The Great Taxicab Robbery 4
Montani had been in this country since the age of twelve, it appeared,
had a wife and two children, and was the owner of two taxicabs operated
from a stand at a hotel near the bank, whose money he regularly carried.
He had owned three cabs, but lost one through business reverses. In
fact, he had passed through money troubles, and his story excited
sympathy. Starting originally as a truckman for a salvage company, his
ambition and intelligence had won him such confidence that this company
lent him money to set up trucking for himself. Still more ambitious, he
had become a taxicab proprietor. Through the trickery of an ill-chosen
partner, however, he has lost some of his savings. He seemed a little
bitter about this, and it was a circumstance not likely to escape an
expert police examiner, for the loss of money through fraud, coupled
with temptation, is often the starting point in crime. The Italian’s
former employers spoke highly of his character when questioned by
detectives. He gave the names of chauffeurs who had worked for him
lately, and of business people who knew him, and careful investigation
failed to disclose any suspicious circumstances. Montani quite won the
newspaper men—so much so that, when he was discharged in court a few
days later for apparent lack of evidence, the newspapers criticised the
police for having held him at all.
And yet, before that first night, Montani himself, largely through
simple answers to questions, had become so involved that there was
ground for holding him under arrest.
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[Illustration:
EDWARD P. HUGHES
Inspector in Command of Detective Bureau
]
[Illustration:
DOMINICK G. RILEY
Lieutenant and Aide to Commissioner Dougherty
]
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In the questions and cross-questions, the checks and counter-checks of a
skillful examiner, there are possibilities little suspected by those not
familiar with that kind of work.
Montani had slowed down his cab at the point where the robbers boarded
it. He said that an old man had suddenly got in front, and he had
slackened speed to avoid running over him. But detectives along the
route found eye-witnesses who had seen the robbers board the cab, and
who could testify that there had been nobody in front of the vehicle.
Both of his cabs had stood in line near the bank that morning, the one
driven by himself being second, and the other, in charge of an employee,
was first. When the call came from the bank, Montani answered it himself
out of his turn, sending the other cab uptown, as he explained, to have
some tires vulcanized. But it was not a good explanation.
He said that as soon as the robbers left his cab he had raised a cry for
help. But eye-witnesses were found who denied this.
Instead of running north after the robbers’ automobile when he had taken
a policeman aboard his cab, he ran south, away from it. This action, he
maintained, was taken under orders from the policeman. But the latter
denied that.
He was not able to explain how the robbers had known where to post their
automobile so it would be waiting at the spot where they finished their
work.
Interest centered in this mysterious black automobile without a license
number. For, though Montani was an experienced chauffeur, and his
replies to other questions showed that he had seen both the rear and the
side of that car, he was unable to tell its make.
Meanwhile, it was learned that three men had hurriedly boarded an
elevated train near the scene of the robbery shortly after, not waiting
for change from a quarter. The ticket-seller was unable to describe
them, but connected them with the robbery when he heard about it.
Montani was held in the custody of the Commissioner that night, to be
put through further examination in the morning. But long before morning
the police were working on an entirely new development.
_The First Direct Clue_
The law-abiding citizen goes around New York with little knowledge of
the crowding underworld all about him. It is perhaps just as well that
he knows nothing of the lives and morals of hundreds of people who elbow
him on the streets, sit beside him in the cars, and scrutinize him with
a strictly professional eye in many places.
Nor has he any clear conception of the relations that a good police
officer maintains with members of this underworld. It is a world just as
complete as that of business or society, however, and much of the time
of a detective or police official is spent keeping track of people in
it, forming acquaintances and connections in various ways, and
establishing the organization of informants that will help in the
detection and prevention of crime. A good detective is like a good
salesman—he keeps track of his “trade.”
Shortly after midnight of the first day, Commissioner Dougherty received
a message over the telephone that sent him uptown to meet an informant.
At two o’clock in the morning of Friday, February 16, he and this person
had a talk at a fashionable uptown hotel. Indeed, most of the meetings
with informants during this case were held at two well-known hotels,
perhaps the last places in the city that anybody would connect with such
conferences.
Informants are not always right, nor always possessed of useful
information. But this one had the first real clue.
On the afternoon of the robbery, it was learned, a fellow known as
“Eddie Collins” had come to his rooming house, on the lower West Side,
told a woman with whom he lived, known as “Swede Annie,” to pack up and
be ready to leave the city in a hurry, and presently disappeared with
her. He was also reported to have a large roll of money. With a rough
estimate of the size of this roll, given by the informant, and a dummy
roll of “stage money” made up for the purpose, the police were able to
judge that Collins must have had between $3,000 and $5,000. That would
have been his probable share in a division of the stolen currency among
five men.
