The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  §

  Pinkerton's discoveries in England had immediately persuaded him to cable New York.

  As the revelation of Edwin Noyes's term in prison had not been difficult for the English police to discover, so for Robert A. Pinkerton with "Uncle" Austin Bidwell and George Wilson, alias Warren, n£ Bidwell. It was confirmed by both their descriptions and their criminal records that the brothers were without doubt the men wanted in connection with the great Bank of England fraud.

  The fourth man in the case—one who increasingly began to intrigue the American detectives—was George MacDonald. He proved to have been using his own name in America and England, but although he was of respectable background, his immediate past and associations with criminal elements in Manhattan suggested to Pinkerton's New York office that

  "he should be suspected of presently following a dubious vocation."

  This was all Robert A. Pinkerton needed. And thus the hunt began in earnest.

  §

  At the Hotel Richmond, in the Rue du Helder, Mac stayed only one night before going on to his last European destination. It was long enough for his pursuers. Expense had been swept aside by the Bank of England; thus, repeated cables to Paris, and the cooperation of French police in scrutinizing hotel registers, finally established that an American by the name of MacDonald had indeed been a guest of the Richmond, but had already checked out.

  The evening of the night before, on a Pinkerton hunch, Spittle and the American detective had gone over the timetables of all sailings for the Americas—North and South.

  "Liverpool and Plymouth have gone, sir," Spittle said, examining the timetables before him. "Bordeaux ain't sailing for six days. Hamburg for three. Southampton went yesterday. We've only the two left—Brest, in France, and Queens-town, Ireland—tomorrow sailing."

  Pinkerton thought—correctly, as it turned out—that he understood, at least to a degree (and that was all, if the truth be known), the ingenuity of the men he was up against.

  "Spittle," he said, authoritatively, "you take the French ship, Thuringia, at Brest. I'll go for the Irish ship."

  "It's the Atlantic, sir," Spittle had replied. "A White Star liner." .

  "I know, Spittle," said Pinkerton patiently, having studied the timetable in detail. "I came over on her. Now go, man; you've no time to lose."

  Spittle went.

  §

  The deep note of a ship's horn sounded out loud and long as its gangway was slowly disconnected from the shore. Mac paced the deck of the Thuringia, checking his watch minute by minute. His attention was focused on the shore. As the fore and aft hawsers were cast off and the steamer slowly turned on an axis, before making headway out into the Channel, Mac began to breathe deeply, the sea air of freedom.

  The day before, Mac had rushed to the quay, late, waving a ticket he'd bought at perplexed officials, not waiting for a reply; but his conversation with the Purser beside the berthed liner had shaken him.

  "This billet is now for tomorrow, m'sieur," the officer had explained; "we sail at noon."

  "What?" Mac exclaimed.

  "We have been delayed, m'sieur, by one day. Passengers are staying in the town—there are good 'otels, m'sieur."

  "May I cable from there?" Mac asked.

  "Of course, m'sieur," the officer replied.

  So Mac had the opportunity of informing Irving, in New York, of his imminent arrival. Once on the ship, apart from sightings of other ocean traffic, passengers knew they were cut off from the world until landfall. Thus there was an urgency to the message. It was Mac's only chance.

  §

  The delayed sailing regained for Spittle precious hours that had been lost by cancelled ferries between Dover and Calais. From the French Channel port to the transatlantic harbor, a fast coach and six took him through the night to a morning stop, some miles from Brest, where he was able to hire a carriage and pair to complete his journey.

  Spittle burst into the town office of the French Line in the middle of a ceremony. Two officials were opening a '56 bottle of claret with great reverence. Spittle demanded attention. They ignored him until they had assured themselves that the wine was still sound. Eventually they found, then began to check, the passenger list of the only sailing that day for the United States. Spittle looked at the pocket watch in his shaking hand. It was just before noon.

