by Howard Blum
The dining room was rather grand, with starched white cloths and heavy silver on the table and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; at the far end of the room, on a small platform decorated with potted palms, a pianist played soft melodies. The Pinkertons made polite conversation with their guest as course after course was served by attentive liveried waiters. But just before dessert, whether because Durkin’s restraint had been liberated by several bottles of red wine or whether he simply chose then to seize the moment he’d been patiently waiting for since he’d by chance first encountered Robert Pinkerton, the mine superintendent revealed his connection to the agency. His words were sharp and his tone was unforgiving. He had paid good money, he harrumphed, and had gotten nothing in return. Rather loudly he insisted that the Pinkerton Detective Agency was staffed by incompetents.
About the room heads turned disapprovingly toward their table, but Robert Pinkerton was not deterred. His Scot blood came to a quick boil; and, truth be told, throughout the evening he’d been imbibing his share of wine, too. Indignant, he forcefully demanded an apology.
“I’ll be damned if I will,” barked Durkin. His difficult years in Alaska had taught him that nothing of merit ever occurred when a man backed down.
For a moment it seemed as if the two men would come to blows in the dining room. Then Mrs. Pinkerton intervened. Gentlemen, please, she begged, near to tears. This is most unbecoming.
Her distress affected both her husband and his guest. In an instant, decorum was restored. The meal was concluded without incident.
And so it came to pass that later that night, after a few calming brandies, the two men walked along the beach, and in this manner an understanding of sorts was reached. Robert Pinkerton, his tone more subdued, even conciliatory, conceded that an error had been made by the Portland office. Wooster had clearly dispatched three men who were totally unsuitable for the job.
Durkin, for his part, acknowledged that he had been too circumspect. It would have been wiser if in his initial telegram he had revealed the nature of the investigation to be conducted.
Now reconciled, the two men continued their walk along the moonlit edge of the Pacific Ocean. As the waves lapped against the sand, Robert Pinkerton made an impetuous pledge: A great deal of time had passed since the initial robbery. It was uncertain whether the thief or thieves were still at the mine, or even in Alaska. It was uncertain whether the gold could still be recovered; perhaps it had been spent or, just as likely, perhaps it was safely hidden in a bank vault in Seattle. But, he said, I promise you this: If you will see fit to rehire our agency, I will make certain that this time we will dispatch the proper operatives to Alaska. These men will find whoever took your gold. You have my solemn word: The Pinkerton agency will solve this case.
Durkin considered the proposition. He had no doubt Pinkerton was sincere. But unless the culprits were still working at the mine, the trail would be very cold. If a man wanted to disappear, Alaska offered plenty of hiding places. The expense was a concern, too. During the last go-round, the cost of three operatives working two full months had added up to a pretty penny. Yet the thefts still rankled. Besides, who was to say there wouldn’t be new robberies unless there were arrests? And Pinkerton had given him his word. That had to count for something.
But only two men this time, Durkin agreed at last.
And so on his way back to New York from San Diego, Robert Pinkerton detoured to Denver to meet with James McParland. He had known McParland since the time when the big Irishman had infiltrated the Molly Maguires. True, McParland was now a deskman, a few years older and lot heavier than during his days in the field, but Pinkerton had no doubts about the superintendent’s abilities or loyalties. He was a man who could get a job done.
Without prelude, he outlined the circumstances of his meeting Durkin and the rash promise he’d made. I gave my word, Pinkerton told the superintendent. He did not want to sound desperate or too imploring, but the circumstances were unique in the history of the agency. The reputation of the entire Pinkerton organization was at stake, and his own personal honor, as well. The case must be solved, he ordered.
“I won’t let you down, sir,” McParland promised with total conviction.
STILL STANDING in seclusion on the wet deck of the steamship, Charlie reviewed what lay in the balance of his efforts. Robert Pinkerton had given his word. McParland had given his, too. Now it would be up to him to make sure that his two bosses didn’t turn out to be liars. And that the agency’s reputation would not be besmirched. A lot, he understood, was riding on his solving this case. Which suited him fine.
