line on von Ewald.
In April, when Dick Walters returned from the Coast, the other men in
the Service were frankly skeptical as to whether there was a von Ewald
at all. They had come to look upon him as a myth, a bugaboo. They
couldn't deny that there must be some guiding spirit to the Teutonic
plots, but they rather favored the theory that several men, rather than
one, were to blame.
Walters' instructions were just like the rest--to go to New York and
stick on the job until the German conspirator was apprehended.
"Maybe it's one man, maybe there're half a dozen," the chief admitted,
"but we've got to nail 'em. The very fact that they haven't started
anything of consequence since the early part of the year would appear to
point to renewed activity very shortly. It's up to you and the other men
already in New York to prevent the success of any of these plots."
Walters listened patiently to all the dope that had been gathered and
then figured, as had every new man, that it was up to him to do a little
sleuthing of his own.
The headquarters of the German agents was supposed to be somewhere in
Greenwich Village, on one of those half-grown alleys that always
threatens to meet itself coming back. But more than a score of
government operatives had combed that part of the town without securing
a trace of anything tangible. On the average of once a night the phone
at headquarters would ring and some one at the other end would send in a
hurry call for help up in the Bronx or in Harlem or some other distant
part of the city where he thought he had turned up a clue. The men on
duty would leap into the machine that always waited at the curb and
fracture every speed law ever made--only to find, when they arrived,
that it was a false alarm.
Finally, after several weeks of that sort of thing, conditions commenced
to get on Dick's nerves.
"I'm going to tackle this thing on my own," he announced. "Luck is going
to play as much of a part in landing von Ewald as anything else--and
luck never hunted with more than one man. Good-by! See you fellows
later."
But it was a good many weeks--August, to be precise--before the men in
the Federal Building had the opportunity of talking to Walters. He would
report over the phone, of course, and drop down there every few
days--but he'd only stay long enough to find out if there was any real
news or any orders from Washington. Then he'd disappear uptown.
"Dick's sure got a grouch these days," was the comment that went around
after Walters had paid one of his flying visits.
"Yeh," grunted Barry, who was on duty that night, "either the von Ewald
case's got on his nerves or he's found a girl that can't see him."
Neither supposition missed the mark very far.
Walters was getting sick and tired of the apparently fruitless chase
after an elusive German. He had never been known to flinch in the face
of danger--often went out of his way to find it, in fact--but this
constant search for a man whom nobody knew, a man of whom there wasn't
the slightest description, was nerve-racking, to say the least.
Then, too, he had met Mary McNilless.
He'd wandered into the Public Library one evening just before closing
time, and, like many another man, had fallen victim to Mary's red hair
and Mary's Irish eyes. But a brick wall was a soft proposition compared
to Mary McNilless. Snubbing good-looking young men who thought that the
tailors were missing an excellent model was part of the day's work with
the little library girl--though she secretly admitted to herself that
this one was a bit above the average.
Dick didn't get a rise that night, though, or for some days after. Every
evening at seven found him at the desk over which Miss McNilless
presided, framing some almost intelligent question about books in order
to prolong the conversation. Mary would answer politely and--that was
all.
But, almost imperceptibly, a bond of friendship sprang up between them.
Maybe it was the fact that Dick's mother had been Irish, too, or
possibly it was because he admitted to himself that this girl was
different from the rest, and, admitting it, laid the foundation for a
deep-souled respect that couldn't help but show in his manner.
Within the month Dick was taking her home, and in six weeks they were
good pals, bumming around to queer, out-of-the-way restaurants and
planning outings which Dick, in his heart, knew could never
materialize--not until von Ewald had been run to cover, at any rate.
Several times Mary tried to find out her companion's
profession--diplomatically, of course, but nevertheless she was curious.
Naturally, Dick couldn't tell her. Said he had "just finished a job on
the Coast and was taking a vacation in New York." But Mary had sense
enough to know that he wasn't at leisure. Also that he was working on
something that kept his mind constantly active--for several times he had
excused himself in a hurry and then returned, anywhere from half an hour
to an hour later, with a rather crestfallen expression.
