THE ELEGANT stranger stepped from his sedan that night
in January 1934, and came sashaying down the sidewalk. He seemed
the picture of respectability; just another well-to-do visitor
whiling away a lazy Tucson evening.
His destination was 927 N. Second Ave., a house frequented by
three of his colleagues. As far as any of the neighbors knew,
they were monied tourists, in town for a period of sun and rest.
The man didn't know that the shadows around him were filled with
heavily armed cops, and the cops were unaware that the character
they were about to bust was America's number one public enemy.
With surprise on their side, the cops disarmed the unsuspecting
stroller and hauled him downtown for fingerprinting. He identified
himself as Frank Sullivan of Green Bay, Wisconsin.
The name was part of his disguise. So was the mustache that hid
a scar on his lip, and the second identifying scar found on his
left wrist.
Both were prominently touted in the urgent police bulletins that
had flashed across the U.S. in the previous months, and in the
newspaper stories of daring bank heists that had turned this Indiana
farm boy into a Depression-era folk hero.
No, there could be no mistaking the identity of this elegant
stranger. He was John Dillinger.
News of the arrest sent a shiver of excitement across Tucson.
Not only had this small-town police force nabbed a notorious criminal,
but three members of his gang were also captured in separate incidents
the same day.
The tenor of the press coverage was incredulous, and it was set
by Dillinger himself when he remarked to the cops:
"My God, how did you know I was in town? I'll be the laughing
stock of the country. How could a hick town police force ever
suspect us?"
About 2,000 Tucsonans gathered outside the courthouse for the
arraignment the morning of January 26, hoping to catch a glimpse
of Dillinger and his cronies: Charles Makley, age 50; Russell
Clark, age 39; and triggerman Harry Pierpont, age 31.
The scene was chaos. Every move made by the handcuffed bad men
was accompanied by the clicking of cameras and exploding flashes.
At least 30 police stood watch inside and immediately outside
the courthouse, anticipating that confederates of the gang might
try to spring them.
With a once-in-a-lifetime story on their hands, reporters fought
apoplexy as they struggled to record every utterance the criminals
made.
When Dillinger's name was called, a thrill passed over the packed
courtroom and he snapped back: "My name ain't Dillinger.
Why should I stand?"
The Tucson Daily Citizen, enthralled with its newfound role as
chronicler of the gangster life, even published a list of outlaw
slang: "Here are a few words for your vocabulary--make up
a greater list at the next party you attend." The list included
gat, gun moll, hot-spot, bumped off, erased, scram, take it on
the lam, and de woiks.
But the facts justified every hyperventilating inch of press
coverage. It truly was a remarkable tale.
Nabbed!
THE CAPTURE ACTUALLY began with a fire at the Hotel Congress
several days before. With the third floor ablaze, Clark and Makley
fled the building, and quickly convinced two firemen, William
Benedict and Robert Freeman, to retrieve their bags.
The bags were exceptionally heavy, but the firemen managed to
extract them from the smoky mess, and they received a $12 tip
for their trouble. Benedict and Freeman appreciated the money,
but wondered why the two men appeared so nervous.
The firemen found out the next day when they recognized a photograph
of Clark in True Detective magazine, and checked it against the
sheriff's records of wanted men.
Investigators then traced the destinations of baggage deliveries
from the Hotel Congress, and came upon the address on Second Avenue.
Clark was the first to wear Tucson police handcuffs, but he didn't
go down easily.
Officer Chet Sherman went to the front door nervously gripping
a slip of paper, as if searching for an address. Another cop,
Dallas Ford, was behind him; and two more, Frank Eyman and Kenneth
Mullaney, stole up the back steps.
At his first opportunity, Sherman went for his gun, but Clark
was ready and a tense struggle for the weapon ensued.
The powerful Clark dragged Sherman into the living room and still
farther into an adjoining bedroom. Opal Long, Clark's girlfriend,
managed to temporarily disable Ford by slamming the door on his
finger and breaking it.
