THRILLING EVENTS WHICH CROWDED ONE SHORT WEEK OF MY LIFE--HOW I
PROFITED NOTHING FROM ALL THE RISKS I FACED
Not all the crimes the professional criminal commits are carefully
planned in advance. Very often they are committed on the spur of the
moment, when the opportunity to steal some article of value without
detection suddenly presents itself. The habit of wrongdoing becomes so
strongly developed that the thief is unable to resist the temptation
to steal even when he is not in need of money and when there is every
incentive for him to avoid the risk of arrest.
This was exactly what happened to me in Springfield, Mass., one day.
The fact that I was unable to withstand the glittering lure of a tray
full of diamonds proved the starting point of one of the most eventful
weeks of my life.
What happened to me during the week which began with my bold robbery of
a Springfield diamond merchant is as good an example as I can select
from my past career to give point to the lesson I have learned and am
trying to teach--that crime in the long run can never be made to pay.
Just think of it--in the seven days that followed the unlucky moment
when I thrust my hand into that open showcase in Springfield I was
arrested three times, jumped my bail once, and successfully made my
escape from a Boston cell. During all that time I was never free from
fear of arrest--asleep or awake, I would start at the slightest sound,
fearful that it was a detective coming to snap those hateful handcuffs
on my wrists again.
And what did I have to show for all the nervous strain, all the
suffering and hardship I underwent during that week? Worse than nothing
at all. Although I stole cash and valuables amounting to more than
seven thousand dollars, I was penniless when I finally succeeded in
getting back to New York.
A good share of the money had gone to the lawyers. A thousand dollars
of it I had been obliged to leave behind when I made my escape from the
Boston police, and the trayful of diamond rings I had stolen was hidden
in Springfield, where I would not dare show my face for many months.
Even the rings on my own fingers had gone to pay my lawyers' fees and
my bail.
But let me go back to the very beginning and explain just how all these
things came about.
It was when I was on my way back from an unsuccessful bank robbing
expedition to a Canadian town. I was feeling tired, out of sorts and
generally disgusted with myself. "If I ever get back to my home in New
York," I said to myself remorsefully, "I will surely settle down to an
honest life."
But alas for all my good intentions! Just before I reached Springfield
I happened to recall that this was where an old school friend of mine
lived. She was a thoroughly respectable woman, the wife of a hard
working tradesman, and I determined to stop off and surprise her with a
visit.
As luck would have it, I found her house locked, and one of her
neighbors told me that she was away visiting her mother in Worcester.
Knowing no one else in Springfield, there was nothing for me to do but
kill time for two or three hours until another train left for New York.
I was strolling leisurely along one of the main streets as innocent as
one of my babies of any intention of wrongdoing, when I happened to
notice something wrong with my watch. The hands had evidently stuck
together, and it had stopped more than an hour before. Just across the
street I saw a large jewelry store. I walked over there to see about my
watch. It was the noon hour and the store was deserted except for an
old man whom I judged to be the proprietor, and, at his bench far in
the rear, a lone watchmaker.
The proprietor was arranging some trays of diamonds in one of the
showcases when I approached him and stated my errand. He said my
watch could be fixed in two minutes, and started off with it to the
watchmaker's bench. His back was no sooner turned than I took in the
fact that he had neglected to close the sliding door of the showcase.
Inside there, within easy reach of my long arms, were two, three, a
dozen trays of costly diamond rings, brooches, and necklaces.
Forgetting all my recent resolutions and regardless of the
consequences I reached my hand across the showcase and down inside.
It took a powerful stretch of my muscles to reach the nearest of the
trays. But at last my fingers closed securely over its edge, and, with
a skill born of long experience, I drew my arm back and the tray of
rings came with it.
This was an operation that required a good deal of care, because in
my position the tray was not an easy thing to handle without letting
some of its precious contents fall clattering to the floor and give
the alarm. In less time than it takes to tell, however, and before the
proprietor had fairly reached the watchmaker's bench, I had the tray
safely concealed in my handbag.
The proprietor returned with my watch. It was only a trivial matter to
adjust it, he said, and there would be no charge whatever. I thanked
him and hurried out, shaking inwardly for fear he would discover the
absence of the tray of rings before I could lose myself in the streets.
