A mailman found Fred Popp, late in the afternoon, slumped over the wheel of his car. Mr. Popp’s custom was to go to the bank, his bank, the Logan Square Trust and Savings Bank, first thing in the morning. He’d review accounts, conduct business, then leave to keep appointments. The day he died, he came to the bank as he usually did—but instead of driving to the Loop for a meeting, he drove to a little park, so far south and so far west of the city it was almost in Cicero. He turned onto a stretch of dirt road, found a nice quiet place, and pulled over. Then he blew his brains out.
He didn’t leave a note. The only thing the coroner found in Mr. Popp’s pockets was a checkbook—$61,0001 worth of canceled checks, ranging from $5,000 to $20,000, had been carefully pasted back onto their stubs. The checks had been drawn on an account that Mr. Popp’s oldest son, Paul, the cashier2 of Logan Trust, had opened in his own name at a bank in St. Louis. Nearly every check had been filled out by Paul; every one of them had been payable to him; every one of them had been endorsed by him.
The coroner was certain Mr. Popp’s death was a suicide, but the checkbook with its pasted stubs made him wonder.
Mr. Popp had lived a rags-to-riches, Horatio Alger kind of life. He’d begun as a mailman, working a route so sparsely settled that he needed a horse and a cart to get around. Needed a horse and a cart—but couldn’t afford them. The route he trudged, from house to distant house, slowly became more settled, and as it became more settled, Mr. Popp bought land. He bought it and sold it; bought more and built houses on it; sold and bought and built and sold. The neighborhood became the Logan Square neighborhood, and Mr. Popp grew rich. Thirty years after Mr. Popp delivered his first letter, thirty-two years after he’d met and married his sweetheart, Mary Wheeler, Logan Square Trust and Savings Bank was about to open the doors of its new $300,000 headquarters—an iron-gated, four-columned, white marble monument to prosperity, and to the hard work and good sense that had produced it.
A day after Mr. Popp’s body was identified, the state’s bank examiner, Henry Savage, a plump, balding, middle-aged man with French cuffs and manicured hands, closed Logan Trust to examine its books. The audit report that Logan had sent to the state auditor in 1922 showed everything to be in order: deposits of $2.4 million; total number of individual savings and checking accounts: 15,000. Logan reported it held bonds and securities valued at almost $700,000; it had outstanding loans totaling $1.6 million.
Late in 1922, soon after the bank had made its report, a gang of five well-dressed thieves robbed the bank of $19,000. Mr. Savage quickly discovered that the bank had so many nonperforming loans on its books, and so many worthless stocks and bonds in its safe, that it was a wonder the thieves had found any cash to steal. Worse yet, Logan’s officers were stockholders in the same deadbeat companies that had received loans from the bank; the stock certificates and bonds in Logan’s safe were issued by the same fly-by-night corporations in which Logan’s officers had invested. “Unlisted stocks and bonds of undetermined value” was the way Mr. Savage described the mess he found. “Bad paper” were the words State’s Attorney Crowe used when he read Mr. Savage’s report.
Mr. Popp’s body was still aboveground when Crowe’s assistant state’s attorneys began questioning the bank’s vice president, David Wiederman. Wiederman was a big, bluff, hail-fellow-well-met, ex-football star, a former Army captain who’d been Mr. Popp’s second in command—his executive officer in charge of all operations. Paul Popp also had some explaining to do: he was the one responsible for the 1922 fairy tale the bank had sent to the state auditor. He was also the one whose name appeared on the front and back of the checks his father had carried to his death.
David Wiederman hid behind his lawyer. Paul talked to Crowe’s assistant state’s attorneys.
His father, said Paul, had been an investor in Logan for many years. In 1920, Logan found itself “overextended”: the depression that followed World War I affected the bank—its loans and investments—as it had affected everyone. Fred Popp had money when no one else did. He bought more and more shares of Logan’s capital stock, and along with Paul, and Paul’s new brother-in-law, Albert, the Popp family became Logan Trust’s majority shareholders. Fred Popp became Logan’s president; Paul became the bank’s cashier and one of its directors; Albert became a “bank executive.” David Wiederman traded stock he owned in other companies to buy a big block of Logan Trust’s capital stock. Stock trading made Wiederman Logan’s vice president.
The trouble began.
Mr. Popp had made his money in real estate. He admitted he didn’t know much about stocks—but, fortunately, his new vice president did. (Wiederman had been the director of another bank—Stoney Island Trust. Stoney Island’s president, William Scott, was also the director of a brokerage firm. Scott’s firm had a reputation for selling nothing but “bad paper.” Scott himself was forced to resign from Stoney Island because of his personal use of bank funds.) Popp relied on Wiederman for stock advice. Wiederman recommended nothing but dogs and deadbeats.
One of Wiederman’s favorites was a company called Lower California Fisheries. Fred Popp, Paul Popp, and Logan Trust bought into it. Since the company was based in Los Angeles, Mr. Popp began to travel there. He took the train—a “fine, fast, super fine, highclass train,” the Golden State, run by the Rock Island Line/Southern Pacific Railroad. “Half the train is devoted to the comfort of the business traveler.” “Two days, three nights.” “Saves a whole Business Day.”
