[Illustration: William J. Flynn
Recently Retired Chief of the U.S. Secret Service]
THE
EAGLE'S EYE
A True Story of the Imperial German Government's
Spies and Intrigues in America
from facts furnished
BY
WILLIAM J. FLYNN
Recently Retired
Chief of the U.S. Secret Service
NOVELIZED BY
COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
PROSPECT PRESS, Inc.
186-192 West 4th Street
Copyright, 1919, by
PROSPECT PRESS, Inc.
Printed in U.S.A.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I. The Hidden Death 7
II. The Naval Ball Conspiracy 29
III. The Plot Against the Fleet 50
IV. Von Rintelen--the Destroyer 71
V. The Strike Breeders 91
VI. The Plot Against Organized Labor 113
VII. The Brown Portfolio 133
VIII. The Kaiser's Death Messenger--Robert Fay 163
IX. The Munitions Campaign 192
X. The Invasion of Canada 217
XI. The Burning of Hopewell, Virginia 246
XII. The Welland Canal Conspirators 271
XIII. The Reign of Terror 297
XIV. The Menace of The I.W.W. 328
XV. The Great Decision 354
ILLUSTRATIONS
William J. Flynn, recently retired Chief of the U.S.
Secret Service _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Count Johann von Bernstorff and Dr. Heinrich Albert 10
This medal, designed to commemorate the sinking of
the Lusitania, was distributed in Germany two
days before the vessel was torpedoed 23
The Ansonia Hotel, New York City 32
Portfolio secured from Dr. Albert containing documents
relating to official German intrigue 134
The counterfeit passport 167
A munitions plant destroyed by the Kaiser's agents 213
The devastation caused by German spies who razed
the town of Hopewell, Va 260
THE EAGLE'S EYE
CHAPTER I
THE HIDDEN DEATH
Below the great oil painting of Kaiser Wilhelm, in the Imperial
German Embassy at Washington, a slightly wrinkled, nervous man sat
at a massive desk, an almost obsolete German dictionary before him,
his fingers running the pages, figuring out the numbers, then running
them again, his lips repeating the numerals of many a scattered sheet
of paper before him, repeating, re-repeating, then matching up those
numerals with the page numbers and word numbers of the old dictionary.
Quite still the room was, except for the whirr of the pages and the
slight crinkle of the many sheets of papers as he referred from one
to the other. There was little need for reference, however, for every
page bore the same numerals, the same messages written in strange
conglomerations of numbers that were apparently meaningless--even to
many of the persons who had brought or sent them to this wrinkled,
nervous being who sat beneath the painting of the Kaiser. And reason
enough--for those pages of numbers, those jumbled sequences of
numerals, were nothing more nor less than the smuggled code messages by
which Wilhelm Hohenzollern, Emperor of Imperial Germany, sent his daily
instructions via the great wireless at Nauen, Germany, to the man who
directed his spider's web of spy activity in the United States, Count
Johann von Bernstorff, Imperial Ambassador!
Each morning since the war began, Von Bernstorff had received those
numeral inscribed pages, caught on wireless outfits owned privately
throughout the United States by German spies, who had been placed in
America for that very purpose. Each day the instructions had come from
Berlin--instructions for the beginning of propaganda campaigns, for
connivance against the Allies, for the handling of the thousand and one
methods by which Germany sought to strike its enemies through neutral
America.
Each morning at 3 o'clock, American time, those messages flashed from
the tremendous wireless tower at Nauen, Germany--to find spies waiting
everywhere in America for them. On interned ships, in shacks, built far
from the roar and bustle of the city, even in Fifth Avenue residences,
were wireless outfits concealed, each equipped with its Audien
detector, so necessary to the catching of wireless waves from a great
distance. Nor had the members of the Embassy itself neglected to take
a part in the reception of orders from across the sea. Nearly every
morning at 3 o'clock found Capt. Franz von Papen, military attache of
the Imperial German Embassy, and Capt. Karl Boy-Ed, naval attache, at
a secluded part of Long Island, standing beside a racing motor car, to
which was attached antennae, detectors and receiving apparatus, that
they might personally assure themselves that the code messages from
overseas were received and started on their way to Bernstorff, the
master spy.
