X
THE SMUGGLER
It was a rather sultry afternoon in the late summer when people who hadcalculated by the calendar rather than by the weather were returning tothe city from the seashore, the mountains, and abroad.
Except for the week-ends, Kennedy and I had been pretty busy, though onthis particular day there was a lull in the succession of cases whichhad demanded our urgent attention during the summer.
We had met at the Public Library, where Craig was doing some specialresearch at odd moments in criminology. Fifth Avenue was still halfdeserted, though the few pedestrians who had returned or remained intown like ourselves were, as usual, to be found mostly on the west sideof the street. Nearly everybody, I have noticed, walks on the one sideof Fifth Avenue, winter or summer.
As we stood on the corner waiting for the traffic man's whistle to haltthe crush of automobiles, a man on the top of a 'bus waved to Kennedy.
I looked up and caught a glimpse of Jack Herndon, an old college mate,who had had some political aspirations and had recently been appointedto a position in the customs house of New York. Herndon, I may add,represented the younger and clean-cut generation which is enteringofficial life with great advantage to both themselves and politics.
The 'bus pulled up to the curb, and Jack tore down the breakneck stepshurriedly.
"I was just thinking of you, Craig," he beamed as we all shook hands,"and wondering whether you and Walter were in town. I think I shouldhave come up to see you to-night, anyhow."
"Why, what's the matter--more sugar frauds?" laughed Kennedy. "Orperhaps you have caught another art dealer red-handed?"
"No, not exactly," replied Herndon, growing graver for the moment."We're having a big shake-up down at the office, none of your 'newbroom' business, either. Real reform it is, this time."
"And you--are you going or coming?" inquired Craig with an interestedtwinkle.
"Coming, Craig, coming," answered Jack enthusiastically. "They've putme in charge of a sort of detective force as a special deputy surveyorto rout out some smuggling that we know is going on. If I make good itwill go a long way for me--with all this talk of efficiency and economydown in Washington these days."
"What's on your mind now?" asked Kennedy observantly. "Can I help youin any way?"
Herndon had taken each of us by an arm and walked us over to a stonebench in the shade of the library building.
"You have read the accounts in the afternoon papers of the peculiardeath of Mademoiselle Violette, the little French modiste, up here onForty-sixth Street?" he inquired.
"Yes," answered Kennedy. "What has that to do with customs reform?"
"A good deal, I fear," Herndon continued. "It's part of a case that hasbeen bothering us all summer. It's the first really big thing I've beenup against and it's as ticklish a bit of business as even a veterantreasury agent could wish."
Herndon looked thoughtfully at the passing crowd on the other side ofthe balustrade and continued. "It started, like many of our cases, withthe anonymous letter writer. Early in the summer the letters began tocome in to the deputy surveyor's office, all unsigned, though quiteevidently written in a woman's hand, disguised of course, and on ratherdainty notepaper. They warned us of a big plot to smuggle gowns andjewellery from Paris. Smuggling jewellery is pretty common becausejewels take up little space and are very valuable. Perhaps it doesn'tsound to you like a big thing to smuggle dresses, but when you realisethat one of those filmy lacy creations may often be worth severalhundred, if not thousand, dollars, and that it needs only a few of themon each ship that comes in to run up into the thousands, perhapshundreds of thousands in a season, you will see how essential it is tobreak up that sort of thing. We've been getting after the individualprivate smugglers pretty sharply this summer and we've had lots ofcriticism. If we could land a big fellow and make an object-lesson ofthe extent of the thing I believe it would leave our critics of thepress without a leg to stand on.
"At least that was why I was interested in the letters. But it was notuntil a few days ago that we got a tip that gave us a real workingclue, for the anonymous letters had been very vague as to names, dates,and places, though bold enough as to general charges, as if the writerwere fearful of incriminating herself--or himself. Strange to say, thisnew clue came from the wife of one of the customs men. She happened tobe in a Broadway manicure shop one day when she heard a woman talkingwith the manicurist about fall styles, and she was all attention whenshe heard the customer say, 'You remember Mademoiselle Violette's--thatplace that had the exquisite things straight from Paris, and socheaply, too? Well, Violette says she'll have to raise her prices sothat they will be nearly as high as the regular stores. She says thetariff has gone up, or something, but it hasn't, has it?'
"The manicurist laughed knowingly, and the next remark caught thewoman's attention. 'No, indeed. But then, I guess she meant that shehad to pay the duty now. You know they are getting much stricter. Totell the truth, I imagine most of Violette's goods were--well--'
"'Smuggled?' supplied the customer in an undertone.
"The manicurist gave a slight shrug of the shoulders and a brightlittle yes of a laugh.
