The sound of Abu Ben Mohammed’s pistol shot attracted the attention of Mr. Samuel Goldblatt, Jr., who looked up from the work on his desk, and then stood up. When the executive offices had been built, one-way glass panels providing a view of the third-floor showroom had been installed. But they had never really worked, and eventually had been almost entirely covered up by a row of filing cabinets. The only way to see what was going on on the floor was to open the door and look.
Mr. Goldblatt did so, and found himself looking into the barrel of Abu Ben Mohammed’s revolver.
“Hands up, honky!”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Goldblatt said.
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Steiner said, thereby attracting Abu Ben Mohammed’s attention.
“Out here, bitch!”
“Do what he says, Blanche,” Mr. Goldblatt said.
Abu Ben Mohammed then took careful aim at Mrs. Steiner’s IBM typewriter and fired. The machine seemed to lift slightly off the desk and then settled back. There was a faint screeching noise, and then, a short-circuit within the typewriter having caused a fuse to blow, the overhead lights in the executive office went out. Desk lamps on Mr. Goldblatt’s and Mrs. Steiner’s desks continued to burn and produced sufficient light to see.
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Steiner wailed.
“Please don’t hurt anyone,” Mr. Goldblatt pleaded. “We’ll do whatever you want us to do.”
Abu Ben Mohammed then struck Mr. Goldblatt on the head, with a downward slashing motion of his pistol, causing him to fall to his knees and also causing a small cut on the (bald) top of his head.
“Get the money and some rope,” Abu Ben Mohammed ordered.
“What?” Mrs. Steiner asked.
“There’s no money up here,” Mr. Goldblatt said. “Honest to God there isn’t!”
“Bullshit!” Abu Ben Mohammed said. “Get the fucking money!”
Mr. Goldblatt reached into the hip pocket of his trousers and came out with his wallet that he handed to Abu Ben Mohammed.
“Take this,” he said.
Abu Ben Mohammed took the wallet, and from it not less than one hundred twenty dollars and not more than two hundred dollars and put the bills in a pocket of his dashiki. Then he threw the wallet at Mr. Goldblatt.
“Give him your purse, Blanche,” Mr. Goldblatt said.
“Go get it,” Abu Ben Mohammed said to Mrs. Steiner, and then added to Mr. Goldblatt, “If you’re lying to me, if we find any money in that office, I’m going to blow your fucking honky head off.”
“I swear to God, believe me, we don’t keep any money up here.”
“Then what’s that fucking safe for?”
“Business papers. Look for yourself.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, you honky motherfucker!” Abu Ben Mohammed said, and swung his pistol at Mr. Goldblatt’s head again. Mr. Goldblatt was able to ward off most of the force of this blow with his hands, suffering only a minor bruise to his left hand.
Mrs. Steiner took her purse from a desk drawer and offered it to Abu Ben Mohammed. A coin purse contained approximately sixteen dollars in bills, and there was approximately sixty dollars in her wallet. Abu Ben Mohammed removed these monies and placed them in a pocket of his dashiki.
On the second floor, meanwhile, Hector Carlos Estivez had startled Mrs. Emily Watkins by ordering her to remove her shoes and stockings. When she had done so, he used one of the stockings to bind her hands behind her back. He then told her to lie down again, on her stomach, and when she failed to so quickly enough to satisfy him, he pushed her so that she fell.
A minute or so later Mrs. Watkins was ordered to get up, and when she was not able to get to her feet quickly enough to satisfy Hector Carlos Estivez, he kicked her in the side, and then jerked her to an upright position.
She saw then for the first time Mr. Ted Sadowsky, a Goldblatt employee specializing in televisions and stereo equipment, who had been in the front part of the building. He was being held at gunpoint, probably a Colt Police Positive .38 Special caliber snub-nosed revolver (or the Smith & Wesson equivalent) by a suspect subsequently identified as Randolph George Dawes, aka Muhammed el Sikkim, Negro Male, twenty-four, five feet nine inches, 160 pounds.
