Bucholz and the Detectives

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The amounts taken were as follows:

From the Washington Pouch, $278,000.00
From the Baltimore Pouch, 150,000.00
From the Philadelphia Pouch, 100,000.00
From the New York Pouch, 150,000.00
----------
$678,000.00

The two watches that were found upon the prisoners and identified as
stolen from the safes, were designed as gifts, and were being carried
by the company for delivery to the friends of the givers in Boston.

Clark stood trial alone and was found guilty of only one count of the
information against him, and his counsel obtained a stay of
proceedings.

I was now determined to capture the other members of the gang, and my
arrangements were made accordingly. I suspected an individual named
James Wells as being a participant in the robbery, and therefore made
him the principal object of attack.

Wells was living at home with his mother at that time, and I
succeeded in introducing one of my operatives into the house as a
boarder. This operative cultivated the acquaintance of James, and
proved a very agreeable companion indeed, while by the female members
of the family he was regarded as one of the most pleasant boarders
imaginable. The work was admirably accomplished, and he obtained all
the information that was necessary to enable me to act intelligently
and actively in the matter.

Prompt arrests followed, and Martin Allen, James Wells, Gilly
McGloyn, Eddy Watson and John Grady were pounced upon and conveyed to
prison.

Thus far the evidence obtained had been of a character sufficient to
warrant an arrest, but hardly of convincing force to justify a
conviction upon a trial by jury.

Most of the stolen property had been recovered, and I finally decided
to make an onslaught upon the weak points of Clark, the man
previously arrested, and now awaiting the new trial which had been
granted in his case.

Accordingly I visited the jail and had an interview with this
individual, who did not, at first, appear at all delighted with the
visit. In a short time, however, I had gained entire control of the
man, and he became like wax in my hands. He made a full confession of
the robbery, and declared his readiness to become a witness for the
prosecution. Having accomplished my purpose, I announced to the
officers of the State my readiness to proceed to trial, and my
sanguine hopes of a full conviction of the parties implicated.

The trial took place shortly afterwards in Danbury, and I do not
remember ever to have seen a more gentlemanly-looking array of
prisoners before a bar of justice.

They were all dressed in the most exquisite style, and deported
themselves in a manner far from what would ordinarily be expected
from men engaged in professional criminal pursuits.

During the trial the Court House was thronged by the fair sex of
Danbury, whose sympathetic hearts were profoundly touched at the
sight of these gentlemanly-appearing rascals. The attendance was
further augmented by the appearance of many of their friends, both
male and female, who came from New York to witness the proceedings
and offer their loving consolations to the unfortunates.

The alarm of these sympathetic friends reached a culminating point
when the prosecuting attorney arose in his place and announced that
he would place upon the stand one of the principals in the robbery,
who would unfold the plot and its successful execution. Each prisoner
looked at the other, and angry, suspicious glances flashed from the
eyes of them all. Threats were whispered audibly among their friends,
but no demonstration took place, and the silence in the court-room
became painfully oppressive as the State's attorney, after finishing
his address to the jury, called the name of Thomas Clark.

The prisoner took the stand, and, unabashed by the angry glances that
were directed towards him, he told the story of the robbery in a
plain, straightforward manner, that carried conviction to the minds
of both judge and jury.

The testimony which he gave was as follows:

"My connection with this robbery commenced on or about the 20th of
December last (1865), at which time I met Martin Allen at a saloon in
New York City. It was on that occasion that he told me that his
brother-in-law, James Wells, who resided in Brooklyn, had an
acquaintance named Gilly McGloyn, and that Gilly had a brother-in-law
named Grady, who was a brakeman on the express train of the New York
and New Haven Railroad, which left New York at 8 o'clock in the
evening. He also said that Grady wanted McGloyn to get somebody to
help throw the safes out of that train. McGloyn went to Wells on
purpose to inform him, and Wells told him of it, and Allen told me.

