Gentleman, Cad, Card Shark: The Mysterious Death of Joe Bowne Elwell
Find out on today's episode of Kinda Murdery!
Sources:
https://classic.esquire.com/article/1950/10/1/who-killed-joe-elwell
https://www.bridgebum.com/joseph_bowne_elwell.php
https://mru.ink/the-unsolved-locked-room-murder-of-joe-elwell-1920/
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Zevon Odelberg is a true crime podcast host and disability advocate. Zevon has cerebral palsy and he wants Kinda Murdery to be welcoming community for people with disabilities and for people living with challenges of any kind. Life can be hard, but being together makes it better.
Warning. Kind of Murdery contains adult themes, explicit language, and descriptions of
violence. It is not suitable for anyone, and we recommend you stop listening
now. True crime with a dash of the paranormal, the garish, the
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Murdery, a podcast that's about more than just murder. It's my very own
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Just like it says in the intro, I am Zeven Odelberg, and this
is kind of Murdery and I am back with a freshly cooked episode of mysterious
true crime and murder. And if that sounds tasty to you, then ready
for a story of murder, sex, and gambling, of old school gentlemen
and older school philandering. That's right. Please join me as we uncover what
truths we can and solve what mysteries we may. Kind of Murderies, Gentlemen.
Cad card Shark the mysterious death of Joe bone Elwell. Side note,
that's a giggle inducing name for a cocksman, wouldn't you say Joe bone Elwell?
But I digress. The story starts now. The location is the four
story granite house at number two forty four West seventieth Street in the city of
New York. The time is thirty five minutes past eight o'clock in the morning.
On Friday, June eleventh, nineteen twenty, missus Marie Larson, a
housekeeper known for her punctuality and meticulous nature, stepped in into the grand home.
The cool morning air hung heavy with anticipation as she made her way through
the dimly lit hallway. Miss Larson's footsteps echoed on the marble floor as she
approached the study, a place where her employer, Joseph bone Elwell, often
spent his mornings. Elwell, a well known bridge expert and a figure of
intrigue in social circles, had a reputation that drew curiosity and sometimes envy.
As she neared the study, the door was slightly ajar, an unusual detail
that piqued her interest. Pushing the door open, Marie's eyes were met with
a scene she would never forget. There. Slumped in his chair was Joseph
bone Elwell. His usually composed demeanor was replaced by a haunting stillness. A
single bullet wound, precise and deadly, marred the center of his forehead.
Blood had pooled around the wound, seeping into the intricate patterns of the Persian
rug below. The room was early quiet, the silence only broken by the
faint tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. The ornate decorations and lavish
furnishings seemed out of place with the stark reality of the violent act that had
taken place. Marie Larson stood frozen, her mind racing to comprehend the horror
before her. You see, Joseph bone Elwell was no ordinary man. At
forty four, he had climbed the social ladder, a massing of fortune that
would make most men green with envy. With just his sharp mind, impeccable
taste, and the gentlemanly manners his mother instilled in him, he built an
empire. By the time the bullet, a forty five caliber ACP that's automatic
COLT pistol, found its mark, Elwell owned five hundred thousand dollars in real
estate, one hundred thousand dollars in personal property, a stable of twenty thoroughbreds
racing at Latonia, a yacht in Palm Beach for the winter, five automobiles,
and the swanky house on seventieth Street. He didn't get there through sheer
luck. Elwell was a master at the card table, playing bridge for ten
dollars a point and once pocketing thirty grand in a single game. Yet his
friends insisted he wasn't a professional gambler. Playing with him was a pleasure,
they said. Losing to him was worth it. What a cool passion for
bridge, a philosophy about the game. You see, money didn't seem to
matter to him, whether he was winning or losing. He was mostly winning.
Of course, Gambling wasn't his weakness. It was his game, and
he played it like a maestro until the day that someone played him. But
Elwell did have a weakness, one that devoured his time and thoughts to a
near obsessive degree. To the distinguished men who knew him, he was a
man of honor, meticulous about social conventions, generous and considerate. His not
of agreement was as binding as a signed contract. But to the countless beautiful
women in his orbit. Elwell was a different beast, and beast was perhaps
appropriate. He was a relentless womanizer, a heartless player who took full advantage
of their vulnerabilities without a hint of remorse. He handled women also like a
maestro conducting an orchestra, bending them to his will with every glance and word.
