the door across the hall opened and the countess, attired in one of her
most fetching house gowns, appeared and explained the mistake.
"How stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "I must have given the girl the wrong
apartment number. I'm awfully sorry for troubling you, Mrs. Sheldon."
The widow, being young, could not restrain the look of surprise when her
name was mentioned by a woman who was an utter stranger, but the
countess cut right in with:
"You probably don't remember me, but we met two years ago on Derby Day
in London. The count and I had the pleasure of meeting you through Lord
Cartwright, but it was just before the big race, and when I looked
around again you had been swallowed up in the crowd."
Mrs. Sheldon had been at the Derby two years before, as the countess
doubtless knew before she arrived in Washington, and also she remembered
having met a number of persons during that eventful afternoon. So the
rest was easy for Sylvia, particularly as the first half hour of their
conversation uncovered the fact that they had many mutual friends, all
of whom, however, were in Europe.
Through Mrs. Sheldon the countess met a number of the younger and lesser
lights of the Diplomatic Corps and the invitation to the reception at
the British Embassy was hers for the suggestion.
Before the evening was over several men were asking themselves where
they had met that "very charming countess" before. Some thought it must
have been in Paris, others were certain that it was in Vienna, and still
others maintained that her face brought back memories of their detail in
Saint Petersburg (the name of the Russian capital had not then been
altered). Sylvia didn't enlighten any of them. Neither did she volunteer
details, save of the vaguest nature, contenting herself with knowing
glances which hinted much and bits of frothy gossip which conveyed
nothing. The beauty of her face and the delicate curves of her figure
did the rest. Before the evening was over she had met at least the
younger members of all the principal embassies and legations, not to
mention three men whose names appeared upon the roster of the Senate
Committee on Foreign Relations.
To one of these, Senator Lattimer, she paid particular attention,
assuring him that she would be honored if he would "drop in some
afternoon for tea," an invitation which the gentleman from Iowa accepted
with alacrity a few days later.
As was afterward apparent, the countess had arranged her schedule with
considerable care. She had arrived in Washington early in the fall, and
by the time the season was well under way she had the entree to the
majority of the semiprivate functions--teas and receptions and dances to
which a number of guests were invited. Here, of course, she had an
opportunity to pick up a few morsels of information--crumbs which fell
from the tables of diplomacy--but that wasn't what she was after. She
wanted a copy of a certain confidential report referring to American
relations abroad, and, what's more, she'd have gotten it if she hadn't
overstepped herself.
Through what might have been termed in vulgar circles "pumping" Senator
Lattimer, though the countess's casual inquiries from time to time
evinced only a natural interest in the affairs of the world, Sylvia
found out that the report would be completed early in March and that a
copy would be in the Senator's office for at least two days--or, what
interested her more, two nights.
She didn't intimate that she would like to see it. That would have been
too crude. In fact, she deftly turned the subject and made the Senator
believe that she was interested only in his views with respect to the
stabilization of currency or some such topic far removed from the point
they had mentioned.
Just before he left, however, Senator Lattimer mentioned that there was
going to be a big display of fireworks around the Washington Monument
the following evening, and inquired if the countess would be interested
in witnessing the celebration.
"Surely," said she. "Why not let's watch them from the roof here? We
ought to able to get an excellent view."
"I've got a better idea than that," was the senatorial reply. "We'll go
down to the State, War, and Navy Building. The windows on the south side
ought to be ideal for that purpose and there won't be any trouble about
getting in. I'll see to that," he added, with just a touch of pomposity.
So it happened that among the dozen or more persons who occupied choice
seats in a room in the Navy Department that next night were the Hon.
Arthur H. Lattimer and the Countess Stefani.
The next morning it was discovered that plans relating to certain recent
naval improvements--radical changes which were to be incorporated in
the battleship _Pennsylvania_--were missing.
The chief learned of the loss about nine-thirty, and by ten o'clock
every available man was turned loose on the case, with instructions to
pry into the past records and watch the future actions of the people who
had been in the room on the previous evening.
