"Not right at the moment," was Reynolds's reply, "because it would seem
too wild and scatterbrained. I don't mind telling you, though, that for
the next six weeks my address will be in care of the warden of the
penitentiary of Morgantown, West Virginia, if you wish to reach me."
"Morgantown?" echoed the Commissioner. "What in Heaven's name are you
going to do there?"
"Lay the stage setting for the first act," smiled Jimmy. "Likewise
collect what authors refer to as local color--material that's essential
to what I trust will be the happy ending of this drama--happy, at least,
from the government's point of view. But, while you know that I'm at
Morgantown, I don't want anyone else to know it and I'd much prefer that
you didn't communicate with me there unless it's absolutely necessary."
"All right, I won't. You're handling the case from now on."
"Alone?"
"Entirely--if you wish it."
"Yes, Chief, I do wish it. I can promise you one of two things within
the next three months: either you'll have all the evidence you want
about the secret still and the men behind it or--well, you know where to
ship my remains!"
With that and a quick handshake he was gone.
During the weeks that followed, people repeatedly asked the
Commissioner:
"What's become of Jimmy Reynolds? Haven't seen him round here for a
month of Sundays."
But the Commissioner would assume an air of blank ignorance, mutter
something about, "He's out of town somewhere," and rapidly change the
subject.
About six weeks or so later a buzzard which was flapping its lazy way
across the mountains which divide Tennessee from North Carolina saw, far
below, a strange sight. A man, haggard and forlorn, his face covered
with a half-inch of stubble, his cheeks sunken, his clothing torn by
brambles and bleached by the sun and rain until it was almost impossible
to tell its original texture, stumbled along with his eyes fixed always
on the crest of a hill some distance off. It was as if he were making a
last desperate effort to reach his goal before the sun went down.
Had the buzzard been so minded, his keen eyes might have noted the fact
that the man's clothes were marked by horizontal stripes, while his head
was covered with hair the same length all over, as if he had been shaved
recently and the unkempt thatch had sprouted during the last ten days.
Painfully but persistently the man in convict's clothes pressed forward.
When the sun was a little more than halfway across the heavens he
glimpsed a cabin tucked away on the side of a mountain spur not far
away. At the sight he pressed forward with renewed vigor, but distances
are deceptive in that part of the country and it was not until nearly
dark that he managed to reach his destination.
In fact, the Stiles family was just sitting down to what passes for
supper in that part of the world--fat bacon and corn bread,
mostly--when there was the sound of a man's footstep some fifty feet
away.
Instantly the houn' dog rose from his accustomed place under the table
and crouched, ready to repel invaders. Old Man Stiles--his wife called
him Joe, but to the entire countryside he was just "Old Man
Stiles"--reached for his rifle with a muttered imprecation about
"Rev'nue officers who never let a body be."
But the mountaineer had hardly risen from his seat when there was a
sound as of a heavy body falling against the door--and then silence.
Stiles looked inquiringly at his wife and then at Ruth, their adopted
daughter. None of them spoke for an appreciable time, but the hound
continued to whine and finally backed off into a corner.
"Guess I'll have to see what et is," drawled the master of the cabin,
holding his rifle ready for action.
Slowly he moved toward the door and cautiously, very cautiously, he
lifted the bolt that secured it. Even if it were a revenue officer, he
argued to himself, his conscience was clear and his premises could stand
the formality of a search because, save for a certain spot known to
himself alone, there was nothing that could be considered incriminating.
As the door swung back the body of a man fell into the room--a man whose
clothing was tattered and whose features were concealed under a week's
growth of stubbly beard. Right into the cabin he fell, for the door had
supported his body, and, once that support was removed, he lay as one
dead.
In fact, it wasn't until at least five minutes had elapsed that Stiles
came to the conclusion that the intruder was really alive, after all.
During that time he had worked over him in the rough mountain fashion,
punching and pulling and manhandling him in an effort to secure some
sign of life. Finally the newcomer's eyes opened and he made an effort
to sit up.
