Bucholz and the Detectives

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No protestations of innocence or acknowledgments of guilt were
necessary--the bedrock of an implicit and instinctive understanding
had been reached, and each looked upon the other as fellow prisoners
who were to suffer for their misdeeds, unless some potent agency
intervened for their preservation.

From the nature of their intercourse preceding this event, Sommers
did not entertain a single doubt of the guilt of William Bucholz. His
avoidance of the matter while in conversation; the confusion which
marked his demeanor as Sommers conveyed to him indirectly or
otherwise his belief that he knew more of the murder than he had as
yet admitted, and his weak denials--all went very far to confirm him
in the belief that William Bucholz, and him alone, was connected
intimately and actively with the tragedy.

At the interview which followed their reconciliation, Sommers
appeared to be very much depressed, and gave his companion to
understand that all his hopes of being admitted to bail had been
disappointed on account of the failure of his attorney--who was also
acting for Bucholz--to have the amount reduced, and of the inability
of the friends upon whom he relied to furnish the large sum required.

He also complained that the jailer had opened one of his letters and
had discovered the fact that his relations were respectable people,
who moved in good society, and who were as yet ignorant of his
perilous and degrading situation. He was fearful that they would
learn of his true condition unless he was enabled soon to effect his
release. He regretted this fact particularly, because it prevented
him from assisting his friend, who needed so much the services of
some one to act in his behalf, which service, despite the previous
doubts that had been entertained of him, he was still willing but
unable to render.

The disappointment of Bucholz was no less acute than that of his
companion. He had counted so securely upon the release of Sommers, in
order to enlist his services for his own safety, that the effect of
this unpleasant information was painful to witness.

At length, unable further to control himself, he threw his arms
around Sommers, crying out:

"Oh, I wish I could only get out one night, one single night, then I
could give you five hundred dollars, and all would be right!"

"That is easily said," replied Sommers, despondingly, "but if you did
get out, where could you get the money?"

"I am speaking the truth," said Bucholz. "If you wanted five
thousand, I could give it to you, if I was only out one night. I
could tell you a secret that would open your eyes, but as long as you
are here I can do you no good, and you cannot help me."

Sommers, who was reclining upon the bed, raised himself upon his
hand, and looking Bucholz in the face with a knowing smile, said:

"I suppose you would lift old Schulte's treasure!"

Bucholz started slightly, but he had gone too far to retreat, and he
admitted at once that if he could get out, he knew where the money of
the murdered man was hid, and that no one beside himself possessed
the knowledge.

There was an instantaneous gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of
Sommers as this information was conveyed to him, and he determined to
secure his release at all hazards. New life seemed to be infused into
him, and there was a glow of excitement in his ordinarily pallid face
that told of the agitation of his mind.

He jumped from the bed, and facing his companion, said:

"I will get out of this if it is in the power of human effort to
accomplish it. I will write to my friend at once, and no time shall
be lost in the attempt."

This change in his manner soon communicated itself to Bucholz, and in
a short time, under the influence of this new-born hope, their
conversation assumed a more cheerful strain, and bright pictures of
the future were indulged in.

Active measures were at once begun, the friends of Sommers were
written to; another interview was had with the State's attorney, and
sufficient reasons were offered for a reduction in the amount of the
bail under which he was held.

Mr. Olmstead, after listening to the statements made to him, agreed
to the reduction asked for, and in a few days the necessary forms
were gone through with. The requisite amount of money was deposited
with the Court, and everything was in readiness for the release of
Edward Sommers from his place of confinement.

The information was conveyed to Bucholz and Sommers, while they were
walking up and down the corridor during the hours in which they were
released from their cells, and the effect was observable upon the
faces of both. Bucholz, while rejoicing in the accomplishment of a
result that would prove of incalculable benefit to himself, was none
the less reluctant as the time approached, to part with the friend
who had brightened many gloomy hours, and whose intercourse had
produced such a beneficial change upon his spirits and disposition.

He seemed loth, now that they were about to be separated, to utter
the parting word, but as he thought of the advantage which this
release would be to him, he assumed a cheerful demeanor, and appeared
rejoiced at his speedy deliverance.

