Classic Audiobook Collection - The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton ~ Full Audiobook [history]

Episode Date: April 17, 2024

The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton audiobook. Genre: history In The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes, George Barton turns away from invented whodunits to present a brisk, international tour of real cases chosen for what they reveal about detection itself. Across fifteen self-contained narratives, Barton invites the listener into the pressure-filled hours after a notorious offense, when scattered clues, unreliable witnesses, and public panic can bury the truth as easily as expose it. Moving from Paris to London to Russia and the United States, the book spotlights the investigators behind the headlines, including the legendary Vidocq, officers of Scotland Yard, and other officials whose reputations were built on patience, observation, and method. Barton's focus is less on sensational gore than on the practical craft of investigation: following paper trails, reading behavior, testing alibis, and turning small physical details into decisive leads. Along the way, he reflects on how different nations police crime and why certain systems produce results, for better or worse. Written with an early-1900s reporter's flair and a detective's respect for process, this collection is both a historical window and a study in how mysteries are solved in the real world. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 00 (00:03:17) Chapter 01 (00:24:24) Chapter 02 (00:49:15) Chapter 03 (01:11:07) Chapter 04 (01:28:47) Chapter 05 (01:47:16) Chapter 06 (02:05:43) Chapter 07 (02:23:48) Chapter 08 (02:47:42) Chapter 09 (03:07:53) Chapter 10 (03:27:49) Chapter 11 (03:50:01) Chapter 12 (04:07:01) Chapter 13 (04:25:24) Chapter 14 (04:41:50) Chapter 15 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Preface It is a trite saying that truth is stranger than fiction. Like most proverbs, this one has to be taken with a proverbial grain of salt. It is a fact, nevertheless, that the raw truth often possesses greater human wisdom than the most polished fiction. Crime in itself is painted. and sometimes repulsive, but a study of the methods of criminal investigation by which difficult problems are solved and the guilty brought to justice is entertaining and may be profitable.

With this thought in mind, the reader is invited to a consideration of a few of the famous cases that are to be found in the history of the world's greatest detectives. Each story is complete in itself, and outside of its own interest is intended to illustrate the peculiar system of the official and the nation therein portrayed. Vidoche, the great French detective, was undoubtedly a rascal and Malthabank, and the story of his life is fairly familiar, but it was thought necessary to include one of the exploits of Vidoch in this series because he enjoys the reputation of being the father of the detectives, ranking as the first regularly authorized investigator of crime known to history. The officials of Scotland Yard, in London, who enjoy a worldwide reputation in their profession, figure in three of the narratives.

They work in the most prosaic manner imaginable, but they somehow manage to get results, and that is what counts in the police world. General Trippov is presented as a typical example of the Russian policeman, cold, remorseless, and as inevitable as fail. Chief Wilkie of the United States Secret Service is given as the most conspicuous example of the intelligent, resourceful, and aggressive American detective of the present day. The stories speak for themselves. Most of the narratives are literally true. All are based on established facts, but in a few instances, the real names of the culprits have been suppressed as a matter of charity to their descendants.

who are still in the land of the living. With the exception of necessary liberties in construction and a few pardonable embellishments, these stories may be accepted as a series of real human documents. G.B. End of preface. Section 1 of The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the way. the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org, read by

Greg Giordano, The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Chief Wilkie and the Gold Certificates John E. Wilkie, Chief of the Secret Service Division of the United States Government, has not only upheld the high traditions of that very responsible, Post, but has won special laurels by his personal success in several big cases. He was born in Elgin, Illinois, 47 years ago, and before accepting the headship of the Secret Service, made an enviable reputation as a working journalist. While connected with the Chicago newspapers, he made a specialty of criminal investigation,

which probably partly accounts for his unusual success as a detective. During the Spanish-American War, he organized a special emergency force of men to checkmate Spanish spies in this country. As a consequence, he succeeded in arresting their best spies and driving most of the others off the soil of the United States. The real name of the culprit in the narrative that follows has been charitably concealed under an alias. One Monday morning, not many years ago, a smartly dressed man strolled down Lower Broadway and entered one of the trust company buildings in the heart of the Financial District of New York. He was what is known to the patrons of the turf as a bookmaker, and he had called at the bank for the purpose of securing a role of banknotes that he left there on the previous Saturday night for safekeeping.

He was promptly handed to him, a roll as big as both of his fists. He counted it over rapidly to see that the amount was correct, and when he got near the end of the roll, paused long and looked earnestly at a $100 gold certificate, which lay there, conspicuously among the bills of smaller denominations. He continued his study of the yellow back for a considerable period, and finally thrusting the balance of the bills in his pantaloons pocket. walked over to the cashier and handed him the bill. What's the matter with this note? he asked.

The bank official looked at it casually and handed it back with a smile. Nothing, he answered, except that it's a counterfeit. The bookmaker gasped with astonishment. He went over his roll and found three or four more notes of the same kind. That morning he notified his fellow bookmakers, and before 24 hours had passed, 30 or 40 of the counterfeit notes had been located in New York City. Samples were immediately secured by the authorities and forwarded to John E. Wilkie, the chief of the Secret Service Division of the United States Treasury Department.

That night, urgent public business compelled Chief Wilkie to go to Buffalo the following morning, while he was seated in the office of the United States District Attorney in that city, a man from the Knickerbocker racetrack entered the room and showed the district attorney a $100 counterfeit note that had been given him on the track the previous day. Voki began to do some hard thinking. The note was a companion of those that had been located in New York City, looked very much as if there had been a conspiracy to circulate these $100 notes simultaneously at the racetracks in all of the large cities of the United States. The chief dropped the business in hand, and immediately turned his attention to the new developments in the $100 counterfeits.

Telegrams were sent to the agents of the Secret Service, instructing them to visit the racetracks in their vicinity and look out for bogus bills. These instructions applied particularly to Cincinnati, Louisville, Memphis, New Orleans, and St. Louis. At St. Louis, Captain John Murphy, the Secret Service agent in charge of that district, went to the Devil. air racetrack, and posted the bookkeepers to look out for any $100 bills that might be offered them. Agents of the service were posted in various parts of the track, and it was agreed that if any of these certificates were offered by any of the patrons, the bookmaker should at once give the Secret Service agents a pre-arranged signal. In less than two hours, one of the agents received the signal and hurried to the booth occupied by the bookmaker. He made a careful examination, he made a careful

of the bill that had been given to the bookie and found that it was one of the counterfeits. The agents were then posted at spots where they could see the patrons of the track in the act of cashing in their winnings. The man who had put up the $100 bill made his bet on the favorite and came out a winner. When the victor called to receive his winnings, he was immediately placed under surveillance. There was nothing about the man to attract particular attention. He was neatly but plainly dressed, and bore all the outward indications of a prosperous businessman. After receiving his winnings, he walked into the rear of the grandstand, and, making a roll out of the money he had just received, placed it in his trousers pocket. He took out of his vest

pocket another $100 bill for the next race. The Secret Service man, who was at his very heels, made a $2 bet on the same horse. The favorite one again. The man cashed in, and as he did so, was taken into custody. He was marched to the clubhouse and searched. A white envelope was found in his pocket, containing 28 of the $100 counterfeit bills. He said his name was Robert Brown, the proprietor of an extensive photo-engraving establishment at Providence, Rhode Island. He was perfectly candid in his explanations.

He said that he had been visiting the fair, and was a guest at the Southern Hotel, that he would be very glad to refer the officers to any bank in the city of Providence for the purpose of establishing his moral and financial standing. Nothing apparently could be more straightforward. He was placed under arrest, however, and then the Secret Serviceman made an examination of his room at the Southern Hotel. There they found a suitcase containing $4,700 in genuine money. He was asked then to explain how he came to be in possession of the counterfeit.

He said that on the previous afternoon, he gone to the Union Station for the purpose of having the return half of his railroad tickets validated. As he came out of the ticket agent's office, electric lights were suddenly turned on in the waiting room, and he saw in the corner on the floor a long white envelope. He picked it up and found that it contained $3,000 and $100 bills. He immediately went to the office of one of the local newspapers and inserted an advertising. telling of his discovery, an offering to restore the money to his lawful owner. This part of his story was verified by the little identification check, which is given to small ad patrons by the big daily newspapers. In addition to this, there was a clipping from the paper

containing a copy of the advertisement, which read as follows, found in the Union Station late yesterday afternoon a sum of money and bank notes, which owner may have after. approving property by applying to X-4-3 this office. Brown was perfectly cool and self-possessed at every stage of the inquiry, and persisted in his story in a manner that convinced many of the officials when he was telling the truth, an inquiry was immediately instituted at Providence, and this verified every feature of his story. It was shown that he had a high standing there in social, business, and religious circles, and there was a great deal of honest resentment among his friends and associates

over what they termed the awful blunder of the police in attempting to associate Robert Brown with the crime of passing counterfeit money. To such an extent that this feeling prevail that a number of his friends got together and selected a representative citizen who was delegated to go to St. Louis for the purpose of entering bail, employing counsel, doing whatever else might be deemed necessary

to protect the rights of Mr. Brown. For ten long days, the Secret Service officials and the authorities of St. Louis made every possible attempt to disprove, or even to shake the story told by Robert Brown, but without any practical results. Under the circumstances it really seemed that it would be necessary to release him

for want of legal evidence. Then John E. Wilkie, who had been directing the movements of his subordinates by wire, determined to take hold the case in person. He immediately took a train for St. Louis, and after a number of interviews with his associates in that city, began to consider how to reach the weakest link in the strong chain of probability, which Mr. Brown had surrounded himself. One of the earliest movements made in the investigation was to discover the exact hour in which the electric lights were turned on

in the Union Station. The engineer of the electric plant was consulted, and his records showed that on this particular date, the switch which puts the lights into operation, had been turned at 540. Loki next sent to the newspaper office, which had printed the found ad, and requested a report upon the exact time of which the advertisement was accepted. The clerk who had received the notice was finally located, and he remembered distinctly that he had stopped to work on that afternoon at 5 o'clock. The ad, which he had received, was the fifth or sixth above the last one. and according to his own calculation it must have been handed in at half past four o'clock this pointed to a discrepancy in brown's statement of one hour and ten minutes it was important it was the thin entering wedge which might produce great results One of the significant discoveries among Brown's effects, with a number of programs of races at Gravesend, and two or three of the Eastern tracks, not to speak of one particular program which contained the entries of the races,

where the first bookmaker had received $100 bill, which he had deposited with his role in the Broadway Trust Company. Brown calmly admitted that he had attended all of these races, that he was a lover of horse flesh, and the occasionally made small wagers on the results, but he denied positively having passed any of the other $100 bills and said that he had never had them in his possession until he found the white envelope at the Union Station in St. Louis. Mookie did some very severe thinking at this stage of the game, and out of it all came the theory that if Brown was guilty,

he might have used similar subterfuges in passing counterfeit money at the eastern track. The chief thereupon telegraphed New York, and ordered it a careful search be made of the files for all the New York newspapers for the two months covering the racing season. It was like searching for the needle in the proverbial haystack, but it bore speedy fruit, for in the New York Herald of May 24th, the searchers discovered this advertisement, found at the Grand Central Station late yesterday afternoon a sum of money and banknotes, which owned. may have after proving property by applying to B-34 Herald Office. It is hardly necessary to say that by this time Mr. Wilkie had several specimens of Brown's handwriting. After the ad was located in the Herald, the original copy was found in the records of the office, and it was in the handwriting of Robert Brown. The government was now in

possession of sufficient evidence to convict Brown, both of passing and having in his possession, counterfeit money. But the authorities did not know where the plates were and how the money had been printed. The great big problem was to locate the plant, to pull it up by the roots and effectually stop the circulation of these spurious notes. Brown might have Confederates, and his trial and conviction, while important in itself, would be a very incomplete satisfaction for the government. One morning after the case had been pending for many weeks, after Wilkie had all of the facts in his possession. Brown was brought to the office of the Secret Service Division in St. Louis, and Mr. Wilkie, placing his prisoner under parole, invited him to go out and take a bite to

eat with him. The prisoner had already begun to feel the effects of his confinement, and he was delighted to obtain even temporary liberty and the satisfaction of a good meal at the first-class hotel. The two men sat down together, and Brown was given a breakfast that would have delighted the palate, and warm the heart of the most confirmed epicure. It was topped off with a fine Havana cigar, and then, this formality having been disposed of, Mr. Wilkie proceeded to give Brown the third degree. But this third degree, so-called, differed as widely from

the popular conception of the operation as the day differs from the night. To begin with, the two principles sat down as man to man, and not in the relation of policemen to prisoner. Loki then, as now, was far removed from the type of detective, so often found upon the stage, and in the pages of the romancer. He did not then, and does not now, look like a detective, act like a detective, nor talk like a detective. On the contrary, he presented the outward aspect of a well-bred college man, modest mannered, and with an intellect far above the average.

He was quiet and self-contained, and at no time during the two hours they remained together was his voice raised above a conversational tone. A close observer, though, might have noticed that this gentlemanly person had a positive note in his voice and an unusual alertness in his manner. Brown, on his part, looked like a prosperous businessman, engaged in the discussion of some contract affecting his mercantile interests. "'Brown,' said Wilkie, your conviction is as certain as that the sun is shining this morning.

You seem positive, was the rejoinder. What have you got to base your opinion upon? The chief of the Secret Service then clearly and carefully outwind the case of the government, making it as strong as he felt justified in doing under the circumstances. At its conclusion, he said, Brown, your only hope of receiving the slightest consideration is to assist the government, in this case, rather than to resist it. Loki followed this up by plausible argument along the same line,

and always pausing long enough to permit his words to sink into the man's consciousness. The Argus-eyed representative of the United States government knew by experience, but there is nothing in this world more difficult for a man to do than to admit to another man that he has been guilty of wrongdoing. He saw, therefore, the necessity of giving Brown an opportunity of confessing gracefully. He did this by suggesting, by innuendo, by appealing to the man's pride, by pleading with his patriotic instinct, and at last, by laying siege to his own sense of justice. He said in substance,

Brown, these notes are works of art, and it is a great shame that a man of your unusual talent should have, in a moment of weakness, permitted yourself to commit such a flagrant wrong against the public. I am sure, for what I have seen in. of you, that while you made the counterfeits, you did not originally intend to do so. I feel that, in view of your recognizability and the fact that you are a student, an enthusiast in engraving, you have been seized with a desire to prove how you could reproduce the almost faultless work of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, a class of work that will always excite

the envy and admiration of skilled engravers. That, filled with his desire, you began work in an experimental way. that you put it under the camera and reproduced it to see if you could bring forth a bit of work that would rival the unrivaled production of the government. Then, in this creation became a fact instead of a vision, you were seized with an overwhelming desire to see if you could actually circulate it as genuine money. Brown walked down the mental pathway, which had been so carefully provided for him by Chief Wilkie, as resistlessly as a child,

and he admitted without any reservations whatever that he had manufactured the notes. Having made this admission, it was not difficult to induce him to make a complete disclosure. You certainly brought more than these 30 notes of St. Louis, said the detective. Oh, yes, responded the counterfeiter. Where are they now? At the Union Station? In what part of the station? In the baggage room?

Where is the check? I haven't got it. is downstairs in the post office. Voki looked the astonishment he felt. Before he had time to put his thoughts into words, Brown said, After inserting the advertisement in the paper, I put $26,000 in a handbag,

together with several bottles of chemicals, which I used to age the notes artificially. Then I placed a check which I received for the handbag in an envelope, addressed to myself under an assumed name, and directed to the General Delivery Office of the the post office. It was evident that Brown had carefully planned even the minutest detail of his great counterfeiting scheme. By this method of concealing the check for the handbag,

he left the counterfeit notes totally disassociated with himself in any way, and still at the same time, within a moment's reach. A secret service agent was sent down to the postmaster, obtained the letter contending the check, took that to the union station, and received the handbag which he brought to Chief Wilkie. Its contents verified the statement made by its owner. The chief then took up the question of the plates. Where are the plates? he inquired. In a storage warehouse and providence was the reply.

He then admitted that no one in his business establishment was aware that he knew anything whatever of the mechanical part of the work. But the man, with a cunning almost beyond belief, had perfected himself in the art of etchievous, After that, he purchased a press in New York City and had it delivered in the middle of the night to a private room in his establishment. There he worked and experimented night after night until he was finally able to produce the perfected

$100 bill counterfeits. Then the press was dismantled, and with the plates, placed in a warehouse in Providence. It was stored under an assumed name. Where is the receipt? asked Wilkie. It is pasted between two sheets of paper that backs up a photograph on my desk in my office and Providence. The chief immediately called up Providence by Telegraph. The local agent was instructed to go to Brown's office and find the receipt for the press. He did so.

It was between the two sheets of paper on the photograph on his desk. Immediate action was taken, and after an incredibly short space of time, the plates were in St. Louis in possession of Chief Wilkie. On the following day, Robert Brown was taken into court. He pleaded guilty to manufacturing counterfeit money and passing in on the public. He was given 15 years in each of the two indictments, the sentence to run concurrently. This was subsequently reduced to eight years, and thus ended one of the most important counterfeiting schemes ever discovered and thwarted by the marvelously efficient machinery of the Secret Service Division of the United States government. End of Section 1.

Section 2 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit livervox.org. The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Vedak and the locksmith's daughter, read by Bata's NC. Eugene Francoise Francois. Vodok, who has been called the father of detectives, was born at Arras, July 23, 1775, the son of a baker.

He became, in turn, an acrobat with a traveling circus, a soldier in the French army, a vagabond, a forger, and a convict. He was sent to the galleys for eight years, but escaped and joined a band of highwaymen. He turned state's evidence on some of his companions, and in 1812 was made chief at the secret police of Paris, exemplifying the phrase said a thief to catch a thief. It is only fair to say that the suggestion conveyed by the proverb is untrue so far as professional detectives generally are concerned. While a certain degree of intimacy must necessarily exist between criminals and the detectors of crime, it is a matter of simple justice to state that the men at the head of the bureaus of criminal investigation in America and other countries bear reputation for personal

integrity, which is one of their most valuable assets. Vidok, as chief of the Parisian police, was remarkably successful, but finally lost his place in 1825. He opened a private detective agency and also published four volumes of his memoirs. He died in poverty in 1857. M. Henry, the prefect of the Paris police, sat at his desk in his private office. His face, a picture of perplexity. He picked up a paper that lay before him and read it carefully for the third time. It was an official report of a desperate robbery that had occurred in the heart of the French capital the night before. Moreover, it was one of many similar reports. There had been an epidemic of robberies and the police seemed powerless to stop them. M. Henry summoned N. Bertel,

famed as a cross-examined of criminals, and M. Periso, the governor of prison. and the three men talked long and earnestly, but without coming to any conclusion. Presently, a look of gratification overspread the countenance of M. Henry. He turned to his colleagues, gentlemen, I have it. What is it? They called in chorus. Be seated, he responded, and wait. They did as they were bid, and the prefect touched a button. A messenger responded,

Tell the duck to come here at once, said Morrow. Henry. In a few minutes, the door opened and a strong, well-built man with square shoulders shambled into the room. He had gray hair, a thick nose, blue eyes, a smooth face, and a perpetual smile. He glanced about him in a furtive way, and realized that he was in the presence of the triumvirate of talent that ruled the underworld of Paris. He squared himself as a man would who was preparing to be on the defensive. But the first words of the prefect reassured him. Vodok, we need your assistance.

The man bowed low. M. Henry, I'm at your service, absolutely. The prefect handed him the report. Take that and read it carefully. It is one of many. The criminals are having a carnival. I want you to capture this gang. My regular police have failed.

They bring me only excuses. I wish you to bring me the prisoners. Vidoque smiled that everlasting smile and bowed again. It shall be as you wish, M. Henry. He left the room with three batteries, a sharp eyes leveled at him. M. Berto shrugged his shoulders. A quack doctor sent to capture burglars. M. Perreau spread out his hands in disgust.

A showman's clown, a petty thief on the detective force. M. Henry smiled blandly. Gentlemen, you are not alone in your disproval. Do you see these papers? Pointed to a high pile on the side of his desk. These are all protests and complaints against the employment of Vodok. Some are from honest men, some from thieves. But he shall have his chance.

His passes behind him. His future is in his own hands. I shall judge him solely by results. Part 2. Vidok spent all morning in going over the reports that had been placed his hands. After that, he returned to his lodgings, and throwing himself on the bed, lay awake all night devising a plan of campaign. When daylight arrived, he was completely blocked out in his mind. Not a detail was overlooked. The first step was to discard his own personality and take up that

of another. It would have to be a thief. The honor of being impersonated fell to one germane, alias the captain. He was a fugitive galley slave. Vodok had known him in the days, well, in the days before he became a detective. Jermaine had dark brown hair, that of Bedouk was light. He was thin, Vodok was stout. His complexion was shallow, that of Vidok was clear. But the resourceful detective overcame all of these obstacles. Days were employed in perfecting the likeness.

First, he attained a seven days' growth of beard. Then he dyed his hair and beard black. By the generous use of white walnut liquor, he attained the most unhealthy complexion. The original was a snuff-feemed. Vitoe garnished his upper lip with a mixture of coffee grounds and gum Arabic. He made blisters on his feet by rubbing in a composition with which he was familiar. He made the marks of the fetters on his ankles, and dressing himself in a suitable garb, was ready for his enterprise. After that, he became a regular frequenter of the Thieves' dens of Paris,

He drank cheap gin, tossed off absinthe, cursed the police, showed the marks of the irons on his legs, and, altogether, made himself a general favorite. Night after night, he visited cheap concert hall in the Faubour Saint-Germain, where he met most of the disruptive characters of the French metropolis. He became very friendly with most of them and made them drink his health and sundry glasses of bad wine. The resort was a veritable clearinghouse for the gossip of the underworld. A man or a woman who had not served time was out of place in that assemblage. Talk of burglary's past and perspective was as Freya's remarks concerning the state of weather. Vodok told of his experiences with great vividness and with a degree of exaggeration that would have won a medal from the Ananias Club. Among so many little thieves, there is one big thing.

thief. His name was Constantine, the former fencing master who, having run the gamut of dissipation, had now reached the closing stages of crime in his ill-spent life. His companions looked upon him as a man of enterprise, bold in execution, and on all occasions possessing the most unblushing effrontery. The attention of the police had been directed to him more than once, but they had never been able to secure the last centia of evidence against the man. Vodok, knowing this, moved cautiously. He knew that a misstep might mean his own life, for he was in the midst of desperate characters who thought nothing of murder.

He put on a sad face, bemoaned his own fate, and bewild the fact that he had no means of recuing his fallen fortunes. He became friendly with one of the intimates of Constantine, and that worthy being plied with liquor, gave the detective full particulars of the habits of the big thief. They passed the night together, and, before morning, Vodok knew all about the haunts of Constantine. On the following day, he again met his voluble informant in the dance hall on the Foburg Saint-Germain. He was quite excited. Would you like to meet, Constantine?

He asked Vidok. Most assuredly, replied the detective. They remained in conversation for some time. presently the door opened and a smart-looking fellow came in. Vidouk's companion plucked at his sleeve. Now's your time, if you wish to speak to Constantine, he is here. The detective looked up and saw a neatly dressed man of 30 with good, broad shoulders. He was about five feet six inches high, extremely good looking, fine black hair and regular teeth.

Vodak waited only long enough for the newcomer to be seated when he went up to him carelessly and said, would you kindly oblige me with the little tobacco from your box? The famous thief looked the detective over from head to foot before replying. After an embarrassing interval, Constantine passes tobacco box to vedok. Then, he said abruptly, you have been in the army. The detective could have fallen to the floor. Had all of his carefully contrived disguise counted for nothing? Did Constantine know who he was?

In any event, it would serve as interest to answer the question, truthfully. So, with pretend nonchalance, he said, Why, yes, how'd you know it? Simply because no man can conceal it. Once in the army, you carry the badge of it with you through life, in your walk, in your shoulders, in your talk, in your manners. Rydok laughed uproarously as if he considered this a good joke, and in confusion invited his newfound friend to take a drink. He accepted, and in the course of their conversation,

the detective was delighted to find that the other, had not penetrated his disguise. I like you, finally cried Constantine, and I want you to take dinner with some friends of mine. That night, Vidok dined with a party of charming cracksmen, every one of them noted in his profession. Constantine was the chief, Schauber, his abled lieutenant,

and the other's faithful followers. The wine flowed freely, and the best of feeling prevailed. One of the company said facetiously that he had just come into a foreign, fortune and was celebrating the event. As a matter of fact, he had cracked a crib the night before and was spending part of his ill-gotten wealth. Constantine, turning to Vodok, said, How's your nerve? Fine. Are you in for an adventure? Surely with whom? With the locksmith's daughter?

Bedok made a grimace as if mocking and said, I don't believe I've ever had the honor of the lady's acquaintance. All hands laughed loudly. at this sally. Constantine put his hands down into his pocket and produced a big brass key. He handed it gravely to the detective. Permit me to present you to the minks. Veduk, keeping at the spirit of the thing, bowed gravely, acknowledging the introduction, and inquired when he would have the pleasure of going out with a lady. It might be tonight, he said grumblingly, if it were not for that formal veduct. Detective pricked up his ears at the mention of his own name.