After getting his plunder a thief's first thought is to get it out of
his possession. What he wants is a temporary hiding place--a place
where he can conceal it until whatever outcry the theft may have caused
has had time to die down and he can safely dispose of his booty to
one of the numerous "fences" who are to be found in every large city.
Whenever possible, the prudent thief selects a temporary hiding place
before he actually lays his hands on his plunder, and loses no time in
getting it out of his possession, so that, in case the police arrest
him soon after the robbery, they will find nothing incriminating.
This crime of mine, however, was so entirely unpremeditated that I had
not the faintest idea what I was going to do with my tray of rings
when I walked out of the store. Down the street a few blocks I saw
the railroad station, and this suggested a plan. I would check my bag
there and hide the check in some place where I could easily recover it
whenever the coast was clear.
This was a plan I had often followed with success, and it is a favorite
with thieves even to this day. I saw by the newspapers that the
misguided young man who robbed the New York jewelry firm of $100,000
worth of gems the other day went straight to the Pennsylvania Railroad
Station and checked the suitcase containing the plunder which had
tempted him to his ruin.
By this time all intention of reform had left my mind, and I thought
only of the ways I could use the money the diamonds would bring. The
hurried inspection I had been able to give them placed their value at
fully $3,000.
I walked quickly, but with no outward signs of excitement to the
station, where I locked my handbag and exchanged it for a brass check.
Then I walked out of the station and seated myself on a bench in the
public square. It was the work of only a minute to dig a little cavity
in the gravel under one of the legs of the bench with the pointed heel
of my French boot. A big red-faced policeman was standing uncomfortably
near all the while, but soon he turned his back. I bent over quickly,
placed the check in the little hole I had dug, and quickly covered it
with earth. I continued sitting there for some minutes, making a mental
photograph of the spot so that I would be able to locate it again, even
if I had to wait months.
As I rose and crossed the square to a department store I realized that
I had not acted a bit too quickly, for I overheard some men discussing
the daring robbery of the jewelry store. It had just been discovered,
so they said, and the police were already scouring the city for the
thieves.
I made haste to purchase a satchel very similar in appearance to the
one containing the diamonds. In this I placed a few trinkets and such
things as a woman might naturally carry, and returned to the railroad
station. I checked this satchel just as I had the other, and walked
away--my mind somewhat at rest.
Walking along the main street I encountered a detective who was
convoying a couple of men to the station. The face of one of the men
was familiar, and he recognized me before I could turn away. Using a
store window as a mirror I was able to see that all three had stopped
across the street and were looking at me. I lost no time in getting
away, and the detective, of course, had his hands full. But I knew my
chances of getting out of town were mighty slim, and it was no surprise
an hour later when two detectives confronted me at the station.
"How do you do?" said one; "do you live here?"
"I live in New Haven," I said, rapidly adding a fictitious name and
address. I explained my visit to town, but they were not satisfied and
to the police station I went.
In searching me the detectives held up my satchel check and hurried off
gleefully to the depot, quite certain that they had found the missing
diamonds.
They returned crestfallen, but the captain had an instinct that told
him I had those diamonds and he ordered me locked up over night.
From a neighboring cell the two men arrested earlier in the day called
out:
"Hello, Sophie, how did you get in?"
I did not answer, and pretended not to know them. The police unlocked
my cell door and invited me to come out and meet my friends, hoping, of
course, to learn something.
But I said in a loud voice that I never saw the men before, and that
they must have mistaken me. The two men were good enough to take the
hint at this point that I was in trouble, and soon after I heard one of
them saying that from a distance I looked like Sophie Lyons.
In the morning the police captain reluctantly released me. But he sent
a detective to make sure I got out of town, and he gave me his parting
promise to run me in if I ever came within his reach.
There was nothing for me to do but to take the train and hope to return
some day for the diamonds. I got off at New Haven and sat in the
railroad station pondering ways and means.
My thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Lizzie Saunders, a
woman criminal of no mean ability. From the effusiveness of her welcome
I suspected that she was "broke" and wanted a loan, as, indeed, proved
to be the case.
I hadn't much to spare, and was forced to listen to her schemes. She
told me that the town of Holyoke was a splendid place to pick up money,
as it was crowded with farmers attending a fair.
