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Ep. 6 - A Matter of Record · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter six. A matter of record, What was that you mentioned last week?
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Something about the record of Chrysler's Drago serenade reminding you of the capture of
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some one, I asked Bill Quinn one summer evening, as he painfully hoisted
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his game leg upon the porch railing. Sure it does, replied Quinn,
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never fails. Put it on again, so I can get the necessary atmosphere,
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as you writers call it, and possibly I'll spill the yarn, provided
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you guarantee to keep the ginger ale flowing freely. That and olive oil are
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about the only throat lubricants left us. So I slipped on the record,
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rustled a couple of bottles from the ice box, and settled back comfortably.
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For when Quinn once started on one of his reminiscences of government detective work,
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he didn't like to be into rupted. That's the piece, all right,
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Bill remarked, as the strains of the violin drifted off into the night.
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Funny how a few notes of music like that could nail a criminal, while
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at the same time it was saving the lives of nobody knows how many other
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people remember, Paul Wimer, continued Quinn, picking up the thread of his
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story. He was the most dangerous of the entire gang that helped von Bernstorff,
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von Pappen and the rest of the crew plot against the United States at
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a time when we were supposed to be entirely neutral. An Austrian by birth,
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Wimer was as thoroughly a hunt at heart as anyone who ever served the
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Hohenzollers, And in spite of his size, he was as slippery as they
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make them. Back in the past somewhere he had been a detective in the
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service of the Atlas Line, but for years before the war was superintendent of
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the police attached to the Hamburg American boats. That, of course, gave
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him the inside track in every bit of deviltry he wanted to be mixed up
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in, for he had made it his business to cultivate the acquaintance of war
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frats, dive keepers, and all the rest of the scum of the Seven
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Seas that haunts the docks. Standing well over six feet, Wimer had a
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pair of fists that came in mighty handy in a scuffle, and a tongue
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that could curl itself around all the blasphemies of a dozen languages. There wasn't
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a waterfront where they didn't hate him, Neither was there a waterfront where they
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didn't fear him. Of course, when the war broke in August nineteen fourteen,
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the Hamburg American Line didn't have any further official use for Wimer. Their
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ships were tied up in neutral or home port, and Heir Paul was out
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of a job for at least ten minutes. But he was entirely too valuable
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a man for the German organization to overlook for longer than that, and von
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Pappen in Washington immediately added him to his organization with blanket instructions to go the
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limit on any dirty work he cared to undertake. Later, he worked for
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von Bernstorff, doctor Dumba, the Austrian ambassador, and doctor von Nuber,
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the Austrian consul in New York, but von Pappen had first claim upon his
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services and did not hesitate to press them, as proven by certain entries in
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the check book of the Military Attache during the spring and summer of nineteen fifteen.
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Of course, it didn't take the Secret Service and the men from the
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Department of Justice very long to get on to the fact that Weimer was altogether.
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They're too close to the German embassy for the safety and comfort of the
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United States government. But what were they to do about it. We weren't
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at war then, and you couldn't arrest a man merely because he happened to
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know von Papen and the rest of his precious companions. You had to have
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something on him, something that would stand up in court, and Paul Wimer
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was too almighty clever to let that happen. When you remember that it took
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precisely one year to land this Austrian, one year of constant watching and unceasing
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espionage, you will see how well he conducted himself. And the government sleuths
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weren't the only ones who were after him either. Captain Kenney of the New
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York Police Force lent mighty efficient aid and actually invented a new system of trailing
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in order to find out just what he was up to. In the old
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days, you told a man to go out and follow a suspect, and
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that was all there was to it. The shadow would trail along half a
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block or so in the rear, keeping his man always in view, and
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bring home a full account of what he had done. All day. But
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you couldn't do that with Wimer. He was too foxy. From what some
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of the boys have told me, I think he took a positive delight in
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throwing them off the scent, whether he had anything up its sleeve or not.
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One day, for example, you could have seen his big bulk swinging
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nonchalantly up Broadway as if he didn't have a care in the world. A
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hundred feet or more behind him was Bob Dugan, one of Kenney's men.
