proceed to Mexico City, posing as the investigator for a financial house
in New York which was on the lookout for a soft concession from the
Mexican government. This would give him an opportunity to seek the
acquaintance of Mexican officials and lend an air of plausibility to
practically any line that he found it necessary to follow. But, once at
the capital with his alibis well established, he was to overlook nothing
which might throw light upon the question that had been bothering
Washington for some time past--just which one of the foreign powers was
fanning the Mexican unrest and to what lengths it was prepared to go?
Of course, the State Department suspected--just as we now know--that
Berlin was behind the movement, but at that time there was no indication
of the reason. In the light of later events, however, the plan is plain.
Germany, feeling certain that the greatest war Europe had ever known
was a matter of the immediate future, was laying her plans to keep other
nations out of the conflict. She figured that Mexico was the best foil
for the United States and that our pitifully small army would have its
hands full with troubles at home. If not, she intended to let Japan
enter into the equation--as shown by the Zimmerman note some two years
later.
When Stewart got to Mexico City, it did not take him long to discover
that there was an undercurrent of animosity to the United States which
made itself felt in numberless ways. Some of the Mexican papers,
apparently on a stronger financial basis than ever before, were
outspoken in their criticism of American dollars and American dealings.
The people as a whole, long dominated by Diaz, were being stirred to
resentment of the "Gringoes," who "sought to purchase the soul of a
nation as well as its mineral wealth." The improvements which American
capital had made were entirely overlooked, and the spotlight of
subsidized publicity was thrown upon the encroachments of the hated
Yankees.
All this Stewart reported to Washington, and in reply was politely
informed that, while interesting, it was hardly news. The State
Department had known all this for months. The question was: Where was
the money coming from and what was the immediate object of the game?
"Take your time and don't bother us unless you find something definite
to report," was the substance of the instructions cabled to Stewart.
The secret agent, therefore, contented himself with lounging around the
very inviting cafes of the Mexican capital and making friends with such
officials as might be able to drop scraps of information.
It was November when he first hit Mexico City. It was nearly the middle
of April before he picked up anything at all worth while. Of course, in
the meantime he had uncovered a number of leads--but every one of them
was blind. For a day or two, or a week at most, they would hold out
glowing promise of something big just around the corner. Then, when he
got to the end of the rainbow, he would find an empty pail in place of
the pot of gold he had hoped for.
It wasn't surprising, therefore, that Stewart was growing tired of the
life of continual mystery, of developments that never developed, of
secrets that were empty and surprises that faded away into nothing.
It was on the 13th of April, while seated at a little table in front of
a sidewalk cafe on the Calles de Victoria, that the American agent
obtained his first real clue to the impending disaster.
When two Mexicans whom he knew by sight, but not by name, sat down at a
table near his he pricked up his ears purely by instinct, rather than
through any real hope of obtaining information of value.
The arrival of the usual sugared drinks was followed by a few words of
guarded conversation, and then one of the Mexicans remarked, in a tone a
trifle louder than necessary, that "the United States is a nation of
cowardly women, dollar worshipers who are afraid to fight, and braggarts
who would not dare to back up their threats."
It was an effort for Stewart to remain immersed in the newspaper propped
up in front of him. Often as he had heard these sentiments expressed,
his Southern blood still rose involuntarily--until his logic reminded
him that his mission was not to start a quarrel, but to end one. He knew
that no good could ensue from his taking up the challenge, and the very
fact that the speaker had raised his voice gave him the tip that the
words were uttered for his especial benefit, to find out whether he
understood Spanish--for he made no attempt to disguise his nationality.
With a smile which did not show on his lips, Stewart summoned the waiter
and in atrocious Spanish ordered another glass of lemonade. His complete
knowledge of the language was the one thing which he had managed to keep
entirely under cover ever since reaching Mexico, for he figured that the
natives would speak more freely in his presence if they believed he
could not gather what they were discussing.
The trick worked to perfection.
"Pig-headed Yankee," commented the Mexican who had first spoken.
"Lemonade! Pah!--they haven't the nerve to take a man's drink!" and he
drained his glass of _pulque_ at a single gulp.
