X
THE GIRL AT THE SWITCHBOARD
"When you come right down to it," mused Bill Quinn, "women came as nearto winning the late but unlamented war as did any other single factor.
"The Food Administration placarded their statement that 'Food Will Winthe War' broadcast throughout the country, and that was followed by awhole flock of other claimants, particularly after the armistice wassigned. But there were really only two elements that played a leadingrole in the final victory--men and guns. And women backed these to thelimit of their powerful ability--saving food, buying bonds, doing extrawork, wearing a smile when their hearts were torn, and going 'way out oftheir usual sphere in hundreds of cases--and making good in practicallyevery one of them.
"So far as we know, the Allied side presented no analogy to MolliePitcher or the other heroines of past conflicts, for war has made suchforward steps that personal heroism on the part of women is almostimpossible. Of course, we had Botchkareva and her 'Regiment of Death,'not to mention Edith Cavell, but the list is not a long one.
"When it is finally completed, however, there are a few names which thepublic hasn't yet heard which will stand well toward the front. Forexample, there was Virginia Lang--"
"Was she the girl at the switchboard that you mentioned in connectionwith the von Ewald case?" I interrupted.
"That's the one," said Quinn, "and, what's more, she played a leadingrole in that melodrama, a play in which they didn't use property guns orcartridges."
* * * * *
Miss Lang [continued Quinn] was one of the few women I ever heard ofthat practically solved a Secret Service case "on her own." Of course,in the past, the different governmental detective services have found itto their advantage to go outside the male sex for assistance.
There have been instances where women in the employ of the TreasuryDepartment rendered valuable service in trailing smugglers--the matterof the Deauville diamonds is a case in point--and even the SecretService hasn't been above using women to assist in runningcounterfeiters to earth, while the archives of the State Departmentwould reveal more than one interesting record of feminine co-operationin connection with underground diplomacy.
But in all these cases the women were employed to handle the work andthey were only doing what they were paid for, while Virginia Lang--
Well, in the first place, she was one of the girls in charge of theswitchboard at the Rennoc in New York. You know the place--that bigapartment hotel on Riverside Drive where the lobby is only a shade lessimposing than the bell-boys and it costs you a month's salary to speakto the superintendent. They never have janitors in a place like that.
Virginia herself--I came to know her fairly well in the winter ofnineteen seventeen, after Dave Carroll had gone to the front--was wellqualified by nature to be the heroine of any story. Rather above theaverage in size, she had luckily taken advantage of her physique toround out her strength with a gymnasium course. But in spite of being abig woman, she had the charm and personality which are more often foundin those less tall. When you couple this with a head of wonderful hair,a practically perfect figure, eyes into which a man could look and,looking, lose himself, lips which would have caused a lip stick to blushand--Oh, what's the use? Words only caricature a beautiful woman, and,besides, if you haven't gotten the effect already, there's nothing thatI could tell you that would help any.
In the spring of nineteen sixteen, when the von Ewald chase was at itsheight, Miss Lang was employed at the Rennoc switchboard and it speakswell for her character when I can tell you that not one of the bachelortenants ever tried a second time to put anything over. Virginia's eyescould snap when they wanted to and Virginia's lips could frame a cuttingretort as readily as a pleasant phrase.
In a place like the Rennoc, run as an apartment hotel, the guests changequite frequently, and it was some task to keep track of all of them,particularly when there were three girls working in the daytime, thoughonly one was on at night. They took it by turns--each one working oneweek in four at night and the other three holding down the job fromeight to six. So, as it happened, Virginia did not see Dave Carrolluntil he had been there nearly a month. He blew in from Washington earlyone evening and straightway absented himself from the hotel untilsometime around seven the following morning, following the scheduleright through, every night.
Did you ever know Carroll? He and I worked together on the Farron caseout in St. Louis, the one where a bookmaker at the races tipped us offto the biggest counterfeiting scheme ever attempted in this country, andafter that he took part in a number of other affairs, including the onewhich prevented the Haitian revolution in nineteen thirteen.
Dave wasn't what you would call good-looking, though he did have a waywith women. The first night that he came downstairs--after a good day'ssleep--and spotted Virginia Lang on the switchboard, he could have beenpardoned for wandering over and trying to engage her in a conversation.But the only rise he got was from her eyebrows. They went up in that"I-am-sure-I-have-never-met-you" manner which is guaranteed to be coldwater to the most ardent male, and the only reply she vouchsafed was"What number did you wish?"
