GOOD DEEDS WHICH CRIMINALS DO AND WHICH SHOW THAT EVEN THE WORST THIEF
IS NEVER WHOLLY BAD
A life of crime is a life of hard work, great risk, and, comparatively
speaking, small pay. Anyone who has followed these articles will agree
at once that whatever the criminal gets out of his existence he pays
very dearly for. Not only is he constantly running great physical
dangers--the risk of being shot or otherwise injured and of being
caught and imprisoned--but many of his most carefully planned criminal
enterprises are doomed to failure and he has only his labor for his
pains.
Quite frequently bank burglars devote as much as three or four months
of hard labor in preparing for an important robbery and, in a large
percentage of cases, they find that, after all their patience and
industry, it is impossible for them to execute the robbery they have so
carefully planned and all their work goes for nought. Sometimes, too,
they are interrupted in their work and have to flee, leaving behind
their kits of valuable tools. Watchmen's bullets are ever threatening
their lives and prison walls constantly loom up before them.
In view of these facts one would imagine that the money which the
professional criminal makes at such great risk and expense and with so
much difficulty would have an enhanced value in his eyes. But this is
not so. Not only is the professional criminal an inveterate gambler,
as I have repeatedly pointed out, but the great majority of them are
generous to a fault.
While this generosity is almost universal in the underworld, those
unfamiliar with the workings of the criminal heart would give it very
little credit for such impulses.
My experience in the underworld has thoroughly convinced me that no
criminal is wholly bad. I know that beneath the rough exterior of many
of the desperate criminals with whom I came in contact beat hearts that
were tender. To-day I shall relate some of the more striking incidents
which come back to me and which illustrate some of the good qualities
possessed by the notorious criminals with whom I associated.
I am reminded of an experience I had with Dan Nugent, the bank burglar.
I may say incidentally that this man Nugent was absolutely fearless
and would resort to any measure, however desperate, to accomplish his
purpose. He was a man to be feared and it was dangerous to cross him.
But that this criminal had some very excellent qualities will appear
from the following incident, now told for the first time.
While in Kansas City I robbed a bank, securing some four thousand
dollars. As I was leaving the bank--it was in the day time--I saw
Nugent going in. Evidently he had planned to rob the bank himself. We
did not speak.
Within a few minutes after my departure the robbery was discovered.
The doors were at once closed and no one was allowed to leave without
first undergoing the scrutiny of the detectives who had been summoned
by telephone. Poor Dan was caught in the trap and his identity being
established he was at once arrested on suspicion of having been
implicated in the robbery, if not the actual perpetrator of it,
although the only evidence against him was the fact of being on the
premises.
Dan was kept in custody for some hours, but at length the police were
compelled to let him go, being unable to strengthen their case against
him.
Later that day I happened to run into him.
"Sophie," he said threateningly, "you owe me two thousand dollars!"
"How do you make that out?" I asked quite innocently, not knowing
to what he was referring. I didn't know then that the robbery I had
committed had been discovered and that Nugent had been arrested for it.
"You got four thousand dollars in the bank this morning," he replied
bitterly, "and I got arrested for it."
He seemed to be in a very ugly frame of mind and I knew he was not a
man to be trifled with. I asked him to step into a café and talk it
over. We entered the back room of a nearby saloon and Nugent ordered
some drinks.
There were various persons seated at other tables in the place, but we
attracted no particular attention. After the waiter had served us and
left the room, Nugent took off his hat, held it across the table as
though he were handing it to me, and beneath the shelter it afforded
pointed a gun at me.
[Illustration: "SOPHIE, IF YOU DON'T HAND ME $2,000, I'LL BLOW YOUR
HEAD OFF"]
"Sophie, if you don't divide up on that job, I will blow your head
off!" he threatened in a low voice.
I admit I was frightened, but I did not lose my head. Instead I began
to cry copiously.
"Dan," I sobbed, "I declare by all I hold holy I didn't get any money
in the bank this morning. I've just gotten out of jail and I'm dead
broke. My poor children need lots of things I can't buy them. I wish
I had got that money at the bank this morning, but I didn't. It must
have been some one else who made a safe get-away, and I think it's
pretty mean of you to treat me this way," and I began to cry more
strenuously than ever.
Dan looked at me a moment searchingly and then, deciding that my grief
was genuine, put up his gun.
"Don't cry, Sophie. I thought you got the money, and I wanted my bit,
that's all. I'm sorry to have scared you. Forget it, old girl, and
cheer up."
