The letter was dated two days earlier, was sent to the United States Department of Customs, and read:
Gentlemen:
I understand it is your custom to pay rewards for information leading to the arrest of persons violating customs regulations.
I would like to call your attention to Robert P. Trenton, who is a passenger on the steamship EXRABIA which is docking at ten o’clock Monday morning.
This man poses as one who is interested in the training of dogs and has been touring Europe in a private car, taking occasion to stop at various out-of-the-way places. I have every reason to believe this man should be detained for a thorough search.
I am fully familiar with his itinerary while abroad, and I have every reason to believe he is not what he seems.
At the present time I will not make my identity known but after the contraband has been recovered I will identify myself and ask for a reward. The identification will be made by means of a carbon copy of this letter which I will bring with me to your office.
The letter was signed merely A FRIEND.
“Good Lord,” Rob Trenton said. “You don’t pay attention to anonymous letters of that sort, do you?”
“You can bet your bottom dollar we don’t ignore them.”
“But that’s absurd...”
“It seems to be absurd,” the Customs man said, and then added grimly, “However, we’re not finished yet.”
“Why, as a matter of fact,” Rob said angrily, “anyone could write a letter of this sort. It could be a practical joke...”
“Sure it could be a practical joke,” the Customs man said, “but Uncle Sam doesn’t like the idea of playing practical jokes of that sort through the mail. It wouldn’t be healthy to try it.”
“Or, on the other hand,” Trenton stormed, “just in case you wanted really to shake down some passenger and wanted an excuse, you could write that letter right in your office and drop it in the mail and use it to show the passenger to...”
“Sure thing, Mr. Trenton, so we could,” the big Customs man interrupted, “but in case we wanted to shake him down, we could do it without any letter. So cool off and sit down over there. We’re not finished yet.”
It was three-thirty in the afternoon before Rob Trenton was cleared. Thoroughly indignant, he came down the gangplank, the ship’s stewards behind him carrying his luggage, which had been completely examined even to the last pocket in the lining of the coat. A portable X-ray machine had even been used to penetrate the padding in the shoulders of the coat to make sure that no packages were concealed therein.
Lobo, securely muzzled to comply with municipal regulations, was on leash at Rob’s side. The dog was glad to leave the cramped quarters of the ship and to be on land again. He had by this time completely accepted Rob Trenton as his master.
The Customs shed was deserted. The last of the travelers had long since identified their baggage, checked over their declarations with an inspector, had stamps and chalk marks affixed, and been swallowed up in the big city.
For a moment, Rob had a fleeting hope that Linda had been delayed somewhat in connection with the unloading of her car, and that he might still catch her, but on inquiry he learned that the cars were handled expeditiously, that Linda had driven away hours ago, and that she had left the necessary documents and instructions to enable Rob to pick up the little car.
In Rob Trenton’s pocket was the anonymous letter which had been turned over to him at length, together with the apologies of the Customs officials.
So thorough had been their search, they had even found the two white capsules Merton Ostrander had taken from his medicine chest and given Rob during that long nightmare in the Paris hotel.
The men were interested in these capsules and kept them for ‘further examination”, asking Rob’s permission to do so. Rob told them as far as he was concerned they could throw them in the ocean. They were simply some sort of a soda compound to be used in settling an upset stomach. They had, he explained, been given him by Merton Ostrander.
Rob Trenton was halfway across the Customs shed when he found himself gazing at a familiar pair of broad shoulders, a tall loose-jointed figure, clad in tweeds.
As though feeling the impact of Trenton’s gaze, Merton Ostrander turned.
For a moment, when he saw Trenton, his face set in hard lines of anger, then there was a flash of curiosity which caused him to ask guardedly, “Hello, what are you doing here this late?”
Trenton, a sudden suspicion crystallizing in his mind, whipped the anonymous letter from his pocket. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he said, “and be damned careful how you answer it because I’m not going to take your word for it. I’m going to do some independent checking up. Do you know anything about this?”
Trenton shoved the anonymous letter under Ostrander’s face.
For a moment, Ostrander looked curiously at the letter, then a quizzical frown appeared on his forehead. Abruptly he laughed.
Trenton, enraged, deliberately folded the letter, put it back in his pocket, doubled his right hand into a fist, picked out a place on Ostrander’s jaw, and stepped forward.
“Hey, you little bantam,” Ostrander said, backing away. “Come down to earth. Here, take a look at this.”
He was still laughing as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a typewritten letter. “For a minute,” he said, “I was dumb enough to think this was some of your work.”
He held the letter out at arm’s length so that Trenton was forced to look at it, yet keeping Trenton at a distance as he did so.
Trenton saw a letter which, save for names, was the exact counterpart of the letter which had been delivered to him by the two Customs officials after they had finished their search.
Slowly the anger left Rob Trenton. “But who could have written two such letters as this?”
Ostrander laughed mirthlessly. “I think I know the answer now,” he said, “but I was too dumb to realize it until just now.”
“A practical joker?”
“Could have been,” Ostrander said, “but I think the Customs wanted some good excuse to tear us apart, and wanted to get our co-operation in doing it. A letter of this sort makes it very, very easy for them.”
“I pointed that out to them,” Trenton said. “They told me they didn’t need any such excuse.”
“They don’t really need it,” Ostrander said, “but it’s a lot better if they have something which makes their actions look reasonable. You know how it is. If they just started picking on passengers without ostensibly having some excuse they’d get a terrific protest. A letter of this sort comes in very handy. I dare say the Customs officials didn’t expect we’d compare notes. Who was that Harvey Richmond who was your cabin-mate?”
“A real estate operator from the Middle West.”
“You sure?”
“Well, that’s what he told me.”
Ostrander’s eyes narrowed. “He worked a little deal with the Purser to arrange a transfer so he’d be in your cabin. The man who was in there was moved out and the Purser made some rather elaborate explanations to him and Richmond moved in. My baggage was searched twice while I was on shipboard. I rather expected I’d be running into something like this when we docked, but I’ll confess that letter made me plenty mad.”
“Your baggage was searched?” Trenton asked.
“I’ll say it was searched. I have no idea who did it, but I know that on at least two occasions it was given a thorough ransacking. Nothing was taken, but things were arranged a lot differently from the way I’d left them. Little things which ordinarily I wouldn’t have noticed. The shirts were folded differently, the socks had been unrolled... so I got rid of every single thing I had that could have caused the faintest comment.”