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The Allan Pinkerton Collection is a seminal anthology that encompasses the rich tapestry of crime, detective work, and espionage in 19th-century America, as chronicled by the founder of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. This compilation not only showcases Pinkerton's investigative narratives but also reflects the burgeoning genre of detective fiction that emerged during this period. With a distinctive blend of detailed storytelling and analytical rigor, Pinkerton's work serves as a precursor to modern crime literature, utilizing a straightforward, yet compelling prose style that engages readers while painting vivid portrayals of investigation and suspense. Allan Pinkerton was a Scottish immigrant who became a pivotal figure in American law enforcement. His experiences as a union spy during the Civil War and his dedication to pursuing criminals are underscored by his belief in justice and due diligence. These life experiences undeniably shaped the narratives within the collection, allowing readers a glimpse into Pinkerton's psyche and the socio-political landscape of his era, which demanded a new approach to crime and security. For those interested in the evolution of detective fiction or the history of American law enforcement, The Allan Pinkerton Collection is an indispensable read. It not only enriches the reader's understanding of the genre but also offers a window into the complexities of its time, making it an essential addition to any literary or historical collection.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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The Allan Pinkerton Collection
Table of Contents
Introduction
In The Allan Pinkerton Collection, we gather ten narrative works by Allan Pinkerton, founder of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Composed for a broad readership, these books occupy a distinctive place where crime reporting, detective storytelling, and institutional self-portrait meet. This volume assembles a representative cross-section of Pinkerton's authorship: a sequence of case-centered detective narratives (The Expressman and the Detective; The Somnambulist and the Detective; The Murderer and the Fortune Teller; The Spiritualists and the Detectives; Mississippi Outlaws and the Detectives; Don Pedro and the Detectives; Poisoner and the Detectives; Bucholz and the Detectives; The Burglar's Fate and the Detectives) together with his wartime chronicle The Spy of the Rebellion.
Taken together, the texts represent multiple genres. The detective titles present themselves as extended narrative case histories, often read as early crime nonfiction or proto-detective novels, tracing investigations from suspicion to resolution. They combine procedural detail with the pacing of popular fiction. By contrast, The Spy of the Rebellion is a Civil War chronicle in which Pinkerton recounts his experiences organizing intelligence for the Union and protecting vital interests during national crisis. Read side by side, these modes illuminate how the same investigative temperament shapes both peacetime policing of theft, fraud, and murder, and wartime work involving secrecy, couriers, and surveillance.
Across the collection, certain hallmarks recur. Pinkerton emphasizes methodical observation, undercover identities, controlled tests of suspects' claims, and the careful use of contemporary infrastructure such as rail schedules and the telegraph. He writes in a plain, assertive style that favors clarity over ornament, punctuated by moments of melodrama calibrated for the popular press. The narratives advocate a moral program that links crime to idleness, vice, and credulity, opposing them with discipline, sobriety, and patience. While the cases often unfold amid rumor, superstition, or spectacle, the detective voice insists on documentation, interviews, and corroboration, building a record that purports to speak for itself.
In The Expressman and the Detective, the agency is drawn into a mystery of missing funds connected to an express company, a business that moved money and parcels with speed across vast distances. The premise turns on whether a trusted employee has diverted shipments or whether an external conspiracy is at work. Pinkerton details the quiet installation of watchful eyes along routes, the arrangement of decoy consignments, and the patient reconstruction of handlers' movements. The story showcases his signature corporate casework, in which private investigators, rather than public officers, must safeguard commercial trust while keeping suspicion from prematurely ruining reputations.
The Somnambulist and the Detective pivots on a community unsettled by reports of sleepwalking and a crime that seems to implicate nocturnal wandering. Pinkerton treats somnambulism as a phenomenon to be studied rather than a mystical explanation, turning the investigation toward routine, motive, and opportunity. Agents map the hours of household activity, observe without intrusion, and stage unobtrusive tests designed to separate accident from design. The narrative uses the era's fascination with unusual states of consciousness as a foil for sober inquiry, reflecting the author's broader effort to pull readers from sensational conjecture toward verifiable sequences of action and fact.
In The Murderer and the Fortune Teller, a homicide inquiry intersects with the commerce of prediction. The premise sets credulity beside calculation: a fortune teller figures in the web of relationships surrounding the victim, and rumors threaten to overwhelm measured inquiry. Pinkerton directs attention to the social spaces where advice is bought and sold, listening for inconsistencies while tracking money and movement. The detectives' presence in parlors and back rooms highlights the book's core claim that spectacle and persuasion can mask very ordinary motives, and that unmasking requires steady documentation rather than confrontation with the occult.
The Spiritualists and the Detectives engages a widespread nineteenth-century enthusiasm for spirit communication. Here, Pinkerton confronts performances that promise access to other realms, asking whether fraud shelters criminal designs. The investigation proceeds by observation, quiet interviews, and the accumulation of small practical details that challenge extraordinary claims. The narrative contrasts the ceremonial atmosphere of sittings with the detectives' plain accounting of movements and exchanges. Without denying the cultural appeal of spiritualism, the book insists that evidence must be testable and that the appearance of marvels can be engineered. In doing so it extends Pinkerton's larger critique of deception and credulity.
Mississippi Outlaws and the Detectives broadens the canvas to the pursuit of armed bands whose depredations ripple along river towns and rail lines. Rather than a single crime scene, the premise involves a moving target and widely scattered witnesses. Pinkerton narrates coordination across jurisdictions, the timely transmission of alerts, and the patient piecing together of aliases and routes. The case underscores how private detectives worked with transportation and financial companies to protect commerce while anticipating the movements of professional criminals. It is a story of endurance, logistics, and communication in a landscape where distance itself could be a weapon.
Don Pedro and the Detectives turns to the world of confidence schemes, where the very idea of identity becomes the instrument of fraud. A charismatic figure styling himself with foreign distinction draws attention and access, and the agency must determine whether title and wealth are authentic or assumed. Pinkerton charts how deference to apparent status can cloud judgment, and how careful verification of letters, introductions, and claims can pierce carefully arranged appearances. The narrative touches on travel, translation, and the circulation of documents, illuminating the cosmopolitan dimensions of nineteenth-century swindles and the methods used to bring them to light.
