# The Hand of Peril/Part 3/Chapter 4

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IV
It was seven days later that Wilsnach patiently awaited Kestner's visit to that comparatively obscure uptown hotel in which the Agent from the Paris Office had installed himself as a cattle-buyer from the Argentine.
Wilsnach's mood was as dispirited as the weather, for a heavy rain was falling. It was falling without interruption, leaving the upper streets of the city as desolate as a glacial moraine. And the cattle-buyer from the Argentine, quite apart from the weather, found little in which to exult. His week had been a busy enough one. But it had resulted in little beyond a renewed acquaintance with the city of his youth. Official quarters had been unofficially sounded, unsavoury friends of the underworld had been duly interrogated, an unbroken line of espionage had been quietly established, and every likely corner of Greater New York had been invaded and inspected. He had twice encountered Kestner, first as a black-bearded Latin-American in the coffee-business, and later as a municipal water-inspector, but on neither occasion did his fellow-worker have anything definite to tell him. Wilsnach had not happened on the faintest echo as to where Lambert and his confederates were hidden away. And again the Agent from the Paris Office felt that Kestner had made the mistake of his life in keeping ​the chase a personal one, in ever letting his quarry slip in past the Port authorities.
So Wilsnach showed little enthusiasm as he turned to greet his colleague, an hour late, and on this occasion a spare-looking figure in clericals and horn-bow spectacles. He remembered that the taxi-cab trail had proved a blind one, that two days as a gas company employé had brought in nothing, and that each different drag-net at each cast had come up empty. So Wilsnach stood a little resentful of the fixed optimism of the gentleman in clericals as the latter struck a match, lighted the inevitable cigar, and for the second time peered out along the empty hallway.
His back was still to Wilsnach, for he was turning the key in the lock when he spoke.
"Well, I've found 'em!" was his quiet announcement.
At those four words the gloom suddenly went out of the day. Life took on a purpose and the face of the visitor from the Argentine took on a less morose expression
"Where?" was his quick query.
Kestner inspected the room, closed a window, and then came and sat close beside the other man. When he spoke, he spoke very quietly.
"Like monarchs, in a brownstone mansion on Fifty-first Street, just off the Avenue."
Wilsnach took a deep breath. "Posing as what?" he inquired.
"Not posing at all! Just sedately living there, the same as other people live on Fifty-first Street. They must have leased it furnished, for the season."
​"I should call that nerve."
"And also good judgment. It's a fine example of what you might term the privacy of conspicuity. Who'd ever think of digging out a gang of refugee counterfeiters from a rather fashionable private mansion with a two-figured address and a brownstone front?"
"Then what made you dig them out?"
"It began with Inky Davis and skipped to the young lady we knew as Cherry Dreiser. In West Forty-seventh Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, is a very chic little millinery shop. It is run by a very chic little woman who calls herself Mdlle. Baby. At different times of the day some very fashionable-looking women go to that shop. They go, in fact, in rather surprising numbers. Wilsnach, can you guess why?"
"It's a stall, as they say over here?"
"Exactly. Those plumes and Paris hats are merely a fence behind which one of the busiest of women's poolrooms is being run. They have wire connection with a distributing bureau that gives track-returns by 'phone. They also have a very comfortable room where tea and cigarettes can be served. Here ladies with too much time and money can escape the ennui of life by plunging on the ponies. And one of the heaviest plungers, at the present time, happens to be our young friend, Miss Sadie Wimpel, alias Cherry Dreiser."
A look of comprehension crept into Wilsnach's eyes.
"How did you spot her?" he inquired.
"I tailed her from the Grand Union Hotel, where ​she met her old friend, Inky Davis the wire-tapper. I shadowed her twice to Mdlle. Baby's. Then I got a girl planted inside, and found Sadie was a regular visitor. She lays her bets with considerable judgment. Sometimes she wins, and sometimes she loses. But she doesn't worry over losing. She doesn't need to. For every bill she pays out in that poolroom is one of Maura Lambert's counterfeits!"
"But this doesn't sound like Lambert's procedure."