"You appear to have mine," Dave laughed, and then asked for Rector 2800,the private branch which connected with the Service headquarters.
When he came out of the booth he was careful to confine himself to"Thank you" and the payment of his toll. But there was something abouthim that made Virginia Lang feel he was "different"--a word which, withwomen, may mean anything--or nothing. Then she returned to the readingof her detective story, a type of literature to which she was muchaddicted.
Carroll, as you have probably surmised, was one of the more thantwoscore Government operatives sent to New York to work on the von Ewaldcase. His was a night shift, with roving orders to wander round thesection in the neighborhood of Columbus Circle and stand ready to getanywhere in the upper section of the city in a hurry in case anythingbroke. But, beyond reporting to headquarters regularly every hour, theassignment was not exactly eventful.
The only thing that was known about von Ewald at that time was that aperson using such a name--or alias--was in charge of the Germanintrigues against American neutrality. Already nearly a score of bomboutrages, attempts to destroy shipping, plots against munition plants,and the like had been laid at his door, but the elusive Hun had yet tobe spotted. Indeed, there were many men in the Service who doubted theexistence of such a person, and of these Carroll was one.
But he shrugged his shoulders and stoically determined to bear themonotony of strolling along Broadway and up, past the Plaza, to FifthAvenue and back again every night--a program which was varied only by anoccasional seance at Reisenweber's or Pabst's, for that was in the daysbefore the one-half of one per cent represented the apotheosis of liquidrefreshment.
It was while he was walking silently along Fifty-ninth Street, on thenorth side, close to the Park, a few nights after his brush withVirginia Lang, that Carroll caught the first definite information aboutthe case that anyone had obtained.
He hadn't noted the men until he was almost upon them, for the night wasdark and the operative's rubber heels made no sound upon the pavement.Possibly he wouldn't have noticed them then if it hadn't been for aphrase or two of whispered German that floated out through theshrubbery.
"He will stay at Conner's" was what reached Carroll's ears. "That willbe our chance--a rare opportunity to strike two blows at once, one atour enemy and the other at this smug, self-satisfied nation which iscontent to make money out of the slaughter of Germany's sons. Once he isin the hotel, the rest will be easy."
"How?" inquired a second voice.
"A bomb, so arranged to explode with the slightest additional pressure,in a--"
"Careful," growled a third man. "Eight fifty-nine would hardly care tohave his plans spread all over New York. This cursed shrubbery is sodense that there is no telling who may be near. Come!"
And Carroll, crouched on the outside of the fence which sep
arates thestreet from the Park, knew that seconds were precious if he was to getany further information. A quick glance down the street showed him thatthe nearest gate was too far away to permit of entrance in that manner.So, slipping his automatic into the side pocket of his coat he leapedupward and grasped the top of the iron fence. On the other side he couldhear the quick scuffle of feet as the Germans, alarmed, began to retreatrapidly.
A quick upward heave, a purchase with his feet, and he was over, hisrevolver in his hand the instant he lighted on the other side.
"Halt!" he called, more from force of habit than from anything else, forhe had no idea that any of the trio would stop.
But evidently one of them did, for from behind the shelter of a near-bybush came the quick spat of a revolver and a tongue of flame shot towardhim. The bullet, however, sung harmlessly past and he replied with afusillade of shots that ripped through the bush and brought a shower ofGerman curses from the other side. Then another of the conspiratorsopened fire from a point at right angles to the first, and the ruse wassuccessful, for it diverted Carroll's attention long enough to permitthe escape of the first man, and the operative was still flat on theground, edging his way cautiously forward when the Park police arrived,the vanguard of a curious crowd attracted by the shots.
"What's the trouble?" demanded the "sparrow cop."
"None at all," replied Dave, as he slipped the still warm revolver intohis pocket and brushed some dirt from his sleeve. "Guy tried to hold meup, that's all, and I took a pot shot at him. Cut it! Secret Service!"and he cautiously flashed his badge in the light of the electric torchwhich the park policeman held.
"Huh!" grunted the guard, as he made his way to the bush from behindwhich Carroll had been attacked. "You evidently winged him. There'sblood on the grass here, but no sign of the bird himself. Want anyreport to headquarters?" he added, in an undertone.
