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.
We pried the safe open.
"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 thealibi, 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?"
Thus questioned, Bucholz, without hesitation, at once commenced and related to his friend the circumstances of the affair, adhering strictly to the same story which he had told at the inquest, and which he had religiously repeated ever since.
While they were thus conversing, the jailer came to lock them in their cells for the night. Brown slipped quietly away, and the two men, thus so strangely thrown together, shook hands and retired to their separate apartments, where they spent the night in slumber. But ah, how pleasant or how fatiguing was that slumber!
CHAPTER XX.
Bucholz passes a Sleepless Night.—An Important Discovery.—The Finding of the Watch of the Murdered Man.—Edward Sommers consoles the Distressed Prisoner.
Our narrative must necessarily deal somewhat largely with the interior arrangements and experiences of a prison. Not a very gratifying spectacle certainly, nor one ordinarily calculated to give occasion for many incidents of a pleasurable character, or for those glossed with the tints of romance or gallantry.
How many untouched pillows there are as the sable folds of night gather around the dreary walls of the prison. How many aching hearts and weary brains are waiting and watching for the dawning of the day—the coming of the bright rays of the morning, which shall dispel the gloom and despair of their narrow chamber, and gild with golden beauty the darkened corners where, in the solemn hours of the night, lurk the grim specters that were born of their remorse or their fears.
Bucholz passed a sleepless night after the conversation just had with his companion, Edward Sommers; the buoyancy of his hopes was shaken, and between the fitful, restless slumbers, dark dreaming and frowning visitants came to him in all the forbidding presence of accusing spirits.
In the morning he arose unrested and unrefreshed, and as he greeted his friend, the latter detected traces of tears in his eyes, which were shrouded with the dark lines that gave token of a lack of sleep and of intense mental distress.
After the usual morning salutations were exchanged, they partook of their breakfast in silence. Upon the arrival of the hour for the admission of visitors, Paul Herscher, who had testified in regard to the money which Bucholz had given him, was announced as desiring to see the prisoner, and together they went into his cell.
The information which he brought proved to be very important, though not in the least consoling, and appeared to have an effect upon Bucholz far from assuring. It appeared that a severe storm of snow had fallen on the Sunday afternoon following the murder, and which had remained upon the ground in the fields and woods until this time, when the March rains and warm sunshine had caused all traces of it to disappear, leaving the ground uncovered to the bright sunlight of a Spring morning.
On the morning previous to this visit, a farmer engaged in the fields adjoining the farm formerly occupied by Henry Schulte, had discovered a watch lying upon the ground, which had evidently been hidden from view by the snow. This watch had been immediately identified as belonging to the murdered man.
It will be remembered that at the inquest it had been discovered that the watch usually worn by Henry Schulte, had been torn forcibly from the guard around his neck, and from that time all traces of it had disappeared, until this unexpected resurrection from under its covering of snow.
What made this discovery of more importance was the fact that the watch was found, not far from a fence bordering a road along which Bucholz was known to have traveled on the night of the murder while on his way to the village to give the alarm. It verily seemed as though another link had been forged in the chain of evidence that was being drawn around him, and Bucholz realizing this felt his heart sink within him, as he listened to the loquacious visitor who seemed to be very well pleased in having something to tell.
Maintaining his composure, however, he listened to the recital without any evidence of emotion, and not one would have imagined that it had the slightest effect upon him other than that of curiosity, but after Paul Herscher had departed he threw himself upon his bed and sobbed bitterly.
In this condition he was found by Edward Sommers a few minutes afterwards, and almost immediately thereafter he was followed by the stealthy-moving Brown, who, passing the door of the cell occupied by Bucholz, and looking in, had discovered the strange proceedings that were taking place.
Posting himself upon the outside of the cell door Brown endeavored to listen to what ensued between the two men inside, but to his intense chagrin and disappointment he discovered that they were talking in German and he could not understand a word.
Sommers seated himself upon the bed beside his companion, and placing his hand upon his shoulder endeavored to solace him in his apparent distress.
"My dear fellow," said he, after Bucholz had told him the cause of his tears, "do not be so discouraged."
"Ah, how can I help it," replied Bucholz, "when everything seems to be turning against me?"
"Never mind, Bucholz; you have good lawyers, and they will tell you what to do," said his companion, soothingly. "Now, tell me, my friend, how many people ever saw this watch of Mr. Schulte? If he made no friends, he could not have shown his watch to many people."
