"I should think so," replied Sommers.
Bucholz then drew a sketch of the barn, and designated the hiding-place of the money as being under the flooring of the first stall that you met on entering.
It was with great difficulty that Summers retained his composure as he received this information, but he succeeded in controlling his emotions, and took the paper from the hands of his companion with a calmness which displayed the wonderful control which he exercised over himself.
"There are some marks upon these bills," said Bucholz with a laugh, "and if Mr. Olmstead was to see them he would know what they mean."
"Ah, yes," replied Sommers. "They are the numbers which Mr. Schulte put upon them, but," he added, confidently, "I will soon fix that, a little acid will take that all out and nobody will know anything about it."
The prisoner laughed, gleefully, and slapping his companion upon the back, exclaimed:
"Ah, Sommers, you are a devil of a fellow! and I can trust your skill in anything."
He then informed Sommers that he did not know how much money was in the pocketbook; that he had taken some fifty and one-hundred-dollar bills out of it, but that fearing to have so much money about him he had replaced a large portion of what he had previously taken.
The time was now approaching for visitors to leave the prison, and Sommers arose to go. Bucholz arose also, as if some new idea had occurred to him, or he had formed some new resolve; he said:
"While you are there you may as well get—" then he stopped abruptly, and changing his mind, he added: "But never mind, that is too—high up."
Sommers felt confident that his companion was withholding something from him, and he was resolved that before he had finished, he would arrive at the whole of the mystery, but he had gained enough for one day and he was compelled to be satisfied.
Before leaving Bucholz for that day he informed him that he would take the money to New York and endeavor to get the marks out of the bills; that he would then throw the empty pocket-book in some place, where it would be found, and that would be a good thing for him upon the trial.
Bucholz caught greedily at this suggestion, and laughed loudly at the prospect of blinding the eyes of justice by the operation of this clever trick.
Leaving him in this excellent good humor, Sommers took his departure from the jail, and, in a jubilant frame of mind, returned to the town.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Edward Sommers as the Detective.—A Visit to the Barn, and Part of the Money Discovered.—The Detective makes Advances to the Counsel of the Prisoner.—A Further Confidence of an Important Nature.
The reader is no doubt by this time fully aware of the character of Edward Sommers. He was a detective, and in my employ. Day by day, as his intimacy with William Bucholz had increased, I had been duly informed of the fact. Step by step, as he had neared the point desired, I had received the information and advised the course of action.
Every night before retiring the detective would furnish me with a detailed statement of the proceedings of the day which had passed, and I was perfectly cognizant of the progress he made, and was fully competent, by reason of that knowledge, to advise and direct his future movements.
The manner of his arrest had been planned by me, and successfully carried out; the money package had been made up in my office, and the forged order was the handiwork of one of my clerks, and the ingenious manner of carrying out this matter had completely deluded his accusers, by whom the charge was made in perfect good faith.
During his occupancy of the prison he had so thoroughly won the confidence of William Bucholz that he had become almost a necessity to him. This guilty man, hugging to himself the knowledge of his crime and his ill-gotten gains, had found the burden too heavy to bear. Many times during their intercourse had he been tempted to pour into the ears of his suddenly-discovered friend the history of his life, and only the stern and frequently-repeated commands of his watchful counsel had prevented the revelation. But the time had come when, either through the fear of losing what he had risked so much to gain, or from the impelling force of that unseen agency which seeks a companion or a confidant, he had confided to his fellow-prisoner the hiding-place of the old man's wealth—the money stained with the life-blood of his master.
How much he may have been guided to this course by the question of self-interest is a matter of speculation. He had been cruel enough to strike this old man down and to rob him of his money. He had been wary enough to wound himself, and to have feigned a terror which had deluded many into a belief in his innocence. He had been sufficiently sagacious to keep from his attorneys all knowledge of this money, and he had repeatedly denied to Sommers, and to every one else, any participation in the dark deed of that winter's night.
When, however, it appeared to be possible that his fellow-prisoner might be of assistance to him in his approaching trial, and that this assistance could only be rendered by the release of Sommers from jail, he had caught at the suggestion and the result had followed.
I became convinced as matters progressed that whatever knowledge Bucholz had of the crime would never be communicated while Sommers remained a prisoner, and hence, after he had been confined long enough to accomplish the preliminary object in view, I arranged that his bail should be reduced and that he should be released.
It is not necessary to relate in detail the daily intercourse of these two men during their days of joint imprisonment. How Sommers, by dexterous questioning, had fathomed the mind of the suspected murderer, and become so closely identified with his interests, that he was regarded as the only man upon whom he could rely for assistance.
The detective had played his part admirably. Although the constant object of suspicion, he had succeeded in overcoming all doubts that were entertained of his true position; and, although Bucholz had been repeatedly warned by his counsel against this man in particular, he had successfully outwitted them, and knew more of their client than they had been able to learn.
