The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes

THE BUILT-IN LOVER by Alan Hynd

You just couldn’t make this case up. There is a sense of the surreal about the story of sex-crazed Mrs Walburga Oesterreich who kept her lover Otto Sanhuber hidden in the attic, away from her husband Fred. Admittedly, the affair began in Milwaukee and burned brightly there for fifteen years, but when the bizarre ménage moved west, the murderous outcome might have been made for Hollywood; indeed, southern Californians would boast it could only have happened in Los Angeles. The case defeated the LA legal system, and no one ever discovered what really happened when the bullets began to fly. If this were fiction, remarked the true crime author Alan Hynd (1908-1975), you would say it was overdrawn.“But,” he added, “the whole incredible series of events is a matter of cold official record.”

There were, back in the year of 1903, in the comfortable and robust city of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, three ill-assorted persons-a forty-year-old man, his thirty-six-year-old wife, and a seventeen-year-old boy-who, thrown into unique juxtaposition, became participants in a plot that not only lent impressive weight to the theory that truth is stranger than fiction but which twisted the long arm of concidence all out of shape. The goings-on in which these three became involved lasted for nineteen long years and didn’t come to light until after one of them shot the other one to death in the city of Los Angeles, a municipality that somehow seemed a most fitting place to serve as a backdrop for the climax of a bizarre series of events without counterpart in the annals of crime.

Fred Oesterreich, one of the three principals in our chronicle, was an arrogant, round faced German who ran an apron factory in Milwaukee. He was in the habit of blustering through the factory, which employed about fifty men and women, verbally lashing the workers on to greater effort. Had the workers taken a poll to determine whom they hoped the factory would fall in on there is little doubt who would have won.

Oesterreich’s wife, Walburga, was a well stacked woman of medium height who, though mostly of German origin, had just enough Spanish in her to make her interesting. The lady was, as it turned out, what a certain Hollywood motion-picture producer might call an over-sexed nymphomaniac. Walburga had a low, musical voice, smouldering dark eyes and a Mona Lisa-type smile. She worked in the apron factory as a forelady and was very popular with the workers because, after her husband had blustered through the place balling out everybody, Mrs Oesterreich would follow in his wake, picking up egos and returning them to their owners.

Fred and Walburga Oesterreich, who had been married for fifteen years and who were childless, were not a happy couple. Oesterreich had, from his wife’s point of view, several failings. Although he was worth about a quarter of a million dollars in 1903, the man was, like many Germans, a careful custodian of a buck. The couple lived in an ugly mustard-colored frame house that was big enough to require the services of two maids but Oesterreich would not allow his wife even one servant. Worse yet, the man was a heavy drinker. Worst of all, he had come to be painfully deficient on the connubial couch.

It was this latter failing that Mrs Oesterreich, what with that Spanish blood and all, simply couldn’t overlook. She used to get into terrible battles with Fred in the watches of the night, taunt him about his unforgivable deficiency, and punctuate her remarks by throwing small articles of furniture at him. She raised enough racket several times for neighbors to call the police. If Fred was a lion in the apron factory, he was a mouse at home; Walburga was by, all odds the stronger personality of the two.

One day, when one of the sewing machines in the Oesterreich factory broke down, the third principal in our chronicle entered the scene-a seventeen-year-old youth by the name of Otto Sanhuber. Otto, who bore a striking resemblance to nobody in particular, was a wizened little fellow, not quite five feet tall, with rumpled brown hair, a receding chin, and watery blue eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses. He was so painfully shy that he blushed when a lady so much as spoke to him.

Just as Otto was completing his repair job, Mrs Oesterreich spied him. What Walburga saw in little Otto is a tribute to the woman’s powers of perception. Here was a nondescript youth, less than half the woman’s age, who had never gotten so much as a second glance from the girls down by the Milwaukee beer vats. Yet, Mrs Oesterreich saw in Otto exactly what she was searching for.

Mrs Oesterreich, the sly one, saw to it that there was plenty of repair work at the factory for the bashful youth. In a few months Otto had grown to like and trust her.

One day a sewing machine that Mrs Oesterreich kept in the master bedroom at home broke down, no doubt by design, and she asked her husband what she should do about it. “Why,” said Oesterreich, “get that kid to fix it-that kid who’s been coming around the factory.”

