It was after midnight on that Saturday night in June, 1931, when the rusty 1926 Plymouth quietly made its way through some familiar back streets in the driver's hometown of Glenwood, Minnesota. His hope at that late hour was to reach the east edge of town below the bluffs and then quietly ascend the E. Hwy. 28 hill without anyone seeing him or recognizing his automobile.

Finally approaching the main highway, his biggest concern was the other vehicles crossing in front of him. A few dawdlers were on the road after leaving the downtown street dance even though the band had quit playing almost two hours before. He was hoping those occasional vehicles were being driven by young folks from out of town who wouldn't know him if they saw him. His real wish was that his old, plain car would simply blend into the night.

He stopped at the side street corner. Just a left turn and he'd be on his main escape route out of town. Only the familiar rumble of the Plymouth's engine interrupted the otherwise calm of the late evening. His dream was now in front of him. All he needed was a clear road before he took his turn, accelerated forward, and gathered speed so his trusty Plymouth could challenge the long hill out of town. If his worn sedan was made to work too hard on the incline, the engine would moan and cough until the straight away at the crest was reached. The sound would echo for blocks into the town below and he'd feel as if he was naked ... the noise easily recognizable by too many people. Townsfolk kidded him about the sound of that old engine; it was as identifying as if he shouted his name across the valley. He'd lived in the town for over ten years and owned the vehicle for the previous four years. The car was as part of him as a preferred piece of clothing.

Yet, it was so late. Those people who knew him would be asleep. It would have to be extreme bad luck that some friend or neighbor might be awake, might identify the hilarious whine of his old Plymouth and then wonder why he was departing town at such an hour. Normally he could take their jesting, however, on that particular night he didn't want any townsfolk to recall his distinctive engine noise once it was determined that he'd left town so surreptitiously. He could not let that happen; he didn't want anyone, not even that late night light sleeper to have any idea when, how, why, or in what direction he'd left town.

Sitting in his jalopy on that street corner under an overhanging oak tree where even the moonlight couldn't find him, he scoffed at his own paranoia. He was being too worrisome. He'd planned this secret departure for months for just the right time ... and that time had occurred earlier that day. Now it was the hour to leave ... just as planned. He wanted nothing to foul up his exodus.

With his headlights off, he gazed past some trees to his right down four long blocks toward the main intersection of town. He prayed no one would see him. At that late hour, what were the chances? It wasn't that much of a prayer to get answered.

His minor plea, unfortunately, went unrequited. A slightly familiar decrepit Model A Ford with headlights pointed his way had slowed down just past the main intersection and a man with a startlingly vivid colored shirt suddenly came running out from the side of Big Bud Bunsen's General Store. He jumped into the open-door passenger side of the old Ford as it then lurched forward. The driver seemed equally desperate to get out of the town.

The driver in the Plymouth had to make a decision. He'd seen that old Ford around town. There were others of the same model, but even so it looked too familiar. Some sweat appeared on his brow. Whose car was it? He couldn't think. If that old Ford coming in his direction drove by him as he waited at the corner, the driver might stop just to chew the fat. He couldn't take that chance.

He'd barely got started with his escape and he was facing a problem he hadn't expected. He thought he was ready for anything. Apparently that was not true.

He momentarily considered dropping down in the front seat hoping the old Ford would simply drive by and not see his vehicle. Yet, what if they actually slowed wondering what his car was doing at that corner in the middle of the night. They might think his car had been stolen. They'd get out of their car and check things out ... and they'd see him sprawled across the front seat. Then he'd have some explaining to do.

He shook his head again. There he was being paranoid again. Yet, the possibility was real. Clenching his teeth, he breathed out some unaccustomed profanity. It was just circumstances and plain bad luck that the old Ford was heading his way at the exact same time he wanted to leave town undetected.

Suddenly the old Plymouth shot forward peeling out of the stationary position at that residential corner. It was as if the driver's foot made the decision before his brain voted. As he shot onto E. Hwy. 28 toward the bluff, he was four blocks ahead of the approaching Model A Ford. Turning on his headlights, he had his accelerator on the floor in order to have any chance of ascending the hill and not having that Ford catch up to him. If he could just maintain the four block distance to the apex of the bluff, he could race off on flatter terrain into the dark night hopefully leaving that Ford back in the foggy mist of the humid night.