He preserved the gravity of his countenance, however, as he remarked carelessly. Oh, I don't mind him if I can keep clear with the informers. They tell me parasworms with the parasites. That's true, said Constantine. But if you can keep Vodok from guessing at your business, you are safe enough with me. As for these informers, I don't fear them. I can smell those beggars as easily as a crow-sense powder. Well, said Vodok, I cannot boast of him.

so much penetration, yet I think, too, that from the frequent description I've heard of this Vodok, his features are so well-in-grated my recollection that I should pretty soon recognize him if I came unexpectedly in his way. God bless you, cried Constantine. It is easy to perceive you are a stranger to the vagabond. Just imagine now, that he is never to be seen twice in the same dress, that he is in the morning, perhaps just such another looking person as you. Well, the next hour so altered that his own brother could not recognize him. And by the evening, I defy any man to remember ever having seen him before. Only yesterday I met him disguised in a manner that would have deceived any eye but mine. But he must be a deep hand if he gets over me. I know these

sneaks at the first glance. If my friends are as knowing as myself, this business would have been done long ago. Nonsense, cried Vodok. Everybody says the same thing of him. And you see, there is no getting rid of him. Constantine was on his feet at once with an oath. He cried out, To prove that I can act as well as talk, if you will lend me a helping hand this very evening, we will whey him at his door,

and a warrant will settle the job so as to keep him from giving any of us further uneasiness. Vodok immediately agreed, and is placed in the unique position of going out with a party of thieves to wheylay himself. They actually went to the home of the detective, but, as may be imagined, he did not appear, and after three hours of waiting, they gave up the vigil in disgust. Many days had passed, and still, Vodokas without the specific evidence which would enable him

to put his hand on the shoulder of Constantine, and say, thou art the man. Of one thing he was morally certain, it was that the erstwhile fencing master was at the head of a band of resourceful, and unscrupulous thieves. One night, after jollification at the dance hall, the crisis came. "'Brend,' said Constantine with Elyar, "'do you feel like an adventure tonight?' "'With whom?' asked Vodok. "'With my lady love, the locksmith's daughter.' "'I'll join you with all my heart?' exclaimed detective in undisguised sincerity.

The plot was revealed with great attention to details. The cracksman had been spotting the mansion of a wealthy banker on one of the boulevards of Paris. Through the treachery of a housemaid who had been smitten with the charms of Constantine, the gang had been provided with the key which would admit them into the garden of the house. Budok listened very attentively and occasionally answered in monosyllables. He was careful not to say anything which would expose him to the reproach of having caused them to commit crime. "'In night is the hour,' said Constantine, "'and I want every man to do his duty.' There were six in the party, including Vidok.

Each of the cracksman was assigned to his part in the enterprise. Constantine was in command, and Jobert was chief of staff. Vodok was to be lifted into a ground floor window, but the detective demurred to this particular assignment on the plea that he was as yet only a novice. He has a weak stomach, sneered Jovert. You'll never make a good cracksman. Constantine hotly rebelled insinuation. You put his hand on Vodok's shoulder affectionately and said,

When this boy has had a little more experience, he will beat you all in the business. Vodok smiled in a sickly way at this unexpected, if dubious, compliment. It seemed a shame to deceive such a big-hearted scoundrel. But then, business is business, and it was too late to turn back now. It was finally arranged that Vadoke should remain on the outwee. outside of the garden wall and give the alarm of the plea should come in sight. It was now within an hour of the time when they should sally forth on their unlawful mission. Come, boys, said Constantine. A drink all around, and then we'll get down to business.

On the plea of searching for his hat and coat, Vodot contrived to separate himself from the others for a few minutes. He wrote a hurried message on the back of an old envelope and, finding a gendarme in the vicinity of the restaurant, dispatched him with a note to the nearest prefecture. It was to the point. It told the place of rendezvous and added, have half a dozen men on the spot, frighten the crackmen, but make no arrest until they've been driven to a place of refuge. When Vedouk returned to the table, his unsuspecting Confederates were preparing to leave. Their final toast was success, drunk standing, and in silence. Under the exhilarating influence of their liquor, they had scarcely noticed the momentary absence of the detective. Once on the outside, they hurried along rapidly, choosing the narrow and less frequented thoroughfares.

In about 20 minutes, they reached their destination. Constantine halted and, putting his hand in his hip-focket, pulled out a glistening revolver, which she examined carefully. Vodalk was not a cowardly man, but the resolute manner in which the chief thief, scrutinized his weapon, sent a cold shiver down his spinal column. Constantine then gathered his men about him and distributed a half-dozen black masks, which they adjusted with the ease that comes from long practices. After that, the chief advanced to the gate with his brass key, the famous locksmith's daughter. To a surprise, it would not work.

He fumbled with it for nearly a minute and then gave it up as a bad job. Blast the girl! he muttered. She's permitted on the bolt of door from the inside. Perhaps she's peached, whispered Vodok insinuatingly. She wouldn't dare, cried Constantine, showing his teeth. She knows me, and she knows that I would kill an informer. Once again, that cold shiver ran up and down Vodok's spinal column. But it was merely a fleeting emotion.

He had nerve in plenty and despair. Boys, called the chief, we've got to jump the wall and get down to business. we can't feel around all night. Here are you, to the detective, give us a hand. Vidoque planted himself against the wall of the garden and, holding out his two hands, boosted the cracksman over the wall one at a time. Constantine was the last one up.

He held his hand down to Vidoque and assisted him to the top of the stone coping. Now, Germain, said Constantine to the detective, you'll get in the shadow near the end of the wall and keep a sharp lookout. If you see the police, give a low, whistle, be on the alert because everything depends on you." Vodok nodded his head.

Yes, he repeated significantly. Everything depends on me. Two of the men had dark lanterns. Slowly, cautiously, they felt their way toward the house. Constantine carried a complete burglar's kit. He got to work immediately. Vodok on the wall watched the operation intently. What a unique position.

He felt like an umpire for a society at the moment. the moment. The thieves on one side of the wall, the officers along the other, and himself in the middle. Truly, everything depended on him. Tick, tick, tick, came the low, sharp sound of the mentalic instrument. Finally, the shutter was forced. After that, a pane of glass was cut, and then nothing stood between the burglars and their booty. Five minutes, ten minutes, they worked there industriously. Everything was done with business, like precision. Four stout bag stood with yawning mouths ready to receive the swag. Vitov looked on the outside of the wall. The streets were deserted. Not a soul was in sight.

At his note miscarried? Or the police fail him? It looked that way. What a predicament for a sleuth, to be the confederate of thieves. If one of his many enemies should catch him in such a position, he might have a hard time explaining to M. Henry. Presently, A measure tread was heard on the hard sidewalk. His heart pounded. It was a squad of police. He leaned over and whispered, Hist.

The captain of police approached. It is I, Vodok, called the detective in a subdued voice. I'll give the alarm, but I wish you to let them go their way. Two of them are armed. Presently, come to my old lodgings. The captain saluted, and with his men, sought shelter. At the same moment, Vodok gave a low, prolonged whistle. instantly there was a commotion within.

Bags were grabbed up and all scampered toward the wall. It's the police, whispered Vidoq. Come quickly and you may escape. They bolted the gate and hurried out. Vidoch joined them. We're the police, whispered Constantine. They've gone the other way, said Vidoch. If we're careful, we can elude them.

They hurried along for a few blocks. The detective turned to the chief cracksman. It's dangerous to go through the streets with these bags. Here's my old lodgings. Let's creep in here for shelter. Can you get in? asked Constantine. Sure, replied Vodok. I have my key, and I know the room is vacant. Silently, they crept inside one at a time and closed the door behind them.

Constantine slapped Vidok on the back. You're a brick, Jermaine. I told you he distinguished himself, boys. What do you call this place, asked Jowbert, looking around him. I call it the mouse trap, said Vodok with Alir. The cracksman laughed loudly at this sally. The swag was poured out on the table. and the enterprising gentleman were soon engaged in dividing their rich hall. Constantine and Jogart, the only ones who possessed weapons, laid their pistols on a chair.

Silly Vidoc picked them up and secreted them under a mattress. In the mix of the exultation, a loud knocking was heard at the door. The thieves looked at one another with pale faces. Vodok crawled under the bed unobserved. No sooner was he out of sight than the door was burst open in a swarm of inspectors and police men entered the room. In the twinkly of an eye, five pairs of handcuffs were shoved on the wrist of the cracksman, and there were being marched to near his police station. Part three

It was New Year's Day at the Prefecture of Police. M. Henry, following a long-established custom, was holding his annual reception. The room was crowded, and all the officers of the police, high and low, were there to present their chief with the compliments of the season. M. Berto, the cross-examative of criminals, and M. Perrisot, the governor of prisons, were in the line receiving with M. Henry. During the lull and the crowd, the three men drifted into a conversation concerning crime. By the by, M. Henry, said Emberto.

What has become of the fellow Vidoque? I really do not know, said the prefecture gravely. What? exclaimed the other. Not no. No, was the response. I have not seen him since the day I called him in, in your presence, and delegated him to break out the burglar. that disgraced the police system of the city.

And the burglaries, continued the other tauntingly. They have continued, M. Henry nodded. And Vodok, he has disappeared. The prefect nodded again. Amber Toe burst into an ironical laugh. Em, Henry, you've been deceived, taken in, hoodwinked.

The prefect shook his head. I am not ready to confess defeat. At that moment, a great commotion was heard on the, the outside. An attendant was summoned. What is the confusion? All the valuables stolen from the banker's house and champs Elysses have been recovered. Good, retorted him, Henry. But is that all? No, Vodok is outside demanding admittance. He has no card. Admit him, snapped the prefect. A moment later, five men, handcuffed, entered the room. Bringing up the rear was Vodok. The first prisoner was Constantine, the other is Jobard and his companions. Vodok. Vodok,

made a profound bow and smiling as a perpetual smile pointed to the cursing culprits. M. Henry, I wish you the compliments of the season and, as a New Year's gift, present to you the redoubtable Constantine and his fellow cracksman. End of Section 2. Section 3 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Librevox recording. All Libre Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org.

The true story is of celebrated crimes by George Barton. Cornel Fraser and the Railway Mystery Colonel James Fraser will be recalled as one of the best chiefs of police who ever had charge of the bubby's in the world's greatest metropolis. Colonel Fraser served with distinction in the British Army before accepting the important municipal post and enjoyed a splendid record, both as a soldier and as civilian. Sir Charles Main, the then-chief commissioner of police, said that Fraser was the best executive of his time. His jurisdiction extended over the so-called city comprised within an area of a little more than one square mile,

the richest and the most densely populated section of the civilized world. The credit for the dissolution of the mysterious murder of the railway carriage must of course be divided among the rank and file of the London police, but it also reflects in a specially brilliant manner upon the administration of Corner James Fraser. The time was an evening in July some years ago, the place, the station platform of the North London Railway Company, at the Metropolitan Borough of Hackney. A number of passengers were there, awaiting the six years,

o'clock local from London. It arrived presently, with bell ringing clamorously and the engine puffing up great clouds of smoke and sparks. The moment the train came to a full stop, a man on the platform made a rush for the nearest railway courage. He opened the door and entered, but suddenly drew back with a look of fear on his face and a cry of horror on his lips. Get aboard, get aboard! cried a guard impatiently. We can't wait. here all night. The man who had one foot on the station platform and the other on the railway carriage stood there as though he had been petrified. The guard, finding that his shouts were useless, hurried up to a certain the cause of the debate. In a thrice he was by the side of the hesitating

passenger. What's the matter? he asked. In answer, the man pointed the forefinger of his right hand toward the interior of the carriage and uttered the one word. look the guard looked and what he saw rubbed his tongue of its gladness the setting sun sent a golden streak into the coach and the glaring light revealed there on the blue cushions a pool of red blood the guard and the hesitating passenger entered together and made a careful examination of the carriage the man's first sight had not deceived him there could be no possible doubt about it the cushions on the carriage were soaked with human blood. Inside the coach was a hat, a walking sick and a small black leather pack. The railway carriage was run on to its destination and the dispatch instantly flashed to Colonel James Fraser the head of the London police force. In the meantime the most persistent cross-questioning failed to throw any light whatever upon the mystery of the blood-soaked cushions. The guard

remembered in a hazy sort of way that two men had entered the courage just before the train left Fenturch Street in London. His impression was that they were together, but he had no certain recollection of that. As to their appearance, he was taught at YALC. He only knew that he had a crowded train that day, and in the hurry and vassal of his work, had paid but scant attention to individuals. There was one clue, however, and that was of a character that could not be overlooked, even in the density displayed by the railway officials. It was the impression of a blood-stained hand on the door of the railway carriage. The first act of Colonel Fraser was sure that the guilty carriage out of service. He directed

that special pains be taken to preserve the impression of the blood-stained hand so that it could be referred to whenever the occasion demanded. That same night, where it came to police headquarters that the body of a well-dressed man had been discovered at a spot where the North London railway passes Victoria Park. The man was unconscious but still alive. He was taken to a nearby hospital and all that medical science could do was done to restore him to consciousness, but in vain. He died within 24 hours without saying a word. It was evident from the start that he had been murdered. Unfortunately, his head and face had been beaten so cruelly that he was unrecognizable. Just at a time when the solution of his identity seemed farthest away,

the hospital authorities came upon a card in his vest pocket. It read Thomas Briggs, Robertson Co., Lombard Street, London. An officer was at once dispatched to the office of Robertson Company in Longbird Street. The head of that firm said that Mr. Briggs was their chief clerk and one of the most valued employees, and that they were at a total loss to account for his unexplained absence from his post. He had been with a banking house for nearly half a century,

and during all of that time, had promptly reported for work as the clock was striking line. He had failed to do so that morning, and they had assumed that he was ill. Just as they were preparing to send an inquiry to his home, a message was received, stating that he had not returned to his house in Hackney the night before. A hurried investigation proved that Mr. Briggs had left his home at the usual hour on the previous day.

He had carried a gold-headed cane and wore got-rimmed eye glasses and had in his possession a gold watch and chain. After concluding his business at the bank, he left at the usual hour in the afternoon and dined with his married daughter at Peckham. He returned to the city in time to take the regular train-adventured street for his home at Hackney. That was the last time he was ever seen alive. It did not take many hours to prove that the unoffending clerk of Roberts and Company and the unknown individual his body had been found near Victoria Park

were one and the same person, and that the old gentleman had been brutally murdered for his money. Their glasses and the gold watch and chain were both missing. The blood-soaked cushions, the general disorder of the railway carriage, and the imprint of the bloody hand and door of the vehicle, proved that a terrible struggle had taken place before the foul deed was accomplished. It must have been done very quickly, because the distance from Fentchurch Street, once the train started and Hackney, was a matter of only three miles. In fact, the deed must have been committed immediately after the train left the city. for the body had been thrown into the bushes of Victoria Park, and the murderer had evidently jumped from the train before it reached Hackney Station. The head found in the coach had a lining which indicated that it had been manufactured by Walker,

a fashionable hatter in Crawford Street in Malibon. Cornel Fraser had an interview with the hatter, and ascertained from him that the hat must have been purchased within two weeks of the day of the murder. He said that it was almost impossible to keep track of his customers, especially as he transacted a considerable transient trade. He had, however, a big impression that the hat in question was purchased by a short, stout, red-faced man, wearing a blue coat with brass buttons. The man carried a whip, and from his dress manner and conversation, was evidently a cabman.

Further investigation among the officials of the North London, railway, brought to the front a guard from the Fentcher Street station who remembered having seen two men entered the fatal carriage on that evening in July. The first man, he described as an old and rather respectable-looking person. The details corresponded to a nice day to the appearance of Mr. Briggs, the murdered van clock. The second man, he said, had entered hastily, just as the train was about to leave the station and jumped into the carriage. after Mr. Briggs. He was rather a rough-looking individual,

poorly dressed and evidently laboring under great mental excitement. He was not a near-looking man, as man go, having a square German type of face, blue eyes, which were half-closed and very fair hair. He was short in stature, and his leg seemed very light for the upper part of his body, which was squarely built and powerful looking.

This was an unusual intelligent description, and the police carled London in the hope of dragging in some man to answer the description. But days went by and there was no result. The newspapers were filled with the details of the crime and there was great public indignation. The oldest citizens of the metropolis wrote scathing letters to the London Times, in which they inquired dramatically whether it was possible for a... man to go on a railway journey in the heart of the British Empire without incurring the risk of being murdered. The police chafed under this criticism, but still they did not appear to make any progress. Corner Fraser sat in his office day by day and tried to solve the problem. He finally resolved

that it would be necessary to trace the gold watch and chain that had been stolen from Mr. Briggs before it would be possible to get a clue to the man who had committed. the murder. Every pawn shop in and around the metropolis was visited, but none of them possessed any jewelry that corresponded to that which had been stolen from the banked park in the railway carriage. Colonel Fraser was not satisfied with these reports and determined personally to prosecute his inquiries and researches in another direction. He selected jewelers of London and began his work in the locality known as Chiefside. To his delight, he came upon a significant clue within 24 hours.

Mr. Graves, a jeweler in cheapside, possessed a gold chain which was identical with the one that had been owned by Mr. Briggs. The jeweler said that he had accepted the chain in exchange for another one which he had given to a foreign-looking person who had called at his establishment. To add to the importance of this discovery, it was learned that the exchange of the jury was the judge of the jury. jewelry had been made on the day following the murder of Thomas Briggs. The news of this first link in the chain of evidence was widely published in the London newspapers. On the day following, while Coroner Fraser was seated at his desk in the police headquarters, the door opened and a stranger entered the room. He was a short, stout, red-faced man, wearing a blue coat with brass buttons. The man carried a whip,

and from his dress and manner was evidently a couple. He saluted in an awkward manner. Is this Colonel Fraser? It is, was the Thursday's response. And may you be the chief of police? That's what I'm called sometimes, was the indulgent response. Well, my name is Bobby Smith. Glad to see you, Mr. Smith.

I'm a cabman. An honorable vocation, responded the colonel with a smile. I understand you're investigating the murder of Mr. Briggs. At this coroner, Fraser was all attention. He scanned the man's face carefully and replied, Yes, I am. Can you furnish me with any information on the subject? I don't know, was the response, but I have a little box here that may interest you. Whereupon, he handed Cornuffraiser a jeweller's little card box bearing the name of Mr. Graves, the cheap

signed jeweler. The officer looked it over and said, Where did you get this? It belongs to my little girl was the reply. Where did she get it? It was given to her by a man who lodged with us. His name is Franz Muller. He left very suddenly after the papers had become full of the mystery of the railway carriage. This was news with a vengeance. The cabman was taken in hand and subjected to a rigorous cross-examination. He told all about his German lodger and said, among other things, that the man had left his photograph on the bureau in the second story. back room where he had lodged. The police immediately secured the photograph, and Cornel Fraser hastened to cheapside

and presented it to graves, the jeweler. Did you ever see that man? he inquired. I did. He's the foreigner who came here and exchanged the chain on the day after the Briggs murder. Colonel Fraser returned to the cabman's home and held another long interview with a red-faced person who had so providentially furnished him with a clue. The cabby proved to be a veritable mine of information. He testified, among other things, that he had purchased the hat which was found in the railway carriage, doing so at the request of Mueller, his German border. It was learned that Mueller had transferred his residence to a cheap lodging

house in the Whitechapel district. This was carefully guarded, and Cornwall Razor, having supplied himself with a warrant, went there one morning to arrest the suspect. Two men were stationed in the front of the house, and two in the rear, and corner Fraser himself went upstairs to make the arrest. He hammered at the door. There was no response. He burst it open and found nothing. The room was empty. The bird had flown. Another hurried investigation in the course of which half of the police officers of the London force were employed, was made, and as a result of which, it was learned that Mueller had been seen at the office of an international steamship company within 48 hours. He had purchased tickets

for America, and only that morning had left the London docks in a sailing vessel which was bound for New York by way of Canada. Public excitement had now grown intense, and there was general indignation over the failure of the authorities to arrest the culprit. Many weeks had gone by and although the police had discovered and followed several important clues, the guilty man was practically as far away from them as he had been in the beginning. Connor Fraser realized the importance of Trompton's speedy action, and he at once formulated plans by which two of the shrewdest detectives in the metropolis were detailed to go to America to arrest Mr. Franz Mueller. Bobby Smith, the captain, and Mr. Graves, the jeweler of Chipsuble,

were sent with the officers for the purpose of identifying Mueller. This curiously assorted Quirate immediately went to Liverpool and took the first steamer across the Atlantic. It proved to be the city of Manchester, which in his day was one of the fast ocean liners, but which at the present time would be ranked among the slow friades. However, the sailing vessel in which Mueller took passage was even slower, and it was calculated that the Manchester would reach New York some days before the Victoria. It was an anxious voyage and the time was counted with feverish impatience, but the expectations of the pursuers were realized,

and the Manchester reached New York more than 48 hours ahead of the Victoria. The four men waited on the dock and as soon as the vessel reached the pier they went aboard. Mueller had been quite sick on the way over, and he came on deck looking pale and careworn. Mr. Graves and the captain recognized him at once and shouted in unison, That's the man. The two detectives immediately placed him under arrest, and before leaving the vessel made a search of the prisoner's box. The watch belonging to the murderer man was found in his trunk,

wrapped up in a piece of leather. Most of the issues of all, Mueller, at the time of his scum, capture was wearing the hat which had belonged to the murdered man. It had been cut down and somewhat altered, but there was no difficulty in finding traces, which made it correspond to the article of Edgar, which had been in the family of the victim for many years. Through the cooperation of the American authorities, extradition papers were speedily prepared, and the prisoner went back to England in the custody of his four captors, arriving there in the middle of September of the year of the murder.

the Bertigion system of identification by means of thumbprints had not been perfected at that time, the first step taken by the authorities was to secure the impressions of the prisoner's hands. There were carefully compared with a blood print on the door of the railway carriage, and the marks of the right hand were found to correspond fairly well with a blood-stained impression of the door of the coach. The trial occurred at the next session of the general criminal court. Sir Robert Collier, the Solicitor General, had charge of the prosecution which was based entirely upon circumstantial evidence. It was charged that Mueller had committed the murder under sudden impulse, that standing at the station he had noticed Mr. Briggs' watch and chain and jewelry

and was filled with an overwhelming desire to have them, that on the spur of the moment he had determined to follow him into the carriage. The victim resisted, but his assailant determined to, to possess the valuables no matter what it cost. He had tried to choke Mr. Briggs into insensibility, and not succeeding in that had ceased hold of life-preserver, such as his carried in English railroad carriages, and had used it to batter in the head of his venerable victim.

There was a deep wound over the year, the skull was fractured, and there were several other blows and wounds on the head. Following up this presentation of the crime, the distinguished Solicitor General, had presented piece by piece the bits of evidence which in his mind convicted Franz Muller of the murder of Thomas Briggs. Sir Robert Collier said that it was the strongest circumstantial evidence which had ever been brought forward in any murder case in his time. Muller on his part set up an alibi, but it was not very well substantiated, and the jury, without the slightest sedation, returned the verdict of guilty.

After his conviction, Mueller insisted that he had been found guilty upon a false statement of facts. His case was taken up by the Society for the Protection of Germans in England, and the most powerful influences were exerted there and abroad to obtain a reprieve for the convict. In the meantime, Mueller was urged to make a confession of his crime. He abated any direct response to this appeal, usually saying, why should man confess to man? Man cannot forgive man. Only God can do so.

Man is therefore accountable only to God. He persisted in maintaining this attitude until the very last. He was not a vicious man in any manner or way, and it was quite evident that his crime was not premeditated, and this fact at times caused some uneasiness of conscience to his captors. His refusal to admit his guilt was perplexing and disquieting. Finally, the day of executioner right. His German pastor attended him to the scaffold

and urged him to make his peace with God. The black cap was placed over his eyes and the rope was adjusted about his neck. The executioner prepared to give the signal which would launch him into eternity. At that psychological time, Mueller leaned over and asked for the privilege of speaking to his pastor. He spoke excitedly in German.

Some asserts that he said, I did it, others insist that he said I did not do it. But through some confusion in the signals, the drop slipped. And Franz Mueller went to meet his creator, leaving his last words a matter of doubt. End of Section 3, read by Claudia Caldi. Section 4 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording.

All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Wellford. The true stories of celebrated crimes by George Barton. General Trepov and the Russian students. General Trepoff, one-time chief of the St. Petersburg Police, ranks with the most famous detectives in the Russian Empire. He was in control of the Secret Service Department of the police of St. Petersburg during the lawless period extending from 1875 to 1880. He seems to have been successful in this difficult position

because he won the warm commendation of the Tsar and at the same time the hearty detestation of the people. His immediate predecessor was assassinated and his own life was in danger on more than one occasion. Vera Zasolik, a young nihilist, shot at him while he was seated in his office in the early part of 1880. Trapov was seriously injured but recovered and soon after that was honored by the Tsar who made him a councillor of state. In the early part of March 1887, the Tsar of all the Russians determined as a mark of confidence in the loyalty of his subjects that he should drive in state in full view of the populace from the Cathedral of St. Sophia to the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg. The importance of this simple statement may be understood

when the reader is reminded that for a period of years the nihilists of that unhappy country had been making determined effort to take the life of the emperor. Only three months before it was announced that the Tsar, while out hunting, met with an accident in which he was seriously injured. It is significant that several persons who were near the scene of the accident were immediately arrested. One was hanged and the others transported to Siberia. Again, there had been an accidental explosion in the Winter Palace

while the Tsar was attending a state dinner. Nothing ever came of this incident, although it was proven later that nihilists had entered the palace disguised as plumbers. Now, however, it was believed in high official circles that the country was to enter upon an era of internal peace. The emperor issued a manifesto of conciliation. Arrears of taxes were remitted. Certain criminals were released from prisons. Exiles to Siberia had their life sentences commuted to 20 years of prison servitude. The nihilists on hearing this were passive but unsatisfied. They had clamoured for a certain constitutional rights.

which were denied them. Nevertheless, it was determined by officialdom that the Tsar should celebrate the return of the era of good feeling by a public appearance in the capital of the nation. The time agreed upon was Sunday, March 13, 1887. Five days before that date, a cadet in one of the military schools, a young man with royal blood in his veins and the prince of a reigning house of Europe, killed himself. The tragic act was attributed to melancholia due to a hopeless love affair. It would be supposed that a small romance of this sort would be left to the district police. Not so. At this stage of the narrative, there enters upon the scene, M. Trapoff, a general in the army,

the chief of the secret police of St. Petersburg, and one of the favourites of the Tsar. He was a burly man, bruskin manner, and not overnice in his methods. Hated by the people, he treated their attitude with supreme indifference. Whatever his disposition, he possessed the unerring instincts of the real detective. His investigation of the little cadets' suicide was characteristically prompt. It developed a startling fact. It can be stated in a single sentence. The nihilists of St. Petersburg had determined to assassinate the Tsar on Sunday, March 13, 1887.

