Gin! Jazz! Guns!

Calpuder got Puritans are fond of blaming part of the crime and violence of today on this age of jazz. They might better blame the gin which furnishes purple moments. To Volstadians, jazz unaccompanied is rarely responsible for more than a harmless fling. Gin with jazz is something else. Again. Many a front page murder had its origin in a bottle of this colorless fire. It was one o'clock in the morning, not a witching hour, particularly since it was March

and in Chicago. The two policemen who trudged their beat in a residence district were doubtless anxious to have the hour get done with as quickly as possible, so the next one could come and go in its turn. It was a raw and solitary and dreary sword of night. The policeman noticed the sedan automobile standing in front of forty eight oh nine Forestville Avenue as they passed. Its

presence registered itself in their minds. But since in Chicago there are places where one can park one's car, and since nothing seemed to be a miss, they let it alone. A woman appeared from somewhere and got into the car. This likewise did not appear to be a matter for official investigation. The police walked on, turned the corner and pulled the signal box by which they reported to the station. Barely had they reported that nothing was amiss in that

section when three shots shattered the lonely stillness of the night. The first shots came from around the corner and back from the direction in which they had left the park automobile and the mysterious night riding woman, whom they had not bothered to investigate. They hurried back, and the automobile was no sign of the woman, but a man slumped curiously down in the driver's seat. There was a bullet in his brain. On the floor of the automobile was a pistol.

Near it was a half empty bottle of synthetic gin. No one was around, though here and there a sleepy head appeared at a window number forty eight oh nine Forestville Avenue was an apartment building, and though the police might have gone through on a blind search for the missing murderer, they first did a more strategic thing. Taking the license number of the automobile, they telephoned to the vehicle bureau and learned that it had been issued to missus belvet Over

beck Gartner of forty eighth nine Forestville Avenue. With this clue, they went to her apartment. The mysterious night riding woman was there, up and waiting for them, pacing the floor somewhat unsteadily. Seen in the light, she appeared to be in her late thirties. She was not beautiful, but had an indefinably attractive quality that the gin had not dulled, and there was no doubt that she had been drinking it. Interesting was the word that might be

applied to her. She had chekh But one thing stood out about all other features of her fashionable self. There was blood on her clothes. True Crime Historian presents yesterday's news tales of classic scandals, scoundrels, and scourges told from

historic newspapers in the golden age of yellow journalism. Episode two hundred and fifty two explores the two murders that inspired the hit musical Chicago, which was based on a play by Maureene Watkins, who did some reporting on both cases as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune. I'll be joined by my colleague Susan Furman, whose own podcast, Catastrophic Calamities will premiere next week on the Popular Media Network. Susan will read about the case of Beulah Annan, who became roxy

Heart. On stage, I will read the case of Belva Gardner, who became Valma Kelly. I'm true crime historian Richard O. Jones, and for your scandalization and indignation, I give you Jim Jan's guns. The real Chicago murders shaker goes. I'll go around. Missus. Gardner told the policeman she was drunk, she didn't need to tell it, and that she didn't know what had happened. It was a unique answer and an effective one under the

circumstances. There was no question of her incriminating herself when she used an excuse with which masculinity has saved its face on many an occasion. But they took

her along to the police station. Nevertheless, it was believed that so briet he might refresh her memory and anyway, there were the necessary formalities to be gone through with, And in the automobile outside, where the dead man still hunched over the wheel with the cold steel revolver and the half emptied gin bottle on the floor beside him, the body could not be moved until the coroner's physician made his examination. Doctor Joseph Springer, coroner's physician, arrived soon he

certified to the man's death. Papers on the body revealed the unknown's identity. He was Walter Law thirty two thirty three Ellis Avenue. The papers did not reveal the full extent of the tragedy, for Law was married and the father of a three year old child. The bullet, which had been started on its way by Jen, left a baby fatherless and a woman widowed. Missus Gardner was likewise examined by the physician. To his questions, she had the

same monotonous, simple answer she had given the police. I was drunk. I don't remember. But the next day she did remember a little more, and to the police she sobbed out a grotesque and ghastly story of bullets and gin and wagers and duels, with Law and herself as the hazy figures. She admitted they bought the gin at the Gingham Cafe, also that the revolver was hers. She said quote on our way home we began talking about stickup men. I told Law we were taking an awful risk going home so late.

Think of it. I said, what if some bandit stopped and robbed us and maybe tried to get rough with me? What would we do? Our conversation drifted along this line for some time. Then I remarked, I bet I'm a better shooter than you are. I suggested jokingly that we toss a coin and that the winner shoot the loser. I said, if the winner missed the loser, the latter would get a chance to shoot, and vice versa, until one of us was shot. There were nine bullets in

the pistol. And then, Oh, I don't know just what happened. I was too drunk. I remember seeing him collapse over the wheel, but I had no idea what was the matter? Walter Walter, I called, but he did not move or answer me. Then I tried to pull him out of the driver's seat so I could drive the car home, but I couldn't budge him. He was so limp. His head fell on my arms,

and that is how my clothing came to be spattered with blood. I became frightened and ran into the house assist of State's Attorney Stanley Klarkowski had little better luck than the police as far as getting any real information. Out of

the shekh and vague and terrified Belvi Gartner to him. She varied her story, at first, declaring that Law was the one who had proposed the duel, that he had done so before they left the cafe, But when pressed for details, she wept hysterically and wailed, Oh, mister Attorney, I can't remember anything, not if I have to hang for it. Mister Attorney had someone bring in the smelling salts. When Missus Gardner was calmer, she

only said, in the past, we have always bought a pint. This time there were only quartz, and we had to take a large bottle. I wish there had been pints. This with bizarre sadness, Missus Gardner went back to her cell. Law was buried by his widow. The Gingham Cafe watched it step for a day or two, and the police began delving into the past of the two persons in this drama of gin and guns and Gingham Cafe love. Law they found was the son of a wealthy man. He

had been an automobile salesman and much inclined to step out. Yet his wife was utterly ignorant of his philander. She knew nothing of Belvi Gardner, or the hilarious episodes which dotted the evenings when her husband was supposed to be kept downtown by business. That very evening on which he was shot, he had called her up and told her he would be detained by business. Belvi Gardner

had a more openly colorful history. She had started out singing in the cabarets as Belle Brown and had made a good thing out of it, and the good thing being married. In nineteen sixteen, she married Arthur Overbeck, but the good thing didn't last. A year later he divorced her. A few months later, she made a better thing. William Gardner was sixty one, but he'd also piled up a fortune in the manufacture of scientific instruments. Belvi

and he ran away together and were married at Crown Point, Indiana. Mary in Crown Point and repent in Chicago was the way the divorce attorneys put it. In August nineteen eighteen, Gartner sued his wife of a year for ann allment on the very basis of the Crown Point marriage, namely that the Illinois law required the elapse of a year between divorce and remarriage, but the romance

was not faded to go on the rocks. Just yet. There was a reconciliation and the annulment suit was dropped after the full year required by law had elapsed. Gardner and Velvete were remarried in Illinois, and then in due time there did come a divorce. It was attended by great publicity, for mister and missus Gardner each had so many detectives watching the other that they fell over them at every turn. Meanwhile, Missus Gardner broke into the headlines in quick

and easy fashion. She bought a taxicab. An experienced motorist, she had no difficulty getting a license to drive it, and her picture in all the papers as the first and only woman cab driver in the city. She set out to do business and did it boomingly until a streetcar hove into the taxicab. By that time, the divorce had proceeded to a settlement basis, and

the ex missus Gardner had started a newer and gayer life. By that time, the divorce had proceeded to a settlement basis, and the ex missus Gardner had started a new and gayer life. She had fitted up an apartment at the Forestville Avenue address and gone in for the artificial gayety of cabarets. In her own circle, she was known as a gay companion, a good spender, and the life of the party. Generally, her life was a round

of pleasure. But her surroundings did not daunt Gardner, the once divorced and almost annulled husband. He had come wooing all over again, and for a while it looked as though Cupid might strike twice in the same place. Now, the elderly millionaire told reporters, I'm through with her forever. Chicago, March thirteenth, nineteen twenty four. Velvet Gardner twice, a deforesee of page one Notoriety, was placed in the county jail last night, charged by a

