“Thanks a lot, kid!” said the Wolf, as the informer made his way from the pier.
So that was it! Emissaries were bringing in the stuff, taking advantage of diplomatic immunity, which enabled them to get their trunks through the customs, unsearched! A rotten, low-down trick, mused Kerrigan.
The big liner drew into her pier shortly after twelve thirty and one of the first to march down the gangplank was Signor A, accompanied by his secretary and a valet. Signor A, puffing away on a cigarette, kept almost a foot from his mouth by an ebony holder, appeared very nonchalant as ship workers toted his three trunks after him. When the baggage was deposited on the wharf, a ship officer told one of the customs men that a search of the effects would not be necessary as they were the property of Signor A, a distinguished visitor en route to Washington on official business. Kerrigan stood a safe distance away, but close enough to the scene of activities to take in everything.
Signor A cast a furtive glance or two about him and then stepped into a taxi, instructing the driver to fasten one of his trunks to the side of the cab. The other two trunks were strapped to a second taxi, this machine being occupied by the diplomat’s secretary and valet.
“Follow those cabs!” said Kerrigan to the driver of a third taxi, which he boarded.
The three machines, traveling in line, weaved their way in and out of the clutter and din of the dock vicinity and twenty minutes later drew up in front of one of New York’s largest hotels.
Kerrigan followed the diplomat into the hostelry and stalled around in the lobby until the visitor and his retinue were ensconced in an expensive suite. Then the agent went up to the suite and knocked on the door. The diplomat’s secretary answered.
“I’d like to speak to Signor A,” said Kerrigan.
Signor A, who spoke excellent English, having been in this country on several previous occasions, was not long in putting in an appearance.
“I’m an officer of the United States Government,” said Kerrigan, revealing a bronze badge, “and I’d like to search your trunks.”
“But, my dear sir,” mildly protested the suave diplomat, “I am protected by the flag of my country and am therefore immune to a search of my effects.”
But these words fell on deaf ears. The Wolf was no respecter of personages or titles.
“I don’t care what sort of protection you have,” he said, “there’s something in one of your trunks that I want.”
But Signor A held his ground.
“Do you realize, my dear man,” he said, menacingly, “that I could have you discharged for this unwarranted intrusion?”
Kerrigan thought fast. Signor A was no blockhead. He would have to be cornered by a subtle scheme.
“I can’t understand your attitude,” said Kerrigan pleasantly. “You threaten to have me discharged just because I have come here to help you.”
“To help me?” asked the diplomat, with some surprise.
“Yes, signor, I am here to help you.”
“In what way?”
The Wolf stepped closer to his quarry.
“Please don’t get excited now,” he said calmly, “but there’s a time bomb in one of your trunks.”
“What!” shouted the diplomat.
“I say there is a time bomb in one of your trunks. I just got word of it after the ship docked. It was placed there by some of your political enemies who crossed on the boat with you.”
“Oh, this is terrible — terrible!” wailed Signor A. “Which trunk is it in?”
“I don’t know,” said Kerrigan. “Let’s open them all — in a hurry! The bomb is set for two o’clock and it’s one thirty now!”
So the diplomat called his secretary and valet and the three of them hurriedly removed the contents of the three trunks, while the Wolf stood by, watching their every move.
Among the effects which were excitedly placed on the floor was a wooden box, about a foot square, with a sliding lid. Kerrigan never took his eyes from that box. When everything had been removed from the trunks, Signor A said to Kerrigan:
“You seem to be mistaken, my dear man. There is no time bomb in these trunks.”
“Well, well, well,” laughed the Wolf. “I guess I was misinformed.”
Kerrigan then picked up the wooden box, slid back the lid and a fortune in opium greeted his expectant eyes.
“Here, here!” shouted Signor A, realizing that he had been out-smarted. “Give me that box!”
“No, I’ll just take this along with me,” smiled Kerrigan.
“I shall complain to the President of the United States!” thundered the emissary. “You shall pay for this!”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” joked the Wolf, whose sense of humor was quite pronounced. “I am one man who shall not pay for this — opium. I shall have it free.”
“An outrage! An outrage! That’s what it is!”
With that Kerrigan took the diplomat by the arm and escorted him to a chair.
“Now sit down and listen to me!” snapped the agent, focusing his renowned icy stare on his prey. “I want you and the rest of that crowd from your damned country to stop bringing dope into the United States. And, diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity, I am personally going to search the baggage of every one of you rascals who come over here in the future — and you can tell them so when you go back!”
The minutes wore on and Kerrigan continued to talk.
Before long he had completely won over Signor A.
“Very well, sir,” said the diplomat when Kerrigan had stopped talking, “I assure you that this shall be the last offense. Now then, shall we have a little something to eat?”
So, the Wolf was extended all the hospitalities of the government he had so recently condemned until late in the afternoon, and when he left the hotel suite — with the opium under his arm — he left a friend, Signor A. For, from that day to this, diplomats coming to these shores from the country in question have never violated the law as laid down by Kerrigan to Signor A.
IV
The Wolf was strolling up New York’s famous Broadway one night early in 1927, looking for trouble. He had heard that many traffickers in narcotics were openly plying their nefarious calling along the main stem, and he was out to demoralize the practice. Little did he realize what was in store for him.
On this particular night Kerrigan had hit upon a clever scheme. He was imitating a “hophead” — one who uses dope. His arms twitched at his sides, his eyes bulged out blankly. His every movement was quick, nervous, jerky. The masquerade, in short, was perfect, and it was not long in producing results.
The Wolf had been sauntering along for perhaps ten minutes when he noticed a heavy-set man, attired in a natty brown suit and overcoat, following him.
Kerrigan crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare, and the man in brown did likewise. Finally the little agent made a sharp turn to the left and eased up Fiftieth Street. He slackened his pace and when he reached a point half a block from Broadway’s mad, milling throng, the man in brown overtook him.
“Leanin’ against the stem?” asked the stranger, his expression meaning, to dope users: “Do you smoke opium?”
“Yeah,” drawled the inspector.
“In the market?” was the next query.
“Yeah,” came the enthusiastic answer. “Got any?”