The Big Red Fox: The Incredible Story of Norman

The Big Red Fox

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The Big Red Fox The Incredible Story of Norman "Red" Ryan, Canada's Most Notorious Criminal

Peter McSherry

THE DUNDURN GROUP TORONTO • OXFORD

Copyright © Peter McSherry 1999 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

Editor: Barry Jowett Design: Scott Reid Printer: Webcom Ltd. Canadian Cataloguing i n Publication Dat a McSherry, Peter The big red fox: the incredible story of Norman "Red" Ryan, Canada's most notorious criminal includes bibliographical references and index ISBN 1*55002-324- 1 1. Ryan, Norman, 1895-1936. 2. Thieves — Canada — Biography. 3. Prisoners — Ontario — Kingston — Biography. I. Title. HV6653.R92M321999 1

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Canada

THE CANADA COUNCIL I LE CONSEIL DES ARTS FOR THE ARTS D

C99-932164-1

U CANAD A

SINCE 195 7 I OEPU1 S 1957

We acknowledge the support of the Canad a Council fo r the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Art s Council. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishin g Industry Developmen t Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities. Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

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This book is dedicated to the memory of Margaret Egan Watkins (my "Aunt Wormy"), who, in my boyhood, told me the story of Norman "Red" Ryan many times and never failed to make it come alive.

Author's Note: The nature of this work is such that I cannot always identify my sources, though, as far as possible, I have tried to do so and to write good "history." In a few places, quotations have not been attributed — usually because they are of a general nature or because I have not wanted to slow the narrative with an attribution that really doesn't matter. In these few instances, the reader will just have to accept my word that the facts and the words happened and were spoken as presented.

Contents

Foreword by Jack Webster Chapter One The Scoop (July 23-August 1,1935) Chapter Two Norman Ryan (July 8, 1895-September 28,1922) Chapter Three Red Ryan (June 22, 1922-January 4, 1924) Chapter Fou r "Life" when "Life" Meant Just That (January 4-January 8, 1924) Chapter Five Father Wilfrid T Kingsley (January 8, 1924-July 23,1935) Chapter Six How did Red Ryan Ever Get Out of Prison Anyway? (July 1930-July 23,1935) Chapter Seve n Toronto's Best-Dressed Man-About-Town (July 23,1935-May 23, 1936) Chapter Eight Reality (October 1935-February 29, 1936) Chapter Nine Evasions (February 29-May 23, 1936) Chapter Ten Sarnia (May 23, 1936) Chapter Eleven The Jolt (May 23-31, 1936) Chapter Twelve The Aftermath (May 23, 1936-Present) Chapter Thirteen Last Things (July 28, 1895-Present) Appendix Acknowledgements Bibliography Notes Index

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Beyond Tradition Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre 40 College Street, Toronto, Ontario, M5G 2J3 (416) 808-7020

1999-08-23 As a Torontonian, born and raised, and having served for over fortythree years on the Toronto Police Force in a variety of ranks and positions (one of which was Chief of Detectives), and being now in my tenth year as "The Official Historian" for the Toronto Police Service, I am certainly all too familiar with crime and the criminals who have made Toronto famous or infamous. Of all the criminals who have had their base in Toronto, one criminal has always been at the forefront of my musings — Norman "Red" Ryan. I was always hoping that, someday, someone would research and write a book about Ryan — "Canada's Most Notorious Criminal." When Peter McSherry came to me with a proposed draft of such a book, I was enthralled. I read the draft over several times and was amazed at the depth of research that this writer had accomplished. Now that this book is available to the public at large, I can congratulate Mr. McSherry for reconstructing a great piece of Toronto's criminal past. It's a great read, which I highly recommend.

Jack Webster Staff Superintendent (retired) and Toronto Police Service Historian

CHAPTER ONE The Scoop (July 23-August 1,1935)

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n Tuesday, July 23, 1935, behind the high, grey walls of Kingston Penitentiary, there occurred a small drama that in its ultimate consequences would cost the lives of six people. It rained much of that day — a soft, sultry summer rain that collected along the cement path that joined the prison hospital to the front gate. About 3 p.m., Warden Richard Allan ("Little Dick" as he was unaffectionately known to his charges) walked the path from the North Gate administration building to the hospital on an errand that, in more normal circumstances, would have fallen to the chief keeper. He was on his way to inform Inmate K-166, Norman "Red" Ryan, that his Ticket-of-Leave — parole — had come through and that he would be released that very afternoon.1 Allan had serious misgivings about the action; Red Ryan had a record of nineteen convictions for crimes of theft and violence and, on at least nine distinct occasions, had been involved in gunplay with police or citizens. In a much-publicized incident on September 10, 1923, Ryan had led four other long-term convicts in the most daring and desperate prison break in Kingston Penitentiary's, and Canada's, history. The nation's press had long since dubbed him "Canada's most notorious criminal." Ryan was found in the hospital's upper ward, talking in a group of

10 10 The Big Red Fox

white-clad orderlies. He was a man just turned 40, tall, broadshouldered and good-looking. His sandy red hair — for which years before he had acquired his jailhouse nickname — was not his most striking feature; rather people noticed his sharp blue eyes and the charming smile with which he greeted everyone. Articulate, neat of appearance, and polished in manner, Ryan possessed the assured air of a first-class salesman. He was serving a life term for bank robbery in an era when "life" meant just that — yet he was no ordinary "lifer." Red Ryan was a paradox. During his most recent 11 1/2 years in Kingston, he had become religious and loudly denounced his former life-of-crime. The institution's dynamic and influential Roman Catholic chaplain, Father Wilfrid T. Kingsley, had long maintained that Ryan was "a genuine case of reformation." Stories of Kingsley's work with Ryan had often appeared in the national press to the point where, by this time, the priest was almost a national figure. Most of the attention originated in Toronto, the city of Ryan's birth, where the Globe, and particularly the Toronto Star, had developed an interest. The present occasion called for magnanimity and Allan did the best he could. "Well, Ryan, do you think it would be too wet to go out today?" he asked smilingly. "I'd go in a bathing suit," was the convict's jocular, if unfunny, reply. Ryan had been expecting Allan's news daily for almost three weeks. Both he and the warden understood that his Ticket-of-Leave had not come about through the normal process: it had been arranged through the personal intervention of no less a figure than Richard Bedford Bennett, the prime minister of Canada, and this had been done against the advice of Justice Department officials — and largely for political reasons. Three weeks previously, on July 2, 1935, also through Bennett's intercession, Ryan had been allowed a totally unprecedented twenty-four hour "leave-of-absence" to attend his sister's funeral in Toronto. He had been told at the time that his release was imminent. About 4:30 p.m., dressed in a new brown prison-issue suit, Red Ryan emerged from the hospital's south door and, accompanied by a guard, began the long walk to the front. To his right, walled off behind a twelve-foot-high, chain-link fence, the segregation gang was being exercised before the night lockup; at the sight of Ryan, these convicts piled up against the steel mesh, shouting their good-byes, cheering on Kingston's best-known inmate.

Chapter One — The Scoop • 11

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At the North Gate, Ryan was issued his prison pay: nearly $175.00, calculated at the rate of five cents for each day served. For a time, he was "made at ease and given a newspaper." Afterwards he had an interview with Warden Allan, who handed him his Ticket-ofLeave. At the bottom, in typewritten red capital letters, were the words, Upon the express additional consideration that he accept the supervision of the Reverend W.T. Kingsley. About 6:30 p.m., chauffeured by two guards in a prison automobile, Red Ryan passed through Kingston Penitentiary's North Gate for the last time. He was driven the four miles to Kingston Junction, where, after a few last stock remarks on the evils of the criminal way-of-life, he shook hands with the guards and boarded the 7:07 train for Toronto. He never arrived. Four hours later, at Toronto's Union Station, representatives of three of the city's newspapers were somewhat taken aback when Red Ryan failed to step from the Kingston train.

In 1935, Toronto was a city of 650,000 with a reputation for insular thinking and narrowness of outlook. Its four daily newspapers fought a fierce circulation war in a market that was big enough to support only three. The paper that was steadily forging ahead was the Toronto Star, Canada's most energetic daily and already the country's largest. The Star thrived, not because it fought the battles of society's underdogs (which it did), but because it provided news that entertained, news that excited, news that people wanted to read. Harry Hindmarsh, the paper's circulation-minded editor, was an innovator whose sometimes bizarre techniques produced a sensational if unbalanced paper — but a paper that was attractive to Torontonians on a day-to-day basis. In the struggle to pull in readers, Hindmarsh put great emphasis on acquiring the exclusive news item — on scooping the city's other papers on a big story as often as possible. On the night of July 23, the newsmen at Union Station must have sensed the truth: the Toronto Star had waylaid Red Ryan with the intention of keeping his story from its competition. As part of an arrangement put together through Father Kingsley, Ryan had disembarked from the Toronto-bound train at Belleville, Ontario, only fifty miles to the west of Kingston. There, on the station platform, he was met by two Star reporters: Athol Gow, the paper's

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senior man on the police beat, who Ryan had known since boyhood; and Roy Greenaway, a top investigative newsman, perhaps best known for having broken the world-wide story on the Banting-Best discovery of insulin. Over the previous several years, co-operating with each other and with other Star reporters, both Gow and Greenaway had been hugely involved in the writing of a number of news stories that strongly supported the notion that Ryan was "reformed" and entirely deserving of a Ticket-of-Leave. More than this, as Ryan's release had become increasingly a real possibility, Gow, Greenaway, and the Toronto Star itself had actually become a part of the ongoing partisan campaign to get Ryan out of prison. Now, with Ryan free, these reporters were getting their reward: exclusive access to the story of Red Ryan's release. In Toronto, as all who were involved knew, it would be a major news scoop. With Ryan in tow, Gow and Greenaway drove directly to Ryan's destination, 279 Lansdowne Avenue, the west-end home of Russell Walsh, Ryan's youngest brother. There, Ryan was reunited with members of his family, some of whom he had not seen since before his arrest in Montreal in October 1921. Father Kingsley was also present. Only hours before, he had been granted a special dispensation allowing him to break a religious retreat being conducted for the priests of the Archdiocese of Kingston at St. Augustine's Seminary in Scarborough. The two Star men were admitted to the family celebration and stayed long enough to gather material for the Star's blockbuster news scoop of the following day. Afterwards they repaired to the Star offices on King Street where they worked through the night. Nothing that was published in the Toronto morning papers on July 24 could have suggested to anyone that Red Ryan's parole was a news story of premier significance. The Globe and the Mail and Empire, unable to locate and interview Ryan, carried only the obligatory rehashes of old material together with what was on the wire from Kingston: that Ryan had been released and was reportedly heading for Toronto. Both papers wore front-page mugs of a younglooking desperado in a slouch cap, and both wondered aloud why Ryan had not stepped off the train at Union Station the night before. Later in the day, the Evening Telegram — in fierce head-on competition with the Star for the evening market — had only a little more; one of its reporters had been allowed to keep a futile watch at the home of one of Ryan's sisters. The morning papers both featured the Prince Edward Island election of the day before, a 30-0 shutout

pter One — The Scoop • 13 13 for the Liberals, thought by some to be a significant indicator of what Premier Bennett's federal Tories could expect in the upcoming October election. In the afternoon, the Tely main headline told of the emergency crash-landing of a light plane on the open water of Toronto's Rosehill Avenue Reservoir. Against this, the Toronto Star front-page headline for Wednesday, July 24, in inch-high black letters, trumpeted Ryan's release: ANGUISH OVER WIFE MARS RED RYAN'S RETURN/ 'Red' Ryan, Free, Heartsick to Find Young Wife's Letters of Devotion Kept from Him for Fourteen Years.2 As indicated, there had been a last-minute development. Surprisingly — yet typically — Red Ryan had climbed into the Star automobile at Belleville and immediately commenced to recount a penitentiary horror story that was almost too horrible to be true. In essence, his claim was this: that he had only just then been handed letters which his wife had written in November 1921; that these letters contained loving sentiments which he had had no knowledge of but which would have had significant bearing on the subsequent course of his marriage; in effect, that the ordinances of Canada's penitentiary system had functioned in such a manner as to estrange him from his wife who loved him. Seemingly Ryan had the evidence to back this allegation. The Star published two of his wife's letters, dated November 23 and November 24, 1921. These had been written during the time when Ryan was in Montreal's Bordeaux Jail awaiting trial on bank robbery charges and his wife was preparing to return to her parents in Newfoundland. Both letters were full of the pathetic declarations of love and devotion of a decent young woman caught up in something she did not properly understand. Both were signed "y°ur loving wife, Elsie." In Montreal, on November 23, she wrote: "its Just (sic) breaking my heart to go away and leave you but whatever happens I want you to know I am going to stand by you." The following day, on board the Canada Steamship Lines vessel Manoa, she wrote again: I won't try to live if you're not with me. Life would not be worth living. If I could only be with you on the 29, I know it would help you, but I will be praying for you all the same.3

14 14 • The Big Re

Apart from this issue, the Star first-day coverage on the story was enormous. Quite possibly, no other crime figure, regenerate or otherwise, has ever come out of a Canadian prison amidst so much fanfare. The Star front page of July 24 had three separate stories about Ryan. Two of these, including the lead story, were developed from exclusive material originating with Ryan himself; the other, bylined Robert Lipsett, the Star Ottawa correspondent, quoted H.A. Mullins, Conservative member of Parliament for Marquette, as taking some of the credit: Ryan sold himself to me in a big way. More than a year ago I visited the "pen" with Reverend W.T. Cameron (sic) of Toronto. We met Ryan and were greatly impressed. Mr. Cameron suggested that I take up the question of his parole with Hon. Hugh Guthrie. I did so and when Mr. Guthrie and Mr. Bennett visited the penitentiary they met Ryan and he sold himself as completely to them as he had to Cameron and myself. I don't think you'll ever hear anything more about Ryan except what is to his credit.4 All of this spilled onto page 3, which was devoted in its entirety to the story. Here there were more pictures: Red Ryan "waving his greeting to freedom" as he stepped from the train — albeit not at Toronto's Union Station; Red Ryan smiling brightly for the Star camera; Ryan listening to the radio at his brother's home; Ryan with some of the many letters denied him by prison regulations; a pathetic snapshot of Ryan's wife, Elsie, which had been an enclosure of one of Elsie's loving missives, purportedly not delivered until nearly fourteen years after it was written. Further back, on the front page of the second section, there was a little more: a photograph of Ryan shaking hands with his benefactor, Father Kingsley; a shot of Ryan's brother, Russell, published without his name; and another short story hitting on the main theme — the idea that insensitive prison regulations had broken up Red Ryan's marriage. The following day, July 25, the Star began a series of front-page stories — "Exclusive to the Star" — which bore the by-line "Norman 'Red' Ryan". The subject was Red Ryan's life and redemption; the unifying theme, Ryan's message to the world: Crime Does Not Pay. For some time, Roy Greenaway had had possession of Ryan's unpublished autobiography, tentatively titled The Futility of Crime,

pter One — The Scoop • 15 15 which Ryan had penned in longhand on foolscap while in prison. Using this, and with Ryan's co-operation, which the Star was paying for, Greenaway knocked out the five-part series. Predictably one of the chapters dealt largely with the touching matter of Ryan's wife's letters, and three of the five editions got back to this in some way. The whole package was copyrighted and, through the Star News Service, sold to out-of-town newspapers interested in the story. Of course, through all of this, much of Red Ryan's credibility as "a genuine case of reformation" — and ultimately his credibility as a news story — flowed from the good opinion of Father Kingsley, who, as his confessor and benefactor, was thought to know him thoroughly. "In my opinion Ryan has always been the best bet in the institution," the Star of July 24 quoted the priest. "I haven't the slightest bit of alarm as to what the future will demonstrate as to my judgement — that he's going to go straight and very straight." Throughout the dramatic events of his discharge Red Ryan appeared very much the regenerate that Father Kingsley said he was. In all things his manner and actions were apt; his expressions of gratitude, fitting; his decency and solicitude, readily apparent. The newsmen and everyone else found him proverbially pleasant, often amusing, and always enormously quotable. Set free, "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1" flatly acknowledged, "I was the true author of my own troubles," and declared himself "retired from the banking business for good." Asked his plans, he stated he would like a small business in Toronto — perhaps a gas station or, more likely, "a cigar shop in a good downtown location." He piled on fulsome praise and tacit forgiveness for those who had effected his punishment — J.C. Ponsford and W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin, former wardens of Kingston; Warden Allan; and even Judge Emerson Coatsworth who, in January 1924, had pronounced his life sentence. With evident emotion, Ryan professed a clear understanding of the terrible consequences of his ever backsliding to crime: I feel absolutely no temptation to break the law, but if ever I should, one thing alone would be strong enough to keep me straight. If ever I were to go back to that life, it would be the biggest blow the Ticket-of-Leave system could receive. It would work a great hardship, not only on the people who have trusted me, but on all of the prisoners who expect to have their terms shortened by the Ticket-of-Leave.5

16 16 • The Big Red

Of Father Kingsley he spoke feelingly: "It was the unstinted kindness of this good man, who reached down to the depths and lifted me up into light and removed from my heart revengeful and immature thoughts, that is responsible for my being outside these walls today." Of Prime Minister Bennett, who he credited with "a warm spirit of humanitarianism", Ryan said: He talked to me as man to man.... I can never hope to repay him for his amazing sympathy and I shall never let him down.... You can't go back on these kinds of men.6 Ryan's recounting of the kindnesses of "prominent people" who had come forward with offers of jobs and assistance was so extravagant that the Star was forced to note the development of "a catch in his voice as he recalled them." In telling how "the head of one of the largest financial houses in the city" telephoned the penitentiary with an offer of aid, Ryan indignantly challenged, "Do you think I could let that kind of man down?" Appropriately devastated by the discovery of his wife's letters, Ryan blamed no individual save himself — only insensitive regulations. Qualifying his right to speak as that of "only a common convict, not a criminologist," he opined to the Star that "accident of birth, health, and, above all, environment are powerful factors in settling individual destinies." Withal, this decent man-ofexperience gave out answers to questions that long had been troubling the country — questions about what went on behind the walls of Canada's penitentiaries. "The greatest problem in Canada today is the rehabilitation of youthful lawbreakers," Ryan told the Star. Other defects and sources of unrest, he cited, were the lack of a classification system, overcrowding, the employment of allegedly brutal and illiterate guards, and misguided rules and regulations governing inmate correspondence, recreation, and uses of the five-cent-a-day wage. All in all, Red Ryan's penological comments, made in a Liberal newspaper, amounted to a shocking and unlooked-for critique of the penitentiary policies of the government headed by Richard Bedford Bennett — the man who had intervened to secure Ryan's release. The emotional elements in Red Ryan's return, his outspokenness, and the impending federal election insured editorial comment from Toronto's big dailies. Not surprisingly the Liberal papers, the Globe and the Star, both of which had long been demanding a Royal Commission to delve into Canada's penal system, saw the withholding

Chapter One — The Scoop

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of Elsie Ryan's letters as an abuse calling for reform. From the spring of 1933, when it had formally dedicated itself to a campaign to "Let in the Light," the Globe's news and editorial pages had vigorously attacked the Bennett government's administration of the system and its stubborn refusal to grant a Royal Commission. Now, while the Star merely summoned up the errant letters as an illustration of a muchneeded reform and, at the same time, pointed to Red Ryan's glowing testimony as a means of paying the prime minister a back-handed compliment ("... those who have criticized Mr. Bennett for his harshness to the unemployed will welcome this indication of a genuine change of heart"), the Globe stridently characterized the matter of the letters as archetypical of Canada's prisons and again shouted for "a thorough inquiry into and a complete reform of the Canadian penitentiary system." In opposition to this, the Telegram had little patience for penitentiary reform and, in this instance, little patience for the incipient issue of Red Ryan's mail. The Tely challenged Ryan's right to speak at all and, as it often did, it questioned the motives of the Star in highlighting the story of Ryan's release. An editorial of July 26 declared: that (Ryan's) release should be made the occasion of figurative bandplaying and public declamation is altogether improper. The released man is not a national hero. He is a man who, by his future conduct, must show that he has turned from the serious crime that at one time it appeared that he had chosen as a career. His own good sense should tell him that the sooner he can slip into normal life, and get away from the demonstrative lunatics who are ready to play with his past for their own purposes, the better. If he should be weak enough to be drawn into discussions of crime and the treatment of criminals, he must remember that even his experiences in the penitentiary do not qualify him as a penologist. They give him no higher authority to speak of the treatment of crime than that of the man who has consistently obeyed the law.7 Only the Mail and Empire stayed out of the debate. Instead, on July 30, the Mail underscored Bennett's generous action in releasing Ryan, seeing this as an entirely sentimental gesture, new evidence of the prime minister's sympathetic nature, and the refutation of what it

18 The Big Red Fox

maintained had been "a deliberate campaign of calumniation, carried on partly in the press and partly in the constituencies." Blatantly plumping for Bennett's re-election, the Mail was unashamed in its praise of the millionaire corporate-lawyer premier who it claimed had "the satisfaction of knowing that Canada leads all other nations in the extent and the rapidity of its recovery from the hard times which began under his predecessor."

During the six days that Toronto's newspapers were airing his private affairs, Red Ryan was having the time of his life. He spent a good part of his first week of freedom with the Star reporters, especially with Athol Gow, who showed him the sights of the city and wrote about his experiences and reactions to new technology and the faster pace of life of the thirties. He was chauffeured about a much- changed Toronto — the downtown with its new skyscrapers like the Bank of Commerce Building, the Royal York Hotel, and the Toronto Star Building; Maple Leaf Gardens; the city's fine new harbour; High Park; and Sunnyside, where an amusement park had been operating since 1922. Everywhere Red Ryan was a centre of attention; there seemed no end to the people who wanted to shake his hand, wish him good luck, and express their sympathy over the tragic breakup of his marriage. The afternoon after his return, Red Ryan visited Toronto police headquarters where, in the absence of Chief Constable Dennis Draper, he made his official report to Deputy Chief George Guthrie. To this veteran policeman who, in 1923, had supervised the Toronto manhunt that sought to return him to Kingston Penitentiary, Ryan spoke in characteristic style: "I would not take all the millions of Rockefeller and go through what I have gone through the past seventeen and a half years. Just a wasted life — and what a fool 1 was — anyone is, too, who thinks crime reaps a dividend. Just one way — sorrow and remorse and a wasted life." At St. Augustine's Seminary on Kingston Road, where he went to confer with Father Kingsley, Ryan had a twenty-minute interview with Archbishop Michael J. O'Brien of the Archdiocese of Kingston, Kingsley's superior. Afterwards Ryan told Gow: "His grace spoke kindly to me. He reminded me that everyone was watching me. I told him that I was on the right road with my face to the sun ready to show the Prime Minister and all my friends that I am ready to make good."

Chapter One — The Scoop 19 There was an invitation to visit the nearby St. Theresa's Church, the Shrine of the Little Flower. There, with his brother Russell and Father Ambrose J. O'Brien, the parish priest, Red Ryan knelt before the altar in silent prayer, bathed in multi-coloured sunrays refracted through a stained-glass window. With Athol Gow, Russell, and Father O'Brien, Ryan proceeded to the Birchcliff home of one of his cousins, where a small crowd of gawking onlookers gathered outside the kitchen door but did nothing until the Ryan party was about to leave. Suddenly a diminutive woman in a black dress rushed up and grabbed at the former bank robber's hand. "God bless you. I am glad to see you. I remember you in my prayers," the woman blurted as she ran along beside the Toronto Star's moving car. Confident of his own importance, Red Ryan talked to the Star reporters of what would happen when he went into a bank to open an account. "When I walk into the bank, 1 wonder if anyone will notice. Won't they get a shock when I sign my name?" he asked in his own ironic style. A day or two later, Athol Gow — whose paper had been known to send a reporter out with a $1,000 bill to buy a necktie, or to fry an egg on the City Hall steps on a hot July day — followed Red Ryan into a Bank of Montreal. At first the bank's accountant failed to recognize the celebrity ex-convict (perhaps he read only the Telegram), but when their business was finished, he shook Ryan's hand and reportedly said, "I know you will make good. We are pleased to have your account here."8 Some of Ryan's excursions were of a less-theatrical, more mundane type: a visit to his sister's home complete with his customary assurances of reform and the gift to his young niece of a shiny, new fifty- cent piece; a trip to the haberdasher's to pick up some shirts, ties, and toilet articles; and lunch at the Old Mill on the Humber where, as was reported, he had consomme, fish, ice cream, and tea. There were, too, Red Ryan's many observations of, and reactions to, 11 1/2 years of technological change and progress, which included the proliferation of automobiles and the much faster rush of traffic; more and better paved roads; traffic lights, multi-coloured neon signs and advertising billboards; and the drastic improvement in radio — an experimental toy before but now a common and influential household device. Most astounding of all was the talking motion picture and, one afternoon that week, Ryan and Gow spent two hours watching a "talkie" in a downtown theatre. At a quiet highway dining room Ryan had a chance meeting with Chief Constable Dennis Draper, the hard-boiled former army general

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The Big Red Fo

who had once advocated the lash for bookmakers and gamblers. Draper was motoring back from Hamilton, and supposedly Ryan recognized him from a photograph he had seen on the wall at Toronto police headquarters. The chief was notoriously blunt and impolitic, but this day the Star would report him as saying, "I'm glad to see you, Ryan. I'm sure you will make good. It's up to you. I wish you every success." That same night, at a summer resort west of the city, Ryan sat by a dance pavilion for several hours "watching the whirling couples and listening to the crooner." A young girl approached. "Excuse me, are you Mr. Norman Ryan?" She had recognized the famous Red Ryan from his picture in the Star and she wanted his autograph. He wrote it for her on the flap of a cigarette package. On Wednesday, July 31, Red Ryan made what amounted to a public appearance. Together with Athol Gow, he attended the Toronto Police Games, then still held at the rickety old ballpark on Hanlan's Point. Despite his Ticket-of-Leave status, Ryan was very cordially received by the Toronto Police; in effect, he was treated as an honoured guest — albeit as an honoured guest with an ex-officio standing. He spent the afternoon shaking hands with various dignitaries — people like Chief Constable Draper; Frank P. O'Connor, the wealthy owner of the Laura Secord chocolate shops and a noted Catholic philanthropist, who would soon "represent Irish Roman Catholics from Toronto" in the Senate of Canada; and Alderman Percy J. Quinn, a prominent Catholic and perennial alderman in the city's Ward Three — and with literally hundreds of well-wishers who crowded around to congratulate him. He also posed for a number of photographs, at least one of which the Toronto Police and several Toronto notables would later come to regard as an embarrassment. It pictured Red Ryan, Canada's most notorious bank robber, together in a chummy pose with John "Duke" McGarry, a Toronto hotel-keeper and the official starter for the Police Games; Dr. M.M. Crawford, chief coroner of Toronto; Judge Frank Denton, a judge of the York County Court; E.J. "Eddy" Murphy, a well-respected lawyer who, like Athol Gow, had known Ryan as a boy; and Alderman Percy J. Quinn. The following day, Red Ryan was in the Kingston area — as the main attraction and drawing card at the Annual Garden Party and Picnic held on the grounds of the Church of the Good Thief in Portsmouth. The crowd was very large. The previous Sunday, Father Kingsley had announced Red Ryan's coming from the pulpit; the news

Chapter One — The Scoop 21 had found its way into the Kingston Whig-Standard and, from there, onto the Canadian Press wire. Tickets were twenty-five cents. Immaculately attired in a white summer suit, Ryan arrived in the early evening accompanied by "several men from Toronto." Together with his mentor Father Kingsley, he went about the church lawn shaking hands. With T.L. Rigney, the local crown prosecutor, he patronized the booths and games-of- chance. With W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin, the former warden of Kingston, who Kingsley and some others regarded as a progressive-thinker on penitentiary matters, he engaged in a lengthy discussion on penology and penitentiary affairs. He did several turns about the lawn on the arm of Miss Robinson, the Women's Prison matron. "Everyone seemed glad to see him," remembered H.B. Patterson, the prison teacher and trade instructor. "He was a celebrity." In Toronto, even though three of the city's newspapers were just then being allowed their first access to Red Ryan, these two little appearances were not deemed to be major news. The Globe, always the most interested in penitentiary people and affairs, carried only two short inside-page stories singling out Ryan's presence at each function; the Mail and Empire had only a lone picture of Ryan shaking hands with Frank P. O'Connor; and the Evening Telegram, true to its stated feelings on the matter, carried nothing about Red Ryan at all. And that was it: the end of Red Ryan's little moment at centre stage. The Star — which only a few days before had reported on Ryan as he watched a movie, as he bought haberdashery, even as he ate his lunch — was now not at all interested. And the reason was simple enough: Red Ryan no longer sold newspapers; the public had tired of reading about him.

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CHAPTER TWO Norman Ryan (July 8,1895-September 28, 1922)

N

orman John Ryan was bom July 8, 1895, in west-central Toronto, the fourth of eight children. His parents were Irish-American Roman Catholics who had emigrated from Chicago, Illinois, in 1894Norman attended first St. Mary's, then St. Francis's, then St. Peter's, separate schools to the end of Grade 8. Aged 10, he began going truant from St. Francis's School. Hauled into magistrate's court, he was convicted of vagrancy and, after one of his parents signed a document, committed to St. John's Training School, a reform school for Catholic boys. Not long afterward, Norman escaped and returned home, but he was soon sent back. As an adult Ryan would at times facilely blame his early stay in St. John's for his career-in-crime. "I was sent to St. John's and I've been in Dutch ever since," he sometimes said. Released from reform school, Ryan was an inveterate thief. In October 1907, he was convicted of stealing a bicycle and given "a remand till called on" — in effect, an admonishment. A year later, in October 1908, he was convicted of stealing chickens and sent to St. John's indefinitely. In June 1911, he was twice convicted of theft and given another break — "a remand till called on." In June 1909, Ryan completed his elementary education and joined his older brother, Leo, in apprenticeship to his father, John, a

24 The Big Red Fox

master tinsmith who then worked out of a shop at Bathurst Street and Olive Avenue. "Norm wanted nothing to do with his father," recalled Fred Spain, a friend of those days, who also remembered a looselipped Ryan as "a malicious little bastard who was always fidgety, always up to something, always trying to get something started." Instead of work, Ryan preferred hanging around with a large gang of boys who frequented a dump at Grace and Harbord streets "stealing and raising HelL" An attention-seeker, Ryan collected around himself as many boys as he could, always expecting the others to follow his lead. Many times his twisted projects brought a cop on a bicycle from No. 7 Station on Ossington Avenue. Usually Ryan and the same four others were charged with "disorderly conduct." By 1912 the Ryan family had moved to 7 Wyndham Street in north Parkdale and Norman Ryan graduated to serious crime. Now he was staying out at night, keeping company with prostitutes, and doing armed burglaries with two others. It was in late November 1912 that the name "Norman Ryan" first appeared on the front pages of Toronto's daily newspapers when Ryan — aged 17 — was caught redhanded burglarizing a west Toronto confectionery. He was arrested, crouching in an alley behind the Queen Street West store of John B. Hayes at 4 a.m., a loaded revolver in his hip pocket. The arrest of Ryan and two other delinquent youths got such sharp notice because the three were immediately connected to a shooting incident that had already shocked slow-moving Toronto and its environs. Three days before, in 5 a.m. darkness, on the Dundas Highway west of the village of Islington, a boy on a careering, stolen motorcycle had rear-ended an innocent market gardener's two-horse rig. Two other boys came up on a second cycle and all three began threatening the farmer, trying to force him to take the smashed bike on his cart into Toronto. When the farmer persisted in refusing, "the tallest boy" committed an appalling act: he produced a revolver and callously fired two bullets into the flanks of the farmer's horses, then whizzed two other slugs past the farmer's ear. After his arrest for burglary, Norman Ryan — "the tallest boy" — was identified as the young man who had done the shooting. A slender, red-haired youth, Ryan stood in Toronto Police Court on December 3, 1912, and sullenly pleaded guilty to three counts of burglary. Only his mother was there to speak for him. Elizabeth Ryan made a pathetic plea for a suspended sentence, claiming Norman and one other son were her only support.

Chapter Two — Norman Ryan 25

"And how does he support you," snapped crusty magistrate G.T. Denison. "By burglary?" The magistrate then pronounced a harsh sentence of three years in Kingston Penitentiary. Ten days later, in York County Court, Ryan was convicted of "shooting with intent to maim" and sentenced to 3 1/2 years concurrent in Kingston, When the train pulled out for "down east," Norman Ryan and one of his cohorts were seen to be weeping like children. Twenty-one months later young Ryan returned to Toronto much hardened by his prison experience. He had spent his time on Kingston's infamous stonepile, endlessly smashing big stones into little ones. Forbidden to speak by the institution's Silent System, Ryan learned the convict's method of effectively talking out of the side of the mouth. At an impressionable age, he was worked and housed in a thoroughly unclassified prison with murderers, bank robbers, safecrackers, burglars, forgers, confidence men, pickpockets, sex offenders, and all manner of criminal misfits. He did not fail to notice that the daring daylight bank robbers were the aristocrats of the prison sub-culture, respected and deferred to by all. Years later he told Roy Greenaway of the effects of his early prison experience on himself and his two youthful cohorts, both of whom also became professional criminals: While there, we associated with hardened criminals, some of the most vicious type, and all we heard while in prison was boasting about the 'jobs' they had pulled, and what they planned to do in all channels of crime when they got out. It was a thorough-going school of crime.... When I got out I was reckless, fickle-minded, chock full of bravado — bad. I was worse than when I went in. I was fully convinced that I could hoodwink the police and that my being caught was just bad luck. I felt I had learned enough to avoid dhe old mistakes.9 Yet Norman Ryan left Kingston in September 1914, professing to be through with crime, promising to place himself under his father's supervision and to report to the local police under the terms of his Ticket-of-Leave. To get him away from the gang he had been running with, his family shipped him to Brantford, Ontario, to work at the A.B. Reach Sporting Goods Company where his eldest brother, Frank, was the

26 26 The Big Red Fox

plant manager. It took Ryan only a few days to become involved in a nasty imbroglio with Brantford's chief constable, Charles Slemins. The issue was an ex-convict's right to pay attention to the daughter of a local business tycoon. With this excuse, Ryan left Brantford in an outraged, self-righteous snit and, at this juncture, simply walked away from his Ticket-of-Leave. Soon he was living and travelling with Madeline "Kate" Donahue, a sometime Toronto prostitute, and financing this relationship by doing burglaries with Arthur Conley, a twenty-seven-year-old professional criminal. On April 9, 1915, a few days after Conley had been involved in a fourteen-shot standup gunfight with a Toronto Police detective, Ryan and Conley perpetrated an armed robbery of the payroll office of the Sterling Action and Key Company, a piano factory on Noble Street in Toronto's west-end Parkdale district. At least by this time, Norman Ryan had made and effected his personal career choice: he had chosen to become a professional thief and gunman. Once called "a godfather and evil genius of (crime)," Arthur Conley was a small-time thief but an extremely dangerous gunman who characteristically worked with younger criminals for whom he was known to have lots of advice. He was "a tough guy," who carried a gun and took what he wanted — like the lawless desperadoes of the ubiquitous pulp westerns of the day. There is reason to believe that Conley was a hero of Norman Ryan's almost from boyhood — someone he looked up to and apparently emulated, the palpable embodiment of Ryan's conception of criminal orthodoxy. Conley was the ultimate gambler who played "the Game," and Norman Ryan learned to be a gambler and play "the Game." Ryan learned to be a fatalist, as Conley was, and would go about in manhood professing to believe that he was going "die with his boots on" — perhaps actually wanting it. Ryan and Art Conley would remain lifelong friends — inside Kingston Penitentiary. The robbery of the Sterling Action and Key Company — Ryan's first armed robbery — took place on a payday afternoon. Two halfdrunk robbers entered the piano factory's payroll office, pulled revolvers and boldly shouted, "Stick 'em up." The staff did not comply. A wrestling match, not a robbery, broke out, with one plucky female clerk fighting Conley, another fighting Ryan. When Conley fired his gun to intimidate the girls, Ryan did the same. Finally the two inept thieves bumbled out the door with a reported $1,500. Six weeks later, with Conley already behind bars, Ryan and

Chapter Two — Norman Rya

27

another man robbed the Parkdale office of the Dominion Express Company. The total take was $144, for which one of the pair lost the seat of his pants to a civic-minded Collie dog while escaping along Laxton Avenue. Not yet twenty years old, and badly wanted by the Toronto Police, Ryan tried to flee to a care- free life-of-crime in the Canadian West. He got as far as Owen Sound, Ontario, where, on June 3, 1915, he and his new partner were accosted in a park by two plainclothes policemen. Ryan jerked out a revolver and began shooting. This touched off an all-day running gun battle through the bush of Sydenham Township with Ryan several times firing on a pursuing police posse. Finally the desperate pair were run down far out on Lake Huron, trying to escape in a leaky old rowboat, using bed slats for paddles. At Owen Sound, on June 16, 1915, Police Magistrate A.D. Creasor convicted Ryan of two counts of burglary and one of "shooting with intent to maim" and sentenced him to eight years in Kingston Penitentiary. Not yet possessed of the professional highwayman's detached demeanour, Ryan had to be dragged out of court fighting and screaming, swearing at the top of his voice, threatening to come back and kill all who had anything to do with his prosecution. Five months later, Ryan was taken from Kingston Penitentiary to Toronto where he meekly pleaded guilty to the Sterling and Dominion robberies. He was given two twelve-year concurrent sentences. In the interim he had learned what every experienced professional criminal knows: that the smart convict holds himself submissive to authority and earns the maximum remission on his sentence until, if he is so inclined, the optimum moment for rebellion arrives. Inside Kingston Ryan used the good offices of Father Michael McDonald, the Roman Catholic chaplain, to re-establish ties with his family. According to one source, he also began enthusiastically practising his religion. But it was the Great War, not improved character or fine moral behaviour, that won Ryan's freedom after only 2 3/4 years. Men were needed at the front and the search went everywhere. The Conservative government of Robert Borden passed the Military Service Act — conscription — and, as time passed, became much less particular about where it looked for likely volunteer enlistees. Norman Ryan joined the Canadian Army inside Kingston Penitentiary on March 26, 1918, and, nine days later, after the governor general of

28 28 • The Big Red Canada signed some documents, walked from Kingston as the recipient of a full pardon. The terms were absolute. No matter what, Ryan no longer owed even a day on any of his sentences. In England Ryan was taken on strength of the 6th Canadian Reserve Battalion stationed at Seaford, Sussex. Inflicted on the Canadian war effort, he merely had a few weeks of good times: he got drunk, he brawled with "the gink" who ran the commissary, he filched chickens from English henhouses. Always the thief, Ryan could not stop stealing, even from fellow soldiers. His later correspondence includes a letter from "Alex," an army buddy, who conjured up a disconcerting reminiscence of these days: Who was with you and I when we prowled the tent one night and all we got was a pair of eyeglasses, (sic) I sure would have crowned the mark if he woke up. I had a big enough club.10 Confined to barracks on a petty breach of military discipline, Ryan simply went AWOL. He was arrested in London for theft, prosecuted by civilian authorities and served most of a forty-two-day sentence in Wandsworth Prison. Handed back to the Canadian military, he was court martialled and began 150 days in the Witley Camp Guard Room. He escaped through a skylight within forty-eight hours. The date was November 29, 1918. Eighteen days after Germany capitulated, Norman Ryan was a deserter. The ensuing two years are "a dark chapter" in Ryan's life — a period about which little is known save for what Ryan himself later claimed. Part of this time Ryan spent in the English Merchant Navy and perhaps, as some believed, he robbed banks in England, Ireland, and Australia.11 Taking advantage of the general amnesty, Ryan turned up back in Toronto sometime before September 1920. He had in his possession souvenir currencies of sundry countries in Europe, West Africa, and South America. He also had the travel papers of an Australian seaman named Albert Slade and he would sometimes claim to be Albert Slade after this time. It was in March 1921 — according to the subsequent story of an informant of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police — that Ryan boasted to Hamilton, Ontario, underworld associates that he had obtained Slade's papers by "turning the man overboard on a trip to Australia." For a time after his return, Norman Ryan appeared at face value to

Chapter Two — Norman Rya

29

have settled into a normal life, living with his family at 7 Wyndham Street and working at his tinner's trade. Already, in January 1920, his father had succumbed to a lingering illness and his mother, in poor health, passed away that November. A family concern was the maintenance of Ryan's three youngest sisters, aged 9, 11, and 13, and, in such circumstances, Norman seemed to take an important role; his mother's will, written shortly before her death, named Norman, together with his older sister Irene, as co-executors and co-guardians of the three young girls. Whatever else this was, it was a family show of support for Ryan's latest resolve. As at other times, it was help and comfort he didn't deserve. Possibly even by September 1920, Ryan was already playing false — pretending respectability but committing crimes on the sly. Certainly this was the case by April and August 1921, when, interestingly, Ryan variously signed legal documents, first as "NJ Ryan," then as "Norman J. Ryan" — perhaps, in psychological terms, "the sure sign of a fractured man." Having outsmarted the System, Norman Ryan might have stayed straight — or at least stayed closer to the edge of the law. If nothing else, Ontario Temperance meant this was a time of greatly increased opportunity for those who dared; there was big money to be made in bootlegging in the province of Ontario. Prohibition in the United States and the availability of liquor for export in Canada meant there was even more money to be made rumrunning booze across the American border. Frank Ryan, Norman's eldest brother, enthusiastically seized these opportunities and got mildly wealthy doing so. But, except in passing, none of this was for Norman Ryan. As a fool returns to his folly, Ryan went back to armed robbery. In the summer and fall of 1921, he single-handedly attempted five daring bank holdups in Hamilton and Montreal, using George McVittie, a small-time Hamilton bootlegger, to drive his getaway car.12 This was done in a style that suggested impending collision. Once Ryan — who the Hamilton papers dubbed "the Lone Bandit" — took nearly ten minutes to rob a Bank of Hamilton. On two occasions, there were weirdly-identical shootouts in which Ryan, two bank managers, and two paying tellers narrowly escaped death by flying bullets. The day following one botched holdup, Ryan lurched through the door of a Hamilton branch of the Union Bank, gun in hand, announcing, "You sons-of-bitches fooled me yesterday, but there will be a murder here today if you don't do what I tell you." The stylish, nervy bandit jumped a counter and got away with $1,870.

30 The Big Red Fox Between robberies, Ryan found time to marry Elsie Sharpe, the unfortunate young woman whose "pathetic letters of love and devotion" were published fourteen years later in the Toronto Star. A wholesome girl from the small village of Heart's Content, Newfoundland, Elsie somehow imagined that she had found true love with a good-looking, convincingly forthright, young man in Toronto. This naive girl, whatever she knew of Ryan's past, had no inkling at all of his ongoing criminal activities. They were married on August 24, 1921, at St. Peter's Roman Catholic Church in Toronto. Following the ceremony Ryan took his new bride to Winnipeg, Manitoba, on a honeymoon. A few weeks later, however, he gave her a story, left her in a room on Sherbrooke Street and returned to the East to rob banks. The next Elsie knew a Winnipeg detective was at her door with the news that her new husband — "the Lone Bandit" — was in jail in Montreal. According to the story, Elsie fainted on the spot. Ryan's gambler's luck had tapped out in Montreal on October 26, 1921. As the result of a tip, a squad of detectives surrounded two suspects inside the downtown Central YMCA. George McVittie tried nonchalantly walking through the police cordon and was arrested comparatively quietly. But Ryan went out with a bang. Rushing the cops like a halfback, he found some running room, dodged across Drummond Street and ran around behind an old house. As he attempted to pull his revolver, two detectives opened fire almost as a third launched a flying tackle from another direction. Ryan fell in a heap. News accounts of Montreal's Gazette and Star told that three bullets penetrated the tail of Ryan's overcoat, but, miraculously, the Ontario gunman was only scratched. Ryan was quoted as telling a detective that he was "just as glad that they had got him or else he would have got them." To Chief of Detectives LePage, Ryan boasted, "Your men would never have got me if I had got (my revolver) out."13 This was the understandable confusion of a man who already had every right to be dead. It was Ryan's third shower of bullets in thirteen days — the third time he had nearly killed someone, the third time he'd missed death by inches. In hindsight, this arrest was the real end of Norman Ryan's last chance to shift to a normal adult life. Already a two-time loser, he was now exposed to society and his family as living "a double life" — apparently a respectable citizen but, in reality, "the Lone Bandit." It

Chapter Two — Norman Rya

31

was also the effective end of Ryan's short-lived marriage. In Montreal, on November 3, Elsie tearfully announced that Ryan had "misrepresented himself and the marriage was through. After further interviews in the Bordeaux Jail, though, Elsie changed her mind. It was then, on November 23 and as she sailed for her home in Newfoundland on November 24, that she wrote the heart-wrenching letters that Red Ryan claimed years later that he had never received. The trials at Montreal were a two-day sideshow in a packed courtroom and resulted in Ryan's being twice convicted of armed robbery with violence. Together with McVittie, who was convicted as "Patrick O'Hara," "Albert Slade" was sentenced to seven years in St. Vincent De Paul Penitentiary. He was also awarded fourteen lashes. Notwithstanding his situation, Ryan left the courtroom smiling broadly — obviously enjoying the attention of a thrill-seeking crowd of the morbidly curious which had been attracted by weeks of heavy press coverage. Already a Montreal reporter had written that Ryan's career "reads almost like a chapter from the history of Jesse James."14 Nine months later Ryan got his real comeuppance in Judge John G. Gauld's Wentworth County Criminal Court courtroom at Hamilton — a comeuppance that many then regarded as the functional end to his already long career of lawlessness. Heavily guarded, cuffed, manacled, and chained to McVittie, Ryan sat in the prisoner's dock for three days indifferently listening to a judicial procedure he did his best to treat as irrelevant. The evidence against him was overwhelming; his chances of acquittal, non-existent. On the morning of September 28, 1922, Judge Gauld sternly intoned the verdicts: Norman Ryan guilty on three bank robbery charges and one of "shooting with intent to maim"; George McVittie, guilty on one bank robbery charge only. Affecting a careless, independent air, Ryan sat quietly listening while C.S. Morgan, McVittie's lawyer, pleaded for leniency partly by portraying his client as a man unfairly "blackened" by his association with Ryan, then as his own lawyer, O.M. Walsh, likely unknowingly, but certainly preposterously, stretched his military service to that of "a returned soldier" who had been "overseas on the firing line for years." Next, Crown Attorney George Ballard spoke. He was strong for McVittie, who he said might come to his senses if given a chance. About Ryan he did not say the same. Allowing that Ryan possessed "great mental ability" and "great personal courage," Ballard regretfully concluded, "Ryan is a man society should be protected from."

32 The Big Red Fox Judge Gauld took only a few words to agree and passed sentence quickly. Citing the recent nation-wide trend to bank robbery and the need for deterrence, the judge grimly spoke the words that mattered most: "The sentence on McVittie will be ten years and on Ryan, the ringleader, 25 years/' The courtroom hushed, but Ryan didn't bat an eye. He smiled and, as he was led away, he had enough of the highwayman's sangfroid to wryly quip to the sheriff's officer, "That man Gauld is mighty free with another man's time." It was as if twenty-five years of his life hardly mattered at all Many who heard the pronouncement of Ryan's "virtual life sentence" imagined it to be the ghastly-but-fitting end of an extremely dangerous man. In a sense it was. In another very real sense, however, Red Ryan's story had not yet begun.

CHAPTER THREE Red Ryan (June 22, 1922 -January 4, 1924)

W

hen, to facilitate their prosecution at Hamilton, Norman Ryan and George McVittie were transferred to Kingston Penitentiary from St. Vincent De Paul in late June 1922, a poignant warning accompanied Ryan's transfer papers: that, in the Quebec prison, Ryan had been trying every scheme possible to effect an escape. In Kingston, it was the same. Prison informants kept the officials posted; Ryan, Arthur Conley, and others in their orbit were named, not only as plotting escape, but also as being involved in an incipient demonstration for better conditions in the prison. One stool pigeon told that Ryan was planning to flee to Nicaragua, a country that did not have an extradition treaty with Canada. Another rat informed of Ryan's friendship with a mysterious Dr. Lamont, a fixer of sorts, who operated out of Montreal's Chinatown and who reputedly had wonderful influence over the police of that city. Allegedly "the Conley outfit," Ryan included, were planning to use a fire hose to storm one of the prison's gun towers where they would seize firearms. Later an informant would claim that a Kingston guard named Patrick Betson had been appointed through Frank Ryan's influence for the purpose of aiding Norman Ryan's escape from Kingston. As a consequence of all of this information and more, Ryan was the object of extra attention and careful handling in the prison.