"That was all. But it was enough. I set a special customs officer towatch Mademoiselle, a clever fellow. He didn't have time to find outmuch, but on the other hand I am sure he didn't do anything to alarmMademoiselle. That would have been a bad game. His case was progressingfavourably and he had become acquainted with one of the girls whoworked in the shop. We might have got some evidence, but suddenly thismorning he walked up to my desk and handed me an early edition of anafternoon paper. Mademoiselle Violette had been discovered dead in hershop by the girls when they came to work this morning. Apparently shehad been there all night, but the report was quite indefinite and I amon my way up there now to meet the coroner, who has agreed to wait forme."
"You think there is some connection between her death and the letters?"put in Craig.
"Of course I can't say, yet," answered Herndon dubiously. "The papersseem to think it was a suicide. But then why should she commit suicide?My man found out that among the girls it was common gossip that she wasto marry Jean Pierre, the Fifth Avenue jeweller, of the firm of Langgoods by Americans abroad. Well, the chief of our men in Paris cablesme that Pierre is known to have made extraordinarily heavy purchases ofmade-up jewellery this season. For one thing, we believe he hasacquired from a syndicate a rather famous diamond necklace which it hastaken years to assemble and match up, worth about three hundredthousand. You know the duty on made-up jewellery is sixty per cent.,and even if he brought the stones in loose it would be ten per cent.,which on a valuation of, say, two hundred thousand, means twentythousand dollars duty alone. Then he has a splendid 'dog collar' ofpearls, and, oh, a lot of other stuff. I know because we get our tipsfrom all sorts of sources and they are usually pretty straight. Somecome from dealers who are sore about not making sales themselves. Soyou see there is a good deal at stake in this case and it may be thatin following it out we shall kill more than one bird. I wish you'd comealong with me up to Mademoiselle Violette's and give me an opinion."
Craig had already risen from the bench and we were walking up theAvenue.
The establishment of Mademoiselle Violette consisted of a three-storyand basement brownstone house in which the basement and first floor hadbeen remodelled for business purposes. Mademoiselle's place, which wason the first floor, was announced to the world by a neat little ovalgilt sign on the handrailing of the steps.
We ascended and rang the bell. As we waited I noticed that there wereseveral other modistes on the same street, while almost directly acrosswas a sign which proclaimed that on September 15 Mademoiselle Gabriellewould open with a high class exhibition of imported gowns from Paris.
We entered. The coroner and an undertaker were already there, and theformer was expecting Herndon. Kennedy and I had already met him and heshook hands cordially.
Mademoiselle Violette, it seemed, had rented the e
ntire house and thenhad sublet the basement to a milliner, using the first floor herself,the second as a workroom for the girls whom she employed, while shelived on the top floor, which had been fitted for light housekeepingwith a kitchenette. It was in the back room of the shop itself on thefirst floor that her body had been discovered, lying on a davenport.
"The newspaper reports were very indefinite," began Herndon,endeavouring to take in the situation. "I suppose they told nearly allthe story, but what caused her death? Have you found that out yet? Wasit poison or violence?"
The coroner said nothing, but with a significant glance at Kennedy hedrew a peculiar contrivance from his pocket. It had four round holes init and through each hole he slipped a finger, then closed his hand, andexhibited his clenched fist. It looked as if he wore a series of fourmetal rings on his fingers.
"Brass knuckles?" suggested Herndon, looking hastily at the body, whichshowed not a sign of violence on the stony face.
The coroner shook his head knowingly. Suddenly he raised his fist. Isaw him press hard with his thumb on the upper end of the metalcontrivance. From the other end, just concealed under his littlefinger, there shot out as if released by a magic spring a thin keenlittle blade of the brightest and toughest steel. He was holding,instead of a meaningless contrivance of four rings, a most dangerouskind of stiletto or dagger upraised. He lifted his thumb and the bladesprang back into its sheath like an extinguished spark of light.
"An Apache dagger, such as is used in the underworld of Paris," brokeout Kennedy, his eyes gleaming with interest.
The coroner nodded. "We found it," he said, "clasped loosely in herhand. But it is only by expert medical testimony that we can determinewhether it was placed on her fingers before or after this happened. Wehave photographed it, and the prints are being developed."
He had now uncovered the slight figure of the little French modiste. Onthe dress, instead of the profuse flow of blood which we had expectedto see, there was a single round spot. And in the white marble skin ofher breast was a little, nearly microscopic puncture, directly over theheart.
"She must have died almost instantly," commented Kennedy, glancing fromthe Apache weapon to the dead woman and back again. "Internalhemorrhage. I suppose you have searched her effects. Have you foundanything that gives a hint among them?"
"No," replied the coroner doubtfully, "I can't say we have--unless itis the bundle of letters from Pierre, the jeweller. They seem to havebeen engaged, and yet the letters stopped abruptly, and, well, from thetone of the last one from him I should say there was a quarrel brewing."
An exclamation from Herndon followed. "The same notepaper and the samehandwriting as the anonymous letters," he cried.