As for the investigation itself, he already had some thoughts about how he would proceed. He’d been a hard-nosed detective for several years, and even without stepping foot in Alaska he felt certain of several facts. First, this wasn’t a one-man operation. It would not have been feasible for a single man to have walked out of the mine unnoticed while transporting $10,000 worth of gold bars. That much gold had to weigh, he estimated, seventy-five to a hundred pounds. There were at least two thieves, perhaps even more. And maybe a gang of accomplices waiting to help them fence their stolen booty. Second, this was an inside job. It would have been impossible for anyone to have managed to grab the gold and get by the guards unless he was very familiar with the mine. Even then, it would have taken a good deal of planning. This meant that everyone who worked at the mine or had recently quit was a suspect. That added up to a long list, more than seven hundred names, he guessed. And third, the men from the Portland office had gone about things in precisely the wrong way. This wasn’t the sort of case where you call people in for an interview and scribble their statements down in a notebook. That method of investigation would get you nowhere. You’d simply collect pages filled with self-serving half-truths or outright lies. To crack this case, you’d need to go undercover. You’d need to prowl around with your eyes and ears open, without anyone suspecting you were a detective. You had to be able to see things people didn’t want you to see.
As Charlie reviewed the case and a strategy took shape in his mind, he began to grow confident. It would not be easy, many months had passed since the initial robbery, but he also suspected that the thieves would not have hightailed it. They had too good a thing going to want to give it up. He was fairly certain they were still around and planning to strike again. And if that was the case, he’d get them.
One thing McParland had said, however, left him feeling uneasy. On orders from Mr. Pinkerton himself, this was to be a two-man investigation. Charlie had tried to argue, to insist that he worked better on his own, but the superintendent was adamant. This was the specific arrangement Mr. Pinkerton had made with the mine superintendent, he told Charlie, and, therefore, it could not be amended. Once Siringo had established himself in Alaska, he was to wire the Denver office. Another operative would be sent to assist him.
Charlie wasn’t pleased by the implication that this job was too big for him. But there was no sense fighting a battle he couldn’t win. He promised that as soon as he had the lay of the land, he would let McParland know. You can send the reinforcements after you hear from me, he said sourly.
One month, McParland corrected. I expect to hear from you no later than four weeks after your arrival in Alaska. That understood?
Yes, Charlie agreed. But he still wasn’t happy about it.
As Charlie got up to leave, McParland rose, too. He walked his operative to the door and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful, Siringo,” he said.
It was only while standing on the deck of the SS Topeka that Charlie had a sudden realization. The superintendent had never before sent him off on an operation with similar words of caution. Or were they, Charlie now couldn’t help but wonder, a warning?
AS SOON as the steamship docked, Charlie made his way down Front Street and into the heart of Juneau. He’d been to many a hurrah frontier town in his day, and at first glance this one didn’t seem all that different. One thing, though, caug
ht his eye and struck him as odd: Many of the buildings were raised on stilts; you had to climb a makeshift ladder to reach the front door. He’d later learn that was a design necessitated by the fact that the streets had a tendency to flood during the rainy season and—another inconvenience—were transformed into thick rivers of mud during the spring thaw. Also, elevating the front door reduced the likelihood of a prowling black bear busting in to join you in bed. But that first day, Charlie didn’t have this knowledge. It just struck him as mighty peculiar, and further confirmation that he’d arrived in a new, strange land.
He found a hotel and registered using the name Lee R. Davis. It was an old alias from a case in New Mexico, and one he’d no reason to doubt would serve him well this time, too. Then Mr. Davis asked for a bottle of whiskey and took it to his room. He sat in the dark, drinking straight from the bottle, and thinking all the time of Mamie.
