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Ep. 16 - After Seven Years · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter sixteen. After seven years, Bill Quinn was disgusted. Some one evidently
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afflicted with an in growing sense of humor, had sent him the prospectus of
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a school which professed to be able to teach budding aspirants the art of becoming
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a successful detective for the sum of twenty five dollars. And Quinn couldn't appreciate
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the humor. How to become a detective in ten lessons? He snorted,
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It only takes one for the man who's got the right stuff in him,
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and the man that hasn't better stay out of the game altogether. Well,
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I retorted, anxious to stir up any kind of an argument that might lead
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to one of Quinn's tales about the exploits of Uncle Sam sleuths. Just what
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does it take to make a detective? It was a moment or two before
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Quinn replied, Then there are only three qualities necessary, he replied, common
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sense, the power of observation, and perseverance. Given these three, with
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possibly a dash of luck thrown in for good measure, and you'll have a
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crime expert who could stand the heroes of fiction on their heads. Take Larry
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Simmons, for example. No One would ever have accused him of having the
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qualifications of a detective any more than they would have suspected him of being one.
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But Larry drew a good sized salary from the Bureau of Pensions because he
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possessed the three qualities I mentioned. He had the common sense of a physician,
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the observation of a trained newspaper reporter, and the perseverance of a bulldog.
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Once he sunk his teeth in a problem, he never let loose,
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which was the reason that very few people ever put anything over on the Engine
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Bureau as long as Larry was on the job. That cap up there,
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and Quinn pointed to a stained and dilapidated bit of headgear which hung upon the
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wall of his den is, a memento of one of Simmons's cases. The
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man who bought it would tell you that I'm dead right when I say that
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Larry was persevering. That's putting it mildly. Quite a while back, continued
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Quinn, picking up the thread of his story. There was a man out
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in Saint Joseph, Missouri named Dave Holden. No one appeared to know where
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he came from, and as he conducted himself quietly and didn't mix in with
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his neighbor's affairs. No one cared very much. Holden hadn't been in town
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more than a couple of weeks when one of the older inhabitants happened to inquire
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if he were any kin to Old Dave Holden, who had died only a
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year or two before. No said, Holden, I don't believe I am.
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My folks all came from Ohio, and I understand that this Holden was
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a Missourian. That's right, agreed the other. And a queer character too.
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Guess he was pretty nigh the only man that fought on the Union side
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in the Civil War that didn't stick the government for a pension. Had it
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coming to him too, because he was a captain when the war ended,
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But he always said he didn't consider that Uncle Sam owed him anything for doing
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his duty. Spite of the protest of his friends, Dave wouldn't ever sign
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a pension blank either. A few more questions, carefully directed gave Holden the
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history of his namesake, and that night he'd lay awake trying to figure out
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whether the plan which had popped into his head was safe. It promised some
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easy money, but there was the element of risk to be considered. After
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all, he concluded, I won't be doing anything that isn't strictly within the
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law. My name is David Holden, just as the old man's was.
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The worst that they can do is turned down the application. I won't be
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committing forgery or anything of the kind. And maybe it'll slip through, which
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would mean a pile of money, because they'll kick in with all that accumulated
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during the past fifty years. So it was that, in the course of
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time, an application was filed at the Bureau of Pensions in Washington for a
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pension due David Holden of Saint Joseph, Missouri, who had fought in the
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Civil War with the rank of captain. But when the application had been sent
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over to the War Department so that it might be compared with the records on
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file there, it came back with the red ink notation that Captain David Holden
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had died two years before, giving the precise date of his demise as evidence.
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The moment that the document reached the desk of the Supervisor of Pensions,
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he pressed one of the little pearl buttons in front of him and asked that
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Larry Simmons be sent in. When Larry arrived, the chief handed him the
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application without a word. Right, I'll look into this, said Larry,
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folding the paper and slipping it into the pocket of his coat. Look into
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it, echoed the supervisor. You'll do more than that. You'll locate this
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man Holden or whatever his right name is, and see that he gets all
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that's coming to him. There've been too many of these cases lately. Apparently
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people think that all they have to do is to file an application for a
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pension and then go off and spend the money, catch the first train for
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Saint Joe and wire me. When you've landed your man, the district attorney
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will attend to the rest of the matter. The location of David Holden,
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as Simmons found, was not the simplest of jobs. The pension applicant,
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being comparatively a newcomer, was not well known in town, and Simmons finally
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had to fall back upon the expedient of watching the post office box which Holden
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had given as his address, framing a dummy letter so that the suspect might
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not think that he was being watched. Holden, however, had rented the
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box for the sole purpose of receiving mail from the pension Bureau. He had
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given the number to no one else, and the fact that the box contained
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what appeared to be an advertisement from a clothing store made him stop and wonder.