Nugent then asked me what the kids at home needed, and I told him
everything I could think of. He took me by the arm and marched me
into a dry goods store and made a number of purchases of the things
he thought the children would want, and gave them to me, along with a
little money for myself. We then parted, Nugent wishing me all kinds of
luck and firmly believing in my fairy tale.
I really ought to have shared the money with Nugent because I had
stolen a march on him in robbing the bank before he got a chance, and
he got into trouble through me. But I knew he had made a big haul in a
bank a month previous, and I was practically without funds, so he could
more easily afford the loss of the two thousand than I could. But, like
most criminals, Nugent had a kind heart, and, when his finer nature was
appealed to, he could not help being noble and generous.
As another illustration of the kindness of heart of some criminals, let
me tell of a letter I received from a world-renowned criminal, whose
name I will not now disclose. This unfortunate man is now serving a
term in a foreign prison for a daring bank robbery in which he was
caught through his anxiety to help a pal--although if he had thought
only of himself he would have been free. I will quote from his letter
to me and you will see the kindness that dwells in his big heart:
"MY DEAR PAL:--Now, I want you to do me a little favor.
Don't send me any money or presents at Christmas, but take the
money that you would use on me, and go out and buy some turkeys
and give them to some of the poor people who live around your
place. It will make them feel good, and it will be a better way to
use the money than to waste it by sending it over to me."
A man who can write such a thoughtful letter as the above and can
sympathize with others in distress is not entirely a bad man, even
though he is a convicted criminal. It is sad, indeed, to think that
such a large hearted man should have to spend most of his days behind
prison bars instead of being at some kind of labor where he could be
of service to mankind and do all the decent things which his kindly
thoughts of others would prompt him to do.
Not because I want to convey the impression that I am better than any
of the other criminals whose exploits I am narrating, but, on the
contrary, because the incident I am about to relate is typical of what
notorious criminals are doing every day, I am going to tell of another
experience in which I figured.
It was when I was in New York. One day, while loitering in a bank
in the vicinity of Broadway and Chambers street, I observed a woman
draw some money. She put it in a handkerchief and then placed the
handkerchief in her pocket. I was in need of money pretty badly just
then and decided to follow the woman and get the money.
After she came out of the bank I got close to her and had no trouble in
taking out the handkerchief and the money. She was walking down toward
the river front and, having started in that direction, too, I had to
continue for a block or so in order not to excite suspicion by turning
back. I walked a little behind the woman, and, when we reached the
middle of the block, she stopped and spoke to me:
"I beg your pardon, madame, but can you tell me where the French line
steamboats dock?"
I directed her to the proper place and we got into conversation. She
told me that she was going home to her mother in France in order to
die there. She had been given up by the doctors here as an incurable
consumptive and had sold all her goods for a few hundred dollars with
which she was to pay her fare and give the rest to her mother. I became
interested in this, for it seemed to me that I had robbed a woman in
distress of her last dollar, and that was something I did not like to
do.
I asked her if she had money besides the amount she drew out of the
bank (she had told me of taking the money from the bank), and she
said that was all she had in the world. I could not think of keeping
her money after that, because, when the poor woman reached the ticket
office and found her money gone and her trip abroad impossible, she
would probably have died of the shock. So I determined to put the money
back in the poor French woman's pocket. I walked along with her to the
ticket office and, while she was talking to the agent, I slipped the
money back in her pocket. She bought her ticket and went aboard the
boat and I felt pleased that I had not kept the money.
That evening I told some of my criminal friends of the transaction, and
several of them seemed disgusted with me because I had not put in some
money of my own along with the small mite the woman had so that she
would be cheered up a bit. They thought it mean of me not to do more
than I did to help along a woman so unfortunate as this sick woman.
On several other occasions I voluntarily returned stolen money to
people when I found out that they were more in need of it than myself.
I stole a satchel from a woman in a bank once and it contained a few
hundred dollars. The next day I discovered in the paper that the woman
was blind and I was referred to as the meanest kind of a thief. When I
learned this I hastened to return the money to the unfortunate woman.
I never could sleep easy if I thought that any really deserving person
suffered from my thieving. I tried to confine my work to people who
could afford to lose their money and would soon forget the affair. A
very poor person who loses the savings of a lifetime never gets over
the shock of his or her loss and it causes real suffering. It didn't
worry me any to make people feel resentful and indignant, but I could
not bear the thought of making anybody unhappy.
