THE NAVAL BALL CONSPIRACY
Thus the news of the sinking of the Lusitania came to New York,
to throw a saddening cloud upon what was planned to have been the
happiest week of many years. For in the Hudson River, great, sleek
leviathans of the deep, the sixty-four vessels of the Atlantic fleet
had dropped anchor to await the President's review, while the streets,
the theatres, the restaurants, bore the glorious flutter of flags and
bunting, and the blue and white of the navy uniforms were everywhere.
And now that the Lusitania had been sunk, now that the lives of more
than a hundred of America's best citizens had been sacrificed to the
lust of Imperial Germany, those big vessels seemed to take on a new
meaning, a new significance. In New York harbor primarily only for a
review and for a jollification, they now assumed their real proportions
in the eyes of the populace, displaying to Eastern America just for
what they could be depended upon in case of war. And with every day,
that danger seemed closer. For America resented the sinking of the
Lusitania. The great crowds around the bulletin boards, watching daily
the steadily lengthening list of the dead, called for vengeance, for
repayment from this monster nation across the Atlantic that could kill
women and children and glory in it as a "victory." Every telegram
from Washington, every news dispatch, emphasized the gravity of the
situation. And no one knew better that gravity than did Harrison Grant
of the Criminology Club.
Working day and night with his companions of the Club, Grant had
hurried to the uncovering of the conspiracy to present forged
affidavits asserting that the Lusitania carried guns and contraband.
Clue after clue was run down, while in Washington, the Imperial German
Embassy worked just as hard in the opposite direction, covering the
tracks of its plotters and its spies, seeking to proclaim to America
the sorrow which it assumed over the sinking of the great British
liner. To some the sorrow seemed sincere. To others--Harrison Grant
among them--that sorrow was known to be only a mask, thrown hastily
on to deceive America and to keep America at peace until Germany felt
itself able to cope with it and strangle it as it sought to strangle
the rest of the world.
And so the days went, in moves and counter moves. Day after day the
populace, by the hundreds of thousands, gathered on the banks of the
Hudson to look at the tremendous battleships and to glory in their
power and effectiveness. And while they did so--
Four men were meeting again in the embassy at Washington--the same
four who generally gathered there, Franz von Papen, Karl Boy-Ed, Dr.
Heinrich Albert and their leader, Ambassador Bernstorff. Point after
point they discussed regarding the sinking of the Lusitania and the
possibility of war. At last--
It was Dr. Albert who was speaking, pawing through the reports that he
had dragged from his beloved portfolio:
"Marsden reports," he announced, "that the feeling in the West is
quite strong over the Lusitania. While I believe our foreign office
may be able to drag the situation out until the fever heat of war is
passed, still I fancy it would not be a bad idea on our part to make
such preparations as may be necessary in case the United States should
suddenly determine to avenge the death of its citizens. Now--"
Karl Boy-Ed, naval attache, interrupted.
"I believe we have anticipated you there, my dear Dr. Albert," he said
smoothly. "Kindly tell us what you believe to be the greatest defensive
and offensive agent which America has against Germany at the present
time."
"Why the great Atlantic fleet, of course."
"You mean the one that is in New York at the present time for review?"
"Of course."
"And if my good comrade Von Papen and myself should tell you that we
have already made arrangements to make this fleet incapable of working
either for the defense of America or for an offense against Germany,
what would you say?"
Dr. Albert brought his hand down on the desk with a thumping bang. "I
should call it a master stroke!" he announced.
Boy-Ed looked at Von Papen and smiled. Then he turned to Dr. Albert
again.
"Then, my dear Doctor, your mind may rest easy. Capt. Von Papen and
I have arranged a scheme which will make the great Atlantic fleet
wholly useless in event of war. Rather, we have arranged two schemes.
One of them is planned for the Naval Ball at the Ansonia Hotel in New
York tonight, which will be attended by practically every navigating
officer of the fleet. The other is held in reserve in case the attempt
to-night fails. It is a trifle more daring--and I might say, a
bit more spectacular. Even his Imperial Highness, the Emperor, would
delight in seeing it! But of course, we are holding that for the _coup
de etat_, as it were, in case the plan tonight fails."