One of the functionaries attached to the palace heard rumours of the plot and rushed to General Tripof. It is unsafe for His Majesty to venture out. Shall we countermand the order for the procession? The chief of the secret service answered with an expression of annoyance. The programme is to be carried out as arranged, down to the smallest detail. But, Trapov interrupted the speaker by banging his heavy fist on the desk before him. I take all of the responsibility. If it is necessary to make any change, I shall inform the Tsar in person.

By Saturday the 12th of March, the general had a regiment of men at work. The mildest manoured persons in St. Petersburg were considered. fit subjects for suspicion. Innumerable arrests were made, and some of these were upon such a flimsy basis that even the rigour of Russian policedom could not justify their detention. Hourly reports were handed in to General Tripov.

He devoured these with eager interest, pursing up his shaggy eyebrows and thinking all the while. Presently, one of his officers brought in a printed circular, a sort of proclamation, and this bit of paper was given more attention than any of the regular reports. after that he sent out other squads of police and they in return brought in other reports. There was great activity at the Secret Service quarters but it must be confessed,

not much positive evidence of the alleged conspiracy. It was the eve of Sunday the 13th of March, one of the personal attendance of the Tsar called on General Trapov. Don't you think it would be wise to postpone the procession tomorrow? Trapov raised those eloquent eyebrows in surprise. What? he cried and confessed to the world. that the Emperor of Russia fears to appear in the streets of his capital. Yes, protested the other, but the danger. The danger is for me to consider, he said, each word carefully measured.

The messenger bit his lips in perplexity. The chief of the Secret Service looked up suddenly. Does the Zahn know of the plot? No, not a word, but he is timid. Reassure him, tell him that Trapov's. says there is no danger that he will guarantee the safety of his majesty. All right, replied the attache, bowing himself from the room. Late on the night preceding the procession,

an inoffensive-looking young woman was arrested and lodged in jail. Early on the morning of the historic day, several compositors and editors, apparently innocent of any wrong, were taken into custody. Still, those who surrounded the Tsar were apprehensive. An hour before the time they appealed to Trapov. He gave them a curt but comprehensive answer. Let the procession proceed!

The route of which the Tsar travelled was lined with police. They stood alone in pairs and in squads. They were conspicuous and yet, not unduly so, for hundreds of them in plain clothes mingled freely with the people. Just before the parade started, Trapov arrested four students. There were young men waiting to see the royal show. The people protested against the arrest as an outrage, but the grizzled head of the St. Petersburg police grinned and said nothing.

Indeed, the calm demeanor of the prisoners seemed to justify the protest of the people. One of the men carried a buck under his arm, evidently from the guilt lettering on the outside, a devotional volume. Another had a green bag containing legal documents. The third, apparently with a desire to get a good look at the Tsar, carried a pair of opera glasses, while the fourth had nothing unusual about his person, unless a rule of music be so regarded. They were hustled off to the nearest police station and in a minute the curious multitude accustomed to constant police interference

forgot all about the incident. Simultaneously, six persons were being arrested at Polvonia on the Finnish railroad. Tens of thousands of the people stood on the sidewalks of that chill, grey March morning awaiting the gorgeous procession. It came presently with the Tsar in an open barouche seated with one of the ministers of state.

His majesty was attired in semi-military semi-military dress, and if he felt any apprehension did not betray it, the official who accompanied him glanced furtively about as if constantly expecting the unexpected. The Tsar bowed to the right and the left, and received in return, cold, curious stares from the people. If they felt any enthusiasm, they did not show it. Was their silence, intended as a mark of respect for their sovereign? An onlooker from another country would not have so regarded it. The procession moved quickly and safely to the Winter Palace. It had been accomplished without a single mishap of any kind. The telegraph carried the news to all quarters of the world. The Tsar had appeared in public and received the homage of his people.

The day of assassination was passed and the delusion that he now reigned over a contented people was hugged by the autocratic ruler. But things were different in the famous third section, as the secret police are called. General Trapov was there arranging in consecutive form the result of five days of hard work. Here is the story of what had been going on behind the scenes, the knowledge of which had been so carefully kept from the Tsar. The first clue came in a most casual manner. One night, a couple of men in a restaurant on the Nevsky had attracted attention by their earnest whispered conversation. During part of the talk, the name of the Tsar and the date the 13th of March had been overheard. That was enough. Detective placed on their tracks followed them like bloodhounds. On the eve of the fateful 13th, one of the men met a woman in the streets of St. Petersburg and had a hurried conversation with her.

Five minutes after they separated, the woman was placed under arrest. A search of her person revealed a large quantity of nihilistic proclamations, all calling for the death of the Tsar. She was literally loaded down with the documents, which were being distributed to those in the conspiracy. She admitted that the young cadet who had committed suicide had been selected to assassinate the emperor. But when he realized the meaning of his assignment, he killed himself.

She stopped at this stage of her confession. Neither persuasion nor torture nor threats of death would induce her to give the names of the others concerned in the plot. But Trapov had a foundation on which to build his case. Here was a bit of paper. It would have to be traced to its origin. It was evident that an illicit printing press had been set up somewhere in the city.

All this time the two men who had talked incautiously in the restaurant were being followed. They were seen to enter a house in the Jewish section. The records of the police showed that the house was occupied by Aaron Zondelovich, who at one time had been a printer. That was sufficient. In less than an hour afterwards, the house was raided. An officer with a squad of police broke into the place without notice. What they found there did not seem very damaging. Four persons were at home at the time, two men and two women. Madame Krilov, the head of the house, was a woman of about 45 and of unusual intelligence. The other female was her servant. One of the men was rather,

aristocratic in appearance, he said he occupied a minor ministerial office, and a colour was given to his statement by the portfolio which he had in his hand. The other man named Lubkin was a consumptive about 23 years of age. "'Where is your printing press?' demanded the officer. Madame shrugged her delicate shoulders and outstretched her hands in a manner which said plainly enough that the police were welcome to any printing press they might find in that place. A printing press is a bulky thing. It should not be hard to find. But the officer's search the house from cellar to garret without result. All the while the quartet sat in the large dining room, prisoners. On the return of the police, the two men and the two women were put through the

sweating process, but they revealed nothing. The aristocratic-looking young man laid his portfolio aside for a moment. One of the policemen picked it up and opened it. Astonishment made him speechless. He silently handed the portfolio to his chief. It was filled with manuscripts and proofs of a prohibited nihilist paper called Land and Liberty. The aristocratic-looking person with the portfolio merely smiled at the consternation of the officials. He realised the gravity of his offence. He knew the penalty, but he never quailed for an instant. Come, shout to the chief.

You're convicted already. You might as well confess. Where is the press? The quartet remained silent. They were not offensive. It was the silence of submission, but not of fear. Suddenly, the chief gave a shout of surprise and pointed to the cupboard. The other policeman followed.

the course indicated by his accusing finger. They saw nothing and their blank countenances said as much. Don't you see? Almost shrieked the official. No, replied his chief lieutenant. What is it? A door of ink on the door of that closet. A door of ink, repeated the other, parrot-like, and with no indication of intelligence.

Yes, yes! He retorted, a daub of printer's ink! Slowly a consciousness of the meaning of his words penetrated their dull heads. At the same, moment they made a simultaneous dash for the cupboard. To their amazement they met with resistance. Madame Kreloff, her servant, the aristocratic man of the portfolio and the consumptive compositor were lined up in front of the cupboard. All were armed and Madame Kerylof pointed her pistol at the head of the chief officer, said with great deliberation, advance a single step and I'll blow out your brains.

We're desperate. Life means little to us now, save yours. Here was a dilemma. The chief knew if he made a move to reach for his pistol, this frenzied woman would carry out her threat. Only two other policemen were in the room with him, and they were covered by the aristocrat and a consumptive compositor. The remainder of his men were in other parts of the house. He backed out by degrees. It was humiliating, but he felt that it was politic. He must have time to think and plan. His two companions retreated with him. As they reached the outer sill of the floor, the consumptive compositor slammed the door violently and one of his associates bolted it. The racket brought the other policemen to the aid of their chief. There on the landing they held a council of war. The besieged nihilists on their part

were sparring for time. They had something to conceal or destroy. The house was already strongly guarded on the outside and the siege held out for less than a minute. The door was broken in and after a fierce resistance the four nihilists surrendered. The aristocrat fought like a demon and at the last asked asked quarter only for the women. While the police were completing their work, the consumptive compositor had a violent paroxysm of coughing and asked permission to lie on a cot in an adjoining room.

The covered proved to be a veritable magic closet. It contained a complete printing outfit. Needless to say, the paraphernalia was extraordinarily simple and adapted peculiarly to the purposes of the conspirators. There was a large cylinder covered with cloth which answered the requirements of a press. a roller of a sort of gummy substance, several fonts of type, display and otherwise, a few jars of printing ink, benzene brushes and sponges.

This was all packed to be taken to police headquarters. Just as the prisoners were being rounded up, a sharp pistol shot was heard from the adjoining room. The chief hurried in and found Lubkin the consumptive compositor in the death agonies. He had shot himself. In half an hour's time the remaining prisoners, and all of the facts in the case were in the possession of general Traphoff. He rubbed his clumsy hands with satisfaction. Move the second in the game of life and death, he muttered. We shall postpone our third move until the morning, not because we like to, but because we must.

In the morning, as already stated, the arrest of the four students occurred. Their innocent-looking positions were taken from them at the police headquarters. The book, the green bag, the opera glass, and the rule of music, each contained bombs, which were to have been thrown at the emperor. The prisoners were stripped. On each student was found a small vial suspended with a string from their necks and resting against their breasts.

These frail bottles each contained a most active poison. The purpose was evident. Failure or refusal to do their frightful work on the part of either of the students would have brought forth secret agents of the nihilists whose duty it was to strike the unsuccessful

or delinquent conspirator on the chest, thus smashing the bottle and permitting the poison to enter their wounds caused by the broken glass. Little wonder that the unsuccessful students took their arrest stoically. They were merely exchanging one fate for another. General Trapov had made other arrests

of those who were directly concerned in the attempted assassination. He counted them over. Nine fish in the net. We need more. His chief of staff and a squad of his trusteesest men had already started off for Polvonia on the Finnish Railway.

He wired them to act immediately. They found what he had suspected, a bomb manufacturing. It was there that the deadly missiles of the four students had been devised. Six more arrests were made in connection with this private arsenal. On the day following the 13th of March, General Trapov had 15 prisoners in all on his hands. Each one represented a stage in the conspiracy. The compositors and pressmen who published the proclamations,

the girl who distributed them, the students who were to throw the bombs, and the men who manufactured the deadly missiles. The 15 were condemned to death, but on the recommendation of the court, eight escaped hanging were sentenced to penal servitude for life in the hopeless prisons of Siberia. The Zahle learned all of these details later. On the evening of the 13th of March, as he entered the Winter Palace,

he was credited with saying, The people were very polite and respectful. The details were nicely planned, and by the way, Teltropov, I was pleased with the police arrangements. End of Section 4. Section 5 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libreux.

Box recording. All Libra Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraBox.org. Read by Lori Banzah. The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Inspector Brines and the Hanyer murder Thomas Brine's former superintendent of police of New York City is world-famed. As an Inspector Brines, he made a reputation which won for him a compliment of being the best chief of police that ever guarded the metropolis. He began his police career in 1863 and quit active service only a few years ago. He established the famous deadline in the Wall Street District beyond which no crook was permitted to wander. King Humber of Italy knighted him as Chevalier and officers,

of the Order of the Crown of Italy, but he declined the decoration, saying that all the honor he wished was to be a citizen of the United States. He originated the third degree, by which suspected criminals were forced under duress to confess and convict themselves. One crisp December morning, Louis Hanyer, a Frenchman, the owner of a little wine shop on West 26th Street in New York City. was found dead in the hallway of his home. The bullet of a 38-caliber revolver was discovered in the man's heart. He had been murdered.

The French wine merchant had been doing a big holiday trade during the week before his death, and he had a large sum of money in his possession. An examination of the premises proved that the front door had been jimmied. Hanyer had been murdered for his money. The problem was to find the man who, who had committed the crime to pick him out of the millions of people in New York City. The newspapers were filled with the horrible story.

The coroner's inquest attracted the usual crowd of morbid-minded people. The minor police officials became very busy and accomplished nothing. After the hysterics were over, the puzzle finally made its way to the one man in New York City who had the genius and the persistence to solve it. And that man was Inspector Brines. Report after report had been made, and the murderer of Lewis Hanyer threatened to slip away beneath an avalanche of red tape. Inspector Brines called for all the papers in the case, and, seated at his desk in Mulberry Street, he pondered over the case as a skilled player would study a problem in chess. He was in his prime in those days, mentally and

physically, and a chance visitor, who could have peeped into his sanctum, would have discovered a quietly dressed man with soft hazel eyes beneath a pair of heavy eyebrows running his hands through his hair and gazing fixedly at nothing. Presently he would have noticed the soft stare fade away and give place to a hard, steely look, and he would have known that Tom Brines had mentally formulated his plans and that the man of dreams had given way to the man of action. His conclusion was that the crime had been committed by a professional burglar. The first order was that every pawn shop in the limits of Manhattan Island should be visited to discover whether a 38 revolver had been pledged at any time within 48 hours after the murder.

Brines argued that while a novice might conceal the weapon, a professional would cold-bloodedly attempt to realize some money out of it. He was right. A money lender was found who had parted with several dollars in return for the murderous weapon. The next step was to bring the pawnbroker to headquarters and have him look over the thousands of portraits in the rogue's gallery for the purpose of discovering the picture of the erstwhile customer. Page after page was turned over and photograph after photograph was exhibited and it began to look as if the quest were to be fruitless. Just at this point, the pawnbroker suddenly exclaimed, There's the man! The picture he pointed out was that of Michael McLean, a personage well known to the police.

The third step in the plan was to locate McLean. That was comparatively easy. He was found in the haunts of crime, and for many weary weeks he was shadowed. Every move he made was reported, every word he uttered was recorded. It required infinite patience, but the espionage resulted in the discovery that on the night of the murder, McLean had been out on a spree in the company of three of his pals by names Thomas Moran, Frederick Banfield, and Robert Morrissey. The case had now reached a stage where caution was of the utmost importance. A single false move might ruin everything. It would be easy enough to arrest the men on suspicion. But would such a step serve the cause of justice? Inspector Brines evidently thought not, for he postponed that act. Professionals who did not stop at

murder were adepts in the making of alibis, and the detective did not propose to be fooled by such a device. He sent a woman to live with McLean, and he supplied her liberally with money. Indeed, there were times when the murderer wore the clothes of the inspector. With Brines, the end justified the means. McLeoyne did not confess to the woman. He was not the confessing kind. But she lived with him for over a month, and during that time secured enough facts which, patched together, convinced Brimes that McCloin was the person who had murdered Hanyer. By the time the people of busy New York had forgotten all about the tragedy of West 26th Street or had consigned it to the limbo of undiscovered mysteries. Brines, on his part, determined that the hour had arrived to strike a decisive blow.

He sent his men out and arrested McGloin, Moran, Banfield, and Morrissey. Each one was apprehended on some trivial charge, and they were brought to headquarters and placed in separate cells. They protested vehemently, but all to no avail. incidentally it might be remarked they were taken singly and no one of them knew of the arrest of the other also each one insisted that the action of the superintendent was an outrage and a violation of the constitution which guaranteed to every man the right to life liberty and the pursuit of happiness Brian smiled grimly and said nothing. Day after day passed and the four men remained under lock and key. Some of the subordinate officials, not being aware of the plans of the inspector, wanted to know what was to be done with the prisoners.

It seemed childish to them to hold the men indefinitely on such trifling charges. He made no explanations, offered no excuses, simply said, Wait. He cared nothing about Moran. Bannfield and Morrissey, but he cared a great deal about McLean. He wanted to make him uncomfortable, and he succeeded. In the meantime, he was carefully preparing the stage for the last big act in his little drama. He would not be hurried. He would not be cajoled. He bided his time. It came finally, and the scene was pulled off, in a way that made the melodrama of the modern stage

seemed stale and unprofitable in comparison. One morning the inspector arrived at his office a little earlier than usual, and for a time there was a great bustle and hustle incident to the rearrangement of the office furniture. When it was concluded, Brian's leaned back in his revolving chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Then, after a sweeping survey of the room, he bent over and tapped a bell on his desk. A messenger responded. The inspector looked. looked up sharply. Send down to the cell room and bring Mike McGoing to me at once. A glass case at headquarters contained the ropes and the black caps, which had been used in the execution of famous murderers. The gruesome relics were all plainly labeled and were horrible enough to affect the nerve

of the most hardened criminal. This case was rolled out into the center of the room so that it would be the first object to greet the eye of a visitor. Inspector Brines was seated with his back to a large window overlooking a courtyard. Near his desk was a vacant chair which, when occupied, gave the person sitting there a good view of the courtyard. All about the room were mirrors, which enabled Bryans to see all that transpired without moving from his chair. Presently the door opened and McGoing entered, an officer who was with him quietly withdrew. The prisoner looked about him with a surly air. He turned to the inspector. What do you want with me? Oh, I just want to have a little chat, said Bryans affiably. A chat, he muttered. What about? About the Han your murder, said Brines in a low

voice, sending out the words sharp and short like pistol shots. McLeon looked at him languidly. The shots had misfired. The season criminal was not to be stampeded. What do I know about it? He said with the utmost unconcern. Oh, said the inspector, matching indifference with indifference. I thought you might have heard something about it. At that moment, McLean caught sight of the case filled with the black caps and the murderous ropes. Bryans was instantly all attention. Quite interesting these, he said, and thereupon he began to tell the ghastly history connected with each of the bloody souvenirs. He dwelt upon each story lovingly as a collector would do who had a fad for gathering queer prizes.

Through it all, McLean preserved a stolid look. He appeared to take little interest in the recital, which, whatever else it might seem, was engrossingly interesting. Brian's realized that he had no ordinary man to deal with. McGloin was devoid of sediment and apparently was ignorant of a motion of any kind. The inspector moved slowly and cautiously. He had his part down to perfection. He must not overdo it. He must not show signs of impatience.

He sat down at his desk and nodded pleasantly and waved his hand in the direction of the vacant chair. McLeon accepted the invitation and sat down facing the courtyard. Now, Mr. McLean, said the inspector in his most purring tones, you're a man about town, and you learn most of the things that are going on. Won't you tell me what you know about the hand your murder? I don't know anything about it, was the dogged reply. The inspector arched his eyebrows in surprise. Don't know anything about it?

He echoed. No. You're a New Yorker? Yes. Have you been out of the city lately? The prisoner darted a quick look of suspicion at his questioner. Was this a trick? He answered defiantly.

No, I haven't been out of the city for over a year. I don't have to go out of the city. Of course not, said the inspector soothingly. You read the papers, don't you? He resumed after a pause. Sometimes. And yet you say you never heard anything. about the Hanyer murder? Oh, grunted McLean. Of course I read about it in the papers. Oh, that's better. Now,

tell me what you thought about it. Me? Why, I didn't think anything about it. It was a brutal murder, wasn't it? How do I know? Of course you don't know, but you think it was brutal, don't you? I don't think anything about it. There was a long silence after this, a silence that began to make Mr. McLean feel very uncomfortable. It was the very thing that Inspector Brines wanted. The more uncomfortable Mr. McGloin became, the better it would be for Inspector Brine's little drama. The two men sat facing each other.

Brine's soft eyes had assumed their steely aspect, and he looked straight at the criminal, as if he would read the very secrets of his soul. McGloin, on his part, was becoming more ill at ease every moment. He fingered his hat, averted his gaze, and fidgeted around like a hen on a hot griddle. Unexpectedly, the door opened and a man entered the room. Brines remained immovable. He did not speak. McGloin could not restrain his curiosity.

He strained his neck and beheld the podbroker with whom he had pledged the revolver. He gave a little gasp, but beyond this did not betray himself. The newcomer walked over to a table in the room, laid an article there, and noiselessly departed. McGloin turned around deliberately to see what the pawnbroker had left. It was the pistol with which he had killed Hanyer. Bryans remained perfectly silent. This unnatural quiet was too much for Magloin. He burst out vehemently.

What's the meaning of all this? What are you driving at? What do you want? I want you to tell me all you know about the hand your murder, was the placid response. I've already told you. I know nothing. And I don't believe you, was the response in quiet conversational tones. Inspector Brines arose from his chair at this point in the interview, and going over to the table, picked up the pistol, and began to fondle it lovingly. He walked over to McGloin and put the weapon in his hands.

A fine revolver, eh? No response. Just the thing to kill a man with, eh? McGloin shuddered and pushed the weapon back into the hands of the inspector. Once more, Brian sat down in his chair facing McLean. More silence. Presently the inspector spoke again. We've got a man who was a witness of the murder on West 26th Street.

At that moment, by a pre-arranged signal, two officers crossed the courtyard guarding McLean's pal, Thomas Moran. McGloin could see him distinctly and he became so excited that he could scarcely sit still in his chair. That's not all, continued the chief. We have another man who was present on the night of the murder. And at that psychological moment, two other guards appeared in the courtyard with Frederick Banfield walking between them. McGloin was out of his chair now, gazing down into the yard with bulging eyes. The cold sweat stood out in little beads on his forehead.

In fact, resumed the inspector, we really have three men who know all about the murder, and who are probably prepared to tell all they know. The guards appeared again, this time leading Robert Morrissey. McGoing turned to his inquisitor. The look in those steely eyes seemed to hold every detail. of his awful secret. He could stand the strain no longer. He threw up his hands and fell on the floor in a heap, crying out, I did it, I did it. Stop! For God's sake, stop! Thus ended the most dramatic interview ever held in the police headquarters. What followed was merely detail. As soon as

McGloin recovered his self-possession, he sat down and confessed in detail the story of the murder of Lewis Hanyer. It appears that the four rowdies had been spotting the shop of the French wine cellar for many days. They believed that he would have a large sum of money in the house at the close of the holiday trade, and they

deliberately conceived the plan of robbing the old man. They knew enough about their unlawful trade to get into the shop without difficulty. They had been drinking. At any rate, they made so much noise they roused Hanyer from his slumbers. He appeared

on the landing at the head of the stairway partly dressed. McGloin, who was at the foot of the stairs, instinctively reached for his revolver, and, pulling the trigger, fired at the defenseless shopkeeper. The aim was only too true. The bullet entered the heart of Lewis Hanyer, and he rolled down the stairs a lifeless lump of clay. This, in substance, was the confession

as it was gleaned from the lips of the murderer and his Confederates. His one cry to Inspector Brines was, Save me! Save me! Don't let them hang me! But the grim detective, who had forced the truth from unwilling lips, made no reply to this hysterical appeal, and in due course of time, after a trial, McGloin was convicted and received the full penalty of the law as it was then administered.

He was hanged by the neck until dead. End of Section 5. Section 6 of the true stories of celebrated crimes by George Barton. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are part of the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Section 6. Pinkerton and the Great Safe Robbery. Robert A. Pinkerton was born in Dundee, Illinois in 1848, and educated at Notre Dame University in Indiana.

He was the son of Alan Pinkerton, the founder of the famous detective agency. Bob Pinkerton, as he was familiarly called, had a marvelous memory for names and faces, and his gallery of criminal photographs and biographies was supposed to be the finest in America. He made a big reputation by his method of handling great crowds at the racetracks. He was a man of pleasing personality and did much towards introducing purely business systems into a concern which is regarded as rather romantic. He died in August 12, 1907, aboard the North German Lloyd Steamer Bremen, well bound for Europe. One morning, before daylight, the United States Express Company was robbed of four. $40,000 and, sad to say, there was not a shred of evidence to tell the story of how the small fortune was permitted to slip from the grasp of a corporation that had the reputation of being one of the most careful and conservative in America.

The scene of the robbery was at Susquehanna, Pennsylvania, and the local authorities did everything in their power to locate the cash, but all to no avail. In this emergency, the company enlisted the services of Robert A. Pinkerton. It is probable that no detective in the world was better equipped to grapple with a problem of this than Bob Pinkerton. He had the experience of a lifetime in following crime of this particular character, and although his adventures were little known to the public at large, he enjoyed the reputation of more successes than any other man in the agency. He called in person at Susquehanna to learn the facts in the case. He found everyone in the little town wrought up to an intense state of nervous excitement and

for a while had difficulty in obtaining a connected theory of the mysterious case, but his own calmness communicated itself to the local officers, and he was soon possessed of all they knew regarding the queer disappearance of the money. On June 20, 1883, the Marine National Bank of New York sent to the first National Bank of Susquehanna a sealed package containing $40,000 in currency and national bank notes. The money was to be used in payment of the wages of more than 1,000 employees of the area railroad company in the local shops. The packages were carried to the United States Express Company's office in New York,

by the clerk of the Marine Bank who received receipt for it. The money clerk of the express company took charge of the cash and enclosed it in the regular canvas pouch, sealed with a company's stamp and attached a tag on it, which was the name of the company's agent at Susquehanna. The pouch was duly delivered to messenger Van Wagenen, who placed it in the safe with other valuables. It was midnight when he reached Susquehanna

and he turned the valuable package over to Dwight Chamberlain, a night clerk and watchman, who was jointly employed by the express company and the Erie Railroad Company. Chamberlain promptly placed it in the safe in the ticket office and locked it with a key which he carried in his pocket. He was busily employed in his usual duties about the station, frequently being away from the ticket office

until 7 o'clock on the morning of the 21st. While casting up his accounts, the messenger from the Susquehanna bank arrived and called for the package. The pouch was taken from the safe instead of the $40,000 in cash, a number of small packages of brown manila paper cut about the size of bank bills were found in the receptacle. Mr Pinkerton found himself confronted by one of the biggest jobs of his professional career. He made a careful personal examination of their premises. and cross-examine all witnesses that could be reached. Before he had been on the ground many minutes,

he made the discovery that the pouch found in a safe was a dummy made up to resemble the pouches used by the company, but with a different seal and tag. The purpose was plain. The substitution had been made in order to give the thieves ample time to get away with their rich booty. Further investigation convinced Pinkerton that the right pouch had been delivered to the clerk at the Susquehanna ticket office. This being the case, either Chamberlain, the night clerk, or some of the employees,

or some other person unknown was guilty. Chamberlain was subjected to rigid cross-examination at its conclusion. Mr. Pinkerton expressed the belief that he was entirely innocent of any complicity in the theft. A careful watch kept on all employees of the company brought no developments. At this stage of the game, the detective broadened the line of his inquiry so as to include every man, woman and child in the town of Susquehanna. Some instinctive feeling, probably the result of his long years of experience, made him believe that the crime originated in a little town in Pennsylvania. After learning as much as possible about the personal history of the inhabitants, he began the process of elimination, dropping out names of all those to whom he was morally convinced no suspicion could be attached.

