The Floor of Heaven (26 page)

But Charlie hadn’t come this far—or this close, he truly believed—only to give up. He hoped that if he continued to put himself in the thieves’ shoes, the solution would come to him. So he closed the warehouse door behind him and found a rock to nail the metal hinge back in place. Then, imagining he’d a dozen or so gold bars cradled in his arms, he began to look for a way to get his hoard to the beach without any alarms being sounded or shots fired.

He stood on the hilltop, a sentinel surveying the busy island stretched out below him. Electric lights illuminated many of the buildings, and their glow shimmered in long pools across the swift, dark waters of the channel. He searched in all directions, hoping to see something that’d reveal the thieves’ plan. Yet nothing sparked a notion that made any sense. He dreaded the possibility that he’d fail to sort out this last part of the crime. If he was going to catch the thieves, he’d need to know how they’d made off with the gold. If they got away, he’d be letting McParland down; and he’d given the superintendent his word. But the more Charlie focused his attention, the more he continued to look in all directions, the more futile his search proved. Mamie, he begged in silent desperation, tell me what I’m missing.

A moment later, as if in answer to his question, a loud noise startled him. At first Charlie thought it was the sound of deer running through the woods. But it grew larger; and he realized it wasn’t the commotion of scattering animal hooves. It was something more powerful. Like a torrent of rushing water. That was it, he was now certain. He was hearing a raging creek, its waters high from the spring rains. Only there was no creek on the island.

So what could it be? The noise carried easily through the night, and he followed it. As the sound of thrashing, streaming water became clearer and more distinct, he hurried toward it. All his instincts alerted him that the solution he’d been looking for was now at hand. Yet even as the realization took hold, Charlie had no expectation of what he’d find.

He had gone at most two hundred yards before he was able to stand on the edge of a shallow ravine and gaze down on what looked like a giant twisting black snake. But a moment later Charlie’s mind worked out what his eyes were seeing. The long snake was a metal pipeline. With the light of the moon, he could see that the pipeline climbed up one side of the island and then angled down the other. Later, he’d learn that it was eighteen miles long. But even that night he quickly understood why he’d suddenly heard the sound of rushing water. And how the pipeline had allowed the thieves to get away with the gold.

In itself, the pipeline was an ingenious piece of engineering. It carried the water powering the generators that allowed the mill machines to run and the electric lights to shine. Yet its basic operating principles, as Charlie grasped them, were simple enough. With the natural rising tides in the channel, water was carried up through the pipeline to a small reservoir that sat on the high ground adjacent to the warehouse. Depending on the demand for electricity, water would be released from the reservoir. Then it would flood downhill through the pipeline in a torrent, its speed a crucial part of the physics necessary to create hydroelectric power. The roar Charlie had heard was the rush of a new stream of water as it charged through the pipeline. It was also the answer to many of his questions.

With a renewed sense of triumph, Charlie scurried down the ravine and, his eyes to the ground, began his search. He followed the pipeline, and after only a few yards, spotted what he’d anticipated: a pile of mud.

Ignoring the muck, Charlie went down on his knees and began running his fingers along the cold metal of the pipeline. In a moment, he found the rope. He was now convinced that he knew how the thieves had transported the gold, but just to be sure he began to unravel the circles of rope. Once they lay loose, it required just a strong pull for a section of the pipeline to be removed. He ran his hand over the metal edge: It had been carefully sawed. Satisfied, he fitted the two sections back together until they were joined as tightly as two hands in a deal-binding grip. Then he began wrapping the cords of rope back around the metal cylinder so the pieces would stay in place.

While he worked, Charlie couldn’t help but admire the thieves’ plan. They’d sawed through a section of the pipeline—anyone could lift a hacksaw from the tool shop—and then let the rushing water take the gold down-island. It was the same principle used by the rubber conveyor belts that transported the gold rocks to the various mill shops for processing; perhaps that’d even been their inspiration. Safely hidden, the bars would be carried down to the beach without anyone being the wiser. Oh, there were two telltale signs: the mud produced by the water that had rushed out of the pipeline when they’d removed a section; and the rope they’d wrapped around to bind the sections when they were done. But if you hadn’t already figured things out, you probably never would’ve noticed. Sure enough, Charlie told Mamie in an exulting burst of pride, a darn near perfect crime—until we came along.

