Two men busily engaged upon the torpedo, which they were making ready to lower through the manhole into the sewer. One of them was talking:
"Von Lertz looked like he'd been out all night——"
"Yes. That's the way he is most of the time. But that's the way with the ones higher up. They can go out and play—while we do the work. But when the Iron Crosses are distributed, they get them, not us."
A growl from the third.
"Shut up. You're better off here than you would be in the trenches. This is easy work for you. I get tired hearing you reservists kicking on a little easy campaign work over in this country when you might be handling the minnewerfers over in Flanders. But, let's stop this talking. The fleet will sail in a few hours now. We've got to have this torpedo ready to launch at the flagship."
That sentence was enough. Dixie hurried from her position on the ladder, started down—then winced as she struck the ground. One foot had struck in a chuck-hole, twisting the ankle severely, and slowly and painfully, she limped to her car, where it was concealed in the shadow of a great, dismantled boiler. The driver hurried forward to her aid, assisting her within. At the door of the taxi, Dixie, half turning with the pain of her ankle, failed to notice that her reticule slipped from her wrist and fell to the ground. Nor did the driver. He leaped to his place at the wheel and turned expectantly.
"Where to now?" he asked.
"A telephone—just as quick as you can make it!" Dixie answered. Her voice was faint from the pain of her sprained ankle.
"How about a doctor for that foot?" the driver was staring at the expression of agony on the girl's features.
"Never mind that. Where's a telephone?"
"In a roadhouse, down the line about three miles."
"Get to it—hurry!"
A moment more and the machine was scurrying along the lonely road, toward the roadhouse and toward the warning that Dixie sought to send the Secret Service. But as the machine roared its way along through the early morning, the spy from the Hohenzollern club entered the shack on Staten Island, his eyes wide with excitement, his voice snapping as he sent the men scurrying faster than ever in their work.
"There's danger! I just knocked a Secret Service man over in the woods. They're after us! Bar that door and barricade it! We've got to get this torpedo into place before they catch our trail. Every minute means danger!"
Slowly the torpedo swung at its fastenings. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club lifted the cover of the manhole. And as the spies in the employ of Imperial Germany started to lower the torpedo into the sewer, Dixie Mason clung grimly to the telephone at the roadhouse, waiting for the answering voice from the other end of the wire. At last it came—the voice of Chief Flynn who had just entered the office for the day. His voice went keen and bright as the warning from Dixie came over the wire. Hastily he assembled the facts as she told them. Then:
"A good night's work. Go home to bed. I'll handle everything."
He lifted another 'phone and called the Criminology Club.
"Busy" reported Central. For Dick Stewart was at that moment detailing the story of the assault upon him and the reasons he had failed in his quest. But Chief Flynn was already working on another angle of the protection of the Atlantic Fleet.
A quick call to the Harbor Police. A moment later and with a scurrying rush, the power-launches of the New York Police department, their machine guns ready for instant action, shot forth into the bay. Another call and the Chief gained a clear wire to the Criminology Club. A few crisp orders and Grant and his men were hurrying by motor to Staten Island, to pick up Stewart on the way and rush to the shack that had housed the torpedo. But would they reach there in time? Grant would have given much to know.
Out in the bay, here, there, everywhere, the boats of the harbor police were scattering, up toward the great, monstrous forms of the battleships, where, flags fluttering, the preparations were being made for the start of the President's review, searching under wharves, around lighters, hurrying to the protection of the Mayflower, whence the President would review the fleet—honeycombing the harbor in their search for suspicious characters, seeking everywhere for the torpedo that was planned to send a flagship to its doom, block the Great Atlantic Fleet in New York harbor and cripple the defense of the greatest nation in the world.
But so far, the torpedo was safe from their search. In the dark confines of the sewer, it had been lowered and shunted to its mouth, where it lay concealed from view under the piling of an old dock. Back in the shack, Schmidt, the electrician, labored furiously on the last connection that would make the torpedo available for its deadly use—the wireless controller.
Hurriedly he made the finishing touches, while down at the mouth of the sewer, the plotters watched the gathering boats across the way, the waving flags, and bright hued decorations that shone and shimmered with the bright sunlight of morning. From far in the distance came the screaming of sirens and the hoarser-throated sound of hundreds of tugboats, ferries and river craft. The review had started. Aboard the Mayflower, the President of the United States was to see the pride of the navy as it steamed forth to the open sea and—
"If Schmidt only gets here with that controller," seethed the spy from the Hohenzollern Club as he watched the fleet in the distance through his binoculars, "If he only gets here!"
"How long will it take to attach it?" Another plotter was staring toward the distance.
"Ten seconds. We've got plenty of time in that way—if he only gets here with it!"
A sound from the tunnel. It was Schmidt, lugging the controller forward. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club turned with a quick order.
"You get back there and guard the shack," he ordered of the third plotter. "We'll attend to things down here."
The German retreated into the sewer. Schmidt began the placing of the wireless controller in its position. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club looked again through his binoculars.
"We'll launch the torpedo just as the flagship rounds the point there. Understand?"
"Perfectly!" Schmidt was testing his connections.
They looked at each other then—and laughed. America was at their mercy, they thought! For they did not know that as they gloated over the coming fate of the flagship, Harrison Grant and his men were forcing their way through the doorway of the shack above them!
But only emptiness greeted the members of the Criminology Club as the door crashed open. Harrison Grant glanced about him quickly.
"They're gone—they're already in the sewer!" he exclaimed despondently. "We've got just one chance—to head off that torpedo when it starts! You men hurry to Buffan's landing and get the reserve launch there. I'll investigate here."
"All right," then Stewart turned. "Here's something I picked up just outside. Should have given it to you before—but my brain's working a little slow since that blow on the head."
He passed a reticule to Harrison Grant who stuffed it in his pocket. The men departed. Grant looked hastily about the shack then veered to a corner at a sound from below.
Someone was coming back. There—the sewer manhole moved a little. Then a bit more—then it raised while the figure of a man started upward and through it. Grant crept forward. A quick leap, he seized the plotter by the throat, choking him and at the same time dragging him back on the floor. A moment more and he had bound him, dragged him to a corner and almost thrown him there, then started down the manhole. But as he groped blinking through the darkness, Schmidt and the spy from the Hohenzollern Club sighted the prow of the flagship as it rounded the point below them, swung the torpedo into position and shunted it, seething into the water!
A few steps forward and Grant saw what had been done. There were two men, both with their backs to him, one guiding the torpedo with the wireless controller, the other leaning forward, pointing out its course as it made its way, slowly at first, then faster, toward the thundering flagship.
Everywhere was noise, the screaming of whistles, the booming of guns as the battleships fired their salutes before the Mayflower. Harrison Grant crept forward unnoticed.
Ten feet—then six—then three, while the spies stared outward, unaware of the approach of the detective. Harrison Grant gathered his full strength. A tremendous kick and he had sent one of the plotters sprawling into the water. A great lunge and he was at the throat of the spy from the Hohenzollern Club, struggling to drag him from his hold at the wireless controller.
