WITH THE POWERS THAT PREY
It has been my experience, and I suppose that of most men, that the
attainment of a purpose is always accompanied by a touch of
disappointment, weariness of spirit, even disgust, and such is in
proportion to the amount of effort that has been put forth in order to
attain. This, by the way, is but one of the penalties that _Wanderlust_
imposes on those who listen to and obey its compelling call. I know
whereof I speak, you must remember. Time and again when reaching the
goal appointed by my vagabond instincts I have had a _mauvais quatre
d'heure_ of it when trying to overcome this reaction of thought and
feeling that was sure to set in and last for a longer or shorter period,
according to what lay ahead of, or around me. At such junctures, do what
I would, there came the insistent queries: "Well, and what have you
gotten in return for it all?" "Have your efforts brought you a single
thing that is of real value to you?" "How about the time and strength
that you have wasted in securing--what?" "What next and why?" "How is it
all going to end?"--and many more disturbing suggestions of a similar
sort. Of course, the spell of the "blues," as I was pleased to call
these promptings of conscience or common-sense--I think the terms to be
interchangeable--would be followed by my taking to the road again,
literally or otherwise. But the inquisition of myself _by_ myself was so
certain to be waiting for me at the close of the tramp or exploit, that
I often half-dreaded, rather than welcomed, the termination of the
latter.
These things are said because I am reminded that, during all my
wanderings, I never felt the "chill of achievement" strike me so sharply
as it did on that April afternoon, when the liner on which I had
returned to America left quarantine and began to steam slowly up the
bay. Around and ahead were sights that I had been dreaming of and
longing for many moons to again feast my eyes on. The Staten Island and
Bay Ridge shores, flushed with tender green, slid by us; Liberty lifted
a high beckoning hand of welcome, the Brooklyn warehouses, Governor's
Island, New Jersey's fringe of masts and funnels, the fussy tugs, the
blunt-nosed, business-like ferryboats, and Manhattan itself, with its
line of sky-scrapers like unto jagged teeth, chewing the upper air, were
all so familiar and had been so much desired! And yet came a sudden
apathy regarding them and a dissatisfaction with them and myself that
seemed to sicken and palsy. I actually began to wish that I need not get
off the boat at all, but, instead, might stay on her until she turned
her nose again toward the lands in which, a week or so before, I had
been so utterly discontented. And why? Who can explain the hidden
springs of the human mentality?
You would hardly believe it, if I were to tell you, that a like attitude
or condition of mind is by no means uncommon in the case of a crook
(commonly called a "gun") who has finished a long "bit" or term in
prison. Naturally, the man puts most of his time in thinking and
planning about what he will do when the day comes for him to shake hands
with the governor and to take train to where he may be going. But the
reaction sets in with the hour of release, and there comes a more or
less marked distaste for, or dislike of, the very things to which the
ex-prisoner has been looking forward for years perhaps. Sometimes the
man has been working out a way by which he can "square it," or live an
honest life in the future. I am sorry to say, however, that the "guns"
who, having "done their spots," keep on the square thereafter, are few
indeed. Usually the thoughts of the "lagged" criminal are directed
toward perfecting means and methods of "nicking a swell swag and doing
the get-away"--in other words, of stealing a considerable amount of
money or valuables without being arrested. But, as with the rest of us,
the "gun" seems to suffer from temporary brain-fag when he comes into
physical contact with things and affairs that before had been known to
him mentally. So, instead of his plans being put in action, a newspaper
item like this not infrequently appears:
John Smith, no address, was arrested last evening at Broadway and
Fortieth Street, charged with being drunk and disorderly and
assaulting an officer. In court this morning, Policeman Jones said
that the prisoner had insulted and annoyed a number of citizens,
had kicked over the outside showcases of a tobacconist, and had
struck Jones several times before he could be subdued. Smith was
recognized in court as "Conkey," otherwise John Richardson, a
crook, who was released from State Prison only a few days since at
the termination of a four years' sentence for burglary. In view of
his record, he was held in default of $2,000 bail for trial at
Special Sessions.
