Golden Age Gals – My 52 Weeks With Christie

Golden Age Gals: Iris Little, A Real Life Mystery & Tangential Crime

March 31, 2024February 9, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

About the time Constance and Gwenyth fade from sight, their youngest sibling comes into view.

While included in a couple of U.S. censuses and passenger records in various ports of call, the youngest of the Little’s brood, Iris, doesn’t really come into focus until becoming the 1934 Women’s Table Tennis Champion. At this tournament, or perhaps the one the year before, Iris met her future husband Sydney Heitner (who’d won the men’s single division in 1933 and the mixed doubles in 1935). The two would marry sometime around 1935 (and definitely before 1938, as her father’s obituary uses her married name).

Fast forward to 1950.

Iris and Sydney are living at 32 Stephen Oval in Glen Cove, NY, with their two daughters — Jessie (age 9) and Sheryl (age 7), with a third baby (a boy later named Robert) on the way. Now 39 and an insurance broker, Sydney still participated in table tennis tournaments. One such contest drew him to New York City on March 30, 1950.

He never came home.

Detective John Quinn (of the Nassau County Missing Persons Squad), who’d been assigned the case, pinned down Sydney’s last confirmed sighting to a bar on 15th Street and Fifth in NYC. At first, Detective Quinn thought foul play of one kind or another occurred; however, as days passed, he found no evidence one way to the other. With all the available clues rapidly run to ground and the case growing colder by the day, the detective turned to the public for help.

On May 19, nearly three weeks after Sydney vanished into thin air, newspapers started running pieces citing the bare bones of the case and Sydney’s vital statistics.

Iris, undoubtedly warned of the impending publicity, “prostrate” at the disappearance of her husband, and pregnant — took herself and her daughters to Maplewood (New Jersey) to stay with one of her brothers. A move which not only spared Iris from answering the standard battery of intrusive questions from reporters — it also protected her from addressing the gossip her next-door neighbors were more than willing to dish about the couple.

Seems they told reporters Sydney and Iris recently “had a falling out”. Though the papers didn’t report what the pair argued over, Max Heitner (Sydney’s brother) refuted their claims by going on the record: “They have been married for 15 years and always appeared very happy.”

Speaking of Max, with Iris out of reach in New Jersey, her brother-in-law stepped into the informational breach. Supplying one reporter with Sydney’s photo and quote defending his sister-in-law in one breath…..…..And in the next, he provided the possible reason for such a marital clash to a different reporter.

According to the Brooklynn resident, he was the last friend or family member to see Sydney in the flesh. Admitting Sydney asked him to drop himself and a “beautiful tall” lady-friend off at the 69th Regiment Armory to watch a roller derby bout. Though he couldn’t recall her name, Max did say this unknown woman disclosed a love of rollerskating and the ownership of a black four-door Oldsmobile.

(BTW: From what I can suss out, the building hosting the roller derby is within walking distance from the bar where Detective Quinn said Sydney was last seen. So Max’s story could be true.)

Odder still, this wasn’t Max’s only conflicting account.

After declaring his brother without a single enemy in the world….Max admitted he could not entirely brush aside the notion Sydney was kidnapped. Nor could Max discount the idea of murder, theorizing some hitherto unknown professional rival could’ve done away with his brother over a deal Sydney was due to broker (the day after he melted into the ether) that would’ve netted him a million-and-a-half-dollar commission.

The only explanation Max summarily dismissed was the suggestion Sydney was off somewhere suffering from amnesia, saying, “…it had never occurred in his family.”

From the Office of Fairness: It’s more than likely Max was beside himself with worry over his brother’s unknown fate. I know I would be if a sibling of mine vanished with only the clothes on their back and the change in their pockets. Moreover, I could totally see myself struck with a case of verbal diarrhea, which inevitably would lead me to spout off every theory and bit of info, no matter how trivial, to reporters, hoping it would lead to a breakthrough in the case…..Even the stuff which might place an unflattering light upon them.

