turning the letters over to the department, with the request that the
matter be looked into at once. Said that his wife had handed them to him
and that he knew nothing more about the matter.
All that the postal authorities could do at the time was to instruct him
to bring in any subsequent communications. But, as the letters stopped
suddenly and Tyson absolutely refused to state whether he knew of anyone
who might be interested in causing trouble between his wife and himself,
there was nothing further to be done. Tracing a single letter, or even
two of them, is like looking for a certain star on a clear night--you've
got to know where to look before you have a chance of finding it--and
the postmark on the letters wasn't of the least assistance.
Some three or four weeks later a similar case cropped up. This time it
was a woman who brought in the letters--a woman who was red-eyed from
lack of sleep and worry. Again the communications referred to a definite
escapade, but still they made no open demand for money.
By the time the third case cropped up the postal authorities in Madison
were appealing to Washington for assistance. Before Bolton and Clarke,
the two inspectors originally assigned to the case, could reach the
Wisconsin capital another set of the mysterious communications had been
received and called to the attention of the department.
During the three months which followed no less than six complaints were
filed, all of them alleging the receipt of veiled threats, and neither
the local authorities nor the men from Washington could find a single
nail on which to hang a theory. Finally affairs reached such a stage
that the chief sent for Allison, who had already made something of a
name for himself, and told him to get on the job.
"Better make the first train for Madison," were the directions which
Elmer received. "So far as we can tell, this appears to be the scheme of
some crazy woman, intent upon causing domestic disturbances, rather than
a well-laid blackmailing plot. There's no report of any actual demand
for money. Just threats or suggestions of revelations which would cause
family dissension. I don't have to tell you that it's wise to keep the
whole business away from the papers as long as you can. They'll get next
to it some time, of course, but if we can keep it quiet until we've
landed the author of the notes it'll be a whole lot better for the
reputation of the department.
"Bolton and Clarke are in Madison now, but their reports are far from
satisfactory, so you better do a little investigating of your own.
You'll have full authority to handle the case any way that you see fit.
All we ask is action--before somebody stirs up a real row about the
inefficiency of the Service and all that rot."
Elmer smiled grimly, knowing the difficulties under which the department
worked, difficulties which make it hard for any bureau to obtain the
full facts in a case without being pestered by politicians and harried
by local interests which are far from friendly. For this reason you
seldom know that Uncle Sam is conducting an investigation until the
whole thing is over and done with and the results are ready to be
presented to the grand jury. Premature publicity has ruined many cases
and prevented many a detective from landing the men he's after, which
was the reason that Allison slipped into town on rubber heels, and his
appearance at the office of the postmaster was the first indication that
official had of his arrival.
"Mr. Gordon," said Allison, after they had completed the usual
preliminaries connected with credentials and so forth, "I want to tackle
this case just as if I were the first man who had been called in. I
understand that comparatively little progress has been made--"
"'Comparatively little' is good," chuckled the postmaster.
"And I don't wish to be hindered by any erroneous theories which may
have been built up. So if you don't mind we'll run over the whole thing
from the beginning."
"Well," replied the postmaster, "you know about the Tyson letters and--"
"I don't know about a thing," Elmer cut in. "Or at least we'll work on
the assumption that I don't. Then I'll be sure not to miss any points
and at the same time I'll get a fresh outline of the entire situation."
Some two hours later Postmaster Gordon finished his resume of the
various cases which were puzzling the police and the postal officials,
for a number of the best men on the police force had been quietly at
work trying to trace the poison-pen letters.
"Are these all the letters that have been received?" Allison inquired,
indicating some thirty communications which lay before him on the desk.
"All that have been called to the attention of this office. Of course,
there's no telling how many more have been written, about which no
complaint has been made. Knowing human nature, I should say that at
least three times that number have been received and possibly paid for.
But the recipients didn't report the matter--for reasons best known to
themselves. As a matter of fact--But you're not interested in gossip."
"I most certainly am!" declared Allison. "When you're handling a matter
of this kind, where back-stairs intrigue and servants-hall talk is
likely to play a large part, gossip forms a most important factor. What
does Dame Rumor say in this case?"
