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 the
_Arsulus_ had 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 the _Arsulus_. 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 the
_Arsulus_ piled 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 the _Arsulus_ reared 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.
"Anything wrong here?" To Grant the figure of the dock foreman,
shock-headed, heavy-jawed, with heavy arms swinging loosely, was
typically bestial. With a quick sense of distaste he straightened.
"Wrong? Somewhat! Unless this is a new style of loading a vessel. How
long since they have been loading the cargo on one side? Looks like
incompetence or--" but the foreman seemed indisposed to listen to
Grant's ideas on the matter, for a second later Grant had crumpled
under his heavy fist and was sliding down the steep stairway.
The foreman leaned forward and surveyed the three figures of the
Criminology Club men on the dock. Picking up a balehook he laid it
within easy reach, then cupping his hands about his mouth he called in
a somewhat subdued but clearly audible voice, "Help. Help!"
He saw the three men leap forward to the ship's side. He flattened
himself against a pile of boxes. A moment more and the men had passed
him and were clambering down the hatch. As the last one disappeared he
sprang to the hatchway and battened it. Grant, Cavanaugh, Stewart and
Sisson were prisoners.
The German dock foreman uttered a shrill whistle. It was answered in a
moment and a figure joined him hurriedly.
"Wait until I'm off the dock and safe. Then cut the hawsers." It was
the foreman who spoke and the other nodded. His huge figure disappeared
down the length of a warehouse. The man he had left reached for an axe
which lay on a pile of boxes. There was no sound except a straining and
creaking as he hacked at the hawsers of the _Arsulus_. Grant and his
men inside the hatchway were beating at the door in an effort to break
it open. Suddenly they felt the movement of the vessel as it listed
sharply. They heard the clattering and crashing of trucks, benches and
tools falling from their places sliding over the floor of the hold. The
vessel trembled as the last hawser parted and with a sudden lurch the
_Arsulus_ capsized, carrying with her to what seemed certain death the
four members of the Criminology Club.
Perhaps to death, but a death they would fight to the last! Boxes and
bales tumbled and crashed about. A porthole on the underside burst
under the pressure of water and a geyserlike stream spouted up. The
men knew that the water was flowing in, that it was only a matter of a
short time before the vessel would be submerged and that to the chill
shadows of the hold would be added the shadow of death! Scrambling from
one box to another they eluded the ever-rising wave of water. At last
they had reached the highest point of vantage they could find. And for
a short time at least the waters seemed at a standstill. Above them was
the cold steel side of the vessel. Below them the churn and rush of
water.
While Harrison Grant and his friends fought for their lives in the
hold of the wrecked _Arsulus_, the conference at the Headquarters of
the Union proceeded. Order was being formulated out of chaos, the
'longshoremen's demands were being gathered into shape, and it seemed
that a settlement agreeable to all was about to be reached. Suddenly
the telephone on the table jangled. One of the Union officials answered
it, then turned it over to the Chairman of the Shipowners Committee.
"It's for you."
There was a moment's silence while he fumbled with the receiver, his
greeting, and then another silence while the voice of the speaker at
the other end of the line came to their ears in squeaky accents.
As they watched him, the Chairman's face hardened.
"Here, say that over again. No! Well they've reached the limit. This
means the end." The receiver banged into its socket and the chairman
faced the group of tense men at the table.
"Gentlemen, the _Arsulus_ has just been sunk at its dock. You were
warned that if another depredation occurred we would lock you out
whether you struck or not." His fist crashed to the table. "That ship
was loaded so it would capsize. A million dollars worth of property
has been destroyed. You will see that we can take no other action.
Negotiations are at an end. We will fight you now to the finish. I must
bid you good evening." Calmly and coldly he threaded his way through
the crowds of 'longshoremen into whose minds the greatness of this new
blow, just struck, was beginning to penetrate.
There was a sudden burst of sound as men tried to make themselves
heard, seeking for recognition, yelling, shouting. Again and again the
gavel crashed to the table for order. Finally, reluctantly it came.
The president of the 'Longshoremen's Union looked down at the upturned
faces of his men.
"Boys, this meeting is not of our choice. Strange things have happened.
We must remember, however, in our excitement and resentment that in the
past the shipowners have treated us with a large measure of fairness.
Now we must face these new problems. The Chairman of the shipowners'
committee has just announced to us that they will refuse to treat with
us----"
"Then let's strike. Give them their answer. Strike!"
It was the German dock foreman who had leaped to his feet and was
striding up and down the aisle in defiance of the gavel beating
for order. One after another the 'longshoremen joined in his cry,
hypnotized by his apparent earnestness, eager to follow his evident
leadership.
