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JIM CUMMINGS
OR
THE GREAT ADAMS EXPRESS ROBBERY
With a portrait of the notorious Jim Cummings and
illustrations of scenes connected with the great robbery
By Frank Pinkerton
Vol. I, March 1887.
The Pinkerton Detective Series,
issued monthly,
by subscription, $3.00 per annum.
Chicago
CHAPTER I.
THE CONSPIRATORS--THE FORGED LETTER--THE PLAN.
In the rear room of a small frame building, the front of which was
occupied as a coal office, located on West Lake street, Chicago, three
men were seated around a square pine table. The curtains of the window
were not only drawn inside, but the heavy shutters were closed on the
outside. A blanket was nailed over the only door of the room, and every
thing and every action showed that great secrecy was a most important
factor of the assembly.
The large argand burner of a student's lamp filled the small room with
its white, strong light, The table was covered with railroad time-
tables, maps, bits of paper, on which were written two names a great
number of times, and pens of different makes and widths of point were
scattered amidst the papers,
One man, a large, powerfully-built fellow, deep-chested, and long-
limbed, was occupied in writing, again and again, the name of "J.B.
Barrett." He had covered sheet after sheet with the name, looking first
at a letter before him, but was still far from satisfied. "Damn a man
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 tell you
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 stew
for nothing. We're all in the same box here, eh?"
"Well, you be more careful hereafter," said "Cummings," and again he
bent 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, or the
muttered curses of Cummings (as he was called).
Suddenly he threw down his pen with a laugh of triumph, and holding a
piece 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 of
praise uttered by his companions as they compared the forged with the
genuine signature.
These three men were on the eve of a desperate enterprise. For months
they had been planning and working together, and the time for action was
rapidly approaching.
The one called "Cummings," the leader, was apparently, the youngest one
of the three. There was nothing in his face to denote the criminal. A
stranger looking at him, would imagine him to be a good-natured, jovial
chap, 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, was
smaller in size, but had a determined expression on his face, that
showed him to be a man who would take a desperate chance if necessary.
The third man, called sometimes Weaver, and sometimes Williams, was the
smallest one of the conspirators, and also the eldest. His frame, though
small, was compact and muscular, but his face lacked both the
determination of Roe and the frank, open expression of Cummings.
After scrutinizing the forgery for a time, Roe returned it to Cummings
and said, "Jim, who has the run out on the Frisco when you make the
plant?"
"A fellow named Fotheringham, a big chap, too. I was going to lay for
the other messenger, Hart, who is a small man, and could be easily
handled, but he has the day run now."
"This Fotheringham will have to be a dandy if he can tell whether
Barrett has written this or not, eh, Jim?"
"Aye, that he will. Let me once get in that car, and if the letter don't
work, I'll give him a taste of the barker."
"No shooting, Jim, no shooting, I swear to God I'll back out if you
spill a drop of blood."
Jim's eyes glittered, and he hissed between his teeth:
"You back out, Roe, and you'll see some shooting."
Roe laughed a nervous laugh, and said, as he pushed some blank letter-
heads toward Cummings, "Who's goin' to back out, only I don't like the
idea of shooting a man, even to get the plunder. Here's the Adam's
Express letter-heads I got to-day. Try your hand on the letter."
Cummings, somewhat pacified, with careful and laborious strokes of the
pen, wrote as follows:
"SPRINGFIELD, Mo., October 24th, '86.
MESSENGER, TRAIN No. 3, ST. L & ST. F. RTE:
DR. SIR: You will let the bearer, John Broson, Ride in your car to
Peirce, and give him all the Instructions that you can. Yours,
J.B. Barrett, R.A."
"Hit it the first time. Look at that Roe; cast your eye on that elegant
bit of literature, Weaver," and Cummings, greatly excited, paced up and
down the room, whistling, and indulging in other signs of huge
gratification.
"Well done, Jim, well done. Now write the other one, and we'll go and
licker up."
Again Cummings picked up his facile pen, and was soon successful in
writing the following letter, purporting to be from this same J. B.
Barrett.
"SPRINGFIELD, Mo., Oct. 21, '86.
"JOHN BRONSON, Esq., St. Louis, Mo.
"DR. SIR: Come at once to Peirce City by train No. 3, leaving St. Louis
8:25 p.m. Inclosed find note to messenger on the train, which you can
use for a pass in case you see Mr. Damsel in time. Agent at Peirce City
will instruct you further.
