running big shipments of valuable silks across the Canadian border,
without the formality of visiting the customhouse and making the
customary payments, he found it advisable to combine the two courses.
It was through a wholesale dealer in silks in Seattle, Washington, that
the Customs Service first learned of the arrival of a considerable
quantity of this valuable merchandise, offered through certain
underground channels at a price which clearly labeled it as smuggled.
Possibly the dealer was peeved because he didn't learn of the shipment
in time to secure any of it. But his reasons for calling the affair to
the attention of the Treasury Department don't really matter. The main
idea was that the silk was there, that it hadn't paid duty, and that
some one ought to find out how it happened.
When a second and then a third shipment was reported, Marks was notified
by wire to get to Seattle as fast as he could, and there to confer with
the Collector of the Port.
It wasn't until after he had arrived that Ezra knew what the trouble
was, for the story of the smuggled silk hadn't penetrated as far south
as San Francisco, where he had been engaged in trying to find a cargo of
smuggled coolies.
"Here's a sample of the silk," announced the Collector of the Port at
Seattle, producing a piece of very heavy material, evidently of foreign
manufacture. "Beyond the fact that we've spotted three of the shipments
and know where to lay our hands on them if wanted, I've got to admit
that we don't know a thing about the case. The department, of course,
doesn't want us to trace the silk from this end. The minute you do that
you lay yourself open to all sorts of legal tangles and delays--to say
nothing of giving the other side plenty of time to frame up a case that
would sound mighty good in court. Besides, I haven't enough men to
handle the job in the short space of time necessary. So you'll have to
dig into it and find out who got the stuff in and how. Then we'll attend
to the fences who've been handling it here."
"The old game of passing the buck," thought Ezra, as he fingered the
sample of silk meditatively. "I'll do the work and they'll get the
glory. Oh, well--"
"Any idea of where the shipments came from?" he inquired.
"There's no doubt but that it's of Japanese manufacture, which, of
course, would appear to point to a shipping conspiracy of some nature.
But I hardly think that's true here. Already eighteen bolts of silk have
been reported in Seattle, and, as you know, that's a pretty good sized
consignment. You couldn't stuff 'em into a pill box or carry 'em inside
a walking stick, like you could diamonds. Whoever's handling this job is
doing it across the border, rather than via the shipping route."
"No chance of a slip-up in your information, is there, Chief?" Ezra
inquired, anxiously. "I'd hate to start combing the border and then
find that the stuff was being slipped in through the port."
"No," and the Collector of Customs was positive in his reply. "I'm not
taking a chance on that tip. I know what I'm talking about. My men have
been watching the shipping like hawks. Ever since that consignment of
antique ivory got through last year we've gone over every vessel with a
microscope, probing the mattresses and even pawing around in the coal
bins. I'm positive that there isn't a place big enough to conceal a yard
of silk that the boys haven't looked into--to say nothing of eighteen
bolts.
"Besides," added the Collector, "the arrival of the silk hasn't
coincided with the arrival of any of the ships from Japan--not by any
stretch of the imagination."
"All right, I'll take up the trail northward then," replied Marks.
"Don't be surprised if you fail to hear from me for a couple of months
or more. If Washington inquires, tell them that I'm up on the border
somewhere and let it go at that."
"Going to take anybody with you?"
"Not a soul, except maybe a guide that I'll pick up when I need him. If
there is a concerted movement to ship silk across the line--and it
appears that there is--the more men you have working with you the less
chance there is for success. Border runners are like moonshiners,
they're not afraid of one man, but if they see a posse they run for
cover and keep out of sight until the storm blows over. And there isn't
one chance in a thousand of finding 'em meanwhile. You've got to play
them, just like you would a fish, so the next time you hear from me you
will know that I've either landed my sharks or that they've slipped off
the hook!"