It was a raw autumn morning when little Otto called at the Oesterreich home. Mrs Oesterreich, who answered the door to the boy, was rouged to the ears, drenched in a bitchy perfume and, as it turned out, was wearing nothing but silk stockings, bedroom slippers and a fancy purple silk dressing gown.

Leading Otto to the bedroom, Mrs Oesterreich propped herself up on the bed while the boy addressed himself to the machine. As he labored, Otto got an occasional whiff of that perfume and, every once in a while, he would sneak a look at the voluptuous lady on the bed. Every time he looked it seemed that he saw less of the dressing gown and more of Mrs Oesterreich.

W-e-l-l, as the outrageous facts in the office of the District Attorney of Los Angeles County were one day to disclose, a situation such as that in the Oesterreich bedroom that autumn morning could progress in only one direction. And it sure as hell did. By the time Otto Sanhuber left the house late in the afternoon he and the lady more than twice his age had put an intrigue in motion.

Otto, as Mrs Oesterreich had so correctly divined, possessed the biological endowments that were the answer to a nymphomaniac’s prayer. He would have been worth a chapter all by himself in the good Doctor Kinsey’s SexualBehaviorintheHumanMale.

Things rocked along very nicely for the next three years, with Otto, who still kept his job with the sewing-machine company, sneaking into the Oesterreich home when Mrs Oesterreich made one excuse or another to be absent from her duties at the apron factory. Mrs. Oesterreich couldn’t have been happier.

Somehow or other, probably through a neighbor, Fred Oesterreich got wind of the fact that his wife was receiving a visitor on those days she was not at the factory. The apron magnate questioned his wife and she, looking him straight in the eyes, assured him that there was nothing to the story.

Mrs Oesterreich, fearful of discovery, was nonetheless reluctant to let go of little Otto, now that she had found him so she hit upon an inspired plan. She decided to have Otto move into the Oesterreich home, without her husband knowing it, as a permanent guest.

There was an unused cubbyhole in the attic, immediately above the master bedroom, which was entered through a trap door in the bedroom ceiling. Mrs Oesterreich fixed the cubbyhole up with a cot, a rug, a small table, a couple of chairs, some candles and other necessities of life and, one day when Fred was at the factory, moved Otto, who had quit his job with the sewing-machine company, right in. She put a snap lock on Otto’s side of the trap door so that if her husband should, for any reason, try to get into the attic cubbyhole he would think the trap door was stuck.

The arrangement went just fine. Mrs Oesterreich, feigning one excuse or another, would remain home from the factory and, as the cold winter winds blew outside, would give her signal to Otto-three taps on the trap door-and he would open it up and descend into the bedroom.

Otto came out for exercise around the house only during the day, or when the Oesterreichs went out for the evening. Before going out at night with Fred, Walburga would give Otto the signal that it was all right to come down. But Otto never set foot off the premises.

Because of the demands that Walburga Oesterreich had made on him for almost four years now, Otto had hardly grown at all, still being under five feet and weighing only a hundred and five pounds. And what did Otto think of all this? He just loved it. Only a mixed-up character would have gone for such an arrangement but Otto was mixed up from way back. An orphan, he had had a hard raising. Because of his small stature and his nondescript face, nobody had ever paid the slightest attention to him-until Mrs Oesterreich had spied him.

Otto was living in a sort of dream world up there in the attic, not having to face the realities of life and with all his wants taken care of. Talk about social security! Mrs. Oesterreich supplied Otto with adventure books, which she obtained from a public library, and, as Otto read by daylight or by candlelight, he was transported into regions far removed from Milwaukee.

Sanhuber had by now developed a voracious appetite. The fellow could eat enough for three men. Mrs Oesterreich kept him supplied with whole loaves of German rye bread, bottles of milk, and cheeses, liverwursts and bolognas, so that he could have snacks at night when the garment manufacturer was on the premises and Otto could not come down out of his hideaway.

There were just two precautionary measures that Otto had to abide by. One was that he was never to make the slightest sound at night, when Oesterreich himself might be just below him, there in the bedroom. The other was that he was never, under any circumstances, to go near a window in the cubbyhole that looked out on the backyard. The window was opaque with dust, and the light of a candle, which Otto kept at that end of the cubbyhole furthest from the window, was not visible after dark.

After a couple of years of reading adventure stories, Otto became something of a connoisseur of the stuff. Not only a connoisseur, but a critic. An urge to express himself, long bottled up, took the form of a decision to write adventure fiction for the pulp magazines.