Poisoner and the Detectives presents a crime that unfolds slowly, in symptoms and suspicions rather than open violence. The premise turns on the possibility that a familiar hand has administered a fatal substance. Pinkerton highlights the distinctive demands of such inquiries: the reconstruction of meals and medicines, attention to purchases, and interviews that chart changes in domestic routine. The detectives' task is to distinguish illness from intention, accident from design, without sensational revelation. The account dwells on the authority of small, cumulative facts and the interpretive care required when the instrument of murder may leave only faint, delayed traces.
Bucholz and the Detectives returns to the terrain of murder with a case entangled in questions of inheritance, loyalty, and sudden opportunity. Pinkerton portrays a community alive with speculation, where neighbors and coworkers supply partial narratives that may illuminate or mislead. The agency's work involves reconciling testimony, checking timelines against verified travel and correspondence, and testing whether outward grief or innocence withstands scrutiny. The book demonstrates how patient cross-checking and attention to motive can clarify events clouded by rumor. As elsewhere in the collection, the narrative stresses documentation over display, gradually assembling a picture firm enough to support decisive action.
The Burglar's Fate and the Detectives follows the tracing of a burglary from broken entry to the circuits where stolen goods move, emphasizing stakeouts, informants, and the moment when watchfulness yields a quiet arrest. The Spy of the Rebellion stands apart as Pinkerton's Civil War chronicle, recounting the organization of intelligence networks, the movement of agents under assumed names, and the protection of strategic persons and places. Read together, these books reveal how one author helped codify a language of detection for American readers, shaping expectations about evidence, patience, and professional secrecy. As historical documents and narrative art, they retain enduring interest.
Author Biography
Allan Pinkerton (1819–1884) was a Scottish-born American detective, founder of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and a prolific author of popular case narratives. Working in the United States during the mid- to late nineteenth century, he helped define private investigation, corporate security, and wartime intelligence at a formative moment for American policing. His name became synonymous with systematic detection, covert infiltration, and meticulous record‑keeping. Beyond his operational innovations, he reached a mass audience through books presented as factual accounts of notable cases, including The Expressman and the Detective and The Somnambulist and the Detective, which circulated widely and helped shape the emerging true‑crime genre.
Pinkerton was trained as a cooper in Scotland and was active in Chartist circles that promoted political reform and working‑class organization. Largely self‑educated, he absorbed the movement’s emphasis on discipline, mutual aid, and documentary precision—traits that later marked his investigative style. He emigrated to the United States in the early 1840s and settled in Illinois, where he continued his trade while learning the social and commercial landscape of a rapidly industrializing region. Publicly documented support for antislavery causes placed him among reform‑minded contemporaries and connected his early years to networks of activists, skills, and values that informed his later leadership and writings.
In Illinois, a chance discovery of a counterfeiters’ camp while gathering timber led Pinkerton to assist law officers and opened a path into professional detection. He subsequently served in local and federal capacities, including assignments tied to postal routes and railroads—systems increasingly targeted by organized thieves. In 1850 he established a private agency in Chicago that grew into the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Its methods emphasized undercover work, centralized files, and interjurisdictional coordination, encapsulated by the slogan “We Never Sleep” and an unblinking‑eye logo. These practices aligned with emerging corporate needs and made Pinkerton a prominent figure in the era’s expanding security market.
Pinkerton’s writing turned field experience into narrative case studies meant for a general readership. The Expressman and the Detective traces the patient unraveling of a theft affecting transport networks; The Somnambulist and the Detective explores observation and behavioral analysis; The Murderer and the Fortune Teller combines forensic legwork with an examination of credulity and deception. Framed as true histories, these works balance procedural detail with melodramatic pacing, positioning diligence and documentation as the antidote to rumor and spectacle. They also served as promotional texts that showcased the agency’s techniques, extending Pinkerton’s influence from the courtroom and the depot to the parlor.
Later volumes broadened both settings and targets. The Spiritualists and the Detectives addresses fraudulent mediums and stagecraft; Mississippi Outlaws and the Detectives follows pursuits along river towns; Don Pedro and the Detectives ventures into international intrigue. Poisoner and the Detectives, Bucholz and the Detectives, and The Burglar’s Fate and the Detectives emphasize patient surveillance, decoy operations, and management of informants. Across these books, Pinkerton presents detection as organized teamwork rather than solitary inspiration, highlighting ledger‑keeping, coded correspondence, and the coordination of far‑flung operatives. Their popularity sustained a readership for case‑based nonfiction and influenced later portrayals of private investigators in American print culture.
During the American Civil War, Pinkerton coordinated intelligence and security for Union leadership in the conflict’s early years, including protective measures for President‑elect Abraham Lincoln’s journey to Washington in 1861. The Spy of the Rebellion offers his version of these operations, portraying clandestine networks, courier systems, and counterespionage in contested territory. While historians have debated aspects of his wartime assessments, the book remains a primary window onto how a private agency adapted investigative methods to military needs. It also solidified Pinkerton’s public image as both practitioner and chronicler, linking his brand of documentation to national narratives of loyalty, secrecy, and statecraft.
In the 1870s and early 1880s, Pinkerton continued to oversee expanding contracts and to publish narratives that codified his approach for a mass audience. He died in 1884, but the agency persisted and became a major presence in American private security. Its emblem and motto entered popular lore, and discussions of the slang “private eye” often invoke the logo’s watchful gaze. At the same time, the firm’s later involvement in labor conflicts, largely after his lifetime, complicated public memory. Pinkerton’s books endure as artifacts of early professional detection, shaping expectations about method, documentation, and the relationship between investigative work and storytelling.
Historical Context
Allan Pinkerton’s career unfolded across the seismic transformations of mid‑nineteenth‑century America, from antebellum expansion through the Civil War and into the Gilded Age. A Scottish immigrant who founded the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago in 1850, he worked in a nation rapidly reshaped by railroads, telegraphs, urbanization, and mass markets. The works gathered in The Allan Pinkerton Collection draw on episodes spanning roughly the 1850s–1880s, when public institutions were still consolidating authority and private agencies often bridged gaps in law enforcement. Together they map the evolving social geography of crime, commerce, and information in a country moving from frontier edges to integrated national systems.
