier be considered innocent

until or unless he was proven otherwise.

The proof was gathering quickly. The
large wallet found on Bonier’s person was
identified as that of Mr. Frehr. A pair of
bloody trousers found in the attic were
identified as Bonier’s. The blood-stained
hammer was one that Frehr had kept in the
kitchen.

A damning sequence was Bonier’s sud-
den prosperity. His former landlord on
Monroe Street told police he had ordered
Bonier to move for non-payment of six
dollars’ rent.

In Gardenville a grim array of evidence
was dug up on Bonier’s history. His neigh-
bors there hated and feared him. When
their stock wandered onto his property it
never was seen again. One man who lost
a cow, found her a month later in Bonier’s
pasture. The cow had been black and white.
Bonier painted the white spots with black
paint, but after a heavy rain the disguise
was discovered.

But there were grimmer stories, long told
in whispers. A doctor who had a bill
against Bonier took it to a lawyer for col-
lection. The lawyer investigated, then ad-
vised the doctor to forget the bill. It
would' not be safe to try to collect from
Charles Bonier. People had disappeared
from sight after trouble with Bonier.

LD residents retold a story that dated
back a generation. When Bonier first
came to Gardenville, he was a hired man for
a farmer. But the farmer objected to Bon-
ier’s attentions to his wife. After a while
neighbors observed that only Bonier and
the farmer’s wife lived there. The farmer
had disappeared. Bonier said the man had
grown tired of farming and moved away.
After a while the wife died and Bonier
had the deed to the farm.

Then an old Buffalo resident came for-
ward with a story about Bonier, dating back
nearly half a century. He charged that
Charles Bonier was in reality Carl Bonier,
formerly of Mecklenberg, Germany.

“We were schoolmates together,” said the
old man, a carpenter, John Schultz. “Bonier
murdered my uncle, Johann Mese. Johann
was the night watchman of a feed mill.
He was guarding the mill, where there was
a large sum of money from the sale of grain,
amounting to about $500.

“The body of Johann Mese was found
with the skull crushed. A bloody club lay
beside it. Also near the body was a piece
of colored woolen cap, torn from the mur-
derer. The rest of the cap was found in
Carl Bonier’s home and in it was wrapped
the watch of my Uncle Johann,” - weeny
* He said Bonier was arrested on orders
of the Freiherr, and served five years in
prison, then was released because nobody
had seen him commit the murder,

“Everybody shunned him and he left us
and went to America. Some time later I
came to Buffalo and soon after reaching
here I saw Bonier. He asked me the news
from home. This is the same man.”

Clinical examination of the bodies
showed they had been brutally beaten, their
skulls crushed in many places. It also
showed their stomachs to be empty, con-
firming the police theory that the murder
was done late that afternoon when Wilhel-
mina Bundschu had seen Bonier approach-
ing the house as she said good-by to the old
couple.

Justice moved swiftly to avenge their.

deaths. The December Grand Jury in-
dicted Bonier for first-degree murder, and
he was tried the following month, in Janu-
ary, 1904.

It took about a week to present the
chain of circumstantial evidence, only a
few hours for the jury to find him guilty.
The New York State Court of Appeals con-
firmed the verdict .and a few weeks later
Charles Bonier, murderer, died in the
electric chair in payment for his crimes,


For the same reason she rejected another
story from the neighborhood, that the old
couple had gone back to Germany. It
was true, she said, that they had expressed
a desire to go back and see their native
land, but neither was physically able now
to make such a trip.

Police of the 7th Precinct made a de-
tailed check-up of all the livery stables
throughout the area, without being able
to find the men who had taken the couple
away. A similar check was made of all
independent. cabs that operated in that
neighborhood, and also downtown, but no-
body was found who would admit taking
the Frehrs. .

“It would be more like them to get a
friend to drive them,” Wilhelmina told
Stern. “I can’t imagine them spending
money for a hired cab, It’s one of the
things Uncle Franz never would spend
Money for.”

Yet she could think of nobody that old
Frehr might have asked, and nobody came
forward with any information.

The new owner of the house, Charles
Bonier, was indignant when the search
brought police to his door again, demand-
ing particulars, He had paid Mr, Frehr,
he said, principally in $100 bills, but of the
$3,200, about seven hundred had been in
gold, on Mr. Frehr’s insistence. Bonier did
not know the serial numbers or other iden-
tification of the money, which might have
been an aid in tracing the missing pair.

A private detective, Hartman Yox, who
lived near the Frehrs and knew them, was
engaged in a private investigation of the
disappearance, for parties he would not
name, :

“T will tell you this much,” Yox told re-
porters. “I know that the Frehrs were taken
from their home by force and the old peo-
ple are now outside Buffalo, I expect to
find them next Tuesday.”

Yox said that. two or three people were
involved in their disappearance. Asked if
it was a kidnapping, he said, “You might
call it that.”

Buffalo police, too, had abandoned their
belief that the old couple would turn up at
a safe harborage. Too much time had
elapsed without anybody hearing from
them, and both the police and District At-
torney Edward E. Coatsworth believed the
old couple had met with foul play.

Mrs. Bundschu’s counsel, Stern, believed

the answer might be found by an investi-
gation of accounts and documents,

“The old man transferred his property
in a great hurry,” he told Coatsworth, “and
converted his real estate into cash. Yet
he put none of this cash in his bank account,
neither did he tlose out the account as
you would expect if he was moving to some
distant place. We do not know if he has
made a will, although he is an old man and
there are a number of possible heirs. We

have very few sources of information and .

we have had no means of knowing whether
they have told the whole truth. I suggest
we have a John Doe inquiry into their dis-
appearance and make sure we Set all the
information that is available.”

Coatsworth agreed with him, and the in-
quiry was promptly called for Wednesday
morning, December 2nd. Summonses to
appear were handed to all who had mate-
rial knowledge of the old couple’s affairs,

Among those
mina Bundschu and her husband, Philip;
Charles Bonier, the man who had purchased

the Frehr property; Mrs. Dorothy Heinike, |

Wicenty Burzynski, a
notary public who had handled the trans-
fer of the property; the neighbor, Herman
Rolfus, and the private detective, Yox.
The Bundschus and Mrs. Heinike testi-
fied that Mr, Frehr’s disposal of his prop-
erty and the disappearance of the old couple
was a complete surprise to them. The
Frehrs had given no indication of any such
plans. Moreover their health was so poor

the stepdaughter;

that such an action hardly seemed reason- |

able.
Burzynski,

urday, November 21st, and asked if he drew
deeds. Burzynski said yes, and the old man
then produced the deeds to the two proper-
ties and ordered new deeds drawn in the
name of Charles Bonier.

“Wasn’t Mr. Bonier present at the trans-
fer?” asked the presiding judge.

“No, sir, just Mr, Frehr. He said Bonier
had already paid him and he told me to
write the new deeds to Bonier. I took
the descriptions of the two properties from
the old deeds. Then Mr. Frehr paid me,
took the deeds and left.”

Lawyer Stern had a question,

“Did you happen to notice whether Mr,
Frehr had any considerable amount of
money with him when he paid you?”

94 “Old Bixby cleaned up on winter wheat this year and now he's sowing wild oats!"

of

summonsed were Wilhel-|

the notary public, testified ,
that Franz Frehr had come to him on Sat- |

The notary grinned,

“I should say he did. He took out a
wallet to pay me. The wallet was the size
of a dollar bill, but it was made so it tele-

Scoped out. The pile of bills in that wallet
must have been three and a half inches
deep.”

Then presumably Frehr had with him the
money that had been paid him for his
home. Yet this had been paid in hundred-
dollar bills, which would not make such a
Pile. Coatsworth, Stern and the police
agreed at a whispered conference that it
would be well to visit various banks to
find whether an old man had been there to
make change,

Lawyer Stern addressed the court,

“Your Honor, I want to point out that
Charles Bonier has not appeared in this
court, although he was handed a summons,
The police tell me Mr. Bonier has been very
much annoyed at being asked for informa-
tion that will help us solve this disap-
pearance. Now he has ignored a subpoena,
I think he should be here.”

Judge Murphy agreed, and Captain Regan
and Detective Laszewski were dispatched
to “find Mr. Bonier and bring him in here
at once.”

They drove at once to 339 Jefferson Street
behind the Captain’s fast horse, A young
woman answered their knock,

»“Is Mr. Bonier at home?”

“No, sir, Mr. Bonier went to court.”

“What time did he leave?”

“He left at eight o’clock this morning,”

The officers looked at one another. The
hearing had been set for ten o’clock and
it was now nearly noon. Had another per-

| Son mysteriously disappeared from this

house?

They questioned the woman more par-
ticularly. She said her name was Mrs.
Louisa Lindholm and she had been Bonier’s
housekeeper for about three months,

“Where is your husband? Is he dead?”

“No. He disappeared.”

The woman seemed worried and fright-
ened. She said she had Sent her two chil-
dren over to a sister’s house. She knew
“nothing of the Frehrs, had never Seen them.
‘She only knew that Bonier had come one
day to their former residence, on Monroe
Street, and told her he had bought the
Frehrs’ house, They had moved in the
following day,

“You had better come uith us, madam,”
said Captain Regan, “Too many people are
disappearing from this house. There’s
something mighty queer going on here,”

The woman burst into tears, but she got
into her street clothes quickly and, on
Captain Regan’s instructions, gave him the
key to the old Frehr house. They paused

‘at the precinct station long enough for the
Captain to turn the key over to men whom
‘he instructed to search the Frehr premises

thoroughly, and watch there for Bonier’s
possible return. Then they hurried back
downtown. Captain Regan reported Bon-
ier’s disappearance to the astonished court.

Within a few minutes, the crack man-
hunters of the Buffalo police, force were
called to find a new trail, the trail of
Charles Bonier,

'All precincts were given a description
of the powerful bearded old man, who
weighed nearly two hundred pounds. The
hospitals and morgue were notified to be on
the alert for such a man, Routine checks
of the livery stables and the railroad sta-
tions were assigned to squads,

Mrs. Lindholm was taken to the office
of District Attorney Coatsworth and ques-
tioned at length. Unfortunately, she knew
little of Bonier. She had met him some
months before at a friend’s house, later en-.
countered him on the street. When he
asked her to keep house for him, she had
agreed, }

She had kept house for Bonier on Mon-
roe Street until he came home Friday

ing, do
kidnap
Coatsv
“Yes,
he put
it to mc
volver.
ier if I
take ca
he’s as
' “We'r
Bonier’:
torney.
cause ti
The in
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further
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tion tha
Pearanc
A rep:
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“They’
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but it se:
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and askex
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A

“and then turned off the dash-light

‘led through the woods to Valley

. a cop.”

so the girl from Valley Stream
couldn’t see the look that was there
in his eyes.

“Gee, Honey,” the girl murmured
in the darkness, “there ain’t no
moon. It would have been so ro-
mantic with a moon.”

“Yeah,” Gearhart said. But he
wasn’t thinking about the absence
of moonlight as he drew the girl
closer and stopped the sound of her
voice with his hungry lips:

Half a mile down the road, the
occupants of another car were also
concerned with the darkness of the
night.

“No moon, Frenchy,” the tall man
said.

“Yer right,” observed the callow-
faced youth who was his companion.
“Great night for work.”

The two men got out of their car
and looked down the road which

Stream.

“What time is it?” the tall one
asked.

“About eleven-thirty,” Frenchy
answered. ‘There ought to be
plenty of them around by now.”

“See any cops on the way in?”

“There aii’t no cops around, Al,”
the youth sid. ‘In all the time I
been comin’ here, I ain’t never seen

“O.K.,” A! said. “T’ll just get ‘old
reliable’ out. from under the dash-
board, and we'll get started.”

He went back to the car and
reached under the instrument panel.
His fingers closed on the grip of a
.388 caliber Smith and Wesson.

“Got it?” Frenchy asked, after Al
had rejoined him.

“Right in my pocket,” Al said.
“Let's go.”

They started to hike up the road in the direction of
Valley Stream and were soon swallowed up by the
darkness of the night woods.

- Brose Gearhart knew a lot. about women for his nine-
teen years. What he didn’t know, he knew how to
find out.

The girl fastened her fingers on his wrist. ‘Please—”
she whispered against his cheek.

Brose laughed hoarsely.’ Just listen to the dame, he
thought. “Please,” she says. “That’s funny. Does she
mean please do... or please don’t?”

He never got a chance to find out. A burst of bois-
terous laughter sounded in the darkness near the car.
He and the girl drew apart like suddenly uncoiled
springs.

Looking into the night, Brose Gearhart made out two
dim shapes near the running-board of his car.

“On your way!” he gritted angrily. “You guys get
the hell outta here!”

For answer, the shapes came closer. A fist came over
the phaeton’s door, and Brose felt something hard jab
against his chest. He reached out his hand and snapped
on the dash -light.

“Douse that damn light!” a gruff voice bit out.

Brose was quick to comply. What he had seen in the
few seconds of light was enough to convince him that

74

obedience was in order. LUCKY——
Two men were standing William French was
at the door of his car. The also there the night

taller of them was hold- Jack Kennedy was shot.

ing a gun against his ribs.

The girl from Valley Stream began to whimper. The
men laughed.

“Don’t worry, sister,” one-of them said. ‘You can
get back to your fun after we collect from your boy-
friend.”

“Stick-up?” Brose asked meekly.

The men laughed again. ‘“You’re a bright boy,
sonny,” one of them said. “You catch on quick. Now
let’s see how quick you can fork over your dough.”

Gearhart took his wallet out of his pocket and held
it up. It was grabbed out of his fingers.

“Four bucks,” the gruff voice said. ‘That all you got?”

“That’s all,” Gearhart replied. ‘Could—could I have
my license back?”

The empty wallet was thrust back into his hand.

“Now beat it,” the voice ordered. “Go learn about life
some place else.”

Brose stepped on the starter and backed onto the road.

“Be good to him, sister,” one of the men called out
as the car began to move in the direction of Valley
Stream. “It’s costing him four bucks!”’

ag

The tail |
around a bi
divided thei
“Four lot
a couple of
“The nig!
bucks ain't
They hea
come.
Fifteen rm
“Tt’s righ’
“Yeah. |
feet sent dc
gripped his
there, Al!”
Al looke
The beam
The light \
which they
“Come
We'll snc:
goes on.”
They le!
light. Al
drawn ain
the car th


~

oa

ee

duced by tha!
- The pulse of
“of the oppres:
Te that emigr
study lew by
sage seared ¢.

Placer’: -creer before the bar of Justice Is the more unique in that it

Are

# > et thls Issue
: | great | vr.)
i Mee

by exists at all.
* the whip of sv;

Estas

oa

as told te Seymour

which he occupies today.

Mr, Placer lives in the service of an ideal. He devotes him:
the poor and the weak who ere bewildered by the mighty ©
liberty. To his Fifth Avenue offices come the laborers, the
the common people. Mr. Placer is thelr friend. He Is one ©
couse their problems might have been his own, he Is a con
ia their defense, a true champion of the accused.

The case which Mr. $. Frederick Placer relates in this is:
TECTIVE, clearly Indicates his adherence to that ideal.
Alphonse Brengard, he fought valiantly in the face of defec!
for fame, but for justice under the just laws of a just comr

We are happy to present a stirring portrait of a splendi:

_ CRIME DETECTIVE presents o great chapter in the life of a
r. S. Frederick Placer.

orn in a land where his parents felt the knout of intolerance,
ression, Mr. Placer Is a phenomenon which could only be pro-
temocracy which Is the American Ideal.
eedom quickens on New York's Lower East Side, where sons
find thelr first taste of liberty, and equality before the law.
bey who ran errands and cid odd jobs by day in order to
ht, the pulse of freedom was throbbing life, It was a mes-
» into his consciousness as he strove to lift himself by bis own
his lowly tenement surroundings to the hard earned position

CRIMe DETECTIVE.
Nar al. —/ FO

S. FREDERICK PLACER

Ettman ;

1! to counseling |

» of Americas
tory-workers,
om, And be
atlous Gghter

# CRIME DE-

is defense of
for fees, net
alth,

hter.

He

HE ma
there «

He we'

the ba:
“Give it

- to keep fro
It was !

; July 2
<2 Studeb:


h wes
night
as shot.

r. The

ou can
ir boy-

ht boy,
. Now
9 eine

nd held

ou got?”
i I have

nd.
out life

ne road.
\led out
Valley

The tail light of Gearhart’s Studebaker disappeared
around a bend in the road, and the two hold-up men
divided their haul.

“Four lousy bucks,” the tall one said. “Enough for
a couple of rounds of beer and a game of pool.”

“The night’s young, Al,” his companion said.
bucks ain’t so bad for a start.”

They headed back on the road along which they had
come.

Fifteen minutes later they were nearing their car.

“It’s right around here some place,” Al observed.

“Yeah. It’s—” Frenchy stopped in mid-sentence. His
feet sent down roots into the dirt road. His right hand
gripped his companion’s arm, “Al!” he hissed. ‘Look
there, Al!”

Al looked and froze in his tracks beside the youth.
The beam of a searchlight was playing on the road.
The light was coming from the coppice growth behind
which they had hidden their car.

“Come on,” Al said. “We're hitting the brush.
We'll sneak up through the woods and see what
goes on.”

They left the road and moved carefully toward the
light. Al went first, his body tense, the thirty-eight
drawn and ready for action. About twenty paces from
the car they stopped and took cover behind the bole

“Four

ack Kennedy
. fight

of a tree. The man called Al raised his gun and sh uted

into the night:

“Who's there?”

The light flashed into the brush and played arouiid on
the trees without picking off the speaker.

“Hey!” Al called again. “What's the idea?”

“I’m a policeman,” an authoritative voice answered.
“Come on out of there.”

Al’s companion grabbed his arm again.
hissed. “They’ll nab us, sure.”

Al tore his arm from the other’s grasp. “Watch where

“Cops!” he


pea :

He defended “ The Man Who Killed a Cop’

‘HRUHE man who shot a cop didn’t want ae He sat
aye there on his prison cot as’ tense as a rat in a trap.
‘| He wet his lips and brushed them dry: again with
ae. the back of a trembling hand. ee
> “Give it to me straight,” he said. “Whats my chance
to keep from burnin’?” Cy a ,
“It was hard for me to see his face. There wasn’t
“a much light in that Mineola jail cell. There wasn’t much
7 hope there, either. 2. ae
“ “Not much of a chance,” 1 told him. “ andsome
Jack’ Kennedy is dead, and one of Néw York’s cleverest

tof the crime. ‘They’ve got witnesses, too. And a weight
of public sentiment behind them.” ae

honse Brengard was a strong man, but he couldn’t
back the sob that came to well in his throat.
_, ’m gonna fry?” he asked brokenly.

“Maybe no',” I said. “Although the State says you

ay after being shot, the defendant can’t be
first degree murder. ,That’s your one
¥ 3 Bt) a
© The man who was afraid to burn began to talk
‘quickly, eagerly. “Look, Mr, he sai
poor man. I don’t have fie dough. Jpst spring me.
OF Sven if I have to serve tin e, V’ll- aes
“Wait a minute,” I told him.
M shot a cop. But I’m not sure
‘ If I were, I wouldn’t
aa But I’m not sure, and that’s why I’m going to
® try to help you. Just remember that you’re lucky to

knows you
factually killed

= just like there are laws to protect society. It’s going to
® be a tough fight, Brengard, but I’m going to take you
‘into court and try to save your life.” i

> = =Tough- “uy Brengard, the ex-state trooper, the former
began to cry. He covered hig face with his

» pugilist,
hands, and great, racking sobs shook his massive
shoulders. Sie Mik

I patted him awkwardly on the arm and rose to leave.
Get a good night’s
yet here tomorrow

morning.’’ ii eg
© That was bac r the night of
E July 22, 1928... - the hart drove his

E Studebaker phaeton inte on Old Mill Road

BY |
CER }

Ittman

em, And bee | . ‘4 * Y : ;
atious fighter = ; 2

of CRIME DE i . Ey

is defense of | ane

t for fees, met | : hb

ealth. q

ater.


BY L. L. ALBERTS

Rees COMMUNITY has its “petters’ paradise,” and
the village of Woodmere in Nassau County, New
York, is no exception. In 1928, long before the tremendous
upsurge in Long Island’s population, the mecca for loving
couples was a spot called Waterworks Lane. This dim,
narrow thoroughfare meandered through .a_ heavily
wooded section just beyond the official limits of the village.
As is often the case, this lovers’ lane attracted rapists
and stickup men as well as amorous couples. During the
spring and early summer nearly a dozen reports of as-
saults and robberies in the area had come in to the office
of Nassau County Police Chief Abraham S. Skidmore.
As a result, Skidmore issued an order to his force to
keep all cars out of the lonely road after dark.
Patrolman John R. Kennedy set out to perform this
mission as the first item in his tour of duty when he
reported for work at midnight on July 22nd. A young,
goodlooking fellow who stood six feet three and weighed

190 pounds, Kennedy was known to his fellow officers as
“Handsome Jack.” He was proud of his job on the force,
just as he was proud of his pretty wife Jane and his son,
Jack Jr.

On this particular night, however, Kennedy reflected
ruefully on the Gilbert and Sullivan saying that “a police-
man’s lot is not a happy one.” There was a chill in the
air, even though it was midsummer, and a fine mist of
rain was driven along by a sharp wind off the ocean.
Visibility was poor, and the roads were dangerously slick.
It would have helped a bit to have a partner in his prowl
car, but Kennedy was working alone.

Leaving headquarters, the patrolman went directly to
Waterworks Lane and drove into it for a quarter of a
mile without spotting a single car. He was just con-
gratulating himself that he wouldn’t have to chase any
petters when he saw a machine backed into a short dead-
end turn-off. “Worse luck!” he muttered. “A jalopy—an

4

Tree stump on which Officer Kennedy snagged prowl car bumper is examined by police in lonely lane


“He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s still got a chance,”
said one of the medics. “We’ll have to hurry.”

Scarcely had the ambulance roared away when the
first of several police cars rolled into the petters’ paradise.
Soon the scene was illuminated with floodlights and a
score of officers began going over the terrain in quest
of clues.

Heading up the investigating was Inspector Harold R.
King, well known for his solution of many difficult Long
Island murder cases. Chief Skidmore also was on hand,
as was District Attorney Elvin N. Edwards of Nassau
County.

The detectives first directed their attention to the spot
where the Willys-Knight had been parked.

“The tires were worn smooth,” King said in disappoint-
ment. “Not enough tread to be worth taking an im-
pression.”

A hunt for clearcut footprints of the men who made
their getaway in the sedan was likewise unproductive.

The broken branches of bushes indicated for a short
distance where the men had dashed through the woods.
Following this trail, Inspector King came upon a hat
which evidently had fallen off the head of one of the
assailants. He carried it back to the lane and showed it

After 5-year hunt for mystery gunman, District Attorney
Elvin Edwards obtained conviction for first-degree murder

oe a 5 J ming : EI oe
Naira Sai te Se i a OO Ka Be Ra 28

Four years after the shooting Officer Kennedy died, and
Inspector King changed wanted bulletin to read: ‘“‘Murder”

to Edwards and Skidmore, who had uncovered no clues.

“This looks like our best lead, unless Kennedy will be
able to give us any further information,” he said. “A
gray snapbrim—at least a couple of years old, in my
opinion.” He turned the headgear to look inside. “Size
seven and a quarter. Bearing the label of a big shop on
Broadway—probably impossible to trace the buyer. But
here’s something: the gilt initials ‘A.B.’”

“That’s a break,” Skidmore said. “With luck, we may
be referring to this fedora as the signature to the crime.”

“The D.A. and I had better get over to the hospital to
see if Kenedy can talk,” King told the Nassau County
chief. “You'll press the hunt for the Willys-Knight
sedan?”

“Right. And Ill have a squad of men out here at day-
break to make another search through the woods,” Skid-
more replied.

At the hospital in Far Rockaway, King and Edwards
were told that the patrolman had recovered consciousness
and that they could interview him for a limited time.

When they reached Kennedy’s bedside, the officer
smiled up at them weakly. |

“Break the news gently to my wife, will you?” he
asked. “Tell her and young Jack that I’m going to be
okay.”

Inspector King nodded his assent. “We've got all of
Nassau, Suffolk and New York City alerted for that car,
Jack,” he said. “Can you add anything to the description
that you gave Hirsch.”

“I’m afraid not—except that I did get a glimpse of the
license plate. I can’t be positive, but I believe the num-
ber was 8-L-685. New York registration.”

