The Salesman, the Bandits, and the Detective

Reading Time: 8 minutes

Key Takeaways

• Swift Action: Pinkerton Operative C.M. Reed identified the first suspect within 24 hours of the September 7, 1933, robbery. 
• The Partnership: For 50 years, Pinkerton served as exclusive detective agents for the Jewelers' Security Alliance — a deterrent so strong that professional thieves avoided JSA members. 
• The Timeline: First bandit located in 12 days, second bandit tracked for 5 months across Oklahoma. 
• Recovery: $2,915.51 worth of stolen jewelry recovered and returned. 
• The Cost: Two Sapulpa officers gave their lives. JSA and their fellow officers honored their widows with $500. 
• Then and Now: From Rogue’s Gallery to cutting-edge technology, Pinkerton's investigative commitment remains unchanged. 

From the very start, Pinkerton served as the Jewelers' Security Alliance's exclusive detective agents — chasing every case so JSA jewelers could do business with confidence. That partnership built a deterrent so strong that the JSA certificate over a safe became a warning in itself: Pinkerton on the case and thieves on notice. 

As Robert A. Pinkerton put it, "No professional would dare rob a JSA jeweler." One notorious thief even sent a letter to Pinkerton stating he never committed jewelry robberies out of respect for the Agency's relationship with the JSA. 

But others tested those boundaries. Take the case of the Bauman-Massa Jewelry robbery in September 1933. This one reads like it's straight out of a dime store true crime novel —highway shootouts, a mail carrier holdup, a five-month manhunt across Oklahoma, and detective work that proved crime really didn't pay. But it's true. 

The Highway Robbery

Charles Welzmiller didn't see them coming. 

It was half-past nine on the morning of September 7, 1933, and the St. Louis jewelry salesman was making good time on Highway 64, about ten miles southeast of Tulsa. His Durant was humming along at 45 miles per hour, sample cases packed with $15,000 worth of merchandise from the Bauman-Massa Jewelry Company rattling in the back. 

Then the shots started. 

The first bullet whizzed past his rear tire — a miss. The second came closer. Welzmiller's hands tightened on the wheel as a dark sedan roared up behind him, the barrel of a rifle jutting from the passenger window. Before he could react, the pursuing car slammed into his bumper with a crunch of metal. Welzmiller's Durant skidded to a stop. 

Two men leapt from the vehicle. The tall one moved fast despite a bad limp, brandishing not one but two .45s — an automatic in one hand, a Colt revolver in the other. His partner hung back with the rifle, eyes scanning the empty Oklahoma countryside. 

“Out,” the tall one barked, yanking open Welzmiller's door. 

The salesman had no choice. The tall bandit climbed into the driver's seat, wincing as his injured ankle hit the floorboard.  

“Drive,” he ordered, gesturing east with the automatic. “Off the highway.” 

They hadn't gone far when they spotted Ed Wells. 

The rural mail carrier was making his rounds in his Dodge, thinking about nothing more than his route and the afternoon heat. He never saw the ambush coming. 

“Here comes the postman,” the tall bandit said to his partner, almost conversationally. “Give him the nod.” 

Wells pulled over, confused. Then he saw the guns. “Out of the car. Now.”

The bandits worked with cold efficiency. They relieved Wells of sixteen dollars in government money — counting it right there in front of Welzmiller, like clerks tallying a receipt. Then they began transferring Welzmiller's jewelry samples into Wells' Dodge, ordering both men to help. Sample cases. Gasoline. Everything they needed. 

When they were done, the tall bandit gestured back toward the abandoned Durant with his .45. “Walk.” 

Welzmiller and Wells started walking. Behind them, the Dodge's engine roared to life, and the bandits disappeared south into the Oklahoma dust. 

Pinkerton Gets the Call

Word reached Tulsa fast. A jewelry salesman robbed at gunpoint. A mail carrier hijacked. Fifteen thousand dollars in merchandise gone. The kind of brazen daylight job that made headlines — and the kind that activated an old, unbreakable partnership. 

C.M. Reed got the call that same day. 

Reed was a Pinkerton operative out of the Kansas City office — who happened to be in Tulsa that morning — and he knew exactly what this meant. When a JSA jeweler got hit, Pinkerton moved. Fast. 

Reed interviewed Welzmiller and Wells separately, taking down every detail — the tall bandit's limp, the way he held two guns, the rifle in the partner's hands. Then Reed did what Pinkertons did best: he pulled out the Rogue’s Gallery photographs. 

By September 8 — just one day after the robbery — both victims had made an identification.

