You like alphabet soup? Well, if an anarchist chef prepared it, you’d better take your spoon and dig out these letters first: A-R-S-E-N-I-C.
One of the weirdest but ultimately funniest stories ever to spill out of the annals of Midwestern crime is the tale of a bumbling European anarchist named “Jean Crones” who, at a banquet in Chicago in 1916, attempted to assassinate the city’s Roman Catholic archbishop, the Governor of Illinois, and three-hundred priests, bankers, and city officials — not with bullets, but with bouillon. The “soup poison plot” belongs in any encyclopedia of infamy, but it’s also a fascinating glimpse into one of American labor’s most turbulent decades. Yet few have ever heard of it. As part of our ongoing series on hoaxes, hysteria and rumors in the news, Hoosier State Chronicles wants to resurrect this old, mostly forgotten story.
When modern anarchism came to the U.S. in the late 1800s, it was closely tied to the struggles of German, Italian, and East European immigrants. While hurling bombs and bullets was ill-considered, the social problems they faced were dire. Anarchism’s philosophical roots, however, were among Europe’s elite. (One early proponent of anarchy was the British philosopher William Godwin, husband of feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft and the father of Frankenstein‘s author, Mary Shelley.) Iron-fisted reactions to Europe’s 19th-century revolutions spurred philosophers and workers to declare that “Property is Theft” and to strive for the abolition of all governments, including democracies. Because anarchists promoted ideas like “free love” (which critics confused with promiscuity), state and church authorities tried to wipe it out — for obvious reasons.
While few anarchists ever committed acts of murder and mayhem, extremists occasionally wreaked havoc on American cities and police forces. By the time of World War I, headlines about real and mythical anarchist bomb plots were common news.
Since most anarchists immigrated from countries with state religions, their animosity toward priestly authority was no surprise. During the Russian Revolution and on into the 1920s and ’30s, radicals in Russia, Mexico and Spain launched all-out wars on religion — desecrating churches and even “executing” statues of Jesus, not to mention priests and nuns, who often suffered especially macabre fates.
Yet if Chicago’s anarchists had wanted to assassinate any powerful “prince of the Church” in 1916, the worst choice was probably George Mundelein.
(Archbishop, later Cardinal, George W. Mundelein in 1916.)
Mundelein was born into a poor working-class immigrant neighborhood, Manhattan’s Lower East Side, in 1872 and grew up in tenement housing. Son of a German father and Irish mother, his dual ethnic heritage was a major reason why, in 1915, the young Bishop of Brooklyn was chosen to head Chicago’s archdiocese, which was teeming both with diversity and ethnic conflict, even among fellow Catholics. At age 43, Mundelein was the youngest American archbishop. Over the years, the head of Chicago’s Catholics turned out to be a major pro-labor voice, an important ally of Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal, and a staunch enemy of Nazism and anti-Semitism — including that of Father Charles Coughlin, a controversial American priest whose radio show in Detroit often attacked Jews and bankers. A friend of the Catholic Labor Movement, Mundelein reiterated to American Catholics that “Our place is beside the workingman.”
George Mundelein, then, was a strange target for an aspiring assassin’s vial of poison on February 12, 1916. The scene of the crime: Chicago’s prestigious University Club.
(South Bend News-Times, February 12, 1916.)
(Dining room of the University Club, 1909.)
Coming to honor both Abraham Lincoln’s birthday and Mundelein’s installment as archbishop, about three-hundred guests attended — from Illinois Governor Edward F. Dunne and ex-Governor Charles Deneen to Chicago’s ex-Mayor Carter Harrison, Jr. The other guests were mostly Catholic priests from all over the U.S.
As Chicago’s health commissioner, city police investigators, and a chemist from the University of Chicago later determined, someone had slipped enough arsenic into a pot of chicken bouillon to kill two-hundred people or more. Various accounts were floated around of how the University Club avoided becoming the scene of what would have been Chicago’s worst mass murder — worse even than the crimes of the “arch-fiend” H.H. Holmes back in the 1890s.
One version was that a “miracle” occurred. Ninety-six unexpected guests came at the last minute, prompting kitchen staff to resort to a time-honored remedy: watering down the soup. Yet the real disaster was averted by slow eaters. As Monsignor Evers, pastor of St. Andrew’s Church in New York, told the Chicago Daily Tribune, some guests were “so engrossed in conversation” that they missed out on the soup altogether or only ate a spoonful or two. By that time, their neighbors were starting to have stomach cramps.
(Chicago Daily Tribune, February 14, 1916)
With many diners complaining of sudden pains, a doctor at the banquet suspected the animal fat used to prepare the soup stock must have gone sour — normal food-poisoning, that is. He went back to the kitchen and quickly prepared an “emetic of mustard” to induce vomiting. It’s unappetizing to consider, but the elegant dining room must have become a surreally disgusting scene — yet the doctor’s speedy remedy probably saved many lives. Scores were sickened, some violently, but only one guest, Father John O’Hara of Brooklyn, died. Although Archbishop Mundelein was unaffected by the lethal soup, Chicago kept him under a guard of 150 mounted police and detectives for the next few days.
(Chicago Daily Tribune, February 14, 1916)
The foiled murder plot was quickly traced to a certain “Jean Crones,” assistant chef at the University Club, who was said to be about 30 years old. Crones “often inveighed” against social inequality, said the Club’s officials. When police raided his apartment, the “souper anarchist” was gone, but investigators discovered a stash of anarchist literature (“a library of hatred”), a chemical laboratory, and all the evidence of poison they needed to go after him.