A struggle that seemed destined to fail. With almost superhuman strength the spy fought him off, still clinging to the key of the controller, feinting, dodging, squirming in the grasp of the master detective, biting, kicking, butting—but still holding to that key that was sending the torpedo faster and faster through the water, driving it on and on toward the flagship of the great Atlantic Fleet, threatening it with destruction—and the bottling of the entire fleet in the waters of New York harbor.
Doggedly they fought. Again and again Grant's hands closed about the throat of the spy, only to be thrown off. Then slowly, steadily, Grant began to bend the plotter in his grasp.
Closer, closer—Harrison Grant bent his head toward the wrist of the hand that held the key of the wireless controller. Then, a quick motion and his teeth closed upon the flesh, biting into the sinews and muscles, causing the spy to leap from his post with a cry of anguish. But the fight was not over.
"Think you've stopped us, eh?" The spy almost shouted the words. "Well, you haven't. That torpedo's got speed enough now—it'll reach that ship all right. It'll—"
But Grant had swung him about now and was forcing him to the edge of the sewer platform. Closer—closer—the end was inevitable. But would it avail anything? A glance out into the Narrows and Grant saw that the torpedo was heading straight on its course now, while far in the rear, the reserve launch, containing his men, was striving vainly to summon the speed to over-take it. On and on it was going—a moment more and it would crash into the side of that massive, thundrous battleship, a moment more—
All the strength that Harrison Grant possessed sped into the sinews of his arm and back. With a great wrench, he freed the grasp of the spy upon him. Then with a tremendous lunge, he literally raised the form of the struggling man, and threw him, high over his shoulders and into the tremendous currents below!
A great leap. Harrison Grant was at the key of the wireless controller. Quickly he reversed it, sending the current crackling out over the Narrows. But would the effect come in time? Would the electric current swerve the course of that torpedo soon enough to save the great battleship before it from destruction? Gasping and panting, Harrison Grant watched for the result, his soul agonized, his heart pounding with aching severity. A second—and the torpedo had not moved from its course. Another—Harrison Grant bent forward happily. Out there in the choppy waters of the Narrows, he believed he had seen the torpedo swerve slightly—yes, there it had moved a full three feet from its course—
Now ten—look! The men on the reserve launch were waving their arms and clambering to the top of the launch as it sped along. The torpedo had moved more in its course—now it seemed to be turning—itwasturning! A great, glad cry broke from the lips of Harrison Grant. The torpedo was making a full semi-circle in the water now—on the roof of the reserve launch a Criminology Club detective was preparing to dive into the water for the desperate purpose of kicking the wireless antennae from the explosive monster and making it useless, while on beyond, there where the guns were booming, where the flags were flying and the bands were playing, the Great Atlantic Fleet, safely, triumphantly, was sailing through the Narrows, out to the freedom of the open sea!
Harrison Grant watched happily for a moment, then turned to make his way back through the tunnel and to the interrogation of the captured spy. It was then that he noticed that his brow was covered with a cold perspiration, that his collar was wilted—in spite of the almost cold day—that he was shaking and trembling from the excitement of the chase. He reached for his handkerchief, then hesitated at the touch of the reticule in his pocket. Wonderingly he brought it forth and examined it.
"A woman's party chatalaine," he mused. "Some spy that's mixed up in this thing, I guess. Dropped it coming from the shack. I wonder if there's anything in it to give a clue to her identity."
He pulled open the bag. He stared a moment at the initials of the card case which lay within, then opened it feverishly. The wondering expression of his eyes changed to grimness. His lips resolved themselves into a straight line. Slowly they repeated the name on the card:
"Miss Dixie Mason!"
The battleships in the distance seemed to fade. The sound of the sirens, the booming guns, all drifted into nothingness. Dully, monotonously, the lips of Harrison Grant framed the words:
"Dixie Mason! So she was the one! Dixie Mason—a spy!"
Chapter IV.
VON RINTELEN—THE DESTROYER
Months of apparent calm followed the plot against the fleet—a calm, however, which existed only on the surface, for beneath the veneer of friendliness for America, Ambassador Von Bernstorff and his aides, Capt. Franz von Papen, Capt. Karl Boy-Ed and Dr. Heinrich Albert still were scheming and working for the downfall of America in their insatiable desires to defeat the Allies. More, they had received aid from abroad, in the person of an intimate friend of the Crown Prince of Germany, Franz von Rintelen, sent to America for the ostensible purpose of promoting friendliness between Germany and America, but in reality with a bank account of more than fifty million dollars, to spend on any form of death and destruction that he might see fit—as long as it harmed the Allies. And whether the harming of the Allies also brought its attendant injury to America, made little difference to Franz von Rintelen or his cohorts. The United States had been described by Dr. Heinrich Albert as "the American front," and so they regarded it—as a battlefield upon which to make their advances and counterthrusts against the Allies, regardless of the consequences to the land for which they professed such friendliness and such regard.
So it was, that in the spending of that fifty million dollars, Franz von Rintelen had built himself up practically a separate organization with which he preyed upon shipping, industry and manufacture. River pirates who swarmed the Hudson to scuttle lighters, to start fires in cargoes, to cut hawsers and mangle the steering apparatus of tugs that they might crash into each other and sink with their cargoes; so called "Peace Councils," which strove for the spreading of propaganda on any kind of peace at any price—as long as it was favorable to Germany; alleged "Embargo Conferences," the sole object of which was to spread a feeling throughout America that it was wrong for the United States to manufacture arms and ammunition which could be sold to the Allies—all these things lay within the province of Franz von Rintelen, to handle as he chose, with only an occasional conference with Ambassador Von Bernstorff at which he told of his progress, and laid forth his expense accounts for the official signature of the head of Imperial Germany's spy system in America. And so quietly had his organization been built up, so thoroughly had Franz von Rintelen concealed himself behind a cloak of supernumeraries and "straw bosses" that even the cleverest of the members of the Secret Service had failed as yet to gain a clue to his real activities. But there were suspicions—and among those who held them was Dixie Mason.
"No Mamette," she was saying as she stood by the window of her apartment, watching the sunset and talking to her negro maid, "I have no positive evidence against Franz von Rintelen. I doubt if I ever will. I only know that there is something about him which makes me believe that he is at the head of the river pirates and commerce destroyers who have sprung up around the harbor recently. But I can't be sure."
"How about Mista Von Lertz?" Mamette spoke the name with a tinge of hatred. For Mamette, black though she was, could see only three colors, the red, the white and the blue. Dixie smiled at her tone.
"I've tried—and tried hard. But Von Lertz seems afraid to tell me much about him. The best clues I've gotten have been through Agnes Taylor, who is working on the switchboard at Von Lertz's apartment. She has reported several conversations between Rintelen and Von Lertz, but they have been generally meaningless. I—"
The tingling of the telephone had interrupted. Dixie answered, to hear the voice of Agnes Taylor, the operative who had been placed at the switchboard of Von Lertz's apartment house.
"Miss Mason?"
"Yes."
"Do you know—" the voice was low, guarded—"anyone named Walter Schleindel?"
"No—why?"