"Respectfully, J. B. BARRETT, R. A."
Jim drew a long, deep sigh of relief as he muttered:
"Half the work is done; half the work is done."
Drawing the railroad map of the Chicago & Alton road toward him, he put
the pen point on St. Louis, and slowing following the St. L. & S. F.
Division, paused at Kirkwood.
"Roe, here's the place I shall tackle this messenger. It is rather close
to St. Louis, but it's down grade and the train will be making fast
time. She stops at Pacific--here, and we will jump the train there,
strike for the river, and paddle down to the K. & S. W. You must jump on
at the crossing near the limits, plug the bell cord so the damned
messenger can't pull the rope on me, and I will have him foul."
Roe listened attentively to these instructions, nodding his head slowly
several times to express his approval, and said:
"When will we go down?"
Jim Cummings, looking at the time-table, answered:
"This is--what date is this, Weaver?"
"October 11th."
"Two weeks from to-day will be the 25th. That is on--let's see, that is
Tuesday."
"Two weeks from to-day, Roe, you will have to take the train at St.
Louis; get your ticket to Kirkwood. I see by this time-table that No. 3
does stop there. When you get off, run ahead, plug the bell-cord, and I
will wait till she gets up speed after leaving Kirkwood before I draw my
deposit."
Thus did these three men plan a robbery that was to mulet the Adams
Express Company of $100,000, baffle the renowned Pinkertons for weeks
and excite universal admiration for its boldness, skill, and
completeness.
The papers upon which Cummings had exercised his skill, were torn into
little bits, the time-tables and maps were folded and placed in coat
pockets, the lamp extinguished, and three men were soon strolling down
Lake street as calmly as if they had no other object than to saunter
into their favorite bar-room, and toss off a social drink or two.
CHAPTER II.
THE SUCCESS OF THE LETTERS--THE ATTACK--THE ROBBERS--THE ESCAPE.
The Union depot at St. Louis was ablaze with lights. The long Kansas
City train was standing, all made up, the engine coupled on, and almost
ready to pull out. Belated passengers were rushing frantically from the
ticket window to the baggage-room, and then to the train, when a man,
wearing side whiskers, and carrying a small valise, parted from his
companion at the entrance to the depot, and, after buying a ticket to
Kirkwood, entered the smoking car. His companion, a tall, well-built
man, having a smooth face, and a very erect carriage, walked with a
business-like step down the platform until he reached the express car.
Tossing the valise which he carried into the car, he climbed in himself
with the aid of the hand-rail on the side of the door, and, as the
messenger came toward him, he held out his hand, saying:
"Is this Mr. Fotheringham?"
"Yes, that's my name."
"I have a letter from Mr. Bassett for you," and, taking it from his
pocket, he handed it to the messenger.
Fotheringham read the letter carefully, and placing it in his pocket,
said:
"Going to get a job, eh?"
"Yes, the old man said he would give me a show, and as soon as there was
a regular run open, he would let me have it."
"Well, I'm pretty busy now; make yourself comfortable until we pull out,
and then I'll post you up as best I can, Mr. Bronson."
Mr. "Bronson" pulled off his overcoat, and, seating himself in a chair,
glanced around the car.
In one end packages, crates, butter, egg-cases, and parts of machinery
were piled up. At the other end a small iron safe was lying. As it
caught Bronson's eye an expression came over his face, which, if
Fotheringham had seen, would have saved him a vast amount of trouble.
But the messenger, too busy to notice his visitor, paid him no
attention, and in a moment Bronson was puffing his cigar with a
nonchalant air, that would disarm any suspicions which the messenger
might have entertained, but he had none, as it was a common practice to
send new men over his run, that he might "break them in."
The train had pulled out, and after passing the city limits, was flying
through the suburbs at full speed.
Fotheringham, seated in front of his safe, with his way bills on his
lap, was checking them off as Bronson called off each item of freight in
the car.
The long shriek of the whistle and the jerking of the car caused by the
tightening of the air brake on the wheels, showed the train to be
approaching a station.
"This is Kirkwood," said Fotheringham, "nothing for them to-night."
The train was almost at a standstill, when Bronson, saying "What sort of
a place is it?" threw back the door and peered out into the dark.
