SOPHIE, IF YOU DON'T HAND ME $2,000, I'LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF
"SOPHIE, IF YOU DON'T HAND ME $2,000, I'LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF"
"Sophie, if you don't divide up on that job, I will blow your head off!" he threatened in a low voice.
I admit I was frightened, but I did not lose my head. Instead I began to cry copiously.
"Dan," I sobbed, "I declare by all I hold holy I didn't get any money in the bank this morning. I've just gotten out of jail and I'm dead broke. My poor children need lots of things I can't buy them. I wish I had got that money at the bank thismorning, but I didn't. It must have been some one else who made a safe get-away, and I think it's pretty mean of you to treat me this way," and I began to cry more strenuously than ever.
Dan looked at me a moment searchingly and then, deciding that my grief was genuine, put up his gun.
"Don't cry, Sophie. I thought you got the money, and I wanted my bit, that's all. I'm sorry to have scared you. Forget it, old girl, and cheer up."
Nugent then asked me what the kids at home needed, and I told him everything I could think of. He took me by the arm and marched me into a dry goods store and made a number of purchases of the things he thought the children would want, and gave them to me, along with a little money for myself. We then parted, Nugent wishing me all kinds of luck and firmly believing in my fairy tale.
I really ought to have shared the money with Nugent because I had stolen a march on him in robbing the bank before he got a chance, and he got into trouble through me. But I knew he had made a big haul in a bank a month previous, and I was practically without funds, so he could more easily afford the loss of the two thousand than I could. But, like most criminals, Nugent had a kind heart, and, when his finer nature was appealed to, he could not help being noble and generous.
As another illustration of the kindness of heart of some criminals, let me tell of a letter I received from a world-renowned criminal, whose name I willnot now disclose. This unfortunate man is now serving a term in a foreign prison for a daring bank robbery in which he was caught through his anxiety to help a pal—although if he had thought only of himself he would have been free. I will quote from his letter to me and you will see the kindness that dwells in his big heart:
"My dear Pal:—Now, I want you to do me a little favor. Don't send me any money or presents at Christmas, but take the money that you would use on me, and go out and buy some turkeys and give them to some of the poor people who live around your place. It will make them feel good, and it will be a better way to use the money than to waste it by sending it over to me."
"My dear Pal:—Now, I want you to do me a little favor. Don't send me any money or presents at Christmas, but take the money that you would use on me, and go out and buy some turkeys and give them to some of the poor people who live around your place. It will make them feel good, and it will be a better way to use the money than to waste it by sending it over to me."
A man who can write such a thoughtful letter as the above and can sympathize with others in distress is not entirely a bad man, even though he is a convicted criminal. It is sad, indeed, to think that such a large hearted man should have to spend most of his days behind prison bars instead of being at some kind of labor where he could be of service to mankind and do all the decent things which his kindly thoughts of others would prompt him to do.
Not because I want to convey the impression that I am better than any of the other criminals whose exploits I am narrating, but, on the contrary, because the incident I am about to relate is typical of what notorious criminals are doing every day, Iam going to tell of another experience in which I figured.
It was when I was in New York. One day, while loitering in a bank in the vicinity of Broadway and Chambers street, I observed a woman draw some money. She put it in a handkerchief and then placed the handkerchief in her pocket. I was in need of money pretty badly just then and decided to follow the woman and get the money.
After she came out of the bank I got close to her and had no trouble in taking out the handkerchief and the money. She was walking down toward the river front and, having started in that direction, too, I had to continue for a block or so in order not to excite suspicion by turning back. I walked a little behind the woman, and, when we reached the middle of the block, she stopped and spoke to me:
"I beg your pardon, madame, but can you tell me where the French line steamboats dock?"
I directed her to the proper place and we got into conversation. She told me that she was going home to her mother in France in order to die there. She had been given up by the doctors here as an incurable consumptive and had sold all her goods for a few hundred dollars with which she was to pay her fare and give the rest to her mother. I became interested in this, for it seemed to me that I had robbed a woman in distress of her last dollar, and that was something I did not like to do.
I asked her if she had money besides the amount she drew out of the bank (she had told me of takingthe money from the bank), and she said that was all she had in the world. I could not think of keeping her money after that, because, when the poor woman reached the ticket office and found her money gone and her trip abroad impossible, she would probably have died of the shock. So I determined to put the money back in the poor French woman's pocket. I walked along with her to the ticket office and, while she was talking to the agent, I slipped the money back in her pocket. She bought her ticket and went aboard the boat and I felt pleased that I had not kept the money.
That evening I told some of my criminal friends of the transaction, and several of them seemed disgusted with me because I had not put in some money of my own along with the small mite the woman had so that she would be cheered up a bit. They thought it mean of me not to do more than I did to help along a woman so unfortunate as this sick woman.
