SOME DETECTIVES I FOUND USEFUL
After the failure to capture the Corn Exchange Bank treasure, my Police
Headquarters friends were exceedingly anxious that I try to even up
accounts by obtaining the wealth of the United States sub-treasury
vault in New York City. They contended that there were plenty of other
banks in that city, at which I might take a hand, if the sub-treasury
was too hard a nut to crack. I knew that it was, and said so, whereupon
they insisted that I give it a trial.
“No, I will not,” I said; “it’s impossible to break through that wall
of night watchmen employed by the Treasury Department.”
“Well, make a strike at the Bank of America,” said they.
This bank was near the corner of Wall and William streets, and it was
a very sturdy job to contemplate from the start, but I consented to
the second proposition. My first survey of the field disclosed the
fact that there were two watchmen inside the bank, and that they were
there after banking hours. That meant we should be obliged to overcome
them if we captured the game. Besides the brace of pesky watchmen
in the bank, there were half a dozen private watchmen hovering about
the corners of Wall and William streets. While attending to their
respective duties, any one of them might, at an extremely critical
moment to me, pop on the scene and shuffle everything. It was apparent
that I must plan against a stiff game--evident that there must be
a base of operations established near by. With no little trouble I
obtained the lease of a basement in a building in Pine Street, at the
rear of the Bank of America. In this basement there sprang up, one fine
morning, a full-fledged Cuban cigar store. It was a wholesale business,
to be conducted as a blind. Strangely enough, though, money came in
from the venture in a surprising quantity. It proved to be the real
thing. However, we made it our rendezvous.
Having accomplished this, I turned to the important work of getting
a “right” policeman or two on the posts near the bank. This was not
difficult, for I passed the word along, and Patrolman Michael Conners,
one of the Bank Ring, was transferred to the Wall Street post. He was
just the man I wanted, having been faithful to me in a number of jobs.
This fixed to suit me, I turned to the night watchmen end of the plot.
It was like trying to walk through a stone wall. As has been pointed
out, there were two of them in the bank at night, and through the
police I knew these fellows were faithful--no amount of money could
bribe them. Finally, I determined to “stand” up one of them and walk
him into the bank, where I could get to the other. I found this in the
beginning to be a feasible plan from the fact that they made separate
trips to an ice box on the Pine Street end of the bank every night, for
something to eat. I believed that on one of these trips, which occurred
about eleven o’clock, I could capture the watchman. In the meantime,
Patrolman Conners would keep the outside private watchmen well away
from the bank. With my associates carrying the needful tools and others
of us “walking” the captured watchman into the bank, it would be easy
to overcome the other one and work our way into the vault.
I started out on this plan, and among other things kept tabs on the
time the watchmen paid the nightly visits to the ice box. I didn’t like
their actions from the beginning. They were disappointingly irregular
about it. One night one would do the trick and the next night the
other. Once it would be nine o’clock, and again eleven o’clock. This
wouldn’t do at all. Besides this obstacle, Eddie Hughes, the bright
chap who was one of my first associates in crime and who formed one of
the party which “turned off” the Cadiz Bank in Ohio, was terribly along
in his habit of eating morphine. In fact, he was useless to me, and I
had to replace him with Mysterious Jimmy, a young crook recommended
to me by Detective Josh Taggart of Philadelphia. Then, to add to
the trouble, the janitor and his husky wife and big family of boys
were frequently happening around the bank at all hours of the night.
Disgusted in the extreme, I threw up the enterprise.
Thus far, the scheme of my Police Headquarters friends and I had
met with disheartening results. However, they were still anxious to
make another attempt, so I took courage and pressed on. What better
encouragement could a fellow want than to have all the policemen
necessary at one’s beck and call?
It was very evident to me that I must have new material with which
to work, and get it I did. Detective Sergeants Tom Davidson and Joe
Seymour, a pair of Central Office sleuths who had been ward-men in the
First Precinct and knew the Wall Street district from beginning to end,
were detailed on what was called “Wall Street duty.” It is needless
to say that they played an important part in our loot enterprise,
and were, in every meaning of the word, “right,” as I looked at it.