After they had reached the "Dick and Mary" stage she came right out one
night and asked him.
"Hon," he told her, "that's one thing that I've got to keep from you for
a while. It's nothing that you would be ashamed of, though, but
something that will make you mighty proud. At least," he added, "It'll
make you proud if I don't fall down on the job almighty hard. Meanwhile,
all I can do is to ask you to trust me. Will you?"
The tips of her fingers rested on the back of his hand for just a moment
before she said, "You know I will, Dick"--and neither of them mentioned
the subject from that time on.
On the night of the Black Tom explosion, early in August, Dick didn't
show up at the Library at the usual hour, and, while this didn't worry
Mary, because it had happened several times before, she began to be
annoyed when three nights passed the same way. Of course, she had no way
of knowing that the Service had received a tip from a stool pigeon on
the pay roll of the New York police force that "a bunch of Germans were
planning a big explosion of some kind" just a few hours before the earth
rocked with the force of the blow-up in Jersey. Every government
operative in the city had been informed of the rumor, but few of them
had taken it seriously and not one had any reason to expect that the
plot would culminate so close to New York. But the echo of the first
blast had hardly died away before there were a dozen agents on the spot,
weaving a network around the entire district. All they got for their
pains, however, was a few suspects who very evidently didn't know a
thing.
So it was a very tired and disgusted Dick who entered the Library four
nights later and almost shambled up to Mary's desk.
"I'll be off duty in half an hour," she told him. "From the way you
look, you need a little comforting."
"I do that," he admitted. "Don't make me wait any longer than you have
to," and he amused himself by glancing over the late seekers after
knowledge.
When they had finally seated themselves in a cozy corner of a little
restaurant in the upper Forties, Dick threw caution to the winds and
told Mary all about his troubles.
"I haven't the least business to do it," he confessed, "and if the chief
found it out I'd be bounced so fast that it would make my head swim.
But, in the first place, I want you to marry me, and I know you wouldn't
think of doing that unless you knew something more about me."
There was just the flicker of a smile around Mary's mouth as she said,
almost perfunctorily, "No, of course not!" But her intuition told her
that this wasn't the time to joke, and, before Walters could go on, she
added, "I know you well enough, Dick, not to worry about that end of
it."
So Walters told her everything from the beginning--and it didn't take
more than five minutes at that. Outside of the fact that his people
lived in Des Moines, that he had been in the Secret Service for eight
years, and that he hadn't been able to do a thing toward the
apprehension of a certain German spy that the government was extremely
anxious to locate, there was pitifully little to tell.
"The whole thing," he concluded, "came to a head the other night--the
night I didn't show up. We knew that something was going to break,
somewhere, but we couldn't discover where until it was too late to
prevent the explosion across the river. Now that they've gotten away
with that, they'll probably lay their lines for something even bigger."
"Well, now that I've told you, what d'you think?"
"You mean you'd like to marry me?" Mary asked with a smile.
"I don't know how to put it any plainer," Dick admitted--and what
followed caused the waiter to wheel around and suddenly commence dusting
off a table that already was bright enough to see your face in.
"There wasn't the slightest clue left after the Black Tom affair?" Mary
asked, as she straightened her hat.
"Not one. We did find two of the bombs that hadn't exploded--devilishly
clever arrangements, with a new combination of chemicals. Something was
evidently wrong with the mixture, though, for they wouldn't go off, even
when our experts started to play with them. The man who made them
evidently wasn't quite sure of his ground. But there wasn't a thing
about the bombs themselves that would provide any indication of where
they came from."
"The man who made them must have had a pretty thorough knowledge of
chemistry," Mary mused.
"Mighty near perfect," admitted Walters. "At least six exploded on time,
and, from what I understand, they were loaded to the muzzle with a
mixture that no one but an expert would dare handle."
"And," continued Mary, with just a hint of excitement in her voice, "the
bomb-maker would continue to investigate the subject. He would want to
get the latest information, the most recent books, the--"
"What are you driving at?" Walters interrupted.
