George swore. He should have arranged it differently; now it was too late. If he crossed to Ellen and brazened it out, he would have to rely on her—could he? The question he asked himself was rhetorical; he already knew the answer. George stayed a moment longer, watching three more detectives approach the weeping May; wished both women all the luck of the gods, and turned back into the passageway leading out onto the road.
§
Mac's luck was immediate; as he stepped down from the cab, stumbling over his bag in the rain, scrabbling for money to pay off the cabbie, his arm was gripped firmly by George, who shouted up to the driver, "We'll take it on."
"George," said Mac, recovering from the shock, "I can't ... May..." He didn't finish.
"Does May have anything of yours with her, Mac— anything?" George asked, even now considering a reversal of his decision. Perhaps they could join the women and survive an inquisition.
The rain, on a wind that had risen, whipped into George's face, and all around him, seen under gaslights, the fog began to swirl and eddy as if it were the murky waters of an estuary at turn of tide.
Seizing Mac, George shook him and repeated his question urgently.
"Of course," said Mac, straining from George's grip. "Money?'' asked George. "Come along, gents!" shouted the cabbie. "Two thousand pounds in gold sovereigns," whispered Mac hoarsely. "Then get in," said George.
"But . . ." began Mac. Then it was too late. Both he and George saw the horse-drawn "Black Maria" police wagon as the fog thinned outside the station entrance. Strange shadows danced under the gaslights as Ellen passed beneath them, escorted by two uniformed policemen, others carrying her bags.
"May's taken too," said George quietly in Mac's ear. Mac stared into his friend's eyes, rain dripping from the rim of his hat, with an expression of despair. The screams that came from the station entrance tore Mac apart as he turned to see May being dragged physically toward the Black Maria. The scene was as if from some grotesque act in a play of horror. Mac would have collapsed or cried out had not George supported him and clapped a hand to his mouth.
"Mac," said George, fast and urgently, "we've got to run like no one has, ever."
"Where'll it be, gents?" shouted the cabbie again—now impatient.
"If we get caught, Mac, then we're done." George let the words sink home as they watched May pulled forcibly into the black horse-drawn van with the words METROPOLITAN POLICE on the side. "There'll be no mercy," finished George harshly.
"Come on, gents," bellowed the cabbie, huddling up in his exposed position against the increasing rain. "It's comin' on cats an'dogs."
"Where can we go?" asked Mac brokenly.
"New York," said George. "New York, where we've got Irving's protection. We've been paying his New York City Police long enough. Now they've got to earn their money."
Mac dropped his head and shook it, almost in tears.
"Besides," said George quietly, watching the "Black Maria" disappear into the swirling fog, "it's the only place." His arm around Mac's shoulders attempted reassurance.
"When we get there, I'll buy you dinner—upstairs at Delmonico's," George whispered with a forced smile. Mac spun on him.
"Easily said," he sobbed with anger. "New York is a world away."
George picked up Mac's bag and bundled him into the cab with it. As he climbed in after his friend and the cabbie jerked them away, he slammed the half door, slumped down beside his shattered comrade and said grimly:
"But it's home, Mac—home."
Spring 1873
Scent
PINKERTON'S National Detective Agency had been founded by Allan Pinkerton in 1851. He had originally come to the United States to avoid arrest in Glasgow, Scotland, where, a cooper by trade, he had become, as a member of the Chartist Movement, a part of the workingmen's revolt against the political power of wealthy landlords.
A timely warning had allowed him to escape with his newly married wife, and he had sailed for Canada, eventually reaching Chicago, where he settled outside the city in a small town named Dundee. Sharp-eyed and observant by nature, Pinkerton began helping the local sheriff in his investigations. He became a special agent for the United States Post Office, leaving his cooper's business to be run by a foreman to whom he eventually sold it, lock, stock and, of course, barrel.
When Chicago established its first regular police force, Pinkerton became a member—as a detective. In 1850 he resigned and "went private" in company with a partner. He dissolved the relationship a year later and became independent. Thus the Pinkertons began.
His two sons, Robert and William, became a part of the organization, and the Agency's services, as its worth became apparent, were called upon increasingly. Close contact with leading lawyers, financiers, bankers, businessmen and politicians elevated Pinkerton's National Detective Agency until its future and pre-eminence were assured. Their confidential files, knowledge of the underworld, appreciation of criminal techniques, dogged tenacity in following every clue until an arrest had been effected, created for the Pinkertons a reputation that was without equal.