However, the Miss Marple living within my brain wonders if the variety pack of mismatched details Max flung like confetti at reporters was really meant to muddy the waters while his brother fled to a new life, possibly in Austria, where Max and Sydney’s family originally hailed from — or — according to a rumor printed in Table Tennis Magazine 45 years later, to Florida “…to risk being a freedom-minded cab driver. Later he died under strange circumstances. Or someone had heard.” (BTW: I have not been able to verify a word of this rumor.)

In any case, while not probable, it is just possible Max Heitner possessed the correct connections to hook Sydney up with forged documents, which allowed him to vanish without a trace……Seems, in the summer of 1940, Max Heitner and his wife met one Benjamin Tannenbaum while on vacation. Apparently, Benjamin and Max hit it off so well that by the time winter of 1941 rolled around, Tannenbaum was renting a room in Max’s apartment when he wasn’t on the road for work. Even better, Tannenbaum was an accountant and helped Max with the books for the apartment building he managed (and lived in) for his brother-in-law.

Everything was hunky-dory until 9:30pm on February 6, 1941.

That’s when Bertha Lipzitz heard a commotion coming from the Heitner’s apartment….followed by five gunshots. Waiting until she heard footsteps receding down the hallway, Bertha scurried down to the building’s super, who in turn called the police.

Entering Heitner’s home through an open window on the fire escape, police discovered signs of a struggle, a discarded blackjack, and Benjamin Tannenbaum’s dead body (with two bullet holes) in the apartment’s hallway and four-month-old Paulette Heitner, who Tannenbaum had been babysitting, asleep in her crib.

Police detectives thought the baby, who remained sound asleep under the watchful eye of a detective for the majority of their crime scene search, was the biggest surprise the night would hold….until the fingerprints of the dead man came back.

Pics of Louis “Lepke” Buchalter and Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro

It turns out the nice, polite, and respectable accountant was none other than Benjamin “Benny The Boss” Tannenbaum — the notorious strong-arm man and accountant for Louis “Lepke” Buchalter and Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro. A duo responsible for all kinds of crimes — including prostitution, racketeering, and the creation of Murder, Inc. (An enterprise that insulated organized crime families from the murders they wanted done by providing a fleet of unconnected contract killers, and zero paper trail.)

On the other side of the law at this point in time was Thomas E. Dewy. A special prosecutor for New York County whose sole job was to pursue, prosecute, and convict every member of the organized crime families operating in New York.

Apparently, Dewey was very good at his job.

Of course, this led to no small amount of paranoia amongst the upper echelons of these crime syndicates. Anyone whom the bosses even suspected might’ve spoken to Dewey (or a member of his crew) or was targetted by the lawyer for grooming as an informant was summarily executed.

Hence the fatal visit to Heitner’s apartment. (It’s unclear if any of the aforementioned particulars applied to Tannenbaum, but apparently, no one wanted to take the chance.)

By the time Max Heitner and his wife returned home to 40 Featherbed Lane in the Bronx, shortly before 2am (she from a visit with a friend and Max from the movies), their apartment, the building, and the surrounding neighborhood were crawling with police.

Unfortunately for Max, he’d been convicted on September 10, 1936, for “possession of policy slips” (basically, he was caught gambling and was given a $50 fine for it). This conviction allowed the police to arrest Max after they found two loaded revolvers in his apartment. An arrest that feels more than a little like a pretext so Dewey’s task force could tighten the screws on Max over his relationship with Tannenbaum, whom they thought “…had never been known to engage in any legitimate business unconnected with racketeering.”

And whilst I believe Max’s courtroom denial of being clueless about the loaded firearms in his home. I am highly skeptical of Max’s claim he’d no inkling of Tannenbaum’s employment or employers. (BTW: I don’t know if Max Heitner was convicted on the weapon’s charge or not. After reporting he made it out of police custody on February 9th or 10th on $2,500 bail, there’s nothing. At least that I could find.)

Hence, I think it’s possible but not probable Max had the connections to secure the fake papers Sydney would need to vanish without a trace nine years later.

