The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

  Lincoln and the Golden Circle, Bucholz and the Blockade, A Burglar’s Fate, The Sleepwalker and the Spy, and The Boatman and the Traitor

  David Luchuk

  CONTENTS

  Lincoln and the Golden Circle

  Bucholz and the Blockade

  A Burglar’s Fate

  The Sleepwalker and the Spy

  The Boatman and the Traitor

  THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 1:

  Lincoln and the Golden Circle

  David Luchuk

  Repository Note:

  In 1956, the Library of Congress reclaimed a vast archive containing over 50,000 files from the permanent records of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. The diplomatic dispute that preceded this handover is well documented. Suffice to say, after years in bureaucratic limbo, the Pinkerton papers were in diabolical condition. The challenge of organizing and interpreting their contents was huge. To manage this task, records were prioritized based on authorship. Those written by founder Allan Pinkerton or his sons were fast-tracked. More than fifty years have passed. It is now clear that placing such a strong emphasis on authorship caused the Library to overlook an important portfolio prepared by a clerk and buried in administrative files. What follows is the first entry in a private dossier hidden over a century ago by Allan Pinkerton himself.

  —Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist – United States Library of Congress

  * * *

  Allan Pinkerton, Principal

  April, 1861

  Secrecy is a necessary thing. I learned that a decade ago as a policeman in Chicago. Now as head of an Agency with clients throughout the Union, I see the truth of it every day. Without secrets, a thousand swindles well up around our necks.

  How can I betray the secrecy of my own detectives? Discretion is so much a part of our business that we keep separate files for all cases; one with facts that send a suspect to jail, the other with clues and private notes retained for future use. No one is allowed to open those sealed records without an agent’s consent, not even me.

  I am about to breach that ethic. I have ordered my assistant, Ginny Higgs, to copy the private files of several detectives and record my comments in her hand to conceal the violation of Agency rules. This is my chance to turn back.

  I face a difficult decision. One of my detectives has been killed. Another was dishonored. A young agent betrayed us at Harrisburg. A dangerous fugitive is at large. These are serious matters but they do not, on their own, compel me to open the files.

  What does compel me is the fact that our troubles stem from a single investigation. A plot is mobilizing against us. Its goal and actors are unknown but it is all tied to a case involving President Lincoln.

  In February of this year, 1861, I was called to Philadelphia for an interview with Mr. S. M. Felton of the Philadelphia-Wilmington-Baltimore (PWB) railroad. PWB connects Washington to every other city in the Union. Mr. Felton believed extra effort was needed to protect the line.

  I understood his worry. As a young man, long before the technological marvels of today, I straggled into the United States from a life of toil in Scotland. There were no trains or money back then. Tradesmen hauled goods by wagon and were paid in barter.

  We needed capital and transport but no sooner did the first banks and railways open then every blackleg in the West came to rob us. Bringing down one such rascal led to my first criminal case. I duped an old brute into enlisting me in his plan to rob a train.

  Today, such a scheme would be suicide. We would be crushed in the revolving platforms that carry the new mammoth trains. I have seen trains fitted with factories piled on markets held together by homes of gypsy families. It is ludicrous to think that two men could stop such a machine.

  At the time, the plan was feasible. It was also tempting. Thoughts of sudden wealth came to mind. Five hundred dollars was promised. It was a small fortune.

  I pushed these ideas aside and had the man arrested. That moment of temptation launched my career.

  Fourteen years later, business is even more dependent on railways. Industrial breakthroughs in the Union north have led to much innovation.

  Railway interchanges stand four stories tall and revolve in perfect counterbalance. Trains are equipped with smelters, assembly lines, warehouses, shops and houses jutting at every conceivable angle. Each line is as vibrant and unique as any city I have known.

  In the face of such ingenuity, and armed as we are with equipment provided by clients in those industries, I am proud that my Agency protects rail lines such as PWB. I made fast arrangements to meet Mr. Felton in Philadelphia.

  Had my trip not been interrupted, would the current crisis have arisen? It is pointless to wonder. The fact is I was forced to stop in New York City.

  My son Robert was on a fool’s errand. I scarcely believed the telegraph Ms. Higgs placed on my desk:

  Sir : - With regret, I must inform that Robert Pinkerton has been apprehended in the commission of a crime against the Northern Central railroad company. I anticipate communicating with you prior to registering charges.

  John A. Kennedy – Superintendent, Metropolitan Police of New York City

  My trip to New York was restless. An old injury makes it difficult for me to sit for long stretches without feeling the pinch of extra weight. I also found it hard to keep still because I was angry with Robert for falling into the hands of that pretender Kennedy.

  At Union Station, I looked for a private carriage so I might collect my son without losing my dignity. Any hope of that was dashed on the platform. Kennedy waited to greet me in formal dress as though he was receiving a medal.

  The sympathy on his long face conveyed his joy at my predicament. I decided that, should he attempt to embrace me in fatherly distress, I would hasten my reunion with Robert in custody by shooting the man.

