1 0 2 5 1 3 6 4 18 12 3 3 13 0 7 14 0 4 15 9 65 16 3 8 17 0 3 18 15 73 21 6 37 22 10 118 23 35 132 25 0 19 26 15 133 28 1 32 29 0 14 32 0 25 33 0 1 36 3 36 39 3 37 40 0 4 43 4 34 --- --- Totals 112 808

Tenement resorts are not included in the preceding data. In the year 1912, the police reported to the Tenement House Department as vicious 138 separate addresses, in which they had made 153 arrests,--65 of these arrests in two precincts, the 13th and the 15th; from 247 other sources, the department learned of 211 addresses: in all, 349 separate places were reported.[231] Our own agents discovered 1,172 separate disorderly apartments in tenements at 578 separate addresses between January 24th and November 15th.

In the following table, both sets of reports are combined, according to precincts; the tenement house reports cover the entire year (January-December 31, 1912), ours only the period of investigation (January 24-November 15, 1912):

TENEMENT HOUSE DEPARTMENT RECORDS

_Complaints from_ _Police Reports_ _all sources_ _Investigation_ _including police_ _Reports_ ----------------------------+------------------+------------------------ No.

No.

No. No. separate separate

No. separate

separate disorderly No. buildings

comp- bldgs.

addresses apartments Precincts reports involved

laints involved

(Bldgs.)

1 .. ..

.. ..

.. ..

2 .. ..

.. ..

.. ..

5 1 1

2 2

1 1 6 2 2

4 4

5 9 7 1 1

2 2

1 1 8 .. ..

.. ..

.. ..

10 2 2

2 2

.. ..

12 5 5

6 5

1 1 13 27 23

38 28

10 10 14 1 1

1 1

1 3 15 38 35

46 42

58 69 16 1 1

4 4

2 2 17 4 4

15 14

5 5 18 .. ..

3 1

25 26 21 3 2

7 4

6 6 22 4 4

18 15

75 123 23 3 3

8 7

28 44 25 .. ..

.. ..

1 2 26 12 10

13 11

102 396 28 14 12

17 13

95 164 29 .. ..

.. ..

.. ..

31 1 1

3 3

3 3 32 16 14

22 18

85 206 33 .. ..

.. ..

.. ..

35 .. ..

2 2

2 5 36 12 11

14 13

58 81 39 .. ..

3 3

4 4 40 .. ..

1 1

.. ..

43 6 6

16 16

10 11 --- ---

--- ---

--- ---- Totals 153 138

247 211

578 1172

During the same period, 794 separate saloons and concert halls were investigated, of which almost one-half,--308--were found disorderly; in addition to which, 91 miscellaneous places of a disorderly character were reported. The distribution of such disorderly places by precincts was as follows:

_Miscellaneous Places_ Total Separate disorderly disorderly Allied Semi-public saloons, etc.

saloons, with used by and miscellaneous concert prost.i.tution prost.i.tutes places Precincts halls, etc.

1 .. 2 .. 2 2 .. .. 1 1 5 .. .. .. ..

6 11 .. .. 11 7 .. .. .. ..

8 .. .. .. ..

10 .. .. .. ..

12 .. .. .. ..

13 4 .. .. 4 14 2 .. .. 2 15 11 15 .. 26 16 7 .. .. 7 17 .. .. .. ..

18 18 8 .. 26 21 13 4 .. 17 22 38 7 1 46 23 26 13 5 44 25 12 2 .. 14 26 50 11 3 64 28 15 1 3 19 29 2 .. 1 3 31 .. .. .. ..

32 20 3 5 28 33 1 .. .. 1 35 .. .. .. ..

36 26 .. 1 27 39 26 3 .. 29 40 3 1 .. 4 43 23 1 .. 24 --- --- --- --- Totals 308 71 20 399

The total number of actual vice resorts of all kinds discovered in Manhattan was 1,606, situated at 1,007 different addresses; in the 26th precinct, 174 were found,--29 parlor houses, 17 ma.s.sage parlors, 102 tenement resorts, 10 furnished room houses, 16 hotels; in the 22nd precinct, 148 disorderly places were located, 22 parlor houses, 3 ma.s.sage rooms, 75 tenement resorts, 41 furnished room houses, 7 hotels.