Or maybe Sydney just walked out on his life — without anyone’s assistance. He wouldn’t be the first husband to abandon his family for a fresh start. Or maybe this unidentified “beautiful tall” woman overheard Sydney speaking to Max about the massive lumpsum he was coming into, missed the part where he said the deal was on the morrow, and lured Sydney away from the bar on 15th and 5th to a location where some less-than-savory confederates jumped him and, in the scuffle, accidentally killed him.

Ultimately, Sydney Heitner’s fate remains unknown.

At least to the public at large. Interestingly, on July 30, 1952 — Iris Heitner started divorce proceedings against Sydney, which suggests she believed Sydney was still alive somewhere since she didn’t simply wait a bit longer and have him declared legally dead. (Though that could’ve been due to family politics.)

And it’s within this unsettling interim period (1951 & 1952), Iris published her only two mysteries, Board Stiff and Death Wears Pink Shoes.

And just like that — Iris Little Heitner, Constance & Gwenyth Little, and all their mysteries faded from the public eye.

Golden Age Gals: The Little Sisters

March 24, 2024February 9, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

A pic of Constance Little!

The Little Sisters:

Constance B: September 18, 1899 Australia D: 1980
Gwenyth B: May 19, 1903 Australia D: 1985
Iris M. B: November 18, 1910 England D: 2003

Lives:

Okay, so here’s the dealio: Whilst doing research for this piece, I fell into a deep genealogical rabbit hole which, in a weird way, fired up my competitive streak…Since I, apparently, took the lack of information on the sisters Little as a personal challenge, which I had a very, very difficult time letting go of once I started! Moreover, I still feel a vague sense of frustration at my inability to locate their graves, obituaries, or, in fact, much of any info beyond 1950.

Be that as it may, here’s what I’ve been able to piece together.

One line I kept reading over and over again when researching the sisters Little was: “How little is known about their lives.” Two huge factors contributed to this informational vacuum: A. All three sisters wrote under pseudo-pseudonyms. & B. Their father’s (and later their own) predilection for globe-trotting.

First of all, researching any female early on in the twentieth century is challenging because when women married back then, they lost their names. In this case, Gwenyth Little became Mrs. Bernard Hemming-Jones after her marriage in August 1930, and Constance Little became Mrs. Lawrence Baker sometime after August 1938. (We know this because, in her father’s obituary published in the same month and year, Constance is referred to as Miss Constance Little whilst her sisters were listed by their ‘Mrs.’ names. A fine yet important distinction.)

Taking the name game to another level…Not only did the duo publish their mysteries under their “maiden” name Little — they swapped their given names for their middle ones! Legally, they were Jessie Constance and Norma Gwenyth. Now, in all likelihood, Constance probably went by her middle name for the majority of her life since she and her mother shared the same first name (Jessie). As for Gwenyth, your guess is as good as mine as to which name she favored outside her role as author.

(BTW: For the sake of clarity in this post, I’m going to stick to the names printed on their books — Constance & Gwenyth.)

We’ll get to Iris next week.

Armed with this info, I started verifying the facts in Carol Hetherington’s 2007 paper (Little Australians? Some Questions about national identity and the national literature) and the info included in the Rue Morgue Press’s reprints of the Constance & Gwenyth’s books. Scouring several vintage newspaper sites and genealogical sites, I started building a picture.

Their claim to have circumnavigated the globe three times does not appear to be an idle boast.

A postcard from back in the day!

Born in Sydney, Australia, to James F. Little and Jessie Gilchrist. Constance and Gwenyth also had two brothers, James A. and Robert. Sometime between 1906 and 1909, their dad announced he’d “…grown tired of Australia…” packed up his family and sailed for London, where he found work as a consulting actuary, and his last child, Iris, was born in 1910. From London, James F. took a job with the Mexican government and moved everyone to Mexico City. By the time 1911 rolled around, he’d accepted a position with Prudential in New York City and set sail once again.

Finally, by 1915, the Little family settled in Maplewood, New Jersey. (Though in 1924 James F., Jessie, Constance, Gwenyth, and Iris returned to Australia for a visit — and whilst on the way back and forth they visited Wellington (NZ), Rarotonga, Pago-Pago, Honolulu, and Los Angeles.)

