Warning.

Kind of murdery contains adult themes, explicit language, and descriptions of violence.

It is not suitable for anyone, and we recommend you stop listening now.

I'm Zevan Odelberg, and this is kind of murdery.

The case I'm about to tell you about started out as a commonplace speakeasy stick up in which a patrolman and a girl were wounded at two fifty five am on the morning of January thirty first, nineteen twenty seven, in New York City.

The patrolman died on the evening of the same day and was buried with full departmental honors three days later.

Long before the funeral, however, the case developed all the melodramatic features that make front page crime serials or true crime podcasts.

Occasionally, newspaper publicity helps an investigation.

In this story, it would have been disastrous.

And speaking of disasters, imagine being in a bar and inadvertently overhearing a conversation, as I'm sure all of us have any number of times in our lives, assuming that we occasionally go to bars, Except this stranger's conversation that you eavesdropped on by accident would lead you to a lifetime behind the barred windows of an insane asylum kind of murderies.

It was a face out of hell.

The shooting of patrolman Masterson starts now.

At two thirty five am on the morning in question, two well dressed young men entered the bar room in the rear of a speakeasy on West one hundred and third Street.

One of them, known to the bartender as Whitey, ordered highballs.

Fifteen minutes later, two strange men sought admittance of the speakeasy and were vouched for by Whitey.

They entered the dining room in the front and ordered coffee.

There were about sixteen patrons present, a well behaved, prosperous after theater crowd, each group of which was paying attention only to its own party.

At two fifty five, Whitey rose and sauntered nonchalantly toward the back of the bar.

He whipped out a thirty eight caliber automatic and barked stick them up.

Simultaneously, his companion took a stand at the other end of the bar and covered the occupants of the bar room, while the pair in the dining room whipped out revolvers and ordered the ham sandwich and coffee customers to stick them up and walk into the back room.

There was a crash of broken glass and crockery, where tables were tipped over by the terror stricken men and women as they discreetly hastened to obey the command.

Scores of times they'd read about such scenes in the newspapers and seen them in the movies.

They knew that such things happened, of course to other people.

That it had happened to themselves filled them with stunned amazement and horror.

To one of the victims in the restaurant, however, the stick up was not much of a surprise.

Patrolman James H.

Masterson, in civilian clothes, accompanied by four friends as camouflage, had visited the place on a tip that it was the hangout of two women who were being sought by the police.

The capture meant certain promotion for the moment.

Masterson obeyed the order and with the others stumbled through the narrow passage that led to the bar room, obviously seeking the best bandage point from which to cover all four gunmen.

But the instant Masterson lowered his hand, Whitey observed the action, wheeled toward him and fired in his face.

As the officer crumpled to the floor.

A second shot took effect in the shoulder of a girl who'd been close behind him.

Whitey's nefarious companion strode forward and kicked the prostrate policeman.

Get up there, he snarled.

The kick had disarranged Masterson's coat and revealed his badge and gun.

Oh so you're one of the holst of mob, are you?

The thug sneered.

Then take that, and that and that, and without the slightest provocation, he emptied his weapon into the wounded man's as he lay on the floor unconscious.

A few minutes later, detectives Brady and Donnelly of the twelfth Precinct arrived.

They found Masterson lying on a table.

His eyes were closed, his face was a ghastly sight, and his body was as motionless as death.

What's your name?

Brady asked him.

Hello, Brady, Masterson whispered a crooked grin, twisting his lips.

What's your name?

The detective spoke harshly in an effort to revive him.

He succeeded.

Years of discipline prevailed James Masterson.

The words came faintly, as from a distance and where do you live?

To eighteen West one hundred and ninetieth Street.

I'm a policeman attached to the eighteenth Division.

Do you believe you're about to die?

I don't know.

I don't.

Are you willing to make a true statement of how and in what manner you came to the injury from which you are suffering?

The formal inquisition went on dozens of times.

Masterson himself had put the same stereotyped question to men picked up wounded to death.

No one knew better than he how the police are handicapped by eyeing men's indifference or obstinacy.

In refusing to answer with what the doctors later described as superhuman effort, he answered through gasping lips.

I was shot by a fellow.

I don't know his name, but he hangs out around fiftieth and Broadway, near Regal Shoe store.

He's about twenty six, white guy, five foot seven, apparently American War sort of a blue overcoat like gray shoes hat.

He was the man who took my shield and revolver while I lay on the floor.

A brady, I guess I'm done for.

Please get me a.

Priest, then complete collapse.

How he managed to talk that much, the doctors in the Knickerbocker Hospital said later, was a miracle.

Each word, it had seemed to Brady would be his last, but Masterson carried on until he told all he knew.

He died without regaining consciousness at six twenty pm that evening.

The autopsy performed by Medical Examiner Director Norris, showed bullet wounds on the face, abdomen and pelvis, internal hemorrhages, and shock in cases of serious felonious assault where the victim is dying and the homicide bureau gets on the trail of the killer as soon as the hospital authorities state that their patient has no chance of recovery.

Consequently, although Masterson wouldn't die until six pm that evening, it was at nine point fifteen the same morning of the shooting that Inspector Carrey, who was the homicide chief, assigned as best detectives Thomas Martin and Stephen G.

Donahue to the case.

The first few hours were occupied in groping along the various channels of a routine investigation.

They visited the scene of the crime and found the premises closed with a patrolman on guard.

Bullet holes in the wall of the bar room, the kitchen door, overturned tables, broken glasses and dishes, A blood stained floor and table were sinister souvenirs of the gunmen's presence on the premises during the early hours of the morning.

A careful search revealed no clues to the identity of the gangsters, so the detectives hurried over to the station house of the twelfth Pars Recinct, where half a dozen witnesses to the stick up were being detained for questioning.

So horrified were all of them at the vicious brutality of the gunmen who had riddled the defenseless patrolman with bullets that, without exception, each outdid the other in furnishing the police with details, their testimony was greatly beneficial.

The witnesses had ample opportunity to get a good look at the four thugs, and the following descriptions were noted down banned at Number one man known as Whitey, sharp features, clean shaven, light gray coat, light gray soft hat.

Number two unknown dark overcoat, soft gray hat with black band, blue serge suit about twenty five.

Number three unknown apparently an Italian.

Number four no definite description that the job was well planned and carried out with the coolness of experienced criminals, was suggested by the statement made by one witness, a young, intelligent German man named Lewis Ulrich.

Ulrich said he'd been in the bar room when the shooting started.

He knew the place well, and at first sign of trouble, sis skinned out to the kitchen and climbed into the dumbwaiter, letting himself down into the cellar.

The back door was locked, so he raced up the front stairway, which led to the vestibule of the apartment house.

In a mad rushed toward the street door.

He flopped right into the arms of a man with a gun.

This man shoved him back into the speakeasy, where the stick up men, on the point of leaving, delayed long enough to frisk him of all he possessed.

Tenants in the building denied hearing any shooting.

The one man claimed he did hear some explosions, which he'd assumed were caused by the backfiring of an automobile.

Shortly after the police's arrival at the station house, a new eyewitness, a young woman, was brought in.

She was extremely attractive, well groomed and smartly dressed, but her face was very pale and haggard.

Here, one of the precinct men said, is miss Helen Grayson, who was shot the same time as Masterson.

She said she wasn't badly heard, only scared, so we let her go home to get over the shock.

Before questioning a Miss Grayson made a model statement.

It was concise and clear and comprehensive.

Certain of the witnesses had stated that it was a man known as Whitey who shot mass when he was lying on the floor, but on this point the girl was positive.

She maintained that it was Whitey's companion.

I don't know that brute's name, she said, but I would know him again if ever I see him.

I'll never forget it as long as I live.

It was a face out of hell.

As she talked in the captain's private office, observers noticed that every now and then she gritted her teeth, as if she were either laboring under a severe nervous strain or was suffering great pain.

Suddenly, she collapsed and doctor Barry of the Knickerbocker Hospital was called in.

He found that she had a serious gunshot wounded in her shoulder and that it had already been attended by a physician, but the girl was taken to the hospital.

Detectives resumed questioning witnesses, who Detective Martin asked Bolton the speakeasy bartender introduced the man as Whitey to you, fellow by the name of Lanahan.

The bar keep answered, he owns a club up on Washington Heights on West one thirty eighth Street, and he's got an interest in our place.

The witnesses were all escorted to police headquarters to review the pictures of hold up men in the identification bureau before appearing at the District Attorney's office.

Martin Donahue's subwayed up Town to the address given by Bolton, the bartender.

It was around one o'clock in the afternoon.

