Shall We Join The Ladies?

 In this episode of Show Me Mo, we explore the intricate contrasts between women of the underworld, those who found themselves accidentally on the wrong side of the law, and those who rose victorious over the men who tried—and failed—to oppress them. 

Transcript

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Welcome to Show Me Mo, the podcast for burnt-out noobs and true crime junkies who still crave a fix without today's anxiety soaked chaos. Here, we step back in time together into our current series, Crime Through Time. Now make yourself comfortable in the back of the paddy wagon because we're starting off season one by reading excerpts from the book Police Reporter by William B. Moorhead. Chapter 4. Shall we join the ladies? When Mrs. Carpenter received a bill from Turner, an electrician, it contained this item among others. For two hours at police headquarters at regular time, $1.75 an hour, $3.50. Mrs. Carpenter had missed $35 from her purse. She remembered that the electrician in the basement had been working upstairs earlier in the day. Patrolman arrived after Mrs. Carpenter had put two and two together and made five. She gave a whispered explanation and led the way to the basement. Suspicion centered plainly on Turner. He was hauled from a ladder, questioned, then taken to police headquarters. The thirty five dollars was not in his pockets. He was stripped of his clothes, but no thirty five dollars was found. See here, protested Turner. I'm a respectable businessman. After a cell door had been closed on him, a telephone rang.

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There's been an awful mistake, misses Carpenter was saying. I found my thirty five dollars. It slipped through a hole in the lining of my purse. Please apologize to the poor man for me.

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Are you going to sue that woman for false arrest? Turner was asked as he left the station. No, he said. I'm going back to finish the job. This jail time goes on the bill. Mrs. Carpenter agreed. The three dollars and fifty cents was a just charge. A police reporter learns early that women are a combination of contrasts. They will scream if they see a mouse, yet face danger, even possible death without flinching. Some will tear down reputations with gossip, then commit acts of folly far more vicious than those about whom they gossiped. Invariably, women of the underworld are generous, sympathetic, just as real in some respects as they are unreal in others. The story Patrolman Kelly told one dull afternoon in the press room was typical. He passed a street corner where an old woman sat on a stool singing hymns. A card on her dress said she was blind. In her hand was a battered tin cup held out to passers by. Kelly noticed that well-dressed men and women passed her by unheedingly. Two young women swished around the corner. They were chomping on wads of gum. Their eyes were bright and hard. The overdone makeup failed to hide marks of dissipation. Oh, see the poor old lady kid. Ain't she bad off? One of them exclaimed. She sure is, Mag. Let's give her part of our eatin' money. They dropped their last coins in the tin cup. A few hours later, the ladies of the evening were booked as vagrants and jailed for five days each. Hell hath no fury. While police court cases brought out activities and antics that were of general news interest, many of them developed feature or human interest angles. For instance, when Mrs. Peace met her dead husband, she laid violent hands upon him. Her fingers closed on human flesh, and she knew he was real. Wa honey muttered Peace, I thought you were in Joplin. And I thought you were in Mrs. Peace did not finish. A feeling of having been deeply wronged came to her. Astonishment gave way to indignation, and her grasp on Peace heightened. That red mustache commented Mrs. Peace, apropos of nothing much. Well, I don't know where you came from, but I know where you're going. He struggled, but resistance was futile. Washing clothes and the six years of their wedded life had put power into Mrs. Peace's arms, while lolling by the fireside had not strengthened her husband's muscles. Jail was just around the corner, and Mrs. Peace knew struggling Mr. Peace was no spirit to laugh at iron bars. Through a gaping crowd, the two mounted the iron steps into police headquarters. Here's my dead husband, announced the woman, who acted as her own policeman. It seemed he died last May in Newton, Kansas, beside the Old Mill Creek. But now as I go along the street, I find a remarkable imitation of him wielding a razor in the front chair of a five cent barber college. Peace was given the police tests for