Edwin Alonzo Boyd Read online

  Copyright © Brian Vallée Creative Enterprises, Inc., 1997

  Paperback edition 1998

  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, without the prior written permission of Doubleday Canada Limited.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Vallée, Brian

  Edwin Alonzo Boyd

  eISBN: 978-0-385-67439-3

  1. Boyd, Edwin Alonzo, 1914– . 2. Bank robberies – Ontario – Toronto. Biography. I. Title.

  HV6653.B69V34 1997 364.15′52′092 C97–930700–7

  Published in Canada by

  Doubleday Canada Limited

  105 Bond Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5B 1Y3

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1 WALKING SIDEWAYS

  2 EARLY YEARS

  3 SCHOOL DAYS

  4 AN ARMFUL OF BOXCAR

  5 PENNED IN

  6 GETTING BY

  7 WAR

  8 LOVE AND WAR

  9 THE HOME FRONT

  10 TORONTO

  11 FRUSTRATION

  12 SUCCESS

  13 SECOND TIME LUCKY

  14 PARTNERS

  15 CAUGHT

  16 THE DON

  17 CELLMATES

  18 GONE

  Photo Insert

  19 HIDING OUT

  20 THE BOYD GANG

  21 GOIN’ SOUTH

  22 ON THE LAM

  23 POLITICS AND INTRIGUE

  24 IN COLD BLOOD

  25 AMBUSH

  26 A REAL PAYNE

  27 ANSWERED PRAYERS

  28 KEYED UP

  29 FALLOUT

  30 MANHUNT

  31 TRAPPED

  32 ON TRIAL

  33 DEAD MEN WALKING

  34 KINGSTON

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Sources

  For Nancy

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Edwin Alonzo Boyd for agreeing to be interviewed, with no conditions, for this book and for two CBC “fifth estate” items that preceded it. I would also like to thank Boyd’s wife, Marjorie, and their friend Pearl, whose cheerful disposition in spite of chronic disabilities was an inspiration.

  Special thanks also to Jack Webster, historian with the Metropolitan Toronto Police Museum and Discovery Centre, for all his help and guidance; retired Kingston police chief Bill Hackett for his help in the early stages; Hartley Steward for allowing me access to the Toronto Sun library with its invaluable Toronto Telegram archive, the Sun’s Chief Librarian, Julie Kirsh, and her resourceful staff, including Susan Dugas and Catherine Flannery; John Honderich, Peter Taylor, and Jean Bradshaw for access to photos and headlines from the Toronto Star; the Toronto Arts Council for timely financial assistance that helped me complete my research; my publisher Don Sedgwick for keeping the faith when I fell behind schedule; Christine Innes and Janine Laporte at Doubleday; editors Matthew Kudelka and Anne Holloway; Doug Bassett; and Norman Boyd, Dorreen Boyd, Michael Jackson, Jocko Thomas, Helen Payne, Frank Cater, John Clement, John Sanderson, Allan Lamport, Maurice Richardson, and Mike Filey, for their insights and recollections.

  Regrettably, John “Jack” Gillespie, the fearless and decent former Toronto policeman who played a key role in the story, died suddenly, two weeks before the manuscript was completed. His input added rich detail to this account and I was shocked and saddened by his death. I express my condolences to his family.

  Finally, I wish to thank my old friend Doug Bradford, whose scowling self-portrait hanging over my desk seemed to be urging me to finish the book so that we could go fishing on Lake Lauzon.

  Thieves respect property; they

  merely wish the property to

  become their property that they

  may perfectly respect it.

  – G.K. Chesterton

  I know I shouldn’t say this, but

  geez I loved robbing banks.

  – Edwin Alonzo Boyd

  Prologue

  Toronto in the late 1940s and early 1950s was considered a bastion of provincial conservatism. This perception would change with the gradual scrapping of “blue laws” and the influx of immigrants, which together helped transform Toronto into one of North America’s most progressive, cosmopolitan cities. But even back then, beneath the veneer, Toronto the Good – “the city of churches” – boasted a wild cast of characters and an underbelly that made it a rollicking and sometimes dangerous place. In the background raged a fierce newspaper war between the Toronto Daily Star and the Toronto Telegram that fostered headlines which easily rivalled those of today’s most brazen tabloids.

