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the rich, to steal for them. Joseph Roth and Son gave them just enough
for what they brought in to make thievery a little more profitable than
working hard for a living. Once they accepted a stolen article, they
encouraged young Negroes to steal more for them. If they did not do so,
they threatened them with exposure. Indeed, the Roths sometimes called
detectives while their victims were still in the shop. Thus they built
up a staff of intimidated Harlem thieves who eventually could not escape
from the ring even if they wished to do so, for fear that their misdeeds
would be exposed.

The Roth pawnshops became cesspools of demoralization for the Lenox
Avenue youth. Some highly skilled professional thieves also found an
outlet for their loot through these shops. But so cleverly were their true
operations concealed that it was difficult to get the goods on them. The
fine jewelry and expensive silverware stolen from the homes of the rich
were certainly not resold in Harlem, perhaps not even in New York. The
Roths received such goods for distribution elsewhere. The Negroes
bringing the items in got only a minute fraction of the real value while
the Roths themselves became wealthy. Decent people in the community were
outraged, but nothing was done about it until one night an attractive
brownskin young woman rang my doorbell. She said, out of the clear sky,
"I want you to arrest me, Battle. I want to give you a case against the
Roths. But put me in jail and protect me. I'm afraid,"

Her name was Olive Keene. I took her to the station house and booked
her for burglary. The articles Olive had stolen she had recognized as
having great value. The Roths gave her only a few dollars for them, then

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markets." The Roths profited from such conditions to encourage crime.
One of the Harlem papers called them editorially one

"......money sharks who have grown rich out of the misery and profligacy of Harlem. Not being content apparently with taking usurious profits for small loans amply covered by chattel security, they are accused of being fences for the thugs who have looted the homes of millionaires. Because they are now in this segregated colored community, it seems they have been immune from search and arrest for a long time. This is one of the reasons why this great community has been given a bad name. The money sharks in the real estate and commercial field are exploiting Harlem in the same way. The Roths, like the rest, do not employ colored people, but take all out of the community and give it nothing in return."

Harlem watched the progress of the Roth case with great interest. And this time we had better luck. Before Judge George L. Donnellan in the Court of General Sessions on May 31, 1927, Joseph Roth and his son, Herbert, again were brought to trial on an indictment of criminally receiving stolen goods in the first degree. For five days the court heard witnesses and listened to the evidence which I had gathered. Olive Keene told her story. On Monday, June 6, young Herbert Roth, on advice

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At that time the banks were open on Saturday mornings. Before noon, through the bank, I got my first helpful clue as to what might have happened to Holstein.

The Chelsea Bank informed me that the manager of the American Exchange-Irving Trust Company at 167th Street and Southern Boulevard in the Bronx had phoned to ascertain if a check signed by Holstein to the amount of $3200 was valid. We learned that it had been proferred by one Michael Bernstein of 1182 Lebanon Avenue, the Bronx, whom we knew as a beer runner with underworld connections. With this clue I began to make my plans. I asked Detectives Moore and Webber to pose as numbers controllers employed by Casper Holstein, and to approach Bernstein, stating that they had confidential information that he would be able to tell them where their boss might be contacted.

The plan worked. Neither Webber nor Moore looked like detectives. (Negro detectives seem harder to spot, anyway, than whites.) Eventually Bernstein was convinced that my men were really racketeers like himself, that they were deeply concerned about the welfare of their backer, and would even be willing to pay-off to have him released unharmed. Bernstein then disclosed to my men information which, it later turned out, was only partially true. He said that Casper Holstein had been "snatched" by the members of a Chicago mob who were holding him for $50,000 ransom. He would be released if this was paid, but if anyone informed on them, Holstein would be found dead, and the informers—looking directly at my men—would be taken for a ride.

Moore and Webber told Bernstein they could produce the $50,000 if they

With my assistants, Moore and Webber, and twenty other detectives, I went to the fights that night. Sure enough, in the seats indicated sat Bernstein and his friends. Parked outside were two of the cars whose license plates my men had spotted in the morning. When the main bout was over, we waited near these cars, as the men came out to get in them, we nabbed them. Bernstein and his friends were grilled all night at the Police Station.