Elwell's charm was his weapon, his allure, a double edged sword.
His prowess at the card table was matched only by his skill in s seduction,
where the stakes were even higher and the consequences, as we will see,
far more dangerous. Elwell lived a strange life in that seventieth Street house.
It was big, decked out with top notch furnishings, but he didn't
have a butler, a cook, or a maid. Instead, he had
William Barnes, a secretary who did a bit of everything, and Roads his
chauffeur. Both lived elsewhere. Every morning, Missus Larson, the butcher's wife,
would come by to make his breakfast. If he had a lady over,
she'd make a second breakfast and clean up the house. People started to
talk in a time when wealthy men, through lavish parties Elwell's need for privacy
was peculiar. It hinted at something deeper, something unusual. What does he
do every night when he goes home to that silent house and takes off his
tailcoat and white tie, they wondered. His chauffeur roads, his secretary,
Barnes, and another former chauffeur, spilled the beans to the newspaper reporters.
Their story is all boiled down to one key point. During the four years
I worked for him, he had more than fifty women. Most of them
were high class dames, and I got the idea that they were mostly married
to somebody else, but I never knew their names. He was careful about
that. He'd tell me to go to some street intersection or restaurant, and
then roll up the glass to cut me off. From the back of the
car. A dame would be waiting. She'd get in, and I couldn't
hear a word, they said, even if I wanted to. When we
got to the seventieth Street house, he'd take the lady inside, wave me
off, and I'd put the car in the garage and head home. There
were seven women, to my knowledge who had a key to the house,
said Rhodes. I think there were twelve, but seven for sure. I
don't know when they used to use the keys, because I was never around
the place at night. When he went out at night, he took taxi
caaps. But even all this blue blood didn't seem enough for him. Many
a time we'd be driving along the street and some woman on the sidewalk would
catch his eye. He'd signal me to pull over. He'd always greet the
dame with why I haven't seen you since Palm Beach or something like that.
If the woman looked insulted, he'd apologize for the mistake. But you'd be
surprised how many of them didn't act insulted at all. El Well had started
out in a respectable and moderately prosperous family in New Jersey. By twenty five
he was on a steady climb to the top of a Brooklyn hardware firm.
He'd done well enough to join a small but socially correct club, and it
was there that he discovered bridge whist. The game fascinated him completely. He
devoted his mind to it, and by the time he was thirty he was
the leading bridge expert in the country. He had two published books on the
subject, with eleven more on the way. Elwell was a key figure in
the New York Whist Club and a founder of the Studio Club, an exclusive
group limited to twenty influential men. His rise was rapid, his success undeniable,
and his passion for Bridge unquenchable. Elwell got married and they had a
son, but by nineteen sixteen, Missus Elwell had reached her limit with a
man who attracted women like bees to honey. She got a legal separation but
didn't go for a full divorce. On New Year's Day of the year he
died, Elwell had Roads drive him to Palm Beach. His Florida trip was
uneventful, with nothing to hint at his violent end. Late in May,
he sent Rhodes back to New York with the car, and a few days
later he took the train himself. After his death, rumors spread. They
said he went to see his wife right after getting back from Palm Beach,
asking her for a divorce because he wanted to marry again. She supposedly refused,
but Missus Elwell denied this. She claimed that she wanted a divorce at
the time of their separation, but Elwell preferred to stay married to shield himself
from getting too deep with other women. On the night of June tenth,
thirteen hours before the fatal shot, Elwell showed up at a dinner party at
the Ritz Carlton Hotel. The hosts mister and Missus Walter Lewison. Among the
guests Octavio Figueroa, a journalist from Buenos Aires, and Viola Kraus. Mister
Lewison's sister, Viola, was the guest of honor. Three months earlier,
she'd won an interlocatory decree of divorce from her husband, Victor von Schlegel and
White Plains. That night, the decree became final. The party was to
celebrate, but things took a turn. As the Lewison parties settled into their
chairs and waiters bustled around. Hardy laughter erupted from a nearby table. They
turned and saw the newly divorced former husband von Schlegel, looking mary with a
beautiful young woman dressed all in black. When coffee and brandy were finished,
the Lewis and party took the elevator to the roof to dance. Bon Schlegel
and his young lady joined them in the same elevator. As the car ascended,
Von Schlegel's companion remarked, it seems we just can't keep away from each
other. No one responded. A bit later, on the roof, Elwell
and Viola Kraus were dancing a waltz. Bon Schlegel and his partner drifted close.
