ROBBING THE BOYLSTON BANK
ROBBING THE BOYLSTON BANK
Being a native of Massachusetts, he decided to give his attention to something in his own State. He made a tour of inspection of all the Boston banks, and decided that the famous Boylston Bank, the biggest in the city, would suit him.
And, in picking this great bank, Raymond hadindeed selected an undertaking which was worthy of his skill and daring.
On Washington Street Raymond's quick eye at once discovered a vacant shop adjoining the Boylston Bank. He rented this shop, ostensibly for a patent medicine laboratory, filled the windows with bottles of bitters and built a partition across the back of the shop. The partition was to hide the piles of débris which would accumulate as the robbers burrowed into the bank next door; the bottles in the window to prevent passersby seeing too much of the interior.
When news of this clever ruse of Raymond's came out in the papers after the robbery, I made a note of it and used the same idea years later in robbing an Illinois bank at its president's request. That is an interesting chapter in my life which I will give you soon.
Careful measurements had shown where the tunneling through the thick walls of the bank could best be bored. Work was done only at night, and in a week's time only a thin coating of plaster separated them from the treasure. The robbers entered the vault on Saturday night, broke open three safes which they found there and escaped with a million dollars in cash and securities. After this crime America was not safe for Raymond, so he and his comrades, including Charley Bullard, fled to Europe.
In Paris Bullard opened a gambling house, and there Raymond lived when the criminal venturesfrom which he was amassing his first fortune permitted.
And now there entered into Raymond's life a very remarkable romance, which almost caused him to reform.
In one of the big Parisian hotels at this time was an Irish barmaid named Kate Kelley. She was an unusually beautiful girl—a plump, dashing blonde of much the same type Lillian Russell was years ago. Bullard and Raymond both fell madly in love with her.
The race for her favor was a close one, despite the fact that Bullard was an accomplished musician, spoke several languages fluently, and was in other ways Raymond's superior. The scales, however, were surely turning in Raymond's favor when the rumor that he was a bank robber reached Kate's ears.
Raymond admitted this was the truth. But he never attempted to take advantage of his friend Bullard by telling Kate that he also was a thief. That was characteristic of the man. Criminal though he was, he never stooped to anything mean or underhanded, and would stand by his friends through thick and thin. Instead of trying to drag Bullard to disappointment with him, he pleaded with Kate to forgive his past and to help him make a fresh start.
"Marry me," he urged, "and I'll never commit another crime. We'll go to some distant land andI'll start all over again in some decent, honorable business."
But Kate would not be persuaded. She could not marry a self-confessed thief—no, never! A month later she married Bullard, little dreaming how glad the American police would be to lay their hands on him. Raymond was best man at the wedding, and to his credit it should be said that the bridal couple had no sincerer well-wisher than he.
Kate never realized how she had been deceived until several years later, when Bullard was given a prison sentence for running a crooked gambling house. She got an inkling of the facts then and her husband confessed the rest. By this time, however, she had two little children, and her anxiety for them impelled her to become reconciled to the situation and stick to her husband. After his release they left the children in a French school, returned to this country, and took a brown-stone house at the corner of Cumberland Street and De Kalb Avenue, in Brooklyn. Here they installed all the costly furniture, bric-à-brac, and paintings which had made Bullard's gambling house one of the show places of Paris.
Soon afterward Raymond also came to America, although there was a price on his head for his share in the Boylston Bank robbery. He lived with Kate and Bullard until the latter's jealousy caused aquarrel. Then he went to London and laid the foundations for the international clearing house of crime which for years had its headquarters in his luxurious apartment in Piccadilly.
With Raymond's cool, calculating brain no longer there to guide him, Bullard became reckless and fell into the hands of the police. He was sentenced to twenty years in prison. For her own and her children's support his wife had nothing except the rich contents of the Brooklyn home. She tried various ways of making a living, with poor success, and was at last forced to offer a quantity of her paintings for sale in an art store on Twenty-third Street.
In this store one day she met Antonio Terry. His father was an Irishman, his mother a native of Havana, and he had inherited millions of dollars in Cuban sugar plantations. Young Terry was infatuated with Kate's queenly beauty, and he laid siege to her heart so ardently that she divorced her convict husband and married him. Two children blessed this exceedingly happy marriage. Before Terry died he divided his fortune equally among his wife, his own children, and the children she had by her first husband. Kate Terry lived until 1895, and left an estate valued at $6,000,000. She passed her last years in a magnificent mansion on Fifth Avenue, surrounded by every luxury.
Kate Kelley's refusal to marry Raymond was one of the great disappointments of his unhappy life. He married another woman, but I am sure he never forgot the winsome Irish barmaid whohad won his heart in Paris. "What's the news of Kate?" used to be his first question whenever I arrived in London, and his face would fall if something prevented my seeing her on my last visit to New York. Had this woman become Raymond's wife I am confident that the whole course of his life would have been changed, and that the world would have something to remember him for besides an unbroken record of crime.
As I have said, Raymond had not been long in London before he had forced his way into a commanding position in the criminal world. The cleverest thieves of every nation sought him out as soon as they set foot in England. They sought his advice, carried out his orders, and gladly shared with him the profits of their illegal enterprises. Crimes in every corner of the globe were planned in his luxurious home—and there, often, the final division of booty was made.
No crime seemed too difficult or too daring for Raymond to undertake. It was his almost unbroken record of success in getting large amounts of plunder and in escaping punishment for crimes that gave the underworld such confidence in him and made all the cleverest criminals his accomplices. Another reason for his leadership was his unwavering loyalty to his friends. Raymond never "squealed"—he never deserted a friend. Whenone of his associates ran foul of the law he would give as freely of his brains and money to secure his release as if his own liberty were at stake. It was his loyalty to a friend—a thief named Tom Warren—which led to his bold theft of the famous Gainsborough portrait for which J. Pierpont Morgan later paid $125,000. Here is how it came about:
Warren was in jail in London for his share in one of Raymond's forgeries. He was a great favorite of Raymond's and Harry vowed he would have him out before his case ever came to trial. This, however, was no easy matter, because England is not like this country, where almost anyone can furnish bond. The bondsman in England must be a freeholder and of good reputation.