The other, who had not spoken above a whisper, raised his glass and
regarded it in silence for a moment. Then--"Prosit," he said, and drank.
"_Nom di Dio_," warned his companion. "Be careful! The American hog does
not speak Spanish well enough to understand those who use it fluently,
but he may speak German."
Stewart smothered a smile behind his paper. Spanish had always been a
hobby of his--but he only knew about three words in German!
"I understand," continued the Mexican, "that Victoriano is preparing for
the coup, just as I always figured he would" (Stewart knew that
"Victoriano" was the familiar form in which the populace referred to
Victoriano Huerta, self-appointed President of Mexico and the man who
had steadfastly defied the American government in every way possible,
taking care not to allow matters to reach such a hot stage that he could
handle them through diplomatic promises to see that things "improved in
the future").
"_El Presidente_ has always been careful to protect himself"--the
speaker went on--"but now that you have brought definite assurance from
our friends that the money and the arms will be forthcoming within the
fortnight there is nothing further to fear from the Yankee pigs. It will
be easy to stir up sentiment against them here overnight, and before
they can mass their handful of troops along the Rio Grande we will have
retaken Texas and wiped out the insult of 'forty-eight. What is the
latest news from the ship?"
"The ----?" inquired the man across the table, but his Teutonic
intonation of what was evidently a Spanish name was so jumbled that all
Stewart could catch was the first syllable--something that sounded like
"_Eep_."
"Is that the name?" asked the Mexican.
"Yes," replied the other. "She sailed from Hamburg on the seventh.
Allowing two weeks for the passage--she isn't fast, you know--that would
bring her into Vera Cruz about the twenty-first. Once there, the arms
can be landed and...."
The events of the next few minutes moved so rapidly that, when Stewart
had time to catch his breath, he found it difficult to reconstruct the
affair with accuracy.
He recalled that he had been so interested in the conversation at the
next table that he had failed to notice the approach of the only other
man he knew in the State Department's secret organization--Dawson, who
had been prowling around the West Coast on an errand similar to his.
Before he knew it Dawson had clapped him on the back and exclaimed:
"Hello, Jack! Didn't expect to see you here--thought you'd be looking
over things in the vicinity of the Palace."
The words themselves were innocent enough, but--they were spoken in
fluent, rapid Spanish and Stewart had shown that he understood!
"_Sapristi!_" hissed the Mexican. "Did you see?" and he bent forward to
whisper hurriedly to his companion.
Stewart recovered himself instantly, but the damage had been done.
"Hello, Dawson," he answered in English, trusting that the men at the
next table had not noted his slip. "Sit down and have something? Rotten
weather, isn't it? And not a lead in sight. These Mexicans seem to be
afraid to enter into any contract that ties them up more than a
year--and eighteen revolutions can happen in that time."
As Dawson seated himself, Stewart gave him a hasty sign to be careful.
Watching the Mexican and his companion out of the corner of his eye, he
steered the conversation into harmless channels, but a moment later the
pair at the next table called the waiter, gave some whispered
instructions, and left.
"What's the matter?" asked Dawson.
"Nothing--except that I involuntarily registered a knowledge of Spanish
when you spoke to me just now, and I've spent several months building up
a reputation for knowing less about the language than anyone in Mexico
City. As luck would have it, there was a couple seated at the next table
who were giving me what sounded like the first real dope I've had since
I got here. I'll tell you about it later. The question now is to get
back to the hotel before that precious pair get in their dirty work. A
code message to Washington is all I ask--but, if I'm not mistaken, we
are going to have our work cut out for us on the way back."
"Scott! Serious as that, is it?" muttered Dawson. "Well, there are two
of us and I'd like to see their whole dam' army try to stop us. Let's
go!"
"Wait a minute," counseled Stewart. "There's no real hurry, for they
wouldn't dare try to start anything in the open. In case we get
separated or--if anything should happen--wire the Department in code
that a vessel with a Spanish name--something that begins with 'Eep'--has
cleared Hamburg, loaded with guns and ammunition. Expected at Vera Cruz
about the twenty-first. Germany's behind the whole plot. Now I'll settle
up and we'll move."