"He works in some bank. Reports to Paul Koenig of the Hamburg American line who pays him for information. From what I can gather he steals information from manifests and bills of lading coming into the bank for payment."
Dixie Mason smiled.
"So that's the way they know just when to rob freight cars in the yards and when to sink lighters, is it? I'll telephone the Chief. How did you learn?"
"Some man just called Von Lertz. Told him that Schleindel had reported 3,000 head of horses just received at the Allied barns at Jersey and to go at once to the shack at Crow Crossing—"
"I know where it is." Dixie Mason's eyes had narrowed. "Just above the old rock crusher on the Vernon road. What was Von Lertz to do there?"
"I couldn't catch all of it—I heard something about the 'tools' and to 'use the new methods.' I couldn't recognize the voice."
"It wasn't Paul Koenig?"
"No, nor Bernstorff, Von Papen or Boy-Ed."
"Then it must have been Rintelen."
"I couldn't be sure—he changes his voice so often."
Dixie smiled again. Then she turned from the telephone.
"Mamette," she called. "Get me out a plain dress of some kind—something that I can 'rough it' in."
"Yes, Missy—but Laws, yo' ain't goin' to stick your head into danger, is yo,' Missy?"
"I'm going to find out what's happening at Crow Crossing," said Dixie with quiet determination. "Hurry, please, Mamette."
And while she made her preparations, Harrison Grant stood in the dusk, talking to the watchman of a stevedoring plant on the Jersey side of the Harbor.
"I'm from Chief Flynn's office," he was saying, "I received an order to—"
"I know all about it," the watchman answered. "The foreman left instructions for me. We're crating automobile ambulances for shipment to France. I want to show you something that we found today."
He led the way into the stevedoring shop, there to point out the axle of a great chassis—and to swear quietly as he looked at it.
"German spies done it!" he announced. "Nobody else would have been so dirty and low. These are ambulances, y'know—ambulances for use on the battlefields. And you know what'd happen if that ever got on a shell-torn field."
He pointed to the axle of the car. There, where the putty had been removed by the workmen who had discovered it, was a great, jagged hole in the steel of the axle, a hole burnt by an acetylene torch, converting the axle into a weak, shallow shell, doomed to break with the first holting strain. Grant frowned as he looked at it.
"So that's the game, eh?" he said. "That's why so many ambulances have been breaking down in France! That's why—"
He turned sharply, the watchman with him. Far at one side of the opposite dock they had seen the shadow of a man as it slunk along, hiding behind the boxes and bales as he made his way from light to darkness. Grant sped forward, the watchman beside him. A moment more and the shadow leaped forth, to seek escape in the maze of shipping on the docks.
But impossible. Headed off by closed doors, he veered, dodged, swerved in his course and leaped past the guard of an interned liner, seeking to spring from it to the next in his effort to escape.
An effort that failed. Blocked again, he veered once more, crashed his way through the door of the ship's wireless room, then whirled, a chair lifted high over his head. But the blow: did not descend. The tactics of the football field had come into play for Grant—and with a quick motion he had blocked the blow of the spy, disarmed him and forced him against the wall. Fifteen minutes later, he was listening to the confession, forced in jerky sentences from the spy's lips:
"A guy gave me $100. to set fire to the docks," he was saying. "That's all I know. He was some fellow who worked around the waterfront here. I'd gotten a lot o' money offen him and I wanted more. I belonged to his magneto and axle gang."
"His what?" Harrison Grant bent forward.
"His magneto gang. We'd steal the magnetos offen automobiles that was goin' to France. He'd give us five dollars for every one we stole—then let us have 'em to sell."
"Another little system of harming ambulances, eh?" said Grant slowly. "What about the axles?"
"We burned 'em with an acetylene torch—so they'd break down when they hit the battlefields—"
"So they'd break down, when they were filled with wounded!" The words came from Grant's lips in scathing denunciation. "And you confess to it—you mongrel!" His hands clenched—it was all he could do to keep them from the throat of the craven being before him. "Now you tell your story and tell it quick!"
Ten minutes later Harrison Grant turned to the guard of the interned ship, meanwhile eyeing the detectors, the batteries and sending apparatus of the wireless in the room.
"This wireless in working order?" he asked sharply.
"Yes."
Harrison Grant stepped toward it quickly. A moment more and he was sending forth the code-call of the Criminology Club. For the spy, while not able to tell the names of the directorate of those who engineered the heinous business of disabling ambulances, at least had given information that was more than valuable—the fact that a "burning party" had been scheduled for that night—and naming the location and the freight yards.
Again and again Harrison Grant sent out the call—at last to receive an answer. Then his message snapped over the airlanes to the city beyond:
"Criminology Club:"Meet me Stevens Point quick. Come armed."Harrison Grant."
"Criminology Club:
"Meet me Stevens Point quick. Come armed.
"Harrison Grant."
And while Harrison Grant waited, Dixie Mason, her automobile hidden in the shadow of the old rock crusher, crept to the side of the little shack at Crow's Crossing. The sound of voices came from within, low, indistinct. Again and again Dixie strove to hear what was being said—but only failure greeted her. Then—
A pine knot, half hinging in its receptacle, caught her glance. Stealthily she wormed it loose, to peer within. Men were there, men who were pouring gasoline into small fuzeed, metal containers, men who were making their preparations for hurried flight, and receiving orders as they did so. Already two of them were at the doorway.
"Take the shortcut to the Allied stockyards," one of them was saying. "We'll burn the barns—you look after the other part of the yards. Now hurry!"
They were gone, while Dixie cowered in the shadows. Stealthily she watched them cross the patch of snow and ice before the cabin, then disappear, unable to move for fear of detection, her brain seething with plans and hopes. But they were faint! The spies had taken the "short cut"—one that Dixie did not know.
The telephone? There was none. The police? There was no way to reach them. Only one thing remained for Dixie Mason to do—to scramble as fast as possible to her machine and to race across country to the Allied horsebarns. But would she be able to reach there in time?
The battle of wits and courage was on! Over at Steven's Point, Harrison Grant had leaped to the running board of a motor car as it had rounded a corner and shouted to the chauffeur:
"Faster, old man! They're destroying Red Cross supplies in the railroad yards!"
Then as the machine spurted forward, the president of the Criminology Club leaned toward his men.
"See that your revolvers are in working order. Spies are burning the axles of ambulances. We have every right to shoot to kill!"
The men nodded. Cavanaugh opened a new box of cartridges. The machine sped on through the semi-darkness toward the railroad yards. As for Dixie Mason—
Veering into the stockyards district of New Jersey, she raised in her machine and waved madly to a crowd of horse wranglers, just coming forth from a pool hall.
"Quick!" she called, "there's danger at the horsebarns!"
Then, driving harder than ever, she sped forward, in a last vain attempt to reach the barns before the spies could light their bombs.
Before her loomed the shadows of the barns, with their thousands of animals within. And scrambling up a telephone pole toward a window showed the form of a German fire-fiend.
