Chicago Thugs and a Small-town Bank

During the Great Depression, three Chicago thugs, armed with guns and knives, met their match in a small Louisiana town.

Friday, November 11, 1932
Tallulah, Louisiana

The morning sun peeked through the bedroom windows while Edward, a bank cashier at Madison National Bank, gathered the usual items from his dresser. He pushed his thick glasses onto his nose, put the key to the bank’s front door into his right inside jacket pocket, then slipped the key to his Nash sedan into his right pants pocket. The spare key to the steel grilled vault gate was tucked securely into a small pocket in his waistcoat. Keeping keys separated was a habit he formed early in his banking career. 

He checked the time on his pocket watch before placing it in his waistcoat pocket. It was 7:30, and like every other weekday morning, his two oldest boys — Aylette, 7, and Louis, 5 — would soon walk across the narrow side street to school. Edward would make the short drive to the bank leaving his wife, Sallie at home with their youngest son, 4-year-old Billy.

Times were stressful for bank cashiers in small towns. The Vicksburg Herald ran stories of robberies every other day, it seemed. Desperate people looking for easy money. The entire country, in the midst of a devastating economic depression, had seen an increase in armed robberies, especially in small town banks and businesses across The South and Midwest. With growing anxiety, Edward found himself double and triple-checking locks, wary of suspicious-looking people. 

He kept a rifle by his desk at the bank and a handgun in the top drawer of his bedroom bureau.

“Daddy, did you know today is Armistice Day?” Aylette asked from the bedroom doorway. “We’re having a party at school. I drew a picture of a flag. See?” He held up a red, white, and blue crayon drawing.

Edward took the rumpled paper. “That’s wonderful, Son. I especially like the way you drew all 48 stars.” Guessing the festivities would be subdued and simple since there was little money to spend on such things, he was glad the teachers tried to make it special for the children. “Go finish your breakfast so you won’t be late.”

No money for parties, Edward thought. The economic crash three years earlier had brought this thriving cotton-farming community to its knees. While people were hopeful the newly-elected president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, would revive the economy with his New Deal plan, Inauguration Day was still four months away, and Edward didn’t see things improving yet.

He prayed it wouldn’t get worse. 

After eating breakfast, Edward kissed his family goodbye and walked out the back door to his car. The chill in the November morning air would warm by afternoon, so he had not bothered to wear an overcoat.

He drove downtown past the courthouse, which didn’t take long in this village of about 3000 residents. Parking in his usual spot on North Cedar Street next to the bank building across from the Post Inn Hotel, he set the brake and stepped out onto the packed dirt road. The town was busy with morning activity when he opened the bank door. He went inside and locked the door behind him while he prepared for the day’s business.

The moment he flipped the light switch, the polished hardwood floor glistened. After lighting the gas heater to knock the chill from the air, he went to the vault. The combination lock opened easily, but it took the weight of his thin physique to push the five-hundred-pound vault door open. He lowered the metal foot ramp across the vault’s threshold. Opening the steel grilled gate with the inserted key, he then brought out bags of cash and coins, including a bag of gold coins and another with silver coins. In the teller’s cage he counted the till — $6,000 in cash and $250 in coins — and recorded it in the ledger, noting the time.

With everything in place, he raised the window shades, unlocked the front door, and slid the OPEN sign in the window. The time on his pocket watch read exactly 8:30.

Business was slow, more so than usual, and he wondered if it had something to do with the holiday. Or maybe people simply didn’t have money to deposit or spend. When the clock struck noon, the time almost everyone in town was either home or at the Commercial café eating lunch, Edward began work on the daily bookkeeping.

The front door creaked open at 12:05 p.m. Edward looked up from his journals to see two men wearing thick jackets — too thick for a southern November day.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” Edward didn’t know the men who looked to be around his age, in their early 30s.

Then he saw their handguns.

One of the men — the tall one with light-colored hair — jabbed his weapon at Edward’s face through the bars of the teller’s cage while the shorter gunman stormed through the cage door.

“On the floor. Come on, let’s go, pal. On your stomach,” the short one ordered.

Adrenalin pounded Edward’s brain and his vision tunneled. He slid clumsily from the chair onto his knees, then leaned forward and lay on the floor, hands splayed near his head. His left cheek pushed against the cold floor when he felt the steel barrel of a gun on his temple. All he could think about was the bloody mess someone would have to clean up.

“Is that your Nash parked outside?” the short one snarled, his dark bangs falling down his forehead.

Edward nodded, seeing the tall gunman hovering over him with a maniacal smirk, his gun pointed at the banker’s head.

“Give me the key,” he said.

Edward hesitated. Fear flooded his mind. There was no way he was going to give these thugs the key to his car. No way. Searching for options, his eyes locked on a key hanging under the counter. The dark-haired man followed Edward’s gaze and grabbed the key from its hook.