"Just this," and Mary leaned across the table so that there was no
possibility of being overheard. "We girls have a good deal of time on
our hands, so we get into the habit of making conjectures and forming
theories about the 'regulars'--the people who come into the Library
often enough for us to know them by sight.
"Up to a month ago there was a man who dropped into the reference room
nearly every day to consult books from Shelf Forty-five. Naturally he
came up to my desk, and, as he usually arrived during the slack periods,
I had plenty of time to study him. Maybe it was because I had been
reading Lombroso, or possibly it's because I am just naturally
observant, but I noticed that, in addition to each of his ears being
practically lobeless, one of them was quite pointed at the top--almost
like a fox's.
"For a week he didn't show up, and then one day another man came in and
asked for a book from Shelf Forty-five. Just as he turned away I had a
shock. Apparently he wasn't in the least like the other man in anything
save height--but neither of his ears had any lobes to speak of and the
top of them was pointed! When he returned the book I looked him over
pretty thoroughly and came to the conclusion that, in spite of the fact
that his general appearance differed entirely from the other man's, they
were really one and the same!"
"But what," grumbled Walters, "has that to do with the Black Tom
explosion?"
"The last time this man came to the Library," said Mary, "was two days
before the night you failed to arrive--two days before the explosion.
And--Do you know what books are kept on Shelf Forty-five?"
"No. What?"
"The latest works on the chemistry of explosives!"
Walters sat up with a jerk that threatened to overthrow the table.
"Mary," he said, in a whisper, "I've a hunch that you've succeeded where
all the rest of us fell down! The disguises and the constant reference
to books on explosives are certainly worth looking into. What name did
this man give?"
"Names," she corrected. "I don't recall what they were or the addresses,
either. But it would be easy to find them on the cards. We don't have
very many calls for books from Shelf Forty-five."
"It doesn't matter, though," and Walters slipped back into his
disconsolate mood. "He wouldn't leave a lead as open as that, of
course."
"No, certainly not," agreed Mary. "But the last time he was there he
asked for Professor Stevens's new book. It hadn't come in then, but I
told him we expected it shortly. So, unless you men have scared him off,
he'll be back in a day or two--possibly in a new disguise. Why don't you
see the librarian, get a place as attendant in the reference room, and
I'll tip you off the instant I spot that pointed ear. That's one thing
he can't hide!"
The next morning there was a new employee in the reference room. No one
knew where he came from and no one--save the librarian and Mary
McNilless--knew what he was there for, because his principal occupation
appeared to be lounging around inconspicuously in the neighborhood of
the information desk. There he stayed for three days, wondering whether
this clue, like all the rest, would dissolve into thin air.
About five o'clock on the afternoon of the third day a man strolled up
to Mary's desk and asked if Professor Stevens's book had come in yet. It
was reposing at that moment on Shelf Forty-five, as Mary well knew, but
she said she'd see, and left the room, carefully arranging her hair at
the back of her neck with her left hand--a signal which she and Dick had
agreed upon the preceding evening.
Before she returned the new attendant had vanished, but Dick Walters, in
his usual garb, was loitering around the only entrance to the reference
room, watching the suspect out of the corner of his eye.
"I'm sorry," Mary reported, "but the Stevens book won't be in until
to-morrow," and she was barely able to keep the anxiety out of her voice
as she spoke.
Had Dick gotten her signal? Would he be able to trail his man? Could he
capture him without being injured? These and a score of other questions
rushed through her mind as she saw the German leave the room. Once
outside--well, she'd have to wait for Dick to tell her what happened
then.
The man who was interested in the chemistry of explosives apparently
wasn't in the least afraid of being followed, for he took a bus uptown,
alighted at Eighty-third Street, and vanished into one of the
innumerable small apartment houses in that section of the city. Walters
kept close behind him, and he entered the lobby of the apartment house
in time to hear his quarry ascending to the fourth floor. Then he
signaled to the four men who had followed him up the Avenue in a
government-owned machine--men who had been stationed outside the Library
in the event of just such an occurrence--and instructed two of them to
guard the rear of the house, while the other two remained in front.
