Chapter 1

The through express on the Rock Island road left Chicago at 10:45 P.
M., on March 12, 1886, with twenty-two thousand dollars in fifty- and
one-hundred-dollar bills in the keeping of Kellogg Nichols, an
old-time messenger of the United States Express Company. This sum had
been sent by a Chicago bank to be delivered at the principal bank in
Davenport, Iowa. In addition to the usual passenger-coaches, the train
drew two express-cars: the first, for express only, just behind the
engine; and, following this, one for express and baggage. These cars
had end doors, which offer the best opportunity to train robbers.
Messenger Nichols was in the first car, and was duly at his work when
the train stopped at Joliet, a town about forty miles west of Chicago.
But at the next stop, which was made at Morris, Harry Schwartz, a
brakeman, came running from Nichols's car, crying, "The messenger is
dead."

The messenger's lifeless body was found lying on the floor of the car.
The head had been crushed by some heavy weapon, and there was a
pistol-wound in the right shoulder. Apparently he had been overcome
only after a hard fight. His face was set with fierce determination.
His fists were clenched, and the hands and fingers cut and scratched
in a curious way, while under the nails were found what proved to be
bits of human flesh. The pistol-wound was from a weapon of 32 caliber;
but it was not the cause of the man's death. This, unmistakably, was
the blow, or blows, on the head, probably after the shot was fired.
All who knew messenger Nichols were surprised at the desperate
resistance he seemed to have made, for he was a small, light man, not
more than five feet five in height, nor weighing over one hundred and
thirty pounds, and of no great credit among his fellows for pluck and
courage.

The express-car was immediately detached from the train, and left at
Morris, guarded by all the train-crew except Schwartz, who was sent on
with the train to Davenport. After the first cursory inspection no one
was allowed to enter the car where Nichols lay; and nothing was known
precisely as to the extent of the robbery. The safe-door had been
found open and the floor of the car littered with the contents of the
safe.

An urgent telegram was at once sent to Chicago, and a force of
detectives arrived at Morris on a special train a few hours later.
Search-parties were at once sent out in all directions along the
country roads, and up and down the tracks. Hundreds of people joined
in the search, for the news of the murder spread rapidly through the
whole region, and not a square yard of territory for miles between
Morris and Minooka station was left unexplored. It happened that the
ground was covered with snow, but the keenest scrutiny failed to
reveal any significant footprints, and the search-parties returned
after many hours, having made only a single discovery. This was a mask
found in a cattle-guard near Minooka--a mask made of black cloth, with
white strings fastened at either side, one of which had been torn out
of the cloth as if in a struggle.

Meantime Mr. Pinkerton himself entered the car and made a careful
investigation. His first discovery was a heavy poker, bearing stains
of blood and bits of matted hair. It was hanging in its usual place,
behind the stove. The significance of this last fact was great, in Mr.
Pinkerton's opinion; from it he concluded that the crime had been
committed by a railroad man, his reasoning being that the poker could
have been restored to its usual place after such a use only
mechanically and from force of habit and that an assailant who was not
a railroad man would have left it on the floor or thrown it away.

Coming to the safe, Mr. Pinkerton found that the twenty-two thousand
dollars were missing, and that other papers had been hastily searched
over, but left behind as valueless.

Among these was a bundle of canceled drafts that had been roughly torn
open and then thrown aside. Mr. Pinkerton scarcely noticed at the
moment, but had occasion to remember subsequently, that a small piece
of one of these drafts was missing, as if a corner had been torn off.

All the train-hands were immediately questioned, but none of their
stories was in any way significant, except that of Newton Watt, the
man in charge of the second car. He said that while busy counting
over his way-bills and receipts he had been startled by the crash of
broken glass in the ventilator overhead, and that at the same moment a
heavily built man, wearing a black mask, had entered the car and said,
"If you move, the man up there will bore you." Looking up, Watt said
further, he saw a hand thrust through the broken glass and holding a
revolver. Thus intimidated, he made no attempt to give an alarm, and
the masked man presently left him under guard of the pistol overhead,
which covered him until shortly before the train reached Morris, when
it was withdrawn. He was able to locate the place where the crime must
have been committed, as he remembered that the engine was whistling
for Minooka when the stranger entered the car. This left about thirty
minutes for the murder, robbery, and escape.

Returning to Chicago, Mr. Pinkerton investigated the character of the
man Watt, and found that he had a clean record, was regarded as a
trusty and efficient man, and had three brothers who had been railroad
men for years and had always given perfect satisfaction. Watt's good
reputation and straightforward manner were strong points in his favor,
and yet there was something questionable in his story of the
mysterious hand. For one thing, no footprints were found in the snow
on the top of the car.

Brakeman Schwartz, the only man on the train who had not yet been
questioned, "deadheaded" his way, in railway parlance, back from
Davenport the following night on conductor Danforth's train, and
reported to Mr. Pinkerton the next morning. He was a tall,
fine-looking young fellow, about twenty-seven, with thin lips and a
face that showed determination. He was rather dapper in dress, and
kept on his gloves during the conversation. Mr. Pinkerton received
him pleasantly, and, after they had been smoking and chatting for an
hour or so, he suggested to Schwartz that he would be more comfortable
with his gloves off. Schwartz accordingly removed them, and revealed
red marks on the backs of his hands, such as might have been made by
finger-nails digging into them.

"How did you hurt your hands, Schwartz?" asked Mr. Pinkerton.

"Oh, I did that handling baggage night before last," explained
Schwartz; and then he related incidentally that as he was on his way
back to Chicago, the conductor of the train, conductor Danforth, had
discovered a valise left by somebody in one of the toilet-rooms. Later
in the day Mr. Pinkerton summoned the conductor, who said that the
valise was an old one, of no value; and, having no contents, he had
thrown it out on an ash-pile. The only thing he had found in the
valise was a piece of paper that attracted his attention because it
was marked with red lines.

Examining this piece of paper carefully, Mr. Pinkerton saw that it had
been torn from a money-draft, and at once thought of the package in
the express messenger's safe. Now it is a remarkable fact that no
human power can tear two pieces of paper in exactly the same way; the
ragged fibers will only fit perfectly when the two original parts are
brought together. There remained no doubt, when this test was made in
the present case, that the piece of paper found on conductor
Danforth's east-bound train had been torn from the draft in the
express-car robbed the night before on the west-bound train. The edges
fitted, the red lines corresponded, and unquestionably some one had
carried that piece of paper from the one train to the other. In other
words, some one connected with the crime of the previous night had
ridden back to Chicago twenty-four hours later with conductor
Danforth.

Mr. Pinkerton at once ordered a search made for the missing valise,
and also an inquiry regarding the passengers who had ridden on
conductor Danforth's train between Davenport and Chicago on the night
following the murder. The valise was found on the ash-heap where the
conductor had thrown it, and in the course of the next few days the
detectives had located or accounted for all passengers on conductor
Danforth's train, with the exception of one man who had ridden on a
free pass. The conductor could only recall this man's features
vaguely; and, while some of the passengers remembered him well enough,
there was no clue to his name or identity. As it appeared that no
other of the passengers could have been connected with the crime,
efforts were redoubled to discover the holder of this pass.