The investigator who succeeds in establishing himself on a footing of unsuspected familiarity in the underworld is soon admitted to confidences which show how the underworld accounts to itself for the comparative statistics above given. The credibility of the confidences in question each reader must decide for himself. Among themselves, as has already been pointed out, owners, madames and women talk freely. The conversations overheard are not staged, nor are they exceptional in character. Our agents partic.i.p.ated in and reported in the form of affidavits frequent conversations and discussions, in which the relations between police and promoters formed the main or sole topic. Whether the details are literally accurate or not these conversations, reported from all sections of the city, and by different observers, working independently of one another, at least portray the state of feeling and opinion of the partic.i.p.ants and their like.

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 a.s.sociates 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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: "b.u.t.tons" (_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 pa.s.sing a well-known hangout, beckoned one of the owners to come outside; shortly after he returned, remarking to his comrades, "The 'dogs' are outside."

About two o'clock one afternoon, three men, two of them well-known owners of a place in West 35th Street,[241] were standing in West 30th Street, 100 feet from the station house; when a few moments later the plain clothes men started to go on duty, one[242] of them beckoned to two of the officers[243] and engaged them in prolonged conversation. Its purport was subsequently summarized to his friends: "Don't worry!"

At times a "collector" is said to be the intermediary in transactions similar to those implied in the foregoing incidents. Among the best known of these is a saloonkeeper[244] once enjoying the reputation of protecting the entire Red Light district, at that time situated in Allen Street. His saloon[245] is now a hangout for thieves, gamblers and the like. Two patrolmen and an officer[246] are named as coming to his resort to "fix"

pimp cases. The "lookout"[247] for a Sixth Avenue[248] establishment remarked, in describing the financial operations of the place, that he receives 10 percent of the profits monthly, that $200 a month go to inspector and captain, and that the patrolman[249] is paid nightly. An individual who has been publicly accused of being a vice graft collector[250] entered a disorderly flat in West 58th Street[251] on June 15, 1912, for the purpose of perfecting arrangements in regard to protection. The madame[252] expressed herself as satisfied with the way in which she was being treated.[253] She stated, however, that her neighbor downstairs "had a sc.r.a.p with the collector for the police[254] over protection and that he had refused to take her money any more. The result is that every one of the 'underdogs' (_i. e._, plain clothes men) comes running to her every night with a different complaint and you know what that means. She has 'to see them' every time they come. In the long run, it costs three or four times as much; and she got a 'collar' (_i. e._, arrest) in the bargain." One of our agents witnessed, on the evening of June 1, 1912, a settlement between a well-known collector for the police in New York City and the owners of 15 different establishments, situated between West 18th Street and West 36th Street. At one o'clock in the morning, they sat around a large table[255] on which four piles of money, the smallest denomination being $5 bills, were heaped up. It had been paid to the police collector, who carried it away in a violin case.

The foregoing incidents explain why a district such as Seventh Avenue is called a "money post."[256]

The employment of pressure, in order to bring about a certain kind of differentiation of neighborhoods, is exemplified in the following instance: A notorious madame informed our agent that she was going to open a house in West 40th Street,[257] but admitted that she would have to be careful, because cheaper resorts would not be permitted in that vicinity.

Through the good graces of a high official[258] whom she named, she claimed that she had succeeded in maintaining and quietly conducting a low grade establishment there.

The peaceful operation of disorderly resorts is disturbed from time to time by raids, as in the instance above noted, in which one madame "got a collar," while her compet.i.tor on the floor above remained unmolested.

