Indianapolis Times, Indianapolis, Marion County, 23 April 1937 — Page 46

: { 1 4 ol i-

. rett case—don’t you remember it?

+in need of money at a time when

PAGE 46

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

AFRAID 0

CAST OF CHARACTERS Joan Barrett, heroine, secretary - to John Hendry. John Hendry, mining investment head. Bob Andrews, Hendry’s junior partner and Joan’s fiance. Sybil Hendry, socialite, John Hendry's niece and Joan’s rival in love. Philip Hendry, Sybil's brother. ‘Dorothy Starke, John's girlhood friend. Charles Norton, California mining promoter,

Yesterday—Joan refused to marry Bob because of a secret in her life, and Sybil, learning of this, plots to bare that secret.

CHAPTER THREE

ROM the window of her room in the Green Hills Inn, Joan watched the eastern sky brighten to a warm orange as the sun rose slowly above the hills. The streets were quiet now. Every last merrymaker had found his way home; the last echo of shrill horns and cowbells had subsided. Downstairs, the inn was utterly still. Later on, weary porters would view the havoc wrought by the festivities and attempt to tidy the lounges before early guests appeared for breakfast. But there was time for that. The steeple clock had not yet chimed 6:30. Joan would hear it presently, as she had heard every quarter-hour chime since 4:30, when Bob had kissed her and wished her happy dreams at the door of her room. Happy dreams! How easy it was for Bob to suggest that. He did not know how terrible dreams might be. Life to him was all sunshine and love and faith in the goodness of tomorrow, For him there was no ugly yesterday which still conjured in a tired mind nightmares of misery and despair and fear, casting their menacing shadows over every hope for the future, and filling each tomorrow with uncertainty and terror. = ” un

ATCHING the sun climb slowly over the horizon, Joan remembered another sunrise, 10 long years before—or was it rather, 10 long hideous eternities? L Weeks and months and years of dreary yesterdays, which even today stretched out their memories a thousand years into the future. She had been only 13 then, but today the picture was as clear in her mind as if it were still happening, as indeed it had truly happened a thousand times since that first morning." Once more she was back there, standing in the window of another hotel, holding tightly to her mother’s icy hand, watching with terror as that same suh slowly rose to sight. The sun that day had been a flaming ball of fire, creeping up over the hills to rob their lives of all that had made the previous years bright | and gay and worthwhile, = = 2 1

T had been in California. The inn | from which they watched was | close to the forbidding walls of San | Quentin prison. And the sunrise | for which they waited in such heipless terror had proclaimed the hour when Tomas Barrett would be | “hanged by the neck until dead. ..” | Thomas Barrett—the kindest, | dearest father a little girl had ever | had—but they had put. a rope] around his neck and hanged him until he was dead. Joan and her mother had felt the same rope about their own necks, choking out their very souls, cutting them off from that other life they ioved better than their own. Not only that morning, but during all the long years after, they would awaken in the middle of the night, terrified by a dream of that rope around their necks, choking out life. In San Francisco, the courts had decided that Thomas Barrett had killed 2a man. He had killed a man who had been his friend, and stolen that man’s. money. ” ” ” OAN knew, and her mother knew that Thomas Barrett had never in all his life harmed a living thing. They remembered a day when he/ had risked his life to save a little puppy from a -speeding automobile . . . they remembered a Christmas when he had braved a parachute jump to earn an extra $50 to buy them presents . . . they remembered

the charity that would never let him

pass a beggar on the streets . . . But such things are. irrelevant when stacked against the all-im-portant matter of fingerprints on a gun . .. of not being able to prove, by witnesses, where one was at such-and-such a time .. . of being

another man had a great deal .-. . Ten years ago, it had been. But Joan Barrett was still “the murderer’s child.” _ ” » = NTIL two years ago, when she came to New York alone, the curse had followed (them. Jean._did not dare to hope that she could ever escape it. There had been so many disappointments-. . . From San Francisco, they had fled, her*mother and she, to Seattle. There was a little money—her father’s insurance—enough to cover ‘bare necessities. In Seattle, her mother found work, and Joan continued high school. Except for memories they were happy. Two years went by. One day a classmate invited her tol a party. A “Sweet Sixteen” party. “You must go, dear,” her mother encouraged. “You have so little pleasure for a young girl .. . . I'll make you a new dress—blue taffeta. How would you like that?” Joan loved it. | Never before had she been so proud of her reflection in [the mirror. Her eyes, accenting the blue of the dress, were sparkling and clear. Even her golden hair, which often flew about in obstinate fashion, fell into |graceful, lady-like ringlets for this special occasion.