"So far as these letters are concerned, nothing at all. Certain
influences, which it's hardly necessary to explain in detail, have kept
this affair out of the papers--but gossip has it that at least three
divorces within as many months have been caused by the receipt of
anonymous letters, and that there are a number of other homes which are
on the verge of being broken up for a similar reason."
"That would appear to bear out your contention that other people have
received letters like these, but preferred to take private action upon
them. Also that, if blackmail were attempted, it sometimes
failed--otherwise the matter wouldn't have gotten as far as the divorce
court."
Then, after a careful study of several of the sample letters on the
desk, Allison continued, "I suppose you have noted the fact that no two
of these appear to have been written by the same person?"
"Yes, but that is a point upon which handwriting experts fail to agree.
Some of them claim that each was written by a different person. Others
maintain that one woman was responsible for all of them, and a third
school holds that either two or three people wrote them. What're you
going to do when experts disagree?"
"Don't worry about any of 'em," retorted Allison. "If we're successful
at all we won't have much trouble in proving our case without the
assistance of a bunch of so-called experts who only gum up the testimony
with long words that a jury can't understand. Where are the envelopes in
which these letters were mailed?"
"Most of the people who brought them in failed to keep the envelopes.
But we did manage to dig up a few. Here they are," and the postmaster
tossed over a packet of about half a dozen, of various shapes and sizes.
"Hum!" mused the postal operative, "all comparatively inexpensive
stationery. Might have been bought at nearly any corner drug store. Any
clue in the postmarks?"
"Not the slightest. As you will note, they were mailed either at the
central post office or at the railroad station--places so public that
it's impossible to keep a strict watch for the person who mailed 'em. In
one case--that of the Osgoods--we cautioned the wife to say nothing
whatever about the matter, and then ordered every clerk in the post
office to look out for letters in that handwriting which might be
slipped through the slot. In fact, we closed all the slots save one and
placed a man on guard inside night and day."
"Well, what happened?" inquired Allison, a trifle impatiently, as the
postmaster paused.
"The joke was on us. Some two days later a letter which looked
suspiciously like these was mailed. Our man caught it in time to dart
outside and nail the person who posted it. Fortunately we discovered
that she was Mrs. Osgood's sister-in-law and that the letter was a
perfectly innocent one."
"No chance of her being mixed up in the affair?"
"No. Her husband is a prominent lawyer here, and, besides, we've watched
every move she's made since that time. She's one of the few people in
town that we're certain of."
"Yet, you say her handwriting was similar to that which appears on these
letters?"
"Yes, that's one of the many puzzling phases of the whole matter. Every
single letter is written in a hand which closely resembles that of a
relative of the person to whom it is addressed! So much so, in fact,
that at least four of the complainants have insisted upon the arrest of
these relatives, and have been distinctly displeased at our refusal to
place them in jail merely because their handwriting is similar to that
of a blackmailer."
"Why do you say blackmailer? Do you know of any demand for money which
has been made?"
"Not directly--but what other purpose could a person have than to
extract money? They'd hardly run the risk of going to the pen in order
to gratify a whim for causing trouble."
"How about the Tysons and the Osgoods and the other people who brought
these letters in--didn't they receive subsequent demands for money?"
"They received nothing--not another single letter of any kind."
"You mean that the simple fact of making a report to your office
appeared to stop the receipt of the threats."
"Precisely. Now that you put it that way, it does look odd. But that's
what happened."
Allison whistled. This was the first ray of light that had penetrated a
very dark and mysterious case, and, with its aid, he felt that he might,
after all, be successful.
Contenting himself with a few more questions, including the names of
the couples whom gossip stated had been separated through the receipt of
anonymous communications, Allison bundled the letters together and
slipped them into his pocket.
