THE BURNING OF HOPEWELL, VIRGINIA.
After all, Imperial Germany possessed a lumbering sense of the
theatrical. It had realized that the little newborn town of Hopewell,
Virginia, sheltered hundreds of men drawn from the laboring classes,
uneducated, ignorant save of the work they were paid for, foreign
to a large extent, and among these men were those in whose minds
ran the superstitious strain which breeds faith in the occult and
fortune-tellers. In the hands of a clever fortune-teller these men
might be made to talk, without realizing that they were giving away
information to the hidden enemy of America. This was the explanation of
the presence of Baroness Theresa Verbecht in Hopewell as arbitress of
destinies, in the guise of Madam LaVere, Mystic. In one of the myriad
clap-boarded shacks of Hopewell she ladled out the mysteries of the
future and the well-known facts of the present with lavish hand, and
drank in all the information she could glean by clever questioning and
suggestion, from the superstitious who passed in never-ending lines
through the doors of her emporium of mystery.
Hopewell held much of interest for Germany. Little more than a year
before its site had been unploughed fields over which the winds blew
in broad sweeps bending the green grasses in soft undulations and
bobbing the heads of wildflowers that dotted the fields. Soon with
war's shadows growing deeper over Europe the call had come from
the Allies for explosives. The fields had been cleared and a great
guncotton factory spread its broad stretches over the ground where the
wildflowers had bobbed. And about the factory sprang up a town, or
rather a half a mile from the factory, for guncotton is a thing to be
respected whether in the maw of a cannon or in the making.
The town was a hit and miss affair, a similitude of western towns which
sprang up over night in the days of gold rushes. Its streets, a crowded
mass of unpainted shacks, lean-tos, and tents; cheap hotels, _sub rosa_
gambling places, in fact all the attributes of the town of mushroom
growth peopled with the polyglot population of a manufacturing town of
America, the melting pot of the races.
The day that Madam Stephan and Von Lertz, fleeing from Exeter,
realized that the plot which they had maneuvered to what seemed
unquestionable success, had failed, Franz von Papen received a telegram
from Madam LaVere.
"Everything O.K. Send me good man for dangerous work."
The telegram so tersely worded meant more than words could convey. It
meant that after weeks of work Baroness Verbecht had learned as much
as possible about the guncotton factory, its orders, its guards, its
shipments and its most vulnerable points.
A week passed before the Baroness received a reply in any form. Then
one morning the tapestry curtains of her fortune telling parlor parted
to admit none other than the sanctimonious J.B. Dollings. Dollings had
closed up his undertaking establishment in Exeter with what might have
seemed undue haste to those unacquainted with his reasons for seeking
other parts.
"Captain Von Papen regrets the delay in complying with your telegraphed
request," Dollings assured the Baroness, who showed a tendency to be a
little angered over the time lost. "Canada was engaging his attention
to such an extent that he could find no one to send here, but now that
I have arrived----" he smiled an ingratiating smile, and the frown on
the face of the Baroness faded a little, "I am ready for anything your
Highness may suggest."
"It is well," she answered briefly, "we will lose no more time."
During the week the ring of conspirators was completed by the arrival
of Madam Stephan and Von Lertz in Richmond, upon orders received from
Von Papen that they be at hand and ready to assist in operations in
case they were needed in bringing the plot for the destruction of
Hopewell to a successful climax.
Dixie Mason, returning to her apartment after the strenuous days of
activity in Exeter was apprised of their presence in Richmond by the
discovery of a note from Von Lertz.
"Dear Miss Mason--" the note ran in Von Lertz's angular hand, "I hope
this finds you at home and rested after your southern trip. The Madame
and I are now in Richmond, Va., where I would like to have you join
us as soon as possible. It may be that your eager wish to help us,
expressed when I last saw you, can be granted here. Von Lertz."
"Lovely!" commented Dixie with a smile. "Dear Von Lertz, you have given
me an unexpected pleasure." She addressed the far distant agent of
Germany with an irony altogether lost. Then she bounced up with an
activity purely characteristic. "Mamette, help me pack again. I'm on my
way to Richmond."
