height, Miss Lang was employed at the Rennoc switchboard and it speaks
well for her character when I can tell you that not one of the bachelor
tenants ever tried a second time to put anything over. Virginia's eyes
could snap when they wanted to and Virginia's lips could frame a cutting
retort as readily as a pleasant phrase.
In a place like the Rennoc, run as an apartment hotel, the guests change
quite frequently, and it was some task to keep track of all of them,
particularly when there were three girls working in the daytime, though
only one was on at night. They took it by turns--each one working one
week in four at night and the other three holding down the job from
eight to six. So, as it happened, Virginia did not see Dave Carroll
until he had been there nearly a month. He blew in from Washington early
one evening and straightway absented himself from the hotel until
sometime around seven the following morning, following the schedule
right through, every night.
Did you ever know Carroll? He and I worked together on the Farron case
out in St. Louis, the one where a bookmaker at the races tipped us off
to the biggest counterfeiting scheme ever attempted in this country, and
after that he took part in a number of other affairs, including the one
which prevented the Haitian revolution in nineteen thirteen.
Dave wasn't what you would call good-looking, though he did have a way
with women. The first night that he came downstairs--after a good day's
sleep--and spotted Virginia Lang on the switchboard, he could have been
pardoned for wandering over and trying to engage her in a conversation.
But the only rise he got was from her eyebrows. They went up in that
"I-am-sure-I-have-never-met-you" manner which is guaranteed to be cold
water to the most ardent male, and the only reply she vouchsafed was
"What number did you wish?"
"You appear to have mine," Dave laughed, and then asked for Rector 2800,
the private branch which connected with the Service headquarters.
When he came out of the booth he was careful to confine himself to
"Thank you" and the payment of his toll. But there was something about
him that made Virginia Lang feel he was "different"--a word which, with
women, may mean anything--or nothing. Then she returned to the reading
of her detective story, a type of literature to which she was much
addicted.
Carroll, as you have probably surmised, was one of the more than
twoscore Government operatives sent to New York to work on the von Ewald
case. His was a night shift, with roving orders to wander round the
section in the neighborhood of Columbus Circle and stand ready to get
anywhere in the upper section of the city in a hurry in case anything
broke. But, beyond reporting to headquarters regularly every hour, the
assignment was not exactly eventful.
The only thing that was known about von Ewald at that time was that a
person using such a name--or alias--was in charge of the German
intrigues against American neutrality. Already nearly a score of bomb
outrages, attempts to destroy shipping, plots against munition plants,
and the like had been laid at his door, but the elusive Hun had yet to
be spotted. Indeed, there were many men in the Service who doubted the
existence of such a person, and of these Carroll was one.
But he shrugged his shoulders and stoically determined to bear the
monotony of strolling along Broadway and up, past the Plaza, to Fifth
Avenue and back again every night--a program which was varied only by an
occasional seance at Reisenweber's or Pabst's, for that was in the days
before the one-half of one per cent represented the apotheosis of liquid
refreshment.
It was while he was walking silently along Fifty-ninth Street, on the
north side, close to the Park, a few nights after his brush with
Virginia Lang, that Carroll caught the first definite information about
the case that anyone had obtained.
He hadn't noted the men until he was almost upon them, for the night was
dark and the operative's rubber heels made no sound upon the pavement.
Possibly he wouldn't have noticed them then if it hadn't been for a
phrase or two of whispered German that floated out through the
shrubbery.
"He will stay at Conner's" was what reached Carroll's ears. "That will
be our chance--a rare opportunity to strike two blows at once, one at
our enemy and the other at this smug, self-satisfied nation which is
content to make money out of the slaughter of Germany's sons. Once he is
in the hotel, the rest will be easy."
"How?" inquired a second voice.
"A bomb, so arranged to explode with the slightest additional pressure,
in a--"
"Careful," growled a third man. "Eight fifty-nine would hardly care to
have his plans spread all over New York. This cursed shrubbery is so
dense that there is no telling who may be near. Come!"
And Carroll, crouched on the outside of the fence which separates the
street from the Park, knew that seconds were precious if he was to get
any further information. A quick glance down the street showed him that
the nearest gate was too far away to permit of entrance in that manner.