"Not a word," said Carroll. "I'm working this end of the game and I wantto finish it without assistance. It's the only thing that's happened ina month to break the monotony and there's no use declaring anyone elsein on it. By the way, do you know of any place in town known asConner's?"
"Conner's? Never heard of it. Sounds as though it might be a dive in theBowery. Plenty of queer places down there."
"No, it's hardly likely to be in that section of the city," Dave stated."Farther uptown, I think. But it's a new one on me."
"On me, too," agreed the guard, "and I thought I knew the town like abook."
When he reported to headquarters a few moments later, Carroll told thechief over the wire of his brush with the trio of Germans, as well aswhat he had heard. There was more than a quiver of excitement in thevoice from the other end of the wire, for this was the first actualproof of the existence of the mysterious "No. 859."
"Still believe von Ewald is a myth?" inquired the Chief.
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," was the answer, "becausethe bullet that just missed me was pretty material. Evidently some oneis planning these bomb outrages and it's up to us to nab him--if onlyfor the sake of the Service."
"Did you catch the name of the man to whom your friends were alluding?"asked the chief.
"No, they just referred to him as 'he.'"
"That might mean any one of a number of people," mused the chief. "SirCecil Spring-Rice is in town, you know. Stopping at the Waldorf. Thenthere's the head of the French Mission at the Vanderbilt with a bunch ofpeople, and Lord Wimbledon, who's spent five million dollars for horsesin the West, stopping at the same place you are. You might keep an eyeon him and I'll send Kramer and Fleming up to trail the other two."
"Did you ever hear of the place they called Conner's, Chief?"
"No, but that doesn't mean anything. It may be a code word--aprearranged name to camouflage the hotel in the event anyone werelistening in."
"Possibly," replied Carroll, just before he hung up, "but somehow I havea hunch that it wasn't. I'll get back on the job and let you know ifanything further develops."
His adventure for the night appeared to have ended, for he climbed intobed the following morning without having been disturbed, but lay awakefor an hour or more--obsessed with the idea that he really held the clueto the whole affair, but unable to figure out just what it was.
Where was it that they intended to place the bomb? Why would theyarrange it so as to explode upon pressure, rather than concussion or bya time fuse? Where was Conner's? Who was the man they were plottingagainst?
These were some of the questions which raced through his brain, and heawoke in the late afternoon still haunted by the thought that he reallyought to know more than he did.
That night at dinner he noted, almost subconsciously, that he was servedby a new waiter, a fact that rather annoyed him because he had beenparticularly pleased at the service rendered by the other man.
"Where's Felix?" he inquired, as the new attendant brought his soup.
"He isn't on to-night, sir," was the reply. "He had an accident andwon't be here for a couple of days."
"An accident?"
"Yes, sir," was the laconic answer.
"Anything serious?"
"No, sir. He--he hurt his hand," and the waiter disappeared withoutanother word. Carroll thought nothing more of it at the time, but later,over his coffee and a good cigar, a sudden idea struck him. Could it bethat Felix was one of the men whom he had surprised the night before,the one he had fired at and hit? No, that was too much of a coincidence.But then Felix was manifestly of foreign origin, and, while he claimedto be Swiss, there was a distinct Teutonic rasp to his words uponoccasion.
Signaling to his waiter, Dave inquired whether he knew where Felixlived. "I'd like to know if there is anything that I can do for him," hegave as his reason for asking.
"I haven't the slightest idea," came the answer, and Carroll was awarethat the man was lying, for his demeanor was sullen rather thansubservient and the customary "sir" was noticeable by its absence.
Once in the lobby, Dave noticed that the pretty telephone operator wasagain at the switchboard, and the idea occurred to him that he mightfind out Felix's address from the hotel manager or head waiter.
"I understand that my waiter has been hurt in an accident," theoperative explained to the goddess of the wires, "and I'd like to findout where he lives. Who would be likely to know?"
"The head waiter ought to be able to tell you," was the reply,accompanied by the flash of what Carroll swore to be the whitest teethhe had ever seen. "Just a moment and I will get him on the wire foryou." Then, after a pause, "Booth Number Five, please."
But Carroll got no satisfaction from that source, either. The headwaiter maintained that he knew nothing of Felix's whereabouts and hungup the receiver in a manner which was distinctly final, not to sayimpolite. The very air of mystery that surrounded the missing man wassufficient to incline him to the belief that, after all, there might besomething to the idea that Felix was the man he had shot at the nightbefore. In that event, it was practically certain that Lord Wimbledonwas the object of the Germans' attention--but that didn't solve thequestion of where the bomb was to be placed, nor the location of"Conner's."
