CHAPTER III

HOW THE CRIME WAS HANDLED BY THE POLICE—THE CONFESSIONS

Now begins some of the most interesting work connected with the taxicab case—the examination of the first prisoners, which led to confessions, the implication of other guilty persons not yet under arrest, and the voluntary pleas of guilty in court which saved costly trials in all but Montani’s case.

This sort of work is familiar under the term of “third degree.” It is popularly supposed to be accompanied by force and sometimes brutality—and in wrong hands often is. Commissioner Dougherty’s experience with a commercial detective agency, however, has led him to develop intelligent methods. The commercial detective organization has none of the authority of an official police force, and at the same time, through its national operations and the general character of its work, deals chiefly with the most accomplished criminals. Therefore, tact and legal subtilty are depended upon in examining suspects, and the Commissioner long ago learned to get his results mainly by straight question and answer. He puts his own wits against those of the suspect, backed by experience in many other cases. He has a practical grasp of criminal psychology, as well as many ingenious ways of using evidence to the best purpose, overwhelming the suspect, and breaking down stolidity and deception. Dougherty is not only opposed to force in the “third degree,” but knows that it is of absolutely no use.

The first prisoner examined was Eddie Kinsman.

When he was brought to Police Headquarters Kinsman appeared to be thoroughly satisfied with himself, and confident that no policeman would get anything out of _him_. He proved to be a good-looking young fellow, of athletic build, and by no means a fool.

Methods of examination are never twice alike, for they depend upon the case and the suspect. As a rule, however, when the criminal first sits down to answer Commissioner Dougherty he is astonished by that gentleman’s apparent lack of guile, and ignorance of worldly knowledge. When Dougherty composes himself for an inquiry, he is rather a heavy-looking citizen, not unlike a country magistrate, and his first questions, put for the purpose of determining the suspect’s character and previous surroundings, usually relate to bald routine matters, such as name, age, residence, education, family, and so on.

“Gee!” thinks the suspect, “This guy is the biggest lobster I ever got up against! I wonder how he ever got to be a police commissioner. He must have a strong political pull.”

Kinsman was ushered into a large, quiet office, where this bureaucratic official began by asking his name, birthplace and other details.

“Will you kindly stand up a minute while I get your height?” asked the questioner, and Kinsman did so in a patronizing way. Then the dull-looking gentleman turned back Kinsman’s coat and looked at the little label sewed in the inside pocket.

“I see that you have been in Chicago recently,” he observed. “This suit was made by a tailor there. You ordered it February 17th, two days after the robbery.”

He looked into Kinsman’s hat.

“That was bought in Chicago, too.”

He examined the label on Kinsman’s tie.

“This was also bought in Chicago.”

He turned up the label at the back of the neck of the new silk underclothes worn by the prisoner.

“Those were bought in State street, Chicago, and from a very good store, too—I know it well.”

Kinsman now began to be pugnacious and defiant.

“See here!” he said, “You must take me for a boob.”

“Yes, I think you are a boob,” replied the Commissioner. “You might as well have made your getaway with a brass band as to take Swede Annie with you to Albany, attracting attention all the way, and then send her back to New York with a hundred dollars to tell the police where you had gone.”

Suddenly Lieutenant Riley, personal aide, walked into the Commissioner’s office carrying a cheap article of millinery—a shabby black velvet hat with a row of little red roses across the front. Commissioner Dougherty apparently grew very angry.

“What do you mean by bringing that thing in here now?” he exclaimed. “I am not ready for that—take it away.”

This “shot” had been previously arranged, of course, but Riley pretended to be injured when called by his superior.

“Cripes!” exclaimed Kinsman. “Annie’s old hat. How did you get that so quick?”

“Oh, that is only one thing we’ve got on you,” replied the Commissioner. “We know that you went to Peekskill in a taxicab with Annie and Splaine on the afternoon of the robbery. We know that you took Train 13 to Albany, and where you stopped that night, and where you bought Annie’s new hat, and how much you paid for it, and what train you took to Chicago Friday noon. Suppose you tell me something more about your movements?”