FOURTEEN
harlie heard the men coming up the pitch-dark alley-way before he could see them. There were two of them. With each step, their boots sank deep into the mud and made a clear and distinct noise. Their gait was steady; they weren’t attempting to sneak up on him, he noted with some relief. But just to be sure he unbuttoned his mackinaw and kept his right hand fixed on the butt of his Colt revolver. He also remained close to the side of the log building; there was no point in standing in the open and giving a shooter an easy target. He waited until they got closer before he spoke.
Over here, gentlemen, he said, his words a soft whisper in the darkness. He knew they hadn’t spotted him yet, and he liked the advantage that gave him.
That you, Mr. Davis? a strong voice called out.
Charlie noted the annoyed tone. He didn’t care. He responded just as sharply. Might be wise to keep things down a bit, he said, his words pointed but still hushed. Then he stepped away from the building and found a spot in the middle of the alleyway.
You really think this is necessary? the same voice called out, once again loud and defiant. Charlie’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and now he could see the two men as they approached. He assumed the feisty fellow doing all the talking was Durkin, the mine superintendent. He was small and compact and had a neatly trimmed beard. His walk was near to a strut, and Charlie decided that the man was very sure of himself. He had no idea of the identity of the taller individual bringing up the rear. Clearly, though, he deferred to Durkin. Still, Charlie had expected only one man, and he didn’t like surprises. He figured now was as good a time as any for Durkin to come to appreciate that, as well as to learn to pay heed to his instructions, if they were going to work together.
Yesterday, his first full day in Juneau, Charlie had prowled the town looking for a place where he could settle in for a talk with the mine official without anybody noticing. It wouldn’t do to show up at the mine, walk into the superintendent’s office, and simply introduce himself. Nor could they meet over a bottle in the one-room saloon Charlie had already discovered. Those circumstances would be bound to get tongues wagging and people speculating. His investigation, Charlie was convinced, had to be kept a secret if he was to solve this case. No one could know he’d a connection to Durkin or, for that matter, to any of the people who ran the mine.
The morning’s look-see had been a very unsatisfying expedition. Like many mining towns, Juneau had sprung up pretty much overnight. There was only a single main street, and the buildings lining it were wedged together wall to wall. That didn’t make for much privacy. He’d noticed there was a big spruce forest and some impressive snowcapped mountains on the outskirts of town; there’d be plenty of isolated spots in all that wilderness where two men could talk without attracting attention. Only this required that he first do a good scout. He’d need to spend a full day poking around in the woods or, for all he knew, maybe even two or more before he’d find a location that’d suit his needs. And then he’d have to get word to Durkin. Why, near on a week might pass before he would be able to get his investigation moving forward. But, he told himself, if that was the only prudent way, he had no choice. In the long run, secrecy was a good deal more important than going off half-cocked.
Discouraged, he left Main Street and walked down toward the wharf. He was ambling along, listening to the squawking of the gulls overhead, when something caught his eye. There were two peaked-roofed structures, one built with logs, the other a simple wood-framed shack, and in between them stretched a long dirt alleyway. On closer inspection, Charlie learned that one building was the steamship office and the other was used by the harbor’s customs tax collector. That, too, was perfect: They would both be vacant at night.
Satisfied, he returned to his hotel and quickly wrote a letter to Thomas Durkin, Superintendent, Treadwell Mine. As per your conversation with the gentleman you met in San Diego, Charlie began with a deliberate circumspection, I have arrived in Juneau. He then requested a meeting with Mr. Durkin at midnight the following evening, carefully describing the location of the alleyway where the rendezvous would take place. That this meeting be kept in strictest confidence is of the utmost importance, Charlie concluded. He signed the note “Lee R. Davis”; wrote “Personal and Confidential” on the envelope; and hurried to deposit it on the next ferry crossing Gastineau Channel to Douglas Island.
Now it was a starry midnight and Durkin, as instructed, had arrived. But clearly the superintendent was none too happy about the arrangements. As soon as he drew face-to-face with Charlie, he became bristling and belligerent. He was not at all convinced that such a degree of caution had been necessary. In fact, he fumed, it was a genuine inconvenience.
