THE MYSTERY OF THE WHEAT SACKS
At once Willie was afire with the idea. Here was his chance. If his
suspicions were correct, there must be a great deal of stuff for
sale in these little shops that had been brought into the country
without paying the duty on it. One thing was certain: if duty had
been paid on these articles, they could never be sold at the prices
asked for them. There was absolutely no question about that. The
only point in doubt was whether the goods were home-made as
represented, or imported. The more Willie turned the matter over in
his mind, the more certain he became that many of the pieces were of
foreign make. He distinctly recalled several shops that he had
visited, where there were dozens of lace pieces on view. There might
be many more not in sight. But certainly it would have taken many
women many weeks to make all the pieces offered in just one of these
shops. Willie was certain that the women of the Armenian quarter
could never have done all that work.
But it was one thing to make up his mind that the goods in question
were smuggled, and quite another thing to decide how he should go
about proving it. In fact, at first, Willie could see no way by
which he was to get the proof. But as he considered the matter, the
situation began to clarify itself. Probably there were some
particular men or firms engaged in bringing the stuff into the
country. If he could find who these men were, it might not be so
difficult to find how they got the stuff in.
Willie fell to wondering how goods like these laces could be packed
so as to deceive the customs inspectors. That seemed to be a simple
thing to do. The goods could be rolled up or doubled up and hidden
in almost anything that was dry and clean. It occurred to Willie
that if one were to study the lists of imports one might find a clue
there. If any particular Armenian merchant were making repeated
importations, there might be reason for an investigation of these
importations.
But when he came to try this method, he found it was anything but
simple. To begin with, he did not have access to the needed records.
To get access, he would have to explain why he wanted to examine the
records. He had made up his mind to say nothing about his suspicions
until he had something definite to go on. So he dropped the idea of
examining the import lists. The idea, as he saw later, was a sound
one.
For a time Willie could see no way to proceed. Then, as he was
thinking the matter over one day, he suddenly remembered the
handkerchief in the can of pistachio-nuts. At once the incident took
on a new meaning. He had wondered, at the time, why the merchant
seemed so flustered over the matter. Now he believed that he knew.
The handkerchief was smuggled. Likely it had been brought into the
country in the can of pistachio-nuts and the merchant had overlooked
it. Here was something to work on. Here was a tangible clue. If one
handkerchief was smuggled through in nut cans, why might not others
be?
That evening Willie walked into the store where he had bought the
pistachio-nuts. He had been in several times, and the merchant knew
him. He nodded in a friendly way as Willie entered, and stepped
behind the counter to serve him. Willie priced a number of things
and explained that when he earned more money he would buy some of
them. The merchant grinned.
“I’ll take some of these nuts,” said Willie, and he laid down a
dime.
“Ten cent worth?” asked the shopkeeper.
“Yes,” said Willie.
The man put a weight on his scales and poured the nuts out of a
small can. There were just enough nuts in it to fill the order. The
man set the empty can on the counter, while he dumped the nuts from
his scales into a paper sack. Willie picked up the can. He could not
read the label on it. The characters were strange. He did not know
whether they were Greek or Turkish or what they were.
“They’re good,” said Willie, picking up the nuts. “Where do they
come from? Armenia?”
“No understand,” replied the merchant.
“Where from?” asked Willie again, holding up the bag of nuts.
“Home?”
“No understand,” said the merchant, again.
Just then his wife came into the shop. She could speak English more
readily. “What you want know?” she inquired.
Willie smiled. “Where these good nuts come from?” he said.
“Habib Mahaleb,” said the woman.
Instantly her husband frowned and angrily muttered something in his
own tongue. The woman seemed distressed.
“No, no,” said Willie, with quick intuition. “What country do they
come from? Turkey?”
The smile came back to the woman’s face. “Syria,” she said.
“Good!” said Willie. “Fine country, Syria.”
The woman smiled more broadly than ever. “My home,” she said. “Fine
country.”
“When I get enough money saved,” said Willie, “I am going to buy a
lace collar for my mother.”