Kinsman became scornful.

“If you know all that,” he said, “maybe you know more about where I went and what I did than I do myself. So what would be the use of me telling _you_ anything?”

While certain people were being found outside, the Commissioner worked upon the prisoner along another line. Enough of Kinsman’s personality was now disclosed to show that he was vain and egotistical. This side of his nature was therefore fed with flattery. He was assured that the taxicab robbery had been a wonderful “stick-up.” Everybody in New York had been astonished. The whole country was talking about it, and about him. He must be an awfully bright, cunning fellow to have planned and carried out such a piece of crime.

Kinsman warmed up genially under this admiration, and seemed to be more confident than ever that so shrewd a young man as himself would have little difficulty in fooling the police.

But presently self-satisfaction was subjected to shock after shock.

Detectives were bringing in Montani, Myrtle Hoyt, Rose Levy, Mrs. Sullivan, the landlady with whom Kinsman had lived, and her housekeeper. Jess Albrazzo was under arrest. Kinsman’s brother was there for examination, and Inspector Hughes and Lieutenant Riley were bringing in startling intelligence every few minutes.

The housekeeper was ushered in, and told how Kinsman had given her five dollars from a huge roll of bills before leaving for Peekskill.

Commissioner Waldo came in and sat while Mrs. Sullivan told what she knew about her late lodger.

Kinsman’s brother gave information about the former’s movements from the time he had arrived in Boston until he brought him to New York to have a good time, and Kinsman knew that at the home of his parents in Boston the police would surely find money in the original wrappers of the bank.

The prisoner was put under pressure to explain how a man like himself, known to be working as a waiter in a cheap resort, could suddenly have come into possession of such sums. Statements from the women in the case had been secured, and were produced, and finally Kinsman was brought to detailed admissions, one by one. He agreed that it was true he had gone to Peekskill in a taxicab with Annie and Splaine, that he had gone to Albany, had bought Annie a hat there, had gone to Chicago, and so forth. Opportunities were given him to see Montani and Jess, under arrest. Nothing but the truth was told him, yet by degrees he was led to see himself surrounded on all sides by evidence and confessing accomplices. At last he broke down completely, his vain self-confidence destroyed, and made a detailed confession.

Kinsman’s story brought up fresh circumstances and new actors in the taxicab case.

He told how he had come to New York nine months before, to have a good time and make money, and how, after going penniless and hungry, and getting a few dollars for taking part in a boxing match, he had become a waiter at the “Nutshell Café.” There he soon made the acquaintance of criminals, meeting Gene Splaine, “Dutch” Keller, “Joe the Kid,” “Scotty the Lamb” and other characters who were afterward to assist in the taxi robbery. There he also met “Swede Annie” and became her sweetheart, and finally, Jess Albrazzo, a dark little Italian who seemed to exert marked influence over all the others. It was from Jess that Kinsman first heard about the plan to rob a taxicab carrying money to a bank. This “swell job” was discussed, and Jess told him he had a friend named Montani who carried the bank’s cash, and would cooperate in stealing it. The job would be easy, because Montani would run the cab through a side street, and the only guard was an old man and a boy, neither of them armed.

One Sunday night, two weeks before the crime, Jess took Kinsman and other accomplices over the route, after all had drunk themselves into optimistic mood, and pointed out the bank from which the money was drawn, the streets through which Montani would run, the place where the gang could board the cab, and the point at which they could leave it and escape uptown. Details were discussed. There was a difference of opinion as to methods, and the plotters parted that night with the understanding that each would submit his own ideas of how the robbery could be most effectively and safely carried out. Eventually there was a definite agreement as to boarding the cab, preventing an outcry, making the getaway and splitting up the money.

