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Crime & Christie: George Remus’s Ethical Elasticity

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Okay, so here’s the thing, before I go into the last feature of interest of Louisa Lindloff’s murder trial, we need to take a closer look at her lawyer, George Remus. 

About seven after Louisa Lindloff’s trial: George relocated to Ohio and remade himself into a Prohibition-era rum-runner — after realizing how much more money he could make being a bootlegger versus defending them in court. Using his skills as a former pharmacist whilst applying his law degree, Remus found/utilized a loophole in the Volstead Act to make millions from both legitimate and illicit whiskey sales. 

Predictably, the King of Bootleggers’ business plan rapidly pinged the police’s radar.

On May 17, 1922: George was found guilty of violating the aforementioned Act and sentenced to two years in Atlanta’s federal prison.

Now, according to George Remus, this is what went down next: While serving his sentence, Franklin L. Dodge Jr., an undercover prohibition agent, managed to prise from George the information that he’d given his second wife, Imogene Holmes, power of attorney over his dream home, vast fortune, and bootlegging operation. (George’s first wife divorced him after discovering he was carrying on with Imogene on the side.) However, rather than reporting this juice tidbit to his superiors, Franklin supposedly resigned his post and promptly seduced Imogene.

At this point, the pair proceeded to liquidate George’s personal and professional assets. Secreting away the resulting money from both the government and George. 

Understandably fearful of retribution, Imogene and Franklin began plotting. First, Franklin attempted to persuade his former colleagues to deport George back to Germany, where he originally hailed from. When that scheme crashed and burned, the two turned to violence and hired a hitman. However, said assassin, apparently afraid of being double-crossed, kept the $15,000 fee and briefed Remus about the plan instead. 

Fully aware of George’s mounting fury and at wit’s end, Imogene and Franklin went into hiding. Unfortunately, this strategy conflicted with the divorce proceedings Imogene initially filed for on August 25, 1925 (two days before George was released from Federal Prison). Due to several lengthy delays, the dissolution date was finally set for October 6, 1927. 

A few hours before she was due in court, Imogene and her teenage daughter (not fathered by George) left their Cincinnati Hotel and hailed a cab. On her way to her lawyer’s office, Imogene spotted George and his chauffeur following them. 

When traffic unexpectedly slowed to a crawl around Eden Park and/or George’s chauffeur forced the cab into the parking lane (it’s unclear from what I read which way it happened), Imogene panicked. Leaving her daughter in the relative safety of the cab, Imogene hopped out and fled into the public park. Unwilling to let his quarry flee, George flew from his ride whilst shouting four-letter epithets at Imogene’s retreating form.

In short order, George caught up with his estranged wife and, before anyone could intervene, George shot Imogene in the abdomen. A wound she would die from the same day, despite being rushed to hospital by good Samaritans and surgeons doing their level best to save her.

Obviously, George went on trial for Imogene’s murder. 

Using ‘temporary insanity’, a defense George helped pioneer, he and his lawyer managed to secure a not-guilty by reason of insanity verdict. Though Ohio authorities committed him to a state-sanctioned asylum afterwards, George would only stay within its walls for a few months before being released. And, due to the ASA’s arguments during his trial, the courts would not allow the state to retry George for Imogene’s murder — leaving him free as a proverbial bird. (George would later go into real estate, marry his secretary, and die in 1952.)

Now, what does George’s sins have to do with the price of maple syrup in Canada? 

Well, in my estimation, it shows a degree of ethical elasticity. An understatement in light of Imogene’s murder, I know, but up until that point, it seems George was content following the same crooked path as Aristide Leonides.

Aristide Leonides being the pivotal character in Agatha Christie’s Crooked House. Who, amongst other things, habitually twisted the law to suit his needs. Thus allowing him to skate just this side of trouble as he never technically broke the law. A tactic George successfully employed whilst setting up and administering his rum-running racket.

That being said, an unscrupulous streak that eventually grows wide enough to condone murder needs to start somewhere — generally, with minor misdeeds. Which you can find in George’s history. While still in Chicago, in April of 1913, George was officially charged of trying to bribe a witness during a divorce case, and in 1917, he was accused of conspiring to extort $15,000 from a prominent banker for breach of promise.

Though neither episode, as far as I can tell, resulted in any disciplinary action — the Illinois Supreme Court did disbar George on October 6, 1922 after his bootlegging conviction.

This moral malleability, I believe, reared its ugly head during Louisa Lindloff’s trial in October/November of 1912. For you see, until the morning of October 26, Assistant States Attorneys Lowe & Smith considered Ms. Sadie Ray their star witness. As Louisa’s housekeeper from approximately November of 1911 until Louisa’s arrest in June of 1912 — Sadie was on hand during Alma and Arthur’s last days. 