I shall be frank too, and say that, while the first names given them
are correct, the surnames are fictitious. I feel justified in doing
this because of their faithfulness to me throughout our acquaintance.
I will, though, go a step farther and say that the initial letter to
each surname is the correct one. Beyond that I must not venture.
The next bank selected upon which to make an attempt was the St.
Nicholas, and it was through Davidson that I decided to try it. He
had suggested that his friend, a depositor there, might be turned to
our account; that through this friend, who would be innocent of it
all, I might get a chance to watch an unlocking of the vault. Getting
the combination numbers in this manner, we’d surely be able to do the
rest. Davidson was really adept in getting something for nothing, and
wasn’t afraid to use any means to attain his end. His friend, he told
me, had a large account in the St. Nicholas, and was on very familiar
terms with its officials. As a matter of fact, he was permitted the
freedom of the bank. I instructed Tom how to proceed, and he with great
alacrity did so,--indeed, persevering to the extent that I couldn’t
expect anything but success. He looked up his friend and spun him a
great yarn.
“Now,” said Davidson,--and he could tell a story well, as I
recall,--“Seymour and me are on a case of embezzlement by a clerk in a
Wall Street broker’s office, and we’ve got some of the securities back.
The question is, will you help us out?”
“Too glad, if only I can,” was the friend’s answer; “but the thing is
how?”
“Easy, very easy,” replied Davidson; “and in this manner--” Here he
unfolded the scheme. “Pending a hearing in the police court,” he went
on, “Seymour and me must take care of the securities. For reasons I
can’t tell--police reasons, you know--we can’t keep the stuff at Police
Headquarters, yet we must be able to put our hands on it any moment.
Now, can’t you suggest some one who will take temporary charge of the
stuff for us?”
The depositor hesitated. He couldn’t, for his life’s sake, seem to
think of a soul who’d fill Davidson’s bill; but the latter could and
progressed cautiously. His watchword was ever, caution. Should his
request for aid ever in any way be connected, even by suspicion, with
aught that might happen to the St. Nicholas Bank, he wanted to weave
the circumstances so that it would appear as though his friend had
proffered assistance.
“If I knew of a depositor with an account in a Wall Street bank, it
would be just the thing,” said Davidson, as a lead.
“Blast it!” cried the friend at once; “what a blamed fool I am--I can
help you out. I’ve got a strong box at the St. Nicholas Bank; how’ll
that do?”
“Do!” exclaimed Davidson, delightedly, “do, why, it’ll be just the
thing. It couldn’t be better, could it, Joe?”
“Nothing better,” promptly agreed Joe Seymour.
“But won’t it be bothering you too much?” Davidson asked solicitously.
“By no means, no,” enthusiastically returned the friend, and before the
close of banking hours that day, a box of fake securities was safely
stowed away in the St. Nicholas Bank; and thus another step in the loot
plot was taken by my very efficient detective assistants, who were
being paid by the New York City government to protect the lives and
property of its citizens.
A few days later Davidson told his friend he’d want the securities in
court for a few hours the following day. This was done, the object
of the withdrawal and return being to demonstrate the uncertainty of
the demands by the court for the securities. Presently there would
come a very urgent call at the opening of the bank. That apparently
very important demand came a few days later. Quite late one night,
Davidson, having informed himself that his depositor-friend would be
at home, rang the bell and was admitted. With much regret Tom said
the securities must be in court the next morning as soon after ten as
possible.
“It’s routing you out pretty early,” apologized the detective, putting
on a fine tone of regret; “but it’s the last time I’ll have to bother
you, for the confounded case closes for good to-morrow, and I’m blasted
glad of it.”
Of course an apology so deftly put brought out the usual response and
the query as to what the detective wanted his friend to do.
“If you’ll meet me at the Stevens House on lower Broadway and fix me up
again, why--”
“At what hour?” asked his friend.
