The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  Schulte led a charmed life during his youth. He was handsome, first son of a wealthy landowner and a respected military man. Schulte was also engaged to be married. He was happy.

  Schulte’s fiancée had many admirers. One of these men was a farmhand of meagre means who convinced himself that, if he could win the young woman’s heart, his bad luck could be reversed. Love is confusion.

  During wartime, Schulte led cavalry teams on reconnaissance missions into the remote wilderness. His fiancée repelled this other man’s unwanted advances during his absence. When the fighting stopped, Schulte returned to a hero’s welcome.

  The farmhand fell to depression. His crop failed. His plot was reclaimed by the landlord, Schulte’s father. The foreclosure pushed him over the edge.

  Schulte’s fiancée was drowned late one night under a bridge. Her body was hidden in the shallows under a pile of stones. By the time it was uncovered, little physical evidence remained.

  Schulte was in disbelief. Against the wishes of his family, he insisted on viewing the body. Friends waited at the hospital to bar him from the sight. Schulte was convinced the cover would be pulled back to reveal some other unfortunate woman. His lover’s distended corpse brought reality down on him with devastating impact.

  No one in town doubted who had committed the crime. Schulte took matters into his own hands. He confronted the farmhand at a crowded saloon. Both men suffered in drunken misery. Their argument came to blows. Schulte drew a pistol and shot the man dead.

  His torment turned him into a recluse. He was convinced that everyone meant him harm. Now head of his family’s fortune, he retreated to the life of a miser locked in an empty mansion. His paranoia reached such heights that he fled to the anonymity of foreign soil.

  Schulte came to America seeking a new beginning. He opened a business transporting goods between north and south, and built his estate on the Hudson River. That is where the promise of the United States failed him. The cruellest twist in Schulte’s story is that, like his fiancée’s murder, there is little doubt as to the killer’s identity.

  William Bucholz was his personal assistant. A young man of little accomplishment, his shuffling gait and broken teeth are evidence of the ruffian life he led, first in New York City then in the small town where he met Henry Schulte. Prussian citizenship and an ability to speak Schulte’s language are the only qualities that made him fit to work for the loner.

  It was Bucholz who pointed police to Schulte’s body. He claimed to be a loyal employee but his alibi was false and he was arrested. That was the state of the investigation when Norwalk police contacted our Agency.

  William Bucholz was being held for the murder of Henry Schulte. Police faced the choice of either laying charges without any proof or releasing a man they believed to be a killer.

  My oldest son, William, was heading the case until this business with Robert’s trial. William and I agreed that the best way to proceed would be to watch from a distance. Surveillance is at the heart of all modern detective technique.

  A criminal’s conscience is heavy. He will ease his burden by sharing it with another. A detective can quickly identify a list of people who the criminal may choose for his confession.

  Bucholz pointed us in a promising direction. His alibi for the night of the killing had been Ms. Sadie Waring.

  Waring’s father owned a farm near Schulte’s estate and was the victim’s only real friend. Being his friend amounted to little more than not being scowled at as Schulte came and went from the Emerald Tap House, a bawdy tavern he frequented.

  As I have said before, I feel pity for Schulte’s experience of America. This stranger, Waring, was his best friend.

  The daughter Sadie took a shine to William Bucholz. They were seen about town together. She told police, after the murder, that Bucholz believed he was on the verge of being given a piece of property as a reward for good service.

  This was a lie but, to a scoundrel, lying is just a way of speaking. He trusted her. It was clear that Bucholz would try to communicate with Sadie.

  I tried to convey this insight to Robert. I ought not to have bothered.

  To him, the key to the case was finding money stolen from Schulte’s home the day he died. Police could not recover it. I explained to Robert that we had not been hired to pursue failed lines of inquiry.

  “We will look for the same item.” He said. “We will not look in the same way.”

  It came as no surprise when Ms. Higgs showed me the contract Robert issued to rogue operative Ernie Stark. Lives were sure to be lost as soon as Ernie Stark was hired.

  * * *

  Ernie Stark

  May, 1861

  The giant slave who saved me at Harrisburg had a name. He was called Ray.

  I followed him over the side of the rail platform and broke some toes when my foot smashed against a piece of track. The impact sent me pin wheeling out of control. If I hit the ground spinning, I would have been folded in half.

  Eyes wide, I saw Ray reach toward me from a girder halfway down. The man was so strong that he had caught himself against the frame. I landed on Ray’s huge arm. It was like being hit in the stomach with a piece of timber.

  The impact pulled Ray off the girder. I don’t think he intended to catch me, just break the fall. It was enough to ensure that the forest floor didn’t kill us both.

  Ray carried me back to gypsy quarters and vouch for me as an enemy of the gang that laid waste to the rail depot. With money from my purse, he rented barrio lodgings on a train to Philadelphia.

  We were away. I was broken but alive.

  While I recovered, Ray put a plan in motion. It came together with surprising speed.

  “Sign this.” He said.

  “What is it?”

  “Just make yer’ mark.”