Though she didn’t testify before the Grand Jury, since the ASAs wanted some of their evidence to stay secret until trial, ASA Smith & Lowe did interview Sadie extensively behind closed doors. Where she told them, during her time at 2044 Ogden Avenue, that Louisa had not only predicted the date she would die — but advised Sadie to take out a life insurance policy naming Louisa as the beneficiary. After this conversation, which occurred only weeks before Arthur’s death, Sadie became seriously ill after eating a meal prepared by Louisa. Moreover, Sadie told the ASAs about the glasses of water Louisa gave Arthur, who in turn routinely complained about them being “sandy” and burning his throat. (FYI: Arsenic does not dissolve well in cold water, hence why the “sandiness” was so important.)

On October 26, 1912: However, when Sadie climbed into the witness chair, her testimony for the prosecution was lackluster at best.

Though she confirmed becoming sick after a meal at Louisa’s house and the insurance policy request, Sadie now recalled that Louisa only put the finishing touches on the dishes and that she’d actually prepared the bulk of the food. Sadie dulled her testimony about Arthur’s “sandy water” by tacking on that he was always “kicking off” about one thing or another during his final illness. When asked if she’d seen Louisa adding strange substances to Arthur’s food or refused to administer the medicine prescribed by his doctor, information the ASA’s seemed to expect affirmations of — Sadie replied, “I don’t remember.” 

Let down by her information and suspecting undue influence, someone (apparently) put Sadie under surveillance. 

October 29, 1912: This scrutiny that quickly bore fruit. When not only did one of Captain Baer’s men observe George Remus driving Sadie to court in his car, but (on another occasion) witnessed Sadie attempting to induce another state’s witness into accompanying her inside George Remus’s office building. When she refused, Sadie dashed into the building, returning minutes later with Remus in tow. Whereupon the legal professional began pressuring the witness to agree to testify that Louisa “had always been good to her family.” 

When Capt. Baer confronted Sadie in a courthouse hallway with this intelligence and threatened to arrest her — she was defiant. “I’m a poor girl…Why shouldn’t I take an automobile ride when I have the chance?…I haven’t tried to influence anybody. And nobody has tried to influence me.” As for George, he claimed Sadie was a family friend, and the ride to the courthouse was just a simple “courtesy.” 

The next day, George attempted to have Capt. Baer cited for contempt of court for trying to “intimidate” a witness. Although this gambit didn’t work, it did result in all the other state witnesses being put under police protection (as Sadie had been seen approaching others). 

October 31, 1912: In a move that startled everyone present, George Remus recalled Sadie to the stand. During this second session of questioning — Sadie gave testimony that blatantly contradicted several remarks she’d made on the state’s behalf while calling Louisa a caring mother and corroborating Louisa’s assertion that both Alma & Arthur took patent medicine for a skin complaint that ran in the family.

Granted, it’s within the realm of possibility that Sadie’s memory grew a tad fuzzy in the three months before Louisa’s trial, and what Capt. Baer’s men witnessed was completely innocent — however, I don’t buy it. I think George either paid Sadie in cash or favor to tank her testimony for the prosecution and/or played on Sadie’s loyalty to Louisa to do the same. 

Moreover, I don’t think this was the only testimonial U-turn George managed to buy.

November 2, 1912: When Mrs. Alvina Rabe (John Otto and William Lindloff’s mother) testified before a packed Chicago courtroom — she told the jury how kind Louisa was to John Otto, a good wife to William, and her belief that both her sons had died from natural causes. A stark contrast to her words during the Coroner’s Inquest in Milwaukee, when she called Louisa a murderer.

While no one, as far as I can tell, was ever charged with perjury, contempt, or witness tampering after Louisa’s trial. I find it difficult to believe that not one but two star witnesses for the prosecution serendipitously switched sides at the eleventh hour. Especially since we know from ensuing events that George wasn’t above bending/breaking the law when it suited his purposes. Whether by using a portion of the $59,000 (in today’s money) that Louisa’s supporters raised on her behalf or his silver tongue — I don’t know. 

However, as Agatha Christie (might’ve) said: “One coincidence is just a coincidence, two coincidences are a clue, three coincidences are proof.” Though I don’t see a third (that doesn’t mean it isn’t there), I believe George Remus attempted to stack the deck in Louisa’s favor upon realizing how deep the waters against her were.

Not that it mattered.

My 52 Weeks With Christie: A.Miner©2024

Crime & Christie: Han Shot First

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The Paul F. Volland Company published some Raggedy Ann stories, as well as, the New Adventures of “Alice” based on Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.

