Calpuder got Puritans are fond of blaming part of the crime and violence of today
on this age of jazz. They might better blame the gin which furnishes purple
moments. To Volstadians, jazz unaccompanied is rarely responsible for more than a harmless
fling. Gin with jazz is something else. Again. Many a front page
murder had its origin in a bottle of this colorless fire. It was one
o'clock in the morning, not a witching hour, particularly since it was March
and in Chicago. The two policemen who trudged their beat in a residence district
were doubtless anxious to have the hour get done with as quickly as possible,
so the next one could come and go in its turn. It was a
raw and solitary and dreary sword of night. The policeman noticed the sedan automobile
standing in front of forty eight oh nine Forestville Avenue as they passed. Its
presence registered itself in their minds. But since in Chicago there are places where
one can park one's car, and since nothing seemed to be a miss,
they let it alone. A woman appeared from somewhere and got into the car.
This likewise did not appear to be a matter for official investigation. The
police walked on, turned the corner and pulled the signal box by which they
reported to the station. Barely had they reported that nothing was amiss in that
section when three shots shattered the lonely stillness of the night. The first shots
came from around the corner and back from the direction in which they had left
the park automobile and the mysterious night riding woman, whom they had not bothered
to investigate. They hurried back, and the automobile was no sign of the
woman, but a man slumped curiously down in the driver's seat. There was
a bullet in his brain. On the floor of the automobile was a pistol.
Near it was a half empty bottle of synthetic gin. No one was
around, though here and there a sleepy head appeared at a window number forty
eight oh nine Forestville Avenue was an apartment building, and though the police might
have gone through on a blind search for the missing murderer, they first did
a more strategic thing. Taking the license number of the automobile, they telephoned
to the vehicle bureau and learned that it had been issued to missus belvet Over
beck Gartner of forty eighth nine Forestville Avenue. With this clue, they went
to her apartment. The mysterious night riding woman was there, up and waiting
for them, pacing the floor somewhat unsteadily. Seen in the light, she
appeared to be in her late thirties. She was not beautiful, but had
an indefinably attractive quality that the gin had not dulled, and there was no
doubt that she had been drinking it. Interesting was the word that might be
applied to her. She had chekh But one thing stood out about all other
features of her fashionable self. There was blood on her clothes. True Crime
Historian presents yesterday's news tales of classic scandals, scoundrels, and scourges told from
historic newspapers in the golden age of yellow journalism. Episode two hundred and fifty
two explores the two murders that inspired the hit musical Chicago, which was based
on a play by Maureene Watkins, who did some reporting on both cases as
a reporter for the Chicago Tribune. I'll be joined by my colleague Susan Furman,
whose own podcast, Catastrophic Calamities will premiere next week on the Popular Media
Network. Susan will read about the case of Beulah Annan, who became roxy
Heart. On stage, I will read the case of Belva Gardner, who
became Valma Kelly. I'm true crime historian Richard O. Jones, and for
your scandalization and indignation, I give you Jim Jan's guns. The real Chicago
murders shaker goes. I'll go around. Missus. Gardner told the policeman she
was drunk, she didn't need to tell it, and that she didn't know
what had happened. It was a unique answer and an effective one under the
circumstances. There was no question of her incriminating herself when she used an excuse
with which masculinity has saved its face on many an occasion. But they took
her along to the police station. Nevertheless, it was believed that so briet
he might refresh her memory and anyway, there were the necessary formalities to be
gone through with, And in the automobile outside, where the dead man still
hunched over the wheel with the cold steel revolver and the half emptied gin bottle
on the floor beside him, the body could not be moved until the coroner's
physician made his examination. Doctor Joseph Springer, coroner's physician, arrived soon he
certified to the man's death. Papers on the body revealed the unknown's identity.
He was Walter Law thirty two thirty three Ellis Avenue. The papers did not
reveal the full extent of the tragedy, for Law was married and the father
of a three year old child. The bullet, which had been started on
its way by Jen, left a baby fatherless and a woman widowed. Missus
Gardner was likewise examined by the physician. To his questions, she had the
same monotonous, simple answer she had given the police. I was drunk.
I don't remember. But the next day she did remember a little more,
and to the police she sobbed out a grotesque and ghastly story of bullets and
gin and wagers and duels, with Law and herself as the hazy figures.
She admitted they bought the gin at the Gingham Cafe, also that the revolver
was hers. She said quote on our way home we began talking about stickup
men. I told Law we were taking an awful risk going home so late.
Think of it. I said, what if some bandit stopped and robbed
us and maybe tried to get rough with me? What would we do?
Our conversation drifted along this line for some time. Then I remarked, I
bet I'm a better shooter than you are. I suggested jokingly that we toss
a coin and that the winner shoot the loser. I said, if the
winner missed the loser, the latter would get a chance to shoot, and
vice versa, until one of us was shot. There were nine bullets in
the pistol. And then, Oh, I don't know just what happened.
I was too drunk. I remember seeing him collapse over the wheel, but
I had no idea what was the matter? Walter Walter, I called,
but he did not move or answer me. Then I tried to pull him
out of the driver's seat so I could drive the car home, but I
couldn't budge him. He was so limp. His head fell on my arms,
and that is how my clothing came to be spattered with blood. I
became frightened and ran into the house assist of State's Attorney Stanley Klarkowski had little
better luck than the police as far as getting any real information. Out of
the shekh and vague and terrified Belvi Gartner to him. She varied her story,
at first, declaring that Law was the one who had proposed the duel,
that he had done so before they left the cafe, But when pressed
for details, she wept hysterically and wailed, Oh, mister Attorney, I
can't remember anything, not if I have to hang for it. Mister Attorney
had someone bring in the smelling salts. When Missus Gardner was calmer, she
only said, in the past, we have always bought a pint. This
time there were only quartz, and we had to take a large bottle.
I wish there had been pints. This with bizarre sadness, Missus Gardner went
back to her cell. Law was buried by his widow. The Gingham Cafe
watched it step for a day or two, and the police began delving into
the past of the two persons in this drama of gin and guns and Gingham
Cafe love. Law they found was the son of a wealthy man. He
had been an automobile salesman and much inclined to step out. Yet his wife
was utterly ignorant of his philander. She knew nothing of Belvi Gardner, or
the hilarious episodes which dotted the evenings when her husband was supposed to be kept
downtown by business. That very evening on which he was shot, he had
called her up and told her he would be detained by business. Belvi Gardner
had a more openly colorful history. She had started out singing in the cabarets
as Belle Brown and had made a good thing out of it, and the
good thing being married. In nineteen sixteen, she married Arthur Overbeck, but
the good thing didn't last. A year later he divorced her. A few
months later, she made a better thing. William Gardner was sixty one,
but he'd also piled up a fortune in the manufacture of scientific instruments. Belvi
and he ran away together and were married at Crown Point, Indiana. Mary
in Crown Point and repent in Chicago was the way the divorce attorneys put it.
In August nineteen eighteen, Gartner sued his wife of a year for ann
allment on the very basis of the Crown Point marriage, namely that the Illinois
law required the elapse of a year between divorce and remarriage, but the romance
was not faded to go on the rocks. Just yet. There was a
reconciliation and the annulment suit was dropped after the full year required by law had
elapsed. Gardner and Velvete were remarried in Illinois, and then in due time
there did come a divorce. It was attended by great publicity, for mister
and missus Gardner each had so many detectives watching the other that they fell over
them at every turn. Meanwhile, Missus Gardner broke into the headlines in quick
and easy fashion. She bought a taxicab. An experienced motorist, she had
no difficulty getting a license to drive it, and her picture in all the
papers as the first and only woman cab driver in the city. She set
out to do business and did it boomingly until a streetcar hove into the taxicab.
