The Stranger

Until last week Richard H. Crowe might have served as the mold and pattern of the rising executive. He had risen, job by job, for 19 years with Manhattan's great National City Bank; at 40, he was the assistant manager of a branch on Broadway--a bulky, assured, well-dressed man whose manners, energy and way with elder bank officers stamped him plainly as bound for bigger things.

His wife, a slim, handsome woman, entertained well and blended perfectly into crowds at country-club dances. He had three healthy children, two automobiles (a 1946 Buick and a 1948 Austin), and an old but suitably located eleven-room house on Staten Island. He was a tireless member of clubs, banking associations, civic committees and charity organizations.

But overnight last week, all this evidence as to the mind, character, instincts and aspirations of Richard H. Crowe lost its validity, and he became a stranger to all who knew him best. The National City discovered that $883,660--the largest sum ever stolen from a Manhattan bank--was missing from a vault at the branch bank.

Off for Dinner. The theft was easily reconstructed. Crowe had stayed late at the bank on Friday the week before, had opened the vault and taken out $193,660 in small bills, five U.S. $100,000 Treasury bonds, and $190,000 in bonds of smaller denominations. He put his loot in a brown handbag, took the ferry to Staten Island, calmly tossed his treasure into the family Buick, and went off to meet Mrs. Crowe for dinner at a Staten Island country club.

He spent the next day and a half in casual puttering at home. Then, on Sunday afternoon, he announced that he was going on a business trip to Buffalo; he left at 4:30, caught a ferry to Manhattan, and vanished into the stone maze of the big city.

Why? Where had he gone? He soon answered both questions. Registered letters, mailed in Florida and stuffed with greenbacks, began arriving in New York. A Staten Island bank which had lent him money got $5,000; another got $6,000. His friends began getting money, too. FBI men learned that before leaving he had visited his parents' Staten Island cottage while they were out of town. The agents went in, found $14,975 in two envelopes, and a note, ". . . Enclosed is money . . ." Altogether, from one place and another, they recovered $76,355. Despite his expensive mode of life and his promising job, Crowe got a salary of only $6,500 a year; he was deep in debt.

The New Sedan. As the manhunt shifted to the south, the cops got another clue --their quarry had walked calmly into a Jacksonville automobile agency, bought a new Pontiac sedan, registered it under the name of Robert Franklin, and vanished again.

But all this told little about the stranger the police were seeking. His wife was sure that he was out of his mind, argued that he had taken bonds which would be impossible to sell. But criminals before Crowe, knowing what they were about, had hidden such securities, had used them as a lever for bargaining after they were caught.

This week the F.B.I, closed in on Banker Crowe. Getting panicky, he had abandoned his new car, bought another only to abandon it too. He settled down in Daytona Beach, to loll on the beaches and roll around the bars. In a bar they arrested him.

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