Raids are variously accounted for by those who suffer: now on the score of punishment or revenge, as in the case last mentioned; again, for the purpose of "covering the captain on the blotter," _i. e._, that he may make a good showing in his report to the Inspector; sometimes--so it is alleged--in order to keep the owners and their madames in line so that they will be sure to pay the protection money. The police know who the owner or madame is without even entering the house, and warrants are declared to be sworn out in many instances without any evidence at all. It is understood between operators and real estate agents that when a house is opened the owner must "stand for" an occasional "collar," though the latter sometimes protests vehemently. For instance, March 14, 1912, the indignant owner[259] of a place on Sixth Avenue[260] declared his house had been raided the night before for no reason. "If they don't stop that, I'll holler," he added; "they have to discharge that case or I'll know the reason why." Usually when houses are raided, the real culprits escape arrest. It was reported on August 15th that 18 disorderly resorts had been entered by the authorities. Only a few housekeepers and colored maid servants were arrested.

Frequent reports deal with the presence of police officers in and about disorderly saloons and hotels. On January 25, an officer was drinking in the rear room of a disorderly saloon on St. Nicholas Avenue.[261] On February 1 two officers were served with beer and cigars in the rear room of a similar resort on Columbus Avenue.[262] On March 9 a man, accompanied by a street walker, entered a hotel in West 35th Street.[263] In the hall, a police officer[264] in full uniform, was standing with a bottle of beer in his hand. His number is in our possession. On March 4, a street walker was arrested in Sixth Avenue in front of a well-known cafe.[265] Thereupon a lighthouse called the owner of his establishment[266] who induced the plain clothes man[267] to release the woman.

The entire situation as respecting alleged police relations was described by all our investigators as radically altered by the events following the Rosenthal murder. Thirty houses were reported as closed in September. In one case closure was so sudden that the girls were not paid off.[268] They exhibited their punched cards and threatened vengeance unless reimbursed--one to the extent of $5.50, another to the extent of $4. The madame[269] of a house in West 28th Street[270] described herself on September 29 as "down and out." In early October, the proprietor was himself more optimistic: "It's only a question of two or three days," he declared, "and we've got to expect these things." The owners therefore continued in many instances to pay rent for their now empty houses. Early in October, the impression got abroad that conditions were once more propitious: About 2 P. M., October 4, a group of owners held a meeting on Second Avenue,[271] later adjourning to Sixth Avenue,[272] where they again went into "executive session." Several important persons were present.[273] On the strength of a report that the houses could open slowly it was decided at this meeting that certain houses would commence "business" at 8 o'clock that evening, a few more the next day, and a few the next. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, the owners turned on the lights in eight houses situated in West 24th Street,[274] Sixth Avenue,[275] West 31st Street,[276] and West 28th Street.[277] Things however miscarried and the houses were again closed. The chief owner[278]

was indignant: on November 10, 1912, he admitted[279] that it was a "lousy tip" he had got, though it "looked good" at the time. He named the source--a practicing lawyer.[280]

Since the close of this investigation on November 15, 1912, in consequence of the activity of the police growing out of the Rosenthal murder, and the investigations conducted by the Aldermanic and Legislative Committees, the method of conducting the business of prost.i.tution in houses has changed materially. For instance, in the more expensive houses, the $5 and $10 resorts, madames do not allow actual violations of the law on the premises, but have the women sit in the parlor awaiting calls. One such resort is located in an apartment in West 43rd Street,[281] where twenty women were found sitting in the parlor on March 10, 1913. The madame, who has a large personal acquaintance with patrons of a better cla.s.s, simply awaits telephone calls requesting a lady companion. Knowing the tastes of her customers, she sends one of the women to an appointed place. Thus there is no violation of the law on the premises, and the police are unable to "cover" the situation. But a number of low-priced houses have opened in the old way on a smaller scale: March 12, 1913, three resorts, one each in Sixth Avenue,[282] West 28th Street[283] and West 40th[284]

were operating with two or three inmates each, all wearing street clothes.