According to Montani’s information, the bank messengers usually carried between $75,000 and $100,000. When the day for the robbery had been set, word suddenly came that there would not be so large a sum. This was disappointing, but the gang decided to put their project through, nevertheless. Kinsman was busy at the café, where he worked until four o’clock on the morning of February 15, and “Dutch” called for him several times, asking if he was going to “lay down on the job.” Finally Kinsman got away, went to a room in a lodging house taken by “Dutch,” and found the gang all there smoking and drinking. At five o’clock they all went to sleep. At eight everybody was awakened. “Dutch” and Splaine took blackjacks, and offered Kinsman a revolver, which he refused, saying he could take care of himself with his hands, being a boxer. There were six in the party—Kinsman, “Dutch,” Splaine, “Joe the Kid,” Jess and “Scotty the Lamb,” whose part was to stumble in front of Montani’s cab at the place selected for the boarding, and thus give the chauffeur a colorable reason for slackening speed if eye-witnesses afterward called his honesty into question. The gang had breakfast in a cheap restaurant, stopped for a drink at the saloon of “Jimmie the Push” in Thompson street, where the booty was to be divided, and proceeded downtown, after parting with Jess. The latter was the organizer, and took no part in the robbery; as he explained, he was known as a friend of Montani’s, and wanted to arrange so that he could prove an alibi if suspected, proving that he had not been near the scene of the crime when it was committed.

At that saloon they had met a trio of Italian criminals known as the “Three Brigands,” who said they were not to take part in the robbery, but would be on hand to see that it was vigorously put through.

Arrived upon the ground, at Church street and Trinity Place, Splaine and Kinsman waited on the west side of the thoroughfare, while “Dutch” and “Joe the Kid” stood on the opposite side. “Scotty the Lamb” posted himself fifty feet off.

As Montani’s cab came speeding along, “Dutch” raised his hat as a signal. “Scotty the Lamb” did not have time to step in front of the vehicle before it slackened, and the robbers were aboard. “Dutch” opened one door and struck the old bank teller, Wilbur Smith, and “Joe the Kid” boosted Splaine in on the other side, where he assaulted young Wardle. Kinsman mounted the seat beside Montani, and the latter put on full speed, telling Kinsman to point his finger at his side as though he had a revolver. The cab slipped past trucks and dodged pedestrians. Kinsman said he seemed to see policemen everywhere, and was dazed when the vehicle stopped at Park Place and Church street. All the criminals got off there, “Dutch” lugging the brown bag containing the money. Splaine and “Dutch” were both covered with the bank guards’ blood. Taking Kinsman, they jumped aboard a street car. It was crowded. Several passengers noticed the bloody men, but were told that there had been a fight, and the occurrence was not reported to the police. After riding two or three blocks they got off, boarded an elevated train, rode to Bleeker street, and went to a back room in “Jimmie the Push’s” saloon, where the money was to be divided. Here they found Jess and the “Three Brigands,” and the latter now set up a claim for a share in the booty. Matteo, leader of the trio, pulled out a revolver, and there was a discussion. Finally the bag was opened, and found to contain $25,000. There were three packages of $5,000 each and one of $10,000. Matteo grabbed the latter package, saying that his gang was to get $3,000 apiece, and that the odd $1,000 would go for “fall money” to get Molloy out of jail in Brooklyn. The robbers then divided the remainder, Jess taking $3,000 for himself and another $3,000 for Montani, Splaine getting $3,000, Kinsman $2,750, “Joe the Kid” $250 and “Scotty the Lamb” nothing. Kinsman then told how he had called for Swede Annie, and left town in a taxicab, going as far as Peekskill, to avoid the police at the Grand Central Station.

_Jess Confesses and Assists_

The next prisoner examined was Jess Albrazzo, a dark little Italian, who appeared to be somewhat ignorant.

In this examination the Commissioner had ample outside proof, and he also employed what he calls his “psychological study.” Years ago, in dealing with negro suspects in Southern crime, Dougherty devised a little instrument which he dubbed his “lie watch.” This was a dial with a needle, hung round the suspect’s neck. If the latter told the truth, the needle presumably pointed to “Truth,” and if he didn’t, it pointed to “Lie.” Being out of the suspect’s sight, it had a strong effect.