"It's quite possible," he stated, as he opened the door leading out of
the postmaster's private office, "that you won't hear anything more from
me for some time. I hardly think it would be wise to report here too
often, or that if you happen to run into me on the street that you would
register recognition. I won't be using the name of Allison, anyhow, but
that of Gregg--Alvin Gregg--who has made a fortune in the operation of
chain stores and is looking over the field with a view to establishing
connections here. Gregg, by the way, is stopping at the Majestic Hotel,
if you care to reach him," and with that he was gone.
Allison's first move after establishing his identity at the hotel, was
to send a wire to a certain Alice Norcross in Chicago--a wire which
informed her that "My sister, Mrs. Mabel Kennedy, requests your presence
in Madison, Wisconsin. Urgent and immediate." The signature was "Alvin
Gregg, E. A.," and to an inquisitive telegraph operator who inquired the
meaning of the initials, Allison replied: "Electrical Assistant, of
course," and walked away before the matter could be further discussed.
The next evening Mrs. Mabel Kennedy registered at the Majestic Hotel,
and went up to the room which Mr. Gregg had reserved for her--the one
next to his.
"It's all right, Alice," he informed her a few moments later, after a
careful survey had satisfied him that the hall was clear of prying ears.
"I told them all about you--that you were my sister 'n' everything. So
it's quite respectable."
"Mrs. Kennedy," or Alice Norcross, as she was known to the members of
the Postal Service whom she had assisted on more than one occasion when
the services of a woman with brains were demanded, merely smiled and
continued to fix her hair before the mirror.
"I'm not worrying about that," she replied. "You boys can always be
trusted to arrange the details--but traveling always did play the
dickens with my hair! What's the idea, anyhow? Why am I Mrs. Mabel
Kennedy, and what's she supposed to do?"
In a few words Allison outlined what he was up against--evidently the
operation of a very skillful gang of blackmailers who were not only
perfectly sure of their facts, but who didn't run any risks until their
victims were too thoroughly cowed to offer any resistance.
"The only weak spot in the whole plan," concluded the operative, "is
that the letters invariably cease when the prospective victims lay their
case before the postmaster."
"You mean that you think he's implicated?"
"No--but some one in his office is!" snapped Allison. "Else how would
they know when to lay off? That's the only lead we have, and I don't
want to work from it, but up to it. Do you know anyone who's socially
prominent in Madison?"
"Not a soul, but it's no trick to get letters of introduction--even for
Mrs. Mabel Kennedy."
"Fine! Go to it! The minute you get 'em start a social campaign here.
Stage several luncheons, bridge parties, and the like. Be sure to create
the impression of a woman of means--and if you can drop a few hints
about your none too spotless past, so much the better."
"You want to draw their fire, eh?"
"Precisely. It's unfortunate that we can't rig up a husband for
you--that would make things easier, but when it's known that I, Alvin
Gregg, am your brother, I think it's more than likely that they'll risk
a couple of shots."
It was about a month later that Mrs. Kennedy called up her brother at
the Hotel Majestic and asked him to come over to her apartment at once.
"Something stirring?" inquired Allison as he entered the drawing-room of
the suite which his assistant had rented in order to bolster up her
social campaign.
"The first nibble," replied the girl, holding out a sheet of
violet-tinted paper, on which appeared the words:
Of course your brother and your friends know all about the
night you spent alone with a certain man in a cabin in the
Sierras?
"Great Scott!" ejaculated Allison. "Do you mean to say it worked?"
"Like clockwork," was the girl's reply. "Acting on your instructions, I
made a special play for Snaith, the postmaster's confidential secretary
and general assistant. I invited him to several of my parties and paid
particular attention to what I said when he was around. The first night
I got off some clever little remark about conventions--laughing at the
fact that it was all right for a woman to spend a day with a man, but
hardly respectable for her to spend the evening. The next time he was
there--and he was the only one in the party who had been present on the
previous occasion--I turned the conversation to snowstorms and admitted
that I had once been trapped in a storm in the Sierra Nevadas and had
been forced to spend the night in a cabin. But I didn't say anything
then about any companion. The third evening--when an entirely different
crowd, with the exception of Snaith, was present--some one brought up
the subject of what constitutes a gentleman, and my contribution was a
speech to the effect that 'one never knows what a man is until he is
placed in a position where his brute instincts would naturally come to
the front.'