  It was also the dawning of the television age, which saw the birth of the CBC and the emergence of Lorne Greene, “the voice of doom,” who brought the news headlines to life. Crime, scandal, and political peccadillos were the grist – all provided by flamboyant politicians, journalists, lawyers, and, most importantly, the crooks and the tough cops who chased them.

  The United States had seen the era of Al Capone, John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Baby-Face Nelson. Now the bad guys were being played on the silver screen by James Cagney, George Raft, and Edward G. Robinson. And some of the violent images in those movies were becoming a reality on the streets of Toronto as it was hit with an epidemic of bank robberies. The bankers, the politicians, and the police blamed each other. The banks armed their tellers and managers, who were expected to protect the money. The bullets often flew, but the robberies continued.

  It was a time of bookies, bootleggers, tommy guns, gangster’s girls, shoot-outs, and police manhunts. And at the infamous Don Jail, the hangman stood ready at the trapdoor.

  It was not surprising that in this environment even moderately successful criminals became larger than life, and had their exploits blown out of proportion. It was indeed an exciting time – the time of the Polka Dot Gang, the Numbers Mob, and, most famous of all, the notorious Boyd Gang, which for three years dominated the headlines, until its leader, Edwin Alonzo Boyd, became somewhat of a folk hero.

  1

  Walking Sideways

  The knot in his stomach wasn’t exactly unfamiliar. He’d felt it often in the war. It wasn’t fear really, more a nervous excitement. He was convinced nothing could go wrong. The meticulous planning would see to that. Still, he had brought along something to calm his nerves.

  On the seat beside him, in his parked panel truck, was a quart of Irish whisky in a brown paper bag from the liquor store. He broke the seal with a firm twist of the cap and tipped the bottle to his lips, gulping the whisky like water. He wasn’t much of a drinker and it burned all the way down. In England he had discovered scrumpy, a dangerous Devon cider. He’d liked the taste, but it had quickly made him drunk. A few sips of it would have been enough on this day, but there hadn’t been any in the liquor store and now he was counting on the whisky.

  It was mid-morning, September 9, 1949, a Friday. The rain of the day before had been pushed out by dry air from the west. It was perfect sunny weather with the temperature in the low sixties and climbing. Near the Toronto waterfront people were already streaming into the grounds of the Canadian National Exhibition – the “Ex” – where a dairy display and the morning session of the Canadian Checkers Championships were under way. In the afternoon there would be aerobatics by the air arm of the Royal Canadian Navy, and eager couples would fill the dance tent, where Guy Lombardo and his Roy
al Canadians were performing.

  But now, in a weathered rented garage on a laneway behind a quiet residential street in north Toronto, the man waited in his truck. Sunlight flooded through the lone window, high on the east wall of the sagging frame building, providing enough light for him to check his appearance in the rearview mirror. He was satisfied it wasn’t anybody he knew. Wads of absorbent cotton were stuffed into his cheeks, upper and lower lips, and both nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. Black mascara had broadened and darkened his eyebrows; his cheeks were rouged; and he had recently grown a moustache. He seldom wore a hat, but he liked the look of his dark fedora, tilted at a jaunty angle. He tugged firmly on the brim and sat back in the seat, waiting for the effects of the whisky. After several minutes he took another long swig, and then another.

  Nothing was happening. The bottle was nearly half-empty and he couldn’t wait any longer. Opening the glove compartment, he removed the white cotton sugar sack and the Luger he’d taken from a dead German on his way through France. He shoved the whisky into the glove compartment and got out of the truck. He neatly folded the white sack and slipped it into the right pocket of his dark-blue suit jacket, then tucked the Luger under his belt on the left.

