Chapter II: The Naval Ball Conspiracy

Thus the news of the sinking of the Lusitania came to New York, to throw a saddening cloud upon what was planned to have been the happiest week of many years. For in the Hudson River, great, sleek leviathans of the deep, the sixty-four vessels of the Atlantic fleet had dropped anchor to await the President's review, while the streets, the theatres, the restaurants, bore the glorious flutter of flags and bunting, and the blue and white of the navy uniforms were everywhere.

And now that the Lusitania had been sunk, now that the lives of more than a hundred of America's best citizens had been sacrificed to the lust of Imperial Germany, those big vessels seemed to take on a new meaning, a new significance. In New York harbor primarily only for a review and for a jollification, they now assumed their real proportions in the eyes of the populace, displaying to Eastern America just for what they could be depended upon in case of war. And with every day, that danger seemed closer. For America resented the sinking of the Lusitania. The great crowds around the bulletin boards, watching daily the steadily lengthening list of the dead, called for vengeance, for repayment from this monster nation across the Atlantic that could kill women and children and glory in it as a "victory." Every telegram from Washington, every news dispatch, emphasized the gravity of the situation. And no one knew better that gravity than did Harrison Grant of the Criminology Club.

Working day and night with his companions of the Club, Grant had hurried to the uncovering of the conspiracy to present forged affidavits asserting that the Lusitania carried guns and contraband. Clue after clue was run down, while in Washington, the Imperial German Embassy worked just as hard in the opposite direction, covering the tracks of its plotters and its spies, seeking to proclaim to America the sorrow which it assumed over the sinking of the great British liner. To some the sorrow seemed sincere. To others--Harrison Grant among them--that sorrow was known to be only a mask, thrown hastily on to deceive America and to keep America at peace until Germany felt itself able to cope with it and strangle it as it sought to strangle the rest of the world.

And so the days went, in moves and counter moves. Day after day the populace, by the hundreds of thousands, gathered on the banks of the Hudson to look at the tremendous battleships and to glory in their power and effectiveness. And while they did so--

Four men were meeting again in the embassy at Washington--the same four who generally gathered there, Franz von Papen, Karl Boy-Ed, Dr. Heinrich Albert and their leader, Ambassador Bernstorff. Point after point they discussed regarding the sinking of the Lusitania and the possibility of war. At last--

It was Dr. Albert who was speaking, pawing through the reports that he had dragged from his beloved portfolio:

"Marsden reports," he announced, "that the feeling in the West is quite strong over the Lusitania. While I believe our foreign office may be able to drag the situation out until the fever heat of war is passed, still I fancy it would not be a bad idea on our part to make such preparations as may be necessary in case the United States should suddenly determine to avenge the death of its citizens. Now--"

Karl Boy-Ed, naval attache, interrupted.

"I believe we have anticipated you there, my dear Dr. Albert," he said smoothly. "Kindly tell us what you believe to be the greatest defensive and offensive agent which America has against Germany at the present time."

"Why the great Atlantic fleet, of course."

"You mean the one that is in New York at the present time for review?"

"Of course."

"And if my good comrade Von Papen and myself should tell you that we have already made arrangements to make this fleet incapable of working either for the defense of America or for an offense against Germany, what would you say?"

Dr. Albert brought his hand down on the desk with a thumping bang. "I should call it a master stroke!" he announced.

Boy-Ed looked at Von Papen and smiled. Then he turned to Dr. Albert again.

"Then, my dear Doctor, your mind may rest easy. Capt. Von Papen and I have arranged a scheme which will make the great Atlantic fleet wholly useless in event of war. Rather, we have arranged two schemes. One of them is planned for the Naval Ball at the Ansonia Hotel in New York tonight, which will be attended by practically every navigating officer of the fleet. The other is held in reserve in case the attempt to-night fails. It is a trifle more daring--and I might say, a bit more spectacular. Even his Imperial Highness, the Emperor, would delight in seeing it! But of course, we are holding that for the _coup de etat_, as it were, in case the plan tonight fails."