[Illustration: The Ansonia Hotel, New York City]
It was as they discussed the details of their plot for the night that
Harrison Grant hurried from his office in the Criminology Club in
answer to a call from an operative:
"They want you in the dictograph room!"
Ten minutes later, the investigator of crime leaped from a taxi around
the corner from the Hohenzollern Club and made his way to the room
adjacent to the German meeting place. Stewart and Cavanaugh were
awaiting him anxiously.
"Something doing," said Stewart as he raised his eyes to his chief.
"I've been catching stuff for the last half hour."
"What about?"
"The Ansonia Hotel."
"The Ansonia?" Grant came forward quickly.
"Yes. Anything special going on there tonight?"
"A good deal," was the quick answer of Harrison Grant. "The Officers of
the navy are going to have their review ball there. Why?"
"Because," and the operative leaned closer to the dictograph, "the
indications are that the Germans intend to blow it up--and our navy
officers along with it."
"Impossible!" Harrison Grant's face went white. "Impossible! Why, all
the navigating officers of the fleet are to be there tonight--the whole
brains of the Great Atlantic Squadron! It would cripple our whole
Eastern system of defense!"
"Then you'd better get word to them not to attend" came the cold answer
of Stewart, "because the plans are made--to bomb that hotel tonight!"
Harrison Grant's brow wrinkled. He looked hurriedly at his watch.
"We can't get word to them now. Most of them are away from their ships
at entertainments--leaving the ships with only skeleton crews. Besides,
we can't empty that whole hotel and just let it lie there, a target for
some German bomb! No, there must be some other way--but Stewart, are
you certain about all this?"
"Here are my notes," came the answer of the operative. "Von Lertz came
into the club about a half hour ago. Some old German who seemed to have
some decency in his heart, was reading the _Abendpost_ and repeating
an editorial in it which said that the sinking of the Lusitania might
cause war with Germany. He appeared to be worried about it and that
such a thing would mean the death of all of Germany's ambitions. Von
Lertz listened to him for a while and then began to sneer at him. He
said that after tonight, it would be impossible for the United States
to declare war on anyone. Then--" Stewart referred to his shorthand
notes--"he used this sentence:
"'There's the Ansonia, tonight, you know. And there's Kroner, who's
finishing his masterpiece in the way of a bomb. And when Kroner makes
a bomb it generally destroys what it's intended for. After he pays his
little visit to the Ansonia tonight, there'll be no danger of America
fighting anyone.'"
"And there wouldn't," echoed Harrison Grant, "not with navy officers
dead and no one to handle the navigation of her battleships."
He turned to the telephone. A short conversation and he was facing
Stewart and Cavanaugh again.
"Every member of the Criminology Club will attend the Naval Ball
tonight as guests," he ordered. "Chief Flynn is sending fifty men
there. The police department will co-operate with a special guard.
They'll watch the outside. It will be our duty to guard the interior.
Come--we'll pick up the rest of the members of the Club."
And as the three men hurried away, a queer appearing, raw-boned
scientist hurried about a small workroom in a faraway part of New
York. Before him was a heavy thing of steel and springs and clockwork
and trinitrate of toluol, the most horrible explosive known. Almost
lovingly he fingered it. Then he turned to his assistant.
"See that it's timed for 12.20," he ordered. "That is the time agreed
upon. All the German contingent will be at the ball tonight to divert
suspicion. When things are moving their best, we will slip in and plant
the bomb under the main stairway. That will give it more breadth for
destruction when the explosion comes. But be sure--" and he wagged a
bony finger--"that it is set for not earlier than 12.20. Our people
must have time to leave the ball and be well away before the explosion
comes."
"Don't worry," answered the assistant quietly. "I've set bombs before."
But when the Naval Ball started that night, it had more than a hundred
guests who had been furnished tickets at the last moment. More than
that, every person of German appearance in the great ball room was
within the vision of The Eagle's Eye, the United States secret
service, while outside--
Up Broadway, in platoons and in columns, came hurrying squads of
police, to divide suddenly, to take their positions at the doorways, at
the hallways, beside the elevator shafts--even on the roofs. Everywhere
was Harrison Grant, directing activities.