So, slipping his automatic into the side pocket of his coat he leaped
upward and grasped the top of the iron fence. On the other side he could
hear the quick scuffle of feet as the Germans, alarmed, began to retreat
rapidly.
A quick upward heave, a purchase with his feet, and he was over, his
revolver in his hand the instant he lighted on the other side.
"Halt!" he called, more from force of habit than from anything else, for
he had no idea that any of the trio would stop.
But evidently one of them did, for from behind the shelter of a near-by
bush came the quick spat of a revolver and a tongue of flame shot toward
him. The bullet, however, sung harmlessly past and he replied with a
fusillade of shots that ripped through the bush and brought a shower of
German curses from the other side. Then another of the conspirators
opened fire from a point at right angles to the first, and the ruse was
successful, for it diverted Carroll's attention long enough to permit
the escape of the first man, and the operative was still flat on the
ground, edging his way cautiously forward when the Park police arrived,
the vanguard of a curious crowd attracted by the shots.
"What's the trouble?" demanded the "sparrow cop."
"None at all," replied Dave, as he slipped the still warm revolver into
his pocket and brushed some dirt from his sleeve. "Guy tried to hold me
up, that's all, and I took a pot shot at him. Cut it! Secret Service!"
and he cautiously flashed his badge in the light of the electric torch
which the park policeman held.
"Huh!" grunted the guard, as he made his way to the bush from behind
which Carroll had been attacked. "You evidently winged him. There's
blood on the grass here, but no sign of the bird himself. Want any
report to headquarters?" he added, in an undertone.
"Not a word," said Carroll. "I'm working this end of the game and I want
to finish it without assistance. It's the only thing that's happened in
a month to break the monotony and there's no use declaring anyone else
in on it. By the way, do you know of any place in town known as
Conner's?"
"Conner's? Never heard of it. Sounds as though it might be a dive in the
Bowery. Plenty of queer places down there."
"No, it's hardly likely to be in that section of the city," Dave stated.
"Farther uptown, I think. But it's a new one on me."
"On me, too," agreed the guard, "and I thought I knew the town like a
book."
When he reported to headquarters a few moments later, Carroll told the
chief over the wire of his brush with the trio of Germans, as well as
what he had heard. There was more than a quiver of excitement in the
voice from the other end of the wire, for this was the first actual
proof of the existence of the mysterious "No. 859."
"Still believe von Ewald is a myth?" inquired the Chief.
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," was the answer, "because
the bullet that just missed me was pretty material. Evidently some one
is planning these bomb outrages and it's up to us to nab him--if only
for the sake of the Service."
"Did you catch the name of the man to whom your friends were alluding?"
asked the chief.
"No, they just referred to him as 'he.'"
"That might mean any one of a number of people," mused the chief. "Sir
Cecil Spring-Rice is in town, you know. Stopping at the Waldorf. Then
there's the head of the French Mission at the Vanderbilt with a bunch of
people, and Lord Wimbledon, who's spent five million dollars for horses
in the West, stopping at the same place you are. You might keep an eye
on him and I'll send Kramer and Fleming up to trail the other two."
"Did you ever hear of the place they called Conner's, Chief?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything. It may be a code word--a
prearranged name to camouflage the hotel in the event anyone were
listening in."
"Possibly," replied Carroll, just before he hung up, "but somehow I have
a hunch that it wasn't. I'll get back on the job and let you know if
anything further develops."
His adventure for the night appeared to have ended, for he climbed into
bed the following morning without having been disturbed, but lay awake
for an hour or more--obsessed with the idea that he really held the clue
to the whole affair, but unable to figure out just what it was.
Where was it that they intended to place the bomb? Why would they
arrange it so as to explode upon pressure, rather than concussion or by
a time fuse? Where was Conner's? Who was the man they were plotting
against?
These were some of the questions which raced through his brain, and he
awoke in the late afternoon still haunted by the thought that he really
ought to know more than he did.
That night at dinner he noted, almost subconsciously, that he was served
by a new waiter, a fact that rather annoyed him because he had been
particularly pleased at the service rendered by the other man.
