The Death of a Baltimore Birdie and Friend

Good evening. This is Crime Classics. I am Thomas Highland with another true story of crime. Listen. The sound of Baltimore, Maryland in the good old summertime. The great flow of steam crabs between the nutcracker and the wonderful beer.

Hot summer night, August 14, 1953. And the room on Utah Place. And one of Baltimore's favorite summer indoor sports. Chesapeake crabs and the golden brew in the frosted glass, with the two-fifths of bourbon on the side and peak a conversation.

Did you read where it says next year the Oreo's going to be in the American League? Just talk. Don't you believe it? Making. Mm-hmm. Did you ever commit matter? Before tonight? Mm-hmm. No. Never before tonight.

Can we have this party someplace else? Don't worry, you've got nothing to worry about. Just don't look at her. Tonight, with names changed to avoid any embarrassment of the principles who may still be alive, and my report to you on the death of a Baltimore birdie and friend.

Crime classics, a series of true crime stories taken from the records and newspapers of every land, from every time. Your host each week, Mr. Thomas Highland, on a serve of crime, student of violence, and a teller of murders.

Now once again, Mr. Thomas Highland. I was in Baltimore last autumn, when the Peabody Bookshop was still selling the dustiest books and the best beer in the world. It was a pleasant evening, cool enough for a small fire in the fireplace, and the hum of talk had just the right amount of laughter in it, and one of the patrons had brought along

his violin, and so the hours spun away. And so it was after midnight when my friend led me past the Red Brick Building on Mount Royal Terrace, and told me that a couple of murderers had lived here, and the next morning, had passed the house on Utah Place where they had done their murder. Busybody as I am about such things, I had to find out all about it. And