The 1894 Von Hoffman Arms -- No. 29 West 26th Street

Margaretta Todd was, by anyone’s account, an interesting woman.   Born into the moneyed Von Hoffman family, as a young woman she turned heads with her red hair and was as well known in Parisian society as in New York.

The sometimes feisty woman had more luck in finances than in love.  In 1905 the New-York Tribune would recount “Mrs. Todd’s first husband was a Mr. Weatherford.  After his death she was married to a man named Andrews, and later to Louis L. Todd, from whom she was divorced several years ago.”

Aggressive and headstrong in her business affairs, she took her son-in-law, William Marchand, as a partner in the Café Francis.  When he fell behind on payments to her in 1901, she and her daughter barricaded the restaurant to prevent his entry.  She also had the manager, Otto Busse, arrested.  Busse later sued Margaretta for $50,000 for false arrest, but the case was tossed out.

Margaretta Todd lived in the Von Hoffman Apartments at No. 29 West 26^th Street; sometimes called the Von Hoffman Arms.  She had begun plans for it in 1893 at a time when the residential neighborhood was seeing the appearance of commercial structures.   On April 15, 1893 the Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide reported that she intended to built a “hotel;” but apparently her plans were not quite complete.

Reporting that her architect would be George Keister, the Guide said “Mrs. M. Todd will build a seven or nine-story apartment hotel.”   She decided on seven.

Completed a year later, Keister’s exceedingly handsome structure melded buff-colored brick and terra cotta to create a Renaissance Revival eye-catcher.  The six upper stories sat on a stone base where elaborate carvings embellished the entranceway.  Above the doorway’s transom the building’s name, Von Hoffman, was carved.

Keister managed to encrust the façade with elaborate decoration—terra cotta bands and panels, three-story Ionic columns, intricate lintels, and bracketed cornices—while retaining a refined appearance.  The recessed openings of the sixth floor were separated by paired Corinthian columns.

The Von Hoffman appears to have quickly filled with tenants.  On February 22, 1895 an advertisement in The Evening World announced “Only a few of those handsome apartments in The Von Hoffman left; 2 & 3 rooms & bath.”

The tenant list was varied.   Despite the building’s location in the often disreputable Tenderloin District, it attracted respectable residents like Dr. Malcolm McLean who lived here in 1895.  That year the doctor testified in the murder case of Francis J. Lindner.  When asked during the trial “What do you think was the cause of his death,” McLean testified “The nearest I can come to it, expressing an opinion, is that the patient died from some narcotic poison.”

At a time when theatrical types were often shunned, the not-always-conventional Margaretta Todd leased an apartment to the actress Kate Dale.   Kate had turned to the stage to support herself after her husband, an iron broker, died in 1895.  She died in her apartment here in September 1898.

photo Fort Wayne Journal-Gazette August 29, 1915 (copyright expired)

Margaretta Todd established herself in the new building.  The New-York Tribune wrote “her apartments in the Von Hoffman, it is said, were furnished with almost Oriental lavishness.”   As she aged, her hair had lost its color so she wore a wig.  Age did not slow Margaretta Todd down.  The New York Times described her as “holding her little court in her apartments.  Often sitting in bed with her red wig and elaborately-laced clothes on, she received her circle of courtiers, including several women and four or five more than middle-aged men.  Many times, it is said, she demanded that they kneel and kiss her hand, after the ancient style.”

Among Margaretta’s most trusted associates were her maid, Jennie M. Paine (who was apparently as much her friend as servant); her long-time lawyer, Ingersoll Lockwood who enjoyed an apartment rent-free; her doctor, Albert G. Weed; and the Von Hoffman manager, George Amory.   They all would become just a few of the players in a scandalous mystery, the seeds of which were planted in 1902.

That year Margaretta Todd completed her will.  In it she gave her lawyer, Ingersoll Lockwood, proprietorship of the Von Hoffman upon her death.  Other friends were to receive cash amounts of around $1,500.  Margaretta’s daughter would receive the rest of the significant estate.  All parties, including lawyer Lockwood and Jennie Paine, were pleased with the contents of the will.

Later that year a bizarre incident occurred while Margaretta was out of town.   On December 2 her good friend Anna Haight showed up at the door.  Jennie Paine explained that Margaretta was away; but knowing the woman, allowed her to stay.

