Biography of an Enigmatic G-Man

Alston Purvis has achieved a remarkable thing: write a son’s perspective of a “hero” father with neither biased glorification nor unveiled animosity. The Vendetta: FBI Hero Melvin Purvis’s War Against Crime, and J. Edgar Hoover’s War Against Him (PublicAffairs, 2005) is a deeply personal documentary, reflection, exposé and quest for answers. When he set about the five-year task of assembling The Vendetta, Alston wasn’t sure what to make of his father—the stellar young Bureau of Investigation agent who was at the center of nationwide hunts for John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd and company in 1934. The son, now head of the graphic design department at Boston University’s College of Fine Arts, agonized over whether to embark on the research at all, and wondered where it might lead if he did.

The Vendetta, co-authored with Alex Tresniowski, spans the whole life of the elder Purvis (1903-60), born in the town of Timmonsville in South Carolina’s tobacco country. It sketches his school years, which included a very brief stint as quarterback on the University of South Carolina football team, and his early career, which included a likewise brief stint as a lawyer. More detail is given to his later life and mysterious death—logical, since the lawman’s last years paralleled the son’s upbringing. From beginning to end, the book reflects Alston’s yearning to understand the intriguing father to whom he was never especially close.

Essentially, though, the book’s focus, as reflected in the subtitle, is on the relentless bitterness FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover developed toward his one-time friend and star agent. Until his father’s dying day, Alston maintains, Hoover did what he could to torpedo Purvis’ post-bureau career opportunities.

Joining the Bureau of Investigation (later known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation) in 1927, Purvis cracked his first assignment, an interstate car theft buried in cold case files in Dallas. He caught the eyes of his superiors and, very quickly, of Hoover himself. He raced through a series of promotions to crucial positions in pivotal field offices. In 1933 he became point man in Chicago, the center of gangland. Within months, however, as the heat was being turned up on Dillinger and his cronies, Hoover’s opinion of Purvis soured. In stark contrast to Hoover, Purvis was dapper, genteel and charismatic, increasingly popular with reporters. Even as Dillinger, Floyd, Baby Face Nelson and other "most wanted" miscreants were being run to ground, one by one, Hoover subtly was stripping Purvis of his authority and reprimanding him for petty breaches of bureau protocol (some of questionable veracity).

By July 1935, Purvis had been subjected to so much humiliation that he resigned. For several years he basked in the glow of the media and was engaged commercially to endorse everything from breakfast cereal and shaving razors to automobiles. In 1938 he returned to South Carolina and married. He bought a radio station and newspaper, dabbled in other business ventures, served as an Army officer during World War II and was appointed legal counsel to various government committees. Significant advances eluded him, however, as Hoover used his influence to ruin Purvis’ best opportunities.

It’s obvious to readers that much of The Vendetta was painful for Alston Purvis to deal with, reviving unpleasant and, ultimately, devastating memories. He wrote the book, he explains, because someday his own young son will want to know all about his famous grandfather. The Vendetta should prove engrossing to a general readership and undoubtedly will be absolutely riveting to those within and close to the family.

A nagging mystery explored in the book is the nature of Purvis’ death in February 1960. He shot himself at his Florence, SC, home. A Colt .45 automatic from his extensive gun collection—a pistol once used by a little-known gangster—was lying close at hand. The initial suspicion was suicide; just as likely, it’s now believed, was accident. Key people who knew him assert that had Melvin Purvis decided to kill himself, he wouldn’t have done it that way, with that particular gun. Ross Beard, a firearms expert and author who as a teen-ager was engaged to maintain Purvis’ collection, is convinced Purvis was examining the pistol. Purvis had agreed to loan the relic to a friend and apparently was unaware it was partially loaded with tracer bullets.

A lesser mystery is who, exactly, was in charge of the Chicago Bureau office in 1934 when Dillinger, Floyd and Nelson all fell. Hoover personally bestowed “the major portion of the credit” for Dillinger’s death on Agent Samuel Cowley—a close colleague of Purvis—to whom Hoover had given certain authority superceding that of Purvis. Hoover later referred to Cowley as the unsung mastermind behind Dillinger’s apprehension, while condemning Purvis for allegedly currying the media’s attention. Most accounts point to Purvis as the commanding agent “on the ground” at the scenes of Dillinger and Floyd’s separate deaths, while it was Cowley and agent Herman Hollis who mortally wounded Nelson in a hellish rural shoot-out that October, and who both died in the line of fire.

The life and career of Hoover himself continue to raise questions even after varied posthumous studies have gone to great lengths and depths to demonize him. In The Vendetta, Alston Purvis refrains from joining the Hoover-bashing bandwagon generally. The scope of his mission is to air the personal persecution his father endured at the hands of the director.

Mysterious Mr. Booth

Every American knows the essential details of the Lincoln assassination: shot in the back of the head by actor John Wilkes Booth while attending a play in Washington, DC. It occurred on 14 April 1865, at the very end of the Civil War.

But do you know how Booth met his own death?

Booth, a Maryland-born Shakespearean and southern sympathizer, broke a leg when he leaped from the Lincolns’ box onto the Ford’s Theater stage after the shooting. He painfully struggled outside into the darkness and escaped. Almost two weeks later, soldiers found him in a farm shed near Bowling Green, VA. They set fire to the structure. Hopelessly trapped, Booth was shot to death.

Many assume the assassin was killed by his pursuers. Others, however, believe he shot himself to avoid capture, trial and execution. The record remains unclear, and proof is unlikely 140 years after the fact.

