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Title: Bucholz and the Detectives
Author: Pinkerton, Allan, 1819-1894
Language: English
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ALLAN PINKERTON'S
GREAT DETECTIVE BOOKS.
1.--MOLLIE MAGUIRES AND DETECTIVES.
2.--STRIKERS, COMMUNISTS, AND DETECTIVES.
3.--CRIMINAL REMINISCENCES AND DETECTIVES.
4.--THE MODEL TOWN AND DETECTIVES.
5.--SPIRITUALISTS AND DETECTIVES.
6.--EXPRESSMAN AND DETECTIVE.
7.--THE SOMNAMBULIST AND DETECTIVES.
8.--CLAUDE MELNOTTE AS A DETECTIVE.
9.--MISSISSIPPI OUTLAWS AND DETECTIVES.
10.--GYPSIES AND DETECTIVES.
11.--BUCHOLZ AND DETECTIVES.
12.--THE RAIL ROAD FORGER AND DETECTIVES.
These wonderful Detective Stories by Allan Pinkerton are having an
unprecedented success. Their sale is fast approaching one hundred
thousand copies. "The interest which the reader feels from the outset
is intense and resistless; he is swept along by the narrative, held
by it, whether he will or no."
All beautifully illustrated, and published uniform with this volume.
Price $1.50 each. Sold by all booksellers, and sent _free_ by mail,
on receipt of price, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
New York.
[Illustration: _The Arrival at South Norwalk._]
BUCHOLZ AND THE DETECTIVES.
BY
ALLAN PINKERTON,
AUTHOR OF "THE EXPRESSMAN AND THE DETECTIVE," "THE MODEL TOWN AND THE
DETECTIVES," "THE SPIRITUALISTS AND THE DETECTIVES," "THE MOLLIE
MAGUIRES AND THE DETECTIVES," "STRIKERS, COMMUNISTS, TRAMPS AND
DETECTIVES," "THE GYPSIES AND THE DETECTIVES," ETC., ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK:
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_,
MADISON SQUARE.
MDCCCLXXXII.
COPYRIGHT BY
ALLAN PINKERTON.
1880.
Stereotyped by
Samuel Stodder,
Electrotyper & Stereotyper,
90 Ann Street, N.Y.
Trow Printing and Book-Binding Co.
N.Y.
CONTENTS.
THE CRIME.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Arrival in South Norwalk.--The Purchase of the Farm.--A
Miser's Peculiarities, and the Villagers' Curiosity 17
CHAPTER II.
William Bucholz.--Life at Roton Hill.--A Visit to New York City 30
CHAPTER III.
An Alarm at the Farm House.--The Dreadful Announcement of William
Bucholz.--The Finding of the Murdered Man 39
CHAPTER IV.
The Excitement in the Village.--The Coroner's Investigation.--The
Secret Ambuscade 47
CHAPTER V.
The Hearing Before the Coroner.--Romantic Rumors and Vague
Suspicions.--An Unexpected Telegram.--Bucholz Suspected 56
CHAPTER VI.
The Miser's Wealth.--Over Fifty Thousand Dollars Stolen from the
Murdered Man.--A Strange Financial Transaction.--A Verdict, and
the Arrest of Bucholz 67
CHAPTER VII.
Bucholz in Prison.--Extravagant Habits, and Suspicious
Expenditures.--The German Consul Interests Himself.--Bucholz
Committed 78
CHAPTER VIII.
My Agency is Employed.--The Work of Detection Begun 87
THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER IX.
Dortmund.--Railroad Enterprise and Prospective Fortune.--Henry
Schulte's Love.--An Insult and Its Resentment.--An Oath of
Revenge 93
CHAPTER X.
A Curse, and Plans of Vengeance 109
CHAPTER XI.
A Moonlight Walk.--An Unexpected Meeting.--The Murder of Emerence
Bauer.--The Oath Fulfilled 115
CHAPTER XII.
The Search for the Missing Girl.--The Lover's Judgment.--Henry
Schulte's Grief.--The Genial Farmer Becomes the Grasping Miser 122
CHAPTER XIII.
Henry Schulte becomes the Owner of "Alten-Hagen."--Surprising
Increase in Wealth.--An Imagined Attack Upon His Life.--The Miser
Determines to Sail for America 131
CHAPTER XIV.
The Arrival in New York.--Frank Bruner Determines to Leave the
Service of His Master.--The Meeting of Frank Bruner and William
Bucholz 148
CHAPTER XV.
A History of William Bucholz.--An Abused Aunt who Disappoints His
Hopes.--A Change of Fortune.--The Soldier becomes a Farmer.--The
Voyage to New York 157
CHAPTER XVI.
Frank Leaves the Service of His Master.--A Bowery Concert
Saloon.--The Departure of Henry Schulte.--William Bucholz Enters
the Employ of the Old Gentleman 166
THE DETECTION.
CHAPTER XVII.
The Detective.--His Experience, and His Practice.--A Plan of
Detection Perfected.--The Work is Begun. 177
CHAPTER XVIII.
A Detective Reminiscence.--An Operation in Bridgeport in 1866.--The
Adams Express Robbery.--A Half Million of Dollars Stolen.--Capture
of the Thieves.--One of the Principals Turns State's
Evidence.--Conviction and Punishment 185
CHAPTER XIX.
The Jail at Bridgeport.--An Important Arrest.--Bucholz Finds a
Friend.--A Suspicious Character who Watches and Listens.--Bucholz
Relates his Story 205
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 218
CHAPTER XXI.
A Romantic Theory Dissipated.--The Fair Clara Becomes
communicative.--An Interview with the Bar Keeper of the "Crescent
Hotel" 226
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 233
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Reconciliation.--Bucholz makes an Important Revelation.--Sommers
Obtains his Liberty and Leaves the Jail 244
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 252
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 260
CHAPTER XXVI.
Edward Sommers as "The Detective."--A Visit to the Barn, and Part
of the Money Recovered.--The Detective makes Advances to the Counsel
for the Prisoner.--A Further Confidence of an Important Nature 270
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 284
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Detective Manufactures Evidence for the Defense.--An Anonymous
Letter.--An Important Interview.--The Detective Triumphs Over
the Attorney 295
CHAPTER XXIX.
Bucholz Grows Skeptical and Doubtful.--A fruitless Search.--The
Murderer Involuntarily Reveals Himself 309
THE JUDGMENT.
CHAPTER XXX.
The Trial.--An Unexpected Witness.--A Convincing Story.--An Able
but Fruitless Defense.--A Verdict of Guilty.--The Triumph of
Justice 319
CHAPTER XXXI.
Another Chance for Life.--The Third Trial Granted.--A Final
Verdict, and a Just Punishment 338
PREFACE.
The following pages narrate a story of detective experience, which,
in many respects, is alike peculiar and interesting, and one which
evinces in a marked degree the correctness of one of the cardinal
principles of my detective system, viz.: "That crime can and must be
detected by the pure and honest heart obtaining a controlling power
over that of the criminal."
The history of the old man who, although in the possession of
unlimited wealth, leaves the shores of his native land to escape the
imagined dangers of assassination, and arrives in America, only to
meet his death--violent and mysterious--at the hands of a trusted
servant, is in all essential points a recital of actual events. While
it is true that in describing the early career of this man, the mind
may have roamed through the field of romance, yet the important
events which are related of him are based entirely upon information
authentically derived.
The strange operation of circumstances which brought these two men
together, although they had journeyed across the seas--each with no
knowledge of the existence of the other--to meet and to participate
in the sad drama of crime, is one of those realistic evidences of the
inscrutable operations of fate, which are of frequent occurrence in
daily life.
The system of detection which was adopted in this case, and which was
pursued to a successful termination, is not a new one in the annals
of criminal detection. From the inception of my career as a
detective, I have believed that crime is an element as foreign to the
human mind as a poisonous substance is to the body, and that by the
commission of a crime, the man or the woman so offending, weakens, in
a material degree, the mental and moral strength of their characters
and dispositions. Upon this weakness the intelligent detective must
bring to bear the force and influence of a superior, moral and
intellectual power, and then successful detection is assured.
The criminal, yielding to a natural impulse of human nature, must
seek for sympathy. His crime haunts him continually, and the burden
of concealment becomes at last too heavy to bear alone. It must find
a voice; and whether it be to the empty air in fitful dreamings, or
into the ears of a sympathetic friend--he must relieve himself of the
terrible secret which is bearing him down. Then it is that the
watchful detective may seize the criminal in his moment of weakness
and by his sympathy, and from the confidence he has engendered, he
will force from him the story of his crime.
That such a course was necessary to be pursued in this case will be
apparent to all. The suspected man had been precipitately arrested,
and no opportunity was afforded to watch his movements or to become
associated with him while he was at liberty. He was an inmate of a
prison when I assumed the task of his detection, and the course
pursued was the only one which afforded the slightest promise of
success; hence its adoption.
Severe moralists may question whether this course is a legitimate or
defensible one; but as long as crime exists, the necessity for
detection is apparent. That a murderous criminal should go unwhipt of
justice because the process of his detection is distasteful to the
high moral sensibilities of those to whom crime is, perhaps, a
stranger, is an argument at once puerile and absurd. The office of
the detective is to serve the ends of justice; to purge society of
the degrading influences of crime; and to protect the lives, the
property and the honor of the community at large; and in this
righteous work the end will unquestionably justify the means adopted
to secure the desired result.
That the means used in this case were justifiable the result has
proven. By no other course could the murderer of Henry Schulte have
been successfully punished or the money which he had stolen
recovered.
The detective, a gentleman of education and refinement, in the
interests of justice assumes the garb of the criminal; endures the
privations and restraints of imprisonment, and for weeks and months
associates with those who have defied the law, and have stained their
hands with blood; but in the end he emerges from the trying and fiery
ordeal through which he has passed triumphant. The law is vindicated,
and the criminal is punished.
Despite the warnings of his indefatigable counsel, and the fears
which they had implanted in his mind, the detective had gained a
control over the mind of the guilty man, which impelled him to
confess his crime and reveal the hiding place of the money which had
led to its commission.
That conviction has followed this man should be a subject of
congratulation to all law-abiding men and women; and if the fate of
this unhappy man, now condemned to long weary years of imprisonment,
shall result in deterring others from the commission of crime, surely
the operations of the detective have been more powerfully beneficial
to society than all the eloquence and nicely-balanced theories--incapable
of practical application--of the theoretical moralist, who doubts the
efficiency or the propriety of the manner in which this great result
has been accomplished.
ALLAN PINKERTON.
BUCHOLZ AND THE DETECTIVES.
THE CRIME.
CHAPTER I.
_The Arrival in South Norwalk._--_The Purchase of the Farm._--_A
Miser's Peculiarities, and the Villagers' Curiosity._
About a mile and a half from the city of South Norwalk, in the State
of Connecticut, rises an eminence known as Roton Hill. The situation
is beautiful and romantic in the extreme. Far away in the distance,
glistening in the bright sunshine of an August morning, roll the
green waters of Long Island Sound, bearing upon its broad bosom the
numerous vessels that ply between the City of New York and the
various towns and cities along the coast. The massive and luxurious
steamers and the little white-winged yachts, the tall "three-masters"
and the trim and gracefully-sailing schooners, are in full view. At
the base of the hill runs the New York and New Haven Railroad, with
its iron horse and long trains of cars, carrying their wealth of
freights and armies of passengers to all points in the East, while to
the left lies the town of South Norwalk--the spires of its churches
rising up into the blue sky, like monuments pointing heaven-ward--and
whose beautiful and capacious school-houses are filled with the
bright eyes and rosy faces of the youths who receive from competent
teachers the lessons that will prove so valuable in the time to come.
Various manufactories add to the wealth of the inhabitants, whose
luxurious homes and bright gardens are undoubted indications of
prosperity and domestic comfort. The placid river runs through the
town, which, with the heavy barges lying at the wharves, the
draw-bridges which span its shores, and the smaller crafts, which
afford amusement to the youthful fraternity, contribute to the
general picturesqueness of the scene.
The citizens, descended from good old revolutionary sires, possess
the sturdy ambitions, the indomitable will and the undoubted honor of
their ancestors, and, as is the case with all progressive American
towns, South Norwalk boasts of its daily journal, which furnishes the
latest intelligence of current events, proffers its opinions upon the
important questions of the day, and, like the _Sentinel_ of old,
stands immovable and unimpeachable between the people and any
attempted encroachment upon their rights.
On a beautiful, sunny day in August, 1878, there descended from the
train that came puffing up to the commodious station at South
Norwalk, an old man, apparently a German, accompanied by a much
younger one, evidently of the same nationality. The old gentleman was
not prepossessing in appearance, and seemed to be avoided by his
well-dressed fellow-passengers. He was a tall, smooth-faced man about
sixty years of age, but his broad shoulders and erect carriage gave
evidence of an amount of physical power and strength scarcely in
accord with his years. Nor was his appearance calculated to impress
the observer with favor. He wore a wretched-looking coat, and upon
his head a dingy, faded hat of foreign manufacture. His shoes showed
frequent patches, and looked very much as though their owner had
performed the duties of an amateur cobbler.
It was not a matter of wonder, therefore, that the round-faced Squire
shrugged his burly shoulders as the new-comer entered his office, or
that he was about to bestow upon the forlorn-looking old man some
trifling token of charity.
The old gentleman, however, was not an applicant for alms. He did not
deliver any stereotyped plea for assistance, nor did he recite a tale
of sorrow and suffering calculated to melt the obdurate heart of the
average listener to sympathy, and so with a wave of his hand he
declined the proffered coin, and stated the nature of his business.
The Squire soon discovered his error, for instead of asking for
charity, his visitor desired to make a purchase, and in place of
being a victim of necessity, he intended to become a land-owner in
that vicinity.
The young man who accompanied him, and who was dressed in clothing of
good quality and style, was discovered to be his servant, and the old
gentlemen, in a few words, completed a bargain in which thousands of
dollars were involved.
The blue eyes of the worthy Squire opened in amazement as the
supposed beggar, drawing forth a well-filled but much-worn leather
wallet, and taking from one of its dingy compartments the amount of
the purchase-money agreed upon, afforded the astonished magistrate a
glimpse of additional wealth of which the amount paid seemed but a
small fraction.
The land in question which thus so suddenly and strangely changed
hands was a farm of nearly thirty acres, situate upon Roton Hill, and
which had been offered for sale for some time previous, without
attracting the attention of an available purchaser. When, therefore,
the new-comer completed his arrangements in comparatively such few
words, and by the payment of the purchase-money in full, he so
completely surprised the people to whom the facts were speedily
related by the voluble Squire, that the miserably apparelled owner of
the "Hill," became at once an object of curiosity and interest.
A few days after this event, the old gentleman, whose name was
ascertained to be John Henry Schulte, formally entered into
possession of his land, and with his servants took up his abode at
Roton Hill.
The dwelling-house upon the estate was an unpretentious frame
building, with gable roof, whose white walls, with their proverbial
green painted window shutters overlooking the road, showed too
plainly the absence of that care and attention which is necessary for
comfort and essential to preservation. It was occupied at this time
by a family who had been tenants under the previous owner, and
arrangements were soon satisfactorily made by Henry Schulte by which
they were to continue their residence in the white farm-house upon
the "Hill."
This family consisted of a middle-aged man, whose name was Joseph
Waring, his wife and children--a son and two blooming daughters, and
as the family of Henry Schulte consisted only of himself and his
servant, the domestic arrangements were soon completed, and he became
domiciled at once upon the estate which he had purchased.
The young man who occupied the position as servant, or valet, to the
eccentric old gentleman, was a tall, broad-shouldered, fine-looking
young fellow, whose clear-cut features and prominent cheek-bones at
once pronounced him to be a German. His eyes were large, light blue
in color, and seemed capable of flashing with anger or melting with
affection; his complexion was clear and bright, but his mouth was
large and with an expression of sternness which detracted from the
pleasing expression of his face; while his teeth, which were somewhat
decayed, added to the unpleasing effect thus produced. He was,
however, rather a good-looking fellow, with the erect carriage and
jaunty air of the soldier, and it was a matter of surprise to many,
that a young man of his appearance should occupy so subservient a
position, and under such a singular master.
Such was William Bucholz, the servant of Henry Schulte.
Between master and man there appeared to exist a peculiar relation,
partaking, at times, more of the nature of a protector than the
servant, and in their frequent walks William Bucholz would invariably
be found striding on in advance, while his aged, but seemingly
robust, employer would follow silently and thoughtfully at a distance
of a few yards. At home, however, his position was more clearly
defined, and William became the humble valet and the nimble waiter.
The reserved disposition and retired habits of the master were
regarded as very eccentric by his neighbors, and furnished frequent
food for comment and speculation among the gossips which usually
abound in country villages--and not in this case without cause. His
manner of living was miserly and penurious in the extreme, and all
ideas of comfort seemed to be utterly disregarded.
The furniture of the room which he occupied was of the commonest
description, consisting of an iron bedstead, old and broken, which,
with its hard bed, scanty covering and inverted camp-stool for a
pillow, was painfully suggestive of discomfort and unrest. A large
chest, which was used as a receptacle for food; a small deal table,
and two or three unpainted chairs, completed the inventory of the
contents of the chamber in which the greater portion of his time was
passed when at home.
The adjoining chamber, which was occupied by Bucholz, was scarcely
more luxurious, except that some articles for toilet use were added
to the scanty and uninviting stock.
The supplies for his table were provided by himself, and prepared for
his consumption by Mrs. Waring. In this regard, also, the utmost
parsimony was evinced, and the daily fare consisted of the commonest
articles of diet that he was able to purchase. Salt meats and fish,
brown bread and cheese, seemed to be the staple articles of food. At
the expiration of every week, accompanied by William, he would
journey to South Norwalk, to purchase the necessary stores for the
following seven days, and he soon became well-known to the
shopkeepers for the niggardly manner of his dealings. Upon his return
his purchases would be carefully locked up in the strong box which he
kept in his room, and would be doled out regularly to the servant for
cooking in the apartments below, with a stinting exactness painfully
amusing to witness.
The only luxury which he allowed himself was a certain quantity of
Rhenish wine, of poor quality and unpleasant flavor, which was
partaken of by himself alone, and apparently very much enjoyed. At
his meals Bucholz was required to perform the duties of waiter;
arranging the cloth, carrying the food and dancing in constant
attendance--after which he would be permitted to partake of his own
repast, either with the family, who frequently invited him, and thus
saved expense, or in the chamber of his master.
Gossip in a country village travels fast and loses nothing in its
passage. Over many a friendly cup of tea did the matrons and maids
discuss the peculiarities of the wealthy and eccentric old man who
had so suddenly appeared among them, while the male portion of the
community speculated illimitably as to his history and his
possessions.
He was frequently met walking along the highway with his hands folded
behind his back, his head bent down, apparently in deep thought,
William in advance, and the master plodding slowly after him, and
many efforts were made to cultivate his acquaintance, but always
without success.
This evidence of an avoidance of conversation and refusal to make
acquaintances, instead of repressing a tendency to gossip, only
seemed to supply an opportunity for exaggeration, and speculation
largely supplied the want of fact in regard to his wealth and his
antecedents.
Entirely undisturbed by the many reports in circulation about him,
Henry Schulte pursued the isolated life he seemed to prefer, paying
no heed to the curious eyes that were bent upon him, and entirely
oblivious to the vast amount of interest which others evinced in his
welfare.
He was in the habit of making frequent journeys to the City of New
York alone, and on these occasions William would meet him upon his
return and the two would then pursue their lonely walk home.
One day upon reaching South Norwalk, after a visit to the metropolis,
he brought with him a large iron box which he immediately consigned
to the safe keeping of the bank located in the town, and this fact
furnished another and more important subject for conversation.
He had hitherto seemed to have no confidence in banking institutions
and trust companies, and preferred to be his own banker, carrying
large sums of money about his person which he was at no pains to
conceal, and so, as he continued this practice, and as his
possessions were seemingly increased by the portentous-looking iron
chest, the speculations as to his wealth became unbounded.
Many of the old gossips had no hesitancy in declaring that he was
none other than a foreign count or some other scion of nobility, who
had, no doubt, left his native land on account of some political
persecution, or that he had been expatriated by his government for
some offense which had gained for the old man that dreadful
punishment--royal disfavor.