Charlie gave him his lead before pulling back sharply on the reins. Who’s this? he interrupted, pointing bluntly at the taller man.
Durkin introduced William Bordus, his assistant. And he explained: Bordus knows the workings of the mine and the mill as well as I do. Perhaps even better. I thought it would be valuable for you to meet him, too. He has my complete confidence.
Understood, agreed Charlie. But I was expecting only one man. You should know I don’t cotton to surprises. No telling what can happen when a man is surprised. To drive home his point, Charlie pulled back his coat to reveal the big Colt in the holster strapped around his waist.
I see, said Durkin uneasily. But come now, Mr. Davis, do you really believe all this secrecy, all these precautions are necessary?
“Men have been killed for a lot less than a fortune in gold,” said Charlie.
Durkin considered that statement; and in the process, all his previous temper seemed to slip away. Instead, Charlie observed, a sudden look of apprehension came over his face.
Satisfied that he had gained the upper hand, Charlie shared his plan. His intention was to get a job at the mine. That way, he’d be able to scrutinize things without attracting any attention. Think you could arrange something for me? he asked.
Bordus will handle that, Durkin answered. Just come to the hiring hall tomorrow morning like any prospective employee, and he’ll make sure everything goes without a hitch. Then Durkin turned to his assistant and asked what position he thought Mr. Davis should fill. There were, he explained to Charlie, many different jobs a man could sign on for at the mine.
Bordus gave the matter a few moments of thought. At last, he spoke. An oiler, he said emphatically. A machine oiler would have access to all the various facilities. You’d be called on to service machinery throughout the entire operation.
An oiler it is then, Charlie agreed.
Supposing you need to meet with us again? asked Durkin.
Same procedure as tonight, Charlie said. I’ll send a note to your office, and we’ll meet up in this alleyway that evening at midnight.
Their business concluded, Charlie instructed the two men that it would be best if they’d leave the alleyway first. He’d hold back a spell. If anyone had followed them from the wharf and still was lurking about, he’d be able to spot ’em.
With some formality, Charlie shook hands with the two mine official
s. But before they parted his company, he shared a concern that had been troubling him from the moment he had signed on for the case. He wanted to know if they thought the thieves were at the mine and planning to strike again. Or had the culprits taken their bonanza and moseyed along?
Durkin responded with a short, hard smirk. The government of the United States paid a tad more than seven million dollars to purchase the entire Territory of Alaska, he said, a testy edge to his voice. Gold totaling at least four times that sum will be brought out of Treadwell. I’d say that makes “our little mine”—he spoke the words with an odd flash of a smile—a downright tempting target. My guess? They’re still around. And planning to strike again.
Without any further discussion, the two men turned and walked in silence back down the long alley. Charlie’s eyes followed them until they disappeared into the darkness.
AFTER ONLY a few hours of sleep, Charlie returned to the wharf and boarded a late-morning ferry to Douglas Island. A wet spring snow was swirling about, but when he stood on the deck he could make out the outlines of a large collection of shacks and frame buildings spread across the southeast ridge of the island. “Our little mine?” he thought, recalling Durkin’s words. Now he understood the irony in the superintendent’s tone. Even from this distance he could see that the Treadwell mine operation was bigger than most—hell, any!—of the cow towns he’d ridden into in his time. And just as quickly, another thought struck: There could be a thousand people working at the mine, all scattered across a rugged spruce-forest island nearly the size, he imagined, of the vast LX spread that’d been his old Texas stomping grounds. What were his chances of finding a single clue, let alone the robbers? He silently apologized to the Portland operatives for all the occasions when, railing, he’d dismissed their efforts. For the first time, he truly understood what they’d been up against. Now his assurances to McParland of his success struck him as simply brazen. He’d been, he nearly moaned, incredibly naive.