by John Kobler
But this did not satisfy Wilson. The sum was trivial in view of the millions that flowed to Capone from illicit sources. Furthermore, the legality of the net worth-net expenditure principles as a basis for criminal conviction had not yet been fully tested. (Nor was it until 1954 that the Supreme Court, reviewing four convictions for income tax evasion, upheld it.) Ideally, to ensure the kind of prison sentence President Hoover wanted for Capone, Wilson needed evidence directly linking the gang leader to his breweries and distilleries, his gambling houses and brothels, evidence of ownership.
Special Agent Sullivan, borrowed from the New Haven office, undertook a study of the brothels. The local police customarily chose a Saturday night to raid them because it was the busiest night. During Sullivan's first months in Chicago a federal grand jury began investigating different phases of gangsterism, and before releasing the girls after a raid, the police would take them before a grand jury for questioning. None dared testify. It occurred to Sullivan, however, that a show of sympathy combined with payment might persuade some girl to talk to him privately. So on Saturday nights he would haunt the Federal Court Building, sizing up each girl as the police brought her in. Following a raid on the Harlem Inn, he took note of a bedraggled veteran in her fifties, at the end of her professional career, who called herself "Reigh Count" after the 1928 Kentucky Derby winner. He sensed a potential informer, and his intuition proved sound. For $50 a week, a fortune compared to her usual earnings, she went to work for him.
Meanwhile, the Hotel Lexington-the Fort, as it had come to be known-acquired a new guest. A black-haired foreigner with an Italian accent, wearing a white snap-brim hat, a checked overcoat and a purple shirt, he signed the register "Michael Lepito-Philadel- phia." He was given Room 724, next to Phil D'Andrea. For hours every day Lepito sat in the lobby behind a newspaper, talking to nobody, looking at nobody. His main interest appeared to be gambling, for which no dearth of opportunity existed in the hotel, and he shot craps a good deal at sizable stakes. Capone's wary sentinels finally ran a check on the stranger. They intercepted his mail. Postmarked Philadelphia, it bristled with cryptic underworld lingo. They searched his room. His noisy wardrobe bore the labels of Wanamaker's department store in Philadelphia. One day a Caponeite named Michael Speringa approached Lepito and bluntly asked him his business. "Keeping quiet," he said, by which Speringa understood him to be a fugitive outlaw. A few days later Speringa stood him a drink, and a few days after that, while returning his hospitality, Lepito confided that the Philadelphia police wanted him for burglary. The gang liked Lepito's style, and they befriended him. They let him join their poker game. He ate with them at the New Florence Restaurant around the corner. Whenever he found himself alone and unobserved, Mike Malone (for it was none other) telephoned Frank Wilson.
Malone and Sullivan between them fed Wilson invaluable background material. When Capone gave a birthday party at the Lexington for Frank Nitti, he invited Lepito-Malone, who was thus afforded a close look at the gang in its most unguarded mood. From Reigh Count, Sullivan obtained a detailed picture of prostitution under Capone management. The two agents also made important contributions to the tax cases against Nitti and Guzik. But hard evidence directly relating Capone to the sources of his income continued to elude them.
Wilson, who throughout the investigation shared a room at the Sheridan Plaza Hotel with his wife and worked out of an office in the Federal Court Building, fared no better. He visited scores of banks and credit agencies, looking for records of any financial transactions involving Capone. Month after month he tramped the South Side and Cicero, eyes and ears open for the faintest sign of Capone ownership, of how money was channeled from speakeasy or gambling dive into his pockets. More than a year passed.
"Unusual difficulties were encountered," he wrote later in a summary memorandum to Irey, "because all important witnesses were either hostile to the government and ready to give perjured testimony in order to protect the leaders of their organization or they were so filled with fear of the Capone organization . . . that they evaded, lied, left town and did all in their power to prevent the Government using them as witnesses. . . . In order to locate them and serve them with subpoenas it was necessary to pick them up on the streets near the Capone headquarters at the Lexington Hotel, at Cicero hotels and at nightclubs, also through various subterfuges. Considerable work in locating witnesses was performed at night in and around the hang-outs of the Capone organization by Special Agents Tessem, Malone, Converse and Sullivan and the agents were facing danger in the event their identity was discovered by the gangsters."