"Just the same," he muttered, half aloud, "I'm going to stick aroundhere to-night."
"Why that momentous decision?" came a voice almost at his elbow, a voicewhich startled and charmed him with its inflection.
Looking up, he caught the eyes of the pretty telephone girl, laughing athim.
"Talking to yourself is a bad habit," she warned him with a smile whichseemed to hold an apology for her brusqueness of the night before,"particularly in your business."
"My business?" echoed Dave. "What do you know about that?"
"Not a thing in the world--except," and here her voice dropped to awhisper--"except that you are a government detective and that you'vediscovered something about Lord Wimbledon, probably some plot againstHis Lordship."
"Where--how--what in the world made you think that?" stammered Carroll,almost gasping for bre
ath.
"Very simple," replied the girl. "Quite elementary, as Sherlock Holmesused to say. You called the headquarters number every night when youcame down--the other girls tipped me off to that, for they know that I'mfond of detective stories. Then everybody around here knows that Felix,the waiter that you inquired about, is really German, though he pretendsto be Swiss, and that he, the head waiter, and the pastry cook are thickas thieves."
"You'd hardly expect me to say 'Yes,' would you? Particularly as I amsupposed to be a government operative."
"Now I know you are," smiled the girl. "Very few people use the word'operative.' They'd say 'detective' or 'agent.' But don't worry, I won'tgive you away."
"Please don't," laughed Carroll, half banteringly, half in earnest, forit would never do to have it leak out that a girl had not onlydiscovered his identity, but his mission. Then, as an after-thought, "Doyou happen to know of any hotel or place here in town known as'Conner's'?" he asked.
"Why, of course," was the reply, amazing in its directness. "Themanager's name--" But then she halted abruptly, picked up a plug, andsaid, "What number, please?" into the receiver.
Carroll sensed that there was a reason for her stopping in the middle ofher sentence and, looking around, found the pussy-footed head waiterbeside him, apparently waiting for a call. Silently damning the customthat made it obligatory for waiters to move without making a sound,Carroll wandered off across the lobby, determined to take a strollaround the block before settling down to his night's vigil. A stop atthe information desk, however, rewarded him with the news that LordWimbledon was giving a dinner in his apartments the following evening tothe British ambassador--that being all the hotel knew officially abouthis Grace's movements.
"I'll take care to have half a dozen extra men on the job," Carrollassured himself, "for that's undoubtedly the time they would pick ifthey could get away with it. A single bomb then would do a pretty bit ofdamage."
The evening brought no further developments, but shortly after midnighthe determined to call the Rennoc, in the hope that the pretty telephonegirl was still on duty and that she might finish telling him what sheknew of Conner's.
"Hotel Rennoc," came a voice which he recognized instantly.
"This is Dave Carroll speaking," said the operative. "Can you tell menow what it was you started to say about Conner's?"
"Not now," came the whispered reply. Then, in a louder voice, "Just amoment, please, and I'll see if he's registered." During the pause whichfollowed Dave realized that the girl must be aware that she was watchedby some one. Was it the silent-moving head waiter?
"No, he hasn't arrived yet," was the next phrase that came over thewires, clearly and distinctly, followed by instructions, couched in amuch lower tone, "Meet me, Drive entrance, one-five sure," and then aclick as the plug was withdrawn.
It was precisely five minutes past one when Carroll paused in front ofthe Riverside Drive doorway to the Rennoc, considering it the part ofdiscretion to keep on the opposite side of the driveway. A moment latera woman, alone, left the hotel, glanced around quickly, and then crossedto where he was standing.
"Follow me up the street," she directed in an undertone as she passed."Michel has been watching like a hawk."
Dave knew that Michel was the head waiter, and out of the corner of hiseye he saw a shadow slip out of another of the hotel doorways, fartherdown the Drive, and start toward them. But when he looked around acouple of blocks farther up the drive, there was no one behind them.
"Why all the mystery?" he inquired, as he stepped alongside the girl.
