"Sure I will if you'll pull back that bolt. What's the idea, anyhow? You're as mysterious as if you were running a bomb factory orsomething--"
As he spoke he ducked, for if the words had the effect he hoped, the other would realize that he was cornered and attempt to escape.
A guttural German oath, followed by a rapid movement of the man's hand toward his hip pocket was the reply. In a flash Dick slipped forward, bending low to avoid the expected attack, and seized the German in a half nelson that defied movement. Backing out of the circle of light, he held the helpless man in front of him--as a shelter in[55] case of an attack from other occupants of the apartment--and called for assistance. The crash of glass at the rear told him that reinforcements had made their way up the fire escape and had broken in through the window. A moment later came the sound of feet on the stairs and the other two operatives were at the door, revolvers drawn and ready for action.
But there wasn't any further struggle. Von Ewald--or whatever his real name was, for that was never decided--was alone and evidently realized that the odds were overwhelming. Meekly, almost placidly, he allowed the handcuffs to be slipped over his wrists and stood by as the Secret Service men searched the apartment. Not a line or record was found to implicate anyone else--but what they did discover was a box filled with bombs precisely like those picked up on the scene of the Black Tom explosion, proof sufficient to send the German to the penitentiary for ten years--for our laws, unfortunately, do not permit of the death penalty for spies unless caught red-handed by the military authorities.
That he was the man for whom they were searching--the mysterious "No. 859"--was apparent from the fact that papers concealed in his desk contained full details as to the arrangement of the Nemours plant at Wilmington, Delaware, with a dozen red dots indica-
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tive of the best places to plant bombs. Of his associates and the manner in which he managed his organization there wasn't the slightest trace. But the Black Tom explosion, if you recall, was the last big catastrophe of its kind in America--and the capture of von Ewald was the reason that more of the German plots didn't succeed.
The Treasury Department realized this fact when Mary McNilless, on the morning of the day she was to be married to Dick Walters, U. S. S. S., received a very handsome[56] chest of silver, including a platter engraved, "To Miss Mary McNilless, whose cleverness and keen perception saved property valued at millions of dollars."
No one ever found out who sent it, but it's a safe bet that the order came from Washington by way of Wilmington, where the Ne-
mours plant still stands--thanks to the quickness of Mary's Irish eyes.
[57] V
PHYLLIS DODGE, SMUGGLER EXTRAORDINARY
Bill Quinn tossed aside his evening paper and, cocking his feet upon a convenient chair, remarked that, now that peace was finally
signed, sealed, and delivered, there ought to be a big boom in the favorite pastime of the idle rich.
"Meaning what?" I inquired.
"Smuggling, of course," said Quinn, who only retired from Secret Service when an injury received in action forced him to do so. "Did you ever travel on a liner when four out of every five people on board didn't admit that they were trying to beat the customs
officials one way or another--and the only reason the other one didn't follow suit was because he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. That's how Uncle Sam's detectives pick up a lot of clues. The amateur crook never realizes that silence is golden and that oftentimes speech leads to a heavy fine.
"Now that the freedom of the seas is an accomplished fact the whole crew of would-be smugglers will doubtless get to work again, only to be nabbed in port. Inasmuch as ocean travel has gone up with the rest of the cost of living, it'll probably be a sport confined to the comparatively rich, for a couple of years anyhow.
"It was different in the old days. Every steamer that came in was loaded to the eyes and you never knew when[58] you were going to
spot a hidden necklace or a packet of diamonds that wasn't destined to pay duty. There were thrills to the game, too, believe me. "Why, just take the case of Phyllis Dodge...."
Mrs. Dodge [Quinn continued, after he had packed his pipe to a condition where it was reasonably sure to remain lighted for some time] was, theoretically at least, a widow. Her full name, as it appeared on many passenger lists during the early part of 1913, was Mrs. Mortimer C. Dodge, of Cleveland, Ohio. When the customs officials came to look into the matter they weren't able to find anyone in Cleveland who knew her, but then it's no penal offense to give the purser a wrong address, or even a wrong name, for that matter.
While there may have been doubts about Mrs. Dodge's widowhood--or whether she had ever been married, for that matter-- there could be none about her beauty. In the language of the classics, she was there. Black hair, brown eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion that came and went while you watched it, and a figure that would have made her fortune in the Follies. Joe Gregory said afterward that trailing her was one of the easiest things he had ever done.
To get the whole story of Phyllis and her extraordinary cleverness--extraordinary because it was so perfectly obvious--we'll have to
cut back a few months before she came on the scene.
For some time the Treasury Department had been well aware that a number of precious stones, principally pearl necklaces, were being smuggled into the country. Agents abroad--the department maintains a regular force in Paris, London, Rotterdam, and other European points, you know--had reported the sale of the jewels and they had turned up a few weeks later in New York[59] or Chicago. But the Customs Service never considers it wise to trace stones back from their owners on this side. There are too many ramifications to any well-planned smuggling scheme, and it is too easy for some one to claim that he had found them in a long-forgotten chest in the attic or some such story as that. The burden of proof rests upon the government in a case of this kind and, except in the last extremity, it always tries to follow the chase from the other end--to nab the smuggler in the act and thus build up a
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jury-proof case.
Reports of the smuggling cases had been filtered into the department half a dozen times in as many months, and the matter finally got on the chief 's nerves to such a degree that he determined to thrash it out if it took every man he had.
In practically every case the procedure was the same--though the only principals known were different each time.
Rotterdam, for example, would report: "Pearl necklace valued at $40,000, sold to-day to man named Silverburg. Have reason to believe it is destined for States"--and then would follow a technical description of the necklace. Anywhere from six weeks to three months later the necklace would turn up in the possession of a jeweler who bore a shady reputation. Sometimes the article wouldn't appear at all, which might have been due to the fact that they weren't brought into this country or that the receivers had altered them beyond recognition. However, the European advices pointed to the latter supposition--which didn't soothe the chief 's nerves the least bit.
Finally, along in the middle of the spring of nineteen thirteen, there came a cable from Paris announcing the sale of the famous Yquem emerald--a gorgeous stone that[60] you couldn't help recognizing once you got the description. The purchaser was reported to be an American named Williamson. He paid cash for it, so his references and his antecedents were not investigated at the time.
Sure enough, it wasn't two months later when a report