So it was that one day in April, 1915, Count Johann von Bernstorff
worked hard at his task of deciphering the maze of numerals that had
come to him during the night. One by one he traced out the numbers,
matching them first with the page of the old German dictionary, then
with the words of the aged book, each of which was carefully numbered
for easy transcription. When he had finished, his head bobbed slightly,
he pressed a button and almost snapped an order at the hurrying man
servant.
"Send Dr. Albert in," he announced.
"Yes, Your Excellency."
A moment later a tall, dark-haired man, his left cheek scarred from
a schoolday duel at Heidelberg, stepped into the room. He was Dr.
Heinrich Albert, fiscal spy for Imperial Germany, master of its
exchequer in America, and second only to Bernstorff in what he termed
"the battle on the American front." Just a second he hesitated, and
then:
"You sent for me, sir?"
"I did. Just got a message from Wilhelmstrasse." Bernstorff was talking
jerkily, somewhat excitedly. "The Lusitania must be sunk on its next
voyage."
"Yes?" Dr. Albert asked the question with the calmness of a person
ordering a cab--or choosing a meal. "Well--all arrangements are made,
are they not?"
"As far as the submarines are concerned, yes. The entire Irish coast
has been charted into squares, each square carrying the name of some
fish indigenous to that region. The moment that the word is flashed
that the Lusitania has sailed, a U-boat will be assigned to each one of
those squares. Then it will be an easy matter for fishing smacks,
each with a spy aboard, to patrol the coast, and send a message from
the nearest wireless station--"
"Something like: 'Shipping ten cases of mackerel,'" broke in Dr. Albert.
[Illustration: Count Johann von Bernstorff and Dr. Heinrich Albert]
"Exactly." Bernstorff looked up with a smile. "You and I have discussed
that before, haven't we? I had forgotten. Well, you know the rest. No
one will pay any attention to the messages except our U-boat captains.
They will know by them that the Lusitania is entering the square named
after that particular fish. It should be an easy task for them to sink
the ship. And it must be sunk!"
"How about the international complications?"
"They must take care of themselves--after we have done all we can
do to keep things running smoothly. The point is that the Lusitania
must be sunk! We have a lesson to teach America! If we sink a few of
their citizens, perhaps they'll be more chary about sending their
representatives abroad to sell goods to the Allies. It may make them
stop and think awhile before they ship their goods to the Allies
too--and that's what we're after."
"Suppose America objects to the loss of its citizens?" Albert was
smiling in a quiet, quizzical way.
"We'll sympathize, of course." Bernstorff looked up with an answering
smile. "Really, we'll be very sorry. We will mourn for a week--but, in
the meanwhile, we also will point to our manufactured fact that the
Lusitania carried guns and contraband. That's where you are needed.
Take the night train to New York, see Paul Koenig, of the Hamburg
American line, and arrange for him to find someone not averse to
forging a few affidavits, one to the effect that the Lusitania is
loaded with contraband, and another that she carries defensive guns.
And be very sure on that point. The rules of war prohibit the sinking
of an unarmed ship without due warning. We must have those affidavits."
"Very good, sir."
"And, Albert--"
"Yes?"
"Here"----Ambassador Bernstorff lifted a sheet of closely written
paper from his desk--"is an advertisement I have written, warning all
American citizens from the Lusitania. See that it is inserted in the
New York papers as close to the Cunard Line advertisements as possible.
It will be our alibi when the Lusitania is sunk."
"Very good, Your Excellency."
And so it was that with Ambassador Bernstorff at the head of the
great spy organization which Germany had built up in America, with
Dr. Albert, Capt. Von Papen, Karl Boy-Ed, Paul Koenig and a half a
hundred others working on the various details of the scheme, that the
preparations for the sinking of the Lusitania went forth in America.