From that, Dougherty went into studies of the mental states of suspects under examination, and found rough physiological indications which he uses as a guide to the integrity of the suspect. Investigations of European criminal experts like Professor Hans Gross amply demonstrate that there is a real scientific basis for such methods.

Dougherty took it a little easier with Jess. They sat down, and the Commissioner went over the Italian’s movements for the past few months, showing him how thoroughly he was implicated. Jess had worked for Montani, and been intimate with the rest of the taxicab “mob.” He and Montani were confronted with each other, and points brought out in Kinsman’s confession were skillfully used.

At one point in this examination the Commissioner rose from his desk, took the lobe of Jess’s ear between his thumb and finger, pinched it slightly, looked at the ear closely, and then walked out of the room.

Jess was all on edge with curiosity.

“Why did he pinch my ear?” he asked of Lieutenant Riley.

“To see if you are telling the truth,” was the answer, and in a moment the Commissioner came back and examined that ear again.

“Yes, he’s lying,” he declared. “Look at his ear—can’t you see it yourself?” Others were invited to look at Jess’s ear, and the little Italian became so curious that he actually tried to look around the side of his skull and see his own ear!

This psychological study was backed up with abundant proof that Jess had not told the whole truth. Presently he weakened and confessed. He told how he had handed $2,000 in a collar box to “Jimmie the Push” on the day of the robbery, which was to be taken to a Bowery bank and put in a safe-deposit vault for Montani. He agreed to accompany the police to Jimmie’s place in Thompson street, and late that evening a party made up of Commissioner Dougherty, Inspector Hughes and Lieutenant Riley went there, taking Jess along.

“Jimmie the Push’s” place is one of the most picturesque thieves’ resorts in lower New York.

“Typical of the old village,” as Dougherty puts it. “In fact, this whole case has a strong flavor of the little old village of New York.”

Jimmie was out when they got there, but this saloon was in charge of the biggest, swarthiest Italian bartender in town, a tough Hercules weighing somewhere around three hundred pounds. The room was crowded with motley characters, drinking beverages known to the neighborhood as “shocks” and “high hats.” For their edification, a tramp magician was taking coins out of his ears, his nose and the air.

Jess was not known to be under arrest, and immediately sent a boy called “Reddy” to fetch the proprietor, who had known the three police officers for years. Presently Reddy came back and said that Jimmie would come in about half an hour, as he was playing cards and had a fine hand.

Reddy was sent back to impress upon Jimmie that Jess wanted to see him right away—it was very important. In about two minutes, just as the Commissioner had bought a “high hat” for everybody in his party, Jimmie appeared. He was told that Jess had got into trouble in connection with the taxicab robbery, and asked about the money in the safe deposit vault. “Jimmie the Push,” with his partner, Bob Deilio, had by this time been implicated themselves, for it was clear that the money had been divided in their resort, and that probably they had taken part in the planning, and the decidedly one-sided division of the spoils. Jimmie was led to believe that he did not rest under suspicion, however, and that he was only asked to aid the police. He said Jess had handed him a collar box on the day of the robbery, asking him to put it in a vault in his own name, but that he had had no idea what the box contained, and had left it lying behind the bar for a couple of days before he got a chance to go to the bank with it. He readily promised to appear at Police Headquarters the following morning, bring the key to the safe deposit box, and help recover the money. Thereupon the police officials bade him good night and went away. But no chances were taken on “Jimmie the Push.” From that moment he was shadowed.

That Monday was a busy day in many other ways.

Developments came thick and fast.

Kinsman’s home in Boston was visited, and $750 of the bank money recovered in the original wrappers. It had laid in his grip, unknown to the honest Kinsman family.

Swede Annie, Myrtle Horn and a girl named Rose Levy were examined, quickly broke down, and made tearful statements to be used in evidence. These women were held only as witnesses, and as the case cleared up after a few days’ detention, were released.

