“Aha! Either I am hearing scorayas in my mind, and either everybody that looks at me excites my suspicions, or else the Russian Mr. Koshloff is a link in the very plain chain that is stretching from me and my pin to His Majesty Nicholas, at St. Petersburg on one end, and the President in Washington at the other. Frankly, it looks preposterous that if Koshloff is on the job, he would use his own machine. Then again—what if that is the method chosen to point my path to me? If this message is to anyone in San Francisco, they must know by this time that it has gone astray. Barring my own coincidence in bungling into State secrets via ‘Kid’ Monahan’s touch, and his taste for the really distinctive in jewelry, it appears that everything is working out on a very remarkable and finished system. I shall pay Mr. Koshloff a visit. He has been too much of a figure of mystery in this city anyway.”
Boris Koshloff, a wealthy Russian portrait painter, had dropped into San Francisco with introductions, some months before. He had earned a high repute for the elegance of the soirées given at his house, and had figured in the public prints, moreover, in other ways. On one occasion, a burglar, found prowling within the Koshloff’s drawing room, had been shot and killed by Koshloff, who thereupon was lionised to a considerable extent by the neurotic and sentimental elements of his circle. He had figured again, when a household servant had fallen from his second story window, receiving frightful injuries. Although during his raving in delirium the servant had cried frequently “spare me! spare me!” and had led some cynical reporters on the hospital beat to suspect foul play, nothing was ever proved in face of Koshloff’s explanation that the servant fell in cleaning windows. After the man recovered sufficiently, he was removed by Koshloff to a private hospital, and there he passed from the scope of the newsgatherers and hence from public attention.
Now, it might be well to say here, and before the reader is too far carried away by the story, that the curious chronicles of the happenings about to be recorded must rest for all time, for their authentication, in five quarters: the Russian government, the American Department of State, Jack Lanagan, “King” Monahan, and myself.
It is not probable that either the Russian or American governments would affirm the truth of the facts recorded. As for the rest—the extraordinary series of complications following the receipts of the stick-pin, the use of such a device as the stick-pin, as the connecting link in a grave international crisis, the use of the personal courier rather than cipher-code—they must all be accepted on my word, the word of Lanagan, or the word of “King” Monahan, who first received the pin. To such as are unwilling to accept that proof, the story must be read solely as a bit of fiction.
Lanagan strolled back to the Enquirer. I had just finished several yards of real estate junk for the business office, and was as grouchy as the brother of the tribe always is, when assigned to do business office write-ups.
“Fine line for an able-bodied reporter,” said Lanagan cynically, looking over my shoulder. “Turn that rot in and come with me and be a real reporter. I’ll give you a story that will make the A. P. wires hum to the four corners of the earth—provided my hunch don’t go altogether wrong.”
He spoke to Sampson, telling him that there was a bare chance of something turning up on the Russo-Japanese situation, and asked for me to be detailed to accompany him.
“Good,” replied Sampson, “get after it. We haven’t broken a story on that yet. The eastern papers are having a lot of stuff on the Secretary of State, though. He has dropped out of sight; the A. P. is bringing in a story broken by the Sun, that his supposed sickness was the bunk, and that as a matter of fact he has been out of Washington for a week. Supposed to be in New York on some confab with the Russian Ambassador who is at the Waldorf-Astoria. The Ambassador denies any such conference. It’s a hot yarn. Try to turn up an end on it out here.”
Lanagan suggested supper and as we lingered over our coffee and cigars, he briefly outlined the situation. I read the astounding message and must confess that I was stirred to a very unprofessional pitch of excitement. Before taking a car for Pacific Avenue, we dropped in at police headquarters where Lanagan met Chief Leslie, that shrewd thief-taker, and they were in earnest talk for ten minutes. In his police reporting Lanagan had the superlative advantage of Leslie’s confidence. That famous chief had indeed as high a regard for Lanagan’s work as for that of his own men. Leslie stood many a “roast” from the opposition papers for his habit of programming with Lanagan, and for turning over his men to the service of the newspaper man more than once.
As we rode to our destination Lanagan instructed me to take a position, well concealed, opposite the Koshloff house, wait until midnight, and then if he did not appear, telephone to headquarters where Brady and Wilson, two of Leslie’s best men, would be in readiness with the police automobile. We were to force the house.