While Raymond was searching his fertile brain for some way out of the difficulty, he and an English thief named Jack Philips happened to be walking through Bond Street and noticed the large number of fashionable carriages stopping at Agnew & Company's art gallery. To satisfy their curiosity they entered the gallery and found that everybody was crowding about a wonderful portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire, painted by the master hand of the great artist Gainsborough.
It was Gainsborough's masterpiece, and the Agnews were considering a number of bids that had been made for the painting. They had one offer of $100,000 from an American, but they were holding it on exhibition in the belief that a still better bid would be made.
Raymond stood long and thoughtfully on the edge of the crowd, studied the painting, took in the doors, walls, windows, chatted with an attendant, and slowly sauntered out, swinging his cane.
"I have the idea," exclaimed Raymond the instant they were in the street again. "We'll steal that picture and use it as a club to compel the Agnews to go bail for Tom Warren."
"You don't want that picture," said Philips. "It's a clumsy thing to do anything with."
"Of course I don't want the picture—but Agnew does," Raymond replied. "If I get it and send word that Tom Warren, who is in jail, knows where it's hidden—don't you suppose Agnew will hurry down to Old Bailey Prison, bail poor Tom out mighty quick, and pay him something besides if Warren digs up the picture for him?"
"He might," admitted Philips.
"Why, of course he will," persisted Raymond. "And it's the only way I can see to make sure of getting Tom Warren out before he is called for trial. When they try him they'll convict him; and then it's too late."
Philips was not enthusiastic over the scheme. In the first place he thought it too risky. Even if they did succeed in getting the picture he feared it would prove an elephant on their hands. Raymond, however, was a man who seldom receded from a decision, no matter how quickly it had been made. He argued away Philip's objections and with the assistance of Joe Elliott, a forger whom they took intotheir confidence, they proceeded with their plans for the robbery.
It was decided to make the attempt on the first dark, foggy night. Elliott was to be the "lookout" and keep a watchful eye for any of the army of policemen and private detectives who guarded the gallery's treasures. Philips was to serve as the "stepladder." On his broad, powerful shoulders, the light, agile Raymond would mount like a circus performer, climb through a window and cut the precious canvas out of the frame. It was a job fraught with the greatest danger, for the gallery was carefully protected with locks and bars and, besides, no one could tell when a policeman or detective might appear on the scene.
A thick fog settled down on the city the night of May 15, 1876. Under its cover the thieves decided to make their descent on the gallery early the next morning.
Just as the clocks were striking three, Raymond stole cautiously into the alley at the rear of the Agnew gallery. Then he was joined after a judicious interval by his two comrades.
Elliott remained near the mouth of the alley to watch for "bobbies." Raymond and Philips stealthily made their way over the back fence and to a rear window, whose sill was about eight feet from the ground.
Straining his ears for any ominous sound, Philips braced his big body to bear Raymond's weight. Then he made a stirrup of his hand and Raymond sprang like a cat to his shoulders.
Crouching in the darkness, Elliott watched and waited while Raymond applied his jimmy to the window. "Click" went the fastenings—but not too loud. The sash was cautiously raised and Harry Raymond dropped to the floor inside.
Unluckily for the owners of the Gainsborough, the watchmen were asleep on an upper floor. Raymond, with the clever thief's characteristic caution, first groped his way to the front door to see if he could unfasten it and thus provide a second avenue of escape for use in an emergency. But the locks and bars were too much for him and he gave up the attempt.
By the dim rays of his dark lantern he could see the gallery's pride—the famous Gainsborough, hanging on what picture dealers know as "the line"—that is to say, about five feet from the floor.
The place was as quiet as the grave. A sudden sound gave Raymond a start—but it was only a cat that came mewing out of the darkness. Outside a cab rattled by and the heavy tread of a policeman's feet echoed through the street.
Raymond procured a table, which he placed before the portrait. By standing upon it he was barely able to reach the top. With a long, sharp knife he carefully slashed the precious canvas from its heavy gold frame.
At one of the bottom corners Raymond's knife made a series of peculiar zigzags. Later he cut from the portrait a little piece that matched these jagged lines. This was to send to the Agnews as evidence that he really had the picture.
HOW RAYMOND CUT THE FAMOUS GAINSBOROUGH OUT OF ITS FRAME
HOW RAYMOND CUT THE FAMOUS "GAINSBOROUGH" OUT OF ITS FRAME.
After cutting the picture out, Raymond rolled it up carefully, tied it with a string, and buttoned it underneath his coat. Then he went out the same way he had entered, being careful to close the window behind him. With his companions he returned to his Piccadilly house and hid in a closet the picture which he hoped would prove his friend's ransom.
Next morning all London was in a fever of excitement over the loss of the Gainsborough. The Agnews offered $5,000 for its return and soon increased the reward to $15,000. A hundred of the best detectives in Scotland Yard scoured the city for clews.
The crime was shrouded in mystery. The doors of the gallery had not been tampered with. The fastenings of a rear window were broken, but the watchmen averred that no thief could have entered there as they had been sitting close by all night.
In all London the only persons who had no theories to advance as to the Gainsborough's fate were Raymond, Philips, and Elliott. They quietly waited for the excitement to subside, realizing that with the public mind in its present state it was altogether too hazardous to think of attempting to negotiate for the picture's return.
Meanwhile something happened to make the Gainsborough of no use to Raymond—his friendWarren was released from jail through the discovery of a technicality in his indictment. The famous portrait now became a veritable "white elephant." Raymond dared not return it—he feared to leave it in storage lest some one recognize it. So he carried the roll of canvas with him about the world until later, when, through "Pat" Sheedy's aid, he returned it to the Agnews and secured $25,000 for his pains.
And that is the history of what happened to Gainsborough's famous "Duchess of Devonshire" painting, which is now in J. Pierpont Morgan's private art gallery on Madison Avenue, New York. As I said earlier in this article, Raymond, who stole it, neither wanted the picture nor the money it represented. Raymond cut that painting from its frame as an act of loyalty to a fellow thief who was in trouble—to use it as a powerful lever to make sure of getting Tom Warren out of prison.
And right here, before going further with the episodes of Raymond's remarkable career, let me explain the mystery of how "Pat" Sheedy, the New York gambler, happened to be the person who sold the stolen Gainsborough back to the Agnews.
