The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (22 page)

“That won't be practical, Detective. You need rest. We have an
apartment you can use. I will have police records delivered. We will visit the
scene tomorrow.”

I saw no reason to argue. I was hungry and needed to sleep.

The apartment was long and narrow. It looked like a recent addition.
The lodging was attached to the same building where Gordon rented his office.
As we entered, Bannan lit candles to cut the stale air.

More incense. It coated the back of my throat. I coughed. That made it
worse. I invited Bannan and Gordon to stay. They declined.

That night, my dreams were filled with peril. I slid off the roof of a
train, scratching in vain to hold on. A thresher tore me to pieces. I burned at
Chesapeake Bay. I fell from the sky over Bull Run. In every incident, death
took its revenge.

I woke with a start. A woman's voice echoed in my ear but I was alone
in the room. My pistol was drawn and cocked. I took a deep breath and leaned
back against the wall. After a moment, I realized I was resting my temple
against the barrel. My finger was on the trigger.

It was morning. I heard a knock at the door. Bannan was outside. 

“We are ready for you.”

What followed was a strange recreation. Gordon waited for us at the
bank. It took a great effort for him to hold his body against a black cane,
long as a staff. Much of the bank's exterior fell away in the fire. Gordon
still insisted on entering through the empty frame of its side door.

“The killer came in through here,” Gordon said.

“Sir, this will not be necessary,” I insisted.

Bannan put a hand on my shoulder. He gave a nod, encouraging me to let
it be.

Gordon struggled forward. From behind, dried blood stood out against
his yellow skin. The man was decomposing. He insisted I stand where his son
would have opened the door. I felt ridiculous but did as I was asked.

Bannan lit more candles. The smell was obnoxious. My cough came back as
soon as I breathed it in.

Gordon cut a slow path through the rubble. He veered around places
where wooden counters and desks piled with account books once stood. It was as
if he could not see the desolation, only a memory of his former business.

The vault was intact. Its door hung open.

According to the police report, bundles of bills were recovered after
the fire. It was another curious aspect of the case. Why go to the trouble of
murdering a teller and burning the building, only to make a hash of emptying
the vault?

“This is where I found my boy.”

Gordon held his hand over the spot. Clothes lay on the filthy ground.
He shifted me into the position he wanted. I stood several paces back from the
pile of clothes, facing the open vault.

“George stood here, you see. This is where he kept his books.”

A cancelling hammer was on the floor near my foot. It was a crude
device with a heavy iron head shape like an X. The hammer was used to mark
checks no longer honored by a bank. In this instance, it delivered a lethal
blow to the back of George Gordon's head.

“These items are similar to those found after the murder?” I asked.

“They are the very ones we found that morning.” Gordon said.

“Why are they not being held by police as evidence?”

Gordon wheezed. Bannan pursed his lips. Neither offered an explanation.
The shoddy work did not surprise me much. The effort by local police was a
debacle so far as I could tell from the report.

George Gordon did not drink or gamble. There were no loose women in his
life. He had no outstanding debts. Despite these facts, police pursued a series
of dead ends. They interrogated local drunks and card sharks. They arrested
drifters. Little wonder that Mr. Gordon turned to the Pinkertons.

“Did the bank's records survive the fire?” I asked.

“Yes. We keep a copy off-site,” Bannan said.

The only useful evidence police retained from the crime scene were
scraps of paper that fell under George's body. His corpse shielded them from
the blaze. They were filled with numbers, handwritten in long calculations. It
was the diligent young teller's way of ensuring that his books balanced against
the vault.

There was nothing incriminating in the notes. However, on the back of
the last sheet, George made one separate calculation. It was the same as the
others, setting a withdrawal or deposit against an existing balance or debt. He
opened a new account number for the exchange. What was interesting is that
George chose to set it apart.

It seemed plausible that George might struggle to keep his numbers
straight after a long day. If someone came to the bank after it closed, someone
who George trusted, he might have allowed one final transaction. It would have
been a courtesy. Under those conditions, George might set the record apart to
deal with it the next day.

Numbers on the back of that sheet could have been the last money
exchange George Gordon processed on the night he was killed. Taken on its own,
this did not help a great deal. What made the theory interesting was the fact
that George's pen slashed the page under those numbers. He left a gash of ink across
an incomplete calculation. George Gordon might actually have been struck on the
head while adding those very numbers.  

My clients accompanied me back to their office. They retrieved bank
records and supervised as I looked for accounts to match numbers on the back of
George's final sheet. It was a long process. I was tired. Numbers danced on the
page.

None of the balances matched George's calculations for the new account.
Gordon and Bannan were bored. To fill empty minutes, I asked questions. I wanted
to keep them occupied so I could concentrate.

“Why did police ignore George's politics as a motive?”

“My son did not have politics.” Mr. Gordon took offense.

“He wrote and distributed anti-slavery pamphlets.”

I cross checked new accounts against outstanding debts. These were
recorded in separate sections of the log. It was a tangle of data. 

“That was his friend's doing. George was naive, no more,” Gordon said.

I identified a series of small debts that had accumulated over the past
year. These were registered under the same client number but spread over many
different accounts. By pooling them together, then comparing them to figures
for the account George was in the process of opening, the victim's final
calculations emerged. One of the bank's long standing customers was shifting
money from one account to another to cover minimum payments on a mounting
debt.   

“We could arrange for you to meet this friend,” Bannan offered.

I tracked the client numbers back to an initial deposit. I found a
name.

“Who would that be?” I asked.

“Nate Drysdale.”

 I could not have been more surprised. I was looking at that very name
in the bank registry.

“Mr. Gordon, I believe Nate Drysdale may have murdered your son.”

