The Great Taxicab Robbery 7

The Great Taxicab Robbery 7

In this branch of detective work, as in many others, the chief requisite

is resourcefulness. The detective of fact wears little disguise apart

from clothes that fit the surroundings he moves in. But he has an

instant knack at accounting for himself as a normal character who has

happened quite naturally into the scene. Ready wits do the trick—not

false whiskers. Thus it came about that whenever Annie and Myrtle were

hungry, and sat down in a restaurant, what they said was noted by a

couple of fellows at another table, who quickly made a party of the

chance patrons they found there, discussing wages or the suffragettes.

Or if Annie used the telephone in a drug store, a polite young man

turning over the directory said to her, “Go ahead, lady—I’m in no

hurry,” and listened.

 

At the same time, Matron Goodwin was reporting conversation from inside

the house. It appeared that Kinsman had sent Annie back to the city

after buying her a new hat and giving her $125. He promised to write

soon, but did not tell her where he was going. Toward the end of the

week, as no letter arrived, Annie began worrying, and was talkative. She

feared that Eddie no longer loved her. She reproached herself for

letting him go without taking her along, and spoke of setting out to

find him.

 

 

_The Trail Is Taken Up_

 

It was now Wednesday, February 21, and all the careful detail work began

to come together.

 

It was this day that Detective Watson found the crew of Train No. 13, on

the New York Central, which had taken Kinsman, Annie and Splaine aboard

at Peekskill the afternoon of the robbery after they had ridden out of

New York in a taxicab to avoid possible police surveillance at the

railroad stations. Commissioner Dougherty dispatched Watson to Peekskill

and Albany with thorough instructions. His motto in working out a case

is, “Supervision is half the battle.”

 

“When you get to Albany,” he said, “go to that big hat store on Broadway

near the station. I’ll bet that’s where Annie’s new hat was bought—they

sell the best millinery in the country outside of New York.”

 

Nothing important was learned at Peekskill, but at Albany, sure enough,

Detective Watson found the saleswoman right in “that big hat store” who

had sold the new hat, and secured Annie’s discarded headgear. The new

hat had cost twenty-five dollars. The old one looked as though it might

have cost ninety-five cents—a “Division Street Special.” Its black

velvet was of the cheapest grade, the famous little red roses proved to

be, on close inspection, nothing more than little loops of pink cotton

cloth, and the general state of the hat indicated that it was about time

Annie had a new one. This interesting “bonnet,” however, seemed just

then more handsome than any costly article of millinery ever smuggled

over from Paris. It was immediately sent to New York by express, with a

copy of the sales slip covering the purchase. The saleswoman was able to

add one or two details of description, and remembered how, after the

woman had selected a hat, the two men had joked about who was to pay for

it.

 

“She’s your girl,” said Splaine, and so Kinsman had paid the bill with

five five-dollar bills.

 

Nothing could be learned as to the direction in which the two men meant

to travel. Detective Watson now began a search among train crews running

out of Albany, and Commissioner Dougherty, in New York, got the Albany

ticket-sellers by long-distance telephone. His knowledge of how railroad

tickets are sold, accounted for, taken up, cancelled and checked by the

auditing department made it possible to sift matters down to the

strongest kind of probability. After considerable telephoning, aided by

Detective Watson on the spot, it was determined that Kinsman and Splaine

had been the purchasers of two consecutively numbered tickets for

Chicago sold together on Friday morning, twenty-four hours after the

robbery, and that they had gone west on Train No. 3, leaving Albany at

12:10 p. m. Their tickets were available for that train, and the

conclusion was strengthened by calculating Annie’s movements. For it was

found that she had come back to New York the same day, between four and

five in the afternoon. She had kept out of sight until she appeared at

Myrtle Horn’s lodging and was reported by Matron Goodwin and “Plant 21”

on Tuesday. But she must have taken a train from Albany about the time

that the men were starting for Chicago, reaching New York at 3:45 p. m.

 

Commissioner Dougherty felt that the chances of finding his men in

Chicago were so good that, without wasting time in an investigation of

the crew of Train No. 3, he put Detectives Daly and Clare aboard a

Chicago train that same night. Kinsman and Splaine would both find

congenial company among the pugilists in Chicago.

 

These detectives were given names to conceal their identity, and ordered

to report under the code term of “Orange Growers” to eliminate all

flavor of police business. They received detailed instructions about

where to go and what to do. Again the Commissioner covered the trail

when it led out of New York by sending capable assistants, instead of

merely wiring the police in other cities. Before the “Orange Growers”

departed, the “boss” gave them a little talk about expenses.

 

The detective attached to a municipal police force is very often

hampered by fear of making unusual expenditures. Accounting routine is

strict. Telegrams are often limited to the minimum of ten words where a

hundred are needed to send a working description or report. The

long-distance telephone is used as a luxury, and in many instances where

the plain-clothes man can get valuable information through an informant

he pays the shot out of his own pocket because there is no other way of

paying it, and trusts to the chance that this private investment out of

his salary will help him “break” a knotty case.