  Ray handed me a set of papers in legal typeset. I signed. The papers were taken to a man whose face was covered by a web of tattoos. In low light, they changed the appearance of his jaw, nose and brow all shifting as he turned his head.

  This man applied counterfeit seals to the document. Ray slid them into an envelope. He lifted my jacket and cut a pocket into the liner. The envelope was tucked inside.

  “I belong to you now.” He said.

  I understood.

  “At Philadelphia,” I said. “I will have you declared a free man.”

  Ray nodded.

  “Not just that.” He said. “You’ll teach me . . .”

  “ . . . to not be a slave?”

  “ . . . to be free.”

  When we arrived, Ray was the perfect supplicant. He cowered under my hand in front of other white men. I was complimented more than once on the demeanour of my slave. Our masquerade convinced the court. Ray was so obviously my property.

  “Are you sure you want to set this one free?” The Judge asked. “Not all of ’em can make a go of it on their own.”

  This was the final barb Ray would endure as a slave.

  “He’ll find a way.” I said.

  The papers were notarized. An entry was made in the Pennsylvania register. In the eyes of the law, Ray was free. In his own mind, he had only begun to be so.

  We arranged for him to lease at an apartment in south Philadelphia. It was a dreary place, where a derelict might choose to live. It made no difference to him.

  Ray wanted to acquire obligations. Only a free man could make a commitment.

  It was all financed from my account. Ray was not shy about reminding me that my brains would be lubricating a Harrisburg telegraph machine had it not been for him.

  It wasn’t extortion. He had in fact saved my life. One of the first things you learn as an agent is to pay your debts. Don’t let them linger.

  After fitting him for new clothes, I was tapped for cash. The call from P
inkerton came at a good time. Robert’s idea was daft. I didn’t have any interest in going to prison but I needed money and wanted some distance from my new companion.

  Ray made it clear that I would not break from him so easily. He insisted that I bring the Pinkerton contract to his apartment and explain the legality of it before I signed.

  “We can do the work together.” Ray said.

  “They won’t let you mix with other prisoners. You may be free but you’re still black.” I said.

  “I can do what’s needed outside the prison.”

  “Robert Pinkerton will be running the case.”

  “Do you trust him?” Ray asked.

  Robert was a clever dick. I couldn’t leave myself in his hands. I needed a proxy. Ray was the only option.

  Robert bought into the idea. He even pledged to be a mentor to Ray, whatever that meant. His main concern was getting me into the prison, close to the accused William Bucholz.

  “We’ll do what police cannot. You will be right next to him.” Robert said.

  “And he’ll bear his soul because . . . what?”

  “You will find a way, Stark, just as you did with the Golden Circle.”

  This was the sort of thing that made me distrust the boy. He knew it was Webster, not me, who burrowed into the Golden Circle before being killed.

  “Whatever happens, it will be fast.” I said. “Trust takes time to build between sweethearts, not criminals.”

  “You know best. I have made arrangements. The local prosecutor will drop charges against you once we have learned what we can from Bucholz. For this to work, though, you must actually be arrested.”

  “Don’t worry. Getting into prison isn’t hard.”

  It was harder than I thought. Ray and I concocted a scheme. He showed a good understanding of how to scare people into a herd.

  I wrote a pile of bad cheques. I didn’t want to be a clown about it so I took care to make them passable. A trained eye would recognize them as forgeries. The idea was to get pinched cashing cheques then cause a scene, with Ray’s help, that brought police on the trot.

  Trouble was small town bank tellers cashed the cheques and wished me a pleasant day. By mid-afternoon, I had a bag full of money.

  Back at the hotel, Ray counted the bills twice. He got it wrong both times but, asking for help, ended with the right amount. I initialled the report for Agency records.

  Ray was organized and took it seriously. He made mistakes but was eager to fix them.

  That night, I saw what it really was to make a new life out of nothing. He hadn’t been putting the screws to me in Philadelphia. Saving my life was his only foothold. When the money was counted and stored, we had our first real conversation as partners.

  “Watch out for Robert and his toys.” I said.

  “Is he simple?”

  “He’s an odd bird when it comes to machines on a case.”

  “Be nice to have that kinda’ back up.” Ray said.

  “Sure but it’s just back up. Robert lets a machine take the place of common sense.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.” He said. “Stark?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bet they got Saul Mathews locked away in one of these jails up here.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

  Saul was William Hunt’s right hand in the Lincoln plot. He was captured by Kate Warne. According to papers, Saul was jailed in New York State. I had no desire to meet him again except, maybe, in an alley late at night with a pistol to his head.

  The next morning, Ray and I got it right. We made sure no bank teller could mistake our cheques for the real thing. They were obnoxious fakes.

  We targeted a busy change house sure to keep good people on staff. The clerk took my cheque and called his manager.

  “I apologize, Sir. We cannot complete this transaction.” The manager said.

  I gritted my teeth, all furious. It was ham-handed stuff. I never claimed to be an actor.

