Memphis World Memphis World Publishing Co. 1951-09-11 Lewis O. Swingler MEMPHIS WORLD AMERICA'S STANDARD RACE JOURNAL The South's Oldest and leading Colored Semi-Weekly Newspaper Published by MEMPHIS WORLD PUBLISHING CO. Every TUESDAY and FRIDAY at 164 BEALE—Phone,8-4030 Entered In the Post Office at Memphis, Tenn., as second-Clam mail under the Act of Congress, March 1, 1870 Member of SCOTT NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE W. A. Scott, II, Founder; C. A. Scott, General Manager LEWIS O. SWINGLER Editor A. G. SHIELDS, Jr. Advertising Manager The MEMPHIS WORLD is an independent newspaper—non sectarian and non-partisan, printing news unbiasedly and supporting those things it believes to the interest of its readers and opposing those things against the interest of its readers. SUBSCRIPTION RATES: Year $5.00—6 Months $3.00—3 Months $1.50 (In Advance) ROUTE SUPERVISORS: SOUTHWEST: Jimmie Cooper, 119 E. Utah Phone 9-3700 N. EASTERN: Lucius Vessell, 1001 Thomas OFFICE: Charles Moore, 397-C South Lauderdale GREATER WHITEHAVEN AREA—Lawrence Johnson phone 35-4917 CENTRAL: James Hawes, Jr., 879 S. 4th Phone 39-3980 BINGHAMPTON: Gayther Myers, 675 Lipford Phone 48-0627 For any information concerning the distribution of THE WORLD, please contact one of your route supervisors, particularly the one in your respective district. Bad Reading For The Public A Negro college president had a lot to say about the Negro farmer and what he should do to cultivate a better South and thus provide for himself and his family a better home-life, better education and a happier future. But one thing above all else said by him stands out in our thinking. He said: The County Sheriffs in the South have done more to populate Northern cities than any other single cause of Negro migration from the South." By that statement of course, he meant that because of active promotion of violence or tacit approval of it by sheriffs, against Negroes, they are, as fast as circumstances and conditions will permit, leaving these tension areas for parts of the country where they can support their families and educate their children without fear of mob-Violence. Such a condition obtained this week in Emmanuel County, when a group of 300 robed but unmasked men flogged a number of Negro residents near Swainsboro after burning crosses. One Negro, Otis Jordan, was treated at a local hospital for injuries received. A Mrs. Edsel Dawkins, presumably a white property-owner in the section, stated that the floggings probably grew out of Negroes being moved into a white section. And although the floggings have been reported to the Sheriff, he said he had not yet been asked to make an investigation. Earlier in the week, the Police Chief said he had not contemplated an investigation. But despite the apparent composure and claim with which these high law enforcement officials seem to view this occurrence, it is shocking to the senses, of decent people everywhere. Action like this and others happening daily in our rural communities are the things that give Georgia the bad reputation it bears in other sections of the nation. To say that we care nothing about what other people think of us, is to confess our ignorance of the laws of decency. The cold indifference with which this incident is being viewed reflects discredit both upon the Sheriff and the Police Chief. For in a little town like Swainsboro it-is next to impossible for a group of 100 men, not to mention 300, to get together, burn crosses and flog citizens without even the Chief or the Sheriff or any of his subordinates knowing. It makes bad reading for the public. The Liberal Southern View The governor of Arkansas, Sid McMath, expressed the liberal southern viewpoint Friday, at St. Paul, Minnesota, when he told a National Urban League Convention that in the South; "We shall continue our efforts toward racial understanding and cooperation until the goal of the Urban League—equal opportunity for all—is a reality. When we have reached that goal, it will be protected forever because it will have been achieved with the full understanding and unreserved cooperation of free men and women." This attitude voiced by Governor McMath, is generally shared by white citizens throughout the South. It is generally recognized that the southern people are making a conscientious effort to narrow the gap of equality between Negroes and whites. This is true from the level of the county school superintendents to that of the street-cleaners in our larger cities. The bone of contention is not equality, but how fast shall that equality come. That position is far ahead of the thinking of our own Governor, who expresses the view that Americans should not, be bothered about the impressions which Russia and the other countries of the world get from us. We do not think that we can afford to take such an attitude when we are trying to win these very people to the cause of Democracy. We are therefore, selling America of today, not the America of Thomas Jefferson, or Andrew Jackson. It does make a difference on what the smaller nations think about America. As officials of state, we must be careful to lift up our best for their thinking. We must not allow the Ku Klux Klan to set the tone of our Democracy for foreign nations. Neither should our leaders sit by and permit our worst elements to paint the picture which we want to present to these nations and" peoples we hope to win. Governor McMath's philosophy as well as his words, will paint a favorable picture in Russia and in all other countries where We hope to gain an advantage. Harlemites Press For New Job Opportunities The Harlem Committee to malts FEPC Work an affiliate of the United African Nationalist Movement, through its Chairman, James R. Lawson, announced this week that an intensive campaign has been launched against several, beer concerns in an effort to obtain Jobs for Negroes as truck drivers. Mr. Lawson said members of his Committee have been calling in stores and taverns selling beer produced by the companies under attack and urging them to boycott the products. He said $175,000 in orders had ben cancelled with one company alone. It was learned that the general