The Floor of Heaven (17 page)

It was a bad way to head into an investigation, he understood, and he knew he needed to get his thoughts fixed on the case at hand. This proved difficult. Charlie remained mired in a finality he could not bring himself to accept. Nevertheless, as the cold rain continued to pour down, as the little steamship rose and fell on the choppy, thick sea, as, no less relentless, he battled through his own internal hell, a sense of duty came to prevail. In his years as a trail boss, he had led men through hard times and across rough country. Now he made up his mind to apply the same unforgiving discipline to himself. Without further delay, he focused his attention on the operation, and the mystery he’d need to get to the bottom of.

AS CHARLIE stood on the rain-swept deck, his mind traveled back to his last meeting in McParland’s office in Denver. The superintendent was a heavyset man, and it was his habit even indoors to wear a bowler hat with the brim pulled so low that it nearly covered his eyes. No less oddly, the room was always as dark as a tomb. The superintendent had once explained to Charlie that he kept the curtains drawn tight and his desktop kerosene lamp at only a faint glow because he didn’t want to be spied on. He claimed he was fearful that someone from across the street or on a nearby rooftop might be watching the goings-on in his office. “Lots of people make it their business to know Mr. Pinkerton’s business,” he’d said. But Charlie suspected that both the bowler pulled low enough to veil the eyes and the cavelike office were ploys inspired by a more playful calculation. These were an actor’s affectations. McParland, Charlie had come to recognize, had cast himself as nothing less than the master Pinkerton sleuth, and his shadow-filled lair was center stage for the role he so clearly enjoyed performing. Not that Charlie was of a mind to be critical of such brazen showmanship; after all, he was the rodeo rider who had loped about Denver’s River Side Park corral sporting a large white sombrero, leather-fringed chaparejos, a flaming red kerchief, a sash of a similar bright-red hue tied tight around his waist, and a pearl-handled revolver jutting out of his holster. The way Charlie looked at it, a man could gussy himself up as he saw fit—as long as he could deliver on the fancy promise. And McParland had certainly done that. He was a legend. Before taking control of the Denver office, he’d worked three dangerous years undercover in a Pennsylvania mining town to build a case against a ruthlessly violent and corrupt cabal of union men. As a result of the unshakable evidence McParland had obtained at great personal risk, nineteen of the men, known as the Molly Maguires, were hanged. During Charlie’s time working with McParland, the superintendent had earned his respect, too: He was shrewd, thoughtful, and completely honest, a man who did as he’d said. In Charlie’s world, there was no higher praise.

That morning in Denver, after Charlie had announced that he’d changed his mind and was prepared to go to Alaska, he’d sat attentively in the straight-backed chair opposite his boss’s huge desk and waited to be briefed on the particulars. That was how things had always worked in the past. In his careful, orderly way, McParland would lay out a case without ever commenting on the difficulties or risks involved. He was a man who dealt in hard facts, not opinions. But that morning’s briefing had been different. Uncharacteristically, McParland had not proceeded in his typical straightforward fashion. Instead, he’d begun with a statement that was expressed with such heartfelt urgency that Charlie recognized that it was a plea: a plea for his help.

“It is imperative that this case be brought to a successful resolution,” McParland exclaimed. He let the words fill the room. When he was apparently satisfied that he had his operative’s full attention, he continued: “Nothing less than the reputation of the entire Pinkerton Detective Agency hangs in the balance.” Leaning his considerable bulk across the desk and in the same moment fixing Charlie with his sharpshooter’s stare, he spoke in a low, harsh whisper: “And that means, Siringo, that my reputation is at stake. I am counting on you.”

Charlie was taken aback. McParland had never expressed a personal interest in the outcome of any investigation. Nor, for that matter, had the superintendent ever placed such a singular importance on a specific case. What, Charlie wondered, had he gotten himself into? At the same time, he was excited. His vanity enjoyed a sharp challenge; in fact, he even relished the prospect of heading off into an adventure with so much on the line.