But that was all. Go over the ground as Kennedy might he could findnothing further than the coroner and Herndon had already revealed.
"About these people, Lang & Pierre," asked Craig thoughtfully when wehad left Mademoiselle's and were riding downtown to the customs housewith Herndon. "What do you know about them? I presume that Lang is inAmerica, if his partner is abroad."
"Yes, he is here in New York. I believe the firm has a rather unsavouryreputation; they have to be watched, I am told. Then, too, one or theother of the partners makes frequent trips abroad, mostly Pierre.Pierre, as you see, was very intimate with Mademoiselle, and theletters simply confirm what the girls told my detective. He wasbelieved to be engaged to her and I see no reason now to doubt that.The fact is, Kennedy, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to learnthat it was he who engineered the smuggling for her as well as himself."
"What about the partner? What role does he play in your suspicions?"
"That's another curious feature. Lang doesn't seem to bother much withthe business. He is a sort of silent partner, although nominally thehead of the firm. Still, they both seem always to be plentifullysupplied with money and to have a good trade. Lang lives most of thetime up on the west shore of the Hudson, and seems to be moreinterested in his position as commodore of the Riverledge Yacht Clubthan in his business down here. He is quite a sport, a great motor-boatenthusiast, and has lately taken to hydroplanes."
"I meant," repeated Kennedy, "what about Lang and MademoiselleViolette. Were they--ah--friendly?"
"Oh," replied Herndon, seeming to catch the idea. "I see. Ofcourse--Pierre abroad and Lang here. I see what you mean. Why, the girltold my man that Mademoiselle Violette used to go motor-boating withLang, but only when her fiance, Pierre, was along. No, I don't thinkshe ever had anything to do with Lang, if that's what you are drivingat. He may have paid attentions to her, but Pierre was her lover, and Ihaven't a doubt but that if Lang made any advances she repelled them.She seems to have thought everything of Pierre."
We had reached Herndon's office by this time. Leaving word with hisstenographer to get the very latest reports from La Montaigne, hecontinued talking to us about his work.
"Dressmakers, milliners, and jewellers are our worst offenders now," heremarked as we stood gazing out of the window at the panorama of thebay off the sea-wall of the Battery. "Why, time and again we unearthwhat looks for all the world like a 'dressmakers' syndicate,' thoughthis case is the first I've had that involved a death. Really, I'vecome to look on smuggling as one of the fine arts among crimes. Oncethe smuggler, like the pirate and the highwayman, was a sort ofgentleman-rogue. But now it has become a very ladylike art. The extentof it is almost beyond belief, too. It begins with the steerage andruns right up to the absolute unblushing cynicism of the first cabin. Isuppose you know that women, particularly a certain brand of societywomen, are the worst and most persistent offenders. Why, they evenboast of it. Smuggling isn't merely popular--it's aristocratic. Butwe're going to take some of the flavour out of it before we finish."
He tore open a cable message which a boy had brought in. "Now, takethis, for instance," he continued. "You remember the sign across thestreet from Mademoiselle Violette's, announcing that a MademoiselleGabrielle was going to open a salon or whatever they call it? Well,here's another cable from our Paris Secret Service with a belated tip.They tell us to look out for a Mademoiselle Gabrielle--on La Montaigne,too. That's another interesting thing. You know the various lines areall ranked, at least in our estimation, according to the likelihood ofsuch offences being perpetrated by their passengers. We watch shipsfrom London, Liverpool, and Paris most carefully. Scandinavian shipsare the least likely to need watching. Well, Miss Roberts?"
"We have just had a wireless about La Montaigne" reported hisstenographer, who had entered while he was speaking, "and she is threehundred miles east of Sandy Hook. She won't dock until to-morrow."
"Thank you. Well, fellows, it is getting late and that means nothingmore doing to-night. Can you be here early in the morning? We'll godown the bay and 'bring in the ship,' as our men call it when thedeputy surveyor and his acting deputies go down to meet it atQuarantine. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your kindness inhelping me. If my men get anything connecting Lang with MademoiselleViolette's case I'll let you know immediately."
It was a bright clear snappy morning, in contrast with the heat of theday before, when we boarded the revenue tug at the Barge Office. Thewaters of the harbour never looked more blue as they danced in theearly sunlight, flecked here and there by a foaming whitecap as theconflicting tides eddied about. The shores of Staten Island were almostas green as in the spring, and even the haze over the Brooklynfactories had lifted. It looked almost like a stage scene, clear andsharp, new and brightly coloured.
Perhaps the least known and certainly one of the least recognised ofthe government services is that which includes the vigilant ships ofthe revenue service. It was not a revenue cutter, however, on which wewere ploughing down the bay. The cutter lay, white and gleaming in themorning sun, at anchor off Stapleton, like a miniature warship,saluting as we passed. The revenue boats which steam down to Quarantineand make fast to the incoming ocean greyhounds are revenue tugs.