Long before that "Pat" Sheedy and Harry Raymond had done much business together. After Sheedy had accumulated a fortune by gambling, he built up a large and exceedingly profitable businessin the sale of stolen paintings. Through his wide acquaintance he formed a convenient connecting link between the rich men who could afford to buy rare paintings and the clever criminals who knew how to steal them. Raymond took up the stealing of paintings when he became too old and too well known to the police to attempt more profitable kinds of robbery, and it was through Sheedy that he disposed of most of them.
A number of years before Raymond died he met me in London and asked if I could do some business for him. Being in need of ready money, I readily agreed. He took me to his apartments and handed me two paintings which showed at a glance that they had been cut from their frames.
"I got these from a cathedral in Antwerp," said Raymond. "I want you to take them to New York and sell them to Pat Sheedy for $75,000. If he won't give that, bring them back to me. I'll pay you well for your time and trouble."
Accordingly I sailed for New York. By wrapping the pictures in some old clothes at the bottom of my trunk, I got them by the customs inspectors without any trouble. I had then never met Sheedy and it occurred to me that if I had to leave the pictures with him he might try to take advantage of my ignorance of art by substituting copies for the originals. So, before setting out for Sheedy's office in Forty-second Street, I took an indelible pencil and marked my initials, very small, on the back of each canvas.
As I had expected, Sheedy asked me to leave the pictures until the next day as he was not sure he could afford to pay $75,000 for them. The next day he put me off with some other excuse, and so it went on for two weeks until I felt sure something was wrong. Then one morning he handed me two pictures, saying:
"Sorry, but I don't think these are worth more than $10,000. If you'll take that for them, I'll buy them."
Of course, I told him my instructions were not to accept a cent less than $75,000, and if he didn't want to pay that I would have to take them back to London. I was about to roll them up when I chanced to think of looking for my initials. They were not there—Sheedy was trying to palm off cheap copies on me in place of the originals. Quick as a flash, I pulled out the revolver I always carried in those days; shoved it right under Sheedy's nose, and said:
"Come, Mr. Sheedy—hand over the original paintings I left with you, or I'll blow your head off!"
He was considerably amazed at this warlike nerve on my part, but still had nerve enough left to argue that those were the pictures I had given him. But I was not to be tricked like that. Finally he went into an adjoining room—I after him with the gun in my hand—pulled open a drawer and took out the canvasses which had my initials on the back.I carried them back to London, where Raymond sold them for $75,000, of which he gave me $10,000. I sold many stolen paintings to Sheedy after that, but he never tried to take advantage of me again.
Raymond often used to tell me that all his bad luck dated from the night he stole the famous Gainsborough. If the portrait really was a "hoodoo" its evil influence was a long time in taking effect. The two or three years after his robbery of the Agnew gallery saw the most daring crimes of his life and the money they yielded made him a multi-millionaire. Even his heavy losses at Monte Carlo could not seriously affect a fortune which was being steadily increased by all sorts of illegal undertakings.
He lived like a prince in London and Paris, owned several race horses and maintained, besides a sailing yacht, a palatial steam yacht with a crew of twenty men. He liked to vary the monotony of his cruises by deeds of piracy as sensational as any Captain Kidd ever attempted. On one such occasion he robbed a post-office on the island of Malta; on another he attempted to loot a warehouse on the docks at Kingston, Jamaica. This last exploit would have ended in his capture by a British gunboat which pursued him for twenty miles had his yacht not been a remarkably speedy craft.
Raymond was a natural leader of men, and he had a sharp eye for able assistants. In his gangswere the greatest experts he could collect around him. Raymond was not a technically educated machinist, and he felt the need of an expert mechanic. For a number of years he watched the work of various other bank burglars and gave especial attention to any work that showed peculiar mechanical skill in getting into locks and steel safes.
Finally Raymond got his eye on a very promising young burglar named Mark Shinburn, who turned out to be a perfect wonder as a safe opener. Shinburn had served an apprenticeship in a machine shop and soon got a job in the factory of the Lilly Safe Company. Locks and safes had a peculiar fascination for Shinburn and he rapidly mastered the whole scheme, theory, and practice of lock-making, and knew the weak points not only of the locks his own company made but also of all the other big safe makers whose locks and safes were on the market.
Shinburn was just the man to fit into Raymond's band of experts. He had the peculiar and valuable technical knowledge that Raymond lacked. Raymond would select a bank, study the habits of the bank clerks, survey the situation, and lay out the plans for the job. Raymond would execute all these preliminaries and would lead his men into the bank and face to face with the safe; but at this point Shinburn would bring his genius into action and Raymond would stand by holding his dark lantern and watching Shinburn with silent admiration.
Raymond and Shinburn were the moving spiritsof the bold gang which robbed the Ocean Bank in New York of a million dollars. With them were associated Jimmy Hope, who later led the attack on the Manhattan Bank; my husband, Ned Lyons, George Bliss, and several others.
On his return from a series of bank robberies on the Continent, Raymond took apartments in the house of a widow who lived with her two daughters in Bayswater, a suburb of London. He became in time much attached to this woman and her children, and lavished every luxury on them, including the education of the girls in the best French schools. For years this family never suspected their benefactor was a criminal, but supposed him to be a prosperous diamond importer.
When the eldest daughter's education was finished Raymond married her. She was a beautiful woman, but a weak, clinging sort of creature—very different from strong, self-willed Kate Kelley. Although passionately fond of her, Raymond's attitude toward her was always that of the devoted father rather than the loving husband.
After his marriage Raymond made many sincere attempts to reform. He became a student of art and literature, and for months at a time would live quietly in his London home or on board his yacht. Then the old life would call him—he would mysteriously drop out of sight for a few weeks, and with the aid of some of his old associates add another crime to his record.
On one of these occasions he and John Curtin, adesperate burglar, went to Liège, Belgium. Their object was the robbery of a wagon which carried a large amount of valuable registered mail.
Raymond had fitted a key to the lock on the wagon and had sent a decoy package, whose delivery would necessitate the driver leaving the mail unguarded at a certain place. Curtin was to delay the driver's return while Raymond climbed up on the front of the wagon and rifled the pouches.
But Curtin carelessly failed to carry out part of this arrangement and the driver caught Raymond in the act. He was arrested, convicted, and given the first and only prison sentence he ever received—eight years at hard labor. With the loyalty for which he was famous Raymond steadfastly refused to reveal the identity of the confederate to whose folly he owed his own arrest, and Curtin escaped to England.