” s

T was the first real party she had ever attended. She: was radiant with joy. Everybody treated her as if she were a princess. Dorothy’s father called her “Goldilocks” and told her she must ceme to see them often. | At 10 o'clock Mr. Brown from next door stopped in to see Dorothy cut her birthday cake. The Browns had recently moved into the neighporhood. Joan did not know it, put they came from San Francisco. Mrs. Brown's eyes popped as she whispered to Dorothy’s mother, and her voice carried across the room to Joan. | “ . I'm positive of it. My father was on the jury. The Bar-

He was hanged at San Quentin.”

1937 NEA SERVICE, INC

whispers flew through the room. She watched Dorothy's mother

beckon to her husband and take’

into the kitchen. knew | well enough. what Starke would say. Everybody San Francisco had said it, too. “Of course she's a pretty little girl, John. But we can’t have her associating with Dorothy. It’s in her blood, you know, to kill. Her father- was a murderer. There’s no telling what she may do .. .”

”

She Mrs. in

him out

O, a few minutes later, Mr. Starke offered to see her home. He was very kind about it. But the party was not over. Dorothy had not cut her birthday cake. And when Mr. Starke left her at her own door, ‘he did not ask her to come over .and see them again.

The next day, they left Seattle. They went to Denver. They. could easily lose themselves in Denver, where there were so many transients. Transients like her mother, who were - thin and weak and very, very tired, and who came for the benefits of the high altitude. But they did not stay long in Denver. Their landlady boasted a sensational knowledge of murder trials. She kept a book of clippings. Some day she would write a detective novel. And she never forgot a face. “My but you look familiar, Mrs. Barrett; I'm sure I've seen your face somewhere!”

# n 2

HEY went to Chicago. Chicago was-a metropolis of several million people. And it was 2000 miles away from San Francisco. Nobody would ever recognize them now. Nobody must, for there was so little money left. They could not afford another escape. And Joan's mother was too ill even to look for work. It was Joan, now almost 17, who found a job in one of the enormous department stores. She loved the thrill of working; she felt tremendous pride in being able to help her mother share the burden. This was truly a new beginning. But Chicago, at the moment, was

lacking in sensation. And the next

Sunday, the pictures of Sheila Barrett and her. daughter, Joan, were splashed across the center spread

of one of the leading dailies. There were other women and other chil-

dren, too, “Orphans of the Racket,” this paper called them. It was the story of what happens to the widows and orphans of condemned criminals. : So girls in the store recognized Joan. Even the name was the same, That was one thing Joan's mother would never do. She would never forsake the name Thomas Barrett had given her. She was still proud of it. ” HE nead or Joan's department suggested that she seek another position. He was kind, even as Mr. Starke had been in Seattle. The gossip, he explained, would do her no good. There might even oc-

un 8

Love

cur small thefts or minor misde- |

meanors, and suspicion would of a certainty fall upon her. It was unfortunate, terribly unfortunate—but what could the store do? Joan did not care about the store.

