Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 22, No. 5, April 1968

The Hunt for Pretty Boy Floyd by David Mazroff

While hundreds watched, powerless to move or stop it, four men were machine gunned to death in a crowded Kansas City Station. With a ruthless shocking suddenness that horrified a nation, Pretty Boy Floyd and his comrades of death had struck again! You’ll read all about it in—

When the violence erupted, it came with a ruthless and shocking suddenness that sliced with a razor’s edge through a nation already accustomed to bloody underworld killings. But none quite like this — not carried out so boldly, in broad daylight — before hundreds of milling men, women and children, and with a deadly machine gun.

The killings, which blasted open an unbelievable web of crime and corruption in Kansas City, Missouri, resulted from an obscure event some thirty months earlier.

On October 19, 1930, a notorious bank robber named Frank “Jelly” Nash escaped from the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

The escape was routine, a walk-away by a trusty who never should have been allowed the freedom he gained through scheming and conniving. He was a career criminal with connections in every major city from coast to coast, a thug, hoodlum, gunman, burglar, murderer, and Jack-of-all-underworld-trades.

Nash was permitted to go outside the walls of the penitentiary on various duties but still within the area of the institution. One day, when he went out the last gate he just kept on going, and where he went led him to a tempestuous death, an end which also brought about the murder of two police officers, a police chief, and an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The simultaneous killings were wantonly carried out by Charles “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who had been hired to aid Nash.

“Pretty Boy” was so named by a two-buck prostitute on 14th Street in Kansas City.

He wasn’t pretty. He had a hard, cruel face and the cold eyes of a shark. The young harlot Floyd selected in the house recognized him and was terrified. Eager to please him lest he turn on her, she flattered him.

“Come along, Pretty Boy,” she said, taking hold of his hand.

Adam Richetti, Floyd’s pal, who was with him in the parlor, let out a whoop. “Pretty Boy! Wow!”

The girl, slender, curved, with auburn hair and blue eyes, and still in possession of a youthful glow, turned to Richetti. “He is too pretty. Much prettier than you.”

“Sure, sure, Honey,” Richetti replied. “But watch him. He’s liable to steal your pants.”

Floyd glowered at his partner. “You’re a real funny guy, Banana Face. Keep your tongue still or you’ll wake up some day without it.”

Richetti grinned back good-naturedly. “Take him upstairs, Honey. He’s got a hot temper and needs to get rid of it. I’m sure you’re the gal to do it.”

The girl may have guessed at the truth of Richetti’s words, but what she didn’t know was that Floyd was a maniacal killer, a bum without compassion, mercy, or the slightest regard for human life. He robbed and killed, killed senselessly.

Charles Arthur Floyd was born and grew up on a small farm around Sallisaw, Oklahoma, one of seven children. The family was poor, sharecroppers, like all the others in that section. At sixteen, he quit school, or was tossed out, having completed the sixth grade only because each previous teacher wanted to get rid of him and so passed him on.

He worked on his father’s farm until he was eighteen, when his father kicked him out. The old man was sick and tired of feeding him and of his constant drinking. A share-crop arrangement was made and Floyd became a part of the beaten group of farmers who barely eked out an existence. At that time he also took a bride, a young sixteen-year-old-girl he had known since childhood named Ruby Cranley.

Ruby became pregnant shortly after and did not relish the prospects of abject poverty for her child. She began to needle Floyd to do something about bettering their condition.

“What do you want me to do, rob a bank?” Floyd threw at her.

“I don’t give a damn what you do,” Ruby retorted, “but my baby ain’t gonna live in no pig sty. And he ain’t gonna be no sharecropper like all the folks around here, who live no better than mongrel dogs scrounging in garbage cans for their grits. You got some gumption in your damn dirty frame, then show it or get out! I’ll do better by myself, hear?”

Floyd was silent a long time then drifted slowly toward the door of the ramshackle hut. “I got more gumption in my little finger than all the damn fools in this whole territory got in their bellies. I’ll show you!”

“Talk, talk, talk!” Ruby shot back. “I’m tired of your damn talk. And I’m tired of your drinkin’ too. We get a dollar and you run into the hills for likker. You ain’t nothin’ but a bum, hear?”

Floyd stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

It was the spring of 1925. He was gone for six months, and when he returned he had a pocket full of money, expensive clothes, and a powerful car.

Ruby was delighted. She had never seen more than ten dollars in her entire young life so the hundreds Floyd poured in her lap threw her into fits of ecstasy.

Clutching the money in her hands, she wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed him passionately. “I’ll be good to you, Charlie, I’ll do anything you want me to do to make you happy. Our baby will have a start to go on with this money, Charlie. I’ll put it away. My God, Charlie, there just ain’t words to tell you how happy I am. There must be nigh a thousand dollars here.”

Floyd was pleased with himself. “There’s more where that came from, Ruby baby. A lot more.”

“Get it, honey. We’ll move away from here and buy a good farm and hire hands and become something.” She kissed him again, over and over again.

The sheriff of the county soon learned that Floyd was a bad boy. The “wanted” circulars on his desk informed him that Charles Arthur Floyd was wanted for engaging in a little $15,000 payroll robbery in St. Louis. He arrested Floyd and took him away, amid the screams and curses of Ruby, who saw all her dreams of wealth and security break up.

Floyd was convicted of complicity in the robbery and received a sentence of five years in the Missouri State Penitentiary. He was then only twenty years old. It had taken him four years to earn a degree in robbery and the title of ex-convict. But then, when he was graduated from the sixth grade he did so “Stupid Cum Laude.”

He was released in 1928, went back to Sallisaw and found that Ruby had no more use for him than she did for a hole in her pants.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a ignorant ex-convict, Charlie. I got me a good man. He does for me like a man should. I don’t need you, so git.”

“Is that all you got to say to me?” Floyd asked sarcastically.

“That’s all. Just git!”

“To hell with you. I can find better than you in cribs. And you ain’t no better than any of them. I’ll git and be glad!”

Floyd beat his way to Ohio. There he teamed up with two cronies he had known in prison, Jim Bradley and Jack “Gunner” Atkins. They taught him the use of the machine gun, which only a few months earlier had found its way into the hands of underworld characters.

The trio set out on bank-robbing forays. They knocked off bank after bank, first in the south then in the north, then in the west, and then in the east. Authorities knew they were up against a professional trio and were frankly baffled as to how to nab them because they had no knowledge of their modus operandi or where they would strike next.