Down the bay we puffed and buffeted for about forty m
inutes before wearrived at the little speck of an island that is Quarantine. Longbefore we were there we sighted the great La Montaigne near the groupof buildings on the island, where she had been waiting since earlymorning for the tide and the customs officials. The tug steamedalongside, and quickly up the high ladders swarmed the boarding officerand the deputy collectors. We followed Herndon straight to the mainsaloon, where the collectors began to receive the declarations whichhad been made out on blanks furnished to the passengers on the voyageover. They had had several days to write them out--the less excuse foromissions.
Glancing at each hastily the collector detached from it the slip withthe number at the bottom and handed the number back, to be presented atthe inspector's desk at the pier, where customs inspectors wereassigned in turn.
"Number 140 is the one we want to watch," I heard Herndon whisper toKennedy. "That tall dark fellow over there."
I followed his direction cautiously and saw a sparely built, strikinglooking man who had just filed his declaration and was chattingvivaciously with a lady who was just about to file hers. She was aclinging looking little thing with that sort of doll-like innocencethat deceives nobody.
"No, you don't have to swear to it," he said. "You used to do that, butnow you simply sign your name--and take a chance," he added, smilingand showing a row of perfect teeth.
"Number 156," Herndon noted as the collector detached the stub andhanded it to her. "That was Mademoiselle Gabrielle."
The couple passed out to the deck, still chatting gaily.
"In the old days, before they got to be so beastly particular," I heardhim say, "I always used to get the courtesy of the port, an officialexpedite. But that is over now."
The ship was now under way, her flags snapping in the brisk coolishbreeze that told of approaching autumn. We had passed up the lower bayand the Narrows, and the passengers were crowded forward to catch thefirst glimpse of the skyscrapers of New York.
On up the bay we ploughed, throwing the spray proudly as we wentHerndon employed the time in keeping a sharp watch on the tall, thinman. Incidentally he sought out the wireless operator and from himlearned that a code wireless message had been received for Pierre,apparently from his partner, Lang.
"There is no mention of anything dutiable in this declaration by 140which corresponds with any of the goods mentioned in the first cablefrom Paris," a collector remarked unobtrusively to Herndon, "nor in 156corresponding to the second cable."
"I didn't suppose there would be," was his laconic reply. "That's ourjob--to find the stuff."
At last La Montaigne was warped into the dock. The piles of first-classbaggage on the ship were raucously deposited on the wharf and slowlythe passengers filed down the plank to meet the line of white-cappeduniformed inspectors and plain-clothes appraisers. The comedy andtragedy of the customs inspection had begun.
We were among the first to land. Herndon took up a position from whichhe could see without being seen. In the semi-light of the littlewindows in the enclosed sides of the pier, under the steel girders ofthe arched roof like a vast hall, there was a panorama of a huge massof open luggage.
At last Number 140 came down, alone, to the roped-off dock. He walkednonchalantly over to the little deputy surveyor's desk, and aninspector was quickly assigned to him. It was all done neatly in theregular course of business apparently. He did not know that in theorderly rush the sharpest of Herndon's men had been picked out, much asa trick card player will force a card on his victim.
Already the customs inspection was well along. One inspector had beenassigned to about each five passengers, and big piles of finery werebeing remorselessly tumbled out in shapeless heaps and exposed to thegaze of that part of the public which was not too much concerned overthe same thing as to its own goods and chattels. Reticules and purseswere being inspected. Every trunk was presumed to have a false bottom,and things wrapped up in paper were viewed suspiciously and unrolled.Clothes were being shaken and pawed. There did not seem to be muchopportunity for concealment.
Herndon now had donned the regulation straw hat of the appraiser, andaccompanied by us, posing as visitors, was sauntering about. At last wecame within earshot of the spot where the inspector was going throughthe effects of 140.
Out of the corner of my eyes I could see that a dispute was in progressover some trifling matter. The man was cool and calm. "Call theappraiser," he said at last, with the air of a man standing on hisrights. "I object to this frisking of passengers. Uncle Sam is littlebetter than a pickpocket. Besides, I can't wait here all day. Mypartner is waiting for me uptown."
Herndon immediately took notice. But it was quite evidently, after all,only an altercation for the benefit of those who were watching. I amsure he knew he was being watched, but as the dispute proceeded heassumed the look of a man keenly amused. The matter, involving only afew dollars, was finally adjusted by his yielding gracefully and withan air of resignation. Still Herndon did not go and I am sure itannoyed him.
Suddenly he turned and faced Herndon. I could not help thinking, inspite of all that he must be so expert, that, if he really were asmuggler, he had all the poise and skill at evasion that would entitlehim to be called a cast master of the art.
"You see that woman over there?" he whispered. "She says she is justcoming home after studying music in Paris."
We looked. It was the guileless ingenue, Mademoiselle Gabrielle.