"I'm going to make this haul myself," Walters stated, "but I want you
boys to cover up in case anything happens to me. No matter what occurs,
don't let him get away. Shoot first and ask questions afterward!" and he
had re-entered the house almost before he finished speaking.
On the landing at the third floor he paused long enough to give the men
at the rear a chance to get located. Then--a quick ring at the bell on
the fourth floor and he waited for action.
Nothing happened. Another ring--and still no response.
As he pressed the button for the third time the door swung slowly
inward, affording only a glimpse of a dark, uninviting hall. But, once
he was inside, the door closed silently and he heard a bolt slipped into
place. Simultaneously a spot light, arranged over the doorway, flashed
on and Dick was almost dazzled by the glare. Out of the darkness came
the guttural inquiry:
"What do you want?"
"Not a thing in the world," replied Walters, "except to know if a man
named Simpson lives here."
"No," came the voice, "he does not. Get out!"
"Sure I will if you'll pull back that bolt. What's the idea, anyhow?
You're as mysterious as if you were running a bomb factory or
something--"
As he spoke he ducked, for if the words had the effect he hoped, the
other would realize that he was cornered and attempt to escape.
A guttural German oath, followed by a rapid movement of the man's hand
toward his hip pocket was the reply. In a flash Dick slipped forward,
bending low to avoid the expected attack, and seized the German in a
half nelson that defied movement. Backing out of the circle of light, he
held the helpless man in front of him--as a shelter in case of an
attack from other occupants of the apartment--and called for assistance.
The crash of glass at the rear told him that reinforcements had made
their way up the fire escape and had broken in through the window. A
moment later came the sound of feet on the stairs and the other two
operatives were at the door, revolvers drawn and ready for action.
But there wasn't any further struggle. Von Ewald--or whatever his real
name was, for that was never decided--was alone and evidently realized
that the odds were overwhelming. Meekly, almost placidly, he allowed the
handcuffs to be slipped over his wrists and stood by as the Secret
Service men searched the apartment. Not a line or record was found to
implicate anyone else--but what they did discover was a box filled with
bombs precisely like those picked up on the scene of the Black Tom
explosion, proof sufficient to send the German to the penitentiary for
ten years--for our laws, unfortunately, do not permit of the death
penalty for spies unless caught red-handed by the military authorities.
That he was the man for whom they were searching--the mysterious "No.
859"--was apparent from the fact that papers concealed in his desk
contained full details as to the arrangement of the Nemours plant at
Wilmington, Delaware, with a dozen red dots indicative of the best
places to plant bombs. Of his associates and the manner in which he
managed his organization there wasn't the slightest trace. But the Black
Tom explosion, if you recall, was the last big catastrophe of its kind
in America--and the capture of von Ewald was the reason that more of the
German plots didn't succeed.
The Treasury Department realized this fact when Mary McNilless, on the
morning of the day she was to be married to Dick Walters, U. S. S. S.,
received a very handsome chest of silver, including a platter engraved,
"To Miss Mary McNilless, whose cleverness and keen perception saved
property valued at millions of dollars."
No one ever found out who sent it, but it's a safe bet that the order
came from Washington by way of Wilmington, where the Nemours plant still
stands--thanks to the quickness of Mary's Irish eyes.
V
PHYLLIS DODGE, SMUGGLER EXTRAORDINARY
Bill Quinn tossed aside his evening paper and, cocking his feet upon a
convenient chair, remarked that, now that peace was finally signed,
sealed, and delivered, there ought to be a big boom in the favorite
pastime of the idle rich.
"Meaning what?" I inquired.
"Smuggling, of course," said Quinn, who only retired from Secret Service
when an injury received in action forced him to do so.
"Did you ever travel on a liner when four out of every five people on
board didn't admit that they were trying to beat the customs officials
one way or another--and the only reason the other one didn't follow suit
was because he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. That's how Uncle
Sam's detectives pick up a lot of clues. The amateur crook never
realizes that silence is golden and that oftentimes speech leads to a
heavy fine.