"Not a single one of those remarks was incriminating or even
suspicious--but it didn't take a master mind to add them together and
make this note! Snaith was the only man who could add them, because he
was the only one who was present when they were all made!"
"Fine work!" applauded Allison. "But there's one point you've
overlooked. This letter, unlike the rest of its kind, is postmarked
Kansas City, while Snaith was here day before yesterday when this was
mailed. I know, because Clarke's been camping on his trail for the past
three weeks."
"Then that means--"
"That Snaith is only one of the gang--the stool-pigeon--or, in this
case, the lounge-lizard--who collects the information and passes it on
to his chief? Exactly. Now, having Mr. Snaith where I want him and
knowing pretty well how to deal with his breed, I think the rest will be
easy. I knew that somebody in the postmaster's office must be mixed up
in the affair and your very astute friend was the most likely prospect.
Congratulations on landing him so neatly!"
"Thanks," said the girl, "but what next?"
"For you, not a thing. You've handled your part to perfection. The rest
is likely to entail a considerable amount of strong-arm work, and I'd
rather not have you around. Might cramp my style."
That night--or, rather, about three o'clock on the following
morning--Sylvester Snaith, confidential secretary to the postmaster of
Madison, was awakened by the sound of some one moving stealthily about
the bedroom of his bachelor apartment. Before he could utter a sound
the beam of light from an electric torch blazed in his eyes and a curt
voice from the darkness ordered him to put up his hands. Then:
"What do you know about the anonymous letters which have been sent to a
number of persons in this city?" demanded the voice.
"Not--not a thing," stammered the clerk, trying to collect his badly
scattered senses.
"That's a lie! We know that you supplied the information upon which
those letters were based! Now come through with the whole dope or, by
hell I'll--" the blue-steel muzzle of an automatic which was visible
just outside the path of light from the torch completed the threat.
Snaith, thoroughly cowed, "came through"--told more than even Allison
had hoped for when he had planned the night raid on a man whom he had
sized up as a physical coward.
Less than an hour after the secretary had finished, Elmer was on his way
to Kansas City, armed with information which he proceeded to lay before
the chief of police.
"'Spencerian Peter,' eh?" grunted the chief. "Sure, I know where to lay
my hands on him--been watching him more or less ever since he got out of
Leavenworth a couple of years back. But I never connected him with this
case."
"What do you mean--this case?" demanded Allison. "Did you know anything
about the poison-pen letters in Madison?"
"Madison? No--but I know about the ones that have set certain people
here by the ears for the past month. I thought that was what you wanted
him for. Evidently the game isn't new."
"Far from it," Elmer replied. "I don't know how much he cleaned up in
Wisconsin, but I'll bet he got away with a nice pile. Had a social pet
there, who happened to be the postmaster's right-hand man, collect the
scandal for him and then he'd fix up the letters--faking some relative's
handwriting with that infernal skill of his. Then his Man Friday would
tip him off when they made a holler to headquarters and he'd look for
other suckers rather than run the risk of getting the department on his
trail by playing the same fish too long. That's what finally gave him
away--that and the fact that his assistant was bluffed by an electric
torch and an empty gun."
"Well, I'll be hanged," muttered the chief. "You might have been
explaining the situation here--except that we don't know who his society
informant is. I think we better drop in for a call on 'Spencerian' this
evening."
* * * * *
"The call was made on scheduled time," Quinn concluded, "but it was
hardly of a social nature. You wouldn't expect a post-office operative,
a chief of police, and half a dozen cops to stage a pink tea. Their
methods are inclined to be a trifle more abrupt--though Pete, as it
happened, didn't attempt to pull any rough stuff. He dropped his gun the
moment he saw how many guests were present, and it wasn't very long
before they presented him with a formal invitation to resume his none
too comfortable but extremely exclusive apartment in Leavenworth.
