California, multiple executions, 1929-1983, Undated

# . & 82 PACIFIC = 2nd = 359; (All of them.) (See)

BARNES, Fred, and EUDY, Wesley E,, asphyxiated Dec. 9, 1938; CANNON, Albert Lee, and
KESSELL, Albert, asphyxiated Dec. 2, 1938; and DAVIS, Ed, asphyxiated
Dec. 16, 19383; all at San Quentin (Sacramento County),

DAVIS EXECUTION ~
"San Quentin, Dece 16, 1938-Defiant to the last, Ed Davis, 38, habitual criminal was exe-
cuted in the state's gas chamber today for the murder of Warden Clarence Larkin of Fol-
som Prison, Davis, once known as 'the fox' of banditry in southwestern states, was the
last of five convicts executed for slaying Larkin in a futile prison break, Shortly befae
being led into-the chamber, Davis laboriously scrawled out a note to guards, saying:
'No regrets for old Ed, All considered, my conscience now is vesting eas$, I certainly
knew on September 19th last year (when Warden Larkin, a guard and two convicts, were
killed in:an abortive prison escape attempt) that I was going to, where I could do some-
thing for my wife and son, or to hell, and today I am sure glad I felt that way. I my-
} self am well paid for; many times more than will ever show and I do know there are damn
few people all bad and.no good,. For myself I never have and not now ask mercy either
from God or man,'* ; -
"Prison officials said Davis' body probably will be claimed as were those of Kessell, 293
Eudy, 33 and. Barnes, 0, who died in the chamber earlier this month, That of Robert
Cannon, 30, also convicted of the Larkin murder, was buried in the San Quentin Prison
vemetery. These five were the first convicts to be put to death in California's newly
legalized gas chamber, Twelve others, convicted of other murders, await a similar fate,
Four convicted prior to the adoption of gas executiohs are to be hanged. Davis was pro=.
nounced dead 11 minutes after the cyanide was dropped into the acid to create the fatal
gas. Kessell died in 154 minutes;. Cannon in 12; Eudy in 113; and Barnes in 10 minutes,
Following his usual practice after executions, Warden Court Smith left the prison immed-
iately to remain away until tonight," BEE, Sacramento, CA 12/16/1938 (30/h.)
: ‘ . BARNES AND EUDY EXECUTION ;
"San Quentin, Dec. 9, 1938<Two more “olsom Prison convicts died today in California's new
glass and steel gas chamber for the murder of two men in an attempted prison escapee
Wesley Eudy, 34, and Fred Barnes = the third and fourth of the five hardened ¢riminals
. sentenced to the gas chamber = were pronounced dead at 10:1) A.M, ‘Two others preceded
them last week for the murder of Warden Clarence Larken and Guard Harry E, Martin in the
futile attempt to escape September 19, 1937, which coast four lives,
"Barnes, smiling but obviously nervous, was led into the chamber first, and chatted with
- guards while being strapped to the chair, Nodding to reporters, he said: 'Take it as
cheerful as I am and you'll be all right.' He kept his lips constantly moving, Eudy,
more grim, was Led to the chair next to him and strapped quickly. Barnes said: 'Goodbye,
Eudy.' Then both eakded out: "Goodbye, guards; goodbye, guards,' The door was sealed
at 10:02 AM. Prisoh officials announced to-the -audience -twelve minutes later that the
men were dead. There were more than 100 witnesses today as contrasted with less than
half that number last week when the octagonal death chamber took its first lives. E. R.
Vaughan, Oakland attorney, who said he was acting without pay and only because he was
opposed to gas executions, sought a writ of habaes corpus for the men yesterday in the
state district court of appeals in San Francisco, The court denied his peition without
comment. ast Friday Albert Kessel and Robert Cannon were executed, Ed Davis, the last
of the quintet, is sentenced to die next Friday. , .
"Barnes, a native of Arkansas was sentenced to San Quentin Prison for thirty years
following his conviction of robbery and assault charges in Los Angeles, H e was
committed August 1, 1931, but after two attempts at escape was transferred to Folsom
Prison, The prison recores show he éscaped from the McAlester, Okla, Prison April 12,
1927, after serving five years of a life term for murder, Eudy is a native of Texas, He
was sentenced to San Quentin in 1926 for a Los Angeles robbery and was paroled in 1931.
In 193) he was committed to Folsom for parole violation," BEE, Sacramento, 9-9-1938 (1/1#)
‘ DAVIS SEEKS TO FREE OKLAHOMA CONVICT. ;
"Oklahoma City, Dec. 9 = A move Ed Davis, one-time "phantom bandit' of the southwes t
started from a San Quentin death cell to free Walter Philpot, 55, serving 25 years for
an $11,000 bank robbery, gained new impetus today when a girl taken as hostage when the
bank was looted, said she saw Philpot after his capttee but could not identify him.
The girl, Georgta Loving, said she went to the Custer County pate in Arapaho after the
arrest of Philpot for the robbery of a Clinton, Okla,, bank, but did not recognize him
as one of five men who held her hostage after the holdup. Ina letter Davis contended
the robbery was committed by him and four other desperadoes = Harvey Bailey, now serving

life in Alcatraz for the $200,000 kidnapping of Charles F, Urschel, Big Boy Brady, Wilbur
Underhill .and Jim Clarke, Miss Loving .said she was not subpoened as a witness at the trial
of Philpot, She said she also talked to Thelma Sell, the other hostage, before the latter
died two months before Philpot's trial and that Miss Sell told her should cquld not iden-
tify Philpot as one of the robbers," BEE, Sacramento, Cae 12-9=1938 (1-1/
CANNON-KESSELL EXECUTION

"San Quentin Prison, Dec. 2,.1938—California's new lethal gas chamber was used on humans
for the first time today when Robert Lee Cannon and Albert Kessel were put to death for the
murder of Warden Clarence Larkin of folsom Prison during an abortive break September 19,
1937. The convicts, the first of five who were sentenced to die for the warden s slaying,
were strapped in chairs placed side by side in the octagonal, steel chamber, Little cheese
cloth bags containing cyanide pellets dropped into, pans of sulphuric acidg under the chairs,
at 10:015 Ae Cannonss heart stopped beating 12 minutes later, Kessel was pronounced
dead after 153 minuresee.Cannon, outwardly unperturbed by the approace of death, smiled
and conversed with spectators and guards until a few,moments before a lever, tripped from
the outside, sent the cyanide pellets into the acide The resulting. chemical reaction
created the deadly fumes which envapored the condemned men., Kessel, however, was glum and
solemn, Cannon was the first to be led into the chamber, He was accompanied to the door by
Father O'Meara, prison chaplain, Three guards led him to the right hand chair and strapped
him securely, The procedure took about 45 seconds, Then Kessel. was.led in, Each was
dressed in a white shirt and denim trousers, Eachwas barefooted, Strapped over the heart
of each, under the shirt, was a stethoscope. Before the door at the chamber was closed,
small rubber tubes were fastened to the stebhoscopes. and passed through an airtight apere
$isure to Dr, A. L.- Stanley, the prison physician, and Drs, A, E. Thueser and D, C, Schmidt
who assisted him,

"Cannon continued nodding and smiling to the spectators, turning his head toward the 5.
large plate glass windows in back of him, The chairs face that side of the chamber where it
is solid, and behind which Warden Court Smith and the physicians sbood, out of sight of ENE
the condemned men, As the door was closed, Cannon said to Kessel: "Well, so long," Neither
was blindfolded. Approximately 0 witnesses, including newspaper reporters, stood at the
railing setting them apart from the five windows. When the bags of cyanide pellets dropped
into the pans of acid, a thin, white vapor arose, - ,

"Dr. Stanley, who listened to the heart beats and respiration by means of the stethescopes,
said it was impossible to tell how long the men remained conscious, He said their respira-
tion did not begin to decline until after one and one-half minutes, The prisoners were
moved last wight from the condemned row to the death cells, about 20 paces from the gas
chamber. They had a phonograph and spent much of the night playing cowboy and swing music.
They: laughed and talked, For breakfast, Cannon ate heartily of bacon and eggs, toast and
coffee, Kessel had pears, breakfast food, a waffle and coffee, Shortly before they went
to the chamber they made ‘their only request - for a drink of whisky. Each was given a
drink." BEE, Sacramento, CA 12-21938 (1-8) :

PREPARATIONS FOR EXECUTION f

"Galifornia's newlethal gas chamber will receive its first victims tomorrow, Albert Kessel
and Robert Lee Cannon, felons convicted of the murder of Warden Clarence Larkin an an
attempted break from Folsom Prison, are scheduled to be the first to die by the new method
at San Quentin Prison, A last minute effort was made today for a reprieve Bor Kessel, but
“overnor Frank F, Merriam took no action and the indications at the Capitol were that the
appeal would be denied, Horace M, Dunning sought the reprieve for Kessel and three others
condemned to die for their part in the prison riot so he could carry their cases to the
United States Supreme Court, “e contends they should have had separate trials ont heir
pleas of not guilty by reason of insamity., Cannon did not plead insanity. Warden Court
Smith of San quentin suffered an admitted attack of ‘jitters’ today as the hour for the
executions neared. His horror of the gas chamber developed from seeing a man die in.
_ Nevada's chamber six years ago. “e still dislikes the procedure and today took no pains
-to conceal his feelings, ‘Hn hanging, bad enough at best,' he said, ‘you take the
prisoner up the steps, adjust a rope, the trap springs, and it is all over,’ But when the
murderers Kessel and Cannon go to their deaths tomorrow there are.numerous other duties
to attend to, ‘'It is going to require much more time than a hanging,' the warden said,
‘Even if the condemned men have steeled themselves for their entrance into the chamber
they can be unnerved ty the time it takes to get them ready for it. The two men will

die in a minute or two, but they alone will know the mental agonies they willundergo from
the time Z&X¥z) EEL XRY we enter their cells to get them until the

killing vapor enters their lungs’ in the chamber,' The warden said ‘each man must be


+

BARNESM EUDY. CANNON, KESSEL and DAVIS ~ San Quentin - 1938 - Continued,

stripped to his waist and a stethescope taped to his chest. Then we must put a strap
around his waist and bind his hands, Then ten straps on the chairs in the chamber must
be adjusted, We must then go out and seal the doors,% That takes more time, Even
after the chamber is sealed, we must take every precaution with valves and levers to see
that something terrible does not happen to the spectators outside, Then the cyanide
pellets must be tripped into the acid underneath the chairs - I don't like it,'

"The new method of execution was adopted by the California Legislautre last May, It
replaces hanging. In preparation for the execution the unwilling warden and some of
his guards held a preview yesterday in the shining, eight sided death chamber of metal
and glass. two guards were stripped to their shorts and strapped in twin chairs. The
gine who had strapped them left the chamber and other attendants sealed the doors,

he warden timed each of these actions, and calculated the time it would take for the
pull of a lever to redease the deadly cyanide ‘eggs,' and for the eggs to roll into

the pot of acidg beneath each chair and send up their killing but sweet smelling
fumes, ‘It is my duty to do so, otherwise I would take no hand in this performance,'
Warden Smith declared. 'I do not intend to stand with the spectators, J suppose I
will glance at the men wex are going to kill, but I will be busy otherwise with the
mechanics of the thing.s' Cannon, “essel, Wesley Eudy, Fred Barnes and Ed Davis are

the five convicts who were sentenced to death for their part in the abortive prison break,
Sept. 19, 1937. Two others, Clyde Stevens, and Benny Kucharski, were slain by tower
guards! bullets, Warden Clarence Larkin was stabbed fatally, Guard James Kearns was
killed ang Guard Captain William J, Ryan was wounded so severely he nearly died, when
the desperate convicts attacked the officers wiih cellmade knives and bludgeons during
the routine Sunday interview hour which Larkin held in the captain's office, The con-
victs piunged their knives into Larkin, whom they held as a hostage, when the tower
guards refused to obey the command to lower their guns and open the gates, Ryan was
stabbed repeatedly when he swung his cane at the rioters, and Kearns was stabbed through
the heart when he rushed to the warden's aid, The surviving five rioters were clubbed
into submission by guards who had surrounded the captain's office, Eudy and Barnes are
scheduled to be executed a week from tomorrow and Davis on December 16th," BEE,
Sacramento, CA 121-1938 (19-2, 3 & 4) Photos of Kessel and Cannon on this page
indicating that they were white,

MARSHALL, hanged

ee CALIFORNIA'S .

KA TOENTTA

: 7 =4 \RRA. shot ROO
San Diego, Dec. 18, 1851; GARRA, shot 12-27-1851; & GARRA, shot 1-101852,

‘It Was Led By the Ir

By D.M. VAN HORN

SOUTHERN California’s Indian Tax
Rebellion is an obscure historical event
today but there was talk of little else in
late 1851 Los Angeles. While the Mexi-
can or “Californio” elite seethed over
loss of governmental control to the
Americans, the Indians struggled in
search of social and economic parity.

The volatile climate flared into war
when the County of San Diego
attempted to implement a new policy
of Indian taxation. This held that mis-
sion Indians should be taxed as citizens
while all other Indians were ‘“‘wild” and
therefore exempt. Among the mission
Indians who were compelled to pay
taxes by the sheriff were the Cupeno, a
small group living in the village of Kupa
on Agua Caliente Creek near what is
now Warner’s Spring.

Immigrants poured into the southern
portion of the state at the outset of the
gold rush in 1849. The southern route to
the gold fields began on the Colorado
River near its junction with the Gila
River, then across sweltering Imperial
Valley to San Diego.

A few enterprising Yuma Indians liv-
ing on the Colorado seized this opportu-
nity to go into the ferry business. The
story goes that fares were paid when the
passengers left the east bank, again in
mid-stream, and yet again upon disem-
barking on the west bank. The Yuma’s
unique business soon found competiton
in the form of one Dr. A.L. Lincoln. His
new ferry company boasted an incredi-
ble $60,000 profit after only
three months of business. Not satisfied
in sharing the wealth, Lincoln’s whites
destroyed the Yuma’s boat and mur-

July 1983

TRUE WEST MAGAZINE.

sa

Chief Juan Antonio (d. 1863). This
sketch is after a photograph of a
descendant said to closely resemble
the old chief.

dered an Irishman in Indian employ.

Initially outraged, the Yuma’s anger
was soon tempered by good business
sense. Their war chief, Cavello en Pelo
paid a visit to Jack Glanton, Lincoln’s
foreman and the man who had mur-
dered the Irishman. Cavello en Pelo
proposed to split the lucrative ferry
business, the Indians carrying all of the
pack animals while Lincoln’s outfit
transported passengers and baggage.
Apparently rendered unreasonable by
his greed, Glanton struck Cavello en
Pelo with a club and ejected him from
the premises. Infuriated, the war chief
called a council of his people where it
was agreed that the white ferrymen
should be eliminated.

The Indians waited until a raucous
party of Lincoln’s ferrymen returned
from a trip to San Diego. Warily moving

in under cover of darkness, Cavello en
Pelo found Jack Glanton snoring easily
in his bed. Glanton never awoke before
the Indian crushed his head. Lincoln
and nine other ferrymen perished at the
hands of the Yuma braves. The Indians
then hauled the bodies outside, piled
them together and set the corpses
ablaze.

Only three ferrymen managed to
escape in the confusion. Totally without
provisions, they somehow survived the
tortuous journey across the valley to
San Diego where they told their tale.
News of the massacre soon led to the
construction of a tiny military outpost,
Camp Independence, six miles below
the confluence of the Gila and Colorado
rivers. It also set the stage for Chief
Antonio Garra’s first move. Garra was
chief of the Cupeno Indians.

LITTLE is known about Garra’s early
life. He may have been born a Yuma
although he said he was a baptized
“Saint Louis” Indian (i.e. an Indian
connected with the Mission San Luis
Rey). Literate and highly respected,
Garra regarded the taxes as an unbear-
able injustice. According to his later tes-
timony, he was originally prompted to
rebel by two prominent Californios who
remained bitter over the Mexican loss of
California to the Americans:

“T was advised by Joaquin Ortego and
Jose Antonio Estudio to take up arms
against the Americans.... They advised
me to this course that I might revenge
myself for the payment of taxes, which
has been demanded of the Indian tribes.
The Indians think the collection of
taxes from them a very unjust mea-
sure.”

Believing that he would have the sup-

29

BARBECUE

FEAL

Outside this Barbecue Stand, Leland
Cash, the manager, was slain by a
killer who escaped in the fog. Lor-
raine Spinelli (below) was domi-
nated by her unnatural mother

“Was anything stolen?”

“No—all the money was already locked
up in the safe, inside.”

The two officers sped out through
Golden Gate Park to the scene of the
murder at Lincoln Way and LaPlaya,
where a uniformed patrolman was stand-
ing guard. With flashlights they went
over the barbecue stand and the drive-
in space carefully, examined the slain
man’s scattered packages, searched for
several hundred feet down the highway,
but found nothing to shed any light on
the shooting.

Gallagher picked up an empty .22'car-
tridge case from the gutter, but it was
soon ascertained that Cash had been shot
with a .38 slug, and the discharged shell
had nothing to do with the murder.

They drove back to Headquarters and
filed their report, and throughout the
early morning hours of April 7th, 1940,
police of San Francisco and peninsula
cities were on the alert, but no suspects
fell into the dragnet.

yy the morning, Lieutenant Michael
Mitchell of the Homicide Detail
studied the reports of the night crew and
called in his ace inspectors, Harry Husted
and George Engler.

“T want you to go out and talk to Mrs.
Cash,” he said. “Take her over the whole
story again. I’m not at all convinced
that this was an attempted holdup. Cash
was unarmed, and there was no reason
for a holdup man to'shoot him. Ques-
tion Mrs. Cash and the neighbors, and
see if this man had any enemies.”

The two Inspectors found Beatrice
Cash at home at 785 Oak Street, out near
the park. She was able to recall nothing
further about the shooting, and she knew
of no one who might have wanted her
husband out of the way. She was aghast
at the idea that he might have been
marked for murder.

“Why, Leland never quarreled with

40

any one,” she said. “We both used to
stay home most of the time, and I can
tell you positively that there’s no one
who had any reason to harm him.”

Skeptical, the homicide men_inter-
viewed friends and neighbors of the slain
barbecue manager, and soon confirmed
the widow’s story. Further, they learned
that their marital life had been happy—
there was never a whisper of any trou-
ble between them. After a short time,
the Inspectors were convinced that Mrs.
Cash had told them all she knew about
the shooting, and she was completely ex-
onerated of any possible suspicion.

It was the widow herself who sug-
gested how the murder might possibly
have come about, when Engler and
Husted went back to ask her about some
minor points.

“T’ve just thought of something,” she
said. “Leland, you may not know, was
very deaf, and he had to use an electrical
hearing-aid. Whenever any one spoke to
him, he instinctively reached into his
pocket to switch on the battery.

“Now, suppose a holdup man _ sud-
denly appeared out of the fog and told
Lee to put up his hands. He would
have reached for the switch without
thinking, to hear what the man was say-
ing, and the man might have thought
he was reaching for a gun—”

“That’s right,” Husted nodded. “That
may well have been the way it happened.
We haven’t been able to locate any
known enemies—any one who might
have had the least ill-will toward him.
So I think we may conclude he was shot
by a jittery holdup man—and his reach-
ing for the switch in his pocket may be
the explanation.”

The two- Inspectors drove back to
Headquarters and reported to Lieuten-
ant Mitchell, who called in Lieutenant
James Malloy of the Robbery Detail for
a conference.

“Tt looks like the work of a profes-'

sional small-time holdup man,” Mitchell

decided. “That barbecue stand—alone -

out there by the beach, in the fog—is a
natural spot for a holdup. It does a big
business, and must take in a lot of
money. Around midnight, when Cash
switched off the neon sign and there were
no cars around—especially on a foggy
night—was the ideal time.
“Now, we know Cash had a habit of
taking those little packages of food out
to his car every night. It looks as
though the holdup men had cased the
place—watched it for a few nights, saw
what Cash did, and thought he was car-
rying the night’s ‘take’ home in those
packages.: He didn’t know all the money
was locked in the safe.
“T think it probably happened as
Mrs. Cash said. It was timed just right,
again showing that the place had been
spotted carefully, The gunman accosted
Cash as he was reaching into his car—
while his wife was still busy inside.
“The one hitch was that the holdup
man didn’t know Cash was deaf, and he
shot him when he reached instinctively
into his pocket.
“It’s a job for the Homicide and Rob-

bery details together, now. The killer

may be frightened at what he’s done,
and lie low for a while, but he’s bound to
pop up again, if only because he prob-

ably has no other way of making a liv-
ing. Our job is to rake every arrested
holdup man over the coals, and to keep
our eyes and ears open for tips.”

“There’s been an increase in holdups
lately,” Lieutenant Malloy remarked,
“especially jobs on garages and filling sta-
tions late at night. One or two young
fellows in a stolen car—the descriptions
usually differ, but that doesn’t mean
much. And the rate of auto thefts has
gone up—there are more and more cars
stolen every week, and more that are
never recovered,”

“(CYKAY,” Mitchell nodded. “It may be

that a new gang has sprung up in
recent weeks. If so, and if they keep oper-
ating as they have been, we’re bound to
get them. I'll rely on you to round up
all the known holdup men and suspects
you can find for questioning.

“Another thing—” he flipped an en-
velope on his desk. “The .38 slug that
killed Leland Cash bears distinctive rifl-
ing marks, and ballistics can identify the
gun easily. I want to get my hands on
every .38 that’s taken from a criminal
anywhere in the West. It may be the
gun that will finally pin this murder on
the guilty person.”’

The homicide and robbery chiefs
spread out their nets. A few suspects
—known holdup men and ex-convicts—
were picked up and quickly cleared when
they proved alibis. Lieutenant Mitchell
ordered bulletins printed with a descrip-

tion of thi
sent to ;:
throughou
request to
tion any .
suspect.
eral guns
fornia, bu
them all a
Two nk
land Cash,
Detail wer
Suspect—a
had appar
week from
edly resp«
Northern |
known, bu
by various
Apparen
one-man ¢
taxicabs ai
and Long |
the north .
southern ¢
Cash mur
lieved to b:
A youth
up a gara;
from San
He had be
San Franci
_ Then, tw
ing, the ca
rage was fc
on a San F;
a wild-haire


of making a liv-
ce every arrested
oals, and to keep
for tips.”

‘rease in holdups
{alloy remarked,
ges and filling sta-
ne or two young
—the descriptions
at doesn’t mean
f auto thefts has
re and more cars
d more that are

odded. “It may be
has sprung up in
if they keep oper-
n, we’re bound to
you to round up
men and suspects
ning.
1e flipped an en-
The .38 slug that
rs distinctive rifl-
‘s can identify the
get my hands on
from a criminal
It may be the
in this murder on

| robbery chiefs

A few suspects
and ex-convicts—
ickly cleared when
eutenant Mitchell
ed with a descrip-

tion of the Cash murder and these were
sent to all police chiefs and_ sheriffs
throughout the Western states, with a
request to forward to him for examina-
tion any .38 gun taken from a possible
suspect. In short order he received sev-
eral. guns from various parts of Cali-
fornia, but the ballistics experts gave
them all a clean bill of health.

Two nights after the murder of Le-
land Cash, the Inspectors of the Robbery
Detail were hot on the trail of their prime
suspect—a wild-haired young man who
had apparently come north in the past
week from Los Angeles, and was reput-
edly responsible for several holdups in
Northern California. His name was not
known, but the descriptions of him given
by various victims all checked.

Apparently he had set out to start a
one-man crime wave. He had held up
taxicabs and gas stations in Los Angeles
and Long Beach, and in several towns to
the north of Los Angeles. Police of the
southern city had wired, just before the
Cash murder, that this man was be-
lieved to be. headed for San Francisco.

A youth of his description had held
up a garage in Pinole, across the bay
from San Francisco, and stolen a car.
He had been partly identified in several
San Francisco holdups.

_ Then, two nights after the Cash kill-
ing, the car stolen from the Pinole ga-
tage was found wrecked and abandoned
on a San Francisco street. Witnesses said
a wild-haired young man had leaped out

and fled toward upper Market Street.

Lieutenant Malloy’s men cruised
around the area—it was after midnight
and the streets were almost deserted—in
the hope of spotting him. They visited
bars and restaurants into which he might
have dodged for sanctuary.

In the Bohemian Gardens, a glittering
spot of light in the midst of a block of
dark store-fronts, they picked up his
trail. While Inspectors Fred Butz and
George O'Leary were talking to the man-
ager, the little blonde cigarette girl; Mad-
eleine Stanley, came over to them.

“you men are police officers, aren’t
you?” she asked. “Well, I want to
give you this gun that I took away from
a fellow in here a little while ago.”

She reached under the cigars and candy
on the tray she carried around her neck,
and produced—a heavy .38 revolver!

“Where is the fellow now?”

“He left a little while ago. I was going
to call the police—I didn’t know what to
do.”

She explained that a wild-haired young
man—obviously the one. the Inspectors
were hunting—had been annoying her,
trying to draw her to the table where he
sat alone drinking beer. Finally, as she
passed on her rounds, he opened his coat
and showed her the revolver.

“I always carry -a gun,” he told her.
“Do you want any one killed? I think
[ll kill somebody tonight!”

With remarkable composure, the girl
smiled at him and drew him into conver-
sation, but he kept telling her about the
gun. Finally she coaxed him to let her
hold it.

“What a wicked looking gun,” she
marveled. “I’m afraid you'll hurt your-
4 with it. Why don’t you let me keep
it?” ;

“When will I see you again?”

“Why, I’ll give it to you any time you
come back.” ; ‘

The young man, a little drunk by this
time, grudgingly surrendered the gun,
and the plucky girl tucked it under the
wares on her tray, flashed him a smile,
and moved off among the throng. A
short while later, he left.

“T’ve seen him in here once or twice

: before,” the cigarette girl said. “TI think

he’s from Los Angeles. There are some
friends of his over there—”

Thanking the girl, the Inspectors ques-.’

tioned half a dozen patrons of the place,
and shortly identified the wild-haired
young man as Robert S. Quinn, who
claimed to be an unemployed showcard
writer. They traced him to his hotel at
957 Mission Street, a few blocks away.

Crashing in the door of the hotel room,

Butz and O’Leary surprised Quinn in -

bed and arrested him without resistance.

He admitted a long series of holdups
throughout California, but denied any
knowledge of the murder of Leland Cash.

“T wasn’t even in San Francisco then,”
he protested. “I don’t know anything
about any murder.”

While a dozen inspectors were grilling
him throughout the night, the ballistics
experts tested his .38, and reported that
it was not the gun that had killed
Cash. He was still held for questioning
in the murder, however, since he had
contradicted himself several times. as to

San Quentin’s lethal gas chamber to
which the “Duchess” has been
doomed. . (Below) Albert Ives,
fearing that he was to be killed,
tried to escape from the gang

his whereabouts on the night of April 7th.

The newspapers headlined Quinn’s ar-
rest as a suspect in the Cash murder. The
next morning, Lieutenant Malloy of the
Robbery Detail received an anonymous
telephone call.

“We've heard about you holding that
fellow, Quinn, for the Cash murder,” a
man’s voice said, nervously. “Well,
you’re wrong. We’re the ones that did it.
Quinn’s innocent. If you don’t believe
me, we'll send you a bullet from the
gun!”

Click! The line went dead. The
Lieutenant jiggled the hook, barked or-
ders, and traced the call to a postoftice
booth in Sacramento, the state capital
a hundred miles away. He flashed the
word to Sacramento police, but by the
time a squad car arrived the anonymous
caller had fled.

Skeptical of the phone call, the Inspec-
tors continued questioning Quinn and
checking on his various alibis; before the
day was over, they found-that his alibis
stood up, and they were convinced he
had no connection with the Cash murder,
though he had confessed several other
crimes to the police.

"PuE promised bullet from the Cash
murder gun never arrived. Meanwhile
formal charges were filed against Quinn
in Los Angeles for several holdups, and
at this writing he is still awaiting trial
on those charges.

Now that Quinn was exonerated, the
homicide men were up against a blank
wall again in their hunt for the killer—
or killers—of Leland Cash. Since the
anonymous call had come from Sacra-
mento, the San Francisco inspectors had
asked the cooperation of police in that
area, but nothing had turned up.

Suddenly the investigation took a new
tack, to swing far to the north of San
Francisco.

The body of Jack Binion, an army pri-

41


|
|
|
|

vate attached to Hamilton Field, the
bombing base in Marin County north of
the Golden Gate, had been washed up
by the waves near Eureka, two hundred
miles farther up the coast, on April 3rd.
He had failed to return to the army base
after going away on leave the preceding
day. His body bore signs of a beating.

Army authorities and sheriffs of the
two counties involved had been investi-
gating the case for a week, and now they
came to Lieutenant Mitchell with evi-
dence that connected San Francisco with
the Binion murder. A soldier had re-
ported seeing Binion at the Greyhound
Bus Depot in San Francisco, on the
night of his disappearance. Shortly
thereafter, the man’s empty wallet was
found on the highway near Hamilton
Field.

This led to the theory that Binion,
waiting for a bus in San Francisco, had
been picked up by some motorist who
offered him a ride back to the field. As
he alighted, it was believed he was
slugged, pulled back into the car, robbed,
and his body thrown into the ocean.

“Tt might well be connected with the
Cash case,” Mitchell agreed. “There may
be a murder-robbery gang that operates
as it roves up and down the state.”

This lead grew more promising with
the discovery of an automobile, aban-
doned far north on the Redwood High-
way after having been stolen in San
Francisco. Fingerprints were taken from
the car, but they were too fragmentary
for identification.

[EUTENANT: MITCHELL enlisted
the cooperation of the Auto Detail in
an intensive crack-down on San Francisco
auto thieves. Normally, very few auto
thieves are caught in individual cases.
That is, a score of cars may be stolen
at different times and found abandoned
hours or days later—ninety-nine per cent
of them are recovered—then finally a
gang of criminals is caught and confesses
the whole series of thefts.

“T’m convinced that the increase in
auto: thefts and holdups is linked with
the murder of Cash, and possibly with
tnat of Binion,” the Homicide Chief said.
“The Cash murder was probably the
work of a holdup gang that operates in
stolen cars. Keep every patrolman on
the watch for prowlers lurking around
parked cars, in dark alleys and so forth.”

Despite extra vigilance throughout the
department, no new clues to the Cash
murder, nor any new suspects, were
turned up. And now the wave of hold-
ups and auto thefts seemed to be on the
wane again.

There was a brief flare of action when
William Silver, operator of a restaurant
on Forty-sixth Avenue, not far from the
Fat Boy Barbecue stand, reported one
night that a suspicious .car was cruising
near his place. Radio patrolmen re-
sponded to his call, but found no trace
of the mysterious auto. A few minutes
after the officers had left, however, the
car pulled up in front of the restaurant
and a young holdup man entered with a
gun in his hand.

Silver wrestled with him and cried
for help. The snarling gunman pulled
away and fled in the machine.

Lieutenant Malloy believed the at-

42

tempted holdup was perpetrated by the
same man or men who had killed Leland
Cash. He thought it likely that the
gang had struck in that particular place
because the killers would have reasoned
that police would not be looking for
them to pull another job so near the
scene of the murder.

Lieutenant Mitchell urged his homicide
men to unceasing effort.

“There’s a murder gang on the loose,
somewhere around here,” he said.
“They’ve tasted blood, and they’ve got-
ten away with it so far, and there’s no
telling when the kill-fever will strike them
again. It’s our job not only to punish
the killers of Leland Cash but to pre-
vent more murders.”

While the San Francisco police were
combing the city for likely suspects,
the break came from a totally unex-
pected direction.

On the afternoon of April 14th, a
week after the Cash murder, a black
sedan stopped at a sleepy crossroads
near Colfax, in the High
Sierra, on the road to
Nevada and the East. A
tall, gangling youth got
out and hurried into a
bar, while several other
persons waited in the car
for him.

The youth’s behavior
would have been puz-
zling had any one no-
ticed it. He gulped down
one drink at the bar,
glanced quickly around,
and slipped out the side ;
door. He scuttled around by
the building to a side-
road that joined the
highway, and began to
thumb passing cars.

The black sedan wait-
ed almost half an hour,
the driver blowing his
horn impatiently from
time to time. Finally it
started off again, head-
ed east. A woman was
looking back, out of the
rear window.

Shortly after that, the
gangling youth appeared
at the State Highway
Patrol station near
Grass Valley, a long dis-
tance north of Colfax.
He stood about uncer-
tainly, till Captain
Joseph Blake asked him
him what he wanted.

“T’ve come to report a
stolen car, driven by
some criminals,” he
blurted. “It’s a black
DeSoto sedan, number
58A930. There are two
men and a woman in it,
driving east along the
Lincoln Highway above
Colfax.”

The Captain sat back
and took a keen look at
the nervous youth. He
seemed not more than
eighteen or nineteen—a
shock of hair dangled
low on his pimply fore-

head. One eye stared nervously about
the room, and the other looked sightlessly
ahead of him—he was apparently blind
in his left eye. He was altogether an
unprepossessing character.

“What’s your name,” the Captain
barked, “and how do you happen to know
this?”

“My name is Albert Ives. I’m from
San Francisco. These people picked me
up on the highway—they’re driving to
Detroit. They seemed to be all right,
but a little while ago I heard them talk-
ing about the car being stolen in San
Francisco—and then they started whis-
pering about killing me because I knew
too much!”

The Captain frowned down at his list
of stolen cars. Sure enough—there was
the number, 58A930. A black DeSoto
sedan, owned by Marie DeVaux, stolen
on the night of April 9th from Eleventh
and Natoma Streets in San Francisco.

“Ts that all they said?” the Highway
Patrol Captain demanded.

-_ =
KX)
KXX

; ‘ of some kind.
- aged woman,

'

“Yes—that’s

her husband,
myself, drivin;
they hired th
and they’re th
They started
crimes they’d
so when we ¢
te stop while
drink. I sn
hitched a ride

§ atthe first hig

“What wer

ple?”

“T told you-
highway. I \
for work.”

“T see.” Th

the teletype 1
message to "|
along the Li

** officers to be «

ear. Then he

iervously about
ioked sightlessly
pparently blind
: altogether an
r.

the Captain
happen to know

ves. I’m from
‘ople picked me
‘y’re driving to
to be all nght,
eard them talk-
© stolen in San
y started whis-
because I knew

down at his list
vugh—there was
\ black DeSoto
DeVaux, stolen
o from Eleventh
San Francisco.
2” the Highway
d.

“Yes—that’s all. I think they’re killers

_of some kind. Three of them—a middle-

aged woman, a man who seems to be
her husband, and a young fellow like
myself, driving the car. I think maybe
they hired the young fellow as driver,
and they’re thinking of killing him, too.
They started bragging about all the
crimes they’d committed. I was scared,
so when we got to Colfax I got them
to stop while I stepped out to have a
drink. I sneaked out of the saloon,
hitched a ride up this way, and stopped
at the first highway patrol station I saw.”
~ “What were you doing with these
people?”

“T told you—they picked me up on the
highway. I was heading East, looking
for work.”

“T see.” The Captain stepped over to
the teletype machine and dispatched a
message to Truckee and other towns
along the Lincoln Highway, asking his
officers to be on the watch for the stolen
car. Then he stepped back to his desk.

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Why—anything. I work as an auto
mechanic sometimes.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“No—” the youth avoided the officer’s
gaze. “I’ve never been in trouble. That’s
why I didn’t want anything to do with
these people. I thought I’d report it
right away. Now I guess I'll be going—
I want to get along—” He edged to-
ward the door.

“Wait a minute,” said the Captain
sharply. He didn’t like the young fel-
low’s looks, and he determined to probe
deeper into the matter. “I think I'll
take a run down to Truckee myself and
look into this. They'll probably pick
up that car in a few minutes. You’d
better come along with me.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think I’d better—”

“Why not? You're going that way,
aren’t you? I'll take you to Truckee,
and I'll see that you get a ride over
into Nevada. Come along.”

Pretending not to notice the youth’s
obvious fright, Captain
Blake grasped him by the
arm and helped him into
the big white State High-
way Patrol car. With his
siren wide open, he headed
for the town of Truckee,
near the summit of the
Sierra.

Ives hardly said a word
during the brief ride. He
gasped when they swung
into the main street of
Truckee, for just ahead of
them the black DeSoto
sedan was parked beside
the curb, a highway patrol-
man questioning its occu-
pants.

Officer Arthur Bar-
rett was the man who had
stopped the car, on_ his
Captain’s teletyped order.
Truckee is a_bottle-neck
through which criminals
fleeing from California
usually pass, and the high-
way police there are espec-
ially vigilant.

Captain Blake took the
officer aside'and heard his
report, while the frightened
Ives stayed in the back-
ground, avoiding the glow-
ering stares of the people
in the black car.

“IT don’t know about
these people,” Barrett said.
“The woman’s name is Mrs.
Juanita Spinelli, fifty-two.
The dark fellow in the back
seat with her is Mike
Simeone, thirty-two, her
common-law husband. The
driver is Gordon Hawkins,
twenty-one, from San
Francisco. He says he bor-
rowed the car from a friend
of his, and that the other
man and woman are pay-
ing him to take them along.
They’re bound for Detroit,
to get work in the auto-
mobile factories.”

“Well, let’s look them
over.”

The Captain found that Mrs. Spinelli,
a dark-haired, somber looking woman,
was on the verge of hysteria.

“We don’t know what this is all about,”
she protested. “Why are you asking us
these questions? We thought this car
belonged to Mr. Hawkins here. We've
only known him a little while, but he
offered to take us East.”

“This car was stolen in San Francisco,
lady,” the Patrol Captain said. “You're
riding in a stolen car, and you're all liable
to arrest.”

Mike Simeone vociferously echoed the
woman’s claims.

“We don’t know anything about it,”
he cried. “If this car is stolen, Hawkins
and Ives stole it. We hardly know them.
You can’t arrest us—we’re respectable
people. Arrest them, and let us go.”

Captain Blake turned to the sharp-
eyed, tight-mouthed Hawkins. “What
have you to say about it?”

“MMHAEY’RE right,” Hawkins told him.

“They don’t know anything about it.
They think it’s my car. But I didn’t
steal it—I borrowed it from a friend of
mine. Maybe he stole it. I don’t know.
Ives and I wanted to go East, and a
fellow loaned us this car, and these peo-
ple, that we’d met in a bar, offered to
share the expenses with us.”

The Captain called the reluctant Ives
over. “What’s all this?” he demanded.
“You told me these people picked you
up on the road. Now. they say you
were with them all the time.”

“Well, they picked us up—that is, we
picked them up and took them along
with us—Hawkins and I—I don’t know.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,”

Hawkins grinned. “He’s a little barmy,
but harmless.”

“What’s that you said, Ives, about
these people threatening to kill you?”

“Why, I meant—I guess they were kid-
ding. They were going to kill me if I
didn’t pay my share of the expenses. I
guess it was just a joke.”’

The officers stepped aside and com-
pared notes. They decided Mrs. Spinelli
and Simeone were probably speaking the
truth, and that Hawkins and Ives were
the auto thieves. They hesitated to ar-
rest the older people falsely, especially
since Hawkins himself had cleared them
and said they knew nothing about the
car.

So with apologies they sent Mrs. Spi-
nelli and Simeone on their way, and took
the two youths into custody. The man
and woman did not seem at all put out
—they said they had enough money to
continue East by bus, and they walked
down the street to a restaurant. Cap-
tain Blake took the two young suspects
to the county jail at Nevada City, while
Barrett followed, driving the recovered
ear. At the jail, Hawkins reluctantly ad-
mitted having stolen the car.

“T’m a garage mechanic,” he said, “and
I like to fool around cars. I just can’t
help stealing them when I see one I
like.”

Records at the county jail showed he
had served two terms in the Preston
School of Industry for auto theft, while
still a minor. Both offenses had been
committed in San Francisco.

Albert Ives (Continued on page 114)

43


\) sep

car, which' Hawkins had parked about
fifty feet away.”

The confessed ‘killer paused to light

D hess of Death a cigarette. “That 19-year-old punk,

. Sherrod, saw me shoot Cash about

; “The dumb C! ept talking abou

CCaneeen rom Boer ae it for the,mext few days. I got scared

- he woyld tell someone outside the

: gang, So I told the others we ought to

by APR eo ny voy,” Poe ;. get rid of him. We figured Frisco was
eas hanging arated a ane too ‘hot.’ That's why we all moved to
h i knew, they were a gang.” . Sacramento.

rl She trie to edmit she wasthe Ives inhaled smoke deeply. We had
\? “BS $5)6-00- mother of six children..." quite a time figuring on how to rub
Mi, BS ‘selt00: “By two other men,- though,” she hint. We went on a picnic once,
Y 23 yeh hese net to explain. “Not by Mike. 1 #nd wanted to shoot him then, but
| ; a8 ta PSs mothered this gang, too. Ives made me the Werte oer Ce ng hore: A
!) be tiled env Tine || split the robbery money, oun take Tpit him with a car. The Duchess
ath | 7S 115) 34x7 sarentee care 0 e jac gun.” ae : y ae :
HY 7 Tiles 8. Bene air. = Under questioning, Blake drew out thought up the idea. of giving him
Wr Has beim 3 Gordon Hawkins’ story. The youth ad. knockout drops. Last Saturday night
i 8S 1-15) ALE ; é : : we had a party in our Sacramento
Ht eee mitted serving time in the Preston hotel room, and while we were drink-
! | “18 12 School of Industry. Just three months ing, one of the others slipped Bob the

i
;

before, he had served a year in the 5 (eae
San Francisco County jail for car vgenrs: Finn. i oe

theft. Stolen cars were his ialty, ves su gg hag relish telling the
and he had kept the gang supplied. He grisly es my P payee a
appeared proud of being the ae eee i off his clothes

i ‘ . ” e : and put on his maroon swim trunks.
i Nr ghinnngy of the brunette 19-year Ther Hawkins and I took } Se be the

bt INVENTION Pending a more complete investiga- car and drove down river to the Free”
Hi FOR INVENTORS sccozo rece | tion of the gang's activities, Captain (og ohn od ae peueee grind out
i Write today for valuable 72-page booklet “How to ce | Blake placed young Anthony and Vin- arte! . :

al ue Feapenrt. az Le ee. Wasbleston. 2G, | cent ina Sacramento detention home.
fi = - _— The rest of the members were taken jonchalantly. “I dragged Sh 3 out

under guard to the Sacramento .city

ey : st ae I can’t tell for sure, but I think Bob
jail. Again they were questioned.igaen died while I was holding im. Any-

al

rotitable Protession

Learn P
: ays at me

in 9QOd

iN DA grilled individually by Detective Ser- A ‘

i Kosei \"ese tenet hone ote tes | geant P. C. Gamble an Highways ong agg Saeki —

- eh) tmanpeeie ere erecnt | trol Investi stor H. Hendricks im splash in the water, and we left.

i eet Jecomes from Doctors. bP moss whe -_ ry Bene The detective sergeant hurried with

qy & Siri cate tees | The gang had already confessed to this astounding news to Deputy Dis-
iE: £, Peete oo | plenty. Gamble and Hendricks ques- trict Attorney J. Francis O'Shea. He
Wt ROE ine of Swedish tioned them more with an idea of in turn, confronted the Duchess with
i GOPT 30 €. néams St., Det. 218, Chicago cf gp out Moms stories than [ves’ story.

1 Now Many Wear | tling any Schone, pegecty mg come Pee a long ate md she remained
i: Wear Ne eee cfore by iver, RETOUR teed” white, “its
FALSE TEETH | ie? frees er cr ie whines her wor
| : an. preak came when Ives, con- [sty they were going t0 jau'cash”

With More Comfort fronted with the inconsistencies of his “But you provided th an.” said
7 ae statements, when compared with those gsp, you Pp e gun,
FASTEETH, a,:pleasant alkaline (nonacid) | of the others, blurted out! “Ted Wo ae | Loa :
+ oh _ powder, holds false teeth more firmly. To eat and | leave them. They planned to kill me “Yes,” Mrs. Spinelli admitted. “Ives

¥. talk in more comfort, just | rinklealittlhe FASTEETH | ri P ri s *

ii on your plates. tie gaumne, gooey, pasty taste or with a hatpin, up In the mountains. jernse yo ee, Peed made me clean it
h! - feeling. Checks ‘plate odor’. (denture breath). Maybe they figured on throwing me w en e came ° :

Get FASTEETH at any drug store. into the river, the same as Bob.” “Did you know he had shot a man?”

i “Who is Bob?” asked Gamble “I heard about it over the radio. It

1 quickly. was kept tuned to police calls. When

“Bob Sherrod. He was one of us. Ives came home. he said there was

But he talked too. much, so we trouble, and he had to bump a guy

i page ATS dumped him in the river.” off.” 7 .
ea a ae WS “What do you mean: ‘he talked too | She moistened her lips nervously.
d much’?” “It was understood when Al, Gordon
i ef ti Saves Costty Redecorating “About a job we pulled in Frisco,” and Bob went to hold up that barbe-
mail oe style hoaneclean said Ives. ' cue fellow, there was to be no shoot-
me

}

“Do you happen to ‘know anything ing,” said the Duchess. “They were

about the killing of:a barbecue man just to use the gun to scare the man,

in San Francisco, about’ a‘week ago?” and then knock him on the head with

acaee the detective. i Oe a blackjack, so he couldn’t call the
“¥ ought to,” Ives replied quietly. “I police too soon.”

} eT cam ARE shot him. I even "phoned the Frisco’ “where did you get the black-
|} FREE sAMiliicatmMent FOR pre they sap oles the wrong guy po asked the deputy district at-
| i ms. {“Wh z . oe f ~ a ia bol ”
| l J A y did.you kill Cash? Ives forced me _to make them,

\ Stomach leers “Well, Hawkins, Bob Sherrod andI Mrs. Spinelli said. “TI made them from
{ DUE TO GASTRIC HYPERACIDITY drove out to the barbecue stand,” Ives a leather jacket and BB shot. But I

H. H., Bromley, of Shelburne, Vt., writes: “I suf- began. “We had it spotted, and knew didn’t want anybody to get killed,

. fered for years with acid stomach trouble. My when it clos 1 at night. When all the she was quick to add. “y showed the

have to diet the rest of my life. Before taking your customers were out, I went to the men where to hit people so they’d
treatment I had lost a lot of weight and could eat back door. Just then this fellow. Cash only be paralyzed a little while. I

t nothing tt 2ort Ce fectly d milk. After tating thing | came out and started for his car.” never wanted to hurt anybody.”

} he aang nae - weight J bed lost.” If ue suk Ives squinted and blinked. “TI shoved “Where did you get the gun?”
i eer cack ete Sec to gasttie cating | a gun in his ribs,” he continued. “I “In Detroit,” she replied. “I let the
acidity, you, too, should try Von's for prompt relief, | Gidn’t say a word. Neither did he. He men have it only when they needed it.
\ Send tor FEET Ae _ pe pera ae turned around and gave me a shove. *m telling the truth,” she whimpered.
af prs re tails of trial ones included. Write: I stumbled back a couple of steps, “I was forced to stay with the gang.

PHILADELPHIA VON CO. Dept. s0s-H | then took a step torward him and 1 was afraid Ives would kill me and

"Fox Building, Philadelphia. Pa. fired. He crumpled up and Iran toour do as he liked with Gypsy.”

q f — FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE
i v%


Sr eee

By ROBERT JAMES GREEN

Special Investigator For
FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE

calibre shell of very uncertain vintage.

Lieut. Mitchell examined it criti-
cally, then shook his head. “I don’t
think this was involved in the killing,”
he declared. “From what Mrs. Cash
says, the wound was made by a bul-
let of much larger calibre.”

This also coincided with Mrs. Cash’s
statement that the report sounded ex-
tremely loud.

The hospital’s preliminary autopsy
had failed to reveal a bullet in Cash’s

' .. body. “I believe the lead is probably

imbedded in the abdomen muscles,”
said Dr. Sherman Leland. He ordered
the body removed to the San Fran-

cisco Hospital for X-rays, and with |

that aid the bullet was found, as Dr.
Leland surmised. It was of .38 calibre.
In trying to evolve a motive, Lieut.
Mitchell said he believed the Hunier
was a tragedy of errors—errors co

mitted by a holdup man who mists,

understood the routine acts and habit-_
ual actions of his victim.

“The first error occurred,” Lieut.
Mitchell advanced the theory, ‘as
Cash carried his package to the car.
A holdup man apparently jumped to
the conclusion that it was the day’s
receipts, though in reality they had
been placed in a safe inside the stand,
and were protected by time lock.
Probably the bandit thrust a revolver
at Cash and ordered, ‘Hands up!’”’*,

Cash’s deafness accounted for the
next error. “Possibly,” said Lieut.
Mitchell, “he did not understand the
robber’s command. Possibly, as was
his habit, he reached for his shiny
mechanical hearing aid to turn on the
switch. The robber thought Cash was
reaching for a gun. He fired, then ran.”

Clues were nonexistent. Not even
was there a solitary fingerprint. Lieut.
Mitchell and his squad questioned
nearby residents, but no one, appa-

Fepruary, 1941

rently, had heard the shot. Na.

recalled seeing’ a suspiciously-acting”.

stranger or ear about the time of the
murder. It was as if a phantom killer,
wrapped in sea-fog, had killed and
then disappeared into wraithlike va-
por.

ALLISTICS tests were made of
the .38 bullet. Whenever a sus-
pect, of any crime whatever, was
found in possession of a gun, its
rifling was tested and compared to
the murder bullet.

Four days later a bandit was cap-
tured, armed with a .38. Test bullets,
fired from his gun, closely resembled
that one taken from Cash. A San
Francisco newspaper published a
news item that police had in custody
a man suspected of murdering Cash.

Immediately following the an-
nouncement, San Francisco police
headquarters received an anonymous
telephone call from Sacramento.

“That fellow. you’ve got didnt kill
Cash,” the speaker said...

“How ae, you know?” the officer, Bar-
ried.

“We'll’ feend you a bullet from the
gun that did,” said a man’s voice, “to
prove it.” The receiver clicked.

When the bullet. ‘did not arrive,
Lieut. Mitchell believed the telephone
call was the work of a crank. The sus-
pect in jail, however, repeatedly de-
nied he shot Cash. And before he
could be brought to trial, events trans-
pired in the other side of the state that
seemingly gave credence to his tale of
innocence.

On April 5th, a big light-blue sedan,
1940 model, ‘sped swiftly eastward
through the wooded hills of Placer
County in Northeastern California.
Here, in the ancient gold-bearing
mountains of the mother-lode coun-

ned

Be wy Stothe body of Robert Sherrod as

found by officers.

XN

Ives and Hawkins (center)
show where body was thrown.

Ives said the Duchess planned
to murder him with this hatpin.

Lorraine “Gypsy” Spinelli,
daughter of the Duchess.

21


The front of the Fat Boy Bar-

becue stand, where Leland

‘Cash was murdered by the
vicious gang member.

try, California’s history had been
made. Historic stage-coach and pony-
express markers were strung along
the road at intervals, beside aged,
crumbling buildings, relics of the
gold rush days of °49,

But the woodland beauty of the
Pioneer trail went unheeded by the
sedan’s occupants. There were three
men, two women, and two boys. The
latter said nothing, but the five adults
were engaged in a ghastly conversa-
tion; a discussion of whether or not
a white-hot hatpin, plunged in a
man’s eardrum, would cause instant
death.

“What do you think about it, Gor-
don?” asked the dark haired, gaunt-
visaged woman of fifty.

‘That’s a fine idea, Duchess,” the
ruddy, 21-year-old driver flung back
over his shoulder.

“And you, Mike?” she asked.

Thirty-two-year-old Mike Simoni’s
sullen face did not change expression.
“Good place to try it, up in. these
hills,” he grunted. ~ e

The Duchess exchanged a knowing
look with her 19-year-old daughter
“Gypsy” Spinelli, sitting beside her.

Mrs. Spinelli fixed her piercing
stare on a wiry one-eyed youth in the
front seat. “How about you, Albert
Ives? Do you think it’s a good: way to
die?” ‘

Simultaneously, the others gave him
a fleeting glance. :

“I don’t know,” he said uneasily. As
the talk progressed, the 23-year-old
youth became increasingly fidgety.
The car entered the mountain town of
Colfax, and Ives spoke to the driver.

“Hey, Hawkins, stop a minute! I
want a drink of water.”

Gordon Hawkins glanced out the
window. Townsfolk were moving
about. Apparently he did not want to
stop there. Two miles farther east he
pulled up at the somewhat isolated
Glen. Alder Coffee Shop, a roadside
stand. Ives got out and entered the

~ cafe.

“Hatpin in an eardrum!” he. mut-
tered to himself, breathing with agi-
tation. “The Duchess meant me—and
nobody else!” :

Three customers sat at the counter.
An elderly woman was busy at the

kitchen range, another came forward
to wait on Ives. But the youth wasted
no time. He crouched and slid behind
the cook-stove.

“They’re going to get me;” he ex-
claimed to the startled onlookers. “Go-
ing to rub me out. They mean busi-
ness. Get a policeman!”

“Whatever you're talking about,”
said the cook, “I don’t know. But you
can’t stay here.” ¢

‘I’ve got to hide!” he
“They’ll kill me. Call a cop!”

The elderly woman pointed to the:

rear door. Ives took the hint. He
leaped to his feet, ran through the
door, and plunged into the thick un-
derbrush of the steep hill that came
down to the rear of the cafe.

Y NOW the suspicious Duchess
had started for the front door.

But before she could enter, the mid-
dle-aged waitress resolutely barred

' the way. “What do you want?” she

Po

- ted, before,

me

5.

demanded of the Duchess.

“That boy who just came in.” The
Duchess’ tone was soft, like steel
under velvet. “Don’t pay any atten-
tion to him. He’s out of his head. I’m
taking him to a doctor.”

“Well, he didn’t stay here,” said
the waitress. “Maybe he went down
he road.”

Sythe Duchess looked. Sure enough,
a.quarter mile distant a man stood be-
side the road. She hastened to enter
the car. It whirled and roared, away,
stopped beside ‘the thumb-jerking
man. ne ae
“That’s not Ives!” the Duchess grit-

a lousy hitch-hiker!”

Again the big sedan whirled and re-
turned to the coffee shop ‘in’a slither-
ing halt. “Mike,” said the Duchess,

"&“Go get Ives!”

* Mike Simoni went to the rear of the

cafe, only to be confronted by a man

cutting wood. “What do you want?”

he demanded of Simoni. :
“That crazy fellow,” said Mike,

“who ran out here.”

The mountain man _ looked the
Italian over from head to toe, and de-
cided he didn’t like him. ‘I don’t
know what you’re talking about,”
said the woodcutter, “but if you don’t

4:

insisted:*
thie;

®

i.” Right: Capt,,:
“Joseph
a ‘Blake cap-
F © tured the
: Duchess

“man Melvin. : |
Shear’ held
ives for *

.

we

get the hell out of here, I’ll use this
axe on you.”

Mike departed hastily and informed
his paramour, the Duchess. -

The elder woman’s Swarthy face
was expressionless. “Let’s go on,” she
said, “without him.”

“Without our trigger-man?” asked
Hawkins.

“He won’t dare squawk,” said the

: ‘Duchess. “He’s in this worse than any

f us. Get going!”

:“Okay, Duchess!” Hawkins agreed
thastily. The big sedan jerked away,
heading east in the direction of Lake
Tahoe and the Nevada border.

Meanwhile, Fred Chamberlain,. one
of the cafe patrons, had jumped into
his Dodge pickup truck and gunned
it for Colfax, two miles ‘west. There,
he knew, was the nearest police officer,
Highway Patrolman Melvin Shear,
whose headquarters was in his mod-
ern bungalow home. :

Patrolman Shear was off duty when
Chamberlain arrived with his breath-
less, confused story of mobsters and
a man hiding in bushes. But the officer
hurriedly buckled on a holstered gun
and raced his police car to the Glen
Alder Coffee Shop, where a little knot
of excited folks explained what had
happened. The fugitive, they said,
was still hiding in the underbrush.

To signal the presence of law and
order, Shear sounded his car siren
three times. Then he saw the man-
zanita bushes parted, and Ives came

. forth.

“What’s this all about?” Shear de-

* manded.

the car had stopped. “It’s |

“I hitch-hiked a ride,” Ives ex-
plained. “But I learned the car was
‘hot’ arid I beat it.”

“How did you know the car was
stolen?”

“I heard them talking,” said Ives.
“Say, there’s a woman in that ma-
chine with a gun and some black-
jacks in her purse!”

“Where are they going?” .

“Reno,” said Ives. He described the
car.

But the more Shear questioned, the
more jumbled and evasive became
Ives’ story of himself, The officer de-
cided, that until he could clear up this
stolen car business, he would put

Front Pace Derecrive


FP ROT ea SN hee Re CR

Dams

a. ae

Fane.

Ives in the Colfax jail. This done,
Shear telephoned the Grass Valley
headquarters of the Nevada County
Highway Patrol, informing Police
Radio Operator Blake of develop-
ments.

Before Shear had finished, the alert
operator was reaching for his radio
switch. The spark drummed a wild
tattoo into the darkening sky. Sixty
miles eastward the radio call caught
a police car, where the. operator’s
father, Captain Joseph Blake and Pa-
trolman Arthur Barrick were patrol-
ling the mountainous Reno road east

-of Truckee; watching for stolen cars.

The two officers started west, scan-
ning all machines closely. Just West
of Donner Summit, historical marker
of the ill-fated Donner wagon train,
they sighted the sedan parked on the
wrong side of the road.

The officers pulled to an abrupt
Stop alongside and drew their guns
as they jumped out. “Get your hands
up!” snapped Blake as he opened the
front door. '

Barrick had leaped for the re&r

door and grasped the older woman’s.

purse. “Everybody out!” Blake or-
dered. “Line up beside’ this snow-
bank.” “

He and Barrick searched the party.
The only weapons found were in the
purse; a revolver and two blackjacks.
These the officers kept, and escorted
their prisoners to the Truckee jail,
five miles away.

At the jail the Duchess turned to

‘Captain Blake. “Why are you arrest-

ing us?” she asked.
“What are you doing in a stolen
car?” he retorted.

“Stolen car!” she

“and I and our three children hitch-
hiked a ride. We are going to Reno.”
“The lady’s right,” spoke up Hawk-
ins. “The car’s hot, all right, and I
stole it. I know when I’m caught. But
these people didn’t know anything
about it. I only gave them a ride.”
Upon Hawkins’ admission of the
car theft, he was put in a cell. Then
the others were questioned. “Why are
you going to Reno?” asked Captain
Blake.

Fesrvary, 1941

Left:
Simoni was
the mob-
ster’s case
man.

Right: In-
spector Al
Corass is
shown with
weapons
found in
Frisco.

repeated. “I.
didn’t know it was stolen. My hus-<.
band,” she pointed to Mike Simoni, :

This hitch-hiking is dangerous, ev

_ Py

“[m a Salvation Army officer,” the
Duchess explained. “I expect to join
a unit in Reno.”

A search of the car disclosed a suit-
case containing a complete Salvation
Army woman’s uniform, tambourine
and credentials.

“I carried the weapons,” said the

bans

¢ .

telephoned Shear fo bring the prisoner
to Grass Valley. .

When Ives arrived, Blake fired the
question: “Did’ you know Hawkins?”

dir. . .
“Sure,’8aid Ives, squinting con-

" stantly-is he talked. “I knew all of

them. The Duchess—that’s Mrs. Spi-

*nelli—she lives with Mike Simoni.”

“You seem to know them pretty

- well,” Blake commented.

“Jeez, we .all worked together as
a heist: mob! Ives exclaimed readily.
“Mike was the case man. He lined up
heists: “Hawkins stole cars for us to

‘use. ‘The -Duchess was the brains of

Duchess, “just to protect my family, : :-

for a woman of God.”
At this point 9-year-old Vincent-be?'
gan to cry. “I’m hungry!” he wailed.

‘Fifteen-year-old Anthony said sol-

emnly, “Me, too.”

“IT guess they are.” The Duchess
smiled grimly. “None of ts have eaten
since early morning.”

Captain Blake and Barrick held a
council. “What will we do with them?”
asked Barrick. .

“Did they have any money when
you searched them?” 7

“Not a dime,” said Barrick.

Captain Blake was a high-ranking
police officer with a long and honor-
able service record. Yet he also’ was
a father, and the plight of the hungry
children touched him deeply. Captain
Blake’s subsequent .actions proved
that beneath “gun and badge” the

‘@police critics can find sympathetic,
¥warm-hearted human beings.

“The gun carrying is a misde-
meanor, all right,” he told Barrjck.
“But I can’t help thinking -of - those
kids. Let’s buy them a feed, ‘and.senq
them on their, way. After all, we have®.
Hawkins: and the stolen car.” pee?

“A goodidea,” agreed Barrick.

The party ’was conducted to a res-
taurant, where they. wolfed down
amazing quantities of food) Afterward,
the officers hailed a Reno-bound
motorist and procured a ride for the
five. “After all,” said Captain Blake to
Barrick, “we'll know where to find
them..A family of five doesn’t easily
disappear.”

HE TWO officers next returned
: Hawkins to the Grass Valley
jail. Waiting for the captain, at patrol
headquarters, was a message from
Highway Patrolman Shear asking
what to do with Ives, who was being
held in Colfax jail. Captain Blake _

vs

te

‘aerback. “We’ve got them,” said an of-

"Seat

our outfit.”

“And what did you do?”

“Me? I was the trigger-man.” Ives
laughed proudly.

Captain Blake whistled in. sheer
amazement. What the highway patrol
had considered a parcel of queer fish
they had netted, had turned out to be
a school of tiger sharks. “That’s what
I get for being good-hearted!” gritted
Blake, adding a few words under his
breath.

Little dreaming that within a few
days he was due for an even greater
surprise, the captain grabbed the tele-
phone and called Reno police, describ-
ing the group of five and asking their
arrest.

«+ Within half an hour Reno called

ficer. “Found them at a Salvation
Army shelter. They say they'll hitch-
hike back and clear themselves of any
car theft.”

“Keep them locked up!” Blake
fairly shouted. “We're coming after
them.”

They were given no further chance
to mistreat a kindness and slip away
again. Believing they were wanted
only on suspicion of car stealing, they
willingly signed waivers. This per-
mitted their return across the Cali-
fornia border without resort to tech-
nicalities.

Officer Barrick and Deputy Sheriff
N. F. Dolley of Truckee, brought them
back to Grass Valley. Then began a
night-long questioning.

By dawn the ‘adults had admitted
robberies, drunk-rollings, and eight
recent car thefts. Captain Blake ex-
perienced a vague suspicion that the
confessions to these crimes were made
almost too readily, but just why he

felt that way, he could not explain |

even to himself.

‘The 50-year-old Duchess alternately
whimpered and displayed bravado as
she answered Captain Blake’s queries.
“I was afraid of Ives,” she said. “He
was the triggerman, and he said he
liked to kill.”

The Duchess said she came to Cali-
fornia in 1937 to escape the vengeance
of Detroit’s notorious “Purple Gang.”
Because of her activities in labor
struggles, she said, the gang had sus-
pected her of being the “finger wo-
man” for killings in the Detroit
laundry racket. She returned to De-
troit later, met Simoni, a Detroit
hoodlum, then came back to Cali-
fornia in January, 1940, and was
joined by him. “Ives and Hawkins
started ( Continued on page 44)

23

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ae A wea, BIT ie Oye ee erie Lea Ate | Lge ube Pe re : ee
ohn Jolnson, An the beck end preest, from which ‘wounds said John ma var
/ an “4 et oer & a “aes -
“died on the same day. “Hawkins then skigped ‘the country and Was -
* PRS . Pas 83 i

sok _ Tested in Los Angeles in 1866, and brought pack to Tulare ‘County:
ies SME ha Fs HS) pas pe sy

bs ffohnson was comployed as a cook by Philo D Tower feince * July 4th , 1865.
oe aa le fieeaatr wae za ey Page

ed Jewett testified before ‘the ‘Tustice! Ss court of the ‘Ath ‘Lownshiy

3 =. 4 A os, 2> “tet, ; 3 ES fart
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$05 re x * i * 23 hast “s pea , X< wal “

eee he’ was “alone at the “times i

. Peo hee 4 hen tree siibremd 43 rs, ‘yas Pits andec kere e's Sine

there was a man on ‘the opposite side of ‘the aver that wished to
Ky ¥ Lats ads eee mnt ae ge =
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fondent, Thomas Hawkins, at my place « on “Kern piver, ‘then, in Tulare

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Sake Po J

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after supper they sat and telked two or three hours. Mason handed

“ime somie whiskey and aaic that he got it at greenhorn, and thet. it wa

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a mies : nay i ae or eee &
again. L told them if they wished £0 stay all night 33 would go and |
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or me, but. ‘keep: your’ hands offs. Mr Johnson was sh betes: Oy ny 3! ‘do

1 é oatothet instant Mason hed his pistol at my breast and I thought he a.

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me om nthe 14th dey of December, 1866.

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ey

“That’s just it. He did sell them today,
didn’t he? People at Central say he took
some cattle there from the ranch. Do
you know if he received the payment?”

Mrs, Hunt could not answer that, nor
could she furnish any further information
about her husband’s hired hand, except
for the fact that he could not have been
there long.

Her husband had only mentioned giv-
ing him a job, He had not s.id what his
name was nor where he was from, but
Royal was always friendly with people.
He trusted them, and he liked to have
visitors.

Sheriff Prince nodded in grim silence.
This seemed to clinch his suspicions so
strongly that he was anxious to get back
to Pine valley and direct the manhunt
himself.

He assured the widow that he would do
all in his power to capture the murderer,
and that he expected to catch him soon.

Then he hurried out to his car again
and went speeding back through the
lonely hills to Pine valley.

He went directly to the Hunt ranch
where he found some of the volunteer
posse members stamping about impa-
tiently for the light of dawn, when they
could strike out in search of the killer.

“He’s getting farther away every hour,”
they complained.

Their eagerness had been whetted by
a new discovery.

The dying embers of a campfire had
been found in the hills some distance from
the Hunt ranch. This was a puzzling
feature to Sheriff Prince as well as to
the men who had found it. Could it be a
decoy?

If Hunt’s slayer had made the fire,
why had he risked capture by stopping
so near the scene of his crime?

The sheriff had an idea. He asked
where the campfire had been found, and
what kind of country it-was in.

When the ranchers described it in more
detail, the sheriff smiled knowingly.
“What I suspected. That just about lets
Smith out completely.” As the men gave
him inquiring looks, he went on: “Who
would have made that campfire except a
stranger who didn’t know the country?
It’s likely he got lost out there among
the trees and stopped to warm up for a
few minutes.”

“Sure,” one of the men spoke up, “and

_ Si — me

that suitcase we found shows it was a
stranger too.”

Sheriff Prince gave another smiling
nod. “Soon as it’s daylight we'll hit every
road and trail in Pine valley, I've got a
good idea what kind of a duck it was that
killed Royal Hunt, and we'll have him
today if- I’m not badly mistaken.”

Deputy Mitchell had left Hunt's ranch
before Sheriff Prince returned, but he
telephoned word in shortly before dawn,
saying he had riders posted at strategic

“DUCHESS” GANG
EXECUTED

ONVICTED of “rubbing out”
one of their own gang for fear
he would squeal on them, Juanita
“The Duchess” Spinelli, her hench-
man and common-law husband
Mike Simeone, and a confederate,
Gordon Hawkins, went to their
death recently in the San Quentin
gas chamber. ‘
The victim of the rub-out was
19-year-old Robert Sherrard who
was drugged and then drowned by
the gang at Sacramento in 1940,
when they feared he would tell what
he knew about the hold-up murder
a week before, of Leland Cash, San
Francisco barbecue stand manager.
The full story of the two murders,
and the capture of the gang’ was
told in DARING DETECTIVE
of August, 1940, under the title,
“Duchess of Murder.”

points all through the hills. They had the
word to set out as soon as there was
enough daylight to see tracks.

When that hour came, the cowardly
murderer of Royal Hunt had small chance
to escape through the net of hard-faced
ranchers watching trails with loaded
rifles.

Sheriff Prince himself directed the
group which started from the scene of
the crime. They had no difficulty finding
the fugitive’s trail there, for the sharp,
pointed hoof marks in the soft mountain

dirt showed all too well that he had
pushed his victim's stolen saddle horse to
a gallop over the first mile or more.

“He was scared,” the sheriff said
grimly. “Those two men who came in
answer to Hunt’s telephone call must
have caught him red-handed, all right,
from the looks of these tracks. He sure
was on the rum”

From there on, however, the fugitive
had been forced to a more leisurely gait,
turning here and there to avoid fences
and hills,

With'a suddenness that surprised the
entire group, the trail turned. A barrier
had prevented the slayer from riding any
farther in that direction. Careful exam-
ination of the ground showed where he
had dismounted and gone on afoot, for
his shoe prints disappeared in the rocks
one way, and the horse had turned back
another.

Sheriff Prince speedily dispatched sev-
eral men on the trail of the horse. They
soon found it, grazing alone, but without
either saddle or bridle.

Other ranchers traced the slayer’'s
tracks to where the fire had been made,
thence on into the hills.

As rapidly as the scattered possemen
could be contacted, they were notified
that the killer was afoot, following a
zig-zag route toward the northwest, The
posse concentrated that way as the
freshness of the tracks gave promise of
soon overtaking him.

It was rugged hill country, with few
trails but plenty of hideouts, and the
murderer, so far as they knew, was still
armed with his victim’s .22 rifle.

Nevertheless, their apprehensions in-
creased as they covered mile after mile
with no sign of the fugitive. Sheriff
Prince began to fear that the cunning
criminal had used a common ruse to es-
cape.

At this juncture, Deputy Mitchell came
in on the fresh trail with a fresh group
of possemen and the sheriff turned the
pursuit over to them as having a better
chance to run down the gunman.

Returning to Central, Prince found
word waiting that Charlie Smith was at
home in the adjoining county, a develop-
ment which definitely freed him of all
suspicion,

Meanwhile, Mitchell and his men were
following the fugitive’s tracks with the

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59


the author.

port of the Californios as well as the
Indians when hostilities broke out,
Garra proceeded to sow the seeds of
rebellion among the surrounding tribes.
The plan was to organize a coordinated
descent upon all American settlements
in California. The place to begin was the
gateway to American immigration at
Camp Independence.
On Nov. 10, 1851, seven men and
1,500 sheep took the ferry across the
Colorado. They included two Sonorans
and a German named Neagle. Four
miles west of the river, the group found
itself completely surrounded by hostile
Indians who demanded they turn over
their blankets and all provisions.
al Twelve Indians and five sheepmen were
killed in the ensuing fight.

Neagle escaped death by hiding in a
clump of brush and he eventually made
it to Camp Independence where he
related what happened to the com-
mander, a Lieutenant Sweeney. One of
the Sonorans was killed in the fight and
the other was seriously wounded. Mira-
culously, the latter survived not only the
battle but a trek past the Salton Sea and
up the sand-choked Coachella Valley.
He arrived half-dead at the rancho of
Paulino Weaver, a mountain man and
close friend of the Indians in the San
Gorgonio Pass.

30

J. J. Warner with some of his Indian vaqueros. This early photograph probably
was taken after the Garra uprising. All photos with this story were supplied by

The Sonoran told Weaver that his life
had been spared because the Indians
had been instructed by their leader not
to kill Californios or Sonorans. He
named Antonio Garra as the leader and
instigator of the massacre.

MEANWHILE, an Indian attack on
Camp Independence faltered. Garra and
the Yumas who had joined him in the

massacre squabbled over dividing the
sheep and Garra subsequently left. The
Yumas under Cavello en Pelo found
Camp Independence forewarned,
thanks to the efforts of Neagle. They
succeeded in burning some of the
defenses around the stockade and
showered arrows on Lieutenant
Sweeney and his men for several nights.
But the Indians could not take the fort.
Shortly after, Garra arrived at the camp
of the Los Coyotes Cahuilla located a
few miles northeast of his own Cupeno
territory. There he found his son and
Chief Chapuli plotting a two-pronged
attack. One contingent was to rid the
village of Kupa of any Americans while
the other was to pillage the rancho of
J.J. Warner.

Originally from Connecticut, Warner
was an adventurer and trapper who had
worked as a clerk for Jedediah Smith in
New Mexico. He began trapping in Cali-
fornia as early as 1830 and settled in Los
Angeles where he was a vigilante for a
time. Said to have been addicted to poli-
tics, Warner was no stranger to violence.
During the political wars in Los
Angeles, his arm was broken when he
refused to permit a search of his resi-
dence. He was later slashed with a
sword in the street in front of his house
over the same issue.

About 1844, Warner obtained a grant
to the area around Agua Caliente where
Gara’s village of Kupa was located.
There he set up a ranch, hiring Cupenos
as farm laborers. Working for Warner
left the Cupenos very short on pay and
long on floggings. There is little doubt
that Warner’s treatment of the Cupeno

MAP OF IMPORTANT LOCATIONS DURING 1851 UPRISING

Rancho
S \ del
ay Los Angeles Chino
‘Ds tee ¢ eo

CALIFORNIA

ARIZONA

@ San Gorgonio Pass

Salton

eo
Kupa

San Diego

ee |

Camp Independence

MEXICO

True West

a

1 Sats


wD

Village of Kupa. Burned by army troops in 1851. This probably shows the

reconstructed village.

was one reason his ranch was selected
for destruction. The other was that
Warner’s ranch became a key stopping
point along the route from the Colorado
to Los Angeles. .

The simultaneous attacks came
shortly after midnight on Nov. 21, 1851.
Chapuli led a contingent of his Los Coy-
otes Cahuilla to Warner’s rancho while
young Garra took a small party to Kupa
where they arrived at the house of Bill
Marshall. Described as a “small man
with regular and rather agreeable fea-
tures,’’ Marshall jumped ship in San
Diego in 1844 and went to work for
Warner. He became a renegade white
after marrying a Cupeno woman and
setting up a general store in the village
of Kupa.

Garra’s Cupenos burst into Marshall’s
house where they found and seized
three sleeping Americans: Fiddler, Rid-
geley and Slack. The Indians stripped
the three naked and dragged them to
the local burial ground where they were
bound, stabbed and then clubbed to
death. Moving on to the house of Kupa’s
alcalde, they found another American,
Joe Manning, along with a Sonoran
named Verdugo. Manning was brutally
beaten and then impaled on a lance.
Verdugo was spared on account of his
Mexican blood. The Indians distributed
Manning’s belongings with each receiv-
ing money, hardware, or an article of his
clothing. The brutality of these murders
aroused panic in San Diego and Los
Angeles.

In the meantime, the Los Coyotes
Cahuillas under Chapuli attacked
Warner’s ranch. But Warner had been
warned of the impending attack from an

July 1983

eis

Indian informant two days earlier. He
had sent his family to San Diego and
remained to defend his property with
the help of only two young boys, one of

- whom was an Indian youth named

Santos.