"That is so," replied Bucholz, eagerly catching at the suggestion, and his face brightened at once. "There is only one person who can identify it—the old man's former servant, Frank Bruner, and he must be got out of the way."
Sommers gazed at his companion in astonishment. The change in him was wonderful—the depression of spirits had disappeared entirely, and this effect had been produced by a proposition todisposeof one who might prove a damaging witness against him. Rather a strange suggestion to come from one who was entirely guiltless of crime!
"You are a great fellow, Sommers," continued Bucholz, with glee, "and after we get out of this we will have a good time together."
"What will we do to have a good time?" asked Sommers, rather doubtfully.
"We will go to Australia," replied the other, in great good humor, "and we will enjoy ourselves there, I can tell you."
"Yes, but that will take a great deal of money, and where is that to come from?"
"Never you mind about the money; I will fix that all right. I do not intend to work, and you need not do so either."
Sommers looked up at his friend, who smiled in a peculiar manner, and was about to question him further upon the subject, but at that moment the conversation for that day was interrupted by the announcement of a visit from Mr. Bollman, one of the counsel Bucholz had employed to conduct his case, and who was the only one of the attorneys who made frequent visits to their client.
Sommers bade his friend good morning, and, as he left the cell, he ran forcibly against the listening Brown, who had ensconced himself near the door. The two men glared at each other for a moment, and then, without speaking, each went their separate ways. Sommers determined to keep his eye on this fellow, and dispose of him in a very decisive way should he prove further troublesome.
Thus day by day did the intimacy between Bucholz and Sommers increase, while the watchfulness of Brown had not diminished in the least. He seemed to keep his searching eyes upon the pair, and scarcely any movement was made that escaped his notice.
CHAPTER XXI.
A Romantic Theory Dissipated.—The Fair Clara becomes communicative.—An Interview with the Barkeeper of "The Crescent Hotel."
While these events were transpiring within the jail, I was actively engaged in the attempt to follow the clue in relation to the two suspicious individuals who had made their mysterious appearance at Stamford on the night of the murder of Henry Schulte.
It will be remembered that their actions attracted universal attention, and that, after inquiring for a train to New York, they had taken one going in a directly opposite direction.
Judicious inquiries soon brought my officers in personal contact with several parties who distinctly recollected the two strange persons above mentioned, and from their descriptions we were enabled to trace them to their places of residence.
It was ascertained that they were two respectable and peaceably-disposed Germans who resided at New Haven, and who had come to Stamford on that evening to attend a frolic at the house of a German farmer who lived near to that place. They had spent the evening in a jovial manner, and had left the house under the impression that by hastening their steps they would be in time to catch the train for their homes. They had consequently run the greater part of the distance to the station, which being nearly a mile away, accounted for their breathless condition upon reaching there. They had then inquired for a trainfromNew York, and nottothat city, and upon being informed that no further trains from that direction (as they understood it) would arrive that night, they had indulged in an extended personal altercation, each accusing the other of being the cause of their detention. When the train did arrive, contrary to their expectations, their ill feelings had not sufficiently subsided, and they sat sullen and apart upon their journey to their places of abode.
These facts, of course, dissipated the romantic theory that foreign emissaries had been employed by the relatives of the deceased to put him out of the way in order to secure his wealth; and so that glittering edifice of speculation fell to the ground.
I did not have much faith in this story from the outset, but it is a rule with me to follow every point in an investigation to a definite and satisfactory conclusion, and this line of inquiry was diligently pursued to the results mentioned. I therefore dismissed the matter from further consideration.
Operatives were also detailed to visit the Crescent Saloon, where the fair and voluptuous Clara presided and ministered to the bibulous appetites of her numerous friends and admirers.
They succeeded in making the acquaintance of the young lady, and by a liberal purchase of drinks, were successful in getting the fair but frail damsel in a communicative mood. She related her previous experience with Bucholz and confessed to entertaining at one time a decided regard for him, which regard was, however, not unmixed with fear. She also related several incidents, in which Bucholz, after having gone to South Norwalk, had visited the saloon and had been very lavish in spending his money.
"He was here," said the girl, "only a few days before the murder, and he drank a great deal. He appeared to have plenty of money, and spent more than fifty dollars here at one time. He seemed wild and excited, and talked about the old man in a manner that frightened me. When I heard about the murder from the young servant that used to work for Mr. Schulte, I could not help thinking that Bucholz had something to do with it. His eyes had a wild, wicked look when he spoke about the old man's money, and I felt sure that he was robbing him during his lifetime. When I heard that he was dead and had been murdered, I could not help it, but I thought at once that Bucholz had done it. I do not know why I thought so, but I could not get rid of that impression."
