Motion Picture Classic (Jul-Dec 1930)

Thrills! Mystery! Excitement! MONSTERS OF MYSTERY # A penniless young man finds a thousand-dollar bankroll in the street — and enters upon a strange adventure By HARRY M. LYNCH THREE MINUS ONE 9 An Underworld Detective Story. By EARL W. SCOH THE DEATH RIDDLE OF THE REDWOODS 9 The True Story of California's Strangest Murder Mystery By J. WILLIAM HAMILTON MORE STARTLING FACTS ONTHE"JAKE"LINGLE MURDER # Chicago's G rea test Crime Scandal. The inside stor/of the widely-discussed LINGLE case is appearing exclusively in this magazine. SCIENCE GOES HAYWIRE 9 A new detective story By THOMAS TOPHAM And other thrilling stories and fact articles In the October issue of America's fastestgrowing detective magazine. Real Detective Tales Now on Sale at All N ews otands The Most Dramatic Moment Of My Life {Continued from page jq) boy with whom I had been friends ever since our childhood. We had been raised on neighboring estates and at an early age our nurses had brought us together for an afternoon of play. We had grown up and, I believe, even verged on a puppy-love affair. Then I had gone away to the stage. . . I hadn't seen him again until the second day out on my trip to France. He had developed into a charming, delightful boy and we had a wonderful time with deck games and dancing until the boat landed. Then we separated and 1 had all but forgotten him. And now, here he was in trouble! Strange Justice SUDDENLY, he gained a semblance of consciousness and tried to tell us the remainder of his story. He had been thrown into jail for stealing a car that had been stolen and recovered eight months before he had ever set foot in France! That may seem impossible. But let me remind you that a person accused of crime in France is guilty until proved innocent! And besides, there seems to be no such law as our American habeas corpus that gives a prisoner the right to an immediate and impartial trial. No, on the contrary, France brings her prisoners to trial when the spirit moves her! I could see that the only way out was for the boy to escape the country inasmuch as they had stripped him of his passport and without it he had no way of proving his entrance into the country. He explained that most of his belongings were still in the little room he had taken, when he arrived in town the day before. It had been difficult to locate me and he knew that he had been followed almost every time he had set foot outside his lodging place. But I had a plan. W'e would call the taxi-driver at the hotel and ask him to help us. It was arranged that he should take the boy to the vicinity of his room and let him out — then drive to a safe distance and wait. I gave the boy all the ready money I had with me; he thanked me, and we said farewell. Kidnapped by the Law BUT if I had had any idea that our ailieu was to be in any way permanent, I was sadly mistaken ! The taxi man returned to me at five o'clock in the morning with the story of the attempted escape. He had driven the boy within a block of his room and let him out. About fifteen minutes later, he saw my friend approaching the machine with a bag and just behind him were two offtcial-looking gentlemen who had suddenly taken an interest in his movements. As the young man opened the door of the cab, one of the men stepped forward and slipped handcuffs over his wrists. Inasmuch as the driver had the motor running for a quick start, he had managed to get away. That was all. I was frantic. My questions fairly tumbled over each other. "Where was the young man now.*^ ' Did the two men take him back to the village thirty miles from Paris?" The poor dazed driver could not help me, so I sent him away, with the warning that he be on hand in case I should need him. As I search my mind for the most dramatic moment of my life, I find that it is almost impossible to choose any one moment from the week that followed. That week was one dramatic moment after another. I shall try to give them to you as they happened to me. First, I knew that I must have help. Af ter all, I was but an American woman al in Paris — and that was not such a bri outlook for a boy in grave trouble. Tti I had several friends in Paris; but they w friends I had never thought I would ne to call on. Now, I needed them most drea fully. I set the wires of the hotel burning ' my haste to get in touch with the Americ Embassy, the Consul, the French Surei and as many more official agencies as I co" think of at the moment. For I had receivword that the boy was being held at most terrible of all French prisons — San Could I see him? No! It was absolute impossible. No one could see him. I beg* the American Consul and the Ambassad to do something. But it seemed a hope task. The boy was now under the status an escaped prisoner — a far, far more gerous predicament than his original tro ble. By pulling every possible string, I aged to send him food and clothing; but for seeing him and letting him know a I was active in his behalf — never! I mi have saved myself the effort of sending food and clothing. I learned later that never received them. The guards saw t, that. After the third or fourth day of beggin and pleading, using tears and smiles wlie I thought they would do the most g" things began to take shape. I was inforr that everything was being done to arrangit the matter of my seeing the boy. In .Amen, ica, I suppose that would be easy — too easv and matter-of-course to be in any way dra' matic. But France is quite different. My "Trial" I appeared before austere French gentle' men in fancy uniforms; I dined with th American representatives in Paris; I h audiences with every person of political in portance in the city. And at last I was tol that my request was to be put before th High Tribunal. At the time, I had no id what this could mean — but I was soon find out. My hearing was set for an early hour in the morning. A special messenger conducted me to the "trial," and I was so fright-; ened by his imposing bearing that I almost' gave up the whole thing on the spot. Right here is where I want to say that my "trial" before the Tribunal was one of the most dramatic moments I have ever experienced. I was led into a regular courtroom with a judge, jury and guards. I can't possibly i describe it to you so that you might understand the pomp and ceremony that must be gone through before such a permission as I sought may be granted. But it was much more impressive than any famous murder trial in our own country — of that, you may be sure. I was required to take the stand and testify, as were all the importar»t personages whose aid I had enlisted in favor of the boy. At last, a decision was reached. . . 1 was to have the opportunity to visit him in Sante — but only through a heavy iron netting. I was not to attempt to get any closer than that. Then, after a half-hour talk by the judge, in which he went to great trouble to tell me just how great was the privilege (mentioning the fact that I was the only woman alive who had ever been granted such an extraordinary permission), I was told that I was to go to the prison at suntlown the next evening. At last, the climax to a week of drama: to be the only woman alive ever to descend into the bowels of that Hell-on-Earth — Sante! I don't believe I slept a wink that night, {Continued on page loi) 98