manager of one of the companies told a representative of the Job Committee that his firm would gladly hire Negroes If a problem could be worked out with, the union. He is said to have called attention to the fact that in 1943 his company hired 13 Negro drivers, but that the white drivers refused to work with them. The Negro drivers were subsequently dismissed. The beer company official is said to have explained the difficulty with the union by pointing out that under the terms of the contracts, all part time or extra help would have to be employed before anyone else could be hired on a permanent basis. Under these circumstances, it would take several years before openings would be available. Mr. Lawson said that he and his associates feel it is up to the companies and the unions to work out some way to overcome this dilemma, which was-brought about by discrimination in the first place. He siad if something isn't done, the company will lose sales and that some of the men presently working will lose their jobs. Efforts were being made this week to arrange a conference with representatives of the seven unions involved, and a negotiating committee, for September 6. In The Nation's Capital The No. 1 recommendation for combatting organized crime, made by the Senate Crime Investigating Committee in its final report, calls for the establishment of local, privately constituted crime commissions. In its third interim report, the committee proposed the establishment of a Federal Crime Commission. A bill to set up such a commission has been introduced in the Senate. The proposed Federal Crime Commission would be an Independent Federal agency, in the executive branch of the Government, organized and staffed independently of other Government agencies, and required to report to Congress. But this bill is opposed by the Treasury and Justice Departments. The Treasury Department has its own law enforcement agencies— the Secret Service which is responsible for the protection of the President and his family, the supervision of counterfeiting, and investigation of forgery of Government checks, bonds, and other obligations; The Narcotics Bureau which enforces the Federal narcotics and marijuana laws, and the Customs Bureau which guards against the smuggling of narcotics and other contraband into the United States. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is the investigative arm of She Justice Department. Senator Alexander Wiley, Republican, of Wisconsin, a member of the crime investigating committee, also is opposed to the creation of a Federal Crime Commission. The committee believes that local crime commissions cannot carry on unless they have a national parent body with sufficient presage and funds to give it drive. It, therefore, proposes the establishment of a privately constituted National Crime Coordinating Council, composed of representatives of privately established local crime commissions. Colored people should be wary if these suggestions. While local crime commissions in Washington. New York and Chicago may be harmless, arid even do some good, there is no guaranty that extralegal bodies concerned with crime fine their efforts to observing local crime conditions and issuing reports upon their observations. Such commissions may easily overstep their bounds and attempt to take the law into their own hands. They might become vigilance committees imbued with the idea that their duty is to suppress and punish crime summarily. An army of snoopers could be created to spy upon the rest of the people in their communities, and upon each other, and give the law enforcement officers false and misleading information, thereby impeding the administration of justice. Ku Klux Klan activities are illustrations of what can and may happen. Klaverns have pried into the personal affairs of people and flogged men and women and even committed murder on flimsy and unsubstantiated charges. Organized crime cannot exist in any community without police protection. In some cases the protection is obtained by bribing police officials. In other cases, racketeers make large contributions to political campaigns upon whom they rely to see that they are allowed to operate without police interference. Eradicating corruption is no job for amateurs. But there are contributions to law enforcement that honest citizens can make everywhere, except in the voteless District of Columbia. They can see that men who will enforce the laws without fear or favor are put into office as prosecutors and heads of police departments. They can prod such law enforcement officers into vigorous action against lawless elements in their communities. Regular legal processes are adequate to suppress any lawlessness that a community is unwilling to tolerate. Of course, the community must be opposed to organized gambling. Its members cannot place a $2 bet on a horse with a local bookie whom they have known all their lives. As the committee pointed out, "Small-scale bookmaking in local communities may seem innocuous, but it is part of a huge gangster monoply that reaches its tentacles into every corner of the Nation. A bookmaker cannot do business without prompt racing information. And this he cannot obtain except, through the interstate monopoly of the mob-controlled Continental Press Service which obtains news from the track illegally, and broadcaste it through an elaborate system of wigwag, telephone and telegraph, The $2 bet placed with a local 'bookie' is a contribution to a $5,000,000,000 mobster operation." Winners On er, wife of radio technician Charles Farmer, of (114 Bleriot Way) Grand Prairie, Texas. She submitted a winning corned beef hash "conservation recipe." Winners are chosen on the basis of home-making ability as well as beauty. Mrs. Martha Frances Martin, of (2128 S. Kansas. Avenue) Topeka, Kas., who chosen "Mrs. Kansas." Her goulash recipe won her top honors along with her figure. The judges selected Mrs. Aldona Gordon, wife of a musician, of (18720 Faust) Detroit, as "Mrs. Michigan." KILL 'EM WITH KINDNESS By FRED DICKENSON Marrying playboy Ronnie Tompkins is mysteriously stain in his luxurious home, despite the eagle eye of Detective Mack