  "Maas . . ." the official began, as his companion looked impatiently at the vintage Bordeaux; "... Maber, McCann, MacDonald—George. Oui, m'sieur," he said, pleased at the discovery, "he is sailing.*' By the time the official looked up, Spittle was gone.

  At the quayside, the Scotland Yard police badge meant little to the Customs officer, especially as the ship in question had already sailed; besides, his tour of duty was over until the arrival of an evening liner from Lisbon.

  "Noon!" the Englishman was shouting, almost incoherent. "Noon!"

  The Englishman (as the Customs officer could not fail to see) was pointing to both hands of a pocket watch that indicated twelve. "Noon!" the man bellowed hoarsely. Obviously confused, the Customs officer said—and indeed, understood—nothing. He retained his dignity and simply walked away. Since the French did not observe Greenwich time, the Paris meridian declared it to be one o'clock; and as a Frenchman, the officer had a more important matter to attend to: his luncheon.

  §

  George had taken a night ferry from Holyhead across the Irish Sea to Cork and thence to Queenstown, the last port where transatlantic steamers took on passengers.

  it was early morning, and George was bent over the basin, shaving, when a knock sounded on the door and a man's head peered into George's cabin.

  "It's Cork we'll be landin' at, sor, in a half hour," the steward said with a bright smile.

  "Is Queenstown far?" George asked, his face nearly touching the heated water, most of his sideburns and all of his moustache floating on the surface, an inch or so from his face.

  "If it's the White Star Atlantic you'll be wantin', sor," said the Irish voice, "you've time and half, sor; time and a half," it repeated.

  "Thank you," mumbled George without turning.

  "New York's a grand city, they're sayin', sor," said the Irish steward. "Is that roight, sor?" he asked, and stepped into the cabin.

  George coughed loudly and nodded vigorously.'

  "Well, good luck to you, sor," said the steward.

  Just as the man turned to leave, George stood upright and for a moment caught the steward's gaze in the mirror above the basin.

  "An' if you don't mind my sayin', sor"—the steward grinned—"I prefers a man clean-shaven meself."

  The steward was gone in the second it took George to swallow and curse all the gods at once.

  At the Queenstown docks, George's carriage was stopped at the gate that led to the cobbled roadway beyond which was the point of embarkation. The White Star liner had already begun to embark passengers, George knew, and his urgency communicated itself to the Irish official who was taking a great deal of time, it seemed, to read the very simple information in George Bidwell's passport.

  The man paused yet again, and once more turned a page back to the written description of the American. He looked at the driver of the carriage, then at his passenger, and approached the occupant until they were almost nose to nose.

  Now clean-shaven, George suddenly realized that it was clearly this discrepancy which was causing the official concern; but the man said nothing, as he compared the description with the man before him. George swore to himself, it was the only time he wished that he had a photogravure depicting his previous appearance in his possession. The official reread the words deemed sufficient to convey George from one country to another, then read further to find his place of origin and occupation: agent of business.

  George's impatience was obvious; he was becoming exasperated. Then the Irishman spoke.

  "Would you be havin' a five-pound note on you, sor?" the official inquired in a genial manner. "An' the price of the cab bac
k into town?" finished the Irishman in charge of his gate.

  "Why?" asked George tersely.

  "Well," began the Irish official slowly, "it ain't for me to say, sor, really, but I've an idea that the three gentlemen—two of our Irish, but English-bought, policemen"—he rubbed fingers and thumb together in reference to, in his mind, the Irish turncoats—"and of course, the American gentleman with them—and he does have a particularly gruff turn of phrase—who are waitin' for you by the steamer there..." At this he made as if to turn toward the Atlantic, partially hidden behind the wharfside buildings; then, thinking better of it, remained facing the gentleman in the carriage to whom he was speaking. "... well, sor," he continued with a slow smile, "I'm thinkin' that they ain't exactly gonna present you wid the keys of Dublin City, loike." He grinned at George and handed him back his passport. "I'd only be guessin', o'course, sor," he finished.