Von Schlegel said Hello, Joe, Viola Kraus, von Schlegel and the
woman in black all claimed. Elwell smiled and returned to the greeting. Walter
Lewison saw it differently. While I was seated at the table watching everything closely,
he said. When Vaughn spoke, Elwell's face didn't change and he didn't
acknowledge the greeting. At about ten o'clock, Von Schlegel and his young lady
left. Around half an hour later, Elwell headed out ahead of the others
to the New Amsterdam Theater to get tickets for the Zigfield midnight frolics. When
the the rest of the party arrived, he was there, tickets in hand.
They all danced, sipped champagne, and enjoyed the floor show until about
one thirty in the morning. Given what happened later, there was likely some
misunderstanding within the group during this time. When they decided to call it a
night and came down from the New Amsterdam roof, Elwell announced that he would
walk home alone. He saw the others into a taxi cab and headed west
on forty second Street toward Eighth Avenue. Nobody knows how he spent the next
hour. The telephone records from Columbia Station showed two calls from the Olwell house,
one at one forty five and another at two four a m. Why
all the Krows called him at two thirty, found him at home and tried
to mend whatever had gone wrong. That evening, Elwell tried to reach his
former racing partner W. H. Pendleton in Cedarhurst, Long Island. The
operator said she rang for some time but got no answer. It should be
noted that Pendleton was at home. The telephone was right by his bed.
He claimed it never rang at all. A New York Times reporter, desperate
for news and constantly misslas led by the District Attorney's office, blew this episode
out of proportion with elaborate innuendo. He predicted Pendleton's arrest within twenty four hours.
It was absurd. Pendleton was a steady family man. He'd sold his
share of the stable to Elwell. I just couldn't keep up with Joe or
go out with him. His pace was too fast for me. We'd lost
touch. But I'll testify he was a man of honor in his dealings,
and I admired him and respected him. It was a sweltering night. At
three forty five am, Johnny Isdale, chief engineer of a cargo steamer,
woke up in the house two doors down from Elwell's. The loud, popping
exhaust of a racing car had disturbed his restless sleep. He got up and
went to the window and saw the car stop in front of Elwell's house.
I didn't see anybody get out, he said, And I didn't see anybody
get in. I don't know the color or the make of the car.
About five minutes later it drove off, still popping that damn exhaust. By
six point thirty that morning, Henry Otten, a delivery driver, left a
quart of milk in the vestibule of Number two forty four. The glass paneled
entrance door was closed as usual, but the double wide storm doors were wide
open. At seven twenty a m. The postman arrived saw the milk and
dropped off four or five letters on the tiled floor. He rang the belt
twice, as he always did. Later, he couldn't recall if he'd closed
the storm doors behind him as he left. At eight thirty, Missus Larson
showed up. The storm doors were shut and the latch had caught, so
she used her key, the same key that opened both the storm doors and
the door beyond the vestibule. The milk was still there where Aughton had left
it. She didn't see any letters. Missus Larson ran screaming out the front
door, her cries catching the attention of patrolman Henry Singer at his traffic post
on the corner. Singer hurried to the house, but quickly ran back into
the street to find Aughten, the milkman, who was making his rounds.
Together, they found Elwell slumped in his chair. As they tried to move
him, Singer suddenly realized, Hey, wait a minute, this guy's been
shot. Aughton looked closer and saw it was true. They gently put Elwell
back into the chair as they'd found him. Singer called headquarters and then and
they searched for a pistol, but none was found. Elwell was taken in
an ambulance to Bellevue. He died two hours later without ever regaining consciousness.