Let’s be clear: I believe Paul F. Volland pulled a bait-and-switch on Vera Trepagnier. I think he used his position as President of the P. F. Volland Company, his business acumen, and knowledge of Vera’s strained circumstances to his advantage in order to obtain and keep the Trumbull portrait of George Washington. By dangling the promise of $5,000 before Vera, Volland gained possession of the painting. Next, by carefully wording the contract, he — not his company — secured ownership of the diminutive object if sales of the reproduction reached the 5k mark. If said sales didn’t pan out, which he was in the perfect position to ensure, Volland could point at the $500 advance and issue an ultimatum — either accept it as payment or repay the shortfall in a lump sum. Secure in the knowledge she couldn’t. 

The fact he didn’t maintain contact with Vera, nor had his lawyers issue said ultimatum until Vera made it patently clear she would continue to pester him for forever and a day, is why I’m inclined to view his actions under a crooked light. Because without that $5,000 promise, I don’t think Volland could’ve pried that painting out of Vera’s hands. (And I don’t see him giving Vera $500 as a charitable act.)

Examples of the fancy postcards printed by the P.F. Volland Company.

The question is, why would a wealthy man bilk a widow? The only concrete reason I found that might, and I mean might, explain such behavior occurred a few years before Volland’s death: When he nearly declared bankruptcy. Ultimately, Volland didn’t. But perhaps after skating so close to financial ruin, it invoked an unscrupulous or miserly side to his nature? Or maybe he grew up unable to rub two nickels together, which left him unwilling to pay a penny more for anything when he didn’t have to. Or perhaps he was just crafty. 

It’s unclear.

Interestingly, Vera’s charge of sharp business practices against Volland wasn’t the only one I found. A female musician contracted to write some sheet music for the P. F. Volland Company claimed that after Volland rejected her song, he later published it under someone else’s name without her permission or paying her for the work. What’s more, the day after Volland’s death, Chicago artists announced their intention to raise funds for Vera’s defense…..Again, this makes me wonder how fair Volland played with others when wheeling and dealing.

Unfortunately for Vera, partaking in dodgy business practices doesn’t automatically translate into owning a violent streak. (Nor does it mean he deserved to die.)

Other than stating she used a revolver, I’ve no clue the type of firearm Vera used, so here’s a gun advert from 1913. (And yes I know this is not an ad for a revolver.)

This begs the question: Why did Vera feel the need to bring a gun with her to discuss a dispute over a contract? According to the woman herself, “I took the revolver along to scare him. I had no intention of killing him, but that was done when he tried to take the weapon away from me.” An explanation I find believable. What I find harder to swallow is Vera’s claim the one and only day she packed the piece in her purse was the afternoon she accidentally shot Volland. 

As I see it, either the stars aligned and allowed Vera to seize an unexpected opportunity to lie her way into Volland’s presence — OR — Vera stalked Volland long enough to know he’d be in his office that particular day. If Vera relied on the ‘universe’ to provide her with an opportunity to enact her desperate plan, then it stands to reason she’d bring the gun along with her daily. Otherwise, how would she have it on hand precisely when she needed it? The latter stalking explanation, which Vera admitted doing, is the only way I see the ‘I only brought the gun with me once’ course of events as plausible. The problem there is it smacks of premeditation.

Either way, neither version of events paints Vera in glory. 

More importantly, by bringing the firearm with her, Vera cast herself into the role of instigator, severely undermining any claim of self-defense, crime of passion, or the ‘unwritten law.’ The prosecution weakened Vera’s claim further when they labeled her a blackmailer, presenting at least one nasty letter Vera wrote threatening to ruin Volland’s reputation by exposing his manipulative business practices — lest he make good on their deal. 

Without any other testimony (from, for instance, another firearms expert to refute the prosecution’s, a psychiatrist willing to declare Vera mentally unsound at the time of the murder, or anyone who could attest to Vera’s erratic behavior) to mitigate the prosecution’s arguments, Vera’s lawyers only managed to convince one juror out of twelve to find Vera not-guilty. (And he changed his mind by the second ballot.) 

Hence why, I feel Vera’s lawyers did her a disservice.

Interior photos of the women’s spaced at Kankakee State Hospital from sometime around 1900.

What happened after the guilty verdict? After Vera’s appeal for a new trial was denied in August 1919, she was transferred to Joliet State Prison to serve her sentence of one year to life. Sadly, at some point after September 1, 1920, Vera was transferred to Kankakee Insane Asylum. According to prison officials, the loss of the Trumbull’s portrait of George Washington (and probably the stress of the trial and incarceration) “unhinged” her mind — causing Vera to speak dreamily of nothing but her former prized possession to anyone willing to listen. 

Vera would die within the asylum walls on August 19, 1921.

