THE PLOT AGAINST THE FLEET
"What's happening on the dictograph?"
Harrison Grant asked the question as he entered the room adjacent to
the Hohenzollern Club and looked anxiously toward Dick Stewart the
operative who sat with the receiver to his ear. Stewart shook his head.
"Same old thing. Arguments. Conversation. Jokes. Drinks. Toasts to the
Kaiser. That's all I can catch. It's just the same as it's been ever
since the night of the Naval Ball. You don't suppose that they could
have gotten a tip that we're in here, do you?"
Harrison Grant shook his head.
"Hardly," was his answer. "We would have known something about it.
They'd rip that dictograph out so quickly they'd drag you through the
hole after it. No--they're simply doing their talking in other places,
that is all."
The investigator looked at his watch.
"Nearly midnight," he yawned. "I--"
"You'd better go home and get some sleep," the operative broke in.
"Cavanaugh and I will keep watch--and let you know the minute anything
happens. Don't you think that's a wise plan?"
Harrison Grant, with his ever present happy nature, smiled in spite of
the fatigue that hung heavily upon him.
"I think you must know how much sleep I haven't had!" was his comment.
"And to tell the truth--I haven't had any since the night of the Naval
Ball."
He turned to the door, giving his men their final instructions for
the night. And as he made his way homeward, the telephone lines were
crackling between New York and Washington, Ambassador Von Bernstorff at
one end and Karl Boy-Ed, Naval Attache, at the other. Nearby sat Capt.
Franz von Papen and Dr. Heinrich Albert, waiting for the result of the
conversation. At last Boy-Ed turned from the telephone.
"Bernstorff's anxious about our plans for tomorrow," he announced. "I
told him not to worry."
"Well, there isn't anything to worry about, is there?" Von Papen
hunched forward in his chair.
"Not if everything's all right at the shack," answered Boy-Ed. "That's
up to Von Lertz. I instructed him to examine the torpedo and to be
sure that the men had everything in working shape. Then he was to
report to us."
"Wait just a minute--" It was the somewhat plotting, methodical Dr.
Albert who had interrupted. "Let me understand this thing clearly: The
torpedo is to be fired when the Fleet is going through the Narrows. Is
that right? Then what happens?"
"A great deal," laughed Karl Boy-Ed. "The principal thing of which is
that the Great Atlantic Fleet will be forced to remain in New York
harbor and the United States of America will be taught just how foolish
it would appear in a war with a real country like Germany."
Albert bobbed his head.
"I simply wanted to be sure that I understood. Personally, I shall
watch the fleet sail with a great deal of interest."
"No doubt." Von Papen turned with a growling laugh, "I will watch it
stop with more interest. Now, Boy-Ed, where is Von Lertz to report?"
"At the Hohenzollern Club."
"Then we'd better be strolling over. It's after midnight now. Good
night, Albert."
"Good night. Good luck--for Imperial Germany!"
Meanwhile, Dixie Mason was looking into the eyes of Heinric von Lertz
as they hesitated in front of the Midnight Frolic.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather take a trip out in the country
somewhere--to the October Farm or something like that."
Heinric von Lertz rubbed his chin in thought.
"I'll tell you a better place," was his announcement. "There's the Ten
Mile House. Quite racy, it's true, but very entertaining. What do you
say?"
Dixie Mason smiled most engagingly.
"Why should I worry--as long as I am sheltered by the protecting arm of
Heinric von Lertz? Besides--" and she allowed a bit of unsophistication
to creep into her voice, "I'm afraid my education in roadhouses has
been too much neglected. It's--it's all right for me to go, isn't it?"
"Oh, of course," Heinric von Lertz drew himself up pompously, "I'll
look after you."
A moment later, Dixie settled back in a corner of Heinric von Lertz's
machine and smiled in the darkness. She was to have her chance after
all--the chance to learn what had been on Heinric von Lertz's mind all
evening, why he had been so preoccupied, so nervous, so agitated. Dixie
could not see the pictures in the camera of Heinric von Lertz's brain,
she could not see mirrored there--
A rambling shack on Staten Island near Fort Wadsworth. The figures of
men as they hurried about the tool-strewn room, one of them working on
an intricate wireless controller, the other polishing and fitting the
last necessities of a great, shining torpedo, which rested in place to
be swung to a manhole connecting with a tunnel below, which in turn ran
to a wharf facing almost the Narrows of New York Harbor.
No, Dixie could not see--all she could know was that something was
on Heinric von Lertz's mind, that he acted tonight like he had acted
the night of the Naval Ball and that she was sure that before morning
she would have some clue--some means of knowing what was engaging his
attention: And while they rode to the Ten Mile House, the rendezvous
of fast society, the sporting element and habitues of the lavender
life, two members of the Criminology Club suddenly straightened and
listened harder than ever at the dictograph connecting them with the
Hohenzollern Club. Dick Stewart turned.