Mamette appeared in the doorway, an expression of genuine anxiety on
her dusky countenance. "My land! Miss Dixie! Ain't you ever going to
stay home and rest?"
Dixie laughed. "No rest for me, with these German agents running around
loose through the country. Be sure and put my Panelphone in the bag."
Mamette's eyes rolled till the whites of them gleamed. "You mean that
new thing you kin hear through the wall with?"
"That's what I mean, but hardly through the wall, Mamette, just through
a door or any high sounding surface. It's simply a super-developed
telephone without any wires that the Chief invented," but seeing that
this explanation was somewhat over Mamette's head, Dixie stopped
abruptly. "Hurry, Mamette, please, if I can catch this train today I'll
be in Richmond tomorrow morning."
The Baroness and Dollings had worked out the plan carefully for the
destruction of the guncotton factory, although their preparations had
of necessity been somewhat hasty.
"I've been careful," the Baroness told Dollings "to gain my information
only in snatches and bits from munition workers who have come here
to have their fortunes told. The fools do not realize that they tell
me more than I tell them and none have suspected that they are being
questioned. I have learned that the plant is least guarded between
midnight and 2 o'clock in the morning. That will be the best time,
then, for you to plant your bomb. I will take you to a point near
the guncotton plant and leave you there. Then I will proceed at once
to Richmond to join Von Lertz and Madam Stephan. Report to me there
at the hotel." With a caution gained by long experience in plotting
they covered each detail and arranged for any possible and unforeseen
happenings to their own satisfaction.
Early one morning before the darkness and chill of night had lifted
they climbed into an automobile and drove to the point agreed upon.
There Dollings left the Baroness and she drove off through the black of
the night to report to Von Lertz in Richmond.
The yards of the guncotton plant were surrounded by an underbrush
which in the quietness of the night made a silent approach somewhat
difficult. Dollings, however, crept forward as noiselessly as was
within his power. A heavy detonating bomb concealed in his coat, made
progress somewhat perilous. He had almost reached the fence. Suddenly
his coat caught on an entangling thorn bush. As his next movement
loosened it the bush cracked back with a distinct snap! Dollings
stopped.
"Halt!" a challenge rang out in the night.
The guard ran toward the sound. There was little chance for escape.
He had seen the shadowy form of Dollings skulking through the
under-growth. Dollings clambered to his feet in a desperate dash for
freedom but the flash of a rifle spat through the darkness and he felt
a sharp pain in his leg. Crashing about, stumbling, tripping, fighting
his way, he limped on, clinging to the bomb in his coat.
The rifle spoke again and this time Dollings dropped the bomb with
an oath as the bullet passed through his wrist. A little closer and
it would have exploded the bomb and he would have given up his life.
Dollings did not want to die yet. He dropped the bomb, dodging and
leaping, pain fighting at his throat in an endeavor to make him shriek,
he plunged into the darkness of the night and escaped.
Aroused by the shots the guards were gathering at the point of the
sudden alarm. The ground was being examined closely, guards walked
back and forth beating about in the underbrush. In a moment the bomb
was discovered, dropped where Dollings had left it in his flight.
The discovery of the blood spattered bomb and the attempt upon the
factory was reported at once. A message went to Washington. From
Washington a message went to Harrison Grant at the Criminology Club.
And Harrison Grant having received the message lost no time in getting
to Hopewell. The Secret Service needed him there.
When Dixie Mason arrived in Richmond the day after the attempt on
Hopewell, she went directly to the hotel at which Madam Stephan and
Von Lertz were registered. It was the hottest part of the day and the
hotel lobby was deserted. Dixie asked for the proprietor. Showing him
her Secret Service Commission she took him into her confidence to the
extent of making him understand that she wanted a room next to the one
occupied by Madam Stephan, and that she did not wish her name to appear
on the register.
"It can be arranged, very easily," he assured her.
Dixie was gracious in her thanks. "But you had better make a card entry
of my name so that in case I am forced to come in contact with either
Von Lertz or Stephan, I can have an alibi."
"The clerk will take the blame," smiled the proprietor.