In the meantime, Sherman was about to lose his death struggle
with Clark, who had shoved the policeman down on the bed and reached
under a pillow for a concealed handgun.
But that was as far as he got. Eyman, Mullaney and finally Ford
rushed in and bashed Clark on the head with their own weapons,
saving Sherman.
Clark left a trail of blood drops across the bedroom and living
room, and along the front walk as he was led to an awaiting squad
car.
Other officers had trailed Makley's Studebaker to the Grabe Electric
Company store on Congress Street downtown. There, he was peaceably
taken into custody, claiming he was a winter visitor from Florida.
In reality, he'd gone to the store to buy a short-wave radio
to monitor the police frequency, unaware that the Tucson police
had no radio communication system at that time.
The third man taken that day was Harry Pierpont, a vicious gunman
wanted for the murder five months before of Sheriff Jess Sarber,
killed when Dillinger busted out of jail in Lima, Ohio.
Pierpont's arrest was the result of stellar police work. A motorcycle
cop named Earl Nolan recalled a chat he'd had a few nights before
with a man whose car bore Florida license plates.
The vehicle driven by Clark and Makley was also registered in
that state. But there was another connection--in the back seat,
Nolan saw a pile of luggage resembling that seized in the Clark
and Makley arrests.
With this information, Eyman, Mullaney, and Officer Jay Smith
drove to the tourist court on South Sixth Avenue, where Nolan
and the "winter visitor" had met.
As luck would have it, Pierpont and girlfriend Mary Kinder were
just driving away when police pulled them over and used a fantastic
ruse to convince Pierpont to follow the officers to the station.
Eyman told Pierpont that a city regulation required that all
cars bearing out-of-state plates be registered with police.
Pierpont never revealed whether he believed the unlikely lie,
or if he accompanied the officers with the intention of finding
a more opportune time to blast his way free.
Given The Arizona Daily Star's account of what happened next,
the second possibility is more likely:
"At the station, he (Pierpont) walked down the corridor
and into Chief Collard's office. Here he whirled and pulled out
a pistol from his waist. Eyman thrust his gun in the man's ribs
and the man's gun was relinquished. As quick as a flash the man
drew another gun from a shoulder holster, but again Eyman was
ready--first."
Pierpont was wearing glasses when taken in, and his manner was
described as "that of a diffident, retiring scholar."
But after his unsuccessful confrontation with Eyman, the Star
wrote that Pierpont's glasses came off and "the expression
changed to one of pure, unadulterated venom."
Sneering at the "small town cops" around him, Pierpont
coolly said: "I'll remember you--and you--and you. I can
get out of any jail. I'll be back, and I'll not forget."
Such bold threats did little to convince the police that Pierpont
was what he and others in the gang still claimed to be--winter
visitors.
That ruse was made laughable by the arsenal confiscated from
the men: four Tommy guns, several pistols and rifles, enough ammo,
as the Star described it, "to run three Mexican revolutions,"
a half-dozen bullet-proof vests, handcuffs, brass knuckles, and
nearly $27,000 in cash.
The Front Page
THE COPS TOSSED the four desperadoes in jail, doubled the
customary guard, and armed the peace officers with machine guns,
pistols and tear gas.
Detectives from the Midwest started for Tucson to escort Dillinger
and his gang back to stand trial for their many crimes.
Dillinger alone bragged that he killed 12 cops in his life of
mayhem, and his dubious résumé included numerous
bank jobs in Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin.
But the Midwestern lawmen wouldn't collect their prey for three
more days, allowing the circus atmosphere in Tucson to escalate.
With the gang in safe custody, Tucsonans of all stripes made
their opinions on the criminals available to reporters eager for
any new morsel of information.
One North Second Avenue neighbor said: "They didn't show
their noses and we didn't hear a peep out of them." But a
solicitor said he found it odd that "the lady always came
to the door first, then the man. The screen door was always locked."
Another visitor said he had spotted two pistols on the icebox
and what looked like a sawed-off shotgun behind it.
One salesman, suffering a clear case of retroactive bravery,
said: "Yessir, I put 'em down for big racketeers or bootleggers
the minute I laid eyes on 'em."
