The seated man whistled. All bore the date of 1922.
“Say, Vic,” queried Dolband, “where did you get these? They’re a perfect job, aren’t they?”
“Picked them up in subway change,” returned Marquette. “I always look over any coins that I get. Reading the dates is my habit.”
“These coins must be more than ten years old — pretty near that old, anyway—”
“Why?” Vic interrupted.
“Because a counterfeiter would probably take a crack at recent dates.”
“Guess again, Carl. Do you think that these would have been floating around for ten years without some coin collector spotting one. They’re new, Carl, but the shine has been taken off of them. Some fox is stamping out old dates, but he pulled a boner on this one.”
“What have you done about it, Vic?”
“Communicated with the subway people. They’re on the lookout. The cashiers at the stations are looking for these phonies. I expect a report to-day.”
The two men left the room. They went downstairs to the hotel grill, and ordered breakfast. It was only a few minutes after nine when a bell boy entered the grill and approached Vic Marquette.
“You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr. Marquette,” he said.
Vic arose from the table. This was one of the advantages of the small hotel where he and Carl Dolband were stopping. They were known to the hotel personnel, and messages were brought quietly, without paging.
Vic Marquette was smiling when he returned. He spoke in a low voice as he joined Dolband.
“That’s it,” was his comment. “They’ve got something for me. Want me down at the main office as soon as possible.”
Hurriedly finishing his meal, Vic shook hands with his fellow operative. Dolband again promised a communication from San Francisco. Vic left the hotel, and headed for the transit offices.
WHEN he reached his destination, the secret-service operative was ushered into the office of Mr. Blake, an assistant manager. Here Vic discovered two other persons beside Blake. One was a sad-faced individual whom Blake introduced as Tompkins, change-maker at an East Side elevated station. The other was a poorly dressed Italian, whom Blake called Pietro.
“Tell Mr. Marquette what you know,” ordered Blake.
Pietro complied with gesticulations. Marquette listened solemnly to the Italian’s story.
“I runna da poosh cart, see?” began Pietro. “I needa da change, da nickel. I go uppa da elevated an’ say to theesa man Tompkins dot I wanta da nick. He tella me he no give.”
“Pietro wanted change,” explained Tompkins. “I told him that we needed all the nickels we could get for elevated passengers. It made an impression on him.”
“Sure,” grinned Pietro. “I say maybe disa man no wanta give — maybe he wanta take. So when I getta da big lot of nickel, I go uppa an’ give to him. He passa me da dollar.”
Marquette nodded. He saw immediately that Pietro must have discovered some other source of obtaining five-cent pieces. With an abundance of the coins, the Italian had simply come to Tompkins to turn in his change.
“Thees morning,” explained Pietro, “Tompkins, he aska me, where you get alla these nickel? I tella him I go to da shop where they make da brassa. The old man, he give me da nickel—”
“What old man?” inquired Vic.
“Cyrus Barbier,” said Tompkins. “He has a brass shop half a block from the elevated station.”
“Tony Cumo, he worka for da old man,” added Pietro. “I tella Tony I needa nickel; he tella me come there. I getta da nickel every day — whole lot of—”
“When Pietro told me this story this morning,” interposed Tompkins, “I brought him here right away. I sorted the nickels he gave me yesterday. I took another batch from him this morning.”
Blake shoved two boxes across the desk. Both were marked with the respective dates. Blake lifted the lids; from each box he took a few segregated coins, and placed them on the desk. Vic Marquette examined them. All bore the date of 1922.
THE secret-service man arose. He studied the three men, and detected an anxious look that was now appearing on Pietro’s face.
“Don’t you worry,” Marquette told the Italian. “You stay here a while, with Tompkins. I’ll see you later. You did right, Pietro.”
The Italian grinned. Marquette made a sign to Blake. The assistant manager walked to the door with the secret-service man.
“Keep Pietro here,” said Vic, in a low tone. “I figure he’s all right. I don’t want him going back to his pushcart for a while, though. I’m going to raid that brass shop as soon as I can get some detectives from headquarters.”
“I’ll keep him here,” nodded Blake. “Tompkins will talk to him. He knows the man.”
“Telephone?” queried Vic.
“Over there,” informed Blake.
The secret-service man went to the place indicated. He smiled as he called detective headquarters. The trail of the 1922 nickels was clear. Within an hour, Vic and a band of raiders would swoop down upon a counterfeiting nest located in Manhattan.
Carl Dolband would be surprised when he heard of this. No wonder. Carl spent his time reading newspapers and following current crime, while Vic Marquette preferred to study things that went on about him.
Little did Vic Marquette realize that fate was tricking him at this very moment. Those headlines which Carl Dolband had read carried no mention of counterfeiters, yet the events of last night were strangely related to those of this morning.
The failure of Duffy Bagland and his mobsmen to gain the Russian plate was changing the aspect of the case upon which Vic Marquette was working. The trail of the 1922 nickels was due to lengthen into an amazing chase before this day had passed!
CHAPTER VIII
A RARE BIRD FLIES
WHILE Vic Marquette was planning his secret raid upon the obscure brass shop owned by Cyrus Barbier, a morning visitor was approaching that exact spot. Silk Elverton, dapper but less swaggering than usual, was strolling from the elevated station along the side street, where Barbier’s place was located.
The smooth crook stopped in front of Barbier’s window. He studied the display of brass and smiled. Barbier’s shop was like others on this street — a glittering emporium of cheap metal wares that attracted those who hoped to buy their brass at wholesale price.
Silk entered the store. A pasty-faced boy came over to wait on him. Silk surveyed the youth, and quietly asked a question.
“Where’s Barbier?”
“He’s out,” returned the boy.
“In back, you mean,” interjected Silk. “Go get him. Tell him the Englishman wants to see him.”
The boy shuffled away.
Silk took an interest in brass andirons. While the crook studied these articles, a door at the rear of the shop opened far enough for a pair of eyes to peer through. A whispered talk went on behind the door. The boy came out and approached Silk Elverton.
“Mr. Barbier will see you,” the youth announced. “Go right back.”
Silk went through the rear door. He came into a workshop where deserted benches and idle lathes were in evidence. There was a door beyond. Silk opened it, and entered a smaller shop. This was a windowless room, where a few machines were set.
Standing within this room was a wizened, gray-haired man, whose stooped shoulders seemed to bear an invisible weight The man’s eyes were sharp. As they looked toward the visitor, a toothless grin appeared upon the old rogue’s countenance.
“Hello, Barbier,” called out Silk. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”
The old man shook his head.
“It’s a wonder you are seeing me,” laughed Silk. “Remember those florins and half crowns you stamped out for me? I nearly was nabbed passing them in Bermuda. If it hadn’t been for my appearance, they’d have taken me in as a crook.”