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  He had met and become acquainted with a fellow inmate, a train robber named Marion Hedgepeth.

  That Holmes regarded this circumstance as such a fine piece of luck can only be interpreted as another sign of his increasingly clouded judgment. Certainly, no one who had crossed the path of Marion Hedgepeth ever counted himself lucky before.

  For Marion Hedgepeth was an authentic desperado. No less an authority than William A. Pinkerton—son of the detective agency’s legendary founder—described Hedgepeth as “one of the really bad men of the Old West. He was one of the worst characters I ever heard of. He was a bad man clear through.”

  15

  A thief knows a thief as a wolf knows a wolf.

  —Proverb

  While other Western bandits continue to live on in story and song (or their modern-day equivalents, movies and mini-series), Marion Hedgepeth has faded into utter obscurity. Perhaps the problem is his name. Certainly it lacks the dashing, romantic ring of the outlaw names that have entered into legend: Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Butch Cassidy, Cole Younger, the Daltons. In his own day, however, Hedgepeth enjoyed a notoriety equal to that of the West’s most fabled badmen.

  Except for his birthplace—a small farm in Prairie Home, Missouri—nothing is known about his childhood. He left home in his teens and drifted out West. By the time he reached twenty, he was wanted by the law in Wyoming, Colorado, and Montana for crimes ranging from cattle rustling to bank robbery. He had also earned a reputation as the fastest gun in the Southwest—a killer so deadly that, on one occasion, he whipped out his Colt and shot down a foe who had him covered with a rifle.

  Tall and straight, with black, wavy hair, dark eyes, and regular features, Hedgepeth cut a striking figure. He was vain about his appearance and dressed for his work with the fastidiousness of an Eastern dandy. His outfit of choice was a conservative blue suit, striped cravat, brown derby, and spit-polished shoes. But his pleasing appearance—the newspapers of the day dubbed him “The Handsome Bandit”—belied the ferocity of his character. In the ranks of Western outlaws, Hedgepeth was as ruthless as they came.

  Sometime in 1882, Hedgepeth took up with a pair of burglars named Cody and Officer. Late that year, the trio knocked over a store in Tuscumbia, Missouri, and made off with $1,400 in cash. A posse followed their tracks to Bonner Springs, twenty miles west of Kansas City, but Hedgepeth and his cohorts managed to escape.

  Several months later, Hedgepeth and Cody were cornered while attempting to blast open another safe in a small Kansas town. A ferocious gun battle ensued. Cody was killed, but once again, Hedgepeth got away.

  He was finally caught in November 1883. Tried in Cooper County, Missouri, he was convicted of highway robbery and sentenced to a seven-year term in the state penitentiary. Awaiting his transfer, he broke out of the local jail and severely wounded a deputy sheriff in the process. He was quickly recaptured and bundled off to prison, narrowly escaping a mob of outraged citizens bent on a lynching.

  Shortly after his arrival at the Jefferson Penitentiary, Hedgepeth met and befriended a train robber named Adelbert D. Sly, alias “Bertie.” Released simultaneously in 1891, the two men immediately recruited another pair of hard cases—James “Illinois Jimmy” Francis and Lucius “Dink” Wilson—and launched into a series of bold, often brutal, robberies. Within a year, the outlaw quartet—known as “The Hedgepeth Four”—had gained a nationwide reputation. The New York Times described them as “the most desperate gang of train robbers that has operated in this country for many years.”

  Their first major crime was the robbery of a street-car company’s offices in Kansas City. A few weeks later, the gang pulled off an identical job in Omaha, Nebraska. They also hit several post office branches in St. Louis and neighboring towns.

  On November 4, 1891, they robbed their first train. Boarding the Missouri Pacific at Omaha, they rounded up the crew and held them at gunpoint while Hedgepeth blew open the express-car door, pistol-whipped the messenger, then emptied the safe of $1,000 in cash.

  A week later, the gang struck again, this time hitting the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Express at Western Union Junction, Wisconsin, three miles outside of Milwaukee. Once again, Hedgepeth dynamited the express car, critically injuring the messenger. After cleaning out the safe, the bandits moved down the coach aisles, grain sacks in hand, relieving the passengers of their gold watches and jewelry. Altogether, the day’s haul amounted to more than $5,000.

