IN THE MURDERER’S NEST.
After breakfast, the detective accompanied the landlord to the bar and
swallowed a powerful decoction of spirits, lemon, and sugar, commonly
termed whisky-punch, which had the effect, in a little while, of
tangling up his wits, weakening his joints, and causing his eyes to see
everything in couples, even to the solitary chimney-tops of the houses
in the city. At least, so it appeared. But he retained the sense of
hearing sufficiently unimpaired to receive the full benefit of Marks’
reflection, directed to the hangers-on of the tavern, as he quit the
house, and of which the agent was the subject—to the effect that it was
“a great pity he, McKenna, had no head for resisting the stupefying
influences of strong drink.” This forms the substance of the remark, but
not exactly the language, which was very coarse, and intensified by
sundry adjectives and expletives not mentioned to ears polite.
[Illustration: “_The Saloon and Residence of James Carroll._”]
One of the first places honored with the detective’s presence, after
quitting the Columbia House, was Carroll’s, where, as he had been
informed by Superintendent Franklin, Yost and McCarron saw the
strangers, “from the other side,” suspected of having committed the
murder, the morning of the sixth of that month. The saloon and residence
of James Carroll—all included in one building—was on Broad Street, no
great distance from the United States Hotel. After calling on Patrick
Nolan, another liquor-seller with whom he was familiar, and from whom he
obtained more liquor, thus adding to his appearance of drunkenness, the
operative went direct to Carroll’s Union House. Fortunately, the
proprietor of the place and his wife were the only occupants of the
bar-room. McKenna passed Carroll the sign for the quarter, while the
proprietor stood in the doorway, and Carroll answered correctly, then
warmly greeted him as a brother. The detective introduced himself:
“I am James McKenna, of Shenandoah! I think you know me by report, but
not by sight! Have often heard of you, as Secretary of Tamaqua
Division!”
At this juncture, Mrs. Carroll, who had been standing nigh, discreetly
withdrew, and Carroll said: “Jim McKenna? ‘Heard of you?’ I think I
have! You are right welcome here!”
“I’m jist afther having a bit of a spree, as ye’ll doubtless observe wid
half an eye, an ain’t nigh so steady as I wor yesterday, an’ don’t know
as much by half, but I greet ye kindly! Supposin’, now, you fit yourself
inter the space behint the bar an’ the shelves, an’ pour me out some
gin? I’m particularly partial to pure Holland!”
“Of course I will,” replied Carroll, and he served some liquor, taking a
stiff glass himself.
“I can’t stay but a little time,” said McKenna, seating himself before
the counter and balancing his body unsteadily, “fur I must get to Summit
Hill, beyant, this afternoon, fur to see Aleck Campbell!”
“Campbell is all right!”
“Yes! Campbell is one of the thruest men in the county, an’ one that I
have taken a particular likin’ fur!”
“You know Aleck and I are brothers-in-law?”
“Sure, an’ I hed no sich idea!”
“We are! An’, if you stay in the neighborhood, you must spake of me to
him! It’ll be a good thing for you to do!”
“I’ll remember that, depend upon’t!”
“I suppose you’ve read of the Yost matter?” said Carroll.
“Oh, I saw somethin’ of it in the papers, but hev no knowledge of the
particulars! I belave, however, that the Dutch policeman desarved all he
got!”
“It was a clane trick, an’ well done!”
“Some of the people in town are sayin’ that McCarron—isn’t that his
name?—did the whole thing!” suggested McKenna.
This groundless charge the detective had constructed, from whole cloth,
to draw Carroll out, but the saloon keeper did not choose to say much.
He responded:
“There was mighty little difference in the two—McCarron an’ Yost! I
think Yost was a trifle the manest, but not much!”
