Latest / True Tales of The Secret Service / Ep. 18 - Thirty Thousand Yards of Silk

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Ep. 18 - Thirty Thousand Yards of Silk · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter eighteen thirty thousand yards of Silk. I'd sure like to lead the life
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of one of those fictional detective heroes, muttered Bill Quinn, formerly of the
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United States Secret Service, as he tossed aside the last volume of crime stories
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that had come to his attention. Nothing to do betrayal murderers and find the
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person who lifted the diamond necklace and stuff of that kind. They never have
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a case that isn't interesting, or for that matter, one in which they
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aren't successful. Must be a great life. But aren't the detective stories of
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real life interesting and oftentimes exciting? I inquired, adding that those which Quinn
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had already told me indicated that the career of a government operative was far from
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being deadly monotonous. Some of them are, he admitted, but many of
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them drag along for months or even years, sometimes petering out for pure lack
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of evidence. Those, of course, are the cases you never hear of,
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the ones where Uncle Sam's men fall down on the job. Oh yes,
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they're fallible, all right. They can't solve every case any more than
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a doctor can save the life of every patient he attends. But the percentage,
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though high, doesn't approach the success of your Sherlock Holmeses and your thinking
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machines, your Grice's and sweet Waters and Lecarques. How is it, then,
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that every story you've told dealt with the success of a government agent,
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never with his failure, Quinn smiled reminiscently for a moment. Then what do
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doctors do with their mistakes, he asked, They bury him. And that's
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what any real detective will do, try to forget, except for hoping that
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someday he'll run up against the man who tricked him again. Most of the
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yarns I've told you revolved around some of the relics of this room, waving
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his hand to indicate the walls of his library, And these are all momentums
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of successful cases. There's no use in keeping the other kind. Failures are
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too common and brains too scarce. That bit of silk up there, Oh
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yes, I interrupted, the one that formed part of Alice Norcross's wedding dress
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and figured in one of the most sensational plots to defraud the government that was
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ever uncovered, added Quinn. If Ezra Marks hadn't located that shipment, I
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wouldn't have had that piece of silk and there wouldn't any story to tell.
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So you see, it's really a circle after all. Marx Quinn went On
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was one of the few men connected with any branch of the government organizations who
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really lived up to the press agent notices of the detectives you read about in
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the first place. He looked like he might have stepped out of a book,
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big and long legged and lanky, a typical Yankee with all of the
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New Englander's shrewdness and common sense. If you turned Ezra loose on a case,
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you could be sure that he wouldn't sit down and try to work it
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out by deduction. Neither would he plunge in and attempt to buy sheer bravado
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and gunplay to put the thing over. He'd mix the two methods and more
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often than not come back with the answer. Then two. Marx had the
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very happy faculty of drawing assignments that turned out to be interesting. Maybe it
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was luck, but more than likely it was because he followed plans that made
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him so, preferring to wait until he had all the strings to a case
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and then staged a big roundup of the people implicated. You remember the case
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of the Englishman who smuggled uncut diamonds in the bowl of his pipe. And
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the one you wrote under the title of wah Lee and the Flower of Heaven,
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Well, those were typical of Ezra's methods. The first was almost entirely
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analytical, the second mainly gun play plus a painstaking survey of the field he
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had to cover. But when Marx was notified that it was up to him
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to find out who was running big shipments of valuable silks across the Canadian border
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without the formality of visiting the custom house and making the customary pain he found
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it advisable to combine the two courses. It was through a wholesale dealer in
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silks in Seattle, Washington, that the Custom Service first learned of the arrival
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of a considerable quantity of this valuable merchandise offered through certain underground channels at a
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price which clearly labeled it as smuggled. Possibly the dealer was peeved because he
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didn't learn of the shipment in time to secure any of it, but his
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reasons for calling the affair to the attention of the Treasury Department don't really matter.