It was as they discussed the details of their plot for the night that Harrison Grant hurried from his office in the Criminology Club in answer to a call from an operative:

"They want you in the dictograph room!"

Ten minutes later, the investigator of crime leaped from a taxi around the corner from the Hohenzollern Club and made his way to the room adjacent to the German meeting place. Stewart and Cavanaugh were awaiting him anxiously.

"Something doing," said Stewart as he raised his eyes to his chief. "I've been catching stuff for the last half hour."

"What about?"

"The Ansonia Hotel."

"The Ansonia?" Grant came forward quickly.

"Yes. Anything special going on there tonight?"

"A good deal," was the quick answer of Harrison Grant. "The Officers of the navy are going to have their review ball there. Why?"

"Because," and the operative leaned closer to the dictograph, "the indications are that the Germans intend to blow it up--and our navy officers along with it."

"Impossible!" Harrison Grant's face went white. "Impossible! Why, all the navigating officers of the fleet are to be there tonight--the whole brains of the Great Atlantic Squadron! It would cripple our whole Eastern system of defense!"

"Then you'd better get word to them not to attend" came the cold answer of Stewart, "because the plans are made--to bomb that hotel tonight!"

Harrison Grant's brow wrinkled. He looked hurriedly at his watch.

"We can't get word to them now. Most of them are away from their ships at entertainments--leaving the ships with only skeleton crews. Besides, we can't empty that whole hotel and just let it lie there, a target for some German bomb! No, there must be some other way--but Stewart, are you certain about all this?"

"Here are my notes," came the answer of the operative. "Von Lertz came into the club about a half hour ago. Some old German who seemed to have some decency in his heart, was reading the _Abendpost_ and repeating an editorial in it which said that the sinking of the Lusitania might cause war with Germany. He appeared to be worried about it and that such a thing would mean the death of all of Germany's ambitions. Von Lertz listened to him for a while and then began to sneer at him. He said that after tonight, it would be impossible for the United States to declare war on anyone. Then--" Stewart referred to his shorthand notes--"he used this sentence:

"'There's the Ansonia, tonight, you know. And there's Kroner, who's finishing his masterpiece in the way of a bomb. And when Kroner makes a bomb it generally destroys what it's intended for. After he pays his little visit to the Ansonia tonight, there'll be no danger of America fighting anyone.'"

"And there wouldn't," echoed Harrison Grant, "not with navy officers dead and no one to handle the navigation of her battleships."

He turned to the telephone. A short conversation and he was facing Stewart and Cavanaugh again.

"Every member of the Criminology Club will attend the Naval Ball tonight as guests," he ordered. "Chief Flynn is sending fifty men there. The police department will co-operate with a special guard. They'll watch the outside. It will be our duty to guard the interior. Come--we'll pick up the rest of the members of the Club."

And as the three men hurried away, a queer appearing, raw-boned scientist hurried about a small workroom in a faraway part of New York. Before him was a heavy thing of steel and springs and clockwork and trinitrate of toluol, the most horrible explosive known. Almost lovingly he fingered it. Then he turned to his assistant.

"See that it's timed for 12.20," he ordered. "That is the time agreed upon. All the German contingent will be at the ball tonight to divert suspicion. When things are moving their best, we will slip in and plant the bomb under the main stairway. That will give it more breadth for destruction when the explosion comes. But be sure--" and he wagged a bony finger--"that it is set for not earlier than 12.20. Our people must have time to leave the ball and be well away before the explosion comes."

"Don't worry," answered the assistant quietly. "I've set bombs before."

But when the Naval Ball started that night, it had more than a hundred guests who had been furnished tickets at the last moment. More than that, every person of German appearance in the great ball room was within the vision of The Eagle's Eye, the United States secret service, while outside--

Up Broadway, in platoons and in columns, came hurrying squads of police, to divide suddenly, to take their positions at the doorways, at the hallways, beside the elevator shafts--even on the roofs. Everywhere was Harrison Grant, directing activities.