  Two weeks later, on November 30, 1891, the Hedgepeth Four committed their biggest—and final—holdup at Glendale, Missouri, a tiny suburb of St. Louis. For the local citizenry, the crime produced a powerful sense of déjà vu, since, a dozen years earlier, Jesse James and his gang had pulled off a celebrated train robbery in the very same location.

  At approximately nine-fifteen P.M., as the Frisco express chugged out of the Glendale station, Hedgepeth swung aboard the train. Six-shooter drawn, he stepped into the cab and commanded the engineer to “pull her up straight ahead.” As the train braked to a halt, Sly, Francis, and Wilson came galloping up, raking the coaches with pistol fire.

  Ordering the engineer down from the cab, Hedgepeth marched him back to the express car, put the six-gun to his head, and suggested that he hurry up and tell the messenger to unlock the door. The engineer complied but the messenger responded by firing a rifle shot through the window, whereupon Hedgepeth set a terrific charge of dynamite that blasted the entire side of the express car open. As the badly wounded messenger staggered out through the smoke, Hedgepeth coolly gunned him down. Then he cracked open the safe with another, smaller charge and scooped a stack of money envelopes, containing $25,000 in cash, into a burlap sack.

  Sly, meanwhile, took the opportunity to remove the gold watch and chain from the dead messenger’s vest pocket. Then—after peppering the coaches with a final round of gunfire—the four bandits leapt onto their mounts and disappeared into the woods.

  The growing brazenness of the gang—and the magnitude of the Glendale holdup—brought the law down on them hard. Within a week, a special train from Chicago arrived in St. Louis, carrying William A. Pinkerton and a team of the agency’s top operatives. Along with the St. Louis police, they began scouring the city for the robbers. Plainclothes officers in squads of four roamed the streets day and night with orders to “kill Hedgepeth on sight.” By then, however, the gang had dispersed.

  James “Illinois Jimmy” Francis had taken his share of the loot and returned to his eighteen-year-old wife and infant son in Kansas City, Missouri. The Pinkertons located his home, but before they could arrest him, he and his brother-in-law were shot and killed by a posse following an attempted train robbery just outside of Lamar, Kansas.

  Meanwhile, Hedgepeth, Sly, and Wilson had headed out for California. In December 1891, Robert Pinkerton, aided by Chief of Police Glass and a detective named Whitaker, managed to track down Adelbert Sly in Los Angeles, where he was apprehended on the twenty-sixth. At the time of his arrest, he was carrying the gold pocket watch he had lifted from the slain express messenger during the Glendale robbery.

  Hedgepeth, however, continued to elude his pursuers. His capture finally came about through one of those strange bits of happenstance that occasionally help to crack a case wide open.

  On Christmas morning, a man and his wife appeared at the St. Louis police headquarters to report that their little daughter had found a dime in a neighborhood shed. Chief of Detectives Desmond seemed distinctly unimpressed with this tidbit. But he sat up in his chair when the man continued with his tale.

  Curious to see if he could turn up more money, the man had followed his daughter to the shed. Striking a match, he had discovered a spaded-up hole in a corner of the little outbuilding.

  At that point in his recitation, the man reached into his coat pocket and produced a pair of objects that he had discovered in the hole. Detective Desmond could not suppress his excitement as he gazed at the two items—a Colt revolver and a torn money envelope of the t
ype removed from the express company safe during the Glendale train robbery.

  Law enforcement officials hastened out to the shed, where they immediately uncovered a supply of shells and several more empty express company envelopes. Before long, they had ascertained that the house to which the shed belonged had been rented to a man calling himself H. B. Swenson, who had abruptly departed for San Francisco a few days after the Glendale robbery.

  On February 10, 1892, “Swenson”—one of Hedgepeth’s several aliases—was surrounded at the general post office in San Francisco by a stakeout party. Hedgepeth was armed with a pair of Colt revolvers, but was overpowered before he could use them. He was returned to St. Louis under heavy guard.

  His trial was a nationwide sensation. Hundreds of spectators—most of them women—flocked to the courthouse each morning for a glimpse of “The Handsome Bandit.” Baskets of flowers from his female admirers were delivered to his jail cell every afternoon.

