Death of a Fighter

Rene Belbenoit, a gallant man, goes to his grave today at Pierce Bros. Hollywood cemetery.

Rene,
59, was found dead, sitting in a chair, in the little desert store he
had operated the last seven years in Lucerne Valley. There in the
desert he found the peace which all his life had eluded him.

A
quarter of a century ago, Rene, small in size but a giant in courage,
did the impossible — he escaped, on his fifth attempt, from the
infamous Devil’s Island off the coast of French Guiana.

Then
began another kind of fight, a crusade for a full pardon from the
French government. Rene felt he had been unjustly sentenced to the
penal colony. Even though his book, "Dry Guillotine," telling of his
ordeal, helped do away with the living death, he never gave up.

HIS PLIGHT
was first brought to print by Ernie Pyle, then a syndicated roving
reporter. He talked to Rene when he was a fugitive living in the
Central American jungle.

It was through Ernie that I became
acquainted with Rene and when Ernie was killed on le Shima in 1945, I
helped tell Rene’s story. I last saw him in 1956, the day he received
his American citizenship. It was a proud moment for Rene as he had been
a man without status since his escape. We had a drink on it at
Frascati’s on Sunset Boulevard.

Rene, slowly sipping a
Dubonnet, reiterated his intention of getting a pardon from France,
presenting his case, like Emile Zola, in a book. He was rewriting the
book, "Anatomy of Justice," when death overtook him.

There was
a final irony to his death from a heart attack. About four months ago
he had trouble breathing but he attributed the condition to his
terrible time in the jungle. However, he promised his wife that on his
60th birthday, April 4, as a gift to her, he would go to a doctor for a
check as she had been urging. He waited too long.

NOT LONG AGO
the Supervisors presented a resolution to Walter Brennan for his
contribution to clean entertainment. As always, there were hecklers at
the ceremony. One of them called out, "Ha Walter, did they tell you how
much that resolution cost the taxpayers?"

"No, they didn’t," he retorted, "but offhand I’d say the taxes I pay are at least 10 times what you pay so I’m not kicking."

ONLY IN HOLLYWOOD — One
day last week Mrs. E. L. saw a strange black dog in her neighbor’s
yard. Later, while at a nearby market, she looked at the free ads on
the bulletin board provided for customers and saw one offering a $25
reward for a dog answering the description of the pooch in the yard. 

She
took the number and phoned it when she got home and explained the
situation to the man who answered. In a few minutes an elderly
gentleman came in an old car, looked, said, "No, that isn’t my dog,"
and went away.

A few minutes later an elderly woman drove up in a new car, called to the dog and it happily jumped in the car.

Mrs. E. L. remains amused. She doesn’t need the money and wouldn’t have taken the reward. She simply loves dogs.

YOU CAN’T FOOL the
children. There was a gripping scene in a TV western the other night in
which a naughty blond, shot by mistake in shielding the hero, hovers
between life and death as sad-faced townsfolk, suddenly realizing her
sterling qualities, look on. At which a girl watcher named Jane
remarked, "She’s dead. You can tell because the violins are playing."

AT RANDOM —
Let there be no further speculation on the identity of Lately Thomas,
author of the forthcoming book "The Vanishing Evangelist," the story of
Aimee Semple McPherson’s sensational "kidnapping" and reappearance in
1926. It isn’t a pseudonym. Lately Thomas writes from S.F., "I’m sorry
to disappoint but there is no mystery. The name is the name" . . . A
man driving a small foreign car on W 2nd Street yesterday was wearing a
gas mask, the goggle and hose kind firemen use. . . . A man on W 38th
Street has a license plate tab stating, "Faubus for President," which
he says is being circulated by the American Protective Assn. of
Jackson, Miss. Wonder how the Civil War’s going?