But as he reached for his pocketbook a Mexican swaggering along the
sidewalk deliberately stumbled against his chair and sent him sprawling.
Dawson was on his feet in an instant, his fists clenched and ready for
action.
But Stewart had noted that the Mexican had three companions and that one
of the men who had occupied the adjoining table was watching the affair
from a vantage point half a block away.
With a leap that was catlike in its agility, Stewart seized the
swaggering native by the legs in a football tackle, and upset him
against his assistants.
"Quick, this way!" he called to Dawson, starting up the street away from
the watcher at the far corner. As he ran, his hand slipped into his coat
pocket where the small, but extremely efficient, automatic with which
all government agents are supplied usually rested. But the gun wasn't
there! Apparently it had slipped out in the scuffle a moment before.
Hardly had he realized that he was unarmed before he and Dawson were
confronted by five other natives coming from the opposite direction. The
meager lighting system of the Mexican capital, however, was rather a
help than a detriment, for in the struggle which followed it was
practically impossible to tell friend from foe. The two Americans,
standing shoulder to shoulder, had the added advantage of
teamwork--something which the natives had never learned.
"Don't use your gun if you can help it," Stewart warned. "We don't want
the police in on this!"
As he spoke his fist shot out and the leader of the attacking party
sprawled in the street. No sound came from Dawson, beyond a grunt, as he
landed on the man he had singled out of the bunch. The ten seconds that
followed were jammed with action, punctuated with the shrill cries for
reinforcements from the Mexicans, and brightened here and there by the
dull light from down the street which glinted off the long knives--the
favorite weapon of the Latin-American fighter.
Stewart and Dawson realized that they must not only fight, but fight
fast. Every second brought closer the arrival of help from the rear, but
Dawson waited until he could hear the reinforcements almost upon them
before he gave the word to break through. Then--
"Come on, Jack!" he called. "Let's go!"
Heads down, fists moving with piston-like precision, the two Americans
plowed their way through. Dawson swore later that he felt at least one
rib give under the impact of the blows and he knew that he nursed a sore
wrist for days, but Stewart claimed that his energies were concentrated
solely on the scrap and that he didn't have time to receive any
impression of what was going on. He knew that he had to fight his way
out--that it was essential for one of them to reach the telegraph office
or the embassy with the news they carried.
It was a case of fight like the devil and trust to luck and the darkness
for aid.
Almost before they knew it, they had broken through the trio in front of
them and had turned down the Calles Ancha, running in a form that would
have done credit to a college track team. Behind them they heard the
muffled oaths of their pursuers as they fell over the party they had
just left.
"They don't want to attract the police any more than we do," gasped
Dawson. "They don't dare shoot!"
But as he spoke there came the z-z-i-pp of a bullet, accompanied by the
sharp crack of a revolver somewhere behind them.
"Careful," warned Stewart. "We've got to skirt that street light ahead.
Duck and--"
But with that he crumpled up, a bullet through his hip.
Without an instant's hesitation Dawson stooped, swung his companion over
his shoulder, and staggered on, his right hand groping for his
automatic. Once out of the glare of the arc light, he felt that he would
be safe, at least for a moment.
Then, clattering toward them, he heard a sound that spelled safety--one
of the open nighthawk cabs that prowl around the streets of the Mexican
capital.
Shifting Stewart so that his feet rested on the ground, he wheeled and
raked the street behind him with a fusillade from his automatic. There
was only a dull mass of whitish clothing some fifty yards away at which
to aim, but he knew that the counter-attack would probably gain a few
precious seconds of time--time sufficient to stop the cab and to put his
plan into operation.
The moment the cab came into the circle of light from the street lamp
Dawson dragged his companion toward it, seized the horse's bridle with
his free hand and ordered the driver to halt.
Before the cabby had recovered his wits the two Americans were in the
vehicle and Dawson had his revolver pressed none too gently into the
small of the driver's back. The weapon was empty, but the Mexican
didn't know that, and he responded instantly to Dawson's order to turn
around and drive "as if seventy devils of Hades were after him!"
Outside of a few stray shots that followed as they disappeared up the
street, the drive to the Embassy was uneventful, and, once under the
shelter of the American flag, the rest was easy.