After obtaining the information as to the place where William had secreted the money which had been taken from the murdered man, Sommers at once telegraphed, in cipher, the fact to my New York agency and requested instructions how to proceed. A trusted operative was at once sent to act with him, and to accompany him upon his visit to the barn in search of the treasure, and operative John Curtin was the man selected for that duty.
He left New York on the following morning, and, arriving at Bridgeport, had an interview with Edward Sommers, and together they devised the plan by which they were to get possession of the dead man's money.
They accordingly boarded the train for South Norwalk, and upon their arrival they separated and proceeded up the railroad track until they were out of sight of any curious eyes about the depot, when they rejoined each other and continued on their way.
The barn where the money was alleged to be hidden stood between the house and the strip of woods through which they had come, and the large double doors were upon the side facing them. It was necessary that every precaution should be taken against being observed, and consequently it was decided that Sommers should enter the barn, while Curtin, reclining under one of the trees, would be enabled to keep watch and to warn his companion, should any one approach the barn and threaten detection.
This plan being arranged, Somers walked directly towards the barn, the doors of which were closed and fastened upon the inside by a swinging bar. Inserting his hand through an opening in the wood-work, he pushed the bar from its place, and the doors flew open.
Hastily entering the building, he found the interior to correspond exactly with the description given him by Bucholz, and a hurried glance showed him at once the place where the pocket-book was alleged to have been hidden.
He soon reached the designated spot, and, reaching under the loose flooring near the head of the stairs, his eyes lighted up with satisfaction as his hand came in contact with the leather book which he had half hoped and half doubted to find there. Quickly removing it from its place of concealment, he deposited it in the inner pocket of his coat and ran from the barn in the direction of the spot where his companion was lying.
John Curtin was provided with a stout adhesive envelope, and producing this, the earth-stained wallet was at once enclosed within it, and in the presence of the other the packet was sealed up securely. The two men then walked to the next station, and taking the train for New York, came directly to the agency.
The German Consul was notified, and in a short time he made his appearance, when the package was placed in his hands, and he was requested to open it.
He did so, and the contents of the book were counted in his presence and in that of Mr. Bangs and my son Robert. It was found to contain the sum of four thousand seven hundred and thirty-seven dollars, in United States money, each note bearing the numbers which had been placed upon them by Henry Schulte and which had also been discovered upon the money which Bucholz had been so lavish in expending after the murder and prior to his arrest.
The gratification of all at the success thus far achieved was apparent upon their faces. Whatever belief had existed in their minds prior to this of the innocence of the man accused was swept away before this substantial and convincing proof of his guilt. All felt that we were upon the right track, and that the course pursued had been the only practical one under the circumstances.
The money, after being carefully counted, was enclosed in a wrapper of heavy brown paper, to which the German Consul affixed his seal, and the package was placed in the fire-proof at the agency for safe keeping, until a final disposition should be made of it.
It was evident that the money thus discovered was but a small portion of that which had been taken from the person of Henry Schulte, and Edward Sommers was directed to return to Bridgeport and continue his visits to Bucholz and his attempts to obtain further information regarding the balance.
Bucholz had previously suggested to Sommers that someone should be sent to Germany to endeavor to procure some of the money which he had inherited from his uncle, in order to enable him to bear the expenses of his trial, and he had requested the detective to undertake the voyage. Sommers had demurred to this, and had recommended to his companion that Mr. Bollman, who was also a German, be commissioned for that purpose. This would induce the absence of the attorney and his cautions, and enable him to work with more freedom upon the prisoner. He therefore had offered to loan to Bucholz the amount of money that would be required to defray the expenses of such visit, and to take the note of his friend for the amount.
Mr. Bollman cheerfully assented to this proposition, and only awaited the furnishing of the loan by Sommers to embark upon his journey to the home of Bucholz, and to attempt the collection of the money which he had inherited.
Sommers was therefore provided with the sum of three hundred and fifty dollars in money which did not bear any of the marks that had been placed upon the notes belonging to Henry Schulte, and that evening he returned to Bridgeport.
He visited William the next day and informed him of the success of his visit and of the finding of the money. He also told him that he had placed the package in a safe place, but that he had not yet been successful in removing the marks, owing to the peculiar nature of the ink with which the numbers had been made.
Bucholz seemed to be both pleased and relieved with the results obtained, but seemed anxious that the money should be furnished for Mr. Bollman's departure as early as possible.
Sommers then told him that he had succeeded in borrowing some money from a friend of his, which he would advance for that purpose, but that, in order to fully deceive Mr. Bollman, William should give him his note, in the presence of the attorney, for the amount. Upon this being done, the money would be forthcoming, and Mr. Bollman could depart at once.
The next day Mr. Bollman visited the accused man by appointment, and the matter was explained to him by Sommers and Bucholz. He announced his approval of the loan about to be made. The note was duly drawn, the money counted out, and Bucholz handed the amount to his counsel.
As Mr. Bollman received the money, he looked up quickly and inquired, in a quiet manner:
"This money is not on the list, is it?"
