I never got the man who fired at me — another Negro who sought to become a hero by getting a cop. An informant gave me a name, but I knew he had a grudge against the man and I couldn’t trust the information.
Thus it went for months in the district while the war continued. Other policemen were attacked when they attempted to make arrests but fortunately no more were killed. In police parlance, each cop became the “boss on the job” and ruled his beat with an iron hand. We kept the bad men on the run. If we hadn’t, there would have been more shootings and deaths. Eventually, the night stick won, as it usually does when the cops who use it mean business.
To-day, Minetta Lane, Minetta Street, Minetta Place and Carmine Street are within the borders of Greenwich Village. The Negroes have gone and so have the dives. The Italians have remained, many of them still living in the old houses I knew. But the restaurants and speakeasies, the little stores which sell that mixture of hot water and rum known as “punchino,” now cater to the so-called Village crowd, to “uptowners” and tourists. A cop is reasonably safe on his beat. I know it wouldn’t feel the same, any more.
Chapter XXVII
Detective Work
The transfer of Captain Miles O’Reilly from the Tenderloin to take command of the Mercer Street, then the Sixteenth Precinct, brought another change for me. He was pleased to find me in his command. I had worked for him in plain-clothes in the Tenderloin and he asked me at once if I wouldn’t like to act as a detective in his precinct. I gave the answer any foot cop would give, so he assigned me to work with Camille Pierne. The latter is now an inspector and a competent one. He was a competent policeman and detective when I first knew him, but he looked like an innocent boy of eighteen or nineteen and could get into places where no other detective could hope to go.
Camille, of course, spoke French, and our common familiarity with languages, together with his ability to squirm into situations and my big fist to pull us out, made us a good combination.
Aside from attacks on policemen, loft burglaries were the major crimes of the district. The thieves were clever and business men far more careless than at present. Few places were protected by the elaborate systems of burglar alarms in effect to-day.
Captain O’Reilly was anxious to make a showing, and the continued loft raids looked bad. One Monday morning I showed up to find him annoyed and anxious.
“Get right over to Houston Street,” he ordered. “Your friend Pierne is there investigating a loft burglary. It’s a big one and we’ve got to clear it up. The owner is raising the devil with me for having sent a boy over to handle the case.”
The particular business man, I found, was unwilling to talk to Pierne. What detectives he knew were big fellows who looked the part. I seemed to fill the bill and he told me what he knew. It wasn’t much. The burglary had been a Sabbath job, as it was known among the detectives. The owner of the building was Jewish and his holy day was Saturday, which had been the day of the robbery. Silks, woolens and other valuable merchandise had been carted off in the daytime when the loft was closed. That was all the owner knew, but he let me see that the police were expected to recover his goods, pronto.
There was another large loft building across the street. I went over and found a boy who was employed to check merchandise as it came in and went out. Yes, he had been on duty Saturday afternoon, sitting out in front of the building reading a dime novel. Would he help the police? What boy who read the old dime novels wouldn’t?
“Yes, sir, I saw a large green van over at that building Saturday afternoon. It had a monkey-faced driver, the funniest looking man you ever saw. I thought it funny, sir, that they’d be shipping on a Saturday afternoon. Four men came out carrying bundles while a lame man stood in the doorway watching them. But I didn’t pay much attention. I’m sorry now, sir.”
“Would you know the monkey-faced fellow and the van if you saw them again, sonny?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I want to be a detective and I’ll do anything I can.”
“Well, if you make good on this matter with me, I’ll employ you to help me out from time to time and let you learn the ropes.”
He was tickled. So I arranged with his employer to get him time off and we began a round of all the stations, stands and establishments where vans were for hire. We had many disappointments, but finally reached Union Market on the lower East Side, where several vans were parked. One of them was green.
“That’s the one!” cried the boy, tugging at my coat sleeve. “Look at the driver. Just like a monkey.”
A side view of the driver’s face was convincing. He had a receding forehead, dirty red hair, and looked ready for anything.
“All right, son; now you beat it. I don’t want that fellow to get a slant at you and know you squealed. He may come looking for you some time later on. You’ve done a good job.”
The boy away, I leaped, without warning, into the back of the van, hauled the driver out of the seat by the scruff of the neck and pulled him inside the van with me.
“Come clean!” I ordered.
He was all injured innocence. I cracked him on the jaw and he saw that worse was to come unless he squawked. Then he admitted the job and told me where he’d delivered the stuff. He begged to be allowed to see his mother, so we drove to a tenement on the East Side.
I felt sorry for the mother as I told her the story. I’ve had to do the same thing with a lot of poor hard-working women and it’s never been pleasant. She pleaded with her son to tell me the truth and keep out of trouble, and he promised to do all he could to make amends.
With Pierne, I rode in the van to the house at East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, the address the driver gave. There were two flats on the second floor, both occupied by a Mr. Siegel. We found Mr. Siegel with his wife. Mr. Siegel was lame. He also was indignant. But a minute’s search revealed some of the missing merchandise and a full kit of burglar’s tools. A little more search proved that Mr. Siegel was using one flat for concealment of a fine assortment of swag.
It was enough. I phoned to the East One Hundred and Fourth Street station for more detectives. Things looked black for Mr. Siegel, and he knew it.
“Do you speak Jewish?” he asked, with the air of a man who hoped I’d be able to understand him more fully in his own tongue.
“No,” I answered.
He became excited. He wrung his hands. A sudden fit of remorse, excitement and fright seized him. His eyes rolled toward the ceiling wildly. He grabbed my coat and begged me to guard his wife.
“Oy, oy!” he wailed. Then a quick jabber of words in Yiddish.
“Oy, oy!” he wailed a second time. Again the quick jabber as he wrung his hands.
“Oy, oy!” once again. Another jumble of words.
Mr. Siegel had tears in his eyes. In English he said: “My poor wife! Terrible! Terrible!”
A dramatic man, Mr. Siegel. He might have convinced me if I hadn’t understood Yiddish. What he’d actually been telling his wife was this:
“The game’s up. After I’m taken to the station house, hurry down town and see the gang. Tell them what’s happened. Have them arrange bail for me at once.”
We loaded a patrol wagon with the merchandise and left with Siegel as a prisoner. But once outside I slipped off the wagon and rejoined the van driver while Pierne continued on with the loot.
Mrs. Siegel was prompt, unsuspicious, and in a hurry. We trailed her easily all the way down town to Eldredge and Stanton Streets. Here she turned into a basement pool room as if she knew the place well. I sent the driver up to have a peek and he came back on the run.