And your three weeks' grace is up at noon Saturday." The click that followed as the receiver hung up was finality itself.The same procedure, altered in a few minor details, was followed when Mrs. Dodge landed. Again she was searched to the skin; again her luggage was gone over with microscopic care, and again nothing was found.
27
This time she stayed at the Knickerbocker, but Alyce was with her as usual.
Deprived of his usual company and left to his own devices, Gregory took a long walk up the Drive and tried to thrash out the problem.
"Comes over on a different boat almost every trip," he thought, "so that eliminates collusion with any of the crew. Doesn't stay at the same hotel two times running, so there's nothing there. Has the same maid and always returns--"
Then it was that motorists on Riverside Drive were treated to the sight of a young and extremely prepossessing man, dressed in the height of fashion, throwing[69] his hat in the air and uttering a yell that could be heard for blocks. After which he disappeared hurriedly in the direction of the nearest drug store.
A hasty search through the phone book gave him the number he wanted--the offices of the Black Star line.
"Is Mr. MacPherson, the purser of the Atlantic, there?" he inquired. Then: "Hello! Mr. MacPherson? This is Gregory, Customs Division. You remember me, don't you? Worked on the Maitland diamond case with you two years ago.... Wonder if you could tell me something I want to know--is Mrs. Mortimer C. Dodge booked to go back with you to-morrow?... She is? What's the number of her stateroom? And--er--what was the number of the room she had coming over?... I thank you."
If the motorists whom Gregory had startled on the Drive had seen him emerge from the phone booth they would have marveled at the look of keen satisfaction and relief that was spread over his face. The cat that swallowed the canary was tired of life, compared with Joe at that moment.
Next morning the Customs operatives were rather surprised to see Gregory stroll down to the Atlantic dock about ten o'clock. "Thought you were somewhere uptown on the chief 's pet case," said one of them.
"So I was," answered Joe. "But that's practically cleaned up."
With that he went aboard, and no one saw him until just before the "All-ashore" call. Then he took up his place beside the gangplank, with three other men placed near by in case of accident.
"Follow my lead," he directed. "I'll speak to the girl. Two of you stick here to make certain that she[70] doesn't get away, and you, Bill, beat it on board then and tell the captain that the boat's not to clear until we give the word. We won't delay him more than ten minutes at the outside."
When Alyce came down the gangplank a few minutes later, in the midst of people who had been saying good-by to friends and relatives, she spotted Joe waiting for her, and started to move hurriedly away. Gregory caught up with her before she had gone a dozen feet.
"Good morning, Alyce," he said. "Thought I'd come down to meet you. What've you got in the bag there?" indicating her maid's
handbag.
"Not--not a thing," said the girl, flushing. Just then the matron joined the party, as previously arranged, and Joe's tone took on its official hardness.
"Hurry up and search her! We don't want to keep the boat any longer than we have to."
Less than a minute later the matron thrust her head out of the door long enough to report: "We found 'em--the pearls. She had 'em
in the front of her dress."
Gregory was up the gangplank in a single bound. A moment later he was knocking at the door of Mrs. Dodge's stateroom. The instant the knob turned he was inside, informing Phyllis that she was under arrest on a charge of bringing jewels into the United States without the formality of paying duty. Of course, the lady protested--but the Atlantic sailed, less than ten minutes behind schedule time, without her.
Promptly at twelve the phone on the desk of the chief of the Customs Division in Washington buzzed noisily.
28
"Gregory speaking," came through the receiver. "My time's up--and I've got the party you want. Claims to be from Cleveland and sails under the name of Mrs.[71] Mortimer C. Dodge--first name Phyllis. She's confessed and promises to turn state's evidence if we'll go light with her."
"That," added Quinn, "was the finish of Mrs. Dodge, so far as the government was concerned. In order to land the whole crew-- the people who were handling the stuff on this side as well as the ones who were mixed up in the scheme abroad--they let her go scot-free, with the proviso that she's to be rushed to Atlanta if she ever pokes her nose into the United States again. The last I heard of her she was in Monaco, tangled up in a blackmail case there.
"Gregory told me all about it sometime later. Said that the first hunch had come to him when he studied the passengers' lists in the wilds of the Adirondacks. Went there to be alone and concentrate. He found that of all the people listed, only three--two men and a Mrs. Dodge--had made the trip frequently in the past six months. The frequency of Mrs. Dodge's travel evidently made it impracticable for her to use different aliases. Some one would be sure to spot her.
"But it wasn't until that night on Riverside Drive that the significance of the data struck him. Each time she took the same boat on which she had come over! Did she have the same stateroom? The phone call to MacPherson established the fact that she did--this time at least. The rest was almost as obvious as the original plan. The jewels were brought aboard, passed on to Phyllis, and she tucked them away somewhere in her stateroom. Her bags and her person could, of course, be searched with perfect safety. Then, what was more natural than that her maid should accompany her on board when she was leaving? Nobody ever pays any[72] attention to people who board the boat at this end, so Alyce was able to walk off with the stuff under the very eyes of the customs authorities--and they found later that she had the nerve to place it in the hands of the government for the next twenty-four hours. She sent it by registered mail to Pittsburgh and it was passed along through an underground "fence" channel until a prospective purchaser appeared.
"Perfectly obvious and perfectly simple--that's why the plan succeeded until Gregory began to make love to Alyce and got the idea that Mrs. Dodge was going right back to Europe hammered into his head. It had occurred to him before, but he hadn't placed much value on it....
"O-o-o-o!" yawned Quinn. "I'm getting dry. Trot out some grape juice and put on that Kreisler record--'Drigo's Serenade.' I love to
hear it. Makes me think of the time when they landed that scoundrel Weimar." [73]
VI
A MATTER OF RECORD
"What was that you mentioned last week--something about the record of Kreisler's 'Drigo's Serenade' reminding you of the capture of some one?" I asked Bill Quinn one summer evening as he painfully hoisted his game leg upon the porch railing.
"Sure it does," replied Quinn. "Never fails. Put it on again so I can get the necessary atmosphere, as you writers call it, and possibly I'll spill the yarn--provided you guarantee to keep the ginger ale flowing freely. That and olive oil are about the only throat lubricants left us."
So I slipped on the record, rustled a couple of bottles from the ice box, and settled back comfortably, for when Quinn once started
on one of his reminiscences of government detective work he didn't like to be interrupted.