McGann, engaged to guard him against posible violent death. Ronnie's cherished friend. Frazier Farwell, a disc jockey, had been asleep in the house the night of the murder, but heard no sound of struggle. McGann warns Charity Jones, a beautiful model who was to become Tompkins seventh wife, to remain away from her home while the law's man-hunt is on. In a dark street the detective comes upon a sinister figure shadowing him—knocks the fellow down. But the "shadow" proves to be an old acquaintance, ace reporter, Dink Wexton, who'd covered all of Ronnie's romances for his newspaper. McGann learns from blonde Bombshell Irma Tompkins, ex-wife No. 4. that she'd been with Ronnie shortly before his demise. He also earns that Kathieen, ex-wife No. 4, had taken an apartment next to Tompkins house, advantage point which allowed her to view through his windows, many of his bizarre activites. What does SHE know of his murder? AS THE CAB rolled through Union Square, Wexton read excerpts of quotes from several exwives. "Here's one from Faith Starr in Cannes," he said. "Ronnie wasn't killed by a trans-Atlantic rocket so she's in the clear. She says and I quote, I will always have a sort spot in my heart for Ronnie. He was a true gentleman and one of the finest husbands I ever had." "A touching tribute," McGann said "Any more?" "A wire from Gladys Mars in Hollywood Tompkins took her out of a chorus. She was his first wife so she always felt that the other gals were loser's choice. Gladys stated that the news saddenner. Wexton read and she hinted that a suicide theory should not be too lightly dismissed. "Dear Ronnie," she said, "never quite recovered from the shattering of our dyll I had long feared that he might do something desperate. . ." Wexton threw the pewspaper on the seat. "The most desperate thing. Tompkins would do over a woman would be to order domestic champagne." He pondered. "Of course that might have killed him." McGann asked, "Did Tompkins drink very much?" "He always had it under controll, but I never knew him to pass one up." They were moving through Worth Street, approaching the new skyscraper housing the offices of the New York medical examiner another municipal officials. "Across the street is all right. Joe," McGann told the driver. He paid the meter, added a tip. "Well something caught up with him yesterday afternoon. He wouldn't join me. The reporter shook his head "First time for everything. In Ronnie's case, first and last. But then you never could tell what he'd to next." There were several newspaper protographers at the or of the building. Some had tripods set up, other swung speed graphics by the strap. One called. "Mind posing for a shot, Mr. McGann?" "A pleasure," McGann said. He paused just below the top step and smiled. "How's this?" "Perfect. Get out of there. Wexton. This is for a family newspaper." There was a busy clatter of plates, the click of smitten, "Just one more, Mr. McGann." There, was a flurry of clicks. "How do you spell that, M-a-c?" "Mc," McGann said. "You may describe me as the detective who unsolved the case." He pushed gently past. Wexton again gained his side in the towering lobby. There was a girl at the information desk. McGann asked. "The Tompkins inquest, please?" "Second floor auditorium." "Thank you." They went up. There were a couple of dozen persons in the huge place. O'Callahan was up at the bench with the men from the medical examiner's office. He acknowledged McGann's greeting. "It's a good thing you got home when you did this morning," he said Jovially. "We were going to notify the police." McGann matched his seeming good humor. "That would have been embarrassing. Inspector. I told my friend I was sitting up with a sick wife." "We've got a couple of new questions." "Any time, inspector. If you're not ready to start yet could I see the autopsy report?" O'Callahan gestured toward the dark little man with gold-rimmed spectacle whom McGann remembered at the Tompkins home. "Go ahead. Dr. Scholz will lake care of you. Dr. Scholz gloomily produced an autopsy chart which Showed front and Deck drawings of an extremely unprepossessing male character. Someone had typed in information as, to Tompkins approximate age, weight, height and other data at the top of the official paper. A red dot had been placed high on the left back of the figure. McGann and Wexton flanked Scholz while the medico expounded as if lecturing a class in anatomy. "The outlet entered the back through the intercostal muscles between the fourth and the fifth ribs and four inches to the left of the midline. It entered the pleural cavity, passing through the left lung and entering the pericardial sac posteriorly." He warmed to his subject. "Passing through the right ventricle and the anterior aspect of the pleural against the posterior wall of the sternum." "I gel it." Wexton said. "Now just where is hat in relation to Lindy's?" Dr. Scholz's spectacles glittered. "He was plugged right through the ticker. Death was practically instantaneons." McGann made some notes. "Then the bullet followed a level course?" "Yes" "Fine, Thanks. One other thing. You say the bullet stopped at the sternum, it didn't break through, at all?" "No breakthrough." Several other reporters saw Wexton aping McGann's notes and came over. They too if down the same information and asked what importance it had if any. A girl rubbed a pencil along her cheek, leaving a gray smudge. She said. "Can't you tell the height of the murderer or something from tracing the course of the bullet?" McGann smiled. "Pretty much guesswork." They greased the point. "But Tompkins was about five feet, ten. If another person just about the same Height raised a gun and shot wouldn't it hit right where it did?" "Suppose it was a murderer nine; feet tall who shot from the hip?" The man from the tabloid hopped on that one. "Hey, that's great. Suspect Circus Giant in Tompkins Death, a natural. Didn't Tompkins have a piece of Ringling Brothers or something?" "Wait a minute, wait a minute," McGann pleaded. "I was just showing the fallacy of that theory. It doesn't hold water. A bullet could follow that course if it was fired by a midget standing on a spinet