Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 143, Indianapolis, Marion County, 25 October 1929 — Page 19

Second Section

11WE AND MYfTfRV I y. I /^w m INDIANAPOLIS J ( I 0 t^&Esg TURNER I

Statement by Gordon Turner, the Author. /MAKE no apologies in presenting the following series of dramatic, breath-taking episodes in the lives of a number of prominent Indianapolis persons. A little juggling of dates and names and places removes nearly all possibility of embarrassment to the real persons concerned. I do not vouch for the absolute accuracy of all the details recorded , but I painstakingly have verified the essential facts and confirmed the identities of the real principals of the story. The manuscript, the first installment of which is printed herewith, came into my possession in a peculiar manner. It was found in the effects of Maizie Brown, 38, spinster, who died suddenly several weeks ago at her residence on the north side. Miss Brown was a cousin of my wife, her nearest living relative and heir to the small estate. In. closing the modest apartment and disposing of its contents, Mrs. Turner bundled together all letters and papers and took them home with her. While helping her sort them over, I came upon this astounding story, neatly typewritten and arranged. It was wrapped in readiness for mailing and was addressed to the ‘Story Writing Correspondence School, New York City. As Maizie Brown has told in the story itself why and how she came to write it, I shall leave that to her telling. In presenting it to The Times readers, l wish to explain that I make no claim to authorship. All I have done is to edit it in the usual and necessary way in preparation for publication, holding in mind always the laws of libel and the sanctity of private life. It shall not be my faidt if some whose memory of passing events is keen may read too much between the lines.

CHAPTER ONE JOSEPH SMEDLEY, assistant prosecuting attorney, walked brisky into his office in the Marion county courthouse, tossed his hat into the locker and inquired of his stenographer: . „„ “Anything doing this morning, Miss Wrenn' “No-o, that is, nothing but an insistent telephone call for you” said'the girl. “The number is on your calendar pad. She’ called up three times in ten minutes.” Miss Wrenn tossed her head in irritation. , Smedley turned to his desk and glanced at the memorandum. His face lighted in a smile. “Washington 0001” he read. “Sheila! I wonder what s on her mind this early in the day,” he said to himself, pulling the telephone to him. . There was a lilt of excitement in the soft voice that came over the wire. , - “Oh, Joe dear, can you come out right away? Iheres been a burglary. The safe in the laboratory was broken open and—and —.” , . She paused for breath. Smedley broke in. “What was stolen?” he asked. “Oh, 1 don’t know,” she replied impatiently, and I don t care 1 It’s papa who is worrying me. He acts so queer. Smedley’s forehead puckered in anxious puzzlement. “Sheila, dear,” he spoke into the phone, “don’t worry. I’ll be on the way in a jiffy.” ** " 0 A S Smedley headed his car toward the north side, his thoughts were on Sheila, beautiful, vibrant, goldenhaired Sheila Wilber, the most wonderful girl in all the world grii’l who only a week before nad promised to share her life with him. A motherless girl, devotedly attached to her middle-aged father, who loved her. as his most prized possession.

The car threaded its way up Market street, turned, and gathered speed in the broad traffic lane of Meridian street. Smedley was recalling his hesitation in proposing marriage to Sheila. He was a comparatively poor man. William Oliver Wilber, her father, was reputed rich. A likeable fellow, Wilber, but a man of few friends, reticent, reserved in manner and speech. As president of the Wilber Elec- j trie Company, manufacturers of electrical appliances, Wilbur was a figure in the business world of the city and enjojed a comfortable income, which permitted him to maintain a luxurious home on Maple road. Mrs. Wilber, Sheila s mother, had been dead for five years and Wilber and Sheila had no close relatives, except Andrew Masters, an orphaned nephew of the manufacturer. As the image of Masters flashed Into his mind’s eye, Smedley vented a feeling of impatience by pressing down on the gas button. The car j leaped forward. "A worthless, spoiled baby in the guise of a man,” he thought. ‘‘How on earth can Sheila put up with him!” Masters and his flashy friends whom he entertained at his bachelor apartments, his escapades with women, his sleek, sheiklike manners, his idleness, his heavy drinking! Weak in character, handsome in an effeminate way—the kind of male biped most men detest, but many women love. Sheila seemed to like him. At least, she tolerated his frequent visits to the Maple road home. But then, he was Sheila’s cousin. Os course, that accounted for it. And the blame was not aU the boy’s. Orphaned just as he was passing through the 'trying period of adolescence and cursed with an Inheritance that permitted him to live without working, he was wholly undisciplined. Willful and pleasureseeking. he followed the path of least resistance. This led him into the companionship of a fast and far from reputable crowd. And yet, Smedley mused, the youth was not all bad. He was always kind and considerate toward Sheila and that earned him much forgiveness. Engrossed in his thoughts, Smedley had passed his turn. He turned to loop around and return. Approaching an intersection, he