“Fine laces. Cheap!” said the woman. “Mother like lace?”
“Round her neck,” said Willie. “So,” and he drew his fingers along
the lapels of his coat.
The woman laughed, showing her pearly teeth. “Very good,” she said.
“How long did it take you to make that scarf?” asked Willie, picking
up a beautiful lace head-dress.
“Me no make. Buy.”
“Where? Syria?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. In his mind
Willie replied for her. “Habib Mahaleb, I’ll bet,” he thought.
Then he smiled good-bye, took his pistachio-nuts, and left the
store. He went along the street, studying the sign over each door.
He was searching for Habib Mahaleb. Down one street and up another
went Willie, but with no success. Finally on the window of almost
the only Oriental store remaining, Willie found the name he was
searching for. The place seemed to be a business house of
considerable size. Willie entered and asked for a dime’s worth of
pistachio nuts. A clerk promptly took from a shelf a tin can exactly
similar to the one the other merchant had emptied, and weighed out
the nuts.
The clerk was a young fellow and seemed inclined to converse. He was
dressed exactly like an American and talked English readily, though
with a marked accent.
“Like America?” asked Willie.
“Fine.”
“Where’s your home? Syria?”
“No. Armenia.”
“Going to stay in America?”
“Sure. America good place.”
“Going to be a merchant?”
“Sure.”
“Sell laces and nuts and shawls?” and Willie swept his hand around
at the stock about him.
The young man nodded.
“Where do these things come from? Armenia?” asked Willie, pointing
to the laces.
A subtle change came over the young merchant’s face. “All American,”
said the clerk.
“But our American women cannot make such beautiful things,” said
Willie.
“Armenians make them,” said the lad, with obvious pride. “Armenians
here. All made in America.”
Willie said good-bye and went out. He felt absolutely certain the
fellow had been lying to him. Otherwise, why came that crafty look
into his face? “Mr. Habib Mahaleb,” muttered Willie, “I think I’ve
got something on you, all right. I’m going to look into your import
records and see how many pistachio-nuts and other goods you are
importing. I believe I’ve got something to go on, now.”
At his first opportunity to talk to Mr. King, on the following day,
Willie set forth his suspicions concerning Habib Mahaleb, with his
reasons for those suspicions.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you are correct in your guess,”
said Mr. King. “Are you going any further with your investigations?
Or do you want our special investigators to take up the case now?”
There was a smile on his face, but it was a pleasant smile.
“I’d like permission to look over some import records,” said Willie,
“and find out what that fellow is shipping in.”
“We’ll look the records over all right enough,” said Mr. King, “but
it will be best to have the work done by one of the clerks who is
familiar with those records.”
When Mr. King saw that Willie looked disappointed, he went on, “You
needn’t feel bad about it. You’ll get the credit if anything is
turned up. But it is better to have them do the work because they
can do it so much faster and also because I cannot spare you from
that gate.”
“Very well, sir,” said Willie, but he was plainly disappointed.
Mr. King at once ordered an inspection of the list of goods imported
from the Near East. The records showed nothing to confirm Willie’s
suspicions. The name of Habib Mahaleb appeared relatively few times
on the record of shipments from Turkey.
Willie was as much puzzled as he was mortified. For he hadn’t the
least doubt in his own mind that he was right about the matter. Yet
for a time he was completely baffled. He saw no way to get any
farther with his investigation. But one day a secret agent of the
department came in, who seemed to know a great deal about goods from
the Near East. Willie overheard the man explaining to Mr. King about
some shipments from Constantinople. As soon as the agent was done
talking to Mr. King, Willie put some questions to him.
“Mr. Easterly,” he said, “is there any way in which the shipment of
goods from the Near East can be covered up?”
“What do you mean?” asked the agent.
“Why, suppose you have reason to believe that certain goods came
into this country from Turkey, and yet you cannot find any record of
such shipments from Turkey. How could that be?”
“That’s simple enough. They might have been transshipped at some
intermediate point, and your record would perhaps show only that
they came from that intermediate point.”
