Joe Bruno's Mobsters - Six Volume Set

by Bruno, Joe

  ROSENTHAL BECOMES A RAT

  Feeling like he was the odd man out, and being persecuted by the police, especially Lieutenant Becker, Rosenthal decided to take his case directly to Mayor William J. Gaynor. A man of Gaynor’s exalted stature wouldn’t be caught dead in the same room with a weasel like Rosenthal, so Gaynor’s secretary told Rosenthal’s to take a hike, or something similar.

  Rosenthal then figured, “If the Mayor won’t see me, I’ll go straight to Police Commissioner Waldo.”

  This was not a very bright idea, since it was Waldo who had ordered Becker to raid Rosenthal’s joint in the first place. It was no surprise that Waldo also refused to see Rosenthal.

  Two strikes against him and tired of whiffing, Rosenthal took another swing, and he wound up in the office of New York City District Attorney Charles S. Whitman, a confirmed alcoholic, who was often drunk on the job and sometimes even in court. Despite his frequently inebriated condition, Whitman had ambitions to become Governor of New York State, which he accomplished in 1914. Presumably sober at the time of their meeting, Whitman gave the pudgy gambler an extended audience, where Rosenthal laid out his terrible tale concerning the conduct of Lieutenant Becker towards Rosenthal.

  However, after hearing Rosenthal’s account, Whitman told Rosenthal there was nothing he could do on Rosenthal’s word alone. Whitman said he would need corroboration from someone else; someone who could verify Becker was indeed shaking down gambling halls.

  “Find me another gambling-house owner who would squeal on Becker,” Whitman told Rosenthal. “Then I can pursue a case against him.”

  Rosenthal knew getting corroborating evidence against Becker was impossible, since all the gambling-house owners, who were paying Becker and knew Rosenthal was paying Becker, hated Rosenthal more than they hated Becker. So, Rosenthal played his final card, his ace in the hole. He decided to bring his story to the New York City press.

  Enter New York World columnist Herbert Bayard Swope.

  Swope was a tall, red-headed whirlwind, whose ambition matched that of Whitman’s, a New York City District Attorney, who loved seeing his name in the newspapers, preferably on the front page. Swope and Whitman made a perfect team. The boozy Whitman made and sometimes contrived headline news, and Swope reported Whitman’s achievements in his columns with a flourish. It was a win-win situation for both men.

  After being shot down by Mayor Gaynor, Police Commissioner Waldo, and D.A. Whitman, Rosenthal asked around as to who might listen to his terrible tale of woe. With Big Tim Sullivan now in a mental institution and in no condition to help anyone, including himself, Rosenthal decided on Swope, who was known for throwing huge amounts of shit against the wall and hoping some of it stuck.

  Knowing the ways of the Tenderloin, Swope bought Rosenthal’s story, and he figured the best way to make Becker’s actions known publically was to have Rosenthal write up two lengthy affidavits (with Swope’s help of course), and run the affidavits verbatim in the Saturday and Sunday editions (July 14 and 15) of the New York World. And that’s what that two men did, which immediately thrust smoke out of Lieutenant Charles Becker’s ears.

  In the affidavits, Rosenthal said because Becker was his partner and had a piece of the joint, Becker had warned him about the impending the raid on the gambling house (Police Commissioner Waldo had insisted on the raid, Becker had told Rosenthal). In addition, since they were partners, Becker had the good grace to tip off Rosenthal in advance about the impending raid, so that Rosenthal could make himself scarce and not spend the night in the slammer. And, there was the also the little problem of the squad of policemen Rosenthal claimed were now basically living in Rosenthal’s house since the raid (the gambling house and Rosenthal’s home were in the same building).

  Rosenthal whined to the New York Times, who picked up on the story after it had been released by the New York World, “I won’t stand for it! There are no other policemen living in other houses that I know of. My lawyer has advised me to throw them out. District Attorney Whitman has advised me to throw them out!”

  According to Rose Keefe’s excellent book The Starker, Rosenthal went so far as to invite reporters to take a tour of his house. Unfortunately for Little Herman, when the press arrived, not a policeman was in sight.