Their leave-taking was of the most friendly character, and after
bestowing upon Bucholz the various articles which his cell contained,
and many delicacies which had been received during his imprisonment,
Sommers prepared to leave the prison.

Clasping the hand of Bucholz, he whispered:

"Courage, William. I will see you often, and between us we will
succeed in our undertaking yet."

Saying which, and after a cordial parting salutation from the genial
and pleasant jailer, Mr. Wells, the doors of the prison were
unlocked, and Edward Sommers walked out into the bright sunshine and
inhaled the sweet fragrance of a beautiful spring morning--a free
man.

CHAPTER XXIV.

_Sommers returns to Bridgeport._--_An Interview with Mr.
Bollman._--_Sommers allays the Suspicions of Bucholz's Attorney, and
engages him as his own Counsel._

The cold, bleak winds of March had yielded to the warm and
invigorating showers of April, and these had brought forth the bright
flowers and fragrant grasses that grew and blossomed on this
beautiful May morning, when Edward Sommers left the confining walls
of the prison at Bridgeport. More than two months had elapsed since
he entered its frowning portals to commence the isolated life of a
prisoner, and a sigh of grateful relief escaped him as he gazed
around upon the brightness and beauty of the scene that was spread
before him.

There was but little time given him for indulgence in these soothing
and agreeable reveries. There was work for him to do, and he must
summon up all his energies for the task before him. His release had
been accomplished, and the promised revelation of Bucholz would be
made to him in a few days, but he must visit those who had an
interest in his welfare, and to whom he was responsible for his
actions. He would also be enabled during the few days of rest to
strengthen his shattered nerves and prepare himself for the important
duties which would soon devolve upon him. He therefore took the train
for New York and arrived there in due time.

To William Bucholz the absence of his friend and confidant was a
severe blow, but as he realized the service he promised to perform
for him, and the prospect of safety that was opening before his
despairing mind, he became reconciled to his lonely fate, and waited
patiently for the return of the man who was expected to devote
himself to his interests.

The suspicious actions of Brown, the prisoner who had watched their
movements so zealously, had not escaped the notice of both Sommers
and Bucholz, and, on leaving, the former had cautioned his companion
particularly and repeatedly against saying anything to him or to any
one else about matters connected with his case.

At the end of three days Edward Sommers returned to Bridgeport, and,
selecting a private boarding-house, he took up his abode there and
prepared to carry out the plans that were to be arranged between
himself and William Bucholz.

He considered it of paramount importance at the outset to disabuse
the minds of the attorneys for Bucholz of any suspicion in regard to
the relations existing between them, and with that end in view he
paid a visit to the city of New Haven, and finding Mr. Bollman, the
counsel who had acted for both of them, at his office, he engaged him
for the conduct of his own case when it should come to trial.

In the course of the conversation which ensued, Mr. Bollman turned
suddenly to Sommers, and said:

"Do you know, Mr. Sommers, that I have earnestly and repeatedly
warned my client against you? I had reason to believe that the
prosecuting attorney had placed some one in the jail to cultivate the
friendship of William Bucholz, in the attempt to obtain a confession
from him, and I thought you were the man. William would not listen to
this, however, and I myself believe now that such is not the case as
regards yourself, but I told him that he must not trust any one with
whom he was associated, nor make a confidant of any one in the
prison. A man in his position, you know cannot be too careful."

Sommers listened attentively and good-humoredly to these remarks, and
finally informed Mr. Bollman that he knew Bucholz had been warned
against him, for he had told him so.

"But, Mr. Bollman," continued he, "you need not be afraid of me, for
I have given him the same advice myself."

"Do you know of any suspicious persons in the jail?" asked Mr.
Bollman.

"I cannot tell with any certainty," replied the other; "but I do not
like the looks of one of the hall men, nor of that treacherous-looking
Brown, who is always spying upon the actions of the inmates of the
prison. I have warned Bucholz against these men myself, and I do not
think he has given them any information whatever."