"Wait a minute, stranger," directed Stiles, motioning his wife toward a
closet in the corner of the room. Mrs. Stiles--or 'Ma,' as she was known
in that part of the country--understood the movement. Without a word she
opened the cupboard and took down a flask filled with a clear
golden-yellow liquid. Some of this she poured into a cracked cup on the
table and handed it to her husband.
"Here," directed the mountaineer, "throw yo' haid back an' drink this.
Et's good fur what ails yer."
The moment after he had followed instructions the stranger gulped,
gurgled, and gasped as the moonshine whisky burnt its way down his
throat. The man-sized drink, taken on a totally empty stomach, almost
nauseated him. Then it put new life in his veins and he tried to
struggle to his feet.
Ruth Stiles was beside him in an instant and, with her father's help,
assisted him to a chair at the table.
"Stranger," said Stiles, stepping aside and eying the intruder
critically, "I don't know who or what you are, but I do know that yo'
look plumb tuckered out. Nobody's goin' hungry in my house, so fall to
an' we'll discuss other matters later."
Whereupon he laid his rifle in its accustomed place, motioned to his
wife and daughter to resume their places at the table, and dragged up
another chair for himself.
Beyond a word or two of encouragement to eat all he wanted of the very
plain fare, none of the trio addressed the newcomer during the remainder
of the meal. All three of them had noted the almost-obliterated stripes
that encircled his clothing and their significance was unmistakable.
But Stiles himself was far from being convinced. He had heard too much
of the tricks of government agents to be misled by what might prove,
after all, only a clever disguise.
Therefore, when the womenfolk had cleared away the supper things and the
two men had the room to themselves, the mountaineer offered his guest a
pipeful of tobacco and saw to it that he took a seat before the fire
where the light would play directly upon his features. Then he opened
fire.
"Stranger," he inquired, "what might yo' name be?"
"Patterson," said the other. "Jim Patterson."
"Whar you come from?"
"Charlestown first an' Morgantown second. Up for twelve years for
manslaughter--railroaded at that," was Patterson's laconic reply.
"How'd you get away?"
At that the convict laughed, but there was more of a snarl than humor in
his tone as he answered: "Climbed th' wall when th' guards weren't
lookin'. They took a coupla pot shots at me, but none of them came
within a mile. Then I beat it south, travelin' by night an' hidin' by
day. Stole what I could to eat, but this country ain't overly well
filled with farms. Hadn't had a bite for two days, 'cept some berries,
when I saw your cabin an' came up here."
Stiles puffed away in silence for a moment. Then he rose, as if to fetch
something from the other side of the room. Once behind Patterson,
however, he reached forward and, seizing the stubble that covered his
face, yanked it as hard as he could.
"What th'----?" yelled the convict, springing to his feet and
involuntarily raising his clenched hand.
"Ca'm yo'self, stranger, ca'm yo'self," directed the mountaineer, with
a half smile. "Jes' wanted to see for myself ef that beard was real,
that's all. Thought you might be a rev'nue agent in disguise."
"A rev'nue agent?" queried Patterson, and then as if the thought had
just struck him that he was in the heart of the moonshining district, he
added: "That's rich! Me, just out of th' pen an' you think I'm a bull.
That's great. Here"--reaching into the recesses of his frayed
shirt--"here's something that may convince you."
And he handed over a tattered newspaper, more than a week old, and
pointed to an article on the first page.
"There, read that!"
"Ruth does all th' reading for this fam'ly," was Stiles's muttered
rejoinder. "Ruth! Oh, Ruth! Come here a minute an' read somethin' to yo'
pappy!"
Patterson had not failed to note, during supper, that Ruth Stiles came
close to being a perfect specimen of a mountain flower, rough and
undeveloped, but with more than a trace of real beauty, both in her face
and figure. Standing in front of the fire, with its flickering light
casting a sort of halo around her, she was almost beautiful--despite her
homespun dress and shapeless shoes.
Without a word the convict handed her the paper and indicated the
article he had pointed out a moment before.
"Reward offered for convict's arrest," she read. "James Patterson, doing
time for murder, breaks out of Morgantown. Five hundred dollars for
capture. Prisoner scaled wall and escaped in face of guards' fire." Then
followed an account of the escape, the first of its kind in several
years.