I was in Paris many years ago and stopping at one of the most
fashionable hotels in the city. Mrs. Lorillard, the society woman, was
occupying rooms adjoining mine, and I was trying to get her jewelry.
She always carried a great amount of jewelry with her, and I knew the
prize was a good one. She had two maids with her, one of whom had to
keep watch over two satchels in which the jewelry was secreted.
The maids were honest girls and we could not do any business through
them, but we followed the party from place to place expecting that
some time the girl would forget to take proper care of her satchels,
and then our opportunity to steal them would arrive. A few days after
Mrs. Lorillard had settled at this hotel she attended some reception in
Paris and, of course, her jewelry bags had to be taken from the hotel
safe, where they had been placed for safety.
Mrs. Lorillard picked out the particular pieces of jewelry she wanted
to wear at the reception, and closed up the two bags, turning them over
to the maid to place in the safe. The maid came out of the apartment
with the two bags, and I met her in the hall and began to ask her
some trivial question. She stopped to talk with me and laid down the
bags. While I kept her engaged in conversation a comrade of mine
crept up, substituted another bag for one of the jewelry receptacles
and skipped off. I continued to talk a little longer and then the girl
and I parted, she going downstairs to the safe with the two bags, not
suspecting that I had deliberately held her in conversation while my
friend had taken one of the precious bags.
My associate went to another hotel and concealed the jewelry, while I
stayed there in my room, not wishing to attract attention by leaving at
such a critical time, for, after the robbery was discovered, if it had
been found that I had left at the same time it would have been natural
for suspicion to be directed at me.
The following day, when the bags were sent for in order for Mrs.
Lorillard to put back the jewels she had worn at the reception, it was
found that one of the bags was missing and there was great excitement.
Detectives by the score were sent for and the whole hotel was searched
top and bottom for a clew.
That evening, after I had retired, I heard a woman sobbing in the
adjoining room, and, as the sobs continued for some time, I knocked
and asked if I could be of assistance to her. She opened the door and
invited me into her room. It was Mrs. Lorillard. She told me of the
robbery and said that it was not the jewelry she worried about but the
loss of a picture of her dead child which was very dear to her. She
thought more of the picture than the jewels and her grief over its
disappearance was pathetic. I consoled her as best I could, and told
her I had had some experience as a detective and thought I could secure
the return of the picture without any trouble, especially as it was
not valuable to the thieves. The following day I took back the picture
to the woman and she was overjoyed at its return. After remaining in
the hotel long enough not to excite suspicion by my departure, I left
to meet my pals and divide the proceeds of the job. The jewels we had
taken were the best in the Lorillard collection, and each one of the
party made a good profit on the transaction. A number of years after
this event Mrs. Lorillard committed suicide, which was induced by a
spell of melancholy, brought on probably by thoughts of her dead boy,
whom she dearly loved.
I have already mentioned how Langdon W. Moore, the notorious bank
burglar, whose activities in New England made him more feared
throughout that section than any other criminal who ever operated, once
frustrated an attempt to rob a bank at Francetown, New Hampshire, after
having consented to participate in it, because the bank was located
near his own birthplace and he did not feel like robbing his parents'
old neighbors.
This man Langdon, like many other criminals of the same caliber, made
it a rule of his life never to use violence. Frequently he abandoned a
contemplated criminal enterprise upon which he had spent months of hard
work because he found that he could not carry out his original plan
without injuring a watchman or other person.
Of course, when hard pressed it was sometimes necessary for Langdon to
fight his way to liberty, in such cases he always made reparation to
the injured man as far as lay in his power. On one occasion, when he
had fractured the skull of an officer who had sought to capture him, he
caused $2,500 in cash to be sent to the injured man.
Other criminals frequently exhibit similar noble qualities.
Loyalty to his comrades is another trait found in almost every
professional criminal. "Honor among thieves" is a phrase commonly used,
but few realize upon what a strong foundation it rests. I know of
innumerable instances where criminals risked their own liberty and even
their lives in order to assist a comrade in danger.
Mark Shinburn, the noted bank burglar, once displayed bravery
and loyalty of a character which is seldom excelled even on the
battlefield. He had participated with Eddie Quinn and a third bank
burglar in the robbery of a Western bank. Just as the three were
leaving the bank the watchman appeared upon the scene. There was
nothing to do but run. The watchman opened fire. Quinn dropped. Without
a moment's hesitation Shinburn stopped in his flight, although the
watchman was close upon them, and, lifting his fallen comrade to his
broad shoulders, continued his flight at reduced speed.
