Stories From The Big House by Convict 12627

Book Details

Stories From The Big House  is a collection of five stories of life inside prison and how men get there, from Convict 12627. Convict 12627 was the pseudonym of Robert Arnold. His stories ran as features in several pulp mystery and crime magazines during the late 1930s.

Easy Money in the Big House (1936) – Penitentiary Walls Are No Cage for Eager Racketeers Who Play Their Easy Money Game Behind Iron Bars.

A Sucker a Day (1938) – Slick Martin was a knife hustler by trade. And he could extract fifty bucks from a victim without letting a drop of blood.

Almost Perfect (1936) – Why Was Major McLean, International Crook, Shielded from the Police by the Jeweler Whom He had Robbed?

Big House Cats (1938) – The inside story of convicts who trade in the trust of their fellow men.

Money in the Bank (1938) – The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Confidence Men.

Stories From The Big House has 9 illustrations.

Files:

1. Convict12627-StoriesFromTheBigHouse.epub

Excerpt: Big House Cats

“WHENEVER three prisoners group together, one of them belongs to me.”

This remark was once made by a well-known official when queried as to his success in keeping down trouble in the prison. While his words may seem cryptical, they are easily understandable to any convict. This man meant that if any three prisoners gathered together to discuss an escape or a proposed rule violation of any kind, one of them could be depended upon to bring him advance news of the plan. In short, it was his claim that one of three prisoners in the institution was a stoolpigeon.

Criminals have different terms which they use in referring to informers, those men who curry favor by carrying tales of the activities of their associates to officials. The most common term, of course, is a stoolpigeon, but they are also called rats, cats and finks.

In most institutions the punishment of a stoolpigeon, when he makes the mistake of informing on the wrong man, is death, usually by a quick thrust of a prison-made knife. This usually is done in a crowd of convicts going to or from work or the mess hall, and many times the murderer is never identified.

It has been more than 25 years since I, a youth of 16 in jail for the first time, heard an old counterfeiter in the role of judge of a kangaroo court, describe a stoolpigeon.

“There are men here in this jail,” he said, “although I should not call them men, who will sell you out, send you to prison, or place the hangman’s noose around your neck in return for a smile from one of the turn-keys. These creatures—stoolpigeons, rats, finks, or whatever you call them—will gain your confidence and betray you for even less than the proverbial mess of pottage. So, if you are innocent or guilty, keep your business to yourself for there is no one in here who can help you.”

This little talk by a crook of the old school, one of those rare criminals who had a code of honor, something that apparently does not exist among criminals today, made little impression upon me at that time for I soon obtained my release, but some months later when I checked into my first penal institution, a reformatory, I recalled his words of wisdom and it was not long before I recognized among my fellow workers, my neighbors in the cell-house, and everywhere in the yard where I went, the species of the human rat. There was at least one there whom I recalled as a schoolmate in my grammar school days and I remembered that even then he bore the reputation of being a “tattle-tale.” This caused me to believe, and observation in later life confirmed this belief, that stoolpigeons are born and not made.

Tolerated by prison officials and law enforcement officers for their undercover work, and hated by their fellow criminals, these creatures are a type. They have a shifty, hang-dog look about them, are unable to look in the eye of the person they are about to betray, and almost always they are the lowest type of criminal, the petty thieves, the panderers who live off their women, and drug addicts who would put their own mothers behind the bars to satisfy their longing for dope.

In this reformatory there were “official stoolpigeons,” prisoners who were given authority to report other prisoners for rule violations, and their reports carried as much weight as those of the paid guards. These “unpaid guards,” known as “non-coms,” wore a different uniform than that issued to the rest of the prisoners and were the most hated inmates in the institution. They had their quarters in dormitories in a building separate from the cellhouses in which were housed the 1,000 or more other prisoners. These special quarters were presumably a form of reward, but in reality they were to protect these men from punishment at the hands of those whom they had caused to be punished for rule violations.

I  HAD been in this institution but a few months when I saw a demonstration of this stoolpigeons system, which was later to result in a vengeance —delayed, but none the less effective. I was employed in the office of the assistant superintendent, and in this capacity worked after the hours when the most of the other prisoners were locked in their cells. It was my duty to certify the correctness of the count at the close of each day, a count which was made by the non-coms. One evening there was considerable delay in the reports coming in from the various cellhouses, and a little later it was reported that there was one man short in “B” cell block. Immediately all the guards and non-coms were congregated in the institution yard, and then the superintendent made his appearance.

“Now, men,” he said, “this man who is missing has not been here long. He was assigned to the print shop and it is obvious that he has not yet made good his escape from the yard. He is hiding somewhere within these walls. It will soon be dark and if we don’t find him before then, he may succeed in getting over the wall. You prisoners who are gathered here are men who have proved that you can be trusted. Tonight you will work with the guards in an attempt to locate this missing prisoner. To any one of you who finds this man or gives any information leading to his hiding place I will give my word that you will receive a governor’s parole. Now scatter out and let’s see if we can’t find him before it gets too dark.”

I stood in the doorway of the assistant superintendent’s office and heard these remarks. As the superintendent made the promise of early liberty to the prisoner non-com instrumental in locating the missing man, I could see their faces light up with pleasurable anticipation, but only one of them was to be rewarded. The line had no sooner broken than this non-com stepped up to the superintendent and saluted smartly. What he told the official I, of course, do not know, but immediately following this conversation the superintendent summoned two guards and he accompanied them to a huge pile of coke in the institution foundry and in a few minutes the missing prisoner was yanked from beneath the coke. His face and clothing streaked with dirt, he scowled at the smiling non-com who had turned him in.

“Some day,” he said, “I will get even with you for this.”

The non-com received his conditional parole a week or ten days later while the would-be escape artist went to the punishment cell. Later I talked with him in the recreation yard and he told me that the non-com had suggested that he hide out under this pile of coke, and it appeared that the informer had deliberately framed the prisoner to further his own personal interests. The man who had attempted to escape was required to serve additional time and although he swore vengeance upon the man who had turned him in I did not think at the time that he would ever have an opportunity to fulfill these threats.”

Excerpt From: Convict 12627. “Stories From The Big House.”