NEW YORK: The Stranger

Until last week Richard H. Crowe might have served as the mold and pattern of the rising executive. He had risen, job by job, for 19 years with Manhattan's great National City Bank; at 40, he was the assistant manager of a branch on Broadway—a bulky, assured, well-dressed man whose manners, energy and way with elder bank officers stamped him plainly as bound for bigger things.

His wife, a slim, handsome woman, entertained well and blended perfectly into crowds at country-club dances. He had three healthy children, two automobiles (a 1946 Buick and a 1948 Austin), and an old but...

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