“Nine-thirty,” said Davidson, “if you can get down so early.”
“I’ll be there promptly,” said the obliging depositor.
“Thanks; and then,” explained Davidson, “we’ll get the securities, and
that’ll end it. I’ve asked a lot of you, my boy, and I’m sorry--hope
I’ll be able to reciprocate sometime.”
He didn’t turn a hair at uttering this last falsehood--the crowning
one of many. The next morning, not long after nine o’clock, Davidson
and I were at the hotel, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our dupe.
We’d reached the critical stage of our plans. The combination numbers
were to be gotten. I was sure of it. Laughingly, a few days prior, I’d
staked my reputation as a burglar against the temperance pledge of
“Silly Billy,” a ne’er-do-well known to the headquarters police. This
lad’s pledge was worthless. He would go before a priest at noonday and
solemnly promise never to tipple again, and within the hour he’d be
tipsy. When called upon to explain why he’d broken his solemn word,
the silly fellow would put up the novel plea that he’d left his pledge
at home in his other trousers’ pocket. I had staked my reputation thus
that I’d get the St. Nicholas Bank combination numbers, if I were put
within ten feet of the vault at the unlocking. This morning Davidson,
through his friend, was to put me there. We hadn’t long to wait, for
the latter came in smilingly, and evidently delighted to befriend
Davidson at any cost. It being the first time I’d set eyes on the
fellow, he came in for a close inspection. I satisfied myself that
he was rather soft, as is said of some men when they appear a trifle
womanish.
“Shake hands with Agent McCantry,” said Davidson, in accord with
our plan. Being thus formally introduced, we shook hands. My new
acquaintance seemed to be wondering what sort of an agent I was, and
Davidson enlightened him.
“He’s a Secret Service detective--a United States official,” he
whispered, first looking around mysteriously, as though careful that no
one should hear him. Then he added, “Don’t say anything about it--it
mustn’t be known he’s in the city--we had to call him in our case.”
I cautiously, but opportunely, displayed an elegant gold Secret Service
shield, which had been given to me by Colonel Whiteley, the chief of
the service. It clinched matters. This shield had done me much good
service on many occasions. After lighting cigars,--my companions,--all
being ready, we went to the St. Nicholas Bank. We arrived there a
trifle too early. The man in charge of the vault hadn’t come in, but
we were admitted to the rear room, where the vault was, Davidson and
his friend in the lead. I got a seat at an angle favorable to my
purpose--I could get an excellent view of the lock. We didn’t have to
wait long, for the employee we were awaiting came in presently, and
our dupe told him Detective Davidson wanted the box of securities. The
unlocking began right away. With a trained eye and a ready perception,
rendered acute by experience because there was much depending upon
them, I took in each turn of the hand at the lock dial. Now it went
forward, now backward, and again forward, while I took careful mental
notes by which to figure out the combination numbers. When the vault
door had been thrown open, I knew I had the number at which the dial
spindle had been placed at the beginning of the unlocking, and where
it had stopped at each reverse. The remainder of the task could be
accomplished outside the bank.
As I saw the great safes through the open vault door, I wondered about
how many days would pass ere I could be the master of all I surveyed
in the vault. How different would be the conditions then. By the time
the box was in Davidson’s hands, I signed him everything was lovely,
and, bidding his friend adieu, we went away. What a dupe the man had
been, but of how much use after all. We walked up Broadway toward the
court-house to Cedar Street, where we turned to Nassau, and from there
we doubled back to our rendezvous.
While we’d been scheming to obtain the combination numbers, a close
watch had been kept on one of the bank’s night watchmen, William Price,
the one upon whom the success of our enterprise much depended. It
was essential that we know his habits; and in fact, we soon had him
well in hand and knew he had at least one bad failing,--he frequently
absented himself from duty and spent an hour, and sometimes two, in a
neighboring saloon. It was ascertained, also, that he was the watchman
who guarded the inside of the bank. That knowledge had been gained
from the vantage of a stairway on the outside of the Stock Exchange
building. One of the landings afforded us an excellent view, through
a rear window on the New Street side, of the interior of the banking
office. This window, we ascertained, was seldom locked. It was our
opportunity.