Harder than ever pressed the foot of Dixie Mason against the accelerator of her car, while her soul raged within her. Not content with sinking the ships that carried innocent horses and cattle to France, not content with filling their oats with steel barbs, painted yellow and designed to be eaten by the unfortunate animals, not content with poisoning the water of these beasts who were a part of the war only through the will of others, Imperial Germany now was resorting to worse measures to gain its "victories," the horror and agonizing torture of fire! Dixie's lips pressed firm. Then, her anger drowning all thought of danger, she skidded her machine until it almost overturned as she veered from the stockyards alley into the areaway of the horsebarns, made her way through the great doorways, then sent her automobile thundering up the runway to the second floor—there to leap forth and run toward the form that had just entered the haymows. But too late!
Already the tool of Imperial Germany had touched a match to the gasoline filled container. Already the fuse was spluttering, while with a great, sweeping motion, the spy threw the bomb far into the loose hay and hurled his gigantic form toward the struggling Dixie. A moment more and he had felled her, then scrambled into her machine, reversing it and sending it at perilous speed down the runway and out through the opposite doors, bowling over two of the rustlers as they strove to make their way through the already heavy clouds of smoke, and tearing on toward freedom. And in the loft of the mammoth barn, Dixie Mason lay unconscious, the fire gaining greater and greater headway all about her, where the gasoline discharge had fired the conflagration everywhere!
Imperial Germany had succeeded in a part of its scheme at least. But in another—
Out in the railroad yards came the crackle of a revolver shot as Harrison Grant and his men surprised two men in the interior of a box car, hard at their task of burning the axles of an auto with an acetylene torch. A spy fell maimed, while from seemingly everywhere, other spies broke from the cars and sought safety.
But safety that was far away. For the members of the Criminology Club had spread themselves in the lanes between the great masses of box cars, to leap forth as the spies ran aimlessly about in their search for shelter, to seize them, to shackle them. Atop a box car where he had climbed after the first onslaught, Harrison Grant moved swiftly here and there, shouting his orders to the operatives below. In ten places at once, the battle was mounting to the proportions of a life and death struggle—with the members of the Criminology Club in the ascendancy. But at the horsebarns—
Up in the loft, Dixie Mason stirred to consciousness as the flames ate closer. Down below, where the maddened animals were screaming and stamping in their fright, came the sounds of shouts, of curses and yells as the horse wranglers, summoned from every part of the yards, struggled to release the flame-frightened animals. Through a chink in the frame wall of the building, Dixie could see another red glare, starting in the distance—then the forms of thousands of beasts as they sped forth to safety, freed by the men who had rushed to their assistance the minute the alarm had been given by Dixie. Everywhere was the milling rush to save—save—save, while men risked their lives that the lives of horses and cattle might be spared, while men took risks and men braved death—and while Dixie Mason struggled impotently to fight her way through the ring of fire that seemed to have closed all about her.
The smoke ate its stinging way into her cringing lungs, choking her, gagging her. She sought to scream—but the screams were lost in the wild conglomeration of noises from below, the shrieks of fear maddened horses, the surging work of rescue. Here, there, back again she struggled, only to face everywhere a wall of fire that inch by inch was eating toward her—a lining, writhing, all consuming circle of death!
The flames had eaten their way through portions of the roof now and were spreading the flare of their flames against the sky. Over in the railroad yards, Harrison Grant, receiving the reports of his men as they checked up the list of captured spies, glanced into the distance, started, then whirled to the members of the Criminology Club.
"Shackle those men together!" he ordered sharply. "Leave them in charge of Sisson—he can handle them. Then everyone come with me—there's a fire at the stockyards!"
Quickly the orders were obeyed. Quickly the men swept forward under the leadership of Harrison Grant to aid the hundreds of horse wranglers and cattlemen in their maddened efforts to release the flame threatened animals. And as they did so, Dixie Mason was making her last desperate effort at escape.
Death in the flames or death in a leap—Dixie Mason chose the chance of the latter. She had fought her way forward, beating out the flames that caught her dress, smothering her free hand against her nostrils to shut out the paralyzing effect of smoke and gasoline vapors, seeking from the sounds from below to ascertain an area into which she might leap with some opportunity for safety.
At last it came. A lull in the milling rush from below. Dixie fought her way to a railing, swung under it, hung there for one, long, trembling instant, then, just as a whirling rush of horses cleared the way beneath her, she dropped.
The fall stunned her for a second. Then the roaring sound of plunging animals brought her to her senses, just in time to enable her to scramble out of the way of a flame crazed group of horses as they surged past her, then reeling, to seek through the smoke the freedom of the open air.
Someway, somehow, she managed to waver to the outer doors of the big barn, there to gasp at the cold, life-giving atmosphere that surged into her lungs—then to run forward whitefaced at the sight before her.
Everywhere was fire—fire which raged about the sheds, fire which licked its way along the railings of the cattlepans, which ate at the chutes and connections, fire which seethed and spit and crackled. From far in the distance came the clanging of bells and the hissing of steam—the hastily called fire apparatus of twenty stations, fighting against the flames—but fighting a losing fight. Dixie's hands clenched.
"The cowards!" she exclaimed, "the fiends!"
"Look out there, Miss!" It was the friendly shout of a horse wrangler as he pushed her aside. Down the alleyway sounded a thundering roar as twenty shouting men drove before them a great mass of wild-eyed, galloping horses. The wrangler shouted happily as they passed him.
"That's the end of 'em," he said heartily, "we were luckier'n we thought."
"The end of them?" Dixie Mason turned hopefully. "Then you managed to save——"
"Most of 'em Miss. We got some help from an unexpected quarter. Bunch of Secret Service men who were over in the yards chased over here and took the load off our minds o' loosenin' the cattle in the south end. That let us put all our work on the dangerous part of the yards."
"Secret Service men?" Dixie Mason started. "Do you know any of them——"
"Nobody. A fellow gave his name as Grant, but——"
"Harrison Grant?"
"Think so."
Dixie Mason turned sharply. Harrison Grant must not see her there—it would mean the necessity for explanations—explanations which might not be easily forthcoming. From far away came shouts—the shouts of men approaching through one of the alleys which as yet had been untouched by the flames. Dixie hardly heard. All that she knew was that she must leave the vicinity of the fire as soon as possible—content in the knowledge that her work had not gone for naught after all. Most—if not all—of the horses and cattle had been saved. Imperial Germany had destroyed American property in the shape of barns and pens—but it had at least failed to destroy the lives of the innocent beings against which it had plotted.
Almost, aimlessly she turned to the railroad yards to escape the roaming droves of horses and cattle that were swirling everywhere. On she went, crossing track after track, as she sought the streets and the open. The light of the fire flared higher—and with it a slight exclamation came into Dixie's throat at the sight of a man before her.
Hurriedly she swerved, leaped between two closing box cars of a flying switch, and then, as the man pursued, jumped across the track upon which was approaching a rapidly traveling train, hurrying on to where her deserted automobile showed its dull form, where it had been abandoned by the fire fiend. Once she looked back—to discern the fact that the man still watched her beneath the long train. Then she hurried on again.
