The culprit, accused of armed robbery, was caught and handcuffed. Then both cops admonished me in no uncertain terms for the chances I had taken in following them into the unlit building. “You could have been killed,” said Erickson. “Don’t ever do that again. Let us tackle these gangsters.” There was Dan, standing on the corner of Lenox Avenue and 114th Street, laughing and waiting for me to have some coffee with him. “One of these days, you’re going to get it,” he said. “When are you going to quit chasing burglars and following cops up dark alleys?” * * * * * About a fortnight later, we were on another of our long walks, but this time we changed our course and headed up Broadway into Sixth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, close by the Hotel Normandie. Many Greeks lived in that vicinity, and on the corner was a social club, more correctly referred to by the police as a gambling joint. A shrill cry from a woman put us on the alert. She ran from the building followed by a man brandishing a knife. He tripped as he ran across the street but quickly recovered and raced back into the saloon from which he had emerged. I followed him and saw a murder committed. Unable to catch the woman, he put the knife into the heart of the man with whom she had been drinking. I quickly stepped out of the confusion that followed, but was sufficiently close to hear him say, “She’ll never have him. He’s through.” The murderer was arrested almost immediately, and the police insisted on my accompanying them to the precinct house on Twenty-eighth Street as a witness. When the trial was held, I was subpoenaed by the District Attorney and for four days I reported. But the District Attorney decided not to call me to the stand. Things were going bad for Walter Zyhariat, the murderer, when I decided to talk up. I approached the District Attorney and demanded to be placed on the stand. “We don’t need your testimony,” he said. “It will hurt instead of help our case.” Someone reported that conversation to the lawyer for the defense, who, when the trial was resumed for his summation, requested that the court permit him to reopen the case on the grounds that he had some new evidence. “Permission granted,” said Judge Foster. “Swear in the witness.” I was called to the stand. I was first asked if I had been subpoenaed by the prosecution. “Yes,” I said. “Do you know of any reason why you were not called to the stand?” was the next question. I repeated what the District Attorney had said to me, and the lawyer for the defense then took up the questioning. I told what I had seen after which the lawyer asked: “When he ran out of the saloon and went after his wife, was there anything you observed that would help the court determine his condition?” “He was dishevelled,” I replied. “His eyes were popping out of his head. To me he looked like one who had suddenly gone mad, and so I reported in my story.”