classes--those which call for quick action and plenty of it and those
which demand a great deal of thought and only an hour or so of actual
physical work. Your typical operative--Allison, who was responsible for
solving the poison-pen puzzle, for example, or Hal Preston, who
penetrated the mystery surrounding the murder of Montgomery Marshall--is
essentially a man of action. He likes to tackle a job and get it over
with. It doesn't make any difference if he has to round up a half dozen
counterfeiters at the point of a single revolver--as Tommy Callahan once
did--or break up a gang of train robbers who have sworn never to be
taken alive. As long as he has plenty of thrills and excitement, as long
as he is able to get some joy out of life, he doesn't give a hang for
the risk. That's his business and he loves it.
But it's the long-drawn-out cases which he has to ponder over and
consider from a score of angles that, in the vernacular of vaudeville,
capture his Angora. Give him an assignment where he can trail his man
for a day or two, get the lay of the land, and then drop on the bunch
like a ton o' brick and everything's fine. Give him one of the other
kind and--well, he's just about as happy as Guy Randall was when they
turned him loose with instructions to get something on Carl Cheney.
Remember during the early days of the war when the papers were full of
stories from New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Milwaukee and points west
about gatherings of pro-German sympathizers who were determined to aid
the Fatherland? Theoretically, we were neutral at that time and these
people had all the scope they wanted. They did not confine themselves to
talk, however, but laid several plans which were destined to annoy the
government and to keep several hundred operatives busy defeating
them--for they were aimed directly at our policy of neutrality.
As a campaign fund to assure the success of these operations, the German
sympathizers raised not less than sixteen million dollars--a sum which
naturally excited the cupidity not only of certain individuals within
their own ranks, but also of persons on the outside--men who were
accustomed to live by their wits and who saw in this gigantic collection
the opportunity of a lifetime.
When you consider that you can hire a New York gangster to commit murder
for a couple of hundred dollars--and the "union scale" has been known to
be even lower--it's no wonder that the mere mention of sixteen million
dollars caused many a crook of international reputation to figure how he
could divert at least a part of this to his own bank account. That's the
way, as it afterward turned out, that Carl Cheney looked at it.
Cheney had rubbed elbows with the police on several occasions prior to
nineteen fourteen. It was suspected that he had been mixed up in a
number of exceptionally clever smuggling schemes and that he had had a
finger in one or two operations which came perilously close to
blackmail. But no one had ever been able to get anything on him. He was
the original Finnigin--"In agin, gone agin." By the time the plan came
to a successful conclusion all that remained of "Count Carl's"
connection with it was a vague and distinctly nebulous shadow--and you
simply can't arrest shadows, no matter how hard you try.
The New York police were the first to tip Washington off to the fact
that Cheney, who had dropped his aristocratic alias for the time being,
was back in this country and had been seen in the company of a number of
prominent members of a certain German-American club which wasn't in any
too good repute with the Department of Justice by reason of the efforts
of some of its members to destroy the neutral stand of the nation.
Have no indications of what Cheney is doing [the report
admitted], but it will be well to trail him. Apparently he
has some connection, officially or unofficially, with
Berlin. Advise what action you wish us to take.
Whereupon the chief wired back:
Operative assigned to Cheney case leaves to-night. Meanwhile
please watch.
It wasn't until after the wire had been sent that Guy Randall was
summoned to the inner sanctum of the Secret Service and informed that he
had been elected to trail the elusive suspect and find out what he was
up to.
"So far as our records show," stated the chief, "no one has ever been
able to catch this Cheney person in the act of departing from the
straight and narrow path. However, that's a matter of the past. What
we've got to find out is what he is planning now--why he is in New York
and why he has attached himself to the pro-German element which has all
kinds of wild schemes up its sleeve."
"And I'm the one who's got to handle it?" inquired Guy, with a grimace.
"Precisely," grinned the chief. "Oh, I know it doesn't look like much of
a job and I grant you that the thrill element will probably be lacking.
But you can't draw a snap every time. All that's asked is that you get
something on Cheney--something which will withstand the assaults of the
lawyers he will undoubtedly hire the minute we lay hands on him.