coroner's jury with slaying Walter Law, young automobile salesman. Law's body was found in the car early yesterday morning. He had been shot to death with a steel jacketed bullet after a cabaret gin party. One minute of testimony from a pal of laws brought the turning point in the inquest. It seemingly cleared all doubt from the minds of the jurors. The witness was Paul E. Goodwin,

a fellow automobile salesman. Quote, Walter told me Monday that he planned to take out more life insurance because missus Gartner threatened to kill him three weeks before, he told me, she locked him in her flat with her and threatened to stab him with a knife unless he stayed there. Unquote. That story, supplemented by sentence or two of explanation, seemed to sweep from the

minds of the jury. Retold details of the gin party, the visible grief of Law's young wife and child, the story that missus Gardner had told the police that she was so drunk she remembered nothing between leaving the cabaret and suddenly

hearing a great explosion as Law toppled against her dead. The state, represented by Stanley Clarkowski, Assistant State's Attorney, had planned to have the inquest continued, but as Goodwin walked from the stand, the prosecutor announced, quote, the state is willing to let this case go to the jury at once without further delay, asked Deputy corps and Heer Kennedy. Does missus Gardner wish to

take the stand? Tom Riley, one of her three attorneys, high hired by her former husband, William Gartner replied, quote, she does not on the advice of counsel. Her statement to the police has been admitted in evidence. That is all she cares to say, unquote. Twenty minutes later, the jury came back and the foreman read the verdict. We the coroner's jury find that Walter Law came to his death in the automobile of Missus Belvi Gartner

from a bullet fired by Missus Belvi Gartner. Then came the recommendation that she beheld without bail. Goodwin's brief moment on the stand switched the entire complexion of the investigation. It brought the first clear direct intimation that Missus Gardner had planned to make a target of the twenty nine year old man some five to ten years her junior, who made her acquaintance through an automobile sale and retained it

through midnight jin escapades. Prior to Goodwin's testimony, the two hours of the inquest had been taken up with details circumstantial and corroborative, but assembled it was simply this Belve and Walter got drunk at the Gingham cafe. They drove home. The car was found in front of her house Law's body hanging over the steering wheel, her gun on the floor. She was found in her apartment, her clothes covered with blood, maintaining she was so drunk she couldn't remember

anything. But she had said that at the cafe, Law had proposed that they flip a coin to see which should have the first shot at the other, but that she had talked him out of the idea. The questions that arose at the inquest were did she murder Law? Did she shoot him in self defense? Did she accidentally shoot him? Did he kill himself? Did a third person do the slag? Mister Klarkowski said the motive which the state believes lies behind the case as this missus Gartner had ensnared Law, he tried

to break away to stick to his wife and family. She killed him rather than lose him. Back of Goodwin's testimony lie further details not yet brought before the public. They are in amplification of his story, made partly by himself in private statements to officials, partly by other friends of the dead man. Law. These details say had feared missus Gardner for some time. He had repeatedly tried to break away from her, but she refused to let him go.

Law was depicted as a boy who couldn't refuse when women and gin were suggested. As recently as twenty four hours before his death, he confided in friends that someday he'd die, and probably at the hands of the woman whom he went on drinking spreeze once or twice a week. Klarkowski said, quote, I believe that when Law and missus Gardner returned from the cafe, she had tried to make him enter her apartment. He remembering the time she locked

him in and held him there at the point of a knife. Refused, Then she pulled the gun. Perhaps he tried to stop her but couldn't unquote. Prior to good One's testimony, there had been a succession of witnesses whose stories had told nothing to refute the statement of missus Gardner that quote, we got drunk and he got killed. I don't know how unquote. Then detective Sergeant Corkoran, who arrested Missus Gardner testified. Then Detective Sergeant Corkoran, who

arrested Gardner, testified. She had talked to him, he said, because he was so nice. She said she was too drunk to remember leaving the cafe. Didn't know a thing until there was a big noise and Law toppled over unquote Curly Brown, manager of the Gingham, about whom missus Gardner said she and Law had some words because she danced with Brown gave a touch, which some thought was satire. Quote. They didn't have any gin, just

ginger ale. We don't allow gin. They didn't display any gun in the cafe, though they must have talked about one, for I always got my eyes peeled for guns. They were such a nice couple. I'm certainly shocked. Unquote. Then as people yawned and women wondered if there'd be anything hot, a detective whispered in Clarkowski's ear. Bring him in, quick, said the prosecutor, and ten minutes later Goodwin took the stands in Chicago, Chicago, Foo, visit all wanta settle din? Chicago, Chica, Visit all

wanna settled die. For years, women have been speculating on just how a wife must feel when her grief over the sudden news of her husband's death is jogged out of line by the equally abrupt revelation that he died at the hands of the woman who was not his wife yesterday. Missus Freda Law answered that

question. Seated in the South Wambash Avenue station, the young widow of a few hours heard a coroner's jury hold Missus Belve Gardener to the grand jury charged with the murder early yesterday morning of Walter Law thirty two thirty three, Ellis Avenue, Frieda's good husband and Belve's courteous escort. When they talked of gin and blood, Missus Law trembled as if she might faint, huddled close to her father in law, and tried to keep from crying. It was her

grief for a dead husband, she indicated. When they spoke of the defour sees nocturnal habits with Law to the south Side cabarets. When they told of Belvi's zeal to quote throw my arms around him and get him to talk to me, unquote, Missus Law pushed herself forward and sneered across the table at the older, more vivacious woman with the seven diamond rings. It was her

hatred for her husband's alleged slayers, she admitted. But Harry J. Law, the white haired gentleman from North Carolina, father of the murdered automobile salesman, and the third dramatic figure about the table steered a middle course, for he placed a share of the blame for the tragedy on his own son, Walter. Even as he praised him again and again, he murmured to the tired daughter in law at his side, No daughter, No daughter, It's

not that woman's fault. Entirely. Walter ought not to have gone out with anyone. He had a lovely wife and a fine baby. No, he did wrong, and we know it vaguely. Some of the friends suggested that the devor see well tutored in getting what she wished, might have led him unwillingly away from his domestic duties, and as a corollary to the shooting, they hazarded or remarked that the modern wicked woman is awfully wicked. His voice

was soft and stern. No daughter, No, the times aren't getting worse. Things were this way when I was a boy back in the Carolinas, but it was more quiet. A man has to stand up and fight against it, that's all. Unquote. The frail old man sits there between the two women, an unconscious balance. Wheels Gardner is plainly gowned her best care cool coat, her chek white hat and her modern green dress are ruined with blood, so she wears a brown sport dress, a plain black coat with

a fur collar, and a brown sport hat. Seven diamond drinks and a wristwatch have been washed clean of Walter Law's blood. They sparkle more brightly from that cleansing as she uses her hands to gesture. Missus Law, too, is plainly gowned. She spent the night before in her home sewing curtains, and that occupation doesn't call for the elaborate gown and the silver slippers that missus Gardner had to wear when she went dining and dancing with mister Law last Tuesday

night. Missus Law relates quote, I sat up waiting for Walter. He had phoned at dinner time and asked me if I wanted to go out, but I said I had to sew, so he told me he was going to work. I waited up for him. About two in the morning, I saw a taxi cab stop next door. You know, Walter's mother and

father owned the Ellis Avenue property, so we have to live there. I thought Walter was drunk and was going into the wrong house, But the next minute She pauses for a moment, then continues, in a metallic voice. The man came to my door and told me my husband had been killed. At first I felt sorry for that other woman, because she was guilty of killing and everything. But did you see her come in? She was almost giggling. Oh. I never knew I could hate anyone so much. My

friends have told me they hope she hangs. No, I don't want her to hang. And she shuddered as much, almost as when she had seen the pistol with which her husband had been killed. But I don't want her to go to jail for a month or two and then step out unquote, regardless of what the legal penalty is. Missus Law and her father in law feel religiously confident that quote, things have been taken out of our hands unquote, and that Belvit Gartner someday will learn the law of compensation. The father

muses, it may not be today nor tomorrow. It may take a long time, but it'll happen. With an almost sprightly air of going slumming in a police station. Missus Gartner, a few seats away, is explaining that quote Walter never did get along with his wife He often told me that if it weren't for his little boy, he'd never lived with her. Then comes the voice of missus Law. He was so good, and he was so fond of the boy, Walter Junior, the very image of his father.

What will I tell the baby when he begins to ask questions? What will I tell him? As the widow is insisting that she never had the slightest suspicion that her husband was interested in any woman, and reaffirming her testimony that he rarely was away from home in the evenings, the devorcee is branding such a story as just a wife's yarn. Quote why sometimes he'd take me out three evenings a week, and always at least once or twice a week.

