stowed his winnings away in a trousers pocket. Then, after a prolonged
examination of the jockeys, the past performances and the weights of
the various horses, he made his way back to the window to place another
bet.
Again the signal--and this time Hollister and Sheehan closed in on their
man, notifying him that he was under arrest and advising him to come
along without creating any disturbance.
"Arrest for what?" he demanded.
"Passing counterfeit money," replied Hollister, flashing his badge.
Then, as the man started to protest, Sheehan counseled him to reserve
his arguments until later, and the trio made their way out of the
inclosure in silence.
When searched, in Baltimore, two sums of money were found upon the
suspect--one roll in his left-hand trousers pocket being made up of
genuine currency, including that which he had received for picking the
winner of the first race, and the one in the right-hand pocket being
entirely of counterfeit fifty-dollar bills--forty-eight in number.
When questioned, the prisoner claimed that his name was Robert J.
Thurene of New Haven, and added that there were plenty of people in the
Connecticut city who would vouch for his respectability.
"Then why," inquired the chief of the Secret Service, who had come over
from Washington to take charge of the case, "do you happen to have two
thousand four hundred dollars in counterfeit money on you?"
At that moment Thurene dropped his bomb--or, rather, one of the many
which rendered the case far from monotonous.
"If you'll search my room at the Belvedere," he suggested, "you'll find
some five thousand dollars more."
"What?" demanded the chief. "Do you admit that you deliberately brought
seven thousand five hundred dollars of counterfeit money here and tried
to pass it?"
"I admit nothing," corrected the arrested man. "You stated that the
fifty-dollar bills which you found upon me when I was searched against
my will were false. I'll take your word for that. But if they are
counterfeit, I'm merely telling you that there are a hundred more like
them in my room at the hotel."
"Of course you're willing to state where they came from?" suggested the
chief, who was beginning to sense the fact that something underlay
Thurene's apparent sincerity.
"Certainly. I found them."
"Old stuff," sneered one of the operatives standing near by. "Not only
an old alibi, but one which you'll have a pretty hard time proving."
"Do you happen to have a copy of yesterday's _News_ handy?" Thurene
asked.
When the paper was produced he turned rapidly to the Lost and Found
column and pointed to an advertisement which appeared there:
FOUND--An envelope containing a sum of money. Owner may
recover same by notifying Robert J. Thurene, Belvedere Hotel,
and proving property.
"There," he continued, after reading the advertisement aloud, "that is
the notice which I inserted after finding the money which you say is
counterfeit."
"Where did you find it?"
"In the Pennsylvania station, night before last. I had just come in from
New York, and chanced to see the envelope lying under one of the rows of
seats in the center of the waiting room. It attracted my attention, but
when I examined it I was amazed to find that it contained one hundred
and fifty fifty-dollar bills, all apparently brand new. Naturally, I
didn't care to part with the money unless I was certain that I was
giving it up to the rightful owner, so I carried it with me to the hotel
and advertised the loss at once.
"The next afternoon I went out to the track and found, when it was too
late, that the only money I had with me was that contained in the
envelope. I used a couple of the bills, won, and, being superstitious,
decided to continue betting with that money. That's the reason I used it
this afternoon. Come to think of it, you won't find the original five
thousand dollars in my room. Part of it is the money which I received at
the track and which I replaced in order to make up the sum I found. But
most of the bills are there."
"You said," remarked the chief, striking another tack, "that your name
is Thurene and that you live in New Haven. What business are you in?"
"Stationery. You'll find that my rating in Bradstreet's is excellent,
even though my capital may not be large. What's more"--and here the
man's voice became almost aggressive--"any bank in New Haven and any
member of the Chamber of Commerce will vouch for me. I've a record of
ten years there and some ten in Lowell, Mass., which will bear the
closest possible inspection."
And he was right, at that.
