Cops And Robbers

Chapter Two, Cops and Robbers, serves up another round of quirky, true stories featuring the bold, the bumbling, and the downright bizarre characters who cycled through police headquarters.

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Welcome to Show Me Mo, the podcast for burnt-out noobs and true crime junkies who still crave a fix without today's anxiety soaked chaos. Here, we step back in time together into our current series, Crime Through Time. Now make yourself comfortable in the back of the paddy wagon because we're starting off season one by reading excerpts from the book Police Reporter by William B. Moorhead. Chapter 2 Cops and Robbers Just a Homebody. No stage actor ever learned to draw a revolver with better flourish than A.W. Brown, a tall youth with reddish hair. He was getting along nicely as a highwayman until the police threw him in jail one afternoon. Every crook stumbled sometime and Brown, the rising young highwayman, slipped when he took his wife and child to a suburban cottage. He wanted a home garden, a chance to dig in the dirt. Among the neighbors, Brown was known to mind his own business, paying his bills punctually. Suspiciously so, for he apparently never worked, except in his garden. Suburban gossip had it that he came home at unusual hours of the morning. Odd fellow that Brown One afternoon, misses Brown, gathering some radishes from the garden, saw two policemen approaching her little cottage. Men of action have spoken hopefully of dying with their boots on. Perhaps crooks feel the same way about being arrested. If so, it was an ignanimous situation for Brown. The police found him sleeping like a child. However, carefully watched children would not sleep with two loaded revolvers under their pillow, and a third on the nearby table. After they had commandeered the arsenal, the police aroused Brown. Well, boys, remarked the eye rubbing and dearmed bandit, I realized for some time that I might have such colours as you. A search of the room revealed much undisposed stolen booty, rings, stick pens, handbags, jewelry, and toilet articles. Brown, kissing his wife and child, was refused permission to take a bath, then hurried to a police station, where he frankly admitted to taking more than three thousand dollars from victims in eight months. The fallen highwayman said he robbed to support his wife and child, that he had been out of work and coming from Texas was naturally handy with a revolver. His first crime was to take twenty four dollars from a drug clerk. Another drugist yielded ten dollars, and later a score of pedestrians were robbed. There was Carswell, the restaurant man, said the bandit. I got a dollar from him. As I pushed him under his car, that old song Get Out and Git Under kept running through my head. Well, mister DJ, why don't you wind up your phonograph and play us a little bit of that tune? Brown is. Now back to the story. An early job was sticking up a guy and his gal who were uh enjoying the moonlight or something on a park bench. She had twelve bucks and four rings. The guy had twenty cents. He told the cops he had twenty bucks, the liar. Why, I could have stuck him for perjury. The case of the undaring young man. The chief of detectives called me one afternoon. I got something in my office. Come over. I sensed that a big crime story had broken and lost no time getting there. The chief nodded toward a pale and frightened youth, then turned to me and said Bad Actor, hurry up, man. I'm gonna send him up for life. The youth burst into tears. No, no, he pleaded. I didn't hold up anybody. The chief pressed a buzzer. Lock him up, he ordered a detective, and the youth, still weeping, was led to a cell. The chief then chuckled, saying, Sit down, Bill, and I'll give you the story. Here, substantially, was what the chief related. If Miss Belula Bishop, eighteen years old and winsome, had not dropped the package containing her lunch as she walked to work one morning, the lunch would not have been picked up by Howard Lahart and restored to her with such a bow, such as he might bestow upon a lavish purchaser at the ribbon counter for which he was bound. If Howard had been more timid, he would not have accompanied her the rest of the way to the Unity Sales Company, where she was a sales girl, nor asked her, a few weeks later, to marry him. If he had been more timid after her refusal, he would not have asked her again. Nevertheless, he was too timid, she told him, or at least not self-assured enough. It was Sangfreud he lacked, she told him, or words to that effect. Sang Freud meaning the ability to stay completely calm, composed, unruffled in difficult, high pressure, or dangerous situations. Alright, back to the story. She liked him immensely, but a ribbon clerk? She wanted, when married, a regular man. He edged a little closer there on the porch and took a long breath. You think I'm only a ribbon clerk? How would you feel if you knew the police would give anything to catch me? What would you think if I told you the hold up man they've been hunting for months is me? Who would suspect a ribbon clerk? I've stuck em up right and left all over town. They cringe when I stop 'em.

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You?