“Ah!” cried Willie. “That must be it. I never thought of that. What
would be a likely port at which to transship goods from Armenia?”
“Oh! They might go to almost any Mediterranean port—Genoa, Naples,
or almost any place. It’s hard to say. It would depend upon
circumstances.”
“Thank you,” said Willie. “You have given me exactly the clue I
want.”
At his first opportunity Willie once more spoke to Mr. King about
the matter. “I believe I know why we couldn’t find any trace of
Habib Mahaleb’s shipments,” said Willie. “They were likely
transshipped at some intermediate port. May I make an examination of
the records?”
“You’re nothing if not persistent,” laughed Mr. King. “I don’t
believe we can afford to put any more time on the matter. The clerks
are already overloaded, and I don’t like to ask them to go over
those records again. Besides, I don’t believe that this smuggling,
if smuggling there be, amounts to very much.”
“I didn’t ask to have the clerks examine the records,” explained
Willie. “I asked if I might examine them myself. I’ll be glad to do
it after hours, if you’ll let me.”
Mr. King studied the lad before him keenly. “Why are you so
determined to go on with this case?” he asked. “Have you a bone to
pick with your friend Habib?”
“No, sir,” replied Willie. “I have no reason whatever except that I
want to get ahead in Secret Service work. I am absolutely certain I
am right in my suspicions. If I could run this matter down, it would
help both you and me. The government would get some revenues due it
and I would get some experience I need. I am more than willing to do
the work.”
“Very well, then. Have it as you wish. I’ll instruct the clerks to
show you how to examine the lists and to allow you to work at them
in your own time.”
“Thank you,” said Willie. “Maybe I am wrong, but I’ll never be
satisfied until I know I am.”
Willie plunged into this new labor with enthusiasm. Half of his noon
hour and at least an hour every evening he spent in poring over the
records in question. He found it dull, dry, and at first
disappointing work. Some importations he found in the name of Habib
Mahaleb, but they were not such as to excite suspicion.
But one thing Willie noticed that presently burned itself into his
consciousness. From the port of Genoa repeated importations of wheat
and pistachio-nuts were being sent to Marrash Roukas. The
importation of pistachio-nuts seemed proper enough. But why should
anybody be shipping wheat, a few hundred pounds at a time, from the
Orient to America? Willie could form no theory that seemed to
explain it. Right here the detective sense that was really born in
him asserted itself. Something told him that the thing was
suspicious.
When he had completed his search, Willie reported to the Special
Agent. “I can’t find a thing that looks suspicious about Habib
Mahaleb’s importations,” said Willie, “unless it be that they are
suspicious because of their absence. There are relatively few
shipments credited to him. That seems queer, because he has a pretty
big store.”
“He may get his stuff from other dealers in America,” said Mr. King.
“That’s a possibility I hadn’t thought about. But there is one
thing, Mr. King, that I’d like to call your attention to. A fellow
named Marrash Roukas has been importing wheat and pistachio-nuts
into this country from Genoa. There has been shipment after
shipment, and always in small lots. Now what does any one want to
ship wheat to America for, anyway, when we raise so much? And why
does he want to buy it in three-hundred pound lots?”
The Chief pricked up his ears. “Willie,” he said, “that’s a subject
of interest. I think I’ve never heard of a case just like that
before. It is interesting enough to justify our looking into it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Why, we’ll find out when the gentleman makes another shipment and
have a look at the stuff.”
“It’s been coming pretty regularly,” said Willie. “There’s a steamer
due from Genoa and other Mediterranean ports in a couple of days,
and she might have some wheat for Roukas aboard of her.”
“I’ll just make a note of that,” said Mr. King, “and have Easterly
keep his eye open for such a shipment.”
“Gee! I’d like to be there when the boat comes in,” thought Willie,
but he did not venture to ask for permission. All he could do was to
wait and see whether the steamer had any goods for Roukas, and if
so, whether or not Easterly found anything suspicious about it.