  Still, Herman persevered, and while Rosenthal gave the reporters the grand tour, his chubby wife Lillian whined to the press, “It’s very annoying, as I do want my home to myself. There they sit and read newspapers or books all day long, and night too. They smoke cigars and leave butts around. It’s very annoying. They’re better now, but we would like to lock them out, only we’re afraid they’d knock down the door.”

  At this moment, on the afternoon of July 15, 1912, if Rosenthal had half-a-brain in his head, he would have known his life was in imminent danger. Rosenthal was an unlikable nobody; Becker was a big-shot police lieutenant. And most importantly, Rosenthal had several fellow gamblers who would like nothing better than seeing Rosenthal six-feet under. One was the aforementioned Bridgey Webber, and another was a contemptuous, toadyish, vile-looking individual named Bald Jack Rose.

  We’ll get to Bald Jack Rose later.

  With the New York City newspapers heavy on the case, Whitman heeded Swope’s advice, and he decided to pursue a criminal indictment against Becker. But to do so, Whitman needed Rosenthal’s testimony on the official record, not in the newspapers. Whitman told Swope to tell Rosenthal to meet Whitman at Whitman’s uptown home on Sunday night.

  After the Saturday (July 14) Rosenthal affidavit (No. 1) was published in the New York World, Becker and his lawyer, John W. Hart, stampeded into the offices of the newspaper and began throwing words around like “libel” and “lawsuit,” and other words not printable in a family newspaper. Becker and Hart met with Isaac White, the legal counsel for the newspaper, and although White told them a second installment of Rosenthal’s affidavits was due to be published on Sunday, he would do them the courtesy of releasing the original affidavits to them after the second one was published (July 15).

  Becker and Hart told White thanks for nothing, and they immediately informed every newspaperman in town that they were going to sue Rosenthal and the New York World for libel, defamation of character, slander, or any possible combination of the three. Rosenthal must have laughed when he heard that, since he was now flat broke and totally bullet-proof from civil lawsuits.

  Enter “The Brain” – Arnold Rothstein.

  The son of a rabbi, Rothstein was the most famous gambler in New York City and the acknowledged “King of the Tenderloin.” Rothstein once said he’d bet on anything, except the weather - the reason being the weather was the only thing he couldn’t fix. Making strange bedfellows indeed, Rothstein and Swope were fast pals, and in fact, when Rothstein married actress Carolyn Greene in 1914, Swope served as his best man.

  On Sunday morning July 15, after Rothstein got wind of what Rosenthal was doing, which threatened the very fabric of the Tenderloin, Rothstein called Swope, wanting to know exactly how far Rosenthal was willing to go with his insubordination. When Swope told Rothstein that Rosenthal was ready to go all the way to the United States Supreme Court if necessary, on the afternoon of July 15, Rothstein summoned Rosenthal to Rothstein’s palatial home in uptown Manhattan. At this meeting, Rothstein laid down the law to Rosenthal; even offering Rosenthal $500 to get out of town immediately and more money if Rosenthal needed it later. Rosenthal turned Rothstein’s offer down, and by doing so he basically put a bullet in his own head.

  On the same day, four known gamblers and all-around-bad-guys - Bridgey Webber, Bald Jack Rose, Harry Vallon, and Sam Schepps - got together to discuss the Rosenthal situation. On a boozed-up boat trip around Manhattan Island, they were overheard saying that if Rosenthal did not stop his yapping, “someone would get him and get him for keeps.”

  HELLO HERMAN; GOODBYE HERMAN

  On Sunday night July 15, Lieutenant Charles Becker made himself visible at the prize fights at Madison Square Ga
rden, for the reason, it was said later, to give himself an alibi when Herman Rosenthal was aerated with bullets.

  At the same time, Rosenthal was at the home of Charles Whitman, making a verbal agreement that he would be in Whitman’s office at 8 a.m. sharp the next morning to get the ball rolling (give sworn evidence) against Becker for a slew of crimes Rosenthal said Becker had perpetrated against him.

  Right around midnight, a visual monstrosity named Bald Jack Rose was seen in a rented, gray Packard, accompanied by several unsavory characters. The car was registered to William Libby and driven by Louis Shapiro, who thought he was out for a nice drive around town, followed by a fat payday, including tip.