A year after the trio had teamed up, in 1929, they drove into Akron, Ohio and passed a red light. H. F. Mennes, the traffic officer on duty, tried to arrest them. Bradley shot him dead. A wild chase followed. Jack Atkins got away, but Floyd was caught, along with Bradley. After a sensational trial both were convicted. Bradley got the chair for the killing. Floyd was sentenced to fifteen years. While he was being transported to prison he leaped out the train window and escaped.

Floyd ran day and night, a mile at a time, a hunted shadow who cringed with hatred in his heart in dark corners, hungry and cold, and fearful of the cell that awaited him. He vowed that he would “hold court in the street” — shoot it out with any cop who tried to arrest him. And then he realized that he had no gun.

A gun. That’s what he needed. In a small town in Michigan, just outside the city limits of Detroit, he broke into a sporting goods store, grabbed two guns and a couple of boxes of ammunition, rifled the cash drawer of a little over a hundred dollars and beat his way to Kansas City.

At this time, in 1933, Kansas City belonged to Johnny Lazia, the right-hand of one of the most powerful political figures in the United States, surely the most powerful politician in Missouri.

Singapore, Casablanca, Algiers, Port Said, and Paris had nothing on Kansas City when it came to vice, crime, and murder. The red light district on 14th Street ran openly. The girls walked the streets, posed in the doorways or the windows of the dreary flats and either called to prospective customers or tried to attract their attention by tapping on windows with coins.

Gambling joints ran in the same wide-open fashion, and these were as crooked as the proverbial corkscrews. If a citizen complained to the police that he had been cheated in a gambling joint he was locked up as a drunk and charged with disturbing the peace. No one on the police force wanted to buck the Lazia Syndicate because Lazia made appointments to the police department!

If a criminal was hot he made his way to Kansas City and Johnny Lazia. All Johnny Lazia had to say was “lay off” and no one bothered the fugitive. You could reach into the FBI files for the name of every wanted man of the time and you could be certain that he had been hidden out while he was hot by Lazia. The term “hidden out” is a misnomer because the fugitive walked the streets as if he owned them.

The Reno Club, the Chesterfield Club, and other similar dives and deadfalls featured gambling, booze, and girls. The waitresses moved from table to table wearing high heels and Chanel No. 5, and nothing else, not even a G-string. The usual high-spending customers included such illustrious characters as Buggsy Siegel, Lucky Luciano, Jack McGurn, Charlie “Cherry-Nose” Gioe, Jack Dragna, Verne Miller, a notorious bank robber, and dozens of other top hoods. They wandered in and out of Kansas City like locusts.

Such was Lazia’s power as boss of the First Ward that he could offer two of the most wanted men in the country immunity from arrest in one of the largest metropolitan cities in the nation. This weak-eyed goon, a pronounced egomaniac, ex-con and highway robber, a man without morals, scruples or conscience, a dandified dresser who wore spats and a cane, held Kansas City in the palm of his blood-soiled hand as much as Al Capone had held Chicago.

“I’m hotter than the inside of hell,” Floyd told Johnny Lazia. “I need help.”

“How hot?” Lazia asked.

“I got a fifteen-year rap hanging over my head in Ohio. I lammed from the coppers who were taking me to the pen.”

“Well, that ain’t too bad. You’ll be okay here if you keep your nose clean. Don’t do anything in this town; you get it? The big boss don’t like heat.”

“I won’t. I promise you.”

“You got any money?”

“About seven dollars.”

Lazia drew out a roll of bills, peeled off several. “Here’s a couple of hundred. I want you to kick it back, with a little bit of honey when you make a score. If you need more, I’ll stake you, on the same terms. There’s a guy in town named Bert Miller. You and he should make a nice team. I’ll introduce you. Be here tomorrow afternoon at three. In the meantime, you can move around. Here’s my card. Go to this address—”

Lazia wrote an address on the back of the card. “Say that I sent you. It’s a rooming house. They ask no questions.”

Miller was glad to team up with Floyd. The grapevine said Floyd was an expert at taking money from banks.

“We don’t have to move right away,” Miller said. “I think you had better lie low for a while until most of the heat is off you. Then we’ll move. Meanwhile, I got a nice chick for you, to kind of keep your mind off your troubles. I go with her sister.”

Floyd and Beulah Baird hit it off right away. She was a busty babe with no morals and a lust for everything that a buck would buy. A bank robber was right up her alley. Moreover, she was street wise, could drink with Floyd, glass for glass, and had no scruples about “helping out in any way, if you need me, honey.”

Floyd patted her on the rump. “It’s man’s work, baby. You’re built for other things.”

“I can drive as good as any man,” Beulah declared.

“That’s good to know. It’s a little insurance, just in case.”

In due time, Floyd and Miller pulled a series of bank jobs. The robberies went on for several months and the quartet lived high. And then, in Bowling Green, Ohio, the jinx State for Floyd, the law trapped them. Caught in a roadblock, Bert Miller was killed in the vicious gun battle that ensued. Rose Baird surrendered, leaping out of the riddled car and screaming wildly for mercy. Beulah was seriously wounded. Floyd saved himself. He jumped from the car when it roared to a stop, and with the deadly machine gun in his hands shot his way to freedom.

He might have taken Beulah along with him, but he left her for the cops, the unforgiveable sin in the underworld. Beulah cursed after him as he ran.

“You filthy rat! You lousy, double-crossing bastard! I’ll get you! I’ll get you!”

Shortly after, police received a tip that Floyd was drinking it up in a bootleg joint in Kansas City. The cops raided the joint, and in the shooting affray Floyd killed a police officer and a civilian. With every police authority in the country on the alert for him, and searching the known hangouts he frequented, the cunning killer made his way to Sallisaw and the Cookson Hills.

Once there Floyd spread money around to the poverty-stricken share-croppers and thus bought the protection of silence. Police could learn nothing in their questioning of the Sallisaw residents. Charles Arthur Floyd? Pretty Boy Floyd? Nope. Ain’t never heard tell of the feller.

Floyd then met Adam Richetti, and the two set out on a series of bank jobs. They robbed bank after bank in the small towns of Oklahoma, and then Floyd foolishly decided to visit Ruby and to effect a temporary reconciliation. Ruby was emphatically against the idea and when Floyd was dozing she notified Sheriff Erv Kelley of McIntosh County.

Sheriff Kelley made the mistake of trying to talk Floyd into a surrender, a silly and futile error.

“Charlie,” Sheriff Kelley called out, “I want you to come out and give yourself up. I’ll see you get a fair trial. Come out with your hands up.”

Floyd came out. But not with his hands up. Instead, he had the ever-present machine gun in his hands, and when he emerged from the house he aimed the gun at Sheriff Kelley and cut him in two.