Like an eager hound straining at his leash was Willie during the
next two days. The possibility of success in his venture seemed to
Willie to mean so much that he could hardly keep his mind on his
work. It seemed to him that he must be present to aid in the search
of the suspected goods—provided, of course, the steamer contained
any. A hundred times he was on the point of asking his chief for
this favor. But each time he fought down the wish. His place, he
knew well enough, was right where he was—at the gate. And the best
way he could make good with his chief was by staying right at his
post, at the gate. But it was not strange that Willie began to hate
that gate. It seemed to be a bar to his own desires.
Somehow he managed to keep his lips sealed, though his manner showed
plainly enough that something was troubling him.
“What’s worrying you, Willie?” said Mr. King, late on the afternoon
of the second day.
“I can’t help thinking that maybe—perhaps—Mr. Easterly might—might
miss—might overlook something,” stammered Willie, afraid to say too
much, yet fearful of saying too little.
Mr. King laughed. He had been a boy himself, and the time was not so
far distant, either, that he had forgotten how boys feel about
things that mean a great deal to them.
“I think I understand,” he said sympathetically. “I’ll tell Mr.
Easterly to be particularly careful if he finds anything for
Roukas.”
When word came, next day, that the steamer they were looking for had
left Quarantine and was on her way to her dock, Mr. King called
Willie to his desk. “That boat you’re looking for,” he said, “is on
her way up from Quarantine now. She’ll be docked by ten o’clock. I
want you to take this letter to Mr. Henderson. You know him, don’t
you? He’s one of our special agents.”
“Yes, sir, I know him,” said Willie.
“Well, you may leave here at twenty minutes of ten. Put the message
in Mr. Henderson’s own hands. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And,” said Mr. King, with a smile, “if you don’t get back here
until one o’clock it will be all right.”
“Oh!” gasped Willie. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. King.”
Willie could hardly stay in his seat until nine-forty came. Then he
grabbed his cap and bolted through the gate. Like so many other
seeming obstacles in life, it was no longer a bar to progress. It
was an opening to advancement. At least so it seemed to Willie. He
ran to the subway, caught a train, rode to the proper station, then
tore away hotfoot for the pier.
The scene he had witnessed while he was waiting for the _Lycoming_
to get into her pier was reënacted now, though with this difference.
The throng that awaited the arrival of the _Lycoming_ was composed
almost wholly of native Americans, and mostly of people of means and
culture. They were quiet and self-contained. The crowd Willie saw
now was largely made up of Greeks, Italians, Syrians, Turks,
Armenians, and other strange peoples from strange lands. It was an
interesting, picturesque crowd, and Willie was glad of a chance to
see all these foreigners at such close quarters. But what a
difference there was in their behavior!
“My gracious!” thought Willie. “You might think there was a fire, or
at least a prize-fight going on, the way they talk.”
It was no wonder Willie was so amazed at the manner of conversation
he now beheld. Such violent gestures, such excited explosive speech,
he had never before witnessed. He could hardly believe that anybody
could converse in that way except under stress of violent emotion.
Yet what he saw now was hardly a circumstance to what he saw later,
when the boat was docked, and these foreign folks were greeting
their compatriots from far lands.
But at first Willie had eyes for nothing but luggage. He had
delivered his letter to Mr. Henderson, and found Mr. Easterly; and
with him, he took up a position where he could watch the incoming
baggage put ashore.
Interesting enough was the manner of its delivery. Huge slings or
nets made of rope were lowered into the hold, by a long derrick arm.
The nets were filled with trunks and bags and boxes and bales. Then
the donkey engines rattled and up through the open hatchways came
the laden slings. A moment the loads dangled in air, while the
cumbersome derrick arms swung round. Then the slings were lowered to
the decks. Strong hands threw back the nets and, lifting the
contents, sent trunk after trunk, box after box, and bundle after
bundle, down an inclined conveyor to the pier, where gangs of
freight handlers stood in line, with hand trucks, to wheel each
piece of baggage to the proper place on the pier.