Then, sometime prior to 1926 (as that’s when they returned home), both Constance and Gwenyth were sent to England for an education. This is where Gwenyth undoubtedly met her husband, Captain Bernard Hemming-Jones — and in 1930, both sisters would again hop onto a steamer and set sail for London, with one returning as a Mrs. Bernard Hemming-Jones.

In January 1930, Constance petitioned for her naturalization papers (which is where I found her photo) and became a US citizen in 1932. Norma would petition for her papers in 1938 (though there’s no photo with her application).

At this point, I lost track of Constance and Gwenyth in the genealogical records. However, this is when they started writing their ‘Black’ series.

Writing:

Unlike many mysteries, these do not share the same detective. Instead, these stand-alone books share similar features:

All fall within the screwball genre of detective fiction.
All the sleuths are female, with tangential male figures involved.
All minor and major plot points are wrapped up in a neat bow at the end of the book.
All have a great sense of humor to counterbalance the somewhat bloody murders happening off-stage.
All, other than The Grey Mist Murders, use the color ‘black’ in the title and have a corresponding ‘black’ clue.

According to one interview, all the books Constance and Gwenyth wrote were written in bed as “Chairs give one backaches.” Their writing partnership, whilst constantly evolving as things do, started with Constance giving Gwenyth detailed plot outlines and Gwenyth fleshing out the final drafts.

Books:

These reprinted dust jackets are available for purchase here.

Published under the Pseudonyms: Constance & Gwenyth Little and Conyth Little (in some UK versions)

1^st Books: Grey Mist Murders &The Black-Head Pins (1938)
Last: The Black Iris (1953)
No. of Books In Series: 21 novels & at least 1 short story Setting: U.S. & Australia

Iris Published Under the Pseudonym: Robert James (An amalgamation of her two brothers’ first names.)

Board Stiff (1951) & Death Wears Pink Shoes (1952)

Mystery Review: Murder is a Collector’s Item

March 17, 2024February 9, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

For the last few months, I’ve been in a reading drought.

Nothing I’ve picked up since Tress Of The Emerald Sea really hit home in the same way as Tress, her quest, and her collection of teacups. This immediate attention grab, for which Brandon Sanderson is adept at creating, rendered other books pale and uninteresting by comparison…or I’m tired of having to wear reading glasses every time I pick up a book these days.

It could be two things, I suppose.

In any case, when writing about a Golden Age Gals, I always secure at least one book by said author in order to form my own opinion on their writing.

And let me tell you, this book — finally — burst my funk!

Murder is a Collector’s Item is an outstanding read! Not only does it hold up well against today’s eye, the humorous (though not screwball) mystery is engaging and believable.

What I appreciate, above and beyond the well-placed zingers, dry humor, and a mystery that Plays Fair, is Elizabeth Dean’s conscious effort to put Emma Marsh front and center. The majority of the mystery is told from Emma’s perspective. Even better, Dean doesn’t gloss over the foibles of a twenty-something female living on her own. The science experiments growing in the back of the icebox, clothes strewn across the bedroom floor, a habitually unmade bed, and dusty dishes sitting in a cupboard — are all things I understand. (And grown out of. Mostly. Though, that fridge science is a tough one to beat.) However, with my twenty-sixth birthday well and truly in the review mirror, this glimpse back into the past made me laugh.

I delighted in watching three separate investigation threads, whose ultimate goals varied slightly from one another, all propelled the mystery forward. Emma’s pure logic and luck (both bad and good) balanced well against her boyfriend’s application of the psychology angle, which was tempered by the Boston cop’s practical and pragmatic approach to the crimes.

Moreover, I enjoyed watching Emma balance the stresses of her job. The battle of wits when trying to pitch the possible perfect (for them) item to a dithering customer, dealing with the foibles of a temperamental boss who you love (platonically) to bits but occasionally want to strangle with your bare hands, and the competative thrill of unearthing a gem from a rubbish heap you can sell for an order of magnitude more than what you paid for it. These are just some of the things I miss about my time at the book and record shops I once worked in. Plus, it’s fun to imagine how I’d balance my job duties against trying to suss out a murderer — something I never found myself needing to do.

