The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  I won’t stoop to self delusion. This decision is not about money.

  There was a time when opening my agents’ private files troubled my conscience. Maybe I still have some of the naive Dundee cooper in me. That choice was simple by comparison.

  The President would have me expose my detectives to the peril of open war. The conflict between Union and Confederates shows no sign of being resolved. Even if there was some prospect of ending the war quickly, we do not have the skills to do what the President asks.

  I trained my detectives to know the criminal mind and master surveillance techniques. My operatives invested their careers, sometimes risked their lives, on the promise of these methods. My sons did the same. They put their faith in me.

  Amid all my lessons, however, I never confided a simple truth. It is a fact that now compels me to consider espionage as a business opportunity. The truth is this: our profession collapses without the legitimacy that a client provides.

  Ordinary people want to believe there is something exotic, even awful, about a detective. They hold to the notion that a detective has a finer natural instinct or is possessed of a power beyond everyday reach.

  Citizens are afraid of criminals. They are afraid of suffering harm or losing property. They shrink from the idea that having something of value makes them a target. Because of this fear, detectives seem to come from another world.

  We are few in number. We face criminals with little more than a clean mind informed by reason. Our craft can appear to be a kind of sorcery. It is nothing of the sort.

  Individuals drift toward professions they are most suited to fit. A successful merchant becomes so, not due to any mysterious ability, but by managing assets and employees with care. For all these qualities, what would a merchant be without buyers? Nothing could prevent that person from being reduced to a hawker chased from every street corner.

  It is the same for a detective. Our business requires inventiveness and honesty. Without clients, though, even the best detective becomes little more than a clever hooligan.

  If there is anything exotic attached to our trade, it comes from the secrecy required to expose a well crafted crime. I mock that need for secrecy by reading my agent’s private files. This intrusion no longer troubles me.

  We are under attack. I sense it in the same way one might hear a quickening breath before a thief springs from the shadows. You don’t need to see a threat to know it exists.

  One of my agents is dead. Another is lost; to us as well as herself. My younger son is a criminal. We have a freelancer in prison and a slave on the payroll. Clients have lost confidence in us. President Lincoln would fill the void with rich wartime service. We are coming unhinged.

  It seems impossible that so many troubles could have been orchestrated by a single enemy but I cannot ignore that they are all tied together by our recent work. Threats are gathering strength. I don’t know what to do.

  Soon, we will be alone. Our Agency will be nothing.

  The latest screw turned after Robert’s conviction. He and our lawyer, Byron Hayes, made a fool’s pact. They abandoned any attempt at an acquittal in order to draw John Kennedy of the New York Police into an argument over the circumstances of my son’s arrest.

  Robert believes that Kennedy played some part in embezzling funds to support the Confederate south but his stunt with Hayes proved nothing.

  For a brief period, after the trial, newspapers lampooned Kennedy’s refusal to explain his actions. Once those stories ran their course, journalists turned to us. Kate Warne’s reputation was savaged anew. There was no sport in assaulting a fallen woman so writers roasted the Agency.

  By this time, Robert had duped me into putting him in charge of the Henry Schulte murder investigation. He sent a rogue agent to Ryker’s Island and took a freed slave to the town of Norwalk. Robert was out of contact when the most damning pieces ran.

  Worst among them was an interview with S. M. Felton of the PWB railway. Prior to the war, Felton hired us to prevent an act of sabotage against his rail line. Discoveries made during that investigation allowed us to save President Lincoln from William Hunt’s Golden Circle.

  In his interview, Felton claimed that we abandoned his case and showed no regard for the security of his business. These were outrageous accusations. They were also false.

  Felton endorsed our change in focus when the plot against the President came to light. He participated in the investigation. I would have pushed for a retraction and public apology if I thought it might have helped. The damage was done.

  Our Agency was losing contracts before the Felton article. Many clients expressed concern over Kate Warne’s character in particular. I believed their worry to be unfounded. She was wickedly abused while saving President Lincoln. Sadly, I now know that her mental stability was in fact shaken by the ordeal.

  Ms. Warne has become obsessed with pursuing Major Robert Anderson of the Union army. Against my wishes, in the aftermath of the disaster at Chesapeake Bay, she travelled to Washington hoping that Harry Vinton would help her apprehend Anderson.

  She was a promising detective. Today, the fact that she is employed by our Agency scares clients away.

  The impact of Felton’s article stretched further. Robert gained a certain measure of fame during his trial. He set about becoming a public enemy as part of his absurd plan to entrap Kennedy. His notoriety made a bad situation worse.

  While Robert was in Norwalk and Ernie Stark was at Ryker’s Island, our client voided their contract. For the Norwalk Police to release us from an investigation already underway was a fresh blot on our reputation. It sent other clients running.

  It may also send my son to prison. The suspended sentence that followed his conviction was conditional on him leading the Schulte case.

  Robert and the slave were in Norwalk chasing a man they believed to be William Hunt when this occurred. As a result, I dispatched my older son, William, to Ryker’s Island along with Byron Hayes to negotiate Ernie Stark’s release.

