III
THE YPIRANGA CASE
"Mexico," said Bill Quinn, who now holds a soft berth in the TreasuryDepartment by virtue of an injury received in the line of duty--during araid on counterfeiters a few years ago, to be precise--"is back on thefirst page of the papers again after being crowded off for some fouryears because of the World War. Funny coincidence, that, when youremember that it was this same Mexico that gave us our first indicationof the way we might expect Germany to behave."
"Huh?" I said, a bit startled. "What do you mean? The first spark of thewar was kindled in Serbia, not Mexico. Outside of the rumblings of theAlgeciras case and one or two other minor affairs, there wasn't theslightest indication of the conflict to come."
"No?" and Quinn's eyebrows went up in interrogation. "How about theYpiranga case?"
"The which?"
"The Ypiranga case--the one where Jack Stewart stumbled across a clue ina Mexico City cafe which led all the way to Berlin and back toWashington and threatened to precipitate a row before the Kaiser wasquite ready for it?"
"No," I admitted, "that's a page of underground history that I haven'tread--and I must confess that I don't know Stewart, either."
"Probably not," said the former Secret Service man. "He wasn'tconnected with any of the branches of the government that get into printvery often. As a matter of fact, the very existence of the organizationto which he belonged isn't given any too much publicity. Everyone knowsof the Secret Service and the men who make the investigations for theDepartment of Justice and the Post-office Department--but the Departmentof State, for obvious reasons, conducts its inquiries in a rather morediplomatic manner. Its agents have to pose as commercial investigators,or something else equally as prosaic. Their salaries are, as a generalthing, paid out of the President's private allowance or out of the fundgiven to the department 'for use as it may see fit.' Less than half adozen people know the actual status of the organization or the names ofits members at any one time, and its exploits are recorded only in thearchives of the State Department."
"But who," I persisted, as Quinn stopped, "was Jack Stewart and what wasthe nature of the affair upon which he stumbled in Mexico City?"
* * * * *
Stewart [replied Quinn] was just a quiet, ordinary sort of chap, thekind that you'd expect to find behind a desk in the State Department,sorting out consular reports and handling routine stuff. Nothingexceptional about him at all--which was probably one reason for hisbeing selected for work as a secret agent of the Department. It doesn'tdo, you know, to pick men who are conspicuous, either in their dress ormanner. Too easy to spot and remember them. The chap who's swallowed upin the crowd is the one who can get by with a whole lot of quiet workwithout being suspected.
When they sent Jack down to Mexico they didn't have the slightest ideahe'd uncover anything as big as he did. The country south of the RioGrande, if you recall, had been none too quiet for some time prior to1914. Taft had had his troubles with it ever since the end of the Diazregime, and when Wilson came in the "Mexican question" was a legacy thatcaused the men in the State Department to spend a good many sleeplessnights.
All sorts of rumors, most of them wild and bloody, floated up throughofficial and unofficial channels. The one fact that seemed to be certainwas that Mexico was none too friendly to the United States, and thatsome other nation was behind this feeling, keeping it constantly stirredup and overlooking no opportunity to add fuel to the flame. Three orfour other members of the State Department's secret organization hadbeen wandering around picking up leads for some months past and, uponthe return of one of these to Washington, Stewart was sent to replacehim.
His instructions were simple and delightfully indefinite. He was toproceed to Mexico City, posing as the investigator for a financial housein New York which was on the lookout for a soft concession from theMexican government. This would give him an opportunity to seek theacquaintance of Mexican officials and lend an air of plausibility topractically any line that he found it necessary to follow. But, once atthe capital with his alibis well established, he was to overlook nothingwhich might throw light upon the question that had been botheringWashington for some time past--just which one of the foreign powers wasfanning the Mexican unrest and to what lengths it was prepared to go?
Of course, the State Department suspected--just as we now know--thatBerlin was behind the movement, but at that time there was no indicationof the reason. In the light of later events, however, the plan is plain.Germany, feeling certain that the greatest war Europe had ever knownwas a matter of the immediate future, was laying her plans to keep othernations out of the conflict. She figured that Mexico was the best foilfor the United States and that our pitifully small army would have itshands full with troubles at home. If not, she intended to let Japanenter into the equation--as shown by the Zimmerman note some two yearslater.