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saw a group of men and boys clustered about an auto on the opposite side of the street. The car, a flashy sport model roadster, had jumped the curb and crashed Into a street light standard. The right front wheel was torn off and the radiator crushed and the windshield shattered. A slender, dark-haired, bareheaded young man stood on the sidewalk in the center of the group of spectators. Blood dripped from a gash on his cheek. “The devil, himself,” muttered Smedley, bringing his car to a quick stop at the curb. “Masters is in another scrape.” In a moment he was out of the car and across the street. “Andy, are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, pushing through the crowd to the youth’s side. “Aha! brave Joe to the rescue,” Andy replied with dramatic bravado. “Naw, I’m not hurt —only this scratch." He mopped his face with a blood-stained handkerchief. "You’re the welcome Johnny-on-the-spot,” Andy continued. “Come on, get me out of here before some nosey cop turns up.” Grasping Smedley by the arm. he led the way across the street toward the attorney's car. Half way over he halted suddenly. “Wait a minute,” he called and darted back to the wrecked auto. He unlocked and reached into the luggage compartment, drawing forth a small Gladstone bag. He deposited the bag carefully under his feet in Smedley's car and turned to.Smedley with a wink. “Medicine," he remarked. “Good for what ails you. Got it from my bootlegger. First-class moon.” “As an officer of the court. I don’t much like to be transporting that stuff.” said Smedley slowly. “Aw, forget it,” Andy growled. “You’re too damned virtuous.” “No, I merely happen to be endowed with a pinch of common sense,” Smedley retorted. “But tell me what happened? What are you doing out here this early in the day?” “Just getting home,” Masters replied. “Lil all-night party over in Anderson. And say, maybe the girls in that bunch weren’t pippins! Got pretty well stewed. All right now. Best pick-me-up in the world lis a nice little auto smash.” He ! grinned at Smedley through a begrimed face. “Was only doing 60,” he continued. “Kid ran out in road. Swerved to miss him. Knocked down a perfectly good light pole. Saved kid’s

The Indianapolis Times

She came to him with upturned face ... A long embrace with lips pressed close.

life. Heroic driver escaped with scratch. Carnegie medal to be awarded. Curtain!” He waved his hands dramatically. “Where are you going?” he asked, as the car turned east. “To your uncle’s,” Smedley replied. “You can get cleaned up there and phone a garage man to get your car.” THE door of the Wilber home was flung open as they stepped upon the veranda, revealing a figure of glowing youth and loveliness. Sheila ran to meet them. Her eyes opened wide as they took in Masters’ disheveled appearance. “Andy!” she cried. “What has happened?” She led them into the spacious living room. “Why, your face is all cut up.” She ran to a telephone. “I’m going to call Dr. Race right away.” Andy strode across the room, took the telephone receiver from her hand and replaced it on the hook. “Stop it, Sheila,” he said. “I don’t need a doctor. Let me at your firstaid cabinet in the bathroom and I’ll make myself as pretty as a speckled coach dog.” He smiled assuringly and ran up the stairway. Sheila turned to Smedley. He held out his arms, and she came to him with upturned face. A long embrace with lips pressed close . . . then Smedley told her of Masters’ accident. The glad look which had overspread Sheila’s face in her realization that Andy’s injury was not serious suddenly gave way to an expression of deep distress. “Oh, Joe!” she exclaimed, “I almost had forgotten. Father! The safe robbery!” Smedley led her to a chair and drew her to his lap. “Now, tell me all about it,” he skid soothingly. “We are not likely to De disturbed. From what I know of Andy he will be a long time making himself ‘pretty,’ Where is your father?” “I’m worried about him. Joe. 1 know he never kept anything of value in that safe—only private papers and records to protect them against fire. There was nothing there anybody would want to steal, and yet papa acts like he had lost a fortune. He is in the laboratory now. He wants to talk to you about the burglary.” Her lips brushed Smedley’s cheek. She sprang lightly to her feet and held out her hand. “Come, let’s go to him now.” u 0 * SLOW footsteps and the click of a key answered their knock on tire laboratory door. It was thrown open and they entered a room that was an odd combination of comfort and utility. Two windows pierced the walls on cither side of the single entrance. A large easy chair, with reading lamp, stood near a desk littered with papers and books. A little iron safe, its heavy door wide open, occupied the comer to the left of the doorway and close to the desk. Shelves of books almost hid the wall above desk and safe. The opposite wall I was covered with blueprints and engineers’ drawings. Under the window on this side of the room was a long, narrow couch draped with a bright-hued Navajo blanket. The floor was bare save for several small rugs. ▲ narrow workbench extended