Back in her apartment, she reported to her Chief, to give the name of Walter Schleindel and her suspicions against Franz von Rintelen. An hour more went by and the telephone rang to bring the news of Schleindel's arrest, and his confession, of how he had used the bank as a clearing house for German Sodom, stealing the information of the manifests and bills of lading of Allied shipments which came in there for collection by the consignors, then in turn, selling this information to Paul Koenig of the Hamburg American line. Dixie smiled happily.
"How about Rintelen?" she asked. A slight ejaculation of disgust came over the wire.
"My men failed to find him. Someone must have notified him of the arrest of the auto burners in the railroad yards. At any rate he has left his hotel, without giving an address."
All of which was correct. For Franz von Rintelen was at that moment telephoning to Bernstorff, and announcing to him that in future, his name would be E.V. Gates and that his 'business' would be that of a 'purchasing agent,'—but that Imperial Germany's work of destruction would still continue.
And meanwhile also, at the Criminology Club, Harrison Grant, tired from his labors of the night, hesitated at the doorway to call an operative.
"Bailey," he said, "I want you to take a skirmish around and see what you can learn about a girl named Dixie Mason."
"Who is she?"
Harrison Grant smiled grimly.
"I'd give a good deal to know. Apparently she's an ex-actress. At least, that's what her friends tell me. Time was too, they say, when she was very communicative and friendly. Now she tells no one of her plans or of her activities. And strangely enough, my path has crossed hers twice in places where only the agents of Imperial Germany could consistently be. She was at the fire tonight."
"At the fire?" Bailey stared. "Are you sure?"
"I have a good pair of eyes." said Harrison Grant, "I saw her there—not fifty feet away. I chased her—but a train cut me off."
Bailey raised a hand to his hat.
"I'll see what I can find out," he said quietly and left the building. But Grant continued to stand there, staring at the floor—wondering—wondering what this woman whom circumstance again and again gave the accusation of being a German spy, could have played in this latest evidence of Imperial Germany's ghoulish cruelty!
Chapter V.
"THE STRIKE BREEDERS"
It was late at night. In his private office, Harrison Grant was puzzling over a report by Tom Bailey, an operative, announcing a condition rather unpleasant for the president of the Criminology Club. For the letter simply announced:
"Harrison Grant,Criminology Club.Dear Sir:Beg to report that all I can learn about Miss Dixie Mason is that she is almost constantly in the company of the Germans, particularly Heinric von Lertz.Yours truly,Bailey,Operative."
"Harrison Grant,Criminology Club.Dear Sir:
Beg to report that all I can learn about Miss Dixie Mason is that she is almost constantly in the company of the Germans, particularly Heinric von Lertz.
Yours truly,Bailey,Operative."
Thereby, for Harrison Grant, a mystery remained unsolved, a mystery which nettled him, angered him. It had been weeks—months—since he had first met Dixie Mason, months in which he had constantly seen her in suspicious surroundings—yet never in a position to betray her. Once he had even gone so far as to send a special report on her to Chief Flynn—a report which the Chief naturally received with a hidden smile and the announcement that he would have the affair investigated from his office, that Grant allow her activities to pass unnoticed in the chase for bigger game. But when a man is hovering between love and suspicion, he is not likely to allow every opportunity to slip. Hence the private investigation which Grant had ordered to be made by his operative, Bailey, with the resultant report. Half angrily Harrison Grant filed the report in his cabinet and returned to his desk, moody, silent——
Not knowing, of course, that in a faraway part of the city, Dixie Mason was reading for the twentieth time, an excerpt from the evening paper containing an interview with Harrison Grant, and musing over the visualized features of the man she loved, brought before her eyes by the cold, staring type of the interview. Naturally Grant could not know that—and Dixie could not tell him the secrets that she must tell no one, the secrets that she must hold against the inclinations of her heart, that the battle against Imperial Germany might be won.
And that the battle still was imminent, was more than apparent in the stooped, bearded figure of a man who stood fumbling at the lock of an office in one of the biggest buildings of lower New York. He had kept in the shadows on his way to the office. He had shielded his face in the elevator—and for a reason. Franz von Rintelen, arch plotter for Kaiser Wilhelm, friend of the Crown Prince, and special Emissary to the United States with more than fifty million dollars to spend on destruction, was living under an alias. He had shifted his office since the capture of his river pirates by Harrison Grant, changed his name to E.V. Gates, and even had resorted to the melodramatic level of false beards and disguises that he might carry on his devastations.
And just how far he went in this regard, was exhibited later, when Rintelen sought to flee America on a forged passport, only to be caught at Falmouth, England, and returned to the Tombs in New York, where he recently was sentenced for his activities against America. In his trunks at that time, were found more than thirty suits of clothing, each designed to give him a different personal appearance, each built in such a way that they would make him seem a different appearing man with every suit he donned. His wigs and beards he left in America, to be discovered by the members of the Secret Service who searched his office.
But this narrative must tell the activities of Rintelen in America, not of his flight. And while Harrison Grant sat musing in his office, Franz von Rintelen removed his false beard, divested himself of his coat with the humped shoulders, then turned happily at the sight of a shadow on the door. A moment later and he was chatting with Dr. Heinrich Albert, chief fiscal spy for Imperial Germany in the United States, and disburser for every fund except the activities of Franz von Rintelen. Dr. Albert held forth a telegram.
"I suppose you received one also?" he asked.
"From Bernstorff?" Rintelen looked up quickly. "Of course. I heard from Captain Von Papen and Captain Boy-Ed also. They will be here. Did Bernstorff's message to you name a time?"
"No——" Dr. Albert had removed his overcoat, displaying the usual immaculate evening clothes, "he simply told me to meet him here tonight for an important conference. By the way, is Von Lertz coming?"
"I told him. He should be here now."
But instead, Heinric von Lertz was attending to another angle of Imperial Germany's campaign against America. He was then standing in the half light of an old attic, where, tucked away from observation a German scientist, imported by Von Rintelen, had taken his quarters that he might prepare for future disease raids against American workmen in case the plans of Germany in other directions failed. With Von Lertz was Madam Augusta Stephan, chief of Germany's women spies in the United States—and together they were plotting the death of Harrison Grant and his members of the Criminology Club.
"You must remember," Von Lertz had just said, "the death of any American Secret Service man is a distinct victory for Germany 'The Eagle's Eye,' I think some of these newspaper men have called it—and it has its eye on us too frequently. Now, Meyerson, what's the danger of this affair?"
"Danger?" the old scientist looked up with a little smile. "None, that I see. I know enough about germs to take care of myself. All I have to do is to approach the club from the next roof, raise a window an inch or so and inject this. That's all there will be to it. The circulation of the air will take care of the rest of the plan."
He held up a cotton-plugged tube from which Madam Stephan recoiled. Typed on the tube were the words:
"Cholera Bacilli."
Heinric von Lertz smiled cynically.
"Good enough," he announced. "But be careful regarding yourself. We may need you in case this 'longshoremen's plot fails." The old scientist's head bobbed.
"I know how to use care," he answered. "You may count on that."
