The Eagle's eye

The Plot Against the Fleet-2

"Where to now?" he asked.

"A telephone—just as quick as you can make it!" Dixie answered. Her voice was faint from the pain of her sprained ankle.

"How about a doctor for that foot?" the driver was staring at the expression of agony on the girl's features.

"Never mind that. Where's a telephone?"

"In a roadhouse, down the line about three miles."

"Get to it—hurry!"

A moment more and the machine was scurrying along the lonely road, toward the roadhouse and toward the warning that Dixie sought to send the Secret Service. But as the machine roared its way along through the early morning, the spy from the Hohenzollern club entered the shack on Staten Island, his eyes wide with excitement, his voice snapping as he sent the men scurrying faster than ever in their work.

"There's danger! I just knocked a Secret Service man over in the woods. They're after us! Bar that door and barricade it! We've got to get this torpedo into place before they catch our trail. Every minute means danger!"

Slowly the torpedo swung at its fastenings. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club lifted the cover of the manhole. And as the spies in the employ of Imperial Germany started to lower the torpedo into the sewer, Dixie Mason clung grimly to the telephone at the roadhouse, waiting for the answering voice from the other end of the wire. At last it came—the voice of Chief Flynn who had just entered the office for the day. His voice went keen and bright as the warning from Dixie came over the wire. Hastily he assembled the facts as she told them. Then:

"A good night's work. Go home to bed. I'll handle everything."

He lifted another 'phone and called the Criminology Club.

"Busy" reported Central. For d**k Stewart was at that moment detailing the story of the assault upon him and the reasons he had failed in his quest. But Chief Flynn was already working on another angle of the protection of the Atlantic Fleet.

A quick call to the Harbor Police. A moment later and with a scurrying rush, the power-launches of the New York Police department, their machine guns ready for instant action, shot forth into the bay. Another call and the Chief gained a clear wire to the Criminology Club. A few crisp orders and Grant and his men were hurrying by motor to Staten Island, to pick up Stewart on the way and rush to the shack that had housed the torpedo. But would they reach there in time? Grant would have given much to know.

Out in the bay, here, there, everywhere, the boats of the harbor police were scattering, up toward the great, monstrous forms of the battleships, where, flags fluttering, the preparations were being made for the start of the President's review, searching under wharves, around lighters, hurrying to the protection of the Mayflower, whence the President would review the fleet—honeycombing the harbor in their search for suspicious characters, seeking everywhere for the torpedo that was planned to send a flagship to its doom, block the Great Atlantic Fleet in New York harbor and cripple the defense of the greatest nation in the world.

But so far, the torpedo was safe from their search. In the dark confines of the sewer, it had been lowered and shunted to its mouth, where it lay concealed from view under the piling of an old dock. Back in the shack, Schmidt, the electrician, labored furiously on the last connection that would make the torpedo available for its deadly use—the wireless controller.

Hurriedly he made the finishing touches, while down at the mouth of the sewer, the plotters watched the gathering boats across the way, the waving flags, and bright hued decorations that shone and shimmered with the bright sunlight of morning. From far in the distance came the screaming of sirens and the hoarser-throated sound of hundreds of tugboats, ferries and river craft. The review had started. Aboard the Mayflower, the President of the United States was to see the pride of the navy as it steamed forth to the open sea and—

"If Schmidt only gets here with that controller," seethed the spy from the Hohenzollern Club as he watched the fleet in the distance through his binoculars, "If he only gets here!"

"How long will it take to attach it?" Another plotter was staring toward the distance.

"Ten seconds. We've got plenty of time in that way—if he only gets here with it!"

A sound from the tunnel. It was Schmidt, lugging the controller forward. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club turned with a quick order.

"You get back there and guard the shack," he ordered of the third plotter. "We'll attend to things down here."

The German retreated into the sewer. Schmidt began the placing of the wireless controller in its position. The spy from the Hohenzollern Club looked again through his binoculars.

"We'll launch the torpedo just as the flagship rounds the point there. Understand?"

"Perfectly!" Schmidt was testing his connections.

They looked at each other then—and laughed. America was at their mercy, they thought! For they did not know that as they gloated over the coming fate of the flagship, Harrison Grant and his men were forcing their way through the doorway of the shack above them!

But only emptiness greeted the members of the Criminology Club as the door crashed open. Harrison Grant glanced about him quickly.

"They're gone—they're already in the sewer!" he exclaimed despondently. "We've got just one chance—to head off that torpedo when it starts! You men hurry to Buffan's landing and get the reserve launch there. I'll investigate here."

"All right," then Stewart turned. "Here's something I picked up just outside. Should have given it to you before—but my brain's working a little slow since that blow on the head."

He passed a reticule to Harrison Grant who stuffed it in his pocket. The men departed. Grant looked hastily about the shack then veered to a corner at a sound from below.