This was considerable for Carroll to say, before a comparative stranger,
even though known as a good Mollie, but contained no information; so,
after another glass of gin, which the detective dexterously threw out at
the door, after having changed the glasses and drank the water placed on
the counter with the liquor, McKenna took his leave, perceptibly the
worse for his morning drams, and boarded the cars for Storm Hill,
leaving his satchel at the Columbia House.
Arrived at his destination, the officer continued his appearance of
intoxication, and, after staggering about and entering one or two
saloons, rolled himself into Alex. Campbell’s house, finding the
proprietor at home, surrounded by several other Mollies, all of whom
seemed engaged in doing nothing in particular, excepting the rapid
consumption of the contents of the bottles behind the counter. The
reception accorded McKenna was generous, finding that he had a few
dollars to expend, and Campbell and the rest being eager to assist in
that operation. When they had taken some rounds, of which the detective
was compelled to imbibe fully his share, Campbell put on his coat, and
signaling to McKenna, the two started for a walk. They first made a call
at Pat McKenna’s—whose relative James McKenna, the operative, had
already made himself out to be—where an unusually warm greeting awaited
him. All of his second cousins were happy to resume a companionship
previously begun. This saloon was kept by Pat McKenna, the father of the
Old Mines Bodymaster. Pat, junior, was not at home. The whole country
swarmed with Mollies, and Campbell, Fisher, and Pat McKenna, junior,
were the leading spirits in the division, Fisher being at that date
County Delegate of Carbon County.
As the agent considered the dangerous company he was in, and the
extra-hazardous duty he was performing, at the very stronghold of the
party that he was almost convinced had assassinated the Tamaqua
policeman—although he had not gained any positive proof of their
guilt—his mind was so unduly excited, brain so highly stimulated and
alert that he might make no false step, speak no suspicious word, the
liquor he swallowed produced no more effect upon his organism than so
much water. Under similar circumstances a man will drink, from hour to
hour, all day, and never be really intoxicated until the mental strain
may be removed by the taking away of the cause of danger, when sleep, or
stupor, will promptly supervene. Thus the detective joined with
Campbell, the McKennas, and others, and was not too far gone to swallow
several drams, after the walk in Campbell’s company to the Summit. There
Tom Fisher resided. He was also a tavern-keeper.
As McParlan—I shall call him by his true surname, while describing his
associations with the Carbon County McKennas, to avoid confusion of
titles in the reader’s memory—and Alex. Campbell were tramping over the
hills to Summit, the agent, during a pause in the conversation, inquired
if news of the Bill Thomas affair had reached Storm Hill.
“Indade an’ it has!” returned Campbell; “an’ I hear it wur your men that
did it!”
“I guess ye have it purty straight, then,” said McParlan, not caring to
spoil a story which was working tangibly in his interest, and which
would draw his companion on to say more. “But ye must not let it out on
me! I caution ye, there’s many inquiries goin’ on as to who performed
that job!”
“All right!” responded Campbell. “Although the thing ended in failure,
it was well meant, and you were not to blame!”
“There’s _lashins_ of betther men for such a thing than one can get in
Shenandoah!”
“I belave ye! Your fellows couldn’t do so clane a job as that down in
Tamaqua!”
Here was very delicate ground. The tracer must say exactly the right
thing, if he desired to learn more. He was very drunk, as Campbell truly
believed, yet managed to reply:
“Be the great piper! but that wor a trick to be proud of! Indade, the
best thing of the kind I ever heard about!”
The tavern-keeper looked proudly but searchingly at McParlan for a
second, seemed satisfied that he was trustworthy, and exclaimed:
“Well, it do gain our lads credit! I wouldn’t have bothered my head
about it, only it was on a trade, you know!”
As a natural consequence of the direction of his professional duty,
McParlan ardently desired to learn who was to be killed in exchange for
the shooting of Yost, and the names of the men Campbell was just
confessing he had sent to Tamaqua, but he knew his business too
well—inebriated as he appeared to be—to put a leading inquiry in that
direction. Campbell then closed his mouth, possibly thinking he was
already more communicative than would be pronounced exactly prudent,
even with a man and a brother Mollie who confessed to having secured and
furnished the parties for the shooting of Wm. M. Thomas, and said no
more on the subject.