These statements, although furnishing no proofs of Bucholz's guilt, were of a character to convince me of the possibility of his having committed the murder. He had evidently been stealing from the old man before his death, and whether the murder had been committed to hide his previous robberies or to obtain possession of the great wealth which he carried about him, was the question I was resolved to determine.
A visit was also paid to the hotel where Bucholz had boarded and where he had met Mr. Schulte and engaged in his service. The cheery-faced landlord was very reticent upon the subject, and but little was learned from him. His barkeeper, however, was more disposed to talk, and it was ascertained that when Bucholz had left the hotel to enter the employ of Mr. Schulte he had left unpaid a bill for board which had been accumulating for some weeks, and that his trunk had been detained in consequence. After the murder he had visited the hotel in company with the officers who had him then in charge, and had paid his bill and taken his trunk away. The barkeeper shrugged his shoulders and declined to have anything to say when asked about any suspicious actions on the part of Bucholz during his residence in the house or since his engagement with Mr. Schulte.
From this person it was also discovered that a mail package, evidently containing some money, had been received at the hotel, addressed to William Bucholz. It purported to come from Germany, but an examination of the seals disclosed the fact that the package had been manufactured in the city, and that it had been designed to give color to the story of Bucholz's, of his having received money from his relatives who resided in Germany. There were, however, too many circumstances surrounding this package of a suspicious character to successfully deceive any one about its having come through the regular channels, or, in fact, having come from Germany at all. This package was the subject of discussion in the German paper, whose comments had produced such a marked effect upon the prisoner when he read it.
This information I was compelled to receive for what it was worth. The package had been delivered, and I could only depend upon the recollections of those who had seen it at the time. Their statements or opinions would certainly not be received as evidence, nor could they be used in any legal manner. They only served to strengthen my belief in William Bucholz's guilty participation in the murder, and determined me to pursue my present system of investigation vigorously and unremittingly to a successful conclusion.
CHAPTER XXII.
Sommers suggests a doubt of Bucholz's Innocence.—He employs Bucholz's Counsel to effect his Release.—A Visit from the State's Attorney.—A Difficulty and an Estrangement.
We will now return to the prison at Bridgeport and to the unfortunate man confined within its walls for the murder of his master.
The intimacy and friendship existing between Sommers and Bucholz continued to increase as the days passed slowly on. By degrees and in fragmentary conversations Sommers had learned the story of the murder from his companion. He had advised him repeatedly about his deportment in the prison, and as to his manner of conducting himself upon his approaching trial. He had evinced a deep sympathy for his unfortunate position, and, by timely suggestions and judicious warnings, had led the accused man to rely upon him, in a material degree, for advice and comfort.
During all this long intimacy Bucholz never wavered in his protestations of innocence, or in his consistent statement of the knowledge which he professed to have of the murder of Henry Schulte.
One day they were sitting together in the cell of Sommers. Bucholz was in a very pleasant humor, owing to some event that had occurred—a visit from some ladies of the village—and turning to Sommers, he laughingly said:
"Ah, Sommers, it seems very strange that you and I should be in prison, while others are free and enjoying the brightness and pleasures of liberty."
"Yes," replied his companion, "but if we had both behaved ourselves better, we would not be here."
Bucholz's manner changed instantly. He became livid in the face, his lips trembled, and casting a searching look at his companion, he said:
"But I did not do this thing that I am accused of."
Quietly and calmly his companion returned his glance, and then he laughingly said:
"Oh, I know all about that. You can't fool me."
Bucholz did not reply. In a few moments he turned away and left the cell, and the subject was not mentioned between them for several days.
A short time after this, Sommers complained of the length of his confinement, and wished that he might have his bail reduced, in order to effect his deliverance. He also suggested that if he could once get out of the jail he could work for his friend—in whose welfare he was warmly interested—in a manner that would greatly benefit him.
Bucholz, apparently ignoring this proposition, seemed anxious to revert to their previous conversation, and began by referring to his friendly relations with Henry Schulte during his lifetime, and complained of the absurdity of placing him in jail upon the charge of murdering him.
"Why," said he, "he promised to take me with him to Germany and make me inspector of his estates there, and I should probably have been heir to many thousands of dollars at his death. Would I not be a fool to kill him?"