"Keep your eyes open, men," he announced. "Allow no one in this building who carries any kind of satchel or parcel. Cavanaugh!" he called to his operative, just passing, "how about the cloakrooms?"

"They've all been searched."

"Found nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Good. Take four of these men and put two on each cloak room. Have you attended to searching any new employees who might have taken employment here lately?"

"Yes. All done. The management furnished me a list of everyone they weren't sure of. I looked them all over. Everything's safe there--they're all loyal!"

"Thank goodness for that. They may help us."

"That's been attended to. They all have instructions from Mr. McBowman, the general manager."

Grant smiled.

"You've been on the job, I see," he said. Then he glanced at Cavanaugh's immaculate evening clothes. "Looking the way you do, Billy, I don't think it would be a bad idea for you to see if you can't pick out a nice little German girl to dance with. It might cause her escort some worry." Cavanaugh winked and stepped away. Grant turned once more to a group of policemen whom Stewart was hiding in the palms at the head of the stairway.

"Take no excuse," he ordered quietly. "If necessary, shoot to kill. And in any event, if anything looks suspicious, arrest first, investigate afterward."

Grant turned at a touch on his arm. It was Turner, his operative, assigned to the roof.

"I've placed men all around up there," the operative said. "There were two or three places--at the head of the dumbwaiter and that sort of thing, that would have made good hiding places. So I took no chances."

"Correct. Now pick out a German and trail him."

"Yes sir. And you--?"

"I'll do the same--as well as every other member of the Criminology Club. I want to know every move they are making."

Turner moved away. Harrison Grant stepped forward, chatted a moment with a young woman of his acquaintance--then stared.

Before him, coming toward the young woman at his elbow, was quite the prettiest girl--to Harrison Grant's eyes--that he had ever seen. Vivacious, beautifully dressed, full of the dash and verve that Harrison Grant so admired, quick, decisive in her movements, yet thoroughly girlish, there was an element about her that Harrison Grant had never before noticed in another woman. Something within him seemed to leap, hesitate, then begin to thump with the quickness and persistence of a triphammer. Vaguely Grant knew that it was his heart. And just as vaguely, he knew that he was being introduced to this brown-eyed, smiling little being, whose hand was so small that it seemed almost cruelty to press it--yet with a grasp so firm and steady that it carried with it the sensing touch of a true, strong companion--whose hair was black and yet brown, whose smile was frank and yet elusive, whose whole being was of the sort to enthrall Harrison Grant and to hold him prisoner.

Then a sudden change. The beating of his heart slowed. The sparkle of his eyes dulled. The smile faded from his lips--for just behind the girl whose name he had vaguely heard to be Miss Dixie Mason, had shown the figure of her escort, a man whom Grant had come to hate, a man he knew to be responsible for the working out of the plot against the Ansonia Hotel that night, Heinric von Lertz, unofficial agent for Imperial Germany's murderers.

As for Von Lertz, he turned somewhat quizzically toward the policeman at the door of the ballroom, looked at him in a sneering fashion, then with a short nod in acknowledgment of the introduction to Grant, he asked:

"Police? Is it the usual thing in America for them to attend social functions?"

"Not unless they're invited--or needed," answered Harrison Grant caustically.

A quick glance shot between the two men. A moment more and Von Lertz had turned to the ballroom, taking Dixie Mason with him, while Harrison Grant watched after her, wondering what such a pretty, wholesome appearing girl could be doing in the company of a man whose business was the representation of murderers. That she carried a Secret Service commission, Grant did not know. The instructions of Chief Flynn, ordering her to work into the confidence of the Germans without letting even the fellow members of the Secret Service know her true purpose, had attended to that. And Grant saw in her only a girl who had chosen as a companion a man who was at that moment plotting the very downfall of America!