"The next day Allen, Wells, McGloyn and Grady met me at Lafayette
Hall, on Broadway, about the 21st of December. At that time Grady
exhibited a piece of soap which contained an impression of a key-hole
in the lock of the Adams Express car. In the course of the
conversation which ensued at that time, Grady said that there were
two messengers who looked after the Adams Express cars alternately,
one on each alternate night. He said that the most careless of the
two messengers was named Moore, and that his evenings from New York
were Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Grady said he thought any one
of those evenings would be the best to select for the purpose of
committing the robbery.

"Some time afterward, on a night when Moore had charge of the express
car, I got on the train at Forty-second street, and went into the
smoking car. There was a man there busy making a fire in the stove,
and in a few moments Grady came into the car, and in order to
signalize to me who Moore was, slapped the man on the back, saying,
'Billy Moore, you don't know how to make a fire.'

"The place which I selected as the proper point for throwing off the
safes was between Coscob Bridge and Stamford. I hit upon that spot
for the purpose, because at that point the distance between stoppages
was short, being only three miles from Coscob Bridge to Stamford. I
left the train at Bridgeport, where I stopped at the Atlantic Hotel,
near the depot, all night. I returned to New York by the 10 o'clock
train next morning. I think it was the same day that the parties I
have named had another meeting at Lafayette Hall.

"It was at that time we arranged a plan for getting the safes out at
Forty-second street, where we got the size of the lock of the express
car. Next day Allen and myself visited nearly every hardware store in
New York for the purpose of purchasing a lock similar to that on the
car. The nearest to it in appearance was found in a store on Howard
street, between Crosby street and Broadway. We wanted this lock to
put on the door of the car after breaking the other off. That same
day Allen and Wells went to the same store and bought a sledge
hammer. On the evening of the same day Allen went to Crowe's livery
stable and hired a horse and a heavy express wagon.

"Some time before this Allen and I went to a blacksmith shop and had
a piece of steel made into shape for the purpose of prying the lock
off the car. No less than five efforts were made to take the safes
off the car at Forty-second street, on nights when Moore was
messenger. Next day after our last attempt Allen, McGloyn, Grady and
myself met at Lafayette Hall and arranged to abandon the Forty-second
street plan. Tristram, Hudson and McGuire were never present at our
conferences at Lafayette Hall. I used to meet McGuire and tell him
what had transpired, and he used to convey the intelligence to
Tristram and Hudson.

"The new plan was that three of us were to secrete ourselves in the
express car during its brief stay at Forty-second street, and the
other five were to go in the passenger cars. We three were to throw
off the safes after the train got over the Harlem Bridge. The five
were to get out at the bridge. After the three had thrown off the
safes they were to ring the bell, stop the train, get off and walk
back till they met the others. They were then to take the safes to
some convenient place, break them open, and pack the money and
valuables in two valises which they had with them, and leave the
safes there.

"On the night of the 6th of January last, the eight of us, Allen,
Tristram, McGuire, Hudson, Wells, McGloyn, Grady and myself met by
previous agreement, about seven o'clock, near the depot and
Forty-second street. McGuire brought with him two carpet-bags, a
marlin spike and a common mortising chisel. The others of us had a
piece of steel, a lock, a sledge hammer and a dark lantern. Hudson,
Grady, McGuire and myself got in between the express car and the
freight train, and managed to break the lock with the marlin spike.
We then drew back the door and three of us, Grady, McGuire and
myself, got in. Hudson then placed the lock in the staple outside,
but not in the hasp, and then closed the door. This was to save
appearances.

"We sat quietly until the train got in the tunnel, between New York
and Harlem. We found three safes in the car. We got one of them over
and tried to break in the bottom with the sledge hammer, but we found
this would not work. We then took the marlin spike, drove it into the
door of the safe and pried it open. McGuire held the spike and Grady
and I knocked it in. Having packed the contents of this in a
carpet-bag, we broke open another safe, the contents of which we also
packed away. The reason we did not get out after passing Harlem
Bridge was because we discovered, after getting into the car, that
the rope was in an iron tube, and that prevented our stopping the
car.

