So now I had a clean-cut issue of veracity between Mr. Rice and Mr. Burns, and it seemed worth a trip to Los Angeles to find out which was the liar. I went in on a Monday morning, and fate was unkind to Mr. Rice—he had been out of town over the week-end, and had not read anything about the controversy, nor had anyone in the University Club taken the trouble to call him up and warn him. I took the precaution to bring my brother-in-law, Hunter Kimbrough, as witness to the interview, and Mr. Rice received us in his private office. I explained my point of view: he and I were antagonists on opposite sides of the class struggle; I had my opinion of him, and freely granted him the right to have his opinion of me. The only thing I took exception to was the fact that in discussing me he had made use of the name of Mr. Burns.
Mr. Rice is one of these two-fisted men of action, quite different from the president of a University Club. His answer was prompt and explicit: “Anything that I say once I’ll say twice. It is a fact that at a recent gathering, in the presence of myself and several business men of this city, Mr. William J. Burns stated that you were ‘a parlor pink and a dangerous enemy of the United States government.’”
“I thank you, Mr. Rice,” I replied. “Now I am wondering what you will have to say to this telegram”; and I put into his hands the telegram from Mr. Burns, declaring: “I made no statements concerning you as a private citizen or government official at Pasadena or elsewhere, nor have I ever undermined the character of you or any other person.” “What have you to say to that, Mr. Rice?” I asked, and Mr. Rice replied: “Well, I will say that I am surprised.” It was unnecessary for him to say that—his face showed it!
Mr. Rice refused to name the other men who had been present at the interview, but he remarked that the gathering was of such a nature that it was manifest to everyone that Mr. Burns was there as a private citizen, and not as chief of the United States Secret Service. Do you think I would be reckless if I should guess that it was a gathering of the chiefs of the Black Hand, and that Mr. Burns was there in his other capacity, as head of the William J. Burns agency of espionage and strike-breaking?
That the William J. Burns agency is thus employed regularly by the Black Hand of Southern California is something which I have known for several years. Turn to Chapter LXVI of “The Brass Check,” and you will find there the story of how Sydney Flowers, returned soldier and editor of the “Dugout,” was smashed by the Black Hand in Los Angeles, because he refused to permit his paper to be used as a strike-breaking agency. I did what I could to aid Flowers and save him from the penitentiary, and as a result the Black Hand attempted a “frame-up” against myself. Wishing to know just who was responsible for this, I thought I would employ the most famous and most reputable detective agency in the United States. With my attorney, Mr. John Beardsley, I called at the office of this agency and interviewed the manager. As chance willed it, the district manager, the high-up person who travels about the country overseeing the affairs of the agency for Mr. Burns, was also present at the interview.
I explained the case, confidentially of course, stating that I had suspicions that the trail might lead to the office of the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association and its Los Angeles “Times,” and that I wished the agency not to take the case unless they would be in position to follow a trail to such a quarter. The two managers requested a little time to think the matter over, and that afternoon they gave us their decision: the William J. Burns Detective Agency, because of the embarrassing possibility explained by me, could not undertake to investigate this “frame-up.” Then I went to another detective agency in the city, and when I told the manager about this incident he laughed heartily and told me that the Burns Agency did all the secret work for the “M. and M.” Incidentally, this man told me that he himself could not take the case, because his business would be ruined if he did; nor would I find any other detective agency in the city which would take the case. And in this he was correct.
To complete the story of the Burns Detective Agency, I will also mention that just prior to America’s entry into the World War this agency was conducting a spy service in the United States for the German government. Shortly before the sinking of the Lusitania, the Burns’ agency had men stationed in American munition plants and was secretly selling information to German government agents, who were gathering knowledge of munition shipments for the purpose of torpedoing munition-laden vessels. The head of Burns’ New York office, Gaston B. Means, admitted under oath that he delivered reports in a secret place to an unknown man to whom he was directed by the German government spy, Paul Koenig. The Burns agency perpetrated against the United States government a gigantic frame-up designed to supply von Bernstorff with perjured evidence for diplomatic use against the United States government. Tug boat captains were hired by a nest of German military spies under the direction of Burns’ New York agent, Gaston B. Means, the captains being induced to swear to false affidavits to indicate that they were carrying supplies to British vessels outside New York harbor in violation of the laws of neutrality. In this frame-up the Burns agency was caught red-handed, but was given immunity from prosecution because its clients could better be caught by holding this club over Burns’ head. Recently, when the Workers’ Party called a mass meeting in our national capital, at which Robert Minor was announced to tell this story, the use of the hall was mysteriously withdrawn, and Mr. William J. Burns, in his capacity as chief of the United States Secret Service, raided the offices of the sponsors of the meeting and arrested a dozen men.
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH I GET ARRESTED
The purpose of the previous chapter was to explain to you the series of events whereby it came about that Upton Sinclair, muckraker and enemy of society, was in the office of the president of the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association of Los Angeles, at ten o’clock on the morning of Monday, May 7th, 1923.
My brother-in-law, Hunter Kimbrough, and myself had come without appointment; at the same time two gentlemen came in who had an appointment—so a polite clerk explained. I had not presented my card, and no one there knew either Kimbrough or myself; we were invited to sit down, and did so, while the other gentlemen were escorted into the inner office. We made no effort to listen to what went on, but we had to hear it, because the door of the inner office was left ajar, and the talk was carried on in tones which caused the clerks in the outer office to drop their work and look at one another and grin.