When Stewart got to Mexico City, it did not take him long to discoverthat there was an undercurrent of animosity to the United States whichmade itself felt in numberless ways. Some of the Mexican papers,apparently on a stronger financial basis than ever before, wereoutspoken in their criticism of American dollars and American dealings.The people as a whole, long dominated by Diaz, were being stirred toresentment of the "Gringoes," who "sought to purchase the soul of anation as well as its mineral wealth." The improvements which Americancapital had made were entirely overlooked, and the spotlight ofsubsidized publicity was thrown upon the encroachments of the hatedYankees.
All this Stewart reported to Washington, and in reply was politelyinformed that, while interesting, it was hardly news. The StateDepartment had known all this for months. The question was: Where wasthe money coming from and what was the immediate object of the game?
"Take your time and don't bother us unless you find something definiteto report," was the substance of the instructions cabled to Stewart.
The secret agent, therefore, contented himself with lounging around thevery inviting cafes of the Mexican capital and making friends with suchofficials as might be able to drop scraps of information.
It was November when he first hit Mexico City. It was nearly the middleof April before he picked up anything at all worth while. Of course, inthe meantime he had uncovered a number of leads--but every one of themwas blind. For a day or two, or a week at most, they would hold outglowing promise of something big just around the corner. Then, when hegot to the end of the rainbow, he would find an empty pail in place ofthe pot of gold he had hoped for.
It wasn't surprising, therefore, that Stewart was growing tired of thelife of continual mystery, of developments that never developed, ofsecrets 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 ofa sidewalk cafe on the Calles de Victoria, that the American agentobtained his first real clue to the impending disaster.
When two Mexicans whom he knew by sight, but not by name, sat down at atable near his he pricked up his ears purely by instinct, rather thanthrough any real hope of obtaining information of value.
The arrival of the usual sugared drinks was followed by a few words ofguarded conversation, and then one of the Mexicans remarked, in a tone atrifle louder than necessary, that "the United States is a nation ofcowardly women, dollar worshipers who are afraid to fight, and braggartswho would not dare to back up their threats."
It was an effort for Stewart to remain immersed in the newspaper proppedup in front of him. Often as he had heard these sentiments expressed,his Southern blood still rose involuntarily--until his logic remindedhim that his mission was not to start a quarrel, but to end one. He knewthat no good could ensue from his taking up the challenge, and the veryfact that the speaker had raised his voice gave him the tip that thewords were uttered for his especial benefit, to find out whether heunderstood Spanish--for he made no attempt to disguise his nationality.
With a smile which did not show on his lips, Stewart summoned the
waiterand in atrocious Spanish ordered another glass of lemonade. His completeknowledge of the language was the one thing which he had managed to keepentirely under cover ever since reaching Mexico, for he figured that thenatives would speak more freely in his presence if they believed hecould 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 hedrained his glass of _pulque_ at a single gulp.
The other, who had not spoken above a whisper, raised his glass andregarded it in silence for a moment. Then--"Prosit," he said, and drank.
"_Nom di Dio_," warned his companion. "Be careful! The American hog doesnot 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 ahobby of his--but he only knew about three words in German!
"I understand," continued the Mexican, "that Victoriano is preparing forthe coup, just as I always figured he would" (Stewart knew that"Victoriano" was the familiar form in which the populace referred toVictoriano Huerta, self-appointed President of Mexico and the man whohad steadfastly defied the American government in every way possible,taking care not to allow matters to reach such a hot stage that he couldhandle them through diplomatic promises to see that things "improved inthe future").
"_El Presidente_ has always been careful to protect himself"--thespeaker went on--"but now that you have brought definite assurance fromour friends that the money and the arms will be forthcoming within thefortnight there is nothing further to fear from the Yankee pigs. It willbe easy to stir up sentiment against them here overnight, and beforethey can mass their handful of troops along the Rio Grande we will haveretaken Texas and wiped out the insult of 'forty-eight. What is thelatest news from the ship?"
"The ----?" inquired the man across the table, but his Teutonicintonation of what was evidently a Spanish name was so jumbled that allStewart 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 wouldbring her into Vera Cruz about the twenty-first. Once there, the armscan be landed and...."