I would happily recommend reading Murder is a Collector’s Item to anyone looking for a mystery on the lighter side. It’s not a cozy, but the murder(s) do take place off-stage, and the dry wit is precisely measured, so it only adds to the story without distracting.

Seriously, it is worth the few extra clicks to find a used copy hanging out in the corners of the interwebs — I don’t think you’ll be sorry!

Golden Age Gals: Rotary Jails & A Mystery Writer

March 10, 2024February 9, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

Did you know there were such structures as rotary jails? Me either!

This short-lived fad in jail design was thought up by William H. Brown and built by Haugh, Ketcham & Co. during the late 1880s. Whilst it’s unclear how many of these rotary jails were actually built (the lowest count being seven, the highest eighteen), only three remain standing today. A one-story version located in Crawfordsville (Indiana), a two-story model in Gallatin (Missouri), and a three-story type in Council Bluffs (Iowa).

Don’t know what they look like? Well, first, toss aside all the images of the inside of Alcatraz and most prison movies you’ve got rattling around inside your head.

Now imagine a Merry-Go-Round.

Subtract all the horses, the odd stationary benches, the calliope, mirrors, and fun. Now, divide the bare platform into wedge-shaped rooms with a central shaft in the middle. Enclose the entire equally divided platform in a stationary floor-to-ceiling circular cage that sports a single gap. Finally, plunge beneath the round cell block’s floors into a small room that holds a hand crank. This mechanism allowed a single officer to rotate the platform upon which the cells rested, granting one cell access to the ingress/egress opening at a time.

The rotary jail in Council Bluffs, the largest of the three still standing, has ten cells per platform and can house two men per cell. In its heyday, the Pottawattamie County Jail could hold up to thirty men at a time. (Women had separate “accommodations”.)

And much like the Titanic, whose promoters labeled it unsinkable — rotary jails were touted as escape proof.

You can see where this is going.

The year after it was constructed (1888), the Pottawattamie County Jail saw its first jailbreak, another a couple years later, and yet another in 1902. The first two were accomplished by sawing through the bars across a window in a common area, and in the last, the inmates picked a lock, overcame the warden (and his wife), and scampered out. A different rotary jail saw two men bust through a metal plate next to the toilet in their cell, climb down the central shaft, then escape through an attached root cellar.

Despite the “escape proof-ness” not holding up well against the ingenuity of men with plenty of time on their hands, it did succeed in another of William H. Brown’s design aims — limiting contact between prisoners and jailers. To this end, thanks to the spaciousness of the central shaft, each cell was plumbed for and installed with a toilet. Thereby eliminating one of the most frequent interactions between an inmate and a warden.

Unfortunately, access to your own whizz station was about the only upside for the inmates living within a rotary jail. (Until the plumbing started acting up, which, according to the info I found, happened A LOT.)

While designed with maximum protection for guards in mind, the architect let prisoner safety fall by the wayside. Not only did the placement of the crank below the block of prison cells make it difficult (if not impossible) for someone to operate it in the event of a fire. Thereby rendering this style of jail a death trap for prisoners as well as any jailer trying to rescue them. The crank’s location, together with the noise of the moving platform, also ensured whoever operated it was out of earshot of any screams emanating from above.

I am not kidding.

Apparently, the stationary nature of the cage/bars surrounding the movable cells meant if a prisoner dangled a finger, foot, arm, or other appendage through the motionless bars when the floor started rotating and wasn’t fast enough pulling their limb back within the cell — said extremity would be crushed at best and amputated at worst.

What’s even more grim? Depending on the limb caught in the bars, it could cause the mechanism to seize up until removed. Leaving a prisoner with a horrific injury and unable to receive medical attention.