34 The Big Red Fox But Ryan got out anyway. Inside Kingston, in the months before September 1923, Ryan plotted with conspirators within and without the walls. In Toronto, he had the help of two bootleggers and a clique of criminals that frequented a Carlton Street house-of-prostitution. Apparently some of the Kingston guards were bought. It became a matter of who Ryan would take with him when the attempt was to be made. Convicts of Ryan's choosing dropped in and out of Ryan's plans. Patrick Betson may have been on side; the Kingston authorities entrapped him into a trafficking charge soon after he was named by an informer. Shortly before "the get," one man who had been in the confidence of the plotters was excluded by Ryan as a suspected "bigmouthed rat." Another convict — Thomas "Shorty" Bryans — was added to the scheme forty-five minutes before the escapees went over the wall — apparently because Ryan's friend and men tor-incrime, Arthur Conley, was considered not very likely to make it to the east wall from his workplace in the shoe shop on the west side of the prison enclosure. The final cast-of-characters for the attempt were five long-term convicts willing to take a gambler's chance: Norman "Red" Ryan, the linchpin, who possessed the leadership skills and the all-important, necessary outside connections; Edward "Mac" McMullen, a brooding, sour-tempered career criminal, much feared in the prison, who was serving a fourteen-year sentence for a highly publicized bank robbery at Wyoming, Ontario; Andrew "Curly" Sullivan, known to the justice system as "Arthur Brown," serving ten years for burglary; Gordon Simpson, reputedly the strongest man in Kingston and "a notorious member of the Tommy Quinn gang of burglars and safecrackers," who was also serving ten years; and Thomas "Shorty" Bryans, who was not a professional criminal like the others but a volatile criminal misfit, doing fifteen years for manslaughter. All were young men, 31 and under. All were dangerous. Ultimately, by 1938, four of the five would die at the hands of the law — three shot to death by law enforcement officers, one hanged. The plan was to set fire to a barn full of new-mown hay, located near the southeast corner of the prison enclosure and then to escape over the wall through the resulting thick, black smoke. The escapees expected to find a powerful automobile at "Alwington," the neighbouring property to the east, the estate of Mrs. H.A.W. Richardson. They had a road map which would take them to a point

Chapter Three — Red Ryan

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on the Perth Road 41/2 miles from the prison where there was an enormous, seven-hundred-acre, hardwood bush they could hide in. Likely there was more to the plan. A subsequent Penitentiary Branch inquiry would hear blackleg testimony that $5,000 was paid to two key guards not to prevent the escape. The guard on the southeast tower had difficulty explaining why "He was from 3 to 5 minutes late firing his shot of alarm," The inspectors were not impressed with his story that the delay was because he thought the barn was being steamcleaned, not that it was on fire, especially as such a procedure had never been known in the prison before. The armed guard on the duty outpost outside the wall could not satisfactorily explain why he did not simply move to block the path of the escapees once they were outside the enclosure. Subsequently both guards were declared "a menace to the institution" and fired. The prison siren began to wail about 10:45 on the grey, dreary morning of September 10, 1923. Already the five inmates had slipped away from the carpentry and masonry gangs, both of which were working in "a loose situation," building a new power plant in the prison's southeast quadrant. Already the prison's horse barn was nicely blazing and a thick, black smoke was rolling eastwards over the wall. A makeshift ladder was placed against the barrier and four convicts — Sullivan, Simpson, Bryans, and McMullen — had gone up and over the top. The guard on the southeast tower — 250 feet from the barn — was firing into the smoke and in the direction of the convicts running eastwards across the prison vegetable patch. Always a risk-taker, Red Ryan stood alone at the base of the ladder, inside the enclosure, a pitchfork in hand. He kept this position for some sixty seconds, threatening all convicts and guards who came near. Later the prison officials believed that Ryan was waiting for Art Conley to come running from the other side of the prison compound. It never happened. Ryan's procrastination was ended when he was challenged by Chief Keeper Matt Walsh, who closed with him and got his hands on the fork's shaft. After a short, desperate struggle, Ryan smashed Walsh over the head with the wooden handle, then went quickly up the ladder and over the twenty-four- foot-high wall. Unhit by bullets fired from the southeast gun tower and the duty outpost, Ryan bolted zig-zag fashion across the prison potato and turnip patches, then dove head first through a conveniently fallendown section of the fence that separated the prison property from the

36 The Big Red Fox Richardson Estate. Near the Richardson house, Ryan caught up with the other escapees just as they were appropriating, not the powerful automobile that they expected to find, but an old, weakly powered Chevrolet belonging to a house^painter at work on the roof of the estate's conservatory. At the Richardson's front gate on King Street, the escapees had to deal with a prison guard, armed with a Lee^Enfield 303, who had moved to block their path. In an instant it all happened. The guard called "Halt," and pointed his rifle. McMullen, who Ryan had asked in on the break because he was known to be able to drive any kind of car well, aimed the little Chev, stepped hard on the gas pedal and tried to run the guard over. The guard fired one bullet then jumped for his life. The bullet smashed through the Chev's steering wheel, severing it in half, then tore through the palm and index finger of Ed McMullen's right hand. But McMullen kept control. The Chev did an *S' turn — right on King Street, then left up a side street — and broke free north and east through the western streets of the city of Kingston. It became a wild chase, with the small, wheezing Chev, careening left and right, pursued by a motley collection of commandeered vehicles, as Ed McMullen fought to make it to the convicts' intended destination: the massive, seven-hundred^acre hardwood bush, 4 1/2 miles northeast of the prison, near the point where the Little Cataraqui Creek crosses the historic Perth Road. Going down a big hill, running flat out, McMullen suddenly threw on the brakes and swerved the Chev sharply to the left, smashing the vehicle heavily into a farm gate. The convicts scrambled out of the car and began to run, one calling, "Every man for himself." Only Red Ryan stayed behind to help McMullen who, weak from the loss of blood, had to be halfcarried from the sunken farm field, over a fence and into the woods on the west side of the Perth Road. The first prison guard on the scene, the same man who had nearly killed McMullen at the Richardson's gate, stood on the side of the hill and emptied his Lee-Enfield at Ryan as he carried McMullen out of sight. All that afternoon an organized search beat the bushes on both sides of the Perth Road and, because the escapees were seen to have

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crossed the highway, surrounded an entire farm concession east to the Montreal Road. At its highpoint, the search included a hundred prison guards, the local two-man detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police, and sixteen mounted officers of the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery. Less than a half hour after the breakout, reporters of the Kingston British Whig and the Kingston Daily Standard arrived in farmer Arthur Kemp's field, beside the abandoned Chevrolet, where Warden J.C. Ponsford had set up a command post. Representatives of the Toronto and Ottawa papers arrived later that night. About 5:30 p.m. Ponsford himself reached under a farm fencepost, grabbed at "a flash of blue," and pulled up Ed McMullen. Too weak to run because of loss of blood, McMullen had been left behind by the other fugitives when it became clear to them that he jeopardized their chances at freedom. Four hours later, on a pitch black night, four guards on sentry duty along a narrow road that separates the 4th and 5th Concessions of Kingston Township were suddenly spooked by several men going northwards through the bush, across the little road, and into a stubble field. The guards heard a rush of feet; they fired several shots into the darkness; then a voice asked, "Are you hit, Shorty?" Though the searchers moved north with the convicts, surrounding the 5th Concession all that night, though buildings and barns on the 4th, 5th, and 6th Concessions were searched for days and many guards were kept on the chase for as long as two weeks, this night encounter was the last actual contact any of the Kingston Penitentiary staff would have with the four remaining fugitives for months to come. For five days the escapees stayed hidden near the hamlet of Glenburnie, receiving help from an elderly farmer who later admitted feeding them. Eventually they hopped a slow-moving freight train, which took them to Belleville, Ontario, from where they walked by night north and west. On the morning of Sunday, September 16, they managed to filch a Maxwell car from in front of the Methodist church in the Village of Stirling. They rode this to Toronto, entering the city that same night. They found sanctuary, by Ryan's appointment, at a brothel at 52 Carlton Street, which was one of the houses which would later be torn down to make room for Maple Leaf Gardens. The housekeeper was "a divorced woman" named Lillie Law, an old friend of Ryan's, who possessed an impeccable reputation for being closemouthed and dependable. Resident in the house was Jenny "the Kid" Law, Lillie's thirteen-year-old daughter, who, twelve years later, in the

38 The Big Red Fox fall of 1935, would herself become involved with Red Ryan.15 According to Jenny, Ryan stayed for several days at 52 Carlton, amusing himself with a buxom, red-headed prostitute, who used the name Doris "Babe" Mowers. Meanwhile the other escapees were parcelled out to houses- of-prostitution at 191 Church Street and 222 Sherbourne Street. Then a woman rented a cottage on Alexander Street — two blocks north of 52 Carlton — and all of the escapees moved there. Ryan and the others gained Toronto to discover they had become totally notorious as the perpetrators of what was called the most daring and desperate prison break in Canadian history. Never one to shun his evil notoriety, Ryan especially enjoyed reading the newspapers and must have been particularly taken with a grossly melodramatic account of the breakout, written by a young Toronto Star reporter named Ernest Hemingway. Featuring the first journalistic use of Ryan's catchy, alliterative nickname, "Red Ryan," as opposed to "Norman Ryan," Hemingway's story, which appeared without a byline, was the real beginning of the Red Ryan news story in Toronto.16 In part, it described the escape over the east wall and Ryan's violent struggle with Matt Walsh: The fat man carrying the long scantling leaned it against the wall and a slim kid, his prison cap pulled down over his eyes, swarmed up it to the top of the wall. He carried a length of rope, which he fastened to the end of the scantling. He made the rope fast and then slid down the other side of the wall. A big husky with a heavy undershot jaw followed him over. On his heels came a little runt who scrambled up the scantling like a monkey. He was followed by a thick-set, hamfaced man who scrambled awkwardly over the wall. Standing at the foot of the scantling while they all went up was a thick, freckle-faced man whose prison cap could not hide his flaming head. It was "Red" Ryan. The others who had climbed over were Young Brown, Big Simpson, Runty Bryans and Wyoming McMullen. As "Red" Ryan started up the ladder, Matt Walsh, chief keeper of Portsmouth penitentiary, came running around the corner to see the burning barn. Walsh saw "Red" on the ladder and ran toward the scantling to try to jerk it down, shouting the alarm as he ran. "Red" saw him coming, realized that he was

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trapped, and came down the ladder. He had left a pitchfork leaning against the jail wall for just this emergency. As Walsh reached the ladder "Red" reached for the pitchfork. Walsh tackled him and "Red" swung with all his might on Walsh's head with the pitchfork. Walsh went down and "Red" dropped the fork and went up the scantling and over the wall.17 For Hemingway, this three-thousand-word story, which was published on the Star front page on September 11, two follow-up stories from Kingston on successive days, and his entire four-month stint that fall as a Star staff reporter (he had previously worked for the paper on a freelance basis and as its Paris correspondent) were merely elements in an unhappy interlude along his way to an important career as an internationally acclaimed fiction writer with a unique style. Unable to get along with Harry Hindmarsh, who later said that he was "temperamentally unsuited" to the job, the future Nobel Prize winner in literature would resign from the Star on December 26 and be gone from Toronto three weeks later. What did he know or really care about Norman Ryan or the matter at hand? He did the three-day job wholly for money, telling the tale in exaggerated terms, imagining for four of the escapees racy sobriquets (only the "Red Ryan" moniker was legitimately used in the prison), turning a violent crime into an entertaining "exploit," which would suit Hindmarsh, the Star burgeoning style, and the paper's readership to a tee. Undoubtedly Hindmarsh, the most prescient of editors on the most entertaining of Toronto's, and Canada's, newspapers, grasped more of Ryan's potential news value than did his reporter. It would happen that "Red Ryan's" ongoing saga, with all of its stirring developments, incredible switchbacks, and petty triumphs over the law, would sell newspapers — and, consequently, advertising — for more than half-a-generation to come. At the time the Kingston fugitives could have understood, or really cared about, little of this. They had quick need of clothes, guns, and transportation and they had to obtain these in short order; there was always the possibility that some person in-the-know might betray them for one or more of the outstanding rewards. A bank robbery had to be planned and executed to pay for these costs. Reconnoitering likely banks occupied Ryan's and Sullivan's time for several days. Meantime Gordon Simpson rode herd on "Shorty"

40 The Big Red Fox Bryans, who turned out to be a mistake. Bryans stayed drunk and quarrelsome. He was without criminal skills of any kind. Ryan excluded him from participation in the impending bank robbery and from a share in its proceeds. With the purpose of misleading pursuers, Ryan penned anonymous false warnings of bank robbery in Toronto's downtown and mailed these to Chief Constable S.J. Dickson and to the general manager of the Canadian Bankers' Association. A more elaborate communication he signed and directed to Matt Walsh — some nine hundred words — ostensibly congratulating Walsh for his courage in trying to prevent the escape but also gloating at length over his little victories over constituted authority. Headed "U.S.A., land of the FREE" and postmarked "Niagara Falls, N.Y. September 24, 1923, 5.30 P.M.," this letter was meant to mislead the authorities into believing that the Kingston Four had already crossed the international border. The letter had actually been given to a confederate who took it to Niagara Falls, New York, by train. The bank Ryan selected was far out on Toronto's outskirts: a branch of the Bank of Nova Scotia on the suburban corner of Oakwood and St. Clair across from the new Oakwood Collegiate. According to his own self, Red Ryan was familiar with the bank's layout because he had lined its vault with tin while working at his trade in 1921. Moreover Ryan expected the Oakwood and St. Clair "jug" to be fat with the payrolls of companies in the northwest corner of the city and the nearby Town of Weston. Inside St. Vincent De Paul in the months between December 1921, and June 1922, Ryan had been fast friends with an aging professional holdup man named George Drew, who had been the leader of a fairly successful Old West-style bank gang that had operated mainly in the province of Quebec. A much more sophisticated criminal than Art Conley, Drew tried to teach Ryan the missing elements in his bank robbing technique. Robbing banks by himself, as he had done throughout his career, Ryan was not in sufficient control of the situation and his efforts often turned to chaos. There was no chance of getting into the vault and too much chance of "the score" debilitating into resistance. Better, Drew maintained, to rob banks in a group, keep control, and get the big money. At 1:15 p.m., Thursday, September 27, "the Red Ryan Gang" made a group attack on the small Bank of Nova Scotia at Oakwood and St. Clair.

Chapter Three — Red Ryan

41

Entering the building, Gordon Simpson turned sharply left into the manager's office and brutally pistol-whipped manager Leroy Oke to the floor. Red Ryan went straight into the bank, boldly vaulted the counter and, after a little delay in getting the cage keys, began plundering the teller's cage. Curly Sullivan took up a position in front of the main counter and stood menacing the staff with his revolver. After he had taken $3,107.22 from the cage — including all of the silver and coppers in the drawer — Red Ryan began dragging Leroy Oke across the floor by the foot bellowing, "Come on. You are not badly hurt. Open the safe for us." Aware there was $25,000 in the vault, Oke faked a swoon. This frustrated Ryan, who, after tearing the bank's telephone from its moorings, ordered the others from the premises. He would never know that he had narrowly missed the second largest armed robbery haul in Toronto's history to that time. After the robbers left, Oke got up from the floor, grabbed a teller's Iver-Johnson .38-calibre revolver, and pursued the bandits down Oakwood Avenue, firing a warning shot in the air. Students from Oakwood Collegiate, who were just getting out for lunch, watched in amazement. That night the gang split the small take and went their separate ways. Unwilling to cross into the United States from Ontario, Gordon Simpson took the helpless Bryans and headed for Quebec. Ryan and Sullivan, who, like George McVittie and others before him, was completely in Ryan's thrall, departed Toronto in style — in a powerful luxury automobile, driven by a bootlegger, with Doris "Babe" Mowers for Ryan's company. Their destination was Windsor, Ontario, the rumrunning capital of the province. All the Toronto Police found was a stolen Overland touring car, abandoned in the ritzy Granite Club's parking lot at 519 Church Street. In the back seat was a white envelope that bore the words "Bank of Nova Scotia, Oakwood and St. Clair." In January 1924, Red Ryan would lyingly tell Toronto Star reporters that he and Sullivan crossed to the American side of the Detroit River aboard the Windsor ferry. He also claimed that they had sawed- off shotguns under their coats and that "if they had steered us into customs we would have come out again." This was only Red Ryan puffing up his own legend; the truth was that the pair were smuggled into the United States in the dead of night in a rumrunner's launch from Sombra, Ontario.

42 The Big Red Fox In the United States, during the next ten weeks, Red Ryan lived his halcyon days as a bank robber. He and Sullivan, working sometimes by themselves, sometimes with three American holdup men, "took off" banks in Chicago, Illinois; Detroit, Michigan; Cleveland, Ohio; St. Paul, Minnesota; and Oshkosh, Wisconsin. It was a bank robbery spree that elements of the Canadian press later habitually claimed to believe netted as much as $250,000. On the proceeds Ryan and Sullivan lived high, travelling the American Midwest in luxurious stolen automobiles, staying in posh hotels, eating in the best restaurants. Both men sported fancy new suits-ofclothes and flashy silk goods and accessories. Both wore garishly expensive diamond stickpins and Ryan, a diamond-studded watch. Ryan, who loved guns, invested in several high- priced, stolen toolsof-his-trade. He also bought a new Reo automobile, which he kept in a garage in Detroit. On November 2, 1923, Ryan and Sullivan robbed the Grand Avenue State Bank in St. Paul, Minnesota, of a reported $5,000. This was an especially audacious act and entirely typical of Red Ryan. St. Paul, as every professional bank robber knew, was then an underworld vacationland, operated under the so-called St. Paul Layover System, or O'Connor System, whereby fugitives from other venues were given safe hideout in St. Paul so long as they obeyed the law while there. In St. Paul "the fix" was in from top to bottom, including state and city politicians and the St. Paul Police. If Ryan and Sullivan had comported themselves as expected, they would have checked in with Daniel "Dapper Danny" Hogan, the pre-eminent St. Paul fixer, at the Green Lantern Saloon behind a cigar store on Wabasha Avenue; they would have been lectured on their civic responsibilities, assigned suitable living quarters, and encouraged to spend their money freely while in St. Paul. As matters stood, the Canadian fugitives traded this immunity for $5,000 and the risk of the wrath of the most powerful men in Minnesota. With things going so well, Red Ryan could not help but brag to those he trusted. He kept close contact with people in Detroit — some of his family and rumrunning friends who had helped him flee Canada. He wrote letters via "the tunnel route" to two inmates in St. Vincent De Paul and to Doris "Babe" Mowers in Toronto. Writing letters was Red Ryan's downfall. Ryan's letter to Alex Courtney — "Inmate C" — inside St. Vincent De Paul was found out and copied by prison authorities who

Chapter Three — Red Ryan 43

used it and another convict's co-operation to set a trap. A letter was sent out to Ryan, supposedly by way of a trafficking guard, which brought a reply. On December 6, Ryan wrote Courtney from Detroit, telling him that he had "done some great old travelling since I seen you last"; that he was "with one of the boys ... the pick of roses"; that Frank Ryan had delivered Courtney's letter and would help Courtney by trying to get in touch with "some good party"; and that Courtney's best chance to get out was "if we can connect with the right people" — meaning a fixer in Ottawa. Incredibly Ryan ended with the offer "... if you need me (to) come down just say the word. I can fix that easy" — apparently his response to Courtney's written suggestion that a gun might be thrown over St. Vincent's wall in an escape bid that would enable Courtney to forego the thirty-nine months remaining on his sentence. Perhaps this snare would have worked, but it did not have time. A similar situation at Toronto had been developing since late October when the Toronto Police, acting on a tip, had begun to monitor the mail of Doris Mowers's mother, using, of course, the co-operation of the Post Office Department. They soon determined that Ryan and Doris Mowers were keeping a lively correspondence through the mother, and eventually that Ryan would call for Doris's letter at a General Delivery in Detroit under a fictitious name he supposed was known only to the girl. On December 3, a combined force of Toronto and Detroit detectives waited in a Detroit post office for Red Ryan. Instead Frank Ryan appeared, collected Red's letters, and got clean away before the police realized what was happening. After this fiasco, the postal authorities were persuaded to cooperate with the federal Penitentiary Branch, not the Toronto Police. Henceforth Superintendent of Dominion Penitentiaries W. St. Pierre Hughes, not George Guthrie, Toronto's chief of detectives, received information on Red Ryan's Toronto correspondence. A Penitentiary Branch report of December 7 read in part: Red Ryan is writing to Babe or Doris Ryan. The outside cover on the envelope is addressed to: — "Mrs. Mowers, 1302 College Street, Toronto".... Inside the mother's letter is another letter enclosed in an envelope for Babe or Doris Ryan. The letter is then delivered by the mother, Mrs. Mowers. All of Ryan's letters are signed "Norman" or "N." Letters

44 The Big Red Fox

from Ryan, last week, informed Doris of a "job" that his gang did in the Federal Bank at Chicago. His share of the "holdup" was $3,000. He sent Babe Ryan ten new U.S.A. five dollar bills, consecutive numbers, and told her to be careful in cashing them and to go to the T. Eaton store in Toronto and to cash only one at a time. As, on account of the numbers having been taken, she must be careful, and he promised he would send her more next week. He further stated in his letter that he had purchased a new high-powered limousine that could pass anything on the road. This letter was postmarked "Wausan," which is a town in the State of Wisconsin. At the end of the letter Ryan stated that he was going to pull off another big "job," and then he would send for her and they would get married. He asked her to send along her photo. He also stated that he is now quite a swank and was wearing glasses and carrying a walking stick, and had purchased a very expensive and large diamond ring.18 In Ottawa, wily Superintendent Hughes enlisted two operatives to help rein Red Ryan in. A former Toronto Police chief of detectives, who was then in the employ of the federal Finance Department, Inspector Walter Duncan was an investigator with a consummate understanding of matters pertaining to the international border. He was also a bit of a publicity-seeker. Accompanying Duncan went R.R. Tucker, deputy warden of Kingston, who was expected to identify Ryan and associates once they were caught. Now it was learned that Doris Mowers's next letter would go to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Arriving in Minneapolis, Duncan and Tucker requested an interview with Chief of Police Frank Brunskill, who they told nearly the full story. The Minneapolis chief was given to understand that Canadian fugitives, including especially Norman "Red" Ryan, were soon to call for a letter at the main Minneapolis post office, that they were expected to try to rob one or more banks in the Twin Cities area, and that there was a $500 Justice Department of Canada reward for each of the Kingston fugitives alive but not dead. Nothing was said about a $5,000 Canadian Bankers' Association reward for any person who had participated in the robbery of a Canadian bank; the Canadian operatives intended to apply for that themselves. A squad of Minneapolis detectives in old clothes was put

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together to wait for Red Ryan at the post office at Third and Washington Avenues: Detectives William Meehan, Al Marxen, William Forby, and James Lally. The dominant personality among these was Meehan, a fiftyish, hard-boiled former railroad detective who, according to a news story, had already killed four men* Meehan could neither read nor write, but he was just the sort of brutally forceful detective that a city located next to St. Paul — "the Home of the Thieves" — thought it needed. In a few years, after killing two more criminals, Meehan would be Minneapolis's chief of police. The trap snapped shut at 5:45 p.m., Friday, December 14, when Red Ryan entered the post office and joined a line of Christmas customers. Reportedly, he was there to collect a letter addressed to "George X. Ramburg." As the line shortened two things happened: the police, who were disguised as painters, recognized Red Ryan; and Ryan understood that the police were there and the identification had been made. Just as Ryan reached the General Delivery wicket, Detective Al Marxen stepped forward and put his arm on the fugitive. Ryan and Marxen both pulled guns simultaneously. Both fired at a distance of about three feet. Both missed. Just then Detective Billy Meehan rushed up from another angle, fired at Ryan mercilessly and hit him in the right upper-arm. Ryan's revolver clattered to the floor. Not yet finished, Red made a quick dash across the hall and tried to go through a door marked "Money Order Department." The door was locked. Ryan turned to see four revolvers levelled at his chest. At this juncture the Minneapolis detectives made a mistake. They took Ryan — manacled and handcuffed — out the post office's Washington Avenue door without first properly checking the outside. At the bottom of the steps, Ryan suddenly began to struggle violently and the police threw him heavily to the ground. Perhaps, as was reported, Ryan shouted, "Help, Sully, the cops have got me." Lounging against a Studebaker sedan on Washington Avenue, Sullivan was suddenly discovered. He leaped into the automobile, wrenched it from its parking space, and, as detectives ran alongside firing, tried to make speed up a snow^covered Washington Avenue. Sullivan seemed to get clear, but a police bullet had sheared off the tip of his nose; two blocks up, he lost control of the Studebaker, smashing it into a parked car. He jumped out and began to run. He dashed into

46 The Big Red Fox a clothing store at 409 Washington Avenue South, found there wasn't a back exit, and did a Upturn out the front. Confronting him on the instant was Patrolman Norman Schaaf, a uniformed officer, who had joined the chase and was just then drawing his revolver Sullivan fired once and Schaaf, hit in the chest, pitched over on his face. Sullivan stepped over the policeman's body and continued running up Washington Avenue, hotly pursued. Somewhere near Seventh Avenue, Sullivan got free. Red Ryan was taken to the Minneapolis General Hospital and then to the Central Police Station where he was interrogated. What — if any — information he gave up has always been a question. One thing is certain. Late that night, or early the next morning, a Red Top taxi driver, Jack Gruenberg, approached the police with the information that he had driven a man from the vicinity of the Milwaukee Depot to the Minneapolis Athletic Club where his passenger had picked up an attractive blonde woman. The fare had gone on to another location. The man had been acting strangely and dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. Gruenberg correctly surmised that Sullivan was connected to the commotion near the post office.

At 11 a.m. the next morning, the Minneapolis detectives brought Irene Adams, a blonde waitress at the Minneapolis Athletic Club, to the Central Police Station. Under pressure, Adams soon coughed up what the police wanted to know. She was acquainted with Ryan and Sullivan as Norman and Arthur Miller, auto accessory salesmen, whom she and a girlfriend had met at a Chinese restaurant in early November. Sullivan had been smitten with "the Jazz girl," sending her post cards from all over the Midwest, asking her not to see other men. Recently Ryan and Sullivan had come back to Minneapolis, and Sullivan had kept a theatre-and-cafe date with Adams only a few minutes after the post office shooting of the previous night. Most importantly, "the flapper" provided the information that Sullivan had promised to call her that afternoon. Now the Minneapolis Police were not happy with "Arthur Brown," and they did not like having their city continually plundered by professional thieves who were attracted by Minneapolis's proximity to their most welcoming hideout, St. Paul. "Arthur Brown" had been the main cog in a major rush-hour tie-up in the downtown: two innocent by-standers had been hit by stray police bullets and

Chapter Three — Red Ryan 47 Patrolman Schaaf, who would eventually recover, then lay near death, not expected to live. At 1:00 p.m. the telephone rang in Irene Adams ground-floor apartment in a house at 1510 Second Avenue South. It was Sullivan asking to come over. On police instructions "the flaxen-haired Delilah" directed "her paramour" to come to the side door. Ten minutes later there was a knock. Detective William Forby threw the side door wide open while William Meehan pointed a revolver and shouted, "Hands up, Brown." They said Sullivan went for his gun. Meehan fired a bullet that went straight through Sullivan's heart, killing him before he hit the ground. Irene Adams was quoted in the press: I will never forget that wait for him to rap at the door. When we heard him coming, the detectives told me to get out. Detective Meehan shot over Forbes (sic) shoulder and Brown fell across the doorway. It was horrible, but the detectives were as cold as ice. Detective Forbes said, "Nice work, Bill" and that was all they said. For the next three weeks, Red Ryan languished in the Minneapolis City Jail, fighting both extradition and deportation to Canada, where he faced not only a certain twenty-five years but also a near-certain life sentence. Apparently he was hoping that Ramsey County, Minnesota, would claim him for the robbery of the Grand Avenue State Bank in St. Paul on November 2, or that some other United States jurisdiction would put in a claim. A term of years in the Stillwater Penitentiary at Stillwater, Minnesota, or in any American prison, would be preferable to "life" in Canada. To this apparent end, Red Ryan was enthusiastically confessing to participation in a dozen unsolved armed robberies across the Midwest. He hired a Minneapolis law firm, Carey and Carey, to fight his case locally and, in the instance that he landed back in Canada, he took on Hamilton, Ontario, lawyer C.S. Morgan, who had ably defended his former partner-in-crime, George McVittie, in September 1922. Morgan appeared at Minneapolis and entered into an agreement to defend Ryan against bank robbery charges at Toronto — the Oakwood and St. Clair Bank of Nova Scotia robbery — in return for Ryan's co-operation in the publication of a book on Red Ryan's "exploits." The eventual upshot

48 The Big Red Fox of this would be Red Ryan's Rhymes and Episodes, a book published under Ryan's name with Morgan's grandfather's name "Richard Battershill" as the editor. This joined a few of Red Ryan's reminiscences with much of Morgan's fertile imagination and Morgan's own high school poetry. The publication of this book by Dodge Press of Hamilton in 1924 would outrage church and civic groups across Canada. Early on January 4, 1924, Red Ryan was to be transferred from the Minneapolis City Jail on the fifth floor of the City Hall building to the Hennepin County Jail from where he would be deported. At this time it was discovered that two of the bars in Ryan's cell had been cut clean through, that Ryan had bits of hacksaw blades sewn into his clothing, and that he had fashioned a well-made rope out of bedsheets and a coat and hidden this under his bunk. Ryan's stated intention — and the real reason he had been stalling his return to Canada — was a planned desperate attempt to saw through the bars of an outer window, then to lower himself to the next floor down and to kick out a window. As soon as this wild scheme was discovered, Red Ryan signed the waiver that effected his deportation back to Canada. Immediately Inspector Duncan and the Minneapolis detectives made haste to remove Ryan before his lawyers had a chance to know what was happening. Shackled hand and foot, Ryan was vanned to the Milwaukee Depot where a photographer's flash gun momentarily panicked the police party. About 6:20 p.m., Friday, January 4, 1924, Red Ryan left Minneapolis accompanied by Walter Duncan, R.R. Tucker, William Meehan, and Al Marxen. Ryan and his escort were headed for Toronto on a Montreal-bound train. Truthfully, Red Ryan's future never looked more bleak.

CHAPTER FOUR "Life" when "Life" Meant Just That (January 4 - January 8, 1924)

D

uring his time at Minneapolis, Red Ryan became nothing less than "Canada's most notorious criminal" — and enduringly so. In the Minneapolis press, however, Ryan and Curly Sullivan were a three- day wonder: two Canadian prison escapees who the Minneapolis Journal claimed had perpetrated an $80,000 bank robbery at Toronto, one of whom was shot and captured by the police, one of whom wounded a cop and then was himself killed in a police ambush. So what! Back in Canada, and especially in Toronto, they were much more than this. Like Mary Pickford, the Hollywood film star, who was born on Toronto's University Avenue, like Aimee Semple McPherson, the Ingersoll, Ontario, evangelist who barnstormed the American Bible Belt, like George Young, the Earlscourt youth who motorcycled to California to win the 1927 Catalina Island Marathon Swim, thereby touching off generations of marathon swims at the Canadian National Exhibition, Red Ryan and Curly Sullivan were Canadians of their time who went to the United States and "got noticed." In this era, in some quarters, that mattered. Ever after, Red Ryan — the flamboyant and preposterous survivor — would be a news personality whose every move or statement would be an event. In Minneapolis, during the three weeks Ryan was there, two reporters "potboiled" dozens of stories, not for American

50

The Big Red Fox

consumption, but to be sent back to Canada on competing news wires. That was where the demand was. "Interviews" with Red Ryan — "the Jesse James of Canada" — were cut out of whole cloth. Unlikely stories abounded. At the post office shooting, Gordon Simpson and Shorty Bryans were pictured flying down Washington Avenue in a second vehicle, spraying the police with bullets. Reportedly Red Ryan renounced crime at Minneapolis proclaiming, "Right here I want to say it doesn't pay. Brown paid the price and I'm paying mine every day I spend in a cell. It's better to go straight and not have the coppers hounding you." Supposedly Ryan was required to identify Sullivan's body and tearfully declared, "That's tough. I wish I was on the slab with him." It was written that five thousand people passed Sullivan's corpse in the Hennepin County Morgue. In fact, this horrific event never took place. Purportedly, Ryan had a dramatic meeting with Irene Sullivan, Curly's wife, a clerk in the Eaton's Department Store and the mother of Sullivan's child, who berated him over Sullivan's death but then accepted a $200 diamond-studded watch and title to the luxury Reo automobile that Ryan had stored at Detroit. One reporter labelled Red Ryan as "the bad guy with a yellow streak" — claiming that Ryan had given the Minneapolis Police the information that got Curly Sullivan killed. There was the oft-repeated story about a police "dash in the dark" to the Minneapolis neighbourhood of St. Louis Place where, allegedly acting on information extracted from Ryan, the police located a night watchman who told them how to get to Irene Adams. Thousands of column inches of such stuff appeared in Canadian papers, especially in the Toronto Star and the Toronto Evening Telegram. Much, if not most, of this was invented by reporters who had no access to Ryan but did the best they could with scraps of information purloined from the Minneapolis Police and from the obliging, publicity-oriented Inspector Walter Duncan. It was the mass-circulation newspaper's method and ethic of the day. The Montreal-bound train bearing Red Ryan's entourage stopped at Blind River, Ontario, east of Sault St. Marie, where Ryan was transferred to a Toronto train. There A.L. Mclntyre, a Toronto Star reporter, boarded. Permitted to sit with the police party, Mclntyre obtained the only legitimate interview with Red Ryan. As usual, the enterprising Star was far ahead of its competition. The Star paper of Monday, January 7, 1924, would be heavy with the story of the return of "Canada's most notorious criminal": the Mclntyre interview,

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h full spread of Red Ryan news; an above-the-fold, front-page story under the headline "Red Ryan Appears in Court on Toronto Count"; Ryan's wedding portrait of August 24, 1921, undoubtedly obtained from the Rosevear and Queenland Portrait Studio for cash and prominently displayed at the top of the front page; three photos of Red Ryan and his captors on page 4; and several other stories detailing diverse aspects of Red Ryan's circus-like return to Toronto, The following day Red Ryan would be the Star's lead-all headline and the paper would be full of his conviction on a $3,107.22 bank robbery. The day after that it was massive coverage of Red Ryan's return to Kingston Penitentiary and a huge recap of all the events that had happened since the big prison break. It was all according to a news philosophy: "Crime sells the paper," and "If people want something, give it to them." Ryan was glad to see Mclntyre, glad of the attention, glad to bask in the limelight of public interest. He liked nothing more than to see his name in the newspapers. As the rattler brought Red Ryan home, policemen, reporter, and notorious criminal all sat amiably chatting for hours. Mclntyre wrote this: The story of that return trip from Minneapolis to Toronto is a mixture of tragedy and comedy. Ryan was on his way to his home town, to be welcomed by the police, not by friends. Yet he acted as if he were a schoolboy going home for a holiday. Every minute he was nearing trial and the penitentiary. Yet for hours he laughed and joked, interchanged wise-cracks with his captors, reminisced, and chatted with the Star reporter who was with the party. But there were moments when the laughter vanished, when his eyes took on a far-away look, moments when his face grew stern.19 At West Toronto Station, a half dozen miles from Toronto's downtown, the incoming train was boarded by Toronto Police detectives who warned Walter Duncan that there was a throng of hundreds of mordibly curious onlookers waiting on Red Ryan's arrival at Union Station. Wouldn't it be better to take Ryan off the train at West Toronto? Never publicity shy, Duncan determined to push on to

52 The Big Red Fox

Union. Red Ryan was Walter Duncan's trophy and he was going to show him off. Now Duncan permitted Ryan to sit talking to Athol Gow, who had boarded the train at West Toronto with the police. Ryan wanted Gow's ear. He was interested in rebutting the story that he had betrayed Sullivan at Minneapolis and he knew he could count on the co-operation of a boy from his old neighbourhood. "I didn't throw Sullivan down," Ryan told Gow, who presented his full argument in the Star. The train bearing Red Ryan arrived at Toronto's Union Station at 8:20 a.m. Sunday, January 6. On the station platform Ryan, impeded by his leg shackles, shuffled along like "a subdued bear shambling awkwardly on a steel leash." A large crowd merely looked on in silence, neither cheering or jeering Ryan. Inspector Duncan and some Toronto detectives pushed the prisoner forward while a squad of husky patrolmen held back the inquisitive onlookers. Ryan was loaded into a police limousine, not a Black Maria, and driven to Toronto City Hall where a larger crowd of many hundreds, if not thousands, of gawkers waited. The curious lined James Street on the east side of City Hall, spilled over onto Albert and Terauley Streets and crowded the cenotaph in front of the building's main door. Kept out of City Hall by police guards, the gawkers could only hope for a brief look at Red Ryan being taken in and out of the building. What they saw of an athleticlooking young man in a form-fitting trenchcoat was described by a Toronto Star reporter in a story titled "Ryan Delivered at City Hall Like Package by a Postman": At the eastern entrance to the city hall he had to crawl up the icy steps at a snail's pace. With the hands that had held six shooters stretched out in front of him as though joined in prayer he was like a blind man feeling his way with a stick. The detectives on either side of him were not his guards they were his crutches.20 Inside the building, in the Toronto Police detective offices, Ryan declared his intention to fight the Oakwood and St. Clair Bank of Nova Scotia bank robbery charge. He would plead not guilty and take his chances with C.S. Morgan before a judge and jury. Afterwards, for a few minutes, he stood in the corridor outside the police court:

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It was curious that one of the detectives who stood in a friendly manner at his side was the one who had shot him. In the bleak cold of the Union Station he looked like a hunted captured fugitive. In this warmer atmosphere he seemed to be amongst friends. The courteous smiling demeanour of Inspector Duncan of Ottawa took away all semblance of ruthless cruelty to the man-hunt. Looking at Red Ryan in this moment almost of intimacy one wondered how so seemingly mild and gentlemanly an individual ever could have got himself into such a predicament.21 After this Ryan was taken out the Albert Street door of City Hall — the police door — in a paddy wagon. Word of Ryan's leaving hit the waiting crowd, part of which stampeded to the back of the building for another fleeting glimpse. A Toronto Star car followed the police van to the steps of the Don Jail where another knot of the curious waited. Inside the Don Jail, Ryan was stripped, searched, and showered. This did not stop him pulling a prank. On Monday morning he called Major Hedley Basher, the jail's governor, to his cell and told him he would show him a good trick in return for a steak dinner. When Basher agreed, Ryan handed over a seven-inch-long hacksaw blade, which he claimed to have smuggled into the Don on the sole of his foot. At 2:00 p.m., Monday, January 7, Red Ryan was arraigned before Judge James Denton. It was a twenty-minute procedure. Ryan was represented by C.S. Morgan who was assisted by Toronto lawyer Austin Ross. After two Bank of Nova Scotia employees testified that he had participated in the Oakwood and St. Clair robbery, Red Ryan was bound over for trial at the next Assizes in February. Again there was a huge crowd on James Street waiting on Ryan's coming and going from City Hall. The next morning — Tuesday, January 8 — Ryan was vanned from the Don Jail to Union Station on his way to Kingston Penitentiary "with press cars following closely behind." Now his entourage was Duncan, Tucker, and Toronto detectives Wilbur Dawn and Roy Greenlee. At the tunnel under the railway tracks, the little parade was unexpectedly intercepted by Frank Ryan who asked if he could speak to his brother alone. This Duncan allowed. Policemen and reporters watched from a distance as Frank heatedly remonstrated with Norman, frantically waving a paper and extravagantly

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gesticulating with his hands. Likely Frank's concern was that C.S. Morgan, the incipient author, would drag out Ryan's Assize Court trial to the continuing embarrassment of the Ryan family. Better for all that Norman ended the massive publicity by facing the inevitable fact of his conviction. Following this conversation, Red Ryan announced his intention to plead guilty to the Bank of Nova Scotia robbery that very morning. He asked to be taken back to a City Hall courtroom immediately. Now Walter Duncan's little circus did a hairpin turn. It was back to City Hall where there were not the huge crowds of previous days but an impromptu group soon gathered. It was hurriedly arranged that Ryan would appear in York County Court before Judge Emerson Coatsworth. This was as much as Ryan could hope for. Judge Coatsworth was "a kindly judge," the head of Ontario's progressive new parole board, who some Toronto policemen considered soft on criminals. About 10:40 a.m., Judge Coatsworth entered Judge Morson's chambers and sat alone on the bench. Crown Attorney Eric Armour was there to prosecute. Helping to prosecute Ryan was E.J. "Eddy" Murphy, then a twenty^six-year^old assistant Crown attorney, who Norman Ryan had taken to his first day at St. Francis's School and whose new football Ryan had once stolen from a group of boys playing on lower Euclid Avenue. Ryan was represented by Austin Ross, who was hastily recruited in the City Hall's upper hall corridor. After Judge Coatsworth read the charges and Ryan pleaded guilty, Austin Ross spoke. He implored that Ryan had learned his lesson, that he was anxious to pay his debt to society and that he was married and the father of a child. Ross likely did not know that Ryan's daughter was illegitimate — that he had never taken responsibility for her or her mother.22 "He is a pitiable object today," concluded Ross. "His career is over. He knows there is nothing in a life of crime. He is a broken man." Crown Attorney Eric Armour did not mince words and he was much better informed about Ryan's past record than George Ballard had been at Hamilton sixteen months earlier. Reviewing Ryan's record back to 1907, Armour highlighted the consistent patterns of lawlessness and recidivism, then added, "Certain newspapers have seen fit to picture (Ryan) as a glorified hero, whereas the fact is, he is merely a vulgar criminal." Armour finished by saying, "(Ryan's) life is the sum and substance of a life of no use to society. He should be removed from the category of menaces to society."

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Judge Coatsworth asked the defendant if he had anything to say and Ryan, keeping his air of bravado to the end, replied stolidly, "No, your honour. I have nothing to say." From the bench Judge Coatsworth totalled Ryan's awful situation. After reading section 447B of the Criminal Code of Canada, which permitted life imprisonment for the crime of armed robbery, and while stressing the need for a sentence that would be an adequate deterrent, Judge Coatsworth made more of Ryan's chances than another judge might have: But you have a great many years of life before you, and if you will turn over a new leaf, become a model prisoner in the penitentiary, and endeavour to live an honest and decent life for the sake of your wife and family, I think possibly the government might take it upon itself to grant you Ticket-of-Leave in due course. I only mention that as a hope in your case.23 The judge then pronounced the terrible sentence: life in prison and thirty strokes of the strap. Ryan received it stoically, uttering not a word, exhibiting no concern whatsoever. Crown Attorney Armour mocked him. "Hard as nails," Armour observed as Ryan was led away. It was all over in two hours. Ryan was taken from City Hall, past a burgeoning crowd, to Union Station. The shuffling police procession was followed by the ubiquitous reporters, some of whom boarded the 12:10 p.m. Kingston-bound train with Ryan and the police. Athol Gow got on the train and subsequently wrote several stories, one of which included Red Ryan's new theme: Tell (young men) for me to keep on life's straight and narrow path. This criminal life does not pay. I only wish I had never made a mistake.... Probably I will get a chance in the future to regain the citizenry I have lost. I am going to live for that in Kingston. I will never give them trouble again.24 Such apostasy was almost obligatory from notorious criminals going to Kingston Penitentiary in this era; some of the Toronto newspapers thought it important that young people should know that Crime Does Not Pay. Ryan's words were not dissimilar to those uttered by his friend and guiding star, Art Conley, in May 1921,

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when Conley was taken to Kingston to begin a fifteen-year sentence for armed robbery. Having influence with Warden Ponsford, Athol Gow actually followed Red Ryan into Kingston's registration room and wrote feelingly about Ryan's ultimate humiliation as he was stripped naked, bullied by the guards and made to conform to the institution's rigid system. Gow's last line in the story which described this scene was especially effective. As Ryan went through a prison door out of final sight, Gow wrote his ending: "Exit: Norman Red Ryan," as if the famous Red Ryan was only some tragic stage actor whose time had ended.

CHAPTER FIVE Father Wilfrid T. Kingsley (January 8, 1924 -July 23, 1935)

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n the train back from Minnesota, Red Ryan offered to bet R.R. Tucker that he would win a Ticket-of-Leave within a few years. If a parole was then Ryan's long-term objective — and there is no reason to believe it wasn't — Ryan could have found no more useful instrument than the small, white-haired priest who became Kingston Penitentiary's Roman Catholic chaplain on November 8, 1924: Father Wilfrid T. Kingsley. Red Ryan and Wilfrid Kingsley first met in late 1924 or early 1925, not long after Kingsley's arrival at the prison and at the adjacent Catholic parish, the Church of the Good Thief. It was never true, as Roy Greenaway later wrote, that Father Kingsley descended into "the hole" to reclaim Red Ryan or that Ryan was then acting like u an incorrigible terror" or that Ryan's bank robber's bravado merely wilted before Kingsley's eyes and words. Already Ryan had quietly completed his six months of punishment in "the hole," a dark, damp, underground bucket cell in the basement of the hundred-year-old Keeper's Hall where the only light entered through four quarter-sized apertures in a wooden door. At the time of their first meeting, Ryan was housed in an isolation cell in the Prison of Isolation, which the convicts called "easy street," and he was then not working at a regular prison job. He was trying to negotiate his way back into the general

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population* As a long-term inmate, he imagined he had the right to pick his prison employment; he wanted the plum job of orderly in the prison hospital. In the days after the Kingston riot of October 1932, Father Kingsley would enjoy an exalted press stature, not only as Kingston's influential and dynamic Roman Catholic chaplain, but especially as Red Ryan's mentor and personal saviour. In May 1933, Roy Greenaway wrote an article about Kingsley in the Star Weekly, titled "The Good Thief of Portsmouth," after the way the priest sometimes playfully signed friendly letters. Greenaway "tried to describe the humanity of the man and as much as (he) could of his relationship with Ryan." The story outlined Kingsley's work in the prison, delved into his philosophies of penology and education and characterized the priest as "a steadily burning grate fire (who) gives himself every day to individuals." In the Globe and in an influential book, Shackling the Transgressor, in which an entire chapter was devoted to "A Tribute to Father Kingsley," Dr. Oswald Withrow, an inmate-turnedpenologist, wrote similarly. By late 1933, Father Kingsley had become "almost a national figure." But Father Kingsley was never the benign Catholic priest of his public image. Rather he was a domineering, little pedant — a veritable tiger — a man absolutely convinced of the rightness of his own views and absolutely certain of his mission to inflict his ideas on the world around him. He had an enormous impulse to dominate. In appearance Father Kingsley was a prepossessing, little middleaged man, who emanated the air of a gentleman. When he came to the prison and to the Church of the Good Thief, he was then forty-eight years old. He usually carried a walking stick. He smoked cigarettes constantly. According to some, he had an inordinate and obvious liking for alcohol. He was an accomplished scholar who had been educated in several Canadian and European universities, and was fluently bilingual. He was by all accounts a brilliant conversationalist who best liked men who were intellectual and well-educated like himself — men like Roy Greenaway of the Toronto Star, for example; or the inmate Tim Buck, who was the leader of the Communist Party of Canada; or Hilliard Smith, Kingston's Protestant chaplain; or H.B. Patterson, the prison teacher. On a platform Kingsley was an interesting, effective, and often amusing public speaker. Kingsley came to Kingston Penitentiary and the Church of the Good Thief at a time of great sectarian hostility, not only in the

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prison, but in Canadian society as a whole. Inside the walls there was an ongoing antipathy between the incumbent Catholic priest and a group of disaffected Protestant guards, Kingsley's predecessor, Father Michael McDonald, had been impotent in the face of this situation; a guard would whistle "Protestant Boys" whenever Father McDonald came near and McDonald would only pass on as if he didn't hear, Wilfrid Kingsley would have none of this. Much to the amusement of the inmates, Kingsley soon trained Kingston's guard staff to snap to military attention in his presence as was done for Warden Ponsford and Deputy Warden Tucker. Absolutely Kingsley would brook no opposition from the guards. Once, in the twenties, a guard named Reason cited penitentiary rules and regulations and challenged Kingsley's seating of him among the inmates in the Roman Catholic chapel. Kingsley attacked the man physically, slapping him in the face and shouting him out of the chapel door. After this, Father Kingsley was in control and it was control he meant to keep. He would go about "the pen" glaring at the guards, staring them down. It was the only way he ever looked at some of them. But Wilfrid Kingsley's antagonisms did not stop at the petty level of mere functionaries. In the twenties, he battled no less a figure than Superintendent of Dominion Penitentiaries W. St. Pierre Hughes on the issue of whether he was a full-time, not a part-time, prison chaplain and entitled to be paid accordingly. In 1933, when D.M. Ormond was the superintendent, Kingsley invoked the long-standing "unwritten rule" that either Kingston's warden, deputy warden, or chief keeper must be a Catholic, and demanded that a Catholic, not a Protestant, be appointed to the vacant position of deputy warden. In both these disputes Kingsley went right to the top: in the first instance, to Liberal Minister of Justice Ernest LaPointe; in the latter, to Conservative Minister of Justice Hugh Guthrie. In both matters, Kingsley got his way. It did not take long for Father Kingsley to make a bitter enemy of St. Pierre Hughes, a powerful figure in the Justice Department for forty years, who Kingsley regarded as a reactionary. Here was a fundamental clash of ideas and philosophies of penology. In the 1890s Hughes had been a liberal with modernizing views, but, by the 1920s, shifting public opinion had made him a conservative. Hughes was still a man of harsh corporal punishments, the Silent System and the stonepile. Kingsley, a progressive, wanted the inmates writing poetry and doing arts and crafts in their cells. The Kingsley-Hughes conflict is remembered in two

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salient incidents. First, in the late twenties Kingsley actually turfed Hughes out of Kingston's Roman Catholic chapel after the superintendent was untoward enough to notice deprecatingly that newly painted angels on the walls had breasts. "Get out, if you don't like it," Kingsley told Hughes. Then, in 1931, at a penitentiary conference in Windsor, Ontario, Kingsley was the keynote speaker. He stood on a stage and ripped apart not only the penitentiary system that had been Hughes' life's work, but Hughes himself. After that Father Kingsley and Superintendent Hughes never spoke. In his own self' styled History of the Parish of the Good Thief, Portsmouth, which was published in the parish's "Sunday Bulletin" in the spring of 1932, Kingsley wrote of "the unspeakable Hughes" and described the superintendent's nature as being "mean, treacherous and thoroughly satanic." Wilfrid Kingsley was born on Wolfe Island near Kingston, the scion of a prosperous, ambitious and politically influential farm family. His brothers became doctors. According to a story, Wilfrid was not without bitterness at being selected to be the family priest. He was educated locally, then at Queen's University in Kingston, at the University of Toronto, and at the Grand Seminary in Montreal. After being ordained in the parish church on Wolfe Island in 1901, Kingsley went to study in Rome and achieved a doctorate in Canon Law. As a young priest, he was for a time secretary to Archbishop C.H. Gauthier and an important assistant at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Kingston. But then, in November 1907, he was suddenly appointed the pastor of the Church of the Holy Name at Kingston Mills, a farm parish that was, for him, a social backwater. It seems a peculiar seventeen-year posting for a man of Kingsley's abilities — perhaps an indication that an archbishop had decided he needed to learn humility. At the Church of the Good Thief, for a dozen years after 1925, Kingsley was something of an isolated figure. He lived alone in the parish rectory with only a housekeeper. Priests of the archdiocese, who would visit back and forth, would never stop to see him, nor would anybody ever get a visit from him. "His attitude was that he didn't want your friendship," remembered one. Asked about Father Kingsley years later, old parishioners of the Church of the Good Thief "never respond warmly." But Kingsley did have friends. They were the local business tycoons, like the Dalton family, and people like Tim Rigney, the local prosecutor. The priest enjoyed golf and was a regular at the Cataraqui Golf Club. He was also an active member of Kingston's Kiwanis Club.