Sommers listened patiently to the long recital, which he knew did not contain a particle of truth, and upon its conclusion he remarked, in a light, careless way:
"Now, William, between you and I, I actually believe that you had something to do with this murder."
Again that deathly pallor overspread his face; he became confused and scarcely able to speak—but at length, recovering himself with an effort, he declared his innocence, and said that he could not sit upon the bed enjoying health if he had done this deed, or knew the parties who had.
"Why," continued he, "I would not have gone to Norwalk that night and reported the murder if I had done it. Ah, my dear Sommers, you will learn when you go to Norwalk yourself from everybody there that all my actions have been those of an innocent man."
Sommers looked doubtfully at his friend, and when he had finished speaking, he said:
"Well, Bucholz, it is none of my business. I hate to see you in this difficulty, and no matter whether you had anything to do with it or not, I will do all that I can to get you out of it. I feel almost as badly about it as you do."
"Ah, Sommers, I tremble at the thought of a verdict of guilty! I think I should die upon the spot if I should hear that word."
Sommers comforted him as well as he was able to do; promised him whatever assistance that was in his power to render him, and by repeated assurances, he succeeded in quieting his fears and restoring his tranquillity.
It was finally agreed between them that Sommers should make a decided effort to be admitted to bail, and then securing his liberty, he should devote himself to the interests of his friend Bucholz, but during all their after conferences he never asserted his innocence to Edward Sommers again.
The ubiquitous Brown had not been idle; he still watched these men with ceaseless and jealous vigilance, and whenever they were together he would endeavor to approach them as closely as possible. He saw many things that excited his curiosity, but their conversations he could not understand. These two men were the only prisoners who spoke German, and on that account they were as secure from interruption as though no prying eyes were watching them or no suspicions were entertained in regard to their intimacy.
One day an incident occurred, however, which threatened to mar the serenity of the intercourse of these two men, who had been so strangely thrown together, but which eventually resulted in cementing their union more closely.
Sommers had retained Mr. Bollman, the attorney for Bucholz, for the purpose of having his bail reduced in order to effect his release from imprisonment. This course was deemed necessary for two reasons—his health had been considerably impaired by his long confinement, and, besides that, it was decided that he could work more successfully in the interests of Bucholz, could he be freed from the restraint of the prison.
Mr. Bollman had met Mr. Olmstead upon the train and had broached the matter to him. Mr. Olmstead had demurred to the reduction, for reasons which seemed sufficient for his action, and had informed Mr. Bollman that he would visit the jail, have an interview with Sommers, and ascertain the full particulars of his case.
In accordance with that suggestion, he had called at the jail, and Sommers had been notified of the desire of the State's attorney to see him.
He was conversing with Bucholz in their usual friendly manner when the notice was conveyed to him, and as Bucholz heard the name of the visitor and the nature of the communication, he became confused and apparently much frightened. He looked beseechingly at Sommers as he turned to obey the summons, and tears came into his eyes as his friend left the cell.
A hundred thoughts came crowding through his brain as Sommers departed. What object could the State's attorney have in sending for his friend? Could it be that their intimacy had been noticed and reported, and that Mr. Olmstead would attempt to force him to divulge their secrets? Would he offer such inducements to Sommers as would outweigh his proffered friendship and induce him to betray the confidence that had been reposed in him? He could not tell, and with bitter, anxious and doubtful thoughts pressing upon his mind, he left his cell and walked in the direction of the little room where he knew the conference was being held.
No sound of the conversation reached his ears, and with aching heart, his mind filled with perplexing and agonizing doubts, he returned to his cell, and throwing himself upon the bed, he gave himself up to the dreadful thoughts that possessed him.
At length he heard the opening and closing of the door, and soon the returning footsteps of Sommers sounded along the passage.
Bucholz hastened out, and at once communicated his fears to his friend—that he had betrayed him.
Sommers received this outburst with dignified calmness of demeanor, and finally turning upon his companion with a show of anger, he said:
"I did not think that you had such a small opinion of me. I have been a friend to you all along, and it is not probable that I should change my position towards you now, but if you think so, I cannot help it."
Saying which, and with an injured air, Sommers left his friend, and going at once to his own cell he shut the door forcibly behind him.
The quarrel between William Bucholz and Edward Sommers.
The quarrel between William Bucholz and Edward Sommers.
This was the commencement of an estrangement which lasted several days. These two men, formerly so intimate and friendly, avoided each other so pointedly that it was observed by all the inmates of the prison, and to none did it afford more gratification than to the curious and suspicious Brown, whose black eyes now glittered with a wicked satisfaction as he noticed the coolness that existed between the two men whose previous friendliness had occasioned him so much concern.
