XVIII
THIRTY THOUSAND YARDS OF SILK
"I'd sure like to lead the life of one of those fictional detectiveheroes," muttered Bill Quinn, formerly of the United States SecretService, as he tossed aside the latest volume of crime stories that hadcome to his attention. "Nothing to do but trail murderers and find theperson who lifted the diamond necklace and stuff of that kind. Theynever have a case that isn't interesting or, for that matter, one inwhich they aren't successful. Must be a great life!"
"But aren't the detective stories of real life interesting andoftentimes exciting?" I inquired, adding that those which Quinn hadalready told me indicated that the career of a government operative wasfar from being deadly monotonous.
"Some of them are," he admitted, "but many of them drag along for monthsor even years, sometimes petering out for pure lack of evidence. Those,of course, are the cases you never hear of--the ones where Uncle Sam'smen fall down on the job. Oh yes, they're fallible, all right. Theycan't solve every case--any more than a doctor can save the life ofevery patient he attends. But their percentage, though high, doesn'tapproach the success of your Sherlock Holmeses and your ThinkingMachines, your Gryces and Sweetwaters and Lecoqs."
"How is it, then, that every story you've told dealt with the successof a government agent--never with his failure?"
Quinn smiled reminiscently for a moment.
Then, "What do doctors do with their mistakes?" he asked. "They bury'em. And that's what any real detective will do--try to forget, exceptfor hoping that some day he'll run up against the man who tricked him.Again, most of the yarns I've told you revolved around some of therelics of this room"--waving his hand to indicate the walls of hislibrary--"and these are all mementoes of successful cases. There's nouse in keeping the other kind. Failures are too common and brains tooscarce. That bit of silk up there--"
"Oh yes," I interrupted, "the one that formed part of Alice Norcross'swedding dress."
"And figured in one of the most sensational plots to defraud thegovernment that was ever uncovered," added Quinn. "If Ezra Marks hadn'tlocated that shipment I wouldn't have had that piece of silk and therewouldn't be any story to tell. So you see, it's really a circle, afterall."
* * * * *
Marks [Quinn went on] was one of the few men connected with any branchof the government organizations who really lived up to the press-agentnotices of the detectives you read about. In the first place, he lookedlike he might have stepped out of a book--big and long-legged and lanky.A typical Yankee, with all of the New-Englander's shrewdness and commonsense. If you turned Ezra loose on a case you could be sure that hewouldn't sit down and try to work it out by deduction. Neither would heplunge in and attempt by sheer bravado and gun play to put the thingover. He'd mix the two methods and, more often than not, come back withthe answer.
Then, too, Marks had the very happy faculty of drawing assignments thatturned out to be interesting. Maybe it was luck, but more than likely itwas because he followed plans that made 'em so--preferring to wait untilhe had all the strings to a case and then stage a big round-up of thepeople implicated. You remember the case of the Englishman who smuggleduncut diamonds in the bowl of his pipe and the one you wrote under thetitle of "Wah Lee and the Flower of Heaven"? Well, those were typical ofEzra's methods--the first was almost entirely analytical, the secondmainly gun play plus a painstaking survey of the field he had to cover.
But when Marks was notified that it was up to him to find out who wasrunning big shipments of valuable silks across the Canadian border,without the formality of visiting the customhouse and making thecustomary payments, he found it advisable to combine the two courses.
It was through a wholesale dealer in silks in Seattle, Washington, thatthe Customs Service first learned of the arrival of a considerablequantity of this valuable merchandise, offered through certainunderground channels at a price which clearly labeled it as smuggled.Possibly the dealer was peeved because he didn't learn of the shipmentin time to secure any of it. But his reasons for calling the affair tothe attention of the Treasury Department don't really matter. The mainidea was that the silk was there, that it hadn't paid duty, and thatsome one ought to find out how it happened.
When a second and then a third shipment was reported, Marks was notifiedby wire to get to Seattle as fast as he could, and there to confer withthe Collector of the Port.
It wasn't until after he had arrived that Ezra knew what the troublewas, for the story of the smuggled silk hadn't penetrated as far southas San Francisco, where he had been engaged in trying to find a cargo ofsmuggled coolies.
"Here's a sample of the silk," announced the Collector of the Port atSeattle, producing a piece of very heavy material, evidently of foreignmanufacture. "Beyond the fact that we've spotted three of the shipmentsand know where to lay our hands on them if wanted, I've got to admitthat we don't know a thing about the case. The department, of course,doesn't want us to trace the silk from this end. The minute you do thatyou lay yourself open to all sorts of legal tangles and delays--to saynothing of giving the other side plenty of time to frame up a case thatwould sound mighty good in court. Besides, I haven't enough men tohandle the job in the short space of time necessary. So you'll have todig into it and find out who got the stuff in and how. Then we'll attendto the fences who've been handling it here."