This was the evil, vicious, human devil the attractive young prostitute had feared, and rightly so, and in her nervous fright to placate him in every way she could, named “Pretty-Boy”. The name stuck because Adam Richetti spread the story around.

When Frank “Jelly” Nash walked away from the federal prison in Leavenworth he was met a short distance away by two Chicago hoods who picked him up and drove him straight to the Windy City, to the O. P. Inn, operated by “Doc” Stacey.

Stacey, a cutie, financed bank jobs, jewel heists, and other sundry capers for hoods, gunmen, and killers for a ten per cent split of the take. He was delighted to see Nash.

“How’re you, Boy?” he greeted Nash. “Wonderful to see you.” He patted him on the back enthusiastically. “Had the boys right there to pick you up, didn’t I?” He laughed with glee. “You should have done this long ago. All you’d had to do was get in touch with me.”

“I know, I know,” Nash replied, “but the time wasnt’ ripe. I had to wait for the right time.”

“Sure, sure, I know. Come on, let’s go into my office and talk it over. I got some real good boys waiting in there who want to meet you.”

“Anybody I know? I’m a little touchy about meeting people I don’t know, especially right now. You understand?”

Stacey took him by the arm. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong for the world, Frank. Come on. These are good boys. The best.”

“Let’s wait a minute, Doc. I want to know a little about these guys. I’m hotter than a piece of burning dynamite, with a big reward over my head; Tell me a little about these guys.”

Stacey gave him a run-down. All four men waiting in his office were top-notch professional heist-men and gunmen, and all were just as hot as he was. They were guys who were connected all over the country.

“I’m telling you, Frank, you’re moving in with the best there is. They feel the same way about you as you do about them, right now. They’ve got a lot of heat on them too. They aren’t anxious to let just any guy come in.”

“But who are they? Can’t you tell me?”

Stacey smiled. “Come on. Come in and meet them and see for yourself. Isn’t that the best way?”

Stacey hooked his arm in Nash’s and urged him toward the back, where the office was situated.

Nash held back a moment and Stacey saw why. Nash was staring at the attractive and svelte brunette behind the bar.

“You like her?” Stacey asked.

“Yeah. Very much. She’s a looker.”

Stacey smiled. “I’ll introduce you. She’s on the loose, so you can get home free. I’ll tell you one thing though, Frank. She’s not a bum, so take your time with her.”

“Let’s go.”

“No, Frank. Business first. She’ll wait.”

In Stacey’s office were four men — Alvin “Creepy” Karpis, Harvey Bailey, Freddie Barker, son of the notorious Ma Barker, and Earl Christman.

“Boys,” Stacey said, “here he is, the one and only Frank “Jelly” Nash, late of Uncle Sam’s College. He left without taking his diploma.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Karpis said to Nash. “You still got your guts with you?”

Nash grinned. “I’ve heard of you too. The grapevine said you guys got the bank in Fort Scott. I understand you got a chunk but left a bigger chunk.” He looked down at his shoes, and then at each of the four men. “I don’t leave anything but empty drawers. As for my guts, try me.”

Freddy Barker said, “He’s okay with me. Bald head and all.”

“Okay with me too,” Christman said. “Come on. Let’s talk turkey.”

Bailey nodded agreement.

“We’ve got the Cloud County Bank in Concordia, Kansas cased,” Karpis said. “We’re counting you in on it. On Stacey’s okay. The rest is up to you.” Karpis’ eyes narrowed. “I hope you’re as good as he says you are.”

“Take my word for it, Al,” Stacey said. “I’ve never given you a bum steer yet, have I?”

“Okay,” Karpis said, “you keep in touch with Stacey. When we’re ready to move he’ll tell you where to meet us.”

The men shook hands all around. And so the gang was formed, five of the most lethal gunmen and bank-robbers in the history of American crime. Not even Dillinger’s gang could have matched it in efficiency and violence.

Doc Stacey staked Nash to a thousand dollars while the wait began, and Stacey introduced him to Frances Luce, the girl he wanted to meet. He wined and dined her, spent extravagantly, and then proposed. She accepted him without hesitation.

“I’ve got a little business to take care of first,” he told her, “and then we’ll get married.” Nash forgot to tell Frances he had a wife somewhere, still legally married to him. That little matter didn’t bother Nash at all. Besides, he didn’t use his right name anyway.

In due time the gang pulled off the Concordia robbery and made away with a little over $250,000. Nash returned to Chicago, picked up Frances and the two went to Joplin, Missouri, to the home of Herbert Farmer, who had done time with Nash in Oklahoma.

Farmer greeted his old prison buddy with open arms.

“I heard you pulled off a neat trick in Concordia,” Farmer said.

Nash grinned. “It was pretty neat. The guys I’m working with know their stuff. Creepy Karpis, Harvey Bailey, a guy named Earl Christman, and Freddie Barker, Doc Barker’s kid brother. You know some of them?”

Farmer nodded. “All of them. Karpis and Freddie did time together in the Kansas State Pen. That’s where they met. That Karpis is a rough boy. Francis Albin Karpavicz. A real tough Hunky. Don’t cross him, Frankie. He’ll kill in a minute. That Freddie Barker is okay but a little on the dumb side. Christman used to be a con-man. Harvey Bailey is sharp, rough and tough too. You really tied in with a hot bunch. You remember Doc Barker, don’t you?”

“Sure. He and Volney Davis still in the Oklahoma State Pen?”

“Yeah, but Ma Barker is trying to spring him.”

“But he’s doing a life bit.”

“Heavy dough would spring Judas in Oklahoma. I don’t think you’ll last too long with this mob. When Doc and Volney Davis get out Doc will take over. That means you’ll be out.” Here Farmer paused and looked meaningly at Nash. “You will know a lot about the mob by then. Maybe too much. Get it?”

Frances turned pale. “You mean they would kill Frankie?”

Nash patted her arm. “Don’t worry, honey. I can take care of myself. I’ll do a couple more jobs with the boys and get out before Doc and Volney Davis hit the bricks from the pen. I should have enough green then to keep us going for a long time.”

In the next month the gang pulled two more bank heists, each robbery netting them six figure amounts.

Nash, a guy who loved a good time and the best of everything, went wild. The toupee he wore gave him all the disguise he needed and he looked very little like the man on the WANTED posters that hung in every post office and police station in the country.

Confident of his disguise, he moved about the country freely, checked into the best hotels, ate in the finest restaurants, bought the most expensive clothes money could buy for himself and Frances. A smart cookie, he was aware of the fact that in a pinch he would heed friends, so he dropped off money to Herbie Farmer and paid his debts to Doc Stacey.