Then he asserted the names of all persons who had left the town within the preceding 12 months, and as a result of this, learned that George H. Proctor, former of the boiler shops of the area railroad company, had gone to Buffalo about a month after the robbery. This was a rich lead and the detective followed it up with a great eagerness. He located Proctor in Buffalo without any difficulty and learned that the man was engaged in speculating in oil and that he had made considerable profit from the occupation. He was shadow night and day, his habits closely watched and an accurate examination made into his final condition. It was learnt that since his arrival in Buffalo, he had deposited $11,000 in three of the banks of that city.

A return to Susquehanna developed the fact that while Proctor lived in the town, he had no money beyond his salary. Furthermore, it was learned that on various occasions he had been in communication with people in Canada, whose reputation were not what they should have been. During all this time, Proctor off and on visited his home and his people in Susquehanna. Pinkerton now felt that the time had come for some positive moments. move in the case. Accordingly, he settled down in Susquehanna and patiently awaited Proctor's next visit to his family. The man came in the course of a few weeks, and Pinkerton, who had assumed an alias, casually found an opportunity of having themselves presented to Proctor.

He invited him out for a stroll and finally suggested that they go to his room at the hotel and smoke a cigar. Once there, the detective turned to Procter and said sharply, no use proctor the game is up what do you mean gasped the astonish man i mean that my name is robert pinkerton and that i have all the facts in the safe robbery you have exclaimed the other i have was the response and the sooner we close it out the better after this proctor threw off all reserve and admitted his guilt he said further that he had been this tool of two men named martin and collins who were now in canada they had given him him eleven thousand dollars as his share of the booty which he had placed in a glass jar and buried it in the yard of his house leaving it there until his removal to buffalo pinkerton believed the story and arranged to permit proctor to go at liberty determining to hold him as witness for the prosecution and also as a decoy to bring collins and martin from canada were they had gone to be beyond the reach of the american law proctor was allowed to remain at his home in susquehanna pledging himself to keep pingerton's agency constantly informed of his movements one morning however he broke his parole without warning much chagrined at the mistake he had made in the character of proctor pinkerton set about to recapture the three robbers his first step was to be put out a rumor that the trio was

being sought by the police for a burglary committed in Canada. On hearing this, Martin Collins and Proctor purchased tickets to Portland from whence they had taken passage by telegram on a steamer scheduled for London. Pinkerton was informed of this through the various agency at his control and stationed himself at the island pond. A point in Vermont with a grand trunk railway crosses the lines into the United States. He boarded the train and interviewed the conductor who told him that Martin and Collins evidently suspecting trouble had jumped from the train during a temporary slowdown on the Canadian side. He said, however, that the third man was still in birth. What does he look like? asked Pinkerton.

I should judge that he is about 35 years old, said the conductor. It's something built like five feet nine inches in height, severely built with sharp features, sandy hair, and red side whiskers and moustache. That's my man, was the quick response. Besides that, said the conductor, he talks like a house on fire, and he entertained the other passengers during the journey by his skill as a musician.

That is enough, said Pinkerton, and he started for birth where Proctor was sleeping. Pushing his hand in, he shook the man roughly. What is it? Was the sleepy response. Time to get up, said the detective. Hurry! Proctor jumped out of bed and stood in the

passageway of the car, rubbing his eyes with fist. What do you want? he said gruffly. What do you mean by getting a fell out of bed so early in the morning? Pinkerton could scarcely refrain from laughing, but he said in his severest tones, I want you on a matter of great importance, Mr. Proctor. As soon as he heard his voice, Proctor recognized the detective.

He smiled grimly and said, All right, I guess the jig's up, and the jig was up. trial that ensued the full details of the crime became known. About a year before the robbery, Proctor secured employment in the boiler shops of the area railroad company at Susquehanna. In six months, his superior skill made informant of the shops. In this position, he learned that the money used to pay the employees, was brought from New York City, and that it was frequently kept in the safe of the express company for 48 hours before being paid to the men. Next discovered who carried the keys of the safe and learnt that the agents of the express company at Susquehanna and two of the clerks each had a key.

His affable manner soon made him a warm friend of the three men. One day while in the shops, Proctor asked one of the clerks to loan him keys in order to unlock his tool chest. Innocently the man handed Proctor his bunch of keys. They walked together towards the tool chest. Proctor easily picked out the safe. the safe key as he walked along. He had a small piece of white paper in his hand and while he conversed with the clerk he rubbed the key tightly on the soft paper. The impression was perfect. It was all Proctor needed. That night, before going to bed, he had a key exactly like the safe key on the clerk's bunch. Such is the expertness of fitters in the burglar world.

Before morning he had the plan of all the details of the robbery. He did not deem it safe to tempt the enterprise alone, so he secured the aid of few Canadians named Collins and Martin. At the time, they were living near the suspension bridge. The doctor now found that the pouch containing the $40,000 would leave New York at 6 o'clock in the evening on June 20th. The train arrived at in Susquehanna at 3 o'clock in the morning. In 60 minutes, the pouch had been put in the safe by the agent and taken out by the conspirators. The bogus bag and seal had already been prepared, and as soon as the genuine pouch was taken out, the other was put in its place. The substitution took place while the agent was being busily engaged in the Wable department of the station at 4 o'clock in the morning.

The agent was out of earshot at the time Martin opened the safe the key that Proctor had made and took the bag containing the money. The substitute was put in its place and the safe locked and in ten minutes' time, Collins and Martin carrying a valise with the $40,000 took a train for Corrie, Pennsylvania. From thence they went to Shinaractady and then to Suspension Bridge where Proctor was waiting for them. The object of this circuitous journey was to throw anyone off the train in case they were followed. At Suspension Bridge the three conspirators met and divided their loot. Proctor received $13,000 as his share of the booty and calmly returned to Susquehanna, where putting on his overalls and working clothes, he returned to employment in the boiler shops. Everybody in Susquehanna was talking of the robbery,

and Proctor talked as loudly as excitedly as any of the citizens. In the meantime, his $13,000 was buried deep in a fruit jar in the little garden back of his home, With infinite care he buried it with the mouth of the jar down so that the water could not get into the receptacle and spoil the money. Neither his wife nor his children knew of this buried treasure. It was when he took up the money and went to Buffalo and began speculating in oil that he dug the pit, which was to be his ruin. Robert Pinkerton was much chagrined to think that Proctor had been able to hoodwink him in the early part of the affair Instead of being an innocent accomplice, he was a professional burglar with a chequered career. The doctor, when he began the serious part of his life, was a first-class mechanic and at an early age he became foreman of the Portland Boiler Works.

The passion for gambling caused him to lose his position, and in a few years he had joined a group of eastern burglarers, acting for them as a fitter in opening safes. In the centennial year, after he was convicted of a safe robbery in Lowell, he was sent to Massachusetts State Prison at Charleston for four years. He became organist of the prison and had unusual privileges. As a result, he became acquainted with Charles Bullard, a fellow convict who was serving a 20 years term for breaking into the Boylston Bank, Boston, and together they conceived a plan of escape. Proctor made impressions of the cell door keys and made keys out of old knives. From time to time he gathered enough clothes to be used by himself and Bullard when their plans of escape had fully ripened. Clothes, in the meantime, were deftly hid in the top of the organ.

One eventful night, Procter, Bullard and seven other long-term convicts escaped. Proct and Bullard went to Canada by way of New York. In Toronto, they robbed the children. ticket office of the Grand Trunk Railway Company at Brockville of $3,000. A few days later they robbed another ticket office near Quebec of $4,000. After that Procto got work in Toronto's Safeworks and after while he was promoted to a travelling salesmanship when he sold a save, he arranged a combination and Bullard would follow him a little later and robbed the safe. Suspicion of the SAFE company eventually caused his dismissal.

On another occasion, Proctor attempted to break jail but did not meet his usual success. He deprived the bars off the cell door, but when he reached a corridor, the sheriff stopped him at the point of the pistol. As a result of this, he was sentenced to eight years solitary confinement, part of this for his original offence and two years of attempting to break jail. A week after this, pieces of paper were found on the floor of his cell bearing them. impressions of the key of his cell door, the corridor door, and the door leading to the street. It was after that he had served his sentence that he went to Susquehanna and lived as an honest man until the opportunity came for him to take part in the great safe robbery. The king of burglars, as Proctor's was called, was given a long sentence for the Susquehanna

express robbery at hard labour in the eastern penitentiary at Philadelphia. his accomplices so far were never captured. End of Section 6, read by Lisa Alley. Section 7 of the true stories celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Ken Cowlick.

The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Chief Kelly and the deserted house Francis R. Kelly, regarded as the most celebrated bank detective in America, won his spurs in quite another field of criminal investigation. It was while in the government secret service that he engaged in the adventure which is related in this article. Prior to his struggle with the moonshiners,

he was in the police department of Philadelphia and for some time served as chief of detectives in the Quaker City. After leaving the government service, he became the bank detective for the Financial District of Philadelphia, and there he can be seen every day, rain or shine,

guarding the institutions, which shelter assets conservatively valued at over $350 million. On the 8th of April, 1874, Francis R. Kelly was granted leave of absence from the Philadelphia Police Force and directed to report to James J. Brooks

at the time, prominent as a detective in the United States Secret Service. The purpose of his assignment was kept a profound secret. By appointment, he met Detective Brooks at the Pennsylvania Railroad Station in Philadelphia, and when he started, not even the members of his family knew his destination or the purpose of his journey. When Kelly met Brooks at the gate leading to the train, he handed him a ticket to New Orleans by way of the Great Jackson route. A word of preface may help to explain how Kelly came to receive this assignment, which was to prove one of the most dangerous and important in his whole professional career. While he was a police officer in the 22nd Police District,

Philadelphia, he was going to his home early one morning in January 1874, and passing a big distillery on 20th Street above Berks, he was accosted by a voice which whispered huskily. is that you joe it was so dark and foggy that a person could hardly see his face before him but on the impulse of the moment kelly replied yes and then halted to await developments presently a two-horse team filled with illicit liquor which had been distilled in the factory started out of the place kelly jumped into the wagon and pulled a pistol on the driver and directed him to go to a certain point in the city which happened to be the police station there he was placed under arrest. The seizure of this distillery and the arrest of the government storekeeper and his

conviction which followed was the means of bringing Frank Kelly before the notice of his superior officers, both in Philadelphia and Washington. The sequel was this mysterious assignment, which began at the Broad Street Station in Philadelphia. After they had fairly started on their journey, Mr. Brooks joined Kelly in the car and introduced him to the two other men, one being Alfred Brooks, his son, and the other John Mitchell, another Secret Service operative. Mr. Brooks explained the mission to the party in a few words. A short time before, President Grant, Simon Cameron and Alexander P. Tutton, who was then supervisor of internal revenue for Pennsylvania, had a conference at the White House concerning

the operations of the whiskey ring, which had become a national scandal and was so powerful that the government was being robbed of millions of dollars. General Grant, who was deeply interested in probing the matter to the bottom, leaned over his desk, and, with the inevitable stump of a cigar between his set teeth, announced his purpose of transferring all supervisors of internal revenue in every section of the country. Mr. Tutton at this point expressed a doubt concerning the wisdom of such action. He said it would be the means of punishing many good officers and would not be just. General Grant took a fresh grip on a cigar and said,

What am I to do then? Mr. Tutton replied. Find out the identity of the crooked distillers and the government officers who are shielding them and punish both. It was suggested to the President that Detective James J. Brooks was a safe man to entrust with an important work of this character, and that he could get Detective Frank Kelly to assist him. The President replied immediately, I will do as you advise. We will take Brooks and Kelly. This explains why Detective Kelly, Detective Brooks, his son, and John Mitchell were bound for New Orleans on the 8th day of April in 1874. In his pocket, Mr. Kelly carried a letter from Secretary of War Belknap to the commandant of the

garrison at New Orleans, directing him to furnish the bearer, Frank Kelly, at a moment's notice such a number of soldiers as he should call for. This communication was significant. It indicated very clearly that they were to act alone and without the aid, assistance, or knowledge of any of the government officials connected with the revenue at New Orleans. They began work almost immediately upon their arrival in the Crescent City. They separated in order not to create any suspicion, but every night they met Mr. Brooks for report and instructions. All of the big distilleries in the neighborhood of New Orleans were shadowed, the proprietors closely watched, and a never-failing tab kept upon every one of the

government officials connected with the revenue. There was fine detective work to be done both day and night. It lasted for many weeks, and when the climax came and the results were accomplished in a single night, the entire country was startled by the denouement. The establishment on which the greatest amount of suspicion was directed was a big distillery on the other side of the river. but while the detectives were morally certain that an illicit business was being conducted there, they were without positive evidence upon which they could proceed legally. For the purpose of this article, the place shall be known as the Big Ben. It was guarded day and night by armed men,

and any strange person coming within firing distance placed his life in jeopardy. The problem was to catch the promoters of the concern red-handed, to find them in the very act of distilling and shipping illicit liquor. The first move towards this end was to smuggle several secret servicemen into the inside. They secured employment in the establishment and thus kept tab on all of the queer happenings of the place. This was only the beginning. The next most important step was to arrange a plan of signals by which the United States officers could be guided in making their aid. There was a deserted house on the side of the river where the distillery was located and it was decided to make use of this as a signal station.

One of the detectives was supplied with a large lantern and provided with a key to the house. On the first night that the conditions were favorable, he was to go into the third-story front room of the house and place the lighted lantern in a position in the window where it could be seen on the other side of the river. Night after night, Detective Kelly waited on the New Orleans side of the river for the signal from the deserted house. And night after night, he was confronted by great banks of heavy impenetrable fog. finally one night after patience had almost ceased to be a virtue a bright white spot appeared from out of the gloom it was a lantern in the deserted house kelly pulled out a whistle and summoned his men at once they responded with alacrity and in a few minutes were in a big flat boat that had been kept on hand for the purpose there had been heavy floods in that section of the south and the mississippi river was swollen to an abnormal size the secret surface men armed to the teeth entered the boat in a few seconds. The colored men who were to do the rowing showed some hesitation. Come on, you rascals, shouted Kelly. Get in that boat and get to work. Something in the commanding

tone of the man's voice made them feel that mutiny would be suicide. It looks mighty dangerous, boss, muttered the chief warsman. That's why the boys are so slow. It is mighty dangerous, retorted Kelly. That's why I want the boys to be quick. They started off with a will. the turbulent waters dashing over the sides of the boat and splashing the faces of passengers. Kelly fully realized the peril of crossing the river on such a bad night, but his fears, if he had any, were kept quietly locked in his own breast. A second boat followed immediately after the first. In it was a detail of soldiers under the command of a commissioned officer, and these were all subject to the orders of detectives Kelly and Brooks. Kelly was in the first boat,

and he encouraged the lusty oarsmen to do their best. They worked like Trojans. At times it looked at if the rickety boat might capsize and throw them all to the bottom of the muddy stream. All were alarmed. To add to the terror of the waters, it became so dark at times that the oarsmen could scarcely follow their course. Kelly pointed to the light in the window of the deserted house. Boys, he said, keep your eyes on that light. They did so, pulling away against great odds. Once the boat sprung a leak and they're threatened to be a panic among the frightened passengers. Kelly, with Admiral presence of mind, quelled their fears. Bits of sticks were whittled and plugged into the holes.

Several of the Secret Servicemen with sponges and tin cans prevented the boat from accumulating any great quantity of water. With these expedients, they managed to progress fairly well. Suddenly the chief oarsmen uttered a cry of dismay. What's the matter? asked Kelly. The lights out. Sure enough, the light in the window of the deserted house had been extinguished. All sorts of foreboding filled their minds. Could it be that their carefully laid plans had gone entirely astray? Scarcely. Could the man in the house have been attacked?

That was possible. At any rate, they continued their journey to the other side. It would not do to weaken at this stage of the game, no matter what the consequences. The boat rocked dreadfully at this point. They were scared. Indeed, it was no exaggeration to say that for many minutes they feared death, but finally they reached the other side of the stream. The messenger from the deserted house awaited them on the bank.

To their delight he had to be able to their delight he had, not met with any difficulty beyond that which came with the storm and the rain. A sudden gust of wind had blown out the lantern, and as all of his matches were wet, he was unable to repair the misfortune. Kelly and his companions prepared for the still more serious part of their adventure. A fine mist was now falling. It was dark and disagreeable. The wide banks of the Great River were overflowed and they had a four-mile march to the Big Bend Distillery through the low marsh country, being compelled at intervals to wade through mud and water up to the armpits. Kelly took the lead with his assistance following some distance behind. He headed straight for the

Big Bend Distillery. Detective Brooks, with another detail of men, was after another establishment in a different section. Things had been planned so that the various chiefs should simultaneously swoop down on the several law-breaking concerns. Kelly stumbled ahead, sometimes falling into puddles of water, and at other times being confronted with great hillocks of mud until the affair began to lose all of the flavor of romance. But he was accustomed to hard, everyday prosaic work, and he plodded along steadily, every minute coming nearer to the goal. From the information they had received, all of the watchmen at the distillery were either asleep or off guard. They were soon undeceived. Presently the walls of the building loomed up in the distance. A gate

leading into the premises was locked. It was forced open. As Detective Kelly stepped inside, a figure emerged out of the darkness. Who goes there? called a voice. A friend, responded the detective who had been given the countersign. Something in the tone of the reply must have brouse the man's suspicions, for hurried forth with a pistol in his hand. He confronted the detective. What do you want here? he asked menacingly. That's my business, was the jaunt you reply. You go back to your post. My posts here was the stubborn reply. Oh, get away, cried the detective, giving him a push. The trick did not work. Instead of disarming his suspicion, the move only confirmed them. The guard leveled his pistol at Kelly. Move one step and you're a dead

man. The detective had to move and act quickly. It was either surrender or fight. He determined to fight. With a movement almost as quick as thought itself, he hauled back his right leg raising it up high in the air, gave the point of the pistol a kick that sent it flying a dozen yards away. The blow struck the trigger and in mid-air the weapon exploded with a loud report. In kicking the pistol, Kelly struck the man's hand and bruised it in a way that brought a shower of profanity from the guard. He made a mad rush for Kelly. The first impulse of the detective was to pull his own pistol, but on second thought he refrained from doing so. The guard in his own crude way believed he was doing his duty.

he was defending the property of his employer, although that employer was a lawbreaker. As he rushed on, Kelly caught him by the shoulders and the next moment the two men had clinched and were struggling in the mud. A half-dozen assistants were in the near distance, but the detective disdained to call upon them for help. This was his own battle.

He would fight it out in his own way. The guard was a powerful fellow. The chief moonshiner had reckoned well when he selected him to keep intruders from the plant. But Kelly was in his prime at that time. dealt with the most dangerous criminals in America, and he was not to be worsted by the unarmed watchman of an illicit distillery. In less than a minute he had the man on his back. His associates came up at this moment, and in less time, almost than it takes to tell the story,

the guard was bound and gagged. Events moved quickly after that. When they reached the distillery proper, they met an armed resistance, but the phalanx of secret servicemen reinforced by a detachment of United States soldiers induced surrender without the firing of a shot. The distillery which had caused so much trouble was promptly seized and placed in the custody of a platoon of soldiers. When another great distillery planted Algiers was seized, uniformed soldiers with fixed bayonets were put on duty to guard the property. After that was over, the detectives had to recross the river before daylight. And then before the people of the Crescent City were at their breakfast tables, Hammond's distillery and Henderson's rectifying house on the New Orleans side of the river were placed in government custody.

It was a tremendous bit of enterprise, a night's work that was never before equaled in the history of the service. When the facts came out during the course of the following day, the people were thunderstruck, none more than the government officials who were located in New Orleans. Neither people nor officials knew that Brooks and Kelly, and their men, were in New Orleans, and the capture proved to be one of the great sensations of the time. Indictments were promptly found and convictions followed in every case. The government confiscated over half of the time.

million dollars in property and contraband whiskey. Trials were not officially concluded until almost two years after the capture, and in the spring of 1876, Kelly returned to New Orleans in the capacity of witness, being granted a leave of absence from the position he then held, that of lieutenant of police in Philadelphia. There is one phase of this story to which particular attention is directed. It was freely said at that time that President Grant was a man who took care of his friends. And it was insinuated that his friends were sometimes not the kind of persons who deserved the encouragement of a high-minded official. Well, General Grant did take care of his friends, but his friends, as the narrator happens to know in this instance, were the friends of good

government. They were the men who, under his inspiration and the supervision of James J. Brooks, were instrumental in breaking up the notorious whiskey ring. They were the men who sent offenders to the penitentiary, and they were the men who helped to restore hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Treasury of the United States. In other words, General Grant was determined that justice should be done, no matter where the chips might fall. In 1874, after the return from New Orleans, General Grant sent for Mr. Brooks. He called at the White House and found the president in his office, smoking a big black cigar. He looked up quietly as Mr. Brooks entered and said with characteristics, chastick cherseness. Brooks, you and Kelly did good work at New Orleans. Mr. Brooks bowed at this

and murmured his thanks at receiving the commendation of the chief magistrate of the nation. Brooks, continued the president, I am going to appoint you chief of the government's secret service. And so he did. Within a few days, this deserving, intelligent and competent detective was placed at the head of the most important service in the world. Kelly was promoted to the position of lieutenant of police in his home city, and of course the fact that he had figured in the government exploit was chiefly responsible for his promotion. Supervisor Tutton was appointed collector of the port of Philadelphia. Alfred Brooks was named a special revenue agent. John Mitchell had his salary raised and was placed in a position of importance in the service.

After the trial and conviction of the distiller's in New Orleans in 1876, President Grant reappointed Mr. Beckworth, United States Attorney for the District of New Orleans. United States Marshall Packard, who figured in the seizure and arrests, was appointed United States Council at Liverpool. Judge Woods, who was the district jurist before whom the distiller's were tried, was appointed to a seat on the Supreme Court bench at Washington. End of Section 7. Read by Ken Cowellick. Reddard, Ontario, Canada, January 15th, 2020. Section 8 of the true stories of celebrated crimes

This is a Libri Box recording All Libre Box recordings are part of the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org Section 8 Chief Brooks and the Man with the Lazy Eyes James J. Brooks had been called one of the bravest men that ever lived and anyone who had the privilege of his acquaintance will endorse this description. As an internal revenue agent, he was instrumental in breaking up the infamous whiskey ring

which swindled the government out of millions of dollars. In recognition of his good work, General Grant appointed Brooks, who had already achieved distinction under President Lincoln and Johnson, chief of the United States Secret Service, a post which he filled with distinction, and which he retained during the administration of President Hayes. After leaving the government service, Brooks organized a private detective agency. He died in Pittsburgh four or five years ago, as some of the descendants of the culprits mentioned in his stories are still alive

and their leading respectable lives. It has been decent and charitable to present their guilty ancestors under fictitious names. One morning in the spring of 1869, General Grant sat at his desk in the White House puffing away at the ever-present cigar and gazing blankly into space when his messenger announced Senator Cameron of Pennsylvania. Show him in there at once to the President. After the first greeting had been exchanged, Senator Cameron exclaimed with deep earnestness. Well, General, I have the man you're looking for. Who is he? James J. Brooks. Do you think he'll fill the bill? I'm sure of it. He fears neither man nor the devil.

He is as straight as a string and will be absolutely loyal to you. It was in this manner that James J. Brooks, who had already been in a government service for years, came to be selected to destroy the whiskey ring, a combination whose operations were bringing scandal upon the administration of General Grant. Brooks immediately proceeded to New Orleans, where with the aid of competent assistance, he detected and destroyed illicit distilleries and landed their backers in the penitentiary. After that, then trepid revenue agent transferred the scene of his operations to Philadelphia.