Therefore you've got to be mighty careful to have the right dope. If
you're satisfied that he's doing nothing out of the way, don't hesitate
to say so. But I don't expect that your report will clear him, for, from
what we already know of the gentleman, he's more likely to be implicated
in some plan aimed directly at a violation of neutrality, and it's
essential that we find out what that is before we take any radical
step."
"What do you know about Cheney?" was Randall's next question, followed
by an explanation from the chief that the "count" had been suspected in
a number of cases and had barely been able to escape in time.
"But," added the head of the Secret Service, "he did escape. And that's
what we have to prevent this time. He's a fast worker and a clever
one--which means that you've got to keep continually after him. Call in
all the help you need, but if you take my advice you'll handle the case
alone. You're apt to get a lot further that way."
Agreeing that this was the best method to pursue, Randall caught the
midnight train for New York and went at once to police headquarters,
where he requested a full description of Cheney's previous activities.
"You're asking for something what ain't," he was informed,
ungrammatically, but truthfully. "We've never been able to get a thing
on the count, though we're dead certain that he had a finger in several
crooked plays. The Latimer letters were never directly traced to him,
but it's a cinch that he had something to do with their preparation,
just as he had with the blackmailing of old man Branchfield and the
smuggling of the van Husen emeralds. You remember that case, don't you?
The one where the stones were concealed in a life preserver and they
staged a 'man overboard' stunt just as the ship came into the harbor.
Nobody ever got the stones or proved that they were actually
smuggled--but the count happened to be on the ship at the time, just as
he 'happened' to be in Paris when they were sold. We didn't even dare
arrest him, which accounts for the fact that his photograph doesn't
ornament the Rogues' Gallery."
"Well, what's the idea of trailing him, then?"
"Just to find out what he is doing. What d'ye call those birds that fly
around at sea just before a gale breaks--stormy petrels? That's the
count! He's a stormy petrel of crookedness. Something goes wrong every
time he hits a town--or, rather, just after he leaves, for he's too
clever to stick around too long. The question now is, What's this
particular storm and when is it goin' to break?"
"Fine job to turn me loose on," grumbled Randall.
"It is that," laughed the captain who was dispensing information. "But
you can never tell what you'll run into, me boy. Why I remember once--"
Randall, however, was out of the office before the official had gotten
well started on his reminiscences. He figured that he had already had
too much of a grouch to listen patiently to some long-winded story dug
out of the musty archives of police history and he made his way at once
to the hotel where Carl Cheney was registered, flaunting his own name in
front of the police whom he must have known were watching him.
Neither the house detective nor the plain-clothes man who had been
delegated to trail Cheney could add anything of interest to the little
that Randall already knew. The "count," they said, had conducted himself
in a most circumspect manner and had not been actually seen in
conference with any of the Germans with whom he was supposed to be in
league.
"He's too slick for that," added the man from the Central Office.
"Whenever he's got a conference on he goes up to the Club and you can't
get in there with anything less than a battering ram and raiding squad.
There's no chance to plant a dictaphone, and how else are you going to
get the information?"
"What does he do at other times?" countered Guy, preferring not to
reply to the former question until he had gotten a better line on the
case.
"Behaves himself," was the laconic answer. "Takes a drive in the Park in
the afternoon, dines here or at one of the other hotels, goes to the
theater and usually finishes up with a little supper somewhere among the
white lights."
"Any women in sight?"
"Yes--two. A blond from the girl-show that's playin' at the
Knickerbocker and a red-head. Don't know who she is--but they're both
good lookers. No scandal, though. Everything appears to be on the
level--even the women."
"Well," mused the government operative after a moment's silence, "I
guess I better get on the job. Probably means a long stretch of dull
work, but the sooner I get at it the sooner I'll get over it. Where is
Cheney now?"
"Up in his room. Hasn't come down to breakfast yet. Yes. There he is
now. Just getting out of the elevator--headed toward the dinin' room,"
and the plain-clothes man indicated the tall figure of a man about
forty, a man dressed in the height of fashion, with spats, a cane, and a
morning coat of the most correct cut. "Want me for anything?"