Someone was coming back. There—the sewer manhole moved a little. Then a bit more—then it raised while the figure of a man started upward and through it. Grant crept forward. A quick leap, he seized the plotter by the throat, choking him and at the same time dragging him back on the floor. A moment more and he had bound him, dragged him to a corner and almost thrown him there, then started down the manhole. But as he groped blinking through the darkness, Schmidt and the spy from the Hohenzollern Club sighted the prow of the flagship as it rounded the point below them, swung the torpedo into position and shunted it, seething into the water!

A few steps forward and Grant saw what had been done. There were two men, both with their backs to him, one guiding the torpedo with the wireless controller, the other leaning forward, pointing out its course as it made its way, slowly at first, then faster, toward the thundering flagship.

Everywhere was noise, the screaming of whistles, the booming of guns as the battleships fired their salutes before the Mayflower. Harrison Grant crept forward unnoticed.

Ten feet—then six—then three, while the spies stared outward, unaware of the approach of the detective. Harrison Grant gathered his full strength. A tremendous kick and he had sent one of the plotters sprawling into the water. A great lunge and he was at the throat of the spy from the Hohenzollern Club, struggling to drag him from his hold at the wireless controller.

A struggle that seemed destined to fail. With almost superhuman strength the spy fought him off, still clinging to the key of the controller, feinting, dodging, squirming in the grasp of the master detective, biting, kicking, butting—but still holding to that key that was sending the torpedo faster and faster through the water, driving it on and on toward the flagship of the great Atlantic Fleet, threatening it with destruction—and the bottling of the entire fleet in the waters of New York harbor.

Doggedly they fought. Again and again Grant's hands closed about the throat of the spy, only to be thrown off. Then slowly, steadily, Grant began to bend the plotter in his grasp.

Closer, closer—Harrison Grant bent his head toward the wrist of the hand that held the key of the wireless controller. Then, a quick motion and his teeth closed upon the flesh, biting into the sinews and muscles, causing the spy to leap from his post with a cry of anguish. But the fight was not over.

"Think you've stopped us, eh?" The spy almost shouted the words. "Well, you haven't. That torpedo's got speed enough now—it'll reach that ship all right. It'll—"

But Grant had swung him about now and was forcing him to the edge of the sewer platform. Closer—closer—the end was inevitable. But would it avail anything? A glance out into the Narrows and Grant saw that the torpedo was heading straight on its course now, while far in the rear, the reserve launch, containing his men, was striving vainly to summon the speed to over-take it. On and on it was going—a moment more and it would crash into the side of that massive, thundrous battleship, a moment more—

All the strength that Harrison Grant possessed sped into the sinews of his arm and back. With a great wrench, he freed the grasp of the spy upon him. Then with a tremendous lunge, he literally raised the form of the struggling man, and threw him, high over his shoulders and into the tremendous currents below!

A great leap. Harrison Grant was at the key of the wireless controller. Quickly he reversed it, sending the current crackling out over the Narrows. But would the effect come in time? Would the electric current swerve the course of that torpedo soon enough to save the great battleship before it from destruction? Gasping and panting, Harrison Grant watched for the result, his soul agonized, his heart pounding with aching severity. A second—and the torpedo had not moved from its course. Another—Harrison Grant bent forward happily. Out there in the choppy waters of the Narrows, he believed he had seen the torpedo swerve slightly—yes, there it had moved a full three feet from its course—

Now ten—look! The men on the reserve launch were waving their arms and clambering to the top of the launch as it sped along. The torpedo had moved more in its course—now it seemed to be turning—it was turning! A great, glad cry broke from the lips of Harrison Grant. The torpedo was making a full semi-circle in the water now—on the roof of the reserve launch a Criminology Club detective was preparing to dive into the water for the desperate purpose of kicking the wireless antennae from the explosive monster and making it useless, while on beyond, there where the guns were booming, where the flags were flying and the bands were playing, the Great Atlantic Fleet, safely, triumphantly, was sailing through the Narrows, out to the freedom of the open sea!

Harrison Grant watched happily for a moment, then turned to make his way back through the tunnel and to the interrogation of the captured spy. It was then that he noticed that his brow was covered with a cold perspiration, that his collar was wilted—in spite of the almost cold day—that he was shaking and trembling from the excitement of the chase. He reached for his handkerchief, then hesitated at the touch of the reticule in his pocket. Wonderingly he brought it forth and examined it.

"A woman's party chatalaine," he mused. "Some spy that's mixed up in this thing, I guess. Dropped it coming from the shack. I wonder if there's anything in it to give a clue to her identity."

He pulled open the bag. He stared a moment at the initials of the card case which lay within, then opened it feverishly. The wondering expression of his eyes changed to grimness. His lips resolved themselves into a straight line. Slowly they repeated the name on the card:

"Miss Dixie Mason!"

The battleships in the distance seemed to fade. The sound of the sirens, the booming guns, all drifted into nothingness. Dully, monotonously, the lips of Harrison Grant framed the words:

"Dixie Mason! So she was the one! Dixie Mason—a spy!"