Morocco & Istanbul

Last week Chicago got back one runaway Insull. He was not Samuel but his brother, Martin J., finally extradited from Canada to stand trial for embezzlement of $365,000 in connection with the $2,000,000,000 collapse of the Insull Middle West Utilities empire.

Lieut. Frank K. Johnson of the Chicago police and Laurence Ryan of the State's Attorney's office had gone to Toronto to bring Martin Insull back to U. S. justice. At 3 a. m. on their return trip their train rolled across the U. S.-Canadian border and came to a stop in Detroit. U. S. Immigration Inspector Joseph Als, going through the cars, roused 64-year-old Martin Insull from sleep. Was he a U. S. citizen? No, he was a British citizen who had resided 40 years in the U. S. How long had he been away? Seventeen months. Did he not know that an alien who left the country for more than six months must have a consular visa to return? Messrs. Johnson and Ryan angrily intervened. They protested, they waved their extradition papers, they pointed at President Roosevelt's signature, they refused to let Inspector Als have their prisoner.

Inspector Als turned on them sternly: "I will arrest you if necessary for interfering with a government official in performance of his duty. The penalty is five years in the penitentiary."

Messrs. Johnson and Ryan grew calmer. They and their prisoner dressed. Accompanied by Inspector Als they went to the Book-Cadillac hotel to spend the remainder of the night. At 9 a. m. they appeared in a shabby little immigration court. There a board of inquiry decided within 15 minutes that Martin Insull was likely to become a public charge and could not be admitted to the U. S. The board however consented to parole him in custody of the Chicago police until his trial.

Twenty-four hours later in the Chicago Criminal Courts Building a clerk in Judge Finnegan's court room called "The State of Illinois v. Martin J. Insull, Samuel Insull."

Up stepped Brother Martin, a superannuated shell of a man, white-haired, white-faced, stolidly resigned. Only one argument arose while his $50,000 bail was being arranged. Prosecutor O'Hora asked that the prisoner be ordered to stay in Illinois. Insull's attorney objected: "He wants to go to his daughter's home across the state line in Morocco, Ind. It's the only place he has to live."

Several hours later Prisoner Insull, having been fingerprinted and having received back his watch and his $21 in cash from the clerk of the county jail, was set free. He walked out carrying a black suitcase of imitation leather and drove off with his son-in-law, Major William Rafferty.

When he saw his name in headlines Martin Insull turned to his son-in-law and wryly observed, "At least I have pushed Sam off the front pages."

Little did he know that that morning the 46-year-old tramp S. S. Maiotis with Brother Samuel as its only passenger had cleared the Dardanelles, barged up the Sea of Marmora and dropped anchor in the Bosporus off Leander's Tower. Later Stavro Chelebides, agent for the Maiotis, brought out from shore potatoes, macaroni, meat and salad greens for Mr. Insull who had been desperately sick in the Aegean on a diet of boiled chicken. Fresh water was taken aboard so the Maiotis could sail that afternoon.

When Mr. Insull woke from a nap he was irritated to learn that the Turks had forbidden the Maiotis' departure. Next day when the ban continued he was alarmed. Turkish police came out and demanded that he go ashore with them. Indignantly he refused, and handsome, swarthy John Ioannis Mousouris, master of the Maiotis, hurried down from the bridge to protest volubly in Greek. Sadly puzzled and somewhat dismayed, the Turkish police retired to their launch.

Meantime diplomats were buzzing in Washington, in Athens and in Ankara on the bare uplands of Asia Minor. U. S. Ambassador Skinner was pressing a request that the Turks arrest Mr. Insull under Article IX of the Turkish penal code permitting the detention of foreigners accused in their countries of crimes not of a political or military nature. A cablegram was delivered from Greek Foreign Minister Maximos protesting the detention of the Maiotis. Turkish Foreign Minister Tewfik Bey and confreres considered: Should they oblige the U. S. or should they offend Greece? It was not a difficult question. None of them minded a bit giving a diplomatic kick to those dogs of Greece.

Thereupon Turkish police paid a third visit to the Maiotis. Samuel Insull was in his pajamas. They ordered him to come with them as he was and prepared to carry out their command by force. As a concession they finally allowed him to dress. Then they put him in their launch and carried him ashore in a pouring rain. They arraigned him in a Turkish court. An interpreter was found who knew little Turkish and less English. The court debated: was Samuel Insull a Turkish citizen? No. Was his crime political or military? No. Therefore he should be detained, handed over to the U. S.

"The court," said the twisted interpreter, "says that you are not an American citizen and that you are free."

Beaming Insull walked out and haled a taxicab. Two Turkish policemen leaped in after him, and his face fell. They drove up a back street to a little fifth-rate hotel, got him a shabby room. Ignorant of what it was all about Insull raged and despaired. He sat down on his bed. "I am all alone," he said. "I am a victim of fate." He began to weep.

Next day Insull got himself a Turkish lawyer to appeal his case, got himself transferred to a better hotel, began to take heart again. As he was sitting in the lounge reading papers after luncheon, five Turkish detectives marched in, surrounded him, lugged him off to the House of Detention near the Mosque of St. Sophia--to lie behind bars until deported. Same day, to make his fate more certain, the Turkish Assembly at Ankara ratified an extradition treaty with the U. S.--a treaty negotiated in 1923, which had lain forgotten for eleven years.

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