Indianapolis Times, Volume 40, Number 253, Indianapolis, Marion County, 12 March 1929 — Page 7

MARCH 12,1920

THIS HAS HAPPENED RUTH LESTER, secretary, finds the body of her employer. "HANDSOME HARRY" BORDEN. Monday n<ornlnc, sprawled beneath the airshaft window of his private onfce. He was shot between one and four Saturday afternoon. M MANN, detective sergeant, questions the following suspects: Ruth, MRS. BORDEN, Borden’s estranged wife and wsother of his two chiloven; RITA DUBoIS. night club dancer, with whom Borden was infatuated: and JACK HAYWARD. Ruth’s fiance, whose office is across the narrow airshaft from Borden’s. Jack’s guilt seems confirmed by the testimony of elevator boys, MICKY MORAN and OTTO PFLUGER, and of BILL COWAN, Jack’s Iriend, who says he heard Jack threaten Borden’s life Saturday morning when he saw Borden struggling with Ruth In the opposite office. McMann sends detectives to bring in CLEO GILMAN, Borden’s discarded mistress, and JAKE BAILEY, his bodyguard. Meanwhile he quizzes BENNY SMITH. Borden’s office boy: ASHE, his manservant; MINNIE CASSIDY and LETTY MILLER, seventh floor scrubwomen. Anew scar in the wall outside Jack’s winodw and a flat bullet lound on the cement seven flights below convince McMann Borden fired in self-dMense at his murderer who stood in Jack’s window. Ashe’s and Minnie’s testimony about some mysterious woman with a' contralto voice whom Borden feared, causes Jack to recall a MARTHA MANNING who called on him about insurance but who was more interested in Borden’s offices across the airshaft. Ruth goes to Mrs. Borden’s early next morning and asks her if she knows Martha Manning and is answered with a haughtily significant negative. Ruth next calls on Minnie to ask her if she remembers seeing in Borden's waste basket an orchid-tinted envelope which Borden received In Saturday's mail. Minnie says she saw it in a drawer of the desk, but Ruth knows McMann has searched the desk and that no such letter was found. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY

CHAPTER XXXV—(Continued) “I do think you can help me out Minnie,” Ruth smiled, “but Mr. Me Mann has not arrested Mr. Hayward—yet. . . . Listen, Minnie, and try hard to remember: when you were emptying Mr. Borden’s wastebasket Saturday, did you notice an orchid or lavender-i ilored letter? It may have been tom up, of course, but I thought you might have noticed the unusual color—” “There! I knowed I’d forget something—what with Tommy McMann pestering the life out of me with his fool questions!” Minnie Cassidy interrupted, slapping her fat old thigh with a triumphant hand. “I saw the very letter ye mean, child, but not in the waste-basket. A-reading of it the poor man was, his face as black as a thundercloud, and his fist pounding up and down on the drawer, as if he wished it was the poor lady’s face he was poundin’, not a drawer without feelin’ ” “Drawer?” Ruth repeated blankly. McMann had gone through every drawer in Borden’s desk. . . .

CHAPTER XXXVI ' TJUT I tell you, Mr. McMann, 1J there must be another drawer,” Ruth Lester insisted. She had arrived at the murdered man’s office at half-past 10, and had almost autocratically brushed aside the detective sergeant’s brusque inquiries as to the chase she had led the plainclothesman who had been assigned to the task of “shadowing” her. “Minnie Cassidy described the drawer as no deeper than a case knife is broad, and insists that it was pulled out in front of Mr. Borden as he sat at his desk. She had to pass directly behind him to get to his wastebasket, and to his obvious anger—pounding on the edge of the drawer with his clinched fist —aroused her curiosity, so that she 100.-. ed oevr his shoulder as she parsed. “He was evidently re-reading the letter after he had read it once and put away in the drawer. Minnie is positive that it was a sheet of orchid-tinted notepaper, closely written in violet ink. “Then why the devil didn’t she say something about it when I questioned her?” the detective grumbled. But he pulled out the two-inch deep middle drawer of the desk, and, stooping, inserted a hand and tapped against the roof of the cavity exposed. A hollow sound rewarded him. “You’re right. There’s a drawer above this one, a secret drawer. And no apparent means of opening it.” “Let me try!” Ruth suggested, and began to press her fingers against the elaborately carved strip of walnut which was undoubtedly the front and of the secret drawer, though it appeared to be only the edge of the desk top. Her efforts met with failure until her fingers pressed hard upon a carved leaf directly above the right corner of the unconcealed middle drawer. The carved strip swung