It was about a month later that the little town of Northport, up in the
extreme northeastern corner of Washington, awoke to find a stranger in
its midst. Strangers were something of a novelty in Northport, and this
one--a man named Marks, who stated that he was "prospectin' for some
good lumber"--caused quite a bit of talk for a day or two. Then the town
gossips discovered that he was not working in the interest of a large
company, as had been rumored, but solely on his own hook, so they left
him severely alone. Besides, it was the height of the logging season and
there was too much work to be done along the Columbia River to worry
about strangers.
Marks hadn't taken this into consideration when he neared the eastern
part of the state, but he was just as well pleased. If logs and logging
served to center the attention of the natives elsewhere, so much the
better. It would give him greater opportunity for observation and
possibly the chance to pick up some information. Up to this time his
trip along the border had been singularly uneventful and lacking in
results. In fact, it was practically a toss-up with him whether he would
continue on into Idaho and Montana, on the hope that he would find
something there, or go back to Seattle and start fresh.
However, he figured that it wouldn't do any harm to spend a week or two
in the neighborhood of the Columbia--and, as events turned out, it was a
very wise move.
Partly out of curiosity and partly because it was in keeping with his
self-assumed character of lumber prospector, Marks made a point of
joining the gangs of men who worked all day and sometimes long into the
night keeping the river clear of log jams and otherwise assisting in the
movement of timber downstream. Like everyone who views these operations
for the first time, he marveled at the dexterity of the loggers who
perched upon the treacherous slippery trunks with as little thought for
danger as if they had been crossing a country road. But their years of
familiarity with the current and the logs themselves had given them a
sense of balance which appeared to inure them to peril.
Nor was this ability to ride logs confined wholly to the men. Some of
the girls from the near-by country often worked in with the men,
handling the lighter jobs and attending to details which did not call
for the possession of a great amount of strength.
One of these, Marks noted, was particularly proficient in her work.
Apparently there wasn't a man in Northport who could give her points in
log riding, and the very fact that she was small and wiry provided her
with a distinct advantage over men who were twice her weight. Apart from
her grace and beauty, there was something extremely appealing about the
girl, and Ezra found himself watching her time after time as she almost
danced across the swirling, bark-covered trunks--hardly seeming to touch
them as she moved.
The girl was by no means oblivious of the stranger's interest in her
ability to handle at least a part of the men's work. She caught his eye
the very first day he came down to the river, and after that, whenever
she noted that he was present she seemed to take a new delight in
skipping lightly from log to log, lingering on each just long enough to
cause it to spin dangerously and then leaping to the next.
But one afternoon she tried the trick once too often. Either she
miscalculated her distance or a sudden swirl of the current carried the
log for which she was aiming out of her path, for her foot just touched
it, slipped and, before she could recover her balance, she was in the
water--surrounded by logs that threatened to crush the life out of her
at any moment.
Startled by her cry for help, three of the lumbermen started toward
her--but the river, like a thing alive, appeared to thwart their efforts
by opening up a rift in the jam on either side, leaving a gap too wide
to be leaped, and a current too strong to be risked by men who were
hampered by their heavy hobnailed shoes.
Marks, who had been watching the girl, had his coat off almost as soon
as she hit the water. An instant later he had discarded his shoes and
had plunged in, breasting the river with long overhand strokes that
carried him forward at an almost unbelievable speed. Before the men on
the logs knew what was happening, the operative was beside the girl,
using one hand to keep her head above water, and the other to fend off
the logs which were closing in from every side.
"Quick!" he called. "A rope! A--" but the trunk of a tree, striking his
head a glancing blow, cut short his cry and forced him to devote every
atom of his strength to remaining afloat until assistance arrived. After
an interval which appeared to be measured in hours, rather than seconds,
a rope splashed within reach and the pair were hauled to safety.
The girl, apparently unhurt by her drenching, shook herself like a wet
spaniel and then turned to where Marks was seated, trying to recover his
breath.
"Thanks," she said, extending her hand. "I don't know who you are,
stranger, but you're a man!"
"It wasn't anything to make a fuss about," returned Ezra, rising and
turning suspiciously red around the ears, for it was the first time that
a girl had spoken to him in that way for more years than he cared to
remember. Then, with the Vermont drawl that always came to the surface
when he was excited or embarrassed, he added: "It was worth gettin' wet
to have you speak like that."