ghosts and pronounced of this world. He admitted he did not die in Newton. Well that's pretty obvious. Also, that he wrote the announcement of his death, which his wife received. Dear madam, he had penned in his best style, I am very sorry to inform you that your husband is dead. We found him on the bank of a creek. It was either suicide or vow play. The note was signed Thomas. The imaginary Thomas and Mrs. Peace corresponded over the disposition of the body, and Peace was buried in Newton. Mrs. Peace said that after her bereavement, she moved from Joplin to Kansas City and operated a rooming house to support herself and three children. Years previously, when she was Miss Lomax, Peace was a schoolmate in Joplin. Later, romance bloomed and they were married. Mrs. Peace said her husband worked about a week. His clothes became shabby, his waxed mustache drooped, and the burden of supporting the family fell on her shoulders. She delivered washing through the snow and low heels, while Peace sat by the fire and talked of prospects. Finally, he abandoned her. Judge Kennedy fined Peace one hundred dollars and paroled him. His death, the judge ruled, would not relieve him of supporting his wife and children. Peace was ordered to finish his course at the Barber College. Love notes. At just about the time it seemed police court sessions would develop nothing newsworthy, humanity handed the board newsman a surprise. A young man named Fultz was a defendant in the last case on the docket. He stood apart and said nothing, while a comely woman testified against him. We were friends before I was married, Your Honor, Mrs. Cash, the complaining witness, told the court. He still tries to continue the friendship. Two days ago he followed me home from the grocery. My husband came in and found him there after I had tried every way to get him to go. This man has pestered my wife for weeks, Cash added. He has no respect for the marriage rights. He's got to quit bothering us. Well, the judge spoke up. What have you to say, Foltz? In answer, the prisoner reached into a hip pocket and drew forth a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon. He tossed them onto the judge's bench. From his coat pockets, he took two more bundles of letters addressed in the same handwriting, and placed them beside the first. Still, he said nothing. The judge opened one of the letters and began to read. Dearest, when my husband goes off to work this morning, I sure want to see my baby. It was Mrs. Cash, who then stood apart and spoke no words. There's my defense, said Foltz. I had encouragement. Whereupon Mrs. Cash admitted writing endearing letters to Foltz and receiving visits from him to vary the monotony of married life. But now she was tired of him. She and her husband loved each other, and she didn't want any more attention from the outsider. I'll find Foltz one hundred dollars, the judge said after some deliberation. But he won't have to pay if he stays away from Mrs. Cash. As for you, he turned to the woman, because you have told the truth, I'm going to make you a present of these. The judge handed her the three bundles of love letters. Go home and make a bonfire. Oh, there's the bell. That means, ladies and gentlemen, that we have our very first Scarlet Letter Award winner. Yes, Mrs. Cash, you have won our very non-coveted Scarlet Letter Award. Ladies and gentlemen, let's show her our appreciation by giving her a round of applause. Well, goodbye and best of luck to you, Mrs. Cash. We look forward to reading about you in the future divorce papers. Now back to regular programming. Oakie Biles lived with her widowed mother in Sedalia, Missouri. Sedalia, Missouri happens to be where the Missouri State Fair is held every year. Life was hard and Oakie decided to go to Kansas City to work. She was twenty three years old and knew little of the joys of life, but it wasn't of these things she thought. It was of earning money and aiding her mother. So at last the mother helped pack the neat, worn clothing, and Oakie came to Kansas City. Okie was pleasing to look at, with the roses blooming in her fine, clear cheeks. The manager of a laundry where she found employment soon became aware of these facts. When the girl fought him off behind a mangle, he discharged her. She found a job in another laundry, and the same unwelcome attentions too. She tried a third laundry, and then Oakie realized that the city didn't always breed men, but sometimes wolves. I wonder did Oakie happen to have worked for the Gate City Laundry on Ninth Street when she went to Kansas City to work, the one that was owned and operated by Henry Kayson, the stepfather to Joan Crawford. Yes, the Joan Crawford of Mommy Dearest and No