Chapter V: Part 5

If the searching party fails to find at least 80 per cent of the items concealed in the room, they do not obtain a “conviction.” Then experienced agents carefully explain where they made mistakes in the handling of the suspect.

When Roe claimed he was ill, the agents should have called his doctor to determine the truth. Upon their entering the room, Roe should have been advised to collect any valuables so that an inventory could have been made on the spot to be signed by him. When Roe signed for the registered letter, then it legally could be seized with no invasion of his privacy. Roe’s rights were not violated when his requests for an attorney were ignored during the search, prior to his arrest.

In a mock courtroom scene, an agent who formerly was a U.S. attorney acts as the defense counsel. He grills the rookies on every move made in Roe’s apartment, seeking to confuse them while driving home the point that months of careful police work may be wasted by an inept or careless presentation of facts in court.

The school has proved to be such a success that it is now supported enthusiastically by all the Treasury agencies, which prorate the cost and make their best men available as instructors. But for many years a few men struggled to keep the school going in the face of apathy and even active opposition.

The man who perhaps contributed most to keeping alive the idea of a professionally directed school for Treasury agents was Harry M. Dengler, a retired Internal Revenue agent who now lives in Washington, D. C. A short, plump man of enormous energy, Dengler joined the Internal Revenue Service in 1918 after a dozen years of teaching in high schools in southeast Virginia and Montana. He was thirty-six at the time he was assigned to the IRS’s Intelligence Division, working on internal police problems and on tax conspiracy cases.

The Treasury school stemmed from the fact that in 1927 the Bureau of Prohibition’s enforcement of the Volstead Act was a mess. Part of the mess was due to the lack of trained enforcement officers. Illegal searches and seizures by Bureau agents aroused public indignation. Also, they created a serious problem in obtaining convictions of rumrunners and bootleggers.

L. C. Andrews, the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, became so concerned over the situation that he persuaded Dengler to join the Bureau of Prohibition and to start an enforcement school for the Bureau’s agents. Dengler had argued for years that Federal law enforcement officers should be schooled in their work to be effective and to deserve public confidence.

Dengler selected a few aides and they put together a course of instruction to be given to some 2,500 prohibition agents. Two men were chosen from each of the Treasury’s eighteen districts throughout the country to come to Washington for four weeks of intensive schooling in proper law enforcement procedures.

The theory was that these thirty-six men would qualify themselves as instructors and then return to their home districts to teach what they had learned to other prohibition agents. But the system soon broke down because the district supervisors sabotaged the school.

“I know how to enforce the law without any help from Washington,” one supervisor announced. He had the support of other supervisors.

The truth was that the supervisors were jealous of the men who had been brought to Washington for special training. They also were fearful that they would lose their jobs to the men with superior backgrounds in law enforcement. The result was that the schools were doomed even before they started. By the end of the year, the schools had been discontinued.

Dengler clung stubbornly to his belief that every Federal law enforcement officer should be trained for his job. He persuaded his superiors to let him organize a correspondence course, with the study to be voluntary. Hundreds of agents applied, convincing Dengler that the agents themselves were eager to know more about professional law enforcement.

The idea of a school was resurrected in 1930 by Amos W. W. Woodcock, when he became head of the Prohibition agency. Dengler again went to work to set up a course of study. But when Woodcock left office a few months later, his successor broke up the schools with the remark: “If a man is smart enough to get a job with us, he doesn’t need any training.”

Dengler confided to a friend later, “That was one of the low points of my life. These schools were badly needed by the government to improve the quality of Federal law enforcement. Hardly anyone seemed interested.”

Indeed, for several years it seemed that no one was interested except Dengler and a few of his friends. But in 1937 Secretary of the Treasury Henry Morgenthau recognized that a major weakness in his department was the lack of organized training for new agents. He issued an order for all agencies within the Treasury to participate in a school program.

The first Dengler heard of the order was when Harold N. Graves, assistant to the Secretary, called him to his office. Graves said, “Harry, how long will it take you to get a course of instruction underway for our agents?”

“I can do it within sixty days,” Dengler said.

Graves was dubious. “I don’t think you can do it within that time,” he said.

“I can do it,” Dengler replied. “I’ve kept a group of instructors together. We’ve been giving some training to new men in our spare time. We’ve got a course of instruction already outlined. It won’t take much work to bring it up to date.”

Graves said, “Then get going. Bring your men in here this afternoon and we’ll decide on the next move.”

The decision was to open a pilot school in Boston. The first class met on March 15, 1937, and the course of instruction ran for four weeks. When it was ended, Graves was satisfied. He ordered a schedule of instruction for each of the Treasury districts. Attendance was not voluntary this time. Each man was required to attend classes, and to pass a written examination. Instructors were drawn from all the Treasury agencies.

In those early years, the instructors travelled from district to district to hold their classes. The classrooms were jury rooms, schoolrooms, banks, courthouses and Customs buildings.

Dengler argued that the school should be located permanently in Washington. Instead of having instructors moving from place to place, he insisted it would be far better to have the students come to Washington to get their training at a school housed in its own building and having the proper equipment.

Dengler’s persistence won. In 1950, Treasury officials decided to see how his plan would work. It worked so well that when Dengler retired in December, 1952, the Treasury Law Enforcement School was an established institution receiving all-out support from all the Treasury agencies.

