Part 2

Cardoza drew a rough map of the waterfront and showed it to the youth. “You will get off the ship at this point,” he explained. “Walk over to this corner and wait for a bus. When the bus comes along, get aboard and take a seat as near the driver as possible. If anyone approaches you about the heroin, tell them it is still aboard the ship and make arrangements to meet them later. But don’t worry. Finnegan and I will be on the bus with you. Get off the bus at this street and you’ll see a restaurant on the corner. Go in and order a glass of milk--and sit there until we come for you. Is this clear to you?”

“I understand,” Halvorsen said. “I’ll do as you say.”

Cardoza instructed Agent Polcuch to hide the sacks of heroin under his jacket when leaving the ship and to take them to the Customs Bureau’s laboratory at 408 Atlantic Avenue for an analysis. “Tell them it’s a rush job, Oscar, and we would like to know the results as soon as possible. They can reach us at the Customs House this afternoon.”

It was almost noon when Halvorsen walked down the gangway alone and strolled over to the bus stop. The youth boarded the bus and did not even glance at Cardoza and Finnegan when they brushed by him. No one spoke to him on the bus nor did anyone approach him as he sat in the restaurant sipping a glass of milk.

Cardoza and Finnegan lounged in the doorway of a building opposite the restaurant, from where they could see Halvorsen seated at a table. When it seemed apparent that no one had followed him from the waterfront, they took Halvorsen to the Customs House for questioning. The longer they talked to him, the more certain they were that he was telling the truth.

During the afternoon, Cardoza received a telephone call from Acting Chief Chemist Melvin Lerner at the Bureau’s laboratory. “The stuff is heroin, all right,” Lerner said. “It’s a very high grade. What do you want us to do with it?”

“Make the usual report,” Cardoza said, “and hang onto those sacks until we decide what to do next. We may need them in making a case against the buyer. And thanks.”

The questioning of Halvorsen continued until after midnight. When the session was over, the penitent young man knew that his personal nightmare was nearing an end and that there was a way to atone for what he had done. The whole sorry mess could be washed out by helping the Customs agents trap the receiver in San Francisco--the man named Lew Gar Kung Saw.

Agent Finnegan accompanied Halvorsen from the Customs building to the _Fernhill_ and left him. It was agreed he would remain aboard the ship until it reached New York harbor. By that time a decision would be made on the next move.

On May 23, one week after the arrival of the _Fernhill_ in Boston harbor, Agents Cardoza, Polcuch and Finnegan met with their chief, Lawrence Fleishman, at their headquarters at 21 Varick Street in New York City. Fleishman was a lean man with graying hair who had been doing battle with gangs of smugglers, crooked importers, and international con men for almost thirty years. Long ago he had lost count of the number of crooks he had helped send to prison, and the millions of dollars involved in these cases. But he had never lost his enthusiasm for matching wits with those he called “the bastards.”

At this moment, Halvorsen was seeing the sights of New York in company with a young Customs agent. He had been taken from the _Fernhill_ when the ship reached New York harbor and he had registered in a midtown hotel to wait for the next move in the game.

Fleishman said of Halvorsen: “The kid can never make the delivery in San Francisco alone. He’s too nervous and it is too risky. Polcuch had better go with him. We’ll rig up a story that Polcuch is Halvorsen’s shipmate and that they have been working together on the deal.”

Fleishman told them it wasn’t practical to use the original eight sacks of heroin as a decoy in trapping the receiver in San Francisco. He agreed with officials in Washington that there was too much danger of the heroin being lost or stolen and being put back into the illicit market. Also there was the difficulty of obtaining legal clearances for transporting that amount of heroin across the continent.

“We’ll have to ask the laboratory to find a substitute to put in those bags,” Fleishman said. “It will have to be something that looks, feels and tastes like heroin. We can blow this whole case if we’re not careful.”

Fleishman knew the San Francisco receiver would become suspicious if Halvorsen didn’t show up soon. He picked up the telephone and asked his secretary to call the chief chemist in the Bureau’s Boston laboratory....

When Acting Chief Chemist Melvin Lerner put down the telephone after talking to Fleishman, he sent word to the laboratory that he wished to see Chemist Paul Leavitt. Lerner was a tall, brown-haired young man who had been with the Bureau for fourteen years.