"It sounds like Boy-Ed and Von Papen," he announced. "But they're not
talking about anything in particular. They're settled down to a game
of cards--and they're acting like they're waiting for someone. Maybe
we'll get a tip on who it is."
Four hours later, the tip had come.
"Boy-Ed and Von Papen are in there waiting for Von Lertz," announced
Stewart as Grant, somewhat sleep-eyed, hurried into the room, following
a hasty summons. "They've been in there ever since a little after
midnight, playing cards and drinking. Then about an hour ago they began
to get nervous. After that, they began to watch the clock and to talk
about Von Lertz. I didn't think there was any necessity for waking
you up. Then one of them said something about the fleet, and I got
nervous--"
"The fleet?" Grant stared.
Dick Stewart nodded his head.
"That's all I could catch. Seems Von Lertz is attending to something
about the fleet--but neither one of them has mentioned what it is. Wait
a minute--"
The operative leaned forward to the dictograph again.
"They're sending a man to see why Von Lertz hasn't reported."
Grant went quickly forward. He took the receiver from Stewart's head
and beckoned to Cavanaugh.
"Take Stewart's place," he ordered. "Stewart, you cover that man. See
where he goes. Report to me at the club."
A quick movement and Stewart was gone. Five minutes later, Harrison
Grant, lingering in the doorway of the building adjacent to the
Hohenzollern Club saw the dim figures of two men walking far down the
street in the grey light of dawn. One of them was the man who had been
sent forth by Von Papen and Boy-Ed. The other was Dick Stewart, member
of the Criminology Club, beginning the chase that was to end--where?
Harrison Grant wished that he could know!
Nor did Grant know that an ally was working in his behalf, an animated,
smiling little ally who stood in the entrance to her apartment,
saying goodby to Heinric von Lertz. That person was laughing somewhat
thickly--his glass had been filled many times during the night. Dixie
Mason extended a hand, but the German plotter waved it aside.
"And you only shake hands with me?" he asked.
"Isn't that enough?"
"Not if you could know how madly I love you, how I adore you, how you
fashinate--"
"Fascinate, you mean, don't you?"
"Yesh--yes--of course. What did I say?"
"Oh, nothing--oh, Mr. Von Lertz, _please_!"
For Von Lertz had striven to take her in his arms and was pressing his
lips toward hers. As she half struggled with him the German smiled in
apology and dropped his arms.
"I just wanted one teeny-weeny little kiss," he announced. "I
thought--well, I just thought----"
"I'm not in a habit of being kissed," answered Dixie Mason, pouting.
Von Lertz straightened.
"Goo' little girl!" he praised her. "Goo' little girl! I am now more
fashinated than ever! Good night!"
"Good day," echoed Dixie Mason, glancing at the light of dawn without.
Then as Heinric von Lertz strode forth, she turned quickly to one side.
Hurriedly she opened a little memorandum book that she had extracted
from the pocket of the German plotter while she had struggled with him
to prevent the kiss that he had sought to implant on her lips. Quickly
she scanned the pages, finally to start forward, an involuntary cry
breaking from her lips. She glanced hastily down the street toward
where Von Lertz's machine was fading in the distance, then ran toward a
taxi stand at the corner.
"Follow that machine that just left here!" she ordered, as she hurried
into the car. Then, taking out her secret service commission and
passing it before the eyes of the chauffeur, she admonished:
"The safety of the Atlantic fleet depends on us! Don't lose sight of
that machine for an instant! Where it goes--we're going--and the man
who is in it must not know we're following!"
"Don't worry, Lady," came the quiet answer of the chauffeur. "I'll keep
him in sight."
Dixie Mason leaned back in the machine again. Once more she brought
forth the note book. Again she looked at the line which had burned
itself into her brain; a line that read:
"Examine torpedo before fleet sails."
A half hour later, Von Lertz's machine was on the ferry, crossing to
Staten Island, while Von Lertz himself dozed in the tonneau, little
knowing that just behind him, on the same ferry was another machine
containing a person very much awake, Dixie Mason, determined to learn
just exactly where he was going and who he intended to see there.
So much for the Ally who was working for the said Harrison Grant. And
in the meantime, the person upon whom he had really counted was having
his difficulties.
Far over on Staten Island, the spy whom Dick Stewart had trailed from
the Criminology Club had turned into thick underbrush, circled, seen
the man behind him, lain in wait, and then, with one powerful blow,
felled him, hurrying on toward the shack and workers on the torpedo.
But that delay, while it had placed Dick Stewart in a position where he
could no longer follow the spy from the Hohenzollern Club, had saved
Dixie Mason from an embarrassing position. For that delay had been just
long enough for Dixie Mason to see Heinric von Lertz enter the shack,
to watch him leave again, then to allow the little daredevil of the
secret service to creep to the shack, ascend an old ladder which she
found leaning against the building, and peep through the old trap in
the roof. And there she saw----
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--it _was_
turning! 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!"