By the time he took his last breath, the house on seventieth Street was
crawling with detectives, led by Captain Arthur Casey of the homicide Squad. The
next day, Assistant District Attorney John F. Joyce joined the case. The
reception room was small, two upholstered chairs, a small table, and three
pictures on the wall. Elwell's chair was against the wall in its usual spot,
no signs of struggle, except the second chair had been moved a few
feet. It faced Elwell's chair slightly diagonal, about six feet away. Singer
and Oughton couldn't remember if they moved the chair while trying to make the dying
man more comfortable. The bullet had ripped straight through Elwell's head and lodged itself
in the plaster four inches above the back of the chair. During those first
tense minutes, Singer found an empty forty five caliber shell on the floor.
It had been ejected from an Army type Colt automatic. The bullet, once
dug out of the plaster, matched the shell per perfectly scattered Around Elwell's chair
were some letters the postman had delivered that morning, all still sealed. One
letter, a routine report from Lloyd Gentry, the trainer at Elwell's racing stable
in Kentucky, was opened and bloodstained, lying by his left hand. The
other letters, once opened by the police, revealed nothing of importance. Elwell
had a preference for custom made cigarettes, cork tips for himself, gold and
rose tips for the ladies. One of his own cigarettes lay half burned on
the carpet beside his chair. On the marble mantelshelf, there was another cigarette,
a common brand, smoked from the wrong end, with the brand name
burned away. It was clear that robbery was not the motive. Both basement
doors were locked and untouched. The downstairs windows were guarded by ornamental iron grills.
In Elwell's bedroom on the third floor, his clothes from the Lewison party
were neatly laid out on his bed. There was four hundred dollars in cash,
and his diamond studs and cuff links were worth about seven thousand. He
hadn't slept in the bed unless it had been remade later. The pillow showed
indentations where he'd lain for a while. On top of the counterpane beside the
bed on the floor was a copy of the Morning Telegraph, a racing paper,
and an ashtray filled with custom cigarette butts. In Elwell's bedroom closet,
detectives found a pink silk neglige. A small square of the fabric where the
owner's names or initials had been embroidered, was neatly cut away with a knife.
This careful detail spoke volumes about Elwell's character. Despite the scores of women
who were drawn to him, who threw caution to the wind for a chance,
just a chance to be with him, Elwell himself remained a model of
discretion. Not a single love letter was found among his belongings. He kept
no diaries. Rhodes, Barnes and Missus Larson all swore they had no idea
who these women were. Elwell's secretive nature was his hallmark, and he was
meticulous in covering his tracks. The story about the door keys given to special
favorites was quickly debunked. The police tracked down a locksmith who had changed the
locks on the front door more than six months earlier. He'd only made two
keys for Elwell and one for Missus Larson, the estranged Missus. Elwell had
a point to make on this. Joe was many things, but he was
no fool. He'd never risk two women using their keys on the same night.
If he gave out keys, it was to people who'd come and gamble
with him. But evidence of gambling parties at Elwell's home was scarce. The
police found only a single deck of cards and a desk on the second floor.
In a storeroom, they found part of a Pharaoh layout. Nothing suggested
regular high stakes games taking place in the house. Elwell's secretary, William Barnes,
had a theory. It wasn't a woman who killed him, even if
she could handle a gun that big. When they found him, he'd left
his two pay upstairs, the one that covered his bald spot, and his
bridge of false teeth were up there too. He'd never sit down with a
lady looking like that. Here's how I figure it. He brings some guy
home, or maybe lets men. When he rings the bell, Elwell sits
down and the guy's facing him, probably holding a gun and making threats.
Now I've seen Joe lose fifty thousand dollars in an evening at Bridge without batting
an eye. He didn't know what it was like to be nervous or scared.
He wouldn't have begged or pleted. He'd have acted like it was all
a joke, even if he knew it wasn't. I can see him now
reaching for a pile of letters that the postman delivered, opening one and starting
to read. He'd probably say something like, very well, old chap.