The events of the next few minutes moved so rapidly that, when Stewarthad time to catch his breath, he found it difficult to reconstruct theaffair with accuracy.
He recalled that he had been so interested in the conversation at thenext table that he had failed to notice the approach of the only otherman he knew in the State Department's secret organization--Dawson, whohad 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 lookingover things in the vicinity of the Palace."
The words themselves were innocent enough, but--they were spoken influent, rapid Spanish and Stewart had shown that he understood!
"_Sapristi!_" hissed the Mexican. "Did you see?" and he bent forward towhisper 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 thenext table had not noted his slip. "Sit down and have something? Rottenweather, isn't it? And not a lead in sight. These Mexicans seem to beafraid to enter into any contract that ties them up more than ayear--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, hesteered the conversation into harmless channels, but a moment later thepair at the next table called the waiter, gave some whisperedinstructions, and left.
"What's the matter?" asked Dawson.
"Nothing--except that I involuntarily registered a knowledge of Spanishwhen you spoke to me just now, and I've spent several months building upa reputation for knowing less about the language than anyone in MexicoCity. As luck would have it, there was a couple seated at the next tablewho were giving me what sounded like the first real dope I've had sinceI got here. I'll tell you about it later. The question now is to getback to the hotel before that precious pair get in their dirty work. Acode message to Washington is all I ask--but, if I'm not mistaken, weare going to have our work cut out for us on the way back."
"Scott! Serious as that, is it?" muttered Dawson. "Well, there are twoof us and I'd like to see their whole dam' army try to stop us. Let'sgo!"
"Wait a minute," counseled Stewart. "There's no real hurry, for theywouldn't dare try to start anything in the open. In case we getseparated or--if anything should happen--wire the Department in codethat a vessel with a Spanish name--something that begins with 'Eep'--hascleared Hamburg, loaded with guns and ammunition. Expected at Vera Cruzabout the twenty-first. Germany's behind the whole plot. Now I'll settleup and we'll move."
But as he reached for his pocketbook a Mexican swaggering along thesidewalk deliberately stumbled against his chair and sent him sprawling.Dawson was on his feet in an instant, his fists clenched and ready foraction.
But Stewart had noted that the Mexican had three companions and that oneof the men who had occupied the adjoining table was watching the affairfrom a vantage point half a block away.
With a leap that was catlike in its agility, Stewart seized theswaggering native by the legs in a football tackle, and upset himagainst his assistants.
"Quick, this way!" he called to Dawson, starting up the street away fromthe watcher at the far corner. As he ran, his hand slipped into his coatpocket where the small, but extremely efficient, automatic with whichall government agents are supplied usually rested. But the gun wasn'tthere! Apparently it had slipped out in the scuffle a moment before.
Hardly had he realized that he was unarmed before he and Dawson wereconfronted by five other natives coming from the opposite direction. Themeager lighting system of the Mexican capital, however, was rather ahelp than a detriment, for in the struggle which followed it waspractically impossible to tell friend from foe. The two Americans,standing shoulder to shoulder, had the added advantage ofteamwork--something which the natives had never learned.
"Don't use your gun if you can help it," Stewart warned. "We don't wantthe police in on this!"
As he spoke his fist shot out and the leader of the attacking partysprawled in the street. No sound came from Dawson, beyond a grunt, as helanded on the man he had singled out of the bunch. The ten seconds thatfollowed were jammed with action, punctuated with the shrill cries forreinforcements from the Mexicans, and brightened here and there by thedull light from down the street which glinted off the long knives--thefavorite weapon of the Latin-American fighter.
Stewart and Dawson realized that they must not only fight, but fightfast. Every second brought closer the arrival of help from the rear, butDawson waited until he could hear the reinforcements almost upon thembefore 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 Americansplowed their way through. Dawson swore later that he felt at least onerib give under the impact of the blows and he knew that he nursed a sorewrist for days, but Stewart claimed that his energies were concentratedsolely on the scrap and that he didn't have time to receive anyimpression of what was going on. He knew that he had to fight his wayout--that it was essential for one of them to reach the telegraph officeor the embassy with the news they carried.
It was a case of fight like the devil and trust to luck and the darknessfor aid.
