PAGE 5
The Smuggler
by
“We have just had a wireless about La Montaigne,” reported his stenographer, who had entered while he was speaking, ” and she is three hundred miles east of Sandy Hook. She won’t dock until tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Well, fellows, it is getting late and that means nothing more doing to-night. Can you be here early in the morning? We’ll go down the bay and ‘bring in the ship,’ as our men call it when the deputy surveyor and his acting deputies go down to meet it at Quarantine. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness in helping me. If my men get anything connecting Lang with Mademoiselle Violette’s case I’ll let you know immediately.”
It was a bright clear snappy morning, in contrast with the heat of the day before, when we boarded the revenue tug at the Barge Office. The waters of the harbour never looked more blue as they danced in the early sunlight, flecked here and there by a foaming whitecap as the conflicting tides eddied about. The shores of Staten Island were almost as green as in the spring, and even the haze over the Brooklyn factories had lifted. It looked almost like a stage scene, clear and sharp, new and brightly coloured.
Perhaps the least known and certainly one of the least recognised of the government services is that which includes the vigilant ships of the revenue service. It was not a revenue cutter, however, on which we were ploughing down the bay. The cutter lay, white and gleaming in the morning sun, at anchor off Stapleton, like a miniature warship, saluting as we passed. The revenue boats which steam down to Quarantine and make fast to the incoming ocean greyhounds are revenue tugs.
Down the bay we puffed and buffeted for about forty minutes before we arrived at the little speck of an island that is Quarantine. Long before we were there we sighted the great La Montaigne near the group of buildings on the island, where she had been waiting since early morning for the tide and the customs officials. The tug steamed alongside, and quickly up the high ladders swarmed the boarding officer and the deputy collectors. We followed Herndon straight to the main saloon, where the collectors began to receive the declarations which had been made out on blanks furnished to the passengers on the voyage over. They had had several days to write them out – the less excuse for omissions.
Glancing at each hastily the collector detached from it the slip with the number at the bottom and handed the number back, to be presented at the inspector’s desk at the pier, where customs inspectors were assigned in turn.
“Number 140 is the one we want to watch,” I heard Herndon whisper to Kennedy. “That tall dark fellow over there.”
I followed his direction cautiously and saw a sparely built, striking looking man who had just filed his declaration and was chatting vivaciously with a lady who was just about to file hers. She was a clinging looking little thing with that sort of doll-like innocence that deceives nobody.
“No, you don’t have to swear to it,” he said. “You used to do that, but now you simply sign your name and take a chance,” he added, smiling and showing a row of perfect teeth.
“Number 156,” Herndon noted as the collector detached the stub and handed it to her. “That was Mademoiselle Gabrielle.”
The couple passed out to the deck, still chatting gaily.
“In the old days, before they got to be so beastly particular,” I heard him say, “I always used to get the courtesy of the port, an official expedite. But that is over now.”
The ship was now under way, her flags snapping in the brisk coolish breeze that told of approaching autumn. We had passed up the lower bay and the Narrows, and the passengers were crowded forward to catch the first glimpse of the skyscrapers of New York.