She did not care about anything!

now, except that her mother was too ill even to sit up in bed. Her heart was weak, so the doctor said. He did not know that for five years, her heart had been slowly breaking. Within two months, Joan was all alone in the world. With their last few dollars, she sent’ her mother’s body back to California, to lie beside the husband with whom her spirit had died. After that, it was not so. hard to live in Chicago. People forgot Joan Barrett and the newspapers unearthed newer sensations. Jobs were easy to find, for she was bright and pretty. She studied stenography. Soon she was earning enough\money to live comfortably. But the shadow of the past still hung over Chicago; Joan thought of New York. s ” "

N her 21st birthday, she gave up her job, drew out her savings, and came East. New York proved : a friendly refuge. Almost immediately, and without references, John Hendry engaged her as a stenographer in his [investment concern. Within four months she was his personal secretary. . Two years passed quickly, and the tragedy had not caught up with her. Perhaps the world had forgotten it. Ten years is a long time. “Some day,” her mother had always told her, “a good man will ask you to marry him, Joan. That will ‘be the beginning of life for you. | Under the protection of his name, you. can forget all that has happened to us.” Joan had dreamed of it, too. What she had not realized was how intensely she might love this man who came along. And loving Bob Andrews, she found fresh agony in the thought that he might discover her secret and shrink in horror from her. So for almost a year, she had put off his proposals. . .. : The steeple clock chimed the 6:30 half hour. Joan turned her back on the sunrise and walked over to the bed.” There was no turning back now. She was going to marry Bob. He would never know what had happened 10 years before. She would never tell him, and if the story came to light, she would deny it. She could never risk the thought of his lying beside her in the dark, thinking, as those others had always thought: “Her father ‘was a murderer. It's in her blood, too, to kill.” She knelt down beside the bed for a moment before getting into it. “Dear God,” she prayed. - “Give me this last chance. Don't ever let him know. . .. Please, God!”

(To Be Continued)

Daily Short Story

AUTOMATON—By N. B. Winkless Jr.

IC M'MANN was a linotype) '¥ operator on the Daily Star. To all appearances, he was as much an automaton as his machine. Uncommunicative, he'd sit on his chair with the sawed-off legs, and rap out

| galley after galley without a let-up

and with mighty few mistakes. The Star was a small sheet, so Vic set up all of the news matter himself. Then, when they'd put her to bed, and start rolling the press, he would leave his machine and go get a copy of the paper. He'd read all the news with as much interest as a man who'd never seen the stuff before it came out in print. Like many operators, Vic simply didn’t register most of the copy he set. Vic had a wife—but that was all the family he had, so far as anyone knew. They'd been happily married for 25 years, leading quiet but contented lives. Then, one day, Mrs. McMann was struck by an automobile, and rushed to a hospital. The fact was duly recorded in the newspaper, with Vic himself setting the story, and morosely reading it whenit came off the press. It was a serious case. Mrs. McMann's life hung by a thread for days. Vic, however, didn’t miss a day at the shop, though every one knew what he was going through. Stonyfaced, but horribly sad, he'd sit at his machine, skipping his fingers over the keyboard with the same mechanical perfection as ever. 8 ” = HEN, one morning, word came from the hospital that Vic's wife had died. Steve, the city editor, wrote. the obituary himself—a kind, sympathetic history of the life of an unimportant woman. He took the story into the composing room and put it on Vic's hook. He laid a hand on Vic's shoulder and said, “Sorry, old man.” Vic looked up for just one moment, then went on setting the news of the day. At noon, he turned off his machine and took his lunch pail over to a sunny spot in a corner of the shop. Most of the boys had gone home for lunch, and those who hadn't kept their distance, avoiding Vic's eye, trying to spare his feelings. At 1, he went back to his machine. : At 3, when Bill, the makeup man, was almost ready to lock up the last pages, Vic set one more short item, and carried the hot type over to the ‘stone where Bill was spacing out a column. “Here’s another obit for you, Bill,” he said, and laid the slugs on the stone. [ "Bill said, “Okay, Vic,” and went on working, afraid to look at him. He tucked the hot slugs into the obit column, justified it, and locked up the page. ” ” T 3:25, the presses started rolling. Vic came and picked up one of the first copies, and went off to a corner to read it. The other . fellows in the shop huddled in small groups and glanced covertly at him, dreading the moment when he would come to his wife's obituary. Minutes passed. Carriers came into the shop and picked up their papers, laughing and joking.

