Promptly at twelve the phone on the desk of the chief of the Customs Division in Washington buzzed noisily.
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"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.
"That's the piece, all right," Bill remarked, as the strains of the violin drifted off into the night. "Funny how a few notes of music
like that could nail a criminal while at the same time it was saving the lives of nobody knows how many other people--"
Remember Paul Weimar [continued Quinn, picking up the thread of his story]. He was the most dangerous of the entire gang that helped von Bernstorff, von Papen, and the rest of that crew plot against the United States at a time when we were supposed to be entirely neutral.[74]
An Austrian by birth, Weimar was as thoroughly a Hun at heart as anyone who ever served the Hohenzollerns and, in spite of his
size, he was as slippery as they make 'em. Back in the past somewhere he had been a detective in the service of the Atlas Line, but
for some years before the war was superintendent of the police attached to the Hamburg-American boats. That, of course, gave him
the inside track in every bit of deviltry he wanted to be mixed up in, for he had made it his business to cultivate the acquaintance of
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wharf rats, dive keepers, and all the rest of the scum of the Seven Seas that haunts the docks.
Standing well over six feet, Weimar had a pair of fists that came in mighty handy in a scuffle, and a tongue that could curl itself around all the blasphemies of a dozen languages. There wasn't a water front where they didn't hate him--neither was there a water front where they didn't fear him.
Of course, when the war broke in August, 1914, the Hamburg-American line didn't have any further official use for Weimar. Their ships were tied up in neutral or home ports and Herr Paul was out of a job--for at least ten minutes. But he was entirely too valuable a man for the German organization to overlook for longer than that, and von Papen, in Washington, immediately added him to his organization--with blanket instructions to go the limit on any dirty work he cared to undertake. Later, he worked for von Bernstorff; Doctor Dumba, the Austrian ambassador; and Doctor von Nuber, the Austrian consul in New York--but von Papen had first claim upon his services and did not hesitate to press them, as proven by certain entries in the checkbook of the military attache during the spring and summer of 1915.
Of course, it didn't take the Secret Service and the men[75] from the Department of Justice very long to get on to the fact that Wei-mar was altogether too close to the German embassy for the safety and comfort of the United States government. But what were they to do about it? We weren't at war then and you couldn't arrest a man merely because he happened to know von Papen and the rest of his precious companions. You had to have something on him--something that would stand up in court--and Paul Weimar was too almighty clever to let that happen.
When you remember that it took precisely one year to land this Austrian--one year of constant watching and unceasing espionage--
you will see how well he conducted himself.
And the government's sleuths weren't the only ones who were after him, either.
Captain Kenney, of the New York Police Force, lent mighty efficient aid and actually invented a new system of trailing in order to find out just what he was up to.
In the old days, you told a man to go out and follow a suspect and that was all there was to it. The "shadow" would trail along half a block or so in the rear, keeping his man always in view, and bring home a full account of what he had done all day. But you couldn't do that with Weimar--he was too foxy. From what some of the boys have told me, I think he took a positive delight in throwing them off the scent, whether he had anything up his sleeve or not.
One day, for example, you could have seen his big bulk swinging nonchalantly up Broadway, as if he didn't have a care in the world. A hundred feet or more behind him was Bob Dugan, one of Kenney's men. When Weimar disappeared into the Subway station at Times Square, Dugan was right behind him, and when the Austrian boarded the local for Grand Central Station, Dugan was[76] on the same train--on the same car, in fact. But when they reached the station, things began to happen. Weimar left the local and commenced to stroll up and down the platform, waiting until a local train and an express arrived at the same time. That was his opportunity. He made a step or two forward, as if to board the express, and Dugan--not wishing to make himself too conspicuous--slipped on board just as the doors were closing, only to see Weimar push