This was my second night without sleep, and I scarcely took time out to eat. The grilling, each man apart from the others, continued well into the next day, Sunday. Their conflicting stories and information we carefully checked for areas of agreement and points of contradiction. Whenever clues were disclosed of a concrete nature, detectives were immediately dispatched to investigate them. In one instance, ten detectives were dispatched on a tip that Casper was "being held in a bungalow on the outskirts of the Bronx." The men carried tear gas bombs, sawed-off shotguns, and plenty of ammunition, prepared for a siege if necessary. At 3 A. M. they forced an entrance—but no Casper.

Meanwhile we learned that one of Holstein's friends had received a mysterious telephone call, the details of which were never fully revealed to the police, and that his associates were prepared to pay a $50,000 ransom for his release. One wealthy Negro business man from Chicago had taken the Twentieth Century to New York especially to offer money for that purpose. We refused to permit this payment to happen if the police could prevent it, especially as we were convinced this was not a "money" kidnapping.

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The story and photographs of Holstein's release covered a full page in the "Evening Graphic" under the headlines:

KIDNAPPERS FREE RICH NEGRO

Hunt White Women As Gang Chiefs

Two white women are being hunted today as leaders of the "Black and Tan" gang that kidnapped Casper Holstein, Harlem's 50-year-old colored "sports king" and held him for $50,000 ransom only to toss him out dazed this morning at 140th and Amsterdam Avenue after returning his diamond ring, watch and chain, and giving him $3 to hire a taxi cab to reach home.

"When I was forced into the car," said Holstein, "I got a look at my captors. I saw two white women in the car. I don't know how many others. They struck me when I fought, overpowered me, and then blindfolded me. By a zigzag route they took me to a house and then took me out again and followed another circuitous route. For all I know they may have brought me back to the same house. They gave me nothing but milk and I slept on the floor. Wires were tied about my arms and legs, and always blindfolded. When they let me go I was so weak that they got away before I realized I was free and could give the alarm. It was a frightful experience, blindfolded all the time and not knowing what moment they might kill me."

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nude, his tongue slit, and I was called to identify him. D'Agontino was also taken for a ride and dumped out dead. And Jack "Legs" Diamond, whom the police never linked with the Holstein case as did the newspapers, was shot to death in a phone booth in the Chelsea District.

Casper Holstein died a natural death some years later, a comparatively poor man, his once powerful numbers empire entirely taken over by the Dutch Schultz syndicate, his fortune gone, much of it to philanthropy or helpful community causes of one kind or another, from housing to art. Had it not been for his kindness of heart, specifically his help to the hurricane sufferers of his home island that brought the cables of gratitude he carried in his pockets when he was kidnapped, the police might not have been able to bring him back alive to the Harlem that he loved, nor to send one of his abductors to prison.

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a kind of protection in case the full three numbers do not come out.

For many years the numbers were played on the basis of the last three digits of the New York Clearing House statement for the day's trading. Racketeering gamblers, through bribery, were sometimes able to get this total before it was released, far enough in advance to place bets themselves and score heavy winnings. As the numbers became a billion dollar business, other racketeers found a way of rigging the totals, and some were sent to jail for this. Mayor LaGuardia, in his attempt to clamp down on such crooked practices and the numbers racket in general, finally forced the Stock Exchange to stop releasing, and the newspapers to stop printing the daily totals. The number barons then switched to the race tracks, and the last three digits of the pari-mutual totals on certain tracks became the winning figures.

A number may be played straight in the New York area until about one o'clock in the afternoon. Single action on the first number may be placed until that time, on the second number until about three, and on the final number sometimes, and with some bankers, as late as four P. M. But most people manage to get all their numbers in before noon, many placing them at the corner store as they go to work in the mornings.

Some people play regularly every day, but when it is time for the pari-mutual totals to be released they glue their ears to the radio. Long lines wait at newstands for the editions of the "Daily News" containing the pari-mutual totals, interested in nothing in their pages except those last three digits representing to them good or bad luck.

The numbers give many otherwise dull and uneventful lives a daily quality.

["Just at the moment when Harlem's poverty deepened, more money than ever went out of Harlem, none of it to return in wages or benefits. The white gangsters did not build apartment houses for Negroes to live in. They did not help black students and artists. Their night clubs had no interest in developing Negro talent, only in exploiting it.", "In fact the white owned cabarets and speakeasies, even when located in the heart of the Harlem area, often segregated Negro patrons, if such patrons were admitted at all. Only A'Lelia Walker, Bojangles, and a select few could get a ring-side table at the famous Cotton Club where Duke Ellington or Cab Calloway played. Most other colored people could not get in the Cotton Club at all. There the gangster, Oney Madden, held his champagne parties and Park Avenue playboys paid enormous checks. In the late 1920's and '30's millions of dollars flowed from Harlem into the hands of white racketeers via bootlegging, M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M

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And from the numbers Casper Holstein became a patron of the arts. But all this was before the depression laid the full force of its heavy hand on Harlem, before the agitators mounted their ladders on *street corners*, *and before* the years of the locusts set in.