As he did so, a man passed swiftly by, and in passing glanced into the
car. As Bronson looked, he saw it was the same man that had bought a
ticket for Kirkwood and had ridden in the smoker.
The train moved on. Bronson shut the door and buttoned his coat.
Fotheringham, still busy on his way bills, was whistling softly to
himself, and sitting with his back to his fellow passenger.
Some unusual noise in the front end of the car caught his ear, and
raising his head, he exclaimed:
"What's that?"
The answer came, not from the front of the car but from behind.
A strong muscular hand was placed on his neck. A brawny arm was thrown
around his chest, and lifted from the chair, he was thrown violently to
the floor of the car.
In a flash he realized his position. With an almost superhuman effort,
he threw Bronson from him, and reaching around felt for his revolver. It
was gone, and thrown to the other end of the car.
Little did the passengers on the train know of the stirring drama which
was being enacted in the car before them. Little did they think as they
leaned back in their comfortable seats, of the terrific struggle which
was then taking place. On one hand it was a struggle for $100,000; on
the other, for reputation, for honor, perhaps for life.
Fotheringham, strong as he vas (for he was large of frame, and muscular)
was no match for his assailant. He struggled manfully, but was hurled
again to the floor, and as he looked up, saw the cold barrel of a 32-
calibre pointed at his head. Bronson's face, distorted with passion and
stern with the fight, glared down at him, as he hissed through his
teeth:
"Make a sound, and you are a dead man."
The messenger, seeing all was lost, lay passive upon the floor. The
robber, whipping out a long, strong, silk handkerchief, tied his hands
behind his back, and making a double-knotted gag of Fotheringham's
handkerchief, gagged him. Searching the car he discovered a shawl-strap
with which he tied the messenger's feet, and thus had him powerless as a
log. Then, and not till then, did he speak aloud.
"Done, and well done, too."
The flush faded from his face, his eye became sullen, and drawing the
messenger's chair to him he sat down. As he gazed at his discomfited
prisoner an expression of intense relief came over his features. His
forged letters had proved successful, his only formidable obstacle
between himself and his anticipated booty lay stretched at his feet,
helpless and harmless. The nature of the car prevented any interruption
from the ends, as the only entrance was through the side doors, and he
had all night before him to escape.
Now for the plunder. The key to the safe was in Fotheringham's pocket.
It took but a second to secure it, and but another second to use it in
unlocking the strong-box. The messenger, unable to prevent this in any
way, looked on in intense mental agony. He saw that he would be
suspected as an accomplice. The mere fact that one man could disarm,
bind and gag him, would be used as a suspicious circumstance against
him. Although he did not know the exact sum of money in the safe he was
aware that it was of a very considerable amount, and he fairly writhed
in his agony of mind. In an instant Cummings (or, as he had been called
by the messenger, Bronson) was on his feet, revolver in hand, and again
the cruel, murderous expression dwelt on his face, as he exclaimed:
"Lie still, damn you, lie still. If you attempt to create an alarm, I'll
fill you so full of lead that some tenderfoot will locate you for a
mineral claim. D'ye understand?"
After this facetious threat he paid no further attention to the
messenger.
Emptying his valise of its contents of underclothing and linen, he
stuffed it full of the packages of currency which the safe contained.
One package, containing $30,000, from the Continental Bank of St. Louis,
was consigned to the American National Bank of Kansas City. Another
large package held $12,000, from the Merchants National Bank of St.
Louis for the Merchants Bank of Forth Smith, Arkansas, and various other
packages, amounting altogether to $53,000.
With wonderful sang froid, Cummings stuffed this valuable booty in his
valise, and then proceeded to open the bags containing coin. His keen
knife-blade ripped bag after bag, but finding it all silver, he
desisted, and turning to Fotheringham, demanded:
"Any gold aboard?"
Fotheringham shook his head in reply.
"Does that mean there is none, or you don't know?"
Again the messenger shook his head.
"Well, I reckon your right, all silver, too heavy and don't amount to
much."
As he was talking, the whistle of the engine suddenly sound two short
notes, and the air-brakes were applied.
The train stopped, and the noise of men walking on the gravel was heard.
As Fotheringham lay there, his ears strained to catch every sound, and
hoping for the help that never came, his heart gave a joyful throb, as
some one pounded noisily on the door. Almost at the same instant he felt
the cold muzzle of a revolver against his head, and the ominous "click,
click" was more eloquent than threats or words could be.