Lerner called for Paul Leavitt because this remarkable man had an uncanny sense of taste--and if anyone could find a material which tasted like heroin, it was he. Leavitt could identify accurately an enormous number of materials simply by tasting them, an odd sort of sensory skill which he had had since childhood. It had been a valuable asset in the laboratory, where he had spent almost forty years as a chemist.

The problem was to find a light, white, powdery substance with the same bulk and weight as heroin and the same bitter taste. The taste was particularly important because it was characteristic of narcotics buyers to taste heroin before accepting it in any large amount.

When Leavitt came into the office, Lerner outlined the problem that had been dumped into their laps and he gave him the details of the Halvorsen case.

“How much time do I have?” Leavitt asked.

Lerner said, “It’s a rush job, Paul. They want it in New York on the first plane tomorrow--in the same cotton bags which are out there in the vault. We’ll have to remove the heroin from the bags and refill them with a substitute material.”

Leavitt knew that sacks filled with milk sugar or ordinary sugar would never fool a veteran trafficker in narcotics because the sugar would weigh ten times more than heroin. The substitute had to have the same bulk density as heroin.

For hours the chemist worked on the problem, testing different materials, but each of them was either too dense or did not meet the specifications in appearance or taste. It seemed that the agents in New York had tossed the laboratory a problem that simply could not be solved in so short a time.

Leavitt was still in the laboratory late in the evening pondering the problem when he remembered that several months earlier the laboratory had made a routine test of a white, light, powdery, silica compound produced by the Johns-Manville Company as a filter agent. Somewhere in the laboratory there was a sample of this product.

Leavitt found the sample in a storage room. He also found the product had the bulk density, weight and appearance of heroin. The remaining step was to make the stuff taste like the narcotic--give it the same bitter flavor.

At last Leavitt found the solution in a mixture of quinine and strychnine added to the filter powder in just the proper proportions. The amount of strychnine he used was in safe limits, even if a man should swallow a large amount of the stuff.

The following morning, Lerner supervised the job of emptying the sacks of heroin and filling them with the harmless substitute. He took the sacks to his secretary, Miss Alfhilde Norrman. “I’ve got a job for you, Alfy,” he said. “Can you re-sew these bags so no one can tell they’ve been tampered with?”

“I think so,” Miss Norrman said. Using the same threads with which the bags had been sewn in Hong Kong, Miss Norrman stitched them shut. She was careful to insert the needle in the old thread-holes left in the material. When the job was finished, the eight sacks appeared exactly as they were when young Halvorsen accepted them from the fat Chinese.

Less than twenty-four hours after Fleishman’s call to Lerner, the sacks of phony heroin were on their way to New York by plane. The following day, Agent Polcuch and Halvorsen flew to San Francisco, where they checked into a seaman’s hotel near the waterfront. After dinner, they carried the brief case containing the heroin substitute to the Greyhound bus station and checked it in a locker.

That same evening they met with agents from the San Francisco Customs office to make plans for the delivery of the sacks to Lew Gar Kung Saw--a name that meant nothing to the San Francisco agents, who knew every suspected narcotics trafficker on the West Coast. Very likely the name was an alias.

It was agreed Polcuch should carry a concealed radio transmitting device to the building on Clay Street. Two agents would be hidden in a small delivery truck parked on the street to record the conversation with the receiver. They would come to help Polcuch and Halvorsen if trouble should develop.

If possible, the receiver was to be lured to Polcuch’s room at the seaman’s hotel to accept delivery of the sacks. Two agents would be concealed in an adjoining room to help with the arrest in case more than one man were involved.

At 10 A.M. the following day, May 27, Polcuch and Halvorsen left their hotel and took a taxi to San Francisco’s Chinatown. They stepped out in front of a four-story building which appeared to be a Chinese rooming house. They walked up three flights of stairs without encountering anyone. On the fourth floor they saw a Chinese man walking down the hallway.