Two days later, according to The New York Times, “Mrs. Payne [sic] said her visitor began to act queerly, so she sent for a physician, but before he arrived Mrs. Haight suddenly ran to a window partially open, screaming at the top of her voice: ‘Let me out of here! Let me out!’ and leaped into the street.”

The newspaper said “In the leap Mrs. Haight received a fracture of the right let, several severe scalp wounds, and a number of bad bruises to the body.  Her outer skirt was caught as she jumped from the window sill and torn loose, thus breaking somewhat the force of her fall.”

Within a few months after the peculiar incident, Margaretta Todd seems to have begun losing trust in her attorney.  In 1903 she rewrote her will, naming her daughter, Mrs. Frank Tousey executrix, instead of Lockwood.    And she hinted that there could be yet a third will forthcoming.

According to people close to Margaretta, Lockwood began laying plans to regain his grip on her fortune.   In May 1905, after Margaretta’s daughter sailed for Paris, Jennie Paine began suggesting to Dr. Weed that her mistress had gone insane.

“This woman,” said lawyer George Gordon Hastings later, “egged on by others interested, having no desire that a new will should be made, went to Dr. Albert G. Weed, who had been Mrs. Todd’s physician for years, saying that their ‘dear old friend’ was acting strangely and that she certainly must be out of her head.  Wouldn’t it be better if she were put in an asylum?  That was energetically discouraged by Dr. Weed, who said that he thought she could take care of herself very well indeed.”

What Lockwood did not expect was that the Von Hoffman’s manager, Amory, would inform Margaretta.  “She was furious,” said Hastings, “Lockwood’s effects were put out of the place.  A few days later Jennie Paine was discharged.”

In May, Margaretta told George Armory that her 1903 will had been stolen from her rooms.  She seems to have suspected Ingersoll Lockwood.  

A letter the 78-year old woman wrote to Amory on July 29 reflected her fury.  “L[ockwood] has played me false.  He has tried to make trouble with my daughter and me, but he cannot do it.  Now he can go back to his little hall bedroom at $3 per week and make his tea on the gas.  I am through with him forever.”

A month later she made her feelings about her once-faithful servant known as well.  “He [Lockwood] will never have a foothold in my house again, or Miss P[aine].  I have them sized right up and know their game.  They have laid plans which will fall through just like themselves.”

On Thursday night, October 26, 1905, Margaretta informed her new lawyer, George Gordon Hastings, that she written her new will.  The two made arrangements to meet the following day to sign it.   That morning, according to J. P. Carter in his 1911 book In the Cave of Aladdin, she “declared prophetically, ‘I often compare myself to Mr. Rice, and fear I shall meet his fate!”  The “Rice” she referred to was millionaire William March Rice, murdered in 1902 to access his estate through a forged will.

There would never be a new will.  The New York Times reported that later that day “Mrs. Todd, wearing valuable jewelry, a wig, and a striking gown, left the Von Hoffman to visit some town in New Jersey.”  Margaretta Todd would never return.

George Amory had brought Margaretta a letter postmarked Bridgeburg, a suburb of Philadelphia.  According to her new maid, Marie Goddard, Margaretta told her she was going to get some fresh air, and removed a bundle of private papers from her strong box “which she put into the bosom of her dress.”

Within a few hours Margaretta Todd’s mutilated body was found on the railroad tracks near Philadelphia by a Philadelphia & Reading railroad flagman.  Her head was crushed and both legs were severed below the knees.  According to The Evening World she still wore $20,000 worth of diamonds.

Police were quick to rule out suicide and an autopsy showed that Margaretta had most likely been brutally murdered and poisoned elsewhere, then her body positioned on the tracks to resemble an accident.   Three days later The Evening World announced “The police now believe she was lured from the city before she could sign the will, and that the finding of her mangled body on the railroad tracks…was the culminating incident in what is destined to become a will mystery.”

It was just the beginning of several years of a court battle and murder mystery that would rivet the nation.  Within hours of her death, Ingersoll Lockwood filed the 1902 will and insisted that George Amory give him the key to Margaretta’s apartment.  He did not gain access to her rooms; but he retook his old apartment and hired a force of private detectives to enforce his control of the Von Hoffman.

When Margaretta’s daughter returned to New York, she barricaded herself in her mother’s apartment, hired her own team of detectives and forced Lockwood out.  The long court battle over the missing will, the estate, and who killed Margaretta Todd was covered by newspapers nationwide.