"It isn't his procedure as a rule. But I suppose he's got to pay running expenses until he effects his coup. So he jumped at the quickest and safest way of uttering his bad paper. Sadie is his layer out. She unloads big denominations, breaks them and gets good money in return. Those counterfeits will fool every one until they get in expert hands at the banks, and even there they may pass muster for a while. And in the meantime, Sadie will move on."
"But how about Lambert himself?"
"We may as well remember, Wilsnach, there's no such man as Lambert. Names never count for very much in the criminal world. Our man's at present known as Hardman, a slight variation of his old alias of Hartman. I've been watching Hardman for a day and a half, every move he makes in the open. He's posing as a Southerner, a horse breeder from Virginia with a frock-coat and a wide-brimmed black hat—you know the get-up! Three hours ago Morello met him in a downtown hotel. An hour later our Italian friend bought a ticket for Washington, and I'm having him tailed to see just what his business might be in ​that city. He's out of our reach for to-night. But there are other things we've got to take care of."
"To-night?"
"Yes; to-night—for Hardman is ready to launch one of the biggest tricks ever turned by a crook. I almost respect that man; he's Napoleonic in some ways. While Sadie Wimpel's been unloading on that uptown women's poolroom Hardman's been manœuvring with Doc Kilvert's downtown establishment. And this is how he did it: Kilvert spotted that benevolent-eyed old Southerner in the frock-coat and sized him up as something ready and waiting for a killing. Hardman even looked good enough for a variation of the old green goods game, and Kilvert got busy. Hardman did some investigating on his own hook, played coy with Kilvert, and then fell for the plan. Can you beat that for one of life's little ironies?—a tin-horn conman like Kilvert trying to sell a handful of phoney money to America's most accomplished counterfeiter doing business on a Sub-Treasury basis!"
"But did he fall for it?"
"To-day, when the time for delivery came. Hardman turned on Kilvert and nailed him down. He turned the trick so well that he took that piker's breath away. Then he took Kilvert up to his room and talked real business with him."
"You mean you think he did."
"I know he did—part through Redney Sissons, part through our dictograph, and part through a bell-boy stool I'd planted there. But here's the point of the whole thing: As soon as Kilvert spotted that ​counterfeit paper of Hardman's, he agreed that big things could be done with it. Hardman supplied him with samples and sent him over to Pip Tarbeau's with them. Tarbeau's called the Poolroom King of this country. I don't know everything that took place between Tarbeau and Kilvert, after that Poolroom King had sent out for a microscope and a second green-goods expert. But that paper made him ready to deal with Hardman, who claims the money is coming to him in job lots from Sicily, through a lemon-importer named Bastedo. And that deal means that to-night Tarbeau is going to take over exactly one half million dollars in Hardman hank-notes!"
"I don't get the point," admitted Wilsnach, after a moment of thought.
"It's this, Wilsnach; one hundred thousand of that half million is going to be placed in this city; another hundred thousand goes to Chicago; another hundred thousand to New Orleans; still another hundred thousand to San Francisco; and the remaining hundred thousand is to be split between Charleston and Denver. That money's going to be held by Tarbeau's operators until a release date. Then it's going to be let loose through the paying-tellers of those different poolrooms. In other words, Wilsnach, a half million dollars in bad money is going to be suddenly exploded on the country. They can get it out the same as Sadie Wimpel has been getting hers out. It will pass muster with those poolroom patrons. It will spread like a sort of scarlet-fever into commercial circles. Then the coup will be repeated, and the second half million will make it an epidemic. By the time some bank expert ​has spotted the stuff and the general warning goes out, the whole currency of the country will be infected with that bad paper, and nine people out of ten won't even know whether it's bad or good!"
Wilsnach's eyes rested on Kestner as the figure in clericals took out a second cigar, lighted it, and then looked at his watch.
"My God, what a coup!" finally gasped the man from the Paris Office.