More Wirehangers fame. Henry was known to be quite fresh with the ladies, including his stepdaughter, Joan. But that's another story for another day. The third laundry saw her no more, but her stuffy small room and the garret of a shabby boarding house saw her more and more. For a week Oakie tramped the streets, looking for a job she never found. Men on the streets smiled at her, bowed to her, spoke softly as they passed. The girl only drew her flimsy skirt aside and hurried the faster. She was destitute in the smothering loneliness of the impersonal city. Okie was too proud to go home and confess failure, too weak to continue living on skimpy sandwiches, and too fine to take that other way always open to needy girls. But there was a fourth course. One morning she went to a lonely park and walked out into a river until the muddy water sucked at her shoulders. Then the girl cried and returned to dry ground. She couldn't do it. For hours she hid in the woods while her clothing dried, and she went back to her bleak room. Summoning up her resources, she realized that after the evening sandwich there was only a nickel left. She spent it on car fare back to the park early the next morning. This time Oakie ran sobbing through the glory of sunrise until she reached a bridge over the river. As she clambered up the railing, her eyes wet and unseeing, a man shouted Stop! He was a park employee who had observed her actions. Oki scrambled from the low wall, crossed the bridge, and started down the steep, twenty five foot bank of the river, then collapsed. The park employee, close behind her, slipped on the insecure footing. Come on, little lady, he said kindly. You'll think better of it. And he helped her back up the bank, then brought her on a streetcar to police headquarters. She was mud covered, bedraggled, but as one recovering from a nightmare. I'm going home to mother if I have to walk all the way, she concluded. Her heart would have been broken had I drowned myself. But I just didn't think then the policeman collected a purse and Oki rode the cushions back to Sedelia. Total eclipse Domestic tranquility prevailed through the Simon home for the first month of marriage. Then there appeared a drawback to Mrs. Simon's happiness as she bustled about her kitchen. The drawback was a dog, a bull terrier her husband had brought home, and which curled up on their bed at night. When Simon arrived from his paint and glass door one Saturday night, there were felicitations as between a husband of twenty one and a wife of nineteen on their honeymoon. Felicitations means words or expressions of joy or praise. Simon retired early and the dog coiled at his feet. Mrs. Simon entered with a broom and routed the dog. Up rose Simon and routed his wife. A policeman was called and routed Simon. In court, Simon explained he had slept with a dog on his bed since he was a boy. Mrs. Simon said she desired no divided affections. The honeymoon had waned and dropped out of sight. The wife, petite, black-eyed, wept. Simon paid a fine of twenty-five dollars and untied the dog, which had been fastened outside the courtroom. Dog and man departed together. The honeymoon shone no more. And now time for a quick break for our non-sponsored advertisements from the last four marketing. Yes, that's right. I said brain bread. A perfect health bread. Strengthening, wholesome, nutritious, brain bread. Builds sound bodies and vigorous minds. Made from Purina Health Flour. The most goetidous whole wheat flour ever produced. Making a sweet, nutritious bread that is gaining a worldwide reputation. Brain Bread for sale by the sellover bakery. That was from the Boonville Daily News and Advertiser, published on Friday, June 8, 1900. Thanks again to the State Historical Society of Missouri for access to the newspaper. Family Matter. When Patrolman John Boone heard shrieks, he looked about. He saw a hatless man approaching, encouraged from the rear by eleven women with parasols, brooms, and reproachful conversation. Patrolman Boone drew his revolver. Stop, he commanded, but the hatless one kept on running. Boone tackled, but the runner hurtled. Boone fired his revolver into the air. Stop, he repeated. I'll stop. In a m minute, more bangs. The revolver was empty. As Boone overtook the runner, a woman ran up and shouted, Hang on to him, officer! What did he break into? Boone demanded. Nothing, came the chorus of women. He was quarreling with his wife, this woman. Boone took husband and wife to the police court. Henson, a railroad engineer and his wife, had been divorced about a year, the husband being given the custody of a nine-year-old daughter, which back in the day that was more prevalent, that the man would get