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When Wimer disappeared into the subway station at Times Square, Dugan was right behind
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him, and when the Austrian boarded the local for a Grand Central station,
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Dugan was on the same train, on the same car in fact. But
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when they reached the station things began to happen. Wimer left the Local and
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commenced to stroll up and down the platform, waiting until a local train and
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an express arrived at the same time. That was his opportunity. He made
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a step or two forward as if to board the express, and Dugan,
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not wishing to make himself too conspicuous, slipped on board just as the doors
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were closing, only to see Wimer pushed back and jam his way on the
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local variations of that stunt occurred time after time. Even the detailing of two
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men to follow him failed in its purpose, For the Austrian would enter a
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big office building, leap into an express elevator just as it was about to
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ascend, slip the operator a dollar to stop at one of the lower floors,
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and be lost for the day or until someone picked him up by accident.
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So Cap Kenney called in four of his best men and told them that
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it was essential that Weimer be watched. Two of you, he directed,
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stick with him all the time. Suppose you locate him the first thing in
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the morning at his house on twenty fourth Street, for example, you Cartrell
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Station yourself two blocks up the street, Gary, you go the same distance
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down. Then, no matter which way he starts, he'll have one of
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you in front of him and one behind. The man in front will have
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to use his wits to guess which way he intends to go and to beat
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him to it. If he boards a car, the man in front can
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pick him up with a certainty that the other will cover the trail in the
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rear. In that way, you ought to be able to find out where
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he is going and possibly what he is doing there. The scheme, thanks
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to the quick thinking of the men assigned to the job, worked splendidly for
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months. At least it worked in so far as keeping a watch on Wymer
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was concerned. But that was all. In the summer of nineteen fifteen,
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the government knew precisely where Wymer had been for the past six months, with
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whom he had talked to, and so on, but the kernel of the
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nut was missing. There wasn't the least clue to what he had talked about
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and what deviltry he had planned. Without that information, all the dope the
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government had was about as useful as a movie to a blind man. Washington
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was so certain that Wymer had the key to a number of very important developments,
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among them the first attempts to blow up the welland canal, that the
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Chief of the Secret Service made a special trip to New York to talk to
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Kenny. Isn't it possible, he suggested, to plant your men close enough
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to Wimer to find out, for example, what he talks about over the
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phone. Kenny smiled grimly. Chief, he said, that's been done.
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We've tapped every phone that Wymer's likely to use in the neighborhood of his house,
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And every time he talks from a public station, one of our men
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cuts in from near by by an arrangement with Central and gets every word.
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But that bird is too wary to be caught with chaff of that kind.
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He's evidently worked out a verbal code of some kind that changes every day.
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He tells the man at the other end, for example, to be at
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the drug store in the corner of seventy third and Broadway at three o'clock tomorrow
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afternoon and wait for a phone call in the name of Williams. Our man
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is always at the place at the appointed hour, but no call ever arrives.
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Seventy third and Broadway very evidently means some other address, but it's useless
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to try and guess which one. You'd have to have a man at every
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pay station in town to follow that lead. How about overhearing his directions to
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the men he meets in the open, Not a chance in the world.
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His rendezvous are always public places, the Pennsylvania or Grand Central station, a
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movie theater, a hotel, lobby, or the like. There he can
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put his back against the wall and make sure no one is listening in he's
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on to all the tricks of the trade, and it will take a mighty
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clever man or a bunch of them to nail him, mused the Chief.
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Well at that, I believe I've got the man anyone I know, Yes,
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I think you do. Morton Maxwell remember him work on the Castleman diamond
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case here a couple of years ago for the customs people, and was also
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responsible for uncovering the men behind the sugar tax fraud. He isn't in the
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Service, but he's working for the Department of Justice, and I'm certain they'll
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turn him loose on this if I asked them to. Maxwell can get to
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the bottom of Wimer's business, if anyone can, let me talk to Washington.