And then the deaths began.  One by one the major players in the Todd case died, giving Edwardian journalists a new angle—a curse.  On Sunday, October 24, 1909 the Fort-Worth Star-Telegram quoted attorney Theodore Davis.  “In addition to the five principal[s] and two lawyers who have already died, two of the other parties involved are now critically ill.  It is no exaggeration to say that there seemed to be a hoodoo that I believe would wipe away all those who figure in the case before the courts could finally settle the disputes.”

One of the deceased was Margaretta’s daughter, Rosalie Tousey Hastings.  In yet another odd twist, she had married her mother’s new attorney.  On December 30, 1906 The Sun reported that she had died in Nice.  The Von Hoffman passed to George Gordon Hastings.  Margaretta’s murder, incidentally, would never be solved.

The respectable apartment hotel received a black eye of sorts a month later.  On January 30, 1907 The Sun reported that detectives raided “an alleged gambling place on the fifth floor of the Von Hoffman Arms apartment house…late last night.  The detectives were carried up to the ‘club’ door in the elevator.  There was some delay in admitting them when those inside learned their mission, but finally the doors were opened without any battering.”

Inside, the cops found “seven highly indignant men,” along with a roulette wheel, two faro tables and “a lot of chips and cards.”

By 1918 real estate dealer Joseph Ajello lived here.  The 55-year old suffered from vertigo and when his housekeeper, Jennie Jackson, arrived on August 23, she could not get into the apartment.  She summoned a police officer who forced the door.  Ajello was found dead slumped over the gas range; asphyxiated from illuminating gas.

“In his hand was a hot water bottle that he had evidently been attempting to fill when he was overcome,” said The Sun.

Meanwhile, the retail space at street level was home to the fur shop of Pines & Co.  Around 9:00 on the morning of November 25 three armed men entered the store and ordered 23-year old Roma Pines to put up his hands.  Instead of complying, he gave out a yell and leaped at one of the gunmen.

It was not a good idea.  The hold-up man fired two bullets into the clerk’s abdomen and one into his right thigh.  “As he fell his assailants beat him over the head with their revolver butts, stepped over his body and ran out each with an armful of seal and fox skins,” reported the New-York Tribune.

The robbers threw the several thousand dollars worth of furs into a get-away car and fled.  Pines was taken to Bellevue Hospital in critical condition.

On October 4, 1919 the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide reported that Hastings had commissioned architect John H. Scheier to convert the Von Hoffman into lofts and offices.  The conversion, somewhat unexpectedly, did not alter the façade in the least.

By now the building was firmly engulfed by the Garment District and in 1920, when it reopened, the tenant list was almost exclusively apparel-related firms.  Pines & Co. renewed its lease and in January Goldstein & Wallace moved in, as did Joseph Bros.   A month later Hellman& Wharton; Hyman Davis; and Tessler & Scheier signed leases.  In April fur manufacturers Hecht & Smith took half of the fifth floor and a few weeks later Weinberg Brothers leased the third floor.  The same year Sherman & Portugal, another fur dealer, moved in.

The entrance, other than replacement doors, is surprisingly intact.

Throughout the 20^th century the building continued to house apparel and other light manufacturing firms.  The retail space has been altered and replacement doors and windows, as would be expected, have been installed.  Yet overall Margaretta Todd’s imperious Von Hoffman is astoundingly intact; the scene of one of the nation’s most shocking mysteries.

photographs by the author

Eccentric Twins -- Nos. 66 and 68 West 10th Street

The quiet 10^th Street block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues saw tremendous change throughout the 19^thcentury.  The street of two-and-a-half-story Federal-style brick houses of the 1830s saw the rise of wide, brownstone-fronted Victorian mansions in the 1850s and ‘60s.  Then as the end of the century neared, apartment buildings replaced some homes and, as a result, the block became a delightful concoction of coexisting architectural styles and periods.

On October 11, 1890 the Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide reported on the sale of the two brownstone houses owned by the Spiess Estate—Nos. 66 and 68 West 10^th Street.  The Guide noted that compared to No. 53 West 11^th Street sold the same day, the properties “did not fare as well, they being bought in for the owner at $47,500.”

The houses were purchased by William J. Moore who demolished them and set architect George Keister to work designing two matching apartment buildings for the site.  Moore intended his buildings to be up-to-date and comfortable, in keeping with the upscale tone of the block.

Completed in 1892, Keister’s two identical five-story structures were a bit of an architectural split personality.    The heavy lower levels supported three floors of light-colored brick and delicate ornamentation.

