The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes (6 page)

By the time a week had passed certain reservations were beginning to temper the
Tribune
’s anger. It is apparent that more details of Lingle’s extramural life were emerging. On 18 June there appeared another leading article, entitled “
THE LINGLE INVESTIGATION GOES ON
”. In this the
Tribune
betrayed a flicker of uneasiness about the character of its martyr. “We do not know why this reporter was killed,” it admitted, “but we are engaged in finding out and we expect to be successful. It may take time; the quicker the better, but this enlistment is for duration. It may require long, patient efforts, but the
Tribune
is prepared for that, and hopes that some lasting results will be obtained which will stamp justice on the face of the crime.” To endorse its new crusading resolution, two days later the
Tribune
added to its Platform for Chicagoland on the masthead of its centre page “
END THE REIGN OF GANGDOM
”. Appended was an explanatory editorial: “The killers, the racketeers who exact tribute from businessmen and union labour, the politicians who use and shield the racketeers, the policemen and judges who have been prostituted by politicians, all must go.”

Ten days elapsed, and there had obviously been some concentrated rethinking by McCormick and his editorial executives. The word-of-mouth buzz about Lingle’s background and liaisons that was meanwhile racing around Chicago, supported by somewhat less reverent stories in other newspapers, evidently induced the
Tribune
to take a revised, frank, let’s-face-it attitude. On 30 June a column-and-a-half editorial was published. Under the heading “
THE LINGLE MURDER
”, it read: “When Alfred Lingle was murdered the motive seemed to be apparent . . . His newspaper saw no other explanation than that his killers either thought he was close to information dangerous to them or intended the murder as notice given the newspapers that crime was ruler in Chicago. It could be both, a murder to prevent a disclosure and to give warning against attempts at others.

“It had been expected that in due time the reprisals which have killed gangster after gangster in the city would be attempted against any other persons or agencies which undertook to interfere with the incredibly profitable criminality. No one had been punished for any of these murders. They have been bizarre beyond belief, and, being undetected, have been assumed, not least by their perpetrators, to be undetectable—at least not to be punishable.

“When, then, Lingle was shot by an assassin the
Tribune
assumed that the criminals had taken the next logical step and were beginning their attack upon newspaper exposure. The
Herald
and
Examiner
and the
Chicago
Evening
Post
joined the
Tribune
in offering rewards for evidence which would lead to conviction of the murderers. The newspaper publishers met and made a common cause against the new tactics of gangland. The preliminary investigation has modified some of the first assumptions, although it has not given the situation a different essence.

“Alfred Lingle now takes a different character, one in which he was unknown to the management of the
Tribune
when he was alive. He is dead and cannot defend himself, but many facts now revealed must be accepted as eloquent against him. He was not, and he could not have been a great reporter. His ability did not contain these possibilities. He did not write stories, but he could get information in police circles. He was not and he could not be influential in the acts of his newspaper, but he could be useful and honest, and that is what the
Tribune
management took him to be. His salary was commensurate with his work. The reasonable appearance against Lingle now is that he was accepted in the world of politics and crime for something undreamed of in his office, and that he used this in his undertakings which made him money and brought him to his death . . .

“There are weak men on other newspapers and in other professions, in positions of trust and responsibility greater than that of Alfred Lingle. The
Tribune
, although naturally disturbed by the discovery that this reporter was engaged in practices contrary to the code of its honest reporters and abhorred by the policy of the newspaper, does not find that the main objectives of the inquiry have been much altered. The crime and the criminals remain, and they are the concern of the
Tribune
as they are of the decent elements in Chicago . . .

“If the
Tribune
was concerned when it thought that an attack had been made upon it because it was inimical to crime, it is doubly concerned if it be the fact that crime had made a connexion in its own office . . . That Alfred Lingle is not a soldier dead in the discharge of duty is unfortunate considering that he is dead. It is of no consequence to an inquiry determined to discover why he was killed, by whom he was killed and with what attendant circumstances.
Tribune
readers may be assured that their newspaper has no intention of concealing the least fact of this murder and its consequences and meanings. The purpose is to catch the murderers . . .