So Otto began to scratch away with a quill pen, up there in the attic, turning out adventure stories laid, for the most part, in the South Seas and the Orient. Mrs Oesterreich bought a typewriter, learned how to peck away at it, and typed Otto’s stories and sent them to the pulp magazines. She rented a post-office box under an assumed name and used the box for all correspondence on the literary level.

Otto, who was very prolific, turned out his stories pretty rapidly. During his first year as a writer, he drew nothing but rejection slips. Then, suddenly, he got the hang of the thing and his stories started selling. Although he used a nom de plume in the magazines, the checks were made out in his name. He endorsed them over to Mrs Oesterreich and she opened a special bank account for him. Thus the little fellow became self-supporting.

Sometimes, while writing late at night, Otto would become so engrossed in his work that he would cough or clear his throat. “Where’s that noise coming from?” Oesterreich would ask his wife. “Oh,” Mrs Oesterreich would answer, “it’s probably a dog somewhere.”

“It sounds closer than that. It sounds like it’s coming from the attic.”

“It’s probably mice.”

When the Oesterreichs were out for an evening to visit friends and drink schnapps, Otto liked to go down to the kitchen and raid the ice box. Oesterreich, coming home with his wife about midnight, was a great one for a snack before going to bed. He would go into the ice box, take out a roast, and look at it in a puzzled sort of way. “Whatever happened to all the meat on this thing?” he would ask his wife.

“We ate it at dinner.”

“We didn’t eat that much.”

Mrs Oesterreich would just look at her husband and make him feel foolish.

One Saturday afternoon, Oesterreich was out in the backyard, burning some rubbish. As chance would have it, Otto chose that very afternoon to disobey the injunction of his mistress never to go near that window in the attic. Otto not only went near the window, but he rubbed some of the accumulated grime away, the better to peer out. He was peering out when Oesterreich, down in the back yard, happened to look up. Otto ducked-but not quite in time.

Oesterreich ran into the house, yelling for his wife. “I knew there was something up in that attic!” he yelled. “I just saw something move.”

Walburga Oesterreich, who was by now equal to practically any situation, feigned puzzlement. “If it’ll make you feel any better, Fred, why don’t you go up to the attic and look around.” Oesterreich tried the trap door, but it wouldn’t give. “The damned thing’s stuck,” he said.

“Fred,” said Mrs. Oesterreich, “I want to have a serious talk with you.”

“What about?”

“I think you should see a doctor.”

“What for?”

Now Walburga Oesterreich came across with her master stroke. She tapped her forehead. “I think something’s wrong in your head, Fred. You’re imagining things. Maybe it’s because you drink too much or maybe it’s because you work too hard. But something’s wrong, Fred. Promise me you’ll see a doctor.” Fred, fearing the woman might be speaking the truth, would promise nothing of the kind. But thereafter if he heard mice in the attic coughing and clearing their throats he kept his mouth shut about it.

Oesterreich was a great man for a cigar. There were always several humidors filled with cigars around the house. Now Otto (wouldn’t you know it) took up smoking. When Oesterreich began to complain that his cigars were disappearing, his wife put her foot down. He would have to see a doctor.

The saw-bones just sat there in his office, looking at Fred Oesterreich while Mrs Oesterreich did the talking. What she was saying was that her husband was imagining that somebody was smoking his cigars and raiding his ice box, that he was seeing things, like an imaginary face at the attic window, and that he thought he heard mice up in the attic, coughing and clearing their throats.

“Is this true?” the doctor asked the apron magnate. Oesterreich said it was. “Do you drink pretty heavily, Mr Oesterreich?” asked the doctor. Oesterreich admitted that he did. “And you work very hard at your factory?” Yes.

The doctor wrote out a prescription. But the prescription didn’t seem to do any good. Oesterreich began to brood about himself. He brooded so much, in fact, that he began to lose his grip. He was no longer the Simon Legree in his factory, no longer capable of lashing the slaves on to greater effort.

Mrs Oesterreich, still carrying on great with her attic Romeo, took her husband to another doctor. The second saw-bones suggested a change of houses.

When the Oesterreichs changed houses, Otto went right along, being fixed up in the attic again. But Oesterreich continued to hear strange sounds every once in a while, and his cigars continued to vanish and edibles disappeared from the refrigerator.