After a protracted conversation, during which Sommers labored
diligently and successfully to erase any latent suspicions from the
mind of the attorney, Mr. Bollman at length said:

"Well, Mr. Sommers, to be candid with you, my suspicions were the
most decidedly aroused when I had my interview with Mr. Olmstead, the
State's attorney, about your bail. He evinced an unwillingness to
reduce the amount, and expressed a belief that you had known Bucholz
before you came to the jail. His manner of speaking led me to think
that he knew more about you than was good for my client, and I felt
sure that he had been the means of placing you in the jail to watch
him."

"I quite agree with you, Mr. Bollman; it did look suspicious," said
Sommers; "but Mr. Olmstead asked me the same questions when I spoke
to him. I suppose he thought from our intimacy that I must have been
acquainted with him before he was arrested."

With this explanation, and the ingenuous manner in which it was
given, the mind of Mr. Bollman seemed to be at rest upon this
subject, and their further conversation related to the case in which
Sommers himself would appear as defendant, and in which Mr. Bollman
was to act as his counsel.

Sommers informed him that he had seen the gentleman whose name had
been forged, and that, in consideration of the family connections of
the accused, he had agreed not to appear against him, and that there
would be very little danger of his conviction of the crime of which
he was charged.

This appeared to be very gratifying information for Mr. Bollman, who
therefore anticipated very little trouble in clearing his client and
earning his fee.

It was further arranged between them that a letter should be sent to
the relations of Bucholz in Germany, who had not as yet displayed any
sympathy for the unfortunate man or made any offer of assistance to
him, during the hour of his trial.

One noticeable feature of their conversation was the evident
avoidance by both of them of a discussion of the probable guilt or
innocence of the accused man, nor did either declare his belief in
his innocence.

Mr. Bollman expressed himself very carefully: "I have followed up the
theory of his guilt, and it does not agree with his own statements or
those of other people. Then, again, I have taken up the theory of his
innocence, and this does not agree with his story either. It is a
most extraordinary case, and sometimes it seems to me that it cannot
be otherwise but that William Bucholz is the guilty party; and then,
again, there are some of his actions that tend positively to show
that he did not do it. I am at a loss what to say about it myself."

Sommers gave Mr. Bollman to understand that he believed in the guilt
of the accused man, but that, in despite of that fact, he was willing
to help him to the extent of his power.

And so they parted, and Edward Sommers returned to Bridgeport to be
near his fellow-prisoner, and to carry out the plan which was to be
entrusted to him.

As he stepped from the train upon the platform, he was surprised to
see the figure of Thomas Brown standing in the doorway of the
station, evidently waiting for the train to bear him away for the
time. Upon making inquiries he ascertained that he had been released
on bail, and that he had found friends to assist him. He never saw
him again. Whether this individual was an embryo detective, who was
desirous of discovering the mystery of the Schulte murder, or whether
he was simply a victim of intense curiosity, was never learned.

He disappeared, and, so far as his relation to this narrative is
concerned, was never heard of again.

CHAPTER XXV.

_Sommers' Visit to South Norwalk._--_He makes the Acquaintance of
Sadie Waring._--_A Successful Ruse._--_Bucholz Confides to His Friend
the Hiding Place of the Murdered Man's Money._

Upon the return of Edward Sommers to the jail at Bridgeport he was
warmly welcomed by his friend, to whom the intervening days had
passed slowly and wearily.

His greeting was cordial and friendly, and as Sommers related his
experiences during his absence, the eyes of William would light up
with pleasure. No one to have looked at him now would have imagined
for a moment that the face now wreathed with smiles had once been
distorted by a murderous passion, or grown ashen pale with the fear
of the consequences of his action.

Their conversation was long and seemingly interesting, and as Sommers
unfolded his plans for the relief of the imprisoned man, all doubt of
their success was dissipated from his mind, and visions of
prospective safety came thick and fast. He still appeared doubtful of
communicating the promised secret of the hiding-place of the old
man's money to his companion. He avoided the subject by eager
questions upon other topics, and when the time arrived for the
departure of Sommers, the confidence was still withheld, and the
position of the stolen money was known only to the man who had placed
it there.

Sommers had informed him of his visit to Mr. Bollman and of the
conversation which had taken place between them relating to the
suspicions entertained by him of Sommers, to all of which Bucholz
listened with wrapt attention, and when he was again solemnly
cautioned about informing his counsel of the relations existing
between them, or of their possession of any of the wealth of the
murdered man, with a peculiar twinkle in his eye he promised a strict
obedience.

