River, on the north side, about a mile below St. Charles
bridge, and about twenty feet along the bank, just
east of that dike that runs out into the river, and
you will find in a little gully a shot-gun and a musket.
Be careful. I left them both loaded with buckshot
and caps on the tubes. They were laying, wrapped
up in an oil-cloth, with some weeds thrown over them.
Also, down on the river just below the guns, I left
my skiff and a lot of stuff, coffee-pot, skillet,
and partially concealed, just west of the skiff, you
will find a box of grub, coffee, bacon, etc.
I came down the river in a skiff Tuesday night, October
26-27, from a point opposite Labodie. It is a
run of thirty-five or thirty-six miles. They
should all be there unless some one found them before
you got there.” * * * *
Mr. Pinkerton, in a brown study, tapping the table
with his fingers, sat for some moments. Rising
abruptly, he placed his hat on his head, and requesting
Mr. Damsel to follow, left the room. In a short
time he was in the Union Depot, and stepping up to
the clerk of the parcel-room, asked for a package
which had been left there October 25th, marked “J.
M.,” stating that he had lost his ticket.
After some search, the clerk brought forward a parcel
tied in a newspaper.
“This is marked J. M., and was left here October
25th.”
“That is the one,” said Mr. Pinkerton,
and paying the charges, hastened back to the hotel,
In spite of his habitual calmness and sang froid,
Mr. Pinkerton’s hand trembled as he cut the
string. As the paper was unwrapped, both men gave
an exclamation of surprise and joy, for disclosed to
view was a revolver, a billy, some shirts and papers.
“At last,” cried Mr. Pinkerton, and he
eagerly scanned the various articles. The revolver
was an ordinary, self-cocking Smith & Wesson.
The billy was the sort called “life-preservers.”
The Adams Express letter-heads were covered with
the names “J. B. Barrett” and “W.
H. Damsel.” Mr. Pinkerton passed these
to his companions.
“They are pretty fair forgeries. Hang me,
if it don’t look as though I had written that
name myself.”
The detective, all this time, was scrutinizing each
article, hoping to find something new.
With the papers he took out a printed ballad-sheet
of the kind sold on the streets by newsboys and fakirs.
Turning it over, he saw something written on it, and
looking closely, read, “——,
Chestnut street,”
The handwriting was the same as the handwriting of
the letter. The first clew had been found.
“Chip” Bingham.
