PLOTTING AGAINST YOUNG
When Captain Young left Police Headquarters for Maryland, it was
whispered that he’d gone to Albany. This rumor was confused with
another, to the effect that he’d been called South. The conflicting
stories served to make anxious my good friends in the Detective Bureau,
who were bound to give me the best possible information. Detective
Phil. Farley was among the first to hear of the arrest of Shinburn and
our agent, and he hurried to me with the facts, including the different
stories of Young’s sudden disappearance from headquarters. I was at
my Brevoort Stables at 114 Clinton Place, now on the city map as West
Eighth Street, when Farley came. To say that I was excited over the
news would be only half the truth. I knew what sort of a man Captain
John Young was, and that he’d ride roughshod over police associate or
crook, in furthering his selfish pursuit after gain. In my mind there
was no question that he had gone to Albany after requisition papers and
would attempt to play a game of great account to himself. In accordance
with this I sent a messenger to look up ex-Judge Stuart, one of my
retained counsel. Word came back that he was out of town and would not
return until late in the evening. This was disheartening, but as the
judge was a shrewd student of the law and had a good understanding of
the rights of the prisoners in our case, there wasn’t anything else to
do but await his arrival.
It was late in the night when he put in an appearance, but his coming
was the signal for a grand hustling. The judge, upon being acquainted
with the facts as they came to me, said that Young was undoubtedly in a
great hurry to get the prisoners out of town and into the hands of the
Maryland officers, and that, if he succeeded, we would have a hard time
in fighting the game.
“So,” said the judge, “we must get a writ to stay him, and to do that
we must tumble some obliging judge out of bed, no matter what the hour
may be.” I suggested Judge McCunn, my next-door neighbor, ever an
accommodating legal gentleman when a writ was desired on short notice.
“Just the man,” agreed ex-Judge Stuart, “and we’d better get to him
without delay.” I thought so, too.
Judge McCunn was soon found, comfortably reposing in his bed, but
was turned out and enlightened as to what we wanted. With much
good-natured talk about the audacity of some people hammering at a
decent, law-abiding man’s house long after midnight, he issued a writ
of habeas corpus as strong as the law would allow, and we were soon
ready for the next move. In the meantime a letter to Governor Hoffman
at Albany had been given us by Thurlow Weed, another most accommodating
gentleman to those in distress. This letter was in the form of a
command, so to speak, that the governor hear our side of the case, in
the event that the New York police should ask for requisition papers
for Shinburn and our sales agent. Now that we had the material with
which to go to the capital, the next thing was how to get there, for it
was learned that the first train in the morning left too late for us.
“What can be done?” I asked of the judge.
“One thing--get a special train,” was his answer. And a special
train we chartered. Not long after two o’clock in the morning, T. P.
Somerville, a law partner of the judge, was aboard the special,
and, in extraordinarily quick time for those days, was knocking at
Governor Hoffman’s door. He, much to his relief, was informed that
no requisition papers had been applied for, and that, as a matter of
fact, no one from the New York police force had been at the executive
mansion or communicated with the governor in any way. However, Thurlow
Weed’s letter was what we wanted to fix things with the governor, who
effusively promised that requisition papers would not be issued unless
ex-Judge Stuart was afforded an opportunity to present our side of the
case. And we had a right to be heard, legally, for Mr. Somerville had
proof to show the executive that one of the prisoners was in New York
when the New Windsor Bank was robbed. So far we had been successful.
There was another trick that Captain John Young was capable of playing,
and against which we must play winning cards. Prisoners had been
known to be shanghaied out of the state,--practically kidnapped from
the protection of the law,--by him. The formalities of requisition
proceedings had been disregarded as so much useless red tape made to
adorn law books. Young wasn’t the offender in the instance I will cite.
It was Captain John Jourdan.
Eddie McGuire, _alias_ Fairy, Rory Simms, and Dave Bartlett “turned
off” the Bowdoinham Bank, of Maine, in June, 1866, and got something
like eighty thousand dollars in cash and United States five-twenty
bonds. Bartlett hired the team used in the “get-away.” They buried the
loot in a wood, and in the wagon drove forty miles to Portland, where,
scattering, the looters went by rail to New York.
Prior to this the gang had robbed Cooper’s silverware manufacturing
establishment in Waverly Place in New York City, and sold the silver
to a “fence” kept by one Morrison. For some reason, the latter tipped
off Captain Jourdan, who arrested McGuire and the others at the corner
of Hudson and King streets. Fairy pleaded poverty to the captain, and
having turned over to him what silver they had taken, all hands were
released. But there was a string on them. Jourdan forced a promise that
there would be a division made the very first “trick” the gang “turned
off.” Later they did the Maine “trick.” Having given the job a chance
to cool down, Fairy McGuire went to Maine and dug up the treasure, and
he and Bartlett asked me to sell the bonds. I bought them outright,
and, as was my custom, paid the police the usual percentage, which
amounted to forty-two hundred dollars. At the same time I told them
that there was more “rake-off” due them, declining, however, to mention
any names.