Strolling through the thinly populated section of Port Richmond, the northern district of the Quaker city, he noticed a thin cloud of smoke arising from a bonfire that had apparently been lighted by some dechievous boys of the neighbourhood. He carelessly scattered the smouldering embers with his foot and proceeded on his way. A curious act on the part of a sedate man, but he had his reasons. That night a copse of government detectives appeared on the scene, and three notorious moonshiner's and the assistants were arrested and sent to jail. A fully equipped still was in operation in a cave in the vacant lot,

and the boyish fire had been lighted to distract a car. tension from the smoke, which meant necessarily arose from the illicit distillery. Consternation prevailed among the violators of the federal law. The thought of losing the profitable business drove them to desperation. A council of war was held in a saloon of Water Street, and it was openly announced that $600 had been subscribed for the purpose of putting Brooks out of the way. The low-browed ruffians who were present knew the meaning of that phrase, only too well, but they all held human life cheap and the three of the Tufts volunteered for the

hazardous enterprise. The trio whose names were to become infamous included Bob Ahern, who had appeared in the criminal dock as often as he had fingers and toes, Neil Barlow, a hackman without scruples, and Huey Harrison, a desperado who was known as the man with the lazy eyes. $50 were paid down as evidence of good faith and a portion of of this was immediately spent by the conspirators in celebrating the anticipated success of the unholy mission. In the meantime, Brooks continued making his daily rounds, unconscious of the fact that a price was upon his head. He was no self-advertiser, and he made a rest after rest in the most matter-fact way, and without any blow of trumpets, sometimes prisoners

were captured with perfect ease, and again only after struggle, but always, it was a little it was counted as a part of an ordinary day's work. Brooks at that time spent much of his time at the old merchant's hotel, a quaint structure on North 4th Street, a survival of revolutionary times. The three conspirators, Ahern, Barlow, and Harrison shouted him from morning until night, waiting for convenient time and place to accomplish their bloody purpose. The utter nonchalance of Brooks disconcerted the footpads,

such is the effect which a really brave man has upon craven spirits one night they had him in a dark corner but the work was abandoned because ehon complained of a sore heel which he peevishly said might interfere with his flight on another occasion just as they were ready to strike the blow brooks turned into apple-tree alley and was lost to sight in the turnings of that narrow through fear on september six eighteen sixty six 69, all the conditions were favourable and it was determined to do the job. Or that morning, the three men waited around the corner where Brooks was expected to appear. Neil Barlow was on hand with his yellow-wheeled carriage to carry the assassins to a place of safety. Ahern and Harrison hid them within the shadow of a big doorway. Presently, Brooks appeared striding along at his usual fearless gate. One of those subconscious flashes of the brain which comes to all,

which can be explained by a few impressed to him with the belief that his life was in danger. He knew that he had been shadowed, but he had not altered his daily routine in the least. At noon he stood in the counting room of Keenan and son talking to young Keenan. At that instant, Ahern rushed from his place of concealment with a cock revolver in his hands. He aimed at the head of the unknowing detective. His hand trembled a bit as he pulled the trigger and that the board, instead of going into the brain penetrated the back of Brooks. He fell to the floor, and as he did so, Harrison joined his confederate,

and pulling out a blackjack, began to beat the wounded man out of the head. A mist spread over his eyes, but by a powerful effort he opened them and glanced up at his assailant. A mask that Harrison wore slipped down to the lower part of his face, and Brooks beheld his eyes, a pair of lazy eyes, which even the excitement, of the moment failed to rob of their habitual indolence. The next instant the men had rushed to the corner and leaped into the carriage. The driver whipped up his horse and the vehicle dashed away. As it passed, the prostrate man, he lifted his eyelid feebly for a second time

and noticed that the carriage wheels were painted a bright yellow. The next moment he fell back unconscious, but inedibly imprinted his memory was the vision of a pair of lazy eyes and tea yellow carriage wheels. Brooks hovered between life and death for many weeks, but a naturally rugged constitution spared him for his country. When he left his bed, his luxuriant black hair was perfectly white, the lasting memento of an awful experience. The authorities offered big rewards,

and the unknown offenders were bitterly denounced. Brooks said nothing, but at all times and in all places, he was haunted by the memory of the lazy eyes and the yellow wagon wheels. He grimly resolved that before he died, he would see those eyes staring at him from behind the grated cells of the penitentiary. For weeks, after his recovery, Brooks haunted the business section of the city in search of the carriage with yellow wheels. In that time, he discovered many vehicles painted that colour,

but not one that impressed him as being the particular wagon of which he was in quest. his superiors urged him to take a much-needed vacation he agreed to drop his work with the mental reservation and that reservation was his dodged determination not to relax in his effort to discover his assailants he made several trips to the seashore but after short stays always returned to the city to pick up the scattered threads of his investigation one day to his delight he discovered a wagon that answered the description so vividly paid to his own. pictured on the retina of his memory. It was an ordinary tumble-down public hack, but the yellow spokes glistened in the sunlight and filled the detective's mind with visions of the man he had sought so long.

At the moment he saw the hack, the driver, a burly red fellow, whipped upon his spavent nag, and with the unprintable words, urged it to greater speed. A conveyance was standing by the curb. Brooks jumped in, shouting to the captain, Keep the hack in sight if you want to earn a double fare.

The instructions were carried out to the letter. The streets were crowded with the trucks, surface cars and express wagons, but the hack with the yellow wheels threaded its way through them with unbelievable ease and swiftness. Brooks's cab kept the first team in sight always. Once or twice there was a blockade and the fear of losing his game almost reduced a detective to the verge of nervous frustration, but cavy invariably caught up the trail and followed the hack with a certainty and swiftness, the hound that is pursuing the fox. The race finally led them to the main street of the city, and they went in a straight line towards

the riverfront. Within a half-block of the wharf, the cab became inextricably tied up in a mass of wholesome grocery trucks. The driver leapt off his seat and opening the door of the vehicle said, I'm afraid we're stuck, sir, but if you make haste, you can overtake him. Before the man had finished speaking, Brooks was out in the street. Where is he? The driver pointed to a hack just on the edge of the wharf. There he is, sir. The detective thrust his fin the cabman's open palm. He said more to himself than to the other. I believe he's going to the ferry boat. That he is, sir, but he's bound for Camden. Brooks made his way out of the crush and gaining the sidewalk ran rapidly towards the ferry house.

The gates leading to a boat were open and he could see the hack with the yellow wheels going on the boat. The first bell had sounded its warning. Brooks calculated that he would be in time with a few seconds to spare. He reached the ticket office, tossed in his pennies and received his bit of paceboard as he turned around. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and a hearty voice cried out. well of all things in the world jim brooks as i'm a living man this is a cure for sore eyes he recognized the man at once it was john harkins and an old colleague with whom he had spent many a happy day on the pacific slope he had not seen him in years he paused long enough to make some incoherent remarks expressive of the joy he felt in a meeting he concluded with see a later the next instant he was bounding toward the boat the last bell had rung while he was talking, the gangplank had been pulled in and as Brooks reached the foot of the slip,

the iron gate closed with a bang in his face. He was furious. He stood there in his impotent rage, watching the boat as it churned its way towards the Jersey side, carrying the most valuable parts of its cargo, one cab with yellow wheels. His first impulse was to murder Harkins, the innocent cause of his chagrin, but on second thought, he was. He compromised by making an engagement to take dinner with him. Brooks crossed the river on the next ferry boat, but all in vain. There was no sign of the cab on the other side of the river, and he returned to Philadelphia knowing that he would have to begin his search all over again.

He never murmured, patience and persistence were his two strong traits. One afternoon he was rewarded by a second sight of the yellow-wheeled carriage. This time he did not lose sight. the vehicle. He followed it to its destination and in 48 hours had secured a complete history of the team and its driver. The carriage was owned by a livery man and who hired it out to Neil Barlow by the day. On some days, by reason of dissipation Barlow did not call for the vehicle and on such occasion it remained in the stable. It was a significant fact that the team was out on the day that Brooks was attacked and that it did not return to the stable.

until late that night. Moreover, Neil Barlow had enjoyed the team as usual and had given away the owner 50 cents more than the regular fee. The detective was delighted with these discoveries. He was morally satisfied that Barlow was one of the men who had tried to murder him. From that moment Barlow was spotted. At home and abroad, walking and sleeping,

he was kept under constant surveillance. The detective next turned to the task of finding the man with the lazy eyes. It seemed like a ridiculous quest, but he thought, now that he had one of the gang, that it was not hopeless. Indeed, he felt somewhat humiliated at having permitted the thugs to escape at all. They had clearly outwitted him, even though it was done with the aid of a pistol and a blackjack. He admitted that he had been beaten. That could not be helped, but to stay beaten, that would be disgrace. He learned among other things that Barlow was president politician.

He had served time for stuffing the ballot box and was one of the parasites who make a living by hanging onto the coattails of those who are more fortunate in life. Reasoning thus, it was not difficult to assume that his unknown associates were also engaged in a national game. Consequently, election night found Brooks in the vicinity of the morning newspaper offices mingling with the patriots who were scanning the election returns. After a while the detective went up to the editorial rooms on one of the newspapers where he was intimately acquainted. From this point of vantage he not only learned the latest news, but also gazed at upon the crowd that thronged the street below. It was a wonderful sight. From curb to curb, the space in front of the building was densely packed with thousands of excited, cheering men. Their faces were a study.

Some handsome, some scowling, some smiling, but all filled with absorb interest at the sight of the returns which were being flashed over the wires from every section of the country. The well-arranged lights made the scene as bright as midday. Brooks scanned that array of upturned faces with professional air with the studied interest of one who is a student of humanity. Suddenly his gaze rested upon one particular count. that was different from all the rest. What differentiated this man from all the others?

He asked himself. The answer flashed through his brain instantly. It was in the eyes. Those mirrors of the soul that so often and so eloquently portray a man's character. Amid that sea of eager, restless, ever-moving eyes, this particular pair of optics remained motionless. They were more than that. They were absolutely languid. Suspicion turned to conviction. Brooks could have shouted for very joy. It was the man with the lazy eyes. Brooks hastily summoned a special policeman who was in the neighbourhood. O'Leary, he said. You know most of the crooks in this town, don't you?

I do, replied O'Leary unboastfully. Or get your gaze on that mound down near the crowd there. Don't you see? About two rows from the car track. He's standing next to a letter carrier. Do you see whom I mean? The man in the brown suit. I see now.

said the officer for a pause. Do you know him? I do, replied with special confidence. Who is he? Why, that's Huey Harrison. What's his line? Oh, everything. He's what we call a handy man. Well, I want him. What is it for, picking pockets? Brooks smiled grimly. I can't tell you it yet.

It may be for something more serious than that. Well, said the special, I'll try to get him for you. The two men started downstairs and made for the street. The crowd was so dense that their progress was slow. Finally, they reached a spot for which they were bound, but their man had quite slipped away. They searched for an hour, after that, but could find no trace of the fellow. Did he know that he had been discovered?

Had he guiltily fled or merely left in a natural order of things, there was no answer to these queries. In any event, Brooks had his names and his record, and that meant much. The following day the detective located the lodgings of Huey Harrison. It was a disreputable section of the city, and the landlady, or the craft of her kind, denied all knowledge of the man. Brooks well-armed haunted the neighbourhood. He determined to keep watch personally on the particular house.

He had an officer detailed to assist him in case of emergency. Winter was approaching, the days were bitterly cold. One hazy afternoon, the door was the door of the house. the lodging opened and a medium-built man dressed in a storm coat came out of the house. The fellow had the big collar of the garment pulled up about his face, effectively disguising his features. Giving the tip to his assistant, Brooks followed the man. They had not gone many blocks when the big-coated one realized he was being followed. He quickened his pace and soon reached a narrow street, lined with a second-hand in clothing stores.

The sidewalk was crowded and Brooks experienced some difficulty in keeping his man in view. At times he was almost within an arm's length of his prey. Again, the pursued would be half block in advance of the pursuer. Presently, the man disappeared in the most unexpected manner. They were in the middle of the block, but there were no courts or alleys in sight, but he was lost to view and was completely as if the sidewalk had opened and swallowed him. Near the spot where he had disappeared were three second-hand clothing stores differing in appearance, only by the names under creaking wooden sign that was suspended from the second-story windows. Each one was a perfect wilderness of old clothes. Dummies arrayed in all of the glory of checked and striped suits confronted one at every turn. Coats and trousers hung suspended from hooks and made a dense drapery which almost entirely concealed the dust. doors and windows from sight.

A barker stood on each sidewalk, imploring the passers-by to come in and purchase. Clothing at prices which made the ordinary bankrupt sales seem like the height of extravagance. Brooks paused irresolute for a moment, but his purpose was quickly formed. He looked at the three stores and then dashed into the doorway into the middle one. The musty-smelling shop was shrouded in semi-darkness, and it was some moments before Brooks could get his bearings. He did so by degrees. A long counter ran the length of the room. At the far end, standing in a doorway communicating with a small living room, was a man and woman. Both were elderly, and the man wore a long grey beard. Something in their attitude struck the detective as being

significant. Both looked startled and they shrank from Brooks as if he were infected with some contagious disease. He knew his people well enough to know that under normal conditions, he knew his people well enough to know that Under normal conditions, they would give a prospective customer the heartiest sort of welcome. He was about to speak when a third person emerged from the gloom behind the counter. It was a young man, apparently, although he was somewhat stooped and wore green spectacles. He approached Brooks with an a fibrill smile and rubbed his two hands together and said in a subdued voice, What can we do for you today? The detective hardly knew how to begin the conversation.

He answered at random. I'd like to look at a coat. The man behind the counter paused irresolutely. At the same time, Brooks's keen eye detected a big storm coat at the end of the counter. He put his hand on the garment. This just suits me? What's the lowest price? The man started unconsciously. That's not for he began, then stopped abruptly.

He smiled in apologetic sort of way and began again. I meant to say that it would not fit you. The venerable couple stood in the doorway, their unsophisticated faces filled with wonder. The detective turned to the salesman and said sternly, How do you know it won't fit me? The man smiled again and began to rub his hands harder than ever. He spoke gently, I merely judged you by your build. Brooks felt in his hip pocket.

He was satisfied with what he found there. He leaned over the counter until his face almost touched that of the salesman. He spoke slowly and with deliberation. Come, it's time to end this farce. What do you mean? Quried the other, straightening up. Brooks did not speak. He acted.

He reached his arms across the counter, and grabbing the green goggles, pulled them from the astonished face of the salesman. A shout of dismay rang through the room. There before the detective stood the man with the lazy eyes. Those languid orbs never. showed the slightest signs of uneaseness. The man's face twitched convulsively, but his eyes were almost motionless. Brooks dropped the green glasses and covered the fellow this pistol. Come, Huey Harrison,

he cried, the game's up. You win, said the other suddenly. I surrender. He was promptly handcuffed much to the relief of the age couple in the doorway that the same afternoon Neil Barlow, the driver of the yellow-wheel carriage was taken into custody. Harrison and Barlow squealed on Bob Ahern, who was with them in the conspiracy to kill Brooks, and after a hasty trial, all three of the criminals were convicted and given ten years apiece in the state's prison. End of Section 8, read by Lisa Alley. Section 9 of The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes. This is a Libervox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Read by Jim Dykstra, Farragut, Iowa. The True Stories of Celebrated

Crimes by George Barton. Inspector Sweeney and the Stolen Gems John Sweeney, for many years an inspector detective at Scotland Yard, long ago won a reputation on both sides of the Atlantic. He became connected with the English police when quite young and soon earned a transfer to the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, which is better known to the American public as Scotland Yard. The case of the heart gems to which he was assigned is given herewith more as an example of the methods pursued by English detectives than as a specimen of Inspector Sweeney's individual skill. The name of the nobleman has been disguised and some permissible license taken with the construction of the story.

But the main facts, though presented in composite form, are true, and demonstrate that Sherlock Holmes has his prototypes in real life among the professional police of Great Britain. Sir William and Lady Hart had the reputation of being the most hospitable pair in all of Great Britain, and that is saying a great deal. They had a beautiful country seat just outside of London, where they entertained on a splendid scale. House parties were frequent occurrence, and the guests on such occasions included the best people in England.

Titles were the rules and coronets were very much in evidence. Sir William was the ruling spirit and his constant desire was to make everyone happy. During the day outdoor sports had precedence, but in the evening there was music and cards in the handsome drawing rooms with a noble host acting as Master of the Rebels. On the occasion to which the present story refers, Sir William and Lady Hart gave a particularly elaborate affair. It was a seven-day house party concluding with a brilliant ball. There were some 40 guests in all, and four of them, at least, were related to the royal family.

Probably eight or ten of the gentlemen were accompanied by their personal valets, and nearly all of the ladies were attended by their own maids. Such were the characters and such was the lavish manner in which the exceptional entertainment was planned. The seven days program was carried out without a hitch. On the first day there was a polo game in which the guests who had brought their own smart ponies participated. On each succeeding day there was some different form of entertainment. On the evening of the final day, it must have been a Friday. There was a great ado over the preparations for the ball.

no one was more excited than lady hart herself and well might she be for on that occasion she was to wear for the first time a magnificent creation from paris besides she was to deck herself out in the heart gems anyone who has ever had the pleasure of seeing these rare old family heirlooms need not to be told that they are both unique and costly my lady had been busily engaged in her boudoir with her maid for over an hour. She was all ready for the ball. Everything was in place except the gems. They lay in the dressing table ready to be fastened in Lady Hart's corsage. The clock on the mantle peeled out seven silvery strokes. Lady Hart looked at her maid. She was a compassionate woman. She said, My child, you look thoroughly exhausted. I'm through with you for the present. I can attach the jewels to my dress without your aid. Go to your room and rest and report to me again at midnight. The girl thanked her mistress and left the room. Lady Hart gave a final survey of herself in the long pier mirror.

It was satisfactory, but the feminine desire to get the judgment of someone else took possession of her mind. She picked up the jewels and was about to put them on. The large one was magnificently beautiful. It was a great ruby surmounted with a glittering framework of the purest diamonds. Two others, in the forms of crescents, were pure pearls. Altogether they represented a modest fortune. Lady Hart hesitated for a moment. She wanted to know what another woman would think of her Parisian gown by itself, minus the prestige which would be given it by the famous gems.

Lady Sutherland, her special friend, was nearby in a room on the other side of the corridor. She laid the jewels on the dressing table and tripped out of the room. She was gone less than five minutes. Lady Sutherland was in raptures over the new gown. It would surely make a sensation. Lady Hart, delighted, returned to her room. She went in and closed the door. The next moment everyone in.

in the vicinity was startled by a series of piercing screens. Several ladies rushed to the room of the hostess. She explained the cause of her agitation in a few disjointed sentences. The heart gems were gone. It would be difficult to depict the excitement of the next few minutes. Sir William was one of the first to reach his wife's room, and with masculine decision he soon restored quiet. Whatever the fate of the gems, it must not to be able to be. disturb the harmony of the occasion. Lady Hart recovered her self-possession quickly and heartily regretted having caused any agitation among her guests. The ball would have to proceed as though nothing had happened. The music started, the grand opening waltz began, and after that Sir William

quietly left his guests and got into telephonic communication with the London police authorities. As the result of that, John Sweeney, Detective Inspector of Scott yard appeared on the scene. Sir William joined him in the library and the two went over all of the facts in the case. The first order of the detective was that no one should leave the house that night. It was then about 10 o'clock without the permission of the host. Sir William was inclined to demur at this suggestion. He seemed to think that it might reflect upon his hospitality. He was finally persuaded that it was necessary and two servants were dispatched to give the gate-key. the orders. Detective Sweeney then inquired about Lady Hart's maid. She seemed a natural object of

suspicion, but it soon appeared that the young woman had a complete alibi. It was proved that she had gone to her room immediately after being dismissed by her mistress, and being very tired had thrown herself on her couch and had slept soundly amid all the excitement over the stolen jewels. Sir William was asked to tell the detective all he knew about the personality of his. his guests. He did so, protesting all the while. His biographical sketches, for the most part, were very flattering. There was one impecunious Earl in the party, it is true, who was notoriously pressed for money. It was even hinted that he had once been detected in ungentlemanly practices at cards. But when the detective pressed the clue a little too hard, Sir William shut up like a

clam, saying that of all the things in the world there was nothing for which he had greater respect than genteel poverty. Finally, the servants were brought in and cross-questioned. They exhibited all sorts of queer mental traits from gross stupidity to imbecilic indignation. The only testimony that had the slightest value was given by a pert maid who said John Martin had been seen in the corridor leading to Lady Hart's room about the time of the robbery. Who is John Martin, quickly queried the detective? He is the valet and attendant of Sir Archibald Hunter, replied the host. He must be the man.

Sir William smiled sarcastically. There's only one flaw in that theory. What is it? Sir Archibald and his attendant left yesterday. I forgot to mention that when we were going over the list of the guests. Detective Sweeney's face fell, but he was pugnacious. How can we prove that? Sir William looked up with a surprised glance.

It doesn't have to be proved. It's a fact. I accompanied Sir Archibald to his carriage and saw him drive off and his man was with him. That's too bad. The host smiled. I think it's good. For Sir Archibald's man. After some further talk, Sir William. and the detective took a walk about the premises and made an examination of locks and bolts.

They strolled into the grounds and interviewed the two gatekeepers. The gatekeeper at the south entrance said one of the servants had brought him a message that no one was to be permitted to leave the house that night. The servant, whom he did not recognize, then volunteered to stay on guard until he, the South Gatekeeper, should go and give similar instructions to the gatekeeper at the North entrance. He was gone but a few minutes, but on his return the servant was nowhere to be seen. Detective Sweeney led out an exclamation of impatience. What's the matter? asked the host. This man had no right to leave his post. Don't you see that a regiment of thieves could escape while he was away? But my dear sir, replied Sir William,

don't you understand that the servant remained here while the man went to warn the other gatekeeper, and was gone when he returned. Oh, said the baronet easily, I don't attach any significance to that. Simply the dereliction of a careless servant. I doubt whether anyone has left the premises tonight. Then one of your guests must be guilty, retorted the detective quickly. Stop, stop at that, was the angry retort. If you find it necessary to suspect my guess, your work shall stop at once.

The detective smiled grimly. He had met with similar experiences before. After a moment's silence, he said, I propose that the credentials of every one of your servants be carefully investigated, and that the antecedents of every servant belonging to your guests be probed. This suggestion met with so much opposition that it was abandoned. The detective remained in the library until nearly midnight. He seemed to have run up against a dead wall. But he had been doing a lot of thinking.

As he started to leave, one of the servants tapped on the door. What is it? cried Sir William impatiently. A telegram for Lord Mortimer was the response. Lord Mortimer was the impecunious earl. The host was instantly all attention. He took the telegram and excused himself to the detective. detective. Pardon me a moment until I give this to Mortimer. He left the room and was gone some ten or fifteen minutes. He returned with a perplexed look. What is it? asked the detective.

Mortimer's not in his room and I can't locate him anywhere. The reply had escaped him almost unconsciously. The next moment he bit his lip in vexation. He was sorry he had spoken. Of course he said almost rudely, there's no significance in his absence from his room. He's about somewhere. Of course, assented Sweeney tactfully. The detective remained at the house all night. When he departed for Scotlard in the morning, he carried with him an ordinary drinking glass, a dirty glass that looked as if it might have contained stale ale the night before. He had picked it up in one of the rooms of the house, and the care he bestowed upon it, almost bordered on the ludicrous.

He seemed particularly anxious not to permit the glass to rub against anything. An hour later, a chance visitor at Scotland Yard might have witnessed a curious experiment being made with an ordinary drinking glass. The experiment was a success. The operative discovered on the glass the imprints of four fingers and a thumb. The marks were perfectly distinct and the finger and thumbprints had been reproduced perfectly. on sensitized paper. That was the beginning. It was next learned that only one train had left the railroad station near Sir William Hart's

country place between the hours of 6 and 10 o'clock on the previous night. The theft had been committed between those hours. A visit to the office of the railroad company resulted in finding the conductor who had charge of that particular train. He remembered that one passenger had boarded the train, at the station. Did he go on to London, he was asked? No, was the response. He alighted at the first station this side of London. The trail was becoming interesting. It was followed until it led to the station this side of London. The only cabman at that station was awakened from his slumbers to answer

the questions of the detective. He was a typical night hawk. Yes, he had answered. He had one customer that night. Could he let the representative from Scotland Yard look at his cab? Most assuredly he felt complimented at such attention. The ramshackalo vehicle was found in the stable. A careful examination was made. The result was remarkable. There were five distinct spots on the dirty cab door and there were the imprints of four fingers and a thick thumb. Most startling of all, the prints on the cab door and those on the unwashed glass were identical. The conclusion was obvious.

The man who had drank the glass of ale at Sir William Hart's that night was the same man who had traveled on the nine o'clock train that night and had taken the cab at the station just outside of London. Cabby said the detective, you know where you took your customer last night? Sure. Take me there at once. The cabman harnessed up his vehicle and drove off with the detective as his passenger.

In about ten minutes he halted before a mean-looking frame house in the suburbs. Sweeney alighted and rapped at the door vigorously. After a long wait, a smooth-shaven man in his shirt-sleeves responded. The detective was keyed up to his responsibility. He did not give the man time to speak but said sharply, Good morning, Mr. Martin. The man drew back. How did you know,

he began, then changing his manner to one of defiance, he cried, My name's not Martin. Oh, yes it is, was the cheerful response. You're John Martin. Well, was the dogged response? What do you want? I want Lady Hart's gems, snapped the detective. The fellow's face became ashen and he started to retreat, but it was too late. In a thrice, the detective had slipped a pair of handcuffs upon his slend, her wrists. That night, John Martin was behind prison bars, and Lady Hart's precious gems had been restored to her. There was no possible doubt about his guilt. The maidservant, who had almost cried her eyes out at the mere thought that she might be suspected, was delighted with the

return of the jewels. Lord Mortimer never even knew he was the suspect. The impacutious nobleman was not in his room, it is true, but he was located later in the night, calmly sleeping, under the billiard table, a condition induced by a heavy meal and an overabundance of champagne. John Martin proved to be a professional thief. On numerous occasions he had acted as an extra servant at house parties, forged references, and a month of faithful service enabled him to get a position with Sir Archibald Hunter, who was the respected younger son of an aristocratic but not particularly wealthy family. In due course of time, he formed one of the inhabitants of Sir William Hart's house in the name and capacity of John Martin, valet and attended to his master, Sir Archibald.

Martin had impressed his master with his knowledge of amateur fire brigade work, and on more than one occasion gave an exhibition of this accomplishment by drilling the servants in various phases of fire extinguishing operations. On arrival at Sir William's house, Sir Archibald introduced the subject of fire in the general conversation at dinner, and Sir William had to admit that for so large a house as his, he feared the fire precautions were far from perfect. It was the most natural thing in the world for Sir Archibald to place Martin's services at Sir William's disposal. Martin made a great show of instructing the servants,

but his sole object was to become intimately acquainted with the geography of the house. Under the guise of carefully examining possible exits in case of fire, of arranging where hydrants should be stationed, inspecting the windows, doors, and staircases, and the general structure of the house, Martin was not only able to get an accurate idea of where the various rooms were situated, but he became acquainted also with many points of detail important to his contemplated enterprise. He was also able to take impressions of locks and tamper with bolts during the course. course of his investigation. He left Sir Williams' house with his master on the night before the conclusion of the house party so that his alibi in that connection was secure enough, but he made

it a point to return on the following night. Being well known to all of the servants, he met with no obstacle, and actually found his way to the corridor of the second story leading to Lady Hart's room. He had not thought of robbery at that particular moment, but the sight of Lady Hart, room and the jewels lying exposed on the dressing table proved too strong a temptation for his abaricious nature. He quickly slipped in, put the jewels in his pocket, and then calmly mingled with the other servants. Later on, he was the man who went out to the gatekeeper and instructed him not to permit anyone to leave the house that night, and after sending the man on a fool's errand, he coolly marched out of the grounds. He took the first train to the London suburb,

and hoped by the next day to be able to dispose of his loot. His only mistake was in pausing in the servants' hall long enough to drink the ale out of the dirty glass. The impress of his fingers on the glass and on the cab door at the suburban station proved to be his undoing and furnished food for contemplation in the long term of penal servitude to which he was sentenced. End of Section 9. Section 10 of The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org. Read by Piotr Natter. The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Captain Lyndon and the Mountain Mystery Robert J. Linden won undying fame by the part he took in the discussion. and prosecution of the famous Molly Maguire, who terrorized the anthracite coal regions of Pennsylvania, from 1870 to 1876. In June 1875, with only 187 men under him, he repulsed a murderous mob of 700 persons bent on the destruction of the West Shenandoah Colliery. Born in Brooklyn in 1835, Captain Linden learned the trade of a ship carpenter.

