XV
THE MAN WITH THREE WIVES
One of the first things to strike the eye of the visitor who enters thelibrary-den of William J. Quinn--known to his friends and formerassociates in the United States Secret Service as "Bill"--is a framewhich stands upon the mantel and contains the photographs of threeexceptionally pretty women.
Anyone who doesn't know that this room is consecrated to relics of theexploits of the various governmental detective services might bepardoned for supposing that the three pictures in the single frame arephotographs of relatives. Only closer inspection will reveal the factthat beneath them appears a transcript from several pages of a certainbook of records--the original of which is kept at the New York CityHall.
These pages state that....
But suppose we let Quinn tell the story, just as he told it one coldNovember night while the wind was whistling outside and the cheerywarmth of the fire made things extremely snug within.
* * * * *
Secret Service men [said Quinn] divide all of their cases into twoclasses--those which call for quick action and plenty of it and thosewhich demand a great deal of thought and only an hour or so of actualphysical work. Your typical operative--Allison, who was responsible forsolving the poison-pen puzzle, for example, or Hal Preston, whopenetrated the mystery surrounding the murder of Montgomery Marshall--isessentially a man of action. He likes to tackle a job and get it overwith. It doesn't make any difference if he has to round up a half dozencounterfeiters at the point of a single revolver--as Tommy Callahan oncedid--or break up a gang of train robbers who have sworn never to betaken alive. As long as he has plenty of thrills and excitement, as longas he is able to get some joy out of life, he doesn't give a hang forthe risk. That's his business and he loves it.
But it's the long-drawn-out cases which he has to ponder over andconsider from a score of angles that, in the vernacular of vaudeville,capture his Angora. Give him an assignment where he can trail his manfor a day or two, get the lay of the land, and then drop on the bunchlike a ton o' brick and everything's fine. Give him one of the otherkind and--well, he's just about as happy as Guy Randall was when theyturned him loose with instructions to get something on Carl Cheney.
Remember during the early days of the war when the papers were full ofstories from New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Milwaukee and points westabout gatherings of pro-German sympathizers who were determined to aidthe Fatherland? Theoretically, we were neutral at that time and thesepeople had all the scope they wanted. They did not confine themselves totalk, however, but laid several plans which were destined to annoy thegovernment and to keep several hundred operatives busy defeatingthem--for they were aimed directly at our policy of neutrality.
As a campaign fund to assure the success of these operations, the Germansympathizers raised not less than sixteen million dollars--a sum whichnaturally excited the cupidity not only of certain individuals withintheir own ranks, but also of persons on the outside--men who wereaccustomed to live by their wits and who saw in this gigantic collectionthe opportunity of a lifetime.
When you consider that you can hire a New York gangster to commit murderfor a couple of hundred dollars--and the "union scale" has been known tobe even lower--it's no wonder that the mere mention of sixteen milliondollars caused many a crook of international reputation to figure how hecould divert at least a part of this to his own bank account. That's theway, as it afterward turned out, that Carl Cheney looked at it.
Cheney had rubbed elbows with the police on several occasions prior tonineteen fourteen. It was suspected that he had been mixed up in anumber of exceptionally clever smuggling schemes and that he had had afinger in one or two operations which came perilously close toblackmail. But no one had ever been able to get anything on him. He wasthe original Finnigin--"In agin, gone agin." By the time the plan cameto a successful conclusion all that remained of "Count Carl's"connection with it was a vague and distinctly nebulous shadow--and yousimply can't arrest shadows, no matter how hard you try.
The New York police were the first to tip Washington off to the factthat Cheney, who had dropped his aristocratic alias for the time being,was back in this country and had been seen in the company of a number ofprominent members of a certain German-American club which wasn't in anytoo good repute with the Department of Justice by reason of the effortsof some of its members to destroy the neutral stand of the nation.
Have no indications of what Cheney is doing [the report admitted], but it will be well to trail him. Apparently he has some connection, officially or unofficially, with Berlin. Advise what action you wish us to take.