Finding it impossible to extract anything from him upon this visit,
Sommers took his leave, promising to return upon the next day that
visitors were admitted, and also agreeing to furnish him with some
delicacies for which he had expressed a desire.

Sommers began to grow impatient under this continued procrastination
and evasion, and he resolved to take such measures as would
accomplish the object desired. He had found, during his connection
with Bucholz, that he had not the slightest regard for the truth. He
would make the most astounding assertions, unblushingly insisting
upon their truthfulness, and even when brought face to face with
facts which contradicted his statements, he would stubbornly decline
to be convinced or to admit his error or falsehood. All through their
intercourse he had evinced this tendency to exaggeration and
untruthfulness, and Sommers had grown to be very skeptical with
regard to any statement which he would make.

He had promised William to visit the farmhouse where Henry Schulte
had resided, and to call upon the family of the Warings, who still
continued to reside there, and to carry a message to Sadie.
Accordingly, one morning he started for South Norwalk, and, arriving
there in safety, he walked up the main road, and, entering through
the gate in front of the house, he knocked at the door.

The family were all absent except Sadie, who greeted the new-comer in
a friendly manner. He announced himself as a friend of William's, and
conveyed to her the affectionate messages which he had been entrusted
with. Sadie appeared to be rejoiced at the information which he
brought, and soon became quite communicative to the young man. She
related to him the incidents of the murder, and expressed her belief
in the innocence of Bucholz, and her hopes of his acquittal.

Sommers, by the exercise of a little good nature and that tact which
is generally acquired by a man of the world, succeeded in
ingratiating himself into the favor of the young lady, and when,
after spending some time in her company, he arose to take his leave,
she volunteered to accompany him a short distance upon his journey,
and to point out to him the spot where the murder had taken place.

Her offer was cheerfully accepted by Sommers, and they were soon
chatting pleasantly on their way through the fields. Arriving at the
strip of woods, they walked along the narrow path and Sadie
designated to him the place where the body had been found.

Very different now was the scene presented. The trees, whose branches
were then bare, were now covered with their bright and heavy verdure;
the ground, that then was hard and frozen, was now carpeted with the
luxurious grass; the birds sang merrily overhead, and the warm
sunshine lighted up the wood with a beauty far different than was
apparent upon that bleak winter night when Henry Schulte met his
death upon the spot where they now were standing.

They then walked together up the railroad, and meeting the mother and
sister returning home, Sommers bade them a pleasant good-bye and
promised to pay them another visit as soon as practicable.

He determined to make this visit the groundwork of a definite attack
upon the reticence of William Bucholz. The next morning, upon going
to the jail, he informed William of his visit to South Norwalk, and
of his meeting with Sadie Waring. After relating the various
incidents that had occurred during his visit, and which were listened
to with lively interest, he turned suddenly to Bucholz, and lightly
said:

"By the way, Bucholz, the Warings are going to move."

Bucholz started suddenly, as though the information conveyed an
unpleasant surprise.

"You must not let them move, Sommers," he exclaimed quickly, and with
an evidence of fear in his voice. "That will never do."

"I can not prevent their moving," replied Sommers. "They will do as
they please about that, I guess. Besides, what has their moving got
to do with us?"

"Oh, everything, everything," exclaimed Bucholz.

"Well, they are going at all events."

"Then the money must be got. Oh, Sommers, do not betray me, but one
of the pocket-books is in the barn."

"Whereabouts in the barn?" inquired Sommers, almost unable to conceal
his satisfaction at the success of his ruse.

"I will show you how to get it. I will draw a sketch of the barn, and
show you just where it is to be found," exclaimed William, hurriedly.
"Oh, my dear Sommers, you do not know how worried I have been. I
first threw the money under the straw in the barn, and on the Sunday
morning after old Schulte was killed I went out in the barn to get
it, and put it in a safe place, when I found that the straw had been
taken away. I stood there as if I was petrified, but I looked
further, and there, under the loose straw upon the ground, I saw the
pocket-book lying all safe. The man who had taken the straw away had
not been smart enough to see it. I felt as though a bright gleam of
sunshine had come over me, and I picked it up and hid it away in a
safe place. My God! My God! What a fool I was."