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And within an hour after the Chief had hung up the receiver, Morton
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Maxwell, better known as mort was headed toward New York with instructions to report
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at Secret Service headquarters in that city. Once there, the Chief and Kenny
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went over the whole affair with him. Cotrell and Garry and the other men
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who had been engaged in shadowing the elusive Wimer were called in to tell their
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part of the story, and every card was laid upon the table. When
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the conference concluded, sometime after midnight, the Chief turned to Maxwell and inquired,
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well, what's your idea about it? For a full minute, mort
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smoked on in silence and gazed off into space. Men who had just met
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him were apt to think this oppose a play to the grandstand, but those
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who knew him best realized that Maxwell's alert mind was working fastest in such moments,
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and that he much preferred not to make any decision until he had turned
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things over in his head. There's just one point which doesn't appear to have
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been covered, he replied, then, as Kenny started to cut in,
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No, Chief, I said, appeared not to have been covered very possibly.
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You have all the information on it and forgot to hand it out.
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Who does this Wimer live with? He lives by himself in a house on
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twenty fourth Street near seventh Avenue. Boards there, but has the entire second
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floor. So far as we've been able to find out. He has never
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been married, No trace of any wife on this side anyhow, never travels
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with women, probably afraid they'd talk too much. Has he any relatives?
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None that I know of. Wait a minute, Coughtrell interrupted. I dug
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back into Wimer's record before the war, ended his official connection with the steamship
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company, and one of the points I picked up was that he had a
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cousin, a man named George Busch, formerly employed on one of the boats.
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Where is Bush now, asked Maxwell. We haven't been able to locate
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him, admitted the police detective. Not that we've tried very hard, because
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the trail didn't lead in his direction. I don't even know that he is
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in this country, but it's likely that he is because he was on one
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of the boats that was interned here when the war broke again. It was
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a full minute before Maxwell spoke, butsch he said, finally appears to be
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the only link between Wimer and the outer world. It's barely possible that he
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knows something, and as we can't afford to overlook any clue, suppose we
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start work along that line. I'll dig into it myself the first thing in
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the morning, and I certainly would appreciate any assistance that your men could give
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me. Chief tell them to make discreet inquiries about Buch, his appearance,
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habits, et cetera, and to try to find out whether he is on
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this side. Now I'm going to turn in for something seems to tell me
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that the busy season has arrived. At that Maxwell wasn't far wrong. The
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weeks that followed were well filled with work, but it was entirely unproductive of
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results. Wimer was shadowed day and night, his telephones tapped, and his
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mail examined, but save for the fact that his connection with the German embassy
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became increasingly apparent, no further evidence was forthcoming. The search for Buch was
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evidently futile, for that personage appeared to have disappeared from the face of the
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earth. All that Maxwell and the other men who worked on the matter could
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discover was that Buch, a young Austrian whose description they secured, had formerly
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been an intimate of Wimer. The latter had obtained his appointment to a minor
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office in the Hamburg American line, and Butch was commonly supposed to be a
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stool pigeon for the master plotter. But right there the trail stopped. No
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one appeared to know whether the Austrian was in New York, or the United
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States for that matter, though one informant did admit that it was quite probable
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Butch and the big fellow had a rowed The last time over was the information
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Maxwell secured at the cost of a few drinks, something about some money that
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Wimer is supposed to have owed him fifteen dollars or some such amount. I
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didn't hear about it until afterward, but it appears to have been a pretty
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lively scrap while it lasted. Of course, Butch didn't have a chance against
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the big fellow. He could handle a bull, but the young Austrian threatened
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to tip his hand, said he knew a lot of stuff that would be
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worth a good deal more money than was coming to him, and all that
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sort of thing. But the ship docked the next day, and I haven't
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seen or heard of him since. The idea of foul play at once leaped
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into Maxwell's mind, but investigation of police records failed to disclose the discovery of
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anything answering to the description of George Busch, and as Captain Kenny pointed out,
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it is a decidedly difficult matter to dispose of a corpse in such a
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way as to not arouse at least the suspicions of the police. As a
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last resort, about the middle of September, Maxwell had a reward posted on
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the bulletin board of every police station in New York and the surrounding country for
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the apprehension of George Buch Austrian age, about twenty four, height, five
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feet eight inches, hair, blonde complexion, fair eyes, blue sandy mustache.