In 1913, when Fred Oesterreich was fifty, his wife forty-six, and Otto twenty-seven, the Oesterreichs moved into still another house. Of course Otto went right along. The liaison between the little fellow and Walburga Oesterreich was still going strong, to the utter satisfaction of both, but Fred Oesterreich was rapidly running down hill. He was still hearing things and imagining things.

Walburga Oesterreich was, at the age of forty-six, a remarkable woman-dripping with magnetism, buoyant of spirit, quick of mind. She was careful of her diet, kept her figure, and saw to it that she got out of a dress everything she put into it. Her dark, Spanish-type features made her age hard to figure out; sometimes, when she was well rested and well satisfied, she looked quite a few years younger than she really was.

Actually, the woman was leading two complete lives-one with her husband at night and one with Otto during the day. Fred Oesterreich, a methodical man, left the house at the same time in the morning and returned the same time at night. When Fred left in the morning, Otto would come down out of the attic, have breakfast in the kitchen, and then either go back to the attic to write or go to bed with Mrs Oesterreich.

Otto and the lady hit the sack one morning and were making quite a racket when they heard a noise downstairs. Mrs Oesterreich jumped out of bed, rushed to the open door of the bedroom, and listened. Sure enough, somebody was downstairs. “Who’s there!” the lady cried out.

“It’s me,” came Fred’s voice. “Where are you, upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right up,” called Fred.

“No,” answered Walburga, “I’ll be right down.”

While Otto sneaked off to his attic hideaway, Mrs Oesterreich put on bedroom slippers and dressing gown and got downstairs before her husband, who had come home not feeling good, got upstairs. Close-but no cigar.

One night, not long afterward, the Oesterreichs, who had gone out to play cards with friends, got into a drunken fight with the friends and returned home early. Fred, oiled to the gills, caught little Otto in the kitchen, worrying at a leg of lamb. Thinking Otto was an ordinary intruder, he gave the little fellow a frightful beating and tossed him out of the house, little realizing that he was evicting Otto from the only home he had.

Meeting Mrs Oesterreich on the street next day, Otto found that she had everything all planned. Afraid that her husband would suspect that Otto had been considerably more than an ordinary intruder, put two and two together and bust into that attic, Walburga told her lover to go to Los Angeles. She would keep in touch with him through a post-office box, and soon join him in the City of the Angels. She withdrew from the bank the money he had made as a writer and away he went.

Arriving in Los Angeles, Otto got a job as a porter in an apartment house. After all those years in the attic, he hated all that California sunshine. Walburga had no trouble talking Fred into selling out and moving to California but it took him two years to find somebody who would give him half a million dollars for his apron factory.

Landing in Los Angeles in 1918, the Oesterreichs put up at a hotel while he looked around for a business opportunity and she looked around for a house. Walburga found just what she wanted on North St Andrews Place, one of the city’s tonier thoroughfares-a handsome big residence that just happened to have a walled-off portion of the attic right above, of all places, the master bedroom. While Oesterreich rushed around town, investigating business opportunities, his wife fixed up the attic quarters for Otto.

Oesterreich purchased controlling interest in a prosperous garment factory specializing in aprons, dresses and lingerie, and moved with his wife into the residence on North St Andrews Place. Mrs Oesterreich contacted Otto, met him on a street corner one fine bright Southern California day and within the hour the little fellow was ensconced in his new quarters, safely in out of the sunshine.

Things rocked along for four years. Then, on the night of 22 August 1922, neighbors of the couple heard terrifying sounds coming out of the open window, and then they heard what sounded like-and was-the sound of several shots.

The cops found Fred Oesterreich dead on the living-room floor, bullets through his head and his chest. Then they heard the widow yelling for help from a clothes closet in the master bedroom. The closet had been locked by a large, old-fashioned key, which was lying on the floor just outside of the closet door.

Now there entered the scene a man named Herman Cline, the Chief of Detectives of the Los Angeles Police Department-a hard-bitten man who, rumor had it, each morning glanced into a mirror and looked with suspicion at his own reflection. Cline looked at Mrs Oesterreich, who was near hysteria, then at the key that had locked the closet door, and then at a space of about a quarter of an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor.

Mrs Oesterreich told Cline that she and her husband had come home and surprised a burglar. After shooting her husband the burglar had locked Mrs. Oesterreich in the closet to prevent her from phoning the police.

“What’d the burglar steal?” Cline asked Mrs Oesterreich.