They found Fisher very much intoxicated and unwilling to do anything but
drink.
By this time it was night, and, although considerably “under the
influence,” Campbell left the detective at Fisher’s and went out to
attend the meeting of a building association, of which he was a member.
McParlan was forced by the proprietor of the place to remain with Fisher
that night. He would listen to none of his alleged reasons for returning
to Campbell’s. It was late when the operative retired, and in a few
moments sleep and weariness overpowered him.
Friday morning, after breakfast and a parting glass with County Delegate
Fisher, who urged him soon to come there again—certainly before leaving
the vicinity—the officer returned to Storm Hill and went directly to the
saloon of the elder McKenna, where he encountered Pat McKenna, the
Bodymaster, who introduced the visitor to his wife, with whom he had not
long before been united. There were a number of Mollies about the place,
and they experienced little trouble in inducing McParlan to give them
some songs and dances. Among the former, “Pat Dolan,” printed in an
early chapter of this work, was a great favorite and several times
_encored_. At the second singing every man in the bar-room joined in the
chorus:
“Wid my riggadum-du—an’ to h—l wid the crew
Wouldn’t help to free our nation;
When I look back, I count ’em slack,
Wouldn’t join our combination.”
In the jigs and reels there were some who took part, and all beat time
to the dancer’s heel-and-toe refrain. Both performances gave great
satisfaction, and at once seated McParlan firmly in the good graces of
all the Irish people of Storm Hill.
Pat McKenna, during the day, made a statement to the detective
sustaining what Campbell had previously said, and more might have been
gathered from the same source had not the place been so crowded with
patrons. The Bodymaster was a little more cautious than Campbell had
been, and the officer did not press him, however badly he wanted to have
the names of the men who had been sent to put Yost out of the way. That
night McParlan, _alias_ McKenna, remained at the house of his _quasi_
and convenient cousin, Pat McKenna, and enjoyed a good night’s sleep,
which, considering his arduous labors and long-continued excitement of
mind, he greatly needed.
Saturday, the seventeenth of July, was a sunny and rather sultry
summer’s day. In the forenoon, McParlan entered the bar of McKenna,
senior, and was there joined by Mike McKenna, a younger son of the
tavern-keeper, and brother of Pat, the Bodymaster. When all had taken
some drinks together, McParlan found a seat in the shade, not far away,
saying he felt very sick, after such a prolonged debauch, and young Mike
followed. Protected by the spreading branches of a tree, the pretended
cousin indulged his propensity for romancing—in true interest of the
public—to its full extent, rehearsing with additions and embellishments,
the absorbing particulars of the many “clane jobs” in which he had
participated—all purely figments of the brain from commencement to end,
but given in such minuteness of detail, and appearance of candor and
frankness, that the interested hearer took them in without doubt or
distrust of their truthfulness. Mike believed implicitly in Jim McKenna.
When the searcher after knowledge had exhausted his store of material
and talked himself hoarse, Mike thought it his turn to say something,
and while he had little to urge for himself, sung pæans to the prowess
of his elder brother, Pat McKenna, the Bodymaster. He spun many fine
tales of no particular value to his single auditor, but to all of which
the operative affected to give earnest and undivided attention. In a
little while, without in the least appearing to do so, McParlan brought
the young fellow around to the main question, and he plainly stated that
the men who had killed Yost were Hugh McGehan and James Boyle, both then
living at Summit Hill.
“Ye see, sir, it wor a bargain wid the boys around Tamaqua, by Campbell,
who jist wants some of them, wan of these fine days, to do for Jones,
who is a sort of Sub-Superintendent at Old Mines. He is Charlie
Parrish’s tool, an’ but fur this fellow Jones we’d have been at work
long ago! Hugh McGehan is the best man at a clane job in all the county,
an’ it’s a pity fur him to have to lave now, after lyin’ idle so long!”