Willie had noticed long lines of huge placards, running lengthwise
of the pier, and high overhead, bearing the letters of the alphabet.
Now he saw what these letters were for. Near the foot of the baggage
chute stood a man in charge of the baggage handlers. As each piece
of baggage came down to the pier, this man looked at the label
pasted on it, and called out S or P or T or whatever letter the
label bore. The truckman who wheeled away the piece of baggage took
it directly to that section of the pier under the corresponding
letter. The baggage was marked in conformity with the owner’s name.
Thus, if a man’s name was Jones, his baggage would bear a label
marked J, and go to the section under the letter J, and thither
Jones would follow and wait until a customs inspector came to
examine his baggage, to see that the custom laws were not violated.
If the inspector found the baggage all right, he pasted another
label on it, and the owner was free to remove the piece of baggage
so passed. But if the inspector was not satisfied about any piece of
baggage, he could order it removed for further search or for
seizure.
It was indeed a picturesque sight to see the inspectors going
through piece after piece of baggage, while the excited owners
gesticulated and tried to explain about this or that, in broken
English, or volubly explained in explosive speech to an interpreter.
Yet interesting as these things were, they were not what Willie had
come to see. Under different circumstances, he might have lost
himself completely in contemplation of this interesting spectacle.
But now he had small taste for it. The more prosaic boxes of freight
were what interested Willie now.
The minute the luggage of passengers was out of the way, the freight
holds were opened and articles of commerce began to shoot from the
vessel to the pier. It was not such a simple matter to keep track of
merchandise. It had not been stamped, in advance, with letters
corresponding with the owners’ names. Nor was it spread out over a
great part of the pier. Instead, the stevedores hustled it away on
their trucks and stacked it in great piles, along the centre of the
pier. Each piece of baggage was stamped with the consignee’s name,
to be sure, but it was not always easy to find these marks, until
Mr. Easterly directed the stevedores to put the boxes on their
trucks, with the addresses up. Even then smaller packages were
sometimes piled two or three deep on the little hand trucks. Mr.
Easterly, however, was skilled at the sort of work he was now doing,
and he readily kept tab on each piece of freight. Although Willie
could not decipher the labels so readily as his companion, he was
nevertheless of use in the search. He was examining the packages
rather than the addresses. Specifically, he was looking for wheat.
He knew it would be in bags and he was looking for sacks about like
those he was accustomed to see American farmers deliver at the
mills, with two bushels of wheat in them.
For a long time the only bags that came out of the hold were bags of
Turkish coffee. Great, bulging sacks were they, far larger than the
accustomed wheat sacks Willie was thinking of. And there was a
considerable shipment of them. With these bags was hoisted another,
not unlike them in appearance; and it is likely that it might have
gotten by both the watchers undetected had not Willie observed that
the stevedores had difficulty in handling it. The bags of coffee
they had tossed about readily enough. But this huge bag required the
united efforts of two men to get it safely to the pier. This little
difference did not escape the observing eyes of Willie.
“I wonder what makes that bag so much heavier than the others,” he
said to Mr. Easterly. “It isn’t any larger.”
“We’ll have a look at it,” said the customs agent.
They did. It was consigned to Marrash Roukas. Mr. Easterly directed
the stevedores to set the sack to one side.
Willie was now almost as excited as some of the foreigners he had
seen jabbering away at the customs inspectors. But he tried hard to
control himself. The only thing that enabled him to keep himself
quiet was the thought that there might be more freight on the boat
for Roukas. It was really a wonder that they had noted this bag.
They might easily miss something else. So Willie took himself in
hand and settled down once more to a vigilant watch.
His effort was rewarded, for a little later, as a small box was
being wheeled past him, he spied, at the same moment that Mr.
Easterly caught it, the name Roukas on the box.
“Put that box with that sack,” directed the customs agent.
A few moments later the noon whistles blew. The stevedores quit
work.
“I have to be back at the office at one o’clock, sure,” said Willie.
There was an appealing look in his eyes.