And then Doc Barker and Volney Davis got out of the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. Doc Barker sent for Frank Nash through Doc Stacey.

Barker got his nickname of “Doc” through his work as an orderly in the prison hospital. All he did to earn the cognomen was to remove bed pans from patients. Medically, he couldn’t tell the difference between an aspirin and a cough drop. He was just a little short of illiterate and thought a verb was something you put into soup to flavor it. But what he lacked in formal education he made up for in innate cunning. In cruelty and viciousness he matched Pretty Boy Floyd, and both were deaf to all entreaties for mercy, however impassioned.

Doc Stacey earned his nickname by virtue of the fact that he greeted everyone with “Whatta yah say, Doc?”

Stacey was sure he knew why Doc Barker wanted to see Nash and tried to convince Barker that Nash was okay.

Barker snarled back, “I didn’t say he wasn’t okay. I said I wanted to see him. All you gotta do is get in’ touch with him and set up a meet. You got that?”

“Sure, sure, Doc. Anything you say. I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I can.”

While Stacey waited for Nash to call him, Harvey Bailey was picked up by G-Men for the Fort Scott bank job. Employees in the Fort Scott bank identified the pictures of Bailey as one of the men who had stuck up the jug. News of the pinch hit the papers.

That was when Nash called Stacey in Chicago.

“Am I hot?” Nash asked.

“Not for the Fort Scott job, but you are for the others. That’s the way I hear it. I’m going to give it to you straight, Frank. Doc Barker wants to see you. If I were you, I would pass up that meet. He’s a crazy bastard and he’s got Volney Davis with him. The way I look at it, they don’t want you in any more and because they know of the jobs you were in on they want to put you out of the way. I’d lay low if I were you.”

“You got any ideas about where I can go?”

“Yeah. Go to Hot Springs. To the White Front Pool Hall. It’s run by Dick Galatas. Tell him I sent you. He’s got the town in his hip pocket and you’ll be safe there.”

“Okay, Doc. Thanks a lot. I’ll keep in touch. And if anything breaks, you get in touch with me, eh?”

“Sure thing, Frankie.”

Richard Tallman Galatas, as Stacey said, had Hot Springs, Arkansas, in his hip pocket. His protection in Hot Springs was Dutch Akers, Chief of Detectives, to whom he paid off and with whom he ran an assortment of rackets, from bookmaking to extortion.

Nash didn’t go straight to Hot Springs. Instead, he went to Hollywood, where he checked into a plush hotel and made it known that he was a big-money man from the East interested in investing heavily in a motion picture production. The sharpies who operated along Poverty Row where the “quickies” were turned out like sausages in a machine beat a path to his suite. They brought along some has-beens who had been big names at one time, and Frances was ecstatic by the way they fawned over her.

While Nash and Frances cut a wide swath in Hollywood, Doc Barker and the mob were busy trying to spring Bailey. They engaged Earl Smith, an experienced trial lawyer, to defend him. Smith was certain he could win an acquittal for Bailey, and the gang plunked down an enormous fee for his services.

Smith blew the case — a case he didn’t have a chance to win — and he signed his death warrant in doing it. The gang lured Smith to a secluded side-road about fifteen miles north of Tulsa and shot him dead.

While they were in Tulsa, Doc Barker ran into Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti, who were hiding out in Claremore, a small town of about six thousand population.

“I’m looking for a guy named Frank ‘Jelly’ Nash,” Doc told Floyd and Richetti. “You hear anything about him?”

“I’ve heard about him,” Floyd said, “but I ain’t seen him. Why’re you looking for him?”

“He knows too much.”

“I hear he’s solid. When did he change?”

“When I hit the bricks. Soon as Davis and I got out the G-Men suddenly get a lot of information. I figure he tipped them about Bailey.”

“Whatta yah want me to do?”

“What I’d do for you if you asked me the same thing.”

Floyd shrugged. “It ain’t nothin’. If Adam and I see him we’ll do you that little favor.”

“Thanks. If you want to get in touch with me for anything, you can call a guy named Doc Stacey at the O. P. Inn in Chi. He’s solid and will know where we are. Just in case.”

“Doc Stacey. O. P. Inn. Chi. I got it,” Floyd said.

The demented urge to knock off Nash, an urge founded solely on suspicion, characterized Doc Barker. His accidental meeting with Pretty Boy Floyd set the stage for what was to follow in a chain of the most unbelievable coincidences.

Nash finally tired of his masquerade in Hollywood and headed for Hot Springs with Frances. Arriving in town, he went straight to the White Front Pool Hall and sought out Dick Galatas.

“I’m Frank Nash,” he told Galatas. “Doc Stacey sent me.”

“I know,” Galatas replied. “Stacey called me. Where’ve you been? I’ve been expecting you.”

Nash grinned. “I thought I was a little hot there for a while so I stayed away. I think the heat’s off me a little.”

Galatas grunted. “Not much. You’re hotter than hell. You’ll be okay here, but don’t pull anything in town. And don’t make yourself too conspicuous. As long as you follow orders you’ll have nothing to worry about, My friend is the chief of detectives. He’ll keep me posted about you, in time for you to move fast if you have to. Okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good. Have you checked in any place yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you go to a summer home run by a friend of mine. It’s on the outskirts of town. Very fancy place. You’ll be safe there, and no questions asked. Just say I sent you.” Galatas scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Nash. “Wait here. I’ll get one of my boys to take you there in my car.”

For several months Nash and. Frances were happy. They moved about freely, visited all the restaurants and hot spots, walked through the town like any legitimate citizens. There was no need for Nash to pull any heist because he still had a lot of money left as his share of the loot taken in the banks he had helped rob. He was sure he would be safe from now on.

Then the roof fell in.

The FBI, relentless as the most determined of avengers, followed Nash’s trail across the country and finally got a tip that he was in Hot Springs.

On June 16, 1933, two FBI Agents, F. J. Lackey and Frank Smith, strode into the White Front Pool Hall, spotted Nash and confronted him.

“You’re under arrest, Nash,” Lackey said sharply.

“Who the hell are you?” Nash challenged.

“We’re Special Agents of the FBI,” Lackey answered, and showed Nash his credentials. “Let’s go, Nash. The ball game is over.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Nash retorted. “Those credentials look phony as hell to me. And so do you guys.”

Lackey reached out to take hold of Nash’s lapels but Nash slugged him. Lackey slugged back, several vicious punches to Nash’s belly, and then Smith hit him with a couple of solid shots to the jaw. While Nash was dazed the two FBI agents slipped the cuffs on his wrists and hustled him out the door, shoved him into the back seat of their car and sped away.