  George looked wildly toward the docks and confirmed the official's suspicions. Seeing the man's eyebrows saying more than words could, George took out some money—twenty pounds, to be exact—and handed the English notes to the Irishman.

  "You bein' an American yourself an' all, sor," the official continued, pocketing the notes, "well, the only good thing about the English, sor, is their money." He looked into George's eyes, directly and with a very definite expression that he should be gone—fast. "Would you not agree, sor?" he questioned.

  George nodded, unable to speak.

  "It's a Fenian man I am, sor," the official said confidentially, declaring his anti-British sentiments. "An' afflicted wid Cromwell's curse."

  "What's that?" George managed to utter hoarsely.

  "The occasional blindness," the official said with a wink, "Mr. Bidwell, sor." He touched his peaked cap.

  "God bless you," said George.

  "He does, sor," said the Irishman, stepping back to allow the carriage turning room. "He does," he repeated, tapping the notes now in his inside pocket.

  It took no time at all for the carriage to turn back the way it had come and rattle off toward Queenstown once more. By the time Robert A. Pinkerton discovered a carriage had arrived late at the dock gateway, the White Star Liner Atlantic had sailed and George Bidwell had disappeared into the heart of the Emerald Isle.

  Sanctuary

  NEW York in 1873 was quite obviously a much younger city than its European rivals, its size only one third that of London. Yet there was little doubt that the varieties of color, creed and national origin amongst the "picturesque" population, densely crowded into a series of ghetto districts, produced in these poor quarters, where the land of promise had failed expectation, that peculiar intensity of crime in acts of blood and riot which only the English capital, or its northern port for the West, Liverpool, could equal.

  The "dangerous classes" of New York were ignorant of all but their city and the need to survive, more brutal than the peasantry from which they descended; the products of passion, vice, accident, neglect, destitution and misery. The land of opportunity had another meaning for them, and in its greatest city these dangerous classes learned to take, corrupt and destroy as did their fellow citizens give, convert and create.

  Europe was a narrow sphere, where a man was born to his "place." To rise above his equals he had not only to make extraordinary efforts, but have abilities and qualities above the average. Thus if a man remained in Europe, it was to work to live or, at most, to arrive at comparative ease; in America a man learned to work to become rich. It was a goal any man, no matter what his background, had the chance to attain; not all men achieved it, but most tried.

  From this turmoil sprang many a sharp mind, to whom only fortune dictated and fate decreed on which side of the law it should operate. Many were successful in treading a course equally between the two sides.

  The police developed a relationship with both established business and criminal association, and within bounds— however nefarious, clandestine or immoral—it worked.

  Political contacts and personal liaisons with the underworld of New York put an ordinary detective on the city police staff in a unique position. One who had outshone his fellows in this respect was named James Irving.

  A short time after the Civil War ended, whilst the whole country reeled still from the mighty conflict, the position of Chief of the New York Detective Force became vacant. The successful candidate was none other than "Jimmy"—as he became popularly known—Irving. And he survived. Enormous money issued from the government, to shore up the shaken economy, created flush times, and with everything booming, associations were formed in the underworld to promote rackets, vice and fraud on a large scale.

  Percentage payments to precinct headquarters and to politicians guaranteed a blind eye. living's position made his protection much sought after.

  From Spring Street to Tenth, Broadway, full of night games, became the happy hunting ground of New York detectives. Jimmy Irving bought diamonds to wear as rings and pins; he had his own fast trotting horse and rig, which had cost more than a thousand dollars; as his pay was a mere two thousand dollars per annum, it was assumed he was "doing well." Wallack's Theatre of an evening; Delmonico's for late supper; long week ends at Long Island homes; holidays in the South, when Florida's winter weather became fashionable: Jimmy's world was expanding.

  To James Irving, the trivialities of administrative police work were the only problem he had to solve. In part he delegated duties to two associates, Stanley and White, who had become cronies in cahoots with most of his schemes, but there was always that for which only he could be responsible and to which his signature must be appended.