Which is how, on board that train, Mr. Popp met June Bacon. Bright, beautiful, blonde June. Born in South Bend, Indiana—but born for finer things. June sang. Sang in big hotels in Chicago. Was on her way to sing in big hotels in L.A. Two days, three nights. On board the Golden State.
Mr. Popp made several more trips to L.A. during the next year. He became a member of Lower California Fisheries’ board of directors. June began to call him “daddy.” He bought her “the biggest diamond in Chicago.” June came back to the city to try it on—and stayed. She had a “wonderfully rich soprano voice.” She also had “artistic ambitions.” Grand opera was her destiny. An artist like June needed a patron. In fact, as one of June’s friends later said, “June was genuinely fond of Mr. Popp.” That’s why she didn’t say no when Mr. Popp offered to build her a house. “A regular palace,”3 according to one of June’s other friends. “Just a comfortable place for an artistic working girl to live” was how the mother of another acquaintance described it. In fact, it was more than comfortable. Visitors might enter through its arched and columned front door, but June came and went through a tunnel that Mr. Popp had thoughtfully built between the house and its two-car garage.4 June said that Mr. Popp had dug the tunnel so she could run errands without “soiling her satin pumps.” Mr. Popp used the tunnel whenever he visited her. June began to talk about her “millionaire daddy,” but not one of her neighbors recalled ever seeing Mr. Popp as he came and went.
Mr. Popp paid for everything: the house and the car, the Persian rugs and the velvet drapes; the library with its grand piano and all its books; the wicker furniture for the sun parlor; the damask chairs, mirrors, and chaises for the boudoir; the maids (first a Swedish one, then a French one, then an African-American one); the voice lessons; the fur coats; the dresses and the gowns.
The money traveled underground: from Mr. Popp to the bank in St. Louis, from the bank in St. Louis to Paul, from Paul back to his father. Paul was forced to explain this to one of Mr. Crowe’s investigators, but when a newspaper reporter asked Paul, he said, “I don’t wish to talk about that. I wish that could be kept out of the papers.”5 Ten thousand dollars was the last sum that Paul passed to his father, but Mr. Popp had begun to bestow more than gifts on June: several months before he died, Mr. Popp gave June a piece of real estate worth $100,000. The land was a dowry present. Mr. Popp was fifty-three, and June—June might have been thirty.6 Mr. Popp wanted to marry her.
There were two, unexpected problems: the more time Mr. Popp spent with June, the less time and attention he devoted to Logan Trust. David Wiederman began to loot the place. By the time Mr. Popp was dead and State’s Attorney Crowe had begun asking questions, Wiederman had embezzled $56,000. On several occasions, he forged the names of depositors,7 then signed the notes over to himself. He used the money to pay off stocks he’d bought on margin. On another occasion, he simply walked out of the bank with $20,000 worth of securities in his briefcase. He used the stock as collateral for a personal loan.
Mr. Popp found out about all this a few days before he shot himself. He’d also found out something else: three months before he died, Mr. Popp discovered that June had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who was with June whenever Mr. Popp wasn’t. The last of June’s succession of maids tattled on her.
The boyfriend’s name was Frank Wolzny. He also went by the name of Ross Miller. Frank/Ross listed the Sher-Lak Hotel as his residence. When Mr. Crowe’s investigators questioned him, Frank said he’d once met a man named Ross Miller—but he didn’t know him very well. Frank said he’d met Ross at June Bacon’s house. Frank admitted he visited June often. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? After all, he and June were engaged. As for Mr. Popp, the dead banker, Frank said he didn’t know him, had never met him. He said he was surprised to learn that Mr. Popp had given June everything she owned.
June’s maid told a different story:
“Mr. Frank Wolzny . . . was Miss Bacon’s ‘sweetie’. He was there every evening when Mr. Popp was not. . . . He would call me up to find out if ‘the coast was clear’. . . . Mr. Popp told me that those two, Miss Bacon and Wolzny, were trying to get money out of him. I overheard Miss Bacon say to Frank to let her handle it. . . .
“One time, Frank and Miss Bacon were talking and Frank said he needed money. Fred Popp said he would not give up any money . . . he paid all the bills. He kicked about the fine rugs and the draperies, but after he got a cussing from Miss Bacon he paid. . . .
“Frank and Miss Bacon were constantly after Mr. Popp for money. . . . Mr. Popp told me that they were after large sums from him, but that he would confess to his wife and quit them. I believe Mr. Popp tried to make a settlement with them.
“I was between two fires. Mr. Popp insisted I tell him everything that took place when he was not there, and Frank insisted I tell on Mr. Popp. . . .
“Frank and Miss Bacon used to fight and quarrel about Mr. Popp . . . Mr. Popp told me he was so worried about the fix he was in, he wished to tell his wife all—even if it broke him up—and go to California.