piano." "Even better," the tabloid reporter enthused. "Midgets are terrific, stuff. Remember the time they put one on J. P. Morgan's lap? Gives the whole thing a sort of Lon Chaney atmosphere." "Shut up. Charley, Wexton said. "You're off the beam." The reporter subsided, but with a grumble. "What are you trying to do—throw the story down? Trouble with you guys ..." "Excuse me." McGann said. He had seer Frazier Farwell entering the room. The disc jockey stopped just inside the door and looked around, smiling in recognition as McGann approached. "Greetings," Farwell said, as they shook hands. "Is this where we respin the platter?" "Without even changing the needle." McGann said. His companion of the evening before looked considerably better. "I don't think much will come of it, though." Police had rounded up passersby as members of the jury, and they were now being herded into the box. Farwell nodded toward where an elderly, wisp a man sat somewhat apart with a prim woman. The man frequently tugged at the collar about his thin neck. There's the Pearsons." Farwell doubled as chauffeur. She was the maid with help once in a while from a cleaning woman." McGann looked at them with interest. "I understood they had yesterday off. Did you see them at all. Farwell passed a hand over his eyes. "Gosh," he said. "I don't really remember. I Just have flashes—babbling to Ronnie, falling into bed." He took a deep breath. "Never again . . . I hope. . .I hope . . . I hope. . ." With several sharp raps, the medical examiner called the session to order. As McGann and Farwell took seats, McGann felt someone's gaze upon him. He looked up and met the frosty blue eyes of Inspector. O'Callahan. The Joviality of only a short time before seemed already to have passed. McGann sighed. "If Glocca Morra needs a sheriff," he said. "O'Callahan has a vote." () SYNOPSIS By FRED DICKENSON Marrying playboy Ronnie Tompkins is mysteriously stain in his luxurious home, despite the eagle eye of Detective Mack McGann, engaged to guard him against posible violent death. Ronnie's cherished friend. Frazier Farwell, a disc jockey, had been asleep in the house the night of the murder, but heard no sound of struggle. McGann warns Charity Jones, a beautiful model who was to become Tompkins seventh wife, to remain away from her home while the law's man-hunt is on. In a dark street the detective comes upon a sinister figure shadowing him—knocks the fellow down. But the "shadow" proves to be an old acquaintance, ace reporter, Dink Wexton, who'd covered all of Ronnie's romances for his newspaper. McGann learns from blonde Bombshell Irma Tompkins, ex-wife No. 4. that she'd been with Ronnie shortly before his demise. He also earns that Kathieen, ex-wife No. 4, had taken an apartment next to Tompkins house, advantage point which allowed her to view through his windows, many of his bizarre activites. What does SHE know of his murder? AS THE CAB rolled through Union Square, Wexton read excerpts of quotes from several exwives. "Here's one from Faith Starr in Cannes," he said. "Ronnie wasn't killed by a trans-Atlantic rocket so she's in the clear. She says and I quote, I will always have a sort spot in my heart for Ronnie. He was a true gentleman and one of the finest husbands I ever had." "A touching tribute," McGann said "Any more?" "A wire from Gladys Mars in Hollywood Tompkins took her out of a chorus. She was his first wife so she always felt that the other gals were loser's choice. Gladys stated that the news saddenner. Wexton read and she hinted that a suicide theory should not be too lightly dismissed. "Dear Ronnie," she said, "never quite recovered from the shattering of our dyll I had long feared that he might do something desperate. . ." Wexton threw the pewspaper on the seat. "The most desperate thing. Tompkins would do over a woman would be to order domestic champagne." He pondered. "Of course that might have killed him." McGann asked, "Did Tompkins drink very much?" "He always had it under controll, but I never knew him to pass one up." They were moving through Worth Street, approaching the new skyscraper housing the offices of the New York medical examiner another municipal officials. "Across the street is all right. Joe," McGann told the driver. He paid the meter, added a tip. "Well something caught up with him yesterday afternoon. He wouldn't join me. The reporter shook his head "First time for everything. In Ronnie's case, first and last. But then you never could tell what he'd to next." There were several newspaper protographers at the or of the building. Some had tripods set up, other swung speed graphics by the strap. One called. "Mind posing for a shot, Mr. McGann?" "A pleasure," McGann said. He paused just below the top step and smiled. "How's this?" "Perfect. Get out of there. Wexton. This is for a family newspaper." There was a busy clatter of plates, the click of smitten, "Just one more, Mr. McGann." There, was a flurry of clicks. "How do you spell that, M-a-c?" "Mc," McGann said. "You may describe me as the detective who unsolved the case." He pushed gently past. Wexton again gained his side in the towering lobby. There was a girl at the information desk. McGann asked. "The Tompkins inquest, please?" "Second floor auditorium." "Thank you." They went up. There were a couple of dozen persons in the huge place. O'Callahan was up at the bench with the men from the medical examiner's office. He acknowledged McGann's greeting. "It's a good thing you got home when you did this morning," he said Jovially. "We were going to notify the police." McGann matched his seeming good humor. "That would have been embarrassing. Inspector. I told my friend I was sitting up with a sick wife." "We've got a couple of new questions." "Any time, inspector. If you're not ready to start yet could I see the autopsy report?" O'Callahan gestured toward the dark little man with gold-rimmed spectacle whom McGann remembered at the Tompkins home. "Go ahead. Dr. Scholz will lake care of you. Dr. Scholz gloomily produced an autopsy chart which Showed front and Deck drawings of an extremely unprepossessing male character. Someone had typed in information as, to Tompkins