The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  You just wanted to stomp on him. You couldn’t help it.

  “What’re you doing?” He asked.

  “What I been paid to do.”

  I leaned him against the wall. The least he could do was stand up.

  The two gangs recognized a common enemy. I would have had trouble getting the jump on any of them. Forget about all of them.

  The wall behind Bucholz shifted away from us. We stepped back with it. A row of panels folded up in the gap, cutting us off. The last board snapped into place and prison guards stepped into the breach, guns pointed at our heads.

  I dropped to my knees. The guard who met me on arrival pushed Bucholz down beside me. I could hear Saul and the others in the walls. They were trying to find us.

  “This ain’t a rescue.” The guard said. “You take care of your own trouble in here. I don’t like wild cards, though, mister. Why’d you step in for this man?”

  Any concern I had for the integrity of Robert’s investigation went out the window the second I laid eyes on Saul. All bets were off.

  “I’m a detective.” I said. “The Pinkerton Agency sent me to find out if this fellow is guilty of killing an old man in New York.”

  “They put you in here for that?”

  “Believe me, I’m going to throttle the boy who got me into this.” I said.

  Bucholz eyed me. I didn’t like it so I clutched his collar in one hand and yanked his head down. None of the guards got involved. They moved back, ready to leave.

  “You’re going to give me what I need, Bucholz.” I said. “Or you’ll die before me, I swear.”

  The walls slid away. The guards were gone. Bucholz and I were alone.

  * * *

  Robert Pinkerton

  June, 1861

  The investigation was on track. Stark was at Ryker’s Island. Ray and I picked up the clues police left behind at Norwalk.

  I first had the idea during my trial. One of a detective’s great challenges is to convince informants to speak the truth. Why not record them among their peers?

  Norwalk police reported that William Bucholz first met Henry Schulte at Emerald Tap House. By New York City standards it was timid. For a small town, it was a bad place.

  Schulte had been a regular at the Emerald. The only person who ever looked for him there was the farmer Waring. That is, until William Bucholz came along.

  Bucholz was a hoodlum. His life was going nowhere in New York. Who could blame him for seeking out something different at Norwalk?

  After being hired by Schulte, the Emerald became a favorite of his as well. Bucholz was seen there with Sadie Waring. The last dinner he ate before being arrested was at the Emerald.

  I was sure the liars and gamblers at the Emerald knew more about the murder than they told police. It was the perfect place to test the audio equipment I saw reporters use during my trial. Patrons would tell us everything they knew and not even realize they were doing it.

  Ray was skeptical. I tried to calm his nerves by explaining how it would work.

  People are not allowed to chew tobacco in New York taverns. Men can play cards and get drunk but not chew tobacco. It has something to do with public health.

  To get around the law, taverns provide spittoons in the men’s toilet. Health inspectors never catch anyone spitting at their table. Taverns keep the heavy drinkers happy.

  “You want to listen to the toilets?” Ray said.

  “Precisely. I will be at a table. Regulars will notice me. They’ll talk.” I said. “I will ask about Bucholz and Schulte. Someone will mention the murder. When that happens, it will be in the toilet, and you will be listening.”

  The trick to making it work was hiding the equipment. Toilets were social places. That suited our purpose but didn’t give us much time to mount receivers at the spittoon. I was reluctant to suggest the obvious to Ray. In the end, I just came out and said it.

  “Given your . . . skin tone . . . if you go to the toilet, everyone else will come out.”

  It was decided. Before the Emerald got busy the following afternoon, Ray shuffled in and ordered a beer. New York is free soil so the bar man couldn’t lawfully refuse.

  Ray drank quickly. Before leaving, he asked to use the toilet. The bar man was none too happy. He went ahead to clear all the white men out. With the toilet empty, Ray went inside.

  To keep the tubes out of sight, Ray fitted them under things that patrons rarely use. A rack of newspapers hung from the wall, for example. The Emerald wasn’t the sort of place where people did a lot of reading. Hand towels were another good option. He ran the tubs behind, bored a hole under the window and poked the end outside.

  With those preparations made, we returned to the hotel to dress Ray like a hobo. He could have passed for any of the former slaves living in Norwalk off scraps.

  After dark, Ray slumped in an alley behind the Emerald. I connected tubes from the toilet to a machine, no bigger than a shoebox, which imprinted sound onto wax discs inside. A line ran to a cup over Ray’s ear so he could listen. We covered the machine in filthy rags and put a bloody bandage over Ray’s ear.

  I entered the Emerald and took a seat at the bar. A fiddler sawed and jigged at the far end. Few of the regulars had arrived.

  Bits of tape and blood on the floor marked the square where boxing matches were held. Tips of fingers floated in a glass jar amid liquor bottles behind the bar, a common warning to card hustlers. The Emerald had its kinks.

  The stools filled before the tables. Drinkers chatted in a familiar way. Friends and enemies told jokes and made threats. When my food arrived, I asked the bar man,

  “D’you expect Bill Bucholz tonight?”

  Some of the drunks turned to look.

  “Don’t imagine.”

  “Still in jail then?”

  “Ain’t my business to say.”

  I took my food to a table. It was a good start.