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she cried. There was the Brogan job, he continued. Joseph Brogan, vice president of the firm you work for. Remember when Brogan and his wife and child were chloroformed while they slept? I did it. I got $173 cash and nine hundred and fifty dollars worth of jewelry. Did Miss Bishop remember? Hadn't the girls at the sales company talked about it almost every day over their lunches? And should a girl spurn a man who could take his life in his hands like that? A man to whom adventure, hazard, and risk were the breath of life? Howard began calling for her when she could work at night, walking home with her. The other girls noticed, chafing her about the ribbon clerk. What girl could stand the teasing for long? I'll tell you something, she finally said to a girl who had twitted her over much. Twitted meaning to tease. If you promise you'll never tell Never, repeated the other girl. Nor did she for several days. Then to a third girl who would never, never tell, the other girl whispered something. One night, as Howard waited for Miss Bishop, detectives arrested him. They listened tolerantly to his protestations. Better drop that, they said. We got the dope on you. You've confessed. They took Howard to headquarters, where the chief of detectives called in Brogan and Jacob Lay, president of the Unity Sales Company, and Miss Bishop, and the other girls who would never ever tell. Didn't you tell Miss Bishop you robbed a broken home? The chief demanded of Howard. Yes, I I told her that, he admitted. But I didn't do it. I never robbed anyone. I'd be afraid. But I wanted to marry her and I knew she wanted a brave man. The chief pretended he didn't believe Howard and decided the boy needed a scare before being freed. The chief became busy on other matters, and it was nearly three hours before he again called me. When I entered his office I found Howard, pale and shaky, and Miss Bishop looking uncertainly yet fondly at him. The chief turned to Howard. Young man, I've been checking up on you.

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I've decided you aren't a hold up man.

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I'll let you go, but I'd advise you to cut out the boasting. Howard's lips trempled. Thanks. Looking shyly at the girl, he said I lie to you. I guess you won't want to marry me now. Miss Bishop gazed at him, then answered I'm glad you're not a bandit. I'll marry you if you want me. They walked to the office of the marriage license clerk in the courthouse hand in hand, but discovered that they had not enough money to pay for a license. The following morning, Miss Bishop brought Howard to visit her employer, Jacob Lay, who told the youth to stand erect. Son, Lay said, We're adding a new line. Trousers. How'd you like to sell trousers instead of ribbons? Fine. As soon as you two are married, you go to work for me, understand? People don't have to buy ribbons, but they must have a new line. Sunday night there's gonna be a party at my house. Miss Bishop, you and Howard will be my guests. And Monday, I'll see to the license and ceremony. The Mademoiselle from Amotier, Kansas. Miss Maurice Neville of France, and Arkansas City, Kansas, gave a deaf touch to an Auburn coiffe and crossed one silken red, right and blue clad ankle over the other, there at police headquarters as she told the story of her life.

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I'm twenty one years old, she said, but I've only really been living since I left Arkansas City about a year ago. Never mind why I left. Did you ever live in Arkansas City? In the last year I've been in large cities and it was an adventurous, gorgeous life until those detectives arrested me in a bank yesterday. Yes, I passed bad checks, so many I can't possibly remember. But I never wrote one for more than one hundred dollars. Maybe I've had six thousand dollars worth. It was easy, perfectly easy. That's a lot of money to spend in a few months. Well, it takes about thirty dollars a day for a woman to live comfortably. I stopped at the best hotels and bought gowns and hats and things. I entertained and gave big tips.

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The maids and bellhops at the hotel where Miss Neville was stopping could attest to the tips. Sometimes they were five dollars.

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And manicures and hairdressers and such.

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She put both hands ruefully to her hair, which had no expert attention for a day. But again smiled when she viewed her patriotic hosiery.

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She said, and laughed at the pun. Did I buy them with a bad check? Of course I did. It's all been grand fun. If one is clever, one can get away with anything. I made my mistake in coming back to Kansas City. I was here several months ago, you know. I like Kansas City and the people here. Especially the men.

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Miss Neville France gave a slight shrug. It expressed amusement and well amusement.

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I'm just a little salamander, you know, she purred, with a glance at the tricolors below her tailored skirt hem. And I'm the only the best class of man. It's perfectly easy. I just go to the big hotels and they flock around. I met one who proposed to me. He told me he had several big oil refineries in Oklahoma. So I said I owned a dozen oil leases there. The next day, when I passed a ham and restaurant, he was eating coffee and donuts inside. I had just about decided to reform when I was arrested. You see, I've done detectives so often I've learned their ways. So I decided to become a private detective myself. Why, many times I've stepped out of one cab door just as a detective was coming in the other door. Oftentimes I've gone down in one elevator while a detective was coming up after me in another. It was exciting. I became so keen on the detective work that I planned to join the Antimotor Theft Association. They promised to give me a steady job as soon as I caught a car thief. And I had one spotted, but I was arrested.