Because he particularly requested it, Owen Williams, whose connection
with the Secret Service was not a matter of general information, was
detailed to learn what he could of the Countess Stefani.
"I've run into her a couple of times recently," he told the chief, "and
there's something not altogether on the level about the lady. I don't
suppose we have time to cable abroad and trace the particular branch of
the family to which she claims to belong, but I have a hunch that she is
not working altogether in the interest of Europe. A certain
yellow-skinned person whom we both know has been seen coming out of
Brickley Court on several occasions within the past month, and--well,
the countess is worth watching."
"Trail her, then!" snapped the chief. "The department has asked for
quick action in this case, for there are reasons which render it
inadvisable for those plans to get out of the country."
"Right!" replied Williams, settling his hat at a rather jaunty angle and
picking up his gloves and stick. "I'll keep in close touch with you and
report developments. If you want me within the next couple of hours I'll
probably be somewhere around Brickley Court. The countess never rises
until round noon."
But that morning, as Williams soon discovered, something appeared to
have interfered with the routine of the fair Sylvia. She had called the
office about nine o'clock, made an inquiry about the New York trains,
ordered a chair reserved on the eleven and a taxi for ten forty-five.
All of which gave Owen just enough time to phone the chief, tell him of
the sudden change in his plans, and suggest that the countess's room be
searched during her absence.
"Tell New York to have some one pick up Stefani as soon as she arrives,"
Williams concluded. "I'm going to renew my acquaintance with her en
route, find out where she's staying, and frame an excuse for being at
the same hotel. But I may not be able to accompany her there, so have
some one trail her from the station. I'll make any necessary reports
through the New York office."
Just after the train pulled out of Baltimore the Countess Stefani saw a
young and distinctly handsome man, whose face was vaguely familiar, rise
from his seat at the far end of the car and come toward her. Then, as he
reached her chair he halted, surprised.
"This is luck!" he exclaimed. "I never hoped to find you on the train,
Countess! Going through to New York, of course?"
As he spoke the man's name came back to her, together with the fact that
he had been pointed out as one of the eligible young bachelors who
apparently did but little and yet had plenty of money to do it with.
"Oh, Mr. Williams! You gave me a bit of a start at first. Your face was
in the shadow and I didn't recognize you. Yes, I'm just running up for a
little shopping. Won't be gone for more than a day or two, for I must be
back in time for the de Maury dance on Thursday evening. You are going,
I suppose?"
Thankful for the opening, Williams occupied the vacant chair next to
hers, and before they reached Havre de Grace they were deep in a
discussion of people and affairs in Washington. It was not Williams's
intention, however, to allow the matter to stop there. Delicately, but
certainly, he led the conversation into deeper channels, exerting every
ounce of his personality to convince the countess that this was a moment
for which he had longed, an opportunity to chat uninterruptedly with
"the most charming woman in Washington."
"This is certainly the shortest five hours I've ever spent," he assured
his companion as the porter announced their arrival at Manhattan
Transfer. "Can't I see something more of you while we are in New York?
I'm not certain when I'll get back to Washington and this glimpse has
been far too short. Are you going to stop with friends?"
"No--at the Vanderbilt. Suppose you call up to-morrow morning and I'll
see what I can do."
"Why not a theater party this evening?"
"I'm sorry, but I have an engagement."
"Right--to-morrow morning, then," and the operative said good-by with a
clear conscience, having noted that one of the men from the New York
office was already on the job.
Later in the evening he was informed that the countess had gone directly
to her hotel, had dressed for dinner, and then, after waiting in the
lobby for nearly an hour, had eaten a solitary meal and had gone back to
her room, leaving word at the desk that she was to be notified
immediately if anyone called. But no one had.
The next morning, instead of phoning, Williams dropped around to the
Vanderbilt and had a short session with the house detective, who had
already been notified that the Countess Stefani was being watched by
Secret Service operatives. The house man, however, verified the report
of the operative who had picked up the countess at the station--she had
received no callers and had seen no one save the maid.
"Any phone messages?"
"Not one."
"Any mail?"