  There was no one in the laneway when he left the garage on foot, padlocking the doors behind him. The whisky perplexed him. If it had been scrumpy, he was certain, he would be walking sideways by now. He headed west to Elm Road, north for several blocks, and then west again on Old Orchard Grove until he reached Avenue Road.

  Continuing north, he felt the first effects of the whisky, and when he tripped on a curb, three blocks from his destination, he knew he was walking sideways. This wasn’t in the plan, but it was too late to back out.

  The Armour Heights branch of the Bank of Montreal on the east side of Avenue Road had been open just over an hour when he walked through the door shortly after 11 a.m. The usual Friday rush was an hour away and, other than manager George Elwood and three of his staff, there was no one in the bank. From behind the desk in his small office, Elwood glanced up from his paperwork. The lone customer was dressed well enough, with a suit and tie, but there was something unsettling about him – perhaps the unnatural facial swelling, especially around the mouth.

  Elwood thought the man looked suspicious and decided to attend him himself. There was no one in the teller’s cage closest to the front door. The man was headed toward Joyce Empey, a young teller in the second cage, when Elwood intercepted him at the counter.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The man handed him a folded cheque drawn on a downtown branch of the Bank of Montreal. Through habit, Elwood checked to see if it was endorsed. Instead of a signature there was a handwritten message in pencil. It said “HOLD-UP” in large print, and below, in smaller print, “If you don’t want to be a dead hero, fill this sack with money.” The man pushed the white bag across the counter towards Elwood.

  “Are you kidding?” he asked.

  The man pulled aside his suit jacket, revealing the Luger. The banker could see his eyes below the brim of the fedora. He would describe them later as “real inward eyes.” Elwood quickly passed the note and the bag to Empey in the teller’s cage. As she read the note, the robber pulled out the Luger and levelled it at the manager’s chest.

  “What … what will I do?” asked Empey.

  “We have no choice, give him the money,” said Elwood, staring at the Luger. He was thinking of the bank-issue revolver in his office drawer, and, even closer, the fully loaded, .38 calibre Ivor Johnson revolver in Empey’s drawer. The gun was within Empey’s reach, but the robber was too close and, the teller worried, too unpredictable.

  As Empey began transferring money from her cash drawer to the sugar sack, she pressed the silent alarm with her foot. There was more than $2,000, in denominations no larger than twenties. Instead of stuffing the bills into the bag by the handful, she slipped them in one or two at a time, hoping the police would soon arrive.

  The man had a grip on his gun, but the whisky now had a grip on him. Everything was blurry. He knew he was supposed to be holding up the bank, but he blacked out two or three times as he stood there. Attempting to steady himself, he held the Luger with both hands, arms outstretched, adopting the shooting stance that twenty-five years later would be taught in police colleges and imitated a thousand times in movie and television police dramas. Empey wasn’t impressed. The man reeked of liquor, and the way he was holding the gun convinced her he was an amateur.

  While the cash was slowly piling up in the sugar sack, salesman William Cranfield was across the street at Tom Graham’s Hardware,1 closing a deal to supply the store with skis for the coming season. After exchanging pleasantries with the sales clerks, Cranfield left the store and crossed the street to his blue sedan, which was parked near the bank.

  Meanwhile the robber, like a driver coming to a clear stretch of road after a succession of fog patches, realized that the teller was stalling and that he had been in the bank far too long – well beyond the three-minute limit he had set for himself.

  “There are going to be a lot of dead people around here if you don’t hurry up,” he said, waving his gun. “And don’t press any alarm.” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but it was enough to attract the attention of a clerk sitting at a desk beyond the counter. She glanced up to see Elwood and the teller looking pale and nervous, their attention focused on the slight man in front of them. Realizing it was a robbery, she too pressed her silent alarm.

  Empey quickly put the rest of the money in the bag and pushed it towards the robber, whose attention had shifted to the large steel door behind Elwood.

  “What about the money in the safe?” he demanded.