"I should think so," replied Sommers.

Bucholz then drew a sketch of the barn, and designated the
hiding-place of the money as being under the flooring of the first
stall that you met on entering.

It was with great difficulty that Summers retained his composure as
he received this information, but he succeeded in controlling his
emotions, and took the paper from the hands of his companion with a
calmness which displayed the wonderful control which he exercised
over himself.

"There are some marks upon these bills," said Bucholz with a laugh,
"and if Mr. Olmstead was to see them he would know what they mean."

"Ah, yes," replied Sommers. "They are the numbers which Mr. Schulte
put upon them, but," he added, confidently, "I will soon fix that, a
little acid will take that all out and nobody will know anything
about it."

The prisoner laughed, gleefully, and slapping his companion upon the
back, exclaimed:

"Ah, Sommers, you are a devil of a fellow! and I can trust your skill
in anything."

He then informed Sommers that he did not know how much money was in
the pocketbook; that he had taken some fifty and one-hundred-dollar
bills out of it, but that fearing to have so much money about him he
had replaced a large portion of what he had previously taken.

The time was now approaching for visitors to leave the prison, and
Sommers arose to go. Bucholz arose also, as if some new idea had
occurred to him, or he had formed some new resolve; he said:

"While you are there you may as well get--" then he stopped abruptly,
and changing his mind, he added: "But never mind, that is too--high
up."

Sommers felt confident that his companion was withholding something
from him, and he was resolved that before he had finished, he would
arrive at the whole of the mystery, but he had gained enough for one
day and he was compelled to be satisfied.

Before leaving Bucholz for that day he informed him that he would
take the money to New York and endeavor to get the marks out of the
bills; that he would then throw the empty pocket-book in some place,
where it would be found, and that would be a good thing for him upon
the trial.

Bucholz caught greedily at this suggestion, and laughed loudly at the
prospect of blinding the eyes of justice by the operation of this
clever trick.

Leaving him in this excellent good humor, Sommers took his departure
from the jail, and, in a jubilant frame of mind, returned to the
town.

CHAPTER XXVI.

_Edward Sommers as the Detective._--_A Visit to the Barn, and Part of
the Money Discovered._--_The Detective makes Advances to the Counsel
of the Prisoner._--_A Further Confidence of an Important Nature._

The reader is no doubt by this time fully aware of the character of
Edward Sommers. He was a detective, and in my employ. Day by day, as
his intimacy with William Bucholz had increased, I had been duly
informed of the fact. Step by step, as he had neared the point
desired, I had received the information and advised the course of
action.

Every night before retiring the detective would furnish me with a
detailed statement of the proceedings of the day which had passed,
and I was perfectly cognizant of the progress he made, and was fully
competent, by reason of that knowledge, to advise and direct his
future movements.

The manner of his arrest had been planned by me, and successfully
carried out; the money package had been made up in my office, and the
forged order was the handiwork of one of my clerks, and the ingenious
manner of carrying out this matter had completely deluded his
accusers, by whom the charge was made in perfect good faith.

During his occupancy of the prison he had so thoroughly won the
confidence of William Bucholz that he had become almost a necessity
to him. This guilty man, hugging to himself the knowledge of his
crime and his ill-gotten gains, had found the burden too heavy to
bear. Many times during their intercourse had he been tempted to pour
into the ears of his suddenly-discovered friend the history of his
life, and only the stern and frequently-repeated commands of his
watchful counsel had prevented the revelation. But the time had come
when, either through the fear of losing what he had risked so much to
gain, or from the impelling force of that unseen agency which seeks a
companion or a confidant, he had confided to his fellow-prisoner the
hiding-place of the old man's wealth--the money stained with the
life-blood of his master.

How much he may have been guided to this course by the question of
self-interest is a matter of speculation. He had been cruel enough to
strike this old man down and to rob him of his money. He had been
wary enough to wound himself, and to have feigned a terror which had
deluded many into a belief in his innocence. He had been sufficiently
sagacious to keep from his attorneys all knowledge of this money, and
he had repeatedly denied to Sommers, and to every one else, any
participation in the dark deed of that winter's night.

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