He immediately began to make advances toward Bucholz, with, however, but little success. William repelled his attempts at friendliness, and seemed to be sorrowful and despondent. He missed the companionship of Sommers. He felt convinced that he had accused him unjustly, and the only man he cared for among the many by whom he was surrounded held himself aloof from him, and he had no disposition to make new friends.
Three days elapsed, during which no communication took place between them, and this continued silence proved too much for William Bucholz. He missed the companionship that had whiled away so many weary hours, and unable to endure any longer the anger of his friend, he sat down and indited a letter to Sommers, apologizing for his actions and proffering a renewal of his friendship.
This message was duly received by Sommers, who, in addition to their estrangement, appeared to be distressed about his own affairs, but who, nevertheless, welcomed the repentant Bucholz with all the cordiality of his disposition, and the coldness of the past few days was forgotten in this renewal of their friendship.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Reconciliation.—Bucholz makes an Important Revelation.—Sommers obtains His Liberty and leaves the Jail.
It is a truism almost as old as Time itself, that true love is never fully known until after the lovers have once quarreled and made their peace. The kiss of reconciliation after a temporary estrangement is frequently more potent than the first declaration of affection.
Nor was the rule disproved in the present case, and as the two men clasped hands upon the renewal of their seeming friendship, the crisis of their intercourse was reached. The separation of the past few days had shown Bucholz the necessity of a friendly voice and a friendly hand. The guilty secret which he had been keeping so long in his heart must find utterance—it had become heavy to bear. From this day forth all the concealment which he had practiced upon Sommers were to be swept away before the tide of this reconciling influence. Hereafter they were to stand face to face, acknowledged criminals, whose joint interest was to secure their liberty; whose only object was to effect their escape from the meshes of the law they had outraged, and which now seemed to envelop them so completely.
No protestations of innocence or acknowledgments of guilt were necessary—the bedrock of an implicit and instinctive understanding had been reached, and each looked upon the other as fellow prisoners who were to suffer for their misdeeds, unless some potent agency intervened for their preservation.
From the nature of their intercourse preceding this event, Sommers did not entertain a single doubt of the guilt of William Bucholz. His avoidance of the matter while in conversation; the confusion which marked his demeanor as Sommers conveyed to him indirectly or otherwise his belief that he knew more of the murder than he had as yet admitted, and his weak denials—all went very far to confirm him in the belief that William Bucholz, and him alone, was connected intimately and actively with the tragedy.
At the interview which followed their reconciliation, Sommers appeared to be very much depressed, and gave his companion to understand that all his hopes of being admitted to bail had been disappointed on account of the failure of his attorney—who was also acting for Bucholz—to have the amount reduced, and of the inability of the friends upon whom he relied to furnish the large sum required.
He also complained that the jailer had opened one of his letters and had discovered the fact that his relations were respectable people, who moved in good society, and who were as yet ignorant of his perilous and degrading situation. He was fearful that they would learn of his true condition unless he was enabled soon to effect his release. He regretted this fact particularly, because it prevented him from assisting his friend, who needed so much the services of some one to act in his behalf, which service, despite the previous doubts that had been entertained of him, he was still willing but unable to render.
The disappointment of Bucholz was no less acute than that of his companion. He had counted so securely upon the release of Sommers, in order to enlist his services for his own safety, that the effect of this unpleasant information was painful to witness.
At length, unable further to control himself, he threw his arms around Sommers, crying out:
"Oh, I wish I could only get out one night, one single night, then I could give you five hundred dollars, and all would be right!"
"That is easily said," replied Sommers, despondingly, "but if you did get out, where could you get the money?"
"I am speaking the truth," said Bucholz. "If you wanted five thousand, I could give it to you, if I was only out one night. I could tell you a secret that would open your eyes, but as long as you are here I can do you no good, and you cannot help me."
Sommers, who was reclining upon the bed, raised himself upon his hand, and looking Bucholz in the face with a knowing smile, said:
"I suppose you would lift old Schulte's treasure!"
Bucholz started slightly, but he had gone too far to retreat, and he admitted at once that if he could get out, he knew where the money of the murdered man was hid, and that no one beside himself possessed the knowledge.
There was an instantaneous gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of Sommers as this information was conveyed to him, and he determined to secure his release at all hazards. New life seemed to be infused into him, and there was a glow of excitement in his ordinarily pallid face that told of the agitation of his mind.