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Proud, egotistical, even arrogant and a staunch Conservative politically, Kingsley was nevertheless a progressive on penitentiary matters. He saw the shortcomings of a prison system that governed every one of an inmate's daily movements by the ringing of a bell; a system that for a hundred years conceived of its rehabilitative functions as "solitary imprisonment, labour, and religious instructions"; a system that provided the released man a five-dollar bill and no other after-care help whatsoever. He took active stands, challenging Warden Ponsford on a variety of measures, trying to involve inmates in more stimulating and useful activities, trusting to the limit any inmate who showed initiative or interest. Yet Kingsley was a hard man with the prison populace; his authoritarian control over the inmates was wondered at and admired by even the toughest guards. As ex-convict Vincent "the Ace" Hamel remembered: "Father Kingsley was absolutely a religious fanatic. But he would help anybody. He went right to the Front for a lot of guys. The cons all knew this and admired him for it." In his quest to remodel Canada's penitentiary system, Father Kingsley had a use for Red Ryan, who, as a much-celebrated bank robber and prison breaker, was a hero to every minor-league porchclimber in the pen. If such a man as "Canada's most notorious criminal" could be brought to heel, it would go far in rendering crime unattractive to lesser thugs. It must have been a shining moment for the proud priest when, on a day in 1926 or 1927, Red Ryan went down on his knees and confessed his sins. This meant Ryan was a practising Roman Catholic who went publicly to the Communion rail in the chapel, a palpable representation in the prison of the power of Kingsley's religion. In October 1931, Father Kingsley told Irene Morris, Ryan's older sister, "I know (Norman) thoroughly. I can stake my life on him. He leads a good life here. He attends sacrament and has been a wonderful influence for good in the prison." In 1925 Red Ryan had to accept Warden Ponsford's judgement that he labour in the Canvas Department — "the Mailbags" — repairing the metal parts of mailbags for the Canadian Post Office Department. This Ryan did for two years. It was tedious work at a job that was often assigned to refractory prisoners. Every so often a guard would break the awful soul-deadening monotony by forming a line of inmates and marching them downstairs to shake out and stack mailbags. It was well-known in the prison system that Superintendent Hughes was perpetually on the lookout for useful work that the

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inmates might do to earn their keep. To this end, Red Ryan approached first James Tweddle, Kingston's trade instructor, then Warden Ponsford, then St. Pierre Hughes as the superintendent was passing through the prison. Working at his bench, with Ponsford's permission, Ryan had "invented" a mailbag lock — a lock and key — to replace the apparatus of metal bars and ropes that sealed the bags. Ostensibly Ryan's lock provided a higher level of security, it lightened the bags by three- quarters of a pound and its development was timely as there had recently been a well-publicized mailbag theft ring. The lock's proposed manufacture in the prison would provide useful work for the prison population. After Trade Instructor Tweddle gave the lock his ringing endorsement, declaring it "far superior to any locking device the Post Office Department is using today" and "something out of the ordinary in the shape of a locking device," Superintendent Hughes was enthusiastic. He involved an Ottawa contracting firm, Carling and Seybold, and had Ryan sign a power-of-attorney directing any royalty monies away from his estranged wife, Elsie, to his next-to-youngest sister, Isabel, who was ill in the Weston Sanitarium with chronic tuberculosis. Unfortunately the lock did not stand up; the Post Office Department discovered it could be picked with a nail. Ryan was given a chance to make an improvement but could do no better. The whole matter was dead by August 1927. Somehow (one suspects Kingsley) the lock's story found its way onto the front page of the Globe on November 4, 1926, under the headline "Convict Serving Life Sentence Perfects New Thief-Proof Lock" and the news item was widely reprinted across Canada. The lock's failure was, of course, not then known. The impression created was that Red Ryan was a genius inventor who was wasting his talents in prison. In time, notwithstanding the facts, the public came to believe that Red Ryan's mailbag lock was in use with the Post Office Department. Over a period of years this erroneous claim was repeated several times in the press, as was the falsity that the lock had been patented. Roy Greenaway compounded the general myth as late as May 1933, when he wrote in the Star Weekly: The logical mind of Ryan found another outlet. In 1927 the Scientific American reported him as an inventor. In his spare time he had invented a new mail-bag lock. Besides its other qualifications it was thief proof.25

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An addendum to the lock's story is the differing version of events given by Oren Earl, a forty-four-year veteran of the Penitentiary Service, who, in 1926, was the discipline guard in "the Mailbags." In 1981, Earl remembered: "Red Ryan didn't make the lock at all. It was made by Ed McMullen with Ryan's help. I watched them do it. McMullen gave the lock to Ryan because Ryan could make something of it and McMullen couldn't." In late 1927, after considerable hectoring by Father Kingsley, Warden Ponsford transferred Red Ryan to the prison hospital to work at the much-prized job of hospital orderly. It was a change that angered St. Pierre Hughes and caused E. Russell Jackson, a penitentiary inspector, to laugh out loud in derision. For Ryan it was a major step forward. Now he slept, not in the main cell block, but in the comparative luxury of the hospital. He wore not a blue-denim prison uniform and boots, but hospital whites and canvas shoes. By day he swept floors, fed sick prisoners, administered some medicines, took temperatures, made beds, changed bandages and emptied bed pans. At night he was free to pursue personal self-improvement in better circumstances. He lay on a regular DSCR cot in his whiteenamelled cell and voraciously read works of non-fiction: history, biography, economics, philosophy, sociology, psychology. Ryan was educating himself under Father Kingsley's tutelage (he would sign up to see Kingsley in his office once a week) and everyone was to know it. Pointedly Ryan asked a college-educated inmate to explain to him Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Another time he was eager to know the problems underlying world currency. In a letter to his family in Toronto, Ryan was interested in the economic conditions of France and Germany and opined, "The future of the world rests with what the United States and the other nations do with the war debts." He often complained that Kingston Penitentiary's little library did not possess a biography of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, the Irish-Canadian member of Parliament who was assassinated on an Ottawa street in April 1868. Eventually he began writing The Futility of Crime, his personal story that proved the moral Crime Does Not Pay, which he penned in a fine longhand that was described as being "like copperplate engraving, neat and artistic." As Father Kingsley valued crafts, Ryan moulded clay statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary and constructed little crucifixes inside light bulbs. Increasingly, as time passed, Red Ryan bought into Father Kingsley's vision of him. He would lecture young inmates in the

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prison like a Dutch uncle, telling them, "If you think crime pays, look at me." Inmates who would swear in front of the priest would get a rebuke from "the ace of Canada's bank robbers." Ryan developed a number of pithy little phrases that encapsulated his new view of life. In a very forthright fashion he would tell listeners that he had cast off his former life of crime "like filthy rags." He would claim to be "cured of crime" or "completely cured of crime." "I want to carry a dinner pail," he often said. About the Kingston rioters of October 1932, Ryan would say, "They were fools. I see a better day ahead of me." He would tell people convincingly that he was absolutely certain he could "win success on the straight and narrow path." After Ryan began to go to sacrament, Father Kingsley sought to make him his sacristan. At first Ryan demurred. "The guys around here will say that Ryan's hopping to the priest to see what he can make out of him," was his explanation. Later Ryan changed his mind. "Now I'll go with you. I appreciate it now. I'll give my two hands to go up," he told Kingsley. On May 21, 1927, the same day Charles A. Lindbergh flew the Atlantic, Dr. Oswald Withrow, a much-publicized convicted abortionist, entered Kingston. Ryan immediately befriended Withrow, perhaps sensing the future utility of a man who was still wellconnected in Toronto's social circles. For 2 1/2 years Ryan and Withrow worked together in the prison hospital. Usually Ryan "absolutely wouldn't congregate with the other inmates," but Withrow was the exception. On Sundays bank robber and doctor would sit talking for hours — penology, history, the humanities, their personal histories and situations. For Ryan, this was time well-spent. In a widely read series of articles in the Globe and in Shackling the Transgressor, Withrow, the self-styled penologist, would write that Ryan was "reformed" and ought to be released. Like Father Kingsley, Red Ryan was worth a full chapter: "The Real Red Ryan." Pointedly Withrow took exception to a practice of the Kingston guards, most of whom resented Red Ryan's celebrity status, of pointing out a moronic-looking inmate to penitentiary visitors asking to see "the famous Red Ryan": And my friend Red Ryan! There he stood, a perfect physical specimen. He was as different from the newspaper or storybook as the rosy dawn differs from the blackness of midnight. I am reminded of the description of David of sacred history, "Now he was ruddy withal of a beautiful countenance and goodly to look to." This is "Red" Ryan in the flesh.26

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In late 1929, Dr. Withrow was released and, after that, Ryan became the head orderly in the hospital. This meant Ryan had the keys to everything and could come and go throughout the building as he pleased. Now he was in a position to be of considerable use to those convicts with whom he was friendly. According to another inmate, twice a week Ryan surreptitiously supplied Ed McMullen with a six- ounce bottle of pure alcohol from the hospital supplies. In the hospital, removed from the main cell block and industrial building, Ryan was not subject to most of the pressures of the general population. In October 1932, at the time of the Kingston riot, he was not required to participate or take a stand. He could hold himself submissive to authority and still not seriously jeopardize his standing with the hard-core inmates. In the several prison disturbances that followed in the years 1932-35, Ryan was similarly immune. As prison unrest deepened, it became common for Penitentiary Branch officials and statutory visitors to solicit analyses of the problem from "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1." After the October 1932 riot, General D.M. Ormond, the new superintendent, came from Ottawa to investigate and made sure to stop for a personal interview with Red Ryan. Amidst the din of hundreds of tin cups scraping against cell bars, Warden W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin — an Ottawa insurance man without one day's prison experience — visited Ryan's cell on the night he took over the prison. Another interested visitor was Agnes Macphail, Canada's first woman member of Parliament, who, like many others, went away very much impressed with Ryan's apparent eagerness and sincerity. In a subsequent letter to her constituents, written on May 30, 1936, Macphail wrote that she believed Ryan to be "a thoroughly reformed convict" and that she was "struck by his appearance and demeanour." As he better educated himself, Red Ryan developed the capacity to write a good letter, which he sought to use to improve his standing in the prison and eventually to try to win a Ticket-of-Leave. By the early thirties, Ryan was writing prolifically, including a biliously thankful letter to Warden J.C. Ponsford at the time of Ponsford's retirement in January 1932; a letter to Warden W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin on March 6, 1933, denying a published story that suggested the Kingston escapees of 1923 had paid off Christopher Holland, the guard on the southeast tower, not to prevent the escape; and a letter to his brother, Russell Walsh, dated May 27, 1935, which was meant to be forwarded to Prime Minister Bennett as an argument

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for his being granted a Ticket-of-Leave. Almost invariably Ryan's letters would flatter the person to whom he was writing by praising their actions, judgement, or character. Often Ryan would invoke Father Kingsley, to whom he was unerringly grateful. Usually he would mention his own changed character, his improving situation, and the possibility of his parole. And he would try to demonstrate his own erudite knowledge. To a great extent Red Ryan had mastered the art of telling people — especially important, influential or useful people — what they wanted to hear. In his letter to Prime Minister Bennett by way of Russell Walsh, Ryan wrote: What the future will bring I cannot guess? (sic) At times it seems that I shall yet receive some measure of clemency. At others the words of Dante's "Lasciate esperanza, voi che entrate qui" keeps (sic) running through my mind. You may rest assured Russell[,] whatever it is, I shall continue trying to be of service to my fellow men.27 In July 1935, Ryan wrote to "a Lambton County man" who had offered to help secure his release: There is no denying that such interest and acts of kindness have an influence like that of fine music or high art. They flash upon one at times appealing instantly to all deep emotions of the soul and make one believe all things possible. Such a broad attitude and kind offering of assistance from a man of your particular calling and social standing has been the means of strengthening and confirming my belief that there is still much kindness and good in the world.28 As late as April 1933, Ryan was not above having a letter illegally trafficked out of the prison as he then wrote Keiller MacKay, the special prosecutor for the Kingston Penitentiary rioters, a "Secret and Confidential" communication. This read in part: I have also had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of a number of visitors since my incarceration here. And in many cases they were men of substantial standing both in a business way and socially. From them I have had much good advice of which I have taken to heart, for I realize only too

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poignantly that I alone have been the author of my own troubles.29 Clearly Red Ryan was sufficiently interested in getting out of Kingston that he was prepared to shop the general interest for his own. The "Secret and Confidential" letter to MacKay also contained this: The next difficult type to handle is the fellow who wishes to be known to his fellow inmates as hard boiled or in the parlance of the prisoners a "tough guy." No amount of persuasion or good advice seems to be of any use to him. To such a man I say punish him properly for his own good and he will be taught to see the error of his ways. Your timely arrival and prosecution of the ring leaders has had an immediate and sobering effect on the rest of the inmates who were foolishly inclined.30 For a prison convict this was a dangerous thing to put on paper as a longtime Kingston inmate, who saw it many years later, ominously observed: "If that letter had become known, the first thing Red Ryan would have noticed was that nobody was talking to him." Through all of this Ryan knew exactly who it was that he had to gratefully thank. In a letter to Russell Walsh in which he explains why he avoided any part in the Kingston riot, Ryan avowed: "Besides I would rather do anything than break the trust placed in me by my kind chaplain, Dr. Kingsley." In other letters Ryan wrote in a like manner and, inside Kingston's walls, he would speak glowingly of Father Kingsley to anyone who would listen. Red Ryan understood it was the song he had to sing. Cunningly, "the Big Red Fox" had grasped Wilfrid Kingsley's tragic flaw — his overweening pride — and he was making the most of it.

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CHAPTER SIX How did Red Ryan Ever Get Out of Prison Anyway? (July 1930-July 23, 1935)

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n the twenties Red Ryan had no chance at all at a Ticket-of^Leave on a sentence that would normally run twenty-five or thirty years. Yet, from the earliest days of his life term, Ryan kept a little black book that collected the names of anyone he thought might help him get out of Kingston. In Toronto, Athol Gow was useful, asking Kingston inmates who were brought up to Toronto courts about Red Ryan's "progress," keeping Red Ryan's name alive in the Toronto Star. In 1926 there was the very important and orienting mailbag-lock story in the Globe and, after Ryan's transfer to the prison hospital, the Mail and Empire had a front-page story under the headline "Famous Bandit Proves Tender Nurse in Prison." In 1929, when Ernest LaPointe, the Liberal minister of justice, visited the prison, Ryan managed to bump into him outside the hospital. "I guess I'll be here for the rest of my life," Ryan essayed, to which LaPointe replied, "I wouldn't say that. Things are not always as they are painted." The minister added that Red Ryan didn't look like the bank-robbing desperado who he had imagined. Matters changed greatly after the Conservative Richard Bedford Bennett, who promised Canadians that a government headed by him would return prosperity by using tariffs "to blast a way" into world markets, defeated the Liberal government of Mackenzie King in the

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election of July 1930. This meant a new broom in the Justice Department. Hugh Guthrie, a Guelph, Ontario, lawyer, became the minister. Within months Guthrie retired St. Pierre Hughes, Kingsley's old antagonist, who was suddenly an elderly Liberal whose time had passed. Gone, too, was Inspector E. Russell Jackson, another Liberal, who was similarly hostile to Kingsley and Ryan. Also passing out was Warden J.C. Ponsford, a Conservative, who had nearly reached retirement age. In the face of these changes Father Kingsley felt confident in altering his objectives. He had achieved everything possible by promoting Red Ryan inside Kingston. Now the campaign would go outside: Red Ryan would be the first shining example of a new Kingsley-envisaged system of parole which would highlight "reform" through "spiritual conversion." It was no accident that, on the eventual day of Ryan's freedom, Father Kingsley would state to the Toronto Star: "Ryan has served a long sentence. It should, however, be emphasized that he is not entitled to freedom on the time he served, but because he is a genuine case of reformation." Kingsley imagined Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave provided hope where there had been none before. On July 24, 1935, the priest told the Star, "This generous action will be a fine stimulus in the breasts of other convicts everywhere else in the penitentiaries of Canada. They will feel now that good conduct, confirmation to rule and reformation such as Ryan has achieved will be recognized and rewarded." Kingsley's first step, begun long before 1930, was to convert the Ryan family to the notion that Ryan was "reformed" — a process that was not as easy as it might seem. Unlike Kingsley and the newspaperreading public, Ryan's siblings had heard Norman Ryan repent his life-of-crime before and they naturally had developed a jaundiced view of his intentions and of his latest reformation. They had reasons to be bitter — in fact, a long history. The "big, tight-knit Irish Catholic family" had endured years of being known as Norman Ryan's, then Red Ryan's, brothers and sisters, the taunts and idle curiosities of playmates, neighbours, and co-workers, and the harassment of the Toronto Police, who, in the early years, would come to the Wyndham Street house looking for Norman at all hours but especially in the middle of the night. Years before Red Ryan's escape from Kingston, Russell Ryan, sick of the embarrassment, had changed his name to "Walsh," his mother's maiden name. In late 1914 Frank Ryan lost his job as the plant manager of the A.B. Reach

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Sporting Goods Company in the aftermath of Norman's histrionic dispute with Brantford's chief constable and, the following year, was reduced to selling shoes on Toronto's Yonge Street, In April 1915, the Toronto Police executed a search warrant on the Wyndham Street house in a rough manner, looking for Ryan and Art Conley, who had just then robbed the Sterling Action and Key Company. Irene Ryan was dismissed from a position with the Dominion Express Company when Norman robbed the Parkdale office in May 1915. The family's last real hope was rudely dashed on October 26, 1921, when Norman was arrested at Montreal and exposed as "the Lone Bandit." In 1923, Frank and Leo, Norman's street-wise older brothers, helped him escape Kingston Penitentiary and Canada, but their bitterness was compounded by a subsequent dispute over money, by Norman's threat to name Leo to the police, and by Red Ryan's incredible attention-seeking penchant for publicity. Embarrassed and betrayed consistently, the Ryans, to varying degrees, were understandably reluctant to get involved in any attempt to get Norman out. Red Ryan's life sentence had settled the matter. Yet here was this impelling, forceful, little Catholic priest insisting to them that Norman was "reformed," that he went to sacrament and was "a wonderful influence for good in the prison." Against the advice of others, Irene Morris, Ryan's eldest sister, and Russell Walsh, his youngest brother, both practising Catholics, began to help. Their efforts were needed. Some family members had to be seen as lending support. Somebody had to forward Ryan's impressive family letters to the prime minister, the governor general, the attorney general of Ontario, members of Parliament and "anybody else who might be useful." Somebody had to be willing to take Norman in when he got out. Somebody in Toronto had to dole out pro-Ryan propaganda to interested reporters — of which, as of January 1932, there was at least one. In the person of Athol Gow, the Toronto Star had long been possessed of an enduring font of interest in Red Ryan's welfare as well as a sure-fire competitive edge on any story where Ryan was concerned. In boyhood Gow played baseball with Norman Ryan on Robinson Street (Art Conley played too) and skated with him in Willowvale Park. Later, as the Star police reporter, Gow helped to cover the sensational story of Red Ryan's escape from Kingston and some of the lurid happenings that followed in its train. Though very different, Ryan and Gow had always functioned on friendly terms of

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mutual respect. Ryan professed to be grateful to Gow for the way in which he had reported certain aspects of his Minneapolis escapade, especially his handling of the allegation that he had betrayed Curly Sullivan to the Minneapolis Police. Gow, who was in many ways a lonely man, evidently felt an exaggerated responsibility to a boy from his old neighbourhood who had gone wrong. Without doubt, Gow believed Red Ryan when, in January 1924, he claimed to be "through with crime forever" and, within reason, he was prepared to do what he could to support Ryan's hopes of eventually securing an early remission of his life sentence. It was in early 1932 that Gow first detected that Father Kingsley had begun vigorously campaigning for Red Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave, soliciting officials in the Justice Department and anyone else who he thought might have an influence. The event that alerted Gow and the Star to this was an incident which took place in Toronto Police Court on January 12, 1932: Police Magistrate Emerson Coatsworth (who, eight years before, as a Judge of the York County Court had sentenced Ryan to life imprisonment) sternly rebuked a lawyer who evoked Red Ryan's name as the archetype of "the hardened criminal." Magistrate Coatsworth, in putting the matter straight, maintained that he had been informed that Red Ryan had become "a very estimable citizen" and such references to him would not be tolerated in his courtroom. For Gow, who had long been waiting on the inevitable story of Red Ryan's release, this was a news hook. He went straight to the Ryan family, some of whom he had known all of his life. Within the week, the Star published three front-page stories about Red Ryan with the overall emphasis on the Ryan-as-regenerate theme. These were put together from material taken from several sources, but the best information was acquired by Athol Gow from Irene Morris and Russell Walsh, the members of Ryan's family who were most supportive of his impulse to get free. Star readers were given to understand that Ryan was "a man completely transformed," that Father Kingsley's benign influence and the relevance of Ryan's job in the prison hospital had brought about "a change of attitude," that Ryan was now thoroughly convinced, as he wrote to his family, that he could "win success on the straight and narrow path." Several of Ryan's letters, released to Gow, were quoted in the Star to good effect. Seemingly they reflected the Norman Ryan who Father Kingsley said existed: a sensitive, intellectual man, good-humoured, optimistic and contrite — a man ready to become a productive member of society. As

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well, Gow secured favourable testimony from Ryan's brother and sister. Typical was this from Russ: "(Norman) is the most optimistic fellow in the world. When my wife died, Norman wrote the most cheerful and comforting letters. It seemed funny to have him, in prison, trying to cheer me up." One of the Star stories contained, once again, the false claim that "(Ryan) was granted $1,000 for the mail bag lock he invented, he sent the money to his sisters." Now, based on Gow's favoured position with the Ryans, the Star was in the game with a solid chance of securing an exclusive on a story that, when it happened, would be the biggest news for many a day. During the next 3 1/2 years, the Star would never again publish anything negative or derogatory about Red Ryan. Apparently the last such reference was in a Fred Griffin story about the new Collins Bay Penitentiary which appeared on June 15, 1931. Several times in the thirty-eight months between January 1932 and July 1935, Gow obtained from the Ryan family similar information concerning Red Ryan — information that subsequently turned up in the Star, sometimes under the by-line of another reporter but never underneath Gow's own name. As well, there were other well-known Ontarians who were prepared to make positive statements about Ryan, which, of course, the Star published. Among these were J.C. Ponsford, the former warden of Kingston, then living in St. Thomas, Ontario, who categorically affirmed to Star freelancer R.E. Knowles that Ryan was "reformed" and ought to be released, and Fred Weegar, a North Bay police magistrate, who suggested to Star reporter Frank Chamberlain that Ryan might profitably be put to work lecturing young offenders on the fecklessness of crime. Whenever possible, Gow purloined favourable comment from former Kingston inmates and from inmates who were brought from "the Big House" in chains to testify in Toronto courts. Most prolific of these was Dr. Oswald Withrow, who was several times anonymously quoted as speaking for Red Ryan's release in both the Star and the Globe. Only after his Ticket-of-Leave expired in 1932 did Withrow agree to his name being used. Withrow's influential series of articles on life and conditions inside Kingston began in the Globe of August 8, 1933, and ran for several months — to Red Ryan's great advantage. With all of this, Roy Greenaway, not Athol Gow, was the Star's real link to the organized drive to free Red Ryan and the Star lockup on the story of Ryan's release. As a Star man, Greenaway's main function was not the writing of the news stories that were the

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necessary publicity to build public support for Ryan's Ticket-ofLeave; rather his role was the development and maintenance of the all-important connection with Father Kingsley and the husbanding, by any feasible means, of the Star's preferred position on the story. Unlike Gow, Greenaway did not know Ryan prior to their meeting on the station platform at Belleville on July 23, 1935, nor had he had any but a minor part in the reporting of Ryan's earlier criminal career His real involvement in the Red Ryan news story dated only from the night of October 20, 1932, the second night of the muchpublicized three-day Kingston riot. Then, alone among a group of reporters who accosted Father Kingsley at a wooden barrier outside Portsmouth's North Gate, Greenaway thought to ask a question the priest wanted to hear: Had Red Ryan participated in the disturbances? It was a question that worked wonders! While other reporters were pointedly ignored by Kingsley, Greenaway was invited to a secret midnight confab at the rectory of the Church of the Good Thief. Kingsley's main purpose was to gain Greenaway's and the Toronto Star's support, not only in general, but especially for Ryan's immediately pending first application for a Ticket-of-Leave. In the normal run a very astute operator, Kingsley fully understood the Star's potential to influence the public's view of Red Ryan's "reform." Greenaway, "one of the top five on a very fine staff of reporters," well knew the extent to which Harry Hindmarsh, the Star managing editor, favoured exclusive material, especially the "scoop" story. Naturally Greenaway intended to secure for his paper whatever advantage he could. Within a short time, cleric and journalist — both perceiving that their separate interests in Red Ryan could be made to run parallel — were enthusiastically cultivating one another. It was, all in all, the beginning of a wonderfully convenient friendship. Not surprisingly, around the time of Greenaway's initial meeting with Father Kingsley, the Star had a little spate of pro-Ryan stories and references. By October 25, 1932, this had abated. After January 1933, when the Justice Department formally refused Ryan's application for a Ticket-of-Leave, there was no longer any reason to anticipate an early remission through the normal process. Barring the resignation of Director of Remissions M.F. Gallagher, the man who made such decisions, another application would not be practical for several years. Still Greenaway, the good reporter, maintained his association with Father Kingsley, the irrepressible force behind Red

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Ryan. Thirty years later, Greenaway gave this insight into his burgeoning relationship with the obsessional little priest and the extreme effort that he put into the story: Many times during the next three years I had long talks with him as we sat and smoked in his office in the historic old Church of the Good Thief We drove around the countryside, and he showed me Kingston Mills and the Church of the Holy Name, where he had once been a priest. One night we stumbled on a real Irish wake in a little country farmhouse and another time we visited an institution where the Sisters did fine needlework embroidery on the rich vestments of the diocesan clergy. All the time Father Kingsley talked about Ryan, of his reformation and the widespread plans for his release on parole.31 The unstable situation in the prison system — more than a dozen major disturbances between October 1932 and October 1935 — devolved to Red Ryan's benefit, focusing, as it did, public attention on the penitentiaries, especially Kingston, and sometimes on "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1." After generations of being treated any way successive governments and prison administrations felt like treating them, the inmates of all six Canadian penitentiaries wanted a new deal. At first they rioted to make a statement (the Kingston riot of October 1932 was organized, not spontaneous), but, as time passed, the clear objective became to force a broadly constituted Royal Commission to investigate what went on behind the walls of Canada's penitentiaries. The convicts found tacit allies in the House of Commons, especially in the Liberal opposition, which demanded a Royal Commission, and in Agnes Macphail, who sat in the Commons as a member of the United Farmers of Ontario (U.F.O.) and long had made penitentiary reform a personal project. In Ontario three Liberal papers, the Globe, the Toronto Star, and the Ottawa Citizen, all consistently howled for a Royal Commission, steadfastly refusing to let the Bennett government get off the hook by merely revising penitentiary rules and regulations. For nearly three years the Globe's campaign "To Let in the Light" meant the Globe's front page carried a daily story on the prison issue. Much of this was written by Dr. Oswald Withrow, who, of course, made many useful allusions to Red Ryan, Father Kingsley, and the ongoing campaign to win Ryan's freedom.

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For some of the prison reformers, Red Ryan was a ready-made example of the hard-done-by convict and the system's frustration of his just struggle to get out of prison typified its deficiencies and its barbarity. In the minds of many, the impetus to get Red Ryan out of prison was to a great extent linked to the penitentiary issue and the demand for a Royal Commission. Red Ryan's 1932 application for a Ticket-of-Leave through the regular process told Father Kingsley much. In some quarters this application was regarded as gross impudence — a many-timesconvicted "lifer" who should have been expecting to do twenty-five or thirty years — asking for a parole after serving only eight years. Kingsley gathered the usual necessary documents — favourable letters of endorsement from Magistrate Emerson Coatsworth; from the Salvationist Major Wallace Bunton, who did some work in the prison; from Milliard Smith, the Protestant chaplain; and, of course, his own glowing opinion. He hit a snag with the Toronto Police; Chief Constable Dennis Draper, taking the advice of Deputy Chief George Guthrie, who had hunted Ryan in 1923, strongly recommended against Red Ryan's release. Under the system, the package went to M.F. Gallagher, the powerful director of remissions, who then solely performed the function that a later generation would delegate to a parole board. Gallagher had "Yes" or "No" say on Ryan's application and, if he approved it, would make a positive recommendation to the minister of justice, who, if he approved, would make a recommendation to the governor general, whose assent would be a formality. Gallagher, a very careful man, was adamant that Red Ryan was a committed professional criminal and he would remain so to the end; Ryan's application was turned down flat. If he didn't know it before, Father Kingsley learned it then: M.F. Gallagher, who had many years left to serve, was the principal obstacle in Red Ryan's path out Kingston Penitentiary's front door. To the casual reader of the news, especially the Toronto Star in 1933 and early 1934, it might have seemed that Red Ryan's imminent release was a near-certainty. In fact, those on the inside knew the Ryan juggernaut was stalled on the apparently immovable obstruction of M.F. Gallagher. Father Kingsley had taken Red Ryan as far as he could. Unable to obtain Red Ryan's release through the usual process, the Ryan partisans came to understand that their objective would only be achieved through "a political parole": a powerful politician would have to be persuaded to short-circuit M.F. Gallagher's function. It was

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at this juncture that the greatest engine pushing Red Ryan out of Kingston ceased to be Father Wilfrid T. Kingsley and became the rich and powerful Toronto Star, published by Joseph E. Atkinson and edited by Atkinson's son4n4aw, Harry Hindmarsh, who, according to some estimates, could be a quite ruthless and unfeeling man. Both Atkinson and Hindmarsh understood power, especially their own power to influence a situation. The ideal person was found — H.A. "Harry" Mullins, a wealthy Manitoba businessman, rancher and Conservative member of Parliament for Marquette, who was known to have helped prison inmates in the past. In the twenties Mullins was a prominent exponent of "beef on the hoof," as opposed to refrigerated beef, and he was a strong advocate of the construction of the Hudson's Bay Railway to Churchill, Manitoba, which was supposed to serve as a vital conduit to Europe for western agricultural products. Mullins was noted for plain talk and his "straight-from'the^shoulder style in parliamentary speaking." On a day in April 1934, Mullins, who was then already an elderly man, entered Kingston's North Gate carrying boxes of cigars "for the boys." He was totally unaware that penitentiary rules and regulations forbade such contraband. He seems to have believed he was there primarily to investigate prison unrest, not to visit or liberate Red Ryan. Accompanying Mullins, likely actually shepherding him, was Reverend W.A. Cameron, pastor of Toronto's Yorkminster Baptist Church, "Canada's best-known pastor," who, not coincidentally, wrote a weekly religion column in the Toronto Star and who had preached for nine years on the Star radio station. Mullins and Cameron were introduced to Red Ryan in the prison hospital and, like so many others, were much taken with "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1." Later Mullins told of his first reaction to Red Ryan: (Ryan) was a man; I recognized that the minute I talked to him, and saw, and I made up my mind I was going to get him out. I had confidence in him.32 On the spot, Mullins promised Ryan, "Brother, I'll get you out of here if it's humanly possible." Significantly, it was Reverend Cameron, the Star's man, who suggested that Mullins take the matter of Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave up with Minister of Justice Hugh Guthrie. This was the critical ploy — the end run around M.F. Gallagher.

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The questions have to be asked: Would a cleric and religion writer have had such a grasp of the dynamics of the Justice Department that he would have come up with this suggestion on his own? Or was someone else manipulating the situation? And, if so, why? Mullins took Ryan's cause to Guthrie the very next day. He found the minister of justice not disposed to intervene in the case, but Guthrie did make a proposal: if Mullins would guarantee Red Ryan's future conduct with a $20,000 bond, he would sign Ryan's Ticket-ofLeave. Mullins declined this offer. Instead he laid the matter before Prime Minister Bennett, who apparently listened sympathetically but promised nothing. Then came July 23, 1934, and what was sometimes later described as Bennett's "visit to Red Ryan inside Kingston Penitentiary." That afternoon Bennett and Hugh Guthrie appeared unexpectedly at Kingston's North Gate in a limousine. They were greeted by Richard Allan, a surprised warden, who had to show them around the institution and satisfy their concerns. At this juncture it would be well to consider the situation — indeed, the plight — of the prime minister who came knocking on Kingston's front door this day. By July 1934, Bennett was the leader of a government that, fairly obviously, had no effective answers to the primary question it had been set: What to do about the severe economic downturn that had begun in late 1929 and had become what is now known as the Great Depression? During the election campaign of 1930, Bennett had promised Canadians economic prosperity, but he had been able to deliver nothing of the sort. At the absolute nadir of the Depression something between 25 and 33 percent of the workforce was jobless. Bennett's panacea for Canada's economic maladies — an attempt to persuade Great Britain and the Empire to adopt a system of preferential tariffs — was an inadequate response to a challenging situation and was perceived as such. It didn't solve the problem or come near to doing so. By 1934 the Conservative government was merely drifting, the object of derision, even hatred, to many Canadians. Bennett himself was considered blameworthy by much of the population. His personality was austere, unattractive, and lacking in warmth. The government's establishment of work camps for single men that paid insultingly low wages was grossly unpopular. In the West, cars towed by horses because owners could not afford gasoline were deprecatingly dubbed "Bennett buggies." Still Bennett was hoping to get re-elected. In the election of

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October 1935, the primary issue, of course, would be the ongoing economic catastrophe, but, after that, especially in Ontario, the next most important issue was the penitentiary question and the whole matter of whether or not there should be the Royal Commission that the Conservatives did not want. For nearly two years before July 1934, Bennett and Guthrie had been obliged to constantly defend the government's performance on the penitentiary question both in the House of Commons and in the press. With an election on the horizon and after yet another unsatisfactory Commons debate on the issue, the prime minister had decided they had to get better answers to the question, What was wrong inside Canada's penitentiary system? It was this determination, not Red Ryan, that brought on Bennett's flying visit to Kingston. There were, of course, numerous subsidiary questions: Had Kingston guards tried to murder Tim Buck in his cell during the Kingston riot? Had inmate Sam Behan been beaten by guards in "the hole"? Had inmate John "Two Gun" O'Brien been kept in the damp, underground "hole" for two years? There was more. Having previously been approached by H.A. Mullins on Ryan's behalf, Bennett was prepared to talk to Red Ryan while he was in Kingston on these more pressing matters. Richard Allan, who had been Kingston's warden for only a few weeks and who must have been quite concerned to get these two important visitors through his institution with a minimum of embarrassment, escorted Bennett and Guthrie through the buildings. Eventually the party reached the hospital where the prime minister of Canada and the minister of justice were introduced to the man who was both "Canada's most notorious criminal" and "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1." Bennett alone stood leaning against a radiator in the hospital's upper corridor, talking to Red Ryan for about forty-five minutes. Ryan later told Roy Greenaway this: I hadn't the slightest warning that I was about to meet the prime minister and I got the shock of my life when I turned and saw him coming toward me... Mr. Bennett shook hands with me as did Mr. Guthrie. I was so taken aback that I scarcely knew what to say. The premier must have known just how I felt for he was off-hand and friendly and put me at ease. "Well Ryan," he said as he shook hands, "I've heard quite a bit about you." I said, "I've heard quite a bit about you, sir,

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and read quite a bit too." This seemed to tickle Mr. Bennett and he laughed heartily.... (The prime minister) took me aside and questioned me about my progress, my outlook on life in general and plans I had formed for the future. He seemed genuinely and deeply interested and I found myself talking to him without restraint. He seemed pleased and impressed when I told him as frankly as I know how, just how I felt about the past and that I had made my mind up years ago to change my way of life.... "I've heard nothing but the best reports about you," he told me after we had talked awhile. It seemed to me he understood and appreciated the struggle I had gone through and that I was making a real effort to do the right thing. Mr. Bennett at once queried, "But what about your mental progress, Ryan? How are you getting along?" "I've been trying to improve myself," I told him.... The premier's confidence in my efforts was a great encouragement. Added to the faith in my ultimate success held by Father Kingsley and others of my friends it gave me a new lease on life. Mr. Bennett was interested to know I had been reading the biographies of Canadian statesmen.33 After this conversation, Bennett and Guthrie asked to see Red Ryan's white-enamelled cell in the hospital's upper ward and were greatly impressed with Ryan's fastidious neatness and the quality of the books Ryan was reading. Then Bennett queried Richard Allan, asking him if it wasn't time to give Ryan his liberty. Allan, who had the reputation of being a hard-case prison official, had real misgivings about Ryan's "reform," but he was not a man to challenge a prime minister. Instead he gently suggested to Bennett that it would perhaps be better to wait another year — a suggestion that Ryan and his supporters would hear of and take to heart. Before leaving the prison, Bennett spoke briefly with Ryan a second time. With a straight face, the notorious bank robber told the millionaire prime minister what a great honour it was to meet him. Bennett left the penitentiary having promised nothing. What must have been Bennett's thinking in getting involved with Red Ryan to this extent? In considering this question in 1980, Muriel E. Black, who was for a number of years Bennett's personal and confidential secretary, emphasized "the strong element of personal kindness in Mr. Bennett's

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personality," a trait that was not at the time generally known. Miss Black told of a prime minister who was very disposed to interfere benevolently in the lives of those who worked for him; who once ran out to Sparks Street on his lunch hour to buy a bottle of tonic for a peakish secretary; who once dispatched his own limousine and chauffeur to provide a convenience for an underling who had suffered a personal tragedy. Miss Black advised that Bennett, "a high-minded and religious man" and a devout Methodist, was very much swayed by Red Ryan's apparent religious principles and his intellectual pursuits. But, too, there was more than this. Bennett was a politician whose political instincts were sharp enough to carry him to a very high office. He knew full well that, in the minds of some, the parole of Red Ryan would serve to counter the idea that there was something wrong inside Canada's prisons. If Red Ryan could "reform" in prison, could not any other prisoner? Bennett understood, too, that the release of Red Ryan would look good on him personally and that, on receiving his Ticket-of-Leave, Ryan would likely make a public show of his gratitude. With an important election a year away, Bennett had a strong political motive for giving Red Ryan his freedom. The timing of Ryan's eventual release — eighty- three days before the election of October 1935 — was quite convenient for Bennett. Three months after his visit to Kingston, in October 1934, Bennett made a mistake. Not knowing that the Ryan family and Father Kingsley were co-operating with the Toronto Star, Bennett answered a letter of Irene Morris's with a kindly six-sentence note: On my return to Canada I find your letter waiting for me. I am delighted to hear that you have heard from your brother in the sense which you indicate. I was greatly impressed by what he said to me, and I understand the priest of the institution was of the opinion that he would take your brother into his employ if he were liberated. I can only say that his demeanor, his clothing, his sleeping cot, and surroundings indicated that he was being particular about everything, and the books he was reading were calculated to stimulate him to renewed efforts for usefulness. The minister charged with responsibility in such matters is at the moment absent. When he returns, I will speak to him about this matter.34

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On December 19, 1934, this note turned up in the Toronto Star as part of a front-page story written by Robert Lipsett, the Star Ottawa correspondent, headlined "Bennett to Give Ryan Freedom as a Yule Present/' The story purported that Bennett's six sentences were part of a longer letter that had been written "to Ryan's sister." The major claim was that the Star had received from the prime minister's office "Confirmation of reports that Premier Bennett personally intends to make a present of liberty to Norman 'Red' Ryan by Christmas Day." Lipsett wrote that Ryan would "walk to freedom" with approximately eighty other inmates from various penitentiaries, "many of whom were due to be paroled under the half-time-for- good-conduct practice and others who would soon be eligible for release." Reportedly the minister of justice had declined to comment on "the Star's semiofficial story." All of this appeared in tandem with large excerpts from a letter Red Ryan had written to Russell Walsh on December 15. In this Ryan expressed the hope he would be released for Christmas. "I seem to be more anxious this year than others," he wrote. Then, after telling of a Salvation Army band playing Christmas carols outside Kingston's walls and advising his brother on methods of avoiding colds in the winter, Ryan got back to his main interest: I hope we will not be disappointed this Christmas. It was just like this last year, only having had this promise from Premier Bennett makes things more favourable.35 Lipsett interpreted these lines and put a false spin on the words that Bennett had written in his October note. This "promise" from the prime minister, the story said, was contained in "the letter" Bennett wrote to Ryan's sister on the occasion of his return from Geneva. The story then introduced the six lines from Bennett's "letter." So this was it! Richard Bedford Bennett had promised to let Red Ryan out of Kingston — a "promise" that would be subsequently alluded to in Star stories. Now the Star was in the catbird seat. Bennett, who initially must have seen the political advantages of giving Ryan his liberty, now could do nearly nothing else or he would have to pay a price. The Star couldn't lose. If Bennett intervened and freed Ryan, the Star would have an exclusive on a story that would sell many thousands of newspapers and, as would happen, Ryan's informed criticisms of the Bennett government's penitentiary policies would be

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a claymore in the hands of a Liberal newspaper before an important national election. If Bennett did not intervene, the Star's consolation prize would be that the prime minister would be seen detrimentally as welshing on his mythical "promise" — another nail in Bennett's political coffin. Ryan was still inside "the Big House" on December 27, so there was another page one story alluding to Ryan's "promised freedom" and intimating, at the same time, that there could have been "a misunderstanding": that it might have been intended by "the officer in charge" — Allan — to recommend Ryan's release "at the end of a year" instead of "at the end of the year." It was further advised that "the government is in a position to liberate him without waiting for the warden, and that was what was suggested from the prime minister's office." Another report in the Star that same month carried the false claim that "following the 1932 prison riot, Ryan was given much credit for averting a much more serious situation." In early January 1935, Bennett went on the radio and, in a series of five broadcasts, presented a program that emulated American President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's New Deal by entirely reversing his own government's economic direction and his own business instincts. These broadcasts were meant to be a major radio discussion with "the common man." Bennett — the arch-Conservative millionaire, high- tariff exponent, and former CPR lawyer — stated that he now supported "Government control and regulation" and the reform of the economic system. He called for a progressive tax to redistribute wealth, a uniform wage and a uniform maximum work week for industrial workers, unemployment insurance, accident and sickness insurance, and an improvement in the old age pension. Coincident with "the Bennett New Deal," in January 1935, Bennett requested Hugh Guthrie to have M.F. Gallagher prepare a report on Norman Ryan's suitability for a Ticket-of-Leave. In the three hundred-word document that Gallagher produced there is no sentence in which the director of remissions flatly gives an opinion — that wasn't asked for — but the report's language and tone leave the definite impression that its author views Ryan's release as grossly undesirable. The most positive sentence is the first: "The Warden reports conduct very good, but mentions that, judging from his opinion, he would say this convict could not be considered an excellent risk on future behavior." The rest is a litany of Red Ryan's criminal misdeeds. Attached was Ryan's long rap sheet which told of

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his nineteen convictions for crimes of theft and violence, his several sojourns in Kingston Penitentiary, and his shorter stays in St. Vincent De Paul, England's Wandsworth Prison, and the Witley Camp Guard Room. It is Penitentiary Service legend that Gallagher told Bennett to his face that he would be making a mistake if he gave Red Ryan a Ticket-of-Leave — outright questioning the judgement of the prime minister. In a letter to General A.E. Ross, member of Parliament for Kingston City, dated June 18, 1936, Agnes Macphail, a friend of Gallagher's, wrote that Gallagher had "very strongly recommended against paroling Ryan, pointing out to Mr. Bennett and Mr. Guthrie that (Ryan) had previously made similar promises of good behaviour and religious devotion, but had committed another robbery." On May 3, 1935, the Star was at it again, announcing Red Ryan's imminent release in a front-page story about convicts being freed from the prisons to mark "the silver jubilee of their majesties." One of the story's headings clarioned "Red Ryan Not in First Batch but Liberation Expected": In the first happy load, Red Ryan, to whom Premier Bennett not long before his illness made a personal visit at the penitentiary, was not present. On the certainty that the prime minister intended that his years of exemplary conduct should at last have their reward, Ryan is packing up for the second chance, one of the Ticket-of-Leave men said today. "He will be the most unhappy man if his release does not come. He is packing his belongings and settling his affairs."36 The following day a follow-up story mentioned Warden Allan's denial that Ryan was being released and again, on May 7, there was a page 5 story, "Twin Brothers Out, Ryan Still In." This last story concentrated on the remissions of life sentences. "Should 'Red' Ryan's expected remission arrive, the list for 'lifers' will stand at nine," it stated. On the night of June 29, 1935, Isabel Ryan, who was either a Roman Catholic nun or a novitiate, died in the Weston Sanitarium. She was just twenty-six years old. Ironically, this family tragedy was the final boost to the partisan campaign to get Red Ryan out of Kingston. Early on the morning of June 30, Russell Walsh — signing himself "Russell Ryan" — telegraphed a request to the prime minister: Would it be possible for Mr. Bennett to arrange for Norman Ryan to

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attend his sister's funeral in Toronto? In the Public Archives of Canada there exists now a document that is the analysis of Bennett's signature by a graphologist named Zita Lomas. According to this, Bennett was a man of academic mind whose nature was "really very rich in the gentler qualities of sentiment and sympathy, no matter how austere a surface he may (have presented)." Lomas's analysis states that Bennett possessed "a nature which (was) quick to respond to an actual appeal to pity and generousity." Nothing Bennett did with Red Ryan before, during, or after this time would in any way contradict Lomas's view. Bennett's response to Russ Walsh's extraordinary request was to arrange for Red Ryan's "leave of absence" from Kingston Penitentiary — an action that was totally without precedent in the history of Canadian penology. At the same time Ryan was told that his release from his life sentence was now dependent only on the condition that suitable employment be arranged for him beforehand. On or before July 1, 1935, Richard Bedford Bennett made the decision to interfere in the normal Ticketof-Leave process, thereby short-circuiting the function of Director of Remissions M.F. Gallagher. Bennett did this very much against Gallagher's judgement and against the judgement of Hugh Guthrie. In the wee hours of Tuesday, July 2, Red Ryan was taken out of Kingston's North Gate and driven by automobile to Kingston Junction where he and a guard boarded the 2:30 a.m. train for Toronto. There were no handcuffs or leg shackles and the guard was not armed. Ryan wore the same brown prison-issue suit he would wear on the impending day of his release and the guard, casual clothes. To avoid publicity, when the train arrived at Toronto, Ryan was taken off at the east-end Danforth Station and, after a breakfast of bacon and eggs in a restaurant, a taxi was hired to drive to Russ Walsh's west-end home. Throughout the train and taxi trips, there were several manifestations of what the guard years later described as "Red Ryan's pathetic act." In the taxi, for example, Ryan repeatedly requested the guard to ask the taxi driver to slow down. "Here was this notorious bank robber claiming to be very much afraid because the driver was going thirty miles-per-hour," laughed the guard. The funeral was at 8:30 a.m. at St. Helen's Church on Dundas Street West, a block from Russ's home. Afterwards Jack "Corky" Corcoran, a prominent Toronto wrestling promoter, who Father Kingsley had involved on Ryan's behalf, came by in his new 1935 Chrysler sedan and took Ryan, Russ, and the guard on a drive about

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a much-changed city, Ryan was especially impressed with High Park's pink flamingoes from Cuba, about which Toronto was extremely proud. About 2:00 p.m. something important happened. Athol Gow showed up at Russ's front door, asking to speak to "Red." Before he allowed it, the guard, who had no faith at all in Ryan's celebrated "reform," sympathetically cautioned Gow that an excess of publicity might still ruin Ryan's parole chance. Gow allowed that he would merely talk to "Red" and only write that they had accidentally met at Union Station. Satisfied, the guard permitted Ryan and Gow to sit conversing alone on Russ's front porch for half an hour. For the rest of the afternoon Red Ryan kept pestering the guard and Russ, wanting to know if the next edition of the afternoon Star was out. In 1981 the guard remembered: "You couldn't tell Ryan that this publicity could hurt him. He wouldn't listen. He wanted the attention. He had to have it." Late that night, to give credence to the lie that he had only bumped into Ryan by accident, Athol Gow made sure he was at Union Station to see Red Ryan off to Kingston. In the next couple of weeks there was a line-up of Conservative Party hacks, wanting to cozy up to Bennett by providing Red Ryan with a job or other assistance. As well, a man named Mclntyre, a Ryan family friend, thought Ryan might need employment at his old trade, tinsmithing, and was willing to provide it. Frank Ryan, who had been estranged from Norman since the day of his life sentence, came on board the parade at the last minute as a consequence of meeting Norman at Isabel's funeral. On the very day of Red Ryan's release, July 23, Frank wrote Prime Minister Bennett on the stationery of the Acme Motor Sales Company of Detroit, Michigan, asking that Norman be allowed his liberty, promising to lend him enough money to start a gas station in Toronto. Frank's letter spoke of "the disgrace which (Norman) brought on our family," Frank's own inability to forgive Norman for this and claimed that he had moved to the United States because of "the disgrace." About 3:00 p.m. on July 23, 1935 — one year to the day after Bennett's visit to Kingston — in the later words of writer Ted Honderich, "the curtain rose on the final act of a tragicomedy that left Canada with one of the most backward parole systems in the western world." Warden Richard Allan walked to the prison hospital and gave Red Ryan the news that the long-sought moment was at hand. There

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followed the incredibly tasteless media-circus that was Red Ryan's first week of freedom, during which time Ryan made many highly quotable and often inaccurate statements about his release, his wife's mail, his marriage, Prime Minister Bennett, Father Kingsley, many individuals who had passed through his life, crime, the escape of 1923, penology, the prison system, prison guards, Toronto, the Toronto Police, the Owen Sound Police, and much more. Nothing Red Ryan said that week was more on the mark than a single comment he made to the Toronto Star reporters. "If ever I go in for crime again I deserve to be shot," Ryan declared. This was an augury; for on July 23, 1935, Red Ryan had exactly ten months to live.