They were revered by law-abiding citizens and feared by petty crooks and criminals. By 1873 the name had become a myth in America, as Sherlock Holmes became in England; the difference being that—as many who were caught by them could attest—the Pinkertons were real.
§
Edwin Noyes had been allowed to wash—less, he thought, out of consideration for his own personal hygiene than because the animal smell of decomposition that exudes from any human being after a certain period was affecting his warder's sensibilities. The razor with which he was also provided had been blunt for the last man, let alone for Edwin, so after a single attempt, when he gashed his chin, Edwin let the razor be and continued to sport a thickening growth of beard.
Bread, water, the indescribable tea, porridge, a minute amount of (mostly fat) meat and potatoes had been the substitute for a staple diet. So it was a gaunt young man with a dark-jowled face, soiled clothes and faint aroma of carbolic soap about him who once more entered the familiar inquisition room of Newgate Prison in the early evening of the twelfth of March. Outside, it was raining.
Edwin sat down opposite a man behind the table who was referring to notes. He looked up and presented a new face; the others, Spittle and his assistants, Edwin knew well. He smiled at the man, but received only a long stare in return. Eventually the man spoke.
"You're a Hartford boy?" he asked.
Edwin became immediately uncomfortable: the new arrival was obviously American. He nodded an answer.
"And an ex-con," said the man.
That was no longer a secret, so Edwin nodded again.
Spittle noticed the subdued attitude of the young man as he responded to the American voice across from him. His confidence seemed to ebb somewhat. After Spittle introduced the visitor, Edwin's tide began to turn.
"This is Mr. Pinkerton, Noyes—from the United States." He waited for a reaction.
Edwin's eyes narrowed and his teeth bit tight into his lower lip, but he said nothing.
"Why . .." began Pinkerton, seemingly to the large room in general,"... is this man still wearing his own clothes?"
"Well, sir," said Spittle quietly, "he's held like, but not—yet—charged.''
Pinkerton actually rounded on Spittle, his eyes wide. "For more than a week?" he questioned. ,
"Er—yes, sir," said Spittle, embarrassed.
"They appear..." said Pinkerton, now to Edwin directly, a slight smile on his face, "... over here, in England ... not to practice habeas corpus, Mr. Noyes."
Edwin moved not a muscle. Spittle shifted about on his chair.
"It's the Bank," he was now saying. "They won't hear of Noyes's release, sir, and we can't—"
"Empty his pockets," said Pinkerton quietly, ignoring Spittle.
"We 'ave, sir," said one of the other policemen beside Spittle. He indicated a buff envelope on the table. Pinkerton reached for it, weighed it a moment,
then emptied everything inside onto the table top. The contents fell with a clatter—nothing unusual: pocket watch, a clasp knife, coins, folded paper, tickets, a wallet, calling cards.
Pinkerton sorted through the effects slowly. Edwin could hear steady rain pouring down outside, along with the hissing gas. It was the only other noise but for the breathing of the men in the room. Pinkerton handled each article he saw before him. Edwin watched him take up a small card and look at it, front and back.
"This card says, 'Green and Sons, Savile Row,' " he stated.
"We been there, sir," said Spittle. "Mr. Green is very astute, knows all his customers—personal. He knows no one of Noyes's description."
Edwin felt a wave of cold envelop him like an outer skin. His face remained impassive, but he knew what was coming. Pinkerton referred to notes on the pad beside him.
"Mr. F. A. Warren," he read aloud. Then: "And—the Bank of England." He looked up slowly, staring at Edwin. The beginnings of a smile played at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
"A recommendation from a tailor, I have written down here, Mr. Noyes," he said, indicating his notes. "What might that mean, I wonder." Pinkerton paused again, looking directly into Edwin's eyes.
Spittle, beside the American detective, was quite lost.
"In the light of what we know of Mr. Warren," said Pinkerton, turning pointedly to Spittle, "did this"—he indicated the card—"not seem strange to you?"
"A coincidence you mean, sir?" said Spittle.
"I do," replied Pinkerton, waiting for an explanation.