The Lenahan place was closed, but repeated hammering on the door brought out an old African American caretaker, who told the police that the police didn't open until three pm.

From the renting age of the building, detectives obtained the club owner's home address, which was a first class apartment house on Riverside Drive.

The switchboard operator rang up the apartment but received no answer.

In the meantime, at police headquarters Alarm twelve ninety seven covering the stolen property, the loot of the hold up had been broadcast, and code signals on Alarm twelve ninety six had been transmitted reporting the theft of Masterson's thirty eight caliber Cult Service Revolver number four two nine two three.

One of the proprietors of the speakeasy, who had been present when the stick up was going on, stated that he would know at least two of the men if he were ever confronted with them, but that he'd never spoken to any of them.

As he laid dying, patrolman Masterson had mentioned that Broadway and fiftieth Street was the hangout corner of his assailant, on the off chance that one of the patrolmen covering that beat might know the man.

Detectives called at the forty seventh Street station home Masters that had been a hot headed young chap but very much liked and respected by all who really knew him.

In the detective's room at the forty seventh Street station house, his exploits were being discussed for the purpose of picking out which of the dozens of men who carried the alias of Whitey might have had it in for him.

Among those present in the room was Patrolman Callahan, a buddy of Masterson's who looked on the case as a personal cause, as did all the police for that matter.

Patrolman Callahan was a human who's who of Tenderloin characters, as Whitey Miller.

He was saying as we joined the group, he's got a wreck it as long as your arm.

Jim might have run into one of his gang.

I haven't seen him hanging around the fiftieth Street corner, but I've often seen him in Lindy's, a Broadway restaurant near fiftieth Street, and sporting in on the night clubs between forty six and forty eighth.

In the last week or two, he had a dizzy blonde with one of those expensive dolls.

You mean a brunette, Detective Moore interrupted.

I saw him entering the Silver Skipper with a brunette who was dressed like a million bucks.

I do not, Callahan said emphatically.

The female with Whitey was a blonde peroxide, had blue eyes.

The brunette was with his pal, one of those collegiate boys, now what do we call him?

Has something to do with ta ah Ula.

That's it Ulla, That's what they call him and say.

I've seen him hanging around the corner of fiftieth in Broadway, near the Regal Shop.

I don't know where a whitey picked Ullah up, but he's been pickled as a dill every time I seen him.

Don't belong to the whities old gang.

It was arranged that officers Callahan and Moore should make the rounds of the Broadway nightclubs in an effort to pick up this whitey.

There was no photograph of him in the station house, so Detective Martin telephoned the identification bureau at headquarters to rush off copies of the picture of the man Callahan referred to.

Then he and Donahue left to return to Linahan's club.

Looks bad Linahan keeping out of sight this way, Steve Martin said to his partner as they to the subway.

Must have known we'd traced the gunman to his doorstep.

Mmm.

Donahue mumbledon.

Of course, Linahan may be all right, but he sure is acting foolishly to keep out of the way.

It's funny how reckless speakeasies are and handing out cards to people are practically absolute strangers.

I wonder if they got anything on the fingerprints.

Nope, Donahue replied, I called him up.

The table where Whiting and his companion were seated was knocked over and the glasses were smashed as smithereens.

Nobody seems to know at what table the other two was seated.

When the detective sought admission to Linahan's club, it was around four pm.

Only the manager, a taciturn individual named Doherty, and a couple of waiters were in place.

The owner, they were told, was not expected to return until late in the evening.

If then, okay, said Donahue, We'll stick around.

When he calls up again, you tell him we're here and waiting to see him.

Doherty received this announcement with a dark scowl.

He opened his lips as if to make a biting retort, thought better of it, and disappeared somewhere into the hinter parts of the club.

Martin and Donahue immediately started to make thorough examination of the place.

They didn't expect to find anything, but there was always the chance of falling across some trifle that might develop into an important clue or a battering ram to break down the silence of a bulky customer.

Later on, when diners and dancers crowded around the little tables, the place might be lively enough, but at that hour in the afternoon it was as cheerful as a cemetery on a rainy evening.

Woo w Donahue gave vent to an almost whispered whistle.

Look here, Tommy, he said.

Martin skidded across the wax dance floor and glanced at the spot on the wall where he was pointing.

It was about three and a half feet from the floor, a small hole with a singed edge through which the white plasters showed, made by a bullet and not long ago.

Martin said in an undertone as after one look, he turned and walked to the other side of the room, away from possible eavesdroppers.

Listen, Donahue, I'll go to the telephone and find out if any stick up was reported from here recently.

If not, that'll give us something to stick the needles into, lineahand with As Martin and stepped out into the dusk of the late winter afternoon, he almost collided with detectives Brady and Teed, who were also in the hunt for Linahan Steve Donahue's inside.

He told them I'll be back in a few minutes.

After the necessary delays, Martin learned that no shooting had been reported by Lenahan's club, and that a man named William McGlenn had applied at the Roosevelt Hospital at midnight of the thirtieth for the treatment of gunshot wounds in his right arm and shoulder.

He had refused to tell who had injured him.

Armed with this information, Detective Martin returned to the resort and found Donahue, Brady, and Teed in conversation with a tall, sallow complexion man who faced them in an attitude of truculence.

Mister Lenahan says he doesn't know Whitey, Donahue told Martin as he approached the group, a skeptical smile on his lips.

Bolton made a mistake, Linahan muttered and shut his teeth with a snap that could be heard about three feet away.

Well, of course that's possible, Martin said smoothly.

I'd like to talk with mister Lenahan alone.

The other three detectives immediately Withdrew.

Why didn't you report the shoot in your place last Sunday?

When mister William McGlenn was seriously wounded.

Mister Lenahan, Martin asked the question took him momentarily off his guard.

His sallow face became a chalky white, and desperate, trapped expressions flitted across his deep set, grayish eyes.

Well, hello, everybody, A sweet, husky voice broke the silence.

Martin glanced in the direction of the front door and saw a dazzling blonde wrapped in a slinky fur coat making what could only be described as a sensual entrance.

Suddenly, the smile seemed to freeze on her lips.

Grabber Brady, who was standing with his partner near the door, snapped out.

Evidently Donahue obliged, for there was an indignant squeak, followed by voluble protests from the direction of an inner door.

Lenahan seemed to be on the verge of collapse, so Detective Martin took his arm and led him to a nearby chair.

Sit down and tell me about the shooting.

We'll find out about it anyway, so why not come across, I suppose, so, he admitted in a cold, emotionless tone.

While McGlenn got in an argument with another fell I was in the back at the time.

Then I heard a shot.

The bouncer was throwing him out when I ran out to see what the trouble was.

I've sunk all the money I possess in this place.

I'm only a very small interest in one hundred and third Street restaurant, and I didn't want people to get scared away by bad publicity and Whitey.

Detective Martin urged, I'm not going to ask you just now if Whitey and new Law were here on Sunday night when McGlenn was shot.

Of course it's going to go bad with you if you withhold information.

Detective Martin let this sink in for about a minute, and notice the nervous lacing and unlacing of Lenahan's fingers and the perspiration that beat at his forehead.

Martin listened to the murmured conversation of the girl and the three detectives.

If I could see Bolton, Linahan said, at last, perhaps he could refresh my memory.

That's good enough.

Martin agreed.

Let's go and see Bolton together.

Where does he live?

He works in a saloon on the West twenty third Street during the daytime, Lenahan said, rising shakily, from his chair before we go, I'd like to have a few words alone with miss Tacosta.

Detective Martin looked in the direction of the girl and her three unwelcome companions.

Whatever the latter we're saying to her was obviously being ill received.

Her rouge lips were drawn in a hard, angry line, and her misscared eyelashes made slits of her long, narrow eyes.

Nope, don't interrupt, Martin said, casually, taking a hold of Lenahan's arm.

Detective Martin called Donahue and explained that he was going with Linahan in search of Bolton.

Have you ever been arrested, Martin asked Linahan as they walked to the subway.

No, he answered promptly, never been questioned by the police before.

Nope.

Let me give you a bit of advice.

Tell the truth.

If you don't, you're gonna find yourself in a nasty hole.

And if you're trying to protect Whitey, you'll find yourself in the can before you know it.

I ain't trying to protect Whitey, he muttered, trying to protect myself.

Whitey threatened you, Martin asked.

Linahan didn't answer, and in silent as they traveled until they reached the Corner Cafe on West twenty third Street, near the ferries.

It was an old time saloon.

The bar was being used as a quick lunch counter.

Martin and Linahan passed the entrance and entered the vestibule of a tenement that had been built over the grog shop.