"Just a newspaper, evidently one that a friend had mailed from
Washington. The address was in a feminine hand and--"
"Tell the maid that I want the wrapper of that paper if it's in the
countess's room," interrupted Williams. "I don't want the place searched
for it, but if it happens to be in the wastebasket be sure I get it."
A moment later he was calling the Countess Stefani, presumably from the
office of a friend of his in Wall Street.
"I'm afraid I can't see you to-day," and Sylvia's voice appeared to
register infinite regret. "I wasn't able to complete a little business
deal I had on last night--succumbed to temptation and went to the
theater, so I'll have to pay for it to-day." (Here Williams suppressed a
chuckle, both at the manner in which the lady handled the truth and at
the fact that she was palpably ignorant that she had been shadowed.)
"I'm returning to Washington on the Congressional, but I'll be sure to
see you at the de Maurys', won't I? Please come down--for my sake!"
"I'll do it," was Owen's reply, "and I can assure you that my return to
Washington will be entirely because I feel that I must see you again. Au
revoir, until Thursday night."
"On the Congressional Limited, eh?" he muttered as he stepped out of the
booth. "Maybe it's a stall, but I'll make the train just the same.
Evidently one of the lady's plans has gone amiss."
"Here's the wrapper you wanted," said the house detective, producing a
large torn envelope, slit lengthwise and still showing by its rounded
contour that it had been used to inclose a rolled newspaper.
"Thanks," replied Williams, as he glanced at the address. "I thought
so."
"Thought what?"
"Come over here a minute," and he steered the detective to the desk,
where he asked to be shown the register for the preceding day. Then,
pointing to the name "Countess Sylvia Stefani" on the hotel sheet and to
the same name on the wrapper, he asked, "Note everything?"
"The handwriting is the same!"
"Precisely. The countess mailed this paper herself at this hotel before
she left Washington. And, if I'm not very much mistaken, she'll mail
another one to herself in Washington, before she leaves New York."
"You want it intercepted?"
"I do not! If Sylvia is willing to trust the Post-office Department with
her secret, I certainly am. But I intend to be on hand when that paper
arrives."
Sure enough, just before leaving for the station that afternoon,
Williams found out from his ally at the Vanderbilt that the countess had
slipped a folded and addressed newspaper into the mail box in the lobby.
She had then paid her bill and entered a taxi, giving the chauffeur
instructions to drive slowly through Central Park. Sibert, the operative
who was trailing her, reported that several times she appeared to be on
the point of stopping, but had ordered the taxi driver to go
on--evidently being suspicious that she was followed and not wishing to
take any chances.
Of this, though, Williams knew nothing--for a glance into one of the
cars on the Congressional Limited had been sufficient to assure him that
his prey was aboard. He spent the rest of the trip in the smoker, so
that he might not run into her.
In Washington, however, a surprise awaited him.
Instead of returning at once to Brickley Court, the countess checked her
bag at the station and hired a car by the hour, instructing the driver
to take her to the Chevy Chase Club. Williams, of course, followed in
another car, but had the ill fortune to lose the first taxi in the crush
of machines which is always to be noted on dance nights at the club, and
it was well on toward morning before he could locate the chauffeur he
wanted to reach.
According to that individual, the lady had not gone into the club, at
all, but, changing her mind, had driven on out into the country,
returning to Washington at midnight.
"Did she meet anyone?" demanded Williams.
"Not a soul, sir. Said she just wanted to drive through the country and
that she had to be at the Senate Office Building at twelve o'clock."
"The Senate Office Building?" echoed the operative. "At midnight? Did
you drop her there?"
"I did, sir. She told me to wait and she was out again in five minutes,
using the little door in the basement--the one that's seldom locked. I
thought she was the wife of one of the Senators. Then I drove her to
Union Station to get her bag, and then to Brickley Court, where she paid
me and got out."
The moment the chauffeur had mentioned the Senate Office Building a
mental photograph of Senator Lattimer had sprung to Williams's mind, for
the affair between the countess and the Iowa statesman was public
property.
