CHAPTER VI
WHAT WAS BEHIND THE FALSE PARTITION
Long before eight o’clock, Willie Brown, no longer arrayed in overalls but dressed in his best, was at the place of rendezvous, at Bowling Green. Sheridan was not yet there. Willie knew something of the history of this tiny oval of grass, at the foot of Broadway, the longest street in the world. And now, while he was waiting for the Secret Service man he looked up that thoroughfare, which in ways other than mere length has no counterpart in the earth. He could not help thinking of the difference that three short centuries had made in its appearance.
Now he was looking up a thoroughfare so narrow that six wagons abreast filled it from curb to curb. Of course there were tiny side streets, near at hand, like Petticoat Lane, in which two teams could not pass each other. Indeed, one team practically occupied all that roadway. And there were scores of streets all about him, crooked, twisting little highways that originally were probably paths worn through the brush by the cattle of the early Dutch settlers. But Willie was facing up Broadway, the main artery of traffic for the great metropolis. And though this street would have been plenty wide enough for a country town, it was hopelessly inadequate for the great city.
For on either hand, as far as he could see, rose the hugest buildings in existence. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, and even fifty stories, the various buildings towered aloft. More than one of the colossal sky-scrapers housed ten thousand workers—a number of people several times greater than the entire population of the town in which Willie lived. And yet Broadway here was no wider than Main Street in Central City. No wonder Broadway was so crowded, when building after building poured out its thousands upon thousands of workers into this one thoroughfare.
But all these majestic buildings, all these wondrous changes that had altered lower Manhattan from a forested rocky island to a magic city of cloud-touching structures, were not as remarkable as this tiny oval of grass in which Willie stood. The remarkable thing about this grass plot is that it is a grass plot. For three hundred years one change has followed hard upon the heels of another about Bowling Green. Yet Bowling Green is still Bowling Green, even as it was in the days of old Peter Stuyvesant. A little smaller it is no doubt. But it is still open and still softly carpeted with turf, even as it was when those early Dutch settlers played at bowls on its well cropped sward.
In imagination Willie could see them now, in their voluminous knee-length breeches, rolling their wooden balls over the grass. And the Custom-house that rose majestically across the street on the site of the old Dutch fort became in Willie’s eyes the old fort itself; with its great earthen walls so neglected by the placid Dutch that their roving swine rooted holes entirely through them.
As he gazed at the marble statue of an early, Dutch city father, within the little oval, he remembered that he had read that long before it had been erected, there stood in this same Bowling Green Park a leaden statue of George III, of England. And Willie recalled, too, that a crowd of patriots, during the Revolution, had fastened ropes to this statue, at a time when Washington was in sore need of ammunition, and had pulled it down and melted it, and cast the molten lead into bullets to teach that same George III a needed lesson. And that thought recalled to mind another occurrence of Revolutionary days that took place in this exact spot where he stood. The iron-picketed fence that surrounds Bowling Green was built in 1771, and each of the cast-iron posts bore on its summit a royal coat of arms or some other royal insignia, that the patriots did not like. And so, with hammers and axes, they knocked off these offending finials. Plainly did the rough-topped supports show where these offensive emblems had been broken away; and Willie had just started to examine the telltale marks, when a voice said, “Hello, youngster. I see you are getting well posted.”
“You’re mistaken,” laughed Willie. “I am doing picket duty.”
“Well, come along and we’ll do something that you will find more interesting. We’ll have to hustle, too. So be brisk.”
The voice was familiar enough, but Willie hardly recognized the well-dressed and really handsome man who was speaking to him. He had never before seen Sheridan in anything but old clothes. After an astonished look at him Willie leaped to join the Secret Service man. But the latter, instead of starting for the waterfront, turned up Broadway. A very short walk brought them to a towering office-building into which the detective turned. Willie wondered, but kept his peace. He was learning to use his mouth less and his eyes and ears more.