However, it was only natural that they should meet again during the evening. And it was only natural that Grant should ask her to dance with him. More, it was only natural that as he looked into her eyes, as he felt the firm swing and graceful lift of her to the swaying music of the foxtrot, that he should wish more than ever that the stain of her apparent friendship for Von Lertz should some day resolve into an innocent one after all. As for Dixie--

As she was swept away again in the arms of Harrison Grant, following the encore, Dixie wished with a sudden impulse that the touch of those arms might some day mean more than the embrace of a dance, she wished that she might tell this man whom she knew to be the president of the Criminology Club that she was really a compatriot, that she was working along the same lines as himself, struggling for the same ideals fighting for--

But one could only obey orders. Besides, the dance had ended, and in the foreground, waiting and fretting, stood Heinric von Lertz.

A few brief acknowledgments of the pleasure of the dance and they parted, Dixie Mason to take her place at the side of the German plotter, Harrison Grant to hurry forward at the signal of Cavanaugh from the doorway. Grant found him nervous, irritable.

"The dangerous moment has come," he announced shortly. "Look!"

Far at one side of the room stood a tall German, apparently chatting with his fellow country-people as they strolled about after the dance. But as he watched, Grant saw that the conversations were extremely short and that following each one, every German and his companion turned toward the cloakrooms. Billy Cavanaugh's voice broke in once more.

"He's warning them all to leave," said the operative. "He's been doing it for the last five minutes. Half the Germans in the place are gone now. It's nearly time for the attempt."

Harrison Grant bent close.

"Send the men to make the rounds of the patrolmen," he ordered quickly. "Tell them to keep their eyes open wider than ever. Allow absolutely no one to enter this hotel."

"Yes sir."

"Double the guards on every door. What has been done in regard to the other searches that I ordered?"

"Everything's been accomplished. The hotel management has made the rounds of the whole place with pass keys. Every piece of baggage that cannot be vouched for has been examined. Nothing has been found."

"Good. Hurry to those patrolmen. I--"

For Grant had seen in the entrance to the cloakroom, the form of Heinric von Lertz, his coat over his arm, waiting impatiently for Dixie Mason. With a sudden determination, he hurried forward, to reach the entrance, just as Miss Mason came forth, adjusting a loose fold of her opera cloak. Grant bowed.

"Not going?" Miss Mason smiled.

"I assure you it isn't my desire," she said quickly. "Mr. Von Lertz simply insists on it, though. I never was having a better time in my life!"

Harrison Grant turned, to smile into the face of Heinric von Lertz.

"Surely, you wouldn't spoil the pleasure of anyone so sweet as Miss Mason."

"I can't help it, you know," answered Heinric von Lertz somewhat testily. "My head aches."

"Your head aches?" Grant laughed. "And you're going home on account of that? I'd lose my head for a person like Miss Mason!"

"Mr. Grant, you're Irish!" Dixie laughed up at him. Grant smiled again.

"I only wish I were, so I could say the things I'd like to say in the way I'd like to say them. But come now, Mr. Von Lertz, you're only joking about leaving. Why it's only midnight."

"Midnight?" Von Lertz started. "Then we must go. It's imperative. That is--"

And while he hesitated and explained, a taxi had driven up outside, at the little triangle which divides Broadway at 72nd Street. From the darkness within, a high cheeked, raw-boned man had started forward, a grip in his hand, only to be halted by a cowering individual who shot forth from a bench at the sidewalk.

"Back in that cab!" he ordered in a whisper. The raw-boned bomb maker started.

"Why--?"

"Don't ask any questions. Back in that cab!"

"But I've got the bomb! Von Lertz said everything would be ready for me. I--"

"Everything is ready--but in a way that we didn't look for," answered the spy on the sidewalk. "Look!"

Quickly and surreptitiously, he pointed upward. Where the flaring sign of the Ansonia Hotel blazed out upon the night, was silhouetted the figure of a man. Ten feet away was another--and another--and another. Down on the sidewalk, a solid cordon of police in uniform was drawn about the building. Not a person could approach without being seen--the guarding arm of the police was absolute.

