Motion Picture Classic (Jul-Dec 1930)

The Most Dangerous Moment of My Life {Continued from page jg) Chicago Exposed! The Inside Story of Why "Jake" Lingle^ Chicago Tribune Reporter, Was Killed Complete in the September REAL DETECTIVE TALES When Alfred ("'Jake") Lingle, Tribune reporter, was shot down and killed at high noon in the heart of Chicago, on June 9 of this year, the sensation was felt throughout America. Newspapers everywhere have played up this greatest of all crime stories. But not one newspaper has printed the real facts. These facts are published for the first time in this month's issue of REAL DETECTIVE TALES. Read "The Reporter Who Blew the Lid Off Chicago" See how the "big shots " of Chicago's underworld have corrupted not only the police and men in public office, but even the Chicago newspapers. Behind the murder of "Jake " Lingle lies an appalling record of crime and graftthat has no parallel. The whole sensational story is told, completely and in detail, in America's fastest growing detective magazine LOOK FOR THIS COVER Now on Sale at All News Stands 94 wide open. But even with the odds even, we had a tough time and tookan awful beating from the two remaining men who faced us. Finally, the rum-runner who had wielded the club with such devastating effect returned from his romantic search of the ship. The girl, however, had succeeded in hiding herself well. As he came around the corner of the cabin, I picked up the man I had just knocked senseless on the deck and, raising him high above my head, threw him bodily in the direction of the oncoming adversary. The impact was terrible. Both men were sprawled on the deck of the craft — cold. I then helped my partner put the remaining man out of commission and we found ourselves standing in the midst of five unconscious men. We revived the owner of the boat in short order and, together, we lifted the fallen rum-runners to the side of the boat and dropped them over into their own launch, cut the ropes and moved away. As we left the vicinity of the scrap, we thanked our lucky stars that the racketeers had failed to bring their guns when they invaded our yacht. The end of the fight might have been sadly reversed, if they had. It Promised Adventure THE next few days following that incident, I spent in some heavy thinking. The men on the power launch had been carrying a cargo of liquor down from Canada, and I found, by inquiring about, that this sort of business was paying big money. If, I figured, I could get such a kick out of running into a bunch engaged in the racket, why shouldn't I get in the game myself? No reason at all. So I went around to call on an old friend of mine who was making regular and mysterious trips to the border at least once a week. Maybe he could put me wise. After a half-hour's talk with Bill, I decided that rum-running was the next adventure for me. He told me that he was bringing down a load of liquor every few days and that the game was paying him big money. The smartest thing for me to do, he thought, was to make a trip or two with him so that I could get onto the ropes and learn how the deal was worked. He explained that the racket didn't require a great amount of brains, but that one needed an over-supply of nerve and brass. I said I'd go. DON'T LAUGH. / made that trip disguised as a womanl "Honeymoon Couple" BILL had calmly informed me that, if I was to make the trip with him, I must wear a woman's hat, coat and heavy veil. The reason for this precaution being that Bill always carried an extra man along with him, dressed as a woman, to allay the suspicions of the customs' men. I was to take his place, if I wanted to go. I did. We drove a geared-up job that was capable of making a hundred miles an hour with a load of thirty cases aboard. Nothing happened on the way up. We got the liquor and placed it in the special holders on the frame under the body of the phaeton. The springs of the car had been built up with extra leaves so that any casual inspection of the machine would fail to disclose the additional weight. We started back. Through the customs at the border we went — just like a "couple" on a honeymoon. Not the slightest suspicion seemed to cause the guards to look twice in our direction. I began to laugh after we got out in the open country. Bill scowled and asked what all the fun was about, and I told him that I had never guessed that it would be as easy as this. He scowled again. Then he passed me a cigarette without a word, i Something in his silence seemed to tell me | that the worst was yet to come. Going along at a clip of about fifty miles an hour, we were covering a lot of territory when all of a sudden, in the road just ahead of us, stood two men waving a lantern. The road at this particular spot was very narrow and there was no room for us to swerve around them. We had to stop. The Searching Party THEY approached the car with rifles and informed us that they were government men and that they were going to search the car for liquor. I must have looked like a pretty husky lady for Bill to be carrying around (he only weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds). But my size and veil seemed to make no difference. One man stood at our side while the other started in . on his tour of inspection. Soon we heard the man at the back of the car call out: "Come on back here, Lem — want you to . hold this lantern whilst I take a good look* under this band-wagon. Them springs don't look as light as they might." The car was still running and before the man at our side left us, he cautioned us to turn ofif the motor and not to try anything. * But they never had the chance to look under the car. Instead of cutting the motor off. Bill cut it wide open the minute the guard left the front of the car — and we left them standing in the center of the road. The fact that the car was geared-up gave us a good get-away speed, but we had hardly started when we heard the familiar sound of Winchester .30-. 30 rifles cracking out at our backs. The bullets continued to sing around us for the next few seconds and, as we found when we stopped down the road, a lot of them . had been true. Our machine was riddled with holes all over the back of the tonneau! So far, so good! Now it was Bill who was doing the smiling. He had come, through experience, to expect only one hitch to the trip. But he was mistaken. We were due for another — and it wasn't going to be a hitch either. It was what I have always considered the most dangerous moment of my life. Trouble Ahead, Then Behind 1EM and his partner must have telej phoned the news of the rum-runners ahead of us. At any rate, they knew we were coming. We saw their lights about a half-mile before we actually got to the place. It was only about ten miles from the previous stop. As we drew closer, we could see that they had placed a "STOP" sign in the center of the road and that there were two armed men on either side of the highway waiting for us. Bill, yelling over the noise of the motor, told me that he thought the "STOP" sign was pretty flimsy. I got him. We were going right on through. Down went the foot on the accelerator, and the motor roared as though the world were coming to an end. I looked at the speedometer . . . 60 . . . 70 . . . 80 . . . crash! The little "STOP" sign placed in our track went flying through the air in a thousand pieces. Before the car had hardly crossed the "deadline," the rifles commenced to pop. Bill started to cuss. {Continued on page qq)