Dick Galatas went into action as soon as the trio were out the door. He called Frances and told her what had happened. She hurried over to Galatas’ house and there the two went into swift conference; Dick Galatas decided to call Dutch Akers.

Dutch Akers was a wise cop, which is to say that he was a good cop when he had to be. He knew whose money to take and how much. He was willing to give the proper service for payment received, and he didn’t double-cross anyone. That made him a wise cop, until the blow fell, and then he was a lousy cop and a dimwit.

Akers listened to Galatas and said he would see what he could do. He looked at Frances. “This is going to cost you a little, Mrs. Nash. I’ll have to pay off down the line.”

“How much?” Frances asked.

“I’d say about five thousand. I think that’s cheap enough, don’t you?”

Galatas stood by silently, allowing Akers to practice his shakedown on Frances Nash. No matter what happened to Nash, his bread and butter was here in Hot Springs, and how he earned it depended on Akers. Even if Galatas disapproved, he still had to allow the shake.

“I’ll pay it,” Frances answered. “I’ll get the money to you right away. Only get Frank back. As quickly as possible.”

“I’ll do my best,” Akers promised.

“We’ve got to stop those agents before they reach Leavenworth, Dutch,” Dick Galatas said. “Once they get Nash behind bars it will be too late.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Akers said. “Now, Dick, you do what you can.”

Meanwhile, Smith and Lackey had picked up Chief of Police Otto Reed of McAlester, Oklahoma as a reinforcement and the three, together with Nash, reached Benton, Arkansas. Their car was stopped by Benton police officers who approached them with guns drawn.

“We’ve received word a man has been kidnaped in Hot Springs,” one of the police officers said. “What about it? Who are you guys?”

Lackey told him. “We’re taking this man back to Leavenworth. He’s an escaped prisoner, among other things. He’s also wanted for bank robbery.”

The police officers were satisfied and permitted the car to proceed. They were stopped again in Little Rock. At Fort Smith, Lackey, Smith and Reed held a conference. It was decided to telephone the FBI office in Kansas City and explain what had happened. They were advised to put their prisoner aboard the Missouri Pacific train at Fort Smith for Kansas City.

“We’ll have some men waiting to assist you when you arrive,” the K.C. officer said.

Galatas all this time had been busier than a one-legged cat chasing a speedy mouse. He called Chicago, Joplin, Missouri, and Kansas City.

The people he contacted got busy, and the underworld wires burned as plans to rescue Nash from his captors were made.

The frenzied attempts to free Nash were all out of true proportion to his importance. He was just a lucky bank robber. However, he had become a link in a chain which now stretched from Hot Springs to Kansas City to Chicago, and the men who had agreed to help were important and could get things done, and that was the extent of Nash’s influence, forged by the fact of Galatas’ intervention.

The hoods who had agreed to help had close contacts with people in high places, in politics, in police departments, in an underworld circle which encompassed the sphere of influence of conniving men who took crooked dollars and were willing to close their eyes to any underworld schemes.

At this moment, a coincidence occurred that forged the chain of circumstances which led to the bloody and shocking event scheduled to take place, an event that brought about the downfall of some of the most powerful men in the nation. It all centered around the attempt to rescue a convicted felon, a thief, robber, and murderer from his legitimate and lawful captors.

About the same time that Nash was picked up by Agents Smith and Lackey, Sheriff Jack Killingsworth of Bolivar, Missouri, was in a public garage when he encountered Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti, although he didn’t know who they were at the time. They looked suspicious to Killingsworth and he started to question them.

Adam Richetti, standing behind Floyd, kept his eyes locked on Killingsworth while he was questioning Floyd, who answered in terse, snarling tones.

“Let me see your driver’s license,” Killingsworth demanded.

“Go to hell, Copper,” Floyd retorted. “You want to see my driver’s license, try to take it from me!”

Killingsworth went for his gun but Richetti beat him to the draw, overpowered him, marched him out of the garage, put him in his car and made him drive them out of town. The car broke down and Floyd held up a salesman and forced him to drive the party to Kansas City. There Floyd and Richetti released the sheriff and the salesman on a lonely side road. They never knew until later how lucky they had been to leave alive.

Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti reported to Johnny Lazia.

“You guys are real hot,” Lazia told them. “I got the word a while back, and a couple of hours ago about your caper this morning. I’ll help you. But remember one thing; don’t do anything in this town unless you talk to me about it first. Understood? Floyd, you can go to the same place, but don’t fly too high for a while.”

It was Johnny Lazia, criminal Boss of the first ward in Kansas City, whom Fate selected to set up the terror-ridden murders that were to take place the next day.

Lazia got urgent calls from Stacey in Chicago, Galatas in Hot Springs, and Herbie Farmer in Joplin. Then he knew what to do; he sent for Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti.

“The feds are bringing in a guy named Frank Nash from Hot Springs to return him to Leavenworth. Some friends of mine want him sprung. Can you handle it?”

Pretty Boy Floyd raised astonished eyebrows. “Nash? Jelly Nash?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Only by his rep. I know he heisted some jugs with Freddie Barker, Creepy Karpis, Earl Christman, and Harvey Bailey.”

“That’s him. Look, this may be a little tough, so I’m going to send along a pal of mine, Verne Miller, to give you guys a hand. How’re you fixed for heavy arms?”

“I’ve got a Tommy, some sawed-offs, and pistols.”

“Good. That’s all you’ll need. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble if you get the drop on the feds because they don’t carry any heat. The train pulls in at seven in the morning. You better be there a little earlier. Come right here after the caper. I want Nash brought to me.”

When Floyd and Richetti left Lazia, Floyd said, “This is real rich, handing this guy over to us on a silver platter. I guess this will make Doc Barker real happy.”

“But what about Lazia? He might not like it. He wants Nash.”

“Ah, the hell with him. We can say it was an accident, that Nash got in the way when we started blasting.”

“We going that route?” Richetti asked.

“Why not? They’re coppers.”

At seven o’clock in the morning, on that June 17, 1933, the Missouri Pacific train pulled into the Union Station in Kansas City.

It was a warm, clear day, tinted with sunshine and rimmed with a bright morning gold. The spacious plaza outside the station was a scene of lazy activity as crowds moved toward the entrances. There were smiles on the faces of the men and women, and some of them laughed lightly as they spoke to each other. Many of these were vacationers, looking ahead to a week or two of relaxation and fun. None of them envisioned the guttural rise of violence that was to sweep across the plaza in the next few minutes; none of them believed a scene of such maddening slaughter could be possible outside a field of battle.