“Tie the cocksucker up,” Hector Carlos Estivez said to Muhammed el Sikkim, and handed him Mrs. Watkins’s other stocking.
Muhammed el Sikkim tied Mr. Sadowsky’s hands behind his back with Mrs. Watkins’s stocking, and then led the two of them to the stairway between the passenger and freight elevators and took them to the third floor, where he ordered them to get on the floor on their stomachs.
“No fucking rope and no fucking money,” Abu Ben Mohammed said to Muhammed el Sikkim.
“Use stockings. Tell that kike bitch to take hers off.”
Mrs. Steiner was then forced to remove her panty hose, which were torn apart at the crotch and one part of them then used to tie her arms behind her back. Mr. Samuel Goldblatt was then tied in a similar manner, with the other leg of Mrs. Steiner’s panty hose, and he and Mrs. Steiner were then forced to lay on their stomachs beside Mr. Sadowsky and Mrs. Watkins.
Within the next five minutes, all Goldblatt employees, plus the one customer in the store, Mrs. Doris Martin, were brought to the third floor by the perpetrators. These included the three employees on duty in the first-floor Credit Department, the remaining salespeople, and Mr. Monahan.
From this point, inasmuch as all Goldblatt employees (including Mr. Samuel Goldblatt, Jr.) and Mrs. Martin were lying on their stomachs on the floor of the third floor of the Goldblatt Building with their arms bound behind them, the only witnesses to the perpetrators’ actions on the first and second floors of the Goldblatt Building were the perpetrators themselves.
What is known is that three (or four) of the perpetrators (almost certainly including Abu Ben Mohammed, and probably including Hector Carlos Estivez and Muhammed el Sikkim) went to the Credit Department on the first floor and
(a) Removed approximately four hundred eighty dollars in bills and coins-in-rolls from the cashier’s cash drawer.
(b) Broke into the interior compartments (three) of the safe. The safe itself was open at the time the robbery began. There was no cash in the safe.
(c) Emptied the contents of a wastebasket (mostly waste paper) into the safe and set it afire.
Sometime during this period, Mr. John Francis Cohn, forty-nine, of Queen Lane in East Falls, supervisor of the Maintenance Department of Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc., apparently entered the building via a door on Rodman Street, the narrow alley at the rear of the building. This self-closing door was closed to the public and was normally locked. Mr. Cohn had a key.
Apparently, Mr. Cohn then descended to the basement of the store by the stairwell between the freight and passenger elevators. He then uncrated (or completed uncrating) a special, demonstration model Hotpoint washing machine, constructed of a plastic material so that the interior of the apparatus was visible, and, using a hand truck, put the machine onto the freight elevator.
He then apparently ascended to the second floor, where he had received instructions to install the machine in the Washer and Drier Department.
He moved the machine to the rear of the second floor, and then apparently became aware that there were no salespeople on duty. (Or possibly wished to ascertain precisely where he was to set up the machine.) He then got back onto the freight elevator and descended to the first floor, and opened the door and the elevator gate.
At this point, apparently, he saw the perpetrators and attempted to flee by moving the elevator. At this point, the perpetrators saw him, and at least two of them then fired their weapons at him.
Mr. Cohn was struck by four bullets, two of .38 Special caliber and two of .45 Colt Automatic Pistol caliber. Three additional .38 Special caliber and one additional .45 ACP bullets were later found in the woodwork of the elevator.
Mr. Cohn fell inward into the elevator.
The perpetrators then entere
d the stairwell and went to the third floor. They reported to the others that they “had blown away a honky motherfucker on the elevator,” and that the cash register had contained “only a lousy five hundred fucking dollars.”
A conversation, within hearing, but out of sight of the victims, was then held, during which one of the perpetrators announced he had found an inflammable fluid and soaked some carpet with it, and that he was going to “burn the fucking place down, and the honkies with it.”
Another perpetrator was heard to say, “It’s time to get the fuck out of here.”