They hoofed it up to the second floor, and there found Bolton presiding over a thickly crowded, brand new bar.

It was one of those speakeasies that abounded along the waterfront and persisted in spite of steadily demolishing raiders.

Bolton was a powerful, ruddy faced chap with eyes as guileless as a baby's and a simulated genial expression.

He was the opposite of Lenihan, who was a sharp featured, cynical looking fellow with cruel, thin lips and deep set black eyes.

I think it would be better if I spoke to Bolton alone, Lenahan said, nervously, glancing around the room.

Well that's all right with me, Detective Martin said, and sat down at a small liquor stained round table.

Linahan took a place at the end of the bar, which was deserted by the boisterous patrons who were crowding chummily at the end nearest the door.

Glancing at his watch, Detective Martin saw that the hands pointed to six thirty.

He ordered a glass of small beer and slipped into the telephone booth.

So loud were the wise cracks and accompanying raucous laughter coming from the great husky long shoreman that Detective Martin had to cup the mouthpiece before central could hear the number he gave.

When he was connected with Inspector Coughlin, he told him that he was busily following up a lead that promised developments.

Masterson died at six point twenty, the inspector said, when Martin had finished get in touch with Donahue.

It's strange how small trifles can assume importance at tragic times.

Masterson must have died without regaining consciousness, so they couldn't tell him that the thugs didn't get his badge.

That hurts the CoP's feelings more than a bullet, even if the shield is swiped when he is lying helpless, as Masterson was.

Well.

If Masterson's brother cops couldn't catch his murderer, it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

Detective Martin approached Bolton and Lenihan, determined not to have any more shilly shallying on the part of the club owner.

Bolton made a mistake, Linahan started to say, blandly through lips that barely moved as he spoke.

His shifty eyes regarded Martin slyly, as if trying to see whether he believed the statement.

Well, Martin said grimly, mistakes are serious things in a murder case.

Masterson died fifteen minutes ago.

Come on, Bolton, put on your coat and come to headquarters with me.

Wait a minute, Wait a minute, Linahan protested, his tongue moistening his dry lips.

What I was going to say is that Bolton made a mistake in not getting in touch with me immediately and reminding me that Whitey was the man I introduced to him.

He recalled the incident to my mind, I'll just telephone and get a hold of the man who introduced him to me.

Beneath Linahan's cold, self contained pose, Detective Martin knew that he was scared to death of something.

There was only one telephone booth in the speakeasy, and Martin was determined that Linahan should not use that.

Martin wanted to know who Linahan called, and if the call was a local one, it would be impossible to trace once the connection was broken.

For that reason, the detective steered Linahan into this street, stalling him off with questions until they reached a drug store that had a row of four booths.

Well go in here, Martin said, While you're calling up your friend, all get in touch with Donahue.

He's still waiting for me uptown.

Before he entered the booth, Martin noted the number and then sought the telephone at the farther end of the row.

Then he called up headquarters and asked the operator to find out what number Linahan was talking to him.

While the operator was handling this, Martin got in touch with Donahue and told him briefly of his experience with the club owner.

He knows Whitey, all right, Martin said, I'm going to keep after him until I get the address.

You're don wrighty knows Whitey, Donahue interrupted, It was Whitey Anulas stuck up his joint on one thirty eighth Street Sunday night when McGlenn got shot.

Whitey's a desperate character, the girl told us, and Linahan's scared stiff of him.

Headquarters have sent copies of his picture to the twentieth Street station house.

Can you meet me there in an hour?

If I can't, replied Martin, I'll leave a message there for you.

He hung up, saw Linahan through the glass panel, walking red slessly up and down the floor in the drug store.

What'd you find out, Martin asked him as he went over and took hold of Lina Han's arm.

Way do we get outside, Linahan said, with a glance at the listening soda clerk.

Now quit Stalin, Martin said, as soon as they reached the sidewalk and quit lying.

I know that Whitey Anulah held up your place Sunday night.

Do you want to spill your piece here to me or down at headquarters with Inspector Coughlin.

Linahan shivered in a bone dry voice.

He answered, I'd be safer in the can maybe than anywhere else just now, but there's a reason I don't want to be away from home for the next few weeks.

Honest to God, I don't know Whitey's address.

The man I met him through wasn't at his hotel when I called, and they said they didn't know what he would be.

The man Linahan mentioned was of great assistance in the case.

His name was Arthur Tisney, which is a made up name, nothing like his real name or any of his aliases.

Tisney's reputation is international.

His specialty is the confidence game, and there isn't a more amoral rascal in the field.

Without a scruple, He'll skin a sucker until he leaves nothing behind but bare bones.

He'll flatter along a blue haired bell until she believes she's regained her flapperhood, and then mulchure of every last nickel.

Never give a sucker a break is his motto.

Outside of business hours, however, he had a very strict idea of right and wrong.

Martin was surprised to learn of Tisney's association with a thug like Whitey, for they moved in underworld circles which were as distant as Newport is from Coney Island.

Had this been an ordinary case, Martin would have had little hope of gaining any information from the con man.

But knowing him as he did, he was confident that Tisney would look on the cowardly action of the man who murdered Masterson as that of a cur who ought to be exterminated.

Martin sent Lenihan ahead of him to the hotel that had been mentioned as Tisney's address, and before following him, he went to the station house on twentieth Street and picked up Donahue.

Disney must have fallen on lean Thimes, Donahue remarked when Martin told him the name of the cheap hotel just off Broadway.

They had to wait for the return of the confidence man.

It certainly was a dismal hole, a down at the heel's leering sort of place with a small dismal lobby in a worm eaten desk.

Before entering, Martin called up headquarters and learned from the switchboard operator that this was the place that Lenahan had telephoned to from the drug store.

There they sat for two solid hours.

Cheap song and dance men, dizzy little starlits, has been actresses, shabby chorus girls, and nondescript characters passed and repassed the two policemen.

At nine thirty, Tisney breezed in, meticulously groomed, as always exceptionally good looking, tall, broad shouldered, he strolled through the doorway and glanced around the lobby.

He spied Linahan and Martin.

Martin noticed Lenahan in Tisney's eyes clash, and at that moment he knew the club owner had sent someone to round up the confidence man, but had not warned him to expect company from police headquarters.

However, with an almost imperceptible shrug, Tisney advanced and looked from one man to the other, the club owner and the policeman, with a quizzically questioning air.

These gentlemen want to talk to you, line a hand mumbled, without any beating around the bush.

Martin told him the exact story of the stick up, sparing no detail of the brutal way in which Uhlad killed the patrolman.

How do I know that everything you've told me is true, Tisney asked quietly.

You can call up the Knickerbocker hospital and find out.

Martin told him, I believe you, He sat after a moment's thought, chair is too good for a beast like that.

I'll do everything I can to help you.

Listen.

I met Whitey through a mutual acquaintance a couple of weeks ago when I was looking for a reliable chauffeur.

I was at the time planning to go in for bootlegging on a large scale.

It was in the early hours of the morning, and he offered to drive me home.

I insisted on driving him home, and he directed the taxi driver to drop him at thirty three Coven Avenue.

For reasons of my own, I made sure later on that this really was his address and found out that he lived in apartment number one under the name Murray's share a room with another young fellow.

Last time I saw him was Monday night, around one o'clock in the morning at the speakeasy on ninety sixth Street, and he was with that chap they call Uhlah and two names who looked like smart young matrons looking for an adventure.

Tisney finished with an undisguised sneer for none hold the unconventionalities of the upper classes more in disgust than the denizens of the so called underworld.

After some further conversation that convinced the detectives that Tisney had shared all anew, Martin and Donahue left the hotel from a nearby United Cigar store.

Martin telephoned Inspector Carrie and briefly as possible, made him acquainted with the situation.

Carrie then gave orders let lne of Hand go tell him to come to headquarters tomorrow morning at eight o'clock to see me.

You and Donahue get right up to the place on Covent Avenue and crashing as quietly as you can.

I'll arrange to have enough men there to surround the block before you arrive.

It was ten point fifteen by the time Martin and Donahue reached the address Tisney had given them.

At that hour, the street was practically deserted, and the scattered induals that they did see the detectives recognized as men from the precinct station.

From the shadows of the basement entrance.

Two men detached themselves and sauntered across the street in the direction of the detectives under the arc light.

Martin identified them as Brady and Teed.

They had a short discussion.

It was arranged that Donahue, a patrolman, and Martin should enter Number thirty three through the basement and open the front door.

This would be a signal for at least half a dozen of the men to enter and crash the apartment together.