As the manhunt spread out, Jean Crones — or someone masquerading as him — began to tease the police with flippant letters, taunting them for being unable to find him. These letters and other baffling clues began to pour in from all parts of the country. As the story made national news the next day, a hotel in Binghamton, New York, reluctantly announced it was confident that Crones had once been their assistant chef. “Crones was remembered by his fellow workers here as a dabbler in chemistry and photography. . . One day the whim seized him to have his own likeness snapped, and he had one of his kitchen comrades aim the camera.” The resulting photo and an artist’s sketch were plastered over many American newspapers.
What happened next turned into a comedy of errors that went on for years.
(Scranton Republican, February 21, 1916.)
During the run-up to World War I, when the loyalty of German-Americans was constantly under suspicion, unfounded reports came in that Crones was a German immigrant and a saboteur and spy for the Kaiser. Other reports had it that he was French or Italian. A biography of the celebrated anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti claims that “Jean Crones” was actually an Italian named Nestor Dondoglio. The Chicago Police Department officially called off its search for the mysterious fugitive in 1919. But Dondoglio evaded police until 1932, when he died on a farm in Connecticut where an Italian family had given him shelter.
Whoever he was, for several years after the failed “soup plot,” Jean Crones became a sort of bogeyman stalking America from sea to shining sea. Soup-poisoner spottings occurred all over: in rural Mt. Airy and Oxford, North Carolina; the mining town of Leadville, Colorado; and towns so obscure, they weren’t even spelled right in newspapers (like Spalding, Nebraska, and Moberly, Missouri.) Crones — or a clever prankster, or a team of anarchists — harassed the police from New York City to Portland, Oregon. A chef from Iowa City was arrested simply because he looked like the photograph taken in Binghamton, as was a chef from Chicago while passing through Springfield, Ohio.
Maclay Hoyne, Illinois State Attorney, surmised that the “poison souper” invented the so-called “McKinney-Finn powders,” which Hoyne declared “was given by waiters to non-tipping patrons in local hotels and cafes.”
Most of the so-called “appearances” of Jean Crones, however, are probably imaginary — or even deliberate hoaxes. Some cases sound like the police might have used the poison-soup scare as an excuse to terrorize workers. Others had more comic twists.
(South Bend News-Times, November 25, 1916)
(Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, February 25, 1916)
(Wilmington Morning Star, February 2, 1916)
(A watchman in Logansport, Indiana, spotted the “poison souper” at a railroad crossing there less than two weeks after the crime — as did hundreds of other Americans. Logansport Pharos-Tribune, February 24, 1916.)
Within a few days of his apparent escape from Chicago, the phantom assassin or his clever doppelgänger was out on the West Coast, teasing Chicago police at a distance, sending his own fingerprints by mail, and threatening to kill “some bishop” out in Oregon:
(Fort Wayne Daily News, February 23, 1916.)
On St. Patrick’s Day that March, Chicago Catholics were still jittery enough that the Irish Fellowship Club had to appoint an official food taster for its annual banquet. He tasted every dish for over an hour.
Prank-minded Americans were probably just having some fun with the police and the press. By the summer of 1916, the spate of “J.C.” sightings was still pouring in:
(Chicago Daily Tribune, July 23, 1916.)
(Chicago Daily Tribune, May 14, 1916.)
Two of the most hilarious and unlikely sightings occurred on the East Coast. In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, that May, locals were convinced that Crones had become a nun:
(Oshkosh Daily Northwestern, Oshkosh, Wisconsin, May 15, 1916.)
(Pittsburgh Daily Post, May 15, 1916.)
And in Luzon, New York, an undercover sleuth wearing false hair and whiskers was arrested by a town cop, who was confident that he had nabbed the elusive Crones. The man turned out to be a 26-year-old private eye from New York City who was investigating a theft of $250 from the Hygienic Brush Company. In spite of his legitimate alibi, county prosecutors charged the man with “masquerading.”
(Middletown Times-Press, Middletown, NY, February 28, 1916.)
The real Jean Crones never surfaced. Yet the fictional specter he evoked — that of the violent, supposedly illiterate immigrant bent on destroying American institutions and lives — took on a frightening reality of its own at a time when immigrant loyalty was suspect. It is often forgotten that the Communist witch hunts inaugurated by Senator Joseph McCarthy in the 1950s were preceded by a more substantial “Red Scare” after World War I. Italian anarchists detonated bombs in Washington, D.C., in 1919 — an attack that nearly killed Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt — and possibly carried out the 1920 Wall Street attack, which killed 30 people. The reaction threatened to close America’s doors to immigrants.
Like most Catholics, Archbishop Mundelein was a staunch supporter of immigration. He blew off threats of assassination by anarchists and the hostility of anti-Catholics, saying: “I have come to Chicago to help and bless its people all I can, and I think this is the best way to disarm prejudice.”
A fiery editorial in the Kentucky Irish American, a pro-immigrant paper published in Louisville, conjures up the fear that the figure of “Jean Crones” actually created among “nativists.” For immigration’s enemies, the anarchist threat was reason enough for Congress to all but close down Ellis Island. Ironically, the Hans Schmidt mentioned in this editorial was a German-American Catholic priest convicted of murder and sent to the electric chair at Sing Sing on February 18, 1916, just a week after the anarchist soup plot in Chicago.
(Kentucky Irish American, April 15, 1916.)
Cardinal Mundelein — the target of one of those rare immigrants who turned to violence — spent the next few decades speaking out on behalf of the working poor. Perhaps the shocking event at the start of his days as leader of Chicago’s Catholics brought home the need for justice in his city and elsewhere.
He died quietly in his sleep in October 1939, an honored — and honorable — man.
(Mundelein during his funeral mass, Holy Name Cathedral, Chicago, October 4, 1939. An impressive Chicago Tribune photo gallery celebrates his life.)
(Cardinal Mundelein in 1933.)