"She has dutiable goods, all right. I saw her declaration. She istrying to bring in as personal effects of a foreign resident gownswhich, I believe, she intends to wear on the stage. She's an actress."
There was nothing for Herndon to do but to act on the tip. The man hadgot rid of us temporarily, but we knew the inspector would be, ifanything, more vigilant. I think he took even longer than usual.
Mademoiselle Gabrielle and her maid pouted and fussed over the renewedexamination which Herndon ordered. According to the inspectoreverything was new and expensive; according to her, old, shabby, andcheap. She denied everything, raged and threatened. But when, insteadof ordering the stamp "Passed" to be placed on her half dozen trunksand bags which contained in reality only a few dutiable articles,Herndon threatened to order them to the appraiser's stores and herselfto go to the Law Division if she did not admit the points in dispute,there was a real scene.
"Generally, madame," he remonstrated, though I could see he was baffledat finding nothing of the goods he had really expected to find,"generally even for a first offence the goods are confiscated and thecourt or district attorney is content to let the person off with afine. If this happens again we'll be more severe. So you had better paythe duty on these few little matters, without that."
If he had been expecting to "throw a scare" into her, it did notsucceed. "Well, I suppose if I must, I must," she said, and the onlyresult of the diversion was that she paid a few dollars more than hadbeen expected and went off in a high state of mind.
Herndon had disappeared for a moment, after a whisper from Kennedy, toinstruct two of his men to shadow Mademoiselle Gabrielle and, later,Pierre. He soon rejoined us and we casually returned to the vicinity ofour tall friend, Number 140, for whom I felt even less respect thanever after his apparently ungallant action toward the lady he had beentalking with. He seemed to notice my attitude and he remarkeddefensively for my benefit, "Only a patriotic act."
His inspector by this time had finished a most minute examination.There was nothing that could be discovered, not a false book with asecret spring that might disclose instead of reading matter a heap ofalmost priceless jewels, not a suspicious bulging of any garment or ofthe lining of a trunk or grip. Some of the goods might have been on hisperson, but not much, and certainly there was no excuse for ordering apersonal examination, for he could not have hidden a tenth part of whatwe knew he had, even under the proverbial porous plaster. He wasimpeccable. Accordingly there was nothing for the inspector to do butto declare a polite armistice.
"So you didn't find 'Mona Lisa' in a false bottom,
and my trunks werenot lined with smuggled cigars after all," he rasped savagely as thestamp "Passed" was at last affixed and he paid in cash at the littlewindow with its sign, "Pay Duty Here: U. S. Custom House," some hundreddollars instead of the thousands Herndon had been hoping to collect, ifnot to seize.
All through the inspection, an extra close scrutiny had been kept onthe other passengers as well, to prevent any of them from being inleague with the smugglers, though there was no direct or indirectevidence to show that any of the others were.
We were about to leave the wharf, also, when Craig's attention wascalled to a stack of trunks still remaining.
"Whose are those?" he asked as he lifted one. It felt suspiciouslylight.
"Some of them belong to a Mr. Pierre and the rest to a Miss Gabrielle,"answered an inspector. "Bonded for Troy and waiting to be transferredby the express company."
Here, perhaps, at last was an explanation, and Craig took advantage ofit. Could it be that the real seat of trouble was not here but at someother place, that some exchange was to be made en route or perhaps anattempt at bribery?
Herndon, too, was willing to run a risk. He ordered the trunks openedimmediately. But to our disappointment they were almost empty. Therewas scarcely a thing of value in them. Most of the contents consistedof clothes that had plainly been made in America and were being broughtback here. It was another false scent. We had been played with andbaffled at every turn. Perhaps this had been the method originallyagreed on. At any rate it had been changed.
"Could they have left the goods in Paris, after all?" I queried.
"With the fall and winter trade just coming on?" Kennedy replied, withan air of finality that set at rest any doubts about his opinion onthat score. "I thought perhaps we had a case of--what do you call it,Herndon, when they leave trunks that are to be secretly removed bydishonest expressmen from the wharf at night?"
"'Sleepers.' Oh, we've broken that up, too. No expressman would daretry it now. I must confess this thing is beyond me, Craig."
Kennedy made no answer. Evidently there was nothing to do but to awaitdevelopments and see what Herndon's men reported. We had been beaten atevery turn in the game. Herndon seemed to feel that there was a bittersting in the defeat, particularly because the smuggler or smugglers hadactually been in our grasp so long to do with as we pleased, and had socleverly slipped out again, leaving us holding the bag.
Kennedy was especially thoughtful as he told over the facts of the casein his mind. "Of course," he remarked, "Mademoiselle Gabrielle wasn'tan actress. But we can't deny that she had very little that wouldjustify Herndon in holding her, unless he simply wants a newspaper row."
"But I thought Pierre was quite intimate with her at first," Iventured. "That was a dirty trick of his."
