POLICE SHIELD NOT WORN FOR HEALTH
“I was wondering whether you were one of the bunch captured,” remarked
Billy Matthews, whom I went to see at 681 Broadway, the same day I
arrived back in New York. I related, in all its details, the story
of the gang’s exploits, from the moment we left Steubenville, not
forgetting our abortive attempt on the West Virginia bank, how we had
been surprised by the deputies, nor neglecting to tell how I used, on
the train, in self-defence, the little woman and her sweet babe.
“The newspapers printed a pretty full account of the robbery,” Billy
went on, “and I guessed, from the description of the prisoners, that
you had managed to keep out of the pinch, and I knew that Eddie Hughes
had. That fellow’s a hard one to catch when he keeps away from dope,
and he hadn’t been using it for some time when he left here with you.
If ever he comes to grief, it will be the poison that’ll do it.”
How prophetic these words were I shall relate in another volume. We
talked considerably about Hughes, conjecturing as to whether he would
come back to New York, Billy finally expressing the opinion that he was
too wise, owing to the feeling of the police toward him. Hughes had not
“squared up” the last “trick,” and now he possessed too much money.
The remainder of the week I occupied in preparing myself for another
journey to Steubenville, but under vastly different circumstances.
When, early in the following week, I found myself there, stopping at
another hotel, the observer would have seen what appeared to be a
highly respectable business man, attired in the newest cut of cloth,
and wearing a shining beaver. It may have been unwise to thus clothe
myself, some of my critics will possibly aver, having in mind the
gentleman burglar of to-day and the mission that took me there the
second time; but in those days that slick, smooth knight of the jimmy
we hear so much about now was unknown except in sensational novels in
yellow covers. The authorities who were after me would not be looking
for any one but the hard-up, trampish-looking individual I was when the
Cadiz bank was looted.
I told the clerk that I was going out for a walk, and to have my room
ready with all the necessaries for an extended stay at the hotel, when,
late in the afternoon of the day I arrived at Steubenville, I went in
quest of my treasure hidden in the railroad stone wall. I walked much
faster and easier than when I came up the track a few days before,
a hunted man. As I expected, I found the cash and bonds where I had
left them, but I must admit being a little irritated on discovering
that rats had taken a liking to some of the greenbacks and had eaten
holes in them. It happened that the bills were of small denominations,
consequently the loss was not so great as it would have been had the
pesky things attacked the other side of the package. I went back to
the hotel with a snug little fortune in my inside pocket, and without
any fear of detection. I passed the barber shop where I encountered
that sympathetic artist of the comb and brush, but not needing a
shampoo, and for obvious reasons not wishing to renew our acquaintance,
carefully avoided a too close scrutiny from that direction. By midnight
I had my satchel repacked, the treasure hidden at the bottom, and,
leaving a call at the desk for the first train in the morning, with
the regret that I had been suddenly summoned away, turned in for a
sound sleep. In a trifle more than twenty-four hours I found myself
in the metropolis once more, bestirring myself on behalf of my
associates in limbo. I knew of no crook to help me but Billy Matthews,
my associations with the class taking in but eight men, so I appealed
to him for a letter to another friend of Mark Shinburn’s, who proved
to be Johnny Ryan of Buffalo. Before starting west on my mission, I
gave Matthews six one-thousand-dollar five-twenty government bonds to
market for me.
I found Ryan an affable fellow and quite willing to use his good
offices on behalf of my jailed associates, for he had been in many
a bank job with them. He sought out an all-round crook, whom he
introduced to me as Asa King, and together we began to form a plan.
Many ways were suggested, but the simplest one was adopted. It was that
King immediately proceed to Cadiz, with plenty of money, and play the
part of a drunkard to the extent of getting locked in the jail with my
comrades. With them, it would then be no insurmountable task to devise
a plan to break out of jail. Ryan, King, and I went to Pittsburg, King
going on to Cadiz. Having known him only a few hours, I was in no
position to guess how well he would play the part of a sot. I hoped
that he would not make too much of an effort, whereby the game might be
spoiled. When I was in Pittsburg, prior to our bank-looting expedition,
I, being short of money, had taken a most disgraceful departure from
the Scott House. I had left an overcoat there; it had a bad rip in the
skirt, to which my attention had been called by Jack Utley. The more
I examined into the character of the man, the more I became convinced
that he would betray his comrades upon being assured of any leniency by
the authorities. It occurred to me that he would be likely to remember
my coat and make it a telling instrument in his description of me, and
thus believing, I very much wanted to put any such advantage out of the
way. So I asked Ryan to pay the board bill and get the coat. He did so,
and I felt better satisfied. Having agreed to meet King at Wheeling,
we proceeded there, and two days later he came to us with a long face
and a much longer tale of failure. I learned from him something about
swift-winged justice as it was practised in Ohio. The day King got to
Cadiz, Tall Jim, Big Bill, and Utley were on their way to the state
prison at Columbus. Jack Utley, the serpent, had obtained a shorter
sentence by pleading guilty after having betrayed us, while Jim and
Big Bill, hopelessly in the toils of the law, also pleaded guilty and
received a fourteen-year sentence each. George Wilson, poor fellow, was
still in the hospital, and awaited the same fate. Nothing could be done
for him, King said, and we returned east. At Buffalo I paid Ryan and
King for their assistance and went to New York, only to meet a train of
stirring events.
