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Ep. 4 - The Clue on Shelf 45 · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter four, The Clue on Shelf forty five. Of course, it is
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possible that patriotism might have prompted Mary mc nillis to locate the clue, which
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prevented an explosion that would have seriously hampered the munition's industry of the United States.
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But the fact remains that she did it principally because she was in love
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with Dick Walters, and Dick happened to be in the Secret Service. It
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was one case where a cupid scored over Mars. Bill Quinn eased the game
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leg which he won as the trophy of a counterfeiting raid some years before,
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into a more comfortable position, reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch, and
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settled himself for another reminiscence of the service with which he had formerly been actively
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connected. Mary was, and doubtless still is, one of those red headed,
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blue eyed Irish beauties whom nature has peppered with just enough freckles to make
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them alluring evidences that the sun itself couldn't help kissing her. But from all
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I've been able to gather, the sun was in a class by itself until
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Dick Walters came upon the scene. Miss mc Nillis held herself strictly aloof from
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masculine company, and much preferred to spend an evening with her books than to
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take a trip to Coney or any of the other resorts where a girl's kisses
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pass as current coin in payment for three or four hours outing. Dick was
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just the kind of chap that would have appealed to Mary, or to most
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any other girl for that matter. Maybe you remember him. He used to
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be at the White House during Taft's regime, but they shifted most of the
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four soon after Wilson came in, and Dick was sent out to the coast
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on an opium hunt that kept him busy for more than any year. In
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fact, he came east just in time to be assigned to the von Yueld
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case, and incidentally to fall foul of Mary and Cupid, a pair that
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you couldn't tie, much less beat the von Yuld case, Quinn continued,
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after pausing a moment to repack his pipe. Was one of the many exploits
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of the Secret Service that never got in the papers. To be strictly truthful,
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it wasn't as much a triumph for the s S as it was for
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Mary. Mcnillas. And besides, we weren't at war with Germany at that
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time, so it had to be kept rather dark. But Germany was at
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war with us. You remember the Black Tom explosion in August nineteen sixteen.
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Well, if the plans of von Yuld and his associates hadn't been frustrated by
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a little red headed girl with exceptional powers of our observation, there would have
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been a detonation in Wilmington, Delaware that would have made the Black Tom affair,
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with its damage of thirty millions of dollars, sound like the college yell
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of a deaf and dumb institute. As far back as January nineteen sixteen,
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the Secret Service knew that there were a number of Germans in New York who
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desired nothing so much as to hinder the munitions industry of the United States,
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despite the fact that we were a neutral nation. From Harry Newton, the
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leader in the second plot to destroy the welland Canal, and from Paul Cieb,
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who was implicated in the attempt to destroy shipping at Hobuken. They forced
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the information that the conspirators received their orders and drew their pay from a man
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of many aliases, known to his associates as number eight fifty nine, and
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occasionally to the world at large as von Yuled. This much was known in
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Washington, but when you came to analyze the information, it didn't amount to
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a whole lot. It's one thing to know that someone is plotting murder and
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arson on a wholesale scale, but discovering the identity of that individual is an
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entirely different proposition, one which called for all the finesse and obstinacy for which
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the governmental detective services are famous. Another factor that complicated the situation was that
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speed was essential. The problem was entirely different from a counterfeiting or smuggling case,
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where you can be content to let the people on the other side of
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the table make as many moves as they wish, with the practical certainty that
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you will land them sooner or later. Give them plenty of rope and they'll
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land in Leavenworth is favorite axiom of the service. But here you had to
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conserve your rope to the uttermost. Every day that passed meant that some new
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plot was that much nearer completion, that millions of dollars in property and the
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lives of no one knew how many people were still in danger, so the
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order went forward from the headquarters of the Service, get the man known as
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von Yueld, and get him quick. Secret Service men, postal inspectors and
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Department of Justice agents were called in from all parts of the country and rushed
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to New York, until the metropolis looked like the headquarters of a convention of
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governmental detectives. Grogan, the chap that landed Perry, the master counterfeiter,
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was there, as were George McMasters and Sid Shields, who prevented the revolution
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in Cuba three four years ago. Jimmy Reynolds was borrowed from the Internal Revenue
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Bureau, and Althaus, who spoke German like a native, was brought up
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from the border, where he had been working on a propaganda case just across
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the line. There must have been forty men turned loose on this assignment alone,
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and in the course of the search for von Yuld, there were a
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number of other developments scarcely less important than the main issue. At least two
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of these, the Trenton taxicab tangle and the affair of the Girl at the
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Switchboard our exploits worthy of separate mention, but in spite of the great array
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of detective talent, no one could get a line on von Yueld. In
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April, when Dick Walter's returned from the coast, the other men in the
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service were frankly skeptical as to whether there was a von Yueld at all.