The girl, Rose Levy, greatly attracted the Commissioner. She was only nineteen years old, a mild-mannered little Jewess with jet black hair and very remarkable eyes. The Commissioner went into details of her personal story. It seems that she had left her home in Brooklyn two months before, after a quarrel with her mother, and had come to New York looking for a position. But she quickly fell into the lower world, became known as Jess’s girl, and was ambitious to be “one of the gang.” After a fatherly talk she was persuaded to return to her home and live a decent life. But within a week she was back in New York again, in her old haunts, trying to raise money to help Jess, for whom, she told the Commissioner, she would willingly work for the rest of her days.

Before visiting Jimmie’s saloon the Commissioner called up the “Orange Growers” in Chicago, had a long talk with them, told what progress was being made, and put new life into them.

_More Money Recovered_

True to his word, “Jimmie the Push” walked into Police Headquarters at nine o’clock Tuesday morning, February 27, closely followed by his unseen shadowers. He produced the key of the safe-deposit vault, and went with officers to see the money recovered. There was $2,000, as Jess had stated, still in the wrappers of the bank. Jimmie was still permitted to go free, under the impression that he had come through the ordeal “clean,” while fresh evidence was being obtained against him.

That morning the Commissioner also took Kinsman down over the route of the robbery, to have him explain it in his own way. This was done to strengthen the case against Montani, and upset his story in court.

Then “Scotty the Lamb” was located, arrested, brought to headquarters and led to confess. “Scotty the Lamb” was in some respects a pathetic figure in the case, and also a humorous one. He had been in charge of the lunch kitchen at the Arch Café when Jess owned it, and later worked as a dishwasher in a Washington Square hotel. A Scotch youth, from Glasgow, he had been in this country about four years, and while no criminal record appeared against him, he was plainly in the company of thieves most of the time. According to his statement, he had been promised $25 for doing some work for Jess, and without inquiring into the nature of it at all, had shown up with the gang and gone along to do his minor part of a “stall,” stumbling in front of the cab. But before he could get out into the street, the cab had been boarded. So poor “Scotty the Lamb,” without a nickel for carfare, plodded all the way uptown again to the saloon where the money was to be divided, and got nothing whatever. He was a cheerful soul, however, and the life of the party when the gang was locked up, cracking jokes, and taking the view that, as sentences ought to be proportioned to the amount of money each member of the gang had got in the division, and he had got nothing, he might be let off with six months’ imprisonment.

“Scotty, haven’t you got any overcoat?” asked Inspector Hughes, sympathetically, as they were going to court one brisk morning. “Did you _ever_ have an overcoat, Scotty?”

“No, sir, I never had an overcoat,” replied Scotty, and then as he thought of his prospects for going to prison, added drolly, “And now I don’t expect, sir, that I ever will!”

_The Fine Italian Hand_

The next step in the case was that of arresting “Jimmie the Push” and his partner, Bob Deilio.

Another phase of the robbery now began to come out plainly.

Up to the present time the main burden of proof pointed to the four “hold-up” men of American birth as the chief actors in the crime. Montani and Jess, the two Italians, appeared to be accessories.

But as the tangled threads were unravelled, one by one, it was found that the Italians involved outnumbered the American thugs, and that furthermore they had outwitted them.

When Bob Deilio was arrested he drew $215 in five-dollar bills out of his pocket and handed it to the police, admitting that it was part of $5,500 of the stolen money. The rest, he asserted, had just been paid for rent of the two resorts operated by “Jimmie the Push” and himself.

Jimmie and Bob were taken to Police Headquarters and examined, with Jess present. Commissioner Dougherty played one against the other so skillfully, with cross-questions and counter pressure, that in a little while each was excitedly telling tales on his two companions with the desperate hope of clearing himself, and denunciations flew back and forth among the trio as evidence came out that was likely to send them all to prison. Their confessions were obtained, and used in a new effort to break down Montani. But this was without results. The little Italian chauffeur still stuck doggedly to his original story.