Aroused from a fitful sleep by the
yelling attackers, Warner left his
bed and reached for his rifle. In sec-
onds, he was at the door. Two horses
tied next to the house had been cut loose
and more than twenty Indians were
running around outside. Warner fired
and killed two as the remaining
marauders ran for cover. Realizing that
he could not remain barracaded in the
house without means of escape, Warner
and the boys dashed for the barn.
Santos left to attempt to negotiate with
the attackers but did not return.
Warner and the remaining boy saddled
a horse and staged a daring escape leav-
ing the Indians to loot and burn the ran-
cho.

IT WAS December 1 before a detach-
ment of volunteers under Major Fitz-
gerald reached Warner’s rancho. The
place was a blackened ruin and all of the
livestock had been run off save three
cows. The corpse of an Indian shot by
the ranchero lay stretched before the
threshold of the ranchhouse. A wounded
dog sat howling in the charred debris.
Moving on to Kupa, the volunteers
found the village deserted, its Cupeno
occupants all having left to join Cha-
puli’s rebels in Los Coyotes Canyon.
The bodies of the murdered Americans
were found with their hands still tied.
The slashes and bruises on the corpses
left no doubt as to the manner of their
death. Fitzgerald buried the murder vic-

tims and then burned the ancient village
of Kupa.

Their situation now desperate, Garra
and his son spent the ensuing days
attempting to bring other tribes into the
revolt. The most powerful of these were
the San Bernadino Cahuilla led by Chief
Juan Antonio. A man in his seventies by
this time, Antonio was ‘described by
Judge Benjamin Hayes as “very stout,
scarcely five feet four inches tall —
short and thick — wiry even in old age,
and with an aspect about the eyes, nose
and brow, that came nearer to that of
the African lion than I have ever seen in
another human face.”

Antonio had a long history of siding
with the Californios against other
Indians. He got his start working for the
prominent Lugo family who owned the
immense Rancho San Bernadino. They
authorized Antonio to kill Indian rus-
tlers who were constantly stealing ran-
cho livestock, a task which Antonio
seems to have pursued with great vigor
and relish. A strict disciplinarian, Anto-
nio was in the habit of dealing with fatal
altercations among his people by burn-
ing the victor alive with his dead vic-
tim.

Garra seems to have reasoned that
the Californio support for his war
against the Americans would encourage
Chief Juan Antonio to join his forces,
but unknown to Garra, Juan Antonio
was also on friendly terms with the
American mountain man, Paulino
Weaver (to whose rancho the fortunate
Sonoran had escaped following the mas-
sacre on the Colorado).

Perceiving danger of imminent war.
Weaver succeeded in convincing Juan
Antonio to side with the Americans. He
fitted the old chief and his Indians with
mounts and provisions and Juan Anto-
nio set off to capture Garra.

The task was easily accomplished.
Juan Antonio simply arranged to meet
Garra outside the village of Razon near
Los Coyotes Canyon. Garra obliged
thinking that Juan Antonio and his
powerful force were about to join the
rebels. When they met, Antonio had
Garra bound and stripped. He was
about to murder him on the spot when
another Indian pointed out that Garra
would quickly meet his fate at the hands
of the Americans. So Juan Antonio
returned to his village of Sahatapa near
Weaver’s ranch. There he and his pris-
oner awaited the arrival of General
Joshua Bean’s militia from the Rancho
del Chino.

WHEN Bean and his troops arrived,
31

they found Garra under the guard of no
less than 250 of Juan Antonio’s
Cahuillas. Not about to turn over his
captive unrewarded, it cost Bean three
days of negotiations supplemented by
an array of gifts to convince Juan Anto-
nio to give up his prisoner. Apparently
thinking that he was better off in the
hands of the Americans, Garra agreed to
encourage his son to give himself and a
few others up as a part of the bargain.
Bean returned to Rancho del Chino
with Garra and waited for word of the
younger Garra’s arrival from Juan Anto-
nio. Obedient to his father, young Garra
showed up at Sahatapa shortly after-
wards. Bean was duly notified and set
out for Juan Antonio’s village two weeks
later.

On the day General Bean was to
arrive, Chief Antonio had decided to
mingle with his prisoners. True to char-
acter, he could not resist directing sev-
eral insulting remarks at young Garra
who promptly pulled a concealed knife.
He stabbed Juan Antonio, the blade
passing through portions of the old
chief’s left arm and side.

Antonio’s men were about to dispatch
the would-be assassin when they spied
the dust of Bean’s troops on the horizon.
The arrival of the Americans not only
saved young Garra from Juan Antonio’s
enraged Indians but also had the posi-
tive effect of further improving Ameri-
can-Cahuilla relations. General Bean
had brought American offers of official
peace supplemented by many generous
gifts which left the chief and his people
well pleased. Juan Antonio and his
Cahuillas promised to continue to act in
a friendly manner and the citizens of the
state of California promised to protect
Cahuilla lands and property as well as
Antonio’s position of supreme
authority.

Unfortunately, Chapuli’s Los Coyotes
Cahuilla, who remained holed up with
Garra’s Cupenos, knew nothing about
the treaty. Indeed, the news of Garra’s
capture had not entirely convinced
them that their cause was lost.

On the very day Bean and Juan Anto-
nio were signing their agreement, Cap-
tain S.P. Heintzelman was preparing to
assault Los Coyotes Canyon with a
small detachment of army troops from
San Diego. He and 46 of his men met
between 30 and 40 Indians led by Cha-
puli at a small stream. After a brief
exchange of fire, the Indians broke off
and fled into the swamps nearby. Cha-
puli died in the skirmish along with
seven of his companions. The shootout
was the final armed conflict to take

32

Top photo shows the pueblo of Los
Angeles before the uprising. The
drawing shows the town in 1850.
Bottom photo shows area of Kupa
as it looks today. Nothing remains
of the village. At right is Juan
Antonio’s brand, in use by the
Cahuilla to this day. Photos of the
protagonists in this uprising are
difficult to find because there was
little photography on the West
Coast in the early 1850s.

True West


Sh

i aii

od
\

Vest

cs

encore tone n.

le
J.J. Warner, who was despised by the
Cupeno for his exploitation of Indian
labor, survived an attack to serve as
interpreter at Garra’s trial.

general by the time this photo was
taken.

place in connection with Garra’s upris-
ing.

THE Garras and their fellow con-
spirators were tried by military tribu-
nal. The general panic among the
Americans at Los Angeles and San
Diego had resulted in a declaration of
martial law. Bill Marshall, the renegade
white storekeeper from Kupa was con-
victed of high treason and hanged in
San Diego on the afternoon of Dec. 21,
1851. The fall from the scaffold
was too short and his neck did not snap
when the trap opened. Marshall strug-

gled violently but was left dangling for-

an hour and a half.

Young Garra was tried at Rancho del
Chino where the charges were treason
for levying war against the United

July 1983

States, murder for killing the four
Americans at Kupa and robbery for
sacking J.J. Warner’s place. At first
young Garra denied any knowledge of
the murders or robbery. But it hap-
pened that the tribunal included Gen-
eral Joshua Bean and his son Roy. Roy
Bean testified that he had helped to
transfer the prisoners from Juan Anto-
nio’s village to Chino and that during
the journey, Garra had confessed that
he had been in command of the
Cupenos who committed the Kupa mur-
ders.

This evidence combined with a state-
ment made by Bill Marshall prior to his
execution was sufficient to elicit a con-
fession from young Garra. He was shot
to death by a firing squad on the morn-
ing of Dec. 27, 1851.

The elder Garra was taken to San
Diego where he was turned over to Lieu-
tenant Sweeney, the same army officer
who had commanded Camp Indepen-
dence on the Colorado. Although
invited, Sweeney refused to sit on the
court which ironically enjoyed the bene-
fit of J.J. Warner’s services as inter-
preter. The charges were treason, mur-
der and robbery. Garra pleaded
innocent to all charges except having
stolen sheep following the massacre on
the Colorado. Major McKinstry, Garra’s
court-appointed defense counsel,
argued that Garra was the leader of an
Indian nation and that he had a perfect
right to make war on the United States
and the state of California. The argu-
ment proved effective against the
charge of treason but Garra was con-
victed of the remaining charges and sen-
tenced to die.

General Bean requested that Lieuten-
ant Sweeney’s men execute Garra but
Sweeney refused, maintaining that the
proceedings were those of the state and
that as a U.S. Army officer, he could not
participate. Alternative men were
selected, ten of whom led Chief Garra to
the site of his execution late in the after-
noon of Jan. 10, 1852. The chief com-
ported himself with great dignity and
bravery prior to being blindfolded and
shot to death while kneeling over his
own grave.

Organized Indian resistence to
American control of southern California
died with Antonio Garra. American citi-
zens of California breathed a sigh of
relief. The Indian war was over. That
Garra’s uprising began as a tax rebellion
is largely overlooked in the historical

annals of the state.

He Had the
Coldest Room

By BEN GARTHOFNER

THERE used to be a log hotel in the
little cowtown of Jordan which was the
county seat of what was then Dawson
County, Montana. The town was just a
wide place in the road so to speak, with-
out telephone, telegraph or railroad. It
never did grow much and never had a
railroad but became quite modern oth-
erwise with telephone and telegraph and
a black top road from Miles City.

At that time in the teen years of the
1900s, the hotel was operated by Mr.
and Mrs. Hash and was called the Hash
House. It had rooms in the basement as
well as upstairs and a large combination
office, lobby and dining area. To one
side stood a large coal and wood heating
stove which provided the only heat in
the winter.

But as heat has a habit of rising, those
basement rooms became cold during the
bitter cold nights of winter. There was a
man named George Ayers who ran the
only bank in town and he kept a room ir
the basement year around.

One frigid night around eleven o’clock
an old wolfer by the name of Bill Cherry
rode into Jordan, put his saddle horse ir
Hash’s livery barn, and entered the
lobby of the hotel. His sheepskin coai
collar and whiskers were white with
frost.

Just as he reached the heating stove
Ayers stepped from the stairway of th
basement intending to warm up by th«
stove. He took a quick look at Bill’s fac:
and exclaimed, “For God’s sake, man

what room did you have?”

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: Pea we and Sherrard andT drove up ye

to Sacramento,” Ives told the. detectives.
“We took rooms at a hotel, and the next
day the Duchess and Simeone joined us.

“We pulled a couple of jobs, a holdup
in a service station and one in a lovers’
lane but we.didn’t get anything. The
people saw our faces and we ran out.

“Bob Sherrard was getting sort of
jittery.
else but the Cash murder and we were
afraid he was going to squeals: He wasn’t
much good to us anyway.

“Last Friday afternoon we all went on
a picnic down by the Sacramento river.
When. Sherrard wasn’t around,’ we de-
cided the time had come and talked about
how to get rid of him. I wanted them to
let me take him out in a field for some
target practice, and then I’d let him have
a slug.

“But the Duchess said she kind of ied
Bob and she wanted it ‘to be a mercy
killing, since after all he was one of us.

We tried to get him to swim across the

river because he was a lousy swimmer
and would have drowned, but he balked at
going in the water.

“Finally we got the idea of’ ‘slipping him
a knockout drop to put him out of his
misery.” ‘

So, at a party ‘Saturday night. in their

hotel room, the Duchess poured knock- .-

out drops into Sherrard’s glass. and
Simeone proceeded to fill it up. with
whisky. When the youth was uncon-
scious, Hawkins and Ives,.carried him
downstairs, pretending he was drunk, and
drove him to the Freeport bridge, down
the river from Saran enti,

He couldn’t talk about anything ‘

“Wwe stripped. off all his outer clothes,”
Ives: confessed, “and. left only his ‘red-

~ swimming ‘trunks, so'.that when they

found his body people would think he'd
drowned while swimming. I dumped him
in the ‘river and I guess he drowned.” .

After that, the mob prudently
that California was too hot, and resumed
the eastward trek.

“T couldn’t stand it ehea I heard them
whispering about killing people,” Ives
whimpered. “I knew they were talking
about me. They classed me with Sher-
rard.. They were afraid I’d talk too much.
So I ducked them and reported the stolen

* car, thinking they’d ‘be arrested and I'd

get away.’

Such was Ives’ story. The conféssions
of the other gang members checked in
all major details. The Duchess tried to
minimize her part, claiming that she had
been’ coerced by the others, but the-.de-
tectives were convinced she was _the
leader.

The Duchess tried to shift the responsi-
bility for the killing of Sherrard on Ives.

“Tves said we had'to kill Bob,” she de-:

clared. “I was afraid of him. I knew I

could handle his kind if I got him back to. .

Detroit, but I didn’t want to ‘haye ‘any
more trouble out here.”

-As the morning wore on, with the pris-
oners repeating and elaborating their
stories, police took up the search for the
‘body of Sherrard. ~

They found him just.as Ives had said
they would, lying in shallow water south

‘of ‘the Freeport bridge, clad only in his.

red swimming trunks, An autopsy showed
“he had met death by drowning.

ecided :

fiese ends of | the < case ‘were Sr
: cleaned up. The .38 revolver was found

in the car in which the Duchess had first
been arrested, and Roger Greene, the
ballistic expert, pronounced it the. gun
‘that had killed Cash.

Inspectors ‘from San Francisco ques-
Foned the mob further about the Cash
murder and other jobs but as they re-
peated their stories again and again, Dis-
trict Attorney Otis Babcock was con-
vinced-that they had told all they could;
that they had been connected with only
the two murders. which they had con-

-fessed. They were an incipient murder

syndicate which had got off to a brief
Start.

Since the murder of Sherrard presented
a more complete ‘case than that of Cash,
it was decided to prosecute the quartet
first in Sacramento.

On Aprif 23, the four were indicted for

first degree murder by the Sacramento
county grand jury. On April 25, they
pleaded not guilty before Superior "Judge
Ray T. Coughlin. In addition, the Duchess,

’ Hawkins and Ives entered secondary

pleas of not. guilty by reason of insanity.
Only Simeone stood on the plea of not

guilty alone.

While the murderous quartet was held
for trial, District Attorney Babcock de-
clared that he would ask the death penalty
for all.

On: May 29, 1940, the Duchess and her
three codefendants were convicted of first

degree murder, carrying the death sen-
. tence, However, Ives later was committed
to an ‘insane asylum. :

Seale Riddle sf the ePuanisin: Hitch- i

Cruse asked. “Was he wearing a. dark
suit or a gray hat?”

The man shook his head. “No, sir. He
didn’t have' on a coat and he didn’t have
on a hat. I’m sure of that.” Whether
this had been an entirely different
person, or whether the killer had lost
his coat and hat in the death struggle
was another question now’ confronting
officers.

Questioning of the ticket agent revealed
“that no one bearing visible bloodstains
on his clothing had queried him concern--
ing trains to Huntington. -
records, the agent informed the sheriff

he had sold no less than eight tickets for
Huntington between 6 and 8 o'clock. He’.
’.could only recall five of the purchasers;

a man, his wife and a. child; an; elderly
man from Louisville; and a. college’ stu-
dent returning from the University ' of
Kentucky. None of them had given
him.the least suspicion.

. Strenuous efforts to pick up the trail
sof the mysterious. bloodstained stranger
proved fruitless. He had; seemingly,
been swallowed up into the Saturday.
night throng and it was assumed the man
had been involved in a local brawl...

«Qn the heels of this came a tip from |

an employe who worked at the court-

house that he had once heard Bart Newly, °
-a checker at a local tobacco, warehouse, .

‘threaten to get even with Isaac Shelton.
Inasmuch as this was the first inkling

that anyone in the entire county had -
_ borne Shelton a grudge, the investigators _

were disposed to regard it with consider-
able interest.
Questioning at Newly’ ‘8 ‘home revealed,

Scanning his °

* the expert declared.

» [Continued from: page 27]

a asiciiaaly enough, that he had left for
Louisville early Sunday morning. His
return, was considered problematical.
_From warehouse officials it was learned
that Newly frequently went to Louisville.
Insofar as possible bad feeling between
him and Shelton. was concerned they
knew nothing about it, After securing a
brief list of places in Louisville where
there was a possibility of finding Newly,

Sheriff ‘Cruse returned. to headquarters.
and telephoned the - Louisville police -
' department. As
with the brutal murder was a mere flicker __

Newly’s: connection:
of suspicion the sheriff felt that showing
his hand would bring quicker’ results,.
one way or another, than a lengthy: and
possibly vain investigation. ~:
Approximately an hour or so later he

-. received ia message from the Louisville

police that Newly had been. apprehended .
and questioned but had stoutly.:denied
any connection with the murder. Further-.
more, he was returning: immediately to.
Winchester to clear his name. Impatiently
the officials awaited his arrival.: i
Meanwhile, Sheriff. Cruse received a.
report from a local fingerprint expert
who ‘on occasions: had assisted “him in
criminal’ cases; The expert, reported he«
had secured a clear print from the rock «
found in the field by

convict, the killer, once we gatch him,

-Cruse smiled grimly. “Yes,
catch him, From the look of things we ve’
a,tough row to hoe.”

‘A, car’s brakes sounded outside and
i Bart Newly, came patorming ‘into © the,

leputy: Booth, 3),
‘“T believe the print'is clear enough. to, \

office, his face hard and beet-red with
anger. “Sheriff, I don’t like this one
bit!” he burst out. “I didn’t have a thing
todo with the murder of Isaac Shelton.
In fact; when I left this morning, I
didn’t even know he had been killed.”

“Tf we, embarrassed you, Mr. Newly,
I’m sorry,” Sheriff Cruse told him quietly.

- “But you must realize that in any murder

*- about him.

‘on I learned that he had-deliberately rec-

od

"Once! we. ?

' for the job, deserved. it more.
a TuTiONs and I guess I must have said a

investigation we have to doa lot of things
we don’t like to do.”
_ “But what makes you think I’ve got
something to do with this?” Newly
demanded.

“We have information that you once

‘threatened Isaac Shelton ‘with bodily
-harm for‘a raw deal he had supposedly
handed you. You're the only person that .

we can find who ever said a harsh word
What about that?”

““Who told you such nonsense?” Newly
asked irritably.

“That’s unimportant. Buri is our infor-

*: mation:correct?”

“In'a way, yes. Back during the
tobacco market Isaac Shelton promised
to recommend me for a good job a
tobacco company had open. A little later

ommended someone else, someone who
has always: tried to be one up on me and

aman I dislike very much. I asked Shelton .

about’ it and he admitted it, said he
thought the other man was more suited
I became

lot of threatening things for awhile. But
“I cooled down and completely forgot

_about the whole incident up till now.
\“Mr. Newly, where were you between |

seem
up to
ceuld
pictur

clear]
to m:
“ M
queri
hi
know
finge
whor
ging,
town
frien
as pc
with
Th
sing]:
The

urc
ng

Day
ches
she s

Isaa:
Tl
keen
self
he b.


uld make a good field

al him he was a sucker

\0 a week.
ngs so you can get
won’t have to work
suoted the pair. “They
“stuff. They told me
+ around hotels but I
wasn’t true.
ey would put money
haat I would not have
2y or eating or sleep-
t all I had to do was
ifferent girls.
I was 4 good dancer,

hy?’ And they said .

> to have a good time
‘ouldn’t you?’ I said
‘Well, you can have
_and make easy fifty

is said, “you found
nd girls to go into
n, didn’t you?”

Attorney Roll took

Los Angeles county
30 and the inquisi-
‘aring the parade of
ated their shocking
iracy and pandering
entgomery, Bar-
Dolly Dupree,
Jones, the last-

gee jury as another
:.” She ‘is still a

ore the grand jury,
d repeated the whole

syndicate but this
om indictment along

ondants pleaded not
scheduled to go to
r Court on July 8,
nissing girls dropped
men continued work
-of-the-state angles.
> confident they had
of a vicious racket
oducing more than
os Angeles and San
he maximum penal-
‘rs could bring them
years each.

2”

cs.

ee eee

“They're all right. They didn’t know
anything about it, just like they said. We
picked them up in Frisco.” :

He scowled again at Ives, who flinched -

and then nodded miserably.

There was but one conclusion to draw
from the odd situation. Hawkins’ and
Ives, a pair of young car thieves, had in-

vited the older man and the woman to |

drive with them in order to divert sus-
picion from themselves.

apologies and arrest Hawkins and Ives...

After being assured that Simeone and
Mrs. Spinelli had enough money to con-
tinue their journey by bus, the officers
took the two sullen youths to the county
jail at Nevada City for questioning.’ ©:

Ives, still patently terrified, told the
officers that. he was 23 years old and had

been brought up in an orphan asylum :

after his mother was committed to an
institution for the insane. He refused to
tell what he did for a living, however,
and would not explain why he was so
palpably afraid of the other youth: |. ~

Hawkins grudgingly admitted stealing ©

the car in San Francisco but would con-
fess no other crimes. He called himself

_a.mechanic but a glance at the records

revealed to officers that he had. served
two terms at the Preston reformatory for

car theft while still a minor. -This was a’

typical background for a car thief; the

officers knew, but why did Hawkins in--
What was the:

spire such fear in Ives? 1
reason for their apparent falling out? -

Wye? of the arrest of the two youths
was teletyped to Sacramento, and
next morning Highway Patrol Investi-
gator Harry Hendricks pounced upon the
report. ane
“If that DeSoto was stolen in San Fran-
cisco on the ninth of April, one day after
that fellow Cash was murdered, it has a
getaway flavor,” he told Detective Mar-
tin Charles. “Or at least, it’s quite a .co-

incidence. And if those two young hood- :

lums in Nevada City won't talk we ought

Under, the cir-..
cumstances there was nothing to do but”
release Simeone and Mrs. Spinelli ‘with.

. ». ‘Duchess of Murder

Capt.
chad made his arrest on the 14th.

i [Continued from page 39]

named “Dead End Kids” by the police,

‘were already on hand for further grilling.

Detective Charles, Detective Sergt.
Perry C. Gamble and Inspector Hendricks
grilled them all, one by one at first, then
as a group, then separately again. The
result was a repetition of the: situation
Blake had encountered when he
Ives
babbled in terror. Hawkins refused to,
talk and glared at Ives. Mrs. Spinelli °
explained again that her presence in the
stolen car was a-mere. coincidence and

' Simeone backed her up.

to bring back the two people who were ”

- released and find out what they ‘know.
Théy may have heard ,

about the boys. : v
the car thieves say something interest-
ing.”

“You're right,” Charles agreed... “I'll
send Blake a pickup order right away.”

The order was flashed to Capt. Blake, -

who immediately‘ began a canvass of

cafes and auto courts in, Truckee.. He-
- learned that the man and woman appir-

ently had left town after eating a leisurely
meal and telling the. waiter they were
going to Reno. They had not indicated
by what means they intended to travel.
Blake telephoned Reno authorities, who
soon ‘afterward found Mrs. Spinelli and
Simeone at a Salvation Army shelter.
The pair were unable to explain why they
had taken refuge at such an unusual place
for travelers with adequate funds, but
signed waivers of extradition permitting
them to be taken back across the néarby
California line. eva

‘.before the. officer’s direct gaze.

Finally Inspector Hendricks leaned
back and surveyed the group with a cal-
culating stare. In Ives’ terror he saw his
only hape. Into his mind popped some-
thing Capt. Blake had told him the day

before and he decided to use it now.

“Ives,” he said slowly, “the other day

“you said you.were afraid these people

were going to rub you out. What did you
mean by that?” ee

Cold’'sweat stood out on the youth's
brow. : “Why—I was just trying to throw
you off the track—to make you think Mrs. °
Spinelli and Simeone were the car
thieves,” he quavered. eas

“That won't do,” Hendricks barked.
“You're scared, Ives, scared out of your
wits. Why did you leave your friends and
report the car theft to Captain Blake?”

Ives seemed to shrivel as he squirmed
“They
were talking, whispering,” he said feebly.
“They were talking about different ways
of killing people. They were talking about
using a hot needle.”

-Hendricks leaned forward and asked
quietly, “And what made you think they
wanted to kill you?”

“I was afraid I was due to be next:
They thought I was going to talk. That's
why they got. rid of Bob Sherrard. He
talked too much.” Gee

“Who was Bob Sherrard? What did
he talk about?”

-“He was-one of us. He'talked about—

‘that fellow Cash.”

_ Within the hour the wires to San Frar(-
cisco were humming with the news that
the killers of Leland Cash were in cus-.

i tody, and ‘that the Sacramento authori-
| ties believed they had uncovered not one
., murder, but two.

San Francisco police, who had been un-
able to apprehend the gang which had

«held up William Silver on the night of the

15th in spite of the cruiser net they had
thrown out, hurried to Sacramento. Chief
Dullea’s precautions about stolen cars .

.. had: failed at home but succeeded else-

“I knew that’ fellow, Ives, would get ue

into trouble,” Mrs. Spinelli said bitterly.
“I wish we'd never met: him ‘or that
Hawkins.” : ‘ :

She and Simeone were taken to’Sacra- .

mento, where the two car thieves, nick-

wheres, For car-thief Ives, almost in a
State of collapse but prodded by fear into
a torrent of words, was.pouring out one

‘of the most fantastic and sordid stories

ever recorded in California crime annals.

Mrs. Spinelli was not merely an inno-
cent traveler who had fallen into bad
company. She was “The Duchess,” head
of.a murder gang she had created. Dapper
Mike Simeone was her common-law hus-
band and trusted lieutenant.

Thin-faced and deceptively frail, the

« Duchess was the widow of a notorious
- bank robber who had been killed ten years
‘ before in Mexico. She had spent most of

her time in Detroit where she became in-

‘volved with the farnous Purple Gang

as “finger woman” in a laundry. racket.

AIncurring the gang's displeasure, she had

‘the Duchess’ favor.
‘wanted to dispose of the incriminating

fled to California to organize her own
mob. :

Envisioning herself as a feminine Dil-
linger, she had imported Mike Simeone
to help her. Simeone, alias Spimoni,
alias Spumoni, was an. ex-convict who
had served a term for white slavery and
knew all too well how to help.

Coolzsheaded, tight-mouthed ~ Gordon
Hawkins stole and kept in repair the
gang’s cars, while the weakling Ives han-
dled the actual gun work. Quivering and
hysterical, he could: be frightened into
performing holdups alone. If he killed
while doing his “duty” it did not matter.
The Duchess could throw. him to the
wolves at any time.

Robert Sherrard, conspicuously missing
from the lineup of mobsters under arrest
at the county jail, had been the gang’s
general utility man. Eighteen years old
and feeble-minded, he had been a fugitive
from the Sonoma state hospital, where he
had been sent in.1937 after his arrest for
a series of car thefts. _ :

The Duchess had felt no qualms about
employing two weaklings like Ives and
Sherrard. They could be easily influenced
to commit any crime, would never de-
mand much of a “cut” and could be “liqui-
dated” at will. Sherrard already had been
subjected to that fate, and Ives had saved
himself in the nick of time.

Such was the structure of the special-
ized crime ring the Duchess had organ-
ized in San Francisco the previous March.
They had gone to work at once, Hawkins
stealing cars systematically and Sherrard
and Ives perpetrating holdups after Mike
Simeone had carefully cased each job.

Altogether, they had stolen nine cars in
their brief career, and the stickup of the
Fat Boy barbecue had looked easy to
Mike Simeone. For two nights he had
watched Leland Cash carry the little
packages to his car after the lights of

the barbecue stand were out, and Mike
was sure the packages contained money.

()* THE morning of April 8, Sherrard
and Ives, carefully schooled in just
what to do, drove up to the barbecue
stand just as Cash was coming out. Ives
approached him while Sherrard waited
with the motor running, some 50 feet
away. The rest of the mob waited far-
ther down the street in another car.
“The Duchess had showed me how I

‘should knock him cold if he resisted,”

Ives related to the Sacramento officers,
“but when I thought he was going for a
gun I got scared and plugged him with
the gun she’d given me.” :

Frightened, the mob had suspended op-
erations. When they read of the arrest
of young Quinn as a suspect in the Cash
murder, the Duchess insisted that they
should ‘help to clear him, and Hawkins
made the anonymous telephone call to
the police, offering to send a sample bullet
from the murder gun.

This act was the one human point in
When the others

.38, she insisted on keeping it, to send
bullets to the police if necessary to clear
any further suspects.

Then they decided to pull up stakes and
go East, possibly to Detroit, Mrs.
Spinelli’s old stamping-ground, where
Simeone felt the pickings would be easier.


ad

HAWKINS, SIMEONE & SPINELLI

ae

Ly HERE was no one in sight on the fog-swept beach are
J highway, and no sound but the booming of the surf, sent c
as Leland Cash moved to the door of the Fat Boy work
Barbecue stand at San Francisco’s ocean beach, to looko
lock up shortly after midnight. The
“Take these packages and put them in the car, while Office:
I ony the dishes,” his pretty brunette wife, Beatrice, called peice
to him, ‘
Cash picked up the small packages of food, and the ai
heavy door slammed behind him as he stepped out into the detail
fog. He had just switched off the big neon lights, and the “Th
drive-in parking space was an eerie pit of darkness. He firing,’
groped toward the car. calling
His wife, hastily cleaning up the little kitchen, paused and him ]\
looked toward the door as she heard a muffled thud outside. the stc
Then she turned back to her work. Just an automobile thing «
backfiring, she guessed, though she had noticed no head- She
lights. Suddenly there came a low moan. been ;
“Bea!” Leland Cash called in agony. “Come! Quick! stand
I’ve been shot!” Pie ir
Without a thought for her own danger, Beatrice Cash re rae
rushed out into the foggy night. Suppressing a scream, she ior
threw herself to the ground where her husband lay—a black that di
huddle in the fog—beside their car. they rs
She spoke to him but he had lost consciousness and made quantit
no reply. He was doubled up, gripping his stomach. Look- and bri
ing around, his wife saw no one, heard no sound. Sobbing, “Lee
she ran back into the barbecue stand and stumbled to the to the
_ telephone. In a few minutes an ambulance arrived in answer before
‘w. to her call, from the near-by emergency hospital in Golden “Maybe
Gate Park, but: by the time it reached the hospital, Leland money j
wCash was found to be dead. cash i
Hi, To the radio patrolmen who arrived with the ambulance, ~
' r (R:
“I’m a respectable woman,” indignantly main- 4 a
tained the “Duchess” (left), hardboiled leader of f Hig

the deadly drones. Police believed her at first

feces of the
ee DEADLY DRONES,

Mem. BY HAROLD HEROUX

TRUE DETECTIVE, Dec., 1940


‘swept beach
of the surf,
the Fat Boy
in beach, to

e car, while
atrice, called

od, and the
out into the
hts, and the
arkness. He

, paused and
hud outside.

automobile
od no head-

me! Quick!

ratrice Cash
scream, she
lay—a black

ss and made
mach. Look-
d. Sobbing,
nbled to the
ed in answer
al in Golden
pital, Leland

2 ambulance,

Mrs. Cash had gasped out the frag-
mentary story, and they had immediately
sent out a radio alarm, spreading a net-
work of cars around the district on the
lookout for suspicious characters.

The widow was calmer by the time
Officers Joe Engler and James Gallagher
came from the Bureau of Inspectors at
Headquarters, to question her at the hos-
pital, and she told them her story in
detail.

“There was a sound like an auto back-
firing,” she related. “Then I heard Lee
calling to me, and I ran out and found
him lying beside the car, shot through
the stomach. I didn’t see or hear any-
thing else.”

She explained that her husband had
been night manager at the barbecue
stand. The couple worked together, he
taking care of the cooking and the cash
register, while she took the orders and
carried the sandwiches out to the cars
that drove in. As part of their wages,
they were allowed to take home small
quantities of food—packages of butter
and bread and so forth—every night.

“Lee always carried the packages out
to the car about this time of night, just
before locking up,” she pointed out.
“Maybe a holdup man thought there was
money in the packages—that we took the
cash from the restaurant home with us.”

(Right) Mrs. Beatrice Cash.
(Below, lett to right) Detective
Emerine, Gordon Hawkins,
Highway Investigator Harry
Hendricks and Albert Ives

- B84
wa?
re 4

a
£.

pM .oe,
89 |
>


vas

ent back to

ridier. They
my post to
m twins—a
three. After
» boy to be
ver,

S. cavalry-
they fell in
ie said: they
Board and
vithout ben-

iat the time
nes, Spinelli
yemaker and
» denied that

Spinelli, one
iree children
she said was
-d fifteen and

the children.
had had an
n.

T army -

The Duchess is defiant at time of her arrest. When reprieved,

DEATH

they moved to Detroit, in 1920. There he worked as a shoe-
maker and she as a waitress. Spinelli spent a lot of time
with two cousins of his. Finally he went away, she said,
without a word to her, and she and Loraine were left to
shift for themselves. From then on, they lived at various
places in Texas and New Mexico, she working as a waitress
and raising the children.

One night in 1933 a man by the name of “Kid Curly” came
to see her in Corpus Christi, Texas. He told her that Spinelli
had been killed somewhere in Mexico.

“He handed me a ring T’a given him,” she recalled. “He
said his last wish was that I should have it.”

All this was spiritedly denied by Spinelli, in statements to
newspapers and in an affidavit he sent to the Sacramento

police on October 14th, 1941, witnessed by Police Chief J. L.

Pound. He readily acknowledged that, when he was a very
young cavalryman, he had met her and lived with her for a
time in San Antonio. During that period, he said, Juanita
came home with a girl baby—apparently little Loraine—
whom she said a girl friend tad given her to raise.

They eventually broke up, Spinelli related, and he left the

army and went to Detroit. There Juanita caught up with

him.
He said, “She looked me up when she was stranded and

needed money.” Once, out of pity,
two children to move in with
left in December, 1926, an
_ seen her since.

he allowed her and her
him for a few weeks. She
d Spinelli declared he hadn’t


“What about Sherrod’s death? You

_ had a hand in that.”

“It wasn’t my idea of giving him
knockout drops, but I wanted the kill-
ing to be painless. I aoe the
Duchess said, “because I liked the boy
and I wanted it to be a mercy killing.

As O’Shea finished questioning the
Duchess and she was led away, the
ballistics test report of the murder

n was handed to him. Prepared by

allistics experts of the state bureau,
it pushed the gang right into the
shadow of the gas chamber, for the re-
port stated: “This gun fired the bullet
that killed Leland Cash.”

‘Hawkins’ turn came next. “Yeah, I
drove the car when Cash was killed,”
he admitted surlily. “But I had noth-
ing to do with the killing. Nor, with
Sherrod’s, neither.”

“Yet, you helped the gang on every
job, didn’t you?” persisted O’Shea.

“Aw, I didn’t belong with the
bunch,” he said, with increasing sul-
lenness. “I stuck around Gypsy, that’s
all. When they wanted a car, I got it
for them. That’s all.” He seemed
proud that his specialty was car steal-
in

g.

Both Simoni and Gypsy denied to
O’Shea that they actively participated
in the murders. Each admitted, how-
ever, knowing Sherrod was going to
be killed, and did nothing to stop it.
“I was afraid if I said anything,” said
Simoni, “that I’d get the same thing.
I did as much as I could to keep the
gang harmless.”

“Just what was that?”

“I was the case-man,” Simoni ex-
plained. “They had me look over sev-
eral places they wanted to rob. But
several times I told them it was too
dangerous.”

O’Shea turned to Gypsy. “Did you,
too, try to stop them?”

The 19-year-old girl’s face was sul-
len. “I didn’t have anything to do with
killings,” she retorted. “The men told
me they were going to have me hitch-
hike rides, They were going to follow
and take over when a driver stopped.
But killings—no!” eos

Although of slight build, it required
the efforts of two officers to take her
to her cell.

Night and day, police dragged the
swift, blue-green waters of the Sac-
ramento River. Three hundred yards
below the white Freeport Bridge that
spans Sacramento and Yolo Counties;
the grappling hooks suddenly brought
to the surface the white body of Sher-
rod. It was identified by the maroon
swimming trunks described by Ives.
At once an autopsy was performed
A Coroner’s Physician C. H. McDon-
nel.

A detailed analysis of the stomach,
however, showed insufficient chloral
“knockout” drops had been absorbed
to have killed Sherrod.

“I do not believe Sherrod was dead
when thrown into the water,” declared,

Dr. McDonnel. “He met death by as-".
phyxiation when the lungs filled with:

water, a minute or two after he was
immersed. There is no doubt he was
unconscious at the time.”

When Sherrod‘s parents, residing in

‘San Francisco, wrote Coroner Jack

Garibaldi that they were unable to
raise funds for a private funeral, the
youth who had wire > 4 followed
the gangland.trail of the damned, was
buried in Sacramento Potter's Field.

On: April 23rd the Sacramento
County Grand Juty returned murder

indictments against the Duchess arid-® e
three members, of htr’gang for the.

slaying.of ‘Robert Sherrod: ” .’:”

cy

The indictrients were returned best. -

fore Superior Judge Raymond‘ T.
Coughlin, who appointed defense
counsel for each of the gang. Two
days later the defendants were
brought into court for arraignment,
handcuffed together and guarded by
police and deputy sheriffs.

A packed courtroom heard the ac-
cused quartet enter their pleas. The
Duchess sobbed aloud when asked
how she pleaded. “Not guilty, and not
guilty by reason of insanity,” she
whispered. Then added: “Because of
injuries to my head.”

Ives and Hawkins also made an in-
sanity plea. But Simoni spurned such
action. “Not Yoel he declared loud-
ly. “Not guilty.”

Each of the various gang members
had vowed that their connections
with the others was induced by fear
of gangland reprisals. But at this junc-
ture the San Francisco police reported

they had discovered the former Gold-, | ..
en Gate hideout of the mob. se

.

“It looks like the Duchess operated: :
an elaborate crime school,” said Ins

spector Al Corras. “Their avowed ins;

clination toward merciful killings
must be one of their jokes. In their
rooms we found two home-made dag-~
gers, two pieces of 8-inch steel fash-
ioned into needle-sharp arrow heads,
a wooden gun, and a knife with a dis-
appearing 8-inch blade.” :

Trial of the notorious north country
mobsters started May 21st. Eight days
later, a jury of seven men and five
women had found the Duchess, her
common-law husband Mike Simoni,
and Gordon Hawkins, guilty of first-
degree murder. The death sentence
was made mandatory by the jury’s
refusal to recommend life imprison-
ment. Albert Ives was declared by
competent alienists to be insane.

Active participation of Mes gn
Spinelli in the killings could not be
proved. She was released without be-

~.ing brought to trial.
¥%,.On June 3rd, Simoni and Hawkins

were sentenced by Judge Coughlin to

‘be executed in the gas chamber of

San Quentin prison. Br aties”..

When on June‘ 11th, Judge Coughlin
denied the Duchess a new ‘rial. ai
sentenced the 50-year-old mother ‘td,
death, she gollapsed in the courtroom.
If neither an appeal nor a commuta-:
tion to a life sentence prevents her
execution, Mrs. Juanita My oy will
be the first woman to die in the Cali-
fornia lethal gas chamber.

Albert Ives was committed to Men-
dencino State Asylum. But forever
hanging over the head of the trigger-
man, in the event of his discharge, is
the wanton slaying of Leland Cash.

CRIME DOES NOT PAY
EVERY STORY IN FRONT PAGE DETECTIVE
Is A Real-Life Example of This Truism

Fesrvuary, 1941

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Ha woKINS , Simeon; Qird SP/IVETC CE |

Her unholy crime school was

ee are ha Tae

paying off well, until a

new course was added—murder

H San Quentin gas chamber awaits its first woman

by EDWARD 5S. SULLIVAN

NVEN THE REAL NAME of the Duchess was in
doubt. She went to her death under the name
of Eithel Leta Juanita Spinelli. Some of the

official records called her Evelita Juanita. And it
developed that she actually had no right to the name
qi Spinelli, though she had used it for years and had
4! given it to the three children who passed as hers.

as On the other hand there seems no reason to disbelieve her
statement that she was born out of wedlock in a hobo jungle

{ near Lexington, Kentucky, on October 17th, 1889, daughter
4 of a Scottish adventurer and a 14-year-old Sioux Indian
girl, who died in giving birth to Juanita.

Her father shortly took up with an Amazonian wom-
an, who beat her stepdaughter regularly. Juanita finally
was sent to live on a farm with friends, where she was
treated virtually as a slave and never given any schooling.
Eventually she ran away to Omaha, where she obtained
4} work as a dishwasher, a waitress and later as a domestic
ai servant in private homes. At 18 the family of an army cap-
. tain took her to the Philippines as their maid.

ae Apparently she had picked up some elementary schooling
along the way, for on her return after two years in the
islands she entered a nursing school. But her health was not

S
x
nS
X
®
a

| THE DUCHESS OF

equal to the arduous hospital duties, and she went back to
work as a waitress.

In 1915, at 26, she fell in love with a young soldier. They
were married. She followed him from one army post to
another throughout the Southwest and bore him twins—a
boy and a frail little girl who died at the age of three. After
the girl’s death, the soldier, who had sent the boy to be
raised by his own people, abandoned her in Denver.

In 1919, in Texas, she met an 18-year-old U. S. cavalry-
man 12 years her junior, named Spinelli and they fell in
love. In her statements to some authorities, she said: they
were married. To the State Advisory Pardon Board and
others she said they lived together off and on without ben-
efit of legal ceremony.

When the Duchess’ statements were publicized at the time
her approaching execution was in the headlines, Spinelli
came forward. A respectable family man, shoemaker and
community leader in a small southern town, he denied that
they ever had been married.

Juanita had said she had four children by Spinelli, one
of whom died as an infant. She had raised three children
by the name of Spinelli—Wanda Loraine, who she said was
born in San Antonio in 1921, and two boys, aged fifteen and
nine at the time of her arrest.

Spinelli vehemently denied parentage of the children.
The Duchess, he said, had told him that she had had an

’ operation and was unable to bear any children.
Juanita’s story was that, shortly after he left the army:

a) BRIER ee


al

‘ shaker or soaker wasn’t immediately in-

“I never had any. cousins in Detroit or
anywhere else,” Spinelli stated emphati-
cally.

And quite obviously, he hadn’t been’
killed in Mexico, or elsewhere.

In Detroit Juanita went to work in a
big laundry plant, as one of the shakers
at a mangle. She sent Loraine to school
and put the two small boys in a nursery
school,

It was then that she took up with Mike
Simeone, a hard-faced, cold-eyed hoodlum
of 29, sometime bodyguard for a big
racketeer and hanger-on on the fringes
of a notorious gang. Simeone had a record -
of 20 arrests, dating back to 1927. Juanita
was soon accepted as his common-law
wife.

Early in 1938 a violent strike trouble
erupted at the laundry where Juanita
worked. Evidently her occupation as

volved in the strike, for although she was
an active and vociferous union member,
she remained at her mangle in the strike-
torn plant. But official records and press
accounts characterize her as having been
a “finger-woman in a laundry racket”
during that time. :

Juanita said she was working at her
mangle when she happened to look up
and recognize, among the armed strike-
breakers, a. man.‘she knew was badly
wanted by the police. She remarked to the
girl working beside her that she was surprised to see this
man there. The girl passed this information on to a detective
friend. Police checked up on the strike-breakers and several
of the former gang were arrested on old charges.

. The gangsters blamed her for informing, she said, and a
couple of nights later she was accosted on the way home
by two men. One of the men came at her with a knife.

“I fought him, and this knife; when it went into my chest
I gripped the handle and stopped the knife from going
down deep into my lungs or heart. I’screamed and one of
the men next door. came out in his pajamas to help me.

‘’ They were captured, but I was told to leave Detroit, that

they were tired of playing nursemaid to a stool-pigeon.”

Her daughter’s version was that one night some men came
to their apartment and told her mother they knew she had
informed the police and caused the arrest of one of their
pals. They threatened to beat her up unless she got out of
town immediately.

“I never knew how Mother was involved with the strike
trouble,” Loraine said, “but she was scared out of her wits,
and we started packing right away.”

Eastertide of 1938 found Juanita Spinelli fleeing from
the Detroit apartment which Simeone shared, and hitting
the road west with Loraine, now aged 17 and known as
“Gypsy,” and the two boys, aged 13 and seven. She had

‘some friends in San Francisco, and through them and her

Detroit union connections she arranged for a laundry job
in the West Coast city. So there the quartet headed, hitch-
hiking by way of Chicago, Omaha, Denver and Reno.

. Apparently they did all right in the way of getting lifts.
If Juanita’s rather masculine appearance, in slacks and
belted jacket, may have scared some motorists off, others
fell for the forlorn appeal of the sad-faced Gypsy and the
two little boys. The four arrived shortly in San Francisco.
Juanita went to work in a laundry and they moved into a

‘modest little apartment on Golden Gate Avenue.

Sitting in Jefferson Square one afternoon watching her
brothers at play, Gypsy struck up friendship with a girl
her own age, called Patty. Patty introduced her to her
boy friend. Gordon Hawkins, a curly-haired, gimlet-eyed,

ui]

(L. to r.) Det. Hendricks, Ives, Hawkins, Det. Emerine at scene of murder
of Sherrard. Hawkins was executed. Ives died after release from insane asylum

heavy-jawed fellow of 19, who was supposed to work in a
garage. Gordon always seemed to have a car available—and
soon Gypsy found a boy friend of her own, a lanky 17-year-
old named Henry, and the foursome became a steady one.

Gypsy brought her new friends to the apartment and her
mother welcomed them. Gordon Hawkins professed a great
liking for the stern-faced, rawboned 49-year-old laundress.
It was he who first nicknamed her “The Duchess.”

Gypsy and Henry hit it off very well together, and when

in a few months they announced they planned to be mar- '

ried, the Duchess readily gave her consent and in fact threw
a party for them and their teen-age friends.

But things weren’t destined to work out smoothly for
Gypsy. Just two days before the wedding date, a police
prowl car stopped the gay foursome in the new convertible
Hawkins was driving and officers hustled all four down
to the station. ;

Gypsy and Patty, unaware that the car was a stolen
one, were shocked when the police told them that their boy
friends were car thieves with long records. Gordon was on
parole from Preston Reformatory on his latest auto theft
conviction: Henry had been arrested several times.

Juvenile officers took the girls home after questioning
them and advised their mothers to keep a closer watch on
their associations. Gordon was sent back to Preston to finish
out his term. Henry was sentenced to six months in the
county jail.

Gypsy promised to wait for him. But for some reason
the Duchess decided it would be a good thing for Gypsy
to forget about Hank. Over Gypsy’s protests they packed
up and went back to Detroit, where things had cooled off
by now and Juanita felt more at home. .

They moved into the same apartment again with Mike
Simeone, and the Duchess got a job as a WPA seamstress.
She later told the Pardon Board that even though Mike
beat her, took her money and kept her in terror, she
couldn’t condone his professional criminal activities, and
several times secretly tipped the police to jobs-he planned.

However, despite the attachment between the Duchess

and Simeone, things didn’t go so well at home. After a


fortunate Leland Cash had become a towering landmark
which dominated the uncrowded vistas: of Bobby’s brain.
Some inner compulsion forced him to think about it con-
stantly, and he worried the image the way a dog worries
a bone.

“You should have seen the guy, Duchess,” he would say.
Then he would grab his throat, stick out his tongue, and
pitch forward, blindly, on his face.

Ma Spinelli tried to distract young Sherrard with dem-
onstrations of practical judo. She threw him to the floor
with finger-holds. She slammed him against the wall with
hammer-locks. Shaken and impressed, Bobby kept coming
back for more. The Duchess, adept at the art, racked him
through a course of judo with the thoroughness of a St.
Catherine’s Wheel. But for all of her ministrations, she
was unable to rattle him loose from his indelible memory
of Leland Cash’s death.

“He stuck out his tongue like this, see,” he would go on.
“Then he falls over on his puss.”

Mike Simeone soon reached the breaking point. One-eye
Ives had already decided what to do. All that remained was
to sell the idea to Gordon Hawkins and Ma Spinelli.

“The jerk has got to go,” Simeone said. He drew his fin-
ger across his throat. “This is a broken record we got here,
Duchess. The needle is stuck in the groove.”

“He'll snap out of it,” Ma said. “He just has to start
thinking of something else.”

“Like what?” Gordon Hawkins demanded.

Simeone studied Gordon, then let his eyes drift to 19-
year-old Gypsy who was sitting on the couch, her long,
lovely legs crossed as she studied one of Johnny’s many
comic books. :

“Well,” Mike said. “We can give him something to
think about, but I doubt if it’s going to do him very
much good.” ;

Gypsy was unwilling. Simeone, who was an expert in
the protocol of such delicate negotiations, threatened that
if she did not cooperate he would sell her to an Oriental
house of prostitution. One-eye Ives, who reeled off a list
of such establishments, personally promised to deliver the

girl to the roughest bordello of the lot. In the end, Gypsy
tearfully agreed to lend her efforts to the suggested course
of corrective therapy. ;

Bobby Sherrard, however, recoiled at the idea. He was
shocked at the proposal. Locking his mind against it,
he slammed the escape hatch on the one clear impression
which was imprisoned in his brain. Leland Cash’s death
scene began to bound through his consciousness like a
plunging horse in a gateless corral.

Even Ma Spinelli now agreed that the most drastic kind
of action was indicated. Bobby Sherrard was more than
a passing annoyance. He was a threat for as long as he
lived. If his talk ever carried to the cops, it was crepe
and long, black curtains for the gang.

On Wednesday, April 10th, the San Francisco news-
papers broke the story that the police had taken into
custody a suspect in the Cash shooting. Ma Spinelli was
outraged. Determined to save the hide of an innocent
hoodlum, she insisted that Gordon Hawkins call up head-
quarters. The handsome car thief went to a pay phone
and called the chief of the detective bureau.

“You’re holding the wrong guy,” Hawkins said. “We're
the ones who did that job. If you want proof, we'll mail
you a test slug from the death gun.”

The detective chief flailed his arm for a phone trace
while he strove to stall Hawkins on the wire.

“Who is this?” he demanded. ,

“A friend,” Gordon Hawkins said. He hung up the phone,
picked up a late paper, and beat it back to the Spinelli
apartment.

Mike Simeone was somewhat alarmed over an item
which appeared in the news. The police were developing

‘ the theory that the Cash killing was in some way related

to the rash of recent car thefts which had plagued San
Francisco.
“We'll have to blow,” Mike said. “Any day, now, they
might come knocking on the door. We'd better take off.”
It was decided to push along to Sacramento. Ma, Gypsy
along with Frankie and Johnny, would hitchhike out of

town. In Sacramento, they were (Continued on page 70):

45


Mike Simeone was dripping.sweat and white-faced with
wrath, .

“He killed the guy!” he ranted. “Just grabbing the loot
wasn’t enough. The goofball had to go and pull the trigger!”
Ma Spinelli’s lean features were drawn with concern.

“Maybe the poor man’s not dead—” she said. “Where’d
the slug hit him?”

“In the guts,” Bobby Sherrard said. He nodded disjoint-
edly. “Right in the guts, Duchess!”

‘Ives and Gordon Hawkins had flung themselves down
before the short-wave radio. They devoured every word
‘as it crackled through the grillecloth. The guy’s wife had
called headquarters. The cops were on the way. So was the
coroner. The dispatcher was the young one, Ma Spinelli
noted, the one with the crisp, professional voice.

“All right,” she said. “So it didn’t go the way we planned.

At least we got the loot. Let’s open up the paper and see
that beautiful loot.”

It was like saving the cherry from on top of a sundae.
First she wrapped up her gun in the oiled silk rag; then, as
the others crowded around, she slowly opened the brown
paper package. '

She opened it, then pulled away her hands as though
they had been seared.

real hot. Nobody leaves here until the heat starts to die
down.”

Gypsy and Gordon Hawkins exchanged smouldering
glances. “Suits me fine,” Gordon Hawkins said. “There’s no
place else I'd rather be.”

Bobby Sherrard pressed his fingers to his gut. “That old
guy, he did like this, Duchess,” he said. “Then he did like
this.”

He choked himself, lolled his tongue out of his mouth,
then made strangling noises as he pitched forward on his
face.

Ives glared at him with his one good eye. ‘“‘Cut it out,
chowder-head, or you’ll get the same!”

Bobby Sherrard nodded in his disjointed way. Then he
pointed his finger at the wall. He aimed it like a gun, and
went, “Boom!”

Mike Simeone and Gordon Hawkins had to move in slug-
ging, to pull Ives and Sherrard apart.

The next four days in Ma’s apartment were enough to
give a cigar-store Indian a permanent case of the jitters.
The gang had formerly financed its meager wants through
a series of small holdups and an occasional car theft. With
Gypsy as bait, the odd drunk could be enticed into an alley
where the older boys promptly knocked him out and rolled

fortunate Lela
which domina
Some inner co
stantly, and hi
a bone.

“You should
Then he woul:
pitch forward,

Ma Spinelli
onstrations of
with finger-ho
hammer-locks.
back for more
through a cou
Catherine’s W
was unable to
of Leland CasI

“He stuck o1
“Then he falls

Mike Simeo:
Ives had alrea:
to sell the ide

“The jerk h:
ger across his

Her face. became livid, and from.her lips burst a single him. Cigarette and spaghetti money came from the sale of Duchess. The
vile word. She mouthed it, whispered it, then screamed it hub-caps and batteries which the younger boys stripped “He’ll snap
in an agony of disbelief and abandoned frustration. from unguarded automobiles. A vast welter of criminal thinking of so:

There was no money! activity spiced the lives of the oddly assorted crew. With- “Like what!

The paper parcel contained nothing more than a string
of linked frankfurters and a quarter-pound print of melting
butter! A

It took a long time to calm Ma Spinelli down. No one

out any new projects to occupy their energies, they drove
each other ‘nuts.

Fifteen-year-old Johnny, sent to the store for news-
papers and groceries, came back with one evening paper,

Simeone stt
year-old Gyp:
lovely legs cr:
comic books.

had ever seen her so mad. She. hopped first on one foot and an armload of comic books, and a sackful of apples and “Well,” Mik

then on the other. She threw plates at the wall and hurled canned beans. Little Frankie, dispatched to augment these think about,

her throwing-knife. at the ceiling. Mike Simeone poured inadequate provisions, was gone for seven hours. When he much good.”
‘her a solicitous double rye and lit her a soothing cigarette. returned, after an enchanted small-boy’s tour of Fisher- Gypsy was

Finally the woman sat down and showed no further sign

of her inner turmoil than a convulsive wringing of her

hands and an occasional incredulous shake of her head.
“We'll have to lay low,” Mike Simeone said. “We’re hot,

man’s Wharf, he brought back a pail of uncleaned red-
snappers, some clams, and a box of lime flavored popsicles.

Bobby Sherrard, during the interim, continued to drive
his colleagues to distraction. The death struggle of the un-

the protocol o
if she did not
house of prost
of such estab]

Police investig.

Ma Spinelli, known as “The Duchess,” ruled gang autocratically, personally taught them fine points of criminal art

ea


70

School for
Homicide
(Continued from page 45)

to set up headquarters at a hotel on Jay
Street. Mike and the three older boys
would join them in a few days.

It was Friday, April 12th, before the gang
finally reassembled in California’s capital
city. Gordon stole a nice utilitarian De-
Soto in which to make the trip. The drive,
Mike Simeone reported, had been marred
by two disagreeable incidents.

“It’s that Bobby Sherrard,” Mike con-
fided to the Duchess. “That kid is far
gone.” Twice during the trip, Mike said, the
travelers had stopped off to eat. On both
occasions, Bobby went into his act.

“The whole bit. Tongue out. Bang,
bang with the finger. I tell you, the
waitress nearly flipped. I had to talk her
out of calling the cops.”

Ma nodded sadly. “I guess you're right,”
she said. “The kid’ll have to go.”

A number of suggestions regarding the
elimination of Sherrard were advanced by
various members of the gang. Some were
not feasible. One-eyed Al was all for jab-
bing Bobby in the ear with a hot needle
while he slept. Gordon pondered the me-
chanics of tying the youth to the railroad
tracks in the path of the midnight ex-
press. Mike Simeone thought of dropping
him off a cliff with a stick of dynamite in
his pocket.

“No,” Ma said firmly. “He’s stuck with
us through better and bitter. We've got
to be merciful. If we kill him, it’s got to
be in a nice way, like one would do it to
kith or kin.”

“Do it any way you please,” Mike
Simeone said. “But knock him off fast.”

The Duchess gave the matter her undi-
vided attention. Bobby, she learned, was a
very poor swimmer. If he could be coaxed
into donning a bathing suit, it might be
possible to drown him in the Sacramento
River. Then, should his corpse be found,

the police would conclude that the youth
had suffered a cramp or that he had ven-
tured into the river beyond his depth.

Getting Bobby to the water was a lot
easier than getting him to go in. Ma
Spinelli organized a picnic on Saturday
afternoon. The gang went down to the
river and grilled hamburgers over an open
fire, Gordon and Gypsy splashed happily
in the shallows. Little Frankie sharpened
the butter knife into a lethal “shank” on
a piece of basalt. Johnny held out his
hamburger for bait and amused himself
by catching flies.

Ma and Mike worked on Bobby in an
effort to make him swim across. the
river,

“Let’s you and One-eye have a race,”
Mike said. “I bet you win.”

“No,” Bobby said. “I don’t know how
to swim.”

“I bet you can walk in the water faster
than One-eye,” Mike Simeone said desper-
ately. “I got five bucks in my pocket says
you can do it.”

“I don’t like the water,” Bobby said. “I
don’t know how to swim.”

Not with wheedling, nor cajolery, nor
threats of force could the mobsters prevail
upon Sherrard to go near the water. He
went off by himself and sat on a rock.
While Ma watched him, Bobby grabbed
himself by the throat, stuck out his tongue
and fell forward. When he picked himself
up, he sat down on the rock again, sadly
shaking his head.

“Tonight,” Ma Spinelli said to Mike
Simeone. “We'll finish him tonight. I
know exactly what we have to do.”

Back at the hotel, Ma opened up a bottle
of rye and handed out drinks to all but
the minors. Bobby Sherrard had no great
liking for straight whiskey. ‘Do you have
a little ginger ale?” he asked Ma, plain-
tively.

“Sure,” Ma said. “Give me your glass.
I'll take it to the kitchenette.”

From the console’ refrigerator, the
Duchess took a bottle of pale dry. She
also brought out a small vial of chloral hy-
drate. She let five knockout-drops fall into
Bobby’s glass, then added a little topping
of ginger-ale.

Bobby smiled his shy simple smile when

AOWOBERE-

"Care to sit up front with the driver?"

Ma gave him the innocent-looking drink.

“Thanks, Duchess,” he said. ‘You're
awful good to me.”

Mike Simeone watched the plass in the
youth's hand with a vulture’s eyes. “Drink
up,” he said. “Make believe you're having
fun at this here. party.”

Bobby drank. His eyes became heavy-
lidded) before the glass was drained. He
fought the last sip up to his lips and top-
pled forward, just like Leland Cash.

“Is he dead?” One-eyed Ives asked
tightly.

“Not yet,” Ma said. “That comes next.
All I did so far was slip him a Mickey
Finn.”

The gang worked fast. Mike prabbed a
pair of bathing trunks from the picnic
basket. Gordon and One-eye each slipped
a shoulder under Bobby’s arms. Mike led
the way, and the Duchess brought up the
rear.

“Get him out to the car,” Ma said. “I)l
be with you in a minute.” She went to
the adjoining room where Gypsy had gone
to strip off her wet bathing-suit.

“Bobby wants to go back to San Fran-
cisco,” Ma said to the girl. “We think it's
best. We're going. out to put him on the
bus.” ;

“Gordon going, too?”

“Yes. He's drivin’ us to the bus. Look
after the kids. Keep them away from
that rye. We'll be back in half a shake.”

Down in the DeSoto, Ives and Simeone
had begun to undress the unconscious Sher-
rard, yordon was at the wheel. Ma
moved in beside him. “Okay,” she said.
“Let’s take off. Drive back to the river,
where we were before.”

“What about his clothes?” One-eye asked.

“We stash them near the bank,” Ma said.
“It has to look like he took them of
himself to go for a swim. When they
find him, he’ll be wearing those trunks.
They won't think nothing’s wrong.”

Near Freeport: Bridge, the DeSoto pulled
into the brush. Mike scrambled down to
the bank to lay out Sherrard’s clothing.
Gordon, Ma, and One-eye followed, car-
rying the unconscious Bobby between them.
One-eye doubled up his fist and smacked
Sherrard hard on the top of the head.

“Don't,” Ma said. “It isn't kind. What'd
you want to do that for?”
“That’s just in case he should wake

up before we launch him,” One-eye said.
‘I'd have done it better with a bottle of
champagne.”

The clothing was
well back of the water-line. Ma counted
“One, two, and a THREE!" There was a
loud splash, Bobby Sherrard was finally
launched. For him, no matter what it said
in the geography books, the Sacramento
flowed into the River Styx.

When they were back at the hotel, the
gang mulled over the next move. Certainly,
Sacramento would prove an unhealthy cli-
mate in which to operate. Ma Spinelli and
Mike Simeone, who both hailed from De-
troit, were in favor of returning to Michi-

folded and placed

gan. One-eye Ives held out for Los An-
xzeles,
“You haven't much say in this, punk,”

Mike Simeone told him. “If 1 were in
your position, I'd shut my big yap. After
all, if you didn’t plug that guy we'd still be
safe in San Francisco.”

Ma Spinelli nodded. “Yes,” she said.
“And Bobby would still be around asking
me to show him judo. Mike and I will de-
cide what to do, One-eye.”

“And V'll help you,” Gordon Hawkins
said. ‘“You’ve caused enough trouble the
way it is, punk.” .

Sulking, One-eyed Al moved away to the
far corner of the room. He picked up one
ot Johnny’s comic books and leafed it
through. ‘He was unable to concentrate on
the cartoons. The three heads of his col-
leagues were close together. One-eye won-

dered what was be:
their plans was son
of him!

Ives got little sle
fitfully on his bed,
There was a good
shoot him. Maybe

knife. Perhaps the
be poisoned,

Early the next «
meeting in Ma Spi
called over to join
others through a
eye.

The gang was mo
told. The DeSoto
ward Reno. After ;
for travel money, t
east.

“First, let’s have c

One-eyed Al shu:
“TL just open up
too hungry.”

It was just after
headed east on U.¢
Gypsy and Mike sz
sat next to a rear
comic books on his
Frankie on her lap
ened a screw-drive

It was a lively m
full of gas and the
Auburn,“the Ameri
Folsam Dam. Haw
nist-hung hills.

One-eve thought
as fast as the whee
this route, the mob
He was certain of i
from the rim of som:
throw him out into
churned east, and w:
felt that he was be
some well-planned 1

Outside of Weima
stand it no longer.

“Listen,” he said.
[ wish you'd pull
a little too much bx

Hawkins drew up
house on the Colfax |
he said to One-eye
wait all day.”

“Tl be right out,

He opened the car
across the gravel pa
the restaurant. Onc
on going. While the
him, uncomprehenc
through the screen-:
carted into the wood
yond,

Twenty minutes
Simeone and Gordor
the restaurant to loo}

“Sure I- saw him,”
“He went) through
salts. [ looked out
him running for the -

Simeone and Haw
the DeSoto.

“What's
asked.

The roar of the car
up to full) power
Simeone’s oath-studd

One-eyed Al Ives
for the best part of
out by a circuitous 1
rice south. When the
riding passed the pa
Valley, Ives asked fc
telling a carefully ret
Highway Patrol Cap:

“These people gave
hour ago,” he said. “
I figure it for a st.
black DeSoto with Sa:

Ives expected to tel
Captain Blake -detai:
intercept for the Di
A roadblock at Trucl

with On


‘king drink.

d. “You're

glass in the
ves. “Drink
u're having

ame heavy-
rained. He
ps and top-
Cash.

Ives asked

comes next.
oa a Mickey

» prabbed a
the picnic
cach slipped
is. Mike led
ught up the

la said. “I'll
she went to
sy had gone
uit.

» San Fran-
Ve think it’s
him on the

bus. Look
away from
lf a shake.”
nd Simeone
scious Sher-
wheel. Ma
" she said.
» the river,

e-eye asked.
k.” Ma said.
k them. off
When they
lose trunks.
rong.”

Soto pulled
ed down to
V's clothing.
‘lowed, car-
tween them.
nd smacked
ie head.

nd. What'd

vould wake
ne-eve said.
1 bottle of

and placed
Ma counted
‘here Was a
was finally
what it said
Sacramento

e hotel, the
e. Certainly.
thealthy cli-
Spinelli and
‘d from De-
ig to Michi-
‘or Los An-

this. punk,”
IT were in
vap. After
we'd still be

she said.
ound asking
id Powill de-

on Hawkins
trouble the

away to the
cked up one
d leafed it
neentrate on

of his col-

ne-eye Won-

dered what was being said. Perhaps among
their plans was some plot to rid themselves
of heim!

Ives vot little sleep, that night. He tossed
fitfully on his bed, afraid to shut his eyes.
There was a good chance that they would
shoot him. Maybe Ma would throw her
knife. Perhaps the morning coffee would
be poisoned.

Early the next day there was another
meeting in Ma Spinelli’s room. Ives was
called over to join in. He stared at the
others through a red-rimmed, bloodshot
eve.

The gang was moving to Detroit, he was
told. The DeSoto would first head to-
ward Reno. After pulling a few small jobs
for travel money, the mob would push on
cast.

“First, let’s have coffee,” Ma Spinelli said.

One-eyed Al shuddered. “No,” he said.
“['ll just open up a can of beer. I ain’t
too hungry.”

It was just after nine when the DeSoto
headed east on U.S. 40. Hawkins drove.
Gypsy and Mike sat beside him. One-eye
sat next to a rear window. Johnny read
comic books on his right. Ma held little
Frankie on her lap while the boy sharp-
ened a screw-driver on a rusty file.

It was a lively morning. The tank was
full of gas and the miles rolled by. Below
Auburn, the American River poured into
Folsam Dam. Hawks circled between the
mist-hung hills.

One-eye thought until his brain whirled
as fast as the wheels. Somewhere along
this route, the mob was going to drop him.
He was certain of it. Maybe it would be
from the rim of some canyon. Maybe they'd
throw him out into the desert. The car
churned east, and with every mile One-eye
felt that he was being brought closer to
some well-planned rendezvous with death.

Outside of Weimar Township, he could
stand it no longer.

“Listen,” he said.
I wish you’d pull up.
a little too much beer.”

Hawkins drew up next to a small road-
house on the Colfax bypass. “Hurry it up.”
he said to One-eye. “We're not gonna
wait all day.”

“I'll be right out,” One-eye said.

He opened the car door, walked briskly
across the gravel parking-lot and entered
the restaurant. Once inside, he kept right
on going. While the counterman watched
him, uncomprehendingly, Ives pushed
through the screen-door at the rear and
darted into the woods a short distance be-
yond,

Twenty minutes passed before Mike
Simeone and Gordon Hawkins came into
the restaurant to look for him.

“Sure I saw him,” the counterman said.
“He went through here like a dose of
salts. I looked out the window and saw
him running for the tall timber.”

Simeone and Hawkins trotted back to
the DeSoto.
“What's

asked.

The roar of the car as the engine revved
up to full power drowned out Mike
Simeone’s oath-studded answer.

One-eyed Al Ives stayed in the woods
for the best part of an hour. He came
out by a circuitous route and thumbed a
ride south. When the car in which he was
ridings passed the patrol station at Grass
Valley, Ives asked for out. Tle was soon
telling a carefully rehearsed story to State
Highway Patrol Captain Joe Blake.

“These people gave me a lift about an
hour ago,” he said. “From what they said,
I figure it for a stolen car. It was a
black DeSoto with San Francisco plates.”

Ives expected to tell his story and leave.
Captain Blake -detained him, while: the
intercept) for the DeSoto flashed north.
A roadblock at ‘Truckee stopped Ma Spi-

“Next joint you sce,
I guess I drank

with One-eye?” Ma _ Spinelli

. View
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nelli and her mob high in the mountains,
near the crest of the Sierra Nevada.

Gordon Hawkins, in a gallant grand-
stand play, admitted that he had _ stolen
the car in San Francisco.

“I took it last night,” he said, “and I’ve
been on the road ever since. T picked up
these folks on the highway near Sacra-
mento. They got no idea this is a hot
load.”

His talk was convincing, and the troopers

believed him. Mike, Ma, Gypsy, and the

two boys were permitted to go. The police-
men even dug into their pockets and
came up with a few dollars which they
gave to Ma as a grubstake. Hawkins was
returned to Nevada City.

One-eye Al Ives -was brought north in
a patrol car.

they quickly realized that something was
wrong. An alarm was at once sent out
for the “hitchhiking family.”

The police caught up with Ma’s crew
in the Salvation Army shelter at Reno. By
the time the gang was returned to: trooper
headquarters in Nevada City, Al Ives had
already sealed their doom.

“They drowned Bobby Sherrard in the
Sacramento. River,” he told police, “I
figured they were going to do me in,
next—”

With the discovery of Sherrard’s body,
the authorities decided to bring the cul-
prits to trial in Sacramento County.
Frankie and Johnny, whom Ma claimed as
“the children of kin,” were placed in foster
homes. Gypsy, who had never been for-
mally adopted after being found, as an in-
fant, in a Corpus Christi garbage can, was
permitted to go free. She at once high-
tailed it to Oregon where she married’ a
fruit-farmer. One-eyed Al Ives, declared

incompetent by court psychiatrists, was ..

When the officers saw the -
look that passed between the two men, -

committed to the Mendocino State Hos-
pital for the criminally insane.

On May 29th, 1940, after a speedy trial,
Juanita “The Duchess.” “Ma” Spinelli, to-
gether with Mike Simeone and Gordon
Hawkins, were sentenced to die in the gas
chamber at San Quentin. ,

Before her death, Ma told several stories
—each purporting to be true--about her
shadowy origins. She claimed to have
been born in a Lexington, Kentucky, hobo-
jungle of a 14-year-old Sioux Indian
mother and a Scotch-adventurer father.
She claimed, also, to have worked var-
iously as a lady’s maid, a waitress, a bank-
robber, and a laundry shaker. The name
“Spinelli,” she said, was the name of a
cavalry soldier who had been her common-
law husband. Mr. Spinelli, located by the
authorities, denied this allegation.

During the week in which she was to die, .
Juanita Spinelli was granted a 30-day re-
prieve. Death waited for her until No-
vember 21, 1941. She achieved the dubious
distinction of being the first woman ever
to be executed by law in the state of Cali-
fornia. She was also the first woman in
the United States to die in a lethal gas
chamber.

Examined after her death, Ma Spinelli
was found to have carried the photos of
Gypsy, Frankie and Johnny into the little
green tank, Snapshots of the trio were
taped over her heart.

White Slaver Mike Simeone and, auto
thief Gordon Hawkins died by lethal, gas
on, November 28th, the date of execution
set by the court. One-eye Albert Ives out-
lived them by 10 years. In 1949, he was
released from Mendocino State Hospital.
Possibly the strong wine of freedom, was
too powerful a draught for him. Ele dropped ,
dead of a heart attack in Yuba City, Call- ©
fornia, in October of 1951. | Cx 71


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s a general
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ized as des-

perate and ruthless characters under any
circumstances. And as we thus saw
them, headed by Tony Brown, 4 loaded
wun in his hand, we were dumfounded.
And instinctively we knew that this day
would be one long remembered in prison
annals !

There were five guards stationed
around inside the Show Room. They
were unarmed and hurriedly attempted to
conceal themselves as Brown made the
announcement on behalf of himself and
his companions.

A few moments later they were uncere-
moniously routed from their hiding-places
by the six desperadocs, herded together
and stripped of their uniforms, which
were returned to them after being
searched by Tony's mob.

While Craig, Stokes, Burke, Crosby
and Stewart were searching for guards,
Tony Brown walked to the door and fired
a shot at the Armory Tower. The bullet
shattered a window and missed the head
of the guard on the Tower by a few
inches. A second later, this man fell dead
ahere he stood, of heart-failure.

N_ the meanwhile no prisoners other

than those attempting to escape were
permitted to leave the Show Room, Tony
and his mob held a hurried consultation.
It was decided to wire the captured
guards together, and using them as a
shield, make their escape from the Show
oom into the outer yard.

The guards were quickly wired together
and the gate unlocked with a key taken
from one of them. As they started
through the gate, Tony Brown fired over
the heads of the guards. One shot struck
Barnett Hughes, the Warden's secretary.

The prison guards promptly returned
the fire, and the six convicts, with their
human shield, hurriedly retreated within
the shelter of the Show Room. The cap-
tured guards were taken into the corri-
dor and compelled to lie down on the
floor,

In the meanwhile, the State Militia had
arrived. Machine guns were quickly set
up and tear-gas bombs distributed—to
“subdue” the “twelve hundred heavily
armed convicts”!

With a terrifying shattering of glass,
all the windows in the Show Room were
simultaneously broken, as the tear-bombs
were hurled in among US. As the noxious
fumes were released, and clouds of light-
colored smoke filled the air, most of us
flung ourselves on the floor to escape the
terrible vapors.

As it was, this tear-gas attack and our
efforts to escape by lying on the floor
saved many lives, for the gas offensive
was immediately followed by a devastat-
ing blast of machine-gun fire. In a few
seconds the picture serecn was ripped
to shreds. Woodwork and window-
frames were perforated like sponges.

This deadly gun-fire lasted perhaps ten
minutes. When it ceased, after a time
that seemed interminable to the helpless,
cowering, wretches in those stone-walled

shambles, nine men lay dead upon the
floor. Six more received gun-shot wounds
from which they died within the next
two weeks.

Such was the tragic toll exacted by, @
fatal misunderstanding due to panic, cre-
ated by the wild rumor that twelve hun-

True Detective M ysteries

dred armed convicts were attempting to
make a break for liberty !

Tony Brown and his mob had taken
refuge in the corridor where no harm
could befall them. None of these men
nor the guards were injured by the gun-
fire. The toll of casualties was taken
from those innocent of any knowledge of,
or complicity in, the attempted break.

HAT night was one of unspeakable
horror. We were helpless between
two fires. The guards would not permit
us to go out by the one door. Tony
and his fellow prisoners guarded the
other, They did, however, permit us to
carry the dead and wounded out of the
Show Room and into the hospital, where
the prison doctor was then in attendance.
The hours dragged by. We huddled
together, expecting no mercy from either
guards or fellow convicts. And then @
guard shouted through the window that
they were going to dynamite the building
unless we surrendered! At the same time
glad rumors flew around that the six
desperadoes were in telephone communi-
cation with the Warden.

Realizing there was no escape from the
predicament in which they had placed
themselves, and urged on by the rest of
us, the sextet agreed to the Warden's
terms.

At 2 A. M. on the morning of Novem-
ber 27th, gun and ammunition were
handed through a door to C. A. Larkin,
Captain of the Guards. The captured
guards were released and we—the “twelve
hundred heavily armed convicts” who had
entered that building to view a picture
show—were permitted to leave the Show
Room and go to our cells.

At once guards entered the cell build-
ing and took charge of the situation. The
men who had participated in the at-
tempted break were questioned and then
locked in the dungeon,

An investigation was held. The prison
officials wanted to ascertain from what
source the gun had been obtained. They
knew that if one gun could be brought
into the prison, another might follow
from the same. source of supply, unless
the source were discovered and cut off,

As the date set for the trial drew near,
Dick Stewart weakened and expressed a
willingness to “talk.” The Warden was
called and Stewart revealed to him how
the gun had been ‘smuggled in.