"Even if you can't read," said Patterson, "there's my picture under the
headline--the picture they took for the rogues' gallery," and he pointed
to a fairly distinct photograph which adorned the page.
Stiles took the paper closer to the fire to secure a better look,
glanced keenly at the convict, and extended his hand.
"Guess that's right, stranger," he admitted. "You're no rev'nue agent."
Later in the evening, as she lay awake, thinking about the man who had
shattered the monotony of their mountain life, Ruth Stiles wondered if
Patterson had not given vent to what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of
relief at that moment. But she was too sleepy to give much thought to
it, and, besides, what if he had?...
In the other half of the cabin, divided from the women's room only by a
curtain of discolored calico, slept Patterson and Stiles--the former
utterly exhausted by his travels, the latter resting with keen hair
trigger consciousness of danger always only a short distance away.
Nothing happened, however, to disturb the peace of the Stiles domicile.
Even the hound slept quietly until the rosy tint of the eastern sky
announced another day.
After breakfast, at which the fat-back and corn bread were augmented by
a brownish liquid which passed for coffee, Stiles informed his guest
that he "reckoned he'd better stick close to th' house fer a few days,"
as there was no telling whether somebody might not be on his trail.
Patterson agreed that this was the proper course and put in his time
helping with the various chores, incidentally becoming a little better
acquainted with Ruth Stiles. That night he lay awake for several hours,
but nothing broke the stillness save a few indications of animal life
outside the cabin and the labored breathing of the mountaineer in the
bunk below him.
For three nights nothing occurred. But on the fourth night, Saturday,
supper was served a little earlier than usual and Patterson noted just a
suspicion of something almost electrical in the air. He gave no
indication of what he had observed, however, and retired to his bunk in
the usual manner. After an hour or more had elapsed he heard Stiles slip
quietly off his mattress and a moment later there was the guarded
scratch of a match as a lantern was lighted.
Suspecting what would follow, Patterson closed his eyes and continued
his deep, regular breathing. But he could sense the fact that the
lantern had been swung up to a level with his bunk and he could almost
feel the mountaineer's eyes as Stiles made certain that he was asleep.
Stifling an impulse to snore or do something to convince his host that
he wasn't awake, Patterson lay perfectly still until he heard the door
close. Then he raised himself guardedly on one elbow and attempted to
look through the window beside the bunk. But a freshly applied coat of
whitewash prevented that, so he had to content himself with listening.
Late in the night--so late that it was almost morning--he heard the
sounds of men conversing in whispers outside the cabin, but he could
catch nothing beyond his own name. Soon Stiles re-entered the room,
slipped into bed, and was asleep instantly.
So things went for nearly three weeks. The man who had escaped from
prison made himself very useful around the cabin, and, almost against
his will, found that he was falling a victim to the beauty and charm of
the mountain girl.
"I mustn't do it," he told himself over and over again. "I can't let
myself! It's bad enough to come here and accept the old man's
hospitality, but the girl's a different proposition."
It was Ruth herself who solved the riddle some three weeks after
Patterson's arrival. They were wandering through the woods together,
looking for sassafras roots, when she happened to mention that Stiles
was not her own father.
"He's only my pappy," she said, "my adopted father. My real father was
killed when I was a little girl. Shot through the head because he had
threatened to tell where a still was hidden. He never did believe in
moonshining. Said it was as bad as stealin' from the government. So
somebody shot him and Ma Stiles took me in, 'cause she said she was
sorry for me even if my pa was crazy."
"Do you believe that moonshining is right?" asked her companion.
"Anything my pa believed was the truth," replied the girl, her eyes
flashing. "Everybody round these parts knows that Pappy Stiles helps run
the big still the rev'nue officers been lookin' for the past three
years. Two of 'em were shot not long ago, too--but that don't make it
right. 'Specially when my pa said it was wrong. What you smilin' at?"
Patterson resisted an inclination to tell her that the smile was one of
relief and replied that he was just watching the antics of a chipmunk a
little way off. But that night he felt a thrill of joy as he lay,
listening as always, in his bunk.