Soon after his sentence began, rumors reached Raymond in prison of the undue intimacy of his wife and Curtin. He investigated the reports and found them true. Raging with indignation at his wife's weakness and his friend's treachery, he broke his lifelong habit of loyalty, confessed to the authorities Curtin's share in the attempted robbery and told them where he could be found. Curtin was brought back to Belgium and sentenced to five years in prison.
Mrs. Raymond's mind gave way under its weight of remorse, and soon after her husband's release she died in an asylum. This was not the only crushing misfortune the released convict had to face. Through unfortunate investments and the dishonesty of friends he had trusted, his fortune had dwindled to almost nothing. He had to sell his yachts, his horses, and his London house with its fine library and art galleries in order to raise enough to provide for the education of his three children. He sent them to America, where they grew to manhood and womanhood in ignorance of the truth about their father.
With an energy worthy of a better cause, Raymond at once set about making a new fortune. The whole world was his field-forgeries, bank robberies, and jewel thefts his favorite methods. But the nervous strain under which he had always lived and the long prison term were beginning to tell on him. His health was poor—his hand and brain were losing much of their cunning. Each crime made the next one more difficult, as the police got to know him and his methods better, and at last he was forced to abandon the bolder forms of robbery and devote his time entirely to the theft of famous paintings.
Yet, in the face of these handicaps, Raymond made in those last years of his life several fortunes. But one after another they were all swept away as quickly as they were made, and he died, as I have said, penniless.
Did crime pay Harry Raymond? He invested his natural endowment of brains, resourcefulness, daring, energy, and perseverance in criminal enterprises—and died a hunted, hungry, trembling outcast. One-half his industry and intelligence expended in honest business would have insured him a great and enduring fortune and a respected name. If crime does not pay for the really great criminals, how can the small criminals have any hope?
HOW I ESCAPED FROM SING SING, AND OTHER DARING ESCAPES FROM PRISON THAT PROFITED US NOTHING.
It is not easy to get out of Sing Sing Prison. Ned Lyons, the bank burglar, my husband, got out, and so did I. We were both serving sentences of five years at the same time.
Ned Lyons was a desperate man, and he had no notion of remaining long in any prison. Although his body was already considerably punctured with pistol bullets, he did not welcome the idea of inviting the rifle balls from the armed sentries who patroled the prison walls on all sides. A dash for liberty was out of the question—if he was to escape it must be through some adroit scheme which would not make him a target for the riflemen who surround the prison.
My husband and I had a comfortable home on the East Side in New York, but I had very little peace of mind because of the activities of Lyons and his energetic companions. As I have said before, these men had found it very convenient to have my assistance in their various enterprises, and so it was that my husband and I both got into Sing Sing at the same time—Lyons was confined in the men's prison and I was in the women's prison just across the road.
It was the Waterford, N. Y., bank that had beenrobbed of $150,000, and in the party were George Bliss, Ira Kingsland, and the famous Jimmy Hope. Of the whole party, Hope alone was not caught. Just how my husband got out of Sing Sing I am able to explain, because I myself planned the escape.
The day I reached Sing Sing I was turned over to the prison physician for him to find out what my physical condition was, and what kind of work I was best fitted to do. This doctor's name was Collins. I shall never forget him for he was one of the kindest hearted men I ever knew. In my hope of being assigned to some easy work where I would be able to assist in my husband's plans for escape, I pretended to him I was suffering from all sorts of ailments.
"Why, Doctor," I said, "I'm a sick woman, and besides I don't know how to do any kind of work. I've never had to work for a living."
"Well, my good little woman," the doctor replied, "you'll have to learn to work. You're in here for five years, and nobody is allowed to play the lady in Sing Sing Prison, you know."
"But, Doctor," I said, "you wouldn't have Sophie Lyons be anything but a lady, would you?"
"I'd like to make an honest woman of you, Sophie—that's more important than being a lady," he answered gravely, "and I'm going to try. I've got enough confidence in your sense of honor to give you a position as assistant nurse in the prisonhospital. If you profit by your opportunities there, you can learn a good trade which will enable you to make an honest living when your term is up."
Nothing could have suited me better. A position in the hospital is the easiest work the prison offers, and it would give me just the opportunities I needed to help my husband escape. But I tried not to let Dr. Collins see how delighted I was and pretended to be very tearful and penitent as I thanked him for his kindness.
My husband was allowed to come and see me once a week under guard of a prison keeper. My conduct was so good and had given the matron and Dr. Collins such confidence in me that Ned and I were soon permitted to talk without any prison official being present to listen, as the prison rules required.
On these visits we had opportunity for discussing various plans for escape, but we both agreed that no one of them would probably succeed. I favored trying to get a forged pass—a counterfeit of the passes given to visitors, which the keeper at the prison door must have before he allows anybody to leave the building. But my husband had serious doubts.
About this time the matron's two children were taken sick and I was assigned to her house to take care of them. So faithfully did I nurse them back to health that the matron became quite fond of me and wanted me to remain there permanently as her personal servant.
When Ned Lyons came to see me again he was amazed at my good fortune in receiving a position which was the next best thing to liberty itself. It not only gave me all sorts of liberties but it enabled me to dress like any servant girl instead of in the regulation prison costume. This last fact would prove of tremendous advantage when my opportunity to make a break for liberty came.
Besides this I was allowed a little pocket money to buy candies, fruit, and occasional trinkets for the children.
Ned brought good news this time. He had pondered over my suggestion of a forged pass and the more he thought of it the more it seemed a promising scheme. But there were several important things that must be done, and done well, to make the plan reasonably sure of success.
Lyons, in prison, could not personally attend to the necessary details. He must have outside help. Usually, in such emergencies, I was the one who was relied upon to attend to matters of this kind—but, unfortunately, I, too, was in prison and under close watch.
So, in casting about for a reliable friend, Lyons decided to ask the help of "Red" Leary, the bank burglar, who had been associated with my husband in the famous $3,000,000 Manhattan Bank robbery. Word was sent to Leary and, on the next "visitors'day," a gentleman with high silk hat and black gloves and a lawyer's green bag drove up to the prison and sent in his card to the Warden—could Ned Lyons's "lawyer" see his imprisoned client?