In her will, Vera left several tracts of land in Maryland, a vase, and the Trumbull miniature to her grandson. Sadly, Vera forgot the vase had already been donated to a museum in New Orleans, so it wasn’t hers to give. And Vera’s only son sold the tracts of land to cover an overdue mortgage. 

As for the Trumbull miniature, an attorney by the name of Michael F. Looby was assigned by a probate court to sell it — which made quite a splash in the papers. Assured by art experts, museums, and collectors that ‘Exhibit A’ would fetch anywhere between $5,000 and $30,000, it went to auction. On September 23, 1922, Looby returned to Judge Horner’s courtroom and reported that due to the unpleasant notoriety attached to the painting, the highest bid received was $325. 

Whereupon Judge Horner approved the sale — to persons unknown and it disappeared from public view.

My 52 Weeks With Christie: A.Miner©2024

Crime & Christie: It’s Not Personal, It’s Just Business

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On July 15, 1919, at 5:50 pm, after three ballots — the jury found Vera Trepagnier guilty of manslaughter and fixed a sentence of one year to life in prison. Paul F. Volland’s second ex-wife, Gladys Couch Volland, and his son, Gordon B. Volland, were both in court when the verdict was announced and applauded (metaphorically) the jury for holding Vera accountable for her actions. Unsurprisingly, State’s Attorney Hoyne lauded the victory of ASA Dwight and the jury’s decision. 

So what went wrong? Why did the jury find Vera guilty of manslaughter despite her lawyers following the formula that got 26 other women acquitted? 

Vera blamed the loss on another attorney, Frances E. Spooner — the only lawyer she’d found who agreed to fight the unbalanced contract she’d signed with Paul F. Volland in civil court. In an interview given shortly after her conviction, Vera claimed Spooner hamstrung her defense because she “…had all my papers about the case that led up to the killing, and she left town.” Which could be true? The one and only time I found Spooner’s name linked with Vera’s occurred the day after Vera’s bid for a new trial was denied, on August 16, 1919: When the papers reported Spooner was suing her former client for breach of contract, “…by killing Volland, she brought an end to the case and threw the plaintiff out of a job.” (I’ve no clue how this case ultimately panned out.) 

However, it’s equally possible Vera’s all-male defense team used Spooner as a convenient scapegoat to cover the collective backsides with their client after their loss. Spooner, one of the rare female attorneys in Chicago during this period, would make an easy target in any post-trial blame game.

Weighing in, over 100 years later, I see the scales of recrimination tipping ever so slightly in the direction of Vera’s cadre of lawyers and their decision to rely solely on Vera’s testimony. 

Why? First and foremost, Vera’s account doesn’t quite add up, in my estimation.

While it’s possible Vera’s version of events unfolded exactly as she said……Why would Volland start strangling her for simply refusing to leave his office? Granted, Vera had become a thorn in Volland’s paw. However, until that afternoon, he’d successfully kept her at arm’s length for years through a lack of communication, lawyers, and by using layers of security/secretaries/doormen as a shield. Moreover, if Vera failed to leave Volland’s office because he murdered her (worst case scenario) or she exited under her own power with hand-shaped bruises around her neck, disheveled from a struggle, and gasping — it would’ve been noticed by the office full of people working away in the middle of the day.

Speaking of people, while there weren’t any eyewitnesses other than Vera who saw what happened in Volland’s office, two individuals were close enough to hear some of what was happening inside. Both women spoke of hearing Vera’s voice growing louder and shriller as the interview went on while Volland’s remained low and even. Suggesting it was she, not him, who grew furious as the conversation continued.

Mrs. Gladys Crouch Volland

The defense, in an attempt to shore up Vera’s assertion Volland struck first, claimed Volland was a “wife beater” and “woman-hater” which led to the dissolution of his second marriage. The only problem? Said second wife, Gladys Crouch Volland, still resided in Chicago and was more than willing to testify that her ex-husband never abused her or their daughters, nor was cruelty the reason why she sued for divorce. While it’s possible Gladys was lying, the fact she wasn’t called to the stand or her divorce decree read aloud by the defense — who’d subpoenaed her — suggests they couldn’t scrounge up enough proof that Volland abused his ex-wife to convince the presiding Judge to allow it into evidence. Making it likely that Vera’s attorneys simply spliced the idea into their opening remarks in the hopes that the jury would consider the unsubstantiated claim during their deliberations.

Furthermore, I found an announcement for Volland’s 1904 divorce from Laura Gordon Volland, his first ex-wife. While one of the gossipy articles alluded to money at the root of the marriage’s dissolution, none mentioned cruelty. (And the fact Laura remarried mere days after the finalization of the divorce decree hints at a different set of problems within the union.)

