Bucholz and the Detectives

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His preparations were soon made, and ere many days he was afloat upon
the heaving ocean, bound for New York, where he was informed he could
procure a sailing vessel direct to Australia, at a cost much less
than he could by any other process of travel.

Arriving without accident in New York, he had taken up his quarters
at "The Crescent Hotel," and proceeded to make inquiries concerning
the continuance of his journey.

To his disappointment, however, he discovered that no vessels were
likely to sail from New York directly to Australia, and the limited
means he had brought with him were insufficient for the expense
necessary to travel overland to a point of embarkation. He was
therefore compelled to delay his journey until he could receive
sufficient funds to enable him to continue farther. He immediately
wrote to his family for the money he required, and it was while
awaiting their reply that he met Frank Bruner, the servant of Henry
Schulte, whose acquaintance was destined to produce such a marked and
dramatic effect upon his future life.

CHAPTER XVI.

_Frank leaves the Service of his Master._--_A Bowery Concert
Saloon._--_The departure of Henry Schulte._--_William Bucholz
enters the employ of the old gentleman._

We left William Bucholz and Frank Bruner in conversation at "The
Crescent Hotel." The young Hussar who had been reared in luxury,
whose life until this time had been a round of pleasure and gayety,
and who had come to America to seek his fortune--and the servant of
the strange and silent old man who had crossed the sea to escape the
imagined dangers which threatened him and to find peace and comfort
in his declining years.

"You have just come over from Germany, I understand," said Bucholz,
addressing his companion in German.

"Just arrived to-day," replied Bruner.

"Did you come alone?"

"Oh, no; I came with the old gentleman who has just gone to bed."

"Have you been long with him?"

"Long enough to want to get away from him," was the reply.

"What is the reason?" inquired Bucholz, with some indication of
surprise and curiosity.

"Well, he does not use me properly, and I have grown tired of his
abuse," answered Frank, sullenly.

After further questioning him, Bucholz learned the story of the old
man's eccentricities, the fact of his large possessions, and the
probability of his extending his travels as far West as California.

"I would not leave him," said Bucholz, after Frank had finished his
narrative; "he may not live very long, and he will no doubt do
something handsome for you."

"I don't care for that," replied Frank Bruner; "I would not continue
many days longer in his service even if I knew that he would leave me
all his money."

At that moment the sound of a cane struck angrily upon the floor
above them admonished Frank that his master desired his services, and
also that he was in no pleasant humor.

"There he goes!" cried Frank, "and I must go to him or I shall feel
the weight of his stick. Good-night."

"Good-night!" said Bucholz, extending his hand, "I will see you again
in the morning."

The young man turned and left the room, and Bucholz seated himself
apart from the rest of the company, apparently lost in profound
meditation. Shortly after, he roused himself, as with an effort, and
bidding his comrades good-night he went up stairs to his room.

He did not immediately retire, however, but sat up until a late hour,
revolving in his mind the information which he had just received and
debating with himself as to his future course of action.

The result of this mental consultation appeared satisfactory to him,
and he undressed himself and went to bed. He would encourage Frank to
leave his distasteful employment, and he would offer himself as an
applicant for the vacant position. He had no fears of the result, and
felt no anxiety about the probabilities of his being made the subject
of the old man's castigations. If the old gentleman designed going to
California he would be so much nearer to the coveted place of his
ambitious dreams, and he could very easily submit to temporary
discomforts in order to secure the practical benefits which he so
much desired. With this comforting reflection he closed his eyes and
was soon fast asleep.

In the morning he again met Frank Bruner, and the conversation of the
night before was continued. Bucholz, without seeming to be anxious
upon the subject, adroitly led the unsuspecting servant on in his
dislike for his occupation, and he succeeded so well that before the
day was passed, Frank had firmly resolved to inform Henry Schulte of
his plans and of his intention to leave his service.

In the evening, immediately after supper, he communicated his
intention to his master, who received it with violent manifestations
of disappointment and anger, and almost instantly retired to his
room, locked his door, thereby denying admission to Frank, who was
prepared to serve his irate master until he could provide himself
with another servant.