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CHAPTER SEVEN Toronto's Best-Dressed Man-About-Town (July 23, 1935 — May 23,1936)

F

rom the day of his emancipation from Kingston, Red Ryan resided at 279 Lansdowne Avenue with Russ Walsh, Russ's wife Alma, and their infant sons. Ryan lived on free-and-easy terms with the family, coming and going as he pleased. His lifestyle caused the Walshes few problems. He didn't smoke; he drank very little (he would open a bottle of beer and not finish it); and, in fact, it soon became the case that he was rarely home except to sleep. Russ, who made his living repairing and delivering appliances for the Westwood Stove Company, lived the life of a responsible Roman Catholic family man; he laboured six days a week, came home tired, stayed up till 11 p.m. to listen to the late-night newscast on the radio, then went to bed. On Sunday mornings, the Walsh family attended mass at St. Helen's Church. Most working days, Norman and Russ didn't see each other. Norman was in bed when Russ got up and went to work; Russ wasn't home in the late morning or early afternoon when Norman awoke and departed; and Russ was in bed when Norman came in late at night. In practice, Red Ryan saw much more of his sister-in-law and her infant boys. Companionable in his better aspects, Ryan goodnaturedly suffered Alma Walsh's upbraidings for such offences as leaving his dirty laundry on the floor of his room and would smilingly promise not to repeat the transgression. Ryan was affectionate with

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his small nephews; his very last act in Russ Walsh's home was to give the oldest boy a stick of chewing gum and caution him not to put it in his mouth all at once. Eventually Russ would have occasion to describe Norman's at-home demeanour to reporters: "He was just the same as he always was ... very nervous and fidgety..." said Russ. Red Ryan's principal employment was arranged by Father Kingsley, whose disposition, of course, was to arrange everything he possibly could. Notwithstanding Ryan's public speculations about opening a gas station or "a cigar store in a good downtown location," Kingsley had essentially fixed the matter weeks before Ryan's release. On a day when a huge percentage of law-abiding Canadians were out of work and on relief, Red Ryan's father confessor prevailed on Jack Corcoran, a Catholic entrepreneur who had his finger in several business pies, to offer Red Ryan, "a semi-honorary position" as the official greeter and "sort of a manager" at the Nealon Hotel on King Street East. A rollicking, sporty little hostelry that catered primarily to sports-minded working men, the Nealon was owned by Corcoran in partnership with Paul Ciceri, an Italian Catholic, who was the actual manager of the hotel. Thus, in practice, Ryan worked for Ciceri, not Corcoran. Ryan's salary was to be fifty dollars a week, a handsome stipend in the Depression and one that immediately propelled the former bank robber into the upper strata of Toronto's prosperous middle class. Ryan's first conception of this employment was to suggest to Corcoran that the Nealon should hang a large banner across its face proclaiming "Red Ryan is Here," an exhibitionistic idea that Corcoran promptly scotched. Initially Red Ryan was required to be at the Nealon afternoons and evenings. The hotel was busiest in the late-afternoon through the supper hour, and Ryan needed to be about the lobby to glad-hand visiting firemen from the Berkeley Street Firehall and tired industrial workers who had just finished their shifts toiling in the factories and plants along Front and King streets. Ryan knew he had to be especially solicitous to any member of the Toronto Maple Leaf hockey club or any professional wrestler attached to Corcoran's wrestling business who might wander in. Otherwise Ryan's duties included booking the entertainment — mostly singing waiters and strolling violinists who performed in the evening — and running errands to the Ontario Liquor Board offices and to the Queensbury Athletic Club, Corcoran's business office in the bowels of Maple Leaf Gardens. Hotel business was always brought to Corcoran or his secretary, Frank

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Tunney, at the Gardens, not the other way around, so Corcoran saw almost nothing of Ryan in his primary working environment. Much of the time, Red Ryan merely sat at a beverage room table, slowly sipping a beer and talking sports with the hotel's customers. "Nobody ever talked to Red Ryan about crime," remembered Bill Little, a Nealon Hotel regular, who, in 1935-36, was a silver polisher at Industrial Electro-Plating on Front Street East. "We just didn't do it because we knew what the story was." Likely Father Kingsley and Jack Corcoran specifically cautioned Ryan not to talk to the Nealon's customers about his criminal past. However, Ryan did at least once discuss with the hotel's patrons a loosely related subject "which he knew a lot about" — guns. He said that he was interested in hunting and "that he had been shooting rabbits and pheasants north of Toronto." Ryan's employment with Corcoran also involved him in the activities of the Queensbury Athletic Club; for he was, after all, a huge celebrity in Toronto and his currency could be exploited in more than one way. On one occasion Red Ryan was introduced into the ring at a Maple Leaf Gardens wrestling card while a multicoloured spotlight bathed him in light, then he sat in Jack Corcoran's box seat watching the show with Police Magistrate Robert J. Browne. Ryan was used similarly, if less spectacularly, in smaller Ontario venues where Corcoran staged wrestling cards in partnership with local promoters; for example, he was on hand at Hamilton's Civic Stadium "when Danno O'Mahoney defended his Heavyweight Wrestling title against George Katan." Ryan also posed for a number of publicity photographs attired only in wrestling trunks. In one of these, he was shown grappling with Dr. Freddy Myers, a wrestler who Tely sports columnist Ted Reeve, Toronto's much-loved "Old Moaner," always referred to as "the Desperate Dentist." In another shot Ryan was pictured rolling around with a nameless wrestler on the canvas floor of a wrestling ring in an empty arena. This photograph eventually appeared in the Toronto Star over a cutline that claimed Ryan had wrestled "a dummy match" — the genesis of one of the many, oft-repeated myths about Red Ryan. Through Jack Corcoran and others, Red Ryan met many business and professional people and a disproportionate number were of IrishCatholic extraction. These days Toronto was still very much dominated politically and economically by Protestants (the city in its hundred-year history had never had a mayor who was not at least nominally a member of the Orange Order), but there was a definite

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Irish-Catholic business and professional clique that Red Ryan had an easy entree into. In the months after his release, Ryan was photographed with many "Irish guys" including Frank P. O'Connor; E.J. "Eddy" Murphy; Alderman Percy J. Quinn; John "Duke" McGarry; Jack Corcoran; Detective-Sergeant Frank Crowe of the Toronto Police; Dan O'Mahoney; Jack McGrath, a business associate of Corcoran's who managed O'Mahoney; and Father Daniel Ford, a Catholic priest, who was the pastor of St. Jean Baptiste Church in Burlington. To many such people, Red Ryan was one of their own — an avowed Catholic who, with Father Kingsley's guidance, had reformed himself through his Catholic faith. In the Catholic parishes, especially St. Francis's and St. Peter's, where Ryan had gone to school, and St. Helen's, where members of the Ryan family had lived and attended church nearly continually since 1911, there was considerable sectarian pride in Ryan's achievement. Nuns and lay teachers communicated Red Ryan's heartening story to children in the parish schools as an example of the power of religious faith. It seems, too, that Catholics who were in business were prepared to give Red Ryan a leg up; reportedly, in the spring of 1936, there were ten businessmen who were willing to invest $500 each in a business venture Ryan was going to operate. Corcoran introduced Red Ryan to his friend Ross Fawcett, who, like Corcoran and Father Kingsley, was a member of the communityoriented Kiwanis Club. Fawcett, the proprietor of Fawcett Motors in the Town of Weston, was persuaded, like Corcoran before him, to see a business advantage in employing a celebrity ex-convict. An accommodation was made between the two entrepreneurs, effective in late January 1936, which allowed Ryan to be absent from the Nealon Hotel during the day, after which Ryan sold Ford cars for Fawcett Motors. Experienced salesmen helped "the ace of Canadian bank robbers" close deals. To accept this position, Ryan had to be able to drive an automobile, which was something he had publicly declared he would never do. "(Suppose) I should ever injure a child," Ryan had feelingly declared at the time of his release. "There would be people who would say, 'See what you have done now. What more could be expected from a man with his record?' I can't take the chance." On January 30, 1936, however, under the name "John N. Ryan", Norman Ryan passed a Department of Highways driver's test and was issued a driver's licence. After this time Red Ryan had exclusive use of a new blue 1936 Ford coach, a luxury automobile,

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which he drove anywhere he pleased and parked in a rented garage in a lane behind his brother's home. One of the people Red Ryan was socializing with was his former jailhouse friend, Dr. Oswald Withrow, at whose home on Albany Avenue he was several times a dinner guest. In late 1935, Ryan and Withrow determined to collaborate to improve Ryan's unpublished book, The Futility of Crime, for publication. Ryan claimed to Withrow that he wanted to continue warning young men about the perils of a life of crime. Withrow undertook the task of rewriting the book — bettering its paragraphing, grammar, and spelling — and he wrote a final chapter that explained the wondrous extent to which Red Ryan had succeeded at life after being given his freedom. Both ex-convicts signed an agreement that called for a 50-50 split of any monies the book might earn. Because of their mutual interest in penitentiary reform, Withrow was friendly with Harry Anderson, the Globe editor, and it was naturally the case that Red Ryan met Anderson and discussed penitentiary conditions and issues with the highly esteemed crusading newspaperman. One of the first acts of the new Liberal government of Mackenzie King, which replaced the Bennett Conservatives after the election of October 1935, was to institute the Archambault Commission, the long-sought Royal Commission to investigate Canada's penitentiaries. Harry Anderson was named to the three-member Commission along with Joseph Archambault of the Quebec Superior Court, who was the chairman, and R.W. Craig, a Winnipeg lawyer, but he never served. Anderson was gravely ill with cancer and, after an operation and a prolonged siege, died on April 29, 1936. His funeral service, on May 2, was held at the Knox Presbyterian Church on Spadina Avenue, which was packed fiill with numerous dignitaries and others from many walks of life. Red Ryan seated himself in a front pew and "joined with evident fervour in the singing of hymns and listened with rapt attention to the various messages of appreciation." Afterwards Ryan and his friend Withrow went about Toronto floating the suggestion that the vacant position on the Archambault Commission should be filled by an ex-convict "for the valuable information he could furnish from the prisoner's point of view." Eventually James C. McRuer, a Toronto lawyer, was appointed to the vacancy. In his first week of freedom, Ryan met H.A. "Harry" Mullins at the King Edward Hotel and, some time later, repeated the meeting at the posh Forest Hill Village home of Mullins's daughter-in-law.

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Mullins offered to set Ryan up as the proprietor of a thousand-acre cattle feeding station outside of Winnipeg, but Ryan's response was a hesitant and grateful refusal He said he was making good money at the Nealon Hotel and wanted to continue. The member of Parliament for Marquette proposed renting Massey Hall in Toronto and a venue in Winnipeg so that Red Ryan could tell young people that Crime Does Not Pay, but this never happened. Both Mullins and his wife were greatly charmed by Ryan who was "so sincere, so anxious to start life over again," who told them that "life begins at forty," whose "teeth flashed like pearls when he smiled," and who claimed he'd been "Chistianized." In October 1935, as one of his last acts as prime minister, Richard Bedford Bennett elevated HA. Mullins to the Senate of Canada. After that, Ryan kept in contact with Senator Mullins by mail. On April 5, 1936, Ryan wrote in part: I might say, though, I do meet a lot of riff-raff coming out of Kingston, they do not mean a thing to me. They generally come looking for a loan, which is never repaid. I lost a few hundred dollars this way, and some of the greatest offenders in this matter were a few of those high-pressure brokers I met after the financial crash. Well, Senator, experience helps one and I am more hard-boiled in my dealings with them. I think Col. Megloughlin has told you I manage the Nealon Hotel for Jack Corcoran, the sportsman. It's not much of a place, and I also sell Ford and Lincoln cars, so it takes up a great deal of my time. I go quite often to visit our mutual friend, Dr. Kingsley, the chaplain of Kingston. I called on the warden the other day.37 Occasionally Ryan lunched in the Eaton's Department Store cafeteria with Wallace Bunton, the leathery old Salvation Army major who worked tirelessly with ex-convicts and who made a once-aweek train trip to counsel inmates in Kingston Penitentiary. Invariably Ryan spoke about how well things were going in his life. In apparent contrast to what he told Senator Mullins, Ryan gave Bunton the impression that he was only too glad to help down-and-out exconvicts who visited him at the Nealon Hotel. He told of giving them money and good advice. "I see that they don't stay around drinking or doing anything contrary to the law. I (emphasize) the futility of doing anything that might land them back in prison," Ryan told Bunton.

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Ryan spent considerable time with Toronto Star reporters, particularly Athol Gow, with whom he was "together constantly." For Gow, Red Ryan was at once a personal project, an emotional attachment, and a business asset. The two would talk about crimes, past and present, and, on any big crime story, as a matter-of-course, Gow would solicit Red Ryan's comment for his paper. It became their habit to meet in the third-floor press room at Toronto Police headquarters at 149 College Street, usually in the early evening. Often Gow wasn't there when Ryan entered, announcing himself to Gwyn "Jocko" Thomas, the Star junior police reporter, by saying, "I'm here to talk to Athol about a story." Ryan would sit quietly waiting, reading the Occurrence Sheet and attentively listening to CYQ, the new Toronto Police radio channel, which, after December 1935, broadcast a one-way signal to roving police cars. To Gwyn Thomas, Ryan seemed "both lonely and sad, like he had nowhere to go, nothing to do." Once Ryan insisted on accompanying Thomas to a two-alarm fire at a coal yard on Dupont Street. "When we got there, I ran into a tough police sergeant who wouldn't let me through the fire lines," Thomas recalled. "He kept shouting, 'Get back.' Then he saw Ryan and forgot about me. He clapped him on the back and introduced him to the other cops and the firemen. I thought they were going to forget about the fire." Ryan and Gow would go and sit in a restaurant and talk. Ryan would do the same with other reporters, including some who were in the employ of papers that were not necessarily sympathetic to the fact he was at large. On Tuesday, May 19, 1936, for example, Ryan essayed a lengthy confab in a College Street eatery with R.E. Porter of the Globe and Tommy Levine of the Telegram, a conversation that, within a few days, both reporters would substantially reproduce in print. That afternoon Ryan, "blandly, amiably and always with a disarming smile," discussed "his past exploits," including especially his notorious escape from Kingston Penitentiary, his capture in the Minneapolis post office, the death of Curly Sullivan at the hands of the Minneapolis Police ("They didn't give him a chance," Ryan said matter-of-factly and uncomplainingly), and the role of Irene Adams, who he didn't blame because she had never claimed to be anything but a law-abiding citizen. "Sure I have slugged men. But I have never, nor would I ever, shoot a man down," Ryan proclaimed as he had often done before. With "evident cockiness and pride," Ryan told of his suffering six months in the darkness of Kingston's "hole." He talked of Sam Behan,

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the Kingston convict who was allegedly beaten in "the hole"; of the unfairness of the prison administrators; and of the unfairness and pettiness of some of the guards. Bitterly he complained that the Canadian Bankers1 Association had used its influence to protract his prison stay. He talked of his birth in a house on Augusta Avenue (which, in 1895, had been called Esther Street38); of the shooting affray between Arthur Conley and Detective Billy Nicholls on lower Palmerston Avenue in March 1915; and he discussed the hanging, on May 5, 1936, of Harry O'Donnell for the November 1935, sex-killing of eighteen-year-old Ruth Taylor, who had been dragged into an eastend ravine, raped, and murdered. Convincingly, as always, Red Ryan held that he was finished with "the foolishness of crime." "Crime never paid, and never will. I am writing a book and can show that," he expostulated. He told the reporters that the Toronto Police were "watching me like a mouse.... I wouldn't want to even be on a streetcar on which a fight occurred." Tommy Levine was impressed with Red Ryan's hard, blue eyes that "gazed at a person unflinchingly while he spoke" and was reminded of "a leopard or a panther watching a prey he knows cannot escape." Around Toronto Red Ryan was seen by many to socialize in a respectable and sporty manner — "Toronto's best-dressed man-abouttown." Clearly he liked to put on a show, but what was wrong, or illegal, about that? One of his regular haunts was Bowles Lunch on Queen Street West (directly opposite City Hall) which was a gathering place for lawyers, policemen, court officials, gamblers, criminals, and reporters, many of whom either worked at, or had to appear at, the City Hall police courts. Going into Bowles, Ryan, who was always nattily attired, invariably flipped "Schmaltzy," the Bay and Queen corner news dealer, one dollar for a paper that then cost two cents. At the Lansdowne Hotel, a stone's throw from his brother's house, Ryan would hold court at a tap room table; the celebrity ex-convict sat fielding questions from Parkdale working people, both employed and unemployed, about his notorious "exploits" of 1923 and before. "All of the women in the Lansdowne Hotel were throwing themselves at Red Ryan," remembered a neighbourhood girl. He was often seen at the Thomcliffe Racetrack in East York — sometimes with Charlie Oliver, the Globe police reporter, who doubled as "Appas Tappas," the paper's racing prognosticator. As in 1920-21, Ryan was an addicted horseplayer. The Red Ryan of July 1935 to May 1936 was forever meeting people, forever shaking hands. Many of those he met would conjure

An earl y photograp h o f Norma n Ryan , perhaps taken in Novembe r 1912 . (Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre)

Madeline "Kate " Donahue , alia s Iren e Gardiner , Norma n Ryan's prostitute girlfriend of 1915 . (Public Archives of Canada)

Norman Ryan , Jun e 1915 , no t ye t 2 0 and going bac k inside . (Correctional Service Staff College Museum, Kingston)

Norman Rya n i n hi s halcyo n day s of th e earl y twentie s (perhap s i n January 1924) . (Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre)

Arthur Conley , Norma n Ryan' s earl y mentor-in-crim e an d lifelong friend, as he looked i n 1933 . (Correctional Service Staff College Museum, Kingston)

One o f "Red " Ryan' s man y creative writin g efforts insid e Kingston , several of whic h have survived. Thi s letter, which wa s ostensibly t o hi s brother Russell , was actually intended a s an argumen t fo r Ryan' s releas e and wa s forwarded to Richar d Bedford Bennett. I t i s dated Ma y 27, 1935 . (Public Archives of Canada)

Taken a t th e Toront o Polic e Game s a t Hanlan' s Poin t o n Jul y 31 , 1935, thi s photograp h wa s later a n embarrassmen t t o th e Toront o Police. Fro m lef t t o right : Joh n "Duke " McGarry , a Toront o hotelkeeper an d th e officia l starte r fo r th e games ; Dr . M.M . Crawford, Chie f Corone r o f Toronto ; Judg e Fran k Denton , a judge o f the Yor k Count y Court; E.J . "Eddy" Murphy , a well-respecte d lawye r who ha d know n Rya n a s a boy; Norman "Red " Ryan ; an d Alderman Percy J. Quinn . (Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre)

Edward "Mac " McMullen, wh o Ernes t Hemingwa y dubbe d "Wyoming" McMullen , a cold-bloode d killer , feare d even by "Red" Rya n himself . (Ontario Provincial Police)

Harry Checkle y on hi s several inductions into Kingston . (The Correctional Service Staff College Museum, Kingston)

Thomas Finnessey , th e "Jug Marker " for th e LaChute Ban k robbery . (Correctional Service Staff College Museum, Kingston)

Thomas "Shorty' ' Bryan s a t th e tim e o f hi s arres t for th e murde r o f Norma n Ford . (Public Archives of Canada)

Gordon Simpson , " a membe r o f th e Tomm y Quin n gang o f burglar s an d safecrackers " an d on e o f th e five Kingsto n Penitentiar y escapee s of Septembe r 10, 1923 . Accordin g t o Detective-Sergean t Ale x McCathie, i n th e sprin g o f 1936 , Simpso n gav e information t o th e Toront o Polic e tha t "Red " Rya n was on e o f th e perpetrator s o f a ban k robber y a t LaChute, Quebec . (Archives of Ontario)

The interio r o f Edwar d Storehouse' s 193 5 Chevrolet Maste r sedan , splattered wit h bloo d afte r th e earl y mornin g shootin g o f Februar y 29, 1936. (Ontario Provincial Police)

Inside o f to e rubbe r found a t th e scen e of th e Markha m murde r o f Edwar d Stonehouse o n Februar y 29 , 1936 , clearly shows th e imprin t o f th e trademark "Goodyear Wingfoot, " whic h wa s photographed b y Dr . E.R . Frankish, th e attorney general's medico-legal expert. (Ontario Provincial Police)

Photograph o f Norma n Rya n take n not lon g befor e hi s deat h i n a gunfight at Sarni a o n May 23, 1936. (Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre)

Reward poste r fo r Stonehous e murderer s dated Marc h 1, 1936 . (Ontano Provincial Police)

Front pag e illustratio n o f Th e Toronto Evening Telegram, Tuesday , Ma y 26 , 1936.

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him up years later in phrases like "the nicest fellow you'd ever want to meet," "a fine good-looking fellow," "the last person you'd ever expect to be a criminal." This was standard. Gwyn Thomas observed, "Red had a nice smiling way about him. He was very charming. You had to like him." Frank Tunney said, "My overall impression was that he was a very charming guy. He was sort of humorous. Afterwards, when you thought about it, it was clear that he was an attention-seeker — that he tended to divert conversation and attention to himself — but it wasn't that obvious at the time." Wilf Ford of Burlington, whose brother, Father Daniel Ford of St. Jean Baptiste Church, kept up a friendship with Ryan, made similar observations but remembered, "Red Ryan always said he'd die with his boots on" — a peculiar thing for a "reformed" criminal to be telling anyone. To some it was evident that Red Ryan was spending a lot of money. At Christmas 1935, Ryan was said to have "caused his friends considerable uneasiness" by splurging an estimated $1,000 on presents. According to a later published story, he presented "a smitten secretary" with a $300 mink coat "from Santa Claus." For Father Kingsley, Red Ryan had an expensive portrait of himself, taken at the Gainsboro Studio, upon which he gratefully inscribed in his own clear copy-plate handwriting, "To my very loyal friend, the Rev. W.T. Kingsley, from Norman 'Red' Ryan." Jenny "the Kid" Law, the goldenhaired daughter of Lillie Law, the Carlton Street bordello madam of 1923, was the recipient of a squirrel coat at Christmas and later was given a mink stole. Ryan was spending so much money that a Cabbagetown police informant blew the story in the ear of Inspector Pat Hogan at No. 4 Station. "Red Ryan's making a lot of money legitimately," reacted Hogan cautiously. "Not as much as he's spending," the informant replied. There were, of course, Toronto policemen with prejudices and suspicions based on Ryan's past record. If he had any notion that the police detective department was going to participate in the general celebration that accompanied his Ticket-of-Leave, Red Ryan was abruptly disabused of this at Toronto police headquarters on July 24, 1935, when he overheard Detective-Sergeant Alex McCathie in the press room reaming out his newspaper supporters, Gow, Greenaway, and Charlie Oliver. "(Red Ryan's) like a caged lion. Now youve let the beast out and, by geez, there'll be trouble," the plain-spoken McCathie averred. Ryan may have known, or come to have known,

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that Chief of Detectives John Chisholm, who was a stickler for police decorum, flatly refused to attend the 1935 Toronto Police Games because George Guthrie had invited Ryan to be part of the festivities. Chisholm considered that Ryan's ostentatious participation made the Police Games into an inappropriate and ungainly spectacle. Guthrie himself previously had told Ryan's reporter friends, "He's only a bird in a gilded cage; as soon as you let him out, he'll soon go back to his friends and crime." Tauntingly Red Ryan found reasons to be in and out of the headquarters building. His Ticket-of- Leave required him to report to Chief Draper's office once-a-month, on or about the twenty-third day. Otherwise he was there to fraternize with reporters, especially Gow, or even, as it seems, to offer the police his civic-minded help in solving outstanding cases. At face value Ryan was, as one policeman later described him, "the picture of respectability." ("Nobody thought of hassling him around.") Yet it became the case that headquarters detectives actually suspected Ryan of specific crimes. No cop was going to question Red Ryan according to standard procedure, because, of course, Ryan had powerful friends and a huge public image as a celebrated regenerate and paragon. Some detectives, including especially Frank Crowe and Eddy "the Chinaman" Tong, were "fishing around, trying to get something on him."39 On the theory that 'If you can get a criminal to talk, he might say something to incriminate himself,' these detectives would engage Ryan in bantering conversations, telling him things like, "We're going to catch you at something, Red. Just you wait," to which Ryan would smilingly reply, "How can you guys hurt my feelings like that?" This kind of jocular interplay would go on at length. George MacKay, then an Ontario Provincial Police Criminal Investigation Branch (C.I.B.) detective sergeant, witnessed such a conversation on the steps of 149 College Street in the winter of 1935-36. "I think (Red Ryan) enjoyed it — the contest with the police, the feeling the police were out to get him," said MacKay in 1981. "He must have known he was going to die a violent death." In July 1935, it was publicly suggested that Father Kingsley would perhaps keep a tighter rein on Red Ryan than was the normal Ticketof-Leave situation, but this never happened. Ryan's father confessor was a busy man who already held two jobs. He had to count heavily on Russ Walsh and Jack Corcoran — both of whom had their own lives — and tried to keep tabs on his protege's "progress" by mail.

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Reportedly Ryan's letters to Kingsley were "full of optimism and undying expressions of gratitude." Ryan visited the priest in Kingston several times, mostly in 1936, after he had acquired a driver's licence and a car. Evidently Kingsley saw Ryan in Toronto only once, in early May 1936, by which time the priest was already suspicious. Repeatedly Kingsley warned Ryan against any temptation to try to impress people, to spend money lavishly, to "play the big fellow." Ryan always led Kingsley to believe that everything was going very well, boasting , at the same time, that he had twelve suits, an automobile, and lots of influence. He told the priest of his sitting in on conferences on penitentiary reform and made the suggestion that he might be named to the vacancy on the Archambault Commission. Wilfrid Kingsley believed him implicitly until almost the end. "The first letter I am going to write is to Mr. Bennett," Red Ryan promised gratefully upon his release. But he didn't write the prime minister until August 5, 1935, and then it was perfunctorily done in only a few stock phrases. Bennett, who had been politically pole-axed by Ryan's comments in the Toronto Star, especially Ryan's claims concerning the withholding of his wife's mail, had to know that he had been taken, and he may have already suspected that M.R Gallagher had been entirely correct in his assessment of Ryan's vaunted "reform." The prime minister replied on August 8, coldly, austerely, in a business-like manner, only acknowledging that he had received Ryan's letter and wishing the former convict well. There is no reason to believe that either man ever contacted the other again. Already by August 5, Ryan was in receipt of a letter from W. Stuart Edwards, deputy minister of justice, demanding that "you immediately take steps to correct the false impression in the public mind regarding correspondence with your wife." An internal Justice Department search had turned up several documents that demonstrated conclusively that Ryan had contact with Elsie long after November 23 and 24, 1921 — in effect, that there had been no such estrangement such as Ryan had histrionically described in the Toronto Star of July 24, 1935. On November 12, 1926, for example, Ryan wrote and signed a document that read in part: My wife left for her home in Newfoundland shortly after my arrest. She paid me a visit or two while I was in St. Vincent De Paul. But in 1922, after I received 25 years on my second trial in Hamilton and came to Kingston, she wrote and said

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she did not wish to have further communication with me or something to that effect.40 Justice Department officials did not fail to notice (as the Star reporters might have) that, in November 1921, Ryan was in the Bordeaux Jail, not a federal prison, and that he was not received into St. Vincent De Paul until December 21, 192L Thus any failure to deliver the letters cited was a failure of the Bordeaux Jail, not the federal system Ryan and the Toronto Star had used the letters to discredit. Deducing from the standard practice, the Justice people believed Ryan read Elsie's letters in the Bordeaux, then the letters were put in a black club bag that was placed with his personal effects, which were kept from him but followed him through the prison system. Awarded his freedom on July 23, 1935, Ryan was handed the club bag at the same time he was given a carton that contained 660 other accumulated letters that were denied him by the Kingston censors under the federal system's rules and regulations. It was believed Ryan simply mixed the two sets of letters together and handed the Star a sentimental, contentious, and dishonest story that seemed to demonstrate that the prison system was grossly wanting in a manner in which, for once, it was not culpable. Perhaps the reporters coached Ryan to do this, for they would have had a better understanding of what was wanted and no reason not to proceed against Bennett as Ryan surely had. Ryan's story that he'd never seen the letters was, of course, impossible, or nearly impossible, to disprove. Who but Ryan, after fourteen years, was going to specifically remember the truth? In an ongoing correspondence with W. Stuart Edwards, which lasted until September 5, at which time the deputy minister simply gave up, Red Ryan steadfastly held that the system had denied him the letters and estranged him from his wife. He retracted nothing.

It is a characteristic of professional thieves that they compartmentalize their lives. Information can hurt them; the trusted friend or business associate of today can give information to the police or, worse, turn up in the witness box tomorrow. There is a necessity to operate on a need-tO'know basis and to act circumspectly, so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention. Smart criminals comport themselves in a guarded fashion.

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At the street level in 1935-36, it was patently obvious to many that Father Kingsley's altar boy was not what he claimed to be. Incredibly Red Ryan was untoward enough to make a kind of headquarters out of the notorious Royal Cecil Hotel at Jarvis and Dundas Streets, Toronto's notorious "Bucket of Blood," which was a known mecca for thieves, dopers, and especially prostitutes and their hangers-on. "He was like Frank Sinatra; everyone knew him," remembered an employee of "the Cecil." Around the east-side Cabbagetown district, Ryan was frequently seen ostentatiously trooping about followed by a little clique of "former Kingston Penitentiary men," unmolested by the normally vigilant Toronto Police to the extent that one observer of the day was later adamant that "Red Ryan was paying the police." Always a gambler, Ryan was seen in various notorious gambling "joints": at Abe Orpen's National Sporting Club, a garish establishment near the mouth of the Humber River, where elegantly dressed patrons often arrived in limousines, many wearing American plates, to be admitted electronically through an ante-room after a once-over and a pat-down; at the seamy Classic Boxing Club above Doyle's Smoke Shop on Queen Street East, shooting craps on the billiard tables with Gordon Simpson, the Kingston escapee of 1923; and in the loft gambling room of Gary's Roadhouse in Hog's Hollow, a North York "resort," which then ran an hourly car to pick up gamblers from the corner of Spadina and College. Ryan was never hard- tonotice. Schmaltzy, the news dealer, remembered Ryan's deportment at Gary's Roadhouse: Red Ryan would always make a big show. He was there with a broad on each arm. When he'd lose, he'd get upset and make a scene. When he'd win, he'd buy drinks for everybody. Occasionally Ryan and "his henchmen" descended on the Woodbine Billiards at Woodbine and Danforth avenues where they would be "noticed by everybody." In a day when poolrooms were widely regarded as "hangouts for criminals," Ryan and his entourage would arrive in "a big, black limousine with side curtains" and, as was Ryan's habit, make a disturbance. Once Ryan shot a game for five dollars with John "Gazooney" Guerin, an eighteen-year-old unemployed waiter, won, then surreptitiously pressed ten dollars into Guerin's palm. One evening in the winter of 1935-36, according to

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Guerin, Red Ryan marched a dozen youthful pool players out to his car, which was parked on a residential street, produced from its trunk a long-barrelled rifle and began taking potshots at some object high up on a telephone pole. Asked by one of the boys what he needed the weapon for, Red Ryan replied, "We use it for shooting out the windows of police stations." Such, apparently, was the confidence of a celebrity ex-convict on a day when an ordinary Ticket-of-Leave man greatly feared being returned to the penitentiary by the police, who then did not even have to first bring such a person before a magistrate.

CHAPTER EIGHT Reality (October 1935 - February 29, 1936)

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lways a womanizer, Red Ryan enjoyed several fleeting, invaltarboy-like relationships with women who were willing and anxious to "straighten his tie," Ryan's rakish popularity with the ladies was grossly apparent at the Nealon, Lansdowne, and Royal Cecil Hotels, Denied the society of women for half a generation, Ryan was making up for lost time. Among other meaningless relationships, Ryan pursued at least three that were noteworthy. He enjoyed a brief fling with Mary Loretta McGill, an attractive, mid- twentyish Cabbagetown blonde, whose brother he knew from Kingston's "Big House." He renewed acquaintances with Doris "Babe" Mowers, who was by this time a blowzy, red-headed streetwalker who was said to have "waited for him for years." And, for months, he kept up a semiregular affair with a good- looking, young Delaware Avenue woman — perhaps "the smitten secretary" who got the $300 mink "from Santa Glaus." Then there was Jenny "the Kid" Law. In October or November 1935, Red Ryan approached a man named Tony Carino, an Italian pimp, who he had first met in Kingston's "Mailbags" in 1926. Carino had served 2 1/2 years for "biting a Jew's ear off in a fight in a Winchester Street apartment." Now he was pimping several street girls around Toronto's new Edward

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Street bus terminal Ryan wanted an introduction to Jenny "the Kid" Law, a golden-haired twenty-five-year-old prostitute, who was one of these girls, and Carino's legally married wife. He knew Jenny as the daughter of Lillie Law, the close-mouthed and dependable madam of 52 Carl ton Street, the brothel where the Kingston escapees of 1923 had hidden. Ryan must have known that Jenny had been "raised from the cradle to keep (her) mouth shut." Red Ryan and Jenny Law began by occasionally meeting late at night in a room in the King Edward Hotel where both were wellknown to Pat Conway, an "Irish guy" who was the house detective and a casual friend of Ryan's. Ryan — who could have had any number of women gratis — always paid Jenny for her time, handing her a wad of bills and saying, "Here, give this to the wop and tell him to keep his mouth shut." As the winter of 1935-36 wore on, Ryan spent more and more time with Jenny, meeting her inconspicuously at "nice places where (they) wouldn't be seen," often at out-of-theway restaurants. Once they met by appointment in Buffalo, New York; another time, Ryan drove Jenny to Niagara Falls, New York, in Ross Fawcett's 1936 Ford coach. Notwithstanding their business arrangement, eventually Red Ryan — who was always a salesman — began extravagantly professing his love for Jenny, asking her to marry him and to run away with him to the West — his standard magnanimous offer to prostitutes he involved himself with. "I can't marry you," Jenny responded several times. "I'm married already and so are you." To Red Ryan, such legalities hardly mattered at all. "(Red) seemed to be mad at a lot of people," recalled Jenny years later. "He'd get angry and start shouting against this one and that one." His list of real and imagined persecutors included Magistrate G.T. Denison, who had sentenced him as a small boy to St. John's Training School and had sent him to Kingston Penitentiary at age 17; Charles Slemins, the chief constable of Brantford, who he liked to think had forced him into a life of crime by interfering in his adolescent love life; the Toronto Police, who had harassed him for many years; the Minneapolis Police, who he insisted had assassinated Curly Sullivan; various Kingston officials and Justice Department officials, all of whom had wronged him; and the Canadian Bankers' Association, which he believed had exerted its power to keep him in prison. In Jenny Law's estimation, "Red was dreadfully unhappy. He just couldn't get robbing banks out of his system. It wasn't that he took pride in fooling everybody. That was

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just a way out. It was the idea of having a gun in his hand. He thought robbing banks made him important." Categorically, Red Ryan admitted to Jenny that his "spiritual conversion" and grand apostasy had never been anything but a sham designed to win his freedom. "It was a way out, that's all," estimated Jenny, whose life experience and jaded view of the world would not have allowed her to believe Ryan if he had told her otherwise. At times Ryan introduced Jenny to "other Kingston Penitentiary men" and openly discussed "jobs" with them in front of her. A streetsmart girl, Jenny tried not to listen on the theory "It's better not to know; that way nobody can say you talked to the police." "Red talked too much about his 'jobs,'" considered Jenny, who only half understood that that was why Ryan really needed her — to listen to him brag about his ongoing victories over constituted authority, which was something he couldn't do with a smitten secretary or any of the willing young girls from the Nealon or Lansdowne Hotels. One of the men Ryan introduced Jenny Law to was Gordon Simpson, who she remembered from September 1923, when she was thirteen years old and living in her mother's Carlton Street "badhouse." After crossing into the United States in October 1923, Simpson had worked at several construction jobs in New England, then as an ordinary seaman aboard an ocean-going ship. He was arrested in New York harbour in November 1925, as a consequence of his being betrayed by a former Kingston inmate who he trusted but who sold him out for a $500 Justice Department reward. In 1926, he was twice tried at Toronto for the Oakwood and St. Clair Bank of Nova Scotia robbery, both trials occasioning huge lurid recaps of the whole Red Ryan saga in the Toronto Star. He was convicted at the second trial (the first ended in a hung jury), but, likely because of the mitigating circumstance of his having gone to work in the United States, he was given only a threeyear sentence for the same armed robbery that earned Red Ryan a life sentence. He served all of his sentences and was released in August 1933. In late 1935, he was living in Toronto's east end and delivering flowers for a Danforth Avenue florist. Though he did a lot of socializing with Ryan and other ex-convicts, Simpson was determinedly resisting Red Ryan's pressure to involve himself in crimes. Eventually, in the spring of 1936, Simpson would relocate to New York City to get away from Red Ryan's influence. A less-impressive Kingston alumnus, who definitely walked in Ryan's shadow, was William Henry "Harry" Checkley, a thirty-one-year-

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old, down-and-out rounder with a long criminal record, which included convictions for burglary, auto theft, carrying a concealed weapon, escape custody, and indecent assault. Checkley had served terms of five, three, and two years in Kingston; a sentence of two years less a day in two Ontario reformatories, including the Burwash Industrial Farm, from where he once escaped; and a three-month sentence in a Manitoba jail. A native of Lindsay, Ontario, Checkley was known to Toronto Police as "a small-time criminal of a type that was liable to become very dangerous." Already he had been twice arrested in possession of a revolver but had not been able to summon the courage to shoot. His most recent conviction, registered on October 11, 1935, was for shoplifting eleven pairs of men's socks from Eaton's Department Store, for which he was given a suspended sentence by Police Magistrate Robert J. Browne after convincingly pleading, "If you give me a break, you'll never see me here again." To Jenny Law, Harry Checkley appeared to be an appallingly pathetic "mess": he frowned continually; his suit was always dishevelled and dirty; he had a mouth full of rotting teeth; and he didn't seem very bright. Jenny knew Checkley would do whatever Red Ryan told him to do. "He was just following Red, that's all. It was a hero worship type of thing." Jenny Law never met Ed McMullen — "the foxiest one of the whole bunch" — who was too smart to be discussing "jobs" in front of any street prostitute. "I knew the name, that's all," said Jenny years later. Red Ryan — "the Big Red Fox" — went back to crime in October 1935. He never intended otherwise. Beginning late that month and continuing into the spring of 1936, Ryan, Ed McMullen and Harry Checkley perpetrated a wave of burglaries and safecrackings that, according to the later surmise of the Toronto Police and the Ontario Provincial Police, included the night burglary of the safe in a Scarborough liquor store, which netted $500, in late October 1935; a failed attempt to blow the safe in the Bank of Commerce at Ailsa Craig, Ontario, in the early hours of December 5, 1935; the night burglary of the safe in the Scott Woolen Mills office in west Toronto in the spring of 1936; and an aborted (for some unknown reason) attempt to blow the safe at the Ontario Produce Company on Toronto's Market Street in the spring of 1936, where, according to Detective-Sergeant John Hicks, "the safe was all soaped and taped and the nitro sealed up in a rubber glove that had been inserted in a bored hole at the top of the door." Later, an

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informant of the Toronto Police, who was described in the Toronto Star as "a man closely in touch with Ryan since his release from prison" and "a man whose word (the police) do not doubt," definitely named Ryan, McMullen and a third unknown party as being involved in the Scarborough and Ailsa Craig "jobs" as well as in "any safe job where nitroglycerine was used in the Province of Ontario in the past six months*" There were so many such occurrences in and around Toronto during these days that the Toronto Police formed a special squad to cope with them. At Sarnia, Ontario, the Sarnia Police later speculated that it was "the Red Ryan Gang" that fired several shots at Constable Walter Lademar late on the night of January 13, 1936, when he surprised three men in the act of burglarizing the National Grocer's premises in an alley behind Christina Street. According to Jenny Law, Red Ryan, and Harry Checkley were in on most, or all, of these "jobs." Inevitably, of course, Red Ryan took up armed bank robbery and, when he did, the best man he could find to partner with was Harry Checkley, the failed sock thief, who like Curly Sullivan, George McVittie and others before them, was totalled enthralled by Ryan and his Art Conley-like patter about "easy money." The bank robberies started in early 1936 with what would be the only armed robbery of a Toronto bank in that Depression year and the city's first bank holdup in eight months. Entering the west-end Dominion Bank at Davenport Road and Laughton Avenue at 2:10 p.m. on Tuesday, January 10, Ryan and Checkley — both masked — announced their intentions in "a stream of filthy language." Ryan went behind the counter, gave the ledgerkeeper a kick, then forced the staff to lie on the floor. Next he sacked the cage for a reported $3,400 in cash and negotiable securities, including the $600 payroll of the Toronto Dominion Foundry Company. When Ryan seemed to linger, Checkley nervously shouted, "Come on. Let's get out of here," to which Ryan shot back amidst further profanity, "What's your hurry? We have lots of time. The bank's not closing early." The gunmen pulled away from the scene in an old Dodge coupe in a welter of bullets fired by the bank's teller. The first patrol car was there in two minutes, but the bandits were gone. The robbery was the first real test of the Toronto Police's new radio system, which Ryan had showed such interest in at Toronto police headquarters.

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A month later, at 2:20 p.m. on February 6, Ryan and Checkley hit the Bank of Commerce at Locke and Herkimer Streets in Hamilton. This was the same bank "the Lone Bandit" took nearly ten minutes to rob on July 29, 1921 (though it was a Bank of Hamilton then), and that robbery had realized Red Ryan the most money he was ever known to have stolen in Canada — $3,879. Entering the bank hurriedly with guns drawn, the two bandits forced the staff to lie on the floor, then Ryan — in characteristic style — vaulted the counter and pillaged the teller's cage of about $1,600. The gunmen were in and out of the bank so efficiently that two City of Hamilton workers chopping ice on the road outside didn't even realize that a robbery had taken place. They escaped in an old crank-equipped Model "A" Ford, which had been stolen in Toronto. The Hamilton Spectator account of the robbery ended with this: The Bank of Commerce at this point has been held up before, it is recalled. It was victimized by the famous Red Ryan in the years after the war. Strangely enough, the bandits today modelled their tactics after those used by the then ace of Canadian holdup men.41 These two robberies, both rash acts committed in the known Ryan-Conley style, had to have tweeked the imaginations of some Toronto and Hamilton detectives. Likely Ryan was asked by Toronto detectives about one or both stickups — in jocular and unknowing fashion, of course. But, in the absence of conclusive evidence, the police were not going to do anything. Certainly they were not going to formally question the celebrity ex-convict or, in any way, appear not to go along with the prevailing wisdom on him. As Gwyn Thomas reckoned the situation years later: "The police daren't move (on Red Ryan) for fear of public opinion.... For the police it was dangerous to bother Red Ryan ... dangerous to be seen within a block of Red Ryan. This whole thing was a powderkeg that eventually exploded." Many times Father Kingsley specifically warned Ryan not to have anything to do with Ed McMullen, who had been released from Kingston in May 1934, and was known to be living in the Toronto area. The advice was reiterated by Matt Walsh, then retired, who Ryan visited in Kingston in late April 1936. Ryan always swore he would have nothing to do with McMullen.

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Ryan found McMullen, not long after his July 1935, release, residing at 190 Gledhill Avenue in the suburb of East York with his brother, Jack, an auto trimmer, who worked at a Ford dealership. Mac may then have been working as an agent for an Adelaide Street vending machine company and soon would be claiming to be an employee of the Federal Radio Company, which he may have been briefly. The two career criminals surely had quite a laugh, for Red Ryan had completely taken in not only the prideful Father Kingsley, but the likes of Richard Bedford Bennett, Harry Mullins, Harry Hindmarsh, Harry Anderson, J.C. Ponsford, W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin, Oswald Withrow, Roy Greenaway, and Athol Gow, not to mention all of the ordinary Canadians who were convinced to fawn over a Kingston Penitentiary "lifer" as if he were some sort of legitimate national hero. It was Ryan who introduced McMullen to Mary Loretta McGill, the pretty Cabbagetown girl he'd briefly romanced. In early 1936, McMullen began cohabiting with McGill, who took to calling herself "Mrs. Mary McMullen," in a small rented house at 89 Dentonia Park Avenue in East York.42 Perhaps because McMullen had some money tucked away, the couple lived in Depression-era middle-class opulence amidst elaborate furnishings, expensive appliances and state-of-the-art electrical fixtures. Mac drove a nearly new 1933 Chevrolet sedan, a luxury automobile, which he bought at Gorries Chevrolet at Victoria and Shuter. Like Ryan, McMullen was "a real fashion-plate," to the extent that the neighbourhood children reportedly referred to him as "the Count." Neighbours noticed that he always wore a hat — apparently a conceit intended to hide the fact that he was bald. During the years in Kingston, while Ryan was living in comparative luxury, McMullen slept in a cell on the range and worked in a prison shop — mostly "the Mailbags." He was considered to be one of the really hard-core inmates in the pen — as one of Kingston's "hacks" — guards — put the consensus opinion "one of ten or fifteen really dangerous men in the prison ... a man who would stop at nothing." Other inmates feared him and would back away from him; guards handled him carefully. Nobody in the prison dared call him "Wyoming" McMullen — the name Ernest Hemingway and the Toronto Star tagged him with — because he hated the appellation. He was known to be "a man who was totally against the System," and he carried himself in a way that made that plain to all. Unlike Ryan, who imagined himself to be a big-time bank robber,

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McMullen was a skilled all-purpose thief who was apt to take any money-making opportunity that presented itself. He was an accomplished burglar and "peterman"; he knew how to crack a safe and how to boil dynamite to make nitroglycerine. He was known to be a smart thief whose daring was tempered with a healthy sense of caution. In the early twenties he had been the acknowledged leader of a facile gang of bootleggers, rumrunners, and thieves who operated out of London, Ontario, but ranged the entire western end of the province. The gang also dabbled in bank robbery. On the rainy afternoon of October 20, 1921, McMullen and three others robbed the Bank of Toronto at Wyoming, ten miles east of Sarnia, in Old West style. Wearing bright yellow rain slickers, the four rolled into the small village in a big, yellow-wheeled McLaughlin Master 6 touring car and, while an intimidated crowd watched in shocked silence, entered the bank and closed its doors behind them. At gunpoint, they helped themselves to $10,942, then rode away shooting like the armed desperadoes of the American plains. McMullen drove the McLaughlin furiously for fifty miles over bad roads to London and plopped himself in a dentist's chair — cleverly establishing an alibi he would soon need. Somehow, too, the dentist's records were altered to show McMullen was in the dentist's office at the time of the robbery. Unfortunately for the Wyoming robbers, McMulien got greedy; he convinced the others to bury the loot behind the Hamilton Racetrack, from where it went missing. In the ensuing dispute "a divorced woman" named Olive Myrtle Koehler, who was friendly with McMullen, became frightened of McMullen's jilted partners to the extent that she agreed to co-operate with the police and testify for the Crown. She was also very much attracted by the $5,000 reward the Canadian Bankers' Association offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of any person who had participated in a bank robbery in Canada. Eventually, after two highly publicized trials at Samia in June and September 1922, three of the four accused men were convicted of the Wyoming robbery. McMullen's first trial ended in a hung jury when one juror held out for acquittal. McMullen interrupted his second trial to change his plea to guilty after Jack McMullen entered the courtroom with the news that the London dentist was refusing to testify a second time. He was sentenced to fourteen years. Between the trials, on September 2, 1922, in an incident that presaged John Dillinger's notorious escape from jail at Crown Point, Indiana, McMullen used a

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wooden gun wrapped in tin foil to attempt a desperate, lone-handed breakout from the Lambton County Jail He nearly got clear of "the bucket" before being coldcocked by the jail's governor. When Ed McMullen and Norman Ryan were loaded on the same train for Kingston on September 28, 1922 (their trials at Sarnia and Hamilton were coincident and they were shipped to the prison together), McMullen, not Ryan, was Ontario's best-known bank robber and criminal. The events following the Kingston escape of September 1923 changed that forever. Unlike Harry Checkley, Ed McMullen was plenty savvy enough to grasp the dangers of participating in daylight armed holdups with a high-profile, exhibitionistic crook like Red Ryan, and he surely knew that Ryan was not "the ace of Canadian holdup men" that the press purported him to be. He had only to consider Ryan's two recent bank robbery efforts to comprehend that. Reluctantly, though, McMullen was drawn into Ryan's bank robbery schemes for two apparent reasons: Ryan and Checkley were making more money robbing banks by day than Ryan, McMullen, and Checkley were making cracking safes by night; and he was losing his criminal partners otherwise. But, with McMullen involved, things were done differently; an element of caution was added. There would be no more spur-of-themoment holdup "jobs" like the recent two. Neither would McMullen, in the style of Red Ryan, again be robbing the Bank of Toronto at Wyoming. The banks would be "cased" properly and the gang would steal a powerful, new V-8 automobile for a getaway car, not an old, crank- equipped Model "A" Ford. It was this need for a powerful getaway car that they intended to steal, then hide in a rented Roxton Road garage, that took "the Red Ryan Gang" to the Village of Markham, twenty miles northeast of Toronto, early on the snowy, morning of Saturday, February 29, 1936. About 3:35 a.m. they forced entry to the Stonehouse Garage, a onestorey cement-block service station and garage, located on the north side of Highway 7, just east of Markham's Main Street. Inside was proprietor Edward Stonehouse's 1935 V-8 Chevrolet Master sedan, which Ryan had previously seen while in the village. McMullen "hotwired" the Chev, while the others filched four or five new Clifton batteries and placed them in the back seat. The garage door was thrown open with a bang, then Ryan and Checkley got into Ryan's Ford coach, which was parked on the highway, while McMullen began noisily backing the Chev out of the garage.

