Evening Star Newspaper, February 14, 1932, Page 82

—— =~ THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHI} T S e THE BLAINE MURDER CASE—4Dran HE frown on the forehead of Sidney McVeagh, citv editor of the Sentinel, dezpened as his practiced eyes skipped from the black doubie-column head- line over the Blaine murder story to an accom- panying feature under the by-line “Lorna Kaye.” He had wanted her to speak for Mrs. Blaine the defundant now standing before the jury, to pry back tne veil of mystery and interpret her as only a woman can anothcr, to sense the secret that had bafled the prosecution and made the case intriguing to the public. But—and his long fingers swept nervously through thinning brown ha:r alrcady tinged with gray abcut the temples—she had failed, miscrably. She—Lorna Kaye—his star feature writer who up (o this time had nevir failed. McVeagh, his news pride touchied to tlie quick, muttered a curse as hie thought back over the (ragedy. From the time the body of Allen A. Blaine was found with a builet hole drillzd through the heart the cc.umns had run black. There was no clue. It was as if some unscen hand had reached into Lis studio, alive with the faces of beautitul women, slain him and vanished without a trace. Blaine was as mysterious as his artistry. No one seemed to know whence he came, no one stepped forward as his friend. yet his studio had been the focal point for the elite; his subtle piotography the rage at bridge, tea and dinner. Then one c¢f McVeagh's prying reporiers, looking for art to spice the deepening mystery, brought ir a photograph from the studio. It was a soft velvety, almost mystical pic- twe of a woman. It seemed more like an artist’s vision than a reality, and, because it was too indefinite for repro- ducticn, the ciiy editor tucked it away in his desk. Buu it ga\c Lim an iaca. The next day squads of detectives, armed with photc- graphs of woacn taken from tne Blaine collection, went out from headvaricrs. Many of the ciiginals of these photo- graphs were inier iowed, but it scor. d as if the quenwss were hopeless. Four days, though, the s-arch went on and then from an up-State city word flashed back that a woman was under surveillance. With a grim smile of satisfaction McVeagh recalled how the Sentinel had blazoned the news that she was Blaine's wife and that a revolver of the same caliber as the death weapon had been found in her apartment. Furthermore, she had acmitted having been in his stucio on the day of the tragedy. OW, a proud, majesuic figure of a woman, she was stending before 12 men, charged with murder. While the State demanded the electric chair, she stood silent. What a word picture could have been painted at that scene! And yet Lorna Kaye, to whcm with perfect confidence he had given the assignment, had fallen down on it. The clatter of a typewriter suddenly punctured his thoughts and the stillness of the deserted news room. Mc- Veazh looked down the line of nondescript desks toward the sound. Ordinarily the clatter of whole batteries of machines pounded by clumsy-fingered reporters assaulted his ears in vain, but now this one seemed to nettle him. “Miss Kaye!" he called sharply. The typewriter gave a final impatient clack as though recording the girl's mood. A moment later she stood before him, her brows arched in a quizzical expression which did not entirely erase traces of annoyance, her rounded lips framing an interrogation. «That.” said McVeagh. pointing to the story. “is rotten. wou can do better work than this. You proved that in ihe Landon case and a dozen others. I wanted you to analyze this Blaine woman, show what she is thinking about o “In other words,” Lorna broke in, “you want me, instead of th> jury, to try her.” “W¢ll, hardly that, although I think in many ways you are more capable.” “I might find her guilty.” “Isn’'t she?” *“No,"” Lorna responded quietly. Pausing. he lcoked at her intently. “Why do you think she is not guilty? She killed him, didn’t she?” “The evidence seems to point that way, but perhaps it was justifiable homicide.” “Justifiable! When she shot a man down in cold blood?” “Of course,” Lorna replied. “Don’t you think there are times when a person is justified in taking another’s life, even if it is outside the law?” “Oh, under certain conditions I suppese that could be true, but in this case I can see no extenuating circum- stances. Just because a man refuses to Lve with his wife is no reason that he should be condemned to death. If tha! were the law. or even the custom, our population would dwindle rapidly.” Lorna, toying with a metal paper weight, looked at him exitically. “You don't know much about women, I am afraid.” McVeagh laughed shortly. “No I have been too busy to bother with 'em.” “If you knew more about them,” she went on, “you might und--stand why a proud woman who had given everything she l.ad to a man, only to see him throw it away, could kill without a qualm and feel that she was justified.” McVeagh checked an exclamation of surprise with effori. “Your sympathies are all with her, aren't they?” he asked. She nodded slowly. “Tlat is rather unusual,” McVeagh reminded her. “As a rule .hose strange creatures we call women are deadly in thei 1dgment of their own sex. They will forgive the man wh ansgresses but never their sister.” “T ank Heaven, then, I am an exception,” she inter- rupicd with feeling. “All of you have been crying for Maude Blaine's life ever since she was arrested. You've had one killing and now you want another.” HE was standing in front of him, her dark face aflame with color, her brown eyes like pools of amber, deep and wide. She drew her clenched hands up to her breasts, or P agh, too, had risen. An almost irresistible im- pulie