. Joan stood “transfixed as the : ;

The fen could see no response

x J.

in Vic. As he conned the columns of the paper, his face remained stony, as it had been for days. Finally, he tossed the paper on a desk and slipped into his coat. He went to his machine, turned out the keyboard lamp, and pushed in the stubby chair. : At the door, he turned and glanced around the shop. “So long, fellows,” he called. “Good night, Vic.”

» ”

TEVE, a few minutes later, was perched on a desk in the shop, reading the paper and enjoying a cigarette. Suddenly, he choked on the smoke. : “Hey, Bill!” he shouted, leaping up. “What the devil is this?” Bill walked across the shrugging. “You guys write the stuff. All I do is make up the pages. What's the matter, Steve?” Steve dropped the paper and rushed for the door. As he did so there was a sound out on the street like the backfiring of an automobile. A woman screamed. . . . Bill picked up the paper and looked it over. At length, he found a short item in the obituary column: McMann—Victor, suddenly, at 3:45 p. m. today, devoted husband of the late Ella B. Double funeral services Friday. ...

THE END

(Copyright. 1937. by United Feature Syndicate. Inc.)

i”

room,

The characters in this story are fictitious.

Ask The Times

Inclose a 3-cent stamp for reply when addressing any question of fact or information to The Indianapolis Times Washington Service Bureau, 1013 13th St. N. W., Washington, D. C. Legal and medical advice cannot be given, nor can extended research be undertaken.

Q—Is tin ore mined in the United States?

A—Practically none. Tin is chiefly an imported product. \

Q—Who played the role of the murdered in “Meet Nero Wolfe?”

A—Russell Hardie. Q—What gases are produced by

the electrolytic decomposition of |;

water? A—Hydrogen and oxygen.

Q—Where is the world’s largest motion picture theater? A—In the Park of Culture and Rest, Moscow, Soviet Russia. It seats 15,000.

Q—How did American Marines get the nickname leathernecks? A—They were called-leathernecks by sailors in the Navy, probably on account of the leather-lined collar or stock that formerly was part of their regulation uniforms.

Q—Who play the roles of “Lum”!

and “Abner” in the radio skit?

A—Chester Lauck and . Norris Goff,

Q—Where was the largest black sea bass caught? A—One weighing 800 pounds was caught at Avalon, Cal, in 1902,

3 BE

—

OUT OUR WAY

By Williams

FLAPPER FA

NNY

FRIDAY, APRIL 233

OWOQOOH ~~ ANOTHER

BOY. OH BOY! A FORTUNE RIGHT BEFORE OUR EYES! ALL WE'D HAVE TO DO \S MOVE THESE BEAUTIFUL STONES DOWN BY TH' ROAD, AN’ SELL THEM FOR ROCK. GARDENS ~— FROM TWO BITS TO A DOLLAR APIECE ! OH, BOY!

WELL, LET'S GET AT IT, BUT WONDERFUL, | IT GOT A NOTION

SUNNY TO PUNCH

a fi

, 1% ——— LL = = 7

oi K 4933 bv Nea service. ve. V HE INDUSTRIAL LEADER.

LI'L ABNER

T KNOW WE) WONT MAKE A NICKLE, BUT IM AFRAID

os Veen,

J RMILLIAMS T.M. REC. U. S. PAT. OFF.

“423

3 ~23

By Sylvia

shower.”

THIS 1S WHAR AH LIVES’ H-HOW DO Yo’ , - AH'M SURE. r-EF

<x EJ THATS STRANGEer Ser ee-s0 2 2 ? ?-THEN YO MUS YZ BE"TH MASTER"Z- J 840 2 : r= AND YOU MUST BE THE NEW COOK. HOW DO You DO’

7lee Z A

“What's nice about it when I'm too old to wade and too little to rate a taxi?”

—By Al Capp

Bl IT'S ALL S-SO PEE-KOOL-YAR:-*

Yo IS THET LI'L ABNER?-HOW DID HE GIT HYAR?- WHY

=9-P--THAR'S - JES’ ONE. WAY T'CLEAR IT ALL UP— AN’LL SEND FO’ HIS MAMMY.”