And while Von Lertz accompanied Madam Stephan to her apartment, the members of the German contingent were gathering for the "important conference" in the office of E.V. Gates. Franz von Papen and Karl Boy-Ed were already there, gathered around the desk with Franz von Rintelen and Dr. Heinrich Albert. Only two more remained to come—Heinric von Lertz and Count Johann von Bernstorff, Ambassador from Imperial Germany to the United States of America. Franz von Rintelen slid forward in his chair.
"Why is His Excellency so worried?" he asked.
"It's about the 'longshoremen's strike," answered Dr. Albert once more thumbing his telegram. "By the way, Rintelen, has there been any progress?"
"Nothing but retrogression," came the answer of the arch-plotter. "From what the papers say tonight, there is danger of failure. All the 'longshoremen are very loyal and the paid agitators that I have sent to work among them have accomplished nothing. They did succeed at one time by working the 'longshoremen up over the cost of living, but that was met by a prompt raise of wages on the part of the shipowners—with the result that all our money spent for agitation in that way, went for nothing. However——"
There was a sound at the door. A moment later and Heinric von Lertz entered the office. Then a sudden movement, a sudden circle of bows, a sudden outburst of greetings. Count Von Bernstorff had arrived.
There was a moment of silence as he faced his assistants. Then slowly he looked toward Rintelen and held forth an evening paper.
"I am sure you will pardon my transgression in your field of endeavor," he announced, "but this news is exceedingly disconcerting."
"No more to you than to me, Your Excellency," came the smooth answer of Von Rintelen. "I appreciate very much your coming tonight—and I would appreciate even more any suggestion that you might be able to make."
"How about bribery?"
"Of the Union officials?" Von Rintelen laughed slightly and held up his hands. "I have tried that—with most unfortunate results. Through outside sources, I caused an offer of $10 a week for every striking 'longshoreman, the amount to be paid for five straight weeks. The offer was made to Kelly, Butler and O'Connor, the leaders of the 'longshoremen. They also were made to understand that the money would be paid to them—totalling $1,035,000—and that there was no anxiety over what happened to it after it went into their hands—meaning of course, that they could walk away with all of it if they so desired, providing they called the strike."
"Well?" Bernstorff raised his eyebrows.
"They reported the matter at once to Secretary of Labor Wilson that someone was seeking to cause disruption in the labor ranks. I think that, more than anything else, caused the breach that was being made by my agitators, to be closed more quickly."
Bernstorff took a quick breath.
"There wasn't any mention of Germany in all this?"
"Certainly not. The offer came through a former 'longshoreman who has carefully concealed his pro-German leanings. He let them think that the whole thing was a matter of revenge on the shipowners and that he had powerful commercial friends who would be willing to pay for that vengeance."
Bernstorff breathed easier.
"Very good," he announced. "Then that does not hurt our cause—providing we can find some way of creating a strike. And understand," he clenched a hand and faced his colleagues, "this strike must go through! It means more to Germany than a victory at the front! When the 'longshoremen strike, it means that the ports of the East must inevitably be tied up. Not a ship will move. Industries will be paralyzed—and consequently the Allies will be deprived of the necessities of war. Of course," he added with a quiet smile, "It will be hard on America, but——"
"These idiotic Yankees deserve something like that anyway," growled Captain Von Papen. However, Bernstorff had turned his attention to Rintelen.
"You say that agitation has failed. Attempted bribery has failed. Then, some other means must be attempted."
Rintelen was pacing the floor. Suddenly his hands clasped.
"I have it," he announced. "I know the way! There is nothing that angers a man so much as depredation against his property. That's what our spies must commit—and then we must fasten the blame on the 'longshoremen. It will create a breach that nothing can close."
Hurriedly they gathered for conference. And while they plotted the stagnation of all Eastern America——
Harrison Grant rose from his desk and turned with a little sigh to look into the grinning face of Pat Hennessy, the Irish caretaker of the club.
"Guess you're waiting for me to close up shop?" the master detective asked a little wearily.
"It seems betchune time I'm waitin' f'r somethin' like that, Y'r Honor," answered the grinning Pat.
"Everything locked up?"
"Yes sir."
"By golly—no!" Pat clasped a hand to his head. "If it ain't me that's always forgittin'. I ain't fixed the bur-r-rglar trap!"
Harrison Grant smiled, then stood watching while Hennessy moved the firing pins of the club's burglar protection into place at the windows. One by one, the triggers of the concealed revolvers were cocked. Then Hennessy, with a little nod, started toward the stairway, Harrison Grant following. A moment later they hesitated at the door, while Hennessy fished for his keys. Then——
The crashing detonation of a revolver shot—from upstairs! Then another and another and another! The men turned. They rushed up the stairway and toward a half open window, through which could be seen the figure of a man, writhing in the agonies of death.
Old he was and bearded, the nostrils covered by a germ mask, his hands protected by rubber gloves. Beside the convulsing figure lay a "pump-gun" or air-injector, and Grant knew the contents—deadly germs!
Out the window went the master-detective, and to the side of the dying man.
"Careful now!" he ordered. "Search him—but look out for cultures and bacteria!"
A moment later and Harrison Grant was in the possession of the thing he sought—a card, carelessly left in the old scientist's pocket in his surety of success, a card which gave his name and address and which sent Harrison Grant scurrying forth to pick up Billy Cavanaugh, one of his favorite operators, and to hurry across town in search of the laboratory that he felt sure the dead bacteriologist had maintained.
But in the meanwhile, things had gone well for Imperial Germany in the office of "E.V. Gates." Only Franz von Rintelen and Heinric von Lertz remained. The others had gone to the Hohenzollern Club for a last toast to the Kaiser and a quiet chat regarding their plans—too quiet even for the concealed dictograph of the Criminology Club to detect. All the work had been left for Rintelen and Von Lertz and they were making plans hastily.
Papers were piled high on the desk of Rintelen, papers which formed reports from spies everywhere, from the thugs employed by Paul Koenig of the Hamburg American line, from spies scattered among railroad men, among the 'longshoremen, among the workmen of practically every industry in the country. Rintelen was speaking:
"From what I can gather by the reports of Schleindel, the bank spy, shipments of automobiles have been very heavy in the Jersey yards recently. Here is information that a lighter containing 150 of them will cross the river tomorrow for shipment to France. I would suggest that you choose that as your part of the plan."
Von Lertz rose.
"I know the man who can handle it for me," he said. "I'll see him at once. Good-night."
"Good-night," answered Rintelen. Already he was reaching for his coat and hat, even forgetting his inevitable disguise in his hurry to foment another part of the great scheme against New York's 23,000 'longshoremen.
But while they plotted and schemed, Harrison Grant and Billy Cavanaugh were making their way up the rickety stairway that led to the bacteriologist's laboratory in the attic of a ramshackle building on Avenue A. A quick twisting of the knob and it yielded. Harrison Grant and his operative fumbled a moment in the darkness, then finding the switch of a table light, began their search.
Desk by desk, drawer by drawer. Papers, musty old books on the development of cultures, newspaper clippings on the progress of the war, letters from Germany and at last——
An ejaculation from Harrison Grant.