Finding himself left to his own resources, Frank cordially accepted
an invitation to take a stroll with his newly-found associate, and
putting on his hat he linked his arm in that of Bucholz, and they
left the hotel together.

Walking slowly on they soon came to the brilliantly-lighted
thoroughfare in the Bowery, known as Chatham Street, and here their
ears were saluted with the sounds of music, which emanated from the
illuminated saloons, which lined the sidewalks at frequent intervals.

Frank gazed with curious eyes at this phase of New York life, so new
and startling to one whose early years had been passed in the rural
simplicity of a German peasant, and as Bucholz stopped before one of
these places and asked him if he would like to go inside, he made not
the slightest objection. Quietly following his guide they found
themselves within the walls of one of those gilded palaces of sin,
that have so often proved the avenues through which many unsuspecting
young men have entered upon a life of shame and dishonor.

To Frank, however, the scene was novel and exciting, the music was
exhilarating, and the "pretty waiter girls" were objects of curiosity
and unfeigned admiration. Pushing their way through the crowded
assembly, where men and women were engaged in drinking and indulging
in loud and boisterous laughter, they reached a position in front of
a stage that had been erected in the rear end of the hall, and before
which hung a gaudily-painted curtain, which hid from the spectators
the mysteries and perhaps the miseries that lay beyond.

Bucholz appeared to be perfectly at home among this mixed assemblage,
and nodded familiarly to right and left in recognition of numerous
friends and acquaintances. Presently a buxom-looking German girl,
whose rosy cheeks and rotund figure gave evidence that her life in
this place had been of short duration, advanced towards them, and,
seating herself beside Bucholz, bade him good evening, in a tone of
familiarity which betokened a long, or, at least, a well-understood
acquaintance.

[Illustration: _"A buxom looking german girl sat down beside
Bucholz, and bade him Good Evening."_]

To the young man who accompanied Bucholz there seemed to be a
fascination in the glitter of his present surroundings, and he
instinctively began to feel envious of his more fortunate companion,
who appeared so much at his ease, and whose intimacy with the
Teutonic siren was so much to be admired.

During the progress of the mixed entertainment that followed, in
which dancing and singing, banjo playing, and a liberal display of
the anatomy of the female "artists" formed the principal features,
they sipped their beer and applauded loudly the efforts of those who
ministered to their enjoyment.

Upon the conclusion of the performance, they returned to their hotel,
and Frank Bruner's mind was more firmly settled in his determination
to leave the service of Henry Schulte, and to find employment in the
city, where such pleasures would be open to him at all times.

On their walk homeward to the hotel Frank again mentioned his resolve
to Bucholz.

"I think you are very foolish," was the reply. "The old man has lots
of money, and if I was in your place I would do very different."

Frank was immovable, however, and the words of his companion produced
no effect upon his mind.

The next morning Mr. Schulte endeavored in vain to induce Frank to
change his determination, and at last, finding it impossible to do
so, he paid him the amount that was due to him and dispensed, rather
reluctantly, with his further services.

A few days after this, having completed the business which detained
him in New York, the old gentleman announced his intention of
departing, and, having his baggage transferred to the coach, he
started for the depot, leaving Frank behind him, who now half
regretted having so suddenly sundered his relations with his
eccentric employer.

Bucholz's opportunity had now arrived, and jumping into the coach, he
took his seat beside the old gentleman, whose acquaintance he had
cultivated during his brief sojourn at the hotel.

"You are going away, Mr. Schulte?" said Bucholz.

The old man nodded his head affirmatively, but made no audible reply.

"Which way are you going?" asked Bucholz, unabashed by the manner of
the other.

"I am going down to South Norwalk, in Connecticut, to buy a farm
which was advertised for sale there," answered Mr. Schulte.

"Where is Frank?" asked Bucholz, as though in ignorance of their
separation. "Is he not going with you?"

"Frank is no longer in my employ. I have discharged him, and he must
now look out for himself."

"Don't you want somebody to take his place?" said Bucholz, eagerly.

"Yes, but I will get some one down there, I guess," replied the old
man, as though he did not desire to talk any further about his
affairs.