"Where's Felix?" he inquired, as the new attendant brought his soup.
"He isn't on to-night, sir," was the reply. "He had an accident and
won't be here for a couple of days."
"An accident?"
"Yes, sir," was the laconic answer.
"Anything serious?"
"No, sir. He--he hurt his hand," and the waiter disappeared without
another word. Carroll thought nothing more of it at the time, but later,
over his coffee and a good cigar, a sudden idea struck him. Could it be
that Felix was one of the men whom he had surprised the night before,
the one he had fired at and hit? No, that was too much of a coincidence.
But then Felix was manifestly of foreign origin, and, while he claimed
to be Swiss, there was a distinct Teutonic rasp to his words upon
occasion.
Signaling to his waiter, Dave inquired whether he knew where Felix
lived. "I'd like to know if there is anything that I can do for him," he
gave as his reason for asking.
"I haven't the slightest idea," came the answer, and Carroll was aware
that the man was lying, for his demeanor was sullen rather than
subservient and the customary "sir" was noticeable by its absence.
Once in the lobby, Dave noticed that the pretty telephone operator was
again at the switchboard, and the idea occurred to him that he might
find out Felix's address from the hotel manager or head waiter.
"I understand that my waiter has been hurt in an accident," the
operative explained to the goddess of the wires, "and I'd like to find
out where he lives. Who would be likely to know?"
"The head waiter ought to be able to tell you," was the reply,
accompanied by the flash of what Carroll swore to be the whitest teeth
he had ever seen. "Just a moment and I will get him on the wire for
you." Then, after a pause, "Booth Number Five, please."
But Carroll got no satisfaction from that source, either. The head
waiter maintained that he knew nothing of Felix's whereabouts and hung
up the receiver in a manner which was distinctly final, not to say
impolite. The very air of mystery that surrounded the missing man was
sufficient to incline him to the belief that, after all, there might be
something to the idea that Felix was the man he had shot at the night
before. In that event, it was practically certain that Lord Wimbledon
was the object of the Germans' attention--but that didn't solve the
question of where the bomb was to be placed, nor the location of
"Conner's."
"Just the same," he muttered, half aloud, "I'm going to stick around
here to-night."
"Why that momentous decision?" came a voice almost at his elbow, a voice
which startled and charmed him with its inflection.
Looking up, he caught the eyes of the pretty telephone girl, laughing at
him.
"Talking to yourself is a bad habit," she warned him with a smile which
seemed to hold an apology for her brusqueness of the night before,
"particularly in your business."
"My business?" echoed Dave. "What do you know about that?"
"Not a thing in the world--except," and here her voice dropped to a
whisper--"except that you are a government detective and that you've
discovered something about Lord Wimbledon, probably some plot against
His Lordship."
"Where--how--what in the world made you think that?" stammered Carroll,
almost gasping for breath.
"Very simple," replied the girl. "Quite elementary, as Sherlock Holmes
used to say. You called the headquarters number every night when you
came down--the other girls tipped me off to that, for they know that I'm
fond of detective stories. Then everybody around here knows that Felix,
the waiter that you inquired about, is really German, though he pretends
to be Swiss, and that he, the head waiter, and the pastry cook are thick
as thieves."
"You'd hardly expect me to say 'Yes,' would you? Particularly as I am
supposed to be a government operative."
"Now I know you are," smiled the girl. "Very few people use the word
'operative.' They'd say 'detective' or 'agent.' But don't worry, I won't
give you away."
"Please don't," laughed Carroll, half banteringly, half in earnest, for
it would never do to have it leak out that a girl had not only
discovered his identity, but his mission. Then, as an after-thought, "Do
you happen to know of any hotel or place here in town known as
'Conner's'?" he asked.
"Why, of course," was the reply, amazing in its directness. "The
manager's name--" But then she halted abruptly, picked up a plug, and
said, "What number, please?" into the receiver.
Carroll sensed that there was a reason for her stopping in the middle of
her sentence and, looking around, found the pussy-footed head waiter
beside him, apparently waiting for a call. Silently damning the custom
that made it obligatory for waiters to move without making a sound,
Carroll wandered off across the lobby, determined to take a stroll
around the block before settling down to his night's vigil. A stop at
the information desk, however, rewarded him with the news that Lord
Wimbledon was giving a dinner in his apartments the following evening to
the British ambassador--that being all the hotel knew officially about
his Grace's movements.
