A Mysterious Drive

February 18, 1947
Los Angeles

All evidence suggests that, while driving west on Washington Boulevard under the overpass near Santa Fe Avenue, trucker Robert Frazer was struck by a piece of falling concrete. He then drove more than eight miles, in heavy traffic, before careening onto the sidewalk at his place of employ, at Firestone and Paramount Blvds. Co-workers rushed to his aid, and found Frazer unconscious, with a wound over his eye. On awakening, he had no memory of anything after the concrete bounced off his hood and shattered his window.

SMASH! …. SPLAT!

February 17, 1947Long Beach

The truck filled with empty milk bottles hit the car on Santa Fe near 23rd Street yesterday, and both drivers were launched forward through space, where they smashed together as surely as their machines had. Truck driver Abner Teachout, 49, is in Compton Clinic, his condition serious, while 24-year-old Phil Meyers is in critical condition at Seaside Hospital, Long Beach.

Where is the body?

February 16, 1947
Los Angeles

Police and railroad officials continue their search today for Eugene Hamilton White, 31, tool company executive missing since Valentine’s Eve, when he cashed his paycheck and left his office en route to his Woodland Hills home.

His bloodstained car was discovered near a Southern Pacific loading spur and warehouse, between 50th and 51st Streets, Long Beach Avenue and Alameda Street, its top ripped open and window shattered. Inside, the man’s empty wallet, eyeglasses, overcoat and jacket, a heart-shaped box of Valentine’s candy, a silver belt, and a blood-soaked handkerchief wrapped around the end of a tire iron.

Police suspect the man was beaten and robbed, then thrown into a passing freight car. His distraught wife Elizabeth, waiting at 22034 Providencia with little Bette Gene and Eugene Jr., says her husband was devoted to the family, and she can think of no reason for him to disappear.

And on this day in 1929….

Our friends at the LAist are blogging one of the more notorious crimes in Beverly Hills history, the mysterious Ned Doheny killing, when the son of the oil heir ended up dead steps away from his similarly gun-shot male secretary. Was it a simple murder-suicide, a lover’s quarrel, or the work of Doheny’s spurned bride? Carolyn Kellogg looks into the mussed clues and controversy, and shares an especially awful photo on the LAist flickr feed.

If you haven’t visited Greystone (now a public park, though the house is off limits save for special events bookings), do!

You Never Know

February 15, 1947
San Fernando

Leila Nichols, 18, had dated 22-year-old William Hunter once prior to their interaction this evening. Hunter, who spent 3 1/2 years in a Japanese prison camp, accosted the girl as she crossed a vacant lot after midnight, en route to her home, bashing her in the head with a lead pipe. The assault was interrupted when Nichols’ brother-in-law John T. Rust drove by and heard her screams. Hunter ran home to his mother and said, “I just killed a girl with a pipe; I don’t know what prompted me to do it.” Mom turned him in.

Leila Nichols is recovering in San Fernando Hospital, while Hunter has been charged on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon. He has refused to say anything but his name, rank and serial number. The girl lives at 11327 Tamarack Street, her assailant at 15431 Romer Street.

The Men Who Loved Jeanne French

February 14, 1947
Los Angeles

Alcohol is a terrible drug. It lured Jeanne French, mother and wife, out to gin halls, where, in the words of her sobbing son David Y. Wrather, “She made friends easy, awful easy. She went out alone sometimes. She’s gone now, and I’m sure she would want me to say the right thing. She made a lot of her own trouble. Her husband tolerated a lot from her. He was a tolerant man, a very tolerant man.”

After the inquest, officials exonerated Jeanne’s husband Frank F. French of any suspicion in her beating murder, leaving police to continue their search for the nameless, dark-haired man seen with the woman at a drive-in at 3992 Sepulveda Boulevard around 2am Monday. French’s body was found on a hillside early the next morning, and the presumption is that her date was likely her killer.

Tony Cornero’s Wife Is A Real Firecracker

February 13, 1947
Beverly Hills

Sheriffs’ officers came all the way from Fresno today to arrest Barbara Land, 27, the gal who married gambler Tony Cornero Stralla last fall, after which they divorced and subsequently remarried.

The charge is burglary of the Snow Line Lodge, near General Grant Park. Miss Land and her pals Elaine Rodgers, 29, and Robert Cabaniss, 31, allegedly visited the tavern, but found it closed. They entered after Miss Land “accidentally fell through a glass back door” and whooped it up with a few drinks.

The Goldilocks Gang claim to have left a check for $25 to cover their entertainment and damages, but owner Paul Haney reports no check was left, and $110 was missing from the till. Land and company deny the charges.

Hey, Mister! Mister!

February 12, 1947
Los Angeles

Nightclub owner Paul Rubin is a cautious fellow… at least he likes to think he is. So when he stopped at the bank near his club at 1571 W. Washington Blvd. to withdraw two $500 bills, he put his antennae up. While shopping in the drugstore around the corner at Washington and Vermont Ave., those antennae detected a strange man who seemed inordinantly interested in his activities.

Rubin darted off to his club, highly conscious of the grand in his pocket. The stranger followed close. As Rubin slipped in the front door, he pushed a buzzer that told employees to call the cops. The stranger stepped inside as the buzzing died in the air, two green portraits of William McKinley in his hand. “Say Mister, you dropped these in the drugstore!”

1571 West Washington To-day

No surprises here-didn’t see any honest men (or even Diogenes) or Rubin’s club, but as you may possibly note in the photo, our tale’s drug store is still down on the corner in its current incarnation as a Rite Aid.

Down the street, though, I did see my Fave House in LA, dear to me not only for her architectonic charms, but for the shocking disconnect between her and her surroundings. Like that auto dealership over there.