Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

But Federal officials, from the President down, knew that with the passing of the Wolf — otherwise known as James R. Kerrigan — the Government of the United States had suffered an irreparable loss. For Kerrigan was the ace of Uncle Sam’s narcotic agents. A man of unadulterated courage and stamina, despite the fact that the scales said only one hundred and twenty pounds, and the possessor of a brain that was sharper than that of the sharpest criminal, Kerrigan thrust terror into the hearts of narcotic law violators, big and small, in this country and in Europe, for more than a decade. Hence his sobriquet.

This month he would be in San Francisco’s dimly lit Chinatown, battering down the doors of an “importing and exporting house,” and seizing a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of dope, single-handed. Next month he would be aboard a transatlantic liner, peering through the keyhole of a stateroom in the dead of the night, unearthing a gigantic smuggling plot. On another occasion he might be found sitting in a joint deep in the notorious halfway world of Amsterdam, his keen ears tuned in on conversations not intended for him.

Born in New York’s famous East Side, the Wolf grew up with many of those individuals who were later to carve niches for themselves in the realm of dishonest enterprise. Accordingly, when the Wolf passed on he took to his grave with him inside information about criminals which will never be retrieved. Literally, he was a walking encyclopedia of information on the underworld and its habitués. He hadn’t the time to impart all he knew. He revealed a good deal to his fellow agents, understand, but not half enough.

Often times he would be walking along murky streets with his two side-kicks — Agents Ray Connolley and Louis Kelley — when some one whom he knew would slink by.

“See that guy?” the Wolf would say. “Well, listen; take a good look at him and I’ll slip you the low-down on him in case I get bumped off.” And thereupon the Wolf would narrate the history of the individual in question, giving, among other things, his racket, his various hangouts, his real name and his aliases, the date of his birth, the names and addresses of those with whom he contacted, and so on ad infinitum.

The police, when they were at sea regarding the whereabouts of a certain person they wanted, usually called on the Wolf. They figured that he would have, in the back of his unusual and retentive brain, the information they desired. And they were rarely disappointed.

A few years ago, when the river pirates in and around Gotham were extremely active, the authorities decided to call a halt to their nefarious practices. Things had gone a trifle beyond the pale of tolerance. In fact, it got so that a self-respecting boat was afraid to go out at night. If it did, it was looted.

Whereupon some one suggested:

“Maybe the Wolf can help us out.”

So the Wolf was asked what he knew about the activities of the river pirates.

“Well,” he answered, “that’s a little out of my line. Dope, you know, is my meat. But I think I can help you boys.”

So the Wolf unreeled certain information from the film of his memory with the result that the river pirates passed into history ere a month went by.

Quite an unusual man, this Kerrigan, you’re thinking. Well, let’s take a look at him: Five feet ten and the aforementioned one hundred and twenty pounds. Skinny as a rail.

“No flesh, but lots of nerve,” is the way he put it.

Lines all over his face. Dark, burning eyes that looked right through you. (You wouldn’t lie to Kerrigan.) A big forehead. Forty-two.

Tobacco and booze were taboo. His wife and two children rarely saw him. He slept wherever his work took him — when he did sleep.

Arnold Rothstein, notorious gambler, racketeer and dope lord, who was recently slain, was one of the many who would have given anything for the Wolf’s good will. Rothstein tried hard enough, Heaven knows, but got nowhere.

Rothstein used to sip coffee by the hour in a well-known restaurant on upper Broadway. Kerrigan often passed the place. But he seldom passed without being approached by Rothstein

“Hello there, Wolf,” Rothstein would say as he rushed into the street, bareheaded. “Come on in and have something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry; go on and sell your papers, Arnold,” the Wolf would answer. “I don’t want to be seen in your company.”

But despite the fact that he detested racketeers and dope runners, the Wolf was often seen in their company. On such occasions, however, he was usually busy turning down bribes, notwithstanding the truth that his pay was small and his family more or less in want. It is estimated that he turned a deaf ear to a cool million in bribes during his service with the Government.

Only a few weeks before his untimely demise the Wolf was passing the restaurant frequented by Rothstein and his gang when a pale-faced fellow ran out of the eating place and accosted the narcotic agent with this remark:

“Say, Wolf, I understand you’re after me.”