The rest of the evening moved on quickly. Continuing to follow the pipeline, he hurried down to the beach and set to looking for a section tied with rope. When he saw it, he knew he’d found the spot where they’d removed the gold after its journey down the hill. From there, he walked east, following the shoreline toward a thickly forested corner of the island. In a small cove shaped like a perfect U and surrounded by tall spruces, a rowboat was anchored.

The getaway boat was still here! The thieves were still on the island! Charlie’s spirits soared. He now had no doubt that the thieves were planning to strike again. And when they did, Charlie Siringo, the cowboy detective, would catch ’em in the act.

ONCE AGAIN, Charlie forced himself to rein in all his eagerness. He reported to work the next morning at the machine shop and went through the motions. He told himself that maintaining his cover remained essential. There was no way of knowing when the robbers would make their move. It might be tonight, but he could just as well wind up waiting for a week or longer. In the meantime, Charlie understood he must not take any actions that’d make them suspicious. If the thieves fled before he caught them in the act, the case might never be completely resolved. He might never recover the stolen gold. Charlie did, however, make one concession prompted by the previous nights’ discoveries. Beneath his mackinaw, he’d tucked his Colt into the waistband of his pants. No one could see it, but as he went about his work he felt it pressing against him, a reminder of what was at stake.

After dinner, he retraced his steps to the spot in the woods where the thieves had constructed the covert to monitor the warehouse. His plan was to conceal himself in the trees near their hideout, watching and waiting in silence until they entered the warehouse. Then he’d charge in with his Colt drawn to make the arrests.

Charlie moved with great alertness. He knew a snapped branch would echo like the crack of a rifle shot in the night. His large hope was that the thieves would be crouched behind the rocks, that they’d break into the warehouse tonight. But as soon as he approached the spot, a sudden sense of dread stabbed his heart. All at once he ran toward the hideout, now unconcerned about the noise. One look had told him it no longer mattered. It was too late. The rocks and the spruce boughs had been scattered. Whether this had been done in an outburst of anger over having been discovered or in an attempt to disguise the hideout, he had no way of knowing. Nor did he have any idea whether he had carelessly left a clue that had betrayed his presence on the previous night or if they had simply decided to call things off.

But even as a flood of frustrations rose up in him, Charlie realized there was still one last hope. He ran as fast as he could through the darkness, nearly stumbling on several occasions as he made his way downhill. Panting, he rushed to the cove where the rowboat had been anchored. It was gone. And, he now knew without a doubt, so were the thieves.

For several minutes, he leaned against a tree. He was out of breath, and felt deeply foolish. He’d protected his cover, but at a large cost. While Lee Davis had been working as an oiler, the thieves had bolted. He’d had his chance to catch them, and had squandered it. All he could do now, he decided, was go back to his room. There was a letter he needed to write. And, he realized with a measure of resignation, the time had come, as well, to send the telegram he’d been putting off.

TWENTY

ow’d you know? Durkin asked Charlie as he handed the detective two metal disks about the size and shape of silver dollars.

It was shortly after midnight of the following day, and they were back in the alleyway in Juneau. The mine superintendent had received Charlie’s letter requesting a meeting at the usual spot and hour, and he’d obeyed. This time, Charlie observed with satisfaction, Durkin had come alone.

I didn’t, Charlie answered. I was just guessing—until now.

Charlie studied the two disks. Each was etched with a three-digit number. When a man reported for his shift at the mine, the supervisor would chalk his name on the board and then give him the numbered metal disk that was hanging on the adjacent peg. It was a safety precaution. If the disk hadn’t been returned at the end of the day, the supervisor would assume there’d been an accident; mining, to be sure, had its dangers. A search party would be dispatched at once to look for the missing man. Charlie’s letter to Durkin had inquired whether any men had failed to sign out after their shift yesterday. The disks in his hand established that two men had not returned.

You can call off the search, Charlie went on after a moment. You won’t find them. These men are not on the island.

Durkin’s confusion was apparent. But the detective was in no mood to be helpful. He stared with a mute frustration at the two disks.