On descending the steps that led to the basement, Martin and Donahue were pleasantly surprised to find the door open.

Halfway along the narrow, well lighted hall was a comfortably furnished office with a young man seated at a switchboard.

Is there an old man named Murray living in this house?

Martin asked him.

Not sure the number, but I believe it's thirty three.

There's only one Murray living on this block, he answered, And I wouldn't call him old.

He's about thirty five or thereabouts.

And that's the only Murray on the block.

You sure about that, Martin asked, as if disappointed.

Well, sure, I'm sure, the boy grinned, because the switchboard serves the whole of the block.

You see, there are only two apartment houses and they're both owned by the same people.

Oh, Donahue interrupted, that's our friend's son.

Do you know if he's in, Well, I guess so.

The telephone operator prepared to plug his key into the hole under the number one.

I know he was in half an hour ago because he put a call through.

That was what the detectives wanted to know.

They disclosed their identity to the young man and swore him to secrecy, left the patrolman on guard, and tore upstairs, opening the front door.

Through the door presently streamed detectives Donnelly, Brady, Deneen inright overhouse, Henshaw, Mullins, and Patrolman Gray of the fifth Detective District.

The police injured Whitey's apartment.

Never mind how to have rung the doorbell would have been madness.

They didn't want to herald their arrival, for you can't expect to arrest a couple of dangerous gunmen without a fight, and the police wanted to take their prisoners to the station house alive if possible.

Whitey and his partner knew by that time that they were slated for the electric chair if they were caught, and they'd be willing law enforcement presumed to take desperate chances Without any unnecessary noise.

The police crashed the place and then swooped through the apartment with the velocity of a cyclone.

A wild scream greeted their arrival.

What do you want?

They confronted a woman in her early fifties crouching behind a chair in the living room.

Stark terror stared from her eyes.

We're detective as Martin told her, and we want Murray and his companion.

Well, they aren't here, she stuttered.

They left a half hour ago for Miami, Florida.

She gave her name as Schumann.

She looked like an honest, refined woman, and the police were inclined to believe her story.

That didn't prevent them from making a thorough search of the apartment and the dumb waiter before they proceeded to put her through a very severe grilling, which no doubt she'd remember for the rest of her life.

It didn't take the police long, however, to become absolutely convinced that the woman was completely horrified to learn that her rumors were a couple of killers in professional thugs.

Two men rented a room from her on November twenty fifth, nineteen twenty six.

She said their names as Walter Murray and Pete Taylor.

She didn't ask them for references, as they appeared to be a pair of nice, clean cut young men.

This very night, they'd turned up at about half past nine and hurriedly packed their belongings in one old brown leather suitcase before informing their landlady that they were leaving for Miami.

Murray she said lived pretty steadily in the apartment, whereas his friend Taylor was often away overnight.

Do you have any idea where he went?

Martin asked her.

The landlady shook her head.

No.

But mister Murray often called up a number something boulevard.

That isn't that annoying?

I have it right at the tip of my tongue, and yet I can't get it.

Maybe it'll come anyway.

He used to say, Hello, Grace, is Pete there?

And sometimes Pete was, and often he wasn't.

Then he'd try other numbers.

Now I wasn't listening, you understand.

I just happened to hear when I was tidying up in the living room, so I couldn't tell you what Elsie said.

In packing, the men had made a clean sweep.

The only thing they left behind was a pocket handkerchief, which was found tossed under the bed.

This was soiled as if someone had dusted off his shoes with it.

It was an old handkerchief, and in the corner was a laundrymark.

While Detective Martin was talking to missus Schuman, Donahue had telephoned to the Pennsylvania and New York Central Railroad offices and learned that the only trains leaving for Miami that night were the twelve thirty and the twelve forty.

Detective that immediately left to cover both trains.

Others were in the basement checking off all telephone calls put through by the two young men in Missus Schuman's apartment.

Both Missus Schuman and the telephone operator identified photographs of Walter Tippy alias Murray, alias Tip Murray, alias Whitey, and many other names as the men they knew.

In digging through the numbers charged against Whitey's name, the police found the often repeated Boulevard Exchange call belonging to missus Grace Peterson of seventy thirty eight Nanson Street, Forest Hills, Long Island, New York, that brought the cops out on thin ice.

Why on Earth, as Donahue asked the world in general, was a woman living in that aristocratic residential community associating with a crook like Whitey.

If the oft called Boulevard telephone number had brought police to the telephone of an underworld lady, there would have been swift and fruitful questioning around her neighborhood.

But here was a woman of the upper world of doubtless unimpeachable standing in her community, and police procedure would have to be circumspect.

It was a puzzle for the time, unexplained until just before the end, although it's worth noting that missus Peterson's connection with the case, although important, did turn out to be entirely innocent and accidental.

Detective Winkleman of the Homicide Bureau and detectives Jackson and Ambres of the fifth District were immediately sent out to keep seventy thirty eight Nanson Street Forest Hills under constant surveillance.

Martin and Donahue were disappointed, but not surprised to learn that the men sent to cover the trains leaving for Miami had not recognized Walter Tippy, the man known as Murray or Whitey, nor had they recognized Pete Oola Taylor.

Murderers make many mistakes, but seldom disclosed their destination when fleeing.

When they told their landlady they were headed for Miami, it was a near certainty that they were not headed for Miami.

It's a funny thing, Donahue remarked to Martin as they were about to part for the night.

It's funny thing that Whitey and Oolah cleared out just as Tisney was telling us their address.

I wonder if anybody tipped him off.

I wonder if anyone called up the Knickerbocker Hospital from Forest Hills after six point twenty, Martin mused, before calling it a day.

Martin mailed the soiled handkerchief special delivery to the Identification Bureau at headquarters.

There it would be traced to the laundry that had placed the small ink mark on the corner, and so it was.

A soiled bit of rag was the clue that would lead police to the more glittering and glamorous speakeas he's glorified under the title of nightclubs and help materially in sending a murderer to the electric chair.

Dawn was breaking when Martin reached home, and it seemed as if he'd been asleep but a few moments once when the telephone by the bed woke him with an ear splitting clatter, Winkelman speaking, Martin heard drowsily as he put the receiver to his ear.

At four in the morning of the thirty first, the night of the murder, she arrived home with four men and a girl in an automobile, Whitey.

The connection was abruptly cut off.

Furiously, Martin jiggled the receiver up and down number please.

A sleepy, sacarine voice requested, you cut me off.

Martin roared at its invisible owner.

The party disconnected, it retorted sweetly but firmly.

Then find out where the call came from.

Martin ordered, hold the wire please.

The call came from the paystation in Freeport, Long Island.

Martin looked at his watch.

It was six thirty.

He wanted to be present when Inspector Carey questioned lne a hand at eight o'clock.

So it was no use going back to sleep.

Whitey and his gang had something more than three million square miles of territory in the United States to hide in, but a gigantic dragnet was being spread out over the whole country.

One slip and they would be floundering in its meshes.

The case was little more than twenty four hours old, and police had a plethora of clues leading toward the trail of the murderers.

Men were already quietly investigating every person whom either of the two had called on the telephone.

Wardens of the various penitentiaries where Whitey had spent time, would that morning received letters requesting the names and addresses of all those to whom the highwaymen had written.

While in the institution, the soiled handkerchief from under the bed might open up further leads A knight's thought had probably advised Lenihan to come clean with all he knew altogether.

Things had started off with a bang, but would police reach the trail before it became cold.

Here's the story so far.

A stick up in a New York City speakeasy on West one oh third Street results in the death of patrol when James Masterson the four gunmen escaped, but the police are soon hot on the trail of the murderers of their slain buddy.

The stick up occurred on the night of January thirty first, nineteen twenty seven, and within twenty four hours detectives Martin and Donahue have lines out for four suspicious characters, Whitey Murray and his pal Oola Taylor, suspected as the actual murderers.

Missus Grace Peterson well to do Young Forest Hill's matron, who the detective's surmise, was innocently used by the gunman for alibi purposes, and Linahan, proprietor of an uptown club acquainted with the gunman.

A soiled handkerchief, discovered by the sleuths and Taylor and Murray's rooms, becomes the first tangible clue.

Wednesday, February two, Detective Martin hastens to headquarters to be present at the questioning of Linahan, the nightclub proprietor.

Linahan was seated in the ante room outside the Chief's office when Martin arrived.

His nerves appeared to be badly shot, and judging by his appearance, Martin guessed that he'd had not a wink of sleep since he'd seen him the night before.

He had bungled himself into a bad mess the previous day.