"Just what I thought!" he announced as he opened a small memorandum book. "The attempt against us tonight was an afterthought. A sort of a vacation of death, as it were. This man was brought to this country from Germany for one purpose—the propagation of germ cultures to be used against American workmen in munition factories, steel-mills, mines and other industries furnishing supplies to the Allies!"
"Impossible!" Billy Cavanaugh's eyes went wide with horror. Harrison Grant pointed.
"There's the evidence," he answered as he pointed to the notes of a memorandum book he had brought from the desk. "Let's see what the rest of it has to offer."
A long silence, except for the crinkling of the pages as Harrison Grant read the notations in the old book. A long silence then——
"Careful there!"
"What's the matter?" Harrison Grant paused with a finger in the air. Billy Cavanaugh reached forward, and taking the finger in his hand, lowered it.
"Nothing—only you were about to touch that to your lips—and there's no telling how many different kinds of germs are on the pages of that book."
Harrison Grant smiled.
"Thanks, Billy," he said softly, then turned to his work again. A moment more and he had risen, his eyes wide, excited.
"Get a telephone, quick!"
"What's Up?"
"A good deal. Wasn't there something in the paper tonight about trouble with the 'longshoremen?"
"Yes—but it's all settled up. That is, the indications are that it will be settled. Why?"
"Because it's far from settled. Look here!"
A finger pointed to a scrawled line in the old memorandum book. Slowly the words were translated:
"Special notation—germs for 'longshoremen if agitation fails."
"And agitation has failed!" Harrison Grant said quickly. "Agitation has failed—and that means some other attempt against the 'longshoremen. It means——"
"But the bacteriologist is dead. He won't carry out his orders."
"Imperial Germany only begins its real deviltry after it's been blocked!" said Harrison Grant. "It's first and second line of offences have already failed in this campaign against the 'longshoremen. But you can count on it, Billy, that there's a reserve somewhere—and that the blow is going to fall and fall quick! Get to a telephone as quickly as you can! Notify every member of the Criminology Club to seek work at the docks as 'longshoremen. Tell them to keep their eyes and ears open for everything that sounds like German propaganda!"
"Nothing there that will tell what they're planning?"
"No—only the indication that they are planning something and that they'll keep on working in spite of the death of this man. What they intend to do is for us to find out—and we've got to find out quick! So hurry to the telephone. The docks are open day and night now, you know. Every member who can spare the sleep must find employment tonight. The rest of them will get jobs in the morning—we'll work in day and night shifts!"
But even as Harrison Grant gave the order, Heinric von Lertz was laying his plans for the first blow, as he talked to a furtive eyed spy in the back room of a Hoboken saloon.
"Here's the number of the lighter," he was saying. "I just got it from one of Paul Koenig's men. It will leave the Jersey side about 10 o'clock in the morning."
"Got the number of the freight cars?"
"The ones that contain the autos? Yes."
"Better give them to me. I can trace the stuff better that way. That lighter might make another load with something else. Don't guess it makes much difference though—just so we sink some stuff."
"Except," said Heinric von Lertz, "if we can strike a double blow, it's all the more to our advantage. A hundred and fifty auto ambulances laying at the bottom of the river won't do France any good, you know. So sink these cars if you possibly can."
Von Rintelen also was busy in his scheme of destruction. Far down in the lower end of New York, the arch-plotter, his hand covering his face as he talked, to prevent recognition by any possible roving Secret Service man or detective, his eyes moving constantly, his whole, hunted being nerved and ready for instant escape, had sought out the German foreman of one of the largest docks in New York and was giving him orders in the name of Imperial Germany.
"First of all," he was asking, "who am I—in case you are caught?"
"Gates is the only name I know."
"You don't know any address?"
"No."
"Good. Remember—if forced to it, Germany expects you to confess and to submit to the punishment. But we who direct you must be protected! Understand?"
"I am a German reservist," answered the foreman.
Rintelen bobbed his head slightly at the assertion. Then he leaned closer.
"Are your men experienced in the loading of a ship?"
"No—I've been working with practically new crews for the last three or four weeks."
"None of them are especially sharp—as concerns the right and wrong way of loading?"
"They all follow my orders. Besides, a number of my men are pro-Germans. I imported them for emergencies."
"Good. Be sure they are all at work in the morning. What's the boat at the docks now?"
"TheArsulus. Freighter. 2,400 tons."
"Big boat." Rintelen nodded his head with satisfaction. "How long would it take to load that boat in such a way as to make it capsize?"
"Twelve hours'll do it."
"All right, start in the morning. See that everything heavy is piled on one side, so that it will overturn the minute the hawsers are loosened. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Very well." Rintelen looked hastily around to see that he was not watched, then rose cautiously. "I shall expect you to be working for Imperial Germany in the morning!"
But when morning came, there were others at work also, not for Imperial Germany, but for the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America—Harrison Grant and the members of the Criminology Club, seeking to ferret out the trouble they knew to exist about the docks, seeking to learn what this German contamination was which they felt sure was gnawing apart the bonds that held the shipowners and the 'longshoremen in unison. But it was a hard task.
More than that, the doomed freight shipments of automobiles already had reached their lighters and were starting down the river, while concealed behind the freight cars were two of Rintelen's paid agents, waiting for the time to strike.
And that time came. Far out into the river swung the lighter. The workmen were gathered at the other end of the long, traveling track. Everything was clear. Hurriedly, the spies ran to the end of the freight cars, where they had been blocked and snubbed. Quickly the ropes were loosed. The brakes were released. A few quick movements of a pair of pinch bars and the cars had been started toward the river. And in a moment more—
A resounding, crashing splash, which seemed to echo from one side of the Hudson to the other. The boxcars, with their precious autos, had been sent, careening and bobbing, to the bottom of the river, and already a spy was on his way to a telephone to report:
"Hello, Mr. Gates? Those cars have been accounted for."
"Good!" Franz von Rintelen, alias E.V. Gates, hung up the 'phone, then turned to write a scrawling letter which read:
"Say, you shipowners. Either you give us 'longshoremen what we want or you'll get worse than what happened when we turned over those boxcars.The Committee."
"Say, you shipowners. Either you give us 'longshoremen what we want or you'll get worse than what happened when we turned over those boxcars.
The Committee."
Into a mailbox went the letter, to reach the shipowners by special delivery, just as they were considering the granting of every demand of the 'longshoremen. But that letter changed their attitude entirely.
"Call up Union headquarters and tell them that all negotiations are off," roared the president. "If those 'longshoremen think they can bully us, they're badly mistaken. We'll give them nothing!"
The message reached Union headquarters. And the reply flashed back over the wire:
"We don't know anything about the sinking of your lighter. But if you can't take our word for it——"
"We don't know anything about the sinking of your lighter. But if you can't take our word for it——"
"We have your word—the confession that you sank the lighter, signed by the men responsible," was the rejoinder.
"We have your word—the confession that you sank the lighter, signed by the men responsible," was the rejoinder.
There was only one answer for the men at Union Headquarters to make, and they made it.
"Then our only reply must come in the form of a strike. We are sorry."