"The old game of passing the buck," thought Ezra, as he fingered thesample of silk meditatively. "I'll do the work and they'll get theglory. Oh, well--"
"Any idea of where the shipments came from?" he inquired.
"There's no doubt but that it's of Japanese manufacture, which, ofcourse, would appear to point to a shipping conspiracy of some nature.But I hardly think that's true here. Already eighteen bolts of silk havebeen reported in Seattle, and, as you know, that's a pretty good sizedconsignment. You couldn't stuff 'em into a pill box or carry 'em insidea walking stick, like you could diamonds. Whoever's handling this job isdoing it across the border, rather than via the shipping route."
"No chance of a slip-up in your information, is there, Chief?" Ezrainquired, anxiously. "I'd hate to start combing the border and thenfind that the stuff was being slipped in through the port."
"No," and the Collector of Customs was positive in his reply. "I'm nottaking a chance on that tip. I know what I'm talking about. My men havebeen watching the shipping like hawks. Ever since that consignment ofantique ivory got through last year we've gone over every vessel with amicroscope, probing the mattresses and even pawing around in the coalbins. I'm positive that there isn't a place big enough to conceal a yardof silk that the boys haven't looked into--to say nothing of eighteenbolts.
"Besides," added the Collector, "the arrival of the silk hasn'tcoincided with the arrival of any of the ships from Japan--not by anystretch of the imagination."
"All right, I'll take up the trail northward then," replied Marks."Don't be surprised if you fail to hear from me for a couple of monthsor more. If Washington inquires, tell them that I'm up on the bordersomewhere and let it go at that."
"Going to take anybody with you?"
"Not a soul, except maybe a guide that I'll pick up when I need him. Ifthere is a concerted movement to ship silk across the line--and itappears that there is--the more men you have working with you the lesschance there is for success. Border runners are like moonshiners,they're not afraid of one man, but if they see a posse they run forcover and keep out of sight until the storm blows over. And there isn'tone chance in a thousand of finding 'em meanwhile. You've got to playthem, just like you would a fish, so the next time you hear from me youwill know that I've either landed my sharks or that they've slipped offthe hook!"
It was about a month later that the little town of Northport, up in theextreme northeastern corner of Washington, awoke to find a stranger inits midst. Strangers were something of a novelty in Northport, and thisone--a man named Marks, who stated that he was "prospectin' for somegood lumber"--caused quite a bit of tal
k for a day or two. Then the towngossips discovered that he was not working in the interest of a largecompany, as had been rumored, but solely on his own hook, so they lefthim severely alone. Besides, it was the height of the logging season andthere was too much work to be done along the Columbia River to worryabout strangers.
Marks hadn't taken this into consideration when he neared the easternpart of the state, but he was just as well pleased. If logs and loggingserved to center the attention of the natives elsewhere, so much thebetter. It would give him greater opportunity for observation andpossibly the chance to pick up some information. Up to this time histrip along the border had been singularly uneventful and lacking inresults. In fact, it was practically a toss-up with him whether he wouldcontinue on into Idaho and Montana, on the hope that he would findsomething there, or go back to Seattle and start fresh.
However, he figured that it wouldn't do any harm to spend a week or twoin the neighborhood of the Columbia--and, as events turned out, it was avery wise move.
Partly out of curiosity and partly because it was in keeping with hisself-assumed character of lumber prospector, Marks made a point ofjoining the gangs of men who worked all day and sometimes long into thenight keeping the river clear of log jams and otherwise assisting in themovement of timber downstream. Like everyone who views these operationsfor the first time, he marveled at the dexterity of the loggers whoperched upon the treacherous slippery trunks with as little thought fordanger as if they had been crossing a country road. But their years offamiliarity with the current and the logs themselves had given them asense of balance which appeared to inure them to peril.
Nor was this ability to ride logs confined wholly to the men. Some ofthe girls from the near-by country often worked in with the men,handling the lighter jobs and attending to details which did not callfor the possession of a great amount of strength.
One of these, Marks noted, was particularly proficient in her work.Apparently there wasn't a man in Northport who could give her points inlog riding, and the very fact that she was small and wiry provided herwith a distinct advantage over men who were twice her weight. Apart fromher grace and beauty, there was something extremely appealing about thegirl, and Ezra found himself watching her time after time as she almostdanced across the swirling, bark-covered trunks--hardly seeming to touchthem as she moved.
The girl was by no means oblivious of the stranger's interest in herability to handle at least a part of the men's work. She caught his eyethe very first day he came down to the river, and after that, whenevershe noted that he was present she seemed to take a new delight inskipping lightly from log to log, lingering on each just long enough tocause it to spin dangerously and then leaping to the next.