Brown and his associates then went to

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trial for the murder of the guard, Ray
Singleton. The proceedings lasted seév-
eral weeks. The jury remained out about
one hour and returned with a verdict of
“Guilty.”

The penalty was imprisonment for life!

Another murder charge was filed against
the defendants—for the murder of the
convict, “Red” Baker.

This trial lasted three ‘weeks. Dick,
Stewart was a State’s witness. The jury
this time brought in a verdict of guilty
of murder in the first degree.

The penalty was death.

The case was appealed, and in the
meanwhile the condemned men are con-
fined in the dungeon at Folsom—await-
ing the last act of _ this drama,
motivated by the reckless desperation of
six men, who staked their lives upon one
throw of the dice—and lost!

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ALBERT M. STEWAR

“ HERE may perhaps be left in him a modicum of honor.” That possibility
has been advanced by four justices of the California Supreme Court in judging
be “Jone wolf” of Folsom, one of the most peculiar criminals in modern California
istory.

In surly disagreement with that judgment are the several thousand convicts of
California’s penitentiary for recidivists—the repeaters, the hardened robbers, the
habitual felons, the men who do not hesitate to kill, the prisoners who would like to
stick a “shiv” in the body of the vicious wolf.

Albert M. Stewart is the lone wolf of Folsom. To the inmates of that grim gray
prison in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, Stewart, the man of many aliases, is
something else—the ‘‘rat,” the “prison squealer,” the man who has broken the un-
written code of recidivists: Silence.

If there is honor among thieves, Stewart is a man without honor. His word has
sent five men dangling through the gallows trap. His eighth plot for escape from the
hands of the law has been the indirect cause of thirteen other deaths.

At Folsom Prison, the authorities have had to guard Albert M. Stewart and guard
him closely—not to protect themselves and society but to protect him. He is perhaps
the most hated criminal who ever served time in Folsom—and many men have been

hated there.
The story of Folsom Prison’s bloody Thanksgiving Day riot of 1927 has been often

By HERBERT

eee

(Above) A profile study of Fol-

som’s “lone wolf”, Albert M.

Stewart, the only 1927 Thanksgiv-

ing Day riot leader to escape the
death penalty

see
meee

OT PRROIT AS. = FETE SE

oe

Thanksgiving Day in 1927. In this building alone, ten prisoners were killed and a score wounded
60

j
|
| The Folsom Prison Theater building in which twelve hundred convicts were bottled up for nearly twenty-four hours on

‘api

told in
“T-was
Holly
DETECc
But
cunnin
escape.
was shi
Albe
known
checks.
propos:
under
Thay
when h
the nar
file car:
was sel
Folsom

The)


e “f°?

—FOLSOM’S MOST

CRIMINAL

told in the columns of newspapers, in the feature stories of magazines, in the
“‘T-was-there” recitals of paroled convicts and even in the movie thrillers of
Hollywood. It was published in detail in the October, 1929, issue of TruE
Detective Mysreriss, under the title “Folsom’s Red Thanksgiving.”

But the story of Albert M. Stewart, the “four-time loser,”’ the convict whose
cunning calculations fomented the Thanksgiving Day of bloodshed, who has
escaped four times from jails and prisons, who attempted four other escapes and
was shot in one of them—this story has not been told. It is still unfolding.

Albert M. Stewart has a criminal record dating back to 1916. He is what is
known to police officers as a “paper hanger,” that is, a forger, a passer of bad
checks. At times he has. practiced burglary, usually as a preliminary step to

proposed forgery. Handwriting is his spec
under twenty different names,

ialty. In fifteen years he has sailed

Ihave Stewart’s record on the desk beforeme. It began in February, 1916,
when he was sent to the Missouri State Penitentiary on a forgery charge under

the name of Walter H. Duncan.
file card. He has been wanted i

There are twenty notations on his crime bureau
n many cities for forgeries and burglaries. He

was sent to the Preston Reform School, California, then to San Quentin, later to

Folsom.

The record shows that he escaped from the Los Angeles (Continued on page 87)

L. PHILLIPS

(Above) Governor James Rolph,
Jr., of California, who commuted
Stewart’s sentence after he had
been in the. shadow of the
noose for three years

Warden Court Smith standing beside the prison theater door, scene of the bloody 1927 Thanksgiving Day riot. It was
the Warden whom the riot leaders hoped to capture at once in order to insure safe passage outside the prison walls

61


“Dot is funny.

: and then you'll

)

liscovered that
ith their mes-
ig more or less
itch-boxes con-
illuminate the
‘annot read and
bones was con-
way to keep
might be more
om tampering
ge wires.
members of
ve seeking to
will aid the
hundred thou-
throughout the
particular in-
same _prob-
ny the Soviet.

the bezprizoni,
homeless chil-
e parents have
nd civil strife,
incipal Russian
in tar vats, in
: the city walls,
palaces, and in
‘YY was given as
probably more.
: as dangerous,
llying forth to
men, snatching
ind making or-
od shops. Wo-
) the streets at
of these packs
hat the militia
They rounded
and sent them
: ate where
ren good

v several days
boys in Col-
Soviet during
iles north from
ere were eighty
, said to be the
up from that
nity to see first
vathetic super-
it to take their
Most of these
es of ten and
leave the col-

of Russia in
y cultivate
, ingsters are
noney they
luce. Ivan,
urd can be
ound

f*e*

I talked with Comrade Trofinoff, chair-
man of the Colony and Chief Educational
Teacher, and also with Comrade Kalala-
lin who had charge of other educational
activities. This colony, like all others, is
run under the management of the boys
themselves who divide into groups of
eight or nine with commanders that are
elected. Although the instructors assist in
every way, these commanders become the
executive committee which presides over
the general meetings where rules and regu-
lations are formulated.

Most of these boys have had very
checkered careers, They have been thieves
of all kinds—professional bag-snatchers,
pickpockets and even worse—but in these
colonies their minds are kept so busy with
labor and mental culture, Comrade Trof-
inoff assured me, that memories of their
past lives are slowly fading from minds
prematurely sharpened by the hardships
they have endured,

Naked, except for a pair of trousers and
old shoes, they spend the summer months
working in their garden and taking care
of the live stock. At colony 66, Evor
and Fedor, expert thirteen-year-old bag
Snatchers, discoursed at considerable
length and enthusiasm through Madame
Olga about the thirteen cows they have
in their charge. They plan to go to an
agricultural college. One thief, expert at
stealing handkerchiefs, is most proud of
his pig, but he thinks he will become an
aviator. All of these boys are allowed to
sell their produce and keep the money.

They take care of the general store
which has goods valued at fifteen hundred
roubles; they manage the affairs of the
household. They are never beaten but are
unished by deprivation of privileges.

eing put upon their honor brings out
their best qualities and there are no
guards except the eighty-year-old peasant
Ivan. Once eighty whole roubles was
stolen from the colony. The boys held an
indignation meeting and threatened to
turn detectives. The money was returned.

I met Krool who at twelve years .of

True Detective M: ysteries

age was considered the most skillful pick-
pocket in Leningrad. is long supple
fingers could lift a roll, abstract a watch
or what-have-you with such skill that his
victims were none the wiser. But Krool
was finally caught. He was sent to boys’
correctional schools but he always es-
caped. So, finally, they sent him to Col-
ony 66.

There they learned that he was an in-
veterate gambler and had piled up a lot
of bad debts. After a few weeks at the
colony, he settled them all without com-
ment. Trofinoff tried treating him as a
human being. It worked wonders. Krool
is now of age. He has left the colony and
is learning a trade in the city. But he
hasn’t forgotten Colony 66. Every bit of
spare time finds him back there.

J 20 is putting those sensitive fin-
gers of his to worthwhile tasks.: He
is going to become a sculptor and already
the bust of Lenin which he modeled in
the colony has attracted considerable at-
tention. People who know ‘say. he shows
great promise. Krool is going to get
somewhere. There are now about four-
teen hundred of these homes caring for
these children. Most of them as in
Colony 66 are bare of equipment, now
made by the bezprizorni, themselves.
When these homes are furnished, authori-
ties learned, the boys felt ill at ease and
would run away, taking their bed cloth-
ing with them. Of the three hundred
thousand bezprizorni uncared for in the
Russian Republic proper five years ago,
only about five thousand remain in the
streets. During the present year (1933)
over one hundred million roubles will be
spent on these homes,

The views of the Russian Police and
those of other countries concerning crime
vary widely in every respect. Professor
Estrim, Chief of the Soviet Bureau for
the Study of the Criminal, which super-
vises crime prevention, control of the
courts, and the constructive care of the
criminal throughout all Russia says that

87

there can be no such thing as theft in the
U.S. 5. R According to the professor,
theft is only possible in capitalistic
countries where citizens are allowed to
own private property but not in a
country where all is state owned.

Yet if my memory does not deceive me,
newspaper dispatches from Moscow some
weeks ago carried the story of a severe
punishment meted out to an old woman
who. stole government grain. Professor
Estrim claims that crime has decreased
greatly in Russia since the Revolution,
There are no figures available upon which
to base comparisons,

Punishment as we ‘Americans under-
stand the word simply doesn’t exist.

“Under Soviet law the courts do not
sentence people to carry out the ven-
geance of society upon a criminal,” the
chief of police of Leningrad told me.
“Sentence is passed in order to protect
Society from the accuser repeating this
crime in-the future, Therefore, the de-
fendants do not have to lie or try to un-
derstate the crime of which they stand
accused. They-merely seek to prove to
the court the impossibility ‘of its repeti-
tion. They seek to show their ‘social
harmlessness’ and their possible helpful-
ness to society in the future. Therefore,
in most instances, they try to assist the
court all they can in reaching a solution
of the committed crime.

——_0—___.

The unique treatment accorded
prison trusties, and prisoners’ holi-
days in. Soviet Russia will be de-
scribed in Mr. Norris’ concluding ar-
ticle on Europe’s Untold Tale of
Crime. It’s a far cry from methods
employed in the other countries of
the world. “Extraordinary!” you'll
exclaim when you read it in the Au-
gust issue of TRUE DETECTIVE Mys-
TERIES. On sale at all news stands
July 5th. Remember the date and
order your copy early. Twenty-five
cents in the United States ; thirty cents
in Canada.

Albert M. Stewart—Folsom’s Most Hated Criminal

County Hospital while under a burglary
sentence in 1921; from an inspector at
Sacramento, California, a few months
later; from Folsom authorities in 1923,
and a fourth time in the same year at
Weed, California, while being returned
to prison.

Four other attempted escapes are noted,
in one of which Stewart, then traveling
under the name of Dale M. Martin, was
shot.by an. officer returning him to Cali-
fornia from El Paso, Texas. His career
has been colorful, as criminal careers go;
he has taken chances. ‘

Te officer who provided me with this
record, one of the most respected crim-
inal investigators on the Pacific Coast, ex-
pressed the belief that Stewart is insane.
He cited one case where Stewart staged
a daring burglary to secure papers bear-
ing the signature of a prominent business
man and then forged it, cleverly enough,
on a check. But he made the mistake
of drawing the check for so large a sum
that he could find no one to cash it.

One fact, however, stands out in Stew-
art’s record: His crimes were against prop-
erty, not life. This proves an important
factor in the Folsom mutiny and the
events that followed it. For the inside
story of the Folsom tragedy—once the
flashes of gunfire and the shambles of the
prison have been pictured—is story of
curious convict principles and twisted

(Continued from page 61)

ethics. It simmers down, in the last
analysis, to a man who double-crossed
those who double-crossed him.

In 1927, Stewart was in Folsom, serving
two concurrent sentences of from one to
fourteen years for forgery. He had tried
a break for liberty in 1924 and another in
1925. He had failed and served periods in
solitary confinement for both offenses.

At this time Stewart had a record of
seven escapes and an attempted escape.
He was determined to try again. Insane
or not, he was what some prison guards
call “a brain,” meaning a cunning convict
always on the alert for the means to a
getaway. :

His next move was the use of invisible
ink, and though Stewart was unsuccessful
in this first penmanship experiment, it is
worthy of note; for invisible ink proved a
basis for the entire Folsom uprising!

On June 20th, 1927, penitentiary of-
ficials detected the convict using invisible
ink in an attempt to communicate with
friends outside the prison. He was placed
in solitary confinement in the disciplinary
cells of the “back alley.”

In those days Stewart was not the lone
wolf. He had friends in Folsom as well
as outside. He was accepted as one of the
queer fraternity of habitual] criminals, and
he observed the code of his group. His
activities with pen and ink were investi-
gated, but he refused to talk. :

Stewart was released from solitary on

July 7th, 1927, and immediately began a
more cleverly designed campaign to get
in touch with outside help. I have the
story of that from Warden Court Smith
of the Penitentiary.

Gaining the confidence of & prisoner
whose term was soon to expire, Stewart
scrawled his appeals for help on the back
of the short termer’s outgoing letters.
Again invisible ink was used. There was
nothing to connect Stewart with the short
termer. The letters were passed. The
paper hanger’s request for assistance was
relayed on from hand to hand until it
reached its destination in the underworld.

Stewart was asking for a 46 caliber au-
tomatic pistol!

Prison investigations later reconstructed
events and established that the weapon
Stewart asked for was delivered on the
penitentiary farm, outside the main walls.

ith it was a consignment of at least one
hundred rounds of ammunition!

A TRUSTY secretly in league with
Stewart managed to smuggle the gun
and shells into the prison for him.

Now another figure enters the plot—a
younger convict than Stewart but one of
far more sinister characteristics: a “three-
termer,” with no scruples about murder.

Roy E. Stokes was fifteen years old in
1920. That year he was committed to a
Texas reform school for homicide,

Released in Texas, Stokes was arrested


ee ee ith ae ee

sold out—and, as we shall see later, he did
Johnny a great favor at Yuma).

Among other lesser known facts of
Johnny’s sojourn at Tombstone, revealed
by Mrs. Earp in her memoirs, was the
fact that the Earps had strong reason to
suspect Behan of attempts to bribe
Justice Wells Spicer into binding them
over for trial for the shooting of the
McLaurys and Billy Clanton. This is con-
firmed by an open letter of Wells Spicer
published in the Epitaph in December,
1881. In this bribery effort Johnny was
hand in glove with a McLaury half-
brother Will; a Ft. Worth attorney who
admitted later, in letters to his father,
both his financial contributions to getting
the Earps railroaded and his success in
having Virgil Earp crippled by hired
assassins, and Morgan Earp killed. These
letters are now in custody of the Arizona
Historical Society.

Most interesting, in view of the narrow
escape Johnny had, is Mrs. Earp’s rev-
elation that upon the murder of Morgan
Earp, Doe Holliday that night went on a
furious door-to-door search for either
Behan or Will McLaury, pistols in his
hands. Wyatt Earp had to take time out
from the dolorous task of seeing to his
brother’s body to get Doc in hand. As it
turned out after the coroner’s jury find-
ing Wyatt came around to Doc’s view of
how to handle the case. It is something of
a miracle that they did not settle Johnny’s
case personally. Undoubtedly only John-
ny’s position as sheriff saved him from
- the same fate as Curly Bill, Stilwell, In-
dian Charlie and Ringo, among others.
It is interesting to speculate what would
have happened if they’d caught him out
in the chaparral with no witnesses.

Though his days in Tombstone marked
the zenith in Johnny Behan’s notoriety,

some of the other vignettes that add
flavor to an appraisal of his character
and career should be mentioned. :

For example, the Arizona Weekly Miner
of Prescott, October 3, 1879 mentions one,
of Johnny’s unfortunate encounters: ,
“Hon. John H. Behan had occasion to call
at the Chinese laundry this P.M., when_
a controversy arose, leading to some half-
dozen of the pig-tail race making an
assault on him with clubs. He tried to
defend himself with a revolver, which,
unfortunately, failed to work. He re-
ceived several severe cuts about the
head.” Shortly after, he had left town
to live in Gillett. He was residing there
when he first met Josephine Marcus, the,
future Mrs. Earp.

After Johnny’s eclipse at Tombstone,
losing the shrievalty in an 1882 election,
he hung around that town practicing his
usual vocation—minor politician—and his,

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Frontier Times dune-July, 1976

usual avocation, women. The file of
“Bert” letters contains one in which she

*’ yeveals her full name as Bert Dunbar. It

also indicates that she was obviously an
employee of a newspaper edited by John
0. Dunbar. One wonders if she were Dun-
bar’s wife. I have not yet discovered
the truth regarding this, since the
official marriage records of Cochise
County list only N. W. Brunner, wed to
John O. Dunbar, Book 1-page 41-1883.
N. L. Brunner must have been Dun-
bar’s first wife, as later Phoenix, Arizona
city directories refer to his wife as Emma

Bert referred to Johnny as “dear old
brown eyes” and “darling,” wishing for
his arms around her and his warm kisses,
but the atmosphere changed with an 1886
letter which reveals that Bert intercepted
aletter from him to Carry Gregory. Her
next letter to Johnny opens “Friend
Johnny.” Apparently Johnny had ad-
dressed Carry as “pet,” for Bert acidly
comments: “I cannot say I was very
much pleased by the pet part of it but
of course that is none of my business,
you can have as many pets as you like.”
We may assume he tried.

In another of Bert’s letters dated Sep-
tember 28, 1886, probably before the one
above, as will appear, she commented: “I
spent this eve with Mrs. Gn. and A.T.
Could not be lively to save my life. A. T.
ssid he knew what was the matter, ‘i.e, I
was thinking of Johnny Behan and that
Iwas very foolish as you were one of the
most unloving dispositions he had ever
mown, that he had never known you to
be the least bit in love with any woman

| and that all you cared to do was flirt.’

He thought he was hurting me awfully,
but on the contrary he was only making
my heart glad, for my darling I do be-
lieve you love me.” So much for the en-
during gullibility of Johnny’s paramours,
The “friend” letter certainly must have
come later, though the dates do not re-
veal this positively.

ABOUT this time it is obvious from the
Bert letters that Johnny was pulling
up stakes in Tombstone. He next landed
§political job as assistant “super” of
the famous “hellhole” state pen at Yuma.
Here, among other things, he was to kill
at escapee during an attempted mass
breakout. Perhaps what is less known is
that our Johnny Behan was still addicted
ta bouts with the bottle. A news article
headed “Johnny’s Jubilee” tells about his
triving his team and buggy into a Yuma
tloon and shooting up the place. Hap-
pily for him the bartender lacked either
& shotgun, or guts enough to use it, or
} both. The customers exited through the
| Windows and Johnny ended up in the
local jail.
} Again Johnny’s connections came in
handy, Sam Purdy was by this time back
in Yuma and was prosecuting attorney.
| ke Marcus A. Smith he nolle prossed
| the case against his friend.

Johnny wasn’t in trouble again until he
refused to vacate his office, a reluctance
Which appears to have been a peculiar
} ‘ait of his. A court order finally was

Necessary.

As far as the record goes, Johnny’s
, “xt public office was as Customs Inspec-
; *f and Chinese Inspector at El Paso

from June 3, 189: to April 30, 1897. In
that same hiring record also appears in-
complete reference to a rape case in Los
Angeles in which sohnny seems to have
been implicated. The principal accused
was Edwin Mayes: the year was 1883.
This is referred tc ‘n a January 6, 1894
letter of J. B. We ~staff, Special Agent
of the Treasury “<partment, to C. S.
Hamlin Assistant Secretary of the Treas-
ury (copy in the National Archives).
There always seems just enough smoke
surrounding John Behan’s doings to
suggest some fire.

Johnny’s obituary mentions that he
was a commissary officer for the Army
in the Spanish-An.crican War in Cuba
and later in the isoxer Rebellion. One
cannot but wonder ‘f his final accounts
balanced. Further -: is indicated that he
worked as a commissary officer for rail-
roads for many years. At the time of his
June 1912 death at Tucson he was the
leading contender for the job of superin-
tendent of the Veterans’ facility at Pres-
cott—an office seeker to the end.

But he deserves a better epitaph than
that. He was obviously a man of intelli-
gence, great personal charm, consider-
able executive ability—also pliable ethics.

Two Months With California
Bandits
(Continued from page 27)

Their clothing too was very much torn
and covered with dirt and dust, and the
majority of them were very footsore. For
a long time I was afraid to ask them any
questions, going on the principle of “least
said soonest mende?,” especially as the
question of cutting off my ear, etc., was
discussed for the first time.

At last I learnec that there were some
500 soldiers around the Yosemite region
and posts on all the main peaks so that
the bandits were unable to remain near
any one spot for long. And most sur-
prising was that isolated farmers and
ranchers were for the first time not pro-
viding bread and other staples. It seemed
that California authorities were deter-
mined once and for all to rid the state of
this lawless group.

This talk about cutting off my ear was
real. To them it was the only way of
spurring up the zeal of relatives and
friends in forwarding the ransom. Once
they were apparently so nearly on the
point of doing this that I made up my
mind to cut off the top of an ear myself
in the hope of saving the remainder. I
reasoned that a piece would probably
answer the brigands’ purpose as well as
the whole ear; and if only the top was
gone I could hide the mutilation by my
hair grown longer than usual.

Once Kirby himself suggested to send
my beard “with a piece of the chin at-
tached.” And with that he broke into un-
controllable laughter—the first I had ex-
perienced in my two months stay with
him. The other bandits had a very dis-
agreeable habit of discussing before me
the best places to sirike in order to kill
me and of thrusting their long knives be-
tween my body and arms. But I tried to
meet all their threats very coolly, telling
them that they mighi kill me as soon as

Pett eee ee ee ee ee

KK OK

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57

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them had buttons attached to their col-
lars for which hoods could be fastened.
These hoods were drawn over their heads
at night or when the weather turned
cold. I must say they looked in uniform
and very handsome indeed.

A belt about three inches deep, divided
by two partitions to hold about fifty
cartridges, completed the dress, which
when new was very neat-looking and ser-
viceable. Some of the cartridges were
murderous missiles. Tin was soldered
around the ball so as to hold the powder,
which was kept in place by a plug of
tow. When used the tow was taken out,
and after the powder was poured down
the barrel the case was reversed, and a
lot of slugs being added, was rammed
down with the tow on top. It all looked
quite primitive to me in this age of fancy
new weapons, but I later learned that
this method was very destructive at close
quarters. But I also learned that this
band generally blazed at the soldiers, and
vice. versa, at such a distance that little
harm was ever done from the uncertain
aim taken.

Most of the bandits had revolvers, kept
either in belts or the left-hand pocket of
their jackets. They were secured by a
silk cord around their necks and fastened
to a ring in the butt of the pistol. Some
few had stilettoes, only used for human
victims. Some had feathers with turned
up wide-awakes, which gave their wear-
ers a theatrical and absurd appearance.
Gay silk handkerchiefs round their necks
and collars on their cotter shirts made
them look quite like dandies when these
were clean, which was but seldom. Oh,
how I yearned to take their photographs!

The two bands were in unusual spirits,
for besides myself they had just captured
Jack Jaffee, son of a landed proprietor of
the Merced-Yosemite region. For him, a
ransom of $5,000 was fixed, and $3,850
actually paid by his family. So business
was prospering. Moreover, we all had
plenty to eat—me included. And the food
lasted for nearly a month.

In spite of an occasional rich prize the
life of the bandits was one of constant
privation, exposure, and terror. It was
clear now that I, too, was being held for
ransom and someone mentioned the
figure of $10,000.

During this period my wife in a most
determined fashion traveled from Oak-
land to Sacramento and then up to
Sonora. There, she had an interview with
Wilfred Desrosiers, an ex-bandit chief
who had left off business by arrangement
with the California state government,
receiving a pardon and a pension if he
gave up his crime activities. A handsome
man with small and most delicate hands,
he interested himself considerably in en-
deavoring to effect my liberation. He
even offered to make contact with the
bands and accompany whatever monies
were paid to the brigands if the govern-
ment would grant him permission. But
state senators felt he might make one
last run for it with the ransom and there-
fore refused. During the discussions, my
wife asked him which he liked best, the
life of a brigand, or that of an honest
nan?

“Oh, that of an honest man,” he re-

oe

which picked him up (right).

plied. “A brigand’s life is this (turning
his head rapidly over one shoulder and
then over the other, indicating by this
gesture constant apprehension of an
enemy).”

Word was passed down that the ran-
som would indeed be $10,000 and that my
wife had a month to accumulate the cash.
She would hear from Kirby if she re-
mained in Sonora during the coming sum-
mer.

A few of my notes will give an idea
of the ordinary way of life my outlaws
and I lived during the waiting period:

Friday: No fire was made today on
account of the proximity of the soldiers
who disturbed the band last night. Bread
in small quantities was divided among us,
but there was no water. ...

Saturday: Some of the band arrived
with two sheep. Such a scene of slaugh-
ter, although we needed to eat the poor
beasts. I rejoiced to see them for we had
not had any meat for five or six days. I
was horrified at finding we had to eat
the meat without bread. I had secured a
heart which I roasted on a stick and
divided with my guard as I always did
with anything that I could secure apart
from the general division, or he would
not let me eat it... . We were told not
to eat all, but to reserve some for the
coming days. An hour before sunset
everything was packed away and we were
informed that a long march was before
us. I was very cold and a biting wind

Bourke’s photographs of the Weber Canon Bridge

(above) and the Central Pacific train

was blowing so that I was rather re- |
joiced than otherwise, for I dreaded
sleeping in the open air-in the damp cold
nights. I always dreaded waking up in
the morning on account of the piercing
cold.

Sunday: All morning it has been &
long up-hill walk through the forest. It
was dark and overcast and tonight I had
the greatest difficulty in following the
band. I found the best plan was to grasP
with my left hand the shoulder or muzzle
of the gun of the man before me, As we
approached the summit of the mountain
the force of the wind and the cold in-
creased. Several of those in front went on
while I was halted and told to rest.

Monday: In the middle of the day there
was one of the usual alarms, whic
proved to be caused by four or five more

of the band who had come to join us. *
With them was one of the women. She ,

had been shot right through by the acci-
dental discharge of one of their guns. The
bullet had broken the bone in two and
the arm was suspended and wrapped uP
in numerous pocket-handkerchiefs. No
food was given to us all day. I shared
{what I had] with my guard Ivan Evan-
hoe. ... I heard from the newly-arrived
outlaws that the troops were all around
us. Great caution was observed and again
I had no opportunity to escape. In the
evening, two or three of our band. as-
cended the mountain to search for snow
and in about an hour returned with .)

Frontier Time? |

_y , lear something had gone wrong. He and ea eee brat 2 ee ; i

Central Pacific Railroad

i great mass carried in a sack. We ate a
quantity of this to assuage our taste.

Thursday: We had to go two days
without any thing to eat, so a foray was
made into the nearby isolated ranches
and three sheep were brought back alive.
When they were being cut up I was much
disgusted at seeing Salter Worden,
Louis Camp, and John Murphy, who
generally acted as butchers, tearing
mouthfuls of raw meat with their teeth
from the carcasses just like wolves. I
asked them why they did not wait for it
to be cooked and they said, “Why should
we, when we are dying of hunger?”

oP « «

APART from privations, the bandits
were in continual alarm that the
Soldiers might pounce upon them at any
moment. At one time the captain went

j “a on a scouting party and was gone
hree days. During the interval Kirby
er gone we did not have one morsel of
ood to eat. When he returned, it was

PE nn in i

the party were in a dreadful state, havi
Walked the last three days and nights
incessantly without having had anything
, eat themselves. They were grievously
waite at our having no food for
: em and they vented their feelings ac-
ordingly by abusing and threatening me.
: heir eyes were red and glistening
| tom the feverish state in which they
; Were from over-fatigue and want of food.
iia (Continued on page 57)

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i June-July, 1976

PSR a eee

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Sime. t~

they pleased. I think my pluck clearly
won their admiration and most likely
their threats were never quite seriously
meant, although it was clear that they
would never have allowed me to be res-
cued alive.

Kirby kept very good discipline among
his men. Jack Todd, alias John Stewart,
was the true disciplinarian, Never would
he hesitate in smacking a fellow bandit
if he got out of line. Never did I
see any alcohol in camp. Once a bandit
had a bottle of whiskey he had taken in
the looting of a nearby cabin and Todd
had the man beaten with a strap until
blood oozed from the welts in his back.
Todd never smiled or spoke and I think
he was Kirby’s most trusted man. The
two were inseparable with the exception
of when Kirby led scouting parties down
from the camps. At that time, Todd was
in camp and the other brigands were not
only careful in how they behaved, but in
what they said.

Once Thomas Reynolds got into a noisy
quarrel with a companion. Kirby ordered
him to be quiet and as the command was
not at once obeyed, he rushed upon him,
knocked him down, and kept hitting him
and rubbing his face on the stones until
he was bruised to a jelly. And all the
time Todd eyed the other outlaws for a
sign of revolt.

It was not very easy to be merry under
such circumstances. But when, for exam-
ple, we got hold of a sheep and dared to
make a fire to roast it, the gang made a
very fair attempt at jollity, roaring out
songs and requesting one from me. They
were greatly surprised and disappointed
to learn that singing was not one of my
better accomplishments and I asked if I
might take a group picture of them. But
again the shrewd Kirby forbade it.

Meanwhile, my dear wife was making
all the strenuous exertions to raise and
bring the money to Sonora for the ran-
som. There was no difficulty in getting
the money there, but how was the ex-
change to take place? I was worried.

Almost two months had passed and I
was still with the outlaws. Although de-
pressed, I was still alive and relatively

- healthy. Finally Kirby decided to send

his trusted aide and a woman he slept
with every night, Mary O’Cammon, to
Sonora where she would quietly make
contact with my wife. I was asked to
write a lengthy letter explaining my con-
dition and asking my wife to trust Mary
and not reveal her to the authorities.

She was to be accompanied by Peter
Early, alias Charles Hamilton, who would
pose as Mary’s husband. Kirby gave them
several gold coins to live in Sonora’s
Grand Palace, the luxurious hotel of the
Mother Lode. Kirby himself wrote a mes-
sage to my wife:

I can do nothing more to save your
husband because my band requires the
$10,000 absolutely, otherwise they will
dismember him. Therefore then, with
many tears from Mr. Bourke, I intercede
and implore you to give the money to my
staff. You can be assured that your hus-
band will be returned to you in safe
manner. I am an honorable man.

58

AT LENGTH, the two outlaws made
their way into Sonora where they
were unobserved and a few days later
made contact with my wife during dinner
in the hotel’s dining room. She was so
startled and elated she rushed up to her
room where she had ever so carefully
hidden the ransom in the joint of her
brass bed. Neither the local authorities
nor the state government knew anything
about this, Within minutes she was back
in the dining room and seeing Mary head-
ing for the entrance doors quickly fol-
lowed. The exchange was made in as
blunt and simple a fashion as possible.
My wife thrust the entire amount, a large

’ bundle indeed, right into Mary’s hands.

Embarrassed, Mary looked around to see
if anyone was watching. Peter Early was
a few feet away with guns ready under
a jacket folded over. Mary said nothing
and placed the bundle of $100 bills into
her bag. She then handed my wife the
following note.

Mrs. Bourke: Proceed to Merced. You
will find your husband there in three
days. I have received from you the
amount of $10,000 in one payment for
the ransom of your husband. Captain
Robert L. Kirby, June 12, 1889

With the ransom paid, it was not a
very easy thing to get me to Merced in
safety. But Kirby had promised that he
would do all he could to keep me from
danger and I had complete faith that he
would be bound by honor as a bandit
chief to deliver me to my wife. When the
money was brought back to camp by
Mary and Peter it was fairly divided
among the gang. There had been origin-
ally twenty of them, but two had been
shot by the troops, another had fallen
accidentally over a precipice and broken
his neck, five had been captured, one
had surrendered, one had accidentally
shot herself while foraging, and three
had quarreled with the others and were
therefore excluded from any share of the
‘money, so that there were but seven to
share in the $10,000.

Me and my captors parted with all due
formalities. Kirby took off his hat and
putting some silver in it went around
making a collection so that as he phrased
it, “Mr. Bourke might travel back to
Merced and Los Angeles like a gentle-
man.” The band, most of whom were
cleaned out by gambling, were not very
liberal, I must say, whereupon Kirby took
some money from the common bag and
made up the sum of $50.

All my photographic equipment was re-
turned to me, as well as my horse and
mule. Again, I politely asked if I might
take their picture as a total group and
for the first time Kirby agreed! I was
most excited and set. up camera, but at
that moment, he was called away on busi-
ness. Again troops were in the area and
we had to depart camp immediately. That
is one photograph I would have given an-
other $10,000 to take.

Later that night, Bill Maynard, one of
the guards who had befriended me, gave
me a ring as a keepsake. Wee Willie
Thornton after some hesitation ex-
changed for my pen knife his own great

knife with which he had killed two men.
Kate McShane, who had been the most
ferocious woman of the gang, and who
was always hinting about cutting off my
ears, walked up and gave a couple of
silver coins which I accepted with thanks,
She also handed me a small loaf of white
bread and a little omelette. Then came
the final parting. Kirby asked what I
would say to the head of the militia, the :
police, and the State of California about
him and his gang.

I replied that I would say that his band
of about twenty had been a match for
an army of 1,000 soldiers. Kirby was
highly delighted, rubbed his hands with
glee, and gave me two more rings. He
said he was quite satisfied with the
amount which had been paid him and all
was well in his world. I advised him to
give up the life of the bandit since the
militia had sent and would continue to
send large numbers of troops after him.

I shook hands all around with them,
they parting with me in the most friendly
manner. Kirby wished me a pleasant
journey, waving his arm to me while
I was led away with my horse and mule
by the guide who would take me through
the mountains down to Merced. I had
been captive with them sixty-two days,
during all of which time I had never en-
tered a house. It was indeed with some
mixed emotions that I took my leave of
these most unusual men outside the law.

A day later, my guide pointed through
a clump of trees in the forest we had been
crossing to a pair of railroad tracks. He
explained that me and my animals were
to continue down those tracks and across
the nearby bridge where I would soon en-
counter the little village of Dutch Flat
Station where I could then connect with
a stage ride over to Merced where my
wife would be waiting. Parting with my
guide, I descended the slope to the tracks
and followed them as I was told. Not a
soul was in sight and I must have walked
for several hours before reaching the
Weber Cajion Tunnel.

Cheated that I had not taken any
photographs of my adventures, I prompt
ly photographed the tracks upon which
I had come and the bridge—two precious
photos which were to remain with me the
rest of my life.

After I crossed the bridge and pro
ceeded through the tunnel, I must have
walked for another four hours. Then to
my relief, I heard the whistle of a loco
motive in the distance and knew that it
would be coming down the track towa
me. Hastily, I placed my horse and mule

‘

on the track, took off my shirt, and was

prepared to wave like a madman. That
train was going to stop or run over me
When it came into view, I was thrilled
that it indeed chugged to a crawl. Al
though the engineer was suspicious that
I might be a bandit, he welcomed me an
my two animals aboard. He and his fire-
man, along with the conductor and some
passengers, couldn’t believe who I was
and what I had been through.

_My trousers were all in tatters and
hanging in ribbons at my feet. My coat
was covered with the fat and grease 0
the meat which I had to carry in the
pocket. My wide-awake was dirty and

Frontier Times

t

torn. My shirt I had worn day and night
since the capture was full of holes. My
boots were all broken and many of the
seams unstitched. And it was almost im-
possible to describe the state of my body.
I was covered with sores from the effect
of the vermin.

The engineer was kind enough to allow
me to photograph the train that rescued
me and we made our way into Dutch
Flat where a wire was sent to my wife
that I had been released and was safe. In
Dutch Flat, I asked permission to photo-
graph the train, which I had just arrived
with, entering the village.

M* REUNION with my wife was a
most memorable one. Long days of
anguish over for the two of us, and the
joy of seeing each other again was un-
like anything before experienced between
us. Then the quiet arrival back in Oak-
land with friends and an extended rest.
Word reached me in October that
Kirby and his gang, or what remained of
it, had attempted a bold robbery of a
Southern Pacific train east of Pinecrest.
They had boldly waved a white lantern
near an isolated spot and when the en-
gineer slowed down, two outlaws had
jumped aboard and captured the luckless
fellow and his fireman. After robbing
some twenty-five passengers of $250,
they scrambled off and disappeared on
foot into the Sierra Nevada.

After the robbery, the train was
backed into Mariposa and telegrams dis-
patched. It so happened that a small unit
of militia was stationed at Pinecrest,
about twelve miles from the site of the
tobbery, and within an hour and a half
were on Kirby’s trail. By 5:00 a.m., they
found the band in a box-canyon casually
sleeping off the night’s work with a fire
going! Evidently they felt secure that
ae ey give chase until that

rning. In any event, a n-fight
started which lasted throauiendt the P+
The militia consisted of some twelve men
compared to Kirby’s nine. But the nine
were reduced to seven and Kirby himself
was wounded with shotgun pellets as he
broke toward the upper reaches of the
canyon.

: That night he and the remaining six,
including Salter Worden, Eugino Osegue-
da, Jack Todd, Mary O’Cammon, and
Kate McShane, were hustled to Pinecrest
and under heavy guard to Sacramento.

Their trial in San Francisco a few
Months later was one of the most sensa-
tional of the period. I was brought before
the outlaws in court and testified regard-
ing their kidnapping of myself. But I
was also honor-bound to plea with the
jury that they treated me in a most
mane manner, in so far as _ possible,
ind that I personally admired them, if
only they could have used their energies
‘o help build a new California.

TU shall never forget the looks all gave
me when I descended from the witness
re I would not venture to say we were
nends, but the bandits seemed to ex-
Press in salt acknowledgments that they

_ proved right in not killi
‘tting off iar eae: crt oa
In any event, all were found guilty of
‘wr years of terror and murder in the

hine-July, 1976

Sierra Nevada and sentenced to death.
They were duly hanged at the Presidio
in San Francisco in July of 1890. Thus
ended one of the most unusual tales in
California bandrity.
Respectfully submitted,

Roger Bourke

Los Angeles, 1890

Mountain Of Mystery

(Continued from page 11)
plus a score of cieaned-out test holes.
At the foot of the :nountain are massive
stone foundations, and in the gulches are
abandoned ore carts, iron rails, frag-
ments of shovels, picks and carbide cans,
rusted almost beyond recognition.

On the very top of the mountain stands
a stone foundation, .:s slabs placed atop
each other without mortar like many
other walls and fouridations in the area.
The foundation consists of three rings
of rock perhaps three feet high, with an
outer perimeter of rock on one side, this
about a foot high. The whole formation
encloses several permanent boulders
which wouldn’t hay» done for a floor of
any sort. This structure is unquestionably
man-made. Old-timers remember playing
around it as children and asking their
elders the purpose of it. No one seems to
remember. Some think it may have served
the Indians in some fashion long before
the white man came, as it commands a
view of the valley and a large Indian
burial ground lies only a few hundred
yards down the hill.

Not far from this site, another and
less mysterious structure is to be found.
The stone walls of an enormous barn, the
foundations of several outbuildings, wells,
and a crumbling one-room dwelling stand
near a fair-sized lake. The lake is lined
with willows and is obviously spring fed
since the rest of the hilltop lies parched
through the summer months. The stone,
one-room house is «complete with sagging
porch, caved-in sh: ie roof and basement,
and large beams studded with square
nails. Many of the older residents of
nearby towns reme*iiber this as a dairy
farm.

At the base of #:z mountain is a neat
fenced-in yard wit*~iron gate askew, but
not a trace other “han this of human
occupancy. On thsgflat stands a great
white oak tree ben:ath which, enclosed
by a rusted iron fence, rest the victims
of the 1855 massacre. Over these vestiges
of yesterday, Quartz Mountain stands si-
lent. Though some of it is given over to
grazing land, a good portion lies un-
touched, though fenced and posted. Be-
fore entering the zrea it is advisable to
seek out the owners‘and gain permission
to cross fence lines;

Quartz Mountain’ holds little promise
today for a gold or treasure hunter. I
myself have gone (\er the mountain with
a metal detector (with permission) and
have found nothin; “but a few rusty bolts.
The flats below, and Rancheria Creek
which skirts the mcantain, are a different
story however. T)¢ creek is still quite
rich if one finds tne right pockets; and
for those interested in artifacts, I have
heard of many being turned up here. My

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Ma oa FS.


KNIFE-THROWING
Juanita Spinelli (above),
known as “the
Duchess,” picked each
man in her mob for the
job he could do—and
she expected implicit
obedience, or else .. .

CRAFTY Mike Simeone
(above) spent his time
“casing” jobs for the
gang, while “Nifty”
Hawkins. (left) supplied
them with stolen cars.

OEP TO

NSIDE DETECTIVE. Neeser. 19):0 we 5 aga memantine tear

SAID THE
DUCHESS

By MARK STEVENS

Special Investigator

for INSIDE DETECTIVE

HAWKINS, Gordon, SIMONE, Mike, and SPINELLI,
Kithel Leta, whites, asphyxiated San Cuentin
(11/21/19)1.

lamps on Golden Gate Avenue in San

Francisco’s downtown tenderloin as
three shadowy figures raced up the steps of a
dismal apartment house.

No word was spoken as one of the trio fitted
a key. in the lock and swung the front door open.
Silently they made their way up the stairs,
rapped softly on a door at the end of the hall.

Behind the door an attractive, black-eyed
woman nodded to a swarthy young man beside
her. The lights switched off, the door opened
cautiously, closed and locked behind the three
visitors. Then the woman snapped on a dim
floor lamp.

“One-Eye bumped a guy,” a pale-faced mem-
ber of the trio blurted. “He got jittery and let him have it.
Now we all get the hot seat!”

“Shut up, Bob,” the woman ordered. “Well ?” her eyes
searched the face of a second youth, brawny Albert Ives, who
had one bad eye.

“Sure I bumped him,” Ives said scornfully. ‘What of it ?”

The woman surveyed the third member of the trio. “How
did it happen, Nifty?” she demanded.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “You heard 7em, Duchess.”

“Listen,” Ives interrupted, “I bumped a guy, so what of it?
If Sherrod and Nifty keep their mouths shut we're okay. We
got away clean. When Mike cased the joint he didn’t tell us
the guy. carried a rod.”

Mite GRAY FOG curtained the street

This heartless woman's word

nbd

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you guys just sat around. So this wine is

for him. The rest of you can drink
beer.” -

Sherrard, who rarely heard praise from
anyone, beamed. The Duchess filled his
glass, and -he gulped the yellow liquid.
Simeone and the others drank beer out of
cans. :
“Hey,” said Simeone suddenly, “what’s
wrong with Bob? He's passed out on a
lousy glass of wine.” ° 2 t

That seemed true enough. Sherrard sat
slumped in his chair, his eyes closed.

“Dope,” said the Duchess laconically.
“TI doped his drink.”

“Why?”

“So you-can drown him.”

The men gaped at her.

“It’s simple enough,” she said impa-

“tiently. “Undress him. Put on his bathing

trunks, then drive out to the bridge and

dump him in the river, It'll look as if he

drowned while swimming.”

. VES and Hawkins obeyed the Duchess’
orders. At midnight the still uncon-

ously ‘tossed off the Freeport Bridge into
the Sacramento River. Thus the mob had
one less member. In a very short period
it wasn’t going to have any members at
all.

His demise was reported to the Duchess,
who received it with dry eyes. “He, was
a- silly little punk,” she said with a sigh.
And that was Robert Sherrard’s epitaph.

“We'll do a couple of quick gas station
jobs for cash,” announced the Duchess.
“Then we'll go East. I’m getting my belly
full of California.”

The bs were duly pulled. The DeSoto
was packed and the mob began a trek
toward Nevada. And at this time Albert
Ives began to worry. :

The fact that Robert Sherrard was
slightly screwy must be inferred from
hearsay. That Ives was nuts is on the
record. Three psychiatrists stated under

to distinguish right from wrong.
Now he started to get cop fever. When-

-ever he saw a uniforméd policeman he

trembled. He developed a fixed idea that
the officer could read his mind, know he
was a murderer.

Moreover, what few wits he had began
to function. This mobster racket didn’t
quite .seem what the newspapers had
cracked it up to be. His average take
was well below forty dollars a week. He
lived in cheap furnished apartments. ‘He
ate in diners, and he dressed like a bum.
His romantic life was distinguished only. by
its non-existence.

He voiced his dissatisfaction as the gang
drove through Roseville on their way to
greener pastures. He said in an uncertain
voice, “Duchess, I want out.”

Neither she, Simeone nor Hawkins, who
was at the wheel vouchsafed a reply. The
silence nettled Ives.

“You hear me?” he demanded. “I ain’t
getting anywhere in this racket. I'm going
off on my own.”

“You can’t do that,” said Mike. “Once
you're in a mob you got to stay.” Since he
was a constant reader of the more sensa-
tional newspapers, he added dramatically,
“That’s a law of the underworld.” :

“I guess I can do what I like. I want
out.”

Now the Duchess spoke. “Mike, can you
still do your hot-needle trick?”

ae Y'll jab him until he behaves him-
self.”

“And,”. put in the Duchess, “he might
remember what happened to Sherrard.” : |

Ives did remember it, and it frightened

him. True, he had been. one of the agents
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well the same evil fate could befall -him.

The car moved gradually eastward, and
Ives became increasingly afraid.

By the time they approached ‘the small
settlement of Colfax, Ives had made a plan.

In Colfax, Ives saw what he was looking
for. It was a one-story structure with a
garish neon sign announcing that. it served
food, wine and assorted liquors to the cit-
izenry. These facts didn’t impress Ives as
much as the. back door of the place, which
seemed to open on a street a block away.

Ives said, “Hawkins, stop the car a min-
ute. I want to use the toilet in this joint.”

Hawkins halted the car. Ives got out.
He walked into the tavern. Without stop-
ping he walked right out the rear, into a
yard, across a small lot to the next street.
There he increased his pace, took up a
stand on the highway and frantically wag-
gled his thumb. :

Behind him he heard the impatient honk
of the DeSoto. He looked around ner-
vously. After a while he saw the car move
off. Apparently they had tired of waiting
for him. Five minutes later an elderly
couple picked"him up. At his request they
dropped him in the town of Grass Valley.

He walked up the road until he came
to the State Highway Patrol Station on the
other side of town. He entered diffidently,
approached Captain Joseph Blake.

He said, “I want to report a stolen car.
A bunch. of crooks are driving it over to
Nevada.” sae at .

Blake looked him over carefully. “Who
are you and how do you know about this?”

“My name is Ives. I’m from ’Frisco. I’m
heading for a job in Nevada. I bummed
a ride from these people. I heard them
talking about the stolen car and a lot of

-other crimes. Then ‘they got scared that
I'd heard too much, so they began to talk’

about killing me. I got scared and ran
away. The license number of the car is
58A930.” :

Blake ran through the stolen car list and
learned that Ives was speaking the truth
in at least one respect. A DeSoto, bearing
the number he had given had been stolen
in San Francisco some time ago.

Ives stood there beaming. His plan was
simple. If he*could have Simeone, the
Duchess and Hawkins arrested he need fear
nothing from them. The fact that they
rode in a stolen car cinched the fact that
they would be arrested.

Thus far. his reasoning was sound
enough. The next step wasn’t. He had

firmly believed that once he had imparted -

his news to the police, they would pat him
on,the back, thank him profusely and turn
him loose, free as a bird. In that he was
wrong, and he discovered it as he turned
to leave the Patrol Station.

“Wait a minute,” said Blake, “You better
stick. around. I might want you to identify
these people.”

Ives wanted no fractional part of this
idea. He said, “I’m in a hurry. I got to
get to Nevada to take this job.”

“I'll. get you there more quickly than
hitching. I’m going -to call Truckee to sto
that: car. Then I’ll drive up there myself.
I'll take you with me.”. ‘

Ives protested loudly and in so doing
only succeeded in arousing suspicion. Blake
called Truckee, a town near the California
border which forms a bottle neck for
traffic through the Sierras. Then he went
out to his car, taking a most reluctant
Albert Ives along -with him.

N_ Truckee, Officer Arthur Barett had
stopped the black DeSoto. He was talk-

* ing to its occupants when Blake drove
up. Ives stared “at the: DeSoto, and his face

was ashen, a fact which Blake silently ob-_

served. .,
The Duchess regarded Ives stonily as he
and Blake approached.

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“This,” she said, from the ‘highest point
of outraged dignity, “is absolute nonsense.
This officer tells me that this car is stolen.
I know nothing about it. Mr. Hawkins,
here, a casual acquaintance, offered to
| drive us East. I assumed the car was his.”

“That’s right,” said Hawkins. “I bor-
rowed this car from a friend of mine.
Maybe he stole it. But these people with
| me know nothing about it.”

Blake indicated Ives. “What about this
hitchiker? Where did you pick him up?”

“I didn’t pick him up,” said Hawkins.
“He’s a pal of mine. He was with me all
the time. He’s a little nuts, you know.
Ain't quite all there.”

Ives caught the Duchess’ eye. There was
a maleficent expression on her face. Ives
recalled that he had seen her look like that
once before—at Bob Sherrard. He put a
trembling hand on Captain Blake’s arm.

“Don’t let them go,” he said and there
was panic in his tone., “They'll kill me.
They’re all in it together. Not only did
they steal the car, but they've killed a cou-
ple of guys.” :

“Don’t mind him,” said Hawkins with
a grin. “I told you he’s nuts.”

The Duchess made a long and bitter
speech, the general tenor of which was
that she was a respectable woman who had
never before encountered such outrageous
accusations. ‘ :
* Blake was puzzled. Obviqusly there
was something wrong with Ives. Hawkins,
of course, he would arrest—he admitted
that the car was in his possession. But the
older man and woman’ might well be in
the clear. After all, Hawkins, himself, had
cleared them. He accepted all responsi-
bility for the stolen DeSoto.

“Well,” he said after some considera-
tion, “I’ll-take you in, Hawkins. You others
can go.” .

The Duchess shot a savage, triumphant
pane at Ives. It completely unnerved

im.

“Don’t ‘let, them go!” he_ shrieked.
“They'll kill:me. They’re murderers. It’s
true; I tell you. It’s true.” Blake seemed
unimpressed—until inspiration struck the
desperate Ives.

“Look in the car,” he yelled. “You'll
find the gun. The thirty-eight they made
me kill Leland Cash with. It’s in the car

Mike Simeone groaned. The Duche
said something to Ives which caused Blah
to wonder if he’d heard right. Gordon
Hawkins shrugged his shoulders.

“All right, Barrett,” said: Blake. “We'll
take ’em all in. To the jail at Nevada
City.”

The gun was found in the rear of the
car. It was shipped to San Francisco for
examination by a ballistics expert. In the
meantime, Ives had told all about the gang,
including the story of the death of
Sherrard.

The prisoners were sent to Sacramento,
where they were examined by Detective
Martin Charles. On the same day San
Francisco reported that the gun in the
possession of the mob was certainly the
gun that had slain Cash.

OW that the damning evidence was in,
the mob went completely to pieces.
They flung accusations. and counter

accusations at each other. The Duchess
claimed that every robbery and murder had
been committed without her. knowledge.
Mike Simeone averred that the Duchess
had made a “love slave” out of him. He
never quité explained what he meant.

Albert Ives said he was crazy, and you

couldn’t send a ‘madman to the lethal ‘gas
chamber. Hawkins retained his customary
calm.

“Hell,” he said, “we were all in it to-

gether. If one of us gets it, we all ought
to get it.” ‘

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The authorities decided that the mob
should first be tried for the first-degree
murder of young Sherrard in Sacramento.
If, by some miracle. they beat that rap,
they could then be tried all over again in
San Francisco for the death of Leland
Cash. ‘ ;

In late May the quartet went to trial.
On the stand, everyone save Hawkins, who
held to his air of detachment, bitterly
blamed everyone else. In addition to plead-
ing not guilty, the Duchess and Ives en-
tered secondary pleas of insanity. ;

The prosecutor ‘agreed with Hawkins—
that all four were equally guilty of murder
no matter who had actually dumped Sher-
rard into the river.

The jury went right along with this rea-
soning. They found all the gang guilty of
first-degree murder with no recommenda-
tion for clemency. That, under California
law, made a death sentence mandatory.

The Duchess, on advice of counsel, with-
drew her insanity ‘plea. Ives, with good
reason, stuck to his. A panel of psychia-
trists appointed by the court agreed that
he was subnormal, incapable of distinguish-
ing right from wrong. Superior Judge Ray
Coughlin committed Ives to the State Hos-
pital at Ukiah, and the career of the great
gangster came to an ignominious end.

Coughlin then sentenced the Duchess,
Simeone and Hawkins to die in the lethal
gas chamber at San Quentin. The Duchess
immediately appealed on the ground thag
she had been convicted on the testimony
of a madman—Albert Ives. :

‘It was the last time the Duchess fought
to impose her will on anyone, and it didn’t
work. The courts said no. The appeal
was denied.

In October the Duchess, Mike Simeone
and Gordon Hawkins were individually es-
corted into the lethal gas chamber. Within
an hour they had joined their former
comrade, Robert Sherrard.

Albert Ives remains in the insane asy-
lum. It is safe to say that he is one maniac
who does not follow the classic pattern
of idéntifying himself with Napoleon Bona-
part. Doubtless, he thinks he is Al Capone.

Epitor’s Note: The name Martin P.
Arnold is fictitious. . ;

PITS OF HELL |

Continued from page 19

d'Olonne for the day,” Andrée told
Thélier, mentioning the name of a beau-
ful beach south of St. Nazaire. “Nathalie
has been instructed to’ take care of you—
and all the food for your diet has been
made. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

“Of course it is,” the old man said.
“How I envy you! I hope you have fun.”

As they-neared the beach they found
they would have to abandon the car a
mile or so from the shore and go the
rest of the way on foot Near the coast-
line was an area known as “Les Puits
d'Enfer”—the Pits of Hell—which was a
rugged expanse of artesian wells springing
from deep holes and crevices in the rocky
terrain.

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picked her path across the rocks. “The
Pits of Hell!”

“What a place to ditch a body!” breathed
the racketeer adimiringly. _

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Andrée said at last, “a bold one who’s
willing to travel and willing to take
chances.”

“Paris is full of them,” the racketeer
said. He thought a moment. “Does it
matter if he’s handsome—or do you have

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I

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61

MEDIA ACCOUNT oF TRIAL:

MEDIA ACCOUNT OF EXECUTION:
jor. 14 sedi a
METHOD fas Clan ber Clo: 2 25 Aon )

pee Te

a qe we FS

PERIOD OF INCARCERATION

. Fa fpeperveve j
STAYS OF EXECUTION SB--—S ~ 230 day /

EXECUTIONER

CLS ip)

| wills back was Tr Me SfeetaT

WITNESSES S pret is ) ey
| 63 DCS Prien ¢ P.@4EC Tone GS

. * bove et S al FIS4F
RITUALS Lys mw ( — hon bung ow Aer beigh7 ee Lee: C rae Aor

AcK
LAST WORDS morc CHESS fad ECEI wd bly ier Leap Oa and C
Cips moued ta pergqee aahil he Se

OTHER INFORMATION

0 hh <arlite ME Dan S00 Comur CPy gl! | Saw Yu crfin
VE pow

: . . a oe
Pi ace, Firs + be om. |
aé To dive (~ hi @ Pay ya 7 6g Hi / dearth

See # 237-23

HAW KINS, SIMONE & SPINELLI, asphyx. Calif ee tos 11-21-1941,
Qe |

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT DATA SHEET

STATE “TNVENTORY #

OFFENDER: SOURCE OF DOCUMENTATION
waME: C€yTHEL Leta Sprwellt 4 (TITLE, DATE AND PAGE#).
RACE: | ew York TIMES
* SEX; Female 5647- CO4 20: 2
¢ OFFENSE: Murder 194) 2Iv3
(DATE EXECUTED: 11/21/1441 U~ 22 -

COUNTY:

AGE: 52

VICTIM:
NAME: Roeeet Snace@aked
RACE:

SEX: Mave

AGE: 14

RELATIONSHIP :
TO OFFENDER: Wag @ me ber of her gag of petty dn ieves

BACKGROUND
INFORMATION:

DATE CRIME
COMMITTED:

DATE OF |
SENTENCING:

DAY OF THE
WEEK EXECUTED: Friday

OFFENDER
RESIDENCY:

, MEDIA ACCOUNT
OF CRIME: Mrs. GPiweLl! Too PART IN THE MURDER o¢ RoweERT SHARRARD,

Rh MEMBER oF HER OWN GANG AFTER SHE BECAME AERAID THAT HE

WouLd TURN INFORMANT ABOUT A MURDER ContTTED BN THE GANG DURING
A ResRERY. Two et Mrs. SPweeri’s wencuMen wWeee ALSO sentenced

TO DIE FoR THE murder. | | Ee boat


‘MEDIA ACCOUNT
OF TRIAL:

MEDIA. ACCOUNT
OF EXECUTION:

METHOD: Gas Chamber

STAYS OF

- EXECUTION: HER €xEcuTiew

EXECUTIONER:
WITNESSES:

RITUALS: Recewed

LAST WORDS:

OTHER INFORMATION:

WAS

Her y Commuwien

TIME: 10.14 (AM)

STAYED 3 TIMES

PM

BY THE GeovERNorR

“—- ge -

« am y

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT DATA SHEET

Cle fnvin cut
STATE INVENTORY #

OFFENDER TEETERS-ZIBULKA INVENTORY DATA OTHER SOURCE DOCUMENTATION

nk Fie &
NAME: Cilhe l Let Spivel[) ney, shale: Po3,
RACE: tay. eal Alcea Tha Datchere i ufz2fyr 202
SEX: F
OFFENSE: hur dar IS Werte 2. 2 Wortyexpep |
DATE EXECUTED: ov. 24, / 7 4/ | 1Y/
COUNTY : SAC wmeaTlo x

a’
VICTIM / O l
: clad ie 6 STand
R Hse 01 fn ae OFCUE

ce t te fe Shan hi pce) f up a [Tere] Apel $O .
RACE: \WJ
SEX: mM
AGE: lF
RELATIONSHIP
TO OFFENDER:

BACKGROUND ad pa
INFORMATION: pt eee 24 Ip oe Aiud And Purr

fo Dnq 4 cetwa 1 1d,

DATE CRIME “f 4940
COMMITTED: Ap if

DATE SENTENCED:
DAYS BETWEEN CRIME AND SENTENCING:
DAYS BETWEEN CRIME AND EXECUTION:
COUNTY SIZE:

DAY OF THE WEEK ExEcurep: Fac ay
OFFENDER RESIDENCY:

ait ae “paerracd
MEDIA ACCOUNT OF CRIME: ¢ Placltt tte Sl. Gas Pak aS
oY Hany s FarAn fA Porwacr

229 PACIFIC 31 (See) 7

FERDINAND, Jack, and SEARS, John, hanged at San Quentin (Los Angeles) on 116-1925; and
GERGERAC, John, hanged at Folsom (Los Angeles) on 1-16-1925,

"Sentenced to death for murder, Jack Ferdinand, John Sears and John Geregac are scheduled
to die this morning, Late yesterday it was understood last-minute efforts were being
made by friends of the condemned trio to have Gov, Richardson commute their sentences to
life imprisonment, but the State's chief executive indicated he will let the law take

its course, Ferdinand and Sears are in San Quentin awaiting the final hour while Gere-
gac is in the death cell this morning at Folsom, The trio were convicted in the court of

former Judge Avery last winter of the murder of Charles A, Chapman, young insurance, bro-
ker, who was killed Nov. 27, 1923, near South Park and Slauson Avenues during a robberye

According to testimony offered at the trial, the three youths started out on an expedi-
tion of banditry, hich ended in the murder of Chapman after they had previously held up
two other couples. Chapman was seated in his automobile with a friend, Mrs, Elizabeth
Bohmer, when the bandits approached in the car they commandeereed from the couples they
had previously robbed, Sears and Ferdinand crossed the street to held up Chapman while
Geregac stood on the running-board of the first car, guarding the other couples, accord=
ing to the testimony. Chapman was asserted to have been killed by a bullet discharged
from the gun held by Ferdinand, The conviction of the 3 for lst degree murder was the
first to be obtained in Los Angeles under the State law holding all accomplices in a
crime to be equally guilty. Their attorneys appealed from the verdict of the local
€ourt, but the State Supreme Court affirmed the judgment in a decision handed down last
November," TIMES, Los Angeles, Calif., 11641925 (I1#10}5%6.)

"San Francisco, Jan. 16, 1925-The State of California collected 3 lives as the wages for
one sin today when Jack Ferdinand and John Sears were hanged at San Quentin Penitentiary
at almost the same minute that John Geregac swung on the hangman's noose at Folsom Pri-
son, The 3 lives grarnered as toll for the death of Charles Chapman, Los Angeles broker,
who was killed during a holdup in Los Angeles in November, 1923; a holdup in which all 3
of the above-mentioned men took part, At the last moment, with Gov, Richardson's final
refusal to lessen their sentences still uppermost in their minds, Ferdinand pleaded for
another chance for his two companions,

"tT did the shooting,' he cried. 'Jhose two boys didn't have anything to do with that
part of it. They shouldn't be made to pay the same penalty that I have to pay.' His
entreaties fell on deaf ears. The law had entered the toll to be exacted, Ndathing

could swerve its mandate. Ferdinand and Sears ascended the steps of the death trap a fev
minutes before 10 o'clock, Both stepped firmly, They had looked into each other's eyes
for just a moment before they began the ascent, shook hands briefly but firmly, and then
walked to the rope, The trap was sprung at 10:024 a.m. Twelve and one-half minutes
later, Ferdinand was pronounced dead by the prison physician, Another minute and the
form of Sears was declared lifeless.

"At 10:08 a.m,, while the unconscious forms of Ferdinand and Sears swung limply from the
rope, the trap was sprung in Folsom that sent Geregac into eternity, He, too, faced the
hangman unfalteringly, according to reports from the penal institution, Geregac was pro-
nounced deat at 10:18, It was coincidental that, even as the three of the had planned
and executed together the holdup that resulted in the slaying of Chapman, the three of
them had paid with their last twitch of vitality within three minutes of each other.

Tt was the first double execution since Warden Frank J, Smith succeeded to his position
as head of the penitentiary, and the third in the history of the state," TIMES, Los
Angeles, California, January 17, 1925 (/6.)

"THREE WILL BE HANGED FOR MURDERING BROKER: JOHN FERDINAND, JOHN SEARS,

AND JOHN GEREGAC TO GO TO GALLOWS IN CALIFORNIA - San Franciso,

Jan. 16 = Three men will go ®AB to their deaths on the gallows today for

the murder of one man, All were convicted in Los Angeles a year ago of )
the murder of Charles A. Chapman, an insurence broker, who was slain dur-
ing an attempted robbery. The condemned men are John Geregac, 28

years old, who will be hanged at Folsom prinen; John Ferdinand, aged 30,

nd FPR RESTE* pBEPa ate who will die at the same time on the San

DISPATCH, Columbus, Ohio, January 16, 1925


ey Scan 7 LE py Loe

Cont Hf, YG 29. ET. deu., USSC LOY 29.
Bu Dy, see hoo oe ee ae
tur Kad Zo hana Gettlhe eter

Killed in riot: (1)Ray Singleton, Assistant Turnkey; shot and Gtabheds:

(2) Charles Glase, Guarid, who fell dead from heart trouble due to excitement; ie
Tom Wagalo, convict from Sacramento.Co,, serving 25-years, Shot in backs
gous Repola, convict, Santa Clara Co., died after leg shattered by bullets &

amputated;
Ww. H, Barrett, convict, Inyo County’ shot in the head;
Pedro Perez, convict, Los Angeles County;
Yonrad J, Betz, convict, Santa Clara Co,, shot in chest;
Carl W. Nelson, convict, Shasta County;
John RX Doucas, convict, Alameda Coss wounded in abdomen and chest;
(10) John Brown, convict, San Diego, shot in chest; _ :

and (11) George Baker, convict, serving life from 4 ameda County, shot in back.
(12) Frank A. Carlson, convict, 10 years embezzlement, Ventura Co,, subsequently
died from wounds


ee We P, Smith, valter Rittle and tylke aatny. :
Ganwokthegg [btu Crerament ) Wij0-/930
Convict

nes e Zt: ce site ¢

(Sacrfmento, fobbery in lst degree)

ee from Texas Pen., sentenced to
Durdirn. |Web L722
Legeiel Day
Let :

SYNOPSIS

Gregg had killed Constable George Boyle of Kingsburg in a shobting affray in Kéngsburg garage on
night of Nov, lh, 192h, after Gregg and two companions escaped from prison guards near Chowchilla

-

and terrorized the San Joaquin Valley in a series of depradations, es

AGE ee METHOD

Chronology of riots:

5s in the main

cellhouse overpovered guards in an attempt to escape at 114M, ‘
In the ensuing riot, one guard was slain, his body mutilated and three other guards wounded,
Five other guards in the cellhouse were taken prisoners by the mtinying convicts and Warden Court
Smith was avirtual prisoner in his office. 5 :
At_11:h5 “overnor Young, informed of the outbreak by the warden, called out the militia and helped
mobilize a large force of pe-ce officers, The national gaurd troops from Sacramento, Stockton ,
Woodland, Marysville and Yuba Lity were mobilized, Mafhine guns were ordered from San Francisco,
Los Angeles and other National guard armories,
+.—R,-Heron-and-B,_3, Meek, state-cabinetofficers and Chartes Neumitter, President of tte Prison
Board arrived on the ground to direct operations, Former Warden James A, Johnston was called.

2 30 PM ol. G 2 ice j ad : VW. ~e Mo

In the following skirmish, Barnett Huse, the warden s secbetary, w Over 200
shots were exchanged, Dr, Day, a prison physician, who was admitted to the cellhouse to treat the
injured, reported 6 convicts dead and 17 wounded in the fray, Convicts refused parley on basis that
they first go back to their cells,
Light cannon from Sacramento and war tanks from Salinas were ordered in aid in further attacks upon
prisoners, As darkeness settled over the gray prison, the attackers placed the cellhouse in a state
- =) p s a e
one of the captive guards in the cellhouse was thrown through a window in a badly bruised condition
convict died from his wounds, Charles Gilliese, eldest XAMKAXXXXKME guard at the prison, dropped me
dead from excitement./
As dawn came mass@d guards and militia prepared for a final assault upon the cellhouse behind armored
tanks and light cannon, the convicts agretd to an unconditional surrender, The remaining four
guards within the mexxpmx cellhouse emerged with the convicts arms and ammuntion, The convicts were
then returned to their cells and the riot was over, Three convicts in addition to the six killed
outright died this morning, bringing the death toll to ll, 2 of wiom were guards, - Movie being
showed was "Ankles Preferred." Weapons had been smuggled in, Four guards held hostage until
surrender, Guard Singleton had been shot and then disemboweled but managed to crawl out of cell
house and died, BEE, 11-2) and 11-25-1927

TRIAL

APPEALS

LAST WORDS

2 tt 5), : se se "


Ting eee” tiie vanes Dale) aA a

4

Do & MEANS

AFL IFO

Mibreg (alias Jack Harris eT ae — cITY OR cou
he wh lrkea Eddie Stokes) Poy epee. ZL

rlasni ( N

DOB OR A RACE oc UEATION :
3/7 JH |. wmnite Vo pia las ree

RECORD Brown serving 15 years for robbery, from San Francisco’
*. Stokes, per ELArD. lst. degree, four consecutive counts of Sy

bes years | and continuance of StoLife

WAR GI VIA OTHER

U- oh af RAI

(tos Angeles >}

iy

Brown confessed to pnahtode. a ay and it was 4 pels ved that he fired bullet that killed Baker
Guard x re ted

hot

d killed Singleton. tule

et

beige:
ite

eiNgaee
Rena iagcere,

Other convict charged as leader was ‘Albert Stewart, a Los Angeles forger.

Others had planned

=i 3 a. 4. 4.
, and Stewart joined in _whn riot begarie

Photos of ati Brown and Gregg on page nine of BER, 11-26-1927; aA fete AE (Guard heard Stokes

eling. ) 11=29=1927

™“

APPEALS

LAST WORDS y

Fim FF an. CAO: sy "Mei

EXECUTION

acence Lat 1-3-/%3O

K NEWION Office ALAR i

-


try to save the woman he loved. He got
only as far as Beaumont, where he was
retaken and returned to prison.

“That guy is king of my heart,” Toni
Jo said in a ‘farewell interview. “No-
body ever really cared about me: until
he came along.”

Of her crime, she had this to say:
“It was like being drunk. Ever pull
something when you were drunk that
seemed like the cutest, smartest thing
in the world, but was the awfullest?
Well, me, I was drunk with pressure.”

Noon on Nov. 28 finally came, and
it was time for Toni Jo.to go. Her only
squawk was that her black locks had
been shaved for the electrode. To cover
the bare spot, she wore a gay babushka
to the execution chamber.

She was, like Calloway, saying a

. prayer when the big jolt struck.

Four months later, despite her at-
tempts to take all the blame for the

Calloway murder, Arkansas Burks. fol-*

lowed her to the chair. |

DUCHESS SPINELLI —
(Continued from page 14)

for crime.

Young Hawkins was one of her
pupils. Albert Ives, 23, blind in the left
eye, the son of an insane imother, was
another, and Robert Sherrard, an 18-
year-old fugitive from a home for the
feeble minded was still another of her
brood.

It was Hawkins who gave. Juanita
the name of “The Duchess,” because
she ruled the growing coterie ’ of
fledgling crooks with the high hand of
a feudal “noblewoman. She got Mike
Simeone to come West from Detroit

‘ and serve as her chief lieutenant in
. planning jobs and training her young

punks in carrying them out.
At first their targets were autos,

helpless drunks and easy burglaries.

Then, early in the morning of April 8,’
1940, they struck out in the big time,
a real holdup with guns, the heist of

Leland S. Cash, 55-year-old manager -

of a roadside barbecue stand near
Golden Gate Park.
Nightly, at closing time, Simeone had

seen Cash lug bundles out to his Car. ,
- both Martha and William Place would

It was, Mike assumed, the night’s re-
ceipts. Actually the parcels. contained
only food that Cash and his wife took
home.

The stickup was entrusted to Ives.
Sherrard was in a getaway car nearby,
Simeone and Hawkins in still another,
machine, down the block.

Ives put the gun on Cash, who, hard

‘of hearing, did not even realize he was

being held up. He reached for his hear-
ing aid arid Ives, unnerved, pulled the
trigger and Cash fell with a lethal slug
in his belly.

The Duchess was furious over -the
murder, and she was scared. The gang
blew San Francisco and holed up in
Sacramento. It was there that the un-
stable Bobbie Sherrard went to pieces.

“He'll bag us all,” Hawkins said.

“Yeah,” Ives said, “he’s: already told
his girl friend about me bumpin’ the
guy. Next thing, he’ll be singin’ to =

50

llctiesitines

cops.” !

There was long. aususkion on how’
to muffle Bobbie. They finally knocked
him out with a Mickey Finn, dressed
him in swimming trunks and dumped
him off a bridge.

“Somebody’ll fish him out in’a day
or so,” The Duchess said. “Chances are -
the coroner will mark it up as an acci-.
dental drowning, but we better not be
around—just in case.”

She, Mike, Hawkins, Ives, Gypsy
and the two boys set out for Reno.

Now it was Al Ives who started com-
ing apart at the seams. The others no-
ticed, and Al, seeing Hawkins 4nd
Simeone whispering together, remem-
bered what had happened to Bobbie
Sherrard, gave his pals the slip. and
blew the whistle on them to the cops.

The Duchess, Simeone, Hawkins and
Ives were tried for the murder of young
Sherrard..On May 29, 1940, all were
convicted. Ives was committed to a

hospital for the criminal jinsane, the

others were. sentenced to die in the gas
chamber at San Quentin. |

Juanita was ‘the first woman ever.

sentenced .to die in California. To
months of sentimental controversy, pro
and con, fover her fate, The Duchess
added confusion with varying accounts
of her past. ss,

Through appeals, she succeeded in
delaying execution of the death sen-
tence for a year and a half, but finally,
on the day after Thanksgiving in 1941,
time ran out for her,

She walked calmly into the gas cham-

ber, spurned a blindfold and died quiet- ©

ly and swiftly in the lethal fumes, Over
her heart, the autopsy surgeon found
taped photographs of the girl and two
boys she had claimed as her own but
who, in a. note penned just before her

death, she said were the children of’

others.
A week after she walked her last

mile, Gordon Hawkins and Mike .

Simeone died side by: side in the gas
cell.

_ And Albert Ives, released from the
mental institution in 1949, perished of

a heart attack two years later. Fe

MARTHA PLACE

(Continued from page 15)

the police began looking immediately
for the maid—and for pretty Ida Place.

They found Ida, after crashing
through a locked door, in her own bed-
room. She had been strangled, but be-
fore her death her attacker had flund
a searing concentrate of carbolic acid
into her face, burning her features ant
ribly,

The maid was traced through: an
expressman who had called at the Place
home to-cart away her trunk. She told
detectives of her sudden dismissal on
Monday. And shé added that she had
noted a strong odor of carbolic in the

house all that day.

Ida, according to medical findings,
had been dead for about ten hours
when her body was found. The maid

Said she had tapped at: the’ girl’s door ~-

to say goodbye on Monday afternoon,
but there had been no answer, and so
the servant had departed without mak-
ing her farewell.

Within a few days, doctors said that

recover. And by the time Place was
able to talk coherently,: the cops. had
unearthed information tending to show
that his life with Martha had been any-
thing but happy; only about a year
earlier he had haled her before-a mag-
istrate because of her threats’ of, vio-
lence to Ida, but a reconciliation had
been effected at that time.

“My wife tried to kill me,” the hus-
band related once he had fully regained
consciousness.

He told of returning home and of
Martha’s attacking him with an axe. ~

“We often quarreled, bitterly,” he
said. “About-Ida. About Martha’s ex-
travagance. She ran up execessive bills.
When I cut down on her, she screamed

“at me: ‘I want my money. If you don’t
\give it to me, it’ll cost you ten times
_ more.

The picture seemed plain ccaae to:

the police.

Her hatred of her stepdaughter had
moved Martha Place to fling acid into
the girl’s face and then to strangle her.
Next she had gotten rid of the maid.
Then she. had set upon her husband
when he came home.

She: had doubtless realized that his
screams would have alarmed the neigh-
bors and, leaving him for dead, most
likely had tried to kill herself with gas.

Martha admitted felling her husband
with an axe, but insisted it was in self-
defense. She conceded she had thrown
“some salts” at Ida, but denied having
used acid. Finally she also admitted
having flung an acid at the girl, but
insisted it was merely a weak solution.

Richly garbed in ‘silk, Martha Place
sat calmly, almost indifferently through
her trial for murder in the summer of
1898.

She testified in her own behalf, plead-
ing extreme provocation in her axe
attack upon her kusband and the use
of acid against Ida.

The jury’s verdict was guilty—with no
recommendation for mercy.

Martha Place was sentenced to death
in the electric chair, the first woman
to be so doomed in the state of New
York. \

There was a loud outcry: against the
employment of this new form of execu-
tion on a’'woman. A direct appeal was
made for clemency to Teddy Roosevelt,
newly elected governor.

But Roosevelt said: “The law makes
no distinction of sex in such a crime.

' I decline to interfere.”