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Already a burglar alarm had sounded in the Stonehouse's house, a few feet to the west of the garage, and Edward Stonehouse and his twenty-four-year-old son, James, had dressed and prepared to go out to confront the intruders. They had telephoned James Walker, the village constable, and were waiting on Walker's arrival when McMullen started the Chev's motor. The Stonehouses determined they had to act or lose the car. Just as McMullen turned the Chev to face west on Highway 7, the Stonehouse men emerged from the house on the run and jumped on the passenger-side runningboard. McMullen, who could get little purchase on the snow-covered highway, started the Chev slowly forward. At the same time Edward Stonehouse fought his way into the front passenger door of the moving car. Ruthlessly and wordlessly McMullen shot the garageman in the head with a .38-calibre Iver-Johnson revolver. Edward Stonehouse slumped over in the passenger seat. Then McMullen fired across Edward at James Stonehouse, who, after discarding an unwieldy .22- calibre rifle, had clambered into the Chev's front seat right behind his father. The bullet penetrated James's right hand but didn't stop him from going over the top of his father's limp form and somehow getting on top of the bald man at the wheel. McMullen fired another bullet that punctured James's abdomen. Undaunted, James continued to fight, pressing down on McMullen with his knees, choking McMullen, landing a blow that smashed out two of McMullen's front teeth. All the while the Chev continued west along Highway 7. After about 1/8 of a mile, McMullen was beaten nearly unconscious and James got the car stopped near the western limits of Markham. He threw the Chev's keys out a window into the snow. Now, in the darkness and swirling white, James saw Red Ryan, who had come up with Checkley in the Ford, appear in the glare of the Chev's headlights — pointing McMullen's shotgun at him. Thinking Ryan was going to shoot, James made a confused attempt to flee; he pushed his father's limp form out the front passenger door and tumbled out behind. He staggered a few feet in the snow, then fell. Both Stonehouse men lay in the north ditch where Red Ryan quickly found them and began demanding the missing keys to the Chev. Thwarted, Ryan viciously butt-ended an already-unconscious Edward Stonehouse in the head with the shotgun. Without success,

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Ryan tried to get James to stand up. He then got a flashlight and spent some time fecklessly looking in the snow for the Chev's keys. He looked inside the blood-spattered Chev and, at this point, asked, "What's all this blood doing around here?" Meantime Harry Checkley fished a dazed Ed McMullen out of the Chev and the two stood in the middle of the snow-topped highway, Checkley supporting McMullen with his arm around the Wyoming bank robber's waist. In the upstairs bedroom of a house on the south side of Highway 7, Leslie and Ross Hagan, seventeen and sixteen years old respectively, were awakened by the commotion on the road outside.43 They heard someone holler, "I've got this one"; someone else cry, "Let him have it"; and there was a sequence, "Get up," "I can't," "Why can't you?" Looking out a window, the Hagans saw the Stonehouses' Chev stopped on the highway and, a few feet further west, another parked car, which Leslie later described as "a coupe with two tail lights" and Ross later said was "a late model coupe with two tail lights dark in color like a new Ford V-8 (with) a regular top." The boys saw two men lying in the ditch beside the Chev, and a man was standing over one of the men, kicking him. This man went over to two other men, who were standing on the highway, and "they seemed to talk things over." The men appeared in no hurry to go anywhere. Ross stayed in the window watching, but Leslie dressed and went outside. At a distance of about 120 feet, Leslie hollered at a man who he would later describe as being about 5'11" tall, with an athletic build, wearing a dark, form-fitting overcoat and a fedora hat. "What's going on here?" Leslie demanded. "You get out of here," Red Ryan threatened menacingly while brandishing the shotgun. Leslie Hagan dropped to the snowy ground, crawled back to his house and crept inside. But Leslie's appearance told the gunmen they had to leave. Before doing so, they made several trips to and fro between the Chev sedan and the Ford coach — transferring the pilfered batteries to Ryan's car. Then they got into the Ford and drove further west about four hundred yards in second gear and stopped. An argument was in progress. McMullen, who believed he had already killed the father, had recovered enough to want to go back and kill the son "lest he be a living witness against us." Red Ryan was opposed. Ryan was demonstrating to McMullen something that would increasingly earn his contempt: though a dangerous man when cornered, Red Ryan was

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not a cold-blooded killer in the same mould as the man he was giving an argument; McMullen thought Ryan's weakness was jeopardizing his freedom and his life — something a working professional criminal just doesn't do to his partners. The dispute was settled by the fast approach of headlights from the east. Constable James Walker, rushing to the scene, overshot the Stonehouse men lying in the snow, proceeded west to within fifty yards of the stopped Ford coach and pulled up. Ryan and McMullen got out of the Ford and opened up with the shotgun and a revolver. There were about eight gunflashes. Shotgun pellets embedded themselves in Walker's car. Outgunned, the constable was forced to crouch down behind his vehicle. The shooters got back in the Ford coach and started rapidly away. In a panicked condition uthe Red Ryan Gang" fled west along Highway 7, which was already covered with six or eight inches of new-fallen snow. They jettisoned the stolen Clifton batteries as they went; what had been booty twenty minutes before was now evidence that could help get them hanged. At Yonge Street, they cut south; then they went west again to Dufferin Street, which they took south into Toronto. They repaired to the front room of Russ Walsh's Lansdowne Avenue home where they tried to assess their situation and sort out their options. One thing must have been clear: they were now, almost certainly, in jeopardy of a murder charge. Under the law, they had all formed a common intent to commit a crime; Ryan and Checkley were in the same legal jeopardy as McMullen, and, if convicted, they could expect to be hanged with the actual killer. About 6:30 a.m., these deliberations were interrupted by Alma Walsh, who descended the staircase of her home, flicked on the downstairs hall light and passed into the kitchen to heat some milk for her baby. The light was immediately turned off by some person who came out of the front room. Mrs. Walsh finished her chore, then retraced her steps, noticing apprehensively that her brother-in-law was sitting in the darkened front room with two strange men — a situation that was consternating to her and Russ both. Already the Walshes were uneasy about Norman Ryan and his criminal friends, and they were immediately fearful of impending consequences for their young family and others. McMullen and Checkley left the house at daybreak after the gang listened to Jim Hunter's early morning Tely newscast on radio station CFRB.

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Later that day Russ questioned Norman about the two men — asking who they were and what they were doing in his home. Knowing that Russ had heard of the Stonehouse shooting, or would hear of it, and figuring that he was smart enough to put things together, Red Ryan told his brother a version of what had happened at Markham. In making these admissions, Ryan was counting heavily on his brother's blood loyalty; for he surely knew that Russ had little affection left for him. For Russ, a law-abiding citizen who had only wanted to believe that his lawless brother had finally "reformed," this was the beginning of a new nightmare dilemma: whether or not to put a noose around his own brother's neck by turning him in on what would soon be a murder charge. From at least this point on, the Walshes lived in constant fear, not only of Norman Ryan, but especially of Ed McMullen, who worried even Ryan himself Walsh was made fully aware of McMullen's fearsome character; he was apprised of McMullen's burgeoning state of panic, told that McMullen would kill anyone who informed on him, that McMullen would kill any policeman who approached him, and eventually that McMullen carried a nitroglycerine bomb that he would throw at any officer who tried to arrest him. For Red Ryan these admissions to Russ were something else: the beginning of an ever-widening circle of people who knew, or strongly suspected, that Canada's foremost celebrity exconvict was in actuality an unregenerate killer.

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CHAPTER N I N E Evasions (February 29-May 23, 1936)

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he perpetrators of the Stonehouse shooting determined to sit tight and wait — even though they weren't entirely certain the police would not be coming to arrest them at any minute. What else could they do? As Ticket-of-Leave men, Ryan and Checkley couldn't flee the city; if they left, they would likely instigate the very investigation that they feared. McMullen, whose Ticket-of-Leave would expire on March 31, was addicted to his pleasant life with Mary McGill and didn't want to leave it. And, too, Mac wasn't fit; that week he had to spend seventy-five dollars to get his broken teeth fixed. The degree of their jeopardy took a week to clarify itself. Edward and James Stonehouse were both operated on in the Toronto General Hospital on February 29, the father's operation on a gaping wound above the left ear where a bullet entered his skull and didn't exit, the son's two operations to sew up numerous perforations of his intestines and to mend a shattered right hand. James did well, to the extent that, on March 1, he was able to give a detailed statement to Crown Attorney C.F. Moore and Inspector W.H. Lougheed of the O.P.R's Criminal Investigation Branch. Edward held his own for a few days, lingering in a state of semi-consciousness, then he developed meningitis and finally died at 1:45 p.m., Friday, March 6, "without having recovered a state of mental responsibility to make a

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statement." As a consequence of Edward Stonehouse's death, a charge of murder was preferred against three unknown men and a warrant to arrest was issued. On March 7, Commissioner V.A.S. Williams of the O.P.P. advertised a $1,000 reward for information resulting in the arrest and conviction of any person or persons in connection with the armed robbery and shooting of the Stonehouses at Markham. The reward poster's description of the three perps — information gleaned from James Stonehouse and Leslie and Ross Hagan — was as follows: No. 1 — Height about 5'10", middle-aged, bald-headed, some hair around temple, face rather dull, was at wheel of Chevrolet auto, fired several shots at Stonehouses with revolver. No. 2 — Height about 5'10" or 11", age about 25 or 30, wore dark form-fitting overcoat, fedora hat, athletic build. Had a shot-gun. No. 3 — No description, except not so tall as the two men with him. All three escaped in a coupe automobile having two tail lights.44 Edward Stonehouse's demise was hardly noticeable in the Toronto dailies' back pages; for it was entirely coincident with Adolph Hitler's armed invasion of the Rhineland, an auguring event that caused great trepidation in the western democracies, Canada included. But Ryan and Ed McMullen noticed; their descriptions were very close — in McMullen's case, as a C.I.B. document would later observe, "practically perfect." The murderers didn't know it, but they got a break in the description of their car when the investigators, Lougheed and Sergeant George MacKay, didn't include in the published report Ross Hagan's observation that "the coupe" was a late model "with two tail lights dark in color like a new Ford V-8 (with) a regular top." Red Ryan, of course, was driving about Toronto in a new dark-coloured Ford V- 8 coach with two tail lights. For McMullen and Checkley it was possible to simply lay low, but Red Ryan was a celebrity ex- convict who had to persist in his patently fraudulent act on a daily basis. He had to go on publicly and loudly declaiming against crime in general and, as part of this, wax indignant on the Markham shooting at the numerous venues that he frequented, and especially among his penitentiary-reformer friends, his reporter friends, and even to the police. In 1981, Gwyn Thomas

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remembered Ryan in the Stewart Building's press room hugely expounding on the Stonehouse shooting: "I still can picture him standing around police headquarters saying what a terrible thing it was and how he hoped that they caught the murderers." On Saturday, March 7, Red Ryan, wearing a black frock coat and a silk top hat, was ostentatiously apparent at the funeral of Lou Marsh, the Toronto Star's sports editor, who, after forty-three years on the job, had been the paper's longest-serving employee. Ryan seated himself beside Roy Greenaway in a pew in the High Park Baptist Church, which was filled to capacity with civic dignitaries, sports lovers, and the curious, some of whom actually may have been attracted by the Star's making an enormous self- promoting story — 1,700 column inches — out of Marsh's passing. During the service Greenaway noticed Ryan snickering to himself and asked what was so amusing. Ryan answered that he was imagining what the boys back in Kingston would say if they could see him among so many of Toronto's most prominent people. But Red Ryan had even more gall than that. A few days after the Markham shooting — according to several sources — Ryan had the effrontery to visit John Chishoim's office to offer himself as a willing source of information — "an undercover man" — in the Stonehouse case. It must have been quite a performance; both Ryan and Chisholm well knew that Ryan nearly exactly fit the description of one of the Markham perpetrators and the modus operandi of the crime was very consistent with Ryan's known methods. In the normal run, Ryan would have been a prime suspect. But, in view of the existing situation, Chisholm could do nothing but thank Ryan for his kind offer of help. Perhaps, as was later speculated, these gutsy feats gave Red Ryan feelings of power and satisfaction, but, too, at the same time, the Markham Murder (as the incident was sometimes now called in the press) changed the tone of the Ryan Gang's freedom; in effect, it turned what had seemed a criminal lark into a desperate game, the end of which might be the gallows. What must have been going on inside Red Ryan's head during these last, desperate days? Was he actually still enjoying the deception and the attention? Was he still "the Big Red Fox," yet glorying in the limelight conferred on him by his dozen years of sly deceit, yet secretly laughing up his sleeve at the rich and powerful men who he had so completely duped, the smug, self-important Mullinses, Andersons,

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and Withrows, all of them "little Kingsleys," who liked to think that they'd saved him from a jailhouse, when, in fact, it was him who was cunningly playing them like so many fat suckers in a rigged game of Three Card Monte? Or did he, like McMullen, feel himself growing fearful and the situation slipping away to a long drop down a hole in the gallows room at the Don Jail? How could he not have been growing weary — with his two jobs, the public appearances at wrestling matches in out-of-town venues, the unpublished book, the peripatetic social life with the upper-crusters, the penitentiary reformers, the reporters, the racetrack touts and bootleg-casino gamblers, the street prostitutes, the quasi-respectable women, the car trips to Kingston, Buffalo, Niagara Falls, all of the rest — and then up all night driving around half the Province of Ontario doing armed burglaries with two career criminals who had to do none of the same? Is it just possible that Red Ryan was "ready to go"? Is it possible that he was ripe to happily "die with his with his boots on" — his grand finale which would immortalize his career in lawlessness and which he'd been half-promising some of the ubiquitous admirers of his past "exploits"? Is it even thinkable that this great, preposterous centre of attention and inveterate player of "the Game" could have secretly relished being run in as the principal star of a murder trial and subsequent hanging? It seems absurd, but Red Ryan was absurd, wasn't he? It's hard to know the depths of his mind; for the nature of the situation was such that Ryan ought not to be trusting his thoughts to anyone, and the nature of the man was such that not much that he said, or did, could be believed anyway. Throughout March, the murderers of Edward Stonehouse held fast — living, to vary degrees, in apprehensive, worried, or panicked anticipation of their impending arrests. Likely only Harry Checkley continued "to go to work"; the police later believed that Checkley and another man were responsible for the evening robbery on March 5 of the small CNR station at Caledonia Road and St. Clair Avenue in Toronto, and for a similar after-dinner attempt to rob the CNR station at Oakville, Ontario, on March 22. The Toronto holdup netted all of $121; the Oakville try ended in disaster for the robbers when Frank Howard, the station's night operator, put up a vicious fight, got control of one of the robbers' revolvers, and fired two shots after the bandit as he fled. Ed McMullen lived in continuing fear that James Stonehouse could identify him, and apparently continued to blame Ryan for this.

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Likely Mac was badly jolted on March 2 when the Toronto Star erroneously reported that police investigators had successfully lifted several clear fingerprints from a door jamb in the Stonehouse Garage and from the Stonehouses's blood-spattered Chevrolet. Much worse was a second-hand story of Jenny Law's, which Ryan delivered personally "about six weeks before" the Victoria Day holiday weekend. It was Jenny's habit to visit Violet Mclntyre's brothel at 76 Elm Street, even though Tony Carino, who liked to imagine that his Italian parents didn't know his wife was a prostitute, had forbidden her to go there. Not wanting to be recognized, Jenny would pull her coat over her head and enter through the rear coal-cellar, then she would sit talking, playing cards or listening to Violet's radio with the brothel's girls. As Jenny told the story to Red, one of Violet's girls recently had taken her aside and gratuitously informed her, "You know that murder in Markham. Red Ryan did that!" Jenny didn't know if the girl knew she was seeing Ryan or not but said nothing to her. Apprised of this, Red Ryan just laughed and said that he didn't do it. This wasn't a bank robbery or a burglary that he wanted to brag about; the murder of Edward Stonehouse was just too hot. So now "the Red Ryan Gang's" culpability in the Markham crime was nearly common knowledge — practically street gossip! But what to do? The little criminal group was panicked into several reactions, including especially a flurry of lawless activity in support of a muchdiscussed plan to flee Toronto and to resettle on the Pacific Coast. To make this move, they needed money; Ryan, for certain, was now nearly broke, and for this reason, they undertook a quick series of drastic holdups and crimes, most of which happened far from the Toronto area. For several days McMullen watched the Imperial Bank on Talbot Street in the business district of the small western Ontario city of St. Thomas, 135 miles from Toronto. Then, before dawn on Saturday, March 28, Ryan and McMullen drilled the lock on the bank's rear door, broke in and awaited the staff's arrival. The bank's vault, they knew, was time locked to open at 9:30 a.m. Hooded in executioner's style, black-drop masks (which were evidently someone's idea of a macabre joke), the two gunmen trapped in turn the accountant, one of the ledgerkeepers, the office junior, and the teller. Mac met them as they arrived, stuck a revolver in their faces, then passed them to Ryan, who forced all but the female ledgerkeeper to lie face down on the floor of the manager's office. Gallantly, Ryan permitted the lady to sit in a chair.

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"Have you ever been shut up in the vault?" Ryan asked Cecil Simpson, the accountant, "No," answered Simpson. "Well, I'm afraid you're going to be," Ryan informed him. Things went awry when the second ledgerkeeper arrived and reacted to the sudden thrust of McMullen's revolver in his face by backing off the front porch and falling down. This forced McMullen, hood and all, to step outside the bank to herd the man back in. At the same time, Ryan raced to the front of the bank to help. Seizing the moment, Simpson, the accountant, jumped up from the floor, darted up the stairs to the third floor, smashed a window and began lustily shouting, "Holdup! Holdup!" At this Ryan and McMullen abandoned the robbery, hastily vacated the bank, and began running for Pearl Street where Harry Checkley, trying to look inconspicuous, was slumped down behind the wheel of McMullen's blue 1933 Chevrolet. Incredibly, in response to Cecil Simpson's alarm, a half dozen men — two armed with revolvers — were pouring out of Honsinger's Cigar Store, directly across Talbot Street from the Imperial Bank. Checkley, who was clearly growing in the job, fired two warning shots at the feet of a man who was about to tackle McMullen. The pursuer pulled up. The Toronto bandits wheeled the Chev quickly from St. Thomas in the direction of London, closely followed by three carloads of civicminded citizens. The chase went for miles at speeds up to eighty-five miles per hour. Ryan and McMullen ended it near Lambeth by shattering the rear window of the Chev and firing several shots at their closest trailers. This fiasco further discomfited McMullen, who, in an observer's later phrase, was "driven desperate by the knowledge the noose awaited him." About 2:20 a.m. on March 31, "the Red Ryan Gang" returned to the Village of Markham, seeking a confrontation with James Stonehouse.45 The question they wanted an answer to was, Could James identify McMullen as the man who had shot his father? While the others waited outside in a car, Harry Checkley went into a bakery where work was done at night and pretended to inquire where he could buy gas. He specifically mentioned the Stonehouse Garage to the night baker, William Fry, who was suspicious and warned him off.44 Either just before, or just after, this stop, the carload of gunmen visited

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the Stonehouse property and called out to those in the house, asking them to come out and sell them gas. The Stonehouses opened a window and, understandably, refused. Perhaps if James Stonehouse had come out of the house, McMullen would have shot him dead. Three days later, on April 2, Red Ryan quit his job at Fawcett Motors, purporting that he would soon be going into business for himself. Likely he wanted to get rid of the potentially incriminating Ford coach, which, at the same time, had its interior seats reupholstered. Possibly Ryan feared that there were telltale bloodstains on the upholstery. Having jumped heavily into high-profile bank robbery, "the Red Ryan Gang" did not forsake night burglary. The Scott Woolen Mills safecracking and the Ontario Produce Company failure happened around this time as did a more spectacular late-night misadventure at Collingwood, Ontario, a small farming, shipbuilding and resort town on Georgian Bay. On Easter Sunday night, Ryan, McMullen, and Checkley drove a hundred miles north and, about 1:30 a.m. on Monday, April 13, tried to cut the barred windows of the National Grocer's warehouse with a hacksaw. Unknowingly, they tripped an alarm, which rang in the police station, and brought Constable Charles Sleeman to the scene. The bandits opened fire and the constable fired back. Sixteen shots were loosed before the Toronto thieves made their escape. It was another long trip for nothing. For several weeks Ryan had been corresponding with a twentythree-year-old Ottawa youth, Thomas Finnessey, an ex-Kingston inmate, who had agreed to "jug mark" — setup — the Bank of Nova Scotia in the sleepy foothills of the Laurentian Mountains town of LaChute, Quebec, 350 miles east of Toronto and fifteen miles east of the Perley Bridge over the Ottawa River, which joins Hawkesbury, Ontario, and Grenville, Quebec. Shortly after 6 a.m. on Tuesday, April 14, Ryan, McMullen, and Checkley departed Toronto in two stolen eight-cylinder Oldsmobiles, both of which they had glommed in Toronto, one of them a very distinctive maroon-coloured sedan. They drove hurriedly to Quebec, met up with Finnessey, and perfunctorily scouted the LaChute bank. It was to be a quick in-and-out "job." About 2:30 p.m., while Checkley lurked down the block in the maroon Olds, the other three gunmen — all masked — fell upon the Bank of Nova Scotia with guns drawn. Eleven people — six customers and five staff— were forced to lie on the floor on their stomachs.

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Behind the bank's counter, in typical fashion, Red Ryan — who was later described as "the leader ... a man between forty and fortyfive, heavy set, full-faced, and with small eyes and a dark complexion" — floored Garnet Cheley, the manager, by cold-bloodedly cracking him over the head with a revolver butt. He helped himself to the bills and silver in the teller's cage drawer but missed $1,000 in a bank envelope; then he tried to get Cheley to open "the crib." The manager stalled. Just then McMullen caught sight of the bank's caretaker's fourteen-year-old son peering through a window at him, panicked, and shouted for the others to quit the bank. They ran from the building and fled LaChute swiftly in the maroon Olds, which was later found abandoned on the highway between Gushing, Quebec, and Grenville. By 10:00 p.m., the gang was back in Toronto. Ryan discussed the caper with Russ Walsh the next day — blaming McMullen for getting excited and costing them the cash in the bank's vault. Flush with the Bank of Nova Scotia's money — $3,578.26 split four ways — Ryan and McMullen hesitated and did not leave Ontario. The other side of the argument loomed up: if Ryan simply disappeared from Toronto, there would be an investigation that would likely lead to Markham and, if that happened, McMullen would surely be drawn in. McMullen didn't want to leave the life he had. There was only a prostitute's story, now several weeks old, to drive them out. Once again they decided to simply wait out the further unfolding of events. Ryan took an afternoon job in the Customer Service Department of Ben Sadowski's National Motors on Bay Street and, on April 17, he purchased from Packard-Ontario Motors, National Motors' St. Clair Avenue West used-car lot, a not-very-sporty, six-cylinder grey Chrysler roadster. He put $165.00 down and agreed to pay twelve monthly payments of $25.75. Now Ryan was going about Toronto showing off a typed copy of The Futility of Crime, which Oswald Withrow had finished working on and had bound in a cardboard cover with two sample pages of Ryan's original manuscript in the bank robber's own neat longhand. Ryan had this handy exhibit with him when he visited Kingston in late April, showing it to Father Kingsley, Warden Allan, and Matt Walsh, posturing as always with his usual patter about Crime Does Not Pay. At a dinner party in the rectory of the Church of the Good Thief, Ryan was put off his food when one of the guests noticed aloud that

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his hair seemed to be darker than formerly. "Ryan did not like the remark and showed it plainly," another guest later remembered. Ryan had dyed his hair black for the LaChute robbery and took the remark as an insinuation. On Saturday, May 2, Ryan was centre stage at Harry Anderson's funeral — forthrightly expostulating to Anderson's spinster sisters his heartfelt belief that he would be "in prison today if it had not been for Mr. Anderson," and exaggeratedly claiming to believe that, without Anderson, the Archambault Commission would prove "a whitewash" with the other panelists, Judge Joseph Archambault and R.W. Craig, having "the wool pulled over their eyes by the prison officials." The sisters, who were much taken with Toronto's celebrity ex-convict, placed Ryan's "lovely little floral sheaf of roses" next to Anderson's casket and later mailed to Ryan two cards from the deceased editor's Bible. A day or two later Ryan was again in the office of John Chisholm — enthusiastically congratulating the chief of detectives for his courage in taking on, and winning, a gunfight with George Little, a Winnipeg bank robber and fugitive, in front of the West Toronto YMCA. Again Chisholm thanked Ryan for his community-spirited kindness. And then the jig was up. In the first week of May, Father Kingsley appeared in Toronto — apparently his first visit to the city since July 1935 — suspicious and asking questions. The priest had received an anonymous letter in a feminine handwriting, which claimed that Norman Ryan was "robbing banks" and "running around with women." As plausible as ever, Ryan denied all knowledge and kept on with his affectation. When he and Kingsley met Wallace Bunton on Yonge Street that week, Ryan maintained his posture with a hearty smile. "I am doing wonderfully well; everything is getting better every day," he told Bunton. A few days later Kingsley forwarded "the anonymous missive" to Ryan by mail. And then Ryan knew. He recognized the handwriting at once. The authoress was, as Roy Greenaway later wrote, "a close woman relative." To "friends" who were known to Greenaway, Ryan criticized this as "another example of 'persecution' of a man trying to go right." He described the woman who had written the letter as "a hateful witch who lived on suspicion and should be dead." About the same time, Ryan may, or may not, have known that "Ryan's sister, a nice woman with red hair" warned off a nineteen-year-old Parkdale

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girl, who Ryan was showing interest in, saying, "Stay away from Norman. He's in trouble with the police again." News of the anonymous letter was all that the man who pulled the trigger at Markham had to hear. On May 8, a few days after Father Kingsley's visit, Ed McMullen had his precious furniture packed, crated, and shipped under the name "J.C. Masson" on a CPR train to Vancouver. Mary McGill was dispatched to the Department of Highways office at Queen's Park to make a declaration that McMullen's licence plates — markers A-1882 — had been stolen. For a fee of two dollars, new tags were issued. When McMullen and Mary left Toronto on May 11, Mac's Chev was wearing the supposedly lost plates. The next day the couple crossed into the United States at Windsor, then, after stopping for a night at an address on Melrose Avenue in Detroit, undertook a leisurely car trip across the northern states, sleeping in trailer parks and campgrounds along the way. They re-entered Canada at Douglas, British Columbia, on May 18. The following day, they rented a modern, five-room bungalow at 3912 Victory Street in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby and, the same day, moved in their elaborate furnishings, including a two-hundred-dollar gas stove. They spent the next few days laying linoleum, varnishing floors and making sure their state-of-the-art indirect lighting was working properly. "J.C. Masson" claimed to his new landlord, Robert Patterson, that he was an employee of Standard Oil who had been transferred to Vancouver. Patterson later said of his tenants, "Mr. McMullen was an exceedingly nice man. We didn't think much of her because she was smoking all the time." Ryan had advanced McMullen part of his share of the LaChute Bank of Nova Scotia loot on Mac's promise that he would get set up in the Vancouver area and then notify him to come out to the Coast. Ryan surely knew, and evidently discounted, the story that McMullen had "stiffed" the Wyoming bank robbers in October 1921. In his last days in Toronto, Ryan was constantly asking Russ Walsh if a wire had come from Mac. The wire never came. Red Ryan stayed behind in Toronto because he still had the problem of having to report to the Toronto Police. If he could get out from under that, his flight from the city would not cause an investigation, and he and McMullen would be comparatively free to pursue their careers in crime in the West. According to a later story, on May 14, Ryan visited the home of a York County crown attorney, asking that the lawyer use his influence to help him effect two things:

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his appointment to the vacant place on the Archambault Commission, and the abrogation of his Ticket-of-Leave's condition that he make a monthly report to the Toronto Police, Obviously it was the second request that mattered, but he was turned down twice. When he made his last report at police headquarters, on Friday, May 22, Ryan informed the chief constable's office that he was going on a three-week fishing trip to the Muskoka and Severn River districts. This was certainly to mask his departure — and disappearance. In his last days in Toronto, Red Ryan continued to put in time at National Motors and at the Nealon Hotel in the evenings. He was still seeing Jenny Law and was practically begging her to go out west with him. On Tuesday, May 19, he lunched with R.E. Porter and Tommy Levine at the College Street restaurant where he told many stories; two nights later, he was in Oshawa at one of Jack Corcoran's wrestling promotions. Coincidentally, he obtained a list of CN excursion rates to the West and packed a Gladstone bag with clean shirts, collars, underwear, pajamas and rolls of white surgical bandages — in case he should be shot. There was still one thing left to do: Red Ryan would have to pull one more "job" for travel expenses.

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CHAPTER TEN Sarnia (May 23, 1936)

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ven with the shadow of the rope hanging over him and a close relative trying to turn him in to Father Kingsley, Red Ryan could not stop himself bragging to Jenny Law about a clever plan to rob the Ontario Liquor Board outlet in Sarnia — a plan of which he was inordinately proud. A week or ten days beforehand, Jenny knew when and how the Sarnia robbery was to happen. Though, in general, she tried to know as little as possible about such activities, Jenny did discuss this scheme with Ryan: I begged him not to do it — not to do it at closing time. I said, "Red, there'll be too many cops" He said, "Oh, naw. It'll be a piece of cake."

So deep-seated was Ryan's exhibitionism that he suggested to Jenny that she should go along to Sarnia for no other purpose than to watch "the score" from a safe vantagepoint. She could ride there and back in the new eight-cylinder Oldsmobile coach that the gang had stolen in April from a Briar Hill Avenue, Toronto, driveway. Not wanting to get involved, Jenny refused. Besides, she considered that Ryan had already "flannel-mouthed" the job — the police might be waiting.

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Ryan's plan for the robbery was developed around the peculiar floor design of the store itself. The building — 140 Christina Street North — was, and is, in the downtown section, in a row of stores on the east side of Sarnia's main north-south thoroughfare. Like most Ontario Liquor Board outlets of its day, the Sarnia store was essentially symmetrical in design. It had separate "In" and "Out" doors, which, in this instance, were side-by-side and flush with the inner edge of the Christina Street sidewalk, and corresponding "In" and "Out" vestibules, which were divided from each other by a short wooden wall. This wall joined at a right angle with a long, substantial lath and plaster partition, which cut off both vestibules at the store's front from the large purchasing room in the back. On entering the store, a customer opened the "In" door (the north door) outwards, stepped from the sidewalk onto a small patch of vestibule floor, turned left up four long steps to a small landing, then turned right through a doorway into the purchasing room. In making a purchase, the customer crossed the width of the store — some thirty-five feet — from north to south. He then exited onto the mirror-image "Out" landing, turned right down the short staircase, turned left on the patch of floor, and departed through the "Out" door, which locked automatically behind. The customer was then back on the Christina Street sidewalk and only two or three feet from where he had first entered the store. The robbery was to take place when the liquor store would have the most money: at closing time on May 23, the Saturday of the Victoria Day weekend. Ryan and Checkley — dressed as railway workers in a railway town — would enter the "In" vestibule just before 6:00 p.m. and turn the cylinder lock behind them. With this, no one would be able to gain entry from the street and, in the normal course of things, the staff and customers in the purchasing room would not be able to see into the vestibule. Ryan imagined that they would only have to wait until the customers finished their business, passed to the south end of the store and exited by the "Out" stairwell. When only the staff remained, he and Checkley would put on masks and goggles, enter the purchasing room, and, at gunpoint, seize the holiday receipts. Then they would tie up the staff with strands of wire and depart at their leisure. Anyone who saw them leave would take them for just what they appeared to be: two railway workers leaving a liquor store a few minutes after closing time. What happened at Sarnia on Saturday, May 23, 1936, happened

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the way it did because of two circumstances. First, because Ryan did not want to be recognized in Sarnia on the day of the robbery, the two gunmen did not begin the 195-mile drive from Toronto until — at the earliest — nearly 2:00 p.m. As late as 5:50 p.m. — ten minutes before closing time — Ryan and Checkley were observed still frantically looking for a suitable downtown parking space. In fact, the robbers had made themselves late for their own robbery and, probably for this reason, failed to notice a small but important departure from the normal workings of the store. Someone had released the closer on the "Out" door's automatic lock: the door could be pried open from the outside. The second element was sheer pregnant happenstance: that Austin "Cap" Glass, a liquor store patron, was somehow twenty-five cents short of the purchase price for his preferred brand of liquor, and the peculiar manner in which he reacted to this unexpected discovery. About 5:56 p.m. — give or take a minute — Glass began casting about the liquor store for someone he might approach for a small loan. Seeing no one he felt comfortable asking, faintly hoping that someone he knew better might be coming into the store, Glass walked to the "In" stairwell and stuck his head around the partition. What he saw gave him a considerable shock. Glass had been the last customer to enter the store. At the bottom of the stairs, he had passed "two railway fellows," who had entered just before him. Now, as he peered down the stairwell, Glass saw the same two men — dressed in full-length denim overalls, blue railway hats, and wearing gloves — staring back at him. Incredibly both men were now adjusting dark-coloured handkerchiefs over their faces. As Glass locked eyes with the smaller and nearer man, there was a moment of mutual perception — Glass realizing it was a robbery attempt, Harry Checkley understanding the discovery had been made and that Glass would shortly give the alarm. With this, Checkley made the instantaneous decision to go into action. "All right, come on," he shouted and rushed up the stairs. Ryan, who could do little else, followed and the two bandits — each with two pistols in hand — burst into the purchasing room. "Stick 'em up," ordered Checkley as he came through the door. Most of the twenty or more customers were too startled or incredulous to comply. Behind the counter D.A. "Mac" MacDonald, the manager, thought it was some of his friends playing a joke; he had taken over the manager's job only a day or two before.

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"Come on, I mean it," Checkley threatened in a much sharper tone. On this command practically everyone raised their hands, although at least one quick-thinking customer took advantage of the momentary confusion to transfer twenty-five dollars from his pocket to a hiding place under his belt. Now Ryan — "the big man" — moved to the centre of the store and began waving his guns and shouting commands in an extremely truculent and self-assured manner. Customers were told to turn and face the bottles at the rear of the store; staff, to move back from the counter, turn, and face the shelves. "You, fellow with the grey hair and glasses," Ryan barked at Dan McGibbon, the permit clerk, who was slow to catch on to what was happening. "Back off and face the bottles." At this point big Ryan — it was clear to everyone that he was the leader — did something that amazed all who saw it. The two hundred-pound robber jammed his large, black .45 automatic into a pocket of his overalls, approached the counter near the permit clerk's wicket, put one hand on the neck-high ledge on the top of the cage and, quick as a cat, vaulted the barrier, clearing the ledge by several inches. Behind the counter, Ryan rifled first the permit drawer at the north end, then the cashier's wicket towards the south. Meanwhile Checkley — who never strayed more than a few feet from the "In" door — kept arcing his guns over the crowd. Several times "the little man" demanded that the customers turn in such a fashion as to direct their vision away from Ryan. While the permit drawer was being ransacked, those closest to the "In" door were told to look directly at Checkley. When Ryan moved to the cash drawer, the same group was turned around again. About this time, something was happening on the sidewalk in front of the liquor store that would shortly have grave consequences. Two last-minute customers — Geoffrey Garvey, an employee of Imperial Oil, and another man — arrived at the store and were confronted with the locked "In" door. Now they were noticing what Ryan and Checkley, in their haste, had failed to gather: that the "Out" door could be pried open. Knowing that it was not yet 6:00 p.m., Garvey and his co-conspirator surreptitiously levered the door, entered the "Out" vestibule, and tiptoed up the stairs. As they reached the landing, they were astonished to see John Rollins, a liquor store clerk, and several others with their hands in the air.

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Trading glances with Rollins, Garvey took in the situation and its consequences in a moment; the other man, however, loudly blurted out, "It's a holdup." For some reason, the robbers failed to hear this, and Garvey and his companion were able to retreat unnoticed back down the stairwell. Garvey crossed Christina Street and reported the robbery at Welch's Taxi Stand where a driver immediately telephoned the police. Meanwhile, inside the liquor store, at least two people — Rollins, the clerk, and MacDonald, the manager — knew the police would be arriving at any moment.

At age 33, Police Constable Jack Lewis had the things most men want out of life: a lovely wife, two beautiful children, a home, a car and — during Depression times — a job that paid four dollars a day. A sevenyear veteran of the Sarnia force, Lewis was a quiet, unassuming man, slow of mien, who knew how to be quick at the right moment. Many locals knew him as "the policeman with the long, slow step" — the step that seemed to typify his manner. A few minutes before Ryan and Checkley slipped into the liquor store vestibule, Jack Lewis left his modest one-storey frame house at 315 Nelson Street to drive to work. Before leaving, Lewis entered the room where his wife, Vera, was doing housework, kissed her, and said, "Goodbye." Lewis was one of only thirteen police officers employed by the City of Sarnia to protect 18,000 people on an around-the-clock basis. According to Sarnia Chief Constable W.J. Lannin and the Police Association of Ontario, which recommended a ratio of one policeman per thousand population, the Sarnia Police Department was understrength by at least five officers. Often there were only two or three men at the station; at times, only one man, and he had to handle the switchboard. Besides this, the Sarnia Police were not wellequipped. Each man carried only a light .32-calibre Colt revolver. Chief Lannin wanted to replace these with revolvers of a heavier calibre, but there was no money. The department did not own even one bulletproof vest.

At the police station in the basement of the city hall, the holdup report was taken by Constable W.C. Burgess at 5:58 p.m. Luckily — because the police were just then changing their shift — there were

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four men available to answer the call: Detective Frank McGirr and Constable William Simpkins, both of whom had been working most of the day; Sergeant George Smith, who had come on at 5:00 p.m.; and Jack Lewis, who was just walking into the station to start work. None of the four had ever before fired his gun in the line of duty. Almost before Burgess repeated the holdup report word-foreword, the four policemen were out the station door and piling into a patrol car. In less than a minute they were at the scene and Simpkins, first man out of the car, was trying the liquor store's "In" door. News of the holdup had spread quickly among the holidaySaturday shoppers. Even before the police arrived, a large knot of spectators had gathered on the west side of Christina Street. In a few minutes there would be dozens of people; a few minutes after that, hundreds. Inside the store Ryan and Checkley — still unaware the alarm had been turned in — were nearly finished their work. After looting the cash register, Ryan took several steps towards the office in the rear, then changed his mind. MacDonald, the manager, was glad of that; he had made the mistake of leaving the safe door unlocked with more than a thousand dollars for the easy taking. At this point Checkley called out a request: "Alex, grab a couple bottles for me." This was ignored. "Alex" asked his accomplice if the door was "all right" and was assured that it was. He looked around a while longer, lingering too long as usual, then he decided there was nothing more to be had and shouted to his partner, "Come on, let's go. I've got it all." Immediately he changed his mind again. Now he began forcing the staff to the south end of the store where he again made them face the rear of the building. Then he went outside the counter and started herding the customers back with the staff. By now the police were in the "Out" stairwell, some of them with their guns drawn. Simpkins, faced with the locked "In" door, had hesitated for a moment; through the pane of glass he could see Checkley at his post just inside the portal of the purchasing room. First Lewis, then McGirr, then Smith had passed Simpkins and entered the "Out" door; Simpkins followed. Ryan had chased five or six of the customers behind the counter when suddenly he became aware of a noise on the stairs. Without an instant's hesitation, he wheeled and, with guns ready, moved to meet the threat at the "Out" stairwell. At the same time Jack Lewis, the

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policeman in the lead, reached the hallway landing. Just as Lewis put his foot on the landing step and started to turn left to come into the store, Red Ryan loomed in the doorway and mercilessly fired at pointblank range, A burst of fire — several shots — was seen to spit from the large, black automatic in his right hand, Lewis, hit square in the chest, crumpled and pitched forward on his knees. Instantly the store exploded in turmoil. Someone yelled, "Police"; someone else, "Duck," All at once, customers and staff jumped for whatever cover they could find. Some went down on their haunches; some flopped on their stomaches; others went to the floor, then decided they weren't any safer there and came back up again. Immediately Ryan turned his fire on Frank McGirr, the next man up the stairs. McGirr and George Smith, who was right behind him, fired back. A bullet — loosed at a distance of not more than five feet — ripped through McGirr's vest and cut the top of the left pocket of his trousers. A police bullet smashed into Ryan's left arm just above the elbow. Now Ryan — frustrated, wounded, and suddenly aware that he could not fight his way to freedom through the "Out" door — backed up two paces, shifted, and ran for the north end of the store. A track of blood marked his route across the floor. At the "In" stairwell he caught up with Checkley, who seemed frozen to his post by the "In" door. Just as the pair were about to disappear into the stairwell, McGirr and Smith came in from the "Out" landing and both fired a single shot. These bullets must have found their marks; afterwards the police would be unable to find any bullet holes in the north wall. From the sound of things, one of the bandits — most likely Ryan — now fell down the staircase. First McGirr, then a crouching George Smith, crossed the store to the partition at the head of the "In" stairwell. Meanwhile Simpkins — who had never actually come into the purchasing room — heard the rush of feet to the north end of the store and reacted in the best possible way: he went back down the "Out" stairs and flattened himself against the face of the building — covering the robbers' escape through the "In" door. Now the bandit pair were caught in a deathtrap of their own making. At the bottom of the stairs, Ryan was struggling to open the locked door. Checkley, a gun in each hand, stood halfway up the little staircase. Unflinchingly George Smith stuck his Colt .32 revolver around the partition and fired into the stairwell. Ryan released a

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volley from his automatic pistol, smashing holes in the plaster up and down the partition. Again and again he fired up the stairs. Twice more Smith stuck his gun around the partition, the last time firing until it clicked on empty. The best view now belonged to the burgeoning crowd of onlookers on the west side of Christina Street. Simpkins was in plain sight; the revolver reports could be heard clearly; and, through the pane of glass, "the big robber" could be seen firing up the stairs while trying to get through the locked door. In seconds Red Ryan had taken all he could; he slumped to the floor. Checkley — still with a gun in each hand — started to retrace his steps back up the stairs. Frank McGirr now stuck his revolver around the partition and fired. At this, Checkley screamed "I give up," dropped his guns, and raised his hands. He then tumbled back down the staircase. His guns bounced down the stairs with him. At a police command Ryan — without saying a word — threw two guns to the top of the staircase. Checkley did nothing; he was already very near death. Now it was over. The robbery had lasted perhaps three minutes; the shooting, in total, possibly twenty-five or thirty seconds; the gunfight in the north stairwell, not more than eight or ten seconds. In all, twenty-two shots had been fired, at least nine in the purchasing room, yet none of the customers or staff had been injured. Red Ryan had fired thirteen shots himself. In the north stairwell Ryan was prostrate, his feet to the door, his head up in a corner. Blood was pouring from his clothing, and his breath was coming in heavy, ominous gasps. Checkley was arrayed at a right angle in a sitting position, his legs partly on top of Ryan, his head pointed up the stairs. His eyes were "open and staring, and his body twitched spasmodically," but he was hardly bleeding at all. The staircase was strewn with silver and coppers; the small patch of floor, already red with Ryan's blood. Near the downed gunmen were two .38-calibre revolvers, one an Iver-Johnson, the other a Smith and Wesson; also, a pair of goggles, a broken pair of sunglasses, and several strands of wire cut into two- foot lengths. On the landing, where Ryan had thrown them, were Ryan's large, black automatic and another Iver-Johnson .38 revolver; also, another pair of goggles. At the south end, John Lewis was down and being assisted by several people. During the final shootout in the "In" stairwell, he had

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picked himself off of the floor and come teetering into the purchasing room, gun-in-hand, with the intent of helping Smith and McGirr. A customer took control of the revolver and sat Lewis on the floor. Everywhere in the store was the acrid smell of gunpowder. Smith and McGirr did a cursory search of the two men. Ryan's overall pockets contained a large roll of mostly small bills — the loot from the robbery. When counted with the change on the floor and the few dollars that would later be found in his suit pockets, all of the money taken from Red Ryan would come to only $394.26 — just slightly more than the $371.25 the liquor store would report missing. Outside, the crowd — by this time, perhaps a hundred people — had crossed Christina Street and was now pressed up against the storefront. Almost immediately Constable Lewis was carried from the store and through this throng to the waiting police car. A minute or two later, ambulances arrived from J.A. Robb's and H.N. Phillips' funeral homes. The stricken robbers — as yet unrecognized — were carried up to the store level, placed on stretcher cots and taken through the "Out" stairwell. The crowd merely watched in shocked silence. At Sarnia General Hospital, none of the wounded survived for very long. Checkley, hit once by a bullet that entered his chest below the right nipple and exited through his left side, was dead on arrival at the George Street Emergency. Jack Lewis died about 6:45 — a few minutes after his wife reached the hospital. Ryan lasted until about 7:50. The bullet that killed him penetrated at the right temple and stayed inside his head. He had also been shot in the left upper-arm and the left ankle. He died without uttering a word. Late that night an autopsy was performed on Lewis's body only.46 The report, signed by doctors W. Goldwin Gray and A.M. Borrowman, concluded that there were two causes of death: hemorrhage from a severed internal jugular vein, and shock. Lewis's clothing and belongings gave evidence to the wry facts of the shooting. Four bullets — all fired at a distance of not more than four feet — hit the front of the officer's chest. Two struck, and were deflected by, a telephone book-sized book of fish-and-game laws that Lewis carried inside his breast pocket. A third flattened a large brass button on the front of his tunic and bounced harmlessly away. Only the fourth bullet — proved by a hole directly below the tunic's second button — punctured the young policeman's body. Vera Lewis did have the consolation of a last moment with her husband. A neighbour who was at the liquor store drove straight back

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to Nelson Street and brought her to the hospital. The dying policeman recognized his wife and had the strength for one last sentence: "I guess I'll soon be with Mr. Rhoades." (The reference was to the Reverend A.H. Rhoades, a friend of Lewis's, whose funeral he had attended on the previous Friday.) About 6:30 p.m. doctors at Sarnia General Hospital handed Frank McGirr the clothing that had been stripped from the two robbers. Checkley's belongings told nothing, but Ryan's pockets provided the inevitable shock. Inside his suit pants, which he had worn underneath his denim overalls, was a wallet that contained two documents: a 1936 driver's licence in the name of John N. Ryan, 279 Lansdowne Avenue, Toronto; and a motor vehicle permit for a grey, 1932 Chrysler issued to Norman J. Ryan, same address. All at once McGirr was hit with the astonishing truth: "the big man," as police and witnesses had been calling him, was Red Ryan, Ontario's prodigal boy. Already the Sarnia Police, with the help of the local detachment of the O.P.R, were coping with "the most sensational crisis in the history of Sarnia." Officers were needed to do everything everywhere: to control crowds of curious spectators at the liquor store, the hospital and the police station; to secure the crime scene; to conduct police investigations at several locations; and, during the first hour after the shooting, to search Sarnia's streets for a suspected third robber in a getaway car. About 7:00 p.m. the Olds coach was discovered parked in front of the William Reynolds Harness Shop on Victoria Street, a block east of Christina, near the mouth of an alley that emerged beside the liquor store. A set of keys found in Ryan's suit pockets opened its doors, causing the police to conclude that there was no third robber. By 8:30 p.m. scars on Ryan's corpse were matched with his Toronto Police records; Chief Lannin felt sufficiently confident in the identification to inform H.G. "Scoop" MacLean of the Sarnia Canadian Observer that "the big man" was Red Ryan. For the small Canadian Observer the shooting was at once "Sarnia's greatest crime" and "an opportunity to exploit the advantage that the home newspaper possesses." At 6:10 p.m. a tip was telephoned to "Scoop" MacLean, who rushed to the liquor store. Soon afterwards the paper made the decision to put out an "Extra" edition, which, that night and the following day, sold four thousand copies in Sarnia and surrounding towns. The following Monday, for the first time in its history, the Canadian Observer was peddled on the streets of London and Windsor, copies being readily bought up.

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The Saturday night rush of events was captured in the information and misinformation that appeared in the outlines under the Canadian Observer banner headline of Saturday, May 23: POLICE OFFICER, 2 BANDITS KILLED Constable John Lewis and 2 Robbers Fatally Wounded Constable John Lewis, Man Said to be John Regan of Toronto and Unidentified Second Robber are Victims — Fine Attack by City Police Results in Death of Brave Officers but Murderers Pay Penalty — Chief of Police Lannin Said at 8:30 PM. One Bandit is Believed to Have Been Norman "Red" Ryan, Famous Ontario Bandit Who was Released From Pen Last Fall — The Man's Hair was Dyed47 Something else was prominently displayed on the front page of the Canadian Observer that night: the suddenly ironic photograph of a smiling Red Ryan, shaking hands with Father Kingsley, which had been part of the Toronto Star big news scoop of July 24, 1935.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN The Jolt (May 23-31,1936)

T

he news of Red Ryan's violent end hit southern Ontario, and especially Toronto, like a thunderbolt. People were shocked, bewildered, and appalled all at once, but mostly they were shocked. Many of those who knew Ryan had difficulty believing what they were being told. "You could have knocked me over with a feather when they told me that," remembered Bob Ellis, a Nealon Hotel frequenter, who had been drinking beer with Ryan a night or two previously. The general public, much of which had been reading that Ryan was a paragon for years, was similarly jarred. People learned of the news over the radio, or by word'of-mouth, then they couldn't wait to tell others. The event was a small sensation. "Except that Red Ryan was dead on the floor, and beside him was a dead policeman with a bullet in him from Ryan's gun, no one in Toronto would have believed it," estimated Gwyn Thomas years afterward. The jolting impact had a curious traumatic effect in parts of southern Ontario but in Toronto especially; as in the case of the infinitely more significant death of American president John F. Kennedy in 1963, almost invariably people would carry a lifelong remembrance of exactly where they were, and who they were with, when they heard of Red Ryan's ignominious demise. But the word spread slowly that Saturday night.