INDIANAPOLIS, FRIDAY, OCT. 25,1929

across the entire length of a windowless wall facing the door. Above the bench was a maze of wires and electric switchboard panels. Standing on one end of the bench was a small electric furnace. The bench was cluttered with electrical and chemical test apparatus. The room was the sanctuary of a student and experimenter—an office, den and workshop, all in one. The sole occupant stood aside in silence as Sheila and Smedley passed through, then closed the door softly. Under William Wilber’s eyes lay dark shadows—the shadows that appear after a sleepless night or as the result of repressed emotion. A man in his early 50s, he was one of the me-dium-size, wiry, enduring type who never seems to grow old; yet he showed none of the nervous activity that usually marks that physical makeup. A man deliberate in movement and slow and careful in speech. His was a well-molded head, with crisp brown hair slightly graying over the ears, a wide forehead and serious, brown eyes in the smooth-shaven face of a thinker. Quite a contrast to big, broad-shouldered, blue-eyed Joe Smedley, who faced him with extended hand. “I’m glad you came,” Joe Wilber said quiety and turned to his daughter. “Sheila, my dear, leave us to ourselves a bit, will you?” He forced a smile to his weary lips. “Joe and I are going into executive session on ponderous business of state, which would be unintelliible to your frivolous mind,” he concluded jokingly and held open the door for her. A hurt look flashed Into the girl’s eyes, but it passed instantly. “Oh, I wasn’t going to stay in this stuffy place," she retorted from the doorway. “Andy is here and he always is good company.” a tt st WILBER closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He dragged an extra chair toward the desk and waved his visitor into it. Then he stood for a long moment, gazing fixedly at the open safe in the corner. “Joe,” he said slowly, “I sorely need your advice and help. Sheila has told you of the burglary?” Smedley nodded. “Merely that the safe was broken open, but no details,” he replied. “It is more than a burglary . . . more than a safe robbery,” said Wilber, his face drawn in tense lines. “Sheila does not know, and God forbid that she ever does, but this burglary may mean the wrecking of her happiness and of yours, too!” He paused for words, while Smedley stared at him in startled amazement “That is my very good reason for not reporting it to the police and for turning to you in my dilemma,” Wilber went on. “Your approaching marriage to Sheila makes it easier . . . and in a way harder. As her husband you will have her happiness in your keeping. You are entitled to. know and yet . . . and yet ” His hand passed across his forhead in a gesture of impatience. “I am rambling.” he exclaimed, straightening up in his chair and speaking more rapidly. “First, the burglary. I came in here this morning for some papers