Telling the chauffeur to wait in the outer room, the operative called
the Lattimer home and insisted on speaking to the Senator.
"Yes, it's a matter of vital importance!" he snapped. Then, a few
moments later, when a gruff but sleepy voice inquired what he wanted:
"This is Williams of the Secret Service speaking, Senator. Have you any
documents of importance--international importance--in your office at the
present moment?"
"No, nothing of particular value. Wait a minute! A copy of a certain
report to the Committee on Foreign Relations arrived late yesterday and
I remember seeing it on my desk as I left. Why? What's the matter?"
"Nothing--except that I don't think that report is there now," replied
Williams. "Can you get to your office in ten minutes?"
"I'll be there!"
But a thorough search by the two of them failed to reveal any trace of
the document. It had gone--vanished--in spite of the fact that the door
was locked as usual.
"Senator," announced the government agent, "a certain woman you know
took that paper. She got in here with a false key, lifted the report and
was out again in less than five minutes. The theft occurred shortly
after midnight and--"
"If you know so much about it, why don't you arrest her?"
"I shall--before the hour is up. Only I thought you might like to know
in advance how your friend the Countess Stefani worked. She was also
responsible for the theft of the plans of the battleship _Pennsylvania_,
you know."
And Williams was out of the room before the look of amazement had faded
from the Senator's face.
Some thirty minutes later the Countess Sylvia was awakened by the sound
of continued rapping on her door. In answer to her query, "Who's
there?" a man's voice replied, "Open this door, or I'll break it in!"
Williams, however, knew that his threat was an idle one, for the doors
at Brickley Court were built of solid oak that defied anything short of
a battering ram. Which was the reason that he had to wait a full five
minutes, during which time he distinctly heard the sound of paper
rattling and then the rasp of a match as it was struck.
Finally the countess, attired in a bewitching negligee, threw open the
door.
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "So it is you, Mr. Williams! What do you--"
"You know what I want," growled Owen. "That paper you stole from
Lattimer's office to-night. Also the plans you lifted from the Navy
Department. The ones you mailed in New York yesterday afternoon and
which were waiting for you here!"
"Find them!" was the woman's mocking challenge as Williams's eyes roved
over the room and finally rested on a pile of crumbled ashes beside an
alcohol lamp on the table. A moment's examination told him that a blue
print had been burned, but it was impossible to tell what it had been,
and there was no trace of any other paper in the ashes.
"Search her!" he called to a woman in the corridor. "I'm going to rifle
the mail-box downstairs. She can't get away with the same trick three
times!"
And there, in an innocent-looking envelope addressed to a certain
personage whose name stood high on the diplomatic list, Williams
discovered the report for which a woman risked her liberty and gambled
six months of her life!
* * * * *
"But the plans?" I asked as Quinn finished.
"Evidently that was what she had burned. She'd taken care to crumple the
ashes so that it was an impossibility to get a shred of direct evidence,
not that it would have made any difference if she hadn't. The government
never prosecutes matters of this kind, except in time of war. They
merely warn the culprit to leave the country and never return--which is
the reason that, while you'll find a number of very interesting
foreigners in Washington at the present moment, the Countess Sylvia
Stefani is not among them. Neither is the personage to whom her letter
was addressed. He was 'recalled' a few weeks later."
XXI
A MILLION-DOLLAR QUARTER
"What's in the phial?" I inquired one evening, as Bill Quinn, formerly
of the United States Secret Service, picked up a small brown bottle from
the table in his den and slipped it into his pocket.
"Saccharine," retorted Quinn, laconically. "Had to come to it in order
to offset the sugar shortage. No telling how long it will continue, and,
meanwhile, we're conserving what we have on hand. So I carry my 'lump
sugar' in my vest pocket, and I'll keep on doing it until conditions
improve. They say the trouble lies at the importing end. Can't secure
enough sugar at the place where the ships are or enough ships at the
place where the sugar is.
"This isn't the first time that sugar has caused trouble, either. See
that twenty-five-cent piece up there on the wall? Apparently it's an
ordinary everyday quarter. But it cost the government well over a
million dollars, money which should have been paid in as import duty on
tons upon tons of sugar.