the child, not the woman. Anyway, back to the story. The mother, meeting Henson on the street, accused him of not permitting the child to visit her. Women nearby joined in the discussion, and as it waxed hotter, parasols menaced Henson. He made a break along the street, the women pursuing. It's bad form, the judge said to Henson, to make a policeman run in this hot weather. Why did you do it? Judge, I'd soon be hit by a bullet than have those women catch me, Henson replied. The judge turned to the divorced wife. Are you still angry? He asked. No, Judge, she said. Why don't you two marry again? The woman glanced at her former husband and he smiled. We might judge, she said. The couple left the courtroom arm in arm. Before I release you all on good behavior, I thought it might be fun to read some random gossip columns. This one was published in the Harrison County Democrat, that's Harrison County, Missouri, March 1910. Will Edwards and Miss Emma Peasley were quietly married March 9th at the George Russell home near Brooklyn. Hey, do you think that quietly married was like code for shotgun wedding? I don't know. Reverend Moore performed the ceremony. About 50 of their friends gave them an old-fashioned chivalry in the evening and were generously treated by the bridal couple to candy, apples, and cigars, and a pleasant evening was enjoyed by all their many friends. Extend congratulations. The word chivalry here is spelled C-H A-V A-R-I. It's really more of a variant of S-H-I-V-A-R-E-E. What this is was a party or a rowdy wedding celebration that's thrown by friends, neighbors, typically on the night of the wedding or very soon after. And what they would do is they would bang pots and pans, they'd be yelling, singing, playing loud instruments. Uh, they show up at the newlyweds home or I guess maybe hotel room unannounced and demand that the couple come outside and they expect treats, drinks, or cigars. So that's where those treats, the candy, the apples, and the cigars come from. So, well, now we know. This one comes to us from Bethany, Missouri, the newspaper published April 29, 1903, Bethany Republican Newspaper. While Don Nef was creeping dirt into and filling up an old well on his farm south of this place last Thursday, one horse stepped into the well, and the walls of the well gave way, almost completely covering the horse. The horse was killed, but the harness was saved. The animal was worth about twenty five dollars. It might seem rather cold or heartless that an emphasis was put on the harness having been saved and not the horse or lamenting the fact that the horse had died. You have to remember in 1903, in this particular part of the country, its farming community, they expected and anticipated animals to die. Whereas a harness wasn't so readily available. They didn't have Walmart or the farm and home tractor supply down the road. They had to make these things by hand or pay a lot of money to have a harness. But it's okay if you're sad that the horse died. I know I am. And this one also comes from Bethany, Missouri, the Bethany Republican, published August 31st, 1911. S. R. Seymour, who resided northwest of Brooklyn, was taken to St. Joseph Friday, where he was to undergo an operation for locked bowels. The ailment had reached such an advanced stage, however, that he passed away the same evening at 8 o'clock in a St. Joseph Hospital before the operation was performed. Had he not heard of Oxgow? Anyway. The remains, accompanied by a son, arrived in Ridgway Saturday and were taken to the home of his brother-in-law, F. A. Beeks, and we understand that the funeral will be held today, and interment will take place in the Ridgeway Cemetery. Mr. Seymour was well and favorably known throughout the county and was regarded as one of its best citizens. He served as a county judge from the North District and in the discharge of his official duties acquitted himself with honor. He leaves a wife and several children to mourn his departure and the sympathy of the community it's extended to them in the hour of sorrow. Can you imagine having something like that published in the newspaper about how you died with locked bowels? How embarrassing. Maybe standards have changed. Maybe at that time that was perfectly okay. Personally, I have a hard time believing that anybody would want something like that mentioned. But if you think about it, here we are in the year of 2026, and we're talking about him. He has been remembered. And that, my little jailbirds, is the end of episode four. I hope you've been enjoying these episodes. If so, give a follow and a rating. It'll make you feel good. And come back next time for chapter 5 Skid Row Society Page. God willing. See you then.