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They had come to look upon him as a myth, a bugaboo. They
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couldn't deny that there must be some guiding spirit to the Teutonic plots, but
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they rather favored the theory that several men, rather than one, were to
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blame. Walter's instructions were just like the rest, to go to New York
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and stick on the job until the German conspirator was apprehended. Maybe it's one
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man, maybe they're half a dozen, the chief admitted, But we've got
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to nail em. The very fact that they haven't started anything of consequence since
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the early part of the year would appear to point to renewed activity very shortly.
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It's up to you and the other men already in New York to prevent
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the success of any of these plots. Walters listened patiently to all the dope
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that had been gathered and then figured, as had every new man that it
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was up to him to do a little sleothing of his own. The headquarters
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of the German agents was supposed to be somewhere in Greenwich Village, on one
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of those half grown alleys that always threatens to meet itself coming back. But
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more than a score of government operatives had combed that part of the town without
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securing a trace of anything tangible. On the average of once a night,
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the phone at headquarters would ring, and someone at the other end would send
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in a hurry call for help up in the Bronx, or in Harlem or
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some other distant part of the city where he thought he had turned up a
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clue. The men on duty would leap into the machine that always waited at
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the curb and fracture every speed law ever made, only to find when they
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arrived that it was a false alarm. Finally, after several weeks of that
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sort of thing, conditions commenced to get on Dick's nerves. I'm going to
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tackle this thing on my own, he announced. Luck is going to play
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as much of a part in landing von Nueld as anything else, and Luck
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never hunted with more than one man. Good Bye, see you fellas later.
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But it was a good many weeks August to be precise, before the
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men in the Federal Building had the opportunity of talking to Walter's He would report
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over the phone, of course, and drop down there every few days,
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but he'd only stay long enough to find out if there was any real news
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or any orders from Washington, then he'd disappear uptown. Dick sure had got
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a grouch these days, was the comment that went around after Walters had paid
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one of his flying visits. Yeah, grunted Barry, who was undue that
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night. Either the Von Yueled cases got on his nerves or he's found a
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girl that can't see him. Neither supposition missed the mark very far. Walters
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was getting sick and tired of the apparently fruitless chase after an elusive German.
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He had never known to flinch in the face of danger, often went out
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of his way to find it. In fact, but this constant search for
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a man whom nobody knew, a man of whom there wasn't the slightest description,
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was nerve racking, to say the least. Then, too, he
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had met Mary mcnillis. He'd wandered into the public library one evening just before
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closing time, and like many another man had fallen victim to Mary's red hair
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and Mary's irish eyes. But a brick wall was a soft proposition compared to
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Mary mcallis. Snubbing good looking young men who thought that the tailors were missing
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an excellent model was part of the day's work with a little library girl,
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though she secretly admitted to herself that this one was a bit above the average.