Oblivious of all this, however, the innocent occasion of their
wonderment and speculation pursued his lonely way unheeding and
undisturbed.
CHAPTER II.
_William Bucholz._--_Life at Roton Hill._--_A Visit to New York
City._
William Bucholz, the servant of the old gentleman, did not possess
the morose disposition nor the desire for isolation evinced by his
master, for, instead of shunning the society of those with whom he
came in contact, he made many acquaintances during his leisure hours
among the people of the town and village, and with whom he soon
became on terms of perfect intimacy. To him, therefore, perhaps as
much as to any other agency, was due in a great measure the fabulous
stories of the old man's wealth.
Being of a communicative disposition, and gifted with a seemingly
frank and open manner, he found no difficulty in extending his circle
of acquaintances, particularly among those of a curious turn of mind.
In response to their eager questioning, he would relate such wonderful
stories in reference to his master, of the large amount of money which
he daily carried about his person, and of reputed wealth in Germany,
that it was believed by some that a modern Croesus had settled in
their midst, and while, in common with the rest of humanity, they paid
homage to his gold, they could not repress a feeling of contempt for
the miserly actions and parsimonious dealings of its possessor.
With the young ladies also William seemed to be a favorite, and his
manner of expressing himself in such English words as he had
acquired, afforded them much interest and no little amusement. Above
all the rest, however, the two daughters of Mrs. Waring possessed the
greatest attractions for him, and the major part of his time, when
not engaged in attending upon his employer, was spent in their
company. Of the eldest daughter he appeared to be a devoted admirer,
and this fact was far from being disagreeable to the young lady
herself, who smiled her sweetest smiles upon the sturdy young German
who sued for her favors.
Sadie Waring was a wild, frolicsome young lady of about twenty years
of age, with an impulsive disposition, and an inclination for
mischief which was irrepressible. Several experiences were related of
her, which, while not being of a nature to deserve the censure of her
associates, frequently brought upon her the reproof of her parents,
who looked with disfavor upon the exuberance of a disposition that
acknowledged no control.
Bucholz and Sadie became warm friends, and during the pleasant days
of the early Autumn, they indulged in frequent and extended rambles;
he became her constant chaperone to the various traveling shows which
visited the town, and to the merry-makings in the vicinity. Through
her influence also, he engaged the services of a tutor, and commenced
the study of the English language, in which, with her assistance, he
soon began to make rapid progress.
In this quiet, uneventful way, the time passed on, and nothing
occurred to disturb the usual serenity of their existence. No attempt
was made by Henry Schulte to cultivate the land which he had
purchased, and, except a small patch of ground which was devoted to
the raising of a few late vegetables, the grass and weeds vied with
each other for supremacy in the broad acres which surrounded the
house.
Daily during the pleasant weather the old gentleman would wend his
way to the river, and indulge in the luxury of a bath, which seemed
to be the only recreation that he permitted himself to take; and in
the evening, during which he invariably remained in the house, he
would spend the few hours before retiring in playing upon the violin,
an instrument of which he was very fond, and upon which he played
with no ordinary skill.
The Autumn passed away, and Winter, cold, bleak, and cheerless,
settled over the land. The bright and many-colored leaves that had
flashed their myriad beauties in the full glare of the sunlight, had
fallen from the trees, leaving their trunks, gnarled and bare, to the
mercy of the sweeping winds. The streams were frozen, and the
merry-makers skimmed lightly and gracefully over the glassy surface
of pond and lake. Christmas, that season of festivity, when the
hearts of the children are gladdened by the visit of that fabulous
gift-maker, and when music and joy rule the hour in the homes of the
rich--but when also, pinched faces and hungry eyes are seen in the
houses of the poor--had come and gone.
To the farm-house on the "Hill," there had come no change during this
festive season, and the day was passed in the ordinary dull and
uneventful manner. William Bucholz and Sadie Waring had perhaps
derived more enjoyment from the day than any of the others, and in
the afternoon had joined a party of skaters on the lake in the
vicinity, but beyond this, no incident occurred to recall very
forcibly the joyous time that was passing.
On the second day after Christmas, Henry Schulte informed William of
his intention to go to New York upon a matter of business, and after
a scanty breakfast, accompanied by his valet, he wended his way to
the station.
They had become accustomed to ignore the main road in their journeys
to the town, and taking a path that ran from the rear of the house,
they would walk over the fields, now hard and frozen, and passing
through a little strip of woods they would reach the track of the
railroad, and following this they would reach the station, thereby
materially lessening the distance that intervened, and shortening the
time that would be necessary to reach their destination.
Placing the old gentleman safely upon the train, and with
instructions to meet him upon his arrival home in the evening,
Bucholz retraced his steps and prepared to enjoy the leisure accorded
to him by the absence of the master.
In the afternoon his tutor came, and he spent an hour engaged in the
study of the English language, and in writing. Shortly after the
departure of the teacher Mrs. Waring requested him to accompany her
to a town a few miles distant, whither she was going to transact some
business, and he cheerfully consenting, they went off together.
Returning in the gathering twilight Bucholz was in excellent spirits
and in great good humor, and as they neared their dwelling they
discovered Sadie slightly in advance of them, with her skates under
her arm, returning from the lake, where she had been spending the
afternoon in skating. William, with a view of having a laugh at the
expense of the young lady, when within a short distance of her, drew
a revolver which he carried, and discharged it in the direction in
which she was walking. The girl uttered a frightened scream, but
William's mocking laughter reassured her, and after a mutual laugh at
her sudden fright the three proceeded merrily to the house.
It was now time for William to go to the station for his master, who
was to return that evening, and he started off to walk to the train,
reaching there in good time, and in advance of its arrival.
Soon the bright light of the locomotive was seen coming around a
curve in the road, the shrill whistle resounded through the wintry
air, and in a few minutes the train came rumbling up to the station,
when instantly all was bustle and confusion.
Train hands were running hither and thither, porters were loudly
calling the names of the hotels to which they were attached, the
inevitable Jehu was there with his nasal ejaculation of "Kerige!"
while trunks were unloaded and passengers were disembarking.
Bright eyes were among the eager crowd as the friendly salutations
were exchanged, and merry voices were heard in greeting to returning
friends. Rich and poor jostled each other in the hurry of the moment,
and the waiting servant soon discovered among the passengers the form
of the man he was waiting for.
The old gentleman was burdened with some purchases of provisions
which he had made, and in an old satchel which he carried the necks
of several bottles of wine were protruding. Assisting him to alight,
Bucholz took the satchel, and they waited until the train started
from the depot and left the trackway clear. The old man looked
fatigued and worn, and directed Bucholz to accompany him to a saloon
opposite, which they entered, and walking up to the bar, he requested
a couple of bottles of beer for himself and servant. This evidence of
unwonted generosity created considerable wonderment among those who
were seated around, but the old gentleman paid no attention to their
whispered comments, and, after liquidating his indebtedness, the two
took up their packages and proceeded up the track upon their journey
home.
What transpired upon that homeward journey was destined to remain for
a long time an inscrutable mystery, but after leaving that little inn
no man among the curious villagers ever looked upon that old man's
face in life again. The two forms faded away in the distance, and the
weary wind sighed through the leafless trees; the bright glare of the
lights of the station gleamed behind them, but the shadows of the
melancholy hills seemed to envelop them in their dark embrace--and to
one of them, at least, it was the embrace of death.
CHAPTER III.
_An Alarm at the Farm-house._--_The Dreadful Announcement of William
Bucholz._--_The Finding of the Murdered Man._
The evening shadows gathered over Roton Hill, and darkness settled
over the scene. The wind rustled mournfully through the leafless
branches of the trees, as though with a soft, sad sigh, while
overhead the stars glittered coldly in their far-off setting of blue.
Within the farm-house the fire glowed brightly and cheerily; the
lamps were lighted; the cloth had been laid for the frugal evening
meal, and the kettle hummed musically upon the hob. The family of the
Warings, with the exception of the father, whose business was in a
distant city, were gathered together. Samuel Waring, the son, had
returned from his labor, and with the two girls were seated around
the hearth awaiting the return of the old gentleman and William,
while Mrs. Waring busied herself in the preparations for tea.
"Now, if Mr. Schulte would come," said Mrs. Waring, "we would ask him
to take tea with us this evening; the poor man will be cold and
hungry."
"No use in asking him, mother," replied Samuel, "he wouldn't accept."
"It is pretty nearly time they were here," said Sadie, with a longing
look toward the inviting table.
"Well, if they do not come soon we will not wait for them," said Mrs.
Waring.
As she spoke a shrill, startled cry rose upon the air; the voice of a
man, and evidently in distress. Breathless they stopped to
listen--the two girls clinging to each other with blanched faces and
staring eyes.
"Sammy! Sammy!" again sounded that frightened call.
Samuel Waring started to his feet and moved rapidly toward the door.
"It sounds like William!" he cried, "something must have happened."
He had reached the door and his hand was upon the latch, when it was
violently thrown open and Bucholz rushed in and fell fainting upon
the floor.
[Illustration: "_Bucholz rushed in and fell fainting to the floor._"]
He was instantly surrounded by the astonished family, and upon
examination it was discovered that his face was bleeding, while the
flesh was lacerated as though he had been struck with some sharp
instrument. He had carried in his hand the old satchel which
contained the wine purchased by Mr. Schulte, and which had been
consigned to his care on leaving the depot, and as he fell
unconscious the satchel dropped from his nerveless grasp upon the
floor.
Recovering quickly, he stared wildly around. "What has happened,
William, what is the matter?" inquired Samuel.
"Oh, Mr. Schulte, he is killed, he is killed!"
"Where is he now?"
"Down in the woods by the railroad," cried Bucholz. "We must go and
find him."
Meanwhile the female members of the family had stood wonder-stricken
at the sudden appearance of Bucholz, and the fearful information
which he conveyed.
"How did it happen?" inquired Samuel Waring.
"Oh, Sammy," exclaimed Bucholz, "I don't know. When we left the
station, Mr. Schulte gave me the satchel to carry, and we walked
along the track. I was walking ahead. Then we came through the woods,
and just as I was about to climb over the stone wall by the field, I
heard Mr. Schulte call out, 'Bucholz!' 'Bucholz!' It was dark, I
could not see anything, and just as I turned around to go to Mr.
Schulte, a man sprang at me and hit me in the face. I jumped away
from him and then I saw another one on the other side of me. Then I
ran home, and now I know that Mr. Schulte is killed. Oh Sammy! Sammy!
we must go and find him."
Bucholz told his story brokenly and seemed to be in great distress.
"If I had my pistol I would not run," he continued, as if in reply to
a look upon Samuel Waring's face, "but I left it at home."
Sadie went up to him, and, laying her hand upon his arm, inquired
anxiously if he was much hurt.
"No, my dear, I think not, but I was struck pretty hard," he replied.
"But come," he continued, "while we are talking, Mr. Schulte is lying
out there in the woods. We must go after him."
Bucholz went to the place where he usually kept his revolver, and
placing it in his pocket, he announced his readiness to go in search
of his master.
"Wait till I get my gun," said Samuel Waring, going up-stairs, and
soon returning with the desired article.
Just as he returned, another attack of faintness overcame William,
and again he fell to the floor, dropping the revolver from his pocket
as he did so.
Sammy assisted him to arise, and after he had sufficiently recovered,
the two men, accompanied by the mother and two daughters, started
toward the house of the next neighbor, where, arousing old Farmer
Allen, and leaving the ladies in his care, they proceeded in the
direction where the attack was said to have been made.
On their way they aroused two other neighbors, who, lighting
lanterns, joined the party in their search for the body of Mr.
Schulte.
Following the beaten path through the fields, and climbing over the
stone wall where Bucholz was reported to have been attacked, they
struck the narrow path that led through the woods. A short distance
beyond this the flickering rays of the lantern, as they penetrated
into the darkness beyond them, fell upon the prostrate form of a man.
The body lay upon its back; the clothing had been forcibly torn open,
and the coat and vest were thrown back as though they had been
hastily searched and hurriedly abandoned.
The man was dead. Those glassy eyes, with their look of horror, which
were reflected in the rays of the glimmering light; that pallid,
rigid face, with blood drops upon the sunken cheeks, told them too
plainly that the life of that old man had departed, and that they
stood in the awful presence of death.
Murdered! A terrible word, even when used in the recital of an event
that happened long ago. An awful word to be uttered by the cheerful
fireside as we read of the ordinary circumstances of every-day life.
But what horrible intensity is given to the enunciation of its
syllables when it is forced from the trembling lips of stalwart men,
as they stand like weird spirits in the darkness of the night, and
with staring eyes, behold the bleeding victim of a man's foul deed.
It seemed to thrill the ears and freeze the blood of the listeners,
as old Farmer Allen, kneeling down by that lifeless form, pronounced
the direful word.
It seemed to penetrate the air confusedly--not as a word, but as a
sound of fear and dread. The wind seemed to take up the burden of the
sad refrain, and whispered it shudderingly to the tall trees that
shook their trembling branches beneath its blast.
I wonder did it penetrate into the crime-stained heart of him who had
laid this harmless old man low? Was it even now ringing in his ears?
Ah, strive as he may--earth and sky and air will repeat in chorus
that dreadful sound, which is but the echo of his own accusing
conscience, and he will never cease to hear it until, worn and weary,
the plotting brain shall cease its functions, and the murderous heart
shall be cold and pulseless in a dishonored grave.
CHAPTER IV.
_The Excitement in the Village._--_The Coroner's Investigation._--_The
Secret Ambuscade._
Samuel Waring knelt down beside the form of the old man, and laid his
trembling hand upon the heart that had ceased to throb forever.
"He is dead!" he uttered, in a low, subdued voice, as though he too
was impressed with the solemnity of the scene.
Bucholz uttered a half articulate moan, and grasped more firmly in
his nerveless hand the pistol which he carried.
One of the neighbors who had accompanied the party was about to
search the pockets of the murdered man, when Farmer Allen, raising
his hand, cried:
"Stop! This is work for the law. A man has been murdered, and the
officers of the law must be informed of it. Who will go?"
Samuel Waring and Bucholz at once volunteered their services and
started towards the village to notify the coroner, and those whose
duty it was to take charge of such cases.
Farmer Allen gazed at the rigid form of the old man lying there
before him, whose life had been such an enigma to his neighbors, then
at the retreating forms of the two men who were slowly wending their
way to the village, and a strange, uncertain light came into his eyes
as he thus looked. He said nothing, however, of the thoughts that
occupied his mind, and after bidding the others watch beside the
body, he returned to his own home and informed the frightened females
of what had been discovered.
The news spread with wonderful rapidity, and soon the dreadful
tidings were the theme of universal conversation. A man rushed into
the saloon in which the old man and Bucholz had drank their beer, and
cried out:
"The old man that was in here to-night has been murdered!"
Instantly everybody were upon their feet. The old gentleman was
generally known, and although no one was intimately acquainted with
him, all seemed to evince an interest in the cause of his death.
Many rumors were at once put in circulation, and many wild and
extravagant stories were soon floating through the crowds that
gathered at the corners of the streets.
Samuel Waring and Bucholz had gone directly to the office of the
coroner, and informing him of the sad affair, had proceeded to the
drug-store in the village, with the view of having the wounds upon
his face dressed. They were found to be of a very slight character,
and a few pieces of court-plaster dexterously applied were all that
seemed to be required.
By this time the coroner had succeeded in impanneling a jury to
accompany him to the scene of the murder, and they proceeded in a
body toward the place. The lights from the lanterns, held by those
who watched beside the body, directed them to the spot, and they soon
arrived at the scene of the tragedy.
The coroner immediately took charge of the body, and the physician
who accompanied him made an examination into the cause of his death.
Upon turning the body over, two ugly gashes were found in the back of
his head, one of them cutting completely through the hat which
covered it and cutting off a piece of the skull, and the other
penetrating several inches into the brain, forcing the fractured
bones of the skull inward.
It seemed evident that the first blow had been struck some distance
from the place where the body had fallen, and that the stunned man
had staggered nearly thirty feet before he fell. The second blow,
which was immediately behind the left ear, had been dealt with the
blunt end of an axe, and while he was prostrate upon the ground.
Death must have instantly followed this second crushing blow, and he
had died without a struggle. Silently and stealthily the assassins
must have come upon him, and perhaps in the midst of some pleasant
dream of a boyhood home; some sweet whisper of a love of the long
ago, his life had been beaten out by the murderous hand of one who
had been lying in wait for his unsuspecting victim.
From the nature of the wounds the physician at once declared that
they were produced by an axe. The cut in the back of the head, and
from which the blood had profusely flowed, was of the exact shape of
the blade of an instrument of that nature--and the other must have
been produced by the back of the same weapon. The last blow must have
been a crushing one, for the wound produced was several inches deep.
An examination of the body revealed the fact that the clothing had
been forcibly torn open, as several buttons had been pulled from the
vest which he wore, in the frantic effort to secure the wealth which
he was supposed to have carried upon his person.
In the inner pocket of his coat, which had evidently been overlooked
by the murderers, was discovered a worn, yellow envelope, which, on
being opened, was found to contain twenty thousand dollars in German
mark bills, and about nine hundred and forty dollars in United States
government notes. His watch had been wrenched from the guard around
his neck, and had been carried off, while by his side lay an empty
money purse, and some old letters and newspapers.
Tenderly and reverently they lifted the corpse from the ground after
this examination had been made, William Bucholz assisting, and the
mournful procession bore the body to the home which he had left in
the morning in health and spirits, and with no premonitory warning of
the fearful fate that was to overtake him upon his return.
The lights flashed through the darkness, and the dark forms, outlined
in their glimmering beams, seemed like beings of an unreal world; the
bearers of the body, with their unconscious burden, appeared like a
mournful procession of medieval times, when in the solemn hours of
the night the bodies of the dead were borne away to their final
resting-place.
They entered the house and laid their burden down. The lids were now
closed over those wild, staring eyes, and the clothing had been
decently arranged about the rigid form. The harsh lines that had
marked his face in life, seemed to have been smoothed away by some
unseen hand, and a smile of peace, such as he might have worn when a
child, rested upon those closed and pallid lips, clothing the
features with an expression of sweetness that none who saw him then
ever remembered to have seen before.
After depositing the body in the house, several of the parties
proceeded to search the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the
murder. Near where the body had fallen a package was found,
containing some meat which the frugal old man had evidently purchased
while in the city. Another parcel, which contained a pair of what are
commonly known as overalls, apparently new and unworn, was also
discovered. An old pistol of the "pepper-box" pattern, and a rusty
revolver, the handle of which was smeared with blood, was found near
where the body was lying. No instrument by which the murder could
have been committed was discovered, and no clue that would lead to
the identification of the murderers was unearthed. They were about to
abandon their labor for the night, when an important discovery was
made, which tended to show conclusively that the murder had been
premeditated, and that the crime had been in preparation before the
hour of its execution.
By the side of the narrow path which led through the woods, stood a
small cedar tree upon the summit of a slight rise in the ground. Its
spare, straggling branches were found to have been interwoven with
branches of another tree, so as to form a complete screen from the
approach from the railroad, in the direction which Henry Schulte must
inevitably come on his way from the depot. Here, undoubtedly, the
murderer had been concealed, and as the old man passed by,
unconscious of the danger that threatened him, he had glided
stealthily after him and struck the murderous blow.
These, and these only, were the facts discovered, and the question as
to whose hand had committed the foul deed remained a seemingly
fathomless mystery.
Midnight tolled its solemn hour, and as the tones of the bell that
rang out its numbers died away upon the air, the weary party wended
their way homeward, leaving the dead and the living in the little
farm-house upon the "Hill," memorable ever after for the dark deed of
this dreary night.
CHAPTER V.
_The Hearing before the Coroner._--_Romantic Rumors and Vague
Suspicions._--_An Unexpected Telegram._--_Bucholz Suspected._
The next day the sun shone gloriously over a beautiful winter's day,
and as its bright rays lighted up the ice-laden trees in the little
wood, causing their branches to shimmer with the brilliant hues of a
rainbow's magnificence, no one would have imagined that in the gloom
of the night before, a human cry for help had gone up through the
quiet air or that a human life had been beaten out under their
glittering branches.