From these new confessions it appeared that the Italians had planned the crime, enlisted the American hold-up men to carry out the dirty work, and laid a counter-plot for holding them up in turn when the money was divided. The “Three Brigands” were ostensibly offered a chance to take part in the actual robbery, but refused on the plea that it would be too risky, and that they did not believe Montani could carry it out successfully. On the morning of the crime they walked north over the route. When they met the taxicab coming south, with a policeman on the seat beside Montani and two unconscious bank messengers inside, they knew that the project had succeeded. So the “Three Brigands” hurried uptown to “Jimmie the Push’s” saloon. They got there so quickly that they were ahead of the robbers. Jess made a rehearsed protest when they insisted in sharing in the plunder, but the “Three Brigands” drew revolvers, threatened to make a disturbance that would bring in the police, and finally helped themselves to $10,000. When the thugs who had done the actual work left the saloon, they had only $8,000 all told. The Italians, who had “played safe” at every point, had $17,000.

_One of the Brigands Comes In_

The actual whereabouts of the “Three Brigands” was not known to the police then. But there were certain channels through which news might reach at least one of them. Word was sent through those channels, therefore, that it might be best for them to appear and give an account of themselves, and on Friday, March 1, just at the time Splaine had been brought back from Memphis, the little leader of the brigands, Matteo Arbrano, an undersized Italian wearing spectacles, who had carried out the job of robbing the hold-up men, surrendered himself to the District Attorney.

Arbrano said that he had divided his $10,000 with his two companions, Gonzales and Cavaquero, and immediately left New York, taking a steamer for Mexico by way of Havana. At the latter city he stopped over night, met a woman and accompanied her to a resort, was drugged and robbed of $2,700, and woke on the Prado with only $100 left, a single bill that had been concealed in his shoe. With that he returned to New York. The story is regarded by the police as more picturesque than convincing. It is probable that Matteo’s share of the plunder, with that of other Italians involved, has been carefully “planted.”

Pauli Gonzales, another of the brigands, was traced to Vera Cruz, Mexico. In the present state of that country, however, it was found impossible to arrest and extradite him upon the evidence at hand.

Three other persons concerned in the robbery are still at large at this writing—“Dutch” Keller, “Joe the Kid,” and an “unknown” whose identity is concealed for police reasons.

Montani pleaded “Not guilty,” and stood trial. After two days, exactly a month and a day subsequent to the robbery, he was convicted by a jury, and sentenced to not less than ten years and not more than eighteen years and two months in prison, with hard labor.

A word must be said about the prompt action of the District Attorney’s office in the taxicab case. Where crime has had such publicity there is an opportunity to make a demonstration of great value by pressing the prosecutions. It was not lost. Under Assistant Charles C. Nott, Jr., evidence was succinctly laid before judges and juries, the trials finished in a matter of hours, and convictions and sentences secured within six weeks after the robbery. Furthermore, the various sentences were just, being carefully graded according to the part played by each offender, his character and previous record, and his individual effort in facilitating justice.

_Name_ _Arrested_ _Pleaded_ _Sentenced_ _Sentence_

MONTANI, GENO Feb. 26,’12 Feb. 29,’12 Mch. 16,’12 Not less than 10 yrs. nor more than 18 yrs. 2 mos. Judge Seabury.

KINSMAN, EDW. Feb. 26,’12 Mch. 1,’12 April 9,’12 Not less than 3 yrs. nor more than 6 yrs. Judge Crain.

SPLAINE, EUGENE Mch. 2,’12 Mch. 4,’12 Mch. 25,’12 Not less than 7 yrs. 6 mos. nor more than 14 yrs. 6 mos. Judge Seabury.

DELIO, ROBERT Feb. 28,’12 Mch. 4,’12 Mch. 29,’12 Not less than 2 yrs. 6 mos. nor more than 4 yrs. 2 mos. Judge Seabury.

PASQUALE, JAMES Feb. 28,’12 Mch. 4,’12 April 8,’12 6 mos. (“Jimmie the Penitent’ry. Push”) Judge Davis.