Frantically he crouched behind the wheel sweating and willing his vehicle to go faster. Pushing his worn down car to its fullest, he knew he was testing the ultimate power of his overextended Plymouth engine. The whine from the engine began echoing over the valley below as if shouting his name ... just like he feared. His old beater was not used to such maltreatment. The normal moans of the engine sounded differently ... more of high-pitched gasping. The varying sound made the driver smile. Even he'd never heard his car emit such a distressing cry.

Finally succeeding to the top of the bluff with the Ford well behind him, the driver now anxiously begged for the car following him to slow or turn off the highway as soon as possible.

With his heart synchronizing with the his vehicle's overworked engine, the driver saw the old Ford finally make it to the crest of the hill and maintain the distance from him as they both sped eastward along the state highway. Pressing harder on the accelerator he would not let himself believe the old Ford had his same urgency.

He gritted his teeth and wiped the sweat from his forehead as his vehicle gathered more speed on the straight away and the engine settled down to its normal drone. Another unfamiliar expletive reverberated from his lips. He just did not need the added anxiety of being followed.

With every blink of his eyes he glanced from the road ahead to the headlights tailing him ... back and forth ... back and forth. Then, despite his anxiety, he felt a painful nostalgic twinge in his chest as he stared into his rear view mirror beyond the headlights behind him. There was nothing but a broad dark nighttime sky that seemed to drop lower than the ground. He knew what it was. The huge gulf of blackness was Lake Minnewaska ... a sight he didn't expect to see for a long time if ever again.

Slowing only slightly for some train tracks, he then floored the pedal to pick up his pace once again. Now his eyes were glued more to his rear view mirror than out the front windshield. As he sped along, he waved at the John Bailey farmhouse giving what he thought would be another final farewell to a good friend most likely asleep at that hour.

Wiping his brow to keep the sweat from clouding his vision, the old Ford continued to trail him as the headlights reflected out onto the rolling Minnesota landscape. He spat out a couple more loud swear words in frustration, something he normally did only under his breath. Leaving so late at night was not supposed to be this traumatic.

Then, as if the Almighty was jolted by the driver's uncustomary profanity, the car then a half mile behind him suddenly slowed. The Model A Ford veered onto the same John Bailey farmhouse road the driver of the Plymouth had just passed.

The lead car sped on as if bolstered by the driver's sudden relief. He'd done it ... not easily ... but he'd done it. He'd made it out of town without being recognized. He patted the old satchel beside him containing enough money to ensure some comfort during his long flight to safety. And, that was just some of the money he had with him. There were other packets of money hidden within the lining of his car's interior, some packed tightly under the very seat he was sitting on, and some stuffed behind the back seats. He had enough money with him to start a bank. All he had to do was remain attentive, not do anything stupid, keep himself from being recognized, and just keep driving ... and driving ... to his final destination.

The driver ... one very highly respected businessman from the very rural lake town he'd just left was now free to travel wherever he wanted ... and conceivably do anything within reason he wanted to experience. Despite that freedom, he was not going to do anything unlawful or immoral. On the contrary he was going to continue the honest and honorable life he'd tried to live in Glenwood for the past ten years ... or at least eight of those ten years. However, he'd be undertaking that new life with a new name and a new location some fifteen hundred miles away.

He had the chance for a new beginning ... not that he really had a choice. He'd been planning to leave the town for over a year, but it had taken him until that very June night before he truly felt ready to make his journey. From that weekend on, he expected to be a marked man. For a time ... and he didn't know for how long ... he'd have to look over his shoulder until he became more established with his alias and likely a new look. He also had to concoct a background story that would be believable, not create curiosity, and not be easily checked out. Though he wished he could have left his community under better circumstances, it just hadn't worked out that way.

Easing off the gas pedal ever so slightly, the engine sounded more relaxed. The pace of his heart calmed as well. He smiled knowing only God had any idea what direction he was traveling. He still had to be very careful. There could be no accidents, no tickets for speeding, and no stopping until he was out of his home state.

He had to stick to his strategy, stay awake and keep a cool head. He would be moving south and east to his destination. It would require days even a week if necessary to reach his endpoint. Along the way he would rid himself of his old Plymouth and buy a new car to further thwart anyone trying to locate him.

The driver was exhilarated as his old Plymouth purred along the roadway. The next town would be Westport, then Sauk Centre. He knew each time he entered a town, he would feel some trepidation. But, as he got further from Glenwood that feeling would gradually dissipate. Once he passed through the Twin Cities, the fear of being recognized would be greatly reduced ... not completely ... not ever completely ... but enough that he could breathe easier.