[Illustration: "_We pried the safe open._"]

"At Coscob Station we got out and hid one of the bags in a pile of
lumber. We then walked up the track a mile toward Stamford, where we
hid in a stone wall the large carpet-bag. The three of us then,
unincumbered, walked to Stamford. Here Grady lived, and he wished us
to go to a barn, and said he would bring us something to eat; but
McGuire and I thought it best to go back to New York as soon as
possible; so we got aboard a freight train for Norwalk and took the
Owl, a midnight train, from there. Going to New York we sat in
different parts of the car and did not speak. The train stopped for
some reason or other at One Hundred and Twentieth street, and there
McGuire and I got out.

"We were then on our way to Tristram's house, and there we met Allen,
Hudson and Tristram. They told us they had got on the car as agreed
upon, and had got off at Harlem Bridge, and walked up the track about
six miles, but, failing to find us, had become disgusted and returned
home. That evening Tristram, McGuire and I started for Norwalk in the
five o'clock train. We all got off at Stamford, and I went to a
livery stable, for the purpose of hiring a horse and wagon in order
to remove the stolen property. I told the stable keeper I was going
to Norwalk, but it was so cold he would not hire his horses. We could
not get a horse at Stamford, so we arranged to take the next train to
Norwalk. We reached Norwalk the next day, and stopped at the house of
old Josiah Tristram till Tuesday evening. On Monday evening we were
joined by Hudson. He came to the house with Tristram in a Rockaway
carriage. We then went to Coscob Bridge, got the hidden bags, and
returned to Tristram's house. We here unpacked and repacked the bags,
tying a couple of skate straps about them, so as to be handy for
Josiah Tristram to carry them to New York next day, January 9. We
remained here Tuesday evening, when Tristram and I were arrested."

The effect of Clark's evidence was thrilling in the extreme. The
story was too potent for cross-examination. The enemy was badly
shattered and demoralized. Ex-Judge Stuart, counsel for the
prisoners, maintained the currency was not money because it was
incomplete without the bank officers' signatures, but he was
overruled by the court.

A host of witnesses were then produced to prove that Allen, Wells and
some of the other prisoners were elsewhere on the night of the
robbery. The characters of the witnesses for the defense broke down
under cross-examination; but no matter, the jury disagreed--a result
which had been anticipated owing to certain associations of one of
the jurors with friends of some of the prisoners.

A second trial was ordered, and took place in Danbury during the
latter part of the year. During the interval that elapsed before the
second trial, McGuire, who was out on bail, took part in the bold
robbery of the Bowdoinham Bank, in Maine, for which he is now serving
out a fifteen years' sentence in State Prison.

Hudson managed to escape before the first arrest of the prisoners,
and with ten thousand dollars of the stolen money went to Europe,
where he has been ever since.

One of Allen's friends, who was visiting Danbury with his family
during the first trial, and who was on visiting terms with one of the
jurors, represented to an old friend who met him in the hotel that he
"had found Jesus" and was "leading a new life." He was congratulated,
but carefully watched.

One of the female witnesses for the _alibi_, a handsome brunette,
said, on cross examination, that she was a dressmaker, but seldom
made dresses, as she was the recipient of two hundred dollars every
week from a New York merchant, who admired her for her beauty.

At the second trial the four remaining prisoners, McGuire having gone
into business in Maine, fared not so well. They were convicted and
sent to Wethersfield, from whence some of them may have emerged wiser
and better members of society. Some of them could not reform. The
stolen money was nearly all recovered, and the Adams Express Company
had, long previous to the end of the trial, indemnified all their
customers for any loss sustained by the robbery.

CHAPTER XIX.

_The Jail at Bridgeport._--_An Important Arrest._--_Bucholz Finds a
Friend._--_A Suspicious Character who Watches and Listens._--_Bucholz
Relates His Story._

A few days had elapsed after my taking charge of the case of William
Bucholz, when two arrests were made by the officials of Bridgeport,
one of which promised to have an important bearing upon the
investigation in hand.

One was that of a shrewdly-educated young Irishman, whose sharp,
piercing black eyes, and closely-cut black hair, gave him a look of
acuteness that was apparent to the most casual observer. He had been
charged with false pretense in assuming to be the agent of a
publisher of chromos, and his practice was to take orders for the
pictures which he exhibited, from his unsuspecting customers, the
same to be delivered at some future time. He would then receive a
part of the purchase money in advance, and take his departure, while
the innocent subscriber would look in vain for the fulfillment of his
contract.