“That ought to help,” King said, making a note of the
number. “Can you guess at (Continued on page 92)

29


ear a

siancasieamess Bes ne > .
Lapin

. a

old Willys-Knight sedan. Probably high-school kids.”

Kennedy squeezed his prowl car in alongside the
sedan, and in doing so he hooked the front bumper over
a stump. “Just isn’t my night!” he decided as he got out
of the cruiser.

He directed his flashlight into the Willys-Knight. It
was empty, and a search through the nearby woods
failed to turn up the ownér and his companion. Had the
car been abandoned? Or had the occupant gone a con-
siderable distance away with the prospect of returning
later on? Kennedy shrugged. There wasn’t much he
could do except continue his patrol and come back in
an hour or so.

The strapping young officer set about the task of
trying to free the prowl car bumper from the stump.
He’d been at it for five minutes when there was a shout
in the woods behind him.

“Who are you?” was the call. “What are you doing
hanging around my car?”

Kennedy yelled back that he was an officer.

“Oh, a lousy copper, eh?” the man in the darkness
snarled. “That’s all I need to know!”

There was the roar of a gun. Standing in front of his
headlights, the patrolman made an easy target. The bullet

tore into his stomach and lodged in his spine. He col-
lapsed with his arms beneath him, and almost instantly
he realized he was paralyzed from the waist down.

Footsteps came pounding through the woods. Kennedy
tried to reach the butt of his holstered gun, but was
powerless to do so. Two men emerged in the radiance of
the headlights. To the officer’s pain-blurred eyes they
were only shadowy figures.

“Looks like you plugged him bad,” one voice said.

“Good riddance!” the other man sneered. “Come on—
we've got to get out of here quick.”

The two leaped into the Willys-Knight. The driver
snapped on the lights and gunned the motor, and the
sedan roared away.

By some miracle Kenriedy clung to consciousness. He
knew he must get help, and soon—otherwise he would
bleed to death.

For long, agonizing minutes he struggled to reach his
revolver. At last, by rolling halfway over and resting
against a wheel of the prowl car, he succeeded in freeing
his right arm. He drew the gun, pointed it upward and
pulled the trigger until all the chambers were empty.

“Come to Waterworks Lane!” Kennedy shouted as
loudly as he could. “Police officer shot. Need help badly.
Come to Waterworks Lane.”

The nearest residence, some 250
yards distant, was that of Mr. and
Mrs. Clyde Berl, and luckily they
were just preparing for ‘
Hearing the’ shots and shouts
through the open windows, Berl
hurried to the phone and called
headquarters. The desk sergeant
passed the alarm along to Patrol-
man Fred Hirsch, who was sta-
tioned at the precinct booth near-
est to Waterworks Lane.

In less than ten minutes Hirsch
was kneeling beside his fellow

officer. “Jack, Jack, what hap-
pened?” he asked. “Can you
talk?”

“Got me—got me in the stom-
ach,” Kennedy gasped. “Can't
move my legs. There were two of
them—two men. They had a
Willys-Knight. A sedan, several
years old. Painted a light blue.”

The strain of uttering this mes-
sage was too much for the patrol-
man, and he lost consciousness.

Hirsch hurried back down the
lane and put through a call to
headquarters. “It’s Jack Ken-
nedy,” he said. “Shot, and in a
bad way. Rush an ambulance and
notify Inspector King. And get
out an alarm right away for two
men riding in an old light-blue
Willys-Knight sedan. I'll go back
to Waterworks Lane and wait.”

An ambulance from St. Joseph’s
Hospital in Far Rockaway was
first to arrive at the scene. Hirsch
helped the attendants lift the un-
conscious Kennedy into the
vehicle.

Knocked out as a prize fighter and
kicked out as a state trooper, the
handcuffed suspect (r.) smiles his
defiance at recess of murder trial

HO a aot Sie cit Aihenti gane> 29a iit aceite» laa liga tacicins ieee

:
;
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ee

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92

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(Continued from page 29)

the year of the Willys-Knight sedan?”

Kennedy shook his head. “Could be ’23
or ’24. Maybe ’25. I wish I could give you
a good description of those two guys, but
I can’t. All I remember vaguely is that one
of them seemed pretty tall, maybe as tall
as I am.”

“If it isn’t too much for you, Jack, I
wish now you would describe the shooting
exactly as it occurred,” King urged.

Speaking slowly and with obvious effort,
Kennedy told how he drove in beside the
parked sedan and found it empty and
then tried to clear the bumper of the prowl
car from the stump.

“That’s when they shouted at me from
out of the woods,” he recalled. “The shot
came as soon as I identified myself as an
officer.”

“You didn’t threaten them with arrest or
say you wanted to question them?” King
asked.

“No. I just said I was a cop and one of
them pulled the trigger.”

“Guess there’s only one answer,” King
said. “Those two were the guys who have
been pulling the stickups and assaults in
Waterworks Lane, and they were deathly
afraid of being caught.”

“A good theory,” Edwards agreed. “Of
course -you’ve got to remember, too, that
the one who fired could have been a
pathological cop-hater.”

“And also, perhaps, a man who would
face a life term as a fourth-time offender,”
King put in.

At this point, a doctor entered the room,
examined Kennedy briefly, then indicated
that the interview should be terminated.

Before going home for a few hours’ rest,
Inspector King checked with headquarters
to supply the license number and to find
out whether the alarm for the Willys-
Knight had brought result. He was told
that as yet the car had not been spotted.

As soon as daylight came, Chief Skid-
more and a detail of men renewed the
hunt for clues in Waterworks Lane and
the surrounding woods. Though the search
went on for hours, they found nothing
but a wallet which lay near the road
some 100 yards from the spot where the
shooting took place.

The wallet contained no money. There
was an identification card, however, show-
ing it was the property of one John
Soames. A Garden City address was given.

“My guess is that our friend Soames
was out here smooching with a girl,” one
of the detectives said. “The stickup men
came along and surprised him-and forced
him to turn over the wallet. After taking
the money out of it, the bandits tossed it
away to avoid carrying incriminating evi-
dence.”

“Sounds logical,” Skidmore agreed.
“What’s more, it could have have hap-
pened last night—and one of the bandits
could have been the guy who shot Jack
Kennedy.”

Within an hour, Soames was taken into
custody at his home and brought to head-
quarters, where he was questioned by
both King and Skidmore.

“Sure, I was parked with my girl in
Waterworks Lane last night,” he admitted.
“I don’t know how you knew about it,
but anyway I can’t understand why you
dragged me in—I didn’t commit any
crime.”

“We’re not saying you did,” King de-
clared. “But maybe a crime was com-
mitted against you.” He tossed the empty
wallet on the desk in front of his visitor.

Soames grinned sheepishly. “That’s
mine, all Beht,” he said. “Two guys

sneaked up on my car and held me up
little after midnight. I didn’t report it
because I was afraid I might get into trou~
ble. Besides, I was carrying less than ten
bucks—not enough to worry about.”
“Did they make any move to molesé
your girl friend?” Skidmore asked. -
“No. As soon as I turned over my wallet
they left. I started up the car and got out
of there in a hurry.” ‘

*

In the darkness, Soames said, he was Xe

unable to see the faces of the bandits; he-
would never be able to identify them.
However, he was able to tell that one was
rather short and stocky and bareheaded.
The second man—the one who threatened °

him with a gun—was tall and thin and ©

wore a hat.

“That would be ‘A.B.’” King suggested ¥

to Skidmore.

“Yes, and evidently it was ‘A.B.’ who *
shot Kennedy. After he and his partner *:
robbed Soames, here, they circled around ~!

through the woods to get to their car.

cop, ‘A.B.’ got trigger-happy.”

Hearing Kennedy announce himself as a 3 :
3

The officers questioned Soames further, i
but he was unable to supply any additional jy <

information and at last they allowed him
to leave.

While Skidmore and a score of detec-
tives went to work on other angles of the
case, Inspector King and an aide checked

on license No. 8-L-685 through the Motor ~

Vehicle Bureau. It developed that this reg-
istration had been issued to a truck farm-

er—but it was for a new black Chevrolet -

instead of a blue Willys-Knight. The
farmer came voluntarily to King’s office
and was able to establish an air-tight alibi
for the preceding night.

“Well, that’s that,” said the inspector
resignedly. “Kennedy was positive about
the make of the car, but not so sure of
the license. Either he didn’t see it clearly
or his memory played him tricks.”

Another possible lead went glimmering
when a detective checked the shop on
Broadway in New York City where the
“A.B.” hat had been bought. The manage-
ment said there was no possible way of
tracing the purchaser.

Under the assumption that the gunman
may have been an ex-convict, other in-
vestigators painstakingly went over lists
of men recently released from Sing Sing
and other prisons in the state. A few were
found who had the initials “A.B.,” but
it was ultimately determined that none of
them could have had anything to do with
the crime.

Other “A.B.’s” were culled from the
Nassau County telephone directory and
lists of customers of the utility companies.
Each of them were rigorously questioned,
but to no result.

Another time consuming phase of the
inquiry had to do with Nassau County
owners of old blue Willys-Knight sedans.
Half a dozen of them were located and

ete!

grilled, but once again the detectives drew “e ¢

nothing but blanks.

In the meantime the newspapers of Long © es
Island and the metropolitan area had de-./ ee

voted a great deal of publicity to the case, :
and as usual this brought in a flood of tips.
Each of these leads had to be run down—
and in the end every one proved to be»
absolutely worthless.

At a conference with Chief Skidmore e

and Prosecutor Edwards, Inspector King
gloomily summed up the situation when
he said, “A thousand leads and never @.%
break. We'll just have to hope that Ady:
Luck is on our side in this case.” 8
“It may take months or even :

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Santa Gets the Noose

(Continued from page 12)

her hatchet was missing from the cellar!

Boyle showed her the weapon picked
up in the lot near Lehr’s overcoat and she
identified it as hers. She also gave the
lieutenant a photograph belonging to the
absent roomer; it was a picture of a young
woman and two small children, probably
relatives of the roomer.

The man had told his landlady that he
came from around Silver Spring, Md., a
community near Washington. Boyle and
Patrolman Henry Kalter drove there at
once and set out with -the photo of the
woman and children to ay to identify
these people and, through them, the
wanted man.

Several persons recognized the woman
in the picture. Boyle was directed to a
house in Kensington, a few miles away. It
was dark when he and Kalter arrived
there. Through a window they saw a
young man in the living room, talking with
- the woman in the picture. This man fitted

the description of the phony clerk wanted .
Lehr.

in the attack on

Boyle knocked. The man came to the
door. The Baltimore officer told him he
was under arrest, and the man did not
ask why. Boyle did not volunteer the
information, but ordered the suspect to
make ready to return to Baltimore.

The -was Heward Andrew Fram,
31, who told Boyle he had been employed
in another section of Baltimore but re-
cently had lost his job.

He confessed the crime. He told Boyle
he had robbed Lehr of $40 and two car-
tons of cigarettes in order to buy Christ-
mas presents for his two children. Lieu-
tenant Boyle decided to leave the presents
under the tree—Christmas was only five
day away.

Talking freely on the return to Balti-

| more, Fram said he had been sentenced

to one year on a Virginia road gang for
nonsupport of his first wife and two
children, who were living in Alexandria.
After four months, he was paroled from
the road gang.

“I hope they don’t send me back to the
chain gang,” he said. “It was horrible.” ©

He talked most of the way on the 40-
mile journey and said that after he was
divorced he remarried and was the father

of two more children.

Doomed

Fram signed a confession before In-
spector William J. Forrest that night. In
it he said he struck the elderly grocer
several times on. the head with the
hatchet. He said he was forced to wait
on several persons in the store because
just as soon as he had covered Lehr with
the packing crates a customer came in.
During this time a man visited the store
to use the pay telephone. Lehr groaned
and Fram went over and struck the
grocer on the head again with the hatchet.

Fram was charged with assaulting and
striking with intent to kill and rob Lehr.

He was arraigned on that charge on.

December 20, just three days after he had
attacked the grocer.

Magistrate Julius Romano ordered Fram
held without bail for a further hearing on
January 19, after learning that Lehr had
undergone a brain operation.

Fram was taken to the city jail to
await the outcome of the operation. Then
on Christmas Eve, when Baltimoreans

were returning home to decorate their

trees and youngsters anxiously awaited

the arrival of Santa Claus, the officer at the
It was:

hospital called Captain Dunn.
6:55 P.M.
“The old man is dead,” he said.

“This is a_ terrible Christmas present ~

for Lehr’s wife and children,” the cap-
tain said, “And for those kiddies down
in Kensington, too. Thank God they don’t

know that their Santa will have to swing ©

in a noose.’
On Christmas Day Fram was taken again
to court and this time charged with mur-
der. On March 10, 1948, he was found
guilty as charged and Judg
Moser in Criminal Court, after
that mercy in this case wo

laini

the gallows.

Fram’s only excuse was his desire to
provide his youngsters with gifts at
Christmas, and he could not have done
this honestly, he said, because of his un-
employment.

However, unless some higher authority
intervenes, for Fram it will prove the most
costly Christmas he ever, knew. The price
will be his life.

t

Chippy Meets a
Chopper

(Continued from page 17)

I want to talk to Rose Pantiel and Carmen
too. Somewhere in that strange triangle
there might be the solution to this mys-
tery.”

The inspector agreed. “We'll do that.
But here’s something else that will interest
you. Shortly’ after Weiner was released
from Sing Sing in 1945, according to the
safe and loft squad, he was implicated as a
fence. by two men who were convicted in
the theft of $19,000 in cloth from a Fourth
Avenue woolen firm. These crooks swore
he received the stolen goods, but the grand
jury refused to indict Chippy for lack of
evidence. Since we found bolts of cloth in
the apartment, it looks like the guy was in
on some deal. Maybe it led to his murder.”

Rothengast ordered his men out to bring
in the three women. who had figured so in-
timately in the victim’s life. Meanwhile,
Department of Sanitation workers fished
through storm sewers along First Avenue
on the chance that the killer might have
discarded the weapon there. The four slugs
had been removed from the victim’s body

* and, with the bullet pried out of the bed-
room wall, were turned over to Acting —.

Lieutenant Robert Pardus of the ballistics

bureau for comparison with the markings.

of known guns. Pardus established that the
slugs were fired from a 38-caliber revolver,

but the markings checked with none on file. »

graphs of them were retained for checking _.....

Nevertheless the slugs and the

in case the murder weapon was found.

Sylvia Weiner was located in the East —

First Street apartment where she was car-
ing for her baby son. Brought to Pag-

nucco’s office by Miller, she repeated the ~~

story she had related to police earlier that

she had -gone for a walk in the slushy" ‘

streets to ease her nerves.

Girl Friend Brought In

“You claimed you bought some
rettes in a store on Allen Street,” sai

prosecutor. “Lieutenant Miller has qe

tioned the proprietor of that store,
what did he gay?”

be blind ~~
‘and stupid, sentenced Howard Fram _ to

oo tau Saas al

Sb sue

Bea Beet eta

u
SU bake Fu

AS

id the:

Hebe) Bhe ees ei hs

“He didn’t
sembling Mb)
night,” Mille

“Oh, his r
the victim’s -

“Tell me,”
know of any:
kill your hu:

Mrs. Weir
trembling fi
in a puff.
probably—al
and why. C
cause he hac
make enemic
never talked
thing. So I
to names ar
been trying —
ing as a win
a week.”

Miller sno)
the dough v
that expens
furniture?”

The color
“We had see
you know.”

“Where di
from?” Pagn

Sylvia sh
somewhere.
slip covers o:
they were a

The questi
Neylon retu
building witl
and the pros
the better p
victim’s wife
each other -
ingly,, Carm
office, and w
a brief resp
questions at

Surprising
Brooklyn pri
ing calmly,
told how she
friendly for :
days with tl
first, and tl
daughter. 1
sisted, his a
ered. In fact
the day befo

“And not

‘crossing her

him on the }
after 9:30 1
hour before
“What dic
eagerly.
“That Syly
home alone
ing the bs

“Did he n
ted thi
“No. Just
to bed soon.
Willing as
could offer 1
which seeme
after a few
to grill the
process he v
Back in
Brooklyn n
found himse
to find Rose
in-law and
ingly had d:
not at her |.
professed nc
days. No or
gone, and O'
tain of neigh
between hin


54

Carmen had told the police nothing new,
except that Weiner often quarrelled with
Sylvia, and at these times had found solace
with her. But Mrs. Weiner now began to
tell conflicting stories, none helpful.

Her second version was that she had
walked all the way up to Sixteenth Street
the night of the crime and sat there on a
park bench, but the prosecutor again
pointed to the fact that her open-toed shoes
showed no signs of a promenade on slushy
streets. Her third story was that she had
taken a cab to meet somebody at the Hotel
New Yorker, but the “somebody” wasn’t
there and she taxied home. Althugh Pag-
nucco was inclined to believe this story, he
was unable to pry out of her the identity
of the person she was to meet.

“It’s obvious,” he told Inspector Rothen-
gast privately, “that although Mrs. Weiner
knows more than she’s told, she’s in fear
of bodily harm, possibly from this person
she had a date to meet at the New Yorker
—a lead I intend to follow up. We need
her as a witness and I think she should be
held as such to shield her.”

Rothengast agreed. “It soon will be 24
hours that we’ve already had her in cus-
tody,” he observed... “By that time we
must either bring some charge, hold her as
a material witness or release her.”

The victim’s widow had begun to weep

for her baby and pleaded to see him. Ina
last effort to soften her, Rothengast sent
detectives to the East First Street house
to bring back Mrs. Bruches with little
Louis. In Pagnucco’s office the infant was
handed to his mother and the questioning
was resumed, but she still said nothing of
importance.

At 5:30 p.m. Friday, she was led before
General Sessions Judge Owen W. Bohan
and ordered held in lieu of $25,000 bail as a
material witness. Convinced that nothing
further could be learned from them, Pag-
nucco ordered the release of Rose Pantiel
and Carmen Gomez with a warning to
make themselves available for further
questioning or testimony.

Sylvia Weiner was escorted to her home
to supply Mrs. Bruches with clothing and
formulas for the baby. Then she was taken
to the House of Detention, booked by
phone at the Elizabeth Street station and
led to her room,

Now Pagnucco went to work on the slim
lead supplied by the third version of the
widow’s story—the date at the New Yorker
hotel. He asked Inspector Rothengast to
dig into Sylvia Weiner’s past and associa-
tions, particularly during recent months,
in an effort to learn whom she had gone
there to meet. He also requested that every
man or woman known to have associated

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with Chippy Weiner be pulled in for ques
tioning. . er
This was a big assignment, and it
take time. Days passed while the
Street station was turned into a 4
ground for a small army of underworig *
characters, with Lieutenant Miller actins:

as ease marshal. From the hundreds § T'
possible witnesses, scores were screened’
and taken to the Criminal Courts building | <
where they were grilled by Pagnucco and | the
his new superior, Assistant District Attor.*) 13
ney George P. Monaghan, who had just Chiy
succeeded Jacob Grumet as head of Dig.” only
trict Attorney Hogan’s homicide bureay:’) got
Scraps of information were gleaned here 3 Si
and there, but it was impossible to piece 7 Brox
them together in a meaningful pattern *- Don

During this period Pagnucco still clung $9 |
the theory that the identity of the person’ the
Mrs. Weiner was to meet at the New
Yorker on the night of the murder wag q M
the key to the whole case. Yet it seemed

; : A the
impossible to determine who this man*was.-
At last, more than three weeks after ghay
: : ‘ia OTLCH
Sylvia Weiner was locked up, and almost Gol
a month to the day after the crime, the. coma

first real break in the case came. At 8:10
p.M. on Thursday, February 12, two young 3 }it?
thugs attempted to hold up Arthur’ Leven- * T
thal, 39, in his jewelry store at 1607 Broad-
way in the Williamsburg section of Brook= 4 inyy
lyn. Leventhal proved unexpectedly tough
and, although the robbers beat him over “cg

the head unmercifully, he scared them off © Roa
and they fled in their car. The plucky had
jeweler was alert enough to memorize the a fu

license number of the machine, which he 3230
turned over to detectives of the Ralph.

a |
Avenue station. | —
They traced the. plate to a drive-it- oud
yourself agency, where they learned that tagr

the car had been rented by Arthur Troiano, y
17, of 94 Heyward Street. The Brooklyn Sto
detectives hurried to Troiano’s home,

where the youth imsisted he had loaned. he 4
the car to William Sullivan and Santo “Sal” | toad
Bretagna. ; a to

Bretagna, a 28-year-old denizen of the hote
underworld, had vanished from his home ‘Wh
in Middleton Street in Brooklyn before

detectives got there. But they grabbed neg
Sullivan, only 17, as he was eating dinner laid
with his parents. "ot
After six hours of grilling in the Ralph °F
Avenue station detective rooms, Sullivan nigt
confessed to the attempted robbery of the It
jeweler’s shop and implicated Bretagna: oe
He said he had no idea where Bretagna - d
was at the present. gy 3m
His involvement in the one holdup at- ; ae

tempt led the sleuths to suspect that young , A
Sullivan probably had been in on other .; *e
jobs. Patiently they questioned him as to | &
his whereabouts and activities on night ~
after night in recent weeks. 5

For about ten days back he could give | . A
a reasonably detailed account of where he j
had been and what he had done. Beyond
that time his memory became dimmer; |
some nights he could recall because of a { Stoc
special event, but for other nights he could ,
offer no explanation whatever. Legmen °
on the detective force began in §
robbery reports on these nights to learn, —
whether Sullivan could be identified: i
any of these crimes. ee

In this tedious, routine interrogation
detectives came finally to the

January 13. ae s
“I was with Sal,” Sullivan remembered. &
“There were a couple of other guys #90 a A
and two babes. We were drin cing at)
party ms suite in a hotel up mF ft
fourth Street in Manhattan, . 499
o'clock we decided to go swimming
St. George over here in Brookly=
tagna started out with us but.
the car down on the East Side; ato


lancey and Eldridge Streets. He said some-
thing about meeting Willie Rosenberg
there. They rejoined the party later, back
at the Forty-fourth Street place.”

The detectives questioning Sullivan fol-
lowed his story intently. Why did he re-
nember so many details of a seemingly
inimportant evening a month before?

There must be some reason for his recol-
lection of the party in the New York hotel

1 »@ and at the swimming pool. In looking over
0 and | the crime reports for the night of January
\ttor-""f 13, the Brooklyn detectives noted that
| just} Chippy Weiner was slain in an apartment
Dis- | only a few blocks from where Sal Bretagna
ireau,. 4 got out of a car at around 10 o'clock!
'here-} Sullivan «was rushed to the office of
piece { Brooklyn’s District Attorney Miles Mc-

tteen 2 Donald, where the prosecutor and _ his

+ assistant, Samuel Gitlin, began quizzing
the youth on the Weiner rubout. Sullivan
New} clammed up.

r Was’ McDonald phoned his colleagues across
emed_| the East River, and Pagnucco and Mona-
rwas. } shan asked that Sullivan be brought at
after} once to them. Inspectors Rothengast and
Imost ¢ Goldman sat in on the interrogation, which
», the ; continued for some time before Sullivan
t 8:10 | blurted, “Okay, I know about Chippy being
ps2 hit,”

even=: To be “hit” was a Brooklyn gang term
road~ | for various types of assault, including
rook- | murder.

tough ; “Who hit him?” Pagnucco demanded.
aa « “Sal. Like I said, he was to meet Willie

i Rosenberg to go to see Chippy. Weiner

lucky ‘ had tried to gyp Sal of his six grand cut on
e the ©. fur hijacking job over in Jersey. It was
ch he | 3 30-grand strike and Sal was in for a fifth,
Ralph = put Chippy held out on him. He told Ro-
. = senberg, ‘The hell with Sal, we’ll cut him
ve-It- | out.’ Weiner didn’t know Willie and Bre-
| that | tagna were good pals. Willie told Sal.
" “About 11:30, while we were still at the
em it. George pool, Sal phoned me. He said
- e had to see me back at the Forty-fourth
“Sal” * Street spot about something very impor-
_ tant. He said he’d hit somebody and had -
i oe to have dough to lam to Florida. In the

hotel he told me about Chippy, and said,

vrsoed ‘Why, that rat, I put five slugs into him and
bbed he still ran after me in the hall.’ ‘
inner , J told Sal I didn’t have any dough. He
laid low awhile, and then the Weiner case
Ralph got just too hot. You see, somebody—but
llivan I don’t know who—did phone Sylvia that
of the night and make a date at the New Yorker.
tagna: It was to get her out of the apartment so
tagna Sal could talk to Chippy. Anyhow, Sal
,and I tried to pull that heist at the
a | jeweler’s to get him some dough to cop a
omg ‘ride outa town.”
other A nationwide alarm was flashed on Bre-
es 10 i tagna with the warning to police every-
.+ «where, “Use caution. This man is armed
«and dangerous.”
i give _. A Sing Sing parolee first picked up as a
re he {Juvenile delinquent at the age of 12, Bre-

‘tagna was described as five feet seven
inches tall, weighing 165 pounds, with a
; Stooped right shoulder‘and a scar on his
4Upper lip. _Sallow-faced, with dark hair
“and brown eyes, he was said to have the
following characteristics:
% “Talks slowly. A flashy dresser. Last
en wearing a brown fedora with brim
Fs, 5 a up, brown overcoat, brown suit,

Mt

shit

¥

Be

th brown thin-soled shoes and flashy tie.

nthe | shoes
nt of .@Smokes Lucky Strike cigarettes continu-

s4f- ously. Drinks Scotch whisky. Likes com-
pered- 4jPany of females.”

f, tor As the alarm went out across the country
at. nd 60 detectives started combing Bre-

fortY_ _ gna’s haunts in New York City, other
ay a fetectives were sent racing through Brook-
ae mvt, the lower East Side and Greenwich
ee lage to bring in the material witnesses
ma. mm cntified as the result of a checkup on
eae livan’s story.