It is well for us, who claim to belong to the respectable classes, that
this pruning of intention in the presence of fact is the rule rather
than the exception. The public would be in a pretty pickle if the Powers
that Prey invariably gave practical expression to their prison-fed
fancies; for these last, as I have reason to know, if they are put in
operation, rarely fail to accomplish their purpose. Perhaps seventy-five
per cent. of the really big "jobs" that are successfully "pulled off"
have their inception in the "stir" or penitentiary, or in State prison,
the details being worked out by the "mob" or gang with which the
discharged "gun," the author of the "plant," is affiliated. As the crook
who gets a term of years generally gets it on the score of his
professional ability, and as there is little or nothing during his "bit"
to interfere with his thinking of thoughts, it is no wonder that his
schemes seldom miscarry if they ever reach the stage of actual test.
[Illustration: From photograph taken in St. Petersburg
Josiah Flynt, in His "Garb of the Road," while Tramping in Russia]
[Illustration: Signature]
Outside of the criminal, it may be that we ourselves, and our friends,
also, are none the worse because our powers of execution are numbed or
hindered for a like reason. What an unbearable world this would be, if
every man could give expression to the fads and fancies that, to use the
phrase of the Under World, "wos eatin' him"! And what a readjustment of
social, commercial and personal affairs would be necessary in order to
insure one the bare essentials of existence under the circumstances!
I'll pass over the hour or so of gloom and doubt that was mine before
our steamer tied up at her pier, and merely say, that, as soon as I
descended the gangway and touched what, under the circumstances, stood
for dry land, my depression went by the board and I was my own man
again. I found myself eying the awaiting crowd inquisitively, in order
to see whether it contained any familiar faces, welcome or the reverse.
I may add that, for reasons which it isn't necessary to explain, I had
not notified any of my friends of my intention to return to the United
States. Hence a meeting with acquaintances would be the outcome of
chance rather than of design.
It was with a mixture of pique, anger and regret, tempered--if I must
confess it--with a touch of amusement, that I realized that my welcome
home came in the shape of a broad smile from as clever a crook as ever
turned a trick in Wall Street with the aid of a mahogany-fitted suite of
offices and--the law itself.
It is a somewhat natural, although, if you come to think it over, rather
an unreasonable expectation, that prompts us to look upon those whom we
first meet on landing on a foreign, or on our native shore, as
representative of the people of the country in general. But, after all,
while the longshore population of every land is rather different from
the rest of the inhabitants, the former, in Europe at least, exhibit
the national earmarks to a degree sufficient to satisfy the average
tourist. I need hardly add that such earmarks are, to an extent, of a
distinctive and significant nature. The costumes, gestures, manners and
the language of the longshore advance guard, always seem to me to have a
due relation each to each, and to those other things that the traveler
meets further inland.
Something like these thoughts came to me, as I mechanically returned the
smile of the man who was making his way through the crowd, dodging the
line of stewards and baggage that was swirling over the ship's side. It
was a silly and unpatriotic thought, no doubt, and it was probably
parented by a variety of factors, including my familiarity with the
Under World, but it came to me with cynical force and humor that there
was something not entirely inappropriate in the fact that a
well-dressed, amiable-looking, and apparently prosperous individual, of
devious morals and crooked methods, should be so much in evidence on the
threshold of a land, so to speak.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I don't wish to imply by the foregoing that
we are a nation of criminals large and small, and that, hence, we were,
in this instance, properly represented on the pier head by my smiling
friend. But I do earnestly believe that the American public does not, as
yet, realize the danger that arises from the big masses becoming
accustomed to the current and growing dishonesty of the small classes. I
say "accustomed to," meaning thereby that the public apparently accepts
the dictum that if a man or corporation steals on a sufficiently big
scale, not only is the law paralyzed by the legal lights who are willing
to accept retaining fees from thieves, but, in addition, our youths are
taught to regard such thievery as equivalent to success.
My observation has taught me that crime is like water--it steeps from
the top. A nation is, more or less, patterned after its prominent men.
If these, when subjected to moral analysis, turn out to be simply "dips"
who operate on a large scale, so much the worse for the nation, for,
while the example of the men in question may not be followed in degree
by the multitude, it surely is in kind. I'll defy any one to disprove
this assertion by means of municipal or historic data. On the other
hand, I could, if necessary, show that, in repeated cases, financial
_coups_--so called--and "deals," and all the rest of the legalized
robberies in high places, were followed or accompanied by a rushing
business in the magistrates' or criminal courts.
Once upon a time, "Chi"--as Chicago is known to the Under World--was the
headquarters for crooks of all grades and types--including the authors
of wheat corners and so forth. But New York is or will be, so I take it,
the gathering place for most of the manipulators of the financial world.
I venture the prophecy that, when the fact is established that the
metropolis is their favorite roosting place, there will be a
corresponding activity on the part of the local "guns" of all
descriptions, budding or full blown, from the office boy, who swipes
postage stamps, to the up-to-date gopher-man, who cleans out a "peter"
or safe with the help of a pocket laboratory and electric drills.[1]
I do not think that the needs of this story call for the name of the man
with the smile. Up to the time of writing, he has kept out of prison,
and the Upper World holds him to be a reputable person in
consequence--which is the way of the Upper World, which judges a man on
the score of results rather than on that of actions. That he and the
other members of his mob are not viewing the Hudson scenery through
barred windows, is, I believe, due to the fact that one of his pals is
an astute and eminently respectable lawyer, who, because he knows his
business as thoroughly as he does, can make the law serve the very
crooks whom it is supposed to suppress. By this it will be gathered that
he was and is one of those sharks known as financial lawyers, who infest
the tempestuous seas of the financial district. He is a member of the
Union League, and of a Fourth Avenue church, and has been identified
with several citizens' movements having to do with the betterment of
certain phases of municipal administration. He is one of the meanest
unmugged "guns" that has ever helped to graft pennies from a sick
widow's chimney stocking. This is no figure of speech. The enterprises
which he and his mob spring on the public are especially designed to
appeal to the hopes and fears of those whose knowledge of financial
affairs and personal means are equally small. The victims invariably
include a goodly percentage of women who, being without advisers, are
anxious to invest their scant savings, and having an idea that Wall
Street is, somehow or other, a place for making money, hand over fist,
stand ready to swallow the mendacious yarns that form the basis of the
printed matter of the corporations or "pools" in question.
All grafting is of course bad from the viewpoint of the Upper World,
although the Under World thinks otherwise. But I honestly believe that
the real "dip," "moll-buzzer," "peter-man," "prop-getter,"
"thimble-toucher," "queer-shover," "slough-worker," "second-story man,"
or any other form of "gun," looks upon the "paper-pipers," such as my
crook of the pier and his associates were, in much the same manner as a
bank robber regards an East Side door-mat thief.
The last that I heard of the man, and that quite recently, was, that he
and his pals were floating a company that allegedly proposed to
manufacture and sell a paint "which entered into the substance of the
material on which it was used, so became part and parcel of it, and, in
consequence, was practically indestructible." I quote from the
preliminary pamphlet that was sent to the "suckers" who nibbled at the
glittering bait of the concern's newspaper advertisements.
The public would probably fight shy of--(we will call him John Robins,
which approximates his trade name) if it knew that he has "done time" in
Colorado for burglary, and was run out of at least one other Western
State for separating people from their money in a manner not recognized
by city or mining camp laws. The "gun" fraternity--at least a large part
of it--knows the facts in his case, but it isn't in the business of
putting "the good guys next to the graft," or, in other words, of
telling tales out of school.
The police and the Pinkerton Detective Agency are "wise"; but in these
cases again, there is no official reason for action against Robins and
his mob, while, on the other hand, there may be, and probably are, very
excellent reasons for leaving him alone. I fancy that my readers will
understand what I mean.
There was a sort of double end to my knowledge of and acquaintance with
the man. Both began with complaints that had been sent to a metropolitan
newspaper by a "sucker" whose jaws had gotten tangled up with and
pricked by the hook that lay concealed in the Robins literary matter,
which, in this instance, had to do with a land deal. For what he thought
to be sufficient reasons, the city editor of the newspaper assigned me
to investigate.
That same night, and by mere luck, I ran up against an old-time slope
crook, "Split" Kelly by name, whom I had once known quite well. I asked
him if he could give me any information about Robins, and he then told
me that about the promoter which I have related and which, by the way, I
later confirmed through other informants.
"How long ago since all this happened?" I asked.
"Fifteen or twinty years, maybe," answered "Split." "Thin 'Th'
Tooth'--we called him that because wan uv his teeth in th' front of him
was missin', ouin' to it bein' in th' way of the fist of a flatty
[policeman]--giv out that he was goin' to square it. This was in
'Frisco, moind ye. An' th' squarin' took th' shape uv turnin' mouthpiece
[informant to the police]. An' thin things began comin' agin the mob
a-plinty. Big Bill Murray, I moind, was wan of the first that was hauled
before th' Front Office [Police Headquarters] an' framed up fur a whit
of a strong-arm job. Likewise, was there 'Sweet' Schneider, a clever dip
at thot, an' Jimmy Cole--he was stretched for a four spot--an' 'Cat'
Walters--an'--will, a dozen or more uv purty decint bhoys, the names un
all uv which I disrimimber."
"But how about the percentage?" I asked, meaning the money paid to the
police by crooks in return for "protection."
"In thim days," explained "Split," "thar was some sort of mix-up in the
Front Office; some ov th' pircint bein' hild out by thim as had th'
handlin' un it, as it came frish from th' guns. Ye'll onderston', Cig.,
by thot which soide th' beefin' came from. An' whin this Tooth uv yourn
began his tip-off, the Front Office guys thot claimed they had bin done
dirt, says, 'Ef we ain't in on the game as we should be, why, no game
goes.' An' they begins to throw it in to us, as I've said. 'Twas th'
owld story, Cig., th' owld story. Whin there's trouble in th' Front
Office, 'tis worked off on the guns."
"And so, Split," said I, "you too got your bit through Tooth?" I had
detected the tone of personal dislike to "Tooth" in the old fellow's
talk, and made a guess at the reason.
"Ye guess roight, me chickin, though how ye guessed, th' divil knows,
seem' 's I said nawthing. An' why th' mug put th' rap on me I'm not
knowin'. T'ree days before I was jumped into th' sweat-box, I staked him
to a tin-spot, for I'd touched for a fat leather." And "Split" scowled
darkly.
"And what happened next?"
"Split" held an imaginary match between his thumb and forefinger, blew
twice, and shook his head. By which I knew that the guns that had been
squealed on, or the mob with whom they were associated, had twice tried
to take Robins's life or "put his light out," and had failed in so
doing.
"And then?"
"Thin," replied the veteran, easily, "me brave bucko framed it up that
there was too much free lead floatin' in th' oir in thim parts, an' nixt
comes news that he had been pinched for connin' a bunch of Eastern
towerists at Manitou. But his fall-money [funds for such emergencies!]
greased the elbows [bribed the detectives] an' he made th' git away all
right, all right, an' th' rest ye know. An' from that time on I nivir
seen or hear uv him till wan day, three years since. Thin Clivir
Saunders, an old-time 'Frisco gun, tills me that Tooth was gaffin
[residing] in way up sthyle on Eighty-sivinth Street, Wist, aginst th'
Park. I misdoubted, but Clivir was roight, fur I stalled th' crib, an'
sure enough me ex-friend comes out an' hops abourd his big gas-buggy an'
away loike a wad uv easy. 'Oh, Ya,' ses I, 'somethin' doin'.' An' I tips
off Clivir, an' th' nixt day whin Tooth's chaw--choof--what th' ---- is
that Frinch name, anyhow, Cig.?--whin th' feller with th' goggles sets
her spinnin', a husky auto in which was me an' Clivir, slips in th'
track uv Tooth an' nivir loses soight uv him 'te we marks him down in
wan of thim Hivin-hitting office joints on lower Broadway.
"But I was dead leary of followin' on below th' Loine [the margin of the
financial district in New York City, beyond which it is supposed that no
crook can venture owing to the unwritten law of the police]. An' I ses
so, to Clivir.
"'Ef 'tis safe for him,' says he, ''tis sure safe for we'--which was
untrue, seein' that at th' toime I had a suspishun that I was bein'
rapped by a mouthpiece regardin' a trifle of a book belongin' to th'
twintieth cousin, more or liss, of somebody at th' Front Office. An'
'tis bad, as ye know, Cig., to buck th' Front Office dirict, or troo its
twintieth cousin, fur, if ye do, th' fingers [policemen] 'll get hould
uv ye by fair manes or by foul if they can.
"Howsinndever, we plants frind Tooth in his hang-out, an' th' nixt day
pays him a visit, bein' drissed in our fall-togs [good clothes worn in
court when on trial] an' intinding to borrow a trifle fur th' sake uv
th' ould days. His nibs has a sure swell joint, with lots of nifty dames
hittin' thim typewritin' masheens, an' lots of rugs, an' brass, an'
shiny wood, an' other things that we knowed was glimpsed to catch
suckers.
"Well, me and Clivir said we wanted to chin Tooth about a private an'
confidenshul investment--thim was Clivir's wurrds--only av coarse we
didn't call him Tooth, but 'Misther Robins.' And prisintly a laad with a
load uv gilt buttons on his second sthory, escoorts us into th' inside
office of Tooth himself. An' an illigant joint uv it, it was at thot.
"Tooth knowed us at wanst as I see, and I see, too, his fingers sthray
toward a black tin box on th' disk to his right.
"'Ye can sthay your hond, ould pal,' says Clivir, aisy like, 'we are
goin' to act like the gints we look. Guns, the t'ree uv us maybe,' says
he, 'but thare'll only be t'ree an' no more on exhibishun in this here
palashul joint of yours, onless indade ye insist on a show-down, which
is unlikely!' Clivir had a fine lay-out of langwidge, so he had.
"'Will,' says Tooth, looking at us with the swate exprission of a
fly-cop who's had his leather reefed, 'what th' divil do ye two want?'
"'Me frind,' says Clivir, politely, an' pointin' to me, 'lost his sense
uv touch during th' payriod that he spint in th' stir uv a famous
Wistrin city, injoying th' grub an' ripose uv th' same through th'
fayvour uv yourself, Tooth. An' bein' in destitoot circumstances ivir
since, he is sure come to ask ye to make good for disthroyin' his manes
uv turnin' a dishonist pinny.'
"Tooth nivir turned a hair, but I was discumfortable whin I saw th'
smoile uv him. He threw his chair a thrifle closer to th' telephone an'
thin he says in a voice that was unplisintly quiet:
"'Listen, you mugged guns. You think you kin call th' turn on me an' so
want to touch for a few centuries [$100 bills], an' after that fur a few
more, and after that some more yet. Let me till you that you'll not only
not get a red-un out uv me, but, if ivir I see th' mugs uv ye within a
half-acre of this joint again, I'll tip off th' Front Office an' put ye
where ye belong. Oh, it's aisy enough fur me to do it, so it is. A wurrd
to th' Big Man, or th' payple uptown, sayin' that two bustid crooks was
thrying to blackmail me--me, th' prisident of a large an' repitable
corporashun, to say nothing uv me soshul and personal sthanding--an'
where wud ye be? How could th' half uv us in a game like I'm runnin',
kape goin', if Mulberry Street an' the Big Man, didn't privint the likes
uv you from botherin' thim uv us who've bin a bit mixed up with gun
graft in th' past? To privint ye thin from takin' chances this side uv
th' Loine in th' future, I give it to ye straight thot we're so will
looked afther by thim who can do it--an' _do_, mind ye--thot th' touch
uv this button or th' touch of this wan would mane a couple of husky
fly-cops, who'd shake th' shell off ye, before ye got th' framin' up
thot would make ye sick uv York fur th' rist of yer days. An' now git,
th' pair of yez.'"