On several other occasions I voluntarily returned stolen money to people when I found out that they were more in need of it than myself. I stole a satchel from a woman in a bank once and it contained a few hundred dollars. The next day I discovered in the paper that the woman was blind and I was referred to as the meanest kind of a thief. When I learned this I hastened to return the money to the unfortunate woman. I never could sleep easy if I thought that any really deserving person suffered from my thieving. I tried to confine my work to people who could afford to lose their money and would soonforget the affair. A very poor person who loses the savings of a lifetime never gets over the shock of his or her loss and it causes real suffering. It didn't worry me any to make people feel resentful and indignant, but I could not bear the thought of making anybody unhappy.
I was in Paris many years ago and stopping at one of the most fashionable hotels in the city. Mrs. Lorillard, the society woman, was occupying rooms adjoining mine, and I was trying to get her jewelry. She always carried a great amount of jewelry with her, and I knew the prize was a good one. She had two maids with her, one of whom had to keep watch over two satchels in which the jewelry was secreted.
The maids were honest girls and we could not do any business through them, but we followed the party from place to place expecting that some time the girl would forget to take proper care of her satchels, and then our opportunity to steal them would arrive. A few days after Mrs. Lorillard had settled at this hotel she attended some reception in Paris and, of course, her jewelry bags had to be taken from the hotel safe, where they had been placed for safety.
Mrs. Lorillard picked out the particular pieces of jewelry she wanted to wear at the reception, and closed up the two bags, turning them over to the maid to place in the safe. The maid came out of the apartment with the two bags, and I met her in the hall and began to ask her some trivial question. She stopped to talk with me and laid down the bags.While I kept her engaged in conversation a comrade of mine crept up, substituted another bag for one of the jewelry receptacles and skipped off. I continued to talk a little longer and then the girl and I parted, she going downstairs to the safe with the two bags, not suspecting that I had deliberately held her in conversation while my friend had taken one of the precious bags.
My associate went to another hotel and concealed the jewelry, while I stayed there in my room, not wishing to attract attention by leaving at such a critical time, for, after the robbery was discovered, if it had been found that I had left at the same time it would have been natural for suspicion to be directed at me.
The following day, when the bags were sent for in order for Mrs. Lorillard to put back the jewels she had worn at the reception, it was found that one of the bags was missing and there was great excitement. Detectives by the score were sent for and the whole hotel was searched top and bottom for a clew.
That evening, after I had retired, I heard a woman sobbing in the adjoining room, and, as the sobs continued for some time, I knocked and asked if I could be of assistance to her. She opened the door and invited me into her room. It was Mrs. Lorillard. She told me of the robbery and said that it was not the jewelry she worried about but the loss of a picture of her dead child which was very dear to her. She thought more of the picture than the jewelsand her grief over its disappearance was pathetic. I consoled her as best I could, and told her I had had some experience as a detective and thought I could secure the return of the picture without any trouble, especially as it was not valuable to the thieves. The following day I took back the picture to the woman and she was overjoyed at its return. After remaining in the hotel long enough not to excite suspicion by my departure, I left to meet my pals and divide the proceeds of the job. The jewels we had taken were the best in the Lorillard collection, and each one of the party made a good profit on the transaction. A number of years after this event Mrs. Lorillard committed suicide, which was induced by a spell of melancholy, brought on probably by thoughts of her dead boy, whom she dearly loved.
I have already mentioned how Langdon W. Moore, the notorious bank burglar, whose activities in New England made him more feared throughout that section than any other criminal who ever operated, once frustrated an attempt to rob a bank at Francetown, New Hampshire, after having consented to participate in it, because the bank was located near his own birthplace and he did not feel like robbing his parents' old neighbors.
This man Langdon, like many other criminals of the same caliber, made it a rule of his life never to use violence. Frequently he abandoned a contemplated criminal enterprise upon which he had spent months of hard work because he found thathe could not carry out his original plan without injuring a watchman or other person.
Of course, when hard pressed it was sometimes necessary for Langdon to fight his way to liberty, in such cases he always made reparation to the injured man as far as lay in his power. On one occasion, when he had fractured the skull of an officer who had sought to capture him, he caused $2,500 in cash to be sent to the injured man.
Other criminals frequently exhibit similar noble qualities.
Loyalty to his comrades is another trait found in almost every professional criminal. "Honor among thieves" is a phrase commonly used, but few realize upon what a strong foundation it rests. I know of innumerable instances where criminals risked their own liberty and even their lives in order to assist a comrade in danger.