Craig laughed. "You mean an old one. That was simply a blind, to divertattention from himself. I suspect they talked that over betweenthemselves for days before."
It was plainly more perplexing than ever. What had happened? Had Pierrebeen a prestidigitator and had he merely said presto! when our backswere turned and whisked the goods invisibly into the country? I couldfind no explanation for the little drama on the pier. If Herndon's menhad any genius in detecting smuggling, their professional opponentcertainly had greater genius in perpetrating it.
We did not see Herndon again until after a hasty luncheon. He was inhis office and inclined to take a pessimistic view of the whole affair.He brightened up when a telephone message came in from one of hisshadows. The men trailing Pierre and Mademoiselle Gabrielle had crossedtrails and run together at a little French restaurant on the lower WestSide, where Pierre, Lang, and Mademoiselle Gabrielle had met and weredining in a most friendly spirit. Kennedy was right. She had beenmerely a cog in the machinery of the plot.
The man reported that even when a newsboy had been sent in by him withthe afternoon papers displaying in big headlines the mystery of thedeath of Mademoiselle Violette, they had paid no attention. It seemedevident that whatever the fate of the modiste, Mademoiselle Gabriellehad quite replaced her in the affections of Pierre. There was nothingfor us to do but to separate and await developments.
It was late in the afternoon when Craig and I received a hurriedmessage from Herndon. One of his men had just called him up over longdistance from Riverledge. The party had left the restaurant hurriedly,and though they had taken the only taxicab in sight he had been able tofollow them in time to find out that they were going up to Riverledge.They were now preparing to go out for a sail in one of Lang'smotor-boats and he would be unable, of course, to follow them further.
For the remainder of the afternoon Kennedy remained pondering the case.At last an idea seemed to dawn on him. He found Herndon still at hisoffice and made an appointment to meet on the waterfront near LaMontaigne's pier, after dinner. The change in Kennedy's spirits wasobvious, though it did not in the least enlighten my curiosity. Evenafter a dinner which was lengthened out considerably, I thought, I didnot get appreciably nearer a solution, for we strolled over to thelaboratory, where Craig loaded me down with a huge package which waswrapped up in heavy paper.
We arrived on the corner opposite the wharf just as it was growingdusk. The neighbourhood did not appeal to me at night, and even thoughthere were two of us I was rather glad when we met Herndon, who waswaiting in the shadow of a fruit stall.
But instead of proceeding across to the pier by the side of which LaMontaigne was moored, we cut across the wide street and turned down thenext pier, where a couple of freighters were lying. The odour of saltwater, sewage, rotting wood, and the night air was not inspiring.Nevertheless I was now carried away with the strangeness of ouradventure.
Halfway down the pier Kennedy paused before one of the gangways thatwas shrouded in darkness. The door was opened and we followed gingerlyacross the dirty deck of the freight ship. Below we could hear thewater lapping the piles of the pier. Across a dark abyss lay the grimmonster La Montaigne with here and there a light gleaming on one of herdecks. The sounds of the city seemed miles away.
"What a fine place for a murder," laughed Kennedy coolly. He wasunwrapping the package which he had taken from me. It proved to be ahuge reflector in front of which was placed a little arrangement which,under the light of a shaded lantern carried by Herndon, looked like acoil of wire of some kind.
To the back of the reflector Craig attached two other flexible wireswhich led to a couple of dry cells and a cylinder with a broadened end,made of vulcanised rubber. It might have been a telephone receiver, forall I could tell in the darkness.
While I was still speculating on the possible use of the enormousparabolic reflector, a slight commotion on the opposite side of thepier distracted my attention. A ship was coming in and was beingcarefully and quietly berthed alongside the other big iron freighter onthat side. Herndon had left us.
"The Mohican is here," he remarked as he rejoined us. To my look ofinquiry he added, "The revenue cutter."
Kennedy had now finished and had pointed the reflector full at LaMontaigne. With a whispered hasty word of caution and advice toHerndon, he drew me along with him down the wharf again.
At the little door which was cut in the barrier guarding the shore endof La Montaigne's wharf Kennedy stopped. The customs service nightwatchman--there is always a watchman of some kind aboard every ship,passenger or freighter, all the time she is in port--seemed tounderstand, for he admitted us after a word with Kennedy.
Threading our way carefully among the boxes, and bales, and crateswhich were piled high, we proceeded down the wharf. Under the electriclights the longshoremen were working feverishly, for the unloading andloading of a giant trans-Atlantic vessel in the rush season is a longand tedious process at best, requiring night work and overtime, forevery moment, like every cubic foot of space, counts.
Once within the door, however, no one paid much attention to us. Theyseemed to take it for granted that we had some right there. We boardedthe ship by one of the many entrances and then proceeded down
to a deckwhere apparently no one was working. It was more like a great housethan a ship, I felt, and I wondered whether Kennedy's search was notmore of a hunt for a needle in a haystack than anything else. Yet heseemed to know what he was after.