The Treasury school, however, is only a phase of instruction in law enforcement for the young Customs agents (as it is for all Treasury agents). The intensive training comes when the men are assigned to work regularly with older agents.

The turnover among Customs agents is surprisingly small and is among the lowest within the government. Few of them leave the Service voluntarily once they have launched into their careers. The reason for this stability was summed up by one veteran agent in this manner: “Every man likes to feel he is doing something worthwhile--and you get that kind of satisfaction from this work. That’s why I’ll never leave it.”

8

TEST TUBE DETECTIVES

Shortly before World War II, a rusted old freighter slid into its berth at a Baltimore pier, completing its long voyage from the Orient. Customs officers boarded the vessel to check the manifest, verify the cargo, and search for contraband. The search was the routine sort of thing that occurred every day at every major port in the United States.

An inspector hurried to the quarters of the crew members and began his rounds. He encountered nothing unusual until he reached one crewman’s cabin and found the door locked. He knocked on the door and a muffled voice said, “Who is it?”

“This is the Customs inspector,” the officer said. “Open up.”

The door opened and a seaman said gruffly, “There’s nothing in here. You’ll find everything on my declaration.” He was a slender, middle-aged man with thinning hair and tattoos on his forearms.

“It’s a routine check,” the inspector said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

The seaman made no move to stand aside. “I told you there’s nothing in here,” he insisted.

“Look, Mac,” the inspector snapped, “you’ve been through this sort of thing before and you know it’s got to be done. So let me get at it.” He pushed his way into the cabin.

On a table he saw a hypodermic needle. He picked it up and turned to the seaman. “Are you a junkie?” he asked. “Have you got any narcotics?”

The seaman’s face reddened with anger. “Hell, no! I wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

The inspector wasn’t impressed with the denial. That’s what they all said until you found their supply of narcotics.

When he started to open a locker, the crewman said, “It’s empty. I’ve already taken everything out.”

The inspector looked at the man’s hands shake as he lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you sit down and take it easy, mister?” he said. “I’ve just decided to take a good look around.”

Slowly he went over the cabin. At last he pulled the locker away from the bulkhead and saw a small cotton bag taped to the back of the locker. He yanked it loose and held it out toward the seaman. “What is this?”

The seaman made a grab for the bag. “Give that to me!” he said. “It’s nothing that interests you.”

The inspector opened the bag and saw that it contained a white powder which looked suspiciously like heroin. He said, “Mister, if this is heroin, you are in trouble.”

“It’s not heroin,” the seaman said sullenly.

“If it isn’t heroin,” the inspector said, “then what is it? Why did you hide it behind the locker? What are you trying to hide?” But the seaman remained silent.

The inspector said, “You are not to leave this ship until I have an analysis made of this powder. Do you understand?”

The seaman nodded. The inspector left the cabin and went to the captain to explain the situation. He requested the seaman be detained on the freighter pending a chemical test of the powder.

“It looks like heroin,” the inspector said. “If it is, we’ll have to take him into custody.”

“How long will it take to make the test?” the skipper asked. “We’re sailing tomorrow afternoon. If this man is in trouble, I’ll have to take on another seaman.”

“We should know the results before you sail,” the inspector said. “I’ll be in touch with you.”

The sack of powder was sent to the Baltimore Customs laboratory with an urgent request for a quick test. It was turned over to tall, lanky Edward Kenney, who had received his training as a chemist at the University of Maine, Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Johns Hopkins University. Kenney was among the small group of men and women who had found the Customs laboratories to be a daily adventure in solving riddles posed by the legal necessity of identifying and classifying a bewildering variety of imports which poured into the United States daily from all parts of the world.

The analysis of the powder taken from the seaman was one of the routine chores which posed no problem for Kenney. The test for heroin was negative--and he sent his findings to the chief chemist to be relayed to the inspector on the case.

A few minutes later, Kenney received a telephone call from the inspector. “Mr. Kenney,” he said, “I just can’t believe that report you made on the powder I seized from the seaman. If ever I saw a guilty man, this one is guilty. Would you mind running another test?”

“I’m sure the report was correct,” Kenney said, “but if it will make you feel better, I’ll make another test. Would you like to come over and watch?”

“I certainly would,” the inspector said.

When the inspector arrived at the laboratory, Kenney took a sampling from the powder and placed it in a glass container. Then he picked up a bottle of liquid from a cabinet.

“This liquid is a mixture of sulphuric acid and formaldehyde,” he explained. “I’m going to make a Marquis test. It’s named after the man who invented it long before either you or I were born. Nobody seems to know much about Marquis, but he knew what he was doing. He found that when you add this liquid to an opium narcotic powder, the powder will show purple discoloration. Now watch.”

Kenney poured a few drops of the liquid onto the powder to dissolve it. But there was no indication of a purple color.

“Is that test conclusive?” the inspector asked.

“No, not necessarily,” Kenney said. “There are some impurities which could produce a purple discoloration. Let’s see if we can isolate any opium with another test.” But when an effort was made to extract opium from the powder with an infallible procedure, the result was negative. The powder beyond doubt did not contain narcotics.

“Well,” Kenney said, “that’s it. Your seamen wasn’t smuggling narcotics.”