"I'll take care to have half a dozen extra men on the job," Carroll
assured himself, "for that's undoubtedly the time they would pick if
they could get away with it. A single bomb then would do a pretty bit of
damage."
The evening brought no further developments, but shortly after midnight
he determined to call the Rennoc, in the hope that the pretty telephone
girl was still on duty and that she might finish telling him what she
knew of Conner's.
"Hotel Rennoc," came a voice which he recognized instantly.
"This is Dave Carroll speaking," said the operative. "Can you tell me
now what it was you started to say about Conner's?"
"Not now," came the whispered reply. Then, in a louder voice, "Just a
moment, please, and I'll see if he's registered." During the pause which
followed Dave realized that the girl must be aware that she was watched
by some one. Was it the silent-moving head waiter?
"No, he hasn't arrived yet," was the next phrase that came over the
wires, clearly and distinctly, followed by instructions, couched in a
much lower tone, "Meet me, Drive entrance, one-five sure," and then a
click as the plug was withdrawn.
It was precisely five minutes past one when Carroll paused in front of
the Riverside Drive doorway to the Rennoc, considering it the part of
discretion to keep on the opposite side of the driveway. A moment later
a woman, alone, left the hotel, glanced around quickly, and then crossed
to where he was standing.
"Follow me up the street," she directed in an undertone as she passed.
"Michel has been watching like a hawk."
Dave knew that Michel was the head waiter, and out of the corner of his
eye he saw a shadow slip out of another of the hotel doorways, farther
down the Drive, and start toward them. But when he looked around a
couple of blocks farther up the drive, there was no one behind them.
"Why all the mystery?" he inquired, as he stepped alongside the girl.
"Something's afoot in the Rennoc," she replied, "and they think I
suspect what it is and have told you about it. Michel hasn't taken his
eyes off me all evening. I heard him boast one night that he could read
lips, so I didn't dare tell you anything when you called up, even though
he was across the lobby. Conner's, the place you asked about, is the
Rennoc. Spell it backward. Conner is the manager--hence the name of the
hotel."
"Then," said Carroll, "that means that they've got a plan under way to
bomb Lord Wimbledon and probably the British ambassador at that dinner
to-morrow evening. I overheard one of them say last night that a bomb,
arranged to explode at the slightest pressure, would be placed in the--"
and then he stopped.
"In the cake!" gasped the girl, as if by intuition. But her next words
showed that her deduction had a more solid foundation. "This is to be a
birthday dinner, in honor of Lord Percy Somebody who's in Lord
Wimbledon's party, as well as in honor of Lord Cecil. The pastry cook,
who's almost certainly mixed up in the plot, has plenty of opportunity
to put the bomb there, where it would never be suspected. The instant
they cut the cake--"
But her voice trailed off in midair as something solid came down on her
head with a crash. At the same moment Dave was sent reeling by a blow
from a blackjack, a blow which sent him spinning across the curb and
into the street. He was dimly aware that two men were leaping toward him
and that a third was attacking the telephone girl.
Panting, gasping, fighting for time in which to clear his head of the
effects of the first blow, Carroll fought cautiously, but desperately,
realizing that his opponents desired to avoid gun-play for fear of
attracting the police. A straight left to the jaw caught one of the men
coming in and knocked him sprawling, but the second, whom Carroll
recognized as Michel, was more wary. He dodged and feinted with the
skill of a professional boxer, and then launched an uppercut which went
home on the point of Dave's jaw.
It was at that moment that the operative became aware of another
participant in the fray--a figure in white with what appeared to be a
halo of gold around her head. The thought flashed through his mind that
he must be dreaming, but he had sense enough left to leap aside when a
feminine voice called "Look out!" and the arc light glinted off the
blade of a knife as it passed perilously close to his ribs. Then the
figure in white brought something down on Michel's head and, wheeling,
seized the wrist of the third man in a grip of iron.
