it back. “But this being a pin of very unusual design, I am afraid I
might not be able to wear it as gracefully while awaiting the possible
appearance of its owner, as can you. Further, that little exhibition of
refined ‘touch’ you just gave, excites some grave suspicions that you
are back at your old tricks.”
The one-time King knew Lanagan’s outspoken ways. Further he knew
perfectly that, while the police accepted his declaration, since his
last time out, of fealty to the law, he was a two-timer. The police
were using him, or thought they were, as a “stool;” Lanagan did not
think so.
“If it hadn’t been for what Lombroso classified as the ‘criminal lobe,’
I might really believe you had reformed,” Lanagan had told him once.
“But in view of the lynx-like quality of your ears to be all top and no
bottom, I am afraid the stamp of an extremely low moral resistance is
indelibly upon you.”
And Monahan had only grinned then as now, in his ingenuous way,
uncomprehending, and exalted Lanagan a notch or two. For some minor
favour in times gone past, Lanagan had earned and held steadfastly the
King’s unswerving loyalty; not an insignificant asset for a police
reporter.
“Jack,” said the King in pained sincerity, “I’m not passing you no
chance. Got it down at Small’s. Was shoved for a finner and I took it
out of curiosity. Funny sticker, ain’t it? If anybody does make you
though, why of course, hand it over. I like my old spark better anyhow.”
Small, be it said, was probably the thriftiest and crookedest fence
inside the county, with the headquarters men on the pawnbroker detail
taking orders--and percentages--from him, as faithfully as they
reported to their captain of detectives. With another of those flits,
the King placed back in his own necktie his customary brilliant, taken
from his vest pocket. Before Lanagan could offer the other pin back
the second time, his companion had left. Lanagan examined the pin
critically.
It was a “funny sticker,” round, of gold and the size and thickness of
a quarter. The back was plain, fitted with a patent clasp. On the face
was a delicate relief of two eagles, heads out. An eye, a ruby for an
iris, was in the exact centre. Below the eye were two clasped hands and
above, two crossed swords. Woven around the entire design was what he
at first took to be a snake, but discovered, on closer scrutiny, to be
a rope. It was a delicate and unusual product of the goldsmith’s art.
Lanagan puzzled over it for an hour and then concluded:
“Russian, from the eagles; emblem of a secret order, evidently, from
the eye; the clasped hands to signify that an oath has been taken and
the axe or the rope is the headsman, or the hangman, for a breach of
faith. That sounds plausible. But what particular society does it
represent?”
He placed it in his tie and was recalling what he had read about
Russian secret societies, when he was bumped violently by a short,
swarthy individual who had, unknown to him, been following. As Lanagan
straightened up he caught a quick flash, as of a message of tacit
understanding, in the other’s eyes, as he gazed straight at the pin.
In another moment a black flat wallet, thin and oblong, had been
slipped adroitly into his inside coat pocket; a word which sounded like
“scoraya” had been whispered in his ear, and the singular stranger had
departed to the street to jump aboard a passing car, and disappear
toward the ferry.
Lanagan made it a rule to be surprised at nothing, to accept nothing as
coincidence not proved so, and to ignore no trifles. He was interested;
highly interested, and he wanted to know what “scoraya” meant. That
there was a connection between the pin and the wallet was, to him,
clear. Possibly “scoraya” might help him.
In Fogarty’s back room, hard by police headquarters, he found Petroff,
Russian interpreter in the police courts.
“What does a word that sounds like ‘scoraya’ mean?” he asked.
“It means ‘hurry,’ ‘at once,’ or any such meaning. It is what you
Americans say, ‘get a move on,’” said Petroff.
Sitting apart Lanagan unfastened the black sealskin wallet and drew
out a single sheet of paper, encased in a protection of oiled skin.
There were written on the paper in a bold, strong hand, an even dozen
words; words that sent his breath whistling through his teeth. It was
in English, plain, clear, and signed by a name that gave even the
imperturbable Lanagan a mighty start.
“Undoubtedly,” mused Lanagan, “they either have a system believed
infallible, or they are mighty reckless of State secrets--and they
are not reckless. Therefore the system has slipped a cog, and I am
the anointed bearer of the message of His Serene Majesty, Nicholas. I
appear to be on the knees of the gods,” he went on, as he wandered the
streets, perplexed. “It’s possible, barely possible, that I am tangled
in some monumental hoax. But I don’t believe it. If I don’t miss my
guess I will be giving the austere Mr. Sampson, damned of all men of
my tribe, the biggest exclusive his sweat-shop paper has turned out in
this generation. But--I need more coincidences. I am plainly stumped.”