Pinkerton wrote at a time when the United States lacked a unified federal police force. Before the rise of modern national agencies, private detectives routinely handled express-company thefts, bank robberies, and interjurisdictional investigations that overwhelmed local sheriffs. Express firms transporting cash and securities contracted with private operatives to deter and investigate losses, especially along expanding rail corridors. Pinkerton’s agency cultivated a reputation for method, secrecy, and national reach, and his books present this private capacity as indispensable within the patchwork of municipal and state authorities. The volumes thus register a formative era when public and private policing overlapped, negotiated authority, and set precedents for later professionalization.
The collection also reflects Pinkerton’s commitment to shaping public opinion through print. His case narratives—marketed as true accounts but often literary reconstructions—sought to validate the agency’s methods, advertise its reach, and promote moral instruction. He emphasized probity, temperance, and perseverance, framing detection as a disciplined craft rather than mere chance. In the 1870s, when sensational newspapers and dime novels magnified crime stories, Pinkerton’s volumes staked out a didactic genre that blended reportage with advocacy. Later historians have noted the selectivity and embellishment in these books, yet their documentary ambition and procedural framing influenced both popular “true crime” writing and emergent norms for investigative practice.
Technological and organizational change runs through these texts. Railroads and the telegraph created new criminal opportunities—mobile thefts, rapid flight, coordinated fraud—but also enabled surveillance and swift communication among agents. Pinkerton cultivated national files on suspects, exchanged circulars, and popularized systematic recordkeeping; his eye‑in‑the‑logo motto, “We Never Sleep,” condensed a broader culture of vigilance. The agency used undercover operatives, decoys, and controlled correspondence, sometimes deploying women in roles inaccessible to male agents. Kate Warne, hired in the 1850s and often credited as the first female private detective in the United States, exemplifies how Pinkerton integrated gendered access into his strategies, a notable institutional innovation for the era.
The Expressman and the Detective draws on theft problems endemic to express transport in the railroad age. As cash, bonds, and parcels moved at unprecedented speed, companies worried about “inside jobs” and sophisticated pilfering from cars and depots. The narrative spotlights coordination among far‑flung offices, surveillance of routine handling procedures, and the interplay between corporate security and local police. It also reflects contemporaneous advances in safe construction and seal verification, alongside the practical limits of those safeguards when employees colluded or paperwork failed. The book situates investigation within a matrix of business discipline, chain‑of‑custody controls, and the logistical realities of mid‑century commerce.
The Somnambulist and the Detective engages a nineteenth‑century legal and medical debate about intent, consciousness, and culpability. Anglo‑American law wrestled with questions raised by insanity and automatism defenses, influenced by evolving medical jurisprudence after the mid‑1800s. Pinkerton’s treatment turns on observation, corroboration, and behavioral patterning rather than speculative psychology, illustrating how detectives translated abstruse questions of mind into circumstantial evidence. The story emerges from domestic and urban settings typical of the era—boarded houses, gaslit streets, and workplaces—and shows how investigative routines navigated social proprieties and privacy norms while assembling a coherent account fit for courtrooms increasingly attentive to expert testimony.
The Murderer and the Fortune Teller reflects urban campaigns against fraud and vice that multiplied after the Civil War. Many American cities adopted ordinances regulating fortune telling, lotteries, and confidence games, seeing them as public-order problems and threats to the vulnerable. Pinkerton’s narrative aligns with this regulatory impulse, presenting detection as a means to disentangle superstition, deception, and criminal concealment. The book’s milieu—print advertisements, storefront parlors, and clandestine consultations—illustrates the commercial culture that supported such practices. It also reveals crosscurrents in public sentiment: fascination with esoteric knowledge coexisted with a growing emphasis on evidence, accountability, and municipal oversight in the late nineteenth century.
The Spiritualists and the Detectives is set against the widespread spiritualist movement that surged from the 1850s onward, with séances, mediums, and spirit photography captivating transatlantic audiences. While many found comfort or curiosity in these practices, exposures of fraudulent phenomena were common, and law enforcement sometimes pursued mediums for associated swindles. Pinkerton’s text participates in a broader skeptical literature, using observational tests, controlled settings, and corroborating witnesses to challenge claims made in darkened parlors. Its emphasis on deception techniques reflects an era negotiating the boundaries between belief, entertainment, and criminal fraud, long before standardized consumer protection laws or consistent policing of such enterprises.
Mississippi Outlaws and the Detectives situates crime along the nation’s great river corridor during Reconstruction and the Gilded Age, when steamboat towns, rail junctions, and river landings formed dynamic hubs for trade—and targets for banditry. The period saw jurisdictional complexity as federal, state, and county authorities overlapped, especially where postwar instability persisted. Pinkerton’s account underscores long‑distance pursuit, informant networks, and coordination with sheriffs as key to containing mobile gangs. It also registers technological details—improved safes, repeating firearms, and rail timetables—that shaped both criminal tactics and detection, portraying the Mississippi basin as a testing ground for nationalized policing practices.
Don Pedro and the Detectives draws its frame from the internationalism of the 1870s, notably the 1876 Centennial International Exhibition in Philadelphia, which attracted global attention. Brazil’s Emperor Pedro II toured the United States during that year, famously inspecting new technologies such as Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone. Pinkerton’s narrative leverages this climate of diplomatic visits, world’s fairs, and cross‑border travel to explore protective detail work and the vulnerabilities that attended celebrity and statehood in public spaces. The book uses the spectacle of modern invention and imperial presence to foreground logistical planning, crowd management, and the diplomacy of private security amid increasing international interconnectedness.
Poisoner and the Detectives intersects with the maturation of nineteenth‑century toxicology, which had introduced techniques such as the Marsh (1836) and Reinsch (1840s) tests for arsenic. By the 1870s, medical experts and chemists were central witnesses in trials involving suspected poisonings, and household availability of toxic substances complicated both homicide and accident inquiries. Pinkerton’s treatment reflects this evidentiary turn: chain of custody for samples, consultation with chemists, and the careful separation of rumor from demonstrable fact. The narrative registers broader anxieties about domestic crime and insurance fraud in an era of expanding consumer goods, patent medicines, and evolving standards for expert testimony.