Another lingering mystery is the legacy of Booth’s “phantom.” Famous Civil War photographer Mathew Brady photographed the tragic presidential box at Ford’s Theater not long after the assassination. While developing the photographic plates, he reputedly was astonished to perceive the murky form of a man crouching near Lincoln’s box chair. Stage crew, actors and attendees began reporting encounters with Booth’s ghost at the theater. Not surprisingly, when a section of ceiling collapsed inside the building in 1893, killing 22 people and injuring more than 60, Booth was blamed. Sightings of the actor’s ghost continued to be reported even after the old theater was restored in 1968.

Of course, such a place is an obvious scenario in which pranksters and the overly jittery might create a haunting. It may have nothing to do with the emerging tradition of Booth's ghost, but it's interesting to note that Brady had gone heavily into debt to finance his prolific war photography, hoping to make a fortune selling prints to private collectors, museums and publications. His expected market never materialized, and he quickly found himself in crisis, ultimately declaring bankruptcy.

The "Pretty Boy" Question

Which Bureau of Investigation agent was on the scene when Pretty Boy Floyd was slain by law enforcement officers in an Ohio farm field in October 1934?

a) Ray Caffrey, b) Sam Cowley, c) Melvin Purvis, d) J. Edgar Hoover

The Unsolitary Cyclists

Have you noticed that in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story "The Solitary Cyclist" . . . there was no solitary cyclist? Sherlock Holmes solved the mystery of the two Charlington bicyclists—the tutor Violet Smith and her disguised employer/admirer/protector Bob Carruthers—in a thrilling action finish. Since Miss Smith, as client and victim, was the central character of the tale, she's generally considered the "solitary cyclist" in the story's title. She's introduced specifically in those terms in the opening paragraph.

Later, however, we read: "A solitary cyclist was coming towards us." That one was Carruthers.

To be precise, Doyle might have defined Miss Smith as "one of the solitary cyclists of Charlington." But then, it would have been confusing. And it would have ruined a good title.

A Man Who Loved His Work

The term “I love my work!” is a delight to hear in modern times—when so many workers don’t. As a catchphrase, it turns up in varied contexts. For example, it was uttered by Porthos the Pirate in a particularly funny action scene in the 1992 film version of The Three Musketeers.

One (all too) true-life figure who professed to love his work was Jack the Ripper. In a euphoric, taunting note to London police, he bragged, “I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games.” The Ripper seemed to approach his serial savagery as a profession. In other notes to police, he often stated his eagerness to return “to work.”

More than a century later, armchair sleuths continue to probe and debate the identity of one of history’s most infamous “workers.”

The Difference Between Holmes & Gandhi

I don't typically offer negative reviews, but after ordering up a small fortune in archival Sherlock Holmes audio recordings earlier this month (as belated Christmas gifts to myself), I have to report that the Dove Audio readings by Ben Kingsley, circa 1992, are not recommendable. I've been listening to Hardwick, Timson and countless old radio performers along with Kingsley. Kingsley's readings surpass computer-generated audio, but not by much. "Monotonous" is the best I can say, after waiting out two of his stories. Kingsley undoubtedly deserved the Academy Award he won for his portrayal of Gandhi (a film I view periodically). But assigning him to read Holmes stories clearly was misguided; he sounds bored, even vindictive toward the producers. ("Why in the world are you forcing me to read these bloody narratives?" he seems to insinuate with each sentence.)

Find Robert Hardy's audio readings of Holmes from the 1980s, if you can—they're head and shoulders above the others, in my opinion. (Well, perhaps they're only a shoulder's nudge above the readings of Hardwick—who, on the small screen, I pronounce the finest "Watson" ever to act the role.) Hardy, Hardwick . . . seek out those, if you wish a truly fulfilling audio presentation of Holmes. As for Kingsley . . . check out the movie Gandhi. He excelled there.

The Many Voices of Sherlock Holmes

I discovered this week the wonderful cassette sets of Sherlock Holmes stories recorded by Edward Hardwick during the 1990s, as well as the more recent DVD sets read by David Timson. Inspired, I probed the Internet for other Holmes audio recordings. Two key—and free—resources are available for downloading period productions. Many of you have discovered one or both of them already, no doubt, but for other Holmes aficionados among you, here are the links.

First, revisit Project Gutenberg (http://www.gutenberg.org/), if you haven’t been there in awhile. Numerous audio books, both computer-generated and human-read, are available for downloading. I’ve begun listening to the stories in His Last Bow—read, I believe, by John Telfer and made available through Gutenberg from AudioBooksForFree.com. They are fine narrations. I’m awed that today we can obtain, for free, literary works in audio form of a quality that warranted a healthy retail price 20 years ago, when I began assembling my Holmes audio library. (Ample reason to make a donation to Gutenberg.)

As I write this, I’m listening to “New Year’s Eve Off the Coast of the Scilly Isles,” one of the hundreds of Holmes radio productions from the 1940s. This one, starring John Stanley as Holmes and Alfred Shirley as Watson, I downloaded from the magnificent period radio list of The Sherlock Holmes Society of London (http://www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk/). I never knew this recording existed; ibid for scores of other radio program downloads at the site. I’m familiar with Holmes portrayals by Basil Rathbone and Sir John Gielgud, but never imagined the assortment of other actors who’ve taken up his pipe and cap. If you’re a Holmes buff, the London site should be a required visit.