In the first place, a search of his room at the hotel brought to light a
large official envelope containing just the sum of money he had
mentioned, counterfeit bills and real ones. Secondly, a wire to New
Haven elicited the information that "Robert J. Thurene, answering to
description in inquiry received, has operated a successful stationery
store here for the past ten years. Financial standing excellent. Wide
circle of friends, all of whom vouch for his character and integrity."
When this wire was forwarded to Washington, the chief having returned
to headquarters, Spencer Graham received a hurry-up call to report in
the main office. There he was informed that he was to take charge of the
Thurene case and see what he could find out.
"I don't have to tell you," added the chief, "that it's rather a
delicate matter. Either the man is the victim of circumstances--in which
case we'll have to release him with profound apologies and begin all
over again--or he's a mighty clever crook. We can't afford to take any
chances. The case as it finally stands will have to be presented in
court, and, therefore, must be proof against the acid test of shrewd
lawyers for the defense, lawyers who will rely upon the newspaper
advertisement and Thurene's spotless record as indications of his
innocence."
"That being the case, Chief, why take any chances right now? The case
hasn't gotten into the papers, so why not release Thurene?"
"And keep him under constant surveillance? That wouldn't be a bad idea.
The moment he started to leave the country we could nab him, and
meanwhile we would have plenty of time to look into the matter. Of
course, there's always the danger of suicide--but that's proof of guilt,
and it would save the Service a lot of work in the long run. Good idea!
We'll do it."
So it was that Robert J. Thurene of New Haven was released from custody
with the apologies of the Secret Service--who retained the counterfeit
money, but returned the real bills--while Spencer Graham went to work on
the Baltimore end of the case, four operatives took up the job of
trailing the stationer, and Rita Clarke found that she had important
business to transact in Connecticut.
Anyone who didn't know Rita would never have suspected that, back of
her brown eyes lay a fund of information upon a score of
subjects--including stenography, the best methods of filing, cost
accounting, and many other points which rendered her invaluable around
an office. Even if they found this out, there was something else which
she kept strictly to herself--the fact that she was engaged to a
certain operative in the United States Secret Service, sometimes known
as Number Thirty-three, and sometimes as Spencer Graham.
In reply to Spencer's often-repeated requests that she set a day for
their wedding, Miss Clarke would answer: "And lose the chance to figure
in any more cases? Not so that you could notice it! As long as I'm
single you find that you can use me every now and then, but if I were
married I'd have too many domestic cares. No, Spencer, let's wait until
we get one more BIG case, and then--well, we'll say one month from the
day it's finished."
Which was the reason that Graham and his fiancee had a double reason for
wanting to bring Thurene to earth.
The first place that Graham went to in Baltimore was the Pennsylvania
station, where he made a number of extended inquiries of certain
employees there. After that he went to the newspaper office, where he
conferred with the clerk whose business it was to receive the lost and
found advertisements, finally securing a copy of the original notice in
Thurene's handwriting. Also some other information which he jotted down
in a notebook reserved for that purpose.
Several days spent in Baltimore failed to turn up any additional leads
and Graham returned to Washington with a request for a list of the
various places where counterfeit fifty-dollar bills had been reported
during the past month. The record sounded like the megaphonic call of a
train leaving Grand Central Station--New York, Yonkers, Poughkeepsie,
Syracuse, Troy, and points north, with a few other cities thrown in for
good measure. So Spencer informed the chief that he would make his
headquarters in New York for the next ten days or so, wired Rita to the
same effect, and left Washington on the midnight train.
In New York he discovered only what he had already known, plus one other
very significant bit of evidence--something which would have warranted
him in placing Thurene again under arrest had he not been waiting for
word from Rita. He knew that it would take her at least a month to work
up her end of the case, so Graham put in the intervening time in weaving
his net a little stronger, for he had determined that the next time the
New Haven stationer was taken into custody would be the last--that the
government would have a case which all the lawyers on earth couldn't
break.
Early in December he received a wire from Rita--a telegram which
contained the single word, "Come"--but that was enough. He was in New
Haven that night, and, in a quiet corner of the Taft grille the girl
gave him an account of what she had found.