He served in the Navy during the Civil War and after that became connected with the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Chicago. For his valuable services in the Cole Regents, he was made superintendent of Pinkerton's agency in Philadelphia and retained that position until he became superintendent of police of Philadelphia under Mayor Stewart. After relinquishing this office, he opened a private agency, which he maintained until his death a few years ago. on the night of october nineteen eighteen seventy nine paymaster mcclure and his bodyguard hugh flanagan employees of charles macfaden a railroad contractor were way late in the lucerne mountains just outside of wilkes bar pennsylvania robbed and fouly murdered the two men left wilkes bar in a one horse buggy and arranged their journey so that they might reach miners mills in time to pay off the italian labourers who were working on the railroad near that place they had twelve thousand dollars in a leather satchel which was fastened to the bottom of the carriage with a couple of straps the thought of personal danger never entered the mines of either of the men they knew every foot of the ground and moreover were acquainted with nearly every man woman and child within a radius of five miles their coming to miners mills their coming to miners mills was always the occasion of much joy among the italian labourers and their wives and children in fact mcclure and flanahan were looked on as miniature editions of santa claus

except that instead of coming once a year they made their welcome visits twice a month they were as punctual as the clock itself and the workman knew to the minute when to expect the paymaster and his assistant as a consequence when they failed to appear at the usual time on october the twentieth the people were very much disturbed a telegram from wilkes bar stated that they had left that city twelve hours before a general alarm was sent out and a delegation of men started for the mountains some of the most prominent citizens of lucerne county headed the searching party they knew that the paymaster and his assistant carried a large sum of money and they were also aware that certain parts of the mountain were as lawless as the most uncivilized section of the united states little wonder that they were filled with gloomy forebodings they had not gone far before their worst fears were realised the horse belonging to maclure and flanahan lay dead in the road the animal had been wounded and evidently suffered great agony before it died for it lay there weltering in its own blood some yards farther up the road they came to the broken shafts of a carriage splintered and blood-stained they continued their search nerving themselves for the shock that was still to come it came only to soon the dead body of paymaster mcclure was found dangling from the bar of the buggy where it had been caught and hung suspended for hours an examination proved that the dead man had been shot in the back in four distinct places it was as if a volley had been fired from ambush the horror of the affair was increased five minutes later when flanahan was found face prostrate in the road lifeless he had evidently been shot and had fallen from the wagon

the bodies were hurriedly conveyed to miners mills and then an attempt was made to locate the murderers for hours the local authorities searched the vicinity but with no result the mountains were covered with a heavy carpeting of dead leaves and it was impossible to detect or follow footprints under such circumstances the theory of the affair was that the robbery was not committed until after the two men had been murdered and the horse had come to a full stop after that the assassins had secured the money fled into the woods and escaped by way of the railroad shanties in the vicinity the inquest demonstrated nothing of value the funeral of the murdered men which took place from miners mills was largely attended all of the italians who worked on the road were present one of these was michael ritzolo he seemed to be very much affected and pulling out his handkerchief wept bitterly he cried out my goodness who could have done this awful crime, I will have to help to run down the murderers, and when we get them, we will string them up without mercy. Within 24 hours, Ritzola was arrested, charged with the murder of MacClure and Flanagan. But unfortunately, the arrest was made solely on suspicion. There was not a shred of evidence on which to hold the men, unless it was the fact that he lived in a

shanty on the mountain side. The expected happened. He was discharged from custody. In the meantime charles macfaden the employer of the murdered men determined that the assassins should not go free if a plentiful expenditure of money and the employment of the best detective skill in america could prevent it accordingly he sent for captain robert j linden this famous detective has been graphically described by no less an authority than alan pinkerton who says that linden was a man whose courage judgment and discretion could be implicitly relied upon a man eminently qualified to take the lead in a great and hazardous undertaking, a man of good personal appearance, of captivating address, great energy, and perseverance, with more than ordinary powers of conception, tall, powerful, and commanding in frame and physique, with just the kind of blue eyes to win the confidence of others, the proper qualities of head and heart, and possessed of the greatest confidence and calmness under the most trying circumstances.

Lyndon responded to the summons at once. Mr. McFadden, like Alan Pinkerton, was pleased with the appearance of the man. He said so in as many words. He began to describe the tragic death of his two employees. Linden interrupted him, I know all about it. But how? It is my business to keep thoroughly versed on crimes and criminals. Such an affair as this. would naturally appeal to my professional instincts. Then you are willing to undertake the task of bringing the assassins to justice? Nothing would give me greater pleasure. When can you begin?

At once. Within 24 hours, Lyndon was in Wilkes-Barr. He had been given full power and unlimited money. His first act was to put Mike Ritzolo under surveillance. After that, he made an exhaustive investigation of the scene of the murder. At its conclusion, he was convinced. of the guilt of ritzolo but he lacked the proof that would satisfy a jury in fact was without a speck of evidence of any kind a man cannot be convicted merely because some other man believes him guilty of a crime no one knew this better than robert j linden his assistant captain e j doherty said shall we arrest ritzel no we must get either a confession or sufficient evidence for a conviction at this critical stage of the game

The local authorities who had heard of the movements of Linden and his assistants re-arrestes Rizzolo. Linden was not given to profanity, but some of the things he said on that occasion were unprintable. He foresaw a trial and an acquittal, a fiasco, a miscarriage of justice. He went to Thomas Quigley of Miner's Mills. Mr. Quigley, you want the mountain mystery solved? Surely. Will you help me?

Of course. Then go bail for Mike Rizzolo. why i want to have him released and thus lull his suspicions quickly went ridzolos bail in the sum of two thousand dollars and the italian was released from custody he was delighted to his mind he had been tried and virtually acquitted of the crime he must have had a smattering of law in fact possessed that little learning which is a dangerous thing because he said more than once to his confidence a man can't be tried for murder twice once acquitted he is a free man he failed to realise that his hearing before an alderman was not a trial and that his discharge was far from an acquittal but from the moment he was released his every footstep was shadowed every house that he entered was marked every word that he uttered was overheard and every penny that he spent was noted in a little red book kept by one of linden's rubber-shoots sloughs ridzolo seemed anything but a desperado he was about twenty-four years old and rather agreeable looking except for his nose which had a discoloration which won for him from his countryman the nickname of red nose mike he came to america from calabrito in the province of avellino near naples in his own country he was apprenticed to a barber but he was restless and dissatisfied with this employment and wanted to come to the united states where he had heard money was to be picked up on the streets on his arrival in america he worked for a while in newark new jersey but eventually drifted to wilkes bar where he secured employment with the railroad contractors two days after rezzolo was discharged from custody he went to pockypsey new york

where he started a commissary department for the benefit of his fellow italians that were employed by mr macfaden who had a railroad contract in that section of new york mike still had a passion for making money quick his prospects looked good but all the while linden had two of his employees at the elbow of mike ridzolo both of these fellows were italians one pretended to be half-witted and managed to be in the company of mike all the while he not only worked with him but he ate and slept with him ridzol on his part not only gave the man his confidence by day but he poured his incoherent dreams into his willing ear by night detailed reports were sent to linden with religious regularity a few weeks after the crime ridzolo's sister was married and he made her a present of six hundred dollars a month later he presented his brother-in-law with one thousand dollars to set him up in the bakery business also at sundry times he displayed great roles of greenbacks which were certainly not the profits of his business in pockypsey finally about the twelfth of january ridzola made elaborate plans for a trip to Italy. He arranged to sail on the 20th of January. Linden resolved that the Italian should never leave America. He had ample evidence. He resolved to arrest him at once. So he laid a trap to entice Mike to Philadelphia, thus bringing him within the jurisdiction of the court.

The Italian responded, as he alighted from the train, Linden came forward to meet him. Rizzola was somewhat taken aback at the sight of the detective, but his nerve did not desert him. What do you want? I want you to help me out on a little case I'm interested in, was the significant response. They drove down to the Philadelphia office of the Pinkerton Agency. Lyndon immediately escorted his men into his private office. Wait here, he said, I'll be back in a minute. Mike felt uncomfortable.

That was Lyndon's purpose. The Italian looked about him nervous. His glare rested upon a large portrait of Alan Pinkerton, the founder of the agency. The eyes of the veteran detective looked down on the murderer accusingly, at least he thought so. He turned and was greeted with the motto of the agency, We never sleep. He was very uneasy now. Lyndon re-entered the room carrying a legal-looking document in his hand. It was a warrant for the arrest of the Italian.

Lyndon looked very solemn. Michael Rizzolo, stand up. The suspect arose, curious and fearful. What is it? He cried. Lyndon put his broad hand on the man's shoulder. I arrest you for the murder of McClure and Flanagan. Rizzol sank to the floor, a shapeless heap of crushed humanity. It was some moments before he recovered his nerve.

When he did so, the detective said, you are not compelled to tell me anything, you can keep quiet if you wish. Oh no, he cried, I must confess, I can't keep quiet any longer. And there, in that little room, in passionate words, he poured forth the story of the atrocious double murder on the Lucerne Mountains. It was greed for gold, said Mike, that was at the bottom of it all. The scheme to waylay and murder Mac Clure and Flanagan was first concocted on Sunday, September 2nd. Giuseppe Benevino and Vincenzo Villela and I thought what a good time we would have in Italy if we could get this money. We talked it over for a long time and finally concluded to carry out the scheme.

We scoured the woods thoroughly to find a good spot to conceal our firearms and the money in case we succeeded. After looking about for more than two weeks, we finally located a place that suited our purpose. Then I bought a rifle at a store in Wilkes Bar and we were ready. On the morning of Friday, October 19th, I saw MacClure go away from the works. I followed him to Miner's Mills. Villela and Bevenino did not come to Miner's Mills that morning but remained in the woods. After leaving Miner's Mills, I passed MacClure on the road. What did MacClure say to you?

He said, Hello, Mike. What did you say? I said, hello, and nodded my head. Then what followed? As soon as McClure and Flanagan passed me in the carriage, I quickened my pace, but they naturally paid no attention to me. We were now close to where the two other men were in ambush,

and I began to get a little nervous. Who fired the first shot? Vennino, he did the principal shooting, he was an expert shot. He was on the right side of the road going up. Who was shot first? McClure. Who fired the next shot? Villela.

Where are these men now? They are both in Italy. They left three weeks after the murder. How far up the road was Villela from Bevenino? About fifty yards. When did you shoot? I shot from the rear. I fired four shots altogether at the men in the carriage.

After MacClure and Flanagan had been shot, the horse started on a dead run. Villela got frightened and ran through the wood. to the shanty where he deserted us without warning. At one time it looked as if the horse was going to get away, and we thought we had only killed the man for nothing. Bevanino was fleet-footed, however, and he chased the horse at a break-neck speed. He finally caught up and grabbed him by the rain. He then shot him in the head. Then we cut the strap that held the satchel fast to the carriage, and hurried to the woods, to the hiding-place. The money was buried as well as the weapons,

and I arrived at my shanty a little before twelve o'clock. You know the rest how I was suspected and how I was followed to Poughkeepsie. The trouble came when we quarrelled over the division of the spoils. The other two men were so anxious to get back to Italy that we took several trips to the woods and dug up part of the money until now nothing remains there but the silver money and the weapons that were used to commit the murder.

Linden determined to test Rizzo's story at once. The Italian told him precisely where the money and the rifles were buried. Linden started for Wilkes-Barr at once, accompanied by the self-confessed murderer. They reached Wilkes-bar at eight o'clock in the evening. It was too late then to get a train to Laurel Hill where the money was hidden. The night was dark and stormy, but the detective resolved to pursue his search in spite of all obstacles. He made up his mind to walk to Laurel Hill rather than risk being followed. He was accompanied by one of his detectives, and the prisoner who was not handcuffed.

When they reached the first house on the side of the mountain, he borrowed a minor slump and began the journey over the mountains. Seven miles from Wilkes Bar and two miles from the scene of the murder at Laurel Run Creek, they found the various articles, just where Mike said they had been hidden. He was their guide from the beginning to the end. He knew every inch of the country which was weird beyond the wildest stretches of imagination. The rifle was found as well as the silver money. They were hidden

beneath a heavy rock. The money was in a large bag and dropped in the paper packages, just as it came from the bank. The satchel in which the money was carried by MacClure and Flanagan was found in another place, buried about a foot deep between two rocks. All of the

things were buried in such a way that they could be readily reached by removal of a lot of leaves that were strewn over them. Linden directed that each article should be put back exactly where it had been found, except the coin which was put in a satchel and took back to Wilkes Bar with him. Irony of fate, Mike Ritzola was the messenger who carried the satchel containing the coin which was to be used as evidence to send him to the gallows. It was very heavy. There was $291.50 in dimes, five-cent pieces. and pennies. They walked over the railroad truck back to Laurel Run, which was reached shortly

after midnight. Through the kindness of a telegraph operator at Laurel Run, they were furnished with an engine which took them back to Wilkes Bar. Rizzola was tried, convicted and executed. Requisions were issued for his accomplices, but through some flaw in international law, they could not be honored. Later, however, through the activity of the Italian government, both received long terms in a Roman penitentiary. Those who were best acquainted with Captain Lyndon's achievements in the Great Mountain Mystery declared that it was as keen and artistic a specimen of detective work as has been developed in any country in modern times. End of Section 10.

Section 11 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Doc D. L. Martin. The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Captain Donaghy and the White Case Captain James I. Donaghy, Chief of the Detective Bureau of Philadelphia, is a fine type of the level-headed investigators of crime of the present day.

He has been in the department for 30 years. He never wore a disguise of any kind in his life. He knows every rule of the game and has occupied every separate position in the service from that of sub-policeman, up to the responsible post which he now fills with signal success. He was the conspicuous figure in the famous white murder case, although he modestly disclaims the credit,

saying that the glory belongs to the entire police force of the Quaker city. The story outside of its own interest is important as a fair illustration of the unromantic and business-like methods now generally used in the detection of criminals in the large cities of the United States. On the night of May 19, 1900, Professor Roy Wilson White, A fellow of the law school of the University of Pennsylvania and a lecture on Roman law at the famous seat of learning was mysteriously and brutally murdered. Professor White, although a man of less than 30 years of age,

had already won an international reputation in his special branch of study. He was quiet and unassuming in manner and enjoyed the reputation of being the most popular instructor at the university. So far as known, he did not have an enemy in the world, and the news of his murder came as a terrible shock, not only to his family and friends, but also to the thousands of students with whom he had come into personal contact during the period of his tutorship. On the day of the murder, all of his movements were accounted for from the time he said

goodbye at his home in the morning until the moment he left the classroom for the night. During the afternoon, he had a long talk with one of his associates concerning a work in which the two men were mutually interested. He took dinner alone at a small hotel near the university and after that lectured to the law class under his charge. He was confident and enthusiastic and never appeared to better advantage. About 10 o'clock at night, he left for his home in Germantown, a suburb of Philadelphia. He started in the direction of the Powleton Avenue Station of the Pennsylvania Railroad with the purpose of boarding the 10-16 train. Less than an hour later, a policeman walking along 32nd Street,

adjoining the railroad tracks, stumbled against the body on the sidewalk. It was quite dark in that section. In fact, it was afterwards declared to be the darkest spot in all of Philadelphia. The officer flashed his lantern on the inert mass before him and was shocked to find a man mangled and bleeding. His head was crushed and he was unconscious. The pockets of the white vest were turned inside out and his gold watch was missing. The little green bag that he always carried was by his side and was spattered with his lifeblood. It contained, among other things, a textbook on pleading, a book from which Professor White had been lecturing that evening.

Some notes on sheets of paper which he had utilized in his quiz class were also in the bag. A pocketbook contained a life insurance policy, an invitation to a class reunion in another state, and a sum of money in Greenbacks. A few yards away, embedded in the soft earth, was an iron. bar quite thick and about 18 inches long. It was such a thing as is used on the platforms of freight cars. The disfigured corpse was removed to the university hospital and the best medical and surgical aid summoned, but it was too late. The vital spark had fled and all that the professors and students had left to them was the memory of Roy Wilson White's gracious life. The shocking nature of the crime seems to have aroused the authorities into instant and universal activity.

Superintendent of Police, Quirk and Chief of Detective's Miller held a consultation to determine what should be done. While they were talking James A. Donahey, a member of the detective staff, passed the open door of the outer office. Quirk espied him. Hello, Jim, he cried. It had been raining cats and dogs all the after. afternoon. Donahey entered the office water-soaked from head to foot. What's the matter with you? asked Miller. You ought to know, was the rejoinder. You sent me down to media to get a pickpocket.

Did you get him? Sure, was the rejoinder, and got soused in the bargain. Well, said Miller, we've got something bigger than a pickpocket to look after now. Listen. Donahe listened. And the more he heard, the more of absorbed he became he forgot all about his wet clothes he forgot everything but a desire to get on the track of the man or men who had so foully murdered an inoffensive gentleman while they talked a newcomer joined the group it was robert j mackinty another member of the detective staff afterwards marked out to be a member of the mayor's cabinet donahee as a result of the conference immediately started for the scene of the murder. It has since been said that the white tragedy was his case. He protests against this distinction. It was a case of teamwork, he says. 30 detectives and over 2,000 policemen were engaged on the white case and they all made good. At any rate, Donahey

made good, because less than an hour had elapsed before he was in conversation with the youth named Ralph Hartman, who testified that he had seen two colored men near the scene of the murder shortly after 10 o'clock, and had talked to one of them. Best of all, young Hartman, who had intelligence far beyond his years, was able to give a vivid description of the two men. Hartman was employed as a messenger in the Powhatan Avenue Station of Pennsylvania Railroad, and knew every foot of the ground in that neighborhood. donahee felt instinctively that the knowledge possessed by this boy would prove to be the foundation on which they would build their case he hastened back to the city hall the doors of the little private office were closed and for a long while donahey mackenty and quirk had their heads together as a result of their deliberations a most singular order was telegraphed to every police station in the city of philadelphia it was to arrest every colored man found in or near any railroad station ferry house or freight yard within the city limits it was the biggest dragnet ever spread by the department donahee in the meantime continued his investigations near the scene of the murder several conclusions were forced upon him one was that the murder was committed for money and that the murderers were startled and ran away before they secured all of their booty

the footprints in the soft clay large clumsy heavy-looking footprints indicated that more than one man had fled across the road leading to the railroad tracks the dreadful manner in which they had mutilated the body proved that they were brutes besides this donahy was convinced that they were men totally devoid of education he deduced this from the fact that they had evidently not even bestowed so much as a passing glance on the books in professor white's green bag it is a known fact that a man of education or refinement is irresistibly attracted by the a book. If a volume is lying on a table even in the house of a stranger, he can no more resist picking it up and going through the pages than a moth can avoid the flame. The murderers evidently had not the slightest curiosity toward the little work in the green bag. The detective's summary, therefore, was that the crime had been committed by two or three men, that they were Negroes, that they were brutal and uneducated, and that the motive was money.

How near he was correct shall presently be seen. The murder occurred on Saturday night. Between that time and Sunday morning, the 30 detectives and the 2,000 policemen, Ann Donahy, had been industrious. As the church bells were calling the people to worship, the officers began to bring in colored men from all parts of the city. They came from north and south, from east and west.

They came singly, they came in pairs, they came in squads, and when the chief finally counted his prisoners he found that he had one hundred and thirty-five colored men all suspected of the murder of professor white what if they were all minnows and the big fish had slipped through the net ralph hartman the youth was on hand to assist in the identification he was in a separate room and did not see the prisoners as they were brought into the city hall the authorities were keyed up to a high pitch every Everything depended on the experiment they were about to make. If it failed, they would be all at sea, and the ends of justice defeated. When the last of the prisoners had been brought in, the work of elimination began. Donahy and McKinty were entrusted with this delicate task. Some of the suspects were obviously out of the question.

For instance, mulattoes were set aside. So were several one-eyed persons. So was a lame man. and the work kept on until the list of possibilities was reduced to sixteen. These sixteen were lined up with their hats on, and young Hartman was brought into the room. It was a motley gathering. Probably 16, uglier-looking men had never before been assembled.

They looked brutal, and all of them seemed capable of murder. Could the boy tell one from the other? Could he identify the man who had spoken to him the night before? Would he be confused? Would the crowd puzzle him? Ralph, said Donahey, point out the man who spoke to you on 32nd Street last night? The boy looked over the row of Negroes fearlessly. His glands slided on one and then on another. Everybody in the room felt the strain.

He was silent, silent for what seemed to be many minutes, but what in reality was only seconds. Presently he went over and touched. burly negro on the shoulder. That's the man. The fellow indicated, gave a shudder, and rolled his eyes. All of the others in the line heaved a sigh of relief. The marked man began to protest. Indeed, I ain't done nothing. Who said you did anything? asked the detective sharply. The man proved to be Henry Ivory. He had been arrested at daylight on the railroad near Germantown Junction.

He was subjected to a severe cross-examination, and finally admitted being near the Palton Avenue Station the night before, and even acknowledged, speaking to Hartman, but protested vehemently that he had nothing to do with the murder of Professor White. Ivory was shortened stature, with skin as Brockus Anthracite pole, and very repulsive features. criminologists pronounced him to be the lowest type of the uneducated negro. The detectives resorted to every device known to the profession to force a confession from the man.

Finally, after an hour of the sweating, he blurted out. Well, I done told you I was there, but it wasn't me that struck the blow. He was put in a cell, and Donahee and his associates started out for more evidence. They obtained a description of the watch that had been stolen from Professor White. The number of the case was 89,875 and that of the movement, 915,938. These numbers were telegraphed to every pawnbroker and every watchmaker in the city. The response came much sooner than was anticipated. A negro named Buddy Brown was arrested while

trying to pledge the watch with a pawnbroker in west philadelphia brown said the watch was not his but belonged to a man who had a room in his mother's house he had lived there only a few days and had given buddy the watch to pawn for him the strange negro was promptly located and arrested he proved to be william perry of georgia perry was not very communicative at first but finally admitted that he was in the neighbor of thirty-second street on the night of the murder he said that a third man had been in his company these admissions while important were not conclusive there were still links to be fitted in the chain at this period of the investigation a new character came on the scene in the person of john leary an employee of the city waterworks he had been reading a great deal about the murder and he felt impelled to step forward and give his own own experience on the night of the murder. He had quit work at midnight and was crossing the Girard Avenue Bridge when he met two colored men. They stopped and one of them asked him for a match. One of these men answered the description of ivory. Perry, he did not recognize. While the authorities were browsing over the evidence they had on hand, they received word that a number of suspicious

looking Negroes who had been picked up on the railroad near Trenton were now in the Mercer County Workhouse. Donahey and McKentry determined to go to the New Jersey Capitol and look at the men. They took young Hartman and Leary with them for purposes of identification. The colored men were lined up in the workhouse just as they had been in the city hall at Philadelphia. One of the Negroes was a tall, shambling fellow. He was stoop-shouldered and knocknied and otherwise lacking in symmetrical beauty. Both Hartman and Leary immediately picked him out as one of the men they had met on the night of the tragedy. He had given the Trenton authorities the name of William Fields, but afterwards admitted that his right name was Amos Sterling. Sterling was taken from the line and brought into a private

room. Here he was stripped, and it was found that his underclothes were covered with human blood. when his attention was called to this damaging fact he said unconcernedly oh that's nothing my nose was grieving sterling was not in the state where the crime was committed hence legal formalities were necessary before he could be taken to philadelphia donahy made an attempt to break the record in the matter of requisitions he took a special train to harrisburg went to the executive mansion and roused governor stone from a sound sleep in order to get his signature on the papers. From Harrisburg, he hastened back to Trenton, only to find that some over-willing lawyer had filed an objection to the removal of the prisoner. Although trivial, it took several hours to overcome. But in spite of all the obstacles, Donahey complied with all the formalities and had his

prisoner in the Philadelphia City Hall in just 32 hours. three personers were now in custody. Could they be proved guilty? Two were silent. Sterling loudly protested his innocence. He said that if he were free, he could prove an alibi. I'm free, rejoined Donahey, and if you'll give me the names of your witnesses,

I'll work it out for you. If it's any good, I'll be the first to admit it. The Negro finally said that a certain lady of color named Dolly Gray, who lived in Harrisburg, could prove that he was at the state capitol on the night of the murder donahy patiently traveled up the state in search of miss gray by a certain humorous and yet grotesque coincidence the hand organs at that time were grinding out dolly gray by the ream and as donahy came to the little street where the dolly gray of another color lived two street pianos on either end of the thoroughfare struck up good-bye dolly gray i'm going to leave you with a vehemence that threatened to turn an unusually affecting tragedy into a roaring farce dolly however who weighed three hundred pounds calmly washed her hands of sterling and declined to assist in proving his alibi on the very day of ivory's arrest donahy had taken him to the scene of the murder the street where the body was found was a little traveled thoroughfare and the footprints where the men had escaped by leaping

the little iron fence were still visible in the soft earth. The right shoe was removed from ivory's foot and the heel and toe fitted to a nicety into the footprints in the railroad yard. The marks were there as clearly as though they had been stenciled. In the meantime, evidence was piling up in other directions. Mrs. Mary Boyle, who was employed as a waitress in a restaurant near 32nd and Market Streets, testified that she had served all three of the men on the day of the crime. This was important as establishing the fact that they were together, but this was not all.