THE NEW Saint-Sinner ByjJimeJlustin •19384KNEA.SanCS.IVC.

As Faith moved about, mechanically emptying ash trays, rearranging chairs, straightening rugs, removing refreshment trays, her tired mind became a mill-race over which big and little wise and 'foolish thoughts tumbled helter-skelter. Cherry had looked enchanting to that- chartreuse dress. Nils must be very’ prosperous to give Cherry so many beautiful things, and Rhoda was always well-dressed, too, looking like a modern Norse goddess with the China-blue eyes of a child. Who would buy such clothes for Cherry if she really left Nils? A nick in this Sevres cup. She’d have to speak to Beulah about it. And then Beulah would go around for twb days or more, all swollen up. looking like a ''lack balloon ready to burst. A balloon! She'd meant to get three or four brightly colored balloons to tie to Robin’s crib and perambulator. Robin wasn’t 10-months old yet How crazy he was about Bob! Did he love his father more than his mother? Jealousy again. Faith wearily pushed down the unworthy emotion, but not the train of thoughts it brought to the surface of her mind. She’d always been jealous-natured as her mother had called it. Jealous of her mother’s greatest love for Cherry, jealous of Cherry’s beauty and irresistible physical appeal. Even a little jealous tonight of Crystal’s unexpected debut as a beauty.

slowly inward, revealing a shallow drawer less than an inch deep. Triumphantly, the girl pulled it out. There was not one orchidtinted letter, but six of them, with the last received on top, at the front of the little drawer. “Don’t destroy fingerprints!” McMann warned Ruth. “Here—let me handle it.” And with infinite caution the detective drew the letter from its large, square envelope, touching only one corner of the sheet as he shook it out and laid it on the blotter of the dead man’s desk. "May I read it?” Ruth begged, and as the detective grunted assent their two heads bent over the exhibit which Ruth had brought to light. There was a single sheet of notepaper, closely written on both sides.

“T TARRY, my darling,” the letter XjL began, below the two words, Friday afternoon: “After what happened between us on Christmas Eve I swore that I would never appeal to you again. Oh, Harry, to think that you could strike me and curse me after a.’l the happiness we have known together! But my pride—which was one of the qualities you admired most in me, you used to say—has been leveled to the dust. I would rather die than ask you for anything for myself, Harry, but where our son is concerned I have no pride—only love, and a ghastly fear of his future. He is your son, Harry—as much your child as Betty and Harry Junior. It was your own suggestion that I place him in boarding school last September, so that he might have his chance at normal little boy happiness and education. You promised then to pay for his board and tuition, but—” “Finished?” McMann grunted at Ruth, and, as she nodded mutely, he turned the sheet over. Ruth’s tear-misted eyes resolutely left the signature to the last; “ —the money never came. Almost the last cent I had in the world went to pay for his first half year, and now—there is nothing left—less than nothing. I am ill and broken. If you continue to refuse to pay for his second semester—the first ends the last of January—he will have to be put in an orphanage, and that would kill me. You couldn’t—couldn’t!—let your son—the child of our love—come to that. Harry! Please, Harry! I abase myself before you. I make one last appeal—for him. Create a trust fund for him—your son. You can arrange for a bank—not me—to be his guardian, if you hate me as much as you’ve said you do. Do this for him! I ask nothing for myself—nothing! But Harry, in all solemity, I warn you that you will be sorry if you do not do what I ask. I shall telephone you Saturday morning. If your answer is still no —but I won’t think of that now! —M.”