Snaith, being only an accomplice, got off with two years. The man who
wrote the letters and who was the principal beneficiary of the money
which they produced, drew ten."
"And who got the credit for solving the puzzle?" I inquired. "Allison or
the Norcross girl?"
"Allison," replied Quinn. "Alice Norcross only worked on condition that
her connection with the Service be kept quite as much of a secret as
the fact that her real name was Mrs. Elmer Allison."
"What? She was Allison's wife?" I demanded.
"Quite so," said the former operative. "If you don't believe me, there's
a piece of her wedding dress draped over that picture up there," and he
pointed to a strip of white silk that hung over one of the framed
photographs on the wall.
"But I thought you said--"
"That that was part of the famous thirty thousand yards which was nailed
just after it had been smuggled across the Canadian border? I did. But
Allison got hold of a piece of it and had it made up into a dress for
Alice. So that bit up there has a double story. You know one of them.
Remind me to tell you the other sometime."
XVIII
THIRTY THOUSAND YARDS OF SILK
"I'd sure like to lead the life of one of those fictional detective
heroes," muttered Bill Quinn, formerly of the United States Secret
Service, as he tossed aside the latest volume of crime stories that had
come to his attention. "Nothing to do but trail murderers and find the
person who lifted the diamond necklace and stuff of that kind. They
never have a case that isn't interesting or, for that matter, one in
which they aren't successful. Must be a great life!"
"But aren't the detective stories of real life interesting and
oftentimes exciting?" I inquired, adding that those which Quinn had
already told me indicated that the career of a government operative was
far from being deadly monotonous.
"Some of them are," he admitted, "but many of them drag along for months
or even years, sometimes petering out for pure lack of evidence. Those,
of course, are the cases you never hear of--the ones where Uncle Sam's
men fall down on the job. Oh yes, they're fallible, all right. They
can't solve every case--any more than a doctor can save the life of
every patient he attends. But their percentage, though high, doesn't
approach the success of your Sherlock Holmeses and your Thinking
Machines, your Gryces and Sweetwaters and Lecoqs."
"How is it, then, that every story you've told dealt with the success
of a government agent--never with his failure?"
Quinn smiled reminiscently for a moment.
Then, "What do doctors do with their mistakes?" he asked. "They bury
'em. And that's what any real detective will do--try to forget, except
for hoping that some day he'll run up against the man who tricked him.
Again, most of the yarns I've told you revolved around some of the
relics of this room"--waving his hand to indicate the walls of his
library--"and these are all mementoes of successful cases. There's no
use in keeping the other kind. Failures are too common and brains too
scarce. That bit of silk up there--"
"Oh yes," I interrupted, "the one that formed part of Alice Norcross's
wedding dress."
"And figured in one of the most sensational plots to defraud the
government that was ever uncovered," added Quinn. "If Ezra Marks hadn't
located that shipment I wouldn't have had that piece of silk and there
wouldn't be any story to tell. So you see, it's really a circle, after
all."
* * * * *
Marks [Quinn went on] was one of the few men connected with any branch
of the government organizations who really lived up to the press-agent
notices of the detectives you read about. In the first place, he looked
like he might have stepped out of a book--big and long-legged and lanky.
A typical Yankee, with all of the New-Englander's shrewdness and common
sense. If you turned Ezra loose on a case you could be sure that he
wouldn't sit down and try to work it out by deduction. Neither would he
plunge in and attempt by sheer bravado and gun play to put the thing
over. He'd mix the two methods and, more often than not, come back with
the answer.
Then, too, Marks had the very happy faculty of drawing assignments that
turned out to be interesting. Maybe it was luck, but more than likely it
was because he followed plans that made 'em so--preferring to wait until
he had all the strings to a case and then stage a big round-up of the
people implicated. You remember the case of the Englishman who smuggled
uncut diamonds in the bowl of his pipe and the one you wrote under the
title of "Wah Lee and the Flower of Heaven"? Well, those were typical of
Ezra's methods--the first was almost entirely analytical, the second
mainly gun play plus a painstaking survey of the field he had to cover.