Wearing black; her hair skillfully ars
ranged to cover the shaven spot where
the electrode would make contact,
Martha Place ‘was strapped into the

‘squat oaken chair at Sing Sing prison

the night.of March 20, 1899.

And there she paid the penalty for
the slaying of the stepdaughter whom
she had pretended to love but had, in-
deed, mortally hated. a

_ POLICE DRAGNET CASES

\

EVA DUGAN

(Continued fr
automobile to
Missouri. She
await the arri
'-When the :
denied all kr
appearance.
“He owed
said. “When }
the car. Since
in his name I

.in order to se!

McDonald
thirty second:
had never bee
anything. Ev:
to Arizona, t!
Mathis’ car.
year sentence

The sheriff
for Andrew
of laborers t«
and on Feb
labor was re
exhumed in
hind the Mat

Mathis” de
of the skelet«
that these w
Mathis. Eva
her cell, ch
found guilty
hang.

While her
appeals, Eva
elaborate sh
manded a 2
porters—the
buy her an
appeals fail.

Public sy:
her side anc
sonal friend
Wright.

Finally, al
The parole
mend cleme
without that
ernor could

On _ Febn
Dugan climt
gallows—the
history to dc

The hang)
his professi
woman bun;
was sprung
snapped fro:
nesses faint«

She was t
and an ever
of her hus
funeral. No
drew Mathi

LADY COP
(Continued
2,200,000,

last year re:
tution and

and other s
there isav
tives, who |
ment’s: auth
work under
couldn’t ha
they are cc

POLICE Di


Queen of the Deadly Drones

took refuge in silence, and would tell the
officers nothing about his association with
Hawkins. He maintained he had never
been arrested before. He was an orphan,
he said—his mother had died in an insane
asylum. He had roved around California,
picking up odd jobs.

Thus matters stood when word of the
arrest of the two young auto thieves
reached authorities at Sacramento the
next morning. At the highway patrol
headquarters and at the police station, the
news created a stir. The San Francisco
police had been constantly checking with
Sacramento officers on the Cash case, ever
since the anonymous phone call, and the
latter knew of the San Francisco drive
on stolen cars and holdup men.

Anxious to cover every possible angle,
Highway Patrol Investigator Harry Hen-
dricks sent a message to Truckee to pick
up Mrs. Spinelli and Simeone for further
questioning. It was entirely possible, he
thought, that they were not what they
seemed; and until the whole story of the
auto theft was satisfactorily explained, he
wanted them in custody.

APTAIN BLAKE and his men learned
in Truckee that the man and woman,
after leaving the restaurant, had been
picked up by a large sedan driven by a
young girl. They had headed for Reno.
It was the work of a few hours for the
Reno police to locate them, staying in a
Salvation Army shelter. They found not
only Mrs. Spinelli and her common-law
husband, but the woman’s nineteen-year-
old daughter by a previous marriage—
pretty Lorraine “Gypsy” Spinelli, and Mrs.
Spinelli’s two young sons, aged fifteen and
nine.

“Lorraine was following us in another
car,” Mrs. Spinelli explained. “We forgot
to tell the officers about it at Truckee. She
picked us up there. There’s really nothing
further we can tell you.”

The Reno police explained that they
were simply wanted for further routine
questioning about the activities of Haw-
kins and Ives, the suspected car-thieves.
Mrs. Spinelli and Mike Simeone finally
signed waivers of extradition and allowed
themselves to be taken back to California.

Mrs. Spinelli and Simeone, and also the
two youths held at Nevada City, were
brought to Sacramento for questioning by
highway patrol officers and the city police.
They had admitted having stayed in
Sacramento for several days, and the De-
tective Bureau was interested in the ac-
tivities of the strangely assorted crew. |

Mrs. Spinelli loudly protested against

(Continued from page 43)

what she termed an outrage.

“I’m a respectable woman,” she told De-
tective Martin Charles. “ Big each and
sons are with me. What right have you to
arrest us, just because we happened to fall
in by accident with a couple of young
criminals?”

“Don’t worry,” Charles assured her. “It’s
just a matter of answering a few questions.
If everything is as you say it is, you have
nothing to Year; and we'll let you go on
your way.”

Detective Charles admitted later that
when he started grilling the four prisoners
he believed that they were nothing more
than petty criminals, if indeed Mrs. Spin-
elli and Simeone were guilty of anything at
all. It was simply the suspicious looks of
the whole outfit, and the strange behavior
of Ives, that caused the officers to question
them so thoroughly.

They concentrated on Ives, the one-eyed
youth, who had by this time told three or
four conflicting stories of his association
with Hawkins and the others.

Hendricks, Charles, and Detective Ser-
geant Perry Gamble faced the frightened
Ives in a grim-faced ring.

“You might as well tell us the truth,
Ives,” they insisted. “You're scared stiff,
and you’re hiding something. It won't
do you any good. Tell us everything, and
we'll see that nobody hurts you. Tell us
in the first place, why you jumped out of
the car and went to Captain Blake. That
story about their picking you up won’t
hold water. You’ve known them for a long
time. Now, why did you want to have
them arrested?” ‘

Ives broke down after an hour of this.

“They were going to kill me!” he wailed.
“Don’t let them get me! They were going
to torture me with a hot needle!”

“We won't let them hurt ow Ives. Now,
why did they want to kill you?” |

“T guess—I guess they were afraid I’d

”

“Talk? About what?”

“About the whole thing. About what
we did to Bob Sherrard. Bob talked too
much, and we took care of him. I was
afraid I’d be next. I know I was going to
be next—”

“Talk sense. Who is Bob Sherrard, and
what did you do to him?”

“Bob—he was one of us. He was scared,
and he was talking too much about that
man we killed in San Francisco. So we
decided to get rid of him, and we threw
him in the river.” ;

That was the beginning of it. Words
poured out in a torrent, and in a few
minutes the startled detectives knew that

San Quentin Prison. Arrow points to building which houses the lethal gas chamber

114

they had solved not only the murder of
Leland Cash but apparently an unknown
number of murders and other crimes. They
had visions of uncovering a murder syndi-
cate like the one that flourished in
Brooklyn.

They flashed the word to San Francisco,
and Inspectors Engler and Husted sped to
the capital to aid in the questioning.

As soon as she was confronted with Al-
bert Ives’s story, Mrs. Spinelli burst into
a torrent of denials; then, hopelessly in-
volved, she corroborated his confession
and tried to throw the major blame on
the others.

One by one the mobsters confessed.

The picture unveiled was that of an
unnatural mother, an Amazonian woman,
who set out to be the gangster queen of
the West, and led her oddly assorted gang
from one crime to another, culminating
in two murders,

“The Duchess,” they called Juanita
Spinelli. That was what they had called
her back in Detroit, where she had made
her home after her bank-robber husband
was killed in Mexico. She had been in-
volved with the Purple Gang in Detroit,
and for a time acted as finger woman in a
laundry racket.

The story, as the weary detectives pieced
it together from the dovetailing admissions
of all the prisoners, was this:

Mrs. Spinelli had come to California
with Mike Simeone—a former white-
slaver—early in 1940, with the idea of
operating a “blitzkrieg” crime gang for a
few months and returning wealthy to De-
troit. In San Francisco, they had re-
cruited the nucleus of the gang—Albert
Ives, Gordon Hawkins, and Robert Sher-
rard, three slow-witted youths, anxious to
become big-timers.

Hawkins was an expert auto thief, Ives
was the mob’s trigger-man, and Sherrard
did the general dirty work. Mike Simeone,
with his superior knowledge, cased the jobs
that the Duchess picked out for him.

was obvious that the Duchess had be-
lieved there would never be any danger
to her from the three jittery youths—that
they on the contrary could be thrown
to the law as sacrifices any time the chase
got too hot, or killed if they talked too
much. But Ives’s overpowering fear had
turned the tables.

In San Francisco, they started on a
career of filling-station holdups, Ives doing
the trigger-work in cars stolen by Hawkins.
They “rolled” several drunks in night-
clubs. It was Mike Simeone who decided
they should knock over the Fat Boy Bar-
becue—an easy job with plenty of loot, or
so he believed.

He had cased the job, just as the police
had suspected, and was sure that Leland
Cash carried the money home nightly in
his car.

“The Duchess told us—Sherrard and
myself—just what to do,” Ives related.
“She gave me a gun, and showed me how
I could knock the barbecue man cold with
the butt of it, if he resisted. She ex-
plained just where to hit him.

“We drove out there that night, and
Bob waited half a block away, with the
motor rynning. I went up to the stand
and poked the gun at Cash just as he was
reaching for the door of his car. I told
him to put up his hands—that it was a
holdup. He didn’t seem to hear me, and
I thought he was going for his gun. I
read later that he was only reaching for
the switch to his electric ear. ;

“Anyway, I got rattled, and I shot him
and ran away. The Duchess was terribly

TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES

mad at me, a:
while. Finally
drove up to §;
Quinn being ar
Gypsy Said we
man take the |
made that tel
I guess you k;
The Duches:
the death gun
should be futu
more innocent ;
cealed in the
The murderc
holdups around
to move on
Duchess promis
three youths j
Eastern gangste:
having a bad tin
Is part in th
talked of it in
shouted at him

‘ E were afr:
and he wa:
way,” Ives said
decided to get ri:
ing him out in
but she said tha
boy and we sho

here was son

of the confession

bers of the gang
errard.

“It was Ives y
Bob,” the Duche
to be head of th
if I didn’t obey |
want to have a
agreed,”

At any rate, al
what had happ«
There was a grote
of the Sacrament:
tried to coax §
across the river,
of a swimmer. a
would drown if |
fused to try it <
coaxing,

Back at the
Duchess slipped a
out potion—into &

“When he passec
don and I took him

out he was drunk.
port Bridge, down
his clothes and dre
trunks, so that peo
an ordinary drowni)
over the rail and I

The next day the
the murder gang st
trek, This time, it

ting jittery.
“T_ knew too mu
asa and they
ves said. “I could
Mike whispering ab
me. §So, the first cl]
from them and went
think I’d be arreste
away and all the re
caught.”
That was the stor,
and what had come ¢
The detectives gr
mobsters about other
murder of the soldi,
enied any connectio
The more the five
more they accused es
shift the blame. But
the story were plain.
_Sacramento and S;
ties conferred, and jt
the gangsters first in
killing of Sherrard—:
this time been recove
Since the case on th

DECEMBER, 1940


murder of

unknown
mes. They
der syndi-
irished in

Francisco,
ed sped to
yning.

d with Al-
burst into
velessly in-
confession
blame on

fessed.

that of an
‘an woman,
‘y queen of
sorted gang
culminating

ed Juanita
had called
e had made
yer husband
ad been in-
- in Detroit,
woman in &

ctives pieced
ig admissions
us: .

to California
yrmer_ white-
the idea of
.e gang for a
ealthy to De-
hey had_ re-
gang—Albert
Robert Sher-
hs, anxious to

ito thief, Ives
and Sherrard

Mike Simeone,
cased the jobs
for him.

ichess had be-
be any danger
» youths—that
ld be thrown
time the chase
iey talked too
ering fear had

started on 4
jups, Ives doing
len by Hawkins.
‘unks in night-
me who decided
ie Fat Boy Bar-
lenty of loot, or

ist. as the police
ire that Leland
yome nightly in

—Sherrard and
” Jves related.
showed me how
e man cold with
‘sisted. She ex-
him.
that night, and
away, with the
up to the stand
sh just as he was
; his car. I told
js—that it was @
to hear me, and
x for his gun. I
only reaching for
> ear. .
4, and I shot him
chess was terribly

TECTIVE MYSTERIES

a

mad at me, and we had to lie low for a
while. Finally we stole the DeSoto and
drove up to Sacramento. We heard about
Quinn being arrested, and the Duchess and
Gypsy said we shouldn’t let an innocent
man take the blame. So Gordon Hawkins
made that telephone call to the cops—
I guess you know about it.”

The Duchess had insisted on keeping
the death gun with them, in case there
should be future need of it, to clear any
more innocent suspects. It was found con-
cealed in the car.

The murderous crew attempted a few
holdups around Sacramento, then decided
to move on to the East, where the
Duchess promised she would educate the
three youths in the ways of big-time
Eastern gangsters. But Bob Sherrard was
having a bad time of it; he couldn’t forget
his part in the Cash murder, and he
talked of it incessantly till the others
shouted at him to shut up.

‘

‘ E were afraid he was going to squeal,
and he wasn’t much good to us any-
way,” Ives said in his confession. “So we
decided to get rid of him. I was all for tak-
ing him out in a field and shooting him,
but she said that after all he was only a
boy and we should kill him painlessly.”

There was some confusion in this part
of the confessions, as to just which mem-
bers of the gang had insisted on killing
Sherrard.

“It was Ives who said we had to kill
Bob,” the Duchess claimed. “He wanted
to be head of the mob, and he said that
if I didn’t obey him he’d fix me. I didn’t
want to have any more trouble, so I
agreed.”

At any rate, all their stories agreed on
what had happened to Bob Sherrard.
There was a grotesque picnic, on the banks
of the Sacramento River, at which Gypsy
tried to coax Sherrard into swimming
across the river. The youth wasn’t much
of a swimmer, and the others knew he
would drown if he tried it. But he re-
fused to try it despite all kidding and
coaxing.

Back at the hotel that night, the
Duchess slipped a Mickey Finn—a knock-
out potion—into Sherrard’s whiskey.

“When he passed out,” Ives said, “Gor-
don and I took him out to the car, making
out he was drunk. We drove to the Free-
port Bridge, down the river. We took off
his clothes and dressed him in swimming-
trunks, so that people would think it was
an ordinary drowning case. I dumped him
over the rail and I guess he drowned.”

The next day the remaining members of
the murder gang started on the Eastward
trek. This time, it was Ives who was get-
ting jittery.

“T knew too much about both of the
murders, and they were afraid I’d talk,”
Ives said. “I could hear the Duchess and
Mike whispering about how to get rid of
me. So, the first chance I got, I escaped
from them and went to the cops. I didn’t
think I’d be arrested—I thought I’d get
away and all the rest of them would be
caught.”

That was the story of the Cash murder
and what had come of it.

The detectives grilled the frightened
mobsters about other crimes, including the
murder of the soldier, Binion, but they
denied any connection with that case.

The more the five prisoners talked, the
more they accused each other and tried to
shift the blame. But the main details of
the story were plain.

Sacramento and San Francisco authori-
ties conferred, and it was decided to try
the gangsters first in Sacramento for the
killing of Sherrard—whose body had by
this time been recovered from the river—
since the case on that count was more

DECEMBER, 1940

complete against all of the mob than was
the Cash case. If they should escape the
death penalty in Sacramento, the San
Francisco officers were determined to bring
them to trial again in the bay city.

Mrs. Spinelli, Mike Simeone, Albert
Ives, and Gordon Hawkins were booked
on murder charges. Lorraine “Gypsy”
Spinelli was not prosecuted, since she was
a minor and the detectives believed that
anything she might have done was per-
formed under the complete domination of
her mother and that she was not respons-
ible. Nor were any charges made against
her two brothers. She was held as -
material witness, in the Juvenile Deten-
tion Home along with the two small boys.

On April 23rd, the county grand jury
indicted the four prisoners for the murder
of Sherrard. They pleaded not guilty, and
in addition all but Simeone entered sec-
ondary pleas of insanity.

They went to trial late in May. From
the stand, they accused one another so bit-
terly that they literally talked themselves
out of whatever defense they might have
had. The prosecution told the jury that
all four were equally guilty of first de-
gree murder, though Ives had been the
one whose hands had pushed Sherrard over
the rail into the river.

On May 29th, the jury, after brief de-
liberation, found all four guilty of first
degree murder, with no recommendation
for leniency—which made the death sen-
tence mandatory. Hawkins and_ the
Duchess withdrew their insanity pleas. On
the testimony of alienists, Albert Ives was
pronounced insane, and not capable of
distinguishing right from wrong. The
Duchess appealed for a new trial on the
ground that Ives, the principal witness
against her, was insane; but it was denied.

Superior Judge Ray Coughlin committed
Ives to the State Hospital at Ukiah, and
sentenced Mrs. Spinelli, Mike Simeone, and
Gordon Hawkins to die in the lethal gas
chamber at San Quentin.

TR two men were taken immediately
to San Quentin and Mrs, Spinelli to the
Women’s prison at Tehachapi, to await
execution. At this writing, no date for the
execution has been set, pending the out-
come of their appeals to the State Su-
preme Court, which are filed automatically
in cases where the death penalty is im-
posed.

Authorities at this writing are endeavor-
ing to find homes for Gypsy Spinelli and
the two boys, to erase the memory of the
fate of their mother.

Duchess Spinelli, if and when she dies
in the lethal chamber, will be the first
woman ever legally put to death in Cali-
fornia. Back in 1851, a Mexican girl was
lynched by a mob of angry miners at
Downieville, for stabbing a drunken miner
to death; but this was an extra-legal
execution.

In 1910, Emma LeDoux, who murdered
her bigamous husband at Stockton and
stuffed his body in a trunk, was sentenced
to be hanged, but she won a new trial
and a life sentence. In 1934, Nellie Madi-
son was doomed to be hanged for the
murder of her husband at Burbank, but
on Governor commuted her sentence to
ife.

If the Governor does not intervene, it
is likely that Juanita Spinelli will be ex-
ecuted at San Quentin sometime: this fall
—the first woman ever legally executed in
California, and the first woman anywhere
to die in a lethal gas chamber.

Cash for Your Opinions
See Page 94

Singing Axe-Swinger
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115

Bw

HAWKINS, SIMONE

e

SPINELLI, executed Calif

Toni Jo Henry

NNIE BEATRICE McQUISTON was only eight
when tuberculosis robbed her of a mother. She
was but six years older when, in revolt against
a drunken father, poverty, a stepmother and a
houseful of half-brothers and sisters she ran away,
never to return.

She was a seductively slim girl, with dark, lambent eyes,
a shimmering treasure of raven tresses and full, red, sen-
suous lips, a girl both physically and temperamentally well
equipped for the calling in which she. was entrenched before
she was 16—that of a prostitute.

Up and down her native Louisana and in Eastern Texas
she plied her trade. She had a penchant for prizefighters
and took up with one after another until, in the fall of
1939, when she was 23, Claude “Cowboy” Henry found
her in a house in Beaumont. °

She was known then as Toni Jo, the favorite tidbit in
the establishment despite her reputation as a hellion when
she was on the junk—which was practically all the time.

She fell for Cowboy Henry, fell big. He broke her of
the dryg habit in a cold turkey cure that all but killed-her,
and they were married. She was ‘honestly in love with the
big ham-and-egger—but there was one sombre cloud over
their happiness together.

Henry was out on bail awaiting a retrial on a murder
charge in Texas. He claimed the killing had been in self-
defense, but a jury, in January of 1940, decided otherwise,
and the Cowboy drew a 50-year-term in the Huntsville
pen.

“Tl get you out, Cowboy, I swear it!” she vowed pas-
sionately in their parting embrace. “I’ll get you out, boy,
so help me.” ‘

She meant it. Thus when, back in Beaumont, she met
up with Hal “Arkansas” Burks, himself a Huntsville
alumnus, and he spoke of a bank just waiting to be
knocked off up in Camden, Ark., she couldn’t team up
with him fast enough.

(Continued on page 49)

14

ornia

Duchess Spinelli

WOMEN WHO WALKED

NTIL HER MIDDLE YEARS, the story of the

life of Juanita Spinelli is a kaleidoscopic patch-

work of myth and mystery. Even her origin and

those of the pretty young girl and lively younger

lads whom she passed off as her children have

never been firmly established—and now never can
be.

She said herself she was born in a hobo jungle, the
illegitimate child of a wandering knight of the road and a
runaway Sioux Indian girl who died in childbirth. If this
was true, her advent into life was no more fantastic than
the curious twists of her. existence for the next 52 years.

She was married once at least, to a soldier who deserted
her. She claimed a marital alliance with another man,
whom she named as the father of a daughter, Wanda
Loraine—““Gypsy”—and the two boys, but he denied any
legal ties: with Juanita and said the children were not even
her own.

The police dossier on her begins in Detroit in the mid-
1930s when, a laundry worker, she was tagged as a “finger
woman” in a laundry union racket during a strike. She
earned this appellation, according to the Detroit cops, by
stooling on a strikebreaker whom she recognized as a man
wanted by the- police.

Juanita was, at the time, living with Mike Simeone, a
tough hood who was sometimes a bodyguard for a, big-shot
Detroit racketeer. The underworld did not regard with relish
a stoolpigeon moll, and her exodus from the Auto City was
prodded by a knife attack and' hints from her detective
pals that her departure from Detroit undoubtedly would
add years to her life.

With Gypsy and the two boys, she hitch-hiked to: San
Francisco. Here, late in 1939 or early in 1940, Gypsy

‘took up with a young car thief, Gordon Hawkins, and

Juanita, set up in a Jittle apartment on Golden Gate Ave-

nue, assumed the role that was to bring her a lonely,

friendless death. She became the headmistress of a school
(Continued on page 50)

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this very project in mind and all mapped out, Hawkins
claimed. The shrewd Duchess, washed up in Detroit, saw
ia her chance to move in as the directing brains of a super-
mob. Hawkins, Ives and Sherrard were only the nucleus.
The Duchess envisioned an organization of a score of
carefully selected teen-age criminals, all specialists in their

lines, with herself in the role of director.
Somewhere along the line the Duchess had acquired
the tricks of an expert catch-as-catch-can wrestler, She
used to amaze and embarrass the teen-age boys who

A A ad

came to see Gypsy, by challenging them and pinning them
to the kitchen floor. She was also something of an artist
with a knife. She.boasted that she could split a poker chip
at 25 feet. And in a drawer beside her bed reposed an
ugly black .38 revolver which she kept carefully oiled and
treated with tender loving care. Her little protector, she
called it.

In midnight sessions in the Golden Gate Avenue fiat,
she schooled Hawkins and his pals in wrestling tricks and
taught them how to throw knives. The walls and floor
P took quite a beating. She let them handle her big .38 and
ae taught them how to take care of it. When they needed
|... . knockout drops, she dipped into her ample supply of
' chloral hydrate crystals imported from Detroit. And on
pes quiet evenings she passed the hours stitching neat leather
covers on lethal blackjacks and assorted bludgeons.

: -» She went over their working plans step by step with them,
@.°. > ~ Suggesting improvements, pointing out pitfalls from her
wealth of experience. And she acted as treasurer for the
byt: mob, divvying up the spoils, keeping books and holding out
Ys the necessary working capital.

The Duchess admitted all these amazing details quite
>>> matter-of-factly. .There- was “no -harm -in teaching the

h i boys how to defend themselves, she said. Someone had

to take care of their money or they’d waste it. And if
they were going in for a life of crime, they certainly needed
a mother to guide them and steer them away from the
.. pitfalls that beset the uninstructed. The only point on
=~ which-she differed with Hawkins was. her insistence that
the crime school had been his idea, not hers.
Things. were going along nicely, the boys applying them-
--selves to their lessons and carrying out their assignments
dutifully. They didn’t repeat the dumb boners that chad
previously landed them in the hands of the police. And
the police for their part, plagued with an increase in car
thefts and drunk-rollings, though they occasionally sought
Hawkins for questioning, never had a suspicion that the
center of activity was the little old-fashioned apartment,

‘right across the street from the Jefferson Square police

radio station, where the stern-faced but
obviously golden-hearted middle-aged
woman welcomed her daughter’s young
friends.

But the project was moving too slow-
ly. The take remained small and now
spring was coming .and they wanted
more money to spend on their pirl
friends... The Duchess wisely talked
them out of carrying guns and attempt-

, ing more ambitious jobs. They weren’t
‘ready yet, she told them. They were
‘still amateurs. And she was aware that

she herself didn’t really have the know-
how to plan big-time coups. However,
this didn’t stop the resourceful Duchess.
She had kept in touch with Mike
Simeone, and now she sent for him.
Early in March Mike came out to San
Francisco to take over as _ assistant

id 4 headmaster of the crime academy.

, Apparently the mutual attraction be-

Here Leland Cash was slain by youth frightened when he reached for hearing aid tween Mike and the Duchess, 19 years

his senior but still his willing foil, was

as strong as ever. Mike moved into the

Spinelli apartment and, being an older
man and a genuine ex-con from a federal prison, won the
respect of the young undergraduates of the Duchess’ crime
college.

The Duchess remained the brains, the director, the:

strategist and adviser. But Mike Simeone now took over
the tactical planning and casing of specific jobs. Under his
experienced guidance the mob graduated into big time,
junior grade. The young scholars took up carrying guns,
Juanita’s prized .38 and others supplied by Mike.

Like the Duchess, Mike Simeone cannily remained in
the background, the active planner and large sharer in
the loot, without going out on the jobs and risking arrest.
Gordon Hawkins produced the fast cars and drove them
going and coming. The dumbells, Ives and Sherrard, were
tabbed as the triggermen, who fronted and took the risks.
Others of their little circle he used occasionally.

The Duchess, Simeone, Hawkins and Ives, following
their arrest, admitted a dozen automobile thefts in San
Francisco and three service station holdups, in March and
early April, under the administration of Simeone. In addi-
tion they confessed to two attempted petting-party stick-
ups in Sacramento, and the rolling of half a dozen intoxi-
cated men. In fact, when they were arrested, the mob-
sters were wearing clothes stolen from the hotel rooms
of these men. Their admitted loot was about $350.

San Francisco detectives pinned another score of car:
thefts and a dozen holdups, netting some $750, on the weird

crime school mob. The Duchess and Mike sat sipping beer

in the Golden Gate Avenue flat, he listening to police calls
on their short-wave radio and she complacently stitching
covers for blackjacks, while Hawkins stole the cars and
directed the outside operations and Ives and Sherrard did
the actual gunpoint collection work. Back at home after
the jobs, Mike cross-questioned and admonished the young
gunmen, while the Duchess added up the profits and
entered them in the books.

Mike Simeone, casing likely spots around San Francisco,
had picked out the Fat Boy Barbecue, a little island of
red and blue neon light in the fog at Lincoln Way and
La Playa, where Golden Gate Park meets the ocean. A
lonely spot late at night, at the south edge of the beach
amusement zone, it was a small but lucrative operation.
Leland S. Cash, 55, and his pretty wife, Beatrice, ran the
popular barbecue stand alone at night. Cash carried trays
out to the parked cars while Bea took care of the cooking.

Under the terms of their employment, Lee Cash and
his: wife were allowed to take home a certain amount of
leftover food every night for their own use. When they
locked up about 12:30, Cash’ would carry the packages of

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butter, eggs and bread out to their parked’ car, while
Bea finished tidying up the kitchen.

Spotting the lonely barbecue stand and watching it for
several nights, Mike became convinced that the packages
Cash carried to the car contained money—the evening’s
proceeds—taken home instead of being locked in a safe.
Mike fingered the Fat Boy Barbecue for the gang.

At 12:45 a.m. on April 8th, when the last customer had
gone and Lee Cash was carrying the foodstuffs to the car
while his wife locked up, Al Ives walked up to him out
of the ocean fog and thrust a gun at him—the Duchess’ big
388. Bobbie Sherrard was waiting in a stolen car with
motor running, some 50 feet away. Gordon Hawkins and
Mike Simeone were in another car down the block.

“Put ’em up!” One-Eye Ives ordered.

Lee Cash didn’t even see the gun. Never expecting a
holdup and taking the ungainly youth for a late-coming
customer, the’genial barbecue man, hard. of hearing, reached
for the hearing-aid in his hip pocket.

With a curse, One-Eye pulled the trigger. The big
gun blasted, and Cash fell mortally wounded through the
stomach. By the time his wife came running out, the
two cars had disappeared in the fog.

Cash died on the way to Park Emergency Hospital with-
out ever recovering consciousness. The newspapers made a
big thing of the murder, and the Duchess and her mob in
the little flat gobbled up the press accounts.

“Why did you have to shoot him?” Juanita raged. “I told
you never to use that gun! I told you how to take care
of him, if he put up a fight!” - .

“You’ve got us all in a murder rap, and you didn’t get
a dime off him,” Mike put in. ;

“I couldn’t help it,” the one-eyed youth moaned, beating

' his head with his fists. “I thought he was reaching for his

gun, and, well, I just lost my head!”
. The mob suspended operations, holed in and watched
the papers. Mike wanted to get rid of the incriminating
.38, but the Duchess asserted her leadership. She had
read that the police were holding a suspect, a totally inno-
cent youth arrested on a phony tip.

“We can’t let them hang that fellow,” she declared.
“If it comes to the worst, we’ll fire a bullet from the gun
and send it to the cops to prove he’s innocent. We'll send

*

-™,
Fs athe.

Pl am) a a Sas) ‘Cm ; ai “ } (% . f : : 9 cf ‘
- ~ wal > 2 5 heat —* - ° “ ‘is " Mos: + PS a a t 4
CANN in eae das rene NS at i, Lint AGL ie Sige I la
Searchers recover body of slain Bobbie Sherrard from Sacramento River. At right, Coroner Garibaldi, Dets. Hendricks, Emerine

them the gun if we have to,” she added, to their amazement.

At her insistence, Gordon Hawkins called the police from
a pay booth and conveyed this information to them.
But the suspect was released and the heroic gesture
wasn’t necessary.

Reading that the cops had a hot tip and were getting
ready to close in on San Francisco’s teen-age car theft ring.
Juanita and Mike were alarmed by the fact. that Bobbie
Sherrard was going to pieces. He couldn't get the killing
off his mind. He had told his girl friend about it. The
Duchess and Simeone decided, after an all-night conference,
to get out of town, and fast. They could go to Detroit and
start all over again. :

The mob had no car at the moment. But Simeone was
so anxious to put distance behind him that he insisted he
and the Duchess and her children should hitchhike, at least
as far as Sacramento, where they had friends. He was
afraid the police were watching the buses. The others
were to. join them in Sacramento,

So the Duchess and her children hitchhiked. They reg-
istered at the Arlton Hotel at Ninth and Jay Streets in the
capital city, 100 miles from San Francisco. When Hawkins,
Ives and Sherrard arrived the next. day in a newly stolen
black De Soto sedan, the Duchess eyed the jittery Sherrard
oddly. It was apparێnt that something was afoot.

That night, when Bobbie had been sent out on a trumped-
up errand, the others held a conference and Simeone
broached the business in hand: Bobbie Sherrard was
cracking up. He.was endangering them all. He’d have
to go.

“That’s right!” Al Ives chimed in. “He’s broken his
oath of secrecy. He. told his girl friend I shot Cash. He
can’t quit talking about it. We’ve got to get rid of him
before he tells the cops. I’ve got a good way to do it—
we'll run a hot needle through his ear while he’s asleep!”

All agreed that Sherrard had to go, but suggestions
varied as to method, One idea was to knock him out and
tie him to the railroad tracks. Another. was to invite him

out into a field for target practice and shoot him in the .

back. ;
The~Duchess later claimed she had argued against the
murder. She wanted to give Bobbie another chance. But
Ives threatened to take Gypsy, (Continued on page 78)

33


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MORE CLASSIFIED ON PAGE 77

Duchess of Death

(Continued from page 33)

who' was asleep in the next room, and sell
her into an Oriental house of prostitution
if the Duchess didn’t string along with
them.

Juanita then decided, according to her
later confession, that if Sherrard had to
go it might as well be done mercifully—
and at the same time made to look like an
accident, to throw the cops off the trail.

Bobbie came back before the conference
was over. The next day, by mutual agree-
ment among the conspirators, they all went
on a picnic down by the Sacramento River.

Bobbie wasn’t much of a swimmer, and
he’d been drinking, but they tried to get
him to swim across the river. :

Bobbie wouldn’t go for it. “I’m a lousy
swimmer;” he complained. “What are you
trying to do, get me to drown?”

_ That night the conspirators held another
conference. On Saturday night Juanita and
Mike threw a big party in their room.
Bobbie didn’t want to drink. He didn’t like
to get drunk. But the Duchess fixed that.
She had brought along her trusty chloral
hydrate and poured a healthy Mickey Finn
into Bobbie’s glass when he wasn’t looking.

Slapping the doomed youth on the back,
Mike filled the glass with whiskey and
handed it to-him. “Here’s mud in your eye,
Bob!”

When Bobbie fell unconscious, they told
Gypsy he was drunk and took him into an-
other room. In the small hours, Hawkins
and Ives carried the still unconscious Bob-
bie downstairs, pretending he was drunk.
They put him into the car and drove to
the Freeport Bridge down the river. There
they stripped off the youth’s clothes and
put a pair of red swimming trunks on him.
Without further ceremony they threw him
into the river, as the Duchess had in-
structed them, to make it look like a swim-
ming accident.

The next morning, April 14th, the whole
mob, children and all, lit out in the De Soto
and headed east, up the mountains toward
Reno. Juanita told Gypsy that Bobbie had
decided to go back to his girl friend in
San Francisco.

But the Duchess and Mike, in the back
seat with the kids, still weren’t easy in
their minds. Al Ives, they realized, was as
unstable as Sherrard. Now he had two
murders to be jittery about. He already
looked wild and was talking to himself.
Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get rid of
Ives, too? they whispered to each other.

Ives, while not bright, had an animal in-
stinct of self-preservation. He heard the
cold-blooded couple whispering and intui-
tion warned him that he was in the same
class with Sherrard—expendable.

When they got to the mountain town of
Colfax, Ives suddenly made up his mind.
As they approached a tavern he askéd
Gordon to stop for a minute. “I want to
get a drink and wash up in that place over
there,” he said.

Gordon stopped and Ives hurried into the
bar, casting anxious looks back over his
shoulder. When he didn’t come back in a
few minutes, Gordon and Mike went to
look for him. The bartender said the one-
eyed youth had gone right through and out
the side door without stopping.

The two hurried back to the car. “Let’s
get going!”

Ives, in desperate fear of pursuit, had lit
out into the brush. Doubling back to the
highway again, he hitched a ride away
from the area. An hour later he came stum-
bling up to State Highway Patrol Captain
Joseph Blake, at a patrol station on the
road near Grass Valley.

“I want to report some people driving
a stolen car—” he panted. ;

Blake flashed the word by radio and tele-
type, and officers stopped the black De
Soto as it passed through Truckee, near the
crest of the Sierra Nevada. Hawkins, at the
wheel, with a quick look at the others,
admitted he had stolen the car in San
Francisco. He said the Duchess and Sim-
eone and the children were hitchhiking
strangers he had picked up on the road as
camouflage,

The officers, taken in by Juanita’s tearful
protests and the forlorn appearance of
Gypsy and the two little boys, let her and
Mike and the children go. The officérs even
took up a collection to feed the children.
Hawkins they took back to the county jail
at Nevada City, to be questioned along
with Ives, whom Captain Blake had pru-
dently held.

But fves’ cringing terror in the presence
of Hawkins, Gordon’s sullen silence, and
the fact that the De Soto had been stolen
in San Francisco Shortly after the Cash
murder, aroused the suspicions of officers
questioning the pair. They sent out an
alarm fot the hitchhiking quintet, The
Duchess, Simeone, Gypsy and the two boys
were soon located in a Salvation Army
shelter in Reno and brought back.

HEAVY ALIMONY

The auto, chugging through a Balti-
more street, sagged curiously over its
rear wheels. An alert traffic cop
stopped the car, took a look inside.
A hefty mass of plumbing fixtures was
-weighing down the springs. The officer
took the 27-year-old driver in for
further questioning. In court the pris-
oner admitted he had stolen the fix-
tures, worth $1,084, from a plumbing
supply house. "I! had to raise twenty-
five dollars for an alimony payment,"
he said.

—Charles R. Writesel

When the highway patrolmen and Sacra-
mento police started digging into their
histories, Ives was the first to- crack. “I was
afraid I was going to be next. They thought
I was going to talk. That’s why they got
rid of Bob Sherrard—”

The whole story now came out. Hawkins
and Ives showed officers how they had
thrown the drugged Bobbie Sherrard from
Freeport Bridge, to drown. Sherrard’s body
was recovered from the river. Police in
San Francisco also rounded up a few other
juvenile members of the Duchess’ crime
school. It was decided to let Sacramento go
ahead with the prosecution, since the evi-
dence in the murder of Bobbie Sherrard
was stronger than in that of Leland Cash.

Juanita, Mike, Hawkins and Ives were
jointly charged with the murder of Sher-
rard. Desperately they tried to throw the
blame on each other. The Duchess said she
had been in fear of Simeone and Hawkins.
Hawkins said the Duchess and Ives were
the ringleaders. Ives put the whole blame
on the Duchess. Simeone said he was

merely an h
from Detroit,
company,

But the jur
29th, 1940, al
first-degree r
tion for lenie
trial on his j
sane. Superio
tenced Juanit:
Gordon Hawk
at San Quer
the Mendocin:
insane.

Loraine Sp
cuted, was se
ities found ho
little boys.

The appeal
were more o1
perfunctorily

The case of
sentenced to
tory, was a
sentence arou
protest, to wh
death cell by
ferent version

In a last-mi
bert L. Olson,
been framed.
leaders of the
time. But as
ments of simil:
the governor
However, he g

In her deat
Tehachapi, in °
taken to San (
the Duchess re
Gypsy, who h
ging man an
Duchess tend
child.

On Novemb
Thanksgiving,
from Tehacha}
ready for the
satisfied,” she
interview. “M:
their bodies a
will be punish:

But just be
green room, sh
audience, “I }
them.”

Assuming a
ing in her ear
assisted to the
request, she
customary blin
woman ever ex
and the first v
to die by letha

When her bi
the prison do
children were

But a few .
made public a
to be read aft
are not mine,”
Loraine from a
' she was a few
is my grandso
niece’s baby.”

On Novembe
Duchess was e
Gordon Hawk
deaths in a do
San Quentin gi

One-eyed A
death didn’t av:
the state hospit
gerous and inc
was found deac
City, Californie

Gypsy’s mar
Changing her n
public eye, sh
Duchess Spinel]
-doubtedly she’c
she ever learne


On the Duchess’ sles that she could name real killers, with
time, Governor Culbert Olson granted her a 30-day reprieve

few months Gypsy wanted out. Henry was out of jail
now and still wanted to marry her. He wrote that he had
a steady job.

So, late in 1939, Gypsy trekked back to San Francisco by
herself. But her luck was still bad. Henry was in jail
again for auto theft. Gypsy looked up Gordon Hawkins,
who offered to take care of her. He had split up with
Patty.

Soon Gypsy moved in with Gordon and forgot all about
Henry. Gordon was attentive to her and always had
plenty of money. He didn’t discuss his business at home,
and she never asked him about the different cars he drove
from time to time. They planned to be married, and the
Duchess again gave her blessing, by mail. ©

Inconsiderately, the unromantic law stepped in again.
Gordon was picked up for questioning about a series of auto

thefts, and when the police learned that Gypsy was only

going on 19, they took her to the Juvenile Detention Home
and communicated with her mother.

The Duchess headed for California with the two little
boys. She secured Gypsy’s release in her custody, and they

moved into a little apartment at 1421 Golden Gate Avenue.’

This was in January, 1940. Juanita was unable to get her
old job back, but young Gordon, who had beaten the rap
and still wanted to marry Gypsy “as soon as he got a steady
job,” told her he’d help out with monej* for the groceries.
Mike Simeone also sent money. ‘,

As before, the Spinelli apartment again became a hang-
out for the young friends of Gypsy and Gordon. The
Duchess encouraged the young people to make her home
theirs. She liked to have them around. e

One of the regular group at the Spinelli apartment was
Robert Sherrard, a gangling youth of 18, who was a fugi-
tive from the State Hospital for the feeble-minded in

Sonoma County, where he had been sent in 1937 after his .

arrest for auto theft.

Another was Albert Ives, an orphan of 23, whose mother
had died in an insane asylum. Ives was blind in his left
eye, which had been enucleated following an accident.

Ives had a minor police record in the Sacramento Valley.

Habitually silent and brooding, he was given to sudden
wild outbursts of hysterical laughter. He and Sherrard
brought their girl friends to Juanita’s parties in the crowded
little flat.

Gordon Hawkins, a car thief since the age of 14 and by
this time a master of his trade, had kept up this activity,
save for brief reformatory and jail terms. Money from
the cars he stole, dismantled and sold piecemeal, kept the

. Spinelli larder well stocked.

The weaker-brained Ives and Sherrard and several others
were in it with him, working under his orders. Occasionally
they branched out from auto theft into burglary, drunk-
rolling and assorted pilfering.

Juanita claimed it was Gordon Hawkins who made her
little nest into a hatching ground for crime. Helpless and
worried about Gypsy’s future, she decided to make the best
of it. Instead of turning the young hoodlums out and risk-
ing losing Gypsy, who didn’t know what was going on, she
strung along, organizing pinochle games and cooking
spaghetti dinners for the mob, sharing their confidences, ap-
plauding their exploits and offering professional advice.

Gordon Hawkins told a quite different story. His version,
seconded by Albert Ives and others, was that the Duchess
was the ringleader and moving spirit. She fastened onto
Hawkins when she learned he was.an accomplished car
thief, and got him to recruit his pals for an organized mob.

Juanita Spinelli came to California the second time with

a Ha vi He

With Warden Duffy and matron he starts ride to gas chamber

31


other officers had searched tani
ly for some clue to the mystery. It
was time to get some rest and when
daylight came they could start again.

Early Tuesday morning Sheriff
Green returned to Gordon and con-
ferred with the local officers.

“Let’s go over that territory foot
by foot, inch by inch,” suggested Hut-
ton. “We ought to have a hundred
men to cover it thoroughly.” :

“P]] get the men,” said Sheriff
Green. “Be ready at one o’clock.”

A few hours later a long line of
men spaced a few feet apart beat
through the tangled weeds and un-
derbrush. Not a single spot was over-
looked. Dark recesses were probed;
brush heaps kicked apart and men
schooled by experience on the prairies
looked for some sign. Slowly they
converged to a common center, met
and reported “nothing.”

The crowd dispersed and the officers
went back to police headquarters.

“Now what?” asked Sheriff Green.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait un-

CRIME DETECTIVE oly LIA 1

til some one reports a definite lead,”
answered Hutton. “But we can’t hold
those fellows much longer.”

“Just the same I’m going to hold
them for a day or two,” said the
Sheriff.

“Things are getting pretty warm on
the reservation,” continued Hutton.
“There’s likely to be trouble if the
men go back home before we know
what happened to the girl. They’re
a lot safer in jail. If the Indians get
the idea they hurt Nelly they’ll make
a hanging look like a pink tea.”

Tuesday night passed without inci-
dent. Wednesday, Hutton and Chief
Forster continued their questioning of
residents living near the sales pavil-
lion but without result. .

Thursday morning, August 3, Hut-
ton was beginning to doubt the wis-
dom of his stubborn insistence that
there had been a major crime com-
mitted. He had been the butt of
many scoffing comments.
ee a mountain out of a mole-

i Rd

LAST

IDE VICTIM

Deputy Sheriffs pulling from the Sacramento River, California,
the body of Robert Sherrod, who was doped and thrown into
the river because members of a robbery and murder gang were
afraid he would squeal to the police. Mrs. Juanita Spinelli
and 3 others of her gang have allegedly admitted the killing.

Poe

4 , Pe . ‘
ee eee We

“Tf she’d been badly hurt it would
have been reported.”
‘ “Somebody got clean clothes for
er.’

_ As he went about his duties at po-
lice headquarters he wondered when
the break in the strange case would
come. He reviewed again and again
the wide-spread search for the miss-
ing girl and could not find a single
thing left undone. It was fantastic,
unbelievable that anyone as well
known as Nelly Yellow Thunder coul

disappear in thin air. ;

HILE Hutton was summing up

the happenings of the past three
days, Gordon Meyers, a Gordon news-
boy was hurrying along his route de-
livering the Omaha papers which had
been tossed from the westbound train
a few minutes earlier. It was ten-
thirty and he was a little late.

He could see the long sales pavillion
building near the railroad tracks and
he thought of the excitement which
had swept the town the first of the
week. Perhaps the city papers had
a story about it.

Meyers reached for’ one of the
papers in his sack and then stopped

‘stock still.. He forgot all about papers,

stories or further deliveries. His face

blanched and slowly as though drawn

by a powerful magnet he walked

toward a strange object lying beside

a paper covered shack near the road.
d was a nude body—the body of a
irl.

It hadn’t been there the day before
or the day before that. He’d have
seen it for it was in plain sight.

Quickly he turned and ran back up
town.

“’ve found her,’ he announced
when he met Officer Hutton at Police
Headquarters. “I’ve found the Indian
girl. She’s dead.”

“Where? When?” Hutton grasped
Meyer’s arm in his excitement. .

“Just now. She’s down by the
shack across the road from the Wil-
son house.”

, “Come on. Show me,” ordered Hut-
Oni Z

In a few moments he was looking
down at the body of the girl whose
disappearance. had caused all the
furore. It was naked, bloody and as
Hutton covered it with a blanket to
protect it from curious onlookers he
was mreneey ill. :

_The gir had literally been torn to

jeces. Teeth marks showed where a

uman beast had lacerated her throat,
shoulders and breast. Dark bruises
on her face were plainly the result

.of heavy blows struck by an iron

hard fist.

“How had she reached this spot?”
It was only. two blocks from the sales
pavillion but dozens of people had
passed along the road since Monday
and this spot had been in the line of
search by firemen and townspeople.

Had the shack been used as a hid-
ing place? No one had investigated
it because it was assumed people
were living there. Inquiry brought
out the fact that it had been vacant
since Monday and a careful search
was made of the interior but there
were no stains or marks to indicate
it might have been used as a cache.

An outdoor toilet in the rear of
the shack had been in the line of
search. Slowly Hutton pushed open
the door. There were plenty of
bloodstains here and some were fresh.
Obviously the body had been hidden
-there for a time but how had it
reached this spot. Careful trailers,


CO.

t

SPINELLI, Juanita, white female, asphyxiated San Cuentin (Sacramento) on 11/21/19h1.

THE LAST MILE

‘Duchess’ Spinelli hoped her

can nd sa
them were addressed to Gladys. He noted,
too, that they were ali from women friends
and relatives.

“You're quite a correspondent, aren’t
you?” he asked.

Gladys smiled wanly. “I’d rather write
letters than to eat when I’m hungry.”

bey ¢
Lila

“Tf you’d succeeded in taking poison last’

Tuesday night, you'd be all through eating
and writing letters too.”

Gladys started. “Oh, that,” she said
wryly. “I didn’t really mean to take that
poison. I just pretended I was going to—
on account of I thought that would make
Levi stop threatening to kill himself. Jim
followed me out the back door and took
the poison away-from me. He said it
wouldn’t kill a human anyhow.”

“I see,” muttered Burton. “Tell me,
Mrs. Oakley, did you ever know of any
serious trouble between Levi and Jim
Barbee ?”

“I never did. Jim set a. heap of store
by Levi, and Levi was always mighty good
to me, too. He never so. much as gave
me a short’ word.”

After several more questions which
failed to develop anything of value, Bur-
ton left the house and met Sheriff Bur-
nett on the sidewalk.

“This case has got me running around
in circles,” Burnett admitted  glumly.
“What do you figure to do now 2”

“We'd better talk to Attorney-General
Humphreys.” 2S

Minutes latér the officers were listening
to Assistant Attorney-General Allison B.
Humphreys, Jr.

“That tube of rat poison clinches it,”
Humphreys said. “I think you've got a
case, but I can’t see Hack Pearson as a
suspect. His motive simply wasn’t strong
enough, and the theory that he poisoned
Oakley’s lunch is too far-fetched. Now
it’s up to you to solve this riddle the
hard way—find the motive. When you’ve

. done that, [ll get a court order for the

exhumation of the body.”

- Burton’s next move was to question
Mrs. Morris Trawick. The attractive ma-
tren corroborated the story told by Mrs.
Given in every detail.

“Furthermore,” she added, “I’ve noticed
some very suspicious things about Gladys
and Jim Barbee. For instance, Gladys
would often send the children away while
Levi was at work. Then she and Barbee
would go in the house and close the door
and draw the shades.

“And I saw that same tube of rat poison
—or one exactly like it—before Mrs.
Given and I found it Jast Tuesday night,”
she concluded. “Gladys showed it to me
two days. before that and said she was
going to scatter rats and mice with it.”

Highly elated, Burton left the Trawick
home. He recalled the reticence dis-
played by the neighbors of the Oakleys
he had previously questioned. Had they
been withholding information of value be-
cause. they were afraid to talk? And, if
SO, was it Jim Barbee of whom they were
afraid?

Determined. to find out, Burton again
began making the rounds of residents of
the neighborhood.

Mrs. Marcus Jennings told him: “About
4 o'clock Sunday evening, after Mr. Oak-
ley was buried, Gladys came to my house
with Jim Barhee. Jim told me they were
in trouble and needed my advice. He said
that he loved Gladys and she loved him,
and he wanted to know what I thought
about them marrying in a few weeks. I
refused to advise them, so they took the
children and went home.”

BURTON'S NEXT STEP was to drive
J with Sheriff Burnett to the Oakley
home, Though night had fallen, there
was no light in the house. Footsteps

MAY, 1943

_bleod would haunt her accusers

(Fifth ra series.)

“PYUCHESS” JUANITA SPINELLI,

52-year-old gang-leading murder-
ess, who once boasted she could hit a
button with a stiletto at ten paces, died

in San Quentin’s gas chamber Novem- |

‘ber 21, 1941, with pictures of her three

children and a grandchild fastened with:

adhesive tape-over her heart.

And the first woman ‘to be executed
in California since the vigilantes and
gold-rush days, calmly walked to her
cyanide cell calmly—quite in contrast to
the cursing rampage she went on the

“day previous, when she screamingly .
hoped her “blood would burn holes” in

those who prosecuted her.
The bandit queen, whose code

- through many years of crime was never
to give the other fellow a chance, had
begged for clemency. But after being |

administered the blessed sacrament the
“hardest and most calloused woman” in
the experience of her prosecutors, paid
the. penalty for ordering the death of

~~ Robert Sherrard, 19, slow-witted mem-

‘ber of her gang. She feared he would
_ squeal to police about a killing by her
gang during a San Francisco holdup.

The night before she walked the last
mile she talked with Matron Alice
Gwynne, who accompanied her to the
death chair from the woman’s prison at
Tehachapi. The Duchess philosophized
about her life, her family and her
crimes. She even discussed the war.

. An Italian, Mrs. Spinelli said that:
“Hitler and Mussolini ought to get their

ears pinned back.”

For her last Thanksgiving she ate a
hearty dinner of turkey and trimmings.
For supper she asked for tomato soup,

pie and ice cream. Just before mid-
night she asked for “a hamburger
covered with lots of onions.” After
that she fasted in preparation for the
blessed sacrament.

Her death was the 234th execution at
San Quentin and the 20th in the gas
chamber which replaced the hangman's
noose several years ago.

She smiled and her lips moved—
doubtless she was saying a prayer—as
the lethal fumes, delayed for a moment
by her heavy skirts, crept slowly up-
ward. She was pronounced dead a few
minutes later.

The Duchess, in a will written shortly _

before she died; bequeathed a box of
clothing to her daughter, and an electric
pad and-a set of booklets to prison
workers who had befriended her in her
last days.

“Please see that no harm befalls the
children,” she wrote. “I Jove them
dearly. I thank everyone for all they
did for me.

“I do regret that my blood must stain

the hands of so many. I tried to tell

them that I was innocent, but they
chose to believe those who would rather

_ continue to speak falsely than the truth.”

Like so many condemned persons,
Mrs. Spinelli stuck to her story of in-
nocence to the last. But the iron-clad
evidence against her branded her clear-
ly as one of the most merciless criminals
in California annals. Her desperate in-
sistence was that of a drowning person
clutching at a straw—the instinctive
shrinking of a doomed person from
death, even though that penalty was
fairly and legally exacted.

YOUR NEIGHBORS WILL ENVY YOU

Yes, they'll be green with envy when they see you harvesting your crisp
radishes, succulent beans and juicy tomatoes. They'll be wishing then that
they had planted a Victory Garden too, so that they could also have had
the benefit of these vitamin-filled vegetables.

It's not too Iate even now to get your garden planned, prepared and
planted—if you act fast. It’s the most solid investment any good citizen can
make, and will help to make certain that both you and our fighting men con-
tinue to be well fed. Everything you grow will be your own.

Gardening fs fun, splendid exercise—but it's got to be done right. Seeds,
fertilizers and garden tools are too precious to be wasted on a garden that
won't produce because it's on barren ground, or because the owner failed

to tend to it.

.S$o garden this year with a plan. Consult your local Victory Garden Com-
mittee for information. Following a few simple rules will make your plo?

_ pay huge dividends in vital vegetables!

6
er)
—t
ON
rd
os
sg
Py

‘3

INSIDE DETECTIVE

R4

tance. None of them had seen the strange
man who had called on Mrs. Zubr. One
tenant, Mrs. Inez Larkin, a particular
friend of Mrs. Zubr, was not at home.
Greening made a note to question Mrs. Lar-
kin later. “

The investigators next concentrated on
probing Mrs, Zubr’s past life, hoping they
might uncover a secret enemy ora lead now
obscured by lack of knowledge of the wom-
an’s background.

“Maybe her first husband was the man
who called on her that last day of her life.
Maybe he was still sore about her marry-
ing Zubr,” Jones suggested.

Greening nodded. “It’s ey enough.
Let’s see what we can find out about him.”

fon TWO INVESTIGATORS soon learned
that Bertha Zubr’s first husband was
Eldon Van Dyke. They inquired into Van
Dyke’s whereabouts and soon learned that
the man had committed suicide shortly after
the birth of his second child.

In an effort to learn the identity of the
man who had called so persistently at Mrs.
Zubr’s apartment the day she was stricken,

_ Greening and Jones compiled a list of the

woman’s male relatives and acquaintances.
They began their interviews with Carl
Zubr. He said he had not called at the
apartment until 5 p.m. when he found his
wife home. . ,

“Maybe that caller was her lawyer,” Zubr
suggested. i

But a quick check-up showed that the
lawyer had not been the mysterious stran-
ger. Patiently, Greening and Jones checked
down the long ligt. At the end of several
hours’ work they had to admit failure.
They shelved this angle for the while, be-
gan concentrating on learning how the mur-
derer administered the strychnine.

They discussed the lack of poison traces
about the apartment, The murderer had
been clever indeed to cover his tracks so
thoroughly. By what ingenious method
had he accomplished this? The more
Greening mulled over this, the more the
possibilities intrigued him.

Obeying a sudden impulse, he obtained
the name of Bertha Zubr’s family doctor
from Mrs. Herchy. An hour later he was
asking the physician: “Was Bertha Zubr
in good health?”

The doctor replied: “Yes, except for
those violent headaches.”

“Headaches?” Greening echoed.

“Yes,” the physician replied. “She had
been suffering acutely with headaches for
the past three months. I couldn’t get at
the cause of them. There seemed to be no
organic trouble. They were strange in-
deed.”

Something clicked in Greening’s brain
just then. He asked: “Did you give her
something to rélieve the pain?”

“Yes. I prescribed a tablet which gave
her temporary relief. She kept a supply
of these on hand.”

Greening’s mind was working furiously
naw. “Would it be possible to confuse one
of those tablets with a pellet of strych-
nine?” he asked.

The physician nodded. “Entirely possible.
Of course, a pellet of strychnine the size
of that headache tablet would be enough to
kill—” suddenly, he stopped, as if amazed
at his own words. His mouth gaped open.

“That’s evidently how she died,” Green-
ing’ said. ‘Someone put strychnine in with
her headache medicine. Now tell me some-
thing else—could smaller doses of poison
administered over a period of time have
caused the headaches ?”

The doctor mused over this for a long
time. Finally, he replied: “Yes, it’s en-
tirely possible. You mean by this you theo-
rize she might have been prepared for
death ?”

Greening nodded. After a few more per-

REAL DETECTIVE

functory words, he departed. Knowing the
swiftness with which strychnine works, the
State’s attorney figured that Mrs. Zubr
must have switionad the poison just before
leaving the apartment for the theater.

He proved his deductions correct when
he was finally successful in locating Mrs.
Larkin. She told him that Carl and Bertha
Zubr had visited her the fatal Saturday
just before they ate their supper.

“Bertha complained of a violent head-
ache,” Mrs. Larkin stated. “I offered her
a headache tablet. But something was said
about her headache medicine being in her
apartment downstairs.”

“Then she didn’t carry it around in her
purse?”

“Evidently not. As I understood it, she

DOOMED

Unless executive clemency is
granted, Juanita “Duchess”
Spinelli, convicted as head
of a murder ring, will be the
first woman to die in the gas
ehamber at San Quentin, Calif.

kept it in the medicine cabinet in her bath-
room.”

As he drove back to his office, Greening
reflected that anyone acquainted with Mrs.
Zubr and having access to her apartment
could have planted the poison with her
headache pills. Opportunity for many per-
sons was thus established. But what about
motive? For what strange reason was the

retty blonde murdered? And who was the
Riller? Was he the strange man who had
called at Mrs. Zubr’s apartment three times
on the last day of her life?

The State’s attorney and Detective Jones
discussed the mystery with Coroner Dra-
goo. “You say Mrs. Zubr complained of
severe headaches shortly before she died?”
Dragoo asked.

Greening nodded. Then he inquired:
“Why do you ask?”

Dragoo tapped Greening’s desk thought-
fully with his pencil. “Reminds me of a
case some years ago. Can't place it with-
out looking it up in my records. Circum-
stances are similar. I’ll tell you what—I’ll

ELECTIVE.

see what I can find on it. May not have
any bearing on this, but again, it may help.”

“Look it up, by all means,” Greening ad-
vised him. :

Dragoo left the office. The State's at-
torney turned to Detective Jones. “Any
suggestions as to what to do next?”

The detective, noted in the State capitol
for his excellent work in ferreting out mur-
der motives and killers, lighted a cigarette.
Then he said: “I’ve a hunch that if we
find the man who called so many times at
Mrs. Zubr’s apartment we'll have an im-
portant piece of the puzzle.”

Greening spread his hands helplessly.
“But we've exhausted that phase without
finding him. I’m beginning to believe that
he’s a figment of that neighbor's imagina-
tion.”

“Maybe Mrs. Zubr had a secret lover.
Suppose we ask her husband about this,”
Jones suggested.

N HOUR LATER Carl Zubr sat in the

State attorney’s office opposite Jones

and Greening. The State’s attorney asked:

“What about other men? Were they the

real reason you were separated from your

‘dng Think some lover could have killed
er!

Zubr didn’t answer for a moment. His
face clouded. He spoke slowly, haltingly:
“T wouldn’t want to cast any reflections on
her character, now that she’s dead—”

“Then there were other men?”

Zubr’s soft dark eyes darted anxiously
about the room. Slowly, he inclined his
head. But he refused to amplify his sug-
gestion.

The dead woman’s friends were ques-
tioned about the possibility of boy friends,
particularly of someone who could have
been violently jealous of Bertha Zubr. But
try as they would, the two investigators
could not obtain the names of any men in
the woman’s life other than her husband.

One woman offered a plausible reason for
names of possible men friends not becoming
known. “If Bertha had other men on the
string she kept it pretty quiet. Maybe she
figured it would hurt her chances for a
divorce.”

Greening and Jones pried even more re-
lentlessly into Bertha Zubr’s secret affairs.
They questioned everyone with whom she
had come in contact during life, even the
merchants from whom she purchased food
and clothes.

‘The entire police force of Springfield and
Sangamon County assisted Greening and
Jones in their task of finding Bertha Zubr's
murderer. The desk sergeant who had been
on duty at the city police desk the night
Mrs. Zubr died asked Greening: “Did they
ever let that man into Mrs. Zubr’s hospital
room ?”

Greening was instantly on the alert.
“What man?”

The desk sergeant replied: “Some man
raised an awful ruckus about getting in to
see Bertha Zubr before she died. The
authorities at the hospital wouldn’t let him
in. So he came down here and demanded
that we give him an order forcing them to
allow him to see her. I told him we had
no jurisdiction over matters of that sort.”

Greening was thoughtful. “Who was the
man?”

“I don’t know,” the officer replied. “He
was so excited I couldn’t make head nor
tail of what he said. Seemed like getting

. into that room was a matter of life and

death to him. Before I could-ask him his
name and address he dashed out of the
station.”

Another strange man on the scene,
Greening reflected, Perhaps those in charge
at St. John’s hospital would know some-
thing about it. The head nurse corrobo-
rated the desk sergeant’s information. The
nurse stated that before anyone had time

Joey 1F4/

to take the ma
Greening as}

admittance did

Mrs, Zubr?”

“T don’t kno\
might have be«
are still here.
yourself.”

In a few m
him on the ta
effects Mrs. Z
came to the h
the things, he :
tucked away :
Greening unfo
pencilled scrip
in your pocket
the money, ho
me. Your dear

Greening ga
at the scribbl
From the way
estranged cou;
He turned to 1
allowed her to
“Did Mrs, Zi
husband’s note

The nurse
didn’t. She w:
written on the

sone oped
parted, spe:

Coroner Drag:

mation you wa

“Yes, I did,’
case was that

Marie Senger

16, 1939, after

aches. Her rel

bathroom floo:
turned a verd
causes,” :
“Was ther
Greening asked
The coroner
suspicion of px:
to ‘ascertain th
given. The aw
cover any orgar
“And there v
“None whate
the cause of he
remember her 1
_ Detective Jor
himself ina ch:
ing. Greening
what you were
Jones nodde
man who calle
apartment the
who saw him d
Otherwise we
who he was. |
The State’s
“It was Carl Z

There was ar
on Jones’ face.
asked.

Greening sho
written to his
He explained:
if Carl Zubr |
wife’s welfare «

“And now, t
going to the ap:
thing to hide.
day gave him :
place the poisc
medicine. I thi
out for certain
died of.”

Jones nodded.
relatives of Mz
sion to open th:
where she had t
autopsy. This
to be unnecessa:
John’s hospital
ing that the de
been preserved i


t Dottie had been seen
‘ossed into Missouri from
of Oklahoma. It drove
roads to the town of

east of Joplin, and pulled .

se. A man got out, went
2 some inquiries.
a Purdy man called the
's office and talked with
{emphill. .
or Elmer Lée?” he asked.
ill said. 3
the man said. “I just
to his house in Purdy, a
-d by Lee’s relatives. The
and Lee had asked him
w home.
Fairview,” the man said.
r there after I talked to

iiles west of Purdy, but .

2wton County. Deputy
on County Sheriff John
ve to Fairview. It was
Deputy Hemphill met
view.
Tuggle said. “I'll go in
‘er the rear.”
from both sides, waking
er Lee wanted to know
was told he was
per County. The
was called, and Jas-
irried to Fairview.

he girl, whom he passed.

were placed in the cus-

orities, and Elmer Lee- ” 3

age jail.
en much toll on Elmer
ut still slim and youth-,

irglary charge. He said
Jottie’s house, and. that
out. “So surely, there’s
he added.

ally are not too much
iture,” Sheriff Hickam
e interested in. Where

*en trying to find her,”
oking and looking for

ver the country looking ..

ved the harvests, figur-
ng fruit, but he never

me to see her,”--he was
‘is City with her two

He admitted they had

‘ty to Joplin together,
tniture. But not long
e down. He said they
and another car came
de. He said he stayed
fixed

ould find Ret, ” he said.
ell.

a deputy commented.
y like that and sticking

iony, and he probably
the sheriff said. “But
and find a body,
t least we’ve got:

him on.”
of questioning in the
Lee’s story, - Sheriff

gene Copeland drove

,

him to the area near Rich. Hin, where the
clothes and purse were found.
Lee said he knew nothing about-the articles.

. He was taken to the nearby cave-in. He oak he

had never been’ there.

- “You drove up and down this highway lots of

times to and from. Kansas City,” he was told.
“So do lots of- people,” he retorted. “TI: tell

you I’ve been looking for Dottie myself.”: -
He was taken back to Jail and questioned

_ Tepeatedly.

’ “She was coming back to. me,” Lee said.
“Why would I want to harm her?”:

Lee was questioned about his movements
over the past two years and while this ques-
tioning was going on, inquiries were made
around the country. : /

‘ Officers reported Elmer Lee had been living
in Austin, Tex., for about a year, going under
the name of Powell Stevens. But this informa-
tion did ne to break Lee down.

Lee, Sheriff Hickam said, ‘“If you've got
nothing to hide in relation to Dottie, you won't
mind taking a lie detector test.”

Lee agreed to take the test, and fe was

driven tothe State Highway Patrol post in’

Springfield where he was given: a. polygraph
examination, then returned to jail-in Carthage.

“The test shows you ‘re. ae ‘the - sheriff

told him.-“Now come on,
with her?”

“T'm not lying,” Lee insisted, ue don’t know
where she is.”

The sheriff-and his deputies isoved in ‘loss
trying to crack Lee’s wall of denial, They

- what, did. you do

swath, _and got stuck i in mud; The heavy piece

of equipment. sank into the damp earth. and.

became mired. The machinery went into action
and before long a left. thigh bone was discov-

- ered -protruding from the soil. between the
treads of the bulldozer. A -wrecker was called ~

‘and pulled the bulldozer away.

The body had: been -under about 32 inches
of soil, wrapped tightly in a sheet and quilt,
with the feet. protruding. It lay on ‘its right

- side, ‘with knees drawn up, some 30 yards from

where Elmer Lee had just eaten a hearty lunch
two hours earlier with the searchers. He showed
no emotion as the body was uncovered.

‘The body was.taken into a funeral home in
nearby Neosho, where relatives of Dottie made

. an. identification. Authorities said the tight

wrappings around the body kept it in a state
of preservation, and the victim’s features were
still discernible.-.An electric cord had been
drawn across the woman’s mouth and around

_ her ‘neck,
AFTER more ‘hia, a week of questioning -

‘The’ following getount of Elmer Lee’s con-
-fession was given.

«Lee. said: he ‘effected a reconeiliation with /

Dottie, and they went to Kansas City with
_ Lee’s three sons‘and: ‘the girvwho was ten at the
Sel cident

She. returned to Joplin with him and they
RVG the. furniture from the house then
they. drove out’ of Joplin on the’ way: to visit
_aurelative, and Lee. pulled over to ose side of
" the road to talk. po

‘There ‘was an. argument and Dottie said she
did not: intend to return to Bins; as she previ-
ously; had -indicated.

‘As the argument went on, Lae struck Dottie,

“questioned. him in shifts throughout the night. —" then strangled her: with the electrical extension

The next morning, Friday, August. 18, there
was a commotion as the jailer came in with
breakfast. Deputies rushéd to. Lee’s cell and
found that after-shaving he had. used the-blade
to slash his wrist. He was taken to the hospital
where ten stitches were required: to close. the
wound, but it’ was superficial and he ‘was. re-

. turned to jail.and the questioning resumed.

They kept after him throughout’ the rest. of
the day and into the niglt. At 3 am. Saturday,
Sheriff Hickam announced that Elmer Lee had.
confessed killing his ex-wife, Dottie. ©

Shortly .after daybreak, Lee led Sheriff
Hickam and several deputies to a farm 12

miles southeast’ of. Joplin. It was the farm |

where he and Dottie had picnicked with’ the:

children shortly after his return to Missouri ;

from Arizona. He said he had thrown the
‘woman’s body into Shoal Creek, a popular
fishing site at the farm. ~

Chief. Deputy Paul Archer looked | over the,
site pointed out by Lee. “The water is shallow
at this point,” he said. “He wouldn’t, put a
body here.”

Lee was returned to Carthage a pace
tioned again. _ ;

Later that morning the offers: tetimed ‘to.

the farm and found an unoccupied-fishing cabin. —
“I got the. shovel here,” Lee: said, then ‘he .
_ looked around and’ roughed out an 80 by 30°
yard tract. “It’s >.
Officers from neighboring counties had joined

. somewhere in‘there.”

the group, and.a number of men Started to
work with shovels. They found hothing. .

“It’s there!” Lee said. “I butied her there. Mee

He said he couldn't find the exact spot ‘of
the burial due. to the ‘heavy « ‘undergrowth.
A bulldozer was called ‘in. from Joplin in the

afternoon. The bulldozer. dug ‘a Strip: about 50 . '

feet wide and 300 feet long. But, nothing worth
note was uncovered. _- o.

Then the bulldozer made an “additional ”

*

cord, Sheriff. Hickam: said. Then Lee recalled |

the Shoal Creek fishing area they recently had

‘visited. He had originally intended to throw |

_ the body in, the creek, but found a shovel in
a deserted ‘cabin and buried the body, instead.
He then drove to Kansas City, tossing out

"the. victim’s clothes near Rich Hill. He picked:

up .the daughter and the three’ sons, ‘telling ©

_ them Dottie had gone to St. Louis. Then’. he

started on: the long trip. He first drove the

children to St. Louis, saying he. was going to :
- look for Dottie. He: sold the. television set and

other articles taken from the house. From
St. Louis, he drove to Portland, Ore., telling
the children he thought Dottie had gone thére.

They traveled for more than a year through
‘many states, Lee. telling ‘the children he was
. looking for Dottie. He’ said he worked occa-

sionally at fruit picking, and also got food.and -.

gasoline from the Salvation Army and other

agencies.
Then they stopped in Skustin. ‘Tex., where
Lee got a job at a used car lot. Sheriff Bicker:

said Lee represented the girl as his wife, ap-.

parently to make it easier to. get rooms.

* The sheriff said that Lee, in his. statement,
admitted striking “Dottie during the argument,
and also admitted driving around with her
wrapped body_in the car, but ‘said he- could

‘not remember: strangling her ‘with the electric

cord or any other action until he buried her.

Elmer. Lee was charged with first-degree

murder. On August 23, he was brought before

Magistrate Allen Patrick, where, shackled and -

under: heavy guard, he heard the charge. read
_ by Prosecutor Stewart E. Tatum. In a low
voice, -Lee told the court he wanted to waive
the preliminary’ hearing.

Lee was ordered bound over to circuit court
for trial, and held without bond. At this writ-
ing, he is in the county jail at Carthage await-
ing action on the charge. : |

No. 1>

The last words of killers condemned
to die have reflected bravado, fear,
remorse. With this new feature,
Front Page introduces you to some
of the remarkable “last second”
thoughts that were voiced by men
and women as they went to their
planned deaths.

Barthelmy, a French killer executed
in London, said as the noose was put in
place: “Now I shall know the great
ta ets : oe

Pat Cia a Goons bandit iho
killed his Sweetheart because he’d had
misgivings about having told her too
many details about his holdup gang, cried
out as he sat in the electric chair:
“Don’t! I am not as brave as I have pre-
ee to be 2

Duchess Ay Re the West Coast mur-
der mob leader, snarled shortly. before
going to the gas chamber: “My blood
‘will burn holes in their bodies, and be-
fore six months have gone by, my exe-
cutioners . will bé punished.” But just
before she died the Duchess took it all
back. “I have asked God .to forgive
them,” she: said..

Chester S. Jordan, a Boston killer
‘who had dissected his victim, told the
warden in the death chamber: “I’m ready
to die. od I ask is that you don’t cut
me up.” After the electrocution the
autopsy required by law was performed
on his body anyway.

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their debt to society in Folsom Prison.

Among them is Harry Dunlap, “Badge
sandit.” who would have to live three
hundred years to complete the sentence
imposed upon him at Los Angeles. Wal-
ter Collins, whose little son was supposed-
ly killed by Gordon Stewart Northcott
on his notorious “murder farm” near Riv-
erside, California, is serving forty years
for highway robbery. There, too, is “Little
Phil” Alguien, serving life for the mur-
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‘Tanko, escaped from San Quentin Prison
and terrorized the Sacramento Valley for
weeks until Hall was recaptured and
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All prisoners who attempt to escape
irom San Quentin, or who cause trouble
in that institution, are transferred to
Folsom,

Thus it is seen that many desperate
men are confined within these walls, con-
stantly watching for an opportunity to
escape, And the prison officials, chosen
for their experience in handling convicts,
are also on the alert to prevent escapes,
Many big breaks have been frustrated by
the vigilance of these guards.

Various ingenious schemes have been
tried by desperate prisoners in the hope
of regaining their liberty.

In 1924 two men undertook to escape.
One, who worked in the power house, set
an alarm clock in such a position that at
oP. M. the entire prison was thrown in
darkness. Immediately the guards were
on the alert, and the prison walls were
soon flooded with light from numerous
automobiles commandeered for that pur-
pose. The two men were captured and
placed in solitary confinement.

In 1922, a prisoner made himself a
makeshift diving-suit, in whieh he in-
tended to walk to freedom along the
bottom of the canal which flows through
the prison, Three days Jater his body
was found in the water,

Many such schemes, desperate or fan-
tustic, have been tried—without success.
Naturally, the other prisoners profit by
the knowledge gained through these fail-
ures, and cither decide to remain, or try
something new !

In 1903 a mass attack was made upon
the prison officials, who were captured
and used as a shield behind which many
convicts managed to escape. Some of
them were never reapprehended.

i Neca story I am about to relate deals
with what is probably the most des-
perate break for liberty ever staged in
any prison in the world. The scene was
Folsom Penitentiary, just described. The
date was Thanksgiving Day, November
26th, 1927.

I was an inmate of that institution at
that time. Although not an active par-
ticipant in. the attempted break, I was
one of the hundreds of minor actors,
foreed to play a role in the tragic drama,
and to be an eye-witness to scenes of
terror and carnage that will be branded
forever upon my memory.

Folsom Prison includes two main
buildings, known as the old and new cell
houses. In the older building are im-
mured the more hardened men—prisoners
whom the officials call “hard-boiled.” It
was in this older building that the

True Detective Mysteries

Thanksgiving jailbreak took place. The
roof of the cell tiers is patrolled all
night by guards armed with shotguns
and revolvers. The heavy steel cell doors
are double-locked. The walls are con-
structed of heavy granite taken from the
prison quarry.

In this same building are the hospital,
State Clerk's office, Warden’s office and
the Chief Turnkey’s office. Here also
are the “solitary confinement” cells (soli-
tary confinement is the only punishment
now used in Folsom Prison) and, in ad-
dition, the dungeon where men under sen-
tence of death are confined and the gal-
lows erected for cach execution,

In 1922 a new “Show Room” was com-
pleted, and afterward motion-pictures
were shown twice cach month to the
prison inmates. This “theater” is con-
nected with the old cell house by a
short passageway. :

On Thanksgiving Day, 1927, a film en-
titled Ankles Preferred was to be ex-
hibited to the prisoners.

The convicts, after cating their break-
fast, were marched into the prison yard
to spend an hour or so until the show
was ready.

Finally the guards pounded their heav-
ily loaded canes on the pavement. This
was a signal for the men to line up. A
line was rapidly formed along the side
of the new building and in a few mo-
ments moved slowly past the Captain’s
office, through the counting gate, where
the men were counted, on through the
old cell house and into the Show Room.

The men were in good spirits, laugh-
ing, joking, pushing each other good-
naturedly, just like any holiday crowd
out for a good time.

ITTLE did we dream, as we took our

seats facing the screen, that we were
to remain in that room twenty-four hours,
into which would be crowded as many
years of mental agony, as we crouched
and huddled in terror of death, through
no fault of our own!