<
Bo

THERES SOMETHING] ESPECIALLY WHEN

SMOOTH ABOUT

Chief of these was Willie Rosenberg, a
slight, bald man who had spent most of his
42 years in prison. Rosenberg was seized
at his home-at 164 Havemeyer Street in
Brooklyn and whisked to the offices of
District Attorney Hogan. There, under the
hammering of Hogan, Monaghan and Pag-
nucco, he -broke down and admitted that
it was he who had told Bretagna of Wein-
er’s intention to defraud him of his share
of the fur hijack loot.

“Sal wanted to kill Chippy,” Rosenberg
declared. “Because we were pals, he
talked me into telephoning Sylvia Weiner
several hours before the job and making a
date to meet her at the New Yorker that
night at 10 o’clock. I used a phony name—
but one she knew. Sylvia kept the date,
but I didn’t. Sal just wanted to get her out
of the apartment while he did the job.”

Clue In Letter
Rosenberg would not admit that he had

. accompanied Bretagna to the scene of the

crime nor that he had witnessed it. Hogan
and his aides, however, were confident that
his admissions were the first steps toward
a later confession as a full accomplice.
The prosecutor arranged to have Rosen-
berg held in $75,000 bail as a material
witness, while Sullivan—the original in-
formant—and the other three men and two
girls who had attended the wild party in
the ‘Manhattan hotel were held in total
bail of $135,000, also as material witnesses.
Throughout the night and during the
following. day, the feverish manhunt for
Santo Bretagna continued. On a tip that
the fugitive was trying to leave the coun-
try as a seaman, squads of detectives cov-
ered the waterfront, checking outgoing
vessels and making inquiries of shipping
officials.. Union hiring halls were watched.
A close guard also was kept on jewelry
and liquor stores on the chance that Bre-
tagna would try. another stickup to raise
the money for a getaway. Second-rate
Brooklyn hotels, which he was known to
frequent, were kept under surveillance.
Former girl friends were visited and their
homes searched, with the aid of warrants,
and guards posted there. All persons
known to have associated with him were
shadowed. In addition to keeping a watch
on the fugitive’s friends and relatives, de-
tectives also arranged with postal authori-
ties to intercept and examine their mail.
On Saturday, March 6, detectives sha-
dowing one of his friends saw the man post
a letter which they later examined. Bear-

4 USE NEW
STAR BLADES /

ing the proper return address, it was ad-
dressed to a man in Bridgeport, Conn., and
contained money. The officers promptly
arrested the sender, Raphael Argoni, 26, a
truck driver, at his home in Middle Village,
Queens. Argoni admitted that Bretagna
had called him from Bridgeport on Thurs-
day, begging for money, and that the cur-
rency was intended for the fugitive. Ar-
goni was held as a material witness.

Inspector Rothengast phoned Bridgeport
police, who visited the address to which the
cash had been sent. But Bretagna had
pulled out ahead of them.

New York detectives followed his trail,
which led first to Hartford, then to Boston,
where it was lost.

Realizing that Bretagna’s principal weak-
ness was for women, Lieutenant Miller and
Detectives O’Brien and Neylon set out
scouring the bars and cocktail lounges of
the Massachusetts city for beauties of the
kind that would attract the fugitive.

After scores of futile inquiries, made,
guardedly without disclosing their identity,
the officers finally found two women who
had made friends with a stranger answer-
ing Bretagna’s description. The pair, a
statuesque blonde and a voluptuous red-
head, had become so chummy with this
man that they had let him live for a time
at their home in suburban Everett. The
stranger, who had boasted of coming from
New York, told them his name was Jim
Trestia.

“Look,” said Miller, showing his badge.
“We're New York detectives. We have
every reason to believe this man is wanted
for murder. You’re lucky you haven’t met
with harm. Will you help us set a trap
for him?” -

“We sure will,” the redhead said ear-
nestly. “We had no idea what he really
was. What do you want us to do?”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No, but he usually meets us in Scol-
lay’s Bar at Hanover Street and Scollay
Square,” put in the blonde.

“All right, then,” instructed Miller.
“Telephone the bar and tell them you'll
meet Jim Trestia there tonight. You set
the time.”

The girls did as they were told. That
night the New York detectives, backed up
by Boston plainclothesmen and patrolmen,
walked into the bar shortly after the ap-
pointed time. Bretagna was standing at
the bar, waiting for the girls. Miller
walked over and quietly put his hand on
the fugitive’s shoulder.

“We want you,” he said.

55


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Se eee om se eo ss ooo oe oo 8

Bretagna glanced up suddenly, his black
eyes mirroring fear and hate. But he made
no move. “Okay,” he growled. “I'll go.”

The detectives searched the prisoner and
found him unarmed. He had only $1.30 in
his pockets. Taken to Boston police head-
quarters, he waived extradition, and the
officers escorted him aboard the next train
for New York. .

In New York Monaghan and Pagnucco
were waiting to question him. At first- he
was sullen and defiant, but gradually his
boldness faded. Confronted with witnesses
and their statements involving him, he
broke down at last.

“Tll talk!” he shouted excitedly. “I'll
make a statement. But I’m not going to
hold the bag! I’m not going to take it
alone! Willie Rosenberg is in this just as
much as I am!”

Then, while a stenographer took down

his words, Bretagna made a complete con-

fession.

He had known Weiner and Rosenberg in
prison, he began. In the fall of 1947 he
had been released from Sing Sing on pa-
role, and promptly looked up Rosenberg.
Willie complained he had made a $500 loan

| to Chippy, but when he looked for pay-

ment, Chippy always said he was broke.
Rosenberg also told him Weiner had held
out on his share of a hijacking job.

“Willie began to think about killing
Chippy,” Bretagna declared. “We used to
meet often at my brother’s dry-cleaning
place down in Brooklyn, and we met there
the afternoon of January 13. Willie asked
me to lend him my gun and told me to
meet him that night in a restaurant on
Delancey Street. I told him I had a date,
but would see him later.”

Rosenberg had called Mrs. Weiner earlier
and had made the phony date to meet her
at the New Yorker in order to get her out
of the apartment.

Bretagna said he had never been to the
Weiner home before, but Rosenberg had
and so led the way. Coming up in the ele-
vator, he said Willie handed the gun back
to him and asked him to do the job, add-
ing, “I'll tell you when to use this cannon
on that guy.”

Weiner had met them at the door, Bre-
tagna continued, and asked them inside.
Seated in the living room, they talked

| while Chippy mixed drinks. Then Weiner

turned to go for more ice.

“Willie saw that he had his back to us
‘and nudged me,” Bretagna declared. “ ‘Now
give it to him!’ he said. I'whipped out the
gun. Chippy saw it and ran into the bed-
room. He crouched behind the kid’s crib,
whining and pleading. ,But I came in after
him and let him haveAt. Then we ran out.”

The rest of Bre ’s story was as the
authorities piwntiy eaaw it. He managed

to hide out at various places. in the city
until February 16, when the alarm for his
arrest was sent out. Then he fled by train
to Hartford.
{Confronted with Bretagna’s confession,
ill nberg soon threw in the towel
and admitted that it was he who plotted
the crime, persuaded Bretagna to do it for
him and had accompanied him on the job.
Arraigned in Felony Court on murder
charges, they were remanded to prison -to
await action of the grand jury. On March
19, they were indicted on charges of first
degree murder.
- As they await trial, District Attorney
Hogan is confident that the two ex-convicts
are headed for the electric chair.

Eprror’s Note: To spare possible embar-
rassment to innocent persons, the names
Carmen Gomez, William Sullivan, and
Raphael Argoni, used in this story, are fic-
titious.

Why Did Dora
Have to Die?

(Continued from page 38)

repeated over and over, and always there ~

was the same answer. “There was nobody

around here who had any reason to kill.

her.”

Disorder In House
While Coroner Thompson arranged for

removal of the body to a mortuary, Sheriff ~

Jones and Judge Sears made a search of.
the house. They found the bedroom a
shambles but could not be certain whether
the open bureau drawers, the clothes scat-
tered on the floor and the general dis-

order were the result of her efforts to sort |
and pack her belongings or if intruders -

had ransacked the place.
Some of the bedding was on the floor,
the mattress pulled partly off the springs

and a small chair beside the bed was over-
turned. If Mrs. Bachstein was attacked in “
this room it was evident she had had little _
opportunity to resist since an old-fashioned
kerosene lamp on a table beside the bed
was lighted. Had she struggled the table ~
certainly would have been jostled and the |

lamp overturned.
A partially packed suitcase was evidence

that she had sorted some of her things for |

her moving to town that morning. Appar-
ently she planned later to dispose of the
rest of her belongings.

uaa *

WE BND ity id

i i nc ants hain

Se tala = eet at A> te

The remaining three rooms in the small ©

house had not been cleaned for weeks. .

Refuse lay on the floor, a thick layer of
dust covered the furniture and pictures
and the curtains were a dirty gray. Judge

Sears commented on this condition. “That’s:’
why I was appointed her guardian. She -
couldn’t. take care of herself any longer
and we had to get her into town where -

someone could lock after her.”

“One of the neighbors hinted that we :
might look into her husband’s death,” —

Jones remarked.

“It seems possible now that someone.

4

}

$3 {
t

+
i
4

4]
ee

;

wanted to get rid of them both,”: Sears =)
nodded. | oe
“But why?” Jones questioned. “It all 4

comes back to that one question. What”

did either of them have that was valuable.
enough to cause murder? And why would
her husband’s killer wait eight months to
get rid of her? How could he know that.
last night was his only chance to find her
alone. before she moved to town? How

many people knew you were going to.
move her today?”
“Not many,” Sears replied. “I didn’t.

know it myself until 4 o’clock yesterday .

afternoon.”

Shortly after noon Sheriff Jones inter- _

rupted a session of the Shelby County
grand jury and told them of the strangé.
circumstances involved in Mrs. Bachsteins.
death. “The autopsy and coroner’s ju
will decide she died by drowning,”.
asserted, “but I want to know how.

ot into that well. What happened to th

4

2

‘a

>

ie

aie

ye
oy
ie}
ab 6

‘ss

woe

%
ee

juaisaelicaiantde

ke

hue Ss.

welry in the sack? Who was at her house. oi

at midnight?” . en

The grand jury went to the Bachs
farm, inspected the premises, and auth
ized a complete investigation. As She
Jones had predicted, the coroner’s
returned a verdict of death due to d
ing but asked the sheriff to find
swers to some puzzling questions. P

Hiram and Dora Bachstein had . “3
the farm for nearly a quarter of a cent
The 58 acres had provided them

at et et oe ~«

Sm Shh


ITERALLY scared to death, two

thugs who gloried in reputations as
“tough guys” in Brooklyn, N. Y., paid
with their lives in Sing Sing’s chair for
a holdup-murder which netted a bag of
nickels,

For the killing of Edwin Esposito, a
young subway collector, Theodore Dij-
Donne, 31, stumbled to the chair and
had to have his head clamped to the
cap that carries the fatal juice. DiDonne
left a destitute wife and two small chil-
dren,

Next went John Bolognia, 24, who
bragged that he was known as “Tough
Tony,” and swaggered for the police
films in the line-up. Just before he sat
down to his death he upbraided reporters,
whining that they were crucifying him by
labelling him “tough.”

—,

>

Tillie Klimek, 58, Chicago’s Mme.
Bluebeard, whose unbelievable record of
poisonings shocked the nation in 1923,
died of heart trouble in the women’s
prison at Dwight, IIL She had killed three

Sahat TEE,

of her husbands, two of her lovers and
unnumbered friends and relatives. Only
one husband and a son survived her
deadly fondness for arsenic.

bd

When three bullets bounced off his
skull three years ago, Peter “Redshirt”
Felice, former beer salesman for the late
“Legs” Diamond, New York racketeer,
boasted: “They can’t kill me!” He'll
never know how wrong he was. Police
recently carted his body away from in
front of a Harlem tenement, where one
a in the back of the neck laid him
dead.

ad

Blasted to smithereens by five tons of
dynamite, Harold Baker, former Cali-
fornia convict, was put out of the way
on New Year’s Eve by three gangsters
at Sioux Falls, S. D. Baker’s girl friend,
with frozen feet and eight bullet wounds,
lived to tell the story.

ad

In a quarrel over. division of the spoils
from a daring $17,818 hold-up of nearly
‘one hundred clerks and customers in a
New York City store, bandit Fred Dunn
— double-crossed and murdered by his
pals,

>

After a gun battle growing out of a
policy game rivalry in a bondsman’s office
two doors from a police station in Atlanta.
Ga., gunmen killed Wasden “Bill” Bill-
ingsley and Spencer Mitchell.

“What I can’t understand is how a guy with a face like yours could commit bigamy.”

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_tf

Newell P. Sherman,
scout leader and psalm
singer, faces the elec-
tric chair for the mur-
der by drowning of his
young wife at Lake
Singletary, Mass. He
is seen with deputy
sheriffs after hearing
his sentence.

ON 1 2 TE oo Se SD

:

Harlan Crouch, Ih-
dianapolis liquor run-
ner, captured by Fed-
eral ageats and police
after a_ thirteen - day
hunt. He is charged
with the murder of
a Federal agent.

rial of
f the
lunch
I can’t Robert S. James, bar-
can After embezzling $12,- ber _ shop Lothario,
ig you into 000 from a New York convicted on morals
golf club, Demetrius charges involving his
Cirket ‘‘disappeared”’ twenty - one - year-old
for eight years. His niece. Faces trial for
Vhy st ld application for a the mysterious death
ei SNOUNC soldier’s bonus trapped of his fifth wife, found
Murder him in Los Angeles drowned in a lily-pond.
d stamped
1 it hurts!’

as a steno-

Thomas West (eft)
and Philip Goldberg

Six youths sentenced

‘ aki (right) are seen with je Ms Bey eobenae

tO make Captain William Lewis and murder of a sub-

it we were of the Bureau of Crimi- way: collector First

loaees : nal Investigation, after be left to right:

leasant as confessing the murder Salvator Scata and

we knew rf ie Eckert in a Dominick  Zizzio;

could con- ahd ork subway Second seat: Samuel

° . station. Kimmel and Joe Bolo-

gnia; Third seat:

Dr. Car- Eugene Bruno and

. Theodore Di Donna.
fe Inquiry,
n stripped
V[oore, and
Patrolman
aquarters.
it covered
arp steel
rrible ad-
the skull
of the
e 106)

SET T


BOLOGNIA, Joseph & DiDIONNE, Theodore, whites, elec. NY® (Kings) January 7, 1937

Bete nny
.

MASTER DETECTIVE, May, 1939

BY
GEORGE COURSON

USKY, ruddy-cheeked Edwin Esposito,
revenue collector for the B. M. T. sys-
tem, hummed a little tune to himself as
he hurried to the agent’s booth of the
Avenue X station on the Culver Line of the
elevated railroad in Brooklyn, New York.

“What are you so pleased about, young man?”
asked the station agent, Mrs. Eisie Merz, a
twinkle in her kindly gray eyes.

“T’ve got a date,” replied Esposito. “A date to
get married—next month.”

Mrs. Merz beamed. “Congratulations,” she
said.

“We're going to look at apartments next week,”
Paarieed Esposito told her. He knelt before the station
Ss safe and turned the key. The heavy iron door

Governor Herbert H. Lehman, of New York,
who commuted the sentences of four of the six
condemned desperadoes. (Below) Unaware of
his impending fate, Edwin Esposito alighted at
Avenue X in Brooklyn. A few minutes later
he lay dead—victim of a  bandit’s bullets

SLi biealh pindtbetinagnt


wisting and dodg-
getting to stay in
» rest.”

Kuhlman, Poh-
considered as a
police. However,
ned his men that
1 would shoot. to

carried a gun
He was a petty
often for a living
ct of squalid con-
e had been work-
day of his arrest.
tarper, Kuhlman
ype that abhors

talk in Ohio,
said: “Wait until
nown as a square

< to Matt Leach.
lice commander
quickly, taking

finger missing.
d I would know

ial difference in
by Poholsky and
ky placed Hicks
it actually at the
Captain Miller.
‘000 to take part
:d the offer
‘ot, because
derers, was

al told as coldly
mberment as of
*h he had ‘been

1.and Hicks had
ome on the pre-
roducing Kuhl-
hisky salesmen.
the auto while
he house. Soon
ticks called for

onscious on the
lind while he,
ook the uncon-
ito. Hicks later

to Cincinnati.

1ots

Warsaw. Ken-
ited for a ferry,
ining. Poholsky

leaned back,
lown with one
es with a gun
aptain Miller’s
drove to Madi-
back into Ken-

he lonely bap- °
iad decided to
| digging. After
d rock and had

tremor how he
inds. “I expect
(’'m ready. But
iger on Hicks

ed on Decem- ©
 C. O'Byrne
cutor Kenneth
T owe and J.
rney gen-

going on
‘ot on the trail
His progress

Seatiestncieistte Solicit am ree

was marked by holdups and led through
Nebraska. Once they thought they had
him in Lincoln, but he escaped to the
West Coast.

Early the morning of December 10
two bandits held up a downtown Port-
land, Oregon theater, tied up the theater
official employes and officials, and walked
out with a bag containing almost $1.000.
Unfortunately for the bandits, two police-
men aproached the theater just then to
act as guards for the transfer of the very
money the bandits carried.

Suspicious of the two strangers, the
officers followed them to an auto parked
nearby, then accosted them. One bandit
reached for his gun. A police fist swung
and connected hard with the bandit’s eye.
The bandit crumbled.

He was William Kuhlman. His finger-
prints quickly showed what he was
wanted for and before many hours In-
diana State Patrolmen Barton and Sheriff
Pulskamp were on a plane headed for
Portland.

Kuhlman' confessed to Portland Pol
Chief H. M. Niles. He waived extr:
tion, confessing again to Captain
Leach after a fast return by plane\to
Indiana. He told the Hicks’ jury ess
tially the same gruesome story Poholsky
already had so unfeelingly told ther.

He told Leach of a girl Williams had
picked up in Chicago and fallen in love
with, refusing to leave her. State detec-
tives immediately obtained information
about the girl. In Chicago they found her
parents. And on that day, Captain Matt
Leach in Brookville at the Hicks trial
offered to bet that Williams would be
under arrest in five days.

From the parents the detectives had
learned that the girl wrote letters to them,
and obtained the address of her apart-
ment in San Francisco.

e

Steps Into Police Trap

Ped: December 16 a young man who
only a few days before had obtained
employment in a San Francisco dry
goods store as a salesman walked into the
apartment of the girl with whom he had
fallen in love.

It was into the arms of the police he
walked instead of into the arms of the
girl. He told her he hoped to escape the
electric chair and come back to her some-
time. She told him she would be waiting.

But opposed to the story of Frank Gore
Williams that he only thought Captain
Miller was to be kidnapped and that he
was not in the auto when the captain was
shot were the adverse stories of the
others. The same fate threatened him
that the jury had given to Heber L. Hicks
on December 21.

“Guilty of first degree murder as
charged in the indictment.”

That same night Judge O'Byrne sen-
tenced Hicks to die April 10 in the elecsric
chair.

Williams, Poholsky and Kuhlman were
whisked away to the state reformatory
after the trial because of fear that a jail
delivery would be attempted. Their pleas
were taken in February.

The piece of flesh and piece of home-
made shirt found about a mile and a half
from the baptismal pool was called only
a coincidence by the prosecution in the
Hicks trial. The jury said in its verdict
that the jurisdiction was in Indiana. Even
if the shots had been fired in Kentucky.
the state established through medical tes-
timony that the blows struck ‘in: Indiana
would have been fatal. r

OHN FIORENZA, depraved sex

! murderer of Mrs. Nancy Titterton in
New York, was executed in the Sing
Sing death chair after appeals and peti- -
tions to the governor had failed. A
sirigle strand of rope was the clue that

doomed Fiorenza to death.

one >

Theodore DiDonne, 31, and Joseph
Bolognia, 24, two of six thugs who killed
a subway collector for a bagful of nickels,
paid for their brutal crime in the electric
chair.

od

Louis R. Shaver, 58, was hanged at San
Quentin prison for the murder of his wife,
Lillian. Jealousy was the motive for the
murder.’

Sd

Jesse Roberts, 24, a grocery clerk,
turned bandit and.killed a tavern keeper
in Chicago during a gun battle in which
he was wounded.: The wound proved
fatal. Roberts’ first crime was his last.

ad

Tommie Howard was hanged in Caddo
parish jail, Louisiana, for the ambush
shooting of Daniel’L. Perkins, who sur-
Mag his wounds, but was, crippled for
life.

ad

Louis Lazar, 29, was electrocuted for
the murder of Morris Saskowitz, 55.
Lazar killed Saskowitz during an argu-
ment over a $25 paint bill.

>

Chester White, 33, who slew his sweet-
heart; Charles Ham, 20, and Fred Fowler,
who killed a man during a holdup, were
executed on the same night at Sing Sing
prison.

bd

Edward Williams, 62, a confidence man
‘jn the county jail at Chicago, complained
of rheumatic pains and was given a cup
of linament. He drank it and died a
suicide.

5d

One of Sing Sing’s: oldest inmates,
Jack Parker; 76, died.there recently of
pneumonia. All his life Parker had been
in and out of prison. At the time. of his
death he was serving a life sentence as
a fourth offender. He was known as
the “Gold Brick King.”

CRIME NEVER PAYS

~~

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inate! teas

seen on the elevated platform at
Avenue X. Thomas Powers, the
motorman, had been closest. When
he stopped the train, he was 35 feet
away from them. But he had seen
actions, rather than the details of
their faces. He saw one man, whose
hair looked red under the platform
lights, slap his companion repeated-
ly in the face, as if trying to revive
him from drunkenness, Neither the
descriptions furnished by Nicholas
Ellinas, the cénductor, nor George
Schumm, the station inspector, were
of much help.

At 6 A.M., September 4th, Tracy,

accompanied by Detective James.

McNally, took shelter behind the
shrubbery near the Second Street
side of Carroll Park. They saw a cab
approaching from the direction of
the Red Hook district. It swerved
into Carroll Street and came to a
stop. Both the driver and the pass-
enger got out, looked about in all
directions, and lighted cigarettes.
The cab was owner-operated, and it
seemed plain that the two men knew
each other.

Tracy nudged his partner and
they advanced swiftly upon the pair.
McNally was closest to the passen-
ger.

“Hello, Duke,” Tracy called as he
strode up.

“T don’t know you,” said the man.

Tracy grabbed the driver with a
hand-hold that made him squirm.
McNally had his gun out, and with
the other hand grasped a handful
of the Duke’s shirt.

Tracy said to the driver, ““What’s
that man’s name — quick!”

“Let me go!” the driver gasped.

“Quick — his name!” insisted
Tracy, and bore down on the man’s
wrist.

“Duke — Scata ... You’re break-
ing my arm!”

Tracy eased up. “Come on, get in
the car and drive.”

Detective McNally - shoved the
Duke in ahead of him. Tracy ordered
the driver to go to the Butler pre-
cinct station. There, the two men
were questioned separately, Tracy
taking charge of the sallow, fright-
ened figure of the Duke.