Halvorsen said, “Can you help us?” He showed the Chinese the note bearing the name of Lew Gar Kung Saw. The Chinese pointed to the end of the hallway. The room appeared to be a clubroom. There were lounging chairs, a large sofa, and several tables with chairs. At one of the tables sat an elderly Chinese reading a Chinese-language newspaper. The man looked up as Halvorsen and Polcuch entered.

Halvorsen handed him the slip of paper and said, “We’re trying to find this man. We were told to meet him here.” The Chinese glanced at the name and nodded. He told them to sit down and then he went to a wall telephone, where he began dialing several numbers. He seemed to be having trouble locating Lew Gar Kung Saw.

Polcuch glanced at Halvorsen and winked. “Nervous?” he said in a low voice. Halvorsen grinned for the first time in days. “Yes,” he said, “aren’t you?”

Polcuch nodded and lit a cigarette. “You’re doing fine. Just keep it up and everything will be all right.”

Polcuch knew how the kid felt. No matter how many times you played this game, you never knew what was going to happen next. One false move and you blew the whole case, often without knowing why. Halvorsen was old enough to know the dangers. Now that the pressure was on, he was handling himself even better than Polcuch had reason to expect. His hands trembled a bit, but that was the only sign of inner excitement and fear. He hoped the boy would be as steady later as he was now. He had been coached on what to say and what to do under every possible contingency--but this was tricky business even for a veteran agent.

Perhaps the best of the agents were good because they had something of the ham actor in them. Day after day they were called on to assume false identities and to act the part of an underworld character in the drama of the hunters and the hunted. The only difference between this sort of acting and the theater was that this was not to amuse or to entertain the audience. A part was played to protect the people and the Treasury of the United States from thieves, looters, corrupters and chiselers. If you made one false move or spoke one unconvincing line, then the curtain came down. The play was over.

There was the time when one veteran Customs undercover agent worked his way into the confidence of a gang of big-time narcotics dealers whose operation was a multi-million-dollar business. He gave up his own identity and his own life to play the role of a narcotics dealer. He played his part so well that he gained the confidence of the man suspected of being the mastermind of the operation in New York.

Then came the day when it looked as though the weeks of acting would pay off. The man who was Mr. Big agreed to sell the agent a large supply of heroin. That evening they met in an East Side bar and had a few drinks before going to the place where the delivery was to be made. The agent insisted on paying for the drinks and then they walked outside to hail a taxi. Suddenly Mr. Big mumbled something about having forgotten an important date.

“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.

“No,” Halvorsen said. “It’s in a locker at the bus station. Have you got the money?”

The Chinese showed them a wallet stuffed with currency. Halvorsen said, “You come to my hotel and bring the money. We’ll get the opium and do business there.”

Lew Doo exclaimed, “No! No! This place is safe. I do business here all the time. The hotel room is no good.”

Halvorsen said, “We can’t go walking around the street carrying that stuff. We might get caught.”

“Don’t worry,” Lew Doo said. “It’s safer here.”

Polcuch sensed it would be a mistake to insist on going to the hotel room. He said, “Maybe the guy’s right, Truls. This place looks safe enough. Let’s do what he says.”

Halvorsen agreed with apparent reluctance. And then the youth said, “I want the money we spent for bus fares, too.” He explained to Lew Doo that it had cost $138 to come from New York by bus and he thought this money should be repaid.

Lew Doo made no protest. He agreed to pay the extra money. Halvorsen and Polcuch left the place and headed for the waterfront in a taxi. When Polcuch was certain they were not being followed, he gave the driver the name of their hotel.

Polcuch explained the situation to the agents at the hotel. It was agreed they would go to Clay Street and conceal themselves near the entrance to No. 854, where they could see the clubroom windows. They were not to make a move until Polcuch signalled from the windows or called for help over the concealed radio transmitter. While it appeared Lew Doo was working alone, he might have confederates with him when they returned to the clubroom. It was best to have help near in case there was trouble.

From the hotel, Polcuch and Halvorsen went to the Greyhound bus station and took the brief case from the locker. They returned to No. 854 at approximately 2 P.M., and Halvorsen was carrying the brief case when they walked into the clubroom where Lew Doo was sitting alone.

The Chinese said, “Let me see the stuff.” He took out a sack and examined it closely, even to the stitching. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and slit a small hole in the bag. He poured out a pinch of the powder and tasted it--and then he nodded in satisfaction.