"He"—he nodded at Edwin—"Noyes, sir—said his Mr. Horton recommended the tailor and that's how he got the card—but he never took up the advice."
"So, the card was from Mr. Horton," Pinkerton said.
"Yes, sir," said Spittle.
"And on the tailor's books was there a record of a Mr. Horton?" Pinkerton asked. "Er—no, sir," said Spittle.
"And still you did not suspect anything out of the ordinary?" continued Pinkerton to Spittle.
"Well, sir, it seemed logical that if these two men was in cahoots—Warren and Horton I'm meanin', sir—then, as Noyes 'ere suggested, one would 'ave given the other his tailor as a..." He faltered. "... recommendation."
"But you have established in your inquiries that from their descriptions, Horton and Warren are so similar that they are almost certainly one and the same, Mr. Spittle," Pinkerton said, "have you not?"
Spittle only nodded.
"Then it is possible that Mr. Noyes could have received this card directly from a Mr. Warren, is it not, Mr. Spittle?"
Pinkerton was not supercilious; he merely spoke slowly, then waited for an intelligent reply. Spittle was lost.
"Well, I suppose it is, sir"—he hesitated—"if you say so."
"I do, Mr. Spittle," said Pinkerton, exasperated, "I do." He looked at the young man before him and breathed deeply.
Edwin said nothing.
"Does your family know you are here?" asked Pinkerton, suddenly genial. "I mean, here in England?"
Eventually Edwin spoke. "Yes," he said, and coughed.
Pinkerton's smile faded. "And here also—in Newgate Prison?" he asked harshly.
This first barb from Pinkerton hurt. Edwin's thoughts were immediately of home; his mother, sisters; the Connecticut countryside. Suddenly tears appeared in his eyes. Edwin coughed again, then wiped his nose obviously, and his eyes surreptitiously. He did not answer the question. Pinkerton observed him silently.
Finally, when Edwin's eyes were clear and he was glaring defiantly at Pinkerton, the man spoke again; and when he did, his voice was hard and cruel.
"I think, Mr. Noyes, you are going to be here at Newgate quite some time. Do you not agree?"
Edwin said nothing, but his heart missed a beat.
"I think you understand me, Mr. Noyes?"
Pinkerton's gaze seemed to penetrate Edwin's innermost thoughts. Edwin hoped with all his soul that it did not.
"Green," said Pinkerton, looking at the card between his fingers. He turned it over and looked long at the reverse side.
"There is a name," he said, "and an address in a place called Kensington printed here." Without looking at Spittle, he handed him the card. "Bring the owner of that name here, Mr. Spittle," said Pinkerton.
Spittle's mouth fell open, and he just managed to stop himself from reaching for his pocket watch; he knew it was already eight in the evening. "Now, sir?" he asked, hoping the answer was no.
"Yes, Mr. Spittle," said Pinkerton. "Now."
Spittle rose and, with one of the other policemen in the room, made his way around the table past Edwin Noyes; across the large, dark area in the center of the room behind the prisoner and through the door into the corridor outside. It would take time to fetch the man, and Spittle had hoped to be at home with his wife for a decent dinner. For a single moment (and it was the only time he associated the two Americans together), Pinkerton and Noyes became one in Spittle's mind, as in Pinkerton's were Warren and Horton. He cursed them both heartily under his breath; under his belt, his empty stomach agreed noisily.
Eighty-three minutes later, Pinkerton was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, watching the two English policemen slowly pacing beneath the gas lamps. It had become quite hot in the room during Spittle's absence.
Pinkerton heard the footsteps first. The policemen stopped pacing. Edwin continued to sip a second cup of tea, but he too detected sounds in the long corridor outside. They became gradually louder, then stopped. A door opened. Spittle and another man entered the large room and crossed respectfully to the table.
Pinkerton nodded at the man with Spittle, then, again with his head, indicated the prisoner.
"Do you know this man, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Williams of Green and Sons, tailors of Savile Row, took a long look at Edwin Noyes, frowned, then smiled with surprise, forgetting for a moment the surroundings and situation.
"Why, it's Mr. 'Ills, isn't it?" he asked. Edwin said nothing.
"Does he know," began Mr. Pinkerton, "and answer only if you are sure, a Mr. Warren, for whom I believe you tailor?"