Very shortly Dixie was installed in a room next to Madam Stephan's. A
door connecting the rooms was locked and bolted--on Madam Stephan's
side, but this fact was of no concern to Dixie. She had brought out the
Panelphone and examined its delicate mechanism; attached the batteries
which gave it the telephonic electrical connection necessary to the
transmission of sound, and then by means of a vacuum cup had fastened
it to the door. By this device each sound within the next room would be
intensified sufficiently for her to hear every word of any conversation
carried on.
She placed the receiver at her ear. The low murmur of voices which she
had heard a moment before now was magnified so that each sound reached
her with a clarity allowing no chance for mistakes.
Madam Stephan was speaking. Her usually well-modulated voice carried an
acid quality, an angry sarcasm that conveyed a deep displeasure.
"Your little plan of taking my place seems to have failed, Baroness.
Your endeavor to worm your way into Von Papen's favor through Von
Lertz has not met with the success you aspired to." There was a sudden
rustle of a newspaper being straightened out, then the caustic tones
of the Madame cut the silence once more. "Spy Fails in Attempt Against
Guncotton Plant," she read. "Believed to have been injured by guard! A
very good start, Baroness, for your operations in America. Three months
in Hopewell and this is what you have accomplished!"
The deep tones of the Baroness resounded into the little instrument at
Dixie's ear.
"Perhaps it is as much as you have done."
"Is it? At least I've covered my tracks. The newspapers haven't
announced my failures! And suppose they track your spy to your fortune
telling emporium? What then?"
"You are jumping at conclusions."
"On the contrary, I am giving the police and the Secret Service of this
country credit for having a little sense. And if a few others who are
working in the interests of Germany would do the same thing there would
not be so many failures in our plans. If you could dispose of a little
of this egotism with which you all are overburdened you would be of
more use. You think because you are Prussian that all the rest of the
world are idiots, because your blood does not flow in their veins."
Her voice had risen to an uncautious degree but it was cut short by the
opening of a door in the room.
"You've said enough. Stop it at once!" It was Von Lertz's voice, angry,
but low and self-possessed. "Can you not understand that this is no
place for----"
"But----" Madam Stephan broke in, ineffectively, for Von Lertz brushed
aside her expostulation.
"--personalities. If the Baroness had failed it is not her fault, nor
the fault of the man she sent to do the work. If the plan failed, it
failed, and that's all there is to it. Now I have wired him in code to
proceed at once on Instruction Number Four. I must ask you to let the
greatness of the cause we represent overshadow any private feelings
that may arise."
"My dear Von Lertz----" but Dixie had slipped the Panelphone from the
door and was packing it in her travelling bag. She had heard enough
to realize that there were other places at which her services were
more needed than here. Hopewell was still in danger. What was this
Instruction Number Four which had been telegraphed the spy to proceed
on? She must learn, but the conviction that only in Hopewell could she
gain this information hurried her to an attempt to reach there as soon
as possible. The next train for the little town did not leave until
late at night. The distance was short so Dixie decided to make the trip
by automobile. With little trouble she rented one.
Harrison Grant upon his arrival in Hopewell had taken up the work
of tracing the culprit who had so nearly caused the destruction of
the plant. Taking up the clue from the spot where the bomb had been
found and accompanied by the Captain of the guard he had followed his
blood-stained trail steadily to the door of Madam LaVere's Fortune
Telling Parlor.
"This is the place we want," he announced softly to the Captain. "Don't
knock. Just open the door and make a rush for it."
The Captain turned the handle of the door.
"It's locked," he announced laconically. Grant reached out and rapped
sharply.
A moment's silence followed and then they heard a slow shuffle growing
nearer. The key clicked in the lock and the door was opened by the
pasty-faced Minna, the Baroness' maid. She stared at them dully.
Grant attempted to step into the hall, but the maid barred the way.
"The Madame's not home."
"No? Well, never mind. We'll come in anyway," and though she attempted
to shove the door shut, Grant pushed her aside and followed by the
Captain entered the dingy room. The maid watched them in angry silence.
"Where's the man that's in this house?" asked Grant suddenly.
The maid stared stupidly, "Man? What man?"
"Yes, the man who came here wounded. Where is he?"