"Not a thing," said Randall, absently. "I'll pick him up now. You might
tell the chief to watch out for a hurry call from me--though I'm afraid
he won't get it."
As events proved, Randall was dead right. The Central Office heard
nothing from him for several months, and even Washington received only
stereotyped reports indicative of what Cheney was doing--which wasn't
much.
Shortly after the first of the year, Guy sent a wire to the chief,
asking to be relieved for a day or two in order that he might be free to
come to Washington. Sensing the fact that the operative had some plan
which he wished to discuss personally, the chief put another man on
Cheney's trail and instructed Randall to report at the Treasury
Department on the following morning.
"What's the matter?" inquired the man at the head of the Service as Guy,
a little thinner than formerly and showing by the wrinkles about his
eyes the strain under which he was working, strolled into the office.
"Nothing's the matter, Chief--and that's where the trouble lies. You
know I've never kicked about work, no matter how much of it I've had.
But this thing's beginning to get on my nerves. Cheney is planning some
coup. I'm dead certain of that. What it's all about, though, I haven't
the least idea. The plans are being laid in the German-American Club and
there's no chance of getting in there."
"How about bribing one of the employees to leave?"
"Can't be done. I've tried it--half a dozen times. They're all Germans
and, as such, in the organization. However, I have a plan. Strictly
speaking, it's outside the law, but that's why I wanted to talk things
over with you...."
When Randall had finished outlining his plan the chief sat for a moment
in thought. Then, "Are you sure you can put it over?" he inquired.
"Of course I can. It's done every other day, anyhow, by the cops
themselves. Why shouldn't we take a leaf out of their book?"
"I know. But there's always the possibility of a diplomatic protest."
"Not in this case, Chief. The man's only a waiter and, besides, before
the embassy has a chance to hear about it I'll have found out what I
want to know. Then, if they want to raise a row, let 'em."
The upshot of the matter was that, about a week later, Franz Heilman, a
waiter employed at the German-American Club in New York, was arrested
one night and haled into Night Court on a charge of carrying concealed
weapons--a serious offense under the Sullivan Act. In vain he protested
that he had never carried a pistol in his life. Patrolman Flaherty, who
had made the arrest, produced the weapon which he claimed to have found
in Heilman's possession and the prisoner was held for trial.
Bright and early the next morning Randall, disguised by a mustache which
he had trained for just such an occasion and bearing a carefully
falsified letter from a German brewer in Milwaukee, presented himself at
the employee's entrance of the German-American Club and asked for the
steward. To that individual he told his story--how he had tried to get
back to the Fatherland and had failed, how he had been out of work for
nearly a month, and how he would like to secure employment of some kind
at the Club where he would at least be among friends.
After a thorough examination of the credentials of the supposed
German--who had explained his accent by the statement that he had been
brought to the United States when very young and had been raised in
Wisconsin--the steward informed him that there was a temporary vacancy
in the Club staff which he could fill until Heilman returned.
"The duties," the steward added, "are very light and the pay, while not
large, will enable you to lay by a little something toward your return
trip to Germany."
Knowing that his time was limited, Randall determined to let nothing
stand in the way of his hearing all that went on in the room where
Cheney and his associates held their conferences. It was the work of
only a few moments to bore holes in the door which connected this room
with an unused coat closet--plugging up the holes with corks stained to
simulate the wood itself--and the instant the conference was on the new
waiter disappeared.
An hour later he slipped out of the side entrance to the Club and the
steward is probably wondering to this day what became of him. Had he
been able to listen in on the private wire which connected the New York
office of the Secret Service with headquarters at Washington, he would
have had the key to the mystery.
"Chief," reported Randall, "I've got the whole thing. There's a plot on
foot to raise one hundred and fifty thousand German reservists--men
already in this country--mobilizing them in four divisions, with six
sections. The first two divisions are to assemble at Silvercreek,
Michigan--the first one seizing the Welland Canal and the second
capturing Wind Mill Point, Ontario. The third is to meet at Wilson, N.
Y., and will march on Port Hope. The fourth will go from Watertown, N.