He jumped from the bed, and facing his companion, said:
"I will get out of this if it is in the power of human effort to accomplish it. I will write to my friend at once, and no time shall be lost in the attempt."
This change in his manner soon communicated itself to Bucholz, and in a short time, under the influence of this new-born hope, their conversation assumed a more cheerful strain, and bright pictures of the future were indulged in.
Active measures were at once begun, the friends of Sommers were written to; another interview was had with the State's attorney, and sufficient reasons were offered for a reduction in the amount of the bail under which he was held.
Mr. Olmstead, after listening to the statements made to him, agreed to the reduction asked for, and in a few days the necessary forms were gone through with. The requisite amount of money was deposited with the Court, and everything was in readiness for the release of Edward Sommers from his place of confinement.
The information was conveyed to Bucholz and Sommers, while they were walking up and down the corridor during the hours in which they were released from their cells, and the effect was observable upon the faces of both. Bucholz, while rejoicing in the accomplishment of a result that would prove of incalculable benefit to himself, was none the less reluctant as the time approached, to part with the friend who had brightened many gloomy hours, and whose intercourse had produced such a beneficial change upon his spirits and disposition.
He seemed loth, now that they were about to be separated, to utter the parting word, but as he thought of the advantage which this release would be to him, he assumed a cheerful demeanor, and appeared rejoiced at his speedy deliverance.
Their leave-taking was of the most friendly character, and after bestowing upon Bucholz the various articles which his cell contained, and many delicacies which had been received during his imprisonment, Sommers prepared to leave the prison.
Clasping the hand of Bucholz, he whispered:
"Courage, William. I will see you often, and between us we will succeed in our undertaking yet."
Saying which, and after a cordial parting salutation from the genial and pleasant jailer, Mr. Wells, the doors of the prison were unlocked, and Edward Sommers walked out into the bright sunshine and inhaled the sweet fragrance of a beautiful spring morning—a free man.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Sommers returns to Bridgeport.—An Interview with Mr. Bollman.—Sommers allays the Suspicions of Bucholz's Attorney, and engages him as his own Counsel.
The cold, bleak winds of March had yielded to the warm and invigorating showers of April, and these had brought forth the bright flowers and fragrant grasses that grew and blossomed on this beautiful May morning, when Edward Sommers left the confining walls of the prison at Bridgeport. More than two months had elapsed since he entered its frowning portals to commence the isolated life of a prisoner, and a sigh of grateful relief escaped him as he gazed around upon the brightness and beauty of the scene that was spread before him.
There was but little time given him for indulgence in these soothing and agreeable reveries. There was work for him to do, and he must summon up all his energies for the task before him. His release had been accomplished, and the promised revelation of Bucholz would be made to him in a few days, but he must visit those who had an interest in his welfare, and to whom he was responsible for his actions. He would also be enabled during the few days of rest to strengthen his shattered nerves and prepare himself for the important duties which would soon devolve upon him. He therefore took the train for New York and arrived there in due time.
To William Bucholz the absence of his friend and confidant was a severe blow, but as he realized the service he promised to perform for him, and the prospect of safety that was opening before his despairing mind, he became reconciled to his lonely fate, and waited patiently for the return of the man who was expected to devote himself to his interests.
The suspicious actions of Brown, the prisoner who had watched their movements so zealously, had not escaped the notice of both Sommers and Bucholz, and, on leaving, the former had cautioned his companion particularly and repeatedly against saying anything to him or to any one else about matters connected with his case.
At the end of three days Edward Sommers returned to Bridgeport, and, selecting a private boarding-house, he took up his abode there and prepared to carry out the plans that were to be arranged between himself and William Bucholz.
He considered it of paramount importance at the outset to disabuse the minds of the attorneys for Bucholz of any suspicion in regard to the relations existing between them, and with that end in view he paid a visit to the city of New Haven, and finding Mr. Bollman, the counsel who had acted for both of them, at his office, he engaged him for the conduct of his own case when it should come to trial.
In the course of the conversation which ensued, Mr. Bollman turned suddenly to Sommers, and said:
"Do you know, Mr. Sommers, that I have earnestly and repeatedly warned my client against you? I had reason to believe that the prosecuting attorney had placed some one in the jail to cultivate the friendship of William Bucholz, in the attempt to obtain a confession from him, and I thought you were the man. William would not listen to this, however, and I myself believe now that such is not the case as regards yourself, but I told him that he must not trust any one with whom he was associated, nor make a confidant of any one in the prison. A man in his position, you know cannot be too careful."