He denied any knowledge of a
holdup. Tracy wanted to know about
the nickels changed into bills at the

S Street place. The Duke said he had

won them in a game of stud poker
on Sunday night. The detective
wanted particulars. Where was the
poker game held? Who were the
players? How much had he won?
Had there been any drinking? Where
had the liquor been bought? When
had he left Hartford, and why?
When Tracy asked questions, he

50

i

demanded fast answers. He had a
way of punctuating his interroga-
tions with a slap of his hand on his
knee. The sound began to fray
Scata’s nerves, .

The poker game had taken place
in a house on Smith Street. The
Duke wasn’t sure of the address or
the name of the tenant. He profess-
ed to be a stranger among the par-
ticipants of the game. He heard the
men called by nicknames such as
Slim, Mutzie, Red, Teddy ... Tracy
pricked up his ears at the mention
of the name, Red.

“Was he the one who slapped
your face on the platform?”

The Duke’s teeth began to chatter.
He said he had no idea what Tracy
was talking about.

“Whose initials are J.C.C.?” Tracy
demanded. :

“T don’t know.”

Tracy got the hat. “Let me show
you something,” he offered. He turn-
ed the sweat-band down. “I talked
with your uncle, Mike Aloese. He
said he stitched that hat for you

last summer, when you were work-

ing in the shop. He says it’s your
hat. I want you to come clean.”

There was terror in Scata’s eyes.
The detective sat back and lit a cig-
arette and »stuck it between the
other’s lips. Scata sucked at it grate-
fully. -

“I know you didn’t do the shoot-
ing, Duke,” Tracy went on. “I’m
willing to believe you were entirely
innocent. But you were there. The
hat proves it.”

Duke Scata broke down and ad-
mitted ownership of the hat. But he
was innocent of the crime, he said.

He explained about the initials,
J.C.C. He had chosen them purpose-
ly when he bought the hat, so that
in case of trouble and he lost it, the

police would be unable to trace it.

to him. By this admission he reveal-
ed a sense of guilt which had
prompted him to protect his identity
long in advance of “trouble.”
“You're in trouble now,” Tracy
said grimly. “How are you going to
get out of it?” :
The Duke didn’t know. He couldn’t
help Tracy, he said. He didn’t know
the men by name. He insisted that
he was telling the truth about the
card game. They had played cards
at the Smith Street place, and at an-
other time at a flat over Antico’s
Bar and Grill on Carroll Street.
' Tracy let him relax a while. Mc-
Nally hadn’t found out much that
was of any use about the cab driver,
whose name was Hugo Crupi.
Though the man knew Scata, he
knew nothing about the holdup, and

_gave the impression of telling the

truth. The detectives decided to let
him go.

They reported their findings thus
far to Headquarters and transfer-
red Duke Scata into the hands of
the Homicide Squad _ detectives.
Tracy accompanied two other Brook-
lyn detectives in a raid at Antico’s
that night. They herded a number
of non-descripts into Butler Street
and proceeded with a systematic
grilling. The hunt, meanwhile, cen-
tered on the Smith Street house.

At 277 Smith Street, detectives
discovered a man. named William

McCarthy, who lived in a four-room:

flat with his wife and child. They had
been on relief for a year and a half,
McCarthy said, and had rented the
room to a boarder whom he knew
only as “Mutzie.” Mutzie foregath-
ered with a number of friends on
Sunday night, September 1st, for a
game of cards. At about 12:30 A.M.
they broke up and went out for
beer, according to McCarthy. They
returned after a few hours and made
so much noise with their talk that
McCarthy got up out of bed. His
wife was sick, and he decided to go
into the boarder’s room to ask the
men to tone down their conversation.
He found them counting money —
some bills and silver, but mostly
nickels.

They apologized for having dis-
turbed Mrs. McCarthy and one of
them, Mutzie, perhaps, ‘suggested
that each chip in a dollar for some
flowers. Coins were added to the pot,
bringing the amount of the gift to
$10. McCarthy thanked them and
retired to: his room. Soon after, the
men left the house. He thought it
must have been as late as 4 A.M.

Detectives took McCarthy to
Headquarters and brought him face
to face with the men herded from
Antico’s. Duke Scata, too, was
there, whom McCarthy identified at
once as having participated in the
early morning rendezvous. He also
recognized ‘‘Mutzie’’ whose name
was Theodore Di Donne, and Joseph
“Red” Bolognia.

From one of the latter the detec-
tives gathered the names of Domi-
nick Zizzo, Samuel Kimmel and Eu-
gene Bruno.

Detective Edward J. Murphy was
assigned to the task of bringing in

Zizzo, who lived at 789 McDonald -

Avenue. He got there at 1:45 A.M.,
the morning of September 5th, to
find Zizzo under a bed in one of the
rooms where he lived with his fam-
ily. A sum of $25 was in his pocket,
which he readily confessed had come
as proceeds of th holdup. His share
of the loot had been $36, $11 of
which he had since lost at cards.

The tip-o
“he said, wh

ing observe
revenue me
collection ro
and for ma}
holdup.

Di Donne
the larger
Kimmel and
$36. Counti)
McCarthy, t
loot taken w

By morni:
were being i
of District .
Geoghan. W)
it was inevi
be conflictin;
incriminate
was no longé
guilt.

The holdu)
weeks in adv
at Avenue X
ceded the or
The two mer
Duke Scata
Seata hadn't
scared and }
He had been
clared he wo
why Bologniz
The third ma

FLAMES Hi!
(Contin:

They made a
which he wa
cer’s house.
On the por
Clarence Pop:
“IT spoke t
when I first
sounding of t.
cer explained.
was the one v
and his wife
asleep when ;
phone and
seemed to be
“In his hou
“Yes. Whe
was that they
the flames an
cation. The «
immediately a
child and the
amination of
found out th:
door, he soun.
“Did you s
after that?”
“Yes, indee
time until thi:
“Was anyon
“Yes, his wi
“Anyone els
“Not that I


is; build, small;
on all fingers
ockey and may
ithorities warn

vhereabouts to
rly Hills, Calif.

id to the appre-
ted to notify the

If a fugitive is
publication, and
within 24 hours.
3 payable to the
ficer who effects
eligible for the

ar MMM 7
MMM 7

sie

s, the photograph 1
r crime will appear

ing photo for pub-
at. Police circulars,
' ¢ reproduction.
scars, tattoos,
resume of the

__... official sources

ed.

ADAM HAT MURDER

- (Continued from page 15)
knew from his occasional visit that
he was not generally in need of

_ change.

“How do you want it?”

“All nickels,” Tracy said.

The man grunted. ‘Take quarters,
will you?” he begged. ‘Nickels are
my stock in trade.”

“Tt must be nickels,” Tracy insist-

The man sighed and lifted a cigar
box from beneath the counter and
began laboriously to count out nick-
els. He had a plentiful supply.

“Where did you get all those
nickels?” Tracy inquired.

“T have to have ’em,” the other
explained. ‘“‘See those pin-ball ma-
chines ?”

“That’s not answering my ques-
tion.”

The other dropped his voice. ‘Is
it nickels you want — or something
else?”

“TI don’t want your nickels,” Tracy
assured him. “Listen. There was a
holdup and murder early this morn-
ing on the Culver Line. A BMT rev-
enue collector was shot, and the rob-
bers got away with three canvas
sacks full of nickels and other mon-
ey. Some place like this would be
ideal for getting rid of nickels.”

The other hesitated.

“You see,” Tracy wnt on, “paper
money is safer to carry than a load
of nickels. What do you think?”

“Now I get it!’”’ the man breathed.
“Listen. Step close up. There’s a
fellow, I believe he’s called the Duke,
sometimes makes calls from that
phone booth in the corner. He’s been
expecting a call — told me to let him
know if a guy named Andy calls
him up on this phone. He came in
around noon today with a bunch of
nickels. I gave him singles — $15.
But he had more nickels in his pock-
et, probably unloaded them in some
other place. He won ’em in a card
game, he said.”

“Will he be around tonight?”
Tracy asked.

“You never know.”

“What does he look like?” _

_ “Young, dresses sharp — nothing
out of the ordinary. Hundreds like
him. I wouldn’t take him for a stick-
up, though. Listen, the customers
are starting to come in.”

Tracy took the hint. “I’ll call up
and say I’m ‘Andy’,” he said. ‘Tell
him ‘Andy’ has been trying to get
him all day.”

“If he shows up,” the other prom-
ised, “I will.”

When he got back to Headquar-
ters, Tracy found that the detectives
in Brooklyn had shown what could
be accomplished by good organiza-
tion and diligence. The stitching in
the gray fedora had been acknowl-
edged by Mike Aloese, who owned a
shoe and hat repair shop at 277

‘Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn. The hat be-

longed to his nephew, Salvatore
Scata, who had worked in his shop
last summer. So far as Aloese knew,
Scata was in Hartford, Connecticut
with his family. There was no ex-
planation Aloese could give about
the initials, J.C.C. He figured that
his nephew had bought the hat from
a previous owner, or had got it sec-
ond-hand. According to a report
from relatives in Connecticut, Scata
had been keeping bad company and
had got into some sort of trouble
in Hartford. What the nature of the
trouble was, Aloese did not know.
Tracy considered it worth while

to talk with Aloese next day.

Asked whether he had ever heard
his nephew referred to as the Duke,
Aloese shook his head. “His name is
Salvatore,” he said. “I always called
him ‘Sal’.”

“What did his friends call him?”
Tracy asked.

Aloese shrugged.

Police at Hartford, in response to
a request for information, revealed
that Salvatore Scata had an arrest
record on minor charges, and was
being sought in connection with an
auto theft. The nickname ‘“Duke”
was not listed among Scata’s aliases.

Tracy phoned the S Street place
a number of times. He hovered in
the vicinity, less than three min-
utes’ distance, using a pay station
at another candy store. Reporting

at intervals to Headquarters, he
learned that. the. Brooklyn Rapid
Transit Company had’ posted $1000
reward for information leading to
the arrest and conviction of the
holdup men. While this enhanced the
importance of the case, it could not
have spurred the detectives to great-
er effort, for many, like Tracy, were
losing plenty of sleep.

He tried another phone call.

“Is the Duke there?”

“Yes. Hold the wire.”

Tracy’s nerves tingled.

Presently a voice inquired: ‘“‘Who
is this?”

“Andy,” Tracy replied.

“Andy Perotta?’ There was evi-
dent excitement in the query.

“That’s right. I’ve been calling
you all day —”

“Can I see you tomorrow, Andy?
I want to know about — you know
— Hartford —”

“Don’t worry. Listen. Meet me at
6 A.M. tomorrow morning at. Carroll
and Second, by the park. Be sure
and come in a cab.”

“That’s kind of early —”

Tracy hung up abruptly. Too much
talk over the phone with a man
he did not know might lead him to
say something that would only cre-
ate suspicion. He did not want to.
give the Duke time to think or to
temporize. Tracy chose an early
hour for the meeting because there
would be few persons abroad near
the park at such a time and so it
would be all the easier to spot the
man when he arrived. There was a
solid reason, also, for Tracy’s in-
sistence on a cab. This was the next
best thing to asking the Duke to
wear a red rose in his lape]. A man
arriving at six in the morning in a
cab, waiting at the entrance to the
park, made identification practically
sure.

Yet Tracy refused to allow the
smallest opportunity to slip. He
made a bee-line for the Court Street
place. But the Duke was gone.

To guard against the possibility
of missing his man in the morning,
Detective Tracy checked and re-
checked the descriptions of the pair

BEST STORIES—

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vv

49


+

Det. Robert Bowe Decorated by Mayor La Guardia.
From the Little Flower, a Large Reward. |

suffering in Ferrari's face. He knew
then that the tragedy was a person-
al one.

“They were going to be married
Thursday,” the other murmured.
“There was going to be food, wine
and music . . . now look at him.”

They heard the high-pitched voice
of Elsie Mertz crying, “He wasn’t
given a chance—just shot him down
in cold blood!”

Schumm brought the policeman a
hat, the object which had caused
him to stumble when he reached
the mezzanine. It was a gray fedora
with an Adam label. The initials
“J.C.C." were perforated in the
sSweat-band.

“One of the robbers wore that
hat,” offered Thomas Powers, the
motorman. “I saw both of ’em on
the platform when I pulled into the
station. The one that wore the hat
looked like he might be drunk. The
other one was slapping his face to
wake him up. When Esposito came

14

out of the train, they followed him.

Ferrari made note of witnesses.

He took down the names of Thom-
as Powers and Nicholas Ellinas, a
conductor, who had also observed
the two men on the platform. Both
agreed that the men were young, in
their twenties. The one who had
Seemd drunk carried a tan topcoat
over his arm. The other was red-
headed, they said.

Schumm said the men escaped in
a light sedan that looked like a
Chevrolet or a Ford.

Detective Robert J. Bowe, of the
Homicide Squad, arrived with As-
sistant Medical Examiner George W.
Ruger. A glance was all that was
needed to determine the*manner of
death. The shot had been fired at such
close quarters that powder burns
were visible on the shirt. The bullet
hole was directly over the . heart.

There were no other wounds, though:
Bowe: ascertained that other shots .

had been fired. Long after the morgue

wagon had come and gone, Bowe re-
mained, searching the mezzanine for
the slugs that had gone astray. He
found only one, after discovering a
fresh slash in the wall of the booth.
The bullet had glanced off and be-
come imbedded in the floor. At 3:30
A.M. he returned to Headquarters
with the slug in an envelope, which
he turned over to Detective Leslie
Smith in the Ballistics Bureau. Later
that day. Dr. Ruger extracted the
fatal bullet from the dead man’s
hody.

Both had been fired from the same
caliber gun — a .32, but further evi-
dence would have to wait until the
guns were also found.

When news of the holdup came in
on the teletype, Detective Charles
W. Tracy was about to go off duty
from his post at the Butler Avenue
Precinct. The crime had taken place
outside his district. He could have
gone home and had a good night's
sleep.

He chose to await further news on
the teletype machine. Given a. few
concrete details, he knew he could
be of use on a case like this. He had
a wide knowledge of hoodlums in the
Red Hook district, and he had means
of gathering information when he
needed it. The Department, also,
was aware that Tracy was one of the
best-informed detectives in the
South Brooklyn area.. On previous
occasions he had been summond for
work outside his district; the same
thing might happen now.

Tracy wasn’t surprised, therefore,
when the Lieutenant on duty called
him and told him he was ordered
to report immediately to Head-
quarters.

“That was Deputy Chief Inspect-
or Ryan himself who phoned,” the
Lieutenant said. “It’s in reference
to a hat-found at the scene of the
crime.”

When Tracy arrived, a number of
detectives were intent on a close
examination of the gray fedora. Its
main features had been noted: the
initials, the head-size, the Adam
label. Most of the detectives present
expected to be detailed to the usual
routine tour of the Adam Hat chain.

But Tracy was more than a rou-

tine man. Up to the present day he

has won 15 citations and commenda-
tions, many of them achieved as a
result of his departure from routine.
Throughout his career he seems to
have displayed the sort of initiative
which battered down pedestrian me-
thods when the situation warranted.
He had a faculty for seeing a dozen
details where the average man saw
one.

Inspecting the hat in his turn, he

Saaiia

marked in
ward featu
cation of vy
and on the
man wore !
way. If the
he denied «
hat in his |
bear simil<
of wear, di
Habit is in
incriminati
Turning
Tracy foun
to the felt
envelope. B
his interes
sweatband.
thread wer:
and well \
sewn and
had been «
long ago, a
man does |
acteristic
that if the
this hat c
recognize
perhaps fu
tity of the
First of
detectives
all the hat
Did that :
lose a day
the drudg
where the
salesman 1;
selling it
murder?
serve to c
gested an
repairman.
repair shor
combined \
as.a dua! e
lisments f)
for busines


i come and gone, Bowe re-

-arching the mezzanine for’ J

that had gone astray. He ©
y one, after discovering a {

n in the wall of the booth.

- had glanced off and be- |

-dded in the floor. At 3:30
-eturned to Headquarters
ilug in an envelope, which
over to Detective Leslie
he Ballistics Bureau. Later
Dr. Ruger extracted the

2t from the dead man’s

d been fired from the same
1 — a .32, but further evi-
ld have to wait until the
also found. .

~ws of the holdup came in
letype, Detective Charles
was about to go off duty
ost at the Butler Avenue
‘he crime had taken place
3 district. He could have
' and had a good night's

> to await further news on
xe machine. Given a. few
etails, he knew he could
n a case like this. He had
wledge of hoodlums in the
jlistrict, and he had means
ag information when he

The Department, also,

that Tracy was one of the —

ied detectives in the
oklyn area.. On previous
1e had been summond for
de his district; the same
t happen now.
isn’t surprised, therefore,
sieutenant on duty called
old him he was ordered
immediately to Head-

as Deputy Chief Inspect-
imself who phoned,” the
said. “It’s in reference
yund at the scene of the

acy arrived, a number of
were intent on a close
a of the gray fedora. Its
res had been noted: the
e head-size, the Adam
of the detectives present
' be detailed to the usual
r of the Adam Hat chain.
‘'y was more than a rou-
Jp to the present day he
citations and commenda-
y of them achieved as a
s departure from routine.
his career he seems to
yed the sort of initiative
red down pedestrian me-
the situation warranted.
aculty for seeing a dozen
re the average man saw

g the hat in his turn, he

Se trees

Beer i et

one AD ODD

Petr SARS ee

marked in his memory all the out- :

ward features, particularly the lo-
cation of worn places in. the crown
and on the brim. He knew that each
man wore his hat in his own peculiar
way. If the suspect were found and
he denied ownership of the hat, any
hat in his possession would probably
bear similar individual peculiarities
of wear, discernible to a trained eye.
Habit is inescapable and frequently
incriminating.

Turning down the sweatband,
Tracy found two dark hairs clinging
to the felt. He put them into an
envelope. But what particularly drew
his interest was the stitching in the
sweatband. Two distinct types of
thread were evident, one darkened
and well worn, the other recently
sewn and new. Obviously the hat
had been cleaned and repaired not
long ago, and as every skilled crafts-
man does his work in his own char-
acteristic fashion, Tracy reasoned
that if the man who had repaired
this hat could be found he would
recognize his own handiwork and
perhaps furnish a clue to the iden-
tity of the owner. i

First of all, Tracy reminded the
detectives that it was Labor Day—
all the hat stores would be closed.

Did that mean that they were to.

lose a day before starting out on
the drudging quest of the store
where the hat was bought, where a
salesman might possibly remember
selling it to the man wanted for
murder? Plainly, this would only
serve to cool the trail. Tracy sug-
gested an immediate hunt for the
repairman. He pointed out that hat
repair shops were almost invariably
combined with shoe shining stands
as.a dual enterprise, and such estab-
lisments frequently remained open
for business on holidays.

The idea was seized upon. That
morning, detectives of half a dozen
squads were on the job throughout
Brooklyn, covering every shoe and
hat repair shop in the area. .
~ Tracy, meanwhile, went on a tour
of hangouts he knew: the cheap eat-
ing places, the poolrooms, taverns
and candy. stores which were meet-
ing places for bookmakers, small-time
loan sharks and other fry. He col-
lared a number of persons in the
hope of a tip. He found several men
would have supplied him with in-
formation, but these hadn’t yet
heard of the holdup on the B.M.T.

Phen oe

Deputy Chief Inspector Ryan
For Fine Sleuths, a Fine Boss.

ee a

Rats Blink When Flushed Into the Open.

ae

Tracy spent the greater part of:
the day around the waterfront,
where a considerable amount of
“shylocking” had been going on.
The operators of this racket preyed
on the stevedores and other work-
ers, lending them small sums of
money at high interest rates. Often,

money was not the only commodity

in.this section of town; sometimes
it was a tip on a likely holdup job,
sometimes a gun, rented or sold for
the commission of a crime. But
Tracy discovered nothing useful
there. However, at this place or that,
he dropped a hint into a receptive
ear of the nature of his quest. Before
long, perhaps, some of these would
bear fruit. Thus far there wasn’t
the thread of a clue.

The second phase of Tracy’s cam-
paign was spent at some ‘of the
candy stores where pin-ball ma-
chines were in use. He knew that the
loot of the robbery included nickels,
in a large quantity. He reasoned that

. it might occur to one of the robbers

to dispose of loot at some such
place., Here and there Tracy knew a
proprietor. His procedure was to
thrust a $10 bill over the counter
and ask for change in nickels. Of
course, what he wanted to discover,
oblique as his method might seem,
was the quantity of nickels the pro-
prietor had and where he had got
them.

He had covered a score of places
before he reached the candy store
in S Street. This is not the real name
of the street, and there are reasons
why its location should not be dis-
closed. He shoved his $10 bill over
the counter and casually asked for
change.

The proprietor gave him a search-
ing glance. He knew Tracy, and

(Continued on page 49)

paren hi oS,


. SS le .

BRASCH, William S., white, 23, electrocuted Auburn (Monroe Co.) on 11-28-1908,

(AP) Cleveland, Ohio, June 22, 1906. = Charged with the murder of his wife, and have
ing made a complete confession of his crime to the local police, William Brasch, of
Rochester, New York, was arrested here today. Brasch was arrested with Mrs, Mary
Gilmore, with whom he is alleged to have eloped, She is a widow about 23 yeara old,
The body of Brasch's wife was found in the canal at Rochester last Tuesday, and
suspicion was at once turned to her husband who disappeared, Brasch told police how
he had lured his wife to the bank of the Erie Canal and hurled her in. He said

his courage failed three or four times, but finally he nerved himself and struck

the woman a violent blow in the back with his fist. 'When I heard the splash, I

ran away,' he said, The threeeyeareolddughter of Brasch was with the couple when
they were arrested. Both Brasch and the Gilmore woman will be taken back to Roches-
ter at once." TIMES-DISPATCH, Rychmond, Virginia, June 23, 1906 (1:2.)

"Auburn, NY, Nove 28, 1908-William Sober Brasch, the Rochester wife murderer, in
whose case Governor Hughes refused to interfere, was electroduted here early today.
The crime for which Brasch was executed was for the murder of his wife, Roxanna,
whom he pushed into the Erie Canal at Rochester on the night of June 15, 1906. He
killed her that he might marry May Gilmore, of Defiance, Ohio, He was arrested in
Cleveland five days later, and taken to Rochester. On December 26, 1906, he was
sentenced to die in the electric chair during the week of February 10, 1907. On
appeal, the conviction was affirmed on October 8, 1908, and the week of November
20nd fixed for the death sentence, Warden Benham Issued invitations for Monday,
but the execution was postponed to hear from a special commission named by the
Governor to inquire into Brasch's mental condtion. The commission saw Brasch
Saturday and Sunday, and then reported to the Governor that the man was sane. On
Tuesday the Governor denied the application for a stay and the execuiion was set
for this morning." TIMES-DISPATCH, Richmond, Virginia, November 29, 1908 (3/he)


BRANSON, Catherine (HARDING, Hannah; aka RANSE} aa
‘i e Sa i N legs Vi
Hanged New York City, Nov. 19, 1767. MEN, aka SMITH)

in Pa alias JOHNSON, found guilty of Grand Larceny, and having been found

he spited, but being now called up, was ordered for execution also on the

AND-H-ATG7. New York. Nov. 2b4h. On Monday last Katherine Bransen, alias
Se ee —— Ransen, alias Smith, alias Hannah Harding, was
- hanged on the gallows near the fresh water pursuant to her sentence.
She appeared to be remarkably ignorant of réligious and spiritual things
and in the utmost fervor and agony at the approach of death. — Screaming
out and Speaking in an inccherant manner as if af frighted almost out of

her senses. _

~

From Boston NEWSLETTER on dates indicated,

> ie ig mem man anaes

Peer uilty at a former term and had their clergy , Were now Sentenced to be _ : | |
Pa ies on the A3rd Instant. Frances Malone. having been convicted —_
ata Summer Session and pleaded her bellu, her sentence was then re-

" Caulon NY. P/ab[878~ 13 recrchau-
papel ses ie teaes: today for The Wurrder 07
MA Daw Hrucen Ww Aprl lao

Cade gh Stree ?/27/t for.

HERKIMER

LETTERS

State Employee Health Benefits
Thanks for your article in the May
issue, ("Curing the Symptoms Before
Disease Sets In"). Health care for state
and government employees is of great
importance. .

As a county Legislator from
Westchester, I have recently worked on
a problem that illustrates the need for
state and municipal attention to this area.
During the past few months an employ-
ee of Westchester has been attempting to
get a home health care aide for her hus-
band. The county health insurance cov-
erage provides for employee/spouse
health care coverage.

