MY PATENT SAFETY SWITCH AND JIM IRVING
I would not have the impression go abroad that I believed the New
York Police Department, as a whole, or even its detective force, at
the period of which I have written, were in league with professional
criminals. Quite the reverse. Though the force had a great many
patrolmen, plenty of commanding officers, and the Detective Bureau had
its Bank Ring, which had for its backing high ranking officers in the
department and tremendous political influences on the outside, all of
whom conspired with the great and small fry thieves, nevertheless I
aver that there were many, many patrolmen, commanding officers, and
detectives, who ever put their honor away above dishonesty, often to
their official undoing. I might mention a number of instances in which
the honest policeman discovered the path of rectitude a mighty tortuous
one to travel, while on the contrary the dishonest one seemed to be
travelling a broad road to wealth and flowery ease. In the former case,
the copper would have to patrol in the outlying districts in midwinter,
with a diligent roundsman constantly on hand to see that the task was
not shirked, as a penance for being honest, while the grafting copper
would be detailed to some easy berth, where his time would be spent
in the waiting room of a hotel or in the banking district, in which
opportunities for stock speculation or connivance with thieves were
thicker than London fog. One class of duty was designated “Goatville,”
the other “Snap.”
It is my purpose to devote a few pages of this chronicle to the
exploitation of what I am pleased to term department politics. At the
period in question--when William M. Tweed bossed New York--this sort
of politics was rampant in every branch of the city government, and in
none was it so conspicuous as in the Police Department. From time to
time it has been told how the craft of the Under World used the police
to advantage in the mad rush of getting something for nothing. Whatever
I have said, or whatever I shall say, may be taken as truth. Coming as
it does to me after many years of divers experiences, I may depart from
some of the minute truths because of a lapse of memory, but I assure my
friends that the main facts are too plainly and too indelibly impressed
upon me to be forgotten while I breathe. In the corrupt bargaining
between the police and the crooks, whatever assistance my associates
and I obtained was well paid for. If the craft did not “settle” with
those who permitted them to rob and go free, it may as well be flatly
stated that one of two courses was pursued. There was the choice: the
penitentiary or Sing Sing prison without “squaring things,” or “settle”
and walk about New York with the freedom of the honest, law-abiding
citizen. But freedom was well paid for--many palms had to be “greased.”
When I came to New York, the partnership of the police with
professional criminals was of the go as you please sort. The fat,
thin, great, small, long, and short hand of the copper was held out
from all sides,--in Mulberry Street, in the police court, on post.
Everywhere protection was being paid for indiscriminately. If one
copper got more from one crook than from another, it was quite likely
to create jealousy, and be certain that the crook got the worst end
of the argument. In this way police protection, always dearly bought,
was ineffective. As a matter of fact, this state of affairs became
exceedingly distasteful to the members of the Under World, and strong
pulls, after several years of hardship, were sought to bring about a
change. Great politicians were appealed to, and by the right kind of
persuasion were forced to take a favorable view of the argument of the
craft.
The long waited for change was brought about by the greed of Captain
John Young, chief of the Detective Bureau, of whose double dealing I
have written in another part of this history. Mark Shinburn and I had
looted the New Windsor Bank in Maryland, and when the covetous coppers
all about Young didn’t get their “rake-off” there was trouble. The
police grafters falling out, thieves began to get their dues--in other
words, the protection for which they paid. With Captain Young out of
the Detective Bureau and out of the force, the time had come for the
Under World to strike. The iron made hot to whiteness must be beaten
into shape, into a switch, into a patent safety switch--something
that would guide us from the crooked road of uncertainty to the broad
thoroughfare of perfect exemption from lawful punishment for all
kinds of crime. So I began looking about for the safety switch. It
was suggested that James Irving, the detective who declined to accept
Captain Young’s paltry offer of five hundred as his share in the New
Windsor Bank reward, would make a first-class man to succeed to the
chieftancy of the Detective Bureau, so I put out a few feelers. My
experience with Irving had been most satisfactory, and so far as I was
able to gather, he’d dealt squarely with all of the high-class members
of my craft. Besides being fearless, he was a handsome chap, with a
splendid front to show on Broadway or in Wall Street, and in a question
of suspicious dealing with crooks wouldn’t be easily suspected of the
offence. It occurred to me that the Detective Bureau plum would be just
the thing for Jim, and at the earliest chance I met him at the Parker
House in Broadway at Thirty-third Street. I told him he would make a
fine figure on the Broadway corners of the Tenderloin, that he could
associate with gamblers without it being suspected that he was doing
other than obtaining information about them for official purposes, and
that he could make Wall Street his frequent resort, where he could deal
in bucket shops, which he ought to prosecute; and in fact, he could be
a whole lot as the head of the Bureau.