The numbers did not originate in Harlem, nor among Negroes, nor are they entirely of our time. The numbers in one form or another are well over a hundred years old as a gambling *device* in Manhattan. As far back as 1819 when New York City had a population of only 120,000, and very few *Negroes*, there is evidence that people played the numbers on a huge scale. That year the New York State Legislature ordered an investigation and later issued a report exposing in no uncertain terms the numbers game as a "medium of fraud and dishonesty." Those who wanted to, however, kept right on playing—and the players were legion, *even then*.

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23.

BLACK BARONS OF CHANCE

The numbers as now played in sequences of three came into being toward
the end of World War I. Previously, the prevalent form of gambling for the
poor man was policy, that is, numbers selected by the turn of a wheel.
When I first came to New York, at the turn of the century, the policy lottery
was controlled by a white man, Al Adams. Cubans and West Indians were the
first big numbers operators in Harlem. They called the game bolito, taking

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same name, I have always felt a peculiar interest in
your welfare and am much gratified by your well
deserved success.

About 1921 or 22 ---

Night holdup of Capitol Theatre office--- $22,000 payroll taken. All culprits escaped. No trace, meagre description.

Harry F. Agard and I---out of Special Service Division---had wide underworld contacts, and large acquaintance with good citizens. Business man contacted me confidentially (still living). Met me at entrance to Central Park at 59th and Fifth late at night to avoid reprisals. Sat on a bench. Gave me full details. Name of a Negro finger man, and two stickup men, white. Told me where in mid-morning they hung out.

Agard and I covered spot. Arrested finger man, who gave information against others, at West 47th Street Station House. Detectives reprimanded us for interfering in their case. White boys arrested. All went to State Prison. Agard and I commended by Capitol Theatre officials, offered permanent admission to the theatre. High officials of Police Department personally commended us, but never given any official recognition.

Patrolman Harry Agard (now retired) and I obtained information and arrested the finger man in the Capitol Theatre robbery in 1922. (The man gave us the information at night, inside Central Parl at 5th & 59th. He is still alive. He didn't want his name divulged. Brought prisoner to W. 47th St. Station House and were both roundly censured by a Detective in charge for meddling in their case. However, this arrest led to the apprehension of the others in this $22,000 robbery and all went to State Prison, with no credit given to Agard and I who were in plainclothes. The Special Service Division and the Detectives in W. 47th St. received all the credit. Agard and I received passes to the theatre for our trouble. Major Bowes was there at that time. There were many other important arrests made by Negro officers

whose names were never mentioned because none were attached to the Detective
Bureau. The first Negro so attached was Detective Redding who made some
outstanding arrests but never was given first grade money, which was the pay
of a Lieutenant. He worked faithfully and hard and finally died of tuberculosis
in Seaview Hospital, L. I. He was buried in a bronze casket. There have been
many other who have made excellent records up to that time but none were
rewarded with first grade pay until the day I was passed over for promotion
to Sergeant (June 5, 1925). Commissioner Enright made William Boyden a
first grade Detective.

["-156-a-", "Agard and I were instrumental in solving the big Capitol Theatre robbery in the early 1920's when one night the office was held up and a $22,000 payroll taken by masked bandits. The culprits escaped leaving no trace, and a very meagre description behind them. White detectives from the West 47th Street Precinct were assigned to this case. But nothing happened until myself and Agard scented a contact. one of Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm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During Prohibition I often used Agard in gathering evidence in relation to violations of the Volstead Act. On West 53rd Street just off Broadway there was a certain loft where the best of bonded liquors, choice wines and champagnes were sold illegally. It was difficult to secure tangible evidence until Agard effected an entrance as a patron. I was at the door when he emerged with a bottle neatly wrapped. When the seller saw me, he tried to snatch the bottle from Agard's hands and smash it in the doorway. Instead, I snatched the proprietor by the collar, and took him and the evidence to the station to be booked.

