Entry #4: The Talons of the Eagle (1871)

The Pinkerton National Detective Agency

The Pinkerton Agency, established by Allan Pinkerton in 1850, is responsible for the modern image of the private detective. They were hired by various businesses, as well as the federal government, to perform duties ranging from personal security to private military contracts. They were the primary agency hired by businesses to oppose union actions during the labor unrest of the late 19^th century. At their peak, the Pinkertons were the largest private law enforcement agency in the world, employing a greater standing roster than the United States Army.

*             *             *

I stepped off the train in Chicago, the location of the Novoscope’s most recently detected event. I had been born in New York City, a great American city, one of the oldest in the nation. Nonetheless, I could feel the vibrant energy of Chicago, a brand-new city in the heart of America and the fastest-growing city in the world, a city that was champing at the bit to get on with its day.

I took down my suitcase from the overhead rack on the train and headed for the door. I had packed a large trunk for my last trip to the States, and it seemed to have been a bit cumbersome and overcomplicated in retrospect. I was experimenting on this trip with a lighter load to make traveling easier. This trip was to a major American city, not to a minor resort town in the middle of the forest, after all. I figured that I could easily find anything that I hadn’t brought from Cambridge.

The one thing that I had made sure to bring, however, was secreted in an inside pocket of my waistcoat. Outwardly, it appeared to be a letter opener with an ornately detailed handle, entirely made from steel. However, the handle was actually hollow. The flat front of the handle could be slid down over the blade to reveal the Titania’s Kiss gemstone I had recovered from Monticello two years earlier, which would rise proud of the rest of the handle on a spring. A catch on the back of the handle, if pressed, would retract the stone back into the handle, causing the cover to snap back over the stone and turn the device back into an ordinary letter opener.

I had commissioned the device from a craftsman in London upon returning from New York with the stone. When I found the stone, it was being used by a fairy woman to send men to sleep for the pleasure of her queen. Contact with the stone for one second would render a man unconscious for twenty-four hours, casting his mind away to play with the fairies. The trick letter opener allowed me to wield the stone safely while still keeping it handy for rapid deployment. A quick flick of the cover, and I could tap a man with the stone for an easy eight hours of sleep. I could always hold the stone to them for longer, of course, and put my assailant down for years on end, but an overly prolonged stay in Titania’s court was not at all conducive to prime mental health, and I couldn’t conceive of a circumstance where I would need to send a man to sleep for longer than one day.

I asked a ticket taker for directions to the nearest hotel and bought a newspaper from a street vendor, looking for any clues about my quarry. From my experiences with the Titania’s Kiss stone and the St. Jerome reliquary, it seemed likely that the relic I sought would have caused enough of a stir in the community to merit a mention. As I sat down on a bench to check up on current events, I noticed that everyone in the street seemed to be walking in the same direction. Well, why not, I thought to myself. It was vaguely possible that this would give me some information about the relic, and if not, it might at least be an amusing diversion. Lord knew that I hadn’t had many opportunities for fun while sitting in my office watching the Novoscope day in and day out.

I followed the crowd to a park, where I saw a stage, bleachers, and a lectern set up. The bleachers were already occupied by various well-dressed people, whom I presumed to be various Chicago dignitaries. A small bandstand was set up alongside the stage, and musicians were getting themselves positioned. At the stroke of two o’clock, the band struck up a small fanfare, and the master of ceremonies introduced the mayor of Chicago, who took to the podium to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

The crowd seemed to respond very enthusiastically to the mayor’s presentation. I craned my neck to see if he had anything on his person that might qualify as an abnormal relic, perhaps a medallion or other piece of jewelry. Perhaps my quarry enabled its holder to sway multitudes in one’s favor. However, as the mayor began his speech, inaugurating the new parkland with a statue of its benefactor, I could feel no aura of manipulation washing over me. I was usually fairly adept at detecting the effect of a relic on my mind. My contact with the Apothecary had attuned me to the nature of relics, enabling me to realize when one was being used on me, but I felt no such sensation now. Maybe the mayor was not the culprit here after all.

As I weaved my way toward the front of the crowd to get a better look at the other dignitaries in the stands, I heard a commotion from the foot of the stage. There was screaming as a man shouted imprecations at the mayor, drew a revolver, and fired. The mayor dove to the stage and cowered behind his lectern while a small cadre of men, whom I had not hitherto noticed, bore down upon the gunman and tackled him to the ground. I pushed through to the front to get a better view, along with a dozen other gawkers and bystanders, but one of the men shouted, “By the authority of the office of His Honor the Mayor, I order all of you to stand back!” He took out a leather wallet and showed a badge to the gathering throng.