By that time, the divorce had proceeded to a settlement basis, and
the ex missus Gardner had started a newer and gayer life. By that time,
the divorce had proceeded to a settlement basis, and the ex missus Gardner
had started a new and gayer life. She had fitted up an apartment at
the Forestville Avenue address and gone in for the artificial gayety of cabarets. In
her own circle, she was known as a gay companion, a good spender,
and the life of the party. Generally, her life was a round
of pleasure. But her surroundings did not daunt Gardner, the once divorced and
almost annulled husband. He had come wooing all over again, and for a
while it looked as though Cupid might strike twice in the same place. Now,
the elderly millionaire told reporters, I'm through with her forever. Chicago,
March thirteenth, nineteen twenty four. Velvet Gardner twice, a deforesee of page
one Notoriety, was placed in the county jail last night, charged by a
coroner's jury with slaying Walter Law, young automobile salesman. Law's body was found
in the car early yesterday morning. He had been shot to death with a
steel jacketed bullet after a cabaret gin party. One minute of testimony from a
pal of laws brought the turning point in the inquest. It seemingly cleared all
doubt from the minds of the jurors. The witness was Paul E. Goodwin,
a fellow automobile salesman. Quote, Walter told me Monday that he planned
to take out more life insurance because missus Gartner threatened to kill him three weeks
before, he told me, she locked him in her flat with her and
threatened to stab him with a knife unless he stayed there. Unquote. That
story, supplemented by sentence or two of explanation, seemed to sweep from the
minds of the jury. Retold details of the gin party, the visible grief
of Law's young wife and child, the story that missus Gardner had told the
police that she was so drunk she remembered nothing between leaving the cabaret and suddenly
hearing a great explosion as Law toppled against her dead. The state, represented
by Stanley Clarkowski, Assistant State's Attorney, had planned to have the inquest continued,
but as Goodwin walked from the stand, the prosecutor announced, quote,
the state is willing to let this case go to the jury at once without
further delay, asked Deputy corps and Heer Kennedy. Does missus Gardner wish to
take the stand? Tom Riley, one of her three attorneys, high hired
by her former husband, William Gartner replied, quote, she does not on
the advice of counsel. Her statement to the police has been admitted in evidence.
That is all she cares to say, unquote. Twenty minutes later,
the jury came back and the foreman read the verdict. We the coroner's jury
find that Walter Law came to his death in the automobile of Missus Belvi Gartner
from a bullet fired by Missus Belvi Gartner. Then came the recommendation that she
beheld without bail. Goodwin's brief moment on the stand switched the entire complexion of
the investigation. It brought the first clear direct intimation that Missus Gardner had planned
to make a target of the twenty nine year old man some five to ten
years her junior, who made her acquaintance through an automobile sale and retained it
through midnight jin escapades. Prior to Goodwin's testimony, the two hours of the
inquest had been taken up with details circumstantial and corroborative, but assembled it was
simply this Belve and Walter got drunk at the Gingham cafe. They drove home.
The car was found in front of her house Law's body hanging over the
steering wheel, her gun on the floor. She was found in her apartment,
her clothes covered with blood, maintaining she was so drunk she couldn't remember
anything. But she had said that at the cafe, Law had proposed that
they flip a coin to see which should have the first shot at the other,
but that she had talked him out of the idea. The questions that
arose at the inquest were did she murder Law? Did she shoot him in
self defense? Did she accidentally shoot him? Did he kill himself? Did
a third person do the slag? Mister Klarkowski said the motive which the state
believes lies behind the case as this missus Gartner had ensnared Law, he tried
to break away to stick to his wife and family. She killed him rather
than lose him. Back of Goodwin's testimony lie further details not yet brought before
the public. They are in amplification of his story, made partly by himself
in private statements to officials, partly by other friends of the dead man.
Law. These details say had feared missus Gardner for some time. He had
repeatedly tried to break away from her, but she refused to let him go.
Law was depicted as a boy who couldn't refuse when women and gin were
suggested. As recently as twenty four hours before his death, he confided in
friends that someday he'd die, and probably at the hands of the woman whom
he went on drinking spreeze once or twice a week. Klarkowski said, quote,
I believe that when Law and missus Gardner returned from the cafe, she
had tried to make him enter her apartment. He remembering the time she locked
him in and held him there at the point of a knife. Refused,
Then she pulled the gun. Perhaps he tried to stop her but couldn't unquote.
Prior to good One's testimony, there had been a succession of witnesses whose
stories had told nothing to refute the statement of missus Gardner that quote, we
got drunk and he got killed. I don't know how unquote. Then detective
Sergeant Corkoran, who arrested Missus Gardner testified. Then Detective Sergeant Corkoran, who
arrested Gardner, testified. She had talked to him, he said, because
he was so nice. She said she was too drunk to remember leaving the
cafe. Didn't know a thing until there was a big noise and Law toppled
over unquote Curly Brown, manager of the Gingham, about whom missus Gardner said
she and Law had some words because she danced with Brown gave a touch,
which some thought was satire. Quote. They didn't have any gin, just
ginger ale. We don't allow gin. They didn't display any gun in the
cafe, though they must have talked about one, for I always got my
eyes peeled for guns. They were such a nice couple. I'm certainly shocked.
Unquote. Then as people yawned and women wondered if there'd be anything hot,
a detective whispered in Clarkowski's ear. Bring him in, quick, said
the prosecutor, and ten minutes later Goodwin took the stands in Chicago, Chicago,
Foo, visit all wanta settle din? Chicago, Chica, Visit all
wanna settled die. For years, women have been speculating on just how a
wife must feel when her grief over the sudden news of her husband's death is
jogged out of line by the equally abrupt revelation that he died at the hands
of the woman who was not his wife yesterday. Missus Freda Law answered that
question. Seated in the South Wambash Avenue station, the young widow of a
few hours heard a coroner's jury hold Missus Belve Gardener to the grand jury charged
with the murder early yesterday morning of Walter Law thirty two thirty three, Ellis
Avenue, Frieda's good husband and Belve's courteous escort. When they talked of gin
and blood, Missus Law trembled as if she might faint, huddled close to
her father in law, and tried to keep from crying. It was her
grief for a dead husband, she indicated. When they spoke of the defour
sees nocturnal habits with Law to the south Side cabarets. When they told of
Belvi's zeal to quote throw my arms around him and get him to talk to
me, unquote, Missus Law pushed herself forward and sneered across the table at
the older, more vivacious woman with the seven diamond rings. It was her
hatred for her husband's alleged slayers, she admitted. But Harry J. Law,
the white haired gentleman from North Carolina, father of the murdered automobile salesman,
and the third dramatic figure about the table steered a middle course, for
he placed a share of the blame for the tragedy on his own son,
Walter. Even as he praised him again and again, he murmured to the
tired daughter in law at his side, No daughter, No daughter, It's
not that woman's fault. Entirely. Walter ought not to have gone out with
anyone. He had a lovely wife and a fine baby. No, he
did wrong, and we know it vaguely. Some of the friends suggested that
the devor see well tutored in getting what she wished, might have led him
unwillingly away from his domestic duties, and as a corollary to the shooting,
they hazarded or remarked that the modern wicked woman is awfully wicked. His voice
was soft and stern. No daughter, No, the times aren't getting worse.
Things were this way when I was a boy back in the Carolinas,
but it was more quiet. A man has to stand up and fight against
it, that's all. Unquote. The frail old man sits there between the
two women, an unconscious balance. Wheels Gardner is plainly gowned her best care
cool coat, her chek white hat and her modern green dress are ruined with
blood, so she wears a brown sport dress, a plain black coat with
a fur collar, and a brown sport hat. Seven diamond drinks and a
wristwatch have been washed clean of Walter Law's blood. They sparkle more brightly from
that cleansing as she uses her hands to gesture. Missus Law, too,
is plainly gowned. She spent the night before in her home sewing curtains,
and that occupation doesn't call for the elaborate gown and the silver slippers that missus
Gardner had to wear when she went dining and dancing with mister Law last Tuesday
night. Missus Law relates quote, I sat up waiting for Walter. He
had phoned at dinner time and asked me if I wanted to go out,
but I said I had to sew, so he told me he was going
to work. I waited up for him. About two in the morning,
I saw a taxi cab stop next door. You know, Walter's mother and
father owned the Ellis Avenue property, so we have to live there. I
thought Walter was drunk and was going into the wrong house, But the next
minute She pauses for a moment, then continues, in a metallic voice.
The man came to my door and told me my husband had been killed.
At first I felt sorry for that other woman, because she was guilty of
killing and everything. But did you see her come in? She was almost
giggling. Oh. I never knew I could hate anyone so much. My
friends have told me they hope she hangs. No, I don't want her
to hang. And she shuddered as much, almost as when she had seen
the pistol with which her husband had been killed. But I don't want her
to go to jail for a month or two and then step out unquote,
regardless of what the legal penalty is. Missus Law and her father in law
feel religiously confident that quote, things have been taken out of our hands unquote,
and that Belvit Gartner someday will learn the law of compensation. The father
muses, it may not be today nor tomorrow. It may take a long
time, but it'll happen. With an almost sprightly air of going slumming in
a police station. Missus Gartner, a few seats away, is explaining that
quote Walter never did get along with his wife He often told me that if
it weren't for his little boy, he'd never lived with her. Then comes
the voice of missus Law. He was so good, and he was so
fond of the boy, Walter Junior, the very image of his father.
