CHAPTER XVI.
MORIARITY IN THE SWEAT-BOX—THE SUCCESS OF THE FORGED LETTER—MORIARITY CONFESSES.
Dan Moriarity, seated on a bare plank bench in his cell, was passing away the weary hours in figuring how he was to get out of the bad scrape into which he had plunged. He was now fully satisfied that the detectives were very certain that he had a hand in the express-car robbery—but how did they get hold of that dangerous fact? Not through Cook, for since his incarceration in the jail Dan had talked with Cook in the corridors, and Cook had sworn by all that was good and holy that he had not divulged a single word, and knowing that Cook stood in mortal fear of Cummings, as did he himself, Dan believed him.
It was not at all probable that either Haight or Weaver had given the thing away in Chicago, for Dan knew from Cummings that they had not been disturbed, and Cummings had not, or would not have given any information. Then how did the cursed "man-hunters" find out that he had helped in the affair?
Dan was busily engaged in trying to solve this knotty question when the bailiff in charge entered the door and told Dan to follow him to the office.
When Dan reached the room he found three gentlemen awaiting him, all strange faces to the robber. The eldest of the three, as he came in, pointed to a chair, and with commanding brevity and in a tone which indicated that he was used to being obeyed, told him to sit down.
The full glare of the light streaming in through the window fell full upon his face, while the remainder of the party, their faces turned toward him, were comparatively in the shadow, thus having him at a disadvantage. As was before remarked, Moriarity possessed a certain amount of bull courage, and seeing he was in for it, and feeling that he was to be put through the sweating process he sat erect in his chair, his lips compressed and his whole demeanor that of a cornered man determined to fight.
Mr. Pinkerton saw that and with courteous suavity inquired, "Is this
Mr. Moriarity?"
"What's the use of asking me; you know well enough who I am," replied
Dan, in short, curt syllables.
"Of course, of course; but I thought I might be mistaken."
"Well, you aren't."
"Now, Mr. Moriarity, I think if you are inclined to you can get yourself out of this scrape."
"Ya-as, I suppose so.
"You will let me introduce myself. My name is William Pinkerton."
Dan looked at the great detective with interest and a certain amount of awe, which, however, he quickly overcame and determined to keep a stiffer upper lip than ever.
"Oh! You're Billy Pinkerton, are you?"
"Yes, I am Billy Pinkerton, and I've been hunting for you for some time."
"Well, you ought to be satisfied; you've caught me."
"More than satisfied, Mr. Moriarity, for I've caught your friend too."
"Cook?"
"Oh, he was jailed before you."
"You don't mean Jim?"
"Exactly."
"You can't stuff me with any such yarn as that."
"Would you like to see him?" asked Mr. Pinkerton, quickly.
"Seeing's believing."
Turning to the bailiff Mr. Pinkerton inquired:
"What cell is Jim Cummings in?"
"Forty-three, sir."
"Will you take us there?"
"Yes, sir. This way, please."
The detectives with Moriarity followed the turnkey and passing the entire length of the corridor paused in front of cell forty-three.
The door of solid sheet steel had a small circular opening in it through which the guards could inspect their prisoners.
Opening this Mr. Pinkerton looked in, then stepping back told Moriarity to step forward.
Dan applied his eye to the opening and in surprised tones exclaimed,
"By God, it IS Jim."
He again looked and clinching his fist pounded on the door. "Jim! Jim!" he cried. "They got you at—"
"Here, none of that," said the bailiff in a gruff tone. "None of that,
I say," and taking Dan by the arm he marched him back to the office.
"You see, Mr. Moriarity, I told the truth," said Mr. Pinkerton in a pleasant voice.
"Looks like it," growled Dan. "But I don't see how the devil you did it."
"Very easily done. He gave himself up."
"What's that?" shouted Dan as he almost bounded from his chair.
"He gave himself up, I said," repeated Mr. Pinkerton.
"Jim Cummings gave himself up," said Dan slowly as if trying to grasp the idea.
"Exactly. He saw we had him and that he couldn't get away, so to make his sentence as light as possible he did the best thing he could do and surrendered."