Day after day passed, while Bernstorff translated his code messages
from Wilhelmstrasse and sent replies in the guise of death messages and
business telegrams to neutral countries, where they were received by
German spies, translated and telephoned by long distance to Germany.
Day by day, and then--
It was April 29, forty-eight hours before the sailing of the Lusitania.
In the great rooms of the Criminology Club in New York, where
cosmopolite members daily gathered to discuss the themes which formed
their chief aim in life, the apprehension of the genus criminal, an
important meeting was in progress. Harrison Grant, the president and
organizer of the great private criminal chasing brotherhood, stood
before them, a telegram in his hand.
"Fellow members," he announced, "I have just received the most vital
communication that has ever come to this club. It is a telegram from
William J. Flynn, chief of the Secret Service, which changes the aims
and purposes of our organization to ideals far greater than ever
were dreamed of when we banded ourselves together to follow out our
individual hobbies in the chase and capture of dangerous criminals. For
this telegram pits us against the most shrewd violators of the laws
of God and man that ever were known--the paid criminals of Imperial
Germany, protected by the power of international law, yet criminals
nevertheless!
"All of you know the reason for this telegram. It is in answer to the
letter we sent to Chief Flynn at the last meeting of this club, when
our various members displayed the evidence that had come to them of the
perfidy of Imperial Germany in assuming friendship for this country
while seeking to violate our neutrality in its efforts to maim the
Allies. More than that, my charge you will remember, was that Germany
had considered America also in its aims of conquest, and that it fully
believed at the beginning of this war that it would crush England and
France easily, then reach forth for our own country. But the danger of
active invasion is past now--it stopped at the battle of the Marne.
What we must battle against is the more insidious invasion of Germany's
spies--and their name is Legion! Therefore, gentlemen, I have the honor
to announce to you that Chief Flynn has accepted our offer of services
and that the Criminology Club is now and henceforth devoted to the
defense of America and the outwitting of the paid tools of Imperial
Germany who seek to use our nation as a battlefield!"
A cheer that resounded through the great rooms of the Criminology Club
echoed Grant's speech. Then the members gathered into little groups to
discuss the new development and to plan for the future. As for Harrison
Grant--
He shifted from his position and veered toward Cavanaugh, his most
trusted operative.
"Billy," he announced, "our first blow in this matter falls to you. You
have seen the advertisements in the newspapers advising passengers not
to sail on the Lusitania?"
"Of course."
"Very well. I believe that means the beginning of more direct plots
against America. There is only one way to learn. Von Papen, Boy-Ed, Dr.
Albert, Heinric von Lertz, their unofficial agent in New York--even
Ambassador Bernstorff himself--make a habit of lounging at the
Hohenzollern Club. We want a dictograph in those club-rooms."
Billy Cavanaugh twisted his already tightly waxed mustache and smiled
ever so slightly.
"I'll attend to the details," he announced quietly.
And while Harrison Grant gave his orders, four men were gathered about
the big table in the Imperial German Embassy in Washington. One of them
was Bernstorff. Another was Albert, with his ever-present portfolio in
which he carried the reports of spies operating in every city of the
United States. A third was Boy-Ed and the fourth was Capt. Von Papen.
The meeting, incidentally, seemed to have been a happy one. A
supercilious smile skimmed the lips of Franz von Papen as he gazed at
his co-plotters. He waved his cigar slightly before him.
"These idiotic Yankees will wake up next week," he announced, "it will
be something for them to think about."
"It will be something for the world to think about," echoed the
fastidious Boy-Ed.
"Do you suppose," Dr. Albert was rummaging in his portfolio, "it could
possibly act as a boomerang? America has had its eyes shut, you know.
For instance, I think Capt. Von Papen recently reported the burning
of several million bushels of wheat in its elevators, as well as a
train wreck or two that have so far been classified as accidents. Now,
my query is: will the deliberate, pre-arranged killing of Americans
and the fore-announced destruction of American property on board the
Lusitania, cause this country to open its eyes and inquire about other
things that have happened? Or will it--"
Capt. Franz von Papen smiled with one corner of his mouth.