Mark Shinburn, the noted bank burglar, once displayed bravery and loyalty of a character which is seldom excelled even on the battlefield. He had participated with Eddie Quinn and a third bank burglar in the robbery of a Western bank. Just as the three were leaving the bank the watchman appeared upon the scene. There was nothing to do but run. The watchman opened fire. Quinn dropped. Without a moment's hesitation Shinburn stopped in his flight, although the watchman was close upon them, and, lifting his fallen comrade to his broad shoulders, continued his flight at reduced speed.
Shinburn was a very powerful fellow and even with his wounded comrade on his shoulders he was able to outrun the watchman. He soon caught up with the third man of the party and they made for the woods. When they lowered Quinn to the ground they found that he was dying. The burglar had only a few minutes to live. Quinn was conscious and begged his comrades to get a priest to administer the last rites, realizing that his end was near.
The two men with him knew it was impossible to get a priest, but they wanted to make the last moments of Quinn's life as happy as possible. To leave the woods at this time, however, was to invite capture, for the watchman had undoubtedly aroused the neighborhood and the woods would naturally be the first place searched for the fugitives. Nevertheless Shinburn decided to take a chance and left the dying man to comply with his last wish. He knew that it would be almost impossible to get a priest, but he broke into a furnishing store on the outskirts of the woods and went back to his dying comrade wearing a costume very much like that of a priest.
The approaching hand of death had dimmed the dying burglar's sight and he had no suspicion that the "priest" was his big-hearted comrade. In a slow, solemn tone Shinburn spoke words of encouragement to his dying friend, and the unfortunate man passed away, comforted by what he thought were the sacred words of a priest.
But instances of noble deeds among criminalswhose souls are generally believed to be wholly black might be narrated without end. These men and women who declare war against society only to find that CRIME DOES NOT PAY are not without their redeeming qualities.
Their evil deeds are published far and wide, but the good that they do seldom comes to light.
SOPHIE LYONS.
FORMER QUEEN OF CRIMINALS, WHO ANNOUNCES THAT SHE WILL DEVOTE THE REST OF HER LIFE AND HER FORTUNE OF $500,000 TO SAVING FIRST OFFENDERS.
Sophie Lyons has turned reformer.
With the mellowing influence of years, she is now 66, the erstwhile queen of women criminals has decided that crime does not pay and intends to devote her fortune and remaining days to saving others from paths that have been hers.
Her new resolution, she says, probably will alienate her husband, "Billy" Burke, who recently completed a prison term in Stockholm, Sweden. "I want to accomplish his reformation more than I do any other person's, no matter what the cost," she declared. "He is weak and easily tempted, and his criminal operations were not induced by necessity, as were mine. If my plans will help to make him a good man I shall feel they are not in vain."
In her modest little home Mrs. Lyons-Burke, who for 40 years was known intimately to the police of two continents and whose acquaintance with the interior of jails and prisons is world-wide, outlined to a representative her plans for the redemption of criminals.
"I haven't a great many years to live and I am worth half a million dollars," Mrs. Burke said. "I want to make amends as far as possible for what I have done in the past. I have lived a straight life for 25 years, and have accumulated much property by legitimate means. But there is something I crave more than money. Do you know what that is? It is the respect of good people. Maybe I can get some of this by showing that I am not all bad and that I am sincere in my effort to help others."
Great tears coursed down Mrs. Burke's face as she told of recent efforts to obtain the good-will and friendship of persons whose respectability is unquestioned. One of theseis a pastor of a Detroit church, who, she said, had urged her to talk to his congregation on the futility of a life of crime. She declined, feeling that she had no right to intrude herself among church people.
In her scheme for the saving of criminals, Mrs. Burke said that she intends to pay particular attention to first offenders and will exert every effort to prevail upon them to return to a life of respectability. "You know how hard it is for a man or woman to secure permanent work after leaving prison? I am going to help some of these. They will find a friend in Sophie Lyons."
Mrs. Burke said that she was considering an offer from a vaudeville booking concern to give 20-minute talks from the stage. "Do you think this would be a good idea?" she inquired eagerly. "I have had the same proposition from a lyceum lecture bureau, but I believe I can better reach those I want to reach in the theaters. If I decide to go on the stage every cent of the money I get will go to carry out my plans for reformation and to charity."
That she has an ambition to accomplish much good and to die poor, was Mrs. Burke's declaration. "My children are grown and self-supporting, and all my money and real estate will go to save criminals and to other charities," she said. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children was mentioned by Mrs. Burke as being one of her favorite charities. "I am doing something for this organization right along," she said, "and I expect to leave it a substantial bequest."