In my humble opinion? Upon realizing Volland wasn’t going to willingly hand back her miniature or write a check for five grand, Vera pulled a revolver on him and that’s when Volland “lept at her” — not the other way around. 

This fine — yet important distinction — is why Billy Flynn, in the musical Chicago, worked so hard to make sure the newspapers reported that Roxie Hart and her lover both reached for the gun. If it came out that Roxie pulled the gun on her boyfriend first, in a fit of rage rather than in self-defense, it would’ve negated her claim to the “unwritten law.” 

After her arrest, in an effort to invoke said statute for herself, Vera neatly summed up the “unwritten law” as this: “In my State men may lie, gamble, cheat in business, but they do not lay hands on a woman.” As I understand it, this tacit law allowed judges and juries to protect abused women who either snapped or needed to defend themselves at a point in time when domestic violence laws were nearly nonexistent. More importantly, it’s part of the foundation on which the murderess acquittal formula rested — hence why, in my opinion, it’s more than likely Vera swapped up the order of events to save her own skin.

Unfortunately for Vera, her uneven account wasn’t the only problem.

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Crime & Christie: Give Them The Old Razzle Dazzle….

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On May 6, 1919, the day after slaying Paul F. Volland, a Grand Jury charged Vera Trepagnier with his murder. What’s more, the twelve men refused to set bail, thereby sending sixty-year-old Vera off to the Cook County Jail to join the other women awaiting trial on its infamous Murderess Row. Nevertheless — despite the charge, the multiple witnesses placing her in the room when Volland died, handing Patrolman Patrick Durkin the murder weapon, and confessing to the crime — Vera wasn’t without a heaping helping of hope that she’d get away with murder. 

Sounds mind-boggling, right? Hope, in the face of an apparent prosecutorial slam dunk. 

Lists like this one, printed in 1914, were printed fairly frequently in papers across the country.

However, in the 12 years leading up to Paul F. Volland’s death, Cook County prosecutors only managed to convict 3 out of the 29 women put on trial for murder or manslaughter (according to the tallies routinely published in the papers). Which begs the question: How? Well, in studying Vera’s case, as well as yards and yards of newspaper columns covering the 29 women who preceded Vera into the courtroom (and a number who came after), a familiar refrain kept repeating itself.

And They Both Reached For The Gun

Variants of this line kept creeping up, pinging a distant and dormant earworm in the back of my brain. Unable to recall why it sounded so very, very familiar, I tapped the phrase into a search engine and immediately learned why it resonated.

Did you know the musical Chicago is loosely based on real murders and murderesses? Maurine Dallas Watkins, the play’s original author, based Chicago on two (in)famous criminal cases she covered during her eight-month stint with the Chicago Tribune in 1924. Beulah Annan, who shot her married lover in the back, served as the inspiration for Roxie Hart. Belva Gaertner, the muse for Velma Kelly, claimed to have no memory of shooting her married lover in her car after they’d spent several hours visiting bars, drinking, and listening to jazz. You will be unsurprised to learn both women were acquitted of the crimes. 

The musical, created after Watkins’ death in 1969, does a great job of exposing the formula defense lawyers (generally, though not exclusively) followed to obtain acquittals for their female clients. 

These were just some of the “glamorous” newspaper photos of the women who were eventually acquitted for murder/manslaughter in Cook County.

Step One: After committing the crime (of course), feed the media. Recall the newspaper headline that started me down this odd and twisting path: “Can A Beauty Be Convicted?” Admittedly, owning youth, good looks, and manners didn’t hurt their cause. However, what this story conveniently ignores (though the musical shows in aces) is the symbiotic relationship enjoyed with many, though not all, of these female killers and the press.

By answering questions shouted at them on the courthouse steps and granting interviews, these women helped improve the paper’s circulation numbers whilst priming potential members of their juries before ever stepping into the courtroom. 

Thereby explaining why Vera, who declined to testify before the Grand Jury in her own defense, gave a series of interviews to reporters hours after joining Murderess Row. By laying out her slow spiral into poverty after losing her fortune, home, and husband while making sure to mention her altruistic plans for the $5,000 and/or the painting, Vera noticeably softened the tone of the subsequent coverage. 

More importantly, by concentrating on her life story and the lopsided deal she unwittingly struck, Vera could obliquely portray Paul F. Volland as a rich man willing to use his power and position to swindle an older, desperate woman out of the last remaining vestige of her salad days without rousing other influential Chicagoans into defending the dead man’s memory — which would prove catastrophic for Vera’s defense. 

Speaking of Vera’s story, sifting through Vera’s interviews and testimony, the bare bones of her version of events goes like this: After Paul F. Volland closed his office doors, she reiterated her demand for either $5,000 or the Trumbull miniature. 

