Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933

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Charles Herrington Alone Knew the Hiding Place of the $5,000,000 and Herrington Was Going to the Chair With His Lips Stubbornly Sealed

The old delivery truck, with one headlight glaring white and the other darker than the night, squealed to a halt in front of the penitentiary gate.

Before it had stopped rolling, a bruised, dishevelled young man was off the running board. The youthful driver’s lower jaw had been sagging in astonishment ever since he had picked up his strange, forceful passenger among the Westchester hills. Now his jaw dropped to the limit as he looked at a bill which had just been thrust into his hand.

Without a word the stranger limped rapidly toward the gate of the prison.

The keeper on duty looked him over with a flicker of interest as he approached.

“What you’re looking for is the hospital, fellow,” the guard declared, grinning. “This is the big house.”

“Assistant District Attorney Mark Telfair of New York County to see Acting Warden Crawford,” the visitor stated with crisp intensity. “Open that gate!”

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