Noir Factory Podcast

Letter to Henry Ford on April 10, 1934….

Dear Sir,

While I still have breath in my lungs I will tell you what a dandy car make. I have driven Fords exclusively when I could get away with one. For sustained speed and freedom from trouble the Ford has got ever other car skinned and even if my business hasn’t been strictly legal it don’t hurt anything to tell you what a fine car you got in the V8-

Yours truly,

Clyde Champion Barrow

Agatha Christie was the bestselling author of all time, and living in the days of Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, that means something. In literature, it goes the bible, Shakespeare, and Christie.

In short, she is what legends in mystery writing aspire to be.

But it wasn’t always like that for her.

When you look at Agatha Christie’s story, is helps to know something about her mother, Clara Boehmer. Clara was the only daughter of a military man and an Englishwoman. She older brothers, one of which died very young, but they had left home to join the armed forces or to make their own way in the world.

But Clara was the youngest and she stayed behind at the family’s home in Belfast, Ireland. At least as long as she could.

Clara was still very young when her father, a captain, died in a riding accident. Her mother scraped by on a meager income and could barely support herself, let alone her daughter. So in her daughter’s best interests, she sent her to live with her aunt in West Sussex. Clara’s aunt had married a wealthy American, so the move not only kept young Clara from poverty, but it opened up a whole new world for her.

The couple introduced Clara to society, as well as to a young American stockbroker who had originally come to Europe to finish his education.

Frederick Aluah Miller was raised in the upper class of American culture, and he seemed born to be a man people trusted with their money. He was friendly, personable, attractive, and right from the start, young Clara seemed quite smitten.

They were married in April of 1878 and lived in Torquay, an English seaside village.

The couple’s first child, Margaret Frary Miller, was born a year after they were married, followed by their son, Louis Montant Miller, or “Monty,” a year later. They settled into the seaside village and brought a villa they called “Ashfield.” The couple settled in and Clara spent the next decade raising her children there.

Then came the “mystery” of Agatha Christie.

Sitting about a mile and a half off San Francisco in the middle of a bitter, inhospitable California bay, Alcatraz Island is a lot like many other pieces of bay area real estate. Many have claimed ownership and many court battles were waged over ownership.

But unlike other prime pieces of San Francisco real estate, few have wanted to call it home. The Island, Alcatraz Island, is also known as “The Rock.” And those who did call it home didn’t care for the experience.

The island, one of a group of small islands sitting in the bay, was known to the Native American population of the area but was not inhabited by them.

In truth, there was nothing to lure them, or anyone else, to the rock. Vegetation was almost non-existent. The island was composed mostly of irregular, stratified sandstone. It was described by an American officer as “entirely without resources within itself and the soil scarcely perceptible being rocky and precipitous on all sides.”

The rock itself was 1700 feet long, 580 feet at its widest side, with two peaks of about 130 feet each. It measured a total of 22 acres.

There was nowhere on the island to land a boat, no beach or shore, and the rock was overwhelmed by birds. So much so that Juan Manuel DeAyala called it “La Isla De Los Alatraces,” or Island of the Pelicans.

So while the island had nothing really going for it, the real estate did have three things in its favor: location, location, location.

As a crispness fills the air and the scent of gingerbread begins to waft from the kitchen, one only has to pull on an ugly sweater and curl up with a tablet to find some old-fashioned, weird Christmas crime.

And as always, Texas is as good a place to start as any.

In 1929 banks in Texas fell victim to robbers almost daily, and it was with an eye to protect what was theirs that the Texas Bankers Association offered a reward of $5,000 to anyone who killed a bank robber in the course of a crime.

CHAPTER FOUR

It took me a while to catch up with Mike McCarthy. He was the Special Investigator for the District Attorney, which meant that he played catcher to all the screwballs that came across the court system. If a crime was reported or investigated, he knew about it. The only variable was that not all of the crimes in the city were reported or investigated. If you knew the system under the system, you could get something buried so deep that it turned to crude oil.

Christmas time is special at the Noir Factory. The snow cleans up the chalk outlines on the sidewalk outside and the fellons wear a snappy smile as they lift your wallet.

Today is part one of a holiday bonus for the Factory. It's a holiday caper designed to lift the spirits and take a break from real life. If it isn't your thing, and you are here for the usual biographical and historical crime and noir, then feel free to skip this. You won't hurt my feelings and next week we'll be back with a real-life case of the worst Santa ever.

If you like the story so much you can't wait for part two, then head over to Amazon or Kobo for the ebook version. It is always free, becasue, y'know, Christmas. And if you would like to hand the story down from season to season, as well as help us out at the Noir Factory, you can purchase a paperback copy of Kringle Noir from Amazon as well.

It’s hard to tell where exactly the story begins because there was no huge discovery. At the tips of your fingers there are marks. Loops and swirls, whorls and arches. It was kind of like telling the world that you were the first to discover ...your belly button.

It just didn’t go over well, but unlike your bellybutton, the patterns on the tips of fingers meant more than just a physical oddity. The patterns on your fingers tell a story.

But yeah, I guess so does your belly button.

In the 30's, the FBI used the term “Public Enemy Number One” as a designation of infamy. Although that period in time became known as the “Public Enemy Era,” there were only three people actually held that designation.

The first one wore the title like a crown.

John Herbert Dillinger was born in Indianapolis, Indiana on June 22nd, 1903. His father, John Wilson Dillinger, owned a small grocery store. His mother, Mary Ellen, died from a stroke when he was three.

His sister, Audrey, was fourteen years older than John and the responsibility of caring for the child fell to her. She carried on with that responsibility until she married and moved out to begin her own family.

That left John Wilson Dillinger to raise his son on his own, and raising kids wasn't his strong suit.

Accounts of John Dillinger's childhood vary. His father was at times abusive and at other times gracious, lavishing money on his son for toys and treats. Those same accounts vary on John Dillinger's behavior.

Some say that the young Dillinger was a well-behaved child with a precocious streak. Others point to his childhood gang, the Dirty Dozen and their purchase for mischief. He also gained a reputation as a baseball player. For most of his life, John Dillinger would walk the line between fame and infamy.

By the time he reached his teenage years, he was on his way to becoming his own man.

The partnership between mankind and canine is one of the oldest and most successful relationships on Earth. Every since early man sat around a fire and tossed scraps of meat to a curious gray wolf, the relationship between the two was based on trust.

Virtually all breeds of dogs stem from the gray wolf and they have been tied to mankind ever since.

It isn't just by accident that the scientific name for the dog is Canis Lupus Familliaris . The canine has been man's constant companion for centuries, and with apologies to cat lovers everywhere, they have earned the nickname “man's best friend.”

Life changed quickly for the people of Norfolk County, England in the 1800’s. The large estates were falling. The families of privilege, who employed large households full of servants, often for life, grew more scarce by the day.

John and Maria Bowles could see the writing on the walls, so to speak. Their way of life, their means of support, was going away, never to return. They had to make some big decisions. With a meager savings and nine children in tow, they made their way across the ocean, to the land of second chances.

They went to America.

What they found there was farmland, and they were used to that. With many strong sons, enough funds to buy some land, and the vision to use the resources they had, the Bowles family settled into Jefferson County, in upstate New York, and grew their farm to a 100-acre homestead.

And the man who would become Black Bart grew up the farm outside of Plessis Village, with much grander dreams than a life of working the soil.

Born Charles Earl Bowles, Charlie was two when his family immigrated to America from England. He was a strong child and athletic child, but smaller than the rest of his family.