This time it was the girl who flushed, and, with a palpable effort to
cover her confusion, she turned away, stopping to call back over her
shoulder, "If you'll come up to dad's place to-night I'll see that
you're properly thanked."
"Dad's place?" repeated Ezra to one of the men near by. "Where's that?"
"She means her stepfather's house up the river," replied the lumberman.
"You can't miss it. Just this side the border. Ask anybody where Old Man
Petersen lives."
Though the directions were rather vague, Marks started "up the river"
shortly before sunset, and found but little difficulty in locating the
big house--half bungalow and half cabin--where Petersen and his
stepdaughter resided, in company with half a dozen foremen of lumber
gangs, and an Indian woman who had acted as nurse and chaperon and cook
and general servant ever since the death of the girl's mother a number
of years before.
While he was still stumbling along, trying to pierce the gloom which
settled almost instantly after sunset, Marks was startled to see a white
figure rise suddenly before him and to hear a feminine voice remark, "I
wondered if you'd come."
"Didn't you know I would?" replied Ezra. "Your spill in the river had me
scared stiff for a moment, but it was a mighty lucky accident for me."
At the girl's suggestion they seated themselves outside, being joined
before long by Petersen himself, who, with more than a trace of his
Slavic ancestry apparent in his voice, thanked Marks for rescuing his
daughter. It was when the older man left them and the girl's figure was
outlined with startling distinctness by the light from the open door,
that Ezra received a shock which brought him to earth with a crash.
In the semidarkness he had been merely aware that the girl was wearing a
dress which he would have characterized as "something white." But once
he saw her standing in the center of the path of light which streamed
from the interior of the house there could be no mistake.
The dress was of white silk!
More than that, it was made from material which Marks would have sworn
had been cut from the same bolt as the sample which the Collector had
shown him in Seattle!
"What's the matter, Mr. Marks?" inquired the girl, evidently noting the
surprise which Ezra was unable completely to suppress. "Seen a ghost or
something?"
"I thought for a moment I had," was the operative's reply, as he played
for time. "It must be your dress. My--my sister had one just like it
once."
"It is rather pretty, isn't it? In spite of the fact that I made it
myself--out of some silk that dad--that dad brought home."
Ezra thought it best to change the subject, and as soon as he could find
the opportunity said good night, with a promise to be on hand the next
day to see that the plunge in the river wasn't repeated.
But the next morning he kept as far away from the girl--Fay Petersen--as
he could, without appearing to make a point of the matter. He had
thought the whole thing over from every angle and his conclusion was
always the same. The Petersens were either hand in glove with the gang
that was running the silk across the border or they were doing the
smuggling themselves. The lonely cabin, the proximity to the border, the
air of restraint which he had noted the previous evening (based
principally upon the fact that he had not been invited indoors), the
silk dress--all were signs which pointed at least to a knowledge of the
plot to beat the customs.
More than that, when Marks commenced to make some guarded inquiries
about the family of the girl whom he had saved from drowning, he met
with a decidedly cool reception.
"Old Man Petersen has some big loggin' interests in these parts,"
declared the most loquacious of his informants, "an' they say he's made
a pile o' money in the last few months. Some say it's timber an' others
say it's--well, it ain't nobody's concern how a man makes a livin' in
these parts, s'long as he behaves himself."
"Isn't Petersen behaving himself?" asked Ezra.
"Stranger," was the reply, "it ain't always healthy to pry into another
man's affairs. Better be satisfied with goin' to see the girl. That's
more than anybody around here's allowed to do."
"So there was an air of mystery about the Petersen house, after all!"
Marks thought. It hadn't been his imagination or an idea founded solely
upon the sight of the silk dress!