What will I tell the baby when he begins to ask questions? What will
I tell him? As the widow is insisting that she never had the slightest
suspicion that her husband was interested in any woman, and reaffirming her testimony that
he rarely was away from home in the evenings, the devorcee is branding such
a story as just a wife's yarn. Quote why sometimes he'd take me out
three evenings a week, and always at least once or twice a week.
Ever since we met in December unquote. Paul Goodwin, a Fellows salesman down
at Nash Automobile Company, has just testified that Law told him Missus Gardner had
threatened to kill him, and that Law contemplated increasing his insurance for just an
instant. Perhaps Missus Gardner loses her buoyancy, her fingers swathed in their diamonds
and sapphires, clutch at her purse and her cosmetics, But a moment later,
she finds it easy to label this story as the bunk quote. That's
just a frame up on the part of the automobile people. I'll tell you
the truth about that insurance. A few weeks ago, Wally told me his
wife had her fortune told, and the woman warned her that her husband would
die inside of seven weeks unquote. Law According to missus Gardner's story, confided
to her that his wife, influenced by the fortune teller, urged him to
take out more insurance. Belva seems proud of the information quote, but Wally
told her he would tie up the insurance so that his wife couldn't get a
penny of it. He said he'd have it all made out for his boy.
Me threatened him with a knife. That's crazy. He was always a
courteous gentleman to me, Why should I ever be angry with him? Unquote,
And she opened her large brown eyes still wider. The inquest is over.
The jurors, to the immeasurable surprise of Belva, have held her to
the grand jury charged with murder. Those who have been speculating on the feelings
of a grief stricken widow. Shocked at the news of her husband's infidel now
begins to wonder how it feels to kill a man. William Gardner, a
wealthy manufacturer, it was revealed, purchased the expensive care cool coat which his
wife, Belva, was wearing the night of the shooting. Missus Gardner,
who had been divorced May seventh, nineteen twenty, declared she hoped for a
reconciliation quote just as soon as possible unquote. He provided her with lawyers at
his home. Missus Gardner admitted last night that Belva had called him by phone
nightly, but failed to do so. Tuesday night, the ex husband sat
looking up at a full length portrait of Belva done in the days when she
was a cafe singer. He had paid two for the car in which Law's
body was found. She that joleuse to Chicago, Chicago. I'll show you
around that at your bottom dollars. You lose and lose in Chicago. All
the folks who visit, I want to settle down on stay Hate Street,
that bring Hate Street. I just want to say they do things that don't
do on Broadway. Say you'll have the time to tell you of life,
Bring all your friends, your kids in your way to Chicago, my home,
time to Chicago, my hometime. March fourteenth, nineteen twenty four.
No, sweetheart, the world is worth killing, especially when you've had a
flock of him and the world knows it. That is one of the musings
of missus Belvigartner in her County jail cell. And it is why so,
she says, a broad minded jury is all that is needed to free her
of the charge of murdering Walter Law, the latest alleged lady murderess of Cook
County, isn't a bit worried over the case. Why it's silly to say
I murdered Walter, she said during a lengthy discourse on love jen guns,
sweeties, wives and husbands. I liked him and he loved me. But
no woman can love a man enough to kill him. They just aren't worth
it because there are always plenty more. Walter was just a kid twenty nine,
and I'm thirty eight. Why should I have worried whether he loved me
or whether he left me? Then? The double devor, say a frequent
newspaper notoriety, turned to the question of jury's Now that coroner's jury has held
me for murder, that was bum They were narrow minded old birds that they
never heard a jazz band in their lives. Now, if I'm tried,
I want worldly men, broad minded men, men who know what it's like
to get out a bit. Why no one like that would convict me?
A long laugh and then are frown But I wish I could remember just what
happened. We got drunk and he got killed with my gun in my car.
But gin and guns, either one is bad enough, but together they
can get you in the dickens of a mess, now, don't they?
Now? If I hadn't had a gun, or if Walter hadn't had the
gin. Of course, it's too bad for Walter's wife, But husbands always
caused women trouble. No attempt was made yesterday to get missus Gardner out on
bail, and it's not likely one will be made before the Grand Jury acts
prosecute. Stanley Klarkowski hopes to get the case before the Grand jury tomorrow or
Monday, and is convinced there will be an indictment. And while Missus Gartner
twirtled in jail, plans were completed for young Law's funeral. It will be
held from his home and will be private. April fourth, nineteen twenty four.
For more than two hours yesterday afternoon, Missus Beulahan and a comely young
wife played a foxtrot record named Hula Lou in her little apartment at eight seventeen
East forty sixth Street. Then she telephoned her husband and reported that she had
killed a man who had quote tried to make love to her. The Hawaiian
tune was the death song of Harry Colstead, twenty nine years old, of
eight oh eight East forty ninth Street, whom missus Annan shot because he had
terminated their little wine party by announcing that he was through with her. His
body lay hunched against the wall in her bedroom as she played the record over
and over again. When taken to the Hyde Park station by the police,
missus Annan protested tearfully that she had killed Colstead to save her honor, saying,
quote, he came into my apartment this afternoon and made himself at home.
Although I scarcely knew him, he tried to make me love him.
I told him I would shoot he kept coming anyway, and I did shoot
him unquote soon after midnight. However, after the fumes of the liquor had
worn away. She told a different story to assistant state's attorneys bert A.
Cronson and William F. McLaughlin. For hours they had questioned her without breaking
down her story. Then, with Captain Edward Mernane of the Hyde Park Station,
they took the woman back to her apartment. There she was forced to
stand in a dim light facing the scene of the murder, while questions were
fired at her in monotonous succession. What about the blood on the phonograph record?
What about the wine and gin bottles in empty glasses? How come that
Colstead was shot through the back? Missus Annan was asked. Finally she broke
down, You're right, I haven't been telling the truth, she admitted.
I've been fooling around with Harry for two months. This morning, as soon
as my husband left for work, Harry called me up. I told him
I wouldn't be home, but he came over anyway. We sat in the
flat for quite a time drinking. Then I said, in a joking way
that I was going to quit him. He said he was through with me
and began to put on his coat. When I saw that he meant what
he said, my mind went into a whirl and I shot him. Then
I started playing the record. I was nervous to see, and as she
played it, missus Annan began to wonder about her husband. What would he
say when he came home and found a dead man lying in his bedroom?
So at ten minutes before six, she telephoned him at the garage at ninety
one twenty Baltimore Avenue, where he's employed. I've shot a man, Albert,
she told him. He tried to make love to me. Annan hurried
home in a taxicab and found his wife in an hysterical condition. Colstead,
in his shirt sleeves, was hunching ans the wall nearby, where his coat,
hat, vest and overcoat. Missus Annan's clothing was stained with blood.
Annan picked up the telephone to call the police. His wife threw herself on
him, imploring him not to At that instant, the connection was completed and
the voice of Sergeant John O'Grady sounded over the wire from the Wabash Avenue station.
Missus Annan snatched the receiver. I've just killed my husband, she shrieked.
In reply to the sergeant's follow up question, she mumbled her address.
The receiver clicked. When detectives reached the apartment, they found missus Annan,
a beautiful woman of twenty three, slim and tall, with reddish brown hair,
bobbed the mode, waiting with a fanciful story of having painted after shooting
Colstead. April fifth, nineteen twenty four, Beula May Annen, the twenty
three year old wife who shot the other man Thursday afternoon to the tune of
her husband's phonograph, was held to the grand jury yesterday afternoon by a coroner's
jury, which charged her with the murder of Harry Colstead. Assistant State's attorneys
Bert Cronson, roy Wood and William McLaughlin are preparing to rush the case to
an early trial, at which they will ask the death penalty. Thursday afternoon,
missus Annan played Hula Loo on the phonograph while the wooer she had shot
during a drunken quarrel lay dying in her bedroom at age seventeen East forty sixth
Street, And yesterday afternoon, the chapel organ at Boydston's undertaking Parlors played Nearer
My God to Thee for an old soldier's funeral while she waited for the inquest
to start at the Hyde Park station. She insisted that Colstead's advances had caused
her to shoot him to quote unquote save her honor. Several hours later,
however, when the effect of the liquor had worn off, she broke down
hysterically and confessed that she had lied, that Colstead had threatened to leave her,
and that she had killed him rather than lose him. But yesterday she
only shook her head dreamily and smiled when questioned, say, quote, I
wish they'd let me see him still, it would only make me feel worse
unquote. The last time she saw him was when he lay dying, and
she dare not feel his heart or pulse because quote he was so bloody unquote.