For in that long line of gray-clad men
were six long-termers whose minds were
not on the forthcoming picture show; men
armed with knives, razors and a 5
Colt automatic; men feverishly anxious
to pass the Captain’s office—as they were
subject to call from the line to be
searched at any time!

They were Jimmy Craig, serving a life
sentence for murder; Eddie Stokes, serv-
ing five years to life for robbery; also a
life term for the killing of a fellow-
prisoner in Folsom; Johnnie Burke, serv-
ing five years to life for the robbery of
the Capitol Theater at Sacramento; Gene
Crosby, a mere boy, still in his early
twenties, serving five years to life for
robbery; Dick Stewart, doing fifteen
years for burglary, and one year to life
for escape from the highway prison
camp; and Tony Brown, who played the
leading réle in the lurid drama about to
be enacted. He was serving a fifteen-
year term for burglary.

When they passed through the count-
ing gate, these six men, instead of follow-
ing the line to the left and into the Show
Room, swung to the right and made their
way to the Turnkey’s office. (See diagram
on page 116.) There they confronted
Guard Gorenson,

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True Detective Mysteries

Displaying the automatic and menac-
ing him with knives, they demanded from
Gorenson the keys to the outside door,

The guard said he did not have them;
that they were in the Captain’s office.

The convicts thereupon stabbed Goren-
son several times, knocked him uncon-
scious and left him for dead,

HE six men then went to the “Back
Alley” punishment cells, overpowered
Nelson, the guard in’ charge, and the con-
vict trusty, thrust them into a cell and
locked them up. There they remained
until released on the following morning.
Continuing down the corridor, the six
desperadoes encountered another guard,
Al Dealy. Although he put up no resis-
tance, Dealy was stabbed and beaten so
severely that he spent several weeks in
the hospital as the result of his injuries.
Walter O'Neil, Chief Turnkey, was the
next victim.

O'Neil was a very strict disciplinarian,
far above the average guard in knowl-
edge and experience in the handling of
convicts. If there was a fight in the
cell house, O'Neil never hesitated to step
into the midst of the fray. On numerous
occasions he had displayed a courage
that compelled the admiration of the con-
victs, although they hated him,

The six prisoners, so desperately deter-
mined to gain their freedom, came upon
O'Neil in front of the washroom. Tony
Brown, drawing the gun, calmly de-
manded the keys to the outside door.
The Turnkey, just as calmly, declared
that he did not have them. Stewart then
spoke up:

“O'Neil, we're going to kill you if we
don't get those keys!"

O'’Neil’s mind worked with lightning
rapidity in that crucial moment. From
experience he knew that a convict with a
gun in his hand meant business |

He reached into his pocket and pulled
forth his keys.

“It will do you no good to kill me,”
he said, addressing the convicts in even
tones. “These keys are all I have—but
they won’t open the outer door, The
keys you necd are kept in the Captain's
office. If you want them, let us go out
and get them!”

The convicts held a hurried consulta-
tion. It was decided to take O'Neil, go
to the Captain’s office, and get the keys!

Just why the men made this foolhardy
and hopeless decision will probably never
be known, They didn’t have a chance!
In accepting O’Neil’s suggestion, though
they did not know it at the time, they
signed their own doom,

O'Neil led the way, followed by the
six prisoners, down the corridor to the
door opening into an outer small corri-
dor opening out into the yard. This door
was equipped with an automatic lock for
just such an emergency.

The Turnkey stepped through and in-
stantly slammed the door, locking the
prisoners in the building!

At the opposite end of the outer corri-
dor was the counting gate, locked, with
a guard in charge of the key. O'Neil
dashed toward this gate, shouting:
“Open the gate!”

While O'Neil was running this short

‘distance of thirty feet, Tony Brown fired

three shots at him through the grating

in the locked door, One bullet went wild,
one struck O'Neil, and the third hit a
convict who was sitting in the counting
box at the time. This prisoner, “Red”
Baker by name, was instantly killed.

As O'Neil reached the counting gate,
the man in charge threw it open, The
wounded Turnkey staggered through and
fell just outside. He was picked up and
carried into the Captain’s office. An
ambulance was called, and he was taken
to a hospital in Sacramento.

In the meanwhile, the firing of the
three shots gave the Captain of the
Guards his first knowledge of the at-
tempted break.

All prisoners then in the yard were at
once rushed into the new cell house. The
guards on the towers were doubled.
Machine guns were promptly trained on
the building in which the armed convicts
were at bay.

The Warden was hastily notified. Ie
in turn sent word to Governor Young,
who immediately called out the State
Militia and State Police. All available
police from Sacramento and near-by
towns were also called.

Thirty minutes after the alarm was
sounded, the prison was surrounded. An
airplane loaded with bombs soared over
the buildings.

Word had been passed from the prison
that twelve hundred armed convicts were
barricaded. in a cell house there!

In the interim, Tony Brown and _ his
fellow prisoners, outwitted by the Turn-
key, for the moment did not know what
course to take. Aware that a motion-
picture film was being shown in the
Show Room, they turned in that diree-
tion, In the corridor leading from the
cell house to the Show Room, they en-
countered a guard—Ray Singleton. They
attempted to overpower him. Singleton
put up a desperate fight for his life, al-
though armed only with a cane.

In the deadly struggle he was cut in
several places, and finally completely dis-
emboweled, Thus mortally wounded, he
staggered out and fell dead before the
dungeon door in the old cell house.

wy ULE these tragic and momentous
events were transpiring in swift
sequence in the outer corridors, the
twelve hundred convicts in the Show
Room were enjoying the filin exhibit, all
unaware of what was happening.

We received our first Startling inkling
of the trend of things when Tony Brown
sprang upon a bench inside the Show
Room and fired two shots at the ceiling,
A wild rush was at once made to give
him plenty of room. Every man in that
hall knew instantly what a gun in the
hands of a prisoner meant!

Brown shouted for silence. And then:

“We've got control of the prison!" he
announced, clearly and distinctly. “We've
killed. Gorenson, O’Neil and Singleton!
We mean to escape, and we'll allow no-
hody to block our way! If every man
remains where he is, none of you will
be hurt—but I warn you all not to come
within twenty fect of us! Remain where
you are!”

During his speech there was a general
craning of necks to see who was with
him. _ Craig, Stokes, Burke, Croshy and
Stewart were at once recognized as des-

perate and
circumsta!
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Gorenson

fought, but they stabbed = him with a
knife and then struck him on the head
with a hammer and left him for dead.
(Naturally, this and the events immedi-
ately following, 1 did not witness per-
sonally.) Simultaneously with the at-
tack on Guard Gorenson, Tony Brown
covered Turnkey O'Neil with the gun,
and held him so that he could not go to
Gorenson’s assistance.

‘To gain time, Turnkey O'Neil had tricd
to reason with them that their proposition
was out of the question, and that they
would all be killed, From the cell house
to the door leading out to the front yard
is an archway, and in this archway is a
counting post (a small wooden shack)
where a convict counter is on duty dur-
ing the day. Guard Thompson, the offi-
cial counter, has a similar post on the
yard side of the door. Tony Brown and
‘Turnkey O'Neil were standing inside the
cell house near the entrance to the arch-
way. Tony had O'Neil covered with the
45 automatic. Suddenly O'Neil dashed
through the archway toward the door
leading to the yard, and Tony fired. The
bullet brought. the Turnkey down with
a broken knee, and as he fell Tony fired
again, but the bullet went wide and killed
conviet “Red” Baker, who was sitting in
the counting post.

Thinking that O'Neil was dead, Tony
and the others hastened to the Show
Room, with what disastrous results the
reader knows. O'Neil managed to drag
himself through the door which Guard
‘Thompson had opened, and even his
cnemies must admire the supreme nerve
he displayed when he made the dangerous
dash for the door. A few moments later
Guard Gorenson, with a gaping knife
wound in his body and serious cuts on
his head, struggled through the same
door, Both were rushed to a hospital in
Sacramento, where they recovered, al-
though O'Neil is probably a cripple for
life, He returned to duty, and is still in
harness.

HE. position of Captain in a tougl.

prison like Folsom is no sinecure.
It requires a man of indomitable will,
courage, and tact. Captain Larkin’s abil-
ity sufficiently meets the requirements.
Ife is a man of thirty-three or so, stand-
ing over six feet three, with black hair,
high forehead, wide open eyes, nose
slightly suggestive of the aquilin, large
mouth, square jaw, and a big-boned ath-

_letic body. He has a harsh voice when

dealing with toughs or bullies, but is
gentle with the weak and aged.

When the first shot was fired, and
Turnkey O'Neil fell wounded through the
door,+ Which is next to the Captain’s
office, Captain Larkin immediately phoned
all the gun towers to train their guns
on the cell house and the Show Room.
He then called the Warden's office and
informed him that an armed riot had
broken out, that some twelve hundred
convicts had been counted into the cell
house to attend the moving-pictures, and
that they were evidently in control of that
part of the prison, There were 800-odd
convicts remaining in the yard, preferring
the fresh air and ball game to the
pictures, These men were rushed into a
cell house not connected with the Show
Room, and locked up.

True Detective Mysteries

In the meantime the Warden had called
Sacramento and the Governor's office,
informing them of the situation, Gov-
ernor Young immediately dispatched the
State Militia, and when they arrived the
commanding officer took charge, and Cap-
tain Larkin and Warden Court Smith be-
came subordinate. J am just as sure of
my facts in’ this, as IT am that neither
the Captain nor the Warden gave the
order to fire on the Show Room.

A few days before Thanksgiving, Eddie
Stokes, with whom I was very friendly,
had warned me that there was going to
he a big prison break, and that probably
some shooting would take place. But
plots and attempted escapes are so com~
mon at Folsom that I forgot all about
his warning until the trouble started.
Many other convicts had been secretly
warned, but had not been told the exact
time and place of the contemplated break.

EEKS later, the six desperadocs

were tried, and all were found
guilty of murder in the first degree for
killing Guard Singleton, On a recom-
mendation by the jury, who were opposed
to capital punishment, they were sen-
tenced to life imprisonment. They were
all, except Tony Brown, who was s¢tv-
ing fifteen years, undergoing life sen-
tences; therefore the verdict was re-
ceived by them with howls of delight.

Their joy, however, was short-lived, for
the Grand Jury at a special sitting in-
dicted them for the murder of convict
“Red” Baker, who was killed by the sec-
ond shot fired by Tony Brown at Turn-
key O'Neil. They were tried on this
charge, found guilty, and all sentenced to
death.

Stewart, the convict who gave evidence
for the State, confessed in open court
that he had, by conniving with other
conviets whom he named, smuggled the
gun into the prison, My information on
the subject of the smuggled gun being
meager, I shall not go into details.

Forty days prior to my release from
Folsom prison last spring I was a trusty,
and was employed on the ranch road out-
side the prison walls. In a little two-
room brown cottage by the roa¢.ide, the
official Executioner lives. He is a bach-
elor, and lives all alone. “Up on the
Hill,” in plain view from the « cage, is
the prison graveyard.

One day the Executioner was digging
post holes near-by, and I stopped for a
moment, and stood watching him. He is
a heavy-built man with a strong face and
large, capable-looking hands. He worked,
and I watched him. Presently he stood
erect, and as if by habit looked toward

the burying-ground. Then his deep-set

eyes dropped, raised again, and held me

for the space of a few quick heartbeats. '

“Are you going to write any morc
stories for TRUE DETECTIVE Mysterits?”
he inquired,

“Perhaps I shall,” was my noncom-
mittal reply.

Again his eyes sought the burying-
ground where sleep so many men with
broken necks, but he spoke no further
word; and I went on my way, thinking
that here is a man who could also tell
an interesting story... -

Inside the prison, locked tight and fast
in the condemned cells, six convicts are

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True Detective Mysteries

waiting, waiting for the day in the not-
distant future when they, too, shall walk
forth, and up to the scaffold, and stand
“under the hangman’s hand.”

(NOTE: In order that readers of TRUE
Detective Mystertes—who, we believed,
would be interested in a true picture of the
great lolsom riot that cost so much in
ayony and human blood—might be given

Where

all possible information on this, we secured
another story from an eye-witness, which
here follows. Both these stories, Robert
Considine’s and the one that follows, are
from ex-convicts, who, while still in Mol-
som, were not, of course, allowed to give
to the public their accounts of what hap-
pened, The story below was given only on
condition that the author's name be with-
held. Ed.)

What Price Freedom?

By an Ex-Convict,
Folsom riot on Thanksgiving Day, 1927.

As told to D. L. Michel

eye-witness of the

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OLSOM PENITENTIARY, some

twenty-two miles northeast of Sac-

ramento, California, was built in
1893 by convicts who were transferred
from San Quentin Prison. It was orig-
inally constructed to house 900 men, but
has been gradually enlarged until at the
present time it lodges more than 2,200
prisoners, .

All of these men are recidivists, or

: 43 NOR 7 Lo ee | ‘ ‘ ih

This diagram of Folsom Prison was made by the ex-convict who gave this second

story of the Thanksgiving riot to TRUE DETECTIVE MYSTERIES. It shows the gen-

eral layout of the prison. When you read his story, study the diagram and trace
on it the movements of the six desperate jailbreakers

“two-time losers ;” they comprise what
'the State of California classes as hard-
ened criminals.

Nearly 30 per cent. of the inmates are
serving sentences from which only death
can release them. These men know that
they will never again be free; that they
must spend the remainder of their days
behind stone walls.

Many noted criminals are now paying

their debt t
Among the
Bandit,” wh:
hundred yea
imposed upo:
ter Collins, v
ly killed by
on his noter:
erside, Calit
for highway
Phil’ Alguic
der of Dete
reles. And
Tanko, esca}
and terroriz
weeks until
Tanko shot
All prise:
irom San (
in that ins
Folsom.
Thus it
men are cor
stantly wat
escape. Ai
for their ex
are also on

» Many big b

the vigilan
Various
tried by de
of regainin
In 1924 1
One, who v
an alarm c°
9 PLM. the
darkness.
on the ale:
soon flood:
automobile
pose. The
placed in
In 1922,
makeshift
tended to
hottom of
the prison
was found
Many sv
tustic, hav
Naturally,
the knowl
ures, and,
something
In 1903
the prison
“and used :
convicts 1
them were

HE st
with \
perate bre
any prisot
Folsom Pe
date was
20th, 1927,
I was a
that time.
ticipant |
one of t!
toreed to
and to b
terror ai
_ forever w
Folsom
buildings,
houses.
mured the
whom th:
was in


HAWKINS, SIMONE & SPINELLI

own bt A
ij . 14 es (@) i 8 col

| se ry Le ‘eile his W" seo the 108: atts
ce! ca

DARING DETECTIVE,
August, 1940

\ of
and

940.
, out,
fat
ng t©

among

and che
‘ mist,


i

rea

a

five women found all four defendants guilty
of murder in the first degree, and refused
to recommend leniency, making the death
sentence mandatory.

As for young Lorraine Spinelli, she was
believed to be a victim of the gang rather
than a member of it. No charge was
placed against her, and she was released.

If the death sentence is carried out
against Juanita Spinelli, she will be the
first woman to die in California’s new
lethal gas chamber. The Mistress of Murder
and her erstwhile hirelings will taste the
sickish fumes of cyanide—a: death far
more merciful than the one meted out to
‘Sherrod.

The Mormon
Banker Torch
Riddle

(Continued from page 39)

“But you can bet your life the old man
wasn’t afraid of Draper,” he added, “and I
know it wasn’t on Draper’s account that
he put new locks on his house. I think
their trouble has been patched up. Draper
is a good-natured, inoffensive chap—not
the type that holds a grudge. He still
ea about how the old man manhandled
um.”

An interesting lead to investigate, Peter-
son speculated Through discreet inquiry
he learned that the only car Draper had
access to was his father’s. A hasty check
revealed that it was not a tan sedan, and
it did not have diamond tread tires or
California license plates.

His next informant was an Ephraim busi-

ness man who had been a close friend of
the slain banker for half a century. He
confided to the sheriff that Bjerregaard had
been “terribly worried” during recent
months.
\ “The reason was because he had financed
Ivadell’s divorce from Lester Jensen,” he
said in a confidential tone. “For a long
time he’s been wondering if he did the
right thing.”

Here at last was a lead. It seemed pos-
sible that Lester Jensen would resent the
part which his father-in-law had played in
the divorce. Had he nursed a grudge?

When the sheriff began checking on Jen-
sen, he learned to his surprise that the man
no longer lived in Ephraim. Rumors were

that he had left town following his divorce

from Ivadell, and that he had gone to Cali-
fornia.

Peterson hurried to Ivadell Jensen’s
home.

“I’m sure Lester wouldn’t do a terrible
thing like that,” she declared, after Peter-
son had hinted at his suspicions. “Besides,
Lester always liked father, and he seemed
glad that father put up the money for our
divorce.”

“Have you heard from him recently ?”

“No, I haven’t. I have no idea where
he is.”

The sheriff changed his line of inquiry
to check the lover suspect. “Is it true that
your father had trouble with Mendon
Draper?” he asked.

The young divorcee’s face flushed. “They
had a little trouble last fall,” she ad-
mitted. After an uncomfortable pause, she
added: “I know that Mendon didn’t have
anything to do with father’s death, though,
because he was visiting here at my place
last night.”

Further questioning disclosed that Iva-
dell’s impetuous suitor did not leave her
place until “long after midnight.”

Meanwhile, in Salt Lake City, the stage
was being set for a surprising anticlimax
in the sensational case. Two prowl car
patrolmen driving west on Second South
Street observed a tan Auburn sedan parked
in front of a cheap rooming house. It
had California license tags.

One of the officers remained on guard
while the other phoned a terse message to
headquarters. A few minutes later the
hotel was surrounded with grim-faced

officers. Detective Lester F. Wire examined,

the tires on the tan sedan, and muttered to
other sleuths at his elbow: “It’s the murder
car, all right. Every tire has a diamond
tread!”

They made their way up a foul-smelling
stairway. The landlady advised them that
“Mr. and Mrs. Harry Jones,” who owned
the Auburn, were asleep in room 17.

A moment later a sleepy-eyed couple was
roused from bed. The girl, who appeared
about 19, was a blond whose manner in-
dicated that she had seeri much of the
seamy side of life. Her partner was a
heavily-muscled, stocky fellow.

“What do you want?” he snarled.

“You have a date with the chief,” a de-
tective retorted. “.

The man and girl were rushed to head-
quarters, where Chief of Police W. L.
Payne made an attempt to question them.

“Tf you think you can‘prove anything, go
ahead!” challenged the man.

“You bet we can prove something,”
Payne cut back. “In the first place, your
car has a different name on thé registra-
tion card than the name you used at the
hotel. And in the second place, a sheriff
from down the line is going to be up here
within a couple of hours. [’ll let him ask

the questions. You better have the right

answers ready.”

\W HEN SHERIFF PETERSON re-
turned to his office at Manti early
that evening, he received Payne’s message.
He set out at once for Salt Lake City,
accompanied by the witness who had seen
the sedan parked in front of the banker’s
residence.

The witness first examined the tan auto-
mobile which had been taken to the police
garage. “That’s the car,” he said with con-
viction. Shortly Peterson knew the man was
not mistaken, for the tires matched per-
fectly with his plaster casts.

When he confronted “Harry Jones,” the
sheriff bluntly accused him of the Ephraim
murder. The man squirmed and turned pale.

“My God!” groaned the prisoner. He
clenched his fists until the knuckles were
white. Then he said: “I’ll talk. Pll talk—
and you’ve got to believe me!

“We stopped at a little jerk-water town
this side of Zion’s Park last night to take
a nap. We'd driven straight through from
Los Angeles without sleep. Twice we
pulled off the main highway!for a short
rest. I don’t know, but one of the stops
might have been at Ephraim.”

This alibi sounded plausible enough, for
Bjerregaard’s residence in Ephraim was
only a block and a half from the main high-
way. But the alibi didn’t satisfy Peterson.

He pulled a bloodstained glove from his
pocket and handed it to the prisoner. “Try
this on,” he said. Nervously the man tried
to do as directed, but the glove was too
small by at least one size.

They questioned him closely regarding
the time he and his companion had left
Ephraim and the time they had arrived in
Salt Lake City. He had a straightforward
answer.

“If Ephraim is where I think it is, we

arked there about an hour—from 6:30 to

:30,” he said. “We got in Salt Lake
around midnight. And I can prove it be-
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E Other leading features in this big

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September

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_ DETECTIVE

On Sale Everywhere
August 8th 10¢
L READ ing

they pretended to be strangers when they
were with Johnson weighed heavily against
them.

Relatives came from Seattle and took
charge of the puzzled little Kersh boy, in-
nocent victim of the whole grisly affair.
These Seattle relatives of both Webb and
Mrs. Kersh were all highly respectable
people, and were filled with sorrow.

Jesse Webb went to trial on October 10,
1910. He claimed self-defense. Mrs. Kersh
aided him, saying that Johnson had given
her the money before they left Spokane.
The money, incidentally, was finally turned
over to a brother of Johnson in Minne-
sota.

The defense was futile. There was too
much evidence of premeditation. It took the
jury just four hours and forty minutes to
return a verdict of “guilty as charged” on
October 21.

Mrs. Kersh went to trial on October 24.
According to trial reporters, her hair had
begun to turn gray.

The State’s case against her was weaker,
since both she and Webb said she was not
in the room at the time of the murder. On
November 7, the jury reported it could not
reach a verdict, and was discharged. Judge
Morrow ordered another trial.

In the meantime, on October 25, Jesse

Webb appeared before Judge Morrow for
sentence. Webb’s face was pale, but he
was composed as he made a last plea for
his life.

“I realize I am in the shadow of death,”
he told the court. “The sentence which will
cut me off from life is about to be passed
on me. It seems therefore that nothing I
say at this time will make any material
difference.”

He continued, looking at the judge:

“However, your honor, I do wish to make
the declaration that at the time I was as-
saulted by that man (Johnson) with a
blackjack, I was trying to leave the room.
At no time was there any premeditated
murder in my _ heart.”

He was sentenced to be hanged on De-
cember 15 at the Oregon State Penitentiary
at Salem. Notice of appeal delayed the
execution.

Mrs. Kersh was given a second trial. This
time the jury deliberated seventy-two hours.
Finally, on December 21, the jurors re-
turned a verdict of manslaughter. :

“I’m innocent!” Mrs, Kersh screamed.

Then she fell over in a dead faint and
was carried from the courtroom. Later, she
was given a sentence of fifteen years be-
hind bars.

Carrie Kersh and Jesse Webb appealed
the verdicts. Both lost.

Mrs. Kersh was “dressed in” at the Salem
prison on April 25, 1911, and became No.
6367. Webb was placed in the death row
on August 5, scheduled to be hanged on
vitae 5. . His striped suit bore No.

A few days before the scheduled execu-
tion, Webb's death sentence was commuted
to a life term by Governor West.

In the rigid regime at Salem, Mrs.
Kersh never saw her paramour again. Both
were model prisoners as the years rolled by.

The World War came and was won. In
that delirious Victory Christmas season of
1918, a gray-haired, middle-aged woman
walked silently out through the prison
gates,

She was Carrie Kersh, freed by parole
on December 14, 1918, her debt to society
fully paid. She went to Idaho, where she
had relatives.

Four years and a day later, December 15,
1922, Acting Governor Rittner of Oregon
gave Jesse Webb a full pardon. His debt,
too, was fully paid.

Thus ended Portland’s strangest murder
case, which might never have been solved
had not a corpse missed a train.

“Death” Said
the Duchess

(Continued from page 8)

Sacramento. The Duchess had developed a
new technique for hitch-hike robbery, using
her own daughter as bait.

Mike Simeone, lieutenant and common-
law husband of the duchess, described the
gang’s method of operation. “We'd make
Gypsy go out on the highway,” he said,
“all dolled up with a fancy dress and carry-

ing a little suitcase. She'd pick a ride with -

a guy that looked like he had money, get
chummy with him, and suggest they park
on a side road she knew about.

“If the guy didn’t fall she’d get out and
pick another sucker.
would be waiting at the side road spot and
pull a stickup when Gypsy brought the

dopes in. We figured they wouldn’t squawk:’

to the cops cause they’d feel foolish about
falling for a dame.”

Simeone admitted several holdups had
been pulled in this manner on the Sacra-
mento-San Francisco highway.

When Sherrod’s body. was recovered
Tuesday afternoon, the Duchess finally ad-
mitted plotting his death. But she claimed
she had been forced to by Ives, who threat-
ened to place the Gypsy in a house of pros-
titution if his decree of death for Sherrod
was not carried out.

Less than a week after their arrest, the
Sacramento grand jury indicted Mrs.
Spinelli, Ives, Simeone and Hawkins on a
charge of the murder of their one-time pal

and accomplice, Bob Sherrod. The Gypsy ee

was held as a material witness since she
had taken no active part in the gang’s
affairs,

District Attorney Otis D. Babcock an-
nounced that the State would ask the
death penalty. Meanwhile, in San Fran-
cisco, Ives and Nifty were also charged
with the murder of Cash. More than fifty
holdups were traced directly to the Duchess
and her satellites.

In the Golden Gate Avenue apartment
house Corassa and Husted found a veritable
arsenal, along with detailed charts worked
out for some of the robberies engineered by
the Duchess. There were newspaper ac-
counts of successful crimes in other states,
which had been used by the Duchess to
school her new recruits.

“ON MAY 20 the Duchess, Simeone,

Ives, and Hawkins went on trial be-
fore Judge Raymond T. Coughlin of the
Sacramento Superior Court. District At-
torney Babcock personally directed the
prosecution. In his opening statement he
outlined the State’s case, sketched the his-
tory of the gang, and described the Duchess
as “a bloodthirsty, depraved woman with

‘an abandoned and malignant heart.”

Albert Ives repeated his confession in
detail and told the jury of the cold-blooded
execution of Bob Shert'od.

“Who gave Bob the doped whiskey?”
Babcock asked.

“Mike Simeone. Bob took a big gulp of
it and stumbled, staggered sort of, then
Mike started hitting him. The Duchess hit
him in the back of the neck with a bottle.”
The one-time torpedo of the Spinelli gang
kept his eyes on the Duchess as he helped
the state build its case.

“And how did Bob Sherrod’s body get
in the Sacramento River?” Babcock con-
tinued.

“I threw him in, me and Nifty took him
down there. I don’t know if he was dead
then or not... .”

On May 29 the jury of seven men and

Me and One-Eye |

aoe


old by .
Deadly Duchess G

Death was the guest of honor!

“Wait a minute, everybody,” Bobbie
Sherrard cried. “I feel a toast coming
on. Here’s to The Duchess!”

Everyone turned toward me with
their glasses raised. I took my drink
from the table and tried to smile in
acceptance of the salute, But I could
not smile. My glance was fixed on the
happy face of the boy who had pro-
posed the toast to me. Death awaited
him because in his youthful inexperi-
ence he had talked—talked too much
about a slaying he had watched one of
his friends commit.

Mike Simeone, the oldest of the men
present, came over to where I was sit-
ting. Bobbie had taken my daughter,
Lorraine, in his arms and they were
dancing gayly. The other two young-
sters, Gordon Hawkins and Albert Ives,
had seated themselves on the bed and
were watching the man they were
about to kill dancing around the small
room.

“Okay,” Mike whispered to me,
“now’s the time.” i

I looked into the dark, mean eyes
of the man standing over me, and

Bobbie Sherrard: His toast to a friend
was a prelude to his fatal “accident”

“AD—3

Absence of blood on his body made Bo
unteer searchers are shown here remo

bbie Sherrard’s death more horrible. Vol-
ving the body from the Sacramento River


The blackjacks being examined here by Captain of Detectives
M. W. Lincecum were made by The Duchess as tools for her heist
mob’s trade; the gun was used to kill Leland Cash in San Francisco

hard]. could believe it was the person
I hac’ accepted as my common-law
husband. A strange intentness shone
there.

“Where are the knockout drops?”
he asked in a muffled voice, holding
toward me a glass partially filled with
whisky. ‘

-I couldn’t hesitate—death might be
my lot, too!

My mind was made up, If death had
to come to Bobbie Sherrard, I wanted
it to be merciful. Quickly I drew from
my pocket a small bottle containing
the knockout crystals and placed them
on the table in front of Mike. Stealth-
ily, he poured half the contents of the
bottle into the glass and turned to-
ward the others.

“Come on, you kids,” he shouted.
“Get another drink. Here Bob, here’s
yours.” Bobbie took the glass from
Mike and gulped down the liquid.

I pulled my eyes away from the
handsome face of the boy who had a
rendezvous with death, and glanced at
the faces of the others.

The expressions of each man now,
for the first time, revealed his true in-
tentions. Albert Ives, the proven killer
of our group, stared at Bobbie from his

6

one good eye. The lid partially cover-
ing his artificial eye twitched. Mixed
expressions of fear and relief were
written on the hard faces of Gordon
Hawkins and Mike.

Thank the heavens above that Lor-

raine had gone into the adjoining room
with her small brothers after dancing
with Bobbie. I wouldn’t have had her
Ls! a party to this affair—not for my
ife.

FELT the tenseness in the room.

We all knew Bobbie had taken the
first step to his destruction when he
swallowed that drink. I could see im-
patience on the faces of the three men
as they waited for the potion to take
effect.

Ten long minutes passed. Then
Bobbie suddenly fell on the bed in a
stupor. Without words, each of the
three men sprang into action. Mike,
with some effort, hoisted the limp
body of the eighteen-year-old boy onto
his shoulder, Albert took a place as
lookout in the hallway just outside the
room, as Gordon hurried downstairs to
see that all was clear.

As .Mike carried Bobbie from the
room, the boy partially roused from

his lethargy, raised his hand limply
and mumbled:

“Whoopee!”

Mike gave a lurch to rebalance the
boy on his shoulder and strode out
into the hallway. It was the last time

- I saw Bobbie alive—I only could wait

now, to be told by Albert and Gordon
what they had done to the youth after
they left the hotel.

Waiting, my thoughts flashed back-
ward across the few weeks I had
known these young people. My meet-
ing them had brought new sorrow to
my already unhappy life. I befriended
them and, suddenly, I found myself in-
escapably mixed up in robbery, bur-
glary and homicide.

Hadn’t Bobbie, Albert and Gordon
taken part in a brutal killing in San
Francisco? Hadn’t they all robbed,
committed burglary and stolen auto-
mobiles during the short time I had

’ known them?

And then hadn’t they forced me, a
mother who only had wanted to pro-
tect her children, to help them “elimi-
nate” one of their number because he
talked about the crime they had com-
mitted?

“Why,” I asked myself, “why must
it be me?”

I had been dogged constantly by
lawlessness all my life—but hadn’t I
managed to steer clear of a career of
crime? Now I was a member of a
gang I felt certain was on a one-way
route to prison—perhaps worse. What
could I do to escape? Why must I
side in with this gang’s deadly plans?
Why was I so weak?

Waiting there in that small room,
knowing a boy was being taken to his

death, I recalled the hardships, heart-
breaks and sadness I had conquered
during my 50 years of life. How could
I have overcome the events that now
had me embroiled in the activities of
such a vicious group of criminals?

Even my birth was illegal. I was
the illegitimate daughter of a fourteen-
year-old Sioux Indian girl and her
employer who farmed near Lexington,
Kentucky. My mother died at my
birth and my father attempted to aban-
don me. But members of my mother’s
tribe forced him to care for me.

I lived with my father and his right-
ful wife until I was six years old.
When my _ foster-mother died, my
father quickly took steps to rid him-
self of his unwanted child. He sent
me to his sister’s in Wisconsin.

There I remained until I was thir-
teen years old. I was terribly unhappy
and mistreated. My aunt worked me
all day long and refused to allow me
to go to school, One day I gathered
my few cheap belongings and ran
away.

| MADE my way to Omaha, Nebraska,
where I sought employment as a do-
mestic maid. During the years that
followed I worked in one home after
another, ever seeking the mother’s
solace and love I so sorely needed.

The nearest I came to happiness
during those years was while I was
with Captain Parker of the United
States Army. With his family he took
me to the Philippine Islands where I
remained for more than two years.
There I studied constantly, learning to
read and write, and finally qualified
to enter a nurses’ training-school.

The clothes held here by Investigator Harry Hendricks were
a plant for “accidental” death. Left to right: Detective
P. O. Emerine, Gordon Hawkins, Hendricks and Albert Ives


Eighteen months of training ended
when my health broke.down and I
was forced to leave the Parker family
and rcturn to the United States.

In 1915 I met a young soldier in
Denver, Colorado. I fell head over
heels in’ love with him and he pro-
fessed his love for me, After a whirl-
wind courtship we were married.

For . year I lived with Joseph Camp-
long. I bore him twins and believed
I was making him happy. But a few
months after the birth of the children
it became evident our marriage wasn’t
to last. Within a few months Joseph
took the twin boy and left me, never
to return. Sorrow wasn’t through with
me yet. My baby daughter became ill
and died.

I left Denver forever, Throughout
the Mid-West I wandered, taking odd
jobs I could find and moving on when
they ended. I became a waitress, a
maid and a laundry worker before I
reached San Antonio, Texas, where I
met Anthony.

Anthony Spinelli was connected with
a cavalry unit there during the dura-
tion of the war and had remained for
a year of additional service.

He treated me with gentleness and
consideration and I knew he loved me.

Onc evening in April of 1919 he
asked me to become his wife. I de-
ferred giving him my answer—I
couldi’t be definite, you see. I wanted
to marry him, but I couldn’t because
of my first marriage. I had not been
divorced. What could I do?

He persisted in his proposals and one

Albert Ives, center left, and
Gordon Hawkins, center right,
brought the detectives shown
with them to this spot where
unconscious Bobbie Sherrard
was tossed to a certain death

AD—3

Albert Ives, right, told In-
vestigator Harry Hendricks,
with him here, that he fled
the gang in fear of his life

night I told him my story. He pon-
dered, and then said quietly:

“Juanita, I want you and you, I
think, want me. We might not be able
to marry under the laws but we can
become married under our own beliefs.
I will take you as my wife forever,
until death do us part.”

For more than a year we lived in
bliss. We had moved to Detroit, Mich-
igan, when Tony was discharged from
the Army and he had taken up shoe-
making.

Then one day my troubles started
again. A cousin of Tony’s came to
visit us from New York. He was a
racketeer and decided to take Tony
into his criminal gang. Day after day
while the cousin stayed I realized Tony
was slipping away from me.

One day he disappeared!

Frantic, I sought him at his place of
employment, but he had not been

Juanita Spinelll to Detec-
tive Sergeant P. C. Gamble:
“If death had to come
to Bobbie Sherrard, 1
wanted it to be merciful”

there for days. He had led me to be-
lieve he was working; instead, he had
become engaged in the criminal activi-
ties of an organized mob.

A few days later I received a tele-
gram from him, It read:

CAN’T EXPLAIN, PLEASE TRUST ME
AND COME TO ME IN CLAYTON, NEW
MEXICO, IMMEDIATELY,’

I hesitated only a short time. Our
first child was expected and I thought
I could save Tony from becoming too
deeply involved in his new pursuits if
I could tell him about our baby. I
went to Clayton; Tony met me in the
railroad station. We again established
a home and I hoped Tony had given
up his bad associates for good. What
false hopes they were!

One day two men came to our little
home. They said they had to speak to
Tony in private. When they had given
him their message, I had lost my hus-
band again. He left the next day.

ab btpee piled on years. Months on end
I’d never see my husband. Suddenly,
then, he would reappear. Sometimes
broke, sometimes with money that
seemed to be a fortune.

I’ll never forget the last time I saw
him alive. Our family then consisted
of a daughter and two sons. I had
not seen Tony since before the birth
of our last son and was happy when
he returned to see the baby.

“T’ve got to go again, Juanita,” he
said a few weeks later. “They’ve
called me back.”

Although I had grown familiar with
the sudden departures of my husband,
somehow I felt a strange foreboding.

“Tony,” I said, taking a ring from
my finger, “take this with you wher-
ever you go. If you ever need me send
it to me and I'll come to you—no
matter where.”

(Continued on Page 46)


HAWKING 9

st MONE &

PERE is how the story “broke” in
newspapers up and down the West

~

-oast on Tuesday, April 16:

“Sacramento, Calif., April 16—Caught i
n the meshes of a police trap and f=
nortally in fear of each other, four
nembers of a West Coast heist mob
ried vainly today to shift to each
thers’ shoulders the blame for a hold-
“p slaying and a typical gang rub-out,
se under arrest were: Mrs. Jua-
vita—The Duchess—Spinelli, 50, re-
uted leader of the gang; Albert—
ne Eye—Ives, 23, triggerman; Mike
‘imeone, 32, and Gordon Hawkins, 21.
Irs. Spinelli’s nineteen ~ year - old
aughter, Lorraine, also was taken into
ustody and held as a material wit-

cr

ess,

“The gang, an oddly assorted group
f characters, was arrested’ Monday
fter Ives jumped from a car near

ruckee and ran to officers with the
ory that his companions were plot-
ng to kill him. That his fears were
%t groundless was revealed when he
ld a story of drugging, beating up
wu drowning a fellow gang member
keep him from squealing about a
‘evious holdup slaying in San Fran-
sco on April 8,
“San Francisco authorities said that
e man slain there on April 8 was
2land Stanford Cash, 55, night man-
‘er of a barbecue stand. The gang
ag drowned was Bobbie Sher-
rd, 7
“A search was being made today for
errard’s body in the Sacramento
ver near the Freeport Bridge from
vich Ives said’ the unconscious boy
's thrown, Sherrard, according to
2 story pieced together by Deputy
strict Attorney J, Francis O’Shea

‘m gang statements, ‘was given ©

ock-out drops in a cocktail, beaten
0 further unconsciousness, stripped
his clothing and thrown into the
er wearing only swimming-trunks
make his death appear to be acci-
tal drowning.

Mrs. Spinelli, a gaunt-faced woman,
merly of Detroit, was the most col-
ul chiructer in the group. Ives said
t it was she who made blackjacks
him and gave him the gun that was
d to kill Cash. Mrs. Spinelli main-
ed that she was living with the
g only to protect her daughter.”

he forces of the law moved rapidly, *

ts were checked, The body of
thful Bobbie Sherrard was dragged
n its watery grave. The police
zled over the conflicting statements
yang members who made craven
“essions in efforts to “pass the buck”
2 one to another, Out of the welter
ensational facts came a newspaper
l for the death ring: The Duchess
g. This name was coined from the
iquet given 50-year-old Juanita
elli by her erstwhile friends in
a

oy €

Mrs. Juanita Spinelli, The Duchess:
self inescapably mixed up in robbery,

The confessions of her companions,
announcements of police and news-
paper stories quickly credited this
strange woman with being the brains
behind the deadly West Coast death
ring. One paragraph from a story car-
ried in the San Francisco Examiner on

Friday read:

“. .. Police said Mrs. Spinelli taught
her youthful gangsters how to ‘prop-

erly’ knife a man, how to handle an
opponent in any kind of fight, and how
to strike adversaries ‘to lay them out’.”

What manner of woman was this?
How had she become involved in such

aaaed CA on 11-21 & 11-28-1941

“Suddenly | found my.
burglary and homicide”

criminal activity? What ‘possible ex-
ffer for her association
Why had she permitted

cuse could she o

her daughter,
companion of cheap hoodlums?
ACTUAL DETECTIVE SroRIES believec
i tory was of immediate.
t would be of tre-
to its readers, In its
be first and to bring
usive stories on cases
portance, it set in
igation that has re-
ng The Duchess’
story of the crimes for which s

is woman’s s
importance—t
mendous interest
effort always to
its readers excl

motion an invest
sulted in obtaini

held and of her life with the gang she
is alleged to have led.

ACTUAL DETECTIVE Stories, in pub-
lishing her story, condones in no way
her actions, nor sympathizes with her
excuses. It believes that such a_ story
as this woman tells will be an active
deterrent to crimes of this nature.
It believes, also, that rarely has there
been offered the public a human docu-
ment more staggering in its implica-
tions than this.—The Editor.

USIC, laughter, liquor—the in-
gredients of a festive occasion.
They were all present that
night in a small room in the Arlton
Hotel, in midtown Sacramento. Who
would have imagined here -was the
prelude to cold-blooded homicide?
The merry voices of the five young
celebrants mingled in a continual happy
babble. Other guests in the hotel might
have guessed a gay party was in prog-
ress celebrating, perhaps, the birthday
of one of their number.
Those clinking glasses raised in
toasts signified no such happy affair.

Lorraine Spinelli: Her friends
played a fast and deadly game

aD—3


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BS 4

—
it

i

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that morning, Sherrard was not among
them. The hotel clerk said the trio's be-
havior was not out of the ordinary, but the
night before the night clerk, after return-
ing to his desk from a momentary ab-
sence, had glimpsed someone being car-
ried out of the building. A couple of hours
later, Hawkins, Ives and Simeone re-
turned, but Sherrard was not with them.
Shortly after his guests had left, the day
clerk called the Sacramento police.

A check of the San Francisco police
record disclosed that Hawkins, 21, had
been released from prison three months

32

The breakup of the Duchess’ gang
began in this restaurant with the
murder of Leland Cash.

before, after having served a car-stealing
sentence. He also had spent two years in
lone Reformatory in California for theft.
The police had no record for Ives, Sher-
rard or Simeone.

There was no one at home at the Gol-
den Gate Avenue address. The police
learned the flat was rented to a woman
named Juanita Spinelli, who lived there
with her two boys and an attractive
daughter. Neighbors said the family,
which had constant visitors, had not been
seen since Friday morning.

Before the police could make further

: iath ketabeatide roe EE er
TV PE ola lol es eibcole 9 ROUSING TRE ROMER MORURIT KCneh Cie ebperebensretituter ative id is i

investigation that night, an urgent ¢
was received at headquarters from !
captain of the California State Patrol
Truckee, on U.S. Highway 40 leadi
into Nevada. Mitchell, on late duty, 4
the call.

“We just picked up that stolen cat
gistered to Harry de Vaux for you,”
captain said over the wire. **But a curid
thing happened. When we stopped theé
at a roadblock some hysterical kid bolt
out and begged us to protect him. He kt
blabbing about killing some guy in %
ramento yesterday, and that his frie#

were going to kill him because they had
killed somebody in a San Francisco hol-
dup.”

‘What kind of a car was it?’? Mitchell
asked, quickly.

‘It was a late model black sedan.”

*‘Who else was in the car?”

‘*There were two fellows, a woman and
her daughter, and the kid,”’ the captain
said. ‘*They’re all from San Francisco.”’

‘““Who are they?”’

“The kid gave his name as Albert Ives,
and the others were Gordon Hawkins and
Michael Simeone,”’ the captain said.
“The woman said she was Juanita
Spinelli.”*

“Just hold on to them,’ Mitchell said, .

firmly. ‘We'll come and get ‘em.”’

“Wait a minute,’ the captain replied.
“You'd better talk to Sacramento. We
just called about the kid insisting that they
had killed a guy up there yesterday, and
they are sending some men to pick them
_up for questioning.”’

At Sacramento police headquarters,
each one of the sullen group was trying
hard to pass the buck. And a search of
Juanita’s handbag disclosed a .38 caliber
revolver.

To unravel the increasingly compli-
cated case, Inspectors George O'Leary
and George Engler and Lieutenant
Mitchell of the San Francisco police with
Sacramento Detective Sgt. Perry Gamble
and District Attorney J. Francis O'Shea
decided to begin questioning Ives, who

had asked for police protection in Truc-
kee from his companions. Alone with the
officers, the tall, slender, 21-year-old
youth was calmer.

“‘Ives,*’ began Mitchell, who had
quickly figured out the youth's reference
to a San Francisco holdup killing, ‘‘why
did you shoot Cash?”

“I didn’t mean to shoot him,’’ Ives
said. ‘‘We were told not to shoot him. He
shoved me and I shot as I stumbled. Then
we got scared and ran to the car.”*

“‘Who told you not to shoot him,”
Mitchell said.

‘*The Duchess,”” Ives said.

“*Who’s the Duchess,”’ Mitchell asked,
a little puzzled.

**That’s Mrs. Spinelli,”’ Ives said. ‘We
always call her Duchess. She just tells us
what to do, and we do it.””

**You mean she is head of a gang?”’
Mitchell said.

“Yes... yes... that’s it,” the squint-
eyed youth said, excitedly.

“Did you rob the place alone?”’ Mitch-
ell said.

*‘No, Hawkeye drove the car,”’ Ives
said. ‘And Sherrard and | went in.”

*“Who's Hawkeye?” ;

“That's Hawkins.”’

““Where’s Sherrard now?”

“He's the guy they killed yesterday,”
Ives said, nervously.

Feeling that he was getting too far
ahead in an involved case, Mitchell de-
cided to stick to earlier details. Upon

further questioning, Ives disclosed that
Simeone had cased the barbecue stand’s
closing hour the Sunday before the rob-
bery. Asked the color of Simeone’s car,
Ives said it was a light colored sedan,
which Hawkins had stolen for Simeone.

On the Sunday of the robbery, Ives
revealed, Hawkins had stolen a black
sedan for the job. The gang had expected
it to be easy. And the Duchess, after giv-
ing him a gun, had ordered him not to
shoot, but told him how to knock Cash
out should he resist.

After. the blunder, they went back to
the Duchess’ headquarters. They wanted
to throw away the gun, but it was their
only weapon and the Duchess opposed it.
She took it, cleaned it and reloaded it,

When Murphy was being questioned
on the Cash murder, Ives said, it was he
who had called Mitchell that he would
send a bullet from the gun which shot
Cash to prove that Murphy was innocent.”

Asked about the gang’s crime ac-

tivities, Ives said that during the three

months he had been with the Duchess’
crew, they had stolen a number of cars.
He didn’t know how many. Stealing cars
was Hawkins’ department.

One night, to relieve their need for
cash, Ives told Mitchell, the gang had
held up a gas station several blocks from
their headquarters and got $20. On
another night they had picked up a John

(continued on page 39)

ea eS ie)

At nin

A smiling Robert Sherrard is pictured here before
his execution at the hands of the Duchess.

eteen, Robert Sherrard was the youngest
Member of the Duchess’ henchmen. His apprehen-
Sion after the murder of Cash resulted in the Duchess’
decision to drug the youth and fling him over a bridge.


: ; x = dias i

| 3 by DICK JORDAN

iF was shortly after midnight and the brightly lighted concessions at fie
Francisco’s Ocean Beach Playland were dark, leaving lovers in parked
} automobiles in the blissful shadow. But all was not peace and quiet in those
early hours of April 18. . ;

In the dense auto traffic streaming
away from the recently closed amuse-
ment area. a black sedan cruised the
beach highway, the driver's attention ap-

pearing to focus on the Fat Boy Barbecue
stand at the entrance to Golden Gate

med and then the parking lot light we
out. The driver meshed gears and dro
into the lot. a rnak

At the Fat Boy, Leland Cash, 50, ha Ske!
just closed his concession after a bus
Sunday. Monday was Cash's day off, an

Park, a little apart from the other conces-
sions.

The third time the driver drove past the
little restaurant he parked a short dis-
tance away, seemingly watching the
place. Finally the dining room light dim-

THE FAMILY THAT

he and his wife, Beatrice, had planned to
spend it in the country. Cash and she had
lingered in the kitchen to pack food for
the trip.

Cash had just returned to the kitchen
when the black sedan pulled into the park-
ing lot and its lights were switched off. To
the Cashes this did not seem unusual as
their concession was on the fringe of a
lovers’ lane.

While his wife was tidying up the
kitchen, Cash picked up the picnic box
and startedytoward their automobile
parked in the“ot at the rear of the restaur-
ant. As he passed the counter of the dar-
kened room, two slightly built youths
confronted him.

In the darkness, the somewhat deaf
Cash looked askance at the men. He
nudged the taller youth aside and set the
carton on the counter. A shot rang out
and Cash crumpled to the floor with blood
oozing from his side. Momentarily, the
youths hesitated, then fled to their car.

Mrs. Cash had heard the report, but
had paid little attention to it. Such noises
were common on the thoroughfare where
the auto traffic was always heavy. Think-
ing it another automobile backfiring, al-
though an unusually loud one, Mrs. Cash
went on with her task. Suddenly she
t heard her husband gasp:

“Bea... Bea... I'm shot!"’

Mrs. Cash rushed into the dining room.
On the floor behind the counter she found

T husband in a pool of blood, his face
Contorted in pain. At that moment a car
roared from the restaurant's parking lot
into the traffic.

“Bea... I'm shot in the stomach... get
help, quick,’’ Cash urged his wife, and
‘apsed into unconsciousness.

_ Afew hours later that 1940 April morn-
Ng, Cash died at the emergency hospital.

© never regained consciousness and
there was no description of his murderer.

he Cashes had operated the barbecue
B Stand several years, and Mrs. Cash could
Ve no reason why anyone would want to
her husband. The only information

( H Known asthe “Duchess,” her en-
no room for cowards in Juanita Spinelli’s gang.
bureke Incloded (right to left) henchman Albert Ives, Mike Simeone, and Gordon Hawkins.

the grief-stricken wife could give
Homicide Inspector George Engler and
James Gallagher of the San Francisco
police was that a black sedan had driven
into the parking lot shortly before her
husband was shot. But, she said, at late
hours couples often used the lot as a lov-
ers’ lane.

The police decided that robbery was
the motive of the killing. Cash usually
wore a hearing aid, but sometimes, when
the rush of work had eased, he would
park it under the counter. Apparently,
without the device he was unable to hear
the robber’s command and was reaching
for it when he was shot. Obviously, the
robber had thought Cash had a gun under

the counter. Cash's body was found near °

his hearing aid and several feet from the
carton which he had carried from the
kitchen.

Engler and Gallagher combed the area
for clues. Their effort turned up a .22
caliber cartridge, but they knew it had
been a larger bullet which had killed
Cash. Patiently, they checked the records
of holdup bandits.

Three days after the murder, the police
picked up Robert Murphy, 25, a long
sought robber. Murphy confessed to 23
holdups in the San Francisco and Los
Angeles areas. The police also seized a
.38 caliber revolver which Murphy had
left with a friend. The young robber was
immediately questioned in the Cash hol-
dup murder.

When the newspapers hit the street
with the story that Murphy was held for
questioning in the Cash murder, the
police got their first break in the case.
Late that night, a man with a young, thin
voice called headquarters and asked to
speak to someone on the Murphy case.
The call was switched to Lt. Michael
Mitchell, later to become San Francisco's
chief of police.

“That fella Murphy didn’t kill Cash.”
the caller said, nervously.

“‘Is that so?” Mitchell said. ‘I suppose
you know who did?”’

The Duchess ruled with an iron hand.
Having been a nurse, a lady wrestler,
and a member of Detroit's Red Cap
gang, she knew the finer points of
- death and taught her boys well.

There was a long pause. **He didn't do
it,’ the caller insisted. **We'll send you a
bullet from the gun that did to prove it.”

Before Mitchell could question the man
further, he had hung up. The call was
traced to a pay station on the west side of
Sacramento, 90 miles from the murder
scene. To the police, this indicated that
Cash's murderer may have left the city
and possibly was hiding in the Sac-
ramento valley.

On Monday afternoon, a week after the
murder, the police received a call from
the Sacramento authorities to check ona
Robert Sherrard. 1421 Golden Gate Av-
enue. Sherrard, with two youths.Gordon
Hawkins and Albert Ives, also of the
same address, had registered at a Sac-
ramento hotel on Wednesday afternoon,
and two days later a Michael Simeone

joined them.

When Sherrard’s friends checked out

(continued on next Page)

Ives and Hawkins (hatless) point
out the spot where they threw
Sherrard into the river to Highway
Patrol Investigator Hendricks
(left) and Detective Emerine.

31


tigtiueate ibn aR

tai ae

Space-Age Cattle Rustlers

On Rampage In Florida

(continued from page 37)

long as a month to prepare his evidence,
present it to the grand jury, obtain an
indictment and a court order restraining
delivery of the potentially dangerous
bootleg meat. It was entirely too long a
process.

Johns first went to the school board
purchasing agent and presented his evi-
dence to him after swearing the man to
secrecy. The horrified official picked up
the telephone, called the warehouse and
instructed the foreman not to take further
delivery from the suspect firm. He then
sent a registered letter cancelling the con-
tract.

Within 24 hours, virtually every purch-
aser from the packing plant had followed
suit. Johns then went about the business
of formally preparing his case. When the
evidence was presented to the grand jury,
an indictment was issued and a warrant
for the meat company president was
given to the Osceola County Sheriff's
Department.

Before he could be arrested, the man
telephoned Carl Johns’ home and asked
the investigator to meet him a block away
at the telephone booth he was using. The
investigator checked his pistol, stuck it in
his hip pocket and walked to the desig-
nated spot. He joined the curious crowd
already there gaping at the body in the
telephone booth. The man had commit-
ted suicide.

It was theorized he had meant to kill
Johns, lost his nerve and took his own life
instead. The fiery little range detective
expressed no remorse over the suicide.

‘He was a potential mass murderer,”’
was his laconic comment. ‘‘How could
you feel sorry for someone like that?”

The cases seldom end so dramatically,
however. And some of them never seem
to end, like that of the so called ‘tVan
Gang."

Investigator Coker and the man who
eventually replaced him, Dick Marsh, a
billiant young criminologist, both worked
onit personally. Every officer in the state
who investigates cattle theft has come in
contact with the gang's depredations.
Their M.O. is sophisticated and would do
justice to plots dreamed up for James
Bond movies.

In 1969, someone apparently realized
the financial potential of rustling and
formed a gang to carry out systematic
cattle thefts. The rustlers use a semi-
tractor with a refrigerator trailer at-
tached. A spotter flies either a helicopter
or light plane and radios directions to the
van. When an unattended herd is located,
the truck parks, a steer is shot. Its carcass

38

TE eee yyy

then is jerked through the fence and into
the trailer with a highspeed winch. While
the truck rolls on, the steer is skinned,
butchered and hung on meat hooks. The
procedure is repeated until the van is fil-
led.

Nothing is sacred to the gang. They
have taken prize cattle from an experi-
mental farm out of Davis, near Hol-
lywood, Fla. Seed bulls valued at $10,000
each were rustled from the University of
Florida’s farm. They wiped out a Future
Farmers exhibit at Zypher Hills.

The Van Gang still has not been ap-
prehended. Informants have come for-
ward with information indicating that the
rustlers” base of operations is in Georgia.
It is suspected that they supply a large
chain of restaurants, but there have been
no concrete leads and no arrests. They
have stolen untold millions of dollars
worth of cattle.

Commissioner Conner constantly ad-
justs the department's operations to ap-
prehend the Van Gang. One innovation
has been the ‘‘road guards.’ Another sta-
tute was passed making it illegal to trans-
port livestoc on Florida's public
thoroughfares without a trip ticket
stamped by the Department of Agricul-
ture.

Arrests were made all over the state as
a result of the road guard system. In
Alachua County, for instance, an alert
road guard, working on his own time,
tailed what he considered a suspicious
load of livestock. He reported his findings
to Carl Johns who was working on the
case of a theft of 77 cows with Captain
Wes Schellenger.

The next day, Captain Schellenger’s
office received three complaints that he
concluded were related by an obviously

common denominator. A semi-tractor

was reported missing from one spot, a
cattle trailer from another and 77 head of
cattle from a ranch.

Inspector Johns had been called to
Gainesville and his first move was to alert
livestock auctioneers to watch for the
missing animals. The first break came
when one heifer bearing the ranch’s
brand was located on another ranch in
Wellburn, Fla.

The animal was impounded, photo-
graphed, inspected and marked by a vet-
erinarian, then placed in the city stock
pen at Gainesville. The suspected
rancher’s property was placed under sur-
veillance and all road guards were in-
structed to watch an beef moved from his
land.

The second break occurred when a pri-

Ara tetetiroerant ses

vate citizen recognized the stolen semi-.
tractor and reported its location to the’
county sheriff. Captain Schellenger took!
the driver into custody and impounded
the vehicle. The driver was employed by
the suspected rancher.

The finale came when James Tomkins,
aroad guard, volunteered for double duty
and joined the stakeout on the ranch,
Tomkins watched as the prime suspect's
brother loaded 11 head of cattle ona truck
in the dead of night. It was a strange time
to be moving livestock, the investigator
reasoned.

He tailed the truck until he was certain
it was headed for Monticello, Fla., then
telephoned Captain Schellenger. The lat.
ter, accompanied by Carl Johns and sev.
eral uniformed deputies, established a
roadblock and arrested the truck driver,
The cattle on the truck, just as the first
one, had born the brand of the looted
ranch.

An hour later, the suspected ranch was
surrounded and raided. The amount of
stolen property recovered was incredi-
ble. Trucks, boats, trailers, tractors and
the remainder of the missing cattle. Con
servative value of the confiscated prop.
erty exceeded a quarter of a million dol-
lars. The suspect's brother and sister-in-
law testified against him, resulting in
conviction for him and his foreman. Each
was sentenced to five years in prison,
with the term suspended, and $5,000
fines. |

The only people satisfied with the sen-
tences were the culprits. The officers in
volved felt they got off too lightly and
Captain Schellenger pointed out that such
results raised the spectre of ranchers tak:
ing the law into their own hands.

As meat prices skyrocketed in 1973 and
*74, cattle theft reports rose accordingly.
Plans were made to double the size of the
Livestock Theft Agency to cope with the
problem. The Van Gang struck again and
again and harried, overworked inves
tigators continued to compile bits and
pieces of evidence against them. They
still are slowly building a case that some
day will culminate in arrests, according to
the authorities.

The only area the Van Gang avoids is
Palm Beach County. It is certainly not fot
a lack of cattle to steal. Ten miles inland
from the plush winter resort area on the
Atlantic Coast is some of the finest graz-
ing land in the world. It has been con
pared to Argentina, having the same type
of climate and natural feed for beef cattle.
Ranches and dairy farms cover the
county and they are prime targets for
some rustlers. The wise ones, however,
like the Van Gang, never attempt to ply
their trade there.

The reason for the ‘‘hands off”’ attitude
is Captain Claude Tindal of the Palm
Beach County Sheriff‘s Department,
a
4

(continued on next page)

iS hfet Aste dedia

“

piles sect

Captain Tindal’s main weapons are his
knowledge of livestock thefts and his abil-
ity at investigating them. His other
weapons are more visible. :

The vast amounts of tax dollars pour-
ing into the county’s coffers from the
opulent tourist resorts on the coast have
furnished him with the most modern
equipment and training facilities that
money could buy for his agency.

Case No. 73-26101-in Palm Beach
County is representative of Captain
Tindal’s tactics against rustlers. The vic-
tim was a dairy firm.

The manager of the dairy received a
telephone call from the sheriff of Marion
County, Fla., asking if he were missing
any calves. It seemed that an alert deputy !
there had spotted a yearling with the
dairy’s brand being offered for sale at the
auction. The seller had no receipt or bill
of sale and was unable to offer a satisfac-
tory explanation as to his possession of
the animal.

The dairy official made an inventory
and found 11 calves missing. He called
the local sheriff's department to report
the theft and learned to his surprise, that
Captain Tindal’s men already were aware
of the theft and were working on the case.
An undercover investigator had learned
of the initial crime and had infiltrated the
gang. A month Jater, he reported that the
five-man gang Was going to strike again—
at the same dairy.

The raid came off as planned. But there
were some side activities of which the
rustlers were unaware. The remainder of
the stolen cattle had been located on a
farm which was kept under 24-hour sur-
veillance;

A helicopter was readied for the
evening's work. It took off at 7:30, patrol-
ing an area near the dairy. At 7:40 p.m.,
Sergeants Chasteen and Zuback begana
stakeout on the pasture that was to be
‘raided. They were hidden in a clump of
bamboos near the gate.

At 9:30, the rustlers arrived and ropeda
black Holstein heifer; It was placed in the
trunk of their car and the lid forced shut,
When the rustlers left the crime scene,
helicopter pilot Lonnie Bell was notified
by radio. He followed the vehicle to De-
Iray Beach. The sergeants followed in
their car.

The suspects stopped at the pasture
formerly staked out and unloaded the sto-
len animal. They were stunned when the
helicopter landed moments later. Two of
the men tried to run, but were met by
Sergeant Chasteen and his partner who
Just had arrived. They were promptly
handcuffed and led to the patrol car. Five
People were arrested and charged before
daylight.

States Attomey Carl Harper of the 15th
Judicial Circuit prosecuted the offenders
and his skillful handling of the case re-
sulted in each of the men receiving a
five-year sentence in the State peniten-

tiary.

On May 2, 1974, the House Criminal
Justice Committee of the Florida Con-
gress approved a bill making any theft of
livestock a felony with a mandatory sen-
tence for repeat offenders. Until that
time, the rustler mostly had been a non-
violent offender. The consensus among

police in the state is that that situation will
change as stiffer sentences are meted out
to thieves in every case.

Florida lawmen do not appear worried
about that prospect however. They never
have been noted as a timid breed — par-
ticularly when dealing with cattle a?
lers.

The Family That Slays Together
Stays Together

(continued from page 33)

Miller in a bar, given him knockout drops
and robbed his apartment. Simeone was
wearing one of Miller's jackets at the time
of his arrest.

Questioned about his associates, Ives
said the Duchess was the brains of the
gang. Once a trained nurse, she had
taught them how to handle themselves in
fights and how to knife enemies. She also
had been a lady wrestler, and had in-
structed them how a victim could be held
so he could be slugged. ,

Later, at the Duchess’ flat, Mitchell
and his men found the array of equipment
which Ives said she had used to train her
henchmen. It included two pieces of
8-inch steel fashioned into needle sharp
arrowheads, two home-made daggers, an
8-inch switch blade knife and a wooden
gun.

Ives said the Duchess ran the gang. She
didn’t trust her henchmen and issued
arms to members only when they were
sent on a job, after which they returned it
to her.\He said the Duchess had been a
member: of Detroit's Red Cap Gang and
thaf Simeone, the Duchess’ common-law
husband and lieutenant, was also from
Detroit. Simeone was also the gang's
fingerman.

““What happened after the murder of
Cash?” Mitchell asked.

**We' got scared,’ Ives said ‘‘Haw-
keye, Sherrard and I went to Sacramento
and took rooms in a hotel on the west side
of the town. Then Sherrard acted real
crazy. He kept mumbling about the Cash
murder, and I was afraid someone would
hear him. | tried to shut him up, but he
kept talking about it.”’

Anxious to question Ives on Sherrard,
whom Ives insisted had been murdered,
Gamble asked, *‘When was Sherrard kil-
led?”

**Sunday night,"’ Ives said. :

“Who killed him?’ Gamble continued.

“*The Duchess and Mike,” Ives said.

‘‘When did the Duchess and ‘Mike
come to Sacramento?"’ Gamble asked.

‘Friday morning,”’ Ives said. ‘‘They
came with her daughter and the Duchess’
two boys."

*‘When did they decide to kill Sher-
rard?"’ Gamble said.

*“When they got here, Sherrard was
still jittery,”* Ives said. ‘*That was when
the Duchess said we had to get rid of him
because she was afraid that he would
Squeal and involve the whole gang. And
we all agreed.”’

“Did she try to kill him that day?”
Gamble said.

“Yes,” Ives said hesitatingly. *‘That
afternoon we all went on a picnic. We
tried to get Sherrard to swim across the
river. We knew he was a lousy swimmer
and wouldn't make it. But we couldn’ t get
him to do it.

“I wanted them to let me take him out
for some target practice and then I'd let
him have a slug to end him right,”* Ives
said, matter of factly. ** But the Duchess
said no.

‘We tried to get him to go fora walk so
we could run him down with the car, but
he didn’t want to walk. Then we all went
back to the hotel and had a big party.

*‘We thought of tying Sherrard on a
railroad track, but the Duchess said no,””
Ives continued. ‘‘Then someone sug-
gested putting poison in his whisky, and
we all, all of us except Gypsy thought that
was a good idea.”’

*‘Who is Gypsy?’* Gamble asked.

“That's what we call the Duchess’
daughter,”* Ives said.

**Then what happened?” Gamble said.

“On Sunday night we had a big party at
the hotel,”’ Ives told the officers. ** Late in
the evening the Duchess took a small bot
tle from her purse and poured some of the
stuff into a whisky glass. Then Mike filled
it with whisky and gave it to Sherrard.

“*He drank it, and soon passéd out,”
Ives said, with a sigh. ‘* Then the Duchess
hit him in the back of the head.

‘*Mike carried Sherrard downstairs to
the car. He put him in the back seat and
got in the front with Hawkeye and me.
We drove to Freeport, and Hawkeye
stopped the car near the bridge.

“We pulled Sherrard’s clothes off and
left them along the river. Then we put
some maroon colored swimming trunks
on him, to make it look like he was
drowned while swimming.

(continued on next page)
39


The Family That Slays Together
Stays Together

(continued from page 39)

‘*Then Hawkeye drove onto the
Freeport bridge, and Mike and I dumped
Sherrard over the rail into the water,”
Ives said calmly.

**Did anyone at the hotel see you leave
with the unconscious Sherrard?** Gamble
asked.

“I don’t think so,’ Ives said. ‘We
waited until the clerk left his desk before
we carried him downstairs.”

*‘What did you do after you got rid of
Sherrard?** Gamble asked.

“We returned to our rooms,"’ Ives
said. **We were all scared, and decided to
leave the next morning. :

“*T got jittery, Ives said. ‘*I knew I was
going to get the same treatment Sherrard
did. So when the cops stopped us at the
roadblock. I took a chance and got away
from them.”*

Confronted with Ives’ confession, the
grim, bespectacled Juanita was anxious
to talk. The Cash murder, she said, was
not premeditated. After Sherrard saw
Ives had shot Cash, she told the officers,
Sherrard became erratic and kept talking
about the shooting. Ives was afraid that
Sherrard would squeal and wanted him
killed. The others agreed.

Coolly, the tall, angular woman said
she was very fond of Sherrard, a former
inmate at the Sonoma State Home for the
Feeble Minded, but wanted a merciful
killing. She admitted that when all at-
tempts to get rid of Sherrard at the picnic
had failed, the suggestion that they put
knockout drops in Sherrard’s whisky
seemed a good idea.

**T liked young Sherrard,’* the Duchess
said, stoically, of the frail 19-year-old
youth. **And I wanted him to die easily.””

Further questioning of the Duchess
proved Ives’ fear that he was destined for
a demise similar to Sherrard’s was not
without foundation. The Duchess admit-
ted that they had talked about getting rid
of their triggerman. They were afraid that
Ives would go to the police.

Asked how she was going to get rid of
Ives, the Duchess said with cold indiffer-
ence:

“LT had planned to drug him and stick a
long, sharp hairpin into his’ ear and
through the brain.”*

The graying Juanita denied vehemently
that she was the leader of the gang. She
was alternately defiant, then tearful when
questioned. Throughout the interroga-
tion, she insisted that she had stayed with
the gang only in terror of Ives and fear for
the safety of her children. She said that
Ives often had threatened to placeGypsy

40

in an Oriental hop joint.

Ethel Leta Juanita Spinelli, born and
raised in poverty in Detroit, had as-
sociated often with people on the wrong
side of the law. She said she had fled to
San Francisco in 1937 to get away from
the vengeance of Detroit's Purple Gang.
The gang had suspected her as the
finger-woman for killings in the laundry
racket, and they were out to get her.. She
claimed that her husband, a Red Cap gang
member, was killed in a gang war.

A year after she arrived in San Fran-
cisco, Juanita was stranded and broke
and the Traveler's Aid Society helped her
and her three children to return to De-
troit.

Then early in that year of 1940, the
Duchess hitchhiked to San Francisco.
For her protection on the trip, Simeone
gave hera gun, the same one that was used
in the fatal Cash holdup. From her ex-

perience with the Detroit underworld, _

Juanita recruited Ives, Sherrard and
Hawkins to form her own gang in San
Francisco. Then she sent for her children
and Simeone.

Of the four held for questioning on the
two murders, Mike Simeone, 31, had the
least to say and was the most resigned to
the consequence of the gang’s opera-
tions. He admitted having cased the Fat
Boy stand the Sunday before it was held
up. But he insisted it was Ives who
wanted Sherrard killed for fear that the
witness to the fatal Cash shooting would
squeal. And to protect the gang, they all
went along with Ives.

When questioned on his part in the
murders, Hawkins readily admitted his
connection with the gang. His assign-
ment, Hawkins said, was to steal au-
tomobiles and drive the getaway car. In
the two weeks prior to his arrest, he told
police, he had stolen nine cars for the

‘ gang’s use.

The night before the Cash holdup,
Hawkins said, the Duchess had ordered
him to steal an automobile. On Sunday
morning, he stole a black sedan, the same
one which eventually led to their arrest
when it was spotted by the California
state highway patrol in Truckee.

He thought they were out to stick up
parked cars ina lovers’ lane, but Ives had
instructed him to drive into the parking
lot of the Fat Boy barbecue stand and
wait for them. A few minutes later, Haw-
kins said, he heard a shot. Then Ives and
Sherrard dashed back to the car and told
him they had shot a man.

Three days later, Hawkins said, he

drove Ives and Sherrard to Secramenl
Sherrard, unnerved by the shooting, be
came very talkative and Hawkins and
Ives were afraid that Sherrard would go
to the police. - ;

When the Duchess-arrived at the hotel,
Ives told her of Sherrard’s behavior,
Hawkins said. The Duchess and Mike ag
reed with Ives that Sherrard had to b
disposed of.

After Simeone had carried the drugged
Sherrard down to the car, Hawkins said
he drove the victim, Simeone and Ives to
Freeport, a tiny farm community on th
river ten miles from Sacramento. He
drove over the Freeport bridge, an
Simeone and Ives threw the unconscious
Sherrard over the railing after changing
his clothes to a pair of maroon colored
swimming trunks.

‘*But | know under the law I'm guilty
with the rest of them for the killings,"
Hawkins said, regretfully. Then he added
wishfully, ‘‘Gee, | wish it was me they'd
chucked into the river instead of Sher
rard.”’ .

At the sight of the tearful Gypsy being
taken in for questioning, Hawkins said,
sympathetically:

‘*Lay off her; she ain’t done nothing,”
a statement which was later verified to
the satisfaction of the police.

Gypsy tried to comfort her mother a
the interrogation. The young girl told the
police that she had nothing to do with th
gang and said she was in Reno at the time
of the Cash and Sherrard murders.

The next morning, following the all
night questioning session, Highway Pat
rol Investigator Harry Hendricks and
Sacramento Detective Percy Emerint
took Ives and Hawkins to the Freeport
bridge where the pair demonstrated how
Sherrard was tossed over the railing into
the river, On the bank nearby, officer
found Sherrard’s clothing where they hai
been told it had been scattered.

At the same time Sacramento polict
massed all available equipment to dra
the river for Sherrard’s corpse. Six boats
manned by city police, sheriff's deputies
and commercial fishermen began work
ing around the bridge area. The search
went on into the afternoon while onlook
ers speculated that the body would neve!
be found at the spot. They believed tht
swift current had carried it down rivet
into Yolo County. But the police knew
the water under the bridge was deep and
believed the body was still in the are
inasmuch as it had not had time yet t
surface. i

By late afternoon, the police proved
they were right. Seth Barry, a commet
cial fisherman helping the Sacramento
police, working approximately 500 yards
from the bridge yelled, ‘‘I think we've ga
it!"

All within hearing distance of Barty

(continued on next page) ~~)

=

oTeTetb Leta ds CAUSA Kec a nrEeROEURNL Sener eel ah nl einshetigetinte ann ae Ne Ni Hi Mi ielataRT IA DD

anxiously watched him manipulate the
dragging equipment. The spindly body, in
maroon colored trunks, surfaced and was
dragged ashore.

At the Sacramento city’ morgue, Dr.
C.H. McDonell, county autopsy surgeon,
made an extensive examination on
Sherrard’s body. He found no sign of
physical violence, but there was water in
the lungs. This indicated that Sherrard
was still alive when he was thrown into
the river. Dr. McDonell concluded that
Sherrard had died of drowning.

‘He was not dead,’’ Dr. McDonell
said, “but probably was unconscious be-
fore he was in the water.”

Sherrard’s stomach content was ex-
amined by Dr. A. J. Afleck, Sacramento
county chemist. His analysis showed
there was a trace of hypnotic drug in
Sherrard’s stomach, an amount which

could have caused unconsciousness.

The Duchess, Simeone, Ives and
Hawkins were charged by Sacramento
County District Attorney Otis Babcock
with the murder of Robert Sherrard
shortly after Sherrard’s body was reco-
vered. The San Francisco grand jury in-
dicted the four for the murder of Leland
Cash, but it decided to let Sacramento try
them first in the Sherrard murder.

On May 20, 1940, the four went on trial
before Superior Judge Raymond T.
Coughlin’s court in Sacramento. At the
trial Juanita lost her composure. She
wept bitterly and insisted that she was
deadly afraid of Ives and had planned to
turn him over to the police before their
arrest.

But District Attorney Babcock labelled
her a cold, cruel and scheming woman.
Nine days later, on May 29, a jury of

seven men and five women returned a
verdict of first degree murder and refused
to recommend leniency.

Hawkins, Juanita and Ives entered in-
sanity pleas. Later, Juanita and Hawkins
withdrew their pleas, but Ives stood trial.

On June 5, Ives was found insane by
the same jury which had convicted him on
first degree murder the week before. Ives
was committed to the Mendocino State
Hospital.

On November 21, 1941, after three re-
prieves, Juanita Spinelli, with pictures of
her three children and a grandchild taped
on her chest, went to the gas chamber, the
first woman to be executed in California’s
history. A week later, Hawkins and
Simeone also paid the extreme penalty
for their part in Sherrard’s murder.

‘Kneel And Pray While
| Ravish Your Daughter’

(continued from page 27)

gray and blue Pontiac sedan. At about 2
a.m, they had looked toward the Niebel
home again and noted that the car was no
longer there and that the porch light was
extinguished.

While Sheriff Robinson organized a
widespread hunt for the missing family,
Cpl. M. G. Basilius of the state police
arrived to check the house for finger-
Prints. Two hours later the sheriff's office
received the clergyman’s call and a score
of searchers converged on the corn field
o Fleming Falls Road where the bodies
ay. ;

The faces of all three victims were hor-
ribly mutilated. On the older. woman's
feet was a pair of white canvas shoes.
There was an inexpensive wristwatch on
the girl's arm. The hair of both women
was in curlers.

Dr. D. C. Lavender, the coroner,
feached the scene with County Pro-
secutor Theodore Lutz soon afterward.
He reported the auburn-haired girl had
been the victim of a vicious sexual assault
during which she suffered ‘gross indig-

Nities."* Shot once in the back of the head, *

she lay prone with bruises and cuts cover-
ng most of her body.

A Single slug had entered the top of the
Superintendent's head. His face was cut
and bruised, as was that of his wife. Mrs.
Niebel also had received a slug through
the top of her head. A second bullet had
entered her abdomen. There was a deep
Slash across the face. Dr. Lavender sug-
Bested the parents had been in a kneeling
Position, possibly pleading for mercy,
when the fatal shots were fired.