Almost dumbfounded by this surprise Dan sat speechless and stared blankly at the detective.
"Do you know, Mr. Moriarity," Mr. Pinkerton continued, "you strike me as being remarkably clever."
Arousing himself Dan answered in a savage tone:
"What are you driving at now?"
"I mean that up to the time that Cummings surrendered himself we thought he was the principal man in the case, the prime mover and director of the whole affair, but now we find we are mistaken. That is why I say you are clever. You simply used him as a cat's paw, and played hide and seek with our whole force, and a man that can do that as long as you did is remarkably clever," and Mr. Pinkerton smiled admiringly at the man who sat before him. Puzzled at the words, and trying to see beneath the surface, Dan said: "Oh! come now, stop your chaffing, I won't squeal, and you can't make me. What do you want me for anyway?"
Mr. Pinkerton's face became stern, and dropping the tone of levity which he had employed, he opened the letter Sam had forged, and suddenly handing it to Dan, said:
"We want to know if what Jim Cummings says there is true."
Somewhat impressed by Mr. Pinkerton's manner, Dan commenced to read the letter.
At first he hardly understood its purport, but slowly the realization of his friend's treachery came over him, and springing to his feet he brought his fist down on his chair and shouted in angry tones:
"It's a damned lie!"
Without noticing the baliff or the detectives, he paced the floor with angry strides, his eyes flashing and the veins in his forehead swelling until they stood out like whip cords.
The baliff, at a sign from Mr. Pinkerton, stationed himself at the door, but too excited to notice the movement, Dan continued to walk to and fro like a caged lion.
"That is why he gave himself up, the coward—the lying turn-tale! The treacherous dog! Swearing it off on me to save a few years of his miserable life out of jail. See here!" stopping suddenly before Mr. Pinkerton, "That traitor made me swear I would never squeal. All I got out of the whole swag was two thousand dollars, but even then, if he had done the square thing, I would have kept mum, though I were sent down to rock-pile. But the man that would play that low, scaley trick on me is going to suffer for it. What do you want to know?"
"Now you are getting sensible," said Mr. Pinkerton. "We want to get the money. You know where it is? We know that last October a valise was sent to you from St. Louis to Leavenworth, which you were to give to Cook. We know that Cook received some of the stolen money. You had some, too. We have shadowed you all over Kansas City. You have been seen in the White Elephant playing faro, you were followed to the widow's fortune-telling room. We know where you lived, and have letters which you received from Jim Cummings.
"That isn't his name," broke in Dan.
Mr. Pinkerton stopped. He saw he had Dan up to the proper point, and where before he would have died rather than given a grain of information in connection with the case, he was now anxious to tell all he knew of it. Dan continued:
"Jim Cummings isn't his right name any more'n it's mine. His name is
Fred Wittrock, and he lives in Chicago."
"Where?"
"At—West Lake street."
"Will you swear to that?"
"Yes, I will; he runs a coalyard there. He and a man named Weaver. I had nothing to do with robbing the car. It was all done before I ran across Wittrock near Pacific, and he gave me $2,000 to keep my mouth shut and help plant the plunder."
"Do you know where it is planted?"
"Part of it, yes. Weaver and another fellow named Haight have some hid in Chicago. Some is hid in the graveyard near Leaven worth, and some of it behind Cook's cooper-shop."
"Has Fotheringham got any of it?"
"Fotheringham hadn't anything to do with it—any more'n you did—Wittrock knocked him down and he couldn't help himself."
"Mr. Moriarity, if all this is true, you will be benefited by the information you have given," then turning to the baliff, he said, "We are through now." Moriarity, still cursing Cummings, was led back to the cell, and the detectives left the jail for Chip's boarding-house.
"It's plain sailing now, boys," said Mr. Pinkerton; "this end has been
worked dry, and you must return to Chicago with me. Cummings, or rather
Wittrock, if Moriarity has spoken the truth, will certainly make for
Chicago, and you must be ready for him."
The next day the three detectives were on their way to Chicago, leaving Barney, who had played the part of Jim Cummings in cell 43, to remain in Kansas City and hunt for the "planted swag."