On Secret Service

by William Nelson Taft

  XVI

  AFTER SEVEN YEARS

  Bill Quinn was disgusted. Some one, evidently afflicted with aningrowing sense of humor, had sent him the prospectus of a "school"which professed to be able to teach budding aspirants the art ofbecoming a successful detective for the sum of twenty-five dollars, andQuinn couldn't appreciate the humor.

  "_How to Become a Detective--in Ten Lessons_," he snorted. "It onlytakes one for the man who's got the right stuff in him, and the man thathasn't better stay out of the game altogether."

  "Well," I retorted, anxious to stir up any kind of an argument thatmight lead to one of Quinn's tales about the exploits of Uncle Sam'ssleuths, "just what does it take to make a detective?"

  It was a moment or two before Quinn replied. Then: "There are only threequalities necessary," he replied. "Common sense, the power ofobservation, and perseverance. Given these three, with possibly a dashof luck thrown in for good measure, and you'll have a crime expert whocould stand the heroes of fiction on their heads.

  "Take Larry Simmons, for example. No one would ever have accused him ofhaving the qualifications of a detective--any more than they would havesuspected him of being one. But Larry drew a good-sized salary from theBureau of Pensions because he possessed the three qualities I mentioned.He had the common sense of a physician, the observation of a trainednewspaper reporter, and the perseverance of a bulldog. Once he sunk histeeth in a problem he never let loose--which was the reason that veryfew people ever put anything over on the Pension Bureau as long as Larrywas on the job.

  "That cap up there," and Quinn pointed to a stained and dilapidated bitof headgear which hung upon the wall of his den, "is a memento of one ofSimmons's cases. The man who bought it would tell you that I'm deadright when I say that Larry was persevering. That's putting it mildly."

  * * * * *

  Quite a while back [continued Quinn, picking up the thread of his story]there was a man out in Saint Joseph, Missouri, named Dave Holden. No oneappeared to know where he came from and, as he conducted himself quietlyand didn't mix in with his neighbors' affairs, no one cared very much.

  Holden hadn't been in town more than a couple of weeks when one of theolder inhabitants happened to inquire if he were any kin to "Old DaveHolden," who had died only a year or two before.

  "No," said Holden, "I don't believe I am. My folks all came from Ohioand I understand that this Holden was a Missourian."

  "That's right," agreed the other, "and a queer character, too. Guess hewas pretty nigh the only man that fought on the Union side in the CivilWar that didn't stick th' government for a pension. Had it comin' tohim, too, 'cause he was a captain when th' war ended. But he always saidhe didn't consider that Uncle Sam owed him anything for doin' his duty.Spite of th' protests of his friends, Dave wouldn't ever sign a pensionblank, either."

  A few more questions, carefully directed, gave Holden the history of hisnamesake, and that night he lay awake trying to figure out whether theplan which had popped into his head was safe. It promised some easymoney, but there was the element of risk to be considered.

  "After all," he concluded, "I won't be doing anything that isn'tstrictly within the law. My name is David Holden--just as the old man'swas. The worst that they can do is to turn down the application. I won'tbe committing forgery or anything of the kind. And maybe it'll slipthrough--which would mean a pile of money, because they'll kick in withall that accumulated during the past fifty years."

  So it was that, in the course of time, an application was filed at theBureau of Pensions in Washington for a pension due "David Holden" ofSaint Joseph, Missouri, who had fought in the Civil War with the rank ofcaptain. But, when the application had been sent over to the WarDepartment so that it might be compared with the records on file there,it came back with the red-inked notation that "Capt. David Holden haddied two years before"--giving the precise date of his demise asevidence.

  The moment that the document reached the desk of the Supervisor ofPensions he pressed one of the little pearl buttons in front of him andasked that Larry Simmons be sent in. When Larry arrived the chief handedhim the application without a word.

  "Right! I'll look into this," said Larry, folding the paper and slippingit into the pocket of his coat.

  "Look into it?" echoed the supervisor. "You'll do more than that! You'lllocate this man Holden--or whatever his right name is--and see that hegets all that's coming to him. There've been too many of these caseslately. Apparently people think that all they have to do is to file anapplication for a pension and then go off and spend the money. Catch thefirst train for Saint Joe and wire me when you've landed your man. Thedistrict attorney will attend to the rest of the matter."

  The location of David Holden, as Simmons found, was not the simplest ofjobs. The pension applicant, being comparatively a newcomer, was notwell known in town, and Simmons finally had to fall back upon theexpedient of watching the post-office box which Holden had given as hisaddress, framing a dummy letter so that the suspect might not think thathe was being watched.