“The murder of this reporter, even for racketeering reasons, as the evidence indicates it might have been, made a breach in the wall which criminality has so long maintained about its operations here. Some time, somewhere there will be a hole found or made and the Lingle murder may prove to be it. The
Tribune
will work at its case upon this presumption and with this hope. It has gone into the cause in this fashion and its notice to gangland is that it is in for duration. Kismet.”

Kismet, indeed. For during this revisionary interim McCormick’s investigators and the police had uncovered transactions of a ramification that could not have been anticipated in the affairs of a slum-boy baseball semi-professional who had wormed his way into bottom grade journalism. Lingle’s biography, in fact, accords with the career of any under-privileged opportunist who finds in the gang a reward for endeavour. His first job after leaving a West Jackson Boulevard elementary school was as office boy in a surgical supply house, from where, in 1912, he went as office boy at the
Tribune
. He was at the same time playing semi-professional baseball, and met at the games Bill Russell, a police patrolman, with whom he struck up a friendship, and who, as he progressed through a sergeantcy upward to deputy commissionership, was a valuable aid to Lingle in the police-beat feed work he was now doing for the
Tribune
. Pasley, who worked on the
Tribune
with him during the twenties, has described Lingle’s relationship with the police and the underworld: “His right hand would go up to the left breast pocket of his coat for a cigar. There was a cigar for every greeting. They were a two-for-a-nickel brand and Lingle smoked them himself. He knew all the coppers by their first names. He spent his spare time among them. He went to their wakes and funerals; their weddings and christenings. They were his heroes. A lawyer explained him: ‘As a kid he was cop struck, as another kid might be stage struck.’ The police station was his prep school and college. He matured, and his point of view developed, in the stodgy, fetid atmosphere of the cell block and the squad-room. Chicago’s forty-one police stations are vile places, considered either aesthetically or hygienically. I doubt if a modern farmer would use the majority of them for cow-sheds. Yet the civic patriots put their fledgling blue-coats in them, and expect them to preserve their self-respect and departmental morale.

“In this prep school and college, Lingle learned a great deal the ordinary citizen may, or may not, suspect. He learned that sergeants, lieutenants, and captains know every hand-book, every gambling den, every dive, every beer flat and saloon on their districts, that a word from the captain when the heat is on will close any district tighter than a Scotsman’s pocket in five minutes, that they know which joint owners have ‘a friend in the hall or county’, and which haven’t. Few haven’t. He learned that the Chicago police department is politics-ridden.”

Pasley’s view is that Lingle’s undoing was gambling—“he was a gambling fool”. He never bet less than $100 on a horse, and often $1,000. In 1921, when he was earning only fifty dollars a week, he took a trip to Cuba and came back loaded with gifts for his friends and colleagues, including egret plumes then coveted by women for hat decorations. His big spending and general prodigal way of life began to attract comment, and he gave it to be understood that he had just inherited $50,000 under his father’s will (examination of the probate court records in June 1930 showed that the estate was valued at $500). Later he invented a couple of munificent rich uncles. Pasley’s deduction is that it was in 1921 that Lingle “began living a lie, leading a dual life”, that the course of his income was not at this time Capone but possibly someone in the Torrio ring—gambling rake-off, slot-machines or police graft. Additional information about his life after office hours was given by John T. Rogers in a St Louis
Post
-Dispatch
series. Pointing to the “mysterious sources of the large sums of money that passed with regularity through his bank account”, Rogers wrote: “If Lingle had any legitimate income beyond his sixty-five dollars a week as a reporter it has not been discovered . . . He lived at one of the best hotels in Chicago, spent nearly all his afternoons at race-tracks and some of his winters at Miami or on the Gulf Coast . . . At his hotel he was on the ‘private register’. His room was No. 2706 and you could not call it unless your name had been designated by Lingle as a favoured one . . . All inquiries for Lingle were referred to the house detective. ‘Sure, he was on the private register,’ the house officer said. ‘How could he get any sleep if he wasn’t? His telephone would be going all night. He would get in around two or three and wanted rest.’ ‘Who would be telephoning him at that hour?’ the writer inquired. This question seemed to amaze the house officer. ‘Why!’ he exclaimed, ‘policemen calling up to have Jake get them transferred or promoted, or politicians wanting the fix put in for somebody. Jake could do it. He had a lot of power. I’ve known him twenty years. He was up there among the big boys and had a lot of responsibilities. A big man like that needs rest.’ ”