The night had been drearily spent in the home which Henry Schulte had
occupied, and the body of the murdered man had been guarded by
officers of the law, designated by the coroner who designed holding
the customary inquest upon the morrow.
To the inmates of the house the hours had stretched their weary
lengths along, and sleep came tardily to bring relief to their
overwrought minds. Bucholz, nervous and uneasy, had, without
undressing, thrown himself upon the bed with Sammy Waring, and during
his broken slumbers had frequently started nervously and uttered
moaning exclamations of pain or fear, and in the morning arose
feverish and unrefreshed.
The two girls, who had wept profusely during the night, and before
whose minds there flitted unpleasant anticipations of a public
examination, in which they would no doubt play prominent parts, and
from which they involuntarily shrank, made their appearance at the
table heavy-eyed and sorrowful.
As the morning advanced, hundreds of the villagers, prompted by idle
curiosity and that inherent love of excitement which characterizes
all communities, visited the scene of the murder, and as they gazed
vacantly around, or pointed out the place where the body had been
found, many and varied opinions were expressed as to the manner in
which the deed was committed, and of the individuals who were
concerned in the perpetration of the crime.
A rumor, vague at first, but assuming systematic proportions as the
various points of information were elucidated, passed through the
crowd, and was eagerly accepted as the solution of the seeming
mystery.
It appeared that several loungers around the depot at Stamford, a
town about eight miles distant, on the night previous had observed
two conspicuous-looking foreigners, who had reached the depot at
about ten o'clock. They seemed to be exhausted and out of breath, as
though they had been running a long distance, and in broken English,
scarcely intelligible, had inquired (in an apparently excited
manner), when the next train was to leave for New York. There were
several cabmen and hangers-on who usually make a railroad depot their
headquarters about, and by them the two men were informed that there
were no more trains running to New York that night. This information
seemed to occasion them considerable annoyance and disappointment;
they walked up and down the platform talking and gesticulating
excitedly, and separating ever and anon, when they imagined
themselves noticed by those who happened to be at the station.
Soon after this an eastern-bound train reached the depot, and these
same individuals, instead of going to New York, took passage on this
train. They did not go into the car together, and after entering took
seats quite apart from each other. The conductor, who had mentioned
these circumstances, and who distinctly remembered the parties, as
they had especially attracted his attention by their strange
behavior, recollected that they did not present any tickets, but paid
their fares in money. He also remembered that they were odd-looking
and acted in an awkward manner. They both left the train at New
Haven, and from thence all trace of them was lost for the present.
Upon this slight foundation, a wonderful edifice of speculation was
built by the credulous and imaginative people of South Norwalk. The
romance of their dispositions was stirred to its very depths, and
their enthusiastic minds drew a vivid picture, in which the manner
and cause of Henry Schulte's death was successfully explained and
duly accounted for.
These men were without a doubt the emissaries of some person or
persons in Germany, who were interested in the old gentleman and
would be benefited by his death. As this story coincided so fully
with the mysterious appearance of the old man at South Norwalk; his
recluse habits and avoidance of society, it soon gained many
believers, who were thoroughly convinced of the correctness of the
theory thus advanced.
Meanwhile the coroner had made the necessary arrangements for the
holding of the inquest as required by the law, and his office was
soon crowded to overflowing by the eager citizens of the village, who
pushed and jostled each other in their attempts to effect an entrance
into the room.
The first and most important witness was William Bucholz, the servant
of the old gentleman, and who had accompanied him on that fatal walk
home.
He told his story in a plain, straightforward manner, and without any
show of hesitation or embarrassment. He described his meeting Mr.
Schulte at the depot; their entering the saloon, and their journey
homeward.
"After we left the saloon," said Bucholz, who was allowed to tell his
story without interruption and without questioning, "Mr. Schulte said
to me, 'Now, William, we will go home;' we walked up the railroad
track and when we reached the stone wall that is built along by the
road, Mr. Schulte told me to take the satchel, and as the path was
narrow, he directed me to walk in advance of him. He was silent, and,
I thought, looked very tired. I had not walked very far into the
woods, when I heard him call from behind me, as though he was hurt or
frightened, 'Bucholz! Bucholz!' I heard no blow struck, nor any sound
of footsteps. I was startled with the suddenness of the cry, and as I
was about to lay down the satchel and go to him, I saw a man on my
right hand about six paces from me; at the same time I heard a noise
on my left, and as I turned in that direction I received a blow upon
my face. This frightened me so that I turned, and leaping over the
wall, I ran as fast as I could towards the house. One of the men, who
was tall and stoutly built, chased me till I got within a short
distance of the barn. He then stopped, and calling out, 'Greenhorn, I
catch you another time,' he went back in the direction of the woods.
He spoke in English, but from his accent I should think he was a
Frenchman. I did not stop running until I reached the house, and
calling for help to Sammy Waring, I opened the door and fell down. I
was exhausted, and the blow I received had hurt me very much." He
then proceeded to detail the incidents which followed, all of which
the reader has already been made aware of.
He told his story in German, and, through one of the citizens
present, who acted as interpreter, it was translated into English.
While he was speaking, a boy hurriedly entered the room, and pushing
his way toward the coroner, who was conducting the examination, he
handed to him a sealed envelope.
Upon reading the meager, but startling, contents of the telegram, for
such it proved to be, Mr. Craw gazed at Bucholz with an expression of
pained surprise, in which sympathy and doubtfulness seemed to contend
for mastery.
The telegram was from the State's Attorney, Mr. Olmstead, who, while
on the train, going from Stamford to Bridgeport, had perused the
account of the murder of the night before, in the daily journal.
Being a man of clear understanding, of quick impulse, and indomitable
will, for him to think was to act. Learning that the investigation
was to be held that morning, immediately upon his arrival at
Bridgeport he entered the telegraph office, and sent the following
dispatch:
"_Arrest the servant._"
It was this message which was received by the coroner, while Bucholz,
all unconscious of the danger which threatened him, was relating the
circumstances that had occurred the night before.
Mr. Craw communicated to no one the contents of the message he had
received, and the investigation was continued as though nothing had
occurred to disturb the regularity of the proceedings thus begun.
Mr. Olmstead, however, determined to allow nothing to interfere with
the proper carrying out of the theory which his mind had formed, and
taking the next train, he returned to South Norwalk, arriving there
before Bucholz had finished his statement.
When he entered the room he found that Bucholz had not been arrested
as yet, and so, instead of having this done, he resolved to place an
officer in charge of him, thus preventing any attempt to escape,
should such be made, and depriving him practically of the services of
legal counsel.
Mr. Olmstead conducted the proceedings before the coroner, and his
questioning of the various witnesses soon developed the theory he had
formed, and those who were present listened with surprise as the
assumption of Bucholz's guilty participation in the murder of his
master was gradually unfolded.
Yet under the searching examination that followed, Bucholz never
flinched; he seemed oblivious of the fact that he was suspected, and
told his story in an emotionless manner, and with an innocent
expression of countenance that was convincing to most of those who
listened to his recital.
No person ever appeared more innocent under such trying circumstances
than did this man, and but for a slight flush that now and then
appeared upon his face, one would have been at a loss to discover any
evidence of feeling upon his part, which would show that he was alive
to the position which he then occupied.
His bearing at the investigation made him many friends who were very
outspoken in their defense of Bucholz, and their belief in his entire
innocence. Mr. Olmstead, however, was resolute, and Bucholz returned
to the house upon the conclusion of the testimony for that day, in
charge of an officer of the law, who was instructed to treat him
kindly, but under no circumstances to allow him out of his sight, and
the further investigation was deferred until the following week.
CHAPTER VI.
_The Miser's Wealth._--_Over Fifty Thousand Dollars Stolen from the
Murdered Man._--_A Strange Financial Transaction._--_A Verdict, and
the Arrest of Bucholz._
Meantime there existed a necessity for some action in regard to the
effects of which Henry Schulte was possessed at the time of his
death, and two reputable gentlemen of South Norwalk were duly
authorized to act as administrators of his estate, and to perform
such necessary duties as were required in the matter.
From an examination of his papers it was discovered that his only
living relatives consisted of a brother and his family, who resided
near Dortmund, Westphalia, in Prussia, and that they too were
apparently wealthy and extensive land-owners in the vicinity of that
place.
To this brother the information was immediately telegraphed of the
old gentleman's death, and the inquiry was made as to the disposition
of the body. To this inquiry the following reply was received:
"TO THE MAYOR OF SOUTH NORWALK:
"I beg of you to see that the body of my brother is properly
forwarded to Barop, near Dortmund, so as to insure its safe
arrival. I further request that you inform me at once whether his
effects have been secured, and how much has been found of the
large amount of specie which he took with him from here? Have
they found the murderer of my brother?
Signed, "FREDRICK W. SCHULTE."
Had those who knew the previous history of Henry Schulte expected to
have received any expression of sorrow for the death of the old
gentleman, they were doomed to be disappointed, and the telegram
itself fully dissipated any such idea. The man was dead, and the
heirs were claiming their inheritance--that was all.
Shortly after this a representative of the German Consul at New York
arrived, and, presenting his authority, at once proceeded to take
charge of the remains, and to make the arrangements necessary towards
having them sent to Europe.
The iron box which had proved such an object of interest to the
residents of South Norwalk, was opened at the bank, and to the
surprise of many, was found to contain valuable securities and
investments which represented nearly a quarter of a million of
dollars.
It was at first supposed that the murderers had been foiled in their
attempt to rob as well as to murder, or that they had been frightened
off before they had accomplished their purpose of plunder. The
finding of twenty thousand dollars upon his person seemed to be
convincing proof that no robbery had been committed, and the friends
of Bucholz, who were numerous, pointed to this fact as significantly
establishing his innocence.
Indeed, many people wondered at the action of the State's attorney,
and doubtfully shook their heads as they thought of the meager
evidence that existed to connect Bucholz with the crime. A further
examination of the accounts of the murdered man, however, disclosed
the startling fact that a sum of money aggregating to over fifty
thousand dollars had disappeared, and, as he was supposed to have
carried this amount upon his person, it must have been taken from him
on the night of the murder.
Here, then, was food for speculation. The man had been killed, and
robbery had undoubtedly been the incentive. Who could have committed
the deed and so successfully have escaped suspicion and detection?
Could it have been William Bucholz?
Of a certainty the opportunity had been afforded him, and he could
have struck the old man down with no one near to tell the story. But
if, in the silence of that lonely evening, his hand had dealt the
fatal blow, where was the instrument with which the deed was
committed? If he had rifled the dead man's pockets and had taken from
him his greedily hoarded wealth, where was it now secured, or what
disposition had he made of it?
From the time that he had fallen fainting upon the floor of the
farm-house kitchen, until the present, he was not known to have been
alone.
Tearful in his grief for the death of his master, his voice had been
the first that suggested the necessity for going in search of him. He
was seen to go to the place where he usually kept his pistol, and
prepare himself for defense in accompanying Samuel Waring.
He had stood sorrowfully beside that prostrate form as the hand of
the neighbor had been laid upon the stilled and silent heart, and
life had been pronounced extinct. He had journeyed with Sammy Waring
to the village to give the alarm and to notify the coroner, and on
his return his arms had assisted in carrying the unconscious burden
to the house. Could a murderer, fresh from his bloody work, have done
this?
From that evening officers had been in charge of the premises.
Bucholz, nervous, and physically worn out, had retired with Sammy
Waring, and had not left the house during the evening. If he had
committed this deed he must have the money, but the house was
thoroughly searched, and no trace of this money was discovered.
His bearing upon the inquest had been such that scarcely any one
present was disposed to believe in his guilty participation in the
foul crime, or that he had any knowledge of the circumstances, save
such as he had previously related.
Where then was this large sum of money which had so mysteriously
disappeared?
A stack of straw that stood beside the barn--the barn had been
thoroughly searched before--was purchased by an enterprising and
ambitious officer in charge of Bucholz, and although he did not own a
horse, he had the stack removed, the ground surrounding it diligently
searched, in the vague hope that something would be discovered hidden
beneath it.
But thus far, speculation, search and inquiry had availed nothing,
and as the crowd gathered at the station, and the sealed casket that
contained the body of the murdered man was placed upon the train to
begin its journey to the far distant home which he had left but a
short time before, many thought that with its departure there had
also disappeared all possibility of discovering his assassin, and
penetrating into the deep mystery which surrounded his death.
An important discovery was, however, made at this time, which changed
the current of affairs, and seemed for a time to react against the
innocence of the man against whom suspicion attached.
In the village there resided an individual named Paul Herscher, who
was the proprietor of the saloon in which the deceased and his
servant had taken their drink of beer, after leaving the train upon
the night of the murder.
During the residence of Mr. Schulte at Roton Hill, Bucholz and Paul
Herscher had become intimate acquaintances, and Bucholz had stated
upon his examination that during the month of the previous October he
had loaned to Paul the sum of two hundred dollars. That the servant
of so parsimonious a man should have been possessed of such a sum of
money seemed very doubtful, and inquiries were started with the view
of ascertaining the facts of the case.
The investigation was still going on, and Paul was called as a
witness. His story went far towards disturbing the implicit
confidence in Bucholz's innocence, and caused a reaction of feeling
in the minds of many, which, while it did not confirm them in a
belief in his guilt, at least made them doubtful of his entire
ignorance of the crime.
Paul Herscher stated that on the morning after the murder Bucholz had
entered his saloon, and calling him into an adjoining room, had
placed in his hands a roll of bills, saying at the same time, in
German:
"Here is two hundred dollars of my money. I want you to keep it until
I make my report to the coroner. _If anybody asks you about it, tell
them I gave it to you some time ago._"
Here was an attempt to deceive somebody, and, although Paul had
retained this money for several days, without mentioning the fact of
its existence, his revelation had its effect. Upon comparing the
notes, all of which were marked with a peculiar arrangement of
numbers, and by the hand of the deceased, they were found to
correspond with a list found among the papers of Henry Schulte, and
then in the custody of his administrators.
To this charge, however, Bucholz gave a free, full and, so far as
outward demeanor was concerned, truthful explanation, which, while it
failed to fully satisfy the minds of those who heard it, served to
make them less confident of his duplicity or his guilt.
He acknowledged the statements made by Paul Herscher to be true, but
stated in explanation that he received the money from Mr. Schulte on
their way home on the evening of the murder, in payment of a debt due
him, and that, fearing he might be suspected, he had gone to Paul,
and handing him the money, had requested him, if inquiries were
instituted, to confirm the statement which he had then made.
That this statement seemed of a doubtful character was recognized by
every one, and that a full examination into the truthfulness of his
assertions was required was admitted by all; and, after other
testimony, not, however, of a character implicating him in the
murder, was heard, the State's attorney pressed for such a verdict as
would result in holding Bucholz over for a trial.
After a long deliberation, in which every portion of the evidence was
considered by the jury, which had listened intently to its relation,
they returned the following verdict:
"That John Henry Schulte came to his death from wounds inflicted with
some unknown instrument, in the hands of some person or persons known
to William Bucholz, and we do find that said William Bucholz has a
guilty knowledge of said crime."
This announcement occasioned great surprise among the people
assembled; but to none, perhaps, was the result more unexpected than
to William Bucholz himself. He stood in a dazed, uncertain manner for
a few moments, and then, uttering a smothered groan, sank heavily in
his seat.
The officers of the law advanced and laid their hands upon his
shoulder; and, scarcely knowing what he did, and without uttering a
word, he arose and followed them from the building. He was placed
upon the train to Bridgeport, and before nightfall the iron doors of
a prison closed upon him, and he found himself a prisoner to be
placed on trial for his life."
[Illustration: "_The officers of the law advanced and laid their
hands upon his shoulders_"--]
CHAPTER VII.
_Bucholz in Prison._--_Extravagant Habits and Suspicious
Expenditures._--_The German Consul Interests Himself._--_Bucholz
committed._
Sorrowful looks followed the young man as he was conducted away, and
frequent words of sympathy and hope were expressed as he passed
through the throng on his way to the depot, but he heeded them not. A
dull, heavy pain was gnawing at his heart, and a stupor seemed to
have settled over his senses. The figures around him appeared like
the moving specters in a horrible dream, while a black cloud of
despair seemed to envelop him.
He followed the officers meekly, and obeyed their orders in a
mechanical manner, that showed too plainly that his mind was
wandering from the scenes about him. He looked helplessly around, and
did not appear to realize the situation in which he was so suddenly
and unexpectedly placed.
He experienced the pangs of hunger, and felt as though food was
necessary to stop the dreadful pain which had taken possession of
him, but he made no sign, and from the jury-room to the prison he
uttered not a word.
It was only when he found himself in the presence of the officials of
the prison, whose gloomy walls now surrounded him, that he recovered
his equanimity, and when he was ordered to surrender the contents of
his clothing, or submit to a search, his eyes flashed with
indignation, and the tears that welled up into them dropped upon his
pallid cheek.
With a Herculean effort, however, he recovered his strong calmness,
and drawing up his erect figure he submitted in silence to the
necessary preparations for his being conducted to a cell.
But as the door of the cell clanged to, shutting him in, and the
noise reverberated through the dimly-lighted corridors, he clutched
wildly at the bars, and with a paroxysm of frenzy seemed as though he
would rend them from their fastenings; then, realizing how fruitless
were his efforts, he sank upon the narrow bed in a state of
stupefying despair.
The pangs of hunger were forgotten now, he could not have partaken of
the choicest viands that could have been placed before him, and alone
and friendless he fed upon the bitterness of his own thoughts.
In vain did he attempt to close his eyes to the dreadful
surroundings, and to clear his confused mind of the horrible visions
that appalled him. The dark cloud gathered about him, and he could
discover no avenue of escape.
The night was long and terrible, and the throbbing of his brain
seemed to measure the minutes as they slowly dragged on, relieved
only at intervals by the steady tramp of the keepers, as they went
their customary rounds. The lamp from the corridor glowed with an
unearthly light upon his haggard face and burning eyes, while his
mind restlessly flitted from thought to thought, in the vain attempt
of seeking some faint relief from the shadows that surrounded him.
All through the weary watches of the night he walked his narrow cell,
miserable and sleepless. Hour after hour went by, but there came no
drooping of the heavy lids, betokening the long-looked-for approach
of sleep. At length, when the darkness of the night began to flee
away and the gray dawn was breaking without, but ere any ray had
penetrated the gloom of his comfortless apartment, he threw himself
upon the bed, weary, worn and heart-sick--there stole over his senses
forgetfulness of his surroundings, and he slept.
The body, worn and insensible, lay upon the narrow couch, but the
mind, that wonderful and mysterious agency, was still busy--he
dreamed and muttered in his dreaming thoughts.
Oh, for the power to look within, and to know through what scenes he
is passing now!
Leaving the young man in the distressing position of a suspected
criminal, and deprived of his liberty, let us retrace our steps, and
gather up some links in the chain of the testimony against him, which
were procured during the days that intervened between the night of
the murder and the day of his commitment.
It will be remembered that he had been placed in charge of two
officers of South Norwalk, who, without restraining him of his
liberty, accompanied him wherever he went, and watched his every
movement.
Bucholz soon developed a talent for spending money, which had never
been noticed in him before. He became exceedingly extravagant in his
habits, purchased clothing for which he had apparently no use, and
seemed to have an abundance of funds with which to gratify his
tastes. At each place he went and offered a large note in payment of
the purchases which he had made, the note was secured by the
officers, and was invariably found to contain the peculiar marks
which designated that it had once belonged to the murdered man. He
displayed a disposition for dissipation, and would drink to excess,
smoking inordinately, and indulging in carriage-rides, always in
company with the officers, whose watchful eyes never left him and
whose vigilance was unrelaxed.
The State's attorney was indefatigable in his efforts to force upon
Bucholz the responsibility of the murder, and no means were left
untried to accomplish that purpose. As yet the only evidence was his
possession of a moderate amount of money, which bore the marks made
upon it by the man who had been slain, and which might or might not
have come to him in a legitimate manner and for legitimate services.
The important fact still remained that more than fifty thousand
dollars had been taken from the body of the old man, and that the
murderer, whoever he might be, had possessed himself of that amount.