Bare footprints were clearly discerni-

ble between the road and the
17-square-foot atea in which the bodies
lay 50 feet back in the corn field. There
also were the shoeprints of two men. Be-
neath the bodies police discovered four
empty .25-caliber shells.

Allarding, the slain superintendent's
first assistant, returned to the prison of-
fice while preparations were made to re-
move the bodies to the Mansfield mor-
gue. Accompanied by Sheriff Robinson,
an old friend of the slain family, he ar-
rived to learn that two Columbus, O.,
officers were waiting in Niebel’s office.
‘“‘They want to get some information ona
couple of former inmates,”’ a guard in-
formed Allarding.

‘“‘Didn’t you tell them that our superin-
tendent and his family have been mur-
dered?’’ demanded Allarding impa-
tiently. ‘‘Can’t they understand that
every available man is out hunting for the
killers... that every moment counts?”

The two visitors stepped from the ad-
joining room as Allarding spoke. ‘‘We
might have a line on that same pair of
killers,"’ Detective Sgt. Lawrence W.
Heischman interrupted in a soft voice.
“The men we came here to ask about
were last known to be driving a two-tone,
1947 Pontiac sedan. One of them had a
.25-caliber automatic.”’

Overcoming his amazement at the
words, Allarding led Sergeant Heis-
chman and his partner, Detective Ken-
neth Miller, into the © slain
superintendent's office. There he and
Sheriff Robinson suggested that the visit-
ing officers ‘‘start from the beginning” in
explaining their arrival at the prison 67

miles north of Columbus within moments
of the discovery of the triple murder.

The ‘‘beginning,’’ commenced
Sergeant Heischman, had been less than
two weeks before — at exactly 11:33 p.m.
on Friday, July 9, when a light flashed on
the switchboard in Columbus’ police
headquarters a few blocks from -the
dome-covered capitol.

‘**There has been a stickup at Joe's
Grill, 891 West Broad Street. 1 saw aman
with two guns through the window,” said
a husky voice.

The message, relayed to the communi-
cations room, sent police cruisers in the
area racing to that address. First to arrive
were Patrolmen Thomas Gleason and
Stephen Tigyer. Guns drawn, they
pushed inside to find the crowded grill in
wild confusion. Several women among
the 150 persons in the place had fainted
after two unmasked men entered, drank
some beer and then robbed the safe of
$8,000 in cash and checks.

The pair, one armed with two pistols,
fled moments before the police arrived.
Each was described as about 25 years old,
tall and thin, dressed in dark clothing.
The man with the guns — ‘‘a sneering,
bespectacled neurotic with murder writ-
ten all over his sallow face,’ according to
witnesses — had fired a single shot at the
head bartender, Bert Clendenin.

The bullet, missing the bartender's
head by inches when Clendenin laughed
at the other robber’s demand to open the
safe, had smashed a bottle behind the bar.
After that the unarmed robber’s instruc-
tions were promptly obeyed.

Capt. William Murphy, accompanied
by Detective Sgt. Robert Weideman of
the robbery detail, arrived as other wit-
nesses told of a running cross-fire of obs-
cene language between the two gunmen
after they ordered the proprietor’s wife
and women customers to’ remain quiet.

(continued on next page)
41


114

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lot of innocent men had been killed, and
many wounded. He promised to do his
best.

This gave us all confidence, as the
Captain was known as a man of his word.

A life-termed convict named Rinehart
showed ‘much courage when he ap-
proached Tony Brown and demanded that
the dead and wounded he moved to the
prison hospital. Tony demurred at first,
but Rinehart insisted and finally got his
way.

TE sun had gone down, the short twi-
light had passed, and the place was
in darkness, Using a hammer, Burke
had broken all the fuses and cut the
electric wires. Searchlights from the big
tower on the hill flashed at regular inter-
vals. Men began to move about in a
frightened, awestruck manner,

Rinehart, assisted by others, was at-
tending to the wounded. If a man died
during the process of carrying him out,
they laid him down near the doorway
and searched for others.

Nelson lay where’ he had fallen. Some-
one had turned him over and placed his
hands on his breast. When the search-
light lit up the room, his face stood out
in bold and ghastly relief against the con-
crete floor. I often wonder who is the
man that fired the fatal shot that snuffed
out young Nelson's life? Surely, had the
man known, when he pressed the trigger,
that the bullet he sent on its way would
have lodged in an innocent man’s brain,
he would have paused!

The space across the room from door
to door was still clear, and Tony Brown
crouched behind the wall of the rest
room, gun in hand ready to greet with a
fusillade any attempt to gain an entrance
from that direction, At the least sign of
activity from the outside the convicts
would stampede for cover.

Rinehart had a difficult job to find the
wounded. Some of them were uncon-
scious, and lay in all manner of places
where they had sought cover. One man,
a son of Old Mexico, regained conscious-
ness as they carried him down the stairs
from the balcony, and screamed out,
“Madre de Dios, que es ese?” (“Mother
of God, what is this?”) Still another was
babbling about green grass. Who knows
the workings of an unconscious man’s
mind? Perhaps he thought that he was
a kid again, and that he was chasing
butterflies across green meadows on his
father’s farm!

A shell-shocked veteran of the Great
War kept repeating, “The world's safe
for democracy!" Wis name is Mets, and
he told me afterward that he thought he
was in France, and that the searchlight
was “star shells” bursting overhead.

HEN the dead and wounded had

been cared for, exhausted men lay
down on the floor and tried to sleep, One
could hear such remarks as this: “Get
your feet out of my face—where do you
think you are?” In answer to this query,
someone said: “I know where I am now,
but I’ll be damned if I know where I shall
be this time to-morrow night!”

That thought was in most of our minds,
Where would we be to-morrow? When
daylight dawned,’ would the waiting
soldiers and guards start dealing out

death and destruction wholesale again?

But the breaks were with us at last,
for as we later learned the six desper-
adocs were now meditating surrender,
They had used up all of their dope, and
as the yellow crept up their spines, they
requested Rinehart to start negotiations
with the Warden, It is just fifteen paces
from the condemned cells to the door of
the Show Room, and they no doubt felt
that they were “under the hangman’s
hand,”

They still held the five guards prisoner
in one of the rest rooms, and now in-
structed Rinehart to inform the Warden
that they would kill the guards ‘if he did
not listen to their terms. And—it is al-
most laughable—these six domineering
tough guys, whose actions were the direct
cause of the killing of more than ten
innocent convicts and the maiming and
wounding of some twenty-five more, and
who themselves murdered one guard and
almost fatally wounded two, asked that
the officials should not “use them rough,”
and that they should, while awaiting trial
in the dungeon, receive two meals a day,
and later a fair trial,

This was good news, and when the
word passed around that as soon as they
could complete certain details we would
be allowed to go out into the cell house,
men’s faces brightened up and satisfied
murmura could be heard throughout the
room. It feels good to live when one
has been dlmost shaking hands with
death!

Daylight came, but the sun was well
up before the order was given for us to
march out, Guard “Pop” Masick had
been released sometime during the night;
the other four were held until later.

We marched out through the passage-
way, past six very dejected and sorrow-
ful convicts, stepped on the spot where
Guard Singleton fell, out into the cell
house and safety.

When the last man had marched out,
Tony Brown c'osed and locked the door,
threw the gun out to a waiting guard as
prearranged, and—“the bloody Thanks-
giving riot,” as it was called, was prison
history.

n° a matter of fact, it had not been a
riot, but an attempted prison break.
Only the six convicts, Eddie Stokes,
Craig, Crosby, Burke, Tony Brown, and
the “stool-pigeon” Stewart took part
in it.

Their original plan had been to go
through the hospital into the Administra-
tion Building where the Warden has his
office, capture him and his staff, force
him at the point of the gun to get into
the State automobile in a garage near-by,
and drive the six out through the front
gate, and thence to the highway and
liberty. They figured that the gun guards
in the towers would hold their fire rather
than endanger the Warden and his staff,

Their plans went awry, their informa-
tion about the key to the gate being at
fault. Captain Larkin, always on the
alert for escapes, had given orders some
time before the attempt to have the key
kept in his office.

Just as the rest of us were settling
down in the Show Room for the enter-
tainment, the five had attacked and over-
powered Guard Gorenson. Gorenson

fought, b
knife and
with ah:
(Naturally
ately foll
sonally.)
tack on (
covered 1]
and held |
(Corenson’:
To gain
to reason >
was out «
would all
to the doo:
is an arch
counting |
where a c
ing the da
cial count:
yard side «
Turnkey (
cell house
way. Ton
45° autom:
through tl
leading to
bullet bron

»?a broken k

again, but
convict “Rx
the counti:
Thinking
and the o
Room, wit!
reader kno
himself thr
‘Thompson
enemies m:
he displaye:
dash for th
Guard Gor
wound in !
his head,
door. Bot!
Sacramento
though O'X
life. He re
harness,

HE pos

prison

It requires
courage, an
ity suflicie:
Ife is a ma:
ing over si
Nigh = foreh:
slightly sug
mouth, squi
_Ietic body.
dealing wit
gentle with
When the
Turnkey O°?
door, + whic!
office, Capta
all the gun
on the cell
He then ca
informed h
broken out.
convicts ha:
house to att
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convicts ren

the fresh
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cell house n
Room, and !


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True Detective Mysteries

meal before returning to his office.

On the other hand, the Defense pro-
tested that the confessions had been
wrung from Marshall by third degree
methods and that the man had not) mur-
dered Anna May Dietrich at all.

The jury returned a verdict of second
degree murder, apparently having decided
that while the cutting up and disposition of
the body were brutal, the crime itself had
not been premeditated, When the verdict
Was announced, Marshall smiled) a sickly

smile, realizing that he had) escaped the
chair,

In sentencing the defendant to from ten
to twenty years in solitary confinement in
the Eastern State Penitentiary at Phila-
delphia, Judge McDevitt scored the man
roundly.

There was an aftermath to the case. On
February 5th, 1927, Mrs. Marshall ob-
tained a divorcee from the prisoner,

“Lam dropping his name,” she explained.
“PE never even want to (ink of him again!"

Folsom’s Red Thanksgiving

(Continued from page 35)

odd years in the prison service, and it
is said that he has never put a convict
in the hole (punishment cells). lddic
Stokes was coolly wiping blood off a long
knife on his shirt sleeve, when he turned
and seemed to see Guard Masick’s con-
dition for the first time. Taking a hand-
kerchief from his. pocket, he dipped it
in water and gave it to him. “Good for
you, Eddiet” 1 thought. “.lfter all, you
have some human traits left!’ Guards
are referred to by the convicts as good
and bad “bulls,” and “Pop” Masick, as
he is lovingly called, is the best of them
all,

Burke, with an open razor in his hand,
dashed upstairs to the balcony and
brought down Guard Campbell, and a
young man who had joined the prison
staff a couple of days previously. Guard
Campbell was known as a_ bad “bull.”
He asked Tony Brown to spare his life.
‘Tony cursed him with every foul oath
in the calendar. Burke said:

“Don't waste a shot on him, Tony. At
the right time TH cut his throat with
this razor!”

All this happened in less time than it
takes to tell about it.

TILL holding the gun in his) right
hand, ‘Tony Brown held up his left
and commanded silence. Instantly one
could have heard the proverbial pin drop,
“We are going through that door,” he
barked hoarsely, indicating the one lead-
ing to the flower garden, “and | want
an open space so we can march these
guards in front of us!” Then he added,
“Take cover, for there may be some
shooting l”

Hell broke lose again, then—twelve
hundred frightened, rushing, cursing con-
viets in a mad seramble for cover!
Scores dropped to the floor where they
were, but most of us made for the walls
and corners. Downs and I, sticking
close together, managed to secure a place

against the wall near the stairs leading

to the balcony.

I have noticed that, regardless of
danger, a crowd assembled together will
joke; and in this instance it was a joke
that relieved, in some measure, the ter-
rific tension of the situation. The joke
was at the expense of the prison steward,
In every prison that I have ever done
time in, or ever heard tell of, the steward
is unpopular, and Folsom is no excep-
tion, ‘The conviets there, had nicknamed
him “Bean Face.” Jammed in, in that
Show Room, under the worst possible
conditions imaginable, expecting a spray

of machine-gun bullets at any moment,
some wit shouted:

“Say, Tony, it's very near dinner-time.
If you don’t let us out, old Bean Face
will eat our Thanksgiving dinner!”

The crowd roared at this, even the
cynical, sour-faced Burke permitting him-
self the shadow of a smile. (Ineidentally,
as we later learned, at the first sign of
trouble Bean Face had locked the dining-
room door and, obtainimg ao ladder, had
climbed to the roof and out through a
door used by gun guards to the yard and
safety !)

About the time this incident happened,
Burke, who, as he himself expressed it,
“could smell a bull a mile off,” nosed out
Guard “Blacky” Purcell, whom the con-
viets had hidden under a table. levery-
body laughed as Blacky, ecrestfallen, sor-
rowfully took his place in line with the
other four guards. It was a_ friendly
laugh, and the good-natured badinage
was proof of Blacky's popularity.

Nervously, with none-too-hurried move-
ments, the desperadoes next proceeded to
undress the five guards, with the obvious
intention of donning their clothes them-
selves. But why the delay? Had _ the
effect of dope they had taken earlier in
the morning died out, and was the yellow
beginning to show ?

AY this stage of the game T noticed
something that surprised ime very
much: a conviet named Stewart had
alined himself with the desperadees, Te
it was who, in order to save his neck
from the hangman's noose, later turned
State's evidence on the other five. He
looked the part he played right: through
the whole piece-——a low, cunning charac-
ter, lacking courage to take his punish-
ment without a squawk. And when I
tell you that this convict, Stewart, was
responsible for the smuggling of the gun
into the prison, and that as a result of
his connivance and cunning: plotting, f
saw the life-blood of some of my dear
friends poured out on the cold cement
floor of the Show Room, I am sure you
can forgive this caustic criticism. T won't
attempt to give a description of this man
when he saw the havoc his warped brain
had wrought, but just imagine a sewer
rat slinking from one garbage can to
another and you will have a fair picture
of Stewart.

They had undressed the guards down
to their underwear, when Eddie Stokes
came over to the window under which I
was lying, and lifted the blind.

He stood there looking out and up at

the youn towers
hima shake his he
peared on his br
he paused for <
ing to his com!
and saw me.

“Hello, Bob,”

“Tow does it
I inquired.

“Bad. The b:
replied; then a
you to wateh y:

“You did, !
replied.

This was an i
we had had to
before, of whic!

Eddie return:
ing five desper
their conversat
faces as the c&
cach face regis
something had
plans, for the:
clothes and co
versation.

Lying packe
cement floor, ¢
waiting became
BLLOAN bolder a
‘Tony Brown,
this, and aga:
silence.

What he sat
gotten days ts
letters of fire:
speech verbat’
reader judge
a “bad bull”
sponded as T
names Of gua

‘Tony said:

“We gained
thinking we c
ensen, and om.
leading trom
Building, W:
son is dead.”
“Turnkey O°
and bo shot le
cheer follos
“Guard Sine
Dealy is ose:
cluded.

Not ao sou
breathing: ott
lowed this |.
man is rewa:
to Guard Ra
Worst) erimi:
that a little
standing are
of convicts.

HMORTLY
about ki
sounds of i!
word went
“The sold
ing a corde:
Crosby at
the tive gous
with copper
barred door
wooden — aft
wooden dow
the baleony
window, — |
ntaveoralble
spoke to Th
They line


dear
nent
you
von't
man
brain
sewer
in to
icture
down
stokes
ich 1

wp at

the pun towers for a minute, and Ff saw
him shake his head. A dejected look ap-
peared on his brutal but boyish face. As
he paused for an instant before return-
mig to hits companions, he looked down
and saw me.

“Hello, Bob,” he said.

“How does it look out there, Eddic?”
1 inquired.

“Bad. The breaks are against us,” he
replied; then added, “I thought I told
you to watch your step to-day !”

“You did, Kddic, but I forgot,” I
replied,

This was an allusion to a conversation
we had had together a couple of days
before, of which more anon,

Kddie returned to the anxiously wait-
ing five desperadoes. 1 could not hear
their conversation, but I watched their
faces as the consultation continued, and
cach face registered despair. ividently,
something had occurred that altered. their
plans, for they gave the guards their
lothes and continued a whispered con-
versation.

Lying packed like sardines on the
cement floor, conditions for us who were
waiting, became almost unbearable, Men
prew bolder and started to move about.
‘Tony Brown, ever on the alert, sensed
this, and again held up his hand for
silence.

What he said on that never-to-be-for-
gotten day is burned on my memory in
letters of fires therefore 1 shall give his
speech verbatim. -Also, I shall let the
reader judge who was a “wood bull” or
a “bad bull” by the way the crowd re-
sponded as Tony Brown mentioned the
names of guards involved.

‘Tony said:

“We pained control of the cell house
thinking we could overpower Guard Gor-
enson, and make it out through the door
leading from there to the Administration
Building. We failed, but Guard Goren-
son is dead.” (Great clapping of hands.)
“Turnkey OoNeci attempted to get away,
and L shot him twice.” (An car-splitting
cheer followed this announcement.)
“Guard Singleton is dead, and Guard
Dealy is seriously wounded,” he ¢on-
cluded.

Not a sound, only the heavy, excited
breathing, of twelve hundred convicts, fol-
lowed this last. EEven in death a good
man is rewarded, and this silent tribute
ty Guard Ray Singleton, by some of the
worst criminals in existence, is a proof
that a little kindness and human under-
standing are appreciated by the majority
of convicts.

HORTLY after Tony Brown boasted
about killing the guards, we heard
sounds of great activity outside, and the
word went around:
“The soldiers are here—they're form-
ing a cordon around the building !"
Crosby and Eddie Stokes were tying
the five guards’ wrists and legs together
with copper wire. Covering the iron-
barred door leading outside is a frail
wooden affair without a lock. This
wooden door was closed. Burke stood on
the balcony stairs and looked out of the
window. Evidently he saw something
unfavorable, for he rushed down and
spoke to Tony Brown and the other four.
They lined the five guards up abreast

True Detective Mysteries

facing the outside door. Their wrists
and legs were bound one to the other;
their legs, however, were tied so as to
allow them to walk slowly.

The five convicts bunched themselves
behind the guards, They intended = to
force their way out, using the guards as
a shield in front of them! Then some-
body screamed, “Look oul for gas
bombs!” and there came a knocking on
the frail wooden door as if a pole had
been pushed through the spaces in the
outer door and was being used as a bat-
tering-ram, “Tony Brown commanded
the guards to mareh forward, and at the
same time shouted: “Don't open that
door! Keep back, or Til fill you full of
lead!" = Men were rushing around seek-
ing better cover. Downs said to me, “Get
your shoulder up against the wall, Bob,
and don't go down or you will be tramped
to death.”

TIE wooden door gave way and a gas

bomb sailed) in, bursting as it hit the
cement floor a few feet from where we
crouched. ‘Tony Brown's gun spoke twice.
With eyes and lungs full of gas, I stood
up, but luckily for me Downs threw his
coat over my head and dragged me down.
The last thing [| saw was some convicts
tearing at the window-shades and smash-
ing windows with chairs.

A couple of shots somewhere outside,
and then the rat-tal-tal of machine guns
sprayed, and sprayed again, their stecl-
jacketed messengers of death, In feeble
defiance, Tony Brown worked his auto-
matic furiously. When T heard the shots
close by, L thought that he was killing
the five guards in retaliation,

It was all over in a moment, and,
strange to say, everybody was quiet dur-
ing and immediately after the firing.
felt a heaviness upon me, and was sur-
prised to find that T was alive, for I had
heen in a stupor and thought T was dy-
ing. Perhaps it was the gas, and then
neain it may have been fear.

L wanted a sinoke, but my hands shook
so badly that J could not roll one,

I saw young Nelson, the man 1 had
noticed at breakfast lying face down
with his arms spread out, and his toes
tapping the floor. He was dying, and
even as TL watched, the tapping stopped,
and he was dead... +

This seemed to jerk me back to my
normal self, and I looked around. Every-
where men appeared dazed and stupefied.

The Show Room was a complete wreck.

And where were the six young desper-
adoes?

Sitting bravely in one of the rest roous
where they had scampered when the first
shot was fired!

Only ‘Tony Brown had shown some
courage when he dragged the five guards
into the other rest room and locked them
in. Tony had been busy taking pot-shots
at the gas-bomb throwers. The War-
den'’s secretary, Mr. Hughes, had crept up
pretty close with a bomb, and Tony shot
him in the hip. Thereafter no attempt
was made to gas-bomb us. Captain Lar-
kin also risked his life when he crept up

under the wall at the far end of the.
building and talked to some of the men:

inside. They told him that there was
only one gun and that only six convicts
were taking part in the trouble; that a

113

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at two o'clock!"
te, for before the
ichine gun bullet
id young Nelson,
happenings that
ilingly took his
vard.
vom. When they
tap on the con-
stand at the big
a cell tender for
of remaining in-
names were con-
o coast. A few
ized world.
r and watch the
are an index of
ly to criminals.
i men, stick-ups,
lerers! Here, at
en waiting for—

id of the line for

on the faces of
rn-jawed, tooth-
‘kes, bow-legged.,
gray-blue eyes,
Craig is next—
in Crosby, he of

of the

hovering in the
‘nty-seven or so,
and eyes that
us, overbearing
to a friend, but

giving morning,
nents these five
‘mpt a prison
nits conception
ost forced to ad-
ing forethought
ith which they
ns, and Aheir
ss in attempting
ito execution,

‘ony Brown
1 the line that
a .45 automatic
on his person,
of ammunition.
sessed a small
Crimes Alli, a
ispiring powder
responsible for
ited. In some
rnacular of the
1,and these tive
th the courage:

re dirt yard en-
wes. The side
he prison would
as “dead-lines”’
equipped with
the yard with
cross: a dead-

they like.
int, and places
‘sare generally

fie

Folsom’s Red Thanksgiving 35

on duty in the yard as a matter of form in case of knife
fights. but otherwise the convicts are under gun rule from the
towers while in the yard or at work. The bath-house is al-
ways open, and, generally speaking, convicts like to keep
themselves clean. But the soap problem is acute. The weekly
allowance is about the size of a piece of butter served with a
meal in a cheap restaurant. Russia, often alluded to as the
“Great Unwashed,” has nothing on Folsom. Convicts can
buy soap in the Warden's office, if they have money; but the
poor guy without funds must do without.

I joined the march through the yard in the direction of
the “Show Room," where, as part of the holiday program,
a motion-picture entertainment was to be given.

To reach the Show Room from the yard, it is necessary (as
a glance at the chart on page 116 will show) to go through the
old cell house, past the condemned cells, to a solid iron door.

The Show Room is an annex to the cell house,
and at the time of the atcempted break was also
used as the prison library.

ROM the solid iron door to the Show Room

there is a passageway about fifty feet long
and fifteen feet wide. The end of this passage-
way is the entrance to the Show Room, which is
high and well ventilated, with a seating capacity
of almost 1,000. On each side of the door leading
immediately into the Show Room is a rest room.
In a direct line opposite these rest rooms, is a
door leading out into the flower garden. This
door, which is made of iron bars about three
inches apart, was used by the official school-

him, the ruthless Burke struck him a cruel blow on the head
with a hammer.

Another guard, Al Dealy, who was wise enough not to
resist, received only a few superficial knife and hammer
wounds about the face and body. ,

Pandemonium instantly reigned inside the Show Room.
Men jammed the doorway trying to get. out. Somebody
snarled a command, and the crowd fell back.

A man stepped through the doorway and stood directly
under the big electric light. ; .

It was Tony Brown.

In his hand he held a blue-steel gun. His face was deathly
white. His lips were set in a snarl showing his strong teeth,
and his eyes shone and glistened like those of a rattlesnake
about to strike. He swept the gun in a circle, menacing the
fear-struck crowd, and, pointing it ceilingward, fired two

“Somebody screamed, ‘Look out for the gas
bombs!’ Tony Brown shouted, ‘Don’t open that
door! Keep back, or I'll fill you full of lead!’
Men were rushing around seeking better cover.
Downs said to me, ‘Get your shoulder up
against the wall, Bob, and don’t go down or
you will be trampled to death!’’’ And so was
this horror enacted amid the bodies of the dead
and the frenzy of the dying, leaving, when it was all
over, and the convicts had passed out—or been
carried out—these scenes of wreckage. These two
photographs of the Show Room at Folsom were
taken soon after the ending of the riot that had
clairned the lives of cightecn men

shots in rapid succession. Twelve hundred men

master guard, Masick. At one end of the Show Room is a
balcony seating some 200 persons.

For a time, after the twelve hundred of us took our places
in the Show Room, all was quiet. I sat with a friend, Walter
Downs, between the entrance door and the door leading out
to the flower garden,

During the first reel of the main picture, which was Ankles
Preferred, | heard a commotion out in the passageway.

I stood upon the seat as others were doing, and saw, near
the doorway, several men around Guard Ray Singleton, who
seemed to be putting up a desperate fight. A little man rushed
in, and a long, wicked-looking knife flashed. Once—twice—
three times it was pushed into the guard's body with cruel
ferocity, and the quiet, gentle Ray Singleton fell dying to the
flour. He was a Kentuckian, and a credit to his race. After
he went down, and when his Jife-blood was flowing freely from

tensed, staring at him, awe-struck, fascinated.

Followed a silence so awful in its'intensity that
I have lived ‘it 6ver and over again in horrible nightmares.
Would the man with the gun never speak? Thank God, at last!
Only two words, but what a relief!

“SIT DOWNI" he said, and, like an automaton, twelve
hundred men obeyed.

In the meantime Eddie Stokes, Burke, and Craig had
thrown the mangled body of Guard Singleton out into the
cell. house, and shoved Guard Dealy, who was bleeding copi-
ously, after him. Then they had closed and locked the big
iron doors at the end of the passageway... A guard whose
name | have forgotten was standing against the wall close
to the door. : :

Guard Masick was sitting on a bench with blood pouring
from a wound on his left temple. He refused to give
up the keys to the side door, and Tony Brown struck him with
the gun. Masick has been thirty- (Continued on page 112)


Across the room the dark-haired Mike Simeone’s lips curled
in a contemptuous smile. “I'll bet he didn’t carry no gun, One-
Eye. You just got nervous, that’s all.”

“Sit down, all of you,” the woman commanded. “You
boys can have a drink. First you better give me your rod,
One-Eye. I'll clean it—you won't be needing it soon.”

Mike produced a bottle and some glasses.

From her position hy the door Mrs. Juanita Spinelli, nick-
named “Duchess,” studied the four boys in the room. Her face
gave no indication of her thoughts. Something had gone
wrong. What was it?

Everything had been planned carefully. With lightning
speed she reviewed the preparations she had made in recruit-
ing the four hoodlums. There was Gordon Hawkins, 21-year-
old small time thief. He’d been picked for his ability to steal
cars, and he’d never failed the
Duchess. Mike called him
“Nifty” because of the ease
with which he carried out his
assignments. Nifty hadn't
failed tonight. He'd been on
time with the stolen car for
the holdup.

Weak-faced Bob Sherrod,
who was too slow-witted to
ever object to carrying out
the tasks the Duchess as-
signed to him. Simple-minded
Bob, loyal and willing instru-
ment of crime.

The woman’s eyes traveled
to Mike. Mike was a graduate
of Detroit mobs. He’d cased
this job as he had all the
others. He and Bob had been
over the route to be followed.
He and Nifty had picked out
the spot in which to abandon
the stolen car after the get-
away.

The fourth male member of
that vicious crew was Albert “One-Eye” Ives, tough young
hoodlum with cold nerves and unerring aim. One-Eye was
the Duchess’ torpedo. She had counted on using him to kill
when the time came. When things got too hot, One-Eye
was to have blasted the mob out of trouble. Now he’d lost
his head—killed in a holdup—and the town was hot. | His
usefulness had ended.

“I'm getting out of here.” It was Sherrod who spoke. “7

‘don’t want no part ofthe hot seat on his account.” He pointed

to Ives,

“Lay off me, Sherrod,” Ives snarled, rising to his feet.

“Sure, you'd like to kill me, too, wouldn’t you?” Sherrod
sneered. “Well, you ain’t got your gun, don’t forget that.”

The brawny Mike stepped between them and pushed them
both back into their chairs. “Shut up,” he ordered.

The Duchess waited until all was quiet. “What’s happened,”
she said finally, “can’t be helped. You boys got to get out
of town. Pack your things. Mike will bring the car up, but
you'd ibetter wait until after daylight. There's more trafhic
then and you won’t be noticed.”

Her glance swung to Sherrod. “And you lay off One-Eye.
You'll all go to Sacramento. Me and Mike’ll meet you there
at the spot Friday. You stay inside ’til we get there.”

Even then, behind those coal black eyes, the Duchess was
planning murder. Murder to conceal murder. Death tells no
secrets. She had worked too hard to let one bungler’s mis-
take destroy her plans.

Until now the gang had worked perfectly. She kept them
supplied with liquor and women, took charge of the guns

after each raid. And when things got too difficult there was
always Lorraine, her daughter, known to the gang as “Gypsy.”
Even Mike had fallen for Gypsy. And by playing the younger
boys against each other the Duchess had her way.

“T ain’t takin’ these rats with me,” One-Eye rasped.

The Duchess didn’t change her position. With a slight
movement of her arm she let the heavy knife slide out of its
sheath on her wrist.

“Sit down,” she ordered.

One-Eye moved towards the door.

The Duchess whipped her arm around in an incredibly fast
semi-circular movement. The razor-edged knife whistled

through the air to end with a quivering thud, its point buried
in the door jamb an inch from One-Eye's head.
“I said sit down,”

she said softly.

One-Eye sat. He respected
the woman’s ability as a knile
thrower. And he knew she
would not hesitate to bury the
blade of the next throw in hi-
throat.

‘Now that you understand.”
the Duchess continued. “you'll
take Sherrod and Nifty and
meet us at the spot.”

“Tf we ain't going unt!
morning I’d like to go oul
for awhile,” Sherrod said.

“You're going down to sec
that dizzy blond of yours,”
Nifty charged. “You'll spill ©
your guts.”

“Where I go is my own
business,” Sherrod responded

“You stay right here,” said
the Duchess.

Sherrod stayed.

As dawn was breaking ove:
the Golden Gate, projecting
the shadow of San Francisco's
two mighty bridges on tli
dark waters of the bay, the three fleeing bandits headed south
for the road around the peninsula towards Sacramento.

And the Duchess smiled her cold gray smile. There was ne
room for weakness in her gang. No room for bungling. There
was a way to get rid of those who failed her. New recruts
could be found to take their place.

FEW MINUTES before 2 a. M. on that morning of April

8, 1940, 35-year-old Leland Cash had snapped off the hig
neon sign over his popular barbecue stand in the beach amuse
ment area between Golden Gate Park and the coast line south
of the city’s famous Cliff House.

In the kitchen his attractive wife, Beatrice, was busy pack
ing left-over food in boxes, washing dishes, and cleaning
utensils. Monday the stand would be closed. The Cashes
could take a well-earned vacation.

“You might as well bring the car around, Lee, and begin
packing,” his wife called, speaking quite loudly.

Cash went out the front door after switching off most of the
lights in the little dining room. He walked 200 yards to ls
car on the back lot, drove to the front of the stand, and stopped

From the shadows of a parked car, three pairs of eyes fol
lowed the man’s actions.

“He’s all alone,” a hoarse voice whispered, “Pull into the
lot.”

The car rolled across the highway and came to a stop in front
of the barbecue stand. Two figures leaped out.

“Throw up your hands, mister, and don't make no noise,
one of the men ordered, thrusting an ugly looking revolver

was law to a lawless mob—until California justice acted!


bandits. Every one of them had been stolen and abandoned.

The first week in April, one of the city’s wealthy playboys
had been picked up by a young couple in a downtown night
spot. After several drinks together the young couple had
offered to take their inebriated friend home.

When the playboy awoke the next morning he found his
apartment literally cleaned out. Clothing, blankets, silver,
and even small articles of furniture had been taken.

Two bartenders were found who described the playboy’s
companions as a slender youth with a bad eye, and a dark-
haired beautiful girl... .

IGHT HOURS after Leland Cash was killed a stolen car

was found abandoned near the Civic Center. All finger-
prints had been wiped away, but two .38 caliber shells were
recovered from underneath the rear seat cushion. Mrs. Cash
said the machine resembled the one used by the killers.

Late that afternoon two ex-convicts were arrested when
they tried to pawn a .38 caliber revolver. The gun was rushed
to ballistics department for tests and the two men were taken
to headquarters for questioning. In general they fitted the
description of the bandits.

Both of them denied any connection with the phantom gang,
however, and when the gun experts reported the revolver had
not fired the fatal shots, the suspects were released and cleared
of any complicity in the crime.

Mitchell, Husted, and Corassa were forced to admit they
were without a single real clue to the murder.

At eight o’clock the same evening Husted received a tele-
phone call from a prominent San Francisco business man.
The man seemed nervous and ill at ease. ~ He said he thought
he might have some information in the Cash murder. He
refused to talk over the telephone but agreed to meet Husted
in a downtown office building later that evening.

Husted and Corassa kept the appointment.

“T debated a long time before calling you,” he said, “and I
want you to promise not to reveal the source of the informa-
tion I’m going to give you. You'll understand my reasons
presently.” ‘

He then told he had been held up shortly after midnight
on the morning Cash was killed. “My car was stopped in
Golden Gate Park by a young man standing in the middle of
the roadway. There was another machine at the side of the
road with its hood up and I thought this boy was in trouble.

“He took my money and ordered me to drive on. My com-
panion was married, and while our presence there was per-
fectly innocent, it might be misinterpreted.”

“Did you get a good look at this boy?” Husted asked.

“Yes, the lights of my car were on all three of the boys.”

“Three?”

“When he stopped me I could see his two companions in the
car. The one who held the gun was about twenty-two or
three, lean face, long nose, and a bad eye. One of his com-
panions was slight with a very white complexion. The driver
of the machine was sandy-haired with just ordinary features.
They were driving a late model sedan. I managed to take down
the license number.”

Corassa glanced at the set of numbers on the card. “Yeah,”
he said, “we picked this car up this afternoon. It was stolen.”

“But this hoodlum can’t steal a new eye so easy,” Husted
said,

Carefully prepared police bulletins bearing descriptions of the
bandit leader ‘and his two companions were sent to all police

officers in California.

Corassa and Husted searched the files for the picture of the
bandit suspect with a bad eye. “It ought to be easy to turn up
this mug,” Corassa said.

“Tt should be,” Husted agreed, “if he has any record. But
all these people give his age as not more than 21 or 22.
Chances are if he was ever picked up before it was while he
was a juvenile.” .

And after a fruitless search they were forced to accept
Husted’s theory.

For the next three days the two officers canvassed the known
criminal hangouts. In bars and poolrooms, among courtesans of
the underworld, they sought word of a one-eyed youth. Hun-
dreds of petty offenders were picked up for questioning. Not
a lead was unearthed.

HROUGH the lower slopes of the California Sierras, U. S.

Highway 40 climbs to a nearly 10,000-foot summit before
passing on to Nevada. Truckee, like an Alpine hamlet, perches
bravely near the highest point.

On April 15, one week after the murder of Leland Cash,
State Highway Patrolman Harry Hendricks parked his prowl
car on U. S. 40 where it passes through Truckee, and watched
the flowing traffic.

An expensive sedan passed the patrolman and pulled up at
the curb towards the end of the block. A lean-faced young
man climbed out of the rear seat and walked rapidly up the
sidewalk.

ee od. . P

: tored Whe the Fgh’
: 1. ho Sint office ?
Hen * end ano’

Hendricks casually noted the young man’s approach. Then
his body stiffened. The oncoming boy had one bad eye! That
very morning Hendricks had read again the descriptions on the
wanted bulletins issued by Corassa and Husted. He slipped
from the patrol car and stepped out on the sidewalk.

When the boy was abreast of him Hendricks’ gun flipped
ou of its holster. “Don’t move any further,” he ordered.

“Take it easy, mister,” the boy whispered. “Follow me into
this saloon. 1 gotta’ tell you something.”

“You can tell me here.”’

“The gang’ll get wise. I said I was going to get a drink.
You gotta’ follow me in.” Something in the boy’s voice caused
Hendricks to comply with his request,

Inside the saloon the one-eyed youth admitted he was wanted
in San Francisco for the murder of Cash. “But you gotta’
get the Duchess, too,” he said. “She’s in the car up there with
Mike and Nifty. They was going to kill me—”

“Wait a minute,” Hendricks inter-
rupted. “Who was going to kill you and
why ?”

“The Duchess and Mike. I’ve been
knowing it all day—ever since they
rubbed out Bob. You can take them easy.
I told them I was gonna’ get a drink,
that’s why I had to come in here.”

Hendricks weighed the possibilities.
Was this a trap? Had the one-eyed boy
been sent to make this fantastic confes-
sion and lure the officer to the car for
some devious purpose? Should he call
for help? If he delayed too long would
the gang get nervous and drive off?

Hendricks turned to the bartender.
“Call the police department,” he said.
“Tell them to get a squad car to this
corner as fast as they can.” He frisked
the boy for weapons and nodded towards
the door.

“You walk down the — street,” he
ordered. “I'll be right behind you. If you.
try to tip them off I'll get you anyway.”

“T don’t want to tip them off. I don’t
want to get away,” the trembling youth
protested.

Hendricks sauntered idly toward the
corner, his arms folded across his chest
to conceal the gun in his right hand.

He risked a glance-at the sedan. Its
occupants seemed to be chatting idly, un-
concerned. The one-eyed youth was at
the curb now. Someone opened the rear
door for him, Hendricks speeded his stride.

In front of the car he wheeled abruptly as if to cut across
the street. Abreast of the driver he stopped, his gun covered
the startled crew in the big sedan.

“Open the doors and get out one at a time on this side,” he
barked.

A. sandy-haired youth crawled out of the back seat, fol-
lowed by the one-eyed informant. The man under the wheel
slipped out, pretended to catch his heel on the running board.
As he fought to recover his balance, Hendricks saw his hand
reach for a shoulder holster.

‘The highway patrolman brought the barrel of his own gun
crashing down on the driver’s head. The swarthy suspect—it
was Mike Simeone—crumpled to the ground.

The woman and the olive-skinned girl came out peaceably.
Ten minutes later the gang was locked in separate cells in the
Truckee jail.

Ives repeated in detail the confession he had made to

Hendricks. Word was flashed to San Francisco officers.
But Ives was not through. Seated on his iron cot in that
gray cement cell he revealed a story which was to shock

‘all northern California—~a sordid confession of lust and greed

ONE-EYE IVES—he was a tough tor-
pedo, and he cheerfully helped murder
a pal. But then Ives began to tremble for
his own life. He knew the signs. .. .

and murder; of a criminal syndicate ruled by a knife-throwing
woman, “Duchess” Spinelli, mistress of murder,

When the rest of the gang learned Ives had squealed, they
vied with each other in their anxiety to save themselves by
talking. From the conflicting statements officers pieced to-
gether a gruesome picture.

Fifty-one-year-old Juanita Spinelli admitted she was the
brains of the mob. With considerable satisfaction she told in
detail of her connections in the past with a Detroit laundry
racket. She told how her husband had been killed by Detroit's
Purple gang, and how she had fled to San Francisco to escape
similar vengeance.

In the city by the Golden Gate she planned a career of
crime, recruited specialists in violence to carry out her orders.

“There were six of us,” the Duchess boasted, “and we were
plenty tough.”

But only five had been arrested in Truckee: Ives, the
Duchess, Mike Simeone, Nifty Hawkins,
and Lorraine, the Gypsy, daughter of the
Duchess.

“Where is the other member of your
gang, the one you call Sherrod ?”

The Duchess smiled. “He left us. J
think he went to Los Angeles.”

ONFRONTED with Ives’ accusation

that she had planned to murder him,
Duchess Spinelli calmly admitted she and
Mike Simeone had plotted to do away
with their “torpedo.” “I was going to
stick a long hatpin in One-Eye’s ear,’”’ she
said, “because he bungled the holdup of
the barbecue stand.” The woman’s cold-
blooded admission sent a shiver of horror
through the casg-hardened manhunters.

Officers turned their attentioy once
again to Ives. “What happened to Sher-
rod?” they asked.

“We bumped him off,” Ives said cal-
lously. “When the Duchess and Mike met
us in Sacramento, we all agreed Bob was
talking too much. We were afraid he'd
tell what he knew about that Cash job.
So the Duchess planned a picnic to give
us a chance to get rid of him.

“We all went down to a sycamore grove
on the Sacramento River. The Duchess
told me to take Sherrod target shooting
and let him have it, but he wouldn’t go.
Then she got the Gypsy to dare him to
swim the river. We knew he was a lousy
swimmer, That didn’t work neither, Then
the Duchess asked him to go for a walk along the levee and
had it set with Mike to run him down with the car, but he
wouldn’t do that. I guess he was gettin’ suspicious.

“When we got back to the hotel Mike suggested we put
some knockout drops in his drink and then throw him in the
river. The Duchess liked that idea. She said it’d be a mercy
killing, and Bob wouldn’t know nothing about it.

“So she fixed a drink and Mike gave it to him. When he
passed out, me and Nifty hauled him down to the car, drove to
the Freeport bridge, took off all his clothes but a pair of
swimming trunks, and threw him in. That was last night. J
guess they ain’t found the body yet. The Duchess figured
when they did everybody’d think he got drowned accidental.

“Today they started thinkin’ about me. I knew what they
was talking about. That's why I squealed to that highway
cop.”

The gang was returned to Sacramento. Officers dragged
the river in an attempt to recover Sherrod’s body.

Fantastic as Ives’ confession of the bizarre picnic of death
had been, even more surprising revelations were made by the
gang members when they reached (Continued on page 60)

into the ribs of the startled restaurant owner.

“I’m sorry, boys, the stand is...” Cash began. He stopped
when he saw the gun.

“Where’s your dough?” the gunman demanded.

Cash shook his head. His hand moved to a black metallic
object suspended on his vest, for Leland Cash.was deaf. But
as he reached for the switch on the electrical hearing aid, the
gunman leaped forward.

“Try to pull a gat on me, will ya!” he snarled, his face
livid with rage. The butt of the bandit’s gun smashed down
on the deaf man’s head.

"nstinctively Cash raised his arm to ward off the blow.

«he gunman struck again and again. Cash slumped to the
ground under the rain of blows.

Deliberately the bandit brought his gun to bear on the pros-
trate figure. Two shots shattered the stillness of the night in
rapid succession. The body on the ground jerked spas-
modically.

“Get his dough,” the gunman ordered his companion.

The second bandit knelt beside the dying man, his fingers
exploring the pockets of the worn suit of clothes.

“Leland . .. Lee . . . what’s happened?” A woman’s voice,
tense with fear, called from the shadows at the rear of the
stand.

“Get goin’,” the killer breathed.

The sound of running footsteps grew nearer. “Lee. Lee—
speak to me!” the agonized voice begged in the silent night.

The getaway car was moving as the two bandits climbed
aboard.

Mrs. Beatrice Cash came around the side of the stand in
time to see the winking tail lights disappear—in time to catch
her husband’s last words.

“Oh, God, Bea... they—they shot... me. It hurts so... .”

At 2:15 a.M. an excited night watchman for the conces-
sions in the amusement park telephoned central police head-
quarters in San Francisco’s hall of justice and blurted the

news of the holdup killing.

Police sirens wailed through the night as squad cars raced
to the scene of the crime. Radio patrolmen arrived to find
Mrs. Cash hysterical, her slain husband’s head pillowed in
her lap. : ;

“Why did they do it? Why did they kill Lee?” she sobbed
helplessly.

“This is a job for Homicide,” one patrolman said. - “We'll
keep everybody away until they get the. inspectors out here.”

Inspectors George O’Leary and George Engler arrived in
a few minutes, accompanied by officials of the coroner’s office.
The medical man knelt beside the body and made a swift
examination. “Shot twice,” he announced. “Must have died
instantly.”

Mrs, Cash repeated her meager knowledge of the murder.
Engler and O’Leary reported to headquarters by short wave
radio and ordered additional squad cars into the hunt.

“Cut off this section of town,” Engler ordered. “Tell the
boys to stop every suspicious looking car. We'll try to get a
line on these mugs. Right now it looks pretty hopeless. Notify
the toll gates on both bridges to be on the lookout.”

The body of the slain restaurant man was removed to the
county morgue. Officers canvassed the neighborhood. Every-
where there was a light burning they stopped to inquire if
any suspicious-looking characters had been seen. Their efforts
were doomed to failure. For at that moment, in another sec-
tion of the city, the three bandits were loading luggage into
a high-powered sedan, preparing for their flight to Sacra-
mento.

Early the following morning Lieutenant Michael Mitchell,
commanding the city’s homicide squad, marshaled his forces.
“The coroner’s report shows Cash was shot while lying flat
on his back on the ground. The gunman who did this must
have killed for a thrill. We’re going to find him.”

“Cash being deaf,” Engler volunteered, “he probably didn’t
understand, or was too slow in following the stickup’s com-
mands.” .

Mitchell nodded and held out two lead slugs. “We got
these out of his body. They’re .38’s. We'll pick up every bum
in San Francisco and check their guns against these slugs.”

The entire San Francisco police force moved into action.
Mitchell assigned veteran Inspectors Harry Husted and Al
Corassa to take active charge of the investigation.

“Too bad Mrs. Cash didn’t get a glimpse of these guys or
their car,” Husted remarked.

His partner, Corassa, nodded. “Yeah,” he said dryly, “it’s
too bad there aren’t always witnesses to murders.”

Mitchell smiled grimly. Husted and Corassa had demon-
strated their ability on many previous occasions to break ap-
parently unsolvable cases, ;

“There was one witness, anyway, and f'm counting on you
to find him. I’ve got a hunch,” Mitchell explained, ‘“we’re
after the same mob that's been pulling all these stick-ups
lately.”

For almost a month hardly a night had passed without the
report of a holdup. In every case the crime had been handled
with dispatch and efficiency. None of the victims had been
able to give a particularly good description of the holdup
men, but from the similarity of the method of operation it
was apparent most of the jobs had been pulled by one well-
organized gang.

This minor crime wave had started with the holdup ofa
service station at Golden Gate and Van Ness Avenues. Three
young men had driven into the station late one night and
ordered the tank of their car filled. They had waited until the
tank was full, then one of the trio had covered the attendant
with a gun while his companions scooped more than $200 from
the cash register.

The victim described the gunman as a rangy lean-faced youth
with one bad eye.

Numerous petting party holdups had followed the raid
on the gas station. Officers of the robbery detail had been
successful in tracing five different automobiles used by the


26

WHO, ME?—
Juanita Spinelli vigorously denied murder charges.

and ordered it. At that moment he was sitting quietly, better
than two thousand miles away from the lethal gas chamber in
California’s San Quentin Prison. He would have been terri-
fied had he known how swiftly he was moving toward it.

{THIN the week two important decisions had been made.
W Simeone had considered the Duchess’ idea and found it
good. The Duchess had considered Simeone and found him
attractive. Moreover, the Duchess had a will of steel; when
she wanted something she got it.

Mike Simeone, in spite of his slighting remark about the
Duchess’ age, became her lover. He moved into her apart-
ment, and they lived together as husband and wife. Since
neither of them had any high regard for either the clergy or
the law, they didn’t bother to make it legal. -

Simeone had no money at all, and the Duchess’ little hoard
was fast disappearing.

“We better go to work,” said Mike one morning. “We bet-
ter get ourselves these punks you was talking about and get

started.”
The Duchess agreed. “Let’s get out of Detroit,” she said.

“We're too well-known here. I’ve still

got the car. Let’s go to California.”

Mike- was agreeable. “You figure
there’s a lot of dopey kids out there?”
“California,” said the Duchess, “has
its share of morons.”

Westward they went, living frugally
in tourist cabins along the way. In
January, 1940, they arrived in San
Francisco, eager to recruit their gang.
The first member of it—Albert Ives
—fell into their hands like a ripe apple.

The Duchess and Simeone sat in-a
waterfront bar in San Francisco, tip-
pling and discussing ways and means of
organizing their gang. Through the
plate glass window the Duchess saw a
new Buick drive up. A boy climbed out:
of the driver’s seat.

He was about 17. His clothes were
sloppy and his face unwashed. Wear-
ing a furtive air as if it were a part of
him, he entered the bar. The Duchess
made a swift calculation. She added
up the youth’s skulking manner and
the brand new car and decided he had
‘stolen it. ;

She smiled as he passed her table.
She said, “Hi, Big Shot. How about a
drink?”

The lad hesitated, then sat down.
The Duchess ordered him a beer, then
said, “That’s a nice looking heap you're
driving.”

“Yeah. It sure is. You want to buy
it?”

That clinched the Duchess’ theory.
“Maybe,” she said. “You got the
papers? Registration and such?”

He hesitated. Then he said slowly,
“I Jost ’em. Can’t find "em anywhere.
But I'll give you a good price. Five
hundred cash, and it’s yours. No ques-
tions asked.” .

The Duchess winked at Mike. He came into action. He
fixed the lad with a stern gaze. He said, “I believe that car
is stolen. I ought to call a copper. What’s your name?”

The boy said, “Albert Ives,” and sat on the edge of his
chair like a frightened rabbit poised for flight.

The Duchess smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry about
Mike,” she said. “He won’t call a copper. He hates coppers.
We're on your side. We can help you. You can help us, too.”

Ives blinked at his glass and said nothing. “You see,” said
the Duchess, “you can’t operate by yourself. So you stole a
car. So you don’t have its papers. If we were the wrong sort
of people we'd have turned you in. You probably don’t even
have a gun.” , ;

“Yes, I have. But it’s home-made.”

The Duchess snorted at that. “We'll provide you with a

regular gun. We'll do all the brainwork. And we'll divvy up

‘fairly. You can make real money—buy yourself fancy clothes

and a good car.”

“And girls,” said Mike, who knew. “You can get a lot of
girls with money.” .

More beer was brought to the table, and when Simeone
and the Duchess departed they took Albert Ives with them,
the first enlistment in their sordid little army.

In the apartment shared by the Duchess and Mike Simeone

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24

i Nati TP ae Oe A Oe 3

ER NAME WAS Juanita Spinelli; her ‘sobriquet was The
Duchess. She was, in 1940, some 52 years old. In ap-
pearance she was. not prepossessing. She was short and
dark. Her face was leathery and lined. Her nose was

prominent, and her eyes were black and cold. as the Polar Sea.

In her younger days she had married Mariano Spinelli, who
ranked high among those in his profession in Mexico. The
profession was that of bank robber.

Spinelli’s career was brought to an abrupt conclusion one
bright afternoon in Guadalajara when a detective strode into
a bank to cash his paycheck. There, he found Spinelli per-
suading a teller—with the aid of a loaded automatic—to
hand over large bundles of 50-peso notes.

The detective, in the name of the Republic of Mexico, the
Province of Jalisco and the Municipality of Guadalajara, or-

‘dered Spinelli to desist.

Spinelli turned his attention and automatic from the teller
and fired two shots at the detective. The latter pulled a gun
from his shoulder holster and returned the compliment.
Spinelli’s bullets smashed into the plaster of the bank wall:
The policeman was a better marksman; one of his slugs en-
tered Spinelli’s head, the other, his heart.

Less than two minutes later Juanita Spinelli was a full-
fledged widow. :

Since she was a frugal: woman she gave her husband an
adequate but not lavish funeral. Since she was unemotional

Joy, 19S

in most matters, she shed few tears. Since she was practical
she cast about for a method of earning her own living.

_ The only trade she knew anything about was crime, and
crime as practiced in Mexico was petty, indeed. -But the
United States, she knew, was a land of limitless opportunity,
for the crook as well as the honest man. :

She tossed away her reboza, clad herself in smart new
clothes and set out for Detroit.

For the next few years the activities of Juanita Spinelli are
curtained in a cloud of mystery. It is known, however, that
for a time she allied herself with Detroit’s infamous Purple
Gang and that she also acted as a finger woman in a Michigan
laundry racket.

T WAS not until 1939 that she set out on her own. She was
| at a loose professional end one December evening when
she stopped in a bar on Detroit’s Michigan Avenue. Seated at
a solitary table, sipping beer and registering deep melancholy
was Mike Simeone, a casual acquaintance.

' She sat at his table, said, “Hello, Mike.”

Simeone, a swarthy, ill-natured man in his. early forties,
looked up. “Hello, Duchess. How’s business?”

She shrugged. “Not good. How. it is with you?”

“Lousy. You think I’d'be drinking beer if it wasn’t? I tell
you, there ain’t any loyalty in the world any more. I just
brought a couple of kids to town from the Ozarks, set ’°em up

to mak:
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someon:
The
clucked
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Mike
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ce she was practical
2r own living.

out was crithe, and
y, indeed. -But the
imitless opportunity,

rself in smart new

Juanita Spinelli are
1own, however, that
t’s infamous Purple
oman in a Michigan

mn her own, She was
‘mber evening when
a Avenue. Seated at
ing deep melancholy
e.

in his. early forties,
iness?”

with you?”

or if it wasn’t? I tell
d any more. I just
e Ozarks, set em up

She could have heen somebody’s
- grandmother, but she turned out to be
a deadly daughter of the Devil.

to make more in a day than they ever dreamed was in the
world. So what? They ditch me. Now they’re working for
someone else.”

The Duchess ordered gin from the shuffling waiter and
clucked sympathetically. Simeone stared morosely into his
empty beer glass and reflected on the ingratitude of humanity.

Mike Simeone was a man who had spent the major part of
his life dealing in a highly regarded commodity—sex. Mike
was a procurer.

He had, three short weeks ago, recruited two young Mis-

souri girls under his banner. He had, in direct violation of
the Mann Act, transported them to Detroit. He had installed
them in a high class brothel, then sat back prepared to-collect
at least half their earnings.

Unfortunately, a business associate, who was younger,
handsomer and infinitely more glib, had offered the girls a bet-
ter financial deal. They had promptly transferred their alle-
giance, leaving Mike Simeone with no immediate means of
support.

The Duchess. listened to his lengthy discourse on the lack
of gratitude and loyalty which was so dishearteningly apparent
in this younger generation. She said at last, “Drink up, Mike,
and I'll buy you a whiskey.” .

Mike drained his glass, but even the prospect of stronger
drink didn’t appear to stir him.

“Listen,” said the Duchess, “I’m sort of on the loose my-

DUCHESS—

Came to the United States from Mexico in 1940.

self. I’ve been thinking things over. Maybe I could work
with you, Mike.”

Simeone looked at her critically. He said, “I don’t want to
hurt your feelings but you're over fifty and ‘“

“Don’t be a fool. I’m not suggesting that I go to work on
the street to support you. I have a better idea. An’ idea which
will enable us to do the brain work and take none of the risks.”

“What is it?” said Mike Simeone. :

“Stickups.”

Mike looked at The Duchess as if she’d suddenly gone mad.
“Stickups?” he repeated. “And no risk? You're nuts. I ain’t
a strongarm guy.”

“You don’t have to be. In your racket you must have
learned that there are thousands of dumb young dames around
this country.” ,

“Sure there are. So what?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that there are just as many
dumb young guys? Those are the mugs we'll recruit to pull
the holdups for us. We'll just case the joints, supply the rods
and perform the general masterminding.”

Mike Simeone drank his bourbon and considered. Perhaps
there was something in this. He said as much and added, “I
want to think it over.” :

“Do so,” said the Duchess. “I’ll meet you here ‘again to-
morrow night.” :

Simeone counted his silver, decided it ran to another beer

25

I’ve still
lifornia.”
~u_ figure
t there?”
ess, “has

- frugally
way. In
in San
2ir gang.
bert Ives
pe apple.
sat in-a
isco, tip-
means of
ugh the
SS saw a

nbed out. *-

hes were
1. Wear-
a part of
Duchess
1e added
mer and
d he had

ier table.

S a
it down.

eer, then
ap you’re

it to: buy

” theory.
got the
pha]

d slowly,
inywhere.
ce. Five
No ques-

tion. He
: that car
ne?”

ge of his

ry about
; coppers.
us, too.”
see,” said
yu stole a
‘rong sort
lon’t even

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%. divvy up

Fy clothes
fa lot of

Simeone
* ith them,

Fl eone ag

%
}

fgborus girls. Politicians would tremble

, there’s no one in the gang but me.”

le future was painted in glowing colors
for young Ives. All he had to do was
yj orders. In time he could wear
@ silk shirts, drive Cadillac con-

yertibles and: make welcome passes at

at his frown.

And,” concluded the Duchess, “you
‘can be the leader of the gang.”

Ives said, ‘quite reasonably, “But

Mike nodded, granting the validity of
this point. “Maybe,” he said, “you got
some friends. Some kids who'd like to
make big chunks.of dough.”

Ives, who appeared to find thought a
difficult process, wrinkled his brow and
scratched his head. After three tough
minutes he said, “Well, there’s Gordon
Hawkins. He knows a lot about cars.
And Bob Sherrard. But he’s not very
bright.”

Sacamaemenssma
Seemaseesitacen

N THE following day Ives brought
0 his two friends into the presence of
the Duchess and Simeone. Gordon
Hawkins was 19 years old, well built,
of medium height. He was an automo-
bile mechanic whose brains were in his
fingers. ;

Sherrard was the same age as Ives.
His face was the color of dirty:snow and
liberally spotted with pimples’? He was
shifty-eyed and walked with shambling
gait. He talked incessantly, but no
United Nations’ interpreter could have
figured just what he was talking about.

As Ives had intimated, Bob Sherrard
was not quite all there; and a couple of
months later the Duchess so’ arranged
matters that he wasn’t there at all.

Thus was the mob assembled. It cer-
tainly wasn’t a gang to cause J. Edgar
Hoover a single anxious moment. It
would have moved Al Capone to Gargantuan laughter. But,
after a fashion; it functioned.

The modus operandi was simple. First, Simeone wandered
about San Francisco casing a. joint, usually a filling station.
After he selected a likely place. which Appeared to promise
slight risk and high profit, Gordon Hawkins was dispatched
to steal a car. :

i

le Ives held the gun on the attendant.

onth it worked well enough, though the take was
gh rouse envy in Wall*Street. The loot was

he apartment, wheré the Duchess di-

ye and Simeone took’ one third. each,

plit_ among the active members of

promised. He had no purple shirt. Hey
ertible and he certainly hadn’t been throwing oge
chorus girls. ial —
He came in to the Duchess’ kitchen one morning, looking:

d no...

said hesitantly, “The boys sort of asked me to talk for them.”

Sahin

ves began to think that things were not going “boys, too.” hed oe
: no... Ives licked his lips. “I''didn’t really mean anything,” he
ids at...said nervously. “But on that last job we only got eighteen
vebucks apiece, A guy can’t live’on that. I mean, he might as .

t

PARTNER IN CRIME—
Mike Simeone helped the Duchess round up her gang.

- The Duchess put down her coffee cup and eyed him coldly.
“In regard to what?” 2

“We ain’t getting enough dough.” .

The Duchess, looking more like a granite tombstone than
ever, stared him down. She turned to Mike Simeone, who was
mopping an eggy plate with a fragment of burnt toast. “Mike,”
she said, “shall we give him the hot needles?”

Mike swallowed hastily. “Huh? Oh, sure.
These kids ain’t got no gratitude at all.”

Ives, far more fearful of the Duchess than Simeone, said,
“What—what are hot needles?”

“We tie you up,” said the Duchess amiably. “And stick
red-hot needles into you. It hurts. Mike used to do it to his
girls when they got outvof line. I guess it would work on

Why not?

“well go to work.”

like a cowed employee about to ask the boss for a raise. He” This; of course, was unthinkable. Even the Duchess could

sec that.

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(Continued from-page 34)

Hawkins to the wall with a few well-
timed accusations. She had noticed
each car and each license plate, check-
ed the papers and police notices, and
let Hawkins know that she was on to
his stolen-car racket.

“IT don’t know how much you get
for each job,” she told him, “but Ill
bet with a distinguished woman like

me to front for you, we could make

quite a pile of dough together.”

}

Hawkins looked at her, astonished, :

then practical. “You know — maybe
you’re right,” he said...

They talked it over, and Hawkins
said he would bring his colleagues
around. When they shook hands and
sealed the bargain, he said: “It’s a deal
—Duchess.”

AWKINS became so interested in

the stolen-car racket that he had
little time for Mona, and she gravi-

tated to a youth named Henry Dralich, .

who looked like the soul of honor.
Unfortunately, Henry was just as bad
as Hawkins, except that he was a foul-
up. And so one day when he took
Mona and one of her girl friends, as
well as Hawkins, for a ride in what he
said was his brother’s new car, they
were all picked up by the cops. Henry,
it turned out, was a car-thief too. And
so Gordon Hawkins and he were sent
to the clink, Hawkins to finish serving
out a term for violating parole.

TENHE Duchess wasn’t implicated, nor
was Mona, but Leta realized that
if the kids talked, she’d be in a spot.
So she went back East, Jooked up
Mike Simeone, and moved in with him.
“I’m going back to ’Frisco,” she
said, “in about six months’ time. The
heat will be off—and Hawkins will be
out of the clink. The kid’s an organ-
izer. He gets these young punks conned
into working with him, and if any-
thing happens, they generally wind up
taking the rap, not him. I want you to
come out with me, Mike, and help us
run this racket.”
“Not me, honey,” Mike said com-
placently. ;
Leta argued gently with Mike, anx-
ious to persuade him to come in with
her, painting a glowing picture of the
fat, easy pickings to be had in the
hot-car business in the Golden West.
But Mike was not buying her proposi-
tion. “I’m satisfied with what I’ve
got here, honey,” he told her. “I
just ain’t as ambitious as you are.”
And that was that, or so Mike thought.
The Duchess liked Mike. He was
all man, and treated her with respect.
“Okay, Mike,” she said. “Have it
your own way.”

But Mike should have known Leta

CONFINENTIAT. DETECTIVE CASES

os ie

‘al
ms
Pe
e
Zi
3

no for an answer. He was still to learn
that whatever Leta wanted, Leta got.
She had come East to get Mike to work
with her, and that’s what she was go-
ing to get. But knowing that there
are more ways than one to skin a cat,
Leta decided not to force the issue
further at that moment.

HE next day, Leta called the police,
and in a disguised voice tipped
them off to a job Mike’s gang was go-
ing to do. The police caught the ring-
leaders, and then when they talked,
they got Mike.
The Duchess went to see Mike in
jail. “Now, Mike,” she said, and there
was no doubt to him of her meaning,
“don’t you think you’d better stick with
me? Then you wouldn’t go getting into
trouble like this.” She gave him a hard
look, then grinned. “I might be able
to alibi you and get you off the hook—”
And so when Mike said he was will-
ing to-agree to anything, the Duchess
went to the police and swore Mike had
been with her the night before. The
police let him go, and Mike followed
her meekly out of court.

Bo they all. went to California.
It was January, 1940, when they
settled in an apartment on Golden
Gate Avenue—Leta, Mike, Mona and
the two boys. Hawkins was out of the
clink, and The Duchess got in touch
with him. She introduced him to Mike.
“J want you to get some young fel-
lows,” the Duchess told Hawkins,
“who we can teach the ropes to. Guys
about your age. Not too smart, but
gutsy. They don’t need to know nothin’
now—we'll teach ’em.” /

The Duchess still called herself Mrs. }

Spinelli, and that was the name on
‘the door. And Spinelli’s became the
hangout for young toughs who were
anxious to get ahead in the under-
world. It was a crime school.

The Duchess, when in the Philip-
pines, had learned the art of knife-
throwing, which she taught to Hawkins
and his crowd. Her first “husband”
had also taught her jiu-jitsu, and this
art of attack as well as self-defense
she taught to the young hoodlums.
Soon she had a likely stable of young-
sters who could hold their own with
the older, but no longer rougher, com-
petition in the stolen-car racket. Mike,
a past master with guns, taught them
the art of killing quickly and pistol-
whipping effectively.

The ringleaders of the young gang,
the lieutenants under The Duchess and
Mike, were Albert Ives, Jerry Barish,
and Bobbie Sherrard, as well as Gordie
Hawkins. They decided that they
wouldn’t confine their jobs to stolen

~ cars but would make stick-ups too.

“As long as you let me know what
you’re going to do,” the Duchess said,
“anything goes. But rothing goes unless
we plan it first. No crazy stuff—no
going off on your own.” She adjusted
the respectable, rimless glasses which
she now wore, and then grinned im-

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES —

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was dignity itself, acting like an irate,

put-upon lady. But the Reno police
made a few phone calls to San Fran-

cisco and soon were convinced they,

had the right people. Detectives from
the California city came out and picked
up Mike, Jerry, and the Duchess. *

When Ives and Hawkins were
brought in to face the Duchess, the
story. €xploded. Everyone tried to.
blame everybody else. Ives even tried
to swear that the Duchess handled her
own gun in the Cash murder. They all
agreed, however, that the Duchess had
plotted the death of Bobbie Sherrard.

And so, on May 29, 1940, all four,
including Mike, went on trial for the
first-degree murder of Sherrard. Ives’
attorney demanded that his client be
tested for insanity, and alienists agreed
that Ives was insane. He was event-
ually institutionalized. But the strain
of all he had been through had taken
its toll. Upon release from the asylum,
he died of a heart attack.

But the others were found guilty,
and Eithel Leta Juanita Spinelli, who
had come to be known as the Duchess
of Death in the newspapers, was sen-
tenced to die in the gas chamber, along
with-Gordon Hawkins and Mike.

Her lawyer tried a last-minute ap-
peal to get her sentence altered to life
imprisonment, since she would be the
first woman to be executed in Cali-
fornia’s legal history. But the Governor
Saw .no merit in the plea, and on
November 21, 1941, she made history.

Not long before she died, the
Duchess told reporters: “My blood
will burn holes in their bodies, and
before six months have gone by, my
executioners will be punished.”

But just an hour before she died,
the Duchess took it all back. “I have
asked God to forgive them,” she said.

Probably she figured she’d done
enough damage.

Note: The names Mona, Henry
Dralich and Jerry Barish are fictitious.

| POISONED) |
MY’ HUSBAND®

: ‘ (C ‘ontinied (ies * pagex15)

i ive: officers returned to their car to

do some thinking. Durham finally
broke the silence. “You figure Sam
got even by poisoning Bee’s liquor?”

“He could have,” nodded Owens
thoughtfully. “He was with Bee at
least part of that day. Suppose we talk
to Sam’s neighbors. Maybe we'll pick
up a few more pieces of the puzzle.”

Working quietly, the two men talked
to the scattered farmers along High-
way 46. Nearly all of them remem-
bered the scuffle in Bailey’s tavern.
Most of them said Sam and Bee had
been together a lot lately, but only one
of them, a farm equipment salesman
named Stan Parks, recalled seeing the

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

_ revealing what he meant,

two men together on Saturday, May
19th. :

“In fact, I saw them twice that day,”
Parks said. “Once early that day, and
later at Bee’s place around two o'clock.
Old C. R. Shaw was there, too.”

“Were they drinking?” asked Owens.

“They had a few, but neither of
them was drunk.”

- Thanking Parks, the officers drove
to the Morgan farmhouse on the edge
of the Hopewell Community,~ about
twenty miles from Heflin. There they
found Bertie-Lois in the kitchen.
“HAVE some coffee, fellows?” the

nineteen-year-old widow asked.

“No, thanks, Ma’am,” Owens said.
Briefly, he told the brown-haired girl
about the autopsy on her husband’s

-body. She listened in stunned silence.

“Are you telling me that Bee was
murdered?” she asked huskily.
“Tm afraid so, Ma’am,” said Owens.

‘“How did Bee get along with Sam

Woods?” x
“All right, I reckon. They had a
tussle a while back, but it was all for-
gotten. You think Sam poisoned my
man?” soups
“It looks like it,” Owens said. “He
was with him most of that day, so he
had plenty of chances to slip it into
Bee’s bottle,” he said significantly.
The girl shook her head dazedly. “I
can hardly believe it.” 3
Further questioning revealed that
Bee and Sam had been together on and
off on other occasions during the
slain man’s final week on earth. As a
result of their talk with Bertie-Lois,
the officers felt that the situation was
looking even worse for Sam Woods.

BEFORE returning to his office,
Sheriff Owens picked up Sam for

- questioning. Taken to Headquarters,

Woods vehemently denied having had
anything to do with his friend's
murder:

“I had no reason to harm Bee,” he
said stoutly. “We were good friends.”

“You had a fight with him once,”
Owens pointed out, “and there’s folks
who think you never forgave him for
it.”

Woods waved the insinuation aside.
“That’s not true, Sheriff. Bee wal-
loped me fair and square that night.
Besides, I had it comin’ to me. We
were both happily married. Least-
ways, I was.”

_ “What do you mean by that last
crack?” cut in Durham.

Woods stared at the floor sullenly.
“IT ain’t doin’ no more talkin’. If you
guys ain’t found out yet, then it’s
about time you did some more
snoopin’.”

Nor coufd more than two hours of
extensive questioning get the suspect
to explain his remark. Convinced that
Woods could not be browbeaten into
Sheriff
Owens let him oft with a warning not
to leave the county without permis-
sion. yas ey

“That crack of Sam’s bothers me,
Skipper,” said Durham after the sus-

CONFIDENTIAL DETECTIVE CASES

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“MY BLOOD WILL BURN holes in their bodies, and before six months have gone by, my execytioners will be pun-
ished!’ Duchess (black coat) vows as she heads for car. Photo, right—The end of the trail for Juanita Spinelli.

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“the Duchess

pishly. “Stick with me, kids, and you ‘I 3

wear diamonds.”

IKE went . around town casing ©

joints which looked likely, and
soon the-boys were going out in stolen
cars, sticking up gas stations,
houses, movie theaters, and even, for
a change of pace,. mugging characters
whose homeward paths Mike had
charted out beforehand.

Business boomed for a while, and
then one of the boys goofed. Mike
had been casing.a place called the Fat
Boy Barbecue, out at Lincoln Way
and La Playa, on the edge of the
amusement park zone. Leland Cash
and his wife, Beatrice, ran the place,
and they were in the habit of taking
leftover food home with them when
they left at night. And so, every night

.that Mike had his eye on the place,

he saw Cash carrying out a package.

Mike got the idea that this was the
day’s take, so he briefed the gang on
the set-up, and on the night of April 8,
1940, they went into action. Al Ives
carried a .38 belonging to the Duchess,
while Bobbie Sherrard waited in a car
with the motor running. Up the block
a ways, Hawkins and Mike waited.

Ives went up to Cash as he came
out carrying the usual package. “Put
’em up!” Al growled. Cash didn’t see
the gun, and he didn’t hear the order
because his hearing aid was tuned out.
But he saw Al, and reached to turn up
the hearing aid. Al thought he was
going for a gun, and he fired.

The crash of the gun brought Mrs.
Cash running out, but by that time,
Hoak was inside the car, and Sherrard
had gunned it down the street.

HE Duchess was furious, berating

Al for using the gun, but angrier
that he had fouled up everything in the
hold-up. And then, the next morning,
she read that Cash had died.

“We'll have to get rid of that gun,”
seethed. Avidly, she
scanned the papers. The gang ceased
operations, and hung around, waiting
to see what the Duchess’s next move
was to be. They got jittery. And when
they read that the police had a hot tip
on a teen-age hot car ring, Bobbie
Sherrard got the cold sweats. He kept
talking about the killing. And then he
told his girl friend about it. The news
got back to the gang that Bobbie was
going to pieces.

“We've got to get out of town,” the
Duchess said, and then added mean-
ingfully, “but I doubt if we’d want to
leave Bobbie behind to talk.”

They all talked it over, and finally it
was decided that the boys would go on
a picnic with some girls they knew.
Mike and the Duchess came along as
chaperones. There was plenty of liquor
and Bobbie, sensing something, re-
fused to drink much.

But Bobbie drank a little, and that
was enough. What he drank was a
chloral hydrate highball—the good old
Mickey Finn. When he passed out, the
boys stripped him and put him into a
pair of swimming trunks and then took

te Rewer A ene

road-

a
4 i
;

him down to the Freeport Bridge and
dropped him into the river. ;

HE next morning, the Duchess, her

family, and Mike, Hawkins and
Ives left town. They drove into the
mountains, and at one point the
Duchess, watching over her brood like
a mother hen, nudged Hawkins and
said, “Keep your eye on Al Ives. I
think he’s gettin’ jittery.”

Hawkins watched him, and when
the car stopped at Colfax, he passed
the word to Mike.

But Ives suddenly said, “I’m going
over to that bar for a quick drink.”
And before they could stop him, he
was gone.

Hawkins ambled over to the bar,
not wanting to arouse any suspicion
among the bystanders, and when he
got inside he couldn’t find a sign of
Ives. He questioned the bartender and
found out that Ives had gone right
through the back exit. Hawkins went
out back, but Ives had disappeared.

VES, who didn’t have much sense,
but did have a good sense of self-

- preservation, was in desperate fear of

his life. He raced through the brush
until he fell, scratched in a hundred
places, and exhausted. He _ stayed
alongside the highway until he spotted
a State Highway Patrol Car.

“There’s a stolen car—some crooks—”

‘he gasped out to Patrol Captain

Joseph Blake.
Blake got onto the radio and flashed
the word, describing the Duchess’s

_ black De Soto as Ives gave it to him.

The car was stopped as it passed
through Truckee.

Hawkins was driving, and when the
patrol car pulled him over, he gave the
Duchess a warning look.

“This car is reported as stolen,” the
officer said: “Let’s ‘see your registra-
tion.”

“I won’t waste your time, officer,”
Hawkins said. “I stole it. You’ve got
me.” He turned to the Duchess. “I’m
sorry, madam,” Hawkins said. “I hope
I haven’t gotten you in trouble giving
you a lift like this—

The officer let Mike and the others
go, and took Hawkins into custody. A
short while later, the Duchess and her
crew hitchhiked their separate ways
and had a rendezvous in Reno.

T wasn’t long before the police got
the straight of the story when Haw-

> kins and Ives were brought together

by Captain Blake at the Patrol head-
quarters. Ives was obviously in mortal
terror, but the details he gave of the
gang’s activities and his obvious recog-
nition ‘of Hawkins were more con-
vincing than Hawkins’ statement: “I
never saw this man before in my life.”

Blake figured Hawkins was stalling
for time, and the reason was to permit
the other gang members to get away.
He therefore sent out an alarm to pick
up the hitchhikers who had been let go.

It took a while to find them, but
finally Reno police discovered them in
a Salvation Army shelter. The Duchess

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COLLINS, Patrick J., wh, hanged san quentin (3an Fr

on 7 i *
fy) WA bd TROK
On w~une oO, LOYD

TIE BLACK

Ore aed habe

An soon as the 7:40 o'clock trait:
rived from Ran Franetaco, with about”
hundred eltizens Invited to witness ¢
evecuttona, Garela waa -takea from"
coll and ted to the gallows. Before

walked two prieete chanuog the
service. tle emiled as ba walked up:

sii cerse . hg atalre leading to the tvap. On elther
fur ecte Chaplain Drabine of the priecs
‘ Amae Dunt, the etecudianer. The &

| wae quickly adjusted, the black cap -st
over the head of the oumead man, while
he looked about end amiled. With ¢

Execution of Colli

ts

° Ai wertla, “Clennl-by, adios,” ow hia lips, the
i nt trap was sprung, and at 9:3t e'clostt:|
li afl Z0 4 TORS | Gperclea eaplated his erime, We dled,
; 6 fe “gamne,” his ceck being broken by the full,
Ba 7. tw did not make a move after the fall

- ay After the hady had heen auapoended ¢
TY H . . me tron ge et ~~ ho us. paket Oy
mine iq) wmeror, IMarvey an ery pronvoun ¢
ireé aAnvines in One Da ie ectinet The remains were taken down?