LAMB, JOSEPH Feb. 27,’12 Mch. 18,’12 Mch. 29,’12 Indeterminate (“Scotty the sentence, Lamb”) Elmira. Judge Seabury.

ARBRANO, MATTEO Mch. 2,’12 April 3,’12 2 to 4 years. Judge Davis.

ALBRAZZO, JESS Mch. 26,’12 Mch. 18,’12 3 to 6 years. Judge Davis.

FINAL A WORD ABOUT THE NEW YORK POLICE

It has been the writer’s good fortune to look into the work of both the London and the New York policemen recently, within the same year.

A somewhat embarrassing point arose.

In London, the “bobby” was anxious to know which police force the writer considered best. The “bobby” gets his ideas of the New York “cop” from such accounts as filter through the cable dispatches from our newspapers. He hears chiefly the worst, and pictures the “cop” as a lawless individual, wielding pistol and club indiscriminately, with whom it is not safe to pass a civil word. So, when he puts his little question about the respective merits of the two organizations, he reserves the right to keep his opinion that the London force is best anyway.

In New York, it is much the same. The “cop” has heard just enough about the “bobby” to regard him with mild tolerance. He pictures him as a policeman servile to the last degree, thankfully accepting sixpenny tips from pedestrians, and occupied chiefly with unarmed thieves and harmless political offenders.

When one has good friends in both forces, the question “Which do you think best?” is to be met with tactful evasions. And the more one thinks it over, the more it becomes clear that there is really little difference at bottom. Both police organizations are made up of good men, following the same trade along the same lines, and dealing with about the same general conditions.

The London “bobby,” however, enjoys excellent leadership, is governed by a definite administrative policy, has the backing of the courts, and therefore comes in for a general public good will which is exceedingly useful to him in the performance of duty.

The New York “cop” rather lacks public good will. Administrative policy has not been well defined in the past. The courts do not always accept his evidence, much less back him up, and he has been made the scapegoat for various shortcomings in leadership.

But to-day the New York policeman is working on an entirely new basis. Before long his public is certain to understand and like him as thoroughly as London does its “bobby.”

The change began with Mayor Gaynor, who insisted that both policeman and citizen have plain legal rights—until the citizen has committed a crime the policeman may not arrest him. The policeman has plain rights—the law empowers him to use all necessary force in making arrests in grave cases. But force must not be used for minor offenses. Confusion existed on these points to such a degree that when the Mayor began insisting upon them, many people thought he was putting into effect some of his personal whims. But they are all in the statute books, and many of them were there before the Mayor was born, because they are constitutional.

The present Police Commissioner, Rhinelander Waldo, is not only administering the department along the strict legal line pointed out by the Mayor, but is effecting improvements of organization and method that must favorably alter the whole future of the service.

Commissioner Waldo is a soldier, with a record of service in the United States Army, and the Army’s fine standards to guide him.

In some ways the administration of the New York Police Department is a soldier’s job. If the ten thousand members were mobilized, they would make quite an impressive little standing army, with eight or ten full regiments of patrolmen, a brigade of cavalry, a small transport corps, a little navy, and so forth. As in an army, too, the men are enlisted, and may only be discharged for serious offenses. It is a force scattered over three hundred square miles of territory. The leader must be skillful in laying down regulations, and handling men in the mass rather than by personal contact. He must define duty plainly, hold everybody to it, eliminate departmental politics and abuses. Every man, wherever he is stationed, must feel that the general knows his business, that he lays down regulations for good reasons, and that day by day he is taking the organization somewhere.

For years, every Police Commissioner has asked for more men to keep pace with the growing city. When Waldo took charge he asked, too. While he was waiting, however, he overhauled the organization and got one thousand additional patrolmen by cutting off men detailed for clerical and other special duty. Every large working force tends to create superfluous routine work. The useless routine was eliminated by better accounting methods, and the men sent back to do the street duty for which they originally enlisted.

