§
HONESTY IS THE KEYSTONE OF LAW, declared the small plaque on William Pinkerton's desk. He looked up over this motto of the Agency and watched his excited associate enter with news. John Curtain held up the letter in his hand and give a whoop of joy that caused Pinkerton to frown.
"We've got a locate on Warren!" Curtain said. "I covered Florida down to St. Augustine before I sent a request off to Cuba."
He put the letter in front of William Pinkerton, who took it up and began to read. The peaceful wood-paneled, green-carpeted office was silent, as if it too, for that moment, were in on the discovery. The only sound was a rustling of the letter's three sheets of paper. Pinkerton's face began to set in an expression of triumph before he reached the end.
John Curtain, who could no longer withhold his knowledge of the finale toward the bottom of the third page, blurted it out.
"It's from a Dr. Houscomb, in Havana. He has a patient by name of—Bidwell!''
"Elizabeth Bidwell," said Pinkerton quietly, still reading.
"And she's to have a baby," Curtain said quickly.
"I read it, John," said Pinkerton, looking up.
"The bill was paid by Austin," finished Curtain lamely. Pinkerton nodded and smiled—he had read that too.
He leaned back in the straight-backed leather chair, reached for a cigar and took his time to light it. John Curtain refused the offer of one and seated himself opposite his superior, breathing fast with excitement.
"Then you, John," said Pinkerton thoughtfully, "got yourself a trip to the tropics."
"Couldn't I wait for MacDonald?" said Curtain, momentarily disappointed.
"I'll see to that," said Pinkerton firmly. "We know Irving, and his reputation convinces me that we should go in, on a private boat, so I'll be taking with me state marshals, lawyers and our best men available here in New York."
Curtain nodded, acceding to Pinkerton's wishes as he saw that he would be unnecessary.
"Austin Bidwell's yours, John," said Pinkerton. "Robert . will take George in Europe—of that I have no doubt."
"And you want MacDonald?" said Curtain, stating the obvious.
Determination in Pinkerton's eyes answered the question that was statement.
"The net is out," said Pinkerton, slowly drawing on his cigar; then, leaning toward his loyal and trustworthy associate, he looked him directly in the eye, as if to communicate his own strength to the man. "We will have them all now," he smiled grimly; when he spoke, it was slowly and without emotion: "one, by one, by one."
The Last Supper
To the Editor of The Times.
Sir. So much has been written, both in the British and German papers, against the English Police, that probably a little evidence upon the procedure of the German, and more especially, Bavarian forces of law and order, may not be uninteresting at the moment.
Myself and son, a sub-lieutenant, Royal Navy, made a great effort to reach the grotesque, old city of Nuremburg, on Saturday the 22nd March, arriving there about seven p.m. We were asked to put our names in the strangers' book, as usual, which we did and retired to bed. Imagine our surprise on rising Sunday morning, at receiving a visit from one of the Chief Police Officers, requesting us to "legitimize" ourselves.
I asked him his object for making this demand, he replied that a man named "Horton" was wanted by the English Police. In vain I showed him an old passport and letter addressed to me, showing my name was Hutton; he informed me that I could not leave my room, and placed two policemen at the door.
At one o'clock, I remembered an influential inhabitant of the town, who knew me, and sent for him. He, at once, went to Headquarters and gave bond for me to a large amount, and at
six o'clock in the evening myself and son were released.
I have since received, thanks to the strenuous and prompt action of the British Minister at Munich, a very ample apology, in writing, for the blunder that had been committed. It is signed by the Burgomeister of the city and as the intelligence of this worthy, seems to be equalled by his simplicity, he sends me a safe pass to protect me in my further travels, in case Hutton should again be considered the same as Horton.
I remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Chas. W. C. Hutton,
Ex Sheriff, London and Middlesex. Frankfurt-on-the-Maine. 25th March, 1873.
Having dutifully read the article, upon the insistence of the two other men in the carriage compartment, George Bidwell returned the paper and murmured with a shy smile, "Merci."