REFORMED CONFIDENCE WOMAN TAKES IN WHEELERS, WHO LIVED IN TENT
VERSES IN JEWISH BIBLE INFLUENCE HER TO ACTION—WANTS TO SHOW CHARITY
Mrs. Sophie Lyons-Burke was reading a Jewish prayer book in her home at 42 Twenty-third Street yesterday afternoon. She had just completed the following, which is a prayer for joyful occasions, when she had a visitor:
"Thou, O God, hast always been gracious unto me and hast often sent me joys even when I least deserved them. For all this abundance of Thy goodness I humbly thank Thee, and for the new happiness that comes to me (and my household) my soul is filled with gratitude. Let me not grow overbearing in prosperity nor arrogant because of my success, but let me enjoy Thy blessings with becoming gratitude and humility. Nor let me ever forget that the most acceptable thank-offering is to bring light and joy to those that sit in darkness and affliction, and give heed to the hungry and comfort the broken-hearted. May I, by doing what is pleasing to Thee, continue to find grace and favor in Thy sight."
"Thou, O God, hast always been gracious unto me and hast often sent me joys even when I least deserved them. For all this abundance of Thy goodness I humbly thank Thee, and for the new happiness that comes to me (and my household) my soul is filled with gratitude. Let me not grow overbearing in prosperity nor arrogant because of my success, but let me enjoy Thy blessings with becoming gratitude and humility. Nor let me ever forget that the most acceptable thank-offering is to bring light and joy to those that sit in darkness and affliction, and give heed to the hungry and comfort the broken-hearted. May I, by doing what is pleasing to Thee, continue to find grace and favor in Thy sight."
Everybody knows Sophie Lyons. They know about her past and about her present husband, who got into a Swedish prison through a little affair over diamonds, causing Sophie to cross the sea to cheer him up. They know of her utterance that a husband should be allowed an affinity now and then to add to the zest of his life, but in this instance she appears in a different light. Long ago she "squared it" with the police. Now she is evidently trying to "square it" with a higher authority. And this connects the prayer with the visitor.
The man who rapped on her door was A. H. Jones, inspector for the city poor commission. He was weary and almost discouraged, having been out since early morning looking for a home for the Wheelers. The Wheelers, husband, wife and six children, had been evicted from their residence at 92 Calahan Street Monday, the owner desiring to sell and not to rent the place. From then on they lived in a tent-like structure in a vacant lot alongside the house they had inhabited.
"You own a cottage at 51 Twenty-third Street?" asked Mr. Jones.
"Yes," was the reply; "but it is rented, I guess. Anyway, a man has agreed to take it."
Then followed the recital of the troubles of the Wheelers, the attempts of the city agent to find shelter, the offer of $10 a month for the barn and the failure because of the children.
Mrs. Burke thought for a moment. Then she smiled:
"See here what I was reading," she said. "'The most acceptable thank-offering is to bring light and joy to that sit in darkness.' You may put that family in that house. It has been remodeled, and is just about new. It has seven rooms and a bathroom, and will be all right, I guess. I will tell you why I am doing this.
"If I have all the world and have not charity I can never enter the gates of heaven."
The Wheelers moved to-day. Their furniture was all arranged about the tent, so there was no taking up of carpets or anything like that, loading into a van being all that was necessary. If it rains to-night, the man, incapacitated from work, won't lie awake and shiver and wonder how long it will take the downpour to soak through his shelter. He and his will be safe beneath a roof, a roof belonging to Sophie Lyons-Burke.
"CONFIDENCE QUEEN" ENDS HER TWENTIETH TOUR OF THE WORLD
Sophie Lyons, once called the "cleverest crook in the world" and the Confidence Queen, arrived recently in the first cabin of the French linerLa Lorraine, attired in the latest Parisian style of dress for an elderly woman, several trunks and a jewel case that the customs men made her open, unwilling to take her word that there was nothing dutiable in it.
Sophie is worth a half million, she says, and she has been for the last several years living "on the level" and looking over the world from the viewpoint of one who has or believes she has a taste for literature. Her trip onLorrainewas the end, she said, of her twentieth tour of the world.
The customs men who insisted on the opening of the jewel case, made fast by a padlock, were surprised to find nothing in it except a Jewish prayer book. One of the prayers that Sophie had marked ran thus:
"Thou, O Lord, hast always been gracious to me, and hast often sent me joys when I did least deserve them. For all this abundance of Thy goodness I humbly thank thee."
Sophie said she was a Jewess, despite her name, which is supplemented legitimately by Burke, Christian name Billy, who is in a Swedish prison. Sophie admitted yesterday that she was 65, but the records give her a few more years. She looks younger. She said she had spent the last seven months in leisurely circling the globe, and that she was engaged in writing another book to be called "Crime Queen," which would be in a measure autobiographical.
Sophie is the daughter of a Holland Jew named Van Elkan, she says, and her grandfather was a rabbi.