No one present that day could possibly have doubted the weight carried by that badge. In our minds, the man brandishing that badge wielded incontrovertible authority. His very word was law, his every utterance as good as gospel. This man had the right, nay, the duty, to bestride the nation with Justice and Truth at his elbow, answerable to none but the very highest authority, and anyone who crossed his will was at his mercy.

As he and his compatriots bundled up the would-be assassin and hauled him off, and as I recovered from the cowing effect I had experienced, I knew that I had found my relic. I asked a man standing near me in the crowd, “Who were those men?”

“You mean you don’t know?” he said.

“I’ve only just gotten off the train today,” I said. “I’ve been overseas for several years.”

“Those are the Pinkertons,” said the man. “The Mayor has a squad of them as his personal bodyguards. Word has it that President Grant has a team of Pinkertons of his own.” The man walked quickly away from the park as the crowd dispersed, and I had to hurry to catch up.

“Those men work for the government?”

“In a way. They’re private detectives, hired by the government to protect important people and investigate nefarious goings-on, I imagine.”

“I should think that to be the job of the police, wouldn’t you say?”

“I gather that they’re a sort of private police now.”

“Private police? Seems to me to be a highly corruptible situation. What’s to keep them from rushing into our homes and ordering us all about at their whim?”

“Look, friend, I don’t worry myself about things like that, nor should you. It doesn’t pay to cross people like that, not with the kind of friends they have in Washington. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll stay well away from them.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

We parted ways, and I hastened to the hotel, still carrying my suitcase and newspaper. Once I checked into my room, I asked the bellboy for any back copies of the paper that they still had around. I then went up to my room to examine today’s edition for any articles pertaining to the Pinkertons. Some minutes later, the bellboy brought up an armload of old papers that he had been able to scrounge for me, and I tipped him well for his efforts. I got down to business with the last week or two of news, and by the evening I had a pretty good idea of what had transpired in Chicago to occasion my arrival.

According to the papers, there had been a session of Congress two weeks ago in which they approved funding for the Department of Justice to create an agency for the investigation of federal crimes. The Department of Justice, believing the funding inadequate to create a truly integrated agency from whole cloth, awarded the money to the Pinkerton Agency, thus effectively contracting them as government investigators.

This must have been the event that reached my notice. Once the Pinkerton Agency became a federally sanctioned authority, one of their badges had become saturated with the essence of that authority. As long as they held that badge in their possession, they would be as the fist of God Himself. I left the papers in my room and got a street directory from the concierge desk, where I found the address of the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s national headquarters.

I knew perfectly well that this was not the safest of plans. I was intending to walk into the headquarters of a government agency, bold as brass, and demand the surrender of one of their own badges, with no greater authority than that of the college council in the History Department at Cambridge. And unlike my escapade with Titania’s emissary in the Catskills, these men were likely to have firearms. Well, there was nothing for it. If marching into their headquarters bold as brass was my only recourse, then bold as brass it would be.

I walked into their offices and asked to see the agent in charge. While I was waiting, another agent walked in from a side office holding a file folder. I immediately recognized him. He was the agent from the park, the one who had the badge. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached him, “but I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time.”

“I can give you a single minute,” he said. “Busy day today.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I was in the park when that man attempted to murder the mayor. Nasty business. I noticed that your badge had an unusual effect on the crowd. May I see it?”

“Do you work for the Tribune?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then if you want to see my badge, here it is.” He pulled the badge from an inside pocket of his jacket and flashed it at me. “On my authority as an agent of the Pinkertons and a duly appointed representative of the United States government, I order you to vacate the premises immediately and to cease your interference with our affairs.”

Thanks to my attunement with relics like the badge, it had no effect on me this time. I could still feel the vague apprehension associated with spurning authority, but I was not compelled by it as I had been in the park. He knew it, too, judging by the confused look on his face when I neglected to turn tail and flee.

“I’m sorry, agent, but I cannot leave Chicago without that badge.”

I heard a door open behind me, and then I heard the footsteps of at least two other men. Even if I had been planning anything violent, that was out the window now.

“Who are you?” said the man in front of me. “What is your name?”

“Dr. Israel St. James, from Cambridge University.”

“An American working for an English university? That’s unusual.”

“I specialize in the unusual, agent, as I’m sure you already suspect. And I grew up in New York.”

“Regardless of your field of study, foreign academics have no jurisdiction in this country, doctor.” One of the men behind me put his hand on my shoulder. “Now, I must ask you to leave. We have work to do.”

“Like I said,” I said as I reached inside my waistcoat, “I cannot leave Chicago without that badge. You are wielding power that is beyond your control, and it will consume you if you let it.” I took the letter opener from my inside pocket. “Now kindly tell the man behind me to remove his hand from my shoulder.”