Volland’s response: “I’m tired of looking at you and of listening to you. I haven’t got anymore time to waste. Now, will you get out?” 

Unaccustomed to such rudeness but unwilling to leave without at least one of her requests being met, Vera stood her ground. Whereupon, according to Vera, “…{Paul F. Volland} leaped at me. I felt his fingers touching at my throat. He pushed me towards the door. I could stand it no longer. I opened my purse, grasped the pistol and pointed it at him. He leaped at me again and I fired. He dropped in a heap at my feet, gasping: ‘I am shot, I am shot.’ That is all I remember.” 

With the potential jury pool now prepped to think Volland attacked first and his death a mere accident, it’s time to cue the next essential element of an acquittal…

Some of the other players in Vera’s trial.

Step Two: Razzle-dazzle them, or in other words, create a spectacle evocative enough to bamboozle the 12 men of the jury into finding reasonable doubt, whether it’s there or not. This was usually accomplished through effusive weeping, fainting bouts, and statements of abject regret, remorse, and sorrow by the accused in court.

However, these over-the-top demonstrations of contrition didn’t really suit Vera’s case. Seems prior to sinking their teeth into Vera’s tales of woe, the papers reported on her absolutely serene demeanor at the crime scene. According to their words, Vera showed no signs of distress over what she’d done — no shaking hands or voice, no apologies, no tears. In point of fact (and I’m not sure how accurate this is), the papers made it sound as if Vera stepped over Volland as he lay dying on the floor in order to peer out his office windows while waiting for the police. 

With standard razzmatazz measures rendered useless, Vera’s lawyers turned to plan B — during her six straight hours on the stand (the only person her defense team called to testify), Vera dramatically reenacted her and Volland’s struggle over the gun. The exhibition highlighted the physical disparity between 44-year-old Paul F. Volland and 60-year-old Vera while attempting to refute the prosecution’s expert witness, who declared it impossible for Vera’s revolver to accidentally discharge in the way Vera claimed. “My {Vera’s} finger was on the trigger. His hand closed over mine, pressed my finger and exploded the weapon. He really shot himself.” 

The theatrics didn’t end there. 

Endeavoring to bolster Vera’s claim: That Volland attacked first and without provocation thus rendering Vera’s actions understandable. In his opening remarks, Leo Lebosky (one of Vera’s lawyers) attacked Volland’s reputation. Calling Volland a “woman-hater” and “woman-beater” — then claimed Volland’s second ex-wife sought a divorce on the grounds of cruelty. These remarks instantly provoked Assistant State’s Attorney Dwight to raise strenuous objections and Judge Brentano to remind Lebosky that claims along these lines would not be admitted into evidence. This led Lebosky to confidently counter, “…it would be.” (They weren’t, btw.)

In July 1919, with the formula now complete: Crime, sob story, razzle-dazzle, and blaming the victim for their own death (i.e., the killing was accidental), a Cook County jury withdrew from the courtroom to deliberate on Vera’s fate.

My 52 Weeks With Christie: A.Miner©2024

Crime & Christie: Fool’s Gold

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A lump of Fool’s Gold

I’ve no clue why Vera Trepagnier chose Philadelphia as her hunting ground for a money-making opportunity for the Trumbull miniature. Yet, this decision proved fortuitous, as Vera learned the name of a man who fit the parameters of her needs perfectly — Paul Frederick Volland. 

Originally hailing from Germany, Paul Frederick Volland worked as an engraver and diamond merchant prior to setting up his own firm (with two silent partners) in 1908. Whilst the P. F. Volland Company, as it was known, published all kinds of print-based products ranging from poetry to cookbooks and music to calendars. One of the firm’s specialties lay in creating beautiful, high-quality greeting cards and postcards — which undoubtedly is why Vera and her portrait were pointed in Paul F. Volland’s direction.

By all accounts, when Paul F. Volland met Vera in Philly in February 1917, he was so taken with the Trumbull miniature he made Vera an offer on the spot: If Vera would loan him Trumbull’s mini portrait of George Washington, he would, in turn, create and sell postcard-sized reproductions worthy of framing. Confident his company could easily sell 150,000 copies a year at a dollar a piece, Volland assured Vera she’d see at least $5,000 in royalties yearly. 

This suited Vera’s needs down to the ground. Not only could she make money off the last vestige of her former fortune, but she’d also retain ownership of the picture. To a woman who’d hovered just above the poverty line for the better part of the three decades, this sum surely sounded like a godsend — not only in accomplishing her goal of helping her grandson with his education but with her own expenses as well. So, with visions of dollar signs dancing in her head, Vera lent Volland the miniature, signed the requisite contract, and received a $500 advance.