Mrs Oesterreich had seen the burglar snatching her husband’s watch-a handsome timepiece studded with diamonds. The lady was carrying on at a great rate. She volunteered the information that in a third of a century of marriage she and dear Fred had never had a single quarrel.

The apron manufacturer had been slain by bullets from a.25-calibre weapon. “I think I’ll go to Milwaukee and look into this Mrs Oesterreich,” Cline told his superior. “She could of locked herself in that closet and shoved that key back under the door. Not only that, but any woman who stands there with a straight face and says she’s never even had a fight with her husband’s a liar.”

All Cline found out in Milwaukee was that Walburga and Fred Oesterreich had frequently quarrelled. Yet that was enough to establish that Walburga Oesterreich had lied to him. False in one thing, false in all?

Oesterreich had an estate of about a million dollars, but it was in such a tangled condition that his widow had to engage the services of one of Los Angeles’ ablest civil attorneys-Herman Shapiro-to untangle it for her. As Walburga was leaving Shapiro’s office the first day they met she presented him with a diamond-studded watch. “Here,” she said, “this belonged to my dear husband. I want you to have it.”

“Didn’t I read something in the papers about that burglar stealing a watch like this one from your husband?” asked Shapiro.

“Yes,” said Mrs Oesterreich, “but apparently he didn’t. I found this watch under the cushion of a window seat in the living room.”

Mrs Oesterreich put the house on St Andrews Place up for sale and bought a smaller house on North Beachwood Drive. There was a nice, comfortable attic in this house, too, so Otto Sanhuber went right along.

Somewhere along the way, Mrs. Oesterreich had struck up an acquaintanceship with an actor-a fellow named Bellows-and one day when they met for lunch in a Hollywood restaurant she reached into her handbag and handed him a large envelope. The envelope contained a.25-calibre revolver.

“What’s this?” asked Bellows.

“I keep it for self-protection,” said Mrs. Oesterreich. “But since dear Fred was also killed by a.25-calibre revolver, it might look suspicious if the police found this in my possession. So do me a favor, will you. Dispose of it somewhere for me.”

Bellows tossed the gun into the LaBrea tar pits-a piece of Los Angeles real estate that holds more secrets than a Hollywood casting couch.

One day about a year after the murder, Chief of Detectives Cline, still convinced that Mrs Oesterreich had guilty knowledge of her husband’s death, decided to drop into Shapiro’s office. He happened to notice the diamond-studded watch. When Shapiro explained where Mrs Oesterreich claimed to have found the watch, Cline clapped on his hat and headed for Beachwood Drive to arrest the woman and charge her with murder. A hold-up man, Cline knew, would not snatch a watch from a man he was murdering and then hide the watch under the cushion of a window seat.

What Cline was hoping for when he pinched Walburga Oesterreich was a confession. He didn’t get it. The lady, held without bail, screamed for Shapiro. “Go up to the big bedroom in my home,” Mrs Oesterreich instructed Shapiro, “and tap three times on the trap door in the closet. There’s somebody up there in the attic-a half brother of mine who’s a sort of a vagabond. Please tell him I’ve gone to Milwaukee on business and will see him soon.”

When Shapiro tapped three times on the trap door, the door opened and there was little Otto Sanhuber. Otto, now nearing his fortieth year, was the color of library paste but seemed to be in good health. When Shapiro, standing there in the closet and looking up, introduced himself and gave him Mrs Oesterreich’s message, Otto smiled and thanked him. Then, growing thoughtful, Otto said, “I feel as if I know you, Mr Shapiro. Mrs Oesterreich has spoken of you many times. It’s too bad that she has been so upset over something that I did.”

“That you did!”

“Yes, I shot Mr Oesterreich. It was an accident.”

“Tell me about it.”

Shapiro sat down on the floor of the closet, got out a pencil and pad, and began to make notes. It seemed that on the night of the murder, the Oesterreichs had come home, quarreling as usual. Otto, who had been cavorting around the house after raiding the refrigerator, had, instead of going back to the attic, decided to get into the fight. He knew where Mrs Oesterreich kept a little.25-calibre revolver, so he got it, then went downstairs and confronted Oesterreich. “Unhand this lovely woman!” said Otto, stealing a line of dialogue right out of one of his own stories. Oesterreich just glowered at little Otto and made a lunge for him. Otto, in a panic, pulled the trigger several times and the first thing he knew there was Fred Oesterreich lying on the floor dead.