Shinburn was a very powerful fellow and even with his wounded comrade
on his shoulders he was able to outrun the watchman. He soon caught up
with the third man of the party and they made for the woods. When they
lowered Quinn to the ground they found that he was dying. The burglar
had only a few minutes to live. Quinn was conscious and begged his
comrades to get a priest to administer the last rites, realizing that
his end was near.
The two men with him knew it was impossible to get a priest, but they
wanted to make the last moments of Quinn's life as happy as possible.
To leave the woods at this time, however, was to invite capture,
for the watchman had undoubtedly aroused the neighborhood and the
woods would naturally be the first place searched for the fugitives.
Nevertheless Shinburn decided to take a chance and left the dying
man to comply with his last wish. He knew that it would be almost
impossible to get a priest, but he broke into a furnishing store on the
outskirts of the woods and went back to his dying comrade wearing a
costume very much like that of a priest.
The approaching hand of death had dimmed the dying burglar's sight and
he had no suspicion that the "priest" was his big-hearted comrade. In
a slow, solemn tone Shinburn spoke words of encouragement to his dying
friend, and the unfortunate man passed away, comforted by what he
thought were the sacred words of a priest.
But instances of noble deeds among criminals whose souls are generally
believed to be wholly black might be narrated without end. These men
and women who declare war against society only to find that CRIME DOES
NOT PAY are not without their redeeming qualities.
Their evil deeds are published far and wide, but the good that they do
seldom comes to light.
SOPHIE LYONS.
AN INTERVIEW WITH SOPHIE LYONS
FORMER QUEEN OF CRIMINALS, WHO ANNOUNCES THAT SHE WILL DEVOTE THE REST
OF HER LIFE AND HER FORTUNE OF $500,000 TO SAVING FIRST OFFENDERS.
Sophie Lyons has turned reformer.
With the mellowing influence of years, she is now 66, the erstwhile
queen of women criminals has decided that crime does not pay and
intends to devote her fortune and remaining days to saving others from
paths that have been hers.
Her new resolution, she says, probably will alienate her husband,
"Billy" Burke, who recently completed a prison term in Stockholm,
Sweden. "I want to accomplish his reformation more than I do any
other person's, no matter what the cost," she declared. "He is weak
and easily tempted, and his criminal operations were not induced by
necessity, as were mine. If my plans will help to make him a good man I
shall feel they are not in vain."
In her modest little home Mrs. Lyons-Burke, who for 40 years was known
intimately to the police of two continents and whose acquaintance
with the interior of jails and prisons is world-wide, outlined to a
representative her plans for the redemption of criminals.
"I haven't a great many years to live and I am worth half a million
dollars," Mrs. Burke said. "I want to make amends as far as possible
for what I have done in the past. I have lived a straight life for 25
years, and have accumulated much property by legitimate means. But
there is something I crave more than money. Do you know what that is?
It is the respect of good people. Maybe I can get some of this by
showing that I am not all bad and that I am sincere in my effort to
help others."
Great tears coursed down Mrs. Burke's face as she told of recent
efforts to obtain the good-will and friendship of persons whose
respectability is unquestioned. One of these is a pastor of a Detroit
church, who, she said, had urged her to talk to his congregation on
the futility of a life of crime. She declined, feeling that she had no
right to intrude herself among church people.
In her scheme for the saving of criminals, Mrs. Burke said that she
intends to pay particular attention to first offenders and will
exert every effort to prevail upon them to return to a life of
respectability. "You know how hard it is for a man or woman to secure
permanent work after leaving prison? I am going to help some of these.
They will find a friend in Sophie Lyons."
Mrs. Burke said that she was considering an offer from a vaudeville
booking concern to give 20-minute talks from the stage. "Do you think
this would be a good idea?" she inquired eagerly. "I have had the same
proposition from a lyceum lecture bureau, but I believe I can better
reach those I want to reach in the theaters. If I decide to go on the
stage every cent of the money I get will go to carry out my plans for
reformation and to charity."
That she has an ambition to accomplish much good and to die poor, was
Mrs. Burke's declaration. "My children are grown and self-supporting,
and all my money and real estate will go to save criminals and to
other charities," she said. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children was mentioned by Mrs. Burke as being one of her favorite
charities. "I am doing something for this organization right along,"
she said, "and I expect to leave it a substantial bequest."
