The Atlanta Constitution from Atlanta, Georgia • 40

nl mm i liia aecona no Devon oaovosi an ai. 1 blti 4, v. Alert Detectives, Barbed Wire Fences, Chained Driveways, Watchah of rnvaie nones, ju iLmpioyea in ine nign nesttive iu 6y ze Most Up-to-Date Means Known to Jp 'f V- Wealth and Science If ui A 'it A r-W '-J t. vv: THEMOCBOVVHCJJSEIN'AS I ARE DEFENSIVE WEAPONS I THE K0G80W HOUSE IN -A ARE DEFENSIVE WEAPONS JoV COMPLETE 7EL- JA BOARD WITH DIRECT WIRES TO POLICE HEAD- QUARTERS, STATE -T-i c' Am 'if -J, 1 v. 3 POLICE AND PRI-L T2 VMf yi LAC it TTl Hi II! STRANGERS SHALL NOT PASS! Principal Entrance to the Morrow Estate, Where Baby Lindbergh Is Vigilantly Guarded.

If by Chance an Unwelcome Motorist Should Drive Into the Grounds, a Large Iron Chain Would Be Stretched Across the Road as Shown. Thus the Driver Would Find It Impossible to Leave With out a Satisfactory Explanation. feet of the entrance and saw no sign of the sentry who holds forth in the little green police booth. It occurred to me that it would be a simple matter to drive right But no! There is a small window in one side of the booth that affords the man on guard there an unobstructed view of the road that leads to the entrance. He had me under surveillance, and when I BARBED BARRIERS This Photo, Posed by 2 Models, Shows the Difficulty of "entering" the Morrow Estate, Even by Such an Informal Method.

Because of the High Barbed-wire Fence Surrounding the Grounds It Is Impossible for an Individual to Scale It Alone. I Col. H. Norman Schwartz-kopf, Head of New Jersey's State Police, Who Directed the Investigation Into the Kidnaping of the First Lindbergh Baby. was about a hundred feet from the stone portals that bear black and gold no-admittance signs, the door of the booth swung open and the guard dashed to the middle of the roadway.

I drew up to a halt. The man came forward. Ai a Graphic Chart of the Mor the Grounds Are Guarded'1 Mrs. Lindbergh's Year-Olc-1 a Hidden Telephone Provide Defianc6 The sentry laughed. I later learned why.

One night some time ago, the sentiy noticed a car coming toward the entrance structions from higher up. "And anyway, I wouldn't tell you if 1 DID know." There was a note of finality in his voice that clearly indicated the conversation was at an end so far as he was concerned. Ask the man in the street about the Lindberghs' "new baby," as Jon is referred to in Englewood, and he'll either profess ignorance of the knowledge that the tot dwells there, or he'll speak of the child in awed, uninformative undertones. Englewood is morally certain that the successful climax of the infamous plot to abduct the first Lindbergh baby was the result of "inside information," and Englewood is taking no chances on being a party to a possible repetition of criminal history. While driving along Spear avenue, near Ly-decker street at the edge of the Morrow estate I drew up to the curb and, still playing dumb, asked an attractive black-haired girl for directions to the Morrow home.

She smiled and said she didn't know, that she was a stranger in Englewood. Two minutes later I saw her walking into the Morrow grounds. I subsequently learned that she was one of the servants. Next I drove toward the mouth of the gravel driveway that winds its half-mile, semi-circular course to the mansion. 1 was within a hundred s.

i LAST WEEK'S installment of this exclusive inside story, Alan Hynd revealed that Jon Morrow Lindbergh, the year-old brother of the kidnaped and murdered Charles Augustus, is the most closely-guarded child in the world. the Dwight IV. Morrow estate at Englewood, New Jersey, where the baby lives, a sentry in a police booth at the entrance to the grounds bars all visitors; trained dogs and armed guards police the property, and direct telephone wires connect the mansion with the Englewood Police Headquarters and the State Police barracks at Alpine all the result of the Lindberghs' fierce resolve that no harm shall come to their second son. "VES), he announced. "What can I do for A you?" His tone was friendly, but there was in it an unmistakable note of firmness.

I told him who I was and asked him what were the chances of taking a look around the grounds. "Not a chance in the world. Nobody's allowed in here." Not even now, when the kidnaping scare is all over?" "Nope, not even now." "Suppose," I queried, "I had stepped on the gas and driven right past you?" at a fast clip. He rushed from his booth and. stood in the glare of the headlights, his arms upstretched.

But as the machine a taxi bore down on him, he was forced to jump aside to avoid being struck. As the car whizzed into the driveway the sentry dashed to'his booth, picked up a telephone that automatically buzzes the mansion and notified the men on duty there that a cab had gotten by him and was on its way to the house. The guards, their forefingers perhaps on Mil sL i ii i i JiL III lj f'CV Si when The railing uollaruimaxed thelragichightot Ussisius 11 Vf. i- rA -tiH Kf Z- nzx wrsf- i f- it ft rfyl if, A 1 a 4 if 7 "AK This Is a Scene i in a Famous Montmartre Cabaret in Paris in the Early Hours of Any Morning; the By ALAN HYND Well known short story writer, who has "covered" the Lindbergh case from the start. THE elaborate mantle of protection that has been flung about little Jon Lindbergh is utterly invisible to the public eye.

The heavily-armed guards who keep their long patrol operate beyond the view of outsiders. Thorough ly familiar with every last tree and shrub on the estate, they maintain their vigil at carefully-selected vantage points, where, with the aid of powerful binoculars, they can see but cannot be seen. Occasionally, one of the dogs kept on the estate animals that can scent a stranger a hundred yards away gambols near the edge of the property. But he won't bother you if you keep your distance. The majestic white mansion itself, which can be partially seen from nearby thoroughfares, presents no outward inkling of being the storehouse for enough weapons and ammunition for the purpose.

