The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (17 page)

I looked her in the eye, willing her to remember how she tried to shame me with tainted champagne. Instead, it was me who was forced to remember.

I thought about my ruined career, my worthless reputation. I remembered what Anderson said to me aboard his airship; that deep down I preferred the company of monsters. Most of all, I recalled that I had come to Washington in search of a criminal.

In the process, I stalked a civilian widow. I walked the halls of power and pretended to have business in them. I made it my purpose to bring another woman down. I lost my way.

Senator Wilson wasn't offering to help me find Major Anderson. I knew what he was offering. It made me feel sick.

“Excuse me.” I said.

I brushed past, hurrying to leave the hall. Others turned to look. Senator Wilson was aghast at the public rebuke.

I didn't care. I had to get out.

Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, my eyes were locked on the front door. Again, I heard a voice behind.

“Miss Warne.” Rose said.

We were alone on the stairs. I was at the bottom. She stood halfway up. Without closing the gap, she pressed me for an explanation.

“Why did you do that? The Senator . . .”

I held a hand out to stop her from saying any more. One of my fingers shook.

“It doesn't matter.” I said. “There's no reason.”

She looked at me for what seemed a long time. In some ways, it was for the first time.

“You're quite stunning in that dress.” She said.

Rose walked down the steps and joined me at the bottom. She took my arm in hers. I didn't resist. We walked to the door.

“So we are not giving reasons for the things we do tonight.” She said. “In that case, there is no reason for me to tell you that General Gustave Beauregard has been assigned to lead the Confederate forces at Manassas. Yankees such as yourself know the area as Bull Run.”

Beauregard was the man Major Anderson vowed to capture after the destruction of Fort Sumter. How did she know my reason for being in Washington?

Naturally, she had traded one secret for another. I wondered how much it cost her to buy the truth. Who sold it to her?

Maybe it was Harry. I would never know for sure.

Rose helped me with my coat. She hailed a carriage from the executive stable.

“One of our hospital prototypes is travelling to Manassas.” She said. “Perhaps you would like to be part of its humanitarian mission to the south.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

Here is an instance where the Pinkerton account does map onto the historic record. Rose Greenhow was a prominent figure in Washington circles during that period. Rumours of a romance with Senator Wilson, and its consequences during the opening stages of the war, appear in many source materials. For people who want to discredit and ignore the Pinkerton dossier, this creates a problem. At least some of the account is true. After winning a diplomatic row to reclaim this portfolio in 1956 then spending over fifty years sifting through the files, we cannot just sweep it under the carpet now that real discoveries are being made. I want to uncover as much material as possible before Justice shuts us down again.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

This police wagon was different from the last. Between my first arrest for trespassing and my most recent arrest for kidnapping, my status had changed. I was no longer a petty nuisance. I was a dangerous offender. The wagon reflected this switch.

The big difference was size. This wagon was more spacious, which struck me as a bit ironic. I could stretch my legs. Three armed guards traveled with me, which was also new.

Chains bound my arms and legs to an iron ring bolted into the floor. This compounded the pain caused by both a ferocious beating at the hands of Norwalk police and William Hunt's knife attack.

My equipment was in a bin underneath the bench. When I was taken into custody, officers dismantled the chassis from my arms and torso to keep as evidence. They didn't check under my slacks.

I still had the winch. This was my glimmer of hope.

The piston I primed at Waring farm was still full of steam. I was counting on there being enough power left in it to lift the ring out of the floor. If so, I would have a few seconds to act before the guards got to me.

I had one more idea about getting to the bottom of Judge Terrence Mansfield's blackmail, the Schulte murder, maybe everything. I wanted a final stab at piecing it all together. If I could get my hands on those tools before the guards knocked me senseless, I might be able to get out.

The severity of my injuries allowed me to spend a lot of time hunched over. I let out an occasional moan. The guards ignored me. None noticed me grind the carbide tip of the jackleg winch into a seam between planks under the ring.

I clutched at my chest with both hands as though experiencing some new agony. Standing up, I pressed all my weight down on the bit.

“Quiet there.” One guard said. “Sit down.”

The other two reached for clubs. Trying to look intimidated, I sat in a heap and leaned to one side for leverage. The wood cracked. I held my breath, pleading in my mind for the ring to come loose.

A booming noise stung the inside of my ear canal. The seam between planks yawned open. A fissure ran up the wall to the ceiling causing the whole wagon split in half.

The guards looked terrified. They were still gripping their clubs.

My half of the wagon fell away. The wall I leaned against crashed onto the street, carrying all the carriage's momentum. My arms and legs came free from the shackles. I skimmed along the roadway, sitting bolt upright and screaming from the pit of my stomach like a newborn.

The wheels of nearby coaches spun close. Passengers on all sides yelled and pointed. I approached a bend in the road. A carriage was bearing down behind.

I threw myself forward and grabbed the box holding my gear. I jumped off the wall and landed on the crate. My face swung down and smacked the side. I rolled head over heels into the tables of a curb-side cafe.

I got to my feet. The act of trying to brush myself off raised a few guffaws. Mostly, I just smeared dirt and blood together on my clothes.

It would take police an hour to get word of the accident, talk to witnesses and make any progress in searching for me. That was ample time for me to reach the Stock Exchange where I would make my last attempt and finding the truth.

