True Stories of Crime From the District Attorneys Office | Page 3

pistol at all
it is because the police rules require it, while those cases may be

numbered upon the fingers of two hands where his own hair and
whiskers are not entirely sufficient for his purposes in the course of his
professional career.
The next morning Peabody donned the most disreputable suit in his
wardrobe, neglected his ordinary visit to the barber, and called at 110
West Thirty-eighth Street, being, of course, at this time entirely
unaware of the fact that the girl was Parker's wife. He found her sitting
in a rocking chair in a comfortable, well-furnished room, and reading a
magazine. Assuming an expression of sheepish inanity he informed her
that he was an old pal of "Jim's" who had been so unfortunate as to be
locked up in the same cell with him at Headquarters, and that the latter
was in desperate need of morphine. That Parker was an habitual user of
the drug could be easily seen from the most casual inspection, but that
it would prove an open sesame to the girl's confidence was, as the
detective afterward testified, "a hundred-to-one shot."
"Poor Jim!" exclaimed the girl. "Couldn't you smuggle some into the
Tombs for him?"
Peabody took the hint. Of course he could. It would be a hard
job--those turnkeys were so suspicious. But he could do it for her if
anybody could. He rambled on, telling his experiences with Parker in
the past, how he had been in Elmira Reformatory and elsewhere with
him, and gaining each moment valuable information from the girl's
exclamations, questions, and expression. He soon learned that she was
Parker's wife, that they were living in comparative comfort, and that
she was an exceedingly clever and well-educated woman, but she said
nothing during the conversation which would indicate that she knew
anything of her husband's offenses or of any persons connected with
them.
After a few moments the girl slipped on her coat and hat and the two
started down to the Tombs, where, by prearrangement with the officials,
the detective succeeded in convincing her that he had been able to send
in to her husband a small hypodermic syringe (commonly called "the
needles") which she had purchased at a neighboring drug store.

The apparent success of this undertaking put Mrs. Parker in excellent
humor and she invited the supposed crook to breakfast with her at the
Broadway Central Hotel. So far, it will be observed, Peabody had
accomplished practically nothing. At breakfast the girl inquired of her
companion what his particular "graft" was, to which he replied that he
was an expert "second story man," and then proceeded to indulge his
imagination in accounts of bold robberies in the brown stone districts
and clever "tricks" in other cities, which left Mrs. Parker in no doubt
but that her companion was an expert "gun" of long experience.
Then he took, as he expressed it, "another chance."
"Jim wanted me to tell you to put the gang 'wise,'" said he.
The girl looked at him sharply and contracted her brows.
"Gang?" she exclaimed. "What gang? Oh, perhaps he meant 'Dutch' and
'Sweeney.'"
Peabody bit his lip. He had had a close call.
"Don't know," he replied, "he didn't say who they were--just to put
them 'wise.'"
A second time the detective had made a lucky hit, for Mrs. Parker
suddenly laid aside all pretense and asked:
"Do you want to make a lot of money?"
Peabody allowed that he did.
"Do you know what they have got Jim for?" asked the girl.
"'Phoney' paper, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Parker, "but Jim didn't write those checks. I wrote
them myself. If you want to go in with me, we can earn enough money
to get Jim out and you can do a good turn for yourself besides."

The detective's blood leaped in his veins but he held himself under
control as well as he could and answered indifferently.
"I guess not. I never met a woman that was very good at that sort of
game."
"Oh, you don't know me," she persisted. "Why, I can copy anything in a
few moments--really I can."
"Too dangerous," remarked Peabody. "I might get settled for ten
years."
"No, you wouldn't," she continued. "It's the easiest thing in the world.
All you have to do is to pick the mail out of some box on a corner. I
can show you how with a copper wire and a little piece of wax--and
you are sure to find among the letters somebody's check in payment of
a bill. There at once you have the bank, and the signature. Then all you
have to do is to write a letter to the bank asking for a new check book,
saying yours is used up, and sign the name that