The inspector said, “I know you’re right but I was certain I had grabbed a sack of heroin. What is the stuff in the sack?”

Kenney said, “I don’t know, but I’ve got a pretty good hunch. I’ll run another test and let you know the results.”

When Kenney completed his testing the following morning, he called the inspector. “Your man was carrying saccharine,” he said.

The inspector returned to the ship to have the seaman freed from detention and to question him further. “The powder wasn’t heroin,” he said. “It was saccharine. I’d like to know one thing. Why did you make such a big mystery of it?”

The seaman at last disclosed that he was a diabetic--and that for months he had kept this fact from his shipmates and from the ship’s officers. He gave himself insulin shots secretly and used saccharine instead of sugar in his coffee. He had been fearful that if anyone aboard the ship learned he was a diabetic, he would be barred from going to sea--a fear which he was to learn was entirely groundless.

When the inspector met Kenney later, he said, “I’m sorry I put you to so much trouble for nothing. The whole thing was a waste of time.”

Kenney shook his head in disagreement. “I don’t think it was a waste of time at all,” he said. “We proved the seaman was innocent of smuggling narcotics and we helped him get rid of an unreasonable fear. As I see it, the results were pretty good.”

The case of the diabetic seaman is only one of many strange cases which find their way to the Customs Bureau’s laboratories located in New York, Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Savannah, New Orleans, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and San Juan, Puerto Rico. Thousands of items, from yak hair to heroin, come to the chemists to be sampled, tested and identified.

In the course of a day, a laboratory may be called on to identify and determine the amount of grease and dirt that is in a shipment of Australian wool; report the percentage of tungsten in a shipment of ore; determine the antiquity of a diamond-studded tiara; test the alcoholic content of Scotch whiskey; examine a rosary case made in Japan, in order to establish its chief component; and analyze a sample of powdered milk from Holland to measure its butter fat.

Or the laboratory may be called on to analyze a shipment of mica to determine whether the mica splittings measure more or less than .0012 inches in thickness. The measurement of the mica has a dollars-and-cents importance to the shipper, the importer and the government because the duty is based on the thickness of the mica splittings, which in turn affects the market value of the import.

No laboratories in all the world have a more varied job to do than those of Customs. Every article that is known to commerce reaches these laboratories at one time or another. The examinations are necessary because only by a precise determination of the contents of many shipments are the appraiser and the collector able to establish value and thus determine the rate of duty which is to be paid into the Treasury of the United States.

The scientists never know when one of their analyses will touch off a court battle which will involve an entire industry and which may mean a difference of millions of dollars to businessmen.

Such a case occurred several years ago when one of the Bureau’s laboratories received for analysis a sample of a product imported from Canada under the trade name “Lioxin.” This product had a great many industrial uses and was competitive with vanillin, which is derived from the vanilla bean and also from coal tar. The imported product was being offered on the market at a price considerably below that of the competing vanillin product--at a price so low, in fact, that it threatened to upset the entire vanillin trade.

The discovery of Lioxin had been one of those accidents of science in which a waste product is found to be extremely valuable. A wood pulp company was dumping waste matter into a nearby stream, and sportsmen complained that it was killing all the fish. The complaints became so numerous that the company called in a scientist to see what could be done about correcting the situation. The scientist found while experimenting with certain chemical compounds that he could convert the waste matter into a substance that was 96 to 97 per cent vanillin. And it could be done much more cheaply than extracting vanillin from the vanilla bean or from coal tar.

When Customs chemists analyzed the product, they found that it contained impurities--but the impurities could be removed quite easily and cheaply. The end product was almost pure vanillin, meeting all the rigid standards set up by the U.S. Pharmacopoeia Act.

The result of the laboratory findings was a decision to classify Lioxin as vanillin, dutiable at $2.25 per pound based on the American selling price. The duty brought the price of the import into line with the competing American product.

The Bureau’s decision was protested by the importer. The claim was made that the compound was not vanillin under the terms of the Tariff Act. It was argued that when Congress passed the law setting the duty on vanillin, the lawmakers had in mind the vanillin which came from the vanilla bean and from coal tar.

However, the courts held that the import was only “one step short of the finished product” and that when the impurities were removed in a very simple process, then the end product was a vanillin conforming to the standards of the U.S.P. As such, it was held to be subject to the same tariff payment as other vanillin imports.

The case of the synthetic vanillin explains in a large measure why the turnover among scientists and technicians in the Customs laboratories is among the lowest in the entire Federal government. A day rarely passes in which they are not presented with a new and challenging problem--not unlike the solving of a mystery. There simply is no time to become bored.

Frequently these men must devise their own methods of examination and establish their own standards for a product simply because there is nothing in the book which they can use as a guide. Many new products have come into the markets in the past few years--particularly in the field of chemicals--which are not provided for in the law except in a vague, catch-all phrase “and not specially provided for.”

The laboratories never know what to expect next. This was the case when the New York laboratory received a sample of a shipment of artificial Christmas trees resembling small pine trees. The examiners at the pier who first inspected the trees were baffled as to how they should be classified and what the rate of duty on them should be. The trees were made from materials which the examiners could not identify. And identification had to be made before a rate of duty could be fixed.