Ever since we met in December unquote. Paul Goodwin, a Fellows salesman down at Nash Automobile Company, has just testified that Law told him Missus Gardner had threatened to kill him, and that Law contemplated increasing his insurance for just an instant. Perhaps Missus Gardner loses her buoyancy, her fingers swathed in their diamonds and sapphires, clutch at her purse and her cosmetics, But a moment later, she finds it easy to label this story as the bunk quote. That's

just a frame up on the part of the automobile people. I'll tell you the truth about that insurance. A few weeks ago, Wally told me his wife had her fortune told, and the woman warned her that her husband would die inside of seven weeks unquote. Law According to missus Gardner's story, confided to her that his wife, influenced by the fortune teller, urged him to

take out more insurance. Belva seems proud of the information quote, but Wally told her he would tie up the insurance so that his wife couldn't get a penny of it. He said he'd have it all made out for his boy. Me threatened him with a knife. That's crazy. He was always a courteous gentleman to me, Why should I ever be angry with him? Unquote, And she opened her large brown eyes still wider. The inquest is over. The jurors, to the immeasurable surprise of Belva, have held her to

the grand jury charged with murder. Those who have been speculating on the feelings of a grief stricken widow. Shocked at the news of her husband's infidel now begins to wonder how it feels to kill a man. William Gardner, a wealthy manufacturer, it was revealed, purchased the expensive care cool coat which his wife, Belva, was wearing the night of the shooting. Missus Gardner, who had been divorced May seventh, nineteen twenty, declared she hoped for a

reconciliation quote just as soon as possible unquote. He provided her with lawyers at his home. Missus Gardner admitted last night that Belva had called him by phone nightly, but failed to do so. Tuesday night, the ex husband sat looking up at a full length portrait of Belva done in the days when she was a cafe singer. He had paid two for the car in which Law's body was found. She that joleuse to Chicago, Chicago. I'll show you

around that at your bottom dollars. You lose and lose in Chicago. All the folks who visit, I want to settle down on stay Hate Street, that bring Hate Street. I just want to say they do things that don't do on Broadway. Say you'll have the time to tell you of life, Bring all your friends, your kids in your way to Chicago, my home, time to Chicago, my hometime. March fourteenth, nineteen twenty four. No, sweetheart, the world is worth killing, especially when you've had a

flock of him and the world knows it. That is one of the musings of missus Belvigartner in her County jail cell. And it is why so, she says, a broad minded jury is all that is needed to free her of the charge of murdering Walter Law, the latest alleged lady murderess of Cook County, isn't a bit worried over the case. Why it's silly to say I murdered Walter, she said during a lengthy discourse on love jen guns, sweeties, wives and husbands. I liked him and he loved me. But

no woman can love a man enough to kill him. They just aren't worth it because there are always plenty more. Walter was just a kid twenty nine, and I'm thirty eight. Why should I have worried whether he loved me or whether he left me? Then? The double devor, say a frequent newspaper notoriety, turned to the question of jury's Now that coroner's jury has held me for murder, that was bum They were narrow minded old birds that they

never heard a jazz band in their lives. Now, if I'm tried, I want worldly men, broad minded men, men who know what it's like to get out a bit. Why no one like that would convict me? A long laugh and then are frown But I wish I could remember just what happened. We got drunk and he got killed with my gun in my car. But gin and guns, either one is bad enough, but together they can get you in the dickens of a mess, now, don't they? Now? If I hadn't had a gun, or if Walter hadn't had the

gin. Of course, it's too bad for Walter's wife, But husbands always caused women trouble. No attempt was made yesterday to get missus Gardner out on bail, and it's not likely one will be made before the Grand Jury acts prosecute. Stanley Klarkowski hopes to get the case before the Grand jury tomorrow or Monday, and is convinced there will be an indictment. And while Missus Gartner twirtled in jail, plans were completed for young Law's funeral. It will be

held from his home and will be private. April fourth, nineteen twenty four. For more than two hours yesterday afternoon, Missus Beulahan and a comely young wife played a foxtrot record named Hula Lou in her little apartment at eight seventeen East forty sixth Street. Then she telephoned her husband and reported that she had

killed a man who had quote tried to make love to her. The Hawaiian tune was the death song of Harry Colstead, twenty nine years old, of eight oh eight East forty ninth Street, whom missus Annan shot because he had terminated their little wine party by announcing that he was through with her. His body lay hunched against the wall in her bedroom as she played the record over

and over again. When taken to the Hyde Park station by the police, missus Annan protested tearfully that she had killed Colstead to save her honor, saying, quote, he came into my apartment this afternoon and made himself at home. Although I scarcely knew him, he tried to make me love him. I told him I would shoot he kept coming anyway, and I did shoot him unquote soon after midnight. However, after the fumes of the liquor had

worn away. She told a different story to assistant state's attorneys bert A. Cronson and William F. McLaughlin. For hours they had questioned her without breaking down her story. Then, with Captain Edward Mernane of the Hyde Park Station, they took the woman back to her apartment. There she was forced to stand in a dim light facing the scene of the murder, while questions were fired at her in monotonous succession. What about the blood on the phonograph record?

What about the wine and gin bottles in empty glasses? How come that Colstead was shot through the back? Missus Annan was asked. Finally she broke down, You're right, I haven't been telling the truth, she admitted. I've been fooling around with Harry for two months. This morning, as soon as my husband left for work, Harry called me up. I told him I wouldn't be home, but he came over anyway. We sat in the flat for quite a time drinking. Then I said, in a joking way

that I was going to quit him. He said he was through with me and began to put on his coat. When I saw that he meant what he said, my mind went into a whirl and I shot him. Then I started playing the record. I was nervous to see, and as she played it, missus Annan began to wonder about her husband. What would he say when he came home and found a dead man lying in his bedroom? So at ten minutes before six, she telephoned him at the garage at ninety

one twenty Baltimore Avenue, where he's employed. I've shot a man, Albert, she told him. He tried to make love to me. Annan hurried home in a taxicab and found his wife in an hysterical condition. Colstead, in his shirt sleeves, was hunching ans the wall nearby, where his coat, hat, vest and overcoat. Missus Annan's clothing was stained with blood.

Annan picked up the telephone to call the police. His wife threw herself on him, imploring him not to At that instant, the connection was completed and the voice of Sergeant John O'Grady sounded over the wire from the Wabash Avenue station. Missus Annan snatched the receiver. I've just killed my husband, she shrieked. In reply to the sergeant's follow up question, she mumbled her address.

The receiver clicked. When detectives reached the apartment, they found missus Annan, a beautiful woman of twenty three, slim and tall, with reddish brown hair, bobbed the mode, waiting with a fanciful story of having painted after shooting Colstead. April fifth, nineteen twenty four, Beula May Annen, the twenty three year old wife who shot the other man Thursday afternoon to the tune of her husband's phonograph, was held to the grand jury yesterday afternoon by a coroner's

jury, which charged her with the murder of Harry Colstead. Assistant State's attorneys Bert Cronson, roy Wood and William McLaughlin are preparing to rush the case to

an early trial, at which they will ask the death penalty. Thursday afternoon, missus Annan played Hula Loo on the phonograph while the wooer she had shot during a drunken quarrel lay dying in her bedroom at age seventeen East forty sixth Street, And yesterday afternoon, the chapel organ at Boydston's undertaking Parlors played Nearer My God to Thee for an old soldier's funeral while she waited for the inquest to start at the Hyde Park station. She insisted that Colstead's advances had caused

her to shoot him to quote unquote save her honor. Several hours later, however, when the effect of the liquor had worn off, she broke down hysterically and confessed that she had lied, that Colstead had threatened to leave her, and that she had killed him rather than lose him. But yesterday she only shook her head dreamily and smiled when questioned, say, quote, I wish they'd let me see him still, it would only make me feel worse

unquote. The last time she saw him was when he lay dying, and she dare not feel his heart or pulse because quote he was so bloody unquote. They say she's the prettiest woman ever accused of murder in Chicago. Young, slender, with bobed auburn hair, wide set, appealing blue eyes, tip tilted nose, translucent skin, faintly very faintly rouged, an ingenuous smile, refined features, intelligent expression and quote an awfully nice girl and more than