A gardener named Lutz said that earlier in the evening all three of the Negroes had surrounded him at a point, five or six blocks from where the white crime was committed. They did not use violence toward him, simply, as he put it, acted suspiciously. He managed to elude them, however, and thought no more of the incident until he read of the arrest of the Negroes in connection with the murder of Professor White.

Within three weeks after the murder, Ivory broke down and confessed everything. He said that Perry, Sterling, and himself had met at the Buffalo Bill Show that afternoon and after comparing notes had resolved to get money at any cost. They crossed the Girard Avenue Bridge and went along the River Drive until they came to 32nd Street. They had intended assaulting Lutz, the Gardner, but when he ran away, they were too indolent to follow him. They little dreamed that the man had nearly a thousand dollars in his possession, or he might have been the victim instead of the unfortunate professor. Finally, Sterling picked up the iron bar near the Powhatan Avenue Station. They resolved

that he should assault the first prosperous-looking man they met. Several persons were permitted to pass unmolested. At last, Professor White was seen coming along the dark street. Sterling turned to the others. There's a guy looks as if he had money. They agreed with him, and the three black-hearted scoundrels followed the unsuspecting teacher. At a favorable opportunity, Sterling let the iron bar come down with a crash on the skull of Roy Wilson White. The man sank to the sidewalk with a groan. The big brute continued using the iron bar until the face of the victim was unrecognizable. Then they went through his clothes and got a few dollars in money, a ring and a gold watch.

The assassins went to a nearby lot and divided the things. The watch was Perry's share of the loot. Perry corroborated the confession in every detail. Sterling denied it until the last weakening, only when he came within the shadow of the shadow of the scaffold. All three were tried, convicted, and hanged. Their arrest and conviction was a big accomplishment. Most people gave the credit to James I. Donahey. He smiles, shakes his head, and says it was simply good teamwork on the part of the police. End of Section 11. Section 12 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording.

Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Dean Legerro The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Superintendent Frost and the Versatile Rogue. Frank Frost, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, is a man whose entire adult life has been spent in the business of criminal investigation. He has risen from the ranks to the rankst. to the highest position that could be attained by an English detective.

An episode in the story that follows was the prelude to a lasting friendship between Frank Frost and John E. Wilkie, now the chief of our government's secret service. At the time, Frost was a sergeant detective in Scotland Yard, and Wilkie, the London correspondent of a Chicago Daily. The name of the chief character in this tale has, for obvious reasons, been disguised. For the sake of a connected and complete narrative, an incident has been introduced which will probably be entirely new to Superintendent Frost. I am sure he will look lightly upon this one permissible deviation in an otherwise voracious story from actual life.

This is a fragment from the biography of a versatile rogue, a man whose adventurous career leaps at a bound from Chicago to Cape Town, and whose criminal history is a part of the police archives of New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Vienna, and Berlin. Beginning as a prototype of the artful Dodger, he has gone from pocket-picking to bunco-steering and then run the entire gamut of crime, stopping only, providentially, perhaps, at murder. Frank Macy, the doubtful hero of this queer life, was born at Freeport, Illinois. There are lots of old residents in that place who still recall him as a precocious baby, a smart boy, and a clever youth.

Freeport soon proved to be too small to satisfy his bulging genius, but even before he left his birthplace, he made little excursions from the paths of virtue, which, and the boy are so often prophetic of the man's career. When he reached man's estate, he was tall and as straight as an Indian. He had coal-black hair and a sallow complexion, which lighted up brightly whenever he was in a humor to be affable with his fellow man. It was in Chicago that Frank Macy first distinguished himself in crime. A little more than a dozen years ago, an advertisement appeared in the Chicago papers, stating that a wealthy widow, about to take a long trip abroad, was willing to sell her favorite horse, Dobbin. It was with extreme regret, of course, that she took this step,

but necessity knows no law, and hence this magnificent animal was to be sacrificed at a private sale. The animal was described as being sound in every particular, gentle, and yet with a record fast enough to satisfy the most sportsman-like driver. There were several nibbles at this inviting bait. One gentleman who had suddenly acquired riches was bound to acquire Dobbin at any price. He examined Dobbin with a critical, if inexperienced eye, and was given the privilege of driving the animal

along the lakefront and boulevard. As a result of this, he parted with 800 good American dollars and in return received the much-loved Dobbin. after the money had been paid, and within 24 hours, Dobbin began to undergo a most curious transformation. What had been a magnificent specimen of horse flesh began to show strange signs of decrepitude. He shriveled up, as it were, it seemed almost impossible properly to describe this marvelous transformation in mere words. It was necessary to be seen to be fully appreciated.

anyone who has seen the tall, erect form of Dr. Jekyll, gradually sinking into the personality of the shapeless and miserable Mr. Hyde can get some faint glimmering idea of the change that occurred when the noble Dobbin became a spavind, knock-kneed, and degenerate nag that would have made an old streetcar horse blush for very shame. The instance of this Dobbin was duplicated not once, but a dozen times, and after many of the wealthiest men of Chicago had been victimized, the police began to investigate. They were stimulated and assisted in their work by John E. Wilkie, who, at the time, was in charge of the criminal department of one of the leading papers in Chicago. After a short time, it was discovered that the Jip game, as it was called, was being worked by a gang of confidence men headed by Frank Macy. A warrant for his arrest was issued, but before it could be served, he had fled from the jurisdiction of the local court.

The scene now shifts from Chicago to Lowe's Exchange in Trafalgar Square, London. Wilkie, at the time, was the London correspondent of an American paper, and while standing in the corridor of his hostelry, he was surprised to see his old-time Jip friend, Frank Macy, enter, and place his name on the hotel register. Macy looked prosperous. He was dressed in swagger style, wore a long coat, carried a heavy cane, and had a sunburst of diamonds reposing amidst the folds of a blood-red cravat. In fact, he looked too vulgarly rich to be true. Wilkie consulted the hotel register and found that his erstwhile criminal friend had registered as Frank Lacey. The change of attire and the assumed name were suspicious, and the American lost no time in going to the telephone and calling up Frank Frost, one of the brightest detectives in Scotland Yard.

Wilkie told Frost that it might be worth his time to come up to Lowe's and have a look at the latest addition to the American invasion of London. Frost followed the advice of his friend and took several looks at Lacey. He had him shadowed day and night, and after a week's work, was in possession of his history. He found, among other things, that Lacey had become a card shark of the first water. He had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean in luxurious style, and had made his expenses and a comfortable sum besides, by the cleverness with which he played the noble game of poker with his fellow passengers. On arriving in London, he established a gambling house in the West End where he met with remarkable success. Not long after the meeting in Lowe's exchange, all London became excited over what was called the

Cutless Mystery. It began when a well-dressed elderly gentleman of considerable wealth was found on the sidewalk with his head badly cut and the blood flowing from several saber wounds. He said he had no recollection of how he came to be in such a plight and resolutely declined to give the police any information upon the subject. Two days later, another man was found similarly be wounded and in the same condition. He was not as closed mouth as the first individual, and one so far as to say that his misfortune was the result of a card party in which he had participated the previous night. He was unable, however, to give the locality of the house, having been taken there by an obliging cabby whom he had sought with a request to be taken to

some place where he could satisfy his desires to dally with the goddess of chance. In less than 24 hours from this time, still another man was found with two saber-cuts-cuts about his head. And then the cutless mystery became the reigning sensation of London. In the meantime, Frank Frost had been hard at work, and although the results were not very promising, he knew that he was on the scent and that it would only be a question of time when he would win the game. The cabman was located, and he remembered taking the first victim to the house in the West End. Other threads were bound together, and finally all the evidence pointed to the house operated by Frank Lacey. It seemed that, in each instance, the victim, after losing his money at cards, got into a row with one of the players.

Lacey had his room ornamented with trophies of various kinds. Among these was a large saber, and in each case the assailant had torn the saber from the wall and wailed his victim over the head with the implement. The result was a number of ugly, but not exactly serious, wounds. The house was raided and all the paraphernalia captured, but Lacey himself had fled from sight. The next chapter in the history of this curious rogue occurred at the little watering place of Margate. A musical instrument dealer of London was taking his holiday at this resort, and was enjoying himself in a manner such as is possible only to a London tradesman. As he was strolling along the strand, he came face to face with Lacey, who was then a fugitive from Justice.

He grasped him by the coat. Mr. Lacey, he exclaimed, I am so glad to see you. Why? asked Lacey. Why? retorted the other. Because now you will pay me for the mandolin you bought from me about a month ago. Lacey laughed. You will pay me, won't you? cried the dealer hysterically. You wouldn't rob a poor man, would you?

Fade away, said the versatile rogue. I am having me holiday now, and I can't be disturbed by vulgar tradesmen. When the musical dealer made a third appeal for his money, Lacey invited him to go to a warm climate with such emphasis that the tradesman realized the futility of further talk. He knew that Lacey was a fugitive and he determined to have his revenge. He hurried to the nearest telegraph office and wired to Scotland Yard that the man they sought could be found at Margate. Lacey immediately realized the mistake he had made

and learning the character of the telegram that had been sent to Scotland Yard, he made quick preparations for shortening his vacation at the cozy seashore resort. He acted with characteristic disregard of conventionalities. He summoned a fisherman and hired him to take him out in a small boat where he held a castle line in which was bound to South Africa. By the aid of a clever cock and bull's story, he induced the captain to take him aboard. And before the Scotland Yardman reached Margate, Lacey was calmly sailing the sea on his way to Cape Town. Superintendent Frost immediately telegraphed the authorities at Cape Town, describing Lacey and instructing them to apprehend the man on his arrival at that port. Lacey managed to get ashore and strolled about the African city, admiring the Botanic Garden and the astronomical observatory with the enthusiasm of a tourist whose only desire is to while away profitably an idle hour.

He was inspecting the fine new docks of the place when the agent of Scotland Yard clapped his hand on his shoulder and placed him under arrest. Lacey submitted with perfect good grace and was formerly lodged in jail at Cape Town. Arrangements were made to have him returned to England the following day. but in the case of this versatile rogue, man proposed, and Lacey disposed. During the night he broke jail and made his way to Johannesburg. He was delighted with this place and saw a great business possibility in this gold-mining town of South Africa. The boars were in control at that time, and Lacey, by his affable manners and liberal ways, soon won their good graces. Just as he was about to settle down to what would no doubt have been a prosperous career in South Africa,

one of Superintendent Frost's men placed him under arrest again. That afternoon, captor and captive took a train for Cape Town, the intention of going from there to London. The local officer congratulated himself on having made such an important arrest. But alas, his satisfaction was premature, for the daring lacy jumped off the train while it was in motion and disappeared in the depth of a South African forest. The officer had the train stopped at the next station,

and with the assistance of several other men, made a search of the woods. They finally located their man in an empty house a few miles from the point where he had jumped from the train. He was arrested for keeps, this time. Taken back to London, tried, sentenced, and imprisoned. After he had served his time, he started on a tour of the continent, accompanied by a mysterious blonde woman who passed as his wife. He played cards, engaged in the pastime of bunco steering, and varied these performances occasionally by assuming the part of the wronged husband. He was quite successful with this game at several of the more prominent continental resorts, but a man of his reckless disposition could not remain long in the same line of business. And a few years

ago he returned to the United States and was arrested in Washington, charged with being a confidence man. He met a well-known resident of the District of Columbia, and finding that the man had a weakness for cards, offered to take him to a room where they could play a game, which would mean wealth for both. He had a scheme by which the bank could be broken, and offered to show the man how he could take $1,000 and come out with a profit of $10,000. The man accepted this glowing offer, but instead of going to the house that was designated, he notified the district police, and the versatile rogue was once more arrested, this time under the name of Frank Tracy.

He was released on bail, however, and soon after this again sought the historic atmosphere of London. His latest exploit is really deserving of a chapter in itself, but because of lack of space must be condensed into a few paragraphs. Superintendent Frost, who was always on the lookout for queer characters, learned that Tracy, as he now called himself, was in London 24 hours after he had set his foot on English soil. He instructed his subordinates to be on the lookout for Tracy, but otherwise did not give much thought to the man. One morning the telephone bell at Scotland Yard rang, and the voice of an excited individual who proved to be a clerk in a banking house near Ledenhall Street, informed the authorities that a thief had entered the institution that morning and robbed one of its depositors of two hundred pounds.

There was much excitement. A crowd had gathered in the corridors, and in the confusion the thief had escaped with the money. The clerks and the depositor between them gave a rather indefinite description of the thief, but they were perfectly agreed upon the incidents preceding the robbery. The depositor in question, an elderly gentleman, called at the bank and handed in a check for 200 pound. He was well known to the paying teller, and the money was given to him in Bank of England notes. As he received the cash, he walked over to a little desk on the side of the corridor for the purpose of counting it before placing it in his wallet.

He went about this leisurely, and with a perfect sense of security. before he had finished counting the notes, however, someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He looked around and saw another man standing by his side. The stranger was tall and as straight as an Indian, with stiff coal-black hair. He had a sallow complexion and was very affable in his manner. Pardon me, said the stranger, but you have dropped one of your notes. The depositor glanced at the floor on the other side of the desk, and sure enough there was a bank note. Thank you, he replied gratefully and stooped down to pick up the odd note. The act only consumed two seconds at most. But when the depositor straightened up and was about to add the missing note to his pile,

he found, to his amazement, that the original package of money had gone and with it the stranger. He gave the alarm and rushed out of the bank, but when he reached the street, the crowd was so great that it was impossible to find his man. When Superintendent Frost received news of the theft, he immediately dispatched one of his men to the bank, but not. satisfied with this. He resolved to go there in person as soon as he had finished the work in his private office at Scotland Yard. That consumed only a few minutes, and at its completion, Mr. Frost pulled down the top of his roll desk and hurried down toward Ledenhall Street. At Oldgate, where Corn Hill and Ledenhall Street converge, he saw a tall, well-dressed man hurrying along amidst

the crowd. It did not take him many seconds to recognize the man as his old friend, the versatile rogue, would live successfully under the titles of Frank May's Frank Lacey and Frank Tracy. Instinctively, the superintendent associated the fellow with the theft of the bank in Ledenhall Street. He walked up and took Tracy by the arm. My dear friend, he said, I would like you to go down to the office with me and have a talk over old times. Tracy made no resistance. Indeed, this was characteristic of the man. The moment an officer of the law touched him, he surrendered without a struggle. The two men proceeded to Scotland Yard and Tracy when searched, was found to possess the 200 pounds which had been stolen from the depositor

in the bank that morning. He was tried for that offense, convicted, and served his time. The versatile rogue is at liberty once again, and at the time this article is being written is honoring the United States with his presence. This brief sketch is not offered as a story of his life. It is only what it purports to be, a fragment in the life of a versatile rogue. End of Section 12 Section 13 of the true stories of celebrated crimes This is a LibertyVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain

For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Read by Yoganan The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton The Headquarters Man and the Bergerald that failed. This is a story of a headquarters man who shall be nameless. Every large city in the United States that boasts of a detective bureau has what is known in the vernacular of the profession as a headquarters man. He is in reality a member of the Ford's who is detailed for duty at the

office of the chief of detectives. He is available for emergency calls and many of these calls include cases like the accompanying story which never get into the columns of the daily newspapers. The headquarters man must be alert, tactful and courageous. He must think quickly and act promptly. Not all of the distinguished soldiers are generals and for this reason it has been deemed appropriate to include the story of a private in the ranks

in the collection of cases concerning the world's greatest detectives. It was dusk, and the soft fall of snow was powdering the streets of the city with flakes as light as air and as tainty and transparent as my lady's handkerchief. The man was slouching along in a shame-faced sort of way when his attention was arrested sharply by a sudden flood of light from an open doorway. The yellowish glare from the candelabra and the broad hallway shimmered on the white-carpeted sidewalk so that each separate particle sparkled like a newly cut diamond. He halted irresolutely, and his eyes dulled by dissipation, looked curiously into the house. At the end of the long vista was an elaborately carved sideboard, heavily freighted with glistening silverware. He tried to proceed on his way, but the glittering sight held him rooted to the spot. Some feeble remnant of virtue started him ahead a few steps, but the thought of the shining wealth within made him hesitate again, and in that hesitation he was lost.

He crept silently up the brownstone steps and into the marble-tiled hall. His lethargy was thrown off. Every one of his faculties was keyed up to a high pitch. Once inside, he closed to the heavy door but did not shut it. Instinctively, he reached up and lowered the gas jet until the corridor was shrouded in semi-darkness. On tip-toe, he proceeded back to the dining room. Quickly, he inventoried the array of solid silver pieces, each one, set in place with primed precision and all of them seemingly staring at him with such

studied insolence. He looked on the side greedily. Even at that moment, when no time was to be lost, he stood still and mentally compared the opulence of the unknown owner with his own pressing necessities. Instantly, the faint cries of conscience were choked. The problem was how to gather up the stuff quickly and get out of the house unobserved. It never would do to attempt to carry it in his arms. Besides, the quantity he could take in that way, scarcely would be worth a candle. He looked around for something that could be used as a bag or a covering. Nothing was in sight. In creeping in, he had noticed a small apartment between the drawing room and the dining room. He turned to this now eagerly. It looked like a smoking room. It might be a man's den.

Everything about it betokened a desire for comfort rather than style. In one corner was a roll-topped desk with a revolving chair. On the sides were couches piled high with pillows and silken cushions. In the centre was a round table covered with a green cloth and littered with magazines and newspapers. A large leather armchair, bits of statuary, a steel shield with a pair of swords across its surface, some watercolours and numberless little trinkets completed the furnishings of the apartment. It was warm and coming in from the chilly street, the man felt a curious sense of The odor of tobacco pervaded the room and a half-smoked cigar on an ashtray suggested the possible proximity of a man. He swept the things off the table with one brush of his arm.

One of the books fell on the floor with a thud that resounded in the hallway. He paused, half-frightened at his own audacity. It was plain to be seen that this was his first job. The merest tyro and the art of burglary would not have blundered so. He stood silent for a moment. Not a sound was to be heard. The blunder was not fatal. He deliberated for a moment after that

upon whether he should take the tablecloth into the dining room or carry the silver into this little apartment. His decision favoured bringing it in to the table, so he acted accordingly. He crept back into the dining room and lifting all of the silver he could carry, carefully tiptoed to the little den again and deposited it on the green table cloth.

The trip was repeated three times before his cupidity was satisfied. After that, he began laboriously to tie it up in bundle. It dawned upon him then for the first time that he was engaged in a perilous work. But so far he had been successful and nothing succeeds like success. Just as he had finished tying the last knot in the bundle, his attention was attracted by a peculiar sound at the whole way. It came swish-swish like the noise of the waves lapping against the sides of a dog. Even to his untrained ear, its meaning was certain. It was a movement of a woman's silk dress.

His hands dropped from the bundle, and he stood stock still. The sound came nearer and nearer. Unconsciously, he doubled up his fist and stepped to one side. He would brain her as she entered and then escape with his beauty. But the moment the resolve was made, it was abandoned. He was in a desperate plight, but he could not attack a helpless woman. His Manwood revolted against it, and Manwood is an inconvenient thing for a burglar, especially an amateur burglar.

Presently, she reached the doorway, and as she looked into the room, she gave a start, and her face became white. He could see that even in the dim gaslight. But she did not scream or speak. She paused on, and in a moment he heard the bang of the front door as it was slammed shut. He was wondering whether she had seen him, when she suddenly reappeared and parting the curtains, stood in the doorway like a statue.

When she spoke, her voice was firm and determined, not a tremor in it. The butler is behind that curtain with a loaded revolver. If you dare to move, you will be shot like a dog. Her tones were convincing. He stood still, helpless and dejected. She walked into the apartment with the air of one who is master of the situation.

He retreated into the far end of the room like a cornered rat. In spite of his predicament, he could not help admiring her courage. She went to the side and facing him, picked up something from a shelf on the wall. He noticed for the first time that there was a telephone in the room. She lifted the receiver and put it to her ear. Bending close to the transmitter, she called out in an unfaltering voice. Main 9176?

There was a moment's pause. A desire to spring on her seized him, but he looked in the direction of the curtains and an ominous bulging of the drapery restrained him. Now she was speaking again. "'Tick, tick!' she cried into the telephone. "'Come back to the house at once.' There was another pause, and then she exclaimed, "'Never mind, come at once. It's urgent.

"'There's a man here who must see you at once. "'It is very urgent.' His lips curled in the dark. He could not restrain a desire to taunt her. He tried to keep down the impulse. It was no use. So he blurted out. "'I suppose you think you're going to do the heroine act with me.'

"'Well, you are mistaken.' when Dick comes here, he won't find me here. She made no reply to this. While he was talking, she had picked up the receiver again. He gazed at her through the gloom, but made no attempt to interfere. A waving of the curtains might have acted as a deterrent. Is that the central station? Her voice was tremulous and unreal, but quite distinct.

The response must have come quickly, for she added, speaking rapidly, send an officer here at once. Yes, Ashwords. Richard Ashworth's, Broad Street. There's a burglar in the house. When she hung the receiver up, she was all in tremble. She gave a historical laugh, but it did not deceive the man. Do you suppose, he said in grim tones, that I will stay here to be caught like a rat in a trap? If you move, she said, you will have to take the consequences. He looked at the moving curtains and lapsed into ugly silence. A smile of triumph crept about a blanched face and reaching over,

she pressed a button. Instantly the little room was flooded with electricity. His hat was off and he stood there sullenly. Walter! She shrieked out the name, gave one hysterical scream and covered a face with the hands. He groaned like a man who had been solely stricken and cried, Mary! They stood still for some moments looking at each other. She spoke first. What brought you to this plight? He was about to say, you, but stifle the word. before it reached his lips. The thought uppermost in his mind came out. Of all the persons on God's earth, you are the last I wish to have seen me in this humiliation. The fear had left her, the surprise was fading from her face. In place was rising scorn and anger. Then why are you

here? Hush! He whispered, pointing in the direction of the curtains. The butler will hear. She laughed bitterly and said, Ah, a fiction reserved for housebreakers. I'm alone, at your mercy, perhaps. He did not appear to hear the last part of the remark, but peered at her curiously, anxiously. You are comfortable here? Are you happy?

Certainly, she replied in a strained voice, Why shouldn't I be? Then she straightened up, and there was resentfulness in face and manner. How dare you speak? to speak to me in that manner, you, you bugler? He moved over toward her, and she retreated a few steps. His hands were held out in appeal. He echoed of words. His hang-dog looked disappeared. He became eloquent. How dare I? I dared to do it by the memory of the past,

by the recollection of the happiest hours of my life, by the thought of those walks that will live as long as breath lasts, by the knowledge that you were once all but mine, by the remembrance of the vows that I poured into her years. By all these, I dare to speak to you now. She sank into her chair and buried her face in her hands and sobbed. He halted at this, and, touching her lightly on the shoulder, whispered, Forgive me. I had no right to dig up the past, but the sight of you had made me forget myself.

The sight of you always did send me into a whirl. I felt that I could not live without you. But you see, you can, she retorted, and then seeing his melancholy look and forsake it, appearance, regretted the words immediately. To cover it up, she asked quickly, Why did you never return to me? Why? He exclaimed eagerly. You surely remember, we quarreled. Yes, she said impatiently. A lover's quarrel. It was nothing, a trifle, a pretext, a dispute unworthy of school children. But I returned, he said, and they told me you were engaged

another to someone in the city. Who told you that? She exclaimed, rising in her wrath. Your mother, he said simply. Mother told you that? She cried choking back a song. Oh, how could she do it? How could she do it? Yes, yes, he went on. She said you were engaged to, to Dick, she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. And Dick, your husband? He asked anxiously. Adults me, she replied, and has never heard of you. I'm sorry, I drifted into this house, he said helplessly. Tell me about yourself, she demanded in an irrelevant manner. There isn't much to tell, he said bitterly.

I've had to run of bad luck ever since... Ever since I left you. I began to drink. I'm afraid I drank too much. Then I started to gamble, and my law practice went to the dogs. You know, a man can't drink and practice law at the same time, and do both successfully. Suddenly I resolved to stop the whole business. I felt that I needed new assuble.

associations and new surroundings if I would succeed. So our correspondence was open with friends in California and I managed to make a first-class connection with a law firm in San Francisco. I came to New York this morning to take the California Limited. While on the way to the ticket office to secure my birth and transportation, I met some friends. We got a drinking and late this afternoon I found myself in gambling game. When I got through, I was penniless.

My train was to leave at 8 o'clock and I did not have money for ticket or birth. While in that dilemma, I passed your house. The door was wide open, and that silver seemed to beckon me in. In my frenzied state, I calculated that I could pick up enough valuables to see me out of my trouble. I came in and was packing the silver when you appeared. Now you have the whole shameful story. I feel sorry for you, she said simply. Sorry, he said with a trace of sarcasm.

Does that mean the police station? Skeptical as ever, she retorted. The thing now is to save you. Her eye lighted on the bundle of silver. Put that in the corner quickly, she cried. If Dick should come in and see that, all would be lost. He did as he was bidden. Suppose I go, he suggested feebly.

No, no, she said. Dick will be here in a moment, and that telephone call must be explained. The man stood looking at her dumbly. She walked up and down the room hysterically. Before they had time to renew their conversation, there was a sound of a key rattling in the front door. Both looked as if startled and involuntary advanced toward the entrance of the little apartment.

The noise of the opening and closing of the front door reverberated throughout the house and a cheery voice exclaimed, Hello, Mary, where are you? Right this way, Dick, replied a feminine voice that tried hard not to tremble. Richard Ashworth, tall, broad-chested, with handsome, smooth-shaven face

in full evening dress with his great coat thrown over his arm, entered the room. He was taken aback by the shabby appearance of the other man, but only for a moment, and then looked swiftly at his wife for an explanation. A face was as white as marble as she spoke haltingly. Dick, Dick, this, this is my cousin. Her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. It was so hard to utter that falsewood.

