Murder on The
Trolley Car

The Big-Time Racketeer Planned a Perfect Crime . . . But Fate, an Unrelenting
Sleuth and a Red-Head Proved His Nemesis—A Swift Moving Dramatic Account

DUMPING THE FIVE heavy money-
bags on the sidewalk Jacob Schumacher
leaned against the lamp-post and glanced
at his watch. It was just 1.30 in the morn-
ing. At any moment the Westchester
Electric street car would rattle into sub-
urban Mount Vernon and pick him up.
And he would, he admitted be glad to get
back home and crawl between the cool
white sheets of his bed. A light winked
through the darkness, accompanied by the
rumble of the street car. “Howdy, Rags!”
He greeted the tall uniformed conductor
and dumped his money bags wearily on
the floor. “Only four passengers’, he
commented after a hasty survey. “Bus-
iness kind of slow, eh!”

“Thinning eut now.” Conductor Nicholl
jerked the lever and the trolley gathered
speed.

While the two men chatted amiably
together neither noticed the two hard-
faced passengers who rose stealthily from
their seats and with swift, cat-like steps
approached them. :

“O. KK. buddy .

Turning, Nicholl and Schumacher
found themselves gazing into the menac-
ing muzzles of two wicked automatics.

. stop right here.”

“Hand over them bags and make it
snappy!” snarled the smaller man, his gun
hand trembling. The other, a thick-set
thug with porcine eyes, covered the two
amazed passengers. “Sit tight,” he hissed,
“or you'll get a load of lead.”

Disregarding the paper-white face, the
trembling trigger finger and the dilated
eyes of the nearest thug, Schumacher
calmly pushed the money bags into a
corner with his foot as Nicholl brought
the heavy control-handle down on the
man’s head. A staccato roar filled the
trolley, a yellow spear of flame leapt
from the other’s automatic. With a choked
ery Nicholl crumpled on the floor.

“You... you... Launching himself
across the car Schumacher struck up the
threatening gun which exploded harm-
lessly in the air. Crack! Another gun
spat its missile of death, and Inspector
Schumacher crashed across the prone
body of his companion.

SEVENTEENTH EDITION

of a Nice Piece of Investigation Work.

Sweeping the bags of currency into
their arms the killers leapt to the road and
dived into a shadowy Pontiac that, un-
noticed, had been trailing the street car
for some time. Next moment the phan-
tom car was swallowed up in the purple
curtain of the night.

Petrified with horror the two passengers
sat glued to their seats till a small crowd,
attracted by the sound of the shooting,
commenced to mill around. A police car
siren broke the silence of the night
and Captain Silverstein, Captain Mattes,
Chief of Police Attwell and Coroner
Squires boarded the scene of the tragedy.

Potice Ger to Work

One glance at the prostrate men was
enough. Feeling their wrists Squires
shook his head significantly. “They're
through,” came his crisp comment. “This
one,” he leaned over Nicholl, “got it right
between the eyes, and the other plumb
through the heart. Never knew what hit
them.”

“Someone’s sure going to pay for this.”
Silverstein’s voice was brittle as he ques-
tioned the two befuddled passengers. In
a few moments police were in possession
of the facts. One of the frightened wit-
nesses recalled that one of the killers was
scrawny, pasty-faced, with shifty eyes and
black hair. The other was tall and fleshy,
while both had been seen to make their
getaway in a Pontiac car which one of the
passengers now recalled had been trailing
them for some time.

“There were fwo cars,’ piped up one of
the crowd. “A Pontiac and a_ yellow
coupe. I saw it trailing along while I was
walking down the street. It swung off
just as I heard the shots.”

“T remember now,” stammered another,
“St looked like the coupe was going to
stop behind the Pontiac. When the shots
came it swung around and hit down that
side street over there like a scared cat.”

“Damn little to go by,” rasped the Chiet
as the bodies were placed in an ambulance.
“There are plenty of Pontiac sedans
around, and the bullets won't do any good
unless we find the guns that fired them.”

*

By
PHILIP H. GODSELL

*

A motor-cycle patrolman shot out of
the gloom and brought his vehicle to a
screeching halt. “J saw them!’ Breath-
less and almost incoherent he leapt for-
ward, mopping his sweat-beaded forehead.
“T saw them!”

“Then,” snorted Mattes impatiently,
“why didn’t you do something about it?
Snap out of it and let us have the score.”

“A black Pontiac sedan crashed into
the railroad viaduct a mile from here,”
Patrolman Riordan told them. ‘Three
men jumped out and hit for the bush.
Looked like they were packing something
pretty heavy. I phoned headquarters and
they told me to high-tail it here. Said to
report to you, there’d been a murder, and
these guys were likely in it.”

“Here you,” Attwell turned to a couple
of patrolmen, “watch this car and don’t
let anyone near.” Boarding the cruiser
car with Silverstein and Mattes, Attwell
sent it hurtling through the night with
Riordan roaring behind on his motor-
cycle. As the white beam of the head-
lights picked out the Pontiac piled against
the granite wall of the viaduct they leapt
to the road and eyed the wrecked vehicle ‘
with amazement.

GETAWAY CAR SMASHES ON VIADUCT

“How in hell,’ muttered Silverstein,
“anyone got out of that alive, or without
being hopelessly maimed, is a mystery to
me.” A swift glance inside showed that
the money bags were gone, while the fact
that Riordan had seen the occupants dash-
ing frantically through the nearby woods
seemed evidence enough that this was the
getaway car.

While fingerprint men went over the
car with a fine-tooth comb and picked up
excellent prints on the steering wheel,
Attwell searched the interior. He was re-
warded by finding two .32 automatics, an
empty heroin container and a hypodermic
syringe. The barrels of both guns gave
out the pungent odour of recently ignited
eunpowder, while each magazine lacked
one cartridge.

“Looks like we've got the murder
weapons,” Attwell handled them gingerly.

Page Seventy-Seven