usually pretty. She wore fond collar dress and hose with black shoes, dark brown coat, and a brown georgette hat that turned back with a youthful flare. While waiting for the inquest to start, she talked of her early life in Kentucky and her little seven year old son by a former marriage, who now lives with his father's people in Owensboro, Kentucky. Divorced from Perry Stevens after a year, she moved to Louisville, where she met Albert Ann and

her her present husband, whom she married in Chicago four years ago. He made fifty or sixty dollars a week as a mechanic at a garage at ninety one twenty Baltimore Avenue, but she wanted to work too, and last September became bookkeeper for Tenant's Model Laundry. It was there that she met Harry Colstead, another employee who took her for walks, visited her a few times in her husband's absence, and shared with her a taste for booze. Calmly,

she played with a piece of paper and softly whistled through it. As Colstead's brother in law, William Wilcox told the coroner's Journey which she had told him of the tragedy the night before. He also identified the statement read by assistant state's attorney Roy Woods, as the one she had made in his presence the

preceding night. According to this, Colstead had telephoned her early Thursday morning that he was going over on the West Side to get some wine, and had come to her apartment fifteen minutes later to get the money with which to buy it. She had the afternoon off from work, and he joined her at about noon with two quarts of wine. After drinking for an hour or so,

they started quarreling. She teased him a little about to quote Billy the boy with an auto unquote, and he reproved her for doing things she shouldn't. Then she flared back, you're just a fore flusher and called him a jailbird. Colstead, it seems, had served a penitentiary sentence for a statutory crime. He retorted hotly that she was quote no good. A revolver was lying on the bed, and they both sprang. Both went for the gun, interrupted W. W. O'Bryan, counsel for missus Annan. Both sprang

for it, but she reached at first. The story went on. Colstead turned for his coat and hat, but quote didn't get that far. She cupped her chin in his slim hand with its orange blossom ring, and didn't blanche as the state read her answer to the question why didn't he get that far? For darn good reason, she said, I shot him. She caught him as he slipped to the floor, calling my god, you shot

me, and tried to tell him that it wasn't true. His hands still felt soft, his face was soft, but she couldn't feel for his heart because it was quote all bloody. She played again with the paper as the state's attorney read a confession of intimacy with Colstead on three occasions, and laughed

lightly as the lawyers quarreled over the questioning. According to the testimony of policeman Thomas E. Towrton, who was called at six oh five Thursday night, the shooting must have occurred at approximately two o'clock that afternoon for almost four hours. Then she played the phonograph and paced the floor before she telephoned her husband that she had killed a man. Doctor Clifford Oliver, who arrived at six twenty o'clock, said Colstead had only been dead half an hour or so.

Missus Annan had posed prettily for the photographers, but her husband hid his face with his rough, scarred hands. When he took the stand, he identified the revolver a thirty eight caliber as his and haltingly told how he had found the man who he did not know, dead and his wife too hysterical to talk. Thursday night at the station, he told the officers bitterly, quote, I've been a sucker. That's all simp a meal ticket. I've worked ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day and took home every cent of my

money. We bought our furniture for the little apartment on time, and it was all paid off but one hundred dollars. I thought she was happy. I didn't know, unquote, but yesterday he wouldn't talk, just shook his head sadly to all the questions. Under advice of her attorney, missus Annan made no statement. When the finding of murder was announced. She powdered her nose, took the money her husband had borrowed, and went back to jail

to await developments. April sixth, nineteen twenty four. Of course, I'm sorry. I'd give my life to have Harry Colstead alive again. And I never said I was glad. Why I couldn't at this point tears filled the eyes of missus Beulah may Annan, the quote unquote prettiest murderess held to the grand jury for shooting her sweetheart in a drunken quarrel at her apartment on Thursday.

Thursday night, she was in a mad, hysterical frenzy when she babbled conflicting accounts of the murder Friday in a daze that left her cold and unmoved at the inquest. But yesterday afternoon, in the county jail where she awaits

indictment for murder, she began to realize what it means to kill. And the music's changed too, hululoo on the phonograph, while the lover she shot lay dying a funeral song in the chapel when she awaited the inquest, and yesterday bring them in from the Fields of Sin, sung by prisoners indicted or sentenced for robbery, prostitution and murder. It jars on her horribly, the laughter of the girls, their constant talking the music. How can they she

said, shivering. She posed for her picture with Missus Belvi Gartner, whose trial for the shooting of law the young auto salesman begins on April twenty first, but as of yet the two have not talked over their common interest a man, a woman, liquor in a gun. But unlike Missus Gardner, who waits cheerfully and philosophically, protesting her innocence and disclaiming all recollection of the killing, Missus Annan remembers, I'll never forget it. She shuddered, that

white silk shirt, all covered with blood. He never spoke or moved, just lay there. I know he died as soon as he fell, and I was with him dead at this point. Her eyes widened in horror. For two or three hours. I never thought of a doctor until the policeman came, and when they said he might be alive. Oh, it was

the happiest moment of my life. She remembers too, just how it happened, saying, quote, I had learned that morning, just before I came home, that he had been in the penitentiary, and I accused him of it. He grew angry and that it wouldn't have happened if we both hadn't been drinking, and he had had quite a lot before he came over. We both lost our heads. Saw the revolver lying there, uncovered by the pillow. I hadn't made the bed that morning and grabbed for it. I

can see him now, that look in his eyes. He was perfectly wild, and I know he would have killed me if I hadn't reached it first. Her lawyer W. W. O'Brien stated Friday that self defense would be her plea and that the statements made at the police station would be repudiated as having been made under dress when intoxicated. I listened when they read the statements at the inquest, and some of the things were right. But the newspapers

are all wrong. They say I killed him rather than have him leave me. Why I was the one who was going to leave him. You see, I realized we couldn't go on, that we never could be anything to each other. I've never loved him as much as I did my hubby, And besides, he had nothing to offer me, no inducement to make me leave Albert. It had gone on as long as it should. I knew no good could come of it, and her voice trailed off in a long

sigh. And Albert annan for whom what did come of it? Was a total shock, for he never dreamed of her other love interest is going ahead with his work in the garage and giving what money he can to help her out. What'll I do when it's over. I don't know. There's not much use to think about that. Albert probably won't want me back. My life is ruined anyway. I can never live it down. Even if I

went away where nobody knew you, you can't get away from yourself. And I'd always remember that i'd killed him, always see that white shirt and the blood. She broke into sobs. Her attorney helps to arrange bond for her in a couple of weeks and is hoping for a speedy trial. Mister and Missus John Sheriff, parents of Missus Beulah Annon, are heartbroken at their modest country home near Owensboro, Kentucky. They received the news today of their daughter's

arrest ten years ago. Beulah May Sheriff, a beautiful country girl with curly Titian hair, came to Owensboro and was married about eight years ago to Perry Stevens, a respected young man. The beauty of the young wife won her many friends that eventually caused her husband to sue her for divorce and the custody

of their infant son. An automobile accident nearly cost the life of Missus Annan a few years ago in this city, when in company with a young man of Owensboro, they were speeding on the highway when the car crashed into a telephone pole. Shortly after that, she went to Louisville, where she was married to Anna. Mister and Missus Sheriff declined to discuss their daughter's case and

said they had not decided whether they would go to her defense. In Chicago, April seventh, nineteen twenty four, Missus Beulah Annan's second day in the county jail where she waits indictment for the murder of her sweetheart, Harry Colstead, was a trifle monotonous. Sunday's bad enough any place, she said, but here, and Chicago's prettiest woman, the killer shrugged her shoulders in disgust.