Yet it was to come, swiftly, without any warning, and it froze them speechless for timeless seconds.

The Missouri Pacific, carrying Frank “Jelly” Nash, Chief of Police Otto Reed, and Special Agents F. J. Lackey and Frank Smith, was met by Special Agent Raymond Caffrey and two Kansas City detectives, W. J. Grooms and Frank Hermanson. In a car outside the station, two more special agents of the FBI waited. These were the reinforcements promised Lackey and Smith. The group moved through the crowded station toward the east exit where Caffrey had parked his car.

In front of Caffrey’s car the special agent said, “All right, Nash. Get into the front seat.”

The manacled Nash looked around the street, a vague hope in his eyes. Caffrey pushed him and again ordered him to get into the car. Nash got into the front seat, and then Chief Reed and two FBI agents climbed into the rear seat. Grooms and Hermanson, and another agent were standing beside the car while Caffrey walked around the automobile and put his hand on the handle of the door on the driver’s side. He opened the door and prepared to slide under the wheel.

Then it happened.

The light, shape, and tone of the morning was suddenly shattered, ripped apart by the dissonant roar of savage violence.

Three men, two of them armed with Thompson submachine guns, the other with heavy caliber pistols, approached the car, and one of them shouted, “Up! Up! Get ’em up!”

The crowds in the plaza hurrying toward the entrances to the Union Station, and those coming out of it, had not yet become aware of what was happening.

Nash turned his head and looked at the men with the machine guns. For a fleeting instant a look of hope flashed in his eyes, and at the same time Detective W. J. Grooms, courageous but foolish, swung his gun up and around and fired. The slug hit one of the men holding a machine gun, but only in the shoulder, and he cursed.

“Let ’em have it!” the wounded gunman yelled. “Let the bastards have it! Kill! Kill!”

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Nash yelled back.

His warning words mattered little to the three men. The slow, grey ash of time and death, the payment in the coin of the realm, came to him with panic-driven swiftness. Slug after slug hit him and he slumped over the steering wheel.

The machine guns moved to and fro, and the man with pistols fired, too, and the crowds in the plaza stopped and turned their heads and looked, horror in their eyes and on their faces. They saw Detectives Hermanson and Grooms fall, and Special Agent Raymond J. Caffrey, and they saw the blood spurt from their bodies.

A woman screamed. Another fainted and a man caught her. There were more shots, then a brief pause. A moment of silence, and one of the gunmen spoke, calmly, as if he were inspecting a coat he intended to buy, and his words were harsh and sullen and cast a sickness over the area where he stood.

“They’re all dead here,” the gunman said. “Let’s go.”

The three killers hurried to their car, got in and sped away. It was all over in less than a minute. Sixty seconds of blazing death for five men — Chief of Police Otto Reed, Officers Grooms and Hermanson. Agent Raymond J. Caffrey, and Frank “Jelly” Nash.

The news of the killings in the plaza of the Union Station was headlined in newspapers all over the country, and a nation read and wondered how such a thing could happen, in a public square, in broad daylight.

Boss Tom Pendergast called in. Johnny Lazia and demanded to know who was behind the massacre.

“I want the names of every one of those damned killers, and I want them before the sun sets today. Understand? Today, not tomorrow. I know damned well that you know them. I’m going to give you enough time to get your bloody house in order, and then I want those names.”

Lazia tried to bluff his way through. “I don’t know them, Boss. They must have been guys who sneaked in here.”

“You’re a damned liar, Lazia. You know who they were. You know it and I know it. So bring those names to me today. I told you over and over again that I wanted no violence in this town. I told you that violence brings heat I can’t stand. This thing is liable to ruin me. You understand?” He punched at the air and then pounded his desk. “Ruin me, you dumb bastard!”

They were prophetic words;

Special agents swarmed into Kansas City, and with the aid of the local police, who now had their hands free, began digging into the facts of the massacre. Day after day the agents and special detectives from the Homicide Division kept digging with fierce intensity. Names began to come into the office of the FBI, searched out, dug out, hammered out.

Herbie Farmer of Joplin. Doc Stacey of Chicago. Verne Miller, gunman, bank robber, and professional killer, a man who looked effeminate. But his looks belied the granite-like hardness inside of him. Agents checked out each name, gathered information on them, tied them in with one man after another until they were tied to each other and the picture began to take a little form.

Boss Pendergast meanwhile rode Johnny Lazia’s tail. Lazia continued to deny knowledge of the men involved in the murders, and for a good reason. He feared that if he spilled his guts it would make him an accessory, or worse yet, a principal in the murders and so put him in the gas chamber.

“Lazia,” Pendergast said, “you’re a stupid, idiotic fool. You know I could get you immunity if you talked. But you won’t. Okay, have it your way. But get this — I’m washing my hands of you. You brought me heat I told you repeatedly I couldn’t and didn’t want. You double-crossed me. Now you stand alone. Get out. Get the hell out of my sight.”

Lazia tried desperately to placate Pendergast but all his pleas fell on deaf ears. Pendergast was adamant. Politician that he was, he knew he no longer could stand behind Lazia, that sooner or later the finger would point at the man and then it would be all over. He had no alternative, and as a matter of expedience and self-defense, to dismiss Lazia from his favor.

Word of Johnny Lazia’s fall from grace leaked almost immediately.

The FBI learned then that Herbie Farmer was an old buddy of Frank Nash, had once served a stretch with him. They learned, too, that Farmer knew Verne Miller, and that Miller had done business with Doc Stacey, and that Stacey was connected in Kansas City and Hot Springs, as well as other cities across the nation, with top hoods. Johnny Lazia’s name bounced into the picture, not a clear-cut picture yet but very evident in outline.

Word came then that the massacre had been committed by out-of-town hoods, professional killers. No names. Just the term out-of-town talent.

The FBI refused to accept the statements. Somebody in Kansas City was connected with the killings. An agent had been killed in cold blood. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they saw the killers dead, one way or another.

For a solid year the FBI agents assigned to solve the Union Station massacre were all over Kansas City, masquerading as hoods, junkies, bank robbers, ex-cons, under every guise imaginable. But it availed them nothing. They had run into a brick wall of silence.

It became more and more obvious to the FBI that somebody important in the underworld had been involved in the crime or the stool-pigeons and informers would not have clammed up so tightly. But who? Who was it that the underworld feared so much that not a single scrap of information could be forthcoming?