It was considered, therefore, a matter of paramount importance that
this money should be recovered, as well as that the identity of the
murderer should be established.
The case was a mysterious one, and thus far had defied the efforts of
the ablest men who had given their knowledge and their energies to
this perplexing matter.
Mr. Olmstead, who remained firm in belief in Bucholz's guilt, and who
refused to listen to any theory adverse to this state of affairs,
determined in his heart that something should be done that would
prove beyond peradventure the correctness of his opinions.
About this time two discoveries were made, which, while affording no
additional light upon the mysterious affair, proved conclusively that
whoever the guilty parties were they were still industrious in their
attempts to avert suspicion and destroy any evidence that might be
used against them.
One of these discoveries was the finding of a piece of linen cloth,
folded up and partly stained with blood, as though it had been used
in wiping some instrument which had been covered with the crimson
fluid. This was found a short distance from the scene of the murder,
but partially hid by a stone wall, where Bucholz and Samuel Waring
were alleged to have stood upon the night of its occurrence.
The other event was the mysterious cutting down of the cedar tree,
whose branches had been intertwined with others, and which had
evidently been used as an ambuscade by the assassins who had lain in
wait for their unsuspecting victim.
Meantime, the German Consul-General had been clothed with full
authority to act in the matter, and had become an interested party in
the recovery of the large sum of money which had so mysteriously
disappeared. With him, however, the position of affairs presented two
difficulties which were to be successfully overcome, and two
interests which it was his duty to maintain. As the representative of
a foreign government, high in authority and with plenary powers of an
official nature, he was required to use his utmost efforts to recover
the property of a citizen of the country he represented, and at the
same time guard, as far as possible, the rights of the accused man,
who was also a constituent of his, whose liberty had been restrained
and whose life was now in jeopardy.
The course of justice could not be retarded, however, and an
investigation duly followed by the grand jury of the County of
Fairfield, at which the evidence thus far obtained was presented and
William Bucholz was eventually indicted for the murder of John Henry
Schulte, and committed to await his trial.
CHAPTER VIII.
_My Agency is Employed_--_The work of Detection begun._
The events attendant upon the investigation and the consequent
imprisonment of Bucholz had consumed much time. The new year had
dawned; January had passed away and the second month of the year had
nearly run its course before the circumstances heretofore narrated
had reached the position in which they now stood.
The ingenuity and resources of the officers at South Norwalk had been
fully exerted, and no result further than that already mentioned had
been achieved. The evidence against Bucholz, although circumstantially
telling against him, was not of sufficient weight or directness to
warrant a conviction upon the charge preferred against him. He had
employed eminent legal counsel, and their hopeful views of the case
had communicated themselves to the mercurial temperament of the
prisoner, and visions of a full and entire acquittal from the grave
charge under which he was laboring, thronged his brain.
The violence of his grief had abated; his despair had been dissipated
by the sunshine of a fondly-cherished hopefulness, and his manner
became cheerful and contented.
It was at this time that the services of my agency were called into
requisition, and the process of the detection of the real criminal
was begun.
Upon arriving at my agency in New York City one morning in the latter
part of February, Mr. George H. Bangs, my General Superintendent, was
waited upon by a representative of the German Consul-General, who was
the bearer of a letter from the Consulate, containing a short account
of the murder of Henry Schulte, and placing the matter fully in my
hands for the discovery of the following facts:
I. Who is the murderer?
II. Where is the money which is supposed to have been upon the person
of Henry Schulte at the time of his death?
Up to this time no information of the particulars of this case had
reached my agency, and, except for casual newspaper reports, nothing
was known of the affair, nor of the connection which the German
Consul had with the matter.
At the interview which followed, however, such information as was
known to that officer, who courteously communicated it, was obtained,
and my identification with the case began.
It became necessary at the outset that the support of the State's
Attorney should be secured, as without that nothing could be
successfully accomplished, and an interview was had with Mr.
Olmstead, which resulted in his entire and cordial indorsement of our
employment.
The difficulties in the way of successful operation beset us at the
commencement, and were apparent to the minds of all. The murder had
taken place two months prior to our receiving any information
concerning it, and many of the traces of the crime that might have
existed at the time of its occurrence, and would have been of
incalculable assistance to us, were at this late day no doubt
obliterated.
Undismayed, however, by the adverse circumstances with which it would
be necessary to contend, and with a determination to persevere until
success had crowned their efforts, the office was assumed and the
work commenced.
Mr. Bangs and my son, Robert A. Pinkerton, who is in charge of my New
York agency, procured another interview with Mr. Olmstead, and
received from him all the information which he then possessed.
Mr. Olmstead continued firm in his belief that the crime had been
committed by Bucholz, and being a man of stern inflexibility of mind,
and of a determined disposition, he was resolved that justice should
be done and the guilty parties brought to punishment.
Declining to offer any opinion upon the subject until the matter had
been fully investigated in the thorough manner which always
characterizes my operations, it was decided to send a trusted and
experienced operative to the scene of the murder, to obtain from all
persons who possessed any knowledge of the affair every item of
information that it was possible at that late day to secure.
Accordingly, John Woodford, an intelligent and active man upon my
force, was detailed to the scene of operations with full authority to
glean from the already well-harvested field whatever material was
possible, and from his reports the particulars as detailed in the
preceding chapters were obtained. The inquiries were made in the most
thorough manner, and at the end of his labors every item of
information connected with the matter was in our possession and the
foundation was laid for a system of detection that promised success.
The particulars of the case were communicated to me at my
headquarters in Chicago, and I was resolved also to learn the
antecedents of John Henry Schulte and his servant, in order to
unravel the mystery which attended his appearance at South Norwalk,
and to discover the relations which existed between the master and
the man who now stood charged with a foul crime.
That this eccentric man, possessed of such large means, should thus
have taken up his abode in a land of strangers, and should have lived
the secluded life he did, was an added mystery in the case, which I
resolved to become acquainted with. I considered this necessary,
also, in order to discover some motive for the crime, if any existed
except that of robbery, and to guide me in my dealings with any
suspected persons who might thereafter be found.
His brother was communicated with, and another operative was detailed
to gather up the history of the man from the time of his landing in
America.
John Cornwell, a young operative in the service of my New York
agency, was delegated for this service, and he performed the duty
assigned him in a manner which furnished me with all the information
I desired to possess, and as the story contains much that is of
interest, I will give it here.
THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER IX.
_Dortmund._--_Railroad Enterprise and Prospective Fortune._--_Henry
Schulte's Love._--_An Insult and its Resentment._--_An Oath of
Revenge._
How true it is, that in the life of every one, there exists a vein of
romance which justifies the adage that "Truth is stranger than
fiction."
No page of history may bear their names. No chronicle of important
events may tell to the world the story of their trials and
sufferings. No volume of poetry or song may portray the sunshine and
the storms through which they journeyed from the cradle to the grave.
But in their quiet, humble lives, they may have exemplified the vices
or virtues of humanity, and may have been prominent actors in
unpublished dramas, that would excite the wonderment or the
admiration, the sympathy or the condemnation of communities.
The life of Henry Schulte evinces this fact, in a remarkable degree.
The town of Dortmund in Prussia, in 1845.
A quiet, sleepy, German town, in the Province of Westphalia, whose
inclosing walls seemed eminently fitted to shut out the spirit of
energy and activity with which the world around them was imbued, and
whose five gates gave ample ingress and egress to the limited trade
of the manufacturers within its limits.
Once a free imperial city, it had acquired some importance, and was a
member of that commercial alliance of early times known as the
"Hanseatic League," but its prosperity, from some cause, afterwards
declined, and passing into the hands of Prussia in 1815, Dortmund had
slumbered on in adolescent quiet, undisturbed by the march of
improvement, and unaffected by the changes that were everywhere
apparent in the great world without her boundaries.
This sober, easy-going method of existence seemed to be in perfect
accord with the habits and dispositions of the people. The honest old
burghers pursued the even tenor of their way, paying but little heed
to the whirl and excitement of the large cities, and plodding on with
machine-like regularity in their daily pleasures, and their slow but
sure acquirement of fortune. Children were born, much in the usual
manner of such events--grew into man and womanhood--were married, and
they--in their turn, raised families. Altogether, life in this old
town partook very much of the monotonous and uneventful existence of
a Van Winkle.
Such was Dortmund in 1845.
About this time, however, the wave of the advancing spirit of
business activity had traveled sufficiently westward to reach this
dreamy village, and a railroad was projected between Dortmund and the
City of Dusseldorf.
Dusseldorf, even at that time, was the great focus of railroad and
steamboat communication, and situated as it was, at the confluence of
the Dussel and Rhine rivers, much of the transit trade of the Rhine
was carried on by its merchants.
Here, then, was an opportunity afforded for such an added impetus to
trade, such a natural increase in fortune, that it would readily be
imagined that the entire community would have hailed with delight an
enterprize which promised such important results, and that new life
and energy would have been infused into the sluggish communities of
Dortmund.
Such was the case, to a very great extent, and a large majority of
the people hailed with delight a project which would place their town
in direct communication with the great cities of their own country
and with all the ports of foreign lands. But of this we shall speak
hereafter.
On the road which led from Dortmund to Hagen, about fifteen miles
distant, dwelt Henry Schulte, a quiet, reserved man, who had tilled
the soil for many years. Of a reserved and morose disposition, he
mingled but rarely with the people who surrounded him, and among his
neighbors he was regarded as peculiar and eccentric. His broad acres
evinced a degree of cultivation which proved that their owner was
well versed in the science of agriculture; the large crops that were
annually gathered added materially to the wealth of their proprietor,
and the general appearance of thrift about the farm denoted that
Henry Schulte was possessed of a considerable amount of the world's
goods.
But while every care was taken of the fruitful fields, and every
attention paid to the proper management of his lands, the cottage in
which he lived, stood in marked contrast to its surroundings. A low,
one-story structure, with thatched roof, and with its broken windows
filled here and there with articles of old clothing, proclaimed the
fact that its occupant was not possessed of that liberal nature which
the general appearance of the farm indicated.
There was an air of squalor and poverty about the cottage, which told
unmistakably of the absence of feminine care, and of the lack of
woman's ministrations--and this was true.
For many years Henry Schulte had lived alone, with only his hired man
for company; and together they would perform the necessary domestic
duties, and provide for their own wants in the most economical manner
possible.
Many stories were told among the villagers about Henry Schulte, for,
like most all other localities, gossip and scandal were prevailing
topics of conversation.
It is a great mistake to suppose that in the country, people may live
alone and undisturbed, and that anyone can hope to escape the prying
eyes or the listening ears of the village gossip, male or female.
Such things are only possible in large cities, where men take no
interest in each other's affairs, and where one man may meet another
daily for years without ever thinking of inquiring who he is or what
he does, and where you pass a human being without a greeting or even
a look. In the country, however, where everybody knows everybody,
each one is compelled to account to all the others for what he does,
and no one can ever be satisfied with his own judgment.
Notwithstanding the charm which exists in this communion of work and
rest in word and deed, the custom has very serious drawbacks, and any
person having good or bad reasons of his own for disposing of his
time in a manner different from what is customary, has to contend
against the gossip, the jibes and the mockery of all. Hence, almost
all localities have their peculiar characters, whose idiosyncrasies
are well known, and who are frequently the subject of raillery, and
often of persecution.
To the gay and simple villagers of Hagen, Henry Schulte was an object
of great interest, and to most of them the story of his past was well
known. Many of the old men who sat around the broad fire-place in the
village inn, could remember when he was as gay a lad as any in the
village, and had joined in their sports with all the zest and
enthusiasm of a wild and unrestrained disposition; and when he
marched away to join his regiment, no step was firmer, and no form
more erect than his.
When he had waved adieu to the friends who had accompanied him to the
limits of the town, and had bidden farewell to the tearful Emerence,
his betrothed, who had come with the others; many were the prayers
and good wishes that followed him upon his journey. He was a great
favorite with both the young and old people of Hagen, and no
merry-making was considered complete without the company of young
Henry Schulte and his violin.
It was at one of the May-day festivals that Henry had met the
beautiful Emerence, the daughter of old Herr Bauer, the brewer, and
as their regard proved to be mutual, and the father of the young lady
being propitious, nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of the young
people, and the course of their true love flowed on as smoothly as
the gentle river until Henry was required to do service for his king
and to enter the ranks as a soldier.
It is needless to follow the young man through the various episodes
of his soldier life, in which he distinguished himself for his
uniform good nature, cheerful obedience of orders and strict
attention to duty; it is enough to know that at the expiration of his
term of service he returned home, and was welcomed by the many
friends who had known and loved him from his youthful days.
It was at this time that the catastrophe occurred which changed the
whole tenor of his life, and made him the reserved, hard man that we
find him at the commencement of our story.
In the village there lived a wild, reckless young man by the name of
Nat Toner, who had just returned to his native place after an absence
of several years, and who since his return had spent his time at the
village tavern amid scenes of dissipation and rioting, in which he
was joined by the idle fellows of the village, who hailed with
delight the advent of the gay fellow whose money furnished their
wine, and whose stories of romantic adventure contributed to their
entertainment.
Nat was a bold, handsome fellow, whose curling black hair and
flashing black eyes and wild, careless manner played sad havoc with
the hearts of the young girls of Hagen, and many a comely maiden
would have been made supremely happy by a careless nod of greeting
from this reckless young vagabond.
Not so with Emerence Bauer. Her timid, gentle nature shrank
involuntarily from the rough, uncouth manners of the handsome Nat,
and the stories of his extravagances only filled her mind with
loathing for the life he was leading and the follies he was
committing.
As she compared her own cheerful, manly Henry to this dissipated
Adonis, whose roistering conduct had made him the talk of the
village, she felt that her love was well placed and her heart well
bestowed.
To Nat Toner the aversion manifested by Emerence only served to
create in him a passionate love for her, and he was seized with an
uncontrollable longing to possess her for his own.
Up to this time he had not been informed of the betrothal existing
between Emerence and Henry Schulte, and his rage and disappointment
on discovering this fact was fearful to behold. He cursed the young
man, and swore that, come what would, and at whatever cost, he would
permit no one to come between him and the object of his unholy
affections.
His enmity to Henry Schulte, which soon became very evident, was
manifested upon every possible occasion, until at length Henry's
universal good nature gave way under the repeated taunts of his
unsuccessful rival, and he resolved that further submission would be
both useless and cowardly.
Nothing further occurred, however, for some time, but fresh fuel was
added to the fire of Nat Toner's anger by an incident that he was an
unobserved witness of. One evening he was returning home from the
tavern, where he had been drinking with his companions till a late
hour. His way led him past the residence of Emerence Bauer, and as he
passed by upon the other side of the lighted street he witnessed the
affectionate parting of Henry Schulte and the lady of his love.
Setting his teeth firmly, his eyes flashing with the malignity of
hate, he strode on, vowing vengeance upon the innocent cause of his
anger, who, with his mind filled with many pleasant dreams of the
future, pursued his way towards the little farm-house where he then
dwelt with his father and mother.
The next evening as Henry was passing the village tavern on his
return from Dortmund, where he had been to dispose of some of the
produce of the farm, he found Nat and his companions in the midst of
a wild and noisy revel.
Henry would have rode on unmindful of their presence, but Nat, spying
his rival, and heated with wine, induced his companions to insist
upon his stopping and drinking a glass of wine with them, which
invitation Henry, after vainly attempting to be excused from,
reluctantly accepted, and, dismounting from his horse, he joined
their company.
After indulging in the proffered beverage, Henry seated himself with
his companions and joined with them in singing one of those quaint
German songs which are so full of sweetness and harmony, and which
seem to fill the air with their volume of rude but inspiring music.
After the song was finished, Nat filled his glass, and rising to his
feet said, in a taunting voice:
"Here is a health to the pretty Emerence, and here is to her loutish
lover." Saying which he deliberately threw the contents of his glass
full in the face of the astonished Henry.
With a smothered expression of rage, Henry Schulte sprang to his feet
and with one blow from his right hand, planted firmly in the face of
his insulter, he laid him prostrate upon the floor. Quickly
recovering himself, the infuriated Nat rushed at his brawny
antagonist, only to receive the same treatment, and again he went
down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist. An ox could not
have stood up before the force of the blows of the sturdy farmer,
much less the half-intoxicated ruffian who now succumbed to its
weight.
[Illustration: "_And again he went down beneath the crushing force
of that mighty fist._"]
Foaming with rage and bleeding from the wounds he had received, Nat
Toner struggled to his feet the second time, and drawing a long,
murderous-looking knife from his bosom, he made a frantic plunge at
his assailant.
Quick as a flash, however, the iron grip of Henry Schulte's right
hand was upon the wrist of the cowardly Nat, and with a wrench of his
left hand the knife was wrested from him and thrown out of the
window. Then Henry, unable to further restrain his angry feelings,
shook his aggressor until his teeth fairly chattered, and, finally
flinging him from him with an expression of loathing, said:
"Lie there, you contemptible little beast, and when next you try to
be insulting, count upon your man in advance."
Saying which, and with a quiet good evening to the astonished
company, he walked out of the house, and mounting his horse, rode
slowly homeward.
The discomfited Nat slowly arose, and gaining his feet, glared around
at his wonder-stricken friends, in whose faces, however, he failed to
discover the faintest evidence of sympathy or support.
These honest, good-natured Germans were far too sensible and
fair-minded to justify such an unwarrantable and unexpected insult as
that which had been put upon one of their favorite friends, and
consequently not one of the company lifted their voice or expressed
any regrets for the punishment which Nat had so justly received.
Henry had, in their opinion, acted in a manner which accorded
entirely with their own views upon such matters, and much the same as
they themselves would have done under similar circumstances.
Raising his clenched hand, and with face deadly pale, Nat Toner faced
the silent group, and cried out, in the intensity of his passion:
"Henry Schulte shall pay dearly for this. As truly as we both live, I
will have a full revenge, and in a way he little dreams of."
Uttering these words, he strode fiercely from the room, and
disappeared in the darkness of the night. His companions, realizing
that their pleasure for that evening was ended, silently took their
leave, and wended their way to their several homes.
How well Nat Toner kept his oath will hereafter be seen, but many of
the old men of Hagen yet recall with a shudder his dreadful words,
and their fulfillment.
CHAPTER X.
_A Curse._--_Plans of Revenge._
As Nat strode onward to his home, after leaving his companions, his
mind was in a chaotic state of excitement and rage. He was still
smarting from the blows he had received, and the blood was flowing
from his nostrils and lips. He paid no heed to this, however, for
there was murder in his heart, and already his plans of revenge were
being formed--plans which fiends incarnate might well shrink from,
and from the execution of which even demoniac natures would have
recoiled in horror.
As he walked on, the dark, lowering clouds that had been gathering
overhead, broke into a terrific storm of rain; the wind whistled and
howled through the valleys, and from the mountain gorges the
lightning flashed with a vividness almost appalling; but, undismayed
by the storm and the tempest, which seemed at that time to accord
with the emotions of his own wicked heart, Nat continued on his way,
which lay past the unpretending, but comfortable farm-house, where,
in the peace and contentment of a happy home, Henry Schulte dwelt
with his parents.
As he reached a point in the road opposite the dwelling of his hated
rival, and from the windows of which the lights were gleaming
cheerily, Nat stopped, and, unmindful of the drenching rain, he shook
his uplifted hand at the inoffensive abode, and, in a voice choking
with rage, cried:
"Curse you, Henry Schulte! Be on your guard, for if I live, you will
know what it is to suffer for what you have done this night. Enjoy
yourself and your victory while you can, but there will come a time
when you would rather be dead than the miserable thing I will make
you. Curse you! Curse you!"
Having relieved the exuberance of his passion in this manner, he
silently resumed his journey, and reaching his home retired at once
to his room, and throwing himself upon the bed, he gave himself up to
the devilish meditations which filled his mind.
Ah, Nat Toner, far better for you, for that happy village of Hagen,
and for the future happiness of two loving hearts, if to-night the
lightning's flash had sent its deadly stroke through your murderous
heart and laid you lifeless upon the road.