  Self preservation is an instinct in all species. Kennedy touched the brim of his cap. The decorum was less for my benefit than for the amusement of his officers.

  Kennedy’s life purpose seems to involve little more than being a nuisance to my Agency. New York attracts the most degenerate criminals yet the master stroke of his career was this business with my son.

  “Welcome, sir.” He said. “If only you were visiting under more enjoyable circumstances.”

  His bow was too hitched not to have been practiced.

  “A man always takes some joy in assisting his son.”

  “Indeed. No matter how embarrassing the situation.”

  “Do you mean for me to be embarrassed, Superintendent?”

  “Far from it. Helping one’s child is always respectable.”

  His falseness gave me a chill. I retaliated.

  “From your insight on children, I take it you have been blessed with the family you have desired for so many years.”

  Officers shuffled. Kennedy twitched.

  “No, Mr. Pinkerton. My wife and I have yet to be so blessed.”

  “Pity that a man with such intuition should not have children of his own.”

  A moment passed in silence.

  “I would like to speak with my son.” I said. “Will you and your officers kindly escort me to the jail?”

  This brought Kennedy back to life.

  “No need, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought it best that you not risk being seen by newspapermen in this city. Your reputation, sir.”

  Policemen behind Kennedy parted on cue to reveal a decrepit black wagon in the parkway. Travel
ers and gawkers circled. Reputation, indeed.

  Officers cleared a path through the crowd, ordering all within earshot to make way for the Police Superintendent and Detective Pinkerton. My name skittered from mouth to mouth. Kennedy’s triumph was complete.

  The smell of the wagon was alarming. For the first time since leaving Chicago, I felt a pang of concern for the welfare of my son.

  Kennedy threw back the doors. A wave of stale air rolled out. I held a sleeve over my mouth and nose. Inside, Robert sat under a barred window. Tailored suit wilting in the heat, he was trim in all the places I had become soft.

  Robert refused to acknowledge Kennedy or the fresh air. Defiance was a trait of his that worried me now that his ambition was on the rise.

  “Robert.” I said.

  He stood. Here was my eager boy. A lick of hair hung from the widow’s peak that formed when he was young and never filled in.

  I wondered, at that moment, if my sons ever had a real choice in following me to this profession. Seeing Robert in that sweat box, I realized that under all my other encouragements, I drove the same message over and over.

  This is the life. This is our life.

  Robert’s skin was smeared with grime. A beard had started to grow in patches. Here is where the life had taken him.

  “The machine, Papa. He has no right to seize it.”

  He was right. I assured Kennedy by telegraph from Chicago that Robert would return to New York at a later date to face charges. Kennedy had agreed on the condition that documents taken from Northern Central be retained as evidence. The punch card adding machine in Robert’s possession at the time of his arrest was not part of the deal.

  “Our equipment, Mr. Kennedy.” I said.

  Officers approached, dragging a crate. The machine inside was disassembled.

  “Naturally, we had to take a closer look.” Kennedy said.

  “And what did this destruction of private property allow you to discover?”

  Kennedy raised his eyebrows and feigned regret. His was the sort of acting that ended in a shower of tomatoes.

  “Our investigation is ongoing.”

  It was obvious that they had smashed the machine, an advanced prototype on loan from one of my clients, for fun. They were gorillas.

  Robert stepped from the wagon. I felt an urge to put my arms around him. Robert offered his hand instead.

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  Our reunion was the last point in the investigation that felt under control. This is where I will start searching for evidence of the plot against us.

  The secret files are in my hand. My decision is made.

  * * *

  Robert Pinkerton

  February, 1861

  I can hold my breath for two minutes. That’s what I learned suffocating half to death in custody.

  Father urges us to track new discoveries in these papers so there it is: I held my breath longer than expected. I hope someone will find that illuminating.

  Everything else was lost. Kennedy’s monsters sawed the adding machine to bits. All I had left were broken gears and cracked vials. I also had a seething father.

  Our rented office on the train to Philadelphia felt smaller than the police wagon. Father wouldn’t ask the question on his mind so I pressed.

  “My presence in New York was legitimate. Kennedy had no reason . . .”

  “You were in the office of a former Agency client. We have no active files with Northern Central. I don’t see how the word legitimate applies.”

  “We should be investigating them.”

  Father looked at the liquor cabinet as though he wished he were a drinker.

  “We never explained how so much money failed to be recovered from heists on that line. There are discrepancies in their manifest.” I said.

  “There are always discrepancies in a shipping manifest. You don’t catch a criminal by opening a filing cabinet.”

  “I saw a pattern. The machine was filtering records. Given time . . .”

  “Given time, you would have ended up in prison.”

  So far as Father was concerned, his was the last word. That suited me. I didn’t want to spend the trip arguing about the use of data versus a detective’s intuition.