They stepped into an express elevator and were shot upward to the twenty-fifth floor. They walked down a long corridor and came to a door which bore the name “Coastwise Steamship Company.” Willie was glad that he had asked no questions. They entered the office, but were held up by a pompous office boy, who demanded to know their business. Willie’s companion took a card from his pocket and began to write on it. Willie saw that the card was engraved with the name of “Franklin P. Sheridan, United States Secret Service.” And on the face of the card Sheridan wrote this message: “Would like to see Mr. Morgan at once on a matter of importance.”
When the office boy looked at the card, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Willie heard him mutter to himself, “Gee! He’s a Secret Service man!” The way the lad lost his dignity and bolted into Mr. Morgan’s office made both Willie and his companion laugh. A moment later the office boy came hustling out.
“Mr. Morgan wants to know if you will please step right in,” said the lad who led the way and threw open the door for them. Then reluctantly, and with many a backward glance, he withdrew.
Mr. Morgan rose to greet his visitors. “Mr. Sheridan?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” said the Secret Service man, taking the steamship manager’s extended hand. “And this is my assistant, Mr. Willie Brown.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Morgan, with a world of astonishment in his tone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sheridan?”
“I have reason to think,” said the Secret Service man, “that the captain of one of your lighters has some stolen cotton in his possession. Have you carried any lately?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Morgan. “The lighter Dixie has carried several loads this week from one of our steamers to a New Haven Railway pier.”
“That’s the very barge we had in mind,” said Sheridan.
“Have you examined her?” asked the steamship manager with interest.
“No; we haven’t been aboard of her at all. We didn’t want to do anything to excite the suspicion of her captain. But we haven’t the least doubt he has some stolen cotton in his possession, and if he has, it is almost certainly in his lighter.”
“What makes you think so, if you haven’t been on board the boat? How did you get track of the matter?”
“We owe it to my assistant here. We have been on the track of wool thieves for some time. They steal the wool while it is being conveyed to the bonded warehouses, you know. And so the owner loses his property and Uncle Sam loses the revenue on the stolen wool. We were nosing around in South Street last night, when my assistant overheard a fellow say he had a jag of cotton to sell. We kept tabs on the fellow and he proved to belong on the Dixie.”
“Aren’t those rather slender grounds on which to accuse a man of theft?” said Mr. Morgan, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “I have no doubt this fellow may have been stealing. We are losing property in transit all the time. But we have enough trouble with our boatmen as it is. I don’t want to accuse one of them of dishonesty unless we can make good on the accusation.”
“We don’t have to accuse anybody of anything. Let’s go examine the boat and see what’s in it.”
“But that would arouse suspicion.”
“Not a bit. I’m a prospective purchaser for the craft. You are the seller. Of course I want to see what I’m going to buy, before I buy it.”
“Of course,” said the steamship manager. “That’s as simple as can be. What is the best way to get at it?”
“Better get the craft out in the river. Then we’ll have everything at our mercy, including the captain.”
“To be sure. We’ll do it.” Mr. Morgan turned to his telephone and gave a brusque order. Then he rose, put on his hat, and turned to his stenographer. “I’ll be back in——” He appealed to Sheridan. “How long?” he asked.
“An hour and a half. Maybe an hour, if we are not delayed,” replied the Secret Service man.
“I’ll be back in an hour and a half, and perhaps sooner,” said Mr. Morgan.
His stenographer nodded comprehension, and the three investigators left the office. This time the office boy not only had his eyes open, but his mouth as well. “Gee!” he muttered, “I wonder what’s up.”
Straight across the island the three investigators went hustling. A very few minutes brought them to the East River piers of the Coastwise Steamship Company. A tug, with steam up, was moored at the end of one of these piers. Through the great pier shed went Mr. Morgan and his two companions. The executive nodded greetings to employees as he went. Arrived at the end of the pier, the three leaped aboard the tug.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morgan,” said the pilot. “Where do you want to go?”
“Take us down to the pier where our lighters are. Make fast to the Dixie and take her out into the stream. You can pull down between Governor’s Island and Brooklyn. This gentleman wants to examine that boat.”