As for McParland, he now seemed a bit embarrassed, as if he had surprised himself, too, by the earnest passion he’d expressed. He quickly settled his large body back into his chair; adjusted—a habitual tic—the tilt of his bowler; and then proceeded in a more measured pitch to explain the string of events that had conspired to put such an unlikely importance on this case.

IT HAD all begun routinely enough. Ten thousand dollars’ worth of gold bars had been stolen from the busy Treadwell mine on Douglas Island, just across the harbor from Juneau, Alaska. This was a significant sum. Yet possibly more disturbing was the fact that the mine and its mill were patrolled around the clock by a small army of Winchester-toting guards. If despite all these precautions a thief could somehow smuggle out such a large amount of gold without being detected, what was to stop him from doing it again? And again?

Concerned, angry, and perplexed, Thomas Durkin, the superintendent of the Treadwell mine, sent a letter out the next day on a steamer leaving Juneau for Victoria, British Columbia. Addressed to the Western Union Telegraph Office, it instructed the operator to wire the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Portland, Oregon, in his name. The wire did not reveal the nature of the inquiry the agency was being hired to conduct; Durkin was reluctant to let word get out that a thief was preying on his mine. The wire simply requested that the office send three operatives to Alaska on the first available steamer. Cost, the telegram bluntly stated, was not an issue. A swift response, however, was essential.

The Portland office was a newly opened branch of the agency, and Franklin Wooster served as its superintendent. He had been a deputy in Abilene and then a police officer in Denver before he’d applied to the Pinkertons. He had no investigative experience, but he was middle-aged, possessed a sober demeanor, and had an unblemished, albeit undistinguished, record in law enforcement. That had been sufficient pedigree to earn him the appointment six months earlier to the supervisory position in Portland.

When Wooster read the telegram, he rejoiced. Three operatives! Expense no object! After six uneventful months, he now saw his opportunity to solidify his position in the Pinkerton organization. He hastily rounded up three men and, as had been requested, dispatched them on the next steamer to Juneau. With that accomplished, he triumphantly wired William Pinkerton in Chicago, stating that he’d procured a very lucrative operation for the agency. In all his fulsome excitement, it never occurred to Wooster to inquire from the Treadwell supervisor what manner of investigation his operatives would be asked to pursue. Nor did he pause long enough to consider whether specific skills or traits of character would be required of the men sent out to crack this case.

The three men were all new recruits to detective work; the Portland office was, after all, a recently opened branch of the agency. Still, they proved to be, as even Durkin would later grudgingly concede, models of industry and tenacity. With great authority, they prowled about the mill and mine every day for two months, asking questions, making observations. In that time, they identified no suspects. They uncovered no promising clues. But while they were in Alaska, two more robberies took place at the mine. When a third occurred, a frustrated Durkin angrily ordered the three detectives to leave his mine at once. Then he sent a terse telegram to the Portland office: The agency’s services are hereby terminated forthwith.

It was a blemish on Wooster’s career and an embarrassment for the Pinkerton agency. Nevertheless, neither William nor Robert Pinkerton, the two brothers who had inherited the agency after their father’s death, was overly concerned. It was a reality of detective work, they both recognized, that some cases remained unresolved. During their father’s time, for example, the railroads had hired the agency to apprehend Jesse James and his gang. Two Pinkertons had closed in on the outlaws, but Jesse had gunned them both down. And in the end it was Bob Ford (who would later become Soapy’s nemesis) who’d snuck up on Jesse and shot him in the back, thus ending the case. The mystery of the thefts at the Treadwell mine would be relegated to a similarly embarrassing category—unsolved. Anyway, the matter was no longer the Pinkerton agency’s concern. It had been summarily dismissed.

Then, as fate would have it, a small and seemingly uneventful coincidence occurred. Mr. Robert Pinkerton decided that he and his wife would escape the rigors of a New York winter with a restorative stay at a resort hotel in balmy San Diego. It so happened that there was another guest at the hotel that same week who’d also decided to treat himself to a respite from icy weather: Mr. Thomas Durkin, the supervisor of the Treadwell mine. The two men met by chance at the hotel bar, and a brief conversation ensued. Pinkerton, intrigued by making the acquaintance of someone who lived in the far north, asked his drinking companion to join him and his wife at their table for dinner that evening. Durkin readily accepted.

