The Photo-Play Journal (May 1916-Apr 1917)

THE PHOTOPLAY JOURNAL POR DECEMBER, 1916: PAGE 25 "Is your name Don Rothwell?" the officer asked. "Ye-yes sir," the frightened young man admitted. "Hustle in your clothes then, and come with me," the officer instructed. "What for?" "The captain wants to ask you a fewquestions about the Hite case." "But I don't know anything about it," the young man protested. "Anyway I want to keep out of it, because my life has been threatened." "It has !" the officer exclaimed in surprise. "Who threatened it?" "A leader of a gang of gunmen," Rothwell declared. "Well, hurry along, and you can tell your whole story at the station," the officer ordered. Rothwell promptly reached the conclu sion that it would be best for him to obev the orders of the police, and so he made quick work of donning his clothes, and in less than an hour he was closeted in the office of the captain of the Forty-seventh Street Police Station, to whom he told the whole story of his experiences the night before. "Well, why weren't you down to work on time this morning?" the captain asked after Rothwell had finished. "I — I — overslept," the latter replied. "Are you sure it wasn't on account of your fear of the gunmen being on the lookout for you there ?" "No, I hadn't even thought of that." "Well, you'd better think about it a little by keeping alert; but don't run away, because nine times out of ten those thugs are only bluffing," the captain advised. And at that very instant Don Rothwell found himself getting exceedingly sensitive in the realization that he was being given the "don't-run-away" advice at amazingly frequent intervals of late. The superstitious side of his nature started to developing, and he began to feel certain there was some ill omen in the repetition of such counsel. When the captain told him he could go after warning him to hold himself in readiness to be called as a witness at anytime, Rothwell arose and looked all around the room, finally returning his gaze to the captain. "Er — captain, would you mind telling me what the trouble is all about?" he asked. "Too busy, sonny, but you can get it all in the morning papers," the officer replied. Consequently the first thing Rothwell did upon getting out of the station house was to rush to the nearest news-stand and purchase a morning paper, and the first thing to greet his eye on the front page was this alarming headline : BOOKKEEPER TAKES CHANCE ON HIS OWN LIFE TO AID POLICE! Breathlessly Rothwell read the news story which followed, and learned how, by some clever and quick identification work, Detective William Walsh and two assistants had shadowed and captured "Butch" Metcalf, alias James Hite, a swindler of international notoriety. Right in the "lead" of the story Rothwell was given credit for greatly aiding the police by happening to be in his office at work at a time when the detectives only had five minutes in which to determine whether or not they were on the trail of the right man. Doubts arose in their minds because their suspect did not tally in one respect to the description of the criminal they sought, and it later developed that they learned of a man of Hite's description having some dental work done at the Weaver Dental Parlors, where Rothwell was employed. Hence Detective Walsh had paid a flying visit to this establishment and learned from the young bookkeeper that Hite had had gold crowns placed on all his upper front teeth a short time before. This fully accounted for the change in his appearance and the dentistry had no doubt been resorted to solely for the purpose of making more difficult identification. The story went on to tell how Rothwell had quickly furnished all the facts he possessed, and how Detective Walsh rushed back on the trail of his man, redoubling his efforts with a notable arrest as a climax. Rewards amounting in total to $30,000 had been offered for taking Hite into custody, and the story wound up by announcing that young Rothwell would get his share of this money, because he had dared to disregard threats against his life. However, in the latter detail the paper erred. Upon concluding his perusal Rothwell started on the run for his office, spurred on by the prospect of reaping sufficient funds from this accidental stroke of good fortune to make sure his marriage to Maude Thorne without having to suffer the humiliation of telling her he had deceived her for such a long time. He quite forgot the gunmen for the nonce. The moment he entered the Weaver Dental Parlors he was showered with congratulations from everyone connected with the institution, including Dr. Weaver, and on his desk he found a note asking him to call Miss Thorne as soon as he arrived. This he did with