“We can’t get the stuff tonight,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” Mr. Big ducked into a taxi and that was the last time the agent was ever able to get within shouting distance of his man.
What had happened? What had gone wrong? Where had the agent made the false move that blew the case? He reviewed every word that had been said and every move he had made without finding a clue. He never knew the answer until months later when Mr. Big finally was trapped by other agents. He was asked why it was that he had walked out on the undercover agent that night at the East Side bar.
Mr. Big said, “We had two or three drinks at the bar that night and everything was fixed to get the stuff. Then this guy insisted on picking up the tab. He gives the bartender a sawbuck and when he gets the change he leaves a two-bit tip. Hell, I know right then he’s a government man because only a government man would leave a lousy two-bit tip. That’s when I checked out.”
Polcuch knew as small a slip by him or Halvorsen could wreck the case. While the Chinese was making the telephone calls, he left the table and strolled over to the window looking out on Clay Street. He saw a panel truck parked near the entrance and knew the agents were inside.
At last the elderly Chinese hung up the receiver and came to the table. He said, “You come back at twelve o’clock.”
Polcuch and Halvorsen left the building and whiled away the time looking in shop windows. When they returned to the clubroom the Chinese man was still engrossed in his newspaper. He saw them enter the room, and went immediately to the telephone and dialed a number. There was a brief conversation in Chinese, after which the old man said, “In five minutes he come. You wait.”
They sat at the table waiting, and at 12:35 a well-dressed Chinese entered the room. He wore a neat brown suit and a figured brown tie. He looked to be a man about fifty years old, and on one pudgy finger he wore a diamond ring. He smiled as he walked over to shake hands with Polcuch and Halvorsen.
Halvorsen held out the slip of paper bearing the name Lew Gar Kung Saw. “Are you this man?” he asked. The Chinese glanced at it and said, “Yes, yes. That’s my name.” But actually, agents learned later, his real name was Lew Doo—long suspected of being a trafficker in narcotics.
Lew Doo produced the photograph of Halvorsen and after that the half of a torn slip of paper bearing the words “San Francisco.” He matched his half with the half handed to him by Halvorsen.
“Have you got the stuff with you?” he said.