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The first person to hear of it in Toronto was John Chisholm, who was telephoned at police headquarters by Chief Lannin about 6:30 p.m. — just after Frank McGirr discovered Ryan's documents in "the big man's" clothes. Chisholm reacted cautiously. He had a constable call Ryan's home, learned that Ryan wasn't in, then simply waited on developments. Chisholm did call Alex McCathie at his home and the two veteran detectives ran through a list of "possibles" for "the little man" — but neither of them thought of Harry Checkley. When Checkley's identity was established through fingerprints the following day, McCathie was incredulous. "I couldn't believe it. My God, he'd just been charged with stealing socks out of Eaton's," laughed the detective years later. Jenny Law learned of the Sarnia shooting over Violet Mclntyre's radio in the early evening. Red Ryan's name wasn't mentioned — just the fact that two bandits and a policeman had been shot in a holdup attempt. Jenny had gone to 76 Elm Street to listen for news of a successful armed robbery. Realizing "Red" was wounded, captured and perhaps dead, Jenny "felt just terrible," but, true to her code, she said nothing to Violet or the other girls. About 8:30 p.m., news desks across Canada were informed of Red Ryan's likely death at Sarnia when the Canadian Observer put the celebrity ex-convict's name on the Canadian Press wire. At Toronto, this news, not merely the story of the robbery and the shooting, started a small stampede of reporters towards Sarnia. The Toronto Star dispatched H.R. "Barney" Armstrong, a disbarred lawyer from Sudbury, and a photographer. Roy Greenaway and Athol Gow were called at home and told to get on the story at the Toronto end. Gow, who was overwhelmed, not only by Ryan's death but by the sordid way in which Ryan had died, actually broke down and cried. He flatly refused to go to the Ryan family for comment. Instead he went out and got drunk and stayed drunk for several days. Russ Walsh must have learned of his brother's death from reporters who called his home asking for information. About midnight, Russ showed up at the duty desk at 149 College Street, wanting to know if it was true that Norman Ryan had been killed at Sarnia. When told it was so, Russ responded, "Very well, I'll tell you everything." In fact, Russ had tried to give Ryan up before this; in mid-April, he had sent an anonymous letter to the Inglewood Drive home of Arthur Roebuck, the attorney general of Ontario, informing Roebuck that he had suspicions about Red Ryan and that Roebuck

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should contact him by inserting a personal ad addressed to "Tom" in a Toronto newspaper. But Russ received no reply. To all appearances, Russ had intended to turn his brother in as a bank robber, not as the murderer of Edward Stonehouse, much as the "close woman relative" did with Father Kingsley a few weeks later. According to what he now unloaded to Detective-Sergeant William McAllister of the Toronto Police and to Inspector A.H. Ward of the O.P.P's C.I.B., Russ first suspected his brother in the fall of 1935 when Norman questioned him about the workings of electric drills, acetylene torches, and welding torches. Asked why he wanted to know this, Norman replied that Ed McMullen was going to start a business repairing radios. After that, Russ came to know for certain that Ryan, McMullen, and "a third party, whose name was not mentioned" were responsible for blowing the safe in the Scarborough liquor store and for the attempted safe "job" at Ailsa Craig. In his statement, Russ was credited with suggesting that "any safe job where nitroglycerine was used in the Province of Ontario, in the past six months, his brother and McMullen were in on it." Most importantly, Russ told the policemen how, on the morning after the Markham incident, his wife had discovered the three men in her living room and how, as a consequence, Ryan had admitted to the facts of the Stonehouse shooting, which Russ understood in a garbled way, believing that McMullen had shot the Stonehouses with a shotgun, not a .38 revolver, while they were still on the Chev's runningboard. He told of Ryan's and McMullen's dispute over whether or not to kill James Stonehouse as he lay on the highway in the snow. Forty percent of Russ's nine hundred-word statement had to do with the Markham shooting; but Russ also named "these same three men" as being involved in the LaChute bank robbery, the attempted bank robbery at St. Thomas, and the Collingwood attempted break- in and shooting. In the case of the LaChute occurrence, Russ gave up the name of Thomas Finnessey of 544 Somerset Avenue, Ottawa, as being in on "the job." All of this Russ had learned from Norman Ryan, who apparently believed that his blood loyal and intimidated brother would never inform on him. Russ pointedly warned the police about Ed McMullen's being "a very dangerous man" and cautioned them that he carried on his person "some kind of bomb, or other explosive as well as a revolver ... so that if he is ever chased by the police in an automobile, he would use the explosive on them." Later Russ told a reporter that he had

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made it known to the police that they would have to "knock (McMullen) down with a club from behind to get him." He assured the detectives that McMullen would "never be taken alive." After leaving the Stewart Building in the early morning, Russ made a discovery that caused him to immediately call police detectives to his home. In parking Ryan's roadster in its garage, Russ had nearly run over a black leather handbag, which, as he gathered, contained incriminating materials, which were discovered to be several sticks of dynamite, a twenty-six-ounce bottle of nitroglycerine and some glass sealers holding caps and fuses. Detectives soon noticed the similarity of these materials to materials used in a number of recent safe jobs. Detective-Sergeant McAllister and Detective John Nimmo investigated Ryan's room, found Ryan's illicit correspondence with Thomas Finnessey, and, as the press reported, a letter of Gordon Simpson's from New York City — telling Ryan that he had found work and was going to stay there. Later Inspector W.H. Lougheed of the O.RR's C.I.B., who was in charge of the Stonehouse murder investigation, made another search of Ryan's room and took away a pair of Ryan's shoes. That Sunday, as a consequence of Russ Walsh's information, Detective-Sergeant McAllister and Inspector Ward drove to Ottawa where, together with Ottawa detectives, they tried to locate Thomas Finnessey. But they were too late; Finnessey had heard of Ryan's death, realized its implications for himself, and gone underground. After obtaining mugshots of McMullen and Finnessey from the R.C.M.R at Ottawa, McAllister and Ward motored to LaChute, Quebec, where, from thirteen photographs, Garnet Cheley, the Bank of Nova Scotia's manager, identified Ryan, McMullen, and Finnessey, and J.C. Skuffman, the bank's accountant, picked out McMullen and Finnessey. It fell to Roy Greenaway to break the news of Ryan's death to Father Kingsley — by telephone before mass on Sunday morning. Thirty years later, the reporter still remembered the proud priest's first anguished words. "I dreaded something like that would happen," he said after at first responding disbelievingly. Kingsley expressed the feckless hope that further investigation would prove that there had been some terrible mistake. Later that weekend — apparently on Monday, May 25 — Greenaway drove down to Kingston, as he later wrote, "to visit Father Kingsley." He found the priest devastated by his protege's ungrateful betrayal; he was tearing up all correspondence

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relating to Ryan, including Ryan's own fulsome letters "full of optimism and expressions of undying gratitude." In a wastebasket was Ryan's Christmas gift, the smiling Gainsboro Studio portrait of himself that bore the neat inscription, "To my very loyal friend, the Rev. W.T. Kingsley, from Norman "Red" Ryan." The priest, shielding his suffering eyes with his hand, told Greenaway painedly, "I am refusing all interviews. I don't want to discuss anything." Instead, he handed the reporter a prepared statement. Part of it read: All the leniency of the law, the generousity of society, the forbearance of the public has been recklessly cast aside. Death and dishonour for Ryan; for his former associates in crime, abandonment of the hope that the very generous treatment of the law of Ryan, bearing fruit in his case, might also someday operate in theirs.48 If Ryan's name was mentioned in any of the Toronto radio news bulletins on the night of the shooting, it was "only in the most tentative terms." But, on the Sunday morning, excited radio reports blared forth the startling news of Red Ryan's death in the petty holdup and his culpability in the ruthless murder of a Sarnia police officer. That morning Leroy Oke, the Oakwood and St. Clair Bank of Nova Scotia manager, who for years had lived in fear because he had testified against both Ryan and Gordon Simpson, heard of Ryan's death over the airwaves and spontaneously broke down in tears. That day, as a consequence of the spread of the news, one of Ryan's little nieces came home from church sobbing, "All of the boys and girls were teasing me about Uncle Norman, saying he was shot." As the story drifted about, the telephone in Dr. Withrow's home rang constantly. Withrow's response to all queries was, "I'm staggered. I don't know the answer." Gwyn Thomas learned of Ryan's death when he went to work at police headquarters at mid-day on Sunday. "I had a great deal of trouble believing what I was being told," he later said and, for some time, he doubted the story until Oliver Borland, the Toronto force's fingerprint man, returned from Sarnia after having matched Ryan's prints. "The police were a bit afraid of what they had discovered and went about headquarters speaking in hushed tones. Until Borland got back, the whole thing was not definite; it could still blow up on them and they knew it," recalled Thomas in 1981.

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The jolt ran through Kingston Penitentiary that Sunday — trucked in by "a hack" or perhaps several "hacks," Vincent "the Ace" Hamel remembered the shock among the inmates as the news flashed through the pen. The convicts, of course, couldn't be sure the story was genuine as false rumours and fabrications are a phenomenon of prison life. Many were greatly amused by it — seeing Red Ryan's act as a victory for "their side" over authority, not yet realizing, or perhaps not caring about, its consequences for themselves. According to H.B. Patterson, Arthur Conley, who had just begun yet another long term for bank robbery, thought his former partner- in-crime's fooling of the authorities and the public was hilarious and continued to think so long afterwards. Bill Little didn't hear of Ryan's death until he went to work on Tuesday morning at Industrial Electro-Plating. After his shift, he dropped into the Nealon Hotel for a beer and there were still people who were just learning of it then — seventy-two hours after the shooting. Of course, everyone in the hotel was talking about Ryan's demise and the Nealon's patrons would continue to talk about Red Ryan for many years to come. In Burnaby, British Columbia, Ed McMullen, and Mary McGill learned of Ryan's death at Sarnia after the weekend was past. McMullen read of the Sarnia incident in a Vancouver newspaper in a story headed "Red Ryan's Lonely Rebellious End." Mac knew that he had to run further away; his furniture had been shipped to Vancouver by Canadian Pacific under the name "J.C. Masson," he and Mary were living in Burnaby under that same name, and Russ Walsh was talking. The police, he knew, would not be long in finding him. In a perverse sense, it was almost a shame that Red Ryan, who loved to see his name on the front pages of newspapers, was not around to savour his last great headline, which, in terms of its magnitude and its impact, was his greatest. In the four Toronto papers and in the Sarnia Canadian Observer, the story swallowed much of the rest of what happened that weekend. The three violent deaths and Ryan's shocking involvement were huge news across most of southern Ontario, particularly in such centres as London, Windsor, Hamilton, and Kingston. Across the rest of Canada, the story was sometimes front page news, sometimes not. Many editors thought the impending maiden voyage of the Cunard liner Queen Mary from Southampton to New York was a more important story. Very few Canadian newspapers published on Sunday in 1935, an

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exception being the Victoria Daily Colonist, which mentioned Ryan's likely but unconfirmed involvement in the Sarnia incident in a front-page account under the headline "Two Bandits Shot Dead in Sarnia Liquor Store." But who was Red Ryan in Victoria, British Columbia, anyway? In Toronto, the capital city of Red Ryan's notoriety, the Globe and the Mail and Empire, neither of which had ever been greatly interested in Ryan as a crime story, both published on the holiday Monday — and, for this reason, they had a leg up on the Star and the Telegram, which didn't. Now the morning papers jumped in with both feet. The Monday Globe was hugely interested in the Red Ryan story on many of its twenty-two pages — its coverage made bitter by the fact that Ryan had obviously used and betrayed Harry Anderson's trust and ideals. In Harold Dingman's lead story, Red Ryan's inglorious finale was "the last ditch stand of Ontario's pet boy" in which Ryan "betrayed his friends and himself, murdered in cold blood a fine young man, and then pleaded for mercy." At considerable length Dingman erroneously reported that Ryan "whimpered" and tried to give up after ruthlessly shooting down a helpless Constable Lewis. Elsewhere in the paper Ryan was "the great betrayer," who, with Checkley, "fought with the courage of rats." The staid Mail and Empire — a financial sheet which, on January 7, 1924, had given Red Ryan's return from Minneapolis all of six column inches on page 5 — was suddenly enthusiastically enthralled with Ryan's shocking demise and quite good at exploiting the story. Amid much more, the Maii reporters obtained exclusive access to Ryan's April 5 letter to H.A. Mullins, and to a photograph of Ryan grappling with Dr. Freddy Myers, who was described as "an outstanding professional wrestler." Owen E. McGillicuddy, the Mail's police reporter, created a formidable regurgitation of Red Ryan's life and criminal history, replete with many of the old, hoary, highly dubious Red Ryan yarns of 1923 and 1924. McGillicuddy must have dug these up from the files of the Star and the Telegram, for the Mail had never published anything of their like before. On Tuesday, May 26, the Toronto evening papers, having more space and natural inclination, went even bigger, especially the Star, which could not be outdone on the Red Ryan story. Because the gunfight in the liquor store was now three days past and there were new developments, the Star streamer headline shouted, SAY RYAN GANG KILLED MARKHAM MAN, and the lead story concentrated

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on the startling revelations of "a man closely in touch with Ryan since his release from prison." Neither Russ Walsh or Ed McMullen were named (the police hadn't released their names and in Russ's case never would), but the story reported all of Russ's specific allegations to McAllister and Ward concerning Ryan's and McMullen's involvement in the Markham Murder, the LaChute bank robbery, and the other occurrences. One of Barney Armstrong's three gripping accounts of the Sarnia shootout — "Special to the Star" — was also featured at the top of page L Forty-five years later, Gwyn Thomas was able to exactly, or nearly exactly, quote its lead: Sarnia, May 25 — Norman "Red" Ryan, gunman and thug, had the life shot out of him here Saturday night in a pistol fight with two local officers who had never before drawn their guns in the line of duty.49 Squarely at the top of its front page, the Star unabashedly published a heart-wrenching photograph of the Lewis family — John, Vera, and their two children, Donna, aged 10, and Jack, aged 8. Beside this, there was a pathetic story headlined '"Wonderful Man, He Died Doing Duty,' Widow Says," in which Vera Lewis's strength and composure, as displayed to a Star reporter on the veranda of her home at 4:30 on the morning after her husband had been brutally murdered, was compared to that of the heroine in the poem "Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead," who "nor wept or uttered cry." It was a wonder. Under such circumstances, the reporter who wrote the story wanted to know from Mrs. Lewis if, in his last words, Jack Lewis had mentioned any details of the mortal gunfight. The Evening Telegram, which was generally a bit stodgy in these years, displayed on its front page, under the headline, CAR LINKS RYAN WITH MARKHAM MURDER, an elaborate drawing of the layout of the liquor store — showing exactly how the fatal scene played itself out. The Tely did manage to get from the Toronto Police a few juicy bits of information that the other papers didn't have; Gordon Hogarth, the Tely police reporter, regularly played handball with John Chisholm at the West End YMCA. Several of the Ontario newspapers published a plethora of pictures and illustrations. On page 3 of the Toronto Star, for example, there was a handsome studio portrait of Red Ryan; a glowering mug shot of Harry Checkley; a pathetic picture of the Lewis children holding a

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little black dog; a shot of doctored licence plates and other criminal paraphernalia which were found in the trunk of the bandits' stolen Oldsmobile; photographs of the bandits' revolvers; head shots of all four of the Sarnia policemen who had participated in the fatal shootout; a photo of the safecracking equipment found in Ryan's garage; and a shot of the Lewis's modest Sarnia home. On page 27, there were nine more photographs under a large black headline "Eyewitnesses and Scenes Where Bandits Met Their End." On the first page of the second section, the Star had its own highly detailed drawing of the layout of the liquor store, showing the momentous actions that led to the three deaths. Naturally the minions of the print media spent the holiday weekend tracking down Red Ryan's known supporters (as well as many others), and, of course, some of the important principals ran for cover. From Ottawa, Robert Lipsett, the Star's Ottawa correspondent, reported that Richard Bedford Bennett "declined to discuss his disillusionment in the case of Norman 'Red' Ryan." Others ran interference for the former prime minister. In a story datelined Sunday, May 24, Norman McLeod, the Mail and Empire man on Parliament Hill, wrote that "the indication today in Conservative circles was that there was a frank admission that a mistake had been made." At the Justice Department reporters were told that Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave had originated in a routine manner as the consequence of his 111/2 years of good conduct. Shortly, a summary in Time magazine, the American giant, would relate that Bennett reacted to the news of Ryan's perfidy with the solitary comment, "I feel let down very keenly." If, in fact, Bennett said that much, that's all he ever had to say publicly on the matter. Except for the handout that he gave to Roy Greenaway, Father Kingsley had nothing to discuss with the press. The Toronto Star published what Greenaway got from the priest on page 8 of their Tuesday, May 26, issue under a page-wide black headline, '"Glad He is Dead' Say Mullins and Father Kingsley." Kingsley talked to no other reporter. To all appearances, among Ryan's major supporters, H.A. Mullins answered questions most forthrightly. "I've been fooled and fooled badly," the elderly, white-haired senator said from his daughter- inlaw's home on Dunloe Road in Forest Hill Village. According to the Star account, Mullins added, as Father Kingsley reportedly did too,

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that he was "glad he's dead," Mullins was willing to detail the whole history of his effort to get Ryan out of Kingston and to tell of his meetings and frequent correspondence with Ryan after July 23, 1935. Later, when the Sarnia Police Commission suggested that he might like to contribute to Jack Lewis's family's support, Mullins didn't think it fair that he should be held responsible in any way. Russ Walsh spoke only reluctantly to the press. He discussed his brother's winning personality, his habits and apparent lifestyle, but about Red Ryan's criminal activities he claimed to know nothing at all. He asked reporters not to use the name "Walsh" and this was respected in all cases. At the same time, an unnamed member of the Ryan family bitterly interjected, "No one will ever know what it cost Norman Ryan's family." For whatever reason — perhaps because Athol Gow wouldn't ask — the Ryans said nothing to the Toronto Star. Stunned by the news, Dr. Oswald Withrow talked to the Star and the Globe, both of which he regarded as friendly. Still claiming expertise on the subject of Ryan, Withrow at first confessed his bafflement as to what had caused Ryan's "Indian summer of crime" until he came up with what, even for him, was a real gem: "The only possible reason for Ryan becoming involved in the Sarnia affair was some idea of helping somebody else." Within a week, the always optimistic doctor had a fresh idea. He announced that he intended to publish Ryan's book, The Futility of Crime, which was clearly now redundant, under the new title The Strange Case of Red Ryan, with an additional chapter recounting Ryan's return to crime. "Now it becomes a study of Ryan's life and I will publish it in my name," Withrow informed a Globe reporter. "I expect big money," he added. The book was never published. J.C. Ponsford, Kingston's former warden, who had made the mistake of publicly speaking for Ryan's release, ascribed Ryan's backsliding to his having "renewed friendships with the wrong people" and to "indolence." Former warden W.B. "Bill" Megloughlin, who Ryan had regarded as a supporter of sorts, merely reacted disbelievingly, expressing outright surprise, exclaiming that Ryan had "let his friends and well-wishers down badly." Magistrate Emerson Coatsworth, another of the apostate bank robber's minor partisans, now said that he had "felt uncertain" about Red Ryan's sincerity at the time of his release. "After all, it's a man's life's record that counts and not mere words and promises," Coatsworth told the Telegram.

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No one, it seems, asked the people at the Toronto Star anything. A Star editorial — "The Case of Red Ryan" — called for society to compensate Jack Lewis's family, then explained away Red Ryan as "an enigma." "Nobody can know how his mind worked," the piece concluded. Everything is tea leaves. It's nobody's fault except maybe Ryans and we can't possibly understand him! In the week's wash in the press, there were numerous theories as to the root causes of Ryan's regression to crime, including Father Kingsley's idea that he needed money "to play the big fellow"; Dr. Withrow's second opinion that "a great liking for adventure and a never-ceasing activity" impelled Ryan; and the thoughts of several penitentiary people, including Richard Allan, R.R. Tucker and Matt Walsh, which were substantially that Ryan couldn't shake off his old criminal associates. Jenny Law's conception that Ryan derived feelings of power and importance from having a gun in his hand found a glancing public expression in the Toronto Star slippery editorial, "The Case of Red Ryan": "(Ryan) wanted to overawe clerks and see hands shoved up in the air. It was possibly an excitement he could not do without." James O'Brien, a journalist and friendly acquaintance of Ryan's, wrote in Saturday Night that Ryan went back to crime because "he liked to pit his own nerve and resourcefulness against those of a worthy opponent ... the forces of law and order" — in effect, that Ryan too much enjoyed "the Game" to stay "retired from the banking business for good." Several psychiatrists were questioned by the Star, the fallout being that Ryan was "subject to certain urges," "that he needed to get the feelings of excitement and power that he got in these holdups," that he was "abnormal and psychopathic but not insane," and that "he should (have been) kept from society like a wild beast." Ryan's own answer, found in The Futility of Crime — "an amazing document" as Roy Greenaway called it — seemed to compound the idea that he didn't have total control. "I realized long ago that the blame lies right within myself," Ryan had written in prison. "With me, it was a case of over-ambition and a great love for the adventurous side of life and uncontrolled impulses." In the Catholic schools — some of them anyway — teachers helped the children to understand that Red Ryan's unseemly death didn't mean that there wasn't power in religious faith — only that Ryan's religious faith and "reform" weren't genuine. In these sectarian times, some people thought that the Catholic Church had lost prestige as a consequence of Ryan's faithlessness.

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In some churches — perhaps especially some Protestant churches — clerics saw lessons in Red Ryan's bankruptcy. Reverend C.L. Cowan in St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church at Hamilton declared Ryan should have been lashed, not paroled, and railed against "mawkish sentimentality." In Long Branch, Reverend B. Jeffrey, the Baptist minister, exclaimed flatulently that there shouldn't be any such thing as parole — that criminals should know that "the law will be carried out to the letter." At Dundas Centre United Church in London, Reverend E.W. Young preached a sermon on the question "Why did Red Ryan fail?" and maintained that Ryan fell to earth because he "lacked spiritual power." In Goderich, the United Church pastor informed his troop of scouts, "Had Red Ryan been a boy scout in his youth and lived up to boy scout ideals, he never would have gone wrong." There was an amusing scene at Harbord Collegiate in Toronto. In Major Brian McCooPs history class, an entire room full of students simultaneously held up the Monday morning papers blaring headlines, RED RYAN, PAL, OFFICER, ARE SLAIN and RED RYAN SLAIN IN DUEL AFTER KILLING POLICEMAN. A staunch Conservative, McCool had previously plied his students with the proposition that Bennett might have wanted him to: that Red Ryan's "reform" meant that there really was no problem in the Canadian prison system; if Ryan could "reform" in the system, any other prisoner could too. Now the students, many of whom thought there was a problem in the prisons, were saying, We told you so. In the courts, Red Ryan's bitter end was seen immediately by some jurists as proving his own moral. In Toronto, on Tuesday, May 26, Magistrate Gordon Tinker remanded three youths accused of stealing cases of Coca-Cola from a lane saying, "You have only to look in the papers to see what a life of crime will get you." At Ottawa, Magistrate Lester Clayton, in sentencing a shopbreaker, observed, "If you noticed what happened the other day, you will try to reform yourself. Ryan was given a chance and did not make use of it." In the Ontario Court of Appeal at Osgoode Hall that Tuesday, Mr. Justice Henderson refuted an appellant lawyer in a burglary case by saying, "You must know this morning there will be no more heroes among criminals for some time." But the most important consequence of Red Ryan's treachery was a huge conservative backlash on the issues of prison reform and parole. From the time of the Kingston riot, especially in Ontario,

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liberal forces had had the initiative in matters pertaining to the justice system. Now, in the wake of Ryan's betrayal of trust, they lost it. The effects of the Sarnia incident were apparent in days. Newspapers across the country, particularly in Ontario, filled up with opinions of all kinds — editorials, editorial comments in news stories, letters-to-the-editor — against prison reform, against parole and against those liberal elements who would side with prisoners for any sort of better conditions. There was a rhetoric to this phenomenon by which liberals were all tied to the same brush and invalidated. Abruptly, in the public mind, "sentimentalists," "pussyfooters," "sobsisters," "uplifters," and the like were bankrupt, and responsible elements who would liberalize the justice system were bankrupt with them. The ascendant conception, again, was that prisons should be places of punishment; rehabilitation was hugely downgraded. In vain did level-headed reformers argue for the prison and justice system they wanted — modern parole boards, an organized system of after-care, psychiatrists, and classification officers in the prisons, indeterminate sentences. Henceforth the public knew better and so did many of the editors and politicians. Editorials most vigorously attacked parole, particularly for the repeat offender. There were dozens of them from coast to coast as, for example, an opinion titled "Maudlin Sentiment Turns Loose Dangerous Criminals," in which the Toronto Evening Telegram expounded, "Jack Lewis will not have died in vain if the lesson to be drawn from this tragedy is taken to heart by those responsible for the administration of justice in Canada." As well other conservative sentiments — many those of policemen or ministers — were commonplace. In a letter to the Toronto Star, Reverend J.P. Treacey, for example, opined, "The practical reformation of the criminal is a secondary consideration that might be developed in concentration camps.... The parole system needs tightening." In a radio address, as part of his campaign to win the leadership of the Ontario Conservative Party, George Drew inveighed against "mawkish sentiment" and declaimed that "Red Ryan demonstrated before he was sent to Kingston Penitentiary that he had a very positive form of criminal insanity. That is the way he should have been treated." Like the Evening Telegram and some other newspapers, Drew recited a list of notorious criminals who had reverted to crime after being paroled — including Red Ryan, John Dillinger, "Baby Face" Nelson, "Pretty Boy" Floyd, and Alvin Karpis.

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The shame of it all was that almost no one grasped what had really happened — especially that Ryan's release didn't have much to do with the normal workings of "parole" or even of the antiquated federal Ticket-of-Leave system. In July 1935, Ontario was the only province in Canada with an actual parole board that interviewed prisoners before releasing them and that made anything like a systematic modern effort at monitoring a parolee after his release. The federal system provided nothing of the kind. Moreover, Red Ryan had met almost none of the standard criteria for a Ticket-of-Leave through the normally inadequate process of evaluation and his path out the door had been effectively blocked by M.F. Gallagher, a conscientious civil servant, who had been adamant that Ryan should not be let free. In fact, Ryan was given "a political parole" outside the legitimate process; enormous pressure was applied, a powerful politician intervened, and a very dangerous man was set free because one naive, uninformed man was convinced by some largely self-interested people that he should be. In everything that was written in the press in the days after Red Ryan's death, apparently only a single editorial comment came close to the germ of the truth of why it had happened. "It is now stated that Red Ryan was given his Ticket-of-Leave against the advice of Kingston Penitentiary officials. How much had misguided editors to do with the affair?" asked a short editorial gibe in the little Sault Star on Monday, June 1. Interestingly, there was relatively little public mudslinging after Red Ryan's exposure at Sarnia. One noteworthy exception was the condemnatory charge of Reverend Walter C. Almack, pastor of Toronto's Glenmount Park United Church, made at a rally of the unemployed, that "a few senators and rich men" had created the tragedy by making "a pet" out of Ryan in order to stanch public awareness of the likelihood of incipient insurrection in "one of our penitentiaries." Asked a day later to name names, Almack denied he had made the remarks. Out of the public eye, a few Toronto Police detectives disparaged the Toronto Star role in the affair, bitterly complaining to Athol Gow and Gwyn Thomas that the paper had made Ryan onto "a hero." According to Thomas, the Star answer to this was that they were making the point that Crime Does Not Pay and "this was always near the top." In general, publicly at least, nearly everyone was content simply to reproach the amorphous "mawkish sentimentalists" and "hysterical sob- sisters" whose silly thinking was thought to be at the root of the problem. There were reasons for this.

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Many prominent people — politicians, businessmen, newspapermen, jurists, lawyers, sports figures, even policemen — had gotten gushingly friendly with "Canada's most notorious criminal" — to the extent that they were not totally comfortable with their own participation in the affair. Many dupes and fellow travellers now felt abused, fooled, compromised, even tainted — and there was a vague feeling, especially in Toronto, that common sense had taken a holiday. It was seen by the editors and the politicians that people on both sides of the political fence were obviously blameworthy in having helped to secure Ryan's release; the Liberal press in Toronto had plumped for Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave and Conservative politicians had effected it. There was little to be gained by anyone in not letting sleeping dogs lie.

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CHAPTER TWELVE The Aftermath (May 23, 1936 - Present)

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t Sarnia, in the days after the shooting, the issue and the story was less the demise of Canada's best-known reformed criminal and more the death of a fine young Sarnia policeman. But it was Red Ryan's name that brought many, if not most, of the newsmen. It was Ryan's name, and indirectly the former prime minister's name, and the issue of parole that, for a few days, fixed much of Canada's attention on the small city on the St. Clair River. All day Sunday, May 24, as word spread in the district, hundreds of people roamed Sarnia's downtown, gathering especially at the Christina Street liquor store, where they tried to peer through a papered-over window pane to get a look at the bullet holes in the walls; at the police station; in front of the Canadian Observer's offices, where people watched for bulletined news updates; at the H.N. Phillips Funeral Home on Victoria Street, where the bodies of the slain robbers lay; and, to a lesser, more- respectful extent, at the nearby J.A. Robb Funeral Home, where Constable Lewis's body, attired in a blue serge suit, rested in a simple oak coffin before later being transferred to his Nelson Street home. Many were heard to make sympathetic utterances like, "Poor Jack Lewis; he never had a chance." But, too, there were idlers taking souvenir photographs, little kids running around mouthing romanticized tales about "Red" and

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"the guy who was with him," and, according to press stories, one or two opportunistic hucksters trying to hawk what they claimed were buttons from the slain officer's tunic, bullets cut out of the liquor store's walls, or strands of Red Ryan's hair. After 8:00 p.m. on the night of the shooting, Sergeant John Cranmer of the Sarnia Police had the body of "the big man" rolled over in the Phillips Funeral Home and found the verification that he was looking for: a scar from an old bullet wound on the dead man's back. Coincidentally the undertaker's assistant mentioned that he had been brushing black dye from the body's red hair. "That's because it's Red Ryan," announced Cranmer. "But we don't know who 'the little man' is." Ostensibly for the purpose of identifying the second corpse, the robbers' bodies were put on exhibit in the Phillips Funeral Home while, all day Sunday, a long line of morbidly curious gawkers filed past, estimated in the end to be between five and six thousand people. It was a scene reminiscent of the Old West where a dead outlaw's body was sometimes nailed to a board and publicly displayed as a warning to lawbreakers — almost an act of civic revenge. Welldressed women, Sunday school children, people from the surrounding district and from Port Huron, Michigan, across the St. Clair River, formed in the queue, waiting their turn to go past the biers. Men with their wives and families, some of whom did not remove their hats, trooped through, as did youths arm-in-arm with their girlfriends — many going back for a second and third look. Little kids cried at the door, "Hey, mister, can I come in?" Inside the two naked bodies were laid out on mortuary couches, covered to the top of their chests with cloth shrouds, Ryan's silver-grey, "the other guy's" brown. The bodies were wiped clean of blood; visibly, there was only a purple mark at Ryan's temple where the fatal bullet had penetrated. If asked, the funeral home's assistant would raise the coverlets to show the wounds to Ryan's left arm and ankle and to Checkley's chest. The line snaked through the funeral parlour at an estimated rate of seven hundred persons an hour. One local churchman vigorously denounced the display; several others agreed with him; another held that the scene was worth a dozen sermons on Crime Does Not Pay. Several times that day investigators visited the mortuary armed with rogues gallery photographs of notorious criminals. There was speculation that "the little man" might be Ed McMullen, who twice had been tried for bank robbery at Sarnia in 1922; that he might be

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Jack McMullen, Ed's brother, who, as "Jack Leggatt," had a minor criminal record; or that he might be a man thought to be named "Chuck," in fact, Harry Checkley, with whom Red Ryan had left Russ Walsh's home about 1:30 Saturday afternoon. Two CNR employees, who, years before, had worked with Ed McMullen as brakemen on the Grand Trunk Railway, were brought to view the body as was Roy "Knobby" Clarke, an employee of the fish hatchery at Point Edward, who, as an O.P.P. sergeant, on September 10, 1923, had driven a captured Ed McMullen back to Kingston Penitentiary. Clarke looked for a scar on "the little man's" right hand, didn't find it, and declared that the body was not that of Ed McMullen. All of this speculation ended late in the day when news of Oliver Borland's match of "the little man's" fingerprints to Checkley's was telephoned from Toronto. The sideshow at the Phillips Funeral Home was stopped in the late afternoon when Crown Attorney Hector Cowan, who was appalled by it, got Coroner Douglas Logie to issue an order that allowed only those with police authority to view the bodies. Sarnia was disrupted for a week after the shooting. Jack Lewis's funeral service — "the greatest community manifestation of grief that Sarnia has seen in its 100-year history" — was conducted in a filled-to-capacity Parker Street United Church on the following Tuesday. The city hall was closed for the afternoon as were many local businesses while civic employees, much of the community and dozens of police officers representing various forces in Ontario and a few from Michigan attended. Reverend J.N. Gould delivered a eulogy; several clerics read lessons or prayers or spoke; hymns were sung, including a solo by a friend of the Lewis family; then the estimated 2,500 people who stood waiting outside the church took forty minutes to file past the policeman's casket. A 150-car cortege followed J.A. Robb's hearse, filled with wreaths and sprays, to the nearby Village of Blackwell, where the local farmers — the people Lewis had grown up among — waited. Reverend Gould conducted a graveside service in the Blackwell United Church's cemetery. In contrast, Red Ryan's body was retrieved from Sarnia by Russ Walsh on Monday, May 25, and returned to Toronto on the evening train in a grey-painted pine "undertaker's box." At Sarnia's Tunnel Station, Russ spoke with a Canadian Observer reporter and answered his questions facilely, only asking that his proper name not be used. "Our family has suffered enough over this without Norman's funeral

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becoming a public spectacle," he pleaded. At Union Station in Toronto, Walsh was met by funeral director Charles A. Connor, Jack Corcoran, and the bright flash of a press photographer's flashgun. Ryan's body was loaded on a funeral car and taken to Connor's Avenue Road funeral parlour. The next day there was a hurry-up funeral with only a few people in attendance. There was no priest or funeral mass; the scandalous circumstances of Ryan's death had caused Archbishop James McGuigan to deny the last rites of the Roman Catholic Church. At 3:30 in the afternoon, five people followed the casket out the funeral home's back door while a little knot of spectators, including several reporters, Jenny Law, Jenny's sister and a small-time rounder named Howard Hampton, who was an acquaintance of Ryan's and Jenny's sometime lover, watched at the front. At the Mount Hope Cemetery interment, the funeral director said three Hail Marys and an Our Father, answered by Russ Walsh, Jack Corcoran, John Tunney, who, like his brother, Frank, was an employee of Corcoran's, and the hearse driver. Finally Norman "Red" Ryan's body was lowered into the grave. Harry Checkley's corpse lay unclaimed at Sarnia for four days. Then, on Wednesday, May 27, his sister had it shipped to Toronto by rail in a grey coffin bearing a tag which required the receiver to pay $40.20 in shipping costs. A brief service, quiet and "without the presence of friends," was held by a United Church minister at the Trull Funeral Home on Danforth Avenue. Checkley was buried in an unmarked grave in the Pine Hills Cemetery. The Red Ryan news story kept itself alive during the week following the celebrity ex-convict's death. Ed McMullen's name hit the front pages on Wednesday, May 27, after O.P.P. investigators obtained a warrant charging him with murder. That same day the O.P.P. issued a wanted circular on McMullen, upping the reward for the Markham Murderer by $200 and bearing McMullen's photographic likeness, his description and a list of his known distinguishing marks, especially a large number of gaudy tattooes. Thomas Finnessey's name also now became public currency; the Quebec Provincial Police had obtained warrants for both McMullen and Finnessey, charging them with the April 14 bank robbery at LaChute. But there were many other Red Ryan stories and angles in the Toronto press this day — right down to the Toronto Globe's sending a reporter out to ask ten little boys, "What do you think of Red Ryan?" "I dunno," "Red was goofy," and "Go away" were some of the answers.

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Friday, May 29, saw the Red Ryan story, in its mutated form, once again the blackline in the papers of Vancouver, Toronto, and some other Canadian cities. Now the focal point was the Pacific Coast and the Vancouver Sun's front page headline screamed MCMULLEN SLOWLY DYING; POLICE TRACE MYSTERY AUTO IN VANCOUVER. On the morning of Thursday, May 28, Ed McMullen had started his panicky run. Leaving Mary McGill behind in Vancouver to peddle his Chevrolet at a used car lot and to hawk their furniture to a second-hand dealer for a fraction of its value, Mac boarded a Pacific Stage bus bound for Seattle, Washington. He had on his person two automatic pistols, a Mauser 7.65 and a Colt .38, and $708.01 in cash, most of it in Bank of Nova Scotia bills. When the bus reached Elaine, Washington, the border point on the United States side of the international boundary, the immigration officer who questioned McMullen was vaguely suspicious; Mac claimed to be John Arthur Eraser, a forty-year-old CPR railway switchman, who lived at 89 Albert Street in Vancouver and who planned to spend two days in Seattle getting his teeth fixed. The story was weak and unlikely; McMullen was wearing an expensive Burberry overcoat, his hands were not those of a labouring man and, to immigration officers, "he seemed like a pretty tough-looking fellow." McMullen was detained and the bus proceeded without him. In the Immigration office an impromptu Board of Inquiry was held, at which "Eraser" repeatedly insisted that he had left his identification papers behind in Vancouver. It was ruled that he had failed to establish his identity and a customs officer, Leroy J. Pike, was called into the room to search him. "No one's going to search me," McMullen snarled as he whipped out the Colt .38 and pulled the trigger — loosing a stream of bullets. Simultaneously Pike grappled with the gunman, doing his best to deflect the automatic's deadly muzzle as other customs and immigration officers rushed to his aid. A bullet cut the fleshy part of Pike's arm; another bullet shot past Pike and punctured the heart of hapless Immigration Inspector Charles Flachs. Just as the automatic let go of the fifth bullet, Pike knocked McMullen's arm upward and backward; the slug entered McMullen's left eye and exited through the top of his skull. It was a wound not terribly unlike the one that had killed Edward Stonehouse.

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Flachs lay dead on the floor while his friends and colleagues had to go on processing applicants. McMullen, who was still breathing, was rushed by ambulance to St. Luke's Hospital in Bellingham, Washington, and later to Seattle General Hospital in Seattle where, on the morning of May 29, he was operated on. Afterwards Dr. Walter Kenton told a reporter, "I am afraid the operation was a success. I have worked on a man I wish would die. But my duty is to do all I can so the federal government can spend several thousand dollars for the privilege of hanging him." It happened otherwise. Like Edward Stonehouse, McMullen developed meningitis and died about 3:00 p.m., Saturday, May 30. Mary McOill had his body brought back to Canada and buried in the Ocean View Burial Park in Burnaby. In the Vancouver press, McMullen, not Ryan, was the story and "the Red Ryan Gang" was "the Ryan-McMullen Gang." In the West, the Elaine shooting was a straight crime story, not directly associated with the name of a former prime minister, not hugely pregnant with consequences for Canada's Ticket-of- Leave system and not a great shock to anyone. But it was local. The police and subsequently the reporters found the Victory Street house and extensively interviewed Robert Patterson and his wife, both of whom were able to supply important and newsworthy details about McMullen's and Mary's last eight days. McMullen's culpability in the Markham Murder and the other Ontario occurrences as well as in the Kingston escape of 1923 and the armed robbery of the Jack Loutet Real Estate Agency in North Vancouver in 1913 — for which Mac had been convicted and sentenced to five years in New Westminster Penitentiary — were extensively and luridly recounted in the newspapers. R.R. Tucker, Kingston's former deputy warden, who had retired on the Pacific Coast, was tracked down to give testimony that suggested "McMullen was Red Ryan's mentor, not his follower": Ryan was volatile, easily led. McMullen was cold as ice, silent, immovable as a gypsy's curse. Ryan had a bright future when he left the penitentiary. McMullen had none but crime. He was the most dangerous man I knew in Kingston It wouldn't have mattered if "Red" had been making $50,000 a month, he would still have followed McMullen if the arch-criminal exerted enough pressure.50

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Back in Toronto, McMullen was still in lower case — his demise a two-column, front-page headline but merely part of the denouement of the thirteen-year Red Ryan melodrama in the Toronto press. A week after Ryan's death the story was still playing well. In the Toronto Star of May 30, for example, McMullen's run to the United States was extensively reported and there was a short page 1 bit about Harry Checkley's funeral, a front-page comment from Attorney General Arthur Roebuck about Ryan's and McMullen's parole conditions, and an inside-page report on the Sarnia inquest into Jack Lewis's death. The next issue there was a report about the incriminating contents of Red Ryan's room. The day after that, there was news of McMullen's death and burial; much about the opinion of Reverend Jeffrey, the Baptist minister in Long Branch, decrying parole; a short update on the hunt for Thomas Finnessey at Ottawa; and more on the Sarnia inquest. This, and more that was coming, was the flotsam and jetsam of the Red Ryan news story. In ensuing days and weeks, there were news reports about the Toronto Police searching the tires of Red Ryan's Chrysler roadster and the stolen Olds coach on a tip that bank robbery loot was hidden inside; about the Sarnia Police blowing up a quantity of nitroglycerine that was found in the trunk of the Olds; and about the weapons that Red Ryan used at Sarnia having been stolen from the famous Charles Noe Daley Gun Collection when it was on display at the Ward-Price Auction Rooms on Toronto's Bay Street in June 1935. For months, then years, Red Ryan's name came up irregularly in the Toronto press — often in sundry references or comparisons having to do with other crime figures. Occasionally, there was some little oddity, as, for example, in March 1938, when someone decided to inquire if it was possible that Ryan had actually suicided in the liquor store's stairwell. When did the Red Ryan news story with all of its years of bizarre twists and convolutions really finish? Perhaps in August 1936, when Thomas Finnessey, the last real Ryan criminal associate extant, was arrested by the Ottawa Police in an Arthur Street rooming house after being lured by a police informer from a hideout in Hull, Quebec. After giving an ingratiating statement to the Q.P.P., which told as much as he knew about Ryan, McMullen, and Checkley, Finnessey pleaded guilty to the LaChute bank robbery in St. Jerome Police Court on August 12 and was sentenced to eight years in St. Vincent De Paul Penitentiary. In the House of Commons at Ottawa on June 2, 1936, T.L. "Tommy" Church, the Conservative member of Parliament for

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Toronto Broadview, asked if the King government planned to do anything to aid the widow of Constable Lewis or to set up a permanent mechanism for aiding the families of such unfortunate policemen. Ernest LaPointe, the minister of justice, replied that this was, in effect, not a trail the federal government ought to go down; such action, he said, had implications for the whole Ticket-of-Leave Act and was more properly a provincial responsibility. In Toronto, Mitch Hepburn, the Liberal premier of Ontario, reacted sharply to the suggestion that Ontario should pay for any reason at all, especially, as the Sarnia Police Commission was holding forth, because Lewis had died defending a provincial liquor store. "(Red Ryan) was let out of the penitentiary because he was the 'pet' of R.B. Bennett, Senator Muilins and Miss Agnes Macphail. We had nothing to do with paroling him. He was let out by the government of which R.B. Bennett was the head," Hepburn told reporters. This aggressive sally caused Agnes Macphail to rise in the House of Commons a few days later, armed with an exonerative letter from M.F. Gallagher, to deny that she had ever asked for Red Ryan's release. In this Miss Macphail was entirely correct and it was a true fact that she had sometimes been wrongfully so accused in the conservative press. In the end, Constable Lewis's widow received $7,500 from an insurance policy that the City of Sarnia carried on its policemen and firemen, $2,000 from a policy that Sarnia had on its ninety-nine civic employees, $400 or $500 from the Ontario Police Association, and apparently nothing else. It was not enough to keep Vera Lewis from having to spend much of the rest of her adult life supporting her two children by working on the line in a factory making sparkplugs. The coroner's jury inquiring into the death of Jack Lewis at the Sarnia City Hall heard eighteen witnesses in two sessions before Crown Attorney Hector Cowan suggested that the jury had perhaps heard enough. Several witnesses testified to having seen Red Ryan step forward, aim and fire at Lewis, some stating that several shots were loosed at the constable. Frank McGirr was very specific that Lewis was shot with the large black Colt .45 automatic and Hector Cowan's questions to George Smith assumed that this was the case. Only Smith testified that Checkley fired at all and this reference was to Checkley's allegedly shooting at him in the liquor store "In" stairwell — some seconds after Lewis was down and at the other end of the store. The jury's finding, delivered on the night of Monday, June 1, was the obvious: that Lewis came to his death from the effects

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of a bullet fired from a gun in the hands of Norman Ryan. It was also found that Ryan and Checkley died as a result of bullet wounds sustained in the same holdup. There were recommendations to the Sarnia Police Commission that the Sarnia Police be furnished with more modern equipment and that the force's strength be increased. On June 5, the inquest's result was seemingly challenged by a report to the attorney general by Dr. E.R. Prankish, the province's medico-legal expert. Dr. Prankish, who had possession of the revolvers used at Sarnia, the bullet that had killed Jack Lewis, the two bullets taken from James Stonehouse's wounds, and a number of other pieces of evidence found at the Sarnia and Markham crime scenes, came to a contrary conclusion. Surprisingly the "bullet taken from the body of Jack Lewis and handed over by Dr. Gray who made the autopsy" was a .38-calibre, not a .45. Only one of the Sarnia bandits' three .38-calibre revolvers — the Smith and Wesson, not the two IverJohnsons — had been fired. After firing test bullets and comparing them to the bullet taken from Lewis's body, Prankish stated: "One is able to say without any hesitation whatsoever that the mortal bullet was fired from the Smith and Wesson revolver, which is designated as belonging to Harry Chickley (sic)." This discrepancy with the Sarnia jury's finding was eventually resolved to the apparent satisfaction of all of the authorities. The obvious truth was that, in the confusion after the shooting, the Sarnia Police, who undoubtedly tagged the revolvers as best they could, had simply not tagged the revolvers correctly. Ryan had stepped forward and simultaneously fired with two handguns, not one. The Smith and Wesson .38 was in Ryan's left hand — away from the liquor store's employees and patrons. None of the witnesses stated that Checkley had shot Lewis and apparently none believed Checkley was Lewis's killer. Years later, in 1981, John Rollins, the liquor store's clerk, was adamant about this: "Checkley never even saw Lewis. He couldn't see him from where he was standing because Lewis never came into the store. Ryan killed Lewis on the landing. I would maintain this in the face of any forensic evidence. I know what I saw." Dr. Frankish's report contained two other important findings, both of which strongly corroborated Russ Walsh's statement with regard to the Stonehouse shooting: first, that the Iver-Johnson .38, which was tagged as being in the hand of Ryan at Sarnia (but which must have been in Checkley's possession), matched the two bullets which were fired into the body of James Stonehouse; second, that a toe rubber — a slip-on rubber overshoe — which one of the Markham perpetrators

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inadvertently left in the rear seat of the Stonehouse's Chev, "perfectly fit" a pair of size 9 1/2 shoes that belonged to Red Ryan. In fact, though Dr. Frankish's report did not greatly elaborate on this, the relief of an industrial trademark — "Goodyear Wingfoot" — on the rubber heel of Ryan's right shoe had discernibly imprinted itself on the inside of the toe rubber's heel so that Prankish was able to photograph the exactly matching impression. Initially the Attorney General's Department intended to pay the $1,200 reward for the killers of Edward Stonehouse in the following proportion: $500 to Vera Lewis; $500 to Mrs. Helen Flachs, widow of Charles Flachs; and $200 to Geoffrey Garvey, the Sarnia man who blew the whistle on the liquor store holdup. A hold was put on this when, through a solicitor, Russ Walsh, who had given the police valuable information concerning the murder and greatly aided in the search for Ed McMullen, made a late claim which was supported by testimonial letters signed by William McAllister, John Nimmo, and W.H. Lougheed. In his letter of application to Arthur Roebuck, dated June 19, 1936, Russ asked that confidentiality be respected as "For the sake of myself and my family, I have endeavoured to avoid the notoriety of being known as Norman Ryan's brother" and he reminded Roebuck that he had made an effort to contact him "some two months ago" but had received no reply. It is not entirely clear from the file, which still exists in the Archives of Ontario, but evidently Russ largely or wholly collected on the offer. The payout was done so quietly that, as late as February 1938, lawyers for the Sarnia Police Commission, who were clearly in the dark, were still trying to collect for Vera Lewis, who obviously got nothing. Norman Ryan's will, which he had made in the first optimistic days after his release, left Russ Walsh the $133.81 in his Bank of Montreal account; $23.01 which was found in his pockets at Sarnia; a watch, clothing, and some personal effects valued at $50.00; and a one-half interest in the manuscript of The Futility of Crime, which was thought to be worth $20.40. There was no equity in Ryan's Chrysler roadster, which had been repossessed. Confederation Life fell back on a stipulated condition that Ryan's life insurance policy was null and void if he died as a consequence of some act of his own and returned a part premium of $38.83. Ryan's burial costs ate up nearly all of the bequeathment.

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The Prankish report — which hit the papers on June 6, 1936 — generated the Red Ryan story's last lead-all headline, but Ryan's name was still used to sell newspapers long afterward. Such was the case after February 6, 1938, when Thomas "Shorty" Bryans shot and killed a man named Norman Ford in front of the No. 9 Police Station at Keele and Dundas Streets in Toronto. In the ensuing months, Bryans was sometimes represented in segments of the Toronto press as "the last of the Red Ryan Gang," though he had never been anything of the sort and Red Ryan was in no sense an issue at his trial. Bryans' lifelong problems were alcohol and the fact that he didn't know how to earn a living. He was, in essence, a career mugger. That was the root of his conviction for manslaughter at Sault Ste. Marie in April 1920, the apparent cause of his recapture after the Kingston escape at Chicago in March 1927, and the motive behind the Ford killing. Bryans was convicted of Ford's murder and went to the gallows in the Don Jail on June 30, 1938. For 31/2 years after the Sarnia incident, Father Kingsley went about Kingston Penitentiary with his head bowed, then, in late 1939, he retired due to ill health. Ryan's ungrateful betrayal had ruined the formerly haughty priest who, according to Roy Greenaway, considered his own judgement belittled, his place in his church downgraded, and the Roman Catholic Church itself discredited. Shortly after leaving his duties, Kingsley suffered a stroke and was confined to St. Mary'sof-the-Lake Orphanage in Kingston where he was practically bedridden until he died in January 1941. In 1957, John Kingsley, his nephew, told writer Ted Honderich, "He couldn't get his mind off the whole thing and he wasted away to nothing. Ryan might just as well have taken a gun and shot him." It was not a public interest but Jenny Law got free of Tony Carino and prostitution in 1938. It was not easy. Tony didn't want to lose one of his meal tickets; he resorted to a long campaign of terror — even bombing Jenny's house on two occasions. Afterward Jenny put several years into an attempt to rehabilitate Howard Hampton and later she lived with a succession of other men. In her declining years she developed a partiality for fellows who were much younger than herself. The Archambault Commission Report was tabled in the House of Commons in June 1938, and was promptly forgotten. Some of its liberalizing recommendations were eventually put into effect in the late forties and early fifties. Many never were.

