Chapter 49

_The Jail at Bridgeport._--_An Important Arrest._--_Bucholz Finds a Friend._--_A Suspicious Character who Watches and Listens._--_Bucholz Relates His Story._

A few days had elapsed after my taking charge of the case of William Bucholz, when two arrests were made by the officials of Bridgeport, one of which promised to have an important bearing upon the investigation in hand.

One was that of a shrewdly-educated young Irishman, whose sharp, piercing black eyes, and closely-cut black hair, gave him a look of acuteness that was apparent to the most casual observer. He had been charged with false pretense in assuming to be the agent of a publisher of chromos, and his practice was to take orders for the pictures which he exhibited, from his unsuspecting customers, the same to be delivered at some future time. He would then receive a part of the purchase money in advance, and take his departure, while the innocent subscriber would look in vain for the fulfillment of his contract.

The other arrest was that of a handsome and gentlemanly-looking man of about thirty-five years of age. His hair, which was prematurely gray, curled gracefully about his brow and temples, but his moustache, which was of a brownish color and carefully trimmed, lessened the indication of greater age on account of the color of his hair. He evinced a quiet reserve of manner, and a general air of respectability scarcely in accord with his appearing to answer for the commission of a crime, and many sympathetic remarks were made by the bystanders on the occasion of his hearing.

He was charged with forgery, and had been arrested in the act of presenting a forged order for a money package, at the office of the Adams Express Company at Bridgeport. The evidence of the forgery was unmistakable, and the agent of the company detecting it, at once had the man arrested.

These two arrests were almost coincident; their hearing at the preliminary examination took place at the same session of the court, and as each of them waived a hearing and were unable to procure bail, they were both consigned to the jail to await their trial at the next sitting of the general court.

As a general thing there seems to be a sort of community of interest or fraternity of feeling existing between prisoners during their confinement. At certain hours in the day, in many places of imprisonment, the authorities permit the prisoners to leave their cells and to take exercise in the corridors. At such times they mingle together indiscriminately and indulge in general conversation, and many interesting episodes could be gathered from their recitals of the various scenes through which they have passed during their vicarious life, and the experiences thus related would tend to prove, beyond question, that the imagination of the romancer falls far short of the actual realities of life.

Many wild and seemingly extravagant stories are related, which fill the listener with incredulity, but which, upon inquiry, are usually found to be but truthful relations of actual occurrences.

But in this jail at Bridgeport there was one person, who, upon finding himself a prisoner, held himself aloof from the rest, declining to make any acquaintances or to engender any friendships, and this person was the quiet-looking man who had been arrested by the express company, and whose name was ascertained to be Edward Sommers. He studiously avoided his fellow-prisoners and maintained a degree of reserve which repelled their advances and at once induced their respect.

Thomas Brown, the black-haired, false pretender, however, immediately placed himself on friendly terms with every one within reach, and his merry stories were fully appreciated by the residents of the correctional institution in which they found themselves thrown together.

But how fared William Bucholz during the days that had intervened since his incarceration? His mind, it is true, had grown calmer since the first paroxysm of his grief had spent itself, and he had composed himself sufficiently to look the future hopefully in the face. As day after day was passed in the seclusion of his cell, he had grown reconciled to a certain extent to the existing state of affairs, but he still looked forward anxiously to the day which was to deliver him from the enclosing walls that restrained him of his liberty.

He was moody and silent, and his mind was much disturbed. His waking thoughts were ever busy with the weighty and depressing consideration of his position and of the fate that hung over him like a pall. Hour after hour he would pace the corridors, seeking no companionship and taking no pleasure in the mirth-provoking actions of those who surrounded him, or in any of the events that transpired within the jail.

Mechanically he would walk backward and forward, apparently in deep and dejected thoughtfulness, and when the time came for the keepers to lock him up again he would yield a ready but listless obedience, and spend the remainder of the time in reading and profound meditation.

He appeared to have no visitors except his counsel and a few friends from South Norwalk. But his attorneys would invariably exercise a cheering influence upon him, and their visits were always looked forward to with pleasure.

Under their ministrations Bucholz seemed to have buoyed himself up with a certain well-grounded hope of ultimate acquittal, and the thought of the possibility of conviction, while it would frequently occur to him, never found a firm place in his mind.

During the infrequent and invariably short conversations that took place between himself and any of his fellow prisoners, he always spoke hopefully of his approaching trial, and ever asserted, with an air of conviction, that upon its completion he would walk out of the court-room a free man. His counsel had solemnly warned him against making a confidant of any one with whom he conversed, and he was always very careful in his utterances when speaking about his connection with the murder of Henry Schulte.