"If you have ever noticed," he replied, "I have always used the term
'idiotic Yankees.'"
Bernstorff laughed. Albert bobbed his head.
"Quite so," he said finally. "I yield the point. Now, regarding the
Lusitania, when is it destined to sink?"
Bernstorff rummaged in some papers, at last to bring forth a code
message.
"Potsdam plans the sinking for next Wednesday, May 5. It has already
ordered medals struck off to commemorate the victory."
And while the arch-spies of Imperial Germany continued to plot the
murder of American citizens on the high seas, a lithe, dark-eyed girl
walked to the stenographer's desk of one of the largest hotels of New
York City, with apparently no purpose in life save to be pretty and
attractive and likeable. Spirited she was, with a dash of animation
which caused people to look at her more than once, with a sparkle in
those big eyes which told of a love of life and zest for adventure, a
tilt to her chin that spoke of determination, a smooth grace about her
which spelled birth and breeding and aristocracy. Time was--and not
so very far in the past--when her name had glittered in the electric
lights of Broadway. But the love of adventure had been too strong and
Dixie Mason, daughter of Brentwell Mason of
Sou' Car'lina, sur, had
forsaken the stage to take her place as a quietly commissioned captain
of women operatives in the Secret Service. And now--
Now she was walking toward the public stenographer's desk, smiling
and speaking to friends in the lobby, apparently thinking of nothing
in the world, but in reality straining with every nerve to catch the
message in the Morse code that the stenographer was ticking off on the
space-bar of her typewriter:
"This ... is ... the ... man ... I ... spoke ... of.... He ... thinks
... he's ... a ... lady ... killer."
Dixie Mason's sense of humor could not resist a trifle of a smile, and
quite accidentally, as she smiled, she glanced toward the rather tall,
sleek German who stood reading a dictated letter he just had received
from the stenographer. The German's eyes rolled. Quite "accidentally"
again, Dixie Mason allowed her swagger stick to fall to the floor. An
instant later the German had bent forward, started to pick up the
stick, and with intentional clumsiness, stepped on it, breaking it. He
swept his silk hat in a flourishing bow.
"Dunnerwetter!" he exclaimed, "such clumsiness! And I had such good
intentions!" Dixie Mason smiled again. She started to speak--then
stopped suddenly as the stenographer's voice broke in.
"I'm sure he is more than sorry," she interrupted. "Miss Mason, this is
Mr. Heinric von Lertz. He is _such_ a gentleman, and I know that he is
_so_ sorry!"
Dixie Mason had not placed Molly Farris in that hotel lobby for
nothing. Quietly she pressed the "stenographer's" hand and listened to
Heinric von Lertz's apologies. With the result that a half hour later
found them at luncheon, and with the further result that three hours
later found Dixie Mason back in her apartment and smiling to herself
as she brought forth an innocent appearing letter from a small filing
cabinet. The twinkling little lines of humor gathered about her lips as
she scanned the lines:
"My Dear Miss Mason:
"Thanks for your letter. James is doing fine and by hard work has
gotten into a position of trust in the private bank of two fine old
Germans, Schneider and Wurtz. However, he intends to tell no one
until he receives his first raise.
"Sincerely,
"Wallace J. Claflynn."
Universal Salvage Sales Co.
RRF-WJC
"Code signal RRF," said Dixie Mason as she looked at the stenographer's
signature, then scanned the letters and signals in the cabinet, finally
to bring forth a bit of celluloid, perforated here and there with
aimless appearing holes. A quick motion and the celluloid had covered
the paper. Then the message stared forth:
work into
trust of Ger
mans
tell no one
W J. flynn
U S S S
A low laugh sounded as Dixie Mason returned the code letter and
celluloid to its resting place.