In April Capone's tax lawyer, Mattingly, telephoned Wilson to assure him that his client wished to clear up any indebtedness and would furnish information about his business activities. "Bring him in," said Wilson. "I want to talk to him." They came on the seventeenth, leaving a brace of bodyguards standing outside the building. Capone wore a double-breasted blue serge suit, black shoes tipped with white and his customary complement of bejeweled ring, belt buckle and watch chain. In addition to Wilson, there were present Ralph Herrick, the tax agent in charge of the Chicago enforcement unit, William Hodgins and a stenographer. "Glad to see you, Mr. Capone," said Wilson. Capone held out his hand, but Wilson pretended not to notice it. Lifting a silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket, Capone dabbed at a corner of his mouth, and Wilson caught a whiff of lily of the valley.
Herrick opened the interrogation. "I think it is only fair to say that any statements which are made here, which could be used against you, would probably be used."
"Insofar as Mr. Capone can answer any questions without admitting his liability to criminal action," said Mattingly, "he is here to cooperate with you and work with you."
Herrick turned to Capone. "What records have you of your income, Mr. Capone; do you keep any records?"
"No, I never did." His tone was low and respectful.
"Any checking accounts?"
"No, sir."
"How long, Mr. Capone, have you enjoyed a large income?"
"I never had much of an income."
"I will state it a little differently-an income that might be taxable?"
"I would rather let my lawyer answer that question."
"Well, I tell you," said Mattingly, "prior to 1926, John Torrio, who happens to be a client of mine, was the employer of Mr. Capone and up to that point it is my impression his income wasn't there; he was in the position of an employee, pure and simple. That is the information I get from Mr. Torrio and Mr. Capone."
Wilson took over the questioning. Capone pulled out a fistful of cigars and offered him one. "I don't smoke," said Wilson.
"Did you furnish any money to purchase real estate which was placed in the name of others?" he asked.
But to this and almost every other question that followed-did Capone's wife or relatives keep brokerage accounts? Safe-deposit boxes? What about the money transfers wired to him in Miami? Was he ever connected with the Hawthorne Kennel Club?-the response was the same: "I would rather not answer that question." His voice grew louder and rough-edged. "They're trying to push me around," he growled at one point, "but IT take care of myself."
At the end he stared fixedly at his tormentor. "How's your wife, Wilson?" he asked, and as he left: "You be sure to take care of yourself."
"Frank," said Hodgins, when they were alone. "Watch your step from now on."
In June Mike Malone told Wilson that Frankie Pope, the manager of the Hawthorne Smoke Shop, had quarreled with Capone over a large sum he felt the organization owed him and might be persuaded to talk. However disaffected, Pope did not, when Wilson approached him, give away much, but he dropped a hint. Jake Lingle, he intimated, not only knew more about gang activities than any reporter in Chicago, but had a relationship with Capone far closer than anybody realized.
Wilson called on Colonel McCormick to ask if he could question Lingle confidentially. The publisher promised his cooperation, and a meeting was arranged in the Tribune Tower for
eleven o'clock on the morning of June 10. Lingle did not appear.
I T is reported that Al Capone is on his way to Florida," Governor Doyle E. Carlton informed the state's sixty-seven county sheriffs after Capone's release from prison. "Arrest promptly if he comes your way and escort him to the State border. He cannot remain in Florida. If you need additional assistance, call me." He ordered the local court officers to lock Capone out of his Palm Island home, and he appealed to all right-thinking Floridians "to cooperate by all legitimate means towards ejecting a public menace and imposter and to exterminate the growth of organized crime." To Miami's public prosecutor, allowing Capone to inhabit the area would be as great an evil as allowing "a rattlesnake to live in a garden where it could bite children."
Before Capone arrived, the Dade County sheriff raided the Palm Island estate, arrested the five men staying there as guests-the brothers Albert and John Capone, Louis Cowan, Jack McGurn and a Frankie Newton-and charged them with illegal possession of liquor. The cases were dismissed.
