Books: Jim Cummings
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Frank Pinkerton >> Jim Cummings
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"Well, put a clapper to your jaw, and come along."
Boarding a street car, the men stood on the front platform smoking
during the long ride to the terminus of the road.
Leaving the car, they plunged through the darkness over the same path
trod by the tramp earlier in the afternoon.
The dark form of the distillery loomed up ahead of them, gloomy and
lonesome.
Overhead not a star was to be seen, and save an occasional drunkard
staggering home, the two men were alone on the road.
A short distance beyond the distillery the cooper-shop squatted beside
the street, and the dim flicker of a candle cast its pitiful light
through the dirt-encrusted window.
As Moriarity and Cummings stepped from the shadow of the distillery, an
indistinct form stole behind them, and keeping just within sight,
followed the two men as they wended their lonely way to Cook's shop.
Disdaining all attempts at concealment, Cummings rapped loudly on the
door.
The sound of clinking glasses was heard, and a voice, heavy and thick,
growled out, "Come in."
A vigorous shove opened the door, and Cummings was about to step inside,
but at the sight of another man, a ragged tramp, drinking with Cook, he
stopped short.
"Come in, b'hoy, come in; d-d-don't keep the d-d-door open; come right
in," stuttered Cook, too drunk to speak intelligibly.
The tramp, elevating his glass above his head, with an inviting gesture,
shouted the words of the old drinking song:
"Drink, puppy, drink, let every puppy drink
That's old enough to stand and to swallow.
For we'll pass the bottle round, when we've become a hound,
And merrily we'll drink and we'll hallo."
Cook attempted to join in the chorus, but his voice failed him, his head
sank down upon his breast, and, in a drunken stupor, he rolled from his
seat, prone upon the ground.
The tramp, rising to his feet, staggered to the side of his companion,
and steadying himself with the aid of a chair, made futile attempts to
raise his comrade to a perpendicular position. His knees bent under him,
the chair fell from his unsteady grasp, and murmuring, "We'll pass the
bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbent
Cook, passed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus,
seemingly dead drunk.
With a bitter curse of rage Cummings stepped forward, and, with rough
hands, separated the boon companions, thrusting the tramp without
ceremony under the table, Moriarity in the meantime shaking Cook in vain
attempts to rouse him from his maudlin stupor. Cook, however, was too
far "under the influence" to be aroused, and to the vigorous shakings
and punchings would respond only with a hiccough and part of the refrain
"puppies drink."
Cummings, in a towering rage at finding Cook in such a helpless
condition, paced the small shop with impatient tread, all the time
pouring imprecations upon Cook's devoted head. A sudden turn in his
short beat brought him facing the window, and flattened against the
dirty pane was the face of a man gazing intently into the room.
Another second and the face had disappeared.
Cummings stopped abruptly at the sight of the apparition, his face
became livid, and a shade of terror flashed across his countenance. It
was but an instant, though, that he stood thus, and calling to Moriarity
to follow, he dashed through the door, drawing his ready revolver from
his side coat-pocket at the same time, and catching a fleeting glimpse
of a flying shadow, sped after it.
Moriarity, somewhat dazed at the unexpected turn of affairs, had risen
to his feet, and stood blankly gazing at the open door, not
comprehending what had occurred. A movement made by the pseudo tramp,
caused him to turn around, and he was gazing straight into the open
barrel of a dangerous-looking revolver, held by a steady hand, and cool
daring eyes were glancing over the shining barrel, as a voice, decided
and commanding, said:
"Hands out, Dan Moriarity, I want you."
Chip, as he was stretched on the floor feigning drunkenness, had kept
his ears open, although obliged to keep his eyes closed.
The single candle which lit the room, furnished light too indistinct for
him to see the faces of the two visitors, and as he acted his character
of the drunken man, he cudgeled his brains to account for their visit.
The sudden disappearance of Cummings, and his calling out, "Moriarity,
follow me," cleared the mystery.
He comprehended the situation at once.
While he did not know it was Jim Cummings that had been in the room, his
mind with lightning speed grouped the torn express tag, the words "it to
Cook," the man Cook, who lay beside him drunk, the fifty-dollar bill
which he had changed at the bar-room, together with Dan Moriarity, and
quick to reach his conclusions, he saw that it was the Moriarity he
wanted, accompanied by some one who had come to see Cook.