One of the trees was sent to the Customs laboratory on Varick Street, where it was taken apart piece by piece. It was found that the base was made from pasteboard. The trunk was fashioned of wire and the bark from paper. But the artificial pine needles were discovered to be dyed goose feathers. Since the law holds that the duty must be paid on the “component material of chief value”--then the Christmas tree’s actual chief value was in the dyed goose feathers. Dyed goose feathers called for a duty of 20 per cent of their value on the market.

Frequently the laboratory workers find themselves in the role of a Sherlock Holmes--using their test tubes and their spectrometers and their diffractometers as tools to help track down criminals.

One day an employee on the New York piers noticed that an automobile which was to be loaded aboard a ship for Europe seemed to be heavier in the rear than in the front. The car was setting too low on its rear springs, although there was nothing in the trunk of the car to put any undue weight on the springs.

This fact was called to the attention of Customs officers, and they decided to examine the car. They went over it carefully and finally discovered a section behind the rear seat which appeared to have been tampered with. There were scratches on the metal which seemed to have been made only recently. A further examination disclosed a secret compartment built into the car, and when this was pried open, it was found to contain about $30,000 worth of gold bars. They were being smuggled out of the country.

The bars were taken to the New York laboratory for examination. There seemed to be no way to identify them because the serial numbers--which are stamped into each bar of gold and recorded by the government--had been hacked and gouged from the soft metal. But the laboratory discovered a method--still secret--by which they were able to read the numbers on each of the bars. This information was turned over to the Secret Service, and Secret Service agents were able to track down the man who had made the original purchase of the bars.

Part of the laboratories’ job is to watch for improper classification of imports by shippers who hope to slip them into the country under a lower rate of duty than the Tariff Act provides for. As aids in this work the chemists have spectrographs (used for the most part in analyzing metals), X-ray diffractometers, electrolytic machines and other instruments enabling them to break down and identify the component parts of materials brought into the country.

By use of the diffractometer and X-ray, the laboratories have been able to determine in innumerable cases that shipments have been improperly classified by the shippers either intentionally or unintentionally. At any rate, the shipments have been uniformly reclassified at higher rates of duty, saving the U.S. Treasury many thousands of dollars.

There is one case on record in which a diffractometer was credited with reversing a court decision. Before the diffractometer was installed in the New York laboratory, an importer brought into the country a shipment of material which he listed as duty-free zirconium oxide. A chemical analysis, while not very convincing, showed that the material was not zirconium oxide. But the method of testing was such that the importer successfully challenged the Customs finding and the Customs court ruled that the material should be admitted as zirconium oxide, free of duty.

However, the laboratory was not finished with this case. Soon after this decision a diffractometer was installed in the laboratory. Another analysis of the material was made. And the diffractometer revealed beyond the shadow of doubt that the material was not what the importer claimed. The crystals in the material showed that it was stabilized zirconium oxide, dutiable at 15 per cent of its value, rather than ordinary zirconium oxide, free of any duty. The result was that the diffractometer’s findings were accepted by the court and the original ruling in favor of the importer was reversed.

Sometimes the secretiveness of shippers poses an unusual problem. Such was the case when a Swedish manufacturer of homogenized ham-and-cheese spread decided to send his product into the American market. He would not disclose to Customs the recipe for this spread--obviously feeling that his trade secret might fall into the hands of a competitor.

Customs chemists were given the job of determining which of the materials in the spread was the major dutiable material. It was a tricky problem because both ham and cheese are of animal origin and consist of protein and fats. After two weeks the laboratory was able to report that the Swedish manufacturer’s product was primarily ham. Then there was no problem in fixing the tariff rate.

New York is the largest of the laboratories and tests about one-fourth of more than 120,000 samples which are examined each year. Boston is the next largest, and then comes New Orleans. Over the years each laboratory has become a specialist in certain examinations. Most of the wool entering the United States is examined in Boston. Chicago leads in the examinations of samples of ore, grain, and metals. New York does the great majority of testing of dyestuffs; and New Orleans has become a major center in the examination of narcotics, because of its geographic location near the Mexican border.

The laboratories are constantly seeking new and better ways of testing materials. A notable achievement in this field was made by Melvin Lerner, now the chief chemist in the Baltimore laboratory, when he developed an entirely new method for determining, easily and accurately, the opium content of any materials, in addition to identifying prohibited synthetic narcotics.

The process involves dissolving a small amount of the suspected powder in a mixture of trichloroethane, chloroform, nitric acid and phosphoric acid. If no heroin is present, the liquid will be colorless or have an apple-green hue. But if heroin is present, the liquid will range in color from light yellow to yellowish brown--the darker color indicating the powder is almost 100 per cent pure heroin. Distinctive coloring is produced also by the synthetics.

The Lerner test for identifying prohibited synthetic narcotics has created world-wide interest. Virtually every country in the world has written to the Customs Bureau requesting information on this process and asking for one of the small field kits with which the tests can be made.

Frequently the laboratories are able to give invaluable help to importers in protecting them from fraud and sometimes saving them from embarrassment. There was one case in which a curator of a museum vouched for the antiquity of a tapestry which he had imported for the museum from Europe. As an antiquity--that is, an article made before 1830--it would not have been subject to any tariff duty. The curator was quite insistent about the age of the tapestry. But laboratory experts discovered that the tapestry’s threads had been stained with coal tar dyes. Since coal tar dyes were not used before 1857, the tapestry obviously was not an antiquity. The curator was embarrassed over being proved wrong, but nevertheless he was grateful that the discovery had been made before the tapestry was hung in the museum.