Stewart, it developed, had sustained only a flesh wound through the
muscles of his hip--painful, but not dangerous. Within ten minutes after
he had reached O'Shaughnessy's office he was dictating a code wire to
Washington--a cable which stated that a vessel with a Spanish name,
commencing with something that sounded like "Eep," had cleared Hamburg
on the seventh, loaded with arms and ammunition destined to advance the
interests of Mexican revolutionists and to hamper the efforts of the
United States to preserve order south of the border.
The wire reached Washington at noon of the following day and was
instantly transmitted to Berlin, with instructions to Ambassador Gerard
to look into the matter and report immediately.
Vessel in question is probably the _Ypiranga_ [stated a code
the following morning]. Cleared Hamburg on date mentioned,
presumably loaded with grain. Rumors here of large shipment
of arms to some Latin American republic. Practically certain
that Wilhelmstrasse is behind the move, but impossible to
obtain confirmation. Motive unknown.
Ten minutes after this message had been decoded the newspaper
correspondents at the White House noted that a special Cabinet meeting
had been called, but no announcement was made of its purpose or of the
business transacted, beyond the admission that "the insult to the flag
at Tampico had been considered."
Promptly at noon the great wireless station at Arlington flashed a
message to Admiral Mayo, in command of the squadron off the Mexican
coast. In effect, it read:
Proceed immediately to Vera Cruz. Await arrival of steamer
_Ypiranga_, loaded with arms. Prevent landing at any cost.
Blockade upon pretext of recent insult to flag. Atlantic
Fleet ordered to your support.
* * * * *
"The rest of the story," concluded Quinn, "is a matter of history. How
the fleet bottled up the harbor at Vera Cruz, how it was forced to send
a landing party ashore under fire, and how seventeen American sailors
lost their lives during the guerrilla attack which followed. All that
was spread across the front pages of American papers in big black
type--but the fact that a steamer named the _Ypiranga_ had been held up
by the American fleet and forced to anchor at a safe distance offshore,
under the guns of the flagship, was given little space. Apparently it
was a minor incident--but in reality it was the crux of the whole
situation, an indication of Germany's rancor, which was to burst its
bounds before four months had passed, another case in which the arm of
Uncle Sam had been long enough to stretch halfway across a continent and
nip impending disaster."
"But," I inquired, as he paused, "what became of Dawson and Stewart?"
"That I don't know," replied Quinn. "The last time I heard of Jack he
had a captain's commission in France and was following up his feud with
the Hun that started in Mexico City four months before the rest of the
world dreamed of war. Dawson, I believe, is still in the Department, and
rendered valuable assistance in combating German propaganda in Chile and
Peru. He'll probably be rewarded with a consular job in some
out-of-the-way hole, for, now that the war is over, the organization to
which he belongs will gradually dwindle to its previous small
proportions.
"Strange, wasn't it, how that pair stumbled across one of the first
tentacles of the World War in front of a cafe in Mexico City? That's one
beauty of government detective work--you never know when the monotony is
going to be blown wide open by the biggest thing you ever happened upon.
"There was little Mary McNilless, who turned up the clue which prevented
an explosion, compared to which the Black Tom affair would have been a
Sunday-school party. She never dreamed that she would prevent the loss
of millions of dollars' worth of property and at least a score of lives,
but she did--without moving from her desk."
"How?" I asked.
But Quinn yawned, looked at his watch, and said: "That's entirely too
long a story to spin right now. It's past my bedtime, and Mrs. Quinn's
likely to be fussy if I'm not home by twelve at least. She says that now
I have an office job she can at least count on my being round to guard
the house--something that she never could do before. So let's leave Mary
for another time. Goodnight"--and he was off.
IV
THE CLUE ON SHELF 45
"Of course, it is possible that patriotism might have prompted Mary
McNilless to locate the clue which prevented an explosion that would
have seriously hampered the munitions industry of the United States--but
the fact remains that she did it principally because she was in love
with Dick Walters, and Dick happened to be in the Secret Service. It was
one case where Cupid scored over Mars."
