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  Mr. Pinkerton tried to will a sense of calm over the room. It was the patience of a doctor waiting for leeches to clean a sick man’s blood.

  “Is there some final grievance yet to be resolved with the south?” Felton said.

  “Final grievance?”

  The voice was so like Mr. Pinkerton’s that both Felton and I looked at him. He glared over his shoulder at Robert.

  “We haven’t addressed their first grievance yet.”

  “That will do, Robert.” Mr. Pinkerton said.

  Felton slapped his desk.

  “What on earth do you mean, sir?”

  “You know precisely what I mean.” Robert said. “Rich men in the south will fund saboteurs until rich men in the north share their technology.”

  Robert lifted the brass mechanism from his lap as an example.

  “Let them invent something of their own. Their industries are hopeless. So long they uphold that blasphemy of a slave trade, there can be no innovation.”

  “They say that until you share your innovation they have no choice but to uphold the slave trade. It is you who must see: these troubles aren’t ending, they are beginning.”

  Mr. Pinkerton stood, skin on the back of his neck turning red.

  “We are not politicians.” He said.

  Facing away from the client, Mr. Pinkerton put his hands on Robert’s shoulders and pressed his son back down into a chair.

  “We are detectives. If you wish to lobby for closer relations with the south, Mr. Felton, I can recommend you to a statesman. If you wish to protect your rail line from William Hunt, or anyone else, we are at your service.”

  “Yes, yes. By God, let’s focus on the matter at hand.” Felton said. “How do you propose to help me, Pinkteron?”

  “I have a man in the south. He is one of my best.”

  “Good.” Felton moved items on the left side of his desk to the right.

  “Timothy Webster will get to the bottom of this threat against your business.”

  Felton reached out to shake Mr. Pinkerton’s hand.

  “Webster is too old.” Robert said.

  Interrupting his father on the verge of closing a deal with a client like PWB was rash. It bordered on self destructive.

  I took a long look at Robert; his eyes, his mouth, his breathing. I wanted to record in my mind the way this recklessness looked so I could recognize it in the future.

  Robert seemed very calm. After a few moments, I no longer remembered why I had looked over. I was just staring at him.

  Mr. Pinkerton smiled at Felton. It was a closing-all-accounts sort of smile.

  “Pardon me.” He said.

  Mr. Pinkerton opened his arms like he meant to gather Robert and I together. He made little swiping gestures with his hands and ushered us toward the door.

  When Robert and I were in the waiting room, Mr. Pinkerton walked back to the office and closed the door without saying another word. I should have been angry.

  I wasn’t. I wanted to make a joke of it, like Robert might.

  “No one can accuse you of nepotism.”

  “Yes, my takeover of the New York office will have to start at the ground floor.”

  I laughed and didn’t stop to think about what I said next. I just said it.

  “You’re right about Webster.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way. Hunt attracts young toughs to his gang: the Knights of the Golden Circle.” Robert made a bogey man face.

  “Even the name.” I said. “Only a boy could see himself in it.”

  “Hunt isn’t in the city. He’s moving over open country. That’s rough. It takes slow minds and strong backs. I don’t see Timothy Webster fitting in.”

  “I know someone who might. Have your father or brother ever told you about Ernie Stark? He isn’t with the Agency. Stark picks his own cases.”

  “They aren’t sharing tips at present, no.” Robert said.

  “Stark goes deep. That’s his reputation.”

  “And you can convince my father to switch from Webster to this freelancer?”

  “That’s not what I had in mind”

  “You were thinking . . . hire Stark even with Webster on the case?”

  It was a good question. What was I thinking?

  “You give him orders to stay out of Webster’s way.” I said. “If he gets close to William Hunt on his own, maybe he can protect PWB should things go wrong.”

  The door opened. Mr. Pinkerton emerged alone. He’d made his deal with PWB.

  For the second time, I tried to read Robert’s face. Would he consider getting in touch with Ernie Stark?

  Robert folded the broken gears into their housing. He gave nothing away. We didn’t even make eye contact. For the second time, I caught myself staring at him.

  * * *

  Robert Pinkerton

  February, 1861

  Father made a mistake. Webster is a fine man but sending him to infiltrate the Golden Circle was absurd. On the train leaving Philadelphia, I saw how I had pushed him to this bad decision. That weighed on me.

  Father runs the Agency as he sees fit. He can pretend that America will find peace by protecting north against south. He can cherish the status of equipment we borrow from clients while ignoring its usefulness to detectives. He takes his own advice.

  But he was a cad on the train and a bully in Philadelphia. All joking with Kate Warne aside, Father will never grant me control of the New York office. He would sooner pull me out of the field altogether.

  When the meeting with PWB was at its most delicate, I attacked. That brought out the worst in him. It was punch and counter punch.

  PWB will blow up in Father’s face. I’m sure of it.

  If I apologize, he will make me swear an oath to his views on all things. I would do it if I thought he might also change his stance on sending Webster after William Hunt.