Irving was anxious to get the place, but didn’t see how it could be
done, as there were many others with far better chances. I told him to
be patient and lie low.
The question that was uppermost in police circles after John Young’s
hasty exit was, who would be his successor. Many loud-mouthed
politicians, hungry for preferment and crammed full of arguments for
their respective candidates, besieged Police Headquarters and made the
life of the several Police Commissioners a veritable hive of misery.
The latter, who were ruled by politicians most of the time,--the
ward-heeler species,--usually disciplined, transferred, assigned, and
promoted members of the force, at the behest of these threatening,
browbeating fellows. Several days passed and the commissioners hadn’t
selected a head for the Bureau, and, so far as the importuning ones
could fathom, were not anywhere near doing so. But that was no secret
to me. I had gone to Boss Tweed, and told him what I wanted, and that
affairs had gotten to a state where a scandal would be raised if there
wasn’t an attempt to concentrate the graft from crooks in a coterie
of policemen, from which protection could be gotten without a string
to it. I told him that some of the Under World were being goaded to
desperation by the insistent demand of the police for protection money,
and who, after getting it, play the traitor.
“Mr. Tweed,” I said firmly, “some of these fellows will squeal to one
of the societies at Sam Tilden’s heels, and there is likely to be a
storm about your ears that’ll not be relished. It may mean worse than
that.”
“Well, Miles,” said he, “what can I do? You know I don’t interfere with
the affairs of the Police Commissioners unless it’s vitally necessary.”
“It seems to me that you ought to for once, Mr. Tweed,” I said. “Put
Detective Jim Irving at the head of the Detective Bureau, and you’ll
switch the whole business to safety. If not, I can’t say what will
happen.”
“That means making him a captain?” said Tweed.
“That’s it,” I answered; “and he’ll fill the bill in every way.”
“Well, good day, Miles,” said the Boss; “I’ll see what can be done.”
I knew what that meant.
With the captaincy hanging in the tree ready to be plucked, I went
to my friends at Police Headquarters and told them practically what
I’d said to Tweed, and they agreed with me. Having gotten both ends
of the game working, I rested for the outcome, and it wasn’t long
before I had the pleasure of congratulating Captain James Irving. And
in this manner was formed the first real Bank Ring and satisfactory
combine between members of the police force at headquarters and certain
precincts, with the Under World, in which money was to be paid for
protection--the thieves to rob right and left and be allowed to sell
bonds and securities unmolested, upon the payment of a ten per cent
“rake-off.” All the friction which had hitherto annoyed, not only the
members of my profession, but the policemen who were inclined to be on
the “square” with us, disappeared. In this connection I am referring to
high-class men, such as bank burglars, bank sneaks, and big forgers and
the like. The small-fry thief was, naturally, for some time after that,
paying his “bit” to the coppers on post; but these fellows soon got to
squealing on us, and we had them sent up the beautiful Hudson River,
thirty miles, where Sing Sing was their home for such a time as they
could be taught better ways.
The Bank Ring, or the patent safety switch, as you please, soon getting
into excellent working condition, its members began to realize what
they’d lost in the great Lord bond robbery, the Star Insurance Company
and the Royal Insurance Company “tricks,” all of which would have
paid them a fine “rake-off,” but of which they had been deprived by
the methods of Captain Young. Besides these big “tricks,” there were
many others, not quite so important, but a mighty good investment
of government service, in vice-protecting stocks. But the bitterest
medicine of all was the recent New Windsor Bank loot. It pinched the
Bank Ring, even to recall the profits lost to them in that “trick.”
