America, without going through the formality of visiting the customhouse, anywhere from six weeks to three months later.
"Not much to work on," grumbled Gregory, "and I suppose, as usual, that the chief will be as peevish as Hades if we don't nab the
guilty party within the week."
"It's more than possible," admitted one of the men who had handled the case.
Gregory studied the dates on which the jewels had been purchased and those on which they had been located in this country for a
few moments in silence. Then:
"Get me copies of the passenger lists of every steamer that has docked here in the past year," he directed. "Of course it's possible that these things might have been landed at Boston or Philadelphia, but New York's the most likely port."
When the lists had been secured Gregory stuffed them into his suit case and started for the door.
"Where you going?" inquired McMahon, the man in charge of the New York office.
24
"Up to the Adirondacks for a few days," Gregory replied.
"What's the idea? Think the stuff is being brought over by airplane and landed inland? Liners don't dock upstate, you know."
"No," said Gregory, "but that's where I'm going to[62] dock until I can digest this stuff," and he tapped his suit case. "Somewhere in this bunch of booklets there's a clue to this case and it's up to me to spot it. Good-by."
Five days later when he sauntered back into the New York office the suit case was surprisingly light. Apparently every one of the passenger lists had vanished. As a matter of fact, they had been boiled down to three names which were carefully inscribed in Joe's notebook.
"Did you pick up any jewels in the Catskills?" was the question that greeted him when he entered.
"Wasn't in the Catskills," he growled. "Went up to a camp in the Adirondacks--colder'n blazes. Any more stuff turn up?"
"No, but a wire came from Washington just after you left to watch out for a hundred-thousand-dollar string of pearls sold at a private auction in London last week to an American named--"
"I don't care what his name was," Gregory cut in. "What was the date they were sold?"
"The sixteenth."
Gregory glanced at the calendar.
"And to-day is the twenty-second," he mused. "What boats are due in the next three days?"
"The Cretic docks this afternoon and the Tasmania ought to get in to-morrow. That'll be all until the end of the week."
"Right!" snapped Gregory. "Don't let a soul off the Cretic until I've had a look at her passenger list. It's too late to go down the harbor now, but not a person's to get off that ship until I've had a chance to look 'em over. Also cable for a copy of the Tasmania's passenger list. Hurry it up!"
Less than ten minutes after he had slipped on board the Cretic, however, Gregory gave the signal which permitted[63] the gangplank to be lowered and the passengers to proceed as usual--except for the fact that the luggage of everyone and the persons of not a few were searched with more than the average carefulness. But not a trace of the pearls was found, as Joe had anticipated. A careful inspection of the passenger list and a few moments with the purser had convinced him that none of his three suspects were on board.
Shortly after he returned to the office, the list of the Tasmania's passengers began to come over the cables. Less than half a page had been received when Gregory uttered a sudden exclamation, reached for his notebook, compared a name in it with one which appeared on the cabled report, and indulged in the luxury of a deep-throated chuckle.
"Greg's got a nibble somewhere," commented one of the bystanders.
"Yes," admitted his companion, "but landin' the fish is a different matter. Whoever's on the other end of that line is a mighty cagy
individual."
But, though he undoubtedly overheard the remark, Gregory didn't seem to be the least bit worried. In fact, his hat was at a more rak-ish angle than usual and his cane fairly whistled through the air as he wandered up the Avenue half an hour later.
The next the customs force heard of him was when he boarded the quarantine boat the next morning, clambering on the liner a little
later with all the skill of a pilot.
"You have a passenger on board by the name of Dodge," he informed the purser, after he had shown his badge. "Mrs. Mortimer C.
Dodge. What do you know about her?"
"Not a thing in the world," said the purser, "except that she is a most beautiful and apparently attractive woman. Crossed with us once before--"[64]
25
"Twice," corrected Gregory. "Came over in January and went right back."
"That's right," said the purser, "so she did. I'd forgotten that. But, beyond that fact, there isn't anything that I can add." "Seem to be familiar with anyone on board?"
"Not particularly. Mixes with the younger married set and I've noticed her on deck with the Mortons quite frequently. Probably met
them on her return trip last winter. They were along then, if I remember rightly."
"Thanks," said the customs operative. "You needn't mention anything about my inquiries, of course," and he mixed with the throng
of newspaper reporters who were picking up news in various sections of the big vessel.
When the Tasmania docked, Gregory was the first one off.
"Search Mrs. Mortimer C. Dodge to the skin," he directed the matron. "Take down her hair, tap the heels of her shoes, and go through all the usual stunts, but be as gentle as you can about it. Say that we've received word that some uncut diamonds--not pearls, mind you--are concealed on the Tasmania and that orders have been given to go over everybody thoroughly. Pass the word
along the line to give out the same information, so she won't be suspicious. I don't think you'll find anything, but you never can tell."
At that, Joe was right. The matron didn't locate a blessed thing out of the way. Mrs. Dodge had brought in a few dutiable trinkets, but they were all down on her declaration, and within the hour she was headed uptown in a taxi, accompanied by a maid who had met her as she stepped out of the customs office.
Not far behind them trailed another taxi, top up and Gregory's eyes glued to the window behind the chauffeur.[65]
The first machine finally drew up at the Astor, and Mrs. Dodge and the maid went in, followed by a pile of luggage which had been
searched until it was a moral certainty that not a needle would have been concealed in it. Gregory waited until they were out of sight and then followed.
In answer to his inquiries at the desk he learned that Mrs. Dodge had stopped at the hotel several times before and the house detective assured him that there was nothing suspicious about her conduct.
"How about the maid?" inquired Gregory.
"Don't know a thing about her, either, except that she is the same one she had before. Pretty little thing, too--though not as good-
looking as her mistress."
For the next three days Joe hung around the hotel or followed the lady from the Tasmania wherever she went. Something in the back of his head--call it intuition or a hunch or whatever you please, but it's the feeling that a good operative gets when he's on the right trail--told him that he was "warm," as the kids say. Appearances seemed to deny that fact. Mrs. Dodge went only to the most natural places--a few visits to the stores, a couple to fashionable modistes and milliners, and some drives through the Park, always accompanied by her maid and always in the most sedate and open manner.
But on the evening of the third day the house detective tipped Joe off that his prey was leaving in the morning.