As may be imagined, the news of the encounter between Henry Schulte
and Nat Toner was noised about the village, and during the next day
the matter became the universal theme of conversation. It was
astonishing, however, to remark the unanimity of opinion which
prevailed with regard to it. The entire community with one accord
united in condemning the insult and applauding its resentment; and
when Nat Toner made his appearance the following day, bearing upon
his face the marks of the punishment he had received, he was greeted
with cold salutations and marked evidence of avoidance by those who
heretofore had been disposed to be friendly, and even gracious.
This only intensified his anger at the cause of his humiliation, but
he concealed his emotions and shortly afterwards returned to his
home.
The anxiety of Emerence for the safety of her lover was most
profound, and trembling with fear of the threatened revenge of Nat
Toner, for his oath had also been repeated, she besought Henry to be
watchful and cautious of his unscrupulous adversary, all of which he
laughingly and assuringly promised to do. Not so much for his own
security, of which he had no fear, as for the sake of the dear girl
who was so solicitous for his welfare, and to whom his safety was a
matter of so much importance.
The next few days passed uneventfully away, Nat remaining at home,
nursing his wrath and the wounds upon his face, and Henry Schulte
attending to his various duties upon the farm. The quarrel finally
ceased to be a matter of remark, and the simple-minded villagers,
believing that Nat's threats were only the utterances of a man crazed
with drink, and smarting under the punishment he had received,
quieted their fears and resumed their ordinary peaceful and contented
mode of living.
To Nat Toner the days passed all too slowly, but with the
slowly-moving hours, in the seclusion of his own home, and his own
evil thoughts, his revenge became the one object of his life. His
reckless, vagabond existence of the past few years, during which it
was hinted by several of the villagers, with many shrugs of their
shoulders and wise noddings of their venerable heads, he had been
engaged in the service of a bold and successful French smuggler, had
not tended to elevate his mind, or to humanize his disposition. His
depraved nature and vicious habits were roused into full action by
this encounter with Henry Schulte, and the anger of his heart was in
no wise lessened, as he reflected that he had brought his injuries
upon himself. All the brutal instincts of his degraded disposition
were aflame, and he resolved that his revenge for the indignities
that had been put upon him, should be full and complete.
With a fiendish malignity he determined to strike at the heart of his
antagonist through the person of the object of his love, and by that
means to be revenged upon both.
CHAPTER XI.
_A Moonlight Walk._--_An Unexpected Meeting._--_The Murder of
Emerence Bauer._--_The Oath Fulfilled._
On a beautiful moonlight evening, about a week after the hostile
meeting of Henry Schulte and Nat Toner, Emerence, all impatient to
meet her lover, whom she had not seen for some days, and whom she
fondly expected this evening, left the residence of her parents and
walked towards a little stream that ran along the outskirts of the
village, where she had been in the habit of meeting Henry upon the
occasions of his visits.
The evening was a delightful one, and the scene one of surpassingly
romantic beauty. The bright rays of the moon sparkled and danced upon
the rippling water; the border of grand old trees that fringed the
bank of the stream was reflected with exaggerated beauty far down
among the waters; the glittering stars stole in and out among their
branches, and shone in the clear crystal mirror. Now a fleecy speck
of cloud floated over the face of the Queen of Night, from behind
which she would soon emerge, with increased brilliancy, to dart her
long arrowy beams away down to the pebbly bottom of the flowing
river, kissing the fairies that the old German legends tell us dwelt
there in the days of old.
Silently, but with happy heart and beaming eyes, the young girl gazed
upon the scene that lay before her; then, walking to the center of
the rustic bridge that spanned the stream from shore to shore, she
leaned over the low railing and watched, with her mind teeming with
pleasant visions of the future, her figure reflected as in a
burnished mirror, upon the water beneath her.
Her sweet reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching
footsteps, and a blush illumined her face as she thought she would
soon greet her coming lover, and feel his strong arms about her.
Turning her head a little, she saw another shadow there so distinctly
traced that she had no difficulty in recognizing it, and she started
in affright as she discovered that instead of Henry Schulte, the
new-comer was none other than his enemy and hers, Nat Toner.
She would have yielded to an intuitive sense of danger, and fled from
the spot, but Nat stepped quickly in the way and barred her passage,
lifting his hat in mock reverence as he addressed her.
"Good evening, pretty Emerence, you look like a beautiful water
sprite in the rays of this bright-beaming moon."
Did she imagine it, or was there a cold, hard ring in the voice that
uttered these words, which filled her heart with an aching fear, and
made her lips tremble as she acknowledged his salutation?
"You are waiting for Henry Schulte, I suppose!" he continued, in the
same hard, mocking tone.
Mustering up all the latent courage which she possessed, she looked
up unflinchingly, as she replied:
"I do not know that anyone has a right to question me upon my
movements, or to assign a reason for my actions."
"Indeed, my pretty little spit-fire! You speak truly, but Nat Toner
intends to assume a right which no one else possesses," answered Nat
tauntingly, while his black eyes glistened in the moonlight with a
baleful light.
"I cannot stop to listen further to such language, and must bid you
good evening," said Emerence, drawing herself up haughtily, and
turning to leave the bridge.
"Stop where you are and listen to me," cried Nat sharply, and with
his right hand he grasped the wrist of the shrinking girl.
"Nat Toner!" at last said Emerence boldly, "remove your hand from my
wrist, or I will call for help, and then perhaps your conduct will
meet with its just punishment."
"Utter one word, at your peril. I have something to say to you, and
you must listen to me," said Nat, releasing his hold, and glaring
fiercely at the brave girl who stood before him.
"I will listen to nothing further from you to-night. Stand aside and
let me pass," said Emerence firmly, and again turning to leave the
bridge.
"Emerence Bauer, listen to me I say. I have something to tell you
that concerns that lover of yours, Henry Schulte, and you shall hear
what I have to say."
At the mention of Henry's name Emerence stopped, and thinking that
perhaps she might serve her lover by remaining, she said:
"I will hear you, Nat Toner, but be as brief as possible."
"Aha! for the sake of your dear Henry, you will listen to me. I
thought so. Do you know that he is my enemy till death; that the
insults which he has heaped upon me can only be washed away by blood;
and that you, my haughty beauty, alone can satisfy the hate I bear to
Henry Schulte and the revenge I have sworn against him?"
"Nat Toner, what do you mean?" tremblingly inquired the affrighted
girl, unable to stir.
Ah, well might she tremble now! There was murder in the flashing of
those wicked black eyes that glared upon her, and the distorted,
pallid face before her showed too plainly the passions of his heart,
as he answered:
"What do I mean? I will tell you! I loved you, Emerence Bauer, and I
hate Henry Schulte for the insult he has put upon me. You scorn my
love, and Henry Schulte must pay the penalty. He shall never possess
you, for--I mean to kill you!"
With a wild shriek, that rang through the air as the cry of a
frightened bird, Emerence turned to flee from the fiend before her.
But, alas, too late! The murderous weapon came down with a dull,
heavy crushing sound upon that fair, girlish head, and she fell
lifeless at the feet of the madman who had slain her.
[Illustration: "_She fell lifeless at the feet of the madman who
had slain her._"]
Without uttering a word Nat Toner lifted up the body of the
unfortunate girl and threw it over the low railing of the bridge into
the rippling water beneath. A splash followed that sent the water in
brightly burnished crystals high in the air--and then the river
flowed on, as though unconscious and uncaring for the burden that had
been committed to its keeping.
Raising himself to his full height and shaking his blood-red hand in
the direction of the village, Nat Toner cried out with demoniac
exultation:
"Now, Henry Schulte, I am revenged!"
Saying which, he plunged into a strip of woods that grew near by, and
disappeared from view.
Oh, shimmering moon, did no pitying glance fall from thy cold, bright
face as this fair, young life was cruelly beaten out by the hand of
her brutal assassin? Oh, glittering stars, did no dark clouds
intervene between thy merry twinklings and the dreadful scene below?
And ye, oh, rippling river, did no murmur escape thee as the crimson
tide of this fair dead girl mingled with thy transparent waves and
floated away into the darkness of the night?
CHAPTER XII.
_The Search for the Missing Girl._--_The Lover's Judgment._--_Henry
Schulte's Grief._--_The Genial Farmer becomes the Grasping Miser._
Half an hour later, Henry Schulte, who had been delayed beyond his
wont in the village, came walking briskly along the road that led to
the abode of Emerence. His heart was gay, and a blithe, merry song
rose to his lips as he journeyed along. All unconscious of the dark
deed that had been committed, he stood upon the rustic bridge, where
he had expected to meet his betrothed, and gazed at the beauty of the
landscape that was spread before him. No sound came from that
gurgling stream, to tell the impatient lover of the fate of her he
loved, and little did he dream, as he stood there in quiet
contemplation of the glorious night, that directly beneath his feet,
with her calm, dead face upturned towards him, could be seen,
through the transparent waters, the lifeless body of the fair maiden,
whose head had nestled on his bosom and whose loving lips had made
him happy with their kisses of love.
Ah, nevermore for thee will the bright moon shine in its translucent
splendor, and never again will you know the happiness and the peace
of this beautiful evening, as you waited on that bridge for her who
nevermore would come to your call again.
After waiting a short time, and not hearing the footsteps of his
affianced, Henry resumed his journey and soon arrived at the
residence of the wealthy brewer, whose hospitable doors flew open at
his knock, and the mother of Emerence stood in the low, broad
passage-way.
"Where is Emerence?" quickly inquired the mother of the girl, in
surprise, at seeing him alone.
"Emerence! Is she not at home?" exclaimed Henry, equally surprised.
"No," replied the mother. "She went out about an hour ago, to meet
you on the way."
Henry immediately became alarmed. He had not seen her, and it seemed
incredible that she could have gone to visit any friends on the
evening when she expected him, and certainly not without informing
her parents of the fact.
"I will go at once in search of her," he said, as he turned away from
the house, and hurriedly retraced his steps towards the village, with
a terrible fear for her safety pressing upon his heart.
He inquired at every house where her friends resided, but everywhere
was met with a wondering negative. No one appeared to have seen her,
or to know anything of her whereabouts, and at length, wearied with
his fruitless inquiries, and rendered almost desperate at his want of
success, he went to the village tavern, and requested the aid of his
comrades in searching for the missing girl, for whose safety and
happiness he would willingly have laid down his life.
In a moment all was bustle and excitement; torches were procured and
the party started upon their mission, resolved to discover some clue
of the missing lady before the dawning of another day. Henry was in
advance, and under his direction every part of the road which led
from the residence of the brewer to the village, and the adjacent
woods, were carefully examined, but all with no success. No trace
could be discovered, and the superstitious villagers began to regard
the disappearance as a supernatural mystery.
Utterly fatigued with their bootless investigation, and saddened by
the thought that some harm must have come to the innocent maiden,
they reluctantly left the house of the brewer and turned their
footsteps towards the village, determined to continue their search in
the morning. To Henry the suspense was agonizing. He seemed almost
crazed at the uncertainty which shrouded the fate of the girl he
loved so dearly, and he vainly attempted to discover some solution of
the awful mystery.
As the silent party were crossing the bridge, they stopped for a
temporary rest before proceeding further on their way, and indulged
in subdued conversation upon the mystery which thus far had defied
their efforts to solve.
Suddenly they were startled by an exclamation from one of their
number, who, on looking casually over the railing into the stream
beneath, discovered in the bright reflection of the brilliant moon,
the figure of the murdered girl lying in the shallow water. With an
agonizing cry Henry sprang into the river, and in a few moments
clasped the lifeless body in his strong arms and bore her to the
shore.
It was too true--the pale, beautiful features that met their
frightened gaze were none other than those of the village
beauty--Emerence, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the
assembly as they looked upon her.
At first it was supposed that she had been accidentally drowned, but
upon the lights being brought, and that cruel blow upon the head
being discovered, each one looked at the other, and the words burst
almost simultaneously from the lips of all:
"_Nat Toner!_"
After the first cry which escaped him, Henry Schulte never spoke
again during that painful time, but with reverent hands he smoothed
the wet drapery about her shapely limbs, and closed the great staring
eyes, which, when he last looked upon them, were full of love, and
hope, and happiness--and then, as the men gathered up the fair form
and bore it to her once happy home, he followed silently, and with
faltering steps.
It had needed no words from the villagers to tell him of the author
of this crime. Before they had spoken, his own mind had discovered
the murderer, and he had resolved upon the course to be pursued, and
when, immediately after the sad funeral rites had been performed, and
the body of the fair young Emerence had been placed in the ground,
Henry disappeared from the village, one and all felt that the mission
he had gone upon was a righteous one, and no one disputed his right
to go.
At the end of a month he returned, but with a face so changed that he
was scarcely recognized. The happy light was gone forever from his
eyes, and the hard stern lines about the mouth told the sad story of
long suffering, and of a harsh judgment that had been fulfilled.
No one questioned him upon his journey, or its result, and he gave no
explanations, but when some weeks later a party of hunters in the
forests on the mountains, near Werne, discovered the lifeless body of
Nat Toner, with his pistol by his side, and a bullet-hole through the
low, white forehead, the villagers felt that Henry's search had not
been in vain, or his revenge incomplete.
To this day no one can tell, whether, suffering the pangs of remorse,
the miserable man had put an end to his own life, or whether the
wound in the low, white forehead was planted there by the man whom he
had so dreadfully wronged.
No inquiries were made, however, and as time passed on, the history
of Nat Toner passed out of the conversations of the simple
village-folk, and, save as it was occasionally recalled by some
romantic and unfortunate event abroad, was never mentioned.
To Henry Schulte the record of that sad night was always present, and
was never effaced from his memory. The change that was wrought in him
was apparent to all. He no longer mingled with the villagers in their
merry-makings, but isolated himself entirely from their meetings and
their pleasures.
A few years afterwards his parents died, and his elder brother
assuming the control of the farm and estates of his father, Henry
removed to the farm where we now find him, and to the lowly cottage
which he had occupied to the time of which we write. He became a
settled misanthropist, whose only aim in life seemed to be the
acquirement of wealth, and whose once genial and generous nature had
now become warped into the selfishness and avarice of the miser.
So he had lived, a social hermit, until in 1845 he had become a
prematurely old man, with whitened hair and furrowed brow, whose love
for gold had become the passion of his life, and whose only
companions were a hired man and the old violin with which, in his
younger days, he was wont to make merry music at the festivals in the
village, but which now was tuned to mournful harmonies "cadenced by
his grief."
CHAPTER XIII.
_Henry Schulte becomes the Owner of "Alten Hagen."_-_Surprising
Increase in Wealth._--_An Imagined Attack upon His Life._--_The Miser
Determines to Sail for America._
It was at this time that the projected railroad between Dortmund and
Dusseldorf began to assume definite proportions, and as the line of
the contemplated road lay through the village of Hagen, much
excitement was engendered in consequence.
The people of Dortmund were building extravagant castles in the air,
and wild and vague were the dreams which filled their sanguine minds
as they contemplated the advantages that were to accrue to them upon
the completion of this enterprise.
The contagion spread rapidly to Hagen, and the simple-minded
villagers, who saw in this movement the rapid growth of their little
town; the possible increase in the value of their property and the
consequent augmenting of their now limited fortunes, hailed with
delight the information that energetic operations would soon be
begun, with the view of successfully accomplishing the desired
object.
Not so, however, thought the Baron von Lindenthal, whose vast estate
lay in close proximity to the village, immediately adjoining the farm
owned and occupied by Henry Schulte, and through whose domain the
road must necessarily pass.
To him the idea of encroaching upon the ancestral acres of a von
Lindenthal, was an act of sacrilege not to be complacently submitted
to. The quiet and peaceful seclusion in which he and those who had
preceded him had lived, and the repose of his declining years was to
be disturbed by the whistling of the locomotive and the rattle of the
train. The din, and bustle and activity of trade was to be brought to
his very threshold, and the ease and comfort of his aristocratic
retirement would soon become a thing of the past. This must not and
could not be permitted, and the blood of the patrician boiled within
his noble veins as he contemplated the outrage that thus threatened
him, and which was to result in laying profane hands upon his
possessions. Improvements were all very well in their way, but then
they must not be of such a character as to interfere with the
pleasure or the luxurious ease of the Baron von Lindenthal. His
comfort and happiness were things to be considered far above the
material growth of a commercial town, and were not to be subordinated
to the welfare of its ambitious inhabitants.
But then, as now, the march of public improvement was not to be
retarded, and so, finding it impossible to successfully oppose or to
prevent the building of the objectionable railroad, the incensed
Baron very reluctantly determined to dispose of his baronial estates
and to remove to a more congenial locality, where the encroachments
of trade were not to be feared, and where, in undisturbed seclusion
and retirement, he might pass the remainder of his days.
With the irascible and impetuous Baron, the formation of an opinion
led to immediate action, and no sooner had he resolved to the
satisfaction of his own mind to dispose of his broad acres, than he
began to look about him for a purchaser.
When Henry Schulte heard of this intention of the Baron, he
determined, if possible, to become the owner of this extensive
demesne. His mind was sufficiently alive to the importance of this
railroad movement to convince him that the real estate in proximity
to the line of the road must necessarily increase in value, and he
also realized the necessity of seeing the Baron without delay, in
order to precede any of the railroad contractors, who would no doubt
present themselves ere long.
He consequently waited upon the irate Baron on the morning following,
and upon being ushered into the presence of the last of the von
Lindenthals, at once broached the subject of his desire to purchase
the land.
The gouty old land-owner looked with astonishment as his
shabbily-dressed visitor proffered his request. He had never imagined
that his unobtrusive neighbor was possessed of any money besides his
farm, and the proposition to become the purchaser of "Alten-Hagen"
was a complete surprise to him.
The Baron did not know of the hours of patient toil, nor of the
habits of miserly economy which had enabled Henry Schulte to
accumulate so large a sum of money as to warrant him in entertaining
the desire to increase his estate; nor did he know that his
economical neighbor could see further into the future, and better
appreciate the advantages which would accrue to him from the
possession of this additional property, than could their present
aristocratic owner.
However, the Baron lost no time in idle speculations as to the means
by which his visitor had grown wealthy. His land was for sale, a
purchaser stood before him, and in a short time the wealthy miser
became the owner of the Baron's land for a price entirely inadequate
to the value which he received. When, a few weeks later, the question
of appropriating the land and allowing the damage therefor came to be
considered, the railroad company were required to treat with the
miser of Hagen instead of the Baron von Lindenthal.
The wisdom and foresight displayed by Henry Schulte in becoming the
purchaser of this estate was very soon clearly demonstrated, for in a
very short time afterwards he received from the railroad company, as
damages and for the right of way through his grounds, more than the
sum he had originally paid to the impulsive Baron for the fee of the
entire estate.
A few years after this several coal mines were opened in the
vicinity, iron works were erected, and as Hagen became a thriving,
flourishing city it naturally extended its industries. Henry
Schulte's newly acquired property then became available for the
erection of iron works and coal breakers, and his wealth was
considerably increased by these means. A division of a part of his
land into building lots, on the main road from Herdecke to Hagen,
also swelled the volume of his increasing revenue. It seemed that he
had suddenly fallen upon the wave of advancing fortune, for soon
after this some parts of the soil being found to be of excellent
quality for brick-making, he entered into arrangements with some
extensive manufacturers and received a large sum for the use and
occupation of his grounds for that purpose.
Thus, in a very few years, the patient, plodding, avaricious farmer
found himself one of the wealthiest men in the locality. This fact,
however, produced no change in his habits or his dress, nor did his
mode of living undergo any improvement consequent upon the changed
condition of his circumstances. This vast accumulation of money only
seemed to intensify his avarice, to increase his meanness, and the
desire for gain became the ruling passion of his heart and mind. He
removed to the large and imposing mansion lately occupied by the
Baron, but this was done simply because he could find no other
occupant for it; while he could readily procure a tenant for the
little cottage where he had previously resided.
The effect of his presence there was soon made manifest, and only a
short time elapsed before this beautiful residence presented an
appearance of negligence sadly at variance with the thrifty neatness
that was everywhere apparent during the time of its occupancy by the
Baron and his family. The general air of neglect and squalor
surrounding it proclaimed that the habits of the miser had been too
firmly grounded to be easily disturbed, and that the man remained the
same, whether in the castle or the hovel.