Far from hilarious, his reaction (unlike that of the other occupants who faced him on the train he had boarded at a small station ten miles out of Dublin) was one of intense consternation. The two Irishmen, obviously drunk, despite the fact it was before midday, roared with laughter. Even recognizing the humor in Chas. W. C. Hutton's misadventure, George wondered at the astonishing efforts instituted by the Bank~of England to ensure the capture of the three Americans still at large.
From Clonmel he had been taken, by the shebeen proprietor's son, to the outskirts of Dublin, where contact was made with a group that spirited this "American leader from the States" (George's money ensuring that no questions were asked) to the railway link with Belfast. At a small country station, George had boarded a train, thus avoiding the dangers of Ireland's southern city; in his pocket a ticket only to Drogheda, to allay any suspicious inquiry as to his reason for journeying to a port of embarkation; in his mind, the sound advice given him by one of the group, along with a French silk hat and matching valise, that he should, if he was able, abandon his American identity and create a Continental character, which might well confuse all who should ask his business in expectation of an articulate reply. George had assumed a meek behavior with the two drunks and appreciated every jolt and rattle of the train with a growing sense of relief, as it took him north to freedom—out of the "corked bottle" (as The Times now described his situation in Ireland).
It was only when the middle-aged English governess boarded and seated herself beside George that he had his first moments of panic in the guise of, as his companions insisted on calling him, "this Frenchy." The governess, asked in drunken politeness by the more persistent of the two Irishmen whether or not her education included the language of Napoleon, answered in the affirmative, then turned to George with a penetrating expression and the question "Vous etes franqais, m'sieur?"
For the rest of the journey, George was the hastily assembled author of obscure poetry, published in his homeland of Russia. He had, he emphasized to the -governess, only pretentions to the language of romance, born from a love of France's capital. All the way to Drogheda, George was assured by this woman, endorsed from her ten years' experience of Paris, that it was indeed the most elegant and sophisticated place on God's earth, and that it was unfortunate that the city was not in England itself.
The boy from Brooklyn's mongrel French and English was a marvel, gaining the admiration of both Irish drunks and the approbation of the Englishwoman. She encouraged her fellow voyager to maintain his interest in a language she had mastered as well as her own and perhaps (she ventured) his native Russian tongue would be enriched, as she herself had found even her own most lauded language embellished by the joys of fluency in another tongue!
At Drogheda, she insisted on buying the ticket George confusedly explained he would appreciate, to continue his journey in such pleasant company. George saw several detectives at the ticket office, who were questioning prospective travelers, brushed aside by this magnificent woman as she purchased, with the notes George had proffered, a small punched card that would carry him further to freedom.
Her voice resounded on the platform as she made her way back to the train, leaving the puzzled detectives only partially satisfied.
"He is a Russian, sirs," she replied imperiously (to what she thought impertinent questions), but she did politely wave at two detectives when she saw that they looked after the train as it moved off toward its final destinatio
n, Belfast, the embarkation port for Scotland and Glasgow.
§
George arrived on the docks of the northern capital of Ireland at nine P.M. The cab he had taken with the assistance of the governess, a Miss Durrant, transported him across the city with the lady, who insisted on leaving her new-found, and about-to-be-lost, charge within the gates, having explained to her "Russian" the rudiments of negotiating the final hurdle—a short walk to the point of embarkation.
George remembered "do svydanya" and wished it with all his heart to Miss Durrant, who caught the sentiment if not the meaning, and with the aid of George's not altogether unattractive appearance, the years seemed to slip away and dreams of her youth were once more fleetingly exhumed.
A Russian poet, with only the Romance language with which to communicate and the mutually appreciated sights of Paris, exchanged throughout the otherwise dismal hours, had created in Miss Durrant a glow that more than surprised her "family" when finally she arrived at the suburban mansion, pink-cheeked and sparkling-eyed. Having changed, she went directly to the library and took down the recently published Bronte book. She was enraptured for several minutes.