Whereupon the chief wired back:
Operative assigned to Cheney case leaves to-night. Meanwhile please watch.
It wasn't until after the wire had been sent that Guy Randall wassummoned to the inner sanctum of the Secret Service and informed that hehad been elected to trail the elusive suspect and find out what he wasup to.
"So far as our records show," stated the chief, "no one has ever beenable to catch this Cheney person in the act of departing from thestraight and narrow path. However, that's a matter of the past. Whatwe've got to find out is what he is planning now--why he is in New Yorkand why he has attached himself to the pro-German element which has allkinds of wild schemes up its sleeve."
"And I'm the one who's got to handle it?" inquired Guy, with a grimace.
"Precisely," grinned the chief. "Oh, I know it doesn't look like much ofa job and I grant you that the thrill element will probably be lacking.But you can't draw a snap every time. All that's asked is that you getsomething on Cheney--something which will withstand the assaults of thelawyers he will undoubtedly hire the minute we lay hands on him.Therefore you've got to be mighty careful to have the right dope. Ifyou're satisfied that he's doing nothing out of the way, don't hesitateto say so. But I don't expect that your report will clear him, for, fromwhat we already know of the gentleman, he's more likely to be implicatedin some plan aimed directly at a violation of neutrality, and it'sessential that we find out what that is before we take any radicalstep."
"What do you know about Cheney?" was Randall's next question, followedby an explanation from the chief that the "count" had been suspected ina number of cases and had barely been able to escape in time.
"But," added the head of the Secret Service, "he did escape. And that'swhat we have to prevent this time. He's a fast worker and a cleverone--which means that you've got to keep continually after him. Call inall the help you need, but if you take my advice you'll handle the casealone. You're apt to get a lot further that way."
Agreeing that this was the best method to pursue, Randall caught themidnight train for New York and went at once to police headquarters,where he requested a full description of Cheney's previous activities.
"You're asking for something what ain't," he was informed,ungrammatically, but truthfully. "We've never been able to get a thingon the count, though we're dead certain that he had a finger in severalcrooked plays. The Latimer letters were never directly traced to him,but it's a cinch that he had something to do with their preparation,just as he had with the blackmailing of old man Branchfield and thesmuggling of the van Husen emeralds. You remember that case, don't you?The one where the stones were concealed in a life preserver and theystaged a 'man overboard' stunt just as the ship came into the harbor.Nobody ever got the stones or proved that they were actuallysmuggled--but the count happened to be on the ship at the time, just ashe 'happened' to be in Paris when they were sold. We didn't even darearrest him, which accounts for the fact that his photograph doesn'tornament the Rogues' Gallery."
"Well, what's the idea of trailing him, then?"
"Just to find out what he is doing. What d'ye call those birds that flyaround at sea just before a gale breaks--stormy petrels? That's thecount! He's a stormy petrel of crookedness. Something goes wrong everytime he hits a town--or, rather, just after he leaves, for he's tooclever t
o stick around too long. The question now is, What's thisparticular storm and when is it goin' to break?"
"Fine job to turn me loose on," grumbled Randall.
"It is that," laughed the captain who was dispensing information. "Butyou can never tell what you'll run into, me boy. Why I remember once--"
Randall, however, was out of the office before the official had gottenwell started on his reminiscences. He figured that he had already hadtoo much of a grouch to listen patiently to some long-winded story dugout of the musty archives of police history and he made his way at onceto the hotel where Carl Cheney was registered, flaunting his own name infront of the police whom he must have known were watching him.
Neither the house detective nor the plain-clothes man who had beendelegated to trail Cheney could add anything of interest to the littlethat Randall already knew. The "count," they said, had conducted himselfin a most circumspect manner and had not been actually seen inconference with any of the Germans with whom he was supposed to be inleague.
"He's too slick for that," added the man from the Central Office."Whenever he's got a conference on he goes up to the Club and you can'tget in there with anything less than a battering ram and raiding squad.There's no chance to plant a dictaphone, and how else are you going toget the information?"