She missed the conveniences of home. They won't even let you have coal, cream and powder, and they tuned in the radio for a sacred concert instead of a Hawaiian foxtrot. And the uncertainties growing tiresome. Will the grand

jury indict her this week? Will she get bond? Will her father, John Sheriff, Kentucky farmer, furnish the money for she hasn't heard from him since the arrest, nor from her mother, missus Mary Neil, who moved from forty nine nineteen Lake Park Avenue Saturday night and left no address because she didn't want to be bothered. But the husband, Albert Annan, who knew nothing of the other man till he found the dead body in his apartment,

is standing by her. Yesterday afternoon he bundled up some clothes, a black crape dress and a checkered flannel, and took them down to the jail. But Sunday isn't visiting day, so he went back home to the little flat at eight seventeen East forty six, where his wife had killed a man in a drunken quarrel. They'll have to sell the furniture, now bought last November and all paid for except for a hundred dollars there. An hour or so later, he repeated his steady refusal, nothing to say, and set his

jaw determinedly. Ten years older than Beulah May, he is quiet and a little stern. He had talked to her only once since the tragedy at the Hyde Park Station when he tried to shoulder the blame by saying he had killed Colstead when he found the two together. Tell her I'll stick. That's all that I'll stick, he said slowly. He's getting off from work today. He's a mechanic at a garage at seventy one ninety Baltimore Avenue to see her attorney W. W. O'Brien about getting bond. We've got to get her

out, he said fiercely. Others are helping to while away the hours for Beulah. A group of young men, admittedly, after having a few drinks, sent Flowers with a note, and she didn't eat the chicken dinner he had planned for her. For a friend sent in a juicy steak, French fried potatoes, and cucumber salad. May ninth, nineteen twenty four. What

counts with the jury when a woman is on trial for murder? Youth, beauty, and if to these she adds approaching motherhood for pretty missus Beulah ann And who shot her lover Harry Colstead, to the tune of her husband's phonograph, is expecting a visit from the stork early this fall. This twenty three year old murderess now waiting trial is making this the basis for a further appeal to clemency. Because of the four term rule, missus Annan's case cannot be

continued for more than four terms of court without her consent. If she is brought to trial before autumn, her condition could be considered by the jury since it has the right to pass sentence, and if the jury should give her death, there is no direction statute covering such a contingency set a former state's attorney, but the state would have to delay execution until after the birth of

the child, since it would be taken two lives instead of one. Her condition has no bearing upon the legality of the case, said her attorney, William Scott Stewart. It would be a matter of executive clemency whence the sentences passed, or it might affect the jury. Will a jury give death? Will jury send to prison a mother? To be what affects a jury anyway?

That's what they asked themselves, the seven inmates of Murderers Row yesterday afternoon, for the conviction of one of their number broke the monotony of their life and startled them into a worried analysis, and Elizabeth Uncoffered the queer one who received life for the leapier murder of her lover, Sam Boltshoff, held the spotlight for a few brief hours. They gave her life because she killed a man. I've killed a man? Will they? Then? They gamely shake

their heads. No, it can't be life for them. What counts most with the jury, After all, sex never swung in Illinois, said one triumphantly. Looks Elizabeth's Uncoffer was not cursed with fatal beauty. A jury isn't blind, said another. And a pretty woman's never been convicted in Cook County Gallant old Cook County youth Kitty Malm, who received life for shooting a watchman last November, is said to be the only pretty young woman who's ever gone

over that road. And Kitty wasn't well quite refined. Of the four awaiting trial, the cases of Missus Annan and Missus Belvi Gartner would seem most similar to Elizabeth un Kaffer's. Each is accused of shooting a man, not her husband, with whom her relations were at least questioned. Each is supposed to be a woman scorned who shot the man rather than lose him, but neither

was at all disconcerted by missus Unkaffer's sentence. I can't see that it's anything at all like my case, said missus Gardner, the sophisticated divorcee indicted for shooting law the young auto salesman, as she twirled about in her red dancing slippers. The cases are entirely different, said missus Annan, quite the ingenue

in her girlish checked flannel frock. Elizabeth, with her straggly mop of red hair, pale eyes, and flabby cheeks, remembers it all too well, she paused, in her scrubbing of the jail floors yesterday afternoon, to live it all over again. Her attorney had pleaded insanity. Think I'm going to say I'm crazy, she asked, indignantly. Not much. They'd lock me up then with some that are worse than I am, and no telling them

what would happen. I wanted them to shoot me, why not at Stayton Madison, make a big day of it and give everyone a front seat. But they gave me life instead. May twenty fourth, nineteen twenty four. Beautiful Beulah Annan's chance for freedom was lessened yesterday when Judge Lindsay ruled after an extended hearing that the confession she had made to the police the night following the murder of Harry Colstead April third, were admissible as evidence. I'm the only

witness. Beulah has boasted Harry's dead, and they'll have to believe my story. But which one? The confession she made to assist in state's attorney Roy C. Woods, with a court reporter present in her apartment at nine o'clock the night of the crime, when she said that she shot Colstead, whom she barely knew, to save her honor as he approached her in attack, or the statement that she made at the Hyde Park police station, also with

court reporters present, three hours later. Then she broke down and admitted she shot him in the back. The man was about to leave her. After a jealous quarrel, she said, will the jury believe that? Or will the jury credit the story that she'll tell in court a plea of self defense? Quote we both grab for the revolver when she takes the stand today,

pale not quite so pretty. Beulah didn't smile as she took the stand yesterday morning to help her attorneys, William Scott Stewart and W. W. O'Brien proved that she had been unduly influenced and offered immunity by the state if she would make a statement. Slim and straight in her new brown satin crape frock with fur piece thrown over one arm, she walked carelessly to the stand, moistened her lips, and was sworn in seemingly calm but her answer is keen

only for the judge in the absence of the jury were weak. Question who was the first person to arrive at your apartment after the shooting? Answer Officer Torpy. Question what did he say? Answer? Where's the gun? Question what did you say? Answer? My husband gave him the gun and I don't remember much else. Question whom did you see? Next? Answer Assistant States Attorney. Would it's question now you had fainted during the time you saw

Torpia and mister Woods? Answer yes. Question what did mister Woods say? Answer? Well, we went into the kitchen and he said, don't you know me? And I said no, and he said, I'm Roy C. Woods and I'm a customer of mister Wilcox and a personal friend of his. Then he told me not to be afraid that I'd shot the man in

my own house, and that it was no crime. This evidence was uncontradicted by the state since mister Woods, as prosecutor in the case, couldn't take the stand, but Judge Lindsay indicated in his talk with counsel that he gave it slight credence, saying, quote, her statements are entirely too vague. Moreover, it is peculiar that she was so intoxicated that she didn't know what had happened a few hours after the crime, and today has a perfect recollection

of minute details unquote. W. W. Wilcox, brother in law of the dead man, testified that no one had tried to force Beulah to make the statements or had promised herunity. However she tried to get it. He stated. She asked Woods if he couldn't frame it to look like an accident, and Woods said, you don't frame anything with me. He stated further that Beulah seemed perfectly natural the night of the crime, seeming a little sorry

now and then, but smiling most of the time. Albert Allen, the court reporter who had taken both of her confessions, testified that she had made them with full understanding that they might be used against her, and that they were voluntary and of her own free will. Police officers gave testimony to the same effect, though they noted she was in a hysterical condition for several hours.

Counsel for the defense objected in particular to the admission of states exhibit to the Midnight confession, as in it, missus Annan confessed to intimacy on various occasions with the man she afterwards killed. We're not trying a case of adultery, Judge objected, W. W. O'Brien. Judge Lindsay, however, ruled that the admission was relevant to the case. Beulah, frankly by such technicalities, stared around the room like a wide eyed kitten, and gave her

attention only when state's attorney William F. McLaughlin read the two confessions. According to the first statement, Colstead had come into her house early in the afternoon, greatly to her surprise, for she barely knew him, and he took off his coat and hat, then turned and tried to take her in his arms, saying with a look in his eyes, she anne, I'm crazy about you. She begged him to go. She said, but he refused and followed her into the bedroom, where she reached for the revolver, which

was lying under a pillow on the disarranged bed. Then she closed her eyes and shot him as he approached her, but he was shot in the back. They told her it was this fact which caused her to make a new statement, giving what the state believes is a true account of the affair.