In this guise "Red" Leary, high hat, lawyer's bag and gloves, swept into the prison and was courteously allowed an interview with my husband. Ned explained that two important things were needed—a visitor's pass properly signed with the Warden's signature, and a carefully selected disguise for the escaping man to use. Could "Red" Leary attend to these two matters? "Red" Leary could, and with much pleasure—and the first move in the proceedings then and there was to carefully chew up his pass into a wad and tuck it behind his upper molar teeth.
Ned Lyons was led back to his cell and his "lawyer" put on his silk hat and arose to leave. He began searching his pockets and his green bag for his missing pass. An attendant helped him. Then the keeper at the door took a hand and looked through his pocketbook and papers while the "lawyer," in much distress, turned his pockets inside out. But no pass could be found.
At last the principal keeper, Connaughton, was called and he reprimanded the "lawyer" severely for his carelessness, but finally allowed the visitor to depart—and behind "Red" Leary's back teeth was the pass that was so much needed in forging a fresh one, with the proper day and date on it Leary returned to New York and enlisted theservices of a friend who was an expert check forger and soon had a pass that the Warden of Sing Sing himself would not know was a forgery. And this precious piece of paper was smuggled in to Lyons and he hid it in a crack in the floor of his cell. Ned planned to use this pass in making his escape if he could get a wig to cover his closely cropped head, a false beard to disguise his face, and a suit of clothes to replace his prison stripes in time for the next visitors' day.
"Red" Leary was to call to see me the next day and I was to arrange with him about securing these necessaries. They were to be left in an obscure corner grocery outside the prison where a "trusty," whom my husband had befriended, would claim them and smuggle them into Ned's cell.
It was a Wednesday I had my last call from Ned. Through one of those mysterious underground channels which keep the inmates of every prison in such close touch with the outside world, my husband had learned that on the following Tuesday, which was a visitors' day, the Warden and several other prominent officials of the prison were to be away attending a political meeting. That was the day he had set for his escape, provided our friend Leary could deliver the necessary disguise in time.
I had my doubts about "Red" Leary, who was good hearted enough and meant well, but was prone to be careless about keeping appointments. To my delight, however, he was on hand next day and he got permission from the matron to see me. WhenI asked him if he had everything in readiness he burst into a torrent of eager explanations.
"It's all out there in the buggy, Sophie," he said, "tied up in a bundle that you'd take for anything but what it is. Everything's there and everything's right. Why, even the shirt and collar are Ned's right size, and, say, I bet they'll feel good after rubbing his neck for months against that rough prison stuff."
Leary was a talkative fellow and he was going on with a detailed description of the wig and false beard which he had had made to order for the occasion, when Dr. Collins and the matron appeared at the end of the corridor where we were sitting. I signaled "Ned" to keep quiet and led him over to a window.
There, under pretext of showing him some geraniums I was trying to coax into bloom, I hurriedly explained where he was to leave the things and sent him away on the errand which meant so much to Ned and me.
The next Tuesday was the longest, most nerve-racking day of my life. I had slept little the night before. All night long my mind was turning over Ned's plans—how, by feigning sickness, he would get permission to leave the shop and go to his cell; how he would change his clothes and put on the wig and false beard "Red" Leary had bought; andhow, just as his fellow prisoners were being marched in to their noonday meal, he would mingle with the little crowd of departing visitors, surrender his forged pass at the gate and walk out of the main entrance of the prison a free man.
I had approved every bit of this plan—in fact, I myself had mapped out a large part of it. Yet now, when I considered on what narrow margins its success depended, I felt it was foredoomed to failure. Ned would be caught in the act—he would be put in solitary confinement—perhaps he would be shot dead by some vigilant guard.
I arose unusually early that Tuesday morning and worked unusually hard—to hide my nervousness.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened to relieve the awful tension. Early in the morning I heard from one of the other prisoners that the Warden and his assistants had gone away for the day. This, of course, coincided with Ned's plans, but it brought me little relief, for I feared that perhaps the officers left in charge might, in the absence of their superiors, be unusually careful in guarding their convict charges.
Noon came and went and still I heard nothing to relieve my anxiety. "No news is good news," I kept saying to myself, and in this case the old adage really spoke the truth. If there was no excitement about the prison it was good evidence that Ned's absence had not been noted. And if they did not discover his absence until they came to lock the prisoners up for the night all was well, for by that timeI knew Ned would be safe in his old haunts on the East Side, in New York City.
But there still remained the discouraging possibility that at the last minute some of his plans had miscarried and he had been obliged to postpone the attempt.
Night came and I was setting the table for the evening meal when I heard the sounds of some unusual excitement over in the men's prison, across the road. There was much running to and fro, keepers were shouting to each other and presently the prison bell began to ring frantically. The sound of the bell made my heart jump—it was never rung, I knew, except in case of fire or when a prisoner escaped.
"What on earth is that bell ringing for?" said the matron. I was just saying that I didn't know and was trying to hide my excitement when in rushed Dr. Collins, all breathless and worried.
"Heard the news?" he shouted. And before the matron could say yes or no out he burst with the whole story.
"Ned Lyons, the bank robber, has escaped!" he said. "He's been gone since noon and they never knew it until just now, when they went to lock him in his cell and found nothing there but his suit of stripes. It's the boldest escape there's been in years.
"According to all accounts he walked right out of the main gate, stepped into a buggy that was waiting, and drove off like a gentleman. Of coursehe was disguised, and so cleverly they say that one of the head gatekeepers bowed to him at the gate, thinking he was a member of that new legislative commission from Albany."
A great weight rolled from my heart—Ned was free! I managed to control my feelings and it was lucky I did, for the next instant I saw the matron point a warning finger in my direction, and at that the doctor lowered his voice so that I could hear no more.
The next morning, of course, the whole prison knew of the escape.
"If I get out I'll have you out in a few weeks," Ned had promised, and every day I was expecting some word from him.
As time went on, the confidence the matron and the doctor had in me seemed to increase rather than diminish. Soon I was allowed to accompany the matron's little daughters on long walks through the grounds outside the prison, and even as far as the village.
On one of these walks my attention was attracted by the peculiar actions of an old Indian peddler. He was a copper-colored, long-haired old chief, with Indian baskets and strings of beads on his arms. As soon as the girls and I stepped out of the prison gate this queer looking, bent old man singled us out from all the rest of the crowd and began following us about, urging us with muffled grunts to buy someof the bead goods he carried in a basket strapped around his neck.