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The main idea was that the silk was there, that it hadn't paid
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duty, and that someone ought to find out how it happened. When a
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second and then a third shipment was reported, Marx was notified by wire to
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get to Seattles fast as he could and there to confer with the collector of
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the port. It wasn't until after he had arrived that Ezra knew what the
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trouble was, for the story of the smuggled silk hadn't penetrated as far south
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as San Francisco, where he had been engaged in trying to find a cargo
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of smuggled coolies. Here's a sample of the silk, announced the collector of
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the port at Seattle, producing a piece of very heavy material, evidently of
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foreign manufacture. Beyond the fact that we've spotted three of the shipments and know
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where to lay our hands on them if wanted, I've got to admit that
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we don't know a thing about the case. The Department, of course,
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doesn't want us to trace the silk from this end. The minute you do
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that, you lay yourself open to all sorts of legal tangles and delays,
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to say nothing of giving the other side plenty of time to frame up a
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case that would sound mighty good in court. Besides, I haven't enough men
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to handle the job in the short space of time necessary, So you'll have
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to dig into it and find out who got the stuff in and how.
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Then we'll attend to the fences who've been handling it here, the old game
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of passing the buck, thought Ezra as he fingered the sample of silk,
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meditatively, I'll do the work and they'll get the glory. Oh well,
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any idea of where the shipment's came from, he inquired. There's no doubt
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but that it's of Japanese manufacture, which of course would appear to point to
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a shipping conspiracy of some nature. But I hardly think that's true here.
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Already eighteen bolts of silk have been reported in Seattle, and as you know,
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that's a pretty good sized consignment. You couldn't stuff him into a pill
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box or carry him inside a walking stick like you could diamonds. Whoever's handling
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this job is doing it across the border rather than via the shipping route.
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No chance of us slip up in your information, as their chief, Ezra
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inquired, anxiously, I'd hate to start combing the border and then find that
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the stuff was being slipped in through the port. No, and the Collector
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of Customs was positive in his reply, I'm not taking a chance on that
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tip. I know what I'm talking about. My men have been watching the
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shipping like hawks ever since that consignment of antique ivory got through last year.
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We've gone over every vessel with a microscope, probing the mattresses, and even
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pawing around in the coal bins. I'm positive that there isn't a place big
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enough to conceal a yard of silk that the always haven't looked into, to
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say nothing of eighteen bolts. Besides, added the collector, the arrival of
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the silk hasn't coincided with the arrival of any of the ships from Japan,
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not by any stretch of the imagination. All right, I'll take up the
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trail northward, then replied Marx. Don't be surprised if you fail to hear
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from me for a couple of months or more. If Washington inquires, tell
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them that I'm up on the border somewhere, and let it go at that.
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Going to take anybody with you, not a soul except maybe a guide
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that I'll pick up when I need him. If there is a concerted movement
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to ship silk across the line, and it appears that there is. The
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more men you have working with you, the less chance there is for success.
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Border Runners are like moonshiners. They're not afraid of one man, but
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if they see a posse, they run for cover and keep out of sight
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until the storm blows over. And there isn't one chance in a thousand of
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finding a Meanwhile, you've got to play them just like you would a fish.
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So the next time you hear from me, you will know that I've
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either landed my sharks or that they've slipped off the hook. It was about
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a month later that the little town of Northport, up in the extreme northeastern
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corner of Washington, awoke to find a stranger in its midst Strangers were something
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of a novelty in Northport, and this one, a man named Marx,
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who stated that he was prospecting for some good lumber, caused quite a bit
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of talk for a day or two. Then the town gossips discovered that he
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was not working in the interest of a large company, as had been rumored,
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but slowly on his own hook. So they left him merely alone.