Because of the clumsy way in which he'd lied, Martin was inclined to believe he'd had no hand in the fatal stick up that had done in poor Masterson, and, like many another Lenahan thought he was protecting his interests by not reporting the stick up in his own club the preceding Sunday, even though he knew the leader of the gang which had perpetrated it, Whitey.

The gang leader, it was true, had never threatened Lenahan with death be squealed.

Nevertheless, had he quietly communicated with the police, they would have trapped the man, and Masterson would have been going on his rounds that morning instead of lying on a slab in the morgue.

Consequently, Martin didn't feel much sympathy for the club owner's blue funk and hoped that the chief would sweat him good and hard, and that he would be present to see him do it.

But this hope was promptly squashed when Martin was summoned to the chief's desk.

Soon after his arrival.

Detective Waldman called me up about fifteen minutes ago.

Chief Carrie told Martin, shooting straight at the matter at hand, as was his custom.

Missus Peterson and five companions drove up to her home on Nansen Street at four o'clock Tuesday morning, shortly after the murder of Masterson.

Her guests were four men and a girl.

Around five thirty two men and the girl left.

It was too dark to get a good description of their faces.

Then yesterday evening, about seven o'clock, Missus Peterson drove off with two men who fit the descriptions of Murray and Taylor.

She returned alone.

The Chief pause picked up a small manilla envelope and opened it.

Yeah, Winkelman telephoned me this morning at six thirty, said Martin.

But we were cut off in the middle of the conversation.

Yeah, he told me that, Chief carry said.

Then, without any further explanation, he went on, the men out at Forest Hills have a perfect plant, and we'll learn far more by keeping close tabs on missus Peterson than if we attempted to question her and show our hand.

Now, here's the handkerchief you picked up yesterday at the Covent Avenue apartment of Murray and Taylor.

The laundry mark was put there by Sanitary hand Laundry of one forty five West one sixteenth Street, Proprietors and N.

Barrash.

That's quite a distance from the coven Avenue address.

See what you can pick up there.

It took Martin less than half an hour to reach the uptown address.

He found Sanitary hand Laundry to be an up to date establishment far from Seventh Avenue.

Before injuring and questioning the manager, Detective Martin learned that he had an excellent reputation and Martin would be quite safe in disclosing the object of his visit to him when the time came.

Prior to visiting the laundry, Martin had canvassed the neighborhood around the gunman's apartment to learn as much as he could about the two men.

The main points he picked up were these two young men, one known as Tippy Murray and one as Pete Seller, had engaged a furnished room in the neighborhood on August fifteenth, nineteen twenty six.

They informed the landlady that they worked in the New York Post Office.

They explained their irregular hours by saying they'd worked on alternate night and day shifts.

Had she inquired at the post office, as the police did, she would have learned this was a falsehood.

But she never dreamed of questioning the word of her quiet, well dressed, polite star lodgers.

The laundry company had called and delivered laundry to them every week, then on November fifteenth, they had vanished, leaving no fording address.

Both the laundry manager and the landlady identified identification Photograph thirty one zero one zero as that of the man who gave his name as Murray, but they could not identify any one of the three photographs which had been picked up out of the gallery as possibly belonging to Murray's gang.

Cellier's description, however, tallied closely with that of the man known at the Covent Avenue apartment house as Taylor.

All morning and afternoon, Martin combed the neighborhood looking for his young cousin, Pete Sellier, who had lived there until shortly before the previous Thanksgiving.

It was around four o'clock when he found his first definite lead in a beauty parlor.

There, he learned that a female instructor in a dance hall on West one twenty fifth Street named Trixie had been going with a sheikh named Celier.

He had, however, quote given her the air unquote, and she had confided the story of her broken romance to her manicurist.

Cellier's heartless jilting had not broken the dancer's ambitions, whatever it did to her heart, for she had been graduated a short time later, this according to the dance hall proprietor, and gone to work at a well known nightclub.

This flashy cabaret did not open until ten thirty pms, so Martin returned to headquarters to lay the items he'd picked up during the day at the chief's desk.

He had before him scraps of inf gathered by all the detectives work in the case, and by attempting to fit them together, he often was able to make order out of what looked like chaos.

In this manner, he had picked up the name of Pete Seller and bracketed it with the owner of a telephone number which Peter Taylor had called once or twice from the Convent Avenue apartment.

The Celler family lived in the Bronx and was composed of a widow and two sons.

The younger son, Pete, was a white haired boy.

His mother and brother had slaved to give him a splendid education.

According to the reports of detectives who had been making inquiries throughout the neighborhood.

In his own neighborhood, Taylor bore no excellent reputation and was regarded as a ne'er do well who was ashamed of his humble relatives.

That tied Pete Seller and Peter Taylor together so the police knew that they were the same person.

Men were dispatched at once to keep the cellar home under surveillance.

Posing as two butter and eggmen, Donahue and Martin visited the night club at ten thirty, only to learn that the girl they sought had resigned the week before and was supposed to be working in a black and tan cabaret in Harlem.

For a little while, the two officers chatted with the hard eyed young hostess who gave them this information, and they soon came to the conclusion that Trixie to four had not made the splash she expected when she invaded Broadway.

She had not, however, they discovered upon entering the goddily decorated inn on Upper seventh Avenue, fallen to the low level of the black and Tans.

Here, it was suggested by a genial head hostess that our young cousin might be working in a certain cabaret on one of the side streets.

The name of that cabaret will not be mentioned here to avoid giving that disreputable resort any publicity.

We'll just say that it was located on the first floor of one of the Brownstone fronts, a typical fourth rate place with all the bad features of a nightclub exhibited at their worst.

The police put on the act of being surprised and delighted in recognizing Trixie, a girl they danced with in the one hundred and twenty fifth Street dance hall, and she received them as such partners.

To those dance hall hostesses are pretty much anonymous unless they proved to be exceptionally generous and present them with a sheaf of checks for each dance, then there are well remembered suckers and pounced upon every time they appear on the scene.

When Trixy did her turn, Martin and Donahue were not surprised that Broadway had given her the hook.

She was pretty enough in a flamboyant sort of way, bushy black hair and bold dark eyes, but she went like wildfire with the fourth rate club audience, who encourt again and again.

The following ditty parodied from a Broadway review, which she sang in a loud, gritty voice.

It goes like this, though I don't know the tune, Ma pedal snow around him.

Dad makes synthetic gin I sell love for a living in gosh, how the dough rolls in Very well.

Pleased with her success, Trixie returned to Martin and Donohue's table and set herself out to be entertaining.

Her idea of this task apparently was to make pointless jokes, which she herself laughed and giggled at continuously.

Now, there's no better place for extracting information secretly than a cabaret.

As the disconnected conversation drifts hither and yon, precious bits of information may be gathered without the subject being aware of the fact that he or she has answered it direct questions.

So it was that evening.

If she'd thought about the matter at all, Trixie would have been convinced that it was she herself who brought Peter Sellier and Missus Grace Peterson into the desolatory chatter.

A high hat and femme was the way Trixy described the young matron of Forest Hills.

Not the sugar mama type either.

Pete was always a good picker, though he wasn't much of a spender.

He was a sweet boy, though I saw him and his friend with another Sheba at the club where I worked.

But Pete ain't stuck on Missus Peterson.

Really.

He met her when he was a kid at some place in the add of Rondacks, where she has a swell spot.

The police let this precious tip float awhile in order not to disclose undue interest in Missus Peterson, but they managed to find out that though Trixie had heard the name of the place in the add Arndacks where Pete had vacationed, she didn't remember it.

Pete she thought was going to college.

What was more important to her was that he was a swell dancer a place in the add Rondacks, Donahue repeated.

After they left the cabaret and faced a biting drizzl edam and wind that tore through the narrow street.

We ought to find out where that is easy enough might be rude up near the border.

I don't believe it's much use trying the ticket offices, for all the agents ever seemed to seize hands through their windows.

Donahue was right.

He and Martin made careful inquiries but brought down nothing.

Though Missus Peterson was the subject of considerable gossip in the community, none of the neighbors knew much about her private affairs.

She belonged to none of the country clubs and never appeared at the bridge parties, which are usually hotbeds of information.

However, one of the detectives had found out that mister Peterson was a horse trainer and was at Miami, Florida for the winter.

He'd left home shortly after Thanksgiving and was not expected back until spring.

And just as Tricksy had been carefully led to discuss Pete Seller and missus Grace Peterson, so someone well up in Peterson's affairs down in Florida found himself mentioning the Peterson Lodge in Old Forge, New York.

So now Martin and Donahue had the address of the camp, but as of yet no certain knowledge that the fugitives were there.