She shook her head and lied ponderously.
"I don't know no--"
"Stop your lying. Where is he? There's part of the bandage that was on
him." Grant pointed to a pile of rags in the corner. "Now come through.
We haven't any time to waste."
But the maid shook her head in dogged silence. In an effort to
frighten her out of it, the Captain and Grant settled down to a
cross-examination, calling patience to their aid and overcoming the
exasperation which only defeated their purpose. It was growing late.
Suddenly Grant raised his head questioningly and glanced at the
Captain. At the same time a gleam of satisfaction crossed the face of
Minna, the maid.
A man had run past the shack shouting. Sounds of confusion drifted in
to the dingy shack, and then Grant sniffed the air with a look of
alarm and looked at the Captain. His anxiety was reflected there. A
glance down the crooked street confirmed their worst suspicions. The
town was on fire!
As soon as their knock had come on the door of the fortune telling
house, Minna had done a little guerilla work and ascertained that
the visitors were none she wished to see. Her assumed slowness and
stubborness had given Dollings ample time to escape through the back
door of the house where he had taken refuge the night before and down
littered alleys despite the handicap of painful wounds. His failure of
the night before had left him with a strong determination to make good
at the job to which he had been assigned. In his pocket reposed a tiny
book of numbered instructions. Instruction Four was marked. It was the
one he was to carry out, according to Von Lertz's order:
"Remember that a north wind will blow a fire toward the guncotton plant
and that Hopewell is a town of shacks. If necessary fire the town!"
All day a brisk breeze had been blowing from the north. All things were
auspicious now as night had fallen and he crept along piles of lumber
and hid in the shadows.
From a nearby shack a lighted lamp shed its glow through an uncurtained
window. Dollings sneaked close to the house. The room was empty. In a
corner of the plot a clothespile rested against the side of the house.
He grasped the unwieldy piece and in a moment more had thrust the
pole through the window and knocked the lighted lamp to the floor. A
light of triumph glinted in his evil eyes as, not daring to wait to
see the result of his handiwork, he hobbled hurriedly away. He heard
a scream and looking back saw a black cloud of smoke, billowing out
of the window. In a few moments the thin walls of the shack had burst
into bright flame and the hastily formed bucket brigade of Hopewell
was laboring in vain to check the rapid progress of the fire. The tent
next door caught fire, the wind blew the cinders about and they fell on
other shacks and the devouring terror spread rapidly to the southward,
fanned by the brisk wind--southward to the guncotton factory.
The bright glare of the burning town lighted up the figure of a limping
traveller, who stopped now and then to gaze back at it with a grunt of
satisfaction.
[Illustration: The devastation caused by German spies who razed the
town of Hopewell, Va.]
Harrison Grant and the Captain abandoned their cross-examination in
the greater need of helping fight the fire that had broken out in
Hopewell. It took no trained mind to grasp the peril that threatened
the town. All its little population was out and fighting but they were
powerless. The elements were fighting against them, and the lack of
proper fire protection.
Minna, the maid, was handcuffed and turned over to an officer, while
Grant hurried away with the Captain. "Where is the powder house?" he
shouted at him above the rising confusion, and the Captain called back,
"The nearest one's at the quarry."
"Good, take me to it."
Grant could see that Hopewell was doomed. The flames leaped onward in
their work of destruction. While frightened mobs fought at the banks to
recover their savings, looters appeared, and added their terror to that
of the flames as they rushed on to what seemed the inevitable doom of
the thing that had given Hopewell its life--the guncotton plant.
If the factory could be saved Hopewell might rise again, but if those
scorching flames reached the great stores of guncotton there would be
no plant, no Hopewell, not even a survivor--only devastation, which
would mean success to Imperial Germany's plot.
Grant racing toward the powder house with a growing army of men
following him, shouted orders as he went. He had reached the door and
unlocked it. Appointing several men hastily to accompany him, he rushed
in.
"Get the dynamite and detonators," he ordered.
With quick precision the men leaped to obey him, and then followed
him back again to the scene of conflagration. The flames were gaining
swift headway. Lives had been lost where people in frantic endeavor to
save their few possessions had braved the fiery terror. The down town
section of the small city was in ruins. The flames had reached the
outskirts and were nearing the guncotton factory.