Lines were cast off, the pilot rang a bell, and the tug’s propeller began to churn the water. Slowly the tug drew away from the pier. In a very short time she was abreast of the barge wharf. The pilot nosed his way in beside the Dixie. The latter’s captain was on her deck.
“Catch these lines and make fast,” called a hand on the tug, as he threw a hawser toward the Dixie.
The Dixie’s captain caught it and made it fast. Then he caught and fastened a second line forward.
“We’re going to pull down the river,” said the tug captain, leaning out of the pilot-house. “Just cast off.”
The Dixie’s captain drew in the lines that held the barge to the pier. Mr. Morgan, followed by Sheridan and Willie, stepped from the tug to the lighter.
“Your name is——” said Mr. Morgan, hesitating.
“Jensen,” replied the captain of the Dixie.
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten. Well, Jensen, this gentleman wants to buy a lighter. We’d like to sell the Dixie. But he won’t take her until he has looked her over well and seen how she behaves under tow.”
“She’s a good boat,” said Jensen, with the customary pride of a sailor in his craft. “There ain’t none better afloat.”
“I told him so, but he wants to be shown.”
“We’ll show him.”
Meantime the tug had gotten under way, and was drawing out of the dock, with the Dixie fast beside her. Once clear of the pier, her captain turned down-stream.
Sheridan remained on deck for a time, apparently watching the movement of the boat through the water. Then he turned to Jensen. “How’s her cabin?” he asked.
“Snuggest little cabin on the East River,” replied Jensen. “Step in and have a look.”
The inspecting party descended to the cabin. It was, indeed, snug enough. Jensen had it in pretty tidy shape. There were bunks along both sides and Jensen’s bed was made. He had a few articles of clothing piled neatly in a vacant bunk. Sheridan walked about and eyed everything keenly.
“Don’t you have any closets?” he asked. “A boat like this ought to have closets.”
“Sure there’s closets,” and the sailor pointed to some partitions that opened toward the hold of the barge. Sheridan peered into them eagerly, but they were practically empty.
“What’s the size of this cabin?” he asked. “How big a family could live in it? You know most boatmen are married and want to have their families aboard with them.”
“It’s about twelve feet long,” said Jensen, “and the width of the boat.”
“Now, there ought to be room for some closets in the stern,” said Sheridan, “on either side of the companionway, between the cabin wall and the hull itself.” He stooped down and keenly examined the rear wall.
“There ain’t no closets there,” said Jensen, “and there ain’t no room for any, neither. I tried one time to make a closet there. Needed more storage room for myself. The cabin wall is right up against the stern o’ the boat.”
Sheridan glanced expressively at Mr. Morgan, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to the boatman. “How long is your craft over all?” he asked.
“One hundred feet.”
“And you say this rear cabin wall is plumb against the boat’s hull?”
“Snug against it.”
“How deep are these closets here, forward?”
“About three feet. You can see for yourself.”
The Secret Service man drew a little searchlight from his vest pocket and stooping, walked through one of the closet doors. He produced a tape and measured the space. “Exactly three feet,” he remarked.
“How much cargo can you carry?” he asked, suddenly shifting the subject.
“A pile of it,” said Jensen. “She’ll carry more stuff than any boat of her size in the harbor.”
“But I must know exactly.”
“I can’t tell you exactly.”
“Maybe I can figure it myself. Let’s take a look at the hold.”
The party came up from the cabin and went forward, dropping through an open hatchway, inside the boat. The hold was bare and perfectly clean. With his tape Sheridan rapidly measured the hold, beginning at the bow and working back toward the cabin in the stern.
“Twenty-four feet wide and eighty-three feet long,” he said. He paused a moment, figuring, “Twelve feet for the cabin, three for the closets, and eighty-three for the cargo. That totals ninety-eight feet. There are two feet of space unaccounted for. I don’t pay for one hundred feet of boat if there’s only ninety-eight,” and again he looked significantly at Mr. Morgan.