I thought he was crazy and told him very emphatically that I didn't want any of his trash. But this did not discourage him in the least, and he dogged our footsteps wherever we went.
At last—more to be rid of the old fellow than because I wanted anything he had—I selected from his stock a pair of bead slippers.
As I handed him the money I felt him press a little folded slip of paper into the hollow of my hand.
Quick as a flash I closed my fingers over it, and in that instant I recognized—under the old Indian peddler's clever disguise—my husband, Ned Lyons.
He had come back to the very gates of the prison from which he had escaped to bring this message to me!
Kate Leary, wife of "Red" Leary, the bank burglar, was coming to see me soon—so the note said. I was to have my plans for escape all ready to discuss with her.
Now, the only way of getting out of my prison I had been able to discover was through a door which led from a little used passageway in the basement of the matron's house to a point just outside the prison walls.
This door—a massive, iron-barred affair—was seldom if ever opened. The big brass key which unlocked it hung with other keys from a ring suspended at the matron's belt.
Kate Leary could easily have a duplicate of that key made, but first I must secure a model of the original. This wasn't a difficult task—I had often done similar tricks to aid my husband in his bank robberies. I slipped into the matron's room while she was taking a nap and took a careful impression of the key on a piece of wax.
In due time Kate Leary brought the key which had been carefully made from my wax model. At the first opportunity I tried it—it fitted the rusty old lock perfectly! Hiding the key away as carefully as I ever hid any stolen diamonds, I waited impatiently for the night set for my escape.
It came at last. Between 6 and 7 o'clock was the hour, because then my household duties frequently took me into the vicinity of the basement door. It was a crisp December evening. It had snowed heavily all day, and it was still snowing and was growing colder.
About 6:30 I heard a peculiar low whistle. That was the signal that the pair of horses and the sleigh which were to carry me away were waiting outside.
There was, of course, no opportunity to get my hat and coat. Luckily I was all alone in the lower house—upstairs I could hear the matron and her family laughing and talking over their dinner.
Putting down the tray of dishes I was carrying I snatched the key from its hiding place under a flour barrel and hurried noiselessly along the dark passageway to the door that led to liberty.
My heart was thumping with excitement—myfingers were trembling so that I could hardly find the keyhole. It seemed ages before the lock turned and I stepped out into the cold winter night.
Although every second was precious, I took the time to close the door behind me and lock it. By thus concealing the way I had gone I would delay my pursuers just so much.
From an open window above me floated the voice of one of the matron's little daughters as I picked my way through the snow, bareheaded and with house slippers, avoiding the regular path.
"Mamma," she was saying; "why doesn't Sophie bring the rest of my dinner?"
"She'll bring it in a minute," the mother replied.
I heaved a sigh of relief—quite evidently my absence had not yet caused any suspicion.
Hurling the key into a snowdrift, I ran to the waiting sleigh. Ned was standing beside the sleigh with a big warm fur coat outstretched in his arms. Without a word I slipped into the coat, hopped into the sleigh, and Ned gave the horses a clip with the whip and away we dashed toward Poughkeepsie.
The long fur coat and stylish hat which Ned had brought made me look like anything but an escaped convict. After a good warm supper at Poughkeepsie, we took the night train for New York and reached there safely the next morning.
And so we were free!
But what had we gained by our escape? We shall see.
When my husband first suggested his escape fromSing Sing he promised me that if he ever succeeded in getting out he would give up crime and turn to some honest and honorable work. That promise was made while his remorse was sharpened by his sudden change from high living to poor prison fare, and I was now to see how weak his good intentions really were.
After a few weeks in New York, where we received the warm congratulations of many friends on our escape from Sing Sing, we went to Canada to visit our children who were in school there. It was not long before our funds began to get low. I thought this a favorable time to remind my husband of his promises and to urge him to get some honest employment. But he would not listen to me.
"That would be all very well if I had any money," he said; "but I can't settle down until I have enough capital to give me a decent start. Wait until I do one more good bank job and then I will think about living differently."
I agreed to this reluctantly, for I felt a premonition that when this "one more job" was finished we should both find ourselves back in Sing Sing again. And, as it turned out, I was right.
It was not altogether lack of money or the desire to live a decent life which made me plead with Ned to reform. The fact that there was a reward on both our heads and that at any minute someambitious detective was liable to recognize us was beginning to tell on my nerves. Ned used to try to laugh my fears away by saying that I saw policemen in my sleep. Probably I did—at any rate, I know that for months, asleep or awake, I would jump at the slightest sound, thinking it was an officer come to take us back to Sing Sing. We could not live natural lives but had to be constantly dodging about, and occasionally running to cover for long intervals.
The "one more job" my husband had in mind was the robbery of a Montreal bank. He looked the ground over, found it to his liking, and then sent for a friend of ours, Dave Cummings, an experienced bank robber, to come on from New York and help us.
It was really a very simple undertaking for three such expert criminals as we were. My part of it was merely to stand in the shadow of an alley and watch for the possible return of one of the bank's two watchmen. There was small chance of his putting in an appearance, for my husband had previously cultivated his acquaintance, and on this particular evening had been plying him with mugs of ale until he had left him fast asleep in a nearby saloon.
Inside the bank there was a second watchman. He was an old man, but when he discovered Ned and Dave crawling through the rear window, which they had opened with their jimmies, he put up such a stiff fight that they had all they could do to stunhim with a blow on the head, stuff a handkerchief down his throat, and tie his hands and feet with a piece of rope. As it was, they made so much noise that I nearly had nervous prostration in the alley where I was crouching half a block away.
"I think I'd better keep an eye on this old chap while you get the coin, Dave," my husband said, ruefully rubbing a bruised cheek he had received in the tussle with the faithful guardian of the bank.
So, as a matter of precaution, my husband mounted guard with his revolver over the watchman, while Dave solved the combination of the safe. Nothing further happened to interfere with our plans and by daybreak we were well on our way toward the Canadian border.
We had expected to get at least $30,000 from this robbery, but when we came to empty the satchel in which Dave had placed the plunder, we found there was not quite half that amount. It was all Dave's fault, as we learned later from the newspapers. He had carelessly overlooked a bundle of currency containing $25,000. I had always considered Dave Cummings a thoroughly careful and reliable man, but this expensive oversight of his rather shook my confidence in him.
