The Great Taxicab Robbery 9

The Great Taxicab Robbery 9

As soon as word of these arrests was telephoned to Police Headquarters,

the other traps were sprung. Detectives brought in Montani, Jess

Albrazzo and Myrtle Horn, the latter, with Annie, being held as

witnesses.

 

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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