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Ep. 13 - The Trail of the White Mice · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter thirteen, The Trail of the White Mice. The United States Secret Service,
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announced Bill Quinn, is, by long odds, the best known branch
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of the governmental detective bureaus. The terror which the Continental crook feels at the
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sound of the name Scotland Yard finds its echo on this side of the Atlantic.
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Whenever a criminal knows that he has run afoul of the U. S.
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S S for Uncle Sam never forgives an injury or forgets a wrong.
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Sooner or later, He's going to get his man, no matter how long
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it takes, nor how much money it costs. But the Secret Service,
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strictly speaking, is only one branch of the organization. There are others which
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work just as quietly and just as effectively. The Department of Justice, which
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had charge of the violation of neutrality laws banking and alike. The Treasury Department,
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which, through the Custom Service and the Bureau of Internal Revenue, wages
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constant war on the men and women who think they can evade the import regulations
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and the laws against illicit manufacture of alcohol. The Pension Bureau of the Interior
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Department, which is called upon to handle hundreds of frauds every year, and
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the Post Office Department, which guards the millions of dollars entrusted to the mails.
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Each of these has its own province, each works along its own line
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in conjunction with the others, and each of them is, in reality a
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secret organization which performs a vastly important service to the nation as a whole.
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When you speak of the Secret Service, the Treasury Department's organization comes immediately to
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mind, coupled with a panorama of counterfeiters, anarchists, revolutionaries and the like.
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But the field of the Secret Service is really limited when compared to the
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scope of the other organizations. Look around this room, and he made a
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gesture which included the four walls of the library den in which we were seated,
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a room in which the usual decorations had been replaced by a strange collection
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of unusual and in a number of instances, gruesome relics. Every one of
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those objects is a memento of some exploit of the men engaged in secret service.
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Quinn went on that Chinese hatchet up there came very close to being buried
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in the skull of a man in San Diego, But its principal mission in
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life was the solution of the mystery surrounding the smuggling of thousands of pounds of
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opium. That water stained cup was fished out of the Missouri River after its
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owner had apparently committed suicide, but the Pension Bureau located him seven years later
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with the aid of a fortune teller in Seattle. At the side of the
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bookcase, there you will find several of the original poison pen letters which created
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so much consternation in Kansas City a few years ago, letters which Allison of
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the Postal Inspection Service finally traced to their source after the local authorities had given
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up the case as impossible of solution. The woman whose picture appears on the
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other wall was known as missus Armitage, and that was about all they did
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know about her, save that she was connected with one of the foreign organizations,
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and that in some mysterious way, she knew everything that was going on
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in the State Department almost as soon as it was started. And there under
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that piece of silk, which figured in one of the boldest smuggling cases that
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the Treasury Department ever tackled, is the blurred post mark, which eventually led
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to the discovery of the man who murdered Montgomery Marshal a case in which our
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old friend Sherlock Holmes would have reveled. But it's doubtful if he could have
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solved it any more skillfully than did one of the Post Office operators. What's
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the significance of that white mouse on the mantelpiece, I inquired, sensing the
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fact that Quinn was in one of his story telling moods. It hasn't any
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significance, replied the former government agent. But it has a story, one
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which illustrates my point that all the nation's detective work isn't handled by the Secret
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Service by a long shot. Did you ever hear of H. Gordon Fowler
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alias W. C. Evans, No, I replied, I don't think
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I ever did. Well. A lot of people have, to their sorrow,
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laughed Quinn, reaching for his pipe. No one appears to know what
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Fowler's real name is, continued the former operative. He traveled under a whole
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flock of aliases which ran the gamut of the alphabet, from Andrews to Zachary.
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But to save mixing things up, supposed that we assumed that his right
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name was Fowler. He used it for six months at one time out of
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Minneapolis and got away with twenty thousand dollars worth of stuff. For some time
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previous to Fowler's entrance upon the scene, various wholesale houses throughout the country had
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been made the victims of what appeared to be a ring of bankruptcy experts,
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men who would secure credit for goods, open a store, and then fail.