"Not bad," she breathed happily. "The Chief sent me that letter four
days ago. Already I've taken luncheon with Heinric von Lertz, chief
henchman for Bernstorff, Von Papen, Boy-Ed and Albert, and he has asked
me to go to the theatre with him tonight. And if I don't continue to
keep in his company, it won't be my fault! I rather think," and Dixie
Mason laughed softly, "that Heinric von Lertz is going to be quite
valuable!"
But time was short. Two days later, the great, sleek Lusitania glided
out of New York harbor and started upon the first phase of its journey
across the seas, carrying with it 1,250 passengers, more than a hundred
of whom were Americans, the pride of America's theatrical, editorial
and financial worlds; American aristocracy and American common people,
but all Americans, all equal in their standing in the light of the
Liberty statue, supposedly safe from warring nations, innocents,
traveling toward a deliberate German murder.
Too short a time for Harrison Grant and his men to gain their knowledge
of what was going on in the Hohenzollern Club. Only that morning,
Cavanaugh had reported progress--the assurance that the dictograph
would be in the Hohenzollern Club by the end of the next week. Too
short a time for Dixie Mason to obtain the confidence of Heinric von
Lertz and learn from him the details of the plot against America. Too
short a time! The Lusitania was doomed!
The very moment of her sailing, a furtive-eyed spy had rushed to a
cable office, to send the following cablegram to Europe:
"L.H. Guerz--Amsterdam, Holland.
"Lucy has entered last phase of illness. Doctors say progress until
Thursday normal. After that, difficult to diagnose. Therbold."
Already the message was traveling under the sea, while the spy reported
to Von Lertz, and while another spy in Amsterdam anxiously awaited
its arrival. And when he received it, his code-educated eyes read an
entirely different message from that of a mere announcement of an
illness, a message which thrilled his craven soul with the information:
"Lusitania has sailed. Course until Thursday normal. After that,
unknown."
A hurried ten minutes in which the spy turned to a specially installed
telephone, sent the message to Nauen and thereby to Cuxhaven and to
every other U-boat base of Germany, where waited the scavengers of
the sea, Germany's submarines and their commanders. More, from Nauen
the message flashed to hundreds of men on the Irish coast, apparently
fishermen, who arranged to speed forth as far as possible into the
ocean, and to wait day and night for the sight of the vessel, that they
might spy it to its doom. Expensive--of course! But all battles are
expensive, and Germany was planning the death of women and children
in what it would call one of the greatest "victories of the war."
Were not the medals that would be issued to commemorate the "victory"
already being struck off? And had not even the date been placed thereon
in characteristic German "efficiency?" Germany had named May fifth. And
May fifth they would be distributed. For where was there a chance for
the Lusitania to escape?
[Illustration: This medal, designed to commemorate the sinking of the
Lusitania, was distributed in Germany two days before the vessel was
torpedoed]
Nor did the fact that May fifth passed with no message from the U-boats
cause Germany to hold back those medals. On they went to the populace,
while flags fluttered in Berlin to announce the "victory" that had not
yet happened. Everywhere were the U-boats. Everywhere were the fishing
smacks, flashing out the supposed business message that carried the
code word of the position of the great ship. Time and again the sleek
greyhound of the sea dodged destruction only through her speed. But in
the distance more U-boats were lurking. The end was inevitable.
May sixth. Then May seventh. Into the rooms of the Criminology Club
hurried Billy Cavanaugh to seek out Harrison Grant and to report with a
little smile:
"There's something interesting for you in a room adjoining the
Hohenzollern Club."
Harrison Grant raised his eyebrows.
"Got it fixed, Billy?"
"Yes, sir. Broke a water pipe leading into the club, then hurried
for the plumber shop that always attends to their work. Good fellow
there--thorough American. He let me fix the leak. And while I was
fixing it, I also fixed the dictograph--just behind the picture of His
Imperial Majesty, William Hohenzollern."
Harrison Grant laughed happily and reached for his hat. A half hour
later he lifted the receiver of a dictograph to his ear. Stewart, the
relief operator, watched him.