“When they get ready, no doubt you’ll hear from them,” I said
reassuringly. Perhaps a week or more had gone by, during which time I
presumed the lads had paid the police the remainder of the “rake-off,”
but it turned out not to be so. Detective Radford came to me with a tip.
“Fairy McGuire and his pals will be pinched to-morrow by Captain
Jourdan,” said he, “and you’d better tell them so. The old man was
promised a ‘rake-off’ on the next job after the silver racket, and
nothing has been doing. You see he knows who did the Bowdoinham
‘trick,’ for a sheriff was down here with the description of the man
that hired the team for the ‘get-away,’ and it fits Dave Bartlett.
Jourdan wouldn’t have known it, only in riding in a Fifth Avenue stage
the other day he saw McGuire, Simms, and Bartlett in the same stage.
They were loaded down with diamonds and heavy gold watch-chains. Worse
than all, they never looked at the old man. He got thinking of what had
been done in the crooked line to buy all this stuff, and the Bowdoinham
job flashes across him. Then came the description of Bartlett from the
Maine sheriff. That settled it. So the gang will be pinched to-morrow
evening.”
I recollected what McGuire had told me about the meeting with Captain
Jourdan in the stage, and at the time I had protested loudly against
the boys’ wearing the diamonds and watches.
“It’s only asking for trouble,” I said, “and what’s the use?”
“Oh, to hell with the cops,” was the separate reply from the trio. I
said no more, but hoped they would be wise. I might have left them to
a big surprise, but after Radford had gone I hastened to McGuire’s
place in Bleecker Street and told him what I had heard, adding that
they would better get out of town on the instant. They laughed at
my warning. The following evening at eight o’clock Captain Jourdan
arrested them, and the next morning soon after daylight he personally
took them to the outskirts of the city and, boarding a train, lodged
them in a Maine jail. Thus were “Fairy” McGuire, Rory Simms, and Dave
Bartlett shanghaied out of New York State by Captain Jourdan, in utter
defiance of the requisition laws.
Knowing what the police had done, I determined that Captain Young
would not have the opportunity to thus take Mark Shinburn and our
sales agent to Maryland, and ex-Judge Stuart said he would assist
me. He procured a writ that would forestall any illegal procedure of
the sort that might be attempted, and had it served on the Police
Commissioners at headquarters. Meanwhile we kept a diligent watch on
the gamesters in Mulberry Street. About the time Mr. Somerville got
back from Albany with good news from that quarter, Captain Young turned
up and with him the news of where he had been. Close on the heels of
these developments, the officials of the New Windsor Bank and their
attorneys, accompanied by Detective Pierson, of Smith, Pierson, and
West’s Agency, of Baltimore, arrived in town. Pierson was a very clever
sleuth and a trusted friend of our advisers at Police Headquarters. He
promptly received a tip from our friends, and therewith ignored Captain
Young. In an exceedingly short time he was in an earnest conversation
with the attorneys of the bank officials, advising them as to the most
efficacious means of recovering the Union Pacific bonds. Pierson had
no difficulty in demonstrating the fiction of John Young’s wonderful
tale of his capture of the bank looters, and immediately there was some
figuring with a view of scaling down his promised reward. Also it was
presently shown to them how the bonds could be returned without the
fabricator’s assistance. They were thoroughly disgusted with the mode
of procedure, and admitted that they had been well duped by Young’s
representations.
The result of Pierson’s mediation was an interview between the bank’s
attorneys and ex-Judge Stuart. Two days later we decided to return the
fifty-three thousand dollars’ worth of Union Pacifics in return for
the recipients’ promise not to prosecute Shinburn and our sales agent.
Captain Young had his reward scaled down to seventeen thousand five
hundred dollars, but felt that he must turn the prisoners over to the
Maryland authorities. He had his reward in hand, and if General Spinola
received any part of it, the information never reached me. Knowing John
Young as I did, I believe the general whistled long and loud ere he got
a finger on the “rake-off.”
These matters being “squared” and the Marylanders ready to start for
home, Captain Young turned the prisoners over to Detective Pierson,
it being lawful in this instance to do so, provided both parties
were agreed. Meanwhile I was apprised of the leaving time of the
Pennsylvania Railroad train that was to take the party to Maryland,
and accordingly the ferry-boat that left the New York slip for the
five o’clock P.M. train, bearing the party, also had me aboard with a
closed carriage and ready for a part I would play. At the landing of
the boat I drove my team to a convenient place close to the ferry-house
and waited. Detective Pierson, with the prisoners handcuffed, and
accompanied by the bankers and lawyers, went to the train in waiting
and boarded it. The time was then ripe for action.