The dining room was rather grand, with starched white cloths and heavy silver on the table and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling; at the far end of the room, on a small platform decorated with potted palms, a pianist played soft melodies. The Pinkertons made polite conversation with their guest as course after course was served by attentive liveried waiters. But just before dessert, whether because Durkin’s restraint had been liberated by several bottles of red wine or whether he simply chose then to seize the moment he’d been patiently waiting for since he’d by chance first encountered Robert Pinkerton, the mine superintendent revealed his connection to the agency. His words were sharp and his tone was unforgiving. He had paid good money, he harrumphed, and had gotten nothing in return. Rather loudly he insisted that the Pinkerton Detective Agency was staffed by incompetents.

About the room heads turned disapprovingly toward their table, but Robert Pinkerton was not deterred. His Scot blood came to a quick boil; and, truth be told, throughout the evening he’d been imbibing his share of wine, too. Indignant, he forcefully demanded an apology.

“I’ll be damned if I will,” barked Durkin. His difficult years in Alaska had taught him that nothing of merit ever occurred when a man backed down.

For a moment it seemed as if the two men would come to blows in the dining room. Then Mrs. Pinkerton intervened. Gentlemen, please, she begged, near to tears. This is most unbecoming.

Her distress affected both her husband and his guest. In an instant, decorum was restored. The meal was concluded without incident.

And so it came to pass that later that night, after a few calming brandies, the two men walked along the beach, and in this manner an understanding of sorts was reached. Robert Pinkerton, his tone more subdued, even conciliatory, conceded that an error had been made by the Portland office. Wooster had clearly dispatched three men who were totally unsuitable for the job.

Durkin, for his part, acknowledged that he had been too circumspect. It would have been wiser if in his initial telegram he had revealed the nature of the investigation to be conducted.

Now reconciled, the two men continued their walk along the moonlit edge of the Pacific Ocean. As the waves lapped against the sand, Robert Pinkerton made an impetuous pledge: A great deal of time had passed since the initial robbery. It was uncertain whether the thief or thieves were still at the mine, or even in Alaska. It was uncertain whether the gold could still be recovered; perhaps it had been spent or, just as likely, perhaps it was safely hidden in a bank vault in Seattle. But, he said, I promise you this: If you will see fit to rehire our agency, I will make certain that this time we will dispatch the proper operatives to Alaska. These men will find whoever took your gold. You have my solemn word: The Pinkerton agency will solve this case.

Durkin considered the proposition. He had no doubt Pinkerton was sincere. But unless the culprits were still working at the mine, the trail would be very cold. If a man wanted to disappear, Alaska offered plenty of hiding places. The expense was a concern, too. During the last go-round, the cost of three operatives working two full months had added up to a pretty penny. Yet the thefts still rankled. Besides, who was to say there wouldn’t be new robberies unless there were arrests? And Pinkerton had given him his word. That had to count for something.

But only two men this time, Durkin agreed at last.

And so on his way back to New York from San Diego, Robert Pinkerton detoured to Denver to meet with James McParland. He had known McParland since the time when the big Irishman had infiltrated the Molly Maguires. True, McParland was now a deskman, a few years older and lot heavier than during his days in the field, but Pinkerton had no doubts about the superintendent’s abilities or loyalties. He was a man who could get a job done.

Without prelude, he outlined the circumstances of his meeting Durkin and the rash promise he’d made. I gave my word, Pinkerton told the superintendent. He did not want to sound desperate or too imploring, but the circumstances were unique in the history of the agency. The reputation of the entire Pinkerton organization was at stake, and his own personal honor, as well. The case must be solved, he ordered.

“I won’t let you down, sir,” McParland promised with total conviction.

STILL STANDING in seclusion on the wet deck of the steamship, Charlie reviewed what lay in the balance of his efforts. Robert Pinkerton had given his word. McParland had given his, too. Now it would be up to him to make sure that his two bosses didn’t turn out to be liars. And that the agency’s reputation would not be besmirched. A lot, he understood, was riding on his solving this case. Which suited him fine.