If this deal sounds like a bit of fool’s gold…..well……you’d be right.

After acquiring both her signature and the piece of art, Paul F. Volland ghosted Vera. A circumstance Vera didn’t realize until the promised royalty checks failed to materialize. 

Puzzled, Vera wrote Volland. 

According to later testimony, when Volland eventually responded to her missives, he informed Vera that the firm decided against printing and placing reproductions of her miniature on the market. Vera’s disappointment with Volland’s decision transformed into outrage a few months later when she spotted a copy of the supposedly abandoned print run in the window of a shop, framed and retailing for a whopping $2 — double the price he’d initially quoted her.

Unsurprisingly, Vera immediately took to her stationary, posting letter after letter to Paul F. Volland — without receiving a single reply. Unwilling to take his lie lying down and determined to get her property back, Vera made the momentous decision to leave Washington D. C. and accepted a tutoring position (or perhaps that of a maid, Vera’s words differ from the reporters on this point) with a wealthy family in Rock Island, Illinois, around November/December 1918.

Now living, give or take, only 168 miles from the P. F. Volland Company’s offices, Vera took the first opportunity she could to visit the man himself. (At this point, events become a tad muddled, as it’s unclear if Vera spoke to Volland in his office, if he was called down to the building’s lobby to talk with her there, or if they met on the street. Due to following events and some non-scientific deductions, I lean towards the middle option being the likeliest for this impromptu meeting.) 

The P.F. Volland Company also published children’s books and the philosophy behind them.

Geography aside, when Volland met with Vera, he informed her that not only did the reproductions of the George Washington miniature not sell nearly as well as he’d originally envisioned, but if she wished to reacquire her property she’d need to write him a check for $174 (or about $3,026 in today’s money) to cover the shortfall between her advance and the postcard’s paltry sales. Moreover, if she wished to discuss the issue further, she would need to go through the P. F. Volland Company’s lawyers, as he would not speak with her directly again.

Incensed, Vera engaged lawyers of her own and immediately felt the full brunt of not asking a law professional to probe the contract before signing on the dotted line. Above and beyond the 1917 document being written entirely in favor of the P. F. Volland Company from top to bottom, the agreement also stipulated that upon reaching the $5,000 mark in royalties, Vera would cede ownership of the miniature to Paul F. Volland (not his company). Moreover, the deal left Vera with very little recourse in pursuing legal action against Volland, his company, or the ability to reacquire her precious Trumbull miniature. 

Firmly convinced Paul F. Volland swindled her, Vera continued visiting not only Volland’s office building but the offices of various law firms around Chicago. The former cost nothing but time and pride, as Vera was repeatedly rebuffed by security/reception in the lobby on her successive visits. The latter endeavor, however, slowly bled Vera dry, making her more and more frantic for Volland’s promised payout as time wore on.

Upon reaching the last few pennies of her savings, Vera hatched a desperate plan.

The all woman’s hotel where Vera stayed (which I thought looked nice).

Sometime around late April to early May in 1919 — Vera Trepagnier traveled from Rock Island to Chicago. After checking into the Mary Dawes Hotel, an all-female establishment, Vera immediately set about enacting her single-step plan: Wait outside before the P. F. Volland Company’s office building until the man himself exited, then ambush him with an ultimatum: Either return the diminutive portrait of George Washington or pay $5,000.

So Vera waited. In rain and shine, she stayed vigilant until finally, on May 5, 1919, Vera seized the gold-plated opportunity her persistence presented her. Upon arriving for her self-appointed vigil, Vera spotted Volland’s car pulled against the curb. Knowing for certain he was on the premises, Vera, employing the alias Mrs. Martin, bamboozled her way through the lobby and reception until she stood before Paul F. Volland’s private office. 

Upon emerging and catching sight of Vera, Volland uttered, “Oh, it’s you.” 

Ignoring Paul F. Volland’s less-than-auspicious greeting, Vera Trepagnier launched into her demand for her money or property. Undoubtedly wishing to avoid providing fruit for the office gossips, as he knew Vera was more than capable of making a scene, Volland escorted her into his office whilst reiterating his position — she needed to speak with his lawyers about the Trumbull portrait, not him. 

Despite Volland’s unwelcome visitor, the outer office activity continued to hum along…..Until a single report rang out from the otherside of Volland’s office doors and brought everyone running. Unceremoniously bursting into the room, two clerks found Volland dying on the floor from a bullet wound to his chest while Vera stood across the office, calmly staring out a window. 

My 52 Weeks With Christie: A.Miner©2024

Crime & Christie: George Washington, Art, and Revolution

Finder of Lost ThingsLeave a comment

My inspiration….

