Commissioner Dougherty dominates the story. The taxicab robbers were caught by his methods, plans and supervision, backed by the splendid team work of the men under him. His own sources of information supplied the clues, and his personal skill in examining criminals brought out the confessions that saved the city the expense of trials with all but one offender. It is far from the writer’s wish to indulge in hero-worship, however, so these details will appear in their proper place in the narrative.
George Dougherty has had nearly twenty-five years’ experience in criminal work in New York, and over the whole country. Until his appointment by Mayor Gaynor in May, 1911, he was connected with the Pinkerton organization. Bank and financial crimes have long been his specialty, so the taxicab case fell right into his own province. He knows the ways of forgers, bank sneaks, swindlers, burglars and “yeggmen,” and is personally acquainted with most of the criminals in those lines in and out of prison. He has also had much to do with protecting the crowds at races, ball games, aeronautic meetings and other big gatherings. As executive head of the detective bureau, five hundred plain-clothes policemen scattered over Greater New York cover all crimes of a local and routine nature, and are subject to his call when a special case like the taxicab robbery comes up for his personal attention.
On an ordinarily quiet morning at Police Headquarters, there will be a steady stream of people passing into Dougherty’s office. Several assistants guard the doors leading from two ante-rooms, and marshal the visitors. Now a group of detectives enters and hears a talk on methods. Then two detectives come in, make a report and receive further instructions. Then there will be an interruption, perhaps, while an assistant soothes and sends away a crank who occasionally turns up with a purely imaginary affair of his own, and two more detectives pass in accompanied by a man and a woman who look just like the people one sees dining at a fashionable uptown restaurant. The woman’s furs are magnificent, and her hat a costly Fifth avenue creation.
“A couple of taxpayers?” speculates the group of reporters, waiting outside to get a statement about some important case.
“Two of the cleverest check swindlers in the country,” corrects a detective, and presently the reporters are called in, and Dougherty recites names, dates and facts connected with the gang to which these prosperous “taxpayers” belong, gazing reflectively out of the window as details come back in memory, and chuckling with the delighted journalists as the pithy slang and professional names of the underworld are jotted down on their pads. They fire a scattering volley of questions at him and depart, and then his secretary announces that the saloon-keeper who knows a good deal about the Blind Puppy Café case is outside, but refuses to talk to the police at all.
“Hullo!” is the Commissioner’s off-hand greeting as the cautious saloon-keeper comes in, and in two minutes the latter is answering questions freely.
“Why, say!” he exclaims, “I’ll tell you anything.”
Then a humble little woman in a cheap hat and a long cloak is brought in. For more than an hour she has been waiting outside, with her eyes fixed patiently on the door leading to the inner office.
“Stand there,” says the Commissioner, with gruff kindness, and he makes a formal statement about her husband, who has been arrested with a criminal gang, and is pretty certain to go to prison. He tells her what has been done in the case, and what will follow, and the little woman listens mutely. When he finishes, her eyes fill with tears. But she makes no reply, nor any sound. The Commissioner winks fast as he looks out of the window again, and then says, sympathetically:
“That’s the best that can be done. But don’t you worry. Come in and see me again. Keep in touch with me, and don’t worry yourself. Come in and talk with me—come in to-morrow.” And she bravely wipes her eyes and goes out with her trouble.