“I’m going to call a halt here, gentlemen,” said Shinburn, “and there’s
mighty little time to waste before this train goes.”
Detective Pierson tried to look solemn, as did the bankers and their
attorneys, and then asked the reason for the protest.
“Simply this--we’re not going with you,” declared Mark.
“Oh, yes, you will; there’s no use crying about it. Sit down!”
commanded Pierson. This made a fine by-play for the passengers.
“I’ll make an outcry,” exclaimed Shinburn, “unless you can show me your
authority.”
Detective Pierson exhibited his shield. Shinburn laughed derisively.
“Where’s your warrant? That’s what I want to see.”
Pierson fished a warrant out of his pocket and held it to Shinburn’s
nose. He thrust it away contemptuously.
“The devil!” he cried; “that’s nothing but a Maryland warrant, and it
doesn’t go in the state of New Jersey. Come, the game is up; take off
these irons, quick!”
“It’s a fact, gentlemen,” said Pierson, turning to the bankers and
attorneys, “that we haven’t anything more than the Maryland warrant.
These men refuse to go with us without requisition papers from the
state of New Jersey. In fact, the prisoners as such in New York are
here no longer prisoners.”
“Call an officer of the Jersey City force,” put in one of the bank’s
attorneys.
“Good day, gentlemen,” said Shinburn, walking swiftly from the car,
followed by the sales agent; “you’ve made a mistake this time.”
No one offered to follow them and of course no one wanted to. Outside
I was waiting with the carriage. In hopped the pair, and at a gallop
we were driven on the ferry-boat. It was the one that brought us
over. Upon it we landed again on the New York shore. In the meantime
I unlocked the irons from the wrists of my companions with a key I
had provided. Within an hour from the time the lads got out of John
Young’s hands, they were back in New York streets, free to go where
they pleased. To them the New Windsor Bank robbery was to pass into the
realm of “has been.” But the outcome of the projected trip of Shinburn
and the sales agent, with the superficial booking for their confinement
in a Maryland prison, was to create a laugh. They were free, and the
bankers had gone home with the one hundred and sixty-five thousand
dollars’ worth of securities that Captain Young had turned over to them
in return for his reward, besides the Union Pacific bonds. With the
possibility of getting nothing out of the two hundred and eighty-one
thousand dollar loot, and returning to Westminster with two hundred
and eighteen thousand dollars, the bankers could well count themselves
lucky. We had to be satisfied with sixty-three thousand dollars, less
the “rake-off” that must be paid to our Police Headquarters friends.
It was a week after the matter had been settled that we decided to
“square” with Mulberry Street, and I advised that Mark had better make
arrangements to meet either Detective McCord or Detective Radford. Mark
hadn’t done this sort of work, leaving it for me to do.
“Try your hand, Mark,” I said, and he did. It was, however, the first
and last time while we worked together. Mark made an appointment
to meet Radford at Chris Connor’s place in Fourteenth Street, near
Broadway, at eight o’clock in the evening, and went there in a cab. He
turned over to Radford sixty-three hundred dollars, the ten per cent
we agreed to give the police. It was in bills, wrapped in brown paper.
Radford put it in his pocket. There was wine bought to celebrate the
settlement, with the result that, nine o’clock coming, Radford had
added not a little to a comfortable “jag” he had acquired before the
meeting. Mark found the detective troublesome and once or twice the
latter was on the point of a quarrel. And, too, he accused Mark of
putting up a job to get him off the force. Of course this was a fancy
of his drink-crazed brain, and, more to protect him than anything else,
Mark suggested that they drive to the Metropolitan Hotel to see Jack
McCord. This seemed to suit Radford. They got in the cab and were soon
whirling down Broadway. At Ninth Street, Radford turned to Mark and,
saying something incoherent, tore the package of money from his pocket
and threw it out of the window. The cab was stopped and Mark ran back
more than a block in search of the money. He heard Radford shout back
in a thick way, “You can’t put up a job on me.” Fortunately Mark’s
activity resulted in recovering the money, though a moment later he
would have been too late. A telegraph messenger boy running across
Broadway had struck the package with his foot and was about to run off
with the prize when Mark snatched it. Hurrying back, no one was there
but cabby, Radford having disappeared through Ninth Street. Mark drove
to his rooms in West Twenty-sixth Street, where he dismissed the cab.
The next day Jack McCord sent for me and with great concern said, “Do
you think Mark would put up a job on me and Radford?”
“What!” I cried, “do you think we’re crazy? Why?”
“Radford came to me last night, declaring Mark had given him money, but
he didn’t know what became of it.”