  The jurors, however, proved resistant to his charms. In the spring of 1892, Hedgepeth was found guilty and sentenced to twenty-five years at hard labor in the Missouri state penitentiary. “Well,” he said, shrugging after the verdict was read, “I guess that’s the end of Marion Hedgepeth, who thought he was going to be a rich man.”

  That philosophic comment, however, was only a dodge. Hedgepeth had no intention of submitting meekly to his sentence. Held in the St. Louis jail while his attorneys appealed his conviction, he made a desperate breakout attempt but was quickly recaptured and thrown into solitary. When he emerged, he seemed more resigned to his situation. But in reality, he was only biding his time, waiting for fate to present him with a new chance for freedom.

  That chance arrived—or so Hedgepeth quickly came to believe—in July 1894, when a swindler called H. M. Howard landed in the St. Louis jail on a charge of defrauding the Merrill Drug Company.

  Why a man as cunning as Holmes chose to confide in a reprobate like Hedgepeth is an interesting question. Perhaps Holmes was slightly starstruck by his cellmate—dazzled by Hedgepeth’s celebrity and desirous of making a favorable impression on the notorious outlaw. Or perhaps the answer lies in something more prosaic: Holmes’s need for a particular piece of information, which he believed—correctly—that Hedgepeth could provide.

  Holmes’s insurance scheme still lacked a crucial ingredient. In order to pull it off successfully, he required the services of a lawyer not averse to dirty dealings. So far, he had been unable to come up with a suitable man. And so, sometime during his stay in the St. Louis jail, Holmes broached the subject with Hedgepeth, detailing his plan and offering him $500 in return for the name of a “slick lawyer.”

  After listening attentively, Hedgepeth acknowledged that he knew exactly the man for the job—a St. Louis attorney named Jeptha D. Howe, who “had underworld connections.”

  Holmes promised to send Hedgepeth the money just as soon as he collected on the insurance. Shortly thereafter, he was bailed out of jail.

  For both men, Holmes’s brief incarceration had proved to be an unexpected boon—or so it seemed at the time.

  Holmes had found his shyster. And Hedgepeth had ended up not only with the prospect of a $500 reward but with something even more potentially valuable—something the authorities might eventually give a good deal to know.

  16

  Trust that man in nothing who has not a conscience in everything.

  —Laurence Sterne, Sermons

  At the time of Holmes’s arrest, Pitezel and his family were also living in St. Louis. Pitezel had sent for Carrie and the children in the middle of May, shortly after arriving in the city. With some money provided by Holmes, he had taken a furnished, three-room flat in a wood-frame tenement on Carondelet Street.

  On the day Carrie’s train was due in from Chicago, Pitezel limited himself to a single shot of whiskey at the local saloon. Separated from his loved ones for nearly six months, he had begun drinking heavily again. But now that Carrie and the children were on their way to rejoin him, he was determined to cut back.

  When his wife stepped off the train at Union Depot, he embraced her so fervently that a number of passersby paused on the platform to stare. Pitezel kissed each of his five children in turn—Dessie, Alice, Nellie, Howard, and baby Wharton. Then, gathering up their luggage, he led his family out to a cab and loaded them inside.

  It was late afternoon when the carriage clattered up to the weather-beaten tenement. The narrow street was overrun with children, housewives gossiped on their front stoops, storekeepers lounged in the doorways of their meager shops. Though a distinct air of seediness pervaded the place, the street had a neighborly feel. But Carrie’s face fell when she stepped inside the flat. The wallpaper was grimy and peeling, the furniture flimsy and sparse, and—even with the windows wide flung—the air was infused with the smell of old cooking.

  Carrie was confused. Benny (her pet name for her husband) was a faithful correspondent, and she knew from his frequent letters that he and his employer had pulled off a big deal in Texas, which had netted them a substantial profit. What she didn’t know, however, was that her husband had ended up with only a pittance. The vast bulk of his share had remained in the possession of Holmes, who had persuaded Pitezel to allow him to hang on to it. Holmes had a real estate venture in mind that would double their investment in a matter of months.