Bill Quinn eased the game leg which he won as the trophy of a
counterfeiting raid some years before into a more comfortable position,
reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch, and settled himself for another
reminiscence of the Service with which he had formerly been actively
connected.
"Mary was--and doubtless still is--one of those red-headed, blue-eyed
Irish beauties whom nature has peppered with just enough freckles to
make them alluring, evidences that the sun itself couldn't help kissing
her. But, from all I've been able to gather, the sun was in a class by
itself. Until Dick Walters came upon the scene, Miss McNilless held
herself strictly aloof from masculine company and much preferred to
spend an evening with her books than to take a trip to Coney or any of
the other resorts where a girl's kisses pass as current coin in payment
for three or four hours' outing.
"Dick was just the kind of chap that would have appealed to Mary, or to
'most any other girl, for that matter. Maybe you remember him. He used
to be at the White House during Taft's regime, but they shifted most of
the force soon after Wilson came in and Dick was sent out to the Coast
on an opium hunt that kept him busy for more than a year. In fact, he
came east just in time to be assigned to the von Ewald case--and,
incidentally, to fall foul of Mary and Cupid, a pair that you couldn't
tie, much less beat."
* * * * *
The von Ewald case [Quinn continued, after pausing a moment to repack
his pipe] was one of the many exploits of the Secret Service that never
got in the papers. To be strictly truthful, it wasn't as much a triumph
for the S. S. as it was for Mary McNilless--and, besides, we weren't at
war with Germany at that time, so it had to be kept rather dark.
But Germany was at war with us. You remember the Black Tom explosion in
August, nineteen sixteen? Well, if the plans of von Ewald and his
associates hadn't been frustrated by a little red-headed girl with
exceptional powers of observation, there would have been a detonation in
Wilmington, Delaware, that would have made the Black Tom affair, with
its damage of thirty millions of dollars, sound like the college yell of
a deaf-and-dumb institute.
As far back as January, nineteen sixteen, the Secret Service knew that
there were a number of Germans in New York who desired nothing so much
as to hinder the munitions industry of the United States, despite the
fact that we were a neutral nation.
From Harry Newton, the leader in the second plot to destroy the Welland
Canal, and from Paul Seib, who was implicated in the attempt to destroy
shipping at Hoboken, they forced the information that the conspirators
received their orders and drew their pay from a man of many aliases,
known to his associates as "Number eight fifty-nine" and occasionally,
to the world at large, as "von Ewald."
This much was known in Washington--but, when you came to analyze the
information, it didn't amount to a whole lot. It's one thing to know
that some one is plotting murder and arson on a wholesale scale, but
discovering the identity of that individual is an entirely different
proposition, one which called for all the finesse and obstinacy for
which the governmental detective services are famous.
Another factor that complicated the situation was that speed was
essential. The problem was entirely different from a counterfeiting or
smuggling case, where you can be content to let the people on the other
side of the table make as many moves as they wish, with the practical
certainty that you'll land them sooner or later. "Give them plenty of
rope and they'll land in Leavenworth" is a favorite axiom in the
Service--but here you had to conserve your rope to the uttermost. Every
day that passed meant that some new plot was that much nearer
completion--that millions of dollars in property and the lives of
no-one-knew-how-many people were still in danger.
So the order went forward from the headquarters of the Service, "Get the
man known as von Ewald and get him quick!"
Secret Service men, Postal inspectors, and Department of Justice agents
were called in from all parts of the country and rushed to New York,
until the metropolis looked like the headquarters of a convention of
governmental detectives. Grogan, the chap that landed Perry, the
master-counterfeiter, was there, as were George MacMasters and Sid
Shields, who prevented the revolution in Cuba three or four years ago.
Jimmy Reynolds was borrowed from the Internal Revenue Bureau, and
Althouse, who spoke German like a native, was brought up from the
border where he had been working on a propaganda case just across the
line.
There must have been forty men turned loose on this assignment alone,
and, in the course of the search for von Ewald, there were a number of
other developments scarcely less important than the main issue. At least
two of these--the Trenton taxicab tangle and the affair of the girl at
the switchboard--are exploits worthy of separate mention.