approximate age, weight, height and other data at the top of the official paper. A red dot had been placed high on the left back of the figure. McGann and Wexton flanked Scholz while the medico expounded as if lecturing a class in anatomy. "The outlet entered the back through the intercostal muscles between the fourth and the fifth ribs and four inches to the left of the midline. It entered the pleural cavity, passing through the left lung and entering the pericardial sac posteriorly." He warmed to his subject. "Passing through the right ventricle and the anterior aspect of the pleural against the posterior wall of the sternum." "I gel it." Wexton said. "Now just where is hat in relation to Lindy's?" Dr. Scholz's spectacles glittered. "He was plugged right through the ticker. Death was practically instantaneons." McGann made some notes. "Then the bullet followed a level course?" "Yes" "Fine, Thanks. One other thing. You say the bullet stopped at the sternum, it didn't break through, at all?" "No breakthrough." Several other reporters saw Wexton aping McGann's notes and came over. They too if down the same information and asked what importance it had if any. A girl rubbed a pencil along her cheek, leaving a gray smudge. She said. "Can't you tell the height of the murderer or something from tracing the course of the bullet?" McGann smiled. "Pretty much guesswork." They greased the point. "But Tompkins was about five feet, ten. If another person just about the same Height raised a gun and shot wouldn't it hit right where it did?" "Suppose it was a murderer nine; feet tall who shot from the hip?" The man from the tabloid hopped on that one. "Hey, that's great. Suspect Circus Giant in Tompkins Death, a natural. Didn't Tompkins have a piece of Ringling Brothers or something?" "Wait a minute, wait a minute," McGann pleaded. "I was just showing the fallacy of that theory. It doesn't hold water. A bullet could follow that course if it was fired by a midget standing on a spinet piano." "Even better," the tabloid reporter enthused. "Midgets are terrific, stuff. Remember the time they put one on J. P. Morgan's lap? Gives the whole thing a sort of Lon Chaney atmosphere." "Shut up. Charley, Wexton said. "You're off the beam." The reporter subsided, but with a grumble. "What are you trying to do—throw the story down? Trouble with you guys ..." "Excuse me." McGann said. He had seer Frazier Farwell entering the room. The disc jockey stopped just inside the door and looked around, smiling in recognition as McGann approached. "Greetings," Farwell said, as they shook hands. "Is this where we respin the platter?" "Without even changing the needle." McGann said. His companion of the evening before looked considerably better. "I don't think much will come of it, though." Police had rounded up passersby as members of the jury, and they were now being herded into the box. Farwell nodded toward where an elderly, wisp a man sat somewhat apart with a prim woman. The man frequently tugged at the collar about his thin neck. There's the Pearsons." Farwell doubled as chauffeur. She was the maid with help once in a while from a cleaning woman." McGann looked at them with interest. "I understood they had yesterday off. Did you see them at all. Farwell passed a hand over his eyes. "Gosh," he said. "I don't really remember. I Just have flashes—babbling to Ronnie, falling into bed." He took a deep breath. "Never again . . . I hope. . .I hope . . . I hope. . ." With several sharp raps, the medical examiner called the session to order. As McGann and Farwell took seats, McGann felt someone's gaze upon him. He looked up and met the frosty blue eyes of Inspector. O'Callahan. The Joviality of only a short time before seemed already to have passed. McGann sighed. "If Glocca Morra needs a sheriff," he said. "O'Callahan has a vote." () CHAPTER TWELEVE By FRED DICKENSON Marrying playboy Ronnie Tompkins is mysteriously stain in his luxurious home, despite the eagle eye of Detective Mack McGann, engaged to guard him against posible violent death. Ronnie's cherished friend. Frazier Farwell, a disc jockey, had been asleep in the house the night of the murder, but heard no sound of struggle. McGann warns Charity Jones, a beautiful model who was to become Tompkins seventh wife, to remain away from her home while the law's man-hunt is on. In a dark street the detective comes upon a sinister figure shadowing him—knocks the fellow down. But the "shadow" proves to be an old acquaintance, ace reporter, Dink Wexton, who'd covered all of Ronnie's romances for his newspaper. McGann learns from blonde Bombshell Irma Tompkins, ex-wife No. 4. that she'd been with Ronnie shortly before his demise. He also earns that Kathieen, ex-wife No. 4, had taken an apartment next to Tompkins house, advantage point which allowed her to view through his windows, many of his bizarre activites. What does SHE know of his murder? AS THE CAB rolled through Union Square, Wexton read excerpts of quotes from several exwives. "Here's one from Faith Starr in Cannes," he said. "Ronnie wasn't killed by a trans-Atlantic rocket so she's in the clear. She says and I quote, I will always have a sort spot in my heart for Ronnie. He was a true gentleman and one of the finest husbands I ever had." "A touching tribute," McGann said "Any more?" "A wire from Gladys Mars in Hollywood Tompkins took her out of a chorus. She was his first wife so she always felt that the other gals were loser's choice. Gladys stated that the news saddenner. Wexton read and she hinted that a suicide theory should not be too lightly dismissed. "Dear Ronnie," she said, "never quite recovered from the shattering of our dyll I had long feared that he might do something desperate. . ." Wexton threw the pewspaper on the seat. "The most desperate thing. Tompkins would do over a woman would be to order domestic champagne." He pondered. "Of course that might have killed him." McGann asked, "Did Tompkins drink very much?" "He always had it under controll, but I never knew him to pass one up." They were moving through Worth Street, approaching the new skyscraper housing the offices of the New York medical examiner another municipal