“M!” Ruth breathed, “Martha! —Martha Manning! Oh, the poor thing!” “Martha Manning!” the detective exploded. “You haven’t told me anything about her. Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” “I didn’t know until last night,” Ruth retorted. Then, rapidly, breathlessly, she related to McMann the series of deductions and suppositions which had led her to an inevitable conclusion. “Though I didn’t, at first, connect the writer of the orchid-tinted letters with the woman of the contralto voice,” Ruth acknowledged. “Some voice!” McMann commented dryly. “It seems to have knocked you, Hayward, Minnie Cassidy and Frank Ashe was a goal. I’m getting sorts of curious to hear it myself. Did Hayward get her address when she came to him about insurance?” “Yes. The Acropolis hotel—one of those small, inexpensive residence hotels,” Ruth answered. a a a “TTARD UP—and living at a hofl tel,” McMann commented sarcastically. “Trying to pull Borden’s leg, I guess. Blackmail .. . Well, we’ll have a look at this dame, and listen to her carol her story in her ‘beautiful contralto voice’.” The detective was striding toward the door to give an order to Birdwell, who was still on duty in the outer office, when Ruth stopped him with a question: “And you’ll send for Letty Miller,

Jealous of George Pruitt’s sudden interest in the girl, of his desire to paint her portrait. . . What had happened to Crystal, anyway? Had all the others felt as she had—that they had never seen the girl before? And would her—Faith’s—loving kindness toward Crystal wither up now that the girl would not be so in need of \kindness? “Oh, we’re all selfish in our different ways,” Faith accused herself with the honesty of utter weariness. "Everyone thinks I’m so much more unselfish than Cherry, and I’m pleased when I hear people refer to us as ‘saint and sinner.’ “My very ‘goodness’ is selfish. I'm good’ because it gives me a selfish pleasure to be good. Is anyone ever good for any other reason, really? is there any such thing as unselfish, absolute goodness? “Would any of us be ‘good’ if there was no one to praise us? Cherry is wicked sometimes because she enjoys being wicked—adores excitement. Being good isn’t exciting. . .” Suddenly Faith’s bitterly honest thoughts were cloven sharply by the sound of swift feet running across the little front porch. Cherry! "Knowing that the front door into the living room was not locked Faith waited for her sister to burst into the room, bringing storm and strife, shrill words and tears. Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders to accept whatever shock Cherry might bring. (To Be Continued.)

won't you? If she says that she did not leave Jack’s door on the latch when she first went in to clean his offices, a big part of the mystery can be cleared up, for we shall know then that someone besides Jack could have entered and used his telephone—and his gun.” “Letty Miller would admit anything if she thought it would help Hayward,” McMann commented skeptically. “He must have greased her palm with a good bit of silver, first and last. But it won’t do any harm to ask her. Just don’t bank too much on your pretty little theory, Miss Lester. “Oh, Birdwell!” he called, as he opened the door into the outer office. “Get hold of Carlson for me. He’s on the floor somewhere, talking to tenants. Send him over to the Acropolis hotel for Martha Manning. “That’s right—M-a-n-n-i-n-g. If she is not in, or has checked out, tell him to get all the facts and let me know immediately. . . . And Birdwell, have headquarters send somebody for Letty Miller, one of those scrubwomen I was interviewing yesterday. They don’t come on till 4 o’clock, and I don’t care to wait till then.” “Yes, sir,” Birdwell answered. “Did you get the Miller woman’s address, sir? You remember we< couldn’t find her yesterday morning. She’d moved from the room-ing-house address the superintendent gave us—” “Oh, damn!” McMann exploded. “I forgot to ask her. See if Coghlan, the superintendent, did. It’s his job to keep up with his employes’ various changes of address—” “Yes, sir. Just a minute, sir,” Birdwell interrupted his chief, as the telephone rang. He listened for a moment, then turned to McMann: “It’s Clay, sir. He’s bringing the Gilman woman in. He says she’s just returned to her apartment. He’s telephoning from apartment now.” “Good! Tell Clay to make it snappy,” McMann directed. Then, when his subordinate had concluded the tclaphone corners ition: “Any line ye: on Jake Bailey. Borden’s bodyguard?” “No, sir. I’ll get hold of Carlson now and send him after this Manning woman.” nun