They say she's the prettiest woman ever accused of murder in Chicago. Young,
slender, with bobed auburn hair, wide set, appealing blue eyes,
tip tilted nose, translucent skin, faintly very faintly rouged, an ingenuous smile,
refined features, intelligent expression and quote an awfully nice girl and more than
usually pretty. She wore fond collar dress and hose with black shoes, dark
brown coat, and a brown georgette hat that turned back with a youthful flare.
While waiting for the inquest to start, she talked of her early life
in Kentucky and her little seven year old son by a former marriage, who
now lives with his father's people in Owensboro, Kentucky. Divorced from Perry Stevens
after a year, she moved to Louisville, where she met Albert Ann and
her her present husband, whom she married in Chicago four years ago. He
made fifty or sixty dollars a week as a mechanic at a garage at ninety
one twenty Baltimore Avenue, but she wanted to work too, and last September
became bookkeeper for Tenant's Model Laundry. It was there that she met Harry Colstead,
another employee who took her for walks, visited her a few times in
her husband's absence, and shared with her a taste for booze. Calmly,
she played with a piece of paper and softly whistled through it. As Colstead's
brother in law, William Wilcox told the coroner's Journey which she had told him
of the tragedy the night before. He also identified the statement read by assistant
state's attorney Roy Woods, as the one she had made in his presence the
preceding night. According to this, Colstead had telephoned her early Thursday morning that
he was going over on the West Side to get some wine, and had
come to her apartment fifteen minutes later to get the money with which to buy
it. She had the afternoon off from work, and he joined her at
about noon with two quarts of wine. After drinking for an hour or so,
they started quarreling. She teased him a little about to quote Billy the
boy with an auto unquote, and he reproved her for doing things she shouldn't.
Then she flared back, you're just a fore flusher and called him a
jailbird. Colstead, it seems, had served a penitentiary sentence for a statutory
crime. He retorted hotly that she was quote no good. A revolver was
lying on the bed, and they both sprang. Both went for the gun,
interrupted W. W. O'Bryan, counsel for missus Annan. Both sprang
for it, but she reached at first. The story went on. Colstead
turned for his coat and hat, but quote didn't get that far. She
cupped her chin in his slim hand with its orange blossom ring, and didn't
blanche as the state read her answer to the question why didn't he get that
far? For darn good reason, she said, I shot him. She
caught him as he slipped to the floor, calling my god, you shot
me, and tried to tell him that it wasn't true. His hands still
felt soft, his face was soft, but she couldn't feel for his heart
because it was quote all bloody. She played again with the paper as the
state's attorney read a confession of intimacy with Colstead on three occasions, and laughed
lightly as the lawyers quarreled over the questioning. According to the testimony of policeman
Thomas E. Towrton, who was called at six oh five Thursday night,
the shooting must have occurred at approximately two o'clock that afternoon for almost four hours.
Then she played the phonograph and paced the floor before she telephoned her husband
that she had killed a man. Doctor Clifford Oliver, who arrived at six
twenty o'clock, said Colstead had only been dead half an hour or so.
Missus Annan had posed prettily for the photographers, but her husband hid his face
with his rough, scarred hands. When he took the stand, he identified
the revolver a thirty eight caliber as his and haltingly told how he had found
the man who he did not know, dead and his wife too hysterical to
talk. Thursday night at the station, he told the officers bitterly, quote,
I've been a sucker. That's all simp a meal ticket. I've worked
ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day and took home every cent of my
money. We bought our furniture for the little apartment on time, and it
was all paid off but one hundred dollars. I thought she was happy.
I didn't know, unquote, but yesterday he wouldn't talk, just shook his
head sadly to all the questions. Under advice of her attorney, missus Annan
made no statement. When the finding of murder was announced. She powdered her
nose, took the money her husband had borrowed, and went back to jail
to await developments. April sixth, nineteen twenty four. Of course, I'm
sorry. I'd give my life to have Harry Colstead alive again. And I
never said I was glad. Why I couldn't at this point tears filled the
eyes of missus Beulah may Annan, the quote unquote prettiest murderess held to the
grand jury for shooting her sweetheart in a drunken quarrel at her apartment on Thursday.
Thursday night, she was in a mad, hysterical frenzy when she babbled
conflicting accounts of the murder Friday in a daze that left her cold and unmoved
at the inquest. But yesterday afternoon, in the county jail where she awaits
indictment for murder, she began to realize what it means to kill. And
the music's changed too, hululoo on the phonograph, while the lover she shot
lay dying a funeral song in the chapel when she awaited the inquest, and
yesterday bring them in from the Fields of Sin, sung by prisoners indicted or
sentenced for robbery, prostitution and murder. It jars on her horribly, the
laughter of the girls, their constant talking the music. How can they she
said, shivering. She posed for her picture with Missus Belvi Gartner, whose
trial for the shooting of law the young auto salesman begins on April twenty first,
but as of yet the two have not talked over their common interest a
man, a woman, liquor in a gun. But unlike Missus Gardner,
who waits cheerfully and philosophically, protesting her innocence and disclaiming all recollection of the
killing, Missus Annan remembers, I'll never forget it. She shuddered, that
white silk shirt, all covered with blood. He never spoke or moved,
just lay there. I know he died as soon as he fell, and
I was with him dead at this point. Her eyes widened in horror.
For two or three hours. I never thought of a doctor until the policeman
came, and when they said he might be alive. Oh, it was
the happiest moment of my life. She remembers too, just how it happened,
saying, quote, I had learned that morning, just before I came
home, that he had been in the penitentiary, and I accused him of
it. He grew angry and that it wouldn't have happened if we both hadn't
been drinking, and he had had quite a lot before he came over.
We both lost our heads. Saw the revolver lying there, uncovered by the
pillow. I hadn't made the bed that morning and grabbed for it. I
can see him now, that look in his eyes. He was perfectly wild,
and I know he would have killed me if I hadn't reached it first.
Her lawyer W. W. O'Brien stated Friday that self defense would be
her plea and that the statements made at the police station would be repudiated as
having been made under dress when intoxicated. I listened when they read the statements
at the inquest, and some of the things were right. But the newspapers
are all wrong. They say I killed him rather than have him leave me.
Why I was the one who was going to leave him. You see,
I realized we couldn't go on, that we never could be anything to
each other. I've never loved him as much as I did my hubby,
And besides, he had nothing to offer me, no inducement to make me
leave Albert. It had gone on as long as it should. I knew
no good could come of it, and her voice trailed off in a long
sigh. And Albert annan for whom what did come of it? Was a
total shock, for he never dreamed of her other love interest is going ahead
with his work in the garage and giving what money he can to help her
out. What'll I do when it's over. I don't know. There's not
much use to think about that. Albert probably won't want me back. My
life is ruined anyway. I can never live it down. Even if I
went away where nobody knew you, you can't get away from yourself. And
I'd always remember that i'd killed him, always see that white shirt and the
blood. She broke into sobs. Her attorney helps to arrange bond for her
in a couple of weeks and is hoping for a speedy trial. Mister and
Missus John Sheriff, parents of Missus Beulah Annon, are heartbroken at their modest
country home near Owensboro, Kentucky. They received the news today of their daughter's
arrest ten years ago. Beulah May Sheriff, a beautiful country girl with curly
Titian hair, came to Owensboro and was married about eight years ago to Perry
Stevens, a respected young man. The beauty of the young wife won her
many friends that eventually caused her husband to sue her for divorce and the custody
of their infant son. An automobile accident nearly cost the life of Missus Annan
a few years ago in this city, when in company with a young man
of Owensboro, they were speeding on the highway when the car crashed into a
telephone pole. Shortly after that, she went to Louisville, where she was
married to Anna. Mister and Missus Sheriff declined to discuss their daughter's case and
said they had not decided whether they would go to her defense. In Chicago,
April seventh, nineteen twenty four, Missus Beulah Annan's second day in the
county jail where she waits indictment for the murder of her sweetheart, Harry Colstead,
was a trifle monotonous. Sunday's bad enough any place, she said,
but here, and Chicago's prettiest woman, the killer shrugged her shoulders in disgust.
She missed the conveniences of home. They won't even let you have coal,
cream and powder, and they tuned in the radio for a sacred concert
instead of a Hawaiian foxtrot. And the uncertainties growing tiresome. Will the grand
jury indict her this week? Will she get bond? Will her father,
John Sheriff, Kentucky farmer, furnish the money for she hasn't heard from him
since the arrest, nor from her mother, missus Mary Neil, who moved
from forty nine nineteen Lake Park Avenue Saturday night and left no address because she
didn't want to be bothered. But the husband, Albert Annan, who knew
nothing of the other man till he found the dead body in his apartment,
is standing by her. Yesterday afternoon he bundled up some clothes, a black
crape dress and a checkered flannel, and took them down to the jail.