"Getting into Thurene's store was the easiest part of the whole job,"
she admitted. "It took me less than a day to spot one of the girls who
wanted to get married, bribe her to leave, and then arrive bright and
early the following morning, in response to the 'stenographer wanted'
advertisement."
"Thurene's had a lot of practice writing ads lately," remarked Graham,
with a smile.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Tell you later. What'd you find in the store?"
"Not a thing--until day before yesterday. I thought it best to move
slowly and let matters take their own course as far as possible. So I
contented myself with doing the work which had been handled by the girl
whose place I took--dictation, typing, and the rest. Then I found that
the correspondence files were in shocking shape. I grabbed the
opportunity to do a little night work by offering to bring them up to
date.
"'Certainly,' said the boss, and then took good care to be on hand when
I arrived after dinner that night. The very way he hung around and
watched every movement I made convinced me that the stuff was somewhere
on the premises. But where? That's what I couldn't figure out.
"Having demonstrated my ability by three hours of stiff work on the
files, I suggested a few days later that I had a first-hand knowledge of
cost accounting and that I would be glad to help get his books in shape
for the holiday business, the old man who usually attends to this being
sick. Again Thurene assented and again he blew in, 'to explain any
entries which might prove troublesome.' I'll say this for him,
though--there isn't a single incriminating entry on the books. Every
purchase is accounted for, down to the last paper of pins.
"Then, when I felt that I had wormed myself sufficiently well into his
good graces, I hinted that I might be able to help out by supervising
the system in the engraving department--checking up the purchases,
watching the disbursements, keeping an eye on the stock and so on.
Rather to my surprise, he didn't offer any objection. Said that my work
had been of so much help elsewhere that he would be glad to have me
watch the engravers' work.
"It was there that I got my first real lead--at least I hope it's a
lead. Back of the engraving department is a small room, locked and
padlocked, where the boss is supposed to ride his personal hobby of
amateur photography. I asked one of the men the reason for guarding a
dark room so carefully, and he replied that Thurene claimed to be on the
verge of making a great discovery in color photography, but that the
process took a long time and he didn't want to run the risk of having it
disturbed. I'm to have a look at his color process to-night."
"What?" cried Graham. "He's going to show you what is in the
double-locked room?"
"That's what he's promised to do. I haven't the least hope of seeing
anything incriminating--all the evidence will probably be well
hidden--but this morning I expressed a casual interest in photography
and remarked that I understood he was working on a new color process. I
did it mainly to see how he would react. But he never batted an eyelid.
'I've been making some interesting experiments recently,' he said, 'and
they ought to reach a climax to-night. If you'd care to see how they
turn out, suppose you meet me here at nine o'clock and we'll examine
them together.'"
"But Rita," Graham protested, "you don't mean to say that you're going
to put yourself entirely in this man's power?"
The girl's first answer was a laugh, and then, "What do you mean, 'put
myself in his power'?" she mocked. "You talk like the hero of a
melodrama. This isn't the first time that I've been alone in the store
with him after dark. Besides, he doesn't suspect a thing and it's too
good a chance to miss. Meet me here the first thing in the
morning--around eight-thirty--and I'll give you the details of Thurene's
secret chamber, provided it contains anything interesting."
"Rita, I can't--" Graham started to argue, but the girl cut in with,
"You can't stop me? No, you can't. What's more, I'll have to hurry. It's
ten minutes to nine now. See you in the morning."
The next thing Graham knew she had slipped away from the table and was
on her way out of the grille.
When Rita reached the Thurene establishment, promptly at nine, she found
the proprietor waiting for her.
"On time, as usual," he laughed. "Now you'd better keep your hat and
coat on. There's no heat in the dark room and I don't want you to catch
cold. The plates ought to be ready by this time. We'll go right down and
take a look at them."
Guided by the light from the lantern which the stationer held high in
the air, the girl started down the steps leading to the basement where
the engraving department was located. She heard Thurene close the door
behind him, but failed to hear him slip the bolt which, as they
afterward found, had been well oiled.