This money is not upon the list, is it?
"This money is not upon the list, is it?"
It was a very adroit question, had the detective not been upon his guard, but without flinching, he looked doubtfully but steadily into his face, as he inquired:
"What list? I don't know what you mean."
"Oh!" replied Mr. Bollman, with a light laugh, "I thought this might possibly be some of Schulte's money."
At this they all laughed, and the mind of the attorney seemed to be set at rest upon the point of Sommers' knowledge of anything in connection with the wealth of Henry Schulte.
After Mr. Bollman's departure from the jail, Sommers, turning to Bucholz, said, in a quiet, unconcerned manner:
"I heard that the Schulte estate has been sold, and that the new-comer intends to tear down the buildings at once. He bought it on speculation, and expects to find Schulte's money."
Bucholz was visibly affected by this information. His face became pale, and his lips trembled as with suppressed emotion.
"They won't find anything there, though," laughingly continued Sommers, apparently ignoring the excitement of his companion. "We have got ahead of them."
"My God!" exclaimed Bucholz, not heeding the last remark. "This must not be done. I will trust you, Sommers, and we must get theother pocket-book. You must go there and get it."
The excitement and distress of the young man were unmistakable, as he proceeded slowly and tremblingly to inform Sommers where the other book was to be found.
"My dear Sommers, you must get this other money—it is in the barn also. In one corner there is a bench, and under this bench there is a large stone—you must dig under this stone and there you will find it."
Sommers listened intently to the directions given, and promised to perform the duty that was imposed upon him, and, hiding the satisfaction that he felt, he soon after took his leave from his companion, who now seemed greatly relieved at the prospect of saving this treasure for which he had sacrificed so much, and which now seemed in such imminent danger.
With mingled emotions of pride and satisfaction, Sommers left the jail and proceeded on his way to his lodgings.
After a long struggle he had been successful. "The falcon, after many airy circlings, had made its swoop at last," and its polished talons had done their work not unsuccessfully. The stricken quarry might flutter for a while, but the end would be soon and sure.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A Midnight Visit to the Barn.—The Detective wields a Shovel to some Advantage.—Fifty Thousand Dollars found in the Earth.—A good Night's Work.
The day following the revelations made in the preceding chapter, Edward Sommers returned to the agency and communicated the information which he had received the day before, and awaited instructions before proceeding further in the matter.
My son Robert A. Pinkerton determined to accompany him upon this visit to the barn, and he also requested the German Consul to delegate some one from his office to be one of the party. To this proposition the German Consul at once assented, and Paul Schmoeck, an attache of the Consulate, was selected to accompany them upon their visit to the Schulte estate.
Procuring a dark lantern and a garden spade, the party left New York about nine o'clock in the evening, and, without accident or delay, arrived at South Norwalk. On leaving the train, they separated, and Sommers, being acquainted with the road, walked on in advance. In order to avoid attracting attention, they walked up the main street of the town a short distance, and then, changing their course, they reached the railroad, along which they traveled until they arrived at the strip of woods in which Henry Schulte had met his death. They traveled along the narrow pathway and reached the stone wall, from which the house and barn stood in full view.
The evening was beautiful indeed—a bright moon illuminated the landscape almost with the luminous light of day. The air was still, and not a breath rustled among the leaves of the trees overhead. A silence profound and impressive reigned over all. From afar the rumbling of the train which they had left was borne upon the air. Involuntarily the three men who had come to this place upon a far different errand stood in silent admiration of the natural beauty that was spread before them.
Fearing that Henry Waring might have remained away from home later than was his wont, they waited until they felt reasonably sure of a freedom from interruption in their labor, and then, having finally concluded that all was safe, they proceeded quietly to the barn, whose doors were wide open, and offered no bar to their entrance.
Lighting their lantern, they thoroughly searched the interior, in order to discover if any tramps had taken refuge under its roof. All was quiet as the grave. The moonbeams shone through the open door, lighting up the barn with its rays, and almost revealing the figures of the men who were within. They were afraid to close the doors, which they had found open, lest some one looking from the windows of the farm-house should suspect its being occupied and be tempted to make an examination.
The spot designated by Bucholz was easily discovered, but, to the dismay of the visitors, they found that a large quantity of bark had been piled upon that particular corner of the barn, and that upon the top of this were thrown several sheets of tin, which had evidently been taken from the roof of some building.
There was no help for it, however; the bark and tin must be removed, and Edward Sommers, throwing off his coat and vest, went to work with a will. Robert held the lantern, while Paul Schmoeck stood by, with his hands in his pockets, eagerly awaiting developments.
The rattling of the tin, as it was being removed, was so loud that it was feared the sleepers in the farm-house would be awakened by the noise. They stopped and listened. Evidently their slumbers were profound, for not a sound came from its enclosing walls.