Speaking of the rotation mechanism, it’s what signed the death warrant on William H. Brown’s design. As every single one failed within the first few years of being constructed. Despite extensive remodeling and retrofitting (which usually saw the mechanism permanently disabled and the addition of doors to every cell), all the rotary jails were condemned by 1939.

Save for Pottawattamie County Jail.

A pic of the jail in Council Bluffs from the Des Moines Register in 1972.

Its rotation mechanism limped along until the mid-nineteen-sixties, when it too was sabotaged by city employees after the jailers were unable to retrieve an inmate’s corpse for two days after he passed away of natural causes in his cell. Despite overcoming this nightmarish event and the twenty-two other times one official or another condemned it — the last working rotary jail in the country was finally closed in December 1969…..

…..And in steps Elizabeth Dean, the mystery writer behind Murder is a Collector’s Item. An avid and active member in the Historical Society of Pottawattamie County, Elizabeth helped convince town officials the “Squirrel County Jail” (as it was known by the locals) would be a good tourist draw due to its uniqueness.

After she (and others) saved it from the wrecking ball, Elizabeth converted the jail’s pantry into an exhibit area and added some of her own antiques to fill out the display. Elizabeth then ensured its popularity by booking tours and selling tickets!

Golden Age Gals: Elizabeth Dean

March 3, 2024March 1, 2024Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

“Alcohol is a poor adhesive for a broken heart.” – Murder is a Collector’s Item

B: 1901 New York City, NY D: 1985 Council Bluffs, Iowa

Life:

Born Elizabeth Harriet Baker, Liz (as she preferred to be called) graduated from Pembroke College (now part of Brown University) and obtained her masters from Radcliffe College in Cambridge, Massachusetts. After which, I believe, she worked in George McMahon’s antique shop.

In July of 1923, Liz married Abbot Dean and moved to his hometown of Council Bluffs, Iowa.

Six-ish years after giving birth to a son, Abbott Wilson Dean, Liz’s first book was published. She’d go on to write two more, plus short stories and essays, whilst living in Council Bluffs. However, sometime after Liz’s third book was written but before it was published, around 1943 or 1944 — Liz’s husband, Dr. Abbott Dean (now a trained ophthalmologist), was called back into the Navy (or was a career Navy man, it’s unclear) and was stationed near Pensacola, Florida, for the duration of WWII.

According to her son, in the Rue Morgue Press edition of Murder is a Collector’s Item, this massive change of home addresses disrupted Liz’s writing to the point where she could no longer capture the bright spark of Emma Marsh, ending the series after three novels.

Interestingly enough, Liz used the royalties of her first book to fill her home in Council Bluffs with antiques, which she later showed to the community during tours given via the Historical Society — of which she was a member. Liz’s other investment with her book royalties was in purebred Aberdeen Angus cattle, which she kept at her (and her husband’s) ranch in Colorado. Where, to escape some (apparently) awful seasonal allergies, Liz spent several sunny months at each year.

After Abbott left the Navy, he and Liz settled back in Council Bluffs, where she worked tirelessly for the Historical Society until her death in 1985.

Writing:

Liz’s first book, Murder is a Collector’s Item, started life as a piece of foolishness amongst friends. Apparently, one of Liz’s circle proposed they all write a work of fiction around 20,000 words in length and bring it around to the group one month later. Liz was the only one who finished by deadline day, and all her friends enjoyed it so much that they encouraged her to expand it to 80,000 words and submit it to a publisher.

It took a year to finish, but once it was, Doubleday’s Doran Crime Club happily printed it in 1939.

Liz drew on her own experiences working at an antique shop in Boston to aid in the realism of the setting in Murder is a Collector’s Item and based her fictional character, Jeff Graham, on her former boss, George McMahon. Liz’s third novel, one of the first to explicitly use Colorado as its setting, was based on Dean’s summers spent on the ranch she’d named “Buckshot”.

As for her writing method, Liz’s a woman after my own heart — knowing only the setting, the culprit, and the inciting incident that sets the mystery in motion, Liz would sit down at her typewriter “…and stare at the blank paper until I write something just to relive the monotony.”

Books: