up to by its members with admiration and respect. He disdains the title
of “thief” and boasts that his operations require brains and nerve
to an extraordinary degree. The safe blowers are also classed by the
police as burglars, and are acknowledged by the craft as confederates.
The country banks and the larger business houses are their “Game.”
They disdain smaller operations. When a plan to rob a bank has been
formed, the burglar proper calls a safe blower to his aid. One man
often prepares the way by opening a small account with the bank and
drawing out his deposits in small amounts. He visits the place at
different hours of the day, learns the habits of the bank officers and
clerks, and makes careful observations of the building and the safes
in which the money is kept. Frequently a room in the basement of the
bank building, or in an adjoining building is hired and occupied by a
confederate. When all is ready, a hole is cut through the floor into
the bank room; the services of the safe blower are called into action.
The former takes charge of the operation when the safe is to be blown
open. He drills holes in the door of the safe by the lock and fills
them with gunpowder or other explosives, which are ignited by a fuse.
The safe is carefully wrapped in blankets to smother the noise of the
explosion, and the windows of the room are lowered about an inch from
the top to prevent the breaking of the glass by the concussion of the
air. The explosion destroys the lock, but makes little noise, and the
door of the safe is easily opened. When it is desirable not to resort
to an explosion the safe blower makes the safe fast to the floor by
strong iron clamps, in order that it may bear the desired amount of
pressure. He then drills holes in the door, into which he fits jack
screws worked by levers. These screws exert tremendous force, and soon
burst the safe open. Sometimes, when small safes are to be forced open
they use only a jimmy and a hammer, wrapping the hammer with cloth to
deaden the sound of the blows. The safe once opened, the contents are
at the mercy of the burglars. They never attack a safe without having
some idea of the booty to be secured, and the amount of risk to be
run. Saturday night is generally chosen for such operations. If the
work cannot be finished in time to allow the burglars to escape before
sunrise on Sunday, they continue it until successful, and boldly carry
off their plunder in broad daylight.
The Bank Sneak.
The bank sneak is simply a bond robber. He confines his operations
to stealing United States and other bonds, preferring coupon to
registered bonds, as they can be more easily disposed of.
He frequents a bank for a long period, and patiently observes the
places where the bonds and securities are kept; this he manages to do
without suspicion, and when all is ripe for the robbery, he boldly
enters the bank, makes his way unobserved to the safe, snatches a
package of bonds, adding to it a package of notes, if possible, and
escapes. If the plunder consists of coupon bonds, it is easily disposed
of; but registered bonds require more careful handling. Generally
when the bank offers a reward for their recovery, the thief enters
into communication with the detective appointed to work up the case,
and compromises with the bank by restoring a part of the plunder on
condition that he is allowed to keep the rest and escape punishment.
Sneak Thieves.
The sneak thieves are the lowest in the list of professional robbers.
They confine their operations, principally to private dwellings and
retail stores. They are in constant danger of detection and arrest,
and are more often secured by the police than any other classes we have
mentioned. The dinner hour, which in the winter is after dark, is their
favorite time for entering houses. They gain entrance by open doors
or windows, or by false keys, and take everything within their reach.
A favorite practice of sneak thieves is to call at a house advertised
for rent, and ask to be shown the rooms. Another plan is to visit the
offices of physicians and other professional men, and to steal articles
of value in the waiting rooms while they are left alone. The majority
of those who steal from stores are women, who take articles from the
counters, while the clerks are busily engaged in laying out goods for
their inspection. The practice of “shop-lifting” has become so common
that many of the leading stores keep special detectives to watch the
customers.
Confidence Men.
Confidence men make use of the credulity of country people and
strangers in the city. A favorite plan is to watch the hotels, and get
the names and addresses of the guests. The method is as follows: Mr.
Smith comes to Chicago, puts up at some prominent hotel, and after
dinner saunters out for a stroll. A confidence man who has been on the
watch for his appearance, meets him some blocks away from the hotel,
and, rushing up to him says, “Why, Mr. Smith, how glad I am to see
you. When did you arrive? How did you leave them all in Smithville?”
Mr. Smith is taken by surprise at being recognized in the great city,
and if he is at all credulous, the confidence man has no trouble in
making him believe they have met before. The swindler joins him in his
stroll after a few moments of conversation, confides to him that he
can draw a large prize in a lottery and invites him to accompany him
to the lottery office and see him receive the money. On the way they
visit a saloon and enjoy a friendly drink together. Another stranger
now drops in, and is introduced to Mr. Smith by the swindler. The
newcomer draws the swindler aside and exchanges a few words with him,
whereupon the latter tells Smith that he owes the stranger a sum of
money, and has unfortunately left his pocket-book at his office. He
asks his unsuspecting victim to lend him the amount until they reach
the lottery office, when he will return it. Smith produces the money,
which is handed to the newcomer, who then takes his departure, and the
friends resume their stroll towards the lottery office. On the way the
swindler manages to elude his victim, who seeks him in vain, and goes
back to his hotel a sadder but wiser man. Strange as it may seem, this
is one of the most successful tricks played in the city. It is often
varied, but is never attempted upon a resident of the metropolis.
Pickpockets of Chicago.
The pickpockets of Chicago are very numerous. The term pickpocket is
regarded by the police as including not only those who confine their
efforts to picking pockets and stealing satchels and valises, but also
gradations of crime which approach the higher degrees of larceny from
the person, and highway robbery. The members of this class of the
thieving fraternity are well-known to the police and the detectives
are kept busy watching them. Their likenesses are contained in the
“Rogues Gallery” at police headquarters, and the authorities know
the thieves well, as their careers embrace generally, long records
of crime. Instances are not rare in which a whole family, from the
oldest to the youngest, is equally deep in crime, the little one having
been thoroughly and systematically educated by their parents in the
different branches of stealing, beginning with the simple picking of
the pocket of some unwary person, and finally becoming able to commit
the most daring burglaries.
The police endeavor to have all known professional thieves constantly
under surveillance, but the task is a difficult one. In addition to
constantly changing their places of abode, they are in and out of the
city frequently. Several saloons and localities, however, have become
notorious as resorts for pickpockets. Saloons on State street, Wabash
avenue, West Madison street, and Halsted street are frequented most
by this class of thieves. Great dexterity is sometimes acquired by
pickpockets. Acting in the capacity of a newsboy they have been known
to skillfully extract a watch from a customer’s pocket while offering a
paper for sale.
[Illustration: Harrison Street Police Station. Attempted Suicide.]
The Police
A Night at Harrison Street Station.
Though honest men sometimes do not seem able to put their fingers upon
a policeman at the instant they want him, rogues find far oftener that
the policemen are on hand when not wanted.
In the earlier days of police history, when politics were eliminated
from the force, the ordinary policeman was more effective, and
guarded the “beat” upon which he traveled with a jealous eye. Wander
where he might, the ruffian could not get away from the law. This
constant surveillance exasperated bad characters. They chafe under the
restraint, make feeble efforts to rebel, but it is useless. The power
of the police over the evil circles of society is enormous; they have
a mortal fear of the force. They know that behind that silver star
there resides indomitable courage, and in that close buttoned coat are
muscles of iron and nerves of steel.
The “Boiler Avenue Boys” and roughs were all cowards and they knew it.
They dare not meet half their weight in righteous pluck.
I have seen a great bully cringe and cry under a policeman’s
open-hand cuffing. Very likely he had a bowie-knife, or revolver, or
slung-shot—or all three in one, as I saw one night on Fourth avenue—in
his pocket at the time, yet he does not attempt to use it on the
officer of the law, the occasional exceptions to this are rare and
notable. How many times has a single policeman arrested a man out of
a crowd, and not one of his fellows raised a finger to help him; they
dare not, they have too wholesome respect for law, for that revolver in
the pocket; most of all they are awed by the cool courage of the man
who dares to face them on their own ground.
Yet in spite of all this the policeman’s life is full of danger. He
must patrol streets which are known to be dangerous, narrow alleys,
where a well-delivered blow from a slung-shot, a skillfully aimed
thrust from a knife, or a bullet from a revolver, would make an end of
him before he could summon help. He is an object of hatred, as well
as of fear, to the dangerous classes, and they do not hesitate to
take advantage of him. Often some brave fellow is set upon by a gang
of toughs and beaten or wounded. Yet, whatever danger, the policeman
must face it all, and to the honor of the force be it said, he does
not shirk. Whatever their faults may be, cowardice cannot be charged
against the police of Chicago.
I remember well a tough basement saloon in Clark street; it had been
growing worse and worse and one dismal November evening, hearing a
disturbance, Captain Mulligan and the officer on that post went in.
There were about fifty persons, men and women, of every color and
nationality, all of the worst characters, and some notorious in crime.
The captain took in the situation at a glance, and determined without a
thought to arrest the whole party. Placing his back to the front door
he covered the back door with his revolver, and threatened death to the
first person who moved. Then he sent the patrolman to the station for
help, and for fifteen long minutes held that crowd of desperadoes at
bay. They glared at him, squirmed and twisted in their places, scowled
and gritted their clenched teeth, and tried to get at their knives
and tear him to pieces; but all the while the stern mouth of that
revolver looked at them, and looked them out of countenance, and the
steady nerve behind it held sway over their brutal ferocity. It was
a trial of nerve and endurance. Captain Mulligan stood the test and
saved his life. They could have shot him a hundred times. Certainly it
was not because they had any scruples against it, for the first two
prisoners sent to the station killed Officer Burns with a paving stone
before they had gone two blocks. Captain Clare made an almost precisely
similar single-handed raid on the famous “Burnt Rag” saloon in Boiler
avenue one winter night in the Seventies.
Let us take our seat beside Sergeant Cameron. It is 10 o’clock and the
night cold and keen without, but the room is brightly lighted, warm and
comfortable. With the exception of a few early lodgers who have been
given quarters, no one has put in an appearance, and we begin to wonder
if it is to be a dull night after all. The sergeant smiles, and remarks
that there will be business enough in the next three hours.
The door opens as he speaks, and a woman in a faded black dress, a
battered bonnet, and a very dirty face, enters, and hesitatingly
approaches the desk.
“Can I have a night’s lodging, sir” she asks.
The sergeant makes no reply for a minute, but gazes at her with curious
interest, and then asks abruptly: “When did you wash your face last?”
“I washed it in Bridgeport, sir,” she answered, “an’ I come from there
today, and never a drop o’ water have I seen.”
“Give her a lodging,” says the sergeant, nodding to an officer standing
by. “But see here,” he added to the woman, “what are you doing in this
district?”
“Ah! it’s a long story, sir,” she begins. “It was a man that was the
cause of it, an’ bad luck to him. He left me after deceivin’ me, an’
I’ve come here to find him.”
“How did he deceive you?”
“Oh, the way they always do. He got the best of me because I was
innocent, an’ he promised to marry me. When he was tired of me he
walked out, an’ I’ve never seen him since.”
“Where do you expect to find him?”
“Here in this city; I’d know his skin on a bush, an’ I’ll find him or
die.”
“Well, you had better take a rest for tonight.”
The woman goes off to her hard bed in the lodging room, and the office
is silent again; but only for a short while. The door opens again,
and this time with a crash, and an officer enters, with a prisoner in
his vice-like grasp. The man’s coat is pulled over his head, his hat
is gone, the blood is running from his nose, and his gait so unsteady
that he would certainly fall to the floor but for the firm hold of the
policeman. His shirt front is covered with blood and beer, and his eyes
are bruised and bloodshot.
“Well, officer, what is it?” asks the sergeant, taking up his pen, as
the patrolman drags his prisoner to his desk.
“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” replied the patrolman. “Wanted to fight
everybody he met on the street. He got pretty badly damaged in being
put out of Schlosheimer’s saloon, and I had to take him in charge.”
“What is your name, and where do you live?” asked the sergeant of the
prisoner.
The man gives his name and address, in a sort of incoherent manner, and
is sent back to a cell, while the sergeant jots down the circumstances
of his arrest in his “Blotter.”
The door opens again, and a woman neatly draped in mourning, and with a
pale, sad face, enters timidly, and approaches the desk. In a low voice
she asks the sergeant if he can tell her of any respectable place in
the neighborhood where she can obtain a lodging at a moderate price.
Her manner is that of a lady, and the sergeant listens with respect to
her request, and gives her the address of such a place as she desired.
In the same low tone she thanks him, and disappears, and the stern face
of the officer of the law for a moment has a troubled expression.
The door is thrown open violently once more, and two flashily-dressed
women enter, and hurry forward to the desk. Their faces are flushed,
they are greatly excited, and have evidently been drinking. They begin
their story together, talking loudly and angrily. They will not stand
it any longer, they declare. Madame Loraine owes them money, and they
“are going to have it or raise h—l.” The sergeant, having listened
patiently, mildly interposes with the hope that nothing of the kind
will be raised in the station house, and then asks:
“How much does she owe you?”
“Seventy-five dollars,” they reply in one voice.
“And why don’t she pay you?”
“Because she thinks by keeping herself in our debt we won’t leave her,”
they respond together, “and we want a policeman to come along and make
her hand over.”
The sergeant considers for a moment and then declares the matter does
not come within the jurisdiction of the police, and that he can do
nothing for them. They stare at him in blank amazement for a while, and
then flounce out of the room, loudly cursing the whole police force,
and the sergeant in particular.
The next comer is in charge of another officer. He is very dirty and
wretchedly drunk. His tall hat is smashed in, and there is mud sticking
in his hair. He is placed before the desk.
“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” says the patrolman. “I found him trying
to climb a telegraph pole in front of Pottgieser’s saloon. He said he
always went to his room by way of the fire escape, when he came home
late.”
The prisoner is silent, but tries to listen to the officer, and fixes
upon the sergeant as solemn a look as his bleared eyes will permit. He
is too drunk to give his name, and is sent to a cell, where he is soon
in a drunken slumber.
Toward midnight, a poor woman, shabbily dressed, with a thin, well-worn
shawl around her head enters, and approaches the desk.
“Can you tell me if anything has been heard of my husband yet?” she
asks—the same question she has repeated every day for the past week.
“No, ma’am, nothing,” answers the sergeant, briefly; but his eyes as he
glances at the poor sorrowful creature, have a pitying look in them.
“What is your husband’s business?”
“He was a stevedore, sir.”
“And you were married to him how long?”
“Eleven years and over, sir, we had four children, all dead now but the
youngest. He was a good husband to me; but he took a drop too much now
and then, and was cross and noisy. He left the house three weeks ago,
and we have never seen him since.”
“Did he leave you any money?”
“He left us nothing, sir. The child and myself live on the charity of
neighbors; but we can’t expect to live that way always.”
“Well, I’ll speak to the captain,” says the sergeant, kindly, “and see
what can be done for you, and if a dollar will do you any good, here it
is.” And the good-hearted sergeant passes a silver coin over the desk,
and sends the woman away sobbing out her expression of gratitude.
Loud voices are heard on the station steps as the woman passes out, the
door is thrown open, and six well-dressed men enter, accompanied by
two policemen. They approach the desk, talking excitedly, and charge
and counter-charges, mixed with much slang and profanity, are brought
before the sergeant, who sits steadily gazing at the party, waiting
for a return of something like order. There is a lull in the talking,
and one of the policemen states that two of the men have been engaged
in a drunken assault at a political primary held in the neighborhood,
and that the other two have come to prefer charges against them. The
charges are made and entered in the “Blotter,” and the accused prefer
counter-charges against the other two, but as the policemen do not
sustain them, the accusers are suffered to depart, and the accused are
sent to a cell where they raise a tremendous racket.
As the officers are departing for their beats again, two more enter,
this time having in custody two handsomely dressed, fashionable looking
youths, whose flushed faces show they have been drinking, but not
enough to prevent them from feeling the shame of their position.
“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” says the officer, “Knocked an old woman’s
peanut stand in the street, knocked all her stuff into the mud and then
tried to run away.”
“But, sergeant,” pleads one of the youths, “it was only for a lark, you
see. We will make it all right in the morning with the old woman.”
“Your names and addresses?” asks the sergeant, coldly.
They are given, but are evidently fictitious.
“It was only a lark, sergeant,” begins the young man who spoke before,
“we didn’t mean——.”
“Lock them up,” says the sergeant, cutting him short, “you can state
all that to the court in the morning.”
And they were led away.
The silence that has fallen over the room after the young men have been
led out is rudely broken by the hasty entrance of an officer from the
direction of the cells. He is pale and excited.
“Sergeant,” he exclaims, “the woman in number ten has committed
suicide. She’s hung herself.”
The sergeant springs up, tells the officer to take charge of the room,
and hurries to the cells. We follow him. The door in number ten is wide
open, and the doorman is in the act of cutting down the woman, who has
suspended herself by the means of a line made of her garters. He lays
her on the floor, in the cell, and he and the sergeant bend over and
gaze into the bloated face. The woman is not dead and exhibits signs of
returning life. Efforts are made to restore her, and are successful.
As she recovers her consciousness she raises herself on her elbow, and
glaring around savagely, curses bitterly the men who have saved her
from death, and begs for a drink of whisky. No liquor is given her,
however, and when the officers are satisfied she is out of danger,
she is hand-cuffed, to prevent her from attempting further violence.
The rest of the night she keeps the place lively with her yells and
blasphemous cries.
We return to the desk with the sergeant, who enters the occurrence in
the “Blotter.” We are scarcely seated when two of the worst looking
tramps to be found in Chicago enter, and come up to the desk.
“Cap’n,” exclaims one of them in a thick voice, “let’s have a
shake-down for the night?”
“All right,” says the sergeant, “show these men back.”
The tramp who has spoken, encouraged by the ready granting of his
request, says coolly, “You hain’t got a chew of tobaccer, Cap’n, you
can let a fellow have?”
“No, I hain’t,” answers the sergeant, imitating the voice and
expression of the tramp; “but I’ll send you in an oyster supper
presently, with a bottle of Mum’s extra dry, and a bunch of Henry
Clay’s; and perhaps some of the delicacies of the season, if they are
to be had.”
The tramps laughed at this sally, and followed the officer to the
lodging room.
Half an hour later four policemen enter the room bearing a stretcher,
on which is laid a badly wounded man, while two or more lead in the
assailant, who is securely hand-cuffed, and bears the marks of the
officers’ clubs. He had assaulted and stabbed the wounded man in a
brawl in a saloon on Fourth avenue; had resisted the officers who
attempted to arrest him, and had proved so dangerous that they had
been compelled to club and hand-cuff him. The wounded man is sent to a
hospital in an ambulance and the statements he made are recorded in the
“Blotter” by the sergeant. The name and address of the prisoner is also
written down, and he is sent to a cell, with the irons still on him.
Shortly after 2 o’clock another detachment of officers bring in a
batch of about twenty prisoners, male and female. They are dressed in
all manners of costumes. Here are dukes, Don Cæsars, Hamlets, Little
Buttercups, Indians, Princesses and Warriors and the like. They have
been to a “fancy ball,” and left it so drunk that they fell to fighting
among themselves in the street and were taken in custody by the
officials. They are a motley lot indeed and lent a strange aspect to
the station. They appear to feel the ludicrousness of their position,
and beg to be let off; but the sergeant has no discretion, for the
testimony of the officials is positive and the charge is a serious one.
So they go back to the cells, and in the morning will appear in full
costume before the Court to answer to the charge against them.
So the hours of darkness pass away, and the remainder of the night is
only a repetition of many scenes we have described.
[Illustration: A Monday Morning Scene in the Harrison Police Station.]
The Lost Sisterhood
Prevalence of Prostitution in Chicago.