Almost before they knew it, they had broken through the trio in front ofthem and had turned down the Calles Ancha, running in a form that wouldhave done credit to a college track team. Behind them they heard themuffled oaths of their pursuers as they fell over the party they hadjust
left.
"They don't want to attract the police any more than we do," gaspedDawson. "They don't dare shoot!"
But as he spoke there came the z-z-i-pp of a bullet, accompanied by thesharp 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 overhis shoulder, and staggered on, his right hand groping for hisautomatic. Once out of the glare of the arc light, he felt that he wouldbe safe, at least for a moment.
Then, clattering toward them, he heard a sound that spelled safety--oneof the open nighthawk cabs that prowl around the streets of the Mexicancapital.
Shifting Stewart so that his feet rested on the ground, he wheeled andraked the street behind him with a fusillade from his automatic. Therewas only a dull mass of whitish clothing some fifty yards away at whichto aim, but he knew that the counter-attack would probably gain a fewprecious seconds of time--time sufficient to stop the cab and to put hisplan into operation.
The moment the cab came into the circle of light from the street lampDawson dragged his companion toward it, seized the horse's bridle withhis free hand and ordered the driver to halt.
Before the cabby had recovered his wits the two Americans were in thevehicle and Dawson had his revolver pressed none too gently into thesmall of the driver's back. The weapon was empty, but the Mexicandidn't know that, and he responded instantly to Dawson's order to turnaround and drive "as if seventy devils of Hades were after him!"
Outside of a few stray shots that followed as they disappeared up thestreet, the drive to the Embassy was uneventful, and, once under theshelter of the American flag, the rest was easy.
Stewart, it developed, had sustained only a flesh wound through themuscles of his hip--painful, but not dangerous. Within ten minutes afterhe had reached O'Shaughnessy's office he was dictating a code wire toWashington--a cable which stated that a vessel with a Spanish name,commencing with something that sounded like "Eep," had cleared Hamburgon the seventh, loaded with arms and ammunition destined to advance theinterests of Mexican revolutionists and to hamper the efforts of theUnited States to preserve order south of the border.
The wire reached Washington at noon of the following day and wasinstantly transmitted to Berlin, with instructions to Ambassador Gerardto 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 newspapercorrespondents at the White House noted that a special Cabinet meetinghad been called, but no announcement was made of its purpose or of thebusiness transacted, beyond the admission that "the insult to the flagat Tampico had been considered."
Promptly at noon the great wireless station at Arlington flashed amessage to Admiral Mayo, in command of the squadron off the Mexicancoast. 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. Howthe fleet bottled up the harbor at Vera Cruz, how it was forced to senda landing party ashore under fire, and how seventeen American sailorslost their lives during the guerrilla attack which followed. All thatwas spread across the front pages of American papers in big blacktype--but the fact that a steamer named the _Ypiranga_ had been held upby the American fleet and forced to anchor at a safe distance offshore,under the guns of the flagship, was given little space. Apparently itwas a minor incident--but in reality it was the crux of the wholesituation, an indication of Germany's rancor, which was to burst itsbounds before four months had passed, another case in which the arm ofUncle Sam had been long enough to stretch halfway across a continent andnip 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 hehad a captain's commission in France and was following up his feud withthe Hun that started in Mexico City four months before the rest of theworld dreamed of war. Dawson, I believe, is still in the Department, andrendered valuable assistance in combating German propaganda in Chile andPeru. He'll probably be rewarded with a consular job in someout-of-the-way hole, for, now that the war is over, the organization towhich he belongs will gradually dwindle to its previous smallproportions.
"Strange, wasn't it, how that pair stumbled across one of the firsttentacles of the World War in front of a cafe in Mexico City? That's onebeauty of government detective work--you never know when the monotony isgoing to be blown wide open by the biggest thing you ever happened upon.
"There was little Mary McNilless, who turned up the clue which preventedan explosion, compared to which the Black Tom affair would have been aSunday-school party. She never dreamed that she would prevent the lossof 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 toolong a story to spin right now. It's past my bedtime, and Mrs. Quinn'slikely to be fussy if I'm not home by twelve at least. She says that nowI have an office job she can at least count on my being round to guardthe house--something that she never could do before. So let's leave Maryfor another time. Goodnight"--and he was off.
On Secret Service Page 3