He had stopped by Lotta’s Fountain where the traffic patrolman was
endeavouring to untangle a jam of trucks and automobiles.
Out of the very air, as though in wierd solution to his perplexity, it
came again:
“Scoraya!”
Lanagan wheeled to find the voice. He had thought he must turn
directly upon the man. There was no one near him save the occupant of
a limousine, two feet away. The passenger was apparently engrossed in
the evening paper. The window, though, was open. Lanagan watched him
covertly from the corner of his eye.
“Humph! This is getting interesting. Here am I, a live newspaper
sprout, in the dead centre of a bustling and work-a-day American city,
caught as sure as the sun shines, in the mysteries of a diplomatic maze
between two great nations, and probably three, that is as twisted as a
mediæval intrigue. At this moment, the whereabouts of little me and my
message, are probably of as much importance as the comings and goings
of the Czar, the Mikado, or the First Gentleman himself. But the next
gay cat that tries any scoraying on me, will get the third degree right
in Fogarty’s back room.”
The limousine, the traffic jam relieved, pulled slowly ahead, but
Lanagan could have sworn that the benign gentleman within, just before
it did, turned fully upon him with a scrutiny of deliberate coolness.
It was a casual thing, such as might have happened to anyone; but it
appeared to Lanagan that there was a look of secret understanding in
the other’s eyes, as they dropped twice to the stick-pin and returned
to Lanagan’s face, as though in inquiry. Lanagan took the number of the
car, 89,776, and then returned to headquarters. He wanted to see from
the police register to whom machine 89,776 belonged.
When he ran through the pages to the number, the ragtime air he was
whistling--very incorrectly--quickened in tempo.
“89,776--owner--Boris Koshloff--2224 Pacific Avenue, San Francisco.”
“Aha! Either I am hearing scorayas in my mind, and either everybody
that looks at me excites my suspicions, or else the Russian Mr.
Koshloff is a link in the very plain chain that is stretching from
me and my pin to His Majesty Nicholas, at St. Petersburg on one end,
and the President in Washington at the other. Frankly, it looks
preposterous that if Koshloff is on the job, he would use his own
machine. Then again--what if that is the method chosen to point my path
to me? If this message is to anyone in San Francisco, they must know
by this time that it has gone astray. Barring my own coincidence in
bungling into State secrets via ‘Kid’ Monahan’s touch, and his taste
for the really distinctive in jewelry, it appears that everything is
working out on a very remarkable and finished system. I shall pay Mr.
Koshloff a visit. He has been too much of a figure of mystery in this
city anyway.”
Boris Koshloff, a wealthy Russian portrait painter, had dropped into
San Francisco with introductions, some months before. He had earned
a high repute for the elegance of the soirées given at his house,
and had figured in the public prints, moreover, in other ways. On one
occasion, a burglar, found prowling within the Koshloff’s drawing
room, had been shot and killed by Koshloff, who thereupon was lionised
to a considerable extent by the neurotic and sentimental elements of
his circle. He had figured again, when a household servant had fallen
from his second story window, receiving frightful injuries. Although
during his raving in delirium the servant had cried frequently “spare
me! spare me!” and had led some cynical reporters on the hospital beat
to suspect foul play, nothing was ever proved in face of Koshloff’s
explanation that the servant fell in cleaning windows. After the
man recovered sufficiently, he was removed by Koshloff to a private
hospital, and there he passed from the scope of the newsgatherers and
hence from public attention.
Now, it might be well to say here, and before the reader is too
far carried away by the story, that the curious chronicles of the
happenings about to be recorded must rest for all time, for their
authentication, in five quarters: the Russian government, the American
Department of State, Jack Lanagan, “King” Monahan, and myself.
It is not probable that either the Russian or American governments
would affirm the truth of the facts recorded. As for the rest--the
extraordinary series of complications following the receipts of the
stick-pin, the use of such a device as the stick-pin, as the connecting
link in a grave international crisis, the use of the personal courier
rather than cipher-code--they must all be accepted on my word, the word
of Lanagan, or the word of “King” Monahan, who first received the pin.
To such as are unwilling to accept that proof, the story must be read
solely as a bit of fiction.