  It was just after midnight, when Herman Rosenthal wobbled like a penguin through the front door of the Hotel Metropole, on 43rd Street near Broadway. The Hotel Metropole was owned by brothers Jim and George Considine, who had as their silent partner Big Tim Sullivan, now a ward of the state in a loony bin in Westchester, New York. However, when Big Tim still had all his marbles, he had used his influence at Tammany Hall to get a much-sought-after 24-hour liquor license for the Café Metropole, which sat to the right of the lobby in the hotel.

  The hotel and the café had seen better days, but never a night like it was about to see.

  Whistling and happy as a lark, Rosenthal waddled through the lobby of the hotel and into the café. As soon as Rosenthal’s feet hit the floor inside the café, the usual patter of patrons turned to stone silence.

  It was as if Herman Rosenthal had sucked all the air out of the room.

  Still, Rosenthal looked quite jolly and did not display the countenance of a man who in just a few hours would be spilling his guts to District Attorney Whitman. Newspaper accounts later speculated that Rosenthal had come to the Café Metropole not for a few drinks, but for a nice payoff to get out of town before he met Whitman. Rosenthal was expecting someone to give him, not the $500 that Rothstein had promised, but as much as $15,000; chipped in by all the gamblers he could hurt with his testimony. And there were dozens. With the cash safely in his pocket, Rosenthal would then board a train at Grand Central Station for parts unknown. He could always send for his bottled-redheaded wife later, if that’s what he desired.

  Rosenthal sat at a table and was soon joined by a gaggle of other gamblers, with names like Fat Moe Brown and “Boob” Walker, who was a strong-arm man for Bridgey Webber. Foregoing any food, Rosenthal ordered a concoction consisting of bourbon, ginger ale, and bitters, which was called a “Horse’s Head.”

  Most of Rosenthal’s acquaintances would agree Rosenthal was the opposite end of the horse.

  A few minutes after Rosenthal enter the Café Metropole, an old foe entered the cafe. It was none other than Bridgey Webber. After making the rounds of the other tables teeming with gamblers, Webber approached Rosenthal’s table.

  Webber said, “Hello Herman.”

  Rosenthal returned the greeting, and when Webber left the table and exited the café, Rosenthal turned to his companions and said, “See, Bridgey’s all right. I’ll get my money.”

  If this conversation occurred, and there’s no reason to believe it didn’t, it was another indication that Rosenthal had no intention of going to Whitman’s office in a few hours. Rosenthal was going to take the money and run.

  At about 1:20 a.m., Rosenthal exited the Hotel Metropole, and from a newsboy out front he bought seven copies of the morning edition of the New York World, in which Rosenthal’s story was splattered across the front page. He went back into the Café Metropole, sat at his table, and his shirt buttons bursting with pride, Rosenthal showed his pals the front page of the newspaper.

  “How’s that for a headline?” Rosenthal said to anyone who’d listen.

  Right about then, a strange thing happened outside the Hotel Metropole.

  For no apparent reason, a police lieutenant, not named Becker, started shooing people away from the entrance of the hotel, including cars that were in the vicinity of the hotel’s entrance. Some of these cars were cabbies waiting for a late-night fare, and they protested some, but not much.

  About 1:30 a.m., a New York City newspaper received an anonymous phone call, asking, “Is Rosenthal dead yet?”

  The person was never identified, but at 10 minutes before two, a well-dressed man entered the Café Metropole and told Rosenthal that someone was waiting for him outside the hotel. Without question and with a huge smile on his face, Rosenthal immediately departed the hotel, as if he had expected such a request.

  As soon as his feet hit the pavement outside, four men (later identified by Bald Jack Rose as “Big Jack” Zelig’s henchmen Harry “Gyp the Blood” Horowitz, Frank “Whitey Lewis” Muller, Lewis “Lefty” Rosenberg, and Frank “Dago Frank” Ciroficci) rushed up to Rosenthal and opened fire. Five shots blasted into Rosenthal, all which could have been fatal. But the one that hit him over the bridge of his nose and entered his brain killed Rosenthal instantly.

  A comedy of errors ensued, as it was obvious to all in the vicinity of the Hotel Metropole that a murder had been committed.

  The four shooters jumped back into the gray Packard, and they ordered the driver, Louis Shapiro, to hightail it out of there quick or suffer the same fate as Rosenthal. Shapiro did as he was told, and the killers escaped down 43rd Street.