  Father understands criminals. That doesn’t mean his is the only way to spot a crime. It is maddening how many times we’ve had this debate.

  It didn’t help that I used the punch card machine. Father loves that we have access to this kind of equipment. It raises us to the status of our Union clients in the north. If only he admired the genius of these machines the way he claims.

  I retrieved the adding machine’s switchbox from the crate. The mechanism was intact. I slid it out of the casing and unfolded a top layer of brass switches. They kneaded together, layer on layer of intricate gears. Thousands of individual switches overlapped in a tight weave.

  Set correctly, the machine could complete long mathematics. It could also recognize patterns in number sequences. I fumbled at first setting the parameters. Once I asked the right question, the machine ate through those rail manifests in New York.

  I unfolded more layers and found something unexpected. An iron plate was bolted through the middle. I attached a vial of compressed steam that Kennedy’s idiots had tried to crack open. They would have blown a hole in the city if they’d succeeded.

  With the vial in place, the switchbox came to life but the iron plate blocked gears on one half of the machine from connecting with those on the other. This struck me as odd and not at all what its designers intended.

  Father crossed the office and looked out a grimy window.

  “Detective Warne is here.”

  Kate Warne is the only female agent in America. It is obvious that Father trusts her more than me. I don’t mind. She has earned her position as his weapon of choice.

  I set the switchbox aside and watched her approach. Our train rumbled between three levels of track, one above and two below. Kate was a quarter mile behind on the lower tracks, maneuvering her interceptor amid the chaos.

  The interceptor rides a single rail. It hops on or off at any point, locking into place on rows of opposing magnets. With no friction, it can easily out run a train. Reclined in the saddle, an agent can winch steel arms out to grab tracks or swing between levels.

  I tried to catch a train riding one of those buggies once. The only thing I intercepted was the back end of a piece of track.

  Kate is a marvel. The train beneath us lost ground as we passed through an interchange. Kate sped toward it, climbing out of the saddle to allow the interceptor’s frame to split in half. She crawled amid the moving pieces, which folded and reassembled on the underside of the track. All the while, she accelerated.

  We emerged from the interchange and looked back. Still below, Kate had safely flipped upside down and was riding beneath the rail. Our track unhitched to change levels. With devil’s luck, Kate piggy backed the rise and slid next to us when two platforms overlapped.

  The axel of her interceptor folded to a right angle and she advanced beside our window. Walls shuddered as magnets took hold. In no hurry, Kate tapped on the glass.

  Father swung the window open and she climbed inside, dressed in thick black leather. She peeled away a cap and goggles. Her hair was darker and shorter than when I last saw her. It framed her pouchy cheeks, suiting her.

  A flash of yellow below the collar hinted at a business-like outfit underneath. Father loves that attention to detail, especially from her.

  * * *

  Allan Pinkerton, Principal

  April, 1861

  What place could such a comment have in a detective’s case file? Robert wonders why I am compelled to seek Ms. Warne’s counsel instead of his. Leave it to my son to make an invasion of his pri
vate thoughts a waste of time.

  * * *

  Kate Warne

  February, 1861

  A girder hit while I was taking off my gear. The impact almost knocked me down. That would have been a sight: heels up with the Pinkertons standing over me.

  I was sure I’d given the interceptor enough clearance. At the next interchange, a platform swung into its nose and magnets tore the window away.

  Robert laughed. If it had been his brother, William, this would have made me furious. Coming from Robert, I saw the humor.

  Mr. Pinkteron fell into the liquor cabinet. A bottle tipped over, poured down his sleeve and emptied out his cuff. I was frozen in place, one leg still in the leather coveralls. Whiskey ruined my outfit. It was a funny sort of scene.

  Mr. Pinkteron didn’t think so. He was still scolding Robert when a porter arrived to ask after our safety.

  Whatever Mr. Pinkerton doesn’t see in Robert makes me wonder what he does see in the rest of us. We skulk after suspects trying not to be seen. Robert hides in plain sight if at all.

  I heard from Ginny that, at Northern Central, he walked up to the front door, picked the lock and marched to the file room. I am surprised Kennedy caught him.

  Robert fussed with gears in his lap while Mr. Pinkerton and I discussed security at PWB. Tensions between the north and south have escalated since the election of Abraham Lincoln last November. With his inauguration approaching, Mr. Felton worried that PWB would be sabotaged to unsettle the capital.

  These concerns were valid. I said so to Mr. Pinkerton on the train and to Mr. Felton once we arrived in Philadelphia. Our operatives in the south had not seen secessionist rebel William Hunt in New Orleans for months. There was reason to believe that Hunt would strike against the north. PWB made an attractive target.

  “How can these people not see: they have more to lose fighting the Union than they have to gain separating from it?” Felton said.

  He was wide across the chest, a rail operator raised to an executive role. It didn’t suit him. He marched around his office picking up items and putting them down again. I cringed watching a once-competent man reduced to this anxiety.