POMCO, the insurance company
that reviews claims, has repeatedly
turned down the employees requests for
home health aide coverage. Many letters
have been written (and phone calls
made), attempting to get the county to
pick up the costs.

The denial was made even after the
spouse of the county employee fell at
home (when he was alone) and even
after he was taken to the hospital and
placed in Intensive Care for a week.

Is this frustrating! As a result of
county government's insensitivity to the
employee's problems, the employee had
a stroke...caused by aggravation. Now,
she is in the hospital and her husband is
also sick. Both need home care work-
ers!

Health care for employees of gov-
ernment must be provided in a caring
manner. And, contracts should be
approved with as few loopholes as pos-
sible. In Westchester at least one county
employee, with years of devoted service,
got sick as a result of our policy—and
her’ husband is getting sicker too.

Paul Feiner
Legislator, Westchester County

PEF Is Also Involved In Health

Thank you for highlighting the
cooperative efforts of the six public
employees unions and state governments
to monitor and control costs of the state
employees health insurance program in
the May, 1990 issue, “Curing the Symp-
toms Before Disease Sets In."

COUNTY

Although the Public Employees
(PEF) has been actively involved in this
important labor/management process
from the beginning, our particular view-
points on some of the issues addressed
by this committee process were not
included in the article.

While we share many similar needs
and common goals with the other
unions, there are nevertheless differences
resulting from concerns that are unique
to our membership. PEF represents
60,000 professional, scientific and tech-
nical employees in the state workforce.

The PEF Joint Labor/Management
Committee on Health Benefits has
worked with our counterparts from the
five other state unions and has strongly
supported the coalition that was spoken
of so highly in the article.

We look forward to continued par-
ticipation, not only in the labor/manage-
ment process, but also in the coalition to
achieve our goals.

Todd Fryer, Chair
PEF Joint Committee
on Health Benefits

Death Penalty Discussed Earlier

In Thomas Finnegan's article,
("Death by Electrocution") in the May,
1990 issue, he states that, "The idea of a
life imprisonment alternative is not new
to this debate: it was raised in 1890, if
not earlier."

Actually it was raised much earlier,

~ and acted upon by the New York State

Legislature, as Chapter I of the Laws of
1812.

One John Bowman was tried in the
County of Herkimer in September 1812
for murder. He was convicted and
received the only sentence possible
under the law at that time. He was sen-
tenced to be executed on December 4,
1812.

The Legislature came to the rescue
and provided that instead of being put to
death, John Bowman was to be turned
over, on or before December 1, 1812, by
the Sheriff of Herkimer County to the
Keeper of the state prison and “directed
to be confined in the state prison at hard
labor, for and during the term of his nat-
ural life”.

Pee oe hr rar rirche Alon FERRY Tic NUN Paar AMID OTS TO REC aE TERNS ta iia no ee

The reason for this great mercy -
John Bowman, at the time of his trial
and sentencing "was about nine years of
age”.
So it appears that there was at least
one circumstance that made the legisla-
ture consider that life imprisonment was
preferable to execution as punishment
for murder.

I have wondered how many years at
hard labor John Bowman survived.

James F. Collins
County Attorney, Herkimer County

Taxes Will Hurt Counties

In Broome County last year, prop-
erty taxes for the 1990 budget had to be
raised 42 percent over the previous
year's budget.

In Suffolk County, there is a taxpay-
ers' revolt, with property taxes being
hiked by 48 percent for the current bud-
get year and Patrick Halpin, the Demo-
cratic County Executive, promising not
to raise property taxes for the next two
years. |

The recently completed, albeit over-
due state budget, does not bode well for
county governments in the long run.
There is a continuation of mandated pro-
grams and financial and service pres-
sures constantly being placed on coun-
ties, which are taking their toll.

For county governments in New
York State in 1990, about 60 percent had
to increase property taxes between 10
percent to 25 percent and several others
experienced jumps of between 30 per-
cent to 40 percent.

A record $1.8 billion in new taxes
and fees were recently passed, touching
on a wide variety of items, in order to
balance the $50 billion 1990-91 state
budget. The broad-based taxes, income
and sales, were left untouched, at least
for the moment. .

For the time being, the state's fiscal
crisis has subsided, but it will be
ephemeral at best. The counties are
saved from Albany's financial wrath this
year only because contributions to the
state retirement system have been
changed.

The role and nature of county gov-

letters continued on page 10 .

_ EMPIRE STATE REPORT, JULY, 1990 7


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work on them. The conclusion is, in
the light of this evidence, that the
entire mesa was salted.”

I was thinking fast. This looked
like the end for old Sam Henderson.
Then I got an idea.

“Well?” I said, as calmly as I could.

“Well!” I thought old Granger was
gonna explode. “You've got the nerve
to pretend innocence. You mean to
say you didn’t deliberately intend to
swindle me?”

“No.” I said.

Granger couldn’t say any more. He
mopped at his brow for a moment,
then motioned to the cops.

“Take him away—but first get my
check back. I'll prefer charges later.”

“Just a minute,” I said, as the
troopers came toward me. “I wouldn’t
do that, Granger. You might find
yourself in deeper’n you can swim.”
Everybody in the room was looking
at me now. ‘“Ain’t no use of my tryin’
to tell you I don’t know anything
about saltin’ emeralds and such, ’cause
you wouldn’t believe me. What I
want to know is—did I offer to sell
you this land, or did you keep pester-
in me to buy it?”

“Of course, I offered to buy it,”
Granger said. “I thought it was a
legitimate commercial deal.”

picked up the stones on the desk
and looked at the man who’d pro-
nounced them planted. ‘These are
commercial stones, ain’t they?”

He nodded. “Yes, though pretty
poor ones.”

“What are you trying to do?”
Granger asked suddenly.

“Just provin’ somethin,” I said.
“Same being, that you and your friend
Proven there engineered this whole
thing yourselves. All I did was come
into your bank one day with a few
stones and ask you what they were.
You and this friend of yours told me
they were only good for commercial
purposes and that they’d cost a lot of
money to mine, and that maybe you
could get me 25 or 30 thousand dollars

CRITE
| DETECTIVE

Kennedy left a widow, Jane Ken-
nedy, and a 3-year-old son, Jack, Jr.

The investigation continued, for no
unsolved case is ever marked closed,
but for more than a year every clue
that harried Inspector King worked
on exploded in his face. :

“We need the gun that fired this
shot,” King mused one day in exas-
peration, picking up the little lead
slug that surgeons had removed from
Kennedy’s body. d

The pellet in the inspector’s hand
looked like a hardened wad of chew-
ing gum lined with almost invisible
scratches. _Under the microscope,
‘however, they were deep _ lines,
etched on the bullet by the interior
imperfections of the murder weapon,
etched with a pattern that would
write out someone’s ticket to the
electric chair—if the gun and _ its
owner were ever found.

Newspapers had begun to refer to
the case as “the perfect crime.” The
Nassau County Police Department

was deluged with criticism, abuse

‘T’ll give you back your claim, you

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 55

for the claim. Here,” I said, reach

ing for my bag, “I got the stones
right here. Ill show you—” ...";

To never seen anybody’s face
whiter, quicker. My ace in the hole
had held up. -Granger couldn’t afford
to let the two men see the real. rubie.
and emeralds as they would know
he’d tried to put something over
me. His reputation was at stake,
“Just a minute, Sam,” he said
denly, as I was trying to open the b
“I remember it all now. I—I wag
a little too hasty. I guess all you
gentlemen can understand how I {@
thinking I’d lost a quarter of a mill
dollars. Let’s forget the whole thing.

give me back my check.” 3
I hesitated a moment to make ft
look good, then agreed.
“All right,” I said. “If it’s okay.
with you, it’s okay with me.” es
I saw Proven and Belle later, long
enough to give him back his stones
and say good-by, ’cause I was gonna
are the dust of Arizona off my shoes
ast.
“Tough luck,” he said. “But thet s
the way things are. Just like jew@:
—sometimes you can’t see the flsw
until it’s too late. Well, Belle and I
are leaving here, too, pretty soon
We're going somewhere and be maf
ried. Even if old Granger doesn’t
suspect me of being in cahoots w
you, I’ve sure ruined my rep
as a geologist. Besides, he’s
about me taking Belle from him, |
maybe I’ll be seeing you one of thes@
days.” ae
“Maybe you will, son,” I said. “And
I sure hope it ain’t from behind #h@
bars lookin’ out.” 8
So, as I said in the beginning, ¥
can’t catch a bird by puttin ‘J
its tail—leastways, not if that Dee
happens to be the eagle on a $100,008
bill. That’s why I’m spending %#
rest of my days here at the old m
home. ;

LOVERS’ LANE

and clues, most of them anon
On orders of Police Comm
Abram W. Skidmore, King assiga®
County Detectives Joseph Hizesm
Frank oe ane Jesse B.
forth to the oO
every lead in the case, oS eee
remote or fantastic. le
For almost a year, the trio GewurT 77
all their time to exploding those ye:
running them down and finding :
worthless. In the Nassau County
lice plane, they flew on wild @
chases to Albany, Sy

ort, Conn., and Massilon,”
4 Then suddenly, dramatically bah
than a year joe “Big Jack's
the case got hot. er

Three Jamaica youths, all
16, nabbed for the theft of a
from a Springfield service 5
let slip a hint that brought May™
on the run. i

“This was our first _job, Ue tag
told New York City Detective #4
McKeogh in the Queens Village
tion house. “We are just st

but we
We kno
Nassau

McKe
most ay

“This
mitted,
are hou
some ki
aman i

Ten )
talked t
King dr:
stationh
Hizensk:
later, t
panied
Kendell
John Ja
Squad,
shackle
Street ir

There
stealth {
with dr
man the
lying in
A .38 ca.
weapon
ing, was
chair be

The n
French, :‘
cycle rid
cently a
trades.

Drugge
dazed F)
ticipating
ing.

“I was
he prote:
“Tt was
He’s a
Trooper.’

Aided _
iIng-uUp f
talked w
himself f

“It wa
“He did i

trooper \
car after
further «
saw the ]
gard, wh
stantly a
nedy wa
they took

RENG
at 1%
Stream, \
sey State
a three tc
his sweet,
she had “
Meanw)
Sergeant
ballistics
gun foum
wood was
which ha
lingering
Next di:
N. Edwa
French t
Brengard
“Ts this :
nedy?” Ex
“Yes,” 4
“You sa
party?”
“Al did
“You sa
“Sure, fF
Brengar.
who’d bo
JOining th

ee Ee

ee

the starter button, the driver meshed the gears and
the car shot out of the thicket into the lane.

Kennedy could not raise up, but by an almost super-
human effort, he twisted his head and caught a fleeting
glimpse of the rear license plate as it flashed through
the beam of his headlights.

At that moment the patrol car radio blared:

“Car 31, phone your headquarters. Car 31, phone
your headquarters. Authority, Fourth Precinct. Time:
1:30 A.M.”

Just before he lost consciousness, the operator of
Patrol car 31 scrawled in great wavering letters on the
ground:

“N.Y. 81—865.”

ENNEDY did not die, that is, right away. The

night maintenance man at the water company
pumping station a half-mile away had heard the fusil-
lade and turned in an alarm. Within five minutes,
brother officers were bending over the wounded patrol-
man.

They read his message scrawled so painfully in the
dirt and within another three minutes the big radio
transmitter in Mineola Police Headquarters was boom-
ing out the alarm:

“Special attention. All western Nassau cars. Be on
the lookout for a car, license N.Y. 81-865, wanted
Woodmere shooting. Occupants armed.”

Teletype machines chattered in Manhattan Police
Headquarters and soon the New York City Police
broadcaster intoned the same message to all patrol cars
in eastern Queens, bordering the Nassau county line.

Back at the scene while waiting for an ambulance,
police picked up a grey fedora hat with the initials
“A.B.” inked on the lining. That and the license num-
ber scratched on the ground appeared to be the only
clues.

Kennedy was rushed in an ambulance to St. Joseph’s
Hospital in Far Rockaway where doctors performed
an emergency operation and administered three blood
transfusions in rapid succession. Another operation
would be necessary later, the doctors said, to remove
the bullet which had lodged at the base of the spine. —

But “Big Jack” Kennedy never walked again. Once
the Adonis and most perfect physical specimen on the
force, he was paralyzed from the waist down. During
the next four years Kennedy underwent 13 operations.
He shrank from 240 to 115 pounds and at that weight
the bones on his 6 feet 4 inch frame steed out like
rails of a picket fence.

In the last operation, surgeons amputated his right
leg in a vain effort to halt infection. Several weeks
later Kennedy died, on July 13, 1932. He had been
shot on July 22, 1928.

During those four years, the asuen County Police
Department tried vainly to crack the case.

The license number that Kennedy thought he saw
proved valueless as a clue. The state did not issue tag
numbers in that sequence. Tortured by his wound,
Kennedy had misread the license plate in the split-
second it was visible in the narrow beam of his patrol
car headlights.

Inspector Harold R. King, chief of the Nassau Detec-
tive Bureau, ran down and exploded countless clues.
First he tried all possible variations of Kennedy’s garbled
license number and cleared the owners of those cars.

The grey fedora was one.of a chain manufacturer’s
on sale at a hundred stores and beyond the initials
“A.B.” on the lining, it bore no identifying marks. The
hat had never been sent to a cleaner’s.

Detectives combed waterworks roads and the strip of
woods near the scene of the shooting and came out
with empty hands.

Sa ae — a — * [_——

WITHOUT WARNING——
the big man shot from
the thicket, hitting the
tall ‘police officer once.

INSPECTOR KING——

(shown below) succeeded
in his five-year search for
Jack Kennedy's slayer.

Plaster of paris impressions were taken of the tire
marks in the soft woods earth and placed on file in
the criminal identification bureau. A blister from a
stone bruise and a deep, triangular gash from a sharp
piece of glass or steel provided some distinguishing
marks, if the car could be discovered before the tires
were worn out or replaced, but even the detectives
shrugged. These were distinctly secondary clues.

All patrolmen in the Fourth Precinct, which covers
the Branch Villages of Cedarhurst, Hewlett, Wood-
mere, Lawrence and Inwood along the border of New
York City, turned in the names of all amorous couples
in parked cars they had questioned within the past
year. Detectives went through the list without turning
up a lead.

Not until eight months after the shooting did Ken-
nedy regain sufficient strength to undergo another oper-
ation. Then Police Surgeon Benjamin Seaman and Dr.
Carl Hettescheimer, Hempstead specialist, performed
a delicate bit of surgery in extracting the lead slug from
a muscle sheath at the base of his spine.

Examined by Sergeant Harry Butts, ballistics expert
of the New York City Police Department, the slug was
found to be from a .38 caliber revolver. There was no
record of such a criminal gun or bullet in the files of
the Federal Bureau of Investigation at Washington,
D. C., or at any other police department in the nation.

Grilling of suspects with sex convictions and petty

was crossed by the cars of the police
officer and the slayer before the crime.

party stickup records was pressed throughout the state.

Kennedy, in between operations, took a consuming
interest in the investigation. He brooded on his mistake
in the license numbers and his inability to describe
the appearance of the two shadowy figures in the under-
brush beyond the radiance of his car headlights.

Like all athletes and men of action, Kennedy chafed
at being bedridden. One of the most popular men in the
department, he had many visits from brother officers
and would discuss potas but the progress of the
investigation,“ =


BS a wt

mere

pe Oa ee

2B

sia tte a. nao o: aditaliee Be Scalia Pigeon See
We know a guy who bumped off that
Nassau County cop!”

McKeogh telephoned Mineola al-
most apologetically:

“This sounds a little wild,” he ad-
mitted, “but I know how you boys
are hounding that Kennedy case. I’ve
some kids here who boast they know
a man in on Big Jack’s murder.”

Ten minutes after Mayforth had
talked to the three urchins, Inspector
King dropped into the Queens Village
stationhouse. He was followed by
Hizenski and Gorman. A short time
later, the Nassau officials accom-
panied by Acting Lieutenant John
Kendell and Detectives McKeogh and
John Jacoby of the 105th Detective
Squad, swooped down:on a ram-
shackle wooden shack on Zavatt
Street in Inwood.

There proved to be no need for
stealth for when the police burst in
with drawn guns, they found the
man they wanted hopelessly drunk,
lying in a litter of empty gin bottles.
A .38 caliber ‘revolver, the same type
weapon used in the Kennedy shoot-
ing, was hanging in a holster on a
chair beside the bed.

The man proved to be William
French, 28, a former daredevil motor-
cycle rider at carnivals, but more re-
cently a chauffeur and jack-of-all-
trades.

Drugged by sleep and liquor, the
dazed French readily admitted par-
ticipating in the five-year-old shoot-
ing.

ey was there, but I didn’t do it,”
he protested in thick slurred speech.
“It was my pal, Alphonse Brengard.
He’s a former New York State
Trooper.”

Aided by a vigorous police sober-
ing-up process, French talked...
talked willingly in an effort to save
himself from the chair.

‘It was Brengard,” he blubbered.
“He did it. I’m a crook, all right, but
not a murderer! He was the trigger-
man.”

French said he and the former
trooper were walking back to their
car after sticking up a petting party
further down the lane when they
saw the lights of the patrolcar. Bren-
gard, who was in the lead, shot in-
stantly as soon as he learned Ken-
nedy was a cop, French said, and
they took it on the lam.

BRENGARD, who formerly lived
at 123 Waldinger Street, Valley
Stream, was found in the New Jer-
sey State Prison at Trenton, serving
a three to five year term for shooting
his sweetheart, Olga Miller, 23, when
she had “jilted” him the year before.

Meanwhile tests conducted by
Sergeant Butts in the New York City
ballistics laboratory proved that the
gun found in French’s shack in In-
wood was not the murder weapon
which had doomed Big Jack to a
lingering death.

Next day District Attorney Elvin
N. Edwards flew with King and
French to Trenton and confronted
Brengard in the warden’s office.

“Is this the fellow you say shot Ken-
nedy?” Edwards asked.

ves,” said French.

You said you stuck up a petting
party?”

“Al did the stickup.”

You say two shots were fired?”

Sure, he did the shooting.”

Brengard, a hulking six footer
who’d boxed professionally before
Joining the State Troopers, glared at

a se 4eurse We AR ENYA ay AAV HAs sdagye

After being taken back to his cell,
Brengard asked to talk to the warden
and later dictated a statement in
which he denied French’s charges.

“I never went out with that fel-
low,” Brengard said. He admitted
he recognized French as a man he
had seen in Springfield but said he
had never been more than a casual
acquaintance.

While District Attorney Edwards
flew to Albany to arrange extradition
papers for Brengard, King mobilized
his forces to clean up new angles
in the case opened by French’s con-
fession.

Investigation at the State Motor
Vehicle Bureau showed that in 1938,
Brengard owned a maroon sedan
which bore a license tag “9L-68-65.”
The number which Kennedy had
written on the ground as he lay
writhing from a bullet through his
abdomen was “N. Y. 81-865.”

Detectives found that the car had
originally been purchased by a Mrs.
Clements, and had later been turned
in on the purchase of a new automo-
bile at the firm of Dabe and Plyer in
Hempstead, from whom Brengard
purchased it. The car had been re-
possessed from Brengard for non-
payment of installments, but there
the record of the car ended, for the
firm had gone out of business.

By questioning employes of the
former automobile agency, detectives
found a salesman who recalled sell-
ing the car to Marcus Christiansen
of Christy Street, South Hempstead.
Postal authorities revealed that
Christiansen had moved away two
years before, leaving as a forward-
ing address the little hamlet of Row-
land, Pikes County, Pa. A teletype
message to Harrisburg, Pa., police
brought about an interview in which
Christiansen reported that before
leaving Long Island he sold the car
to Howard Conklin of Northport.

It was Detective Hizenski who went
to Northport and logged the last
movements of the car. Conklin had
sold it to John B. Celandrello, a junk
dealer in Hicksville. There on Oct.
10, 1933, more than five years after
the shooting, police found what was
left of the getaway car. It was not
enough evidence to take to court.

The motor and part of the chassis
were all that remained. The wheels
and the tires, which bore the only
police link to the crime, had long
since disappeared.

French, however, proved a very
cooperative witness. He accompanied
detectives on a tour of Queens and
Nassau gasoline stations which, he
said, he and Brengard had robbed
during the three month period before
the Woodmere stickup.

French was able to identify only
a few of the score or more stations
he said were robbed because, he said,
he’d always stayed in the car while
Brengard entered the station and
held up the manager and attendants.

RENCH said he had met Bren-

gard on the night of the shooting
at a friend’s home in Springfield and
they proceeded to hold up two gaso-
line stations. It was shortly after
midnight, he said, when Brengard
turned into Waterworks Lane for
their regular tour.

“We saw a car parked in a clear-
ing off the road and drove about 200
yards further before we cut our
lights and pulled off into the brush.
We got out with Brengard carrying

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2s TACs 4 Issowe Re,» ae VMVSP S749

Lay Down
that Gun....

.

By RUBY CAMERON

ETECTIVES O’Brien and Gallagher stepped out of
the vestibule of the East Fifth Street station house.
The pavement was wet with the grimy remains of
one of New York’s endless’ snows on that night,
January 13, 1948. ;
“What’s that number again?” O’Brien asked his part-
ner as they got into their car.
Gallagher consulted the slip of paper on which he
had scribbled the information relayed to him by the
desk sergeant at the. precinct. “Number 68 on First

“CHIPPY” WEINER—

ws i Y In the above photo the slain man is shown
: with his infant son, who saw his father shot.

ate #8 WEINER'S WIDOW—

WWbbs oz She is seen below as, face distorted with grief, Street,” he said. “Somebody phoned that there seemed
she came home to find her husband killed. to be some trouble. I just hope it’s not two women in a
ay fight. They can give you more trouble than a homicide.”

O’Brien swung the car around on First Avenue, into
First Street, and pulled up across. from number 68.
Outside the apartment building there*was no indication
of a fight or anything an East Sider might designate
as trouble.

Inside the entry the detectives, hearing nothing, ex-
amined the names in the doorbells. “Here’s a Weiner,”
O’Brien said.. “This is our bookmaking fence friend.
Yes?”

“That’s Chippy,” Gallagher answered. “He hasn’t
been in any trouble lately, at least not that I’ve heard
about. He’s been quiet since he was collared in Brooklyn
last year for making book.”

The two men listened for sounds of a disturbance,
but the halls of the building were quiet. There were no
excited voices; only a radio playing very loudly from
an apartment somewhere above them.

“Let’s try that apartment ‘with the radio on,” O’Brien
said. ,

The sound led them to -an apartment with a door
slightly ajar. O’Brien knocked and, receiving no answer,
pushed open the door.

“Beyond a narrow dark hall the living. room was
brightly lit. Almost in the center of the room a man lay
on the expensive rug. His stocky body was awkwardly

Yue sprawled, his heavy silk dressing gown was stained
ih with blood in several places, and blood oozed slowly
tC spt A from a wound in his neck. The man’s bald head lay

. “A 4 rs ; i oe: toward a gleaming piano, his deaf ears not far from a

- Will Santo Bretagna

eG a 5

iry to shoot it out? Will the closing act of this

lurid crime


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[45?


MURDER:

shattered this defense. The jury believed the charts and tiny
Pieces of the spent slugs. Rodriguez was sentenced to state
prison for 30 years to life. In 1948 the Court of Appeals
affirmed his conviction.

The dogged type of investigation, rather than flashy sleuth-
ing, solved the next case of murder “asa favor.”

The killing took place on January 13, 1948, when Benjamin
(Chippy) Weiner, a small-time East Side gangster, was found
dying on the kitchen floor of his First Street apartment. A

policeman who lived in the building and who had heard ~ »

the shots was at his side within three minutes.

“Who shot you, Weiner?” he asked.

Chippy shook his head. He died a short time later, still
obeying the underworld rule of refusing to talk to the law.
Dozens of residents in the neighborhood who had heard the
shots were questioned, but if they knew who the killer was,
they weren’t telling the police. |

A month after the murder, Edward Fennessey, arrested for
a stick-up in Brooklyn, made an admission to the Kings
County District Attorney’s office, linking a small-time gun-
man, Santo Bretagna, and Willie Rosenberg with the murder.
The police arrested Rosenberg, but Bretagna vanished.

The Bureau of Investigation of the D.A.’s office now took
over. We visited Connecticut, Chicago and parts of New
England, mostly on tips from informers which all dwindled
into nothing. At a conference it was decided that our next

Step was to question every known criminal associate of. i
Weiner’s. From our dossier on Weiner we began picking UP<5

and was aware that we could send him back. Few
158

a eedeemae

THE CLASSIC CRIME

return to prison, so in a few h
ing money to Bretagna. At 10:00

ment Rosenberg gave Bretagna his gun.
Knock this guy off as a favor to me,” he said casually.