Grant stationed his men in this part.
"String those wires here," he shouted, dashing among them as they
struggled to obey his orders. "Hurry! That's it," he called, lending a
hand to a man whose fingers worked clumsily, "Now attach them to the
detonators. Work fast boys. The fire is catching up to us! How's the
dynamite?"
Above the roar of the steadily approaching flames the answer came back.
"All wired up. Ready to blow up as soon as the plungers are attached."
"Any caps to them?"
"Fulminate of mercury on every one."
"All right. Rush it. Let me know the minute you're ready!"
A moment of waiting followed, then a man shouted:
"All ready, sir!"
Grant looked back at the swiftly rushing flames, then turned to the men.
"Now boys. Each man to a detonator," he shouted. "When I say the word
explode the dynamite!"
There was a rush of dark figures in the glow of light. An order cut the
air--then from the distance came a tremendous roar that dwarfed the
noises of the night as the outskirts of Hopewell rose into the air.
Great masses of wreckage fell about the men. Clouds of smoke and dust
blackened the night air and stifled the onlookers, then the flames
showed through once more--but this time they faced a gaping ditch of
earth so wide that they could not cross. The guncotton factory was
saved! Harrison Grant turned with a smile to the Captain of the guard,
while wild cheers burst from the frantic citizens.
Dixie Mason had made good speed toward Hopewell for the greater part of
the distance. The car had run steadily until just as she came in sight
of the columns of smoke clouds of burning Hopewell and realized that
Instruction Number Four had undoubtedly been carried to a successful
conclusion, her heart sank at the sound of a whistling rush of air from
the rear wheel. She stopped the machine and jumped down to inspect the
hopelessly flattened wheel. With grim determination she dragged out
heavy tools from beneath the seat of the machine and set to work to
repair the damage as best she could, her mind running mechanically to
the disaster that had befallen Hopewell. So this was Instruction Number
Four!
At the sound of crackling in the bushes Dixie turned apprehensively.
The haggard figure of a man which dragged itself into a road was one to
inspire horror. He stared wildly for a moment and then lurched forward
toward her. Dixie instinctively reached for the heavy wrench for
protection but he shook his head.
"I won't hurt you," he called hoarsely. "I'm in trouble. I want you to
take me to Richmond, little girl."
Dixie shook her head. "I'm not going to Richmond."
"But you can!" His voice rose in the intensity of his plea. "A hundred
dollars if you will get me there. I can't wait for trains. I'll raise
the price. A hundred and fifty if you'll get me there."
Dixie leaned over and stared at him for a moment by the glow of the
automobile lights. Surely she had seen this man before, despite the
haggard appearance, the roughness, the dirt and grime and blood-stained
bandages. Was this Dollings, the sanctimonious undertaker of Exeter?
A recognition of him lighted her eyes for a moment. She cast a glance
back at the smoke clouds darkening the sky and the glow of flames from
Hopewell. Instruction Number Four! This was the man to whom Von Lertz
had sent the message to proceed on Instruction Number Four!
Dixie turned to the machine.
"I can't hurry--and put this tire on too."
"Then you'll take me to Richmond?"
"If you can help me get this tire on."
"I can't help much, but I can hold the tire for you."
Dixie nodded. She rolled out the extra tire and the work progressed.
Now and then Dixie reached in her pocket, and one less intent on the
work in hand would have caught the sound of a racheted surface being
opened. But Dollings' senses dulled by pain and anxiety did not notice.
The tire was on the wheel. Dixie rolled out the old tire to place it
in position and gave it to Dollings to hold. He leaned on it, his gaze
turned up the road toward the burning town. Dixie gazed up toward the
rising column of smoke and sparks too, and thought of the destruction
and sorrow and suffering it meant. Then very quietly she crept forward
toward Dollings. His hands rested close together on the tire. He was
not noticing her. She leaned over the tire and with a sharp snap
slipped the handcuffs about his wrists. Dollings sprang at her with a
snarl but faced the steeling glitter of a revolver.