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Dick didn't get a rise that night, though, or for some days
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after. Every evening at seven found him at the desk, over which Miss
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mcnillis presided, framing some almost intelligent question about books. In order to prolong
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the conversation. Mary would answer politely and that was all, but almost imperceptibly,
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a bond of friendship sprang up between them. Maybe it was the fact
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that Dick's mother had been irish too, or possibly it was because he admitted
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to himself that this girl was different from the rest, and admitting it laid
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the foundation for a deep, souled respect that couldn't help but show in his
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manner. Within the month, Dick was taking her home, and in six
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weeks they were good pals, bumming around to queer out of the way restaurants
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and planning outings which Dick, in his heart knew could never materialize, not
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until von Yuelet had been run to cover at any rate. Several times Mary
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tried to find out her companion's profession, diplomatically, of course, but nevertheless
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she was curious. Naturally, Dick couldn't tell her. Said he had just
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finished a job on the coast and was taking a vacation in New York.
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But Mary had sense enough to know that he wasn't at leisure, also that
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he was working on something that kept his mind constantly active. For several times
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he had excused himself in a hurry and then returned anywhere from half an hour
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to an hour later with a rather crestfallen expression. After they had reached the
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Dick and Mary stage, she came right out one night and asked him hon
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He told her, that's one thing that I've got to keep from you for
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a while. It's nothing that you would be ashamed of, though, but
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something that will make you mighty proud. At least, he added, it'll
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make you proud if I don't fall down in the job all mighty hard.
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Meanwhile, all I can do is ask you to trust me, will you.
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The tips of her fingers rested on the back of his hand for just
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a moment before she said, you know, I will, Dick, and
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neither of them mentioned the subject from that time on. On the night of
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the Black Tom explosion early in August, Dick didn't show up at the library
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at the usual hour, and while this didn't worry Mary because it had happened
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several times before, she began to be annoyed when three nights passed the same
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way. Of course, she had no way of knowing that the service had
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received a tip from a stool pigeon on the payroll of the New York Police
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Force that a bunch of Germans were planning a big explosion of some kind just
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a few hours before the earth rocked with the force of the blow up in
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Jersey. Every government operative in the city had been informed of the rumor,
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but few of them had taken it seriously, and not one had any reason
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to expect that the plot would culminate so close to New York. But the
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echo of the first blast had hardly died away before there were a dozen agents
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on the spot, weaving a network around the entire district they got for their
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pains, however, was a few suspects who very evidently didn't know a thing.
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So it was a very tired and disgusted Dick who entered the library four
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nights later and almost shambled up to Mary's desk. I'll be off duty in
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half an hour, she told him. From the way you look, you
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need a little comforting. I do that, he admitted. Don't make me
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wait any longer than you have to, and he amused himself by glancing over
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the late secrets after knowledge. When they had finally seated themselves in a cozy
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corner of a little restaurant in the upper forties, Dick threw caution to the
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winds and told Mary all about his troubles. I haven't the least business to
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do it, he confessed, and if the chief found out, Bo'd be
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bounced so fast that it would make my head swim. But in the first
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place, I want you to marry me, and I know you wouldn't think
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of doing that unless you knew something more about me. There was just the
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flicker of a smile around Mary's mouth as she said, almost perfunctorily, No,
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of course, not but her intuition told her that this wasn't the time
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to joke, and before Walters could go on, she added, I know
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you well enough, Dick, not to worry about that end of it.
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So Walters told her everything from the beginning, and it didn't take more than
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five minutes at that. Outside of the fact that his people lived in Des
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Moines, and that he had been in the secret service for eight years,
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and that he hadn't been able to do a thing toward the apprehension of a
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certain German spy that the government was extremely anxious to locate, it was pitifully
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little to tell. The whole thing, he concluded, came to a head
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the other night, the night I didn't show up. We knew that something
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was going to break somewhere, but we couldn't discover where until it was too
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late to prevent the explosion across the river. Now that they've gotten away with
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that, they'll probably lay their lines for something even bigger. Well, now
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that I've told you, what do you think you mean you'd like to marry
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me, Mary asked with a smile. I don't know how to put in
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any plainer, Dick admitted, and what followed caused the waiter to wheel around
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and suddenly commenced, dusting off a table that already was bright enough to see
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your face in. There wasn't the slightest clue left after the Black Tom affair,
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Mary asked, as she straightened her hat. Not one. We did
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find two of the bombs that hadn't exploded, devilishly clever arrangements with a new
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combination of chemicals. Something was evidently wrong with the mixture, though, for
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they wouldn't go off even when our experts started to play with them. The
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man who made them evidently wasn't quite sure of his ground. But there wasn't
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a thing about the bombs themselves that would provide any indication of where they came
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from. The man who made them must have had a pretty thorough knowledge of
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chemistry, Mary mused, mighty near perfect, admitted Walters. At least six
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exploded on time, and from what I understand, they were loaded to the
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muzzle with a mixture that no one but an expert would dare handle, and
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continued Mary, with just a hint of excitement in her voice. The bombmaker
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would continue to investigate the subject. He would want to get the latest information.