Bucholz and the Detectives belongs to a cluster of cases in which circumstantial webs—letters, receipts, travel records, and witness timelines—became decisive. As newspapers refined crime reporting and courts developed clearer rules of evidence, detectives increasingly integrated documentary trails with on‑the‑ground surveillance. Pinkerton’s account shows how suspects’ movements across county or state lines complicated proceedings and required patient coordination. It also illustrates the media’s role: sensational coverage could shape public memory and influence juries, even as investigators sought to anchor their claims in verifiable detail. The result captures the Gilded Age’s interplay of publicity, procedure, and the emerging authority of paperwork.
The Burglar’s Fate and the Detectives reflects the technological arms race between safe manufacturers and professional burglars. By the 1870s, improved locks, time mechanisms, and composite safe materials confronted adversaries who adopted drills, wedges, and increasingly, nitroglycerin. Banks reorganized interior space, hired private night watchmen, and installed alarms, while thieves exploited rail schedules and local knowledge to time entries and escapes. Pinkerton’s narrative depicts prolonged infiltration of crews, careful mapping of routines, and the value of confessions corroborated by physical traces. It reads as a manual on operational patience and intercity cooperation, grounded in the material culture of vaults, ledgers, and secure transit.
The Spy of the Rebellion differs from the crime volumes by recasting Pinkerton’s wartime service as a narrative of national intelligence. Operating under the alias “E. J. Allen,” he organized networks for the Union in 1861–1862, helped protect President‑elect Abraham Lincoln during the journey to Washington amid the so‑called Baltimore Plot, and coordinated information for General George B. McClellan. The book memorializes fieldcraft—covers, couriers, and coded names—before the Union created more formal military intelligence structures. It also records the risks borne by operatives like Timothy Webster, captured and executed by Confederate authorities in 1862, highlighting the civil‑military frontier of espionage.
Civil War intelligence in Pinkerton’s telling foregrounds numbers, maps, and reports, but it also sits within ongoing historiographical debate. Contemporary critics and later scholars argued that Pinkerton’s estimates of Confederate strength during the Peninsula Campaign were often high, shaping McClellan’s caution. The book nonetheless remains a key primary source for the early organization of Union espionage, for the Baltimore security episode of 1861, and for the methods of private intelligence before the War Department’s Bureau of Military Information emerged. Its emphasis on loyalty oaths, vetting, and chain‑of‑report presaged later bureaucratic practices in American national security.
Labor conflict forms a crucial backdrop to the Gilded Age setting of many volumes, even when not their central topic. The Great Railroad Strike of 1877 marked a watershed in public order and corporate security, and private agencies—including Pinkerton’s—were frequently contracted to guard property and investigate sabotage. In the 1870s, Pinkerton operatives also engaged in undercover work against secret labor organizations such as the so‑called Molly Maguires in Pennsylvania, amid fierce debates over violence and justice. While these books typically individualize wrongdoing, the era’s collective clashes over wages, immigration, and industrial discipline informed readers’ perceptions of crime, policing, and authority.
The cultural tone of the collection reflects Victorian moralism alongside pragmatic craft. Pinkerton’s narrators valorize sobriety, thrift, and confession, and they cast deception as a habit that betrays itself under steady scrutiny. The language and characterizations also mirror nineteenth‑century prejudices found in newspapers and courtrooms, including ethnic and gendered stereotypes. For modern readers, this mixture provides a record of contemporary attitudes as much as of investigative practice. It shows how the expanding middle‑class readership—fed by cheap printing, national distribution networks, and literacy gains—encountered arguments for professionalized detection wrapped in instructive stories and tied to the ethos of respectable citizenship and orderliness in urban life.
Synopsis (Selection)
Commerce Under Suspicion: The Expressman and the Detective
This casefile follows detectives investigating losses tied to an express service, probing internal vulnerabilities in a fast-growing transport network. Pivotal turns arise from undercover observation, decoy shipments, and tight tracking of routine deviations that reveal opportunity and collusion. Procedural in tone, it underscores Pinkerton’s emphasis on discipline, documentation, and the emerging logistics of corporate security.
Crimes of Deception: The Somnambulist and the Detective; The Murderer and the Fortune Teller; The Spiritualists and the Detectives
These narratives address how claims of sleepwalking, fortune-telling, and séance-room wonders can be woven into criminal cover stories. The inquiries rely on planted operatives, controlled tests, and corroborated timelines to separate performance from proof and to pressure conspirators. Skeptical and instructive, they highlight Pinkerton’s recurring theme that steady evidence-gathering outlasts spectacle, rumor, and credulity.
Poison and Premeditation: Poisoner and the Detectives; Bucholz and the Detectives
Focused on covert murder and its motives, these investigations turn on access, poison, and the small traces left by calculated plans. Detectives reconstruct habits and timelines, maintain long surveillance, and design traps that push suspects toward revealing contradictions without telegraphing the case. The tone is clinical and patient, stressing moral accountability alongside careful forensic reasoning.
Frontier Pursuits and Housebreakers: Mississippi Outlaws and the Detectives; The Burglar's Fate and the Detectives
Ranging from river-country manhunts to the pursuit of city housebreakers, these stories emphasize mobility, pursuit, and coordination across jurisdictions. Key developments involve informant networks, staged rendezvous, and persistent shadowing that favors strategy over spectacle. Brisk and outward-facing, they expand the series’ focus from office analysis to extended fieldwork across varied American settings.
A Delicate Pursuit: Don Pedro and the Detectives
Centered on an individual known as Don Pedro, this case demands discretion as detectives navigate unfamiliar social circles and shifting allegiances. Progress depends on quiet surveillance, controlled interviews, and the measured use of leverage rather than open confrontation. The tone is poised and tactical, showcasing adaptability when reputations and sensitivities heighten the stakes.
War and Intelligence: The Spy of the Rebellion
Departing from local crime to national conflict, this narrative traces clandestine work conducted amid a rebellion, where information becomes the decisive asset. It follows the organization of courier routes, covert meetings, and countermeasures against deception to argue for systematic intelligence as a wartime necessity. Strategic and patriotic in register, it reframes Pinkerton’s methods as instruments of statecraft as well as policing.
The Allan Pinkerton Collection
The Expressman and the Detective
PREFACE.