The house where Collins had lived was kept by a Mrs. Sullivan. Steps
were at once taken to “surround” this woman, as the operation is known
technically. For before a possible source of information like Mrs.
Sullivan is followed up, it is necessary to know something about it. The
person in question may be criminal, or in league with the underworld. On
the other hand, he or she may be quite innocent, and willing to aid the
police. The “surround” is an interesting operation. It is often made
without the knowledge of the person investigated. In many cases it takes
time.
Mrs. Sullivan came through the ordeal handsomely.
She proved to be a wholesome, hard-working landlady, keeping a house
that sheltered occasional suspicious characters, but entirely honest
herself. She was not only able to furnish information about her late
lodgers, but willing.
“Sure, it’s a good deal I know about that Collins, as he calls himself,”
she said, “and mighty little that’s good.”
It seems that about two weeks previously Collins had offered to pay the
landlady if she would appear in a Brooklyn court and testify to the good
character of a criminal named Molloy, who was being held for trial on a
charge of robbery.
“They’re paying fifteen to twenty dollars for ‘character’ witnesses,”
said her lodger.
“And do you think I’d take the stand and perjure myself swearing for a
man I never heard of?” asked the indignant landlady.
“Oh, that’s nothing to some of the things we do,” was the reply.
Several days later, while she was putting some laundry into Collins’
bureau drawer the landlady caught sight of two new blackjacks. She asked
Collins what he was doing with such weapons.
“Aw, we use them in our business,” he said. Then, with the confidence
often bred in criminals by success, he told her he knew a gang that was
planning to rob a taxicab that carried money uptown to a bank every
week. Mrs. Sullivan questioned him as to details, and he assured her it
would be an easy job.
“For we’ve got it all fixed with the chauffeur,” he said.
At that point, however, like many an honest person who might aid the
police with information, Mrs. Sullivan let the matter drop out of her
mind. It is a simple thing to mail a letter or telephone to Police
Headquarters, giving such information, and the experience of the
Detective Bureau is such that the information can be investigated
without involving innocent persons. But perhaps Mrs. Sullivan concluded
that, in a big city like New York, it is well for people to keep their
mouths shut. Or maybe she decided that Collins was merely boasting.
On Friday, less than twenty-four hours after the robbery, a “network
investigation” was begun.
Sixty detectives searched that part of the city where Collins and Annie
had lived, seeking further information. Photograph galleries and other
places were investigated on the chance of finding pictures. Denizens of
the underworld were talked with casually. Professional criminals,
prostitutes, dive-keepers, receivers of stolen goods and other shady
characters were brought before Commissioner Dougherty in couples and
half-dozens for quick cross-examination. By Saturday evening the police
had some highly important information.
It was learned that Annie had been seen going away on the afternoon of
the robbery in a taxicab, accompanied by two men, one of whom was
Collins, and the other unknown. Good descriptions were secured of Annie
and her sweetheart, especially of her hat, which was a cheap affair, but
conspicuous by reason of a row of little red roses. It was also
discovered that Collins had been a boxer, that he hailed from Boston,
and that his real name was Eddie Kinsman. Finally, the police secured
two photographs, one an indifferent picture of Kinsman, and the other an
excellent portrait of Annie. These were quickly put through the
department’s photograph gallery, where there are facilities for making
duplicates in a hurry, and more than a hundred copies were soon ready
for work which will be described in its proper place.
The trail now seemed to lead to Boston. At all events, further
information was to be secured there. And here came in a little
refinement imparted by Commissioner Dougherty’s experience with the
Pinkerton forces. For where this private detective organization works
unhampered over the whole country, the official police forces in most
cities confine their searches to their own territory. When it is
believed that criminals have left town, as in this case, a general
description is telegraphed to other cities. Dougherty’s method, however,
is always to send a man from his own staff, with detailed instructions.
There are no local boundaries for him.
Late on Saturday night Inspector Hughes, of the Detective Bureau,
slipped out of headquarters with Detective O’Connell, and took a train
for Boston. Their departure was kept strictly secret. They bid good
night to associates, saying that they expected to be up and at work
again early next morning, and until their return on Monday everybody who
asked for the Inspector was told that “he is usually around the building somewhere.”
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