"I've just been listening," he announced. "Think Von Papen, Boy-Ed and
Wolf von Igel just came into the club. Couldn't swear to it, though."
Harrison Grant nodded slightly, the dictograph still to his ear. Then
he started. Hurriedly he turned:
"Put this down:
"'Paul Koenig has assured us that a man will swear that the vessel
carried guns. Also that an affidavit will be given that she was loaded
with contraband. Dumba can be counted on to espouse our cause--.'"
"What does it mean?" Cavanaugh stepped forward. Grant frowned. "Can't
tell, Von Papen's doing the talking. Now Boy-Ed has joined him:
"'Surely we should have heard before this. Do you suppose anything
could have gone wrong? Surely they were prepared. But today's May
seventh, and it should have happened May fifth. If--.'"
"All right. What's the rest?" Stewart looked up from his copying. Grant
shook his head.
"They're mumbling--I can't hear. They seem to have all gotten over in
a corner with their heads together and are trying to talk so that no
one around the club will hear them. But--wait a minute--they're talking
louder now--no, they've settled down to that buzzing again--I think I
hear a telephone ringing--Von Papen has just told Boy-Ed to answer it.
Wait now--wait--"
A strange silence in the dictograph room. Harrison Grant adjusted the
receiver closer to his ears. He pressed a hand strainingly against it,
as though to aid him in the hearing of what was going on over in the
next room. But impossible.
And at that moment, out on the open sea, the passengers of the
Lusitania were strolling happily about the decks after a jovial
luncheon. Someone looked at his watch to absently note that the time
was 2.32. And as he raised his eyes----
The deadly, gray serpent-like form of a periscope as it raised itself
above the waves. The wake of a torpedo as it hissed its way through
the water. Then a great rolling roar, a shock that trembled through
the whole vessel, a sickening lurch and plunge, the thunder of an
explosion--
Hours later, in the dictograph room, Harrison Grant again leaned
forward.
"That telephone again!" he announced. "I wonder what it means? Boy-Ed
always answers it. There he goes again. Guess he'll mumble into it,
just as he's done all day--no, he's talking louder this time--it's
something about a ship--"
His hand clenched.
"I can't get it," he grumbled. "If he'd only talk louder--what's
that--the Lusitania?"
"Lusitania?" The two other operatives looked up quickly. Harrison Grant
nodded slightly.
"Yes. Heard him say something about the Lusitania. Seems to be
getting some kind of a report over the telephone, as though some
spy were telling him something that had happened. Now he's left the
telephone--he's gone back to the others--good God!"
The two operatives leaped to their feet at the ejaculation from their
chief. Their staring eyes saw that his cheeks were white, that the
blood was slowly leaving his lips, leaving them purplish, ghastly.
"They've ordered a toast to the Kaiser!" he announced coldly, "a
toast--in commemoration of Germany's 'victory' over the Lusitania! It
can mean only one thing--!"
And as if in answer, up from the streets of New York there radiated the
shouts of the newsboys, calling the headlines of the first "extra:"
"Lusitania sunk! Lusitania sunk by German submarine! Klein, Vanderbilt,
Hubbard and thousand others missing. Extry paper! Extry paper, all
about the sinking of the Lusitania!"
So that was the German victory! The Lusitania sunk! Wearily Grant sank
into a chair, the dictograph receiver still to his ear. On the other
side of the wall three men had raised their steins to the picture of
the Kaiser, toasting him for the idea which had enabled the fishing
smacks to wireless the news of the Lusitania's course to the waiting
submarines, for the distorted brain which had devised the messages
of fishermen into instruments of death, for the ungodly, demon-like
cunning that had conceived the death of women and children to be a
German "victory!" Droningly the words come over the dictograph:
"To the Kaiser! May he continue his glorious victories, abroad--and
here!"
"Abroad--and here!" murmured Harrison Grant between his clenched teeth.
"And 'here' means America!"