In fact, it was not until they had reached the center of the large room,
in one corner of which was the door to the private photographic
laboratory, that she knew anything was wrong. Then it was too late.
Before she could move, Thurene leaned forward and seized her--one arm
about her waist, the other over her mouth. Struggle as she might, Rita
was unable to move. Slowly, relentlessly, Thurene turned her around
until she faced him, and then, with a sudden movement of the arm that
encircled her waist, secured a wad of cotton waste, which he had
evidently prepared for just such an emergency. When he had crammed this
in the girl's mouth and tied her hands securely, he moved forward to
open the door to the dark room.
"Thought I was easy, didn't you?" he sneered. "Didn't think I'd see
through your scheme to get a position here and your infernal cleverness
with the books and the accounts? Want to see something of my color
process, eh? Well, you'll have an opportunity to study it at your
leisure, for it'll be twelve good hours before anyone comes down here,
and by that time I'll be where the rest of your crowd can't touch me."
"Come along! In with you!"
At that moment there was a crash of glass from somewhere near the
ceiling and something leaped into the room--something that took only two
strides to reach Thurene and back him up against the wall, with the
muzzle of a very businesslike automatic pressed into the pit of his
stomach.
The whole thing happened so quickly that by the time Rita recovered her
balance and turned around she only saw the stationer with his hands well
above his head and Spencer Graham--her Spencer--holding him up at the
point of a gun.
"Take this," snapped the operative, producing a penknife, "and cut that
girl's hands loose! No false moves now--or I'm likely to get nervous!"
A moment later Rita was free and Thurene had resumed his position
against the wall.
"Frisk him!" ordered Graham, and then, when the girl had produced a
miscellaneous collection of money, keys and jewelry from the man's
pockets, Spencer allowed him to drop his arms long enough to snap a pair
of handcuffs in place.
"This time," announced the Secret Service man, "you won't be released
merely because of a fake ad. and the testimony of your friends. Pretty
clever scheme, that. Inserting a 'found advertisement' to cover your
possession of counterfeit money in case you were caught. But you
overlooked a couple of points. The station in Baltimore was thoroughly
swept just five minutes before your train arrived from New York and
every man on duty there is ready to swear that he wouldn't have
overlooked anything as large as the envelope containing that phony
money. Then, too, the clerk in the _News_ office received your
advertisement shortly after noon the next day--so you didn't advertise
it 'at once,' as you said you did.
"But your biggest mistake was in playing the game too often.
Here"--producing a page from the classified section of a New York
newspaper--"is the duplicate of your Baltimore ad., inserted to cover
your tracks in case they caught you at Jamaica. I've got the original,
in your handwriting, in my pocket."
"But how'd you happen to arrive here at the right moment?" exclaimed
Rita.
"I wasn't any too well convinced that you'd fooled our friend here,"
Graham replied. "So I trailed you, and, attracted by the light from
Thurene's lantern, managed to break in that window at the time you
needed me."
"There's only one thing that puzzles me," the operative continued,
turning to Thurene. "What made you take up counterfeiting? Your business
record was clear enough before that, and, of course, being an engraver,
it wasn't hard for you to find the opportunity. What was the motive?"
For a full sixty seconds the man was silent and then, from between his
clenched teeth, came two words, "Wall Street."
"I might have guessed that," replied Graham. "I'll see you safely in
jail first and then have a look through your room. Want to come along,
Rita?"
"No, thanks, Spencer. I've had enough for one evening. Let's see. This
is the sixth of December. Suppose we plan a certain event for the sixth
of January?"
* * * * *
"And so they were married and lived happily ever after?" I added, as
Quinn paused.
"And so they were married," he amended. "I can't say as to the rest of
it--though I'm inclined to believe that they were happy. Anyhow, Rita
knew when she had enough--and that's all you can really ask for in a
wife."
XX
IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAPITOL
"It won't be long until they're all back--with their pretty clothes and
their jeweled bags and their air of innocent sophistication--but until
at least a dozen of them gather here Washington won't be itself again."