The other arrest was that of a handsome and gentlemanly-looking man
of about thirty-five years of age. His hair, which was prematurely
gray, curled gracefully about his brow and temples, but his
moustache, which was of a brownish color and carefully trimmed,
lessened the indication of greater age on account of the color of his
hair. He evinced a quiet reserve of manner, and a general air of
respectability scarcely in accord with his appearing to answer for
the commission of a crime, and many sympathetic remarks were made by
the bystanders on the occasion of his hearing.

He was charged with forgery, and had been arrested in the act of
presenting a forged order for a money package, at the office of the
Adams Express Company at Bridgeport. The evidence of the forgery was
unmistakable, and the agent of the company detecting it, at once had
the man arrested.

These two arrests were almost coincident; their hearing at the
preliminary examination took place at the same session of the court,
and as each of them waived a hearing and were unable to procure bail,
they were both consigned to the jail to await their trial at the next
sitting of the general court.

As a general thing there seems to be a sort of community of interest
or fraternity of feeling existing between prisoners during their
confinement. At certain hours in the day, in many places of
imprisonment, the authorities permit the prisoners to leave their
cells and to take exercise in the corridors. At such times they
mingle together indiscriminately and indulge in general conversation,
and many interesting episodes could be gathered from their recitals
of the various scenes through which they have passed during their
vicarious life, and the experiences thus related would tend to prove,
beyond question, that the imagination of the romancer falls far short
of the actual realities of life.

Many wild and seemingly extravagant stories are related, which fill
the listener with incredulity, but which, upon inquiry, are usually
found to be but truthful relations of actual occurrences.

But in this jail at Bridgeport there was one person, who, upon
finding himself a prisoner, held himself aloof from the rest,
declining to make any acquaintances or to engender any friendships,
and this person was the quiet-looking man who had been arrested by
the express company, and whose name was ascertained to be Edward
Sommers. He studiously avoided his fellow-prisoners and maintained a
degree of reserve which repelled their advances and at once induced
their respect.

Thomas Brown, the black-haired, false pretender, however, immediately
placed himself on friendly terms with every one within reach, and his
merry stories were fully appreciated by the residents of the
correctional institution in which they found themselves thrown
together.

But how fared William Bucholz during the days that had intervened
since his incarceration? His mind, it is true, had grown calmer since
the first paroxysm of his grief had spent itself, and he had composed
himself sufficiently to look the future hopefully in the face. As day
after day was passed in the seclusion of his cell, he had grown
reconciled to a certain extent to the existing state of affairs, but
he still looked forward anxiously to the day which was to deliver him
from the enclosing walls that restrained him of his liberty.

He was moody and silent, and his mind was much disturbed. His waking
thoughts were ever busy with the weighty and depressing consideration
of his position and of the fate that hung over him like a pall. Hour
after hour he would pace the corridors, seeking no companionship and
taking no pleasure in the mirth-provoking actions of those who
surrounded him, or in any of the events that transpired within the
jail.

Mechanically he would walk backward and forward, apparently in deep
and dejected thoughtfulness, and when the time came for the keepers
to lock him up again he would yield a ready but listless obedience,
and spend the remainder of the time in reading and profound
meditation.

He appeared to have no visitors except his counsel and a few friends
from South Norwalk. But his attorneys would invariably exercise a
cheering influence upon him, and their visits were always looked
forward to with pleasure.

Under their ministrations Bucholz seemed to have buoyed himself up
with a certain well-grounded hope of ultimate acquittal, and the
thought of the possibility of conviction, while it would frequently
occur to him, never found a firm place in his mind.

During the infrequent and invariably short conversations that took
place between himself and any of his fellow prisoners, he always
spoke hopefully of his approaching trial, and ever asserted, with an
air of conviction, that upon its completion he would walk out of the
court-room a free man. His counsel had solemnly warned him against
making a confidant of any one with whom he conversed, and he was
always very careful in his utterances when speaking about his
connection with the murder of Henry Schulte.