The bark was soon disposed of, and then Edward Sommers grasped the spade and struck it into the ground. The clock in the distant town struck midnight as he commenced the task. Eagerly he worked and eagerly watched the two men beside him. Their eyes seemed to pierce through the damp mold, and every spadeful of dirt, as it was thrown up, seemed to increase their anxiety. Steadily worked the detective, and the new earth lay piled around him, but as yet no indication of the treasure they sought. The perspiration rolled from the face of the anxious Sommers, and a doubt began to creep slowly into his mind. Robert, too, partook of the anxiety of his companion, while Paul Schmoeck, who scarcely understood the object of their visit, looked doubtfully upon the proceedings and indulged in frequent mutterings of disappointment.
Could it be possible that they had been deceived—that they were seeking for something which had no existence? Could Bucholz have imposed upon the credulity of Sommers and sent him upon this fool's errand? Or could the detective have made a mistake in the location designated? One or the other seemed to be the case. But hark! the spade strikes a hard substance; it must be the stone mentioned by Bucholz. With redoubled energy the detective wields his implement, and, at last, as he withdraws it from the ground, something glitters in the ray of the lantern. A closer examination disclosed several bright gold pieces, mingled with the dark lumps of dirt which had been lifted by the spade.
With a joyful cry he exultingly held up a large wallet before his excited companions.
"With a joyful cry he exultingly held up a large wallet before his excited companions."
An audible sigh of relief escaped them all as they looked. Robert took out his pocket-handkerchief, and the coins, dirt and all, were deposited within it. Surely success was certain now—and soon, by carefully digging away the surrounding earth, the detective was enabled to place his hands beneath the stone. Then, with a joyful cry, he withdrew a large wallet, and held it up exultingly before his excited companions.
Ah, yes, victory was assured now, and, after carefully searching around the stone to discover if anything else had been hidden there, the wallet was placed in the handkerchief along with the coins, and they prepared to leave the place.
The earth was replaced, the bark and tin were piled upon the top of it, and after they had finished, nothing in the appearance of things would indicate that midnight workers had been there, or that the murdered man's treasure had been discovered and removed.
The overwrought nerves of the worker and watchers were strengthened by a long draught of prime "Eau de vie," which had been brought along by the considerate Paul, and after making sure that everything was as they had found it, they left the barn and proceeded toward the railroad.
It was necessary now to get rid of the lantern and the spade. To retain them would be hazardous—they might be stopped upon the road, and the possession of a dark lantern and a wallet of money would be strong evidences of something else than a detective operation, and besides this, secrecy was all-important at the present time.
Passing a ravine some distance from the scene of their operations, Robert threw the lantern away, and it dropped to the bottom with a noise that was echoed upon the quiet air; further on, the spade was disposed of, and then, disencumbered, the trio walked to Stamford, about eight miles distant, where they boarded a train and returned to New York, well pleased with the result of their night's work.
It was six o'clock when they arrived. They proceeded at once to the Windsor Hotel, where the German Consul resided, and, awakening that gentleman, Robert sent up his card, when they were admitted to his parlor and the package was exhibited to his astonished gaze.
To count the contents of this enclosure was now the next duty to be performed, and in the presence of all the parties the labor was at once commenced. The gold pieces were found to amount to one hundred marks—consisting of three twenty-mark and four ten-mark pieces—and it was noticed that one of them had a hole drilled through it. The wallet next received attention. It was discovered to be a pocket-book enclosed in a canvas wrapper, securely sewed together and fastened with sealing-wax.
The German Consul removed this outer covering and the black leather book was disclosed to view, which gave evidence of containing no small amount of money.
The contents were removed, and upon counting it, were found to amount to two hundred and four thousand marks, in one-thousand-mark bills—or nearly fifty thousand dollars. Verily a good night's work, and one to be proud of.
The murdered man's money had been found, and the man who had stained his hands with blood would never reap the benefit of his crime.
The notes, from their long continuance in the damp ground, were quite moist and adhered closely together, and the German Consul was therefore required to lift them carefully with his knife, and great care was necessary in handling them. Each of these notes was found to be numbered in the same manner as those recovered upon the first visit, and a complete list was made by which they could afterwards be identified.
Besides the money, the package contained some cards, and a foreign passport in the name of John Henry Schulte, dated in April, 1878.
After counting the money, it was, together with the articles found, wrapped in stout brown paper and duly labeled. All present then affixed their signatures to the wrapper, after which the German Consul wrote out a receipt for them, which was taken charge of by Robert.
They then partook of some refreshments, after which they departed, and feeling completely exhausted after their laborious experience of the night before, Robert and Edward Sommers sought their couches, and were soon wrapt in slumber.
The German Consul was elated at the success which had crowned our efforts, and he no longer entertained a single doubt of the guilt of the miserable man, in whose behalf he had originally interested himself.
The information of our success was conveyed to Mr. Olmstead, the State's attorney, who received it with evident surprise and satisfaction. We had succeeded beyond his expectations, and the correctness of his original theory had been fully demonstrated.