The bureau was desperate. Despite all its efforts, its threats and promises, nobody would talk. The trail got colder and colder, and it seemed that the case never would be solved. At this point, a determined and tenacious lawyer named Maurice Milligan was appointed United States District Attorney.

One of the first things Milligan, to whom the law was a sacred thing, did after taking office was to ask that he be briefed on the progress of the investigation into the Union Station massacre. He made an exhaustive study of each facet of the crime, went over each clue with minute care. He was stymied.

There were some pertinent questions in his mind, however. Who had ordered Agents Lackey and Smith stopped when they were transporting Nash from Hot Springs? Who was it that had telephoned police authorities in Benton and Little Rock to say that a man had been kidnaped?

The key to the whole puzzle seemed to lie in, the answers to those questions. He sent FBI agents into Hot Springs to check with the telephone company.

Records of the telephone company in Hot Springs revealed that on June 16, 1933, calls had been made from that city to Little Rock, Arkansas; Joplin, Missouri; and to Chicago. It was further revealed by agents working in Chicago and Kansas City that Doc Stacey had made a call to Kansas City from his O. P. Inn, and that Verne Miller had made a call from Kansas City to the O. P. Inn. Things were getting hot.

Milligan wanted to talk to Dick Galatas but Galatas and his wife had left Hot Springs. Herbie Farmer had left Joplin. Frances Nash had disappeared. Verne Miller had taken his mistress, Vivian Mathias, and gone to parts unknown. Why would all these men and women suddenly take it on the lam unless they were involved, unless they wanted to avoid questioning? Maurice Milligan was certain now that he was on the right track.

Agents now learned that immediately after the massacre, Verne Miller had moved all his household goods to the home of Fritz Mulloy, an underworld character. And no one knew where Mulloy had gone or why he was mixed up in the entire affair. In the basement of Verne Miller’s abandoned bungalow agents found several empty beer bottles. They picked these up, on the bare chance they might contain fingerprints which would reveal other names, perhaps the names of the killers.

Maurice Milligan learned then of Sheriff Jack Killingsworth’s encounter with Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti. Then he came across Mrs. Lottie West, the woman in charge of the Traveler’s Aid desk at the entrance to the Union Station.

Mrs. West prided herself on her memory and ability to read faces. The morning of the massacre she had noticed a man sitting on a bench a few feet away from her desk. He kept watching the gates where passengers came from arriving trains.

“I told myself,” she said to Milligan, “that this man had a particularly cruel face. However, I didn’t wish to condemn him solely on my own judgment.”

“Okay, Mrs. West. What else did you notice or see?”

“Well, I tried a couple of times to engage this man in conversation but he wouldn’t answer any of my questions. I thought he might need help of some kind, information as to where he wanted to stay or something, but he just wouldn’t say a word to me. He wouldn’t even admit it was a nice day.”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. West. What else? Did you see anything more of this man?”

“Yes, I did. The next time I saw him he and two other men were near the automobile of that poor man who was killed. Oh, it was awful, simply awful. I saw the whole thing, you know.”

“What did you see? Tell me everything you saw. Don’t omit a thing.”

“Well, when I saw those poor men shot I started to scream, and then I ran to look for a policeman and I found Officer Fanning and shouted to him to shoot those men who had killed all those people. He did shoot at them but missed them. I’m really ashamed of my feelings, you know — to have wanted someone killed — but I just couldn’t let those men get away. Those awful murderers!”

“Yes, I know, Mrs. West. I’m going to show you some mugs, some photographs. See if you can pick out the men you saw on that morning.”

Milligan took a folder of mug shots from his desk and told Mrs. West to go through them. She turned page after page until she came to a picture of Pretty Boy Floyd.

“That’s him!” she cried. “That’s the man I saw on that morning!”

Milligan wasn’t excited. He showed her a photo of Adam Richetti but she couldn’t identify him as one of the men she had seen near the car. He and the agents in the room were a little skeptical.

They already had experienced a score or more of “positive” identifications made by men and women who claimed they were eye witnesses to the killings. They had picked out photographs of Wilbur Underhill and Robert Brady, and these were the men charged with the crime in the first indictment returned. The charges were dismissed, however, when investigation revealed that neither of the two men could have been mixed up in the murders.

Milligan thanked Mrs. West for her information. “You have been very helpful. If we need you again we’ll get in touch with you.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to help all I can. I certainly hope you get those men.”

“Yes, Mrs. West. So do we.” And Milligan muttered a silent and solemn “Amen.”

in the weeks that followed, Herbie Farmer and his wife were located and arrested. Mrs. Frances Nash was found in the home of her parents in Winona, Illinois. The FBI then learned that Verne Miller and Vivian Mathias were in Chicago. A trap was set but Miller escaped after a hectic running gun battle. Vivian, however, was arrested in the apartment she and Miller occupied. Fritz Mulloy and Doc Stacey were arrested. Things were starting to shape up.

Vivian Mathias refused to talk and she was charged with harboring a criminal and a fugitive from justice. She was convicted and sentenced to a year and a day in prison. Her conviction developed nothing. She took her punishment with a shrug of her shoulders and a stoical attitude.

Frances Nash, however, broke under interrogation and told what she knew about the telephone calls that had been made and who had made them.

“Do you know a man named Charles ‘Pretty Boy’ Floyd?” she was asked.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Or a man named Adam Richetti?”

“No, sir.”

She was shown pictures of Floyd and Richetti. “Ever see those men before? In the company of your husband?”

“No, sir.”

“Ever hear their names? Think hard, Mrs. Nash. This is very important.”

She was silent for a time, evidently trying to recall to her mind the names. She finally said, “No, sir. I never heard their names before.”

District Attorney Milligan and the agents in the room shook their heads in frustration. It was always the same thing. No one had ever heard of either Floyd or Richetti. Yet there was the sure feeling that they were mixed up in the massacre, neck deep.

Through the underworld grapevine there were tiny slivers of light in the information which the FBI received. Although their investigations told them that Floyd and Richetti never had been known to be connected in any way with Nash, Galatas, Miller, or Stacey, there was still the fact that they had been in Kansas City on the day of the killings. That much they established. If anyone knew, and if anyone would talk, it would be Richard Galatas. He had everything to lose by refusing to talk.

At this time another discouraging incident occurred to frustrate Milligan and the agents on the case. Detroit police found a nude body wrapped in a blanket under a railroad embankment. The dead man had been viciously beaten and shot. He was Verne Miller.

That left the FBI with a loose end dangling high in the air and a puzzling question to add to those they already had. Who had murdered Miller, and why? The answer was that he was too hot, wouldn’t leave the Motor City, and the Detroit hoods didn’t want him around. Finis!