“I…don’t know if that will start the car.” Edward stammered.

The man huffed and pocketed the key.

The tall one sneered, “Get up.”

Weak-kneed, Edward straightened his glasses as he stood, and the two men forced him out of the cage to the vault.

“Open it,” one of the gunmen ordered.

What am I supposed to do? I’ve practiced this. I know what to do, Edward thought as he reached for the key in the latch, turned it, and opened the steel grilled gate. The wind was knocked out his lungs when he was pushed inside and landed hard on the floor. He fumbled for his glasses.

Fear washed over him. I could suffocate if they close the door.

“Please…don’t close the vault door. Just tie me up, if you want.” His voice was shaky and too polite.

Ignoring his request, they left him on the vault floor and closed the grilled gate. The dark-haired man, covering his hand with his coat, locked the gate and removed the key, placing it in his pants pocket. He pushed the vault door to close it, but it would not budge. The two bandits heaved their weight against it, but the door wouldn’t move. In their haste, they hadn’t noticed the foot ramp across the threshold prevented the door from closing.

Desperate, the tall one said, “Let’s go. The gate’s locked, he’s not going anywhere.”

Thank God, Edward thought.

The thugs moved back into the teller’s cage, brought out a bag, and quickly stuffed it with the cash from the drawer. Only a few minutes had passed since they entered the bank.

He couldn’t see them, but when Edward heard a familiar creak, he thought they had left the building.

Still shaking from the adrenaline rush, he stood, took the spare key from his waistcoat pocket, and opened the vault gate. As he placed one foot on the ramp outside the vault, he froze.

Footsteps. His heart pounded. Are they still here? Will they shoot me?

He heard the front door close. A customer? He waited. 

Barely a minute passed in silence, then Edward moved quickly to the teller’s cage. The gunmen were gone, and all the cash was gone, too. They had taken a stack of traveler’s checks, but, oddly, two bags of gold and silver coins remained untouched.

He grabbed the rifle from behind his desk and ran to the front door. Opening it slowly, he peered out looking left and right down Green Street. Three men, some distance away from the bank building, were walking east toward the Coca-Cola bottling plant.

Edward released the safety and raised the rifle to his right shoulder. With his finger on the trigger and left eye closed, he aimed carefully at the man in the middle, the tall one.

The tall one had blonde hair…or was it brown? It hadn’t been three men, only two who held him up. What if he missed? What if he hit an innocent bystander? 

Defeated by doubt, Edward lowered his rifle.

He went back into the bank to his desk, picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator to connect him to the sheriff’s office. Deputy Sheriff S. B. Bettis answered and Edward frantically told him what happened.

Bettis took notes, then asked, “Are you hurt, Ed?” 

“I’ll be okay,” Edward said, still shaking. “But, I’ll be hurtin’ bad if we don’t get that $6000 back. 

The deputy placed a hand on his sidearm out of habit. “We’ll get ’em. Sheriff Sevier took some prisoners down to Baton Rouge. We can’t wait on him to get back. I’ll call the marshal to round up a posse, but first I’ll call the radio station. They won’t get away ’cause every person in a 30-mile radius will hear about it. We’ll have every man in the parish huntin’ for ‘em.”

Bettis hung up and, without skipping a beat, called WQBC Radio in Vicksburg. Minutes later, the report was broadcast across the area.

Most people were home for the lunch hour listening to their radios, waiting for the headlines and livestock reports to air after the music on WQBC. The news alert of the robbery interrupted the song that was playing. 

Sallie had the radio on low while Billy took his after-lunch nap. Hearing Bing Crosby sing “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime” made her sad and, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why the station kept playing it.

Once I built a railroad, I made it run
Made it race against time
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Like beating a dead horse, Sallie thought. As she reached to turn the dial, she froze when the bank robbery report came over the air waves. Her breathing stopped, and her mouth hung open as panic set in.

Her phone rang.

“Hello, Darling.” Edward’s voice was shaky. “I’m okay but the bank was robbed. The deputy and marshal are rounding up posses for a search. Listen, the bandits have guns. There are two, maybe three, white men you’ve never seen before. They’re probably headed out of town.”

Sallie whispered in fear. “I’m scared, Edward. What do I do?”

“Go get the gun from the bureau drawer and lock the doors. Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know. Aylette and Louis will be okay at school. Keep Billy in his room.”

“Are you coming home?” Her mind was spinning.

“Not yet. I need to call Mr. Spencer.” Edward didn’t know if L. M. Spencer, the bank president, had heard the news yet. “Everything will be okay.” He hoped it would be okay.

After hanging up, Sallie put the gun in her apron pocket. She locked the doors and checked on Billy who was still sound asleep in his crib.

