The Washington times., 1937-05-03
".ArfiSf'S Model Slain
CONTINUED from Page 13)

the painter. .CnanCe LOOK MIN IC
the opening night performance Of
Hello, Brother!" and when he
beheld the red-haired girl in the
chorus $50 he related to me later
he told himself that he was gazing
upon the very girl he had beer
seeking for years as a model. He
wrote her a note. Would she be
interested in posing? Her answer
came several days later. apparently
after Margie had forlornly heard
the death sentence pronounced
upon the show. Yes. am inter
ested," she wrote. "A girl has to
eat"
I have before me now, as
write, a volumious collection of
newspaper clippings on the Shan.
non murder case, most of them
carrying my by-line, since 1t fell
to my lot to work on the story
from beginning to end, almost
without interruption. They make
a fairly accurate and chronology
cal record but not completely so,
for they do not name the man
who solved the mystery. He was
insistent that his name be kept
out of the papers, though still
can't understand why; so the
credit went to the police.
At the time Of the murder he
and I worked together on the
Cleveland Express, he as a copy
reader and I as a reporter. He
was our office mystery, a gaunt,
untidy man no longer young;
Shaggy-haired, taciturn and deeply
lined of face, with the habit Of
staring absently into space when
he wasn't reading copy or writing
heads, which he did swiftly and,
for all of his lack of apparent
effort, much better than anyone
else on the desk. I believe I was
the only man on the Express who
shared his confidence to any real
extent; to the others he was just
another of the queer birds" who
drift into a newspaper game every
so often for want of a definite
objective. office gossip had it that
he once had been a professor Of
English in some college or other.
No one really knew and don't
believe it was true; the rumor prob
ably started when his deskmateS
first began to realize what verit-
able storehouse of erudition he
was. Let there be a dispute over
a word, a definition, the source or
exact phrasing OF quotation, and
Lowell Brant would without
hesitation settle it.
Obscure Journalist Now Noted
Novelist
He is no longer in newspaper
work, and the name I am giving
him is not his own. He has two
novels to his credit now, his Sec
ond having brought him one OF
the major literary prizes. He, of
course, is the man who should
have written this story and ex
planned the processes of reason.
ing which led to the solution of
the murder of Margie Shannon.
No one else can do it as we'll.
Pleading, however, has no effect
on him. One night not long ago
he was in Cleveland on a visit and
I had dinner with him and again
brought up my old argument.
But he was as firm as ever.
He said, when I had grown
weary of pleading: ''Why not
write it yourSelf?"
"But the point is you are the
one man in the world to do it," I
protested.
He smiled patiently. why? Be
cause my theory proved to be the
correct one? Or because I am in
the business Of writing books?"
Both"
But it was no 60. I'm neither
historian nor photographer" he
said; I'm a romancer," and let
it go at that.
But before we parted he per-
suaded me to do the job, which I
undertake hopefully enough but
with many miSgivings. And right
here ask you to remember that
this man solved the Shannon
murder case without having come
in actual contact with it. He was
a copy reader, desk man-not
a reporter or a detective or free
lance investigator. Lowell Brant
did his thinking at long range,
and he thought straighter than
anyone. 1t should be set down as
q matter of record that he never
even set foot inside the apart
ment in which beautiful Margie
Shannon met her death.
Coincidence makes any story
better, and the Margie Shannon
story was born of coincidence.
On the night of october 9, 1872,
four reporters sat in the Express
room at police headquarters and
deplored the scarcity of news. I
was one of them, though I had no
real reason for being there. The
others were on duty, but had
been given the day off by Sparks,
our managing editor. because of
extra hours I had put in on a City
Hall graft story. Trying to kill a
day off when there's nothing
much to do, and you can't get a
pass to the only decent show in
town, is pretty much of a job; so
habit sent me wandering down to
the Central Station in search of
someone to trade gossip with.
I found Bunny Jackson of the
Sun, Grady Williamson of the
Public Opinion. and Earl Jones, a
cub on our paper. On the cigar
"a Liz lnrr Laal- n