"What does he do at other times?" countered Guy, preferring not toreply to the former question until he had gotten a better line on thecase.
"Behaves himself," was the laconic answer. "Takes a drive in the Park inthe afternoon, dines here or at one of the other hotels, goes to thetheater and usually finishes up with a little supper somewhere among thewhite lights."
"Any women in sight?"
"Yes--two. A blond from the girl-show that's playin' at theKnickerbocker and a red-head. Don't know who she is--but they're bothgood lookers. No scandal, though. Everything appears to be on thelevel--even the women."
"Well," mused the government operative after a moment's silence, "Iguess I better get on the job. Probably means a long stretch of dullwork, but the sooner I get at it the sooner I'll get over it. Where isCheney now?"
"Up in his room. Hasn't come down to breakfast yet. Yes. There he isnow. Just getting out of the elevator--headed toward the dinin' room,"and the plain-clothes man indicated the tall figure of a man aboutforty, a man dressed in the height of fashion, with spats, a cane, and amorning coat of the most correct cut. "Want me for anything?"
"Not a thing," said Randall, absently. "I'll pick him up now. You mighttell the chief to watch out for a hurry call from me--though I'm afraidhe won't get it."
As events proved, Randall was dead right. The Central Office heardnothing from him for several months, and even Washington received onlystereotyped reports indicative of what Cheney was doing--which wasn'tmuch.
Shortly after the first of the year, Guy sent a wire to the chief,asking to be relieved for a day or two in order that he might be free tocome to Washington. Sensing the fact that the operative had some planwhich he wished to discuss personally, the chief put another man onCheney's trail and instructed Randall to report at the TreasuryDepartment on the following morning.
"What's the matter?" inquired the man at the head of the Service as Guy,a little thinner than formerly and showing by the wrinkles about hiseyes the strain under which he was working, strolled into the office.
"Nothing's the matter, Chief--and that's where the trouble lies. Youknow I've never kicked about work, no matter how much of it I've had.But this thing's beginning to get on my nerves. Cheney is planning somecoup. I'm dead certain of that. What it's all about, though, I haven'tthe least idea. The plans are being laid in the German-American Club andthere's no chance of getting in there."
"How about bribing one of the employees to leave?"
"Can't be done. I've tried it--half a dozen times. They're all Germansand, as such, in the organization. However, I have a plan. Strictlyspeaking, it's outside the law, but that's why I wanted to talk thingsover with you...."
When Randall had finished outlining his plan the chief sat for a momentin thought. Then, "Are you sure you can put it over?" he inquired.
"Of course I can. It's done every other day, anyhow, by the copsthemselves. Why shouldn't we take a leaf out of their book?"
"I know. But there's always the possibility of a diplomatic protest."
"Not in this case, Chief. The man's only a waiter and, besides, beforethe embassy has a chance to hear about it I'll have found out what Iwant to know. Then, if they want to raise a row, let 'em."
The upshot of the matter was that, about a week later, Franz Heilman, awaiter employed at the German-American Club in New York, was arrestedone night and haled into Night Court on a charge of carrying concealedweapons--a serious offense under the Sullivan Act. In vain he protestedthat he had never carried a pistol in his life. Patrolman Flaherty, whohad made the arrest, produced the weapon which he claimed to have foundin Heilman's possession and the prisoner was held for trial.
Bright and early the next morning Randall, disguised by a mustache whichhe had trained for just such an occasion and bearing a carefullyfalsified letter from a German brewer in Milwaukee, presented himself atthe employee's entrance of the German-American Club and asked for thesteward. To that individual he told his story--how he had tried to getback to the Fatherland and had failed, how he had been out of work fornearly a month, and how he would like to secure employment of some kindat the Club where he would at least be among friends.
After a thorough examination of the credentials of the supposedGerman--who had explained his accent by the statement that he had beenbrought to the United States when very young and had been raised inWisconsin--the steward informed him that there was a temporary vacancyin the Club staff which he could fill until Heilman returned.