New York's first Exchange on Wall Street was destroyed by fire so the outfit moved to a temporary space on Broad. There were plans in the works for a lavish new structure but the current building only stood out because so many people streamed through its doors all day long.

Inside, the Exchange was no more glamorous than a warehouse. Every adornment was stripped away to make room for the men crammed inside and the machines tracking daily action.

Tradable commodities in America each had a code. These codes were posted on a board made up of shutters the size of playing cards, which flipped over as prices fluctuated. The dense grid of numbers and codes was constantly changing. The board dominated every sightline. It was so vast, all four walls were covered, starting halfway up and reaching to the ceiling.

A cube in the middle of the trading floor was twenty feet in every dimension. Electric leads hung from the cube like hair. Those leads connected to a device inside that counted prices and returns for every product in the Union economy.

This was what I needed. I forced my way to the cube.

I had retrieved my switchbox, among other equipment, from the wreck. When I plugged it into leads on the cube, it flared in my hand. The volume of information would be similar to the telegraphs I intercepted on the Golden Circle case. My machine could handle the data.

I wanted to know if information stolen from Henry Schulte had been entered into the Exchange. One of the silent investors in Schulte's slave hunting business was New York judge Terrence Mansfield. He presided over my trial and, more importantly, a legal challenge against President Lincoln's blockade.

The raw data in Schulte's account log could expose Judge Mansfield as a slave profiteer. That was why Hunt wanted it. He was trying to shape the power of the President.

Judge Mansfield already rendered his decision. He supported the President's blockade. If his blackmailers made good on their threat, they would leave a trace here.

Traders nudged each other and pointed at me as punch cards fell from the switchbox. I shrugged as though I didn't know what it was doing either. A floor monitor approached. He took one look at the cards accumulating at my feet and gestured for security.

The switchbox went still in my hands. A card emerged under the heading: Returns—T. Mansfield.

It was confirmed. The judge was exposed.

The damning information was entered earlier that same day from a remote location here in New York: the offices of Northern Central railway. That was the same company I was investigating for embezzlement when Kennedy arrested me.

I detached the switchbox. It was no great feat to disappear on the Stock Exchange floor. The price of coffee rose a quarter penny and, in the commotion, I was gone.

The route to Northern Central was no trouble to recall. I had been there many times.

There was no chance of getting past reception so I circled to the back. Offices were on the first two floors. Conference rooms and executive suites were on the third. The fourth was empty. I held the dragline caster and looked at the fourth floor windows.

It was a long way up but this was my best chance of getting into the building. Whoever sent the Schulte data to the Stock Exchange might still have been inside.

I wound up a few times then launched the sinker, hoping it would snag a fire escape. It smashed through a window.

I hurried to attach the dragline to the fastener on my knee. When the filament wire retracted, I tipped upside down and rose through the air. My feet took the window frame apart as I crashed into the room. I was still rising.

The caster was lodged in the beams behind a light fixture on the ceiling. I twisted my knees coming to a sudden stop, dangling above the floor. From there, I heard two men approach.

“Let's get out of here.”

“Be quiet.”

I knew those voices.

“The equipment is bought. It will be delivered on schedule. I'm done.”

The door opened. S. M. Felton and Superintendent John Kennedy walked in. They traced the damage from the window to the broken glass on the floor and finally to the light fixture. Kennedy's jaw dropped.

“This is what I'm talking about.” Felton said. “We are never going to be rid of them.”

“If you had done your job, this would not be an issue.”

“I tossed one out of an airship. I sent this one to face a thousand telegraph machines.”

“Too clever by half, Felton. That's always been your way.”

Kennedy circled beneath me. A smile spread over his face and he clapped his hands.

“Robert.” He said. “Let us show Mr. Felton what he ought to have done.”

Kennedy drew his pistol. He spent a moment taking careful aim then fired.

I raised my hands in front of my face. The ball passed between my fingers, skimmed off my check bone, and ripped through my right leg. It clattered into the dragline device.

I cried out. Kennedy cheered. The impact caused the device to jam, straining as it tried to retract the filament wire.

“We wanted the Pinkertons to be out of our way.” Kennedy said. “How hard was that?”

“Hunt makes it hard. He has to kill Lincoln himself. He only presses a judge over slave issues. He only steals from abolitionist towns. I'm surprised he accepted news of the Union attack from a woman.”

“Settle down.” Kennedy said. “It's over now.”

I felt a burning heat near my knee, and then a shudder as the dragline pulled the filament free. It severed a wooden rafter from the ceiling and cut the screws holding the chandelier.

I fell, absorbing the impact in the shoulder to spare my leg. The rest landed on Kennedy.

My body throbbed all over. Kennedy was hurt but not seriously. He started pushing debris aside. The thought of him back on his feet was an outrage.

I lurched to a sitting position like a mummy rising from the crypt. Kennedy cast me a disbelieving glance. I hit his face, chest, arms. I even punched the floor. It was a wild flurry, completely out of control. When it was over, Kennedy stayed down.

Felton was paralyzed in horror. I must have been a ghastly sight.

I aimed the dragline at his chest. The device was ruined but he didn't know.

“Northern Central has a dirigible.” I said. “You can fly it.”

“You need to go to a hospital, Robert.”