  “What’s your game? I’m no fool.” I said.

  “Please, Sir. Try to calm down.”

  Some clients walked out to avoid the scene. Others pushed forward to get a better look.

  The manager tried to give me the benefit of the doubt.

  “Sir, I fear you have been the victim of a con. These notes are worthless. We will arrange for you to meet with constables. You can tell them who issued these cheques . . .”

  I exploded. Pushing the teller aside, I reached out as if to snatch the cheque. The manager was so slow that I grabbed it without meaning to. I had to pitch halfway over the counter to justify dropping it at his feet again.

  “Take it easy, mister.” Ray said.

  Everyone in the bank clutched their wallets. A giant black man with whip lashes across his face made them shake in their boots.

  I lunged at the manager again. He had enough wit to hold onto the cheque this time.

  Ray advanced toward me. I jumped at him, using the counter as a springboard. We tumbled. I punched him twice on the jaw. The impact sent a shudder up to my elbow.

  Ray pretended to be knocked out. I pretended my arm wasn’t in agony.

  Police rushed into the bank. I charged as though to escape. Three officers held me down while a fourth restrained me in a harness like the one that killed Timothy Webster.

  I flailed, hissing at old ladies now protected by men who had rediscovered their bravery. Once the scene was brought to order, police asked patrons what happened. By that time, Ray had long since walked away. He was sly.

  Ray loomed as an even bigger part of the story after he was gone. Bank clients described him in mythic terms; an African Hercules. Their wild exaggerations made me seem supernatural. If I had been crazy enough to attack that behemoth, and strong enough to knock him down, there was no telling what I might do next.

  Police took me away, pistols at the ready. I was rushed from the local jail to State prison.

  The State penal machine was impossible to mistake. I stepped from a splintered wagon into a transport capsule.

  The low ceiling was lit from above. As I entered, the walls shifted. Panels on all sides slid in unison. The entrance closed. In the same motion, planks on the far wall flipped down to create a bench. Boards of many shapes were connected in a single unbroken piece, moving together.

  I had heard former prisoners describe the laboratory efficiency of the State system. It was a thrill to experience it for myself.

  Across from the bench, two drawers slid open. One was empty. The other contained blue coveralls and a pair of leather boots.

  “Prisoner. Remove your clothes. Place them in the bin provided.”

  I did as I was told. Standing naked under the light, I was aware of a rumbling all around. Things were shifting but it didn’t feel like the capsule was moving. A sense of disorientation set in. The thrill was becoming uneasiness.

  “Prisoner. A penitentiary uniform is in the bin adjacent. You will wear this on arrival.”

  I took the uniform out. The drawers slid back, turned on end and disappeared.

  I leaned down to look at the seams between boards and saw hundreds of scratches and punctures in the surface of the wood. Inmates had tried to pry these panels loose.

  The light overhead went out. Rumbling outside seemed louder in the dark. I pulled the coveralls over my shoulders and hurried to buckle the boots.

  Floorboards rose under my feet. The capsule rattled then the ceiling peeled back. Hazy light and the smell of unwashed men poured down from above. The capsule fell away, every panel collapsing into the others before sliding into the gap beneath my boots.

  As it came apart, I saw that I had arrived at Ryker’s Island prison. I fastened the last button on the coveralls. A guard clamped restraints over my
arms.

  “You’re lucky.” The guard said. “Some guys don’t get those on in time.”

  He led me onto a moving walkway that slid from the staging area to a holding bay. Inmates leered at me.

  After Ray brought it to mind, I decided to keep my eyes open for Saul. If he was at Ryker’s Island, so long as I spotted him without being recognized, there would be no problem.

  I was thinking this when the walkway slid under a row of open cells and I looked up to see Saul leaning against the fence, staring right at me.

  Robert, you idiot.

  * * *

  Allan Pinkerton, Principal

  July, 1861

  There was a time in the Schulte affair when it bothered me that Robert was not sending status reports to Chicago. In retrospect, this was a blessing. I would not have wanted to know.

  Ms. Higgs knocked at my door. She placed a richly embossed card on the desk.

  “He asked to see you in private.” She said.

  It was Harry Vinton, attaché and advisor to President Lincoln. That he wanted to see me alone could mean only one thing.

  “The President has a favour to ask.” Vinton said.

  “He can count on my support, as always.”

  “His blockade of Confederate ports has been declared illegal in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts and Illinois. The next case will be heard in New York.”

  “Could the President have misjudged his authority?” I said.

  “No. Union judges have been compromised.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Judge Terrence Mansfield will preside over the blockade hearing in New York.” Vinton continued. “We assumed that he was already lost when he ruled in your son’s case. Your family is a known friend of the President. That Robert was set free sent a signal.”

  “Mansfield is not yet corrupted.”

  “The President aims to confirm his legal authority to blockade the south or he will have no choice but to unleash the full Union arsenal in a war with the Confederates.”

  “He does not wish to legitimize the rebellion.”

  “He does not wish to massacre Americans.”