In another case the laboratory experts were able to set at ease the mind of an importer of an extremely valuable gold, diamond, and ruby tiara which had been purchased as a museum piece. Even though the tiara was known to be very old, it was suspected that the piece had undergone major repairs. If this were true, it meant that duty would have to be paid on any substantial repairs to the import.

The tiara was taken to the New York laboratory. A chemist rubbed the tiara lightly with a very fine sandpaper to remove a few flecks of gold. These flecks were then analyzed by a spectrograph, which revealed that the gold contained the impurities commonly found in gold refined by antique methods. There was no need for the payment of any duty on the tiara.

The laboratory experts work in close cooperation with the Bureau’s enforcement division, and they never know when they may be called upon to don their detective hats. There was one case in which it was suspected that cattle were being smuggled from Canada into upper New York State. The laboratory supplied agents with a certain chemical which they took into Canada and, with the cooperation of Canadian law enforcement officers, secretly smeared on herds of cattle in the area where the smuggling had been taking place. When the chemical dried on the cattle, it left no visible trace.

Later the agents smeared a second chemical on cattle which were suspected of having been smuggled into New York State. No sooner was this done than large red blotches appeared on the cattle--irrefutable evidence that these animals had been smuggled in from Canada. This may have been the first time that science got into the business of combatting cattle rustling.

The Customs laboratories trace their beginning to 1848, when Congress wrote into law a requirement that Customs should examine all drugs, medicines, medicinal preparations, and chemical preparations used as medicine to determine their quality and purity. Standards of strength and purity were established. The analyzing was farmed out to chemists in commercial firms or to pharmacists and physicians.

Although this law was passed in 1848, it was not until 1880 that the Customs Bureau was authorized to employ its own chemist. By this time there was imperative need for more laboratory work to aid the Customs appraisers.

In the early 1880s the Bureau first began using instruments such as the polariscope to determine the actual strength of sugar being imported.

Old records show that chemists were added to the Customs staff at New York and San Francisco between 1880 and 1890. A Customs laboratory was established in Philadelphia in 1892 and in San Francisco in 1899. Despite the obvious value of their work, the chemists were not regarded very highly in the government service, and until 1910 their salaries were $1,200 a year--the same as that received by an ordinary clerk.

As the tariff laws became more complex, the work in the laboratories increased correspondingly. For example, the Tariff Act of 1922 fixed duties on the components of certain imports, such as the amount of calcium fluoride in fluorspar and the amount of silica in glass sand and ferro alloys. Congress also defined in the Tariff Act items such as vinegar, cellulose compounds, hardened and vegetable oils, molasses and sirups. Other laws called for duties on copper, fatty acids, soaps and petroleum. The passage of the laws required scientific analyses of shipments to obtain a precise determination of their dutiable contents.

Until 1936 the laboratories throughout the country operated more or less independently of each other with only a loose system of cooperation between them. But in 1936 a Division of Laboratories was established within the Bureau to direct operations and to fix uniform procedures throughout the service.

In 1953, the then Commissioner of Customs, Ralph Kelly, expanded the duties of the Division of Laboratories and changed its name to the Division of Technical Services. The Division, now located at the Customs Bureau headquarters in Washington, directs the operations of Customs laboratories; furnishes to the Commissioner information on engineering, chemical, statistical, and other scientific and technical developments; plans and standardizes sampling, weighing, and testing standards and procedures; inspects the laboratories; and furnishes any needed engineering services.

This division, under the direction of Dr. George Vlasses, is the smallest of the seven administrative divisions in the Customs Bureau, with only seven employees. In all, the laboratories have a total of 136 employees, of which 76 are chemists. The balance are physical science aides, laboratory helpers, and administrative and clerical employees.

Even though these men and women cannot take people’s motives apart and test them, the relative purity of their motives often is revealed quite clearly to these test-tube detectives.

9

THE INFORMERS

The giant luxury liner, the SS _Ile de France_, slid by the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor on October 7, 1938, with her passengers crowding the rail for a view of the skyline of New York. It was a gay crowd, most of them returning from European vacations. But among them were those to whom the arrival meant more than gaiety--it meant life itself. These were the refugees from Hitler’s Germany.

As the tugs shouldered the liner into its berth on Manhattan Island, there was confusion ashore. Scores of people had gathered to greet returning friends and relatives. Customs officers were busy preparing for the rush of passengers to the pier, the inspection of baggage and all the little details that are required when a ship brings its cargo from across the sea.

Among those who came ashore on this day was a dark-haired man of medium build, about 5 feet 7 inches tall and hardly looking his forty-five years of age. He was accompanied by a handsome, beautifully groomed woman wearing a smartly tailored suit. These two obviously were experienced travellers. They waited patiently under the huge sign marked with the letter “C” until their baggage arrived from the ship, and then they sought a Customs inspector to present their baggage declaration.

The Customs inspector took the declaration and glanced at it. He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Chaperau?”

“That is correct,” replied the dark-haired man. “I believe all of our baggage is in this group.”

