Chapter XI: 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.

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.