  Even though there were five policemen within a few yards of where Rosenthal lay dead, not one of them attempted to stop the getaway car. In fact, all five policemen later gave a different license plate number for the car. And oddly, none of the policemen immediately went over to where Rosenthal was lying dead to see the identity of the victim.

  The first responding officer was Policeman William J. File, who was off-duty at the time and drinking with friends at the Café Metropole when he heard the shots. As Policeman File ascertained that Rosenthal was indeed dead, a known gambler pushed his way through the crowd surrounding Rosenthal’s body. The man bent down, stared into Rosenthal’s unseeing eyes, and said, “Hello Herman.” Then the man straightened up, smiled, and said, “Goodbye Herman.”

  Just as quickly as the man appeared, he disappeared into the crowd.

  The news of Rosenthal’s murder spread like wildfire throughout New York City. At 2:30 a.m., Police Commissioner Waldo was awaken at home and told Rosenthal had been murdered. Waldo briefly entertained the thought of waking Mayor Gaynor and telling him the bad news, but then he decided a good night’s sleep was more important, and he went back to bed.

  Herbert Bayard Swope was up and about when he heard the news about Rosenthal. Swope immediately rushed to the 16th Precinct on West 47th Street to find out the details. He was not too shocked to discover that the police were bumbling along, not even being able to agree on the license plate number of the getaway car. At 3 a.m., Swope rushed to a telephone, and he called District Attorney Whitman, who was fast asleep. Swope screamed into the phone that Rosenthal had been shot dead. Whitman pulled a Waldo, and said he’d see to it in the morning. By this time Rosenthal’s body had been transported to the 16th Precinct.

  Swope would have none of that. He yelled into the phone at Whitman, “No, you have to come right now to the 16th Precinct!”

  “No, I’m in bed. I have my pajamas on,” Whitman said.

  Not too happy, Swope jumped into a cab and hurried to Whitman’s East 26th Street apartment. Swope practically dressed Whitman, and he pushed him into the waiting cab. They arrived back at the 16th Precinct, where Whitman, with much help from Swope, tried to get a firm grip on the situation.

  At about this time, a friend of the family phoned Lillian Rosenthal and told her about her husband’s demise.

  Lillian screamed into the phone, “I told him to stay home tonight! I had a premonition something bad was going to happen! It was that man he was going to see! I told him not to keep that appointment!”

  Lieutenant Becker had enjoyed a fine time at Madison Square Garden on Sunday night. After the fights, he went for drinks with friends, before driving to his house
in the Bronx. Becker got home at about 2:15 a.m., and the phone rang a few minutes later. It was a newspaper reporter telling Becker about Rosenthal’s little accident. Becker mulled over what to do, and then, probably figuring he was the main suspect anyway, he took the subway back to the city and walked over to the 16th Precinct.

  Becker went directly to Captain Day’s office expecting to see the captain, but instead came face-to-face with District Attorney Whitman and his sidekick Herbert Bayard Swope.

  This was the beginning of a very bad time for Lieutenant Charles Becker.

  By some stroke of luck (or more likely a tip was phoned in), at around 6 a.m. the police found the gray Packard in a downtown garage rented by William Libby. The owner of the garage told the police that Libby and Louis Shapiro lived in the same boarding house a few blocks away from the garage. The cops dragged Libby and Shapiro out of bed and herded them up to the 16th Precinct. It didn’t take the two men long to cough up the name of the man who had rented the car - Bald Jack Rose.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Bald Jack Rose strolled into police headquarters. Rose admitted to the police he helped orchestrate the murder of Herman Rosenthal, and he said he had done so at the direction of Lieutenant Charles Becker. Rose said he had to do what Becker demanded, or Becker said he would make life miserable for Rose and for several of Rose’s gambler friends. Rose said Becker promised Rose if Rose didn’t do as Becker demanded, Becker would send the gamblers up the river on a trumped-up charge, and then kill Rosenthal himself. Rose said Becker also promised him that after Rose had Rosenthal whacked, Becker would use his police influence to make sure nothing happened to Rose or the killers.

  Within hours of Rose’s appearance at Police Headquarters, the police arrested Bridgey Webber, and Harry Vallon turned himself in two days later. Fellow gambler Harry Schepps was arrested on August 10, in Hot Springs Arkansas.