"Strike, Strike! We'll bring these shipowners to their senses. What
have they done for us?"
In the overturned hulk of the _Arsulus_, still fighting the death that
seemed imminent, the members of the Criminology Club racked their
brains for a means of escape from the waters threatening to engulf them.
Grant reached out a hand in the darkness and encountered a clenched
fist. "Cavanaugh, is that you?"
"Yes," the reply bordered on a gasp.
"Some kind of crating here. I've got a balehook I picked up somewhere."
"A balehook? Give it to me."
Cavanaugh handed the implement to Grant, who dragged himself to the
pinnacle of the debris and began a systematic tapping on the steel hull
of the vessel with the handle of the heavy hook.
In a moment the operatives deciphered the message he was sending in
Morse Code.
"Send help! Send help!" he signalled over and over, and when his arm
was about to fail, Cavanaugh scrambled to his side and took up the
tapping. How long they waited they could not tell. Time dragged and
the waters began to rise again while the splashing about of floating
boxes, drifting among the debris drowned out the outside noises.
Grant, reaching up with the balehook to begin his signalling once more
was startled to see a tiny spot of red glowing above his head in the
darkness. A moment more and the spot changed to white and he lurched
sideways as a hissing drop of molten steel sung past his ear and
dropped into the water with a burst of steam.
A greenish flame showed through the steel, the flame of an acetylene
torch, lighting the watery, floating hold like a glint of summer
lightning. And as they watched it, the hole grew and grew. At last a
mass of steel dropped into the water and through the widened hole,
Grant caught a glimpse of the stars twinkling in the sky. A shadow fell
across the opening and they heard a voice bellowing to them above the
sound of the water.
"Who's there?"
"Harrison Grant, Cavanaugh, Stewart, Sisson!" Four masculine voices
shouted the necessary information.
"Oh, all right, gentlemen! Hold tight until the edges have cooled. Just
a minute now."
Five minutes later the four members of the Criminology Club, bruised
and battered, wet and ragged, stood upright on the hull of the capsized
vessel, under the bright stars, with the cool breath of the river
blowing into their grateful nostrils. The lights from the docks glinted
on the buttons and stars which adorned the coats of their rescuers.
Grant leaned forward and peered into the face of one of the patrolmen.
"Leary! So you're the one who does the Desperate Desmond act and
rescues gentlemen in distress?"
"Yes Mr. Grant. And do you feel like answering any questions?"
"If they are necessary."
"They're necessary all right. If you'll just come over here on the
dock, please. Muldoon's got a prisoner. Saw him running away from the
dock here and tripped him up. He'll confess, all right."
Grant followed the patrolman into the warehouse. Muldoon clutched
a cringing form. "That's no one I know, Muldoon. He is probably a
confederate."
"He said he did it all, Mr. Grant."
"A favorite tale with these German spies, Muldoon. Here you!" He
grasped the spy suddenly. "I want you to tell the truth and to tell it
quick. Where's the foreman of this dock?"
The spy swallowed with evident effort, and then gasped out:
"Gone to a labor meeting."
"He gave you orders to cut those hawsers didn't he?"
The spy's eyes wavered, and then, held by Grant's glance, came back:
"Yes."
"Why?"
The spy shrugged his shoulders. "He had orders to sink the ship."
"From whom?"
"I don't know. He wanted them to think the 'longshoremen did it."
"And bring about a strike? Very simple. Now we'll go over to the labor
meeting and you can tell the people you see there this same little
story."
The spy with a sudden jerk tried to free himself, but Muldoon's burly
fist clenched on his shoulder.
The 'longshoremen's meeting had reached its climax, and now a quiet had
fallen. Human nature cannot keep itself at a high pitch of excitement
indefinitely. The reaction had come. Silence reigned as Grant and his
companions, and the two policemen, leading the ashy-faced prisoner,
entered the hall. The voice of the clerk was raised as they took places
against the back wall of the room.
"And now that the speeches have been finished, it is moved and seconded
that a vote shall be taken to determine whether a general strike be
called by the 'longshoreman against the shipowners of----"
A shout from Grant brushed the droning voice of the clerk aside.
"Stop! No vote must be taken until this man tells his story."
As though stirred by a giant hand, the assemblage recoiled. Men rose
from their seats to see the person whose temerity thus interrupted the
vote of their Union. Down the aisle the German dock foreman, whose
vociferousness of a short time before had helped to keep the evening in
an uproar, passed a hand over his face and slid into his seat again.
With dragging feet the spy was roughly shoved down the aisle by the two
policemen, followed by Grant. They climbed to the platform and faced
the listening mass of men.
