The Waterbury Democrat., 1935-05-01
BY PETER CARLsON

John Hartwell was not suited for feats of gymnastics. He weighed two hundred pounds. and an extended prison term had not helped him physically. But, because of that prison record, he was climb ing an old, rickety fire escape, set flush against the wall of the tene- Inenk.
 on the fourth floor of the build. ing slept Jimmie Harron. Five years previously Jimmie and John had been friends. They had achieved several underworld deals to their mutual satisfaction until Jim, moved by an avaricious i'm. pulse. had worked the we'll known double-cross on his trusting part ner. As a result John had had four years in which to weigh the vicissi- tudes of friendship.
 Naturally he had found Jimmie wanting in several respects, not the least of those being brotherly love. Therefore, John had made up his mind to perform a public benefit by eradicating his erstwhile friend.
 John was not one to rush scat ter-brained into such risky busi- ness. He had waited and weighed his chances. It was almost a year since his release from the peni- tentiary. During that time he had missed several golden opportuni- ties of doing away with Harron, judging them too dangerous.
 
 But tonight seemed perfectly suited for the murder. 1t was dark and rainy. Harron had come home drunk. His wife had pre- sumably had a row with him, for she had left the house in a temper only thirty minutes before. All this John had seen from vantage point across the street.
 He gritted his teeth as he clung precarionsly to the slippery ladder. He eased his weight upward one rung at a time. The fire escape creaked ofninously, and he stopped to catch his breath. There was really no danger of being heard in this storm, bue he could not be too careful. It would be calaml- tous if he were to fail in his at- tempt after waiting so long
 As he neared the fourth story he slowed his progress consider ably. He was alongside the dark window. Holding on to the fire es- cape with his right hand, he slowly pushed open the window. There was no sound in the room. Moving slowly and carefully, John swung his left leg across the sill.
 Crouching he heaved his weight inside the room. He covered for a moment inside the window, as he recovered his breath. Across the room he could make out the faint outline of the bed. Carefully, so as not to be seen in the light from outside, he sidled along the wall.
 Prone in the bed lay Jimmie Harron. He seemed dead drunk, for not a muscle did he stir as John approached the bed.
 John chuckled softly as he drew his slencer-equipped gun. He stroked the revolver caressingly: Putting the muzzel against Jimmie's temple, he pressed the trigger twice. There were two dull reports, not noticeable as they mingled with the sound of the storm outside. As each bullet whacked into the de- fenseless mans cranium, his head rolled slowly.
 John wiped the gun clean. He meant to leave it there. Perhaps Jimmies wife would get the rap. That would leave John clear, as gun could not be traced to him.
 Throwing the revolver on the bed, he hurried to the window. Managing somehow to regain the fire escape, he reached back to pull the window shut. That would eliminate suspicion from any source other than that of Mrs Har- ron.
 But, reaching for the window, his foot slipped on the wet rung, and he toppled over sideways. John made one complete turn in the air before he hit the wet alley with a resounding thud.
 Detective-Sergeant Burns was studiously engaged in a game of pinochle with 8 couple of news papermen when the telephone rang. Excusing himself, he hurried to the phone. His voice quickly changed from one of nonchalance to surprise as he spoke.
 The reporters, scenting news, were at his side wanting to know what the phone call concerned.