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Mack and Wally set up shop in separate waterfront saloons near the Smithfield Bridge. Nowhere near as drunk as they looked, the detectives quickly made names for themselves as exceedingly generous, treating Monongahela towboat pilots and captains to round after round. Archie Abbott acted as runner, shuttling between them to exchange information and passing it on to Isaac Bell, who was glued to the front door of Mary Higgins’s rooming house.
Bell weighed the value of confronting her to find out what exactly the talk of sinking barges meant. What did “too far downriver” mean? And “only one bridge”? Or would he learn more by waiting until “Mr. Claggart” returned? Waiting meant he would have to move in a flash to stop whatever they were up to. In the meantime, as he watched and waited, he tried to imagine what they thought they would accomplish by sinking barges.
Mack Fulton spelled him so he could catch some sleep.
Back in four hours, he found Wally Kisley there, too. Wally had just come from the Allegheny County sheriff’s office. He had bad news about Jim Higgins.
Isaac Bell went looking for the union man.
The Van Dorn Protective Services agents reported that Higgins had gone missing.
34
We’re real sorry, Mr. Bell. We turned our backs for one second, and he lit out like a rocket.”
Mike Flannery and Terry Fein had promoted him to “Mr. Bell,” he noted wryly, now that they had bungled the job of protecting a client being stalked by the Pinkertons, the Coal and Iron Police, and possibly an assassin hired by the Coal Trust to keep Higgins from testifying for the attorney general. Flattery would come next.
“Where did you see him last?”
“Amalgamated Coal Terminal.”
“What the heck was he doing up there?”
The Amalgamated transfer operation was three miles upriver from the Golden Triangle, Pittsburgh’s business district, where Higgins and the Strike Committee had rented their union hall in a storefront under an old warehouse. It was fully seven miles downriver from the tent city where the Monongahela march had ground to a halt in a trolley park, shuttered since summer ended, on the outskirts of McKeesport.
“We don’t know, Mr. Bell. We went with him twice yesterday. He just stands and stares at it.”
“Why don’t you look for him there?”
“He’ll dodge us if he sees us coming,” said Mike.
Terry explained, “When the march ran into trouble, he blamed us for getting in his way.”
“When all we’re trying do is make sure no one shoots the poor devil or shoves a knife in his ribs.”
“But he’s always rattling on about what a fine fellow you are, Mr. Bell, and we thought maybe if he saw you coming, he wouldn’t run.”
Well-rehearsed flattery. “O.K., Mike, you watch his room. Terry, you watch the union hall. I’ll go out and look for him.”
“Try the toast rack.”
The toast-rack trolley — an open-sided electric streetcar that Bell rode out from the Golden Triangle — ran on tracks that paralleled those of the Amalgamated Coal trains. Passing Amalgamated from the inland side, the trolley offered views of locomotives pushing empties under the tipple and snaking them out full, and occasional distant glimpses of the barge wharves that ringed the Point. The operation seemed to Bell to be mechanically perfect, as if each barge and railroad was a minute cog in an immense and smooth-running wheel. He jumped down when he saw Jim Higgins standing at a trolley stop with his hands in his pockets.
“How you getting on, pardner?”
“Not good, Isaac. Not good at all.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The mineowners armed every bum with a gun. Then they let the jailbirds out and gave them ax handles. They’re blocking the march, and the hotheads are yelling, ‘Let the working people take guns and shoot down the dogs who shoot them!’”
Bell said, “If they do, the governor will call up militia with rifles and Gatling guns.”
“I know that. In fact, he’s already put them on alert. But the hotheads are talking each other out of the good sense to be afraid.”
“Mike and Terry told me you gave ’em the slip.”
“I need solitude to think.”