Sommers listened attentively and good-humoredly to these remarks, and finally informed Mr. Bollman that he knew Bucholz had been warned against him, for he had told him so.
"But, Mr. Bollman," continued he, "you need not be afraid of me, for I have given him the same advice myself."
"Do you know of any suspicious persons in the jail?" asked Mr. Bollman.
"I cannot tell with any certainty," replied the other; "but I do not like the looks of one of the hall men, nor of that treacherous-looking Brown, who is always spying upon the actions of the inmates of the prison. I have warned Bucholz against these men myself, and I do not think he has given them any information whatever."
After a protracted conversation, during which Sommers labored diligently and successfully to erase any latent suspicions from the mind of the attorney, Mr. Bollman at length said:
"Well, Mr. Sommers, to be candid with you, my suspicions were the most decidedly aroused when I had my interview with Mr. Olmstead, the State's attorney, about your bail. He evinced an unwillingness to reduce the amount, and expressed a belief that you had known Bucholz before you came to the jail. His manner of speaking led me to think that he knew more about you than was good for my client, and I felt sure that he had been the means of placing you in the jail to watch him."
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Bollman; it did look suspicious," said Sommers; "but Mr. Olmstead asked me the same questions when I spoke to him. I suppose he thought from our intimacy that I must have been acquainted with him before he was arrested."
With this explanation, and the ingenuous manner in which it was given, the mind of Mr. Bollman seemed to be at rest upon this subject, and their further conversation related to the case in which Sommers himself would appear as defendant, and in which Mr. Bollman was to act as his counsel.
Sommers informed him that he had seen the gentleman whose name had been forged, and that, in consideration of the family connections of the accused, he had agreed not to appear against him, and that there would be very little danger of his conviction of the crime of which he was charged.
This appeared to be very gratifying information for Mr. Bollman, who therefore anticipated very little trouble in clearing his client and earning his fee.
It was further arranged between them that a letter should be sent to the relations of Bucholz in Germany, who had not as yet displayed any sympathy for the unfortunate man or made any offer of assistance to him, during the hour of his trial.
One noticeable feature of their conversation was the evident avoidance by both of them of a discussion of the probable guilt or innocence of the accused man, nor did either declare his belief in his innocence.
Mr. Bollman expressed himself very carefully: "I have followed up the theory of his guilt, and it does not agree with his own statements or those of other people. Then, again, I have taken up the theory of his innocence, and this does not agree with his story either. It is a most extraordinary case, and sometimes it seems to me that it cannot be otherwise but that William Bucholz is the guilty party; and then, again, there are some of his actions that tend positively to show that he did not do it. I am at a loss what to say about it myself."
Sommers gave Mr. Bollman to understand that he believed in the guilt of the accused man, but that, in despite of that fact, he was willing to help him to the extent of his power.
And so they parted, and Edward Sommers returned to Bridgeport to be near his fellow-prisoner, and to carry out the plan which was to be entrusted to him.
As he stepped from the train upon the platform, he was surprised to see the figure of Thomas Brown standing in the doorway of the station, evidently waiting for the train to bear him away for the time. Upon making inquiries he ascertained that he had been released on bail, and that he had found friends to assist him. He never saw him again. Whether this individual was an embryo detective, who was desirous of discovering the mystery of the Schulte murder, or whether he was simply a victim of intense curiosity, was never learned.
He disappeared, and, so far as his relation to this narrative is concerned, was never heard of again.
CHAPTER XXV.
Sommers' Visit to South Norwalk.—He makes the Acquaintance of Sadie Waring.—A Successful Ruse.—Bucholz Confides to His Friend the Hiding Place of the Murdered Man's Money.
Upon the return of Edward Sommers to the jail at Bridgeport he was warmly welcomed by his friend, to whom the intervening days had passed slowly and wearily.
His greeting was cordial and friendly, and as Sommers related his experiences during his absence, the eyes of William would light up with pleasure. No one to have looked at him now would have imagined for a moment that the face now wreathed with smiles had once been distorted by a murderous passion, or grown ashen pale with the fear of the consequences of his action.
Their conversation was long and seemingly interesting, and as Sommers unfolded his plans for the relief of the imprisoned man, all doubt of their success was dissipated from his mind, and visions of prospective safety came thick and fast. He still appeared doubtful of communicating the promised secret of the hiding-place of the old man's money to his companion. He avoided the subject by eager questions upon other topics, and when the time arrived for the departure of Sommers, the confidence was still withheld, and the position of the stolen money was known only to the man who had placed it there.