Late on Wednesday night, a car tore up to the front gate of the Peterson home in Forest Hills and carried off the lady of the house.

To have sent anyone proud around the Adirondack camp at that time would have risked ruining the police's chances of surprising the men if they were there, as law enforcement guessed they were, but they knew that the slightest breath of suspicion would send them flying off before the police could possibly arrive.

Besides that, the police didn't want to travel all the way to the Adirondacks on a Wild Goose Chase without having definite proof that someone was occupying the cabin, and it seemed less pressing because many other leads cropped up that appeared to be just as important as the one pointing toward Missus Peterson.

On Thursday, February third, nineteen twenty seven, Patrolman Masterson was buried.

The services were held at Saint Thomas's Church and were attended by all the department officials, headed by Police Commissioner McLaughlin.

After paying their last respects at Masterson's funeral, Martin and Donahue resumed the trail of his murderers, but it was not until Saturday afternoon that they got a definite lead.

This came from the men at Forest Hills, who telephoned that a servant from the Peterson home had been followed to an outlying post office, where she'd approached the parcel post window.

She did not notice the pleasant faced young man who stood by her elbow and read the address on the package she held.

The address was to Missus Grace Peterson, Camp Utica, West Shore Road, Old Forge, New York.

He heard her explain to the clerk that the parcel contained a fur coat.

Matt was enough.

Donahue and Martin, accompanied by Detective Brady and Teed from the twenty fourth and thirtieth squads, left on the midnight train that night and arrived at Thendara, the first station on the Manhattan side of Old Forge, around noon the following day, which was Sunday.

This momentous shifting of scenery signaled the final stirring act of the exciting manhunt.

The temperature was many degrees below zero, but it was a dry cold and the snow covered country looked magnificently beautiful that Sunday.

When Martin and Donahue arrived in the mountains, it was just six days after Masterson's murder.

They found a comfortable, small hotel for their headquarters and then considered the problem of how to find state troopers to assist them without letting the community know who they were or what their mission was.

There were no telew phone booths in the hotel.

It was the dead season, the only guests at the time being permanent boarders who were employed in the offices of a large timber concern.

Later on, Martin found the proprietor, Harold van Alkin to be a swell fellow and He was favorably impressed with them from the start, but too much was at stake to trust snap judgments.

As is always the case in such communities, there would be they knew much speculation as to their identity.

As a sop to the curiosity of the local inhabitants, Martin and Donohue gave out that they were there to shoot bear.

So immediately after midday dinner they went for a stroll, scouting around for a place to telephone from.

They decided that the best thing to do was to appeal to the postmaster of the village, whom, through the window of the small little general store they saw a sorting mail.

They let him assume that they were federal agents, and he willingly enough went out and closed the door, leaving them in possession of the telephone.

Martin immediately telephoned the State troopers at Herkimer, and the commander promised to send two of his men, Corporal George Whitbur and George Coburn, right over to the hotel.

Now.

When they arrived at three o'clock, the four New York City policemen and the troopers made quite a little party.

Though the troopers were in plain clothes, They looked as if they meant business, and scarcely carried out the fiction that they were sportsmen with the sole purpose of hunting bear.

Martin and Donahue knew that Whitey and Taylor, or to give them their other names, Tip Murray and Pete Seller were vicious, dangerous men.

To attempt to arrest them in the open meant that they would surely shoot it out, and in the battle some innocent bystander might be killed.

There was only one hope of capturing them without endangering any other lives, and that was to crash their retreat.

That afternoon, Martin and Donahue and the two state troopers drove over to Old Forge and made inquiries of an official about the occupants of Camp Utica, which was the name of the Peterson camp.

That official told them that a woman and two men were living there.

As cautiously as possible, Martin, Donahue and the troopers surveyed the lodge.

It was a comfortable one story building.

It appeared to have a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and three bedrooms.

To make sure absolutely sure of the arrangements of these rooms, they were obliged to consult again and the official mentioned before photographing the camp and its surroundings firmly in their minds, Martin, Donahue, and the troopers drove back to the inn for a consultation on the best way to break into the premises.

They finally decided that the troopers should guard the outside to prevent anyone from escaping.

One was to station himself on the rear northeast corner, where he could observe the north and east sides.

The other was to take the opposite corner, where he could observe the south and west.

They were ordered to shoot if anyone tried to get away.

Now they needed an automobile to drive them there.

They couldn't use the same one they'd used that afternoon, as the driver was a talkative fellow who might put two and two together and wonder aloud to his friends about what quote them city slickers unquote were after.

In scouting around, they came across an old Ford coup and a driver who seemed to fit the bill.

Martin and Donahue ordered him to pick them all up at the inn at five o'clock in the morning.

In the following day, Martin and Donahue had been strenuously pass the pavement.

Add to that all the strong cold air, and they were desperately sleepy.

After going over every move they intended to make, it was nearly midnight.

We want to be sure to break in just after daylight, Martin said to the other fellas.

And if that ford chow Feur doesn't turn up, well, we'll have to hoof at the two miles over the snow.

So I'm going to go downstairs and put in a call for five sharp.

The steps were thickly carpeted, and Martin heard a low murmur of voices ascending from the office.

He was surprised by this because in that part of the country, folks were usually a bed and asleep by nine o'clock, unless an exciting game of pe knuckle was going on.

Around the great log burning fireplace, he saw a group of guests surrounding the proprietor, all engaged in what appeared to be a very engrossing conversation.

As he approached nearer, Martin saw the proprietor's wife and mother were also in the gravely concerned little crowd.

Suddenly everyone turned and looked in Martin's direction, and the conversation ceased abruptly.

It took no detective training to enable him to figure out that he and his companion were the subject of what they had been discussing.

What are you all sitting around here for at this time of night, Martin asked van Alkin.

The proprietor answered with a twinkle in his eye, while the others regarded him with uncertain, embarrassed smiles.

We're not going to bed until we know what you fellas are up to, said van Alkin.

Martin took him aside and told him that they were on a mission connected with the New York City Police Department, but that he couldn't go into any more detail.

Van Alkin could explain to his family and his guests that they'd find out what it was all about the next day.

While talking to van Alkin, Martin grinned at their natural curiosity, and they looked a bit sheepish.

He couldn't tell them everything yet, because the news that they had come to pick up a couple of murderers with orders to bring them back dead or alive would have kept them awake for the whole night.

What I came down here for, Martin said aloud, is to ask you if you'd have your clerk call us at five o'clock tomorrow morning.

The clerk that'll call you, the proprietor, laughed, Will I have to be an alarm clock?

That's what the bear hunters use.

Martin and the others got up at five am.

It was pitch dark and cold as the grave outside on the porch where they waited for the automobile, which didn't show up until five point thirty.

The driver was sleepy and incurious.

He might have been just so many logs, for all he cared.

Even when they ordered him to stop halfway between Thandara and Old Forge and wait until daybreak, he obeyed with all the indifference of an automaton.

Indeed, he was just about to snuggle his nose down into his deep, well worn collar for another snooze when they jerked him awake to attention and insisted that he should listen carefully to their instructions.

Martin told him who they were and what they were about to do.

All he received in reply was a grunt, so he let the driver go back to sleep while they waited for the dawn.

It was mighty cold just sitting there, and Martin, Donahue and the others were just about frozen stiff before the first gray clouds changed a crimson that swiftly streaked across the crest the snow covered mountaintops.

They woke the drowsy chauffeur and ordered him to drive along the road until he reached the steep incline that led to Camp Utica.

He started his engine with a racket that sounded loud enough to awaken the dead, and then proceeded slowly along the crusty highway to the point below the camp, where he stopped.

Now wait here for exactly ten minutes, Donahue ordered.

At the end of that time, drive like the devil up to the lodge.

Uh huh, he agreed indifferently.

Ten minutes be long enough.

Quite, Donahue said grimly, at the end of ten minutes, we'll all be very happy or else.

As they stepped from the coop, Frankie Ted drew his revolver and jokingly shouldering it as if it were a musket, chuckled Lafayette, we come.

This struck them as rather funny.

Nothing quite so hilarious as a revolutionary war reference.

I guess they had been sitting with the marrow freezing to their bones, and nothing to think about but the desperate encounter they knew they faced at the top of the hill, and the sight of Officer Teed, the grote tesque cocky little man that he was strutting along in front of them, sent the whole bunch into a fit of laughter.

They hadn't dared to drive up the hill for fear the noise of their rattling car would herald their arrival, so they scrambled up the icy slope as best they could, Careful as they were.

It was so quiet that early Monday morning that it was impossible to dead and altogether the sound of footsteps.