"Don't you think I would suit you, Mr. Schulte? I have nothing to do,
and would be very glad to take the place," urged Bucholz. The old
gentleman looked up in surprise at this question, and said:

"You would not come for such wages as I would pay."

He named a sum ridiculously small, but Bucholz announced his perfect
willingness to accept the position at the remuneration offered.

The old gentleman revolved the question in his mind for a few
moments, gazing somewhat suspiciously at the young man the while, and
at length said to Bucholz, who was anxiously awaiting his decision:

"Well, you may come along and see how you will like it. If it does
not suit you, you can return, and we can make our arrangements
afterward."

The matter was thus disposed of, and William Bucholz journeyed to
South Norwalk with his employer. The gay soldier had become the
humble servant, the prospective farmer had been transformed into the
obsequious valet.

These two men had journeyed across the seas, for a far-off land, and
thus had strangely met. The web of fate had woven itself around their
two lives, and the compact this day made was only to be severed by
the death, sudden and mysterious, of the eldest party to the
agreement.

Who could have told that before many months had rolled away, that old
man would have been brutally beaten to death, and that the
bright-faced young man who sued for his favor would be sitting in a
lonely cell under the dreadful charge of committing the foul deed!

Perhaps could either have glanced with prophetic vision into the
future, their paths, by mutual consent, would have widely diverged,
and their intimacy have ceased forever on that August afternoon.

THE DETECTION.

CHAPTER XVII.

_The Detective._--_His Experience and His Practice._--_A Plan of
Detection Perfected._--_The Work is Begun._

The detective occupies a peculiar position in society, and is a
prominent actor in many scenes of which the general public can have
no knowledge. In his breast may be locked the secrets of many men who
stand in proud pre-eminence before the public, and who are admired
and respected for the possession of virtues that are but the cloak
with which they hide the baser elements of their dispositions.

The canting hypocrite, whose voice may be loudest in chapel or
meeting-house, and whose sanctimonious air and solemn visage will
cover the sins of his heart to the general observer, is well known to
the detective, who has seen that same face pale with apprehension,
and has heard that same voice trembling with the fear of exposure.

That dapper young gentleman, who twirls his moustache and swings his
cane so jauntily upon the promenade, is an object of admiration to
many; but to the man who knows the secrets of his inner life another
scene is opened, and he remembers when this same exquisite walked the
cell of a prison--a convict guilty of a crime.

Through all the various grades of society the detective has wended
his way, and he has looked into men's hearts when infamy stared them
in the face and dishonor impended over them.

His experience has rendered him almost incapable of surprise, or
mobility of feeling. He is ever watchful for the deceptiveness of
appearances, ever prepared to admit everything, to explain
everything, and to believe nothing--but what he sees.

The judicial officer, with the nicety and legal acumen of a thorough
jurist, applies the technicalities of the law to the testimony
submitted to him, but the detective observes with caution, and
watches with suspicion all the odious combinations and circumstances
which the law with all the power at its command cannot successfully
reach.

He is made the unwilling, but necessary recipient of disgraceful
details; of domestic crimes, and even of tolerated vices with which
the law cannot deal.

If, when he entered upon his office, his mind teemed with illusions
in regard to humanity, the experience of a year has dissipated them
to the winds.

If he does not eventually become skeptical of the whole human race,
it is because his experience has shown him that honor and vice may
walk side by side without contamination; that virtue and crime may be
closely connected, and yet no stain be left upon the white robe of
purity, and that while upon the one hand he sees abominations
indulged in with impunity, upon the other, he witnesses a sublime
generosity which cannot be weakened or crushed. The modest violet may
exhale its fragrance through an overgrowth of noxious weeds--and
humanity bears out the simile.

He sees with contempt the proud bearing of the impudent scoundrels
who are unjustly receiving public respect, but he sees also with
pleasure many heroes in the modest and obscure walks of life, who
deserve the rich rewards which they never receive.

He has so often pierced beneath the shining mask of virtue and
discovered the distorted visage of vice, that he has almost reached a
state of general doubtfulness until results shall demonstrate the
correctness of his theories. He believes in nothing until it is
proven--not in absolute evil more than in absolute good, and the
results of his teachings have brought him to the conclusion that not
men but events alone are worthy of consideration.

