It must become plain at once that secret work such as this, carried on in such volume all across the country—three million cases, involving an enormous mass of detail and an untold expenditure of time and energy, were disposed of—meant system and organization to prevent overlapping of work and consequent waste of time. It meant more than that—there was needed also good judgment, individual shrewdness and of course, above all things, patience and hard work.
For instance, John Wielawski is a deserter reported to National Headquarters missing from Camp Grant, Illinois, possibly hiding in Chicago. The order goes to the Chief in Chicago, who hands it to the right district lieutenant. The latter finds in his cards the name of an operative who speaks Wielawski’s native tongue. The latter goes to the neighborhood where Wielawski lived, inquires especially in regard to any sweetheart or sweethearts Wielawski may have had. It is certain he left some ties somewhere, that he has been seen, that he has written at least a line, or will write. His running down is sure. The League has found thousands of deserters, located thousands of men who had refused to take out their second naturalization papers, thousands who were skulkers and draft evaders. They could not escape the Web which reached all across America, unseen, but deadly sure.
The great average intelligence of the League members alone made the extraordinary results possible. These were no ordinary hired sleuths of the mysterious detective type, gum-shoe artists with a bent for masks and false eyebrows. On the contrary, the officers and operatives were men of standing, of great personal intelligence and sober good sense. They dropped their private affairs, in which they had been successful, to obey the League call at any time. They studied their new duties regularly and faithfully, as best they could—and they learned them.
The methods of such men varied widely. They had attended no outside school, had no special governmental training. Their success depended on the natural alertness of the American character. For instance, one gentleman prominent in the work, we will say in New York, was sent after a draft evader whose name, racially considered, did not tally with his personal description. The operative found his case originated in a foreign part of the city. His man had originally lived in a certain flat. Some boys played ball near by. The operative strolled by to watch, engaged two or three in conversation. Yes, a dark man—some said he was a Turk—had lived there. He had moved, they didn’t know where. He used to work in a laundry, they thought. Very well, a Turk and a laundry-man would naturally be found in some other laundry, possibly near his own people. The case was carried on until, in a laundry in another part of the same city, a new man was found—he had a new name, but the same face. Eventually he was put where he belonged.
The psalmist of old voiced his complaint that there were three things in the world which he did not know, three things which he could not find out: the way of a ship upon the sea, the way of the serpent on a rock, and the way of a man with a maid. The trouble with Solomon was that he seems not to have owned either a geometry, a microscope or a dictagraph. These used respectively in connection with the problems described above might have helped him out considerably.
A. P. L. operatives at Nyack, New York, had Solomon beaten by a city block. They installed a dictagraph in a room frequented by one A. L——, who was impersonating an officer, declaring that he was “Chief of the Secret Service from New York to Boston.” His game was to advertise for women to engage in espionage work, saying that the Government would pay a big price and would also buy clothes and hats for the operatives and put them up at the best hotels. It was suspected very keenly that Mr. A. L—— was neither employed by the Government nor acting as an officer and a gentleman ought to act. He did not know anything about the deadly dictagraph which A. P. L. had placed in this apartment. Hence, he conversed quite freely with a certain Mrs. U——, who had answered his advertisement and at whose apartment he was paying a call. They seem first to have talked about the apartment itself, the conversation going as follows:
Mrs. U.—: Isn’t it nice? I’m crazy about it. He is a curio dealer, the owner of the apartment. Here is the dish closet. Here is the kitchen. Look and see the bedroom. I haven’t got my bed linen yet. Sit down and I’ll talk to you. Oh, I’ve got to get rid of this hat; my head aches.
Mr. L—: Oh, what a nice lamp.
Mrs. U—: Isn’t it lovely? See, you can turn the lights on here. Look, this is the telephone downstairs. There’s one thing; they are very strict here. You have to be careful. Sit down there.
(Pause of a minute.)