  Holden, however, had rented the box for the sole purpose of receivingmail from the Pension Bureau. He had given the number to no one else andthe fact that the box contained what appeared to be an advertisementfrom a clothing store made him stop and wonder. By that time, however,Simmons had him well in sight and followed him to the boarding-house onthe outskirts of the town where he was staying.

  That evening, while he was still wondering at the enterprise of a storethat could obtain a post-office box number from a government bureau atWashington, the solution of the mystery came to him in a decidedlyunexpected manner. The house in which Holden was staying wasold-fashioned, one of the kind that are heated, theoretically at least,by "registers," open gratings in the wall. Holden's room was directlyover the parlor on the first floor and the shaft which carried the hotair made an excellent sound-transmitter.

  It so happened that Simmons, after having made a number of inquiriesaround town about the original Dave Holden, called at the boardinghouse that night to discover what the landlady knew about the other manof the same name, who was seated in the room above.

  Suddenly, like a voice from nowhere, came the statement in ahigh-pitched feminine voice: "I really don't know anything about him atall. Mr. Holden came here about six weeks ago and asked me to take himin to board. He seemed to be a very nice, quiet gentleman, who waswilling to pay his rent in advance. So I let him have one of the bestrooms in the house."

  At the mention of his name Holden listened intently. Who was inquiringabout him, and why?

  There was only a confused mumble--apparently a man's reply, pitched in alow tone--and then the voice of the landlady again came clearly throughthe register:

  "Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't do anything like that. Mr. Holden is...."

  But that was all that the pension applicant waited for. Moving with therapidity of a frightened animal, he secured one or two articles of valuefrom his dresser, crammed a hat into his pocket, slipped on a raincoat,and vaulted out of the window, alighting on the sloping roof of a shedjust below. Before he had quitted the room, however, he had caught thewords "arrest on a charge of attempting to obtain money under falsepretenses."

  Some two minutes later there was a knock on his door and a voicedemanded admittance. There was no reply. Again the demand, followed by arattling of the doorknob and a tentative shake of the door. In all, itwas probably less than five minutes after Larry Simmons had entered theparlor before he had burst in the door of Holden's room. But the birdhad flown and the open window pointed to the direction of his flight.

  Unfortunately for the operative the night was dark and the fugitive wasdecidedly more familiar with the surrounding country than Larry was. Bythe time he had secured the assistance of the police half an hour hadelapsed, and there weren't even any telltale footprints to show in whichdirection the missing man had gone.

  "See that men are placed so as to guard the railroad station," Simmonsdirected, "a
nd pass the word up and down the line that a medium-sizedman, about thirty-five years of age, with black hair and a rather ruddycomplexion--a man wanted by the government on a charge of falsepretenses--is trying to make his escape. If anyone reports him, let meknow at once."

  That, under the circumstances, was really all that Larry could do. Itought to be an easy matter to locate the fugitive, he figured, and itwould only be a question of a few days before he was safely in jail.

  Bright and early the next morning the operative was awakened by abell-boy who informed him that the chief of police would like to seehim.

  "Show him in," said Larry, fully expecting to see the chief enter with ahandcuffed prisoner. But the head of the police force came in alone,carrying a bundle, which he gravely presented to Simmons.

  "What's this?" inquired the pension agent.

  "All that's left of your friend Holden," was the reply. "One of my menreported late last night that he had heard a splash in the river asthough some one had jumped off the wharf, but he couldn't find outanything more. To tell the truth, he didn't look very hard--because wehad our hands full with a robbery of Green's clothing store. Some onebroke in there and--"

  "Yes--but what about Holden?" Simmons interrupted.

  "Guess you'll have to drag the river for him," answered the chief. "Wefound his coat and vest and raincoat on the dock this mornin', and ontop of them was this note, addressed to you."

  The note, as Larry found an instant later, read:

  I'd rather die in the river than go to jail. Tell your boss that he can pay two pensions now--one for each of the Dave Holdens.

  The signature, almost illegible, was that of "David Holden (Numbertwo)."

  "No doubt that your man heard the splash when Holden went overboard lastnight?" inquired the operative.

  "Not the least in the world. He told me about it, but I didn't connectit with the man you were after, and, besides, I was too busy right thento give it much thought."

  "Any chance of recovering the body?"

  "Mighty little at this time of the year. The current's good and strongan' the chances are that he won't turn up this side of the Mississippi,if then. It was only by accident that we found his cap. It had lodgedunder the dock and we fished it out less 'n half an hour ago--" and thechief pointed to a water-soaked piece of cloth which Simmons recognizedas the one which Holden had been wearing the evening before.

  "Well, I don't suppose there's anything more that we can do," admittedLarry. "I'd like to have the river dragged as much as possible, though Iagree with you that the chances for recovering the body are very slim.Will you look after that?"