If you're determined to shoot me, go ahead. While you're waiting, I'd
better go over my mail. And that's when the guy shot him. You
know, I figure it was some woman's husband or maybe your brother. Most
of the investigation and witness questioning happened right there in the house on seventieth Street
for nearly ten days. It was a hub of activity, with people coming
and going and lights burning through the night. Doctor Charles Norris, the medical
Examiner, released his report stating the medical evidence supports the factual evidence indicating that
Elwell was shot sometime between the mail delivery and missus Larson's arrival. It seems
clear that he was shot ten to fifteen minutes before Missus Larson got to the
house. The powder marks around the bullet wound form a circle three inches in
diameter. Tests with a similar weapon showed the muzzle was held no more than
three feet from his forehead, likely less than a foot. Even if the
weapon was in the room and someone hid it before the detectives arrived, it
would be awkward and unusual for a man to shoot himself directly in the center
of the head. Suicide seems unlikely. The house was a scene of constant
motion, detectives piecing together a timeline, scrutinizing every detail. The findings from
doctor Norris only deepened the mystery as they pointed away from suicide and toward murder.
At this point, District Attorney Swan like Elwell, a gentleman of the
old school, took personal charge of the inquiry. He allowed Eightya Joyce to
stay on the case and brought in another assistant named Dueling. Joyce and Dueling
immediately started bickering, but given the investigation's overall in competence, their squabbles seem
minor. Now a detective made a find in the cellar, a hidden package
containing a pink silk nightgown, a pink silk robe, and two pink silk
slippers. Missus Larson was confronted and finally admitted that she'd taken them out of
Elwell's bedroom closet, missing the neglige that was found, and stashed them in
the basement before the detectives arrived that fateful morning, I thought. She explained
that it wouldn't look nice for them to be found in his bedroom. Swan
informed the press that these items belonged to someone they could call, Miss Wilson.
Then, as missus Larson's composure cracked further, it came out that Miss
Wilson, in air quotes, had shown up at the Elwell house almost at
the same time Joe was breathing his last breath in Bellevue Hospital. Missus Larson
said she wanted to run upstairs and get her things, but by then the
upstairs was full of detectives. I told her I'd hidden the things, and
she said, isn't this an awful accident? And I said, yes,
it was, and she went away. At that hour, no newspapers had
reported the Elwell shooting. There was no radio. The assumption was that missus
Larson, influenced by her employer's charm, had telephoned the news to Miss Wilson.
She denied being paid or bribed to keep it quot More than a week
passed before persistent reporters forced Swan to admit that Miss Wilson was actually Viola Krause.
The district attorney explained his deception. We are investigating a murder, not
the frailties of womankind. I am reluctant to mention any lady's name. Was
it not a prince of Wales, of whom his friend said, when he
was called to testify upon a lady's honor, that he lied like a gentleman.
With Viola Krause now deeply entwined in Elwell's life, it was inevitable that
her ex husband von Schlegel would catch the attention of the authorities. They questioned
him in the Elwell home for nearly five hours. Afterwards, Swan gave reporters
a summary of the interview. Von Schlegel, American born and an engineer,
had studied at the University of Minnesota and was a partner in a New York
firm. He insisted his meeting with Elwell at the Lewison party at the Ritz
was purely accidental. He didn't recall the name of his companion that evening,
only that she was a girl from Minneapolis who had contacted and when she came
to New York. Wow, that's pretty quick to forget the name of your
date. There, he claimed he'd dropped the young woman off at her apartment
at ten o'clock, right after the Ritz dinner. The next day, business
took him to Atlantic City, but car trouble delayed him late that night.
He took his car to the garage, demanding it be ready by morning.
He picked it up around ten o'clock on June eleventh and set out for Atlantic
City. At Red Bank, the motor failed again and he left the car
there, continuing to Atlantic City by train. After finishing his business, he
spent the night in a Boardwalk hotel, then took the train back to Red
Bank, retrieved his car, and drove back to New York. Boy,
that sounds like a whole bunch of unlikely circumstances at once to me. If
I had to guess, I'd say von Schlegel is our killer, probably jealous
about Elwell's attentions with his ex wife, Yola Crafts. But then I'm not
a police detective or gentlemanly district attorney in New York in nineteen twenty, so
don't listen to me. Listen to this. Under Mounting pressure from the press,
DA, Swan eventually admitted that von Schlegel hadn't truly denied knowing the name
of the woman in black. I concealed her identity on my own initiative,
he said, enough names have been dragged through the mud in this case.
He finally revealed that the girl was Ellie Hope Anderson, the daughter of a
prominent Minneapolis merchant. She'd been studying voice and playing the organ in the East
for some time. Swan accepted her statement to the press in Minneapolis. She
said, Vaughn took me to my apartment at ten, directly from the Ritz.