—By Blosser

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS : 4 )

(1s wrt sst!ossIE, UNSEEMING { THE WORD | GRACE I 1s "BRIDGES. BURN MY AN’ You DON'T BRITCHES WAVE YOUR BEHIND ME! ) SworDp UNTIL THE

WE CAN SIT BACK HERE AND SEE IF THEIR VOICES i CARRY THIS FAR! IT's IMPORTANT, You KNOW, FOR EVERY LINE TO BE SPOKEN CLEARLY!

BURNING HUNGER ,T EAT... AN... PHOCEY... THIS STUFF IS

= 7 Si oz nt U Yih Lo

OSSIE, YOU'RE NOT SupPOSED TO BITE INTO THAT PROP BEEF LEG.... [T'S PLASTER OF PARIS!

——

Sass

bi 2

mr [i Hi Hl

ALLEY OOP

STILL GOING UP! 1 WONDER WHAT TH THUNDERATION EVER POSSESSED THAT FOOL FOOZY T'COME THIS WAY ®

DAYLIGHT, AT LAST! GOSH, THOUGHT ITD NEVER COME - WOTTA NIGHT ¢

POOR OV DINNY =THIS 1S SURE T2UGH GOIN’ FOR MIM ! 1 HOPE HE DOESN'T GIVE OUT-

EWES

6 Pictured

11 Afresh. 12 More - fastidious.

16 Sound. 17 Male bee.

19 Boy. 20 Pastry. 21 Stir. 23 Lair. 24 Poet. 25 Failure to keep. 27 Essential character. 30 Jewel. 33 Cravats. 34 Credit. 36 Balsam. 37 Fish. 38 Supped. 29 Snaky fish, 40 Tree. 42 Wren. 43 Meadow. , 45 Chinese money.

ORIZONTAL

1 aviatrix.

14 Oceanic fish.

18 To do again.

£ WELL , AFTER THAT PERFORMANCE, DON'T YoU FELLAS /SUGGESTION...AN' DON'T THINK I OUGHTA GET ON THE \ GET OFF IT UNTIL IT

THATS AN EXCELLENT A)

“Why, baby, you shouldn't mind a nice spring

WE ARE INA SPOT! I CAN FOLLOW ROOZY'S TRAIL THROUGH THESE TREES, BUT HOW TH'HBCK AM | GONNA GET DINNY THROUGH?

VICE, INC. 8

CROSSWORD PUZZLE

Answer to Previous Puzzle

M0 >

trans-Pacific

20 Established value, 22 Bone.

24 Public auto.

»DOHPIOICIOm rEmmE mo CZ MVO UZ XI >OEROM|I|»n—

Z|—

bitious plan, a — encir-

cling hop.

53 Redeemer. 57 Olive shrub. #58 One who aids. 59 Fabaceous

tree.

60 Her maiden

name.

61 She is’ the —— female

flyer.

VERTICAL 48 Her most am- 1 Small wild ox 15 She made a

26 Drunkard. 28 Officer’s assistant.

hop from ——e

29 Set vp a golf.

ball. 31 Piece of poetry.

32 On the lee.

35 Scarlet. 2 To repair. 3 Female sheep. 4 Not direct 5 Ventilated. 6 Pertaining to punishment. 7 Nettle rash. - 8 Neither. 9 Imitated. 10 Manufactured 11 She made a S010 —— flight. 13 Company.

41 Arab name

Being.” 42 Bordered. 44 Seaweed. 45 Pedal digit. 46 Wing. 47 Ever. 49 Kindled.

51 Wood apple. 52 Before.

55 Age. 56 Limb.

9 10

- Sow cone

po 2

“—But if you want to work for your meals, we can use a man once a week

to do repairs about the house.”

[¢°

KEEP DRINKING . . .

B GALLON

20:

JUG

38 Form of “be.”

for “Supreme

50 Alleged force,

54 Kimono sash.’

POLK'S BUTTERMILK

? - a A ran TT

A =X