For a moment Grant looked down on them in silence. Then he spoke:
"You men are laboring under a delusion. I am here to prove it to you,
and this--gentleman," he ironically waved a hand toward the spy, "will
help me." He turned to the spy. "Where is the man who gave you orders
to turn that boat over? Remember, I know who he is. I want you to tell
them."
The prisoner glanced over the audience fear-fully. He lifted a limp
hand and pointed.
"There!"
Halfway down the hall the huge form of the dock foreman rose and
started with a rush toward the door. But his path was blocked. Hands
shot out to seize his and pinion them, struggling, to his sides.
Fighting and cursing they carried him to the platform and faced him
toward the spy.
Ten minutes of excited talking followed, hot with denials and
accusations bandied between the foreman and the spy. Suddenly the dock
foreman turned to his audience.
"He's right! I told him to cut the hawsers to sink the vessel!"
The president of the 'Longshoremen's Union broke into the silence that
followed the confession.
"Phone the shipowners at once!" he called to his secretary.
The dock foreman was talking again.
"It was the intention to fasten the blame for the depredation on the
'longshoremen. We knew if that ship was turned over nothing could stop
a strike. And we want a strike."
"Who hired you?" Grant cut in sharply.
"A man named Gates."
"First name?"
"I don't know."
"Address?"
"I don't know."
"No I don't suppose so." Harrison Grant smiled sarcastically. It was
not the first time that he had questioned a German spy--only to find
out that he knew nothing and that he was willing to confess and accept
blame that the higher powers of Imperial Germany might continue their
work of devastation and strife.
"All right. You've told enough. Now Mr. President, you undoubtedly have
some action to take." Grant bowed to the president of the Union and
stepped down from the platform.
The president took the floor. Relief was written large on his smiling
countenance.
"Men, we must declare ourselves. This man has confessed that an effort
has been made to make us allies of Germany in an attempt to tie up
shipping and paralyze American industries. Do you consent to be tools
of Imperial Germany or do you prefer to be free Americans?"
In a moment the hall resounded with shouts.
"Americans! Americans!"
The president turned as his secretary touched him on the elbow. He took
a slip of paper handed him and raised his hand for silence.
"The shipowners announce that because of the removal of this very
serious charge against you, they are willing to grant the demands of
the 'longshoremen!"
It was as though a whirlwind had struck a forest. The mass of men
went wild. Shouts resounded while men tossed their hats into the air,
slapped each other on the back, wrung each other's hands. Grant watched
them for a few moments, smiling. Another blow by Germany had been
averted. It was worth the horror and danger of the last hour. His work
for the night was over. He turned to go.
With thoughts free from the 'longshoremen and their difficulties
settled, his mind reverted to the subject nearest his heart, and one
which even in moments of greatest danger and suspense or wildest
excitement, he was ever conscious of. Dixie Mason's dark eyes seemed to
look wistfully at him from the darkness.
Dixie's little jaunt to the Ten Mile House with Von Lertz had almost
proved highly worth the necessity of enduring his attentions for
several hours. They had danced and dined and danced again, and Von
Lertz had ordered many drinks. As he imbibed drink after drink he
became with each one a little less careful, a shade more loquacious.
But he dropped no word of proceedings that she recognized as of any
importance. Dixie grew a little discouraged and tired as the time
passed. She was about to suggest the necessity of returning to the
city when a door slammed noisily. In a state of nervous tension, Dixie
started, upsetting the small glass of cordial that had been served to
her. The bright colored liquid ran in a quick stream toward the edge of
the table, toward her. Dixie drew back.
"Wipe it up quick! I don't want it to get on me!"
There was no waiter near. Von Lertz whipped out a clean handkerchief
from his pocket. Unnoticed by him a small leather-colored booklet
slipped from his pocket with the handkerchief and dropped to the
floor. Dixie's quick eyes saw it and while she thanked Von Lertz with
a gratitude that, under different circumstances, he would have thought
somewhat profuse for the service rendered, Dixie slipped her foot over
the little book.
The slamming door had admitted two new-comers, a man and a girl. The
girl Dixie recognized at once as a member of the Secret Service and
catching her eye, she signalled to her to come over.
Von Lertz, ever on the alert for new conquests, lost no time in asking
the girl to dance with him. Dixie had known this would happen. As the
girl and Von Lertz circled away from the table, she excused herself to
the girl's escort, leaned over, picked up the little note-book and left
the room. A moment later in the dressing-room she started wide-eyed and
with quickening breath at a report in which were jotted down items,
all planning death and destruction and horror of a vastness beyond
comprehension.