  "Sure I will, and anything else you want done." The chief was nothing ifnot obliging--a fact which Simmons incorporated in his official report,which he filed a few days later, a report which stated that "DavidHolden, wanted on a charge of attempting to obtain money under falsepretenses, had committed suicide by drowning rather than submit toarrest."

  The body has not been recovered [the report admitted], but this is not to be considered unusual at this time of the year when the current is very strong. The note left by the fugitive is attached.

  Back from Washington came the wire:

  Better luck next time. Anyhow, Holden won't bother us again.

  If this were a moving picture [Quinn continued, after a pause], therewould be a subtitle here announcing the fact that seven years aresupposed to elapse. There also probably would be a highly decoratedexplanatory title informing the audience that "Uncle Sam Never ForgetsNor Forgives"--a fact that is so perfectly true that it's a marvel thatpeople persist in trying to beat the government. Then the scene of thefilm would shift to Seattle, Washington.

  They would have to cut back a little to make it clear that Larry Simmonshad, in the meantime, left the Pension Bureau and entered the employmentof the Post-office Department, being desirous of a little moreexcitement and a few more thrills than his former job afforded. But hewas still working for Uncle Sam, and his memory--like that of hisemployer--was long and tenacious.

  One of the minor cases which had been bothering the department for sometime past was that of a ring of fortune-tellers who, securinginformation in devious ways, would pretend that it had come to them fromthe spirit world and use it for purposes which closely approximatedblackmail. Simmons, being in San Francisco at the time, was ordered toproceed to Seattle and look into the matter.

  Posing as a gentleman of leisure with plenty of money and but littlecare as to the way in which he spent it, it wasn't long before he wassteered into what appeared to be the very center of the ring--theresidence of a Madame Ahara, who professed to be able to read the stars,commune with spirits, and otherwise obtain information of an occulttype. There Larry went through all the usual stages--palmistry,spiritualism, and clairvoyance--and chuckled when he found, after histhird visit, that his pocket had been picked of a letter purporting tocontain the facts about an escapade in which he had been mixed up a fewyears ago. The letter, of course, was a plant placed there for the solepurpose of providing a lead for madame and her associates to follow. Andthey weren't long in taking the tip.

  The very next afternoon the government agent received a telephone callnotifying him that madame had some news of great importance which shedesired to impart--information which had come to her from the otherworld and in which she felt certain he would be interested.

  Larry asked if he might bring a friend with him, but the request--as hehad expected--was promptly refused. The would-be blackmailers were tooclever to allow first-hand evidence to be produced against them. Theywished to deal only with principals or, as madame informed him over thephone, "the message was of such a nature that only he should hear it."

  "Very well," replied Simmons, "I'll be there at eleven this evening."

  It was not his purpose to force the issue at this time. In fact, heplanned to submit to the first demand for money and trust to theconfidence which this would inspire to render the blackmailers lesscautious in the future. But something occurred which upset the entirescheme and, for a time at least, threatened disaster to the Post-officeschemes.

  Thinking that it might be well to look the ground over before dark,Larry strolled out to Madame Ahara's about five o'clock in the afternoonand took up his position on the opposite side of the street, studyingthe house from every angle. While he was standing there a man cameout--a man who was dressed in the height of fashion, but whose face wassomehow vaguely familiar. The tightly waxed mustache and the iron-graygoatee seemed out of place, for Simmons felt that the last time he hadseen the man he had been clean shaven.

  "Where was it?" he thought, as he kept the man in sight, though on theopposite side of the street. "New York? No. Washington? Hardly. SaintLouis? No, it was somewhere where he was wearing a cap--a cap that waswater-stained and ... I've got it! In Saint Joseph! The man whocommitted suicide the night I went to arrest him for attempting todefraud the Pension Bureau! It's he, sure as shooting!"

  But just as Simmons started to cross the street the traffic cop raisedhis arm, and when the apparently interminable stream of machines hadpassed, the man with the mustache was nowhere to be seen. He hadprobably slipped into one of the near-by office buildings. But which?That was a question which worried Larry for a moment or two. Then hecame to the conclusion that there was no sense in trying to find his manat this moment. The very fact that he was in Seattle was enough. Thepolice could find him with little difficulty.

  But what had Holden been doing at the clairvoyant's? Had he fallen intothe power of the ring or was it possible that he was one of theblackmailers himself?

  The more Larry thought about the matter, the more he came to theconclusion that here was an opportunity to kill two birds with a singlestone--to drive home at least the entering wedge of the campaign againstthe clairvoyants and at the same time to land the man who had eluded himseven years before.

  The plan which he finally evolved was daring, but he realized that theelement o
f time was essential. Holden must not be given anotheropportunity to slip through the net.

  That night when Larry kept his appointment at madame's he saw to it thata cordon of police was thrown around the entire block, with instructionsto allow no one to leave until after a prearranged signal.