Y., to Kingston, Ontario, while the fifth will assemble somewhere near
Detroit and proceed toward Windsor. The sixth will stage an attack on
Ottawa, operating from Cornwall.
"They've got their plans all laid for the coup, and Cheney reported
to-day that he intends to purchase some eighty-five boats to carry the
invading force into the Dominion. The only thing that's delaying the
game is the question of provisions for the army. Cheney's holding out
for another advance--from what I gathered he's already received a
lot--and claims that he will be powerless unless he gets it. I didn't
stay to listen to the argument, for I figured that I'd better leave
while the leaving was good."
The reply that came back from Washington was rather startling to the
operative, who expected only commendation and the statement that his
task was completed.
"What evidence have you that this invasion is planned?"
"None besides what I heard through holes which I bored in one of the
doors of the German-American Club this morning."
"That won't stand in court! We don't dare to arrest this man Cheney on
that. You've got to get something on him."
"Plant it?"
"No! Get it straight. And we can't wait for this expedition to start,
either. That would be taking too much of a chance. It's up to you to do
a little speedy work in the research line. Dig back into the count's
past and find something on which we can hold him, for he's very
evidently the brains of the organization, in spite of the fact that he
probably is working only for what he can get of that fund that the
Germans have raised. I understand that it's sixteen million dollars and
that's enough to tempt better men than Cheney. Now go to it, and
remember--you've got to work fast!"
Disappointed, chagrined by the air of finality with which the receiver
at the Washington end of the line was hung up, Randall wandered out of
the New York office with a scowl on his face and deep lines of thought
between his eyes. If he hadn't been raised in the school which holds
that a man's only irretrievable mistake is to quit under fire, he'd have
thrown up his job right there and let some one else tackle the work of
landing the count. But he had to admit that the chief was right and,
besides, there was every reason to suppose that grave issues hung in the
balance. The invasion of Canada meant the overthrow of American
neutrality, the failure of the plans which the President and the State
Department had so carefully laid.
Cheney was the crux of the whole situation. Once held on a charge that
could be proved in court, the plot would fall through for want of a
capable leader--for the operative had learned enough during his hour in
the cloak-room to know that "the count" was the mainspring of the whole
movement, despite the fact that he undoubtedly expected to reap a rich
financial harvest for himself.
Selecting a seat on the top of a Fifth Avenue bus, Randall resigned
himself to a consideration of the problem.
"The whole thing," he figured, "simmers down to Cheney himself. In its
ramifications, of course, it's a question of peace or war--but in
reality it's a matter of landing a crook by legitimate means. I can't
plant a gun on him, like they did on Heilman, and there's mighty little
chance of connecting him with the Branchfield case or the van Husen
emeralds at this late date. His conduct around town has certainly been
blameless enough. Not even any women to speak of. Wait a minute, though!
There were two. The blond from the Knickerbocker and that red-haired
dame. He's still chasing around with the blond--but what's become of
Miss Red-head?"
This train of thought had possibilities. If the girl had been cast
aside, it was probable that she would have no objection to telling what
she knew--particularly as the color of her hair hinted at the possession
of what the owner would call "temperament," while the rest of the world
forgets to add the last syllable.
It didn't take long to locate the owner of the fiery tresses. A quick
round-up of the head waiters at the cafes which Cheney frequented, a
taxi trip to Washington Square and another to the section above Columbus
Circle, and Randall found that the red-haired beauty was known as Olga
Brainerd, an artist's model, whose face had appeared upon the cover of
practically every popular publication in the country. She had been out
of town for the past two months, he learned, but had just returned and
had taken an apartment in a section of the city which indicated the
possession of considerable capital.
"Miss Brainerd," said Randall, when he was face to face with the Titian
beauty in the drawing-room of her suite, "I came with a message from
your friend, Carl Cheney."
Here he paused and watched her expression very closely. As he had hoped,
the girl was unable to master her feelings. Rage and hate wrote
themselves large across her face and her voice fairly snapped as she
started to reply. Randall, however, interrupted her with a smile and the
statement:
"That's enough! I'm going to lay my cards face up on the table. I am a
Secret Service operative seeking information about Cheney. Here is my
badge, merely to prove that I'm telling the truth. We have reason to
believe that 'the Count,' as he is called, is mixed up with a pro-German
plot which, if successful, would imperil the peace of the country. Can
you tell us anything about him?"
