CHAPTER XV
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.