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The most recent books what are you driving at? Walters interrupted just this,
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and Mary leaned across the table so that there was no possibility of being
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overheard. We girls have a good deal of time on our hands, so
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we get into the habit of making conjectures and forming theories about the regulars,
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the people who come into the library, often enough for us to know them
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by sight. Up to a month ago, there was a man who dropped
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into the reference room nearly every day to consult books from shelf forty five.
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Naturally, he came up to my desk, and as he usually arrived during
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the slack periods, I had plenty of time to study him. Maybe it
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was because I had been reading broso, or possibly it's because I am just
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naturally observant, but I noticed that, in addition to each of his ears
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being practically lobeless, one of them was quite pointed at the top, almost
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like a fox's. For a week he didn't show up, and then one
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day another man came in and asked for a book from shelf forty five.
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Just as he turned away, I had a shock. Apparently he wasn't in
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the least like the other man in anything save height, but neither of his
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ears had any lobes to speak of, and the top of them was pointed
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when he returned to the book. I looked him over pretty thoroughly and came
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to the conclusion that, in spite of the fact that his general appearance differed
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entirely from the other man's, they were really one and the same. But
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what, grumbled Walter, has that to do with the Black tom explosion.
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The last time this man came to the library, said Mary, was two
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days before the night you failed to arrive, two days before the explosion.
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And do you know what books are kept on shelf forty five? No,
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what the latest works on the chemistry of explosives. Walter sat up with a
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jerk that threatened to overthrow the table. Mary, He said, in a
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whisper, I've a hunch that you've succeeded where all the rest of us fell
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down. The disguises and the constant reference to books on explosives are certainly worth
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looking into. What name did this man give names? She corrected. I
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don't recall what they were or the addresses either, but it would be easy
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to find them on the cards. We don't have very many calls for books
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from shelf forty five. It doesn't matter, though, and Walters slipped back
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into his disconsolate mood. He wouldn't leave a lead as open as that,
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of course, No, certainly not, agreed Mary. But the last time
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he was there he asked for Professor Stevens's new book. It hadn't come in
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then, but I told him we expected it shortly. So unless you men
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have scared him off, he'll be back in a day or two, possibly
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in a new disguise. Why don't you see the librarian get a place as
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a tendant in the reference room, and I'll tip you off the instant I
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spot that pointed ear. That's the thing he can't hide. The next morning,
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there was a new employee in the reference room. No one knew where
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he came from, and no one save the librarian and Mary mcnillis, knew
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what he was there for, because his principal occupation appeared to be lounging around
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inconspicuously in the neighborhood of the information desk. There he stayed for three days,
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wondering whether this clue, like all the rest, would dissolve into thin
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air. About five o'clock on the afternoon of the third day, a man
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strolled up to Mary's desk and asked if Professor Stevens's book had come in yet.
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It was reposing at that moment on shelf forty five, as Mary well
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knew, but she said she did see and left the room, carefully arranging
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her hair at the back of her neck with her left hand, a signal
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which she and Dick had agreed upon the preceding evening. Before she returned,
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the new attendant had vanished, but Dick Walters in his usual garb, was
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loitering around the only entrance to the reference room, watching the suspect out of
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the corner of his eye. I'm sorry, Mary reported, but the Stevens
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book won't be in until tomorrow, and she was barely able to keep the
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anxiety out of her voice as she spoke. Had Dick gotten her signal?