The perpetrators then, without further discussion, apparently ignited the inflammable fluid that had been poured upon a stack of carpet, descending to the first floor by means of the stairwell between the freight and passenger elevators, exited the building via a fire door in the rear of the building opening onto the alley (Rodman Street).
Opening of the fire door set off an alarm, which both caused bells mounted on the front and rear of the building and in the finance and executive offices to begin to ring, and was connected with the Holmes Security Service. A Holmes employee then
(a) Telephoned the Police Radio Room,
(b) Attempted to telephone the Goldblatt Building to verify that the alarm had not been accidentally triggered, and on failing to have anyone answer the telephone,
(c) Contacted a Holmes patrol unit in the area, informing him of the triggering of the alarm in the Goldblatt Building.
The Radio Room of the Philadelphia Police Department is on the second floor of the Police Administration Building at Eighth and Race Streets in downtown Philadelphia.
“Police Emergency,” the operator, a thirty-seven-year-old woman named Janet Grosse, said into her headset.
“This is Holmes,” the caller said. “I have a signal of a fire door audible alarm at Goldblatt Furniture, northwest corner, 8th and South.”
The call from Holmes Security Service was treated exactly as any other call for help would be treated, except of course that Mrs. Grosse, who had worked in Police Radio for eleven years, seemed to recognize the voice of the Holmes man and made a subconscious decision from the phrasing of the report that it was genuine, and not coming from someone who got his kicks sending the cops on wild goose chases.
“Got you covered,” she said, which was not exactly the precise response called for by regulations.
Eighth and South streets, Mrs. Grosse knew, was in the 6th Police District, which has its headquarters at llth and Winter Streets. She looked up at her board and saw that Radio Patrol Car 611 was available for service.
She opened her microphone.
“Six Eleven, northwest corner, 8th and South, Goldblatt’s Furniture, an audible alarm.”
RPC 611 was a somewhat battered 1972 Plymouth with more than 100,000 miles on its odometer. When the call came, Officer James J. Molyneux, Badge Number 6771, who had been on the job eighteen years, had just turned left off South Broad Street onto South Street.
He picked up his microphone.
“Six Eleven, okay.”
Officer Molyneux turned on his flashing lights, but not the siren, and held his hand down on the horn button to clear the traffic in front of him.
At just about this time, the ringing of the alarm bell had attracted the attention of Police Officer Johnson V. Collins, Badge Number 2662, who was then on foot patrol (Beat Two) on South Street between 10th and llth Streets.
Officer Collins was equipped with a portable radio, and heard Mrs. Grosse’s call to RFC 611. He took his radio from its holster and spoke into it.
“Six Beat Two,” he said. “That’s on me. I’ve got it.”
Mrs. Grosse immediately replied, “Okay, Six Beat Two. Six Eleven, resume patrol.”
Officer Molyneux, without responding, turned off his flashing lights, but, having nothing better to do, continued driving down South Street toward Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc.
Officer Collins walked purposefully (but did not run or even trot; audible alarms went off all the time) down South Street to the Goldblatt Building. It was only when he found the doors closed and the Venetian blinds closed that he suspected that anything might be out of the ordinary. Business was slow, but Goldblatt’s shouldn’t be closed.
He glanced up the street and saw RFC 611 coming in his direction. Now trotting, he went to the corner of South and South Ninth Streets, stepped into the street, and raised his arm to attract the attention of the driver of 611. He recognized Officer Molyneux.
He made a signal for Molyneux to cover the front of the building, and when he was sure that Molyneux understood what was being asked of him, Collins trotted down South Ninth Street to Rodman Street, which was more of an alley than a street, and then to the rear of the Goldblatt Building.
The fire door had an automatic closing device, but it had not completely closed the door. Collins was able to get his fingers behind the inch-wide strip of steel welded to the end of the door to shield the crack between door and jamb and pull the door open.
He took several steps inside the building, and then saw the body lying in the freight elevator and the blood on the elevator’s wall.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he breathed, and reached for his radio.