Keister reduced the sober nature of the base floor-by-floor.  The brooding brownstone basement with its rough-cut stone and rugged openings gave way to smooth rusticated stone at the first floor.  Here the façade was made more elegant with carvings and pilasters at the entrances.  The rustication melted away to smooth planed walls at the second floor.

Robust carving frames the entrance.

Then suddenly the design changed course.   The upper three floors were clad in light colored brick trimmed in terra cotta.  Keister tossed aside the weight of the Romanesque brownstone base in favor of a light Classicist-inspired design with decorative panels and fluted pilasters. 

The upper windows are framed in terra cotta, including exquisite Italian Renaissance panels.

The twin buildings filled with well-to-do tenants.  Among the first tenants of No. 66 were brothers Frederick R. Howes and Rueben W. Howes, who both served in the First Battalion, Naval Reserve Artillery New York.  Their wives lost no time entertaining.  Mrs. Ruben Howes held a reception on January 26, 1893, barely before the paint was dry; and a few days later The New York Times noted “Mrs. Frederic R. Howes of 66 West Tenth Street has been at home during the past few weeks on Thursdays.  Mrs. Howes will continue to receive on Thursdays until Lent.”

Both houses attracted professionals.  In 1893 Mercy E. Davis, C. S. treated patients in his apartment/office in No. 68 through the “absent treatment.”  The method claimed to cure disease through telepathy.  At the same time Daniel Williams, a clerk in the Third Judicial District Court, was in the building.

One other change was happening on the block at the time the buildings first opened.  Although the millionaires of nearby Fifth Avenue were quickly moving northward, the 10^thStreet block was still highly respectable.  Yet when envelope manufacturer Benjamin B. McFadden moved his family into No. 66 in September 1894, he quickly realized a shocking truth.  There were prostitutes on West 10^thStreet.

He moved out on April 1 and The Evening World reported on June 25, 1895 “He had to get out of the district on account of the number of disorderly houses in the street, and had moved to Jersey City with his family.”

McFadden complained about one brothel right next door.  “He had particularly observed 60, 64 and 69 West Tenth street, and said they were disorderly houses,” reported the newspaper.  “He had been frequently solicited by women in front of his own house.  All three of these houses were open all night long and the noise of the carousing and piano playing was very annoying to the neighbors.”

Apparently, however, McFadden was one of only a few tenants whom the ill-reputed women offended enough to leave.  The buildings continued to attract high-end tenants, many of them physicians.  Dr. Antoni Fanoni was in No. 66 in 1898.  The neighborhood was, by now, filled with artists (the famous Tenth Street Studio Building was just down the block) and one, Arnolda Premi, suffered a “bilious attack” on December 4.  Premi’s wife asked a friend to go to Dr. Fanoni for a prescription.

The prescription was filled and Premi took two doses—one at 11:00 in the morning with his coffee, another at 2:00.  He died before he reached the hospital.  Dr. Barbour of Bellevue hospital told reporters “Premi had certainly been poisoned.”

Dr. Fanoni shrugged off the incident.  “I was very busy in my office this morning, when a man came to me saying that his friend, Premi, had been taken ill…I told him I could not go with him and advised him to call some American physician.  He would not do so, and I then satisfied him by writing out a simple prescription to cover the symptoms described.  That is all I know of the case.”

If Dr. Fanoni’s reputation was scarred by the poisoning of his patient, it was restored when it appeared he found a cure for consumption, or tuberculosis, that same year.  Fanoni injected patients daily, or every other day, with what he described as “equine serum inoculated with the protiene and tubercular toxins.”  The results of his treatment of several local patients was reported in newspapers as far away as Australia's The Brisbane Courier.

Six-year old Albert Noussert and his family lived in No. 66 at the turn of the century.  In 1900 his parents enrolled him in a boarding school for boys in Tuckahoe run by William E. Duffy.  Little Albert was packed off to the exclusive school—there were only three other students--and his parents went about their routine, firmly assured that their son was in good hands.  It was not so.

The $12.50 per month board and tuition (about $300 today) must have seemed a bargain.  That, too, was not so.  A shocking expose in The New York Times in November that year said “Neighbors of the school complained that four boys at the place were almost daily turned out of the house in the morning by Duffy, who would then lock the building and depart, not returning until evening.  He would leave the boys some cold meat and a couple of loaves of bread on the veranda, their only food during his absence.