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Would he be able to trail his man? Could he capture him without being
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injured? These and a score of other questions rushed through her mind as she
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saw the German leave the room. Once outside, well, she'd have to
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wait for Dick to tell her what happened. Then, the man who was
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interested in the chemistry of explosives apparently wasn't in the least afraid of being followed
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or He took a bus uptown, alighted at eighty third Street, and vanished
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into one of the innumerable small apartment houses in that section of the city.
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Walters kept close behind him, and he entered the lobby of the apartment house
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in time to hear his quarry ascending to the fourth floor. Then he signaled
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to the four men who had followed him up the avenue and a government owned
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a machine men who had been stationed outside the library in the event of just
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such an occurrence, and instructed two of them to guard the rear of the
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house while the other two remained in front. I'm going to make this hall
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myself, Walter stated, but I want you boys to cover up in case
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anything happens to me. No matter what occurs, don't let him get away.
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Shoot first, and asked questions afterward. And he had re entered the
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house almost before he finished beaking on the landing at the third floor. He
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paused long enough to give the minute the rear a chance to get located.
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Then a quick ring at the bell on the fourth floor, and he waited
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for action. Nothing happened. Another ring and still no response. As he
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pressed the button for the third time, the door swung slowly inward, affording
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only a glimpse of a dark, uninviting hall. But once he was inside,
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the door closed silently, and he heard a bolt slip into place.
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Simultaneously, a spotlight arranged over the doorway flashed on, and Dick was almost
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dazzled by the glare. Out of the darkness came the guttural inquiry. What
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do you want? Not a thing in the world, replied Walters, except
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to know if a man named Simpson lives here. No, came the voice,
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he does not get out, Sure I will if you'll pull back that
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bolt. What's the idea anyhow? You're as mysterious as if you were running
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a bomb factory or something. As he spoke, he ducked for if the
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words had the effect he hoped, the other would realize that he was cornered
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and attempt to escape. A guttural German oath, followed by a rapid movement
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of a man's hand toward his hip pocket, was the reply. In a
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flash, Dick slipped forward, bending low to avoid the expected attack, and
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seized the German and a half nelson that defied movement. Backing out of the
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circle of light, he held the helpless man in front of him as a
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shelter in case of an attack from other occupants of the apartment, and called
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for assist. The crash of glass at the rear told him that reinforcements had
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made their way up the fire escape and had broken in through the windows.
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A moment later came the sound of feet on the stairs, and the two
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other operatives were at the door, revolvers drawn and ready for action. But
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there wasn't any further struggle. Von Yueled or whatever his real name was for
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that was never decided, was alone and evidently realized that the odds were overwhelming.
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Meekly, almost placidly, he allowed the handcuffs to be slipped over his
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wrists and stood by as the secret servicemen searched the apartment. Not a line
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or record was found to implicate anyone else, But what they did discover was
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a box filled with bombs precisely like those picked up on the scene of the
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Black tom explosion, proofs sufficient to send the German to the penitentiary for ten
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years. For our laws unfortunately, do not permit of the death penalty for
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spies unless caught red handed by the military authorities that he was the man for
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whom they were searching. The mysterious number eight fifty nine was apparent from the
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fact that papers concealed in his desk contained full details as to the arrangement of
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the nemours plant at Wilmington, Delaware, with a dozen red dots indicative of
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the best places to plant bombs, of his associates and the manner in which
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he managed his organization. There wasn't the slightest trace, but the Black Tom
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explosion, if you recall, was the last big catastrophe of its kind in
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America, and the capture of von Yuld was the reason that more of the
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German plots didn't succeed. The Treasury Department realized this fact when Mary mcnillus,
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on the morning of the day she was to be married to Dick Walters U.
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S. S. S. Received a very handsome chest of silver,
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including a platter engraved to Miss Mary mcnillus, whose cleverness and keen perception saved
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property valued at millions of dollars. No one ever found out who sent it,
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but it's a safe bet that the order came from Washington by way of
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Wilmington, where the nemours plant still stands thanks to the quickness of Mary's Irish
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eyes. End of Chapter four