"Now that the freedom of the seas is an accomplished fact the whole crew
of would-be smugglers will doubtless get to work again, only to be
nabbed in port. Inasmuch as ocean travel has gone up with the rest of
the cost of living, it'll probably be a sport confined to the
comparatively rich, for a couple of years anyhow.
"It was different in the old days. Every steamer that came in was loaded
to the eyes and you never knew when you were going to spot a hidden
necklace or a packet of diamonds that wasn't destined to pay duty. There
were thrills to the game, too, believe me.
"Why, just take the case of Phyllis Dodge...."
* * * * *
Mrs. Dodge [Quinn continued, after he had packed his pipe to a condition
where it was reasonably sure to remain lighted for some time] was,
theoretically at least, a widow. Her full name, as it appeared on many
passenger lists during the early part of 1913, was Mrs. Mortimer C.
Dodge, of Cleveland, Ohio. When the customs officials came to look into
the matter they weren't able to find anyone in Cleveland who knew her,
but then it's no penal offense to give the purser a wrong address, or
even a wrong name, for that matter.
While there may have been doubts about Mrs. Dodge's widowhood--or
whether she had ever been married, for that matter--there could be none
about her beauty. In the language of the classics, she was there. Black
hair, brown eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion that came and went
while you watched it, and a figure that would have made her fortune in
the Follies. Joe Gregory said afterward that trailing her was one of the
easiest things he had ever done.
To get the whole story of Phyllis and her extraordinary
cleverness--extraordinary because it was so perfectly obvious--we'll
have to cut back a few months before she came on the scene.
For some time the Treasury Department had been well aware that a number
of precious stones, principally pearl necklaces, were being smuggled
into the country. Agents abroad--the department maintains a regular
force in Paris, London, Rotterdam, and other European points, you
know--had reported the sale of the jewels and they had turned up a few
weeks later in New York or Chicago. But the Customs Service never
considers it wise to trace stones back from their owners on this side.
There are too many ramifications to any well-planned smuggling scheme,
and it is too easy for some one to claim that he had found them in a
long-forgotten chest in the attic or some such story as that. The burden
of proof rests upon the government in a case of this kind and, except in
the last extremity, it always tries to follow the chase from the other
end--to nab the smuggler in the act and thus build up a jury-proof case.
Reports of the smuggling cases had been filtered into the department
half a dozen times in as many months, and the matter finally got on the
chief's nerves to such a degree that he determined to thrash it out if
it took every man he had.
In practically every case the procedure was the same--though the only
principals known were different each time.
Rotterdam, for example, would report: "Pearl necklace valued at $40,000,
sold to-day to man named Silverburg. Have reason to believe it is
destined for States"--and then would follow a technical description of
the necklace. Anywhere from six weeks to three months later the necklace
would turn up in the possession of a jeweler who bore a shady
reputation. Sometimes the article wouldn't appear at all, which might
have been due to the fact that they weren't brought into this country or
that the receivers had altered them beyond recognition. However, the
European advices pointed to the latter supposition--which didn't soothe
the chief's nerves the least bit.
Finally, along in the middle of the spring of nineteen thirteen, there
came a cable from Paris announcing the sale of the famous Yquem
emerald--a gorgeous stone that you couldn't help recognizing once you
got the description. The purchaser was reported to be an American named
Williamson. He paid cash for it, so his references and his antecedents
were not investigated at the time.
Sure enough, it wasn't two months later when a report came in from
Chicago that a pork-made millionaire had added to his collection a stone
which tallied to the description of the Yquem emerald.
"Shall we go after it from this end, Chief?" inquired one of the men on
the job in Washington. "We can make the man who bought it tell us where
he got it and then sweat the rest of the game out of the go-betweens."
"Yes," snorted the chief, "and be laughed out of court on some
trumped-up story framed by a well-paid lawyer. Not a chance! I'm going
to land those birds and land 'em with the goods. We can't afford to take
any chances with this crowd. They've evidently got money and brains, a
combination that you've got to stay awake nights to beat. No--we'll nail
'em in New York just as they're bringing the stones in.