Things had been breaking rather fast of late. The midnight gatherings
had become more frequent and, convinced that he had nothing to fear from
his guest, Stiles was not as cautious as formerly. He seldom took the
trouble to see that the escaped prisoner was asleep and he had even been
known to leave the door unlatched as he went out into the night.
That night, for example, was one of the nights that he was
careless--and, as usually happens, he paid dearly for it.
Waiting until Stiles was well out of the house, Patterson slipped
silently out of his bunk in his stocking feet and, inch by inch,
reopened the door. Outside, the moon was shining rather brightly, but,
save for the retreating figure of the mountaineer--outlined by the
lantern he carried--there was nothing else to be seen.
Very carefully Patterson followed, treading softly so as to avoid even
the chance cracking of a twig. Up the mountainside went Stiles and, some
fifty feet behind him, crouched the convict, his faded garments blending
perfectly with the underbrush. After half a mile or so of following a
rude path, Stiles suddenly disappeared from view--not as if he had
turned a corner, but suddenly, as if the earth had swallowed him.
After a moment Patterson determined to investigate. When he reached the
spot where he had last seen Stiles he looked around and almost stumbled
against the key to the entire mystery. There in the side of the mountain
was an opening, the entrance to a natural cave, and propped against it
was a large wooden door, completely covered with vines.
"Not a chance of finding it in the daytime unless you knew where it
was," thought the convict as he slipped silently into the cave. Less
than thirty feet farther was an abrupt turn, and, glancing round this,
Patterson saw what he had been hoping for--a crowd of at least a dozen
mountaineers gathered about a collection of small but extremely
efficient stills. Ranged in rows along the sides of the cave were scores
of kegs, the contents of which were obvious from the surroundings.
Pausing only long enough to make certain of his bearings, the convict
returned to the cabin and, long before Stiles came back, was sound
asleep.
It was precisely four weeks from the day when the buzzard noted the man
on the side of the mountain, when a sheriff's posse from another county,
accompanied by half a dozen revenue officers, rode clattering through
Maymead and on in the direction of the Stiles cabin. Before the
mountaineers had time to gather, the posse had surrounded the hill,
rifles ready for action.
Stiles himself met them in front of his rude home and, in response to
his challenge as to what they wanted, the sheriff replied that he had
come for a prisoner who had escaped from Morgantown a month or so
before. Stiles was on the verge of declaring that he had never heard of
the man when, to his amazement, Patterson appeared from the woods and
surrendered.
The instant the convict had gained the shelter of the government guns,
however, a startling change took place. He held a moment's whispered
conversation with one of the revenue officials and the latter slipped
him a spare revolver from his holster. Then--"Hands up!" ordered the
sheriff, and Stiles's hands shot above his head.
Leaving three men to guard the cabin and keep watch over Old Man Stiles,
whose language was searing the shrubbery, the remainder of the posse
pushed up the mountain, directed by the pseudoconvict. It took them some
time to locate the door to the cave, but, once inside, they found all
the evidence they wanted--evidence not only directly indicative of
moonshining, but the two badges which had belonged to Douglas and Wood
and which the mountaineers had kept as souvenirs of the shooting, thus
unwittingly providing a firm foundation for the government's case in
court.
The next morning, when Commissioner Chambers reached his office, he
found upon his desk a wire which read:
Stiles gang rounded up without the firing of a single shot.
Direct evidence of complicity in Woods-Douglas murders.
Secret still is a secret no longer.
The signature to the telegram was "James Reynolds, alias Jim Patterson."
"Jim Patterson," mused the commissioner. "Where have I heard that
name.... Of course. He's the prisoner that broke out of Morgantown a
couple of months ago! Jimmy sure did lay the local color on thick!"
* * * * *
"But," I inquired, as Quinn paused, "don't you consider that rather a
dirty trick on Reynolds's part--worming himself into the confidence of
the mountaineers and then betraying them? Besides, what about the girl?"
"Dirty trick!" snorted the former Secret Service agent. "Would you think
about ethics if some one had murdered two of the men you work next to in
the office? It was the same thing in this case. Jimmy knew that if he
didn't turn up that gang they'd probably account for a dozen of his
pals--to say nothing of violating the law every day they lived! What
else was there for him to do?