"And that's not all," growled the spy on the sidewalk. "That's just the beginning. There are fifty secret service men scattered about the entrances and the areas. Bluer just signalled me by the electric light code that even the elevator shafts are full of them. I signalled him back to tell Von Lertz that everything is off. As for you--move away from here quick! There'll be twenty policemen on our shoulders in another minute!"

The taxicab turned swiftly. In another moment it had vanished down the street, while in the hotel--

Von Lertz still stood at the entrance of the cloakroom, arguing with Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason, a scant veneer of pleasantness covering his words.

"But I simply can't stay," he was repeating for the fiftieth time, "I tell you my head aches."

And certainly something was causing a pallor to spread over his features, and the cold sweat to break forth on his forehead. Harrison Grant knew what it was. From far away, the chimes of a church had sounded midnight and faded away into nothingness. Grant knew what Heinric von Lertz was thinking about--about that bomb and the fact that he was practically the only German left within the confines of the Ansonia Hotel. And so, that he might obtain a trifle of satisfaction against this cowardly plotter of Imperial Germany, he deliberately turned to Miss Mason and began the telling of an incident which could not be interrupted. And Grant knew how the passing of every second ate into the soul of Heinric von Lertz!

Then a movement. Someone passed--and in passing, slipped a bit of cardboard into the cupped hand of Heinric von Lertz. Hurriedly the German shifted his hand to the interior of his silk hat, and under its protection, read the message. Involuntarily, his hands clutched. For there, scrawled on the cardboard, were the words:

"Affair abandoned. Too dangerous."

Von Lertz coughed, and at the sound, Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason turned. The German forced a smile.

"I've changed my mind--er--that is, my headache's better," he announced. "We'll stay."

"Thank you," said Harrison Grant, with quietly suppressed meaning, "my hopes are raised on a veritable bomb of happiness. Miss Mason, may I have this dance?"

"Most certainly."

Happily, bouyantly they went toward the ballroom, while Heinric von Lertz stared after them.

"I wonder what that idiotic Yankee meant by a 'bomb of happiness,'" he mused, "Could he have known what I was plotting?"

The thought brought back the memory of that card. Once again he glanced at it, then tore it to bits and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, throwing his coat to the check boy, he strode toward the ballroom.

"At any rate," he growled under his breath, "they haven't stopped preparations at the shack."

And at the same moment, the taxicab containing the old bomb maker had drawn to the curbing, forty blocks away, where another cab stood waiting. A figure came forth from the darkness and peered into the first cab.

"Are you there, Kroner?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Everything's safe. Why don't you hurry?"

"There's no need. I didn't use the bomb."

"You didn't use it?"

"You heard what I said," came testily from within the taxicab. "It's up to you to hurry. Get out to the shack and tell those men to work night and day to finish up their job!"

A muffled conversation of an instant more, then the taxis parted. An hour later, as Harrison Grant again danced with Dixie Mason and Von Lertz seethed over the frustration of his scheme, a man hurried into a ramshackle old building on Staten Island, near Fort Wadsworth, aroused the slumbering figures there and pushed them toward a great thing of polished steel, nickel and brass that lay nine-tenths finished before them.

"Get to work!" he ordered. "Is this the way Imperial Germany is to conquer the earth--by sleeping?"

Grumbling the men obeyed. The spy looked about him.

"Where's Schmidt?"

"Here," came a voice from a corner where a man was unrolling himself from a dirty blanket.

"How's that wireless controller?"

"I'm having trouble with it."

"And yet you sleep?" The spy was raging now. "You get up here and find out what's wrong and remedy it. That wireless controller must be in absolute working order--understand? It can't fail! And what's more, it's night and day work for every one of you men from now on. This thing must be ready to launch the minute the fleet weighs anchor. The Ansonia plot's failed. Everything depends on us now!"

The men grumbled again in answer. A curse from the spy and they settled down to work--to put the finishing touches on a wireless controller and on a torpedo, large enough and powerful enough to tear even a battleship to fragments!