* * * * *
“What’s up, Billy?” I inquired cheerily, upon meeting Matthews the next
morning after my return; “have you been playing hookey from school and
got caught at it?” His face was as long as a search-warrant and twice
as grim. Somehow I expected a piece of unwelcome news, but my recent
escape from a very hot trail had made me a little philosophical.
“That would be easy,” he said, smiling sickly, and passed a joke
about his schooldays when the paternal hand had more than once sought
unerringly a certain region near the equator, in what many households
have often designated a “warming-the-jacket” bee. Then he added: “The
devil’s to pay. I’ve had bad luck trying to sell your bonds.”
“Been playing Dexter at long odds, and had the wrong end of the game,
eh?” I asked, taking the matter as calmly as I could, at the same
time throwing a little horse-racing chaff at him. He disregarded the
pleasantry.
“I hate like the devil to tell you, George, but the bonds--they’re
gone, and I can’t produce you the money in place of ’em.”
“Well?” I interrogated as cheerfully as I could under the circumstances.
“The coppers have ’em!”
“The devil you say!” I was vulgar without thinking. “You were pinched?”
“That’s just it,” admitted Matthews, and I pitied him, for there was
that about the little fellow that made me feel, almost know, he was
dealing squarely with me, gambler though he was. However, I did not
let him in my secret on that score yet, and said, a trifle coldly: “I
thought you were a shrewd man. Many of the boys have trusted bonds in
your hands for the market.”
He actually was suffering after I made this slighting remark, and I was
forced to relent.
“Don’t take me too seriously, old fellow,” said I, “and tell me all
about it. If there’s a muddle, we must get out of it some way. It’s a
mighty scarce hole that’ll let a man in that won’t let him out if he
tries hard to get out.”
“There’s no use chopping matters, George,” he said; “I trusted a man
too much, and I’m in deep, that’s all.”
Then Billy told me how he had taken a man with him to dispose of the
bonds, a Bill Brockway, whom I didn’t know, and that they went to
a broker’s office in Wall Street. Brockway, whom he thought to be
“right,” proved to be all wrong by betraying him to a pair of Central
Office detectives. Recollecting Tim Golden, of the Detective Bureau at
300 Mulberry Street, I expressed a curiosity to know the identity of
the detectives in this case.
“Jack McCord and George Radford,” explained Billy. I had never heard of
them, which was not at all strange because of my short life in New York.
“Brockway and I were arrested,” continued Billy, “and the detectives
took the bonds.”
“But you got out of jail, I see,” was my comment.
“We weren’t taken to Police Headquarters. They kept the bonds and
turned us loose on a promise. McCord and Radford have a habit of doing
business that way with us fellers.”
“On a promise?” I inquired.
“Yes, the cops said we could go if I’d produce the man who gave me the
bonds to sell. Of course Brockway, curse the traitor, was in the game
with them.”
“And you agreed to produce me?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. What else could I do.”
I myself did not know, but I asked Billy if he told the detectives that
I gave him the bonds. The little fellow cast a look at me that was full
of contempt, and at the same time I could see that he was hurt by the
mere suggestion that he would play the part of a “squealer.” For fully
two minutes neither of us spoke a word, but I was giving the subject a
serious consideration.
“We’ll charge the bonds to profit and loss,” said I, in conclusion.
“No use doing that,” he declared; “you’ve got to see the cops and
divide with them.”
I could calmly say I would charge the bonds to the loss column, but
to divide money, that had been obtained through the looting of a
bank vault, with officers of the law, sworn to protect the lives and
property of the people, seemed to me to be too base a proposition
for consideration. I had been driven to crime through injustice of
the basest sort, had connived in the robbery of a bank through sheer
desperation, the result of persecution, but I had not yet, it seemed
to me, sunk so low as to divide ill-gotten money with an officer in the
employment of the people,--the act, as it seemed to me, placing me with
him in the same category of the traitor. Up to that time I had had no
acquaintance with the New York detectives. I explained my thoughts to
Billy. It caused him to smile.