I had left on the desk. The door of the safe was standing wide open as you see it now. The lower sash of the window beyond the desk was thrown to the top. Both, had been closed last night when I left the room and locked the door. I remember well because Lena, the maid, had been in here cleaning and I checked up before I left, “You know I never let any one into the laboratory for any purpose unless I am present, not that I have been afraid of theft, but there is much high voltage running through those wires on the workbench. It wouldn’t be safe. “The desk drawers were pulled out and everything turned topsy-turvy. The safe had been opened ... I don’t know how. Nothing had been taken from it but a small tin cashbox. The box was locked; here is the key on my watch chain.” “Joe,” he said, each word uttered slowly and impressively. “That box contained nothing of cash value, no jewels, no money, no securities, nothing by which a thief oould profit, yet if its contents were publicly revealed, a cloud would be cast upon Sheila’s whole future . . . Only a little, red, leather-covered memorandum book, but to me a treasure without price ... a diary kept by Sheila’s mother, my wife, back in those happy days when Sheila was a baby. . . . “You never knew her. Joe; you missed a great deal,” he went on, fais voice tenderly reminiscent. “She passed out of our life’s picture before you stepped into it . . . Five long years since death snatched her out of my arms . . . five endless eternities! “She was all wrapped up in Sheila. The baby became a part of her whole life and being. It delighted her to set down in her diary each day all those little things a baby does that so endear it to its mother. She would read them to me when I came home—l was on the road then, away for days at a time. “Everything of Sheila was there in that diary, a complete story from the day of her birth and of events that preceded her birth. She would often pause in her writing, catch up the little one, hug the chubby form to her and cry, ’My baby! My OWN baby!*” . . . Wilber suddenly was silent. He looked intently at Smedley for a moment. There were tears in his eyes as he continued: “But, in truth, Joe, Sheila was not her baby. She was not Sheila’s mother, nor am I her father!” (To Be Continued) PEAR TREE AGED 300 Famous Massachusetts Landmark Still Is Bearing Fruit. Bu United Press DANVERS, Mass., Oct. 25.—The weight of three centuries has split its trunk into three stems. History has been written in the fields about it. The pageant of war has been enacted almost beneath its branches. Nine generations of the family that originally planted it has passed into memory. Yet the famed old Encucott pear tree on the Orchard farm here is once more bearing its October fruit. This is presumed to be the three hundredth lineal crop of the earliest cultivated tree iA New England.

EVEN POSTAL RIGHTS DENIED MILLjTRIKERS Militia Stationed in U. S. Building in Carolina Bar Out ‘Rebels.’ ‘Y’ IS PLACE OF GLOOM Sinclair Lewis Finds That Pastors Are Paid by Textile Barons. This is the fifth of a series by Sinclair Lewis, noted author of “Main Street,” on strike conditions at Marion. X. C., in which sis have been killed and twenty wounded. Lewis was sent to Marion by The Times and other Scripps-lioward newspapers. BY SINCLAIR LEWIS fCopvriitht. 1929. bv The Times* The mill cottages at Marion are lined with thin tongue and grooved lumber. They are painted, inside and out, in drab colors. They are not altogether appetizing. But when the worker leaves his cottage for his long, careless hours of leisure, he has the privilege of seeing the other features of the East Marion mill village, provided practically free by the Baldwin company. The roads, built by the Marion mill company, resemble—well, take a sheet of paper and crumple It in your hand, then crumple it again, and you will have a very accurate picture of the contours of those roads. But this is doubtless a quibbling objection to the state of the East Marion roads, for the reason that almost none of these workers owns even a second-hand flivver. Preachers Are Subsidized Passing down the somewhat lavalike roads, the worker comes to the free public features of the town. They are a really well-built public school, in which no teacher ever is likely to criticise the company’s policy; several churches, in which the preachers have one-half of their salaries paid by the mill company, so that, by a curious coincidence, they have nothing whatever to say about the little incident of killing six men and wounding twenty. I do not think that if H were a minister of God that I would care to have half of my salary paid by the Marion Manufacturing Company. There are two other public places to which the mill worker may go in Marion. One is the company store, which, I would judge, is about r’\equarter as large as the country : e serving the village of about *IOO people two miles *from my home in Vermont. - But that is probably a conscious and thoughtful act of the Marion Manufacturing Company because when the average of all workers in the mill, including “overseers,” as they call foremen in the south, is less than sl3 a week, they do not need a very large store to take care of their trade, even though the people use flour good enough for Sheriff Adkins himself. The final public feature of the East Marion mill village is the building variously known as the Y. M. C. A. and the community house. It touches me more than a little to think that when Mr. Baldwin had this built he must have felt that he was being authentically generous. Building Is Handsome It Is a very handsome building, of brick, with a classic facade. It contains as good a swimming pool as you can find. If the whole of East Marion were as admirable as that swimming pool, then you would have the paradise which God must have intended when He constructed the glorious hills—and then left the rest of the job to the Marion Manufacturing Company, But aside from the swimming pool, there Is nothing whatever in the community house to comfort people after they have worked from ten to twelve hours in the noise and stench and linty air of the Marion Manufacturing Company. No, I am wrong. There is a library. I have examined its books with some care. Ido not know who assembled that collection, but I think that he was somewhat unwise in presenting these books as the final solace for people doomed to the hell of that life. I noted a book about life among the Brahmins. I noted the “Everyman’s Pepys.” I noted particularly a book about Linguistics by Professor William Whitney of Yale, published in 1867. A Great Consolation It must be a consolation for a woman like Mrs. Roberts, whose 17-year-old son was shot down by the deputies of Sheriff Adkins, a widow with several young children to support, to be able to go to the company Y. M. 0. A. and read, perfectly free, a book on Linguistics by Professor William Whitney, published in 1867. Because if she does not find that a consolation, she will have no other. When I left Marion she told me that she had no money whatever with which to carry on. I suggested that this company Y. M. C. A. is the one final public glory to entertain the mill workers at Marion. But I want to be fair. So In fairness, let me say that since the first Marlon strike in July, this building has t>een the headquarters of the state militia. So that I am afraid that Mrs. Roberts must find consolation for the death of her 17-year-old son elsewhere. The Government Did Nothing Oh! And there is one other public place, but it is only partly provided by the company. That Is the United States government postoffice, at the rear of the company store. But, in Marlon, during the first