“I was sure in my own mind, before, who had done the trick! But, be
jabers, it wor a well-laid plan, an’ mighty nice wor it carried out! I
suppose Jones will be taken off directly the excitement of the last
affair blows over!”
McParlan was trying to learn facts by appearing to have them partly in
possession.
“I thought ye knew somethin’ of the matther,” continued Mike, “but don’t
ye brathe divil a word to Pat, me big brother, that I hev been
chatterin’ here wid ye, fur he’d be worse nor a mad dog over it! I don’t
know when Jones is to be shot—an’ possibly the thing has been given
over—but when Aleck Campbell makes up his mind to a thing it generally
has to be done sooner or later, so I rather opine that it will come off
yet!”
“I suppose it was Boyle who fired the shot that brought Yost down?”
“You’re wrong there, then, for it wor McGehan’s pistol what performed
the thing nately! But there’s brother Pat, an’ I must be goin’! Don’t
you say anythin’!”
“Depend upon me!” said McParlan.
They entered the bar-room, the operative hoping he might meet Boyle,
described to him as a low-sized, stoutish man, with dark hair and
mustache. But Boyle was not among the new visitors. McParlan treated to
the best, paid his reckoning, and, with Mike, went to Campbell’s, where
the afternoon was spent at cards. The games ended when Pat McKenna came
in, just from his work at the mine. This person was a fine physical type
of a man, six feet four inches in height, well built and proportioned,
of fair complexion, and apparently twenty-five years of age. He was glad
to see McParlan again and accompanied him to his father’s house, and
they had drinks at Pat’s own expense, who then proceeded home to change
his clothing. Mike, meanwhile, took occasion once more to caution the
operative against saying anything about their talk of the forenoon. He
was reassured when McParlan suggested that he was no _cruddy_ idiot, and
reiterated his promise to observe great care over his lips. “Trust me to
know better than to blather over what is tould me in confidence!” were
his concluding words.
Subsequently, Pat McKenna, when given the opportunity, confirmed his
brother’s revelations, confessing that men from his division had shot
Yost, but he would go no further. The names he kept to himself. The
detective slept, that night, at the residence of young Pat McKenna,
retiring at the early hour of three A.M.
The following Sunday, McParlan, accompanied by Pat McKenna, the
Bodymaster, went to Coaldale, the residence of James Roarty, at the head
of the division there, ostensibly to see what Jack Donahue had done
about the Major business. A man named McNellis went with them. The
weather being very warm, all were glad when they came to a shady spot.
Roarty was easily found and took them to the house of another Mollie,
called Bonner, where they enjoyed refreshments. When questioned, Roarty
said he did not know what Chris Donnelly, of Mt. Laffee, and Yellow Jack
Donahue, of Tuscarora, were doing on or about the fifth, as he, Roarty,
and Kerrigan and two others—names not given—were in Tamaqua, on their
way to Big Vein, when Carroll gave them a letter, telling the three to
wait for further orders. The meeting took place, he heard, and Chris
Donnelly and his armed men were on the ground, but Donahue would not
permit them to act, as he was fearful, from the fact that the Majors had
quit working at their usual place; they might be in receipt of
notification of foul play awaiting them. “They will get a pill yet,”
exclaimed Roarty, “as Bully Bill did! By the way, you acted your part
well in that same, but the rest made asses of themselves by not stoppin’
to see their man’s toes turned up, before leavin’ the stable!”
Roarty also alluded to the Tamaqua “clane job,” but disclosed nothing
more of consequence. That he had personally been interested in the Yost
murder, at its inception, whether he actually assisted in the killing or
not, the detective was fully sensible before the end of Mike McKenna’s
recital. They returned to Pat McKenna’s house in season for dinner,
finding the rooms swarming with Mollies. McParlan counted over thirty
active members about the place, all indulging in a boisterous bacchanal.