The pounding ceased, and in a short time the train moved on again.
Apparently not satisfied that the messenger was bound safe and fast,
Cummings took the companion strap to the one which pinioned the feet of
his victim, and passing it around his neck, fastened it to the handle of
the safe in such a way that any extra exertion on Fotheringham's part
would pull the safe over and choke him.
Opening the car door, he threw away the clothing which he had taken from
his valise.
Returning to the messenger, he stooped over him, and took from his
pocket the forged letter with which he gained entrance to the car.
Fotheringham tried to speak, but the gag permitted nothing but a
rattling sound to escape.
"I know what you want, young fellow. You want this letter to prove that
you had some sort of authority to let me ride. Sorry I can't accommodate
you, my son, but those devilish Pinkertons will be after me in twenty-
four hours, and this letter would be just meat to them. I'll fix you all
right, though. My name's Cummings, Jim Cummings, and I'll write a letter
to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that will clear you Honest to God, I
will. You've been pretty generous to-night; given me lots of swag, and
I'll never go back on you.
"Give my love to Billy Pinkerton when you see him. Tell him Jim Cummings
did this job."
As he uttered these words, the train commenced slacking up, and as it
stopped, Cummings, opening the door, with his valuable valise, leaped to
the ground, closed the door behind him, the darkness closed around him
and he was gone.
Inside the car, a rifled safe, a bound and gagged messenger, and the
Adams Express Company was poorer by $100,000 than it was when the
'Frisco train pulled out of the depot the evening before.
CHAPTER III.
PINKERTON TO THE RESCUE.
The next day the country knew of the robbery. Newspapers in every city
had huge head lines, telling the story in the most graphic style.
JESSE JAMES OUTDONE! The Adams Express Company ROBBED OF $100,000!
THE EXPRESS MESSENGER FOUND GAGGED AND BOUND TO HIS OWN SAFE--THE ROBBER
ESCAPES--ABSOLUTELY NO CLEWS--PINKERTON TO THE RESCUE!
Mr. Damsel, the superintendent of the St. Louis branch of the Adams
Express Company, was pacing anxiously up and down his private office.
Fotheringham was relating his exciting experience, which a stenographer
immediately took down in shorthand. At frequent intervals Mr. Damsel
would ask a searching question, to which the messenger replied in a
straightforward manner and without hesitation. It was a trying ordeal to
him. Innocent as he was, his own testimony was against him. He knew it
and felt it, but nothing that he could do or say would lighten the
weight of the damaging evidence. He could but tell the facts and await
developments. When he was through Mr. Damsel left him in the office, and
immediately telegraphed to every station between Pacific and St. Louis
to look for the linen and underclothing which the robbers had thrown
from the car. The wires were working in all directions, giving a full
description of Cummings and such other information as would lead to his
discovery.
Local detectives were closeted with Mr. Damsel all day, but so shrewdly
and cunningly had the express robber covered his tracks, that nothing
but the bare description of the man could be used as a clew.
Fotheringham was put through the "sweating process" time and again, but,
though he gave the most minute and detailed account of the affair, the
detectives could find nothing to help them.
That Fotheringham "stood in" with the robber was the universal theory.
The story of the letter and order from Mr. Barrett was received with
derision and suspicion.
Mr. Damsel himself was almost confident that his employee had a hand in
the robbery. It was a long and anxious day, and as it wore along and no
new developments turned up, Mr. Damsel became more anxious and troubled:
$100,000 is a large sum and the Adams Express Company had a reputation
at stake. What was to be done?
Almost instantly the answer came: telegraph for Pinkerton.
The telegram was sent, and when William Pinkerton wired back that he
would come at once. Mr. Damsel felt his load of responsibility begin to
grow lighter, and he waited impatiently for the morning to come.
The next morning about 10 o'clock Mr. Damsel received a note, signed
"Pinkerton," requesting him to call at room 84 of the Southern Hotel. He
went at once. A pleasant-faced gentleman, with a heavy mustache and keen
eyes, greeted him, and Mr. Damsel was shaking hands with the famous
detective, on whose shoulders had fallen the mantle of his father, Allan
Pinkerton, probably the finest detective the world has ever seen.