Indeed, it seemed that his reserve and isolation became more marked,
and he dressed so shabbily that he scarcely ever appeared in other
than soiled and ragged garments. His heart became harder and more
grasping, and the few people who had known him in his younger days,
and were disposed to be friendly, soon dropped away from him, finding
it impossible to endure his harshness of manner and his penurious
ways.
His household now consisted of a housekeeper and a valet, the former
an elderly woman, who had long been an object of charity to the
people of Hagen, and whose services were procured by him at a mere
nominal price, and the latter was a young, simple-minded fellow, who
performed the multifarious duties of a man-of-all-work, for a
stipulated sum that barely sufficed for his needs, exclusive of the
daily fare which he received from the hands of his economical
employer.
His administration of domestic affairs was in entire accord with his
narrow-minded and contracted heart, and the servants found but little
comfort while in his employ. He took sole charge of his domestic
arrangements himself, and to the patient and uncomplaining Mrs.
Scheller would daily furnish the meager complement of beans and
potatoes which were required for the day's consumption. The balance
of the store would then be religiously kept under lock and key to
prevent any tendency towards extravagance on the part of those who
served him.
In addition to the various other investments possessed by him, he
cultivated a large portion of the land acquired from the Baron, and,
being a practical farmer, thoroughly understanding the advantage of
drainage, he succeeded in redeeming a great amount of land heretofore
deemed worthless, and brought it to a high state of cultivation.
His farming land consisted of several hundred acres, which required
the employment of many men, and the large forests, with their
apparently inexhaustible timber, furnished occupation for a number of
woodmen, all of whom were under the supervision of the master. Here,
too, his parsimony extended, and, while no efforts were spared to
improve the quality of the land, and to increase the crops that were
gathered, in every other respect his miserly nature exerted itself.
The horses and cattle were lean and poorly fed, the buildings were
out of repair, and a general system of rigorous and pinching economy
was observed, all of which tended to the dissatisfaction of those
employed by him, but which in no wise affected the firmly-grounded
avarice of their employer, who every day appeared to grow more harsh
and unfeeling.
He became grinding and pitiless in his dealings with those who were
indebted to him, exacting full and prompt payment of all moneys due
to him, without regard to the straitened circumstances of his
debtors, or the destitution which frequently followed his summary
means of enforcing his collections.
The various cares and anxieties attendant upon the management of his
affairs were often vexatious and annoying, and as time wore on he
became exceedingly captious and irritable. His ebullitions of temper,
which now became quite frequent, were vented upon the innocent heads
of those who labored in his service, and much dissatisfaction was
engendered in consequence. He became suspicious of all who surrounded
him, and imagined that every one with whom he was connected were
seeking to rob him, and finally an idea took possession of his mind,
which completely destroyed his peace and made his existence perfectly
miserable. He imagined that his life was in danger, and that there
was a conspiracy formed to murder him for his money.
So firmly did this conviction cling to him that he became intensely
nervous and restless, and was scarcely able to sleep in his bed at
nights. He would bolt and bar himself in his chamber so securely that
it was a matter of perfect impossibility to effect an entrance, and
then, still doubtful, he would be wakeful and uneasy during the long,
weary hours of the night, until from sheer exhaustion he would fall
into a troubled sleep, which lasted late into the morning.
Nothing occurred of a character to justify his suspicions or to
increase his fears, until one morning he was awakened at a very early
hour by the breaking with a loud crash of one of the windows that
opened into his room. Instantly he was awake, and, springing from his
bed, he rushed frantically to the window, discharged his pistol
several times in succession, at the same time calling loudly for
help.
His cries alarmed his valet, who slept in a room communicating with
that of his master, and who hastened at once to his assistance. It
was too dark to discover anything of the cause of the breaking of the
glass, and as no further demonstration occurred, he succeeded in
quieting the fears of his master, and restoring him to tranquillity.
As soon as it was daylight, he made an investigation into the cause
of this seeming attack, and an examination of the outside of the
premises disclosed the fact that the alarm had been occasioned by the
falling of the branch of an old tree that stood near to the house,
and on which some of the limbs were withered and dead.
This discovery, however, by no means allayed his fears or dissipated
his suspicions, but, on the contrary, he became so fixed in the
insane idea that he would be assassinated, that his life in the old
home became a burden to him, and he longed for a change of scene that
would ensure ease for his mind, and safety for his body.
Henry Schulte was at this time an old man--the sixty years of his
life had passed away slowly, but eventfully to him, and his whitened
hair and wrinkled face betokened that age had left its indelible mark
upon the once stalwart form of the Henry Schulte of days gone by. His
head was generally bowed as though in deep thought, whether at home
or abroad, and the broad shoulders seemed to have yielded to the
weight of trouble which had come upon him in those early days. He was
never seen to smile, and the hard, set lines about the mouth never
relaxed, however mirthful was the scene before him, or however
pleasurable the association in which he might accidentally find
himself placed. His violin was his only companion during the long
evening hours, and almost every night the harmonious strains of the
music which he evoked from that instrument could be heard by those
who journeyed upon the lonely road which passed in front of his
house.
In the early fall of 1877, an incident occurred, which, in the
disordered state of his mind, rendered it impossible for him to
remain any longer in fancied peace and security.
One morning about daybreak a party of gunners, who were in search of
game, were passing the premises occupied by Henry Schulte, when one
of their number, a nephew of the old man, being the son of his elder
brother, knowing his weakness in regard to being assassinated, and
from a spirit of mischief which prompted him, took careful aim and
fired directly through the window of the sleeping apartment of his
uncle, and then quickly and laughingly passed on. The old gentleman,
suddenly aroused from his slumbers, jumped up in affright, calling
loudly in the excess of his terror:
[Illustration: "_The old man jumped from his bed in affright,
calling loudly for help._"]
"Help! Help! The villains have attempted to murder me again!"
Frank Bruner, his servant, being thus awakened, ran to the window and
saw the party rapidly disappearing around a bend in the road. He
recognized Bartolf Schulte as being one of the party, and informed
his master of the fact.
"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" exclaimed the old man. "My own brother's son
try to take my life--this is horrible. He wants my money and he tries
to kill me."
It was a long time before his violence subsided, but when at length
Frank succeeded in calming his excitement and restoring him to
reason, one idea seemed to have taken possession of him, and that was
that he must leave his home for his own safety, and that the sooner
this was accomplished the better it would be for him and for his
peace of mind.
No inducement that could be offered was sufficient to disturb his
resolution upon this point. No argument that could be suggested, but
what was urged against this seemingly insane notion, but all to no
avail. His mind was fully made up, and nothing could overcome the
settled determination which he had arrived at, to get away at once
from the place which threatened so much danger to his person, and in
which he was in constant dread and fear.
He therefore immediately began his preparations for departure, and
placing his property in the hands of a careful attorney at Hagen, he
lost no time in converting his available securities into money and
decided to take passage for America--a land of which he had heard so
much, and which promised a rest for his over-wrought mind.
He journeyed to Hamburg, and from thence in a few days, accompanied
by his servant, he took passage in a steamer, arriving in New York
City, "a stranger in a strange land," in the month of August in the
same year.
CHAPTER XIV.
_The Arrival in New York._--_Frank Bruner determines to leave the
Service of his Master._--_The meeting of Frank Bruner and William
Bucholz._
The vagaries of the human mind under all circumstances are frequently
inscrutable, but under no other influence, perhaps, is the mind so
susceptible of impressions of a governing character from unimportant
causes as it is when controlled by the fear of personal safety.
It would readily be imagined that Henry Schulte, whose mind was
filled with vague but distressing apprehensions for his life, could
have found refuge, safe and unassailable, within the broad domain of
his own native land, and that he might have considered himself free
from impending danger if he could have placed even a short distance
between himself and those whom he believed to be his mortal enemies.
This, however, he found it impossible to do and rest contented; so,
resisting all the arguments that were urged by his faithful but
overtaxed servant and companion, and believing that his only safety
lay in his getting away from his native land, he persisted in coming
to America, where he felt assured he would be free from persecution,
and where, in the quiet and repose of rural retirement, his peace of
mind would be undisturbed.
That these fears must have been deeply-grounded there can be no
doubt, for this old man, in leaving the home of his childhood and the
many scenes which were endeared to him by the close association of
early friendship and experience, turned his back upon the spot where
he had first seen the light of day, and where he had grown from youth
to manhood. Here, too, the joy and sorrow of his life had come to
him, and in the little churchyard of the village, beneath the waving
trees, reposed all that was mortal of the one great love of his life.
Stolid and seemingly indifferent, so far as outward evidence gave any
demonstration, of the many tender associations surrounding him, he
left his native village and set off upon the long journey that was to
end in his death. Speeding away from the imagined assassin, he
journeyed directly to the presence and companionship of the man who
was to slay him.
Taking passage upon a steamer bound for America, they were soon
riding upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic, and after an uneventful
voyage landed safely in New York.
Not one of the many passengers of the vessel, or among the crowd that
stood upon the pier and watched their disembarking, would for a
moment have supposed that this old man, whose face gave evidence of
the years through which he had passed, whose clothing showed too
plainly the marks of long and hard usage, and whose general
appearance resembled that of a beggar, was the possessor of wealth
enough to render any of them independent of the world. Nor would they
have thought that the worn and frequently-patched coat he wore
concealed a sum of money equalling nearly a hundred thousand dollars.
Yet such was the fact; for upon his person he carried fully this
amount of money, most of which was in German mark bills, easily
convertible into American money; and which, should the fact become
known, would have been sufficient to excite the cupidity of many of
them, who would not hesitate to attempt the operation of relieving
him of his hoarded wealth, and who might, perhaps, scarcely consider
an old man's life of sufficient importance to successfully interfere
with their possessing themselves of his money.
He had jealously guarded his secret and his treasure, and although
his sleep was frequently disturbed by startling visions of robbery
and murder, not one of the many who surrounded him suspected for an
instant the wealth that he possessed.
To his servant he was generally reticent, but not so excessively
secretive, for Frank Bruner was well-informed of the extent of his
master's treasures, although he was not fully aware of the amount he
had brought with him.
Poor Frank led a miserable existence on that passage to New York, and
many times after he had settled himself in his berth for a
comfortable night's sleep he would be rudely awakened by his nervous
and suspicious master, who was continually imagining that somebody
was forcing an entrance into his state-room. He would start up with
affright, and nothing would allay his fears but a rigid examination
of the premises, which invariably resulted in finding nothing of a
suspicious or fear-inspiring nature.
Many times, upon remonstrating with his master about the
groundlessness of his fears, he would be made to feel the heaviness
of his hand, and chastisements were the reward of his devotion so
frequently that his usually submissive spirit began to rebel, and
Frank resolved to leave the service of so peculiar and so thankless a
master upon the first favorable opportunity that presented itself.
The journey, as we have said, was made in safety, and Henry Schulte,
with his wealth intact, arrived in New York, and, seeking a quiet,
comfortable hotel, he was directed to "THE CRESCENT," where he soon
wended his way, and to which he directed his servant to have his
trunks conveyed without delay.
The hotel which he had selected was a German boarding-house, of
modest dimensions and of unpretentious appearance. Over its doorway
swung the faded sign of the Crescent, and over its destinies presided
the portly, good-natured landlord, who dispensed the creature
comforts to the limited number of guests who lodged beneath his roof.
Henry Schulte entered the little room of the hotel which was used as
a bar-room, and, paying no attention to the other occupants, he
seated himself at one of the tables, ordered a bottle of wine, which
he proceeded to drink slowly until nearly finished, after which he
pushed the bottle and glass towards his thirsty and longing servant
and bade him consume the balance.
Seated around the room in various attitudes, but all engaged in the
occupation of smoking and drinking, were a number of men, all inmates
of the hotel, and all Germans, to whom the old man's appearance
naturally gave occasion for considerable curiosity.
Several attempts were made to cultivate his acquaintance and to
interrogate him upon the incidents of his passage over, but all of no
avail. He maintained a reserve that was impossible to overcome; his
answers were given in monosyllables, and, as but little encouragement
was given to friendly converse, he was finally left alone to enjoy
his musings.
At an early hour of the evening he signified his intention of
retiring, and, accompanied by his servant, he left the room and
shortly afterwards went to bed.
After attending to the requirements of the old gentleman, Frank
Bruner returned to the bar-room and joined the group sitting around
the table. His mind was fixed upon leaving a service that was
distasteful to him, and in which he was made to feel the hand of the
master too frequently and too heavily to be borne longer with
submission or silence. He was anxious, therefore, to make some
inquiries in regard to a change of position from those whom he
supposed would be acquainted with the facts he was desirous of
learning.
While they were thus conversing, a young man entered, and after
saluting those present in a careless, off-hand manner, he seated
himself among them. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young German,
with blonde hair and smoothly-shaven face; his eyes were large and of
a light blue color. His cheek-bones were rather prominent, and when
he laughed he displayed his teeth, which, being somewhat decayed,
gave a rather unpleasant expression to the countenance, otherwise he
was what might have ordinarily been considered a good-looking fellow.
Upon seating himself, he was jocularly questioned by one of the
number, in reference to some young lady, who was evidently known to
them all.
"Ah, William, how did you find the lovely Clara this evening?"
inquired his friend, in German.
William Bucholz, for that was the name of the new-comer, shrugged his
shoulders, and with an amused expression upon his face, answered:
"Oh, as well as usual, and quite as charming."
And then, perceiving the presence of Frank, he looked inquiringly at
his friends, and added: "Whom have we here?"
"A young man who has just arrived from Germany," was the reply.
Bucholz immediately arose, cordially shook hands with the stranger,
and engaged him in conversation.
CHAPTER XV.
_The History of William Bucholz._--_An Abused Aunt who Disappoints
His Hopes._--_A Change of Fortune._--_The Soldier becomes a
Farmer._--_The Voyage to New York._
William Bucholz had been an inmate of the hotel for several weeks
prior to this time, having arrived from Germany in the latter part of
July. He was somewhat of a favorite with the people with whom he
associated, and being of a free and jovial disposition had made many
friends during his limited residence in the city. As he is to bear an
interesting part in the sequence of this narrative a few words may
not be out of place in regard to his antecedents.
The father of Bucholz, who was a veterinary surgeon of some
prominence in Schweigert, had reared his children in comparative
comfort, and had provided them with a liberal education.
The early years of young Bucholz had been spent with an uncle, who
was very fond of him, and delighted to have him near his person. This
uncle was a brother of his father, and very late in life had married
a lady of large fortune, but whose appearance was not at all
prepossessing. As William grew into manhood he entered the army and
became connected with the "Brunswick Hussars."
Here he distinguished himself principally by leading a life of
dissipation and extravagance, which made him an object of remark in
his regiment. There were many wild spirits among his comrades, but
none who displayed such an irrepressible and reckless disposition as
William Bucholz. His uncle, loving him as a son, and whose union had
been blessed with no children, forgave his follies and liquidated his
debts without a murmur, but shook his head frequently in a doubtful
manner, as rumors reached him of some new exploit in which William
had been a leading spirit, or some fresh scandal in which he was a
prominent participant.
The family of Bucholz, with that weakness which sometimes
characterizes the relative of the wealthy, soon began to display a
coolness and dislike toward the wife of the uncle, and as no children
were born to them, they looked forward with certainty to inheriting
the vast wealth of their childless relative, without seeming to
regard the rights or interests of the wife, who, in Germany as well
as in America, frequently exercises a potent influence in the
disposition of her husband's affairs.
That this conduct was displeasing to the woman who had brought so
much wealth into the family may readily be imagined, and being
possessed of sufficient spirit to resent the affronts put upon her,
she did not tamely submit to be thus ignored by the supercilious
relatives of her husband, but determined to be revenged upon them in
a manner which she knew would be complete and satisfactory to
herself.
Among her numerous friends was the widow of a captain of hussars, who
had been in the same regiment with Bucholz, but who had died a short
time before, leaving his sorrow-stricken wife without sufficient
income for her support, and with the care of an only son who had been
born to them in their brief married life. To this lady William's aunt
immediately offered her house as a home, and promised to take care of
her child's education and provide for its future. This offer was
gratefully accepted by the bereaved and impecunious widow, who, with
her child, soon became domiciled beneath the roof of the uncle and
the socially abused aunt.
As the boy grew into years he displayed so many traits of a noble,
manly character and of a fond and loving disposition, that the hearts
of the aged couple instinctively warmed towards him with an abiding
affection, and the mother dying soon after, he was formally adopted
by them.
The uncle continued, however, to supply the wants of his prodigal and
degenerate nephew, but they increased so enormously that he was
forced to remonstrate with the young man upon the recklessness of his
conduct. His remonstrances were met with a spirit of impertinence and
defiance that angered the old gentleman to such an extent that he
declined at once to pay any further debts of his nephew's
contracting, and limited his allowance to a sum which, while
sufficiently large to provide for his actual needs, afforded no
opportunities for lavish outlays or indiscreet dissipations.
This action excited the ire of William and his family, who did not
hesitate to ascribe it to the promptings of the wife, whom they had
so consistently ignored, and whose feelings they had so frequently
outraged.
The relations between the brothers ceased to be friendly, and an
estrangement took place which was increased by the family of Bucholz,
who spoke every where in the most disrespectful terms of the wife of
the brother.
While matters were in this position the uncle was suddenly attacked
with a malady which resulted in his death. After the funeral the will
was opened, and it was found, to the mortification and disappointment
of his relatives, that instead of leaving to them the bulk of his
large fortune, he had bequeathed the major portion to his adopted
son, and had only left the sum of twenty thousand dollars to be
divided equally among the six children of his brother.
If the widow had desired to be revenged, she had succeeded admirably
in her wishes, and the solemn countenances of the disappointed
Bucholzes, as they wended their way homeward after the reading of the
will, from which they had hoped so much, would have been full
satisfaction for the years of insult she had been compelled to endure
from them during the life of her husband.
This disposition of the estate of the uncle was a severe blow to
those who had so confidently expected to have been enriched by his
death, and produced a marked change in their manner of living. The
bright, airy castles which they had builded, faded away--their hopes
of prospective wealth were rudely dissipated, and the necessity for
facing the actual position of affairs stared them in the face.
William could no longer be permitted to lead the idle life of a
soldier, and one and all would be compelled to labor for themselves.
It was a bitter awakening from a bright dream, but the man of their
hopes was dead, and their regrets were unavailing.
Bucholz, therefore, obtained an extended leave of absence, and in a
short time entered into an engagement with an extensive farmer to
learn the science of agriculture, and became domiciled beneath the
roof of his employer and instructor. The dull routine of a farmer's
life was, however, illy suited to his impulsive disposition, and
although he had no manual labor to perform, he soon grew tired of the
monotony of his existence and longed for a change.
He had read of the wonderful success which attended the efforts of
some of his countrymen who had emigrated to Australia, that arcadia
of the agriculturist, and burning with a desire to seek his fortune
in the new land of promise, he began to make inquiries of the place,
its products, and of the possibilities of successful operations while
there.
All the information which he gleaned was of such a character as to
fill his mind with ambitious projects, and a desire to make his
fortune in that far-off country, and he resolved to undertake the
journey.
His preparations were soon made, and ere many days he was afloat upon
the heaving ocean, bound for New York, where he was informed he could
procure a sailing vessel direct to Australia, at a cost much less
than he could by any other process of travel.
Arriving without accident in New York, he had taken up his quarters
at "The Crescent Hotel," and proceeded to make inquiries concerning
the continuance of his journey.
To his disappointment, however, he discovered that no vessels were
likely to sail from New York directly to Australia, and the limited
means he had brought with him were insufficient for the expense
necessary to travel overland to a point of embarkation. He was
therefore compelled to delay his journey until he could receive
sufficient funds to enable him to continue farther. He immediately
wrote to his family for the money he required, and it was while
awaiting their reply that he met Frank Bruner, the servant of Henry
Schulte, whose acquaintance was destined to produce such a marked and
dramatic effect upon his future life.
CHAPTER XVI.