He experienced the proud consciousness of being able to successfully prosecute a criminal who had violated the law, and to convict a wretch who had taken a human life in order to possess himself of the blood-stained fruits of his crime.
While all this was transpiring the guilty man passing the weary hours indulging in alternate hopes of escape, and oppressed with harrowing fears of punishment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Detective manufactures Evidence for the Defense.—An Anonymous Letter.—An important Interview.—The Detective triumphs over the Attorney.
These events occurred during the latter part of May, and the trial would not take place until early in September. It was necessary therefore that the utmost secrecy should be observed in reference to what had transpired, and especially so far as William Bucholz was concerned.
The visits of Edward Sommers to the jail must be continued, and every effort must be made to pierce through the dead wall of Bucholz's silence and reserve in relation to the murder.
Hitherto when in their conversations the subject of the murder had been mentioned, and Sommers would quietly hint at his complicity, the other, with a shrug of his shoulders and a peculiar smile, would abruptly change the conversation. His strong will and the constant admonitions of his counsel had prevented him from revealing in any manner the secret of his crime, and except for certain actions, small in themselves, but speaking a "confirmation strong as holy writ," he had given no sign that he was acquainted with the dreadful circumstances, or had any knowledge of the affair other than had been already related by him.
After arriving in Bridgeport, Sommers hastened to the jail and found Bucholz impatiently awaiting his arrival. He was nervous and excited, and his mind was troubled about the success of the enterprise upon which Sommers had gone.
The news which the detective brought reassured him, however, and he laughed gayly as he thought that his money was now safe from the reach of any one but himself and his friend.
There was something so cold and brutal about this laugh of Bucholz that caused the detective involuntarily to shudder as he gazed upon him. Here between the narrow walls of a prison cell he stood face to face with a man who had taken a human life, and who stood almost in the awful presence of retributive justice, yet his laugh was as clear and ringing, and his face as genial as though no trial awaited him and no judgment was in store.
The sensitive nature of the detective recoiled from such close contact with this crime-stained man, but his duty required it and he performed it manfully and well.
He related to Bucholz his visit to the barn (omitting, of course, to state who his companions were) and the finding of the money. As he mentioned the discovery of the gold pieces, Bucholz exclaimed:
"Gold pieces! I cannot tell for the world how they got there. I don't know anything about them."
It was evident that he had not examined this package prior to burying it in the ground, and Sommers suggested the possibility of their having been wrapped in the paper which enclosed the canvas-covered book.
"You were very careless to put the money in such a place," continued Sommers; "the notes were so rotten, I was almost afraid to handle them."
"You mean," said Bucholz, with a laugh, "that Schulte was careless, not me;" then starting up he walked backward and forward, exclaiming: "My God, how careless I was!"
"Yes," replied Sommers, "after risking so much, you should have taken better care of it."
Bucholz stopped in his walk, and facing his companion asked in a manner that gave every evidence of insincerity,
"Do you think that I killed him?"
"I think you know something about it," replied Sommers, gazing steadily into the eyes of his questioner. "Do you think if tramps had killed him, they would have left twenty thousand dollars upon his person?"
"Well," said Bucholz, laughing in a bewildered manner, and then, as if taking comfort from the reflection and anxious to change the conversation, "the money is all right, anyhow."
Yes, the money was, indeed, all right, but not in the sense he deluded himself by believing.
They then discussed the various measures that were to be adopted in order to deceive the officers of the State.
It was arranged that the two pocket-books should be thrown behind a large rock that stood by the railroad track, directly opposite the path which led through the woods and along which the old man and himself were in the habit of traveling. Bucholz seemed over joyed at this proposition, and with many flattering expressions complimented his companion upon the wisdom of his suggestions. They would have continued further, but the time had arrived for closing the jail, and Sommers was compelled to take his departure.
Upon the occasion of his next visit he found a marked change in William Bucholz. He appeared to be silent and depressed in spirits. Horrible dreams had visited his fitful slumbers, and the accusing voice of the murdered man had rung in his ears during the solemn watches of the night. The pallid, blood-stained face of Henry Schulte had appeared to him, and his conscience had been an active producer of unrest and terror. Try as he would, that awful presence followed him, and he found sleep to be an impossibility. Hollow-eyed and sad, he greeted the detective, and as he cordially shook him by the hand, he noticed that a spasm of pain crossed the face of the prisoner.
"What is the matter, William?" he anxiously inquired. "Have you seen a ghost?"
"Oh, no," replied the other, with a shiver—"it is nothing, only a little cold, I guess."
The quick eye of the detective could not be deceived—something had occurred of more than usual import, and he was determined to ascertain what it was. Pressing him closely, Bucholz admitted, with a forced smile, that on the day before, he had been reading Schiller's play of "The Robbers," and that becoming excited by the heroic action of "Carl von Moor," he had thoughtlessly plunged his penknife, which he had in his hand at the time, into his own side. The blade had touched a rib, however, and that prevented the wound from being very serious. The blood had flowed copiously from the incision thus made, and the wound was even now very painful.