On each side of the narrow road there were hills of snow three and a half feet high, which obliged them to keep on the hard traveled path.

As pre arranged, The troopers took their positions at opposite corners of the bungalow.

Everything from that moment worked at top speed.

They tore open the screen door, and with one concerted lunge, smashed the inner door off its hinges.

It fell inward with a deafening crash.

Indoors, they were faced with dense darkness, relieved only by the faint light of early daybreak that seeped in through the entrance.

Guided by the sound of a creaking bed, they dashed through the first doorway to the right of the living room.

Fortunately, Martin had borrowed a flashlight from one of the troopersped it on, and it lasted only long enough to disclose a man on a cot near the wall reaching for a gun.

With one leap, Donahue was on top of him, and the pair were engaged in a desperate struggle.

Officers Brady and Teede, who had followed them into the room, darted at Donahue's assistance and handcuffed the furiously cursing man on the bed.

All this took only a few seconds, after which Donahue and Martin rushed through the living room in search of the second bedroom, almost colliding with a terror stricken young woman clad in an elaborate negligee.

They had calculated every step by the description given of the interior the day before.

Martin's collision with Missus Peterson spoiled his count and he passed a pair of curtains that led into the bedroom and found himself in the kitchen.

That blunder, as shall be explained, later on saved Martin's life.

Whirling around, he corrected his error.

Two leaps brought him back to the curtains, which he brushed aside with his right hand, at the same time firing a shot into the black space on the other side.

The entrance was very narrow.

To pass through it would have been suicide.

Martin's shots were returned with a volley, which he returned by emptying his gun in the direction of the flashes from the unseen thug's weapon.

As the last bullet left his revolver, he felt a red hot streak shoot across his hand and arm, and in an instant the hand was wet.

He got me, Martin whispered to Donahue.

But it's only a scratch.

You keep firing at him and I'll wing him through the window.

As Martin ran around the house toward the gunman's window, he was tying up his hand with a handkerchief.

Trooper Cockburn, who in strict obedience to orders, had remained at his post, whispered, geez, you're wounded.

Let me have a go at him.

Martin shook his head.

If anybody got out through the back window, they were sunk, and he couldn't wait to explain his maneuvers.

All this was taking place during a fraction of a minute.

Martin grabbed the trooper's gun and gave him his own to reload.

The window sill was about ten inches above the heavy snow drifts that piled up against the side of the house.

Footing on the frozen crust was precarious, to say the least, as Martin crawled upon its surface, each toe hold sank deep into the soft snow beneath.

The shade was up about six inches, which gave Martin light enough to make out vaguely the form of a man who was crouched behind the bed at the inn.

Instant Martin observed the man.

His gun was trained plumb in line for Donahue's heart.

If Donnie, who had remained in the spot where Martin left him, it was nip and tuck between them.

Martin emptied his gun through the windowpanes, straight at the murderous hand.

In the flashes, he saw the body leap into the air, and then he fled.

Once he reached the window, Martin would be at his mercy unless he made good his escape.

Less than a minute had elapsed from the time they'd first broken into the cabin.

During that time, there had been a steady stream of firing in the silence of that isolated spot.

It sounded like a bombardment of machine guns.

When Martin again rushed through the shattered front entrance, he was met by an oppressive silence, broken only by the agitated tones of a woman's voice.

In the low, murmured commands of a man.

Glancing in the direction where he'd left his partner, Martin could see only his face, a dim white splotch in the gloom.

His dark, overcoated body merged with the blackness of the curtains.

Forced that fellow to walk in front of you and make him into the back room, Martin suggested to Teede, who was standing by the handcuffed man.

The prisoner presented a sorro figure dressed only in underwear.

His body shivered in the icy cold bedroom, while perspiration oozed on his face, and his long hair hung dank on his forehead beneath heavy eyebrows.

His eyes peered out gloweringly, and his lips curled back over his teeth in an ugly snarl.

Te dragged him out into the living room.

So far, so good, but underwear doesn't give a man much of a grip, and with a vicious wrench, the gunman tore himself loose and raised his manacled hands in an effort to dash out the detective's brains.

Brady caught him in time.

Go on, he ordered, taking a firm grip of his shoulders and attempting to shove him along.

I won't, the prisoner sniveled.

If I do tip, you'll shoot me.

Don't let's have any more shooting.

I'll go.

The woman volunteered in a spunky but rather shaking voice, and started to walk up the passage.

It's your bungalow, Martin said to her as he reached her side.

Mind if we burn him out, No, she whispered, do anything you like.

I don't care what happens to the camp if only nobody gets killed.

When they were near the room, Martin saw Donahue drop down on the floor.

If he won't come out, I'm gonna set fire to the place, Martin said, loud enough for anyone inside to hear.

Then, addressing the man inside, he called out, come out, or you'll get smoked out.

No answer.

So dead was the silence then that they could hear the clock ticking inside.

Missus Peterson thrust her head through the hanging, saying at the same time it's me, Tippy.

Let me come in and talk to you.

She shrank back convulsively.

Oh I can't see him.

He's not there.

Perhaps he escaped through the window.

Nope, Donahue said, in a whisper so low that Martin had to lean down to hear him.

He's lying on the floor.

Maybe he's stalin.

Martin conveyed this information to Missus Peterson, and she took another look.

Oh, yes, yes, I do see him.

He's got blood all over his face and his eyes are staring wide open.

Detectives Brady and Teed had come up by this time, dragging their prisoner with them.

Let's go, Martin said, in a leap.

Donahy was on his feet, and together they swooped down on the man, or the body of the man known as Walter Tipping alias Tippy Murray, otherwise dubbed Whitey.

Whitey's body was stretched out along the bed.

In his right hand, a revolver was clasped asped one of the men switched on the light, and it required no doctor to tell us that Tippy was dead.

The fatal bullet had entered the side of his head, which was turned toward the window as he aimed his bullet straight at Donahue's heart.

Martin's first bullet must have struck his arm, and the unexpected flank attack had obviously caused him to spring to his feet, the second bullet entering his temple.

While the police waited for their chauffeur to show up, Missus Peterson put on some coffee and dressed Martin's hand, and Donahue got in touch with the authorities.

The man in Teed's custody was Peter Cellier alias Oolah Taylor.

In struggling with Detective Teed while the handcuffs were being secured about his wrists, he'd knocked a revolver off a hook at the back of his bed.

This was picked up from the floor.

Upon examination, it proved to be the one which had been torn out of Masterson's holster as he lay dying on the floor of the speakeasy.

Back in New York, they were all seated in the kitchen, just about to raise cups of steaming coffee of their lips when they heard someone dashing through the living room.

They sprang to their feet and confronted the phlegmatic chauffeur, his eyes bulging with excitement and his mouth gaping open.

Geez, he drawled, I've read a lot of stuff in the papers about Dewin's in New York, but here and in reading them something different, I thought, All hell broke loose.

Let's give the chauffeur a hand for not quitting his post.

For over his coffee.

He admitted that he'd expected an army of gunmen to come tearing down the hill and commandeer his car for a getaway in a proper gangland fashion.

When the authorities arrived, everyone present was arrested on a technical charge of homicide and held under nominal bond.

In searching the bungalow, they found that the two bullets, which had not found a resting place in Murray's body, had ricocheted off the bedpost and continued through the thin rock plaster walls of the room, through the kitchen, and spent themselves in the bathroom wall.

Donahue had been in danger not only from the gunman's bullets, but also from Martin's.

There was a gun hanging in the framework of the closet at the entrance to Murray's room.

Had they wasted more than half a minute between the time they crashed the door and reached the curtains that served them so well, Whitey would have had the drop on them, and there would have been a different ending to this story.

They discovered half the jewelry taken at the stick up on one hundred third Street, secreted in the photographs, secured by adhesive tape to the top board above the highest record shelf.

The rest was concealed in the same way in different places throughout the bungalow.

The doctor arrived and officially pronounced Tippy Whitey Murray dead.

Incidentally, he washed out Martin's wound and gave it the necessary attention.

Now here's what was meant when we spoke of luck In blundering past the curtains and entering the kitchen by mistake.

Had Martin known that the curtains led into the bedroom, his natural action would have been to sweep them back with his left hand and fire with his right.

This would have offered the concealed gunman his heart as an excellent target.

As it was, Martin swept aside the curtains with his right hand, which held the gun and the hand received the shot.

Martin had had another equally miraculous escaped that trip, but he didn't learn of it until some time later.

The coroner, a wonderful fellow named doctor James W.

Graves of Herkimer County, not only released them immediately, but after performing the autopsy, gave them permission to ship the body to New York at the expense of the New York Police Department.