officials. "Across the street is all right. Joe," McGann told the driver. He paid the meter, added a tip. "Well something caught up with him yesterday afternoon. He wouldn't join me. The reporter shook his head "First time for everything. In Ronnie's case, first and last. But then you never could tell what he'd to next." There were several newspaper protographers at the or of the building. Some had tripods set up, other swung speed graphics by the strap. One called. "Mind posing for a shot, Mr. McGann?" "A pleasure," McGann said. He paused just below the top step and smiled. "How's this?" "Perfect. Get out of there. Wexton. This is for a family newspaper." There was a busy clatter of plates, the click of smitten, "Just one more, Mr. McGann." There, was a flurry of clicks. "How do you spell that, M-a-c?" "Mc," McGann said. "You may describe me as the detective who unsolved the case." He pushed gently past. Wexton again gained his side in the towering lobby. There was a girl at the information desk. McGann asked. "The Tompkins inquest, please?" "Second floor auditorium." "Thank you." They went up. There were a couple of dozen persons in the huge place. O'Callahan was up at the bench with the men from the medical examiner's office. He acknowledged McGann's greeting. "It's a good thing you got home when you did this morning," he said Jovially. "We were going to notify the police." McGann matched his seeming good humor. "That would have been embarrassing. Inspector. I told my friend I was sitting up with a sick wife." "We've got a couple of new questions." "Any time, inspector. If you're not ready to start yet could I see the autopsy report?" O'Callahan gestured toward the dark little man with gold-rimmed spectacle whom McGann remembered at the Tompkins home. "Go ahead. Dr. Scholz will lake care of you. Dr. Scholz gloomily produced an autopsy chart which Showed front and Deck drawings of an extremely unprepossessing male character. Someone had typed in information as, to Tompkins approximate age, weight, height and other data at the top of the official paper. A red dot had been placed high on the left back of the figure. McGann and Wexton flanked Scholz while the medico expounded as if lecturing a class in anatomy. "The outlet entered the back through the intercostal muscles between the fourth and the fifth ribs and four inches to the left of the midline. It entered the pleural cavity, passing through the left lung and entering the pericardial sac posteriorly." He warmed to his subject. "Passing through the right ventricle and the anterior aspect of the pleural against the posterior wall of the sternum." "I gel it." Wexton said. "Now just where is hat in relation to Lindy's?" Dr. Scholz's spectacles glittered. "He was plugged right through the ticker. Death was practically instantaneons." McGann made some notes. "Then the bullet followed a level course?" "Yes" "Fine, Thanks. One other thing. You say the bullet stopped at the sternum, it didn't break through, at all?" "No breakthrough." Several other reporters saw Wexton aping McGann's notes and came over. They too if down the same information and asked what importance it had if any. A girl rubbed a pencil along her cheek, leaving a gray smudge. She said. "Can't you tell the height of the murderer or something from tracing the course of the bullet?" McGann smiled. "Pretty much guesswork." They greased the point. "But Tompkins was about five feet, ten. If another person just about the same Height raised a gun and shot wouldn't it hit right where it did?" "Suppose it was a murderer nine; feet tall who shot from the hip?" The man from the tabloid hopped on that one. "Hey, that's great. Suspect Circus Giant in Tompkins Death, a natural. Didn't Tompkins have a piece of Ringling Brothers or something?" "Wait a minute, wait a minute," McGann pleaded. "I was just showing the fallacy of that theory. It doesn't hold water. A bullet could follow that course if it was fired by a midget standing on a spinet piano." "Even better," the tabloid reporter enthused. "Midgets are terrific, stuff. Remember the time they put one on J. P. Morgan's lap? Gives the whole thing a sort of Lon Chaney atmosphere." "Shut up. Charley, Wexton said. "You're off the beam." The reporter subsided, but with a grumble. "What are you trying to do—throw the story down? Trouble with you guys ..." "Excuse me." McGann said. He had seer Frazier Farwell entering the room. The disc jockey stopped just inside the door and looked around, smiling in recognition as McGann approached. "Greetings," Farwell said, as they shook hands. "Is this where we respin the platter?" "Without even changing the needle." McGann said. His companion of the evening before looked considerably better. "I don't think much will come of it, though." Police had rounded up passersby as members of the jury, and they were now being herded into the box. Farwell nodded toward where an elderly, wisp a man sat somewhat apart with a prim woman. The man frequently tugged at the collar about his thin neck. There's the Pearsons." Farwell doubled as chauffeur. She was the maid with help once in a while from a cleaning woman." McGann looked at them with interest. "I understood they had yesterday off. Did you see them at all. Farwell passed a hand over his eyes. "Gosh," he said. "I don't really remember. I Just have flashes—babbling to Ronnie, falling into bed." He took a deep breath. "Never again . . . I hope. . .I hope . . . I hope. . ." With several sharp raps, the medical examiner called the session to order. As McGann and Farwell took seats, McGann felt someone's gaze upon him. He looked up and met the frosty blue eyes of Inspector. O'Callahan. The Joviality of only a short time before seemed already to have passed. McGann sighed. "If Glocca Morra needs a sheriff," he said. "O'Callahan has a vote." () Dots Dashes By GEORGE A. SEWELL It appears to me that too much of the writings about the race relations in this country are interpreted as being either, pro-Russian, or anti-American. This will help to illustrate. A "marked" copy of a certain edition of this paper was sent to a white woman who feels that she is somewhat a "luke-warm-liberal" Later, she