We had descended to what I imagined must be the quarters of thesteward. About us were many large cases and chests, stacked up andmarked as belonging to the ship. Kennedy's attention was attracted tothem immediately. All at once it flashed on me what his purpose was. Insome of those cases were the smuggled goods!
Before I could say a word and before Kennedy had a chance even to tryto verify his suspicions, a sudden approach of footsteps startled us.He drew me into a cabin or room full of shelves with ship's stores.
"Why didn't you bring Herndon over and break into the boxes, if youthink the stuff is hidden in one of them?" I whispered.
"And let those higher up escape while their tools take all the blame?"he answered. "Sh-h."
The men who had come into the compartment looked about as if expectingto see some one.
"Two of them came down," a gruff voice said. "Where are they?"
From the noise I inferred that there must be four or five men, and fromthe ease with which they shifted the cases about some of them must havebeen pretty husky stevedores.
"I don't know," a more polished but unfamiliar voice answered.
The door to our hiding-place was opened roughly and then banged shutbefore we realised it. With a taunting laugh, some one turned a key inthe lock and before we could move a quick shift of packing casesagainst the door made escape impossible.
Here we were marooned, shanghaied, as it were, within sight if not callof Herndon and our friends. We had run up against professionalsmugglers, of whom I had vaguely read, disguised as stewards,deckhands, stokers, and other workers.
The only other opening to the cabin was a sort of porthole, more forventilation than anything else. Kennedy stuck his head through it, butit was impossible for a man to squeeze out. There was one of the lowerdecks directly before us while a bright arc light gleamed tantalisinglyover it, throwing a round circle of light into our prison. I reflectedbitterly on our shipwreck within sight of port.
Kennedy remained silent, and I did not know what was working in hismind. Together we made out the outline of the freighter at the nextwharf and speculated as to the location where we had left Herndon withthe huge reflector. There was no moon and it was as black as ink inthat direction, but if we could have got out I would have trusted toluck to reach it by swimming.
Below us, from the restless water lapping on the sides of the hulk ofLa Montaigne, we could now hear muffled sounds. It was a motor-boatwhich had come crawling up the river front, with lights extinguished,and had pushed a cautious nose into the slip where our ship lay at thequay. None of your romantic low-lying, rakish craft of the oldsmuggling yarns was this, ready for deeds of desperation in the darkhours of midnight. It was just a modern little motor-boat, up-to-date,and swift.
"Perhaps we'll get out of this finally," I grumbled as I understood nowwhat was afoot, "but not in time to be of any use."
A smothered sound as of something going over the vessel's sidefollowed. It was one of the boxes which we had seen outside in thestoreroom. Another followed, and a third and a fourth.
Then came a subdued parley. "We have two customs detectives locked in acabin here. We can't stay now. You'll have to take us and our thingsoff, too."
"Can't do it," called up another muffled voice. "Make your things intoa little bundle. We'll take that, but you'll have to get past thenightwatchman yourselves and meet us at Riverledge."
A moment later something else went over the side, and from the sound wecould infer that the engine of the motor-boat was being started.
A voice sounded mockingly outside our door. "Bon soir, you fellows inthere. We're going up the dock. Sorry to leave you here till morning,but they'll let you out then. Au revoir."
Below I could hear just the faintest well-muffled chug-chug. Kennedy inthe meantime had been coolly craning his neck out of our porthole underthe rays of the arc light overhead. He was holding something in hishand. It seemed like a little silver-backed piece of thin glass with aflaring funnel-like thing back of it, which he held most particularly.Though he heard the parting taunt outside he paid no attention.
"You go to the deuce, whoever you are," I cried, beating on the door,to which only a coarse laugh echoed back down the passageway.
"Be quiet, Walter," ordered Kennedy. "We have located the smuggledgoods in the storeroom of the steward, four wooden cases of them. Ithink the stuff must have been brought on the ship in the trunks andthen transferred to the cases, perhaps after the code wireless messagewas received. But we have been overpowered and locked in a cabin with aport too small to crawl through. The cases have been lowered over theside of the ship to a motor-boat that was waiting below. The lights onthe boat are out, but if you hurry you can get it. The accomplices wholocked us in are going to disappear up the wharf. If you could only getthe night watchman quickly enough you could catch them, too, beforethey reach the street."
I had turned, half expecting to see Kennedy talking to a ship's officerwho might have chanced on the deck outside. There was no one. The onlything of life was the still sputtering arc light. Had the man gonecrazy?
"What of it?" I growled. "Don't you suppose I know all that? What's theuse of repeating it now? The thing to do is to get out of this hole.Come, help me at this door. Maybe we can batter it down."
Kennedy paid no attention to me, however, but kept his eyes glued onthe Cimmerian blackness outside the porthole.