"An', Cig., we got, feelin' like th' sneak who foinds he's swiped a jar
uv moldy pickles.
"'I thought I knowed th' whole uv th' graft game,' said Clivir, whin
we'd got clear uv the joint, 'by theory, anyhow,' sez he, 'but, Split,
take it from me, th' only people who's really on to it, an' knows th'
size uv it, an' th' shape uv it, an' th' spread uv it, an' where it
begins an' how it inds, an' _what's in it_, is th' Front Office an' th'
guys behind it.'
"Which words was thrue, Cig.--they was sure thrue."
The next day, I called on Robins with the letter from the alleged victim
of the land deal enterprise, asking him what he had to say about it.
He opened a desk, produced a box of cigars, passed them to me, and,
looking me straight in the eyes, said, with a smile: "And what sort of
answer do you want, anyhow?"
Whereupon I felt and saw that I was up against a cool, clever confidence
man who had chosen to "work" in the Wall Street district instead of amid
the environments of the usual sort.
Now you may or may not know it, but the confidence man of tip-top
attainments cultivates the control and expression of his features with
as much care as does the professional beauty--this for the reason that
his looks are among his most valuable assets. For the first stage in
"turning a trick," whether this be done in a Broadway hotel or a
downtown office building, is for the operator to get a hold on the
confidence of his victim by impressing him with his, the former's,
frankness and honesty through the medium of his steady gaze, cheery
smile and sincerity of expression in general. But "wise" people are not
taken in by these things. Apart from all else, those who have had much
to do with criminals--whether mugged or unmugged--will tell you that
there is such a thing as the "crook eye," which invariably gives its
owner away. It is, as I once heard a clever detective put it, "an eye
behind the eye"--a something sinister peeping out from the bland and
childlike gaze which the "con" turns on his prospective gull.
Robins's eyes were big and blue and clear, and almost infantile in their
expression. Nevertheless, as he faced me smiling, I saw the "crook's
eye" sizing me up, and I knew that old "Split's" story was more or less
true. And, on the impulse of the moment, I began "throwing it into him"
in the "patter" of the Under World.
Robins's eyes narrowed for an instant, but that was all. His command of
his countenance was simply lovely. And I, as a _connoisseur_ of things
having to do with gun-dom, could not but sit and admire. Then he smiled,
not quite so nice a smile as those he had been giving me. Mr. Robins
realized that the need for professional effort had passed.
"Well," he said, after a meditative pause, "see that you're _on_, or
think you are. And now what?" The laugh with which he finished the
sentence was so unmistakably real that I at once became wary.
"I guess you know enough of reporters," I said, rather lamely, "to
understand that I'm here to ask whether the complaints in this letter
are founded on fact or otherwise."
"Fact in one sense," he replied, cheerily, "but that won't do this
squealer any good, because we're protected on that score, as I'll show
you."
He produced one of the agreements that were in force between his concern
and its patrons--or "suckers"--and pointed out a "joker" in it which
legally, but certainly not morally, rendered invalid the charge of
swindling on the part of the letter writer.
"You must have a mighty clever lawyer behind you," I couldn't help
saying.
"Yes," replied Robins, complacently, "he knows his business and he's one
of us. We have to be prepared for kicks of this sort, because our
business breeds 'em. They come our way all the time."
He spoke with cynical frankness.
"I'm going to use that remark of yours in my story," I said.
"See here, cull," he retorted, dropping into the vernacular of the Under
World, and wheeling his chair suddenly so as directly to face me, "I
don't know who you are outside of your card; but, as I said before,
you're _on_, so it seems, and I don't want to treat a good guy like you
on the cross. It's no use your wasting my time or me wasting yours in
jollying. _But you can't get a line in your newspaper that's going to
queer me._ See? And in no other paper in this little burg. Understand? I
guess you know all about reporting down to the ground. But there's some
sides of the newspaper business that you ain't next to yet. This is one
of them. You may as well quit right here as far as I am concerned, for
nixy a line of roast goes that you push out about me."