“Floyd and Richetti!” Milligan exclaimed. “And Galatas. We have to find them, one or two or all of them. The key lies there. I’m sure of it.”

Weeks went by. Then out of a clear sky came the break in the case. A magazine devoted to stories of crime and criminals printed in each issue a list of names and a column of photos of fugitives from justice. Galatas’ photo and description appeared in one of the issues. A reader of the magazine recognized Galatas in New Orleans, followed him into a building, and then reported his find to the FBI. Dick Galatas and his wife were arrested. Then came another break in the case.

Fingerprints on one of the beer bottles found in Verne Miller’s bungalow proved to be those of Adam Richetti. There was now an established link between Verne Miller and Adam Richetti, and it was logical to assume that if Richetti was linked to Miller then, certainly Pretty Boy Floyd had to be also.

Questioning of Dick Galatas confirmed the tie-in of Miller, Floyd and Richetti.

“You made a call to Chicago, didn’t you?” Galatas was asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“To a man known as Doc Stacey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You asked him to aid in the freeing of Nash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he say he would do?”

“He said he would call Johnny Lazia in Kansas City because we learned the train would stop in Kansas City.”

“Do you know that he did make the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who made the calls to Benton and Little Rock?”

“Dutch Akers.”

“The chief of detectives in Hot Springs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You also made a call to Joplin, Missouri, didn’t you, to Herbert Farmer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I asked him to help free Nash, if he could.”

“What did he tell you?” the agents demanded.

“He said he would do all he could.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know. I never learned that.”

“All right. Now, you knew Verne Miller, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew he was in Kansas City on June sixteenth, the day before the shootings?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew that Verne Miller was connected in Kansas City, that he was, or had been, associated with Johnny Lazia?”

“Yes, sir, I knew that.”

Dick Galatas was now asked the big question. “Did you know that Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Richetti were in Kansas City the day before the shootings?”

“I learned that later.”

“How?”

“Doc Stacey told me.”

“You also learned later that Pretty Boy Floyd, Adam Richetti, and Verne Miller had combined in the effort to rescue Nash, didn’t you?”

Everyone waited breathlessly for Galatas’ reply because this was a shot in the dark, the big shot that would definitely link Floyd and Richetti to the crime.

Galatas looked from one face to the other, hesitated, drew in a long, slow breath, and said, “Yes, sir, I learned that.”

Milligan and the agents in the room sighed and relaxed at long last. It was all over. They finally had it, the information that would put Floyd and Richetti in the gas chamber, and maybe Johnny Lazia too. All that remained was to find Floyd and Richetti.

Lazia at least would be easy. Not so Doc Stacey and Herbie Farmer.

Before the FBI could get to Johnny Lazia the underworld in Kansas City saved them the trouble. On a hot August night in 1934, a little over a year after the massacre, three men crouched in ambush in front of an exclusive apartment house and when Lazia emerged they riddled his body with about twenty-five machine gun slugs. He had double-crossed the Big Boss on the Big Caper, a caper too hot to square, and paid the price for it in gangland fashion.

WANTED bulletins for Floyd and Richetti for the killings were published and hung in every post office and police station in the country, and agents began to scour the underworld for them.

Shortly after, police officers in a small town in Ohio were making a routine inspection of a city park when they saw two men sleeping on the grass in a secluded spot. They awakened them and asked who they were.

Floyd said, “We’re just passing through. We’re on our way to Pittsburgh to work in the mills.”

Richetti backed away from the cops for several steps, while the two officers whispered together. One of the officers said, “We’ll have to take you in for further questioning.”

“Like hell!” Richetti pulled his gun and started shooting.

The two cops pulled their guns and shot back. While the shooting was going on, Floyd turned and ran leaving Richetti to fight it out alone. Richetti was overpowered and thrown into jail. He refused to give his name or answer any other questions. His fingerprints were taken and they revealed him to be Adam Richetti. The FBI was notified immediately and shot into action! For if this was Richetti, then the man who got away was Floyd!

The FBI, led by Melvin H. Purvis, who less than a year later was to kill John Dillinger in Chicago, hurried to the place where. Floyd was last seen, just outside the town of Liverpool, Ohio.

The FBI combed the area, yard by yard, inch by inch, hour after hour. There were two dozen agents in the party, most of them armed with machine guns.

Two days later, on October 22, 1934, Floyd staggered into a farmhouse about ten miles east of Liverpool. He asked the farm wife, Mrs. Ellen Conkle, for food.

“I haven’t eaten in two days. Can you give me something? I’ll pay for it.” He threw a five-dollar bill on the table.

Mrs. Conkle recognized him from the pictures which had been published in all the papers the last two days. He didn’t appear to be the savage killer the papers said he was. He looked like a man who was wary of life. He also looked cold and hungry. Mrs. Conkle nevertheless was frightened.

“Sit down,” she said in a trembling voice. “I’ll fix you something.”

While he was eating, Mrs. Conkle stole to the telephone in another room and called the police.

“He’s here,” she stammered out. “That man. Floyd. Please come quickly. Hurry. Hurry.”

FBI Agents responded immediately, the entire team that had searched for him the past two days, and surrounded the farm house.

“Come out, Floyd,” Purvis yelled, “with your hands up!”

Floyd leaped from the table, guns in his hands, looked at Mrs. Conkle with murder in his eyes. “You bitch!”

Mrs. Conkle ran screaming from the room.

Floyd looked out the back door. One agent. He decided to try it. There was nothing else he could do. He dashed out, his guns firing as he ran. The lone agent at the rear of the house returned the fire, and then the other agents joined him, firing as they ran.

When the first series of slugs hit Floyd he screamed like a mortally wounded tiger that had been slashed by its intended kill. He stumbled and fell to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth.

He rose and ran, his stiffly sullen face twisted in a deathlike agony, his eyes bulging and swollen with the fear that had lived inside of him for the past half dozen years.

More slugs hit him and his lips crawled back over his teeth and his tongue came out and dripped blood over his chin. Still more slugs hit him but he kept on running, staggering and stumbling like a man dizzy with drink who was fighting desperately to keep his feet.

Floyd tried to let out a last defiant yell, to fire a last volley of shots at his tormenting pursuers but he didn’t have the strength for either. The last volley of shots struck him but he felt no pain, no shock, no resistance toward life. He stood where he was for several seconds and then he seemed to collapse in sections, his knees, torso, and the head crimson with blood.

When he struck the ground he was dead.

Pretty Boy Floyd was twenty-nine years old when he died in a strange field, in a strange town, in a state whose vengeance he had twice escaped.