Recently, on a whim, I reread the Miss Marple short story The Bloodstained Pavement. After finishing the story (for the umpteenth time), an idle thought crossed my mind: I wonder if an artist has ever solved a crime whilst painting a painting? Curiosity sparked, I plugged in some keywords into an old newspaper archive.

It came back with:

Diverted by this curious headline (mere minutes after my original query flew through my head), I jotted down the brief list of names printed below the photo collage. Deciding I could spare a few seconds to suss out the meaning of this singular bit of news — I, in a fair imitation of The Fool, blithely stepped off an unobserved precipice.

Fast forward several months.

Surfacing from a mares’ nest of mind-boggling murders, wafer-thin defenses, and musical numbers — I’d grasped a slender thread (loosely) linking The Bloodstained Pavement and the aforementioned fantastic headline to a crap ton of crime in Chicago spanning betwixt 1907 to 1919. 

And it all starts with an artist named John Trumbull.

Never heard of him before? Well, ten to one, you’ve probably seen his work: in history books, if you’ve ever been to the rotunda in the U.S. Capitol building (in Washington D.C.), scanned the back of a two-dollar bill, or gazed upon Alexander Hamilton’s portrait on a ten spot. How did Trumbull find himself commissioned with such momentous projects? Well, between being the son of Connecticut’s Governor, graduating from Harvard, and serving under George Washington & Horatio Gates during the American Revolution — Trumbull met a plethora of the fledgling country’s early leaders. 

The scenes were all painted by Trumbull and the Portrait is of Trumbull himself.

However, before Trumbull became known for his hyper-detailed life-sized scenes, earned a commission from Congress, or painted the portraits of several founding fathers — he sailed for London in 1780. Unsurprisingly, whilst in the capital of the UK, Trumbull met up with Benjamin Franklin. (Seriously, Trumbull’s life is a who’s who of historical figures.) Franklin, in turn, introduced the aspiring artist to Benjamin West — whose subject matter meshed well with Trumbull’s artistic aspirations. Under West’s tutelage, Trumbull began practicing painting techniques by filling small canvasses with images of the war he’d fought in and miniature portraits. 

Apparently, Trumbull enjoyed the latter exercise so much that he’d go on to paint over 250 of these mini-pics over the next 63-ish years. 

Amongst the bevy of minis Trumbull created was a portrait of George Washington (one of his favorite subjects). Painted in predominantly blues and golds on an oval-shaped piece of ivory, it measured 2.25 by 1.75 inches. According to legend, after completing the Lilliputian sized portrait, Trumbull presented it to a Virginian bride as a wedding gift. After this, this unnamed bride moved both herself and the pocket-sized portrait to Kentucky. Next, the fun-sized painting relocated with one of her kids to Tennessee, her grandkids decamped with it in tow to Arkansas, and finally, it wound up in Louisiana, where it was gifted to Vera Trepagnier. 

Elizabeth Vera McCullough or Vera (as she seemed to prefer), was born into a wealthy family in Belfast, Ireland, around 1860. Round about the age of seventeen, she and her family immigrated to the U.S. and settled in Louisiana. Sometime over the next seven years, Vera caught the eye of her future husband and sugar planter — Francois Edmund Trepagnier. The two married around 1886, when Vera was 24 and Francois was 52 (give or take). They had a son by the following year. 

(Upon marrying Francois, Vera also became the stepmother to three kids from Francois’s first marriage — the eldest of whom was only two years younger than herself….which sounds….awkward.)

Fast-forward four years to when the Trepagnier sugar plantation flooded and ruined their entire crop. In the wake of the devastation and unable to recover, Francois and Vera were forced to economize: first, they let go of all their servants, then sold all their furniture, and finally, the plantation itself. Sadly, despite trying to find a fresh start in Florida, the pressure of unexpectedly tumbling downwards through a significant number of tax brackets proved too much for Francois. Who, whether by illness or suicide (it’s unclear), passed away around 1891. 

Despite losing her husband, estate, and way of life, Vera retained possession of the diminutive Trumbull portrait.

In 1916, during the WWI war effort, about twenty-five years after these life-altering events, found Vera working for the Treasury Department in Washington D.C. Now a grandmother who wanted to help her grandson get a good education, Vera finally decided to investigate the legend around her pocket-sized portrait. Placing the ivory miniature beneath the lens of a microscope for a better look at the artist’s signature, Vera discovered the painting’s lore true. Even better, thanks to the private tutors who’d educated her in her youth, Vera not only knew who Trumbull was, she understood how valuable a rendering of George Washington by his hand could be. 

With this knowledge, Vera traveled to Philadelphia, hoping to make money off the tiny thing while (hopefully) retaining possession of it. 

(Cue dramatic music.)

My 52 Weeks With Christie: A.Miner©2024