"Those burning eyes," she said to herself
The children were allowed clandestine chocolate cake and hot milk at an "unearthly hour," as it was described the following night, when they made the request once more. Thus George Bidwell—unknowingly—created in a vibrant, albeit aging, Miss Durrant a secret "Cathy," whose daily "embellishments" thereafter of her "Russian" finally lodged George, in her memory, as the facsimile of a young man running across the moors toward the tender embrace of a most willing English governess.
"Is it a ticket yer after havin'?" asked the harsh voice of an Irish seaman.
George whirled around to see the sloppily dressed sailor eyeing him from behind several crates, stacked at the foot of a gangway leading up to the ferryboat's main deck. It was dark but for two oil torches placed on either side of the inclined walkway to freedom. George swallowed. "Parlez-vous franqais?" he asked.
"Well, now," said the seaman, cutting a piece of tobacco, slowly, with his clasp knife. "If it's French you're speakin' of, it'll be all of Greek to me." He popped the thick chunk of black tobacco into his mouth and indicated the ship.
"Aboard you'll find the Purser, who'll be givin' you a ticket, if it's a ticket you're after havin'."
"Un billet?" asked George.
"Up there." The seaman pointed, now irritated.
"Merci," said George, and mounted the gangway.
"Mother of Mercy, I'd say as well," muttered the seaman to himself as he watched the fancy man take the incline with the delicacy George had assumed as part of his character.
The Purser's French was poor enough to allow George acceptance as one of "them Frogs," and, emphasizing his fey behavior with much use of eyebrows and limp-wristed gesturing, George bought his passage to the Scottish city port of Glasgow. Eventually he found the communal washroom, to which he was directed by the loud, coarse voice of an Irish seaman.
George took off his hat and coat in the washroom and leaned on the sink, arms locked, head bent. His nerves were strained, as it seemed that every corner he turned brought something unexpected—but he had survived.
§
The ship's loud horn hastened the already fast pace of both Robert Pinkerton and Inspector Spittle. Having come north, they had been tipped off by the Drogheda detectives that there might well be a suspicious character aboard the Belfast train. They had assembled numerous Irish police to check the last ferry that night before they "bottled up" the Port of Belfast.
The men raced up both gangways from the dock. The police boarded aft, along with Pinkerton; Spittle ran on, to the forward cargo access of the ferry, shouting up to the seaman who was already in the process of letting go the gangway. Spittle was on deck in moments, speaking urgently to the 'puzzled seaman, who indicated, finally, a way down to the saloon and Purser.
Pinkerton was already there when Spittle burst in breathless. The ship was only half full, and few of the male passengers remotely fitted the description of their quarry. The Second Officer, who felt his authority threatened, refused to grant these intruders more than five minutes before sailing to conduct the search they were demanding, unless they had a warrant; they did not. Pinkerton issued fast instructions, and the ship was suddenly filled with running feet and opened, then slammed doors, with no regard whatsoever for the occupants of cabins, bunks or public rooms.
George knew quite well what was happening outside the washroom. His pocket watch, now on a shelf below the mirror, told him, together with a long second blast from the ship's horn, that the ferry was only four minutes from sailing. He sighed deeply, anxious beyond description, as he heard outside the staccato banging of doors, shouts from policemen and the heavy treat of Irish law approaching inexorably down the corridor from which he had entered the washroom.
George scooped water onto his face. Then, as a third and final blast from the ship's horn sounded out loud and long, the door behind him crashed open.
A man stood in the doorway. George raised his face until he could see the policeman in the mirror. Detective Sergeant Spittle saw the silk hat, pretty valise and frock coat of a man at the wash basin, poised in "ablution," as he described it in his official report. "The man turned," the report went on, and said (in a rather light voice, for one whose appearance, stripped down to shirt sleeves as he was, gave a quite solid impression), "Oui, Monsieur? Vous voulez quelque chose?" (Spittle's stumbling attempt at quoting, from memory, a language he knew nothing of was finally translated by a better-informed R. A. Pinkerton.) Spittle paused as the apparent
"Frenchy" brushed back hair from his eyes with a wrist and smiled into the mirror, in, as Spittle reported it, "a most telling way."