This sketch of Lingle’s function seemed to be confirmed by a check made of outgoing telephone calls from his suite. They were mostly to officials in the Federal and city buildings, and in city hall.

That Lingle had operated as liaison officer between the underworld and the political machine was the conclusion of Attorney Donald R. Richberg, who said in a public address: “The close relationship between Jake Lingle and the police department has been published in the Chicago papers. Out of town newspapers describe Lingle even more bluntly as having been ‘the unofficial Chief of Police’. But Lingle was also strangely intimate with Al Capone, our most notorious gangster. Surely all Chicago knows that Samuel A. Ettelson,
⁹
Mr Insull’s political lawyer, who is corporation counsel for Chicago, is also chief operator of the city government. Thompson is only a figurehead. Are we to believe that there existed an unofficial chief of police associating with the most vicious gang in Chicago, without the knowledge of Mr Ettelson—who is neither deaf nor blind but on the contrary has a reputation for knowing everything worth knowing about city hall affairs?”

That he had been on intimate terms with Lingle, that Lingle was “among the big boys”, was readily conceded by Capone himself. He was interviewed on the subject at Palm Island by Henry T. Brundidge of the St Louis
Star
, who on 18 July 1930 published this report of their conversation:

“Was Jake your friend?”

“Yes, up to the very day he died.”

“Did you have a row with him?”

“Absolutely not.”

“If you did not have a row with Lingle, why did you refuse to see him upon your release from the workhouse in Philadelphia?”

“Who said I didn’t see him?”

“The Chicago newspapers.”

“Well, if Jake failed to say I saw him—then I didn’t see him.”

Asked about the diamond-studded belt Lingle was wearing, Capone explained: “A Christmas present. Jake was a dear friend of mine.” And he added: “The Chicago police know who killed him.”

Who in fact had killed Lingle? That aspect of the case seemed to have been temporarily shelved while the fascinating data of his financial state was, bit by bit, exposed for examination. By 30 June 1929 two-and-a-half years of business with the Lake Shore Trust and Savings Bank was on the public record. In that period he had deposited $63,900. But, obviously, many of his deals had been in cash, for only one cheque for $6,000 related to the purchase of his $16,000 house. He also carried a large amount of cash on his person—he had had $9,000 in bills in his pocket when he was killed. In March 1930 he paid insurance premiums on jewellery valued at $12,000, which was never located. During that two-and-a-half years he drew cheques for the sum of $17,400 for horse-track and dog-track betting.

Another interesting branch of his activities that came to light were his “loans” from gamblers, politicians and businessmen. He had “borrowed” $2,000 from Jimmy Mondi, once a Mont Tennes handbookman, who had become a Capone gambling operator in Cicero and the Loop—a loan, the report read, which had not been paid back. He had $5,000 from Alderman Berthold A. Cronson, nephew of Ettelson, who stated that the loan was “a pure friendship proposition”; it had not been repaid. He had $5,000 from Ettelson himself, who could not be reached but who sent word that he had never loaned Lingle anything at any time, although he “had a custom of giving Lingle some small remembrance at Christmas time, like a box of cigars”. He had a loan of $2,500 from Major Carlos Ames, president of the Civil Service Commission, and Ames stated that this loan “was a purely personal affair needed to cover market losses”. He had $300 from Police Lieutenant Thomas McFarland. “A purely personal affair,” declared McFarland, as he had been “a close personal friend of Lingle’s for many years”. Additionally it was alleged that Sam Hare, roadhouse and gambling-parlour proprietor, had loaned Lingle $20,000. Hare denied it.