Mr. Damsel had his stenographer's notes, which had been transcribed on
the type-writer, and Mr. Pinkerton carefully and slowly read every word.
"What sort of a man is this Fotheringham?"
"He is a large, well built, and I should say, muscular young fellow. Has
always been reliable before, and has been with us some years."
"Has he ever been arrested before?"
"He says twice. Once for shooting off a gun on Sunday, and again for
knocking a man down for insulting a lady."
"You think he is guilty--that is, you think he had a hand in the
robbery?"
"Mr. Pinkerton, I regret to say I do. It doesn't seem probable that a
strong, hearty man would allow another man to disarm him, gag him, tie
him hand and foot, get away with $100,000, and all that without a
desperate struggle, and he hasn't the sign of a scratch or bruise on
him."
"N-n-no, it doesn't. Still it could be done. You have him under arrest,
then."
"Not exactly. He is in my office now, and apparently has no thought of
trying to escape."
"Well, Mr. Damsel, I am inclined to think that this man Fotheringham
knows no more of this robbery than he has told you. If he is in
collusion with the robber, or robbers--for I think that more than one
had to do with it--he would have made up a story in which two or more
had attacked him. He would have had a cut in the arm, a bruised head or
some such corroborating testimony to show. The fact that he was held up
by a single man goes a good way, in my judgment, to prove him innocent
of any criminal connection with the robbery. We must look elsewhere for
the culprits."
"Had you not better see Fotheringham?"
"Of course I intend doing that. Did you secure the clothing which this
so-called Cummings threw out of the train?"
"Telegrams have been sent out, and I hope to have it sent in by to-
morrow."
"That is good--we may find something which we can grasp. The public
generally have an idea that a detective can make something out of
nothing that the merest film of a clew is all that is necessary with
which to build up a strong substantial edifice of facts. It is only the
Messieurs La Coqs and 'Old Sleuths' of books and illustrated weeklies
that are possessed with the second sight, and can hunt down the
shrewdest criminals, without being bound to such petty things as clews,
circumstantial evidence or witnesses. We American detectives can
generally make 4 by putting 2 and 2 together, but we must have a
starting point, and an old shirt or a pair of stockings, such as this
robber threw away, may contain just what we need."
A knock on the door, and an employee of the office entered.
"Mr. Damsel, the entire road has been carefully searched, and no trace
of the clothing can be found."
"That's bad," said Mr. Pinkerton, "we should have found that."
Mr. Damsel bade the employee to return to the office, and turning to Mr.
Pinkerton, said:
"The case is in your hands. Do what you want, if any man can run that
Cummings down, you can."
"Well, I'll take it. I should advise you first to have Fotheringham
arrested as an accomplice. While I do not think he is one, he may be; at
any rate it will lead the principals in the case to believe we are on
the wrong track, but I must confess there don't seem to be any track at
all, wrong or right."
"I will do that. I will swear out a warrant to-day against him."
Mr. Damsel took his leave, and that night Fotheringham slept behind iron
bars.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DETECTIVE AND THE MESSENGER.
After Mr. Damsel had left the hotel, Mr. Pinkerton sat in deep thought.
He had carefully re-read Fotheringham's statement, but could find
nothing that could be put out as a tracer; no little straw to tell which
way the wind was blowing.
"Cummings, Cummings, Jim Cummings. By George, that can't be the Jim
Cummings that used to flock with the Jesse James gang. That Cummings was
a gray-haired man, while this Cummings is young, about 26 years old.
Besides he is a much larger than Jesse James' Jim Cummings. That name is
evidently assumed.
"This statement says he was dressed in a good suit of clothes, and wore
a very flashy cravat. Furthermore, he bragged a good deal about what he
would do with the money. Also that he would write a letter to the St.
Louis Globe-Democrat exonerating the messenger. Well, a man who will
brag like that, and wears flashy articles of neck-wear, is just the man
that will talk too much, or make some bad break. If he writes that
letter, he's a goner. There will be something in it that will give me a
hold. The paper, the ink, the hand-writing, the place and time it was
mailed--something that will give him away,"
"I must see this messenger, and I must see him here; alone. He may be
able to give me a little glimmer of light."
To think with "Billy" Pinkerton was to act.
He pressed the annunciator button, and sitting down, wrote a short note
to Mr. Damsel, requesting him to bring Fotheringham with him to his
room.
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