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As Captain Kenny pointed out, though the description would apply to several thousand
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men of German parentage in the city, and to a good many more who
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didn't have a drop of teutonic blood in their veins. True enough, Maxwell
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was forced to admit, but we can't afford to overlook a bet, even
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if it is a thousand to one shot. As luck would have it,
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the thousand to one shot one. On September twenty fifth, nineteen seventeen,
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Detective Garry returned to headquarters distinctly crestfallen. Wimer had given him the slip in
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company with another man whom the detective did not know. The Austrian had been
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walking up sixth Avenue that afternoon when a machine swung in from thirty sixth Street,
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and the Austrian had leaped aboard without waiting for it to come to a
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full stop. Of course, there wasn't a taxi in sight, said Gary
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ruefully, and before I convinced the nearest chauffeur that my badge wasn't phony.
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They'd gone. That's the first time in months, Gary replied. He knows
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that he's followed, all right, and he's cagy enough to keep in the
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open and pretend to be above board, right, commented the Department of Justice.
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Operative, and this move would appear to indicate that something was doing better.
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Phone all your stations to watch out for him, cap But nothing more
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was seen or heard of Airwimer for five days. Meanwhile, events moved rapidly
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from Maxwell. On September twenty sixth, the day after the Austrian disappeared,
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one of the policemen whose beat lay along Fourteenth Street near Third Avenue, asked
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to see the government detective. My name's Riley, announced the copper, with
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a brogue as broad as the toes of his shoes. Does this Austrian?
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This here? Butch fella you're looking for like music? Is he nuts about
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it? Music? Echoed Maxwell. I'm sure I don't know. But wait
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a minute, Yes, that's what that chap he used to know him on
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the boat told me, saying he was forever playing a fiddle when he was
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off duty, and that Wimer threw it overboard one day in a fit of
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rage. Why what's the connection? Nothing in particular, save that a little
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girl I'm rather sweet on works in a music store on Fourteenth Street, and
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she and I was talking things over last night, and I happened to mention
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the reward offered for this bush fellow. Why, says she, That sounds
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just like the duchy that used to come into the shop a whole lot a
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year or so ago. He was crazy about music and kept himself pretty nigh
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broke. Buying those expensive new records got me to save him every violin one
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that came out. Um, yes, muttered Maxwell. But has the young
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lady seen anything of this chap lately that she has not? Riley replied,
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And right, there's the big idea. Once a week regular another Dutchman comes
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in and buys a record. And he told Katy that's my girl's name.
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Last winter that the selections were for a man that used to be a steady
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customer of hers, but who is now laid up in bed, in bed
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for over a year, exclaimed Maxwell, his face lighting up, held prisoner
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somewhere in the neighborhood of that shop on Fourteenth Street. Because the big Austrian
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hasn't the nerve to make away with him, and yet fears that he knows
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too much. Look here, Riley, suppose you and miss Katy take a
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few nights off. I'll substitute for her and make it all right with the
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man who owns the store. Then I can get a line on this buyer
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of records for sick men. Won't it be better, sir, if we
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hung around outside the store and let Katy give us the high sign when he
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comes in, then we could both trail him back to where he lives.
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You're right, Riley, it would Will I meet you tonight at the corner
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of fourteenth Street and Fight Avenue at eight o'clock, Katy says, The man
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never gets there before nine. I'll be there, said Maxwell, and he
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was. But nothing out of the ordinary rewarded their vigil the first night,
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nor the second. On the third night, however, just after the clock
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in the Metropolitan Tower had boomed nine times, a rather nondescript individual sauntered into
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the music store, and Riley's quick eye saw the girl behind the counter put
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her left hand to her chest. Then she coughed, that's the signal,
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sir, warned the policeman in a whisper, and that's the guy or after
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had the man turned around as he made his way toward a dark and forbidding
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house on thirteenth Street, not far from Fourth Avenue, he might have caught
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sight of two shadows skulking along not fifty feet behind him, but at that
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he would have to have been pretty quick, for Maxwell was taking no chances
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on losing his prey, and he had cautioned the policeman not to make a
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sound. When their quarry ascended the steps of number two forty seven. Riley
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started to move after him, but the Department of Justice operative halted him.