The evidence was circumstantial. Gordon and Bannan argued against the
notion at first. Once I walked them through the accounts, they became
convinced. Drysdale was in financial trouble. George trusted him enough to let
him enter the bank after closing. The motive for George's murder was money.
Just money. I was not surprised.

Even so, the simplicity of the answer left me feeling that Mr.
Pinkerton was probably right. This case is about more than a bank teller being
killed. It cannot just be a matter of emptying a vault to erase a debt. Not
this time.

I am trying to piece it together but, since I arrived, I have felt more
tired than I can ever remember. I can barely keep my eyes open but cannot
sleep. When I sleep, my dreams are unspeakable apparitions. I would rather stay
awake.

My thinking has become so scattered. I try to focus. The only topic
that holds my attention is the grisly murder itself. A grim notion has settled
on my mind: if I do not solve the murder, I will die here.

I am glad to have Robert's sound recorder. In this state, I cannot keep
track of written notes. This will serve as a case record.

To that end, it should be noted that I have decided to accept a rather
unusual suggestion from my clients. I feel such an urgency to bring this
investigation to a close that I am prepared to try anything.

Gordon and Bannan believe I ought to prey on the fragile psyche of our
suspect, Nate Drysdale. They tell me that he suffers from chronic instability
of the mind. Drysdale claims not to recognize his own wife, for example. They live
under the same roof but he treats her like a stranger. That is one of his
quirks. Gordon and Bannan claim he is one step from the sanatorium.

I will taunt him, therefore, with the specter of his victim. I will
drive the suspect to expose himself in some way. How could he not? Nate
Drysdale was George Gordon's best friend. Tonight, I will haunt the Drysdale
home wearing the same clothes in which poor George Gordon was killed.

Before leaving, there is one more item of note. Someone broke into this
apartment last night. It was late, the very middle of the night, but I heard
her. When I sat up in bed, I heard the voice. It was the same one whispering at
me after the nightmares. Someone was in here with me. I could not see them but
I was certainly not alone.

I have decided to hide Robert's audio device and let it record while I
am away tonight. If she comes back, it will capture the sound. Maybe if I learn
who has been hissing at me in the dark, I will finally be able to get some
sleep.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton
November, 1861

I do not give my father enough credit. He is a stodgy old muskrat from
another age but, now and again, he does something to remind me; Papa is no easy
mark.

He is an immigrant, like so many. Uprooted while practically a boy, he
invented himself here in America out of nothing. For a man like that, the
opportunity to advise a President during wartime must have seemed like a
validation of his whole life.

Not for Papa. He is too much himself, always expecting things to flip
sideways and upside down, always wary of a knife at his back. President Lincoln
asked him to join a committee of his closest advisors. What did my father do?
He lied to them all.

He told Lincoln we were done with Kate Warne. Papa washed his hands of
her, handed her over to the mercy of jackals like Lafayette Baker, and in doing
so turned us into Union spies. Little did Lincoln, or anyone else in that room,
know that our Agency's only actual resource in the south was Kate Warne
herself.

I happened to know that Ernie Stark was down there as well, but it was
a bit optimistic to call him a resource. Stark was on the trail of a freed
slave named Ray who was kidnapped by William Hunt. Good for Stark.

I sent him some equipment and a bit of money. I also included a note,
asking him to follow up with Kate once his search for Ray had run its course.
There is no telling what Stark will do. He may not even read the note. As I
said, it is an exaggeration to call him a resource.

I chose not to tell Papa that Stark was in the south. It seemed better,
in so many ways, to keep that bit of information to myself. Maybe I have
learned something from the old man after all.

While my father was meeting with President Lincoln at the White House,
I had the rather unusual privilege of eavesdropping on the exchange. I
accompanied Papa to Washington because the only man I believed could fix my
broken body was Dr. Lowe.

After Kate lifted me out of the fight at Bull Run, my body was a
shambles. Luckily, no hospital in the world offered the kind of treatment Dr.
Lowe practiced aboard the Protocol.

His business is inventions. Many of his devices found their way into my
case work for the Agency, such as the audio recorder I used in the Schulte
case. Dr. Lowe was intrigued by a black market version of the recorder. His
engineers made fast work improving the clumsy design. Their updated model is
smaller. Wax discs are sealed in a container that resembles a box of cigars.
The discs are thin. Stacked, one on top of the next, they are engraved with a
thin jet of steam. The assembly allows for sound to be etched on several discs
at once. Distinct segments can be transferred from one to another.

These new devices are perfect for us now that we are spies. On my
suggestion, prototypes were forwarded to Kate and Papa as well as to Stark in
secret. It seems a good time to test them in the field.

Despite these innovations, the Protocol is more than just an
engineering workshop. Many types of scientists work for Dr. Lowe. Families with
children live on board. The need for medical treatment is an everyday matter.

My injuries were severe. Doctors in Chicago thought I would never walk
without crutches. The hand that deflected Kennedy's pistol ball was to lose its
dexterity. Cracked bones under my eye, where the pistol shot hit, would leave
me mildly disfigured. Those were their words: mildly disfigured. I was eager
for a second opinion. The professor jumped at the chance to tinker with a
willing patient.

As it turned out, surrendering to Dr. Lowe was the best decision I ever
made. Anyone who believes a human being is something more than a complicated
machine needs to be strapped to his operating table.

In a hospital, doctors stand very close to their patients. They lean
down to bring squinting eyes and quivering instruments near a failing body. It
is intimate and imperfect. The situation is just the opposite aboard the
Protocol.

Scientists are far away, high above the patient on a platform near the
ceiling of the surgical module. Similar to a viewport on a dirigible, doctors
manipulate overlapping sets of lenses to bring images of a patient's body into
clear focus. Aligned in different sizes and shapes, they achieve astonishing
feats of amplification.