clock manufactured by the New Haven Clock Company and a No. 5 Columbia dry battery. He picked up the clock and held it close to his eyes. Soldered to the alarm key was a tiny piece of grooved brass. Wires ran from this piece of brass to another brass plate fastened to the battery board by a simple screw and nut. When the current ran between these two contact points, the dynamite would explode.
He then turned to the Peoria device. He looked at the clock and the battery. With great care he examined the brass plate grooved to fit the winding key, the soldering technique, and the screw fastened to the battery board. When he was finished, he paused, more for effect than to work things out.
There is one essential difference in the two devices, he explained at last. Nitroglycerin was the explosive component in the first bomb. The Los Angeles bombs were primed to ignite dynamite—a powerful and rarely fabricated 80 percent charge. Other than that—
“Identical,” he announced triumphantly. The two bombs, he said, were made by the same person. It wasn’t simply that the alarm clocks and batteries were manufactured by the same companies. The wiring, the soldering, the brass plates—it was as if the bomb-maker had left his signature, Billy told the chief.
The chief was impressed. But at the same time he realized they were no closer to identifying the person who had made the two bombs. And without this vital information, they could not discover who had planted them, and why.
I really don’t see, Mr. Burns, how we’re farther along in this investigation than before, the chief demurred. He was clearly growing impatient; so much for the great detective.
Billy listened without interrupting. He seemed to be enjoying the moment. Then he spoke. “Let me inform you of something we have been fortunate to keep secret. A little pinch of sawdust taken as a sample in the railyards in Peoria came in very handy,” he revealed.
It was Harold Greaves who had originally followed the sawdust trail, but it was Billy who told the story. Along with the unexploded bomb, an empty nitroglycerin can had been found last September near the train yard. “Knowing that nitroglycerin could not be transported on railroad trains,” he began (according to an account he wrote years later), “we felt that it must have been manufactured within easy reach of where the explosion took place.” Days after the explosion, teams of Burns’s operatives fanned out around Peoria.
They found one distributor, then another, and another. It didn’t take them very long to discover that the nitroglycerin could have been bought from any of more than a dozen sources. How would Burns’s men determine where the bomb-maker had made his purchase?
“One of the essential features which go to make up the efficient detective,” Billy often lectured, “is the vigilance over small details.” At the train yard, such vigilance, he explained, had resulted in the discovery of another clue. A pile of sawdust lay near the abandoned can. Dutifully, it had been gathered up and sent on to the agency office in Chicago. It was this mound of sawdust, Billy told Chief Galloway, that had provided the first big break in the Peoria bombing. He was now confident it would also help him find the man who had blown up the
Times
Building.
Harold Greaves had been ready to give up. For weeks, Billy told the chief, his operative had been traveling in an expanding circle around Peoria and had little to show for his efforts. It wasn’t that his investigation had produced no results. Rather, his search had been too successful. He already had a long list of names of men who had purchased nitro. But he had no definitive way of knowing which of them, if any, had used the explosive to build a bomb. It would take months, years perhaps, to investigate all the suspects. And it was just as likely they all were innocent.
Frustrated and exhausted, weighed down by the growing enormity of the challenge,
He then turned to the Peoria device. He looked at the clock and the battery. With great care he examined the brass plate grooved to fit the winding key, the soldering technique, and the screw fastened to the battery board. When he was finished, he paused, more for effect than to work things out.
There is one essential difference in the two devices, he explained at last. Nitroglycerin was the explosive component in the first bomb. The Los Angeles bombs were primed to ignite dynamite—a powerful and rarely fabricated 80 percent charge. Other than that—
“Identical,” he announced triumphantly. The two bombs, he said, were made by the same person. It wasn’t simply that the alarm clocks and batteries were manufactured by the same companies. The wiring, the soldering, the brass plates—it was as if the bomb-maker had left his signature, Billy told the chief.
The chief was impressed. But at the same time he realized they were no closer to identifying the person who had made the two bombs. And without this vital information, they could not discover who had planted them, and why.
I really don’t see, Mr. Burns, how we’re farther along in this investigation than before, the chief demurred. He was clearly growing impatient; so much for the great detective.
Billy listened without interrupting. He seemed to be enjoying the moment. Then he spoke. “Let me inform you of something we have been fortunate to keep secret. A little pinch of sawdust taken as a sample in the railyards in Peoria came in very handy,” he revealed.
It was Harold Greaves who had originally followed the sawdust trail, but it was Billy who told the story. Along with the unexploded bomb, an empty nitroglycerin can had been found last September near the train yard. “Knowing that nitroglycerin could not be transported on railroad trains,” he began (according to an account he wrote years later), “we felt that it must have been manufactured within easy reach of where the explosion took place.” Days after the explosion, teams of Burns’s operatives fanned out around Peoria.
They found one distributor, then another, and another. It didn’t take them very long to discover that the nitroglycerin could have been bought from any of more than a dozen sources. How would Burns’s men determine where the bomb-maker had made his purchase?
“One of the essential features which go to make up the efficient detective,” Billy often lectured, “is the vigilance over small details.” At the train yard, such vigilance, he explained, had resulted in the discovery of another clue. A pile of sawdust lay near the abandoned can. Dutifully, it had been gathered up and sent on to the agency office in Chicago. It was this mound of sawdust, Billy told Chief Galloway, that had provided the first big break in the Peoria bombing. He was now confident it would also help him find the man who had blown up the
Times
Building.
Harold Greaves had been ready to give up. For weeks, Billy told the chief, his operative had been traveling in an expanding circle around Peoria and had little to show for his efforts. It wasn’t that his investigation had produced no results. Rather, his search had been too successful. He already had a long list of names of men who had purchased nitro. But he had no definitive way of knowing which of them, if any, had used the explosive to build a bomb. It would take months, years perhaps, to investigate all the suspects. And it was just as likely they all were innocent.
Frustrated and exhausted, weighed down by the growing enormity of the challenge,
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