“I will remove my hand when you are on the sidewalk, doctor,” said the agent behind me. His grip got tighter. “You were told to leave.”

I slid open the handle of the letter opener and tapped the Titania’s Kiss stone against the man’s hand. He immediately went limp and fell to the ground. Both of the other two agents drew their revolvers and pointed them at my head.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” I said. “He’ll be fresh as a daisy in about eight hours. Like I said, I specialize in the unusual, which is why I have to take that badge.”

“You aren’t taking my badge, sir, except straight to hell!” said the agent. “Which is where I will send you if you continue your interference! You have no right to subvert the authority of the Pinkertons!”

“This is not the authority of the Pinkertons!” I said. He was starting to fray at the edges. I had to tread lightly. “This is nothing but the power of that badge! Listen to yourself! You’ve already started to be corrupted by it!”

Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see that our little altercation had drawn a crowd. Everyone else in the front office was staring at the man with the badge and edging away from him, and he was suddenly aware of the fact. He visibly calmed down and holstered his revolver, but he didn’t back down.

“Look, agent,” I said, attempting to mend a few bridges, “the Pinkerton Agency must have plenty of badges. You surely won’t miss one, not such a one as this.”

“Dr. St. James, this badge is the property of the Pinkerton Agency, and unusual or not, you have no right to it. Now, I will say this once, and once only. Leave this building. If I catch you interfering with our duties again, you will be thrown in jail. Is that understood?”

I said nothing. I just turned around and walked out. I made it about thirty feet down the street before I collapsed onto a bench and started shaking. I had never had a gun pointed at me before. I had never even had my life threatened since the expedition to the House of Wisdom eight years earlier, the one that had sent my life down the rabbit hole. And that day on the ship, I had used the Rod of Asclepius to survive my wounds. Without the Rod, a single bullet from the Pinkerton agent’s revolver could wound me without hope of recovery. I resolved never to go out on any future recovery missions without the Rod at my side.

Until then, though, I would have to stay away from the muzzle of that man’s weapon. I had seen his eyes while he was under the influence of the badge. If he got the idea that I was attempting to usurp his authority again, and if we were away from the scrutiny of his fellow agents, he was likely to shoot me. I needed to make a plan, so I headed back to my hotel room to have a calming drink and clear my head.

The next morning, I rose early and made my way back to the Pinkertons’ headquarters, but instead of strolling back in through the front door, I bought another paper and leaned against the wall of the building across the street. I was hoping to catch sight of the agent with the badge as he left the office on whatever business he had to take care of, follow him, catch him unawares, grab the badge, and run like the blazes for the hotel before he knew anything was wrong.

I must have read the entire paper from front to back at least three times before I finally spotted my quarry leaving the Pinkerton Agency building. I folded up my paper and walked after him, keeping enough distance as to keep my pursuit from looking obvious. He sped up and lost me a few times, but his behavior and dress were distinctive enough that I was able to find him again each time.

As I followed him through Chicago, the increasing smell told me that we were heading for the massive city-within-a-city that was the Union Stock Yards, a 375-acre spread of animal pens, slaughterhouses, packing plants, and other aspects of the meat production process. This batch of buildings produced more than three-quarters of America’s meat. Once my target entered the stock yards, I would have to step lively to stay on his heel without being seen.

I managed to follow the agent to the office of the man in charge. There seemed to be some sort of labor dispute in the works, and work had stopped. The Pinkerton must have been called in to break up the strike. They didn’t seem like the kind of arbitrators who sat around a table and worked out a reasonable compromise; if the Pinkertons were called in to end a dispute, it was because the time for a peaceful solution had long since passed.

Just as the agent had entered the office and introduced himself to the foreman, I entered behind him. “Sorry to be so late. I was held up.”

The Pinkerton agent immediately recognized me, but he knew that he couldn’t start anything violent in the middle of the yard foreman’s office without a good cause, which I was resolved not to give.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he said.

“I was called in to resolve a labor dispute,” I said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I am here to resolve this dispute, by right of my legal authority as an agent of the Pinkertons.”

“Impossible!” I shouted, turning to the foreman. “I am an agent of the Pinkertons. This man is an impostor, obviously sent here on behalf of the strikers to defraud you, sir. I suggest that you have him ejected from your premises with all necessary force.”

“Liar!” shouted the agent. “I am a Pinkerton agent, and this man is the impostor!”

The poor foreman looked completely lost. I regretted putting the man in such a position, but I needed that badge, and causing a world of confusion was the only way I could devise to remove a prized possession from an armed man.