My husband and I returned to New York with our share of the booty. There, a few days later, we were arrested, but not for the bank robbery in Montreal. The detectives who had been searching for us ever since our escape from Sing Sing hadfound our hiding place at last, and they took us back to prison to serve out our terms.
In our prison cells, once more, we had ample opportunity to consider how fruitless of results our escape had been. For all the risks we had run in getting out and for all the worrisome months we had spent in dodging detectives we had nothing to show except the fleeting satisfaction of a few days with our children. What had we gained? Nothing.
A criminal's reputation for cleverness among his fellows depends very largely upon his ability to escape—or to help his friends to escape. Mark Shinburn used to take more pride in the way he broke into the jail at White Plains, New York, to free Charley Bullard and Ike Marsh, two friends of his, than he did in some of his boldest robberies.
After reconnoitering the ground and carefully planning the jail delivery, Shinburn and his companion, Raymond, put in a hard night's work burrowing into the jail. They took Marsh and Bullard out, but what was gained? Marsh was soon in trouble again and Bullard was taken again and ended his days in prison.
And now one more instance—a very curious one.
Of all the ways by which thieves have cheated the law out of its due, the most ingenious was probably the way "Sheeney Mike" brought about his release from the Massachusetts State Prison. He feignedillness so cleverly that the eminent physicians of the State Medical Board pronounced him suffering from a mysterious and incurable disease and ordered his release after he had served only three years of his twelve-year sentence for one of his daring burglaries.
It was the robbery of Scott & Co.'s silk warehouse in Boston that sent "Sheeney Mike" to Charlestown Prison, from which he so ingeniously escaped. He discovered that the watchman was vigilant all through the night except between the hours of 12 and 1 o'clock, when he went out to get something to eat. Mike secured a false key which unlocked a door to the warehouse, and arranged for two trucks to be on hand at a few minutes past 12 one night.
When the truckmen arrived they found Mike at the door of the warehouse coolly smoking a cigar. Quite naturally they thought he was the proprietor. After helping the men to load the trucks with $20,000 worth of expensive silks, "Sheeney Mike" turned out the lights, locked the door, and drove away to Medford, a suburb of Boston, where the goods were unloaded.
Before Mike found an opportunity to ship his plunder to New York he was arrested, found guilty, and sentenced to fifteen years in prison.
He tried every means of escape he could think of without avail. At last, in his desperation to get out, he began drinking large quantities of strong soap suds. This made him deathly sick and unableto retain any nourishment. His sufferings became so intense that he had to be removed from his cell to the prison hospital.
In the prison hospital the doctor in charge began watching his patient to be sure that some trick was not being played on him. A careful examination of Mike revealed no organic trouble—the doctor could find no reason for the strange symptoms. And yet right in front of his eyes Mike would be taken with violent pains in the stomach, followed by vomiting.
The prison doctor was worried. He gave stomach tonics. Still the spasms and nausea continued. He put his patient on a cereal diet—but his vomiting was not lessened. He changed the diet; he gave beef juice; he changed it to milk and brandy—nothing brought relief.
The prison doctor was worried. Here was this once vigorous man wasting away to a pallid skeleton in spite of his best efforts. The doctor was a conscientious man and he called a consultation of two outside physicians at his own expense. They patiently went over the record of the case and examined "Sheeney Mike" minutely—there was nothing to account for the patient's alarming condition. Still, it might possibly be this or that, and so they would recommend trying a few things that had not yet been tried by the prison doctor.
"Sheeney Mike" thought that the time had come for some new manifestation of his mysterious disease which would still further puzzle and frighten the doctor, so, as the new treatment of the consulting doctors was begun, Mike made preparation for some new symptoms. He scraped an opening in his right side and each night rubbed salt and pepper into it. He soon had an angry looking inflammation which shortly produced a flow of pus. When Mike had reached this achievement with his sore he languidly called the doctor's attention to it.
This new development was enough. The doctor sadly shook his head. Things were going from bad to worse.
"My poor man," he said, "you probably haven't a month to live—certainly not in this prison. You might improve if you had your freedom; I don't know. I am convinced that it would be murder to keep you here. I shall at once recommend to Governor Butler that you be pardoned. I decline to have your death on my conscience any longer."
On the ground that the patient could not possibly live more than a few weeks in prison all three doctors solemnly certified to the Governor that "Sheeney Mike" was a dying man and recommended immediate pardon. Governor Butler approved the recommendation, and next day out walked "Sheeney Mike" free, pardoned and restored to fullcitizenship. Soap suds, a little salt and a sprinkling of pepper had opened the bars for him.
But what did "Sheeney Mike" gain by all this? Nothing.
He had his freedom and a laugh on the doctors—but his astonishing persistence in his soap-sud poisoning had so undermined his health that he never recovered his strength and he finally died in Bellevue Hospital in great agony after a long and painful illness.
And now one more case—also unusual and remarkable.
Of course, the escape of Eddie Guerin, a few years ago from Devil's Island surprised everybody and attracted a great deal of attention. Guerin is a well-known thief who has operated in England, America and more or less all over Europe. Guerin, with a companion, robbed a bank in Lyons, France, of $50,000, and a little later stole $30,000 from the American Express Company in Paris. These two jobs were too much for the French police, and they grabbed Guerin.
Guerin, traveling under the name of Walter Miller, and assisted by an accomplice, entered the American Express Company's office in Paris under the pretense of transacting some business. The other man busied himself attracting the attention of the agent while Guerin sprang across the counter with a drawn pistol. At this moment the agent and a couple of clerks noticed Guerin's peculiar activity, but they were unable to make any outcry or movebecause Guerin's accomplice kept the express company's employees covered with a couple of revolvers. Guerin helped himself to $30,000 which was lying within reach in an open safe, and then the two thieves coolly walked out the door.
Guerin was caught and convicted of the express company robbery, and sentenced to fourteen years' imprisonment in the French penal colony on Devil's Island, off the coast of South America. This is the place where Captain Dreyfus, the French army officer, was imprisoned, and it has been the boast of the French police that nobody can escape from Devil's Island.