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Meanwhile, the merchandise would have mysteriously vanished, and the proprietor who would
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be away on a vacation from which of course he would never return. On
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the face of it, this was a matter to be settled solely by the
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wholesaler's credit association, but the Postal Inspection Service got into it through the fact
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that the mails were palpably being used with intent to defraud, and therefore Uncle
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Sam came to the aid of the business men. On the day that the
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matter was reported to Washington, the chief of the Postal Inspection Service pushed the
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button which operated a buzzer in the outer office and summoned Hal Preston, the
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chap who later on was responsible for the solution of the martial murder mystery.
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Hal said the chief with a smile, here's a case I know you'll like.
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It's right in the line of routine, and it ought to mean a
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lot of traveling around the country, quick jumps at night, and all that
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sort of stuff. Preston grunted, but said nothing. You couldn't expect to
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draw the big cases every time, and besides, there was no telling when
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something might break, even in the most prosaic of assignments. Grant Wilcox and
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Company in Boston report that they've been stung twice in the same place by a
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gang of bankruptcy sharks. The chief went on, and they're not the only
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ones who have suffered. Here's a list of the concerns and the men that
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they've sold to. You'll see that it covers the country from Joaquim, Washington
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to Montclair, New Jersey. So they appear to have their organization pretty well
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in hand. Ordinarily we wouldn't figure in this thing at all, but the
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gang made the mistake of placing their orders through the mail, and now it's
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up to us to land em. Here's the dope op to it. That
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night, while en route to Mount Clemmen's, Michigan, where the latest of
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the frauds had been perpetrated, pressed and examined the envelope full of evidence and
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came to a number of interesting conclusions. In the first place, the failures
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had been staged in a number of different localities. Erie, Pennsylvania, had
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had one of them under the name of Colan Hill. There had been another
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in Sioux City, where Emerling Brothers had failed. Metcalfe and Newman, Illinois
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had likewise contributed their share, as had Minneapolis, Newark, Columbus, White
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Plains, and Newburgh, New York, San Diego, California, Joaquim Washington,
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and several other points. But the point that brought Hal up with a
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jerk was the dates attached to each of these affairs. No two of them
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had occurred within six months of the other, and several were separated by as
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much as a year. Who said this was a gang, he muttered,
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looks a lot more like the work of a single man with plenty of nerve.
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And from the amount of stuff he got away with, he ought to
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be pretty nearly in the millionaire class by now. There's over two hundred thousand
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dollars worth of goods covered by this report alone, and there is no certainty
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that it is complete. Well, here's hoping. It's always easier to trail
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one man than a whole bunch of them. In Mount Clemens, Preston found
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further evidence which tended to prove that the bankruptcy game was being worked by a
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single nervy individual posing under the name of Henry Girard. Girard, it appeared,
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had entered the local field about a year before, apparently with plenty of
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capital, and had opened two prosperous stores on the principal Street in August,
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about two months before Preston's arrival. The proprietor of the Girard stores had left
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on what was apparently scheduled for a two weeks vacation. That was the last
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that had been heard of him, in spite of the fact that a number
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of urgent creditors had camped upon his trail very solicitously. The stores had been
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looted, only enough merchandise being left to keep up the fiction of a complete
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stock, and Girard had vanished with the proceeds. After making a few guarded
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inquiries in the neighborhood of the store, Preston sought out the house where Girard
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had boarded during his stay in Mount Clemens. There he found that the missing
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merchant, in order to allay suspicion, had paid the rental of his apartment
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for three months in advance, and that the place had not been touched since
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save by the local authorities who had been working on the case. You won't
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find a thing there, the Chief of police informed hal in response to a
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request for information. Girard skipped, and that's all there is to it.
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We've been over the place with a fine toothed comb, and there ain't a
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scrap of evidence. We did find some telegrams torn up in his waistebasket,
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but if you can make anything out of him, it's more than I can.
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And he handed over an envelope filled with scraps of finely torn yellow paper.