Lew Doo lifted the other sacks from the brief case and said, “I paid for ten bags and you have only eight. Where are the others?”

Polcuch tensed. This was a critical moment--and the question he had been waiting for the Chinese to ask. He glanced at Halvorsen.

“I’m sorry,” Halvorsen said evenly, “but two of the bags got wet on the ship and we had to throw them overboard. The stuff was ruined.”

For several seconds Lew Doo stood and looked first at Halvorsen and then at Polcuch as though trying to read their minds. Polcuch, the veteran, knew the entire case was hanging by a thread. If Lew Doo backed out now, the mission was a failure. If he didn’t take the final step and hand over the money, there wouldn’t be enough solid evidence to hold him for twenty-four hours. It was now--or perhaps never.

Suddenly the Chinese shrugged and the muscles around his eyes relaxed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted out $1,338 onto the top of the table and then began placing the sacks into the briefcase.

Polcuch picked up the money and counted it. His hand darted beneath his jacket and he pulled a snub-nosed revolver from a shoulder holster to cover the startled Lew Doo. “Don’t move,” Polcuch ordered. “I’m an agent of the U.S. Treasury Department. You are under arrest.” Slowly he backed to the window overlooking Clay Street and signalled to the agents below. Within a few seconds they came pounding up the stairs and into the room. But there was no fight in Lew Doo.

Lew Doo was charged with conspiracy to violate the narcotics laws of the United States. He pleaded not guilty, but he was convicted and sentenced to four years in prison. In Hong Kong, British police raided the room on Cameron Road and smashed the ring operating from the Crown Colony.

This was the end of the ordeal for Halvorsen, the young man who had brought himself to a halt on the edge of a chasm of crime. But it was a happy and prosperous ending because the U.S. Customs Bureau awarded him a check for $1,000 for his role in helping smash the smuggling ring.

* * * * *

The case of Truls Arild Halvorsen is only one of countless thousands of smuggling cases recorded in files which now are gathering dust in the archives of the Customs Bureau, the oldest agency in the Federal government.

The Bureau of Customs--or the Customs Service, as it is often called--is the nation’s border guard. For more than 170 years it has had the primary responsibility for policing the foreign trade, collecting tariff duties on imports, and exposing conspiracies which would defraud the Treasury of the United States.

The Customs Service was organized hurriedly in the first days of the Republic, when the original Thirteen Colonies voluntarily surrendered certain rights to the Federal government in order to “form a more perfect Union.” One of the most important of these rights was the collection of duties--for without this income the new-born government could not have existed.

The need for revenue was so great in the nation’s beginning that Congress rushed through legislation authorizing a Customs Service even before the organization of the Treasury Department. And when Alexander Hamilton assumed his duties as the first Secretary of the Treasury, he found the month-old Customs Service already at work collecting revenues. The Service was incorporated into the Treasury Department as a division of the Secretary’s office, and it continued as a division until 1927 when it was given the status of a bureau, directed by a commissioner appointed by the President.

Since the day in July, 1789, when George Washington submitted to the Senate the first list of Customs collectors, the nation’s overseas trade has grown from a mere trickle to a multi-billion-dollar flood. The administration of the Bureau has become more complicated and its operations more diverse as the commercial intercourse between nations has grown.

In size, the Customs Bureau is one of the smaller Federal agencies, having approximately 8,500 employees. But being the senior service in the Federal government, its past is a mirror of the nation’s history. It is a history tinged with violence and intrigue, because there has never been a time when its agents were not engaged in a running war with smugglers--from Jean Laffite and his band of cutthroats in the bayous of Louisiana to the criminals who direct today’s multi-million-dollar traffic in contraband.

Because it deals with commerce and travel, the operations of Customs touch every man, woman and child and every item of merchandise entering this country--from the tourist returning from Zamboanga to the aardvark headed for a zoo.

Customs has been damned as a nuisance and a bumble-headed bureaucracy. It has been praised as one of the most efficient and necessary units in the Federal government. Despite its long history, few Americans know anything about Customs beyond the fact that they must submit to an irritating baggage examination by an inspector upon arriving home from abroad.