“I haven’t seen Mark,” said I, “but I’ll guarantee he’s all right.”
“So I’ve believed,” said McCord, “but it’s queer somehow. Perhaps,” he
added, “it’s the result of one of Radford’s drunks. He’s gone, and I’ll
wait until he turns up. In the meantime will you see Shinburn?”
I promised I would, and, accordingly, a few minutes later, Mark had
heard from me Jack McCord’s story. At that he hauled the money from his
pocket and tossed it at me. I looked the surprise I felt.
“I thought you’d settled with Radford?” I said.
“So I did, but the fool threw the dust out of the cab window, and while
I went back after it, he vanished.” Then Mark told me, in detail, all
that happened. It was all made very clear to me. I left him saying I
would make an appointment for him with McCord at the Washington Parade
Ground at the lower end of Fifth Avenue, that evening. Mark was there
and paid McCord the money, who in no gentle language scored Radford for
his drunken escapade.
“You can give me the credit of saving the dust for the duffer,” said
Mark to me subsequently, “for I had to run back nearly two blocks, and
then got it by only a hair.”
But I must return to Captain Young. He had pocketed the seventeen
thousand five hundred dollars, the outcome of his secret trip to
Westminster, and was in a way congratulating himself. Had he not
given his two prisoners, so cleverly captured, over to the Maryland
authorities? Had he not done a great piece of detective work? None
better, the public would think, upon hearing of it, done up with the
right sort of glamour. There was one way to put that touch on, so he
called in the Police Headquarters reporters, who had offices across
Mulberry Street. To them he related the story of his astuteness in
getting a “line” on the looters, adding everything that he could
conjure up to make a glowing yarn, in which he was the central figure.
The newspapers told at great length of the desperate encounter he and
his sleuths had had with the prisoners, who had to be taken at the
pistol point.
“I turned the prisoners over to the Baltimore authorities,” the
newspapers quoted him as saying, “heavily ironed, and they started
south with a clear case against them. They couldn’t escape from long
terms in prison, with the evidence against them.”
It was not until several months later that the dear public awoke to the
cold fact that Chief of Detectives Young’s great capture and brace of
prisoners, which started for Maryland, only reached the Pennsylvania
Railroad depot in Jersey City.
If Young had hugged the belief that he should get away with the reward,
without making a division with Detectives Jim Irving and George Edsel,
he soon came to a truer realization of the situation. Now, they had
made the arrests, for, as I have truly told, Captain Young boldly
stood in the hallway outside of Spinola’s fake brokerage office, safe
from harm, while his tools did the work. Naturally they wanted a fair
part of the reward, though Captain John entertained very different
views on the subject. When Irving and Edsel made their demands, he
firmly defined his position. After many long and heated arguments over
the spoils, not unlike those occurring among crooks, Young consented
to a generous division of his reward. How would the boys like five
hundred each? That certainly was munificent on his part. There was
more argument, in which the language used was not of the choicest, and
finally George Edsel, realizing, like Bobby Bright, that it was now
or never, accepted five hundred and held his peace. Not so with Jim
Irving--made of sterner stuff. Besides, he was financially hungry. Not
a cent would he take, and away he went, vowing he would get even with
so fine a specimen of the swine as John Young.
The police at headquarters whom we regarded as our friends were
known to us as the Bank Ring. This coterie of unfaithful policemen in
the Detective Bureau had long hated Young because of his uncertainty
in handling spoils, because he could not be depended upon to make a
“divvy.” If the opportunity came along in which he could put all in his
pocket, he never failed to do it. The Ring had long wanted to get rid
of him. When Irving told me, with much anger, how he had been treated,
steps were immediately taken to cut off Young’s police career. And when
the change was made, we determined to get a “right” commander at the
head of the Detective Bureau. Accordingly political and other kinds of
wires soon began to hum. And Irving was instructed what his part was to
be.
“Hold out for an even third of the Maryland reward,” I told him, “and
don’t, for anything that is offered you, come down from that position.”
Irving couldn’t see the wisdom of this advice, but was told to go it
blind and wait for the outcome. And he did. It was not for long either;
within forty-eight hours Captain Young was commanded by the Police
Commissioners to divide the reward equally between his associates and
himself. At last the grasping one found himself confronting a strong
game,--a game that was more difficult to play at successfully than had
been the one he had tackled in Maryland. It was put up to him firmly by
the Police Commissioners, that he must divide the seventeen thousand
five hundred dollars, or hand in his shield and resign from the force.
What he did do was just like John Young--he refused to part with
a cent. It was more than he would get in a year’s “rake-off” from
his different mob of grafters, so he clung to the whole reward,
relinquished his shield, packed his grip, and turned his back forever
on 300 Mulberry Street, in the year 1869, and became plain John Young.