The Press: Front Page

One day last week a stocky, swarthy, middle-aged man ate luncheon, as was his wont, in the Coffee Shoppe of the Hotel Sherman, Chicago. When he was finished he bought a cigar and a form sheet for that afternoon's horse races at Washington Park. Smoking and reading he walked toward the Illinois Central railroad station, entered the crowded pedestrian tunnel passing under Michigan Avenue. As he neared the tunnel's exit, another man stepped behind him, thrust a "belly-gun" (sawed-off revolver) close to the back of his head, fired a .38-calibre bullet through...

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