The third inspection district was at this time declared to be free from police molestation. Current talk in the district explains this immunity on the ground that police and owners were so involved with each other, that effective action on the part of the former was prevented by fear that the latter would turn on the light. "They are all opening up," remarked one owner, while chatting with sympathizers in a cigar store[285] in West 116th Street, as recently as March 15, 1913. One owner[286] then had six houses going. "G.o.d pity the police if they interfere!" Of a well-known inspector,[287] it has been said, that "having taken money, he can't well step on anybody's corns." A former wardman,[288] now wearing a uniform in the service of the West 125th Street station house, remarked hardly a fortnight ago to two men, one an owner, the other a former a.s.sociate: "Sit tight; you're getting a little; you're making expenses; squealing seems to be a fad nowadays." Among places now quietly running under changed ownership may be mentioned one each in West 26th Street, West 28th, West 29th, West 31st, West 34th; two in Sixth Avenue and three in West 40th Street.[289]

Confidence is strong in the underworld that "hard times" will not last; the police who are reputed to have worked in collusion with the exploiters of prost.i.tution share the same view. "It will all blow over"--that is the refrain to every discussion. History is quoted to support this hopeful interpretation of present conditions. A similar repressive policy was inst.i.tuted in 1907. Houses were closed; some owners with their madames and girls left the city and others betook themselves to flats and hotels. For three years, the business was timid, quiet, un.o.btrusive, gradually feeling its way back. By January, 1911, the promoters had all returned, keen to recoup; by the succeeding year, they had restored their former prosperity.

Now once more their schemes have been disorganized. The tide is turning against them. But they have seen that happen before and they are confident that, as in the past, the "good old days" will return. A prominent madame[290] was on September 18 still paying rent for two houses, one in West 25th Street,[291] one in West 31st Street.[292] "We outlive all those dogs," declared an old-timer,[293] who had lived through all the spasmodic efforts at suppression undertaken in the last fifteen or twenty years.

Talk in the underworld does not stop with the police department: it involves the judiciary and prosecutors as well. There is no misunderstanding the prevalent feeling: these men and women are hurt,--wounded to the quick--because, as they constantly a.s.sert, having kept their part of the bargain by paying for protection, the officials do not so regularly "deliver the goods." Our investigators report many interviews to this effect. The owner of a house in West 35th Street has been keenly worried by a three-months' sentence meted out to his madame.[294] "He had understood that judges were not giving 'prison,' as several such cases had been lately discharged." He instanced one from West 28th Street,[295] another from West 25th Street.[296] "You know what it costs to discharge a case," he added feelingly. On August 30, 1912, three men met at Eighth Avenue and 28th Street; one of them bitterly reviled an official in the criminal court building. "He has no right to do this. Why, didn't we once pay him $4,000,--$150 for each house, to keep out of the district? There were no more raids then,--but now!"[297] On the 17th of October, 1912, several disorderly house cases from the Tenderloin were tried in special sessions: the places were notorious,--involving among others the madames of houses in West 31st and West 36th Streets. The disposition made of them represents the characteristic uncertainty of the action of the court of special sessions. Two of the defendants were acquitted, two were convicted, but received suspended sentences, two were fined fifty dollars apiece, and one pleaded guilty, receiving a penalty of imprisonment for thirty days.

There are a number of lawyers in New York City who are being constantly employed by the owners of disorderly houses to defend their cases in the courts. Their fees vary according to their standing. A former magistrate, who has an office on Broadway, charges $100 for appearing in Special Sessions. He has latterly succeeded in securing the acquittal of the madame of a West 28th Street[298] house. Another lawyer[299] with an office on Park Row, charges from $15 to $25 for his appearance in the police court, and $50 altogether if he has to appear in a higher court.

A few weeks ago one of the madames was sentenced to the penitentiary for three months. During the evening of the day on which she was sentenced, the lawyer who had appeared for her came to a resort[300] where a number of owners had gathered. They upbraided him for pleading "Guilty, your Honors."

"Why didn't you show fight?" demanded one.

"Well," he replied, "there was a time when I used to walk into the court room and make a bargain with the judges when there were three or four charges pending against one woman. I used to say, 'Your Honors, we will make this bargain day. There are four charges against this woman. What will you do? Unless you are lenient, I will fight you and take up your time.' The fine as a rule was no more than $100 for three or four charges.

At that time, the coppers used to break in a house and raid it just to get the money for the fine. But times have changed."

As some street walkers are picked up by the plain clothes men and brought into court, they hire by preference a lawyer[301] who lives on West 10th Street.[302] This man agrees to procure their discharge for $50, distributed as follows:

$10 for the bondsman to bail her out, if necessary;