“Okay, I'll give it to him,” Bretagna replied. Thus was
murder planned.

Two jagged pieces of plastic, which we kept in a separate
: €, solved the slaying of an aged grocer in East Harlem. The
ody of the man was found beside his cash register. The

ima hime a clue. Finally, the investigation reached an
Se; there jus : : ;
ould do. Just wasn't anything more the weary detectives

Jose st later two police officers found a. pair of vagrants,
ae reenwood and Vincent Gavin, sleeping in a hallway
anal Street. They were arrested for vagrancy. But one

159

ours he revealed he was send-.

3 ap aati cemecatsiea SP iron epee aaa pie Steeler snm rn ihrer einen

roe

ses: "pista bs eer rar


Se ee ee ee ee a se __— - Ve S — -_—

BRETAGNA, Santo, and ROSENBERG, W;lliam, electrocuted Sing Sing (New York)
March 3, 19))9.

"Santo Bretagna, 28-years-old, and William Rosenberg, 3, were put to death in the
electric chair at Sing Sing Prison tonight for the gang-feud slaying of Benjamin
Weiner in his New York apartment on Jan, 13, 198. TIMES, New York, NY, March h,
1949 (22336)

"Santo (Sal) Bretagna and Willie (Parbie) Rosenberg, who had been on trial since
June 21 for the murder of Benjamin (Chippy) ‘einer, were found guilty yesterday by

a General Sessions jury in the first degree. The verdict carries a mandatory sen-
tence of death in the electric chair. The all-male jury reached its decision in

2 hours and O minutes..eThe statements the two men made were more or less paral=
lel in detailing the events of the night of January 13, when Weiner, a former
associate of Louis 'Lepke' Buchalter, was shot down in his apartment at 68 Hast lst
Street. The prosecution maintained that Bretagna, a paroled convict, killed Weiner
at Rosenberg's bidding. Rosenberg, according to the confessions, arraged the shoote
ing as 'satisfaction' for Weiner having failed to repay a $500 loan, Bretagna ob-
tained nothing for it, but performed the shooting as 'an act of friendship. (Bre-
tagna claimed his confession had been ‘wrung from him by Nabi methods.' Bretagna,
who is single, has a criminal record that showed he had been sent to the reformatory
in 1938 for possession of a pistol, In 190 he was convicted of robbery and sen=
tenced to 5 to 10 years, He was on parole when he was arrested in Boston last

March in connection with the Weiner killing...Rosenberg, who is married, has two
children, He gave his occupation as a wall washer. He lives at 16) Havemeyer Ste,
Brooklyn." TIMES, New York, NY 7.261948 (40:2)


—-

16

carry the death gun far before discard-
ing it, Detectives John O’Brien and John
Gallagher of the East Fifth Street police
station squad and Detective James Ney-
lan of the Homicide Squad, who were
“carrying” the case, then set out to
scour the neighborhood. Helping them
were a dozen other sleuths. But they
did not find the weapon.

Meanwhile, the higher officials had
gone into a huddle to weigh the evidence
they had on hand in the case. Among
them were Lieutenant Benjamin Miller,
head of the East Fifth Street police sta-

tion squad; Inspector Abraham Gold- ;

man, in charge of all detective squads
on Manhattan’s lower East Side; Deputy
Chief Inspector Conrad H. Rothengast,
commander of the Manhattan East De-
tective Bureau; and Assistant - District
Attorney Louis A. Pagnucco.

-To none was Weiner a stranger. All
were aware of his record. A lifelong
cyiminal, he had started as a juvenile
delinquent in the crime-ridden Browns-
ville section of Brooklyn, and becanie,
successively, a thief, thug, gunman, shy-
lock, hijacker, bookmaker, and receiver
of stolen goods. As he climbed the

crime ladder, he helped organize the.

notorious crime syndicate, Murder Inc.,
which flourished during the ’20s and.’30s
in Brooklyn, whereupon the tawdry
Williamsburg section of that borough
became his favorite haunt.
Ironically,
from meeting the ultimate fate of most
of the leaders of the gang—violent death
from the ‘blazing guns of rival gangs,
or execution in’ the electric chair. In
1927 he was sentenced to serve 7% to
15 years in Sing Sing for assault and
robbery, and in 1938 he was returned

imprisonment saved him.

When “Chippy” Weiner jilted the “Red Rose of Williamsburg” (l.)
and married her attractive daughter, Sylvia (r.), the under-
world held its breath, waiting for the mother to take revenge

viving leaders, including the big boss

-of the mob, Lepke Buchalter, ‘sent to

to the institution on the same charge. .

While he was serving his second stretch
the syndicate was smashed and its sur-

(Above) Mary Olenick, hat-check girl,

x

aided authorities to blast

alibi for the night of the murder

‘¥

the chair by Mayor William O’Dwyer,
who was then district attorney — of
Brooklyn. ;

Confronted, on his release from prison,
by a new underworld line-up in Brook-
lyn, Weiner tactfully shifted his opera-
tions to Manhattan, and in his next brush
with the law, seven years later, it was

killer’s °

disclosed that he had become a pros-
perous fence for hijackers and loft
burglars. Two characters ratted on him
when they learned he had cheated them
out of their share of the loot on a
$19,000 job, but he beat the rap and
managed thereafter to keep out of police
toils until March 1947 when he paid a
fine of $175 for bookmaking, one of his

-sidelines.

“Connie Fernandez (c.), shown with police, seemed to hold a fatal fasci-
nation for gangsters. Weiner was her second lover to meet violent death.
Her first sweetheart, member of Murder, Inc., died in electric chair

i/

¥

Under t!
ties knew
friends in
have been
number of
But they a
had many s
ous women
so they did
sions.

One of bh
wife’s own
better know
liamsburg”’
In her hon
ganized cr)
mobsters
quently she
County juc
being “as vi

It was ct
Shapiro, he
mob, into an
and shot to
sters who du
swamp.

Eventually
of evidence,
Leibowitz t
at night you
you see you
blood, the b
dered.”

By then s)
inamorata. H
her daughter
into lovely
Weiner sudé
underworld |}
the. “Red Ros
nothing happ
ties knew, ex
words betwe
ter. Neverthe

‘would like to

a city-wide a]

(Above) Louis

- whose astute w:

land’s code of


Aaa

———_
ale ee NETL aT et eaten eermeeereeeare -

NE Ng creeper

Se

How Justice Triumphed in Various

.

Investigations Presented to You in

Earlier Issues, Prior to the Trials

P TO THE MINUTE is the key-

word of OFFICIAL DETECTIVE
STORIES Magazine. :

Every issue of this magazine is up to

the very last minute, Every issue:

brings you complete Stories of detective
work long before you can read those
complete stories elsewhere,

In order to do this—in order to give
you the very first authentic versions of
the biggest detective cases of the day
—OFFICIAL DETECTIVE STORIES
often puts a case into print as soon as
the full facts of the investigation can
be ascertained,

_Therefore the giant OFFICIAL
presses sometimes are grinding away
on’ a story of a detective investigation
before the person arrested as a result
of that investigation has been brought
to trial. .

This magazine, in an éffort to keep
readers up to date on such cases, pre-
sents this department, Up to the
Minute, from time to time, giving you
the very latest word on legal disposition

ws ese Cases,

For example, the August, 1948, issue
of OFFICIAL carried the story of the
murder of Benjamin — Chippy —
Weiner, once of Murder, Inc., and of
the search for his killers. The title of
that story was, “Whaddayamean,

Brooklyn hoodlum, and _ his Partner,
William Rosenburg, were arrested for
that murder,

1948, in a New York City courtroom;

William Rosenburg will share his

__"_ fate, Judge Streit ruled. . ;
- When Anthony Papa of Long Island,
was married, a neighbor's pretty

flower-girl, Soon thereafter Rose
Marie was slashed to death in her
home. The September, 1947,
OFFICIAL, under: the title, “The Man
Who Couldn’t Say ‘Murder’”, told of
the search for her killer, of the arrest

threw the police of Los Angeles, Cali-
fornia, into a@ furore. He shot and
killed State Highway Patrolman Loren
Roosevelt, he wounded two other
officers, he robbed and Stole almost at
will. Eventually, through long, difficult

and dangerous detective work, William _

“Here's the Man Who Murdered Me!”,
in the October, 1947, OFFICIAL,
Since publication of that story, the
wheels of justice have moved slowly.
While Walker’s father, Weston Walker,
& well-to-do engineer, spent his entire

fortune trying
sentenced to death

hile later Weston Walker,
itted no crime, was found
That was more than
y William Walker,
fighting the death
h hangs over him.
Hayton of Seattle, Wash-

dead, a suicide,

Still is alive, still is
sentence whic

was published in
CL. Since this
nm court has decided
spend the rest of his
Walla Penitentiary,

|X A St. Lo

ie promptly was
imprisonment fo

ton, West Vir;

Miss Mary Margaret
years of age and she li
life of a sp

spare her from a
knife-slashed body
room October 9, 19

Promotion to thir
r the capture of Wa;

Only two mont:
murder; an al)
County, Brook!
was first-degre
recommendati
Death senten
‘mandatory under

Hand in hand

eighteen, strolled
course near Eau Cl:

to help, William was
th.

was registered at
y seeking.a fourth
‘Overed Ellen Hay-
of Wife No. Two,
This story, en-
ese Mail-Order
the May,
Publica-

Sentenced to
r murder of
of Hunting-

eS

BLENDED WH

as leasing

Millions)

National Distillers Products Corporat

Blended Whiskey. 86 Proof.


BRETAGNA, Santo & ROSENBERG,

14

on March 3, 1949

(Above) Photo of. slain gangster’s widow, taken imme-
diately on return to her apartment. Her eyes glistened
with tears as police*told her what was going on inside

W rocky AND BALDING, with pale
cold eyes, gangster Benjamin “Chippy”
Weiner was forty-five when his. past
finally caught up with him in his lux-
uriously furnished apartment, at 68 East
First Street on the outskirts of Green-
wich Village in New York City.

A graduate of Sing Sing Prison and
one of the few surviving original king-
pins of the notorious Brooklyn crime
syndicate known as Murder Inc., Chippy
Weiner was acting as a peaceful baby-

sitter for his own six-months-old son, °

Louis, when four bullets were pumped
into him, and a fifth barely missed the
child.

The sound of the fusillade was drowned
out by the blaring of the high-living
racketeer’s expensive television set
which was turned on full volume. His

neighbors first became aware that he had
finally “got his” when he staggered from
his apartment into the outer hall on the
fourth floor at 10:15 p.m., Tuesday, Jan-
uary 13th, 1948, screaming that he had

‘been shot.

Patrolman Louis Furcht, who -lived
on the floor above him, was one of the
first to reach his side. Mortally wounded,
Weiner was sprawled on the hallway
floor, gasping for breath, blood burbling
from his mouth. He was wearing a heavy
silk dressing. gown.:Two large diamond
rings gleamed on his fingers. A valuable
watch was fastened to his wrist by a
solid gold band.

With an obviously painful effort he
managed to mutter five words: ‘Take
care *of my kid.” 7

They were. the last he was ever to

William, whites, elec. NY® (New York)

utter. If he had wanted to, he could not
have said more. One bullet had pierced
his larynx. Others had hit him in the
shoulder, thigh, and abdomen. He was
dying of both internal and external
hemorrhages. He lapsed into uncon-
sciousness as Patrolman Furcht straight-
ened and strode into the gun-blasted
apartment. —

The racketeer’s baby was the only
person he found inside. The child was
unharmed. He was in his crib in the
bedroom, nonchalantly sucking a plump
thumb. But the crib was spattered with

blood. And there were two telltale ragged"

bullet holes in the wall behind it.

An irregular blood trail led from the
crib to a phone in the lavishly furnished
living-room, and from the phone to the
outer hall door. The television set was

Mal

Ww

still bla
Furcht tt
another |
doorway
somethin;
attention
stood the
the floor
stuffed ch
filled sui
awaiting
was no ;
It was
violent st
to or aft
Weiner w
$520 was
dressing
Detecti\
who swar


», he could not
et had pierced
it him in the
men. He was
and external
{ into uncon-
ircht straight-

gun-blasted

was the only
The child was
is crib in the
cking a plump
spattered with
telltale ragged
vehind it.

| led from the
ishly furnished
: phone to the
‘vision set was

TRIES

;
é

Wathg ee ae OE

by John Sheehan

A former kingpin of the no-
torious mob, Murder, Inc.,
“Chippy” Weiner was mur-
dered while baby-sitting for
his infant son, with him (I.)

| Venseance

The gangster’s wife and her prineipal rival knew the killer’s identity, officials

were convinced. Yet the women’s lips were sealed—one by fear, the other by an under-

world code. Here’s a story of dangerous love triangles in a trigger-happy gangland

still blaring, featuring a prize fight.
Furcht turned it off. Then he noticed
another bullet hole in the wall near the
doorway to the bedroom. But it was
something else that held most of his
attention during the few moments he
stood there. All around the room—on
the floor and on a costly sofa, over-
stuffed chairs and on a piano—were half-
filled suitcases and piles of clothing
awaiting packing. But otherwise there
was no sign of disorder.

It was plain that there had been no
violent struggle in the apartment prior
to or after the shooting. And before
Weiner was rushed to Bellevue Hospital
$520 was found in the pocket of his
dressing gown.

Detectives and high police officials
who swarmed to the scene observed that

Weiner had been packing solely his own
things—an elaborate wardrobe, includ-
ing a dozen expensively tailored suits,
as many made-to-order pairs of shoes
and twenty-odd colorful sports shirts.
His wife’s equally elaborate wardrobe—

dozens of expensive dresses, suits, coats

and accessories—was still in neat array

in her clothes closets and dresser.

The officers wondered concerning her __
whereabouts, and. her neighbors told

them that they had not seen Mrs. Weiner
or anyone else leqve the apartment that
evening. Neither had they seen anyone
enter it. However the’ elevator was a

self-service type so a person could have
~entered or left the building without being
noticed. ,

Of more immediate interest to the de-
tectives were two fresh cigarette butts—

a Camel and a Lucky Strike—and two
cigar butts which they saw in otherwise
clean ashtrays in Weiner’s living-room.
Aware that the gangster was an in-
veterate cigar smoker, they assumed the
cigar butts had been his. They did
not know what brand of cigarettes his
wife smoked, but it seemed immaterial
inasmuch as there was no lipstick on
either cigarette butt.

When the three slugs buried in the
apartment walls were recovered they
proved to be .38 caliber. Blood specks
indicated that two had drilled first
through Weiner’s body before burrowing
into the plaster. All apparently had been
fired by the same revolver but a search
of the apartment unearthed no weapon
of any kind.

On the theory that the killer would not

15


ome a pros-
rs and loft
-atted on him
cheated them
e loot on a
the rap and :
out of police y
en he paid a
ig, one of his

Under the circumstances the authori-
ties knew he had as many enemies as_
“son who shot him down," otherwise he a
never would have ‘allowed: that” person bs
to enter’ his’ ‘apartment > ‘while: he was
d and. acting

friends in the underworld, hence. could

have been riddled with bullets for any

number of criminal business reasons.
But they also were aware that he had

-had many stormy love affairs with vari-
ous women during his checkered career, . |

so they did not jump to hasty conclu-
sions.
One of his first loves had etl hig

wife’s own mother, Mrs. Rose Pantiel,’

better known as the “Red Rose of Wil-
liamsburg” because of her flaming hair.

In her home many of the early. or-

ganized crimes of the. Murder Inc.
mobsters were plotted, .and  subse-
quently she was accused by a Brooklyn
County judge, Samuel Leibowitz, of
being “as vile a murderess as ever lived.”

It was charged that she lured Ruby
Shapiro, head of a rival loan shark
mob, into an auto where he was stabbed
and shot to death by Murder, Inc., gang-
sters who dumped his body 3 ina Canarsie
swamp.

Eventually, however, because of Tack’
of evidence, she was freed after Judge ~

Leibowitz told her, “When you, sleep
at night you will have dreams in which
you see your hands are stained with
blood, . the. blood of this man you mur-
der:

By "isk she was no longer Weiner’s
inamorata. His affections had shifted to
her daughter, Sylvia, who had blossomed
into lovely womanhood. And when
Weiner suddenly married Sylvia,. the
underworld held its breath waiting for
the “Red Rose” to take vengeance. But
nothing happened, so far as the authori-

ties knew, except an exchange of bitter -

words between the mother and. daugh-
ter. Nevertheless they now decided they

‘would like to question both women, and

a city-wide alarm was sent out for them.

id a fatal fasci-
+t violent death.
1 electric chair

(Above) Louis D. Pagnucco, Asst. D.A.,
whose astute work on case bared gang-
land’s code of life, love and murder

| BS_ a baby sitter...

there. alone and unarmed,

In any event, “the ¢ Fee Vaulted
to them that for ‘some’ ‘unknown. reason”
Weiner had .been packing | ‘for a quick *

air so she had gore “for a walk. Where

Why, nowheré in par-

“ticular, she replied. She had just walked

‘aimlessly, for one hour and forty-five

=f minutes, ‘

Aware-that the streets. and many
Pincleaned stretches of sidewalk were
“covered with slush, Lieutenant Miller

pointed. to her dry feet, and taunted, .
* “You must have been walking on air.”
getaway when the first “pu allet hit him.” ae?

‘This slug apparently’ ‘had bored through | ~

Sylvia Weiner caught the point and
countered smoothly, “I only walked

the:soft flesh of his. shoulder and. buried . - ‘where the sidewalk was. dry.”

itself in the living-room ‘wall. Weiner

“had then run into the bedroom and had |

cowered behind his baby’s crib while the
killer, who had followed ‘him, ‘pumped:
three more bullets into him, one of.them
drilling completely through "his neck and
lodging in the wall. A fifth bullet. also
had embedded itself in the bedroom wall
after ricocheting off the crib. .
_ The wavering blood trail told the off
cials that Weiner had staggered to his”
feet after his assailant fled, ‘and had made |
a phone call before he’ opened the door -
of his apartment ‘fo’ summon the help
of his~ neighbors. “A check with: the |
phone company revealed that his call
had been local, hence. there ‘was no way
of tracing it because he had. . dial
phone.

Hoping to ascertain ‘the identity ‘of

during the evening, had: left the butts of
two different brands’ of cigarettes in-
otherwise clean .ashtrays- in the living-
room, Inspector Goldman’ ordered a
thorough dusting of the entire ‘apartment .

‘for fingerprints. .

As this was being done by. technicians,

the door of the’apartment. opened at ex-
actly 11:15 p.m., and ‘Weiner’s wife, —
Sylvia, an attractive sloe-eyed brunette, »

entered, accompanied by-one of the uni-

formed patrolmen who had been sta-
_ tioned on. the sidewalk in’ front of ‘the

building to keep. out the: curious, . in-

Miller’ let the matter of her con-
Wyehient walk while her husband was
being’ shot down in cold-blooded gang
“fashion pass and pointed to the partially
-packed luggage. ‘“‘Where was he going?”

Sylvia Weiner shrugged her slender
‘shoulders. “I didn’t know he was going

- anywhere.”

Questioned about the two cigarette
-butts, she said they had not been in the
_ ashtrays when she left the apartment
vat nine-thirty, and that, so far. as she
_knew, ther husband had ‘not been ex-

'pecting company.
“He was going to watch the fights on.
_< the ‘television,’ she amplified.

ei

‘Miller asked if he might inspect her

. handbag and she handed it to him with
~ a faint mocking smile. He opened it and
- sniffed.
the person or persons who, at some time —

There was no telltale odor
‘inside which a recently discharged re-
‘volver would have left. And, of course,
there was no gun. But there were two
‘packs of Pall Mall cigarettes. One pack

“was open and several of its cigarettes

were gone. And from the bottom of the

* pag the lieutenant fished a roll of bills.

“They: totaled $765.

‘Sylvia raised her eyebrows in mock
surprise. “Was all that money in there?”
she inquired. “I thought I had about
five dollars with me.”

Then she became serious and asked if
she could see her husband before he
“died. The officials knew that it would

cluding news photogr shat and re-_ be useless to question her further at this

porters. ;

‘The latter had’ voctentned her at once:
as she approached the apartment house
afoot and their queries, while photo-

graph bulbs flashed, evidently had dis- ¢

closed to her what was going on‘in her
apartment for her'eyes were now glisten-
ing with tears and she oman pale ©
and breathless. ~ |

Otherwise, however, she: ‘was stony-
faced, and when she was assured that.

her baby was being. well cared for by |

a neighbor, Mrs. Lottie Bruches, she
answered questions calmly. while she

- slowly removed her gloves.

Her ensemble was the latest fashion.
A broad-brimmed black picture * hat
partially concealed her luxuriant dark
tresses. Over a smart black dress she’ was
wearing a Persian lamb coat and there
was a silk scarf around her throat. Her
shapely, slender legs were encased in
dark nylon hose, and her feet in trim,
open-toed, high-heeled shoes.

She said she had. gone out at nine-
thirty to get some cigarettes, leaving her
husband alone with their baby, and then,
on impulse, had decided to get some fresh

‘point. She was an old hand at the game.
In fact, she had won fhewspaper head-
lines for herself when her mother was
charged with murder. Held as a ma-
terial witness in the slaying of Ruby
Shapiro, Sylvia had remained in jail,
bitterly silent, for a whole year rather
than reveal anything she had overheard
in her home which the Murder Inc.
gangsters had used as a headquarters.

Indeed, she had proved more baffling
to the authorities than the killers she
was protecting, many of whom were try-
ing, at the time, to out-sing each other
in an effort to escape the electric chair.
Reared in an atmosphere of crime she
was more steeped in the underworld’s
tradition of silence, where the police
were concerned, than the toughest mem-
bers of the alleged stronger sex, it de-
veloped.

Rushed to Bellevue Hospital in a squad
car, she arrived in time to see her hus-
band before surgeons operated on him.
Blood transfusions had revived him but
he was unable to talk because one bullet
wound had paralyzed his vocal cords.

Murmuring endearments, she bent

17


74

(Continued from page 19) in an oak casket,
was borne to a hearse. “The mourners fol-
lowed it, all in one car. Detectives and
newspapermen brought up the rear. It
was in sharp contrast to blatant funeral
processions that had been accorded some
of Weiner’s former underworld pals.

After he was buried in Mount Judah
Cemetery in the Ridgewood section of
Queens County, his wife, Sylvia, was
picked up by the detectives and escorted
back to the district attorney’s office in
Manhattan. But her memory had not im-
proved overnight. She still clung to her
story.

HEN word was received that Connie had

been located in Brooklyn. Detectives
Joseph Lyons and Gilbert Cloonan of the
Clymer Street police station, who had
known Weiner by sight, identified her as
Connie Fernandez, a divorcee who was
operating a beauty salon known as Con-
nie’s Beauty Parlor at 312 Hooper Street, in
the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a
few doors from where she lived at No. 302.

“During recent months we often saw
Weiner in her company,” the officers re-
ported, “and we have reason to believe
that he lived with her for several weeks
last summer. Although she is crowding
the forties, and is inclined to be plump,
she still seems to hold a fatal fascination
for gangsters. Weiner is her second lover
to meet a violent death. Her first sweet-
heart was Frank “The Dasher” Abbandano,

one of the Murder, Inc.; mobsters who

died in Sing Sing’s electric chair.”

Connie Fernandez took exception to
their crack about her age when she was
brought to the Manhattan district attor-
ney’s office. She would not admit to be-
ing more than thirty-six. Pagnucco let it
pass, for she was manifesting an eager

willingness to cooperate with the author- -

ities,

She said she had been out with Weiner
on Monday night, and had talked with him
on the phone at 9:15 Tuesday night, one
hour before he was riddled with bullets
in his richly furnished apartment, and
that she had made an engagement to see
him again on Wednesday night.

She not only admitted that he had lived
with her for a month immediately after
his wife had given birth to their child,
but she claimed ‘she had been his secret
sweetheart for twenty years, even during
the period when it was publicly believed
that the ‘Red Rose” was his one true

to a i a

(randland Vengeance

love and that Frank “The Dasher” Abban-
dano was hers.

It was an intriguing story of dangerous
love triangles within triangles in a trig-
ger-happy underworld where murders
were wont to pass almost unnoticed at
the time, but it cast little light on the
slaying of Weiner until she began to re-
cite details of his stormy marriage with
Sylvia.