The next fortnight found the operative a constant and apparently a
welcome visitor at the house up the river. But, hint as he might, he was
never asked indoors--a fact that made him all the more determined to see
what was going on. While he solaced himself with the thought that his
visits were made strictly in the line of duty, that his only purpose was
to discover Petersen's connection with the smuggled silk, Ezra was
unable entirely to stifle another feeling--something which he hadn't
known since the old days in Vermont, when the announcement of a girl's
wedding to another man had caused him to leave home and seek his
fortunes in Boston.
Fay Petersen was pretty. There was no denying that fact. Also she was
very evidently prepossessed in favor of the man who had saved her from
the river. But this fact, instead of soothing Marks's conscience, only
irritated it the more. Here he was on the verge of making love to a
girl--really in love with her, as he admitted to himself--and at the
same time planning and hoping to send her stepfather to the
penitentiary. He had hoped that the fact that Petersen was not her own
father might make things a little easier for him, but the girl had shown
in a number of ways that she was just as fond of her foster-parent as
she would have been of her own.
"He's all the daddy I ever knew," she said one night, "and if anything
ever happened to him I think it would drive me crazy," which fell far
short of easing Ezra's mind, though it strengthened his determination to
settle the matter definitely.
The next evening that he visited the Petersens he left a little earlier
than usual, and only followed the road back to Northport sufficiently
far to make certain that he was not being trailed. Then retracing his
steps, he approached the house from the rear, his soft moccasins moving
silently across the ground, his figure crouched until he appeared little
more than a shadow between the trees.
Just as he reached the clearing which separated the dwelling from the
woods, he stumbled and almost fell. His foot had caught against
something which felt like the trunk of a fallen tree, but which moved
with an ease entirely foreign to a log of that size.
Puzzled, Marks waited until a cloud which had concealed the moon had
drifted by, and then commenced his examination. Yes, it was a log--and a
big one, still damp from its immersion in the river. But it was so light
that he could lift it unaided and it rang to a rap from his knuckles.
The end which he first examined was solid, but at the other end the log
was a mere shell, not more than an inch of wood remaining inside the
bark.
It was not until he discovered a round plug of wood--a stopper, which
fitted precisely into the open end of the log--that the solution of the
whole mystery dawned upon him. The silk had been shipped across the
border from Canada inside the trunks of trees, hollowed out for the
purpose! Wrapping the bolts in oiled silk would keep them perfectly
waterproof and the plan was so simple as to be impervious to detection,
save by accident.
Emboldened by his discovery, Marks slipped silently across the cleared
space to the shadow of the house, and thence around to the side, where a
few cautious cuts of his bowie knife opened a peep hole in the shutter
which covered the window. Through this he saw what he had hoped for, yet
feared to find--Petersen and three of his men packing bolts of white
silk in boxes for reshipment. What was more, he caught snatches of their
conversation which told him that another consignment of the smuggled
goods was due from Trail, just across the border, within the week.
Retreating as noiselessly as he had come, Marks made his way back to
Northport, where he wrote two letters--or, rather, a letter and a note.
The first, addressed to the sheriff, directed that personage to collect
a posse and report to Ezra Marks, of the Customs Service, on the second
day following. This was forwarded by special messenger, but Marks
pocketed the note and slipped it cautiously under the door of the
Petersen house the next evening.
"It's a fifty-fifty split," he consoled his conscience. "The government
gets the silk and the Petersens get their warning. I don't suppose I'll
get anything but the devil for not landing them!"
The next morning when the sheriff and his posse arrived they found, only
an empty house, but in the main room were piled boxes containing no less
than thirty thousand yards of white silk--valued at something over one
hundred thousand dollars. On top of the boxes was an envelope addressed
to Ezra Marks, Esq., and within it a note which read, "I don't know who
you are, Mr. Customs Officer, but you're a man!"
There was no signature, but the writing was distinctly feminine.
* * * * *
"And was that all Marks ever heard from her?" I asked, when Quinn
paused.
"So far as I know," said the former operative. "Of course, Washington
never heard about that part of the case. They were too well satisfied
with Ezra's haul and the incoming cargo, which they also landed, to care
much about the Petersens. So the whole thing was entered on Marks's
record precisely as he had figured it--a fifty-fifty split. You see,
even government agents aren't always completely successful--especially
when they're fighting Cupid as well as crooks!"