Sommers had informed him of his visit to Mr. Bollman and of the conversation which had taken place between them relating to the suspicions entertained by him of Sommers, to all of which Bucholz listened with wrapt attention, and when he was again solemnly cautioned about informing his counsel of the relations existing between them, or of their possession of any of the wealth of the murdered man, with a peculiar twinkle in his eye he promised a strict obedience.
Finding it impossible to extract anything from him upon this visit, Sommers took his leave, promising to return upon the next day that visitors were admitted, and also agreeing to furnish him with some delicacies for which he had expressed a desire.
Sommers began to grow impatient under this continued procrastination and evasion, and he resolved to take such measures as would accomplish the object desired. He had found, during his connection with Bucholz, that he had not the slightest regard for the truth. He would make the most astounding assertions, unblushingly insisting upon their truthfulness, and even when brought face to face with facts which contradicted his statements, he would stubbornly decline to be convinced or to admit his error or falsehood. All through their intercourse he had evinced this tendency to exaggeration and untruthfulness, and Sommers had grown to be very skeptical with regard to any statement which he would make.
He had promised William to visit the farmhouse where Henry Schulte had resided, and to call upon the family of the Warings, who still continued to reside there, and to carry a message to Sadie. Accordingly, one morning he started for South Norwalk, and, arriving there in safety, he walked up the main road, and, entering through the gate in front of the house, he knocked at the door.
The family were all absent except Sadie, who greeted the new-comer in a friendly manner. He announced himself as a friend of William's, and conveyed to her the affectionate messages which he had been entrusted with. Sadie appeared to be rejoiced at the information which he brought, and soon became quite communicative to the young man. She related to him the incidents of the murder, and expressed her belief in the innocence of Bucholz, and her hopes of his acquittal.
Sommers, by the exercise of a little good nature and that tact which is generally acquired by a man of the world, succeeded in ingratiating himself into the favor of the young lady, and when, after spending some time in her company, he arose to take his leave, she volunteered to accompany him a short distance upon his journey, and to point out to him the spot where the murder had taken place.
Her offer was cheerfully accepted by Sommers, and they were soon chatting pleasantly on their way through the fields. Arriving at the strip of woods, they walked along the narrow path and Sadie designated to him the place where the body had been found.
Very different now was the scene presented. The trees, whose branches were then bare, were now covered with their bright and heavy verdure; the ground, that then was hard and frozen, was now carpeted with the luxurious grass; the birds sang merrily overhead, and the warm sunshine lighted up the wood with a beauty far different than was apparent upon that bleak winter night when Henry Schulte met his death upon the spot where they now were standing.
They then walked together up the railroad, and meeting the mother and sister returning home, Sommers bade them a pleasant good-bye and promised to pay them another visit as soon as practicable.
He determined to make this visit the groundwork of a definite attack upon the reticence of William Bucholz. The next morning, upon going to the jail, he informed William of his visit to South Norwalk, and of his meeting with Sadie Waring. After relating the various incidents that had occurred during his visit, and which were listened to with lively interest, he turned suddenly to Bucholz, and lightly said:
"By the way, Bucholz, the Warings are going to move."
Bucholz started suddenly, as though the information conveyed an unpleasant surprise.
"You must not let them move, Sommers," he exclaimed quickly, and with an evidence of fear in his voice. "That will never do."
"I can not prevent their moving," replied Sommers. "They will do as they please about that, I guess. Besides, what has their moving got to do with us?"
"Oh, everything, everything," exclaimed Bucholz.
"Well, they are going at all events."
"Then the money must be got. Oh, Sommers, do not betray me, but one of the pocket-books is in the barn."
"Whereabouts in the barn?" inquired Sommers, almost unable to conceal his satisfaction at the success of his ruse.
"I will show you how to get it. I will draw a sketch of the barn, and show you just where it is to be found," exclaimed William, hurriedly. "Oh, my dear Sommers, you do not know how worried I have been. I first threw the money under the straw in the barn, and on the Sunday morning after old Schulte was killed I went out in the barn to get it, and put it in a safe place, when I found that the straw had been taken away. I stood there as if I was petrified, but I looked further, and there, under the loose straw upon the ground, I saw the pocket-book lying all safe. The man who had taken the straw away had not been smart enough to see it. I felt as though a bright gleam of sunshine had come over me, and I picked it up and hid it away in a safe place. My God! My God! What a fool I was."