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Not the slightest indication of where Girard went, inquired Preston, as he
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tucked the envelope in an inside pocket. Not a bit, echoed the chief.
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He may be in China now, so far as we know, was
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he married? Nobody here knows nothing about him, the Chief persisted. They
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do say, as how, he was right sweet on a girl named Anna
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something or other who lived in the same block, But she left town before
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he did, and she ain't come back neither. What did you say,
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Her name was Anna Vaughan, I believe she called herself. You might ask
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missus Morris about her. She had a room at her place, only a
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few doors away from where Girard stayed. The apartment of the man who had
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vanished, Preston found was furnished in the manner typical of a thousand other places.
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Every stick of furniture appeared to have seen better days, and no two
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pieces could be said to match. Evidently, Girard had been practicing economy in
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his domestic arrangements in order to save all the money possible for a quick getaway.
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What was more, he had carefully removed everything of a personal nature,
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save a row of books, which decorated the mantelpiece in one of the rooms.
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It was toward these that Preston finally turned in desperation. All but one
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of them were the cheaper grade of fiction, none of which bore any distinguishing
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marks. But the exception was a new copy of the latest railroad Guide.
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Just as Preston pounced upon this, he heard a chuckle from behind him,
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and whirling saw the Chief of Police just entering the door. Needn't worry with
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that, young man, he urged I've been all through it and there ain't
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nothing in it. Just thought i'd drop up to see if you had found
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anything, he added, in explanation of his sudden appearance. Have you no,
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admitted the postal operative can't say that I have. This is the first
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piece of personal property that I've been able to locate, and you say there
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is nothing in this. Narry a clue, persisted the chief. But Preston,
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as if loath to drop the only tangible reminder of Gerard, idly flipped
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the pages of the guide and then stood it on edge on the table,
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the covers slightly opened. Then, as the chief watched him curiously, he
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closed the book, opened it again, and repeated the operation. What's the
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idea trying to make it do tricks, the chief asked, as hal stood
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the book on edge for the third time. Hardly that just working on a
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little theory of my own, was the response, as the post office man
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made a careful note of the pages at which the guide had fallen open,
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the same one which had presented itself to view on two other occasions. Here
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would you like to try it? And he handed the volume to the chief.
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But that functionary only shrugged his shoulders and replaced the guide upon the mantelpiece.
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Some more of your high falutin detective work, eh, he muttered.
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Soon you'll be claiming that book can talk, possibly not out loud, smiled
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hal, but they can be made to tell very interesting stories now and then
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if you know how to handle em. There doesn't seem to be much here,
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chief, So I think I'll go back to the hotel. Let me
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know if anything comes up, will you, And with that he left.
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But before returning to the hotel, he stopped at the house where Anna Vaughan
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had resided and found out from the rather garrulous landlady that Gerard had appeared to
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be rather smitten with the beautiful stranger. She certainly was dressed to kill,
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said the woman who ran the establishment. A big woman and strong is all
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outdoors. Mister Gerard came here three or four nights a week while she was
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with us, and he didn't seem to mind the mice at all, mind
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the what snapped preston the mice, the white mice that she used to keep
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his pets, explained The landlady had half a dozen or more of them running
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over her shoulders. But I told her that I couldn't stand for that.
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She could keep him in her room if she wanted to, but I had
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to draw the line somewhere. Guess it was on their account that she didn't
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have any other visitors so far as I know. Mister Gerard was the only
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one who called on her. When did miss Vaughan leave, Hall inquired,
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missus Vaughan corrected the woman she was a widow, though she was young and
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pretty enough to have been married anytime she wanted to be. Guess the men
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wouldn't stand for them mice. Though she didn't stay very long, just about
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six weeks, left somewheres about the middle of July, about two weeks before
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Girard did about that, though I don't just remember the date. A few
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more inquiries elicited the fact that missus Vaughan's room had been rented since her departure,
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so Preston gave up the idea of looking through it for possible connecting links
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with the expert in bankruptcy. Returning to the hotel, the operative settled down
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to an examination of the scraps of torn telegrams which the chief had handed him.