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By that time, however, Simmons had him well in sight and followed
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him to the boarding house on the outskirts of the town where he was staying
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that evening. While he was still wondering at the enterprise of a store that
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could obtain a Post office box number from a government bureau at Washington, the
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solution of the mystery came to him in a decidedly unexpected manner. The house
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in which Holden was staying was old fashioned, one of the kind that are
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heated theoretically, at least by registers open gratings in the wall. Holden's room
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was directly over the parlor on the first floor, and the shaft which carried
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the hot air made an excellent sound transmitter. So it happened that Simmons,
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after having made a number of inquiries around town about the original Dave Holden,
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called at the boarding house that night to discover what the landlady knew about the
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other man of the same name. Who was seated in the room above.
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Suddenly, like a voice from nowhere, came the statement, in a high
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pitched feminine voice, I really don't know anything about him at all. Mister
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Holden came here about six weeks ago and asked me to take him in to
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board. He seemed to be a very nice, quiet gentleman who was willing
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to pay his rent in advance, so I let him have one of the
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best rooms in the house. At the mention of his name, Holden listened
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intently. Who was inquiring about him? And why there was only a confused
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mumble apparently a man's reply, pitched in a low tone, And then the
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voice of the landlady again came clearly through the register. Oh, I'm sure
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he wouldn't do anything like that, mister Holden is. But that was all
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that the pension applicant waited for. Moving with the rapidity of a frightened animal,
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he secured one or two articles of value from his dresser, crammed a
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hat into his pocket, slipped on a raincoat, and vaulted out of the
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window, alighting on the sloping roof of a shed just below. Before he
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had quitted the room, however, he had caught the words arrest on a
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charge of attempting to obtain money under false pretenses. Some two minutes later there
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was a knock on his door and a voice demanded admittance. There was no
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reply again, the demand followed by a rattling of the door knob and a
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tentative shake of the door. In all, it was probably less than five
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minutes after Larry Simmons had entered the parlor. Before he had burst in the
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door of Holden's room, but the bird had flown and the open window pointed
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to the direction of his flight. Unfortunately for the operative, the night was
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dark and the fugitive was decidedly more familiar with the surrounding country than Larry was.
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By the time he had secured the assistance of the police, half an
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hour had elapsed, and there weren't even any telltale footprints to show in which
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direction the missing man had gone. See that men are placed as to guard
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the railroad station. Simmons directed, and pass the word up and down the
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line that a medium sized man about thirty five years of age, with black
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hair and a rather ruddy complexion, a man wanted by the government on a
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charge of false pretenses is trying to make his escape. If anyone reports him,
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let me know at once that under the circumstances, was really all that
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Larry could do. It ought to be an easy matter to locate the fugitive,
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he figured, and it would only be a question of a few days
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before he was safely in jail. Bright and early the next morning, the
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operative was awakened by a bellboy who informed him that the Chief of Police would
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like to see him. Show him in, said Larry, fully expecting to
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see the chief enter with a handcuffed prisoner, But the head of the police
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force came in alone, carrying a bundle, which he gravely presented to Simmons.
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What's this, inquired the pension agent. All that's left of your friend
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Holden, was the reply. One of my men reported late last night that
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he had heard a splash in the river, as though someone had jumped off
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the wharf, but he couldn't find out anything more. To tell the truth,
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he didn't look very hard because we had our hands full with a robbery
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of Greene's clothing store. Someone broke in there. And yes, but what
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about Holden, Simmons interrupted. Guess you'll have to drag the river for him,
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answered the chief. We found his coat and vest and raincoat in the
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dock this morning, and on top of them was this note addressed to you.
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The note, as Larry found an instant later, read, I'd rather
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die in the river than go to jail. Tell your boss that he can
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pay two pensions now, one for each of the Dave Holden's. The signature,
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almost illegible, was that of David Holden number two. No doubt that
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your man heard the splash when Holden went overboard last night inquired the operative.
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Not the least in the world. He told me about it, but I
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didn't connect it with the man you were after. And besides, I was
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too busy right then to give it much thought. Any chance of recovering the
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body mighty little. At this time of the year, the currants good and
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strong, and the chances are that he won't turn up this side of the
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Mississippi if then. It was only by accident that we found his cap.
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It had lodged under the dock, and we fished it out less than half
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an hour ago. And the chief pointed to a water soaked piece of cloth
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which Simmons recognized as the one which Holden had been wearing the evening before.
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Well, I don't suppose there's anything more that we can do, admitted Larry.
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I'd like to have the river dragged as much as possible, though I
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agree with you that the chances for recovering the body are very slim. Will
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you look after that? Sure? I will, and anything else you want
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done. The chief was nothing if not obliging, a fact which Simmons incorporated
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in his official report, which he filed a few days later, a report
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which stated that David Holden, wanted on a charge of attempting to obtain money
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under false pretenses, had committed suicide by drowning rather than submit to arrest.