Bill Quinn and I had been discussing the change which had come over
Washington since peace had disrupted the activities of the various war
organizations, and then, after a pause, the former member of the Secret
Service had referred to "them" and to "their pretty clothes."
"Who do you mean?" I inquired. "With the possible exception of some
prominent politicians I don't know anyone whose presence is essential to
make Washington 'itself again.' And certainly nobody ever accused
politicians, with the possible exception of J. Ham Lewis, of wearing
pretty clothes. Even he didn't carry a jeweled bag."
"I wasn't thinking of Congressmen or Senators or even members of the
Cabinet," replied Quinn with a smile. "Like the poor, they are always
with us, and also like the poor, there are times when we would willingly
dispense with them. But the others--they make life worth living,
particularly for members of the Secret Service, who are apt to be a bit
bored with the monotony of chasing counterfeiters and guarding the
President.
"The ones I refer to are the beautifully gowned women whose too perfect
English often betrays their foreign origin almost as certainly as would
a dialect. They are sent here by various governments abroad to find out
things which we would like to keep secret and their presence helps to
keep Washington cosmopolitan and--interesting.
"During the war--well, if you recall the case of Jimmy Callahan and the
electric sign at Norfolk--the affair which I believe you wrote under the
title of 'A Flash in the Night'--you know what happened to those who
were caught plotting against the government. In times of peace, however,
things are different."
"Why? Isn't a spy always a spy?"
"So far as their work is concerned they are. But by a sort of
international agreement, tacit but understood, those who seek to pry
into the affairs of other governments during the years of peace are not
treated with the same severity as when a nation is fighting for its
life."
"But surely we have no secrets that a foreign government would want!" I
protested. "That's one of the earmarks of a republic. Everything is
aired in the open, even dirty linen."
Quinn didn't answer for a moment, and when he did reply there was a
reminiscent little smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Do you remember the disappearance of the plans of the battleship
_Pennsylvania_?" he asked.
"Yes, I think I do. But as I recall it the matter was never cleared up."
"Officially, it wasn't. Unofficially, it was. At least there are several
persons connected with the United States Secret Service who are positive
that Sylvia Sterne lifted the blue prints and afterward--well, we might
as well begin the story at the first chapter."
* * * * *
The name she was known by on this side of the Atlantic [continued the
former government agent] was not that of Sterne, though subsequent
investigations proved that that was what she was called in Paris and
Vienna and Rome and London. When she arrived in Washington her visiting
cards bore the name of the Countess Stefani, and as there are half a
dozen counts of that name to be found in the peerages of as many
principalities, no one inquired too deeply into her antecedents.
Yes, she admitted that there was a count somewhere in the background,
but she led those who were interested to the conclusion he had never
understood her peculiar temperament and that therefore she was
sojourning in Washington, seeking pleasure and nothing more. A slow,
soulful glance from her violet eyes usually accompanied the
statement--and caused the man to whom the statement was made (it was
always a man) to wonder how anyone could fail to appreciate so charming
a creature.
"Charming" is really a very good word to apply to the Countess Sylvia.
Her manner was charming and her work was likewise. Charming secrets and
invitations and news out of those with whom she came in contact.
Her first public appearance, so far as the Secret Service was concerned,
was at one of the receptions at the British embassy. She was there on
invitation, of course, but it was an invitation secured in her own
original way.
Immediately upon arriving in Washington she had secured an apartment at
Brickley Court, an apartment which chanced to be directly across the
hall from the one occupied by a Mrs. Sheldon, a young widow with a
rather large acquaintance in the diplomatic set.
Some ten days after the Countess Sylvia took up her residence on
Connecticut Avenue she visited one of the department stores and made
several purchases, ordering them sent C. O. D. to her apartment. Only,
instead of giving the number as four thirty-six, her tongue apparently
slipped and she said four thirty-seven, which was Mrs. Sheldon's number.
Of course, if the parcels had been paid for or charged they would have
been left at the desk in the lobby, but, being collect, the boy brought
them to the door of four thirty-seven.