Second Section

Entered as second-dess Matte* at Postoffice, Indlanapolic

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Marlon Talley

BOY, 12, SLAYS INVALID WOMAN Confesses Murder in Theft of $3. Bn United Press NEW YORK, Oct. 25.—A 12-year-old boy was jailed on a charge of homicide Thursday night when he confessed to strangling Mrs. Clara Hewes, an invalid, who supported herself by telling fortunes. Edward Moran, the boy, said he killed the woman, because she caught him stealing $3 from her room. He subsequently lost all but 50 cents of the money in a dice game. The killing of Mrs. Hewes, widow of “Hewes the magician," occurred Wednesday. According to the Moran boy's confession, he saw the money on a table in her room and, seeing she was asleep, slipped in to get it. Mrs. Hewes awoke as Edward took the money. The 76-year-old woman, unable to move, screamed. Edward went over to the bed and attempted to quiet her, but failed. He then strangled her and fled. The boy said he was so frightened by his act that he filled the bathtub with water and decided to commit suicide, but his courage failed. Police became suspicious of Edward when they learned he knew Mrs. Hewes kept money in a box on the table. FRICTION PLOT JUSTIFIED Auction Reveals Mortgage Against Home Stood Fifty Years. Bv United Press JUNEAU, Wis., Oct. 25. —The mortgage on the old farm home that fiction writers long have used as a basis for stirring plots was a reality on a pioneer homestead farm here which recently was sold at auction. The sale revealed that an unsatisfied mortgage for SI,OOO had been standing against the farm for fifty years.

U. S. HOSE DISPLAYED Silk Stockings Shipped on Zep Arc Prized in Swiss Shop. By United Press WASHINGTON, Oct. 25.—When the world-circling Graf Zeppelin returned to Europe recently it included in its cargo a pair of Ameri-can-made silk hose consigned to a j Swiss shop, the commerce department said today. The Swiss shop which received them displayed them proudly In its windows, together with the shipping document, the department was told by its commercial attache at Berne. HIGH RENTS CHEATED LONDON, Oct. 25.—People living in floating flats on the Thames river between Westminster and Chelsea, don’t have to bother with the landlord when rent dafy comes around. They are classed as having no fixed abode and the only amount they have to pay is a few dollars for mooring fees. One of the flats on the river has been there for more than fifty years. strike, the state militia forbade the strikers to go to the postoffice for their mall, or for any other reason. In my innocent days I was told that the United States government is supreme in the United States of America. But I have learned a great deal in my few days in Marion, in the' fair state of North Carolina. I have learned that the militia under the orders of the same Governor, Max Gardner, who has done nothing about the report of the labor leaders, has such power that It can close the office of the mall department of the United States government to citizens of the United States. And was this matter taken up with the government at Washington? It was! And did the government at Washington do anything about?. It did not! ’They are keeping the mill open—and is there anything more necessary? y Next: Sinclair Lewie will tell of the hatreds ia Bleed; Marion.