Half opening his eyes he saw that Moriarity was standing up, nonplussed
at something, and instantly he drew his revolver, and as Moriarity
turned around covered him and ordered him to hold out his hands.
Staggered again the second time by seeing a ragged tramp, who a few
seconds before was stretched at his feet in a drunken slumber, now
erect, perfectly sober, and having the drop on him, Moriarity became
more bewildered, and passively held out his hands.
The sharp click of steel handcuffs brought the dazed man to his senses,
but too late.
He opened his mouth to cry for aid, but a strong hand was laid on his
wind-pipe and the cry died before it was born.
The cold barrel of the revolver against his ear, and the detective's
"shut up or I'll shoot," was too strong an argument to combat, and
Moriarity submitted to being pushed hurriedly from the room into the
open air and dark night.
Chip was beginning to congratulate himself on the important capture he
had made, and with his hand on his captive's collar, and his revolver to
his ear, was moving towards the center of the street, when a whistling
"swish" was heard, the dull thud of a slung shot on the detective's head
followed, and, every muscle relaxed, he sank a senseless man in the dust
of the road.
"Help me pick him up," said Cummings, "and be quick about it, there's
another beak around."
"I can't. I've got his darbies on."
Cummings stooped down, and lifting Chip in his arms, walked rapidly down
the road toward the river.
"What are you going to do with him, Jim?"
"Chuck him through the ice. He knows too much."
With the senseless man in his arms, Cummings hurried forward, nor paused
until he reached the river bank.
The weather had been piercingly cold for a week, although no snow had
fallen, and the river was frozen solid from bank to bank.
To this fact Chip owed his life. When the train robber came to the ice,
he sounded it with his heel. It was solid and firm, not even an air hole
to be seen.
Baffled in his murderous designs, he debated for a second whether it
would not be the best thing to leave the detective on the ice, and let
him freeze to death, but the publicity of the place, its proximity to
the city, and the risk of having been shadowed by the man whom he had
caught gazing through the window, caused him to think of some secure
place wherein to put the senseless Chip. He first searched the wounded
man's pockets, and, finding the key, released the handcuffs from
Moriarity.
The latter, seeing Cummings hesitate, and divining the cause, said in a
questioning voice:
"Why not take him to the widow's, Jim?"
"I would a damned sight rather put him through the ice, but its too
thick for me. Do you think we can carry him between us?"
"It would never do to let people see us two with a dead man between us."
"Then you must go up town and get a hack."
Moriarity turned back to the shore, and climbing the bank, hurried in
the direction of the city.
Left alone with his victim, the desperado bent over him, placing his
hand on Chip's heart. It beat steadily, though not strongly, and
Cummings experienced a feeling of relief when he felt the regular
pulsations,
He had never yet shed blood, and his first passion having died out, he
was glad that the thick ice had defeated his first purpose.
The stunned detective stirred, the cold, crisp air was reviving him, and
Cummings, his better nature asserting itself, hastily doffed his
overcoat and threw it over the recumbent form of his captive.
It was not very long before the noise of carriage wheels were heard, and
Moriarity running out on the ice assisted Cummings in carrying Chip to
the land and placed him in the carriage, which he had caught on the way
to town.
The driver, who had been told that "one of the boys had got more than he
could carry," did not concern himself to investigate too closely, and
having received his order, drove briskly from the scene.
The darkness and open country gave way to gas-lights and paved streets,
over which the carriage rattled at a lively pace. Turning into a side
street, Dan pulled the check-strap, and the carriage turned to the curb
and stopped.
The detective, still unconscious, was lifted out, the driver paid and
dismissed, and the two men, bearing Chip between them, entered a dark,
narrow alley.
Proceeding up this for some distance, they entered the low door of a
basement and placed their still insensible burden on the floor.
The damp, moldy smell of an underground room filled the air, and but for
a slender beam of light which flashed beneath an adjoining door the
place was dark as night.
Softly stealing to the door, Moriarity applied his ear to the key-hole,
and hearing no sounds within, gave a peculiar double rap on the panel.