"Then our only reply must come in the form of a strike. We are sorry."
Then, throughout the city the word radiated, the word that the final breach had been reached between the 'longshoremen and the shipowners that a strike had been called and that within another twenty-four hours, the docks of the east would be silent, the trucks motionless, industry paralyzed! In a private room of the Hohenzollern Club, Von Rintelen, Albert von Papen and Boy-Ed received the information and rose to drink a toast to the success of the strike. Down at the docks, Harrison Grant paled at the news, then sent his men scurrying about in a last effort to gain some information that would give him a positive clue to work on. But there was none.
And in her way, Dixie Mason also was working, for she had met Heinric von Lertz and had gone with him to the Ten Mile House, a fast roadhouse just outside the city where she might ply him with wine and seek to gain the secrets that she knew he carried concealed about him.
At Union Headquarters, arrangements were being made for the strike meeting, while other officials were making a last effort to reach the shipowners and to seek to prove to them that the depredation committed against them had not been done by 'longshoremen. But the task was almost hopeless.
Besides, Imperial Germany still lurked in the shadows with its greatest blow still unstruck, the blow that would cost the shipowners millions of dollars, that it hoped would end forever any conciliatory relations between the shipowners and 'longshoremen. And when that end came—it meant the stagnation of the industry of all Eastern America!
Chapter VI
THE PLOT AGAINST ORGANIZED LABOR
As the day wore on members of the Criminology Club, in their assumed capacity of dock hands, heard with irritating frequency the announcement of the strike meeting called for that night. The sudden change of attitude of the shipowners toward the 'longshoremen was startling and puzzling. Harrison Grant confessed his bewilderment to himself even as he tried to dispel it by joining the small groups that gathered here and there, listening for the meager information their conversation contained. The talk was mostly of an argumentative nature, discussion rising magically over the soaring cost of living, their long hours, and the wrongs, fancied or otherwise, heaped upon them by the shipowners. In each little group, Grant noticed, when excitement lagged or one more cool-headed than the rest counselled less haste and more caution, less hot-headed talk and more cool thought, that at least one of the group was ready to stir them up into argument again. But in these troublesome agitators, neither Grant nor his confreres could recognize any of the paid agents of the German government known to them.
The sinking of the lighter had become the main topic of conversation. During the noon hour excitement and agitation ran high. The 'longshoremen resented being accused of sinking the lighter. Vehemently group after group disclaimed any such guilt. And while one group, hot in its denials, still seemed to believe that the shipowners would listen to their denials of guilt, time and again Grant heard references to the sinking of the lighter as though it had been the work of the 'longshoremen and as such was a commendable act in view of the wrongs done them. These agitators he knew were a foreign element.
The air was permeated with the strike fever, and the fever was fed by remarks, actions, hints, constantly passing among the workmen but none of them traceable to men of known German leanings. Passing Billy Cavanaugh, Grant signalled to him to stop a moment, and, while he mopped his perspiring forehead, confided his doubts to him.
"Strike meeting tonight and they don't know the real reason for their strike! And we've got to find out for 'em and put a stop to it today."
Billy stared at him hopelessly. "What are you going to do? Germany is behind this but she is hiding so tight we can't find her." The Criminology Club could see hidden in this wild maze of misunderstanding the hands of Von Rintelen, Von Bernstorff, Albert, Von Papen, Boy-Ed and Von Lertz as the 'longshoremen could not; they could see the hands, but could not shackle them.
The German dock foreman, upon whom Von Rintelen had called the night before, was rushing his inexperienced crew. The work of loading theArsulushad gone forward with a rush. Burly laborers, ignorant of the crime in which they were being used as tools, loaded crates and boxes of produce into the hold of theArsulus. Reinforced here and there by men with whom the foreman was familiar, and who were well aware of their share in the crime, driven and roared and cursed at by the foreman, the laborers bent to their task. And the cargo of theArsuluspiled high against the hold on the water-side of the vessel. Her hawsers were pulling at their moorings. She creaked and rattled with the wash of the current, and listed slightly in her slip. But in the seething maelstrom of activity these things passed unnoticed.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Grant picked up the word that the men at Union Headquarters had taken up the question of a strike with the shipowners once more. That they were seeking to convince them that there should be one more conference before the strike was called. And at last word came that the shipowners had consented to their pleas and would confer with them.
The quitting bell clanged and the men of the day shift dropped their trucks. For a brief space comparative quiet reigned where all had been noise, clatter, ear-splitting crashes, combined with shouts of men in a fever heat of excitement.
Grant, Cavanaugh, Sisson and Stewart of the Criminology Club joined the hurrying ranks and wedged themselves into the hall where the Union meetings were held, amid a crowd of perspiring, cursing, excited 'longshoremen.
The chairman of the Shipowners Committee was speaking. As his voice was raised a silence fell upon the crowd.
"Men, we want to be fair. You say that the 'longshoremen did not sink our lighter. We will grant that there may be some mistake here. We received your letter of last night and acted as we saw best. Your chairman and others here assure us that they sent no letter; if this is the case we will listen to you. Now talk quickly. State your demands."
Instantly the hall was a bedlam of noise. Men shouted, trying to make themselves heard. Grant saw the men who had been foremost in spreading agitation among the groups on the docks now striving to add to the confusion and clamor by hurling epithets at the Shipowners Committee and urging the men at their sides to increase their demands.
Disgusted, and seeing no solutions here to the problem that absorbed their minds, Grant signalled to Cavanaugh.
"Get Stewart and Sisson and get out of here. We'll get back to the docks. This is likely to last all night and then not amount to anything."
Grant slipped out hurriedly, knowing that the others would follow him. Ahead of him slouched two men. As he passed, one stopped to scratch a match against the building. It's flare lighted a face strongly Teutonic, and as the match died down and was tossed away Grant slowed up in the darkness and strained his ear to catch their conversation.
They spoke in German. "We did good work at our dock today." Out of the darkness on the cool night air the words came clearly, though gutturally, to Grant's ears.
"Yes? What kind?"
"Loading cargo. Dock Fourteen."
They passed out of earshot. A moment later Grant heard the quick steps of Cavanaugh and the other two operatives, and soon they were swinging along to the dock. That there had been a note of pride or at least boastfulness in the voice of the man he had heard speaking by the wall, Grant was not slow to discern. To see that a man of his type, whom Grant classed with the agitators of the day on the docks, would not feel any great pride over the loading of a ship's cargo, did not take great powers of discernment. Grant with a mind trained to pick up the faintest clue leaped to the conclusion that here was a thread that led to something which could be grasped. Evidently something had taken place that day on the dock which the Criminology Club had overlooked.
"Dock Fourteen" he announced briefly to the others and silently they followed him. The great hulk of theArsulusreared itself into the darkness of the night above the brightly lighted dock.
"Wait here unless I call," said Grant. He scrambled aboard and peered down the hatchway. His eyes swept the dark interior of the hold. One side was black, but in the side toward the water piles upon piles of packing boxes, baskets and clean-crated produce showed dimly.
A voice at his elbow startled him.