Lanagan strolled back to the _Enquirer_. I had just finished several
yards of real estate junk for the business office, and was as grouchy
as the brother of the tribe always is, when assigned to do business
office write-ups.
“Fine line for an able-bodied reporter,” said Lanagan cynically,
looking over my shoulder. “Turn that rot in and come with me and be a
real reporter. I’ll give you a story that will make the A. P. wires hum
to the four corners of the earth--provided my hunch don’t go altogether
wrong.”
He spoke to Sampson, telling him that there was a bare chance of
something turning up on the Russo-Japanese situation, and asked for me
to be detailed to accompany him.
“Good,” replied Sampson, “get after it. We haven’t broken a story on
that yet. The eastern papers are having a lot of stuff on the Secretary
of State, though. He has dropped out of sight; the A. P. is bringing
in a story broken by the _Sun_, that his supposed sickness was the
bunk, and that as a matter of fact he has been out of Washington for
a week. Supposed to be in New York on some confab with the Russian
Ambassador who is at the Waldorf-Astoria. The Ambassador denies any
such conference. It’s a hot yarn. Try to turn up an end on it out here.”
Lanagan suggested supper and as we lingered over our coffee and cigars,
he briefly outlined the situation. I read the astounding message and
must confess that I was stirred to a very unprofessional pitch of
excitement. Before taking a car for Pacific Avenue, we dropped in
at police headquarters where Lanagan met Chief Leslie, that shrewd
thief-taker, and they were in earnest talk for ten minutes. In his
police reporting Lanagan had the superlative advantage of Leslie’s
confidence. That famous chief had indeed as high a regard for Lanagan’s
work as for that of his own men. Leslie stood many a “roast” from the
opposition papers for his habit of programming with Lanagan, and for
turning over his men to the service of the newspaper man more than once.
As we rode to our destination Lanagan instructed me to take a position,
well concealed, opposite the Koshloff house, wait until midnight, and
then if he did not appear, telephone to headquarters where Brady and
Wilson, two of Leslie’s best men, would be in readiness with the police
automobile. We were to force the house.
“For it’s just possible,” said Lanagan lightly, “that I can’t escape
delivering my packet. If they once drop to me, it may be interesting.
That ‘burglar’ shot by Koshloff takes on rather a new importance.
Likewise that foreigner, who was all broken up in an accidental fall
from Koshloff’s second story window. I rather look forward to a run
in with this gentleman of mystery and his retinue of ‘scorayers.’ But
don’t wait after midnight. Brady will have a search warrant on some
’phony charge or other, and you can tear right in.”
We parted company several blocks from the Koshloff mansion. It was
nearing nine-thirty. I found a hiding-place almost directly opposite,
slipped in, and in a few moments saw Lanagan walk briskly up the stairs
of the Russian’s house. He was whistling a bit of ragtime; as usual off
key. His insouciance cheered me. Frankly, I was nervous; a weakness I
cannot seem to overcome. I have never failed Lanagan yet at a crisis,
and I suppose, on results, am as brave as he. But in my own heart I
know I am not. Possibly gifted with a little more imagination than he,
I can see further; picture the slab at the morgue, the gang in the
police reporter’s room chipping in for a floral piece while somebody
tries to relieve the strain by saying something funny; Johnny O’Grady
or Jim Bradley, or some of the others of the old guard delegated to the
pleasant detail of carrying the news home; it was always the same. I
always had that faculty, as Hamlet says, of thinking too precisely on
the event.
The door opened to Lanagan’s ring, and he passed from my sight to be
ushered along the main hall, down a flight of steps, through another
long hall, carpeted richly, with niches here and there holding
exquisite statuary, to a billiard-room panelled in richest mahogany.
From the conduct of his guide it was apparent that he was expected. In
the billiard-room two smooth-shaven, trim, keen-eyed men were playing a
desultory game. Surmise was bulking large within Lanagan’s breast. He
had seen that same type before. Secret service was stamped as indelibly
upon them as his vocation is stamped upon the upper office man.
A light tattoo on a panelling, an answering tattoo, another staccato
and the panel slid back and the odour of black cigars was heavy on the
air as Lanagan stepped into a small compartment, the panel slipping
noiselessly shut behind him as his guide disappeared. At a table were
seated two men, facing him.
One of the two he recognised: Koshloff. But the other! Lanagan looked
hard. There could be no mistake; those features had been looming from
the front pages of the papers too frequently for any mistake. Lanagan
stood without speaking, but before his mind’s eye was dancing the front
page of to-morrow’s _Enquirer_. He would lay a seven column lead across
that page that would carry around the world.
