The day that Davidson got the fake securities from the vault marked the beginning of the real active work of the anticipated loot. That evening, under instructions, Tom was in Wall Street, not far from the bank’s main entrance, ready for business. His part was to hold the attention of Watchman Price, should the latter return earlier than usual from his regular visit to the saloon, and Patrolman Mike Conners was to patrol in front of the bank. With my professional associates assigned to important posts for my protection, I was to enter the bank to prove beyond doubt the correctness of my morning’s work in getting the combination numbers; in other words, I was to try the numbers I’d figured out from my notes taken in the bank at the unlocking. Detective Seymour was to take a stand at the corner of Wall and New streets, with the understanding that he was to tap on the bank’s rear window, in the event that an over-zealous watchman appeared on the scene.
Thus guarded, I went into the bank and was soon at the coveted combination lock. It will be sufficient to tell that my watching of the unlocking had not been in vain; my deductions were correct. I had the combination perfectly. In less than half an hour I had opened the vault door, was through, and back in the free air again.
The period in the game had been reached where I must arrange its last points, and with this knowledge we repaired to the rendezvous to discuss the next vital move—when to “pull off” the trick. The first stormy night was agreed upon, provided, however, Patrolman Conners would be on post. Should it be, unhappily for us, his night off, then we’d have to await a stormy night when he would be on duty. I wouldn’t proceed without his good nerve to protect me. Having settled this, I decided to make up the list of experts who would go into the bank with me. Tom Mead and Johnny McCann had been in the Bank of America plot, and, as I’ve said, Eddie Hughes. I wanted the latter badly for the job, but couldn’t have him, it seemed, so Mysterious Jimmy Lough, Josh Taggart’s friend, must be taken on. Taggart thought a lot of Jimmy, but I knew absolutely nothing of him. I took him on speculation, mostly with a desire to please Taggart. The latter said Jimmy was an extremely intelligent and active young fellow.
The kind of night we wanted came in a few days. It was in March of 1875. How well I remember it. The time set for the “trick” was immediately after the midnight shift of the First Precinct police. Every man had his set task. Johnny McCann and Mysterious Jimmy were to capture the night watchman, Price, Detective Davidson was to be at the head of Wall Street, and Joe Seymour in New Street to sound the alarm of approaching trouble from that side. I believed I’d planned a master “trick,” and cannot to this day, despite my best effort, keep down a feeling of pride. I wish now most earnestly I could altogether rid myself of such feelings.
The last thing I did, before the start, was to warn Patrolman Conners to perform his part well, though I felt that he’d not fail me, if man could succeed. I saw McCann and Mysterious Jimmy go through the New Street window, and waited for the result. Time enough having been consumed to capture the watchman, I also entered by the bank window. The lads hadn’t yet overcome the watchman, but were about ready to. They’d found him asleep in a bunk. I heard sweet music as I drew near them. I said music, and I mean it from my point of view; for if snoring by a night watchman in a bank isn’t the sweetest sort of music to a burglar, then I don’t know what is. I threw a bull’s-eye flash full upon the owner of this nasal avalanche of sound, long enough to show the lads just how the ground lay. There was no doubt that this faithful night watchman was asleep. Verily the walls seemed to jingle with the loud sleeping of the bank’s night guard. How kindly, indeed, was fate flinging wide-open avenues through great difficulties. Not a word, thus far, had been spoken—of a truth, none was to be spoken under my strict orders. It was a time for action, not talking. McCann grinned as he drew near the unconscious man. He would have throttled him to death, only he knew I wouldn’t countenance such doings. Mysterious Jimmy looked cute, and when his face was lit up for an instant, I could read what he would have said, “It’s a pity to wake him.” But Watchman Price must not be harmed, and he must be awakened, and, according to the plan, McCann was to be the chief performer in this act. So with a quick movement he caught the sleeper by the shoulders and dragged him from the bunk to the floor, while Mysterious Jimmy clicked a handcuff on the nearest wrist. Then I shut off the light. In the meantime McCann held the watchman by the throat to allow the placing of the other handcuff. I stood by, ready for an emergency. All this had been accomplished ere Price realized what had befallen him. When he did, a fight was on, though he was no match for my lads. A man taken unawares and in the dark hasn’t much of a chance with two strong men. However, he succeeded in getting his mouth open for an instant, and asked, as though he were in a dream, what was the trouble. It occurred to me that he thought he was in some bar-room squabble. Then occurred the very worst thing that could have happened at that moment. Mysterious Jimmy blathered to the prisoner in direct violation of my express commands.
“Keep still!” he whispered hoarsely, “and we won’t hurt you. We’ve got to git the dust in this here bank, and if ye holler, it’s all day wit’ ye.”
Now, this gave the watchman the first real knowledge of the situation. Perhaps, too, he was strengthened by thoughts of duty! Wriggling his head away from McCann and before Mysterious Jimmy could stifle him, a yell rang through the bank that must have been heard for two blocks. It was a lion’s roar! Jimmy stuffed his fist in the man’s throat, but it was too late—the mischief had been done. The cry had been heard. Detective Davidson heard it at the top of Wall Street. More, a regular sergeant of police, out on patrol, rushed up to Davidson and demanded a reason for the outcry.
“What’s up?” he called; “where did that noise come from?”
“I heard it, too,” answered the detective, innocently enough, “but I guess it came from the west side of Broadway.” This was exactly the opposite direction from which it did come.
“I’ll be d——d if it did,” blew the sergeant, as he ran down Wall Street toward the bank. Davidson followed him—was obliged to for appearance’ sake.