I searched the premises and found more than $50,000 worth of excellent stock inside. It took several patrol wagons to haul all this liquor to the station house. Some of it never got there. But enough was on hand to have a good case against the man I had taken into custody.

Time after time, however, this case was postponed. Time after time, court would adjourn just before the hearing was scheduled. It would then be rescheduled--only to have the same thing happen another day.

Finally, one afternoon at the close of court, the magistrate received my

150
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Today there are no less than 125 Negroes in the
Police Department, doing entirely satisfactory work.
Battle was the first to be promoted to sergeant, but
another Negro, Dr. Louis T. Wright, has been for years
a police surgeon, having the rank of inspector. The
white policemen are very happy to have his services.
He was the second Negro medical man to be elected to
the College of Surgeons. At a dinner give to him in
recognition of this, the chief surgeon of the Police
Department testified in highest terms to Dr. Wright's
worth as a physician and a man. But, of course, it
couldn't be done—before it was attempted. Oil and
water wouldn't mix, and white men would never submit
to close association with Negroes or to examination
by a colored physician........

All this reminds me of the old Eastern fable of the
traveler who came to a narrow defile and found his way
blocked by an obstacle. He tried to surmount it and
could not. He tried to go around either side and
failed. He tried to go under it, but that was impossible.
Finally, after much delay and doubt—he walked right
through it, and found that it wasn't an obstacle at
all. So it is with many manifestations of race prejudice.

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Years ago in New York City the Cosmopolitan Club gave a dinner to which some of us were invited to discuss the lot of the Negro in New York. Of course, some Negroes were asked. How could we discuss the Negro problem adequately without getting their point of view? A drunken Hearst reporter attended and the next day there were tremendous headlines. Leering, visious-looking Negroes were portrayed by staff artists as sitting next to white women; and the whole undertaking was pictured as a move for miscegenation. The Associated Press sent the story all over the country, with the result that those of us whose names were mentioned, both men and women, received letters of abuse and obscenity from half the states in the Union, and the good old "New York Times", true to its Southern ownership, solemnly warned us that we were countenancing something that must never be in America.

Well, a couple of years ago I attended a dinner here in a leading hotel in honor of a British lieutenant general given by a group of entirely conservative persons interested in Southern education. Half the people in the room were Negroes and half whites, but this fact was never referred to in the accounts of the dinner. White people and colored people frequent

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money to spend. Just to look around, I guess. While
walking past one of the counters I saw a knife that
attracted me and I took it. As I did a floorwalker
came up and grabbed me.

"You 've taken something," he said.

"I told him I had and handed him the knife which I had slipped in my pocket. He started pushing me around and then began pushing me out of the store. I told him I could walk out myself and tried to shake him off, but he called another floorwalker then and when he came up he said, 'Let's take him downstairs and beat hell out of him!'

"Then I really started fighting. I didn't want a licking. Somebody called the police, I guess, because just then two cops came in and I noticed that a big crowd had formed outside. I didn't know they were there on my account though. One of the cops told the men I could be arrested, but they said they wouldn't bother with it, so he just took my name and address. It was a little after three o'clock when I left the store. By that time there was such a big crowd out front, they took me down in the cellar and put me out through a door that led into 124th Street. I didn't go around in front because I still didn't

realize they were there on my account. I went straight home." When I got home I went to sleep until about six o'clock. Then I got up and had supper and stayed in until about nine o'clock when I went out for about twenty-five minutes and had a cup of coffee. While I was out I saw there was a lot of trouble around. I didn't know it was about me, but I saw the streets were no place for me, so I went back home and went to bed."

What Lino Rivera did not know was that when the clerks took him into the basement of the store, a Negro woman customer ran into the streets crying that they were beating a colored child to death downstairs. An angry crowd quickly gathered along 125th Street, as well as in 124th Street at the rear of the store, but the few policemen in the neighborhood held them back. There was a garage in the vicinity of the time store where undertaking cars were serviced, and by coincidence, about this time a hearse drew up. The crowd thought it had come for the boy's body. Immediately, the rumor spread that the youth was dead—whites had killed a Negro boy in Kress' where no Negroes could work." Anger mounted. The crowd went mad. Someone began to smash the Kress windows. The police, outnumbered, were ignored. The Harlem riots were on.

Within an hour, the Young Liberators, a Communist organization, had flooded the streets with a mimeographed leaflet which read:

CHILD BRUTALLY BEATEN—WOMAN ATTACKED
BY BOSS AND COPS—CHILD NEAR DEATH