Sommers, at a glance, saw through this flimsy pretext, and realized at once what had happened. The miserable man, nervous and excited, had, in the excess of fear, attempted to take his own life. The grim specters of the night were too horrible to endure, and he had sought to escape their torments by the act which he had attempted.
His shirt had been saturated with blood, and he had been compelled to destroy it to prevent detection.
Sommers lectured him roundly upon this exhibition of weakness, and, after a time spent in friendly advice, he succeeded in reassuring him.
Bucholz related to him at this interview a dream which he said he had the evening before. He had seen the court assembled—the room was filled with people and his trial was going on. Then, stopping suddenly in his narration, he gazed wildly at his companion, and exclaimed:
"If you are a detective, you have made a nice catch this time. But, you see I have a steady hand yet, and if you were to take the stand against me, I would rise in my place and denounce you to the court. Then I would plunge a knife into my heart."
The detective looked unflinchingly and scornfully into the glaring eyes of the man before him, and laughed lightly at his ravings. He resolved, however, in order to prevent accidents, that every precaution should be taken against the occurrence of such a scene.
He had no fear that Bucholz would do what he threatened. At heart he knew the man to be a coward. No one who could stealthily creep behind his unsuspecting victim and deal the deadly blow of an assassin could, in his opinion, possess the moral courage to face a death by his own hands, and particularly after the failure of this first attempt.
He did not communicate this opinion to the prisoner, but he treated the subject in a jesting manner, and told him that if he heard any more of such nonsense he would inform the prison authorities and his liberty would be curtailed.
He then proceeded to unfold a plan which he had concocted for the relief of his friend, and to manufacture evidence that would bear an important part in the coming trial.
He would procure an old shirt and a pair of pantaloons, which he would first stain with blood, and would then bury them in the ground near to the scene of the murder, and would then write an anonymous letter to the State's attorney and to the counsel for Bucholz, informing them of the place where they could be found.
The prisoner eagerly accepted this suggestion. He seemed to forget his pain, his fears and his suspicions as he listened, and when Sommers had concluded he laughed heartily, then he added, hurriedly:
"You must get an axe also, and bury that with the clothes; that was——"
He stopped abruptly, as though afraid of saying too much, and Sommers looked inquiringly into his face.
"How would it do to get the axe from the barn?" he asked; "the one that had blood on it when it was found."
"That was chickens' blood," quickly replied Bucholz, "and it will not do. No, you must get an old axe from some other place and bury it with the clothes."
Sommers promised to comply with all these things, and on leaving the prisoner for that day his frame of mind had considerably improved, and thoughts of a suspicious character were entirely dissipated.
The anonymous letters were soon prepared, and it was arranged that they should be sent to San Francisco, Cal., and be remailed from there to Mr. Olmstead and to the counsel for William Bucholz.
I experienced no difficulty in arranging this, as I have correspondents in almost every town and city in the United States; and the letters were upon the way to that distant Western city in a few days.
The letter was as follows:
"FRISCO, AUG., '79."I AM NOW OUT OF REACH OF JUSTICE, AND WILL NOT SUFFER THAT A INNOCENT MAN IS HELT FOR THE MURTER OF SCHULTE, AND VILL NOW STADE WERE THE CLOTHES AND BOCKET BOOKS WERE TROWN. U MAY FIND MORE BY SEARGEN THE GROUND, ABOUT TWO HUNDRED YARDS FROM WHERE SCHULTE WAS KILLED THERE IS A STONE FENCE RUNNING N. AND S. AND ONE RUNNING W., WERE THESE FENCES JOIN THERE IS A TREE CUT DOWN, AND U FIND BETWEEN THE STONES, AND IN THE GROUND SOMETHING THAT WILL SURPRISE U. I HOPE THIS WILL SAVE THE LIFE OF A INNOCENT MAN."NAMELESS."
"FRISCO, AUG., '79.
"I AM NOW OUT OF REACH OF JUSTICE, AND WILL NOT SUFFER THAT A INNOCENT MAN IS HELT FOR THE MURTER OF SCHULTE, AND VILL NOW STADE WERE THE CLOTHES AND BOCKET BOOKS WERE TROWN. U MAY FIND MORE BY SEARGEN THE GROUND, ABOUT TWO HUNDRED YARDS FROM WHERE SCHULTE WAS KILLED THERE IS A STONE FENCE RUNNING N. AND S. AND ONE RUNNING W., WERE THESE FENCES JOIN THERE IS A TREE CUT DOWN, AND U FIND BETWEEN THE STONES, AND IN THE GROUND SOMETHING THAT WILL SURPRISE U. I HOPE THIS WILL SAVE THE LIFE OF A INNOCENT MAN.
"NAMELESS."
It was printed in capitals and purposely misspelled, in order to convey the impression that the writer was a foreigner, and perhaps a tramp—many of which had infested that neighborhood.
This letter pleased Bucholz immensely. It was, in his opinion, a wonderful production, and must certainly result in deceiving the State's attorney.