Of those who were the bone and sinew of the combine, and known to me
personally, and who were for the most part on the “level” with me, I
must mention Captain John Jourdan of the Sixth Precinct, afterward
Superintendent of Police, who was frequently spoken of as “The Little
Man”; Detective John McCord, Detective James J. Kelso, subsequently
Superintendent of Police, Detective George Radford, Detective Thomas
Davidson, Detective Joseph Seymour, and Patrolman Michael Conners. I
had many personal dealings with these men and, as I have said, they
usually acted the part they took in good faith. Captain Jourdan was
an officer with an excellent record in the line of duty, though he
did stand high in the friendship of Boss Tweed and held an important
place in the counsels of the Bank Ring. He and Jack McCord were,
practically, the ruling power of the Ring. When Langdon W. Moore
_alias_ Charlie Adams was captured on a Jersey farm along the Delaware
River, it was Captain Jourdan who did it. Moore had robbed the Concord,
Massachusetts, National and Savings Banks, and had hidden three hundred
thousand dollars’ worth of securities under the flooring of one of
his stables. In a midnight search of the farm it was Jourdan who
discovered the securities and returned them to the bank. Again, when
the notorious Fairy McGuire and his gang of crooks were apprehended for
the Bowdoinham Bank robbery in Maine, was it not Captain Jourdan who
furnished the evidence that sent all hands to prison? Not only had he
obtained power in this sort of police work, but, being the protégé of
Bill Tweed, he could command almost anything he wanted. This influence
he acquired through the masterful work he had done for Tweed in the
famous Sixth Precinct,--the station house of which was on Franklin
Street,--in the way of manipulating votes on election day. All together
Captain Jourdan was a mighty handy man to know.
As to Jack McCord, who “pulled” a wonderful stroke with the captain, he
was an astute copper without question--astute in the art of diverting
gold from its legitimate channels into the private conduit leading to
the fat pocket of the Bank Ring. I have been told that he made more
arrests during his long career as a policeman than any other member
of the force at that period. It was with much boastfulness that I
once heard him declare in this fashion: “I never sent but one man to
prison, and then it was the fool’s own fault and not mine. I told him
to stand trial, but he pleaded guilty.”
It is safe to estimate that McCord’s arrests were made purely and
simply for a “shake-down”; indeed, I was told that at least ninety-nine
per cent of them were. He was, let me say, an adept in discovering
grafters of the Under World; in fact showed advanced qualities in this
pursuit. Naturally, new crooks put in an appearance frequently, and it
wasn’t long before Jack learned of it, and then it was his job to see
whether or not something was doing. I have a vivid recollection of his
mode of procedure, and will attempt to demonstrate it as well as I am
able. His headquarters were at the Metropolitan Hotel in Broadway, just
below Houston Street, near Niblo’s Garden, a theatre famous in its day.
A grafter would be told he’d better call on McCord at the hotel, and
then came the meeting. The grafter had to examine a business card, as a
starter.
“Have a card,” Jack would say; “I’m McCord, the Central Office
detective.” I recall his bluff style, for it amused me.
“Glad to know you,” the crook would answer, whether he was or not, and
they would shake hands--just for business, you know.
“And my office hours on week days are from seven P.M. to ten P.M., at
this hotel. Don’t forget the address,” continued the detective.
“I hope I won’t,” the crook would reply, with a smile, not lost on
McCord.
“Of course you won’t forget my address,” repeated Jack, “I wouldn’t, if
I were you. I may be of much service, you know!”
In this manner he made himself acquainted with the new grafters,
and they believed in him, and many of them never regretted the
understanding. If a crook failed to keep his promise, why, McCord was
merciless; no less so was Captain Jourdan. Both were counted as good
friends and bad enemies. In another chapter I’ve referred to these
police officials in a manner to bear out what I say. To me Jim Irving
was as “square” as any crooked copper could be, though I will have
shown, before I complete this history, wherein he displayed a trait of
which I deemed him happily lacking.
With the patent safety switch working splendidly, the crooked
fraternity knew just what to expect from 300 Mulberry Street; knew
that it was, “walk up to the captain’s office and square it--get out
of town and stay out for a while, or run the risk of being railroaded
to Sing Sing prison.” It was a marvel. It gave the inventors and the
promoters the master-key of the situation. Its intricate details
earned golden gain for the Ring and prosperity for the Under World
fraternity. The safety switch was unlimited in its power, it seemed.
With it a subservient Police Board assisted in keeping the per cent
of “rake-off” regulated, and policemen favorable to our pocket-lining
were promoted at its bidding. It did heroic service for many years, and
brought in Standard Oil profits, was proof against honest investigators
who tried hard to break through and put its inventors and promoters in
jeopardy, and was practically the only Ring to pull out of the breakers
so disastrously contrived by Samuel J. Tilden, New York State’s
famous governor and corrupt-ring smasher, and his fellow-reformers.
The Bank Ring was indeed fortunate in escaping the dire consequences
of Mr. Tilden’s efforts to clean out the cesspool of corruption then
underlying the government of New York City.
Those were palmy days, those days of the safety switch, when men
without visible means of support flourished about town like green
bay trees, and certain police officials of 300 Mulberry Street with
“pulls” kept fast horses and elaborate carriages, and dined and wined
themselves and friends at Delmonico’s, and sported diamonds in their
shirt-fronts the size of English walnuts. How well I remember them!