“Six Beat Two, Six Beat Two, give me some backup here, I think I’ve got a robbery in progress! Give me a wagon too. I’ve got a shooting victim!”
Then, suddenly remembering that portable radios often fail to work inside a building, he went back into the alley and repeated his call.
“What’s your location, Six Beat Two?” Police Radio replied.
“800 South Street. Goldblatt Furniture.”
The first response was from Officer Molyneux.
“Six Eleven, I’m on the scene. In front.”
He was drowned out by the Police Radio transmission. First there were three beeps, and then Mrs. Grosse announced, “800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.”
Then there came a brief pause, and the entire message, including the three beeps, was repeated.
The response was immediate:
“Six A, in.” Six A was one of the two 9th District sergeants on duty. He was responsible for covering the lower end of the district, from Vine Street to South Street. The other sergeant (Six B) covered the upper end of the district from Vine to Poplar Streets.
“Six Oh One, in.” Six Oh One was one of the 9th District’s two-man vans.
“Highway Twenty-Two, in on that.”
“Six Ten, in,” came from another 6th District RPC.
“Six Command, in,” came from the car of the 6th District lieutenant on duty, who was responsible for covering the entire district.
Officer Collins replace his radio in its holster, drew his service revolver, and, with his mouth dry and his heart beating almost audibly, went, very carefully, back into the building.
FIVE
Officers Gerald Quinn and Charles McFadden had spent all of the morning hanging around the sixth-floor hallway outside Courtroom 636 in City Hall waiting to be called to testify. The assistant DA sent word, however, that they probably would be, and asked them not to leave the building until he gave them permission or until the court broke for lunch.
That meant that in addition to the lousy coffee served by the concessionaire in the stairwell, they would have to eat lunch in some crowded greasy spoon restaurant nearby.
They went back to Courtroom 636 a few minutes before two. The assistant district attorney told them they would not be needed. By the time they had gone back downstairs and checked out through Court Attendance, it was a few minutes after two.
They went out and found their car. Quinn got behind the wheel and cranked the battered Chevrolet. The radio warmed almost immediately, and came to life:
“BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.
“BEEP BEEP BEEP. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in
progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.”
Quinn had the siren howling and the lights flashing even before McFadden could pick up the microphone.
When he had it in his hand, he said, “Highway Twenty-Two in on that.”
Mrs. Janet Grosse’s—Police Radio’s—second call about the robbery of Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc.—
Beep Beep Beep. 800 South Street. Assist officer. Holdup in progress. Report of shooting and hospital case.
—was also picked up by one of the several police frequency radios in an antennae-festooned Buick, a new one, registered to one Michael J. O’Hara of the 2100 block of South Shields Street in West Philadelphia.
Mr. O’Hara had just a moment before entered the Buick after having taken luncheon (a cheese-steak sandwich, a large side order of french fries, and three bottles of Ortleib’s beer) at Beato’s on Parrish Street, in the company of Sergeant Max Feldman, of the 9th District.
When the call came, Mr. O’Hara was filling out a small printed document that he would, on Friday, turn into the administrative office of the Philadelphia Bulletin, the newspaper by which he was employed. It would state that in the course of business he had entertained Sergeant Feldman at luncheon at a cost of $23.50, plus a $3.75 tip, for a total of $27.25. In due course, a check would be issued to reimburse Mr. O’Hara for this business expense.
Actually, Mr. O’Hara had not paid for the lunch, and indeed had no idea what it had cost. Sergeant Feldman’s money was no good at Beato’s, and the management had picked up Mr. O’Hara’s tab as a further courtesy to Sergeant Feldman.
But several months before, Casimir J. Bolinski, LLD, had renegotiated Mr. O’Hara’s contract for the provision of his professional services to the Bulletin. Among other stipulations, the new contract required the Bulletin to reimburse Mr. O’Hara for whatever expenses he incurred in carrying out his professional duties, specifically including the entertainment of individuals who, in Mr. O’Hara’s sole judgment, might prove useful to him professionally.
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