"Put that tire back on the machine!" she ordered tersely.
He hesitated. "Go on," she urged, "And if there is any doubt in your
mind about this gun holding real bullets I'll show you that it does."
He obeyed her grudgingly and with real difficulty. If Dixie felt a
tinge of pity shoot through her she had but to let her thought revert
to Hopewell and Instruction Number Four and Dollings' part in it to
stifle it.
"Now get into the driver's seat and take the wheel. You can drive. I
know it. I've seen you drive up in Exeter, you know." She smiled a
little at the bewildered glance he cast on her for a moment, then
resumed her orders. "Drive to Hopewell! And remember what I said about
this gun."
Dollings drove the car into Hopewell with Dixie Mason holding the
revolver. Circling through the fire devastated city they reached the
group of cheering men just as the ditch had been blown up that saved
the guncotton plant.
Above the roar of the men Harrison Grant heard a shrill little voice
that made his heart backfire for an instant.
"Oh, Harrison Grant!" He turned and looked up into the glad eyes of
Dixie Mason. "See what I've brought you," she said, pointing at the
cringing figure of the now completely cowed Dollings. She was standing
on the running board of the car.
Grant walked up to the car with a smile at Dixie. Dollings drew back
with a snarl of hatred as Grant touched him on the shoulder.
"Seems to me you and I have met before," said the president of the
Criminology Club, "But I can't just place you."
"Don't you remember?" Dixie laughed, leaning toward him. "It's
Dollings, our good-natured undertaker from Exeter. He dealt in caskets
up there you know, but the boxes they came in held guns instead of
coffins. A very nice man if he had stuck to his trade, but changing it
got him into trouble. You'd better search him."
Dollings helpless, cowed, beaten, was beyond resistance. Their careful
search revealed that, after all, the destruction of Hopewell was but
an item compared with the general plan of which Dollings was an agent.
With an exclamation, Grant turned over a paper to Dixie Mason, to read.
"Here Dixie, this is your case, and here's a little lexicon of
destruction that may be helpful to you."
Dixie took the paper and studied it, horror whitening her face. On it
was written:
"Blow up plants at
Hopewell
Wilmington
Chester
West Philadelphia
Acton
Detroit
Windsor."
As she looked into Grant's face, he smiled down at her.
"After all, Hopewell has had its advantages," he said.
"How?" she questioned.
Grant pointed to Dollings. "It has caused the arrest of this man, and
will either cause Imperial Germany to change all its plans or give the
Secret Service a chance to guard against the attempts on the places
named on this list. It may do even more----"
Dixie looked at him thoughtfully.
"If it could only awaken America to the danger that is growing here in
her very heart," she said earnestly, "then indeed the destruction here
would not have been in vain."
And though Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason, and all the members of the
great organization they represented knew that the danger of Germany's
intrigues was a vast, far-reaching, fast growing one, even they did not
know the immensity of it. While they exulted over the partial failure
of one of those schemes of destruction, Von Papen, Boy-Ed, and Dr.
Heinrich Albert were at work on still another--and greater one.
In the rooms of the Hohenzollern Club they set in conversation one
afternoon.
"Von Papen, Count Von Bernstorff complains constantly about the regular
shipment of troops and supplies from Canada," said Albert turning to
the military attache. "What are we to do about it? He has asked me
several times for a plan."
Von Papen blew a line of smoke rings into the air thoughtfully, and
broke the ashes from his cigar. Then he spoke.
"Make another attempt to blow up the Welland Canal, and this time
succeed." The last word broke ringingly on the still air of the room as
Albert and Boy-Ed leaned toward him expectantly.
"And if it does succeed?"
Von Papen shrugged his shoulders.
"If it does, it will stop one of the great avenues of transportation.
It will cause Great Britain to ask America how a military enterprise
against Canada was allowed to be set on foot in the neutral territory
of the United States. And about that time Germany's propagandists will
start working. And if we can't stir up a war between the United States
and Great Britain out of the muddle, we're almost as stupid as these
idiotic Yankees!"
Dr. Albert with gleaming eyes reached out a hand to Von Papen.
"Von Papen, you have a master mind," he said.