Still Gluck did not understand.  He continued to seek an explanation from the girl.  In fear of Sherbourne, he applied to the Chief of Police for permission to carry a revolver, which permission was refused, the newspapers as usual playing it up sensationally.  Then came the murder of Irene Tackley, six days before her contemplated marriage with Sherbourne.  It was on a Saturday night.  She had worked late in the candy store, departing after eleven o’clock with her week’s wages in her purse.  She rode on a San Pablo Avenue surface car to Thirty-fourth Street, where she alighted and started to walk the three blocks to her home.  That was the last seen of her alive.  Next morning she was found, strangled, in a vacant lot.

Emil Gluck was immediately arrested.  Nothing that he could do could save him.  He was convicted, not merely on circumstantial evidence, but on evidence “cooked up” by the Oakland police.  There is no discussion but that a large portion of the evidence was manufactured.  The testimony of Captain Shehan was the sheerest perjury, it being proved long afterward that on the night in question he had not only not been in the vicinity of the murder, but that he had been out of the city in a resort on the San Leandro Road.  The unfortunate Gluck received life imprisonment in San Quentin, while the newspapers and the public held that it was a miscarriage of justice—­that the death penalty should have been visited upon him.

Gluck entered San Quentin prison on April 17, 1929.  He was then thirty-four years of age.  And for three years and a half, much of the time in solitary confinement, he was left to meditate upon the injustice of man.  It was during that period that his bitterness corroded home and he became a hater of all his kind.  Three other things he did during the same period:  he wrote his famous treatise, Human Morals, his remarkable brochure, The Criminal Sane, and he worked out his awful and monstrous scheme of revenge.  It was an episode that had occurred in his electroplating establishment that suggested to him his unique weapon of revenge.  As stated in his confession, he worked every detail out theoretically during his imprisonment, and was able, on his release, immediately to embark on his career of vengeance.

His release was sensational.  Also it was miserably and criminally delayed by the soulless legal red tape then in vogue.  On the night of February 1, 1932, Tim Haswell, a hold-up man, was shot during an attempted robbery by a citizen of Piedmont Heights.  Tim Haswell lingered three days, during which time he not only confessed to the murder of Irene Tackley, but furnished conclusive proofs of the same.  Bert Danniker, a convict dying of consumption in Folsom Prison, was implicated as accessory, and his confession followed.  It is inconceivable to us of to-day—­the bungling, dilatory processes of justice a generation ago.  Emil Gluck was proved in February to be an innocent man, yet he was not released until the following October.  For eight months, a greatly wronged man, he was compelled to undergo his unmerited punishment.  This was not conducive to sweetness and light, and we can well imagine how he ate his soul with bitterness during those dreary eight months.