Thus the days sped on until Edward Sommers entered the jail, and then
it seemed as though his disposition for reserve entirely left him.
There appeared to be some feeling of personal attraction between
Bucholz and the newcomer almost unaccountable, for as they both had
avoided the companionship of the other inmates, they, strange to say,
soon quietly, almost imperceptibly, drifted into a friendship for
each other seemingly as profound as it was demonstrative.

Both being natives of Germany, they conversed in the language of the
Fatherland, and as they were familiar with many localities of joint
interest, they became quite intimate, and many hours were whiled away
in the relation of their earlier experiences and in fond
recollections of bygone days.

During the entire time in which they were allowed to mingle with each
other, these two would sit together, and their friendship soon became
the topic of general conversation. Thomas Brown, however, seemed to
be exceedingly uneasy under its manifestations, and he would
oftentimes steal upon them unawares and endeavor to catch some
fleeting words of their apparently interesting conversations.

Under the inspiration of a mutual interchange of thoughts the two
friends became warmly attached to each other, particularly so far as
Bucholz was concerned. They shared together their stores and the
delicacies which would be furnished them by visiting ladies or by the
counsel of Bucholz, who frequently visited his client and supplied
him with needed articles of diet, which were not furnished by the
authorities of the prison.

Thus matters went on, the friendship of Sommers and William Bucholz
seeming to increase with every recurring day, and the watchful Brown
still jealously watching their movements and attempting to listen to
their confidences.

They were sitting together one day shortly after this, when Bucholz,
in a jocular manner, addressing his companion, said:

"Ah, my dear Sommers, I am surprised to find you here in jail and
upon such a charge as they have brought against you."

"Yes, but my dear Bucholz, consider my surprise to find you here, and
upon the charge of murder, too. You must remember you are not clear
yet," answered Sommers, with a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but
whether it was his tone or the language used that brought the color
to the face of the accused man, Sommers did not then know.

"Ah, you should not joke upon such a serious matter," he answered,
with a degree of confusion that could not have escaped the attention
of his friend.

"Never mind, my friend," replied Sommers. "It will all come out right
in the end, only you must not talk to your fellow-prisoners about
their troubles, nor allow them to talk to you about yours."

"Oh, no!" said Bucholz; "my lawyers always tell me to say nothing to
anybody."

"That is right. You cannot tell who would be your friend or who your
enemy, in a place of this kind."

The next day, as they were sitting together, two German newspapers
were handed to Sommers by the hall-man, and upon receiving them he
handed them at once to his companion. Bucholz opened the paper
carelessly, but as his eyes glanced over its contents, he stopped,
started to his feet, and then throwing the paper suddenly down upon
the floor, he buried his face in his hands.

"What is the matter now?" asked Sommers, astonished at this strange
behavior, and picking up the discarded paper.

"Look there!" exclaimed Bucholz, pointing to a passage in the paper.
"Read that. That is the first time that paper ever said I was
guilty."

The article to which he alluded was in regard to a statement which
Bucholz had made at the time of his arrest. In explaining the fact of
his having several large sums of money in his possession, he had
declared that his sister had sent them to him from Germany. This
statement had just been discovered to be untrue, and the denial of
the sister of the fact of her having sent any money at all, was the
basis of the article in question.

"This looks rather bad for you, William," said Sommers, sorrowfully.

"It does look bad," he replied, "but I never did say that I received
any money from my sister. I never did say anything of that kind."

The black eyes of the ubiquitous Brown were upon the two men as they
stood talking, but he was too far away to hear what was transpiring
between them.

"What can they have against you any how?" inquired Sommers. "Surely
there must be some ground of suspicion upon which to base their
charge."

"Ah, you do not know. After the old man was murdered; I was arrested;
I was closely questioned, and I did say some things that I should not
have said. I had no lawyer, and a white-haired fox whose name was
Illing did every thing he could against me. I did not have an
opportunity to explain myself at all."

"That was too bad, indeed," added Sommers; "but it can all be shown
right upon the trial, and then you will come out safely."

"Oh, yes, it will come out all right on the trial, I know, for then I
will have my lawyers to defend me."

"But, tell me, William, how did this murder occur?"

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