“Are you gentlemen sure that you aren’t both Pinkertons?” said the foreman.

“Certainly,” said the agent. “I am the only authentic agent of the Pinkertons in this room.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “Then prove it. Let’s see your badge.”

He pulled his badge from his jacket and proudly showed it to me. I took a look for appearance’s sake.

“All right, fine, you win,” I said. “You’re the real agent here, so I’ll just …” As I was about to turn and leave, I noticed something on his badge. “Hang on a moment.” I took the badge from his hands to take a closer look. Before he could accused me of trying to steal it again, I played the only possible trump card that I come up with during my pursuit.

“This badge is a fake.”

“What?” said the agent and the foreman together.

“It’s a forgery. This isn’t a real Pinkerton badge.”

“That’s impossible,” said the agent. “I keep that badge on my person at all times.”

“Do you ever put it in your desk drawer or leave it with anyone?”

“Well, I sometimes leave it at the office by accident when I’m leaving for the day…”

“There you are, then. Someone with access to your office must have switched your badge for this replica when your attention was elsewhere.”

“But who could want to do that?” said the agent to himself. He bent his head in thought, racking his brain for any of his fellow agents who might want to betray him.

“Hey, there’s someone out there,” I said, pointing out the office window to the stockyards. “Do you know that man, Agent?”

“Who?” said the agent. “Where is he?” He turned to look out the window, and the foreman turned as well, trying to see who was trespassing in his stockyards with a stolen Pinkerton badge.

While their backs were turned, I tucked the badge into my waistcoat and ran for it. I’ll be the first to admit that it was a risky and sophomoric ploy, but it had the advantage of being the last thing the agent would have been expecting. In his power-crazed delirium, and after his brief and colorful display of megalomania in his headquarters, he might well have suspected one his fellow agents of wanting the power of the badge for himself.

No sooner had I fled the foreman’s office than I heard a shout of rage behind me, as the Pinkerton agent realized my duplicity and gave chase. I turned every corner that I could to avoid presenting a target for his revolver, but there were a few long stretches of alley where I could only bob and weave as he fired on me. The bullets bit into the wood and brick buildings on either side of me, and I found extra speed to open up the gap between myself and my pursuer.

I pushed my way through crowds of people, who were doubtless aiding the Pinkerton agent in his pursuit and letting him stay on my trail. I was fortunate that he didn’t have the power of his badge to gain support in his chase, but of course a man with a gun commands a special kind of authority, and people tend to assume that a man is guilty merely because he is running. As I ran through the streets of Chicago, cutting through horse and pedestrian traffic, I thankfully spotted a policeman and skidded to a stop, nearly collapsing at his feet from exhaustion as the rush of the chase left my veins. I resolved to begin an exercise regimen as soon as my mission was over, as this was unlikely to be the last foot chase of my career.

“Can I help you, sir?” said the policeman.

At that moment, the Pinkerton agent emerged from the same alley I had come from and approached me and the officer. His gun was no longer pointed at me, since the accidental gunning down of a bystander would have been difficult to explain, but the gun was still in his hand and he had the look of retribution in his eye.

“Officer, this man is a thief. He stole my credentials, and I intend to press charges.”

The policeman began to reach for his billy club. “Is this true, sir?”

“Not at all. This badge is mine.” I took out the badge and brandished it at the policeman. “This man assaulted me at the Union Stock Yards and stole my gun. I request that he be detained and my weapon returned.”

The policeman turned to the agent. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return the man’s weapon and surrender yourself to police custody.”

The agent was even more furious at me now, and he still had his gun in his hand. However, he now had the attention of a policeman, and our little bit of street theater had attracted an audience. He might have been able to get away with shooting me in an alley behind a meat packing plant, but he couldn’t do it on a sidewalk in the middle of a Chicago street, not with a cop and dozens of other people watching. Without his badge, he was nothing but a power-mad lunatic with a gun. He angrily gave his gun to the policeman, who then handed it to me.

I took the gun and walked away with the badge, while the policeman took the agent to the station, calmly and quietly. Of course, the charges would melt away once the Pinkertons sent someone down to the station and straightened things out, but that was more than enough time to get on the next train out of Chicago. I had just angered the most powerful agency in America. It was probably a good idea to stay at the University for a while.

Besides, I clearly had some preparations to make. I was in poor physical shape and ill-suited for combat. These relics were clearly capable of influencing the behavior of any normal person who found them. I was protected by the knowledge that had been granted me by the Apothecary, but anyone else would be at risk. I needed to train myself in self-defense, and I needed to keep the Rod of Asclepius close at hand, or the next relic might get me killed.