During the greater portion of a very busy life, I have been actively engaged in the profession of a Detective, and hence have been brought in contact with many men, and have been an interested participant in many exciting occurrences.
The narration of some of the most interesting of these events, happening in connection with my professional labors, is the realization of a pleasure I have long anticipated, and is the fulfillment of promises repeatedly made to numerous friends in by gone days.
"The Expressman and the Detective,"
and the other works announced by my publishers, are all true stories, transcribed from the Records in my offices. If there be any incidental embellishment, it is so slight that the actors in these scenes from the drama of life would never themselves detect it; and if the incidents seem to the reader at all marvelous or improbable, I can but remind him, in the words of the old adage, that "Truth is stranger than fiction."
ALLAN PINKERTON.
Chicago, October, 1874.
CHAPTER I.
Montgomery, Alabama, is beautifully situated on the Alabama river, near the centre of the State. Its situation at the head of navigation, on the Alabama river, its connection by rail with important points, and the rich agricultural country with which it is surrounded, make it a great commercial centre, and the second city in the State as regards wealth and population. It is the capital, and consequently learned men and great politicians flock to it, giving it a society of the highest rank, and making it the social centre of the State.
From 1858 to 1860, the time of which I treat in the present work, the South was in a most prosperous condition. "Cotton was king," and millions of dollars were poured into the country for its purchase, and a fair share of this money found its way to Montgomery.
When the Alabama planters had gathered their crops of cotton, tobacco, rice, etc., they sent them to Montgomery to be sold, and placed the proceeds on deposit in its banks. During their busy season, while overseeing the labor of their slaves, they were almost entirely debarred from the society of any but their own families; but when the crops were gathered they went with their families to Montgomery, where they gave themselves up to enjoyment, spending their money in a most lavish manner.
There were several good hotels in the city and they were always filled to overflowing with the wealth and beauty of the South.
The Adams Express Company had a monopoly of the express business of the South, and had established its agencies at all points with which there was communication by rail, steam or stage. They handled all the money sent to the South for the purchase of produce, or remitted to the North in payment of merchandise. Moreover, as they did all the express business for the banks, besides moving an immense amount of freight, it is evident that their business was enormous.
At all points of importance, where there were diverging routes of communication, the company had established principal agencies, at which all through freight and the money pouches were delivered by the messengers. The agents at these points were selected with the greatest care, and were always considered men above reproach. Montgomery being a great centre of trade was made the western terminus of one of the express routes, Atlanta being the eastern. The messengers who had charge of the express matter between these two points were each provided with a safe and with a pouch. The latter was to contain only such packages as were to go over the whole route, consisting of money or other valuables. The messenger was not furnished with a key to the pouch, but it was handed to him locked by the agent at one end of the route to be delivered in the same condition to the agent at the other end.
The safe was intended for way packages, and of it the messenger of course had a key. The pouch was carried in the safe, each being protected by a lock of peculiar construction.
The Montgomery office in 1858, and for some years previous, had been in charge of Nathan Maroney, and he had made himself one of the most popular agents in the company's employ.
He was married, and with his wife and one daughter, had pleasant quarters at the Exchange Hotel, one of the best houses in the city. He possessed all the qualifications which make a popular man. He had a genial, hearty manner, which endeared him to the open, hospitable inhabitants of Montgomery, so that he was "hail fellow, well met," with most of its populace. He possessed great executive ability and hence managed the affairs of his office in a very satisfactory manner. The promptness with which he discharged his duties had won for him the well-merited esteem of the officers of the company, and he was in a fair way of attaining a still higher position. His greatest weakness—if it may be so called—was a love for fast horses, which often threw him into the company of betting men.
On the morning of the twenty-sixth of April, 1858, the messenger from Atlanta arrived in Montgomery, placed his safe in the office as usual, and when Maroney came in, turned over to him the through pouch.
Maroney unlocked the pouch and compared it with the way-bill, when he discovered a package of four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars for a party in Montgomery which was not down on the way-bill. About a week after this occurrence, advice was received that a package containing ten thousand dollars in bills of the Planters' and Mechanics' Bank of Charleston, S. C., had been sent to Columbus, Ga., via the Adams Express, but the person to whom it was directed had not received it. Inquiries were at once instituted, when it was discovered that it had been missent, and forwarded to Atlanta, instead of Macon. At Atlanta it was recollected that this package, together with one for Montgomery, for four thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, had been received on Sunday, the twenty-fifth of April, and had been sent on to Montgomery, whence the Columbus package could be forwarded the next day. Here all trace of the missing package was lost. Maroney stated positively that he had not received it, and the messenger was equally positive that the pouch had been delivered to Maroney in the same order in which he received it from the Atlanta agent.
The officers of the company were completely at a loss. It was discovered beyond a doubt that the package had been sent from Atlanta. The messenger who received it bore an excellent character, and the company could not believe him guilty of the theft. The lock of the pouch was examined and found in perfect order, so that it evidently had not been tampered with. The messenger was positive that he had not left the safe open when he went out of the car, and there was no sign of the lock's having been forced.
The more the case was investigated, the more directly did suspicion point to Maroney, but as his integrity had always been unquestioned, no one now was willing to admit the possibility of his guilt. However, as no decided action in the matter could be taken, it was determined to say nothing, but to have the movements of Maroney and other suspected parties closely watched.
For this purpose various detectives were employed; one a local detective of Montgomery, named McGibony; others from New Orleans, Philadelphia, Mobile, and New York. After a long investigation these parties had to give up the case as hopeless, all concluding that Maroney was an innocent man. Among the detectives, however was one from New York, Robert Boyer, by name, an old and favorite officer of Mr. Matsell when he was chief of the New York police. He had made a long and tedious examination and finding nothing definite as to what had become of the money, had turned his attention to discovering the antecedents of Maroney, but found nothing positively suspicious in his life previous to his entering the employ of the company. He discovered that Maroney was the son of a physician, and that he was born in the town of Rome, Ga.
Here I would remark that the number of titled men one meets in the South is astonishing. Every man, if he is not a doctor, a lawyer, or a clergyman, has some military title—nothing lower than captain being admissible. Of these self-imposed titles they are very jealous, and woe be to the man who neglects to address them in the proper form. Captain is the general title, and is applied indiscriminately to the captain of a steamer, or to the deck hand on his vessel.