“What about that, Jensen?” asked the steamship manager. “Are you sure this craft is one hundred feet long?”
“Come to think of it,” said the boatman uneasily, “it is only ninety-eight feet. I got so used to thinkin’ it was about a hundred that I just called it an even hundred. That’s all it is, sir, ninety-eight feet.”
“Well, I’m going to make sure,” said Sheridan. “I don’t buy any boat unless I know exactly what I’m getting.”
He climbed to the deck and rapidly measured. “She’s a hundred feet exactly,” he said. And he turned on the boatman severely. “How do you account for those two missing feet?” he demanded.
A crafty look came into Jensen’s eyes. “Two feet is it?” he said. “Why, I just boarded a little space in the back of the hold to keep my cabin warm.”
Once more Sheridan glanced at the steamship manager. “You didn’t need to board up a space two feet wide to keep your cabin warm. Six inches would have been plenty. Why, that cuts down the cargo space tremendously. We’ll have to have that partition down. I want to know exactly how much I can carry in this boat. And besides, there might be some rotten planks in the hull in that two-foot space. I’d like to look in there.”
“Tear out your partition,” said Mr. Morgan. “This man is entitled to see every part of the boat before he buys her.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to do it with,” said Jensen. “I’ll do it to-night and he can have a look at her to-morrow.”
“That won’t do. I’ve got to choose between this boat and another this very morning. Surely you’ve got a hatchet. What did you use to put the partition up?”
“No, I ain’t got no hatchet,” replied Jensen, very sullenly.
Mr. Morgan stepped to the hatchway and called to a hand on the tug. “Bring me an axe,” he said.
In a second the fellow dropped through the hatchway with an axe. Mr. Morgan directed him to knock down the partition. The man from the tug drove his axe blade between two of the partition boards and pried one loose. Some tightly stuffed burlap bags promptly bulged into the space he had opened. He tore off one board after another and the bulging sacks came tumbling out on the floor of the lighter. They were filled with cotton.
“What does this mean?” demanded Mr. Morgan, confronting the sullen barge captain. “Where did this cotton come from and how did it get behind this false partition?”
“I don’t know,” growled Jensen. “I never seen it before. I didn’t know it was behind there.”
“See here, Jensen,” said Sheridan, stepping up to the boatman. “The jig is up. You are under arrest for grand larceny,” and he threw back his coat, displaying on his vest the glittering shield of the Secret Service.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that cotton,” persisted Jensen.
“There’s no use lying about it,” said Sheridan sharply. “We’ve got you dead to rights and you’ll go to prison as sure as you stand here. None of that.”
He leaped forward, grabbed the boatman’s right hand, and whirled the fellow around. From the man’s hip pocket he drew a loaded revolver. Deftly he “frisked” his prisoner, and finding no other weapons on him, let go of him.
“Now, Jensen,” he said, “we’ve got you right. You will only hurt yourself by lying. You may help yourself if you tell the truth. Where did this cotton come from?”
“From bales we carried to the New Haven pier.”
“When?”
“Just this week.”
“How much is there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t weigh it.”
“But you have a pretty good idea of what it will weigh. What does one of these bags weigh?”
“About seventy-five pounds, I guess,” replied Jensen.
Sheridan lifted a bag. “That’s a close guess,” he said. “We’ll call it seventy-five, anyway.” Rapidly he counted the bags. “Thirty-five,” he said. “That makes thirty-five times seventy-five.” He stopped and made some figures on an old envelope. “Twenty-six hundred and twenty-five pounds,” he said. “More than a ton and a quarter of cotton, Mr. Morgan. That’s a little better than five bales. It’s worth something more than $650 wholesale at present prices. Have you had any complaints about loss of cotton?”
“Lots of them, but we have seldom been able to put our hands on the thieves.”
“Let me suggest that you have every one of your lighters examined and measured and all space accounted for. It might be worth your while.”
Then Sheridan turned to Jensen once more. “Who helped you steal this stuff?” he demanded.
“Nobody,” said Jensen gruffly.