"Keep your eyes open, men," he announced. "Allow no one in this
building who carries any kind of satchel or parcel. Cavanaugh!" he
called to his operative, just passing, "how about the cloakrooms?"
"They've all been searched."
"Found nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Good. Take four of these men and put two on each cloak room. Have you
attended to searching any new employees who might have taken employment
here lately?"
"Yes. All done. The management furnished me a list of everyone
they weren't sure of. I looked them all over. Everything's safe
there--they're all loyal!"
"Thank goodness for that. They may help us."
"That's been attended to. They all have instructions from Mr.
McBowman, the general manager."
Grant smiled.
"You've been on the job, I see," he said. Then he glanced at
Cavanaugh's immaculate evening clothes. "Looking the way you do, Billy,
I don't think it would be a bad idea for you to see if you can't pick
out a nice little German girl to dance with. It might cause her escort
some worry." Cavanaugh winked and stepped away. Grant turned once more
to a group of policemen whom Stewart was hiding in the palms at the
head of the stairway.
"Take no excuse," he ordered quietly. "If necessary, shoot to kill. And
in any event, if anything looks suspicious, arrest first, investigate
afterward."
Grant turned at a touch on his arm. It was Turner, his operative,
assigned to the roof.
"I've placed men all around up there," the operative said. "There were
two or three places--at the head of the dumbwaiter and that sort of
thing, that would have made good hiding places. So I took no chances."
"Correct. Now pick out a German and trail him."
"Yes sir. And you--?"
"I'll do the same--as well as every other member of the Criminology
Club. I want to know every move they are making."
Turner moved away. Harrison Grant stepped forward, chatted a moment
with a young woman of his acquaintance--then stared.
Before him, coming toward the young woman at his elbow, was quite
the prettiest girl--to Harrison Grant's eyes--that he had ever seen.
Vivacious, beautifully dressed, full of the dash and verve that
Harrison Grant so admired, quick, decisive in her movements, yet
thoroughly girlish, there was an element about her that Harrison
Grant had never before noticed in another woman. Something within
him seemed to leap, hesitate, then begin to thump with the quickness
and persistence of a triphammer. Vaguely Grant knew that it was his
heart. And just as vaguely, he knew that he was being introduced to
this brown-eyed, smiling little being, whose hand was so small that
it seemed almost cruelty to press it--yet with a grasp so firm and
steady that it carried with it the sensing touch of a true, strong
companion--whose hair was black and yet brown, whose smile was frank
and yet elusive, whose whole being was of the sort to enthrall Harrison
Grant and to hold him prisoner.
Then a sudden change. The beating of his heart slowed. The sparkle
of his eyes dulled. The smile faded from his lips--for just behind
the girl whose name he had vaguely heard to be Miss Dixie Mason, had
shown the figure of her escort, a man whom Grant had come to hate, a
man he knew to be responsible for the working out of the plot against
the Ansonia Hotel that night, Heinric von Lertz, unofficial agent for
Imperial Germany's murderers.
As for Von Lertz, he turned somewhat quizzically toward the policeman
at the door of the ballroom, looked at him in a sneering fashion, then
with a short nod in acknowledgment of the introduction to Grant, he
asked:
"Police? Is it the usual thing in America for them to attend social
functions?"
"Not unless they're invited--or needed," answered Harrison Grant
caustically.
A quick glance shot between the two men. A moment more and Von Lertz
had turned to the ballroom, taking Dixie Mason with him, while Harrison
Grant watched after her, wondering what such a pretty, wholesome
appearing girl could be doing in the company of a man whose business
was the representation of murderers. That she carried a Secret Service
commission, Grant did not know. The instructions of Chief Flynn,
ordering her to work into the confidence of the Germans without letting
even the fellow members of the Secret Service know her true purpose,
had attended to that. And Grant saw in her only a girl who had chosen
as a companion a man who was at that moment plotting the very downfall
of America!