"Yes, back of that quarter lies a case which is absolutely unique in the
annals of governmental detective work--the biggest and most far-reaching
smuggling plot ever discovered and the one which took the longest time
to solve.
"Nine years seems like a mighty long time to work on a single
assignment, but when you consider that the Treasury collected more than
two million dollars as a direct result of one man's labor during that
time, you'll see that it was worth while."
* * * * *
The whole thing really started when Dick Carr went to work as a sugar
sampler [continued Quinn, his eyes fixed meditatively upon the quarter
on the wall].
Some one had tipped the department off to the fact that phony sampling
of some sort was being indulged in and Dick managed to get a place as
assistant on one of the docks where the big sugar ships unloaded. As you
probably know, there's a big difference in the duty on the different
grades of raw sugar; a difference based upon the tests made by expert
chemists as soon as the cargo is landed. Sugar which is only ninety-two
per cent pure, for example, comes in half-a-cent a pound cheaper than
that which is ninety-six per cent pure, and the sampling is accomplished
by inserting a thin glass tube through the wide meshes of the bag or
basket which contains the sugar.
It didn't take Carr very long to find out that the majority of the
samplers were slipping their tubes into the bags at an angle, instead of
shoving them straight in, and that a number of them made a practice of
moistening the outside of the container before they made their tests.
The idea, of course, was that the sugar which had absorbed moisture,
either during the voyage or after reaching the dock--would not "assay"
as pure as would the dry material in the center of the package. A few
experiments, conducted under the cover of night, showed a difference of
four to six per cent in the grade of the samples taken from the inside
of the bag and that taken from a point close to the surface,
particularly if even a small amount of water had been judiciously
applied.
The difference, when translated into terms of a half-a-cent a pound
import duty, didn't take long to run up into hundreds of thousands of
dollars, and Carr's report, made after several months' investigating,
cost a number of sugar samplers their jobs and brought the wrath of the
government down upon the companies which had been responsible for the
practice.
After such an exposure as this, you might think that the sugar people
would have been content to take their legitimate profit and to pay the
duty levied by law. But Carr had the idea that they would try to put
into operation some other scheme for defrauding the Treasury and during
years that followed he kept in close touch with the importing situation
and the personnel of the men employed on the docks.
The active part he had played in the sugar-sampling exposure naturally
prevented his active participation in any attempt to uncover the fraud
from the inside, but it was the direct cause of his being summoned to
Washington when a discharged official of one of the sugar companies
filed a charge that the government was losing five hundred thousand
dollars a year by the illicit operations at a single plant.
"Frankly, I haven't the slightest idea of how it's being done,"
confessed the official in question. "But I am certain that some kind of
a swindle is being perpetrated on a large scale. Here's the proof!"
With that he produced two documents--one the bill of lading of the
steamer _Murbar_, showing the amount of sugar on board when she cleared
Java, and the other the official receipt, signed by a representative of
the sugar company, for her cargo when she reached New York.
"As you will note," continued the informant, "the bill of lading clearly
shows that the _Murbar_ carried eleven million seven hundred thirty-four
thousand six hundred eighty-seven pounds of raw sugar. Yet, when
weighed under the supervision of the customhouse officials a few weeks
later, the cargo consisted of only eleven million thirty-two thousand
and sixteen pounds--a 'shrinkage' of seven hundred two thousand six
hundred seventy-one pounds, about six per cent of the material
shipment."
"And at the present import duty that would amount to about--"
"In the neighborhood of twelve thousand dollars loss on this ship
alone," stated the former sugar official. "Allowing for the arrival of
anywhere from fifty to a hundred ships a year, you can figure the annual
deficit for yourself."
Carr whistled. He had rather prided himself upon uncovering the sampling
frauds a few years previously, but this bade fair to be a far bigger
case--one which would tax every atom of his ingenuity to uncover.
"How long has this been going on?" inquired the acting Secretary of the
Treasury.