THE FIRST CLEW FOUND.
Mr. Pinkerton had passed an anxious week, Never before had he been so
completely baffled. The finding of the letter-heads with Bartlett's
name written on them in Fotheringham's trunk had quite upset his
theories. Yet the most searching examination could find nothing in the
suspected messenger's previous movements, upon which to fasten any
connection with the robbery.
The vast machinery of Pinkerton's Detective Agency was at work all over
the country. His brightest and keenest operatives had been brought
together in St. Louis, Kansas City, Leavenworth and Chicago. False
clews were sprung every day, and run down to a disappointed
termination. But all to no purpose. Outwitted and baffled, Mr.
Pinkerton was treading his apartment at the Southern Hotel with
impatient steps; his brow was wrinkled with thought and his eyes heavy
with loss of sleep. In his vast and varied experience with criminals he
had never yet met one who had so completely covered his tracks as this
same Jim Cummings. Of one thing he was satisfied, however, and that
was, that no professional criminal had committed the robbery, and again
that two or more men were concerned in it.
In Fotheringham's description of the robbery, he had mentioned hearing
an unusual noise in the fore part of the car, as if some one were
tapping on the partition, and on examining the car, the bell-cord was
found to be plugged. This showed an accomplice, or perhaps more than
one.
That it was not done by a professional was clear, because Mr.
Pinkerton, having the entire directory and encyclopedia of crime and
criminals at his fingers' end, knew of no one that would have gone
about the affair as this man Cummings had done.
As everything else has its system, and each system has its followers,
so robbery has its method, and each method its advocates and
practitioners. This is so assuredly the fact that the detective almost
instantly recognizes the hand which did the work by the manner in which
the work was done.
This particular robbery was unique. An express car had never been
looted in this manner before. "Therefore," said Mr. Pinkerton, "it was
done by a new man, and although this new man had the nerve, brains and
shrewdness necessary to successfully terminate his plans, yet he will
lack the cunning and experience of an old hand in keeping clear of the
detectives and the law, and will do some one thing which will put us
upon his track."
He had just arrived at this comforting conclusion, when an impatient
rap was heard on the door, followed almost instantly by Mr. Damsel
opening it and entering the room.
In his hand he held a letter, and, full of excitement, he waved it over
his head, as he said:
"He has written a letter."
A gleam of satisfaction was in Mr. Pinkerton's eye as he took the paper
from Mr. Damsel, but his manner was entirely void of excitement, and
his voice was calm and even, as he replied:
"I expected he would do something of that sort."
Mr. Damsel--his excitement somewhat allayed by the nonchalant manner
with which the detective had received the news--seated himself on the
sofa.
Mr. Pinkerton read the letter carefully.
It was headed "St. Joe, Missouri," and addressed to the editor of the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat, and a large number of sheets, closely written
in a backhand, was signed "Yours truly, Jim Cummings." It stated, in
substance, that the robbery had been carefully planned some time before
the occurrence. That entrance had been gained to the express car by the
presentation of a forged order from Route Agent Bartlett, and that
Fotheringham was entirely innocent of the entire affair.
The letter related, minutely, all that occurred from the time the train
left St. Louis until it reached Pacific.
It told how the messenger was attacked, gagged and bound, and, in fact,
was such a complete expose of the robbery that Mr. Pinkerton laid it
down with an incredulous smile, saying:
"Nothing to that, Mr. Damsel. That letter was not written by the
robber, but is a practical joke, played by some one who gleaned all his
information from the newspapers."
"Indeed," responded Mr. Damsel, "then what do you say to this?" and he
handed Mr. Pinkerton two pieces of calendered white wrapping paper,
showing the seals of the Adams Express Company upon it, the strings
cut, but the paper still retaining the form of an oblong package.
Surprised and puzzled, Mr. Pinkerton saw they were the original
wrappings of the $30,000 and $12,000 packages which had been taken from
the safe by the robber. The addresses were still on the paper, and Mr.
Damsel, in a most emphatic tone, said:
"I'm prepared to swear that they are genuine."
Mr. Pinkerton, still silent, re-read the letter, carefully weighing
each word, and this time finishing it.
He came to one paragraph, which read:
"Now to prove these facts * * * * I took my gun, a Smith we had
practiced on, and checked the package in the St. Louis Union Depot,
under the initials J. M. Now if you want a good little gun and billy,
go and get out the packages checked to J. M. in the Union Depot October
25th; there are probably seventy-five or eighty cents charges on it by
this time, but the gun alone is worth $10. Also, if you want a
double-barreled shot-gun, muzzle-loader, go along the bank of the
Missouri River, on the north side, about a mile below St. Charles
bridge, and about twenty feet along the bank, just east of that dike
that runs out into the river, and you will find in a little gully a
shot-gun and a musket. Be careful. I left them both loaded with
buckshot and caps on the tubes. They were laying, wrapped up in an
oil-cloth, with some weeds thrown over them. Also, down on the river
just below the guns, I left my skiff and a lot of stuff, coffee-pot,
skillet, and partially concealed, just west of the skiff, you will find
a box of grub, coffee, bacon, etc. I came down the river in a skiff
Tuesday night, October 26-27, from a point opposite Labodie. It is a
run of thirty-five or thirty-six miles. They should all be there unless
some one found them before you got there." * * * *
Mr. Pinkerton, in a brown study, tapping the table with his fingers,
sat for some moments. Rising abruptly, he placed his hat on his head,
and requesting Mr. Damsel to follow, left the room. In a short time he
was in the Union Depot, and stepping up to the clerk of the
parcel-room, asked for a package which had been left there October
25th, marked "J. M.," stating that he had lost his ticket. After some
search, the clerk brought forward a parcel tied in a newspaper.
"This is marked J. M., and was left here October 25th."
"That is the one," said Mr. Pinkerton, and paying the charges, hastened
back to the hotel.
In spite of his habitual calmness and sang froid, Mr. Pinkerton's hand
trembled as he cut the string. As the paper was unwrapped, both men
gave an exclamation of surprise and joy, for disclosed to view was a
revolver, a billy, some shirts and papers.
"At last," cried Mr. Pinkerton, and he eagerly scanned the various
articles. The revolver was an ordinary, self-cocking Smith & Wesson.
The billy was the sort called "life-preservers." The Adams Express
letter-heads were covered with the names "J. B. Barrett" and "W. H.
Damsel." Mr. Pinkerton passed these to his companions.
"They are pretty fair forgeries. Hang me, if it don't look as though I
had written that name myself."
The detective, all this time, was scrutinizing each article, hoping to
find something new.
With the papers he took out a printed ballad-sheet of the kind sold on
the streets by newsboys and fakirs. Turning it over, he saw something
written on it, and looking closely, read, "----, Chestnut street."
The handwriting was the same as the handwriting of the letter. The
first clew had been found.