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

“To help me?” asked the diplomat, with some surprise.

“Yes, signor, I am here to help you.”

“In what way?”

The Wolf stepped closer to his quarry.

“Please don’t get excited now,” he said calmly, “but there’s a time bomb in one of your trunks.”

“What!” shouted the diplomat.

“I say there is a time bomb in one of your trunks. I just got word of it after the ship docked. It was placed there by some of your political enemies who crossed on the boat with you.”

“Oh, this is terrible — terrible!” wailed Signor A. “Which trunk is it in?”

“I don’t know,” said Kerrigan. “Let’s open them all — in a hurry! The bomb is set for two o’clock and it’s one thirty now!”

So the diplomat called his secretary and valet and the three of them hurriedly removed the contents of the three trunks, while the Wolf stood by, watching their every move.

Among the effects which were excitedly placed on the floor was a wooden box, about a foot square, with a sliding lid. Kerrigan never took his eyes from that box. When everything had been removed from the trunks, Signor A said to Kerrigan:

“You seem to be mistaken, my dear man. There is no time bomb in these trunks.”

“Well, well, well,” laughed the Wolf. “I guess I was misinformed.”

Kerrigan then picked up the wooden box, slid back the lid and a fortune in opium greeted his expectant eyes.

“Here, here!” shouted Signor A, realizing that he had been out-smarted. “Give me that box!”

“No, I’ll just take this along with me,” smiled Kerrigan.

“I shall complain to the President of the United States!” thundered the emissary. “You shall pay for this!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” joked the Wolf, whose sense of humor was quite pronounced. “I am one man who shall not pay for this — opium. I shall have it free.”

“An outrage! An outrage! That’s what it is!”

With that Kerrigan took the diplomat by the arm and escorted him to a chair.

“Now sit down and listen to me!” snapped the agent, focusing his renowned icy stare on his prey. “I want you and the rest of that crowd from your damned country to stop bringing dope into the United States. And, diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity, I am personally going to search the baggage of every one of you rascals who come over here in the future — and you can tell them so when you go back!”

The minutes wore on and Kerrigan continued to talk.

Before long he had completely won over Signor A.

“Very well, sir,” said the diplomat when Kerrigan had stopped talking, “I assure you that this shall be the last offense. Now then, shall we have a little something to eat?”

So, the Wolf was extended all the hospitalities of the government he had so recently condemned until late in the afternoon, and when he left the hotel suite — with the opium under his arm — he left a friend, Signor A. For, from that day to this, diplomats coming to these shores from the country in question have never violated the law as laid down by Kerrigan to Signor A.

IV

The Wolf was strolling up New York’s famous Broadway one night early in 1927, looking for trouble. He had heard that many traffickers in narcotics were openly plying their nefarious calling along the main stem, and he was out to demoralize the practice. Little did he realize what was in store for him.

On this particular night Kerrigan had hit upon a clever scheme. He was imitating a “hophead” — one who uses dope. His arms twitched at his sides, his eyes bulged out blankly. His every movement was quick, nervous, jerky. The masquerade, in short, was perfect, and it was not long in producing results.

The Wolf had been sauntering along for perhaps ten minutes when he noticed a heavy-set man, attired in a natty brown suit and overcoat, following him.

Kerrigan crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare, and the man in brown did likewise. Finally the little agent made a sharp turn to the left and eased up Fiftieth Street. He slackened his pace and when he reached a point half a block from Broadway’s mad, milling throng, the man in brown overtook him.

“Leanin’ against the stem?” asked the stranger, his expression meaning, to dope users: “Do you smoke opium?”

“Yeah,” drawled the inspector.

“In the market?” was the next query.

“Yeah,” came the enthusiastic answer. “Got any?”

“About fifty dollars’ worth.”

“Gimme it quick!” said the Wolf, his hands reaching out nervously and eagerly.

“Let’s have the cash first,” retorted the stranger.

Kerrigan produced fifty dollars in bills of ten-dollar denomination. The other man took the money, counted and pocketed it and then reached into another pocket and extracted a good-sized chunk of opium. Kerrigan grasped it as a hungry baby grasps a bottle of milk.

“Gee, this is great,” he said, training his eagle eyes on his purchase, which he knew to be genuine stuff. Then, lifting his glance to the peddler, he asked:

“Say, can you get any more of this stuff? I sell it, too, but the fellow I been gettin’ it off got pinched by the agents.”

“Yes, I can get you more. How much would you want?”