Maroney remained in Rome until he became a young man, when he emigrated to Texas. On the breaking out of the Mexican war he joined a company of Texan Rangers, and distinguished himself in a number of battles. At the close of the war he settled in Montgomery, in the year 1851, or 1852, and was employed by Hampton & Co., owners of a line of stages, to act as their agent. On leaving this position, he was made treasurer of Johnson & May's circus, remaining with the company until it was disbanded in consequence of the pecuniary difficulties of the proprietors—caused, it was alleged, through Maroney's embezzlement of the funds, though this allegation proved false, and he remained for many years on terms of intimacy with one of the partners, a resident of Montgomery. When the company disbanded he obtained a situation as conductor on a railroad in Tennessee, and was afterwards made Assistant Superintendent, which position he resigned to take the agency of the Adams Express Company, in Montgomery. His whole life seemed spotless up to the time of the mysterious disappearance of the ten thousand dollars.
In the fall of the year, Maroney obtained leave of absence, and made a trip to the North, visiting the principal cities of the East, and also of the Northwest. He was followed on this trip, but nothing was discovered, with the single exception that his associates were not always such as were desirable in an employé, to whose keeping very heavy interests were from time to time necessarily committed. He was lost sight of at Richmond, Va., for a few days, and was supposed by the man who was following him, to have passed the time in Charleston.
The company now gave up all hope of recovering the money; but as Maroney's habits were expensive, and they had lost, somewhat, their confidence in him, they determined to remove him and place some less objectionable person in his place.
Maroney's passion for fine horses has already been alluded to. It was stated about this time that he owned several fast horses; among others, "Yankee Mary," a horse for which he was said to have paid two thousand five hundred dollars; but as he had brought seven thousand five hundred dollars with him when he entered the employ of the company, this could not be considered a suspicious circumstance.
It having been determined to remove Maroney, the Vice-President of the company wrote to the Superintendent of the Southern Division of the steps he wished taken. The Superintendent of the Southern Division visited Montgomery on the twentieth of January, 1859, but was anticipated in the matter of carrying out his instructions, by Maroney's tendering his resignation. The resignation was accepted, but the superintendent requested him to continue in charge of the office until his successor should arrive.
This he consented to do.
CHAPTER II.
Previous to Maroney's trip to the North, Mr. Boyer held a consultation with the Vice-President and General Superintendent of the company. He freely admitted his inability to fathom the mystery surrounding the loss of the money, and thought the officers of the company did Maroney a great injustice in supposing him guilty of the theft. He said he knew of only one man who could bring out the robbery, and he was living in Chicago.
Pinkerton was the name of the man he referred to. He had established an agency in Chicago, and was doing a large business. He (Boyer) had every confidence in his integrity and ability, which was more than he could say of the majority of detectives, and recommended the Vice-President to have him come down and look into the case.
This ended the case for most of the detectives. One by one they had gone away, and nothing had been developed by them. The Vice-President, still anxious to see if anything could be done, wrote a long and full statement of the robbery and sent it to me, with the request that I would give my opinion on it.
I was much surprised when I received the letter, as I had not the slightest idea who the Vice-President was, and knew very little about the Adams Express, as, at that time, they had no office in the West.
I, however, sat down and read it over very carefully, and, on finishing it, determined to make a point in the case if I possibly could. I reviewed the whole of the Vice-President's letter, debating every circumstance connected with the robbery, and finally ended my consideration of the subject with the firm conviction that the robbery had been committed either by the agent, Maroney, or by the messenger, and I was rather inclined to give the blame to Maroney.
The letter was a very long one, but one of which I have always been proud. Having formed my opinion, I wrote to the Vice-President, explained to him the ground on which I based my conclusions, and recommended that they keep Maroney in their employ, and have a strict watch maintained over his actions.
After sending my letter, I could do nothing until the Vice-President replied, which I expected he would do in a few days; but I heard nothing more of the affair for a long time, and had almost entirely forgotten it, when I received a telegraphic dispatch from him, sent from Montgomery, and worded about as follows:
"Allan Pinkerton: Can you send me a man—half horse and half alligator? I have got 'bit' once more! When can you send him?"
The dispatch came late Saturday night, and I retired to my private office to think the matter over. The dispatch gave me no information from which I could draw any conclusions. No mention was made of how the robbery was committed, or of the amount stolen. I had not received any further information of the ten thousand dollar robbery. How had they settled that? It was hard to decide what kind of a man to send! I wanted to send the very best, and would gladly go myself, but did not know whether the robbery was important enough to demand my personal attention.
I did not know what kind of men the officers of the company were, or whether they would be willing to reward a person properly for his exertions in their behalf.
At that time I had no office in New York, and knew nothing of the ramifications of the company. Besides, I did not know how I would be received in the South. I had held my anti-slavery principles too long to give them up. They had been bred in my bones, and it was impossible to eradicate them. I was always stubborn, and in any circumstances would never abandon principles I had once adopted.
Slavery was in full blossom, and an anti-slavery man could do nothing in the South. As I had always been a man somewhat after the John Brown stamp, aiding slaves to escape, or keeping them employed, and running them into Canada when in danger, I did not think it would do for me to make a trip to Montgomery.
I did not know what steps had already been taken in the case, or whether the loss was a heavy one. From the Vice-President's saying he wanted a man "half horse, half alligator," I supposed he wanted a man who could at least affiliate readily with the inhabitants of the South.
But what class was he to mix with? Did he want a man to mix with the rough element, or to pass among gentlemen? I could select from my force any class of man he could wish. But what did he wish?
I was unaware of who had recommended me to the Vice-President, as at that time I had not been informed that my old friend Boyer had spoken so well of me. What answer should I make to the dispatch? It must be answered immediately!
These thoughts followed each other in rapid succession as I held the dispatch before me.
I finally settled on Porter as the proper man to send, and immediately telegraphed the Vice-President, informing him that Porter would start for Montgomery by the first train. I then sent for Porter and gave him what few instructions I could. I told him the little I knew of the case, and that I should have to rely greatly on his tact and discretion.
Up to that time I had never done any business for the Adams Express, and as their business was well worth having, I was determined to win.