to take her into his arms suddenly seized him. As thouoh she divined his intentions a look of fright quenched the fire in her eyes. “I tell you,” she almost sobbed, “she had a right to kill.” “Frove it,” he challenged, “and you'll have the world’s greatest story.” The city editor’s eyes followed her as she returned to her desiz. Her shoulders sagged a little, he thought. Must be pretty tired after a day in that musty court room. When she had gone McVeagh hurriedly dug through his littered desk, reckless of treasured memoranda, until he enccuntered a photograph. In the dim light, wide eyes gazed accusingly at him. It seemed as if Lorma was still standing before him, defying them to send Maude Blaine to her death. Only an artist could have caught that defiance; it was done by some one who had unlocked her soul. Suddenly @ burning hatred for Blaine stung him. McVeagh felt as though he had stumbled on a secret which was meant to be hidden and it left him with a feeling of guilt. Watching her poised over the typewriter, he pondered the discovay. Was there news in this picture—or just his imagination— & hunch? For 10 years he had sat here, the sluice gate around which a mighty eddy of life had swirled, his one dominating thought the news. Withholding a story was a thing so abhorrent that McVeagh continually impressed it on his reporters. “Everything that's news goes here,” he often told them. “We suppress nothing, no matter whom it hurts.” . . . Was this news? The rhythmic beat of the typewriter sounded like distant music. As though the lines had been etched on his brain in- stead of the sensitized surface, the photograph constantly stood before him. Once she had faced the searching lens of a camera, and it had seen deeply. What had she meant to Blaine? His inspiration, perhaps! His—he turned from the thought abruptly; it couldn’t be that—her defense of Blaine’s wife was too deep seated. Was he in love with Lorna or intrigued by the defiant mys- tery which lurked behind those veiling lashes? Strange that a cheery good morning frcm her was like a burst oi sunshine, while a stiff, formal nod brought his pencil slashing vi- ciously into copy. Infact, he had be- come conscious that her arrival in the office was his barometer for the day. He recalled now that when he had assigned her to the Blainc case a shadow, like a wave of fear, had rushed the blood from her face. A step aroused McVeagh from his reveries and he swung sharply around to find Lorna placing a sheaf of typed copy on his desk. He had not even noticed that her machine had stopped. McVeagh looked up somewhat guiltily. “Here's your story,” she said so softly he couid hardly hear. “I hope your friend, the prosecutor, will applaud your efforts to send another victim to the electric chair. You'll sell a lot of extras when sh2 goes to her death. McVeagh's eyes lingered on her face. “I can't understand you of late,” he ventured. “You seem embittered, out of sorts with the world and with me in particular.” “It is not you; it is I,” she replied. “I guess it is those 12 men there in the jury box. They look just like a boxfull of executioners.” As she turned away a wave of loneliness swept over him. It seemed if he let her out of his sight she never would return. Impulsively he took her hands in his own. She withdrew them gently. She seemed to antici- pate the declaration he was about to make. “I love you—I want you to marry me,” he said. “Wait,” she said. “Wait. I must tell you something first.” Smiling, he held her at arm’s length. “All right, let's have the confession.” “For one thing.” she began, “I have been writing under an as- sumed name. My name's just plain Mary Miller.” His laugh cut her short. It was a hearty laugh, born of a vast re- lief. He checked himself as he saw tears gathering in her eyes. She dabbed at them futilely. “I wouldn't feel like crying.” she confessed. “if you hadn't said what you did. I wanted to hear it, but g She broke off. Slowly, while McVeagh watched, she picked up her story and rolled it into a tight cylinder. Suddenly she thrust it into his hands and darted away. “Read that first,” she called from the doorway. McVeagh flung the copy on his desk and raced after her, reach- ing the street in time to see her vanish into a taxicab. Frantically he sought another in the fleeting One of The Star Magazin Run Stories, and a Story Whic Classified With the Unusual i Another Story Will Have Its Fi cation in The Star Magazine Nex traffic, but before he had disappeared. For dered aimlessly thro radiantly happy, but failed to respond a cl him. He stopped at the phone. It, too, was in the bar room beg the glass which was reminded him of Hor first one off with a in the morning. quickly, but with th graph. This time i traught picture. M thoughts of Blaine ci Next morning Bol on the Sentinel. gave he entered the offi reporter: “Looks like Mac Boy, this is going to LMOST before hej was sorting the greeted him. “Miss Kaye won't nounced. “IL” “Hell,” growled Mc is about ready for 1 want one real stol him to put some lifd His eyes lighted o had thrown on the d seized it, smoothed skimmed over it, he He read again the le BY LOJ One person saw M band. This dramatic and the murder trial now was recited today ex by Mary Miller. She is now at waiting for the sum into court to send a Mary Miller has ke because she felt she| Blaine. With the recital ca girl who had taken until—but let her tell “I suppose I was in I don’t think it was that means. Anyway The Bicentennia The Sunday Star Magazi big feature of the opening of tl Magazine are especially writte with many hitherto unpublishe is being observed. The Magas ord, beautifully illustrated. “There he is,” she said, her voi: she were giving a bridge p