"And _that_, too, goes in my story," I replied, rather hotly.
He smiled indulgently, yawned, and rose. "Come and have lunch with me
some day," he said. "You seem a spry boy, and I may throw something in
your way."
"I've got stuff for a front-page display," I reported to the city editor
half an hour later.
"I--ah--don't think we need it," replied the little man with the tired
eyes whom I addressed. "You can put in a bill for your time, but--you
needn't write it. Orders from the old man."
I knew that the advertising end of the newspaper had once more been
wagging the editorial tail, and that, once again, it had been decided
that it was better to protect a rogue rather than lose his half-page
"ad." in the Sunday edition, to say nothing of his quarter pages during
the balance of the week!
Robins knew whereof he spoke when he assured me that there was "nothing
doing" in regard to himself. When I left his office, he simply
telephoned his advertising agent, explaining the situation. The latter,
in turn, telephoned the business department of the newspaper, and--there
you are.
Curiously enough, Robins seemed to take a fancy to me for some reason or
other. On more than one occasion he made me an enticing offer to enter
his employ as publicity man or press agent. But I couldn't swallow my
prejudice against his "plants" in the first place, and I had other and
sufficiently lucrative affairs in hand in the second. Still, we ran
into each other at times, and he never failed to jolly me on the score
of my failure to show him up.
To return to our meeting on the pier head; after an apparently hearty
greeting from him, he asked if I had seen "Peck" Chalmers on board. He
explained that Chalmers was to have returned to America on the steamer
on which I had crossed, but apparently hadn't.
"Of course," said Robins, "Peck would have come under a monacher
[alias], so I wasn't sure if he was on the passenger list or not."
I knew the fellow he spoke of, a quiet, elderly, well-mannered and
cleanly shaven man of forty-five or so, who looked like a minister in
mufti, but who, in reality, was a clever gambler and "con gun"; one of
Robins's own profession.
Robins went on to explain that Peck had gone abroad to see if the
"wire-tapping" game or its equivalent could be worked in Great Britain.
"He went broke over--what do you think?--the give-away of an up-State
fly-cop with caterpillars in his whiskers and grass-seed in his hair.
Think of it--Peck, one of the best men in the business, busted by a
bumble-bee, fresh off the dogwood! It happened this way: The State cop
[State detective] looked as if he had come to see what was going on at
Yard's Town Hall, but he really was a sharp lad who had mixed it up with
a lot of good people, as we later found out. Well, Peck's mob picked him
up as easy, and he toted them along till they almost hated to take the
three thousand that he wrote home for. To show how much in earnest he
was, he let Peck himself mail the letter to the Savings Bank at Geehaw
Corners, ordering the cashier to sent the oof to Peck direct, to be
placed on a horse that the innocent was to be tipped off to, day after
to-morrow.
"So that day, the jay was allowed to win a hundred and fifty, and had a
joyous time of it with the mob. At about midnight, Peck and the whole
bunch were pinched, and think how they felt when the country cop threw
back his coat and flashed a State detective badge! It cost the mob down
to their shirt buttons to get out of the mess."
"How is the wire game in New York?" I queried.
"Never better, pal!" was the instant reply. "Everything is smooth with
the Front Office, and the suckers are so thick that we can't attend to
'em."
"We?" I said.
Robins laughed. "I'm saying nothing. I'm a respectable business man with
offices--here's my card."
With that we parted.
You can find a moral in all this--and you're welcome to it.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Mr. Flynt's prophecy has been approximately fulfilled. Without
subscribing to his suggestion that the majority of our great financiers
are "crooks," it is certain that the metropolis is just now, and has
been for some time past, suffering from a crime-wave of an almost
unparalleled height and vehemence. The pages of the daily newspapers and
the admissions of the police authorities furnish proof thereof.