  He won’t. Stubborn goat.

  If I do nothing, Father will walk into failure. If I grovel at his feet, he will stay the course. If I contact this man Stark, what then?

  I don’t know. There is a chance of it doing some good.

  * * *

  Allan Pinkerton, Principal

  April, 1861

  I remember. Ms. Higgs brought me the errant shipping receipt.

  Robert charged a delivery to one of our accounts but provided no case number for the expense. This was his sloppy way of (how did Kate Warne describe it?) hiding in plain sight.

  Even a superficial follow up would have led me from the receipt to the gauntlet to Stark, but I had no patience left. Three weeks had passed since Robert’s outrageous conduct in Felton’s office. Litigators from New York were pressing him to return for trial. I couldn’t bear to be any more involved in his affairs.

  I told Ms. Higgs to treat the bill as an accounting error and shift the expense to petty cash. Then I put the whole issue out of my mind.

  The blood and shame are on Robert. Not on me.

  * * *

  Ernie Stark

  February, 1861

  It was screwy business from the start. A contract was posted by one of the sons, not the old man. I should have seen trouble coming. There’s enough double talk when a job starts. I don’t need any surprises in the blasted paperwork.

  Robert shipped me the melee gauntlet as soon as I signed the contract. I didn’t ask him to. That boy loves anything with a bolt in it.

  I set up in Charlotte to start. It took a week to get outfitted for a trip to the woods. This gave me time to argue with shopkeepers and scrap with drunks for my cover: hair trigger prospector out for a quick score.

  The gauntlet was dangerous. Carolina is southern territory and nothing marks you as a Union man like that kind
of equipment. Late at night in a hotel room with no windows, I figured out how to make it work.

  At first, I fastened the sleeve of rods and pulleys backwards. When the springs wound, it folded my arm the wrong way. After bandaging my elbow and getting the gauntlet set straight, I could see why Robert was keen. It’s a useful thing.

  Clenching a fist winds the forearm and gives a hell of a wallop when released. Twisting down at the wrist winds the springs back to lift a huge load. I ruined that room figuring out what it could do.

  The next morning, I rode out. My overcoat concealed the gauntlet. A new hat was like a beacon. It announced inexperience. Locals mocked me in plain view. That was perfect. My cover was solid.

  I took well travelled roads to Asheville near the Appalachian corridor. Hunt would be on that route north. I wanted to be seen by unfriendly Carolinians heading into the deep rough.

  A gang like Hunt’s would run out of cash and supplies, forced to forage as they got close to Union states. His roughs would have to steal their wares. Hunt might not like robbing from southerners but, being that close to the Union, his boys would be ornery enough to leave him no choice.

  This was my way in. I made camp and took care to look ill suited. Wasted supplies and a poor shelter were signs of an amateur in trouble. After a few days, I heard Louisiana whispers in the dark. I was an easy mark.

  The first trick I ever learned in this business was to wake from a dead sleep without moving. I left a bag of coins on a tin plate on the far side of camp. One of Hunt’s boys picked it up. A piece of silver fell from the hole I cut in the bottom.

  Coin on tin was plenty loud enough to wake me. I opened my bottom eye.

  “Wait for Saul.”

  This was the one who’d picked up the coins.

  “There’s more’n just that purse I bet.”

  The second man was bigger. He wore pants barely long enough to cover his knees. He came toward me while the others held back.

  Always put the bait far from where you’re sleeping. It splits the group.

  In the days I spent waiting for these thugs, I practiced a bit of misdirection. Reaching with my left hand, as though snatching at a weapon, I slipped into the gauntlet on the other side.

  The big man landed on my left arm so hard he raised a cloud. With the gauntlet on my right, I grabbed him by the belt and threw him into a tree. That caused a stir.

  Two of the others rushed. The first raised a club over his head. I let him get close then drove a spring loaded fist into his chest. He spun off gasping for air.

  This left me open to a boot in the neck from the next man. He didn’t kick me flush but was close enough that I tumbled back. He was on top, coming down hard with his knees. I rolled us both and scrambled to my feet.

  In the commotion, I didn’t even realize that I had picked him up. I looked around before noticing him in my hand. I slammed him into the embers of the fire.

  The last one ran off. No doubt he would be back with Saul, whoever that was.

  I made a snap decision. I took off the gauntlet and hid it in the woods.

  When Saul showed up, I was tying down the three left behind. Saul held his buck knife low and kept a ready position with every step. He’d killed in the wild.

  “Got no more money.” I said.

  “Got my boys.”

  Saul was close enough to be a danger in no time.

  “You can have them.”

  I stepped back. Saul sliced their bindings.

  He must have expected his boys to spring to their feet. When they slumped over, he took a look at the damage I’d done.

  “They get kicked by a mule?”

  “Mostly they just fell over. It happened real fast.” I said.

  Saul stepped toward me, knife still poised to strike. I took a chance.

  “It’s a shame.” I said. “Your boys stole my money before I could give it to them.”