The day that Davidson got the fake securities from the vault marked
the beginning of the real active work of the anticipated loot. That
evening, under instructions, Tom was in Wall Street, not far from the
bank’s main entrance, ready for business. His part was to hold the
attention of Watchman Price, should the latter return earlier than
usual from his regular visit to the saloon, and Patrolman Mike Conners
was to patrol in front of the bank. With my professional associates
assigned to important posts for my protection, I was to enter the bank
to prove beyond doubt the correctness of my morning’s work in getting
the combination numbers; in other words, I was to try the numbers I’d
figured out from my notes taken in the bank at the unlocking. Detective
Seymour was to take a stand at the corner of Wall and New streets, with
the understanding that he was to tap on the bank’s rear window, in the
event that an over-zealous watchman appeared on the scene.
Thus guarded, I went into the bank and was soon at the coveted
combination lock. It will be sufficient to tell that my watching of the
unlocking had not been in vain; my deductions were correct. I had the
combination perfectly. In less than half an hour I had opened the vault
door, was through, and back in the free air again.
The period in the game had been reached where I must arrange its last
points, and with this knowledge we repaired to the rendezvous to
discuss the next vital move--when to “pull off” the trick. The first
stormy night was agreed upon, provided, however, Patrolman Conners
would be on post. Should it be, unhappily for us, his night off, then
we’d have to await a stormy night when he would be on duty. I wouldn’t
proceed without his good nerve to protect me. Having settled this, I
decided to make up the list of experts who would go into the bank with
me. Tom Mead and Johnny McCann had been in the Bank of America plot,
and, as I’ve said, Eddie Hughes. I wanted the latter badly for the job,
but couldn’t have him, it seemed, so Mysterious Jimmy Lough, Josh
Taggart’s friend, must be taken on. Taggart thought a lot of Jimmy, but
I knew absolutely nothing of him. I took him on speculation, mostly
with a desire to please Taggart. The latter said Jimmy was an extremely
intelligent and active young fellow.
The kind of night we wanted came in a few days. It was in March
of 1875. How well I remember it. The time set for the “trick” was
immediately after the midnight shift of the First Precinct police.
Every man had his set task. Johnny McCann and Mysterious Jimmy were to
capture the night watchman, Price, Detective Davidson was to be at the
head of Wall Street, and Joe Seymour in New Street to sound the alarm
of approaching trouble from that side. I believed I’d planned a master
“trick,” and cannot to this day, despite my best effort, keep down a
feeling of pride. I wish now most earnestly I could altogether rid
myself of such feelings.
The last thing I did, before the start, was to warn Patrolman Conners
to perform his part well, though I felt that he’d not fail me, if man
could succeed. I saw McCann and Mysterious Jimmy go through the New
Street window, and waited for the result. Time enough having been
consumed to capture the watchman, I also entered by the bank window.
The lads hadn’t yet overcome the watchman, but were about ready to.
They’d found him asleep in a bunk. I heard sweet music as I drew near
them. I said music, and I mean it from my point of view; for if snoring
by a night watchman in a bank isn’t the sweetest sort of music to a
burglar, then I don’t know what is. I threw a bull’s-eye flash full
upon the owner of this nasal avalanche of sound, long enough to show
the lads just how the ground lay. There was no doubt that this faithful
night watchman was asleep. Verily the walls seemed to jingle with the
loud sleeping of the bank’s night guard. How kindly, indeed, was fate
flinging wide-open avenues through great difficulties. Not a word, thus
far, had been spoken--of a truth, none was to be spoken under my strict
orders. It was a time for action, not talking. McCann grinned as he
drew near the unconscious man. He would have throttled him to death,
only he knew I wouldn’t countenance such doings. Mysterious Jimmy
looked cute, and when his face was lit up for an instant, I could read
what he would have said, “It’s a pity to wake him.” But Watchman Price
must not be harmed, and he must be awakened, and, according to the
plan, McCann was to be the chief performer in this act. So with a quick
movement he caught the sleeper by the shoulders and dragged him from
the bunk to the floor, while Mysterious Jimmy clicked a handcuff on the
nearest wrist. Then I shut off the light. In the meantime McCann held
the watchman by the throat to allow the placing of the other handcuff.