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Richard Bedford Bennett, who seems not to have been greatly distraught by the Red Ryan episode, left Canada in 1938 a bitter man and lived most of the rest of his life as an English peer on an estate in Surrey, He was found dead in his bathtub on the morning of June 26, 1947. In September 1942, Frank McGirr, George Smith, and William Simpkins were each awarded the coveted King's Police Medal for bravery in consequence of their actions on May 23, 1936. Jack Lewis was awarded the medal posthumously. Athol Gow, who drank a bit, retired in 1946 after forty years with the Toronto Star. He lived at Mary Clement's boarding house in Bala until suffering a stroke and dying in March 1962, at age 70. His obituary told that "Ryan gave Athol his biggest disappointment." Truthfully, Gow fretted about the Ryan tragedy until the day he died. Roy Greenaway's distinguished career in journalism lasted until age 74 when he finally retired after spending his last twenty-three years working as the Star reporter at Queen's Park. In retirement he wrote an autobiographical book, The News Game, which was published in 1966 and has a chapter about Red Ryan titled "The Golden Boy of Crime." Over the years Red Ryan's name would come up in the press many times, but naturally less and less as time passed. In the mid-fifties, coincident with the Fauteux Committee and a serious attempt to modernize the federal system of parole, there was a little spate of interest in Ryan's story. As the Fauteux Committee crossed the country discussing remissions and the possibility of instituting a national parole board, Red Ryan was recurrently brought up by questioners at public meetings as an argument against parole. Notwithstanding this, Canada's National Parole Board commenced functioning in January 1959. On December 7, 1957, Macleans published Ted Honderich's article "Why Red Ryan's Shadow Still Hangs Over Every Prison Yard," which has to be considered far-and-away the best-researched and best-written piece of writing on Red Ryan to date. Three days later, the story of Red Ryan's death at Sarnia was one of the very first Front Page Challenge shows on CBC television. The author remembers the show this way: The guest was George Smith; panelist Gordon Sinclair guessed the headline virtually immediately; and the program degenerated into remembrances of Red Ryan, principally Sinclair's. "Red Ryan was

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nothing but a dangerous little punk," declared Sinclair, who had been a Toronto Star reporter in the thirties, in characteristically direct fashion. "He was no big-time crook." Sinclair also stated that "the Star made Red Ryan" and "the Star got Ryan out of prison." When asked, "Who at the Star?", Sinclair answered, "Harry Hindmarsh." Hindmarsh — "the Star's legendary managing editor" — whose unseen hand is all over the Red Ryan story — suffered a heart attack in his office on December 20, 1956, and died at 6:10 that evening in the Toronto Western Hospital. By almost any standard, his life was an enormous success: he revolutionized Canadian journalism; for most of forty years, he was one of two dominant forces at a newspaper that had the effect of hugely improving the lives of ordinary Canadians — having advocated such schemes as old age pensions, unemployment insurance, and mothers' allowances when these were merely insurgent ideas. Like everyone else, Hindmarsh made a few mistakes — and the Red Ryan episode was definitely one of them. Russ Walsh — who was liked and well-respected by virtually everyone who knew him — continued to live at 279 Lansdowne Avenue until 1967. He and his wife raised "three fine sons," one of whom, many years later, related that his father suffered enduring feelings of guilt "because he didn't act". But why? Who would do more than he did? Who would hang his own brother? Russ died of cancer in March 1972. Gordon Simpson — the only one of the Kingston escapees of 1923 who forsook crime — is said to have died in Quebec in the late seventies. Arthur Conley, who Red Ryan most wanted to be like, "lived almost his whole life in prison" — serving "a life sentence on the installment plan."

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN Last Things (JulyS, 1895-Present)

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he general indictment of Red Ryan after the Sarnia happening and the lack of other satisfying answers has led, in the ensuing sixty'three years, to what has become the prevailing mythical view of Red Ryan's story: that Ryan was such a clever, manipulative fellow that he managed to hoodwink absolutely everyone into the belief that he was reformed; that everyone was in favour of Ryan's being let out of Kingston or, at the very least, that almost no one thought badly of it; and that, until the very day of his death, Ryan was not suspected of wrongdoing by anyone at all. It is, of course, a view of Red Ryan that cleans everyone up but Ryan himself and blames no one at all. The myth has been developed and strengthened by the few published accounts that have appeared since 1936 for one or more of three reasons: because inadequate research has been done; because some writers have not grasped a fairly obvious pattern in the facts; and, most importantly and most often, because those writers who have known better, for reasons of personal loyalty to the Toronto Star, have not wanted to tell the full story. The first magazine piece on Red Ryan, published in Coronet in September 1949, was titled "The Master Crook Who Fooled Canada." Later better efforts, especially the article by Ted Honderich in Maclean's in December 1957, and Roy Greenaway's entertaining and artful reminiscences in The News Game, which came

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out nine years later, grew the myth by continuing the tendency to put the onus for the tragedy on Ryan himself and by stressing factors in Ryan's "abnormal" personality, which ostensibly allowed him to put it over Honderich used a psychology textbook description to suggest that Ryan was a psychopath. Greenaway painted Ryan as a psychopath or something similar, flatly stating that Ryan was abnormal, conjuring up the opinions of psychiatrists of Ryan's day that he was "not insane, just abnormal" and that he "should have been kept from society like a wild beast." Somewhat belatedly, Greenaway saw Red Ryan as "a supreme egotist," who "considered himself physically and mentally bigger than the successful men he met" and who was hugely gloating and laughing at them all the time. It is the state of the matter, sixty-three years after Sarnia, that the myth yet reigns and the words "abnormal," "psychopathic," and "psychopath" are still used fairly indiscriminately with reference to Red Ryan. Psychopathy is a personality disorder, not a mental illness. The hallmarks of the psychopath are a complete lack of conscience and the inability to empathize with the suffering, pain, feelings, or rights of others. Whether they are criminals or not, psychopaths are social predators whose object is self- gratification at the expense of others. Psychopaths are often charming, likeable, articulate, and entertaining — though usually superficially and glibly so. They are often egocentric; they see themselves as the centre of collective interest, have a strong sense of entitlement, and sometimes believe that work is beneath them. They are deceitful and manipulative, exhibit shallow emotions and lack remorse or guilt. They are socially deviant — often demonstrating impulsive behaviour, poor behavioural control, a need for excitement, and a lack of responsibility. Their lives demonstrate patterns of early behavioural problems and adult anti-social behaviour. Psychopaths run a whole gamut of anti-social types from unscrupulous business people to serial killers. Red Ryan can readily be seen to exhibit many of these personality and behavioural traits. Yet, enigmatically, Ryan appears to have demonstrated "conscience" and "empathy" — the two key elements — at a critical moment. Did not Ryan stop Ed McMullen from ruthlessly murdering a helpless James Stonehouse when, from a criminal point of view, it was clearly in his interest to do otherwise? The likelihood would appear to be that Ryan was "psychopathic" rather than a full-blown "psychopath" — exhibiting a higher degree of control than in the classical disorder.

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The mythical view of Red Ryan and his story defies the logic of how things actually work as well as the known facts. It gives too much credit to Ryan and not enough credit to others who deserve it. There is no career criminal in prison who is convincing enough to fool "absolutely everybody" — not even Red Ryan. The fact that "no one spoke against Ryan's release" publicly means nothing. Whose business is it to speak out against a convict who says he is "reformed"? And who would thank such a person anyway? There are civil servants who are paid to evaluate such people and, for good reasons, they don't do it in public. There was no cause for anyone who read the Evening Telegram, for example, to ever have been disposed to view Red Ryan as "reformed" or even as "retired from the banking business for good." In politics, the paper was conservative; in some of its thinking, virtually reactionary. Its editors believed, as Llewellyn "the Duke" Lewis, a Tely reporter, later said, "That if you were convicted of a crime, you ought to pay for it." Nothing that was favourable to Red Ryan's being freed ever appeared in the Tely and, in fact, at the time of Ryan's release, Lewis and some other Telegram reporters were specifically instructed to keep an eye on Ryan. There was scant love for the likes of Red Ryan among Telegram readers, who tended to be British^oriented Protestants and devotees of law-and^order, who had little forgiveness on the prison issue generally. At the time, this was a common enough attitude of mind in Tory Toronto and elsewhere in Canada. Inside Kingston's walls, among the prison staff— contrary to what was popularly believed and often published — the majority opinion was that Red Ryan's "reform" was a fake. "Only Kingsley really believed it," estimated the guard who brought Ryan to Toronto for Isabel Ryan's funeral. Another guard, Matt Lillis, told of going home to his wife on the day of Ryan's leaving and saying to her, "I'll give him six weeks or six months; he'll either kill somebody or be back here." Guard Oren Earl related that "every officer Ryan had worked for said that he was pulling a big colossal bluff." As inmate K^166 walked to the North Gate on July 23, 1935, Earl stood watching with "a lifer" named Moon — a hospital orderly and friend of Ryan's — whose unsolicited view was that they were witnessing an unhappy event. Red Ryan, as Moon told Earl unreservedly, would very soon be dead or back in a cell on one of Kingston's ranges. If he thought "absolutely everybody" was going to welcome him back to society, Ryan learned differently through bitter experience.

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There were lots of Telegram-types around — people who wouldn't get involved in the hoydenish game that was being played around Ryan — the occasional one of whom would verbally reprove the celebrity ex-convict or his supporters. Alex McCathie assailed Ryan on the day after he was let free. At the Church of the Good Thief Garden Party on August 1, 1935, Ryan went enthusiastically bounding up to a Kingston man, wanting to shake hands, only to be embarrassingly rebuffed. "I don't shake hands with men like you," Ryan was told pointedly. But, too, there were people who were prepared to buy Red Ryan's act, who, after being initially impressed, decided he was too slick. One such was Ted Reeve, the Tely sports columnist, who met Ryan over a beer at the Nealon Hotel after a Saturday night hockey game in company with Jack Corcoran and Charlie Conacher, the Maple Leafs' star winger. "He was a genial sort of guy, but he was *a bit much'. He had this attitude, 'Who me? I wasn't the one who stole the pork chop,'" explained Reeve, who definitely shifted to rating Ryan as a poser and an accident-about-to-happen. What were people who heard Red Ryan glorying in his past "exploits" supposed to think of his celebrated "reform" and "spiritual conversion"? Presumably Ryan was more circumspect with his reporter friends than with most others, but exactly a week after lunching with Ryan and Tommy Levine on May 19, 1936, R.E. Porter wrote in the Globe: it seemed reasonably apparent to the writer that he was going to "break out" again, if, indeed, he had not already broken out in renewed crime. Sure we mentioned this belief, this certainty — mentioned it in several places around the office. But, we didn't think the expected would come so soon.51 At the street level, of course, this certainty was much more plainly evident. Around Cabbagetown, at the notorious Royal Cecil Hotel, in gambling dens like the National Sporting Club, Gary's Roadhouse, or the Classic Boxing Club, at the Woodbine Billiards — in all of these places where he could not stop himself from putting on a show — Red Ryan and his putative "reform" were grossly transparent. All sorts of quasi-rounders, whores, touts, and street people were waiting for the impending catastrophe.

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In Ryan's last days of freedom, there were a number of individuals who, though not directly involved, had certain guilty knowledge of Ryan's complicity in major crimes, including, to all appearances, Russ Walsh, Irene Morris, Mary McGill, Jack McMullen, Gordon Simpson, and Jenny Law, Father Kingsley definitely had reason to be extremely suspicious. As well, Kingsley wired up Roy Greenaway and sent him down to the Nealon Hotel to check up on Ryan. "Ryan was slightly embarrassed at the type of company, especially the female, that surrounded him. Father Kingsley had reason to worry, I decided," Greenaway related in his memoirs.

Red Ryan had a record of nineteen convictions for crimes of theft and violence. He had been involved in not less than nine separate shooting affrays with police or citizens before January 1924. He was "a lifer" in an era when "life" meant twenty-five or thirty years. Yet he got out in an unprecedented 11 1/2 years. How could such an obvious threat to society be paroled out of prison as a paragon of "reform"? Certainly Red Ryan was a good act. No person could fail to notice that he was intelligent, kindly, mannerly, charming, articulate, and much more. His grand "reform" was superficially impressive but, in the normal run, might never have gotten noticed outside of "the Mailbags." Apostates, and especially religious apostates, are not uncommon in prisons. Con artists abound. There is an in-house tendency to be dismissive of the lot — never mind an established professional criminal of Red Ryan's magnitude and degree of prior commitment. Father Kingsley's appointment as Kingston's chaplain was an incredibly fortuitous circumstance for Ryan. Where would Ryan have found an obsessive, domineering pedant with an exploitable character flaw who would literally devote his own being to his preferment in the prison and then to a lengthy campaign to win his Ticket-of-Leave? It was absolutely essential that Ryan sold Father Kingsley on his "reform" and absolutely essential that the proud priest believed implicitly that he, Father Kingsley, had wrought "a spiritual conversion" in Canada's foremost criminal. Ryan was fortunate in his friendships with Athol Gow and Oswald Withrow, and he was similarly fortunate that the prison system and Kingston Penitentiary particularly were in turmoil during the last years of his sentence — circumstances that directly and indirectly benefited his campaign to get free.

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But in the end it was the Toronto Star that got Red Ryan out of prison. None of the rest of it would have mattered if the Star had not lent its shoulder to the wheel Over a period of years the Star caused a tremendous amount of information and some misinformation to be put before the public in support of the notion that Ryan was "reformed" and entirely deserving of a Ticket-of-Leave. At times, outright fabrications were presented to the public as fact. When the free-Ryan campaign was stalled in the spring of 1934, it was a Star columnist and religion writer, not Father Kingsley, who was instrumental in circumventing the formidable obstacle of M.F. Gallagher, who would surely have prevented Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave indefinitely. Reverend W.A. Cameron accompanied the influential Harry Mullins to the prison and suggested to Mullins that he should make a direct appeal to the minister of justice. When that failed, Mullins went to the prime minister. It was the Star that painted Richard Bedford Bennett into a corner with the false claim that Bennett had "promised" to release Ryan and the Star afterwards used this falsity to get what it wanted. It helped that Bennett wanted, and needed, to get re-elected in October 1935. Over and above any conviction that anyone at the Star may have had about Red Ryan's suitability for the street, the Star's motive was simply the sale of newspapers. It was business as usual. Joseph E. Atkinson was running a mass-circulation newspaper, tailored to the popular taste, which was meant to have big circulation, big advertising and big profits. In this era, the Star was largely entertainment — accidents, crimes, disasters, controversies, sensations, stunts, drama, pathos, pictures, promotions — all intended to pull in the maximum readership. Harry Hindmarsh, who controlled the newsroom, was partial to the exclusive story as a circulation-builder ("the scoop was king"), and Star reporters were under pressure to ferret out stories that the other papers didn't have. In Toronto, between 1918 and 1938, newspapers cost two cents and, for most of this time, there were four papers in the city. Many people bought two papers a day. Hindmarsh's thinking — the Star thinking — was that, if the Star had a big story the other papers didn't have, people would buy the Star and one of the other papers. It was a philosophy that worked.

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Moreover the time was ripe for the Star to badly want the Red Ryan story; for it was "the era of the bank robbers." In the United States, the FBI and other law enforcement agencies were running to earth a long list of high-profile stickup artists: Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow; "Handsome Jack" Klutas; Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd; Lester Gillis, alias "Baby Face" Nelson; the Barkers, Doc, Fred, and Ma; Alvin "Old Creepy" Karpis; and more. The quintessential event of the genre happened eighteen hours before Bennett's visit to Kingston Penitentiary, when, on the sweltering hot night of July 22, 1934, John Dillinger, America's "Public Enemy No. 1", was gunned to death in front of the Biograph Theater in East Chicago, Indiana, after being betrayed by Anna Sage, the notorious "woman in red." In the Depression, when so many were unemployed, on relief, evicted, or foreclosed on and were powerless against large institutions and forces, interest in these violent criminals who fought back and the exciting events which resulted was high. Their lurid portrayal was sometimes hugely reproduced in the popular Canadian papers, of which the Star was the foremost, and tended to put the Red Ryan story at a premium.

Red Ryan was never the great master criminal that he was cracked up to be in the press. At bottom, though remarkable in many ways, "the ace of Canadian bank robbers" was only a very dangerous small-time thief, not unlike his early mentor-in-crime, Arthur Conley. In the twelve armed robberies or attempts that he is known to have essayed in Canada, Ryan never at any time managed to steal more than the $3,879 that "the Lone Bandit" took from the Bank of Hamilton at Locke and Herkimer Streets in Hamilton on July 29, 1921. He died at Sarnia in company with a hosiery thief in a failed holdup that would have netted the paltry sum of $371.25. These amounts pale in comparison with the "big-time" Toronto robberies of the era: the nearly $400,000 in cash and negotiable securities that an organized American gang got by sticking up a CNR mail car at Union Station in June 1928; and the $80,000 another American gang "took off' in robbing four unarmed Clearing House messengers at Jordan and Melinda streets in July 1922. Typically "the famous Red Ryan" couldn't conceive of anything any bigger than the quick looting of a branch bank in a residential area. In many of his robberies, Red Ryan bagged the silver and even the coppers and carried them away. At Montreal, on October 26, 1921, the police characterized Ryan's

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botched robbery of the Park Avenue and Prince Arthur branch of the Bank of Commerce as "the work of amateurs." To the very few elite bank robbers among Kingston's "hard-core 15 percent" — those who knew how to steal "big money" — Red Ryan was perhaps something of an outright fraud. Neither was Red Ryan in any sense a smart crook. Successful criminals are guarded in their actions, not exhibitionistic, as was Ryan. Writing letters to a prostitute in Toronto or to an inmate in St. Vincent De Paul, as Ryan did in the fall of 1923, was not sharp. Hanging on to the revolver that killed Edward Stonehouse was incredibly foolish — especially as Ryan's prosecution for bank robbery at Hamilton in 1922 was largely facilitated by a similar mistake in holding on to a stolen revolver. Ryan was decidedly not a successful criminal; throughout his criminal career, long stretches in prison were punctuated by only brief periods of freedom. Most of Red Ryan's adult life was spent behind bars. In reality "the ace of Canadian bank robbers" was largely a newspaper creation and a newspaper phenomenon. Ryan's huge reputation in the press was primarily based on the celebrated prison break of September 1923, during which he had demonstrated extraordinary daring and leadership, and especially on his subsequent American bank robbery tour, which was sometimes reported to have netted as much as $250,000. The figures were, of course, grossly inflated by reporters who, in this era, wrote nearly anything they pleased without fear of contradiction. In actual fact, four of the United States holdups took in between $11,000 and $17,000 each, split five ways, which never left Ryan with more than $3,500 as his share; in one robbery, that of the Grand Avenue State Bank in St. Paul, Minnesota, the take was a reported $5,000, split with Sullivan alone; and the Oakwood and St. Clair Bank of Nova Scotia robbery in Toronto realized three robbers only $3,107.22. That's roundly $65,000, of which Ryan's end would have been no more than 25 percent. What really mattered in some quarters of the press fraternity was not the money involved but the fact that Ryan had gone to the United States and "gotten noticed" or "made news." This in itself made Red Ryan "bigtime" and newsworthy in parts of Canada forever afterward. For thirteen years after September 10, 1923, Red Ryan sold newspapers. Cast first as a veritable "hero of crime" in the Robin Hood and Old West traditions, then as a hugely penitent apostate and virtual "national hero," Ryan was entertainment at a time when the

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ordinary working person had little else to do for enjoyment but read the papers and go to church. Locked in an ongoing circulation war with the Evening Telegram, the Toronto Star reported Ryan's escape and subsequent criminal "exploits" with flair and gusto, but so, too, to a slightly lesser extent, did the Telegram, the Hamilton Spectator, the Kingston British-Whig, the Winnipeg Tribune, and a number of other Canadian newspapers. In 1923, Harry Hindmarsh, then the Star assistant managing editor, had just taken over control of the Star newsroom, his innovative news- gathering techniques were pushing circulation up, the paper was charged with competitive spirit, and a large emphasis was placed on the reporting of crime, which "sold the paper." In the Star, crime — like nearly everything else — was entertainment. Often the Star accounts gave criminals nicknames. Norman Neal, a pathetic chicken thief who managed somehow to escape from the Don Jail, was dubbed "Slippery Elm" Neal. A bank robber named Louis Rotstein, who was too slow in making his getaway, was named "Slow Motion Carrick" (or sometimes "Slow Motion" Rotstein) and was subsequently often referred to as such. A fellow named Robert Cook, who got over the wall of the Orangeville Jail and who was otherwise noteworthy for having allegedly once fought with six Toronto detectives, was tagged "Robert the Bold," promoted lustily for a day, then quickly dropped when it was realized that he was in jail on a morals charge. Likely it was no accident that Ernest Hemingway's story on the Kingston escape awarded all of the escapees flashy monikers, which, except for "Red Ryan," were entirely imaginary. Certainly the exaggerated style of the story was in keeping with the unreal notion that violent crimes were merely "exploits." The trouble with this, of course, was that it was playing with fire: criminals of the ilk of Norman Ryan and Ed McMullen were not chicken thieves or misfit bandits; they were very dangerous men who were prepared to kill. Clearly elements of the press had a poor understanding of the possible, or likely, consequences of how Red Ryan was being reported. Even after the deaths at Sarnia, Tommy Moore, a Hamilton Spectator reporter who liked Ryan, regarded him as "always good for a story" and invariably did his best to puff up Ryan's "famous Red Ryan" image, just couldn't comprehend the phenomenon. "It is a well-known fact in underground circles that Ryan always bluffed with a 'fire-wagon' instead of shooting his victims down in cold blood," wrote Moore in the Spectator of May 26, 1936. This was a peculiar view that denied the known facts.

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Not hugely commented on after the Sarnia shock, Red Ryan's pathological need for attention was at the root of his of his inherently anti-social and dysfunctional psyche, of his criminality, of his backsliding to crime, and of the gross exploitation of his story in the popular press over a period of many years. This trait virtually screams out in a consideration of Ryan's subconscious motives. Attention!: to be at the centre of collective interest — on virtually any terms, at virtually any cost, good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant, rewarding or catastrophic — no matter. This is the unifying thread in Red Ryan's personality — ubiquitous in his character, his history, his crimes, his interactions, observable even in fairly subtle ways ("Absolutely Red Ryan loved this business of shaking hands, of meeting people"), in his words, his dress, his demeanour, his selfabsorbed sense of humour, and in his small gestures — like tipping a newsdealer a dollar for a two-cent paper or throwing a Depression-era youth ten dollars to play a game of snooker. It's there, in one form or another, in all of Red Ryan's preposterous personality and in the testimonies of virtually everyone who knew him. Possibly the best statement of this is in the Kingston guard's noticing of Ryan's incautious desire to see his name in the Toronto Star on the day of Isabel Ryan's funeral. Attention!: he needed it; he had to have it! Red Ryan was always on stage. Conveniently, his sick exhibitionism helped him to win a Ticket-of-Leave. Inconveniently, the attention peaked at his release and, afterwards, diminished to the point where "reform" and "Crime Does Not Pay" no longer cut it. The gawkers and thrill- seekers were finally, and irrevocably, deserting him, leaving him defeated in his life's struggle, only to be yesterday's faded headline, an impotent apostate tamely mouthing the platitudes which had qualified him to be at large. The obvious way to again grab the spotlight was to revert to form; to again play "the Game"; to "die with his boots on" as he had always known he would; to go out in a shootout, like any great "hero of crime," like the legendary bad men of the Old West, thereby immortalizing his own legend and achieving a final victory in his lifelong contest with that entity which had always oppressed and limited him. The likely first cause of Norman Ryan's enduring grudge against society was an extraordinary jealousy of his eldest brother, Frank — "Francis J. Ryan" — who was greatly promoted by his parents and who, for several years, was kept on as a student with the prestigious law firm of Robinette, Godfrey, and Phelan. Meanwhile the younger boys, Leo,

q 181

Norman, and Russ, were earmarked for their father's labouring trade. Likely Norman's early truancy from St. Francis's School and his first theft convictions were only a small boy's anguished cries for attention. Perhaps, at age 10 or 12, Norman felt second best, "selected out" or even an outcast. Likely his sick penchant for exhibitionism was first deeply seared into his psyche at this time. A violent, erratic man whose own eccentricities kept his family poor, John Ryan tried to slap his son into shape. Norman shied away from his father — in fact, wanted nothing to do with him or the labouring work that he did. According to testimonies, Elizabeth Ryan would take Norman's part in his conflicts with her husband — and there would be raucous arguments between the parents. For the adolescent Ryan, it must have been a strange dichotomous world where he could be right and wrong at once. He must have learned early the value of a plausible story. It seems likely, too, that these two competing conceptions of his emerging persona were the genesis of his developing capacity to play two diametrically-opposed roles in life, of his eventual capacity to live "a double life" and, ultimately, of the duality in his personality. At the same time, there was a local boy who got lots of notice as a consequence of several criminal convictions for burglary and who, even before being sentenced to ten years in Kingston for armed burglary in November 1905, had paid at least some attention to Norman Ryan. By April 1912, Arthur Conley was again on the street in Toronto and known to be a criminal with lots of advice for those who were less experienced than himself. Ryan learned much from Conley, who, according to a Kingston guard, was "a foxy little son-ofa-bitch who could be so nice to your face but behind your back he'd cut your throat." Long before the Sterling Action and Key robbery in April 1915, Ryan was aping Conley's behaviour — carrying a revolver and doing armed burglaries by night. Kingston Penitentiary turned Norman Ryan into a finished product by the age of twenty. Devoid of countervailing values, the prison taught an impressionable adolescent the inmate subculture's system of worth. In Kingston, Ryan learned that the convicts who got the attention and respect of the others were the armed robbers, especially the bank robbers, some of whom, like Art Conley in March 1915, actually had what it took to shoot it out with the police. At least by the time he was set free from "the Big House" in September 1914, Norman Ryan was firmly set on a career in crime. It was an

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appropriate life choice for an exhibitionistic youth with an enduring grudge against his violent, controlling father — whose oncethreatening spectre had now come to be represented in his subconscious by the force of organized society, especially the banks and the police. Inside Norman Ryan's mind, playing "the Game" had become a vehicle for the attention that he surely craved and needed. In May 1936, crime had long since been, as the Star's editorial "The Case of Red Ryan" would glancingly suggest, "possibly an excitement he could not do without." The long-term consequences of inmate K-166's deceit, of course, were sometimes said to have fallen most heavily on "the poor devils inside," who Red Ryan had claimed to most feel for. In 1957 — more than twenty years after Ryan's death at Sarnia — it was alleged that one of the effects of Ryan's exposure as "an unregenerate killer" was to prolong the reform of Canada's "antiquated penal regulations," resulting in the unnecessary suffering of thousands of inmates in the system. But this was, and is, problematic. In 1981, this proposition was vigorously disputed by James C. McRuer, a one-time member of the Archambault Commission, who felt that Red Ryan's impact on prison reform was minimal — that, as far as the press was concerned, the matter was of little interest after February 1936, when the King government granted the Royal Commission and that the impetus for prison reform was principally killed off by the war, which was "a larger interest that swallowed all of the smaller interests." It is much less contentious to cite Red Ryan's impact on parole. Twenty years after his death, there existed both perspective and statistics that demonstrated a decline in the number of remissions from Canada's federal institutions since Ryan's death. This trend was coincident with a reverse trend in "almost all other Western countries" that were making increased use of parole. In 1957, D.W.F. Coughlin, director of Ontario's probation services, told writer Ted Honderich, "The case of Norman Ryan put back the progress of parole in Canada by fifteen years. That one spectacular case did more against the system than the proven record of thousands of men has done for it." As late as 1966, J. Alex Edmison, a noted penologist, who, in the mid-fifties, had been a member of the Fauteux Committee on remissions, was able to write in an article in Chitty's Law Journal, "Although occurring thirty years ago, we still hear about the Ryan case which every now and then is resurrected as an argument against the institution of parole itself."

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A more subtle lesson arising out of the Sarnia episode has to do with what it demonstrates about different forms of power. In a free society it is a commonplace that police power has to be watched and it is most often the free press that watches that power. But who watches the power of the free press? After the Sarnia revelation, there was virtually no public suggestion that the police might have harboured any suspicions about Red Ryan or his criminal friends. As far as the public was concerned the police never suspected a thing. In fact, there was "a He commonly agreed upon": that the police were just as unsuspecting of Ryan as were his most ingenuous supporters. But it was never so. In general, the police are to some extent wary of politicians and the press. But, in July 1935, the Toronto Police had had a recent object lesson in the form of the case of Albert Dorland, a Toronto rounder, who, on April 7, 1930, was, to all appearances, flagrantly "set up" by Toronto detectives so that he could be caught in the act of robbing a bank and sent to prison. Allegedly Toronto detectives conspired with and coached an informer named William Touhey to inveigle Dorland into helping him to rob the Royal Bank at Church and Wellesley Streets while they waited across the street in a drug store ready to pounce. But Dorland became suspicious, reneged on the robbery and, with Touhey in tow, tried to escape in an automobile. The detectives gave pursuit, shots were fired and the two "suspects" were apprehended. The next day, on bad advice, Dorland pleaded guilty to carrying an offensive weapon and was sentenced to five years. The whole episode smelled so bad that it became a huge issue in the Toronto press and a judicial inquiry was ordered. Eventually, after fifty-seven witnesses were heard, Mr. Justice Kingstone produced a report that censured the police, labelling their testimony as untruthful, and recommended that several Toronto policemen be charged. Dorland was freed from prison and, like Red Ryan in July 1935, was chauffeured to Toronto in a Star automobile as part of one of the paper's "scoops." Chief of Detectives James Murray was forced into retirement and Detective-Sergeant Alex McCathie was charged with "shooting with intent to maim" but was later acquitted. Dorland, who the Toronto Police rightly regarded as a hardened criminal, was arrested for another bank robbery soon afterward and legitimately was sent to Kingston for a long stretch. The effect of the Dorland affair was to intimidate the police and Red Ryan's supporters were well aware of it. When Ryan stepped from

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Kingston Penitentiary in July 1935, a description in the Toronto Star of his last walk through the prison yard had him waving "Good bye" to the other prisoners, but only one was named — Albert Dorland. In such a climate, the Toronto Police knew they had to be especially nice to Red Ryan. They invited Ryan to the Police Games on Hanlan's Point, and later regularly indulged and entertained him at police headquarters. They strained themselves to ignore Ryan's trooping around Cabbagetown at the head of a coterie of "former Kingston Penitentiary men." Toronto detectives didn't notice that the January 10, 1936, robbery of the Dominion Bank at Laughton and Davenport — the only bank robbery in the city that year — fit Ryan's known methods, and thus didn't bother to question him about the robbery. Neither was Ryan asked about the holdup in Hamilton on February 6, which was recognized by the police as being the work of the same two men and recognized in the Hamilton Spectator as being very similar to Ryan's modus operandi in his past robbery of the same bank. But there was more. After April 14, 1936, Detective-Sergeant Alex McCathie — as he related in 1981 — got a call to meet one of his regular informants "far out on the outskirts of Toronto." The snitch — who was "not happy with Red Ryan" — was Gordon Simpson, the one-time Kingston escapee and Ryan's known associate of many years. Simpson named Ryan as one of the perpetrators of the La Chute bank robbery, then, a few days after that, left Toronto for New York City to get away from Ryan's incessant pressure to commit crimes. McCathie took this information to John Chisholm, whose reaction was entirely circumspect. "Be careful, for God's sake. Be sure you've got the goods before you act on this," Chisholm warned emphatically. In fact, there was nothing to do. How do you get "the goods" on somebody on whom an immunity has been conferred in the press? It was the same with the O.P.P. C.I.B.'s investigation of the murder of Edward Stonehouse. In a day when there were only a handful of known criminals in Ontario who were capable of the Markham crime, Inspector W.H. Lougheed and Sergeant George MacKay — possessed of good descriptions of Ryan and McMullen — spent two months fecklessly investigating blind alleys and shaking down ragamuffin criminals. But the investigators suspected Red Ryan right from the start as MacKay would candidly admit forty-five years later. "With the descriptions we

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had, you didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes," MacKay declared in March 1981. According to MacKay, Red Ryan's name was brought up right at the Markham crime scene in a conversation that involved the two C.I.B. investigators; Oliver Borland, the Toronto Police's fingerprint man; Detective Robert McMaster, Toronto's automobile specialist; Sidney Barraclough, a North York policeman; and James Walker. 52 Borland went over the Stonehouse Garage and the Stonehouse's Chev carefully looking for fingerprints — especially Red Ryan's fingerprints. None were found and that effectively ended any chance that Ryan would be considered a suspect. "We were afraid of making a mistake. In those days, you'd be in the middle of a stink and maybe out on your ear. I know I was worried about Ryan; there was this feeling that it was going to end the way it did end," remembered MacKay. The C.I.B. file on the Markham occurrence doesn't mention Red Ryan on any document dated before May 23, 1936, "because nobody was going to take a chance on his career by putting anything like this down on paper." And so the Sarnia and Elaine, Washington, killings were allowed to happen. Such was, and is, the power of the press and the media.

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APPENDIX

I

n the course of researching and writing a book such as this, there are many facts and stories to check out, many questions to ask oneself and many theories that develop, some of which prove out, some of which don't. The author, of course, tries to know and understand as much as he can. Many of the answers are elusive — and always will be. There was, for example, the story that the City of Sarnia had embedded one of the policemen's revolvers that killed Red Ryan in the cement of the sidewalk in front of 140 Christina Street North, the liquor store, which, in 1938, was remodelled and became Taylor's Furniture Store, which ever since has been a well-known Sarnia concern. This yarn was easy to check. I looked for the gun in the sidewalk cement, found it wasn't there and discussed the matter with Bert Taylor, who had done business at the location for many years. Taylor told me that there had never been any such gun. I decided that the gun- in-the-cement story, handed to me as fact by two or three different people, was simply a myth. A similar yarn was told to me in 1983 by a former employee of the Domed Stadium Tavern at 197 King Street East in Toronto, which had previously been the Riviera Club and, before that, the Nealon Hotel. I was informed that there were bullet holes in the front wall of the tavern's basement which, according to legend, were the result of

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Red Ryan's having used the basement for target practice. I asked to be allowed to investigate and spent twenty or thirty minutes going over the wall I found nothing to indicate that the story was genuine. The building has since been gutted beyond recognition. A somewhat more difficult problem arose over the story that Red Ryan had had an interview with John Chisholm just after the Stonehouse shooting, at which time he volunteered his services in support of the police catching the perpetrators. Six or eight people reported this to me as being true, but two of them, Detective-Sergeant George MacKay of the O.P.P.'s C.I.B. and Detective-Sergeant George Elliott of the Toronto Police, very guardedly added something else: that some powerful figure had gone to see Chisholm with Ryan. Both spoke of this very carefully — but, at the same time, both seemed to want me to find something. It became the case that I developed a theory as to who this person might have been and I tried several avenues to get support for this, but to no avail. Hence, the story appears as it does in the narrative. But I still have my suspicions. This brings me to what I regard as the most intriguing of the unproven theories which I developed about Red Ryan during the course of my research: The period of Ryan's adult life which I knew the least about was the twenty-two months between November 29, 1918, when Ryan deserted the Witley Camp Guard Room, and September 1920, by which time Ryan was back in Toronto and had signed a legal document. What had he done in the interim? There was very little solid information to be found in news accounts of later crimes and trials or in the documents that were generated by his later life and criminal activities. Thinking that Ryan had likely reverted to crime in England after November 29, 1918, as was sometimes subsequently claimed by himself and by news reporters, I scanned The Times of London for the twenty-two-month period and came up with one occurrence which seemed possibly, or even probably, Ryan's work. In the Times of December 12, 1919, on page 14, there appeared underneath the headline "Raid on Leeds Bank," an account of the robbery of a branch of the Yorkshire Penny Bank on Camp Road in the Yorkshire city of Leeds, during which the manager, Mr. E.P. Gates, made the mistake of resisting and was cold-bloodedly shot dead. The lone robber fired a single bullet, which entered Gates' skull over the left eye, killing him instantly. What first caught my notice about this incident was the modus

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operandi of the robbery: a lone robber, who was quick to shoot, operating inside the bank by himself with an accomplice waiting outside in a getaway car — exactly as "the Lone Bandit" had done in four of five robberies at Hamilton and Montreal between July 29 and October 26, 1921. The news account said that the Leeds Police had traced the perpetrator "to the house of friends." It was stated that the suspect was "formerly a second lieutenant in the Devon Rangers", who, like Norman Ryan, was twenty-four years old. His description was as follows: Height, 6ft; hair, dark brown; eyes, brown; complexion, sallow; build, thin; clean shaven; dressed in dark grey tweed suit, black bowler hat; and black shoes; wearing a stiff double collar and tie. The physical description is very nearly Ryan as described and photographed in the period 1921-1924. The clothes are similarly bang on. Ryan's hair was not very red (What could be seen of the perpetrator's hair if he was wearing a black bowler hat?) and, in fact, some people in Kingston Penitentiary later stated that they thought he was called "Red Ryan" because of his flushed complexion which developed later. Moreover Ryan was known in 1923 and 1936 to dye his hair for robberies. The only real discrepancy in the descriptions is the eyes; Ryan's were blue. There were several other minor similarities between the murderer of E.P. Gates and Ryan. The district around the Leeds bank is described as being "very quiet at the time," suggesting that it was perhaps a residential area similar to the sort of neighbourhood Ryan's banks usually were in. The Leeds robbery took place in the afternoon as did nearly all of Ryan's "jobs." The robber was seen in the bank before the robbery — as Ryan often was and as, admittedly, many other bank robbers might have been. The Leeds robber repaired "to the home of friends" where he changed his clothes and left behind him "a bag containing a quantity of revolver cartridges and a pair of handcuffs." In Montreal on October 26, 1921, Ryan and George McVittie were arrested at the YMCA in possession of a black club bag containing assorted criminal paraphernalia and such a bag was found in Ryan's and Curly Sullivan's room in Minneapolis in December 1923. After robbing a bank at Hamilton in October 1921, Ryan went straight to the Great War Veterans' Association rooms where he quickly changed his clothes. I never learned whether the Leeds crime was solved or not — and I had no success at all trying to demonstrate that Norman "Red" Ryan was the perpetrator. I wrote to the Yorkshire Police, the English

190 The Big Red Fox

Bankers' Association, two Yorkshire newspapers, a historical society, and two English tourists to Canada, both of whom had enthusiastically promised their help. Only the Yorkshire Police and the Bankers' Association responded and, on appearances, only the Bankers' Association gave it a real effort. I guess I'll never know.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

M

y interest in Norman "Red" Ryan has lasted a lifetime — beginning in 1952 or '53 when I first heard announcer Jack Dennett and Harold "Baldy" Cotton, a Boston Bruins hockey scout, discussing Ryan on radio station CFRB. At the time, I was perhaps seven or eight years old. My father explained Red Ryan's story to me in copious detail and told me that he had known Ryan and that he and his brothers and sisters had gone to St. Helen's School with some of Ryan's brothers and sisters. Both families were, of course, Irish Catholics and lived in the north part of Toronto's west-end Parkdale district. My father was gone from my life when I was ten and, in a sense, I am quite certain that Red Ryan's story, which I had heard many times, was a kind of emotional link to him. The person in my childhood experience who told me the most about Red Ryan was Margaret Watkins, an elderly Irish-Protestant woman, who had been a neighbour and family friend of the McSherry family on Trafalgar Avenue (which is now gone) beginning about 1902. This was not long after my forty-three-year-old paternal grandfather and his seventeen-year-old bride moved into No. 8 Trafalgar, which was right next to Margaret and Peter Watkins (for whom my sister and I were named) who lived at No. 6. An intelligent, insightful woman with a real Irish wit, Margaret Watkins was a great

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storyteller. Unlike most of the people who have since told me parts of Norman "Red" Ryan's story, she really did understand what had happened — and why. To her, Norman Ryan was a neighbour's boy who had gone tragically wrong, not a hero of crime whose criminal "exploits" were to be regarded as a form of entertainment. Like my father and many others from north Parkdale, she had considerable empathy for the Ryan family, who were decent people who suffered terribly because of Norman — yet never stopped helping him and hoping that he'd change. Indeed, the Ryans were Norman's first and longest-serving victims. In December 1957, aged 12, I read and enjoyed Ted Honderich's article "Why Red Ryan's Shadow Still Hangs Over Every Prison Yard" in Maclean s and, three days later, I watched the Front Page Challenge program about Red Ryan's death at Sarnia — and I have a definite remembrance of it. I think I knew even then that I would one day write a book about Red Ryan. In October 1977, with "my teaching career" already behind me, I began researching this book. After numerous delays and many selfdoubts, I have completed its writing in December 1998. The fact that I have been a taxi driver during most of this time was of some benefit as several important sources of information came to me through this activity, including Jenny "the Kid" Law whose husband — incredibly — got into my cab as a fare in July 1978. My finding Jenny was virtually happenstance — a fluke — as her name does not appear in any news story or document that I have seen. Yet I am quite certain that she and the story she told were genuine. I would like to thank the following people for their kind assistance in my research or for other input or help which was of value: The staffs of the Metropolitan Toronto Reference Library Newspaper Unit (especially Norma Dainard and Keith Alcock, both of whom took an interest); of the Hamilton, Kingston, and Sarnia Public Libraries; of the Queen's University Library; of the St. Michael's College Library (University of Toronto); of the National Library and the Library of Parliament at Ottawa; of the Toronto Archives (especially Victor Russell); of the Archives of Ontario (especially Richard Ramsey and Catherine Shepard); of the National Archives of Canada (especially James Whelan); of the Bank of Nova Scotia Archives (especially Claude Doucet); of the Correctional Service Staff College Museum at Kingston; of the University of Toronto Archives; and of the Markham Museum (especially John Lunau). I would also like to thank Greg

Acknowledgements

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Henkenhaf of the Toronto Sun for his help with photographs; the SunTimes of Owen Sound, which was kind enough to allow me to view their microfilm of papers from June 1915; O.RR Commissioner Harold H. Graham for granting permission to me to view the C.I.B. file on the Stonehouse shooting and to take notes; Fred Ludlam, O.RR records manager, for his help in tracking down the file on the Stonehouse shooting; O.RR Superintendent Geoff Cooper, who put up with me for an afternoon and who let me win an important argument that a less generous man might not have; and RC. Art Widdis of the O.RR, who worked on photographs from the file. At the Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre, I would like to thank both Sergeant Ernie Pollock for his kind interest in 1983 and retired Staff Superintendent Jack Webster, curator and historian of a later time, who was also once Toronto's chief of detectives, chief of the homicide squad and a member of the holdup squad. Jack's interest, friendly assistance, and support in the final year of my labours was enormous. I would like to thank all of those listed below who were formally interviewed, or who merely supplied valuable information, and all of those who did the same but who, for one reason or another, are better not mentioned. Because of the time I have taken to finish this book, many, of course, are now gone. Several of my personal friends helped me — reading and discussing with me parts of the manuscript, lending me money at one point, and listening to me rant on and on about a bank robber for years. Mike and Sharon Wright housed and fed me for five weeks in Ottawa and Catherine Murray put me up for a couple of weeks in Kingston. My friend "Bertie" — a former bank robber — advised me on many questions, helped me to understand how to think like a criminal and took an unwavering interest over virtually the entire twenty-one-year odyssey. As well, I would like to thank Barbara Sears and Pierre Berton (who I have never met) for their very extraordinary consideration towards in me in a way that I won't mention, and Barbara for reading my manuscript and for her advice, which I very much needed. Lastly I would like to thank all of the people at Dundurn Press for their help and for having enough faith in me to publish my book, especially Tony Hawke and Barry Jowett, my editor, who tactfully and cleverly improved my work immensely. Thanks to all. The book was researched and written entirely without a grant of any kind, which was important to me. I won't explain why.

194 The Big Red Fox BIBLIOGRAPHY Newspapers I scanned the first four pages of every issue of the Toronto Star from November 1912 to September 1939 and also selected editions in 1941,1955,1962,1992. Also:

BeUingham Herald, 1936. Brantford Expositor, 1936. The Globe, 1912,1915, 1921-24,1926,1932-33,1935-36. The Globe and Mail, 1938, 1965. Halifax Herald, 1936. Hamilton Herald, 1915, 1921-24. Hamilton Spectator, 1915, 1921-24, 1935-36. Hush Weekly, 1941-47. Kingston British Whig, 1923-24. Kingston Daily Standard, 1923-24. Kingston Whig- Standard, 1932-33, 1935-36, 1941. Lindsay Daily Post, 1936. London Advertiser, 1936. London Free Press, 1936. Markham Economist and Sun, 1936. Minneapolis Journal, 1923-24. Minneapolis Morning Tribune, 1923-24. Montreal Gazette, 1921-22. Montreal Star, 1921-22, 1936. New York Times, 1923-24, 1926. Ottawa Citizen, 1923,1932-33,1935-36. Ottawa Journal, 1923-24, 1927, 1932, 1935-36. Owen Sound Sun, 1915. Owen Sound Times, 1915. Port Huron Times-Herald, 1936. Regina Leader Post, 1936. St. Paul Dispatch, 1979. St. Thomas Times-Journal, 1932-33, 1936. Sarnia Canadian Observer, 1936-39. SauttStar, 1920, 1923, 1936. Seattle Daily Times, 1936.

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The Times of London, 1918-20. Toronto Evening Telegram, 1912, 1915, 1918, 1920-24, 1930-36, 1938. Toronto Mail and Empire, 1905, 1912, 1915, 1921-24, 1927, 1923-24,

1929,1932,1935-36. Toronto News, 1905, 1912, 1915. Toronto Sun, 1978,1991. Toronto World, 1912, 1915, 1918. Vancouver Daily Province, 1936. Vancouver Sun, 1936. Victoria Daily Colonist, 1936. Victoria Daily Times, 1936. Windsor Star, 1936. Winnipeg Evening Tribune, 1923-24, 1936 Published Sources: Beeching, William, and Clarke, Phyllis (eds.). Yours In The Struggle: Reminicences of Jim Buck. Toronto: NC Press, 1977. Berton, Pierre. "Hindmarsh of the Star," Maclean's, April 1, 1952. Berton, Pierre. "News With A Divining Rod," Saturday Night, March 17,1956. Burrill, William. Hemingway: the Toronto Years, Toronto: Doubleday, 1994. Cleckley, Hervey M. The Mask of Sanity, St. Louis: C. V. Mosely Company, 1964. Cranston, J.H. Ink On My Fingers, Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1953. Edmison, J. Alex. "Parole Failures and Parole Successes," Chitt^'s Law Journal, June 1966. Gerrard, Warren. "Forty Years of Cops and Robbers," City Magazine, May 7, 1978. Greenaway, C. Roy. "The Good Thief of Portsmouth," The Star Weekly, May 13, 1933. Greenaway, Roy. The News Game, Toronto: Clarke, Irwin, 1966. Griffin, Frederick. Variety Show, Toronto: MacMillan of Canada, 1936. Hare, Robert D. Without Conscience: the Disturbing World of the Psychopaths, New York: Pocket Books, 1993. Harkness, Ross. J. E. Atkinson of the Star, Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963. Honderich, Ted. "Why Red Ryan's Shadow Still Hangs Over Every Prison Yard," Maclean's, December 7, 1957.

196 The Big Red Fox MacGillivray, Kenneth. "The Master Crook Who Fooled Canada," Coronet, September 1949. McEwen, Tom. Prison Bars, Vancouver: Pacific Tribune Press, 1971. O'Brien, James. "Big Game Hunter," Saturday Night, May 30, 1936. Plantos, Ted. "The Legend of Red Ryan," in The Universe Ends at Sherbourne and Queen, Toronto: Steel Rail Publishing, 1977. Robbin, Martin. The Saga of Red Ryan and Other Tales of Violence From Canada's Past, Saskatoon: Western Producer Prairie Books, 1982. Ryan, Norman J. 'Red* Ryan's Rhymes and Episodes, Hamilton: Dodge Press, 1924. Stewart, Margaret, and French, Doris. Ask No Quarter: A Biography of Agnes Macphaily Toronto: Longman's, Green and Company, 1959. Thomas, Jocko. From Police Headquarters, Toronto: Stoddart Publishing, 1990. "Ticket-of-Leave Man," Time, June 8, 1936. Withrow, Dr. Oswald C.J. Shackling the Transgressor, Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1933. Unpublished Manuscript s and Sources: Fry, William. Personal Diary, 1936. Kingsley, Wilfrid T. "A History of the Church of the Good Thief, Portsmouth", 1932. Patterson, H.B. "East Wind Blowing." Qovemment Documents and Publications: House of Commons Debates, 1932-34, 1936. Report of the Committee to Inquire Into the Principles and Procedures Followed in the Remission Service of the Department of Justice of Canada. Ottawa: Queen's Printer, 1956. Reports of the Inspector of Penitentiaries, 1918-1937, Ottawa: King's Printer, 1918-1937. Report of the Royal Commission On Penitentiaries Sessional Paper No. 252, Ottawa: King's Printer, 1914. Report of the Royal Commission to Investigate the Penal System of Canada. Ottawa: King's Printer, 1938. Report of the Superintendent of Penitentiaries re: Kingston Penitentiary Disturbances, 1932. Ottawa: King's Printer, 1933. Superintendant of Penitentiaries Annual Reports, 1867-1917.

Bibliography

197

Archives and Museums: The Bank of Nova Scotia Archives: Letters of J.A. McLeod, the general manager, especially concerning the robbery of the Oakwood and St. Clair branch in Toronto on September 28, 1923. The Correctional Service Staff College Museum, Kingston: Inmate Registration "History and Descriptions": Arthur Brown (Andrew Sullivan), Thomas Bryans, Harry Checkley, Arthur Conley, Thomas Finnessey, James Latimer, Robert McCue, Ed McMullen, George McVittie, Norman Ryan, Gordon Simpson, Albert Slade (Norman Ryan), John W. Turner. Memoranda and Correspondence of Deputy Warden Tucker, 1921-22. Register of Parole Applications, 1914Registration Photographs Visitor's Register, 1931-36. Warden's Letterbook, 1918. Public Archives of Canada: Manuscript Division: The Richard Bedford Bennett Papers The Muriel E. Black Papers The Agnes Macphail Papers The Arthur Roebuck Papers Public Records Division: Department of National Defence "Particulars of Service" of Private Norman John Ryan, #3057540. Dominion Police Records (Tickets^of-Leave) Penitentiary Branch File on Escape of Convicts September 10, 1923 (6 volumes). Penitentiary Branch File of Inmate K-166, Albert Slade Sundry files of Extradition, Penitentiary and Remission Branches of Justice Department. Public Archives of Ontario: Attorney General of Ontario (Rex vs Simpson, Extradition). Attorney General of Ontario (re: shooting of Edward Stonehouse at Markham, February 29, 1936). Lambton County Criminal Indictment Assize Clerk's Reports, 1920-29. Lambton County Judge's Criminal Court Docket Book, 1922-50.