A knowledge of human nature is as necessary to him as that he shall
have eyes and ears, and this knowledge experience alone can give.

In my eventful career as a detective, extending over a period of
thirty years of active practice, my experience has been of such a
character as to lead me to pay no attention to the outward appearance
of men or things. The burglar does not commit his depredations in the
open light of day, nor in the full view of the spectator. Nor does
the murderer usually select the brilliantly-lighted highway to strike
the fatal blow. Quietly and secretly, and with every imagined
precaution against detection, the criminal acts, and it is only by
equally secretive ways that he can be reached.

Weeks and months may elapse before he is finally brought to bay, but
I have never known it to fail, at least in my experience, that
detection will follow crime as surely as the shadow will follow a
moving body in the glare of sunlight.

From the facts collected by my operatives, and from every other
available source, I was now put into possession of every point in the
case of the murder of Henry Schulte, that could be arrived at, and we
were prepared to define a plan of operation, which, if strictly
adhered to, bore the impress of promised success.

An old man had been foully murdered, and his body had been robbed of
a large sum of money. Money, therefore, was the cause of the murder,
and the recovery and identification of this would undoubtedly lead to
the discovery of the criminal.

The matter, with all its attendant facts, was placed in the hands of
Mr. Bangs, my general superintendent, and of my son, Robert A.
Pinkerton, who resolved to succeed in the undertaking if success were
possible.

The details of our proposed line of action were submitted to the
German Consul-General and to the State's attorney, Mr. Olmstead. The
former, while expressing doubts of the expediency of the plan
proposed, determined finally to allow us to pursue such course as in
our judgment was advisable, while the latter gentleman signified his
hearty approval, as it accorded in many respects with a plan which he
had previously thought feasible in this very matter.

Our relations with these gentlemen were of a nature somewhat
peculiar. The German Consul was acting in a double capacity, and had
two interests to serve. He represented the heirs of the murdered man,
and in that relation he was desirous of recovering the money that had
been stolen, as well as discovering who the murderer was and bringing
him to justice. At the same time, he was expected to render whatever
assistance that was in his power to the unfortunate man who stood
accused of the crime, and who was also a native of Germany, requiring
his protection. The German Consul also entertained a well-grounded
faith in the innocence of Bucholz, and desired that every fact that
would substantiate this opinion should be discovered and used for his
benefit.

The State's attorney, on the contrary, was firmly established in his
belief that the murder had been committed by Bucholz, and none other,
and his desire was that this theory should be proved beyond the
possibility of doubt, in order that he, as the prosecuting officer of
the State, should be enabled to uphold the dignity of outraged law,
and to bring the guilty man to the justice which he believed was so
richly merited.

It was determined, therefore, after a conference with these
gentlemen, that my agents should pursue the investigation in such a
manner as seemed best, and which gave greatest promise of eventual
success.

Armed with this double authority, our arrangements were soon made,
and active operations were instituted. Whether our efforts resulted
in victory or defeat, the sequel will prove.

CHAPTER XVIII.

_A Detective Reminiscence._--_An Operation in Bridgeport in
1866._--_The Adams Express Robbery._--_A Half Million of Dollars
Stolen._--_Capture of the Thieves._--_One of the Principals Turns
State's Evidence._--_Conviction and Punishment._

When a great crime has been committed the public mind experiences a
sensation of horror. Imaginative persons are busy in the formation of
all sorts of fancies with regard to the perpetrators. His probable
appearance, gigantic proportions and horrible aspect are duly
commented upon, and exaggeration invariably takes the place of fact
in such estimations. In the majority of cases that have come under my
notice the personal appearance of the criminal belied the possibility
of his guilt.

The verdant spectator is frequently amazed to find the apparent
gentleman, attired with the precision of the tailor's art, with
immaculate linen, and of delicate, and sometimes refined appearance
arraigned for the crime of robbery or murder.

Many times I have seen the eager spectator in a court-room, looking
vainly among the group of lawyers before the bar, for the monster
they have conjured up in their imaginations, and finally settling
upon some sharp-featured, but unimpeachable attorney as the
malefactor, indulge in wise reflections as to the impossibility of
mistaking a rogue from his appearance.