Receiving no answer, he cautiously opened the door and disclosed a
small, square room, having a low ceiling, and lighted by a single low-
burning gas jet.
On the walls hung a large astronomical map, showing the solar system,
and divided with the girdle of the zodiac into its various
constellations.
A grinning skull, mounted on a black pedestal, stood on a small table in
the center of the room, and on shelves against the wall were ranged a
number of curiously-shaped bottles.
It was, in fact, the divining-room of a professional fortune-teller.
The room was vacant when Moriarity opened the door, but as he threw it
back, a small bell was sounded.
Almost instantly heavy curtains which hung opposite the door were pushed
aside, and the fortune-teller appeared.
Advancing with stately strides, her tall form erect and her hands
clasped before her, she fastened a pair of cruel, glittering eyes on
Moriarity and in a deep voice asked:
"Why this intrusion at this late hour?"
"Oh! drop that stuff, Nance; it won't go down with us; we're no gulls to
have pretty things told us by giving you a dollar."
Recognizing her visitor, Nance, in her natural tone, inquired sharply:
"What do you want at this time of night?"
"In the first place we want you to keep your mouth shut. In the next
place you must find a place for a man we've got here, and keep him for a
while."
"You're a loving nephew, you are, Dan Moriarity, Oh! you come around and
see your old aunt when you're up to some devilment, I'm bound."
Moriarity, not deigning to reply to this speech, had gone back to his
companion, and now returned with the form of the detective between them.
"My God! you haven't killed him, Dan?"
"He has a pretty sore head, I reckon, but nothing worse. Take us up-
stairs."
Following Nance, the men carried Chip behind the curtain, through
another room, and ascended a flight of stairs.
Nance threw open a door and Chip was placed upon a bed. The room was
sumptuously, even elegantly, furnished. Pictures adorned the walls, a
heavy carpet deadened the sound of the feet, and rich curtains kept back
the too-inquisitive light.
Chip, wounded and insensible, was in the house of the "widow," the
rendezvous of a daring band of robbers and the birth-place of many a
dashing raid or successful bank robbery.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE TOILS.
The dark shadow that had followed Cummings and Moriarity from the
distillery to Cook's cooper-shop was none other than the assumed Barney
O'Hara, who had aired his heels so jauntily in the saloon that
afternoon.
Watching on the outside while Chip was working Cook, he had spotted and
shadowed the two men as they came down the road.
The careless exposure of his face to Cummings through the window was the
cause of the latter's sudden attempt to catch him.
His nimble heels again stood him in good stead, and in the darkness he
easily eluded his pursuer.
Cummings gave up the chase, and returning just in time, had stopped
Chip's success by knocking him down with a slungshot and carrying him
off.
When Barney, or, rather, Sam, returned to renew his investigation, he
found the shop empty, save the intoxicated Cook.
Thinking his late pursuer and his companion had taken the alarm, and
that Chip was now doubtless shadowing them, he walked into the shop,
and, true to his detective instincts and education, began a diligent
search of the place.
He was actively engaged in this work when the sound of hasty footsteps
reached his ears. Throwing himself flat on the floor, behind a pile of
barrel staves, he drew his revolver and waited. The steps passed by,
however, and Sam quickly but quietly left the shop.
He could barely see the form of a man walking rapidly down the street to
the horse-car track.
As he passed the window of the saloon the light fell on him, and Sam saw
it was one of the two men who had just left the cooper-shop.
Following closely, using all his skill as a successful shadow, he
trailed the man to the car, and boarding the front platform rode into
town.
Passing a livery stable the man left the car, still followed by Sam.
When Moriarity, for it was he whom Sam was trailing, rode back to the
river, Sam was perched on behind the hack.
He saw the wounded Chip placed inside, thanks to the darkness, and still
hanging on the back of the carriage was carried back to town.
When the two train robbers turned into the alley Sam was right behind
them, so close that he could hear their labored breathing. Suddenly, as
if they had been swallowed by the earth, he was left alone in the dark,
nonplussed and outwitted.
Not a point of light was visible, and settling himself against the wall
of a building, Sam started in for an all-night watch.