The two missing men weren’t victims of an accident. They had bolted. He also knew he was the reason for their flight. Perhaps he’d carelessly left behind a sign when he’d occupied their hideout in the woods. Or maybe it was the way he’d retied the ropes around the pipeline; he should’ve paid more attention to the knot they’d used. Whatever the reason, Charlie had no doubt that he’d alerted the thieves. It was his own dumb fault. They’d fled the island in the middle of their shift because they’d discovered that someone was on to them.

What’re their names? Charlie asked.

Durkin pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Charlie.

Charlie read out loud: Hiram Schell and Charlie Hubbard. He tried to recall their faces, but he couldn’t. He was certain he’d never met them, never spoken to them. There were, after all, about a thousand people on the island.

They’re your gold thieves, he announced.

Now Durkin had had enough. He demanded that Charlie explain. So at last Charlie did. He told the mine superintendent how he’d worked out how the thefts had occurred, adding that in the course of his investigation he must have inadvertently left a clue that’d alerted the culprits.

So you had ’em, but you let ’em get away, Durkin accused.

Correct, Charlie agreed mildly.

You’ve no idea where they’ve hidden the stolen gold? Durkin challenged. Or where they went?

Correct, Charlie repeated.

I’m no better off with you than I was with the three men from the Portland office, Durkin remarked pointedly.

Charlie didn’t attempt to argue.

So what in tarnation you gonna do now? Durkin exploded. He was florid with rage.

I’m gonna find them. And then I’m gonna get you your gold, Charlie said with the perfect calm of a resigned anger.

BUT SEVEN nights passed and the only person Charlie had found was another Pinkerton detective. Sitting across from him in a saloon in Juneau was the man who had just arrived in response to his telegram.

The morning after Charlie had discovered that the thieves’ rowboat was gone, he’d finally notified McParland to dispatch the second operative. “At once,” he had urged, realizing that he could use the help. There were two men on the run. What if they’d split up? He wouldn’t be able to trail them both. Another factor in his finally getting around to obeying McParland’s order had been his own pride, always a touchy spot. The arrival of another detective would no longer, Charlie had felt, be a slight. He’d succeeded where three Pinkerton agents had failed: He’d single-handedly worked out how the robberies had occurred. There was no shame in calling in reinforcements to help round up the thieves and recover the gold. Two men, he expected, would be able to accomplish that far better than one. Charlie just hoped McParland would be obliging enough to dispatch someone who’d be useful.

The man across the table was W. O. Sayles, known to all as Billy, and Charlie had taken to him straight off. Although that might not have been expected since Billy, who had been raised in genteel circumstances in London, had a highfalutin accent as well as a bit of the dude in his manner. But like Charlie, he was a fun-loving fellow with, no less appealing, a decided yearn for adventure. Billy had fled to America nearly fifteen years ago, determined to make a life for himself in the Wild West he’d read about, and he’d done just that. There had been some years cowboying on Montana cattle spreads, and then he’d worked as a lawman in those parts, too. It was a hard frontier, and while the army came to be a civilizing presence, there were still renegade Indians on the prowl and horse thieves to deal with. A sheriff had his work cut out for him, but Billy had proved he could get the job done. Things had fallen apart, though, after there’d been some talk that he was keeping company with a shopkeeper’s wife. Rather than let her reputation get further besmirched, Billy had hightailed it down to Denver. The Pinkertons had hired him, and the next thing Billy had known, he was on a steamboat to Juneau. Soon as he arrived he’d contacted Charlie, and now they were happily making their way through a bottle of whiskey like old friends.

As they drank, Charlie got around to sharing the progress he’d made since he’d identified the two thieves. His detective work, he explained, had been limited since it was still necessary that he keep his cover; he didn’t want any of the thieves’ friends—or, worse, their accomplices—spreading the news that Lee Davis, one of the machine oilers, had quit the day after they’d run off. Schell and Hubbard already knew that someone at the mine was on to them. There was no sense in giving them reason to believe that Charlie was the Pinkerton who’d sorted out their scheme. His cover could still come in handy. Nevertheless, while reporting to his shifts as an oiler, he’d done some nosing around. And, Charlie announced to his new friend, he’d learned something pretty interesting: Schell and Hubbard had bought a fast schooner. A boat, he told Billy, that was big enough to carry a hoard of gold.