It was Koshloff who spoke.
“You have the packet? Yes? Would you present it?”
Then, in a low voice to the other, as Lanagan calmly placed the
sealskin wallet upon the table, Koshloff murmured:
“Assuredly my superiors must know their business. But I cannot
comprehend the disappearance of Carlos and the transfer of the pin and
packet to the stranger. It must be in order, however. Our system has
never failed.”
He turned a shrewd gaze upon Lanagan, studying him intently.
“When do you return?” he asked finally.
“Just as soon as I am permitted to,” replied Lanagan with perfect truth.
“Strange,” muttered Koshloff in the other’s ear. “Peculiar. It is the
answer. We have no choice. It must be in order.”
Without more ado the packet was opened and Koshloff presented the
slip in silence to his companion. That man, of massive, intellectual
forehead and deep set, penetrating eyes, scanned it carefully and
pondered long, Koshloff watching him with half closed but eager eyes.
“Tell your Imperial Master,” said the other, turning sharply upon
Lanagan and speaking with clean incisiveness, “that you met the
Secretary of State in person, and that the Secretary, speaking for
his excellency the President, says, that the answer of the President
is--yes.”
The Secretary of State, ten days disappeared from Washington, out here
on the western fringe of the continent, pledging the attitude of the
United States in the threatened Russo-Japanese conflict and not a line
in any paper in the world to indicate the whereabouts of the Secretary,
his business, or the definite attitude of the United States in the
impending conflict!
It was the story of a newspaper man’s lifetime.
“Carry the verbal message, or transmit it to your relief,” instructed
Koshloff. “Conditions may not make packets safe by the time you reach
the Orient. You may go. You have funds? Your pin is safe?”
“I have,” said Lanagan, who, with two days to go to pay day, had about
sixty-five cents. He indicated the pin with a gesture and turned on his
heel for the panel, to be stopped by a sudden muffled uproar from the
billiard-room, a sound of excited, shrill cries, of scuffling.
Neither the Secretary nor Koshloff moved a muscle; neither did Lanagan.
He was thoroughly in possession of himself. Two panels swiftly and
noiselessly slid open at the farther wall of the room, and two
smooth-shaven, trim, keen-eyed men stepped into the room alertly and
took their places beside the Secretary’s chair.
“Mr. Secretary travels with the entire secret service bureau,” Lanagan
found time to comment to himself.
There came a tattoo on the panel from the billiard-room. The Secretary
held up his hand for silence and motioned one of the secret service
agents, who stepped noiselessly to the panel and listened. The tapping
came again.
“Answer,” commanded the Secretary. “It is over, whatever it was.”
The panel slid open. Through the aperture came one of the billiard
players, flashing a quick, steely glance upon Lanagan.
“Balked, by the eternal!” shot through Lanagan’s mind. “The owner of
that pin has shown up. It’s now or never.” He stepped casually to the
panel; it was a fine chance. Once through there, he could make a fight
for the front door,--and the seven column exclusive in the _Enquirer_.
Directly before him, fairly filling the space of the panel, was the
other billiard player. It was quick action. Lanagan shot out his right
for the man’s jaw; but his arm got about half way. A grip like an iron
clamp had him just above the elbow. He was whirled face about, a secret
service man on either side.
As though nothing had happened, the man who had first entered through
the panel door spoke:
“There is a person outside somewhat excited who wishes to speak to Mr.
Koshloff. He said to say it was Carlos.”
Koshloff leaped for the doorway and in a moment more had dragged
fairly by the hair of his head, a wild-eyed, dark-visaged person who,
when he straightened up, perceived the pin in Lanagan’s tie and made a
tigerish spring for him, a dirk gleaming in a half arc as he leaped.
But the right fist of one of the secret agents met him en route, and
the frenzied Carlos was disarmed. He staggered to his feet, striving
vainly to get at Lanagan.
“Thief! Robber! Death to him! Death to him who dares rob the messenger
of His Imperial Majesty, Nicholas!”
“The gentleman appears to be teething,” remarked Lanagan.
Koshloff pressed a button and two swart giants appeared. He indicated
Carlos with a nod. “He wore the pin, but he has failed in his
obligation. He must receive discipline.” The miserable wretch fell to
his knees with upraised hands, supplicating.