  “You have it all,” said Elwood. “On Fridays, everything we have in the bank is in sight.” It wasn’t true, but the bank stood to lose thousands more if the safe were cleaned out.

  Fearing another blackout and the arrival of the police, the robber decided to leave – he would settle for whatever was in the sack. Grabbing it from the counter, he backed towards the front door, his gun still aimed at Elwood and the teller. On his way out, he passed the clerk’s desk. “I was afraid to look at him, but I did,” she said later. “I can still see those terrible eyes, jet-black and wicked, staring at me.” In fact, the robber’s eyes were blue.

  “Don’t press any alarm!” he warned again as he went out the door. As soon as he was out of sight, Elwood grabbed Empey’s revolver and went after him.

  “Call the police!” he shouted to his accountant on the way out.

  Cranfield’s car was parked, facing north, just over a car’s length from the bank. He was behind the wheel and about to start the engine when a man appeared at the door on the passenger’s side. He tried frantically to open it, but it was locked. Running around the front of the car, he yanked Cranfield’s door open.

  “Get out!” he ordered, waving his gun and grabbing the key. They exchanged places, and the man stuffed the Luger under his belt, inserted the key in the ignition, and jabbed repeatedly at the floorboard with his foot – too drunk to realize that the starter button was on the dashboard.

  “Get away from here!” he shouted at Cranfield, who was still standing beside the driver’s door. The salesman was moving reluctantly to the rear of the car when Elwood charged out of the bank, revolver in hand. He fired. The bullet whizzed by Cranfield and pierced the trunk of the car.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cranfield yelled.

  “It’s a hold-up!” Elwood yelled back.

  Cranfield ran for cover behind a nearby store as Elwood continued firing. The robber, unable to start the engine, jumped from the car with bullets flying around him. Elwood emptied the five-shot revolver, but all the bullets missed.

  Clutching the sugar sack, the robber ran north along Avenue Road past several small shops. At ROBERTSON 5 TO $1°° STORE, he turned east on Dunblaine Avenue, a residential street. Elwood, meanwhile, was also running – ba
ck into the bank for his own revolver, then back out to the street to resume the chase. But the robber was gone.

  In front of a house on Dunblaine the escaping man stumbled and fell, spilling some of the cash on the lawn. He scrambled to stuff the bills back into the sack and then disappeared between two houses. Now he was heading south, doubling back behind the bank through a maze of houses, lanes, and garages.

  He vaulted a fence, landing in a flower garden behind another house. He slowed when he reached Haddington Avenue, where a woman was at a window checking on her child, who was in a playpen on the lawn. “And while I was looking out, I saw this man walking across the road. He had what looked like a sugar bag in his hand and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He walked up my driveway and I thought he was a peddler so I went to my back door in case he knocked, but he must have started running because by the time I got to the back door, he was nowhere in sight.”

  The robber had jumped over her rear fence, this time landing in the backyard of a house on Felbrigg Avenue. His presence startled two women who were talking over a side fence.

  “Hey! What are you doing there?” asked one of them.

  “I’m just taking a short cut,” the man replied calmly.

  “Well don’t take any short cuts through our property!”

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine who is supposed to be washing windows somewhere around here.”

  “I don’t care who you’re looking for, it’s not your property.”

  The man shrugged and continued through the yard. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry, but when he reached Felbrigg he picked up his pace, heading east towards Elm Road. One of the women told her thirteen-year-old son to follow him on his bicycle. The surveillance ended at a nearby bus stop when the robber turned and glared at the boy, who quickly turned his bicycle around and pedalled home.

  As he retraced the route to his truck, the man removed his jacket and tie. He dropped the tie and the Luger into the sack, covering both with his jacket, and then tucked the sack under his arm. He spit the wads of cotton from his mouth and opened the neck of his shirt. He was calmer now, and looked like a man out for a stroll on a sunny day. A couple of police cars, their telltale rear aerials bending and bobbing, sped past him on their way to the bank.