TjMFTEEN minutes later, while Detective Sergeant McMann and Ruth Lester were still engaged in reading the six passionate, despairing, pitiful appeals for a vanished love which Martha Manning had written to Harry Borden, the woman who had taken that love from her was announced: “Miss Gilman and Detective Clay, sir.” “Show Miss Gilman in here. I’ll speak to Clay out there,” McMann directed, and a moment later the detective in charge of the investigation and a tall, magnificently proportioned blonde woman passed each other in the doorway. “Hullo!” Cleo Gilman sang out cheerily, in her slightly nasal, highpitched voice. As the detective pushed on through the door without answering, except wtih one keen, measuring glance, the blonde woman shrugged, and addressed Ruth Lester, who was seated at Borden’s desk: “I always did love these strong, silent men. Hawkshaw, the demon detacatif, I suppose?” she laughed, strolling with exaggerated nonchalance to a chair near Ruth’s, and disposing her voluptuous body in it. “Yes,” Ruth smiled. “Or, to be accurate, Detective Sergeant McMann, in charge of the investigation into the murder of your late—friend.” ‘Meow!” Cleo chided, as she took a cigaret from a lovely black and green enameled case which, Ruth knew, had been one of Harry Borden’s Christmas gifts. “Poor old ‘Handsome Harry.’ I w’as always afraid he’d come to some bad end. . . . But what have you done to yourself, darling? You are the priceless pearl of a secretary, arent you? But I seem to remember you as a timid little slavey, with horn-rimmed spectacles, Salvation Army clothes, and your hair dragged into a knot on your neck. I wonder! “I wonder. . . . And yet I’d been led to believe that it was the fascinating Rita who had— Oh, Hawkshaw!” And Cleo rounded her seductive lips to blow a cloud of smoke toward the returning detective. McMann pretending not to hear, strode to Borden’s desk, took his seat opposite Ruth, poised his pencil over a pad of scratch paper “Well, when did you see Borden last, Cleo?” “Miss Gilman—to you. darlingjust until we know each other a little better," Cleo Gilman drawled, arching her brows. “Don’t scowl so, Hawkshaw. I’m sure you’d be an awful attractive man, if you’d just cultivate a jolly smile. . . . Oh, very well! If you don't want to be sociable —. You asked when I last saw Harry, I believe. Well, let me think—" and she regarded the burning top of her cigaret with a charming frown. “Last Saturday, wasn’t It?” McMann barked

a a a CLEO GILMAN’S carefree laugh rang out, “Poor Hawkshaw! You must be terribly hard up for a suspect if you’ve picked on me! No—l’m awfully sorry to disappoint you, but I haven’t seen “Handsome Harry” since Jan. 2. He dropped in to pay the rent on the a.partment and to break the sad news to me that all was over between us.” “Just like that, eh?” McMann growled. “I suppose you quarreled?” “Oh,” Cleo shrugged and smiled, “just enough to give the old boy a good time. It would have hurt his if I hadn’t pulled the ‘you-done-me-wrong’ line, but to tell you the truth, darling, I wasn’t at all sorry—saved me a lot of trouble, for I was really awfully busy on anew enterprise—” “Just where were you last Saturday, after leaving your apartment at noon with your baggage?” McMann cut to impatiently. % (To Be Continued)

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

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I'HE BOOK OF KNOWLEDGE

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OUT OUR WAY

By Ahern

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SKETCHES BY BESSEY. SYNOPSIS BY BRACCHER

PAGE 7

—By WilliamK

—Bv Martin*

Bv Binsser

Bv Crane

By Small

By Cowan