The inspector read the declaration and noted that Mr. Chaperau had signed it as a commercial attaché for the Nicaraguan government--which meant that he and his wife were entitled to pass through customs without the formality of a baggage inspection. Mr. Chaperau handed the inspector Nicaraguan passports and a letter signed by the Consul General of Nicaragua in New York authenticating the endorsement on the customs declaration.

“Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Chaperau,” the Customs inspector said, handing back the letter. He quickly placed stamps on the luggage, indicating that the baggage had been cleared to be taken from the pier. The formalities at the pier required only a few minutes. Then the Chaperaus had their luggage loaded into a taxi and they were driven to the Hotel Pierre at the corner of 63rd Street and Fifth Avenue, where they made their home.

The following day Chaperau left the hotel carrying a black suitcase and a hat box. He took a cab to 570 Park Avenue, entered the building, and rang the bell of the apartment occupied by New York State Supreme Court Justice and Mrs. Edward J. Lauer. A maid admitted Chaperau to the apartment and he said, “Please tell Mrs. Lauer that Mr. Chaperau is here. She is expecting me.”

Mrs. Lauer greeted her visitor warmly and exclaimed, “Nat, it is wonderful to see you! Please do come in.” And then Mrs. Lauer turned to the maid and said, “Rosa, take this suitcase and hat box to my room, please. There are some of my things from Paris I told you I was expecting.”

The maid, Rosa Weber, carried the bag and box to Mrs. Lauer’s bedroom. She knew they contained purchases which her employer had made when she and the Judge were in Europe during the summer. They had returned to New York aboard the SS _Normandie_ on September 12, and Rosa remembered the beautiful clothing Mrs. Lauer brought with her. Rosa had helped her unpack, exclaiming over the beauty of the new styles. And Rosa remembered Mrs. Lauer saying, “That’s not all, Rosa. Some lovely things are coming later. They weren’t finished when I left Paris.” Mrs. Lauer also left Rosa with the definite impression that one of the nicest things of all was that she had brought back gowns, hats, and jewelry without paying duty to Customs.

A few days after Chaperau’s visit to the apartment, both Mr. and Mrs. Chaperau were guests of the Lauers at a cocktail party. Among other guests was the famous international financier and playboy--somewhat of a mystery man about New York--Serge Rubenstein.

And then on October 21 Rosa helped Mrs. Lauer prepare for a dinner party in the apartment. Rosa brought her sister along to help with the affair, and again the Chaperaus were among the guests. It was a gay gathering, and after drinks the guests were seated in the dining room.

Rosa could not help but hear everything said by the guests as she served the table. And there was much for them to talk about. At this time war clouds were gathering in Europe.

As the conversation grew more animated, there were loud and bitter denunciations of Adolph Hitler and his treatment of the Jews.

Rosa Weber listened to the denunciations of Hitler with mounting fury. No one noticed that her face was flushed with anger until she crashed a plate of meat onto the table. The guests looked at the maid in open-mouthed astonishment. Into this silence Rosa Weber shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, I am a real German! If you don’t stop talking about Herr Hitler while I am in this house, I am through here!” And then the maid glared at Mrs. Lauer and said, “Madam, it is up to you.”

For a full thirty seconds there was no sound, and then a babble of protest broke out. Judge and Mrs. Lauer were on their feet shouting. Rosa Weber stalked into the pantry followed by Judge Lauer, who demanded, “Get out of this house immediately!”

Rosa said to the Judge, “All right, Judge, I’ll go.” And she went to her room with her sister to pack her belongings. Chaperau and another guest followed the maid to her room and stood at the door while she was packing. Chaperau snapped, “Hurry up; how long does it take you?”

Judge Lauer came to the room, and Chaperau said to the Judge, “You had better watch when she goes. She might take some of your valuables with her.” With this insult sounding in her ears, the maid hurried from the apartment and slammed the door behind her.

Four days after the dinner party on Park Avenue, a woman entered the Customs building at 21 Varick Street in New York and asked to see the Supervising Customs Agent. She was shown into his office. And it was there that Rosa Weber, in the role of informer, got her revenge. She told what had happened at the dinner. She accused Mrs. Lauer of smuggling Paris gowns and other finery into the United States without paying customs duties. She told agents of the conversation she had overheard between Mrs. Lauer and Chaperau, of remarks that had been made by Mrs. Lauer. She described how she had helped Mrs. Lauer unpack the dresses, and of Chaperau’s visit to the apartment with the black suitcase and the hat box.

While she was packing to leave the Lauer apartment, she said, Chaperau had cursed her and said, “I’m just thinking it over--whether I should arrest you, because I’m from the police department.” She added, “They threatened to have me deported to Germany, and also said that there was no concentration camp here but that I would be put in jail.”

When the maid left the Customs agent’s office that day, agents began a routine check on Nathaniel Chaperau. Rosa Weber was an angry, vindictive woman whose story might have been motivated solely by spite as far as the Customs agents knew. But all such stories were checked, even if the source were a pro-Hitler maid. Each report of a customs violation was handled in the same manner, regardless of the prominence of the accused, when an informant gave such minute details of smuggling as did Rosa Weber.