However, it was only natural that they should meet again during the
evening. And it was only natural that Grant should ask her to dance
with him. More, it was only natural that as he looked into her eyes, as
he felt the firm swing and graceful lift of her to the swaying music
of the foxtrot, that he should wish more than ever that the stain of
her apparent friendship for Von Lertz should some day resolve into an
innocent one after all. As for Dixie--
As she was swept away again in the arms of Harrison Grant, following
the encore, Dixie wished with a sudden impulse that the touch of those
arms might some day mean more than the embrace of a dance, she wished
that she might tell this man whom she knew to be the president of
the Criminology Club that she was really a compatriot, that she was
working along the same lines as himself, struggling for the same ideals
fighting for--
But one could only obey orders. Besides, the dance had ended, and in
the foreground, waiting and fretting, stood Heinric von Lertz.
A few brief acknowledgments of the pleasure of the dance and they
parted, Dixie Mason to take her place at the side of the German
plotter, Harrison Grant to hurry forward at the signal of Cavanaugh
from the doorway. Grant found him nervous, irritable.
"The dangerous moment has come," he announced shortly. "Look!"
Far at one side of the room stood a tall German, apparently chatting
with his fellow country-people as they strolled about after the dance.
But as he watched, Grant saw that the conversations were extremely
short and that following each one, every German and his companion
turned toward the cloakrooms. Billy Cavanaugh's voice broke in once
more.
"He's warning them all to leave," said the operative. "He's been doing
it for the last five minutes. Half the Germans in the place are gone
now. It's nearly time for the attempt."
Harrison Grant bent close.
"Send the men to make the rounds of the patrolmen," he ordered quickly.
"Tell them to keep their eyes open wider than ever. Allow absolutely no
one to enter this hotel."
"Yes sir."
"Double the guards on every door. What has been done in regard to the
other searches that I ordered?"
"Everything's been accomplished. The hotel management has made the
rounds of the whole place with pass keys. Every piece of baggage that
cannot be vouched for has been examined. Nothing has been found."
"Good. Hurry to those patrolmen. I--"
For Grant had seen in the entrance to the cloakroom, the form of
Heinric von Lertz, his coat over his arm, waiting impatiently for Dixie
Mason. With a sudden determination, he hurried forward, to reach the
entrance, just as Miss Mason came forth, adjusting a loose fold of her
opera cloak. Grant bowed.
"Not going?" Miss Mason smiled.
"I assure you it isn't my desire," she said quickly. "Mr. Von Lertz
simply insists on it, though. I never was having a better time in my
life!"
Harrison Grant turned, to smile into the face of Heinric von Lertz.
"Surely, you wouldn't spoil the pleasure of anyone so sweet as Miss
Mason."
"I can't help it, you know," answered Heinric von Lertz somewhat
testily. "My head aches."
"Your head aches?" Grant laughed. "And you're going home on account of
that? I'd lose my head for a person like Miss Mason!"
"Mr. Grant, you're Irish!" Dixie laughed up at him. Grant smiled again.
"I only wish I were, so I could say the things I'd like to say in the
way I'd like to say them. But come now, Mr. Von Lertz, you're only
joking about leaving. Why it's only midnight."
"Midnight?" Von Lertz started. "Then we must go. It's imperative. That
is--"
And while he hesitated and explained, a taxi had driven up outside, at
the little triangle which divides Broadway at 72nd Street. From the
darkness within, a high cheeked, raw-boned man had started forward, a
grip in his hand, only to be halted by a cowering individual who shot
forth from a bench at the sidewalk.
"Back in that cab!" he ordered in a whisper. The raw-boned bomb maker
started.
"Why--?"
"Don't ask any questions. Back in that cab!"
"But I've got the bomb! Von Lertz said everything would be ready for
me. I--"
"Everything is ready--but in a way that we didn't look for," answered
the spy on the sidewalk. "Look!"
Quickly and surreptitiously, he pointed upward. Where the flaring sign
of the Ansonia Hotel blazed out upon the night, was silhouetted the
figure of a man. Ten feet away was another--and another--and another.
Down on the sidewalk, a solid cordon of police in uniform was drawn
about the building. Not a person could approach without being seen--the
guarding arm of the police was absolute.