Guerin had served four years of his sentence before he succeeded in maturing a plan for escape. He had the friendship of a notorious woman known as "Chicago May," who collected a fund in New York's underworld and managed to get the money into Guerin's hands on Devil's Island. By the judicious use of this money Guerin arranged for the escape of himself and two other prisoners, French convicts, whom he decided would be helpful to him in the journey through the swamps and wildernesses after they left the penal colony.
The prison officials who had been reached by Guerin's fund arranged to have him and his fellow convicts sent under guard to the outermost part of the Island, which is a dense swamp, full of malaria and poisonous snakes and insects. The next day the guards, who had been well paid, buried a dead convict in the prison cemetery, and over the gravethey set up a headboard bearing the name "Eddie Guerin." This was to complete the records of the prison, and a duly certified copy of the prison record, telling of Guerin's death and burial, was forwarded to France.
This much accomplished, Guerin and his two companions were allowed to get away from the guards and they were soon lost in the swamp. They were allowed to carry some tools, water, and provisions. While the guards made a feeble and perfunctory search in the swamps the three convicts set to work busily completing a boat and paddles. When these were finished they loaded the boat with their food supplies, launched it and headed along the South American coast for Dutch Guiana, the three men paddling and sleeping by turns.
I have heard Guerin's own account of his escape, and I will repeat it just as he told it.
Guerin was armed with a revolver and cartridges, fortunately, as otherwise all his planning would have been in vain. After a day or two in the boat he noticed that his two companions were growing very chummy. They were astonishingly willing to do the paddling and let him sleep.
So one night Guerin feigned to be asleep but kept an eye and both ears open. Presently he heard his companions talking together in Spanish, which they had no reason to believe he understood.
The men whom he had helped out of prison had made up their minds that he had a lot of money left. They were conspiring to slit his throat as he slept,rob his body and feed him to the sharks. The men lost no time in putting the enterprise into operation. But, as they crept upon him, knives in hand, they found themselves looking into the muzzle of his revolver.
"For three days and nights," Guerin has told, "I could hardly lower the muzzle of my revolver, and for them to stop paddling would mean only prolongation of the agony of our escape."
At last all were so exhausted that they decided to try to rig a sail by tying their shirts to an oar. A breeze had sprung up and a moderately large sea was now endangering the craft. Everywhere about the boat were big man-eating sharks. These creatures swam around the boat, frequently whirling over on their backs and snapping their jaws within reaching distance of the little craft.
One of Guerin's companions began to complain about his eyes, and the reflection of the fierce tropical sun on the water had almost blinded all three convicts. Suddenly this man stood up in the boat and pressed his sun-burned hands to his eyes. He groped for a moment about him like a blind man, and then lost his balance and fell to the side of the canoe. The boat heeled over and began to take water over the side and Guerin and this companion were thrown into the water. A shark close by made a dash for Guerin's companion, and this gave Guerin a chance to clamber back into the canoe, as another shark swept around the stern, narrowly missing the American burglar.
The tragic end of one of the party terrified Guerin and the remaining convict, and put an end to the conspiracy against Guerin. But the straining of the canoe when it had nearly upset and the rising sea had made the boat begin to leak. Guerin and his fellow voyager decided that they could not risk it any longer in the boat, but must make a landing and continue their journey through the swamps and wildernesses and run the risk of encountering hostile natives.
After the canoe was beached they hauled it up on shore and hid it among the trees so as to leave no track in case a searching party should follow after them. They had no very definite idea of the proper direction to follow—knowing only that they were on the wild coast of Dutch Guiana, and must travel inland several miles to find a settlement. Both men were as thin as skeletons, worn out with bailing and paddling the leaky boat, and their scanty food supply was scarcely fit to eat. They plunged haphazard into the tropical forest and swamp. They had nothing to mark the time but the sun, which was sometimes completely hidden by the dense foliage. Threading cautiously through the swamps and forests filled with treacherous death traps, they were terrified and tortured by the constant presence of poisonous snakes and venomous insects and lizards. Describing this trip, which lasted several days, Guerin said:
"After a while we seemed to be struggling through an endless maze, that was leading in the end to nowhere, and this sort of thing went on and on. Sometimes the undergrowth, waist high, would rustle as an invisible snake took flight before us. The next moment we would be floundering in a quagmire, not knowing whether to go back or to the left or to the right, and conscious of sinking deeper with each second of indecision."
"With throbbing head, burning skin, chattering teeth, aching and leaden limbs, we were inclined to throw ourselves down to miserably die, and we knew that the swamp fever was upon us."
Finally, Guerin and his companion reached a river and concluded that they would follow its bank in the hope of coming upon a native camp, where they would take chances of a friendly or unfriendly reception. Before long their bloodshot eyes beheld a hut. As they approached it, swaying and trembling from their hunger and hardships and fever, a black native emerged and set up a shout which soon collected many other blacks from neighboring huts, who rushed at them with spears.
Guerin could not understand their language, but endeavored to explain to them that they wanted food, rest, and a guide. Guerin's companion, in an effort to make plain their willingness to pay for what they wanted, showed a couple of francs in silver. This was an unfortunate move, because it excited the cupidity of the blacks, who promptly fell upon them and searched them and took awayeverything they had of value, after which they were pushed into a hut and kept prisoners.
Sick, weak, almost discouraged, Guerin and his companion managed to escape, and, stumbling through the treacherous morasses, emerged in the neighborhood of an Indian village. Unlike the blacks, these natives greeted the strangers in a friendly manner and invited Guerin and his companion to stay with them until they were rested and able to continue their journey. After a few days Guerin and the other convict were given a guide by the Indians and he piloted them to a seaport, where they embarked on a boat loading for New Orleans. From New Orleans Guerin went to Boston, and then took passage for England, hoping to find the woman he had been in love with when he was sent away to Devil's Island. Guerin found her, but she was then the sweetheart of another. In the row that followed this woman and her lover tried to shoot Guerin.
And so Eddie Guerin escaped—but he purchased his freedom at a frightful cost of agony and ruined health.
Does crime pay? Nobody will claim that it does if the criminal gets into prison. But criminals often escape from prison, it is urged—what then? And it is to answer this question that I have endeavored to take the public behind the scenes and show them the real truth about a few famous escapes from prison, and how the escaped convicts profited nothing, but were, indeed, worse off than they were before.