Agents quickly found that Chaperau conducted a film business from an office at 30 Rockefeller Plaza with the cable address “Chapfilm.” He had prominent connections in the movie world in New York and Hollywood and he boasted of his close friendship with several stars of the entertainment world. On the surface, his business looked legitimate. There was no record that he had ever been engaged in smuggling.

But in checking into Chaperau’s travels outside the country, the agents were curious as to why Chaperau had used a Nicaraguan passport on his return from Europe early in October. A visit to the Nicaraguan Consulate turned up some interesting information. The Consul General disclosed that he had given a letter to Chaperau intended only as an aid to Chaperau in making a film in Nicaragua. Chaperau had called on the Consul General and told him that he hoped he could go to Nicaragua and take pictures of the country’s beautiful lakes and other natural scenery for advertising purposes--without expense to the Nicaraguan government.

The idea appealed to the Consul General. Chaperau’s credentials appeared to be excellent, his business address implied a firm of financial integrity, and Chaperau obviously was well-connected in the film world.

It seemed like an attractive proposition to the consular chief and, quite naturally, he had asked what aid he could give in the project. Chaperau had said it would be helpful if he carried a letter from the Consul General explaining his mission in Nicaragua and stating that the commercial enterprise had the approval of the Consul General.

The diplomat had furnished Chaperau with the letter and, to be helpful further, with Nicaraguan passports. However, the Consul General insisted to the agents that the documents were intended for use solely in connection with the movie-making trip to Nicaragua. Under no circumstances had they been intended for use in connection with trips to any other country. He added that the letter had not been given with any authorization from his government and that no diplomatic privileges had been extended with these documents.

A query was sent to the State Department in Washington asking if Chaperau had ever been registered as the representative of the Nicaraguan government. The State Department reported promptly that there was no record of his being attached to the Nicaraguan diplomatic service--or to any other agency registered with the State Department. In short, he had not been entitled to the diplomatic courtesies extended by Customs.

After these disclosures, the agents discovered that Nathaniel Chaperau had a truly interesting background. An inquiry sent to the FBI uncovered a criminal record. Chaperau had several aliases, among them Albert Chaperau, Albert Chippero, Harry Schwarz, and Nathan Wise. As Nathan Wise he had been sent to the New York City Reformatory on a petty larceny charge. He also had been involved in a mail fraud case in Wisconsin and had been sentenced to the Federal penitentiary at Leavenworth to serve a year and six months.

But Chaperau had not confined his activities to the United States. Reports came from France, Belgium and England. In 1927, Chaperau had been refused admittance to England, and his passport had been cancelled. Later, Scotland Yard reported Chaperau had a long criminal record and was wanted by them under the name of “White” in connection with a swindling transaction in May, 1935. The report from Scotland Yard said Albert Nathaniel Chaperau, alias R. L. Werner, was wanted by London police for conspiracy and fraudulent conversion of worthless shares of stock, that he was internationally known and that he had been connected “with large-scale fraudulent activities in England and on the continent.” The French police record showed that Chaperau had been involved in passing bad checks and in something irregular which the French called _abus de confiance_.

Armed with this information, Customs decided the smuggling story told by Rosa Weber was more than the spiteful babbling of an angry woman. Search warrants were obtained. One agent called at the apartment of Justice and Mrs. Lauer. When he knocked on the door, the Justice himself opened the door to inquire sternly what it was the caller wanted. The agent identified himself, showed the Justice the search warrant, and said, “I don’t have to explain to you, Mr. Justice, that you can do this one of two ways. You can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

Then the agent couldn’t resist a sudden impulse. He added, “I would suggest that you cough up the loot.” The language was inelegant, but the Justice got the point. He invited the agent in and closed the door behind him.

At this moment, other agents were entering the apartment of the Chaperaus in the Hotel Pierre. One article in the apartment which caught their attention was a photograph of the radio team of George Burns and Gracie Allen inscribed to “June, Nat, and Paula, you charming people, sincerely, George and Gracie.”

Papers in the apartment indicated that on his trip to Europe ending October 7, Chaperau had brought back with him jewelry for George Burns. And there was a letter, written in friendly terms, in which Burns thanked Chaperau for bringing the jewelry over from France. Further search disclosed correspondence and documents which also indicated Chaperau had brought back jewelry for comedian Jack Benny. There was no Customs record that such jewelry had been declared or that duty had been paid.

The information obtained in New York was sent to Customs agents in Los Angeles. As a result Burns handed over to agents a ring and bracelet valued at approximately $30,000. Jewelry was also obtained by the agents from Jack Benny. The case was a minor sensation in the daily press and particularly in the Hollywood community.

Nathaniel Chaperau hoodwinked many of the stars in the film colony with his front of the affable, worldly-wise man ready any time to do a favor for a friend. He met most of them in Paris. He and his wife were attractive and interesting people who seemed to have good connections because they could buy almost anything at wholesale prices. Chaperau let his friends know that he not only could help them buy at wholesale prices, but that he would be glad to do them a favor and bring the purchases through Customs himself.

George Burns and Jack Benny protested any intent of wrongdoing. But they were charged with smuggling and both pleaded guilty when brought into court. Burns was sentenced to a year and a day on each of nine counts and fined $8,000. However, the execution of the sentence was suspended and he was placed on probation for a year and a day. Jack Benny was also sentenced to a year and a day in prison, his sentence was suspended, and he was placed on probation for a year. He was required to pay fines totalling $10,000.