“Come on, now. Cough up. Who’s in this with you?”
“Not a soul,” insisted Jensen.
“If you’re lying, we’ll find it out,” said Sheridan, “and it will go all the harder with you.”
“Is there anything more you want to see, Mr. Sheridan?” asked the steamship man.
“Not a thing. We’ve seen all there is to see.”
“Then we’ll head for shore.” He gave the signal to the tug’s pilot, and in a few minutes, the party was once more ashore. Sheridan slipped a pair of handcuffs on his prisoner.
“Young man,” said Mr. Morgan, turning to Willie, “I understand that we are indebted to you for this discovery and very important arrest. The continued loss of cotton has cost our line thousands of dollars in damages. Come along to the office with me. I have something for you.”
“If you mean money,” said Willie, “I cannot take it.”
“Why not? Is it against the rules of the Secret Service?”
“I don’t know,” replied Willie. “I don’t belong to the Secret Service.”
“You don’t? Then what’s all this about your being Mr. Sheridan’s assistant?”
“You’re perfectly free to take anything the gentleman wants to give you,” remarked Sheridan, “but you would not be if you did belong to the Service. No Secret Service man may accept a cent for any service from any one but the government. And as for his being my assistant, Mr. Morgan, it happens this way. This lad was coming along the water-front when I was trailing wool smugglers. I needed to get a message to my office badly, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the men I was trailing. I asked this lad to send a message for me. He never saw me before and I never saw him. But it seems that he was one of those four boys from Pennsylvania that helped to find that German secret wireless station during the war.”
“I remember reading about it. So you were one of those boys, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Willie modestly.
“And so he knew the private call of the Secret Service,” went on Sheridan. “When I gave him the number I wanted him to call up, he knew right away that I was a Secret Service man. He delivered my message in fine shape and then came back to help me, because he found the office couldn’t do anything for me. We got the men I was after, and a lot of smuggled wool too. And while we were working on the case, this lad picked up the hint about your cotton here. So I told him he might go with me when I went to look for the cotton.”
“Young man,” said Mr. Morgan, “the Coastwise Steamship Company is really greatly indebted to you, and I wish you would let me give you a little token of our appreciation.”
“I couldn’t do that,” insisted Willie. “I didn’t do it for money.”
“Then what did you do it for?”
“I did it to help Mr. Sheridan and because I want to learn all I can about the Secret Service. I want to be a Secret Service man.”
“You’re certainly qualified to be one, and I hope you land a job with the Service. Come see me if you don’t. There might be a stray job in my office by that time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I am obliged to you. But there isn’t anything else I want to do so much as to be a Secret Service man. Good-bye.”
The Secret Service man, meantime, had hustled away from the pier with his prisoner as fast as he could go. He did not want to be seen by any more longshoremen than he could help. But Willie knew where he had gone, and after he had shaken hands with Mr. Morgan, he hustled down the street after his friend. He reached the police-station just as Sheridan was coming out of it. Sheridan was smiling. Willie guessed it was because he had beaten the police.
“What next?” he asked.
“I guess we’ll go report to the Chief on these seizures,” Sheridan said. “And I’ll do all I can to try to get you into the Service in some capacity. You have proved your worth.”
“I’ll take any job I can get,” said Willie, “even to being an office boy. And I’ll be glad to get the job.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” said Willie’s companion. “The way to get into any place or any job is to get in. It doesn’t matter whether you go in by the front door, or the kitchen door, or the cellar door. Once you are inside, you can go pretty much where you like. You may think that starting as an office boy in the Secret Service is like coming in through the cellar door. Maybe it is. But the point is that you are in. You can climb as fast as you have the ability to. But you can’t ever get anywhere in the Secret Service as long as you don’t belong to it—or in any other job, can you?”
“No,” agreed Willie. “I’ve been dead wrong about that notion. If I can get an office boy job, I’ll be the happiest fellow in the world.”
“You can get on the waiting list, and that’s sure. There may not be any vacancy at the present time. At any rate, we’ll see what happens. Come on.”