‘ ee and pul in a rough woolen comin
at San Quentin. ys: ee ny

. nas a2 Azgoff, murderer of Lea Warris, the

Bi bhi? ular Houthern Pacifia detective, came

and priests precedat him. As be wa)

The Condemned to thy :
1a emned Men Go to thi up the atsira he looked” abuut,  emile€

" < if fe
Scaffold Berene in the a pera and nodded at the people Ia attendance!
Catholic Faith. . oe tte had made careful preparations for the
pean eg st EN Te a event tile nmustecha was wased and B
a tecn Sie eticesarnyecmepmamyr hale neatly combed, He trembled
ather Lagan Makes a Stateman oe ceptibly, but assumed an alr of bravedé
the Wife-murderer, But the % = ae the cap waa | arate over his beady
Othe OR te After the enpe bad heen adjusted, be said
oe rg — Speak . Fags a In @ loud tone, “Gond-by all; here gees
t 1emaelves, ‘4 ert brave man.” As.the final words
Sadat cceieais ae poh, phrase — (re ogg ee and the pe!
be staaate ‘ sou shown Wie fell with a thied, t ewung hack 7
me i ee Servies set Dee forth fur a while, bute other than @ few?
: UENTIN PIUSON, June TAS BYR Involuntary movements of the Bingersy
oleh lta morning Warden Hale wallceggs there wae no struggle. ee
a

‘tetrics J. Colltna was a changed ana eal

too Cbeor coll Fasterry Gorotd Sttem des the p
he walked to fSe scaffold, The eold ened

yard) bith thtaed «tury of whieh the gall

BO
ss hee . er’ that he carried during the Utal and come?
ide ses Hee rr the evecutionsa * ps wletlon. foe the munier of hin wife Red i
‘ . toelle Charela "ny | dS wappesrest and a benign espreraica badt
Vath otey Neo be stottesd tha erdenam - ‘tehen Ite place, ile evidently hid made
teed Wie bette e ble ated Peoseceed them of a ‘peace with Gat and man. We walked a
tol The aaiden preparet te read (Retail the galkows-atepa firmly wih othe chap-
slasth warrante. Cnlllne «offered teow J.) hain wt dia left emt the executions at fils
the reading, but the warden carried in right, The peiests preceded bim, readiimgh
ther Certaalition of the tev to the batten sa and chanting respemses as they proceeded.

The condemns! man eat nut a word oa}

4

Toscinm the reading tha e-cmlomned

patel TNGehe al lontion, They seemed . ts praans ptarng rei, cia cen ja hie
Heved when the prvilminaries were‘ mh tehalf, sattl: “This ts an awful moment. *
Paherd, “SER ny far the ecoused. He cannot be expected ta,,
Qarcla passed a gol night. Me ‘ per pie liga te a _ comes “——
to bed early and alept aonmlly but’ we wn 6 ser~ts AEN ane Se
’ . , econtdence in the future, He eammitted »
aluiabere of ¢ anne and Aan were « rie the awful erime while Jrunk and was poe 77
turbed. AL 7 o'elock breakfast was ee. reep nasble altcaether. Ile wishes me te
The three ate heartihy of fruit, eoffee gaaeee eure that he belleves that he is forxives,
bread, At an early hour Vather Ri {uf his sins, ant be furg.vee everybody on
and other Catholle ° prieata Crom . 8 dg wel — ane torgiveaers of all72)
Mafael arrived at the prison and offeredige ; | ethos vbvee a heniok eo he: prion om-"s
ronaolation ta the three nen, Colllne antiga | wale fir kiral t(reatinen. Py -
Garcia were Catholics aml embraced : Wish At the cow-lusicn of Faber lagan’e reese
rites of the church. Aso at the | oii marke, ce ts gama gre rap: 3
howe w t \2 ‘ me sprung, Kacey or a flew apesesodia
Hr nike Cate eae cit hegre ied:
fi. ‘
and donned tlack trowusere ane xa move after the Coll. Vile mewk wae om,
bar te and to fourteen minutes, bile belong exe <
belosaeg - ody Bee tinet, De remene were cut dkiewa ena ‘*

pled oo a reshe® Lemile thee of Oarcie '?
Land Ago Wirt the resmevel oe the rt
trallen the triple esevulicas was Over, and »;
the viewture slowly Gleat out of the prisca

ma)
*

and took the fire tras fur home. 4


See (125 PACIFIC = 2nd = 92)
(Crime on 10-28-19),@ and arrests all within first 2 weeks of Nove, 1910.)
ARNOLD, Delmar, and HOYT, Barzen, asphyxiated at San Quentin (San Francisco) on Nov, 13,

1942, and FRAZIER, Arthur, asphyxiated, same, on Nove 20, 192.

, FRAZIER EXECUTION.

"The. phonograph that ground out Debussy's 'Claire de Lune! as a dirge for 2l-yeareold
Dorena Hammer five months ago, doubled in brass yesterday, Installed in the death cell
at San Quentin prison, as a last request from Arthur Frazier, it repeatedly gave forth
the banal strains of "You Are My Sunshine! as the 22-year#old killer sat waiting for the
summons which took him into the lethal gas chamber shortly after 10 a.m,
"Entirely composed and seemingly without emotion, he bade goodbye to Warden Clinton Duffy
and Rev, Thomas Gale of San Francisco, thanked the guards for the little courtesies
they had extended him « including the loan of Leslie Gireth's macabre phonograph ~ and
calmly walked into the gas chamber and sat down, The cyanide egg plopped into its acid
bath at 10:0, and Frazier died officially at 10:15. Guards disclosed that they had been
put to no little trouble in satisfying the youth's desire to hear 'You Are My Sunshine,!
He had wearied of listening to the radio, He had followed up a substantial dinner of
fried chicken and fried oysters by a midnight snack of bacon and eggs, Then he had asked
for a phonograph and "You Are My Sunshing,!
"Gireth, awaiting execution for the 'red carnationt murder of Miss Hammer in San Leandro,
had already pressed his beloved phonograph upon young Frazier, But guards could not
find the requested recording, They canvassed music stores in San Rafael without success,
Then they began thumbing through a stack of hundreds of old records in the prison library,
Eventually they found Frazier's s election, Idly, they looked at the reverse of the
record = and then hurriedly began defacing it and removing its title: 'Don't Wopry, Its All
Over Now." Thus Frazier was able to solace himself in his last hours with the same phonep
graph which Gireth played when he @nded a year long illicit amour by shooting Miss Hammer
to death = the phonograph Gireth has already disclosed he intends to play when he, too,
sits in the death cell awaiting the summons to the octagonal chamber just down the corridor,
"Frazier went into that chamber yesterday because he and two companions, Barzen Hoyt and
Delmar Arnold, had clubbed David Ferrari to death while attempting to rob the Feffari gro-
cery store in October, 1910, Hoyt and Arnold died side by sige in the chamber on Friday,
Nov, 133 Frazier, sentenced to die with them, received a week s reprieve because the cham=
ber could not hold all three," EXAMINER, San Francisco, Nov. 21, 192 (11-3, )

ARNOLD/HOYT EXECUTIONS

"For the murder of a San Francisco grocer, two men paid with their lives in San Quentin's
lethal gas chamber yesterday = Friday the thirteenth, Barzen Hoyt and Delmar Arnold died
because one night in San Francisco, while a companion waited outside, they clubbed David
*errari to death during a holdup, And while one of them, Hoyt, was dying yesterday, the
young and pretty girl who loved him, Marguerite Fischer of Los Angeles, waited at the pri-
son's gates. Unsuccessfully she tried to reach Governor Olson by long distamce telephone
and ask a reprieve. Up on the hill in the gas chamber, Hoyt walked in first, grinning,
sat down like he was relaxing in a barber chair, Arnold tried to grin back at something
loyt said, thenwas strapped into the other chair, Hoyt again spoke to Arnold, then
tossed his head back and laughed. Arnold looked straight ahead, mumbling prayers. At
10:0 aem., a lever released the deadly cyanide pellets, Hoyt casually looked through

the windows at the winesses, The fumes rose = Hoyt was pronounced dead at ten and a half
minutes after the deadly pellets dropped, Arnold was pronounced dead at 10:16, Hoyt did
not know the girl he once planned to marry was waiting outside the gates while he died,
Both Arnold and Hoyt were in good spirits through the night. Arnold ate chicken, later
ham and eggs for breakfast. Hoyt smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, Final religious
consolation was given Arnold by the Rev, thomas R, Gale of San Francisels Father George A,
O'Meara of San fafael attended Hoyt. Down the hill - outside the gates - Marguerite Fisch-
er heard the news, and tried to dry her tears, 'It's hard to lose someone when you care
for him so much,’ she said. YHe couldn't have done this thing, He couldn't bear to see
anyone in pain, He loved children and animals,' In the death row Arthur Frazier, robbery=
murder companion of Hoyt and Arnold, still had his ordeal ahead, He is scheduled to be
executed next Friday," EXAMINER, San Francisco, CA Nov. 15, 19:2 (3/8.)

FRAZIER'S RESPITE

i he first
".. Arthur Frazier, sentenced to die with Arnold and Hoyt in what would have been t
triple execution in San Quentin's history, received a one week reprieve from Governor

Olson late Wednesday night. Warden Clinton Duffy had informed the Governor that the lethal
chamber could handle only two executions at a time, that five hours must- elapse between
executions to assure clearance of deadly fumes from the chamber, and that a five hour wait
would impair prison morale. After stuslying the records of the case, the Governor post=
poned Frazier's execution one week, explaining that Frazier had remained outside while

- Hoyt and Arnold attempted the robbery and clubbed Ferrari to death. The lesser degree of
guilt, said the Governor, entitled Fraizer to the additional week of life," EXAMINER,

San Francisco, Nov, 13, 1942 (1/3) .

-R

34 True Detective Mysteries

crete floor. The convict cell tenders unlocked the cellsby turning
a wheel which lifted an iron bar, thereby releasing the cell doors.
This done, the convicts poured forth like a swarm of dis-
turbed ants. They stretched themselves and inhaled deep
breaths of air. And well they might, for during the winter
months they are locked up from half-past 3 in the afternoon
until 7 the following
morning. Two men
occupy a cell five
feet by ten; there-
,fore when one moves
about the other must
lie down on the bed!
More tapping of
canes, and the con-
victs marched, single
file, into the dining-
room,
Thanksgiving
breakfast is an im-

(Above) Robert
Considine, the
author of this
story, as he
looked a short
time before. he
was sentenced
to 6 years in
Folsom Prison

Fide eng MANPRMPR 4A

.  tadinonbiammbdadambdincen\erdeaell sh
pripmen ya: , 31 alas eign EO

“Well, anyhow, we get a good dinner at two o'clock!"

Poor boy, that was the last meal he ever ate, for before the
sun set he was lying cold in death, with a machine gun bullet
through his brain. But ignorance is bliss, and young Nelson,
innocent victim of one of the most atrocious happenings that
ever occurred in an American prison, smilingly took his
place in the line and marched out into the yard.

Convicts always march in single file at Folsom. When they
crowd up, the guards point their canes and tap on the con-
crete floor. It was one of my hobbies to stand at the big
door and watch the line march out. 1 was a cell tender for
more than two years, and had the privilege of remaining in-
side. In the marching line were men whose names were con-
nected with crimes that rang from coast to coast. A few
are known to the police throughout the civilized world.

Stand with me a moment at the big door and watch the
line march out. In most cases, men’s faces are an index of
their character. Especially does this apply to criminals.
Look at them, as they file past! Strong-arm men, stick-ups.
burglars, confidence men, forgers and murderers! Here, at
the end, come the men we have been waiting for—
five of them, ruthless, cruel-looking.

They are trailing along at the end of the line for
a reason,

Observe the fixed, set expression on the faces of
this quintet. First comes the lantern-jawed, tooth-
less Burke. Following is Eddie Stokes, bow-legged,
short of stature, with a pair of gray-blue eves,
close-set in a round, boyish face. Craig is next--
stern, quiet, and self-possessed; then Crosby, he of
the fresh complexion and a torso suggestive of the
athlete.

TONY BROWN, the leader, is hovering in the

rear. He is a young man of twenty-seven or so.
with thin, cruel lips, strong teeth, and cyes that
look straight at you. A pugnacious, overbearing

ky

fo ator, re Meng net i 5B 3, ONT. fom ed gh

man, one would say; true, perhaps, to a friend, but

1 aah eich he a erty sevens by enid Werden

(Right) Photo-

graph of Con- sa a ed a nw a to).
siding's — dis- Fa Se Blawg saenliataneeh conve
charge from

pol Me

«kath of covtarset te mare fot Hn end pared for by the Mts ard of ten Pirates bie

tor

implacable to an enemy. :
Remember that this is Thanksgiving morning,
1927, and that in a few short moments these five

Hn Er a et FA
Folsom, he be- w Satie

ing liberated on

April ist of this
year, after hav-
ing had, for good
behavior, 1 year
and 7 months
deducted from
his six-year

sentence

(Lower right)
Photo of Considine by International Newsreel, taken in Phila-
delphia early in April, of this year. Note his hardy physical
appearance at the age of 48, after having spent more than 22
years in prisons in U. S., England, and British South Africa,
since he was 20 yearsof age. This is explained by the fact that
he rigidly followed out a series of exercises each day in his cell

portant event at Folsom—that is, from the convicts’ point
of view. They get only three really good breakfasts a year:
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and: the Fourth of July. The re-
maining 362 days they are fed badly cooked food of a very
poor grade. And what coffee!—good water spoiled in the
making! No wonder, when they sat down to eggs, pork
sausage, and brown gravy, that they ate like famished wolves!

I well remember that a man named Nelson sat at a table
in front of me—a big giant in his early twenties, He cut an
egg in half, poised it on his fork, with his mouth open to
receive it, hesitated, changed his mind, placed the half an
egg on his plate again, grabbed a large slice of bread, sopped
it in the gravy, and ate it ravenously, He then looked at the
eggs longingly, came to a quick decision, and eggs, sausage
and all disappeared in rapid succession. Leaning back with
a satisfied sigh, he remarked:

men will attempt a prison
break so awful in its conception
that one is almost forced to ad-
mire the cunning forethought
and secrecy with which they
laid their plans, and their
extreme boldness in attempting
to carry them into execution,

For when Tony Brown
marched out in the line that
morning, he had a .4§ automatic
pistol concealed on his person,
and 100 rounds of ammunition,

He also possessed a small
quantity of ‘Crimes Alli,” a
white, murder-inspiring powder
which has been responsible for
some of the most brutal crimes ever committed. In some
mysterious way ‘The Chinaman" (in the vernacular of the
underworld, a drug peddler) had visited Folsom, and these five
desperadoes were charged to the gunnels with the courage-
giving drug, cocaine.

The recreation ground at Folsom is a square dirt yard en-
closed on three sides by cell houses and offices. The side
facing the river is open. A bird's-eye view of the prison would
resemble the capital letter E. What are known as “dead-lines”’
are placed at certain points. High towers are equipped with
machine guns that can at any moment sweep the yard with
deadly accuracy. Tt is suicide to attempt to cross a dead
line without a high sign from an official.

Inside these dead-lines the men do very much as they like.
They have a baseball diamond, handball court. and places
for other games. A couple of unarmed guards are generally

on
hg!

towers
ways ‘
thems
allowa:
meal i:
“Great
buy so
poor gi

I jo
the "S
a mou

To r
a glance
old cel

The
and ar
used a:

RO’

ther
and fif:
way is
high ar
of alm
immed
In a di
door lc
door, \
inches

master
balcony

For a
in the S
Downs,
to the fi

Durin
Preferre.

T ston
the dow:
seemed |
in, and.
three ti:
ferocity,
Noor. |
he wen:


orney, who owned
re found, was “im-
the gruesome dis-

the farm several

Vv next stepped into
‘(6 o'clock Thurs-
‘gin the direction
was able to give a
trom immediately
stion, in an effort
id taken a “fare”
morning. When a
however, it| was
anywhere near
Each driver was
ns between mid-
ithe cab. It was
se would produce
ithorities finally
uld not run the
» take him to the

4 failed to reveal
ng how the girl
mutilated body
nach, had been
organ, with the
eption of the
nach, had col-
ed. The Dela-
-- County
'r’s staff
out that
drainage might
been accom-
wd by an ex-
or, on the
r hand, might
’ been due en-
to a great
of blood in 2
paratively
time,

RTIONS o
e Various of:
were stib-

1 to examina-
for poison,
o trace of any
substance
ound.  How-
this did not
the authori-
» discard the
theory, ow-
the fact that
ber of poi- :
mostly of re-
iscovery, can
Iministered
tleaving any
ithe body of
imal or hu-
being thus

ey were un-
en poisoned,
ince to the
tothe head

y fora

is that
Nn page 1O4)

—_ os Ris

e+ wn she Nad adhe nal F) AG Fs

Fotsoms RED

Infan-
try inside the
walls of Folsom
Penitentiary,
with their guns
trained ready
for instant ac-
tions against
the twelve hun-
dred convicts
penned in the

Show Room

WENTY - TWO
miles from the
beautiful city of
Sacramento,
California, on the
banks of the turbulent
American River, lies
Fulsom State Prison.
The gray granite walls
stand out in) strong
contrast against the
green _ semitropical
vegetation and peace-
ful homesteads  sur-
rounding it. —
Thanksgiving Day,
1927, was a fatal day
for many ‘of the con-
victs, and some of the
officials, at Folsom.

ing Out through the barred windows, as I was in the habit of
inrise in all ite golden glory.

doing, watched the st

es,
Pg Fe, ae

A we IAC TL

Ti ih, PLAT d 1—40- 1S OM

eRe ee REIN, epimers

‘THANKSGIVIN¢

Inside story of America’s

(Left) Governor Young,
of California, who ordered
out the State Militia

The stone quarry at Folsom Prison, where the time-honored occupation is
known, In underworld phraseology, as ‘‘making little ones out of big ones”

I awoke early that morning and, peep-

What a

bloodiest prison riot!
By ROBERT CONSIDINE

soul - inspiring
morning, 1
thought! Birds
sang, and the
very air seemed
to scream
aloud to the
high heavens
in thankful-
ness. Insidethe
prison no
sound could be
heard, except
the footfall of
the night guard
as, likea soldier
on post duty, he -
paced toand fro.
Suddenly
the. deep-toned
note of a bell
rang out, an-
nouncing to the

sleeping con-
victs that
another day

had = dawned,
and that break-
fast would be
served. in
twenty minutes.
With a_ rattle of
keys and clanking of
the big iron doors
leading into the cell
house from the yard,
the day guards en-
tered. They all car-
ried canes fitted with
heavy iron ferrules.
The assistant turnkey,
a tall, florid - faced
man of extremely : gen-
tlemanly appearance, -
unlocked the cells of
several convicts (cell
tenders, these men
were called, or trus-
ties) while the other
guards formed a chain

like a cordon down through the passageways. The dining-room
doors swung open at the far end of the cell house, and im
mediately all the guards began striking their canes on the con-

33

Oet (7.27

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John Murphy

didn’t want to be weak when I had a
chance to dash through the forest all
around.

Hardly more than a few minutes later,
a guard rushed into the compound area
and exclaimed that he had spotted a com-
pany of 50 soldiers marching along a
small, isolated path several hundred
yards away. Upon hearing that, the cap-
tain ordered that I should be bound and
gagged and a guard left with me. The
rest of the men were to accompany him
for a possible ambush.

The brigands quickly gathered them-
selves and headed down the mountain
like goats. They were sure-footed as the
goats, and seemed to have had eyes like
cats; darkness and light, daytime or
night made not the slightest difference
to them. Their hearing, too, was most
acute. This sense they had cultivated to
such a pitch that, like the red Indian,
the slightest rustle of the leaves, the
faintest sound, never escaped their notice.
Men walking miles in the distance they

- could distinguish with the greatest ease.

All that afternoon, I could not hear a
sound. Frankly I was relieved, for a bar-
rage of rifle and shotgun blasts would
have meant ambush for the luckless
soldiers who were presumably looking for
me. After sunset, the men returned to
camp. I guessed from the expressions on
their faces that they, too, were just as
happy not to have to slaughter the sol-
diérs.

FTER a meal of that terribly strong

sausage, onions, and bread, I dozed
off and slept till eight or nine o’clock.
On awaking and looking around, I found
the men preparing for another hike. We
climbed farther into the rugged Sierra
Nevada Mountains. A few hours later I
saw that we were just above the dry bed
of a stream that in winter ran down @
mountainside. We were facing the west,
and at about half-a-mile-off ran a stream
like a delicate little silver serpent, twist-
ing in and out of the bushes and green
banks; on the other side of it was 4
bridle path.

24

Louis Camp

During the day word had come to us
that several bodies of troops were nearby.
My guards freely discussed the merits of
the different sorts of soldiers. I tried to
get as far away from my guardians as
I could, thinking I might make a dash
for it. At one point late that afternoon,
I propped up my straw-hat on a peg so
that the men who were all below me
might think I was sleeping. Then I tried
to edge off and to be ready for a run
when more soldiers came around. But
one guard turned out to be very wary
and constantly kept a watch on me. Later
that evening I discovered to my amaze-
ment that “he” was really a brigandesse,
one of four in the party. She was young
and rather plain looking, but as intelli-
gent and sharp as the leader. She con-
stantly changed her position in order to
keep a better eye on me and my small
moves.

I was dreadfully hungry and found in
my pocket a piece of corn-bread as large
as a walnut. It had been given to me the
night before. Soon, this went. I turned
out all my pockets and discovered to my
joy the little onions I had put away. I
ate them raw and thought it anything but
disgusting. I then found two roots of
plants which tasted like garlic: one satis-
fied me, the flavor being rather strong
(how soon I was to be cured of all dainti-
ness! Before I was with the outlaws the
smell of garlic was nauseous, let alone
the taste).

During that night I had some water to
drink and was obliged to be satisfied un-
til morning. Around midnight I thought
I heard what sounded like church bells
chiming far away in the distance. I asked
my guard, who answered they were from
the cathedral in San Francisco. I didn’t
appreciate his humor and knew at once
that the brigands’ principle was to de-
ceive their captive as much as possible.

The next morning we started again
and crossed over mountains and through
woods for four or five hours till we
reached an open part of a summit of a
mountain covered with grass. It was very
cold, wet, and foggy; in fact, we were

Thomas Reynolds

actually in the clouds.

Days went by. We either camped fora |.

few nights in one spot or we continued |}

to move about. I thought we might be
moving in circles to throw off the troops,
but the geography seemed to be changing
into a less wooded, more rocky mountain
type. Each morning I woke up, I would

be stiff from cold. I could never move \

till I had rubbed my knees for ten min- |

utes. After a short breakfast of cold |

bread, some nuts, now and then a chest-
nut coffee, we would be on the move.
One morning we started down a hill
and then along a path up another moun-
tain. As the sun got up we grew very
thirsty, for we had dared to stop only
half a minute for a drink the hours be-
fore. But there was no water; there were
no streams about. After some time 2
search was made for snow and at last
in a most unlikely place some was found.
It was most delicious. As we walked on,

everyone was heard to comment that it >

had been the most

delicious drink they
had ever tasted. {

‘

Salter D. Worden

Frontier Times |

i June-July, 1976

Mary O‘Cammon

A few days later we came upon what ©
| appeared to be the main body of their

band. There were at least another thirty
of them and with our group they com-
prised a small army. During all this time,
I had been shown the utmost courtesy. I
was never quite as full as I might have
enjoyed, but I was never. ill treated
either. I had gathered from my conver-
sation that most of these men and women
were drifters, not murderers or outlaws
in the true sense.

We met this new group in a lovely
glade surrounded by large pines and
beeches with goats and sheep tethered
nearby; the brigands, lying around clad
in their worn clothing, made a picture I
would loved to have photographed. In-
deed, I suggested it to Kirby, the leader
of my group.

“But, Mr. Bourke,” he explained, “I
do not believe it would be in our best
interest however great your love of the
picturesque might be. Remember that no
one is willingly an outlaw. Experience it
once and you will see how hard a life it

Kate McShane

Peter Early, alias Charles Hamilton

is. Pictures speak more eloquently than
words and if seen by the authorities,
most of these non-criminals in camp will
have to be criminals the rest of their
lives.”

I immediately observed that this larger
band had six women with them attired
like the men with their hair cut short.
At first I took them for boys. But they
were women and all these displayed a

_greater love for jewelry than the mem-

bers of Kirby’s band. They were decked
out in camp and one of them wore no less
than twenty-four gold rings of various
sizes and stones on her hands at the same
moment. Other women wore twenty, six-
teen, ten rings according to their wealth
—that is, depending upon how lucky they
were in looting poor individuals like my-
self. To have one gold chain attached to
a watch was considered paltry and mean.

THE LEADER, a bandit whose name

was Eugino Osegueda, had bunch-
es of watches as thick as an arm
suspended across the breast, an unusual

Willie Thornton

sight if there ever was one. Gorgeous
brooches hung from his waistcoat at each
fastening and little bunches of other
stolen charms were attached on his
jacket. And that jacket was most clever.

Indeed, the entire band wore similar
long jackets of stout brown cloth, the
color of withered leaves with large pock-
ets of a circular shape on the two sides
and others on the breasts outside. A slit
on each side gave entrance to a large
pocket that could hold anything in the
back of the garment. During that first
glimpse of the gang, I watched a man
pull out one after the other a pair of
trousers, two shirts, three or four pounds
of bread, a bit of dirty bacon, cheese,
etc., while searching for something that
was missing. The waistcoats buttoned at
the side, but had gilt buttons down the
centre.

These outlaws were also well armed
with cartridges, balls, gunpowder, knives,
and modern rifles. Placed in their smaller
pockets higher up in the coats were am-
munition and percussion caps. All of


WILLIAM MARSHALL and JUAN VERDUGO, hanged San Diego, Calif., Dece £8, 1851,
also Antonio GARZA, shotat San Diego . 1852,
"From the San Diego Herald, Extra, Dec, 16, 1851s

"The trial of these men was concluded on Friday evening last and on Satufday
morning it was announced. on the plaza that they would be executed at 2 o'clock the same
day. The Fitzgerald Volunteers were ordered to be on duty at that time to conduct the
prisoners to the scaffold, which had been erected a short distance out of town, near
the Catholic burying ground, " : ‘

"The graves were dug and all thepreparations made for carrying out the sen-
tences of the court martial, At about 2 o'clock the volunteers were under arms, and the peop.
people began to gather in considerable numbers about the plaza and court house, A Priest
was with the prisners most bf the forenoon, and accompanied them tothe gallows, where
they received final absolution, They were then informed that a short time wuld be
allowed them if they wished to make any remarks, Marshall was the first to speak,

He said that he was prepared to die, and he hoped that his friends and the people around
him would forgive him, that he trusted in God's mercy, and hoped to be pardoned for his
many transgressions, He still insisted that he was innocent of the crime for which he
was about to die. Thus was about the substance of his remarks, as near as we could
learn from those who stood near the scaffold,

"Verdugo spoke in Spanish, He acknowledged his guilt and admitted the justice
of the sentence passed upon him; said he was ready and willing to yield up his life as a
forfeit for his crime and wickedness, The ropes were then adjusted = the priest approached
them for the last time = said some consoling words to them = repeated a final prayer =
extended thecrucifix, which each kissed several times, when he descended from the wagon,
which immediately moved on, leaving the poor, unfortunate wretches suspended about five feet
from the ground, The fall could not have been more than a foot at the most for their
necks were not dislocated, Marshall struggled considerably, but the Sonorian scarcely
moved a muscle, Both of them were in their shirt sleeves, and neigher of them hoodwinked,
Marshall was quite a small sized man, with regular and rather agreeable features, and a
head, indicating, S#BZHRE phrenologoically, great determination, The other was much
stouter, with a frame apparently of great power. He was a shade darker than the average
of Californians, and had a most brutish countenance, Their arms were pinioned behind,
They vibrated slightly Bwhen the car was driven from under them, but after that not a
convulsive movement could be seen, although they physician said they were not dead for
some three quarters of an hour after, Everything was conducted with the utmost order and
quietness, There was no halting or hesitation on the part of those whose painful duty it
was to take the law into their hands for the protection of the lives and property of the
whole community. .

"The minds of the large assemblage, and especially of the friendly Indians,
deemed to be impressed with becoming awe, It was an awful and melancholy sight to see
those bodies swinging about there in the wind = now exhibiting their countenances directly
frontgng you, and again averting them, with the crows and buzzards hovering overhead,
as if ready to pounce down upon and devour their meal of human flesh - and one which, we
trust in’God, we may never be called upon to witness again, After being suspended for
about ang hour and a half, the bodies were cut down and interred in the Catholic burying
ground,

"Bill Marshall, it will be vorn in mind, denied on the gallows, most emphatically,
that he was guilty of the crime for which he was to suffer death; but in his confession he
acknowledged that he knew the four men were to be murdered, and did not make the
slightest effort to save them, which he might easily have done, His father-in-law, who
was arrested with him, confessed that he knew all about the affair, but that he was too
old to take a part in it. He was discharged,"

NEW YORK TIMES, New York City, N. Ye, 1-16-1852

",eeBy the aid of some friendly Indians, they (the volunteer troops) succeeded in capturing
Bill Marshall, a fugitive English sailor, maintly instrumental in inciting the Indians to
warfare against the whites = a native Californian( Verdugo?) and a hostile Indian, father
in-law of Marshall, These were carried into San Diego and, martial law having been pro-
claimed in the county, they were at once tried for rebellion and treason and would undoubt-
edly be promtly hung. The verdict of the jury has not yes weached oni j no=
cerbéea poten a ie has heretofore disguised himself as oe Indian, among Ww Se he had .
lived and with whom he has great influence, and attacked small parfies of Ampricians, whom

en « ge e e ly 2M

he has relentlessly mrdered and robbed, He was taken by his captors beneath

the gallows erected for his execution, but showed profound indifference to his fate
and’ a recktéss defiance of those who were so much exasperated against him, Antonio
(Garza) the Chief of the hostile tribes about Aguas Caenetey has also been

ge Asie and is now a prisoner in’ Los Angeles.

NEW YORK TIMES, Jan. 17, 1852.

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DIED AT DAWN
Continued from page 29

by Lieutenant Michael Mitchell of the
Homicide Squad and his two assistants,
Harry Husted and George Angler, after
an exhaustive interview with Beatrice
Cash.

Later, Mitchell addressed ‘his aides.
“We've found an abandoned car in the
downtown district. It may well have been
used in the Cash murder. It was ‘stolen
in the early afternoon.

“As you guys know there’s been a recent
epidemic of car stealing and stickups in
this area. The perpetrators are young
hoodlums. It’s better than even money
that one of these punks killed Cash. Round
‘em up.”

A score of youths with criminal records
were dredged up in. the police net. All
of them, however, proved themselves clean
on the Cash killing. All of them, that is,
save one.

His name was Arnold—Martin P. Ar-
nold. Los Angeles wanted him for a half
a dozen holdups, and Mitchell’s men found
him holed up in a cheap hotel on. Mission
Street. Arnold submitted to arrest with-
out argument. At headquarters he freely
admitted that he had staged a series of
holdups throughout California. But he
stoutly denied having murdered Leland
Cash.

All these facts and others were re-
ported dutifully arid at great length by
the newspapers of the state. In Sacra-
mento, the Duchess read the story of
Arnold’s arrest with inordinate interest.

The mob and its brains had taken a
rapid powder from San Francisco imme-
diately after the. death ‘of Leland Cash.

_ Hawkins had stolen a DeSoto with his

customary casual aplomb, and they had
driven to the California capital.

Now the Duchess put down the paper.
She said, “They got a guy called Arnold
in the can for knocking off that Cash.”

Albert ‘Ives beamed. “Good. Then
they won’t be looking for us.”

The Duchess froze him with a glance.
“It’s not right” she said revealing at
least one ethic in her code. ; “It’s not
right he: should take the rap for a job
we pulléd.”

“Leave it alone,” said Mike Simeone.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,
anyway.”

“We can phone Frisco, tell the coppers
Arnold didn’t do it.” °

“Are you nuts?” said Simeone. “You
think the cops’ are going to let a guy go
because of an anonymous telephone call?”

The Duchess considered this and came
up with a bright idea. “All right. Haw-
kins can call them. If they seem doubtful
he can offer to send them a bullet fired
from the gun that killed Cash. That
ought to clear “Arnold.”

“No!” said Bob Sherrard in_his high-
pitched voice. “Don’t do that.. Let me go
back there and confess. I got this thing
on, my conscience. I can’t sleep. I can’t
do anything. I ain’t cut out to be a killer.”

Mike and the Duchess ordered him to
shut up, sharply and profanely. Then, in
spite of the protests of .everyone else,
the Duchess insisted that Hawkins go
down to the drugstore telephone booth
and call the San Francisco police.

Hawkins left. Ives and the nervous
Sherrard went along with him.

N HOUR LATER Ives and Hawkins
returned. Hawkins reported that he

had called San Francisco, that the

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police had seemed s

the Duchess’ instructi
slug from the murder

“All right,” said
rid of that rod.
find. it in our p

“No,” said t
unaware of the fact
mitting suicide, “keep
need it to’ send anoth
dumb flatfeet accuse
guy.”

Simeone argued ab
cisely nowhere at all.
have much moral coc
was utterly inflexible.

“By the way” said
do something about

“What’s wrong?”

“He talks too muc!

too much beer. He ”*

tender about the gu)
in S. F. This mornis
other bartender that
on his conscience.”

“He’s dangerous,”
got to get rid of hin

“Yes,” said the D:
taking the same hig!
garding Sherrard as :
“We'd better put him

Ives, who was rap
linger complex, said.
I'll take him out o
have it with my gur

But the Duchess,
and paradoxical stre
would have none of

“He’s too young |
sides, it’s safer if h
accident. Now let me
swimmer, is he?”

“He can hardly sw

“Good. We'll: dro

They all stared at
“How?”

The Duchess thoi
arrange a picnic fo:
town on the bank of
will go swimming.
to swim across. W
saying you boys wil
gets in trouble
report it as al

It was a bri
the picnickers assem
the Sacramento Rive
ways performed the
fire, made the coffee
in the swift-flowing

After he’d eaten,
bathing trunks and 2
at the edge of the \

“T’ll bet you,” s
“that Bob can’t swin

“I'll bet he can
“Ill bet five dollars.

Sherrard looked :
suddenly ~ bereft of
me? I can’t swim t

“Go ahead. Don’

“Sure,” said Ives.
if you can’t make it

“Sure,” said Simec
bet. It’s easy.”

Now, Robert She
plied did not posse
Ph.D., but he had
to essay swimming :
know how to swim
firm. ;

When they drove
ment that night Sh
But not for long.

The men were a:
room when the Duc
kitchen carrying a
pagne and a single

“This,” she ann
He did all the wor

_

*

IVES—
First recruit in the strange band of super thieves,

“Look,” she said, “things are going to pick up. Mike’s
been casing a terrific job. Bundles of cash. And it’s way off
the beaten track. It’s a cinch to knock off, like stealing a
cripple’s crutch.” : :

She looked to--Simeone for corroboration. He nodded his
head. “You ever hear of the Fat Boy Barbecue Stand?”

“Yeah,” said Ives. “It’s that joint with the big neon sign
out at the ocean beach.”

“Right. It’s run by a guy and his wife, and there’s no other
joint around there. It’s strictly a drive-in business. They
close up early in the morning. I been watching them. And
you know what?”

Ives, who knew very little about anything, did not know

what.
“The cash is all wrapped up. in paper bags. They take it
home in their car every night. There’s no one. around when
they leave, and they do a big business, especially on Saturday.
That’s tomorrow. You boys can take it easy. We ought to
cut up two or three G’s.”

Ives twisted his brow, drove his reluctant, mind into action
and figured that was better than three hundred for him. He
brightened. “Okay,. I'll tell the boys.” And he shuffied out.

Simeone watched him go. “You know,” he observed, “we
ain’t got a very efficient pang.” :

The Duchess sighed. ‘We certainly don’t have the makings
of a criminal empire,” she said. “But give me. time. I’ll whip
the little punks into shape.”

| T WAS an April night, heavy with fog and dampness. A
bell buoy clanged dismally in the harbor. The ocean
pounded dully on the shore.

Pinhe ~ The carewhich Gordon’ Hawkins had stolen that afternoon

of Sty oe ee hal

EXPERT—
Gordon Hawkins specialized in hijacking automobiles.

was parked a half a block to the rear of the Fat Boy Barbecue
Stand. Ives and Sherrard stood tensely between the car and
the restaurant. Hawkins remained in the car, kept its motor
running. It was almost two in the morning. Neither traffic
nor pedestrians were on the street.

The barbecue stand’s big neon sign died out slowly. Ives,
peering through the kitchen window, saw Leland Cash and his
wife, Beatrice, moving about a table. The Cashes were the
operators of the stand.

Mrs. Cash handed her husband a small, well-wrapped paper
parcel. Ives blinked. He nudged Sherrard. “There it is. Just
like Mike said. The dough’s in that package. In a minute
he'll bring it out to his car. ‘When I get the drop on him you
grab the money.”

Sherrard nodded nervously, and at that moment Cash
emerged from the building, walked briskly to his car, parked
some 50 feet behind the stand.

Ives took a deep breath, pulled a .38 froni his hip and
took three paces forward. He dropped his voice half an
octave and said, “This is a stickup. Put up your hands.”

Rather to his astonishment, Cash ignored him. He didn’t
even turn his head. He kept right on walking. Ives said
loudly and with a plaintive note in his voice, ‘“You damned
fool. You want I should shoot you?”

Now Cash looked at him. He blinked uncertainly and thrust
his hand into the pocket of his jacket. Ives, who had been
none too steady at the beginning of this enterprise, lost his

-head completely.

“Don’t pull a gun on me,” he cried shrilly, and his finger
constricted on the trigger. There was sudden, sharp sound.
Cash cried out once and fell to the ground. Ives yelled to
Sharrard, “Grab that package,” and ran for the car. Sherrard

_MRS. CASH
Widow of

snatched t!
on hi
Ha
the ca 6
“My Go
he went fo
“I’m sca
The cops’ll
Hawkins
shoulders.
cared for '
That sei
Sherrard, |
_ They ab
on foot te
kitchen wi
Sherrard t
the haggar:
the matter
“They |
Simeone
unless abs«
“It was
was him o
The Du:
marked ur
an omlet,
from the r
“Well,”
Anyway, t
The Du
contents c


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police had seemed skeptical. Following
the Duchess’ instructions, he had fired a
slug from the murder gun and mailed it.

“All right,” said Simeone, “now get
rid of that rod. We don’t want anyone to
find. it in our possession.”

“No,” said the Duchess firmly, quite
unaware of the fact that she was com-
mitting suicide, “keep it in the car. We'll
need it to send another slug in case those
dumb flatfeet accuse some other innocent
guy.”

Simeone argued about this but got pre-
cisely nowhere at all. The Duchess didn’t
have much moral code, but what she had
was utterly inflexible.

“By the way” said Hawkins “you better
do something about Sherrard.”

“What’s wrong?” ;

“He talks too much. Last night he had
too much beer. He was telling the bar-
tender about the guy he knocked off up
in S. F. This morning he was telling an-
other bartender that he had a murder
on his conscience.”

“He’s dangerous,” said Simeone. “We
got to get rid of him.”

“Yes,” said the Duchess, who was not
taking the same high moral position re-
garding Sherrard as she had with Arnold.
“We'd better put him out of the way.”

Ives, who was rapidly acquiring a Dil-
linger complex, said, “I'll give it to him.
I'll take him out of town and let him
have it with my gun.”

But the Duchess, who possessed a queer
and paradoxical streak of sentimentality,

-— would have none of this.

“He’s too young to die violently. Be-
sides, it’s safer if his death appears an
accident. Now let me see—he’s not a good
swimmer, is he?”

“He can hardly swim at all,” said Ives.

“Good. We'll: drown him.”

They all stared at her. Simeone asked,
“How?” : '

The Duchess thought quickly. “We'll
arrange a picnic for tomorrow. Out of

town on the bank of the river. You boys.

will go swimming. We'll dare Sherrard
to swim across. We'll reassure him by
saying you boys will pull him out if he
gets in trouble. We'll let him drown and
report it as an accident.”

It was a bright afternoon in May when
the picnickers assembled on the bank of
the Sacramento River. Sherrard, who al-
ways performed the minor chores, lit the
fire, made the coffee and cooled the beer
in the swift-flowing water.

After he’d eaten, he put on a pair of
bathing trunks and gingerly waded around
at the edge of the water.

“Tl bet you,” said Hawkins loudly,
“that Bob can’t swim across.”

“Tl bet he can,” said the Duchess.
“I'll bet five dollars. Go ahead, Bob.”

Sherrard looked at her as if she were
suddenly bereft of her senses. ‘“Who,
me? I can’t swim that good.” ‘

“Go ahead. Don’t be a sissy.”

“Sure,” said Ives. “We'll pull you out
if you can’t make it.”

“Sure,” said Simeone. “Win a five dollar
bet. It’s easy.”

Now, Robert Sherrard as has been im-
plied did not possess the mentality of a
Ph.D., but he had just enough sense not
to essay swimming a river when he didn’t
know how to swim. For once he stood
firm. ,

When they drove back to their apart-
ment that night Sherrard was still alive.
But not for long. ‘

The men were assembled in the living
room when the Duchess emerged from the
kitchen carrying a pint bottle of cham-
pagne and a single glass..

“This,” she announced, “is for Bob.
He did all the work at the picnic while

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57


»biles.

30y Barbecue
| the car and
ept its motor
either traffic

slowly. Ives,
Cash and his

hes were the

rapped paper
‘re it is. Just
In a minute

» on him you:

oment Cash
3 car, parked

his hip and
vice half an
hands.”

1. He didn’t
g. Ives said
You damned

ly and thrust
’ ho had been
rise, lost his

is finger
sound,

res yelled to
ar. Sherrard

_MRS. CASH—

Seas

€

ae

i the hold ictim.
Widow of the holdup victim ARSENAL

IN JAIL—
The Duchess managed to smile.

snatched the loot and followed Detective holds wooden gun and knives found in car. bread, two chunks of Italian

on his heels. .
Hawkins jammed his foot down on the accelerator, and
the car raced toward downtown San Francisco.

“My God,” said Ives, “I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but:

he went for a rod.”

“I’m scared,” said Sherrard. “We shouldn’t have done it.
The cops’ll get us for this.” ;

Hawkins, a sterner character than the others, shrugged his
shoulders. “So what? He cared for his dough more than he
cared for his life. He had it coming.”

That sentiment, however, did not reassure the trembling
Sherrard, the worried Ives.

They abandoned the car on Market Street, made their way

on foot to the Duchess’ apartment. They burst into the
kitchen where the Duchess sipped beer with Mike Simeone.

Sherrard tossed the package on the table. Simeone looked at

the haggard countenances of two of his mob and said, “What's
the matter?”

“They had to knock the guy off,” said Hawkins casually.

Simeone frowned. “You dopes. I told you no rough stuff
unless absolutely necessary.”

“It was necessary,” said Ives. “He went for his rod. It
was him or us.” °

The Duchess took the news of the murder calmly. She re-

marked upon the necessity of egg breaking when producing -

an omlet, and went about removing the thick rubber band
from the parcel. before her. :

“Well,” said Mike Simeone, “if you had to, you had to.
Anyway, there ought to be at least three grand there.”

The Duchess ripped the brown paper and scattered the
contents on the table. It comprised six slices of buttered

salami and four frankfurters.

The Duchess glared at her mob. “What the Hell is this?”
she exploded. “A joke?”

But the mob was staring at the greasy food with utter and
complete astonishment. Sherrard broke the silence.

“My God!” he said. “We’ve gone_and killed a guy for a
lousy salami sandwich!”

His voice broke off just this side of hysteria. It was fol-
lowed by his laughter, high, shrill and demented.

Bor SHERRARD, the three-quarter wit, had spoken truly.
They had, indeed, murdered Leland Cash for thirty cents
worth of sandwich material. Mike Simeone had cased the
job with the same superb inefficiency with which Albert Ives
had executed it. ‘ :

As a matter of fact, the Cashes didn’t own the barbecue
stand. Cash acted as manager and his wife as cook for the
actual owner. It was part of their contract that they. be per-
mitted to take leftover food home at the. end of the day.
Simeone had mistaken the parcel of bread and meat for the
day’s receipts. :

Ives, too, had been gravely mistaken. Leland Cash didn’t
carry a gun. He was stone deaf and wore a hearing aid. Fhe
battery was kept in his right-hand coat pocket. /

When Ives had issued his first challenge, Cash simply hadn’t
heard him. Then, when Cash had seen the stranger, he had
thrust his hand in his pocket to switch on the -battery of his
hearing aid. And ten minutes later he had died in an am-
bulance on the way to the Emergency Hospital in Golden
Gate Park.

These facts were easily adduced (Continued on page 56)

29

(,

bh

was singularly appropriate. That was illegitimate, too.

' Her father was an adventurer who had stayed just long

enough in Lexington, Kentucky, to see his daughter
born on October 17, 1889. After that he disappeared

' and hasn’t been heard from since.

Little Leta was farmed out to neighbors, staying with

them until she was about sixteen, and then she ran away

to Omaha. She found work, washing dishes, waiting on
table, and keeping her eye peeled for some likely man

"to support her. She wasn’t the best-looking girl in the
', world, being a bit on the scrawny side, but she had
dancing, mischievous eyes and a knowing smile which

conveyed an intriguing message to men. Those who

“heeded the unspoken invitation were glad—for a while—

they did, because Leta was as amorous as a PUPPY; and

“twice as educated.

None of her men friends made an honest women ‘of
her, which would have been a colossal task, and so Leta
took a job as a maid with the family of an Army officer

and moved‘ with them to the Philippines. During the

next few years, the only manifestation of the larceny in
her soul was her pilfering of men’s affections, and in
1915 she fell in love with a soldier.

She went along with him from one Army post to an-
other without, as usual, making things legal. In time,
she became the mother of twins, one of whom died.
The soldier sent the surviving child to his folks, to be

,/. eared for by them, and then abandoned Leta. Her pride
_ was hurt, but her emotions scarcely touched, and she

34

rebounded into the arms of a man twelve years younger
than she. He was a cavalryman named Spinelli, and
though she alleged that they had been married at the
time, years later he swore that all they had -shared

was illicit.

At any rate, she bore three children, a girl named
} a

t y

THE “DUCHESS” WINS HER

f

Mona and two younger boys. In 1920, they moved to

Detroit, where Spinelli worked as a shoemaker and Leta
went back to her old trade of waitress. Then, Spinelli

allegedly left her, and Leta took to the road and worked

at hash-houses from Michigan to New Mexico.

T one point, Leta ran into Spinelli again. He took -

pity on her and took her in for a while. By this
time, however, she was making frequent and lucrative
contacts with men from the underworld, and so Spinelli
had to duck out once again. He was an honest man and
wanted no truck with the wayward Leta.

The man who caught her fancy the most was a
hard-boiled gunsel named Mike Simeone, who had
served as a bodyguard for racketeers and had operated
with the notorious Purple Gang. Mike had been arrested
about twenty times, and was constantly dodging the
police. Leta moved in with him as his common-law wife.

So far, Leta hadn’t participated in crime beyond a
few shoplifting and petty-thievery jobs, but during the
1930’s she got into trouble. She fingered some men the

- police were looking for, and a couple of nights after-

wards, she was attacked by a pair of gangsters. She was
viciously stabbed and was told to get out of town and
keep her mouth shut. Leta gathered up her brood and
hit the road once again, not stopping until she was in

. San. Francisco.

There she paved the way for her future operations.
By this time Mona was seventeen years old and had
begun to go around with boys her age, whom she some-
times brought home to meet her Ma. One of them was
a cold-eyed, lantern-jawed character of nineteen, named
Gordon Hawkins, who always showed up for his dates
in a new and different car. Leta noticed this, but didn’t
say anything. (Continued on page 56)

hope to escape execution.'A year after her death sentence was passed, she died in San Quentin's s lethal gas chambe

“
PARR PAs 2 TO rene ree .


Sacra-
o their
“I was
thought
hey got

fawkins
iey had
rd from
d’s body
olice in
»w other
3’ crime
nento go
the evi-
sherrard
ad Cash.
es were
of Sher-
irow the
said she

ins.

‘ere

ime
he was

Si in slianiion sateen"

merely an innocent bystander, a visitor |

from Detroit, who had fallen in with bad
company.

But the jury wasn’t impressed. On May
29th, 1940, all four were found guilty of
first-degree murder, with no recommenda-
tion for leniency. Albert Ives, in a second
trial on his insanity plea, was found in-
sane. Superior Judge Ray Coughlin sen-
tenced Juanita Spinelli, Mike Simeone and
Gordon Hawkins to die in the gas chamber
at San Quentin. He committed Ives to
the Mendocino State Hospital as criminally
insane.

Loraine Spinelli, who was not prose-
cuted, was set free, and juvenile author-
ities found homes for the two unfortunate
little boys.

The appeals of Simeone and Hawkins
were more or less perfunctory, and were
perfunctorily denied.

The case of the Duchess, the first woman
sentenced to die in California’s legal his-
tory, was a different matter. Hier death
sentence aroused a storm of sentimental
protest, to which she contributed from her
death cell by giving out half a dozen dif-
ferent versions of her life and crimes.

In a last-minute appeal to Governor Cul-
bert L. Olson, the Duchess claimed she had
been framed. She offered to name the real
leaders of the murder mob, if given more
time. But as her several previous state-
ments of similar nature had been exploded,
the governor saw no merit in her plea.
However, he granted her a 30-day reprieve.

In her death cell at the women’s prison,
Tehachapi, in November, 1941, before being
taken to San Quentin for the final curtain,
the Duchess received a touching visit from
Gypsy, who had married an Oregon log-
ging man and borne him a baby. The
Duchess tenderly kissed her first grand-
child.

On November 2l1st, 1941, the day after
Thanksgiving, Juanita Spinelli was driven
from Tehachapi to San Quentin and made
ready for the gas chamber. “I hope you're
satisfied,” she told reporters in her last
interview. “My blood will burn holes in
their bodies and before six months they
will be punished!”

But just before she went to the little
green room, she calmed down and told her
audience, “I have asked God to forgive
them.”

Assuming a dignity that had been lack-
ing in her earlier career, she walked un-
assisted to the death chair. At her own
request, she was executed without the
customary blindfold. She became the first
woman ever executed by law in California,
and the first woman in the United States
to die by lethal gas.

When her body was later examined by
the prison doctor, pictures of her three
children were found taped over her heart.

But a few days later Governor Olson
made public a letter the Duchess had.left

to be read after her death. “The children
are not mine,” she wrote. “God gave me
Loraine from a trash can in an alley when
- she was a few weeks old. The oldest boy
is my grandson, and the younger is ‘ny
niece’s baby.” D

On November 28th, one week after the
Duchess was executed, Mike Simeone and
Gordon Hawkins stolidly went to their
deaths in a double execution in the same
San Quentin gas‘chamber.

One-eyed Albert Ives’ reprieve from

death didn’t avail him much. Released from };

the state hospital in 1949 as no longer dan-
gerous and incapable of further cure, he
was found dead of a heart attack in Yuba
City, California, in 1951. m

Gypsy’s marriage didn’t last very long.
Changing her name and dropping from the
public eye, she js the sole survivor of
Duchess Spinelli’s unholy crime school. Un-
doubtedly she’d like to forget everything

she ever learned there. oo¢

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79


ih eit aninitar cceeeae ae

ine the: Series: of*

be TIME WOMEN CRIMINALS.

- “STICK WITH ME KIDS,” she told fies band

“and you'll wear diamonds. Then she put them
_. through her crime school, taught them rob-
bing, terror, killing—and turned. them loose

a
ted California Hovenber 2l and November 2?

191. )

r 7 TREAT T, - ATT 7 INE eo
HAWKINS, SIMONE AND SPIN] SLI, d

her, and follow her up to, and into, San Quentin’ Ss gas chamber,
December, 1958,

@ Whatever Leta wanted, Leta got, including a list of
aliases, ranging from plain Leta Spinelli to Evelita
Juanita, with Eithel Leta Juanita Spinelli thrown in for
good measure. Her reasons for acquiring these extra
monickers resulted from getting caught with some of the
things she had wanted and got.

*

The name by which she was known to her colleagues,
however, was not one of her own choosing. They called
her The Duchess, because of her phoney airs and pre- °'
tended respectability, and the police and the press got
to know her by that name, too.

In the light of her future career, the Duchess’s birth

2


ah

88

at Los Angeles for burglary in 1923 and
escaped. The same year he was sent
to prison in Texas for robbery with fire-
arms and escaped again. In 1924 he was
sentenced to San Quentin for burglary
and grand larceny in Los Angeles, and
was shortly transferred as a “repeater”
to Folsom.

Somehow, Roy E. Stokes had made a
prison friend of Stewart. Warden Smith
tells me that Stewart apparently felt under
obligation to Stokes for some favor done
him while they were working together in
the prison stone quarry.

He had promised to take Stokes with
him if he ever devised an “out” from
Folsom.

So Stewart revealed to the youthful
bandit and killer that he had a loaded
automatic hidden within the prison.

Then _ came the holocaust of ‘Thanks-
giving Day, November 24th, 1927!

As prison-made daggers rose and fell in
the “old cell block”; as the automatic
barked; as twelve hundred convicts were
bottled up in the penitentiary theater
building by those bent on a general jail
delivery, the names of Stewart and Stokes
were identified with the slaughter.

Wounded guards crawling out to safety
named these two and four others as the
ringleaders of the mutiny, a desperate sex-
tette determined to cut and shoot their
way to freedom.

The other four were Tony Brown, a
San Francisco robber; Eugene Crosby,
alias Gleason, an Oakland hold-up man;
Walter Burke, a Sacramento theater
bandit; and James H. Gregg, a burglar,
robber and forger who was serving a life
term for the murder of a constable fol-
lowing his escape from a prison camp in
1924.

There is no need here to picture how
Assistant Turnkey Ray Singleton was
hacked to death; how six other prison
officials were left dead or wounded; how

eleven convicts were shot to death and
nearly a score of other inmates injured.

The daring six held out for nearly
twenty-four hours in what was unquestion-
ably the bloodiest riot in modern Cali-
fornia prison annals.

ND after they barricaded themselves

in the so-called theater building,
twelve hundred of their fellow prisoners,
gathered there to witness a holiday movie
show, were held by force in the cramped
little room of slaughter while bullets of
the besieging forces ripped through the
windows at them.

Troops of the National Guard formed a
skirmish line in front of the building.
Machine guns covered the door. State
traffic officers, deputy-sheriffs and police
details from adioining cities lay in line
beside the militiamen.

From where I lay I could see Barney

True Detective Mysteries

Huse, the warden’s secretary, topple over
as Tony Brown winged him from a win-
dow. A police chief to my left began to
pump bullets into_ the building with a
service revolver. National Guard officers
say they withheld fire, but shooting be-
came general at the right end of the
skirmish line, where the peace officers had
taken position. A deputy-sheriff to my
right boasted later about the number of
bullets he had poured out of an auto-
matic rifle.

But the six men at whom the attacking
groups were presumably shooting had
taken refuge in a little passageway behind
pi theater building. They were perfectly
safe.

The victims of that fusillade were con-
victs who had made no plans for escape,
men assembled to see a moving picture
show—twelve hundred of them cooped up
like cattle and kept there by the six who
wanted freedom.

That story has been told often and re-
quires no elaboration here. I think it was
epitomized by an inscription we found on
the blackboard when finally we entered
the devastated theater and prison school-
room where eleven convicts had been
slain.

On the blackboard before the riot the
prison teacher had written:

“The first Thanksgiving Day in America
was in 1622.”

And as death came in, a convict had
added this: “What is there left to be
thankful for?”

URRENDERING to a force which

was equipped with every weapon of
modern warfare, including a tank, which
was then en route to the prison to batter
down the barricaded doors, the so-called
Bloody Six fell back on the one resource
of a recidivist in trouble—silence. They re-
fused to talk; they refused to admit any-
thing. And such is the peculiar code of
inmates of a penitentiary for repeaters
that investigators found it almost impossi-
ble to locate convict witnesses who would
testify for the prosecution in a murder
trial.

The six riot leaders were brought to
trial in the Superior Court of Sacramento
County for the murder of Ray Singleton,
the assistant turnkey who had been beat-
en, stabbed and hacked to death.

Direct testimony for the prosecution was
difficult to roduce. The guards who found
Singleton dying had not seen the attack.
The few convicts who took the stand for
the State contributed no more than they
had to. And other convicts were on hand
to say all they could for the defense.

Day after day, as the trial dragged on,
the Bloody Six sat there staring at the
witnesses in surly defiance. All save
Stewart. His face was expressionless; his
watery eyes looked vacantly at the wall in

AN INFAMOUS QUINTETTE!

front of him for hours. His every move
was like that of a man in a trance.

And then one day he arose and ad-
dressed the Court.

“IT wish to make a voluntary state-
ment,” he said.

I think nothing more astounding could
have happened from the standpoint of
Stewart’s five fellow-defendants. Sheer
amazement was the first emotion on their
faces. Here was a man, facing the noose
as they did—the man who furnished the
gun—deliberately offering to talk!

But Stewart was not only offering to
talk—and: that without promise of im-
munity—he was offering to tell all he
knew!

He said that he smuggled the automatic
pistol and ammunition into Folsom to be
used as a “persuader” in an escape which
he believed could be contrived “without
bloodshed.” He intended to force a guard
to take him outside the prison walls
with a working party. There was no plan
for knifeplay or rioting.

But Stewart made the mistake, he said,
of reposing his confidence in Stokes—
little Eddie Stokes, who went to a re-
formatory for murder when he was only
fifteen! And Eddie told Tony Brown and
Tony told the rest.

They put prison-made knives. against
Stewart’s body and invited him to tum
over his automatic or take the conse-
quences. As a gesture of “good faith,”
they let him keep the ammunition. And
then on Thanksgiving Day they took
away the ammunition, too.

This, then, was the problem put to
Stewart when his five associates were
ready to strike their blow for freedom on
November 24th: Should he go along with
a scheme which his intelligence told him
was almost certainly doomed to failure,
or should he give up all hope of the
liberty for which he had worked and
plotted for months? Stewart told the
jury what his confederates proposed—a

break out of the cell-block to the adjoin-
ing administration building where they
would seize the Warden and force him to
deliver them outside the walls under
threat of death.

O Stewart, the one “smart” convict in

the group, this plan of action was pre-
posterous. No guard would pass the War-
den with six convicts under any circum-
stances. It was the wildest dream of
“stir-crazy” felons. Even if they reached
Warden Smith’s office—which was highly
improbable—the plan was unworkable.

But the five had handed down an ukase
to Stewart. He could go along and take
his chances, or go back to his cell, shut
his mouth and let them reap the benefits
of his careful preparations.

Stewart spared himself nothing in his
recital, and as for his fellow defendants,

' x
AS

Five members of Folsom’s “Bloody Six” responsible for the Thanksgiving Day Riot of 1927. They were hanged
in January of 1930, Stewart being the only one to escape the death penalty. Reading from left to right: Eugene
Crosby; “Tony”? Brown, gunman; Walter Burke, theater bandit; James Gregg, thrice convicted killer; and Roy

(“Eddie”) Stokes, a murderer at fifteen

he
w

inside -
vividly,
sented
sciously
ings of
courage
I say
mean b
the mut
least juy
one ren
went alc
scruples
—and h
sire for
So he
was hac
jury wh
The j
fornia’s
around
and reti
was fow
But ti
The jur
recomm
the defe
In Ca
degree n
by unan
onment.
In thi
upon am
broadly
save Ste
terminat:
life. Th
But D
lister of
place th
second ti
one of t]
of the \
deserved

TS
Bal
shot dow
Tt. was
as the lo:
turned tc
and once
was redou
haps thar
institutior
There is
such matt
weighing
squeals o}
_ _And wh:
all hands ;
was up.
When ¢!
Sacrament
wolf was |}
oners. He
room alon
away fron
placed abc
some of th
his erstwhi
Again S:
though un:
sel was th
Stewart w
He acted ;
prompted }
his legal r:
cast; societ
the fratern:
had been °
for twelve
hatred.
Again at *
arose—this
his volunta
testified to
Baker, the

ery move

ce.
, and ad-
ry state-

ing could
ipoint of
s. Sheer
1 on their
the noose
ished the
\k!

fering to
e of im-
ll all he

automatic
som to be
ape which
. “without
re a guard
son walls
is no plan

e, he said, *

Stokes—
to a re-
was only
Brown and

es against
m to turn
the conse-
od faith,”
tion. And
they took

m nyt to

were

m on

with
e told him
to failure,
pe of the
orked and
t told the
sroposed—a
the adjoin-
vhere they
yree him to
‘alls under

> convict in
on was pre-
ss the War-

iy circum- .

dream. of
hey reached
was highly
vorkable.
vn an ukase
ng and take
is cell, shut
the benefits

thing in his
defendants,

he headed them for conviction as no other
witness could possibly have done.

; And further than that, he painted the
inside story of a prison delivery plot as
vividly, I think, as it has ever been pre-
sented to a jury. Consciously or uncon-
sciously, his narrative revealed the work-
ings of twisted brains, the unreasoning
courage of subnormal criminals.

I say he spared himself nothing. ~ I
mean by that he made his own action in
the mutiny understandable without in the
least justifying it. Rather than lose his
one remaining chance to escape, Stewart
went along with the others. Whatever his
scruples against bloodshed may have been
—and he claimed to have some—his de-
sire for an “out” from Folsom was greater.

So he was there when Ray Singleton
was hacked to pieces. And he told the
jury who struck the blows!

The jury took the case—one of Cali-
fornia’s most sensational, since it centered
around the possibility of six hangings—
and returned a verdict of guilty. Stewart
was found guilty along with the rest.

But that was not the important thing.
The jury, for some undetermined reason,
recommended life imprisonment for all
the defendants!

In California the punishment for first
degree murder is hanging unless the jury
by unanimous vote agrees on life impris-
onment.

In this case, the punishment decided
upon amounted to no punishment at. all,
broadly speaking. All of the riot leaders,
save Stewart, already were serving inde-
terminate sentences with a maximum of
life. They laughed at the verdict.

But District Attorney Neil R. McAl-
lister of Sacramento County decided to
place them on trial for their lives a
second time. He held that the riot was
one of the bloodiest in the entire history
of the West and that those responsible
deserved to mount the scaffold.

4 ee six prisoners were then charged
with the killing of George “Red”
Baker, a fellow prisoner who had been
shot down in the course of the uprising.

Tt was then that Stewart began his life
as the lone wolf of Folsom. He was re-
turned to the prison under close guard,
and once inside the walls the vigilance
was redoubled. For in Folsom, more per-
haps than in any other American penal
institution, the squealer is a marked man.
There is no reasoning in Folsom about
such matters, no nice discriminations, no
weighing of moral issues. A convict
squeals or he doesn’t.

And when he does, “his name is up” and
all hands are against him. Stewart’s name
was up.

When the Bloody Six were returned to
Sacramento for the second trial, the lone
wolf was kept away from the other pris-
oners. He was brought into the court-
room alone. The others were seated far
away from him. Armed guards were
placed about the courtroom, and always
some of them stood between Stewart and
his erstwhile confederates.

Again Stewart sat staring for hours as
though under some spell. Special coun-
sel was there to defend the other five.
Stewart was left out of consideration.
He acted as his own attorney. The court
prompted him, when necessary, to protect
his legal rights. He was doubly an out-
cast; society had marked him as a foe and
the fraternity of lawlessness, in which he
had been “a member in good standing”
for twelve years, had voted him out in
hatred.

Again at the climax of the trial Stewart
arose—this time deliberately—and offered
his voluntary statement. No one had
testified to the actual shooting of “Red”
Baker, the convict trusty. Stewart had

True Detective Mysteries

seen the crime—knew the whole story.

Slowly, with cold calculation, the lone
wolf described it. Tony Brown was
shooting at the prison turnkey. He hit
him in the leg. Brown shot again and
the bullet struck down “Red” Baker.
Stewart was at Tony’s shoulder when the
shots were fired. He was positive.

Even then prosecutors doubted the out-
come. One jury had voted life imprison-
ment for the stabbing of a prison official.
Would another jury prescribe harsher
punishment for the shooting of a convict
repeater, probably killed accidentally?
Then, too, Stewart’s testimony might be
doubted. Even law-abiding citizens feel
none too kindly toward a stool-pigeon.

Though Stewart is an odd psychological
study, nevertheless his testimony was con-
sidered. To this day, I dare say, no one
knows precisely what actuated him. If
hope to save himself was solely at the
bottom of it, he could have protected
himself more adequately in his story.
This he did not do. To most, I think,
his motive was vengeance—an overwhelm-
ing impulse to destroy these five felons
even if he destroyed himself in accom-
plishing it.

Tony Brown and his four pals had
double-crossed Stewart. And now he was
double-crossing them. His dreams of
liberty, his scheming, his hours of patient
preparations, his letters in invisible nk—
all these had Jed only to a prison shambles,
a charge of murder and the prospect, in
prison jargon, of being “topped.” There is
probably little to choose between the
underworld double-crosser and the squeal-
er. Both are subject to underworld pun-
ishment. And this was the lone wolf’s
revenge,

He took it as surely and completely as
ever a criminal did, with five men on the
spot. When his testimony was over, the
men were as good as dead. There could
be no doubt in the minds of the jurors.
Not only the ghost of “Red” Baker but
the ghosts of twelve other men who laid
down their lives in that red holiday of
1927 walked with the twelve jurors to
their deliberations.

The verdict was guilty, without recom-
mendations. That meant hanging. Tony
Brown stood up first to hear his fate.
Then Eddie Stokes. Then the others.

Stewart was on the other side _of the
courtroom, a guard beside him. He was
last. His fellow defendants craned_ their
necks to watch him. They expected that
the squealer would receive leniency.
They sneered as he stood up.

AN the jury’s vote was that Stewart
should hang! They ruled that he
should die with the men he was sending
to the gallows.

In the silence of the courtroom, where
six summons to death were being is-
sued that night, it was an unpleasant
thing to hear the blood-cry of Stewart’s

enemies; it amounted to that. They:

broke into shouts as they realized that the
lone wolf was .being sentenced to the
noose. It was difficult to silence them.
Their laughter was primitive and brutal.
They longed for Stewart’s death as he
had longed for theirs.

As the five condemned men left the
court house to return to prison custody,
they cursed Stewart and’ strained at. their
shackles to reach him. The noose was
not good enough for him. They wanted
him themselves. va

At Folsom, Warden Court Smith did
not place the Jone wolf in the condemned
cells of murderers’ row. For protection of
the squealer, lest the gallows should lose
its prey, he gave Stewart a place in the
disciplinary cells, well away, from those of
the five who had to die with him.

89

These five appealed their convictions to
the California Supreme Court. The lone
wolf wanted to do the same but he had
no attorney. So he attempted to make
his own crude appeal and filed it.

And there again fate intervened. The
Supreme Court could find no merit in the
appeals of Brown and his fellow murder-
ers. It affirmed the verdict against all
five. But the very crudity of Stewart’s
appeal was effective. He had failed to
comply with the usual legal requirements
and his case was not ready to be con-
sidered with the others.

So the five were resentenced to be
hanged, and the lone wolf’s case remained
unsettled on the court appeal files.

Maddened by this situation, as_ their
days of life grew fewer, Brown and Walter
Burke, the theater bandit, tried to take
justice into their own hands!

From murderers’ row in Folsom, care-
fully guarded as it is, this desperate pair
fought their way. They battled through
guards and milling prisoners to the prison
hospital. They were looking for knives.
They wanted to get Stewart. Their score
with him, apparently, had to be settled,
and it mattered little whether they died in
this attempt or later on the scaffold.

Guards overpowered them in the hos-
pital, but Tony Brown went down fight-
ing, hurling knives to the end. And
Burke’s arm was broken before he sur-
rendered. It had scarcely mended, in
fact, when he went to the gallows.

Tony Brown was the first to be hanged,
The jury’s verdict, after all, had been
based primarily on testimony that he
shot “Red” Baker. So when the verdict
was returned, Tony asked the court to let
him die first.

The execution took place on the morn-
ing of January 3rd, 19380, more than two
years after the riot. The defense had
labored hard and long to save these necks.

There are facilities in the death house
at Folsom to hang two men. So Brown
and little Eddie Stokes died together on
January 3rd.

URKE, the theater bandit, and Gregg,

the burglar, bandit and thrice-con-
victed murderer, mounted the scaffold on
January 10th.

A week later, January 17th, 1930, Eugene
Crosby was executed.

That left Stewart alone in murderers’
row. And the very fact that the other
five had paid the supreme penalty re-
doubled Folsom’s hatred for the lone
wolf, There was an unsettled score that
would remain on the books as long as
Stewart lived.

Months dragged on, nearly a year, and
finally the Attorney-General of California
intervened to bring the appeal of the
lone wolf to a hearing and decision, In
his cell, Stewart tried to prepare a brief.
The. strain began to: tell on him. One
day he was willing to make any sacrifice
to live. The next he claimed he was ready
to die.

He wrote a letter-to the court: on one
occasion; in fact, begged that red tape
be thrown aside and the day of his pun-
ishment hastened. :

‘Almost twelve months after Stewart’s
five foes had dropped _through the gallows
trap the Supreme Court of California
handed down its decision. -

The court denied Stewart’s appeal, but
the decision held out a ray of hope. The
judges said that in the event the lone
wolf desired to offer a petition for execu-
tive clemency, such application would be
considered by the court. a

There is a peculiar constitutional pro-
vision in California with respect to par-
dons and commutations of sentence. The
Governor is not empowered to extend such

clemency to a man twice convicted of


90

felony except with the approval of a ma-
jority of the seven justices of the Supreme
Court.

So while prison authorities continued to
guard Stewart from the wrath of other
felons, he drew up his petition to the
Governor and the Supreme Court. It
was a formal document, as required by
law, but at the bttom of the official form
was a space labeled “remarks.”

In that place Stewart, bitterly remem-
bering the escape he had planned, perhaps,
and the death and misery that came from
his planning, wrote three words: “Victim
of circumstances.”

Those “circumstances” the Supreme
Court reviewed, this time not considering
the matter as a criminal case on appeal,
with legal rules to be regarded, but as a
human problem which presented a wide
range. of perplexities. Legally, the man,
as participant in a plot which involved
murder, was guilty of murder. Morally,
how much was Fate to blame and how
much the lone wolf of Folsom?

Four of the seven Supreme Court jus-
tices voted that Stewart should live.

“Perhaps,” they said, “there may be left
in him a modicum of honor.”

This majority approval of clemency was

True Detective Mysteries

forwarded to California’s new Governor—
James Rolph, Jr., Mayor of San Francisco
for nearly two decades, a man who came
into the governor’s chair proclaiming that
prison inmates should be given fair hear-
ings and a square deal.

The lone wolf was under sentence to be
hanged on March 13th, 1931. Governor
Rolph commuted the sentence to life im-
prisonment on March 11th.:

Stewart had been under the shadow of
the gallows for thirty-nine months and
eleven days, actually living in the con-
demned row for most of that time.

T was well understood that the Gover-

nor’s act of clemency did not contem-
plate that the lone wolf should ever be
free again. Even Stewart knew that prison
authorities would never grant his parole.

The commutation saved Stewart from
immediate death and sentenced him to a
life which must henceforth be lived in
constant fear of death. Behind the. backs
of Folsom guards, prison-made knives
were being sharpened for the squealer.
And that is not altogether a figurative
statement.

For on March 18th, only seven days
after Governor Rolph’s proclamation of

| My Most Fantastic Criminal

as residents discussed the dual abductions.

In the DeJute home lights gleamed all
night. Surrounded by relatives, the father
waited until dawn for word of his boy.

At the police station, too, there was
activity throughout the night. Chief
Nicholas directed a round-up and grilling
of suspicious characters. Abandoned
shacks and questionable resorts were

- searched. All roads were patrolled. At

dawn a weary father closed his eyes for
a few hours’ troubled sleep. Police officers
who had worked continuously for nearly
twenty-four hours went home to rest a
little. And as the tempo of the hunt
descended from high speed to lower gear,
so fell hope of the parents, police, and
_— district for the early finding of the
oy.

HE net result of the twenty-four hours

of the search was not encouraging. The
kidnappers’ car had disappeared without
leaving a trace. Descriptions of the ab-
ductors were not sufficiently specific to
suggest any suspicious characters or
criminals known to police. And our most
promising source of a clue, a development
we had expected that night and for which
we had made elaborate preparations failed

us.

The development upon which we had
staked practically all our hopes of solving
the mystery was an expected attempt on
the part of the kidnappers to communi-
cate with the parents. Through elimina-
tion of most of the other motives which
had been considered, Chief Nicholas and
I had reached the conclusion that the boy
had been abducted for extortion purposes.
Acting on this assumption, we had pre-
pared to intercept a message from the
kidnappers. We reasoned that the most
likely means the kidnappers would em-
ploy to convey a message to the parents
would be by telephone, telegraph, mail,
hurling a missile from a passing automo-
bile, or sending an accomplice, who, un-
suspected, might call at the home and in
a moment when he was unobserved, leave
a note.

Through the telephone company officials,
we had arranged to trace all calls made
to the DeJute home. Similar arrange-
ments were made to trace, insofar as

(Continued from page 35)

possible, the sender of a telegram or letter
to the DeJutes.

Throughout the night, hidden in drive-
ways near the home, were cruiser cars. with
police ready at a moment’s notice to
pursue any suspicious automobile. And in
homes near by were stationed guards who
scrutinized every passerby.

In. view of these precautions and our
certainty that the boy had been kid-
napped for extortion purposes, failure of
the kidnappers to make an effort to com-
municate with the boy’s parents not only
shattered our hopes but also introduced
into the case a new factor which added
considerably to our fears for the boy’s
safety.

I recall discussing this angle of the case
with Deputy-Sheriff Larry O’Rourke.

“The Lindbergh case is making it tough
for us,” he remarked significantly.

I nodded.

“Here’s the way I figure it,” theorized
O’Rourke. “They grabbed the boy. They
got away some place. Then they got the
newspapers and discovered that the Lind-
bergh baby had been kidnapped, too.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That was a coincidence
which must have hit them right between
the eyes.”