According to her account, Weiner had
deserted Sylvia on several occasions to
“come and live with me,” and a year earlier
Sylvia had pleaded with Connie to leave
her husband alone, telling her that she was
going to have a baby after eleven years
of married life.

Under the circumstances, Connie Fer-
nandez said, she “agreed to give up Chip-
py, but he came to see me the next day and
told me that under no conditions would
he let me go.” As a result, she declared,
his quarrels with Sylvia became more and
more bitter during the months that fol-
lowed, and he came to her after each spat
and told her all about it.

She said she did not know whether
Sylvia was at home when she spoke to
Weiner over the phone at nine-fifteen
Tuesday night, but in any event he had
said nothing to indicate that he planned
to pack his bags that night and skip out
on her again. But neither had he said
anything that would indicate he expected

company that night, Connie Fernandez:

asserted.

“He just told me he was going to stay
home and look at the fights on his new
television set,” she stated.

Weiner’s wife merely sneered and re-
mained coolly aloof when she heard what
Connie Fernandez had told Pagnucco and
high police officials. And when-the two
women were brought face to face she raked
her rival from head to foot with a slow,
withering glance and turned contemptu-
ously away.

She made no comment, then or later, al-
though the officials urged her to. And
she refused to change her story of her
own aimless wandering Tuesday night,
although Pagnucco pointed out to her that
it left them no alternative but to believe
that she had known or sensed that some-
‘thing was going to happen in her apart-
ment that night, if she had not actually
been present when it did happen.

The following morning, Friday, she al-
tered her story somewhat, however, when
she was confronted with a cabbie who

ie’ / : he 9”

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\

identified her as a passenger whom he
had picked up in front of her address
at nine-thirty Tuesday night and whom
he had taxied to the Hotel New Yorker.

She then managed to remember that,
instead of going for an aimless walk, she
actually had gone to the Hotel New
Yorker that night. She said she had in-
tended to meet a friend and attend a
lamp show that was being held there, but
her friend did not show up, so after waiting
for about an hour, she returned home. But
she refused to identify the friend she had
intended to meet, and she remained firm
in her denial that she had any guilty
knowledge of the slaying of her husband.

Pagnucco was exasperated. After ar-
ranging for her neighbor, Mrs. Bruches,
to take care of the Weiner baby, he hus-
tled the. enigmatic widow into court and
had her held in $25,000 bail as a material
witness. Unable to raise the bail she went
into a cell in the Women’s House of De-
tention.

A Ballistics Bureau report then injected
an even more mystifying element into the
investigation. Lieutenant Pardua told his
superiors that comparison tests of slugs
on file in his office showed that the death
gun in the case had been used on January
10th, three nights before Weiner had been
slain, in a hold-up of a butchershop at 1203
Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn. i

Police reports on the crime then dis-
closed that two slender, handsome bandits,
one a teen-ager and the other in his late
twenties, had made good their escape after
robbing and wounding the proprietor, Otto
Ziegler. Only one shot had been fired and
it had lodged in Ziegler’s liver from which
surgeons had recovered it.

Ziegler was quickly re-questioned in a
Brooklyn hospital where he was still con-
fined, and he insisted that the teen-age
bandit had fired the shot.

Perplexed, Prosecutor Pagnucco, Deputy
Chief Inspector Rothengast, Inspector Gold-
man and Lieutenant Miller went into an-
other huddle and racked their brains try-
ing to fit a handsome teen-ager into the
pattern of Weiner’s murder.

Finally, they gave up but they discov-
ered that a youth answering the boy gun-
man’s description had participated in
several other unsolved stick-ups. including
the Central Meat Market at 914 Second
Avenue in Manhattan, which had been
robbed on January 7th. In none of the
stick-ups, however, could the authorities

detect a connection with any of Weiner’s.

known rackets. In each instance money
only had been taken. The bandits had had
no need for a fence.

“That kid may have loaned his gun to
someone, and until we find him we may
never crack the Weiner case,” observed
Rothengast.

Additional detectives were now detailed
to reinvestigate the hold-ups and try to
turn up a lead of some kind to the youth’s
identity.

| WAS then that Pagnucco received a

surprising phone call from a fugitive in
hiding from the police—Sylvia Weiner’s
mother, the “Red Rose of Williamsburg.”
The afternoon papers were still featuring
Connie Fernandez’s sensational story of
the previous day, and in her beauty: shop
she was enjoying the slightly envious
stares of her customers. The “Red Rose”
made it plain that she was burned up
about the stories.

“That Connie Fernandez is a liar,” she
told Pagnucco.
morrow.”

“Tl be in to see you to- :

Then she
word. She :
early the fc
ending the
for her. Alt
pearance, she
Latin beauty
to prove thai
aS arapier. ¢&

“You want

Pagnucco
had been on
East Third St
parolee had s
Weiner’s hon
latter was mc
She gave the
other guests
were respecta
public official
true identity.
that she had
half-hour bef
Weiner had bh

“It was just
neighborhood
knocked off,” ;
those people
opportunity t
they’ve treate:
a word about
like I was a 1:
to go there.
church is for
Then she sa
story. Three
going strong.
know that Co:
Chippy Weine:
twenty. Furth
thorities to kn:
pursuing their
motive. As for
that was ancie
for the newspa
be still “kicki:
because she ar

on the best of
Indeed, she |
at her daugh
Weiner had sta:
Fernandez two
Then she and
out, she said,
stopped visitin;
“He was a nc
“He got what w
had nothing to
bet your bottom
either. She w:
with him and s}
to keep him in
for a long tim:
on the rocks so
holding her si)
talk. Maybe s}
nice guy and sh
him. In the «
Chippy got his
someone once to:
heard yet myse!
know I wouldn’:
As she was ]
ished, “Leave yx
you come across
She looked ba
replied, “One o
to cross a certai
leave everything

pozine the fol
tectives cont
Sylvia Weiner an
other sleuths, ch
the “Red Rose,”
histories of the
Murder, Inc. mot

In the middle
and Connie were
spective versions
safe-deposit box |


over and kissed the man whom. she had
married-twelve years earlier despite her
mother’s jealous protests, and then she
clung to one of his muscular hands with
tears in her eyes. He gave her a look
which the officials could not fathom
but there was a thin tolerant smile on
his lips. :

When she was led from the room, hal
blinded by tears, Inspector Goldman
handed Weiner a pad of paper and a
pencil, and asked him to write down
the name of the person who ‘had shot
him, ;

Weiner’s smile became sardonic and
his pale eyes glittered like ice in sun-
light. With a flick of his hand he
knocked the paper and pencil to the
floor. Three hours later, at 2:45 a.m., he
died. In death, like his wife in -life,
he, too, had kept the underworld code
of silence. He had not squealed to the
authorities.

Two bullets which surgeons had re-
covered from his body were sent to the
Ballistic-Bureau where Lieutenant Rob-
ert Pardue quickly verified what had
been suspected—that they, together with
the three slugs which had been dug
out of the walls of Weiner’s apartment,
had all been fired by the same revolver.
One major task remained for the
bureau—to compare the slugs with those
on file in scores of other crimes in: the
hope of forging connecting links which
would indirectly put a noose around the
neck of Weiner’s slayer.

But that tedious job would take days.
Meanwhile, a more thorough search for
the missing death gun was necessary.
It was begun at daybreak by a special
detail of detectives and employees of
the Department of Sanitation. Foot by
foot, streets, sewers, catch basins, gar-
bage and waste cans, rooftops, stair-
ways, alleys and areaways. were combed
for several blocks around the scene of
the crime. No gun of any kind was
found.

It was Deputy Chief Inspector Roth-
engast’s second keen disappointment in
the investigation of the case. His first
had come afterthe: laboratory tech-
nicians completed their dusting of
Weiner’s apartment. All prints they
raised had proved to be those of either
Weiner or his wife. It caused Rothen-.
gast to wonder if the two: cigarette
butts had been planted in the apartment
to mislead the police. One thing was
obvious to him. He needed more in-
formation on all phases of Weiner’s re-

cent domestic, love and underworld life. .

So he ordered ‘a city-wide round-up of
all the slain gangster’s known or sus-
pected acquaintances, whether they
were Weiner’s enemies or friends.
While this was going on, Inspector
Goldman and Lieutenant

ment. With an air of quiet indifference
she recalled for them the route of her
footsteps while she was on her pro-
longed walk the previous night. They
retraced it with her in a squad car and
pointed out .to her that she could not
have followed the route she had’ named,

Miller re-.
questioned Weiner’s wife in her apart-

without getting her feet wet on both the
sidewalks it would have been necessary
for her to traverse, and the intersecting
streets she would have had to cross.

Without manifesting any perturbation
she thought it. over for a few minutes
and then changed the route and named a
store on Allen Street where she -had
purchased two packs of Pall Malls. The
officers proved to her that she could not
have approached the store without wad-
ing through slush in her open-toed shoes.
When they checked with the store, the
proprietor said he did not remember
selling her cigarettes the previous night.

The taciturn widow shrugged her
shoulders indifferently and stated that
her story was nevertheless true. Taken
to the office of Assistant District Attor-
ney Pagnucco in the Criminal Courts
building she repeated it in detail and
calmly waved aside .all proof to the
contrary. :

She said shé could shed no light on
the whereabouts of her mother, the “Red
Rose of Williamsburg,” and blandly in-
sisted that her husband’s only source
of income had been his earnings as a
salesman for a yarn company, which
the officials knew had been only a
“cover” for his criminal activities.

For hours she was questioned but she
clung impassively to all details of her
story no matter how illegal or absurd
they were. She even maintained that she

. had not known that the rich furnishings
-of her apartment had cost a sum far

beyond what*her husband as a sales-
man could afford, and she declared with
an expression of surprise at the query
that she could think of no reason what-

ciliates

soever why anyone would have wanted
to harm her husband.

The dragnet, however, was verifying
several suspected reasons, and churning
up new leads. Sixty detectives who were
now working on the case learned that it
was the consensus of opinion in the
underworld that Weiner probably had
been knocked off for double dealing or
welching, and not because of a woman;
although the names of several reputed
young beauties whom the authorities
had not previously connected with
Weiner were tossed into the investiga-
tion. :

One name in particular kept bobbing
up wherever the investigators went in
Manhattan to question Weiner’s former
associates, but their informants only
knew that he had been going to Brook-
lyn quite often for several months be~
fore he was slain to see a girl named
Connie.

Of more immediate interest to the au-
thorities was the flat statement of a
parolee, who had once run with a Brook-
lyn mob, that he had seen Weiner’s jilted
mother-in-law, the “Red Rose of Wil-
liamsburg” hurrying along a street only
two blocks from where Weiner lived in
Manhattan a half-hour before the man
was riddled with bullets.

The hunt for “Red Rose” was instantly
intensified, particularly in Brooklyn, but
the net result was hostile stares or
shrugs with hands spread apart, palms
up. It developed that, like many of
Weiner’s former associates who did not
have alibis, she had quietly faded from
all her accustomed haunts immediately
after the underworld grapevine had

“The gang will do something stupid one of these days,” the police inspector
predicted. When’ that day came, he was ready for them. Two members of the
mob_are shown in custody. of Detectives J. Neylan (I.) and John O’Brien (r.)

|
i

spread the w:
had gone on
|. parts unknow
} whom the px

some light on

Then, unex
the investigati
alleged Brook
new informat

Detectives Ne
‘lagher who
. tenants in the

Weiner lived.

Two house

friendly with

that one warr
mer, shortly ;
‘from a hospita
all windows \
‘heard her qu:
husband over
that Weiner
| building that
| Suitcases, and
until a month

Informed o:
Attorney Pagn
tioning Sylvia
Connie’s name
ferring to her,
Sylvia’s friend

“She is not :
*“T don’t know

Then she fro
any more ques
for the official
manifestation
of grilling. The
‘doubtedly was

Deputy Chic
Phoned his ,
Deputy Chief hh
and Patrick K«
locate the m
'Brooklyn offici
} request down 1
all precincts un
nands.

--In the hope
Sylvia Weiner
the night of the
asked the Hack
sheets of all t
especially those
‘East Side of M:
+ Simultaneous)
for a hoard \
living and unde
he had cached

of all bank ac
vaults in the cit
* Assistant Dis
then allowed S)
notwithstanding
convinced she

Knowledge of th
* On the chan
“Red Rose,” det
lal services for
morning, Thur:
Memorial Chap
Avenue, in Broo
mourners, but

there, however,
weeping quietly
The rites last
the body, (Cont

s


id have wanted

shad. gone on a sudden’ “‘vacation’’ to

_ was verifying: “parts unknown, as had scores of: others
ss, and churning
ctives who were
e learned that it

“opinion in the .
probably had
yuble dealing or
ise of. a woman,
several reputed
the authorities
connected with
to the investiga-

@ some light on the mystery.

i ‘the investigation was swung on Weiner’s
alleged Brooklyn girl friend, Connie, by

‘Weiner lived.

Two housewives, who had become
lar kept bobbing §% that one warm day the previous sum-
stigators went in
Weiner’s former
informants only: |
. going to Brook-
veral months be~ .
see a girl named 4

all windows were open, they had over-
‘heard her quarreling’ bitterly with her
husband over a girl named Connie, and
that Weiner had stormed out of the

suitcases, and that he did not return
until a month later.

nterest to the au-
statement of a
run with a Brook-
en Weiner’s jilted
zed Rose of Wil-
long a street only §
‘-e Weiner lived in.”
ir before the man |

Attorney Pagnucco, who was still ques-

Connie’s name into the proceedings, re-.
ferring to her, for baiting purposes, as
Sylvia’s friend. The bait worked.

‘lets. 4 “She is not.my friend,” flared Sylvia.

“T don’t know her.”

»ose” was instantly ©
q Then she froze and refused to answer

y in Brooklyn, but
hostile stares or
read apart, palms
at, like many of
siates who did not -
juietly faded from
aunts immediately
id grapevine had -

manifestation of emotion in eight hours
of grilling. The rumor about Connie un-
doubtedly was true. ‘

Deputy Chief Inspector Rothehgast
phoned his colleagues
Deputy Chief Inspectors William Whalen
‘and Patrick Kenny, and asked them to
) locate the mysterious Connie. The
Brooklyn officials, in turn, passed the
‘request down the line to detectives in

+} mands.

In the hope of ascertaining where
? Sylvia Weiner actually had gone on
j the night of the murder, Rothengast also
V asked the Hack Bureau to check the trip
Msheets of all taxi-drivers in the city,
fespecially those who worked ‘the lower
‘East Side of Manhattan.
Simultaneously, a search was launched
for a hoard which Weiner’s scale of
}living and underworld rumors, indicated
the had cached somewhere. A canvass
Wof all bank accounts and safe- deposit
aults in the city was ordered.

hen allowed Sylvia Weiner to go home,
otwithstanding the fact that he was
fconvinced she was concealing guilty
knowledge of the crime.

» On the chance they might nab the
“Red Rose,” detectives attended funer-
fal services for Weiner the following
morning, Thursday, at the Flatbush
(Memorial Chapel, 1283 Coney Island
Avenue, in Brooklyn. They found seven
‘mourners, but no Rose. Sylvia was
there, however, modishly attired and
‘weeping quietly.

| The rites lasted five minutes.
ee body, (Continued

> the police inspector
Two members of the

nd John O’Brien (r.)

Then
on page 74)

‘spread. the word that he. had died. She”

whom the police thought could ee

_ Then, unexpectedly, the “full Yotte of a

new information that was dug up by
Detectives Neylan, O’Brien, and Gal-
‘lagher who .were: re-questioning the .
tenants in the apartment’ building where

friendly with Sylvia. Weiner, told them. .
mer, shortly-after Sylvia had returned)
‘from a hospital with her baby and when

building that day with hastily packed:

* Informed. of this, Assistant District |

tioning Sylvia Weiner, casually. dropped -

any more questions. But it was enough |
for the officials. It had been her first.

in Brooklyn, —

all precincts under their respective.com-.

- Assistant District Attorney Pagnucco —

. authorities, ‘was

a reteans are ‘too ‘efficient.

This lament is heard frequently -
° fronted was tackled by another
' American’. dynamo of efficiency,

here in Japan where. a good many
citizens are dismayed. by the un-
expected _ sheath of Yankee
efficiency,

Immediately ater: Sopan’s sur-
render,
that nationwide epidemics. were
inevitable.
dicted a® million-and-a-half: drop
in the population inside of a year.

That was when Brigadier Gen-

Public Health“and Welfare Section.

-He unleashed a Jand-and-air pro-

gram of disinfection of super-
colossal: ‘magnitude. “And that was

“only the beginning. As the years

passed, he did such ‘a. bang-up job

‘4 that Japanese life. expectancy in-

medical, experts warned. |

One authority pre- |

-.and deloused.
“my post-war successor a8 Chicago

creased by four. years, and instead ..

of dropping by a.million and a half
there has been an annual increase

in population of approximately —

that ‘number’ since «1947.

It. would’ seem, of course, that;

‘called “pig pens.”

make Japanese jails popular—
and . the: population healthier

DA situation ‘somewhat akin to
that which General Sams con-

Colonel H. E. Pulliam, chief of
the Public Safety Division. ©
When the war ended, Japan’s
jails and penitentiaries were
Often a dozen

men were crowded into a tiny,

“filthy, vermin-infested cell.

- Colonel Pulliam got to work. He

j started with Kosuge, largest peni-
eral Crawford Sams- stepped ‘in as
chief of “General “MacArthur's °

tentiary in-the country. The place
was scrubbed from floor to ceiling
Walter Simmons,

Tribune correspondent, and I paid
a visit there not long ago. The
rice bowls were filled heaping high
with steaming food and, luxury of
luxuries, there was a hot bath
once every four days.

The warden took us-to an annex
which was under construction. He
proudly pointed to the wall which

-was painted a pale yellow. The

General Sams’ received an. un- ._

asked-for assist from the men and
women of Japan, the proportions

of which probably came as some-

thing of a shock to him.
Although a whopping birth rate

would have delighted Japan’s fire- .

eating ‘ militarists, conditions have
changed since their day. . After
1946, American ‘taxpayers have
been spending.a quarter of a_bil-
lion dollars a year to’ feed Japan.

Thus, the population problem
has become a pressing one. - Vari-
ous .means of solving the unfore-
seen end product of General. Sams’
extraordinary exhibition of Ameri-
can efficiency were studied but
there simply. wasn’t-a satisfactory
answer. Finally another. Ameri-
can, Dr. Warren Thompson, one of
the world’s foremost population
called.
studying the problem thoroughly
he said the only way out was birth
control. This was a sad revelation
to the Japanese. Now nobody is
happy except’ the . manufacturers
of contraceptives. —

A Japanese official put the whole
problem in. a. nutshell when he
said, “We are ‘grateful to the
Americans. . . but’ we feel they
are sometimes too efficient.”

After.

color scheme, he explained, was
selected after giving deep thought
to the need of bringing solace to

' the troubled minds of the inmates.

But it. was the hot bath, I be-
lieve, which did the trick. Police
soon began complaining that To-
kyo’s 40,000 “lumpen”—men who
have no jobs and homes and only
rags to wear—were deliberately
violating laws so they could live
at Kosuge. So the place now is
always booked full.

A post-war premier, an ex-chief
of police, and scores of political

and industrial bigshots have been

recent “guests” there, although in
their cases it may not have been
through choice.

In;the past year, other peniten-
tiaries and jails have been reno-
vated. Marked improvements have
been made in the living quarters,
food and—I was about to say “‘ser-
vice”—treatment. Today they are
much nearer American standards.
So every “lumpen”—to say noth-
ing of a lot of other people—wants
to go to jail.

Maybe you can’t blame some

Japanese for scratching their heads

about Yankee efficiency.
—Kimprt SHEBA, Editor of the
Nippon Times, TD Correspon-
dent in Japan.

American hygiene and comfort ~

\

19


rr whom he
her address
and whom
>w Yorker.
iember that,
‘ss walk, she
Hotel New
she had in-
nd attend a
ld there, but
after waiting
-d home. But
iend she had
smained firm
any guilty
rer husband.
After ar-
Irs. Bruches,
aby, he hus-
to court and
1s a material
sail she went
fouse of De-

then injected
nent into the
~dua told his
sts of slugs
iat the death
1 on January
ier had been
rshop at 1203

ne then dis-
some bandits,
‘rin his late

escape after
»prietor, Otto
een fired and
r from which

‘stioned in a
vas still con-
the teen-age

ucco, Deputy
spector Gold-
vent into an-
r brains try-
ger into the

they discov-
the boy gun-
‘ticipated in
ips. including
914 Second
h had been
none of the
> authorities
of Weiner’s
tance money
idits had had

i his gun to
iim we may
e,” observed

now detailed
and try to
) the youth’s

») received a
a fugitive in
via Weiner’s
illiamsburg.”
till featuring
ial story of
beauty shop
itly envious
“Red Rose”
burned up

a liar,” she
see you to-

. ie: RR

x Then she

‘ending the futile four-day police search
for her. Although dumpy in general ap-
pearance, she still retained traces of the
Latin beauty of her youth. She proceeded
to prove that her mind was still as keen
as a rapier. She came straight to the point.
’“You want my own alibi first? Right?”

Pagnucco nodded. She gave it. She
had been on her way to visit friends on
East Third Street in Manhattan when the
parolee had spotted her two blocks from
Weiner’s home-a_ half-hour before the
latter was mortally wounded in his home.
She gave the names of her hosts ‘and of
other guests who had been present. All
were respectable persons, and one was a
public official who. had had no idea of her
true identity. And all verified her claim
that she had been in. their presence for a
half-hour before and for two hours after
Weiner had been shot.

“It was just a coincidence I was in that”
Chippy was.
knocked off,” she explained. . “I often visit .
I had an ~

neighborhood - the night
those people on Third Street.
opportunity to do them a favor once and
they’ve treated me tops ever since. Never
a word about my past. They always act
like I was a lady. It makes me feel good
to go there. To me it’s like going to
church is for other people.”

Then she sailed into Connie Fernandez’
story. Three hours later she was still
going strong. She wanted Pagnucco to
know that Connie Fernandez had known
Chippy Weiner for only two years, not
twenty. Furthermore she wanted the au-
thorities to know they were all wrong in
pursuing their leads involving a jealousy
motive. As for her own affair with Weiner,
that was ancient history and it was silly
for the newspapers and public officials to
be still “kicking it around,” she argued,
because she and her daughter had been
on the best of terms for years,

Indeed, she had been a constant visitor
at her daughter’s home until Chippy
Weiner had started to consort with Connie
Fernandez two years earlier, she declared.
Then she and her son-in-law had had it
out, she said, and thereafter she had
stopped visiting his home.

“He was a no-good heel,” she went on.
“He got what was coming to him. But 1
had nothing to do with it and you can
bet your bottom dollar my daughter didn’t
either. She was always. on the square
with him and she even had a baby trying
to keep him in line. But she’s ‘known
for a long time that. her marriage was
on the rocks so it’s absurd for you. to be
holding her simply because she. won’t
talk. Maybe she had a date with some
nice guy and she doesn’t want to involve
him. In the end you'll find out that
Chippy got his because he double-crossed
Someone once too often. I honestly haven’t
heard yet myself who did. it, but if I did
know I wouldn’t tell you.”

As she was leaving, Pagnucco admon-
ished, “Leave your feuds in Brooklyn when
you come across the river, Rose.”

She looked back, and with a wan smile
replied, “One of these days I may have
to cross a certain river very sudden and
leave everything in Brooklyn.”

ebm the following week relays of de-

tectives continued to question both
Sylvia Weiner and Connie Fernandez while
other sleuths, checking the story told by
the “Red Rose,” dug back into the personal
histories of the various members of the
Murder, Inc. mob.

In the middle of the week, both Sylvia
and Connie were still clinging to their re-
spective versions when detectives found a
safe-deposit box under the widow’s maiden

A Pee RED hry Grane Tibial G8
: hung up. But she kept her
word. She appeared at Pagnucco’s office fe:
early the following afternoon, Saturday,

ataee a
in Brooklyn. 9%
totaling $2,200

~ doing ‘his’ second 'strete

they were not from ‘her

at Sing Sing. He alsoshad been a bookie
partner of Weiner’s. But)he was able. to
prove that he had been -miles‘ distant on
the night Weiner was killed.: After ques-
tioning him for eight hours the authorities
were forced to let him gov? | | Adie
The following week, the third of the in-

vestigation, Detectives Lyons and: Cloonan .

unearthed conclusive evidence that Connie
Fernandez had lied’ when: she claimed she
had been Weiner’s secret flame for twenty
years. She was picked up and taken to
Pagnucco’s office. Confronted with the
proof, she cracked. = * = © } eo

She not only admitted that the “Red |

Rose” had told the ‘truth, but she con-
fessed that she was the person to whom
Weiner had phoned after he shad been
riddled with bullets.” The call had come
through at 10:15 p.m. She had not phoned
him at nine-fifteen, nor at any other time
that night. - WIS, STAR pe gig :

Then sudden fear’ gripped’ her, . She
said she couldn’t remember what Weiner
had told her. Be ae ee i

“He told you who shot him,” snapped
Pagnucco. ‘Now, whom did he name?”