  “You feelin’ generous?”

  “I know what a man looks like when he’s at odds with the law. You’re runnin’ from the Union. Or toward the Union, maybe.”

  “What d’you know about it?”

  “Just what people say. That the north’s lookin’ for trouble and the south’ll give it to them.” I said. “You look like plenty of trouble to me.”

  The fat man huffed to one knee. Saul turned a cold eye and straightened his posture. He didn’t seem like he was going to kill me anymore. Not that second.

  “We square then?” I said.

  “Sure. ‘Cept for three boys you broke, we’re all square.”

  “Maybe I can make that up to you.”

  Saul’s disdain for his crew was stronger than his distrust. Maybe bringing an extra body back was better than just a bag of coins. For whatever reason, it worked.

  Saul had me abandon most of my gear. We packed up the few useful items that were left and I followed him into the black forest.

  * * *

  Robert Pinkerton

  February, 1861

  This pressure from New York makes no sense, not for a charge of misdemeanor mischief. Stewards from the Attorney General’s office arrived in Chicago today.

  Warrant in hand, they could have advised us they were coming and, at their leisure, collected the punch card machine Father and I took from Kennedy. Instead, they barged in and treated the whole thing like a raid.

  Ginny Higgs reacted like the Agency was being shut down. Poor thing.

  The machine was still in pieces. No one had looked twice at it since we returned from Philadelphia. Everyone agreed; the crate hadn’t even been opened.

  Stewards leaned on me. Had I tampered with the crate since we got back to Chicago? It was perfectly true to say,

  “I haven’t touched it.”

  Did I understand that my statement would be entered into the legal record?

  “Of course.”

  It was over in a blink. They kicked a fuss then left with a crate full of useless bits.

  I went back to my desk. Father had moved me to an office near the storage garage. This hiding was good for us both.

  I pulled the adding machine’s switchbox out of a drawer. Undisturbed for hours, I folded enough gears away to unbolt the iron plate that cut through the middle.

  Satisfying as this was, I damaged most of the switches around the bolts. There was no avoiding it. I am not an engineer. Despite these broken endings, the mechanism folded together. I attached a new vial of steam and waited.

  It was a disappointment. Switches on the outer edge misfired. The minutes dragged. I considered tossing the contraption into a bin when this stuttering penetrated the inner folds and a remarkable thing happened.

  Identical sets of switches on opposite sides fired at the same time. I leaned forward hoping it would happen again but saw nothing. I checked the vial to make sure it was still connected. As I set the machine back on its footing, a second burst took place.

  Twice as many switches snapped into a complex geometric shape. Again, this came out of nowhere and was mirrored on both sides of the mechanism.

  After another pause, gears flashed in three dimensions. Twin patterns came into contact with damage caused by the iron plate. Switches hit that area from both sides.

  The narrow space left by the plate acted as a conduit. Geometric forms bent into fluid waves of clicking switches. They twisted into currents and passed through the gap.

  I could no longer see discreet points of origin where bursts were formed. All the switches roiled in unison. After watching for a half hour, I attached the mechanism to a music box. I didn’t think it would play a tune. I just wondered what it might sound like.

  It was awful. The cacophony broke my spell. I made up my mind to pull the leads, disconnect the vial and open some case files.
r />   Without warning, the noise stopped. The switchbox whirled in silence then each individual note was struck in sequence. Notes were paired together and then matched with others to create new combinations. It was not musical but it was structured.

  I closed my eyes. Blocks of notes were repeated at intervals. These were interrupted by shorter tones like values entered under headings on a list. The longer I listened, the more it sounded like data sets such as the ones I fed into the punch card machine in New York.

  This was madness, of course. A machine couldn’t remember.

  I pulled the leads. The only non-insane thing to do was discard the whole mess.

  Instead, I removed the manual crank from a ledger counter and attached the switchbox. Ledger paper spun. The switchbox printed my Northern Central results.

  I ignored the impossibility of what was happening and sifted through the numbers. Here was the pattern I suspected all along.

  Northern Central was as prone to robbery as any other rail company. We knew that from the start. What set them apart was the fact that so much money stolen from their line could not be recovered by police or our Agency.

  It took me getting arrested in New York, and discovering this switchbox on the train, but I had evidence now. Heists worth tens of thousands had taken place on Northern Central shipments. Itineraries for those trains failed to be logged in the manifest until a quarterly audit. The robberies always took place south of Union territory.

  Someone at Northern Central was sending money to the South. I could prove it.

  I could prove it to anyone who believed that this switchbox remembered my investigation in New York and printed the results on a ledger counter in my office. That is, I could prove it to no one.

  The switchbox finished printing. It recalled the entire manifest. I had fed all the records into the machine in New York but Kennedy’s men burst in before I could read the results. I now held the last entries in my hand.

  Days before I was arrested, another irregularity appeared in the manifest. A train was headed south on a long haul voyage but no money was being transported. The cargo was industrial equipment.