But Sunday isn't visiting day, so he went back home to the little flat
at eight seventeen East forty six, where his wife had killed a man in
a drunken quarrel. They'll have to sell the furniture, now bought last November
and all paid for except for a hundred dollars there. An hour or so
later, he repeated his steady refusal, nothing to say, and set his
jaw determinedly. Ten years older than Beulah May, he is quiet and a
little stern. He had talked to her only once since the tragedy at the
Hyde Park Station when he tried to shoulder the blame by saying he had killed
Colstead when he found the two together. Tell her I'll stick. That's all
that I'll stick, he said slowly. He's getting off from work today.
He's a mechanic at a garage at seventy one ninety Baltimore Avenue to see her
attorney W. W. O'Brien about getting bond. We've got to get her
out, he said fiercely. Others are helping to while away the hours for
Beulah. A group of young men, admittedly, after having a few drinks,
sent Flowers with a note, and she didn't eat the chicken dinner he
had planned for her. For a friend sent in a juicy steak, French
fried potatoes, and cucumber salad. May ninth, nineteen twenty four. What
counts with the jury when a woman is on trial for murder? Youth,
beauty, and if to these she adds approaching motherhood for pretty missus Beulah ann
And who shot her lover Harry Colstead, to the tune of her husband's phonograph,
is expecting a visit from the stork early this fall. This twenty three
year old murderess now waiting trial is making this the basis for a further appeal
to clemency. Because of the four term rule, missus Annan's case cannot be
continued for more than four terms of court without her consent. If she is
brought to trial before autumn, her condition could be considered by the jury since
it has the right to pass sentence, and if the jury should give her
death, there is no direction statute covering such a contingency set a former state's
attorney, but the state would have to delay execution until after the birth of
the child, since it would be taken two lives instead of one. Her
condition has no bearing upon the legality of the case, said her attorney,
William Scott Stewart. It would be a matter of executive clemency whence the sentences
passed, or it might affect the jury. Will a jury give death?
Will jury send to prison a mother? To be what affects a jury anyway?
That's what they asked themselves, the seven inmates of Murderers Row yesterday afternoon,
for the conviction of one of their number broke the monotony of their life
and startled them into a worried analysis, and Elizabeth Uncoffered the queer one who
received life for the leapier murder of her lover, Sam Boltshoff, held the
spotlight for a few brief hours. They gave her life because she killed a
man. I've killed a man? Will they? Then? They gamely shake
their heads. No, it can't be life for them. What counts most
with the jury, After all, sex never swung in Illinois, said one
triumphantly. Looks Elizabeth's Uncoffer was not cursed with fatal beauty. A jury isn't
blind, said another. And a pretty woman's never been convicted in Cook County
Gallant old Cook County youth Kitty Malm, who received life for shooting a watchman
last November, is said to be the only pretty young woman who's ever gone
over that road. And Kitty wasn't well quite refined. Of the four awaiting
trial, the cases of Missus Annan and Missus Belvi Gartner would seem most similar
to Elizabeth un Kaffer's. Each is accused of shooting a man, not her
husband, with whom her relations were at least questioned. Each is supposed to
be a woman scorned who shot the man rather than lose him, but neither
was at all disconcerted by missus Unkaffer's sentence. I can't see that it's anything
at all like my case, said missus Gardner, the sophisticated divorcee indicted for
shooting law the young auto salesman, as she twirled about in her red dancing
slippers. The cases are entirely different, said missus Annan, quite the ingenue
in her girlish checked flannel frock. Elizabeth, with her straggly mop of red
hair, pale eyes, and flabby cheeks, remembers it all too well,
she paused, in her scrubbing of the jail floors yesterday afternoon, to live
it all over again. Her attorney had pleaded insanity. Think I'm going to
say I'm crazy, she asked, indignantly. Not much. They'd lock me
up then with some that are worse than I am, and no telling them
what would happen. I wanted them to shoot me, why not at Stayton
Madison, make a big day of it and give everyone a front seat.
But they gave me life instead. May twenty fourth, nineteen twenty four.
Beautiful Beulah Annan's chance for freedom was lessened yesterday when Judge Lindsay ruled after an
extended hearing that the confession she had made to the police the night following the
murder of Harry Colstead April third, were admissible as evidence. I'm the only
witness. Beulah has boasted Harry's dead, and they'll have to believe my story.
But which one? The confession she made to assist in state's attorney Roy
C. Woods, with a court reporter present in her apartment at nine o'clock
the night of the crime, when she said that she shot Colstead, whom
she barely knew, to save her honor as he approached her in attack,
or the statement that she made at the Hyde Park police station, also with
court reporters present, three hours later. Then she broke down and admitted she
shot him in the back. The man was about to leave her. After
a jealous quarrel, she said, will the jury believe that? Or will
the jury credit the story that she'll tell in court a plea of self defense?
Quote we both grab for the revolver when she takes the stand today,
pale not quite so pretty. Beulah didn't smile as she took the stand yesterday
morning to help her attorneys, William Scott Stewart and W. W. O'Brien
proved that she had been unduly influenced and offered immunity by the state if she
would make a statement. Slim and straight in her new brown satin crape frock
with fur piece thrown over one arm, she walked carelessly to the stand,
moistened her lips, and was sworn in seemingly calm but her answer is keen
only for the judge in the absence of the jury were weak. Question who
was the first person to arrive at your apartment after the shooting? Answer Officer
Torpy. Question what did he say? Answer? Where's the gun? Question
what did you say? Answer? My husband gave him the gun and I
don't remember much else. Question whom did you see? Next? Answer Assistant
States Attorney. Would it's question now you had fainted during the time you saw
Torpia and mister Woods? Answer yes. Question what did mister Woods say?
Answer? Well, we went into the kitchen and he said, don't you
know me? And I said no, and he said, I'm Roy C.
Woods and I'm a customer of mister Wilcox and a personal friend of his.
Then he told me not to be afraid that I'd shot the man in
my own house, and that it was no crime. This evidence was uncontradicted
by the state since mister Woods, as prosecutor in the case, couldn't take
the stand, but Judge Lindsay indicated in his talk with counsel that he gave
it slight credence, saying, quote, her statements are entirely too vague.
Moreover, it is peculiar that she was so intoxicated that she didn't know what
had happened a few hours after the crime, and today has a perfect recollection
of minute details unquote. W. W. Wilcox, brother in law of
the dead man, testified that no one had tried to force Beulah to make
the statements or had promised herunity. However she tried to get it. He
stated. She asked Woods if he couldn't frame it to look like an accident,
and Woods said, you don't frame anything with me. He stated further
that Beulah seemed perfectly natural the night of the crime, seeming a little sorry
now and then, but smiling most of the time. Albert Allen, the
court reporter who had taken both of her confessions, testified that she had made
them with full understanding that they might be used against her, and that they
were voluntary and of her own free will. Police officers gave testimony to the
same effect, though they noted she was in a hysterical condition for several hours.
Counsel for the defense objected in particular to the admission of states exhibit to
the Midnight confession, as in it, missus Annan confessed to intimacy on various
occasions with the man she afterwards killed. We're not trying a case of adultery,
Judge objected, W. W. O'Brien. Judge Lindsay, however,
ruled that the admission was relevant to the case. Beulah, frankly by such
technicalities, stared around the room like a wide eyed kitten, and gave her
attention only when state's attorney William F. McLaughlin read the two confessions. According
to the first statement, Colstead had come into her house early in the afternoon,
greatly to her surprise, for she barely knew him, and he took
off his coat and hat, then turned and tried to take her in his
arms, saying with a look in his eyes, she anne, I'm crazy
about you. She begged him to go. She said, but he refused
and followed her into the bedroom, where she reached for the revolver, which
was lying under a pillow on the disarranged bed. Then she closed her eyes
and shot him as he approached her, but he was shot in the back.
They told her it was this fact which caused her to make a new
statement, giving what the state believes is a true account of the affair.
Beulah listened with set features to the reading of her admission that she had given
Colstead, whom she had known for several months at Tenant's laundry, where she
was employed as a bookkeeper, a dollar to get some wine to bring to
her apartment Thursday afternoon, her afternoon off. He came about half past twelve,
and they started the party. Question how much did you drink? Answer?
Half a gallon? Question the two of you answer yes. We had
an argument. Question what about Answer well, I heard he had been in
jail, and I asked him about it. Question what did he say?
Answer? He said he had And then I told him he had always told
me he had a lot of money and his people were sending him money.