"The duties," the steward added, "are very light and the pay, while notlarge, will enable you to lay by a little something toward your returntrip to Germany."
Knowing that his time was limited, Randall determined to let nothingstand in the way of his hearing all that went on in the room whereCheney and his associates held their conferences. It was the work ofonly a few moments to bore holes in the door which connected this roomwith an unused coat closet--plugging up the holes with corks stained tosimulate the wood itself--and the instant the conference was on the newwaiter disappeared.
An hour later he slipped out of the side entrance to the Club and thesteward is probably wondering to this day what became of him. Had hebeen able to listen in on the private wire which connected the New Yorkoffice of the Secret Service with headquarters at Washington, he wouldhave had the key to the mystery.
"Chief," reported Randall, "I've got the whole thing. There's a plot onfoot to raise one hundred and fifty thousand German reservists--menalready in this country--mobilizing them in four divisions, with sixsections. The first two divisions are to assemble at Silvercreek,Michigan--the first one seizing the Welland Canal and the secondcapturing Wind Mill Point, Ontario. The third is to meet at Wilson, N.Y., and will march on Port Hope. The fourth will go from Watertown, N.Y., to Kingston, Ontario, while the fifth will assemble somewhere nearDetroit and proceed toward Windsor. The sixth will stage an attack onOttawa, operating from Cornwall.
"They've got their plans all laid for the coup, and Cheney reportedto-day that he intends to purchase some eighty-five boats to carry theinvading force into the Dominion. The only thing that's delaying thegame is the question of provisions for the army. Cheney's holding outfor another advance--from what I gathered he's already received alot--and claims that he will be powerless unless he gets it. I didn'tstay to listen to the argument, for I figured that I'd better leavewhile the leaving was good."
The reply that came back from Washington was rather startling to theoperative, who expected only commendation and the statement that histask was completed.
"What evidence have you that this invasion is planned?"
"None besides what I heard through holes which I bored in one of thedoors
of the German-American Club this morning."
"That won't stand in court! We don't dare to arrest this man Cheney onthat. You've got to get something on him."
"Plant it?"
"No! Get it straight. And we can't wait for this expedition to start,either. That would be taking too much of a chance. It's up to you to doa little speedy work in the research line. Dig back into the count'spast and find something on which we can hold him, for he's veryevidently the brains of the organization, in spite of the fact that heprobably is working only for what he can get of that fund that theGermans have raised. I understand that it's sixteen million dollars andthat's enough to tempt better men than Cheney. Now go to it, andremember--you've got to work fast!"
Disappointed, chagrined by the air of finality with which the receiverat the Washington end of the line was hung up, Randall wandered out ofthe New York office with a scowl on his face and deep lines of thoughtbetween his eyes. If he hadn't been raised in the school which holdsthat a man's only irretrievable mistake is to quit under fire, he'd havethrown up his job right there and let some one else tackle the work oflanding the count. But he had to admit that the chief was right and,besides, there was every reason to suppose that grave issues hung in thebalance. The invasion of Canada meant the overthrow of Americanneutrality, the failure of the plans which the President and the StateDepartment had so carefully laid.
Cheney was the crux of the whole situation. Once held on a charge thatcould be proved in court, the plot would fall through for want of acapable leader--for the operative had learned enough during his hour inthe cloak-room to know that "the count" was the mainspring of the wholemovement, despite the fact that he undoubtedly expected to reap a richfinancial harvest for himself.
Selecting a seat on the top of a Fifth Avenue bus, Randall resignedhimself to a consideration of the problem.
"The whole thing," he figured, "simmers down to Cheney himself. In itsramifications, of course, it's a question of peace or war--but inreality it's a matter of landing a crook by legitimate means. I can'tplant a gun on him, like they did on Heilman, and there's mighty littlechance of connecting him with the Branchfield case or the van Husenemeralds at this late date. His conduct around town has certainly beenblameless enough. Not even any women to speak of. Wait a minute, though!There were two. The blond from the Knickerbocker and that red-haireddame. He's still chasing around with the blond--but what's become ofMiss Red-head?"