For all others in the room the moment was actually only a second or so, but for Edwin it was a great deal more—he was fully occupied with all the years of his life as they began to flash in front of his eyes. Then Williams spoke.
"Mr. Warren? Why, yes, sir—he does." Williams paused, then continued, snapping Pinkerton fully alert. "But not Mr. F.A. You'm acquainted with Mr. G., sir, ain't that right?" He looked at Edwin, but again it was left for Pinkerton to speak. "And who is Mr. G.?" he asked.
"Why, George, sir," Williams said, "whose uncle once owned this very cane I'm holdin' "—he showed the ebony cane to Pinkerton—"as did the uncle of Mr. F.A., from whom I obtained it."
"What are you saying, sir?" asked Pinkerton, confused.
"Why, that Mr. G. is Mr. F.A.'s brother."
Pinkerton relaxed in his chair, pursed his lips, looked long at Edwin, then beckoned to Williams for the cane. He scrutinized the handle and saw the inscription. "What is this 'A.B'?" he asked.
"Arthur Byron, sir—them's my given names." He indicated. "Those is my initials." Williams smiled proudly.
"I see," said Pinkerton. "And the cane was a gift?"
"Yes," answered Williams.
"So you had your initials inscribed here, on ..." He held up the cane.
"No, sir—not I," said Williams, explaining. "They was there already." "A.B.?" asked Pinkerton. "Yes," said Williams.
"From a Mr. F.A."—he emphasized the letters— "Warren?" "Yes, sir," answered Williams.
"And you thought nothing of this?" asked Pinkerton. "That the discrepancy of the initials was strange?" "No, sir," replied Williams. "Why is that?" asked Pinkerton.
" 'Cause A.B. was also in his 'at," said Williams, as if patiently explaining to a child.
"Whose* 'at'?" mimicked Pinkerton.
"Why! Mr. F.A." explained Williams.
/>
"Frederick Albert?" asked Pinkerton.
"The same, sir," said Williams.
"And—George—Warren: what of him?"
"I just met him, is all, sir," Williams replied to the American detective, ''in Paris."
"In Paris," repeated Pinkerton to himself.
"An' a gentleman he was too, sir," said Williams, "like his brother." He paused, then continued loyally, "It's difficult to believe all these things they're a-sayin' about Mr. Warren, sir." He hesitated. "Fraud?" he said, and paused. "If mistakes are made, sir, here's one been done proper, and that's a fact." Williams finished there and then, because Pinkerton was staring at him with ice-cold eyes.
"It is not a mistake, Mr. Williams," he said, slowly and firmly, "and that's a fact." Williams swallowed and was silent. "Now, on the cane and in the ' 'at,' as you say, the initials—explain," Pinkerton said.
"Why, yes, sir," began Williams, "Mr. F.A. had the same 'ead like." He smiled.
"Come clear, man!" shouted Detective Inspector Spittle, who was utterly confused. Pinkerton's eyes blazed at him a moment, and again there was silence in the room from all the men but Williams.
"Mr. F.A.," he went on, "had the same 'ead as his uncle."
"His uncle?" repeated Pinkerton.
"Yes, sir—them's 'is full initials on the cane." Williams pointed, as if to clarify.
"And how did you deduce this?" asked Pinkerton.
"Why, Mr. F.A. told me," said Williams.
"I see," said Pinkerton, exhausted but not showing it. "And the' 'at'?" he asked.
"Like I said, sir"—Williams was eager now—"he 'ad the same 'ead like—a fine 'at it was and a shame not to wear it—bequeathed, sir, God rest old Mr. A.B.'s soul . . ." He paused to cross himself, then continued to all at the table, as if he were a salesman in mid-pitch: "Ourselves at Green's, sir," he went on, "we don't 'ave 'ats, but I've always thought that one day, perhaps, I might 'ave me own shop—for 'ats like. That's only supposin' 'avin' me own tailor's establishment was to prove difficult, sir. It's competition, sir, that's what..." Mr. Arthur Byron Williams paused, aware now of his digression. He smiled helpfully. "Mr. Warren—F.A., that is—always gave me 'is 'at, cane and gloves to watch over when in Mr. Green's, sir...."
The Four Hundred Page 31