  It pained me to intervene on behalf of a man who stood idly by while Timothy Webster was murdered. I would rather have left him at Ryker’s to meet the only fate he deserves.

  We had received too much negative press. We could not have another agent die on duty.

  William was to resolve the matter quickly. I needed him for the only case we had left; the Geneva bank robbery. He was the one person I knew I could trust.

  William and my assistant Ginny Higgs, that is. I would not have made any progress in understanding the forces aligned against us if not for her.

  Have I made any real progress? There was a time when I would have said yes.

  After Webster’s murder and William Hunt’s escape, I felt that actors in the conspiracy would be revealed. The President’s call for aid at Chesapeake Bay pushed us into the fight between Union and Confederates. I was certain that information would be jarred loose. At every turn, I felt I was on the verge of understanding. Each time, I was left looking for more.

  An awful uncertainty has crept into my thoughts. Perhaps I am just an old man jumping at shadows. Are we under attack because I have not unmasked the people conspiring against us? Or are we at the brink of failure because I am trying to unmask people who don’t exist?

  With doubt pressing down, I must choose between two paths. If I do what the President asks we will become Union spies. If I refuse, we may cease to exist.

  I hoped that our investigation of the Geneva bank robbery would help me avoid the decision. It ought to have been an easy case. With a modest success, we could have regained the trust of more significant clients. The President’s offer could have been set aside.

  I am reminded again of the Dundee simpleton I used to be in a former life. With age, maybe we all revert to simpler ways of looking at things even when it leads us to error.

 
* * *

  Robert Pinkerton

  June, 1861

  For certain, I drank too much bourbon at the Emerald Tap House. My wits could have been slowed by the liquor. Even so, the manners of small town police were hard to understand.

  I delivered a murder suspect into custody. I provided audio evidence that, Ray assures me, amounts to a confession of the man’s role in killing Henry Schulte. I expected some enthusiasm, if not gratitude.

  While patrons at the Emerald recovered from the optical stunner, Ray and I dragged one of our attackers to Norwalk police station. This man had conspired with other slave hunters to kill Schulte and take over his business. William Hunt was, that very night, on his way to a local farmhouse to recover the dead man’s account log.

  It was sensational progress. At the station, the overnight constable scrambled from his booth to lecture us about a committee and an annulment clause in our contract.

  “Your mandate may already be void. You cannot seize a man without valid authority.” He said. “And what on earth is this?”

  He motioned toward Ray.

  “He’s a deputy of the Pinkerton Agency.”

  “My God, did this man participate in the arrest?”

  The prisoner moaned, coming back to his senses while clamped in the harness restraint. He fell forward and retched. A belly full of beer and food spilled out.

  “Detective, release this man.” The constable said. “You and your deputy will wait for the Captain to settle the question of your mandate.”

  “When will that be?”

  “The committee should break with a decision tonight. The Captain will be here by morning; six o’clock at the latest.”

  It seemed we had as much chance of being arrested as the suspect. Ray was the first to act. He held our prisoner down and unlocked the restraint, winching it back into its box.

  “Police say release him.” He said. “But we’re not waiting. That was Hunt at the bar.”

  The constable stepped around a puddle of sick. He pointed a finger at Ray.

  “You do not have a valid mandate. You may not seize citizens in our county.”

  Ray held out his hand. The constable recoiled from the black man’s touch. He leaned away, caught between stepping back into the vomit or forward toward Ray’s palm. The weasel cringed and moved off, choosing to stand in the suspect’s last meal.

  “You wait here for yer’ Captain.” Ray said. “Tell him we’ll be at Waring farm. Maybe we’ll still be there at six o’clock.”

  It was the sort of answer I would like to have given.

  “We’ll try not to do any seizing until he gets there.” I said.

  Ray gave me a queer look. It wasn’t quite as biting a comment as I hoped.

  We hurried back to the hotel to gather equipment and sketch a plan. Our strategy didn’t amount to much. We would go to the Waring farm and sneak in to the barn or, if necessary, the house. By finding the account log, we were likely to come across William Hunt.

  There was nothing complicated about it. My equipment took more time to prepare.

  I stripped down to my undergarments. Father would have shaken his head.

  One of our clients in the mining sector invented this jackleg chassis. The idea was to equip a single miner with tools and torque enough to drill, break and clear remote coal seams deep underground.

  The chassis locked around my waist with a cinch attached to steel bands over the shoulders and across the chest. A steam chamber was housed inside a flexible brace running up the spine. Joints located at the knees, hips, shoulders and elbows were fixed with disc shaped fasteners welded into the steel frame. Everything from borehole drills and explosive detonators to crossbar roof supports and mini conveyors could be attached to the chassis.

  Two narrow pistons ran down the right leg. These powered a winch that ended with a carbine bit jutting from the toe of my boot. A miner could kick the bit into a stubborn piece of stone and use the hydraulic winch to pry it loose. It was the chassis’ only permanent attachment.

  I pulled my pants over the pistons and peered into a crate I brought from Chicago. There were so many options. I fastened a borehole driller to the chassis’ left elbow. It extended past my wrist, eight inches beyond a clenched fist.