The questions then related to a certain billy who had called missus Ann in that
morning for a date which she had refused for Colstead. Question did he say
anything to you about your having done things that you shouldn't? Answer? Oh,
yes, and I said to him, well you're nothing. Question did
you call him anything? Answer? Yes? Question what did he say then?
Answer? He lumped me. Question did he say anything to you about
being through with you? Answer? Well, he may have said to hell
with you or something like that. Question When was that answer after I told
him he was just a jailbird and didn't have any money. Question then you
say he jumped up? Answer? I was ahead of him. I grabbed
for the gun. Question and what did he grab for? Answer for what
was left? Nothing? Question did he get his coat and hat? Answer?
No, he didn't get that far. Question why didn't he get that
far? Answer? Darn good reason? Question what was it? Answer?
I shot him? Further answers told the story of her playing the phonograph Hululu,
who had more sweeties than a dog had fleas to keep the neighbors from
suspecting. The judge cast unbelieving glances at the young woman who sat so calmly
listening to the story of the killing, as told in her own words.
All this time, the jury had been excluded while the judge decided whether the
various versions of the killing were to be read before it. With the return
of the jury into the courtroom, Beulah pepped up a bit and tried to
register antrition and regret. At the proper intervals, William F. McLaughlin gave
a brief outline of the case the state would present. Then W. W.
O'Brien gave his version, and the whole court sat up in attention as
he depicted Beulah the virtuous working girl, Beulah the modest little housewife. Tears
slowly came to Beulah's eyes as he told how Colstead, a regular bum,
had come to her apartment early the morning of the shooting, and had tried
to borrow a few dollars to get booze. Finally, to get rid of
him, she had given him a dollar, and then that afternoon he had
returned, intoxicated and forced his way into the house. Frightened, she begged
him to leave, but he refused, and then she foolishly took a drink
just to humor room and get him to go, said mister O'Brien, with
sad regret and played the victrola at a drown as loud talking, but he
started to make love to her improper advances, and then they took another little
drinks. The jury followed him down the path of another little drink until Colstead
threatened to attack her, boasting that he had served time for quote having his
way with a woman and quote that's the kind of man he was. Then,
according to her attorney, Beulah, in a frenzy, started Oh no,
not for the gun, but the telephone to call her husband, to
tell him of the danger she was in. And it was then Colstead went
for the gun, conveniently parked on the bed, but she had the inside
track, and in the struggle she turned around, and that's how he was
shot in the back. Attorney Steward posed to show just how it was done.
Later, the state called a surprise witness, missus maybel Bergmann ten twenty
two Dayton Street, head bookkeeper at the laundry where missus Annan was employed.
Question did you hear from missus Annan in the afternoon of April third, when
she was off of work? Answer? At about four ten she called me
up at the office. Question? What was said? Answer? She said,
Hello, Betty, what are you doing? And I said, I'm
awfully busy. And she said, is Billy there, meaning mister Wilcox,
And I said that he'd been in and out. And then she said,
is mu there meaning Harry Colstead? And I answered, you know, he
hasn't been here all day, and she said, that's funny. I had
an appointment with him for a quarter after twelve and he hasn't shown up.
The court and jury looked at Beulah for at four twenty Colstead was lying in
her apartment dead, and she was playing the jazz records on the VICTROLA question
what did you say? Then? Answer? I said, what's the matter?
Red? You sound kind of stewed, and she said, no,
I haven't had a drink all day. I talk queerly because I'm trying to
talk to you, and read the telephone directory all at the same time,
and that was all. The two women exchanged flashing glances as the pretty brunette
stepped down from the witness stand and sailed past Red. The character of Harry
Colstead was brought up in the questioning of W. W. Wilcox. Mister
O'Brien implied that the dead man had been in the penitentiary in Michigan, and
its witness resented it. He was in the Saint Cloud Reformatory. Wilcox said,
for what reason, the attorney asked, wife. Desertion was the answer.
May twenty fifth, nineteen twenty four. Beulah Annan, whose pursuit of
wine men in jazz music was interrupted by her glibness with the trigger finger,
was given freedom last night by her beauty proof jury. The jury retired from
Judge Lindsay's court at eight thirty and at ten twenty brought in the verdict of
not guilty on the third ballot, acquitting her of the murder of her admirer,
Harry Colstead and her apartment at eight seventeen East forty sixth Street. On
April third, the fair defendant thanked the jury all around, assisted by her
faithful husband. Al Oh, I can't thank you, she said, flash
a glance at each one as she pressed his hand. You don't understand,
you can't know, but I felt sure you would. Mister Annan, who
had stood by her from the very night he found the man lying dead in
his bedroom, was almost overcome with joy and gratitude. I knew my wife
would come through all right, he said proudly. That seemed to be the
consensus of opinion. Another pretty woman gone free was the only comment made by
Assistant States Attorney William F. McLaughlin, who prosecuted the case alone after the
withdrawal of Royce Woods, who was called as a material witness. Beautiful but
not dumb, for she had talked incessantly two different versions of the shooting before
she came to trial, and the third one when she took the stand yesterday
was the charm We both grabbed for the gun under the glare of the motion
picture lights. A newsweekly Beulah took the stand and yet another new dress,
navy twill, tied to the side with a childlike more Beaux with new necklace
of crystalline jet. She made her as an actress, and the jury laughingly
nominated the youngest of their sheikhs as a Rudolph for the Titian haired Sheiba more
calm than she was Friday. She answered the questions in her childlike Southern voice
and turned innocent, pleading eyes to the jury and attorney. Question did you
shoot this man? Answer? I did? Question why? Answer because he
was going to shoot me? Simply, she told the story of Coolstad's morning
visit to her apartment after her husband had gone to work, of his attempt
to borrow six dollars from her for booze, and of the subsequent return that
afternoon with two quarts of moonshine. I saw he was drunk and begged him
to go, but he refused and asked me to take a drink first,
so I did, just to get him to leave, but he still wouldn't
go, though I begged him to told him my husband might come home and
that he would shoot us both. Question and what did you say to that?
He said, to how with your husband? Then he insisted that I'd
take another drink, and I did. Then he said let's have a little
jazz and we played the Victrola and then and then he said come on into
the bedroom, and I refused and begged him to go, and finally I
told him. She faltered and sent an appealing glance to her attorney. Yes,
said mister Scott Stewart, encouragingly, Go ahead, Beulah, tell the
jury. She closed her eyes a moment, then went bravely on. I
told him of my delicate condition, but he refused to believe me and boasted
that another woman had fooled in that way, and then he had done time
in the penitentiary for her. And I said, you'll do another And he
said you'll never send me back. And I said, I'll call my husband
and he'll shoot us both. Question what did he say to that? Answer?
He said, where is that damn gun? Question? Then what did
he do? Answer? He started for the bedroom. Question how did you
reach the bedroom? Answer? Maybe he was a step ahead of me,
and by the time we got to the bed, I was even with him.
He grabbed for it. I reached for it and got it first.
Then he put up his hand and said, by god, I'll kill you
yet. Question Then what did he do? Answer? He started towards me,
and I pushed his shoulder with my left hand and shot. She closed
her eyes, her face pale under the glare of the movie lights. In
horror of the picture, and weakly describing the details of the shooting, She
told how she had wiped his face, had turned off the grating phonograph record,
and had sunk down in a daze beside the body. She denied having
called Betty Bergman the afternoon of the murder, told again of her promise of
immunity if she would make the statements to the police, and denied intimacy with
Kolstead. Thoroughly poised under direct questioning, she was a trifle nonplussed by the
opening attack of the prosecution. In cross questioning for mister McLaughlin tried to establish
the fact that her story had been framed by her attorneys, but she rallied
when it came to the story itself, and was only slightly daunted when he
pointed out that it was remarkable that she should be a step behind Colstead in
the getaway, have the outside track, and yet beat him to the gun.
One by one, he read her the questions and answers she had made
at the Hyde Park police station the night of the murder, in which she
confessed to killing the man after a jealous quarrel. She searched him with her
shallow eyes, What was back of it all? When you were asked?
This? Was this your answer? I don't remember, No, I did
not. One by one she repudiated every statement in the confession, burying the
defiance of her no with the childishly petulant I don't remember. That's my story
and I'll stick to it. Was her attitude, and she did till she
stepped down demurely from the witness stand, with the settled complacency of a schoolgirl
who had set her piece, and under the glare of the movie lights.
Missus Mary Neil, her mother, was called by the defense as a sympathy
witness. Her dark eyes were drawn and mouth set as she answered a few
simple questions as to her name, relationship to the defendant, et cetera.