“But why should I do this?” I asked; “they don’t know me from a Chinese
idol.”
“But they will know you, George. You seem to forget that Tim Golden’s
in this town, and a thousand-dollar reward is hanging over your head.
And there’s Jim Kelso too--both of them are fly cops and know you.”
I confessed that this recollection was not refreshing. My fortunate
escape from Ohio had made me think lightly of any chance of being found
in this big city and carted back to New Hampshire.
“And,” continued Matthews, “Detective McCord pulls a long stroke with
Jim Kelso, who’s bound to be superintendent of police one of these
days. If you stay in New York, they’re sure to get you sooner or later.”
“Still, I don’t see why I should go to the front if I let the bonds
slip; the cops have ’em, and that ought to be enough.”
“Now don’t presume for a minute that they’ll let you walk the streets
of New York without staking them,” Billy exclaimed, his impatience
thoroughly aroused by my obstinacy. “But of course you don’t know, for
you’re a greenhorn; but I know it, and d--d well too.”
“Then you honestly mean that I must pay these traitorous policemen to
live unmolested in this town? I can’t remain in hiding here and take my
chance of keeping out of their hands?” I asked.
“That’s it, and nothing else, White. If you stay here, the small-fry
thieves who play the stool-pigeon for the police will put the
information up to headquarters before you realize it, and into Mulberry
Street you’ll go unless you settle.”
“Ah, that’s the game, is it?” I said angrily.
“Yes, and you’ll learn to your better knowledge that the cops don’t
wear the shield for their health; besides, their appetites are too
hardy after dollars to let you run loose. They can pick you up to-day
and within two weeks divide that one-thousand-dollar reward.”
“Well, Billy, we seem to be in a fix, and I’ll go and see these
detectives, but not on my own account. For myself I wouldn’t do it.
It grinds me to soil my hands in a deal with such rascals. But for
you I will yield; you shall not be arrested on my account. I haven’t
forgotten that it was you who aided me when I didn’t know what to do.
Arrange a meeting with these detectives, and I’ll see them.”
“Good,” replied Matthews, with a relief that was very noticeable; “I
was hard pressed by McCord and Radford. They’ve been after me for four
days. I was told that if I didn’t produce you to-day, they’d take me to
Police Headquarters, and they meant it.”
A meeting was arranged for five o’clock that afternoon, and Detective
Kelso was to be there with McCord and Radford. It occurred to me that I
might, through the little acquaintance with Kelso, who was associated
with Tim Golden in the Walpole Bank investigation, adjust the present
muddle more to my satisfaction. I was fast getting an interesting
knowledge of the inside affairs of the New York Detective Bureau. So I
earnestly hoped he would be one of the party.
I was at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, close to the entrance of
Central Park, the meeting-place agreed upon, with great promptness,
but I found the three detectives already in waiting. Jim Kelso had
not forgotten our New England acquaintance, and greatly surprised
me by the enthusiasm he displayed. I understood later that it was a
characteristic of his to meet those friendly to him in this fashion,
even on a shorter acquaintance, when there was a financial deal in
prospect.
“Well, George,” said he, shaking my hand vigorously, “I’m glad to know
you succeeded in giving those New Hampshire people the go-by.”
Then he introduced me to Jack McCord and George Radford, claiming them
to be his very intimate friends, with whom I would be sure to have the
most pleasant relations.
“They’re all right,” he said effusively, “and you’ll find them so.” He
paused a moment, and then added, with a smile, “I understand we’ve got
some bonds to sell you.”
“To sell me?” I echoed his words in the form of a question. “To sell me
bonds?”
“Yes,” smiled Kelso. I understood him then, but I confess that I
didn’t like his peculiar grin that time, and in subsequent years this
impression never changed. There wasn’t much, if any, warmth in it. It
always seemed to me that it was a smile like actors study for use on
the stage. I laughed when I understood him to mean that he had some
bonds to sell to me. I thought it was my play to exhibit a little nerve
in dealing with these traitors, which was a most unpleasant experience
the first time, so I asked Kelso why McCord and Radford hadn’t hung on
to Billy Matthews when they had him under arrest. He showed his teeth
in a most disagreeable way, and seemed to be on the point of saying
something ugly. Presently he spoke:--
“There’s no good beating about the bush, George,” he explained, “for
we know where the bonds came from, and we also know that you are one
of the six men in the Ohio job. Now let’s come to the point, and it
is this, pure and simple--we want our rake-off. As a matter of fact,
we’re glad the Ohio fellers didn’t get you. Do you understand?”