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The body has not been recovered, the report admitted, but this is not
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to be considered unusual at this time of the year when the current is very
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strong. The note left by the fugitive is attached back from Washington, came
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the wire. Better luck next time, anyhow, Holden won't bother us again.
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If this were a moving pitcher, Quinn continued, after a pause,
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there would be a subtitle here announcing the fact that seven years are supposed to
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elapse. There also probably would be a highly decorated explanatory title, in forming
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the audience that Uncle Sam never forgets nor forgives a fact that is so perfectly
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true that it's a marvel that people persist in trying to beat the government.
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Then the scene of the film would shift to Seattle, Washington. They would
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have to cut back a little to make it clear that Larry Simmons had,
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in the meantime left the Pension Bureau and entered the employment of the Post Office
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Department, being desirous of a little more excitement and a few more thrills than
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his former job afforded. But he was still working for Uncle Sam, and
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his memory, like that of his employer, was long and tenacious. One
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of the minor cases would had been bothering the department for some time past was
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that of a ring of fortune tellers, who, securing information in devious ways,
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would pretend that it had come to them from the spirit world and use
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it for purposes which closely approximated blackmail. Simmons, being in San Francisco at
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the time, was ordered to proceed to Seattle and look into the matter,
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posing as a gentleman of leisure with plenty of money and but little care as
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to the way in which he spended. It wasn't long before he was steered
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into what appeared to be the very center of the ring, the residence of
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Madame Ahara, who professed to be able to read the stars, commune with
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spirits, and otherwise obtain information of an occult type. There, Larry went
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through all the usual stages palmistry, spiritualism, and clear voyance, and chuckled
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when he found, after his third visit that his pocket had been picked of
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a letter purporting to contain the facts about an escapade in which he had been
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mixed up a few years ago. The letter, of course, was a
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plant placed there for the sole purpose of providing a lead for Madame and her
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associates to follow, and they weren't long in taking the tip. The very
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next afternoon, the government agent received a telephone call notifying him that Madam had
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some news of great importance which she desired to impart, information which had come
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to her from the other world and in which she felt certain he would be
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interested. Larry asked if he might bring a friend with them, but the
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request, as he had expected, was promptly refused. The would be blackmailers
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were too clever to allow first hand evidence to be deduced against them. They
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wished to deal only with the principles, or, as Madam informed him over
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the phone, the message was of such nature that only he should hear it.
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Very well, replied Simmons, I'll be there at eleven this evening.
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It was not his purpose to force the issue at this time. In fact,
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he planned to submit to the first demand for money and trust to the
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confidence which this would inspire to render the blackmailers less cautious in the future.
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But something occurred which upset the entire scheme and for a time at least,
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threatened disaster to the post office schemes. Thinking that it might be well to
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look the ground over before dark, Larry strolled out to Madame Ahara's about five
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o'clock in the afternoon and took up his post on the opposite side of the
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street, studying the house from every angle. While he was standing there,
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a man came out, a man who was dressed in the height of fashion,
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but whose face was somehow vaguely familiar. The tightly waxed mustache and the
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iron gray goatee seemed out of place. For Simmons felt that the last time
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he had seen the man. He had been clean shaven. Where was it,
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he thought, as he kept the man in sight, though on the
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opposite side of the street. New York, No, Washington, hardly Saint
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Louis. No, it was somewhere where he was wearing a cap, a
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cap that was water stained. And I've got it in Saint Joseph, the
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man who committed suicide. Then I went to arrest him for attempting to defraud
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the pension bureau. It's he sure is shooting. But just as Simmons started
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across the street, the traffic cop raised his arm, and when the apparently
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interminable stream of machines had passed, the man with the mustache was nowhere to
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be seen. He had probably slipped into one of the nearby office buildings.
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But which that was a question which worried Larry for a moment or two.
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Then he came to the conclusion that there was no sense in trying to find
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his man at this moment. The very fact that he was in Seattle was
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enough. The police could find him with little difficulty. But what had Holden
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been doing at the clairvoyance? Had he fallen into the power of the ring,
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or was it possible that he was one of the blackmailers himself. The
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more Larry thought about the matter, the more he came to the conclusion that
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here was an opportunity to kill two birds with a single stone, to drive
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home at least the entering wedge of the campaign against the clairvoyance, and at
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the same time to land the man who had alluded him seven years before.