  The beefsteak was awful but helped me hold down the liquor. I bought more drinks for those around me than for myself. We drank and stomped as the fiddler played.

  The others were suspicious but not enough to turn down free drinks. I drew them to me then proceeded to chase them away.

  “Bucholz ought ta’ have told me what he was gonna do.” I said. “I would have taken more credit off the old man.”

  I laughed like a fool, drinks going to my head. I made an ass of myself but the plan was working. It got harder to keep people at my table. Men pointed at me as they walked to the toilet.

  I recognized one who had been at the bar earlier. He was short. His whiskers hung low under his chin. Tinted spectacles were perched on his nose. He was followed by a man I hadn’t noticed before, wearing riding gear like he had just come off the road.

  I ordered another glass of bourbon. It wasn’t as harsh as the turpentine in other bottles. I tipped the waiter more than required. Things were going to script.

  I noticed Ray standing in the doorway. That was not part of the plan.

  “That’s far enough.” The bar man said.

  Ray scanned the room. The bar man stepped from behind the counter with a wooden club. He got close enough to have a good look at Ray then stopped, remembering that he had escorted him to the toilet hours before.

  “What’re you up to, boy?”

  I wobbled, finding it harder to stand than expected.

  “Ray!”

  I yelled above the fiddler. I had drunk more bourbon than I realized.

  Ray made a gesture for me to come to the door. The bar man moved next to him, sizing up the odds. Drinkers stared in alarm.

  Any chance of saving the operation was lost when the fiddler stopped as Ray said,

  “Bucholz didn’t do it.”

  The bar man swung his club hard again
st Ray’s knee. The sting made Ray wince.

  He raised the club a second time. Ray caught the man’s forearm.

  We were in the free north but this was still America. A black man couldn’t put his hands on a white one.

  The Emerald went quiet. The two men returned from the toilet to find Ray restraining the bar man, me ambling to the front and everyone else holding their breath. Ray pointed to the one in spectacles.

  “He did it. They had the same planned for you. Drag you out. Give you the axe.”

  Pushing the eye glasses up his nose, the whiskered man came at us. His partner threw open a long jacket to pull a pistol out of his belt. A dozen others around the bar stood up.

  “They’re slave catchers.” Ray said. “That was Schulte’s business.”

  Ray pulled the club away and pushed the bar man aside. He stepped between me and the crowd, taking a deep breath as though calling on some deep reserve. I was touched that he thought he would have to save me.

  I flipped one of the rags from his disguise over Ray’s head to cover his eyes. An optical stunner, around the size of an apple, was in my pocket. I palmed the globe in my left hand and lobbed it high into the air while yanking on the firing pin with my right.

  No one could resist looking at the ball of sparkles. When the gas tab inside exploded, the orb bloomed. Crystal and glass pieces came apart, suspended in mid air. An intense blue flame sent light radiating through the lenses.

  Patrons were helpless. The light had a destabilizing effect.

  It never fails to impress me, seeing people fall away from the stunner. Like trees blown over by a strong wind, they all splay out in the same direction. So it was at the Emerald.

  The only person left standing other than Ray and me was the whiskered man. His spectacles filtered out light from my stunner. He lifted the pistol from his partner’s hand.

  “Pinkertons.” He said.

  Ray threw the club. It struck the man’s neck just as the gun discharged. A bullet hit the fingertip jar. Nubs of lost digits fell on the bar, some bobbing like ice cubes in full glasses.

  Ray and I ducked for cover. When we looked up again, the man was gone. His partner was unconscious on the floor.

  “He won’t get far.” I said. “This one here will tell us who he is.”

  “I know who he is.” Ray said. “Never forget that voice. That was William Hunt.”

  What was William Hunt doing at the Emerald?

  “Don’t know.” Ray said. “Jus’ know that Bucholz didn’t kill the old man.”

  In the alley outside, I retrieved the audio device. We could prove that William Bucholz was innocent. We also found William Hunt. It was exciting.

  “Now that yer’ out,” Ray said. “I can tell the rest.”

  “Of what?”

  “Rest of what he said.”

  There was no time for me to listen to the recordings at the hotel. I didn’t understand why but Ray was certain that William Hunt would be headed to the Waring farm.

  * * *

  Ernie Stark

  June, 1861

  I thought my leg would break when the wall rotated down to the floor. Worse, I thought the savant might leave me behind. The panel dug into my shin and I cried out.

  “Wait!”

  Bucholz came back. His arms shook with effort as he pulled the panels apart. When my leg was free, his fingers smashed between. He screamed bloody murder.

  Far off in the walls, I heard Saul’s men laugh. They were following us again.

  This was not what I had in mind when we set out ten minutes ago. How had I managed to botch this so badly in so little time?

  The guard who pulled us out of the fight, the one who knew I was a Pinkerton, decided to send Bucholz and me back to the common area rather than into the hands of Saul’s gang. That was lucky. We emerged among other prisoners. Saul’s crew wasn’t there.

  It was a head start. We needed to move but I had no idea how.

  “We can’t stay here.” I said.

  Bucholz pointed across the quad.

