On March 7, 1912, a group of men[232] interested in a West 26th Street house[233] were discussing prospects. “Profits are not what they used to be,” complained one of them. “I used to be able to bank $600 or more every week. To-day my receipts are $1,500 a week, but see,—thirteen plain clothes men[234] get $10 a month each; one of them, a tough proposition, gets $25; two patrolmen get $2 each a day; the lieutenant and sergeant get $5 a month; besides, regular protection costs $100 a month, paid to a go-between,[235] once a wardman. And then I’ve got to buy tickets and contribute to funds for strong arm guys in trouble.”
Mysteriously rapid communication of inside information as to police policy and movements is a frequent theme. A well-known owner was in conference with his mates on March 21, 1912. “They are all transferred, not one of them is here,” he announced in reference to the plain clothes men. It subsequently developed that at the time the statement was made, the men transferred had themselves not yet learned that such a step was contemplated.[236]
On May 2, 1912, a card game and drinking-bout was in progress at a well-known establishment. The following dialogue took place:
“How is business?” asked one of the men, as he was shuffling the cards.
“Well, we run pretty strong,” replied the other. “Let us hope that it will keep up. There’s a new style nowadays. The ‘coppers’ don’t call us out any more; we deal with an outsider.”
“Who is it?” asked the questioner (our agent).
“What do you care?” was the reply. “Do I ask you who you gave-up to, uptown?”
After the Rosenthal murder, however, the aspect of affairs changed. About six o’clock in the evening of July 18 the “king” was consulted by several anxious associates to ascertain whether he had “seen” anybody. He replied that he had, and that everything was all right, unless something unforeseen should happen, as the “squeal” thus far involved only the gamblers. Suspense was thereby relieved and great was the merriment thereon. “It might be better if we had a grocery store,” suggested one of the wits present. A week later, however, the situation was more squally. It had begun to be whispered that “the police would take no protection money on the first of the coming month.” It was recalled that on a previous occasion 12 houses in a certain block had each paid $500 on Monday and that on the following Saturday, the houses were smashed up. “The same thing might happen here,” remarked an anxious proprietor. On the day that payment was to be made, August 1, to be precise, a well-known owner entered a West 26th Street resort with a big roll of bills, as to the destination of which he was in doubt. One of his pals had left town, the other was in jail. He “didn’t know whether the police would take it or not.” Suddenly a brilliant idea struck him; he turned to our agent who was supposed to be conducting an uptown flat and to be in position to secure protection, offering him the money. “You take it,” he suggested, “see what you can do. Maybe you can connect.”
To the same effect is the testimony of a memorandum procured under somewhat dramatic conditions. On May 3, 1912, a large group of owners[237] were engaged in playing cards at a well-known establishment. Two of the group stopped their game in order to engage in calculations involving the sale of a third-interest in a house in West 25th Street. The memorandum was subsequently obtained by our agent. Six different accounts figured in the calculation of income, expenses, profits, etc. In the matter of expenses, $631 appear as paid out for the following items: “Buttons” (i. e., uniformed police) $166; sergeant, $30; “gang” (perhaps plain clothes men) $104; club (meaning unknown), $200; boss, $25; smaller items absorb the remainder.
Personal conversations between police officers, owners of disorderly places and our investigator, supposed to be one of themselves, pointing to intimate dealings and relations, were likewise frequently reported with additional data identifying those concerned. On March 18th, 1912, it was reported that a uniformed officer[238] called at a well-known disorderly house[239] asking for a notorious owner;[240] he explained his errand in these words, written down from memory shortly afterwards: “I’m broke. He hasn’t seen me for a few nights and I would like to have some ‘sugar.’” Two days before, two plain clothes men, in passing a well-known hangout, beckoned one of the owners to come outside; shortly after he returned, remarking to his comrades, “The ‘dogs’ are outside.”