He had done nothing apparently, yet a long finger of light seemed toshoot out into the sky from the pier across from us and begin wavingback and forth as it was lowered to the dark waters of the river. Itwas a searchlight. At once I thought of the huge reflector which I hadseen set up. But that had been on our side of the next pier and thislight came from the far side where the Mohican lay.
"What is it?" I asked eagerly. "What has happened?"
It was as if a prayer had been answered from our dungeon on LaMontaigne.
"I knew we should need some means to communicate with Herndon," heexplained simply, "and the wireless telephone wasn't practicable. So Ihave used Dr. Alexander Graham Bell's photophone. Any of the lights onthis side of La Montaigne, I knew, would serve. What I did, Walter, wasmerely to talk into the mouthpiece back of this little silvered mirrorwhich reflects light. The vibrations of the voice caused a diaphragm init to vibrate and thus the beam of reflected light was made to pulsate.In other words, this little thing is just a simple apparatus totransform the air vibrations of the voice into light vibrations.
"The parabolic reflector over there catches these light vibrations andfocuses them on the cell of selenium which you perhaps noticed in thecentre of the reflector. You remember doubtless that the elementselenium varies its electrical resistance under light? Thus there arereproduced similar variations in the cell to those vibrations here inthis transmitter. The cell is connected with a telephone receiver andbatteries over there--and there you are. It is very simple. In theordinary carbon telephone transmitter a variable electrical resistanceis produced by pressure, since carbon is not so good a conductor underpressure. Then these variations are transmitted along two wires. Thisphotophone is wireless. Selenium even emits notes under a vibratorybeam of light, the pitch depending on the frequency. Changes in theintensity of the light focused by the reflector on the cell alter itselectrical resistance and vary the current from the dry batteries.Hence the telephone receiver over there is affected. Bell used thephotophone or radiophone over several hundred feet, Ruhmer over severalmiles. When you thought I was talking to myself I was really tellingHerndon what had happened and what to do--talking to him literally overa beam of light."
I could scarcely believe it, but an exclamation from Kennedy as he drewhis head in quickly recalled my attention. "Look out on the river,Walter," he cried. "The Mohican has her searchlight swe
eping up anddown. What do you see?"
The long finger of light had now come to rest. In its pathway I saw alightless motor-boat bobbing up and down, crowding on all speed, yetfollowed relentlessly by the accusing finger. The river front was nowalive with shouting.
Suddenly the Mohican shot out from behind the pier where she had beenhidden. In spite of Lang's expertness it was an unequal race. Nor wouldit have made much difference if it had been otherwise, for a shot rangout from the Mohican which commanded instant respect. The powerfulrevenue cutter rapidly overhauled the little craft.
A hurried tread down the passageway followed. Cases were being shovedaside and a key in the door of our compartment turned quickly. I waitedwith clenched fists, prepared for an attack.
"You're all right?" Herndon's voice inquired anxiously. "We've got thatsteward and the other fellows all right."
"Yes, come on," shouted Craig. "The cutter has made a capture."
We had reached the stern of the ship, and far out in the river theMohican was now headed toward us. She came alongside, and Herndonquickly seized a rope, fastened it to the rail, and let himself down tothe deck of the cutter. Kennedy and I followed.
"This is a high-handed proceeding," I heard a voice that must have beenLang's protesting. "By what right do you stop me? You shall suffer forthis."
"The Mohican," broke in Herndon, "has the right to appear anywhere fromSouthshoal Lightship off Nantucket to the capes of the Delaware, demandan inspection of any vessel's manifest and papers, board anything fromLa Montaigne to your little motor-boat, inspect it, seize it, ifnecessary put a crew on it." He slapped the little cannon.
"That commands respect. Besides, you were violating the regulations--nolights."
On the deck of the cutter now lay four cases. A man broke one of themopen, then another. Inside he disclosed thousands of dollars' worth offinery, while from a tray he drew several large chamois bags ofglittering diamonds and pearls.
Pierre looked on, crushed, all his jauntiness gone.
"So," exclaimed Kennedy, facing him, "you have your jilted fiancee,Mademoiselle Violette, to thank for this--her letters and her suicide.It wasn't as easy as you thought to throw her over for a new soul mate,this Mademoiselle Gabrielle whom you were going to set up as a rival inbusiness to Violette. Violette has her revenge for making a playthingof her heart, and if the dead can take any satisfaction she--"
With a quick movement Kennedy anticipated a motion of Pierre's. Theruined smuggler had contemplated either an attack on himself or hiscaptor, but Craig had seized him by the wrist and ground his knucklesinto the back of Pierre's clenched fist until he winced with pain. AnApache dagger similar to that which the little modiste had used to endher life tragedy clattered to the deck of the ship, a mute testimonialto the high class of society Pierre and his associates must havecultivated.
"None of that, Pierre," Craig muttered, releasing him. "You can't cheatthe government out of its just dues even in the matter of punishment."