XIX
THE CLUE IN THE CLASSIFIED COLUMN
Quinn tossed his evening paper aside with a gesture in which disgust was
mingled in equal proportion with annoyance.
"Why is it," he inquired, testily, "that some fools never learn
anything?"
"Possibly that's because they're fools," I suggested. "What's the
trouble now?"
"Look at that!" And the former Secret Service operative recovered the
paper long enough to indicate a short news item near the bottom of the
first page--an item which bore the headline, "New Fifty-Dollar
Counterfeit Discovered."
"Yes," I agreed, "there always are people foolish enough to change bills
without examining them any too closely. But possibly this one is very
cleverly faked."
"Fools not to examine them!" echoed Quinn. "That isn't the direction in
which the idiocy lies. The fools are the people who think they can
counterfeit Uncle Sam's currency and get away with it. Barnum must have
been right. There's a sucker born every minute--and those that don't try
to beat the ponies or buck the stock market turn to counterfeiting for a
living. They get it, too, in Leavenworth or Atlanta or some other place
that maintains a federal penitentiary.
"They never seem to learn anything by others' experience, either. You'd
think, after the Thurene case, it would be perfectly apparent that no
one could beat the counterfeiting game for long."
"The Thurene case? I don't seem to remember that. The name is unusual,
but--"
"Yes, and that wasn't the only part of the affair that was out of the
ordinary," Quinn cut in. "Spencer Graham also contributed some work that
was well off the beaten path--not forgetting the assistance rendered by
a certain young woman."
* * * * *
Probably the most remarkable portion of the case [continued Quinn] was
the fact that Graham didn't get in on it until Thurene had been
arrested. Nevertheless, if it hadn't been for his work in breaking
through an ironclad alibi the government might have been left high and
dry, with a trunkful of suspicions and mighty little else.
Somewhere around the latter part of August the New York branch of the
Secret Service informed Washington that a remarkably clever counterfeit
fifty-dollar bill had turned up in Albany--a bill in which the engraving
was practically perfect and the only thing missing from the paper was
the silk fiber. This, however, was replaced by tiny red and blue lines,
drawn in indelible ink. The finished product was so exceptionally good
that, if it had not been for the lynxlike eyes of a paying teller--plus
the highly developed sense of touch which bank officials accumulate--the
note would have been changed without a moment's hesitation.
The man who presented it, who happened to be well known to the bank
officials, was informed that the bill was counterfeit and the matter was
reported through the usual channels. A few days later another bill,
evidently from the same batch, was picked up in Syracuse, and from that
time on it rained counterfeits so hard that every teller in the state
threw a fit whenever a fifty-dollar bill came in, either for deposit or
for change.
Hardly had the flow of upstate counterfeits lessened than the bills
began to make their appearance in and around New York, sometimes in
banks, but more often in the resorts patronized by bookmakers from
Jamaica and the other near-by race tracks.
The significance of this fact didn't strike the Secret Service men
assigned to the case until the horses had moved southward. The instant
one of the bills was reported in Baltimore two operatives were ordered
to haunt the _pari-mutuel_ booths at Pimlico, with instructions to pay
particular attention to the windows where the larger wagers were laid.
An expert in counterfeits also took up his position inside the cage, to
signal the men outside as soon as a phony bill was presented.
It was during the rush of the betting after the two-year-olds had gone
to the post for the first race that the signal came--indicating that a
man about forty-five years of age, well dressed and well groomed, had
exchanged two of the counterfeits for a one hundred-dollar ticket on the
favorite.
Hollister and Sheehan, the Secret Service men, took no chances with
their prey. Neither did they run the risk of arresting him prematurely.
Figuring that it was well within the realms of possibility that he had
received the bills in exchange for other money, and that he was
therefore ignorant of the fact that they were spurious, they contented
themselves with keeping close to him during the race and the interval
which followed.