Mr. Bollman had now returned from Germany, and his errand had been entirely successful. He had seen the relatives of Bucholz, and they had promised to aid him financially in his trouble. Further than this, they seemed to take no great interest in his welfare. Shortly after his arrival a draft was received, which, upon being cashed, placed in the hands of the prisoner sufficient moneys to enable him to secure the services of the additional counsel who had been loath to act energetically in the matter, until the question of remuneration had been definitely and satisfactorily settled.
In order to recover the amount loaned to Bucholz for Mr. Bollman's expenses, Sommers suggested that in order to avoid any suspicion, he would demand of him the return of the same, and which he would inform Mr. Bollman his friend was greatly in need of.
Mr. Bollman thereupon repaid two hundred and fifty dollars of the amount loaned, and Bucholz executed another due-bill for the sum of one hundred dollars, payable to Edward Sommers.
Shortly after this occurrence Bucholz informed Sommers on the occasion of one of his visits that on the day previous he had been visited by two of his attorneys.
They had labored assiduously to induce him to confess as to the relations existing between himself and Sommers. They told him that if he had made any revelations to him it might not yet be too late to counteract it, but if he refused to tell them the truth in regard to the matter they could not and would not be answerable for the consequences. General Smith graphically portrayed to him the effects which would follow a failure to confide entirely in his counsel, and Bucholz's frame shook perceptibly as he pictured the doom which would certainly follow if his attorneys had been deceived.
But all their arguments were of no avail. He remained firm, and protested to the last that Sommers knew nothing about his case. The iron will upheld him during this ordeal, and the influence which the detective had gained over him had been of such a character as to outweigh the solicitations of those to whom he ought to look for relief on the trial that was now fast approaching.
How far again the question of self-interest may have induced this action cannot be ascertained. Bucholz had been led to believe that if he communicated the existence of the money which he had secured, to his lawyers, and if they should succeed in obtaining control of it, his portion would be very small indeed, after they had paid themselves therefrom.
This idea may have been of sufficient weight to compel his silence, but the result—whatever the cause—proved that the detective had achieved a victory over the attorneys, and that he wielded an influence over their guilty client which they could never hope to possess.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Bucholz grows Skeptical and Doubtful.—A Fruitless Search.—The Murderer Involuntarily Reveals Himself.
The days sped on, and the trial of William Bucholz, for the murder of Henry Schulte, his employer, was fast approaching. Regularly Edward Sommers had visited the imprisoned man, and upon the occasion of each visit had endeavored to assure him of the possibility of escaping from the charge against him.
The mind of Bucholz was in a chaotic state of worriment and unrest. Between his confidences to Edward Sommers and the repeated warnings of his counsel he scarcely knew what to do or what to say. At times he would bitterly regret having informed Sommers of anything about himself, and at others he would hug him to his breast as the only human being upon whom he could rely.
To Sommers this experience had been a trying one indeed. He had been compelled to endure the various moods of Bucholz with patience and equanimity and to endeavor to disabuse his mind of frequent-recurring doubts. Many times during his visits he would be vexed beyond endurance at the doubtful questionings of his companion, which he frequently found very difficult to parry or explain. Then, too, he became extravagant in his demands, and required the choicest delicacies that could be procured. He wanted new clothing, and even expressed a desire that Sommers should procure for him a uniform dress of the regiment of hussars of which he was formerly a member—in fact, became so importunate in his demands and so ridiculous in his fancied wants, that Sommers, fearful of affording grounds for suspicion in the minds both of the inmates of the prison and of the counsel for Bucholz, was compelled to emphatically refuse to gratify his wishes.
These denials of course were productive of differences of opinion and angry altercations. Fresh doubts would be engendered, which would require the exercise of all the ingenuity of the detective to allay. Bucholz seemed to have no idea that a liberal expenditure of money at this time would be very injurious to his case, and that as Mr. Bollman had sole charge of the money received from Germany, he would naturally become suspicious of his client should he discover that Sommers was supplying his wants from a source which his counsel was ignorant of.
He thirsted also for a glance at the money which had been found, especially the gold-piece with a hole in it, and besought Sommers to bring it with him, so that he might feast his eyes upon the wealth that was soon to be his. So frequent and imperious became these demands that Sommers had the greatest difficulty in convincing him of the danger to both of them which would be attendant upon any such proceeding.
He had informed Bucholz that the money had been securely placed in the vaults of a safe deposit company in New York City, but he did not tell him that the German Consul carried the key.
Upon the occasion of almost every visit he would be compelled to wrestle with this doubtfulness of his companion before he could induce him to converse upon the matters that would naturally be considered of the utmost importance to him, but after long and arduous labor, he usually left him more cheerful and hopeful than he found him.
The time drew near for the anonymous letters to arrive from San Francisco, and Sommers went to South Norwalk, and, locating the spot mentioned in the letter, he dug up the solid earth in such a manner as to convince whoever came to look for the hidden articles mentioned in the communication, that some one else had anticipated them, and that the articles had been removed.