Renewed rumors that Capone would seek a retreat elsewhere raised similar cries of alarm from other communities. A curious exception was Rapid City, South Dakota, in which Capone had expressed no interest whatever. The secretary of its Chamber of Commerce, Dan Evans, wrote him an unsolicited letter, extolling the beauties of the Black Hills, which had so enchanted President Coolidge when he va cationed there, and urged him to come live "where the stranger is not judged by reports of his past record." Evans promised him "a glad hand of welcome into a community practically free from crime. We extend this invitation with the sincere belief that with the associates you would meet here you would soon outlive the intimated crimes that have been credited to you without any proof whatever and soon you would be recognized as a law-abiding, upright citizen and a credit to the community."
Governor William J. Bulow overruled Evans. "I'll cast the first stone," he said. "We don't need Capone or any of his kind in South Dakota."
Capone ended the controversy with the announcement: "I have no desire to live in the Black Hills."
In the Miami law firm of Gordon & Giblin Capone found a stalwart defender. Vincent Giblin, an ex-football player of demonic energy, quickly established his client's legal rights of domicile. From a federal court he obtained an injunction restraining Florida's sheriffs from "seizing, arresting, kidnapping and abusing the plaintiff" and served it on all sixty-seven of them. Under pressure from influential winter residents who wanted no gangsters for neighborsAlbert D. Lasker, the advertising magnate, for example, John D. Hertz, founder of the Yellow Cab Company, James M. Cox, former governor of Ohio and publisher of several newspapers, including the Miami Daily News-the police continued, extralegally, to harass Capone and his visitors. They interrupted Jack McGurn at his favorite sport of golf, dragged him off the links, and kept him prisoner until Captain Stege, at their request, sent detectives to escort him back to Chicago. During the month of May they arrested Capone four times for "vagrancy." The indomitable Giblin swore out warrants against the city authorities and publisher Cox, charging them with conspiracy to deprive Capone of his liberty. (When his client later balked at a fee of $50,000, the former athlete stormed into his home, grabbed him by the shirtfront and threatened to knock his teeth down his throat. Capone was so startled that he handed over what cash there was in the bedroom chest. Gordon & Giblin had to sue him to collect the full amount.)
As it grew clear that Capone could not be dislodged, the harassment let up. His victory opened the way to Miami for other gangsters. Terry Druggan was among the next to own property there, followed by the Fischettis. It became de rigueur for the successful bootlegger or racketeer to spend part of each winter in a waterfront villa or a suite at a Miami Beach hotel.
The Capones acquired a certain social position. Curiosity, daredeviltry or inverted snobbishness brought both year-round Miamians and winter visitors to their parties. Even as Cox's paper was clamoring for Capone's ouster, sixty business and professional men accepted an engraved invitation to a banquet and musicale. As each guest passed through the main gate, a servant pinned a miniature American flag to his lapel. The main dish was an elaborate pasta. For beverages the host discreetly offered nothing stronger than mineral water or soda pop. At the table a Miami elder rose, formally introduced Capone as "the new businessman of the community," and presented him with a fountain pen. The entertainment then began with an operatic recital and ended with a Highland fling.
The Capones also gave a big party for Sonny, a pupil at the Gesu Catholic School in Miami Beach. They invited fifty children but with consummate diplomacy stipulated that they must bring a letter of consent from home. Few parents withheld it.
Showfolk were always favored guests on the Palm Island estate. At one time or other he lavished hospitality upon Harry Richman (who many years later was still proudly referring to him as "my very good friend"), Joe E. Lewis, George Jessel, Al Jolson, Eddie Cantor and many other stars who played the Miami nightclubs. Cantor, a naive and timorous soul, assumed he had been sent for to entertain and was terrified of incurring the gang leader's ire. So he brought along his accompanist, immediately seated him at the living-room piano and, banjo eyes wide, beating his fingertips together, started to sing, "If you knew Susie like I know Susie-" "Hold it!" said Capone. "I didn't ask you here to perform. I just wanted to meet you.,,
In the late spring of 1930 a nautical mishap nearly ended Capone's career. The detachment with which he faced the prospect of sudden death, he who shrank from the prick of a doctor's hypodermic needle, left an indelible impression upon the young lawyer who shared the experience. Capone wanted to buy another pleasure craft. A Miami rum-runner of his acquaintance, Ralph Senterfit, offered him a 40foot cabin cruiser, on which he had been bringing in "hams" from Bimini. A ham consisted of six bottles swaddled in straw inside a gunnysack. Attached to each sack was a bag of salt and a red marker. If chased by the Coast Guard, the rum-runner would race for shallow water and drop the hams overboard. The bags of salt would usually keep them on the bottom until the danger passed. Then, as the salt melted, the markers would rise to the top, enabling the rumrunner to retrieve his sunken treasure. Often, the bottles were still damp when they reached the consumer.