  A dragline caster went on my right arm. It was heavier and required more dexterity. With it, I could fire an iron sinker as far as fifty feet ahead by whipping my arm in a compact arc. In a mine shaft, a filament wire would slash rock and debris covering a coal deposit when the sinker retracted. For my ends, it would be more useful fighting in close quarters.

  We set out for the Waring property. Ray carried other tools in a sack. He refused my offer to share the equipment.

  “Yer’ better with that stuff.” He said. “I do fine in my own way.”

  It was true. Even with the chassis, I cringed at the thought of coming to blows with Ray.

  We took our bearings from a hilltop a quarter mile away. Viewport goggles gave us a clear sightline but low cloud cover and a quarter moon obscured some of the detail.

  The farm had a familiar layout. A house sat on the highest perch, a hundred yards from the main entrance. Ruts of a wagon path ran from the house down to a pair of buildings. One was a tool shed. The other was a barn. Crops stretched out of view beyond.

  A flicker of candlelight danced in the house. It started upstairs then descended.

  “Comin’ out.” Ray said.

  Two figures emerged. The first was William Hunt. The second was Sadie Waring, holding the candle. Hunt leaned across and blew it out once they stepped off the porch.

  Our investigation had revealed that the scoundrel William Bucholz, who had been accused of killing Henry Schulte, was innocent. He claimed to be with Sadie Waring on the night of the murder. Her refusal to confirm this alibi led to his arrest.

  “Did she betray Bucholz from the start? Maybe she has a stake in this.” I said.

  Sadie might have been in line for a piece of the slave hunting business. That would have been enough motivation to dupe Bucholz into trusting her. She might also have helped blackmail Judge Terrence Mansfield with the account log.

  It was essential that we find that device before William Hunt. Most think of an account log as a book. In fact, it is more of an iron abacus. It is an adding machine that tracks cash flow.

  Entrepreneurs across the Union have begun sharing information about the cost of goods and the volume of major sales. Account logs are plugged into ledgers at major banks to update investments, liquidity and returns.

  This information helps banks and stock managers set commodity prices. Slaves are still a commodity in America. Schulte’s account log is part of a system that sets the price of men.

  “She’s no partner of his.” Ray said. “Hunt’s got a knife on her. He can kill her quick.”

  I squinted. Hunt did seem to have something propped under Sadie’s arm.

  We cut a wide path to the Waring property. It was long but, keeping out of sight, we ran most of the way. By the time we reached the fence, candlelight winked again inside the barn.

  I crawled to the building. Years of exposure left part of the wall sagging. I jammed the carbide bit under the panels and pumped my heel to draw steam into the pistons.

  It wouldn’t be the quietest entrance. So long as only the rotten wood fell away, I felt there was a good chance of getting inside unnoticed. I was about to squat at the knee to engage the winch when a pebble bounced off my shoulder.

  Further down, Ray had pried open a feedlot door. The smell was rank. The ground was wet with animal waste. It was awful but still the better option.

  We crept low past the feed stalls. Faint light flickered ahead, shining on the underside of a hay loft. Ray put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back and call attention to a hatch in th
e floor. Loose hay had been brushed aside. The hatch was open.

  If Schulte’s account log had been inside, it was gone now. I assumed the same of William Hunt. My mind raced. How could we keep him from escaping? Where might he try to go?

  Ray and I walked out from under the loft. It was a stupid mistake, an obvious trap. When I heard Sadie Waring scream above, I wasn’t surprised as much as annoyed.

  William Hunt lifted the girl over his head and threw her down at us. I had seen burglars use hostages as shields. Hunt used her as a weapon.

  Ray lunged forward to catch her. Hunt jumped toward me with his knife drawn.

  I whipped my right arm across my torso. The iron sinker and filament wire burst from the dragline device, careening toward Hunt as he fell. I worried that the impact would be too heavy. Local police would not look kindly on me killing a man without a mandate.

  Hunt hoisted his legs. His knees and ears almost touched. The sinker shot between his heels and splintered the loft. Hay and woodchip tossed in the air as the dragline retracted.

  Hunt drove his boots into my chest. I slammed onto the floor. Steam canisters dug into my spine. He landed on me so hard it felt like he jumped from the loft a second time.

  As Stark once said, the skin on Hunt’s face looked as though it had been pulled tight over his skull. I could see his bones. Eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. His teeth looked huge.

  I saw a glint as Hunt drew back his knife. He smiled with those mad teeth. I did not feel any particular panic but it occurred to me that I was about to die. The blade swung down, slicing into my neck. Hunt would have cut my head off if Ray had not lifted him away.

  The knife slid from my neck up to my jaw. Its cutting edge poked through my throat and touched the bottom of my tongue. Amid the blood and saliva, I tasted it.

  Hunt hooked the blade under my chin. It dug into my jaw bone. I felt every nick and dull spot rattle through my teeth. At last, Ray threw him clear.

  I fell to the floor. My body trembled in shock.

  William Hunt skidded across the barn. He rolled once then got his feet underneath him. He was poised to strike even as he continued to slide from the force of Ray’s throw.