Thus the days sped on until Edward Sommers entered the jail, and then it seemed as though his disposition for reserve entirely left him. There appeared to be some feeling of personal attraction between Bucholz and the newcomer almost unaccountable, for as they both had avoided the companionship of the other inmates, they, strange to say, soon quietly, almost imperceptibly, drifted into a friendship for each other seemingly as profound as it was demonstrative.

Both being natives of Germany, they conversed in the language of the Fatherland, and as they were familiar with many localities of joint interest, they became quite intimate, and many hours were whiled away in the relation of their earlier experiences and in fond recollections of bygone days.

During the entire time in which they were allowed to mingle with each other, these two would sit together, and their friendship soon became the topic of general conversation. Thomas Brown, however, seemed to be exceedingly uneasy under its manifestations, and he would oftentimes steal upon them unawares and endeavor to catch some fleeting words of their apparently interesting conversations.

Under the inspiration of a mutual interchange of thoughts the two friends became warmly attached to each other, particularly so far as Bucholz was concerned. They shared together their stores and the delicacies which would be furnished them by visiting ladies or by the counsel of Bucholz, who frequently visited his client and supplied him with needed articles of diet, which were not furnished by the authorities of the prison.

Thus matters went on, the friendship of Sommers and William Bucholz seeming to increase with every recurring day, and the watchful Brown still jealously watching their movements and attempting to listen to their confidences.

They were sitting together one day shortly after this, when Bucholz, in a jocular manner, addressing his companion, said:

"Ah, my dear Sommers, I am surprised to find you here in jail and upon such a charge as they have brought against you."

"Yes, but my dear Bucholz, consider my surprise to find you here, and upon the charge of murder, too. You must remember you are not clear yet," answered Sommers, with a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but whether it was his tone or the language used that brought the color to the face of the accused man, Sommers did not then know.

"Ah, you should not joke upon such a serious matter," he answered, with a degree of confusion that could not have escaped the attention of his friend.

"Never mind, my friend," replied Sommers. "It will all come out right in the end, only you must not talk to your fellow-prisoners about their troubles, nor allow them to talk to you about yours."

"Oh, no!" said Bucholz; "my lawyers always tell me to say nothing to anybody."

"That is right. You cannot tell who would be your friend or who your enemy, in a place of this kind."

The next day, as they were sitting together, two German newspapers were handed to Sommers by the hall-man, and upon receiving them he handed them at once to his companion. Bucholz opened the paper carelessly, but as his eyes glanced over its contents, he stopped, started to his feet, and then throwing the paper suddenly down upon the floor, he buried his face in his hands.

"What is the matter now?" asked Sommers, astonished at this strange behavior, and picking up the discarded paper.

"Look there!" exclaimed Bucholz, pointing to a passage in the paper. "Read that. That is the first time that paper ever said I was guilty."

The article to which he alluded was in regard to a statement which Bucholz had made at the time of his arrest. In explaining the fact of his having several large sums of money in his possession, he had declared that his sister had sent them to him from Germany. This statement had just been discovered to be untrue, and the denial of the sister of the fact of her having sent any money at all, was the basis of the article in question.

"This looks rather bad for you, William," said Sommers, sorrowfully.

"It does look bad," he replied, "but I never did say that I received any money from my sister. I never did say anything of that kind."

The black eyes of the ubiquitous Brown were upon the two men as they stood talking, but he was too far away to hear what was transpiring between them.

"What can they have against you any how?" inquired Sommers. "Surely there must be some ground of suspicion upon which to base their charge."

"Ah, you do not know. After the old man was murdered; I was arrested; I was closely questioned, and I did say some things that I should not have said. I had no lawyer, and a white-haired fox whose name was Illing did every thing he could against me. I did not have an opportunity to explain myself at all."

"That was too bad, indeed," added Sommers; "but it can all be shown right upon the trial, and then you will come out safely."

"Oh, yes, it will come out all right on the trial, I know, for then I will have my lawyers to defend me."

"But, tell me, William, how did this murder occur?"

Thus questioned, Bucholz, without hesitation, at once commenced and related to his friend the circumstances of the affair, adhering strictly to the same story which he had told at the inquest, and which he had religiously repeated ever since.

While they were thus conversing, the jailer came to lock them in their cells for the night. Brown slipped quietly away, and the two men, thus so strangely thrown together, shook hands and retired to their separate apartments, where they spent the night in slumber. But ah, how pleasant or how fatiguing was that slumber!