The moon shined brightly as he raced along the dark rolling farm land. He was excited. The escape was moving along so smoothly until he passed through Sauk Centre. Then it was as if the previous weeks with little sleep was telling his eyes it was time to close. The sleepless nights had snuck upon him. The thrill with being underway had set him at peace rather than making him more attentive. Falling asleep at the wheel was a problem he'd not considered in all his planning. As his brain unwound from the months of stress, the adrenalin that had been his primary fuel was melting away with each mile.

For the next few hours his eyes would close ... then abruptly open only to be drawn closed again seconds later. At times he snapped awake swearing that he'd been asleep. He knew he should rest, but he felt it more crucial to keep moving. He had to keep that old Plymouth on the road and get out of the state. Once in Wisconsin, maybe then he could allow himself some shut-eye. Even then, a truly restful sleep wasn't possible until he was well into central Illinois moving southward toward Kentucky.

As he mushed on, he appreciated that there was still some adrenalin dripping through his brain as his car sped onward down that dark two lane road. His attention was spurred by the constant reminder he was ending one life that night and beginning another. Henry Hanson was not about to let the impulse to sleep overtake him. He had a much stronger urge to remain alive and witness what his second life had in store under his new name, Henry Granville.

* * *

When the raid at the Lake Minnewaska resort ensued on that Sunday morning, June 7, 1931, Hanson had been gone from Glenwood, Minnesota and on the road for about eight hours. Judging that a police bust on Chippewa Lodge was looming, he had only hours to finalize some last minute details before departing. What he knew above everything was once D'Annelli and his associates were arrested, he would become a target of the Chicago syndicate.

Weighing on his mind as well was that the law would be looking for him, at least for a while. It would be logical for investigators to be inquiring how entangled he might have been in the whole mess out at Chippewa Lodge. After all, there was no getting around his middle man activities between the miscreants at the lake resort and the detached townspeople who preferred to look the other way.

Above all, it was D'Annelli's people he had to be most concerned. His innocence could be proven to the state patrol and the Bureau of Investigation once they found out it was he who wrote the incriminating letters to the Minneapolis U.S. Attorney's office. Whether he'd written those confidential notes or not, though, the perception by D'Annelli and his boys could only be that Hanson knew what was going on at Chippewa Lodge. He'd seen everything. He'd known D'Annelli was thumbing his nose at the law. He'd stayed quiet for the sake of the town right up to the moment he disappeared. Who else could be the stool pigeon?

With his timely departure from Glenwood, he no longer had the vision of himself in a barrel at the bottom of Lake Minnewaska. He already had an out-of-state license plate he'd acquired and placed on his old Plymouth. With his new identity and a large amount of cash, he hoped within two days to be south of the Mason-Dixon line with the name Henry Hanson literally fading into thin air forever.

Of course he hadn't been able to counter every concern. His friends and townsfolk would be worried about his health. There would be constant chatter of where he went. His quick departure would also spur the probability that he indeed ratted on D'Annelli and his boys at the Lodge. He also failed to consider how public the news would become on where D'Annelli had stored his illegal business profits. Hanson had given the racketeer the little known feed & grain mill office basement rent free as a place for storage. To D'Annelli's people it was too obvious that Henry Hanson could easily have stockpiled some of the conman's fortune to finance his escape and set up a new life. Over time there would be plenty of others who would surmise the same thing.

That conjecture above everything kept anyone connected to D'Annelli very dubious about the mysterious and timely disappearance of Henry Hanson. There would be a number of gangsters who sought information to the whereabouts of Hanson for a number of months ... some for as long as a year. While retribution was their claim, the supposed money Hanson had taken was their primary incentive.

These selfish efforts would dwindle with the passage of time; many hucksters gave up when most of them believed they were chasing a ghost. A few got close to him, but they didn't know it. Also, what helped Hanson in these instances was that there was rarely any shared information as to Hanson's whereabouts. Their own selfishness kept them silent. No one was the wiser when anyone happened upon his actual location.

The threat of being found under the alias of Henry Granville lessened as the months turned into years. He had added to his new name a fabricated story that he was in the long line of South Carolina Granvilles whose descendants had mostly died off. Preferring to keep his first name, he felt `Henry' was common enough and therefore not a threat to his secrecy.

After six months of living in the Charleston area, he'd developed an even better camouflage with a longer hair style, a graying beard and moustache, and his constant effort to speak with a surprisingly acceptable southern accent. Nonetheless, he would always be on guard. Henry Granville, as CEO of a large hotel and lake resort development corporation, was always mindful that someone could be looking for him ... or worst of all ... that something he did or said could be a tip off as to who he really was.