But one afternoon she tried the trick once too often. Either shemiscalculated her distance or a sudden swirl of the current carried thelog for which she was aiming out of her path, for her foot just touchedit, slipped and, before she could recover her balance, she was in thewater--surrounded by logs that threatened to crush the life out of herat any moment.
Startled by her cry for help, three of the lumbermen started towardher--but the river, like a thing alive, appeared to thwart their effortsby opening up a rift in the jam on either side, leaving a gap too wideto be leaped, and a current too strong to be risked by men who werehampered by their heavy hobnailed shoes.
Marks, who had been watching the girl, had his coat off almost as soonas she hit the water. An instant later he had discarded his shoes andhad plunged in, breasting the river with long overhand strokes thatcarried him forward at an almost unbelievable speed. Before the men onthe logs knew what was happening, the operative was beside the girl,using one hand to keep her head above water, and the other to fend offthe logs which were closing in from every side.
"Quick!" he called. "A rope! A--" but the trunk of a tree, striking hishead a glancing blow, cut short his cry and forced him to devote everyatom of his strength to remaining afloat until assistance arrived. Afteran interval which appeared to be measured in hours, rather than seconds,a rope splashed within reach and the pair were hauled to safety.
The girl, apparently unhurt by her drenching, shook herself like a wetspaniel and then turned to where Marks was seated, trying to recover hisbreath.
"Thanks," she said, extending her hand. "I don't know who you are,stranger, but you're a man!"
"It wasn't anything to make a fuss about," returned Ezra, rising andturning suspiciously red around the ears, for it was the first time thata girl had spoken to him in that way for more years than he cared toremember. Then, with the Vermont drawl that always came to the surfacewhen he was excited or embarrassed, he added: "It was worth gettin' wetto have you speak like that."
This time it was the girl who flushed, and, with a palpable effort tocover her confusion, she turned away, stopping to call back over hershoulder, "If you'll come up to dad's place to-night I'll see thatyou're properly thanked."
"Dad's place?" repeated Ezra to one of the men near by. "Where's that?"
"She means her stepfather's house up the river," replied the lumberman."You can't miss it. Just this side the border. Ask anybody where Old ManPetersen lives."
Though the directions were rather vague, Marks started "up the river"shortly before sunset, and found but little difficulty in locating thebig house--half bungalow and half cabin--where Petersen and hisstepdaughter resided, in company with half a dozen foremen of lumbergangs, and an Indian woman who had acted as nurse and chaperon and cookand general servant ever since the death of the girl's mother a numberof years before.
While he was still stumbling along, trying to pierce the gloom whichsettled almost instantly after sunset, Marks was startled to see a whitefigure rise suddenly before him and to hear a feminine voice remark, "Iwondered if you'd come."
"Didn't you know I would?" replied Ezra. "Your spill in the river had mescared stiff for a moment, but it was a mighty lucky accident for me."
At the girl's suggestion they seated themselves outside, being joinedbefore long by Petersen himself, who, with more than a trace of hisSlavic ancestry apparent in his voice, thanked Marks for rescuing hisdaughter. It was when the older man left them and the girl's figure wasoutlined with startling distinctness by the light from the open door,that Ezra received a shock which brought him to earth with a crash.
In the semidarkness he had been merely aware that the girl was wearing adress which he would have characterized as "something white." But oncehe saw her standing in the center of the path of light which streamedfrom the interior of the house there could be no mistake.
The dress was of white silk!
More than that, it was made from material which Marks would have swornhad been cut from the same bolt as the sample which the Collector hadshown him in Seattle!
"What's the matter, Mr. Marks?" inquired the girl, evidently noting thesurprise which Ezra was unable completely to suppress. "Seen a ghost orsomething?"
"I thought for a moment I had," was the operative's reply, as he playedfor time. "It must be your dress. My--my sister had one just like itonce."
"It is rather pretty, isn't it? In spite of the fact that I made itmyself--out of some silk that dad--that dad brought home."
Ezra thought it best to change the subject, and as soon as he could findthe opportunity said good night, with a promise to be on hand the nextday to see that the plunge in the river wasn't repeated.
But the next morning he kept as far away from the girl--Fay Petersen--ashe could, without appearing to make a point of the matter. He hadthought the whole thing over from every angle and his conclusion wasalways the same. The Petersens were either hand in glove with the gangthat was running the silk across the border or they were doing thesmuggling themselves. The lonely cabin, the proximity to the border, theair of restraint which he had noted the previous evening (basedprincipally upon the fact that he had not been invited indoors), thesilk dress--all were signs which pointed at least to a knowledge of theplot to beat the customs.
"Old Man Petersen has some big loggin' interests in these parts,"declared the most loquacious of his informants, "an' they say he's madea pile o' money in the last few months. Some say it's timber an' otherssay it's--well, it ain't nobody's concern how a man makes a livin' inthese parts, s'long as he behaves himself."