“I—I don’t remember,” faltered. Connie
Fernandez, We Peaks :

Fok hours they worked on her but they
could not shake the name of the killer
from her. Finally, Paghucco took her be-
fore General Sessions Judge Owen W. Bo-
han who held her ‘in $25,000 bail as a
material witness. She couldn’t post it so
she was jailed in the Women’s House of
Detention where Weiner’s widow was still
being held. ; Rte EY %

By now the slain gangster’s tangled love
affairs were becoming a headache to the
authorities. Both his wife and her prin-
cipal rival knew the identity of the killer,

the: officials were convinced, yet the lips

of one were sealed by fear and those of
the other by the underworld code’ of
‘silence, if not something worse. And in
the middle of the whole picture was a
slender and handsome but unidentified
teen-aged bandit. The investigators shook
their heads dolefully. They couldn’t figure
it out. : Lie

“We'll break the case yet,” predicted
Rothengast. “The records indicate that
young gunman and the gang he runs with
are relying on the loot of ‘petty hold-ups
for their livelihood. They are, obviously
amateurs. They’ll do ~something stupid
one of these days and we'll nab him. It
will be easier to crack him than those two
women. The gun will do it,”

In the vast, sprawling, teeming metrop-
olis of the world: with’ its eight million
inhabitants, hold-ups are common, and in
the days that followed many youthful
bandits were picked up. All were ques-
tioned with the Weiner case in mind. But
one after another, all were cleared of com-
plicity in the murder.

Then, abruptly, on February 9th, almost
a month after her husband was slain,
Sylvia Weiner made‘ a bid for freedom.
Through her attorney, Jack. Shientag of
270 Broadway, she sought her release on
a writ of habeas corpus. The hearing

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76°

was held before Supreme Court Justice
Ferdinand Pecora. She contended that
it was customary for her to have Tuesday
and Thursday night out while her hus-
band stayed home with their baby, and that
she was merely a victim of circumstances,
hence should be freed.

Pagnucco, opposing her plea, retorted
that she was still a pivotal figure in the
investigation because she had given them
six conflicting stories, yet had told them
nothing in elegant underworld language.

“We do not believe that she shot her
husband,” he continued, “but our investi-
gation leads us to believe that she was
in the apartment when people came in
who shot him after she was told to take
a walk.”

Justice Pecora then advised her to be
more cooperative with the authorities and
denied her plea, but he also observed that
she was being held only as a material wit-
ness and he suggested that the district at-
torney confine her in a hotel room instead
of the Women’s House of Detention, so she
could have her baby with her.

Four days later, on February 12th, police
got the break which Deputy Chief Inspec-
tor Rothengast had anticipated. At eight-ten
o’clock that night two slender, handsome
young men attempted to hold up a
jewelry store at 1607 Broadway in
Brooklyn, but the proprietor, Arthur Lev-
enthal, proved unexpectedly stubborn. He
resisted and was beaten over the head
with a revolver by the younger bandit.
But his yells frightened off the youthful
appearing gunmen and they fied in a car.
Leventhal had enough presence of mind
to get its license number, however.

To the surprise of Detectives Samuel
Seigel and Sigmund Wishniewski of the
Ralph Avenue police station who arrived
at the scene a few minutes later, they
discovered that the license plate had not
been stolen, and this proved to be the
blunder on the part of the bandits which
Rothengast had expected and it eventually
solved the Weiner murder case in Man-
hattan. !

By simply making a phone call to Man-
hattan police headquarters, the detectives
learned the license plate had been issued
for a car owned by a Brooklyn auto rent-
ing agency, and when they questioned the
proprietor he told them that he ‘had
rented the machine, or “load” as he called
it, early that evening to a seventeen-year-
old youth named Arthur Traviano who
lived nearby at .94 Hayward ‘Street,
Brooklyn.

It was after midnight when Traviano

returned to his home and walked into -

the waiting arms of the detectives. “They

took him ‘to the Ralph Avenue police
station where hé frankly admitted he had
rented the car, but he insisted that he had
an unexpected date on which he could
not use an auto so he had loaned it to a
friend of his, another seventeen-year-old
youth named Edward Fennessey who lived
at 92 Ten Eyck Walk, Brooklyn.
Wishniewski and Seigel routed Fennessey
out of bed and took him to the Ralph Ave-

nue station. His appearance was striking...

He was the choir-boy type, with dark
wavy hair. It was hard for the officers to
believe he could be a gunman, especially
after they ascertained his history from
papers in his pocket and from his pretty
35-year-old mother, Rae, who had ac-
companied them to the police station.

Nevertheless, he admitted that he was
one of the bandits who had attempted to
hold up Leventhal’s jewelry store and
Leventhal identified him. He also con-
ceded that he had been running with a
tough mob for several months and had
been involved in other stick-ups. But he
would not name which unsolved stick-ups,
nor would he identify his accomplices in
any of thein.

To ‘the officers he proved a complete
paradox. A gunman by night, it transpired,
he was a piano student by day, and he
had an ardent interest in youth move-
ments. Among other things, he was a Boy
Scout, and he had been a sergeant in the
9th Regiment, State Guard. He also was
a proficient flyweight boxer and had won
several competitions sponsored by youth
organizations. And during his three years

in high school he had been better than an-~

average student.

WISHNIEWSET ‘and Seigel questioned
him at length and then he suddenly re-
vealed an almost inconsequential detail
but it sent an electric shock through them.
In explaining why he had not returned to
high school for his fourth year, he said
that he had worked during the summer,
seven months earlier, in a meat-packing
plant, and that he was so seriously injured
when a quarter of beef fell on his head’
that he had been hospitalized for two weeks
just as the school term started. While
convalescing, he disclosed, he had met
somé gay young blades of the poolroom
type and had lost interest. in school.

The detectives thought. of the Manhat-
tan meat-packing plant which had been
robbed on’ January 7th by four young
men, one of whom answered Fennessey’s
description, and of how, apparently, the
same youth had: participated in another,
stick-up three days later, on January 10th,
when he shot and wounded the Brooklyn

Br i

‘¥

“Your honor! The rest are undécided, but I have reached
a verdict”? aN Ces

pn

§
“a

butcher, Otto Ziegler, with a revolver
which was used three more days later, on
January 13th, to kill Weiner.

The officers summoned Captain Ralph
DeMartino, commander of all detectives in
the 19th district in Brooklyn. He took
over, and began to question Fennessey
about hold-ups in which. he knew the
youth could not have taken part, but oc-
casionally he brought up one in which
he suspected Fennessey had participated.
Not once, however, did he mention Weiner’s
murder. He was fishing to see if the boy
had any guilty knowledge of it.

Unaware of Captain DeMartino’s pur-
pose, Fennessey parried the queries adroit-
ly for several hours. Then he became
bored. Of a sudden, he said:

“Why are you bothering so much about
all these stick-ups? I can give you some
good information. Maybe you’d like to
know who killed Chippy Weiner.”

It came so abruptly that DeMartino was
Startled, but he managed to conceal his
surprise, and he led the youth on. Soon

. he had Fennessey’s entire version of the

murder of Benjamin “Chippy” Weiner on
the night of January 18th, 1948, and, by
a queer coincidence, At was a thirteenth
on which Fennessey“told it—Friday, Feb-
ruary 13th, 1948—exactly one month after
Weiner was executed by gangland. In
New York City’s underworld, it not only
emphasizes the popular superstition con-
cerning e “unlucky thirteenth,” it led
to Jandary 18th, 1948 becoming. known
as “Phe Night of Love and Blood.” ~-

NCE he began to talk, Fennessey spared

no details. He named twelve hold-ups
in which he had participated, identified the
various members of the gang he ran with,
and confessed that it was he who had shot
and wounded the butcher, Ziegler. His ac-
complice on both that occasion and in the
attempted hold-up of Leventhal’s jewelry
store was the leader of the mob, a 28-year-
old ex-convict named Santo “Sal” Bretag-
na, he said,

. According to his account, he had met
Bretagna the previous September when
the latter was paroled from Sing Sing and
opened a dry cleaning shop with his
brother, Jack: Bretagna, at 42 Meserole
Street, Brooklyn. Sal Bretagna proceeded,

“however, to use the shop as a cover for

a crime school and he sogn had a stick-
up gang organized, composed mostly of
teen-agers. .

Getting down to January 13th, the day
of the slaying, Fennessey said that he and
three other members of the gang were
lounging around the tailor shop late that
afternoon when one of Sal Bretagna’s
former stir-pals, a 42-year-old ex-convict
named William “Farbie” Rosenberg, had
come in to borrow a gun. Sal Bretagna
went to the rear of the shop and came
back with one of the mob’s community
weapons, a .38 caliber revolver which Fen-
nessey had used three nights earlier when
he wounded Ziegler, the butcher.

“Farbie asked Sal if the gun’ was in good
working order,” continued Fennessey, “and
Sal said; ‘Sure. Ill show you’, and he
fired a shot into the floor. Farbie took
the gun, stuck it under his belt, but-
toned up his coat and went out. “We asked
Sal- what was up and he said that Farbie
had a job to do. Then we all drove to
Manhattan for a frolic with a couple of
girls.”

His .companions, Fennessey . continued,

~ were Arthur Traviano who had rented the

auto for the Leventhal jewelry store stick-
up; Bernard “Butch”. Affrunti who was
nineteen and lived at 66 Lynch Street,
Brooklyn; and Sal Bretagna.
In a car rented by Affrunti, they drove
to the Hotel Globe, at 300 West 44th Street
(Continued on page 78)

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clue to his
in that after-
one of his

26-year-old ©
Middle Vil-"

ound a letter -

days earlier
was solicit-

iled in lieu
witness, and
nucco, Lieu-
O’Brien and
t, Connecti-
ed Bretagna

tment they
revious day
e they again
’ hours. The
unday night

llay’s Bar at -

Square in a
of Boston,
n smoothly

k, Bretagna
ointing out
Weiner be-
ir-hijacking
ated, hence
y money.

he had not
‘laimed that
was talking
ck girl in
ge and De-
lower East

rought ©

eclared
y time
een him in
thts during

tioned and
tnesses, in-
exclaimed,
I’m not
ose bums!”
had mur-
erely as a
latter had
nd for that
iver from
m just to
erg started
they were
ator in the
iner lived.
back to
che killing,
than mine.

ered with
succumbed
took over
ad no per-
at Rosen-
r simply
$500 from
iy it back.
hat when
the latter
nberg re-
er admit-
of pleas-
bedroom
three of
nk.
whispered
ow,” and
television
ked back
What are

iia coe

-- are you doing this to me?”

css ah: Bits: OF ean
€ scurried into the bedroom, an
Bretagna followed him he scre

amed;

According to Bretagna, Weiner seemed

actually mystified for there had been no-

talk about the alleged $500 loan, but. Bre-

-tagna gave no further thought to it. ‘He.

was thinking solely of the job: he had
to do as a favor for Rosenberg, ‘so he
emptied his gun into the cowering Weiner.
While jerking on the floor as each bullet
hit him, Weiner. cried out twice, “What
are you doing to me?” and he tried to get
up... Blood was pouring from. his arm
and neck into the crib,

Then he lurched to his feet and was
staggering toward the killers when they
fled from the apartment and down the
stairway. Outside, on East First Street, :
they separated, Rosenberg stating that he
was going to the Hotel New Yorker to meet
Weiner’s wife, Sylvia. At the corner
of Houston and First Street, Bretagna
claimed, he threw the death gun into a
trash receptacle, :

Requestioned, Rosenberg admitted that.

Bretagna’s story was trué but he’ denied
that he went to the Hotel New Yorker
after the shooting to meet Weiner’s wife.

With all stories jibing, the investiga-
tors were confident they now had the truth
about the crime except for one phase of
it—the motive.

Pagnucco told Rosenberg, “I don’t be-
lieve you ever had $500 to loan anybody.”

Nevertheless, ‘Rosenberg continued to
cling to that explanation, and in view of
the otherwise successful end of the in-
vestigation Pagnucco went into court the ’
following day and caused: the release of
two witnesses, Peter Barranco and Bre-
tagna’s brother, Jack. : :

A week later he also agreed to the re-'
lease of Connie Fernandez, but when
Sylvia Weiner again attempted to gain
her freedom at a hearing before Supreme
Court Justice Edward R. Koch, he op-
posed her plea Stating that she had not
been completely exonerated, and she was
not released until just before Rosenberg
and Bretagna went on trial for their lives
on June 14th, 1948, before General Ses-
sions Judge Saul S. Streit and an all-
male blue-ribbon jury.

Representing the State, Assistant Dis-
trict Attorney George P, Monaghan made
no effort to establish the motive for the
crime, and a curious sidelight on the first

by the dram
Weiner as a
Ashen-faced .

ceedings and. ordered »a recess until she

could recover §: control” of herself,. Ten
minutes later she again took the stand.
Her testimony was brief.: She denied that.
she had met Rosenberg at the Hotel New |
Yorker, and for-the first time shéinamed

the friend she was supposed to have niet

sO Ta

there. His’ identity isybeing withheld, »

After: deliberating «for

two hours and |.
forty minutes on July ist, 1948, the: jury

found both Santo “Sal” Bretagna and’ Wil-

liam “Farbie” Rosenberg.

guilty of: murder

in the first degree, On July 7th, both

were sentenced ‘to. die.
chair, \ : ee

in | the. electric

Eight months later, on March 3rd, 1949,
both killers were executed .at Sing. Sing.

the meantime,

Edward Fennessey,

Bernard Affrunti and - Arthur Traviano
had been tried and convicted in the hold-
_ Up and wounding. of, Otto: Ziegler, the
meat packing-house’ proprietor. The bandit
trio had received sentences of from five
to ten years’ imprisonment.’ However, for

x

their aid in clearing up. the:Chippy Weiner
murder, and on the joint recommendation
of the New. York and. Brooklyn district

attorneys’ offices, Judge

Nathan R. Sobel’

suspended their sentences. -All-were placed

on probation for ten years,

ae ie

Sek Sd sy oe
ty

the persons’ concerned,

order, to protect their

in leather jacket,

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The names Arline Goss, Betty Lehar
and Peter Barranco, as used inthe’ fore-
going story, are not the real names of

have been given fictitious names in
two.men in center of; photograph on

page 18, between detectives, are; Santo
Bretagna (1.). and William Rosenberg,

_ These. persons

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(Continued from page 76) in Manhattan
where by prearrangement they picked up
two attractive girls, Arline Goss, an eigh-
teen-year-old redhead of Philadelphia,
and Betty Lehar, a 21-year-old brunette
of Newark, New Jersey, who had come
to New York a month earlier in search of
fame and fortune.

Then they decided to go for a swim in
the pool of the Hotel St. George in Brook-
lyn, Fennessey related, and they started
at 9:20 p. m., taking the girls with them,
but en route Sal Bretagna got out of the
car at Delancey and Eldridge Streets on
Manhattan’s lower East Side, five blocks
from where Weiner lived.

“Farbie Rosenberg was standing there
waiting for Sal,” said Fennessey, “and they
started to walk toward Weiner’s place,
but at the time I didn’t know they were
going there. Sal had told us he would
meet us later at the St. George, so we
drove on. Sal showed up at the pool at
eleven-thirty. He appeared excited and
nervous. He told me he had to get out
of town. He wanted me to go to Miami
with him. I told him I couldn’t because I
was on probation. He then phoned -his
brother, Jack, and told him to meet us at
the tailor shop. He wanted to get his
suit pressed. Butch and I went there

with him. Arthur took the girls back to -

the: Globe Hotel.”

Aries Sal Bretagna, always a dude, had
had his suit pressed, Fennessey went on,

he and Sal took the subway to Manhattan

for another session with the two girls. On

the subway Bretagna told him that he and.

William “Farbie”’ Rosenberg had gone to
see Benjamin “Chippy” Weiner, who had
-been an old stir-pal of theirs, and that they
got into a fight over money that Weiner
owed them,-and -that he, Bretagna, had,
knocked Weiner down. ‘

“Sal said Weiner hit his head and .there
was blood all over him,” Fennessey re-
called. “He told me that Weiner looked
like he was dead and he got scared and
lammed out of there. We arrived at'the
Globe Hotel at about four-thirty in the
morning. The girls met us-again and we

stayed there the rest of the night. We
had a‘swell time.” ’
Inspector -DeMartino commented,

“Weren't you exhausted?”;
“Why,. no,” answered . the seventeen.”
year-old Fennessey in some surprise. “I.
felt fine.

got the morning papers for him. I was
dumbfounded .when I saw in the papers_
that instead of ‘hitting “Chippy” Weiner,
Sal had shot him four ne yi and. that ‘he
‘ had died ae the waggle

and he saw that Weiner was dead.”

In mingled awe and relief Bretagna then’. ‘

paid’a wry compliment’ to Weiner’s vital-
ity, remarking, “Why, ‘the ——; ‘even
though I ‘put! five: bullets in him, ‘he kept
running around screaming,” and in smug
satisfaction, he added, “But tt was a wood
job. . No witnesses.”

Fennessey’s tale caused a ite of ex-

_ citement in the Manhattan. district at-
: torney’ s office and soon*100 detectiveswere .
» scouring the city for the other members.

But in the morning .Sal was :
still nervous and worried. I went out and .

‘

in their toils all the teen-agers who. had
attended the love-and-swimming | party.
Each confirmed Fennessey’s story but none
knew the whereabouts of either Sal Bre-
tagna or “Farbie” Rosenberg.

Neither did Bretagna’s brother, Jack, who
also was picked up. He told the investi-
gators that while Fennessey was “singing”
to Captain DeMartino, Sal had hurried into
the tailor shop, pocketed two guns, and
said he was never going to be taken alive
and that he was going to get out of town.

Taken quietly before General Sessions
Judge John A. Mullen all six witnesses,
including the two girls, were held in $20,-
000 bail each as material witnesses.

Then, late Saturday night, Rosenberg
was nabbed on the lower.East Side. His
record showed that he had spent eighteen
of his forty-two years in prison, and the
story he told left the authorities skeptical

for he was short, balding and ‘ferret-eyed, |

hardly the type to arouse the interest of
a slender shapely beauty like Sylvia

_ Weiner, yet he claimed that he had lured

| Listen fo |
NANCY -
CRAIG

Every Weekday Afternoon 1: :15 DST
ABC STATIONS _

Read NANCY ‘ORAIO'S ‘COOKING PAGES.
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her ‘out of her Sen bite Aha night He the
murder by phoning ‘her and making a date
to'meet her at the ‘Hotel New Yorker.  *

According to “his recital Sal Bretagna
shot ‘Weiner because “the latter tried to’
cheat: Bretagna _ ‘out of ‘his share of a
$30,000 © fur - hijacking. job .in. Newark,
New Jersey, ‘but: the police. uld find’ no
record of —

* home | twice fan
tagna ;never had been’
panied ‘him’on the night’

- of ‘the Pander Birenied hia, that he had
r borrowed “the death gun. co shth afternoon
‘B

a nation-wide. aiaret

“fo: "Sal Bretagna. swith a <

le company.” a ,

of the gang who. had gone into hiding the ‘w

moment they heard of Fennessey’s arrest.

The two: girls. were picked up at’ once,
however, and in considerable detail and
.with no manifestation of. embarrassment,
they corroborated Fennessey’s account of.
_ their trysts with Bretagna petore and after
the murder. |

One by: one Wennessey’s ‘crime’ ¥pals

were then’rooted out of their hiding places
3 and by Saturday evening the’ police had

March 13th—that a definite clue to his
whereabouts was obtained. On that after-
noon detectives picked up one of his
friends, Peter Barranco, a 26-year-old
truck driver who lived in the Middle Vil-
lage section of Queens County.

On Barranco’s person they found a letter
which he had received two days earlier
from Bretagna. The fugitive was solicit-
ing funds to ‘finance his flight.

Barranco was promptly jailed in lieu
of $50,000 bail, as a material witness, and
Assistant District Attorney Pagnucco, Lieu-
tenant Miller and Detectives O’Brien and
Neylan hurried to Bridgeport, Connecti-
cut, where the letter indicated Bretagna
was hiding.

To their keen disappointment they
learned he had moved the previous day

_ to Hartford, Connecticut, where they again

missed him, this time by a few hours. The
chase ended at eight-fifteen Sunday night
when they trapped him in Scollay’s Bar at
Hanover Street and Scollay Square in a
tawdry section in the heart of Boston,
Massachusetts. He was taken smoothly
wispunt any gun play.

/ provexr back to New York, Bretagna
protested his innocence, pointing out
that he had no motive to kill Weiner be-
cause there had -been no fur-hijacking
job such as Rosenberg had related, hence
Weiner had not owed him any money.

As a matter of fact, he said, he had not
seen Weiner since 1945, and he claimed that
at the time of the murder he was talking
to Mary Olenick, a hat-check girl in
Areli’s Bar and Grill at Eldridge and De-
lancey Streets on Manhattan’s lower East
Side.

But when Miss Olenick was brought
to the district attorney’s office she declared
she had not seen Bretagna at any time
that night although she had seen him in
the place on. several other nights during
the month of January.

For six hours he was questioned and
confronted by all the jailed witnesses, in-

_ cluding Rosenberg. Finally, he ‘exclaimed,
» *Tll tell you how- it happened: *

I’m _ not
' going to take the rap for all those bums!”

According to his account, he had mur-
dered Weiner but he did it merely as a
favor. for Rosenberg. The latter had
planned to do the job himself and for that
purpose had borrowed.a revolver from
’ Bretagna’ who’ accompanied him just to
lend moral support. But Rosenberg started
to tremble uncontrollably while they were
going up in the self-service elevator in the
-apartment building where Weiner lived.

Abruptly, -—he handed the gun back. to ~

Bretagna and asked him to do the’ ‘Killing,

stating, “Your hand is steadier than mine.
ot. the: shakes tonight.”

A gun-happy type, not bothered with

to.;Rosenberg’s fast talk and ‘took over
the'murder chore in which he had no per-
- sonal interest. He insisted that “Rosen-
; to kill” Weiner simply

» because 'the latter. had borrowed ‘$500 from
Rosenberg and had refused to pay it back.
Bretagna’s story disclosed. that when

5 they! knocked on Weiner’s door ‘the latter
, “Who’s there?” and Rosenberg re-

- Strikes. | # b piled: " «Parbie,” whereupon Weiner admit- fe
ted them, and after an exchange of pleas-

“antries, Weiner started for the bedroom
- to get a bottle of liquor so the three of
‘them ‘could enjoy a reunion drink.

“At that moment Rosenberg whispered
to Bretagna, “Give it to him now,” and
simultaneously he turned. the television
-set on full volume.

over: his shoulder and: said, “What are

~~ you. doing?” and at that:moment Bretagna:
Cs is rose to the occasion. He whipped out his

» revolver’ and Aged Point- blank at Weiner.

Weiner looked back.

, nerves, slow-thinking Bretagna succumbed .

he scurried int
Bretagna follow
are you doing t
According to
actually mystific
talk about the a
tagna gave no }
was thinking s
to do as a fav
emptied his gun
While jerking o
hit him, Weine:
are you doing tc
up. Blood was
and neck into th
Then he lurc
Staggering towa)
fled from the ;
stairway. Outsi
they separated,
was going to the
Weiner’s wife,
of Houston an
claimed, he thr:
trash receptacle
Requestioned,
Bretagna’s story
that he went t
after the shootir
With all stor
tors were confid«
about the crime
it—the motive.
Pagnucco told
lieve you ever h
Nevertheless,
cling to that ex
the otherwise s
vestigation Pagn
following day a
two witnesses, |
tagna’s brother,
A week later
lease of Conni
Sylvia Weiner
her freedom at :
Court Justice E
posed her plea
been completely
not released un:
and Bretagna we

: ‘on June 14th, 1

sions Judge Sat
male blue-ribbor

Representing +
trict Attorney G
no effort to esta
crime, and a cur

“Thi