Greaves went off to interview still another nitro distributor, this one in Portland, Indiana. Fred Morehart was a garrulous man and glad to have company, even if it was the laconic Greaves. Without much prodding, Morehart confirmed that he had sold several crates of nitro to a stranger a month or so before the Peoria bombing.
The buyer had introduced himself as J. W. McGraw. Said he worked for G.W. Clark & Co. in Peoria, and they had some hard rock that they wanted to blast. Nitro, McGraw explained, would do the trick better than dynamite. Morehart was reluctant to sell explosives to a man he didn’t know, but McGraw pointed to the ring on Morehart’s finger. I’m a Knight of Pythias, too, he announced. That assuaged some of Morehart’s suspicions; members, after all, joined the fraternal order to work for universal peace. Then moving quickly to seal the deal, McGraw took a thick roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off three twenties as a down payment. The final payment would be made, McGraw promised, when the crates of explosives were delivered.
The delivery arrangements struck Morehart as odd, but he went along with them. According to McGraw’s instructions, Morehart was to load his wagon with the explosives and drive to a road intersection two hundred miles away. McGraw would be waiting there with his own wagon.
A few days later Morehart met him at the designated junction. McGraw, Morehart explained, seemed familiar with the proper method for handling the explosive and with the laws concerning its transport. That helped to assuage Morehart’s doubts, and he carried the nitro out of his transport crates and loaded them into the other wagon. “I got my money, and that was that,” he told Greaves. “Never saw McGraw again.”
But Greaves was curious. The delivery arrangement was not only irregular but, to the detective’s mind, furtive. He asked More-hart for directions to the intersection where the nitro had been transferred from one wagon to the other.
Two days later Greaves was standing at the spot. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he began walking around, eyes to the ground. Lying amid the tall grass by the side of the road he saw something. Scattered like rubbish were the papers that Morehart had used to wrap his cans of nitro. When the cans were put in McGraw’s wagon, the papers apparently had been discarded. Greaves knelt down to get a closer look at one of the wrapping papers and saw that the remnants of a coarse sawdust still remained in the folds. Greaves collected the sawdust, filling two glass vials he carried with him; a detective, he had been tutored, must always be prepared to preserve evidence.
In Chicago, the sawdust from the Peoria bomb and the sawdust gathered from the roadside were placed under a microscope. They were identical. Greaves had identified the bomb-maker—J. W. McGraw.
As he concluded his story for the chief of police, Billy began talking much too quickly. That was his habit; when the thrill of a new chase loomed, words would gallop from him. His men, Billy went on rapidly, had immediately checked out the company McGraw had claimed to work for in Peoria, only to find that it didn’t exist. But Morehart, he said, had provided “a good description of McGraw”: mid-thirties, chubby, medium height, bushy mustache, dark eyes. “Next was to get his signature. Greaves hunted through the various hotels in the town around Portland and finally came to a register in Muncie, Indiana, with the name J. W. McGraw upon it. Greaves made a tracing of this signature.”
I’m certain, Billy continued, that the bombings in Peoria and Los Angeles involved the same man. We found where he bought the nitro. And now we are going to find where he bought the dynamite.
“Then,” Billy announced with confidence, “I will be one step closer to finding the elusive J. W. McGraw.”
Just as D.W. learned that San Francisco was the place to rent costumes, Billy quickly discovered
The buyer had introduced himself as J. W. McGraw. Said he worked for G.W. Clark & Co. in Peoria, and they had some hard rock that they wanted to blast. Nitro, McGraw explained, would do the trick better than dynamite. Morehart was reluctant to sell explosives to a man he didn’t know, but McGraw pointed to the ring on Morehart’s finger. I’m a Knight of Pythias, too, he announced. That assuaged some of Morehart’s suspicions; members, after all, joined the fraternal order to work for universal peace. Then moving quickly to seal the deal, McGraw took a thick roll of bills out of his pocket and peeled off three twenties as a down payment. The final payment would be made, McGraw promised, when the crates of explosives were delivered.
The delivery arrangements struck Morehart as odd, but he went along with them. According to McGraw’s instructions, Morehart was to load his wagon with the explosives and drive to a road intersection two hundred miles away. McGraw would be waiting there with his own wagon.
A few days later Morehart met him at the designated junction. McGraw, Morehart explained, seemed familiar with the proper method for handling the explosive and with the laws concerning its transport. That helped to assuage Morehart’s doubts, and he carried the nitro out of his transport crates and loaded them into the other wagon. “I got my money, and that was that,” he told Greaves. “Never saw McGraw again.”
But Greaves was curious. The delivery arrangement was not only irregular but, to the detective’s mind, furtive. He asked More-hart for directions to the intersection where the nitro had been transferred from one wagon to the other.
Two days later Greaves was standing at the spot. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he began walking around, eyes to the ground. Lying amid the tall grass by the side of the road he saw something. Scattered like rubbish were the papers that Morehart had used to wrap his cans of nitro. When the cans were put in McGraw’s wagon, the papers apparently had been discarded. Greaves knelt down to get a closer look at one of the wrapping papers and saw that the remnants of a coarse sawdust still remained in the folds. Greaves collected the sawdust, filling two glass vials he carried with him; a detective, he had been tutored, must always be prepared to preserve evidence.
In Chicago, the sawdust from the Peoria bomb and the sawdust gathered from the roadside were placed under a microscope. They were identical. Greaves had identified the bomb-maker—J. W. McGraw.
As he concluded his story for the chief of police, Billy began talking much too quickly. That was his habit; when the thrill of a new chase loomed, words would gallop from him. His men, Billy went on rapidly, had immediately checked out the company McGraw had claimed to work for in Peoria, only to find that it didn’t exist. But Morehart, he said, had provided “a good description of McGraw”: mid-thirties, chubby, medium height, bushy mustache, dark eyes. “Next was to get his signature. Greaves hunted through the various hotels in the town around Portland and finally came to a register in Muncie, Indiana, with the name J. W. McGraw upon it. Greaves made a tracing of this signature.”
I’m certain, Billy continued, that the bombings in Peoria and Los Angeles involved the same man. We found where he bought the nitro. And now we are going to find where he bought the dynamite.
“Then,” Billy announced with confidence, “I will be one step closer to finding the elusive J. W. McGraw.”
Just as D.W. learned that San Francisco was the place to rent costumes, Billy quickly discovered
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