Deputy Bettis called Marshal T. H. Montgomery, who gathered a posse together to meet at the sheriff’s office in the courthouse. In nearby Lake Providence, Sheriff Bass heard the report and began calling a search party. The Vicksburg police sent a patrol squad out to the Mississippi River Bridge. The robbers would never make it back across the river. 

Cecil Smith, a farmer and pilot, had just landed his crop duster airplane east of town after returning from Jackson. He heard the radio broadcast about the robbery, got back in his plane, and took off to join the search by air.

At the courthouse, two young women, breathless from running, bolted into the sheriff’s office. A crowd of men with weapons packed the smoke-filled room as Deputy Bettis and Marshal Montgomery made action plans.

The men looked up in surprise when the two women burst into the room.

“Deputy…we seen them robbers,” one of the women said, trying to catch her breath. “Three white men…”

The other woman finished for her, “Up north o’ town on the road to Lake Prov’dence… in the woods… near Panola Bayou.”

“We pretended not to see ‘em and just kept walkin’. Soon as we was far enough along, we started runnin’ like scared rabbits. We knowed they was up to no good. I mean, why would them white boys be up in that part o’ town? Could them boys be the bank robbers they was talkin about on the radio?”

Bettis nodded. “We just might catch those scoundrels after all. Marshal, take your men out to the cut off at Panola Bayou.” Pointing to two chairs, he said, “Ladies, y’all wanna rest and drink a Co-Cola?”

When the marshal and his posse reached the turnoff at Panola Bayou, the men got out of their cars with guns and rifles. All of them were experienced hunters of deer, ducks, and wild hogs, but this kind of hunt was different. None of these men had ever lured armed bandits out of the swampy, snake-infested woods.

The marshal signaled the others to halt when he heard a noise in the brush. They waited, hunkered close to the ground, guns ready. Tension was thick in the humid air.

The faint sound of a muffled engine buzzed in the distance. As it gradually grew louder, Montgomery looked up in the sky and spotted a single engine biplane flying low and getting closer. He recognized Cecil Smith’s plane when it flew directly over where they stood. 

Tree branches swayed violently in the disturbed air. Within a minute, three men walked out of the woods with their hands raised high above their heads. They were surrounded, looking down the barrels of the posse’s guns. There was nowhere else to run.

The bandits were handcuffed and disarmed. They had four guns and as many knives among them, and a bag of cash and traveler’s checks.

The marshal asked the tall one his name. 
“Jack Doud,” the man answered.
“Where ya from, Jack Doud?”
“Chicago.”
Marshal Montgomery asked the others, “You from Chicago, too?”
“We’re all from Chicago,” the dark-haired one said. 
“What’s your name?” the marshal asked. 
“My name is Benny Caphone. That’s spelled C-a-p-H-o-n-e. No kin to Al.”

“Well, well. I don’t blame ya. I wouldn’t claim no kin to him neither.” 

John Kolich,19, was the third man. He had waited outside the bank. 

“Aren’t you boys hot in them heavy coats? Seems like you ain’t too familiar with our weather down south,” the marshal talked as he led them to the car.

Benny said, “Marshal, I’ve got something to say.”
Montgomery paused and said, “Is that right?”
“Before we get to wherever you’re taking us, can we make a stop first?”
“Well now, I ain’t never been asked that before, Mr. Caphone. Where ya wantin’ to stop?” Montgomery eyed the man with suspicion.

“We want to go back to the bank and return the money,” Benny said.

So they did.

When they got to town, the marshal’s posse and the bandits walked into the bank where Edward was waiting.

“These boys have somethin’ to say to you, Ed.” Montgomery handed Edward the bag of cash.

Benny said, “Well, we would have gotten away if our buddy had picked us up where he was supposed to, but he never showed up.” 

The young John Kolich looked at the floor, and Jack Doud mumbled, “Guess we’ll be staying around here for a while.”

Edward counted the cash after everyone had left. It was $250 short.

When he got home, Sallie and their three sons listened as Edward told them all about the robbery and the robbers returning the money. 

Weeks later Sheriff Andrew J. Sevier walked into the Madison National Bank. “Hello, Ed. I have something for you.” Sheriff Sevier placed a gun on the counter, the gun that Jack Doud had used in the hold up. “I thought you might like to have this. A souvenir, of sorts.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.” Turning the gun over in his hands, Edward felt the cold threat of death and thought about how close he had come to leaving his three sons fatherless. “I’ll be telling people about this for a long, long time.

Though my grandfather, Edward Aylette Buckner, didn’t live long enough to regale his grandchildren with the story of the bank heist, the gun remained a keepsake in our family, passed down through three generations until it was lost, probably in a house fire in 2018.

Vicksburg Herald, November 12, 1932
Unidentified newspaper article from Louisiana in 1932
Coming soon – Edward Aylette Buckner, Sr. Biography

Chicago Thugs and a Small-town Bank | by E. B. Shelton | Apr, 2021 | Medium