This train of thought had possibilities. If the girl had been castaside, it was probable that she would have no objection to telling whatshe knew--particularly as the color of her hair hinted at the possessionof what the owner would call "temperament," while the rest of the worldforgets to add the last syllable.
It didn't take long to locate the owner of the fiery tresses. A quickround-up of the head waiters at the cafes which Cheney frequented, ataxi trip to Washington Square and another to the section above ColumbusCircle, and Randall found that the red-haired beauty was known as OlgaBrainerd, an artist's model, whose face had appeared upon the cover ofpractically every popular publication in the country. She had been outof town for the past two months, he learned, but had just returned andhad taken an apartment in a section of the city which indicated thepossession of considerable capital.
"Miss Brainerd," said Randall, when he was face to face with the Titianbeauty in the drawing-room of her suite, "I came with a message fromyour friend, Carl Cheney."
Here he paused and watched her expression very closely. As he had hoped,the girl was unable to master her feelings. Rage and hate wrotethemselves large across her face and her voice fairly snapped as shestarted to reply. Randall, however, interrupted her with a smile and thestatement:
"That's enough! I'm going to lay my cards face up on the table. I am aSecret Service operative seeking information about Cheney. Here is mybadge, merely to prove that I'm telling the truth. We have reason tobelieve that 'the Count,' as he is called, is mixed up with a pro-Germanplot which, if successful, would imperil the peace of the country. Canyou tell us anything about him?"
"Can I?" echoed the girl. "The beast! He promised to marry me, more thantwo months ago, and then got infatuated with some blond chit of a chorusgirl. Just because I lost my head and showed him a letter I hadreceived--a letter warning me against him--he flew into a rage andthreatened.... Well, never mind what he did say. The upshot of theaffair was that he sent me out of town and gave me enough money to lastme some time. But he'll pay for his insults!"
"Have you the letter you received?" asked Randall, casually--as if itmeant little to him whether the girl produced it or not.
"Yes. I kept it. Wait a moment and I'll get it for you." A few secondslater she was back with a note, written in a feminine hand--a note whichread:
If you are wise you will ask the man who calls himself Carl Cheney what he knows of Paul Weiss, of George Winters, and Oscar Stanley. You might also inquire what has become of Florence and Rose.
(Signed) AMELIA.
Randall looked up with a puzzled expression. "What's all this about?" heinquired. "Sounds like Greek to me."
"To me, too," agreed the girl. "But it was enough to make Carl purplewith rage and, what's more, to separate him from several thousanddollars."
"Weiss, Winters, and Stanley," mused Guy. "Those might easily beCheney's former aliases. Florence, Rose, and Amelia? I wonder.... Comeon, girl, we're going to take a ride down to City Hall! I've got ahunch!"
Late that afternoon when Carl Cheney arrived at his hotel he wassurprised to find a young man awaiting him in his apartment--a man whoappeared to be perfectly at ease and who slipped over and locked thedoor once the count was safely within the room.
"What does this mean?" demanded Cheney. "By what right--"
"It means," snapped Randall, "that the game's up!" Then, raising hisvoice, he called, "Mrs. Weiss!" and a tall woman parted the curtains atthe other end of the room; "Mrs. Winters!" and another woman entered;"Mrs. Stanley!" and a third came in. With his fingers still caressingthe butt of the automatic which nestled in his coat pocket, Randallcontinued:
"Cheney--or whatever your real name is--there won't be any invasion ofCanada. We know all about your plans--in fact, the arsenal on WestHouston Street is in possession of the police at this moment. It was agood idea and undoubtedly you would have cleaned up on it--were it notfor the fact that I am under the far from painful necessity of arrestingyou on a charge of bigamy--or would you call it 'trigamy'? The recordsat City Hall gave you away, after one of these ladies had been kindenough to provide us with a clue to the three aliases under which youconducted your matrimonial operations.
"Come on, Count. The Germans may need you worse than we do--but wehappen to have you!"