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The plan which he finally evolved was daring, but he realized that the element
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of time was essential. Holden must not be given another opportunity to slip through
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the net. That night, when Larry kept his appointment at Madame's, he
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saw to it that a cordon of police was thrown around the entire block,
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with instructions to allow no one to leave until after a prearranged signal. Don't
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prevent anyone from coming into the house, Simmons directed, but see that not
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a soul gets away from it. Also, you might be on the lookout
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for trouble. The crowd's apt to get nasty, and we can't afford to
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take chances with them. A tall, dark skinned man attired in an Arabian
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burnous and wearing a turban answered the ring at the door, precisely as Larry
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anticipated, for the stage was always set to impress visitors. Madam herself never
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appeared in the richly decorated room where the crystal gazing seances were held, preferring
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to remain in the background and to allow a girl who went by the name
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of Yvette to handle visitors. The explanation being that Madame receives the spirit messages
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and transmits them to Yvette, her assistant. Simmons therefore knew that instead of
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dealing with an older and presumably more experienced woman, he would only have to
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handle a girl, and it was upon this that he placed his principal reliance.
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Everything went along strictly according to schedule. Yvette seated on the opposite side
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of a large crystal ball in which she read strange messages from the other world.
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Visions transmitted from the cellar by means of a cleverly constructed series of mirrors.
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Told the operative everything that had been outlined in the letter taken from his
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pocket on the preceding night, adding additional touches founded on facts which Larry had
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been careless enough to let slip during his previous visits. Then she concluded with
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a very thinly veiled thread of blackmail if the visitor did not care to kick
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in with a certain sum of money. Larry listened to the whole pilaver in
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silence, but his eyes were busy trying to pierce the dim light in which
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the room was shrouded. So far as he could see, the door through
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which he had entered formed the only means of getting into the room. But
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there were a number of rugs and draperies upon the walls, and of which
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might easily mask a doorway. When the girl had finished, the operative leaned
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forward and hitched his chair around so that he could speak in a whisper.
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If you know what's good for you, he cautioned, don't move. I've
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got you covered in the first place, and secondly, there's a solid cordon
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of police around this house. Careful, not a sound. I'm not after
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you. I want the people who are behind you, Madame and her associates.
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This blackmailing game has gone about far enough. But I'll see that you
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get off with a suspended sentence if you do as I tell you. If
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not, and the very abruptness with which he stopped made the threat all the
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more convincing. What what do you want me to do, stammered the girl,
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her voice barely audible. Turn state's evidence and tip me off to everyone
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who's in on this thing. Was Larry's reply, couched in the lowest of
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tones. There's not a chance of escape for any of you, so you
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might as well do it and get it over with. Besides that, I
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want to know where I can find a man with a waxed mustache and iron
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gray goatee who left this house at ten minutes past five this afternoon, Madame,
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exclaimed the girl. Davidson, Yes, Madame, and Davidson, if
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that's the name he goes by now, it was Holden the last time I
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saw him. He and the girl's voice was a mere breath. He is,
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Madame, what, Yes, there is no Madame Ahara. Davidson runs
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the whole thing. He is. But at that moment, one of the
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rugs on the wall which Larry was facing, swung outward, and a man
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sprang into the room, a man whose face was purple with rage, and
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who leaped sidewise as he saw Larry's hand snap an automatic into view above the
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pedestal on which the crystal ball reposed. In a flash, Simmons recognized two
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things, his danger and the fact that the man who had just entered was
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Holden alias Davidson, blackmailer and potential thief. Before the government agent had time
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to aim, the head of the clairvoyant ring fired, but his bullet,
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instead of striking Larry, shattered the crystal ball into fragments, and the room
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was plunged into total darkness. In spite of the fact that he knew the
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shot would bring speedy relief from outside the house, Simmons determined to capture his
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man single handed and alive, half leaping, half falling from the chair in
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which he had been seated. The operatives sprang forward in an attempt to nail
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his man while the ladder was still dazed by the darkness, but his foot
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catching in one of the thick rugs which carpeted the floor, tripped him and
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he fell a bullet from the other's revolver, plowing through the fleshy part of
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his arm. The flash, however, showed him the position of his adversary,
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and it was the work of only a moment to slip forward and seize
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the blackmailer around the waist, his right hand gripping the man's wrist and forcing
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it upward so that he was powerless to use his revolver. For a full
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minute, they rustled in the inky darkness, oblivious to the fact that the
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sound of blows on the outer door indicated the arrival of reinforcements. Then Larry
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let go of the blackmailer's arm, and whirling him rapidly around, secured a
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half nelson that threatened to dislocate his neck. Drop it, he snarled,
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drop that gun before I wring your head off, and the muffled thud as
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the revolver struck the floor was the signal that Holden had surrendered. A moment
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later, the light in the center of the room was snapped on, and
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the police sergeant inquired if Larry needed any assistance. No, replied Simmons grimly,
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but you might lend me a pair of bracelets. This bird got away
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from me once, some seven years ago, and I'm not taking any more
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chances. End of chapter sixteen.