“That Bacon woman bled Mr. Popp constantly for money until he could stand it no longer. . . . ”8
Instead of confessing to his wife and going to California, Mr. Popp decided to stay in town—and to start going out with one of June’s friends, a “piquant brunette” named Clair Heilman.
Depending on who was asked and when they answered, Clair’s relationship with June was either close or distant. “I was one of June’s best friends,” Clair said. They’d met in South Bend; they’d known each other since they were teenagers. “My daughter was never a good friend of June’s,” Clair’s mother said. Clair’s mother spoke to reporters a few days after Mr. Popp died. Clair herself had left town, as fast as she could. Headed to California. Maybe. “Clair hardly knew June in South Bend. Not that I ever saw or heard anything, but, well, you know how a mother feels. . . . I was never anxious for Clair to run around with her.”9
Everyone agreed that June had introduced Clair to Mr. Popp back in 1921. Times were tough in South Bend. June invited Clair to visit her in Chicago. A year later, Clair and her mother and her sister moved to Chicago. Mr. Popp found them a nice apartment near Logan Square.
No one could agree about what Clair did before she came to Chicago, or what she did once she moved to town. Some people said she’d been a manicurist; some people said she’d been a masseuse. Clair’s neighbors in Chicago said she used to give massages to “masculine patients in her own home, and occasionally was importuned to give a treatment at a patient’s home.”10 None of the neighbors approved of all the men who came and went, or all the fancy cars that pulled in and pulled out in front of the building. The neighbors complained. The landlord said there was nothing he could do: Mr. Popp had vouched for Clair and her family.
Clair’s mother said that Clair was “just a home girl . . . who had even given up the idea of becoming a manicurist because it wasn’t up to her class.”11 It was true, Clair’s mother said, that Clair had, occasionally, gone out with June and Mr. Popp when they visited clubs at night. They’d all been friends; Mr. Popp had been a good friend. He’d taken an interest in Clair. He’d advised her about real estate. But—Clair’s relationship with Mr. Popp was no different than June’s relationship with him. “Platonic,” Clair’s mother said.
As to all those stories about Mr. Popp lavishing gifts on people: “Gifts!” Clair said. “Why Mr. Popp never gave me so much as a flower. . . . It is absolutely untrue that I have any knowledge of Mr. Popp ever giving June one cent. I never saw him give her anything, and I never heard anything about it, although I was often a guest in June’s home for a week at a time.”12
No matter.
Three months after Mr. Popp began to pay more attention to Clair than to June, June threatened Mr. Popp with a lawsuit. Based on what? “Alienation of affection” was the claim.
Mr. Popp’s predicament grew worse:
The directors of Logan Square Trust discovered that the stocks and bonds in the bank’s investment portfolio were worthless. David Wiederman had not only given the bank bad advice—he had been stealing from it for months. All because of Mr. Popp. The directors gave Mr. Popp an ultimatum: “Get out, stay out. And make good” on the bank’s losses.
The hole Mr. Popp had to fill was $206,000 deep: the funds Wiederman had embezzled, plus $150,000 worth of bad paper. Mr. Popp’s personal worth was reported to be $225,000. Most of that was real estate. Its market value would plummet if Mr. Popp sold it all at once. All Mr. Popp really had was $21,000. That plus some life insurance policies worth $160,000.
He was worth more dead than alive. He looked to the left, he looked to the right; he did the math; he made his exit.
Ten days later, 2,500 Logan Square Trust and Savings depositors met at the Logan Square Theater to listen to Henry Savage offer them a deal: If the bank were to be liquidated, everyone would lose 20 percent of his money on deposit. But if enough of the bank’s depositors agreed to trade their projected 20 percent losses for shares of Logan Trust’s capital stock, the bank—with new directors, under new management—would reopen. One thousand people signed pledges agreeing to Savage’s offer. The bank did have $2 million on deposit. The neighborhood was growing. The $300,000 pledged by depositors, plus another $200,000 pledged by the bank’s new directors, recapitalized Logan Square Trust and Savings.
Mr. Crowe, with the consent of the bank’s new directors, appointed Henry Savage as the bank’s new president.
David Wiederman was indicted for forgery, larceny, and violation of state banking regulations.
The Internal Revenue Service announced an investigation of June Bacon. She fainted twice while being questioned by one of Mr. Crowe’s investigators.
Clair Heilman returned from California. She gave an interview that began with the words, “I am hunted but I am innocent.” She declared her intention to put to rest all rumors, all questions, all gossip, all lies. For example: “My hair’s not brunette.” And: “As for my job . . . why, I was trained to work. I’ve had positions in beauty parlors. I’ve been a milliner. . . . You know, I’ve had my good times . . . but what I really want is a home. They picture me as a wild girl. I wonder.”13
Six months later, Clair was in a car that drove off the end of a bridge. She was with two men, on their way to a golf tournament in St Louis. The driver died at the scene. Clair’s ribs were crushed; her lungs were punctured. Doctors didn’t think she’d live. That was the last anyone heard of her.