Complaint was made that the boys were neglected, were unclean, and half starved, and not properly clothed for inclement weather, but were turned out into the open air daily and forced to remain out of the building all day.  In bad weather they sought shelter in barns in the neighborhood, and were a source of annoyance to the neighbors.”

The Times added “The boys were not taught anything.”

Along with doctors (Dr.Stephen J. Clark joined the list in 1903) and little boys at boarding schools, there was at least one European title; albeit an obscure one.  Baroness von Groyss lived on the third floor of No. 68 in February 1912 when she sent invitations to Manhattan’s most socially-elite names to attend a concert, reception and supper at Delmonico’s.  The price to accept the invitation was $5.00.

The New York Times suggested that it was all a scam.  “Several persons of prominence were somewhat surprised last week by receiving invitations…Some of those who received invitations didn’t know who the Baroness von Groyss was.”  The newspaper mentioned that “She has given exhibitions of Hawaiian dances at various social functions.”

The baroness was quick to respond.  On February 12 she telephoned the Times office and said “This is the Baroness von Groyss of 68 West Tenth Street.  I wish that you would send a reporter down here to see me.”

When the reporter arrived, she accused the newspaper of stating “that invitations to my concert and supper had been sent out promiscuously and that many persons who were not acquainted with me had received tickets.  This is a misunderstanding.”

The $5 ticket invitations had been sent on behalf of the International Artistic Social Club of which she was president, she explained.  She also dismissed the idea that she would make money on the event.  “The fee will in fact scarcely defray the expenses of entertainment.”

In addition to the concert, the Valentine favors, the six-course supper accompanied by the Vienna orchestra from Shanley’s and dancing, the 200 “ladies and gentlemen of unquestioned social standing” would see some shocking performances.

“One of the most startling features, according to the Baroness, will be a spear and head-hunter dance by her protégé, Dogmeena, a lissome Igorrote maiden from the Philippines.  Dogmeena will dance in native costume.”

The “native costume” was a string of beads and her “maiden innocence.”

When the reporter suggested that the “costume” might be considered “somewhat indelicate,” the baroness seemed surprised and explained that native dances must be presented in native dress.

The reporter wrote “Another bizarre feature of the concert will be a series of Oriental dances, including a Hindu sword dance, performed by Prince Ishmail and an Indian girl, Ishtar.”  He added “The costumes to be worn by the dancers were vaguely described as native.”

An even more scandalous story at No. 66 began when Frank Stranz brought his pregnant wife to Dr. Fred Van Vliet here in April 1921.  The woman was far along in her pregnancy and, according to Stranz, the doctor performed an abortion “without his knowledge or consent,” according to the New-York Tribune.

Mrs. Stranz died a few days later.  Oddly, the doctor was charged with “assault and battery.”  Stranz’s $10,000 suit alleged “that Dr. Van Vliet treated the patient carelessly and unskillfully.”

Six years later Dr. Van Vliet would not get off so easily.  On September 15, 1921 27-year old Ruby Gonzales, a waitress in a hotel in Asbury Park, came to Van Vliet’s No. 66 West 10^th office with her boyfriend, Herbert Ullman and her five year old daughter, Vivian. 

While Ullman and the little girl waited, the abortion was performed.  Ruby Gonzales died on his operating table that afternoon.  After being questioned for eight hours, Dr. Van Vliet was arrested the following day for “having performed an illegal operation.”  This time he was charged with homicide.

Dr. Eugene T. Boyle also practiced from No. 66.  The problem was that he wasn’t a doctor at all.  On October 30, 1934 Boyle was sentenced to a term of not more than three years for practicing medicine without a license.  The New York Timesfrankly deemed him a “bogus doctor.”

In the meantime, No. 68 got its own share of negative publicity.  On January 12, 1932 broker Charles T. Morgan was indicted on forgery charges of $5 million in stocks.

Not all the residents, of course, were quack doctors and forgers.  Esteemed artist Emil Ganso lived and worked in No. 66 in the 1930s.  A retrospective exhibition of his work in 1944, three years after his death, called him “one of America’s finest print makers.”

The 21st century leaves its mark with sprayed graffiti and an unfortunate choice in lighting.  Cornucopias and floral forms create an imaginative capital to the carved fluted pilaster.

Aside from the unsightly but necessary fire escapes and the replacement windows, little has changed in the outward appearance of the twin apartment buildings at Nos. 66 and 68 West 10^th Street.   Their unusual transitional style adds to the rich assortment of architecture on this amazing block.  

photographs taken by the author