"The girl? Oh, Reynolds married her. They sometimes do that, even in
real life, you know. As I said, they're living out in the Middle West,
for Ruth declared she never wanted to see a mountain again, and both of
them admitted that it wouldn't be healthy to stick around within walking
distance of Tennessee. That mountain crowd is a bad bunch to get r'iled,
and it must be 'most time for Stiles and his friends to get out of jail.
"It's a funny thing the way these government cases work out. Here was
one that took nearly three months to solve, and the answer was the
direct result of hard work and careful planning--while the Trenton
taxicab tangle, for example, was just the opposite!"
VIII
THE TAXICAB TANGLE
We'd been sitting on the front porch--Bill Quinn and I--discussing
things in general for about half an hour when the subject of
transportation cropped up and, as a collateral idea, my mind jumped to
taxicabs, for the reason that the former Secret Service operative had
promised to give me the details of a case which he referred to as "The
Trenton Taxicab Tangle."
"Yes," he replied, reminiscently, when I reminded him of the
alliterative title and inquired to what it might refer, "that was one of
the branch cases which grew out of the von Ewald chase--you remember
Mary McNilless and the clue of Shelf Forty-five? Well, Dick Walters, the
man who landed von Ewald, wasn't the only government detective working
on that case in New York--not by some forty-five or fifty--and Mary
wasn't the only pretty woman mixed up in it, either. There was that girl
at the Rennoc switchboard....
"That's another story, though. What you want is the taxicab clue."
* * * * *
If you remember the incidents which led up to the von Ewald affair
[continued Quinn, as he settled comfortably back in his chair] you will
recall that the German was the slipperiest of slippery customers. When
Walters stumbled on his trail, through the quick wit of Mary McNilless,
there wasn't the slightest indication that there was such a man. He was
a myth, a bugaboo--elusive as the buzz of a mosquito around your ear.
During the months they scoured New York in search for him, a number of
other cases developed. Some of these led to very interesting
conclusions, but the majority, as usual, flivvered into thin air.
The men at headquarters, the very cream of the government services,
gathered from all parts of the country, were naturally unable to
separate the wheat from the chaff in advance. Night after night they
went out on wild-goose chases and sometimes they spent weeks in
following a promising lead--to find only blue sky and peaceful scenery
at the end of it.
Alan Whitney, who had put in two or three years rounding up
counterfeiters for the Service, and who had been transferred to the
Postal Inspection Service at the time of those registered mail robberies
in the Middle West--only to be detailed to Secret Service work in
connection with the von Ewald case--was one of the bitterest opponents
of this forced inaction.
"I don't mind trouble," Whitney would growl, "but I do hate this eternal
strain of racing around every time the bell goes off and then finding
that some bonehead pulled the alarm for the sheer joy of seeing the
engines come down the street. There ought to be a law against
irresponsible people sending in groundless 'tips'--just as there's a law
against scandal or libel or any other information that's not founded on
fact."
But, just the same, Al would dig into every new clue with as much
interest and energy as the rest of the boys--for there's always the
thrill of thinking that the tip you're working on may be the right one
after all.
Whitney was in the office one morning when the phone rang and the chief
answered it.
"Yes," he heard the chief say, "this is the right place--but if your
information is really important I would suggest that you come down and
give it in person. Telephones are not the most reliable instruments in
the world."
A pause followed and the chief's voice again:
"Well, of course we are always very glad to receive information that
tends to throw any light on those matters, but I must confess that yours
sounds a little vague and far-fetched. Maybe the people in the taxi
merely wanted to find a quiet place to talk.... They got out and were
away for nearly two hours? Hum! Thanks very much. I'll send one of our
men over to talk to you about it, if you don't mind. What's the
address?"
A moment or two later, after the chief had replaced the receiver, he
called out to Whitney and with a smile that he could barely conceal told
him to catch the next train to Trenton, where, at a certain address, he
would find a Miss Vera Norton, who possessed--or thought she
possessed--information which would be of value to the government in
running down the people responsible for recent bomb outrages and
munition-plant explosions.
"What's the idea, Chief?" inquired Al.