I have seen their start of surprise as the real criminal, genteel,
cool and gentlemanly, would rise from his seat and plead to the
indictment that would be read to him, and their solemn shake of the
head as their wise reflections were scattered to the winds.

My first experience with the town of Bridgeport was particularly
suggestive of these reflections. I was engaged in a detective
operation in which the Adams Express Company were the sufferers,
having been robbed of a large amount of money, and, as the robbery
took place in the vicinity of that city, the thieves, whom I
succeeded in capturing, were confined in the jail there.

The affair occurred during the first week of January, 1866, and the
facts were as follows:

On the night of the sixth of January, in the year just mentioned, the
public mind was startled by the announcement that the Adams Express
Company had been robbed of over a half million of dollars, by the
thieves breaking into the car in which their valuables were placed,
prying open the safes, and abstracting over six hundred thousand
dollars, in notes, bonds and other valuable securities.

The train to which the car was attached had left New York for Boston
at eight o' clock in the evening, and it was not until arriving at
New Haven that the depredation was discovered.

The dismay of the company's officials may be imagined when, on
entering the car at the latter place, the fractured safes met their
astonished gaze. A marlin spike, three dark lanterns and a sledge
hammer which lay beside them, told too plainly how the work had been
accomplished, but it furnished no clue as to how, or when, or by
whom.

The car was of the ordinary size of a box freight car, built with an
iron frame, sheathed over with thick sheet iron plates, rivetted
strongly together, and so closely made that a light placed inside
could not be seen when the doors were closed. A messenger always
accompanied this car, but he usually sat in the baggage car of the
train, and as the train did not make any stoppages between New York
and New Haven, it was only at this time that the theft was discovered
by the entrance of the messenger.

It further appeared that the company's safes were taken from the
depot in New York and placed in the iron car, which was waiting upon
a side-track, and which was immediately afterwards attached to the
train.

The safes having been placed in the car, the door was securely
locked, and, as the train was then ready to start, the agent of the
company gave the word "All right!" The train started and sped upon
its journey, and nothing further was known until its arrival at New
Haven and the discovery of the theft.

I was immediately notified of the matter, and after a careful
observation of the safes and an investigation into the facts of the
case, I thought I detected the handiwork of a party of young thieves
whom I had accidentally encountered in another operation in which I
had been engaged some months previously.

Operatives were immediately despatched in various directions, and the
movements of the suspected parties were carefully but unobservedly
watched. Very soon after, I succeeded in running down two of the
parties, named John Tristram and Thomas Clark, and upon arresting
them each one had in his possession a gold watch, both of which were
identified as stolen property. They were accordingly conveyed to
Bridgeport and held to await their trial.

Mr. Wells, the genial and efficient keeper of the prison, whose
acquaintance I had previously made, received the prisoners and
securely fastened them up.

A few days following this, an old resident of Norwalk, who was also
an uncle of one of the men arrested, was observed by one of my men,
carrying a package of unusual weight from his residence to the house
of a sister of Tristram in New York City, and an examination of the
house resulted in finding nearly eighty seven thousand dollars of the
stolen treasure. The old man was arrested, but developments proved
too plainly that he was only acting as a mere blind messenger for the
other parties, and he was accordingly discharged.

The trial of the two men, which subsequently took place at
Bridgeport, was attended by a large array of New York burglars,
shoplifters and pick-pockets--all friends of the criminals. They were
closely watched, as it was feared that they intended making some
attempt to rescue the prisoners. This precaution proved not to have
been in vain, for during the sitting of the court an attempt was made
to purloin an iron box in which most of the testimony intended for
use in the case, was kept. This was fortunately discovered in time,
and many of the individuals concerned in it left town immediately.

On the trial Tristram pleaded guilty and was sentenced to a term of
imprisonment of three years and six months.

From the evidence upon the part of the company, it appeared that the
money in the safes was in four separate pouches, and consisted mainly
of currency belonging to banking institutions, and all of which
lacked the signatures of the bank officers to give it full character
as money.

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