Beulah listened with set features to the reading of her admission that she had given Colstead, whom she had known for several months at Tenant's laundry, where she was employed as a bookkeeper, a dollar to get some wine to bring to her apartment Thursday afternoon, her afternoon off. He came about half past twelve, and they started the party. Question how much did you drink? Answer? Half a gallon? Question the two of you answer yes. We had

an argument. Question what about Answer well, I heard he had been in jail, and I asked him about it. Question what did he say? Answer? He said he had And then I told him he had always told me he had a lot of money and his people were sending him money. The questions then related to a certain billy who had called missus Ann in that morning for a date which she had refused for Colstead. Question did he say anything to you about your having done things that you shouldn't? Answer? Oh,

yes, and I said to him, well you're nothing. Question did you call him anything? Answer? Yes? Question what did he say then? Answer? He lumped me. Question did he say anything to you about being through with you? Answer? Well, he may have said to hell with you or something like that. Question When was that answer after I told him he was just a jailbird and didn't have any money. Question then you say he jumped up? Answer? I was ahead of him. I grabbed

for the gun. Question and what did he grab for? Answer for what was left? Nothing? Question did he get his coat and hat? Answer? No, he didn't get that far. Question why didn't he get that far? Answer? Darn good reason? Question what was it? Answer? I shot him? Further answers told the story of her playing the phonograph Hululu, who had more sweeties than a dog had fleas to keep the neighbors from

suspecting. The judge cast unbelieving glances at the young woman who sat so calmly listening to the story of the killing, as told in her own words. All this time, the jury had been excluded while the judge decided whether the various versions of the killing were to be read before it. With the return of the jury into the courtroom, Beulah pepped up a bit and tried to register antrition and regret. At the proper intervals, William F. McLaughlin gave

a brief outline of the case the state would present. Then W. W. O'Brien gave his version, and the whole court sat up in attention as he depicted Beulah the virtuous working girl, Beulah the modest little housewife. Tears slowly came to Beulah's eyes as he told how Colstead, a regular bum, had come to her apartment early the morning of the shooting, and had tried to borrow a few dollars to get booze. Finally, to get rid of him, she had given him a dollar, and then that afternoon he had

returned, intoxicated and forced his way into the house. Frightened, she begged him to leave, but he refused, and then she foolishly took a drink just to humor room and get him to go, said mister O'Brien, with sad regret and played the victrola at a drown as loud talking, but he started to make love to her improper advances, and then they took another little

drinks. The jury followed him down the path of another little drink until Colstead threatened to attack her, boasting that he had served time for quote having his way with a woman and quote that's the kind of man he was. Then, according to her attorney, Beulah, in a frenzy, started Oh no, not for the gun, but the telephone to call her husband, to

tell him of the danger she was in. And it was then Colstead went for the gun, conveniently parked on the bed, but she had the inside track, and in the struggle she turned around, and that's how he was shot in the back. Attorney Steward posed to show just how it was done. Later, the state called a surprise witness, missus maybel Bergmann ten twenty two Dayton Street, head bookkeeper at the laundry where missus Annan was employed.

Question did you hear from missus Annan in the afternoon of April third, when she was off of work? Answer? At about four ten she called me up at the office. Question? What was said? Answer? She said, Hello, Betty, what are you doing? And I said, I'm awfully busy. And she said, is Billy there, meaning mister Wilcox, And I said that he'd been in and out. And then she said, is mu there meaning Harry Colstead? And I answered, you know, he

hasn't been here all day, and she said, that's funny. I had an appointment with him for a quarter after twelve and he hasn't shown up. The court and jury looked at Beulah for at four twenty Colstead was lying in her apartment dead, and she was playing the jazz records on the VICTROLA question what did you say? Then? Answer? I said, what's the matter? Red? You sound kind of stewed, and she said, no,

I haven't had a drink all day. I talk queerly because I'm trying to talk to you, and read the telephone directory all at the same time, and that was all. The two women exchanged flashing glances as the pretty brunette stepped down from the witness stand and sailed past Red. The character of Harry Colstead was brought up in the questioning of W. W. Wilcox. Mister O'Brien implied that the dead man had been in the penitentiary in Michigan, and

its witness resented it. He was in the Saint Cloud Reformatory. Wilcox said, for what reason, the attorney asked, wife. Desertion was the answer. May twenty fifth, nineteen twenty four. Beulah Annan, whose pursuit of wine men in jazz music was interrupted by her glibness with the trigger finger,

was given freedom last night by her beauty proof jury. The jury retired from Judge Lindsay's court at eight thirty and at ten twenty brought in the verdict of not guilty on the third ballot, acquitting her of the murder of her admirer, Harry Colstead and her apartment at eight seventeen East forty sixth Street. On April third, the fair defendant thanked the jury all around, assisted by her faithful husband. Al Oh, I can't thank you, she said, flash

a glance at each one as she pressed his hand. You don't understand, you can't know, but I felt sure you would. Mister Annan, who had stood by her from the very night he found the man lying dead in his bedroom, was almost overcome with joy and gratitude. I knew my wife would come through all right, he said proudly. That seemed to be the

consensus of opinion. Another pretty woman gone free was the only comment made by Assistant States Attorney William F. McLaughlin, who prosecuted the case alone after the withdrawal of Royce Woods, who was called as a material witness. Beautiful but not dumb, for she had talked incessantly two different versions of the shooting before she came to trial, and the third one when she took the stand yesterday was the charm We both grabbed for the gun under the glare of the motion

picture lights. A newsweekly Beulah took the stand and yet another new dress, navy twill, tied to the side with a childlike more Beaux with new necklace of crystalline jet. She made her as an actress, and the jury laughingly nominated the youngest of their sheikhs as a Rudolph for the Titian haired Sheiba more calm than she was Friday. She answered the questions in her childlike Southern voice and turned innocent, pleading eyes to the jury and attorney. Question did you

shoot this man? Answer? I did? Question why? Answer because he was going to shoot me? Simply, she told the story of Coolstad's morning visit to her apartment after her husband had gone to work, of his attempt to borrow six dollars from her for booze, and of the subsequent return that

afternoon with two quarts of moonshine. I saw he was drunk and begged him to go, but he refused and asked me to take a drink first, so I did, just to get him to leave, but he still wouldn't go, though I begged him to told him my husband might come home and that he would shoot us both. Question and what did you say to that? He said, to how with your husband? Then he insisted that I'd

take another drink, and I did. Then he said let's have a little jazz and we played the Victrola and then and then he said come on into the bedroom, and I refused and begged him to go, and finally I told him. She faltered and sent an appealing glance to her attorney. Yes, said mister Scott Stewart, encouragingly, Go ahead, Beulah, tell the

jury. She closed her eyes a moment, then went bravely on. I told him of my delicate condition, but he refused to believe me and boasted that another woman had fooled in that way, and then he had done time in the penitentiary for her. And I said, you'll do another And he said you'll never send me back. And I said, I'll call my husband and he'll shoot us both. Question what did he say to that? Answer? He said, where is that damn gun? Question? Then what did

he do? Answer? He started for the bedroom. Question how did you reach the bedroom? Answer? Maybe he was a step ahead of me, and by the time we got to the bed, I was even with him. He grabbed for it. I reached for it and got it first. Then he put up his hand and said, by god, I'll kill you yet. Question Then what did he do? Answer? He started towards me, and I pushed his shoulder with my left hand and shot. She closed

her eyes, her face pale under the glare of the movie lights. In horror of the picture, and weakly describing the details of the shooting, She told how she had wiped his face, had turned off the grating phonograph record, and had sunk down in a daze beside the body. She denied having called Betty Bergman the afternoon of the murder, told again of her promise of immunity if she would make the statements to the police, and denied intimacy with

Kolstead. Thoroughly poised under direct questioning, she was a trifle nonplussed by the opening attack of the prosecution. In cross questioning for mister McLaughlin tried to establish the fact that her story had been framed by her attorneys, but she rallied when it came to the story itself, and was only slightly daunted when he pointed out that it was remarkable that she should be a step behind Colstead in the getaway, have the outside track, and yet beat him to the gun.

One by one, he read her the questions and answers she had made at the Hyde Park police station the night of the murder, in which she confessed to killing the man after a jealous quarrel. She searched him with her shallow eyes, What was back of it all? When you were asked? This? Was this your answer? I don't remember, No, I did not. One by one she repudiated every statement in the confession, burying the defiance of her no with the childishly petulant I don't remember. That's my story

and I'll stick to it. Was her attitude, and she did till she stepped down demurely from the witness stand, with the settled complacency of a schoolgirl who had set her piece, and under the glare of the movie lights. Missus Mary Neil, her mother, was called by the defense as a sympathy witness. Her dark eyes were drawn and mouth set as she answered a few simple questions as to her name, relationship to the defendant, et cetera.

All Her faithful husband marched briskly to the stand, but he was not permitted to testify on account of his relationship with her. Roy C. Woods, originally a prosecutor in the case, was called by the state as a rebuttal witness to refute Missus Annan's testimony that he had promised her immunity if she would confess to him. Question did you say to Beula Anne and that you would help her if she would keep Wilcox's Colstad's brother in law's name out of it?