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Miss Neville declined to give her real name or discuss her family. She passed twenty-six worthless checks in Kansas City. Surprise, surprise. Many crimes were carefully planned by experienced outlaws, sometimes to the exact minute. Weather conditions often entered into the calculations and the routes of escape were carefully noted. However, there was often the unexpected that arose to ruin the intended routine of a perfect job. In one case the unexpected was a distinct shock, and this was the way the star front paged a story. Wouldn't it make a fella mad if after he had neatly slugged his man and had taken his gold watch and a bundle of bills almost as big as a mattress, and had obtained a good start on the two cops who pursued him, and then decided to take a shortcut across a vacant lot to make good his getaway, suddenly to realize that the vacant lot wasn't a vacant lot at all, but a twenty foot excavation. Wouldn't it make a fellow mad? It made Claude Jones and Frank McClure angry. They were sitting dejectedly on a sandpile at the bottom of a pit when two patrolmen, breathless from the sprint, reached the excavation. Drawing revolvers, the officers ordered Jones and McClure to climb out of the hole, which they did, with many imprecations on the law and the building contractor. They were held at police headquarters pending recovery and further statement from a certain Miles Gulch, who was beaten and robbed of his watch and roll of bills. Public servant An old man stepped into the glare of the show up room at police headquarters with the air of one thoroughly at home. He could not see the hidden detectives, but he knew them as old acquaintances. The police captain began his introduction. This is Grandpa Harris, seventy nine years old, Dean of American Conman. Grandpa, I thought you had retired.

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Captain Flo I recognize your voice and I salute you, said the old man, smiling. You don't retire. I am an old dog. You are a boy against my years, but you understand that I can't learn new tricks. I will say to you, please, gentlemen. I salute you all that I consider myself a bit of actor to society. I am spending my declining years finding young pickpockets and developing them into confidence men.

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Confidence men, there we go. That's another reference to what we discussed in the last episode. If you haven't listened to that episode yet, please go back and listen to it. You'll love it. It's fabulous. Anyway, back to the story.

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I travel over the United States and if age and the police would spare me. In a few years there would be no pickpockets left. Picking pockets is a serious crime, you know.

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Harris had just been arrested with one of his pupils. They had just obtained fifty dollars by swindling a farmer. Crime wave. The prisoner's eyes were red from weeping, sunken from loss of sleep. An expression of hopelessness and shame marked his mouth as he unfolded a confession, one which didn't make sense. Awakening about two o'clock one morning, Miller, a baker, put a hand to a damp forehead. He was in a perspiration, and his mind swam in a confusion of ideas. He had awakened from a jumble of dreams in which he had robbed and was robbed, in which he was chased wildly and committed daring crimes. Miller arose and dressed, fixing necktie and brushing his hair, he kissed his sleeping wife. He bent over the beds of his boy of seven and his daughter five. Miller, church member, model father and husband, accounted by his neighbors and employer as a good citizen, went to the rear of his home and got an iron bar. What followed perplexed even the police, long used to freaks of crime. After it was all over, the excuse the prisoner gave was that he had been ill. With his iron bar, Miller walked to a nearby grocery and forced a rear door. Inside, Miller went to a cash drawer and pocketed seventy two cents. But this queer robber had other work. He took down a haunch of beef and carried it to the meat block. He found a knife and sliced off a large porter house steak. Then he took a chicken and dressed it, also taking six ten cent cakes from a counter. The loot was placed in a sack. He started from the store. The light Miller used had attracted a policeman. Miller started to run at the shout of halt. The officer fired three shots. One bullet penetrated Miller's sack. At police headquarters, the prisoner was in despair, protesting there was no reason for his crime, that he must have been ill. I don't need what I stole, he declared tearfully. Our pantry is full. I have five thousand dollars in the bank. I work in a baker, and have all the cakes I want free. The man I robbed was my friend. My poor wife, my dear little children. Taken to court, Miller again wept as he pleaded guilty. I don't know why I did it, he said. You do. Judge Latshaw commented and sentenced Miller to two years imprisonment. That was a case where the police were unable to find a motive. Many law violators escaped prosecution because the victims refused to press charges. The icy blast of winter, which sent persons shivering from the streets, strengthened the bonds between men and probably gave Douglas, an unemployed painter, his liberty. Douglas was not prosecuted for committing two check forgeries because the display of want in his cottage home touched the hearts of two saloon keepers who had cashed the checks, one eighteen dollars, and another eighteen dollars and ninety cents. After a week's search, a detective had found Douglas. The cold wave was at its worst, and Lou Myers, the detective, was glad of a place of refuge in the little cottage rented by the man he had come to arrest. Tomorrow I could not have warmed you, Douglas said. Come here. He showed Myers the coal bin. It held only a few lumps. Here's the pantry, said Douglas. The food would not outlast the coal. At police headquarters, Douglas told how thoughts of his wife and three children had caused him to cash the forged checks. We had nothing left, and I owed the rent man and the grocer, he explained. I did not realize I was only making matters worse. The two saloon keepers, when told of the man's plight, said, Turn him loose, we'll stand the loss. And that, my little jailbirds, is the end of episode two. I hope you've enjoyed these episodes. If so, check back again soon to find out what is old and exciting in true crime. See you then.