
By Michael Easler
Rumpty Rattles is dead…
October 25, 1927
The day had been unseasonably warm, even for this late stretch of Fall. Pushing into the mid 80’s, the heat settled into the city, turning every building into an oversized oven brick – a reminderthat October in Charleston is a fickle visitor.
It was 1:00 A.M. as Frank “Rumpty Rattles” Hogan, local “strong arm” and bootlegger made his way along Market St. And though the coolness of the early morning hour was trying to take back the day, the lingering swelter must have emanated from every storefront and the very pavement beneath the soles of his shoes. Hogan did not notice. He was in the grip of a different heat broiling under his collar. A fever. It was something personal. Something dark and violent. It was business. Tonight, someone was going to pay.
Perhaps he paused in the glow of a streetlamp, scanning the landscape for movement, lighting a cigarette. His big hands checking the pistol in his pocket. A dozen yards ahead, his destination, the Peking Chop Suey restaurant where he will meet his girlfriend, Myrtle Carter, an 18-year-old waitress. Their afterhours date will have no drinks and romantic conversation. It will be cut short with gunfire and blood. Frank “RumptyRattles” Hogan is on a rendezvous with Charleston folklore and Eternity.
The path that led him to his demise was not as straight and orderly as old Market St. It was a twisted road of hard knuckles with the intersection of shadowy politics and the dangerous pecking order of the illegal liquor machine. A world of flourish or perish.
Frank started life in Charleston’s 9th Ward: north of Mary St., west of Nassau St, running through Amherst, Hanover, Boundary and King St. – a tough, hardscrabble realm known as “Little Mexico.” It was a few blocks away from Charleston’s elite but closer to the stench of the city dump. It was here he got the nickname “Rumpty Rattles.” There’s no bedrock intel of its origin or meaning. Maybe a crib endearment from his mother, maybe a sobriquet from the street.
Frank grew into a formidable figure. Big, broad, square jawed. Fearless. There was a mystique building around him – a dangerous one. Never backing down from a fight; perhaps also looking for one.
He had a varied work history: stevedore, dock gang foreman, railroad worker. For recreation he enjoyed baseball and boxing. But as the Prohibition Era (1920-1933) turned into a turbulent, nationwide war between the “Drys” and the “Wets”… and “Uncle Sam”, Hogan was moving toward a new opportunity. A place where his tough persona would be a perfect fit. Bootleg whiskey was booming.
(A staggering volume of illegal hooch was brewed in Hell Hole Swamp in neighboring Berkeley County. An inaccessible and inhospitable, 2,000-acre tangle, it was an ideal spot to avoid prying eyes and noses. The complex of “giggle water” stills there was vast and profitable. The high-octane product out of Hell Hole became famous across the country. General Francis Marion bedeviled the British within Hell Hole. Bootleggers gave the “revenuers” the same frustration.)
Somewhere along this thorny road, Frank Hogan fell in with Leon Dunlap, another local corn liquor wholesaler/supplier. Their partnership was stormy and short-lived. The rancor overthe fallout was so bitter the two hadn’t spoken in years.

Hogan kept his hand in bootlegging, running his own speakeasy, The Mexican Rest and Robbers Inn (it had other monikers: Bucket of Blood and Knock Down and Drag Out.) It must have galled him to no end that with every drink he poured, Leon Dunlap’s dirty fingers were in his wallet. To add insult to injury, Leon Dunlap’s right-hand man, David “Country Boy” Riggs was married to Frank’s daughter, Marie. (That must have been awkward at Thanksgiving…)
“Rumpty Rattles” also maintained his ties to Little Mexico, keeping a small house at 16 Blake St. And despite his reputation as a hard-nosed brawler, he had a soft spot for the old stomping grounds. There was always bread and a big pot of soup on the stove for the bums and the hungry of Little Mexico.
Now enter John and Henry Brown. The Brown brothers were the money and brains behind a great wadge of Charleston’s illegal liquor trade. On October 24th, the Brown’s drove down from Awendaw to meet with their cadre of suppliers to deliver a business memorandum: the cost of a gallon of booze was going up by 50 cents. Since Leon Dunlap was a favored lieutenant, he and Riggs would accompany them on their rounds to break the news along the supply chain. Frank Hogan’s house was one of their first stops.
Dunlap and Riggs warned their presence was a bad idea. As a compromise, the Browns would do the talking, Dunlap and Riggs would wait in the back seat of the car.
Predictably, the conference did not go well.
Rumpty did a lot of rattling. He blew a breaker over the price hike and right away saw Dunlap and Riggs. Frank made it known he had a gun in his pocket then unleashed a string of profanity-laced threats that scorched the pavement of Blake St. John Brown would later testify that Hogan used words he’d never heard before.
The gauntlet was thrown down, the fuse was lit.
Fearing Hogan’s melt-down wasn’t dry thunder, Dunlap and Riggs went to a local sporting goods store; Dunlap bought a $55 pump shotgun and buckshot shells. At evening, the two drove around town, purportedly looking for Hogan. In the meantime, Frank caught wind of street talk that said Dunlap and Riggs wanted to meet – to shake hands and make peace. There would be no treaties tonight.
Just after midnight, Leon Dunlap and David Riggs took their own stroll down Market St. They knew about Myrtle Carter, they knew Rumpty Rattles would be meeting her. At 141 Market St., across the street from Peking Chop Suey, was a derelict, two-story storefront. Dunlap and Riggs went upstairs, hid in the shadows and waited.
At 1:05 A.M. Frank Hogan hit the entrance to the restaurant. In his own court account, Leon Dunlap called out to him, “Mind Hogan, you got your gun?” What happened next has been debated with only one documented retelling of a living eyewitness available – Leon Dunlap:
“I saw him and at the same time he saw me. His gun came up and I shot him.”
The blast drove Frank Hogan through the doorway of 146 Market St., half in, half out. What has never been questioned were Frank’s last words, “Oh Lord have mercy.”
Police foot patrolmen were at the scene in a blink. Dunlap and Riggs were waiting for them. Dunlap surrendered the shotgunand in various recounts offered to the effect, “I killed him and I’m glad I did.”
The murder trial was an intense sensation. It seemed on the surface an obvious act of bad blood eliminating bad blood. Dunlap and Riggs claimed self-defense. There were weeks of heated accusations and testimony from an army of witnesses. At 12:02 A.M., Christmas Eve morning, 1927 the verdict came down. “Not Guilty.”
When interviewed post-verdict, Frank’s estranged widow and his daughter’s remarks were short. “He was bad.”
The marriage between David Riggs and Marie fell apart. “Country Boy” left town, slipping into obscurity. Leon Dunlap found himself in and out of prison, dying in 1945. Hogan and Dunlap are both buried at historic Magnolia Cemetery, a few yards from each other.
99 years, Rumpty – 99 bottles of illegal booze on the wall. So, we raise a glass and toast to your coming out party. Welcome to the Hidden City.
Research courtesy of:
* Shannon Duffy, Historic Charleston Foundation
* Thomas R. Waring, Jr., “Self Defense from Ambush”
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