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Evidently they had been significant. He argued for Girard had been careful to
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tear them into small bits, and it was long past midnight before he had
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succeeded in piecing the messages together, pasting the scraps on glass in case there
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had been any notations on the reverse of the blank. But when he had
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finished, he found that he only had added one more puzzling aspect to the
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case. There were three telegrams filed within a week, and all dated just
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before Gerard had left town. Geraldine, Anna May and Florence are in Chicago,
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read the message from Evanston, Illinois. George, William, Katherine Ray
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and Stephen still in Saint Louis, was the wire filed from Detroit. The
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third message from Minneapolis detailed the fact that Frank, Vera, Marguerite, Joe,
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and Walter are ready to leave Saint Paul. None of the telegrams was
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signed, but merely as a precaution, Preston wired Evanston, Detroit and Minneapolis
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to find out if there was any record of who had sent them. Agent
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here recalls message. Came the answer from Detroit the next day, filed by
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a woman who refused to give her name. Agent says sender was quite large,
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good looking, and very well dressed. Anna Vaughan, muttered Preston as
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he took the telegram in his pocket and asked to be shown a copy of
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the latest Railway Guide, referring to a note which he had made on the
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previous evening. Hal turned to page two fifty one and two, the part
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of the book which had fallen open three times in succession when he had examined
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it in Gerard's rooms, and noted that it was the adjacent Topeka and Santa
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Fe timetable westbound. Evidently, the missing merchant had invested in a copy of
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the Guide rather than run the risk of leaving tell tale timetables around his apartment.
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But he had overstepped himself by referring to only one portion of the book.
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Not the first time that a crook has been just a little too clever,
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mused Preston with a smile. If it had been an old copy,
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there wouldn't have been any evidence. But a new book, opened several times
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at the same place, can be made to tell tales. His honor,
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the chief of Police to the contrary. It was clear therefore that Preston had
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three leads to work on, and a Vaughan a large, beautiful woman,
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well dressed and with an affection for white mice. The clue that Gerard was
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somewhere in the southwest, and at least the first name of fourteen men and
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women connected with the gang. But right there he paused, was there any
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gang? The dates of the various disappearances tended to prove that there wasn't,
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but the messages received by Girard certainly appeared to point to the fact that others
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were connected with the conspiracy to defraud. Possibly one of the clerks who had
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been connected with the Girard stores would be able to throw a little light upon
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the situation. It wasn't until Hal interviewed the woman who had acted as cashier
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and manager for the second store that he found the lead he was after.
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In response to his inquiry as to whether she had ever heard the missing proprietors
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speak of any of the persons mentioned in the wires, the cashier at first
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stated definitely that she hadn't, but added a moment later, come to think
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of it, he did not as people, but as trunks. What's that?
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Exclaimed the operative trunks. Yes, I remember some time last spring when
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we were figuring on how much summer goods we ought to carry. I mentioned
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the matter to mister Gerard, and almost automatically, he replied, I'll wire
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for Edna and Grace, Thinking he meant saleswomen. I reminded him that we
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had plenty, particularly for the slack season. He colored up a bit,
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caught his breath, and turned to the subject by stating that he always referred
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to trunks of goods in terms of people's first names, girls for the feminine
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stuff and men's for the masculine. But Edna and Grace weren't on your lists,
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were they No, replied Preston. But that doesn't matter. Besides,
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didn't the two trunks of goods arrive? Yes, they came in a couple
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of weeks later, before missus Vaughan came to town. Oh yes, some
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time before she arrived. I thought, so, was Preston's reply. And
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thanking the girl, he wandered back to the hotel, convinced that he had
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solved at least one of the mysteries, the question of what Gerard did with
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his surplus bankrupt stock. It was evidently packed in trunks and shipped to distant
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points to be forwarded by the van woman. Upon instructions from Girard himself.