Capone fancied the boat but insisted before buying it that his own captain, one A. H. Caesar, test it. On the trial run he took along the junior member of another Miami law firm handling his affairs, William Parker, and an Argentine bodyguard, a small man lugging a gun almost as big as he was. Captain Caesar put the boat through its paces on Biscayne Bay. He spun the wheel back and forth so vigorously that he probably weakened the steering cable. As he started back toward the dock, two boys in a rowboat with an outboard motor crossed his path. He swung sharply to port to avoid them, and the cable snapped. The cruiser was then speeding straight for a steel oil barge. Parker and the Argentine scrambled into the stern, covering their heads with their arms. Caesar cut the engine, crouched low, and pulled at the wheel. But Capone stood in the prow, coolly eying the barge ahead. At the last instant the cruiser swerved. It struck the barge a glancing blow, knocking Caesar, Parker and the bodyguard flat, then bounced off undamaged and slowed to a stop. Capone had kept his feet without a quiver. Towed to the dock, he stepped ashore unhurriedly, lit a cigar, and nodded to Senterfit. "I'll take her. Have her fixed up and send me the bill."
On June 9 Capone received shocking news from Chicago about his friend Jake Lingle.
ALFRED "Jake" Lingle was twenty when he went to work at the Tribune as a copyboy. His only previous employment had been that of stock clerk and messenger for a surgical supply company. Born to West Siders of moderate means, he grew up in the dingy neighborhood that bred the old Valley gang. His education ended in the Calhoun elementary school on West Jackson Boulevard, some of whose graduates succeeded as businessmen, some as politicians, and some as gangsters. Lingle lost sight of none of them.
Though cynical, self-satisfied and secretive, he could, when it suited him, radiat
e boyish charm. He was a solidly built man of medium height, with curly black hair, ruddy cheeks and a cleft chin. The extensive acquaintanceship he cultivated served him well when he had persuaded the Tribune, after only a few weeks in the office, to let him work on the outside as a police reporter.
Lingle had no aptitude for writing. He could only transmit facts. He was a legman, and a legman he remained for eighteen years, earning, at his top salary, $65 a week. But the Tribune considered him a great asset. Crime was almost daily front-page news in the Chicago of the twenties, and every paper relied heavily on its house crime expert, its gangologist. In that category Lingle had few equals and no superior. He frequently scooped the competition, for not only did he enjoy easy access to Capone, among other underworld bosses, but he was on intimate terms with both Police Commissioner Russell and Deputy Commissioner Stege. The former friendship dated from Russell's nonage as a patrolman pounding a West Side beat. He and Lingle golfed together, attended the theater and sports events together, borrowed money from each other. So close were they that people would later speak of Lingle as "Chicago's unofficial chief of police."
At the age of thirty he married a boyhood sweetheart, Helen Sullivan. They had two children a year apart, Alfred, Jr., and Dolores. In addition to a house on the West Side, where they were both reared, Lingle bought a summer bungalow at Long Beach, Indiana, for $18,000. In the winter he sometimes took his family to Cuba or Florida for a vacation. He owned a Lincoln and employed a chauffeur. During the last half of 1930 he kept a room in the Stevens Hotel on Michigan Avenue. The switchboard operator had instructions never to disturb him unless the caller's name appeared on the lists Lingle gave her from time to time. Otherwise, as the house detective pointed out later, "How could he get any sleep? His telephone would be going all night. He would get in around two or three and he wanted rest."