I saw there was little profit to me in palavering with these crooks,
who were sworn to serve law and justice, so I told them that we’d
better get to business and that the open street was no sort of a place
to transact it. They admitted that officers of the precinct in which
we were might at any moment interrupt us. I called a carriage, and
at their suggestion we drove to Stetson’s Hotel in Central Park, the
proprieter being a brother-in-law of Radford. Comfortably seated in a
private room, with whiskey served on the table before us, I said:--
“Gentlemen, let’s come down to business. What do you want for the six
bonds?”
“Not a cent less than six thousand!” was what came from Detective
McCord, sharp and quick, now that the negotiation was really on.
“And you’ll not get that much from me!” was my answer, just as quickly
and just as firmly. “The bonds will have to be disposed of at a ‘fence’
price, and considering that my share will not, all together, be more
than forty thousand dollars, I’ll pay you four thousand for the bonds
and no more.”
Detective McCord did a lot of sparring, Radford jumping in occasionally
with a sharp, mean thrust. Kelso kept out of the argument until he
seemed to think it was time to smooth over matters. To me Radford’s
manner was most irritating. I was not lacking in pluck, and once,
had it been diplomacy, I would have lent him my fist. At length the
sparring was interrupted by him. Said he:--
“I guess, Jack, we may as well keep the bonds and give this man
twenty-four hours to sneak out of town. If we find him then, why, he
can’t complain. We’ve wasted too much time on him already.” Kelso knew
Radford had gone too far, and said so.
I was firm, and none of his insinuations could move me. I believed
that these traitorous policemen who would plot with crooks--actually
be willing to take money from the enemy of the commonwealth--must not
have everything their own way. They saw I was determined, and, avarice
winning over all else, Jack McCord said:--
“Well, George says his share is only forty thousand dollars, and it may
be less than that, so I think we’d better accept his offer.”
And it was settled at this figure, whereupon we set the following night
as the time of the next meeting, and the place at the Fifth Avenue
entrance to the Washington parade ground, down-town. I was ready to
leave them at this, promising to be there at eight o’clock sharp. Now
that we had come to an agreement, I wondered if our meeting in the
park to make the exchange of money and bonds would go through, or
whether these blackmailers and crime protectionists, after further
consideration, would not, in their grasping after ill-gotten gain,
make a still further demand upon me. Despite the bold front I had put
on, I realized how hopelessly I was in their power, should they choose
to see duty before selfish, criminal desire.
“By the way,” said I, at the moment of parting, addressing my remarks
to Jim Kelso, “as the bond matter seems to be about settled, the next
important thing I’m interested in is my status in this city. You know,
as well as I, Kelso, that the New Hampshire authorities never had a
case against me, and the truth being told, I am absolutely innocent of
the charge. Isn’t it so?”
“It’s true, George, and I must acknowledge that you had a rough deal
down-east for an innocent man.” I watched McCord and Radford for the
effect this admission would have on them, but they gave no indication
that I could see.
“That being the case,” I went on to Kelso, “I ask you and these men,
believing as you must that I didn’t get a fair deal, not to molest
me, and if any one comes to this city after the reward, to keep me
informed. Is it a bargain?”
“Don’t bother yourself about a country sheriff,” said Kelso, assuming
the responsibility of the whole party, “for it’ll be a very cold day if
them down-easters catch you in this town when you have us at your back;
but of course we can’t do this--”
“Say no more, gentlemen,” said I, interrupting him, and speaking to
them all; “it’s not necessary. I shall rely on this assurance, and I’m
not asking you to work for charity’s sake.”
With that I handed each one of them two hundred dollars, and, bidding
them good night, went down town, feeling that I had invested six
hundred dollars not unwisely from my viewpoint. The next evening I met
Jack McCord and Radford at the parade ground and paid the former four
thousand dollars in large bills and received in exchange my bonds, and
was really glad to get them back at the price. As I was leaving them,
McCord asked me if I objected to telling him the name of the man in the
Cadiz Bank job who escaped with me.
“Most assuredly I do,” was my prompt reply, and I took no pains to
repress the indignation I felt at the mere suggestion of betraying
Hughes. “Do you think I’m a squealer too?”
“We don’t want to send him to prison!” hastily explained Radford. “All
we want is our usual percentage.”