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There's no hurry, stated Maxwell. He doesn't suspect we're here, and besides,
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it doesn't make any difference if he does lock the door. I've got
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a skeleton key handy that's guaranteed to open anything. Riley grunted, but stayed
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where he was until Maxwell gave the signal to advance. Once inside the door,
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which responded to a single turn to the key, the policeman and the
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government agent halted in the pitch black darkness and listened. Then from an upper
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floor came the sound for which Maxwell had been waiting the first golden notes of
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a violin played by a master hand. The distance and the closed doorway which
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intervened killed all the harsh mechanical tone of the phonograph, and only the wonderful
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melody of Drigo's serenade came down to them on tiptoe. Though they knew their
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movements would be masked by the sounds of the music, Riley and Maxwell crept
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up the third floor and halted outside the door from which the sounds came.
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Wait until the record is over, directed Maxwell, and then break down that
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door. Have your gun handy, and don't hesitate to shoot anyone who tries
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to injure Bush. I'm certain he's held prisoner here, and it may be
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that the men who are guarding him have instructions not to let him escape at
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any cost. Ready, let's go. The final note of the Chrysler record
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had not died away before Riley's shoulder hit the flimsy door, and the two
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detectives were in the room. Maxwell barely had time to catch a glimpse of
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a pale wan figure on the bed and to sense the fact that there were
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two other men in the room. When there was a shout from Riley and
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a spurt of flame from his revolver. With a cry, the man nearest
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the bed dropped his arm and a pistol clattered to the floor, the barrel
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still singing from the impact of the policeman's bullet. The second man, realizing
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that time was precious, leaped straight toward Maxwell, his fingers reaching for the
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agent's throat. With a half laugh, More ubbed his automatic and brought the
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butt down with sickening force on his assailant's head. Then he swung around and
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covered the man whom Riley had disarmed. Don't worry about him, Sir,
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said the policeman. His arm will be numb half an hour from now.
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What do you want to do with the lad in the bed? Get him
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out of here as quickly as we can. We won't bother with these swine.
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They have the law on their side anyway, because we broke in here
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without a warrant. I only want Bush. When he had propped the young
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Austrian up in a comfortable chair in the Federal Building and had given him a
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glass of brandy to strengthen his nerves. The Lord only knows what they'll have
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to do in the future. Maxwell got the whole story and more than he
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had dared hoped for. Bush, following his quarrel with Wimer, had been
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held prisoner in the house on Thirteenth Street for over a year because, as
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Maxwell had figured, the Austrian didn't have the nerve to kill him and didn't
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dare let him loose. Barely enough food was allowed to keep him alive,
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and the only weakness that his cousin had shown was in permitting the purchase of
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one phonograph record a week in order to cheer him up a little. Naturally,
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said Busch, I chose the Chrysler records because he's an Austrian and a
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marvelous violinist. Did Wimer ever come to see you, inquired Maxwell. He
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came in every now and then to taunt me and to say that he was
28:44
going to have me thrown in the river some day soon. That didn't frighten
28:48
me, but there were other things that did. He came in last week,
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for example, and boasted that he was going to blow up a big
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canal, and I was afraid he might be caught or killed. That would
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have meant no more money for the men who were guarding me and I was
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too weak to walk even to the window to call for help. A big
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canal, Maxwell repeated, he couldn't mean the Panama No, that's impossible.
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I have it the welland canal, and in an instant he was calling the
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Niagara Police on the long distance phone, giving a detailed description of Wimer and
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his companions. As it turned out, concluded Quinn reaching for his empty glass.
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Wymer had already been looking over the ground. He was arrested, however,
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before the dynamite could be planted, and thanks to Butch's evidence, indicted
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for violation of Section thirteen of the Penal Code. Thus did a phonograph record
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and thirty pieces of silver the third thirty half dollars that Weimer owned Busch lead
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directly to the arrest of one of the most dangerous spies in the German service.
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Let's have mister Drigo's serenade once more and pledge mort Maxwell's health than ginger
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Ale unless you have us still concealed around the house, and if you have,
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I will be in duty bound to tell Jimmy Reynolds about it. He's
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the lad that holds the record for persistency and cleverness in discovering moonshiners, end
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of chapter six,