"You see what it means—we've got to jump in and stop that half million from getting out. They've got their own tailers. I made sure of that yesterday, when I called a messenger and gave him a sealed envelope to deliver, for a decoy. That messenger was waylaid and my message was opened and read. That shows you we've got to do some side-stepping. We've got to get that counterfeit paper; and we've got to get Hardman or Lambert, or whatever you want to call him. Then we've got to get Maura Lambert and gather in the Wimpel woman, and be ready and waiting for Morello when he dodges back from Washington!"
"But what's the plan?"
"It's this: Lambert will leave that Fifty-first Street house to-night at nine o'clock sharp. He'll carry the money in a black club bag, and he'll be alone. He'll take a taxi-cab to Dirlam's Casino on upper Broadway, just north of One Hundred and First Street. And you will be driving that taxi-cab."
"Will I?" inquired Wilsnach.
"That'll be all fixed, for unless we get him on the wing we can't land him without police help—and this ​is our case." Kestner crossed quickly to the window and glanced out. "Look at that rain. You'll be rubber-coated up to the ears and he doesn't dream of your chauffeur days in that old Poirret picture-smuggling case. You'll drive him up to Dirlam's to meet Tarbeau and Kilvert in a private room there. He may tell you to strike up Broadway and stick to the white lights. But you've got to go by way of Central Park, and then swing in to the drinking-fountain between the north end of the Mall and the West Seventy-second Street entrance. We'll cover that route in a taxi, as soon as we get out of here, to make sure of our lay-out. But to-night, once you get Lambert as far as that fountain, you've got to stall there. Make it engine-trouble, or anything you like. But hold him there until I get my chance to get into that taxicab. Here's a gun and a pair of handcuffs. It's ten to one you won't need to use either of them, but we've got to guard against a tailer coming up and interfering. These two extra pair of cuffs I'll keep for myself, for later in the evening."
Wilsnach watched him as he slipped the pair of polished double rings back in his pocket.
"Remember," repeated Kestner, "that I'll attend to Lambert. All you've got to do is to hold any one off from interfering, and get under way again, once I'm sure of my man."
"Under way for where?"
"Down the West Drive of the Park to Columbus Circle, dropping me and the club bag as soon as I can pick up another taxi. There'll be a federal tailer with the Department pass-word waiting at the Maine ​Monument there. Then get Lambert down to the Forty-seventh Street police station as quick as you can. The Lieutenant there is fixed; he'll hold him, on a Sullivan Law charge until he's needed."
"Then where will you be?"
"I'll be back investigating that Fifty-first Street house, gathering in the girl, and getting hold of all the plates and paper I can find there."
"How about Sadie Wimpel?"
"Sadie still believes in clairvoyants and is to have a reading at nine to-night with a Madame Musetta, who, oddly enough, also gives sucker-tips for Inky Davis and his gang. At nine-thirty a federal agent will interrupt that reading and tell Sadie something more definite about her future. In the meantime, you've got to get back to that Lambert house with your taxi. You're waiting for a fare there. But lie low, and keep tab on anybody who enters the house. If I don't appear in thirty minutes' time, get inside as soon as you can. But give me at least thirty minutes."
Wilsnach crossed the room and then confronted Kestner again.
"But isn't all this taking chances?" he protested. "Why couldn't we sail up to the Fifty-first Street house with a few plain clothes men, break down the door, and gather up our people?"
"In the first place, we wouldn't be doing the gathering. That would fall to the City police. And I'm not aching to hand over a case I've already travelled five thousand miles for. To be candid, this case has grown into rather a personal matter with me."
"But while we're landing Lambert why couldn't the ​police look after the woman and pass her over to the federal officers later on?"
"Because I want to get that woman myself," was Kestner's answer.
"Why?" Wilsnach pointedly inquired.
"As I've already said, for personal reasons," was Kestner's retort as he looked at his watch again and got up from his chair.
"Don't you think that in things like this the personal equation sometimes comes rather expensive?" Wilsnach asked, watching the other man as he took the receiver down from the wall-phone beside him.
Kestner, with the receiver at his ear, did not turn about to face Wilsnach as he answered him.
"The personal equation is the only thing that makes work like this worth while," was his quiet-toned retort.