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Besides it was the height of the logging season, and there was too much
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work to be done along the Columbia River to worry about strangers. Marx hadn't
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taken this into consideration when he neared the eastern part of the state, but
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he was just as well pleased. If logs and logging served to center the
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attention of the natives elsewhere, so much the better. It would give him
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greater opportunity for observation and possibly the chance to pick up some information. Up
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to this time, his trip along the border had been singularly uneventful and lacking
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in results. In fact, it was practically a toss up with him whether
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he would continue on into Idaho and Montana on the hope that he would find
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something there, or go back to Seattle and start fresh. However, he
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figured that it wouldn't do any harm to spend a week or two in the
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neighborhood of the Columbia, and as events turned out, it was a very
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wise move, partly out of curiosity and partly because it was in keeping with
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his self assumed character of lumber prospector. Marx made a point of joining the
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gangs of men who worked all day and sometimes long into the night, keeping
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the river clear of log jams, and otherwise assisting in the movement of timber
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downstream. Like everyone who views these operations for the first time, he marveled
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at the dexterity of the loggers, who perched upon the treacherous, slippery trunks
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with as little thought for danger as if they had been crossing a country road.
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But their years of familiarity with the current and the logs themselves had given
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them a sense of balance which appeared to inure them to peril. Nor was
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this ability to ride logs confined wholly to the men. Some of the girls
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from the nearby country often worked in with the men, handling the lighter jobs
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and attending to details which did not call for the possession of a great amount
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of strength. One of these marks noted was particularly proficient in her work.
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Apparently there wasn't a man in Northport who could give her points in a log
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riding, and the very fact that she was small and wiry provided her with
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a distinct advantage over men who were twice her weight. Apart from her grace
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and beauty, there was something extremely appealing about the girl, and Ezra found
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himself watching her time after time, as she almost danced across the swirling,
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bark covered trunks, hardly seeming to touch them as she moved. The girl
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was by no means oblivious to the stranger's interest in her ability to handle at
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least a part of the men's work. She caught his eye the very first
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day he came down to the river, and after that, whenever she noted
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that he was present. She seemed to take a new delight in skipping lightly
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from log to log, lingering on each just long enough to cause it to
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spin dangerously, and then leaping to the next. But one afternoon she tried
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the trick once too often. Either she miscalculated her distance, or a sudden
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swirl of the current carried the log for which she was aiming out of her
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path. For her foot just touched it, slipped, and before she could
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recover her balance, she was in the water, surrounded by logs that threatened
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to crush the life out of her at any moment. Startled by her cry
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for help, three of the lumbermen started toward her, but the river,
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like a thing alive, appeared to thwart their efforts by opening up a rift
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in the jam on either side. Leaving a gap too wide to be leaped
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and a current too strong to be risked by men who were hampered by their
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heavy, hobnailed shoes. Marx, who had been watching the girl, had
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his coat off almost as soon as she hit the water. An instant later,
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he had discarded his shoes and had plunged in, breasting the river with
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long, overhand strokes that carried him forward at an almost unbelievable speed. Before
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the men and the logs knew what was happening. The operative was beside the
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girl, using one hand to keep her head above water and the other to
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fend off the logs, which were closing in from every side. Quick he
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called a rope, but the trunk of a tree, striking his head a
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glancing blow cut short his cry and forced him to devote every atom of his
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strength to remaining afloat until assistance arrived. After an interval which appeared to be
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measuring hours rather than seconds, a rope splashed within reach, and the pair
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were hauled to safety. The girl, apparently unhurt by her drenching, shook
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herself like a wet spaniel, and then turned to where Marx was seated,
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trying to recover his breath. Thanks, she said, extending her hand.
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I don't know who you are, stranger, but you're a man. It
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wasn't anything to make a fuss about, returned Ezra, rising and turning suspiciously
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red around the ears, for it was the first time that a girl had
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spoken to him in that way for more years than he cared to remember.
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Then, with the Vermont drawl that always came to the surface when he was
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excited or embarrassed, he added, it was worth getting wet to have you
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speak like that. This time it was the girl who flushed, and with
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a palpable effort to cover her confusion, she turned away, stopping to call
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back over her shoulder. If you'll come up to Dad's place tonight, I'll
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see that you're properly thanked. Dad's place, repeated Ezra to one of the
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men nearby. Where's that? She means her stepfather's house up the river,
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replied the lumberman. You can't miss it, just this side of the border.