I was tired and disgusted and wanted to return to New York. Yet I did
not want to go so far from the diamonds, and, foolishly, I listened and
was persuaded.
Arrived at Holyoke we investigated the banks, but saw no chance of
snatching anything. We were both very much in need of raising some
funds right away, and something had to be done.
A sure-enough farmer cashed a large check, counted the money five
times, laid it in a huge wallet, and tied the wallet together with a
piece of string. Then he placed it in the breast pocket of his coat
and marched out. Of course, we followed. Lizzie, who was known as "The
Woman in Black," because she never wore anything else, kept a lookout
while I operated.
The old man was watching the street parade, hands in his trousers
pockets, chin stuck out, and whiskers projecting a foot in front of him.
I reached my hand into his pocket, got a grip on the wallet, and was
about to give the quick snap of the wrist and jostle, which is part of
the pickpocket's technique, when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I
knew instinctively that it was a detective. Quickly thrusting the bulky
wallet back into the old man's pocket, I threw my arms around his neck
and kissed him.
[Illustration: I FELT A HAND ON MY SHOULDER]
"Oh, Uncle Dan!" I cried between the kisses, with which I fairly
smothered the astonished old man; "where in the world did you come
from?"
The old man almost got apoplexy, for I kissed him and hugged him with
a vehemence that made everybody forget the parade. I can remember the
sea of whiskers I dived into.
"Gosh all hemlock, who are you?" he gasped when I let him go. "I ain't
Dan, I'm Abijah."
The detective really believed that I knew Abijah, but he remembered
Lizzie and took her away. I was about to escape when a redfaced woman
arrived and shouted:
"You hussy, what do you mean by hugging my husband?"
The detective hesitated and looked back, but he would have let me go if
Lizzy hadn't been fool enough to call out:
"Sophie, find me a lawyer and get me out of this."
That was enough even for the thick-headed police detective, and he took
us both away. The old man refused to testify against us. He was afraid
he would not be believed and the scandal would get back to his home
town. He was right; it would have.
Arrived at the station, no talk or acting was of the slightest avail,
and the judge next day held us each in $500 bail.
We raised that amount on jewelry, and, of course, "jumped" it and
arrived at Boston together.
I was thoroughly disgusted with Lizzie, but she stuck to me like a
leech, in spite of a dozen tricks that would have rid me of a detective.
At last I succeeded in getting away from her and happened to meet an
all-round knight of the underworld known as "Frisco Farley." Together
we worked the soda fountain trick, which was new then, and which I
will explain in a later article.
In the course of the day we took in considerable profits, which had not
been divided or even counted when we foolishly stepped into a jewelry
store, merely to look at a new-fangled thief-proof showcase.
The first thing I knew, Farley was gone and I was arrested. It seems
Farley had operated in that store a year ago, had been noticed and had
escaped just in time. I was arrested as his accomplice.
On the way to the station what worried me most was the fact that I had
in my pocket a ticket to New York. In Boston, for some reason, a ticket
to New York is looked upon by the police as conclusive evidence of
guilt.
I burst into tears and wailed and sobbed at the shame and humiliation
of my arrest. By concealing the ticket in my handkerchief I managed to
get it into my mouth as I wiped away my tears. Long before we reached
the station house I had chewed up the small piece of pasteboard and
swallowed it.
The story I told had only one weak spot. There was $400 more in my
pocketbook than I thought, and this one discrepancy made them lock me
up.
That night I was placed in a cell with an intoxicated woman. I was able
to send out and get a bottle of whiskey, but not for myself. About
midnight the woman woke up and was glad of a drink. I not only gave her
one, but many, until she was in a stupor and made no protest when I
changed clothes with her.
In those days, in Boston, it was usually the custom to let intoxicated
persons sleep in a cell and then to put them out on the street in the
morning without bringing them to court.
In the morning I pretended to be half sober and protested violently
against being thrown out in the cold. But they pushed me out onto the
sidewalk, much to my outward grief and inward joy.
I borrowed the price of a ticket to New York, leaving my money in the
police station and my jewels at Springfield. Thus a week of hard,
nerve-wrecking work netted me absolutely not one cent, but in reality
the loss of my jewels, my time, and considerable money.