It was all possible while the Under World fraternity was feeding
on the public and the police grafters were taking percentages from
them--the larceny thief and the bank burglar. The legitimate income of
these officials was a mere drop in the ocean in comparison with their
private, illegitimate income,--that ever-flowing golden stream, let
in at the back door of 300 Mulberry Street; that golden stream flowing
from the army of crooks operating in this country from New York Bay to
the Golden Gate, from Hudson Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, not considering
a fat goose occasionally plucked from a foreign shore.
To show to what extent Captain Irving would carry out his part of
the contract with the Under World men I will mention a personal
recollection of the apprehension of Roberts and Gleason for the
colossal Wall Street bond forgeries in the summer of 1873. Nearly a
million dollars was involved in this job. The story not only came to
me from Irving, but I also had it from the lips of Henry C. Allen, the
assistant district attorney who had charge of the case. Captain Irving
had been asked to arrest the forgers, who were said to be in New York.
And what was the result? For three weeks he fed taffy to the district
attorney’s office,--one day saying the fugitives had been seen in New
Orleans, a few days later that they had been traced to Portland on the
Pacific coast; and ere two weeks had passed, clews had been picked up
in about every large city on the map of the United States. While this
sop was being given the district attorney, Roberts and Gleason were in
the city, comfortably living at their homes, or visiting their usual
haunts under the very noses of Captain Irving and his sleuths, who, of
course, didn’t want to find them. One of the men, to my knowledge, was
in a house not more than a stone’s throw from Twenty-first Street and
Seventh Avenue. But that is going more into detail than is necessary.
Of course, Assistant District Attorney Allen became, not only weary,
but disgusted, over this delay, and, half suspecting the reason for
Irving’s inactivity, employed a few Pinkerton detectives. In the
meantime Irving was unconscious of Mr. Allen’s activity. For once the
doings of the agency detectives failed to reach him, and he continued
to make an occasional report to the district attorney’s office. One day
he came in and said: “I’ve located Roberts and Gleason. I think they’re
on the way to Europe. Guess I’ll be able to stop ’em on the arrival of
the ship on the other side.”
“Don’t distress yourself, captain,” said the assistant district
attorney, quietly. There was something in Mr. Allen’s manner that
caused the chief of detectives to cast a searching look at him.
“And why?” asked Irving.
“Because it will be useless,” continued Mr. Allen, with an attempt to
suppress a smile; “Roberts and Gleason have been under arrest in this
city for twelve hours.”
“Oh,” blurted Irving, while his face flushed a deep red and then paled.
I had it from Mr. Allen that the detective chief fairly ran from the
office, and didn’t put in an appearance there for many days. Hitherto
he had been a frequent visitor.
I have given a bird’s-eye view, so to speak, of the Bank Ring or my
patent safety switch, along with which I introduced Captain Irving.
To relate all my personal experiences with the Ring would be too
exhausting, not only to my patient reader, but to myself. It flourished
until Thomas Byrnes became the head of the Detective Bureau, with the
rank of Inspector of Police, when a complete transformation of affairs
took place. Byrnes grasped the headquarters situation with a mighty
grip and administered a crushing blow to the patent safety switch. A
member of the Bank Ring said to me one day, while discussing old times,
“Inspector Byrnes keeps close tabs on us men these days. A few months
ago I took a hundred dollar bill from Walter Brown, a pickpocket, and
within forty-eight hours Byrnes called me in his office and said, ‘Two
days ago you took a hundred from Brown, didn’t you?’ There was no use
denying it, and I owned the corn--I just had to, you know. I knew I
was up against it. Well, he looked at me, and said, without roaring at
me as he does sometimes, ‘Turn that money in the Pension Fund, and if
anything like this happens again, I’ll ask for your shield.’”
It was with this kind of force that Byrnes began his reorganization of
the Detective Bureau. Whether in later years he stood true to those
principles, I do not know. Never in my days, when he was in charge of
the Detective Bureau, did I have knowledge that he was other than
honest. I heard rumors of Wall Street deals, but whether they were
true or not, I can’t say. He had some very influential friends in the
financial district, and I have no doubt they gave him many a hint as to
the lay of the market.
In thus briefly touching upon a period in my life when I depended upon
the police to abet my vigilance in the game of obtaining something for
nothing, I trust I haven’t caused any one a pang of pain or regret.
And so I pause for a while. In a subsequent volume I will, perhaps, go
deeper into my experiences with crooks and their relations with the
police.