He was to go to Montgomery and get thoroughly acquainted with the town and its surroundings; and as my suspicions had become aroused as to the integrity of the agent, Maroney, he was to form his acquaintance, and frequent the saloons and livery stables of the town, the Vice-President's letter having made me aware of Maroney's inclination for fast horses. He was to keep his own counsel, and, above all things, not let it become known that he was from the North, but to hail from Richmond, Va., thus securing for himself a good footing with the inhabitants. He was also to dress in the Southern style; to supply me with full reports describing the town and its surroundings, the manners and customs of its people, all he saw or heard about Maroney, the messengers and other employés of the company; whether Maroney was married, and, if so, any suspicious circumstances in regard to his wife as well as himself—in fact, to keep me fully informed of all that occurred. I should have to rely on his discretion until his reports were received; but then I could direct him how to act. I also instructed him to obey all orders from the Vice-President, and to be as obliging as possible.
Having given him his instructions, I started him off on the first train, giving him a letter of introduction to the Vice-President. On Porter's arriving in Montgomery he sent me particulars of the case, from which I learned that while Maroney was temporarily filling the position of agent, among other packages sent to the Montgomery office, on the twenty-seventh of January, 1859, were four containing, in the aggregate, forty thousand dollars, of which one, of two thousand five hundred dollars, was to be sent to Charleston, S. C., and the other three, of thirty thousand, five thousand, and two thousand five hundred respectively, were intended for Augusta. These were receipted for by Maroney, and placed in the vault to be sent off the next day. On the twenty-eighth the pouch was given to the messenger, Mr. Chase, and by him taken to Atlanta. When the pouch was opened, it was found that none of these packages were in it, although they were entered on the way-bill which accompanied the pouch, and were duly checked off. The poor messenger was thunder-struck, and for a time acted like an idiot, plunging his hand into the vacant pouch over and over again, and staring vacantly at the way-bill. The Assistant Superintendent of the Southern Division was in the Atlanta office when the loss was discovered, and at once telegraphed to Maroney for an explanation. Receiving no reply before the train started for Montgomery, he got aboard and went directly there. On his arrival he went to the office and saw Maroney, who said he knew nothing at all of the matter. He had delivered the packages to the messenger, had his receipt for them, and of course could not be expected to keep track of them when out of his possession.
Before Mr. Hall, the route agent, left Atlanta he had examined the pouch carefully, but could find no marks of its having been tampered with. He had immediately telegraphed to another officer of the company, who was at Augusta, and advised him of what had happened. The evening after the discovery of the loss the pouch was brought back by the messenger from Atlanta, who delivered it to Maroney.
Maroney took out the packages, compared them with the way-bill, and, finding them all right, he threw down the pouch and placed the packages in the vault.
In a few moments he came out, and going over to where Mr. Hall was standing, near where he had laid down the pouch, he picked it up and proceeded to examine it. He suddenly exclaimed, "Why, it's cut!" and handed it over to Mr. Hall. Mr. Hall, on examination, found two cuts at right angles to each other, made in the side of the pouch and under the pocket which is fastened on the outside, to contain the way-bill.
On Sunday the General Superintendent arrived in Montgomery, when a strict investigation was made, but nothing definite was discovered, and the affair seemed surrounded by an impenetrable veil of mystery. It was, however, discovered that on the day the missing packages were claimed to have been sent away, there were several rather unusual incidents in the conduct of Maroney.
After consultation with Mr. Hall and others, the General Superintendent determined that the affair should not be allowed to rest, as was the ten thousand dollar robbery, and had Maroney arrested, charged with stealing the forty thousand dollars.
The robbery of so large an amount caused great excitement in Montgomery. The legislature was in session, and the city was crowded with senators, representatives and visitors. Everywhere, on the streets, in the saloons, in private families, and at the hotels, the great robbery of the Express Company was the universal topic of conversation. Maroney had become such a favorite that nearly all the citizens sympathized with him, and in unmeasured terms censured the company for having him arrested. They claimed that it was another instance of the persecution of a poor man by a powerful corporation, to cover the carelessness of those high in authority, and thus turn the blame on some innocent person.
Maroney was taken before Justice Holtzclaw, and gave the bail which was required—forty thousand dollars—for his appearance for examination a few days later; prominent citizens of the town actually vieing with one another for an opportunity to sign his bail-bond.
At the examination the Company presented such a weak case that the bail was reduced to four thousand dollars, and Maroney was bound over in that amount to appear for trial at the next session of the circuit court, to be held in June. The evidence was such that there was little prospect of his conviction on the charge unless the company could procure additional evidence by the time the trial was to come off.
It was the desire of the company to make such inquiries, and generally pursue such a course as would demonstrate the guilt or the possible innocence of the accused. It was absolutely necessary for their own preservation to show that depredations upon them could not be committed with impunity. They offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for the recovery of the money, promptly made good the loss of the parties who had entrusted the several amounts to their charge, and looked around to select such persons to assist them as would be most likely to secure success. The amount was large enough to warrant the expenditure of a considerable sum in its recovery, and the beneficial influence following the conviction of the guilty party would be ample return for any outlay securing that object. The General Superintendent therefore telegraphed to me, as before related, requesting me to send a man to work up the case.
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Porter had a very rough journey to Montgomery, and was delayed some days on the road. It was in the depth of winter, and in the North the roads were blockaded with snow, while in the South there was constant rain. The rivers were flooded, carrying away the bridges and washing out the embankments of the railroads, very much impeding travel.
On his arrival in Montgomery he saw the General Superintendent and presented his letter. He received from him the particulars of the forty thousand dollar robbery, and immediately reported them to me.
The General Superintendent directed him to watch—"shadow" as we call it—the movements of Maroney, find out who were his companions, and what saloons he frequented.
Porter executed his duties faithfully, and reported to me that Montgomery was decidedly a fast town; that the Exchange Hotel, where Maroney boarded, was kept by Mr. Floyd, former proprietor of the Briggs House, Chicago, and, although not the leading house of the town, was very much liked, as it was well conducted.