 

Clarence Hayes. Recently escaped from the Oklahoma Reformatory at Granite on August 14. Tall, armed, dangerous. And somewhere out there in the Oklahoma hills. 

Reed smiled grimly. Now it was a manhunt. 

The Man Who Claimed to Be “Pretty Boy” Floyd

Hayes thought he was untouchable. 

He'd holed up at Bee Clapp's place near Barnsdall, deep in outlaw country where questions weren't asked and strangers knew better than to come calling. To impress his host, Hayes told everyone he was Charles Arthur "Pretty Boy" Floyd — the most famous desperado in Oklahoma. 

But there was one problem: his ankle. 

The injury from crashing into Welzmiller's car during the robbery wouldn't heal. It kept him limping, kept him slower than he needed to be. And it gave Reed the opening he needed. 

Through a network of informants — men and women who operated in dangerous territory, feeding information to the law — Reed learned where Hayes was hiding. On September 19, 1933, just twelve days after the robbery, Reed assembled a strike team: ten officers from the Tulsa and Muskogee Police Departments, plus Post Office Inspectors. 

They surrounded the Clapp residence at dawn. 

What happened next was brief. Hayes came out fighting, and when the smoke cleared, the first bandit was down. Officers recovered Welzmiller's diamond ring, personal effects, a Colt .45 automatic, and a Winchester repeating rifle. 

One down. One to go. 

The Ghost in the Hills

On October 10th, Ed Wells looked at another photograph and nodded.

“That's him. The second man.” 

Dubert Carolan. Also known as Raymond Moore. Twenty-three years old, medium build, five-foot-seven, with black hair and grey eyes. Living near Stigler, Oklahoma. 

Reed and a team of officers paid a visit to the Carolan residence. They found a grip full of stolen goods and Welzmiller's clothing. But Carolan himself? Gone. He'd seen them coming and melted into the hills like smoke. 

For five months, Carolan stayed ahead of the law. He moved between hideouts, relied on friends in low places, and kept his head down. He thought he'd gotten away with it. 

The Farmhouse

February 2, 1934. Sapulpa, Oklahoma.

Police Chief Tom Brumley got a tip. The kind of tip that makes a lawman's instincts fire up. Suspects in recent robberies were hiding out at the Lee Davis Farm House — a known haven for desperadoes, just a mile and a half outside town. 

The next afternoon, Chief Brumley assembled his team: Sheriff Strange, Deputies Wesley Gage and Floyd Sellers. They drove out to the farmhouse under a grey Oklahoma sky. 

When they arrived, Brumley called out. Hands went up. Men emerged from the house — compliant, surrendering. 

But Dubert Carolan, still calling himself Raymond Moore, had positioned himself behind the door. 

As Chief Brumley stepped forward, Carolan raised a 9mm Luger and fired. 

The Chief went down. 

What followed was chaos. Gunfire erupted from all sides. Officer C.P. Lloyd of the Sapulpa Police fell. Deputies returned fire. Two other men at the farmhouse — Aussie Elliot and Eldon Wilson — were hit. When the shooting stopped, Carolan and Elliot were dead. Wilson was wounded. 

The five-month manhunt was over. 

Crime Doesn’t Pay

The Tulsa Daily World ran the story under a sardonic headline: "Crime Didn't Pay Them." 

When officers searched the bodies, they found Carolan had one dollar in his pocket. Elliot had the same. Wilson, bleeding and in custody, had a single fifty-cent piece. They wore threadbare clothes and shoes with holes worn through the soles. No baggage. No future. 

On February 10, 1934, Pinkerton Operative Reed recovered $2,915.51 worth of the stolen jewelry and returned it to its rightful owners. 

But the case left a cost. Chief Brumley and Officer Lloyd had paid with their lives. 

In recognition of their sacrifice, the Jewelers' Security Alliance — whose standing reward was typically $100 per conviction — decided to do something different. On May 1, 1934, Operative Reed personally delivered $300 to Chief Brumley's widow and $200 to Officer Lloyd's widow. The total: $500, funded by the generosity of all the other officers on the case, who waived their rewards. 

It was a gesture that spoke louder than words. And Pinkerton had kept its promise to the Jewelers' Security Alliance.  — A case history from the files of Pinkerton's National Detective Agency 

As the final chapter of this tale closes, it’s a reminder that the thirst for truth and justice is timeless: dogged pursuit, meticulous investigation, and an unshakeable commitment to the client. In 1933, that meant a five-month manhunt across Oklahoma. Today, it means cutting-edge technology applied with the same relentless focus. 

The deterrent still holds: Pinkerton on the case. Thieves on notice.