This cost the city of New York about seventy five dollars.

Whereas had doctor Graves been one of those chaps out for publicity, he might have insisted on having all our witnesses brought up there for trial.

It can easily be figured out how big the bill for their traveling and living expenses would have been.

Doctor Graves was very enthusiastic over the way the capture was made and wanted one of the revolvers found in the cabin for a souvenir.

Martin told him they could not give him that, but that he would see that he had a souvenir of the case.

Later on.

This they presented in the form of a special thirty eight Smith and Wesson on which they engraved presented to doctor James W.

Graves nineteen twenty eight by the New York Detectives Bureau.

Well, that was a pretty stiff battle, and the police had some uncomfortable moments, but they faced worse when they returned to New York.

The case of the speakeasy stick up was reopened in the newspapers, of course, and the story of the Adirondack Battle widely featured.

Martin was sitting in police headquarters early one morning when missus Sellier called to see him.

It was a tough interview.

She was such a sweet old lady, and she just wouldn't believe that her son was a murderer.

Not my boy, She insisted, you must have made a mistake.

He's a good boy and so brilliant.

Ask any of his teachers or professors.

Maybe he did go around with that other man, Thoughah, but I don't believe that.

But he wouldn't kill a man.

I know my son, and I know he wouldn't do that.

Well, of course, Martin offered, if he is innocent, then that'll come out in the trial.

They've got to prove that he did it.

You know, a lot of men are tried for murder, but never convicted.

There are plenty of people though, that know he went around with Walter Tipping, and your son can help us a great deal by telling us the names of the members of Tippings gang.

Missus Cellier left considerably cheered up by the conversation.

By the time the trial came up, Martin figured she'd be more used to the idea, and the shock of her son's conviction and punishment wouldn't be so terrible.

But it was hard to sit there and listen to how bright she thought her boy was and how hard she'd work to send him through high school and college.

Celier denied that he'd shot Masterson.

He insisted that it was Tipping who'd killed the patrolman.

Tipping's lips were sealed forever, of course, and now that the horror of that scene on the morning of January thirty first had somewhat evaporated, the police didn't find their witnesses so eager to help.

Confronted with the well groom scholarly looking young man who assumed an innocent and martyred air, they were inclined to shake their heads and say they were not sure who had shot Masterson.

But there was no uncertainty in the mind of miss Helen Grayson, the girl who was shot in the shoulder by Whitey when Masterson attempted to draw his gun.

That, she said, pointing her finger at the ingratiating oolah, is the man who fired into Masterson's body when it was lying on the floor.

I would know him if I met him in hell.

The ingratiating smile on Cellier's face changed like a flash, into a demonic snarl, and he attempted to leap at the girl.

Another witness who was present immediately recognized the metamorphosed scholar and identified him as the man who had murdered Masterson.

But it is only in fiction that mortals are all bad or all good.

At first, Celia absolutely refused to name the other members of the gang.

The police could hold out for him, him no promises of leniency in return for the information.

He was headed to the chair, and he knew it.

There were no extenuating circumstances.

For days.

He remained sullen, speaking to no one then and what changed his mind?

No one knew.

He sent word that he wanted to talk to the chief.

Martin was present at the interview.

Like many crooks, Cellier was careful of his appearance.

His mother had supplied him with plenty of clean linen and kept his clothes well pressed.

So the young man who confronted them that afternoon was as neat and well groomed as any prosperous young businessman ever was.

Sooner or later, he said, dropping into a chair near Inspector Carrey's desk, you cops'll get Jerry Callahan, And I want to tell you that he had no hand in the shooting.

He was just a poor dope kid.

He had a gun, but he was so nervous he couldn't hold it because his hands were shaken, so and I thought he might shoot one of us.

I don't know where he lives exactly.

It says somewhere on Ninth Avenue in the fifties.

His dad works in the post office.

If you're going to get him at as soon have got him while I can put in a good word for him.

You see.

He overheard Tippy making plans one evening in the speakeasy, and Tippy insisted on his joining to keep his trap shut.

Detective Winkleman was assigned to pick up Jerry Callahan.

He visited the Board of elections and looked through all the seas.

He found several of that name, but only one who gave his occupation as that of a letter carrier living in the district.

Celler, named Inspector Shay in the General post Office, was interviewed and immediately sent for the mailman, who was struck dumb.

When the detective's mission was explained, there's a mistake somewhere, he mumbled, My kid's at home, sick with tonsilitis.

He's a good kid, you'll see.

But one glance at Jerry's terrified eyes when the detectives approached his bed showed there was no mistake.

He was a great, overgrown, gangling youngster, five feet eleven of weedy skin and large bones.

Jerry never served time.

He lost his mind and was sent to the Mattawan Hospital for the criminally insane.

Cellier professed to be ignorant of the fourth man's identity.

He was just a guy that Tippy picked up one night when they got to chewin' the fat and a speakeasy, was the way he put it.

He was boasting about seve jobs he'd done.

I didn't know what they were for.

I wasn't listening.

I thought he was a great big gas bag.

To be honest, No, I couldn't describe him.

Was he with you after the stick up when you went out to Missus Peterson's place, Martin asked him.

Celier looked at him sharply.

He was not.

We were all friends.

He was just an ordinary pickup.

I tell you, I don't know where Tippy was going to join him to divvy up.

And that was all the police ever got about the fourth Man.

Somewhere or other, he's floating about in the underworld.

Someday he may again be chewing the fat and boasting, and that day someone may hear him mentioned one hundred and third Street pick up as one of his exploits.

Then perhaps the police would find him.

Now, before this story finishes, we need to make clear Missus Peterson's pardon it At the time the news and the feature stories were printed, she was given a pretty bad break.

It was said that Missus Peterson was the sweetheart of one of the gunmen, that they'd had a quarrel over some other girl.

Then, in revenge, she decoyed Tippy and Celler to her bungalow and sent their address to the police, which was all rot When Inspector Carry questioned her, the young woman gave him a perfectly satisfactory explanation of how she became mixed up with the mob.

On the night of December twenty first I met him and Tippy.

I had a girlfriend with me.

About two o'clock, they asked us if we'd mind waiting while they drove over to get some gin from their bootlegger.

My husband was down south and there was plenty of room in our house, so we planned a run out there to finish out the night.

They were gone only about an hour.

When they returned, they had two other young men with them, and we all drove out to my place.

I saw that Pete looked very nervous, and I asked him what the trouble was.

He said nothing.

The next day we drove about for a bit and on the way home, about six thirty, Tippy telephoned.

He'd been doing a lot of telephoning that day.

When we got in the car again, he whispered something to Pete that made him seem even more nervous than ever.

I insisted on knowing what the trouble was, and Pete told me that Sunday night, he and Tippy in another chap had been in a speakeasy on West one thirty eighth Street when the place had been held up.

Someone blamed Pete for shooting a man named McGlenn, trying to frame him.

They would have to hide somewhere, Tippy said, until the police got the ones who had really committed the crime.

Ever entered my mind that they would do such a thing, and quite naturally I offered them camp Utica.

We had dinner, and then the boys went to town to pack up.

I met them before they left on the one forty five a m Train to camp Utica.

Then I'd joined them a couple days later.

The rest you know.

And now I'll tell you about the second lucky escape that Martin had during the scrimmage that took place at Old Forge.

He wore a new suit that day when he went up to the Adirondacks.

In fact, he'd put it on for the first time the night they left New York to pick up the men.

The bullet that had skipped over Martin's hand and arm tore through the cloth of the sleeve and the lapel, and he took it to his tailor with orders to repair it, as they always do.

The tailor carefully examined the entire garment.

Look here, he said, there's another hole on the left side.

Martin looked and saw a small scorched hole in the coat, just outside the inside breast pocket.

It made his blood run cold.

He took a leather case out of his pocket and examined it.

There he saw the dent made by the bullet.

Tippy had had a chance at his heart after all, but he'd been saved by his leather identification folder.

Celler alias Oohlah went to the electric chair.

When the Police Honoorboard convened, Detective Martin received its most coveted prize, the Department Medal of Honor, and his partner, Stephen G.

Donahue, was given the equally distinguished Daniel B.

Freeman Medal.

James H.

Masterson, who had been murdered in the line of duty, was not there to receive his Department Medal of Honor, but it was presented to his relatives.

All the other detectives working on the case were cited for honorable mention.

I'm Zevan Odelberg, and this has been kind of murdery.

If you like the show, please subscribe, review and tell your friends You can find us on social media at Kinomurdery or email at Kinomerdery at gmail dot com.