The tattling of Rosa Weber brought tragedy to the Lauers. Justice Lauer resigned from the court in the uproar which followed the smuggling exposé. Mrs. Lauer was sentenced to three months in prison.

The dapper Chaperau confessed to the smuggling. He was fined $5,000 and sentenced to five years in prison, but because of his cooperation in the case, President Roosevelt ordered his release from prison in April, 1940.

The story of Rosa Weber is not a new one to Customs officers or, for that matter, to any of the Federal and local police agencies, because the informer has always played an important role in law enforcement’s never-ending battle against the criminal world.

In 1944, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover wrote in the _FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin_:

The objective of the investigator must be to ferret out the truth.
It is fundamental that the search include the most logical source
of information--those persons with immediate access to necessary
facts who are willing to cooperate in the interest of the common
good. Their services contribute greatly to the ultimate goal
of justice--convicting the guilty and clearing the innocent.
Necessarily unheralded in their daily efforts, they not only
uncover crimes but also furnish the intelligence data so vital in
preventing serious violations of law and national intelligence.

The Customs Bureau--along with other enforcement agencies--has developed a network of informers who aid in combatting smuggling and other violations of the tariff laws. Information comes from maids, disgruntled employees, ship’s officers and stewards, shop girls, bartenders, narcotics addicts, businessmen, racketeers, and jealous mistresses--each with his own motive for passing information to the agents.

Some informers are motivated by a momentary fit of anger--as was Rosa Weber. Some report smuggling activities to settle an old grudge against an enemy. Some inform through fear of the law--fear of deportation, fear of a severe prison sentence, or fear that unless they get the law on their side, their underworld enemies will destroy them. Then there is the information which comes from citizens who have no other motive than the desire to see the law upheld.

There are petty criminals who turn informer because it gives them a feeling of holding the whip-hand over the “big shots” of the underworld. Others inform because of a sincere desire to break with their criminal past and to start a new life with a clean slate.

But a sizable number of Customs informers are those who seek a money reward. Among these are professional informers, who make a regular business of checking on the sales of jewelry, clothing and other merchandise in Europe, and learning whether the buyers intend to declare their purchases to customs on arrival in the United States.

Most of the large seizures of heroin, diamonds, gold and other contraband have been discovered because some one gave advance information. Customs agents readily concede that most smuggling rings are broken up because of the tips that come from informers who often play a deadly and dangerous game.

Federal agents are taught the art of developing contacts with informers--and the absolute necessity for acquiring information from those with first-hand knowledge of a criminal operation.

The agents cannot often disclose the full story of how an informer was enlisted, and how he aided them in breaking up a criminal combine, because the disclosure could be fatal to the informer. But the story of how Narcotics Agent Pat O’Carroll, a handsome, black-haired Irishman, recruited one informer can now be told.

Shortly after World War II, O’Carroll was assigned to the Bureau of Narcotics’ International Squad in New York City to help with the investigations being made into the narcotics traffic. Two of the squad’s prime targets were Benny Bellanca, who lived in Jersey City, and Pietro Beddia, who resided in Westchester.

Both men were suspected of being involved deeply in the international narcotics traffic--with connections in France and Italy--but agents were unable to make a case against them and they remained untouchable. Perhaps they would have continued their operations for years, except that O’Carroll played a hunch.

The case began to take shape when Agent Angelo Zurlo, tailing a suspected narcotics pusher on New York’s Lower East Side, saw his man enter a small olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street near Delancey. He noted the name and address of the shop in his notebook and later made a memorandum of the incident which went into the Bureau’s cross-indexed file. Some months later, Narcotics agents following another suspect saw him enter the olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street. They made a memorandum, also, which went into the files.

In the summer of 1952, O’Carroll was checking the files when he noted the two memos mentioning the small shop on Christie. Further investigation revealed it had been owned by Alphonse Attardi before he was sentenced to serve an eight-year prison term for a narcotics violation in Galveston, Texas, in the early 1940s. Attardi had completed the sentence, but Immigration authorities were studying the possibility of extradition proceedings, inasmuch as Attardi was Italian by birth.

Attardi at this time was sixty years old, 5 feet 3, and weighed about 140 pounds. He had the appearance of a meek and humble little shoemaker, and he scarcely fitted the part of an underworld character. He had an engaging, warm personality, and he was known in the Mafia as “The Peacemaker” because of his knack for compromising disputes--but that was before he had served time in prison.

O’Carroll decided to pay a call on Attardi, who he learned was living in a cheap, transient rooming house on 16th Street just off Third Avenue. It was after midnight one warm night when he strolled down Third Avenue in the shadows of the old El to 16th Street. Even the softness of the night could not hide the shabbiness and the squalor of the area.

O’Carroll entered the rooming house and climbed two flights of stairs. He knocked on the door and then tried the doorknob. The door swung open, and at that moment the agent knew that Attardi was in a bad way financially. If he had had a bankroll, he wouldn’t have left the door unbolted--not in this dive.

He saw Attardi sitting up in bed, a skinny gnome of a man wearing only undershirt and shorts.

“Who is it?” Attardi said. “What do you want?”

“Take it easy,” O’Carroll said. “I’m a U.S. Treasury agent. I just want to talk to you.”