Floor Show at the Emerson

Though there are dozens of other second-rate residential hotels on Manhattan's upper West Side, the dark green lobby of the 297-room Hotel Emerson seems to be irresistible to holdup men. The Emerson's long-suffering night clerk, one Martin Henry, has been stuck up three times in the last two months. Even so, he was not quite prepared for the three pistol-packing bravoes who strolled in out of the grey dawn at 4 o'clock one morning last week, announced, as is regular on such occasions, that they wouldn't mind blowing his head off, and set to work cleaning out the poor old Emerson all over again.

They had obviously come prepared to stay awhile, even to bringing a few cans of beer and a crowbar. Under the leadership of a self-possessed youth named "Red," they forced Martin Henry and the night elevator man to take off their pants and lie down on the cold marble floor behind the desk. The mobsters thoughtfully extracted $102 from the till. Then they took over the hotel.

"Take Off Your Clothes!" Pistol at hand, Red lounged behind the desk. When a television actor named Frank Curran strolled in at 4:10, Red pointed the piece at him. Curran's hands shot up. "Get those arms down, chum," snapped Red. "And take off your clothes!" Curran, seeing the bodies on the floor, thought he had stumbled over a gang massacre. "This is a case of mistaken identity," he cried. Red and company did not argue. They jerked off his coat and pants, stopped short at his shorts. Said Red: "Now tell me how you feel, chum." Curran gulped and said: "I feel as though I might have a heart attack." Red was instantly solicitous, laid a hand on his victim's chest, nodded and allowed him to rest in a chair before joining the pair on the floor.

Guest after guest wandered in. One puzzled man stared at the robbers and innocently asked for the night clerk. "He's lying down," said one gunman soothingly, and then took $80 in cash and a wrist Watch away from him. The robbers found the telephone morning-call schedule, awakened guests by ringing them up at the proper hour. When the early risers sounded the elevator buzzer, one of the robbers ran the cage upstairs, politely brought them down to be fleeced, depantsed and assigned a place on the floor.

The pile of boodle swelled. A diamond salesman was robbed of $2,000 in stones. An Army sergeant gave up $80. "It's a tough war, sergeant," said Red, smiling faintly. A mail carrier who happened in after dawn was captured, but allowed to keep his pants on since he claimed they were Government property. Red was politeness personified. He broke open the cigarette machine, distributed smokes to his victims and passed out drinking water. When one of his helpers cursed a victim he cried: "Cut that out, Herkimer. None of that stuff." Herkimer desisted.

The Cold Floor. The robbers' air of gallantry reached its peak when a red-headed nightclub singer named Judy Mallory came in after her night's work and cried: "What kind of a party is this, everybody in their panties?" Said the robbers' leader: "Hello, Red. Get in there with the rest of the customers." But the floor was cold. "Hey," she cried. "I can't stand this." She was permitted to sit on a chair and to keep her clothes on.

By 7:18 there were almost a score of victims in the bandit's marble corral, with all but the mail carrier and two women lying stiff and cold in their shorts. At that point another guest--an astonished man --entered, stared at the scene and cried: "What the hell's going on here?" The horizontal captives behind the desk winced and waited for shots. It took them several minutes to realize that the robbers had long since faded silently away, taking pistols, crowbar and $3,383 in loot, and that they were, beyond any doubt, making a terrible spectacle of themselves.

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