Part 7

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.”