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The wires he had torn up were merely confirmatory messages, sent so that he
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would have the necessary information before making a getaway. Clever scheme, all right,
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was Hell's mental comment. Now, the next point is to find some
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town in the Southwest where a new store has been opened within the past two
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months. That night the telegraph office at Mount Clemmons did more business than it
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had had for the past year. Wires under the Government Frank went out to
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every town on the Adjason, Topeka and Santa Fe, and to a number
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of adjacent cities. In each case the message was the same wire, name
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of any new clothing store opened within past two months, also description of proprietor
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Urgent Preston U Spis. Fourteen chiefs of police replied within the next forty eight
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hours, but of these only two, Leavenworth and fort Worth, contained descriptions
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which tallied with that of Henry Girard. So to facilitate matters, Preston sent
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another wire, as proprietor mentioned in yesterday's wire, a wife or a woman
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who keeps white mice as pets. Fort Worth replied facetiously that the owner of
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the new store there was married, but that his wife had a cat,
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which might account for the absence of the mice. Leavenworth, however, came
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back with yes, missus, noble, wife of owner of outlet store,
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has white mice for pets. Why never mind reason, Preston replied, watch
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noble and wife until I arrive leaving today. Ten minutes after reaching Leavenworth,
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Preston was ensconced in the office of the Chief of Police, outlining the reason
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for his visit. I'm certain that Noble is the man you want, said
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the chief, when hal had finished. He came here some six weeks or
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more ago and at once leased a store, which he opened a few days
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later. The description fits him to a t, except for the fact that
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he's evidently dispensed with the mustache, the von woman as posing as his wife,
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and they've rented a house on the outskirts of town. What do you
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want me to do? Nab him right away? No, directed the operative.
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I'd rather attend to that myself, if you don't object. After trailing
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them this far, I'd like to go through with it. You might have
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some men handy, though, in case there's any fuss. Just as mister
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and missus C. K. Noble were sitting down to dinner. There was
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a ring at their front door bell, and Noble went to see who it
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was. I'd like to speak to mister H. Gordon Fowler, said Preston,
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his hand resting carelessly in the side pocket of his coat. No,
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mister Fowler lives here, was the growling reply from the inside. Then mister
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W. C. Evans or mister Henry Gerard will Do snapped the operative,
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throwing his shoulder against the partly opened door. Noble or Fowler, as he
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was afterward known, stepped aside as hal plunged through, and then slammed the
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door behind him. Get him Anna, he called, throwing the safety bolt
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into position. The next thing that Preston knew a pair of arms, bare
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and feminine but strong as iron, had seized him around the waist, and
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he was in imminent danger of being bested by a woman with a heave and
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a wriggling twist. He broke the hold and turned just in time to see
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Fowler snatch a revolt from a desk on the opposite side of the room and
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raise it into position. Without an instant's hesitation. He leaped to one side
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dropped his hand into his coat pocket and fired. Evidently the bullet took effect,
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for the man across the room dropped his gun, spun clean around,
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and then sank to the floor. As he did so. However, the
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woman hurled a heavy vase directly at Preston's head, and the operative sank unconscious.
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Well go on, I snapped when Quinn paused, you sound like a
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serial story to be continued in our next What happened then, nothing beyond the
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fact that three policemen broke in some ten seconds after Hal fired, grabbed missus
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Vaughan or whatever her name was, and kept her from beating Hal to death,
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as she certainly would have done in another minute. Fowler wasn't badly hurt.
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In fact, both of them stood trial the next spring, Fowler drawing
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six years, and Anne of Vaughan won. Incidentally, they sent him back
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to Leavenworth to do time, and as a great concession, allowed the woman
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to take two of her white mice with her. I managed to get one
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of the other four, and when it died, had it stuffed as a
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memento of a puzzling case. Well solved. It's a hobby of mine keeping
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these relics that hatchet, for example. Remind me to tell you about it
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some time. The mice were responsible for finding one man in fifty million,
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which is something of a job in itself, but the hatchet figured in an
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even more exciting affair end of Chapter thirteen.