All Her faithful husband marched briskly to the stand, but he was not permitted
to testify on account of his relationship with her. Roy C. Woods,
originally a prosecutor in the case, was called by the state as a rebuttal
witness to refute Missus Annan's testimony that he had promised her immunity if she would
confess to him. Question did you say to Beula Anne and that you would
help her if she would keep Wilcox's Colstad's brother in law's name out of it?
Answer? I did not. Question did you tell her it was no
crime for her to shoot a man in her own house? Answer most certainly
not. Question did you tell her that she couldn't frame anything with you?
Answer? I did Beulis sat with bowed head through the state's opening argument,
in which mister McLaughlin pointed out the weak points in her story. That a
woman should try to soothe the man who was threatening to attack her by drinking
with him, that he knew where the gun was in a totally strange house,
that he was shot in the back. You have seen that faced,
gentleman. It's probable that she hadn't had many men tell her to go to
hell, and that was why she went for the gun. The prosecutor told
the jury his main argument was hinged on the credibility of the witness, who
had made three entirely different statements to the jury. William Scott Stewart read line
by line the confessions and demonstrated the third degree methods that were used to obtain
them. Then Beulah, the tender hearted slayer, broke into gentle sobs.
She had played the big trolla while a man she murdered lay dying. She
had laughed at his inquest. She had sat calm and composed while they read
descriptions of the crime. But she broke down when she heard her attorney's impassioned
account of the sufferings she had undergone at the hands of the police and assistant
States Attorneys who questioned her for statements. And again she was overcome with emotion
when mister O'Brien painted the picture of this frail little girl gentleman struggling with a
drunken brute, and the jury shook their heads in approbation and chewed their gum
more energetically. The verdict in your hands was the voice of the people's prosecutor.
And you must decide whether you will permit a woman to commit a crime
and let her go because she is good looking. You must decide whether you
want to let another pretty woman go out and say I got away with it,
And they did. June fourth, nineteen twenty four, Belvit Gartner,
charged with the murder of Walter Law, was a perfect lady yesterday and Judge
Lindsay's court as she faced four of the jurors who will decide whether she really
did shoot the young auto salesman found dead in her sedan March twelve. For
the lady was so dead drunk after a night of jin and jazz at the
Gingham End, that she doesn't remember. And another woman studied the jurors a
sweet faced woman in heavy mourning Missus Walter Law, who did not know Belve
existed until they met at the slain man's inquest, and of the two,
she seemed more concerned. Cabaret dancer and twice divorcee, Missus Gardner was as
demure as any convent girl, with brown eyes dreamily cast downward. Her lips
were closed in a not quite smile. The contour of her cheek was unbroken
by lines, and the rejuvenating rouge made her well on the dangerous side of
thirty, said one ardent court fan. Say she's got the Anning girls skinned
a mile, said another. Not so pretty, but more class class.
That was Belva, for she lived up to her reputation as the most stylish
of Murderous's row. A blue twill suit bound with black braid and white lacy
frill down the front, patent leather slippers with shimmering French heels, chiffon gun
metal hose, and a hat ah that hat helmet shape with a silver buckle
and cockade of ribbon, with one streamer tied jauntily, coquettishly bewitchingly under her
chin. Assistant State's Attorney Samuel Hamilton asked a prospective juror, would you let
a stylish hat make you find her not guilty? He staunchly answered no,
and solemnly agreed that sex should have no part in the verdict. Missus Gardner
spoke only once, a whisper to her attorney, Thomas Nash. Then he
asked the jurors, would you be prejudiced if it should developed that the lady
had been drinking that evening? The prospective jurors assured him that they wouldn't,
and the questioning went merrily on to find a hat proof, sexproof, and
damp jury who would also accept circumstantial evidence as conclusive, for there were no
witnesses, just a man found dead slumped over the steering wheel of missus Gardner's
car, a bullet and his head from her pistol left lying on the sedan
floor, and the woman herself in her apartment at forty eighth nine Forestville Avenue,
hysterical, disheveled and drenched with blood. She is expected to take the
stand in her own behalf, and the defense loss of memory will at least
be unique. She's as guilty as kitty Mam, said assistant State's attorney Harry
Pritzker, who won a verdict of life against the Tiger Girl, and I
hope to send her over the same road. The state thus far has not
qualified the jurors for the death sentence, though they indicated it may be asked
lay. A charge of manslaughter was also included in the indictment, so that
if the state fails to show an intent to kill, she may be found
guilty on the lesser charge. June fifth, nineteen twenty four, Belvit Gartner,
the lady who was so drunk she doesn't remember, registered virtuous calm as
the state opened its case in an attempt to prove her guilty of murdering Walter
Law. Her sultry eyes never lost their dreaminess as policemen described the dead body
slumped over the wheel of her nash sedan, the matted hair around the wound,
the blood that dripped in pools, and her revolver and fifth of gin
lying on the floor. Her sensuous mouth kept its soft curves as they told
of finding her in her apartment with blood on her coat, blood on her
dress of green velvet and silver cloth, and blood on the silver slippers.
Calm and poised, but her slim French heeled shoes, beat the floor,
twitched nervously, and crossed and recrossed himself. Those twinkling feet had danced her
into Overbeck's heart when she was bell brown cabaret girl, and that had carried
her to and from a bridle path romance with Gartner, a wealthy manufacturer,
that had stolen her into a palship with the young married man, and then
to a murder trial. Doctor Joseph Springer, coroner's physician, was called as
the first witness for the state. He testified to examining the body at four
fifty five the morning of March twelfth, and stated that there were no powder
burns near the wound where the bullet had entered near the right temple quote.
A gun must be held within fifteen inches or so to make powder burns unquote.
Assistant State's Attorney Samuel Hamilton asked, from the absence of these, is
it your opinion that he did not shoot himself? The answer was he did
not. In cross questioning, Michael Ahearn, counsel for the defense, tried
to get the doctor to place the pistol at the presumed angle and distance while
he posed as law committed suicide. In cross questioning, Michael Ahern, counsel
for the defense, tried to get the doctor to place the pistol at the
presumed angle and distance while he posed as law committed suicide. He clicked the
revolver, said, mister ahearn there you see, he could have killed himself.
Doctor Springer answered crisply he could not. He also identified the gin bottle
which was found lying on the floor of the car. Belve's jury, selected
for their lack of prejudice in favor of the Volstad act. Peped up a
bit at the sight of this, and Valve herself leaned forward, but it
was empty. Sergeants Quinn and Patrolman Fitzgerald told of finding the dead body and
of tracing the owner of the car by the license number. Detective William Sullivan
went to the owner's address, he said, and found missus Gardner in a
bathrobe with the blood drenched clothes on the floor. She couldn't shake her head
nor nod approvingly at the testimony, for she doesn't remember, but she could
show impatience as the officer floundered and is describing her clothes, but to his
relief, they were admitted in evidence, the mashed hat and rumpled coat,
the one more struggle than I'm free dress, and the flimsy slippers. According
to doctor Springer and the police officers, missus Gardner when they talked to her,
was sober early that morning. Burt Brown, floorman at the Gingham Inn,
was also called to prove this point. He said that Law and missus
Gardner had come to the inn at sixty eighth Street and Cottage Grove Avenue five
or six times previous to the night of the shooting, and that evening had
arrived about ten o'clock and stayed an hour and a half. According to his
statement, the Gingham In is matched in dryness only by the Sahara. No
liquor is sold there, no liquor is brought there, no liquor is displayed
there on the table, floor or undercover. Consequently, the couple who arrived
sober must have left in the same condition, flared the Council for the defense.
You're saying that to protect the place where you're employed. The statement missus
Gardner had made at the police station early that morning was ruled out by Judge
Lindsay, but Sergeant William Egan testified as to the points she had been questioned
on. Quote, She in law was at her house at nine o'clock that
night, and when they left for the Gingham Inn, she got her ex
husband's gun for fear of a hold up and put it in the pocket of
the car. Unquote, with similar a plumb. Missus Gardner, the most
stylish of murderous's row, fastened her choker, gathered up her white kid gloves
as court was adjourned and swept out. June sixth, nineteen twenty four.