The letters were duly received, and Mr. Olmstead, who, of course, had been informed of their manufacture, upon receiving his paid no attention to the important information it was supposed to convey. The attorneys for Bucholz, however, visited the spot, and to their dismay and disappointment they found the earth broken, and every indication that the articles, if any existed, had been removed in advance of their arrival.
When Bucholz heard of the disappointment of his counsel, he was much chagrined, and accused Sommers of having arranged it so that Mr. Olmstead received his before the other was delivered. This, however, was proven to the contrary, and the fact was that even had there been anything hidden under the ground, Bucholz's defenders were too dilatory in going in search of them.
It was at the visit after the information had reached them of this fruitless search for important testimony, that Bucholz related to Sommers another dream, in which his former prison companion was said to have appeared to him as a detective, and as he finished the recital, he turned to his companion, and said:
"If you are a detective, and if you do take the stand against me, it is all over. I will tell my lawyers to stop the trial—that will be the end of it—and me."
Sommers laughed at this and turned the drift of the conversation to the question of the approaching trial and the evidence that would soon be produced against him.
He asked him in a quiet manner, if he had thrown the two old pistols where they had been found on the night of the murder, and Bucholz, with a smile, answered him:
"Oh, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; the murderers threw them there."
Sommers looked incredulously at him for a moment, and then replied:
"I did not ask you whether you killed the old man or not; but you must not think me such a fool as not to know it."
Bucholz laughed, a hard, bitter laugh, and the glitter of the serpent's came into the wicked blue eyes, but he made no denial.
"I never thought when I first became acquainted with you," continued Sommers, "that you knew anything about this murder, but rather thought you an innocent, harmless-looking fellow. Indeed I never imagined that you had nerve enough to do anything like that."
Again that diabolical laugh, and Bucholz, holding out his right arm without a tremor of the muscles, replied, ironically:
"Oh, no; I have got no nerve at all."
The next day they referred again to the finding of the articles hidden in the ground, and Sommers informed his companion that Mr. Olmstead had secured the axe that was in the barn, and regretted very much that he had not taken it when he was there.
Bucholz looked troubled at this information, but, rousing himself, he inquired:
"What kind of an axe did you get?"
"Why, I got one as nearly like that in the barn as I could—about as thick as the iron bars on the door of the cell there."
"Yes, that is right," said Bucholz, eagerly, while a glow of satisfaction dashed across his face.
"I don't know about that," replied Sommers. "How large were the wounds upon the head of Mr. Schulte?"
"One was about three inches long."
"Was that the wound that was made by the sharp edge of the axe?"
"Yes! yes!" replied Bucholz, eagerly.
"Well, how large was the other wound?"
"Well," said Bucholz, musingly, and making a circle of his thumb and forefinger, he held it up before the detective; "I should think it was a hole about this large."
No tremor of the voice, no shaking of the hand, as he held it up, but, with a cold, unfeeling look, he made this explanation.
"I am afraid that the axe I bought was too large, because the back of it was as broad as the bar upon this door—about two inches."
"That is right enough," quickly replied Bucholz, "because if you would take the axe and strike the blow upwards behind the ear, where that wound was, you would strike the head with the edge of the back, and that would crush in the bones of the skull and produce just such a hole as that was in Schulte's head."
He illustrated this by starting to his feet and raising his hands as if he was about to strike the blow himself. The murderous glitter came again into those flashing eyes. His words came thick and fast—the demon smile was upon his lips. He was acting again the scene of that dreadful night, and, oblivious of his listener, or the impressions he was creating, he lived again that frightful moment when he had inflicted the blows that laid the old man dead at his feet.
There was a realism about his manner that was awfully impressive, and the detective involuntarily shuddered as he looked into those gleaming eyes, in which murder was clearly reflected. All doubts were removed from his mind—the murderer of Henry Schulte stood before him—and if the judges and the jury that were to hear his case in a few days could have witnessed this scene, conviction would have been carried to the minds of the most skeptical.
No confession seemed necessary now. If ever murder was depicted upon a human face it was expressed in every lineament of the face of the man who stood before the detective in that prison cell.
The wicked gleam had not died out from his eyes, as, unconscious of the effect his manner had produced, he resumed his position, and added, in a tone of entire satisfaction:
"Yes, yes, that axe is all right!"
Edward Sommers shuddered as he gazed at the man before him—the man who had become as putty in his hands, and yet who possessed a heart so black as to be capable of the damning deed for which he was so soon to be tried for committing.
He thought of the tears this man had shed in the darkness of the lonely nights; of the accusing voices that had rung in his ears during his uneasy slumbers; of the conscience that would not down at the command of the resolute will—and then of the incidents of this afternoon, when the murderer stood revealed before him in all the hideous deformity of his brutal passion and his self confessed crime.
Of a truth events and not men are alone worthy of consideration in the life of a detective.