  "Don't prevent anyone from coming into the house," Simmons directed,"but see that not a soul gets away from it. Also, you might be on thelookout for trouble. The crowd's apt to get nasty and we can't afford totake chances with them."

  A tall dark-skinned man, attired in an Arabian burnoose and wearing aturban, answered the ring at the door, precisely as Larryanticipated--for the stage was always well set to impress visitors.Madame herself never appeared in the richly decorated room where thecrystal-gazing seances were held, preferring to remain in the backgroundand to allow a girl, who went by the name of Yvette, to handle visitors,the explanation being that "Madame receives the spirit messages andtransmits them to Yvette, her assistant."

  Simmons therefore knew that, instead of dealing with an older andpresumably more experienced woman, he would only have to handle a girl,and it was upon this that he placed his principal reliance.

  Everything went along strictly according to schedule. Yvette, seated onthe opposite side of a large crystal ball in which she read strangemessages from the other world--visions transmitted from the cellar bymeans of a cleverly constructed series of mirrors--told the operativeeverything that had been outlined in the letter taken from his pocket onthe preceding night, adding additional touches founded on facts whichLarry had been "careless" enough to let slip during his previous visits.Then she concluded with a very thinly veiled threat of blackmail if thevisitor did not care to kick in with a certain sum of money.

  Larry listened to the whole palaver in silence, but his eyes were busytrying to pierce the dim light in which the room was shrouded. So far ashe could see, the door through which he had entered formed the onlymeans of getting into the room--but there were a number of rugs anddraperies upon the walls, any one of which might easily mask a doorway.

  When the girl had finished, the operative leaned forward and hitched hischair around so that he could speak in a whisper.

  "If you know what's good for you," he cautioned, "don't move! I've gotyou covered, in the first place, and, secondly, there's a solid cordonof police around this house! Careful--not a sound! I'm not after you. Iwant the people who're behind you. Madame and her associates. Thisblackmailing game has gone about far enough, but I'll see that you getoff with a suspended sentence if you do as I tell you. If not--" and thevery abruptness with which he stopped made the threat all the moreconvincing.

  "What--what do you want me to do?" stammered the girl, her voice barelyaudible.

  "Turn state's evidence and tip me off to everyone who's in on thisthing," was Larry's reply, couched in the lowest of tones. "There's nota chance of escape for any of you, so you might as well do it and get itover with. Besides that, I want to know where I can find a man with awaxed mustache and iron-gray goatee who left this house at ten minutespast five this afternoon."

  "Madame!" exclaimed the girl. "Davidson!"

  "Yes--Madame and Davidson, if that's the name he goes by now. It wasHolden the last time I saw him."

  "He"--and the girl's voice was a mere breath--"he is madame!"

  "What?"

  "Yes, there is no Madame Ahara. Davidson runs the whole thing. He is--"

  But at that moment one of the rugs on the wall which Larry was facingswung outward and a man sprang into the room, a man whose face waspurple with rage and who leaped sidewise as he saw Larry's hand snap anautomatic into view above the pedestal on which the crystal ballreposed. In a flash Simmons recognized two things--his danger and thefact that the man who had just entered was Holden, alias Davidson,blackmailer and potential thief.

  Before the government agent had time to aim the head of the clairvoyantring fired. But his bullet, instead of striking Larry, shattered thecrystal ball into fragments and the room was plunged into totaldarkness. In spite of the fact that he knew the shot would bring speedyrelief from outside the house, Simmons determined to capture his mansingle-handed and alive. Half-leaping, half-falling from the chair inwhich he had been seated, the operative sprang forward in an attempt tonail his man while the latter was still dazed by the darkness. But hisfoot, catching in one of the thick rugs which carpeted the floor,tripped him and he fell--a bullet from the other's revolver plowingthrough the fleshy part of his arm.

  The flash, however, showed him the position of his adversary, and it wasthe work of only a moment to slip forward and seize the blackmaileraround the waist, his right hand gripping the man's wrist and forcing itupward so that he was powerless to use his revolver. For a full minutethey wrestled in the inky darkness, oblivious to the fact that the soundof blows on the outer door indicated the arrival of reinforcements.

  Then suddenly Larry let go of the blackmailer's arm and, whirling himrapidly around, secured a half nelson that threatened to dislocate hisneck.

  "Drop it!" he snarled. "Drop that gun before I wring your head off!" andthe muffled thud as the revolver struck the floor was the signal thatHolden had surrendered. A moment later the light in the center of theroom was snapped on and the police sergeant inquired if Larry needed anyassistance.

  "No," replied Simmons, grimly, "but you might lend me a pair ofbracelets. This bird got away from me once, some seven years ago, andI'm not taking any more chances!"