Answer? I did not. Question did you tell her it was no crime for her to shoot a man in her own house? Answer most certainly not. Question did you tell her that she couldn't frame anything with you? Answer? I did Beulis sat with bowed head through the state's opening argument,

in which mister McLaughlin pointed out the weak points in her story. That a woman should try to soothe the man who was threatening to attack her by drinking with him, that he knew where the gun was in a totally strange house, that he was shot in the back. You have seen that faced, gentleman. It's probable that she hadn't had many men tell her to go to hell, and that was why she went for the gun. The prosecutor told the jury his main argument was hinged on the credibility of the witness, who

had made three entirely different statements to the jury. William Scott Stewart read line by line the confessions and demonstrated the third degree methods that were used to obtain them. Then Beulah, the tender hearted slayer, broke into gentle sobs. She had played the big trolla while a man she murdered lay dying. She had laughed at his inquest. She had sat calm and composed while they read

descriptions of the crime. But she broke down when she heard her attorney's impassioned account of the sufferings she had undergone at the hands of the police and assistant States Attorneys who questioned her for statements. And again she was overcome with emotion when mister O'Brien painted the picture of this frail little girl gentleman struggling with a drunken brute, and the jury shook their heads in approbation and chewed their gum

more energetically. The verdict in your hands was the voice of the people's prosecutor. And you must decide whether you will permit a woman to commit a crime and let her go because she is good looking. You must decide whether you want to let another pretty woman go out and say I got away with it,

And they did. June fourth, nineteen twenty four, Belvit Gartner, charged with the murder of Walter Law, was a perfect lady yesterday and Judge Lindsay's court as she faced four of the jurors who will decide whether she really did shoot the young auto salesman found dead in her sedan March twelve. For the lady was so dead drunk after a night of jin and jazz at the

Gingham End, that she doesn't remember. And another woman studied the jurors a sweet faced woman in heavy mourning Missus Walter Law, who did not know Belve existed until they met at the slain man's inquest, and of the two, she seemed more concerned. Cabaret dancer and twice divorcee, Missus Gardner was as demure as any convent girl, with brown eyes dreamily cast downward. Her lips

were closed in a not quite smile. The contour of her cheek was unbroken by lines, and the rejuvenating rouge made her well on the dangerous side of thirty, said one ardent court fan. Say she's got the Anning girls skinned a mile, said another. Not so pretty, but more class class. That was Belva, for she lived up to her reputation as the most stylish

of Murderous's row. A blue twill suit bound with black braid and white lacy frill down the front, patent leather slippers with shimmering French heels, chiffon gun metal hose, and a hat ah that hat helmet shape with a silver buckle and cockade of ribbon, with one streamer tied jauntily, coquettishly bewitchingly under her chin. Assistant State's Attorney Samuel Hamilton asked a prospective juror, would you let a stylish hat make you find her not guilty? He staunchly answered no,

and solemnly agreed that sex should have no part in the verdict. Missus Gardner spoke only once, a whisper to her attorney, Thomas Nash. Then he asked the jurors, would you be prejudiced if it should developed that the lady

had been drinking that evening? The prospective jurors assured him that they wouldn't, and the questioning went merrily on to find a hat proof, sexproof, and damp jury who would also accept circumstantial evidence as conclusive, for there were no witnesses, just a man found dead slumped over the steering wheel of missus Gardner's car, a bullet and his head from her pistol left lying on the sedan floor, and the woman herself in her apartment at forty eighth nine Forestville Avenue,

hysterical, disheveled and drenched with blood. She is expected to take the stand in her own behalf, and the defense loss of memory will at least be unique. She's as guilty as kitty Mam, said assistant State's attorney Harry Pritzker, who won a verdict of life against the Tiger Girl, and I hope to send her over the same road. The state thus far has not qualified the jurors for the death sentence, though they indicated it may be asked

lay. A charge of manslaughter was also included in the indictment, so that if the state fails to show an intent to kill, she may be found guilty on the lesser charge. June fifth, nineteen twenty four, Belvit Gartner, the lady who was so drunk she doesn't remember, registered virtuous calm as the state opened its case in an attempt to prove her guilty of murdering Walter

Law. Her sultry eyes never lost their dreaminess as policemen described the dead body slumped over the wheel of her nash sedan, the matted hair around the wound, the blood that dripped in pools, and her revolver and fifth of gin lying on the floor. Her sensuous mouth kept its soft curves as they told of finding her in her apartment with blood on her coat, blood on her dress of green velvet and silver cloth, and blood on the silver slippers.

Calm and poised, but her slim French heeled shoes, beat the floor, twitched nervously, and crossed and recrossed himself. Those twinkling feet had danced her into Overbeck's heart when she was bell brown cabaret girl, and that had carried her to and from a bridle path romance with Gartner, a wealthy manufacturer, that had stolen her into a palship with the young married man, and then to a murder trial. Doctor Joseph Springer, coroner's physician, was called as

the first witness for the state. He testified to examining the body at four fifty five the morning of March twelfth, and stated that there were no powder burns near the wound where the bullet had entered near the right temple quote. A gun must be held within fifteen inches or so to make powder burns unquote. Assistant State's Attorney Samuel Hamilton asked, from the absence of these, is it your opinion that he did not shoot himself? The answer was he did

not. In cross questioning, Michael Ahearn, counsel for the defense, tried to get the doctor to place the pistol at the presumed angle and distance while he posed as law committed suicide. In cross questioning, Michael Ahern, counsel for the defense, tried to get the doctor to place the pistol at the presumed angle and distance while he posed as law committed suicide. He clicked the revolver, said, mister ahearn there you see, he could have killed himself.

Doctor Springer answered crisply he could not. He also identified the gin bottle which was found lying on the floor of the car. Belve's jury, selected for their lack of prejudice in favor of the Volstad act. Peped up a bit at the sight of this, and Valve herself leaned forward, but it was empty. Sergeants Quinn and Patrolman Fitzgerald told of finding the dead body and

of tracing the owner of the car by the license number. Detective William Sullivan went to the owner's address, he said, and found missus Gardner in a bathrobe with the blood drenched clothes on the floor. She couldn't shake her head nor nod approvingly at the testimony, for she doesn't remember, but she could show impatience as the officer floundered and is describing her clothes, but to his relief, they were admitted in evidence, the mashed hat and rumpled coat,

the one more struggle than I'm free dress, and the flimsy slippers. According to doctor Springer and the police officers, missus Gardner when they talked to her, was sober early that morning. Burt Brown, floorman at the Gingham Inn, was also called to prove this point. He said that Law and missus Gardner had come to the inn at sixty eighth Street and Cottage Grove Avenue five or six times previous to the night of the shooting, and that evening had

arrived about ten o'clock and stayed an hour and a half. According to his statement, the Gingham In is matched in dryness only by the Sahara. No liquor is sold there, no liquor is brought there, no liquor is displayed there on the table, floor or undercover. Consequently, the couple who arrived sober must have left in the same condition, flared the Council for the defense.

You're saying that to protect the place where you're employed. The statement missus Gardner had made at the police station early that morning was ruled out by Judge Lindsay, but Sergeant William Egan testified as to the points she had been questioned on. Quote, She in law was at her house at nine o'clock that night, and when they left for the Gingham Inn, she got her ex husband's gun for fear of a hold up and put it in the pocket of

the car. Unquote, with similar a plumb. Missus Gardner, the most stylish of murderous's row, fastened her choker, gathered up her white kid gloves as court was adjourned and swept out. June sixth, nineteen twenty four. Belvit Gartner, another of those women who messed things up by adding a gun to her fondness for gin and men, was acquitted last night at twelve ten

o'clock of the murder of Walter Law. So drunk she didn't remember whether she shot the man found dead in her sedan at Forest Avenue and fiftieth Street on March twelfth, but after six and one half hours and eight ballots, the jury said she didn't. Missus Gardner lost the emotionless poise she maintained throughout the trial, burst into hysterical laughter, threw her arms around her attorneys, and thanked the jury as she exclaimed over and over oh I'm so happy, so

happy, and I want to hurry out now and get some air. She left at once to get her elaborate wardrobe from the jail, and from there went home with her sister, Missus Charles Krushar. Sometime within the next month, she said she will remarry her divorced husband, William Gartner, the wealthy

manufacturer, and they will sail for Europe to forget all this. But there's a woman who won't forget, Missus freed de Law, widow of the slain man, who half fainted when the verdict was read and crept away to sob in the arms of her sister. There's no justice in Illinois, no justice Walter paid. Why shouldn't she women? Just women, was the laconic comment of the Assistant State's Attorney, Harry Pritzker. The crowd said, why did