198

The Big Red Fox

Lambton County Crown Attorney, Inquest Into the Death of John Lewis. Records of Forensic Pathologist (Dr. Prankish). Records of the Surrogate Court of the County of York (Wills). Records of the Surrogate Court of the County of Wentworth (Wills) York County Clerk of the Peace Indictable Informations, 1902-05. Toronto Archives: Toronto City Directories Records of Toronto Police Court: Magistrates G.T Denison and R.E. Kingsford, 1905-30. Toronto Police Museum: Athol Gow's Newsclipping. Scrapbook Letter of Norman Ryan to Keiller MacKay dated April 4, 1933. Toronto Police Department Station Registers. Photographs of Norman Ryan. Police Records: Ontario Provincial Police Criminal Investigation Branch file on the murder of Edward Stonehouse at Markham on February 29, 1936. Personal Interviews and Important Conversations: Muriel E. Black; Mr. and Mrs. Larry Blea; Reverend Vaughan D. Blueman; Harry Brown; Dorothy Butler; Morris Cole; William Common; Ken Crawford; Fern Dougal; Oren Earl; Detective-Sergeant George Elliot (Toronto); Bob Ellis; Eva Folkins; Wilf Ford; William Fry; Dr. James Griffin; John "Gazooney" Guerin; Vincent "the Ace" Hamel; Russell Hardick; Charles Howard; Norm Johnston of the Toronto Evening Telegram; P.C. Art Keay (Toronto); Patrol-Sergeant George Laird (Toronto); Maurice LaTour; Jack Lewis; Llewellyn "the Duke" Lewis of the Evening Telegram; Matt Lillis; Bill Little; Jenny "the Kid" Law*; Mera Stonehouse Lunau; Eva J. MacDonald; Detective-Sergeant George MacKay (O.P.P.); Bill Marlborough; Detective-Sergeant Alex "Archie" McCathie (Toronto); Doug McCue; Mrs. Robert McCue; James C. McRuer; James McSherry; James Y. Nicol of the Windsor Star; Kay O'Rourke; H.B. Patterson;

Bibliography

199

Ted Reeve; John Robinette; Al Rodney; John Rollins; Gus Ryder; "Schmaltzy"; Fred Spain; Chrystal Stonehouse Ross; George Shewell; Patricia Sullivan; Bert Taylor; Gwyn "Jocko" Thomas of the Toronto Star; Constable James Torrance (Sarnia); Frank Tunney; Don Walker; Edward B. Waring; Margaret Watkins; John Watson; Father AJ. Welsh; H.D. Whitehead; O.N. "Red" Wilson of the Sarnia Canadian Observer, P.O. Charles Wood (O.RR); Norman "Baby" Yack; and many others.... * pseudonym **police ranks and newspapers as of 1935-36 **# Thanks to Katherine Ford, who interviewed Wilf Ford, and Bernie Zelk, who interviewed "Schmaltzy" Correspondence: Agnes Dubbels; Katherine Ford; Mrs. G.E. Frid; Ted Honderich; Larry Meehan; Alfreda Schaaf; Charles A. Schaaf; Earl L. Vogt; Cook County, Illinois, Records Department; Office of the Registrar General of Ontario

200

The Big Red Fox

NOTES 1

2 3 4

5 6 7 8 9 10

11

12

An antique form of parole, which was practised in the federal system after 1899, the Ticket-of-Leave was a licence allowing an inmate to complete his sentence outside prison walls provided certain criteria were met. In practice, the inmate who received a Ticket-of-Leave was not usually, or necessarily, interviewed before being released and the only monitoring of the Ticket-of-Leave recipient's behaviour after release was a requirement that the released inmate report to the local chief constable in whatever town or city he or she was resident in, A Ticket^of-Leave was rarely, if ever, awarded to a "lifer," an inmate who had committed "a major crime," or a confirmed recidivist. In the normal run, Ryan would have been disqualified on all three counts. Toronto Star, July 24, 1935. Ibid. The person referred to as suggesting H.A. Mullins take up the question of Red Ryan's Ticket-of-Leave with Minister of Justice Hugh Guthrie was W.A. Cameron, pastor of Toronto's Yorkminster Baptist Church, who wrote a weekly religion column in the Toronto Star and, for nine years before 1933, regularly preached on the Star's radio station. Toronto Star, May 26, 1936. Toronto Star, July 24, 1935. Toronto Evening Telegram, July 26, 1935. Toronto Star, July 25, 1935. Toronto Star, July 27, 1935. Letter from St. Vincent De Paul convict James Alex Courtney to "Dear Norm and Frank" via "the tunnel route" dated Monday, December 10, 1923. Justice Department. Penitentiary Branch file re: Escape of Convicts, September 10, 1923. Volume 4. Public Archives of Canada. See Appendix regarding the armed robbery of a bank in Leeds, England, on December 11, 1919, during which the bank manager was cold-bloodedly murdered by a gunman whose methods and appearance were strikingly similar to those of Norman "Red" Ryan. The five banks Ryan and George McVittie robbed, or attempted to rob, in the summer and fall of 1921 were the Locke and Herkimer branch of the Bank of Hamilton in Hamilton, from

Notes

13 14 15

16

17 18

19 20 21 22

23

24 25

26

201

which $3,879 was taken on July 29; the Molson's Bank at Mount Royal and Bordeaux in Montreal on August 12, which realized $2,843; a failed attempt on the Bank of Hamilton at Sanford and King in Hamilton on October 13, which debilitated into a shootout with the bank manager; the $1,870 robbery of the Union Bank at Locke and Main Streets in Hamilton on October 14; and the failed attempt to rob the Park Avenue and Prince Arthur branch of the Bank of Commerce in Montreal on October 25, which also saw Ryan exchanging shots with the bank manager. Montreal Gazette, October 27, 1921. Montreal Star, October 27, 192L The names Lillie and Jenny Law are pseudonyms. Jenny was the source of most, not all, of the information in this paragraph and much of what is written in Chapters 8 and 9. William Burrill, in the course of researching Hemingway: the Toronto Years, discovered some thirty stories that his subject had written which were previously unknown to be his work. This story was one of them. He did me a favour: I had long wondered and speculated about who the writer might have been. Toronto Star, September 11, 1923. "Secret and Confidential" Report of Deputy Warden R.R. Tucker to Superintendent of Dominion Penitentiaries W. St. Pierre Hughes dated December 7, 1923. Justice Department. Penitentiary Branch file re: Escape of Convicts on September 10, 1923. Volume 4. Public Archives of Canada. Toronto Star, January 7, 1924. Ibid. Ibid. Certainly Ryan was the father of at least one illegitimate child, a daughter, whose mother — Edna — lived over a bank at Bathurst and Bloor in 1921-22. According to a later news story, Ryan was the father of four children — none of whom issued from his marriage with Elsie Sharpe. As quoted in the Globe, January 8, 1924. Other papers varied slightly. Toronto Star, January 9, 1924. C. Roy Greenaway, "The Good Thief of Portsmouth," The Star Weekly, May 13, 1933. Dr. Oswald C. J. Withrow, Shackling the Transgressor, p. 66.

202 27

28

29

30 31 32 33 34

35

36 37

38

The Big Red Fox

Letter of Norman Ryan to Russell Walsh dated May 27, 1935. The Richard Bedford Bennett Papers. Public Archives of Canada. Letter of Norman Ryan to "a Lambton County man" as quoted in the Sarnia Canadian Observer of May 29, 1936. Letter of Norman Ryan to Keiller MacKay dated April 3, 1933. Justice Department. Penitentiary Branch file of Inmate K-166, Albert Slade. Ibid. Roy Greenaway, The News Game, p. 147. Toronto Star, July 27, 1935. Toronto Star, July 30,1935. Note of R.B. Bennett to "Ryan's sister" (Irene Morris) as quoted in the Toronto Star, December 19, 1934. Letter of Norman Ryan to Russell Walsh as quoted in the Toronto Star, December 19,1934. Toronto Star, May 3,1935. Letter of Norman Ryan to Senator H. A. Mullins as quoted in the Toronto Mail and Empire, May 26, 1936. The statement that Norman Ryan was born in a house on Augusta Avenue, or Esther Street as it was known at the time, is a deduction of the author. It has been arrived at by a circuitous route. It has often been written that Ryan was born on Markham Street near Robinson Street. This cannot be so. The date of Ryan's birth (as it appears on several documents and ledgers including at least one document that Ryan signed) was July 8, 1895. But the family of John J. Ryan, tinner, is not listed in Might's Toronto Directory, which was an important reference tool of the day, as residing at 36 Markham Street before 1899. Provincial birth records for this period, which are now in the possession of the Archives of Ontario, do not show a birth registry for Norman Ryan, though one of Russ Walsh's sons has stated that he is in possession of such a document, which must have been issued years later based on information supplied by the family or from church records. Ryan's nephew did not challenge the July 8, 1895 birth date when it was put to him and stated that he did not know where his Uncle Norman was born. If Ryan was bom in a hospital, which would have been highly unusual in the instance of a working-class birth in 1895, the birth would have been registered; so it seems nearly certain that Ryan was

Notes

39

203

bom in the family home as was the common practice of the day, Might's Toronto Directory for 1896, for which information was compiled in 1895, lists John Ryan, tinner, as the occupant at 68 Esther Street. The name of this street was changed to Augusta Avenue in 1910. This address, like the lower Markham Street address, put the Ryan family in St. Mary's parish. St. Mary's now directs all enquiries to the Registrar General of Ontario, which is a path that dead-ends at the provincial archives. Two other bits of information support the Might's Directory listing: A Toronto Police document of the twenties states that Elizabeth Ryan was attended at Ryan's birth by a Dr. Wakeman, who then lived at 10 Euclid Avenue, which is an address six blocks from Augusta Avenue. (Aged 12, Ryan was convicted of stealing Dr. Wakeman's bicyle.) In the wake of Red Ryan's sudden demise, both Tommy Levine of the Evening Telegram and R.E. Porter of the Globe extensively reproduced their conversation with Ryan of Tuesday, May 19 when Ryan reminisced and dispensed opinions liberally. Levine wrote erroneously about Ryan's recollection of Art Conley's gunfight with Detective Billy Nicholls, which happened on March 31, 1915, telling his readers that this occurred near Queen and Augusta when, in fact, the shooting took place at Queen and Palmerston. Levine also wrote that Ryan informed the reporters that he was born in a house near Queen and Palmerston. Inasmuch as there is nothing in support of this last contention, it is reasonable to conclude that Levine reversed the locations associated with these two events. Apparently Red Ryan believed he was born on Augusta Avenue or Esther Street. This jibes with the directory listing and the Wakeman story. The conclusion and the conviction of the author is that Norman Ryan was born at 68 Esther Street and this has been incorporated in the narrative of The Big Red Fox. Detective-Sergeant Eddie "the Chinaman" Tong, who was Welsh, not Chinese, was fatally wounded by Steve Suchan of the notorious Boyd Gang on March 6, 1952, and died seventeen days later. The shooting happened at the corner of College and Lansdowne in west-end Toronto — one hundred yards from 279 Lansdowne Avenue, Russ Walsh's home. Suchan and Lenny Jackson were hanged for the murder.

204 40

41 42

43

44

45

46 47

Fhe Big Red Fox

Document signed by Norman Ryan dated November 12, 1926. Justice Department. Penitentiary Branch file of Inmate K-166, Albert Slade. Public Archives of Canada. Hamilton Spectator, February 7, 1936. It is unclear whether McMullen and Mary were legally married. The Registrar General of Ontario is precluded from divulging such information. An informant of the Toronto Police, who obviously knew someone close to Mary and who gave some otherwise reliable information, claimed in an unsigned note that "(McMullen) had to marry her," meaning, apparently, that the marriage insured against Mary's ever testifying against him in court. The surname of these observant young fellows was taken as "Hagan" by the O.P.P. investigators of the Stonehouse shooting, but some press accounts give it as "Hagen." John Lunau, historian and curator of the Markham Museum in 1982, insisted their surname was "O'Hagan" or "O'Hagen." My efforts to track these people down in the early eighties came to nothing. My sense is to go with the spelling on the statement taken by Criminal Investigation Branch Detective-Sergeant George MacKay on February 29, 1936. Perhaps the family adjusted their name at a later date. It is because of a diary kept by William Fry that it is possible to accurately pinpoint the time and date of these happenings. An autopsy was performed on Constable Jack Lewis's body only because there was to be an inquest into Lewis's death only. When asked by reporters to explain why there wasn't to be inquests into Ryan's and Checkley's deaths, Chief Lannin replied bitterly, "We know who killed them. The police killed them." Sarnia Canadian Observer (Extra Edition), May 23, 1936. Toronto Star, May 26, 1936.

48

Ibid.

49

Vancouver Sun, May 29, 1936. Globe, May 26, 1936. According to George MacKay, a York County detective who was at the scene was specifically excluded from this conversation because he was not trusted by the C. I. B. investigators.

50 52

Index

205

INDEX Acme Motor Sales, Detroit, Michigan, 86 Adams, Irene, 50, 95 Allan, Richard, 9, 10-11, 15, 78-80, 83-

84,86,124,151 Almack, Reverend Walter C, 154 Alwington, 34, 36 Anderson, Harry, 93, 109,119, 125, 147 Archambault Commission and Report, 93,99,125,127,167,182 Archambault, Joseph, 93, 125 Armour, Eric, 54-55 Armstrong, H. R. "Barney," 142, 148 Atkinson, Joseph E., 77, 176 Attorney General's Department (Ontario), 166 Attorney General's Department Reward for Stonehouse perpetrators, 118,160,166 autopsy (Jack Lewis), 137, 165 Ballard, George, 31,54 Banks: Bank of Commerce, Ailsa Craig, Ontario (burglary), 106-107,143 Bank of Commerce at Hamilton, Locke and Herkimer branch (February 6, 1936), 108, 184 Bank of Commerce at Montreal, Park Avenue and Prince Arthur branch (October 25,1921), 29,177-178 Bank of Hamilton at Hamilton, Locke and Herkimer branch (July 29, 1921), 29,108,177 Bank of Hamilton at Hamilton, King and Sanford branch (October 13, 1921), 29 Bank of Nova Scotia, LaChute, Quebec (April 14, 1936), 123-124, 126, 143144,148,160-161,163,184 Bank of Nova Scotia at Toronto, Oakwood and St. Clair branch, (September 27, 1923) , 40-41, 47, 51-54,105,145,178 Bank of Toronto at Wyoming, Ontario (October 20, 1921), 34,110-111,126 Dominion Bank at Toronto, Davenport

and Laugh ton branch (January 10, 1936), 108,184 Federal Bank at Chicago, Illinois, 44 Imperial Bank at St. Thomas, Talbot Street (March 28, 1936), 121-122, 143 Molson's Bank at Montreal, Mount Royal and Bordeaux branch (August 12,1921), 29 Penny Bank, Leeds, England, Camp Road branch (December 12, 1919), 188-189 State Bank of Minnesota at St. Paul, Grand Avenue (November 2, 1923, 42,47 (November 2, 1923), 42, 47,178 Union Bank, Locke and Main, in Hamilton (October 14, 1921), 29 the Barkers, Doc, Fred and Ma, 177 Barraclough, Sidney, 185 Barrow, Clyde, 177 Basher, Major Hedley, 53 Battershill, Richard, 48 Behan, Sam, 79, 95 Bennett government, 17, 69, 75, 78-79, 83,93 Bennett, Richard Bedford, 10, 13-14, 1618, 65-66, 69, 71, 75, 78-87, 93-94, 99-100, 109, 149, 152, 164, 168, 176-177 Betson, Patrick, 33-34 Black, Muriel E., 80-81 Blackwell United Church, 159 Blaine, Washington, 161-162,185 bootlegging and bootleggers, 29, 34,41 Bordeaux Jail, Montreal, 13, 31, 100 Borland, Oliver, 145, 159, 185 Borrowman, Dr. A. M., 137 Bowles Lunch, 96 Brantford, Ontario, 25-26, 71, 104 Briar Hill Avenue, Toronto, 129 Brown, Arthur, alias of Andrew "Curly" Sullivan, 34, 46-47, 50 Brown, "Young," 38 Browne, Robert J., 91, 106

206

thkakjfkdsjdsdee ufoidshjksdkjfdk

Brunskill, Frank, 44 Bryans, "Runty," 38 Bryans, Thomas "Shorty", 34-35, 37, 3941,50,167 "the last of the Red Ryan Gang," 167 Buck, Tim, 58, 79 Bunton, Major Wallace, 76, 94, 125 Burgess, W. C, 133-134 Cabbagetown (district ofToronto), 97, 101,103,110,174,184 Cameron, Reverend W. A., 14, 77, 176 Canadian Army, 27 Canadian Bankers' Association and Canadian Bankers' Association rewards, 40, 44, 96,104, 110 Canadian National Railway (CNR) Station, Caledonia Road, Toronto, 120 Canadian National Railway mail car robbery, Union Station (June, 1928), 177 Canadian National Railway (CNR) Station, Oakville, 120, 127 Canadian Reserve Battalion (6th), 28 Canadian Press, 21, 142 Carey and Carey, 47 Carino, Tony, 103404, 121, 167 Carling and Seybold, 62 Carlton Street (No. 52), 34, 37, 97, 104-105 Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Kingston, 60 Central YMCA, Montreal, 30 CFRB radio station, 114, 191 Chamberlain, Frank, 73 Checkley, William Henry "Harry," 105108, 111-114, 117-118, 120, 122124, 130-138, 142, 147-148, 158160,163-165 Cheley, Garnet, 124,144 Chevrolet Master sedan (Stonehouse automobile), 111-113, 118, 121, 143, 166,185 Chevrolet sedan, 1933 (McMullen's), 109,122, 126, 161 Chitty's Law Journal, 182 Chisholm, John, 98, 119, 125, 142, 148, 184,188 Christina Street North, Sarnia, 107, 130,

133-135,137-138,157,187 Christina Street North (No. 140), Sarnia, 130, 187 Chrysler roadster, 1932 (Red Ryan's), 124,138,163,166 Church of the Good Thief, Portsmouth, 20-21,57-58,60,74-74,124,174 Church of the Holy Name, Kingston Mills, 60, 75 Church Street (No. 191), Toronto, 38 Church, T L. "Tommy," 163-164 Ciceri, Paul, 90 Civic Stadium, Hamilton, 91 Clarke, Roy "Knobby," 159 Classic Boxing Club, 101, 174 Clayton, Lester, 152 Clearing House messenger robbery, Jordan and Melinda streets, Toronto (July, 1922), 177 Coatsworth, Emerson, 15, 54-55, 72, 76, 150 Colt .32 revolvers (Sarnia Police), 133, 135,187 Colt .38 (McMullen), 161 Colt .45 automatic (Ryan), 132,135,164 Conacher, Charlie, 174 Confederation Life Insurance, 166 Conley, Arthur, 26, 33-35, 40, 55-56, 7172,96,107-108,146,169,177,181 Connor, Charles A., and Connor's Funeral Home, Toronto, 160 Conservative party: federal, 13, 14, 59, 61, 69-70, 77-79, 83, 86, 93-94, 149, 152,155,163 Conservative party of Ontario, 153 Conway, Pat, 104 Cook, Robert, a.k.a. "Robert the Bold," 79 Corcoran, Jack "Corky," 85, 90-92, 98, 127,160,174 Coronet, 171 Cotton, Harold "Baidy," 191 Coughlin, D. W. E, 182 Courtney, James Alex, 28, 42-43 Cowan, Reverend C. L., 152 Cowan, Hector, 159, 164 Craig, R. W, 93,125 Cranmer, John, 158 Crawford, Dr. M. M., 20 Creasor, A. D., 27 Criminal Code of Canada, 55

Index

Z07

Criminal Code of Canada, Section 447B, 55 Criminal Investigation Branch (CIB), 98,117-118,143-144,184-185,188 Crowe, Frank, 92, 98 Gushing, Quebec, 124 CYQ, 95, 107

18,78-79,81,83,93,176 Elliott, George, 188 Ellis, Bob, 141 Elm Street (No. 76), Toronto, 121,142 "the era of the bank robbers," 177 Esther Street, Toronto, 96 "exploits," 37-38,179

Daley,Charles Noe, Gun Collection, 163 Dawn, Wilbur, 53 Dennett, Jack, 191 Denison, G. T, 25, 104 Denton, Frank, 20 Denton, James, 53 Dentonia Park Avenue (No. 89), East York, 109 Department of Highways (Ontario), 92, 126 Depression, 78,90, 107, 109, 180 Dickson, S. J., 40 Dillinger, John. 110, 153, 177 Dingman, Harold, 147 Dodge Press of Hamilton, 48 Domed Stadium Tavern, Toronto, 187 Dominion Express Company, Toronto, 26-27, 71 Donahue, Madeline "Kate, alias Irene Gardiner, 26 Don Jail, Toronto, 53, 120, 167 Dorland, Albert, 183-184 Douglas, British Columbia, 126 Draper, Dennis, 18-20,76, 98 Drew, George, St. Vincent DePaul inmate, 40 Drew, George, Ontario Conservative party candidate, 153 Duncan, Walter, 44, 48, 50-54, Dundas Centre United Church, 152 Dundas Highway, 24

Fauteux Committee, 168,182 Fawcett Motors, 92,123 Fawcett, Ross, 92, 104 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 177 Federal Radio Company, 109 Finnessey, Thomas, 123, 143-144, 160, 163 Flachs, Charles, 161-162, 166 Flachs, Helen, 166 Floyd, Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy," 153,177 Forby, William, 45, 47 Ford coach, 1936 (belonging to Fawcett Motors) 92-93, 104, 111-114, 118, 123 Ford, Father Daniel, 92, 97 Ford, Norman, 167 Ford, Wilf, 97 Ford, Model "A," 108, 111 Forest Hill Village (interior to Toronto), 93, 149 Prankish, Dr. E. R., 165-167 Prankish Report, 165-167 Fraser, John Arthur, a McMullen alias, 161 Front Page Challenge, 168, 192 Fry, William, 122 The Futility of Crime, 14, 63, 93, 124, 150-151,166

Earl, Oren, 63, 173 Eaton's Department Store, Toronto, 44, 50, 94,106,142 Edmison, J. Alex, 182 Edward Street Bus Terminal, Toronto, 103-104 Edwards, W. Stuart, 99-100 Einstein's Theory of Relativity, 63 election (federal) of July 1930, 57, 78 election (federal) of October 1935, 13,

Gainsboro Studio, Toronto, 97, 145 Gallagher, M. F, 74, 76-77, 83-85, 98, 154,164,176 "the Game," 26,120,151,179 Garden Party and Picnic at Church of the Good Thief, Portsmouth, 20-21, 74-75,174 Garvey, Geoffrey, 132-133, 166 Gary's Roadhouse, 101, 174 Gauld, John G., 31-32 Gauthier, Archbishop C. H., 60 George Street Emergency, Sarnia

208

The Big Red Fox

General Hospital, 137 Gillis, Lester, alias "Baby Face" Nelson, 177 Gladstone bag, 127 Glass, Austin "Cap," 131 Gledhill Avenue (No. 190), East York, 109 Glenburnie, Ontario, 37 Glenmount Park United Church, Toronto, 154 the Globe, 10, 12, 16-17, 21, 58, 62, 64, 69, 73, 75, 93, 95-96, 147, 150, 152, 160, 174 "Let in the Light," (the Globe), 17, 75 Goodyear Wingfoot trademark, 166 "The Golden Boy of Crime," chapter in The News Game, 168 Gould, Reverend J. N., 159 Governor General of Canada, 27-28, 71,76 Gow, Athol, 11-12, 18-20, 52, 55-56, 69, 71-74, 86, 95, 97-98, 109, 142,150, 154,168,175 Granite Club, 41 Gray, Dr. W. Goldwin, 137, 165 Great War Veterans' Association, Hamilton, 189 Greenaway, Roy. 12, 14-15, 25, 57-58, 63, 73-75, 79,97,109,119,125,142,144145,149,151,167-168,171-172,175 Greenlee, Roy, 53 Grenville, Quebec, 123-124 Griffin, Fred, 73 Gruenberg, Jack, 46 Guerin, John "Gazooney," 101-102 Guthrie George, 18, 43, 76, 98 Guthrie, Hugh, 14, 59, 70, 77-79, 83-85

Hawkesbury, Ontario, 123 Hayes, John B., 24 Heart's Content, Newfoundland, 30 Hemingway, Ernest, 38-39, 110, 179 Henderson, Mr. Justice, 152 Hennepin County Jail, Minnesota, 48 Hennepin County Morgue, 50 Hepburn, Mitch, 164 Hicks, John, 106 High Park, Toronto, 18, 86 High Park Baptist Church, 119 Highway?, 111-114 Highways, Department of (Ontario), 92, 126 Hindmarsh, H. C. "Harry." Managing editor of the Toronto Star, 11, 39, 51, 54, 74, 77, 109, 168-169, 176-177, 179 circulation-oriented, 11, 176, 179 "Crime sells the paper," 51, 54, 176177,179 entertainment, 11, 179 held blameworthy, 168-169 "If people want something, give it to them," 51,179 re: news philosophy, 11, 51, 74, 119, 176, 179 partiality for the exclusive news story ("the scoop"), 11, 74, 176 reporters under pressure to scoop opposition, 74, 176 re: power of press, 77, 168-169, 183185 History of the Parish of the Good Thief, Portsmouth, 60 Hogan, Pat, 97 Hogarth, Gordon, 148 Holland, Christopher, 65 Hagan, Leslie, 113, 118 Honderich, Ted, 86, 167-168, 171-172, Hagan,Ross, 113, 118 182, 192 Hamel, Vincent "the Ace," 61, 146 Honsinger's Cigar Store, St. Thomas, 122 Hamilton, Ontario. City of, 20, 28-29, House of Commons, 75, 79,163-164,167 31,33,47-48, 54,91,99, 108, 111, Howard, Frank, 120 146,152,178,184,189 Hughes, W. St. Pierre, 43-44, 59-63, 70 Hamilton Racetrack, 110 Hunter, Jim, 114 the Hamilton Spectator, 108, 179-180, Irish-Catholic clique, 91-92 184 Hampton, Howard, 160, 167 Islington, Village of, 24 Hanlan's Point, 20, 184 Iver-Johnson .38 calibre revolver, 41, Harbord Collegiate, 152 112,136,165

Index

Jack Loutet Real Estate Agency, North Vancouver, 162 Jackson, E. Russell, 63, 70 James, Jesse, 31, 50 Jeffrey, Reverend B., 152, 163 Justice Department (federal), 10, 44, 59, 72,74,78,99400,104405,149 Justice Department rewards, 44, 105 Karpis, Alvin "Old Creepy," 153, 177 Katan, George, 91 Kemp, Arthur, 37 Kenton, Dr. Walter, 162 King Edward Hotel, Toronto, 93, 104 King government, 69, 93, 164, 182 King, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie, 69, 93 Kingsley, John, 167 Kingsley, Father Wilfrid T, 1042, 1446, 18, 20-21, 57-67, 70- 76, 80-81, 85, 87, 90-92, 97-99, 101, 108-109, 120, 124-126, 129, 139, 143-145, 149, 151,167,173,175-176 "The Good Thief of Portsmouth," Wilfrid Kingsley's self-signature, 58 "The Good Thief of Portsmouth," title of Greenawy article in the Star Weekly, May, 1933, 58 "A Tribute to Father Kingsley," chapter of Shackling the Transgressor, 58 Kings Police Medal, 168 the Kingston British Whig, 37, 179 the Kingston Daily Standard, 37 Kingstone inquiry, 183 Kingstone, Mr. Justice, 183 Kingston Junction, 11, 85 Kingston Mills, 60, 75 Kingston, Ontario, City of 11-12, 20, 36, 40, 55, 60, 103, 120, 124, 144, 146,174 Kingston Penitentiary, 9, 11, 18, 25-28, 33-35, 37, 39, 44, 51, 53, 55-67, 6971, 73-74, 76-79, 82-86, 89, 94-96, 99-101, 103-106, 108-111, 119, 123, 146, 150, 153-154, 159, 162, 167, 169,173,175,177-181,183-184,189 the Canvas Department, 61 cell (Ryan's) in hospital, 80

209

"hard-core 15 percent," 178 "the hole," 57, 79,95-96 horse barn, 35 hospital, 9,10, 58, 63-65, 72, 79 industrial building, 65 inmate values and sub-culture, 25, 27,181-182 Keeper's Hail, 57 "the Mailbags," 61, 63, 103, 110, 175 main cell block, 63, 65 North Gate and administration building, 9,11, 74, 77-78, 85,173 Prison of Isolation ("easy street"), 57 prison siren, 35 registration room, 56 Roman Catholic chapel, 60-61 sectarian animousity in prison, 58-59 Silent System, 25, 59 southeast duty outpost, 35 southeast tower, 35 stonepile, 25 trafficking, 34, 42-43, 66 Kingston Penitentiary riot, (October 1720, 1932), 58, 64-67, 74-75, 79, 83, 152 Kingston Township, 37 the Kingston Whig-Standard, 21 Kiwanis Club, 60, 92 Klutas, "Handsome Jack," 177 Knowles, R. E., 73 Knox Presbyterian Church, Toronto, 93 Koehler, Olive Myrtle, 110 K-166,9,173,182 LaChute, Quebec, 123-125, 143-144, 148,160,163,184 Lademar, Walter, 107 Lally, James, 45 Lambeth, Ontario, 122 Lambton County Jail, 111 Lambton County man, 66 Lamont, Dr., 33 Lannin,WJ., 133, 138-139, 142 Lansdowne Avenue, (No. 279), Toronto, 12,85-86,89,114,138,169 Lansdowne Hotel, Toronto, 96, 103, 105 LaPointe, Ernest, 59, 69, 164 Law, Jenny "the Kid", 37, 97, 103-107, 121, 127, 129, 142, 151, 160, 167, 175,192

210

The Big Red Fox

Law, Liiiie, 37, 97,104 Leggatt, Jack, alias of Jack McMullen, 159 Lepage, Chief of detectives (Montreal), 30 Levine, Tommy, 95-96, 127, 174 Lewis autopsy, 137, 165 Lewis, Donna, 148-149 Lewis family, 148450,159 Lewis, John or Jack, 133437, 139, 147148, 150-151, 153, 157-159, 163165,168 Lewis, John or Jack jr., 148-149 Lewis, Llewellyn "the Duke," 173 Lewis, Vera, 133, 137, 148, 164 Liberal party: federal, 16, 59, 69-70, 75, 83, 93, 155 Liberal party of Ontario, 164 Lillis, Matt, 173 Lipsett, Robert, 14, 82, 149 Little, Bill, 91,146 Little Cataraqui Creek, 36 Little, George, 125 Logic, Dr. Douglas, 159 Lomas, Zita, 85 London, Ontario, 110, 122, 138, 146, 152 Lougheed, W. H., 117-118, 144, 166, 184-185 MacDonald, D. A. "Mac," 131, 133-134 MacLean, H. G. "Scoop," 138 Maclean's, 168, 171,192 MacKay, George, 98, 118, 184-185,188 MacKay, Keiller, 66-67 Macphail, Agnes, 65, 75, 84, 164 mailbag lock, 62, 69, 73 Manoa, 13 Maple Leaf Gardens, 18, 37, 90-91 Markham, Ontario, 111-112, 115, 118119, 121-122, 124, 126, 143, 165, 184-185 Markham Murder, 119, 148, 160, 162, 184 Marsh, Lou, 119 Marxen, Al, 45, 48 Masson, J. C, McMullen alias, 126, 146 Mauser 7.65 (McMullen), 161 Maxwell car, 37 McAllister, William, 143-144,148, 166

McCathie, Alex "Archie," 97, 142, 174, 183-184 McCool, Brian, 152 McDonald, Father Michael, 27, 58 McGarry, John "Duke," 20, 92 McGee, Thomas D'Arcy, 63 McGibbon, Dan, 132 McGill, Mary Loretta, 103, 109, 117, 126,146,161-162,175 McGillicuddy, Owen E., 147 McGirr, Frank, 134-138,142,164,166 McGrath,Jack,92 McGuigan, Archbishop James, 160 Mclntyre, A.L., 50-51 Mclntyre, friend of Ryan family, 86 Mclntyre, Violet, 121, 142 McLaughlin Master 6 (Wyoming), 110 McLeod, Norman, 149 McMaster, Robert, 185 McMullen, Edward "Mac", 34-37, 63, 65, 106-115, 117-124, 126-127, 143144, 146, 148, 158-163, 166, 172, 179 "the Count," 109 "the Ryan-McMullen Gang," 162 McMullen, Edward "Wyoming," 38, 110 McMullen, Jack, 109-110, 159, 175 McMullen, Mrs. Mary, a.k.a. Mary Loretta McGill, 109 McRuer, James, 93, 182 McVittie, George, 29-33, 41, 47, 107, 189 Meehan, William "Billy," 45, 47-48 Megloughlin, Warden W.B. "Bill", 15, 21,65,94,109,150 Melrose Avenue, Detroit, 126 Miller, Norman and Arthur, aliases of Ryan and "Curly" Sullivan, 46 Milwaukee Depot, Minneapolis, 46, 48 Minneapolis Athletic Club, 46 Minneapolis Central Police Station, 46 Minneapolis City Jail, 47-48 Minneapolis General Hospital, 46 the Minneapolis Journal, 49 Minneapolis, Minnesota. City of 44-51, 72,147,189 Minneapolis Police, 44-46, 50, 72, 95, 104 Minneapolis Post Office, Third and

Index Washington Avenue, 44 Montreal, City of 12-13, 29-31, 33, 4446,48,50,52,60,71,177,189 the Montreal Gazette, 30 the Montreal Police, 30, 33 Montreal Road, 37 the Montreal Star, 30 Montreal YMCA, 30,189 Moon, a Kingston "lifer," 173 Moore, C. E, 117 Moore, Tommy, 179-180 Morgan, C. S., 31, 47-48, 52-54 Morris, Irene, 61, 72-73, 81, 175 Mount Hope Cemetery, 160 Mowers, Doris "Babe," 38, 41-44,103 Mowers, mother, 43-44 Mullins, H. A. "Harry," 14, 77-79, 93-94, 109,119,147,149-150,164,176 Murphy, E. J. "Eddy," 20, 54, 92 Murray, James, 183 Muskoka River, 127 Myers, Dr. Freddy, 91, 147 National Grocer's, Sarnia, 107 National Grocer's, Collingwood, 123, 143 National Motors, Toronto, 124, 127 National Parole Board, 168 National Sporting Club, 101, 174 Neal, Norman "Slippery Elm," 179 Nealon Hotel, Toronto, 90-92, 94, 103, 105,127,141,146,174-175,187 Nelson, "Baby Face," a.k.a. Lester Gillis, 153,177 Newfoundland, Province of 13, 30-31, 99 The News Game, 168, 171 New York City, 105, 144, 146 Niagara Falls, New York, 40,104,120 Nicholls, William "Billy," 26, 96 Nimmo, John, 144, 166 No. 4 Police Station, Dundas and Parliament, Toronto, 97 No. 7 Police Station, Ossington Avenue, Toronto, 24 No. 9 Police Station, Keele and Dundas, Toronto, 166 Oakwood Collegiate, Toronto, 40-41 Gates, E. P., 188-189

211

O'Brien, Father Ambrose J., 19 O'Brien, James, 151 O'Brien, Archbishop Michael J., Kingston., 18 Ocean View Burial Park, Burnaby, British Columbia, 162 O'Connor, Frank P., 20, 92 O'Hara, Patrick, alias of George McVittie, 31 Oke,Leroy,41,145 Old Mill on the Humber, Toronto, 19 Oldsmobile coach (dark-coloured), 123, 129,138,139,163 Oldsmobile coach (maroon), 123-124 Old West, 40,110,158,179-180 Old West tradition, 179 Oliver, Charlie, a.k.a. "Appas Tappas," 96-97 O'Mahoney, Danno, 91-92 Ontario Court of Appeal, 152 Ontario Liquor Board, 90, 129-130 Ontario Parole Board, 54, 154 Ontario Produce Company, Toronto, 106, 123 Ontario Provincial Police (O.P.P), 37, 98,106,117-118,138,143-144,159160,184-185,188 Ontario Provincial Police circular dated March?, 1936,118 Ontario Provincial Police circular dated May 27, 1936, 160 Ontario Temperance, 29 Ormond, D. M., 59, 65 Orpen, Abe, 101 Osgoode Hall, 152 the Ottawa Citizen, 75 Ottawa, Ontario. City of 43-44, 53, 63, 65, 81-82, 123, 143-144, 149, 152, 163 Ottawa Police, 144, 163 Overland touring car, 41 Owen Sound, Ontario, 27, 87 Owen Sound Police, 87 Packard-Ontario Motors, Toronto, 124 Pacific Coast, 121, 161-162 Pacific Stage bus, 161 Parker, Bonnie, 177 Parker Street United Church, Sarnia, 159

212

The Big Red Fox

parole board of Ontario, 54, 154 Parkdale (district of Toronto), 24, 26-27, 71,96,125,191 Parliament Hill, 149 Patterson, H. B., 21, 58, 146 Patterson, Robert, 126,162 Penitentiary Branch Inquiry, 35 Penitentiary Branch of the Justice Department (federal), 35, 43, 63, 65 penitentiary issue in election of October 1935, 78-79, 81-83,93 Penitentiary Service, 63, 84 penitentiary unrest October 1932October 1935, 75-76 Perley Bridge, 123 Perth Road, 35-36 Phillips' Funeral Home, Sarnia, 137, 157-159 Pike, LeroyJ., 161 Pine Hills Cemetery, Scarborough, 160 Ponsford, Warden J. C, 15, 37, 56, 59, 61-63, 65, 70, 73,109,150 Porter, R. E, 95, 127, 174 Portsmouth Penitentiary, 74 Portsmouth, Village of (absorbed by City of Kingston), 20-21,74 Post Office Department (federal), 43, 6162 Prohibition, 29 psychopathy, 172 Public Archives of Canada, 85 Quebec, Province of, 33, 40-41, 123, 169 Quebec Provincial Police, 160 QueenMary, 146 Queensbury Athletic Club, 90-91 Quinn, Percy]., 20,92 Ramburg, George X., alias of Norman Ryan, 45 Ramsey County, Minnesota, 47 Reach, A. B., Sporting Goods Company, Brantford, Ontario, 25-26, 70 Reason, Dave, 59 Red Ryan's Rhymes and Episodes, 47-48 "the Red Ryan Gang" (1923), 40, 167 "the Red Ryan Gang" (1935-1936), 107, 111,114,119,121-123,162,167 the Red Ryan news story, 38-39, 49-50, 160-163, 167

Reeve, Ted, 91, 174 Regan, John, a misnomer at Sarnia (May 23,1936), 139 Remissions Branch of Justice Department, 74, 76, 84-85 Reo automobile (Ryan's), 42, 50 Richardson Estate, 36 Richardson, Mrs. H. A. W., 34 Rigney, T. L. "Tim," 21, 60 Robb's Funeral Home, Sarnia, 137, 158159 Robinette, Godfrey and Phelan, 181 the Robin Hood tradition, 178 Robinson, Miss., 21 Roebuck, Arthur, 142-143, 163, 166 Rollins, John, 132-133,165 Ross, General A. E., 84 Ross, Austin, 53-54 Rotstein, Louis "Slow Motion," a.k.a. "Slow Motion Carrick," 179 Royal Canadian Horse Artillery, 37 Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), 28, 144 Royal Commission into Canada's penitentiaries. Demand for, 16-17, 75, 79,93,182 Royal Cecil Hotel, Toronto, 101, 103, 174 Roxton Road, Toronto, 111 rumrunning and rumrunners, 29, 41-42 Ryan, "Babe" a.k.a. Doris "Babe" Mowers, 43-44 Ryan, Elizabeth, 24, 29, 70, 181 Ryan, Elsie Sharpe, 13-14, 17, 30-31, 62, 99-100 Ryan family, 53-54, 70-71, 81, 86, 92, 142, 150 Ryan family embarrassment and suffering, 53-54, 70-71, 86, 142-144, 150 Ryan, Frank, ("Francis J. Ryan"), 25, 29, 33,43,53-54, 70-71,86,180 Ryan, Irene (later Irene Morris), 29, 61, 71 Ryan, Isabel, 62, 84, 86, 173, 180 Ryan, John Joseph, 23-24, 29, 181 Ryan, John N., alias of Norman Ryan, 92, 138 Ryan, Leo, 23, 71, 181 Ryan, Norman "Red," 9-21, 23-58, 61-

Index 67, 69-87, 89-109,111-115,117-127, 129-139,141-155,157-169,171-185, 187-189,191-192 "the ace of Canadian bank robbers," 64,92,178 "the ace of Canadian holdup men," 108 "always good for a story," 179 attention-seeker, 24, 86, 97, 120, 180-182 "the Big Red Fox," 67,106,119 "Canada's Most Notorious Criminal," 9, 49-51,79,155 Crime Does Not Pay, 14, 55, 63-64, 94,96,124,154,158,179 "double life," 30,119-120,181 "the famous Red Ryan," 56, 64, 108, 177,179 The Futility of Crime, 14, 63, 93, 124, 150-151,166 "the Game," 26, 120,151, 179,182 "hero of crime," 178 "the Jesse James of Canada," 50 "Kingston's Public Exhibit No. 1," 15,65, 75, 77, 79 "the Lone Bandit", 29-30, 71, 108, 177,189 "The Master Crook Who Fooled Canada," 171 mailbag lock, 61-63, 69, 73 modus operandi, 108, 119, 184, 189 the myth about Red Ryan, 171-173 "Ontario's pet boy," 147 parole, effect on, 153-154, 168, 182183 physical description, 10, 24,189 "political parole," 76-77, 154 prison conditions, effect on, 182 psychiatric analysis of or pschiatric opinion about Ryan, 151, 172, 181 psychopathic, 151, 172 "a supreme egotist," 172 "Toronto's best-dressed man about town," 96 will of Norman Ryan, 166 "the work of amateurs" (bank robbery technique), 178 Ryan, Russell, a.k.a. Russell Walsh, 70, 84-85,181

213

Sadowski, Ben, 124 St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church, Hamilton, 152 St. Augustine's Seminary, Scarborough, 12,18 St. Clair River, 157-158 St. Francis's Separate School, Toronto, 23, 54,92,181 St. Helen's Church, Toronto, 85, 89, 92 St. Helen's School, Toronto, 92, 191 St. Jean Baptiste Church, Burlington, 92,97 St. Jerome, Quebec, Police Court, 163 St. John's Training School, Toronto, 23, 104 St. Louis Place (a district in Minneapolis), 50 St. Luke's Hospital, Bellingham, Washington, 162 St. Mary's-of-the-Lake Orphanage, Kingston, 167 St. Mary's Separate School, Toronto, 23 St. Paul, Minnesota, City of, 42, 44, 4647 St. Peter's Church, Toronto, 30, 92 St. Peter's School, Toronto, 23 St. Theresa's Church, Scarborough, 19 St. Thomas, Ontario, 73, 121, 143 St. Vincent DePaul Penitentiary, 31, 33, 40,42-43,99-100,163,178 the Sarnia Canadian Observery 138-139, 142,146,157 Sarnia General Hospital, 137-138 Sarnia inquest, 163-165 Sarnia liquor store, 129-138, 147-148, 157,166,177 Sarnia, Ontario, 107, 110-111, 129-131, 133, 138, 142, 145-150, 153, 157159, 163-165, 171-172, 177, 180, 183,185, 187 Sarnia Police, 107, 129, 133-134, 138, 158,165 Sarnia Police Commission, 150, 164-165 Sarnia police station, 133-134,138 Saturday Night, 151 Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, 50 the Sauit Star, 154 Scarborough liquor store, 106-107, 143 Schaaf, Norman, 46-47 "Schmaltzy," 96, 101

214

Fhe Big Red Fox

the Scientific American, 62 Scott Woolen Mills, Toronto, 106, 123 Seaford, Sussex, England, 28 Seattle General Hospital, Seattle, Washington, 162 Seattle, Washington, 161-162 Second Avenue South (No. 1510), Minneapolis, 47 sectarian hostilty, 58-59, 91-92 Severn River, 127 Shackling the Transgressor, 58, 64 Sharpe, Elsie, 30 Sherbourne Street (No. 222), Toronto, 38 Sherbrooke Street, Winnipeg, 30 Simpkins, William, 134436,168 Simpson, "Big," 38 Simpson, Cecil, 122 Simpson, Gordon, 34-35, 38-39, 41, 50, 101,105,144-145,169,175,184 Sinclair, Gordon, 168-169, 192 Skuffman, J.C., 144 Slade, Albert, 28 Slade, Albert, a Ryan alias, 28, 31 Sleeman, Charles, 123 Slemins, Charles, 26, 71, 104 Smith, George, 134-135, 137, 164, 168 Smith, Reverend Milliard, 58, 76 Smith and Wesson .38 calibre revolver, 136, 165 Sombra, Ontario, 41 Somerset Avenue (no. 544), Ottawa, 143 Spain, Fred, 24 the Star News Sendee (SNS), 15 theStarWee%58,62 Sterling Action and Key Piano Factory, Toronto, 26-27, 71, 181 Stewart Building (Toronto police headquarters), 119, 144 Stillwater Penitentiary, Stillwater, Minnesota, 47 Stirling, Ontario. Village of, 37 Stonehouse, Edward, 111-113, 117-118,

The Strange Case of Red Ryan, 150 Sullivan, Andrew "Curly", 34-35, 39, 41-

42, 45-47, 49-50, 52, 72, 95, 104, 107,178,189 Sullivan, Irene, 50 Sunnyside Amusement Park, Toronto, 18 Sydenham Township, 27 Taylor, Bert, 187 Taylor's Furniture Store, Sarnia, 187 Tely newscast, 114 Thomas, Gwyn "Jocko," 95, 97, 108, 118-119,141,145,148,154 Thornecliffe Racetrack, East York, 96 Ticket-of-Leave, 9-12,15, 20, 25-26, 55,

57, 65-66, 69-70, 72-74, 76-78, 81, 84-85, 97-98, 102, 117, 127, 149, 154-155,162,164,175-176,179 Time magazine, 149 The Times of London, 188 Tinker, Gordon, 152 "Tom," pseudonym of Russ Walsh, 143 Tong, Eddy "the Chinaman," 98 Toronto City Hall, 19, 52-55, 96 Toronto Dominion Foundry Company payroll, 107 the Toronto Evening Telegram, 12-13, 17,

19, 21, 50, 91, 95, 147, 150, 153, 173-174,179

Toronto General Hospital, 117 the Toronto Mail and Empire, 12, 17-18, 21, 69,147,149,152 Toronto Maple Leaf hockey club, 90, 174 Toronto Police, 104, 106-107, 143, 145, 148,163,183-185,188 Toronto Police Court (magistrate's court), 23-25, 52, 72 Toronto Police Department, 20, 41, 43, 51,54,70-71,87,96-97 Toronto Police detectives, 43, 51-52, 54, 71, 154 120, 143, 161-162, 166, 178, 184, Toronto Police Games, July 31, 1935, 20, 187 98, 184 Stonehouse Garage, 111, 121-122, 185 Toronto police headquarters, 149 Stonehouse, James, 112-113, 117-118, College Street, 18, 20, 95, 97-98, 120,122-123,143,165,172 107,119,127,142,144 the Stonehouse investigation, 144, 184Toronto Police radio channel (CYQ), 185 95, 107

Index Toronto Police records, 138 the Toronto Star, 10-21, 38-39, 41, 49-50, 52-53, 58, 69-77, 81-84, 87, 91, 95, 99-100,105,107,119,121,139,142, 147-148, 150-151, 153-154, 163, 168-169,171,176-177,180,182 campaign to get Red Ryan a Ticketof-Leave, 71-77, 81-84, 86, 169, 176177 as entertainment, 11, 49-50, 169, 176-177,179 coverage of Sarnia story, 142, 147148 editorial, "The Case of Red Ryan," 151,182 exploitation of Red Ryan's release, 11-16,87,139,169 held blameworthy, 17,154, 168-169 Hemingway story, 38-39,110, 179 lockup on story of Ryan's release, 7374

motive on Ryan story, 176-177 nicknames for criminals, 38-39, 179 re: power of the press, 77, 176, 169, 183-185 sensational paper, 11,176-177 the scoop, 11,74,176 news philosophy, 11, 51, 74, 119, 176,179 Toronto Star Building, King Street, Toronto., 18 trafficking, 34, 42-43, 66 Treacy, Reverend J. P., 153 Trull Funeral Home, Toronto, 160 Tucker, R. R., 44,48, 53, 57,59,151,162 Tunnel Station, Sarnia, 159 Tunney, Frank, 90-91, 97, 160 Tunney, John, 160 Tweddle, James, 62 United States, 40-42, 47, 49, 63, 86, 105,126,163,177-178 United States Immigration Board of Inquiry, 161 Union Station, Toronto. 11-12, 14, 5153,55,86,160,177 Vancouver, British Columbia, 126, 146, 161 the Vancouver Sun, 161

215

Victoria, British Columbia, 147 the Victoria Daily Colonist, 147 Victoria Day weekend or holiday, 121, 130,134 Victoria Street, Sarnia, 138,157 Victory Street (No. 3912), Burnaby, British Columbia, 126, 162 Walker, James, 112, 114,185 Walsh, Alma, 89,114-115 Walsh, Matt, 35,38-40,108,124,151 Walsh, O.M., 31 Walsh, Russell, 12, 14, 19, 65-67, 70-73, 82, 84-86, 89-90, 98, 114-115, 124, 126, 142-144, 146, 148, 150, 159160,165-166,169,175 Wandsworth Prison, 28, 84 Ward, A. H., 143-144,148 Washington, Avenue, Minneapolis, 4446,50 Washington Avenue (No. 409), Minneapolis, 46 Watkins, Peter and Margaret, 191-192 Wausan, Wisconsin, 44 Weegar, Fred, 73 Welch's Taxi Stand, Sarnia, 133 Wentworth County, Ontario, 31 the West, 27,48, 78,126-127,162 Weston Sanitarium, 62, 84 West Toronto Station, 51-52 West Toronto YMCA, 125, 148 Westwood Stove Company, 89 William Reynolds Harness Shop, Sarnia, 138 Williams, V A. S., 118 will of Norman Ryan, 166 Willowvale Park a.k.a. Christie Pits Park, 71 Windham Street (No. 7), Toronto, 24, 29, 70-71 Windsor ferry, 41 Windsor, Ontario, 41, 60,126,138,146 Winnipeg, Manitoba, 30,93,125 the Winnipeg Tribune, 179 Withrow, Dr. Oswald C. J., 58, 64-65, 73, 75, 93, 109, 120, 124, 145, 150151,175 Witley Camp Guard Room, 28, 84,188 Woodbine Billiards, Toronto, 101,174 Wolfe Island, 60

216

The Big Red Fox

Wyoming, Ontario, 34, 110-111, 113, 126 Yonge Street, Toronto, 71, 114, 125 York County, 20, 54, 72, 126 Yorkminster Baptist Church, Toronto, 14,77 Yorkshire Police, England, 189490 Young, Reverend E. W., 152