Then Waldo’s system of “fixed posts” was introduced. Complaints that policemen were hard to find at night had become common. So the platoon on duty from 11 p. m. to 7 a. m. was distributed by a plan under which the men work in pairs, one patrolling a given beat and the other standing on a street intersection. Each hour they change places, or oftener in severe weather. The fixed posts are about a thousand feet apart all over Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn. The system has been indiscriminately criticised, but produces its results. Fire losses were cut down the first six months, night crime has decreased, and many notable arrests are due to the fact that policemen stand all over town like checkers through the night. The exposure is no greater than that endured by traffic men. The men have better opportunities to advance themselves by making meritorious arrests, and the Commissioner knows that, as citizens see the police on duty, night after night, and crime decreases, there will be a growing good will for the department.

The Detective Bureau has not only been reorganized so that plain-clothes men are distributed over the whole city, but a new spirit has been introduced. Formerly, when the patrolman rose to detective rank, he felt that he had “arrived.” No longer wearing the uniform or keeping scheduled hours, he was in danger of going to sleep. To-day, however, the detective has, not a job, but an opportunity. He must maintain his rank by results, or be reduced. To help him do this, he is taught methods in the school for detectives. But he knows that hundreds of ambitious men in brass buttons are working to attain that rank.

In an organization of ten thousand men, it would be strange if there were not some intriguing and politics. New York policemen are exceptionally shrewd, and occasionally they will try to “put one over” on the Commissioner, going around his authority. But Commissioner Waldo has proved singularly resourceful. He meets such an emergency with the quickness, certainty and impartiality of a natural force like gravity, and the department has found it out.

He has laid out a clear path for advancement all through the department. The newest uniformed patrolman understands that, for meritorious work, he will have a chance of promotion. If he makes a commendable arrest, he is sent to the Detective Bureau, given instruction, and tried at detective work. If he makes good, he stays. If unfitted for plain-clothes duty, he has still had his chance. What is just as important, the Detective Bureau has had a chance to see him.

Under Commissioner Waldo and Deputy Commissioner Dougherty, the so-called “Black Hand” crimes among Italians have been checked, and will be stopped. Many of these cases were traced to sensational reporting of ordinary quarrels and assaults, and others to business rivalries. In the serious cases, arrests have been made and convictions secured.

Another well-known form of law-breaking in New York is gambling. This is particularly difficult to check because of ingenuity in concealing evidence, developed by long experience on the part of the law-breakers, and also the strong political alliances of gambling-house keepers. But after several experiments in dealing with it, the Commissioner now feels confident that he has a method which will result in the suppression of gambling, and that, as he says, “When you put a crimp into things of that sort they don’t generally come back.”

In other directions red tape has been abolished and economies brought about; the way has been opened for individual merit in all ranks; steps have been taken to develop and teach better methods; the work of the department has been brought closer to the public. There is a new spirit in the New York Police Department to-day—a spirit certain to develop the public good will and appreciation that is so necessary to the best order of public service.

* * * * *

SOME INTERESTING FACTS ABOUT THE POLICE DEPARTMENT OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK

The Police Department of the City of New York is made up as follows:

Commissioner and four Deputy Commissioners

19 Inspectors

25 Surgeons

95 Captains

624 Lieutenants

586 Sergeants

8,585 Patrolmen

191 Doormen

69 Matrons

1 Superintendent of Telegraph

2 Assistant Superintendents of Telegraph

1 Chief Lineman

5 Linemen

2 Boiler Inspectors

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10,207 Total uniform force

Of this number, 500 are detectives in civilian dress.

In addition, there are over 247 civilians employed in clerical capacity.

There are 6 automobiles and 161 other vehicles, including patrol wagons, used by the Department. Also 679 horses for mounted patrolmen.

The Harbor Squad numbers: 1 Captain, 7 Lieutenants, 9 Sergeants, 36 Patrolmen, 2 Doormen, besides civilians employed as engineers, firemen, oilers, deck-hands, etc.

It is provided with one vessel of 235 tons, five launches, two dories, and six boats.

These boats patrol about 340 miles of water front.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Great Taxicab Robbery, by James H. Collins