Waiting for me was my dependable assistant, Operative O. B. Hobbs, who had just finished a case in Spain and reported now for instructions on the work which had brought me to Paris. Hobbs was long, lean, lank and thirty-five, with the eye of a hawk and the beak of an eagle.
In the world-wide International Police and Detective Organization to which we were attached he was known as the best shadow among all of our thousands of operatives. And, though shadowing is considered generally as the most onerous of any branch of detective work, very strangely, Hobbs liked to shadow and never lost his man.
He had an almost uncanny ability in the way of disappearing and reappearing in the most unexpected way and in the most unexpected places when on this work. Besides being a clever shadow he was an excellent all round detective, with good judgment and plenty of well directed nerve. The first thing to do was to explain to Hobbs something about the work we were in Paris to perform.
“The Maiden Lane jewel merchants of New York,” I began, “are, as you know, all members of the Jewelers’ Security Alliance, but there is a scurvy outfit with headquarters on the Bowery who call themselves the Jewelers’ Exchange.”
“I know ’em,” replied Hobbs. “Receivers of stolen goods.”
“Right,” I responded, “though, according to the ethics of the criminal profession, I presume we may speak of them as smugglers.”
Hobbs smiled at this, for the Bowery Jewelers’ Exchange were known in inner police circles the world over as a slippery, tricky bunch, hard to catch and harder to handle, even after being caught, which they were at times, with “the goods on.”
“In this case,” I continued, “the Maiden Lane crowd are our clients. A bunch of diamonds, pearls and all kinds of jewels, set and unset, are reaching this country from France and a few other points in Europe without being declared to our customs service. That means, of course, they are being smuggled into the country.
“As we know, there is more or less of this sort of thing going on in a small way through small channels, ordinary passengers on steamships who think it funny to beat their own country out of what rightfully belongs to them. But here we have to deal with this jewel smuggling proposition on a truly huge scale.
“This Bowery exchange have been and are right now receiving the stuff. They have agents in Paris, Antwerp and other places. The better class of jewelers, say, for example, along the Rue de la Paix in Paris, are, comparatively speaking, straight.
“Even where they are not so, they have to come to America in order to be arrested on any such charge as smuggling into our country. But we are not interested in the merchant end of it right now. What we are interested in is the crook end of it.”
“The crook end of it?” repeated Hobbs, all interest and keen as a bloodhound to take up his part of the work at once.
“Yes,” I went on, “I mean, a gang of crooks are operating in Paris, getting hold of all kinds of jewels, by one means and another, all having to do with thievery of course, and getting the swag through this Jewelers’ Exchange on the Bowery.”
“Apaches?” questioned Hobbs.
“Perhaps,” I answered. “At any rate, coincident with the jewels reaching America through the Bowery exchange, which the Maiden Lane merchants rightfully want to put out of business, the French police are having a tremendous lot of trouble over jewel thefts at social functions.
“A necklace or a tiara, for instance, will be lifted from some guest and disappear instantly as if by magic. The préfet suspects some society man or woman — some fraud or poser no doubt — is nabbing the stuff and slipping it out of the various houses where these thefts occur to confederates waiting outside. This may be done by tossing valuable articles out of windows or off of balconies to whoever happens to be waiting for them.
“And, mark this, in several instances all the guests have been lined up and searched in the good old-fashioned way, without the slightest clew being derived from these methods.”
“So,” grinned Hobbs, “I suppose, as usual, all we have to do is — catch the thieves.”
I shook my head. “No — for in this particular case we must proceed a step farther. Besides catching the crooks or assisting the French authorities to do so, our most important work will be to find out who is smuggling this stuff through to America. Our fine old Customs Service will be only too willing to do the rest.”
The first thing I did was to send my assistant, Hobbs, to an Apache hangout in an old stone hotel and café on the banks of the famous river Marne, in the forest of Vincennes.
Hobbs, as well as myself, was aware the Apaches do not live in Paris. They live in and around the forest of Vincennes and dash into Paris and back again to their hovels and dives, after some depredation or other.
When on some all-night job, or when it suits their purposes, they spend all night in Paris, but practically none of them live there, notwithstanding the numerous fake Apache joints in the Montmartre made up especially to lure sensation seeking tourists.
Speaking French like an educated continental, and possessed of a composite personality which made it difficult for one unacquainted with the man to place him as to his nationality or profession, if any, Hobbs was not the sort of man to be suspected of being anything like a detective or an officer of the law.
Furthermore, the manager of the dive, one François, was under obligations to me for having saved him from serious trouble with the French authorities following the war when, to save his own hide, he had “peached” on some of his own kind.
If Hobbs could pick up any information around the Apache rendezvous that would be of value to our investigation, so much the better.
Meanwhile, I spent some hours tutoring my voting protégé, Pierre Carnot, in the subtle art of shadowing. To shadow the aged crone now posing as the scrub woman of St. Roch, should be an easy task for a beginner.
She hobbled along at a slow pace, and barring the possibility of her being suspicious of a shadow which would cause her to keep a sharp lookout to see if she was being watched, the job presented but few difficulties. Pierre would shadow the old hag from Mme. Martin’s café on St. Roch, after her second meeting with myself, provided she kept the appointment.
I was considerably gratified to find the old woman, on the evening in question, sitting at the little table by the window, sipping her evening aperitif as usual.
“Bon jour, monsieur,” grinned the old vixen as I approached her table, signaling the garçon to bring us a couple of drinks.
“Bon jour, madame” I returned, sitting down opposite her, “I trust you are not fatigued after your day’s work.”
“Ah!” she replied. “It makes but little difference, for one of my age must work hard to keep flesh and body together.”
“And — I suppose you have good news for me — yes? Did your mademoiselle agree to a rendezvous with me?”
“Alas, monsieur,” replied the old woman with a shrug of her shoulders, “she was not in a good humor when I spoke to her about you. All I could get out of her was, ‘perhaps — some day.’ ”
“Too bad,” I returned, appearing much chagrined, “I’m curious to meet her. Fix it up if you can — do your best.”
With this I assumed again to play the rich American and shoved a few francs across the table toward her. Followed profuse thanks for my generosity. I questioned her as adroitly as possible as to where mademoiselle lived, to which she would only reply that she lived on the other side of the Seine — “the left bank,” that is.