The name, Dick said, advancing and extending his hand. "'Browning,' replied the other, hanging his head. "'Tell him,' said the woman faintly, "'of the loss of your money.' "'I was about to take the eight o'clock train for California,' he said, "'when I met with a loss, the loss of my money. Then, seeing Ashford staring steadily at him, "'the fact is, I lost it all in a gambling game.'

"'And naturally,' responded the other cheerfully, "'were to have the ex-shaker replenished. "'Here, take this,' and he thrust her wrong, of pills into his hand. Ashthut pulled out his watch and looked at it. My cab is at the door. I'll loan it to you. You just have time to make your train. Goodbye and good luck. It was impossible to protest. The heartiness and sincerity of Ashworth simply closed the incident. The man went over to the woman and took her hand. A thrill went went through both of them. He leaned over and kissed the tips of her fingers and as he did so,

she felt the moisture of her tear on her hand. In a second, he was gone. As a second, he was gone. the noise of the carriage wheels tied out in the distance, Ashworth turned to his wife. Why, Mary, you are trembling. What's the matter? I was afraid, Dick, she replied, you might be angry. Angry? He retorted incredulously. Just because you gave me the opportunity of staking one of your poor relatives? And as he kissed her, he burst into a hearty laugh at the thought of the absurdity of a foolish fear. While they were talking, they were attracted by a noise outside. officer from the central police station, arriving just in time to see the men jump into the cab, stopped the vehicle, pulled him out, and now stood there holding him by the scruff of the neck.

I've got your bagla, he said in tones of triumph to the husband and wife standing on the top of the doster. She shook like a leave and would have fallen but for the support given by a husband. Let that man go, shouted Ashworth. You have made a mistake. That's a relative of Mrs. Ashworth in a hurry to catch a train. then you don't want him arrested? He asked with a significant intonation of his voice. No, certainly not. The officer went down the street chuckling to himself. Ashworth turned to his wife.

What do you think of that fellow? Taking your relative for a burglar. That's what he gets for looking so seedy and sneaking down the steps so suspiciously. Isn't it? Yes, she replied faintly. Do you mind if I go back to the dinner? He asked.

No, she said. Go, by all means. Now, if Dick had been an observant man, which he was not, he probably would have wondered why his wife's pillow was so wet with tears that night. The end of Section 13. Section 14 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Dr. D.A. Martin, The True Stories of Celebrated Crimes by George Barton. Captain O'Brien and the mystery of the hallway. P.D. O'Brien, captain of the Detective Bureau of Chicago, is a man who has attained his present distinction by combining common sense with courage. He filled various subordinate positions in a very satisfactory manner. Indeed, his entire adult life has been spent in the police department of his native city. The case related herewith is only one of many mysteries which have been solved by the intelligence and the persistence of Captain O'Brien. Only those who understand what it means to guard the life and the property of the

residents of a great city can appreciate the magnitude of his labors. Andrew Fergus McGee was a solicitor employed by the Charles Creamery company of Chicago. He was almost 70 years of age, but quite active mentally and physically, and had the reputation of being a clever and successful salesman. His domestic life was clean and happy, and he was known to be a man of good habits. On the 26th of February 1898, McGee was found unconscious in the hallway at the foot of the stairs in an unoccupied building at 20, 30 Indiana Avenue, Chicago. He was removed to the St. Luke's Hospital, where he died a few hours later without recovering consciousness.

It was announced and generally believed that his death was the result of an accidental fall. But at the inquest held over his remains, the first suspicion of a doubt began to enter the minds of the police officials. It was found that his skull was fractured. and the physicians who examined the body gave it as their opinion that this wound could not have been the result of a fall it was long and quite deep and looked as if it might have been caused by a weapon of some sort a long blunt instrument there was no possible clue to the perpetrators of the crime as mcgee had not been seen in the building just how he got into the building and his object in going there were questioned that puzzled the police very greatly. At any rate, there was no evidence of any kind to prove that anyone other than McGee

had been in the building on the morning of his death, and for a while it looked as if the police authorities had run against a dead wall in the course of their investigations. It was at this stage of the game that P.D. O'Brien, captain commanding the Detective Bureau of the Chicago Police, actively entered into the work of solving the mystery. His first step was to probe into the life and character of the murdered man.

The report that he received practically covered the existence of McGee from the cradle to the grave, but not one of the details furnished even the slightest suggestion to account for the man's untimely end. After that, Captain O'Brien had a conference with the members of the Charles Creamery Company and secured the order book that had been used by McGee while he was working for the firm. The captain detailed 20 detectives in plain clothes to cover the territory worked by McGee in the hope of finding someone who might have a motive in killing the solicitor. One of the detectives in the course of his investigation came upon a Bell Steinhillber who presided over an establishment in Eldridge Court in Chicago.

madam he said courteously i represent the charles creamery company and i would be very glad indeed if you would favor us with an order to serve you with cream the woman looked at the man as if she thought he was trying to have sport with her but the earnestness of the detective dissipated the suspicion how long have you been with the company she asked only two days was the truthful response i thought so she said with a smile why he asked because only a week or so ago i placed an order with one of the salesmen connected with your company who was it he asked i think his name was magee she replied and the description she gave tallied with the personality of the murdered man this was the first clue in the solution of the mystery not much it is true but a clue that was to lead to more important developments two days after the murderer a carpenter named george h jacks was arrested by two detectives while in the act of holding up and robbing soren mathes a druggist at 2126 Indiana Avenue. When he was chased by the officers, Jacks threw a small bundle into the street.

One of the detectives recovered it and found that it was an iron pipe over which there was a coating of lead which was covered by a piece of cheesecloth tightly wound around the pipe. This bold and brutal hold-up in the streets of a great city aroused a feeling of horror and indignation among the people and naturally was widely exploited in the Chicago newspapers.

On the following morning, Jaxx was taken to court in a patrol wagon. Those who accompanied him were Captain O'Brien, Captain John McGuney, and Jeremiah Collins, a detective on the regular force. Collins had a copy of a morning newspaper in his coat pocket, and presently the prisoner turned to him and asked if he would let him have the paper for a few minutes. What do you want it for? asked the detective. Oh, I'd like to see what is going on, was the careless reply. Now, it is an interesting fact, not observed by all persons, that when a man takes up a newspaper, he invariably turns to that section of the journal. which contains the character of news in which he has a particular or personal interest. The characteristics of men are frequently exhibited by the manner in which they pick up and consult their daily newspapers. For instance, a banker or speculator unconsciously turns to the financial page of the paper

and carefully reads the quotations on the stocks and bonds before digesting the general news of the day. Others, interested in sports, want to know the baseball scores and the result of the last prize fight before bothering their heads about crime or politics. Others, again, and these are in the minority, of a sedate turn of mind, have a habit of carefully perusing the editorials before drinking in the news of the day. Captain O'Brien and his associates were aware of this characteristic of human nature, and consequently they kept their eyes glued on Jacks as he took the paper which was handed him by Officer Collins. His own case was prominently displayed on the first page and in type so large that it could not have escaped even the most casual observer, but Jacks ignored this entirely and turned over the pages of the paper and scanned it, column by column until he found a display heading which told about the McGee case.

This located, he began reading it with such absorbed interest, that he did not notice anything that was going on around him. That same day, the detectives began investigations of Jack's life and habits. They found out, among other things, that he was a frequenter of the Steinhilver Resort and that he was there on the day that McGee called and obtained the order for the cream. Captain O'Brien took the instrument, a bit of lead pipe, which Jacks attempted to hide on the occasion of his arrest to the coroner's physician, who, after examining it, became convinced that it was the weapon that had caused McGee's death.

In the meantime, the detective succeeded in rounding up several persons who had been at the stop. Hine Hilbra House on the occasion of McGee's visit to that place. One of these witnesses was able to describe the murdered man with great minuteness. What did he say while there? This person was asked. I don't know, was the reply, but after he secured the order for the cream, he pulled out a memorandum book in which he entered the name and address. In doing so, he unconsciously displayed a roll of bank bills.

Jack saw them, and his eye glittered in a way that caused me to shiver with fright. The various fragments of proof, which were being gathered up with painstaking care, were very interesting, but not yet conclusive. Captain O'Brien felt that it would be necessary to secure some positive link between the prisoner and the murdered man before he could formally accuse him of the crime. McGee's home was in Woodstock, Illinois. captain o'brien determined to go there in an effort to find relatives who might be interested in the case within twenty-four hours he had located a cousin who knew considerable concerning the possessions of the murdered man among other things he said that mcgee had possessed a valuable watch which was well known to all the members of the family

captain o'brien secured the number of the watch and returning to chicago found from the pawn-shop records of the police department that this same watch had been traded for an inferior watch within two hours after the time that mcgee was murdered the watch found on jacks when he was arrested proved to be the identical instrument which was traded for mcgee's watch and to cap the climax jacks was identified by the pawnbroker as the man who had traded the watch as if this were not enough police next discovered that jacks had an accomplice named william willows a stranger who in some manner or other had obtained an inkling of the crime attempted to accuse to accuse Willows to two of the newspapers and also to the then chief of police, but they refused to listen to him because he had the manner and appearance of an insane man. At all events, Willows was arrested soon after this while hiding in a house on the outskirts of the city. Willows was put under the sweating process by Captain O'Brien and in answer to the questions of the detective, confessed substantially as follows. He and Jacks were in straightened circumstances. They tried to obtain money

from various sources but met with failure. One morning they visited the Stein Hilber House in Eldridge Court. While they were there, McGee called as a solicitor of the creamery company for the purpose of inducing the woman of the house to give him an order for their products. It was while taking this order that he had pulled out a roll of banknotes which excited the cupidity of jacks from that moment magee was a doomed man jacks who possessed considerable ingenuity devised a plan by which they were to get possession of his money they knew that his business made it necessary for him to carry a large amount of cash on his person and they felt satisfied that he would prove to be a rich victim whenever they were prepared to rob him Jackson Willows visited the office of the creamery company at 35th Street and made inquiry for McGee. He does not work in this office that can be found at the North Clark Street branch of the company. They visited the Clark Street place and found that McGee had just left for his home on Ohio Street.

They were there and Willows was sent in and talked with McGee and requested him to call at 2028 Indiana Avenue. the next morning, between the hours of 10 and 11 o'clock for the purpose of taking a large order from a Mrs. Graham, who was about to open a boarding house. When the unsuspecting victim called on the following morning, he was met in the hallway by Jacks, who struck him over the back of the head with the lead pipe, which fractured his skull and caused his death. The evidence was now complete. Willows and Jacks were both indicted by the grand jury, were taken into court, tried and convicted. Jacks was hanged by the neck until dead and Willows, as his accomplice received a sentence of 14 years in the penitentiary. There was a curious sequel to this mysterious murderer

and the cleverness with which it was saw. In the course of the investigations, Captain O'Brien and his assistants found it necessary to make an exhaustive inquiry into the past life of the suspected murderer. it was found that he had served a term as chief of police of muskegon michigan and that during his tenure of office an epidemic of robberies had occurred in that prosperous little town jacks appeared to be very much worried over the invasion of thieves and called upon the citizens generally to cooperate with him in breaking up the lawless gangs that were terrorizing the community he was regarded as an able and fearless officer and the people generally instead of criticizing him were inclined to sympathize with the difficulties that he encountered in the administration of his office this opinion held good until one fatal night when his house took fire and burned to the ground. It was then discovered that the greatly respected chief of police

had been living a jackel and hide existence. In other words, those who hastened to the rescue of the burning building were surprised to find that it was filled with the property which had been stolen from their homes during the previous six months. Thousands of dollars' worth of property was recovered that night and the following morning. Several mysterious murders were committed during the time of Jack's administration as chief of police. In every case, robbery was the motive, and some of the people of Muskegon were then and are now inclined to the belief that Jacks was guilty of these murders. Captain O'Brien and his associates have taken a just pride in the complete and expeditious manner in which they solved the mystery of the McGee

murder. The case has more than usual interest not only because of the shrewdness, but with which the crime was planned and committed, but also because of the dangerous character of the man who committed it. Press and people joined in the praise of the officers who were concerned in the case, and it also received special mention in the bulletin issued by the chief of police at that time. End of Section 14. Section 15 of the true stories of celebrated crimes. This is a Libravox recording.

all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox dot org read by doc d o martin the true stories of celebrated crimes by george barton chief kelly and the opium smugglers a brief sketch of francis r kelly has been given in a previous chapter in connection with the story of chief kelly and the deserted House. In the first case, this clever detective distinguished himself and won the commendation of the Internal Revenue Authorities by his successful efforts to break up the illicit distilleries which flooded the country at that time. In the present instance, Mr. Kelly assisted the customs division of the Treasury Department in discovering and convicting the men who were engaged in a wholesale conspiracy to smuggle opium into the United States. In both cases, he acted with rare courage and displayed a high order of intelligence. Shortly after the Civil War, the United

States government placed a duty of $19 a pound on prepared opium. It was not entirely a revenue measure. The chief purpose was to check the opium habit, which was becoming a source of great demoralization in San Francisco as well as throughout the United States. The immediate effect of the high duty was to breed a host of opium smugglers. Just at that crucial period, Francis R. Kelly, a clever young detective who had distinguished himself in the East, was appointed to a position in the United States Secret Service. James R. Brooks, the chief of the Secret Service, summoned Kelly to Washington. He knew him and had faith in his ability and resourcefulness. Frank, he said, I'm going to send you to San Francisco.

When? Tomorrow morning. What am I to do? Here are your sealed instructions. That was all. But it was the prelude to one of the most interesting cases in the history of the Secret Service. Kelly, filled with the buoyancy of youth and the important of his mission made a record-breaking trip to the Pacific coast. His first act on his arrival in San Francisco was to call upon the collector of customs. He disclosed his identity and revealed the nature of his assignment. The official welcomed him heartily, saying, The smuggling of opium between Shanghai and Frisco has been persistent and extensive.

My inspectors have done everything in their power. They have made many seizures, but the traffic still flourishes. The smugglers take big chances, suggested Kelly. The biggest kind of chances assented the collector. The demand for the dope is so great and the profit so enormous that it has called the cleverest men in Chinatown into the business. Does it look like a systematic game? Unquestionably, it's a big conspiracy run

in my opinion, by a combination of the steamship employees and the merchants of Chinatown. Have you any evidence? Not a shred. Unfortunately, my men are all uniformed, and they have been spotted by the smugglers. The following morning, a medium-sized man, garbed in the dress of a longshoreman, lounged about the docks looking for a job. Curiously enough, he refused several offers. presently a vessel from Shanghai arrived and when the stevedore, who had the contract for unloading that particular steamer, called for men. The stranger was one of the first to volunteer.

There was nothing mysterious about the man. He gave his name as F. Kelly, which, as it happened, was absolutely correct as far as it went, although it did not go far enough. the man who engaged him and the men who worked with him little thought that the willing stranger was none other than francis r kelly the new secret service operative if they had there might have been a different story to tell in fact it would have required no great stretch of the imagination to picture another mysterious murder in one of the underground passages of old san francisco the new man did his work well he carried boxes and rolled barrels with a relish and he sang as he labored he was a fellow of infinite wit too and he kept his associates in constant good humor by a succession of quips and jokes and good stories when his day's work was done there were blisters on his hands and that night he slept the deep refreshing sleep that comes to a man who had labored long and well for three days he continued this and then he strangely disappeared and the laborers saw no more of their good-humored friend in a week they had forgotten all about him and the daily routine went along as if such a person as f kelly had never existed on the next arrival of the city of tokyo from shanghai a smooth-faced man neatly dressed and wearing a black derby hat was among those who waited on the pier it was francis kelly

He passed unrecognized, and yet his disguise was the essence of simplicity, a clean shave, and a new suit of clothes. He had the manner of a well-to-do tourist, enjoying the unique sight for the first time. He remained conveniently in the background when the great vessel began to discharge its cargo of passengers and freight, and yet he occupied a point of vantage where nothing escaped his eager, restless eyes. It was truly a stupendous spectacle, this sight of Old China pouring its priceless products into the lap of the lusty young republic. The passengers piled down the plankway, a cosmopolitan crowd curiously costumed, restless to feel the solid earth of the new world beneath their travel-tired feet.

after they had all reached the pier, a grimy-faced individual, probably a fireman from the boiler room of the vessel, sauntered down the gangplank and stood at the edge of the pier in an expectant attitude. Presently, an Americanized Chinaman, with his cue rolled round and round in a top knot and resting easily under a derby hat, strolled toward the grimy-faced one. He was tall, big-boned, and had queer-looking eyes. Kelly, from his lookout, in the corner of the pier, watched the pair like a hawk. Both looked around and, thinking they were unobserved, began to talk and subdued voices.

It was but for a minute, and then they separated, the firemen returning to the vessel and the Chinaman, starting off in the direction of the street. Kelly beckoned to a customs officer. Who is that Chinaman, he said, pointing to the retreating form of the filming eyed foreigner. The inspector looked intently for some moments, for the time he was puzzled, but a look of intelligence finally overspread his face. That's Joe Fowl, he replied, and who might Joe Fowl be? asked Kelly. One of the biggest merchants in the Chinese quarter, is he an importer? Oh yes, he imports large quantities of stuff, teas, fireworks, and pickled goods, ever have any trouble with

the customs? Oh no. With him, everything is open and above board. That's all for the present, said Kelly. The inspector went about his work, and the detective resumed his contemplation of the busy scene. The work of unloading the big steamer had begun. In a short time, the wharf was fairly teeming with a mass of excited men, prancing horses and nerve-wracking vehicles of every conceivable kind. A high crane hovered. over the hold of the vessel, and when the machinery got in motion dipped down into the depths of the steamer and brought up tons and tons of freight. A hundred men, with trucks, grabbed boxes and barrels, and hurried them out on the wharf, where they were seized by wrangling, perspiring,

cursing teamsters, the crack of innumerable whips, the shouts of scores of voices, the nane and the pine of hundreds of horses all mingled in one mighty roar, one unending sheet of sound. How the teams passed one another without colliding was a miracle, explainable only by the harsh voice drivers who never condescended to explain anything, but in some wonderful manner two tiny lanes were kept open and through these, the long procession of wagons streamed in and out. An hour passed in this way, and still Kelly kept his vigil, never once taking his eyes off the picturesque panorama of 20th century life. After a while there was a lull, and the passageways on both sides were, for a wonder, unobstructed.

At that moment, a United States mail wagon dashed in and backed up in the vicinity of a companionway near the rear of the ship. Two sailors came out on deck carrying the leather bags containing the foreign mail. These were thrown on the wharf and thence transferred to the mail wagon. The helper jumped on behind. The driver whipped up his horses and the team dashed off the wharf at breakneck speed. Kelly remained for a few minutes after that and then glancing at his watch, casually sauntered away. A month later, he reappeared on the scene, taking up his station. at the same place and watching the same scene as on the previous occasion. The ship was the Empress, the companion boat to the city of Tokyo.

On this morning, however, Kelly betrayed a significant alertness. A police official stood nearby. The chief called to him. Captain, have you lined up your men? Yes, they are already. How many of them? Ten. Very good, you may proceed. I will join you within 20 minutes. When you get there, wait for orders. Captain Mack, for such he was, saluted and departed. In the meantime, the repetition of the affair proceeded as if it were a play being rehearsed by the most careful of stage managers. The tall, big-bone Chinaman, with the filmy eyes, appeared and had a brief conversation with another grimy-faced man on the ship.

Then the bedlam of unloading the vessel began. Half an hour later, in the midst of the turmoil, the United States mail wagon came along. The bags were tossed in and the vehicle dashed away. A cab stood by the curb. Kelly jumped into its cushioned interior. Follow that wagon, he said to the driver. The man obeyed, lashing his horse in order to keep the government vehicle in sight. For a time, the race was held.

hot and furious. Once the mail wagon almost disappeared in the turn of a small street. When it reappeared, it had a lead of three blocks. Presently, it halted before an alleyway in a back street. Kelly looked out the window of the cab and spoke to his driver. Walk your horse now. Take it easy. Proceeding at a leisurely pace, the pursuer reached the scene just as the last bag of letters was taken up the alleyway. The detective alighted from his cab in the most casual manner imaginable. In a moment, he was joined by the captain of the police. Mr. Kelly, said that person softly and with a superior smile. I'm afraid you've been on a wild goose chase. Why? You thought there was something suspicious about that mail wagon, didn't you? I did. Well,

there isn't. Why not? Because the alleyway is simply the back entrance to the sub-post office. The mail was brought directly from the ship to this place and the bags have been carried in there. Hmm, muttered Kelly, with the manner of a man who is thinking it over. The post office is not the only building in this block, is it? No, said the officer, flushing at the intimation that he did not know his business, but I fail to see anything suspicious in the fact that a mail carrier is taking letters into a post office. In our business, said Kelly quietly but firmly, everything is suspicious. Even perfectly natural things? cried the policeman.

Especially perfectly natural things, retorted the detective. While they were talking, the mail wagon had rattled away and disappeared around the corner. It was almost dusk now. Kelly turned to the officer. We are going up the alleyway, and I advise you to have your pistol within reach in case of any emergency. All right, laughed the other skeptically. I'm under your orders. Call your men and have them follow us as closely as possible. The next moment, Kelly had penetrated the gathering gloom of the alley and was carefully feeling his way forward. the aperture was bricked on either side and covered kelly put a hand on either wall as he proceeded he had not gone far when he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction oh here we are what is it asked the officer a gateway

a gateway precisely a wooden gate put your shoulder against it and help me to open the thing it's evidently bolted from the inside they were only halfway up the alley. At the far end could be seen the sub-post office, but Kelly realized that his business was not there. The police captain was staring at him in a stupid sort of way. The detective turned to him almost harshly. Put your shoulder to the gate and push. The policeman obeyed. The bolt gave way and they found themselves inside a little yard. Tell your men to come in close, cautioned Kelly. The squad entered the yard and lined up ready for action while the Secret Service man reconnoitered. The rear end of a brick building confronted him. The door was closed tightly. The window had no shutters, but the blind on the inside was drawn down. Kelly turned to his

companion. Mack, we'll go in here alone. We're in citizens' clothes. We can have a quiet talk with the folks inside. Tell your men to lay low and watch that window. If the blind flies up, it will be the signal that they are wanted on urgent business. Mack nodded comprehendingly. Kelly

advanced to the door and knocked loudly with his clenched fist. Immediately there was a scampering within and the sound of many feet, hurrying, could be heard. Presently a bolt was withdrawn and a Chinaman poked his head out of the half

open door it was the filmy-eyed celestial whom kelly had seen on the wharf the expected had happened and the detective could not restrain a satisfied gasp what do you want asked the chinaman in good english i'd like to speak to joe fowl that's my name very good i'd like a few words with you go ahead and say them was the sullen response still with the door partly closed i can't talk about it-i can't talk about it-i'll be here then you can't talk at all as he spoke the chinaman made as if to shut the door but kelly was too quick for that he shoved his heavy-soled boot in and kept the door open on a crack the captain of police rising to the occasion pushed his bulky form forward and the next moment the two men were in the room it was the rear apartment of a warehouse there was a rough table in the center of the room with a chair on either side pen ink and papers were there with some sheets containing figures in chinese characters around about piled as high as the ceiling were many tea chests a dozen big bags of coffee and boxes of soap completed the furnishings nothing could be more regular but the persons present were not so reassured standing next to the filmy-eyed chinaman was the smutty-faced fireman who had talked with him on the wharf with the smudge still covering his forbidding countenance beyond these two forming a yellow background were four chinamen with the bodies of dwarfs and the faces of murderers what is the meaning of this outrageous intrusion the speaker was the filmy-eyed chinaman his tone was haughty and his manner menacing Kelly was about to reply when he felt up plucking at his coat sleeve. It was the captain of police.

It looks as if you've made a mistake, he whispered. The thing to do is to get out of it as gracefully as possible. Kelly smiled. I'll be polite, he whispered back, but I can't answer for the graceful part. He turned to Joe Fowl. The tall merchant was frowning upon him ominously. Mr. Fowl, he said blandly, we started for the post office but somehow landed in the back of your store well said the other surlily the sooner you get out the better unless you want to be turned over to the police

please don't mention the police said kelly with a significant smile i don't like the sound of the word get out shouted the big fellow pointing a bony forefinger to the door kelly never moved mac was beginning to feel ill at ease. Fowl, said the detective, brutally dropping the mister in his address. The government has missed some of its mailbags. Can you tell me where they are? The bony forefinger still suspended in air trembled a trifle. The harsh voice was modulated a bit with the reply. How should I know anything about mailbags? Oh, said Kelly carelessly. You're such a clever Chinaman, I thought you might know. Well, I don't. he answered. Now please leave here and go about your business. All right, said the detective.

He started to move across the room, and as he did so, contrived to get near a pile of the tea chests. He gave a forcible push of his brawny arm and one high pile of boxes tippled over on the floor. They were empty. The detective quickly pushed his way into the opening, and the next moment emerged with two heavy mailbags, one in each hand. fow gave a wild hoop and rushing over put his bony fingers about kelly's net with a great effort the detective threw him off and bounded to the other side of the room mac at last alive to this situation pulled out his pistol but it was almost immediately seized by the grimy-faced white man now snarled the chinaman you've put your pretty heads in the lion's mouth and you can take the consequences The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Kelly plucked the bottom of the window shade and giving the spring a jerk sent the blind flying to the top of the window. Before the echo of the cook had died away, tin stalwart police officers were in the room pistols in hand and in complete control of the situation.

Joe fell, the grimy-faced one and the murderous-looking Chinaman were handcuffed and then the mailbags were dragged out into the center of the room. It took but a few minutes to make the examination. The result was conclusive. There were a dozen of the mailbags, and each one was stuffed full of smuggled opium. Its value ran into the thousands of dollars. Two more days suffice to bring the scattered threads of evidence together. A conspiracy was established. The confiscation of the opium and the conviction of Joe Fow and his associates broke up the game,

and after that the remaining smugglers transferred the scene of their operations to British Columbia and Vancouver Island. End of Section 15. End of the true stories of celebrated crimes by George Barton.