SOPHIE LYONS AIDS EVICTED FAMILY
REFORMED CONFIDENCE WOMAN TAKES IN WHEELERS, WHO LIVED IN TENT
VERSES IN JEWISH BIBLE INFLUENCE HER TO ACTION--WANTS TO SHOW CHARITY
Mrs. Sophie Lyons-Burke was reading a Jewish prayer book in her home
at 42 Twenty-third Street yesterday afternoon. She had just completed
the following, which is a prayer for joyful occasions, when she had a
visitor:
"Thou, O God, hast always been gracious unto me and hast often
sent me joys even when I least deserved them. For all this
abundance of Thy goodness I humbly thank Thee, and for the new
happiness that comes to me (and my household) my soul is filled
with gratitude. Let me not grow overbearing in prosperity nor
arrogant because of my success, but let me enjoy Thy blessings
with becoming gratitude and humility. Nor let me ever forget that
the most acceptable thank-offering is to bring light and joy to
those that sit in darkness and affliction, and give heed to the
hungry and comfort the broken-hearted. May I, by doing what is
pleasing to Thee, continue to find grace and favor in Thy sight."
Everybody knows Sophie Lyons. They know about her past and about her
present husband, who got into a Swedish prison through a little affair
over diamonds, causing Sophie to cross the sea to cheer him up. They
know of her utterance that a husband should be allowed an affinity
now and then to add to the zest of his life, but in this instance
she appears in a different light. Long ago she "squared it" with the
police. Now she is evidently trying to "square it" with a higher
authority. And this connects the prayer with the visitor.
The man who rapped on her door was A. H. Jones, inspector for the city
poor commission. He was weary and almost discouraged, having been out
since early morning looking for a home for the Wheelers. The Wheelers,
husband, wife and six children, had been evicted from their residence
at 92 Calahan Street Monday, the owner desiring to sell and not to rent
the place. From then on they lived in a tent-like structure in a vacant
lot alongside the house they had inhabited.
"You own a cottage at 51 Twenty-third Street?" asked Mr. Jones.
"Yes," was the reply; "but it is rented, I guess. Anyway, a man has
agreed to take it."
Then followed the recital of the troubles of the Wheelers, the attempts
of the city agent to find shelter, the offer of $10 a month for the
barn and the failure because of the children.
Mrs. Burke thought for a moment. Then she smiled:
"See here what I was reading," she said. "'The most acceptable
thank-offering is to bring light and joy to that sit in darkness.' You
may put that family in that house. It has been remodeled, and is just
about new. It has seven rooms and a bathroom, and will be all right, I
guess. I will tell you why I am doing this.
"If I have all the world and have not charity I can never enter the
gates of heaven."
The Wheelers moved to-day. Their furniture was all arranged about the
tent, so there was no taking up of carpets or anything like that,
loading into a van being all that was necessary. If it rains to-night,
the man, incapacitated from work, won't lie awake and shiver and wonder
how long it will take the downpour to soak through his shelter. He and
his will be safe beneath a roof, a roof belonging to Sophie Lyons-Burke.
SOPHIE LYONS RETURNS
"CONFIDENCE QUEEN" ENDS HER TWENTIETH TOUR OF THE WORLD
Sophie Lyons, once called the "cleverest crook in the world" and the
Confidence Queen, arrived recently in the first cabin of the French
liner _La Lorraine_, attired in the latest Parisian style of dress for
an elderly woman, several trunks and a jewel case that the customs
men made her open, unwilling to take her word that there was nothing
dutiable in it.
Sophie is worth a half million, she says, and she has been for the last
several years living "on the level" and looking over the world from the
viewpoint of one who has or believes she has a taste for literature.
Her trip on _Lorraine_ was the end, she said, of her twentieth tour of
the world.
The customs men who insisted on the opening of the jewel case, made
fast by a padlock, were surprised to find nothing in it except a Jewish
prayer book. One of the prayers that Sophie had marked ran thus:
"Thou, O Lord, hast always been gracious to me, and hast often sent
me joys when I did least deserve them. For all this abundance of Thy
goodness I humbly thank thee."
Sophie said she was a Jewess, despite her name, which is supplemented
legitimately by Burke, Christian name Billy, who is in a Swedish
prison. Sophie admitted yesterday that she was 65, but the records give
her a few more years. She looks younger. She said she had spent the
last seven months in leisurely circling the globe, and that she was
engaged in writing another book to be called "Crime Queen," which would
be in a measure autobiographical.
Sophie is the daughter of a Holland Jew named Van Elkan, she says, and
her grandfather was a rabbi.