_Frank leaves the Service of his Master._--_A Bowery Concert
Saloon._--_The departure of Henry Schulte._--_William Bucholz
enters the employ of the old gentleman._
We left William Bucholz and Frank Bruner in conversation at "The
Crescent Hotel." The young Hussar who had been reared in luxury,
whose life until this time had been a round of pleasure and gayety,
and who had come to America to seek his fortune--and the servant of
the strange and silent old man who had crossed the sea to escape the
imagined dangers which threatened him and to find peace and comfort
in his declining years.
"You have just come over from Germany, I understand," said Bucholz,
addressing his companion in German.
"Just arrived to-day," replied Bruner.
"Did you come alone?"
"Oh, no; I came with the old gentleman who has just gone to bed."
"Have you been long with him?"
"Long enough to want to get away from him," was the reply.
"What is the reason?" inquired Bucholz, with some indication of
surprise and curiosity.
"Well, he does not use me properly, and I have grown tired of his
abuse," answered Frank, sullenly.
After further questioning him, Bucholz learned the story of the old
man's eccentricities, the fact of his large possessions, and the
probability of his extending his travels as far West as California.
"I would not leave him," said Bucholz, after Frank had finished his
narrative; "he may not live very long, and he will no doubt do
something handsome for you."
"I don't care for that," replied Frank Bruner; "I would not continue
many days longer in his service even if I knew that he would leave me
all his money."
At that moment the sound of a cane struck angrily upon the floor
above them admonished Frank that his master desired his services, and
also that he was in no pleasant humor.
"There he goes!" cried Frank, "and I must go to him or I shall feel
the weight of his stick. Good-night."
"Good-night!" said Bucholz, extending his hand, "I will see you again
in the morning."
The young man turned and left the room, and Bucholz seated himself
apart from the rest of the company, apparently lost in profound
meditation. Shortly after, he roused himself, as with an effort, and
bidding his comrades good-night he went up stairs to his room.
He did not immediately retire, however, but sat up until a late hour,
revolving in his mind the information which he had just received and
debating with himself as to his future course of action.
The result of this mental consultation appeared satisfactory to him,
and he undressed himself and went to bed. He would encourage Frank to
leave his distasteful employment, and he would offer himself as an
applicant for the vacant position. He had no fears of the result, and
felt no anxiety about the probabilities of his being made the subject
of the old man's castigations. If the old gentleman designed going to
California he would be so much nearer to the coveted place of his
ambitious dreams, and he could very easily submit to temporary
discomforts in order to secure the practical benefits which he so
much desired. With this comforting reflection he closed his eyes and
was soon fast asleep.
In the morning he again met Frank Bruner, and the conversation of the
night before was continued. Bucholz, without seeming to be anxious
upon the subject, adroitly led the unsuspecting servant on in his
dislike for his occupation, and he succeeded so well that before the
day was passed, Frank had firmly resolved to inform Henry Schulte of
his plans and of his intention to leave his service.
In the evening, immediately after supper, he communicated his
intention to his master, who received it with violent manifestations
of disappointment and anger, and almost instantly retired to his
room, locked his door, thereby denying admission to Frank, who was
prepared to serve his irate master until he could provide himself
with another servant.
Finding himself left to his own resources, Frank cordially accepted
an invitation to take a stroll with his newly-found associate, and
putting on his hat he linked his arm in that of Bucholz, and they
left the hotel together.
Walking slowly on they soon came to the brilliantly-lighted
thoroughfare in the Bowery, known as Chatham Street, and here their
ears were saluted with the sounds of music, which emanated from the
illuminated saloons, which lined the sidewalks at frequent intervals.
Frank gazed with curious eyes at this phase of New York life, so new
and startling to one whose early years had been passed in the rural
simplicity of a German peasant, and as Bucholz stopped before one of
these places and asked him if he would like to go inside, he made not
the slightest objection. Quietly following his guide they found
themselves within the walls of one of those gilded palaces of sin,
that have so often proved the avenues through which many unsuspecting
young men have entered upon a life of shame and dishonor.
To Frank, however, the scene was novel and exciting, the music was
exhilarating, and the "pretty waiter girls" were objects of curiosity
and unfeigned admiration. Pushing their way through the crowded
assembly, where men and women were engaged in drinking and indulging
in loud and boisterous laughter, they reached a position in front of
a stage that had been erected in the rear end of the hall, and before
which hung a gaudily-painted curtain, which hid from the spectators
the mysteries and perhaps the miseries that lay beyond.
Bucholz appeared to be perfectly at home among this mixed assemblage,
and nodded familiarly to right and left in recognition of numerous
friends and acquaintances. Presently a buxom-looking German girl,
whose rosy cheeks and rotund figure gave evidence that her life in
this place had been of short duration, advanced towards them, and,
seating herself beside Bucholz, bade him good evening, in a tone of
familiarity which betokened a long, or, at least, a well-understood
acquaintance.
[Illustration: _"A buxom looking german girl sat down beside
Bucholz, and bade him Good Evening."_]
To the young man who accompanied Bucholz there seemed to be a
fascination in the glitter of his present surroundings, and he
instinctively began to feel envious of his more fortunate companion,
who appeared so much at his ease, and whose intimacy with the
Teutonic siren was so much to be admired.
During the progress of the mixed entertainment that followed, in
which dancing and singing, banjo playing, and a liberal display of
the anatomy of the female "artists" formed the principal features,
they sipped their beer and applauded loudly the efforts of those who
ministered to their enjoyment.
Upon the conclusion of the performance, they returned to their hotel,
and Frank Bruner's mind was more firmly settled in his determination
to leave the service of Henry Schulte, and to find employment in the
city, where such pleasures would be open to him at all times.
On their walk homeward to the hotel Frank again mentioned his resolve
to Bucholz.
"I think you are very foolish," was the reply. "The old man has lots
of money, and if I was in your place I would do very different."
Frank was immovable, however, and the words of his companion produced
no effect upon his mind.
The next morning Mr. Schulte endeavored in vain to induce Frank to
change his determination, and at last, finding it impossible to do
so, he paid him the amount that was due to him and dispensed, rather
reluctantly, with his further services.
A few days after this, having completed the business which detained
him in New York, the old gentleman announced his intention of
departing, and, having his baggage transferred to the coach, he
started for the depot, leaving Frank behind him, who now half
regretted having so suddenly sundered his relations with his
eccentric employer.
Bucholz's opportunity had now arrived, and jumping into the coach, he
took his seat beside the old gentleman, whose acquaintance he had
cultivated during his brief sojourn at the hotel.
"You are going away, Mr. Schulte?" said Bucholz.
The old man nodded his head affirmatively, but made no audible reply.
"Which way are you going?" asked Bucholz, unabashed by the manner of
the other.
"I am going down to South Norwalk, in Connecticut, to buy a farm
which was advertised for sale there," answered Mr. Schulte.
"Where is Frank?" asked Bucholz, as though in ignorance of their
separation. "Is he not going with you?"
"Frank is no longer in my employ. I have discharged him, and he must
now look out for himself."
"Don't you want somebody to take his place?" said Bucholz, eagerly.
"Yes, but I will get some one down there, I guess," replied the old
man, as though he did not desire to talk any further about his
affairs.
"Don't you think I would suit you, Mr. Schulte? I have nothing to do,
and would be very glad to take the place," urged Bucholz. The old
gentleman looked up in surprise at this question, and said:
"You would not come for such wages as I would pay."
He named a sum ridiculously small, but Bucholz announced his perfect
willingness to accept the position at the remuneration offered.
The old gentleman revolved the question in his mind for a few
moments, gazing somewhat suspiciously at the young man the while, and
at length said to Bucholz, who was anxiously awaiting his decision:
"Well, you may come along and see how you will like it. If it does
not suit you, you can return, and we can make our arrangements
afterward."
The matter was thus disposed of, and William Bucholz journeyed to
South Norwalk with his employer. The gay soldier had become the
humble servant, the prospective farmer had been transformed into the
obsequious valet.
These two men had journeyed across the seas, for a far-off land, and
thus had strangely met. The web of fate had woven itself around their
two lives, and the compact this day made was only to be severed by
the death, sudden and mysterious, of the eldest party to the
agreement.
Who could have told that before many months had rolled away, that old
man would have been brutally beaten to death, and that the
bright-faced young man who sued for his favor would be sitting in a
lonely cell under the dreadful charge of committing the foul deed!
Perhaps could either have glanced with prophetic vision into the
future, their paths, by mutual consent, would have widely diverged,
and their intimacy have ceased forever on that August afternoon.
THE DETECTION.
CHAPTER XVII.
_The Detective._--_His Experience and His Practice._--_A Plan of
Detection Perfected._--_The Work is Begun._
The detective occupies a peculiar position in society, and is a
prominent actor in many scenes of which the general public can have
no knowledge. In his breast may be locked the secrets of many men who
stand in proud pre-eminence before the public, and who are admired
and respected for the possession of virtues that are but the cloak
with which they hide the baser elements of their dispositions.
The canting hypocrite, whose voice may be loudest in chapel or
meeting-house, and whose sanctimonious air and solemn visage will
cover the sins of his heart to the general observer, is well known to
the detective, who has seen that same face pale with apprehension,
and has heard that same voice trembling with the fear of exposure.
That dapper young gentleman, who twirls his moustache and swings his
cane so jauntily upon the promenade, is an object of admiration to
many; but to the man who knows the secrets of his inner life another
scene is opened, and he remembers when this same exquisite walked the
cell of a prison--a convict guilty of a crime.
Through all the various grades of society the detective has wended
his way, and he has looked into men's hearts when infamy stared them
in the face and dishonor impended over them.
His experience has rendered him almost incapable of surprise, or
mobility of feeling. He is ever watchful for the deceptiveness of
appearances, ever prepared to admit everything, to explain
everything, and to believe nothing--but what he sees.
The judicial officer, with the nicety and legal acumen of a thorough
jurist, applies the technicalities of the law to the testimony
submitted to him, but the detective observes with caution, and
watches with suspicion all the odious combinations and circumstances
which the law with all the power at its command cannot successfully
reach.
He is made the unwilling, but necessary recipient of disgraceful
details; of domestic crimes, and even of tolerated vices with which
the law cannot deal.
If, when he entered upon his office, his mind teemed with illusions
in regard to humanity, the experience of a year has dissipated them
to the winds.
If he does not eventually become skeptical of the whole human race,
it is because his experience has shown him that honor and vice may
walk side by side without contamination; that virtue and crime may be
closely connected, and yet no stain be left upon the white robe of
purity, and that while upon the one hand he sees abominations
indulged in with impunity, upon the other, he witnesses a sublime
generosity which cannot be weakened or crushed. The modest violet may
exhale its fragrance through an overgrowth of noxious weeds--and
humanity bears out the simile.
He sees with contempt the proud bearing of the impudent scoundrels
who are unjustly receiving public respect, but he sees also with
pleasure many heroes in the modest and obscure walks of life, who
deserve the rich rewards which they never receive.
He has so often pierced beneath the shining mask of virtue and
discovered the distorted visage of vice, that he has almost reached a
state of general doubtfulness until results shall demonstrate the
correctness of his theories. He believes in nothing until it is
proven--not in absolute evil more than in absolute good, and the
results of his teachings have brought him to the conclusion that not
men but events alone are worthy of consideration.
A knowledge of human nature is as necessary to him as that he shall
have eyes and ears, and this knowledge experience alone can give.
In my eventful career as a detective, extending over a period of
thirty years of active practice, my experience has been of such a
character as to lead me to pay no attention to the outward appearance
of men or things. The burglar does not commit his depredations in the
open light of day, nor in the full view of the spectator. Nor does
the murderer usually select the brilliantly-lighted highway to strike
the fatal blow. Quietly and secretly, and with every imagined
precaution against detection, the criminal acts, and it is only by
equally secretive ways that he can be reached.
Weeks and months may elapse before he is finally brought to bay, but
I have never known it to fail, at least in my experience, that
detection will follow crime as surely as the shadow will follow a
moving body in the glare of sunlight.
From the facts collected by my operatives, and from every other
available source, I was now put into possession of every point in the
case of the murder of Henry Schulte, that could be arrived at, and we
were prepared to define a plan of operation, which, if strictly
adhered to, bore the impress of promised success.
An old man had been foully murdered, and his body had been robbed of
a large sum of money. Money, therefore, was the cause of the murder,
and the recovery and identification of this would undoubtedly lead to
the discovery of the criminal.
The matter, with all its attendant facts, was placed in the hands of
Mr. Bangs, my general superintendent, and of my son, Robert A.
Pinkerton, who resolved to succeed in the undertaking if success were
possible.
The details of our proposed line of action were submitted to the
German Consul-General and to the State's attorney, Mr. Olmstead. The
former, while expressing doubts of the expediency of the plan
proposed, determined finally to allow us to pursue such course as in
our judgment was advisable, while the latter gentleman signified his
hearty approval, as it accorded in many respects with a plan which he
had previously thought feasible in this very matter.
Our relations with these gentlemen were of a nature somewhat
peculiar. The German Consul was acting in a double capacity, and had
two interests to serve. He represented the heirs of the murdered man,
and in that relation he was desirous of recovering the money that had
been stolen, as well as discovering who the murderer was and bringing
him to justice. At the same time, he was expected to render whatever
assistance that was in his power to the unfortunate man who stood
accused of the crime, and who was also a native of Germany, requiring
his protection. The German Consul also entertained a well-grounded
faith in the innocence of Bucholz, and desired that every fact that
would substantiate this opinion should be discovered and used for his
benefit.
The State's attorney, on the contrary, was firmly established in his
belief that the murder had been committed by Bucholz, and none other,
and his desire was that this theory should be proved beyond the
possibility of doubt, in order that he, as the prosecuting officer of
the State, should be enabled to uphold the dignity of outraged law,
and to bring the guilty man to the justice which he believed was so
richly merited.
It was determined, therefore, after a conference with these
gentlemen, that my agents should pursue the investigation in such a
manner as seemed best, and which gave greatest promise of eventual
success.
Armed with this double authority, our arrangements were soon made,
and active operations were instituted. Whether our efforts resulted
in victory or defeat, the sequel will prove.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_A Detective Reminiscence._--_An Operation in Bridgeport in
1866._--_The Adams Express Robbery._--_A Half Million of Dollars
Stolen._--_Capture of the Thieves._--_One of the Principals Turns
State's Evidence._--_Conviction and Punishment._
When a great crime has been committed the public mind experiences a
sensation of horror. Imaginative persons are busy in the formation of
all sorts of fancies with regard to the perpetrators. His probable
appearance, gigantic proportions and horrible aspect are duly
commented upon, and exaggeration invariably takes the place of fact
in such estimations. In the majority of cases that have come under my
notice the personal appearance of the criminal belied the possibility
of his guilt.
The verdant spectator is frequently amazed to find the apparent
gentleman, attired with the precision of the tailor's art, with
immaculate linen, and of delicate, and sometimes refined appearance
arraigned for the crime of robbery or murder.
Many times I have seen the eager spectator in a court-room, looking
vainly among the group of lawyers before the bar, for the monster
they have conjured up in their imaginations, and finally settling
upon some sharp-featured, but unimpeachable attorney as the
malefactor, indulge in wise reflections as to the impossibility of
mistaking a rogue from his appearance.
I have seen their start of surprise as the real criminal, genteel,
cool and gentlemanly, would rise from his seat and plead to the
indictment that would be read to him, and their solemn shake of the
head as their wise reflections were scattered to the winds.
My first experience with the town of Bridgeport was particularly
suggestive of these reflections. I was engaged in a detective
operation in which the Adams Express Company were the sufferers,
having been robbed of a large amount of money, and, as the robbery
took place in the vicinity of that city, the thieves, whom I
succeeded in capturing, were confined in the jail there.
The affair occurred during the first week of January, 1866, and the
facts were as follows:
On the night of the sixth of January, in the year just mentioned, the
public mind was startled by the announcement that the Adams Express
Company had been robbed of over a half million of dollars, by the
thieves breaking into the car in which their valuables were placed,
prying open the safes, and abstracting over six hundred thousand
dollars, in notes, bonds and other valuable securities.
The train to which the car was attached had left New York for Boston
at eight o' clock in the evening, and it was not until arriving at
New Haven that the depredation was discovered.
The dismay of the company's officials may be imagined when, on
entering the car at the latter place, the fractured safes met their
astonished gaze. A marlin spike, three dark lanterns and a sledge
hammer which lay beside them, told too plainly how the work had been
accomplished, but it furnished no clue as to how, or when, or by
whom.
The car was of the ordinary size of a box freight car, built with an
iron frame, sheathed over with thick sheet iron plates, rivetted
strongly together, and so closely made that a light placed inside
could not be seen when the doors were closed. A messenger always
accompanied this car, but he usually sat in the baggage car of the
train, and as the train did not make any stoppages between New York
and New Haven, it was only at this time that the theft was discovered
by the entrance of the messenger.
It further appeared that the company's safes were taken from the
depot in New York and placed in the iron car, which was waiting upon
a side-track, and which was immediately afterwards attached to the
train.
The safes having been placed in the car, the door was securely
locked, and, as the train was then ready to start, the agent of the
company gave the word "All right!" The train started and sped upon
its journey, and nothing further was known until its arrival at New
Haven and the discovery of the theft.
I was immediately notified of the matter, and after a careful
observation of the safes and an investigation into the facts of the
case, I thought I detected the handiwork of a party of young thieves
whom I had accidentally encountered in another operation in which I
had been engaged some months previously.
Operatives were immediately despatched in various directions, and the
movements of the suspected parties were carefully but unobservedly
watched. Very soon after, I succeeded in running down two of the
parties, named John Tristram and Thomas Clark, and upon arresting
them each one had in his possession a gold watch, both of which were
identified as stolen property. They were accordingly conveyed to
Bridgeport and held to await their trial.
Mr. Wells, the genial and efficient keeper of the prison, whose
acquaintance I had previously made, received the prisoners and
securely fastened them up.
A few days following this, an old resident of Norwalk, who was also
an uncle of one of the men arrested, was observed by one of my men,
carrying a package of unusual weight from his residence to the house
of a sister of Tristram in New York City, and an examination of the
house resulted in finding nearly eighty seven thousand dollars of the
stolen treasure. The old man was arrested, but developments proved
too plainly that he was only acting as a mere blind messenger for the
other parties, and he was accordingly discharged.
The trial of the two men, which subsequently took place at
Bridgeport, was attended by a large array of New York burglars,
shoplifters and pick-pockets--all friends of the criminals. They were
closely watched, as it was feared that they intended making some
attempt to rescue the prisoners. This precaution proved not to have
been in vain, for during the sitting of the court an attempt was made
to purloin an iron box in which most of the testimony intended for
use in the case, was kept. This was fortunately discovered in time,
and many of the individuals concerned in it left town immediately.
On the trial Tristram pleaded guilty and was sentenced to a term of
imprisonment of three years and six months.
From the evidence upon the part of the company, it appeared that the
money in the safes was in four separate pouches, and consisted mainly
of currency belonging to banking institutions, and all of which
lacked the signatures of the bank officers to give it full character
as money.
The amounts taken were as follows:
From the Washington Pouch, $278,000.00
From the Baltimore Pouch, 150,000.00
From the Philadelphia Pouch, 100,000.00
From the New York Pouch, 150,000.00
----------
$678,000.00
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.
[Illustration: "_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 the _alibi_, 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 to _dispose_ of 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 train _from_ New York, and not _to_ that 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.
[Illustration: _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."
"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?"
[Illustration: "_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 the _other
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.
[Illustration: "_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."
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.
THE JUDGMENT.
CHAPTER XXX.
_The Trial._--_An unexpected Witness._--_A convincing Story._--_An
able, but fruitless Defense._--_A verdict of Guilty._--_The triumph
of Justice._
The trial of William Bucholz for the murder of Henry Schulte began in
the old Court House at Bridgeport on the ninth day of September, and
a ripple of excitement pervaded the city. The interest attaching to
this case had extended beyond the locality in which it had occurred,
and the reporter's table was crowded with representatives of the
various metropolitan journals who designed giving publicity to the
proceedings of the trial.
The judges, solemn and dignified, were upon the bench. The lawyers,
bustling among their books and papers, were actively engaged in
preparing for the scenes that were to follow, while the State's
attorney, quiet and calm, but with a confident look of determination
upon his face, awaited the production of the prisoner and the formal
opening of the case.