“Well,” said I, the hot blood stinging my cheeks, “I’ll let you fellows
know that I’m no Bill Brockway; and if you find the man you’re after,
it will be on the level so far as I’m concerned.”
I said this in a manner that left no doubt in their minds as to my
sincerity. I also let them know that Brockway’s squealing propensities
were well known to me. I had begun to learn a great deal of the crook’s
life in a very short time, it seemed to me.
“That was a fine hand you played against Billy Matthews,” I went on.
“If you’re going to deal with crooks, I’d advise you to be on the
square, and you’ll succeed better.” At this George Radford looked at me
peculiarly, as though he thought that I knew more than I was telling.
Jack McCord, in an attempt to put himself in as level an attitude as
possible, but failing, said:--
“We fellers have to get at things the best way we can, and, as you must
know, we’re not in the police business for our health.”
Swallowing my disgust, and feeling that I, even I, a bank burglar, was
contaminating myself in the same atmosphere with these treacherous
rascals, I said good night and hurried away, glad to get rid of them.
But I saw them again, and sooner than I had hoped, for I never wanted
to look on their faces after that night. But this feeling wore off in
time.
Billy Matthews sought me out a week later, and said, with considerable
earnestness, that I must meet Jack McCord, who had news for me of the
utmost importance; that I must meet him at the Metropolitan Hotel, and
if he wasn’t there, to wait until he came. Not daring to disregard this
word, which amounted to a command, I went to the hotel, where McCord
appeared a few minutes later. Calling me aside, he whispered, “You’re a
very lucky man, White, and you’ll realize before we get through that
it is a Godsend you came to know us fellers.”
“Why?” I asked; “what’s in the wind? Some one from New Hampshire here?”
“No; but a crook in that Ohio Bank job has squealed on you, and there’s
a Cadiz sheriff in town with a complete description of you and Eddie
Hughes, who escaped with you.”
This was startling though not unexpected news, as I knew that Utley had
no love for me. No doubt he had tried to get further clemency in prison
by squealing on Hughes and me. I asked McCord if there was anything
further he could tell.
“Yes; Utley told the sheriff that the man with Hughes was called
George, but the last name he did not know. He described an overcoat
‘George’ wore that was left in the Scott House in Pittsburg.”
At this I smiled, and McCord wondering why, I told him.
“Again you were in luck,” he went on, “for the next day after the
coat was called for by your friend, a Cadiz sheriff was at the hotel
inquiring for an overcoat with a peculiar-shaped tear in the skirt.”
“It certainly looks as if the trail were getting hot,” said I, not a
little worried. “Where is this sheriff?”
“I don’t know, but Radford has an appointment with him this afternoon.”
“Has he asked you to find me?”
“Not in so many words, but he said we ought to know if there was a
crook in town answering the description given by Utley.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That there wasn’t a man in this city answering such a description, but
that I recognized in Utley’s man a well-known Western crook.”
McCord said he would go with Radford to see the Cadiz sheriff about
four o’clock in the afternoon, and that the trio were to hunt up
Utley’s trunk. When that was accomplished the sheriff would be gotten
out of town not later than the same evening. I was to meet McCord at
the Metropolitan the following morning to learn the result. I was
there, and to say that I wasn’t worried would be far from the truth.
“Well, it worked like a windmill,” laughed McCord. “Where we blew he
went. By the last gust of wind we gave him he was wafted to the depot
in Jersey, and must be pretty near to Ohio by this time.”
I didn’t doubt McCord’s word, though I had no further proof,
consequently I felt much weight lifted from my mind. When he, having
in mind the protection money that I’d paid him, said, “You now can see
what our services to you people are,” I agreed with him and that an
emergency of this kind fully attested to the accuracy of his statement.
“And now,” said McCord, “when Eddie Hughes comes to town, you’d better
advise him to see us.”
“Very well,” I promised, “since you have learned he was my companion,
why, I’ll send him to you if he shows up.”
But Eddie didn’t return to New York for two years. In the meantime I
heard how he escaped the day we were surprised on the hillside. He had
in a most fortunate way run across a small hollow in a thicket where
the dried leaves had piled up as though they had been waiting there for
the purpose they served. Getting into this refuge, surrounded by the
underbrush, Hughes covered himself with leaves and lay there for hours.
The searching party actually tramped over him while beating through
the thicket, but passed him by. Under the cover of darkness he stole
away with his treasure. When he finally appeared in New York the Cadiz
Bank robbery and his connection with it had become swallowed up in the
swirl of more stirring events, the affairs of the grafting police and
civilians having reached a most prosperous period.