He didn't come in. I was leaving for home in the morning,
but he asked me to come to his apartment for breakfast. I did go
there at about eight o'clock. I left him at about nine to go to
Grand Central for my train. So it sounds like miss Anderson is providing an
alibi for von Schlegel. Reportedly, the entire investigation into this high profile,
mysterious death was a perfect storm of competing agendas, and the DA's primary concern
wasn't catching a killer so much as making sure that no young woman's reputation was
besmirched. Swan's people never gave Captain Arthur Carey much to do beyond running errands.
The implication was clear, the police department necessary, but a bit rough
around the edges might cause embarrassment among the high profile names involved if they were
given too much freedom. In point of fact, no one was ever arrested
or accused even of the murder of Joseph bone Elwell, seemingly demonstrating something that
most of us already kind of know to be true, which is, if
you've got the right friends, you can probably get away with murder. There
was a great article on this case, A Key Source for Me, written
in nineteen fifty for Esquire magazine by a man named Morris Marky. At the
end of his article, he offers a sarcastic take on what really happened with
the famed suicide and or murder of Joe Elwell. I found his snarkiness to
be in somewhat poor taste, so rather than try to tell you about it,
I'm just going to read it to you directly. I believe that Marky
is offering this as essentially satire on the buffoonery of the DA's office. Here's
what he says. The lens of time, however, brings these affairs into
a clean focus and a theory clamorous from the record. Joseph Elwell did indeed
commit suicide, So it is possible to pose a hypothetical question. So here
the reporters basically just saying the official determination was in fact suicide. And so
let's talk about that for a moment. And here's his hypothetical. Did missus
Larson walk into the reception room that morning to discover her godlike employer had killed
himself. Did she see a pistol on the floor beside him? Did this
spellbound woman think at that moment, as she thought later when she decided the
pink silk things in Elwell's closet would quote not look nice unquote. Did she
think that it would be a shameful thing, no best, for the world
to know that this paragon of mankind had taken his own life? And did
she pick up the pistol and tuck it into her apron whence it could be
taken out again a little later and tucked into a pocket book and carried away
by the end of the dreadful day. It is easy enough to reach the
conclusion that the cigarette on the mantle, the one that had been smoked backwards
without a brand, was tossed thereby Ottan, the milkman, who came into
the room and was shaken by the sight of a bloody, dying man.
And it's easy to see how Joseph Elwell shot himself squarely in the middle of
the forehead. As awkward and bizarre as that may seem at first sight,
the next time you have an empty forty five automatic around the house, try
holding it with both hands at arm's length and pointing it at your brow and
pressing the trigger with your thumb. Zevan speaking here, Please do not do
that. Never point a real gun at your own self. Again. This
is a reporter's sarcastic take on the situation, attempting to demonstrate just how unlikely
the official conclusion was. Try holding it in both hands, at arm's length
and pointing it at your brow and pressing the trigger with your thumb. Be
sure it is empty, because it certainly would work. So here, Marky's
basically saying this whole suicide thing is utterly preposterous, and really it is.
How the authorities could rule suicide by gunshot in absence of there being a gun
by the body is just ridiculous. Of course, the supposition that missus Larson
hid it is possible, but that's really the only possibility, and so you'd
think you'd have to lean a little harder on missus Larson. Of Course,
as we've discussed, the DA's really only concern seem to be not upsetting society
or besmirching young women. He didn't seem to care at all about catching a
killer, and while reporters at the time seemed to ascribe this to his gentlemanly
nature, I can't help but wonder did the DA have his own connection to
one of Elwell's paramol Was he not so much protecting the lily white reputations of
young maidens as he was protecting himself. Did he hamstring the police to keep
himself out of the hoosgow, to keep himself away from the hangman's noose?
Is it possible that it was none other than d A. Arthur Swan who
fired the bullet that killed gentleman cad card shark Joseph Elwell. I'm Zevan Odleberg
and this has been kind of murdery. See you next Thursday. If you
like the show he subscribed, review and tell your friends. You can find
us on social media at Kina Murdery or email at Kinomurdery at gmail dot com
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