Bucholz had engaged the services of three lawyers--General Smith, who
had acquired considerable fame as an attorney; Mr. Bollman, who had
been connected with the case from its inception, and Mr. Alfred E.
Austin, a young member of the bar, who resided at Norwalk.
The sheriff entered with his prisoner, and placed him in the dock, to
plead to the indictment that was to be read to him, and upon which he
was to be placed upon trial for his life.
He entered with the same careless, jaunty air which had marked his
first appearance at South Norwalk, and except for a certain
nervousness in his manner and a restless wandering of the eager
glance which he cast around him, no one would have imagined that he
stood upon the eve of a trying ordeal that was to result either in
sending him to the gallows or in striking from his wrists the
shackles that encircled them, and sending him out into the world a
free man.
He was dressed with scrupulous neatness, and had evidently taken
great care in preparing himself for the trial. He wore a new suit of
clothes, of neat pattern and of modern style, and his linen was of
spotless whiteness and carefully arranged. As he entered and took his
seat a suppressed murmur of surprise, not unmixed with sympathy,
pervaded the court-room.
The hall was crowded, and a large number of ladies, attracted,
perhaps, by that element of curiosity which is inherent in the sex,
and perhaps by that quality of sympathy for which they are
remarkable, were present, and Bucholz at once became the focus of all
eyes and the subject of universal comment and conversation.
From the nature of the charge against him many had expected to see
some ferocious-looking ruffian, whose countenance would portray the
evidence of his crime, and whose appearance would indicate the
certainty of his guilt. Their surprise was therefore unbounded, when,
instead of the monster their imaginations had conjured up, they
beheld the young, well-dressed and good-looking German who appeared
before them, and a strong feeling of sympathy for the unfortunate man
was manifested by a majority of those present.
Considerable difficulty was experienced in securing a jury, but at
length the requisite number were obtained, and Bucholz was directed
to stand up and listen to the charge that had been preferred against
him.
A profound silence pervaded the court-room as the indictment was
being read. The prisoner paid the strictest attention as the words
were pronounced:--
"How say you, prisoner at the bar; are you guilty or not guilty?" and
he answered in a firm voice: "Not guilty!"
The attorneys eagerly scanned the faces of the "twelve good men and
true," into whose hands was soon to be confided the fate of the man
who stood before them; but their impassive countenances gave no
indication of the thoughts which occupied their minds. They had been
chosen for the performance of a solemn duty, and were evidently
prepared to perform it without fear or favor.
Who can fathom the mind of the prisoner or conceive the myriad of
vexing thoughts with which his brain is teeming? He exhibits no
fear--he displays no excitement--but calmly and quietly and with
watchful eyes he gazes around upon the scene before him--a scene in
which he is an important actor, and in which his fate is being
determined.
Without the formality of an opening address, the State's attorney
calls the first witness--Mrs. Waring. This lady details the
occurrences of the afternoon and evening of the murder--the facts of
which are already known to the reader. She also testified to the
friendly relations existing between the murdered man and the
prisoner, except upon one occasion, when, shortly before the death of
Mr. Schulte, she had heard angry words in their apartments. No
importance was attached to this, as the disagreement was of short
duration, and their pleasant intercourse was speedily resumed.
The evidence of the two daughters and the son of Mrs. Waring was
taken, but they simply confirmed the story as related by the mother.
The various persons who were present at the finding of the body--the
physicians who had made the post mortem examination, were examined as
to their knowledge of the murder, and the circumstances incident
thereto.
The officers who had charge of Bucholz testified to his extravagances
during the time that intervened between the murder and the formal
arrest of the prisoner, and to the fact of the money which he had
expended bearing the peculiar marks which had been noticed upon it.
Frank Bruner had been found by my operatives, and he identified the
watch that had been found as belonging to Henry Schulte. He also
testified to the conversations which took place between himself and
Bucholz before he had left the service of Mr. Schulte, and also that
the old gentleman had called upon him on the morning of that fatal
day, and had informed him of his intention to dispense with the
services of Bucholz on the 15th day of the succeeding month, and
requested Frank to again enter his service; which he had promised to
consider before deciding finally upon.
The examination of these various witnesses had occupied two days, and
nothing very serious or convincing, except of a circumstantial
nature, had been proven. Bucholz appeared jubilant and hopeful--his
counsel were sanguine of acquittal, and even the jurors looked less
sternly as their eyes fell upon the prisoner.
The countenance of the State's attorney was an enigma to the lawyers
for the defense. Confident and self-reliant, he had marshaled his
array of witnesses, and their testimony was a consistent recital of
the events relating to the murder and the various circumstances
relating thereto. Nothing definite or convincing had as yet been
proven, and the attorneys wondered at the undismayed demeanor of the
prosecuting officer.
On the afternoon of the third day, after the examination of two
unimportant witnesses, Mr. Olmstead arose, and, addressing the
sheriff, said:
"Call Ernest Stark."
There was nothing unusual in the name, and but little attention was
paid to the order thus given. The prisoner and the attorneys had
never heard the name before, and no uneasiness was manifested upon
their faces, but when, in answer to that call, Edward Sommers entered
from the ante-room, and stepping upon the witness stand, confronted
the court, a change came over the faces of the accused and his
counsel, wonderful to behold.
Bucholz staggered to his feet with a smothered expression of physical
agony and stood for an instant pressing his hand convulsively upon
his brow, his eyes, full of savage but impotent fury, were fixed upon
the detective; but this emotion soon passed away and yielded to a
vague, bewildered expression, as he sank back into his seat, overcome
by the feelings which oppressed him.
[Illustration: "_His eyes full of savage but impotent fury were fixed
upon the detective._"]
The attorneys, stolid and immovable, gazed at this unexpected
apparition, but long practice in their profession had enabled them to
conceal their emotions, however powerful the influence, and, except
the first start of surprise, no outward indication was given of their
astonishment at the appearance of the detective or their chagrin at
the duplicity of their client.
The detective, calm and imperturbable, and apparently unconscious of
the important part he was playing in this sad drama, stood there
immovable, the perfect immobility of his face undisturbed by the
consternation of counsel or the confusion of the prisoner.
Under the examination of the State's attorney, he told his story in a
firm, deliberate manner, that carried conviction to the minds of all.
He detailed the various experiences of his prison life and of his
intercourse with the prisoner. He related the admissions which
Bucholz had made to him, and testified to the influence which he had
gradually acquired over the mind of the accused man.
He graphically described their several interviews, and finally he
detailed at length the finding of the money of the murdered man,
hidden in the places to which Bucholz had directed him.
The silence in the court-room was most impressive. The crowded
audience who had at first been amazed at the appearance of the
detective, now leaned eagerly forward in their intense desire to hear
each word that was spoken. The judges listened intently as the
well-chosen sentences, fraught with so much importance to the cause
of justice, fell from his lips.
The eager, exulting ring of the voice of the State's attorney as he
conducted the examination, and the low, modulated tones of the
witness as he gave the damaging answers, seemed to affect all
present, and, with their eyes riveted alternately upon the witness
and the prisoner, they listened breathlessly as he related his
convincing story.
William Bucholz, after the first exhibition of his emotions, sat
silent and apparently stunned during the whole of the rendering of
this testimony. His eyes were fastened upon the detective witness,
but no movement of the muscles of his face betrayed the despairing
thoughts within. Silently he sat there--his arms folded across his
chest, with cheeks blanched and eyes staring straight forward toward
the witness-stand.
Already he sees the hand of impending fate, and as this unexpected
web of circumstantial and positive evidence is being slowly and
systematically woven about him, the shadow of the gallows falls upon
him, and yet he makes no sign. The resolute will and inflexible
nature sustain him firmly under this trying ordeal.
As Ernest Stark related the finding of the hidden wealth of the
murdered man which he had secured, an involuntary exclamation of
surprise burst from the assembled listeners, and when he had finished
his story a sigh of apparent relief escaped them.
The testimony of the detective had occupied a day and a half in its
rendition, and upon the opening of the court upon the succeeding day,
the haggard look of the prisoner told unmistakably of the sleepless
vigil of the night before. His lips remained sealed, however, and no
one knew of the agony of his mind.
Upon the conclusion of the detective's testimony, the money which had
been found in the old barn was exhibited in evidence, and, as the
earth-soiled pocket-books and the great roll of notes were displayed,
eager eyes watched their production. It was the price of a human
life, and another life hung trembling in the balance because of it.
Robert A. Pinkerton was called, and confirmed the statement of Ernest
Stark with regard to the midnight visit to the barn and the finding
of the money.
Paul Schmoeck and another attache of the German Consulate identified
the notes produced, and also testified as to its safe-keeping since
it had been so miraculously unearthed.
Two important witnesses were now introduced, who proved beyond a
doubt that this money was upon the person of Henry Schulte upon the
night of the murder. This evidence was necessary, because the
sagacious attorneys for the prisoner had already invented a plan of
defense, at once ingenious and able. There had existed hitherto no
proof that this money which had been found in the barn was in the
possession of the murdered man at the time of the tragedy, and
Bucholz might only be the thief who had robbed his master during his
absence, and not the criminal who had imbrued his hands in his blood.
Henry Bischoff and his son, prominent German bankers, and dealers in
foreign exchange, distinctly remembered the visit of Henry Schulte to
their banking house upon the day on which the murder was committed.
The father identified some of the notes which had been found in the
first package as those which had been given him in exchange for mark
bills, and the son identified the gold pieces which had been
unearthed with the second package as those which he had given to Mr.
Schulte upon that day. Both pocket-books must therefore have been
upon the person of Henry Schulte as he walked home upon that winter's
night accompanied by his trusted servant who had robbed and murdered
him.
The clothing of the accused man, which he had worn upon that night,
and which had been secured immediately after the occurrence of the
tragedy and legally retained, were also introduced and identified.
The shirt contained spots of blood, and the pantaloons also displayed
evidences of the same crimson fluid.
The prosecution then closed their case, and the defense began.
Undismayed by the convincing character of the testimony which had
been given, the attorneys for Bucholz labored diligently and ably to
explain away the damaging proofs which had been adduced.
Their cross-examination of the witness who had been known to them as
Edward Sommers had been very light; they had not attempted to impeach
his veracity or to question the truthfulness of his relations, and
while this was a matter of surprise to many at the time, the wisdom
of such a course soon became evident.
The principal witness for the State was to be used as a reliable
instrument in the hands of the defense, and the testimony of Edward
Sommers was to be relied upon to substantiate the theory by which the
attorneys for Bucholz hoped to delude the jury and to save their
client.
The finding of the money was admitted as the result of revelations
made by Bucholz to the detective, but they endeavored to prove that
though he might have robbed the old man, it was impossible for him to
have killed him.
It was contended upon the part of Bucholz, that the money was taken
from the pockets of the murdered man while Bucholz was assisting in
carrying the body to the house, and that he was enabled to do this
the more easily, because he alone knew where the old gentleman placed
the money which he carried about his person.
This theory was ingeniously suggested and ably argued, and several
minor points of evidence were adduced in support of it. The
blood-stains upon the clothing were also sought to be explained.
Those upon the shirt were alleged to have been produced from the
bleeding of the face of the prisoner who was wounded upon the same
evening, and the pantaloons, it was claimed, had received the stains
upon them from the blood which had dropped while Bucholz was
assisting the bearers to carry the corpse to the house after the
preliminary investigation by the coroner.
With rare skill were these theories presented, and with desperate
energy these able attorneys led the forlorn hope against the strong
fortress of conviction which seemed to enclose their unfortunate
client. The audience, the judges and the jury were profoundly
impressed, but they were not convinced.
The judge charged the jury, and before the force of his sound, legal
utterances, the airy castles which had been so ingeniously builded
fell to the ground, and the hopes of the prisoner and his friends
were buried in their ruins.
The case was handed to the twelve men, and many scrutinizing glances
were directed toward them as they slowly retired to deliberate upon
their verdict. Faint hopes were entertained of a disagreement, but
all felt that conviction would be but a natural result.
Slowly the crowd of spectators dispersed, as it became apparent that
no report would be received that evening, and many ladies, moved by
that latent sympathy which is usually manifested for great criminals,
approached the prisoner, and, together with their condolences,
bestowed upon him their offerings of flowers and fruits.
At twelve o'clock the next day--during a recess of the court--a loud
knock was heard upon the door which led to the jury-room. Instantly
every voice was hushed and every eye was strained to watch the
countenances of these arbiters of fate who slowly entered and took
their seats.
Bucholz was laughing gayly with some acquaintances, but he became
instantly serious--the smile died away from his lips, and he
anxiously awaited the announcement that was to convey to him the
blessing of life or the doom of death.
Slowly the jurors arose and faced the court.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you determined upon your verdict?"
Breathlessly they all listened.
"We have."
These words fell like a thunderbolt upon the assembly. The prisoner's
face grew pale; he grasped the railing in front of him and gazed
wistfully at the jurors who stood beside him.
"Prisoner at the bar, stand up," said the clerk; and Bucholz arose
immediately, turning his pallid face toward the jury-box.
The gray-haired foreman, whose elbow almost touched the prisoner,
looked at him with a glance in which was depicted a sympathy, which,
while it was heartfelt and sincere, was not of sufficient force to
outweigh a conscientious discharge of duty.
"Gentlemen of the jury, how say you? Is the prisoner at the bar
guilty or not guilty?"
With trembling voice the venerable foreman said, slowly:
"Guilty of murder in the first degree!"
The guilty man fell back in his seat, as though he had been struck a
heavy blow, and bowing his head upon the railing, he sobbed wildly.
The trial was over. Justice had triumphed, and this crime-stained
man, who was now the object of so much attention, was decreed to pay
the penalty of his misdeeds.
The mystery of the murder of Henry Schulte had been judiciously
solved, and the detective had triumphed over the assassin.
CHAPTER XXXI.
_Another Chance for Life._--_A Third Trial._--_A Final Verdict._--_and
a Just Punishment._
Immediately upon the rendering of the verdict, the attorneys for
Bucholz moved for an arrest of judgment and filed their reasons for a
new trial.
After a delay of some weeks, an argument was had thereon. It was
contended among other things that one of the jurymen, during the
trial, and while they had not been confined, had spoken of the case
upon which he was engaged, and had expressed an opinion in regard to
the matter which he had been selected to determine.
Upon this fact being shown to the satisfaction of the judges, a new
trial was ordered, and the month of the succeeding February was fixed
as the time for the hearing of the same.
The second trial was had, and although the evidence adduced was the
same as upon the preceding occasion, or if anything stronger and more
convincing, the jury disagreed and were finally discharged.
A remarkable feature of this disagreement was the fact that upon the
final polling of the jury that was taken, the vote given was: For
murder in the first degree, nine; for murder in the second degree,
two; and for _absolute acquittal_, one.
Grave doubts were entertained of the influence which induced that
single vote, but in the absence of any proof to the contrary it must
be regarded as an honest opinion conscientiously given.
Another respite was thus afforded the unhappy prisoner, and the third
trial--now just completed--was fixed for the thirteenth day of April
in the present year.
Again the court has been convened, and the formality of a trial has
been gone through with. The jury have been sworn, the witnesses have
been examined and arguments have been made. Still, despite the
vigorous and persistent attacks that have been attempted, truth
prevails in the courts of law, and justice is triumphant.
After a laborious trial, lasting over three weeks, the jury have
rendered a verdict of "Guilty of murder in the second degree," and
the prisoner, standing tremblingly before the bar of justice, has
been condemned to "_imprisonment for life_."
After exhausting all the technicalities that could be devised, the
murderer of Henry Schulte will suffer the penalties of the law.
* * * * *
Again we will visit the prison and look within the narrow cell where
William Bucholz is confined. After a long struggle, fate has overtaken
him. The dark shadows of night have gathered over the gloomy walls of
the structure, and William Bucholz is now alone--the pale, thin face
and the sunken eyes tell the agonizing story of unending anxiety and
those sleepless vigils attendant upon the terrible state of uncertainty
through which he has passed, and the doom which he is now to suffer.
His hair is disordered and he wildly pushes it away from his temples,
as though its trifling weight added to the burden already resting
upon his brain. The veins stand out upon his temples--now almost
bursting with the intensity of the thoughts that have been crowding
upon him--and still they come, vivid and terrible.
Vainly he tries to seek that rest that will bring Nepenthe to his
dreams, but the specter of that murdered old man will arise before
his vision, and rest is impossible. Ah, how many long, weary days and
nights, fraught with terror and remorse, will come to this
unfortunate man ere he finds a final release and a bed of earth!
The miser of Hagen is avenged--and the murderer will suffer for his
crime.
THE END.
* * * * *
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MRS. MARY J. HOLMES' WORKS.
TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
ENGLISH ORPHANS.
HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE.
'LENA RIVERS.
MEADOW BROOK.
DORA DEANE.
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MARIAN GREY.
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MILLBANK.
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WEST LAWN.
MILDRED.
FORREST HOUSE. (_New_).
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
"Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless.
She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her
characters are always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like
human beings, subject to the same emotions, swayed by the same
passions, and actuated by the same motives which are common among men
and women of every day existence. Mrs. Holmes is very happy in
portraying domestic life. Old and young peruse her stories with great
delight, for she writes in a style that all can comprehend."--_New
York Weekly._
The North American Review, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J.
Holmes' novel, "English Orphans":--"With this novel of Mrs. Holmes'
we have been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of
discriminating readers to whom we have lent it. The characterization
is exquisite, especially so far as concerns rural and village life,
of which there are some pictures that deserve to be hung up in
perpetual memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The
dialogues are generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot
seems simple, so easily and naturally is it developed and
consummated. Moreover, the story thus gracefully constructed and
written, inculcates without obtruding, not only pure Christian
morality in general, but, with especial point and power, the
dependence of true success on character, and of true respectability
on merit."
"Mrs. Holmes' stories are all of a domestic character, and their
interest, therefore, is not so intense as if they were more highly
seasoned with sensationalism, but it is of a healthy and abiding
character. Almost any new book which her publisher might choose to
announce from her pen would get an immediate and general reading. The
interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to the close.
Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, and
her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of
ordinary life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to
write any other than an excellent tale if she were to try
it."--_Boston Banner._
The volumes are all handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold
everywhere, and sent by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of price
[$1.50 each], by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
_Madison Square, New York._
CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS.
A NEW EDITION.
Among the many editions of the works of this greatest of English
Novelists, there has not been until _now_ one that entirely satisfies
the public demand.--Without exception, they each have some strong
distinctive objection,--either the form and dimensions of the volumes
are unhandy--or, the type is small and indistinct--or, the illustrations
are unsatisfactory--or, the binding is poor--or, the price is too high.
An entirely new edition is _now_, however, published by G. W. Carleton
& Co., of New York, which, in every respect, completely satisfies the
popular demand.--It is known as
"Carleton's New Illustrated Edition."
COMPLETE IN 15 VOLUMES.
The size and form is most convenient for holding,--the type is
entirely new, and of a clear and open character that has received the
approval of the reading community in other works.
The illustrations are by the original artists chosen by Charles
Dickens himself--and the paper, printing, and binding are of an
attractive and substantial character.
This beautiful new edition is complete in 15 volumes--at the
extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows:--
1.--PICKWICK PAPERS AND CATALOGUE.
2.--OLIVER TWIST.--UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.
3.--DAVID COPPERFIELD.
4.--GREAT EXPECTATIONS.--ITALY AND AMERICA.
5.--DOMBEY AND SON.
6.--BARNABY RUDGE AND EDWIN DROOD.
7.--NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
8.--CURIOSITY SHOP AND MISCELLANEOUS.
9.--BLEAK HOUSE.
10.--LITTLE DORRIT.
11.--MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT.
12.--OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
13.--CHRISTMAS BOOKS.--TALE OF TWO CITIES.
14.--SKETCHES BY BOZ AND HARD TIMES.
15.--CHILD'S ENGLAND AND MISCELLANEOUS.
The first volume--Pickwick Papers--contains an alphabetical catalogue
of all of Charles Dickens' writings, with their exact positions in
the volumes.
This edition is sold by Booksellers, everywhere--and single specimen
copies will be forwarded by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of
price, $1.50, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
Madison Square, New York.
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