During the afternoon he was introduced as “Jim McKenna, Secretary of
Shenandoah Division,” by Alex. Campbell and Pat McKenna, Jr., to Hugh
McGehan. He shook the blood-stained murderer’s hand without flinching,
and immediately invited all hands to present themselves at the bar at
his cost. McGehan I have partly described in giving the dying
declaration of Yost. It may be added that he was of rather light
complexion, had dark eyes, face clean-shaven—at this time—short, or pug
nose, was five feet nine inches in stature, straight and well built,
weighing from one hundred and sixty to one hundred and seventy-five
pounds, and apparently a smart, well-spoken fellow. He dressed, when out
of his shifting clothes, in very good taste. But McGehan did not remain
long in the company saying he “had other fish to fry.”
Monday, without seeing Boyle, as he knew he was working in the shaft,
and not likely to leave very soon, McParlan boarded the train for
Tamaqua, having nearly recovered from what he was pleased to denominate
the “bad effects of the poteen he had taken the week before.” Arriving
at Tamaqua, he entered Carroll’s saloon, with the interior of which he
was by that time quite intimate, and there found Roarty. The people of
the house were glad to see him once more, and Roarty, hearing that
McKenna—the detective may once more be called by his assumed name—was
about to start for Shenandoah, had come to Carroll’s to take leave of
him. Roarty was working a night shift near that place. The operative
employed every known means, without asking the question direct, to make
Roarty say who had done the Yost murder, and which men were to act for
the Tamaqua Division in repaying the job; but the miner either did not
know, or would not venture to say.
The same night McKenna once more appeared on his old stamping ground, at
Shenandoah, but took care not to be seen by any excepting McAndrew and
Cooney. McAndrew informed him quietly, that Linden had been there to
warn the Secretary, as two strange men were not long before inquiring
for him at Pottsville. The Mollies had determined, if they visited
Shenandoah—having no doubt but they were the Buffalo detectives—to give
them a good beating and the advice to go elsewhere as quickly as
possible. Thus far the Buffalo officers had not shown themselves in the
place. Remaining in Shenandoah, _perdu_, for a few days, recovering
strength, and writing on his reports, which had been unavoidably
neglected, McKenna once more bid his friends farewell and returned to
Tamaqua, saying he had business in Luzerne County with an old
acquaintance. The last-mentioned hint was taken as foreshadowing a trip
to meet some counterfeiters and replenish his purse with uncurrent
funds. McAndrew pressed his hand warmly, saying he hoped he’d “kape out
of harm’s way!”
“I’ll do that, if I can, jist depend upon it!” responded the detective.
“If the men I have described to ye come here, look out for ’em, will
ye?”
“They’ll be attended to!” was the promise of McAndrew.
Had any unhappy stranger filling this description: “Tall, long-nosed,
bald-headed, squint-eyed, knock-kneed, pigeon-toed, hump-backed, and
cracked-voiced,” appeared about this date, in Shenandoah, he certainly
would have needed protection. As few persons on earth have the
misfortune to possess all these unfortunate characteristics, it is
presumable that no one was injured. In truth, McAndrew wrote a letter to
the detective, when he found out where he was, saying, among other
things, that the “Buffalo detectives had not yet arrived, though Capt.
Linden reported having seen men looking like them in Ashland.”
At Tamaqua, the operative whispered in the ears of his Mollie
acquaintances that it seemed necessary, from certain reasons—two of the
same being Buffalo detectives—that he should keep dark and well away
from Shenandoah, for a short season. He was free to say he did not
relish being carried back to Buffalo in irons, as he certainly would be
if the officers found him. From the same cause he refused to appear very
often in public, kept his room much during the day—to sleep and write,
in reality—only coming out after nightfall and joining the Mollies in
Carroll’s or at other haunts and meeting places.