 

Commissioner Dougherty told the “Orange Growers” that they would be kept

on this trail if it led all around the world. They must not consider

expenditure when there was vital information to put on the wire. He

expected them to turn to the long-distance telephone whenever they

needed new instructions in a hurry. Briefly, he took the blinders and

shackles off them, and sent them out to do good work, and the outcome

justified this far-sightedness.

 

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[Illustration: JESS ALBRAZZO]

 

[Illustration: MATTEO ARBRANO]

 

[Illustration: JAMES PASQUALE]

 

[Illustration: BOB DELIO]

 

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At that period of the winter trains were delayed everywhere by storms,

so the “Orange Growers” had opportunities to make inquiries at stations

and railroad restaurants all along the line to Buffalo. They were in

search of their “brother,” who was described in terms of Kinsman’s

personal appearance, and was supposed to be on his way somewhere with

another man. At Syracuse an observant waitress remembered their

“brother” distinctly, having served both the men when their train

stopped for supper. Finally, the two “Orange Growers” got snowed up in

Michigan for a time, and there we will leave them for the present.

 

 

_Montani Quizzed Once More_

 

By Thursday many loose ends of the case were being brought together so

effectually that the outlook seemed exceedingly bright.

 

But only to the executive circle in Dougherty’s office.

 

Outside, all was dark. Newspaper criticism had become more caustic than

ever, and the public, after the ingrained habit of New York, was turning

its attention to fresher news sensations.

 

At a big annual dinner of police officials held that evening, February

22, the atmosphere of gloom resting upon the department was most

tangible. The fourteen hundred guests, who were chiefly police

inspectors, captains and lieutenants, felt that a stigma lay upon the

service with which they were identified. They had no means of knowing,

of course, that one week from that night the gloom would have lifted,

criticism be turned to praise, and that policemen generally would be, as

a witty lieutenant put it, “back to our official standing again—which

never was so very high.”

 

Montani had called at Police Headquarters repeatedly, accompanied by his

unseen shadowers. He professed to be anxious to furnish further

information, if it lay in his power, and the Commissioner chatted with

him cordially, leading him to believe that he no longer rested under the

slightest suspicion.

 

On Friday Dougherty made an interesting effort to “break” Montani.

 

He now had a minute physical description of Kinsman, as well as two

photographs of him. The chauffeur was asked to describe once more the

man who had sat upon the cab seat with him. The questions went over

details from head to foot, and were prompted by details of Kinsman’s

real appearance.

 

Montani said the man had large brown eyes, which was true.

 

He remembered that he had talked with a good American accent, and used

words not common to the criminal, which was also more or less true.

 

He suddenly recalled a gold-filled tooth in the robber’s upper

right-hand jaw, a point already furnished by informants.

 

In fact, as this new examination went on, it became clear to the

Commissioner that Montani was actually describing Kinsman, changing only

one detail. He said that the robber had had a dark mustache, while it

was certain that Kinsman had been smooth-shaven.

 

Suddenly the Commissioner tried what is known as a “shot.”

 

The examiner in such an inquiry is often in possession of incriminating

evidence. Instead of producing it bluntly as evidence, however, he will

perhaps let it slip out bit by bit, as though by awkwardness, meanwhile

maintaining an appearance of absolute confidence in the suspect’s

integrity. A classic example of this device is found in the Russian

writer Dostoieffsky’s “Crime and Punishment.” The skillful “shot” is

usually far more disconcerting than evidence produced openly to

overwhelm. For the suspect assumes that the examiner really knows

nothing, and has merely blundered. So he is on his guard outwardly. But

he also worries inwardly, and this trying conflict between inner doubt

and the need for keeping up outer calm will often break him down

completely.

 

Dougherty’s “shot” was a photograph of Kinsman.

 

By pre-arrangement an assistant came into the office and began turning

over some papers on the Commissioner’s desk. The photo of Kinsman popped

out where Montani could see it plainly, and then was hurriedly put out

of sight again. The Commissioner scolded his assistant, and the latter

stood shamefaced and silent.

 

But in this instance the device failed.

 

Montani not only betrayed no interest in Kinsman’s picture, but took the

awkward assistant’s part, and asked the Commissioner not to scold him.

 

Montani had planned his crime, fitted the plan with men, laid out every

detail in his mind, and arranged his story beforehand. He expected to be

arrested, and said so. He admitted that there were inconsistencies in

his story, but hoped to clear them up. He had discussed the crime with

Jess and Dutch, and had not been seen in the company of the other

criminals. So, having settled on his story, Montani stuck to it without

variation under every form of pressure. Others forgot what they had

arranged as their defense, or departed from it, or broke down and

confessed. But not Montani. He alone went to trial, and stuck to his story until the end.