Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“Are you sure there’s no hop sewed up in your clothes?” asked Kerrigan, eying up the man before him in a suspicious manner.

“I’ll give you my word that there ain’t,” was the reply. “I’ve laid off the stuff since the time you got me seven or eight years ago.”

Now, here was an unusual thing about the unusual Kerrigan: In nine instances out of ten, he could tell when a man was lying — and he could tell when a man was speaking the truth. If the latter happened to be the case, the Wolf never exposed any one to the embarrassment of a search. Thus, he made many friends, for there is nothing more flattering than to have your word accepted at its face value, if you’re telling the truth.

So Kerrigan beamed on the returned traveler and said:

“O.K., kid. I know you wouldn’t lie to me — and I’m glad to know that you’re walking the straight and narrow... By the way, how’s the family?”

“Just great, Wolf. Got two new members — a boy and a girl — since I saw you last.”

“Now isn’t that just dandy, kid,” responded the inspector. “By the way, look me up any time — especially if you know of anything that’ll interest me. Remember, now, that if you tip me off to anything, I won’t question you. I know you’re on the level, but I thought maybe you had overheard something hot in your travels...”

The Wolf looked after the dapper young man as he walked away. The kid, personally, was on the square, mused the shrewd agent, but he knew more than he was telling...

The next morning, when Kerrigan took up his vigil at one of the largest piers, the dapper young man who had figured in the previous day’s proceedings approached him and said:

“Well, here I am again, Wolf; thought I’d find you here.”

“Hello there,” said Kerrigan, jovially. “What’s up?”

“Just this, Wolf: I’ve been thinkin’ things over and I’ve decided that you’re a pretty white egg. Now, I’m going to give you a tip. The B — is due in at noon and on board is Signor A, a diplomat from C—” (a small foreign country). “Several diplomats from that country have been comin’ over here lately and I understand they’re all cartin’ dope. They sell it in New York and Washington and make a lot of dough for themselves.”

“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.”