Belvit Gartner, another of those women who messed things up by adding a gun
to her fondness for gin and men, was acquitted last night at twelve ten
o'clock of the murder of Walter Law. So drunk she didn't remember whether she
shot the man found dead in her sedan at Forest Avenue and fiftieth Street on
March twelfth, but after six and one half hours and eight ballots, the
jury said she didn't. Missus Gardner lost the emotionless poise she maintained throughout the
trial, burst into hysterical laughter, threw her arms around her attorneys, and
thanked the jury as she exclaimed over and over oh I'm so happy, so
happy, and I want to hurry out now and get some air. She
left at once to get her elaborate wardrobe from the jail, and from there
went home with her sister, Missus Charles Krushar. Sometime within the next month,
she said she will remarry her divorced husband, William Gartner, the wealthy
manufacturer, and they will sail for Europe to forget all this. But there's
a woman who won't forget, Missus freed de Law, widow of the slain
man, who half fainted when the verdict was read and crept away to sob
in the arms of her sister. There's no justice in Illinois, no justice
Walter paid. Why shouldn't she women? Just women, was the laconic comment
of the Assistant State's Attorney, Harry Pritzker. The crowd said, why did
they wait so long? That's what Belvit Gardner asked herself as she smoked cigarettes
and paced the floor of the bullpen while the jury not six feet away deliberated
whether she had murdered Walter Law. And neither they nor the blase divorcee,
Cook County's most stylish defendant knew that Judge Lindsey had ruled when the defense asked
for the Noel Pross quote, I haven't the power to tell the state's attorney
what to do, and therefore deny the motion. But if the jury should
bring in a verdict of guilty, I'm confident the Supreme Court would reverse the
decision, as the evidence is only circumstantial, strong enough to arouse suspicion of
guilt, but not to convict. The state has not made its case.
Was the attitude of the defense, represented by Nation Ahearn and Marshall Solberg,
who waived their opening statement, rested without offering a single witness, and waived
closing argument. The jury, who had heard only the state's plea for a
just verdict, listened gravely, and the court fanned sleepily to the instructions of
the judge with their droning rhythm. Beyond all reasonable doubt, you shall find
a defendant not guilty. But they all sat alert when he reached the age
of the defendant about thirty eight, and turned to stare at the slim,
youthfully rounded creature who never looked prettier. And she wore a new dress,
cafe ola braided in black with bell shaped sleeves and deep cuffs that clung in
soft folds to her body, and the close hat of a deeper brown matched
her eyes, and the mink choker softened the lines of her throat. Only
the hands, with their Rosalie tinted nails, showed her age and nervousness as
she played with her gloves and fur, while the state attempted early in the
day to prove that she was not too drunk to remember. Arthur Quodbach,
proprietor of the Ginghamn at sixty eight hundred Cottage Grove Avenue, and his head
waiter, William F. Leathers, testified concerning the sobriety of Law and Missus
Gardner while they were in the cafe the night he was killed. Perfectly sober
was Quotdebox's statement, said Leathers, I wish I always had been as sober
as they were that night. Following testimony by the widow Missus free to Law
establishing the corpus delecti, the case went to the journey June seventh, nineteen
twenty four, not guilty for Belle. The Gartner brought joy to her playmates
in the county jail and made hope spring a little higher in the hearts of
the remaining women killers, only Sabella Nitty mourned. Poor Sabella, who chopped
her husband up one day, assisted by a rumor the state charges her greeting
to visitors used to be me choke, which being interpreted reads I'm sentenced to
hang, and now she waits a new trial. Each acquittal brings pangs of
comparison to her. She have gun, she shoot, she go free me
no gun, no shoot me here. Over a year, only four women,
the fewest in years, are now waiting trial for murder, and they're
getting out even faster than they're getting in. And the two who walk to
freedom. In the last two weeks, pretty Beulah Annon and stylish Velve Gardner,
robbed the women's quarters of their claims to distinction and plunged murders's row into
oblivion. Two of those left are colored, many Nichols and Rose Ups.
The other two, Sabella Nitty and Leelah Foster, are middle aged and well.
Neither is accused with the grace or the beauty of Diana. Then two
Bulah and Belve killed young men friends, and these ladies only bumped off their
husbands so they can't hope for publicity, maybe not even acquittal. They'll be
given the same chance with the other weapons of defense that the other women have
had. Powder, rouge, lipstick, and mascara. Makeup is taboo,
and jail only soap and water is permitted until those testing days when they face
the twelve good men and true. Then begins the fashion show. For each
woman is firmly convinced that clothes make the man look more. Sympathetically, shops
and dresses on approval. Friends bring in frocks of their own, and anxious
lawyers borrow from their wives for their clients. They study every effect, turn
and change, and who can say it's time wasted? But these girls will
lack the advice of Belve, known even in some other circles as an expert
in dress. The place ain't the same without her, they mourn, for
she was the best dancer, the best card player among them. It's true
she was a little well, not industrious, and hired other girls to wash
out her clothes and iron them on the wall. She lets Sabella take care
of her neat little bunk, But that's over now, and they wish her
happiness on her European trip to forget it all, mused one girl. Funny
the way they take it. As soon as Beulah was out, she up
and left poor al, cold and flat. And now Belva rushes off to
a wedding, married him once and that was annulled, married him again and
got a divorce. Third time's a charm. Missus Gardner, who is resting
up for a few days with her sister, declared a terrible strain, but
she looks one hundred percent better after her three months rescuer in jail epilogue,
March eighteenth, nineteen twenty eight. For nearly a year, New York Audience's
Nightly watched Roxy Heart, Chicago's most Beautiful, Murderous, sardonically get away with
murder in Maureen Watkins's searching play Chicago, Forgive Them if they smiled in Faint
Amusement. Chicago, to the New Yorker, is a hinterland where anything can
happen. Chicago saw the play, too, and audiences here were apt to
smile indulgently as Roxy Heart shot her boyfriend of the moment, then played raucous
jazz on a tiny gramophone in burlesque Requiem. They smiled too, when her
poor sap of a husband spent his last cent in her defense to be rewarded
on her acquittal by being divorced. They grinned broadly when Roxy contentedly pasted into
long strips newspaper columns of publicity given her lavishly by the gentlemen of the press
Chicago knows itself, a few did not smile. They knew roxy Heart,
They knew her in real life as bulah Annan, And today the bulah Annan
who is Roxy Heart is dead and buried in the Kentucky town where she was
born. Ironically, missus Annan, who is known wherever newspapers are read as
Cook County's most beautiful murderous, received not one line in passing she who had
known hundreds of thousands of lines of flattering publicity. Just four years ago,
Chicago's sensational press raved over beulah Annan. They told how she married her sweetheart
Harry Kolstett in her apartment and then played jazz on a tiny gramophone for hours
before she thought to call her husband and tell him what she'd done. Albert
Anne and rush to her defense, even tried to claim he killed Colstett,
but Beulah enjoyed the story of the jazz records, as recorded at length in
the papers, more than she valued her freedom. She only boasted about it.
Only one defense did she offer. We were all gemmed up, and
her husband spent practically every cent he had to secure her freedom. On the
strength of that defense. He won, then he lost. In August nineteen
twenty six, two years after she killed her playmate, Beulah divorced her husband.
The irony of it was good for a play in the papers for a
while, and then forgotten. Bulah leaped back into print last June when she
married Edward Harlb, a pugilist, and back again three months later when she
divorced him. Harry Annen was too slow, Edward Harley was uncongenial. Then
she dropped from view a week ago. Dorothy Stephens died of tuberculosis at the
age of thirty two in the Chicago Fresh Air Hospital. Some days later,
her body was taken to a little town of Glenville in the Green River Valley
of Kentucky and buried at home. Dorothy Stephens was Bulah Annon, and not
a single line was printed on her death. It only became known when brief
dispatches from Glenville recorded that Beulah Annon had been Bullah Stephens before she came up
to the big time, and there was even more irony in the passing of
the most beautiful murderers. Maureen Watkins, who used almost without effort at disguise
Buella's entire story for the annex of roxy Heart. She used her again a
few weeks ago in another setting, this time in a story Butterfly Goes Home,
told again the story of roxy Heart alias Bulahanne. It told of her
play and the lights, her death and obscurity, her burial in the little
town where she was born, So Bula Anne and died in obscurity, and
the Butterflies Gone Home with not even ten lines of print to be clipped and
pasted to the string of the other story, not even as a climax.
Valvet Gardner did reconcile with her husband, although there were further allegations of infidelity
and more divorce proceedings initiated in court. They remained married until his death in
the nineteen forties. Than she moved to California to live with her sister,
where she died in nineteen sixty five. At the age of eighty. That
was Jin Jazz Guns The Real Chicago Murderers called from the historic pages of the
Chicago Tribune, the New York Daily News, and other newspapers of the era.
You can hear more about Bulah and Velvis cellmate Sabelle and Nitti in True
Crime Historian episode two hundred and thirty, The Ugly Duckling Murderers. True Crime
Historian is a creation of popular Media. Keep your ears open for popular media's
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Or radio journalists Susan Firman ask the age old question what could go wrong?
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Joe And as for me, while I'm still true crime historian Richard O.
Joe signing off for now,