At the Columbia House, where he made his temporary home, he met a man
named Miller, an old acquaintance, who told him the city had fairly
swarmed with detectives, representing all parts of the country, dating
from the occurrence of the Yost murder. It was thought that suspicion
pointed to Kerrigan and Duffy as actors in the case. The operative kept
his own counsel, saying he “guessed all the detectives in Pennsylvania
would not be able to fix the crime upon any one in particular!”
Sunday, the twenty-sixth of July—twenty days subsequent to the
murder—McKenna met Carroll in the evening, at his house, and after some
drinks, the saloon-keeper took the agent aside and confided to him that,
while the latter was absent at Storm Hill, detectives had been there to
see him, Carroll—one claiming to be a mechanic in search of employment,
and saying Gus McAffee, a Scotchman, working in a foundry, was an old
friend. His name was Hendrick. Carroll laughed at the gawky acts of the
pretended workman—but, as he believed, actual detective—and reported
that he would appear in his, Carroll’s saloon, every day, treat all
hands, and never drink anything but beer, himself. The fact that he
pretended to be “temperance,” while he gave others strong liquor,
excited the tavern-keeper’s suspicions at once, and, as a natural
result, Hendrick left, with the hint that his calling was known and he
had been looking in the wrong place. The same word was taken to McAffee.
Beside, the detective wore two or three different kinds of hats. Another
followed. He made nothing out of Carroll, but was bluntly informed that
he was a detective. A third fellow came and took Kerrigan to a saloon
and got him very drunk, but made nothing in the way of solving the
mystery.
“I can tell you,” concluded Carroll, warming up and gaining confidence
in McKenna, “the night the Yost job was to be done, I had loaned my
pistol to a man in Tuscarora, an’ the boys brought but one between them,
an’ I was forced to give them an old, single-barrel, breech-loading one
that I had!”
“That wor not much in the way of weapons to undertake such a thing wid!”
suggested McKenna.
“True for ye! But the job was done clanely, as you’ll admit! By the same
token, they fetched my wife on the stand at the coroner’s inquest, an’
before lavin’ home she cried, an’ said she had seen me turn over the
pistol to some men, an’ belaved I, Kerrigan, Roarty, and Duffy knew all
about the affair. Fur all that, my old woman made a fust-rate witness,
an’ let out nothing! There wus somethin’ said about a man that was
aslape on my front steps, the night of the killin’. He wasn’t one of
’em! That wor Jo McGehan, who lives at Coaldale, an’ he was drunk as a
piper, at the same time. He’s a white-haired, heavy fellow, is Jo, an’ a
brother-in-law of big John Gallagher!”
“Isn’t he, at the same time, a brother of my friend, Hugh McGehan!”
inquired the detective, carelessly.
“I don’t know,” was the response; but Carroll immediately added: “When I
saw the two policemen pass my house together—Yost and McCarron—I wanted
the men not to do the job that night, but they swore they had been over
before for the purpose, and they would not be balked—do it they did!”
Mrs. Carroll had sworn, before the coroner, that she knew Tom Duffy had
not been one of the murderers, for he slept at her house, was not
absent, and could not have gone out without her knowledge, and that she
had never heard Duffy or Kerrigan use threats against Yost.
The detective had knowledge, from the bullet which was extracted from
Yost’s side, where it had lodged, that the shooting was done with a
revolver carrying a number thirty or thirty-two cartridge. It was his
duty to find that particular pistol. To aid in the search he was
furnished with a new revolver, from Philadelphia, bearing a thirty-two
cartridge. This he constantly carried, claiming that he had stolen it,
in Tamaqua, and, on one or two special occasions, exhibiting the weapon
with part of the loading abstracted, remarking that it was of little use
to him, as he did not dare, from the circumstance of its illegal
ownership, ask for or purchase any cartridges to fit it. How he employed
the Smith and Wesson to good effect may be related hereafter.
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