"Something's afoot in the Rennoc," she replied, "and they think Isuspect what it is and have told you about it. Michel hasn't taken hiseyes off me all evening. I heard him boast one night that he could readlips, so I didn't dare tell you anything when you called up, even thoughhe was across the lobby. Conner's, the place you asked about, is theRennoc. Spell it backward. Conner is the manager--hence the name of thehotel."
"Then," said Carroll, "that means that they've got a plan under way tobomb Lord Wimbledon and probably the British ambassador at that dinnerto-morrow evening. I overheard one of them say last night that a bomb,arranged to explode at the slightest pressure, would be placed in the--"and then he stopped.
"In the cake!" gasped the girl, as if by intuition. But her next wordsshowed that her deduction had a more solid foundation. "This is to be abirthday dinner, in honor of Lord Percy Somebody who's in LordWimbledon's party, as well as in honor of Lord Cecil. The pastry cook,who's almost certainly mixed up in the plot, has plenty of opportunityto put the bomb there, where it would never be suspected. The instantthey cut the cake--"
But her voice trailed off in midair as something solid came down on herhead with a crash. At the same moment Dave was sent reeling by a blowfrom a blackjack, a blow which sent him spinning across the curb andinto the street. He was dimly aware that two men were leaping toward himand that a third was attacking the telephone girl.
Panting, gasping, fighting for time in which to clear his head of theeffects of the first blow, Carroll fought cautiously, but desperately,realizing that his opponents desired to avoid gun-play for fear ofattracting the police. A straight left to the jaw caught one of the mencoming in and knocked him sprawling, but the second, whom Carrollrecognized as Michel, was more wary. He dodged and feinted with theskill of a professional boxer, and then launched an uppercut which wenthome on the point of Dave's jaw.
It was at that moment that the operative became aware of anotherparticipant in the fray--a figure in white with what appeared to be ahalo of gold around her head. The thought flashed through his mind thathe must be dreaming, but he had sense enough left to leap aside when afeminine voice called "Look out!" and the arc light glinted off theblade of a knife as it passed perilously close to his ribs. Then thefigure in white brought something down on Michel's head and, wheeling,seized the wrist of the third man in a grip of iron.
Ten seconds later the entire trio was helpless and Carroll was blowing apolice whistle for assistance.
"There was really nothing to it at all," protested the telephone girl,during the ride in the patrol. "They made the mistake of trying to letFelix, with his wounded hand, take care of me. I didn't have two yearsof gym work and a complete course in jiu jitsu for nothing, and thatblackjack came in mighty handy a moment or two later. All Felixsucceeded in doing was to knock my hat off, and I shed my coat theinstant I had attended to him."
"That's why I thought you were a goddess in white," murmured Dave.
"No goddess at all, just a girl from the switchboard who was glad tohave a chance at the brutes. Anyhow, that few minutes beats any book Iever read for action!"
Dave's hand stole out in the darkness as they jolted forward, and whenit found what it was seeking, "Girl," he said, "do you realize that Idon't even know your name?"
"Lang," said a voice in the dark. "My friends call me Virginia."
"After what you just did for me, I think we ought to be at least goodfriends," laughed Carroll, and the thrill of the fight which has justpassed was as nothing when she answered:
"At least that ... Dave!"
* * * * *
Quinn paused for a moment to repack his pipe and I took advantage of theinterruption to ask what happened at the Wimbledon dinner the followingnight.
"Not a thing in the world," replied Quinn. "Everything went off likeclockwork--everything but the bomb. As the Podunk _Gazette_ would say,'A very pleasant time was had by all.' But you may be sure that theywere careful to examine the cake and the other dishes before they weresampled by the guests. Michel, Felix, and the cook were treated to agood dose of the third degree at headquarters, but without results. Theywouldn't even admit that they knew any such person as 'NumberEight-fifty-nine' or von Ewald. Two of them got off with light sentencesfor assault and battery. The pastry cook, however, went to the pen whenthey found a quantity of high explosives in his room."
"And Miss Lang?"
&n
bsp; "If you care to look up the marriage licenses for October, nineteensixteen, you'll find that one was issued in the names of David Carrolland Virginia Lang. She's the wife of a captain now, for Dave left theService the following year and went to France to finish his fight withthe Hun. I saw him not long ago and the only thing that's worrying himis where he is going to find his quota of excitement, for he says thatthere is nothing left in the Service but chasing counterfeiters andguarding the resident, and he can't stand the idea of staying in thearmy and drawing his pay for wearing a uniform."
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