Sources |
- [S142] Newspaper Article, Time Magazine , 16 Aug 1948.
Dead End
As he paced his room in San Francisco's Hotel Stewart last week, Isaac Garrett Fox neither looked nor felt like a desperado. He was 53—a sallow, nervous man who wore eyeglasses and false teeth, and was growing bald. He had served eight years (1931-39) in Tennessee for bank robbery, and the thought of prison terrified him. But he was sick, out of work, and three weeks behind in his rent. That helped him make up his mind.
He slipped a revolver into his coat pocket, took a train to Oakland, and wandered along sidewalks until he found a car with the ignition key in the lock. He got in, drove away, stole a different set of license plates and put them on the stolen car. Then he drove to the South Berkeley branch of the Bank of America.
As the bank's manager walked up, Fox pulled out his pistol and said: "I want all the money—and I'm not fooling." He kept the manager covered while a woman teller scooped $8,155 in currency into a canvas bag and brought it to him. He backed to the door, walked out, made a getaway.
A Bulldog.
But his fears got the better of him. The bank's alarm began to ring just as he left; before he had driven a mile, he felt that he was being surrounded. He turned off into a side street. It came to a dead end. He stopped the car, got out, leaped over a fence and started across lots, carrying the canvas moneybag. A bulldog—a creaky, cross 13-year-old dog named Buggs—ran out toward him, growling. Fox lost his head completely. He kicked viciously at the dog's head. Then he ran in panic.
The dog's mistress, a solid, grey-haired woman named Mrs. Frank Goldfuss, looked out an upstairs window, saw him, called for her husband. The couple ran downstairs, backed out their car, drove around the block and intercepted the robber. "You hurt our dog," screamed Mrs. Goldfuss. "I'm going to call a cop." Fox yanked out his pistol, aimed it at her, pulled the trigger. It failed to fire. Goldfuss leaped out and jumped on him.
A Cop.
A motorcycle policeman roared up. Fox put the end of the pistol into his mouth and fumbled at the trigger. But he succeeded only in knocking out his false teeth. As he grabbed for them, the policeman grabbed for the pistol. Fox was disarmed and arrested.
At Oakland's Northern Police Station, Isaac Fox sat quietly while an FBI agent questioned him. He talked candidly. But his eyes were fixed on the agent, and especially on the revolver which he carried in an open holster on his belt. As the agent leaned forward to write, Fox grabbed the pistol, got the end under his chin and pulled the trigger. The old bank robber toppled backward, dead.
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