He understood the case at once. Chip had been knocked down by the
renegades, and, probably still insensible, had been carried to their
haunt. Knocked down, either because they had discovered his disguise, or
had suspected him.
He was now firmly convinced that if Cook was not an accomplice in the
train robbery, he was involved in something criminal, and Sam regretted
that he had not been more thorough in his investigations. Now that Chip
was in the hands of his enemies, all others sank into insignificance; so
with keen eyes and sharp ears, Sam kept his solitary vigil.
The gray dawn of the morning had taken the place of the night, and Sam,
under the shadow of a convenient shed door had heard or seen nothing
pass his post. The day grew stronger, and, chilled to the bone, the
disappointed detective left the alley and wended his way to his
boarding-house.
The cause of the sudden disappearance of the two robbers the reader is
acquainted with, and the reason Sam failed to see them again was because
they had left the house by another exit.
The widow, acting as a go-between and a fence for the light-fingered
gentry who patronized her establishment, hid her real calling with the
guise of a fortune-teller, and her house, poorly furnished, damp and
moldy when entered from the alley, was well furnished in the upper
stories.
The room in which Chip was confined was the sybil's chief pride. Every
article of furniture, every bit of painting, the carpets, and even the
base-burning stove, were the trophies of successful robberies.
The very sheets and towels had been deftly purloined by the widow
herself.
It was this stronghold of the "gang," to which Chip, battered and
insensible, had been brought by his captors.
Cummings, who from his actions was no stranger to the house, in brief
authoritative tones, bade the witch to take charge of this prisoner
until further disposition could be made of him.
The widow listened to his words, and with the submission which all his
associates rendered to him, promised to do all he commanded.
The first gleam of the morning warned the two men that they must seek
their cover, for despite Jim's natural boldness and daring, he was
cautious and careful. Instead of descending to the room which had its
entrance from the alley, they mounted another flight of stairs, and
gaining the roof by means of the scuttle, walked the flat mansard until
another hatch-door was reached, and through it they entered a quiet,
unassuming appearing house, which stood on the side street from which
the alley branched.
The house, though completely furnished, was vacant, and the men reached
the street without meeting any one.
Cummings and Moriarity having left, the widow, for the first time
ventured to look at her new charge. Her keen eyes noted the disguise
which Chip had adopted. The wicked blow which had brought him to this
plight had moved the red wig to one side and disclosed the dark
clustering hair, now bathed and soaked in his blood.
He was still unconscious, but his strong constitution was regaining its
sway, and he moved uneasily on his soft couch.
The widow, now remembering the commands which Cummings had laid upon
her, hastened to bring water, and washed the wound. The slung shot had
struck squarely across the crown of the head, but the cut was not very
large or deep, and the widow, with ready skill, bound it neatly with
bandages, and holding a brandy flask to his mouth forced some of its
contents down his throat.
The color came back to the detective's face, and in a few moments his
eyes opened, and with a dazed expression wandered over the room.
The widow, as she noticed the first signs of returning consciousness had
retired from the room, now, with consummate skill, put a kindly, even
tender, look toward the sufferer as she reappeared through the door.
Chip, still very much bewildered, his head feeling as though it was
whirling off his shoulders, heard a pleasant voice asking: "And how is
my poor boy, now?"
Chip gazed vacantly at her, as he responded:
"Who are you? Where am I--my head--"
"Come, come, don't talk. Take this medicine like a good boy, and go to
sleep."
With childlike obedience the detective swallowed the draught, which soon
took possession of his senses, and he fell asleep.
The widow quietly sat beside him until the opiate had taken full effect.
Then muttering "You are safe for four and twenty hours," she descended
to her divining-room, leaving the detective deep in slumber, and in
complete ignorance of his surroundings.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE WATCH.
Sam Slade and Chip had been comrades at arms for almost two years. Many
a dashing capture had they made Adventures and hair-breadth escapes were
of frequent occurrence with the two "dare-devils," as the force had
dubbed them, and before now each had saved the other's life by some bold
stroke or skillful strategy.
Satisfied that Chip was in danger, if not of his life at least of his
liberty, Sam hastened to his room, and with the aid of soap and water
resumed his natural appearance. The jaunty-looking Irish lad, Barney
O'Hara, would never be recognized in the young gentleman who looked at
you through gold-rimmed spectacles, with soft gray eyes, and whose sober
demeanor and grave countenance bore the stamp of the student or
minister.
