The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

Repository Note:

In 1956, the Library of Congress reclaimed a vast archive containing over 50,000 files from the permanent records of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. The diplomatic dispute that preceded this handover is well documented. Suffice to say, after years in bureaucratic limbo, the Pinkerton papers were in diabolical condition. The challenge of organizing and interpreting their contents was huge. To manage this task, records were prioritized based on authorship. Those written by founder Allan Pinkerton or his sons were fast-tracked. More than fifty years have passed. It is now clear that placing such a strong emphasis on authorship caused the Library to overlook an important portfolio prepared by a clerk and buried in administrative files. What follows is the first entry in a private dossier hidden over a century ago by Allan Pinkerton himself.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist – United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

Secrecy is a necessary thing. I learned that a decade ago as a policeman in Chicago. Now as head of an Agency with clients throughout the Union, I see the truth of it every day. Without secrets, a thousand swindles well up around our necks.

How can I betray the secrecy of my own detectives? Discretion is so much a part of our business that we keep separate files for all cases; one with facts that send a suspect to jail, the other with clues and private notes retained for future use. No one is allowed to open those sealed records without an agent's consent, not even me.

I am about to breach that ethic. I have ordered my assistant, Ginny Higgs, to copy the private files of several detectives and record my comments in her hand to conceal the violation of Agency rules. This is my chance to turn back.

I face a difficult decision. One of my detectives has been killed. Another was dishonored. A young agent betrayed us at Harrisburg. A dangerous fugitive is at large. These are serious matters but they do not, on their own, compel me to open the files.

What does compel me is the fact that our troubles stem from a single investigation. A plot is mobilizing against us. Its goal and actors are unknown but it is all tied to a case involving President Lincoln.

In February of this year, 1861, I was called to Philadelphia for an interview with Mr. S. M. Felton of the Philadelphia-Wilmington-Baltimore (PWB) railroad. PWB connects Washington to every other city in the Union. Mr. Felton believed extra effort was needed to protect the line.

I understood his worry. As a young man, long before the technological marvels of today, I straggled into the United States from a life of toil in Scotland. There were no trains or money back then. Tradesmen hauled goods by wagon and were paid in barter.

We needed capital and transport but no sooner did the first banks and railways open then every blackleg in the West came to rob us. Bringing down one such rascal led to my first criminal case. I duped an old brute into enlisting me in his plan to rob a train.

Today, such a scheme would be suicide. We would be crushed in the revolving platforms that carry the new mammoth trains. I have seen trains fitted with factories piled on markets held together by homes of gypsy families. It is ludicrous to think that two men could stop such a machine.

At the time, the plan was feasible. It was also tempting. Thoughts of sudden wealth came to mind. Five hundred dollars was promised. It was a small fortune.

I pushed these ideas aside and had the man arrested. That moment of temptation launched my career.

Fourteen years later, business is even more dependent on railways. Industrial breakthroughs in the Union north have led to much innovation.

Railway interchanges stand four stories tall and revolve in perfect counterbalance. Trains are equipped with smelters, assembly lines, warehouses, shops and houses jutting at every conceivable angle. Each line is as vibrant and unique as any city I have known.

In the face of such ingenuity, and armed as we are with equipment provided by clients in those industries, I am proud that my Agency protects rail lines such as PWB. I made fast arrangements to meet Mr. Felton in Philadelphia.

Had my trip not been interrupted, would the current crisis have arisen? It is pointless to wonder. The fact is I was forced to stop in New York City.

My son Robert was on a fool's errand. I scarcely believed the telegraph Ms. Higgs placed on my desk:

Sir : - With regret, I must inform that Robert Pinkerton has been apprehended in the commission of a crime against the Northern Central railroad company. I anticipate communicating with you prior to registering charges.

John A. Kennedy – Superintendent, Metropolitan Police of New York City

My trip to New York was restless. An old injury makes it difficult for me to sit for long stretches without feeling the pinch of extra weight. I also found it hard to keep still because I was angry with Robert for falling into the hands of that pretender Kennedy.

At Union Station, I looked for a private carriage so I might collect my son without losing my dignity. Any hope of that was dashed on the platform. Kennedy waited to greet me in formal dress as though he was receiving a medal.

The sympathy on his long face conveyed his joy at my predicament. I decided that, should he attempt to embrace me in fatherly distress, I would hasten my reunion with Robert in custody by shooting the man.

Self preservation is an instinct in all species. Kennedy touched the brim of his cap. The decorum was less for my benefit than for the amusement of his officers.

Kennedy's life purpose seems to involve little more than being a nuisance to my Agency. New York attracts the most degenerate criminals yet the master stroke of his career was this business with my son.

“Welcome, sir.” He said. “If only you were visiting under more enjoyable circumstances.”

His bow was too hitched not to have been practiced.

“A man always takes some joy in assisting his son.”

“Indeed. No matter how embarrassing the situation.”

“Do you mean for me to be embarrassed, Superintendent?”

“Far from it. Helping one's child is always respectable.”

His falseness gave me a chill. I retaliated.

“From your insight on children, I take it you have been blessed with the family you have desired for so many years.”

Officers shuffled. Kennedy twitched.

