Jim Cummings; Or, The Great Adams Express Robbery Part 3

Mr. Damsel took his leave, and that night Fotheringham slept behind iron bars.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DETECTIVE AND THE MESSENGER.

After Mr. Damsel had left the hotel, Mr. Pinkerton sat in deep thought.

He had carefully re-read Fotheringham's statement, but could find nothing that could be put out as a tracer; no little straw to tell which way the wind was blowing.

"c.u.mmings, c.u.mmings, Jim c.u.mmings. By George, that can't be the Jim c.u.mmings that used to flock with the Jesse James gang. That c.u.mmings was a gray-haired man, while this c.u.mmings is young, about 26 years old. Besides he is a much larger than Jesse James' Jim c.u.mmings. That name is evidently a.s.sumed.

"This statement says he was dressed in a good suit of clothes, and wore a very flashy cravat. Furthermore, he bragged a good deal about what he would do with the money. Also that he would write a letter to the St.

Louis Globe-Democrat exonerating the messenger. Well, a man who will brag like that, and wears flashy articles of neck-wear, is just the man that will talk too much, or make some bad break. If he writes that letter, he's a goner. There will be something in it that will give me a hold. The paper, the ink, the hand-writing, the place and time it was mailed--something that will give him away."

"I must see this messenger, and I must see him here; alone. He may be able to give me a little glimmer of light."

To think with "Billy" Pinkerton was to act.

He pressed the annunciator b.u.t.ton, and sitting down, wrote a short note to Mr. Damsel, requesting him to bring Fotheringham with him to his room.

The bell-boy who answered the call bore the note away with him, and in a short time, Mr. Pinkerton, looking out of his window, saw Mr. Damsel in his buggy drive up to the hotel accompanied by a young man, whom Mr.

Pinkerton recognized from the description given him, as the unfortunate Fotheringham, who had evidently, as yet, not been arrested.

It took but a few moments for Mr. Damsel to reach Room 84, and after introducing Fotheringham to the detective, left him there.

Fotheringham wore a worried and hunted look. The black rings under his eyes told of loss of sleep, and his whole demeanor was that of a discouraged person. Still he bore the keen scrutiny of the detective without flinching, and looking him squarely in the eye, said:

"Mr. Pinkerton, don't ask me to repeat my story again. I have told it time after time. I have been cross-questioned, and turned and twisted until I almost believe I committed the robbery myself, tied my own hands and feet, put the gag in my own mouth, and hid the money some place."

Mr. Pinkerton did not answer him, but gazing at him with those sharp, far-seeing eyes, which had ferreted out so many crimes, and had made so many criminals tremble, took in every detail of Fotheringham's features, as if reading his very soul. Fotheringham leaned back, closed his eyes wearily, as if it were a matter of the smallest consequence what might occur, and remained in that position until Mr. Pinkerton spoke.

"Mr. Fotheringham, I don't believe you had anything to do with the robbery, except being robbed."

"Thank G.o.d for those words, Mr. Pinkerton," exclaimed the messenger in broken tones, the tears welling to his eyes. "That's the first bit of comfort I've had since the dastardly villain first knocked me down."

"Can you not give me some peculiarity which you noticed about this c.u.mmings? How did he talk?"

"Slowly, with a very pleasant voice."

"Did he have any marks about him--any scars?"

Fotheringham sat in deep thought for a while.

"He had a triangular gold filling on one of his front teeth, and he had a way of hanging his head a little to one side, as if he were deaf, but I did not see any scars, excepting a bit of court-plaster on one of the fingers of his right hand."

"Was he disguised at all?"

"Not a bit, at least I could see no disguise on him."

"How did he walk?"

"Very erect, and, yes, I noticed he limped a little, as if he had a sore foot."

"I see by this report," taking up the papers Mr. Damsel had left, "that you have given a very close and full description of his appearance, but that amounts to little. Disguises are easy, and the mere changing of clothing will effect a great difference."

"I am positive, from his features, that he was a hard drinker. He had been drinking before he came to the car, as I smelled it on his breath."

"Well, Mr. Fotheringham, I will not detain you any longer. If you are innocent, you know you have nothing to fear."

"Except the disgrace of being arrested."

"Possibly," said Mr. Pinkerton, shortly, and bowing his visitor out, he pondered long and deeply over the case; but he felt he was groping in the dark, for the robber had apparently left no trace behind him. He had appeared on the scene, done his work, and the dark shadows of the night had swallowed him up, and Mr. Pinkerton, for the time, was completely baffled.

"If he would only write that letter," he muttered, "and I believe he will--"

A tap at the door followed these words, and two men entered--both Pinkerton detectives.

One of them carried a bundle in his arms.

As Mr. Pinkerton caught sight of it, his face lightened up.

"Ah! You did get it?"

"Yes; found them in a ditch the other side of Kirkwood."

Mr. Pinkerton laughed, and taking the bundle, said:

"Mr. Damsel said they could not be found; but I knew you, Chip. It was a good move on your part to go after these clothes without waiting for orders. You are starting in well, my boy, and if you have the making of a detective in you, this case will bring it out."

Chip blushed. Such words of praise from his superior were worth working for. The youngest man on the force, he had his spurs to win, and the approbation of his chief was reward enough.

The bundle was untied, and disclosed a shirt, a pair of drawers, socks and a dirty handkerchief. As the clothing fell on the floor, the odor of some sort of liniment filled the room, and on the leg of the drawers, below the knee, a stain was seen. Examining it more closely, a little clotted blood was seen. The stain extended half way around the leg, and showed that the cut or bruise was quite an extensive one.

"No wonder he limped," said Mr. Pinkerton, as he dropped the drawers and picked up the handkerchief.

The handkerchief, a common linen one, had evidently been used as a bandage, for it was stained with the liniment, and covered with blood clots. In one corner had been written a name, but the only letters now readable were "W--r--k."

This was placed on the table and the shirt carefully examined.

Nothing, not even the maker's name, could be seen. It was a cheap shirt, such as could be bought at any store which labels everything belonging to a man as "Gents' Furnishing." The socks were common, and like thousands of similar socks.

"Not much of a find, Chip--the letters on the handkerchief can be found in a hundred different names--a sore knee is covered by a pair of trousers, and one out of every ten men you meet, limps."

The other detective, who had all this time been silent, now laid some Adams Express letter-heads on the table. On these were written "J. B.

Barrett," in all forms of chirography--several sheets were covered with the name.