TALLEY LIKES HER LIFE ON KANSASFARM Never Going Back to Stag**, Famous Songbird Says in Interview. REJECTS RICH OFFERS Content to Cultivate Her 960 Acres: Owns No Automobile. BY MARION TALLEY, (Formerly of (be Metropolitan Open Company) (Copyright by and reprinted by permission from McCall's Magazine for November) A few months ago, after four seasons at the Metropolitan opera house and in concert tours of this country, I announced that I was retiring. Today I’m of the same mind, but it’s not because any stone has been left unturned to make me change. There have been literally hundreds of efforts In that direction—offers for radio, talkies, vaudeville and concert totaling thousands of dollars (two of SIO,OOO each for a single radio appearance), remonstrances from friends and strangers, even tirades. People wrote, telephoned, telegraphed and cabled their amazed disapprobation. The idea of a person my age — I’m 22—retiring, seems to be incomprehensible to everybody except me and the rest of the Talleys. My family is perfectly satisfied, but other people suspect that there Is something back of my decision. No Thought of Marriage I have no thought of getting married and my voice is just as it always was. We Talleys try to do what we think is right and have been satisfied to enjoy ourselves in our home in our own way. It is very hard for us to explain ourselves, because we honestly can’t see what there is that needs explaining. In spite of the surprise with which others view us, to ourselves, we seem so simple and normal. Certainly the things we care most about are simple home things. We don’t seem to have much control over our destiny. Things are all arranged for us and we are satisfied that this should be so. We enjoy whatever comes. We live as we always did, very simply. And we don’t want anything else. Never Owned Auto For instance, we never have owned an automobile. Some people think that strange, but we have never felt the need of one. Perhaps ’fre shall now that we have the farm. We don’t know yet. The farm is at least one of the reasons for my retirement. It was an old dream of ours, and always on tour we were hunting for one that might do. Now we’ve found it. It includes 960 acres and is twelve and a half miles from Colby, Kas. In the east, It would be a very large farm, but out in western Kansas, it really si oms small. At that, though, it’s a five-mile walk around my place, and 649 acres are in wheat, forty in corn, 200 in barley and eighty in pasture. Farm Is Up-to-Date Everything will be very up-to-date and worked by electricity wherever possible. I already can run the tractor, but I want to learn more about that and the other farm machinery. I expect to live and work on my farm and also I count on it making money for me. It will this year. Colby is a nice town of about 2,500, and the young people have mostly been off to college and probably are very pleasant. Os course, I don’t know how I’d be at a party of young people my own age. In New York, anyway, I’d be left out and considered a flat tire, I suppose, because I don’t drink or smoke or even dance.

Never Going Back But so far as I know now, I am never going back either to concert or opera. That is my entire mind on the subject. I can be happy without singing in public. I do not need the applause and acclaim that go with public life to make me contented. Yet I liked my work very, very much; and all the associations. I shall not be Idle just because I’m not singing. There Is other work. There is, for instance, the tractor. CAT IS GLOBE TROTTER Feline Boards Steamers, bat Always Gets Right One Home. LONDON, Oct. 25.— The Cambridge office of the Great Western Railway boasts a much-traveled cat. The cat, during potato season, visits numerous English cities and travels even to France. He walks aboard a steamer as it leaves, curls up on deck and lands when the boat docks. The cat always boards the right steamer on the way home. AERO-TRAINS DEVISED Bu United Press EDINBURGH, Oct., 25.—1 t is the plan of George Bennie to set up a system of aero-trains in this country. The trains, cigar-shaped, will be suspended from an overhead rail track and will be driven by airplane propellers. At a speed of 100 mile* an hour, the plane will lift most of its weight from the