avidity, and the first thing he heard her musical little voice say over the wire was : "See? Wasn't I right in telling you to not run away ?" "Believe me, I'm glad I took your advice too, because this is going to mean a lot to us, dearie," he replied. In all his subsequent conversation over the phone he demonstrated a reassuring return of cheerfulness and confidence in his chances to be happy after all, and that whole day he whistled merry tunes as he worked. The evening of this day found Don Rothwell with Maude Thorne very early. In fact, he could scarcely be patient in his an ticipation of at last enjoying a visit devoid of inward worrying. He had calculated he would receive no less than $2,000, and possibly more, as his bit of the reward for Hite's capture, and he rejoiced in the knowledge that such an amount would insure the furnished apartment his fiancee had so fondly planned with a comfortable margin left. So naturally it was the gayest evening of his whole courtship, and the blithesome spirit was mutual. The future seemed permanently roseate, and the past was easily forgotten. In fact, the past was so much forgotten on the part of young Rothwell that, after kissing his chosen one goodnight, he wended his way across the lower end of Central Park without even so much as looking right or left, let alone back. His gaze was fixed straight ahead just as his hopes in life were straight ahead in the future, and there .n he erred ! Following close behind him was a swarthy-complexioned Italian lad not more than nineteen years of age. He was attired in a neat, brown suit of the latest style and wore a soft, brown hat, which he had pulled down over his forehead, making his black, piercing eyes almost invisible to the passerby. This mysterious stranger permitted Rothwell to pass undisturbed through several of the darkest and loneliest pathways of the park. Then, upon reaching the brilliantly lighted entrance leading into Broadway, he quickened his pace until he got almost alongside the unwary young man. Boldly the pursuer peered in Rothwell's face, as if to make sure he was the right man. Then he dropped directly behind him, and that very instant Rothwell reeled and fell face downward across one of the streetcar tracks. The young Italian never even turned his head to see what had happened, but walked rapidly on across the street and jumped into a taxicab, which quickly disappeared. A small crowd of pedestrians gathered around the prostrate form of Don Rothwell. Those who had witnessed his fall were at variance in their opinions as to what ailed him. One man suggested heart failure and another remarked that the fellow was intoxicated. No one ventured to touch him because of the yells of a traffic policeman who came running to the spot. The officer's first act was to lift Rothwell up to a standing position and to look into his face. "This man's dying," he yelled. "Some of you men help me carry him over to that drug store." Within a minute they had Rothwell in the drug store, and a physician, who happened to be in the place at the time, made a hurried examination in an effort to determine the cause of the man's unconsciousness, but the more he examined the more perplexed became the expression on the doctor's face. Then he attempted an emergency treatment, and the patient showed signs of reviving. The physician repeated this treatment and Rothwell opened his eyes soon afterward. He struggled for fully a minute before he could speak audibly. Then, in very husky tones, he said : "They all said to me, 'don't run away.' I didn't run away. That's why the gunman got me." "But you haven't been shot," the physician told him. "Yes ; it's here," Rothwell groaned as he tried to reach the middle of his back with his trembling hand. Excitedly the physician lifted the youngman to a sitting position and ran his fingers down his back. A second later he pulled from the back of his coat a headless, brass pin about two inches in length. The instant the pin was extracted Rothwell groaned and his body became perfectly limp. Thirty minutes later Rothwell was in an emergency hospital, and heroic methods were being resorted to that he might survive the strange attack which had been made upon him. The slight incision made by the pin in his back had been discovered, and the wound was found to contain traces of a very deadly poison. Rothwell was but another victim of the poison needle, so the doctors announced. Within the very same hour a conscientious chauffeur, whose suspicions had been aroused by a lone passenger's nervous commands for greater speed, abruptly brought his car to a standstill in front of a policeman and yelled to him to arrest the occupant as he himself jumped on the opposite (Continued on page 31)