From the meagre reports I had received I found I had to cope with no ordinary man, but one who was very popular, while I was a poor nameless individual, with a profession which most people were inclined to look down upon with contempt. I however did not flinch from the undertaking, but wrote to Porter to do all he could, and at the same time wrote to the General Superintendent, suggesting the propriety of sending another man, who should keep in the background and "spot" Maroney and his wife, or their friends, so that if any one of them should leave town he could follow him, leaving Porter in Montgomery, to keep track of the parties there.
There were, of course, a number of suspicious characters in a town of the size of Montgomery, and it was necessary to keep watch of many of them.
Maroney frequented a saloon kept by a man whom I will call Patterson. Patterson's saloon was the fashionable drinking resort of Montgomery, and was frequented by all the fast men in town. Although outwardly a very quiet, respectable place, inwardly, as Porter found, it was far from reputable. Up stairs were private rooms, in which gentlemen met to have a quiet game of poker; while down stairs could be found the greenhorn, just "roped in," and being swindled, at three card monte. There were, also, rooms where the "young bloods" of the town—as well as the old—could meet ladies of easy virtue. It was frequented by fast men from New Orleans, Mobile, and other places, who were continually arriving and departing.
I advised the General Superintendent that it would be best to have Porter get in with the "bloods" of the town, make himself acquainted with any ladies Maroney or his wife might be familiar with, and adopt generally the character of a fast man.
As soon as the General Superintendent received my letter he telegraphed to me to send the second man, and also requested me to meet him, at a certain date, in New York.
I now glanced over my force to see who was the best person to select for a "shadow". Porter had been promoted by me to be a sort of "roper".
Most people may suppose that nearly any one can perform the duties of a "shadow", and that it is the easiest thing in the world to follow up a man; but such is not the case. A "shadow" has a most difficult position to maintain. It will not do to follow a person on the opposite side of the street, or close behind him, and when he stops to speak to a friend stop also; or if a person goes into a saloon, or store, pop in after him, stand staring till he goes out, and then follow him again. Of course such a "shadow" would be detected in fifteen minutes. Such are not the actions of the real "shadow", or, at least, of the "shadow" furnished by my establishment.
I had just the man for the place, in Mr. Roch, who could follow a person for any length of time, and never be discovered.
Having settled on Roch as the proper man for the position, I summoned him to my private office. Roch was a German. He was about forty-five years old, of spare appearance and rather sallow or tanned complexion. His nose was long, thin and peaked, eyes clear but heavy looking, and hair dark. He was slightly bald, and though he stooped a little, was five feet ten inches in height. He had been in my employ for many years, and I knew him thoroughly, and could trust him.
I informed him of the duties he was to perform, and gave him minute instructions how he was to act. He was to keep out of sight as much as possible in Montgomery. Porter would manage to see him on his arrival, unknown to any one there, and would point out to him Maroney and his wife, and the messenger, Chase, who boarded at the Exchange; also Patterson, the saloon keeper, and all suspected parties. He was not to make himself known to Floyd, of the Exchange, or to McGibony, the local detective. I had also given Porter similar instructions. I suggested to him the propriety of lodging at some low boarding house where liquor was sold.
He was to keep me fully posted by letter of the movements of all suspected parties, and if any of them left town to follow them and immediately inform me by telegraph who they were and where they were going, so that I could fill his place in Montgomery.
Having given him his instructions, I selected for his disguise a German dress. This I readily procured from my extensive wardrobe, which I keep well supplied by frequent attendance at sales of old articles.
When he had rigged himself up in his long German coat, his German cap with the peak behind, and a most approved pair of emigrant boots, he presented himself to me with his long German pipe in his mouth, and I must say I was much pleased with his disguise, in which his own mother would not have recognized him. He was as fine a specimen of a Dutchman as could be found.
Having thoroughly impressed on his mind the importance of the case and my determination to win the esteem of the company by ferreting out the thief, if possible, I started him for Montgomery, where he arrived in due time.
At the date agreed upon I went to New York to meet the General Superintendent. I had never met the gentlemen of the company and I was a little puzzled how to act with them.
I met the Vice-President at the express office, in such a manner that none of the employés were the wiser as to my profession or business, and he made an appointment to meet me at the Astor House in the afternoon. At the Astor House he introduced me to the President, the General Superintendent of the company, and we immediately proceeded to business.
They gave me all the particulars of the case they could, though they were not much fuller than those I had already received from Porter's reports. They reviewed the life of Maroney, as already related, up to the time he became their agent, stating that he was married, although his marriage seemed somewhat "mixed".
As far as they could find out, Mrs. Maroney was a widow, with one daughter, Flora Irvin, who was about seven or eight years old. Mrs. Maroney was from a very respectable family, now living in Philadelphia or its environs. She was reported to have run away from home with a roué, whose acquaintance she had formed, but who soon deserted her. Afterwards she led the life of a fast woman at Charleston, New Orleans, Augusta, Ga., and Mobile, at which latter place she met Maroney, and was supposed to have been married to him.
After Maroney was appointed agent in Montgomery he brought her with him, took a suite of rooms at the Exchange, and introduced her as his wife.
On account of these circumstances the General Superintendent did not wish to meet her, and, when in Montgomery, always took rooms at another hotel.
The Vice-President said he had nearly come to the conclusion that Maroney was not guilty of the ten thousand dollar robbery; but when my letter reached him, with my comments on the robbery, he became convinced that he was the guilty party.
He was strengthened in this opinion by the actions of Maroney while on his Northern tour, and by the fact that immediately on his return the fast mare "Yankee Mary" made her appearance in Montgomery and that Maroney backed her heavily. It was not known that he was her owner, it being generally reported that Patterson and other fast men were her proprietors.
This was all the Vice-President and General Superintendent had been able to discover while South, and they were aware that I had very little ground on which to work.
I listened to all they had to say on the subject and took full memoranda of the facts. I then stated that although Maroney had evidently planned and carried out the robbery with such consummate ability that he had not left the slightest clue by which he could be detected, still, if they would only give me plenty of time, I would bring the robbery home to him.
I maintained, as a cardinal principle, that it is impossible for the human mind to retain a secret. All history proves that no one can hug a secret to his breast and live. Everyone must have a vent for his feelings. It is impossible to keep them always penned up.
This is especially noticeable in persons who have committed criminal acts. They always find it necessary to select some one in whom they can confide and to whom they can unburden themselves.