Now Otto drew upon his talents as an author and concocted something to fool the police. He snatched Oesterreich’s diamond-studded watch and gave it to Walburga. Then, he rushed to the second floor with Mrs Oesterreich, told her to lock herself in the closet and shove the key through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor, and disappeared into his hideaway in the attic.

It occurred to Shapiro that Otto had been pretty stupid. He should never have given that watch to Mrs Oesterreich and he should have locked Mrs Oesterreich in the closet himself, and left the key in the keyhole on the outside of the door. Then Chief of Detectives Cline would not have spotted the flaws in the whole business. But Otto, in a panic because he had just killed a man, hadn’t been thinking clearly.

Otto, not having talked to a living soul save Walburga Oesterreich (and, briefly, Fred) for four years, couldn’t dam up the flow of words. He lay on the floor of the attic and, looking down at the lawyer sitting in the closet, began to go over every phase of his long and unique relationship with Walburga Oesterreich.

Shapiro, deciding that Mrs Oesterreich needed a good criminal lawyer, enlisted the services of Frank Dominquez, one of LA’s cagiest mouthpieces. “Go out to that house on Beachwood Drive,” Dominquez said to Shapiro, “and get that man to hell out of that attic. In fact, tell him to get out of the country.”

Sanhuber went north to Vancouver, British Columbia. Dominquez went to the District Attorney, and, since Otto was out of the country and the lethal weapon was in the LaBrea tar pits, demanded the release of Mrs Oesterreich, and got it. Shortly thereafter Mrs Oesterreich got her husband’s inheritance and settled down to a comfortable life in the house on Beachwood Drive.

Seven years passed. Chief of Detectives Cline, now retired, wandered around Los Angeles, muttering in his beard. And then, one day in 1930, all hell broke loose. Shapiro, Mrs Oesterreich’s civil lawyer, went to the District Attorney. He and Mrs Oesterreich had gotten into some fierce fights about money and the lawyer, fearing injury or possible death at the hands of the woman, wished to make public an affidavit about the death of Fred Oesterreich. And so Shapiro spilled the whole story.

Mrs Oesterreich and Sanhuber were both in Los Angeles, but not seeing each other any more. The lady had found several new lovers, who were being paid well for their services. Otto, on the other hand, had married in Canada but, unable to find steady employment there, had returned to Los Angeles. He was working as a night porter in an apartment house so that he could sleep during the day when the sun was out.

When Mrs Oesterreich and Sanhuber were pinched, she refused to talk, but Otto went before a grand jury and repeated everything that he had told to Shapiro that day seven years previously. Mrs Oesterreich and Otto were both indicted for the murder of her husband.

Otto, tried first, had as his counsel Earl Seeley Wakeman, a man who had never lost a murder trial. Otto repudiated his confession so that the State was left with Shapiro’s second-hand account of the murder. The jury didn’t say yes and it didn’t say no. It found Otto Sanhuber guilty of manslaughter.

And maybe that didn’t stir up a fascinating legal dust storm. The statute of limitations on manslaughter ran out after three years, and here was a man who was guilty of a manslaughter committed eight years previously. Simple arithmetic was all that was needed to establish the fact that little Otto Sanhuber was five years on the laughing side of the limitations ledger. And so the little man was set free, to trail off, at the age of forty-four, into the silences, never to be heard from again.

Now Mrs Oesterreich went to bat, having as her counsel, Jerry Geisler, the cagiest lawyer in California. Walburga, now sixty-three years old, got on the stand in her own defense and laid all the blame on little Otto. She had not come forward at the time of her husband’s death and told the truth because she hadn’t wanted to be embarrassed by public disclosure of her private life. Embarrassed indeed!

The jury couldn’t quite make up its mind about Walburga; it disagreed. The murder indictment against the woman hung fire for six years and then, in 1936, the District Attorney, feeling he could never make the charge against the lady stick, moved to have the indictment nolle prossed.

Mrs Oesterreich began to plunge in the stock market, with disastrous results. In the early forties, with only a few thousand dollars to her name, she took up residence over a garage in the Wilshire district of the city. Four years later, when a reporter for one of the Los Angeles papers sought to interview her, he found that she had, like Otto, trailed off into the silences, leaving no trace.

The Blind Goddess of Justice sure was taken for one hell of a sleigh ride. After all, a man was scragged. It does seem that somebody should at least have been slapped by a good, stiff fine.