"Isn't Petersen behaving himself?" asked Ezra.
"Stranger," was the reply, "it ain't always healthy to pry into anotherman's affairs. Better be satisfied with goin' to see the girl. That'smore than anybody around here's allowed to do."
"So there was an air of mystery about the Petersen house, after all!"Marks thought. It hadn't been his imagination or an idea founded solelyupon the sight of the silk dress!
The next fortnight found the operative a constant and apparently awelcome visitor at the house up the river. But, hint as he might, he wasnever asked indoors--a fact that made him all the more determined to seewhat was going on. While he solaced himself with the thought that hisvisits were made strictly in the line of duty, that his only purpose wasto discover Petersen's connection with the smuggled silk, Ezra wasunable entirely to stifle another feeling--something which he hadn'tknown since the old days in Vermont, when the announcement of a girl'swedding to another man had caused him to leave home and seek hisfortunes in Boston.
Fay Petersen was pretty. There was no denying that fact. Also she wasvery evidently prepossessed in favor of the man who had saved her fromthe river. But this fact, instead of soothing Marks's conscience, onlyirritated it the more. Here he was on the verge of making love to agirl--really in love with her, as he admitted to himself--and at thesame time planning and hoping to send her stepfather to thepenitentiary. He had hoped that the fact that Petersen was not her ownfather might make things a little easier for him, but the girl had shownin a number of ways that she was just as fond of her foster-parent asshe would have been of her own.
"He's all the daddy I ever knew," she said one night, "and if anythingever happened to him I think it would drive me crazy," which fell farshort of easing Ezra's mind, though it strengthened his determination tosettle the matter definitely.
The next evening that he visited the Petersens he left a little earlierthan usual, and only followed the road back to Northport sufficientlyfar to make certain that he was not being trailed. Then retracing hissteps, he approached the house from the rear, his soft moccasins movingsilently across the ground, his figure crouched until he appeared littlemore than a shadow between the trees.
Just as he reached the clearing which separated the dwelling from thewoods, he stumbled and almost fell. His foot had caught againstsomething which felt like the trunk of a fallen tree, but which movedwith an ease entirely foreign to a log of that size.
Puzzled, Marks waited until a cloud which had concealed the moon haddrifted by, and then commenced his examination. Yes, it was a log--and abig one, still damp from its immersion in the river. But it was so lightthat he could lift it unaided and it rang to a rap from his knuckles.The end which he first examined was solid, but at the other end the logwas a mere shell, not more than an inch of wood remaining inside thebark.
It was not until he discovered a round plug of wood--a stopper, whichfitted precisely into the open end of the log--that the solution of thewhole mystery dawned upon him. The silk had been shipped across theborder from Canada inside the trunks of trees, hollowed out for thepurpose! Wrapping the bolts in oiled silk would keep them perfectlywaterproof and the plan was so simple as to be impervious to detection,save by accident.
Emboldened by his discovery, Marks slipped silently across the clearedspace to the shadow of the house, and thence around to the side, where afew cautious cuts of his bowie knife opened a peep hole in the shutterwhich covered the window. Through this he saw what he had hoped for, yetfeared to find--Petersen and three of his men packing bolts of whitesilk in boxes for reshipment. What was more, he caught snatches of theirconversation which told him that another consignment of the smuggledgoods was due from Trail, just across the border, within the week.
Retreating as noiselessly as he had come, Marks made his way back toNorthport, where he wrote two letters--or, rather, a letter and a note.The first, addressed to the sheriff, directed that personage to collecta posse and report to Ezra Marks, of the Customs Service, on the secondday following. This was forwarded by special messenger, but Markspocketed the note and slipped it cautiously under the door of thePetersen house the next evening.
"It's a fifty-fifty split," he consoled his conscience. "The governmentgets the silk and the Petersens get their warning. I don't suppose I'llget anything but the devil for not landing them!"
The next morning when the sheriff and his posse arrived they found, onlyan empty house, but in the main room were piled boxes containing no lessthan thirty thousand yards of white silk--valued at something over onehundred thousand dollars. On top of the boxes was an envelope addressedto Ezra Marks, Esq., and within it a note which read, "I don't know whoyou are, Mr. Customs Officer, but you're a man!"
There was no signature, but the writing was distinctly feminine.
* * * * *
"And was that all Marks ever heard from her?" I asked, when Quinnpaused.
"So far as I know," said the former operative. "Of course, Washingtonnever heard about that part of the case. They were too well satisfiedwith Ezra's haul and the incoming cargo, which they also landed, to caremuch about the Petersens. So the whole thing was entered on Marks'srecord precisely as he had figured it--a fifty-fifty split. You see,even government agents aren't always completely successful--especiallywhen they're fighting Cupid as well as crooks!"
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