Even the sentry in the police booth at the entrance to the property, the sole visible indication of the undercurrent of drama that throbs through the place, is a most unobtrusive man. He knows his job well and an integral, part of his duties is to appear as inconspicuous as possible. There are telephones hidden among the trees on the grounds. The instruments are hooked up to the direct wires that connect the mansion with the local and State police, so that alarms can be sent in either from the grounds or from within the house itself. But so skilfully have those 'phones in the trees been planted that you couldn't find them in a blue moon, even were you permitted inside the estate to make a search; HTHIS spirit of secrecy has somehow pervaded the entire city of Englewood, as I found when I visited there.

Approaching a cop on his beat, I feigned ignorance of a fact 1 well knew by asking him the direction to the Morrow residence. "You got personal business up there asked the bluecoat, eyeing me suspiciously. "No," I "answered. "I just thought I'd take a look around the place. I understand it's very beautiful." "Yeah, it's a pretty place, all right.

But it won't do you no good to go there. "You might get in trouble." "But I'm not a kidnaper," I laughed. "How could I get into any trouble?" "I'd advise you to stay away from there. Strangers ain't welcome." "Oh, vou mean because the new baby's there?" The cop pretended not to hear me. say," 1 pressed, "the new baby is at the Morrow home, isn't it?" "1 don't know," lied the cop, following in Sort of Place to Which So Many Americans Students, Girls and Boys, Resqrt in the Hope of -For getting Their Desperate Straits.

AT-' "7 Picturesque Programme of the Paris Theatre, the Moulin Rouge, Where a Party of American "Follies" Girls Rebelled When the Ma nagement Insisted They Appear on the Stage Practically Nude. York, and left him dead with a young woman whom he shot before he took his own life. This was Henry G. Crosby, poet, dreamer and nephew of, the late Mrs. J.

P. Morgan, who died in an apparent pact' with one of Boston's pack Bay beauties, Mrs. Josephine R. Bigelow, in a borrowed studio in a New York hotel. Crosby and his wife, whose name was, delightfully Caresse, had lived for a long time in Paris.

She was a poetess, too, and while Crosby devoted much time to the writing of exotic verse, a good deal of it about the sun ami sun worship, he found time in which to entertain with the Javishness and abandon of a Roman emperor. His parties-were famous in Paris for their barbaric license. Fiercely jealous of his young and btautiful wife, Crosby was accustomed to handcuff her to him during these parties, so that he might be certain she was at his side everv min- ute of the evening. Death was one of Crosby's obsessions. He even fashioned a tombstone for himself and his wife with their names.

Harry and Caresse, set upon it in cruciform. He put it in the Bois de Boulogne, but the police made him remove it. This disturbed him greatly. Soon afterward he took a steamer for New York. He had become satiated with the wild sort of life he had lived.

Arriving in New York he met Mrs. Bigelow, whose husband had been a famous Harvard hockey player, and one. afternoon they borrowed the studio of a friend, Stanley G-Mortimer, and never left it alive. Their bodies, fully clad and peacefully disposed, were found lying side by side. Mrs.

Bigelow was locked in Crosby's arms. Each had been shot through the head. The last chapter came when Caresse Crosby hastened from Europe to get her husband's ashes and take them back to France in a silver urn. In contradistinction to the surrender to circumstance which has marked the career of so many young American are returning daily to the United States, feeling themselves lucky to escape. The story of two American youths who took the easiest way cut is typical of what is ccurring-constantly in.

Paris in the American student colony. An artist dwelling on the top floor of the old house at 50 rue Vereingteurix, a long and ancient street, asked the. concierge to climb over a skylight to make a repair. As the concierge crossed it he looked down through the dusty panes and saw two of his American tenants slumped in chairs in their studio, the left hand of each plunged in a tub of bloody water which had been set between them. Both young Americans were dead.

He remembered then that he had seen neither of them for about a fortnight. He shrugged his shoulders and notified the police. The disillusioned young men were George Louis de Nevers and John Home latter from Orange, N.J. As schoolmates at the University of Chicago, they had decided to go to Paris together, each bent upon a career. They went to live in the Montparnasse quarter, but soon what money they had in American dollars was gone.

Bills There was no other "way out. So, selecting the method of Petronius Arbiter, that "elegant Roman," they first burned their identification papers, wrote a note to say that poverty had driven them to death, left a statement of their debts and sat down to die. A pot of coffee was brewed, two remaining tots of rum were prepared and the tub filled with hot water, with a pitcher of cold water beside it in case the heat were too great. They drank the rum and then each cut the artery in his left wrist with a razor blade and plunged it in the tub. Clasping their right hands in a last gesture of friendship they waited until in death their hands fell apart.

Such was the malign influence of Paris upon another American youth that it reached across the Atlantic, to New in in Ci Dy Staff Correspondent PARIS. PARIS destroys just as surely as she creates. This is bitterly proven today in the desperate situation in which innumerable American students find themselves in the French capital. The decline in value of the American dollar was the sorry cause of the hopelessness, the desperation to which so many of these eager, conscientious young persons have been reduced. They have gone from bad to worse, swept along by a Paris which has defeated them.

Self-destruction has released a large number of these unfortunates from conditions which had made life futile, Others, worsted in an unequal fight with fate wo ful V.ci wo MNCOLN WOULD HAVE TREASURED SUCH A BOOK! How Lincoln loved books Low he thirsted for knowledge, for facts! Imagine how he would have appreciated a compact, authentic, life sketch of the great leaders before his time! Lincoln drew deeply from the experience of others. What do you know about the men who have guided the destiny of our country for 200 years. There is a treat in store for you in I.