“Ah, no, Sire! My wife! My babies! Ten minutes too late, or I would
have had it back and this sneak thief’s life!”
But Koshloff frowned impatiently and in a second more Carlos was
whisked away, a wierd scream floating back wearily from some hidden
corridor to indicate the terror that gripped him. There was something
in that scream of fear of more than the knout. As it rang through
Lanagan’s ears, he recalled the crossed axes and the hangman’s noose of
the pin. It was clear enough. There would be another burglar killed.
He wheeled upon Koshloff.
“Professor Koshloff, or whoever or whatever you are,” he said in a
tone of deadly acidity, “that man is turned up out of here unharmed
by so much as a scratch, or I’ll have you snaked into the city prison
within twenty-four hours, and some other very general suspicions will
incidentally be given an airing. You may be the right eye or the right
hand of His Serene Majesty Nicholas, but I’m Jack Lanagan of the San
Francisco _Enquirer_, and in my own particular bailiwick, something
of a czar myself. You’re a long way from Russia right now. You’re in
little old San Francisco. Did you get me?”
The catlike quality of Lanagan’s eyes to glow under the stress of
anger or great excitement, exhibited itself. His face in anger was not
what was calculated to put infants to slumber. He had forgotten the
Secretary for the moment; the agents had all withdrawn. He was recalled
to him when that person, taking his cigar from his teeth and gazing
upon its ash contemplatively, said in even tones:
“I think possibly you are unduly exercising yourself. Something of a
Czar?” The smooth voice went on. “Indeed, and it is a pleasure to meet
the Czar of the bailiwick of San Francisco,” and the Secretary bowed
profoundly and gravely. “Now let us talk business, Mr. Lanagan.
“As for Carlos, his case is absolutely ex-territorial so far as we
are concerned. Please inform me how you came by that packet and
pin--eavesdropping in matters of State? Do you young men of the press
hold nothing sacred? Not your country’s peace or the peace of other
nations?”
“So far as that goes,” retorted Lanagan, coolly, “and not condescending
to take note of your ‘eavesdropping,’ we young men of the press have
a duty to our papers which our papers in turn owe to the people. In
this case it is a clear duty. By what right do you or any other man,
president or not, arrogate to yourself the power to hold this secret
caucus, resting your country’s stand in this grave affair entirely upon
the judgment of one or two men? You are the servant of the people. Let
the whole people know where you are now and what you are doing. Get
the sentiment of your country before you plunge into this agreement. I
personally most emphatically disagree with the answer you are sending
back. The public are as likely to think my way as yours.”
The Secretary looked bored. “It is not possible.”
“With this exception,” grimly. Lanagan turned for the panel and sought
the spring. “It is ten minutes after twelve,” he said laconically. “I
must leave here. Open the door, if you please.”
Neither man moved. The Secretary said:
“We have not quite covered our ground. You have not answered my
question.”
“The pin I received from a friend who claimed to have taken it from a
pawnshop. The packet was put in my pocket by a swarthy man who met me
on the street and who said ‘scoraya.’ So did another chap in Koshloff’s
automobile. I wanted to see the thing through that so accidentally came
my way.
“Now, when I came in here I did not come alone. I am fully aware that
nations, planning wars to cost hundreds or thousands of lives, would
not scruple at one. My friends should be breaking in here now. I told
them to give me until twelve o’clock.
“So far as your man Carlos is concerned, I can only surmise that he was
to meet a courier at the steamer, but had his pin stolen from him. The
courier then wandered the streets seeking the pin, and by happy chance
tumbled against me wearing it, and likewise wandering the streets. The
other ‘scoraya’ boy I presume was one of Koshloff’s secret service men,
sent out to see that the messenger reached here safely. He must have
likewise picked me up on the matinée promenade by accident.”
“Correctly reasoned,” murmured Koshloff. “And I believe you have
cleared the situation. A most remarkable series of coincidences; but
then, anything may happen in this remarkable city of yours.”
“Do I go peaceably?” asked Lanagan, glancing at his watch. His voice
hardened a trifle. It was twelve-thirty.
“After--ah--a bit,” purred Koshloff, and the next instant was gazing
coolly into Lanagan’s police Colt.
Koshloff lifted his hand with an indolent gesture, to push the muzzle
to one side, took a look into Lanagan’s eyes, thought better of it,
and turned with mock deprecation to the Secretary. That gentleman was
watching Lanagan with frank admiration.