they wait so long? That's what Belvit Gardner asked herself as she smoked cigarettes and paced the floor of the bullpen while the jury not six feet away deliberated whether she had murdered Walter Law. And neither they nor the blase divorcee, Cook County's most stylish defendant knew that Judge Lindsey had ruled when the defense asked for the Noel Pross quote, I haven't the power to tell the state's attorney

what to do, and therefore deny the motion. But if the jury should bring in a verdict of guilty, I'm confident the Supreme Court would reverse the decision, as the evidence is only circumstantial, strong enough to arouse suspicion of guilt, but not to convict. The state has not made its case. Was the attitude of the defense, represented by Nation Ahearn and Marshall Solberg, who waived their opening statement, rested without offering a single witness, and waived

closing argument. The jury, who had heard only the state's plea for a just verdict, listened gravely, and the court fanned sleepily to the instructions of the judge with their droning rhythm. Beyond all reasonable doubt, you shall find a defendant not guilty. But they all sat alert when he reached the age of the defendant about thirty eight, and turned to stare at the slim,

youthfully rounded creature who never looked prettier. And she wore a new dress, cafe ola braided in black with bell shaped sleeves and deep cuffs that clung in soft folds to her body, and the close hat of a deeper brown matched her eyes, and the mink choker softened the lines of her throat. Only the hands, with their Rosalie tinted nails, showed her age and nervousness as she played with her gloves and fur, while the state attempted early in the

day to prove that she was not too drunk to remember. Arthur Quodbach, proprietor of the Ginghamn at sixty eight hundred Cottage Grove Avenue, and his head waiter, William F. Leathers, testified concerning the sobriety of Law and Missus Gardner while they were in the cafe the night he was killed. Perfectly sober was Quotdebox's statement, said Leathers, I wish I always had been as sober

as they were that night. Following testimony by the widow Missus free to Law establishing the corpus delecti, the case went to the journey June seventh, nineteen twenty four, not guilty for Belle. The Gartner brought joy to her playmates in the county jail and made hope spring a little higher in the hearts of

the remaining women killers, only Sabella Nitty mourned. Poor Sabella, who chopped her husband up one day, assisted by a rumor the state charges her greeting to visitors used to be me choke, which being interpreted reads I'm sentenced to hang, and now she waits a new trial. Each acquittal brings pangs of comparison to her. She have gun, she shoot, she go free me no gun, no shoot me here. Over a year, only four women, the fewest in years, are now waiting trial for murder, and they're

getting out even faster than they're getting in. And the two who walk to freedom. In the last two weeks, pretty Beulah Annon and stylish Velve Gardner, robbed the women's quarters of their claims to distinction and plunged murders's row into oblivion. Two of those left are colored, many Nichols and Rose Ups. The other two, Sabella Nitty and Leelah Foster, are middle aged and well.

Neither is accused with the grace or the beauty of Diana. Then two Bulah and Belve killed young men friends, and these ladies only bumped off their husbands so they can't hope for publicity, maybe not even acquittal. They'll be given the same chance with the other weapons of defense that the other women have had. Powder, rouge, lipstick, and mascara. Makeup is taboo, and jail only soap and water is permitted until those testing days when they face

the twelve good men and true. Then begins the fashion show. For each woman is firmly convinced that clothes make the man look more. Sympathetically, shops and dresses on approval. Friends bring in frocks of their own, and anxious lawyers borrow from their wives for their clients. They study every effect, turn and change, and who can say it's time wasted? But these girls will lack the advice of Belve, known even in some other circles as an expert

in dress. The place ain't the same without her, they mourn, for she was the best dancer, the best card player among them. It's true she was a little well, not industrious, and hired other girls to wash out her clothes and iron them on the wall. She lets Sabella take care of her neat little bunk, But that's over now, and they wish her happiness on her European trip to forget it all, mused one girl. Funny the way they take it. As soon as Beulah was out, she up

and left poor al, cold and flat. And now Belva rushes off to a wedding, married him once and that was annulled, married him again and got a divorce. Third time's a charm. Missus Gardner, who is resting up for a few days with her sister, declared a terrible strain, but she looks one hundred percent better after her three months rescuer in jail epilogue,

March eighteenth, nineteen twenty eight. For nearly a year, New York Audience's Nightly watched Roxy Heart, Chicago's most Beautiful, Murderous, sardonically get away with murder in Maureen Watkins's searching play Chicago, Forgive Them if they smiled in Faint Amusement. Chicago, to the New Yorker, is a hinterland where anything can happen. Chicago saw the play, too, and audiences here were apt to smile indulgently as Roxy Heart shot her boyfriend of the moment, then played raucous

jazz on a tiny gramophone in burlesque Requiem. They smiled too, when her poor sap of a husband spent his last cent in her defense to be rewarded on her acquittal by being divorced. They grinned broadly when Roxy contentedly pasted into long strips newspaper columns of publicity given her lavishly by the gentlemen of the press

Chicago knows itself, a few did not smile. They knew roxy Heart, They knew her in real life as bulah Annan, And today the bulah Annan who is Roxy Heart is dead and buried in the Kentucky town where she was born. Ironically, missus Annan, who is known wherever newspapers are read as Cook County's most beautiful murderous, received not one line in passing she who had known hundreds of thousands of lines of flattering publicity. Just four years ago,

Chicago's sensational press raved over beulah Annan. They told how she married her sweetheart Harry Kolstett in her apartment and then played jazz on a tiny gramophone for hours before she thought to call her husband and tell him what she'd done. Albert Anne and rush to her defense, even tried to claim he killed Colstett, but Beulah enjoyed the story of the jazz records, as recorded at length in the papers, more than she valued her freedom. She only boasted about it.

Only one defense did she offer. We were all gemmed up, and her husband spent practically every cent he had to secure her freedom. On the strength of that defense. He won, then he lost. In August nineteen twenty six, two years after she killed her playmate, Beulah divorced her husband. The irony of it was good for a play in the papers for a while, and then forgotten. Bulah leaped back into print last June when she married Edward Harlb, a pugilist, and back again three months later when she

divorced him. Harry Annen was too slow, Edward Harley was uncongenial. Then she dropped from view a week ago. Dorothy Stephens died of tuberculosis at the age of thirty two in the Chicago Fresh Air Hospital. Some days later, her body was taken to a little town of Glenville in the Green River Valley of Kentucky and buried at home. Dorothy Stephens was Bulah Annon, and not

a single line was printed on her death. It only became known when brief dispatches from Glenville recorded that Beulah Annon had been Bullah Stephens before she came up to the big time, and there was even more irony in the passing of the most beautiful murderers. Maureen Watkins, who used almost without effort at disguise Buella's entire story for the annex of roxy Heart. She used her again a few weeks ago in another setting, this time in a story Butterfly Goes Home,

told again the story of roxy Heart alias Bulahanne. It told of her play and the lights, her death and obscurity, her burial in the little town where she was born, So Bula Anne and died in obscurity, and the Butterflies Gone Home with not even ten lines of print to be clipped and pasted to the string of the other story, not even as a climax. Valvet Gardner did reconcile with her husband, although there were further allegations of infidelity

and more divorce proceedings initiated in court. They remained married until his death in the nineteen forties. Than she moved to California to live with her sister, where she died in nineteen sixty five. At the age of eighty. That was Jin Jazz Guns The Real Chicago Murderers called from the historic pages of the Chicago Tribune, the New York Daily News, and other newspapers of the era. You can hear more about Bulah and Velvis cellmate Sabelle and Nitti in True

Crime Historian episode two hundred and thirty, The Ugly Duckling Murderers. True Crime Historian is a creation of popular Media. Keep your ears open for popular media's newest creation, Catastrophic Calamities, coming soon at www dot Calamities dot us. Or radio journalists Susan Firman ask the age old question what could go wrong?

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dot patreon dot com slash true Crime Historian. Just a bucket episode reserves your bunk at the safehouse and gives you access to exclusive content and whatever personal services you require. Opening theme by Nico Vitessi. All that jazz music's been licensed from podcast music dot Com. Closing theme by Dave Sam and Rachel Shott, engineered by David Hish at Third Street Music. Media management by Sean Miller.

Joe And as for me, while I'm still true crime historian Richard O. Joe signing off for now,