  The savant was by himself, eyes closed, bobbing in the corner. I thought he was doing some kind of idiot’s dance. I was wrong.

  He was listening to the prison and mimicking the movements needed to walk behind the walls. I saw him repeat the same pattern three times, always stopping and shaking his head at the same spot.

  “They changed it.” He said.

  Every piece of the prison was connected. To open one corridor or close an area to quell trouble, other components shifted all over Ryker’s Island. The savant who figured out how the whole thing fit together didn’t do so by watching the pieces. He did it by listening.

  He moved through the prison in his mind but couldn’t get past a certain point. Maybe the guards adjusted part of the sequence. This was our chance.

  “They changed it.” He said again.

  I held him by the shoulders. Our world was a waking dream to him. I shook hard and locked my eyes on his.

  “Bosses.” He said. “Bosses won’t be happy.”

  The gangs were helpless without this man.

  “You have to show them.” I said.

  I motioned toward Bucholz and myself.

  “We came from in there.” I said. “Take us back, to his cell. See what changed.”

  The savant turned to Bucholz.

  “3703-WB. Block 13-C. The sound isn’t from 13-C.”

  “That’s what they changed.” I lied. “To fool the bosses.”

  He believed me. I doubted Saul or any of the gang leaders would kill him for helping us. He was too important.

  The savant crouched next to the stairwell. A bell sounded in the common area as guards cleared inmates out of the quad. The stairwell came apart and the savant rolled into the hollow. My spine rattled against a bracket as I followed. It was dark and louder than I had imagined. I panicked waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  I felt the same panic moments later when, barely able to see, I got my leg stuck and Bucholz had to come back for me. Keeping up with the savant was tough. We crawled from tight corners into spinning gears then down black holes with no real idea where we were going.

  Bucholz pulled his mangled fingers out of the panels. The savant was a step ahead. He bent at the waist, fell forward and was gone.

  The ceiling dropped and the light disappeared. I dragged Bucholz to the far end and pushed his head down. We tipped over and crashed into an iron rod. The platform behind lifted. Upside down, Bucholz and I slid off the bar and fell on our backs.

  I was tired, happy just to have a break. Bucholz was in a state.

  “I didn’t kill Schulte.” Bucholz said. “It was those slave catchers. They wanted his business but the old fool wouldn’t sell. Waring was in on it. Schulte kept slaves at the farm.”

  “Everyone’s guilty but you, huh? Next you’ll tell me you didn’t steal the money either.” I sneered.

  “I did steal the money,” Bucholz insisted. “but only ‘cause it was in the same chest as Schulte’s account log. That’s what I was after. That’s what they sent me for.”

  The floor spun. We slid under a platform rotating above. It passed so close that my nose pressed down against my face. Bucholz kept talking.

  “They sent me to get in with Schulte so I could get my hands on the account log.”

  “Who is they?” I asked.

  “The one you slugged. He was part of it.” Bucholz answered. “But the smaller guy, he was in charge.”

  “Smaller?” I said. “Not William Hunt?”

  Mention of Hunt’s name made Bucholz seize in panic.

  “That man is insane.” Bucholz said. “He planned the con. There’s a judge from New York. Schulte’s account log lists him as an investor in the slave bus
iness.”

  “They want to blackmail a judge?”

  “Yes.” Bucholz whined. “Something about the war and the government. I don’t know why for sure. You’re the bloody detective.”

  The slab clattered and tilted. I felt a rush of blood behind my eyes. The floor beneath us became a wall beside us. We were in a hallway, sure to collapse as quickly as it had appeared.

  The savant sprinted ahead. Bucholz and I followed.

  “Sadie. What did I get you into?” Bucholz said to himself. “So much danger. No wonder you lied to the cops.”

  He turned to me with wild urgency in his eyes.

  “Get me out of here.” Bucholz said. “Find a way to get me out of this place and I’ll bring you the chest, show you the account log.”

  The Pinkertons still had ties to that dandy Harry Vinton in Washington.

  “You’re a foreigner, right?” I said. “I bet we could have you deported.”

  “Fine. Anything. Just give me a chance. I’ll dig up the chest for you.”

  At the end of the corridor, we crouched and slid into a corner. There was no floor. We fell, landing in a prison cell where Saul was waiting for us.

  “I’ll do the digging, pal.”

  Bucholz tried to jump behind me. I was already in the grips of Saul’s goon.

  “Tell me where it is.” Saul said.

  Bucholz shook his head. Saul grabbed his face in both hands.

  “I just want to hear you say it. You buried it at the farm.”

  Saul stabbed a piece of iron, filed to a sharp edge, into Bucholz’ ribs.

  “She has it, doesn’t she? Your little peach. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Saul, please . . .” Bucholz said.

  I struggled to get loose, elbowing the man holding me. I even bit his arm. It was no use. He had me pinned.

  The cell door fell away as guards stormed the scene. Saul drove the spike all the way into Bucholz’ chest. The accused murderer rolled beside me. He took shallow breaths and stared at nothing.

  * * *

  Kate Warne

  June, 1861

  I looked for high ground to take a scan of Chesapeake Bay with the viewport goggles. There was no easy way up. The hills were a no man’s land.