replied: "I read every article in your paper. And strangely enough, almost every item reported was the kind that would incite to riot." I think that she was telling the truth: In fact I sincerely believe that if she, as a member of a group, were exposed to the countless injustices that the Negro group has heaped upon them daily; then she would resort to riot. However, we who have had to bear these wrongs have learned how a seek another release rather than that of riot. But what about our, press? To be sure there are those who affirm shat; "every day in every way race relations are getting better and better." George Schuyler chants that theme in his, "The Phantom American Negro." The Reader's Digest, July '51. Mr. Schuyler affirms that, "Actually, the progressive improvement of race relations and the economic rise of the Negro in the United States is a flattering example of democracy in action. The most exploited' Negroes in Mississippi are better off than the citizens of Russia or her satellites." I do not hesitate to suppose that if and when Herman Talmadge, James Byrnes, and other of their mind bent read that, article, they concluded then and there that they must use their powers to "keep the . . . in his place. Otherwise, he will be thinking that he is as good as we are." For accordingly, it is mostly on the credit side of the ledger. But there, is very definitely another side. All of us cannot join with Mrs. Edith Sampson in saying that, "I have a law degree, attended a white church. (Is this a new denomination?), and had never been to a segregated school." She, fortunately, was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. While, the most of us were born in Cottonpatch, South land. Here's the other side, dramatized in bold-relief, from the columns of America's white press:—last week, or any week—. "Indian Warrior Denied Private Burial Because he was Not White." An American G. I. named John R. Rice, was killed a year ago on the battlefields of Korea He was killed attempting to maintain the 38th Parallel. Before that he had fought in New Guinea, and later in the Philippines in World War II. He had not been drafted, rather he volunteered his services to his country. But at the end of the trail it was learned that the "happy hunting grounds were for 'whites' only." "Panamanians Bar TVA Trip on Rare Issue," or "Klan is Reported As Having Beaten "Several Negroes," "Police of X County Charged With Brutality of Negroes," "Negroes of Atlanta Denied Comforts of Downtown Plaza Park." But, from far a Way Bremen, Germany comes this interesting item: "German Schools to Admit Children of German Women and American Negro Soldiers." Hitler's Bremen refuses to segregate the children of a "pure Nordic" mother and a "burley cotton picker father." Instead, they are to be accepted alongside, white German pupils. Some people learn so easily, while others never seem, to learn. But who said that they even wanted to learn? They do not have the time to learn. They are too busy looking for Confederate, flags to wave, excuses and probable loop holes in order to avoid doing what is right. Over in Oxford England the Methodists have voted to inform all of their members that, . . . "race discrimination of every kind must be resisted by the church because it is contrary to the mind of Christ." Thus, it is not a matter of Communism or Americanism, or Communism, or Democracy Rather, it is that we Christian-DemocraticAmericans (?) have finally allowed our actions to out speak our creeds. If that gives say comfort to the Russians, then it ought to be very clear to us just what our next move should be. IT'S AS PLAIN AS THE NOSE ON YOUR FACE By GEORGE A. SEWELL It appears to me that too much of the writings about the race relations in this country are interpreted as being either, pro-Russian, or anti-American. This will help to illustrate. A "marked" copy of a certain edition of this paper was sent to a white woman who feels that she is somewhat a "luke-warm-liberal" Later, she replied: "I read every article in your paper. And strangely enough, almost every item reported was the kind that would incite to riot." I think that she was telling the truth: In fact I sincerely believe that if she, as a member of a group, were exposed to the countless injustices that the Negro group has heaped upon them daily; then she would resort to riot. However, we who have had to bear these wrongs have learned how a seek another release rather than that of riot. But what about our, press? To be sure there are those who affirm shat; "every day in every way race relations are getting better and better." George Schuyler chants that theme in his, "The Phantom American Negro." The Reader's Digest, July '51. Mr. Schuyler affirms that, "Actually, the progressive improvement of race relations and the economic rise of the Negro in the United States is a flattering example of democracy in action. The most exploited' Negroes in Mississippi are better off than the citizens of Russia or her satellites." I do not hesitate to suppose that if and when Herman Talmadge, James Byrnes, and other of their mind bent read that, article, they concluded then and there that they must use their powers to "keep the . . . in his place. Otherwise, he will be thinking that he is as good as we are." For accordingly, it is mostly on the credit side of the ledger. But there, is very definitely another side. All of us cannot join with Mrs. Edith Sampson in saying that, "I have a law degree, attended a white church. (Is this a new denomination?), and had never been to a segregated school." She, fortunately, was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. While, the most of us were born in Cottonpatch, South land. Here's the other side, dramatized in bold-relief, from the columns of America's white press:—last week, or any week—. "Indian Warrior Denied Private Burial Because he was Not White." An American G. I. named John R. Rice, was killed a year ago on the battlefields of Korea He was killed attempting to maintain the 38th Parallel. Before that he had fought in New Guinea, and later in the Philippines in World War II. He had not been drafted, rather he