“No, Mr. Pinkerton. My wife and I have yet to be so blessed.”

“Pity that a man with such intuition should not have children of his own.”

A moment passed in silence.

“I would like to speak with my son.” I said. “Will you and your officers kindly escort me to the jail?”

This brought Kennedy back to life.

“No need, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought it best that you not risk being seen by newspapermen in this city. Your reputation, sir.”

Policemen behind Kennedy parted on cue to reveal a decrepit black wagon in the parkway. Travelers and gawkers circled. Reputation, indeed.

Officers cleared a path through the crowd, ordering all within earshot to make way for the Police Superintendent and Detective Pinkerton. My name skittered from mouth to mouth. Kennedy's triumph was complete.

The smell of the wagon was alarming. For the first time since leaving Chicago, I felt a pang of concern for the welfare of my son.

Kennedy threw back the doors. A wave of stale air rolled out. I held a sleeve over my mouth and nose. Inside, Robert sat under a barred window. Tailored suit wilting in the heat, he was trim in all the places I had become soft.

Robert refused to acknowledge Kennedy or the fresh air. Defiance was a trait of his that worried me now that his ambition was on the rise.

“Robert.” I said.

He stood. Here was my eager boy. A lick of hair hung from the widow's peak that formed when he was young and never filled in.

I wondered, at that moment, if my sons ever had a real choice in following me to this profession. Seeing Robert in that sweat box, I realized that under all my other encouragements, I drove the same message over and over.

This is the life. This is our life.

Robert's skin was smeared with grime. A beard had started to grow in patches. Here is where the life had taken him.

“The machine, Papa. He has no right to seize it.”

He was right. I assured Kennedy by telegraph from Chicago that Robert would return to New York at a later date to face charges. Kennedy had agreed on the condition that documents taken from Northern Central be retained as evidence. The punch card adding machine in Robert's possession at the time of his arrest was not part of the deal.

“Our equipment, Mr. Kennedy.” I said.

Officers approached, dragging a crate. The machine inside was disassembled.

“Naturally, we had to take a closer look.” Kennedy said.

“And what did this destruction of private property allow you to discover?”

Kennedy raised his eyebrows and feigned regret. His was the sort of acting that ended in a shower of tomatoes.

“Our investigation is ongoing.”

It was obvious that they had smashed the machine, an advanced prototype on loan from one of my clients, for fun. They were gorillas.

Robert stepped from the wagon. I felt an urge to put my arms around him. Robert offered his hand instead.

“Thank you, Papa.”

Our reunion was the last point in the investigation that felt under control. This is where I will start searching for evidence of the plot against us.

The secret files are in my hand. My decision is made.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

I can hold my breath for two minutes. That's what I learned suffocating half to death in custody.

Father urges us to track new discoveries in these papers so there it is: I held my breath longer than expected. I hope someone will find that illuminating.

Everything else was lost. Kennedy's monsters sawed the adding machine to bits. All I had left were broken gears and cracked vials. I also had a seething father.

Our rented office on the train to Philadelphia felt smaller than the police wagon. Father wouldn't ask the question on his mind so I pressed.

“My presence in New York was legitimate. Kennedy had no reason . . .”

“You were in the office of a former Agency client. We have no active files with Northern Central. I don't see how the word legitimate applies.”

“We should be investigating them.”

Father looked at the liquor cabinet as though he wished he were a drinker.

“We never explained how so much money failed to be recovered from heists on that line. There are discrepancies in their manifest.” I said.

“There are always discrepancies in a shipping manifest. You don't catch a criminal by opening a filing cabinet.”

“I saw a pattern. The machine was filtering records. Given time . . .”

“Given time, you would have ended up in prison.”

So far as Father was concerned, his was the last word. That suited me. I didn't want to spend the trip arguing about the use of data versus a detective's intuition.

Father understands criminals. That doesn't mean his is the only way to spot a crime. It is maddening how many times we've had this debate.

It didn't help that I used the punch card machine. Father loves that we have access to this kind of equipment. It raises us to the status of our Union clients in the north. If only he admired the genius of these machines the way he claims.

I retrieved the adding machine's switchbox from the crate. The mechanism was intact. I slid it out of the casing and unfolded a top layer of brass switches. They kneaded together, layer on layer of intricate gears. Thousands of individual switches overlapped in a tight weave.

Set correctly, the machine could complete long mathematics. It could also recognize patterns in number sequences. I fumbled at first setting the parameters. Once I asked the right question, the machine ate through those rail manifests in New York.

I unfolded more layers and found something unexpected. An iron plate was bolted through the middle. I attached a vial of compressed steam that Kennedy's idiots had tried to crack open. They would have blown a hole in the city if they'd succeeded.

With the vial in place, the switchbox came to life but the iron plate blocked gears on one half of the machine from connecting with those on the other. This struck me as odd and not at all what its designers intended.

Father crossed the office and looked out a grimy window.

“Detective Warne is here.”

Kate Warne is the only female agent in America. It is obvious that Father trusts her more than me. I don't mind. She has earned her position as his weapon of choice.

I set the switchbox aside and watched her approach. Our train rumbled between three levels of track, one above and two below. Kate was a quarter mile behind on the lower tracks, maneuvering her interceptor amid the chaos.