"Can I?" echoed the girl. "The beast! He promised to marry me, more than
two months ago, and then got infatuated with some blond chit of a chorus
girl. Just because I lost my head and showed him a letter I had
received--a letter warning me against him--he flew into a rage and
threatened.... Well, never mind what he did say. The upshot of the
affair was that he sent me out of town and gave me enough money to last
me some time. But he'll pay for his insults!"
"Have you the letter you received?" asked Randall, casually--as if it
meant little to him whether the girl produced it or not.
"Yes. I kept it. Wait a moment and I'll get it for you." A few seconds
later she was back with a note, written in a feminine hand--a note which
read:
If you are wise you will ask the man who calls himself Carl
Cheney what he knows of Paul Weiss, of George Winters, and
Oscar Stanley. You might also inquire what has become of
Florence and Rose.
(Signed) AMELIA.
Randall looked up with a puzzled expression. "What's all this about?" he
inquired. "Sounds like Greek to me."
"To me, too," agreed the girl. "But it was enough to make Carl purple
with rage and, what's more, to separate him from several thousand
dollars."
"Weiss, Winters, and Stanley," mused Guy. "Those might easily be
Cheney's former aliases. Florence, Rose, and Amelia? I wonder.... Come
on, girl, we're going to take a ride down to City Hall! I've got a
hunch!"
Late that afternoon when Carl Cheney arrived at his hotel he was
surprised to find a young man awaiting him in his apartment--a man who
appeared to be perfectly at ease and who slipped over and locked the
door once the count was safely within the room.
"What does this mean?" demanded Cheney. "By what right--"
"It means," snapped Randall, "that the game's up!" Then, raising his
voice, he called, "Mrs. Weiss!" and a tall woman parted the curtains at
the other end of the room; "Mrs. Winters!" and another woman entered;
"Mrs. Stanley!" and a third came in. With his fingers still caressing
the butt of the automatic which nestled in his coat pocket, Randall
continued:
"Cheney--or whatever your real name is--there won't be any invasion of
Canada. We know all about your plans--in fact, the arsenal on West
Houston Street is in possession of the police at this moment. It was a
good idea and undoubtedly you would have cleaned up on it--were it not
for the fact that I am under the far from painful necessity of arresting
you on a charge of bigamy--or would you call it 'trigamy'? The records
at City Hall gave you away, after one of these ladies had been kind
enough to provide us with a clue to the three aliases under which you
conducted your matrimonial operations.
"Come on, Count. The Germans may need you worse than we do--but we
happen to have you!"
XVI
AFTER SEVEN YEARS
Bill Quinn was disgusted. Some one, evidently afflicted with an
ingrowing sense of humor, had sent him the prospectus of a "school"
which professed to be able to teach budding aspirants the art of
becoming a successful detective for the sum of twenty-five dollars, and
Quinn couldn't appreciate the humor.
"_How to Become a Detective--in Ten Lessons_," he snorted. "It only
takes one for the man who's got the right stuff in him, and the man that
hasn't better stay out of the game altogether."
"Well," I retorted, anxious to stir up any kind of an argument that
might lead to one of Quinn's tales about the exploits of Uncle Sam's
sleuths, "just what does it take to make a detective?"
It was a moment or two before Quinn replied. Then: "There are only three
qualities necessary," he replied. "Common sense, the power of
observation, and perseverance. Given these three, with possibly a dash
of luck thrown in for good measure, and you'll have a crime expert who
could stand the heroes of fiction on their heads.
"Take Larry Simmons, for example. No one would ever have accused him of
having the qualifications of a detective--any more than they would have
suspected him of being one. But Larry drew a good-sized salary from the
Bureau of Pensions because he possessed the three qualities I mentioned.
He had the common sense of a physician, the observation of a trained
newspaper reporter, and the perseverance of a bulldog. Once he sunk his
teeth in a problem he never let loose--which was the reason that very
few people ever put anything over on the Pension Bureau as long as Larry
was on the job.