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Ask anybody where old man Peterson lives, Though the directions were rather vague.
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Marks started up the river shortly before sunset and found but little difficulty in
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locating the big house half bungalow and half cabin, where Peterson and his stepdaughter
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resided, in company with half a dozen foremen of lumber gangs and an Indian
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woman who had acted as nurse and chaperone and cook and general servant ever since
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the death of the girl's mother a number of years before. While he was
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still stumbling along trying to pierce the gloom, which settled almost instantly after sunset,
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Marx was startled to see a white figure rise suddenly before him, and
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to hear a feminine voice remark, I wondered if you'd come, didn't you
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know I would, replied Ezra. Your spill in the river had me scared
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stiff for a moment, but it was a mighty lucky accident for me.
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At the girl's suggestion, they seated themselves outside, being joined before long by
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Peterson himself, who, with more than a trace of his Slavic ancestry apparently
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in his voice, thanked Marx for rescuing his daughter. It was when the
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older man left them, and the girl's figure was outlined with startling distinctness by
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the light from the open door, that Ezra received a shock which brought him
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to earth with a crash in the semi darkness. He had been merely aware
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that the girl was wearing a dress which he would have characterized as something white,
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But once he saw her standing in the center of the path of light
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which streamed from the interior of the house, there could be no mistake.
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The dress was of white silk. More than that, it was made from
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material which Marks would have sworn had been cut from the same bolt as the
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sample which the collector had shown him in Seattle. What's the matter, mister
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Marks, inquired the girl, evidently noting the surprise which Ezra was unable completely
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to suppress. Seen a ghost or something, I thought, for a moment
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I had, was the operatives reply, as he played for time. It
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must be your dress. My sister had one just like at once. It's
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rather pretty, isn't it. In spite of the fact that I made it
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myself out of some silk that dad that Dad brought home, Ezra thought it
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best to change the subject, and as soon as he could find the opportunity,
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said good night, with a promise to be on hand the next day
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to see that the plunge in the river wasn't repeated. But the next morning
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he kept as far away from the girl Fay Peterson as he could without appearing
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to make a point of the matter. He had thought the whole thing over
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from every angle, and his conclusion was always the same. The Petersons were
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either hand in glove with the gang that was running the silk across the border,
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or they were doing the smuggling themselves. The lonely cabin, the proximity
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to the boarder, the air of restraint, which he had noted the previous
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evening, based principally upon the fact that he had not been invited indoors the
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silk dress. All were signs which pointed at least to a knowledge of the
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plot to beat the customs. More than that, when Marx commenced to make
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some guarded inquiries about the family of the girl whom he had saved from drowning,
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he met with a decidedly cool reception. Old man Peterson has some big
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loggin interests in these parts, declared the most locacious of his informants, and
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they say he's made a pile of money in the last few months. Some
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say it's timber, and others say it's moell. It ain't nobody's concern,
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how A man makes a living in these parts so long as he behaves himself.
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Isn't Peterson behaving himself? Asked asru stranger was the reply, it ain't
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always healthy to pry into another man's affairs. Better be satisfied with going to
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see the girl. That's more than anybody around here is allowed to do.
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So. There was an air of mystery about the Peterson house. After all,
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Marx thought it hadn't been his imagination or an idea founded solely upon the
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sight of the silk dress. The next fortnight found the operative a constant and
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apparently a welcome visitor at the house up the river. But hint as he
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might, he was never asked indoors, a fact that made him all the
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more determined to see what was going on. While he solaced himself with the
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thought that his visits were made strictly in the line of duty, that his
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only purpose was to discover Peterson's connection with the smuggled silk, Ezra was unable
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entirely to stifle another feeling, something which he hadn't known since the old days
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in Vermont, when the announcement of a girl's wedding to another man had caused
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him to leave home and seek his fortunes in Boston. Fay Peterson was pretty,
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there was no denying that fact. Also, she was very evidently prepossessed
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in favor of the man who had saved her from the river. But this
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fact, instead of soothing Marx's conscience, only irritated it the more. Here
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he was on the verge of making love to a girl, really in love
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with her, as he admitted to himself, and at the same time planning
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and hoping to send her stepfather to the penitentiary. He had hoped that the
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fact that Peterson was not her own father might make things a little easier for
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him, but the girl had shown in a number of ways that she was
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just as fond of her foster parent as she would have been of her own.