“Sure! They hadn’t figured on all this
hullabaloo. They found out they’d picked
a bad time for their job and got scared

“Let’s analyze it this way,” I suggested.
“Suppose the Lindbergh baby hadn’t been
kidnapped. Just the DeJute boy. What
then? There wouldn’t have been half the
excitement. We wouldn’t have stopped
and searched three hundred cars today. In
the evening they would have telephoned
from a pay station telephone out of town,
made arrangements to get ransom and
return the boy,, and everything would
have been hunky dory. What worries me,
is what will they do with the boy if this
excitement keeps up?”

“Well, Sheriff,” O’Rourke remarked op-
timistically, “remember, the kidnappers
know their chances of getting any ran-
som are gone if they kill the boy.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and the chief menace
to their safety is the possibility of the boy
being seen and recognized.”

I permitted myself to become gloomy

clemency, the lone wolf was transferred
from Folsom to California’s other prison,
San Quentin.

Warden Smith of Folsom explained it
in one brief sentence: “We wanted no
more murders here.”

But Stewart is not safe even in San
Quentin. His record has traveled to the
inmates of that penitentiary by convict
“erapevine.”

“The warden at San Quentin has given
Stewart duties at night when the men are
in their cells,’ Governor Rolph announced
not long ago. “He must be kept away
from the other prisoners.”

Many criminals, real and fictional, have
carried the same sobriquet; but Stewart
is condemned to carry it forever. Behind
the bars he must live unnaturally, with-
out friends or associates, for the rest of
his “natural” life.

And he must live cautiously or his days
are over. None knows better than he
that convict vengeance is not. regulated
by a Governor’s act of clemency.

Life to Albert M. Stewart has now be-
come what it was to his fellow-convict
who wrote on the blackboard that bloody
afternoon of Thanksgiving Day, 1927:

“What is there left to be thankful for?”

Case

only while I was discussing the case with
O’Rourke. In fact, a few hours later
when I visited the DeJute home, I forced
myself to grin cheerfully and confidently
predicted the boy’s early return.

But Larry O’Rourke and I knew that
the passing of each hour cut down the
probability of the boy’s safe return to
his parents. For one fact stood out clear-
ly: That was the comparative advantage
the Lindbergh kidnappers held over the
DeJute kidnappers. Obviously, a twenty-
month-old baby can not talk, cry for
help, escape, reason, identify itself, or
testify in court afterwards. But an eleven-
year-old boy might be presumed to be
capable of all of these actions.

After talking with O’Rourke, I found
myself reviewing past crimes in Niles,
secking in them some detail which might
lead to a clue in the kidnapping. Sud-
denly I stiffened to intentness when I re-
called that a year before there had oc-
curred in Niles one of those abductions
which never get into police records.

The abduction, as I recalled it, involved
the kidnapping of a woman. Although
no report had been made of her disappear-
ance, somehow, the story had leaked out
that she had been abducted by two men,
held captive for a week, and returned to
her home only after her husband had
agreed with the gangsters to pay a cer-
tain amount as ransom.

LL this I remembered somewhat
vaguely. While at that time I at-
tributed no particular importance to it, I
made a mental note to acquaint myself in
more detail with the facts of the case.
After twenty-four hours had _ passed
without word of the boy, intensity of
the search for the kidnappers and Jimmie
DeJute reached a high pitch. Airplane
operators in the district voluntarily as-
signed their ablest pilots to assist the
search by air. All day the planes droned
low above the ground, their pilots eagerly
scanning the territory below. The tele-
phone calls that flooded the offices of
police in Warren, Niles, and Youngstown,
with well intentioned ‘but spurious tips
of the kidnappears, were myriad.
Mrs. Woodward was taken to Youngs-
town where at the Rogues’ Gallery estab-

lished by }
was showr
she identi:
It was
telephoned
the subjec
“Remem
a year ag
whether or
woman.”
“T don't
“She won’
“Do you
she was k:
“When I
explained,
tioned her
insisted sh¢
refused to
The Ch;
vestigate t!
time, the
lapsed dee}
anxiety, t!
growing e\
It was s}
I received
My info:
I had assis
he had be
field Refor:
had exhibit
for me infc
tained othe
.* “Did you
ing kidnap;
He bent
“About a
“That’s iv
Youngstowr
mentioned
names imm
mentioned
years befor
Trumbull C
town. Befc
speakeasy i
The other
I knew hit
dealt in illi
slavery. He
victed for 1
but throug!
succeeded ir
charges.
“For the
formant cor
working tog
somewhere
town. May!
where they
know where
where they
I’ve heard -
may be.”

AS the yo
& ment ro
coincided wi:
in with othe
lief from th
the immedia
the abductic
have travele
observed.
As Niles
the distance
napping to ;
Youngstown
miles, a dis
could traver:
Furthermo
of the gasc
had seen the
about the D.
before the ki:
the discover
the tan cou;
before in Nil:
proof that ¢
was not far ;


BROWN,, Anthony and STOKES,, Roy, hanged San Quentin (Sacramento CountyO

dn January 3, 1930. Me se e
[Bvéke, ELEPSOY f CRESS fe L OADVBO

SUN,. Galveston,, Texas, 1-4-1930 (8:1)

ree dein canon

4 ‘beetle at Folsom prison for par-
ticipation in the, fatal riot there
on Thanksgiving day, 1927, while

Louis Lazarus, convicted Oakland

ian year | bank robber, wernt to his doom at
x Fe San Quentin penitentiary. |
pay te Brown and Stokes, two of six

| convicts sen ine F to death as ring
leaders e Folsom outbreak
pe Anths ay ee and Roy which Coat ‘11 lives, exhibited an

ae Executed at F olsom | gir of braggadoc'o up to the last
*’ Prison for Participation in! and died unflinchingly. They re-

| Fatal Riot;:' Bank Robber! fused the (ministrations of the
ae As Other One | prison chaplain.
Fe Be . Lazaraus also walked up the
scaffold resigned to his fate.
gan FRANCISCO, Jan. 3.—().| Through Rabbi Rudolph Coffee of
—Three men died on the gallows | Oakland he sent word to his moth-
n! California today, Anthony|er that-he went to his death smil-
Brown and Roy E. Stokes being ing.
. Lazarus, George Costello and
William O’Brien were sentenced io
death for slaying William McFar-
lin, a teller, in an attempted rob-
bery of the ‘Seventh street branch
of the Oakland bank in 1928. Cos-
tello was hanged December 13 anil
'O’Brien is waiting decision on an
‘| appeal.

Before he died, Lazarus biol fuil
‘blame for the killing and _= sail
| O'Brien “should not hang."
| Brown and Stokes were convict-
ied and sentenced to hang on 4/|
fpecific charge of murdering Con-
vict George Baker during the
prison mutiny.

Brown entered the death cham- |
ber smoking a cigaret. He eyed
the crowd of witnesses with a half.
smile of disdain. His last words *%o

the warden were “raake it snappy."
* a atin

if


station holdups in San Francisco. For
days the teletypes from Los Angeles had
hummed as the manhunt spread for the
fugitive robber. He had been traced to
the San Francisco area when the descrip-
tion of a bandit who had held up a garage
in Pinole was checked with that of the
Los Angeles gunman. Shortly after the
Pinole robbery, a car stolen from the
garage there was found wrecked and
abandoned on a San Francisco water-
front street.

Despite his many admissions, Quinn
steadfastly denied the Pinole robbery and
auto wreck. Even more firmly, he denied
the murder of Leland Cash.

“T wasn’t in San Francisco that night,”
he insisted. ‘‘I was way down in the San
Joaquin valley, in a little town.”

The skeptical homicide inspectors
grilled Quinn for hours but he continued
to insist that he knew nothing of the
murder. The report on the ballistic test
of his gun proved that the death slug did
not match the weapon, but this was not
conclusive evidence of his innocence. If
he were a competent hoodlum, the officers
reasoned, he would have gotten rid of
the murder gun long before his arrest.

They continued to question him, charg-
ing him meanwhile with the holdups he
had admitted.

ND then, on the day after Quinn’s
arrest, Lieut. James Malloy of the
robbery detail received a strange tele-
phone call. A man’s voice asked for In-
spector Butz. When told that Butz was
not in, the caller finally consented to talk
to Malloy, head of the detail.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been
reading about that fellow, Quinn, that
you’ve been questioning on the Cash
murder. Well, I can tell you he’s innocent.
We did it, and if you don’t believe me
I’ll mail you a bullet-from the gun!”

The line clicked dead. Lieut. Malloy

The. case man, the trigger man and the car thief, left to right, all had

quickly traced’ the call to a postoffice
booth, but by the time a radio car reached
the point or origin the anonymous caller
had disappeared.

“The whole set-up is fantastic,” Chief
Dullea said when he heard Malloy’s re-
port, “but I’m inclined to take that call
seriously. Quinn’s a stranger in town
and we know he’s always worked alone.
It’s hardly likely he has any friends who
would make a call like that.”

Malloy agreed, but his expression re-
vealed his bewilderment. ‘No, it isn’t
likely,” he said, “but it’s evendéss likely
that the real killers would stick their
necks out so far either. What kind of
creatures are they, anyway ?”

Chief Dullea did not pretend to know
the answer to that riddle, but the repeated
checkups on Quinn’s story had finally
convinced him that the sullen youth really
was innocent of any connection with the
Cash murder. He decided to hold Quinn
for trial on the robbery charges only.

The homicide men were now back
where they had started. The wave of
robberies had ceased with Quinn’s arrest
but the Cash case remained on the books,
unsolved and apparently unsolvable.

To the San Francisco police, the situa-
tion was a challenge. From other parts
of the state came flashes that suspects
had been picked up; bandits who carried
.38 revolvers. Lieut. Mitchell’s men went
to Sacramento, to Glendale, to half a
dozen other points to question these sus-
pects, but found nothing to connect them
with the Cash case. State Ballistic Ex-
pert Roger Greene at Sacramento exam-
ined scores of .38 guns picked up in the
course of arrests for armed robberies, but
found none to match the bullet that had
killed the barbecue manager.

Then the lull which had followed the
Quinn capture became a new wave of

-holdups and auto thefts. Most of the

stolen cars, it developed, were used in the
holdups and later abandoned.

specialized jobs in the Duchess murder mob. She believed in natural
division of labor, but division of spoils was her own prerogative.

38

“There may be more than one gang
operating,” Chief Dullea told his men,
“but we can be almost sure that one of
them is responsible for Cash’s death.
That shooting came right in the midst of
a wave like this one. I want descriptions
of every stolen car sent out the minute
the theft is reported and I want the prowl
cars to keep rolling. Sooner or later we
should spot one before the mob ditches it.”

cy THE night of April 15, a week
after the murder of Cash, there came
another alarm from the ocean beach sec-
tion that sent the inspectors of the night
force dashing again through the fog-
swept park, the picture of what they had
found at the barbecue stand still vivid in
their memories.

They found no corpse this time, but an
angry and excited man who had just been
the victim of an attempted holdup. He
was William L. Silver, proprietor of a
sandwich shop ori 46th avenue, not far
from the scene of the Cash murder,

Just before midnight, he said, He had
noted a black car without license plates
cruising back and forth in front of his
place, its occupants watching him through
the window. Recalling the Cash murder,
he had called the police and a radio car
had been dispatched from the station.
Before it arrived, the mysterious cruising
car had disappeared.

The police watched for half an hour,
he said, and then were called away on an
emergency summons. As soon as they
had left, a swarthy young man entered the
restaurant with a revolver in his hand.

“This is a holdup,” he rasped.

Instead of raising his hands, Silver
courageously grappled with the bandit
and succeeded in hanging onto his gun-
wrist until the young man, cursing
desperately, tore away and fled out the
door.

“T ran out after him,” Silver told the


mming trunks, was
eport Bridge. . His
.ccidental drowning.
n the investigation.

) other course on which
ture of this strange case

e authorities had feared,
sorge Engler, brother of
iomicide detail and drove
“heir call on the widow—
spital without uttering a
of pertinent information.
leaf and had used a me-

at,’ Husted said with his
g this assignment. “The
‘ause he didn’t hear the

m what Mrs. Cash said,
sod from the barbecue to
at have thought the pack-
y place is a money-making
natural for a stickup man
ith the profits instead of

it we've left out one thing.
t take the parcels of food.
h a frown. “It does. look
s way. The holdup man
id ordered Cash to put up
un because of his deafness,
et, just as he did a dozen
his ear phone. The bandit
shot him.”

1 see that happening, all
, was startled. He probably
ying to take anything.” He
e. “But he’d have to be an
asily. If we could only be
h’s past—let’s talk to some

ought with action, but the
riends believed he had any

crime scene likewise proved
its of the few nearby houses
iey had been asleep at the
10 information.

-k to Police Chief Charles
e their findings by sending
hen Lieut. Michael Mitchell

DARING

Cae

and several aides finished their checkup, the case still stood un-
changed. The only absolute quantity in it was the element of
complete mystery.

Even the .22 cartridge case was eliminated from consideration
when the autopsy report came in. The lethal slug was a .38, and
although it bore distinctive rifling marks and was carefully
preserved by the ballistics department, it was not accompanied
by a shell.

“Tt’s our only evidence,” Lieut. Mitchell pointed out to Engler,
“unless we get a confession. That bullet may send the killer
to the death chamber.”

URDER bulletins were dispatched to police of all western
states, asking them to inform Chief Dullea at once of the
arrest of any holdup man carrying a .38 revolver. Such a gun
is a little heavier than those ordinarily used by criminals. Not as
easily concealed in the pocket ds a slightly smaller caliber, a .38
might betray the man who carried it.

Lieut. Mitchell and Chief Dullea scanned the records of
recent releases from San Quentin and Folsom. More than a
dozen possible suspects were picked up and questioned, but all
had alibis for the time of the slaying.

“T’ve a hunch it’s the work of a professional,” Mitchell told
the homicide inspectors. “For days, I’ve noticed.a wave of
crime gradually building up, and it’s finally culminated in
murder. There’ve been an abnormal number of car thefts and a
series of petty. holdups. We may find that the Cash murder
solution is the answer to a number of these cases.”

Dullea ordered the heads of the robbery and automobile details
to cooperate fully with the homicide men and be on the alert for
suspects in the beach slaying. Newspapers aided with publicity.

Two nights after the murder, the campaign brought results.

- A pretty blond cigaret girl in a,Market street cabaret, inspired

by police appeals to the public for cboperation, eagerly came

‘forward with a tip.

While making her rounds in the crowded Bohemian cafe on
upper Market street, the blond cigaret girl had been repeatedly
annoyed by the attentions of a sullen-looking, dark-haired youth,
alone at a table, who kept trying to draw her into conversation.
He was slightly drunk.

Finally she sat down with him for a moment. Leering, he
opened his coat and showed her the butt of a revolver.

“Tt’s loaded, sure,” he told the startled girl. “I’m going to
kill someone with it!”

She regained her composure with an effort and forced a smile.

DETECTIVE

Two youthful members of the
Duchess’ mob point out to High-
way Patrol Investigator Harry
Hendricks, left, and Sacramento
Police Detective Percy Emerine,
right, both wearing jackets, the
spot where Sherrard was found, a
close-up of which is shown below.

“You don’t want to kill anybody,” she said with gentle re-
proach. “That’s not nice. Why don’t you let me take care of
the gun for you?”

The youth was disappointed at her reaction. “You mean.
you’re not afraid of it?”

“Why, of course not. Here, let me take it. I’ll keep it for
you. You might get in trouble if someone saw you with it.”

After considerable coaxing, the youth surrendered the gun.
The girl called the police from a phone outside, but by the time
they arrived the youth had left.

“Here’s the gun,” the resourceful girl told the officers, calmly
taking it from under the stacks of cigarets on her tray, “I’ve
been carrying it around among the customers while waiting
for you to show up.”

It was a .38 revolver, fully loaded.

“A thirty-eight revolver!” exclaimed Chief Dullea, when
told of the incident. ‘That fits in with the fact that we couldn't
find a shell on the murder scene. A revolver wouldn’t eject a
shell. Put that gun under ballistic test immediately and find the
young punk who carried it. You’ve got a description. Now

“hurry.”

UICKLY the detectives spread out to canvass bars and night
spots while impressions of the pleasure-bent youth might

still be fresh in the minds of bartenders and others who had seen
him. Inspectors Fred Butz and George O’Leary struck the

- first lead in an amazingly short time. “Sure,” bar patrons told

them upon hearing fhe youth described. “That’s Bob Quinn.
He’s all right. He’s a showcard writer.”

Robert S. Quinn, 25 years old, was found in bed in his room,
a short distance from the tavern where he had been identified.
Sharp questioning, however, quickly dispelled any impression
that he was “all right.”

Stripped of his boastful air, Quinn emerged as a one-man
crime wave. He admitted seven Long Beach taxicab holdups,
nine Los Angeles gas station and cab robberies, and seven gas

37

See tals


She half turned toward the door as there came a sudden
muffled sound, like an automobile backfiring. She saw no lights
of any car. Possibly, she thought, the wind had blown some-
one’s sign down.

“Bea!” it was a thin, eerie cry from the darkness. ‘“‘Come
quick! I’m shot!”

Mrs. Cash dropped her apron and rushed to the door. Staring
for a moment through the heavy glass, she gasped at what she
saw and then ran out into the fog.

At 12:50 a. m., her phone call of alarm reached the bureau
of inspectors in San Francisco’s Hall of Justice and minutes
later Officers Joe Engler and James Gallagher of the night force
were on their way to the scene.

hy TEN they brought their car to a stop after a fast drive
through the fog-shrouded park, they found men from the
Park station already on the scene. Leland Cash, still breathing,
had been removed to Park Emergency hospital in an ambulance
but interns who had made the first examination realized that
the wounded man probably would be dead upon arrival.

Mrs. Cash was unable to furnish more than a few meager
facts. She knew only that she had heard a sound like a car
backfiring, followed by her husband’s cry for help. She had
found him lying beside their car, shot through the abdomen.

Because of the fog, which reduced visibility to less than 20
feet, she had seen no one. Neither had she heard the sound
of running footsteps or an automobile motor starting. The get-
away of the killer, or killers, had been as ghostly as the scene
in which the crime was committed.

Moreover, Mrs. Cash knew of no enemies in her husband’s
life and was forced to conclude that he had been shot by a
holdup man. Yet the holdup man, if he were that, had stolen
nothing. The night’s receipts were still in the safe and the
victim’s pgckets had not been rifled.

Gallagher whistled in dismay when the story was finished.
“Nothing makes sense,” he told his partner. ‘“Let’s search the
ground around here.”

Gallagher sent the victim’s wife home. in! a squad car and
then began an examination of the surroundings. Shortly after-
ward he held his flashlight beam steadily on a spot near where
the wounded man had lain, reached down and picked up a .22
cartridge case.

“Not much of a caliber for a holdup man to use,” commented
Engler, staring curiously,at the tiny piece of metal. “It may
not have anything to do with the case. A lot of kids shoot
rifles around here.” ‘

Failing to discover anything else of significance on the scene,

the officers reported back to headquarters. Soon afterward a.

radio call went out to all radio cars and patrolmen to be on
the watch for suspicious characters. The officers realized the

36

The body of Sherrard, clothed in swimming, trunks, was
found lying in shallow water near Freeport Bridge. His
killers hoped officers would think it an accidental drowning.
Inspector George Engler, left, aided in the investigation.

futility of the gesture, but they had no other course on which
to proceed. The most conspicuous feature of this strange case
was the absence of concrete facts.

Morning came without a lead, as the authorities had feared,
and Inspectors Harry Husted and George Engler, brother of
the night officer, left the office of the homicide detail and drove
to the Cash residence on Oak street. Their call on the widow—
Cash had died on his way to the hospital without uttering a
word—produced only one more piece of pertinent information.
The slain man had been extremely deaf and had used a me-
chanical hearing aid.

“Maybe it was a holdup man, at that,’”’ Husted said with his
first feeling of assurance since taking this assignment. “The
heist man may have killed him because he didn’t hear the
command to raise his hands.”

Engler nodded thoughtfully. “From what Mrs. Cash said,
he was carrying small packages of food from the barbecue to
the car. Someone watching him might have thought the pack-
ages contained currency. That Fat Boy place is a money-making
spot in the evening and it would be natural for a stickup man
to suppose Cash was going home with the profits instead of
leaving them in the safe.”

“Sounds good,” Husted agreed, ‘but we’ve left out one thing.
The boys who did the shooting didn’t take the parcels of food.
If they thought money was in them—”

“T know,” Engler interrupted with a frown. “It does look
strange, but let’s reconstruct it this way. The holdup man
came around behind the Cash car and ordered Cash to put up
his hands. Cash, unable to hear him because of his deafness,
automatically reached into his pocket, just as he did a dozen
times a day, to turn on the battery of his ear phone. The bandit
thought he was going for a gun and shot him.”

FyUSi EP nodded again. “I can see that happening, all
right,” he said.. “The heist man was startled. He probably
shot Cash and bolted without even trying to take anything.” He
paused, seeing the flaw in the picture. “But he’d have to be an
odd sort of gunman to scare that easily. If we could only be
sure there wasn’t something in Cash’s past—let’s talk to some
of his friends and make sure.”

The two officers followed the thought with action, but the
results were nil. None of Cash’s friends believed he had any
serious enemies,

A thorough daylight search of the crime scene likewise proved
a failure, and questioning of residents of the few nearby houses
merely established the fact that they had been dsleep at the
time of the slaying and could offer no information.

Husted and Engler reported back to Police Chief Charles
Dullea, who decided to substantiate their findings by sending
another man over their trail. But when Lieut. Michael Mitchell

DARING

and sever
changed.
complete
Even tl
when the
although
preserved
by a shell
“It’s our
“unless w
to the dea

URD

state
arrest of a
is a little he
easily conc
might bet:
Lieut. }
recent rele
dozen poss
had alibis
‘T’ve a |
the homic:
crime gra
murder. T
series of p
solution is
Dullea o:
to cooperat
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Two nig
A pretty bl
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torward wi
While m
upper Marl
annoyed by
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He was slig
Finally s
opened his
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kill someon:
She regai

DETECTI’


than one gang
a told his men,
sure that one of
r Cash’s death.
it in the midst of
vant descriptions
t out the minute
I want the prowl
oner or later we
e mob ditches it.”

\pril 15, a week
Cash, there came
ocean beach sec-
stors of the night
hrough the fog-
of what they had
tand still vivid in

- this time, but an
who had just been
pted holdup. He
-, proprietor of a
1 avenue, not far
Sash murder,

-, he said, He had
out license plates
h in front of his
ching him through
the Cash murder,
e and a radio car
from the station.
iysterious cruising

for half an hour,
called away on an
As soon as they
ng man entered the
olver in his hand.
he rasped.
his hands, Silver
d with the bandit
zing onto his gun-
ing man, cursing
y and fled out the

mn,” Silver told the

inspectors breathlessly. “He jumped into

a‘car, the same car I had seen before.
There was another man in the driver’s
seat, and in the rear was a woman wear-
ing a white turban. They drove away
and disappeared in the fog.”

Lieut. Mitchell and Chief Dullea were
almost certain that the three who had
tried to rob Silver were the same. ones
responsible for the Leland Cash murder.
The method was the same as that which
the officers believed the Cash slayers had
employed. One man had gone to do the
job while others waited in the getaway
car. The young gunman was nervous and
had allowed his victim to get the better
of him, just as the man who held up.Cash

had jerked his nervous trigger finger

when the unarmed barbecue man reached
for his electric ear. And the two jobs
were attempted at the same time of night,
in the same deserted section near the
beach. The gang had apparently figured
shrewdly that the police would not be ex-
pecting them to strike again in the same
neighborhood so soon after they had com-
mitted a murder.

A city-wide alarm sent prowl cars on
their way to form a network which should
show results by morning.

“Even if we are wrong about this par-
ticular gang,” Chief Dullea reasoned, “we
now know that just about all of the stick-
ups pulled lately have been done in stolen
cars. Our, bulletins on those cars
are all over the state and they’re
bound to click. Sooner or later
every one of these mobs—assuming
there is more than .one—will be
picked up riding in a hot car. And

Although the grim search for the
Duchess and her murderous en-
tourage ended in Sacramento, the
state capitol building of which
appears below, Chief of Police
Charles Dullea, right, of San
Francisco set the stage for the
capture of the murderous quartet.

in one of those cars we'll find the killers
of Leland Cash.”

Although Chief Dullea did not know it
when he spoke, his preocctipation with
stolen cars already had borne strange
fruit in the high Sierras, 150 miles from
San Francisco. \

On Sunday afternoon, April 14, a
breathless young man with staring eyes
and unruly hair had approached Capt.
Joseph Blake of the state highway patrol,
at the patrol’s station on the road near
Grass Valley. :

“J want to report some people driving
a stolen car,” the youth told the officer.
“They’re driving east along the Lincoln
highway. They ought to be near Truckee
by this time.” ;

Capt. Blake narrowed his eyes as he
drew out his “hot sheet” of stolen cars.
“Describe it,” he said quietly.

“It’s a black DeSoto sedan, license
58A930. It was stolen in San Francisco.
There’s a woman and two men in it.”

Blake checked the number on his sheet
purely as a matter of form. Suddenly he
grew tense. His men had been on the
watch for that black DeSoto ever since
April 9, the day after Leland Cash had
been murdered in San Francisco. What
icine of game was this queer youth play-
ing!

Capt. Blake dispatched a teletype
message to Truckee and other points,

putting his officers on the alert. Then he
turned to the wild-eyed youth.

“How do you know the car was stolen,
and what do you know about the people
in it?” he demanded.

“Why, you see, they’re sort of friends
of mine. A woman named Spinelli and a
man named Hawkins and another man
named Simeone. I left San Francisco
with them, and I learned from their talk
on the way that they were criminals.
They were bragging about stealing the
car. And then I heard them talking about
rubbing me out!

“T was scared, so when we were near
Colfax I told them I wanted to get out
and have a drink. I went into a bar and
out the other door. After they’d driven
away when they were tired of waiting for
me, I hitched a ride and came here to re-
port the stolen car to you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Albert Ives. I’m from San Francisco.
I was just traveling along with them,
looking for work.”

Crt BLAKE made a thorough ap-
‘praisal of his informant. As he
studied him more closely, he saw the rea-
son for the youth’s peculiar stare. His
left eye apparently was sightless and the
lid drooped, giving him a decidedly sin-
ister expression.

The youth was edging toward the door.
Capt. Blake halted him sharply.

“Wait a minute. I’m not through with
you yet. I think I’ll take you down to
Truckee with me, and we'll see if they’ve
picked them up.”

The officer prodded the reluctant Ives
into his white official coupe and headed
for Truckee, high up in the mountains
near Lake Tahoe and the Nevada line.

At Truckee, Capt. Blake found that
Highway Patrolman Arthur Barrett had
just halted the black DeSoto.

Ives faltered as he approached the car
in company with the officer.

In the DeSoto were two men and a
woman who gave their names as Mike
Simeone, 32; Gordon Hawkins, 21; and
Mrs. Juanita Spinelli, 50.

Mrs. Spinelli, a thin-faced brunette
with lustrous eyes, was almost in tears.

“Vou can’t arrest us,” she cried in
distress. “We didn’t know this was a
stolen car. Mr. Simeone and I thought
it belonged to Mr. Hawkins. We met
him in San Francisco. We were going
East and he and his friend Ives offered
to take us along. We didn’t know there
was anything wrong, but we’vé been
suspicious ever since Ives disappeared.”

Simeone, a dapper little man who ap-
peared as distressed as was Mrs. Spinelli,
hastened to confirm her story.

Hawkins, the driver of the DeSoto,
glared at Ives who quickly looked away.
It was obvious that Hawkins, a low-
browed, powerful youth with gimlet eyes,
would like nothing better than to take
revenge on Ives for the predicament he
was in. Finally Hawkins turned to the
officers, jerked his thumb in the direction
of Simeone and Mrs. Spinelli and
growled:

[Continued on page 59]

39


men were restless. I knew they were
ready to go into action, About eleven
o’clock Lves said: :

“Okay, Duchess, get out the equip-
ment. We’re working tonight.”

As I reluctantly. handed Al the gun
and blackjacks, I begged him not to
resort to shooting. “Please,” I im-
plored, “don’t turn into killers. It’s bad
enough as it is.”

Al shrugged and turned away. He
quickly gave Bobbie and Gordon each
a blackjack while he pocketed the gun
and the remaining sap. In a moment
they were gone.

Mike, whose duties were over,
lounged on the bed, his ear tuned to
the radio. An hour later I heard what
we were waiting for.

“Calling all cars... Calling all cars,”
the radio droned. “Holdup at Lincoln
and Great Highway ... Victim killed
... Gunman believed to have escaped
in automobile. Be on the lookout...
take no chances .. .”

The rest of the words blurred. So
they were killers now! And I was their
associate. Was it a mistake to believe
there was no turning back? Should I
leave now without Lorraine? Could I?

[VES was the first to return. When I
heard him coming down the hallway,

I expected to see him flustered, ner- .

vous and frightened. He entered the
room, coolly, without a word. Then he
took the gun from his pocket and
handed it to me.

“Take care of this, Duchess,” he
commanded. “That’s as hot as a fire-
cracker. Every cop in town is looking
for that by now.”

Following his instructions, I wiped
the barrel, reloaded the gun with fresh
cartridges, replacing the empty shell.
“T’ll get rid of that shell,” Al said,
grabbing the empty casing. Then, after
I had hidden the death gun in my suit-
case, Al said:

“How about some chow? I’m hun-
gry.” There was an air of satisfaction
in his attitude.

While he was eating ravenously, he
told Mike what had occurred.

“Had to plug the nut,” he said un-
emotionally. “He got tough.”

The three, I gathered, had driven
out to the North Beach section of San
Francisco, and after passing The Fat
Boy Barbeque several times, waiting
for it to close, parked the car nearly a
block away.

Gordon had waited in the car while
Al and Bobbie approached the build-
ing from the rear. Just as the two ar-
rived at the door, a man walked out
directly into their path. Al didn’t
hesitate. He jabbed the gun in the
startled man’s stomach.

“Stead of putting his hands up,”
Ives said between mouthfuls, “he gives
me a shove. I stepped back and blazed
away.” a

The next day the newspapers carried
headlines about the shooting. From the
accounts, I learned the murdered man
was Leland Cash, the owner of the
place. The stories said the police
had no clews to the identities of the
killer or killers,

At noon that day Mike came to me
with the word he was leaving with me
and the children. My heart leaped. I
assumed the holdup slaying had
brought him to his senses and that
he had had enough.

“We're going to Sacramento,” he

said, “so pack up and let’s get going.”

I did what he said quickly, over-
joyed that we were to leave the others,
Maybe we could escape Al. With Mike,
I was ready to try.

We hitch-hiked to the city, about 100
miles northeast of San Francisco, and
on our arrival Mike took us to the
Arlton Hotel at Ninth and J Streets.
I was surprised that Mike went straight
to that hotel, but I trusted him. ‘

At eight o’clock that evening I knew
the reason. Al, Bobbie and Gordon
walked into our room!

They had arranged the rendezvous
secretly. When Mike greeted them
heartily, I knew the worst had hap-
pened.

The next day, Friday, Al sent Bob-
bie out on a trivial errand. When he
was gone, Al called us together.

“That loudmouth, Bobbie,” he said,
“told some girl in the city about the
shooting. All he did last night was
talk about—talk about it. He’s a nui-
sance anyway.”

In a moment he came to the point.

“We'll have to get rid of him,” he
said, assuming the sinister attitude
that made him repulsive. “And when
I said we got to get rid of him—that’s
what I mean. Think it over.”

That night, hiding their secret in-
tentions, the three men went out “on
business.” They returned empty-
handed, though, and from listening to
their talks I learned they had at-
tempted two robberies.

Each time, the intended victims had
seen them approaching and the men
didn’t 'go through with it.

Saturday was a beautiful, sunny day..

Bobbie, who loved’ to swim, started
hinting, in his childish way, that he’d
like to go on a picnic. Al quickly had
an idea. :

“Sure,” he said.. “Let’s go down to
the river. There’s lots of things we
can do there.” His one good eye spar-
kled strangely.

Soon we were on a sandy beach of
the Sacramento River, and many mo-
ments had not passed before Bobbie
had stripped down to his swimming
trunks and was splashing in the swol-
len, muddy river. d

When the boy was out of hearing
distance, there began the most sick-
ening conversation I’ve ever heard.
The men started talking about how
they were going to eliminate Bobbie.
They talked as casually as though they
were discussing a football play.

“If we could get the punk to try to
swim that river,” Al said, “he’d get
caught in the current and our worries
would be over.”

Al got up and hollered toward Bob-
bie, “Let’s see you swim across the
river. I’ll bet you you can’t.”

When Bobbie balked, the others
chimed in, They dared, coaxed, ca-
joled. But Bobbie remained firm.

“What do you want me to do—
drown?”

I knew the unspoken answer and
shuddered. The others sat down, dis-
couraged.

“I could shoot him, if I had the gun,”
Al offered.

Gordon chimed in with: “I could run
over him with the car and make it
look like a hit-run accident.” I gasped.

Al and Mike were unimpressed with
Gordon’s plan. It was then I joined
the deathly conversation. It: might

sound horrible, but I was moved to
talk only because of my sympathy for
Bobbie, the unfortunate boy who didn’t
know better than to talk about a kill-

ing.

I had decided they were going to kill
him, regardless of my protests. For
better or worse I was now chained to
this band of killers. I couldn’t go to
the police now, but I could make his
inevitable death painless. Mike had
told me he brought a bottle of knock-
out drops with him from Detroit. With
those, I suggested, they could make
Bobbie unconscious—then there would
be no suffering, no blood, no violence.

And so it was agreed.

Back in the hotel that evening, there
was a tense awareness of what was to
come as the party got under way.
There was the music, laughter, liquor
—and then the fatal hour.

In minutes it was over ... Bobbie
had swallowed the doped drink...
he was off on his last ride. And I was
the one who had suggested how he was
to be slain.

Al and Gordon returned about noon
Sunday—without Bobbie. Their mis-
sion had been carried out!

“Pack up,” Al ordered. “We’re mov-
ing on. Think we’ll head east. After
last night it’ll be hot for us here, 'too.”
Resignedly, I obeyed. I knew better
than to resist. I was with killers who
had proved they wouldn’t hesitate to
kill again—even their pals.

Toward midafternoon, the seven of
us piled in one stolen car and headed
for Reno, Nevada. It was during the
ride I picked up bits of information
which told me what they had done to
Bobbie.

T= conversation took a_ peculiar
twist as our automobile began
climbing into the Sierra Nevada
range which separates California and
Nevada.

It became apparent that Al and
Gordon were growing to hate and fear
each other. Each, of course, knew the
other was living testimony to the
crime they had committed. Although
I was asleep at the time, later I learned
Gordon had said:

“I know. a way to. kill a guy you
don’t want around any more. Just stick
a white-hot pin in his ear-drum and
it’s all over. No fight—no nothing.”

As we pulled into a service station
near Colfax for water for the auto-
mobile, the veiled threats of Gordon
must have had their effect on Albert.
He was, strangely enough, frightened.

When the car stopped, Al jumped to
the ground and rushed into a small
restaurant near by. Mystified, we fol-
lowed him in. But the young man
who seemed suddenly to have lost his
mind, dashed from another door as
we entered.

“What’s the matter with that fel-
low?” the waitress asked. “He acts as
if he’s insane.”

We didn’t answer. Gordon, Mike and
I ran outside and saw Al scrambling
rr into some brush alongside the
road.

Try as they did, Gordon and Mike
could not make Al return to the car.
He remained hidden in the brush and
refused to answer their calls. We got
back into the automobile and started
on—on to the end of our trail.

Things happened quickly. Soon there
were highway patrolmen and deputy

sheriffs. At length we all were re-
turned to Sacramento. *

Later I learned that Al had flagged
down a highway patrolman as soon as
we had driven away. He told them
we were in a stolen automobile and
that the men had attempted some rob-
beries in Sacramento.

Probably he had hoped his acts
would land us in prison for the minor
charges. Undoubtedly he had figured
none of us would talk about the mur-
ders, fearing the consequences of the
law. An informer always wins ‘“‘con-
sideration” and must have con-
cluded that after he spent a few short
months in a county jail he would be
free of his associates forever.

If those were Al’s plans, they were
to go unfulfilled. For within two days
after we had been returned to Sacra-
mento the police had obtained state-
ments from all of us and, in addition,
had dragged the body of Bobbie from
the river. ‘

I was the first to make a full state-
ment to Detective Sergeant P. C.
Gamble and Deputy District Attorney
J. Francis O’Shea. After I had told
them my part in the activities of the
short-lived mob, my heart was light-
ened. At last my conscience was clear.

Swiftly the wheels of justice turned.
Al, Gordon, Mike and I were indicted
for the murder of Bobbie by the Sacra-
mento County Grand Jury. Charges
against Lorraine, my daughter, were
dismissed for lack of evidence. The
San Francisco authorities, Sergeant
Gamble told me, had placed “holds” on
Albert and Gordon for future possible
oes for the slaying of Leland

ash.

At our arraignment before Superior
Judge Raymond T. Coughlin all of us
pleaded not guilty. On the advice of
my attorney, Ralph Lui, whom the
court appointed, I entered an addi-
tional plea of not guilty by reason of
insanity. Al and Gordon did likewise.

That is my story. The police and
the newspapers have called me “the
brains” of this gang. The newspapers
referred to us as “The Duchess and
Her Mob.” I think I know why I
have been blamed as the leader of
these killers.

First, the name, Duchess, so inno-
cently acquired, suggested authority.
The others continually have referred
to me as The Duchess, leading the
police to assume the name is synony-
mous with “boss.” Secondly, I readily
admitted suggesting to the others that
Bobbie—if he had to be killed—should
be given knockout drops first. That
admission led: the police to assume I
was cold-blooded. But my suggestion
was not prompted by cold-bloodedness.
Mercy was my true and only motive.

No matter what the police or news-
papers say, I’ve told here the true
story of my association with those five
men—the story I’ll tell the jury at my
trial.

I hope that jury will understand that
any of the mistakes made were made-
because I was a coward when the lives
of my children were threatened by a
maniacal killer.

Wouldn’t any mother have done the
same?

The names David Martin and Louis
DeSala are fictitious for obvious rea-
sons.

"The Cards, They Say Love—and Death" (Continued from Page 15)

Carl, you see, was lying there. His
body wasn’t out in the store proper;
it was in the kitchen, slumped beside
a chair pulled up to a table.

Burns wondered if he had been back
there when the holdup men came in.
There was no evidence to support a
possibility that he’d been in the store
when they came in, had been shot
there by the cash register, and had
staggered back to the kitchen to die.

No, that was out—all the blood was
in the kitchen.

After a few minutes there, Lieuten-
ant Burns decided Carl probably had
been in the back room when the guys
came in. It looked like he’d sort of

48

forgotten his store and had been think-
ing about his favorite hobby: Fishing.

At least, there were a lot of corks
scattered around the table with fish-
hooks stuck into them. Some sinkers, a
spool of line, different-size floats—it
looked like George Carl had been plan-
ning a fishing-trip.

“A Hell of a time to die,” muttered
Officer Dennis Kehoe.

Burns nodded. He pointed to the
table. :

“Somebody was going fishing with
Carl,” he said. “Or at least, somebody
was ‘here this evening.”

Kehoe saw two empty glasses and

several empty home-brew bottles. One

of the bottles was still half-full of beer.

Burns asked Pelleck if he’d seen the
two friends leave, but Pelleck said he
hadn’t. He explained he’d come out on
his porch only a few minutes before
the two heistmen ran out.

Burns decided things might move a
lot faster if they knew exactly whom
they were looking for, so he sent Pel-
leck downtown to the Bureau of Iden-
tification at the Detective Bureau to go
through the mug files.

Lieutenant Burns got down to the
station early the next morning and
walked into Captain John Ptacek’s
office pretty chipper. ,

The Captain growled, “No dice.”

“What do you mean?”

Ptacek said he meant that Pelleck
hadn’t been able to pick out the hood-
lums.

The Captain told Burns, “I think you
better get over to Carl’s house and
talk to his wife—I mean his widow.
She ought to be calmer this morning.
There’s just an off chance that we’re
on the wrong track.”

“How?”

“Suppose it wasn’t out and out rob-
bery. Suppose somebody had a grudge
against Carl and wanted to make it
look like a stickup.” He raised his eye-
brows questioningly. “Well?”

“T’]1 do it,’ Burns said. “Say—

z

AD—3


Lita WV KAN ho $

eae mer ae some:

\

night, April 8,.1940, San Fran-

pu
. ax ae : f A ,
| Tt) SPINK) a anhvyr Ne oh « aes BR ee"
OLMUING AUN wi LIN dodo 3 Amo ti V i ® VA O71 EER

Mrs. Juanita Spinelli — the
Duchess of Death,

~* A man lay writhing. Bending over

A" THE fog-shrouded hour of mid- 3. on the ground in the night shadows.

cisco Detectives John Engler -

and James Gallagher, of the night
homicide crew, received a call of a
shooting at an Ocean Beach barbecue
Stand. -

No details were given. It might
have been a minor fracas, as far as
the officers knew, as they sped to the
oceanward corner of Golden Gate
park. But had they known it, they

were speeding to a victim of a blood=,
thirsty gang, one of the most thor?:

oughly organized gangs ever to op-
erate in California; a mob that fitted
perfectly the slogan, “Crime, Inc.”
On the deserted corner of Lincoln
Way and LaPlaya, darkened by the
misty overcast rolling in from the sea,
Engler and Gallagher saw the Fat Boy
Barbecue stand. A solitary light
burned inside. As the officers leaped
from their car, they saw two figures

20

him, hysterical in her grief,was a
woman. che

“What’s the matter?” asked: Engler
quickly. © tT Ae

“It’s my husband!” she gasped. “He's
shot in ‘thé stomach!” :

The wounded man proved to be Le-
land Stanford Cash, 55-year-old chef
and manager of the stand. Although
still alive,: only a ,moaning escaped
his pain-twisted lips.

Sobbing incoherently, Mrs. Cash at-
tempted to tell the officers what had
happened. “We were just closing,” she
explained, choking back her sobs. “I
was Cleaning the kitchen. Leland was
carrying a package of food to our car
here.”

She cradled her husband’s head in
her arms. “I heard a bang—a loud one.
I thought it was a car backfiring. Then
I heard Leland scream: ‘Oh, my God,

Beatrice, come quick! I’ve been shot

‘in the stomach!’ ”

While Gallagher hurriedly tele-’

* phoned for an ambulance, Engler

qustioned Mrs. Cash. “Did you see
any strangers?”

“No.” She dug at her streaming
eyes. “Not a soul. I ran to the car and
found my husband unconscious. He
was lying in all this blood!”

The arriving ambulance shrieked to
a stop, loaded Cash aboard, and
shrieked. away to Park Emergency

‘Hospital. But at 1:20 a.m. he died.

It was murder, now. Lieutenant
Michael Mitchell, chief of the city
homicide detail, accompanied by In-
spectors‘Harry Husted and Al Corras,
hurried to join Engler and Gallagher.
Again Mrs. Cash brokenly told her
story. © : ;

She explained that under terms of
their employment, they were allowed
a certain amount of foodstuffs, It was
Cash’s nightly custom to carry this
food to his car while she tidied up the
kitchen.

“Did he have any enemies?” asked
Lieut. Mitchell, endeavoring to fix a
motive for the brutal murder.

“No, indeed!” Mrs. Cash replied,
near collapse. “Everybody liked Le-
land, though he didn’t talk much to
folks, because he had been very deaf
for years.”

“You say he was deaf?” queried the
lieutenant.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cash weakly. “He
was never without his hearing ap-
paratus. He wore it under his coat,
and when anybody spoke to him he
always turned on the switch.”

Meanwhile the detectives had been
searching the grounds about the stand
with their flashlights. The only item
resembling a clue, was found by De-
tective Husted. It was an empty .22

FRONT PaGE DETECTIVE

The nickname had an innocent be-
ginning, and | paid no attention to It
when Bobbie used it. Gradually the
others began calling me The Duchess
—and the sobriquet stuck like mo-
lasses. .

They were pleasant enough those
first weeks, Gordon always had an
automobile—I noticed they seldom
were the same ones but he explained
they belonged to his different relatives.
Why wasn’t I more suspicious?

He would take us for rides in the
afternoons and it was enjoyable. Al-
bert and Bobbie often brought gro-
ceries to the house, and we’d all have
great fun at dinner.

But there was an_ undercurrent
among the boys that I didn’t under-
stand. I was worried. Why were they
so secretive? Why so furtive, some-
times when I came into the room?

One day Albert and I were alone
in the apartment. I was mending a
badly worn leather coat of Vincent’s,
my oldest son. Suddenly, Albert got
an idea:

“Say,” he said enthusiastically, “you
look handy with a needle and thread.

in front of Al, looking for a misplaced
article, There in plain sight was the
gun!

In one quick move, Albert had the
revolves in his hands, almost caressing
it.
“Boy,” he said, “that’s just what I
wanted. I'll take care of this from
now on.” :

I implored him to return it to me.

“Listen,” he snarled. “If you want
your girl to stay around, be smart.
Don’t think about leaving, either, If I
can’t find her, I’ve got friends who can.
And don’t forget it.”

I felt as though a net was slowly
tightening around me. If Lorraine oniy
would come with me, away from this
certain trouble! Albert left me feel-
ing utterly helpless—and shamelessly
weak.

‘They were not long in putting the
guns and blackjacks into use. One
Sunday night in late March the men
left the apartment ‘“‘on business.” They
returned an hour later, their faces
flushed’ in excitement.

“Not bad for our first try,” Al said,
tossing $22 on the table. “But this is

You can make a few little things for ~ just chicken feed to what we’re gonna’

me. I need some blackjacks.”

“Blackjacks!” I cried. “What for,
Albert?” I looked toward the boy. He
looked dangerous.

“Never mind what for,’ he snapped.
“Do as I say.”

I refused. But only once. Albert
had drawn a knife from his pocket and
was coming at me. I backed away.

“Listen,” he said, sneering, “you like
your daughter pretty much, don’t you?
Well, any trouble from you and I’ll put
her in a hop joint—yeah, and when
she gets out she’ll be more dead than
alive. Now do what I say.”

I was stunned. Al was completely
different from the boy I knew. He
was hard, now—a hardened, grown-up
man. A criminal! The way he looked
convinced me that he was in dead
earnest. I was frightened; afraid for
Lorraine. I had reason to be—the very
thing I thought I had prevented was
the thing I had encouraged. Were all
these boys like Al?

I know it was cowardly. I know it
was wrong. I know I never should
have done it. But I was afraid and I
thought I could play for time—time to
get Lorraine away. Silently, I cut and
sewed and—with Al’s snarling instruc-
tions—I made three blackjacks!

What had I let myself in for? What
would any right-minded person say if
they knew that I had manufactured
weapons for a boy I knew was a crim-
inal? How I wish that I could have
foreseen the headlines of months later.
rio I thought I simply had stalled for

ime...

When the blackjacks were com-
pleted, Al took them and strode out of
the apartment, proudly carrying: his
newest possessions.

I had to do something. What? Lor-
raine had told me Hawkins had pro-
posed to her. She wouldn’t leave him,
I knew. I thought of Mike. Maybe he
could help. Hastily I wrote telling him
of my difficulties and asking him to
come to me at once.

My hopes for help from Mike were
shattered soon after he arrived., Within
days he had turned from me, spending
hours with the boys. When I pleaded
with him to leave, he turned impatient.
_ “What you worrying about? Noth-
ing’s happened yet. The boys and us
got some plans.”

Maybe I should have gone away
alone. But I couldn’t forget Albert's
terrifying threats against Lorraine. She
was going steadily with Gordon then
and seemed happy. What could I do?
I hesitated . . . and was lost. All of us
were lost, but I’m afraid now that it
was chiefly myself who was to blame
because only I knew how wrong we
were.

Now and then I overheard words
spoken surreptitiously by the boys.
“Cops... money... easy.” Gradually
they were less careful what they said
in front of me. They all seemed so
sure of me now—most of all Al. I was
one of them—a member of their gang.
I couldn’t escape this conclusion—my
conscience wouldn’t let me.

One-day I opened my suitcase

AD—3

have.”

From the excited conversation that
followed I learned they had held up
a service-station attendant at the in-
tersection of Golden Gate and Van
Ness Avenues.

Bobbie and Al had carried out the
actual holdup, They had the gun and
blackjacks and together they quickly
had menaced the man, emptied the
cash register and fled. Gordon was
waiting in a car he had stolen espe-
cially for the job, and Mike had waited
across the street as a lookout.
“Well,” Al said at length, “it looks
like we’ve got a pretty good organiza-
tion here. We might just as well get
our parts straight right now.”

Assuming leadership, he went on
outlining the duties of each of us pres-
ent. Gordon, he said, was to be the
“mech” of the gang. His duty was to
supply us with automobiles and drive
them on each job.

“Swell,” Gordon had chimed in.
“That’s one thing I can do... handle
automobiles.” }

VES told Mike he would be the
“case” man of the outfit. His job
was to pick out places to rob, study
them and then tell the gang when they
were “ripe.” Mike seemed pleased.

“How about me?’ Bobbie asked im-
patiently.

“You and me will be. the trigger-
men,” was Al’s reply. ‘“We’ll do the
dirty work. It’ll be the most fun, too.”
It appeared Al was leaving me out of
his plans. My relief was short-lived.

“And as for you, Duchess,”’ Al said,
turning to me quickly, “you’ll be our
treasurer. None of us will have a
squawk if you handle our dough. We’ll
all feel better if you take care of our
equipment, too,” Al leered at me. I
could not protest—I might get killed
if I did. Or Lorraine—

A few nights later, Bobbie and Gor-
don hauled a bundle of articles into
our apartment. Without adding too
many details they told me they had
picked up a drunken man, posed as his
friends and took him to his hotel room.
After putting him to bed they had
“cleaned” the room out.

Among the articles was a handsome
portable radio which soon was put into
use. When the boys were idle eve-
nings, they sat around the apartment
listening to the police radio calls. In
between calls, they all discussed the
police activities, trying to work out a
schedule that would show them in
what parts of the city the police were
concentrated at various times of the
night. And I was made part of it all...

My hopes of getting free of this mob
vanished the night Lorraine told me
she had fallen in love with Hawkins.

“My place is beside him,” she said,
“and that’s where I’m staying, for bet-
ter or worse.”

It was then I decided I’d have to
stay too, try to watch over my oldest
child and hope for an opportunity to
escape from my invisible chains. Again
my hopes were groundless—foolish.

On the evening of April 8, 1940, the

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walked down the stairs to the row of
cells. The cells, with hungry-eyed men
.,. listless men... desperate men...
staring from behind the iron bars at
us. Cells, like the ones in the Alabama
prison. I shuddered, and held myself
stitl

I saw him. He was sitting on a cot
in a cell with his head in his hands. I
ran towards him, seized the bars. I
could only whisper it: “Frank.”

He looked up, up into my eyes. His
eyes were small, dark, hunted, afraid,
a wall between us. Then his shoulders
shook and for a long time he sat there
before he was able to come over and
touch my hand through the bars.

He needed me now—needed me more
than he ever had. I knew that without
thinking it. I took his hand, grasped it
tight.

“What happened?’ I asked.

“They—they picked us up. A squad.”

His voice was flat, hollow. He
seemed almost dead.

“What'd you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!”

“We had a couple beers at the tav-
ern.” He was looking down at my hand
on his, and his eyes were dull. “Then
we went out and walked down Lin-
coln. We were standing in front of an-
other tavern, wondering whether to
have a nightcap. It was about eleven
o’clock at night. We were dressed like
we always are at work. The police saw
us. They thought we might be trying
to case the joint. They picked us up
on suspicion, They took our finger-
prints at the station. Mine—checked.”

}lis voice hadn’t changed; he pro-
nounced the words all alike. He didn’t

look up when he’d finished. Just stared
at my hand on his.

I looked at Frank, and he raised his
head and gazed at me. That made me
stop hating the world. I pressed his
hand harder.

“Will you have to go back now,
Frank?”

“T guess so.”

“Frank—maybe we can do some-
thing. We haven’t given up yet, have
we, Dearest?”

He shook his head. He didn’t mean

it.

I brought him something to eat. His
boss said he’d do everything he could.
He was wonderful. He hired an attor-
ney and told me not to worry, that
everything would be all right.

I went to see Frank again that night
and told him what had been done, and
he felt better. I’d brought him some
magazines and cigarettes and food. I
sat there outside his cell until they
made me leave.

The next day I went back. The ser-
geant said he still wasn’t booked, that
they had notified Alabama and were
waiting for word. They hadn’t heard

yet.

But Monday—Monday, the stop or-
der arrived from Alabama. He already
knew it when I told him. He didn’t
say anything.

They arraigned him before Judge
Joseph J. Drucker in Felony Court on
Tuesday, December 12, and I was
there. A policeman led Frank in. The
Judge heard the charge. He asked if
I was there, and I stood up before his
bench, and I wanted to tell him about
those years that Frank had _ gone
straight ... the day when we’d found

each other ,.. the day when he’d told
me he had a record... the day we
were married ... the other days with
our children and our plans for a farm
...and all, all the rest of it. I wanted
to tell—

“Are you his wife?” the Judge asked.

“Yes,”

“Do you have any children?”

booed ta Pl

The attorney took my arm, whis-
pered, “That’s all.” The Judge was
reading some papers.

He said, “I’ll fix bond at ten thou-
sand dollars.”

The attorney asked, “Couldn’t you
make it lower, Your Honor, so this
man could spend Christmas with his
family?”

“No,”

The bailiff called the next case.

I saw Frank in the prisoners’ room
before they took him to the county
jail. He stood there looking at me. I
knew what he was thinking .. . of
those years we’d had. At least we’d
had them.

“I guess we shouldn’t have tried it,
Honey,” he said.

“Don’t say that, Frank. I’m_ not
sorry. I don’t want you to be.”

“You know I’m not, It’s been won-
derful.”

“Maybe this is for the best, Frank.”

“I was thinking that.”

“Because,” and I knew my words
were tumbling over each other, and
that there were tears running down
my cheeks, “because now, if they make
you go back, after you do get out, we
can start all over and we won’t have
it hanging over us all the time. We
won’t be afraid—of anything.”

Then I was in his arms, holding him,
clinging to him, feeling his shoulders
shake.

The policeman mumbled, “Sorry,”
and pulled Frank away.

As they took him down the corridor
to the jail, he was looking back over
his shoulder, He grinned. “Keep
smiling, Kid,” he said. Then he was
gone.

I went back home. They extradited
him to Alabama in a few days. I'll
wait...

Mrs. Nora DuBose wrote this story
for AcTUAL DETECTIVE SToRIES when
her husband was extradited, when she
believed he would have to spend
months in jail expiating his boyhood
crime. DuBose had been sentenced
under the name of Tom Mason in Mo-
bile County on April 25, 1933, to one
year and one day to eighteen months
for grand larceny. He escaped from
the State Prison Farm at Atmore, Ala-
bama on September 13, 1933. Mrs.
DuBose had every reason to believe
her husband would have to serve out
the remainder of his term. But the law
was just. Frank DuBose’s record after
his escape was investigated thorough-
ly and he was found to have lived a
model life—just as his wife described
that life in this story. So on March 15,
1940, Frank DuBose was granted a
parole, pending future conduct, from
Kilby Prison at Montgomery, Alabama,
his debt to Society paid. He returned
immediately to his wife and children
in their apartment at No. 2768 North
Hoyne, Chi . When he got back
he was told, “Your job’s waiting for
you.”

The Truth Behind My Heist Mob (Continued from Page 7)

Ife took the ring, kissed me and each
of the children and left...

One Fall day in 1933 a stranger came
into the restaurant in Galveston, Texas,
where I was working.

“T want to see you alone,” he said.
“When do you get through here?”

I told him I was off duty at five
o’clock and consented to meet him in a
hotel lobby around the corner. Would
he have word from Tony? What was
his business with me?

At the designated time I walked
into the hotel to find the hard-faced
stranger waiting for me. We sat down
and he began to speak.

“T have some tough news for you,”
he said. “You’d better prepare your-
self.” It seemed as if I had been wait-
ing for this moment ever since Tony
had left.

“Go ahead,” I answered. “I’m ready.
Is Tony in trouble?”

“Well, Mrs. Spinelli,” he stated,
“Tony’s out of trouble forever. Tony
is dead. He’s been killed.”

“Killed?”

I must have looked faint, because
the stranger took hold of my shoulders.
“I’m all right,” I said finally. “Please
tell me how it. happened.”

In clipped words he told me Tony
was one of a gang that had been ac-
cused of hijacking goods being smug-
gled across the Mexican border by a
rival gang.

Tony, he told me, had hidden out
near Juarez, Mexico, in an effort to
escape from his pursuers. But his hid-
ing-place was discovered, and with
i other cronies he had been “wiped
out.”

| buried my face in my hands, trying
to restrain emotions that surged within
me. I hardly heard the stranger when
he said:

“The last thing Tony did, when I
found him dying, was to take off this
ring and give it to me.”

He was holding toward me the onyx
ring that I had given Tony more than
a year before. “He told me to bring
it to you,” the man went on, “and
tell you he was better off and he would
love you forever.”

So ended one phase of my life. Can
I say,.now, that it was the happiest?
I wonder...

46

With my children I returned to De-
troit, to the company of friends I had
made when I was first with Tony.
There I became employed by a laundry
and managed to earn a living for my
family. During the day while I was at
work I left Vincent and Joseph at a
day nursery, while Lorraine attended
school.

Somehow the days rolled by—but
they were days unchanged from morn-
ing until night. I longed for the com-
pany of others. It was during this time
I first met Mike. How could I know,
then, the tragedy this meeting would
bring?

Mike Simeone was several years my
junior but we had many traits in
common. He was friendless and lone-
some. He told me he recently had been
released from a Federal penitentiary
where he had served nearly t years
for a crime he said he did not commit.

He needed a woman like me, he had
pleaded, to help him get on his feet
again. He was a persuasive suitor and
finally he won my affections. I ac-
cepted him.

Life flowed more sweetly those next
few months. Mike found it hard to
find work, but now and then he would
obtain employment as a truck driver.
I was working steadily and so we were
aa tars hard-pressed. But this was not
o last. ,

N JANUARY, 1938, the labor-union

members in the laundry where I was
employed voted to strike. I had be-
come active in the affairs of the union
and was appointed as a member of
the strike committee.

On several occasions violence flared
up between the strikers and _profes-
sional strike breakers employed by the
laundry owners. I was among a group
of the strikers who engaged in a short
but bloody battle with a number of
the professional strike breakers. It
was an incident that nearly cost my
life.

Among those strike breakers was a
man whom I shall refer to as David
Martin. That is not his true name. He,
I learned later, was one of the last
remaining members of the notorious
Purple Gang of Detroit, a fact that
was to affect my whole~life. This is
what happened:

On the day following the battle,
Martin was arrested on information
given to the police by one of the strik-
ing employes. He was jailed on charges
of carrying a concealed weapon and
assault with a deadly weapon. Some-
how Martin had been led to believe
I was the person who had “put the
finger on him.” The very day of his
arrest two of his henchmen came to my
home to carry out orders to punish me
in gangland fashion.

The men gruffly stormed into our
small apartment when I answered
their pounding on the door. Suddenly
I recognized the younger of the two
men. It was Louis DeSala, whom I had
known since he was a child in San
Antonio. His parents were close friends
of Tony’s and Tony and I had acted
as his godparents when he was chris-
tened.

“Why, Lou, what’s the trouble?” I
asked, staring at the young man, who
appeared unable to believe his eyes.

“It’s you!” he cried in amazement,
recognizing me. “We had orders to—
well, never mind what we had orders
to do. You’re in a tough spot; you’d
better leave town quick.”

Curtly, he told me I had been blamed
for Martin’s arrest. It was noon.
Within three hours I, with my chil-
dren, started hitch-hiking to the West
Coast and to what we hoped was
safety.

Half-way across the continent we
rode with friendly strangers, at length
ending our journey in San Francisco.
There I again established a home and
began job hunting. Positions were
scarce, however, and within a few
weeks my funds were nearly gone. It
was a happy message—the card that
was forwarded to me,

It was from DeSala, telling me Mar-
tin since had declared I was inno-
cent of any part in his arrest and I
was free to return to Detroit.

I was anxious to leave for home
immediately, but when I told Lorraine,
who now was eighteen, she balked.
She had found a group of friends in
San Francisco, and—most important—
there was a young man with whom she
had fallen in love. What was I to do?
Should I leave her there and return
alone? Or should I remain?

At length I decided to return with

my children, including Lorraine, to
Detroit. Before we left Lorraine’s boy
friend told her he_ planned _ to
marry her as soon as he could find
steady work, and we hadn’t been home
long before Lorraine received a letter
from her fiance, asking her to return
to San Francisco. She forced me to let
her go; I couldn’t stop her. But why
didn’t I go along? A

Lorraine didn’t write and each of my
letters to her were returned unclaimed.
The worried weeks fled past, and then
one day in January, 1940, I received
a letter from the Juvenile Bureau of
the San Francisco Police Department.

Lorraine was in trouble!

The letter told me my daughter had
been living with a convicted car thief,
and that Lorraine had been placed in
a detention home for delinquency.

“We advise you to come for your
daughter immediately,” the letter read.
“The girl should have parental super-
vision.”

| DECIDED on the only possible
course—to go to San Francisco
again via the hitch-hiking route. Be-
fore I left, Mike said:

“If you need me there, I’ll come.”
Then he handed’ me a pistol. “Take
this,’ he insisted. “With so many
tramps on the road, you might need it.”

Heedlessly, I accepted the gun which
was destined to bind me to two slayings
committed by a gang whose exploits
were to shock the entire nation.

Back once more in San Francisco, I
soon found it was not going to be an
easy task to wrest my daughter loose
from the ties she had made in my
absence. An uphill struggle—but I was
determined to do it.

I rented a modest apartment at No.
1421 Golden Gate Avenue. Soon it
had been converted into a meeting
place for Lorraine’s young friends.
Among those who called often were
Gordon Hawkins, Albert Ives and
Bobbie Sherrard. I thought they were
all nice fellows and fitting companions
for Lorraine. I almost became hopeful
of giving Lorraine a normal life again.

Bobbie, the youngest, seemed to be
the nicest. One day. he said: “You
know, Mrs. Spinelli, from now on I’m
going to call-you my little duchess.
That’s just the way I think about you.”

aD—3


ADKINS, Dimean E oS Lt) ells Cg 4

ae

:
‘
f
i
4

I

ee

School For Homicide

Ma Spinelli was proud of her spaghetti—and her family

of car heisters, stickup men and hoodlums,

C

but when one “student” had to be silenced, Ma was in trouble

by JOHN BARTON

on Golden Gate Avenue in San Francisco. Mike was

out looking for a job. Mama was in the kitchen, roll-
ing thin daqugh circles for a couple of pizza pies. The kids
were in the living room, variously engaged, half-listening
to police calls on the stolen short-wave radio.

With her razor sharp throwing-knife, Ma cut the mozzer-
ella cheese into cubes and sprinkled them with freshly
ground oregano. Then she picked up the knife and jabbed it
twice into the top of a Number 10 can of tomato sauce. She
licked the sauce from the point of the blade with the tip
of her tongue. It was as salty as blood. ;

A Signal 32 crackled over the radio. Ma went to the liv-
ing room door to listen to the details. It was a stickup’ on
Portsmouth Square. The police dispatcher’s voice was
young and professionally crisp. Ma liked the way he talked.
She held her head cocked to one side, listening attentively
while she wiped her hands on her apron. :

Young Frankie, the nine-year-old, stopped sharpening

[: WAS A QUIET EVENING in the Spinelli apartment

his switch-blade on a whetstone long enough to look around .

at her. “When do we eat?” he demanded.

“Shaddup,” Ma Spinelli said. “Listen to the rah-dio. You
might maybe learn somethin’.”

One-eyed-Al leaned closer to the loud-speaker and
shushed them both with an imperious wave of his hand.
Fifteen-year-old Johnny sat on a hassock in the middle of
the room, deeply absorbed in his booklet of horror comics.
He wet his thumb and turned the page, peering intently at
the green-inked drawing in the first box. The girl wasn’t
listening either. On the couch, 19-year-old Gypsy, clad
only in rolled nylons and her new black slip, snuggled

closer to her boy friend, Gordon. Her arms were locked
around his neck.

Ma Spinelli looked at them all, then shook her head
sadly. “A fine bunch you are,” she said. “No ambition. No
gumption. Why should I worry if you ‘don’t eat? Why
should Mike knock himself out lookin’ for a job? You don’t
deserve it—”

Almost as if he were poised there, waiting outside the
door, Mike entered the flat at the mention of his name.
He had 18-year-old Bobby Sherrard with him. Mike looked
weary. He gave Ma a perfunctory peck on the cheek and
sniffed the tangy pizza smell which wafted from the kitch-
en.

“You find a job?” Ma asked tightly.

The head of the house suddenly brightened. “Yeah,” he
said. He turned to the noisy radio and frowned. “Turn that
thing off, One-eye, I can’t hear myself think.”

Showing his teeth in a grimace of annoyance, One-eye
turned off the radio, The sudden silence filtered through to
Johnny who looked up from his comic book. On the couch,
Gypsy began to stroke the nape of Gordon Hawkins’ neck.

“I got a real job, this time,” Mike said. “It ought to pay
pretty good. The ‘Fatboy Barbecue’ at Lincoln Way and
La Playa.”

“Hard work?” Ma asked. .

“Nah,” Mike said. “We hit the place about a quarter of
one in the morning. There’s an old guy there who wraps
up the receipts. He puts the money in packages. We walk
in there with a rod and say ‘Hand it over.’ He’ll hand it
over.”

Al Ives leaned forward in his chair. He put more inten-

Eye

“4


. him, one
‘leased the

his lungs,
d his shy,

|, Duchess.
‘rate while

Judo.”

the kitch-
curvacious
the couch.
. his opin-

. the pizza
istake not
could just
that kid’s.
eek.”

{in a gar-
She’s the
hat kid to

ill around,
neeting of
ok, looked
cupy him-
vassed the
evoted his
ving-knife

promising,
it. So had
ehind the
safe in the
paper and
icity itself

reminded

” Gordon

You steal”
s. We tag

ll supply
tor. When
spaghetti.”
‘s of April
king auto-
vinelli un-
or strap of
.e box and
ioorsman”’
yarrel and
cartridges
done, she
+,

are of this
ctor. First
su hand it

fun.
ked Mike

home,” he
{ guy must

be a hundred and two years old, at the very least.”

Gypsy locked her arms around Gordon Hawkins’ neck.

“Don’t keep me waitin’, hon’,” she murmured.

Ma Spinelli whacked her soundly across the rump.

“You can wait,” she said, “but the spaghetti can’t. The
food’ll get cold, boys. You’d better hurry home.”

Bobby Sherrard was the last one to leave. Once through
the door, he turned around and tapped himself on the
chest. He nodded his head and smiled his simple grin.

‘T’m going to drive,” he whispered as though imparting
a cataclysmic confidence. “I’m tooling the getaway car.”

Leland S. Cash, the night man at the “Fatboy Barbecue”
looked somewhat older than his 55 years. The illusion was
part pallor, part graying, ash-blond hair. The fact that he
walked slowly after a long shift at the grill added to the
general impression of frailty and age.

It was almost 12:45 that Monday morning of April 8th.
The fog had long ago rolled in over Yerba Buena and the
seaward channel. Out in the bay, steamers bellowed
through the drifting scud like frightened, bawling wean-
lings.

When the last customer paid for his hot dog and finally
left, Lee Cash breathed a sigh of relief. He turned down
the volume control of his hearing-aid and shut out the
alien world. It was like crawling out of a bass drum. The
sonorous calling of the fog horns no longer reverberated in
his sinuses. After a long and arduous shift, the vault of
peaceful silence was welcome and sweet.

Cash’s wife, Beatrice, cleaned up in the kitchen while
Lee took the package out to their car. Because he was un-
able to hear, the counterman did not realize that a youth

in a white shirt and dark slacks was just a step behind
him. Only when Ives’ gun suddenly prodded him in the
back did Lee Cash turn around.

Automatically, the nightman slipped his hand into his
pocket to turn up the volume on his hearing aid.

Ives, thinking the man was reaching for a gun, pulled
the trigger of Ma Spinelli’s .38. :

The orange muzzle-blast was brief. The noise was even
briefer. Cash pressed his fingers to his abdomen and started
to sag. He fell to his knees, then moved one hand to his
throat and began to yell. The sound ended in a weak,
strangled gasp as the counterman pitched forward.

One-eyed Al Ives picked up the paper-wrapped package
and bolted to the first of the stolen cars. The door was open.
He hurled himself inside and slammed the door.

“Jeez!” Bobby Sherrard intoned shakenly. “You knocked
him off!”

One-eye shoved the gun and the package into his shirt-
front.

“Drive, birdbrain!” he bit out. ‘We can talk later. Get
this heap rollin’!”

Bobby put his foot on the gas and the car shot forward.
A short distance behind him, Gordon Hawkins did the
same. The two automobiles slowed down as they ap-
proached Jefferson Square. They turned into O'Farrell
Street and braked to a stop. Sherrard and Ives got out and,
by prearrangement, walked briskly to Van.Ness Avenue
where they hailed a cab. Simeone and Hawkins stayed be-
hind to wipe up any fingerprints which might have been
left on the vehicles. All four were at the Spinelli flat in 30
minutes.


ere locked

her head
nbition. No

eat? Why.

> You don’t

outside the
his name.
Aike looked
cheek and
1 the kitch-

“Yeah,” he
“Turn that
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{ through to
1 the couch,
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ught to pay
n Way and

1 quarter of
who wraps
as. We walk
Je’ll hand it

more inten-

1
|
4
|

a


pa Fore oi ie r
One-eye Ives (in sweater) obligingly showed detectives the
scene of the bungled rub-out of one of Ma Spinelli’s gang

ww iF oe
Coo, St

PAY BAY
Bs

(

Reseat curds

ay

igloos

ESPLANADE se sor rehet
A man was killed here for money he wasn’t even carrying

| sity into the gaze of his one eye than most men could have
managed with two. “Who gets to carry the rod?” he de-
manded. :

| Mike Simeone studied him shrewdly. “You, if you want,”
he said. ~ Moons

“I want,” One-eyed Al said.

Ma Spinelli ran to the kitchen to turn off the oven. When
she came back to the living room, young Bobby Sherrard
waved to her timidly.

‘“‘Duchess—” he began tentatively. “Would you do it to
me, Duchess?”

| He was a nice kid. Not too bright, but nice. He always

| called her Duchess. Ma Spinelli looked at him kindly. “Not
now,” she said. “You don’t want me to do it to you, now.”

| “Sure,” Bobby Sherrard said. “Now would be just fine.”

| Ma wiped her hands on her apron. “Okay,” she said.
“Take a step closer.”

‘The kid advanced a step, his hands stretched out as if to
grab her. The 52-year-old woman caught him by one wrist,
pulled hard, then dug her shoulder into his armpit. Bobby

H Sherrard, a look of astonishment breaking on his face,
sailed feet first in a tight arc that flipped him over Ma
Spinelli’s shoulder. She released his wrist just in time to
| keep it from snapping, and the youth slammed down hard,
| some six feet away, in a bone-jarring, window-rattling

fall. Before he could rise, Ma was kneeling on him, one
bony knee pressed against his windpipe. She released the
pressure, just as he began to turn blue. :

Coughing, heaving his chest to pump air into his lungs,
Bobby Sherrard struggled to his feet. He smiled his shy,
little imbecilic smile.

“Jeez, Duchess,” he said. “That was wonderful, Duchess.
What do you call that, again?”

He knit his brows in thought, trying to concentrate while
she told him for still another time.

“Judo,” Ma Spinelli said. “That’s what we call Judo.”

Mike Simeone headed toward the pizza pies in the kitch-
en. He looked with professional interest at the curvacious
Gypsy and her boy friend, still busily necking on the couch.
Having been a white slaver for almost 15 years, his opin-
ions were not to be taken lightly.

“I swear, Duchess,” he said, watching Ma test the pizza
with her throwing-knife, “we're making a mistake not
sending that kid of yours out on the street. We could just
lean back and take things easy. I can guarantee that kid’s
potential. She’s sitting on at least 300 bucks a week.”

Ma sliced the pizza with long, vicious strokes.

“No,” she said vehemently. “I found that child in a gar-
bage can when she was less than one week old. She’s the
same as my own flesh and blood. I didn’t raise that kid to
be no tart.”

After wedges of pizza and cans of chilled beer all around,
Mike Simeone and Ma Spinelli called a business meeting of
the gang. Johnny, who had finished his comic book, looked
around listlessly for something with which to occupy him-
self. Gypsy, sitting next to Gordon Hawkins, passed the
time absently buffing her nails. Little Frankie devoted his
energies to honing the needle point of Ma’s throwing-knife
on his ever-present whetstone.

The job at the “Fatboy Barbecue” was very promising,
Mike assured everyone. He, himself, had cased it. So had
Bobby Sherrard. The old geezer who worked behind the
counter was a Class “A” pushover. There was no safe in the
joint. The receipts were wrapped up in. brown paper and
stashed in the old man’s-car. It would be simplicity itself
to intercept him and make away with the cash.

“I get to carry the rod,” 23-year-old One-eye reminded
everybody. :

“Right,” Mike said. ’

“What do I do?” Bobby Sherrard asked.

“You drive the getaway car,” Mike said.

Bobby beamed.

“You mean you actually got a getaway car?” Gordon
Hawkins demanded archly.

“No,” Mike said. “That’s where you come in. You steal
two cars. One for the eager beavers. One for us. We tag
along behind to see that nothing goes wrong.”

Ma Spinelli nodded sagely. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll supply
the rod. One-eye can take along my little protector. When
you’re done, you come straight home. I’ll make spaghetti.”

The job was set up for the early morning hours of April
8, 1940. Gordon and Mike stole two innocuous looking auto-

mobiles just before midnight of the 7th. Ma Spinelli un-
pinned the key to her strongbox from the shoulder strap of
her brassiere. With great ceremony she opened the box and
removed the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson “Outdoorsman”
from its wrapping of oiled silk. She broke the barrel and
rotated the cylinder, making certain that the cartridges
were properly seated in their chambers. This done, she
carefully wiped the grips on the hem of her skirt.

“One-eye,” she said sternly, “you take good care of this
Roscoe, hear? This is my personal little protector. First
thing when you come back home off this job, you hand it
back. Don’t you lose it no place.”

One-eye gulped confidently and pocketed the gun.

“Should I give him a shot of rye?” Ma’ asked Mike
Simeone. “Are his nerves good?”

Simeone frowned. “Save it for when we come home,” he
said. “He don’t have to have good nerves. This old guy must

be a hun
Gypsy |
“Don’t k
Ma Spin
“You ca
food’ll get
Bobby §
the door,
chest. He:
“I’m goi
a cataclysr
Leland ¢
looked son
part pallo:
walked slc
general im
It was a
The fog hz
seaward
through tk
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When th
left, Lee C
the volum
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sonorous ¢:
his sinuses
peaceful si
- Cash’s v

" Lee took tl

able to he:

The Sacran