"And that's not all," growled the spy on the sidewalk. "That's just
the beginning. There are fifty secret service men scattered about the
entrances and the areas. Bluer just signalled me by the electric light
code that even the elevator shafts are full of them. I signalled him
back to tell Von Lertz that everything is off. As for you--move away
from here quick! There'll be twenty policemen on our shoulders in
another minute!"
The taxicab turned swiftly. In another moment it had vanished down the
street, while in the hotel--
Von Lertz still stood at the entrance of the cloakroom, arguing with
Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason, a scant veneer of pleasantness covering
his words.
"But I simply can't stay," he was repeating for the fiftieth time, "I
tell you my head aches."
And certainly something was causing a pallor to spread over his
features, and the cold sweat to break forth on his forehead. Harrison
Grant knew what it was. From far away, the chimes of a church had
sounded midnight and faded away into nothingness. Grant knew what
Heinric von Lertz was thinking about--about that bomb and the fact that
he was practically the only German left within the confines of the
Ansonia Hotel. And so, that he might obtain a trifle of satisfaction
against this cowardly plotter of Imperial Germany, he deliberately
turned to Miss Mason and began the telling of an incident which could
not be interrupted. And Grant knew how the passing of every second ate
into the soul of Heinric von Lertz!
Then a movement. Someone passed--and in passing, slipped a bit of
cardboard into the cupped hand of Heinric von Lertz. Hurriedly the
German shifted his hand to the interior of his silk hat, and under its
protection, read the message. Involuntarily, his hands clutched. For
there, scrawled on the cardboard, were the words:
"Affair abandoned. Too dangerous."
Von Lertz coughed, and at the sound, Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason
turned. The German forced a smile.
"I've changed my mind--er--that is, my headache's better," he
announced. "We'll stay."
"Thank you," said Harrison Grant, with quietly suppressed meaning, "my
hopes are raised on a veritable bomb of happiness. Miss Mason, may I
have this dance?"
"Most certainly."
Happily, bouyantly they went toward the ballroom, while Heinric von
Lertz stared after them.
"I wonder what that idiotic Yankee meant by a 'bomb of happiness,'" he
mused, "Could he have known what I was plotting?"
The thought brought back the memory of that card. Once again he glanced
at it, then tore it to bits and stuffed it in his pocket. Then,
throwing his coat to the check boy, he strode toward the ballroom.
"At any rate," he growled under his breath, "they haven't stopped
preparations at the shack."
And at the same moment, the taxicab containing the old bomb maker
had drawn to the curbing, forty blocks away, where another cab stood
waiting. A figure came forth from the darkness and peered into the
first cab.
"Are you there, Kroner?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Everything's safe. Why don't you hurry?"
"There's no need. I didn't use the bomb."
"You didn't use it?"
"You heard what I said," came testily from within the taxicab. "It's
up to you to hurry. Get out to the shack and tell those men to work
night and day to finish up their job!"
A muffled conversation of an instant more, then the taxis parted. An
hour later, as Harrison Grant again danced with Dixie Mason and Von
Lertz seethed over the frustration of his scheme, a man hurried into a
ramshackle old building on Staten Island, near Fort Wadsworth, aroused
the slumbering figures there and pushed them toward a great thing of
polished steel, nickel and brass that lay nine-tenths finished before
them.
"Get to work!" he ordered. "Is this the way Imperial Germany is to
conquer the earth--by sleeping?"
Grumbling the men obeyed. The spy looked about him.
"Where's Schmidt?"
"Here," came a voice from a corner where a man was unrolling himself
from a dirty blanket.
"How's that wireless controller?"
"I'm having trouble with it."
"And yet you sleep?" The spy was raging now. "You get up here and find
out what's wrong and remedy it. That wireless controller must be in
absolute working order--understand? It can't fail! And what's more,
it's night and day work for every one of you men from now on. This
thing must be ready to launch the minute the fleet weighs anchor. The
Ansonia plot's failed. Everything depends on us now!"
The men grumbled again in answer. A curse from the spy and they settled
down to work--to put the finishing touches on a wireless controller
and on a torpedo, large enough and powerful enough to tear even a
battleship to fragments!