Mr. Easterly laughed. He had taken a fancy to the lad. “I see you
are a diplomat,” he said. “You know how to say one thing when you
mean another.”
“If that’s being a diplomat,” Willie confessed, “then I am a
diplomat. I see I might as well be out-and-out with you. Would it be
possible to see what’s in those packages before I have to go?”
“You know what Shakespeare says,” quoted Mr. Easterly. “‘All things
come to him who waits.’ You have been waiting long enough. We’ll
just have a look at these things. It won’t take more than a minute.”
A hatchet was obtained and the lid ripped off the box. Inside were
two dozen cans of pistachio-nuts. Eagerly Willie lifted out a can.
“What shall we empty it into?” he asked.
“Just wait a moment,” said Mr. Easterly. “We may not have to empty
it. We’ll first see if the cans feel alike.”
With trembling fingers Willie lifted can after can out of the box.
Suddenly he held one aloft. “That isn’t nearly as heavy as the
others,” he cried.
“Open it,” said the customs agent.
Willie pried open the lid and peeped into the can. Then he gave a
cry, and reaching into the can, drew out a roll of beautiful
hand-made lace. Two other cans proved to be light in weight, and to
contain lace. When the smuggled material had all been drawn forth
and unrolled, it was found that there were yards and yards of it.
“I congratulate you,” said the agent, smiling.
“Let’s examine that bag,” was Willie’s reply.
The agent chuckled. “You’re keen as a hound on a hot scent,” he
said.
A great empty box was brought, at Mr. Easterly’s command, that would
hold the contents of the bag. Another box was placed beside it, and
the bag lifted to this box. Then the customs agent carefully ripped
an opening in the mouth of the bag. In a solid stream the contents
poured from the bag into the waiting box.
“Wheat!” cried Willie, so excited that he could hardly stand still.
“Wheat it is,” said Mr. Easterly. “We shall soon see whether you
have uncovered something more or whether you merely had a pipe
dream.”
Steadily the wheat poured out of the small opening in the bag. For
some moments the flow continued uninterrupted. Then it suddenly
stopped. The two watchers glanced at each other.
“What stopped it?” asked Willie.
“We’ll soon find out,” said Mr. Easterly.
With his knife he enlarged the opening. Again the wheat poured
forth, but in a second the flow became a trickle. Then something
white began to project through the opening.
“It looks as though we had found something,” remarked Mr. Easterly.
He thrust his hand into the bag and drew forth a great roll of
something white. Carefully he undid the wrappings, then opened what
was inside.
“Lace handkerchiefs!” cried Willie.
The agent ran his fingers through the roll with practiced skill.
“Fifty dozens of them,” he said after a moment. “Again I
congratulate you, Willie.”
“What are you going to do about Marrash Roukas?” demanded Willie,
his acute mind leaping ahead.
“We’ll have a little talk with him,” said the agent, with a smile,
“and maybe Uncle Sam will get in a little cash as a result. But
before we let him know we are on to his game, it might be well to
take a look at his place. Come on. We’ll slip down to the Armenian
quarter and look him up.”
After giving directions about the packages they had opened, they
hustled off to the Armenian district. “Did you notice where his
place was, when you were looking about here?” inquired Mr. Easterly.
“It’s queer,” said Willie. “I can’t seem to remember seeing that
name at all.”
“We’ll look him up in a directory or a telephone book. He’ll be in
one or the other, for he’s been in New York for some years,
according to the records you looked up.”
They stepped into a drug store and Mr. Easterly consulted a
telephone book. “He doesn’t have a ’phone,” he said. Then he turned
to the directory. There was no one listed in the directory under the
name Marrash Roukas.
“Humph!” mused the Special Agent. “This is getting interesting. I
don’t see how the census takers ever missed a merchant like that.
We’ll have to go to original sources. Come on.”
They went down one street and up another, examining every name on
every shop in the district. When they were done, they knew no more
about Marrash Roukas than they knew when they started. Apparently
there was no such person in the Armenian quarter or in New York
City.