I stood by, ready for an emergency. All this had been accomplished ere
Price realized what had befallen him. When he did, a fight was on,
though he was no match for my lads. A man taken unawares and in the
dark hasn’t much of a chance with two strong men. However, he succeeded
in getting his mouth open for an instant, and asked, as though he were
in a dream, what was the trouble. It occurred to me that he thought he
was in some bar-room squabble. Then occurred the very worst thing that
could have happened at that moment. Mysterious Jimmy blathered to the
prisoner in direct violation of my express commands.
“Keep still!” he whispered hoarsely, “and we won’t hurt you. We’ve got
to git the dust in this here bank, and if ye holler, it’s all day wit’
ye.”
Now, this gave the watchman the first real knowledge of the situation.
Perhaps, too, he was strengthened by thoughts of duty! Wriggling his
head away from McCann and before Mysterious Jimmy could stifle him, a
yell rang through the bank that must have been heard for two blocks.
It was a lion’s roar! Jimmy stuffed his fist in the man’s throat, but
it was too late--the mischief had been done. The cry had been heard.
Detective Davidson heard it at the top of Wall Street. More, a regular
sergeant of police, out on patrol, rushed up to Davidson and demanded a
reason for the outcry.
“What’s up?” he called; “where did that noise come from?”
“I heard it, too,” answered the detective, innocently enough, “but I
guess it came from the west side of Broadway.” This was exactly the
opposite direction from which it did come.
“I’ll be d----d if it did,” blew the sergeant, as he ran down Wall
Street toward the bank. Davidson followed him--was obliged to for
appearance’ sake.
In the meantime Detective Seymour knew that trouble had broken out, and
a moment later was tapping out a warning on the New Street window for
us. Then he ran to Wall and saw, in the light of the street lamps, the
sergeant, Davidson, and Patrolman Conners coming toward New Street. In
a moment there would be a pursuit.
Realizing that blather-mouthed Jimmy had spoiled the game, we, in the
bank, left the handcuffed watchman and climbed or tumbled out of the
window through which we’d come, and scattering as best we could, made
toward the East River. At the moment of leaving the bank we were almost
in the hands of the police. We did some tall dodging, but it would have
availed us nothing had there been any one in the police party anxious
to catch us but the sergeant. Davidson, Seymour, and Mike Conners had
to appear like honest coppers under the conditions, but favored us as
much as they dared. There were five minutes of lively racing, at the
end of which we had reached cover. Anyway, there wasn’t much chance
for our capture when, out of five policemen, only one was honestly
trying to do police duty.
Ten minutes after the yell of Watchman Price, the neighborhood was
swarming with policemen. When the sergeant and the pursuing party
returned to the bank, the hapless watchman was discovered by his
calls for assistance, and marched out of the bank handcuffed, volubly
trying to explain how he came to be in the predicament. Not one of the
officers had a key that would unlock the cuffs, and it was necessary to
march him thus to the New Street station-house. I cannot but smile, as
I recall that spectacle in Wall Street, the centre of finance,--a night
watchman being escorted to the police station, handcuffed by the very
burglars who made their escape. I trow Detectives Davidson and Seymour
and Patrolman Mike Conners must have had an odd set of thoughts that
early morning in March.
It was too bad that I used Mysterious Jimmy Lough without knowing more
of him. My willingness to oblige Detective Taggart, I have no doubt,
ruined the St. Nicholas Bank job. Yet one can’t have everything coming
one’s way all the time. But Jimmy Lough was a mar-plot!