  The late-March winds, bearing morning sleet, blended night snow and mud together with manure into a nightmare for any horse and owner who wished to negotiate a path from one place to another without being soiled. By eleven, the New York traffic was thick and noisy.

  Irving's arrival on Tuesday the twenty-fifth was his first appearance that week at Central Police Headquarters. He was hung over, irritable at having this chore of office thrust on him and angry as hell at the commotion below on the streets, where even he had been spattered with mud.

  He burst into the outer office, taking off his gloves and sounding out to the policeman in charge of the desk, who stood up respectfully; the two other men, seated opposite, did not. Irving ignored them all and made directly for his own door.

  "Morning, Chief Irving, sir," said the policeman.

  "New York traffic's gettin' worse every damn day," said Irving, on the move. "Morning, lad. Well, sit—sit." He continued to the door. "One day they'll invent somethin' better'n horses," he finished, and paused only a second at the door, acknowledging his visitors in a glance.

  "Who are they?" he asked the policeman, not recalling their faces, and whom Irving did not recognize in the city of New York—in his mind at least—wasn't worth knowing.

  "These two gentlemen, sir," the blue uniform began.

  "... can wait!" Irving finished. He entered his office and slammed the door.

  The policeman could only shrug at the two patient and imposing gentlemen.

  The cable on Irving's desk had been there since the previous Friday. He ignored it until he had downed a whiskey and settled himself in the large, comfortable swivel chair, his back to the window, high above the street. He opened the cable and read it slowly. It was from George MacDonald. His door was opened cautiously by the policeman from the outer office. He looked up.

  "Well?" he asked, still trying to digest the cable.

  "They was here yesterday too, sir," the blue uniform said.

  ' 'Who?'' shouted Irving.

  "The two gentlemen," said the cowed policeman; "they been waitin' to see you."

  Irving was about to declare a busy morning when one of the two large visitors pushed past the policeman and opened the door wide to allow his companion entrance also.

  "Well, gentlemen?" said Irving, respecting their obvious size and evident authority.

  "We are seeking the wher
eabouts of a George Mac-Donald," said one.

  "And an Austin Bidwell," said the other. Both were quite impassive, and their voices betrayed nothing of their character.

  Irving looked from one man to the other, remembered his own all-pervading authority and quite without qualm folded and pocketed the cable. "And who are you?" he asked.

  "My name," said the one, "is William Pinkerton, and this is my associate, Mr. John Curtain."

  Irving and the Pinkertons had different missions in life; they had never met but knew each other by reputation. Irving grinned and made an expansive gesture. "I wish I could help," he said, making it obvious that he either could or would not.

  Pinkerton threw the morning paper onto the desk in front of Irving, his opinion of the man badly concealed by the look that came into his face.

  "You can, sir, when he arrives," Pinkerton said coldly.

  "Who?" exclaimed Irving, leaning toward the paper. Its front page was ominous. He already knew the answer.

  GEORGE MACDONALD, screamed the headline, SUSPECT IN THE GREAT BANK OF ENGLAND FRAUD, ESCAPES NET, SAILS FOR NEW YORK. Irving gritted his teeth and looked at the two men, who had seated themselves comfortably opposite; they now watched the New York Chief of Detectives expectantly.

  Irving swallowed and wished for another large glass of whiskey. He indicated to the policeman to leave. "Get out, Jake," he said, "and see that we are not disturbed."

  "Yes, Chief Irving," said the policeman, and left the room quietly, closing the door behind him.

  §

  A thousand-mile voyage from New York Harbor, on the cold deck of the ship Thuringia seven days out of Brest, Mac huddled against the davit of a lifeboat and stared long and hard up into the clear night sky, naming those constellations which he knew. He had been at this several minutes when the door on the starboard flying bridge opened some yards away, at the top of a short flight of steps, and the dark blue uniform of the Captain emerged. He leaned on the rail to breathe fresh sea air.