Ten seconds later the entire trio was helpless and Carroll was blowing a
police whistle for assistance.
"There was really nothing to it at all," protested the telephone girl,
during the ride in the patrol. "They made the mistake of trying to let
Felix, with his wounded hand, take care of me. I didn't have two years
of gym work and a complete course in jiu jitsu for nothing, and that
blackjack came in mighty handy a moment or two later. All Felix
succeeded in doing was to knock my hat off, and I shed my coat the
instant I had attended to him."
"That's why I thought you were a goddess in white," murmured Dave.
"No goddess at all, just a girl from the switchboard who was glad to
have a chance at the brutes. Anyhow, that few minutes beats any book I
ever read for action!"
Dave's hand stole out in the darkness as they jolted forward, and when
it found what it was seeking, "Girl," he said, "do you realize that I
don't even know your name?"
"Lang," said a voice in the dark. "My friends call me Virginia."
"After what you just did for me, I think we ought to be at least good
friends," laughed Carroll, and the thrill of the fight which has just
passed was as nothing when she answered:
"At least that ... Dave!"
* * * * *
Quinn paused for a moment to repack his pipe and I took advantage of the
interruption to ask what happened at the Wimbledon dinner the following
night.
"Not a thing in the world," replied Quinn. "Everything went off like
clockwork--everything but the bomb. As the Podunk _Gazette_ would say,
'A very pleasant time was had by all.' But you may be sure that they
were careful to examine the cake and the other dishes before they were
sampled by the guests. Michel, Felix, and the cook were treated to a
good dose of the third degree at headquarters, but without results. They
wouldn't even admit that they knew any such person as 'Number
Eight-fifty-nine' or von Ewald. Two of them got off with light sentences
for assault and battery. The pastry cook, however, went to the pen when
they found a quantity of high explosives in his room."
"And Miss Lang?"
"If you care to look up the marriage licenses for October, nineteen
sixteen, you'll find that one was issued in the names of David Carroll
and Virginia Lang. She's the wife of a captain now, for Dave left the
Service the following year and went to France to finish his fight with
the Hun. I saw him not long ago and the only thing that's worrying him
is where he is going to find his quota of excitement, for he says that
there is nothing left in the Service but chasing counterfeiters and
guarding the resident, and he can't stand the idea of staying in the
army and drawing his pay for wearing a uniform."
XI
"LOST--$100,000!"
"I stopped on my way here to-night and laid in a supply of something
that I don't often use--chewing gum," said Bill Quinn, formerly of the
Secret Service, as he settled back comfortably to enjoy an evening's
chat. "There are some professional reformers who maintain that the great
American habit of silently working the jaws over a wad of chewing gum is
harmful in the extreme, but if you'll look into the matter you'll find
that agitators of that type want you to cut out all habits except those
which they are addicted to.
"Personally, I'm not a habitual worshiper at the shrine of the great god
Goom, but there's no use denying the fact that it does soothe one's
nerves occasionally. Incidentally, it has other uses--as Elmer Allison
discovered not very long ago."
"Yes?" I inquired, sensing the fact that Quinn had a story up his sleeve
and was only awaiting the opportunity to spring it. "Didn't you mention
a post-office case in which a wad of gum played a prominent role?"
"That's the one," said the former government operative, easing his
wounded leg into a less cramped position. "Here, have a couple of sticks
just to get the proper atmosphere and I'll see if I can recall the
details."
* * * * *
For some reason that's hard to define [Quinn went on, after he had
peeled two of the dun-colored sticks and commenced work on them] crooks
in general and amateur crooks in particular seem to regard the United
States mails as particularly easy prey. Possibly they figure that, as
millions of dollars are handled by the Post-office Department every
year, a little here and there won't be missed. But if they knew the high
percentage of mail robberies that are solved they wouldn't be so keen to
tackle the game.
Lifting valuables, once they have passed into the hands of Uncle Sam's
postman, is a comparatively easy crime to commit. There are dozens of
ways of doing it--methods which range all the way from fishing letters
out of a post-box with a piece of string and a hairpin, to holding up
the mail car in a deserted portion of a railroad track. But getting away
with it is, as our Yiddish friends say, something else again.