volunteered his services to his country. But at the end of the trail it was learned that the "happy hunting grounds were for 'whites' only." "Panamanians Bar TVA Trip on Rare Issue," or "Klan is Reported As Having Beaten "Several Negroes," "Police of X County Charged With Brutality of Negroes," "Negroes of Atlanta Denied Comforts of Downtown Plaza Park." But, from far a Way Bremen, Germany comes this interesting item: "German Schools to Admit Children of German Women and American Negro Soldiers." Hitler's Bremen refuses to segregate the children of a "pure Nordic" mother and a "burley cotton picker father." Instead, they are to be accepted alongside, white German pupils. Some people learn so easily, while others never seem, to learn. But who said that they even wanted to learn? They do not have the time to learn. They are too busy looking for Confederate, flags to wave, excuses and probable loop holes in order to avoid doing what is right. Over in Oxford England the Methodists have voted to inform all of their members that, . . . "race discrimination of every kind must be resisted by the church because it is contrary to the mind of Christ." Thus, it is not a matter of Communism or Americanism, or Communism, or Democracy Rather, it is that we Christian-DemocraticAmericans (?) have finally allowed our actions to out speak our creeds. If that gives say comfort to the Russians, then it ought to be very clear to us just what our next move should be. 49 Nations high with pride. Despite the walkout of the Communist countries, their three flags remained lining the back of the stage, along with those of all other Allied powers, until the conference ended. It took approximately one minute for each nation to sign the document. Acheson convened the closing session at 10:12 a. m.—two minutes after Gromyko arid his delegation left the adjacent War Memorial Veterans' Building in their final walkout from the site of Russia's diplomatic disaster. The Soviet diplomat, opening a news conference in the Veterans' Building Auditorium less than an hour before the signing ceremony began, declared, that his country and its satellites are boycotting the treaty as an "illegal" act of "separate peace" with Japan. He warned that ths Soviet Union will hold" America and Britian "responsible" for "the consequences" of what he again characterized as a pact "not for peace but for the preparation of a new war of aggression in the Far East." Heedless of this defiant warning, the 49 non-Communist nations went swiftly forward in their execution at the treaty negotiated through eleven months of diplomatic consulations among the participating governments. that gives you that Touch a tissue to your face. See how greasy creams turn it ugly, oilyGreasy creams cause blackheads. when you use Black & White Vanishing Cream Touch a tissue to your face. Black and White Vanishing Cream is oil-free. See, no oil comes off! It's a perfect foundation. Remove dirf and mate-up with Black and White Clean ting Cream. Use Black and White Cold Cream to soften skin. Professional models know the camera sees every make-up flaw. That's why they use Black and White Vanishing Cream as their make-up base. It gives complexions that perfect This greaseless cream checks oiliness and holds make-up on longer, fresher, makes skin look brighter. 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For new, thrilling loveliness use Black and White Vanishing Cream and have that glamorous always! 10 beautiful shades of Black and White Face Powder. Clings like mist, delicately scented! Choose yours now. Use "stay-on" Black and White Lipstick. BLACK AND WHITE VANISHING CREAM Labor And Management Study Copper Crisis Workers and management moved ahead slowly Thursday to resume production of copper, and other non-ferrous metals under a federal court order obtained by government leaders concerned with the ten-day strike's effect on the defense program. The International Union of Mine, mill and smelter workers ordered some 49,000 men hack to their jobs and its Denver Headquarters said "we have heard nothing to indicate the men are not complying. More than. 5,000 employes of Ananconda—one of the "big four" copper, producers involved in the walkout— were still idle in Montana at midday, but were due to be back on the job by tomorrow. Defense Mobilizer Wilson said thecurtailment of copper production was "a terrible thing." He said copper "was already in short supply and demand, was far beyond any possible hope of meeting it." A temporary restraining order issued at Denver directed minemill and 32 companies—including Ananconda, Phelps Dodge Corp., and the American Smelting and Refining Company-to resume, production immediately. The order is effective until September 15 are hearing on a preliminary injuntion to extend the order was set for September 14. Kennecott, another of the "big four," came to terms Sunday under which most of its employes returned to work with package in creases amounting to 15 cents per hour. The Union's Executive Board issued a statement today which said "we have every confidence that agreement similar to that reached by Kennecott will be reached with all other companies shortly." Assails vice, crime and corruption. 4. To lift the strangle-hold of Federal taxes from the necks of the poor and plain people. 5. To guarantee in unequivocal terms to Negro Americans and other minorities of our country employment in and recognition by our Government in policy-making positions of trust and responsibility where qualified. 6. To reestablish confidence in the Republican party by a warmth of leadership which will inspire the feelings and beliefs in the plain and under-privileged of our country. PICK UP THIS BOTTLE Your first Choice Try this superb Kentucky straight bourbon today. You will be rewarded with outstanding mellowness and flavor. BOND & LILLARD BRAND KENTUCKY STRAIGHT BOURBON WHISKEY BOND & LILLARD BRAND 86 PROOF • THE BOND & LILLARD COMPANY, LOUISVILLE, KY. First Negro Admitted To Va. Med. School The first Negro student ever admitted to the state-operated medical college of Virginia was enrolled uneventfully today. "I'm prepared now to ate class in anatomy tomorrow."