No detail about the gang was too tiny to report. The papers explained
that the men had never ventured to a neighbor's door to borrow
sugar, or any other household item. The Tucson Citizen even commented
on their bags, saying: "The luggage taken in the capture
was some of the smartest seen here."
The initial contempt that the gangsters demonstrated of the local
constabulary changed to high praise.
Pierpont said Midwestern police were "rats," and the
locals were "gentlemen," adding that "Frank Eyman
was a swell fella not to shoot me."
Clark was also pleased by the manner of his arrest, expressing
gratitude to the police for not beating him unmercifully.
Dillinger, too, thought the sensational roundup was professionally
done, particularly taking the men out one at a time.
"If you had gone in that house when Clark and Makley were
both there, it would have been too bad. There were guns in the
back room. There would have been a fight. Some of us might have
been shot, but some of you would have been shot, too."
What got these two gangsters talking, according to the papers,
was Dillinger's Boston terrier puppy. Police delivered the little
pup to adjoining cells occupied by Dillinger and Pierpont in the
hopes of cheering them up.
It worked. The Star wrote: "And the wiggling little puppy
cracked the stern silence and scornful taciturnity of the machine
gun terrorists as nothing else could."
Dillinger explained the circumstances leading to his capture,
saying he left his rented home at 1304 E. Fifth St. at about 9
p.m., with the intention of visiting Clark.
"When I got there I didn't get suspicious when there were
no lights in the house because I wasn't sure if I was going to
the right house," Dillinger said. "I had never been
there before."
He expressed some worry over the fate of the woman who was arrested
with him--Evelyn Frechetti, described as his "half-breed
Indian sweetheart"--and then he made one prophetic remark:
"I may be in jail now, but you can never tell how long I'll
stay."
The Final Curtain
LESS THAN TWO months after his successful transfer from
Tucson to the Midwest, Dillinger again pulled off a fantastic
jail break.
This time he used a wooden pistol that he'd whittled in his cell
and covered with boot black to bust out of the Lake County Jail
in Crown Point, Indiana.
But his freedom was short-lived.
On July 22, 1934, Dillinger was shot down by 15 federal agents
as he left Chicago's Biograph Theater, where he had just finished
watching Manhattan Melodrama, starring Clark Gable and William
Powell.
"Dillinger knew what was coming," reported the Associated
Press. "He gave a hunted look, reached quickly into his pocket,
and the guns roared."
Police found a crumpled photo of Frechetti on the famed criminal's
body.
Pierpont, Makley and Clark each faced murder charges for Sheriff
Sarber's death, and each paid the price.
Makley, awaiting execution at the Ohio State Penn, was gunned
down in a September 22 escape attempt.
In the same effort, Pierpont was badly wounded. He lived long
enough to sit in the state's electric chair, where he died on
October 17.
Clark got a life term for his part in the Sarber killing.
But the Dillinger boys never really left Tucson. Shortly after
his Crown Point escape, reports circulated that he and the gang
were back in Arizona, perhaps with the intention of seeking payback
for his embarrassment of several months before.
Even after his death, the town continued to crackle with talk
of the day that public enemy No. 1 was taken in.
One of the enduring stories involved Rose Silver, a young Tucson
lawyer who represented Dillinger, in an attempt by an insurance
company to claim that because he had jumped bail the money taken
from him belonged to them.
She successfully argued that it did not, and as part of his payment,
Dillinger signed over to Silver ownership of his six-passenger,
blue Packard.
Silver would often tell interviewers that she used the car for
several years to chauffeur her kids around town before selling
it.
And as if Dillinger were keeping the story alive from his grave,
a subsequent owner later claimed to have discovered Tommy guns
concealed behind the Packard's door panels.
In interviews years later, Silver readily recounted her impressions
of Dillinger, adding still more detail to the legend that wouldn't
die:
"I was very surprised. He was very clean cut, with a shock
of dark brown hair. A handsome man--but wearing a cheap suit."
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