Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rose Koven, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
With a portrait of the notorious Jim Cummings and illustrations ofscenes connected with the great robbery
By Frank Pinkerton
Vol. I, March 1887. The Pinkerton Detective Series, issued monthly, bysubscription, $3.00 per annum.
Chicago
In the rear room of a small frame building, the front of which wasoccupied as a coal office, located on West Lake street, Chicago, threemen were seated around a square pine table. The curtains of the windowwere not only drawn inside, but the heavy shutters were closed on theoutside. A blanket was nailed over the only door of the room, and everything and every action showed that great secrecy was a most importantfactor of the assembly.
The large argand burner of a student's lamp filled the small room withits white, strong light, The table was covered with railroadtime-tables, maps, bits of paper, on which were written two names agreat number of times, and pens of different makes and widths of pointwere scattered amidst the papers.
One man, a large, powerfully-built fellow, deep-chested, andlong-limbed, was occupied in writing, again and again, the name of"J.B. Barrett." He had covered sheet after sheet with the name, lookingfirst at a letter before him, but was still far from satisfied. "Damn aman who will make his 'J's' in such a heathenish way."
"Try it again, Wittrock," said one of his companions.
"Curse you," shouted the man called Wittrock. "How often must I tellyou not to call me that name. By God, I'll bore a hole through you yet,d'ye mind, now."
"Oh, no harm been done, Cummings; no need of your flying in such a stewfor nothing. We're all in the same box here, eh?"
"Well, you be more careful hereafter," said "Cummings," and again hebent to his laborious task of forging the name of "J.B. Barrett."
Nothing was heard for half an hour but the scratching of the pen, orthe muttered curses of Cummings (as he was called).
Suddenly he threw down his pen with a laugh of triumph, and holding apiece of paper before him, exclaimed: "There, lads, there it is;there's the key that will unlock a little mint for us."
Throwing himself back in his chair, he drew a cigar from his pocket,and, lighting it, listened with great satisfaction to the words ofpraise uttered by his companions as they compared the forged with thegenuine signature.
These three men were on the eve of a desperate enterprise. For monthsthey had been planning and working together, and the time for actionwas rapidly approaching.
The one called "Cummings," the leader, was apparently, the youngest oneof the three. There was nothing in his face to denote the criminal. Astranger looking at him, would imagine him to be a good-natured, jovialchap, a little shrewd perhaps, but fond of a good dinner, a good drink,a good cigar, and nothing else.
One of his colleagues, whom he called "Roe," evidently an alias, wassmaller in size, but had a determined expression on his face, thatshowed him to be a man who would take a desperate chance if necessary.
The third man, called sometimes Weaver, and sometimes Williams, was thesm