The shout from Pinkerton outside, beyond the corridor in the saloon, perhaps saved George. Despite the "performance," his nerves were at breaking point, and even vague questions from the intruder would, in all probability, have broken the charade and created a violent confrontation, then and there.
Spittle's head turned as he heard his name. With only a single backward glance, containing the best sneer George was possibly ever given, the detective sergeant was gone. The door slammed shut. George had to hold on tight to the washbowl, as his legs had gone also. He spat thickly into the basin. The footsteps receded; the ship's engines started up. The ferry was about to depart.
Once the police had reassembled on the docks, lines were released fore and aft and the night packet boat to Scotland was under way. George looked at his watch on the shelf, caught a glimpse of his white face in the mirror and, feeling the strong vibration of the ship beneath his feet, allowed all the tension to flow from his body in the heartfelt retch, the residue of which fell into the half-filled basin. As he had eaten little in the past twenty-four hours, it was mostly pain and effort. Tears of strain clouded his vision before he opened wide his eyes and saw floating on the brackish water a last taste of Ireland. What had issued from his mouth and continued to drip into the bowl could only be described as phlegm, or bile—or perhaps more properly, spittle.
§
The trails and clues that had led Pinkerton and the English inspector to believe George Bidwell would make an attempt to leave Ireland from Belfast finally petered out on the city docks whilst they watched lights from the packet boat they had searched, as she plied out to sea, disappear slowly into the night.
Both men were dejected.
Spittle was away from his wife and, consequently, missing the comforts and considerations of a marriage partner; the English detective was unhappy.
Pinkerton, a dedicated man of law, was disappointed with the outcome of what he had felt would be the "denouement."
That night Spittle broke his vows and joined Pinkerton in several stiff brandies. During the evening, over dinner and whilst they discussed the case, an admiration arose for George which prompted rueful remarks from both men. When—they used the
word with confidence—when George arrived he would certainly be in for a surprise.
The two detectives agreed that they had moved so fast that almost certainly they were ahead of their quarry. They went to separate hotels, single beds, nightmares of chasing elusive game, and with them they took the decision, made over a last brandy—they would wait.
§
Two days later, in the shipping office at the docks, where each morning and evening both Spittle and Pinkerton were to be found, posters arrived. The photogravure from Ellen, corroborated by her description, bore a very passable likeness of George Bidwell. Instructions had been given that the posters must be distributed to all public buildings in the immediate area.
A refurbishing of the shipping office, planned months before, had created mild chaos; now drop cloths covered what valuable or delicate objects the clerks had around them, and a smell of white enamel paint was strong to the nostrils.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Pinkerton said, directly before leaving for lunch. "These posters will make our task easier I am sure." The shipping clerk nodded in agreement.
Spittle took one of the posters from the pile and decided to begin with the wall opposite, on a portion that had been painted the previous day.
"I would like them," Pinkerton continued, "to be put in all places to which the public has access, as Bidwell may well try to .. ." Pinkerton's voice droned on as Spittle pressed pins into both top corners of the poster and came face to face with a likeness of the man he had sought hour after hour, day in, day out, for, what was it now? ... He had begun to think exactly how long he had been chasing George, in company with Pinkerton, when he caught the look in George's eyes, an expression that was strong, penetrating; exuding danger and intelligence. . . . Somewhere in Spittle's mind the tuning fork that set the tone for the sound of anguish he was to make sounded out loud and clear.
His hand, as if prompted by another mind, reached out to the discarded brush, settling in a pot of paint left by the decorator, already at lunch. He put a temporary pin into the center of the bottom edge of the poster to hold it down, then slowly used the white enamel paint to extend the bright background of the photogravure resembling George Bidwell across the image's upper lip and, with two further strokes, up to the hairline in front of each of the American's ears, obliterating both moustache and sideburns.
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