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He's all the daddy I ever knew, she said one night, and
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if anything ever happened to him, I think it would drive me crazy,
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which fell far short of easing Ezra's mind, though it strengthened his determination to
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settle the matter definitely. The next evening that he visited the Peterson's, he'd
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left a little earlier than usual and only followed the road back to Northport sufficiently
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far to make certain that he was not being trailed. Then, retracing his
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steps, he approached the house from the rear, his soft moccasins moving silently
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across the ground. His figure crouched until he appeared little more than a shadow
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between the trees. Just as he reached the clearing which separated the dwelling from
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the woods, he stumbled and almost fell. His foot had caught against something
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which felt like the trunk of a fallen tree, but which moved with an
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ease entirely foreign to a log of that size. Puzzled marks weighted until a
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cloud which had concealed the moon had drifted by, and then commenced his examination.
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Yes, it was a log, and a big one, still damp
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from its immersion in the river. But it was so light that he could
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lift it unaided, and it rang to a rap from his knuckles. The
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end which he first examined was solid, but at the other end the log
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was a mere shell, not more than an inch of wood remaining inside the
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bark. It was not until he discovered a round plug of wood, a
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stopper, which fitted precisely into the open end of the log, that the
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solution of the whole mystery dawned upon him. The silk had been shipped across
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the order from Canada inside the trunks of trees hollowed out for the purpose.
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Wrapping the bolts in oiled silk would keep them perfectly waterproof, and the plan
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was so simple as to be impervious to detection save by accident. Emboldened by
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his discovery, Marks slipped silently across the cleared space to the shadow of the
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house, and thence around to the side, where a few cautious cuts of
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his bowie knife opened a peepole in the shutter which covered the window. Through
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this he saw what he had hoped for, yet feared to find Peterson and
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three of his men packing bolts of white silk in boxes for reshipment. What
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was more, he caught snatches of their conversation which told him that another consignment
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of the smuggled goods was due from trail just across the border within the week.
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Retreating as noiselessly as he had come, Marx made his way back to
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Northport, where he wrote two letters, or rather a letter and a note.
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The first, addressed to the sheriff, directed that personage to collect a
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posse and report to Ezra Marks of the Custom Service. On the second day
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following this was forwarded by special messenger, but Marx pocketed the note and slipped
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it cautiously under the door of the Peterson house the next evening. It's a
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fifty fifty split, he consoled his conscience. The government gets the silk and
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the Petersons get their warning. I don't suppose I'll get anything but the devil
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for not landing them. The next morning, when the sheriff and his posse
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arrived, they found only an empty house, but in the main room,
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where piled boxes continued, no less than thirty thousand yards of white silk,
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valued at something over one hundred thousand dollars. On top of the boxes was
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an envelope addressed to Ezra Marks esquire, and within it a note which read,
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I don't know who you are, mister customs officer, but you're a
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man. There was no signature, but the writing was distinctly feminine. And
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was that all Marks ever heard from her? I asked when Quinn paused,
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So far as I know, said the former operative. Of course Washington never
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heard about that part of the case. They were too well satisfied with Ezra's
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Hall and the incoming cargo, which they also landed to care much about the
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Petersons, so the whole thing was entered on Marx's record precisely as he had
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figured it, a fifty fifty split. You see, even government agents aren't
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always completely successful, especially when they're fighting Cupid as well as crooks. End
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of Chapter eighteen