  Pitezel, who continued to have perfect faith in Holmes’s financial cunning, had gone along with the proposition. With the money he would realize from the deal, plus his cut of the pending insurance scam, he and his family would be set for life.

  Sometime during the next two months—it is impossible to say precisely when—Pitezel took Carrie aside and laid out the details of the insurance fraud. She already knew about the $10,000 policy that named her as sole beneficiary. Benny had shown her the document the previous November, shortly after it had been issued. Now, he explained how he and Holmes intended to cash in on it.

  They had decided to stage Pitezel’s phony death in Philadelphia, where the Fidelity Mutual Life Association had its home office, calculating that Holmes could settle the matter most expeditiously that way. Pitezel would be traveling there soon under the name of Perry. He couldn’t say exactly how long he’d be away. But the next time Carrie saw him, he would be a wealthy man.

  To Pitezel’s chagrin, his wife took a very dim view of the matter. She knew Holmes only slightly. Though her husband had been in his employ for nearly five years, she had seen the man only a few times. Since their move to St. Louis, Holmes had dropped by the house on two or three occasions, bearing treats for the children and doling out a little cash to help tide the family over. But in spite of these small generosities, she bore no special fondness for the man—and she did not care for his insurance scheme one bit. “I don’t think much of it, Benny,” she complained. “And I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

  It took some cajoling, but in the end—though she remained leery of the plan—Carrie agreed to go along with it. Seated on a kitchen chair, Pitezel drew her onto his lap and gestured at their shabby surroundings. Once this deal was over, he declared, they would never have to endure such conditions again. Their money troubles would be over. Raising his right hand to show that he was giving his solemn word, he promised that he would have nothing more to do with Holmes once this insurance business was settled. The Philadelphia job was the last dishonest thing he would ever do in his life.

  In spite of Pitezel’s resolve to stay sober, he had not been able to keep away from the neighborhood saloon. A few evenings following his conversation with Carrie, he left the flat after dinner and returned several hours later in a noticeably fuddled state.

  Peering into the kitchen, he saw his seventeen-year-old daughter, Dessie, sewing at the table by lamplight. Pitezel made his way over to the table and lowered himself unsteadily into the opposite chair. After gazing at his daughter for a moment, he nodded decisively as though settling an inner debate. Then he cleared his throat and
started to speak.

  He knew he shouldn’t say anything to her, he began. But he was afraid she would worry if she read something in the newspaper.

  “Something about what?” asked Dessie.

  “About my being dead.”

  Dessie looked at him in wonderment.

  “Can’t say anything more,” her father mumbled. “Just remember—if you see it in the paper that I’m dead, don’t you believe it. It’s a fraud. That’s all I can say.”

  Dessie couldn’t make heads or tails of this speech. She told herself that her father, who was clearly under the influence, didn’t know what he was saying—it was the liquor doing the talking, that was all.

  By the next morning, she had put the incident out of her mind.

  After a simple breakfast on Sunday morning, July 29, 1894, Benjamin Pitezel kissed his wife and children goodbye, grabbed his battered valise, and headed for the trolley. Forty minutes later, he arrived at Union Depot, where he caught the noon train for Philadelphia.

  Just one day earlier, on July 28, Holmes had been released from the St. Louis prison. The previous ten days had been a terrible strain on Georgiana. Married for only six months, she had suddenly found herself in a desperately trying position, alone in a strange city, her husband suddenly carted off to jail. It had taken her over a week to arrange for his bail. Though she felt deeply indignant on behalf of Holmes, who had been victimized—so he led her to believe—by unscrupulous competitors, her main emotions were confusion and anxiety.

  As soon as they arrived back in their flat, Holmes proposed that they leave St. Louis at once. Georgiana—the strain of the ordeal apparent on her pale, haggard face—was in urgent need of a rest. As for Holmes, he had some long-postponed business in Philadelphia related to his patented ABC copying device. That, at any rate, was the falsehood he fed to his young wife.

  By the following afternoon, they had agreed on a plan. Georgiana would travel to Lake Bluff, Illinois, to spend a few days in the company of an old college friend, who had been urging her to visit for several years. In the meantime, Holmes would proceed to Philadelphia and find a place for them to stay. They would rendezvous there in a week.