It was this metamorphized individual that walked languidly to the
breakfast table and responded in gentle tones to the woman's salutations
which greeted him. Breakfast served and over, Sam again sought his room.
His boarding-house had been selected entirely on account of this room.
The room had once been occupied by a physician as his office, and,
standing on the corner of two streets, had a side entrance to it besides
the entrance from the main portion of the house.
Thus the detective could slip in and out entirely unobserved by the
boarders or his landlady, the latter supposing him to be a man of enough
means to enable him to live without daily labor.
Sam had given her this idea, and supplemented it by stating he was
engaged in literary pursuits.
Reaching his room, Sam wrote out a full report for the last twenty-four
hours (this constituted his literary labors) to be forwarded to Mr.
Pinkerton in Chicago.
After his report was finished, he hastily threw off his clothing, and
replaced his sober suit of gray by the flashy costume of a man about
town, he stood before his mirror to make up his face.
No actor was more clever than Sam in artistic and realistic disguises.
His smooth face was skillfully covered by a beard, short-cropped, his
nose was given the slightest rosy tint, and putting on a light overcoat,
the studious young gentleman of half an hour ago was transformed into a
howling swell.
Tan-colored gloves and a heavy, silver-headed cane completed his
costume. Thus arrayed he sallied forth.
It was now nearly noon. The streets were crowded, and Sam kept his eyes
well opened, carelessly but keenly scrutinizing every man he met.
One saloon after another was visited, but no sight of the mysterious men
who had downed Chip could be obtained.
He had carefully noted his bearings when he left the alley in the
morning, so he had no trouble in finding the correct locality again.
His hat was tipped rakishly over his left eye as he swaggered up the
alley and entered a beer vault for which the alley was really the
entrance. By good luck, no customers were present, and Sam engaged in a
lively conversation with the bartender.
Skillful pumping, judiciously mixed with high-priced drinks, soon gave
Sam the entire history of the denizens of the locality.
It was beside the shed door of the beer vault that Sam had kept his
solitary watch and ward the previous night, so that somewhere about this
point Chip had been carried by his captors.
Gazing through the window, Sam saw a mass of debris; old cans, ashes and
the like were scattered in the center of the court or alley, while on
both sides, near the buildings, a narrow board walk was laid.
Now, Sam knew that when he entered the place he was on the right-hand
side, immediately behind his game.
If they had crossed over to the side on which the beer vault stood, the
crunching of the ashes or the noise of the old cans, which would be very
apt to be moved, would have advised him of that fact.
Putting these facts together, Sam was almost certain that they had not
entered the beer cellar.
Just opposite stood a half-open door, which, flush with the court, would
have accounted for the sudden disappearance of the men if they had
turned suddenly and entered it. These observations were made by the
detective while he was engaged in a lively and pungent conversation with
the burly bar-keeper.
The saloon made a good post of observation, and Sam settled himself for
an all-day patron if necessary. Taking a seat near the window, he called
for a glass of beer, and tilting back his chair took a careful survey of
the premises.
The alley was what is termed a "blind alley." On each side were low
doors entering the basements of the houses, and the population consisted
of rag-pickers, second-hand clothiers and one pawnshop. It was just such
a place as one would expect to meet the lowest types of humanity. Dirty
children were playing in the half-deserted place, their blue lips and
pinched faces speaking eloquently of their poverty. Italian hand-organ
grinders were sitting on their door-steps, and slatternly women were
leaning from their windows, exchanging gossip in loud, shrill tones.
Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the narrow walk, carrying a
suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every person he might meet,
dodging suddenly into some one of the doors. All this Sam saw, but his
eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately opposite.
He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his
liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was,
so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there
appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely
watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman. Her eyes, strikingly
brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar prevented
her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she made. The
woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl over her
head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.
The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female passed down
the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb:
"Rum old gal that."
"Friend of yours?" lazily inquired the detective.
"Naw. I don't have nothin' to do with her, nor she with me. She's a
fortune-teller, she is."
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